#then he finally sees it and he just ogle like a dog

[reddragon-cowboy]

As if my art of my oc doesn't show it enough, but Niah's body type ranges on curvy with a small waist and shapely hips. Her stomach isn't straight out flat, but it's more of a soft, plush warm belly ( meant for sweet kisses and resting your head ). She's also a bit athletic, mainly from skating and working out a few days out the week, so there's some visible muscle tone in her arms. I didn’t draw it here, but she also have some light stretch marks along her upper thighs.

Niah doesn't go out of her way to show off her body. She possesses a bit of modesty in the way she dresses most times, not really wanting to draw too much unwarranted attention to herself. Of course, it can be a little difficult to hide despite what she might wear.

[lunarw0rks]

farmer!price & sweet little girl next door!reader (yes i’m thinking about this pairing in the most perverted way possible)

a/n: here it is. the long-awaited neighbor!price fic <3 Hopefully, you all enjoy these Price crumbs. anon is onto something ;) & thx for the dog name ideas! ⊹。°˖➴ ao3 ver. // word count: 6.9k

// warning(s); nsfw (18+), implied age gap [r is mid-twenties, price is early/mid-forties], dadbod!price agenda, oral (r.), p/v unsafe sex, fem!reader

Price is living out his recluse dreams. Retired and secluded, finally! It was more than he’d wished for, honestly. He always desired a patch of land far from town, leaving out scraps for the critters, finding the simple pleasures.

But here he was, with a small, self-sufficient farm, growing enough to feed himself. It was a quiet, rewarding lifestyle. Entirely the opposite of his years in the service. Right now, he found himself conquering his lost list of mundane tasks. Watering his herbs, then sorting the junk that accumulated in his storage shed.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

After a grueling afternoon of unpacking, you needed to unwind. Right now, you found yourself lounging on your deck, head tilted back as you shielded your eyes from the summer sun. As if moving and assembling furniture wasn't exhausting enough — now you had the sweltering star beating down on you.

Abruptly, you feel something soft brush against your legs. Before you can open your eyes, there's a hefty weight plunged atop your lap. Your eyes snap open, greeted with the hot breath of a smiling golden retriever.

You caress the blonde fur, receiving several licks along your hand. "Zeus! down, boy!" A husky voice shouts, followed by the face to match it. The eager, not-so-small ball of fluff hops off your lap, prancing toward the man walking around the side of your house.

A charcoal gray t-shirt hugging his buff but girthy body. A man who's been in shape for years — arms bulging and tanned from hours of working outside, all whilst his older years have caught up to him a bit on his stomach, which stuck out with just a bit of fat cushion.

"My apologies, he knows better." He rubbed his head and flashed an apologetic look, exposing the faint abs you'd already imagined on him at first glance. Price's eyes wandered you from top to bottom, nearly forgetting to unfurrow his brow.

What a sight for sore eyes, you were.

You peer down at your lap, now stained with dirt in the shape of paws — on your thighs and the shorts you're wearing. "Oh, not a big deal! he gave me quite a scare, but it was a pleasant surprise." You look over at Zeus, his tail thwacking against his owner's leg.

For a few moments, all he did was leer, before he snapped himself out of it. "John," he steps forward as if going to shake hands but retracts hastily.

"—'m all covered in dirt, wouldn't want to get you dirtier than Zeus already has, hm?" He chuckles when he finishes his rhetorical, smearing the dirt onto his denim pants.

You shake your head and chuckle gently, “no room for pleasantries in the countryside, is there?” You case his appearance again, eyes skimming his muscles.

John flashes a polite smile, muttering a reply before hooking a finger around the Golden’s red collar. “Be seeing you.” He effectively leads the sparky dog out of your yard, preventing both any more surprise attacks and more ogling on his part.

Not only was getting a new neighbor a surprise, but her being so damn tempting — an entirely different genre of awe.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Yesterday wasn’t your smoothest first impression. looking rugged and sweaty from unpacking, ending up covered in dirt and in awkward conversation. You wanted a second chance. He was going to be your neighbor after all — and it wasn’t like there were many others. John was the only one within reasonable walking distance, it seemed.

Now, wearing a sundress as opposed to sweat-caked shorts and a tee — you were more confident in your odds of at least being civil with your neighbor. At the very least, a man who would roll up your trash bins before a storm. Perhaps even supply a spare cup of sugar if you were being optimistic.

You trudge down the dirt road, careful not to roll your ankle on the unpredictable mounds of earth. For a few moments, you’re convinced you’ve gone the wrong way. It’s either dense forest, patches of crop, or more road ahead of you.

Lord knows you were exhausted yesterday, maybe the handsome neighbor was just a figment in your fried mind. A foolish thought — but one that worsened the longer you walked.

The tray in your hands; a few oatmeal dog biscuits and some cookies made from the recipe on the chocolate chip bag. It was better than coming empty-handed, wasn’t it? That would just be distasteful judgment.

With eyes glued ahead, you nearly let the handles of the platter slip when you finally spotted the lights in the distance. Golden-tinted and countless, illuminating the updated cabin. In the yard, lay a few scattered chewed ropes and muddy tennis balls. You could safely assume you made it to the suave man’s residence.

You knock on the oak door, seeing the hues of a television flickering through some of the bent blinds. After a few seconds of mumbling, the door swung open.

Price answered with a beer in one of his fists, instantly straightening his posture when he laid eyes on you. The sundress; cherry red with splotches of tiny florals. Dusk sunbeams highlighted your bone structure seamlessly — casting an ethereal glow on your captivating flesh.

Today, instead of gray, his shirt is army green and just as snug of a fit. You can't help but prolong your stare when he leans against the doorway, his bicep bulging even when he stands with nonchalance. He's even more of a knockout when not covered in dirt; though you suppose the same could be applied to you.

"This is a surprise." He glances at the tray in your hands, then at the polite smile on your face as you flash it in his direction.

With a beam, you extend the platter out and wait for him to take it. "I wasn't sure when to come. I hope I'm not intruding." You speak softly, catching a glimpse of his tidy living space.

“No such thing as intrusion around here, eh? ‘m practically searching for chores these days. A little conversation won’t bother me any.” Price chuckles a bit, flicking his head as an invitation for you to join him.

You step inside behind him, engulfed by the scent of tobacco and cedarwood. The cabin's interior walls have been stained with a warm tint, stretching throughout what bits of the space you can spot. Immediately through the front door is his kitchen, likely the most modernized of the rooms.

Distressed, truffle-colored counters in an L shape; altogether enough space for a man living alone. Yet, the countertops are anything but cluttered — nearly spotless, in fact. He slides the tray across the counter, finally unveiling the homemade treats for both human and man's best friend.

"Figured chocolate chip would be simple enough, right?" You speak up, watching him examine one of them. For a few moments, he's lost in thought again, not taking a bite.

You furrow your brows, "please don't tell me I baked the one dessert you don't like."

Instantaneously, a grin smears on his face, then a rumbly snicker. "Nothing like that," he bites the cookie in half and savors its sweetness, "—just not used to having neighbors this deep in the woods, you're my first. And she can bake too, huh? Aren't I lucky?" He teases a bit at the end, rinsing off some chocolate residue from his scarred fingertips.

Well, it was only the recipe on the back of a bag, so you surely hope it would taste decent. You decide it best to leave that out, merely twirling your thumbs as he shuffles around the space.

Finally, he walks back around the counter and holds out the same beer he sipped when he answered the door. Your reluctant fist wrapped around the brown bottle's glass neck, following him as he led you to the porch.

“Weren’t you watching something?” You question, sitting yourself beside him on the cement steps. Zeus’ collar jingle sounded once the back door closed, the sound a signal for him to join his owner out back.

John shook his head, taking another sip of the brew as his achy muscles relaxed again. “You’re doing me a favor; I could cut back on my screen time.” He reached out his free hand and gently patted the dog’s head, giving his fur a few strokes.

“Cut back? By the looks of your land, you’re outside all day.” You retort with a playful scoff, feeling the nuzzle of a wet nose along your leg. Without shame, you glance at his hands, observing their size and condition. “The callouses don’t lie.”

You piqued his interest at the mention of his hands, and he'd noticed just how long you were staring at them. "Suppose you're right, love." On purpose, he caressed the neck of the bottle with his thumb. He takes another hefty sip, which prompts you to take your first.

You didn't have the heart to tell him before how much you disliked the taste. The tangy beer coated your mouth and throat, seemingly sliding down at an agonizing pace just to prolong the torment. Still, the scrunch of your face spilled enough of the fib.

"Faces don't lie, either." Price mocked, taking the barely touched bottle from your grip. His words held double meaning — one harmless and one sinful — though that truth was unbeknownst to both of you.

In a matter of seconds, you'd been caught in a petty lie. You wipe away the bit that dripped between your lips. "Guess you caught me," you chortle, "I don't like beer much."

"Much? Don't be so modest." He screws the top back on and sets it on the wooden deck beside him. "You hate it, don't you?"

The way he spoke had you in some sort of trance. Perhaps it was his age, perhaps it was his obvious past of influence. It was... like being interrogated. Not in the pathetic way an inexperienced civilian would mock his way through, either. The agitation of being put on the spot — feeling as though you'd done something illegal the second you approach airport security.

That is what this felt like; only the words came tender and sportive.

“Alright, I hate it.” You affirm, unable to wipe the simper off your face. “We’ve officially made it through our first lie. That’s a milestone, right? Saves us the sting later.” Unintentionally, you haven’t broken your stare — even when he did to gaze at the sunset in front of him.

Later? Would this company become a routine? How wrong was it for him to hope it would?

Eventually, he nods and turns to face you again, shamelessly taking you in like it was the first time. “Ah, you’re like me. Ten steps ahead, got everything planned out already.” He questions, squinting slightly from the bright dusk, which was actively being snuffed by storm clouds. "Besides, I could tell your lie from miles away. The way you fumbled that bottle."

You waved a flustered hand of dismissal. "Yeah, yeah. Point taken. I'll remember that next time."

John cocked a brow, "next time, eh? With no more fibbing?" He asked you jovially, once again putting you under his spotlight.

But this time you knew how to handle it. Besides, you had learned his ways of meaningless banter — despite only spending several minutes with the man. "Next time I'll make sure it's not so obvious, and you'll be none the wiser."

"It was more than how I held the bottle," you added accusingly. "You don't just afford a place like this with retirement savings. Not without sacrifices."

He was more than someone who once had a mundane, meaningless job. You could tell it from 'miles away' he was a man who had stories to tell. More than his scarred body already did, that was. A fierce career, a position of power — something cutthroat, literally.

Of course, you had no intention of prying. Screwing this relationship up prematurely would be a grave mistake.

Fortunately, he remained untouched by your suspicions; they intrigued him. And John, he knew you weren't wrong about him, either. He was one of the few souls who could confidently declare he'd seen it all — or the closest thing to it.

"Sacrifices... is a way to put it," his lips curled into a polite smile. Finally, he stopped staring holes into you and caught a whiff of musky petrichor in the air. "C'mon, we're due for rain. Get you inside before the mosquitos feast on us."

The same lips pursed, letting out a sharp whistle to recall Zeus. He transformed from a blond dot in the distance into a prancing canine at the speed of light, slowing to a prance when he laid eyes on his owner.

With one hand, he held both bottlenecks between his thick fingers, then opened the back door with the other. Zeus nudged your legs and walked through them, determined to get inside first. The sight made you snicker as you walked inside, hearing the soft creak of the door behind you.

His work boots thudded against the wooden floor as he took them off, setting them neatly beside the door. Yet another unusual trait for men his age living alone, at least in your experience. No clutter in sight, and no grime residue from his tireless yard work.

Now, his steps are a glide instead of thuds when he walks around the breakfast bar. You turned to face him, watching as he ignited a burner for the kettle. "Do you fancy drinking something you'll actually enjoy? Tea?"

You lean against the island, unintentionally allowing a bit of the dress neckline to droop.

“Tea will work.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

In front of you were the only signs of his old self. Metals and ribbons encased behind a glass frame, hung up in the hall as a quaint display of his achievements. Below them, on the hall table, decorative mason jars; most with faux leaves and vines. You made your way up and down, admiring how the rustic, shipshape decor was placed with such intention.

As your gaze panned left to right, you made it to the end of the display. Interest arose when you examined the last jar; a small mason with a bullet inside, littered with indents and some bits chipped away. Your mind swirled with scenarios as you put together the story told in front of you. A career so intense, so all-important; it was difficult to imagine the man in the kitchen enmeshed in one.

In the distance, the kettle whistles, effectively ripping you from your peering. Before he can shout for you, you’ve walked around the corner, ready to claim a drink your mouth will savor.

“Here you are.” Across the marble countertop, Price slid forward the mug.

A green tea of sorts, with a bit of cream on top and a dust of cinnamon. The presentation is nowhere near seamless, with its lopsided spoonful of foam and granules that ended up sprinkled unevenly through his fingers. Still, there was nothing wrong with a drink that looked homemade.

“Matcha?” You ask, wrapping your fingers around the handle of the mug, then using your supporting hand to hold the small plate it’s resting on.

Price glances at the tea box through the frosted glass cabinets then nods. When he presses his own mug to his lips, the tea is ebony and swirling like a cyclone from the sugar he mixed in.

From the corner of your eye, you skim past him and gaze out the window overlooking the deep copper sink. Through its rectangular pane, you see the string of herbs and leaves grown — well-tended and used often in his cooking, surely.

You point a free finger towards the fresh greens outside, “do you grow it?”

He lets out a rumbly chuckle and shakes his head, “if I could. Matcha plants are loads of work.” You now spot the pasty green box poking through the cabinet, which you hadn’t noticed when too occupied with the herb planters.

You mutter a ‘hm’ in response and raise the porcelain rim to your lips, feeling the steam scald the tip of your nose and Cupid's bow. The vegetal fragrance of the green tea soothes your senses — just before the spice of cinnamon gives them a right hook.

To keep your eyes from tearing, you close them and take your first sip. It’s thicker than you anticipated, coating your mouth and throat as you swallow, yet the taste is pleasant and earthy.

Whatever John had done to prepare it, he did it correctly. That much you could tell.

Before your throat can sizzle with aftertaste, the cold foam dollop calms it. From grassy, fresh matcha to a striking sweet cream.

“You have a bit…” Price motions to his mouth, an index pointed toward the left corner of his mouth. The cream is too airy for you to notice any accidental residue. You’ve missed the swear twice before he sighs and raises a crumpled napkin to your lips.

You meet gazes while he dabs at your bottom lip, feeling any confidence seep from you in an instant.

The sweet aroma fleeted instantly with the proximity, now with your nostrils flooded with his fragrance. Smokey and masculine; something rum-adjacent, mixed sinfully with cedarwood and the earthy smell of crisp soil. And then, lastly, there are the pungent remnants of his minty mouthwash, which is slightly diluted by the black tea he swallowed.

This close, you can trace every wrinkle and line with your eyes. While you’re engulfed in his presence, he’s observing. Smothered and suffocating with the weight of diminishing continence. The vermillion sundress, the tray of goodies in the corner of his vision, the twitch of your lips as he dabs and drags with the linen.

Price has yet to notice his other hand, grabbing the tip of your chin with a feather-like hold.

But you have, blinking rapidly a few times while the chalky foam is rid of your mouth, which might as well have been thrown in the trash along with the napkin — because you’ve turned reticent.

“There.” He whispers, mouth curling into a polite glow.

Ultimately, your haze falters. Your senses unfreeze when you’re no longer swarmed by his aroma, or his tender touch when he walks back around the breakfast bar. Warmth coaxes your fingers, still emanating from the tea snug in your grip — even after the milky olive-tinted liquid has gone tepid.

With a perpetually widened gaze, you raised your mug to finish off the rest of your tea. This neighborly visit had played out differently than you expected. You savored about half of the lukewarm brew, letting it mellow the pining that arose when he got close. Sweaty fingers fumbled around the handle when you tipped the cup again, sending a gush of tea down the front of your outfit. The fabric stained instantaneously as the warmth soaked in, whilst the sugary cream made the dress cling in an unsavory, sticky fashion.

You cursed audibly and darted your gaze towards him apologetically, setting the mug down with a clammer. “I’m sorry,” you gasped, feeling an ocean’s wave of dishonor pummel through you at once.

John, who was mid-cleanup, jerked his head to the side when he heard the commotion. When greeted with the frazzled expression, he made an effort to soothe it. It wasn’t your fault; it was only some overpriced, boxed infusion that had collected dust in the back of his cabinet. 

Besides, you were in front of him, now in soaked clothing and apologizing profusely.

“Don’t apologize. Happens to the best of us.” That damn smile again. The wrinkles around his eyes, the almost all-knowing look of understanding in them.

He fisted your discarded mug, turning on the sink.

“The washroom is down the hall, in my room. It has a better mirror than the half.” Price wavers through his instructions, overcome with his own helping of uncertainty. Nothing had gone explicitly wrong, per se, but it didn’t mean they went right. But they never do, do they? There’s a reason he decided on a life of recluse, even more, a reason for him to befriend seclusion so closely.

Your footsteps retreated down the hall, passing the picture frames and decor you had been admiring moments ago. John scrubbed both mugs until they were full of suds and then rinsed, placing them on the dish rack afterward. He made it a habit to never leave used dishes to sit in the sink.

Quickly, he walked through the open door of his bedroom. Golden beams peeked out from the gap under the door, where you were frantically blotting the stains. He pulled the string on his bedside lamp, illuminating a majority of the moody, rustic bedroom. His fingers hooked around the handle, gently sliding open the pocket doors of his closet.

His t-shirts hung neatly on the left wall, whilst his fewer button-ups remained on the opposite. With a quick hum, he took hold of his baggiest navy blue tee, draping it over his forearm. From inside his dresser, he grabbed a pair of sweats that were tight on him — enough to prevent them from slipping down your legs.

Inside the bathroom, you alternated between being hunched over the counter in embarrassment, to rubbing your dress profusely. The damp washcloth was doing little to the fabric, which was a few shades darker from the liquid, compressing tighter against you. It wasn’t a flattering look, nor was it a comfortable fit anymore. Akin to the feeling of maple syrup residue on your hands after breakfast, only it was covering the front of your body.

Would it have been better to spill on his authentic wood floors? Was it completely selfish to prefer it, to spare the discomfort of a soaked garment?

Two subdued knocks on the door halted your useless wiping. “I have some clothes.” The gruff voice spoke through the door, yet remained as placid as it was in the kitchen.

“Oh, no need,” you replied dismissively through the door. “I can change at home.” You tossed the wet towel into the small hamper. When you opened the door, Price remained standing there, fresh clothing in hand.

The thought was there, and now were the actions to go along. You didn’t want to change at home or be walking down that dirt avenue at all. At this hour, home would be lonesome and still, regardless of whether your new neighbor was fanciable or not.

But he was; that made him all the harder to decline.

Void of any attempt on John’s part, his gaze scanned the mess that covered you. This time, more obvious than he would’ve liked. It felt wrong; downright distasteful and discouraging, to do so.

Howbeit, he did — and you sensed it this time. The unavoidable gawking at your snug gown, devouring his dwindling abstinence. No unease, imminence, or desire to dismiss yourself ever came. Not like it did with men on the street, who resembled that of depraved, hungry hounds.

John wasn’t corrupted; behind the lust, there was something more, something too complex to daydream.

“Nonsense.” He persisted, the clothes remaining outstretched. “It’s raining. And you’ve got to walk quite a way, don’t you?”

You leaned your head against the thick wood of the door, unable to spit out another worthy excuse. “Thank you. Really.” With a nod, you took the folded clothing, setting the pieces on the countertop beside you. As he accepted your answer and turned on his heels, you mustered the gut to speak again.

“And, John?” You stepped through the threshold of the door, “if I go home in these clothes, you probably won’t get them back.”

“I’ll keep the dish, then.” This time, he didn’t back away after stepping closer. “Do we have a deal?” His breathing picked up subtly but was noticeable against your face. When faced with his proximity before, you fumbled a mug. But now, you were certain of every ache and desire troubling you.

Whoever leaned in first became a fleeting afterthought. It didn’t matter, not while your mouths and noses clashed together. He was the first to give way, to tilt his head to relieve the pressure on your nose, which allowed him more mobility.

Your knees nearly buckled when his hands cupped your cheeks — how the calloused prints of his fingers felt against the opposing texture of your face. It felt natural; a relief to every urge you’ve stifled from the moment he answered his door.

Before you broke away for air, he removed his lips while still maintaining his tender hold on your face.

“Are you sure about this…?” Price posed, pressing his forehead against yours. You exchanged each other's exhales, cloaking your racing thoughts with a suffocating, dizzy effect.

Still, regardless of your thundering heartbeat and draining lungs — you uttered the quickest yes of your lifetime. This time, you turned your head when lips and teeth clashed, back colliding with the door. Your lips parted as you panted, letting his tongue swipe along your lips, leaving them saturated. His beard audibly scraped against your jaw and down your neck, producing goosebumps as you shivered.

Though his movements weren’t theatrical or jaw-dropping, they left you unable to lose focus. His hands wrapped around the sleeves of the ruined gown, rolling the fabric down while he dropped into a kneel before you.

A need to provide, to satisfy, to satiate. No teases, no dramatics; just utter experience. The only terms you would associate with him currently.

The clingy fabric peeled off like a sticky bandage, peeling to expose the damn stain from cleavage to your pelvis. John’s briefly raised to suckle between your breasts, cleaning off every drop of the tea that had soaked through the discarded dress. Down; sternum to belly button, savoring the small remnants of the sweet cream.

“So beautiful,” he muttered, lips pressed to your lower stomach. His hands moved and kneaded your hips in worship. Despite his face hovering in front of your panties, and how he was actively trailing kisses along your thighs — his voice never changed. Not cloaked with blind lust or hesitation.

Admiration, purely; for you, maybe only your body. But you didn’t care about that — or couldn’t — right now. John was utterly too much, From light conversation to huddling in the restroom, then to being backed against the door. One hand rested on your lower stomach, as a means of keeping your back against the door. The other rolled your undergarments down at a sluggish pace, beard and lips following the falling undies.

Your neck craned down, seeing them fall to your ankles, shortly before the cold breeze hit your exposed core — emanating from the bathroom window left slightly ajar. The muscles in your thighs tense when Price’s tongue finally makes brief contact with it, blown pupils still staring up at you.

His tongue lay flat against your clit for a few moments until saliva rolled down his tongue, allowing him to delve deeper. Further on, he would kiss and suckle on the bundle of nerves, and you were sure your grip on the knob couldn’t have been firmer. Experience truly was the right word to describe him, earlier and now more than ever.

Along your slit, he plunged inside, growly breaths vibrating against your sensitivity. Your taste coated his mouth, and your natural scent drove him mad; like no other partner he’d had before.

“Wanna feel you—” Price slurped again, then pulled away to finish, “—clench around my fingers. You want that, sweetheart?” His tongue glistened under the spotty lighting, his buff chest still heavy. He was goddamn distracting in this state, more than he was before.

After a flash of muteness, you nodded your head. As if you could pass up that offer; if it was an offer at all.

True to his word and the desires racing through his head, John slipped his middle finger inside your entrance. Instantly, the appendage glided against the soaked, puffy walls of your cunt, causing him to chuckle with satisfaction.

Even the smallest pump forced a whine from your lips, though you were unsure what you should be pleading for. Tonight, this feeling was already unsurpassed.

“Another, huh? Can’t fuckin’ say no to you, can I?” Next entered his ring finger, the thick digits stretching you out delectably, in ways you could only dream of executing with your own two fingers.

His name slipped out when he curled them against your sweet spot, daring your knees to buckle and send both of you tumbling. His eerily observant nature had him anticipating the sudden weakness, and his other hand holding you in place never once faltered. Finding his shaggy hair, your fingers intertwined with the locks, purely to be holding onto anything of his when you inevitably come undone.

Back to slobbering, his tongue ran laps against your swollen clit, the tip of his nose knocking against it with every pass. Each flick, each thrust making your back arch wildly against the door. And once again, as he anticipated, you ended up clenching around his fingers like he wanted.

So tense, it was any wonder Price was able to keep moving his fingers. His erection pressed against his thigh, the tight denim making him resist the urge to squirm. Oh, how you sounded, how you felt. His years of stamina and strength training will surely be tested once it’s his cock filling you up instead.

The nub throbbed and visibly pulsed when he combined a well-timed lick and curl all at once, plunging you off that cliff of release. Around his head, your thighs clamped tighter than the fingers digging into his scalp. It was clear you’d be reeling this feeling for days to come, probably a climax to forever be unbeaten during your life.

Your heart hammered against your rib cage, your lungs exhausted and working overtime as you sucked in desperate breaths. “Fuck— that was…” You breathed, unable to articulate any one of the feelings assaulting your system.

The leer tugging at the corners of his soaked mouth wasn’t smug, it was pleased; pleasantly. Slowly, he raised himself, holding each side of your face. Price slurred, “You sound lovely when you cum, y’know that?” Before you could lift a finger to answer again, his dangerous tongue swirled around yours, spreading the taste of yourself against your taste buds.

Your sticky inner thighs glided when he blindly led you out of the threshold, collapsing atop you. The frame creaked under the weight of both of you, the mattress now with a crater in the center of it.

“Want you to fuck me, John. Please.” You pleaded between kisses, unconsciously wrapping a leg around his waist for any friction on the mess he caused. The sensitive tip of his cock ached, despite only being rocked against through the thick denim.

As if your sounds of pleasure weren’t divine enough, that fucking word was. Please. So desperate, so distraught. If he had the restraint or the patience, Price might coax a few more begs out of you — but those were the two things he didn’t have currently.

Briefly, his touches ceased when he leaned back. Swiftly unbuckling his belt, he slid out of his jeans and tossed them aside; discarded, now the only clutter in the bedroom. Soaked through his grey briefs, a stain of pre-cum, merely proving how badly he needed you. The same as his jeans, he rid himself of them, erection upright and freed.

Girthy and curved upward a hair, capable of reaching deeper than his fingers. Down his happy trail, which you got a peak of during the first encounter, were his trimmed pubes. The same shade of brown as the hair littering his chest. You examined further, spotting a few prominent veins bound to drive you mad.

Any longer without it, and you were willing to start pawing at him. The stars must’ve been aligned, because pleading wasn’t necessary anymore.

“Spread your legs f’me.” You did, as swiftly as he uttered the command. As wide as comfortable, you exposed the mess of your pussy to him, reflecting off the cool moonlight peaking through his blinds. Glistening and twitching from the first climax, remnants still left around your inner thighs. “Gonna fill you up, fuck you proper, hm? Have you clenching around me?”

As if his fingers weren’t euphoric enough. Gnawing on your bottom lip until it ached, you nodded your head eagerly, hooking an arm around your leg to keep the shaky limb steady.

Price gripped the base of his cock, guiding it toward your entrance. The tip slipped in as smooth as honey, coated in slick and strings of his saliva leftover. With a drenched glide, the rest of him dipped inside, until his pelvis was against yours.

Entirely crammed inside, your head lolled back against the comforter, reeling in the painless stretch of his girth. And how, before the movements began, the natural curve of his cock had him snug against your cervix, kissing all the right places within you. Your fingers trailed downward, beginning to rub circles around your responsive clit, the wet clicks combining with the squelch of his thrusts.

Whatever noises came from you were all-natural and uncontrollable, from a sensual place within you never trespassed. John grunted with every tighten around his length, pumping deeply and with more force. His thoughts earlier rang true, how little restraint you left him with. Already, he could’ve finished inside of you — just from the view of your body alone.

Breasts bouncing, hips jiggling, the sounds of your soaked core, the expression on your face as he got rougher. “Such a good girl, takin’ every inch of me,” his words came out grunts, matching the pace of his jabs.

“You’ll cum for me again, and let me hear those bloody sounds, won’t you? Fuckin’ touching yourself, all needy.” For him, the words acted as a distraction until you came undone for a second time. For you, it enhances your stimulation tenfold — his voice was like nectar, yet it rumbled through the room like thunder.

It mixed with the real thunder outside, which you caught bits of between everything. The rain he said the area was due for, faintly coming down in the distance, and surely headed this way by the time your legs shook.

With a soft nudge, he shimmied closer between your thighs, chest inches from yours, and allowed him to slam against your cervix. Your fingers had gone erratic, desperately teasing the bundle of nerves the closer you got to release.

And John, sure of this, allowed himself to focus on a fraction of his pleasure. You twitched around his length, swallowing every last inch of him. Arousal dribbled from you to the bed, soaking into the navy blue duvet.

When the coil of pleasure began bursting at the seams, his name slipped out again, in between your gasps for oxygen. How his thrusts had turned as sloppy as your fingers, every jerk of his pelvis knocking the wind out of you. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, feet hooking under his backside to keep him locked in — as if the thought of stopping had ever crossed his mind.

Thighs quivering like your fingers were, you dug your fingernails into his shoulders, leaving crescent indents in his flesh. Yet another string of moans poured out of you, which tipped John over the edge same edge you’d tumbled off twice. His balls contracted while they drained, strings of pearly cum painting you on the inside.

Warmth filled you, from your tummy to your core, his length swimming in his own sloppy release. Your constricted ab muscles slowly eased up as the aftermath of orgasm faded, leaving you breathless and spent. His agape mouth dipped down as he withdrew his softening cock from you slowly, careful to not leave you any more sensitive than you already were.

The kiss distracted you and served as a reminder of what this hookup meant. Not regretful, not meaningless. Something lingered in the air, beyond the smell of sweat and sex.

Though his body begged to collapse atop you and fall fast asleep, you deserved to be taken care of. Price planted a parting kiss on your jaw, making the short trip to the bathroom to grab one of his fresh washcloths.

Silently, you observed his tenderness take over — even though it never left him. With a few featherlike swipes, he wiped away the messy aftermath of arousal, saliva, and cum, disposing of the used towel somewhere in the darkness.

You fought to stay awake, feeling his weight sink beside you once more after some squirming around. Eventually, John successfully got you and himself under the thick comforter, weighted and radiating as much warmth as your bodies. An arm snaked under your head, your back against his chest. The other arm around your waist, keeping you right up against his soft body.

He waited until he saw the rise and fall of your frame, the faint breaths of deep sleep before he decided that was permission enough to do the same.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Insects chirped loudly, enough to stir you awake.

Fresh morning light peaked through the blinds, which had been opened. Through your twitching lids, the intensity made your face scrunch. One hand reached up and rubbed them, while the other palmed beside you.

No sign of your neighbor, if he can have that title after last night.

His side had gone cold, and anything that was askew had been picked up or set back in place. Sitting yourself up, you groaned from hunger and the soreness in your legs. Beside the dresser, were the sweatpants and t-shirt he was going to lend you yesterday. Still neatly folded, placed with care on one of his leather armchairs.

You peeled the comforter off your sticky skin, coated with a layer of sweat from the sunlight on you. Usually overheating would’ve had you lying awake and sizzling, but it was clear that Price had thoroughly tired you out.

In addition to the shirt and pants, he provided a clean pair of boxers — since the ones you came over wearing had been long soiled. And nowhere to be found in the bathroom, where you made your best effort to fix up your appearance.

Aside from the sounds of nature, there was the hum of an appliance when you opened the bedroom door. Down the hall, you passed the dryer; the root of the tumbling sound. Through the small window, was your cherry sundress and underwear, half dry and spinning in circles.

Your bare feet adjusted to the cold wood, taking small, sleepy strides down the hall.

Into the living room, you laid eyes on the shelves around his television. Since you spent most of the visit on the porch, in the kitchen, and obviously the bedroom, you hadn’t had time to inspect this area closely.

Custom-built shelves frame the television. Rustic, meticulous decor placed on them. Some were store-bought, others looked to be souvenirs and memories. Stepping closer, you spotted a few framed photos; four soldiers, with Sharpie written on the corner: 1-4-1.

On the bright side, there is one mystery solved about his past. Military, or SAS, which you spot on their patches. Shuffling along, your gaze sets on the next section. More medals and ribbons, each most likely with their own significance.

Most notably, a plaque displaying his full name and title: Capt. Jonathan Price.

Another mystery solved. Why he had been so observant, so skilled at asking his questions. It all began to make sense, especially the closer you examined the relics. With a slight hm, you decided it best to stop snooping on the man’s possessions and continue your search for him.

No sign of Zeus in the house either, which isn’t shocking since he’s practically sewn to John’s hip.

Through the kitchen you go, finally picking up on the faint voice outside. Through the window overlooking the copper sink, you see Price tending to the herbs you pointed out the previous day, seemingly making conversation with his canine.

You continue on, opening the creaky patio door and shutting it behind you. You walk along the stained wood deck, rounding the corner. He’s in the middle of kneeling down, meticulously planting another herb or seasoning for his mini-garden.

“Looking good, Captain.” You startle him slightly, leaning a shoulder against the paneling of the cabin.

Price’s head perks up, snapping to the side at the sudden sound. And Zeus predictably treks over for your undivided attention, and you’re unable to refuse. The golden walks beside you when you approach further, and John gets to his feet with a small grunt.

“Snooping again, are we?” His lips curl into a harmless smile, dirt-covered fingers playing with the backs of your hands.

You shrug your shoulders, unable to conceal the feelings of fluster. Being put on the spot was something you’d have to get used to, that’s for sure. “Maybe I was. Just a little bit.”

“Careful now, sweetheart.” His voice molds into that of a superior, which you hadn’t heard from him yet. Was it twisted how much it excites you? Price continued, “or I might have you calling me Captain from here on.”

With a light scoff, you muster the last bits of confidence left in you.

“Is that a promise?”

♡‧₊˚✧˖° divider cred. - cafekitsune

[handful0fteeth]

hot for teacher

summary: you’re going on your first date with steve harrington, and hours before he’s due to pick you up your best friend gives you some rather unsavory information.

pairings: steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: smut, minors DNI, explicit language, dirty talk, (slight) rough sex

words: 13.6k

EDIT (09/24/2023): i am not a “no beta we die like men” person, but this?? she was not up to my standards. so i fixed her! enjoy ya horny bastards

"You know I heard Steve Harrington can't eat pussy?"

This announcement from your best friend is enough to make you choke on the mouthful of sandwich you're chewing on and spew chunks of it all over the table.

You drop your food noisily back onto its plate and reach for your drink, struggling to breathe while there's still turkey and lettuce lodged in your esophagus. The diner's patrons ogle you as you attempt to collect yourself, some concerned, some plain annoyed.

"Christ, dude!" Kelsey laughs, leaning over the table and thumping you hard on your back. You wave her hand off and guide your straw into your mouth, desperately gulping down Coke with one hand pressed to your chest as if that’ll ensure the food doesn't take a wrong turn on the way down.

"You have to - fuck, dude - you have to give a girl some warning before you just say shit like that, Kels," you sputter. You wipe a hand across your damp eyes and take a couple of steadying breaths, and finally, the reality of what Kelsey just said hits you. You look up and blink away the tears to get a clear look at her.

"Steve Harrington can't eat pussy?" you ask quietly, not wanting to attract any more attention. Kelsey nods, a smug grin plastered across her face. "Apparently, it's like a dog trying to drink water," she giggles. "Katie Kaspbrak went out with him last week, and she's been telling everyone how God-awful he is at head."

"Katie Kaspbrak? The same girl who swore half of the staff at school was in love with her?" You lean back against the cool vinyl of the booth and cough lightly, suddenly less interested in this gossip now that you've learned the source. 

Katie Kaspbrak would lie about what she had for breakfast if she thought it would make her seem more interesting. Actually, now that you think about it, she has done that.

"That's what I thought too," Kelsey continues, "until Belinda Carter and Donna Greene overheard her, and they said the same thing. Belinda said she was so shocked that she just faked it until he thought she came and then made an excuse to leave."

You pause. Katie Kaspbrak is one thing, but two other girls? That can’t all be a coincidence.

But… it's Steve Harrington. Every girl - and some of the boys - you've ever spoken to have the hots for him, whether they want to admit it or not, and how could he be so sought after if he gives such a piss-poor performance at something so fundamental? You pick at an errant lettuce leaf that juts out from the edge of your disheveled sandwich, pretending to find it fascinating so you don't have to look at Kelsey's elated expression anymore.

"Why are you waiting until now to tell me this?" you ask. Kelsey leans back in her seat and pops a french fry in her mouth, glancing at the dusty clock that hangs in the diner's lobby.

"Just wanted to give you something to look forward to before your date, Y/N," she says with barely contained glee. "I can't wait to hear all about it tomorrow." You shoot her a dirty look.

"Who says we're even gonna go that far tonight?" you counter, but you both know you're full of shit. You look down and pick at the skin around your fingernails to avoid Kelsey's knowing gaze because if you meet it, she'll see the uncertainty written all over your face. 

She loves messing with you like this; she's done it for almost every date you've ever gone on, regardless of who it's with. You pick up your sandwich and take a too-big bite to avoid having to talk anymore.

"Yeah, right. You've wanted to bang Steve since the moment you saw him, but you'll magically dry up the second you get the chance. Sounds legit."

 You stick out your tongue, letting Kelsey get a nice view of the smushed-up chunks of meat and bread hanging off it, but it doesn’t deter her snickering.

Her smug declaration is all you can think of for the rest of the day. It's so distracting that, while getting ready, you accidentally kiss the burning hot barrel of your curling iron to your temple and put your shoes on the wrong feet twice.

Who says that you have to go down that path tonight, anyway? Who says Steve is even the kind of dude to want to fuck on the first date?

Well...everyone who attended Hawkins High says, actually. Son of a bitch.

Perhaps you could just go down on him and insist he doesn't have to return the favor; it's not like most of the guys you've been with haven't leaped at the opportunity to skip the preamble and shove their dick in something anyway. The only problem with that is…you really wanna fuck Steve Harrington.

Really, really badly.

And you want it to be as good as it possibly can be. You've wanted this for years, and now that you've both graduated, who knows how long Steve plans to stick around in Hawkins so you can have your chance?

The time Steve promised he'd pick you up rolls around quicker than you'd anticipated. In the mirror, you smooth down your skirt one final time and fluff up your curls.

Kelsey doesn't know what she's talking about, you decide. Who were you to listen to gossip spread around by Katie Kaspbrak anyway? You practice smiling brightly in the mirror and notice a smear of lipstick across your front teeth. You lick at the stain and then rub it away with your index finger. It would be fine. 

Everything would be fine…right?

A car horn beeps twice before you can successfully reassure yourself.

He's here.

Oh, God.

You fly down the stairs two at a time, briefly worrying about how humiliating it would be to crack your head open before your date and snatch your purse off the kitchen table as you say goodbye to your mother. She reminds you of your curfew, and you give a vague acknowledgment as you pull the front door shut behind you.

In the faint evening light, Steve's maroon BMW is almost black, glimmering in the sour yellow streetlight like the shell of a beetle. Your heart leaps into your throat, but you croak a "Hi!" around it. Steve Harrington climbs out of his car gracefully, and his easy smile, accompanied by the bouquet of flowers he has clutched in his hand, is enough to make your knees wobble a bit.

"You look really pretty," he says, eyes flickering up and down your body. You're grateful for the dim outdoor lighting as your face flushes scarlet. "Thanks. Are those for me?" you ask, pointing at the bouquet. You wanna kick yourself as soon as you finish saying it. Of course, they're for you, you absolute buffoon. You’re on a date - who else would he be carrying flowers for?

Steve chuckles chuckles under his breath and extends them toward you. "You said these were your favorite, right? I saw 'em while I was getting stuff for tonight, so…Yeah." You gingerly take the flowers from him and bury your nose in the petals, inhaling their fresh scent as you look up at him through your lashes. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides, though his expression remains as casual as ever.

Is he…nervous?

He reaches in front of you as you walk up to the passenger side of the car and opens the door, bowing his head and gesturing for you to come inside exaggeratedly. You giggle and sink into the leather seats as he scurries around the car's hood. As he swings the door shut behind him and settles in behind the wheel, you silently draw a few steadying breaths.

The inside of his car smells distinctly of cologne and floral soap, so much so that you have to briefly wonder if he got his car detailed in anticipation of your date. His cologne is woody and sweet, not so strong that it stings behind your eyes, but you know the scent will stick to your clothes whether he lays a hand on you tonight or not. The thought makes your stomach flutter a little. As he revs the engine, you absently twirl the stem of a flower around your finger. 

"By the way," he says as he pulls out of your driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. "If you hear something clunking around back there while we drive, that's just Lucille."

You cock an eyebrow. "Lucille?"

You swear you see the ghost of a knowing smile creep across his lips, but an evening shadow cuts across his face before you're entirely sure. "Just a safety measure, that's all."

~~~

The date is more perfect than you could have ever imagined it to be. Steve takes you to a restaurant near the video store where he works, a little Italian place that's surprisingly upscale - at least, upscale for Hawkins. Your fingers don't get the opportunity to graze a door handle or the back of a chair the entire time, as he's always right behind you, reaching around your body to beat you to it.

His gaze never leaves your face when you talk, and he's so clearly hanging on every word you lose your train of thought a few times. It's jarring to have the guy you've been obsessed with for so long give you his undivided attention - in a good way, of course, but that doesn't stop the words from getting caught in your throat. 

He’s so pretty it's hard to maintain a coherent thought; all you want to do is stare at him and memorize the details of his face. The way his hair gently curves over his forehead, and he pushes a hand through the soft fringe to get it out of his eyes; the way his eyes sparkle in the warm, low light of the restaurant, transfixed on you like you're the single most intriguing thing he's ever laid them on.

You're not even halfway through offering to pay for half of the meal when he informs you he slipped his card to the host before you were even sat, and it's already taken care of. You insist he at least let you cover dessert - a small square of tiramisu you both nibble at - but he waves you off.

"You can pay for the next date," he says coolly, smiling behind a sip of his drink. You pull the cloth napkin from your lap and pretend to dab food from your mouth so you can hide your giddy smile and blushing cheeks. Next date, huh?

After dinner, he drives you to the outskirts of Hawkins, parking in a clearing in the forest that overlooks the blinking lights of the small city below. You have a perfect view of the moon as it gleams in the sky, full and white, and the stars glitter against the black velvet of the night without all the light pollution.

You sit on the hood of his car, legs crossed under you, picking at a loose thread on the hem of your skirt as it pools in your lap. You tug a too-big jacket tighter around your shoulders, a gift plucked from his trunk once he saw you shiver from the autumnal air against your skin. 

Steve is leaning back on his palms, head dropped between his shoulders as he stares at the sky. Goosebumps ripple across his skin, and every so often, his body twitches forward with a slight shiver, but he seems content enough in his short-sleeved shirt.

He catches you staring and chuckles when you avert your eyes and pretend to be fascinated by the paint on his car.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" he asks.

"A cute guy," you respond, your voice smaller than you intended. You clear your throat.

"That's so funny; I was just looking at a cute girl!" he exclaims, and you laugh. "Crazy how that works, huh?"

"Aren't you freezing?" you ask. Steve shrugs.

"I'm alright. It's refreshing. Keeps me awake," he murmurs.

A few minutes of silence pass comfortably. You listen to the sounds of the forest around you, only slightly concerned when you hear a twig snap in the distance or something rustle in the foliage beyond the car. But Steve's lack of interest in either puts you at ease. After a while, he points at a random spot in the sky and announces, "Found it!"

"Found what?"

"My friend Dustin - total nerd, by the way - was talking my ear off yesterday about constellations, like, how to find them and shit, and I found one!" He gestures for you to scoot closer without taking his eyes off his discovery, apparently not wanting to lose his spot. You do so, body hovering close enough to his that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin, and his cologne wafts pleasantly back up into your nose. You follow the direction his finger is pointing in, scanning the inky blackness of the sky.

"Do you see it?" he asks excitedly.

"Did your nerdy friend happen to tell you what this constellation was called?"

"Uh. Ursula…something…I think. He said it was "the littler one" of the two."

"Ursa minor?" you posit. Steve snaps his fingers and points at you affirmatively.

"There you go! Do you see it?"

You shake your head. The name is familiar, but you don't remember what it's supposed to look like. You mostly slept through your astronomy class in high school. 

Suddenly, an arm drapes itself around your shoulders and pulls you in, and warm fingers caress the sides of your jaw, tilting your face further upwards. Apparently, Steve has decided that the best way to help you see what he sees is by manually guiding you in the proper direction, so he's pressed your bodies together and is trying to angle your head in just the right spot.

Your stomach flips, and your heart jumps into your throat. This time, you're worried you'll choke on it. You're sure Steve can feel the blush in your cheeks burning beneath his fingertips, but he's either too engrossed in Ursa Minor to care or is choosing not to mention it.

"Right…there. See?" Steve says, voice notably lower than before and now right against the shell of your ear. A shiver walks its fingers down your spine.

“O-Oh, yeah,” you stammer. You do see it, a tail of shimmering dots curling into a small rectangle of stars, but you're more focused on Steve's mouth right out of the corner of your eye, his lips parted and quirked up into a smile. His hair brushes against your cheek as he turns his head toward you, and his index finger presses itself against the curve of your jaw to encourage you to look at him.

His eyes shine in the moonlight, dark and kind, as they flit over the details of your face, lingering the longest on your lips. He's warm and solid against you, and you tentatively place your fidgety hand on his knee.

He's so beautiful, you think to yourself. It isn't a word you've ever used for the other men you've dated, but it fits Steve well. A square jaw still soft at the edges with youth, wide brown eyes framed by lashes so thick and long that they fan across his cheekbones when he blinks, full pink lips barely parted and pursed like he has something to say. Beautiful.

Steve’s finger slides down the edge of your face until it reaches your chin, pinching it between bent thumb and forefinger. He leans in close enough that you can feel his breath wash over your lips.

You, on the other hand, forget how to breathe entirely.

He hesitates, and you feel a tug in your stomach as the thought of him pulling away from you occurs. Does your breath offend? You did eat a lot of garlic bread at the restaurant. Maybe you should've packed gum in your purse -

"Is this okay?" he murmurs. You blink, a little caught off guard by the question.

“Huh?” Very astute.

“This,” he says, and his thumb presses itself briefly in the center of your bottom lip as if to punctuate what he means. “I mean…can I kiss you?”

You swallow hard to avoid swooning at the question and clear your throat. "Yes. Yes, please kiss me."

He barely even has to move to capture your lips, so softly at first, like he’s afraid you’ll suddenly change your mind if he applies more pressure. Electricity thrums beneath your skin, zapping every nerve you have until your entire body is lit up with excitement. Your free hand trembles as you rest it against his chest. His heart thumps wildly beneath your palm, indicating that Steve Harrington is just as nervous as you are right now. This helps you to relax a bit, strangely.

Steve's arm slides down from your shoulders to wrap around your waist and pulls you firmly against him. He smiles against your mouth as a contented sigh escapes you and pulls away just enough to mumble, "Still okay?"

You bunch up the fabric of his shirt in your fingers and bring your lips back together, kissing him with more fervor. He hums against your mouth, satisfied with his answer, and his smile grows almost imperceptibly.

When he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip, you gasp, and his hand slips up to the nape of your neck and buries itself in your hair. He doesn't pull, just holds you firmly in place, and though the act is relatively small, its possessive nature makes you unconsciously sink into his touch. Your mind races with thoughts of what it would feel like if Steve did pull, just a little - how your neck would bend forward, how your eyes would be forced skyward, and how you'd have no choice but to arch toward him as he kept you where he wanted you.

He keeps you still as he pulls away, chuckling at the little mewl that falls out of your mouth at the lack of contact. He soothes you with kisses peppered down the expanse of your neck, pausing only to nip and lick at random spots of flesh. You moan breathily into his hair as he sucks on a patch of skin just above the neckline of your shirt, and your hand creeps even further up his thigh.

"If you give me a hickey…my mom will kill me," you breathe, and Steve snickers against your neck.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks. The thought is enough to make your stomach sink with dread. You shake your head ardently. He grazes his teeth against your throat, his satisfied grin tangible against your buzzing skin.

"I didn’t think so."

He makes his way back up to your lips after sucking another hickey into your flesh, this time thankfully below where your clothing can cover, and doesn't waste a second slipping his tongue into your mouth.

You swear you'll turn to liquid any second now and slip straight through Steve's fingers. Steve tastes faintly of tiramisu still, and you eagerly chase after the taste, your tongues sliding against each other. The hand in your hair glides down your spine and pauses above your ass. His fingers twitch hesitantly against the hem of his jacket, hiking it up only to smooth it back down several times. He waits for you to move to give him some indication that you want to go further.

So, you oblige him.

You pull away, a thin line of saliva connecting your lips. It's Steve's turn to whine at the empty space where your mouth used to be, and it's a sound that resonates right into the fingers still curled against his chest. It makes a feral heat stir in your belly, and you make a brief mental note to find what else elicits that noise from Steve Harrington's lips later.

You decide if there was any moment in your life to be bold - it's right now. You use the hand on his chest to nudge him up the hood of the car so his back is flush with the windshield, and before he can question what you're doing, you swing one leg over his lap and sit, straddling him.

He takes a surprised breath and smiles at you, the moonlight making his eyes shimmer like liquid bronze. You kiss him again, and he boldly reaches down and grabs two generous handfuls of your ass. With a groan, you roll your hips back into him, urging him to grab more, grab harder. 

Your hands grip either side of his slim waist and dip below the edge of his shirt. His skin is so warm compared to the chill of the evening, and you find yourself wanting to do anything to obtain more of his heat.

"Do you…wanna head inside the car?" he asks breathlessly, kissing the corners of your lips and down your jaw. "It's a lot more comfortable."

"I'm pretty comfortable right here," you say, and Steve laughs. He sits up straight and slots his hands under your knees, pulling you forward and down so you sit directly on his crotch. Despite the multiple layers of clothing between you both, you definitely feel something hard nudging at your inner thigh, and you let out a noise that's half surprise, half arousal.

"He's getting a bit restless if you catch my drift," Steve drawls, capturing your chin between his thumb and forefinger again. Your eyes flicker downward as if you’d be able to see with your legs and his jeans in the way. God, you want to see it, though, need to see it.

"'Course, if you're uncomfortable, we don't have to,” he says quietly, earnestly. “It’s up to you, Y/N.”

Your answer is to grind down on his dick hard enough that he pushes air out through his gritted teeth and grips your ass tighter. "Like I said," you purr against the shell of his ear, "I'm plenty comfortable."

Though Steve helps you back onto solid ground gingerly, there's a tautness to his muscles, a stiffness in how he moves that belies how desperate he is to get you into the car. He tries to adjust the front of his jeans casually, and you pretend to be staring into the treeline when he glances in your direction. You cock your head a bit in confusion when you notice him pull something long and thin out from below the backseat. It appears wooden, and the flared nub at the bottom is familiar enough that you realize it's probably a baseball bat. However, the top of the bat is oddly lumpy and seems to be covered in something spiky; you can't tell for sure what that could be because it's wrapped tightly in a tattered blue towel.  

He pops the trunk and throws it inside, acknowledging your puzzled expression after slamming it shut with a calm smile. "Lucille," he says simply. You decide you'll ask about it later. If you remember.

What you do remember, as soon as your back is nestled against the interior car door and Steve slots himself between your thighs, fingertips pushing the fabric of your skirt further up around your hips, is the conversation you had with Kesley.

"You know Steve Harrington can't eat pussy?"

You try to push the thought from your head by carding your fingers through Steve's hair, marveling at how soft it is while he plants kisses along your inner thighs. His lips brush across the intersection of your hip and thigh so gently that it makes you squirm a bit. Steve, despite your efforts, takes notice.

"Ticklish?"

"Uh. No?"

It's a lie. A bad one.

Steve smirks up at you and pushes your skirt past your pelvis, over your panties. Before you can stop him, his mouth is latched down over the sensitive juncture of your thigh, and you squeal in protest. Your breathless laughter and pleas for him to stop go unheeded, and he pins your writhing hips to the leather of the backseat so he can continue sucking a bright red hickey into your skin. Seemingly satisfied, he pulls off with a pop and strokes a finger over his handiwork. You bump his head with your knee, a halfhearted attempt to get him to stop prodding.

"Cute panties," he says lowly, and his finger follows the thick tendon that runs from your inner thigh to the edge of the cotton fabric. He drags the tip of it just underneath the seam of the gusset, pulling it far enough from your skin that it snaps back and makes you flinch. You remember agonizing over which pair to wear while you dressed - everything was too itchy, tight, plain, or extravagant for a first date. You only settled on the blush pink pair currently hugging your hips because they were the least offensive thing you could find.

You swallow hard, your hands fidgeting from their place atop your chest, and reflexively try to shut your legs. You're suddenly painfully aware of Steve staring at you, your most intimate part. A thin scrap of cloth is the only thing that separates your pussy from Steve Harrington's eyes, and while it's not like no one has ever seen you in states very similar to this, this time is…different. 

The butterflies in your stomach are hammering against your ribcage and fluttering into your lungs, threatening to cut off your air supply entirely. You're sure you're going to suffocate before he can make any further moves, and you're gonna pass out right in the back of Steve Harrington's car before he's even really done anything -

“Y/N?”

Steve's warm hand squeezing your hip pulls you from your thoughts. You pull the pooled fabric of your skirt up against your stomach so you can look at his face. His expression is hued with concern.

"Hm?"

"Are you okay?" His thumb rubs in small, soft circles above the purpling hickey on your thigh.

"Yeah! I'm totally fine, I just…sorry, I kinda got lost in thought."

"Are you sure? I can stop if you need me to, yanno, if you're feelin'...like, weird about any of this."

You shake your head and smile, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. "I'm absolutely fine, Steve. I promise you. Did you say something before? I didn't hear you."

"I, uh…" He curls the tip of his finger beneath the gusset of your panties again, this time tugging experimentally. "Just wanted to know if I could take these off."

Your face is scorchingly hot, and if it weren't for the shadows cascading over the both of you, you’re sure Steve would laugh his ass off at the shade of red your cheeks have achieved. Any verbal response you might muster is lodged impossibly tight in your throat, so you just nod, let your legs fall further apart, and lift your hips off the seat so he can work your panties down your legs.

He does so with something akin to reverence, inching the fabric further and further off your body until his warm breath unfurls over your bare skin in deep, measured breaths. He carelessly tosses your panties somewhere in the front of his car, eyes transfixed on the spot between your legs. You're torn between wanting to yank your shirt collar over your eyes so you don't have to look at the deferent expression on his face, the damn near worshipful look in his dark eyes, and wanting to sit up to get an even better look at him.

"Wow… you're…fuck." Steve Harrington is at a loss for words because of you. You keep the glow of pride you feel at that fact to yourself…for now. You pull your legs back toward your chest, hooking one hand under your knee ditch to hold it steady and give him a better look. 

"Are you, uh…can I, like, eat you out?" he asks, and though part of you inwardly leaps for joy at the request, another part wants to suggest he do literally anything else.

You're being stupid, you chide yourself. Who gives a shit what Katie Kaspbrak or her stupid friends say? They're probably full of it anyway. Why are you entertaining the idea of telling Steve fucking Harrington he can't eat you out?

"Yes, please," you hear yourself breathe out despite your internal reservations. Steve smiles and raises a hand to replace the one keeping your leg pulled back. You take note of the way he licks his lips before he brings his mouth down against your pussy.

It's…well…it's interesting.

His tongue bypasses your clit completely and instead presses against your urethra, of all places. It isn't flat or relaxed; instead, a stiff pinpoint of muscle grinding uncomfortably into a spot that is decidedly not meant for that kind of stimuli. You shift, uneasy, but he seems to interpret it as a pleasured movement, which only spurs him on. He digs the tip of his tongue harder into your flesh, and you're grateful he can't see how your face is screwed up in distress.

Oh, God…oh, God. It really is awful. It's almost excruciating, and Katie Kaspbrak was fucking right. What do you do? What will he say if you tell him it's not good? Will he get embarrassed or hurt or even angry? Has anyone ever tried to tell him that this was wrong before?

You're conflicted and debating on just letting him finish up and possibly lying for the rest of time that Steve Harrington is a champion at eating pussy, until his tongue flicks upward and the unrelenting nub of his tongue stabs into your clit. You yelp involuntarily and yank your leg out of his hand, tightening your thighs. You press your fingers against your slit, hoping to soothe the throbbing ache Steve's harsh ministrations have brought on.

"What, what happened?" he asks, frantic, sitting up as much as he can in the confined space of the backseat.

He looks so much like a kicked puppy it's physically painful, maybe more painful than the burning sensation in your clit, and you consider for a moment just brushing it off as a leg cramp and letting him continue as if it's the best head in the world.

But you can't. You won't. If Steve doesn't know what he's doing wrong, he can't fix it, right? You just hope he's genuinely ignorant of how unrefined his skills are and not just overconfident and uncaring. The apologetic expression he's wearing is encouraging that it's the former.

"I…that hurt," you hiss between your teeth. "That hurt a lot."

"I'm so sorry," he says, reaching towards you instinctively, but then he seems to reconsider and takes his hands back. They rest atop his knees, clenching and unclenching, just like when he picked you up. "I…I thought that's what girls liked. I haven't…no one's told me any different, and I don't, like, have a bunch of practice - I mean, I've had practice, but no one's ever said anything before. I had no idea I was hurting you. I don't…I don't have to do that if you don't want it. I can do something else. I mean, Nance never really liked it when I did that either, so-"

He stops, eyes widening once it dawns on him what just came out of his mouth. Admittedly, you're a little shocked yourself. You attempt to keep your expression neutral to not make him feel worse, but you clearly fail because Steve cringes away when he catches a glimpse of your face.

"Shit…sorry. I shouldn't… it's not cool to bring up your ex on a first date. I know that. I'm sorry…Look, if you wanna go home, I get it. I kinda messed shit up, so I can-"

He's so fixated on his contrite ramblings that he doesn't notice when you sit up, nor when your hands cup either side of his face, and he only stops talking once you've pressed your lips against his, making it physically impossible. You feel the tension melt out of his body, and he tentatively grips your elbows.

"I'm fine," you start, leaning your forehead against his. His breaths escape in panicked, warm bursts against your lips. "I don't need to go home. I'm absolutely perfect here, with you. You didn't stab me with a burning hot poker or anything, so I'm doing pretty alright." The corners of his lips twitch upward in a sad suggestion of a smile. You should know better; you shouldn't ask about Nancy Wheeler even if Steve accidentally brought her up first, but you can't help the question that ripples from your lips.

"What do you mean, 'Nance never liked it?'" you ask carefully, and his muscles flex beneath your fingers. You're treading on thin ice. You rub your thumbs over his cheekbones, attempting to put him at ease and have his eyes meet yours.

"It's… it's stupid," Steve mutters, eyes downcast at his lap. "She…Nancy really, super hated it when I went down on her. I never thought about it too hard, I guess. I chalked it up to her being kinda uptight and just moved on, but now it makes way more sense. I suck. Of course, she hated it." He offers a dry, humorless sound you suppose is his attempt at a laugh.

"Did she ever, like…tell you what you were doing wrong?" you ask softly.

"Yeah…well, no, not exactly. I don't know. She'd usually just sit up and tell me she wanted to do something else, and when I asked what was up, she would just dance around the question, and we'd do something else and…I stopped trying after that. I should've asked questions."

"Well, you can ask them now. If you'd like."

Steve finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, and his eyes are markedly brighter than before. "If it's not too astoundingly lame…yeah, that'd be great. What exactly hurt about it? Was I too rough?"

"Partially that, and partially how rigid your tongue was," you giggle. "It feels much better if you loosen up. Think more like licking a lollipop than Vlad the Impaler."

Steve laughs sincerely at that one, and his head tilts forward to rest on your shoulder. "Vlad the Impaler, huh? That's pretty bad."

"It is, but it's nothing you can't improve on. I'll even let you practice if you want." Steve sits straight, his once crestfallen expression replaced with wide, hopeful eyes and a hint of a genuine smile on his lips.

"Seriously?"

"Mm-hm. I'll guide you through it, like, uh...like a pussy-eating professor."

 Steve snorts and kisses you briefly. His hands move to your hips in twitchy anticipation, unsure whether or not he should settle on your bare flesh or the hem of your skirt. It's almost like he suddenly doesn't know where to start. You decide for him; you lay your hands over his and guide them toward your body, bringing them up beneath your skirt and settling them on the bare skin of your hips.

"Give me a reason to tangle my fingers in that famous hair, pretty boy."

Without warning, you're pulled forward hard enough to fall unceremoniously onto your back, nearly thumping your head against the door handle. Steve almost concusses you in his excitement, but you can't bring yourself to care once you feel his breath washing over your exposed slit in warm, quick puffs. You sigh contentedly and thread your fingers through the hair at his temples.

"Loosen up, right?" he hums, and you make an affirmative noise high in your throat when you remember he can't see you nod.

"Start at the bottom," you say quickly, "and work your way up. Don't go straight for the clit, just-"

The sensation of Steve's hot, wet tongue licking a flat stripe up your cunt, slowly and carefully, makes your brain short-circuit. The instructions fizzle and die on your tongue, and you forget why you were speaking for a moment.

"Like that?"

"Huh? Yeah…yeah, like that. You don't have to just lick, either. You can like, um…suck on certain areas, like the lips and the - fucking shit -"

Steve is, apparently, a fast and very ambitious learner - before you can finish a complete sentence, he's applying your advice fucking beautifully. He licks another long, languid stripe up your pussy and sucks gently on your labia, tugging lightly with closed lips. Shifting his face upward, his nose grazes your clit, eliciting an unexpected moan. One hand flies above your head, fumbling for the handle on the car's roof for purchase, and you keep the other firmly planted in his hair.

"Still good?" His voice has an edge, much cockier now than it was just a few moments ago. He's so entertained by your reactions, and you don't know if it makes you mad, turns you on, or both. You decide that's not important because his mouth isn't on you anymore, and you can't stand for that.

"Fucking fantastic."

"Any more lessons to teach me?" he asks smugly. His hands are splayed across your inner thighs, spreading you open just slightly, and his thumbs are massaging your outer lips as he talks. His tone ignites something defiant within you. You push yourself up on your elbows and stare down at him evenly, meeting his eyes. His rediscovered confidence is undoubtedly hot, so hot you can feel your arousal starting to leak onto the upholstery beneath your ass, but it's in your nature to want to challenge him a little bit.

"Here's one," you rasp. You fist a hand into Steve's hair, gripping it tightly by the roots, and shove his face deeper into your cunt. You toss both legs over his shoulders and lock them at the ankles.

"Give that mouth something useful to do other than fuckin' talk."

You swear to everything holy, you hear Steve Harrington growl.

He dives into your pussy with renewed fervor, fingers still keeping you opened up for him, and laps at the rivulet of slick drooling out of your hole. Once the taste hits his tongue, he moans into you and pushes his face so deep you can feel the light stubble on his cheeks grazing your sensitive folds. 

Your back arches, lifting you almost entirely off the seats, and you bite your lip to stifle the noises threatening to burst from your throat. It's not to spare whatever stranger may or may not be lurking in the bordering forest but because your moans sound downright embarrassing. His tongue burns a wet trail from your weeping hole to your clit, where it laps experimentally at the swollen bud.

You twist and shudder beneath him, your body operating without input from your brain, but the feeling of Steve's hands slamming your hips down into the seats snaps you back to attention. You lift your head from its position against the car door, struggling to focus your eyes. Steve has laid himself as flat as he can across what little space remains in the backseat. His arms coil tight around your thighs, which keep both legs hanging limply over his shoulders. He stares up at you through his thick lashes, eyes gleaming hungrily, while he licks and sucks your pussy like it's the last meal he'll ever eat. His ordinarily perfect hair is trashed, sticking to his damp forehead in dark clumps.

You gnaw on your bottom lip stubbornly, clinging to what little rebellion still smolders inside you. Steve laughs; the vibrations feel like heaven against you, and you fling your head back down.

It isn't until his mouth has formed a near-vacuum seal around your clit that you unabashedly squeal into the humid air, unable to contain yourself anymore, pleasure wracking your body in unrelenting waves. Steve doesn't let up, swirling his tongue while he sucks, somehow keeping you glued to the seats without much apparent effort. You knew he was strong; he was an athlete the entire time you were in high school, but you didn't imagine his slender frame belied this much strength. The ease with which he's made you almost immobile is unexpected and very, very sexy.

"S-Steve, Steve - fuck - okay, God, you're getting me close already," you wheeze, voice straining high and desperate in your throat. You don't usually get close this fast unless you're alone and rubbing out a quick orgasm before bed or out of boredom. Still, the combination of his greedy suckling and licking, the sheer amount of enthusiasm he's displaying toward pleasuring you, and the fact that this long-held fantasy is coming to life right before you are making you hurtle toward the edge.

You inhale sharply, your body tenses, you're so, so close, you're about to cum -

Steve pulls off you, his lips making a wet, obscene pop before they curl into a fiendish grin. You whine, and he chuckles at you, rubbing your thigh apologetically. "You taste so fucking good," he says breathlessly.

"Why'd you stop?" you whimper. "And…thank you?"

"I'm having too much fun and didn't want you to cum yet," he says simply. "Plus, I wanted to ask something."

"Go for it."

You can't see them, but you can feel Steve's fingers on your pussy; his thumb makes a few small, tight circles around your clit before two more digits glide down the length of your folds and stop right at the entrance of your hole. They nudge around the rim as he speaks.

"Do you like getting fingered at the same time?" he asks, hopeful. "I know I'm at least good at that."

"Yes, please, do that," you beg, hardly letting him finish the sentence. You pause as the last part of Steve's sentence registers in your lust-addled brain. I know I'm at least good at that.

The corners of your mouth tug downward into a frown. Just as Steve ducks his head down again, you cup the sides of his jaw in both hands. He looks up at you, and the way his eyes flash nervously in the darkness doesn't escape you.

"By the way," you murmur, rubbing your thumbs into the stubbly flesh of his cheeks. "You've proven to be very…very good at…yanno, all this. Not just fingering."

"Yeah?" The hope in his voice is so genuine and sweet you could cry.

"Yeah. You just needed a little guidance, that's all."

He turns his head and kisses your palm, tracing circles into the back of your hand with his own before pulling it away and lacing your fingers together. Your interlocked hands rest next to your bare hip, and he presses a chaste kiss to your inner thigh. "Want me to get back to the, uh…fun part?"

You giggle. "I'm having a ton of fun, personally, but if you mean the eating my pussy part…yes, please."

"Gotcha."

Steve wastes no time reclaiming your swollen clit in his mouth, but he's decidedly gentler as he trails his two middle fingers around the rim of your hole. You can't tell if he's teasing you or testing the waters as he dips the tips inside you a few times, never edging past the first knuckles before pulling them back out again.

If he keeps this up, you’re going to go batshit insane. You're milliseconds away from telling him so before he swipes his fingers through the slick puddling beneath your pussy, and plunges them inside you up to the last knuckle.

"Oh my fucking God," you moan, writhing as much as possible while trapped between Steve's body and the car. His fingers curl, brushing against a spot that makes sparks fly behind your closed eyes, and he rubs against it purposefully once your voice pitches up and your breathing quickens even more. Both hands tangle in his disheveled hair, and you're torn on whether to push him away with how overwhelming the pleasure is becoming or pull him closer so he never stops. You settle on knotting your fingers at the roots and holding on for dear life.

Steve's fingers make lewd wet sounds as they pump in and out of your hole, and his free hand rests on the soft mound of skin above your clit. He pulls back just slightly, a stringy line of saliva connecting his tongue to your body, and his index finger stretches your skin up enough that the hood of your clit shifts backward. He chuckles.

"You should see how much of a mess your pussy is," he says. His tongue darts out to lick the slick shining on his lips. "It's so cute."

"Cute?" You don't know if that would've been the word you'd have picked to describe yourself right now, nor had anyone ever done so before. Despite the flush rising high on your cheekbones, you pretend to be more offended by it than you really are.

"Adorable," Steve coos, a smug smile sprawling across his handsome face. "And the noises you're making are even cuter. Have you been saving those just for me?"

You're speechless. You can't deny it, but you sure as hell aren't going to confirm it for him, either. His head will get so big you worry it'll fill the car's cab until you're both suffocated by the sheer mass of it. You sit up as much as you can against the car door, tugging the hand still woven with yours and smiling audaciously at him. You cross pinched fingers in front of your lips in a zipping motion, twisting them at the corner and flicking your wrist over your shoulder. My lips are sealed.

Steve scoffs. "Oh? We'll see how long that lasts, pretty girl."

Steve thrusts his fingers deep inside you again, fluttering them against your g-spot, then spits on your exposed clit. He dips his head and licks up the saliva trickling down your slit in one slow, hot strip, eyes never leaving your face.

You press your lips together tight, screwing your eyes shut and exhaling hard through your nose. Your legs are trembling, you're gripping his hand so tightly you're surprised he isn't complaining of bruised bones yet, and your chest is heaving with the effort of staying silent, but you're winning.

Or, at least, you think you're winning.

That is until he stuffs his fingers so deep inside you that it causes his hand to curl upward, almost cupping your cunt in his palm and grinding the heel of his hand into your tender clit. You can't help but gasp as he outright abuses your g-spot, rubbing circles against it with such pressure that even if you wanted to make noise, you can’t - the pleasure radiating from your core has snatched your voice away. You can't even draw in a satisfying breath and only manage a few sparse, shallow gasps.

"You done acting like you're not gonna give me what I want?" Steve asks, voice dripping with sweet condescension. You sob. It takes a stammering, whimpering, tear-filled moment before you gather enough oxygen to reply.

"U-Uh-huh, I'm - shit - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, Steve…."

"Atta girl." Though his fingers don't relent in the brutal pace they've set, he does bend his hand down enough so he can lap at your clit again. Tears eke out of the corners of your eyes and drip slowly into your hairline, and when you find your voice again, it bursts out of you in a broken scream.

It takes thirty seconds of consistent attention before he's got you close again, and you warn him of that fact by whining and tugging on his hair.

"You gonna cum for me?" he huffs, breath washing over your sensitive skin.

"Y-Yes, yes, yes, fuck - oh fuck me, Steve -!"

"Soon, baby," he hums.

Your orgasm crashes into you full force, and your throat burns with the force of your wailing as you arch off the backseat; you guarantee you're pulling some of Steve's hair out with how tight your grip is, but he is decidedly unfazed. He milks this moment for all its worth, never stopping or slowing in his ministrations.

Tears flow down your cheeks freely, soaking into the neck of your shirt and wetting the hair you'd spent so much time on. The pleasure crescendos into something too intense to handle quickly. You choke out a few half-assed pleas, your brain melting out of your ears at this point, far beyond being capable of intelligible sentences, and Steve ignores you.

Clearly, you don't decide when Steve Harrington is done - he does.

Your orgasm seems to go on for days, months even, and just as the pain begins to nip at the edges of your earth-shattering pleasure, as you almost snap your legs shut and beg Steve to please just give you a small break, you feel it. 

Your second orgasm. Building, apparently in secret, riding the tails of your first one and sneaking up on you to the point you don't notice you're going to cum until your cunt spasms around Steve's fingers again.

"C-C-Cumming, cumming again, fuck, oh God, fuck, I can't - Steve, I can't-"

"Yes, you can," Steve assures, fingers working impossibly faster. You're astonished he doesn't have the mother of all hand cramps right now. Perhaps he does, and he just doesn't care. You don't think you care, either. "You can cum for me again, Y/N. Come on. Cum on my fingers, pretty girl."

This time, you don't even have the strength to scream. You weep and sag against the car door, body tremoring and barely managing a few pathetic pleas between hiccuping breaths.

You're drenched in sweat, and you're sure your makeup is fucked because of it. That and the tears, of course. You must look utterly trashed, but when Steve finally pulls off your poor, sore pussy with a pop, he looks at you like you're the single most beautiful creature on the planet.

He goes to wipe his lips with the back of one hand, and you notice slick shimmering down his chin and even splattered onto his neck. It's only then you feel the absolute lake of cum that’s accumulated beneath your ass, and your entire body burns bright red with embarrassment. He raises himself up on his palms, his arms boxing you in tightly.

"You are so gorgeous," he says, cupping your cheek in the hand that isn't glistening with your cum. You laugh shakily and lean into his touch.

"Sorry… 'bout your seats," you offer weakly, and he shakes his head. "You can ruin my upholstery anytime."

Steve leans down, dark eyes scanning your face, and smiles. It's a sweet, lopsided expression, nowhere near the self-satisfied, almost sadistic grin from earlier. They both quicken your pulse, but this one assures you you can at least take this moment to recover from possibly the best orgasm of your life.

First and second-best orgasms. Wow.

He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. He slots his leg between yours, narrowly avoiding the puddle you've made, and cradles your head as if he's the only thing keeping it from flopping sideways. Frankly, he is. When he pulls away, he kisses your forehead before leaning his own against it.

"You okay?" he asks. You nod, sighing and swallowing despite your parched mouth. Your hands rest atop your chest, curled up into each other meekly as you try to regain any semblance of strength in your extremities. You bump your lips into him again briefly.

"You're a remarkably fast learner, Steve Harrington," you mumble, voice hoarse. He chuckles. 

"It's easy when I have such an incredible teacher.”

It takes a few minutes to clean you - and the car - up. Steve digs around in his glove box for some old fast food napkins and gingerly sops as much of your cum out of his seats as he can while you lay on your side, curled up and heavy-lidded as the adrenaline slowly dribbles out of your system. He dabs the sweat from your brow, following the rough, cheap napkin with gentle kisses to soothe your flushed skin. Afterward, he bunches the napkins and shoves them in his passenger side door before rejoining you in the backseat. 

He hoists you up onto his lap and guides your head onto his shoulder, allowing you to nuzzle your face into his neck and inhale his scent as he rubs your back.

"Any more pointers?" he asks just before you've dozed off. You smile and shake your head.

"None whatsoever. You've exceeded my greatest expectations, dear pupil." He laughs and thumps your back appreciatively. It's not until you're readjusting slightly to get more comfortable that you realize something - Steve is still hard. Achingly so, it would seem, as you can feel the rigid denim stretched over his bulge so tightly you're surprised the zipper hasn't popped clean off. Heat stirs in your belly, and you make a soft, serene noise in your throat as you grind your bare pussy into his lap.

His hips stutter upward just enough for you to bounce slightly, and you giggle into the crook of his neck. "We still haven't taken care of you yet." "We don't have to if you're too tired," he assures you, voice little more than a deep hum against the shell of your ear. "I'm happy just makin' you feel good."

You consider it. You know you'll be sore tomorrow, regardless of if you choose to have more of Steve Harrington stuffed inside you, and your clit is throbbing and achy to the touch. You could fall asleep on his chest right now; he could keep you in this beautiful, dreamlike space for the rest of time if he wanted to. But there's a part of you, a part much, much louder than the part complaining about your sore slit or exhausted body, that is dying to know what Steve's dick looks like.

You leave a trail of kisses up from the hollow of his neck to the curve of his jaw and blink at him happily. Once your faces are close enough that his eyelashes are nearly tickling your cheekbones, you snake one hand between your bodies and trail a finger over the cold metal teeth of his zipper.

"Just 'cause my cunt is sore doesn't mean I'm totally out of commission," you purr. "And since you did so well with your mouth on me… don't you think it's fair I return the favor?"

You feel, rather than hear, the low moan that rumbles through Steve’s chest at the insinuation. You hook your nail through the eye of his zipper and give an experimental tug.

"Can I suck your cock, Steve?"

His lips are on yours almost before the question rolls off your tongue. His fingers tangle in your hair, keeping you still as his tongue explores inside your mouth. Steve's natural taste mixes with the taste of your slick in an intoxicating way, but just before your head starts spinning, he breaks the kiss enough to breathe, "You're gonna have to move, baby."

Of all the lewd, downright filthy things Steve Harrington has done and said tonight, the way he slurs the word "baby" against your swollen lips is the thing that makes you blush the hottest.

He reaches behind you and opens the car door, and you both shiver slightly as the cold air rushes in from the forest and cools your sweat-soaked skin. He pats your thigh and juts his chin forward, so you awkwardly clamber out of the BMW despite your wobbling legs. You lean one hand on the car's roof while Steve scoots to sit on the edge of the backseat and swings his legs onto the ground.

He brushes past you as he emerges from the car, planting a quick kiss on the top of your head before he pops the trunk and struggles with something inside for a moment. With a victorious smile, Steve waves the same raggedy blue towel that had been wrapped around "Lucille" before assuming his spot in the backseat again. He folds it in half once and lays it out between his spread legs atop the mud and sparse grass you're standing on.

"So you don't get your legs all dirty," he explains, observing your mildly confused expression.

"My legs?"

"It'd be killer on your back, sucking my dick while you're bent at the waist, wouldn't it?" Steve laughs, undoing his belt with deft fingers while he watches the realization dawn on you. "The least I can do is make you more comfortable and keep the mud and crap off your legs, right?"

“Yeah…totally…”

Words escape you as you watch the metal of Steve's belt buckle glitter in the moonlight while he slips the leather out of the loop. His shirt is riding up just far enough onto his stomach that you can see a dark thatch of hair leading upward from the hem of his jeans, and at that moment, you are determined to follow Steve's happy trail with your tongue at some point. As he pops the button on his pants, you release your grip on the car and collapse to your knees. You grab his hands and pull them out of the way, splaying your fingers across his thighs and squeezing.

"Let me," you say, eyes darting between his mostly undone jeans and his face. He chuckles at you, and you try to commit his crooked, sweet smile and warm brown eyes to memory. He's beyond handsome, drop-dead fucking gorgeous - and he's letting you suck his cock. You take a moment to thank whatever deity or greater cosmic force that's brought you to this exact moment in your life.

"Be my guest," Steve says, leaning back on his palms and staring down the bridge of his nose at you. You lean forward, using the grip on his legs to keep balance and capture the end of his zipper between your teeth. You drag it down agonizingly slowly while keeping complete eye contact with him. You can't look away from his amazed and steadfastly aroused face. Pants fully unzipped, you think you can make out that Steve is wearing dark red boxer briefs.

Very normal, all things considered, but you know in the back of your head that this particular shade of red will always make you horny now - Pavlov's dogs had their bell, and you drool at the sight of Steve Harrington's underwear.

Steve lifts his ass off the backseat just enough for you to tug his pants and boxers down to his knees. You could pull his cock out through his underwear, but no, you want to see all of him, every last inch. Fair is fair, right? 

Steve is…fuck, he's big. Bigger than you ever even fantasized about. 

His cock springs upright fully after you've freed it from his boxers, and with a hard swallow and a fluttery feeling in your gut, you realize it's big enough to touch his navel. It curves toward his belly, an angle so perfect it's impossible not to imagine how it'll feel inside you once you can handle it. The head is flushed a dark red and slick with precum, and you watch in reverence as a milky bead forms at the slit. It's all you can do to not surge forward immediately and lick it off. The hair covering the base of Steve's dick and balls is dark, nearly black, and unexpectedly curly compared to the other hair on his body.

You reach a tentative hand out and wrap it around his shaft. He's so thick your fingers barely touch once you've made a fist. Steve hisses at the feeling and drops his head back a little.

"You're…so fucking big," you say breathlessly. Steve laughs and cards a hand through your hair, brushing sweaty strands away from your forehead. 

"You think you're gonna be able to handle it?" His voice drips with fake sympathy, so you nod your head despite being unsure. The head is so big you worry you won't be able to fit it in your mouth without your back teeth accidentally scraping it, let alone have it go down your throat. But the cocky, smug look he wears makes you want to suck his dick until he cries, just like you did. 

You nudge his shirt further up his torso, noting how solid his abdominal muscles feel beneath your palm, and dip your head down to his happy trail. You lay soft kisses amongst the thick, coarse hair, and Steve subtly squirms.

"Ticklish?" you ask. He narrows his eyes.

"Don't even think about it."

You chuckle, sorely tempted.

You copy his actions from earlier and lick a long, hot stripe with your flattened tongue up the entire length of his cock, stopping only to swirl around the head and lap up his precum. The salty taste blooms across your tongue and your mouth embarrassingly floods with drool as you suck and lick more of the flavor into it. You inch carefully down his shaft, opening your jaw as wide as possible to avoid an encounter between his dick and your molars and twirl your tongue around the length in your mouth to make up for what you can't wholly swallow yet. One hand wraps around the base to make up the difference, stroking up and down slowly as you bob your head.

It's an interesting, intricate dance, trying to fit Steve Harrington's monster cock in your mouth without outright biting it. You persuade your gag reflex to let him go down your throat a bit more, your quick strokes getting slicker and slicker with the drool that pours freely down Steve's dick and wets his pubic hair. Breathing through your nose proves difficult when his massive cockhead obstructs the back of your throat entirely, but you manage well enough.

Steve is absolutely beside himself. He's moaning unabashedly, and it's like music to your ears. He's the first man you've ever been with who makes noises outside of oddly paced-out grunts or a random curse word here or there, and it's having more of an effect on you than you ever could have imagined. You press your thighs together as more slickness drips from your throbbing cunt, free to gush almost to your knees without the interference of your panties. 

"Fuck, baby, fucking shit…fuck yeah, just like that… you're sucking my cock so good, you look so fucking hot right now, oh my God," Steve babbles, eyes fluttering and head lolled over to one side. He bucks his hips, probably involuntarily, and his cock bumps the back of your throat just hard enough that it makes you gag.

You cough and pull off him far enough to take a breath, your hand still firmly locked around his base and wet with spit. He laughs breathily and caresses your cheek as you pant.

“Sorry…sorry…I didn't mean to choke you. You're just… you're so good…."

"You can, uh…like, do that again if you want," you say shyly. Steve cocks an eyebrow.

"Do what?"

"That. What you just did. Again."

"You want me to gag you like that again?" It's said with genuine surprise, not judgment, and you smile sheepishly at him.

"Kinda, yeah…only if you're okay with it too, I just…I can handle it…."

He considers it, absently twirling a few strands of your hair around his fingers as he mulls your request over. Then, both hands slide to the back of your head and gather your hair into one large, tight handful that makes you sit up straighter. Cold air gusts against your freshly exposed skin, and you shiver as Steve leans forward and kisses your forehead. He uses his other hand to pull his jacket tighter around your body, tucking the collar against your throat.

"If you can handle it," he says, and with one smooth push, he's shoved you back down on his cock. The head bumps the back of your throat hard, and though your entire body jerks forward as you gag, Steve doesn't relent. He seems as determined as you were to fit the daunting length of his dick down your throat, and the fact you practically begged him to facefuck you appears to have dissolved any lingering inhibitions he may have had. He keeps one hand securely fisted in your hair, and the other moves to feel where his length is bulging through your throat. He hums lowly and strokes his fingers over your taut flesh.

"You can take more than that, can't you?"

You haven't even begun to respond before he thrusts his hips forward, forcing his way past your uvula, and you can only gag and shudder as your nose gets buried in the thick curls at the base of his cock. He guides you back by your hair only far enough that his head isn't bullying into your airway anymore, then pushes you back down - he does this over and over, hardly letting you have a moment to breathe while he chases his pleasure. You moan as you realize you've essentially become a means to an end, a method of reaching an orgasm, a warm, wet hole for Steve to fuck his cock into, and your fingers sneak down between your thighs to rub your aching clit.

Though you try to be discreet, you're soaked, and you can't do a thing to hide the obscene squelching sounds your pussy makes as you grind into your hand. Steve, with sweaty hair plastered to his forehead and drunk on lust, laughs.

"You're so fuckin' cute. You like bein' my cocksleeve that much, pretty girl?" You attempt a nod and a noise that leans toward acquiescence, and it's good enough.

Steve sets a rigorous pace, bringing you down far enough to kiss his pelvis every time, moaning a little louder when the muscles of your throat contract around his thick shaft as you gag. You are, admittedly, worried you'll puke at some point, and the thought of having arguably the best sexual experience of your life ruined by you blowing chunks all over Steve Harrington's penis does, unfortunately, cross your mind. But before you can dwell too long on it - and before the building nausea becomes too much for you to handle - Steve pulls you off his cock.

Your lips pop wetly as they leave his shaft, and you gasp shakily, the sudden influx of oxygen almost dizzying. Drool drips freely from your aching jaw and the thick strand of saliva that connects your mouth to the head of his dick glints in the moonlight overhead. Your fingers never stop working your clit, though your orgasm ebbs away after your throat ceases to be utterly abused.

"Why'd you stop?" you rasp.

"Was gonna cum too soon," he chuckles. You whine and surge forward, but you're stopped by the firm hand still ensnared in your hair. You crave the taste of Steve's cum on your tongue so intensely, and the fact he isn't letting you have it right away fills you with tantrum-level frustration.

"What, you want it?"

"Yes, Jesus Christ, please."

"Aww. You can beg much better than that." His fingers curl, tugging your hair at the root and jostling you back and forth a little.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as he starts dragging you further away from his shining, dark-red cock. Drool and precum ooze from the tip and you can see it twitching every few seconds, and though your throat feels raw and sore, your jaw aches, and your legs are alight with pins and needles, you need it back in your mouth. You could kneel here all night, and you would swear you were in heaven. The brazen fire in your belly has been snuffed, replaced with the most thrilling need you've ever experienced, so you can't think of anything snarky to say in response. Instead, you do as Steve says, and you fucking beg.

"Please, please give it back, Steve."

"Give what back, baby?" he purrs.

"Your cock."

"What about my cock?"

"Please give me back your cock, Steve. Pretty please, I need it."

He clicks his tongue at you, giving your head a little shake again while your eyes are helplessly fixed on his glistening shaft. "Hmm, I still don't believe you."

A broken sob falls from your mouth before you can help it, and you paw helplessly at his thighs. "Please, please, please, fuck my face, Steve, please. I need it so badly. Please give it to me. I'll do anything, just please...."

He smiles and coos at you, bending down slightly to kiss your forehead softly. "You sound so pretty and pathetic for me, baby," he hums.

Your mouth is full again in a flash, and this time, it's evident that Steve has surpassed any pretense of being gentle with you. That clumsy, nervous boy from earlier has melted away, leaving this commanding, exceedingly bold, and surprisingly dominant man in his wake. His voice has lowered to just above a growl, rough with lust. The way he's reclining back and fucking your mouth like he's pumping into his fist, the way he teases and mocks you and eggs you on - it's fucking intoxicating. You can't get enough. You want him to go further; you want more, more, more.

"Fuck, fuck, 'm cumming, I'm fucking cumming, fuck Y/N," Steve gasps, placing both hands on the sides of your head and driving his cock down your battered throat. The heat of your impending orgasm begins to pool between your hips, and you rub your clit furiously as you gaze up at Steve, trails of mascara-riddled tears tracked down your spit-wet cheeks.

The exact moment his cock pulses and the first hot, thick rope of cum shoots down your throat, you push yourself over the edge of your third orgasm of the night.

You moan as much as you can around his dick, body spasming uncontrollably, and the vibrations from your noises make him grip the seats beneath him so hard you think he’ll shred the upholstery. You try to swallow as best you can, and Steve does mercifully pull out just enough that the head of his cock rests against the middle of your tongue, allowing you room to breathe. His cum is salty and heady, and you're immediately addicted to it, and you hollow your cheeks to greedily suck more of it into your mouth. He looks at you with worshipful adoration, like you are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Your hand drops from your overstimulated clit as your orgasm abates, and you use it to hold onto Steve's thigh for balance. You distantly feel embarrassed about smearing slick on his jeans.

When Steve pulls his spent cock from your mouth and releases your bunched-up hair, you fall forward unceremoniously into his lap. You pant raggedly into the fabric clustered around his upper legs, trembling like you've been tossed in the snow. He praises you under his breath, almost like he's not entirely cognizant of what he's saying.

"You did such a good job, God, that was amazing…you did so well, baby…fuck…."

You smile dreamily, glowing under his praise. He pets your hair absentmindedly, and after a while, he gingerly guides you back so you're sitting on your haunches, the rough terrycloth of the towel digging into your knees. He looks beautiful in the bluish light of the evening, hair mussed and sticking out at odd angles, cheeks still dusted a light pink, lips swollen and red and wet with his spit. Steve cradles your face in his hands and rubs at the greyish tear tracks streaking your cheeks, almost embarrassed of their presence.

"Are you okay?"

You nod sluggishly, nuzzling your cheek into Steve's surprisingly rough palm. He smooths the frazzled hair he'd been tugging on so enthusiastically back away from your damp forehead, fluffing it apologetically once he realizes the style you'd sought to achieve is thoroughly ruined. You're sure you look destroyed, to be fair - most of your lipstick is smeared messily on the lower half of Steve's softening cock, so you imagine the rest of it is smudged down your chin and across your cheeks. When you wipe the back of your hand beneath your jaw to catch a few stray tears, your skin is stained blackish from the mascara-laden liquid. Definitely not Harrington-proof, you note amusedly.

"Lemme help you up," Steve says, scooting forward off the backseat and bending toward you. One arm snakes around your waist and tightens against the small of your back; the other hand knits itself against your right hand, and when Steve pulls you to your feet, you're pressed flush against his chest, bodies entwined like partners gliding across a dance floor. Despite everything that's happened in the last hour, you still giggle nervously at the lack of distance between your face and Steve's. He smiles sweetly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

The hand clasped in Steve's twitches toward your lips reflexively. Your mouth still tastes like his cum, and while you certainly don't mind, you aren't sure if he will. He notices your hesitance, and after a moment, the reason seems to click for him. His smile grows imperceptibly.

Steve takes your face in both hands and kisses you deeply, licking your bottom lip before sliding his tongue against yours. Your already weakened knees wobble, threatening to let you drop like a ton of bricks right back to the rumpled towel beneath your feet. The tangy taste of your cunt still lingers on his tongue and mixes with the salty flavor coating your mouth; it's addictive, and for a moment, it tricks you into thinking you could go just one more round. The way your clit throbs painfully at the mere insinuation, however, quickly dispels that idea.

Steve presses a final, sweet kiss to the tip of your nose after he pulls away from your lips, and the way his eyes sparkle at you in the moonlight dashed across his face makes your stomach flip excitedly, a sensation you're almost embarrassed to feel. It seems too innocent, too chaste after everything you've done tonight, but your cheeks flush hotly regardless.

"You…are something else," Steve says quietly, affectionately rubbing his thumb over your cheek.

"You're one to talk."

You turn your head toward his palm, kissing his warm skin. The yellow-green light of his watch glows out of the corner of your eye, and when he twists his wrist a bit to the side, you catch a glimpse of the numbers.

No. No, that can't be right.

Steve makes a discordant sound as you yank his arm back toward your face, pushing his sleeve up to his elbow. You must've read the time wrong; it can't be that late.

But there it is, clear as day, in blocky electric numbers. Your curfew, which you've never broken, passed almost half an hour ago.

Your heart plummets down through your stomach, and you swear you hear it plop into the dirt at your feet.

"I'm so dead," you murmur, and Steve cocks his head quizzically.

"What?"

"I'm dead!"

You scramble toward the rearview mirror and tug it upward. You look absolutely wrecked. How will you explain why ninety percent of your makeup is gone? Why your hair looks like you've just gone through a tornado? Steve huffs out a confused laugh.

"Am I…missing something?" he asks, leaning casually against the side of the car. You tug the collar of your shirt up and scrub at your mouth - it makes your lipstick look worse and stains the inside of one of your favorite tops. Shit. You frenziedly try to work the buttons on Steve’s jacket closed, desperately tugging the collar up in an attempt to conceal the rapidly deepening red blotches he’s sucked into your skin. They’ll bruise by tomorrow, and if you weren’t in a blind panic, the thought would turn you on. Admittedly, it still does.

"I'm so, so late. My mom is gonna kill me," you say frantically. Maybe it'll be dark enough that no one will notice your lipstick…but they'll definitely see the black trenches carved into your cheeks. Shit.

You turn to the side, trying to tame your hair into a halfway decent shape. It doesn’t work, and you exhale roughly through your nose; the scrunchie you always wear around your wrist is snatched off, and you twist your hair into possibly the sloppiest, worst bun you’ve ever created, but it’ll have to do. Every single aspect of your appearance is like a bright red, flaring neon sign blinking above your head, ready to announce I HAD HOT SEX, AND THAT’S WHY I’M SO INCREDIBLY LATE.

You know it shouldn't matter; she doesn’t have much recourse since you're an adult, but fear still pangs in your gut so hard it makes you nauseous. You can picture it now, tiptoeing into the living room just to have the lamp in the living room flicker to life, your enraged and concerned mother silhouetted in the dim yellow light. You're sure you'll be able to see the steam rolling off her body in waves from where you'll be standing at the landing of the stairs. You'll be lucky if she lets you leave for the supermarket after this, let alone on another date.

"Shit, is it really that late?" Steve asks, and how his voice pitches up in genuine confusion only aids your panic. He bounds to the driver's side of the car, almost tripping over his feet as he fumbles the keys from his pocket and slams them into the ignition. Your butt barely touches the passenger side seat before the engine roars to life, and Steve slams on the gas.

Apologies tumble freely from his mouth as you clumsily clip your seatbelt into place, and you assure him it's alright as best you can while licking your fingers and scouring the mascara stripes off your cheeks. It doesn't work and tastes weird, but it's all you've got.

~~~

When Steve screeches up your driveway, you are an hour past curfew, and that’s only by the grace of God and Steve’s disregard for speed limits. 

You sling your purse strap over one shoulder and almost kick the passenger side door off its hinges as you get out of the car, but just before you're about to bolt up your driveway, you pause.

It wouldn't kill you to be just a little later, right?

You whip back around, and Steve stares up at you, a little breathless, flushed, and still so beautiful. You grip the edge of the window and bend down, poking your head inside the car.

"I had an amazing time," you say, and you wish Steve wouldn't smile at you the way he does because it makes you want to say, "Fuck it," and hop back in the car. But he does, and you don't, and he nods.

"You wanna do it again sometime? I mean, not, not it, like a date - well, we can do it again if you want to. I'm just saying we don't have to…."

He sighs, and you pretend not to notice the flexing and unflexing of his hands on the steering wheel. It's endlessly endearing how nervous he is when he isn't jamming his cock down your throat or eating you out like a starving man. Something in your mind wants to see how flustered you can make him, but you silence it.

"Such a way with words," you tease, and you cup his cheek in your hand. You kiss him tenderly, hoping it encapsulates everything you want to say but don't have time for right now. Fingers slide up the nape of your neck and ensnare themselves in your hair, keeping your lips locked for a few moments longer. Your mouth is swollen and chapped, but you'd kiss him all night if he'd let you. Maybe one day he will.

"I'd love to do this again, by the way," you hum against the corner of his mouth. "Assuming I live past tonight, that is."

"Looking forward to it, Y/N. Oh, and, by the way…."

He grips your hair, not too hard, but just enough to where you stiffen and let out a soft moan. He peppers kisses along your cheek, to your temple, to the shell of your ear.

"I'm keeping your panties. Maybe next time I'll shove 'em in your mouth if you try to play the quiet game again with me."

He releases his grip on your hair, and his hand purposefully slides along the curve of your jaw until it reaches your chin. He pinches it between thumb and forefinger and kisses the bewildered, now painfully aroused look off your face before leaning back, giving you a wink, and revving the car's engine.

"See you soon, baby," he calls. His car crunches back down your driveway, and you're left standing there, brain short-circuiting and threatening to melt out of your ears, hyperaware of the cold night air nudging against your bare pussy under your skirt. You press your thighs together and jam fabric between them self-consciously, hoping against hope that you won't flash your poor, unsuspecting mother, who is undoubtedly waiting for you to chew you out.

You turn unsteadily, gazing up at your house. The living room light is already on, and you can see a lithe shadow flitting anxiously from within the windows. You're going to get an earful.

It was so. Fucking. Worth it.

[notiddygxthgf]

Rindou's the fucking type to act all hot shit when you ogle at his tattoos -- only for him to fucking lose it when you start grazing over them lightly 😋

cw: lemon, suggestive language, use of the nickname mama and princess.

oh, absolutely.

rindou has trouble letting his walls down around other people, even you. he feels like he has to keep up the whole intimidating bad boy exterior, even when it's just the two of you alone like this.

you know his weak spot, though.

he had you pinned into his bed, arms thrown around his shoulders -- hands tangled in his soft, blond hair while he kissed you like his life depended on it. His lips were gentle, soft, reassuring. The way he slipped his tongue into your mouth with a quiet groan, however, was the opposite.

you shuddered, freeing one of your hands from his hair while the other tugged at the strands in your grasp. you pulled away from the kiss to look at him -- your beautiful boy, your roman statue, your eros.

your eyes trailed down his muscular arms, down his toned, scarred chest. they followed the intricate swirls and spikes of ink that covered half of his body, his being. you hummed quietly, letting your fingers ghost over the tattoo, over his abs.

"you're so pretty," you remarked breathlessly. "you know that?"

rindou peered down at you with wide eyes. you could practically see the gears turning in his head, the rolodex of witty retorts in his mind failing for a brief moment as he struggled to reply. finally, he averted his gaze.

and he was fucking blushing.

you traced your thumb over the spiral that dipped down into his sweats -- where your hand bumped the conspicuous tent in his black sweatpants. you followed the pattern up, over the six bumps that defined his abdomen, the ink that licked up the side of his v-line.

rindou shuddered, pink lips parting to release a trembling breath.

he was normally so quiet in bed. but you? you made him fold. you knew all of his weak points.

"you okay, papa?" you asked teasingly, following the slope of his tattoo up to his chest. "you want me?"

"fuck, baby," he breathed through a grin. "don't call me that."

"or what?" you raised a brow. you dropped your hand to the prominent bulge in his pants, cupping it softly.

rindou whimpered quietly. the action seemed to catch even him off guard.

"all this..." you trailed off, drawing mindless shapes over his bulge. "for me, right? all mine?"

rindou didn't answer. he bit his lip instead, doing his best not to whine like some sort of dog. shit, you knew how to work him over.

"say it," you reiterated, squeezing him through the fabric off his sweats.

"yours," rindou panted. "fuck, 'm yours, princess."

he couldn't help it. your touch made him lose his shit every single fuckin' time.

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaaabean , @galactict3a , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @wakashawty , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @sin-and-punishment , @mztoman , @xiedoll , @bontensbabygirl , @strawberrychrome , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @yunaime9 , @redlittlequeen , @leviane , @mrai12 , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @chocoyanchan , @cookiezncream1 , @cawwn , @lik0 , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @peachesncats , @armani78 , @iluvizana, @cookiesandcreammy , @mikeys-bike-slut, @megumissunshine, @kzuyji , @menrami, @stardewsx , @pjmo-ri-ka-wa , @shuujin @kira-rrh , @ashllleyyy , @shinichiros-whore , @blackfire2013 , @cottoncandybubblebath , @releasethedraken , @captainmycaptainn

[apocalypse-shuffle]

BLACK NOIR | EARVING (the boys)

────────────────────

────────────────────

“Promotion” (Black Noir x Fem!Reader)

| Being Black Noir’s new handler and him becoming obsessed with you since Mr. Edgar himself assigned you to him.

| SFW, vought employee!reader, (TW: Noir is kind of stalking the Reader, who’s uncomfortable but adapting mostly)

| 1k+ words

“You want me to…what?”

“Be Noir’s new personal handler.” He fans his hands out on the table with a shrug and gives you a disarming smile. “You’ll be expected to parlay direct mission instructions from me, accompany him to said missions and stay with the deployment team. I expect you to give written reports on his performance at the end of every day, active mission or not…”

Your eyes continue to widen as his barrage keeps going. This job would require you to be present for everything short of Noir wiping his ass and even then you’ll be outside the restroom.

Mr. Edgar finishes, gives you an expectant look, and you clear your throat.

“And, what if I don’t want the new position?”

“I don’t see why not.” He shrugs, “I mean unless you don’t think you’re good enough for the promotion. Then I suppose I’ll just have to tell Ashley her recommendation was for naught.”

You laugh.

“No no, that’s fine. There’s no need to tell her anything…” you gulp, watching the man just look back at you before taking a second more to inhale, “…ex-cept that her recommendation payed off.”

He tilts his head and it feels like his eyes are boring through your own, boiling your brain to mush. Your voice is small as you push the rest of your words out in one exhale.

“And that I’ll be starting my new position tomorrow. Sir.”

You stretch a smile across your face and hiss out a sigh of relief as that finally gets the man to respond.

He instantly reanimates, reaching atop his desk to hand you a secure black portfolio made from hard plastic.

“That’s great. I’m glad you decided to take on this new journey, Ms. L/n. May it serve you well. Have a good day.”

You don’t dare drop your smile as you take the offered portfolio and shove it under your arm.

“Right.” You take a moment to mourn the loss of your old job before nodding, “Thank you for the opportunity, Sir. You have a good day as well.”

The older man nods back at you, attention immediately gone back to his computer monitor afterward. You blow out air from your nose and then turn on your heels.

It’s not until you’ve left the board room that it hits you.

“Shit.”

The man had just played you. Goddamn Edgar and his resoluteness. Once he’d decided to “ask” you about the upgrade in position he never intended for it to be an actual request.

You rub your temple and head to the restroom. At least you had the rest of the hours in the day before tackling your new job.

You hunker down in the stall after peeing to look over the papers Mr. Edgar gave you. As you're skimming through a whole lot of shit marked “classified” or “redacted” you have the stray thought to be glad that Translucent’s creep ass wasn’t here to ogle you and be all in your business anymore.

Thank the higher power for small mercies, you suppose.

All the snippets of information you're gathering are kind of baffling. Legal name: Earving (of all things), biological male, six foot two, African-American (that’s fun; may be the reason he took such a liking to you too, not many black people made it to the top floors of Vought after all). You dog-ear a packet about some sort of imaginary animals he sees in his mind before looking over a page about a severe peanut allergy. Hmm.

By the end of the day you’ve nearly gotten all the way through Noir’s portfolio, and you’ve also worked up an itch to get out of your skin that means you’re not working overtime worth a goddamn.

At six o’clock on the dot all of your crap is already quite thoroughly packed, your former workspace - barren thing that it already was due to regulations - was cleaned out and ready for the next poor soul, and you’re in the elevator heading for the sub-level garage.

Dead stare locked onto the floor numbers you become acutely aware of the bags weighing your eyes down.

“Fuck,” you sigh.

Black Noir's Personal Handler.

Despite Mr. Edgar’s clear efforts it was more than a little known open secret that personal handlers rarely got to retire. Madelyn Stillwell’s death might’ve been something none of you dared discuss for fear of either Edgar or - heaven forbid - Homelander catching wind and putting you back in your place, but it was a pattern of the job that you all were well aware of.

Though you’d take Mr. Edgar’s culling over whatever Homelander could possibly come up with.

Something about his blonde, blue-eyed, ass didn’t sit right with your spirit.

Far as PR and wrangling went though, short of maybe Starlight, any wrinkles Black Noir managed to make would be the easiest to smooth out.

Plus, even with you and Noir having some form of a pre-established relationship it was in no way dependent or built upon you being Noir’s emotional epicenter like Madelyn and Homelander’s weird…dynamic was.

You had seen and heard far too much in your years working for Vought to think for a second that there wasn’t something dark and twisted going on with The Seven, but Noir still seemed mellow in comparison to the rest and their constant ego trips and dick measuring.

You had zero clue how letting the fully covered man teach you a few notes to a song at the Christmas party when everyone was drunk off eggnog and watered down booze and sitting with him when he was crying on the floor once led you to this.

Sure the silent man and you had somewhat hit it off - so far as you were one of the few non-supers he didn’t intimidate or just flat out ignore - but to be made so intimately in charge of him seemed like a bit much.

Noir had seemed endlessly patient with you as he played for you and then eventually decided he’d teach you how to play the piano yourself, the sides of your bodies’ shifting incrementally until you were pressed flush to one another in both of yous concentration, so you could really only hope he kept that same levelness with you as his handler.

You bank the corner, work bag and portfolio on the same arm, and fish out your keys so you can unlock your trunk and shove your shit inside.

Hope truly was the name of the game here unfortunately. You could only hope Noir kept up his “good” streak, and that that streak wasn’t just a farce that you were now in charge of covering up. Hope that he didn’t end up getting angry or reckless and making you one of those *redacted* cases with a ‘cause of death, unknown’ attached to your name, because you could do nothing to stop him if he wanted to kill you.

Shiver racking up your spine and turning your blood to static, you snap your trunk closed, turning to leave when—

“—Fucking Christ!”

Eyes gone wide and spit having nearly choked you from your sharp inhalation before your exclamation, you do your best to appear composed as Black Noir himself steps out from a conclave of shadows to stand in front of you.

The Devil, you find yourself thinking. Had he been following you this whole time?

For his part Noir doesn’t move aside from cocking his head to the side.

Steadily, you force calmness onto yourself. Ignoring that your voice is too high when you call his name.

“Black Noir,” you say, trying to seep the professionalism back into your tone while smoothing down the creases in your pantsuit, “surprised to see you here. What can I do for you?”

The smile you offer him feels wonky even as you command the muscles up, but it’s the best you can do with your heart hammering against your chest as if it wants to run off and leave you behind.

For a couple more beats the man doesn’t do more than size you up presumably before finally - as you were weighing the pros and cons of just getting in your car despite his presence - raising a hand to point at your trunk.

You catch on to his meaning fairly quickly, your smile dropping to something more natural whilst you huff a tiny laugh.

“Oh yeah, guess Mr. Edgar must’ve told you. I’m your new handler - you know, if you had one before that is. I don’t…actually know…” you trail off, shifting on your heels when Noir only continues to keep his stillness.

“Mhm,” you mutter, rocking backwards, just staring until finally Noir shifts and there’s suddenly a pad and pen in his hand.

He flips casually to a clear page before starting to write and you’re fairly sure this is the first time he’s ever actually ‘talked’ to you.

Huh.

Not long after does the pad get flipped over and brandished to you. You click your teeth together.

‘Edgar says you’ll do good,’ he scribbles, writing absolute chicken scratch and letters far too large on the medium sized pages, before flipping the pad back to himself and writing some more.

‘Believe in you!’ and a whole bunch of smiley faces is what meets you once he lets you see.

You blink. Noir puts the pad back wherever he had it initially to give you two thumbs up.

You muster a slightly bigger half smile for his efforts.

“Thanks Noir,” you say, words more sincere than you’d been expecting.

A nod and an eternity more of silence and staring is what he gives you in response.

You’re getting ready to shift, to awkwardly relay that you’d like to be getting home soon, when Noir stiffens suddenly - and isn’t that startling, a man so tall and so strapped with sharp explosive deadly things going so alert like that - head tilting like he’s listening for something.

A few seconds go by like that where he doesn’t do anything else and you fight to keep yourself still, smile gone and part of your lip caught firmly between your teeth.

Then Noir’s giving you a nod and leaving just as silently and unseenly as he had come.

You wait another two-three beats before scrambling into your car. The sound of your lock engaging sounds like salvation and the steering wheel feels like a lifeline as you grip it with stiff nearly foreign fingers.

God.

You force a deep breath into your lungs, make sure it comes out more steadily than it came in.

At least Mr. Edgar didn’t dump you onto Homelander’s lap. Something in you shrivels up and dies at the mere prospect. You nod, your hands flexing on the steering wheel.

This was definitely better.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

This is a semi companion story to “Pandora’s Melody” if you’d like to check that one out as well.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

[notafunkiller]

sparks fly

Summary: While you are looking for Rebecca, you unexpectedly meet her brother, Bucky Barnes, your new gorgeous neighbor.

Pairing: neighbor!Bucky Barnes x female reader

Warnings: fluff, age gap (the reader is 25, Bucky is 33), teasing, no mention of y/n

Word Count: <1K

story masterlist

Bucky Barnes masterlist

A/N: An extra thank you to @marvelouslizzie and @lavenderhaze967​ for being my beta readers and for the endless support.

Please, do not repost or translate without my permission!

It started in the most random way. One morning, you want to announce Rebecca and your other neighbor, Elena, there might be some noise next week cause you need to call someone to fix your leaking faucet, but you are shocked to see a strange man when the door opens.

You and Rebecca don't know each other well since she didn’t seem much around and you moved there just 2 months ago.

You are embarrassed and surprised, especially since you are still wearing your pajamas. Bucky is trying not to stare at your legs or chest and be respectful meanwhile you are ogling him. From his bare feet and his pink shorts to the white tank top that you’ve never expected to look so good on anyone and his perfect man bun, you find him really attractive. He’s a tall, big man -huge-, with the bluest eyes ever.

And he’s so nice and friendly. You run into each other a few times before you invite him over for dinner. Since you are going to live across each other, you want to know a little more about him.

Bucky has been staying in Rebecca's apartment since she got married, so just a couple of days. He returned to New York after being abroad for a year. The fact that he owns an advertising agency doesn’t surprise you since he is a creative person and a known photographer apparently (you googled him), but he’s surprised when he finds out you’re a copywriter.

You slowly create a routine and spend every Saturday evening eating and watching films together while discussing work and random things.

"I would love to have a cat one day," you say with a smile.

"You can, Tisha loves animals."

Your landlord is a nice person indeed.

"Only if you get one with me." You’re not serious, though. You wouldn't "blackmail" him like that. You haven’t gotten a cat until now because your previous landlords made it clear that it’s not allowed.

"Let's go."

You laugh, shocked by his serious tone. Is he messing with you? "Are you serious?"

Bucky gives you a confused look as he finishes his last bite and drops the fork on his plate. "Why would I joke about it?"

"So you are a cat guy!" You jump excitedly from the chair. You knew it!

"Is this a thing?"

You snort, mimicking his tone "Is this a thing? Of course it is, silly. You passed my test.”

The look on his face is priceless, but you can’t judge him.

"I am confused."

"If you hated cats, then you’d be a red flag."

"You kids and your slangs." He shakes his head amused.

"Do you need an extra explanation? You roll your eyes, but, truth be told, you like it when he plays the old man card. He is not old after all. 33 is definitely not old. "People, men especially, who hate cats are absolutely the worst."

"Not animals in general?"

"Nope." You shake your head. "It's a different thing."

"Oh, please go ahead." He gestures with his right hand for you to continue.

"Cats people love all animals usually. Many puppy lovers, unfortunately, especially men as I said, hate cats. As in... when you ask people what animals they like the most or you talk about cats, they are offended and say they are dog people in that awful way, you know? They shit on cats and mention how dogs are better, despite it not being a competition, because they always wait for you and love you unconditionally. How cats are these horrible little creatures because they can’t be tamed."

"Ohhhh." His lips form an "O" as he finally starts to understand. "Because cats are independent and they hate that, don't they?"

"Finally, grandpa!" You high-five him.

And in less than an hour, you two get home with the two female cats that chose you instantly when you got there by licking and crying after you. They slept in your lap the whole ride home, even when Bucky stopped to buy them some food, and the next day, as two proud and happy parents, you made sure Alpine and Miss Bubbles are vaccinated and trimmed.

[rafedaddy01]

Babes, I literally LOVE your writing, frrr! You're so talented! And OML- you write Rafe soo good! If you take requests, I would do ANYTHING for dark!Rafe x pogue!reader (noncon would be great) where reader dares to talk back to Rafe, and he shows her who's actually in charge😩😮‍💨of course, only if you can! I hope you're okay. Love ya!❤️❤️❤️

Rafe x fem.kook.reader

Warnings: NONCON, smut, spitting kink, name calling, not really proof read

Rafe was the type to always be in control and you knew that. To be honest it was really fucking annoying. He’d think that he could control you like you were a dog humping his leg, you were a women. A very much independent women. Rafe knew of your fierce side and often would warn you not to use it.

You being the stubborn bitch that you are would not obey. Which of course would result with a punishment. Sometimes it would be light spanking. Other times it would be him luring orgasm after orgasm out of you until you were passed out. You weren’t gonna lie, at times it turned you the fuck on when he’d dominate you, but other times it would just frustrate you. He’d think that he’d bark an order and you’d obey like a good little lap dog.

Tonight was gonna be different. Tonight you’d take a stand. Put him in his place. Oh how that would be a mistake. But you didn’t know that yet. The two of you attended a party as you always do every Friday night. Rafe often sold drugs there and had quite a few buyers. What do you expect from rich teenage asshole who like to waste their parents money. “Go sit over there and wait for me” Rafe barked out at you as he went off to deal with business. You figured annoying him at the start of the night would be stupid, so you obeyed. With an eye roll ofc.

An hour passed, then two, then three. You decided enough was enough. You downed a drink and stood up, eyes scanning the room for Rafe. You spotted him lining up some coke on the table in front of the couch with people around him. Your blood boiled as he snorted it and a tall blonde next to him had her hand on his thigh. He always did stupid shit like this. But when you’d flirt with others he’d “fucking kill them” quote Rafes words.

You stormed up to him, stopping in a Superman pose with your hands on your hips. He stopped telling his blonde friend something that made her blush and turned to see you. It was almost like he had no shame for letting someone else ogle him while you sat and waited for him, his eyes scanning your pissed off face and leaning back into the couch with a sign.

“Didn’t I tell you to sit out” he spit out as the blonde hand was on his chest now

Your eyes filled with rage as you stared at him.

A smirk lifting the side of your lips. “I got tired of listening to you” you said leaning in closer. His eyes switched to a black scolding stare. He was trying to hold himself together in front of his customers, who still sat on the loungers around the two of you. “What did you say?” He said through gritted teeth as he pushed the blonde away from him.

You threw you head back in a crazed laugh. His eyes squinted at you, yours falling back on his and holding his gaze.

His fists were balled up now. “I. Got. Tired. Of. Fucking. Listening. To. You.” You said slowly. “I’m done Rafe. I’m leaving. Enjoy his small sick” you said the last part to the blonde next to him. You turned on your heel and left the group. You weren’t sure where you were going to how you were gonna get there, Rafe being your ride. But you didn’t want to be here. So you headed outside.

Your eyes filled with tears, but it was like a weight lifted off your chest. You were finally free from Rafes hold and it felt good to stand up for yourself. You started walking on the sand near the water that the beach house was by. Your enjoyed the crisp night air as you made way home. “Y/n! Where the fuck do you think your going!” A voice you knew all too well

“Rafe I told you. I’m done listening. Find someone else to be your bitch!” You shouted

“Y/n.. don’t test me” his warning tone made you laugh crazed again.

Suddenly he was right behind you. Your body froze as you turned around. Your cheeks flushed with heat as your eyes met his. There was nothing behind them. They were dark and vengeful as his chest heaved with his breathing. His hands gripped your wrists and twisted, he pulled you closer to him. His musky scent filling your nostrils.

“Let me go Rafe!” You said tugging your wrists back, but no use. His crazed stare intensified as he held you tighter. “Ow!” You winced as he gripped both your hands with one of his and the other snaking around your throat. It wasn’t hard but hard enough to let you know he could easily choke you if he wanted to. “I think you forgot who your talking to princess” he said coming up in your face that you could taste the alcohol off him

You whimpered as he gripped your throat harder, a small gasp leaving your lips in hopes to get more oxygen in. His lips curled up in a sickening snarl. His eyes darted between yours as he kissed you, you resisted but he squeezed harder.

Your mouth stopped fighting and he engulfed you with his tongue, pushing it past your teeth and practically down your throat. You didn’t want it, but you knew it’s be no use fighting. Tears left your eyes as he continued his fight with his tongue down your throat. He pulled back and you sucked in a breath as his hand let go of your hands, one of his still on your throat. “I think you need to be punished, princess” his tone was husky and it shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was.

You spit out and it landed right on his face. Big mistake. His smirk vanished as he used his thumb to wipe it off. “Naughty girl” he growled out as he pushed you to the ground.

You scoot her back into the sand, trying to get away. He shook his head as he gripped your ankles and pulled you back to him, his hand gripping your wrists once again and pushing them above your head. At this point you were wiggling around, fear cascading your body at what you knew he was capable of. But you couldn’t help the wetness soaking through your panties. What the fuck was wrong with you! His lips tangled with yours again.

“Rafe! Please!” You cried as tears streamed down your cheeks, the saltiness stinging your eyes. “Shhh, someone will hear your pretty cries, princess” he whispered in your ear as his kiss travelled down your neck, pecking it softly before pulling back. He hovered over you and his signature smug smirk was back on his face. “You should have obeyed” he said gripping your chin with his free hand.

“Never!” You said back at him. Your own face twisted in a scowl as you stared back at him with a confident stare. It was inevitable to fight him. You knew Rafe all too well and you knew what he was capable of. It was better to give into him than fight against him. “Oh, princess. You just don’t know when to stop”

He let go of your chin and lowered his hand to your jeans, unbolting them and pulling the zipper down, one of his hands still pinning both your hands above your head, never letting go

“Smile, princess. You might like what I do to you” he said.

Your eyes held his gaze as his fingers dipped into your wetness. “Why you so wet, princess?” He teased as his smirk widened as his fingers gathered some wetness on them and brought them to your lips, coating them like lipgloss. “Taste how horny you get for me!” He instructed.

Your tongue darted out and licked them as he groaned, watching you.

His hard on was poking you in the thigh as he slightly grinded it to relieve so tension. His fingers dipped back in your jeans and shimmed them a little lower as he rubbed your clit. “Rafe please!” You whined as you tried wiggling against his hold. “Easy, princess. Wouldn’t want to hurt you” he said as he pinched your clit, making you whimper and jerk at the sensation. You didn’t want this but it was no use fighting the pleasure igniting in your body. “Your dripping, princess. You sure you don’t want this” it was like he was reading your mind.

“I don’t.” You said coldly. His smirk widening. He moved his fingers lower, separating your lips and running two fingers between them. A small moan leaves your lips, his eyes darting up to yours. You turn you head to not look at him. “Hey! Eyes on me or I stop” he warns. It took everything in you not to look at him, but surly your head rolls back to his gaze. “Good girl” he praises, resuming his assault.

“Does that feel good?” He asks at his fingers wiggle there way inside you, curling up in a come here motion and pumping in and out. Your mouth hands open. His fingers are so much bigger than yours and it always felt good when he fingered you. You shook the thoughts out as you remembered he was doing this against your will.

“No” you said, voice strained as he sped up, his thumb circling your throbbing clit. “I think your pussy says otherwise, she’s squeezing me so tight. Are you gonna cum slut? Huh?” He asked, shouting the last phrase a bit to loud. You always loved being degraded at he obviously knew that, using it to his advantage. He pumped faster as your legs began shaking. The familiar feeling of an orgasm creeping up.

You heard him groan as your juices leaked out of you. He was pumping your poor pussy so hard that the squelching sound could be heard from the house if the music wasn’t blaring so loud, covering up your screams. “Go ahead, princess. Let go, show me just how much you don’t want this” he chuckled as he inserted a third finger. Your body shook vigorously as you high took over and any feeling of not wanting it or of hating Rafe and standing up to him washed out of your body. You screeched a high pitched moan as you slumped back down on his hand.

Rafe retracted his hand and brought it to his lips this time, sucking his fingers clean and groaning at your smell and taste. His eyes darted back to you, tears running down your cheeks. He brushed them off with his thumb as he caressed your face, a false hope of love he was giving you. His gaze darkened as his hand reached down to his belt and undid his pants. Your eyes widening at the realization that he wasn’t done with you.

Rafe was practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of being deep inside you. You tried wiggling free once more but a grip on your jaw made you wince in pain. “Open” he ordered. He pried your mouth open as he let his spit drop onto your shaking tongue. He closed your mouth and watched you reluctantly swallow. “Good girl” he said petting your hair like you were some fucking animal.

His dick was free now and massaging your clit as you wiggled. He slid it between your folds and groaned at the way you gripped him. A low moan betrayed your body as he started thrusting. Laying his head on your shoulder, your own rolling to the side and quietening your cry’s. He thrusted into you hard, rolling his hips slightly and loving the moans that snuck out of you.

He felt you tighten around him and he lost it. Diving into you deeper and letting you wrists go to grip the sand on either side of you. Your hand flying to his neck and gripping for dear life as an orgasm approached. Your mind in a sex haze and forgetting about not wanting it. He fucked you relentlessly. “Your never gonna get rid of me” his threat lingered as your eyes fluttered and indulged in the dark pleasure he delivered your body. His own release shaking his body as he groaned as his pumps came to a stop, still deep inside you.

His breathing picked up as you felt his dick re-harden in you. “Rafe get off me!” You said trying to push him off

He pushed you down. “Not a chance, princess. This is your punishment” he growled. “I know you want it, your pussys practically sucking me in” he started thrusting again and you groaned. Your eyes rolling as you let him use you. He was right. There was no getting rid of him. Showing him your attitude would just get you in trouble.

“I hate you!” You cried as pleasure washed through you again. “Yeah” he said with one hard thrust. “But your pussy doesn’t” he continued slamming into you. Relentlessly. His breaths coating your skin and making you shiver, goosebumps evident. “Your my little whore and don’t you forget it” he scowled.

“Please..” you moaned. “Please” he mocked you. “What do you want?” He asked coming down to your neck and biting. “I-I need to cum” you moaned. His fingers dipped to your clit circled it roughly. Edging you on. “Fuck!” You screamed. “Hold it” he sternly said

His dick twitched as he went back to pounding into you, his balls contracting with his second high hitting him and your, oh you don’t even remember how many he stole from you tonight, hit you both like a truck. He slid out of you and landed his sweaty body on yours.

“Your never getting rid of me y/n.” He said breathing heavy, “and I’m in control here. You will fucking listen to me”

@v21sstuff @rafeysworldim19 @baby19sthings

[graves4girls]

☆ let em' know | simon riley

✮ wc. 824 ⚠︎ warning(s): fem!reader just sum thoughts/scenarios abt big boyfie simon

⟡ be sure to check out my work on ao3 → gravesforgirls !!

You loved the attention, all the prying eyes and mutters under their breath as you prance by, hugging his big arm close as he ambles beside you, far less concerned with the curious glances. Be it the stark contrast of his black, beat-up denim jacket and dark balaclava that revealed only that harsh glare, clashing with your pink mini dress and pearly white pumps that–even with a four inch heel–do little to minimize the height difference between you, or maybe it was the mere fact that he held nearly two decades to you, the deep wrinkles between his eyebrows and scarred, muscled hands that easily engulf your own letting you know he's been through more than enough of what life's offered him.

He treads behind you, big hands pushing at the shopping cart as you scan your grocery list, humming to yourself quietly. He can sense the eyes on him, boring into the back of his head as you guide him through the store, and you have to admit it has to look a little funny to see such a burly, big man strolling through the produce section, obediently following you through the store and towering behind you when you ask him which type of cereal he's feeling that week. It isn't anything new to him, and it is a bit humorous when he catches someone's gaze and stares right back–stare unwavering and dark–until they ultimately drop their head as if they were never looking in the first place, but he'd prefer to not be gawked at when he traveled with you.

Without fail, you'll always find something completely unnecessary to gripe about when he brings you to the shops, and he'll swipe whatever it is you'd grabbed on your wander around the store right from your hands and toss it onto the tallest shelf he can find, earning an angry pinch of your eyebrows and a mumble of something under your breath as you attempt to grab it from the very back of the high shelf, to no avail. 

“Y'don't need it. We already have enough shit ‘round the house.” 

He'll grab you and pull you away from the rack, wrapping his big hands around your waist to redirect you toward the front of the store when he ultimately can't find any properly fitted clothes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head through his mask as an amend for not buying you that stupid little pink mixer.

He always carries your bags for you, whether you like it or not. He insists it's only because you'll whine when you inevitably break a nail trying to lug around the heavy bags, but deep down you know he enjoys giving you only the best princess treatment. 

You cling to his arm as you trot around the mall, rambling about something he isn't too sure of anymore, grunting quietly whenever you look at him to see if he's still listening. He's got three bags hanging from one of his hands, effortlessly dragging around the heavy contents as you pull him into that body shop you always seem to gravitate towards. 

“Smell this.”

You shove the small sample towards him, and you giggle when he squints his eyes, and even through the mask you can tell he's scrunching his nose.

“Too strong.” 

You catch an employee eyeing up your mountain of a boyfriend from the corner of your eye, and you bite back a small grin at the swell of pride in your chest at the reminder that the man beside you is all yours. You feign ignorance to the ogling woman as you run your hand down the back of his arm, slipping your fingers between his own when you reach his big hand, gently swinging your arm and leaning your head against his shoulder as you examine the various soaps and lotions, just to drive that knife that little bit deeper. It's not that you were jealous, you just adored showing off your giant guard dog is all.

He yearns for the moment you get to step back into the safety of your home, carrying your bags into the common area and sighing as he finally relaxes back into the soft cushions of the couch, awaiting your inevitable joint company on the sofa as he tugs off the balaclava. He looks tired, but he offers you a ghost of a smile when you eagerly plop down beside him to nuzzle into his side, wrapping your arm around him and sticking a soft kiss to his cheekbone when he slinks his arm around your hip, swiveling his head to press a proper kiss to your plump, velvety lips. The tension in his broad shoulders seems to dissipate some at the gentle action, bringing his other hand around to coax you into his lap, long legs spread out for you to perch yourself on as he nibbles at your bottom lip.

[xiayannie]

𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐞, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | scaramouche

synopsis : new years with scaramouche, who only enjoys it because he's spending it with you.

cw(s) : smut below cut! scaramouche x fem! reader, cumming inside, kinda fluffy, not super smutty

SCARAMOUCHE silently checked you out from behind as you were focused on doing some final touches on your makeup.

a small smile made its way up his lips as you stood and did a little twirl. SCARAMOUCHE caught you as you stumbled a bit, pulling you into his hold by the waist.

"how do I look?" you giggled, pushing yourself away a bit to allow him to see you whole. "...you look good." he murmured, but you could tell from his eyes that you he thought more highly of the way you dolled up.

"do you have to look that good though?" SCARAMOUCHE huffed, already feeling a bit jealous at the thought of other guys ogling at you.

"—not that I mind, of course... I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable." understanding his worry, you turned around and cupped his cheeks, sending him a big reassuring grin.

"I'll be alright. afterall, I have the scary dog privilege." you winked at SCARAMOUCHE before leaning to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

"...c'mon, loverboy. you wouldn't want to be late to the new years party, hm?"

SCARAMOUCHE grumbled something under his breath, rolling his eyes a bit, but he obediently followed.

the party was alright, but SCARAMOUCHE refrained from expressing his thoughts, as he sported a polite smile. soon, your need to catch up with friends was far greater than your need to stay near him, and his eyes followed your figure attentively through the party.

any individual who would get too close to you would cower away at the intensity at which SCARAMOUCHE glared at them. unaware of what was causing your companions to cut the conversation short, you realized once you felt a pair of arms wrap around your figure protectively.

"...how about we leave after countdown?" SCARAMOUCHE sighed, his grip tightening slightly as he rested his head on your shoulder, his lips slightly pouty.

"what was the point of dressing up then, scara??"

"it's okay. I'll make sure to appreciate the effort you put into making yourself all pretty, once we get home." SCARAMOUCHE's thumb swiped at your lips, catching a bit of color from the product.

his own lips quirked into a small smile as he kissed his thumb gently. a loud announcement made its way to capturing the attention of the crowd, interrupting the small moment between the two of you.

before you knew it, the countdown started.

...3,

...2,

...1,

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

SCARAMOUCHE lifted you up, capturing your lips with his once the fireworks started, not giving you a chance to register what was happening.

dumbfounded, you pulled away breathless, looking at the sight before you. his lips were tintedly lightly red, and his expression had an air of playfulness to it.

cheeky bastard.

"w-wait, wait, waait...!" you cried out, feeling him slip inside from behind you. your eyes rolled back as you clenched around his cock. "...s' too d-deeep...~!" you whimpered, feeling his tip hit your womb.

SCARAMOUCHE carefully took a fistful of your hair, pulling you towards him, causing an arch in your back. he found it hot how pretty you still looked despite the smear of your lipstick and running of mascara. your dress pulled down to where your tits were exposed and bouncing with every thrust.

even though you insisted you couldn't take more, you kept clinging so tightly onto him, and crying every time his dick slipped out of your hole.

it was cute, really.

"should've seen the way those guys were eyeing you up like a pack of wolves... it's too bad they don't know who you belong to."

"isn't that right, pretty girl?"

"mhmmm... jus' yours, all yoursss..." you nodded and babbled mindlessly, too drunk on the way it hit and kissed your cervix, to care. SCARAMOUCHE hummed, feeling pleased as he gave you a kiss, nipping your lips gently near the end of it.

"I'm so glad to have you...and I can tell that you are too, from the way your pussy's squeezing me..." he let out a small chuckle, flipping you over. SCARAMOUCHE's gaze softened as he saw your teary eyes, brushing his hand gently up to wipe them away.

his pace certainly slowed down, but SCARAMOUCHE made sure that you still felt good as he languidly pumped his cock in and out of your cunt. your release came quickly due to the overstimulation from previous rounds as you came for the nth time, blanking out and seeing stars as you twitched and let out a loud moan. SCARAMOUCHE came soon after, with one last thrust, burying his face into your neck.

"y-you're here with me, and I'm here with you..." he murmured, grasping your hand. "it doesn't matter if you dress up or not, you'll always look pretty..."

"...we don't need to go to a party. if you want, we can just have a count down and kiss once it hits 12 o'clock..."

"so, i-i'm saying... let's just spend every year together." SCARAMOUCHE huffed, turning his face away from yours, bashfully.

you gave him a look of disbelief. not believing that he could still act bashful after saying the stating the simplest thing after SCARAMOUCHE spent hours bullying you with his cock.

"whatever, I love you too, scara... happy new year."

you rolled your eyes, pulling him in for a kiss with a big smile on your lips.

"w-what? sorry... are you upset I ruined your makeup??"

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Rocking The Boat - Tom Bennett

He's such a chaotic douchebag...I love him (could i come up with a more cringey title lmao)

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), slight misogyny, war wounds, inaccurate WWII terms, smoking (ew, but he makes it look hot), angst, enemies(?) to lovers, pining, Tom being a menace to society (and insecure), fingering, unprotected sex (no rubbers on a battleship, I'm afraid)

(caught in) 4K Words🤙🏻

~~~~~~~~~~

Being the only female on a heavy cruiser of hundreds of men, it had its hardships.

Your parents begged you not to join the Navy, but you couldn’t just sit at home doing nothing while the Nazis killed and tortured their way through Europe. You had to do something. 

Of course there wasn’t much you could do on the front lines being a woman and all, but you could help heal any man that was on your side of the war. That’s how you ended up on the Exeter as a nurse, Lord knows they needed as many as they could get.

It was strange being ogled and desired by all the men, but you knew they must have not seen a woman in a long time. You found that some men would even get injured on purpose just to see you, some you even had to beat off with a stick like a rabid dog. And there were times you regretted your decision, but you felt it would be worth it in the long run. You finally felt like you had a purpose and you felt good knowing you were on the right side of the war. But the one thing, well, person, that really got on your nerves was Tom.

Tom was different, in a way that he managed to get on your nerves more than others. Somehow. Just something about his attitude and how he went about his life on the ship. It’s like he didn’t even want to be there, just wanting to stir up trouble. He picked so many fights, he was actually one of the first to come to see you for that exact reason when you boarded the ship.

He seemed shocked to see a woman on the ship, but also intrigued. Mostly intrigued.

He had a busted lip and bloody knuckles and you had a hard time keeping in your disapproval for the infighting. “Problem, miss?” Tom spoke up, a smirk already playing at his lips as he watched you clean up his wounds intently.

You shook your head, avoiding his eyes. “No problem here, sir. Just find it a bit counterproductive to pick a fight with someone on the same side as you.”

“Counterproductive.” He scoffed, curling his top lip in a sneer. “Then maybe that bloke should’ve kept his mouth shut about my canary.”

“You picked a fight just because of a bird?”

“Maybe.”

After that day, Tom kept coming back, not even because of the fights sometimes. Most of the time he liked to see what you were up to, knowing damn well you were always busy helping other sailors with their injuries or illnesses. He didn’t care about that, he only wanted to distract and annoy you. And it almost always worked. Maybe it was because you were a woman and he saw you as an easy target, someone to toy with other than his fellow sailors. There were more than a few times he had you flustered, and it bothered you to no end, mostly because he was actually affecting you.

“What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this, hm?” Tom teased, leaning against the counter you were working at.

You shrugged. “Just doing my part, like the rest of you.”

“My sister went off to sing for the men, to liven their spirits and the like. What about you? You gonna liven up my spirits too? Although, you don’t necessarily have to sing to do that.” He smirked, but that only made you scoff, attempting to fight off an oncoming blush to your cheeks.

“Your charm won’t work on me, Mr. Bennett.”

He smiled, almost genuinely. “Oh, so you think I’m charming?”

You rolled your eyes. “I think you know damn well that you are.”

It was like this almost everyday, always around the same time. He must’ve been on a break or something at those times because it was like clockwork. You started to get excited whenever that specific time came around because you knew that meant that handsome bastard would be coming to annoy you in his special way. It gave you something to think about other than gruesome wounds you had to treat sometimes, or the fact that there was always a possibility that you could die. 

But just before you could get in your own head about that, in the corner of your eye, you saw Tom leaning against the doorframe to your nurse’s office. “You just going to stand there all day, sailor?” You teased as you cleaned some of your equipment.

Tom shrugged with a smirk, smoking a cigarette as he watched you. “I wish. I’ve got a nice view.”

“Thank you for your prompt visit, Mr. Bennett. Now leave me be, I have to make sure I’m not distracted whenever another sailor comes in.”

“You do know that some of the men are getting hurt on purpose just to see you, right?”

“Maybe.”  He hummed in disapproval, but you only smirked. “It’s not like you don’t do the exact same thing, Mr. Bennett. You are an arsehole but I never took you for a hypocrite.”

Tom scowled. “Yeah, well, I’m not like any one of these bastards. They think they actually have a chance with you when they clearly don’t.”

“Oh, and you think you do?” You cross your arms with a scowl resembling his.

“I know I do.” He replied, making you scoff in annoyance. “I see the way you look at me. How you look me up and down, how you can barely keep eye contact with me.” You freeze in place when Tom takes a few steps closer to you, feeling his body heat radiate off of him and onto you. “How your body tenses up when I get close.” You quickly look away from him with a frown, but he places his fingers underneath your chin and gently forces you to look back at him. “There’s no need to feel ashamed, miss. Your body knows what it wants…what it needs.” You allow your eyes to slowly shut as Tom leans in, feeling his breath on your lips. “See how your body responds to me when I’m not even doing anything?” He chuckled lowly.

You lightly gasped as Tom pulled away suddenly, the warmth of his body and hands leaving too soon. “What?”

Tom smirked proudly as he went to walk out of your office. “Have to go perform my sailor duties, miss.” He said with a wink.

You exhaled shakily as you were left entirely flustered, a deep scowl coming to your face as he did that to you and just left like that. He was only toying with you, that bastard. Ha, well, you’re not likely to fall for that again. No way.

Turns out, you didn’t have to worry about Tom flustering you again because after that day, you never saw him. He was avoiding you, for some reason. You didn’t think you would ever understand him. He was sending you so many mixed signals and it was confusing the hell out of you. You did find him incredibly attractive, but his personality left something to be desired. You didn’t think you could actually be with a person like him, but you couldn’t possibly know what the future held.

It was only a week later before Tom visited you again. It was at a late hour, when most of the crew would be asleep. But you were up late, studying a book of rare illnesses just in case, you always found you’d rather be safe than sorry. You were so buried in the pages you didn’t even notice Tom staring at you, the smell of his cigarette alerting you that you weren’t alone. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, Mr. Bennett?” You asked, only glancing up at him for half a second.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He entered your office, closing the door behind him, taking a seat on your desk.

“Do you have an injury that needs tending to, Mr. Bennett?”

“No.”

“Then would you kindly leave my office?” You stood up from your seat, marking your place in the book and putting it back on a shelf behind you.

You could hear the man let out a short chuckle from behind you. “Giving me the cold shoulder, eh?”

You frowned as you turned back around to face him, the sight of him resting one leg on your desk with flicking his cigarette ash in a pile on your once clean table surface irking you. “If my memory serves me correctly, it’s you who’s been giving me cold shoulders this past week?” You snarked, but that only made him smirk, which annoyed you even further.

“Been keeping track, have ya?”

You rolled your eyes. “I suggest you leave, Mr. Bennett. Sleep. You need your rest. Who knows, maybe we’ll be bombed tomorrow and you’ll be too sleepy to defend yourself.”

“That a threat, miss?”

“Like I said, just a suggestion. Nothing more.”

Tom put out the end of his cigarette on the desk, standing up and stepping closer to you as you stepped back, only to find yourself against the wall with nowhere to go. He looked you up and down with his signature smirk. “So, it’s not an order then?” You flinched when Tom ran his pointer finger along your jawline, his expression softening slightly. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Not unless you ask.” You exhaled shakily as he gently lifted up your chin, his breath on your lips making your eyelids droop. “Just say the word, and I’ll go.”

“Is that what you want?” You whispered. “To run away, like last time? You gonna run away from me, Tom?”

Tom’s expression hardened at your words before closing the gap between each other's lips, kissing you rough and hard, not even giving you enough time to gasp at the sudden action. You felt lightheaded and weightless as he pulled you to him by your hips, kissing you with a bruising force that made you wince. He pulled away briefly to look into your eyes, almost hoping to see some semblance of hatred or fear in them, but he only found a dark lust, definitely resembling his.

You were breathless as he turned you around and pushed you up against your desk, helping you sit up on the wooden surface. He drove his knee in between your legs, forcing them apart and promptly maneuvering his hand up your skirt and into your undergarments. You gasped loudly as he found your clit, rubbing harsh circles as he sloppily kissed down your neck. He inserted two of his long fingers inside you as he frantically undid the buttons on your top, almost breaking some off. He roughly tore down your brassiere, groaning at the sight of your breasts finally coming free. You whined and squirmed as he thrusted his fingers in and out of you at a brutal pace, not stopping even when he went to unbutton his trousers, but you helped him with that, almost just as desperate to feel him inside you as he was.

Without warning, he removed his fingers only to immediately replace them with his cock. He filled you to the brim in one fluid motion, the two of you moaning loudly in unison. He rested his forehead against yours, each other’s panting breaths intermingling as he stilled inside you, allowing you a moment to relax before he started thrusting languidly. You could feel every inch of him as he stretched you out, over and over again with each rut of his hips. He kept an intense eye contact with you, studying your face every time he bottomed out, committing to memory every pleasurable facial expression you made any time he hit that special spot inside of you, making sure to angle his hips that way each time.

It was almost too much, the eye contact. You tried to look away briefly a couple times, but he kept you looking at him with a firm grip on your jaw, so firm it was painful. But his cock was making you feel so good you had to focus on the pain to really feel it. “Fuck…” Tom moaned, picking up the pace, the desk squeaking loudly every time he thrusted harshly, all your writing utensils and other miscellaneous items falling over on the floor that you’d have to pick up later. He brought his hand down to rub his thumb on your throbbing clit, his eyebrows furrowing tightly as you moaned his name. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep clenching around me. Soak my cock with that pretty pussy of yours.”

His heavy accented words went straight to your core, adding to the already all-consuming buildup of pleasure in your body. Tears came to your eyes as he sped up his ministrations, his thumb on your clit and his cock pistoning in and out of your sopping cunt. “Oh god, ‘m gonna come.” You whimpered breathlessly, unable to catch your breath, almost feeling like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

“Oh, fuck, yes.” Tom groaned loudly as he felt you pulse around him, finding your release and digging your nails into his shoulders as you rode it out on his cock. He watched as you arched your back and your head thrown back in pleasure, spasming around him with little to no care for how you might’ve looked in this state of euphoria. This sight is what finally pushed him over the edge along with you, thrusting into you as fast as possible until he pulled out just in time to shoot him cum all over your pussy, watching the milky white liquid dripping down into your wet folds and creating a small puddle underneath you on the desk. It was a fucking Renaissance painting, more beautiful than whatever Da Vinci or Michelangelo could ever paint.

It was a moment of pure exhausted bliss, bathing in the afterglow and feeling like nothing could touch either of you. But that all came to an end once Tom saw the loving smile on your face, leaning forwards to kiss him, but only to be disappointed when he turned his face so you could only kiss his cheek. “Tom?” Your sweet voice seemed to bring him back to the real world. He blinked in shock, quickly avoiding eye contact and stuffing himself back into his pants, making a break for the door before you could say another word, leaving you flustered and confused once again.

What went wrong? Did he think you were bad at sex? You hadn’t gotten any complaints before. Maybe he thought he was bad at sex? But no, he was too arrogant and full of himself to think he was bad at anything. Maybe he was just toying with you as he had done before, but you didn’t think he’d take it that far. You felt empty, not just physically, you had given a piece of yourself to Tom now and he didn’t even seem to appreciate it. He left you with an aching heart and his cum between your legs.

He didn’t know why he did it. His first instinct was to run. That’s what he does now, run away from everything. From his father, his sister, his jail time, his home. Now you. Why must he run from everything in his life? Even from someone as good as you? Maybe that’s why, because you were. Good. And Tom? He knew he didn’t deserve you, but that didn’t make him want you any less. He has always been selfish, he knew that. He was selfish to take you, give you a false sense of hope that he cared for you and wanted you any more than a quick fuck. He didn’t really care for you, right? That’s what he told himself. That’s what he told himself every time he saw you, as you worked or cared for the injured crew with that sweet smile on your face. That’s what he told himself whenever he felt a pang of anger and jealousy whenever you would show any other man attention. That’s what he told himself when he touched himself to the thought of you. That’s what he told himself when he felt the need to hold you in his arms after he ravaged you that night.

Tom briefly saw the hurt look in your eyes as he ran from you, slapping himself once he reached his quarters. Idiot, he told himself, idiot, idiot, idiot. He told you himself that he wasn’t going to hurt you, and yet…

You didn’t talk to him at all after that. You saw him throughout the ship every day, but the look on your face told him to stay the fuck away whenever he made eye contact with you. He wanted to talk to you, but he wasn’t that stupid that he’d willingly go into the lion’s den. Though, he knew he’d have to face your wrath eventually. He thought he’d give it a couple weeks, to let you calm down so you didn’t knee him in the balls, though, he knew he would deserve it. But unfortunately, he was never given that chance.

Everyone on the ship froze as the sirens went off, the lights turning red as they were alerted that their other ships had been sunk by the enemies. They were determined that they weren’t going to be next. Tom saw you run about, gathering your med kit and making sure to go wherever you were needed as all hell broke loose. Your face looked calm, driven. He found himself admiring you in that moment as he felt his chest freeze up in a panic, but beneath the surface you were feeling the exact same thing. You both made eye contact with each other for a second, but that’s all the time that was needed to express to each other what you each wanted to say aloud: Be safe.

Tom tried to focus all his attention on loading the cannons to fire back at the enemy, until a blast shook the entire ship. He heard screams, and felt a sudden heat from above. Tom looked up, and as the ceiling filled with fire, he had one singular thought as he felt the flames travel down quickly: you.

Even when he was knocked out from the blast, the first thought when he came to was about you, if you were okay. Where had you been during the blasts? Were you hurt? Were you dead? He tried not to think about it as he cut off the circulation to one of his fellow crewmates. “We’re gonna need a medic down here, sir!” He shouted up to one of his officers.

“The medics are in worse shape, blown to bits or wishing they were at the moment.”

Tom froze, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. Ignoring the howling screams of the man who had lost an arm, he stood up and faced his officer. “What about Miss L/n?” He asked lowly, only to get no response. He scowled, surprisingly himself and his commanding officer as he shoved the man against the wall, getting right up in his face. “What about Y/n?!” He yelled, making the man flinch.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” He pleaded, ripping Tom’s hands away from where they held on tightly to his uniform. He let him, unmoving, frozen in shock and dread. He closed his eyes. Please, don’t be dead…please, don’t be dead…

After he helped the injured he found or anything else he was ordered to do, he quickly made his way down to where the injured people were and he was praying the whole walk there that you’d be there helping other people and not the one being helped. He never saw your dead body, so that was a good sign.

He took a deep breath as he pushed open the door to the injured wing.

A wave of pure relief washed over Tom’s whole body as he saw you resting in a cot, a large bandage over your arm and neck. He could see the faintest burn marks traveling up past the white cloth. You didn’t look well, but you were alive and awake. He almost chose not to disturb you, he was afraid you’d yell at him to leave as soon as you laid eyes on him. But he needed to talk to you, at least once, just to make sure you were okay. Even just to receive your cold shoulder.

“You’ve seen better days.” He teased cautiously as he approached you, also relieved that you didn’t look at him in disgust like you had once before. He could take a breath, finally.

A pang of fear and panic washed over you as you saw him, looking him up and down, wincing at his ash, dust, and blood covered skin. “So have you, sailor.” You smiled weakly, a chuckle escaping your throat before it sent you into a fit of coughs, waving him off as his expression turned into worry. “I’m alright, just some burns. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He hesitated. “I’m…glad.”

You couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. “Oh, so you care about me now, huh?”

Tom nodded with a frown, knowing he must’ve deserved that. “I shouldn’t have run away that night. You have every right to be angry with me. I know that. I was just…scared.”

“Scared?” You questioned, and he nodded once more. “Of what? Me?”

“Yes.” He whispered. “And of me. That night, I felt…” He could barely get the words out, it was so foreign to him to be vulnerable. But if he wanted to keep you in any capacity, he’d have to get over himself. “I felt something I’ve never felt before.”

“Coming?” You joked halfheartedly, your chest blooming with warmth as he chuckled in annoyance, showing his adorable crooked smile.

“No.” He huffed in amusement, struggling to keep eye contact with you, your gaze so intense and never wavering from him. “Look, I…” He sighed, “I’m not the type to…fall for someone. That’s not me, that’s never been me, and yet…”

“And yet?” You asked hopefully.

Tom rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna make me say it, are you?” He smiled as you giggled. “I have. I’ve fallen, despite my best efforts. I know I’ve hurt you, and I can’t promise I won’t do it again. I can’t promise to be a good partner, can’t even promise to remember your birthday or bring you flowers every day or anything of the sort, or even to stay alive during this bloody war. But I do want you. I do.” He leaned in close, his lips next to your ear. “And it’s not just because your pussy’s the finest thing I’ve ever felt.” He whispered, causing you to smack his chest as he laughed, happy to see that he could still make you blush like a teenage schoolgirl. “Do you believe me?”

You sighed, causing him to frown, his eyes stared up at you like a kicked puppy. “You did hurt me, Tom. I didn’t understand. And even being hurt…I do.”

He furrowed his brows in confusion. “What’re you saying?”

You smirked softly. “You’re gonna make me say it, huh?” You chuckled. “I believe you, Tom. And I do want you. Though, I also can’t promise I’ll be a good partner either.”

Tom smiled as he shook his head. “I’ll have you in any way that I can.” He almost leaned in to kiss you but stopped himself. “I’d absolutely devour you right now but I don’t think everyone here would take too kindly to that. Plus, I want you all to myself.”

“And I’d rather not irritate my burns.” You added, pulling at the ends of the bandage on your arm.

Tom settled beside you, sitting on the edge of your small cot, holding your hand in his. “Well, let’s win this bloody war, and then maybe we can live out the rest of our days on a farm with eleven goats or something.” Tom chuckled, kissing your knuckles.

You giggled. “Yeah, let’s win this war.”

~~~~~~~~~~

i demand more Tom fics pretty please🥺

[lunarw0rks]

By anychance can you write something along the lines of..

Simon x (fem) reader

Simon who goes out to the bar and leaves with the reader but he thinks she's a prostitute (b/c of the way the she was flirting with him)💀 and leave money on the table and she's sumwhats offended when she wakes up but takes the money anyways.. they hook up again.. he leaves money and y/n gets fed up and tells him she's not.. a relationship sumwhat building off of that

"Say cheese!" 🤵🏾‍♀️📸 👩

What You Paid For // Simon!FemReader

Summary: Simon had no shame indulging in escorts, especially ones who make an effort to flirt with him. Only problem? You're not an escort.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), strong language, smut, oral sex (g.), p^rn w/ little plot, unsafe sex, fem!reader, no use of y/n

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: this took forever omg ;') not proofread, so don't mind mistakes

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? // ao3 ver.

The bar itself is an establishment of contradictions.

The counter is rich mahogany that exudes an air of sophistication, yet its edges are rough and worn, and the crowd is anything but graceful. A collection of vintage chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, but their lighting casts a warm and attractive glow upon the room.

Behind the bar, a vast array of liquors is proudly displayed on ornate shelves, each bottle catching the glint of candlelight. You tap your fingers against the bar, pulling out your wallet. “Champagne?”

The bartender shakes his head, “we’re fresh out, Ma’am, apologies.”

Of course, they’d be out of it, given the sheer amount of people in here. You sigh, blurting out the first common drink you can think of, “I’ll do a Gin and Tonic, then.” You slide a bill across the bar, but there’s another hand—and he’s sliding a greater wad of cash, and quicker.

“Kentucky. Leave the bottle.” The gravel in his voice tells a thousand stories, as does the large shadow he’s casting on you.

You put your cashback in your pocketbook, examining the hand resting on the bar next to you. His forearm is heavily tattooed; skulls, flames, dog tags, the works. “Thanks for paying.” You fist the drink when it’s slid across the bar, finally laying your eyes on him.

His comes shortly after; a burly build, black bomber jacket, and a skull-printed balaclava. Definitely, an appearance you’ll remember with any amount of alcohol in your system.

“Mhm.” His thumb caresses the rim of his glass and his eyes travel you from top to bottom. The man clearly isn’t fond of words, or eye contact for more than ten seconds. It’s obvious he wants something to look at while he works on the bottle, that much is obvious. A man as anti-social as him wouldn’t be standing there if he didn’t want to be.

Your painted lips wrap around the skinny cocktail straw, your tastebuds hit with a mix of bubbles and burn. “You from around here?”

“Here and there.” He’s from Manchester, or somewhere near there, that’s all his vagueness tells you. Can you really be upset at him for eye-fucking you? He hasn’t gotten too close for comfort or gone anywhere near your drink, and those hands, they’re trouble. Though, with a frame like his, you would need to brace yourself before—

Now you’re just getting ahead of yourself. Focus.

You sip some more, a bigger one this time; the drink you ordered is now about half empty. “You don’t belong here, do you?” Perhaps it was the sting in your throat allowing the words to come out more freely.

With a grunt rather than a response, he chugs his shot. “What makes you say that, love?” You can see his cocked brow from under the fabric, and it makes your mind wander again. Going off his lashes, he’s probably got a head of blonde hair. The rest of the ogling? It’s interrupted by his impatient need for an answer.

“You just seem like a… rugged type.” Hot. He was hot.

Needing a distraction, you find the lime slice used as a garnish. If you were being honest, it was a cool-off. You needed to play it cool, try not to scare off the least skittish guy here; something only you could manage. The glug of him pouring another glass replaces his lack of engagement. He lifts the fabric of his mask again, tossing back another. Despite the lack of pacing himself, he’s remained untouched by the shots.

The man smacks his lips slightly, leaning just a bit closer. “Rugged, huh?” You could swear there was a smirk under that mask, and it was driving you insane. Instinctually, you need to find something to occupy your flushed silence with; the lime slice.

You raise it to your lips with a nod at his words, giving the fruit a bite. Your face scrunches from the acidity, though you’ve tried to play it off. Instead of deterring the tension between you two, it only drew attention towards your lips, how they’ve embraced the lime. Some of the citrus pools on your lip, a stray tear dripping down your chin, but you haven’t noticed.

If your goal was to be a tease, consider yourself victorious.

He could practically feel the heat gathering in his core. Though the teasing was unnecessary, it added to your services. They were services, right? The woman he paid for just happened to be an escort—a ravishing one at that.

There wasn’t any shame in indulging, he was never in town for more than a month at a time.

Your fingers find your chin, wiping the juice away with a swipe, not a clue in your mind how arousing that was. “What’s your name?” You have to yell a bit over the bass and lean in closer to his ear. The smell of him is more intoxicating than the array of bottles behind the bar combined.

“C’mon.” He jerks his head in the direction of the door, and he’s already disappeared into the crowd before you can reply. You uncross your legs and get to your feet, slamming the last of your drink before following his path to the door.

You’ve reached the entrance of the bar, still consumed by the volume of the music. Surely, his build would be easy to spot in a crowd. You’re on your toes, neck craned up to see through the crowd, but the other patron’s movements have you dazed and trapped.

Through the paned windows, you spot a shadow cast on the pavement, a still one. Either it’s the nameless man or your flirting sent him running for the hills.

You do your best to shove through the crowd, finally able to breathe when the icy air stings your cheeks. Your panting and searching were cut short by your back hitting a cement wall, an unusually gentle hand placed on your waist to keep you steady.

That scent is suffocating again; mint, tobacco, and whiskey. The nerves of being jerked into an alley settle when your senses answer all the questions.

His thumb rubs a circle against the fabric of your dress, giving some pressure when his voice is heard again. “Simon.” The question you asked in there, is now answered. “Now, answer my question. Either I’m being a knob, or you want something from me, hm?”

His eyes glow in the shadows of the alley and they don’t budge. Of course, you want this, you were only speechless.

You feel yourself nod, though the only sensations you can focus on are his scent and the tingles of attraction his fingertips are causing you.

“Right,” Simon scoffs, slightly pressing his chest closer to yours, “are you gonna take me where you’re stayin’, or are we doing this here?” His head looks left and right, a silent notice of the city oozing with chaotic nightlife.

Your breath is visible in front of you the longer you walk down the street. The hotel you’re staying in is within a minute's distance, and your neediness is thanking you for it. His shadow is close behind, but his head is looking straight ahead, both hands in his pockets.

Finally, the both of you reach the breezeway of the hotel. Simon’s breathing gets heavier, and so close you can feel the breeze against your ear. Large hands slither around your waist, fondling as the electronic beep of your suite door sounds.

The breeze of the heating system clashes with the goosebumps formed on your skin—and they aren’t because of the cold air. His legs nudge yours ahead, daring you to stumble if he didn’t have an arm wrapped around you. He’s so close; the way you had been fantasizing about in the bar from the moment his hand slid across the mahogany.

The bag you were holding finds the floor as quickly as the room door shuts.

Though his hands never leave your waist, he steps in front of you, stopping when the back of his legs hit the end of the bed. His weight settled against the mattress with a groan, then his hands found his belt, impatiently tugging at it.

“Don’t just stand there. Kneel.” His voice is a hungry muffle through the mask, but his amber eyes are all the convincing you needed. With both palms on his toned thighs, your shivering legs buckled until you were level with his bulge.

His fingers peeled back the waistband of his boxers after he shifted his jeans down. Simon wasn’t making an effort of getting entirely undressed, he rarely did. His erection sprung from his boxers, the tip of it dripping in arousal already. Seeing it was much more daunting than visualizing it; intimidating, even. But were you going to get up off the floor? Not a chance.

His fist clamped around his length, giving it a few strokes as he watched your lips intently as if picturing the inevitable lude act ahead of him. The image of the lime juice dribbling down your chin was egging his urges to a high.

You scooted up closer, his inner thighs pressing against your shoulders. Next, your fingers found the base of his length, replacing the strokes of his hands for him. Simon only stared hungrily, lifting the hem of his shirt so it was out of your way. Your lips parted slightly, mouth salivating, as aching and doused as your core. You flattened your tongue along the head, just enough for him to shift his hips ever so slightly. “Don’t be a tease.” His hands grasp around the edge of the mattress, leaning back to get a full view of your tongue teasing his cock.

He says it with such conviction—as if he isn’t the most well-endowed man you’ve gone down on. If you weren’t so blinded by lust, you just might have rolled your eyes at the comment, even come up with some alluring remark about his size. But you’ve occupied your mouth, sliding from his tip to base slowly and mimicking drinking from a straw.

“Fuck…” His curse comes out like a hiss, caged by his gritted teeth. Though it’s only been seconds of your mouth on him, he can’t resist his hands finding the back of your head, nudging forward each pass your warm mouth makes.

Now, the tip of your nose collides with his pelvic bone, a methodical gag with each thrust. Your cheeks hollowed around his thick length, despite the stretch it was to fit him in your mouth. You tease the underside of his cock with your tongue, tracing each vein and small curve with vigor—undoubtedly only multiplying his sensitivity. “You look even prettier like this, swallowing my cock.” Tears have pricked at the corner of your eyes, showing through your hooded stare up at him.

His head pushes increase in speed, and you can feel his tip bruising the back of your throat, causing heavier breaths through your nose. The last thing you’re going to do is tap out for air, not with the attractive sight in front of you. Your scalp burns from the press of his fingertips, but it’s an arousing pain. He’s remained in charge this whole time, but even he can’t conceal his need for release.

Simon’s grunts and groans have grown louder, his head is thrown back, and he’s bucking his hips upward into your mouth to meet his pushes. By now, the muscles in your jaw have given way, enough for you to withstand all the force of his jerks.

“Almost done, sweetheart.” He’s no longer teetering on the cliff of release—he’s there. The hand on the back of your head gives your hair a yank, keeping you in place as he uses his thrusts to finish himself off.

Your eyes flutter shut, hearing the feral moans paired with his hot seed spurting down your throat. “Swallow for me, that’s it.” He watches the muscles of your sore throat muscles constrict and unwind, with no sign of the semen oozing from your lips. Only your own saliva is, a string of it visible when you pull yourself away from his length.

Simon fingers his pocket, finding and pulling out a condom. “Think you can manage this for me?” He presses the jagged corner of the pouch to your wet lips. You sink your teeth into the foil edge, pulling your head back until it rips open. He slides the latex down on his length, stomach still rising and falling from the intensity of his finish.

Before leaning back on the bed, he clamps a hand around your upper arm, pulling you up with him. He shifts himself back to not hang off the edge, re-positioning the both of you with little effort. Then, he lifts up your dress enough to be faced with your soaked undergarments, followed by a slight ‘tsk’ under his breath. You’re eager by this point, now that your tender throat is a constant reminder of what he had been blessed with, and how profoundly you’re yearning for this man.

With some shifting of your legs, you roll the panties off and toss them aside. Once you’ve returned to your original position, hovering over his length as it rests against his stomach, he cocks his head. “You can’t be tired yet, haven’t even touched you.” It’s a mocking, downright patronizing scoff, but it’s bleeding with allure.

You peer down at his twitching length, wrapping your fingertips around the shaft until you’ve guided him in front of your entrance. Simon’s merely enjoying the show, the gears whirling in your head as you work out the mathematics of the act. His tip is being eased by your hands until he feels a small bit of warmth swallowing it, the familiar squelch of your slick core being eased onto his swollen cock. Your eyes flutter shut as you sink lower, feeling both the burn of the stretch and the alleviation of all the aching you felt for him.

His large hands find each of your hips, feeling your shaky hips eventually collapse fully onto his length, gandering a drawn-out groan from his lips. The only part of his face you can see, his eyes; they’ve rolled slightly—now a hooded stare of hunger.

You start to roll your hips, his length is as deep as possible in this position. Each hand resting on your waist rolls up your dress more until everything below your belly button is in his sight. “Knew you would take it all, pretty minx like you.” He mutters, his accent stronger when wasted with ardor.

For now, you’re easing yourself in circles on his length, relishing in the feeling of his tip kissing your cervix. Gently enough to yield no discomfort, but with enough force to kick off the waves of pleasure coursing through you. The burn in your thighs is the only discouraging part about this, only seconds in and your lower half feels weaker.

“Need some help?” He says smugly, an unhurried thrust upwards into you to eliminate your body’s burden of control. The sensation makes you quake, a hushed moan escaping you. It seemed when you were so focused on doing all the work, you hadn’t made a sound. But now, your delight was on full display, deserving to be a stuttering mess by the end of tonight.

His fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress, rutting his hips upwards with more intensity. Your hands switch between grasping the white sheets to palms on his chest, unable to keep upright without the support of a surface. He gives little time for adjustment, only increasing the bucking of his hips with each second. Eventually, your gasps have turned into overwhelmed whines, a fucked-out expression forming on your face.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the hotel room, overpowered by the sounds of pleasure largely coming from your lips. Simon’s sounds have remained primal grunts and groans, profanities coming through gritted teeth when he bottoms out entirely.

You feel the familiar bubble of release in your abdomen, the clenching of your gummy walls each time he slides in and out of you. His name slips out a few times, gaining an amused, egotistical chuckle. You felt better around him than he could’ve imagined like he was the moment he saw the flesh of your thighs when you crossed your legs at the barstool; the dress fabric constricted them, begging to be wrapped around his waist and bouncing on his cock. And now, he has been granted his short-lived fantasy.

“Keep doin’ that, sweetheart.” Simon tossed his head back again, the sensitivity increasing when you pulsed around him. The warmth around his length, the constriction of your core, the moans of approval—he was doomed to climax again. You’ve gathered enough endurance to move your hips with him. They clash with each meeting thrust, a jolt of electricity every time he pumps so deep. Even if this is cut short by his finish, the feeling of him inside you now is enough.

Your back arches, seemingly stuck with tense muscles as your core endures his drilling. A small portion of your climax has hit you when he changes the angle, making you cry out even louder. He’s gotten shaky and sloppy, and his physical strength is the only thing allowing this amount of speed.

“Gonna—” He begins, rutting with even more aggression, so much you’ve been left at a standstill. His words are cut short by the shake of his thighs, then a slow decrease in his intensity. “Bloody fuck...” Simon’s eyes shut briefly as he finishes, the grip on your waist unyielding until it passes. Your chest heaves above him, his length still embedded deep while you both recover.

The once-arched posture turns into a tired slump, eyes half-lidded as a satisfied sneer spreads on your face. It wasn’t a dissatisfying hook-up, it was one for the books. You can feel his muscles relax beneath you, a twitching cock sliding out of you until it lays flaccid against his inner thigh. His fingers find the hem of your dress and push the fabric back down, and even he’s surprised it didn’t fray from his iron grip.

You swing your legs off him, crawling to the side of the bed occupied with your things. Simon didn’t use many words, and you were too exhausted for them anyways; your legs had turned to putty minutes ago.

You hear the snap of his waistband, then the shuffling of denim being pulled up his firm thighs. With your back turned to him, you don’t see him dig into his wallet and place some bills on the neighboring nightstand, folded in half neatly. Once the suite door shuts behind him, your drowsy eyes have fluttered to a tight close.

————— ୨୧ —————

Things were… complicated when you woke up and saw the money left on the nightstand, next to a scribbled phone number. Were you offended? Yes. Were you flattered? Also yes

Simon wasn’t the type of hookup you just brushed off, enjoy for the night, then forget it ever happened. Vivid flashbacks plagued you the entire morning, as did how you were still wearing last night's clothes, and your makeup had been ruined.

Whoever—whatever he was; he knew how to carry himself.

If you never saw him again, the night would be nothing but an erotic memory. But, it was worth a shot to reach out.

Your finger hovered over the call button for about a minute, hesitancy gnawing at you. He wouldn’t give this to you if he didn’t want you to reach out. Why him, the most mysterious bloke in the bar? Was it too early in the afternoon to contact him? Did you look too available?

Imagining the sensations all over again, that’s what swayed you. Worst case, he refuses the company or doesn’t pick up. 

Each ring had you shaking your head, losing both your dignity and confidence in the bold move.

… “Hello?”

The gravel in his voice told you he had very recently been sleeping off last night’s activities. You practically pinched yourself, cringing at the sound of your own voice when you replied.

“It’s me. I wasn’t sure if I should call right away but… I can’t stop thinking about last night.” You rolled your eyes at yourself, ashamed of the reflection you saw through the hotel mirror. This was ridiculous, right? Downright needy?

A nerve-racking chuckle can be heard as if he was feeding on your humiliation. His voice had a little hint of unsteady as if he wasn’t expecting a call.

“Gave you some sweet dreams, then, huh?” His dry attempt at flirting made your face sizzle with warmth.

His faux self-assurance rang for miles, though it was abundantly clear he couldn’t care less about how he presented himself. What you see, that’s what you get from him.

You liked what you saw. Very much.

“I was thinking,” you began, squeezing the puffy duvet with all your might, “we could get together. Tonight?” You bit down on your lip with so much force, you pricked it with your teeth.

There were a few seconds of silence on the other line, then the faint shuffle within sheets. You impatiently licked away the drop of metallic crimson, expecting the beep of a terminated call.

“Like the sound of that.” His smugness almost had you doing a lap around the hotel room.

You hadn’t the slightest clue what you were in for, but there was not a chance in hell you were bailing on tonight.

————— ୨୧ —————

Why did you feel the need to clean an already spotless hotel room? You didn’t have a clue either. The thought of sending a maid in there had you brainstorming senseless scenarios; the underpaid housekeeper knowing precisely what you were up to.

But you had no reason to feel ridiculous. He agreed, you two were consenting adults, what’s the harm?

Everything looked untouched, almost passable for a vacant room except for your bags. You dug through said luggage and found a more relaxed evening outfit.

He seemed like the punctual type. Looking at the digits on the digital clock, you counted down the minutes. The clock hit six o'clock—then a few additional minutes had you convinced he skipped town.

You almost tumbled off the futon when three faint taps sounded on the door.

6:03 PM

You spread the blinds with two fingers, seeing the familiar broad shoulder resting against the wall, the faint fog of his breath in the bitter evening air. Taking a look in the mirror, you examined your appearance once more—then made your way to the door. With a heavy sigh, the door creaked open, revealing him.

“Hey,” you greeted, stepping aside to let him step in. Any other greeting seemed too formal, yet the one you uttered seemed too relaxed.

You pressed a palm on the flesh of your hips, both hands at your sides after shutting the door. Seeing him so soon, it seemed ludicrous, but his aura was addictive. His boots shuffled against the carpet, footing inside with hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

“Didn’t have to dress nice for me.” Simon sat on the futon, legs spread wide as he leaned against the backrest.

You settled on the bed adjacent to him, shaking your head to shake away the flushed feeling his rasp gave you. “I wanted to,” you replied, looking up from your lap, “do you want to watch something?” You wanted to smack a palm on your forehead. Watch something? Simon knows why you called him here, and you haven’t been exactly subtle.

“You can put something on. Can’t promise I’ll be watching the movie, though.” He said with the slightest glint of eroticism in his eyes. To cope with the urge to tear his clothes off right then and there, you slid the channel list off the end table, entering the most promising one. It was a dated slasher film, interesting enough to keep your attention. You fiddled with the pamphlet for a few seconds, before setting it back on the nightstand.

His stare hadn’t broken, earning a chuckle from you, “what is it?” You question, running a hand over the tucked bedding. Simon wanted you, right then. Why else had you called him? You wanted more business, it was so obvious to him.

“Never met anyone like you.” What he wanted to say was that he’s never met an escort like you. You were selling the whole quality time and date night act well. And he had fallen for it, spending the whole night yearning for another night with you, to be a few hundred dollars less by the end of the night.

You let out a small scoff, keeping your eyes glued to the TV. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment, Simon.” You were, purely because you pictured that cash he gave you. Had it truly been that good of an experience for him? Someone with more than enough practice in the bedroom?

“Take it however you want,” you heard him shuffle, and then his shadow cast on your frame.

You turned your head when you felt a finger tracing your chin, then running along your bottom lip. “As long as I can hear your voice.” His touch made you shiver slightly, sending a rush of head down your hammering chest. So much for warming up with a movie.

The urge to kiss him had never been stronger, but you didn’t dare reach for the fabric concealing his lips. You couldn’t blow this now, not after a day of picturing the second round with him. “You’re giving me those eyes again. You want something?” Your head nodded, though you were speechless from desire. Simon chuckled lowly, admiring your meek effort to answer him.

His hand tightened around your jaw, taking on the role of the commanding figure in the room. “What kind of prick would I be to keep you waiting, then?” His true nature was to give, it was only fair considering how good you were to him the previous night.

The unoccupied hand slid up your thigh until he reached the hem of your shirt, hiking up the fabric until he gave the back of your bra a tug, releasing the hooks until it slid off. His large hands fondled your breasts, running a gentle thumb over the nipple until you produced a soft gasp for him. When he grew impatient, which took little time, he pulled the shirt off your head until your top half was on full display to him.

Slowly but surely, the positions shifted until he was hovering over you on the bed, his knee between your legs. You rocked against it for friction, the pressure of his kneecap pressing on your clothed clit, now slightly swollen from arousal. “A little impatient aren’t we?” He cooed into your ear, the statement plain hypocritical. He couldn’t even sit through a minute of the film you put on before he was looking at you like a piece of meat on a platter.

He picked up the pace of his hands, indulging your impatience. Within seconds, you found yourself on your stomach, the bottoms you were wearing being pulled down with a harsh yank. He lifted each of your legs until you were rid of all your clothes entirely. Now, you were below him and at his mercy; the opposite of last night.

You raised your hips slightly upon feeling his bulge pressed against your ass, a painful tease considering how needy you were. He grasped one of your thighs, spreading them enough to trace his fingers along your core from behind. “Guess I was right.” He purrs into your ear, inserting a finger into your cunt. Simon slowly pumped his finger in and out, adding a second when enough slick pooled down to his knuckles.

His fingers were long enough to stimulate places only your hands could dream of; a foreign, but insatiable sensation to you. You arched your back and writhed feeling the preparation of his fingers, sliding down a hand of your own to circle your clit. But you needed more; he needed more, and he didn’t want you getting sloppy like last night.

Simon withdrew his fingers, snaking one arm around your midsection to keep you in place. “Keep still for me, love.” He murmured straight into your ear, the low octave giving you the chills. Behind you, he tugs at the waistband of his jeans and boxers simultaneously, exposing his stiff length. He could waste time teasing you, it would be so easy with you this desperate. But you didn’t finish last night, and he was aching to feel you come undone around his length.

With one arm still keeping your lower half in place, he guided his cock to your pulsing core, easing himself inside inch by inch. Your breathing hitched, despite this being the second time you felt him stretching you out. Simon eased deeper, until he bottomed out and could feel the bulge of himself through the hand on your stomach.

His thrusts were snappy and deep, his palm pressing on your stomach to enhance the pleasure you were feeling. A spark of pleasure ignited into a consuming wave, making you sputter and mewl at his expense. This was different than last night, not as focused on him, though he was enjoying this just as much. When he went home that night before bed, spending several minutes pumping his length, he was imagining pumping your tight, sticky walls; his fist didn’t compare, not in the slightest. This was too much. But he wouldn’t stop until you finished.

“You’re close aren’t you?” Simon rutted into you with force, moving the hand from your stomach to the base of your throat, pulling you up so your curved back was against his chest. His lips trailed along the back of your neck, peppering sloppy licks and kisses on your prickled flesh.

Your eyes widened slightly at the realization—he had lifted his mask, maybe even taken it off his head completely.

His saliva coated your neck in small spots, adding to the array of sensations, similar to a violent whiplash of pleasure. It was like the previous night, waves of pleasure with each of his slamming thrust into your needy core. Your gummy walls pulsed around him, drawing groans and rolls of his eyes, a slight nibble on your earlobe to keep his approaching climax contained.

Your words were an inconsolable quake by this point. “Fuck— Simon—” A hushed sniggle came through Simon’s agape lips, urging him to make one final move to push you over the edge. He slithered his hand from your throat until it found the nape of your neck, pushing your upper body forward so only your hips remained raised. The switch allowed him to hit an even deeper angle, his balls slapping against your rear with each deafening thrust.

Though his hands were firm when folding you, his words remained gentle and praising, as if he was enjoying them himself. “Gonna cum for me, hm?” He teased with a deep inhale, both hands now thrusting your hips backward onto his length—not easing up on his intensity.

Fire pooled in your lower abdomen, like a swirling inferno going to burst any second. Everything seemed to burn, with the exception of your core. Your muscles ache and contract, a thin layer of sweat formed on your skin, the indents of his fingertips seared doomed to be seared into your memory for days following.

All the building, tight churning; it shattered within seconds of his relentless pounding. You let out a choked sob of pleasure, squeezing your eyes shut as you writhed and twitched around his cock. The deepness of his thrusts, the speed of them, doomed you to the prolonged climax you were expecting.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” the firm hand on your nape releases once your high ceases, “so good for me.” It seemed the moment you hit your own breaking point, he lost all the stamina he had used to prevent his own. Only seconds later, his thrusts had turned sloppy and slow, easing in and out until he drained every last drop of his seed inside you.

What once was a heat from your high, it was now the warmth of his semen pooling inside of your core, seeping out the slower he went. Your hips remained raised, though your thighs burned and shook from the intensity of the activity. When Simon’s hands withdrew from your hips, you rolled onto your side as he removed his sensitive cock.

By the time you turned to face him, the balaclava had already been pulled down over his face again. If you weren’t so vividly focused on the sensations, you might’ve forgotten about how his lips felt. There was no way, not after he made you finish like that.

He tucked his length into his boxers, then pulled up his jeans again, but didn’t bother to button them up again. “How much do I owe you, love?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, peeling away apart his stacks of cash.

You were so caught up in the moment previously, you forgot to mention the elephant in the room. You weren’t an escort, just a woman who hit the hookup lottery. “You know I’m not a hooker, right?” You sat up in the bed, finding the spare quilt and wrapping it around your naked frame.

“Should I be offended?” You questioned again, filling his stunned silence. He was trying to conceal his shock, but his freeze said it all.

He folded his wallet again, tucking it away with a silent glare. Now, you were just plain apprehensive about his answer. At first, the money was flattering, that you were that good for him. But now? What if all he thought of you was a hussy he found in a pub?

When he noticed your crumbling humor about the situation, he scrambled to place a hand on your waist, “this is my bad. You were just— you were plain amazing, sweetheart. I thought you were an over-qualified escort, not some…”

Wow. That could’ve come out better.

The faltered confidence now turned into a grimace, a playful one. His scramble to correct himself, to ensure he didn’t hurt your feelings—it was charming. You couldn’t conceal your snicker as he leaned close, eyes swallowed with guilt.

“I’m not upset, Simon. Not anymore, at least.” You retorted, holding the hand that was on your waist.

Simon let out a sigh of relief, eyes studying you for any sign of doubt. His fingers caressed the fabric of the quilt, brows knitted together with half-seriousness.

You chuckled at his brooding exterior, his whole-hearted attempt at swaying you into being irate. “Was I worth the money?”

He nodded his head sluggishly, the fabric over his mouth shifting as he gave a smirk. “I don’t think any bloke can put a worthy price on that.”

[konigs-left-pec]

Worked Up

A/N: One of y'all (on the old blog 🥲) said you needed a pt.2 to Scent so here ya go.

Rating: E/MDNI (vaginal sex, shout-out to the missionary position, nothing too spicy.)

Summary: It's postpartum sex with König, babes!

It had been a long 6 weeks since your daughter was born - 6 weeks full of overwhelming emotion, sleepless nights, tears, and (regretfully) no sex.

You watched König longingly from the bed, heart warm and full as he cradled his little girl, large arms rocking her back to sleep in the peaceful sanctum of your bedroom as he whispered sweetly to her, lips pressed gently to her forehead. He was so lost in the German lullaby he was singing under his breath, swaying back and forth as he gently bounced her, that he didn't notice the hunger with which you were staring at him. Not just staring at him so much as trying to greedily consume him; your gaze grew more heated as you perused every inch of his form - from his strong back and broad shoulders (you wanted your legs draped over them as he moaned in your ear, rutting against you like he was starving for it) and all the way down to the curve of his ass and statuesque thighs (preferably digging your nails into his flesh as he loomed over you, hips flush between your thighs) - you stopped yourself with a muted oh my God as you realized that you were practically salivating like some feral dog as you ogled your husband. Sweet, not-so-innocent König completely unaware of your lustful thoughts and how your panties were uncomfortably soaked, an itch only he could scratch forming deep inside you. He cleared his throat suddenly in this unbearably authoritative way that demanded your attention and you met his eyes sheepishly, knowing you'd been seen.

"See something you like, meine liebe?"

He was smirking, but his eyes crinkled mirthfully before he turned to place the baby back in her bassinet, delicately soothing her with his hand on her chest as she finally gave herself over to sleep. With a deep breath he straightened to full height, stretching his neck and arms and your core actually tingled as his shirt rode up, absurdly excited at just a peek of his happy trail. God, you wanted to lick it... Right before he slid his stiff cock through your slick-

You wanted to wait longer, you really did, but how could you be expected to endure this kind of temptation? He was looking intently at you now, head cocked to the side, dark eyes undressing you as he moved closer to your side of the bed. Your brain was swimming in hormones and you shook your head, trying to pull yourself together to think with your brain instead of your traitorous pussy, which only wanted the pounding to end all poundings by the feel of it.

Out of all the activities you two had put on hold during your pregnancy, you had quite honestly missed plain old missionary sex the most. It seemed so simple, so silly, you couldn't quite articulate the yearning you had to feel your husband's weight on top of you - his safe, strong, warm body, braced over you with one hand supporting himself beside your head and the other feeding his cock into your weeping quim. You would turn your head to suck and nip at his wrist, running your tongue over the tendons and veins as he pistons in and out of-

"Are you sure you're ready, y/n? I can wait..."

"I can't."

His eyes grew impossibly darker at your boldness, that and a strangled groan was the only warning before he descended upon you, crawling over you as he pressed you back into the bed. You grabbed handfuls of his firm ass, hauling him closer to nestle in the cradle of your hips, gasping for breath beneath the insistent press of his weight above you as his open mouth worked along the column of your throat. Sliding your hands beneath the waistband of his sweats, you noticed with no small amount of pleasure that he had forgone boxers. Groping him you felt the muscles beneath your fingers tense and he rocked into you once, twice, smothering a grin against your cheek as you pushed further down to grab his cock and press him impatiently to your entrance. Despite the hesitation and fear, you were blessedly wet and he slid in slowly, easily despite the twinges of disuse in that tender muscle. He bottomed out and you released a breath you hadn't known you were holding, feeling him sitting heavy and slick in the hottest, deepest part of you.

"Oh...God...yesss..."

"Ja? So gut?" He paused to grind into you, needing to collect himself because you were never this vocal, typically gifting him quick breaths and rasping sighs as you climbed to the finish. His hands trapped your own over your head, thumbs rubbing absently over your wrists as you thrust back against him, shifting your legs wider so you take even more of him.

Thankfully he knew your body well enough after all these years and you nearly cried with relief as he briefly slowed his pace, hooking your knees over his arms and spreading you wide open. He slipped even deeper, bumping up against the door to your womb as that delicious ache began to build.

"I'm so close..." reaching down to touch your aching clit, you jolted under the intensity of it, coming almost immediately with a sharp cry and shock all over your face, judging from the cocky chuckle your husband failed to contain. The laughter died in his throat though as your own orgasm pushed him into his, pace speeding up as your slick channel spasmed around his cock; three rough thrusts later and he was exhaling harshly through his nose and spilling himself on your belly, his fist tight and sticky with your spend and his.

He fell heavily to your side, lying quietly with you as you both recovered your strength. He moved first, handing you one of the baby's burp rags to clean up. Boneless, you ineffectively sopped at the mess he had left behind. He was laughing to himself again under his breath, a deep rumbling that had you dragging your eyes up; up past his spent erection, still wet and twitching against his thigh; up to his generously muscles torso, still heaving (and dare you say glistening) a bit from your exertions; all the way up to his face - amused eyes, lidded heavily with desire and the biggest shit-eating grin you'd ever seen on him. He knew before you even opened your mouth.

"So when can you go again?"

[pedrotonin]

B R I N G T H E W H I S K E Y

Summary: Joel catches you stealing from his brother. He ensures the punishment fits the crime.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!reader

Rating: R

Warnings: Minors DNI! 18+ Joel is not a nice person. Smut.

Word count: 1200+

You arrived at Jackson only a few days ago. A group of men on horses scared the living shit out of you while you were hunting for some much needed food. You tried to hide, but they found you, or rather their dog did. It growled and barked, and you had no choice but to show yourself. They'd screamed and pointed their guns at you and threatened to let the dog attack. While you cowered in front of them, thinking your last minute on this godforsaken planet had finally arrived. It hadn't. Once they made sure you weren't infected, they brought you over to their settlement. They took your gun and knife, but you got to keep the rest of your belongings.

A guy named Tommy told you you were welcome to stay, but also free to leave. That was after they held you hostage in a prison like building for a couple of days. Wanting to make sure nobody would come for you. Nobody did, so Tommy took you under his wing. He said he was going to get you your own house, but until then, you were welcome to stay in one of his spare bedrooms. That's where you were currently sitting on the bed, looking at raindrops cascading down the window.

Tommy and his wife had been really kind to you. They'd not only let you stay at their house, but also shared their food and clothes with you. It was nice. They were nice. But you didn't like being here. Actually, you hated it.

You hated people in general. Being let down so many times in your life, you trusted no one anymore. Not easily anyway. That's why you lied when you told them your name.

Jacky. That's what you came up with. It popped in your brain while you were ogling their whiskey collection. Some of it original and some home brewed. You had a couple of good night sleeps and a full stomach, so it was time to leave.

You would wait until midnight and then sneak out. Taking an original bottle of Jack Daniels with you.

When they retire for the night, you wait an hour before you sneak out the front door. Goodbye Jackson.

You hear the soft snorting sound of horses coming from the stables. Horses, how could you forget. You'd steal one of those as well.

You slink towards the stables as quietly as possible. Inside, you grab a saddle and throw it on the first horse that comes into view.

The sound of a trigger being pulled freezes you, and you feel the cold metal of the gun against the back of your head.

"The fuck you think you're doin'."

A deep, male voice, just behind you.

You don't immediately answer him, and he pushes the gun harder against your head.

"Fuckin' answer me!"

You raise your hands and slowly turn around. He is tall, and very, very angry.

"You're that kid living with Tommy," he states.

"I'm not a kid, old man. I'm fucking 25 years old," you hiss. Earning you a backhanded slap across the face.

"Give me the bag," he snarls.

You don't.

"Give.me.the.fucking.bag" he punctuates each word while taking a step towards you. Jezus, is he going to kill you?

You hand it over, and he opens it. Pulling the bottle of Jack Daniels out. Raising his eyebrows.

"What's this? You fuckin' stole this from my brother?"

Brother? Interesting.

His hand curls around your throat. Walking you backward until your back hits the wall. Then he forcefully turns you around, putting your arms behind your back, holding them with just one of his hands. The other pushes your face against the cold, wet wood.

"Ouch, you son of a bitch!" you howl. The sharp wood poking into your cheek.

"You're going to pay for this," he hisses in your ear. "They hung people for less around here."

"No. No! Take the booze! I will leave this place and you'll never see me again! I'll do anything, please!"

He stays quiet for a second. You can feel his large body hovering behind you.

"Anythin' darlin'?"

What? What is he playing at. Well, you sure as hell aren't getting yourself killed over a bottle of whiskey. So yes:

"Anything."

He smirks. His hand leaves your face to tangle in your hair, and he pulls. Hard. Your head snaps to the side.

He kicks your feet apart and moves your arms above your head. He steps closer and nudges his thigh between your legs.

"Be careful what you wish for," he breathes in your ear. You can't help yourself, you outright moan.

"You like being manhandled like this, sugar? Just my luck."

He presses his whole body against your back, pushing his hard cock against your ass.

"Feel that?"

You lower yourself on his thigh a bit more and start grinding it. Hell, it's been so long.

"Fuckin' slut," he whispers.

His hand opens the button of your jeans and he reaches inside to cup your pussy through your underwear. Finding you wet. He tuts.

"If you run, I'll kill you." He lets go of your arms and grabs your shoulders to turn you around.

You take a better look at him. His mustache and beard are streaked with grey. His hair is curly, also greying. Eyes brown, dark, filled with anger and lust. He's much older than you, but handsome. Tall, strong.

"On your knees."

You do as you're told. He opens his jeans and pulls his cock out. It slaps against your chin. Christ, he's big.

You open your mouth and stick your tongue out and he wastes absolutely no time, putting his leaking cock inside. You close your lips around him and begin to suck him off.

He grabs your head and fucks your face. You choke and gasp for air. He lets you for a moment but then he pushes himself back inside, hitting your troat. Strings of saliva run down your chin and your eyes water while you struggle to breathe.

"Fuck!!" he moans and without warning he comes. Thick, white ropes of his cum hit your tongue and your troat. You swallow all of it.

You think he'll maybe let you leave now, but he's not finished with you yet. He pulls you to your feet and pushes you against the wall again. He rips your jeans and panties down and drops to his knees behind you.

"What are you d-"

His tongue licks a fat stripe over your dripping cunt. Words fail you, only a loud gasp escapes.

He grabs your thighs and burries his whole face between your legs. Eating you out like a man starved. Pushing one, two and even a third finger deep inside you. Fingering you hard and assaulting your clit with his tongue. It doesn't take very long until you feel your orgasm crash over you. You scream while your pussy contracts around his fingers. He takes them out of you and starts to lick them clean. Slurping as he does. Your eyes widen at the sight.

"I have a better idea," he says while he pulls your jeans up and puts his cock back inside his own.

"You come live at my place. I'll keep you safe and you keep my cock warm."

You stare at him. Is he for real?

"Bring the whiskey," he says as he walks out.

You smile and follow him. Yes, this could work.

[sasheneskywalker]

batfamily fic recs where members of the batfamily deal with their experiences with sexual assault

The Silence Grows Louder (Ringing Out In My Head) by Kirazalea

I feel the pressure building until I can't breathe,

And it takes everything.

Till it all spills out,

Reckless but honest words leave out my mouth

Like kerosene on a flame of doubt,

I just couldn't make it right…

Duke notices something while on a mission, and that one observation turns into a confrontation with parts of Dick's past that he's kept hidden from his brothers for years.

M | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Duke Thomas & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Miriam Delgado/Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Catalina Flores/Dick Grayson, Daughter(s) of Acheron (DCU)/Tim Drake, Dick Grayson & Duke Thomas, Tim Drake & Duke Thomas, Duke Thomas & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd

Into The Light by LilliputianDuckling

When Dick finally learns what happened to Tim during the assassination tournament, it reopens an old wound. Trying to TALK about it opens a whole Pandora's box of old wounds.

To make matters worse, Ra's still wants a new heir from Dick's little brother.

M | Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage | Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Batfamily Members & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd

You Brought the Flames and You Put Me Through Hell by Sohotthateveryonedied

Womanizer.

Dog.

Slut.

They’re jokes. They’ve always been jokes. No one ever intends to be hurtful when they tease Dick, when they pat him on the shoulder and remark on his latest exploit, when they ogle him from behind. It’s a joke. No one actually means it.

Except for the ones who do.

M | Rape/Non-Con | Grayson/Koriand'r, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson

I Don't Know How to Say No by Sohotthateveryonedied

“What the hell is your problem?” Dick demands, yanking his arm back. “I was working.”

“That’s what you call working? He had his hands all over you like a piece of meat. You should be thanking me.”

“That’s how an interrogation works, idiot. People give up information more freely when their inhibitions are lowered.”

“If that’s how you interrogate, then I’d hate to see your torture techniques.” Jason stalks off toward the car they arrived in, one of Bruce’s less conspicuous vehicles that they “borrowed” for the night. He opens the driver’s side door and slams it behind him. “Get in the fucking car.”

M | Rape/Non-Con | Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Catalina Flores/Dick Grayson (mentioned)

When Will Enough Be Enough? by Sohotthateveryonedied

Dick Grayson, first and foremost is, and has always been, a performer. The first sunlight to touch his young cherubic face was a spotlight. His first love was the trapeze from which he swung. He was a star. He was perfect.

That was his birthright: talent, strength, beauty. Beauty. All throughout his formative years under the circus tent, it was always Dick’s cheeks that were pinched by fawning old ladies. He was the Flying Grayson whom everyone wanted to get their picture taken with.

Such a looker! The girls are going to be all over you one day, honey, just you wait. It was usually followed by a wink and a laugh, and Dick would laugh right along with them. The attention wasn’t any more of a hardship than the adoring crowds’ cheers were when the dazzling Dick Grayson landed a quadruple flip fifty feet above the ground. Everyone loved him, and he loved being loved.

(A character study about Dick Grayson's relationship with his sexuality, and how his perception of his worth becomes warped by the way others treat him.)

M | Rape/Non-Con, Underage | Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Catalina Flores/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne

Unsteady by withthekeyisking

Dick grew up watching Bruce take countless women to bed for the sake of the mission, and to get what he needed from different people. He watched, and he learned.

And maybe he doesn't feel the same things the people around him feel, maybe he doesn't really like sex, but it doesn't really matter. Because if sex makes people happy, then why does his opinion on everything matter? It's not their fault he's broken.

M | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Various, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd

Hat Full of Glass by succeeding

Dick's injured one night on patrol, which is no big deal. Sure, his face is a little burnt, but it's not like anything serious happened-- so why is everyone acting like it has? Faced with a concussion and mandatory rest, he has a lot of time to think, and that's never good for someone in their line of business.

OR: An injury threatens to scar Dick's face, and it brings up a lot of things in him, things he hadn't realized were even there. The Batfamily acts and reacts.

T | Rape/Non-Con, Underage | Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone

Honeypot by Ididloveyou_once

‘If you keep getting older who’s gonna take your place?’ Jason tilted his head to look at Bruce. ‘Did ya hear me, B? I asked who you’ll use as a honeypot when Dickhead’s old and blind.’

The milkshake cup crinkled under Dick’s fingers.

Or: Dick’s kept it together for years and it only takes a single comment for it all to come crashing down.

T | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent

here comes the rain again by pocketofsky

Dick doesn’t patrol when it rains. Not since Blüdhaven. And everyone knows that, but they don’t know why.

Or: Dick slowly but surely confronts his trauma. Now featuring: a train, pain, and a lot of rain.

M | No Archive Warnings Apply | Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne

When it Rains by vellaphoria

After Cass and Tim return from Paris, something seems… wrong.

Dick tries to find out what it is.

T | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain & Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake

Change by TheSilencer

"Are you telling me that being human trafficked felt the same as being a member of the Justice League?"

Dick jerked back. "Don't say it like that. That makes it sound way worse than it is."

Or a mission goes exactly as intended but has unintended consequences.

T | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con | Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd

something just broke by BeatriceEagle

With teams run by a small handful of big names, recruitment based almost entirely on who you know, and unchecked interteam dating, the superhero community is practically designed to encourage interpersonal abuse. When a former sidekick comes forward to say that she was abused by her mentor, the entire community has to reckon with the part they may have played—and with the abuses that may still be going unnoticed.

(A story of systems, told through chats, texts, and transcripts.)

M | Rape/Non-Con, Underage | Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Dinah Lance/Oliver Queen, Dick Grayson & Donna Troy, Barbara Gordon & Dinah Lance, Koriand'r & Donna Troy

Petals for Armor by SilverSkiesAtMidnight

There’s a small half-moon of blood under the white of Tim’s nail where he bent it. He studies the red of it, feeling foggy and dreamlike. “Can I ask you a question?”

His brother’s eyes flick to him and away again, surprised and wary. “What?”

His nail doesn’t hurt much, just the dullest of aches when he presses down against it. “When you were homeless, you slept with people for money, didn’t you?”

Jason jerks like he’s been slapped. His knuckles are so pale where they grip the steering wheel they suddenly look more bone than flesh. “Did I -”

“Was it worth it?” Tim asks, drifting like a cloud over whatever furious reaction Jason was about to give him. “The money, I mean.”

His sternum slams into the seatbelt with bruising force. Unbraced for it, his head whips forward and back against his seat as they swerve off the road again and skid to a halt with a screech of rubber.

T | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Tim Drake & Jason Todd

fingerprints all over me (now my throat's choked up and I can't breathe) by lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)

“I don’t have my comm, Dick,” is whispered over bare skin as Jason leans in.

There’s a laugh, throaty and wet. No joke has been offered, but no joke is needed.

Two men walk into a bar. Neither walks out.

(Dick is the punchline.)

M | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Dick Grayson/Jason Todd

Die a Hero, Become the Villain by arabmorgan

Jason had broken into Robin’s safe space and beaten him bloody mere months ago, and now the boy was tucked against his chest, trembling like a wet puppy.

It just wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

It would have been infinitely better for them both if that fateful day had remained Robin’s worst nightmare.

M | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Jason Todd (implied)

Second Generation by lowflyingfruit

Nine months after the 'Blockbuster Incident', a call from Lockhaven Penitentiary regarding Catalina Flores brings all Dick Grayson's plans for his future in Bludhaven crashing down. Thrust suddenly into parenthood and hiding what happened to make him a parent in the first place, Dick must decide, adjust, and accept - and no matter what, the family has to pull together to help him.

Unfortunately, the Red Hood, a newcomer to the Gotham crime scene with a grudge, has his own ideas about Bat-family togetherness. Giving them time and space to work things out peacefully isn't one of them.

T | Rape/Non-Con | No Relationships

straight on 'til morning by merils

“All children, except one, grow up.”

― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Kon hasn't been a kid in a long time - he's not stuck at sixteen anymore, and he hasn't been for years; he's twenty-three and living his best life. But the past has funny ways of coming back to haunt everyone when they least expect it, and there's no predicting the storm on the horizon for him.

It starts simply, as do most things. Jon turns sixteen.

Jon turns sixteen, and Kon suddenly realizes that if anyone were to treat him the way he was treated at sixteen, he'd tear the world apart.

The revelations, unfortunately, don't stop there.

M | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Bart Allen & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Dick Grayson & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Clark Kent & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Kon-El | Conner Kent & Krypto the Superdog, Jonathan Samuel Kent & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark

[lizzie-is-here]

bucky barnes oneshot

the white cat

bucky barnes x fem!reader

a late night stop at the animal shelter, a truck, and a dinner date

a/n: not bucky’s cat being named after the place he died 💀 anyway sorry i’ve disappeared i got busy lmao. BUT. i have an idea for a new series based entirely off a winterguard show i was told ab this year by dupont manual so we’ll see if it goes anywhere 👀

the white cat pt. 2

Working at an animal shelter had its benefits.

For all the sad stories you often had, you also got to save pets, watch them get healthier, and most of the time, go to a loving home.

Plus, every so often, a very attractive customer would come in, and, seeing as you are the only employee constantly in the so-called “meeting room” for potential adoptees, you would help them.

Today was one of those days. Or, rather, nights.

Technically, you were closed. Everyone else had left earlier and you’d stayed to clean up. You were sweeping up fur and treats, listening to the radio as you worked.

The man outside the window showed up around 8:56.

Normally, you’d be creeped out. A woman, alone, while a man stared at her through a window? It’s the plot of, like, every Scream movie.

But you recognized this man. He’d been showing up the past few days, not to ogle you, but to ask questions about the cats you had, what he’d need to buy, what kind of care they needed.

You’ve only seen him, never actually talked to him, but he seems sweet. A bit shy, very nervous.

“Hi.” You wave and the man looks behind him before pointing at himself. Laughing, you nod. “Yes, you.”

Setting down a cup of pens, you unlock and open the door for him.

“Sorry about coming in so late. Are you guys even open?” He fiddles with his glove-covered hands, turned a bit awkwardly so his left side is further away.

You shrug, not wanting to scare him off. “We can be. What can I help you with?”

He scratches at the back of his neck before pointing towards the back. “Can I get a cat?” He pauses before barreling on. “I’ve done all the research, got all the stuff set up back at my apartment, and honestly…”

He trails off a bit. “I think it’d help with some… stuff.”

You understand. Plenty of people need company, and you could confidently say that animals provided plenty of that.

“No problem,” you smile. “Come with me.”

Leading him back, you don’t comment on the fact that he makes no noise when he walks, or how a soft, pleasant whirring like quiet machinery has reached your ears.

The meeting room has a few beanbag chairs, a table, and cat and dog toys scattered around. The mystery man sits cross-legged on the floor, looking up at you with eyes that make you think he might be the puppy.

He looks around, a little lost. “So, what do I…”

You pick up where he leaves off. “Are you looking for anything particular?”

He shakes his head, and some of that shyness seems to shake away too.

“No, I trust your judgment.” He smiles. You ignore the warmth in your cheeks and whisk away to the back, looking into the kennels until you find what you’re looking for.

A young cat, only a few months old. Just came in last week. Every time that man has come in, she’s been excited.

“Alpine, sweetie, c’mere.” You gently coax her into your waiting arms, cradling the white fluff as you head back to the room.

It’s impossible to miss how his eyes light up when he sees you, even more so when he spies the cat.

You sit across from him, so close your knees touch, and pass off Alpine.

“She’s so small,” he whispers, almost reverently. You chuckle, watching her climb unceremoniously into his lap.

“She likes you. Been trying to see you all week.” His eyes are still fixated on the little white blob that contrasts his jacket. “Her name’s Alpine, unless you wanna change it?”

He pauses, laughs a bit like there’s some inside joke there, and shakes his head. “No- no, Alpine’s perfect.”

A few minutes later, he’s filling out the paperwork and making small talk when you finally notice his name and age.

James Buchanan Barnes, age 106.

The ex-Winter Soldier. The Howling Commando. The Fallen Sergeant.

He notices you mentally smacking yourself and holds out his right hand.

“Hi, I’m Bucky. Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier,” he chuckles.

You wave a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry if I made you feel weird.”

Bucky shakes his head and readjusts Alpine. Steeling his nerves, he gives you his best smile and finally does the second thing he was hoping to achieve tonight.

“No, no, you didn’t make me feel weird at all. In fact-“ He meets your curious gaze. “-I was wondering if you like to go out sometime?”

You can feel the blush you know he can see, but manage to respond anyway.

“Yeah, I’d really like that, actually.”

Apparently, he isn’t expecting you to say yes so quickly, and pauses for a bit.

“I- Uh, what’s a good time?”

You gesture around. “I get off work tomorrow at 7:30?”

“I’ll be here.”

The two of you enjoy the moment, Alpine purring softly in Bucky’s arms. It’s perfect.

Until a car horn honks from outside. Heading out, you see a truck with three other people in it.

Three other Avengers, to be exact.

“Thought you’d never be done!” Sam Wilson jokes from the driver’s seat. From the passenger’s, Natasha Romanoff waves while Steve Rogers opens the back door for the soldier next to you.

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I’m sorry, they’re being stupid,” he grumbles. “But, I’ve only got a motorcycle, so I needed some help.”

“It’s cute that they came along,” you say. “Still on for tomorrow?”

He laughs and gestures to the truck. “If those heathens haven’t scared you away, then yes. Absolutely.”

“I’ll see you then?”

“See you then, doll.”

[xoxoladyaz]

I'm Gonna Getcha Good

(Female Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson, Canon Divergence, Originally published on AO3)

A/N: I'm hoping to have updates for the Paramedic series and the final installment of "It Hits Different" up this weekend, but until then, enjoy part one of my series in which Stevie Harrington is just as obsessed with Eddie as he is with her!

“This is getting really sad, Harrington.”

Robin’s voice snaps Stevie out of her stupor, causing her to drop her ice cream scooper on the ground for the third time that day. Shit.

“I mean, seriously, Eddie Munson?”

“I know,” she groans, sparing one last look out into the food court. Eddie didn’t come to Starcourt all that often, but he usually parked himself next to the Jamba Juice with his friends when he did, which meant that Stephanie got to ogle him for the approximate fifteen minutes it took for him to slurp down his smoothie.

“Like, if there’s anyone out there who hates your guts more than me, it’s him,” Robin continues, disbelief coloring her words.

Stevie shut her eyes and exhaled sharply. It’s fine. She’s fine. “I know, Robin.”

“I mean, even if he was into preps, your friends made his life a living hell.” While Stevie normally enjoys listening to whatever Robin feels like rambling about – even though Robin has made it clear that she’s definitely not Stevie’s number one fan – she really, really doesn’t want to have to listen to this. “I’m just saying, maybe you should aim lower. I think Jim the janitor is looking for wife number three.”

Stevie slams her now dirty ice cream scooper into the wash bucket behind the counter with more force than she probably needed to use. Whatever, it shuts Buckley up, and when Stevie declares that she’s going to take the trash out, she doesn’t argue.

By the time Stevie is back in from her errands, Eddie and his friends are long gone.

/////

“Here.”

Stevie glances up from her packed lunch – leftover pizza for the second day in the row because she hasn’t had the energy to cook anything recently and just keeps ordering takeout – to see a sheepish looking Robin Buckley sliding a cup of USS Butterscotch across the small break table towards her.

“What is this?”

“It’s a genuine ‘I’m-sorry-for-being-a-bitch’ sundae.” Robin settles into the chair across from her, still looking a little peaky. “I, uh, definitely went a bit too far yesterday, and I made you upset and I get it, I mean, I’d be upset if someone made fun of me for who I like, and I didn’t know that you really liked him but I should have known because every time he shows up you get these big puppy dog eyes and - ”

“Robin, Robin, stop!” Stevie drops her pizza and holds up her hands. Robin cuts off and flushes bright red. “It’s okay. Really. Besides, if there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s me.”

“I don’t know, Harrington,” Robin replies slowly, and there’s a glimmer in her eyes that Stevie hasn’t seen before. “You keep doing things that sort of blow my mind. I think I might even be starting to like you.”

Stevie can’t help herself from smiling, nor can she stop the snort that leaves her throat. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Robin rolls her eyes, but she offers her a small smile in return. “Seriously though, Eddie Munson? Like, have you ever even talked to him?”

“Honestly,” Stevie reaches for her sundae and starts digging in, “I didn’t really notice him until after I graduated.”

“Really?” Robin scoffs. “He’s kind of hard to miss.”

Stevie shrugs. “I don’t know, I didn’t really care about anyone outside of Tommy and Carol when I was friends with them, and then after Barb died I felt like I was barely able to care about myself.”

Robin doesn’t say anything, so Stevie pulls her gaze away from her quickly diminishing sundae and towards her coworker. “What?”

“Are you, I don’t know, are you okay?”

Stevie feels herself relax which, huh, she didn’t even know she was tense. “I think so. Graduating helped. Finally getting away from Tommy and Carol and Billy Hargrove helped. Deciding to go to cosmetology school helped. And the kids - ” Stevie breaks off with a fond laugh, “the kids help a lot too.”

“Huh.” Robin is still just sort of looking at her, and that glimmer in her eyes is brighter. “Well, I’m jealous you got out of there. I still have a year left.”

“Ehh, you’ll have a better senior year than I did,” Stevie shrugs again.

“Seeing as Billy Hargrove isn’t obsessed with me, yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Just break a plate on his head, that’ll fix that.”

Now Robin’s eyes are so wide, they’re practically popping out of her head. “What?!”

Stevie bursts into laughter and yeah, Stevie thinks she’s starting to like Robin Buckley.

/////

“I still don’t get it.”

It’s been nine days since Stevie’s last Eddie Munson sighting and eight days since Robin and Stevie made up over some USS Butterscotch, and this time when Eddie and his friends sprawl around their usual table, Robin joins Stevie in her watching.

“Did you have some sort of awakening after watching The Breakfast Club or something?”

Stevie frowns, but she doesn’t pull her eyes away from Eddie. “What breakfast club?”

“You haven’t seen – no, you know what, I’m not going to let you change the subject this time. Why Eddie Munson?”

Eddie throws his head back, laughing wildly, and Stevie is suddenly wildly jealous that she’s not the one sitting at the table making him laugh.

“Stevie. Dingus.” Robin jabs her in the side and Stevie hisses but it’s a success, she’s paying attention to Robin now. “Why. Eddie. Munson.”

“I just – I don’t know,” Stevie sighs, rubbing her now sore ribcage, thank you Robin Buckley. “He just so alive and outgoing and real. And I dunno, I think it’s kind of sweet that he adopts all the weird loner kids at school, and I like his curly hair and his leather jacket - ”

“Stevie.”

“ – and that weird jean jacket vest thing that he always wears, and the rings on his hands, and his hands, his hands are huge and did you know that he can play the guitar because apparently he can play the guitar, I saw his friend putting up a sign for some band that he’s in - ”

“Stevie.”

“ – and he has such pretty eyes and a gorgeous smile and God his arms, have you seen his arms when he rolls his sleeves up - ”

“STEVIE.”

“ – and I want to drink smoothies with him and go to the movies with him and make out in his crappy van with him and then take him home and tie him to my - ”

“STEVIE!” Robin shrieks, smacking her hand across Stevie’s mouth, and it’s loud enough to draw the attention of the sophomores passing by the shop. Robin waves along with her other hand, and they shoot the pair weird looks, but they move past.

“First of all,” Robin finally says as she drops her hands from Stevie’s mouth, “never talk to me about the disgusting sex you want to have with Eddie Munson ever again, I will have literal nightmares about what you told me.”

“But - ”

“NIGHTMARES, Harrington! And second of all, Christ, I knew you had it bad, but I didn’t know you had it that bad.”

Stevie can feel herself blushing bright, bright red. “No I don’t.”

Robin just blinks at her. “Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“So you’d be able to talk to him like a normal person then?”

Stevie nods even though on the inside she is screaming NO NOPE NO WAY ABSOLUTELY NOT.

“Great, because he’s coming in here.”

Apparently her flight instincts don’t kick in when fighting interdimensional monsters, but they do kick in when Eddie Munson is within talking distance, because she’s dropping onto the floor and crawling underneath the counter before she can realize that’s precisely what she’s doing.

“Uh huh. Totally normal.” Stevie glances up at Robin and yep, Robin looks about as unimpressed as her tone. “I lied, by the way. He and his friends just left the food court.”

“Blergh.” Stevie knocks her head back against the counter and sighs. Robin shows her mercy, though, and lets her sit there and recover for five minutes until the kids come charging in, wanting Stevie to let them sneak into another movie which she does because she’s a pushover. Worrying about the kids is enough to get Eddie Munson off her mind, at least for now.

/////

If cosmetology school doesn’t end up working out, maybe Stevie should join the secret service or something because hey, she’s really good at surviving Russian torture. She can almost imagine the look on her father’s face if she added that to the resumé he continuously tailors on her behalf. Suck it, Dad.

(She might be a little high still.)

“I’d be a great secret agent,” she tells Robin, although Robin is still puking her guts up in the toilet next to her and probably isn’t listening. “Like James Bond. And Henderson could be Q!”

“Ugh,” Robin finally moans, “how do you know James Bond characters well enough to name them?”

“Uh, because my dad is obsessed with the movies, they’re, like, the only thing he watches when he’s home.”

“That sounds awful.”

“Ehh, Sean Connery is sort of hot. I like his accent.”

Robin makes a fake retching sound. “That is the worst thing you’ve ever said, ever.”

“Oh come on, are you telling me Connery doesn’t do it for you at least a little bit?”

“First of all,” Robin snorts, “he’s old enough to be my father, and second of all no, he doesn’t do it for me. I’m more of a Honey Ryder girl,” Robin sighs out, and then she falls quiet, too quiet.

Oh.

Oh.

“Well,” Stevie starts slowly, because she only has one shot at this, “your opinion is definitely wrong, because Solitaire is obviously the better choice.”

Robin sputters, and then she’s laughing, and Stevie tucks and rolls underneath the stall until she’s sitting across from Robin, and then they’re both laughing.

“Are you seriously arguing with the lesbian, dingus? Honey Ryder in that bikini is so fucking hot!”

“Uh, yeah, but she’s no Jane fucking Seymour, Robin!”

/////

Russian torture definitely sucks, but Stevie emerges on the other side with Robin Buckley as a best friend, and for Robin? She’d be tortured by a million Russians.

She’s really glad Robin is there in the aftermath. She’s a good distraction, goading Stevie into more arguments about James Bond and Bond girls and other movies when they finally run out of Bond films to talk about, and having Robin’s voice fill up the silence helps, especially on those nights when she can’t fall asleep without seeing Billy Hargrove’s corpse, or seeing the look on El’s face when she finds out that the chief isn’t coming back this time.

She doesn’t miss the mall. She doesn’t miss Scoops and its shitty customers and its even shittier uniform. She doesn’t miss Robin, because they’re working at Family Video together every day now. But in those moments where she lets herself not feel guilty for missing anything at the mall – which are few and far between, because everything has been tainted by Russians and by death – she lets herself miss the time she spent watching Eddie Munson from afar.

But then one day, Dustin Henderson walks into Family Video wearing a familiar baseball-styled tee, emblazoned with a large demon, and suddenly her days of watching Eddie Munson from afar are back, and it’s all going to be totally fine.

/////

It is not totally fine.

It is not totally fine, because now that Dustin and Mike and Lucas are in Eddie’s little club, they will not stop talking about it. More specifically, they will not stop talking about Eddie, and how cool he is, and how awesome his hair is, and did you know he’s in a band and he can play the guitar, Stevie, why don’t you play the guitarand he listens to metal music and it’s the coolest shit ever, stop telling me not to swear Stevie, you’re not my mom and Eddie’s really smart, actually, he’s just too smart for the school system and Eddie just wrote the most incredible campaign Stevie, you should have been there, and Stevie is about three seconds away from pulling her perfectly coiffed hair out of her head.

“Is this revenge?” Stevie moans, her face buried in the pile of recent returns.

“Yes, and it is so, so sweet,” Robin sings happily from behind her.

“ – was actually a lich the entire time – are you even listening?” Henderson’s outraged voice squawks from across the counter. Stevie sighs and forces herself to look over at him.

“Yeah, yeah, something about a barhop – ”

“Barkeep - ”

“ – and it turns out he was a witch the whole time?”

“ – a lich, Stevie, a lich – God, why am I even trying? Eddie was right, he said you’d never be able to appreciate the intricate world of D&D!”

Stevie feels herself gape at Dustin, because not only is apparently Dustin Henderson talking with Eddie about her, Eddie apparently doesn’t think she can appreciate D&D? Which, he’s not totally wrong, there are a lot of rules and things she doesn’t understand and she’s really bad at words, which Robin says is because she’s dyslexic, but she does actually try to understand what Dustin is talking about. It just – it makes her stomach feel icky, knowing that whatever Eddie said probably isn’t as nice as what Dustin said, and Dustin is rarely nice when he’s in one of his moods.

Robin, bless her, is apparently offended on Stevie’s behalf, and so she steps up to the plate when it becomes clear that Stevie is speechless. “Please tell Munson that he can judge other people’s capacity for decoding nonsense when he’s going to school full time and has an actual job.”

“And migraines,” Stevie adds in. “Lots of migraines.”

Dustin, at least, manages to look a little sheepish. “Sorry, Stevie. It’s just really exciting to be in Hellfire right now!”

“I know.” Stevie manages her best fond smile, even though she still feels unsettled on the inside. “I’m really happy for you, Henderson. So, how did you fight the lich?”

/////

The thing with Dustin Henderson is if you give him an inch, he’ll take forty-thousand miles, so now Stevie is treated to an hour-long play by play after every single Hellfire session wherein Dustin praises Eddie’s genius and how hard and intense the game is and you should really give it a chance, Stevie.

“Henderson,” Stevie finally cuts him off one Saturday morning. He’s cornered her behind the counter at Family Video after instructing Mike and Lucas to pick a good movie for once in their goddamn lives. Robin abandoned her to trail after the boys (traitor), and after twenty minutes of Dustin talking about the wondrous biology of acid frogs, Stevie’s patience is wearing thin. “I love you. You’re the son I never had.”

“You’re nineteen.”

“Exactly,” she nods, “the son I never had. But if I hear another word about the many uses of an acid toad’s bowel movements - ”

“Acid frog Stevie, weren’t you listening?!”

“ – I am going to lose my mind,” Stevie finishes calmly. (Much more calmly than the situation warranted, in her opinion.)

“This is important information, Stevie!”

“Dustin, how is this possibly important information?”

The bell above the door rings, signaling a customer has entered, but Robin greets them before Stevie gets a chance to. (Not that Dustin would give her the chance to, judging by how furrowed his brow is. He only gets that annoyed little squiggle in the center of his forehead when he’s about to launch into his most passionate speeches.)

“Because these are important things to know, Stevie!”

“Okay, Dustin, I hate to break it to you, but acid frogs aren’t real.”

Dustin snorts. “That’s not true, actually, the acid frogs of Eastern Australia are an endangered species - ”

“You know that’s not what I mean, Dustin!” Stevie throws her hands up in the air. “Your fantasy acid frogs aren’t real.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Henderson,” a nice voice speaks from behind Dustin. Dustin grins at the sound and turns to face the speaker. Stevie, meanwhile, freezes in place, a shiver running up her spine. “Such truths are wasted on the unenlightened.”

Eddie Munson strolls up to the counter, dropping his hand on Dustin’s shoulder and shooting her an icy smirk. “Well, well. If it isn’t the former Queen of Hawkins High. How does it feel to be one of the common folk, your majesty?”

A pair of snorts (coming from a pair of boys in matching Hellfire shirts whose names she can’t recall) trail Eddie’s proclamation, followed by Mike’s laughter from the back of the store. Dustin, the traitor, just shoots Stevie a smug grin.

(And look, she’s not panicking, okay? She’s not. It’s just that this is the first time that she’s ever talked to Eddie Munson, at least in recent memory, and it’s already off to kind of a bad start, and honestly he’s being kind of an asshole right now but ugh she still likes him and wants this to go well, why does she care so much about wanting this to go well?

Breathe, breaths, in, out. Robin rounds the corner and shoots her a worried look, but Stevie just shakes her head. She’s turned worse situations around. She can do this.)

“I don’t think there’s anything common about you, Munson,” Stevie replies, shifting her weight forward onto her right foot so now she’s leaning forward. “But I’m doing pretty well today. Or I was, until someone,” she glances quickly at Dustin before looking back at Eddie, “decided to spend fifteen minutes teaching me the seven best uses for acid frog excrement.”

“It was disgusting,” Robin chimes in as she joins Stevie behind the counter. “And also a little bit concerning, if I’m being totally honest. Like, that’s a lot of time to spend thinking about fake frog turds.”

Eddie blinks at them once, twice, before the smirk falls off his face and he collapses forward with a groan, removing his hand from Dustin’s shoulder so he can drop his head into it instead. “Really, Henderson? Has our kind not suffered enough?”

Dustin huffs out a breath. “It’s important information!”

“And I’m truly honored that you want to share it with me. I am,” Stevie cuts him off before he can continue. “I love our mother-son bonding time.”

“I’m not your son.”

“But I think I’ll go to your father if I have any questions about DND in the future, okay?” Stevie finishes, and she can barely stop herself from grinning, especially when she starts to hear Robin choke behind her.

Dustin just looks confused now. “My father?”

“Yep.” Stevie lets herself grin now and returns her gaze to Eddie Munson, who’s looking over at her now with a confused expression on his face. “Which reminds me, what’s the difference between wizards and sorcerers again? I can never keep it straight.”

Eddie drops his hand and gapes at her. Like, his jaw is practically on the ground. He backs up, away from the store counter and spins around once to look behind him (at his friends, who are also looking equally confused) before turning back around. “I’m sorry, are you – me?”

Stevie shifts closer to him, resting her chin on her hand so she’s gazing up at him. “I don’t see any other dungeon masters around here, do you?”

“What is happening right now,” Dustin murmurs out, and it’s not quite a question or a statement.

“Go play with your friends, Henderson, Mommy and Daddy are talking.”

“I – Mommy and Daddy?!” And now Henderson is shrieking, and Mike is poking his head out from behind the stacks to shoot them a glare, and Robin is trying really hard to cover up her laugh with her cough, and Eddie? Eddie is flushed bright red and just staring at her.

“So, yeah, wizards and sorcerers. I know there’s a difference, I can just never keep them straight. And since Dustin says you know the most about DND out of anyone, I might as well take lessons from the best, huh?”

“Oh my God. Oh my GOD!” Dustin is practically shrieking, and then Robin’s running around the counter and pulling him towards Mike and Lucas, ignoring his protesting.

“I – you – what? What?!” Now it’s Eddie’s turn to squawk.

“Also, I’m really glad you came in today. I mean, it probably was for a movie because, you know, Family Video,” Stevie waves her free hand around, “but I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this to come up.”

“An opportunity for what?” Eddie parrots back slowly.

“To flirt with you, obviously.”

“Obviously – obviously? Obviously?!”

“Yeah, obviously. I didn’t get a chance at the mall because you never came into Scoops,” and okay, she wasn’t planning on laying it all out on the line here, but Eddie’s looking increasingly like he’s two seconds away from running and she’d really prefer it if he at least believed her when he ran away, “which was annoying because our ice cream was way better than Jamba Juice anyways - ”

“What?”

“ – and the kids have been talking about you non-stop for the last three months, and it really means a lot that you took them under your wing, and, I mean, I already thought you were hot - ”

“WHAT?!”

“ – and judging by the handcuffs on your belt, I think it’s safe to say we have things in common outside of the kids. And I might not be like naturally interested in DND or whatever, but I’d let you be my dungeon master anytime,” she finishes with a wink and yep, she broke him. He’s frozen and flushed she really, really wants to see just how far down that blush goes.

The taller of his friends – Jeff, that’s his name – walks forward and grabs Eddie’s arm. “This isn’t some sort of joke, right?”

“Nope!” Robin calls out before sliding to a stop in front of the counter. “She’s been crushing on him for months. It’s honestly been sort of pathetic.”

“Gee, thanks Robin,” Stevie rolls her eyes. Reaching for a nearby receipt, Stevie grabs a pen and quickly scribbles her number on the back. “Here’s my number. I’m home most nights after seven and I have every other weekend free. Make sure he calls me if he’s interested,” she finishes up with a click of her pen, and then she’s passing the phone number to Jeff.

Jeff smiles at her, a small, shy sort of smile. “I will. C’mon, Munson. Let’s go before your face freezes that way."

He grabs hold of Eddie with his free hand – Eddie, who’s still flushed and staring at her – and he motions for their other friend to grab his other arm, and with that, the trio of Hellfire boys leave Family Video.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Mike announces as soon as the door shuts, approaching the counter with a sour look on his face.

“I didn’t know you had game like that, Stevie!” Lucas crows, laughing at the sour look on Mike’s face. Dustin, on the other hand? Dustin looks as shellshocked as Eddie did.

“You – you’re into Eddie?”

“That’s an understatement,” Robin snorts. “Seriously, though, that was intense. I thought you were going to flirt with him, not kill him.”

“What?” Stevie shoots back defensively. “He wasn’t getting that I was serious and I wanted to make sure he knew that.”

“Don’t worry, we all know it,” Mike gags, and it’s enough to set Lucas off into giggles again.

“You’re into Eddie,” Dustin repeats, and then all of a sudden he’s beaming. “You like Eddie! This is PERFECT!”

“Oh, no, no, no! Dustin!” Mike groans, but Dustin is already running out the door.

“Don’t worry, Stevie! We’ll make sure true love prevails!”

“God, do we have to?” Mike whines again, but he dutifully follows Dustin out the door. Lucas shoots Stevie another wink and laughs before following suit, and then it’s just Robin and Stevie in an otherwise empty Family Video.

“That was probably a bit much.”

“Nah,” Robin shakes her head with a laugh. “It would take a lot for anyone to be ‘too much’ for Eddie Munson. He’s into you, dingus.”

“You think so?”

Robin knocks her head against Stevie’s. “I bet you five bucks he asks you out by next Saturday.”

“You’re on.”

/////

Three days later, Eddie Munson leaves Family Video with a wide grin on his face, and Stevie is too busy dancing around in excitement to feel too badly about her five dollars that are making a new home in Robin’s wallet.