#smut

[littledes1re]

Neighbours help pt. 2

Pairing: Old!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summery: After this thing happened between you and your neighbour, you have been avoiding him at all costs. But one night he comes into your apartment, wanting to fix something he thinks it’s broken so he can see you again. Aka..he finally fucks reader😌

Warnings: 18+, Angst, praise kink, overstimulation, size kink, squirting, slight breeding kink, slight daddy kink, fingering, big cock joel, pinv, pet names, big age gap! (reader is 25-26ish and Joel is 60), switching between POV’s, hair pulling, Dom/Sub undertones, Mean!joel, but also Soft, joel mocks reader, really sensitive reader, darcyphilia, kinda naive reader, kinda pervy!joel

A/N: I didn’t think pt.1 was gonna do so well that people would ask me for pt.2🤭 i’m so thankful, but especially to @keseqna because they gave me the idea!! <3 I don’t know how to do a Masterlist so all my blurbs/writings are under #des1rewrites !!

“…Not want your annoying little ass anywhere near my apartment anymore, s‘that clear?“

This sentence has been stuck in your head, repeating over and over since the last interaction you had with joel. But not just in your head but somehow also in your heart too. Like a sharp blade, stinging you constantly, whenever it gets quiet and you remember what happened. Whenever you see him on the apartments hallway, completely ignoring you, sting. The times you come on your fingers, with that scenario in mind, imagining his hands gripping your skin, the texture of his jeans underneath you, the sweet pet names, sting. Because you bring to mind how he mocked you, how he looked at you and how he didn’t want to have anything to do with you after that.

You felt embarrassed, ashamed and hurt. First, you didn’t know what got into you on that day. Second, it would’ve been much more easier to handle this guilt afterwards if he was young and wasn’t living right next to you. His age turned you on, the roughness of it all. The manliness that comes with handling everything himself, demanding personality and the stern nature. But he was much older than you and you knew all the risks that came with dating much older men.

You didn’t know yourself like this. Being struck by a man, completely forgetting morals and self respect and just going dumb, while he mocks you. And then riding his thigh because he showed you one second of his soft side. Maybe he was just hurt? Maybe he was just joking around?

You slapped your hands on top of your face, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to overcome the sense of embarrassment. Apparently you were too naive and you also knew that you still wanted him. That you could not turn it off, you could not just ignore the throbbing between your legs, you could not ignore the attraction you felt for this man. He didn’t want you, he made it clear. But gave you a taste of what to except from him and left you with longing for more.

—

Joel wasn’t doing well either. The guilt was butchering him, it was unbearable and the fact that you really stopped with all of your annoying greetings and random visits made his stomach turn just more. Hell, they were not annoying. He was just being dramatic, messing with you. He knows that he is grumpy, he knows that he is annoyed with everything and maybe not the most nice human being but how could he? Since he lost his daughter he could not feel an ounce of happiness. He locked himself up from the rest of the world and let nobody in, wanting to protect his already broken heart and just live his life. In peace.

You come here with all that happy and quirky attitude, caring for him and being all joyful. He didn’t need that right now, he wasn’t— heck, he wasn’t ready for that. But deep down he knew that you didn’t deserve that. Even if the mean behaviour got you gushing like a faucet, it okey for him to call you annoying and that he didn’t want you near his apartment again. You are living alone, what if you need something? Advice, an open ear? Food? Something he has to fix? …to cum again?

Whenever he saw you he excepted a little ‘hello’, a smile, a something. Your face lacked any expression, your body moving fast to open the door and get in before he has to stand there with you. After that he realised what kind of damage he had done.

The day he let you ride his thigh was unusual, he was going to fix the damn fridge and would be out of there in 10 minutes. Then he saw how restless you were, leg shaking, eyes glassy and thighs clenching. Poor girl, he thought to himself. Was him sitting there and trying to read the instructions making you this restless? It was surprising, but nothing that he wasn’t excepting as he always saw how you looked at his arms or torso whenever he was outside, packing his car or when you visit him. He knew you needed to get it out of your system once in a lifetime to leave him alone, but what if he needed it also?

It was also crystal clear that he wanted you. I mean who wouldn’t? Pretty thing like you, swaying your hips from left to right, always trying your best to have manners and be nice, sweet doe eyes and a beautiful smile. He felt guilty, he was old, too old to be in your business, he would ruin you. It was killing him getting off on his fist with the thought of you and only you.

It was the middle of the night and you woke up at 2am, feeling this need and throbbing between your legs. Again. Your sleepy state of mind didn’t do much of thinking as you slide your hands down to your panties and started to rub your clit, eyes closed and lazily. The wetness spreading through your folds as you tiredly moan into the quiet room. Hips bucking in the need of wanting something more, something that leaves you as satisfied as the day your fridge broke. Joel.

You finger rubs faster with every breath that you take, the squelching sounds of your wetness getting more and more louder, just like your moans. Flashes of joel come up in your mind, the beautiful brown eyes, big strong shoulders, his rough hands and beautiful hair coaxing you into your orgasm as you start to cry out his name into the night until— a knock on your door.

You sit up as quick as you never did, the tiredness long gone, you wipe your fingers on your panties. Eyes widen you ask yourself who the hell it that is knocking on your door at this hour. Your pulse still high from your stolen orgasm going higher because now you are kinda scared.

Standing up slowly, you move to your door. Gently listening, trying to figure out if there was really someone standing there. But you could hear nothing.

You opened the door slowly, peeking trough the small gap and seeing him standing there. Hands on his hip, jacket and jeans still on. You swallowed, what the hell was he doing here in the middle of the night? Why was he still wearing his work clothes and looked like he was sweating? Your eyes widened just more, he was the last person you excepted on your doorstep.

“Open up, girl. S’just me.” He muttered, clearly trying to keep his voice down, not wanting to disturb your other neighbours.

“What do you want?” You whispered quickly through the gap, earning a sigh, his hand running through his curls.

“Just need to talk about something, open up. It’s important”

The confusion grew just bigger and bigger while in the pit of your stomach fear start to spread. Did he hear you?

you slowly backed off and opened the door for him. His huge frame didn’t change a bit, he just looked at you, the familiar brown eyes scanning you from head to toe. Your cheeks flushed, realising what you are wearing. The thin white silky nightgown you just bought, under that just your panties.

His breath hitched as he saw you like this. Your head was looking down, your arms nervously playing with the hem of your gown and if the moon didn’t shine trough the window, thank god it did, he couldn’t see your perked up nipples and the little panties you wore, the dress just barely covering your thighs. He was about to lose his god damn mind.

You looked up to him baffled, how he had the audacity to come to your apartment after telling you that he didn’t want you anywhere near his apartment.

“Uh, how ya’ doin’ girl?” You could hear the uncertainty in his voice. He looked around the room, his eyes always falling to your body, but looking quickly away but you noticed.

“What do you mean how am I doing? I’m trying to sleep?” You exclaimed, clearly getting frustrated and unpatient, crossing your arms on your chest.

“Yea, yea. You’re right. Disturbed ya huh?”

What the hell was he even talking about? Was he drunk? Did he really hear you? your nervous system almost falling apart at the thought of him hearing you moan his name at the night and him coming to you to ask you about it.

“Steve called me. Said there is something goin’ on with the sinks and the pipes, need’ta have a look.”

Steve, the landlord of this apartment complex. Something about this story wasn’t adding up, he looked so unsure, looking trough the room, avoiding your eyes.

“Steve? Called you? In the middle of the night?” You asked suspicious, his eyes landing on you.

“Yes, in the middle of the night because it’s an emergency, girl. Now if you would let me just quickly look into your bathrooms sink, I will leave the princess alone so she can get her beauty sleep.” His voice was rough, like he just woke up from his sleep. And that tone, annoyed and acting like he knows it all, no one should contradict him. So stubborn.

You looked at him up and down, something still wasn’t adding up. This was sure not a very logical story. Why couldn’t steve just call you? Why was he sending joel? And whatever is going on with the pipes, you definitely didn’t notice anything different while doing your nightly routine. So what was all of this about?

He sighed.

“Girl, listen. Ain’t happy about being here too, but I gotta look into this, promise I leave as soon as possible”

Deep down you were somehow happy to that he was here. His presence felt warm and the scolding and annoying tone felt familiar, like nothing happened between you two. But of course your body was betraying you once more, the aching and stolen orgasm from earlier was still present. Like an uninvited guest, pushing you further and further into an uncomfortable situation that you didn’t want to repeat again.

“Okey, come with me”

Joel didn’t know what the hell he was doing here. Not a single brain cell acted with caution in this scenario, not one thought came into his mind that told him it was a bad idea. He heard you moaning out his name.

Again.

He hears it every god damn night and it drives him absolutely mad. There is this little angel laying in her bed, desperately pushing her small fingers into her cunt, knowing it’s not enough, aching and begging for him and something more, for something bigger and something that full fills her completely. His cock throbbing like it hadn’t in the last 20 years, his heart aching, just wanting to be there and fill you to the brim, fuck you thoroughly and good just the way you deserve.

So he had enough, knocking on your door in the middle of the night like a mad man. His story dumb and not logical and if you were to ask a little more about that he probably would’ve run away in embarrassment. The sight of your small frame in that little tiny silk dress made it all worth it for him tho.

“Sorry, s’a mess in here. Not excepted any visitors.”

You stood there in your small bathroom, showing him your sink and he immediately got into his knees looking for the pipes underneath.

“S’okey. Not used to seeing something else anyways.” He chuckled but you didn’t smile nor did you make any expression because you were still mad at him.

He looked through the pipes and you looked at his board shoulders and back. But after a while it seemed to you like he didn’t know what he was doing. He just rolled the tubes around, inspecting them like they were showing signs of something wrong but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Agonising 5 minutes you stood there behind him, your back against your washing mashing and him still not doing anything but just inspecting and touching the pipes. You let out a sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?

He turns around, looks at your eyebrows pinched and his gaze fall on your body. The bathroom was well lit so now everything was on display, your gown being see through and the cold in the night making your nipples hard, the patch of wetness visible on your panties.

Joel was about the lose it. He clenched his jaw, his eyebrows furrowing just more, his mouth going dry and the bulge in his pants making him uncomfortable, he could no longer deny the fact that he just came here because he wanted to see you—see you and totally take care of you.

“Can hear ya always, y’know?”

Your heart dropped, goosebumps spread all over your body as you looked at him dumbfounded. Completely loss at words as he just chuckled at your reaction.

“The walls are thin, sweetheart.”

Warmth spreading across your panties, a little gush. Your cheeks heated and red, you looked down, embarrassment washing down on you. Not only he was aware of your attraction to him, but also the way he had an influence on you and your body. Like he knew it like the back of his hand, knew what buttons to push to make you silent pliant doll for him.

Apparently that’s why he was there and somehow, you were happy. Somehow the deep embarrassment was leaving slowly by slowly and you completely wanted to give yourself to him, let him take the lead and do whatever he wanted with you.

Joel stood up, his tall frame caging you. His rough hand slowly landing on your hip, squeezing the flesh and earning a yelp from you. His tobacco and whiskey tinted smell clouding your mind once more, the desperation transforming to need.

You looked up to him while his hand explored your body, squeezing there and there, landing on your tits, massaging them roughly while giving extra attention to your perked up nipples, gently pulling them and pinching them. Your head fell into his chest, whining at the feeling on your breasts. He cooed into the room.

“Poor fucking, baby. Poor baby, got you so fuckin’ needy. Yea, got you so fucking needy baby.”

You felt like crying at how much needy he got you. His hands left your tits, gently grabbing your neck, then your hair tugging at it, making you look up to him with glassy eyes and a pleading look.

This is what he wanted to see. This fucked out look, lips swollen, eyes glassy and full of desperation and he didn’t even do anything yet. So easy to get worked up, so responsive to his touch.

He gently neared his lips to yours, you eagerly connecting them, kissing them with a whine. He was caught off guard but figured it out as the kiss intensified, his hands still in your hair, he made a pony tail tugging at it whenever you became too desperate, nearly bitting his lips off.

As he pulled away, you whined, always whining for his touch and his guidance. He looked at you for a good moment before tugging again on your hair making it fall back, revealing your neck to him. He hungrily kissed every inch of your cleavage, sucking marks there and on your neck. The impatience was growing, as you started to move around too much he pulled your hair again and strategically put his knee between your legs.

“Fucking desperate. How the hell am I supposed to work with this huh? Fidgety little girl. What are you gonna do when I bounce you on my cock? Gonna break it in half hm?”

“Nuh uh” you cried out, his knee starting to rub your cunt again just like the day he wanted to fix your fridge. His hands were still tugging your hair as you slowly get off to his knee, him just fixated on you, eyebrows pinched, completely mesmerised by your pleasure.

“Nah baby. We gotta set some rules. You wanna keep doin’ that, i’ll leave you with nothing. It’s either listening to me or I have you unsatisfied crying in your bed because your little fingers are not enough for you to get off.”

You nodded instantly, pausing your movements on his knee and looking at him as he let your hair free and slowly moved to the strings of your gown. Letting them fall down your arms and revealing your tits to him. He immediately latched on to your left nipple sucking and biting while you were controlling yourself not to buck on his knee.

“You do what I say when I say it, we clear?” He asked, your tit leaving his mouth with a pop.

“Yes”

“Repeat it.”

“I do everything you say when you are saying it.” You obediently repeated him, looking into his darkened eyes waiting for him to answer.

But he had other plans.

You yelped out as he unexpectedly hooked two fingers into you. You couldn’t even comprehend in what time he pulled down your panties and slid his hands down there. He groaned as you harshly tugged on his arms, making him closer then he already is, pressing you more into the washing machine behind you.

His fingers made a squelching sound whenever he drew them out and plugged them back in. Silent moans leaving your mouth, his fingers way bigger than his. It was stretching you, such an unusual feeling, hitting just the right spots you didn’t even know their existence about.

Sure you had sexual encounters before but none of these people ever took their time to really pleasure you.

Joels hand was dripping with your juices, it soaked his fingers full but he didn’t stop thrusting them into your cunt, not even when you shook your head from side to side babbling something about toomuch t-toomuch.

His gaze never left yours as he fucked you open, sometimes scissoring and curling them in you.

“Shh, shh. That’s it. Crying on two fingers already, how are you gonna take my cock hm? Have to stretch you out properly.”

Your fists were weakly banging on his chest as your body moved up and down on his fingers, your hips sitting on top his leg and back against the machine behind you. Your tits gently moving along the thrusts, he enjoyed the show, his face smug and knew that the pleasure was unbearable for you.

He pressed the palm of his hand on your clit, gently stimulating it while your legs completely shook, your body gone limb as you cry out into the bathroom cumming all over his fingers. Joel’s fingers slowed down but still going in a good rhythm so you could ride out your orgasm properly.

Your breathing was still coming in quick, you laid your head on his chest and started to calm down.

“Talkin’ about too much. Little cunt s’gonna take more than that now, baby.”

“Mhm, please” you whined into his shirt, his fingers were still inside you, not moving, just gently feeling the pulsing and clenching of your cunt. The mess you made on his hand was still dripping down.

He took your hair into his fist again and tugged you back. It was hard for him to control himself when you looked like this, he didn’t even do much. One orgasm and you were trembling. Eyes red and swollen because you cried, cheeks still wet and mouth full of drool. What was he gonna do to you on his cock? Break you apart?

“Fucking hell, drooling and crying all over yourself. Look at ya. Pretty fucking girl” he kissed the your tears away, kissing your forehead, your chin and then your lips again. You lazily kissed him back, the energy and eagerness already slowed down with the release, you were floating.

You suddenly broke the kiss, crying out, feeling his fingers going in and out of your cunt again. He chuckled, tugging at your hair and pulling you into the kiss again. There was no time to think for you, he was overstimulating you every second. It was so sensitive that tears started to form in your eyes again.

“Mhph—please. Not again.” You whined shaking your head escaping his kiss.

He mockingly pouted at you, slowing down with his fingers.

“Gonna replace it with my cock and show you what to cry and pout about, hon. S’that what you want? Without proper stretching? Poor cunt would get all achy, baby.”

You wanted him to fuck you, truly. But at what state this was going, it would probably hurt a lot. So you listened to him and let him finger you again, your pussy clenching releasing gush after gush. You bit your lips as he started going faster and harder again, body moving up and down as you buried your face into his neck, now fully sobbing at the overwhelming stimulation.

“Just one more, c’mon angel. Cum on my fingers, show me you can take my cock”

You bit down his jacket, this one coming very tingly, stronger than the first one but more releasing, like a relief washing over you. You bucked your hips into his fingers, him holding you and sitting you down on the washing machine finally. With his other hand he rubbed your back up and down, while he slowed down with his pumping in your cunt.

“Atta girl, s’what i’m talking about. Always listening to me.”

He grazed over your little clit with his palm once, twice as you let the aftershocks of your orgasm settle in. You didn’t even notice when he picked you up and went to your bedroom.

He gently laid you down on your bed, your head completely clouded, legs spread as you burrowed your face into one of your pillows, humming.

“What a sight. Pretty girl on her pretty bed, swollen wet cunt on display, clenching on nothing.”

Joel took his jacket off while speaking, then his jeans dropped down, seeing his hard bulge absolutely leaking his shorts full. It was truly a miracle how he didn’t already cum in his pants while fingering you.

The bed weighted down as you felt him get on top of you, putting the pillow away from you and looking at you like a little puppy.

“Hi.” You squeaked.

“Hi, baby. Already getting tired on me?”

You shook your head. “No, jus’ feel good”

He chuckles at that, kissing all over your face and peking your lips.

“Now you gonna feel even better, honey.” you looked down seeing his huge cock out, angry leaking tip, twitching and releasing pre cum all over. His tip was huge and the rest of it girthy and big, and on the end there was his salt and pepper bush, covering him all over.

“S’huge” your worried eyes found him as he slowly started to jerk off his cock, squeezing the tip lightly making it ooze some precum out.

“Yea, that’s why. I told ya.”

Your cunt was begging for him to finally fuck you, but you were still worried that it might hurt you.

“Gonna take care of you, don’t worry baby. S’okey.”

His reassuring words made you feel safe, warm and bubbly, you loved his soft side. His mean side was hot but this side you preferred more. You gently run your head through his curls, tugging him for a kiss. He hummed into the kiss, deepening it, his cock slowly starting to stretch you out.

“When you want us to stop baby—fuck. Ya just scream red, s’ that clear?”

“I scream red, yes.” You repeated him just like he told you, earning a kiss on your forehead for that and a little good girl.

At first it was a slight stretch and sting that made you mewl into his lips, but he hushed you, slowly feeding his cock into you, slightly pulling out and doing the same again.

You pulled away from his lips with a cry, tears starting to form in your eyes as he gently held your left cheek, whispering sweet nothings, looking into your eyes. His other hand coming on your little button, swollen from the previous releases, he starts to rub you gently.

Your whimpers turn into little moans as you clench down on his cock that’s only is halfway in there.

“Doing so well, honey.” He whispered “so so well.” and that with another rub on your clit was all it took for you to come on his cock again. This was the most powerful one. Your whole body shook as you buried your head into the pillows on top of you and joel making holding you close to him, as you ride out your orgasm. He grunts, trying not to cum with you clenching down on his dick hard.

Joel takes the chance to fully insert himself into you while you were still dealing with the climax, face still buried in the pillow, the moans filling the room, he loved every second of it. Turned you into a crying mess. Daddydaddydaddy you whimpered into out, his eyes widened, a deep growl coming from him, his cock in you throbbing with need.

He felt absolutely feral, he didn’t give you time to adjust you on his cock and placed his hands on your waist, slowly but surely thrusting in and out of you, your gushing heat perfectly hugging him and the lots of cum you already released mixing perfectly with his pre cum, making it easier to just hold you and fuck into you.

This is what you needed. You were always imagining this scenario in your head whenever you got off, imagining him taking care of you, handling you and making you feel safe in his arms.

“Was right with stretching you out huh? Look how easy you are taking this cock in you, baby.”

He held your neck, pulling you away from the pillows, making you slightly sit up and watch how his shaft is disappearing completely in and out. You whined, legs shaking as you tried to escape from his grip so you could burrow your face into the pillow again, but he didn’t let you.

“Nuh uh, watch how i’m fucking ya.” He growled, his hips never slowing down on you, your cunt feeling too good, too tight. He never wanted to stop.

“Always with the tears. Just crumbling all over daddy’s dick. S’what you are good for, dumb little girl like you”

So he kept fucking you.

In and out, In and out.

The matress underneath you completely soaked with your mess, one of his hands patiently rubbing your clit while the other one wiping your tears away. His lips always grazed yours, placing kisses all over your neck, suckling, knowing you are going to be all bruised up tomorrow.

“Please—gonna—daddy.” you cried out, his cock leaving your pussy as you squirted into his torso, your body shaking, legs going numb and your face completely sobbing.

“Fuck, angel. Keep going baby.” He kept rubbing at your little nub, while you released gush after gush, your body completely exhausted at this point, going limb on the mattress. It was unbelievable, you never squirted before and it felt like heaven came down on you. The pleasure was unbearable at this point, your cunt completely overstimulated, swollen and red. You looked up to him, breathing heavily you saw him jerking off his cock, dangerously close to your pussy. He wasn’t going to fuck you one more time right?

“S’too much”

“Y’know what to say, when it’s really too much.” He sternly told you, holding his hand on your chin making you look into his eyes. You nodded, mouth dry not having the energy to repeated anything right now. Luckily he accepted that.

Your body completely bucked and shook as you felt his cock entering you once more. Your fists tried to fight him off, but there was no use. He began thrusting again, he held your face in his hands and just stroked the tears away.

“Shh sh. None of that. C’mon now, with daddy. One more.”

He fucked you absolutely without slowing down. Your throat was hurting at how much you were sobbing and pleading him no. But he wasn’t letting up.

“What if I fill ya up hm? Make this belly full.”

You shook your head, eyes widening as he chuckled.

“People—the people are gonna talk. Would kill you”

“Yeah baby? They would kill me? For filling you up, making you a mama? What if we test that theory out hm?”

You couldn’t help but clench, his smugness turning you on, the way he insisted doing whatever he pleases, your mind going to the morning after pill you still had in one of your drawers. The relief washing over you, as you buried your face into his neck, feeling his thrusts getting messier and messier.

Your nipples were rubbed raw on his shirt, your hands tugging at his curls, his lips attaching them on your neck. He was growling and moaning into your ear, you’ve never heard something hotter.

“S’that what you wanted? Old man fucking you, filling you up, making you his hm? Taking care of you. Just like the little pillow princess she is” your hips bucked up to him, matching his thrusts, you were close.

“Please— s’what I wanted uh huh, yes” you nodded your head quickly, feeling his lips forming a smile on your neck.

His thrusts grew sloppier and sloppier and as you felt his muscles clench and one of his hand sneaking down, starting to rub at your poor sensitive clit again.

“C’mon with me, baby. One last time, cum for daddy angel.”

This one was more soft and more loving than the other ones because you guys came together, you clenched down on his dick while he released in you, filling you up.

He grunted into your ear while slowly and surely he was done, his cock growing soft in you. You kissed him on the cheek, making him look up to you. His face was exhausted pretty brown eyes droopy and lips were swollen. Now he was the one who truly looked fucked out. He smiled to you, feeling tiredness overcome him as he softly buried his face into your neck and closed his eyes. You stroked his curls, his back making him hum. And then you heard snoring coming, knowing he fell asleep.

“Poor old man.” You closed your eyes too, satisfied.

That was A LOT. I hope this somehow makes up for tomorrow’s episode (i’m not ready). Again, feedback is gladly appreciated, i’m still new to writing. i’m so happy that lots of people liked the first part and now I have almost 200 followers which is crazy! 😭🤭

Thank you for all the people reading and especially for the people who wanted a pt. 2! @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @iamsherlocked-1998 @viicwz @jasminedragoon @pedroswife69

[flowerymenendez]

Your boyfriend loved playing with your pussy. And, no, not in a sexual way.

You were cuddling, your back resting against his chest while his tired eyes were fixed on the TV after a long day. Your legs were spread and his big hands were subconsciously roaming lazily over your relaxed body, down, down until he reached the waistband of your pretty panties. You glanced down at his hand when he slid it under your underwear, meeting your soft pussy lips.

You looked up at him when he started rubbing and pinching your folds only to see your almost sleepy boyfriend staring at the TV, very drawn into the show. He didn't even look at you, not even a slight flinch. Because, well, he was too damn relaxed, watching TV while playing with your pussy because he loved how soft and puffy it was.

You whimpered lowly, turning your attention back to the TV while he kept molding your pretty pussy.

A few minutes later, you started squirming when he accidentally rubbed your little bud, making you leak.

And, without noticing, he slid his thick fingers down to your sappy cunt, rubbing small circles over it before moving them back to your clit, making it throb.

You bit your lip, lifting your hips against his hand, meanwhile he chuckled softly at the forgotten TV show in the background.

He kept playing with your clit and cunt until you were all soaked, holding back your moans when your clit started throbbing deliciously against his fingers while you orgasmed.

Finally, he looked down at you, noticing his very flushed and lustful little girlfriend. Then, his eyes moved down to his hand, sliding it out of your panties. His fingers were sticky, soaked with your arousal.

[warlockslovetomeow]

mdni. explicit sexual content. streetracer!caleb x rival!female reader

streetracer!caleb who saw red the moment you cut him off at the end of the race and stole the win like it was nothing. didn’t matter that you rode for whatever gang would pay you. didn’t matter that you disappeared right after. all he remembered was the flash of your taillights and that cocky smirk you threw over your shoulder. he’s been chasing you ever since.

streetracer!caleb who finally sees you again, leaning against a busted bumper from your previous race like you owned the ground he walked on. you were talking slick with grease on your hands and heat in your smile. he should be furious. instead, his mouth is dry and his pants are tight.

streetracer!caleb who can’t stop eyeing you. and your bumper. mostly you. he knows he should walk away, but instead, he ends up circling your busted ride, jaw clenched, voice low as he mutters, “you’re gonna kill yourself on a run if you don’t fix this.” and when you ask if he’s offering to help, his silence says everything.

streetracer!caleb who watches you win again—this time against one of his own—and it pisses him off. not because you’re better, but because it turns him on. you drive like a devil and smile like a sinner. every time you touch your car, he’s thinking about what else you could handle like that.

streetracer!caleb who caught one of your sponsors hanging around the pit before a race and nearly lost it. “that your new money maker, sweetheart? or do you just let anyone under your hood?” his voice is calm, deadly, but his hand flexes like it’s aching to shove the guy off the map. you just smile and tell him to focus on not losing again.

streetracer!caleb who races better angry, and nothing pisses him off more than seeing you smile at someone who isn’t him.

streetracer!caleb who jerks off in the shower after every run in with you, forehead pressed to the tile, teeth grit, muttering your name like he hates it. and he does. he hates how much he wants you. how every moan in his head sounds like yours. how sometimes, when he’s close, he imagines you calling his name just to wreck himself even more.

streetracer!caleb who tells himself it’s just tension. just heat. just rivalry. but the way his hands shake after he sees you race in other crew’s colors, the way he grips the wheel imagining your thighs wrapped around his waist—he knows better.

streetracer!caleb who kisses you like he’s starving once you finally break. after weeks of bickering, eye fucking, half threats and breathless moments. when you finally grab his jaw and yank him in he groans into your mouth like he’s waited his whole goddamn life for this.

streetracer!caleb who fucks you in his backseat with the windows fogged up and your panties shoved into his pocket like a trophy. who says “you wanted a rematch? here’s your fucking prize.” as he presses your knees to your chest and makes you cum around his fingers before he even gives you his cock.

streetracer!caleb who talks you through every orgasm like he’s worshipping you. “that’s it, baby. just like that. you’re takin’ me so well. never seen someone so perfect fall apart this hard.” his voice is velvet over gravel, low and hungry, like he’s falling apart right with you but refuses to stop until you’re ruined.

streetracer!caleb who doesn’t look you in the eyes right after, because if he does, he’ll lose. not the race. not the war. he’ll lose himself in you.

a/n: yall im wet as fuck rn... im writing sylus' full streetracer fic but best believe caleb's is next

[k0ingisdone]

you know what.

I am so fucking tired of rape fics. I am a sexual assault survivor and you sexulise rape. why. why do I work so hard to get better and it all get ruined by some horny asshole just like last time. THESE CHARATERS DONT WANT TO RAPE YOU. rape is horrible, its NOT sexy. its traumatizing. why do you keep talking about it and writing about it. STOP MINIMIZING MY PAIN WITH YOUR DERANGED FANTASIES.

Simon Riley isnt a rapist

Leon Kennedy isnt a rapist

and belive it or not Jonathan Crane ISNT A FUCKING RAPIST

dont tell me not to kink shame

do not tell me to skip it

you cannot tell me that my trauma doesn't matter

STOP WRITING RAPE FICS

[natti-ice]

[irb-pascalito-99]

Father Figure

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader (no outbreak AU)

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3k

Content Warnings: smut, dbf!Joel, lap sitting, soft!Joel, praise kink

Summary: When your college boyfriend breaks up with you a month after you graduate who is there to comfort you but your dad’s best friend, Joel Miller.

A/N: Writing is how I’m coping with the new season of TLOU. This one might be a one off, or maybe more I haven’t decided yet.

The small gravel stones of your dad’s driveway dig into your feet as you run barefoot out the front door in a desperate attempt to follow after your boyfriend. Three years you’ve been together. Three years, most of your college life, just for him to show up at your childhood home a month after you graduate to break your heart.

“So that’s just it? You’re fucking leaving?” You yell after him as he gets in his car. He doesn’t respond, or even look at you, while he hurriedly starts the engine. He nearly peels out of the driveway in an attempt to speed away, but not before you hurl one more insult in his direction. “Fuck you and your fuck ass car!”

You throw a rock at the car, but given the tiny size of the object it does nothing more than cling against the metal of his vehicle. He disappears into the night, leaving you standing in your driveway crying your eyes out.

Your whole body shakes as you sob. You allow your body to crumple to the ground. The rocks that were digging into your feet now scrape against your legs and hands. You aren’t sure how long you are out there before a familiar southern drawl calls your name. You glance in the direction of the voice to find none other than your father’s next door neighbor Joel Miller, watching you from the edge of his front porch.

Joel and his daughter Sarah moved into the house next to your dad the summer before you left for college. Both of them were single dads, your mother having left when you were too little to remember, and shared similar interests. It didn’t take long for Joel to become your father’s new best friend, even though Joel was nearly 15 years younger than him. Especially considering how lonely he’d been after you moved away to school.

Whenever you came back to visit it was inevitable you’d be spending time with Joel and Sarah. The two were invited to holiday dinners, barbecues, football games, pool parties. You didn’t mind though, you were glad to see your dad had someone to spend time with when you weren’t around. Sarah was a sweet kid, and looked up to you so much, and her father was always kind. It helped that he wasn’t bad to look at, but now he was looking down upon your pathetic state.

You considered what you must look like right now. It must be concerning, if not purely insane. You can feel the way the tears soak your cheeks, little droplets dripping off the edge of your jaw. Chunks of your hair came loose from the bun you had thrown it in earlier and now flew around your face, sticking out every which way. You’re sitting on the ground wearing nothing but an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, which are doing nothing to protect your skin from the cold winter air. How long have you been out here?

Joel is standing next to you now. He crouches down to your level and takes your face in his hands, his warm calloused hands. His eyes survey your face, his thumbs rubbing circles over your cheeks.

“You okay sweetheart?” Joel asks, even though he can see you very much are not okay.

You try to catch your breath. You take your trembling lip between your teeth in an attempt to pull yourself together. You nod, but you aren’t even able to finish the action before another sob wracks your body.

“Oh darlin’, come here.” You let Joel wrap you in his arms while you continue to sob into his chest. His t-shirt is balled up between your fists and you’re certain your tears are soaking into the material, but Joel just holds you while you cry. One of his hands rubs circles between your shoulder blades while the other rubs along your arm. His fingers brush the goosebumps that have begun to form there. “You’re freezing. C’mon why don’t you come inside. I’ll get you something warm to drink.”

You allow Joel to pull you to your feet. He directs you over to his house, and you numbly follow. The inside of his house is warm. Joel has you sit at one of the chairs surrounding his kitchen table while he puts some water on to boil.

“Sarah?” You ask.

“At a friend’s house for the night.” Joel says in explanation. You nod, though his back is still to you, and start to take in your surroundings.

You’ve been in Joel’s house a couple of times now, but you haven’t spent much time looking around. Pictures of Joel and Sarah are positioned all around the house. The fridge in the kitchen holds up several drawings you’re assuming Sarah did. Your eyes are focused on a picture of Joel, Sarah, and another man with curly black hair. He looks similar to Joel, so you would probably guess that they’re related somehow though you haven’t seen the man from the picture around.

“That’s my brother, Tommy.” Joel says, following your gaze to the picture on the wall. He sits down in a chair next to you as he places a mug on the table in front of you. “He lives in Wyoming now with his wife and son.”

You grab the mug he set down, and hiss a breath through your gritted teeth when your palms sting under the heat of the ceramic. Joel quickly grabs the mug out of your hands and places it back on the table. He turns your hand in his to look at your palm.

“Jesus,” Embedded in the heels of your hands are several small pieces of gravel, some of them deep enough to actually draw blood. Upon further inspection your knees and chins are even worse for the wear. How hard did you fall to the ground to cause such injury? “Give me a second.”

Joel hurries away up the stairs. You attempt to pick some of the gravel out of your hands yourself, the embarrassment of it all finally washing over you.

You are not this girl. You are not a girl who cries in her driveway over a boy. Did you even love him? You thought you did. You told him so at least. You spent three years of your life with him. You planned on moving in together when he graduated in the spring. But now that he left you can’t help but wonder if you’re sad about losing him or just angry about what he had said to you.

Joel returns with antiseptic, bandages, and a pair of tweezers. He arranges the items on the table before he sits down across from you again and begins carefully picking the gravel out of your skin. He does his best to be gentle but it still stings a bit.

“You fighting with your boyfriend?” Joel asks while he starts working on your knees. His thumbs splay across the bare skin of your thighs.

You realize you’ve never been this close to him. You don’t think you’ve ever even touched him aside from shaking his hand before tonight. Now you can feel the warmth of his skin against yours. You soak in the scent of him— the combination of cedar, whiskey, and something soft. There’s a stirring in your stomach when you feel the strength of his hands on your thighs, a fluttering of nerves but something more intense as well. He says your name, snapping you out of your thoughts and causing a blush to creep across your cheeks.

“You okay?” He asks. You bite your lip and nod, doing your best to pretend you weren’t just thinking about the way his hands would feel on other parts of your body.

“Yeah I’m fine. I’ll be okay.” You say, faking a smile. Joel raises his eyebrow at you, silently communicating to you that he doesn’t buy it. You sigh and let the smile fall from your face. You’re too exhausted to keep up the act anyway. “We broke up. He broke up with me.”

You feel the tears trying to force their way back up again and aren’t able to say anything else. Joel simply shakes his head in return.

“Idiot.” He mutters as he cleans your knees with the antiseptic. You let out a half hearted chuckle at his reaction. “I’m serious, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

You shrug. The truth is your boyfriend, or rather ex-boyfriend now, had a point when he told you earlier it seemed like you didn’t have any ambitions. You were never really passionate about your degree in business. It just seemed like a good option to make decent money later, but now that you graduated what do you have to show for it? You’re living at home with your dad. You have no idea what you’re going to do next. All of your friends are still up at school finishing their degrees. Soon they will be moving across the country to start internships, and here you are floating through life aimlessly.

“Hey,” Joel whispers. His thumb brushes along your jaw. You fight the urge to shiver as his eyes stare deep into your own. “I mean it. You’re a beautiful girl, you’re smart, you were way out of his league. You’ll land on your feet.”

You smile back at him, and this time it’s genuine. His fingers squeeze your jaw lightly before moving back to putting bandages on your knees.

“What about you?” You ask when he finally sits back down across from you.

“Pretty sure you’re out of my league too,” Joel jokes. He finally takes a sip from the mug of coffee he brought for himself, which is certainly cold by now.

“No,” you laugh. “I mean you’re attractive. You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re good with your hands. Why don’t you have someone?”

“Just haven’t found the right person I guess.” Joel shrugs, though he seems more tense than before. ”I haven’t really dated anyone since Sarah’s mom.”

You vaguely remember your dad telling you about Sarah’s mom. She left when Sarah was little, much like your mom did with you. Unlike your dad, who has no concerns about sharing how much he despises the woman who left you, Joel doesn’t ever really talk about his ex. Sarah hasn’t really mentioned her either, though you’re not sure how much she would really have to talk about anyway. You certainly don’t have any memories of your own mother.

“What, you’ve never been interested in anyone? Sarah’s what, eleven now?” You chide.

“She’s nearly thirteen, and no. I never said I wasn’t interested in anyone, just that I haven’t acted on it.” Joel stares down at the table

You might be imagining it, but it feels as though there’s a tension in the air. The stirring in your stomach grows. You know it’s a stupid idea. It’s been a long night. Joel is double your age, and your father’s best friend, but you’re feeling vulnerable and something about the way he’s refusing to make eye contact with you after the conversation you were having lowers your inhibitions.

Without thinking about what you’re doing, or the repercussions you could face, you get out of your chair and stand in front of Joel’s. He drops his hands to his sides and looks up at your figure, his lips pursed in a question before you lower yourself onto his lap.

“What’re you-“ Joel’s hand quickly grabs the small of your back as you slowly move your hips forward until your chest presses against his. His bulge is aligned with your center now. Any concerns you had about reading the situation wrong instantly leave your mind when you feel his length start to harden beneath you. “Your dad…”

“Is working late.” Your breath fans against his lips. ”It’s just us.”

Joel’s eyes are wide and focused on yours as he attempts to find an argument for why this can’t happen. There are so many reasons, but he can’t seem to mention one or think at all for that matter. He only murmurs your name in warning.

“Please Joel,” you whisper. “Help me forget.”

You circle your hips slowly over his again. His entire body jolts when you do. He shakes his head and moves further back on his chair, but you follow his body with your own.

“We can’t,” he says quietly, but his eyes are fixed on the way your body moves against his.

He could easily stop this. He could push you off. He could stand up and walk away, but he doesn’t. He seems transfixed on the way your body molds into his.

“Nobody has to know Joel.” You feel yourself leaking all over him as you press yourself into him again. His hands move from your back to your hips while he watches your wetness seep into the fabric of his sweatpants. “Please, I want you.”

“Darlin’,” Joel rasps beneath you. His hands squeeze your hips tightly as you continue to grind your clothed core against him. “Darlin’, this isn’t- Fuck- It isn’t right.”

Despite his words Joel doesn’t do anything to stop your actions. He simply drops his forehead to your collarbone and lets out a long groan. You whimper at the sound of his desperation and the feeling of his breath fanning across the top of your breasts.

You need him. All of him. You know the situation is precarious. He’d stop you immediately if you took it any further than this. You fear even lowering your shirt may snap him out of the pleasure filled haze you find yourselves in, but you need more, so you speed up your movements and bear down on him harder which seems to snap any remaining resolve he had.

“Fuck, fuck it. God fuckin’,” Joel groans. His hands dip lower until his fingers dig into your ass. You grip his shoulders as if they are the only thing grounding you to the earth, and you think maybe they might be. “God damnit baby, that’s good.”

You shudder under his touch, allowing him to push and pull your body against his. Your hands leave his shoulders to travel up his neck. You plant your fingers in the greying curls in the back of his head.

He lifts his head from your collarbone to press his lips delicately on the side of your neck. You cry out when you feel him suck your skin into his mouth and then gently nip at it with his teeth.

“C’mon baby,” Joel moans against your skin. “That’s it, be a good girl for me.”

Your cunt throbs at the words. Be a good girl for me. Yes please, anything he wanted. Anything he ever wants is his.

Your climax builds quickly while he continues to guide you across his lap. You don’t think you’ve ever had it this good, certainly not with your loser boyfriend. Most nights he couldn’t make you come at all and now here you were, in the lap of your father’s best friend on the brink of orgasm without even taking off one piece of clothing. You’re starting to think that asshole breaking up with you might be the best thing that ever happened to you.

Joel must sense how close you are because he grips you tighter and bucks his hips up into you, rutting his clothed cock against your pulsating clit.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Joel please.”

“I got you baby. I got you.” He breathes into your ear. You shake uncontrollably in his grasp as he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth. “Come for me sweet girl. Come all over my lap. Show me how good I make you feel.”

His encouragement is the last thing you need to push you over the edge. You scream out as your walls clench around nothing and pull at his hair. Your body twitches in his grasp but he continues to push and pull you against his throbbing cock. He keeps the motion steady, extending your climax for as long as possible until you collapse into his arms.

“Good fucking girl,” he hums against the top of your head. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face with one hand while the other rubs soothing circles on your lower back. “Did so good for me sweetheart. So good.”

When you finally return to your body you can feel the insistent pressure of Joel’s hard on pressing into you. You reach your hand down to grip his length and slowly lower yourself to the floor. Joel gulps while he watches with dark eyes. You run your finger along the outline of his dick, licking your lips at the sight of his impressive size.

There’s a dark spot soaked into the material of his sweatpants where you just came on top of him, evidence of how good he just made you feel. Now you’re going to get to make him feel just as good. You reach your hand up to the waistband of his sweats, ready to pull them down his thighs when you’re interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up to your abandoned house.

“Fuck, your dad is home. Get up!” Joel says through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine,” you whisper. “He’ll probably just think I’m asleep.”

Joel pulls you to your feet despite the way you whine his name. Joel stands up and puts distance between the two of you.

“You should go home.” He says.

You want to tell him no. You want to pull him back into the chair and feel him inside your mouth. You want to hear his groans as he releases on your tongue, but you know it’s no use. Joel stands behind the kitchen island now, putting a whole room between the two of you. Just as quickly as it started, the moment is over. The exhaustion from earlier crashes over you again.

“Yeah, okay.” You mutter. “Goodnight.”

You hear him lock the door behind you as you walk back across the grass to your house.

[bebx]

me reading smut and calculating in my head the positions the characters are in

[wonderlandwalker]

Hell hath no fury like a Buckley | Steve Harrington x reader

stranger things masterlist / inbox

summary: there's exactly two thoughts left in Steve's brain: you, and the fact that he's about to majorly violate the bro code

word count: 6.2k

tags / content warnings: the usual I guess, hopeless pining, smut, mostly those, seems the only writing style I have is 'falls desperately deeply in love at first sight' and I'm not in the mood to psychoanalyse it so here's more of that

a/n: was gonna work on this more but I had to commemorate Pope Francis' morbidly entertaining demise somehow x

Steve Harrington was many things—

Former King of Hawkins High (retired, thank you very much). Babysitter extraordinaire (unofficial title, of course, but the kids would back him up). And, according to Robin Buckley—his best friend, partner-in-crime, and personal tormentor—a ‘walking disaster with good hair’.

But right now?

Right now, he was fucking mortified.

Okay.

Wait—

Let’s rewind.

Five minutes ago, life had been simple: Steve had been doing his best impression of a responsible lifeguard, which mostly meant leaning against the chair with his sunglasses perched low, pretending he wasn’t counting the minutes until his shift ended and he could stop caring about pH levels. The Hawkins community pool was the same as ever— the sharp tang of sunscreen and chlorine in the air, kids cannonballing into the deep end, and Debbie — the one lifeguard who actually gave a shit about the rules— blowing her whistle at some poor kid for running. Steve?

Steve was here for two reasons. One: free access to the pool after hours — unofficial, of course—courtesy of Keith’s lack of managerial oversight.  And two: A pay cheque that barely covers gas money but is still better than listening to his dad rant on to him about ‘loafing around all summer like a goddamn bum.’

And then— 

Then he saw you.

Which, okay, is not that unusual— people come to the pool all the time.  And it wasn’t that you stood out, not really. No, you were just— there. In a swimsuit like half the other girls, a loose cover-up tied around your hips, but fuck— As you stepped into the sunlight, it was like the universe had hit pause. You moved like a struck match in a room full of shadows—vivid, flickering, impossible to look away from. Everybody else blurred at the edges, cardboard cut-outs in your wake, but you? You burnt.

And Steve—God, Steve was already half in love with the way the light would destroy him. He knew the story. Knew how it ended. Orpheus wasn’t supposed to turn around. But you smiled at him, and suddenly he understood: some temptations aren’t meant to be resisted. They’re meant to unravel you, thread by thread, until you’re grateful for the ruin.

Oh, shit.

You were walking straight toward him.

Fuck.

Think, Harrington, think.

You looked familiar. Hawkins isn’t exactly a metropolis—if you’d gone to school here, he’d know you. Had you been at the summer fun fair? Sat behind him in chem sophomore year? Christ, this was bad. Steve—King Steve, who used to have the entire school catalogued in his peripheral vision—couldn’t even scrape together a fucking name. Maybe you were—

Your eyes met his—sharp enough to flay him open—and your smirk said you knew exactly how hard his brain was liquidating.

Double fuck.

You were smiling at him—Christ—that stagnant, astute curve of lips that already felt branded behind his eyelids, and he was staring. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Some distant, rational part of his intellect screamed at him: say something cool. Say something cool. 

Instead, all he could track was the way you tilted your head—that loose strand of hair escaping, catching sunlight like spun gold as it tumbled free. His fingers spasmed at his side with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to brush it back behind your ear with a touch too tender for whatever this was. The realisation made him feel violently stupid, like some second-rate rom-com hero about to monologue his feelings in the rain.

"Hey," you said, and your voice wrapped around him like smoke. Steve's pulse stuttered. "Have you seen Robin by any chance?"

The whiplash of it—the casual destruction of that moment—left his cerebrum sputtering like a dying engine.

Robin?

Why the hell were you asking about Robin?

Robin doesn’t��have friends he didn’t know about. He is her best friend, which means he knows all her people—the band geeks, the weirdos from the record store, and even that one girl who could recite The Hobbit in Elvish. He’d met them all.

And yet, here you were, asking for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you had the right to know her schedule. Like you—

His mouth moved faster than his brain. "She left to grab beers, like...five minutes ago."

"Figures," you hummed, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched—that tell-tale sign of years weathering Robin's particular brand of chaos. "She swore she'd meet me here, but I guess we're operating on Buckley Standard Time again."

Steve's thoughts screeched to a halt.

Buckley Standard Time.

That was—

No. That couldn't be right. Because that was his bit. Well, technically it was their bit — his and Robin’s— the joke he'd made after she'd shown up forty minutes late to their shift because she'd "gotten into a debate about whether hot dogs were sandwiches with some guy at the record store." 

He'd thought that was theirs. Just theirs.

But you knew it.

Which meant—

Oh shit.

Oh, no.

His stomach dropped like he’d just crested the first hill of a rollercoaster—that awful, weightless second before the plunge. Because there were only two kinds of people who knew Buckley Standard Time: him, and someone who’d known Robin longer than he had. And unless you were some kind of psychic super-stalker (which, given the way his heart was currently trying to break through his ribs, he might’ve honestly preferred), that left only one earth-shattering possibility.

His eyes flicked over your face again, searching for it—the resemblance. The same sharp wit tucked into the corner of your smile. The identical nose scrunch when you laughed. Christ, how had he missed it? He’d been too busy being dazzled, too busy cataloguing the way sunlight caught in your eyes, to notice the nuclear bomb of a truth staring him in the face.

“Y-you’re—” Steve cleared his throat, trying to wrestle his voice into something resembling casual indifference. It came out closer to a pubescent seagull. “You’re Robin’s…?”

“Twin.Yeah.” Your grin widened, head tilting in a way that should’ve had a government warning: Caution: May cause permanent heart palpitations.

Holy.

Shit.

He’d heard about you, of course—the mythical other half of Robin’s childhood stories, the shadow in the Polaroids stuffed in her wallet. He’d even known you were coming to town for the summer. But in his mind, he’d just pictured… Robin 2.0. Same chaos, different zip code. But meeting you in person was a different kind of disaster.

Not only were you Robin’s sister—fully, irrevocably off-limits by the Bro Code in every conceivable universe—but he’d just spent the past two minutes mentally drafting embarrassingly bad poetry about how your eyes reminded him of...something poetic (he hadn't gotten that far). 

And Robin?

Robin was going to murder him.

Slowly. Painfully. With that special look of disappointment she reserved exclusively for when he was being “particularly Harrington-ish”.

"Oh," he said, brilliantly. "Cool. That's—cool." The words hung in the air like particularly unimpressive confetti. You raised one eyebrow, clearly savouring the spectacle of smooth talking. Steve Harrington reduced to a floundering mess. "You okay there?"

"Yep. Great. Never better." His grip on the lifeguard chair tightened until the plastic creaked ominously. "Just, uh—didn't know Robin had a sister." Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid—

The moment the words left his mouth, your face twitched—part amusement, part genuine bewilderment. “Really?” For a second he wondered if he should just fucking bolt, but then your smile returned, and he forgot how his lungs worked. "I've been away at college," you explained, shifting your weight just enough to make the hem of your cover-up ride up, and Steve suddenly developed an intense fascination with the chlorine dispenser behind you, his ears burning crimson. "But I'm back for the summer, and Robin promised me pool privileges." You leaned in, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Apparently, you're the guy to sweet-talk for after-hours access."

Sweet-talk.

You wanted to sweet-talk him.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His mouth opened, ready to blurt something catastrophically eager like, "You don't even need to sweet-talk me; I'd drain the pool and refill it with champagne if you asked," when—

"There you are!"

Robin materialised like some kind of vengeful angel, arms loaded with a six-pack and a half-eaten bag of chips. "I see you two already met." Her expression cycled from relief at spotting you to instant suspicion as her gaze darted between your amused smile and Steve's deer-in-headlights-meets-fish-out-of-water-meets-man-who-just-remembered-he-left-the-stove-on panic. "Why does Steve look like he's about to pass out?" She asked flatly, already exhausted. "Earth to Harrington. You good?" Robin waved a hand in front of his glazed-over eyes, then shot you a look. "This guy's supposed to save lives? Yeah, right."

Which brings us back to fucking mortified.

Robin doesn’t even wait for you to reach the car, having commandeered you on an urgent towel retrieval mission she absolutely (and suspiciously) couldn’t handle herself. One second Steve's watching you go, the next he's being manhandled behind the snack bar like a misbehaving golden retriever, Robin's fingers digging into his bicep like she’s trying to jump-start his malfunctioning brain through sheer force. "What the fuck is up with you?" She hisses, voice low enough that it bypasses his eardrums and vibrates directly in his panic centre. Her free hand gestures wildly toward the parking lot. "Why are you acting so weird?”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat makes a noise like a dial-up modem trying to connect. "I wasn't—" Robin's eyes narrow into lethal slits. "You were." She releases his arm only to jab a finger against his sternum hard enough to leave a bruise. "The moment she walked in, you short-circuited so hard I could smell burning wiring. You called the pool ladder ‘ma’am’. Twice."

Steve’s pulse kicks into overdrive. “What? I was just—being nice.” He gestures vaguely at the pool, as if that explains anything. “I’m a nice guy, Robin. It’s a thing I do.” She scoffs, nostrils flaring. “Harrington, I’ve seen your ‘nice’. This wasn’t ‘nice’. This was—” She makes a frantic explosion motion with her hands, complete with a “pshooo!” sound effect. “—full-system meltdown ‘nice’. You were sweating.”

“It’s July,” he protests weakly.

“You never sweat.”

“I always sweat!”

“You once fought a demodog in a leather jacket and came out dewy at most.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “That’s— that’s not—” But before he can dig his grave any deeper, you reappear, sauntering over with a smirk that spells nothing but trouble. “Everything alright over here?” Robin’s grip on his arm tightens like a warning. “Great!” she chirps, voice suddenly three octaves too high. “Steve was just telling me how thrilled he is to have another Buckley around.”

Steve’s smile is less charming Harrington grin and more man awaiting execution. “Thrilled”, he croaks. “Yep. So. So thrilled.” Your grin widens at his words—slow, studious, dangerous. "Yeah?" You step closer, and Steve's heart launches into an Olympic-grade gymnastics routine—triple backflip, perfect landing, gold medal in catastrophic panic. "Because I was just thinking..." Your finger taps a thoughtful rhythm against your chin. "...about all that quality time we'll be sharing. Robin says you throw legendary parties."

Steve’s brain flatlines. Parties. Together. You. Him. Oh God.

Across from him, Robin’s gaze darts between the two of you, her expression morphing from suspicion to outright dread.

Steve's Adam's apple bobs like it's trying to flee his throat. She knows. Christ, she definitely knows. He has just enough coherent thought left to realise:

He is so spectacularly, catastrophically, irrevocably fucked.

He spends the rest of the week trying to avoid you. Trying being the key word here. The universe, it seems, has other plans.

Because you're everywhere—a constant, maddening presence burning at the edges of his vision like the ghost of a flashlight in the dark. He swears you're doing it on purpose, catching his eye just to watch him fumble, that sly smile playing at the corners of your lips every time his pulse stutters under your gaze. And God, does it stutter.

You’re at the impromptu movie night Nancy throws, wedged between Robin and Eddie on the couch, laughing as you recall some childhood disaster involving a stolen bike, a jar of peanut butter, and—if Robin’s dramatic interruptions are to be believed—a "very pissed-off raccoon with a personal vendetta."

"Way more traumatic than this," you declare, gesturing at the slasher flick on the screen where some poor extra is meeting their gory demise. Steve—who’s stranded in the armchair like some sombre, forgotten puppy—can’t manage to join in. Not when your laughter does things to his pulse that’s sure to send him into cardiac arrest any day now.

But then your knee brushes against Eddie’s as you lean forward to grab a handful of popcorn, and something hot and irrational coils in Steve’s gut. It’s stupid—Eddie’s just a friend, and it’s not like he has any claim over you—but the way your fingers linger near Eddie’s wrist for half a second too long makes Steve’s jaw clench.

Then there's the Hawkins High tailgate, where the lukewarm beer and golden-hour sunlight are the real stars of the show – not the Tigers' tragic losing streak. Steve leans against his BMW, nursing a drink and trying to convince himself that he’s here for school spirit— he’s lying. He’s so fucking obvious about it that Robin’s been giving him that look all afternoon—the one that says, ”I will skin you alive if you make this weird.”

And like his personal reckoning—you appear. One second, he’s staring blankly ahead, and the next, you’re sliding onto the hood of his car like you own it, all long legs and lazy smiles. The dying sun paints your skin in hues of amber and gold, catching on the delicate bend of your collarbone and the smooth plane of your thighs where your cut-off shorts ride up.

Christ.

He wants to map every inch of you with his mouth, starting at the delicate dip of your ankle—that vulnerable hollow where his lips could linger—then leisurely, torturously working his way up. Up the taut line of your calf, tracing the sensitive bend of your knee with his tongue. Higher still, along the trembling skin of your inner thigh, where his teeth might graze just to feel you shiver. An unhurried pilgrimage of worship, every gasp and hitch of your breath another sacred waypoint in his journey.

”Dude, you’re, like, actually drooling.” Dustin’s voice cuts through his increasingly inappropriate thoughts. Steve chokes on his drink, beer burning his sinuses as he wheezes, ”What? No, I’m not—!” But Dustin just raises his eyebrows, impervious. ”Uh-huh. Sure.” And then Robin’s there. ”So!” she chirps, stealing Steve’s beer right out of his hand. ”Who’s ready to watch our team get slaughtered?” You hum softly in your throat – a vibration Steve feels more than hears – as you tilt your head toward him. The calculated brush of your knee against his thigh burns through the denim between you, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. His breath catches when you don't pull away, your leg warm and insistent against his.

He’s so screwed.

Even as the midday sun is brutal at the Hawkins pool, he barely feels it—not when you’re walking toward his lifeguard chair with that look in your eyes —the mischievous Buckley spark.

You hold up the sunscreen bottle , tilting your head with a smile of practiced innocence. "Can you help me?" Before he can answer, you're already turning—presenting your back to him where the strings of your bikini top form a delicate, infuriating knot. "I can't reach," you add, voice dripping with false helplessness.

Steve's soul nearly leaves him: "I— You—Robin can—" "Robin's allergic to coconut oil," you lie effortlessly, glancing over your shoulder. The sunlight catches the curve of your shoulder blade, the flutter of your lashes. His mouth goes desert-dry. "And you are the lifeguard." You let the implication hang between you like the summer heat. "Isn't it your job to protect me?"

Fuck.

His hands tremble as he squeezes sunscreen onto his palms, the lotion warm from the sun. When his fingers finally make contact with your skin, you hum—soft, satisfied—and he swears you lean into his touch, just slightly. The sound goes straight to his gut, hot and insistent. His thumbs press into the dip of your spine, dragging sluggish circles that have no business being that deliberate. “You missed a spot,” you murmur, shifting just enough that his fingers brush the edge of your bikini tie. Steve’s breath comes ragged. This is torture.

And now? Now the bass from Tina’s stereo thrums through the floor, rattling Steve’s bones like a second heartbeat. The air is thick with sweat and cheap beer, the kind of chaos he usually lives for—except tonight, his entire world has narrowed down to you.

All evening, he’s been trapped in a loop of stolen glances and half-formed hopes, wondering if the way your eyes linger on him means something or if he’s just another fool drunk on wishful thinking. Is this real? Is this worth it? The questions gnaw at him, unanswered, even as he drains the last of his beer and sets the bottle down with a clink. And then, as if summoned by his desperation, you’re there. Emerging beside him like smoke, you lean into the wall, your shoulder pressing against his, and suddenly—the music, the crowd, the entire fucking room might as well not exist.

"Trying to hide from me, Harrington?" You taunt, tipping your drink to your lips. The bottle’s rim glistens under the dim light, and your mouth—pink, slow, meticulous—lingers there for a beat too long. It’s a calculated assault on what little composure he has left. His throat goes dry.

“Would it work if I were?” He shoots back, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. His voice is rougher than he intended, betraying the way his pulse jumps under his skin. You laugh, low and keen, before stepping into his space. Your palm lands on his chest, searing through the fabric of his shirt. “Probably not.” You admit, fingers crooking slightly—testing, teasing—and he knows you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in until your breath ghosts his jaw, “Robin talks about you all the time.” 

His breath hitches.

This is dangerous.

Your knee brushes his thigh, prudent and—holy shit—his thoughts dissolve into static. “But she never mentioned how cute you are when you’re flustered.” The words curl into his ear, sweet and lethal. He should say something clever, something smooth, but all he can manage is a shaky exhale as your fingers trail up to his collarbone, tracing the edge of his shirt. You’re close enough now that he can smell the jasmine of your perfume and the faint tang of gin on your tongue. Your hips tilting, just a fraction, and— “I wonder”, you whisper, lips grazing the shell of his ear, “what else I don’t know yet.”

Before he can respond—before he can even breathe—you’re leaning in, your nose almost brushing his. His hand lifts—to pull you closer? To push you away? —when—

"Oh my God."  

Robin’s voice shatters the moment as she stands there, arms crossed, looking done. “I leave you two alone for five minutes—”

Steve jerks back like he’s been burnt. "Robin! Hey! We were just—"

"—about to make my life a living hell?" 

Steve’s mouth snaps shut, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still debating whether to reach for you again, and his gaze flickers to your lips — just for a moment— before he forces a laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The gesture does nothing to hide the flush creeping up his throat. “Come on,” he deflects, “We were just talking.”

Robin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Uh-huh. And 'talking' now involves you two looking like you’re about to re-enact Dirty Dancing in the middle of the living room?" Steve can feel your pulse kick where your thigh brushes against his, but you don’t back down. You’re clearly used to these sparring matches with Robin, a rhythm he doesn’t yet know the steps to, and he’s equal parts terrified and intrigued.

"Maybe you should’ve knocked," you shoot back, grinning wider when Robin’s jaw drops and Steve’s composure nosedives like a bird that just noticed the window isn’t open.

"Nope. No. Absolutely not." Robin jabs a finger between the two of you like she’s warding off evil. "I refuse to be the third wheel in whatever… this is." She spins toward the kitchen with enough dramatic flair to create wind resistance. "I'm getting another drink," she announces over her shoulder. "Or seven. Alone. Like the abandoned best friend in every fucking rom-com."

Steve takes a half-step forward. "Rob—"

"Save it, Dingus." She pauses, levelling you both with a glare that’s equal parts warning and surrender. "Ground rules," she announces, holding up a finger. "You—" The finger jabs at Steve's chest. “If you hurt my sister, I’ll give you a live demonstration of why The Texas Chainsaw Massacre wasn’t rated PG. Spoiler: It’s the bone saws.” Her finger swings to you, and Steve can practically hear your heartbeat kick into overdrive against his side. "And you—if you give him another existential crisis, I'm telling Mom you're the one who broke Grandma's urn and that you're the reason we had to get the couch steam-cleaned in '82."

Then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise of the party.

The silence between you is thick, charged. Steve exhales, slow and shaky, before turning back to you. The air crackles—Robin’s interruption only fanned the flames, and now it licks at his skin, relentless. His voice comes out rough, just this side of breaking: "She’s never gonna let me live this down." You bite your lip, stepping closer. The scent of your perfume coils around him, dizzying. "Then we might as well give her something real to complain about," you murmur, lips grazing the shell of his ear. His breath stutters when your fingers skate up his throat, nails scraping just barely over his stubble. A whimper claws its way out of him, raw and unbidden. "Christ. You’re killin’ me here." You grin, all teeth. "Good." Your thumb brushes the frantic pulse under his jaw. "We’ve got about twelve minutes until she storms back. Better make ‘em count."

This time, when you lean in, there’s no one to stop you, just the muffled clink of Robin angrily rearranging liquor bottles in the kitchen. Steve finally—fucking finally—learns what you taste like (gin and mint and something addicting), how your lips feel against his (softer than he imagined, but demanding, hungry), and how the dip of your waist fits under his palms like it was made for him. And Christ—the sound you make when he pulls you flush against him, a moan clawing its way up your throat, is enough to unravel him completely.

His brain, stuck on a loading screen for days, finally processes one coherent thought:

Fuck it.

Steve's hand fists in your hair, dragging you closer—Christ, not close enough—until your shared breath turns jagged. Just as he tilts his head to finally taste you properly, you pull back. His stomach plummets like a failed carnival ride. For one gut-twisting second, he's certain he's ruined it—misread the way your body arched against his, all heat and hunger, like you wanted to melt into his skin. Then your fingers lock around his wrist, nails biting just shy of pain, and the look you give him isn't hesitation—it's wildfire. "C'mere," you murmur, already walking down the hallway, tugging him along. Steve doesn't think; his body moves before his mind catches up, pulled by the magnetism of your touch.

The party dissolves into white noise—drowned out by the hammering rhythm of his pulse. Every passive draw of your thumb against his skin is a brand-new dare, burning straight through to his sternum. The hallway diminishes around you, lit only by a sputtering bulb that throws strobe-light shadows across your face. He doesn't miss the way your teeth sink into your lower lip as you glance at the bathroom door—or how your grip tightens like you're fighting the urge to sprint the last few steps.

Then you're shoving him inside, all impatient hands and shared momentum. The door clicks shut behind you with finality, sealing you both in the dark. Somewhere outside, a cheer goes up—maybe for the keg stand, maybe for the universe laughing at how thoroughly Steve Harrington is about to lose his goddamn mind.

The space is cramped, the air thick with the odour of soap and the lingering sweetness of someone’s perfume. The sink digs into his lower back, cold enough to make him hiss—but then your hands are on him, warm and demanding, and he forgets everything else. Forgets the way your thighs had tensed when he licked the salt off his hand before taking a shot. Forgets the way you’d watched his throat bob as he laughed at one of Robin’s jokes. Forgets the way you’d nearly choked on your own tongue when he’d rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, forearms flexing as he scooped ice into a cup. The party’s bass thrums through the walls, a distant echo beneath the serrated sound of his own breathing and the slick noise of your mouth on his skin. Christ, he hopes the music’s loud enough to drown out the way you whimper when he sucks at your pulse point.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” you admit, voice low, and the crude honesty in it makes his throat go dry. Your fingers dig into his hips, pulling him closer. “All week”, you correct, and suddenly he’s replaying every glance, every brush of contact: the way you’d “tripped” into his side at the pool, how you’d lingered in his space after movie night, your knee pressed to his thigh for a full thirty minutes before Robin kicked you both off her couch. The memory of your breath on his neck when you’d leaned over his shoulder to steal a fry at the diner—had you always smelt this good?

Steve’s hands trail up your waist, thumbs carving possessive lines into that sliver of exposed skin where your shirt’s ridden up. “Yeah?” he rasps, voice wrecked—drunk on the way your breath hitches, on the way your ribs expand under his palms like you’re already starving for it. “Funny. I thought I was the one losing my damn mind.” You hum—a quiet, perceptive sound—before inching your lips along the column of his throat. He feels the vibration of it like a live wire down his spine, sparking at every vertebra. “Show me,” you murmur against his pulse, and the challenge in it sends his blood south so fast he gets lightheaded. It’s all the permission he needs.

One hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back as he crashes into you. This kiss isn’t like before—no teasing, no hesitation—just heat and teeth and the slick, filthy slide of your tongue against his. He swallows your whimper when his other hand slips under your shirt, palm skimming the bare dip of your waist. Christ. The whimper you let out when his fingers dig into your hip isn’t just sound. It’s a bloody revelation.

Steve knows he’s on borrowed time. Robin’s sharp and observant—she’ll come looking sooner rather than later, and when she does, she’ll take one look at his flushed face and your swollen lips and know. The thought should sober him up, but right now? He doesn’t give a shit. All that matters is the way your nails bite into his shoulders, the way you gasp when he nips your lower lip, and the way your body fits against his like you were carved from the same damn stone. And when you roll your hips against his—slow, deliberate, maddening—his grip tightens, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to bruise. His voice is rough, wrecked, barely recognisable when he growls against your mouth: "This isn't exactly how I pictured our first time."

The words tear from Steve's throat, rough and wrecked—a confession to his sinful thoughts. The second they hit air, he freezes. Shit.

But you—Christ, you—just beam like you've won the lottery, dragging your teeth over his swollen bottom lip in a way that makes his knees threaten to buckle. "You pictured our first time?" Your voice drips with delight, thumb brushing the frantic pulse in his neck. Heat floods his cheeks, but you don't let him recover. You crash into him, kissing him so hard his back slams against the tiled wall. His hands move on pure instinct—lifting you onto the sink with a grunt, fingers skating up the soft underside of your thighs like he's memorising the map of you. When they dig in, kneading with a hunger that surprises even him, you moan directly into his mouth, and the sound goes straight to his dick.

You moan, and the sound tears something primal from his chest—a growl that rumbles against your lips, vibrating through you. "How about we save your ideal first time for later?" You murmur against him, biting his lip just hard enough to make him jerk against you. Your voice drops to a whisper, all heat and promise: "And focus on fucking my brains out in the next ten minutes?"

Steve's resolve doesn't just shatter—it disintegrates. Any pretence of patience evaporates as his hands find your waist, fingers pressing bruises into your hips that you'll savour tomorrow. His mouth crashes into yours again, but this time he's a man on a mission. He charts your skin like territory to be conquered—the sharp line of your jaw, the salt-slick column of your throat, the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his tongue. When he reaches the swell of your cleavage, you arch into him with a gasp that turns into a whine as his teeth scrape delicate skin. Your fingers are already working at his belt, tugging with impatient urgency.

"Steve—"

"Fuck," he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch your face. "You sound even better than I imagined." And Christ, he has imagined this—in the shower, trying to relieve the ache with his hand, in his bed with the sheets tangled around his thighs, in the fucking Family Video break room when you'd leaned too close to reach a tape. Every fantasy pales in comparison to the reality of your nails digging into his hips as he shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself. Your hand wraps around him in one smooth motion, and for one blinding second, the world narrows to the slick heat of your fingers, the way your thumb swipes over the head just to watch his abs clench.

If this is heaven, he'll sign his own damn death warrant.

But then—then—you spin him around with surprising strength, dropping to your knees on the bath mat. The cool tile bites into his palms as he braces against the sink, but all he can focus on is the way your breath ghosts over him, the way your eyes lock onto his as your tongue—

Jesus.

Fucking.

Christ.

His vision fractures at the edges, tunnelling until the universe condenses to three points: the wicked curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes against your skin, and the sinful press of your tongue where he needs it most. For one suspended, blasphemous moment, Steve's convinced Robin actually killed him—because there's no earthly way this is real: your mouth sinking onto him like you've been starving for it, hot and wet and perfect, swallowing him down to the hilt with a vibration that travels straight to his fucking spine. The sound you make—a muffled, content hum around him as he hits the back of your throat—sends a full-body shudder through him.

Holy mother of God.

He knows better than to look. He knows he shouldn’t—but he does anyway, helpless as a marionette with its strings cut—

Big mistake.

Because now he's watching, really watching, as your lips stretch obscenely around him, as your throat works to take him deeper. Your eyes lock onto his, crinkled at the corners with vicious amusement as you take him deeper, and shit, suddenly he’s sixteen again, stumbling across his first Playboy, heart racing and palms sweating. Except now it’s your mouth, your knowing gaze scalding him hotter than July asphalt as you savour every choked noise he can’t suppress. He should say something, should at least try to form words, but all his head does is thud back again. That look alone—like you’re cataloguing his every twitch and heave—threatens to spill him into your throat right fucking now. If he doesn’t—

A burst of laughter ricochets down the hall, sudden and too close. Your fingers tighten reflexively around the base of him, nails grazing the sensitive skin there, and Steve’s entire body tenses like a bowstring drawn too tight, but his hips jerk forward before he can stop them, dragging a ragged groan from him.

“Fuck—we have to be quiet,” he rasps, but you just smirk around him, all devilish intent, dragging your tongue along his underside in a measured, filthy stripe that makes his vision blur at the edges. His legs actually cave in; he has to brace a forearm against the wall to stay upright.

It’s agony.

It’s ecstasy.

Then your eyes flutter shut, and the soft, satisfied hum you let out vibrates through him straight to his spine. His fingers fist in your hair—gentle, got to be gentle—but his hips jerk of their own accord, chasing the sinful heat of your mouth like it’s his only chance at salvation. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he chokes, voice shredded. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.” And he means it. Because if this is what you do to him in some shitty bathroom, with Robin and half the party just beyond the door—Then what happens when he gets you alone? His mind whites out, fever-bright with the images: Pinning you against the first available surface—his bed, his car, the fucking kitchen counter—anything to finally take what you’ve been tormenting him with. Peeling you out of your clothes with agonising slowness, just to hear you whine and beg for his name. His mouth on every patch of skin he’s watched you expose all summer—the dip of your collarbone, the inside of your thighs, that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp when he accidentally brushes it. The way you’d clench around him when he finally sinks in, tight and desperate after an eternity of stolen glances. The filth he’d whisper in your ear: “Knew you’d take me so fucking good.”

“Christ,” he grits out, hips stuttering as you swallow him deeper. His knuckles tensing against the sink. “You’re so fucking—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupts him.

“Hey, dipshits!” Robin’s voice slices through the haze, sharp with accusation. "You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there."

Steve’s head thunks back against the wall. Goddamn it.

His entire body locks up, every muscle pulled taut between the mind-numbing pleasure of your mouth and the very real possibility of Robin kicking the door in. His fingers twist tighter in your hair—not to stop you, never to stop you, but because if he doesn’t anchor to something, he might genuinely combust. The bathroom light flickers overhead, casting shadows against your cheeks as you glance up at him, and—fuck—he’s never seen anything more obscene.

"Shit," he hisses, voice shredded. "Fuck, fuck—" The litany spills from him like a prayer, like a curse, like heresy. You pull off just enough to smirk up at him, lips slick and swollen, and the sight alone nearly undoes him. "We should stop," you murmur—liar, fucking liar—your breath scorching his skin. Your tongue grazes his tip as you speak, and Steve sees actual stars. He groans, low and wounded, but his thumb trails over your bottom lip anyway, smearing spit as he claims the wetness there. "Yeah. Yeah, we—" Another knock, louder this time, rattling the doorframe.

"I swear to God, Harrington," Robin’s voice cuts through the wood, "if you’re defiling my sister in there, I’m replacing your hairspray with Nair."

You pull back just enough to make him ache, and Steve’s breath hisses through his teeth—sharp, frustrated, barely holding back something far filthier. His hands twitch at your waist like he’s debating dragging you right back, but all he does is adjust himself with a rough groan, his jeans straining. When his gaze locks onto yours, it’s wildfire in the dark, pupils swallowing every last bit of reason. "This isn’t over." The words scrape out of him like a match strike, sulfur-sharp and spark-ready.

A smirk curls your lips as you stand, lips grazing the stubble along his jaw. The shudder it pulls from him is downright criminal.

"Better not be," you murmur against his skin, your tongue swiping the sting from his skin, sweet as poisoned candy. "Or I’ll finish what you started on my own—and trust me, you’ll lie awake trying and failing to picture it half as vividly as it’ll sound."

Steve’s breath catches. "Christ," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. He’s half-hard, wholly ruined, and absolutely fucked when you step back, looking far too innocent for someone who just had their mouth on—

The door flies open under Robin’s impatient fist. Steve barely has time to yank it wider before she’s glaring up at him, arms crossed. But Steve only has one thought consuming him:

Later.

[mintyys-blog]

Omg wait hear me out viltrumite mark watching reader breast feed their child so of course he gets curious and wants a taste AHHHH THIS IS SO NASTY BUT I WOULDN’T WANT ANYONE ELSE TO WRITE THIS 😫🙏

MILK | viltrumite mark x wife! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: breast feeding, lactation kink, pregnancy kink, self doubt, smut.

MINORS DNI | this covers topics and kinks that may not be interesting or liked by many readers, please read the warnings before continuing.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

The baby’s finally down for a nap, and you’re sitting at the edge of the bed, one breast aching and leaking slowly through your stretched-out shirt. You shift—gently, tiredly—and wince. The discomfort never ends.

Your chest is too full. You’re always full.

The baby barely drinks enough to keep up with your body’s production, and every time he unlatches early, you feel like something inside you’s betraying you.

You sniff. Blink. Bite the inside of your cheek. You shouldn’t be crying. You should be grateful.

But you feel like you’re failing. Your body’s producing more than your child needs. You can’t even stop it—milk soaks your shirts, your bras, your sheets. It stings. It leaks. You can’t move without wincing. You haven’t showered in days.

You barely remember what you looked like before motherhood. You feel used up.

Mark finds you like that.

Sitting there. Silent. Red-eyed but not sobbing. Your shirt is sticking to your skin from fresh leakage, and your shoulders are slumped in exhaustion. You don’t even notice him at first.

He stands there for a moment in the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed—not angry, but deeply, deeply worried. Then he leaves. You expect him to come back with food or a fresh shirt.

Instead, he returns with someone else.

“A caregiver?” you echo, a little too sharp. “What—you think I can’t handle it?” Mark raises a brow. Unfazed. “I think you’re sleep-deprived, sore, and haven’t showered in four days.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re limping.” You open your mouth. Shut it again.

“I didn’t bring her in to take over,” he says quietly. “I brought her in so you could rest. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

Your lip quivers. “I just… I wanted to do it all. For him.” Mark’s expression softens. “You already have.”

The hot water hurts at first—stinging against sensitive, overworked skin. But then it starts to relax you. Your shoulders drop. You let the water run over your chest, and you finally take a slow breath. It’s the first breath in days that doesn’t feel tight.

But you flinch when you touch yourself. Your breasts are sore. Heavy. Swollen. One of them starts to leak again under the spray, and you can’t help but cover your eyes and cry quietly.

You’re full. Again. You hate it.

You hate that you can’t even feel sexy anymore—just sore. Puffy. Leaking like a broken faucet. Every touch feels alien. Wrong. Like it’s not your body anymore.

You don’t hear the door open. But you do feel the familiar warmth at your back. Mark steps into the shower behind you, slow and gentle, arms sliding around your waist. You melt into him. No hesitation.

You let your head rest on his shoulder. His voice is soft. “How do you feel?” You glance down. At your chest. At the milk still trailing down your front. “I feel…” Your voice cracks. “…Full. And uncomfortable.”

Mark doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. He just brushes your wet hair off your neck and kisses the side of your face.

Then he says, calmly: “Let me help.”

You stiffen slightly—half embarrassed, half confused. He gently cups one breast, thumb grazing the swollen underside. “You’re leaking. You’re sore. You’ve been hiding it.”

“I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.” He squeezes, just enough to make you gasp. Not in pain—in relief. “I think you’ve been handling too much.”

You let him lower his head, let him kiss across the tender flesh, let him hold you steady as he slowly wraps his mouth around your nipple. And when he sucks, warm and slow, you whimper.

Not from arousal. Not from shame. But because it helps. It finally relieves the pressure. You clutch his shoulders, body trembling, eyes fluttering shut. He hums against your skin, gentle, attentive, drinking only as much as needed until you can breathe again.

When he pulls back, his voice is hushed: “Never be ashamed of what your body does to care for our child.” He kisses your cheek again. “…Or what it does to feed me.”

The water’s still running, but you don’t feel the sting anymore.

Just his mouth—warm and slow—pulling gentle streams from your sore chest, his large hands bracing your waist like you’re something fragile. Like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Like you matter more than anything else in the universe. And right now… maybe you do.

When he pulls away, the air hits your wet skin and makes you shiver. He sees it—of course he does. He always sees more than he lets on. His mouth is slick. His eyes are soft. He presses a kiss right above your heart, then reaches over to turn the water off.

“Come here,” he says, voice low and firm. And you don’t argue.

He towels you off gently, like you’re porcelain—careful with your chest, your thighs, your feet. When you wince, his brows knit like he’s the one in pain. You catch your reflection in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Puffy eyes. Messy hair. Stretched skin.

But Mark? He sees you and smiles. With that quiet, worshipful sort of pride that makes your throat tighten.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, like it’s just fact. Like there’s no room for doubt. “Mark…”

“You made life. You’re feeding him. And you’re still standing.” His hands come up to frame your jaw. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

He lifts you before you can protest.

One arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. You’re cradled against his chest, small and warm and exhausted. You tuck your face into his neck and let yourself rest for the first time in days.

He carries you back to bed, past the quiet nursery, past the nightlight’s soft glow. The sheets are freshly changed—he must’ve done it earlier, while you were too busy blaming yourself to notice.

Mark settles you down on your side, tugs the covers up over you, then slips in behind you, his body spooned tight to yours. And when you shift—just slightly, your chest pressing back into him with a soft wince—he notices.

His hand comes up and cups your breast again. Gentle. Familiar. Protective.

You hold your breath, expecting more. But he doesn’t move to touch you sexually. He just… rests there. His fingers soft. His thumb stroking idly along the skin, as if memorizing the shape of you like this. Sore, swollen, raw. Real.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.” You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t leave yet…”

“I won’t.” He kisses the back of your neck.

Then, softly—like a confession: “I’ll always be here when you’re full. You never have to ask.” You exhale slowly. Finally. And fall asleep with his palm still resting over your heart.

It starts slow. It always does.

The baby’s asleep in his crib across the room, the soft glow of the nightlight painting golden shapes across your skin. You’re lying on your back this time, not sore, not struggling, finally feeling like yourself again.

Except—your body never stopped producing. You’re full again.

Your breasts are heavy against your chest, and even as you try to ignore it, you see the faint glisten of milk beading at your nipples through the too-thin sleep shirt you’re wearing. You bite your lip. You should pump. But the thought of doing it alone again—of dragging yourself out of bed—is enough to make you sigh.

Then you feel it. A hand. Rough, warm, possessive. Palming the side of your breast from under the shirt. You turn your head.

Mark is already awake, eyes locked on your chest like a predator who’s been waiting weeks for this moment.

“You’re full again, baby.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Dark and deep and just slightly hoarse from sleep. You feel his palm shift under the curve of your breast, thumbing the spot he knows always makes your body twitch.

“Was gonna let you sleep,” he murmurs, dragging the shirt up with one hand, his mouth trailing after it. “But you’re leaking again.”

He grazes the tip of your nipple with his teeth. You whimper.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Still making more than he needs. Still pumping it out like your body doesn’t care how swollen you get. Like it wants someone to drink from you.”

He slides his hand between your legs without warning. You’re already wet. He moans into your chest.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Your cunt’s soaked. You like this, don’t you?”

You nod, embarrassed. Thrilled. “I do,” you whisper. “I like when you… when you help.” He smirks.

“No, sweetheart,” he says, sinking two fingers into you while he suckles harshly from your breast. “I don’t ‘help.’ I own this body. You leak for me. You’re full for me.”

You cry out—hips jerking as he curls his fingers just right.

His mouth hungrily works your nipple, milk spilling onto his tongue as he grunts, insatiable. It’s not slow anymore. It’s desperate. Animal.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven. How the hell was I supposed to resist this for so long?” You’re gasping now, thighs shaking.

He switches breasts like he needs both—lapping up every drop you give him, even as his cock presses against your thigh, hard and hot and needy. You reach for him. “Please,” you pant. “I need—”

“I know.” He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock in one brutal thrust. “Shit—I know, baby. I’ve needed this too.”

He starts fucking you slow but deep—too deep—his hips grinding against yours with steady, punishing pressure. Every thrust pushes you further into the mattress, the thick weight of his body pinning you down like gravity itself.

But his mouth? It never leaves your chest.

He suckles you like he’s starving—groaning low in his throat when more milk spills past his lips and onto his tongue. His palm cups the underside of your breast, kneading and guiding it to him, and you swear the filthy sounds echo off the bedroom walls. Slurping. Suckling. Gulping.

He’s devouring you.

And he doesn’t even try to be gentle anymore. Not with his mouth, not with his cock. When you arch into him—needy, crying out his name in a gasping moan—he groans like he’s been waiting for it.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, his voice rough, fucked-out, possessive to the point of being feral. “All of this. Every inch. Every drop. This body’s mine, baby. Say it.”

You try, but all that comes out is a whimper.

Your body’s burning. Your skin’s sticky with sweat and milk, your cunt is soaked, and your breasts are leaking freely now—over your chest, your stomach, your sheets—each pulse of your orgasm threatening to spill even more from your overworked body.

“Mark,” you sob, eyes rolling back as he picks up the pace. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snaps, mouth wet as he switches to your other breast, drawing it in with a harsh, hungry suck. “You will. Gonna milk you ‘til you’re empty—fuck—‘til I get my fill.”

He grinds into you harder. Rougher. Like he needs to feel every inch of your body stretch around him. His hand slips down between your legs again, rubbing furious circles over your clit while he keeps thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That mess? That’s you, baby. You’re so fuckin’ full, you’re makin’ a mess all over my cock.”

You’re trembling now. Moaning. Breathless. Then your body snaps.

You cum—wet and messy—your thighs shaking, your pussy fluttering around him, gushing slick down his length while your milk leaks faster, heavier, like your whole body’s releasing at once. You cry out and clutch his shoulders, sobbing into his neck as everything pours out of you.

And he drinks it all. Groaning. Gulping. Consuming you like a man starved.

“Good girl,” he grunts, fucking you through the waves, still drinking like he can’t stop. “That’s it. Give it to me. Let me have it, baby.”

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t slow down.

Even as you twitch and cry beneath him, your body limp and overstimulated, he’s still buried in you to the hilt, hips rolling in deep, slow strokes, still grinding against that sensitive spot inside you like he’s trying to get more out of you.

“Still leaking,” he murmurs, licking his lips, eyes dark. “Guess we’re not done yet.”

You’re standing in the bathroom with shaking hands. The test is still warm in your grip. That tiny pink line taunts you like it knows you haven’t even fully recovered from the last pregnancy. Your baby is barely four months old. You’re still breastfeeding. Your body is still healing.

And yet— Pregnant. Again.

Your chest feels tight. Full. Not just from milk—but from fear. Confusion. Guilt. You didn’t plan this. Hell, you barely even had sex more than a few times since giving birth—and yet…

You hear the floor creak. Then a voice—warm, amused, and far too calm for how you feel. “You okay in there, baby?”

Mark. You swallow hard, panic twisting in your gut. You didn’t even lock the door. Before you can stop him, it swings open—and there he is. Still shirtless, sweatpants slung low, eyes immediately scanning your expression. He sees the test in your hand.

He freezes. “Is that what I think it is?” he asks, voice lowering. You look at him. Then down at the test. Then back up, and finally—you nod. “I’m pregnant again,” you whisper. “Just a few months… after… I didn’t even think—”

Mark crosses the room in a second. He doesn’t say anything. Not at first. He just grabs your face—gently but firmly—tilts it up to meet his eyes, and searches your expression like he’s scanning you for damage.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

And just like that, he wraps you in his arms. Not rough. Not possessive. Just there. Strong and warm and steady.

You bury your face in his chest. “I feel like I’m failing,” you whisper. “My body’s still messed up. I’m tired. I’m sore. And now this? What if I can’t handle it again, Mark?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just holds you. His chin rests against your head, and for a moment, the silence stretches long and quiet. Then—softly, with a low rumble in his chest: “You didn’t fail. Your body’s doing exactly what it’s meant to.”

You look up, confused. And what you see in his eyes startles you. Because it’s not worry. It’s not shock. It’s something darker. Deeper.

Pride.

“You’re carrying another one of my kids,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous hush. “You think that makes you weak?”

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping hard enough to make your breath hitch. “It makes you unstoppable.”

You’re stunned. He lowers to his knees. Presses a kiss to your still-soft stomach. Then another. And another. His voice goes reverent.

“Didn’t even get a chance to stop making milk,” he mutters, smirking. “Fucking perfect. You were made to carry me like this. And you’re doing it again without even trying.”

You feel your knees wobble. “Mark—” He looks up. And the hunger in his gaze makes your pulse stutter.

“I’m never pullin’ out again,” he growls. “Not after this. You think I’m gonna waste another drop of what gets me this?”

He presses his mouth to your belly again, nuzzling, possessive. “I want you like this. Round. Full. Mine.”

You barely make it back to bed before he’s stripping you down, laying you out gently like something sacred. Except this time, he’s not fucking you to fill you. He’s fucking you because he already did.

And he’s going to worship every inch of the body that’s making his legacy again.

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ satoru hates the idea of cock-warming. he thinks it's pointless, getting the opportunity to be in you, and not even bothering to make the most of it.

his idea of making the most, well, it would consist only of fucking you so hard, you won't be able to move the next day. that's what good boyfriends do, right?

"good boyfriends do whatever their girlfriend asks them to do," you counter.

satoru whines in response, looking up at you. all pretty, you're seated in his lap, as he lays on the bed. strands of white hair fall into his eyes, and you brush them away.

he pouts, "i am a good boyfriend." satoru's getting impatient, wanting to just feel your snug cunt around him. his throbbing cock sits hard on his stomach, red-tipped and leaky.

"then, please?" drawing out the syllables, you give him the best you can: puppy eyes. he caves. instantly.

grumbling, "fine. i guess you can put her in you. willingly choose not to move, too, or whatever."

you clap your hands, emerging victorious. you're not willing to test your luck, though, not commenting on the fact that you've told him multiple times not to refer to his penis with she/her pronouns.

he groans as you sink onto him, his thick length pushing past your spongey walls. there's a filthy squelching that fills the room, paired with your quiet whimpers.

satoru's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh. "shit, pretty girl, tight 'n' wet f'me. taking me s'good." his words slur into one another, lost in the depths of arousal.

there's always a certain amount of self-control it takes, to not immediately cum the second he's all the way in. "'toru," you murmur, accidentally clenching around him.

"fuck," he mutters, "you can't do that, squeeze your little pussy like that, if you aren't gonna do anything about it."

"sorry," you say, sheepish. his eyes flutter shut, a hum dismissing the apology.

"now, what? just... stay like that?" satoru tilts his head at you, questioningly. sassy, if you may add. he just really can't believe you'd rather be doing this.

shifting above him, you lean down, resting your head on his bare chest. "yeah. isn't it nice?"

his arms wrap come up, to wrap around your waist. there's a beat of silence from him. begrudgingly, your rigid boyfriend shrugs, "maybe."

you're too content to roll your eyes. he wouldn't admit it, but satoru was filled with love, in this moment. his shoulders relax, and his entire body seems to ease, a breath of satisfaction leaving him. he feels at peace. he's always at peace, when he's with you, but this is different.

more real. more raw.

it's incredibly intimate. he feels like he's a part of you, like there's nothing keeping you separated. satoru inhales your scent, holding you just a little tighter.

"baby, i love you," he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

you smile against him, "i love you, too, 'toru."

to say the least, cock-warming is his new favorite thing. there is no sitting beside him on the couch anymore, not when you're alone. no laying next to each other on bed, either.

if he was clingy before, he's a monster now. if you're near, he wants to be inside you. not to have sex, but just to rest. it's not like you're complaining, anyways. at the end of the day, you're down bad for him, just as much as he is for you.

[littlelamy]

───kissing while climaxing

his lips doesn't leave yours—not even for a second. every thrust is met with a desperate, open-mouthed, spit-filled kiss. "fuck, baby—" his voice is rough, breaking between the slick sounds of him driving into you. his grip is tight at the back of your neck, holding you in place, forcing you to take his gasping moans against your lips. "you feel so good, so fucking tight—"

his tongue slides against yours, sloppy, needy, like he’s trying to swallow every sound you make. he’s close, and you can tell— by the way his hips stutter and how his groans turn more broken.

"kiss me, baby please—" he demands, almost a whimper, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. "keep kissing me—don’t fuckin’ stop—"

his body tenses, shudders, and then he breaks, moaning straight into your mouth as he spills inside you, hips jerking, fingers digging into your skin. he groans against your lips, deep and wrecked, his cock twitching with every pulse of his release.

even as his body trembles and continues to gasp through the aftershocks, he doesn’t stop kissing you. slower now, sloppier, like he’s still drunk on the feeling and needs your mouth to keep him grounded.

"fuck," he breathes, pressing one last, lazy kiss against your lips, completely spent. "you’re fucking perfect."

tags (lmk if you want to be removed; using the list from my recent series): @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear

[murdock-slvt]

❝ BOY NEXT DOOR! rafe is a prick. you hated him, but he certainly loved you. ❞ ▄▀▄▀▄

boy next door! rafe becomes infatuated with you once your family moves in next to the cameron household. rafe is the “bad son” of ward, and you kept your distance from him.

you were just trying to get through university with your new friends and learn your way around the new town you live in. your parents traveled a lot for their work, and your sibling was away for their own work; so you kept the house clean and did whatever you wanted whenever your parents decided to leave the house. (which was practically every other month)

rafe watched you for weeks, and weeks turned into months with his eyes watching how your parents leave for weeks then return to only do it over and over again. ward and rose became buddy-buddy with your own parents; rose inviting your mother to fancy dinners, gifting them rose’s homemade bread during thanksgiving and fresh fruit and vegetables during christmas, and ward invited your father to golf outings.

bottom line is; you began to detest rafe, and rafe began to get obsessed with you.

when he got the chance, he teased you and he made your live a little more annoying. he always “checked” up on you (more like annoying you whenever you checked the mail or took out the trash or mowed the lawn) and made sure to be the best person he could— even though you knew damn well behind the smiles and “sir” and “ma’am’s” was a prick who teased you and wasn’t shy about how he felt about you, you’d sometimes see his eyes peeking on you through his blinds when you’d undress… he wasn’t slick and he knew you knew that.

would it be bad to say you were slowly warming up to him? maybe. you didn’t know when it began, but your feelings slowly began to change about the cameron boy…

but to hell if you were going to admit it to rafe.

your mother and father were going to vegas for their wedding anniversary, and rafe being rafe, he started to ask your parents if he could “help” them with their lawn as they’re gone.

“I think your daughter could handle it! but sometimes you need a little help, Y’know?” you’d hear that sentence every single time rafe caught your father on the porch.

your father and mother thought about it, and after a week of silent deliberation; they hired rafe, to help take care of the lawn and plants during the three week anniversary trip.

the first week wasn’t that bad. you went to school, hanging out with friends and doing things around the house like refilling your pet’s food bowls and folding laundry when a fresh batch finished. you kept the inner house clean, pilling up the mail for your mother and father to go through when they get home, and you kept the house locked up at night.

rafe meanwhile kept checking on you, cleaning the lawn every fucking day and doing shit your father said he’d do months ago. you didn’t know if he was trying to impress you, himself, or your parents.

sometimes you’d invite him in, mainly because he sat on your porch swing until you answered the door, or because you felt bad for the prick, but he kept his distance (even if you could feel his hand sliding down your back, or his gaze becoming a lot more than just a friendly gaze)

when your panties began to disappear from your drawer, you had an idea in your mind on who did it but you never confronted him.

when you’d see his eyes peering to your ass while you finished putting the dishes away from your dishwasher after the dinner rafe made for you two, you never let him know.

sometimes when he peered through his blinds at night, and you kept your curtain opened a little on accident, he stroked his thick dick watching you rub your little cunt to a shitty porn video on your laptop. you could always sense another pair of eyes on you from afar, but never thought too much about it.

you didn’t hear him one night. you didn’t hear him coming through the back door downstairs, but you certainly began to smell his shitty cologne that probably costed more than it needed to.

he walked in on you, right as you got to the best part of the porn scene you were watching on your laptop you used for school… and he couldn’t help but be a good neighbor and help out.

here he was, with your back against his chest, his baseball tee brushing against your back as three of his thick fingers pumped in and out of you, licking the inner parts of your ear as he forced you to continue to watch the video you were watching.

“feel good, baby?” his hot breath brushed against your ear, making you shiver as his middle, ring, and pointer fingers pumped in and out of you, his thumb touching your vulva.

you nod, soft moans leaving your mouth. “f-fuck… ‘yea… so good.” you moan. you couldn’t help yourself, really, giving into the cameron son.

he smiles like the bastard he is, watching the video with you, watching as the guy fucks the girl in doggy, her ass jiggling with each thrust of the guy’s hips. the wet sounds were absolutely amazing, mixing in with your and rafe’s own sounds from his fingers and your sobbing pussy.

“r-rafe… rafe… oh god.” you whine, grinding against his thick fingers. you hated how you easily came apart for him. you really did.

he’s making you so much closer than your own fingers ever did.

he curled his fingers deliciously, rubbing against your walls with his fingertips as he brought you closer to the edge. “yeah? you close? you wanna cum all over my fingers like a good slut?”

again, you can only nod with intense enthusiasm. “yes, yes, yes… gonna cum! gonna cum all over ‘our fingers…!” your words slur, drool dropping on your chin.

rafe goes faster, his hand moving at a fast pace to the point he thinks his hand is going to fracture and he’s going to have to take you to the hospital with broken fingers in you.

he’s so quick, curling his fingers fucking perfectly. he makes you hit your orgasm right when the girl in the video hits her own orgasm.

“there you go… good girl… cum all over me like a little whore…” he coo’s directly in your ear, and it’s so fucking patronizing, like he knows he finally got what he wanted after months of waiting.

your eyes roll back, your vision turning complete white as the wet sounds of your pussy, the video, and rafe’s whispers hit your ear all at once. it’s overwhelming in the best ways possible. “rafe! rafe… rafe… oh god…”

grinding against his fingers to ride out your orgasm, you slump against the bed, weak and so high on cloud nine it’s delicious.

your cum decorates rafe’s fingers as rafe closes the laptop with his right hand, putting it on the bedside table next to your bed.

his fingers grab your chin and presses a soft kiss to your lips, you instantly kiss back as your hand reaches up to hold the back of his head.

rafe finally pulls out his fingers, your walls clenching around his fingers, almost to keep them within your pussy. “seems like your pussy doesn’t want me to leave…” he says with a smirk on his face as he brings his fingers up to his mouth.

the moment your cum hits his tongue, his eyes are rolling back, and you can only moan at the sight. “delicious.” he says lowly.

he rolls you onto your back and begins to undress the both of you, finally living out his wet dreams after months of peering through blinds and imagining.

@murdock-slvt 2025!

[reveriebae]

Bunny in His Bed

pairing(s) : Song Mingi x reader

word count : 4922

summary : You're the soft, innocent girl who only ever had one vanilla experience—with no idea what real filth could feel like. That is, until you end up rooming with your best friend’s older brother, Mingi. A pervert with a teasing mouth and no self-restraint when it comes to your cute sleep dresses and breathy little moans. He takes it slow, then ruins you completely—making you beg, cry, squirt, and ride him until you’re too dumb to think. But he still makes you breakfast after, calling you his princess in between filthy whispers.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Slight somnophilia vibes (consensual, implied history), Innocent but perverted reader, Best friend’s older brother, Roommate AU, Pussy slapping / squirting, Spanking (lots of it), Orgasm denial + overstimulation, Crying during sex (pleasure), Dirty talk / praise / teasing, Light dumbification, Reader wears cute sleep dresses, Mutual pining masked as lust, Fluffy aftercare with continued filth

A/N : This might be the last fic I uploaded this month, or maybe I'm gonna take some rest for a while😮‍💨

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

It wasn’t the first night you walked into the shared kitchen in one of your tiny little sleep dresses—but this one had lace trim that swayed with every step and straps thin enough to slip off your shoulder. You weren’t even trying to be sexy. That was the worst part. You were just… comfortable.

And Mingi was already sitting at the counter, hoodie pulled halfway down his arms, curls messy from sleep. His eyes trailed up from your bare legs to the way the fabric clung to your hips. Silent. But you felt him staring.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, padding across the tile barefoot, opening the fridge for a water bottle.

“Not really,” his voice came low. Rough. “You?”

You shrugged, turning around to face him, and leaned back against the fridge—completely unaware of how the thin fabric stretched across your chest. “Kinda warm tonight.”

Mingi didn’t say anything at first. He just kept looking at you, jaw ticking like he was holding something back.

It’d been two months since you moved in. Your best friend’s brother had offered the extra room when you said you needed a place. You trusted him. You knew he was older, a bit… different from the boys you’d dated before, but he never did anything to make you uncomfortable.

Until lately.

Lately, he lingered.

Watched.

“You always wear stuff like that to bed?” he finally asked, voice lower now.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“That little dress.” His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the hem rested dangerously high. “You walk around in that, knowing I’m home?”

You laughed a little. Nervous. “It’s not that short…”

Mingi stood up slowly, towering. The way he walked around the counter felt too quiet, too smooth, until he was right in front of you—so close you had to tilt your chin up just to keep eye contact.

“You’re either real clueless,” he murmured, reaching one hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “or you want me to stare.”

Your breath hitched. “Mingi…”

He smiled—lazy, dark, dangerous. “You ever been fucked right?”

You froze.

Your voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ve… only been with one guy. It wasn’t like that.”

Mingi groaned. “Figures.” He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Bet you’ve never had someone stretch this cute little pussy open, make you cry, huh?”

Your thighs pressed together. You didn’t answer.

“You’d let me ruin you?” he muttered, voice thick. “Make you drool all over this kitchen counter?”

That was it. That was the moment something snapped. You nodded—tiny, trembling—and whispered:

“...Please.”

Mingi didn’t wait for you to say more. The second that quiet please left your lips, his hand was on your waist, dragging you flush against him like he’d been holding back for too long. You gasped when you felt how hard he already was—thick and pressed against your stomach through his sweats.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t soft or shy or sweet like your ex used to kiss. Mingi kissed like he wanted to eat every breath from your lungs. Tongue in your mouth, lips moving against yours with filthy hunger, like he needed to claim you before you could change your mind.

Your little whimper was swallowed by his mouth.

He gripped your hips, pulling you closer until your thin sleep dress rode higher up your thighs. His hands were so big—touching too much, yet not enough. One slipped down to squeeze your ass through the fabric, and he groaned into your mouth. “Fuck… you’ve been hiding this from me all this time?”

“I didn’t know you looked at me like that,” you mumbled breathlessly between kisses, hands fisting into his hoodie.

He pulled back just enough to stare down at you, pupils blown wide. “I’ve been looking at you every fucking night, bunny. You walking around in these tiny little dresses, all innocent and sweet, acting like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to me.”

You whimpered at the pet name—bunny—and it only made him grin darker.

“Not gonna fuck you for the first time in the kitchen,” he muttered, gripping your wrist and tugging you toward the hallway. “Not when I’ve waited this long. My room. Now.”

You followed, dizzy and needy, barely noticing how your thighs brushed together with every step.

His room smelled like him—clean laundry and something warm, masculine. It was bigger than yours by far, and the bed looked like it could swallow you whole. He didn’t even turn on the light—just kicked the door shut and pushed you gently until you fell back onto the mattress.

You sat there, wide-eyed and flushed, legs folded under you.

Mingi’s hoodie was already coming off, revealing bare skin and toned arms as he stepped closer. “Take it off,” he ordered softly, nodding at your sleep dress. “Wanna see all of you.”

Your fingers trembled a little as you reached for the straps, slowly pulling them down one by one. The fabric slid down your chest… then over your waist… pooling around your hips before you pulled it off completely.

You sat there naked, knees pressed together, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

Mingi’s gaze dragged over you—slow, heavy, drinking in everything. “Fuck, baby… you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped to his knees between your legs and pushed them apart gently, licking his lips.

“You ever been eaten out, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, shy. “No…”

His grin was wicked. “Good. You’ll remember your first.”

“Lie back for me,” Mingi murmured, guiding your shoulders until you were sprawled across his sheets—legs parted, chest rising and falling in uneven little breaths.

He kissed up the inside of your thigh first. Slow. Teasing. You whimpered when his nose brushed close to where you were already wet, and he groaned low in his throat.

“Shit… you’re already dripping.”

Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as his breath ghosted over your folds. And then—his tongue. One long, slow lick up your slit that had your hips jerking off the bed.

“Oh—Mingi—!”

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbled against your pussy, voice already wrecked. “Sensitive little thing, huh? Gonna cry just from my mouth?”

You shook your head, biting your lip, but the way your thighs trembled said otherwise.

Mingi didn’t tease for long. He licked you open and flat-out devoured you—his tongue dragging through every inch of you, dipping into your hole, circling your clit until your back arched off the bed. His grip on your thighs kept you spread, even as you twisted, even when you whimpered, “Mingi, I— I think I’m gonna—!”

He didn’t stop.

He growled into you, “Give it to me, bunny. Wanna taste how cute you cum.”

Your thighs shook. Your stomach tensed. And just as you hit the edge, his tongue flattened against your clit—and then slap—

His palm smacked against your dripping pussy. Just once. Light. Experimental.

You screamed.

Not from pain. From how violently your orgasm hit. It tore through you in messy, uncontrollable waves—and then you felt it. That hot rush, the release, the wet spray that soaked his mouth and chin and dripped down your thighs.

“Oh—oh my God—!”

You were trembling, toes curled, hands gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white.

Mingi pulled back just enough to see the mess—lips wet, eyes blown out with shock and arousal. “Fuck, baby… you just squirted.”

You were still catching your breath, wide-eyed and teary, lips parted. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

He laughed. Dark. Proud. “Don’t apologize.” He leaned up, licking your slick from his fingers. “I’m making you do that again.”

Still trembling from the mess he’d pulled out of you, you tried to close your legs—but Mingi’s grip was firm.

“Ah, ah. Not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravelly and way too calm for someone who just got squirted on. “Still so sensitive... what, already crying?” he cooed as his fingers brushed your soaked clit.

You whimpered, legs kicking at the overwhelming touch. “I-It’s too much, Mingi—!”

But he just grinned, licking his lips. “Mm… I think you can give me one more. You got another one in this pretty pussy, right?”

You were too dazed to answer, and that only made him laugh—low and dark.

Then came his fingers. Two of them, thick and slow, sliding into you while his thumb pressed on your clit. He watched you with hungry eyes as your back arched again, moaning out broken little gasps.

And when you got close—that sweet, tense twist in your belly coming back—he stopped.

Pulled his hand back entirely.

You blinked in confusion, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a soft whine. “W-Why’d you stop…”

Mingi leaned down, nose brushing yours, smirking. “You think I’m gonna let you cum that easy, bunny? After that messy little squirt? Nah. I wanna watch you fall apart first.”

You squirmed under him, legs rubbing together for friction, whining softly as he started teasing again—light flicks over your clit with the very tip of his tongue.

Then fingers. Just pressing at your entrance, not pushing in.

You were twitching, gasping. “Please, Mingi, wanna cum… I wanna—wanna feel it again…”

He let out a low hum, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Such a needy little baby. One good orgasm and now you can’t even speak right?”

“Mingi—please!”

He slapped your pussy again. Sharp. Hot. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Say it better, sweetheart. Use your words. What do you want?”

You sniffled, eyes glassy. “Wanna cum… wanna feel your fingers, your tongue, anything— please, Mingi, I’ll be good—”

“Shit.” He sucked a breath through his teeth, finally sliding two fingers in again, pumping hard. “You’re too fucking cute when you beg.”

This time—he let you cum.

And you screamed, all messy and twitching, a moaning little thing with your back off the bed and your thighs trembling around his head. You sobbed through it, babbling nonsense, fingers gripping the sheets as your slick dripped down his wrist.

But Mingi didn’t stop.

He kept going.

Sloppy thrusts. No rhythm. Just filthy, greedy, overstimulating pleasure while you whimpered, “T-Too much—gonna break, Mingi—ah, ah—!”

“Oh, baby…” he groaned, tongue dragging up your soaked folds one more time. “You’re already broken.”

He’d barely given you time to catch your breath before pulling you into his lap—legs trembling, lips parted with a dazed little pout as you straddled his hips.

“C’mere, baby,” Mingi said, voice low and wrecked, “Wanna see you ride this cock. Wanna watch those pretty tits bounce while I ruin that dumb little head of yours.”

Your hands pressed against his chest for balance, thighs already shaky as you lined yourself up—his cock thick and heavy against your folds. He didn’t even help. Just laid back with that smug, perverted smirk on his face like he had all the time in the world.

“You gonna do it all by yourself, sweetheart?” he teased, thumb brushing your lip. “Show me how bad you want it.”

You whimpered, biting down on his thumb, and slowly sank down.

“Oh fuck—”

Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he filled you up, inch by inch, stretching you so deep it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes fluttered shut, the burn so good, the pressure perfect—and when you finally sat flush against his hips, you were already shaking.

Mingi hissed through his teeth, staring up at you with that hungry look. “Shit, baby, look at you—taking all of me like that… Tightest fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively. “Mingi… s’too big…”

He grabbed your waist, dragging you up just enough before letting you drop back down. “Nah, baby. You’re made for this. For me. Show me how you fuck.”

So you moved.

Bounced.

Slow at first, thighs burning from the stretch, your tits jiggling with every drop. And Mingi? He looked feral. One hand behind his head, the other lazily cupping your breast, watching it bounce with a low groan.

“Fuck… fuck, look at you,” he growled, thrusting up once to meet you and make you yelp. “Look how cute you are—riding my cock like it’s the only thing that matters.”

You cried out, little sobs slipping past your lips as you bounced harder, sloppier, the sounds of your slick echoing in the room.

“Am I makin’ you dumb, bunny?” he grinned, pulling on your waist to make you slam down harder. “You’re mumblin’ again…”

“I—ahh—feels s’good, Mingi, too good—dizzy—!”

“Yeah? You gonna cum on this cock?” he grunted, thrusting up to meet you again, fast and deep. “Gonna soak me like a filthy little slut?”

You nodded frantically, sobbing now, fingers clawing at his chest. “Please—please, wanna cum, please, please—!”

“Then cum.”

He sat up, mouth sucking one of your nipples into his mouth as you shattered—screaming, spasming around him, thighs locking up as you came so hard your whole body convulsed. Mingi groaned, holding you down on his cock, watching you lose your mind on top of him.

“Shit… You’re my favorite fucking toy now.”

Your thighs were quaking, tears running down your flushed cheeks, but you didn’t stop riding him. Not even when your head dropped back and your voice cracked from all the soft, incoherent sobs spilling out of your lips.

“S-s’too much—Mingi, f-fuck—can’t—!”

“Oh, but you can, baby.” His voice was wrecked with hunger, obsessed with the way you looked losing your mind on his cock. “You’re so cute when you cry like this. Makes me wanna keep you stuffed and full forever.”

He grabbed both of your tits, squeezing them roughly as he thrusted up into you hard enough to make you scream.

You sobbed, nails digging into his chest, your thighs trembling violently as the pleasure got too sharp, too deep, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Mingi—! Gonna cum again—!”

He grinned, lazy and smug. “Yeah? Show me.”

You came with a sob, body locking up as you spasmed around him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you collapsed forward on his chest.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

“Turn around.”

Your hazy, tear-streaked eyes blinked at him. “H-huh?”

Mingi didn’t wait—he flipped you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass was in the air, your face buried in the mattress. You were so sensitive, so wrecked, and you felt him line back up without missing a beat.

Then—

SMACK!

You yelped.

“God, this ass is too fucking perfect,” he groaned, giving your cheek another hard slap. “Could stare at it all day.”

“M-Mingi—!”

SMACK!

“Say thank you.”

You whined, face burning. “T-thank you…”

“That’s my girl.” He slammed into you without mercy, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust.

Your scream was muffled by the sheets, fists grabbing at the blankets as he pounded into you from behind—relentless, filthy, insatiable.

He grabbed your hair, yanking your head up. “Let me hear you beg again. C’mon, say you love this cock.”

You hiccupped on a moan, body trembling like crazy. “L-love it—love your cock, Mingi—please, more, please!”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, thrusting faster, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the room. “I’m gonna make you squirt again. Gonna spank you while you cry on my dick.”

SMACK!

You screamed.

SMACK!

Tears spilled down again, body burning from both pleasure and pain as you felt yourself losing it all over again.

“I—I’m gonna—!”

“Do it. Squirt for me, baby. Make a mess on my cock.”

You cried out, body convulsing as you exploded, the gush of your release soaking his cock and thighs as you collapsed forward, babbling nothing but broken moans and needy whines.

And Mingi? He kept fucking you through it, whispering filthy things in your ear while he used your soft, fucked-out body like it was his personal toy.

Your legs gave out underneath you, dropping you in a trembling, sticky heap on the bed. Your thighs glistened with slick and spit, your chest rising and falling as soft hiccupy sobs slipped from your lips. Mingi had just pulled out, thick and hard and soaked in everything you’d given him—again.

But he hadn’t finished.

Not yet.

You peeked up at him through heavy lashes, eyes glassy and lips glossy with drool, a faint little whimper catching in your throat. Your body ached, pussy twitching with need, and your brain was too fogged up to think straight—but the emptiness was too much.

“M-Mingi…” Your voice cracked.

He stood at the edge of the bed, stroking himself slowly, watching you fall apart with a low, smug chuckle. “Look at you,” he teased. “Cute little thing, still crying. Didn’t I just make you squirt all over me?”

You shook your head, sniffled, and crawled to the edge of the bed on shaky hands and knees. “I-it’s not enough…” you whimpered, blinking up at him with big watery eyes.

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “You still want more, baby?”

You nodded, sniffling again, reaching out with both hands to grab at his thighs, pressing your cheek against the base of his cock like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Please… please cum inside me… I w-want it so bad, Mingi, want you to ruin me…”

He groaned, grip tightening around his shaft.

“Been so good, haven’t I?” you mumbled, voice all cracked and wet and soft. “Let you use me however you wanted… I d-did everything—so please, fill me up…”

Tears ran down your flushed cheeks as your voice dropped even more—sweet and whiny and broken. “Don’t wanna be empty anymore…”

“Fuck—” He hissed through his teeth, eyes dark with lust as he looked down at you, trembling and begging and so fucking perfect.

He grabbed you, hard, lifting you up with ease and laying you on your back again, legs spread wide and shaking. “You wanna be full, baby?” he growled, lining himself up. “I’ll make sure you never feel empty again.”

You gasped when he slammed back inside you, and a sob broke out of your throat.

“Th-thank you—thank you, Mingi—!”

He groaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pounding into you with feverish need, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other held your hip steady. “Crying while you thank me? Shit, baby, you’re gonna kill me…”

You were blabbering now, voice high and pitchy, clinging to his back as he drove you into the mattress. “Feels so good—so deep—Mingi, I’m gonna break—!”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart.” He kissed your temple, whispering like a lover even as he fucked you like a demon. “And you’re so fucking cute like this. So desperate, so messy, all mine right now…”

And when he finally came—hard, with a deep groan and his face buried in your neck—you cried out again, feeling the heat flood your core, your hands clawing at him as your body twitched through the aftershocks.

Still gasping, still trembling, still mumbling barely-there thank-yous.

And Mingi just held you, sweaty and breathless, as if he was never letting you go.

You didn’t even realize you were still leaking around him until he shifted his hips, still buried deep in your swollen, overstretched walls. Mingi’s hand rubbed soothing circles into your back, his lips brushing over your forehead in soft little kisses. You felt so warm—so full—your breath slowing, your heartbeat steadying under the weight of his body.

But his cock was still inside you.

Still thick, twitching every now and then.

And he was hardening again.

You mumbled something incoherent, more like a dreamy hum than actual words, nuzzling into his neck.

“…You awake, baby?” Mingi whispered, voice hoarse, raspy with exhaustion.

You nodded sleepily, cheeks sticky with dried tears and your thighs aching deliciously. “Mmhm… still inside…”

“Still warm,” he groaned, grinding his hips just enough to feel your pussy clench. “Fuck… you’re hugging me so tight, baby. You gonna let me use you one more time?”

A sleepy whimper slipped out, and your fingers curled into his back. “T-too much…”

“Just one more,” he murmured, voice sweet but filthy. “You’re already so full, might as well keep stuffing you, yeah?”

He rolled his hips again, deeper this time, and you gasped—tired, overstimulated, but already soaking all over again. “Mingi… I can’t—”

“You can,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “You’re doing so good, baby. So pretty, even when you’re crying… my cute little roommate.”

He slowly started thrusting, every movement gentle but deep, dragging out the squelch of his cum between your legs with each slow stroke.

You whimpered, head tilting back, your legs falling open for him like instinct. “Ngh… f-feels good…”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Just let me fuck you through it, baby. Let me feel your cute little pussy milk me dry.”

You moaned louder this time, slurred words spilling from your lips in breathy little gasps. “So deep—Mingi, y-you’re still so big, why’s it still so big…”

He chuckled softly, eyes dark as he stared down at your fucked-out face. “Because you’re too cute, baby. Can’t help myself…”

He kept going, slow and thick and messy, not even bothering to pull out as his cum dripped down between your cheeks, mixing with your slick and his spit. You blinked up at him, dazed and broken and glowing all at once.

And when he finally came again with a quiet, shuddering groan, you whimpered at the warmth flooding you for the second time.

“…Mingi…” you breathed out, nearly incoherent. “Y-you’re gonna break me…”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart,” he murmured, laying soft kisses along your collarbone as he rutted lazily into you a few more times before stilling.

“But fuck, baby… I’ve never seen anything as pretty as you falling apart.”

The sunlight was barely peeking through the blinds when you stirred, your legs twitching from the dull ache between them. You were wrapped up in warmth—Mingi's chest against your back, his heavy arm draped around your waist, and his cock still lazily nestled against your ass, soft but twitching with every slow breath.

“Mingi…” you whispered sleepily, voice hoarse and sweet.

He groaned low, nuzzling into your neck. “Morning already?”

You giggled softly, your body sore in all the right places. “My thighs hurt…”

He kissed your shoulder. “Good. That means I fucked you right.”

You turned your face toward him, cheeks hot, eyes still puffy from last night’s cute little crying fits. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert.” He smirked, biting playfully at your earlobe. “And you loved it.”

You hummed. “I did…”

There was a beat of silence, and then you sighed. “But I’m sticky. We’re gross.”

“Guess we should clean up, huh?” he whispered, voice already heavy with mischief.

Before you could protest, he rolled you both out of bed and scooped you up bridal-style, your sleep dress barely hanging on your shoulders. You squealed, arms flying around his neck.

“Mingi—!”

“I said we’re showering. Gotta make sure my baby is squeaky clean.”

He kicked the bathroom door open and sat you on the cold counter, standing between your legs with his hands on your bare thighs. He just stared at you for a second—at the messed-up lace, the little bruises, the faint red handprints he’d left behind.

And then, “You gonna let me clean you with my tongue again, baby?”

You blinked at him, lips parting.

“…You’re hopeless.”

But when you opened your legs for him again, you both knew you didn’t mean it.

Mingi turned the shower on, steam curling into the room as the water heated up. While it warmed, he leaned down and kissed you—slow and deep, his tongue lazily exploring your mouth while his big hands slid under your sleep dress, dragging it up and off your body.

“Still so cute even when you’re wrecked,” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep and lust. “Wanna fuck you all over again.”

Your body twitched at his words, your thighs pressing together instinctively. “I’m still sore…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he said—though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

He picked you up again and stepped into the shower with you, water cascading over both your bodies, his arms strong and steady around you. You let out a shaky breath as the warmth soothed your aching muscles, but your comfort didn’t last long.

Mingi pinned your back to the slick wall tiles, water running down his broad shoulders as he grabbed your thighs and hoisted them around his waist. His cock was already hard again, flushed and throbbing against your core.

“Y-you said gentle,” you mumbled, flushed and wide-eyed.

“I said I’ll try,” he corrected, smirking. “But you’re too damn addicting, baby. Can’t help it.”

You whined as he rubbed his cockhead along your folds, spreading his cum and your slick from the night before. “Mingi… I—”

“You’re always so wet for me,” he groaned. “Still leaking, baby? God, look at you…”

He pushed in slow—just the tip—and your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parting in a soft moan as your head thunked back against the tile. The heat of the water, the steam, his body against yours—it was all too much and not enough.

“F-fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, gripping your thighs tighter. “Even after everything I did last night…”

You gasped as he slid in deeper, your arms locking around his neck. “M-Mingi… ah—nghh—s-still sore…”

“I know, baby,” he cooed, kissing your cheek. “But you can take it. You always do. My good girl.”

His hips began to move, slowly at first—just enough for you to feel the stretch all over again. You whimpered into his shoulder, legs trembling, but your pussy clenched around him greedily.

“Making those cute noises again…” he muttered, voice almost desperate. “Say something for me, baby.”

“F-feels good,” you managed, your voice slurred, high and breathy. “So big—s-stretching me again…”

“You’re dripping,” he whispered against your ear. “Fucking leaking around me, and I’m not even moving fast yet.”

You let out a sob, your fingers tangling in his wet hair. “Please—Mingi—feels too good—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t.

He began thrusting harder, the sound of wet skin slapping echoing in the shower, water spraying off his back while he fucked you raw against the tile. You whimpered, moaned, your head rolling as he hit that same deep, sweet spot over and over until your body was convulsing in his arms.

“Cum for me,” he grunted. “Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And you did—your eyes rolled back, your mouth fell open in a silent cry, your whole body shaking as you came hard around him. And right after, with a strangled groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you again.

For the fourth time.

You both panted, clinging to each other as the water kept pouring over you. Mingi kissed your temple softly.

“I should get a gold medal for this,” he muttered playfully.

You mumbled into his shoulder, barely coherent. “Mm… just feed me breakfast…”

He grinned. “After I eat you for breakfast again.”

After the shower, your legs barely held you up, so Mingi wrapped you in a towel and carried you straight to the kitchen like you weighed nothing. You were wearing one of his oversized shirts now—still damp and clinging to your soft curves, the hem brushing your thighs with every step you took.

Mingi was shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, his hair still damp and messy. And the way his eyes kept dropping to your bare legs as he cooked? That hungry look never left.

“You know,” he muttered, flipping the pancakes in the pan, “I could bend you over this counter right now. Bet your pussy’s still twitching from the shower.”

You whimpered into your glass of juice, squirming in the stool you sat on. “Mingi…”

“What? I’m just saying,” he smirked, setting the plate down in front of you. “You looked so cute, all dumb and crying on my cock. How am I supposed to not talk about it?”

You pouted, hiding your red face behind your fork. “You’re so dirty…”

“And you love it,” he whispered as he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You love when I talk to you like that, don’t you? Gettin’ all shy now, but you were begging me to spank your pussy five minutes ago.”

Your thighs clenched automatically, eyes fluttering. “That was… different…”

He kissed your temple and slid into the stool beside you. “Nah. You’re just my pretty little pillow princess who gets shy after being ruined.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks hot. “Eat your pancake, pervert.”

But your voice was so soft, your smile too wide—because you did love it. Every filthy word, every dirty look he gave you like you were his favorite thing to ruin.

Mingi leaned on his elbow, watching you eat with that same smirk tugging at his lips.

“After this… I’m putting you back in bed,” he murmured lowly. “And you’re gonna sit on my cock nice and slow while I kiss you. Let’s see how many times I can make you cum without moving my hips.”

You choked on your juice.

He patted your back, completely unbothered. “Careful, baby. Can’t have you dying before I ruin you again.”

[ashlovesfood]

Bruce Wayne! who loves to see you tremble and shiver all over his hands as he makes you cum multiple times. He‘ll be knuckles deep in your pussy as he finger fucks you, getting off on the sight of your whines. “Cmon bunny, one more for me yeah?” Your practically arched off the bed, sheets damp with your fluids as he flicks your clit, hot squirt soaking his abs. Link

Bruce Wayne! who’ll be balls deep inside your cunt, mercilessly pounding you into the mattress as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. How could he resist when you’re just so soft and pliable for him? It’ll be late into midnight and he’ll still be fucking you thin and through, good luck if you want him to stop. Link

Bruce Wayne! getting an instant boner at the sight of your body wearing a cute sun dress, the frilly fabric hugging your delicious curves as you walk around the manor. His hands immediately reach for your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he bends you over the kitchen surface. Let’s just say, you got a different ‘cream pie.’ Link

A/N sorry for the delayed post, having issues with writing rn(｡-_-｡)

[ditzyrafe]

— squirting in front of bf!rafe for the first time

warnings — oral (fem!rec), squirting, lewd language

the late afternoon light slanted through the blinds, striping your bodies in gold and shadow. sweat slicked the space between your skin and rafe's expensive sheets, which were already twisted into a testament of the last hour. you were close, impossibly close, riding that sharp, sweet edge where pleasure blurred into frantic need. rafe knelt between your thighs, solely focused on pleasuring you. his fingers moved with ruthless precision inside of you, hitting that spot while his thumb worked relentless circles against your clit.

"that's it, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrated through your bones. he watched your face intently, eyes dark and hooded, tracking the flush spreading across your chest, the way your eyes were blown wide. he loved seeing you come apart for him, loved being the sole reason for the incoherent whimpers escaping your throat. "you can do it."

he shifted slightly, changing the angle of his fingers, adding a deeper pressure that sent a jolt straight through your system. you gasped, hips buckling off the mattress. this felt… different. the usual coiling tension was there, tightening unbearably low in your belly, but beneath it was a strange, building pressure, like an urgent need you couldn't identify. "rafe, i- oh god…"

"cum for me, baby. show me," he commanded softly, his thumb pressing down harder, faster.

the command, coupled with that impossible pressure, tipped you over. but it wasn't just the familiar, shattering waves of orgasm that ripped through you, making you cry out his name. it was accompanied by a sudden, shocking gush. a warm surge erupted from you, soaking the sheets beneath you, spattering onto his hand and wrist.

your eyes flew open in mortified confusion, the last shudders of pleasure mixing with sheer panic. you'd never done that before. "oh my god! rafe, i'm sorry-" you started, cheeks flaming, convinced you'd just humiliated yourself completely.

but rafe wasn't recoiling, wasn't looking at you in disgust. he'd frozen for a split second, feeling the unexpected warmth soak him, then he slowly lifted his slick fingers to his lips, tasting your sweetness on his tongue. a slow, predatory grin spread across his lips, transforming his features. his eyes weren't annoyed; they were blazing with a new, intense fire that burned only for you.

he looked back down at the evidence soaking the bed, then met your gaze again, his cock visibly pulsing with need at the sight of you. "don't you dare be sorry, baby," he murmured, reaching out to trace the edge of the wetness on the sheets with one finger. "you fucking soaked my bed for me." the possessiveness in his tone was sharper now, edged with something primal. "that was the hottest fucking thing i've ever seen."

before you could process his reaction, he surged forward, covering your mouth in a brusing kiss. his hands roughly gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as he aligned his cock near your sensitive folds that were practically still dripping in arousal for him. he drove himself inside of you, hips halting so you could properly adjust to his size. "did that feel good?" he whispered huskily against your ear, his voice thick with raw, predatory pleasure that sent shivers down your spine despite the lingering shock.

"yeah? let'see how much of’a mess you can make on my cock."

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @dreewsepj @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!