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lovebugism · 1 year

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hi hello "love you on purpose" absolutely devasted me with it's cuteness and i cannot wait for part two!!!! 💗

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

summary: steve can't seem to stay away from the local freaks. he's more surprised to find himself falling for one of them. you have trouble believing that someone like him could want you in the first place. he wants to prove to you that he's not king steve anymore. (18k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, hurt to comfort (sorta), fem!reader TW smut 18+, lots of intimacy and affection and awkwardness, p in v sex, talks of insecurities, reader has an allison reynolds-esque transformation but with a better ending (outfit inspo x, x), probable typos

a/n: welp. here it is. the final part of this 30k+ word fic. it was very fun and very painful to write and i'm very glad it's finally done and out in the world! thanks for all the love on the first part btw reading all the feedback has easily been my favorite part of writing this <3 with that being said, get comfy, get a snack, and enjoy! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

If yearning had a shape, you’re pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you.

The clumsiest of humans, fresh into her adulthood but still feeling like a child most days. Soaking wet, born yesterday. A caterpillar weaving her cocoon and trying to figure out where she fits in the world. The girl who decides she belongs right next to this big, boisterous, multi-colored butterfly she couldn’t stand a year or more ago.

And Steve Harrington, he was… Well, he was the kind of poem people spend their entire lives trying to write.

He was the perfect mixture of beauty and warmth, of mystery and obscurity — the line where the pink of a sunset meets the purple of a starry night. He was all of this rolled up into a twenty-something-year-old boy. A fumbling butterfly that’s getting used to his new wings.

Maybe if you were talented enough, you could write the thing yourself. There’s something powerful in knowing that you could compose some dainty requiem so much bigger than yourself. A beautiful thing that would stand the test of time because there would never be anything else like it.

It wouldn’t be because of you, though. You passed Ms. O’Donnell’s English class by the skin of your teeth, so your writing leaves much to be desired. It would be your muse that would enamor the masses come the next several centuries, because there will never, ever be another Steve Harrington.

At the very core of this poem would read a universal truth: I have fallen in love with his enigmatic being, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Well, you’re trying to deal with them, at least. You’re not having a very easy go at it.

Most of the time, you feel like a thousand bricks have piled on top of you. The jagged edges scrape up your arms and press varying shades of purple into your skin. They crush you underneath their weight, but you don’t try too hard to climb out from under them. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

You feel a little stuck underneath all the feelings you have for Steve.

You’re not quite sure what to do with them all. They’re too heavy to lift; there’s too much of them to crawl out. It all leaves you feeling a bit trapped.

It’s a good kind of trapped, though.

Once the hurt passes, the weight starts to feel like you’re being swaddled in a blanket. Or a cocoon.

As scared as it makes you, as overwhelmed as you feel, you don’t want this puppy-like adoration to end.

But sometimes, the scrapes sting more than they usually do. The scabs split and start to weep. The faded bruises turn purple again, then to blue and black, and they ache all over. They remind you that girls like you don’t end up with guys like Steve, and the harsh realization turns the comforting weight of being in love into feeling like you’re being buried alive.

Steve is a pretty boy. He’s a rich, prettyboy who wears vintage jeans and drives a new Beemer and has never wanted for anything in his life.

And you’re… whatever the total opposite of that is.

You wear whatever’s cheapest at the thrift store or what Eddie lets you steal from his closet. You drive a rust bucket that belonged to your dad until he lost his license, so the thing practically rotted in the backyard until you got yours. And all you’ve ever done is want for things because you’ve never had anything.

And the one thing you want the most is something you’ve never been able to admit to anyone. Not even Eddie. Not even yourself.

Screw new clothes or a car fresh off the lot. You don’t want popularity — you don’t even want money (though it certainly wouldn’t hurt). You want so desperately to be loved that it makes your bones ache.

All you want is someone to hold your wrists and kiss your palms, to cradle you when the thunder is too loud and the cracks of lightning make you shake, to be a hiding place where you can keep every secret and be certain it stays safe.

You want someone to smile at you the way Steve smiles at you. You want to feel held the way he makes you feel held — without ever touching you. You want to feel wanted the way he makes you feel wanted.

You want Steve.

And you’re not sure how long silly love songs will substitute your yearning.

“What do you think about Steve?” you ask Eddie out of the blue.

He was in the middle of a rant about his latest campaign, but you hadn’t heard a single word of it if you’re honest. The butterflies in your stomach were too loud.

The boy sits across the room at his desk, back hunched, while he scribbles ideas into his tattered Dungeons and Dragons composition journal. You’re sprawled out in the middle of his bed like you have been for the past hour, making constellations of Steve’s face from the marks on his ceiling.

“I think he’s an asshole,” Eddie answers without missing a beat.

It makes you roll your eyes. You shouldn’t have expected anything less out of him, really. You toy with the frayed hem of your crop top and rephrase. “Okay, but do you think he likes me?”

“I know he likes you,” he scoffs. “That’s the problem.”

You smile widely to yourself, then purse your lips to the side to keep it hidden. There’s no one looking to see you grinning like an idiot, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like one.

“He wants to take me on a date tonight,” you confess out loud for the first time.

It wasn’t like you to keep something like that from Eddie. Or anything. At all. But you found yourself hiding it like some kind of dark secret. A distant part of you was terrified that it was all in your head, but it’s been three days since Steve asked you now. Which means you’ve spent three days pinching yourself.

You haven’t woken up yet.

“Like, a date date,” you clarify and rise on your elbows to study the boy across the room.

You feel the need to explain yourself because movie nights and rides around town and hanging out in the break room after closing don’t feel nearly as serious as Steve wining and dining you. It feels much more official now, as though the line between liking someone and like-liking them has been drawn.

“And I’ve never been on a date date before—”

“What about the one time you went out with, uh…” Eddie trails off as he aggressively erases something on his paper. He stills and squints over his shoulder at you. “What was his name? Matt? Marcus?”

“Mason,” you correct and try not to shudder at the memory. “And I left him at the restaurant because he asked me how big my boobs were within the first ten minutes, so he doesn’t count.”

A grin pulls at the boy’s face. He chuckles to himself. “Oh, yeah.”

“And I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about it ‘cause it’s just a dumb date, like… We’ve been alone together a billion times now, you know? It’s just…” you ramble in one breath, then trail off with a huff. You flop back onto the mattress rather dramatically. “Steve Harrington doesn’t date girls like me. He dates girls like Nancy Wheeler. And, as far as I’m concerned, they were a matching made in fucking heaven— I mean, I didn’t know them back then or anything—”

“Obviously,” Eddie murmurs. “That was a train wreck.”

“—But they looked fucking perfect together, Eds!”

The image of them walking the hallways of Hawkins High isn’t hard to picture. You can still see Nancy in her pretty pleated skirt and pink manicured nails and Steve with his stupid hair and brand new Ray-Bans. They owned the school like their parents owned Hawkins — it was practically kismet.

You try to picture him and you together, and it doesn’t come as effortlessly.

It’s like trying to wedge pieces from opposites puzzles together; it just doesn’t work.

And it’s different from anyone Steve’s ever dated. It’s different from anyone you’ve ever dated. People look at him and his pretty girlfriend and gush, “oh, wow, they look good together.” People look at you and a guy with smudged eyeliner and heeled boots and whisper in disgust, “oh god, they deserve each other.”

You won’t get any of the kindness that Steve is used to, only stares from strangers as they try hopelessly to figure out whether or not you’re dating — because surely, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to date someone like you.

“And I don’t wanna…” you waver, trying and failing to put your fears into words. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared.”

Eddie shakes his head to himself. “You don’t need to be scared, okay?” he mumbles, his attention still turned down to his notebook.

“Oh, thanks, Eds. I’m cured,” you monotone.

“I just mean that—” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh and swivels in his chair to face you completely. “Steve’s a douchebag, alright? But he’s a good douchebag.”

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

“He used to be an asshole and everything, but… I don’t know, I guess he turned out to be a pretty good guy— and if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you,” Eddie explains in one breath. The half-hearted threat spills from his mouth,and he goes suddenly soft. “He’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise. I mean, the guy’s practically a fucking teddy bear.”

A smile pulls slow at your lips.

It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever heard him say about Steve, despite having been friends with him for nearly a year now. The foreign kindness comforts you well enough. If Eddie didn’t think Steve was every bit the good douchebag he says he is, there’s no way he’d let you go anywhere near him.

“Yeah?” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he echoes with a huff, obviously upset about having to admit such a truth. Then he shrugs. “And if he does hurt you, I’ll beat him up. Which, with his track record, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. “Thanks for looking out, Eds.”

He only grumbles in response.

And even though he complains the entire time, he drops you back off at your place and helps you agonize over what to wear. He sits on your bathroom counter to keep you company while you shower, then holds your makeup bag in his lap while you get ready. He only comments once about how differently you’re doing it.

Then the boy lounges on your bed, legs crossed and back propped on the headboard while you rifle through your closet. In true Eddie Munson fashion, he’s got something to say about everything you pick out.

Your white sweater is too tight, he tells you, and the fuzzy texture feels too weird. The plaid skirt you pull from the depths of your closet is too “christmas-y” and “totally not your color.” He tells you he likes your boots better as he helps you with the finicky buckle of your Mary Janes, then snaps the band of your knee-highs when he stands again.

Eddie tells you all of this because it’s easier to tease you than to say what he really thinks — that it feels like you’re in high school again and trying out styles that don’t suit you.

He loved you the way you were, in black and leather and silver chains and fishnets, because he knew that’s what you felt good in. You found your identity in your unconventional style and you sparkled in it.

And you were still pretty like this, dressed in brighter colors and looking like the girls that used to bully you in high school, but it’s so obviously not you. More than anything, it irks him that you’re doing all of this for Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

But Eddie knows that you’re nervous — he can tell by the way you’re talking a thousand miles a minute and checking your appearance in the mirror every couple seconds like something might’ve changed. He also knows that you’re still skeptical about this whole thing. Because you have no idea that Steve looks at you like the whole world could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

You don’t know that you have nothing to worry about.

So Eddie figures he’ll wait to make fun of you. Save all his teasing remarks for when you’re gushing about the date the next day.

But you’re already aware of all this — how different you look. You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ve traded in your shades of black for something brighter. Your blowsy hair is clipped back out of your face. Your makeup is more conventional and modest than you’re used to.

You look less like the freak you usually are and more like a wild thing that’s been tamed.

You feel pretty.

Or, at the very least, the idea that Steve will think you’re pretty makes you feel pretty.

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it.

You stand in front of the full-length mirror and tug the scratchy socks up and over your knee when they start to slip down. You rise once more, giving yourself another once over, then nod in approval — pleased with the costume you’ve put on.

A fleeting through with a mean, green, bleeding heart and a mind of its own scratches bitterly at the confines of your skull.

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

Steve, riddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy, overcooks the chicken and spritzes too much cologne on himself.

He had always been the kind of boy that loved things a little harder than he should’ve.

Ask any plant he’s ever owned that he accidentally killed with every leaf he overwatered, frightened that anything less would be neglectful. He was always so scared of them dying that he suffocated them until they wilted anyway.

He thought he might’ve grown out of all that until he realized he did the same thing with Nancy.

He squeezed her too tight and she squirmed at his smothering, called him bullshit and pushed him away so she could breathe again, then stomped on his heart until she was certain it stopped beating for her.

And therein lies the state of limbo Steve Harrington has lived in all his life — between loving something too much and not enough. He hasn’t yet found that balance that stops plants from dying and people from running away.

He isn’t quite sure how to be anything other than the man he is now.

His conscious clings to your every move. He thinks about when he’s awake, and when he isn’t, he hopes he’ll be lucky enough to dream about you. He bothers you at work all day, then asks if you want to go for a ride when you’re off because he hates being away from you. The nights get too cold when you stray too far. And even though he’s never been much of a chef, he offers to cook for you because he wants to show you he cares enough to try.

Steve’s the kind of guy that overcooks his chicken because he’s terrified that you’ll get sick if it’s not done enough. He’s the kind of guy that douses himself in cologne, then breaks the bottle because he’s terrified of not smelling good enough. He wants everything to be enough for you.

Steve Harrington, for once in his life, wants to be enough for somebody.

But now all he is, is a stupid boy that never learns, who smells like he’s trying to overcompensate for being a terrible, terrible chef.

When Nancy broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be this person again. Steve was scared he’d become someone he didn’t recognize — someone who didn’t care enough to water plants because, hey, they’re gonna die anyway, right? Because he gave and gave and gave, and had nothing to show for it but a stupid wilting flower.

Steve made a dark room of his broken heart. A boogeyman lived there, too. It made him scared that he’d never be able to love someone like he loved Nancy.

But then you came out of nowhere — this beautiful, loud, and mysterious thing that exudes every color of the rainbow when she laughs, despite her blacker-than-black wardrobe. You smile at him like you’ve never been hurt, like a sun that’s never known the night. It makes him feel like he can be that too.

The two of you seek a similar solace in one another. You fill each other’s voids without effort and without trying, like puzzle pieces or halves of an orange.

Steve met you and he realized that he didn’t get his ability to love from Nancy. He had always been a lover, a boy who could love something deeply, and that didn’t go away when she broke his heart.

And sometimes it was awful. It was painful and frightening more than it was anything else — love. It was doubtful and envious and distant.

Love makes you selfish and creepy and uncharacteristically overbearing. Love makes you worry about your hair and overcook your chicken and drench yourself in cologne. Love takes a hell of a lot of hope, and that’s what he feels like when he’s with you — hopeful. Like he’s never been hurt before.

A surge of optimism and apprehension hits him like a bolt of purple lightning just behind his ribcage when the doorbell rings. Mostly because he knows you’re waiting on the other side of it. His hands shake when he opens the door, but not because he’s scared. He’s just full of hope and buzzing with its foreign intensity.

Steve finds the rest of his life standing on his front porch, dressed in all the trappings of his past.

You’re smiling wide when you see him, the same whizzing ball of hope that he is now, and clutching a bottle of wine. You’ve traded your usual grocery store alcohol for something bottom shelf from an actual liquor store. The sunshine grin you’re wearing is about the only thing familiar about you now.

With your hair pulled back, brows combed neatly to match the pretty makeup you’ve spotted gingerly on your features, dressed in foreign colors with knee-high socks and kitten heels — you look nothing like yourself. It’s a costume you’ve got on, still so pretty but pretending in some way.

It has Steve startled for a moment, thinking Halloween came a whole six months earlier and he never got the memo. Then he realizes you must’ve gotten all dressed up for him, even though you never had to. Just like he didn’t have to try and play chef to impress you.

Both of you are just stupid idiots who care too much, making it painfully obvious despite your best efforts to keep it hidden.

“Hi,” you grin sheepishly through a foreign, pale pink, and glossy mouth.

Steve’s too busy gaping at you to respond in a timely fashion.

The wind billows through your hair and sends strands of it flying in your face. And even though he can’t remember a time when you’ve ever worried about the wild halo on your head, you’re quick to tuck them back into place again.

With most of it pulled back and combed with obvious intent, your face is left unhidden. Your neck and shoulders and collarbones are too. And you’ve got on this tight sweater and pretty skirt and tall socks that make your legs look longer. All of your usually concealed features are heightened.

The dainty swipes of mascara, eyeshadow, and blush only accentuate them further, though your spots are attentively covered with foundation that isn’t exactly your shade. It’s a bit lighter than your skin tone, like you’d gotten it some time ago when you were still a bit paler.

You look less like the loud, plucky girl he’s come to know and someone more timid, delicate, and polished.

You’re so pretty he damn near forgets how to speak. His tongue swells and every word he could use loses meaning at the sight of you. But it isn’t you, and that only confounds him further.

It’s like you’ve covered yourself in body paint. The real version of you is hidden somewhere underneath it all, glimmering somehow more golden than the flaxen you’re playing pretend in.

When Steve realizes he hasn’t yet answered you, it feels like it’s been ten minutes or more. In reality, no longer than five seconds have gone by.

“Hey,” he greets finally, in an exhale that gets caught in his throat halfway through. He clears it and smiles shakily. “Hi.”

He steps to the side of the doorway and ushers you inside. He wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks when he thinks you aren’t looking, but you catch him in the act when you turn to face him again. Your grin widens and you trap it between your teeth.

“Smells good in here,” you compliment, walking slowly backward with your hands clasped behind your back.

“Thanks,” he accepts your flattery with an awkward hand on his neck. “Yeah, uh— I kinda burnt the chicken a little bit, but everything else should be good. At least, I hope it’s good. It’s kinda hard to mess up a salad, right?”

He laughs under his breath, then starts to ramble without realizing it.

“I’m not the best cook, as it turns out. I mean, I thought I could at least fake it, you know? Fake it ’til you make it, or whatever that bullshit saying is — but there is no faking the tornado I just had in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve made a bigger mess in my life. But, uh, yeah… And don’t worry! I didn’t put tomatoes in the pasta. Or the salad. Or the sauce. I know you don’t think them, so…”

You’re in the middle of beaming and trying very hard not to laugh when he hits you with that one.

Steve, like you, is having a very hard time shutting up just now. He’s in the same web of nervousness that you’re spun up in too. He’s all tangled and trying to weave words that make sense, though everything things his mouth in half-thoughts.

But then he says something so strangely profound out of nowhere, and it makes your pounding heart stop without warning. He’s just talking about fucking tomatoes, but you understand that — in some weird, roundabout way — that it’s much deeper than that.

You’d told him the mundane little detail in passing some time ago. At the diner, when you picked the fruit from your burger with a grimace on your face. You said it tasted like battery acid and tainted everything it touched. He took it back to the counter when you weren’t brave enough to.

“Here you go, Punchy. Your battery-acid-free burger,” he’d joked when he set the fresh plate in front of you.

And he remembered all that. He tucked that tiny piece of information about you into the very back of his mind so that he could use it to make you happy later on.

That’s adoration at its core, you figure. Somewhere in all those minuscule remember-ings.

“You remembered that?” you wonder aloud in a bemused sort of whisper.

Steve has already moved on. He’s rambling about the broken spout of his cologne bottle but stops the second he realizes he’s doing it.

Of course, I did, scoffs the little voice in his head. I’m sorta obsessed with you, as it turns out.

He doesn’t tell you that, though, for reasons he finds are quite obvious — the most significant of which would be running you off entirely. So instead, he just shrugs and tries to be cool, despite having already established how terribly uncool he is.

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

When the two of you settle at the dining table, Steve realizes he’s eaten most of his dinners alone until now.

His parents stopped caring sometime around middle school. His dad got too busy with work, started staying after-hours to catch up on paperwork or screw his secretary. And his mom didn’t care because she was too busy getting wine-drunk on the phone with whatever book club friend that was just as miserable as she was.

Steve would fork at his cold pad thai while he listened to his mother’s muffled rant about who went where and who wore a hat.

He couldn’t find it in himself to eat in his room. The empty dinner table was the only sort of stable routine he had in the swirling uncertainty of being a teenage boy.

But now he’s got you.

He hopes he never stops having you. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone like that again, not after he’s found someone that can fill an entire room with their laugh.

The cackle you let out at Steve’s terrible, terrible cheese pun — “yeah, I guess you could say I cooked this all on my provol-own — echoes through the dining room. Even though he knows you’re laughing at him and not exactly with him, he figures it’s a small price to pay to keep hearing such a heavenly sound.

It reminds him of the real you, the one underneath all the foreign regalia.

The rays of your usual sunshine peek from the clouds you hide behind. You’re way too bright to stay hidden.

Steve can tell you’re watching his every move. You eye him from across the table with the intent of doing everything he’s doing, lest you might do something wrong. He puts his napkin in his lap, so you put your napkin your lap. He cuts his chicken with his fork and knife, so you cut your chicken with a fork and knife — though you quickly realize you’re not quite as dexterous as he is for all that.

It’s endearing. The kind of cute that makes his heart hurt just a little bit. He hides his smile and happily abandons the conventional things he’d been taught to do. He eats with his fingers and then licks the pads of them, grinning when you giggle and do the same.

It’s not something he’s used to — grabbing pieces of cut chicken with bare fingers and slurping noodles without having cut them first — especially not when he’s trying to impress a girl. But he can tell the lack of etiquette makes you more comfortable, and that’s all he really cares about.

He offers you another serving once you’ve finished your first. You decline politely with the mutters of “oh, no, I couldn’t,” but he’s seen your appetite. You could down five burgers at the diner and not break a sweat if you’re feeling hungry enough.

It’s one of those little heart-wrenchingly adorable things you do that both shock and enamor him. But, for a reason he can’t name, you’ve decided that part of yourself was too deplorable to add to your costume.

Steve only scoffs at you in response. He scoops more chicken and pasta onto your scrapped-clean plate despite your refusal.

You’re grateful he doesn’t let you get away with your stubbornness. Truth be told, you were still sort of starving.

He’s just grateful you don’t think his mediocre cooking skills total a complete dealbreaker.

Steve tries to fight you when you offer to help him clean up the kitchen. He tells you to make yourself at home on the couch while he tidies up, ushers you to pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record while you wait for him.

But you have issues with authority and take little fondness in being told what to do. So, in true Punchy fashion, you do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

You roll up the sleeves of your pretty sweater and stand next to him at the deeply set sink in his kitchen island. “You wash, I’ll dry?” you offer.

He doesn’t argue, only nods.

He’ll let you take the blame for not wanting to be too far away from him. It’s easier than admitting his own guilt in the matter. ‘Cause sometimes his heart breaks when he blinks and he has to miss you for the faintest fraction of a second.

“You seriously don’t have to, you know—”

“Stop saying that,” you scold and snatch the dripping plate from his hands. You swipe a towel over the ceramic with a meticulous ease. “I actually like doing dishes, okay? I do them at all time. I’m practically a professional at this point.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shooting you a grin as he dunks his hand into the warm, sudsy water.

You love that stupid smile so much you’ve started to hate it.

It’s soft and so sincere, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. The gentle grin drips with so much honey you can practically taste it. It’s so tender it makes you feel unworthy, so full of love it fills you with a distant rage that he might’ve looked at someone else with it.

You have to duck away from his gaze before he can catch you blushing.

“Yeah. That’s, like, my one chore when I’m over at Eddie’s,” you respond with a shrug. “Because, you know, Wayne’s always working and Eddie’s… Eddie, and he really shouldn’t be trusted with anything remotely sharp or breakable, so…”

“What about when you’re home?” he wonders, simply for the sake of keeping the conversation going, but noting how the mention of home makes you tense.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, considering every time I go back, it looks like there’s been a tornado, doing dishes is just one part of the shit pile that I need to clean up, you know? My parents are usually on some bender — or still passed out from said bender — to take care of the place while I’m gone.”

Steve sees how distracted you’ve gotten as you keep wiping down a bone-dry plate.

“But, uh, anyway. Point is, I think I’m destined to have a career as a professional dishwasher.”

When your gaze flits back to Steve’s, he forces a smile at you.

He’s noticed how you always seem to talk about your best friend and his uncle without ever mentioning your parents. He understands now that it’s because they weren’t your family, not like Eddie and Wayne were. The small Munson clan was your home, it seems, and he fights to steer you back that way.

“So, you stay with them most of the time, then?” he redirects innocently as he hands you a freshly washed wine glass.

“Yeah. I think I’m pretty much Eddie’s personal caretaker these days.”

“Wow,” he marvels playfully, wide-eyed and grinning. “On top of being a professional dishwasher? You’re really doin’ it all, aren’t ya, Punchy?”

“Mm-hmm. I am a real jack of all trades, Harrington,” you joke back with a commendable finesse and flash a teasing smile up at him. The pastel-colored lipstick has mostly disappeared from your mouth now. You look more like yourself.

“And Eddie— he’s got this crazy scar on his hand from when he was a kid, and he was helping Wayne wash the dishes. He, like, blindly reached into the water or something and stabbed himself. Knife went straight through his palm.”

Steve winces.

“Yep. Now he says he’s too traumatized to help do the chores,” you reminisce with a distant laugh and set the glass upside down on the drying rack. “I don’t mind, though. I like doing them on my own. Gives me time to think, you know?”

“I’m standing right here,” the boy beside you scoffs, feigning offense.

“You can be the exception, Stevie,” you assure with a grin.

Maybe it’s the look you give him. Maybe it’s the nickname he used to hate, but now makes his heart skip a beat or two — or three. Maybe it’s all those things and the way your fingers brush his wrist when you move to take the pot from his hands. Either way, something shifts and he forgets how to use his fine motor skills.

The pan slips from his fumbling hands and yours and plops back into the water. The metal bangs loudly when it hits the bottom of the sink. Both of you jump back to avoid the splash.

“Shit. Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes scanning your form to make sure he didn’t make a total mess of you.

“It’s okay,” you promise with a gentle laugh and swipe the towel in your hand over your sweater to remove the droplets clinging there.

Steve scrunches his nose. “I feel like I might’ve just ruined my co-dishwashing privileges.”

“Just a little,” you quip.

You give him no warning before bringing the waffle-patterned nettle up to his cheek to dry him off, too. He flinches at the suddenness of the action but melts into your touch without thinking twice.

“You know, you have a pretty cool scar, too,” you tell him, mostly out of the blue, while you dab at the stubble on his jaw.

Steve’s gotten used to all your abrupt mannerisms and the way you flip-flop between topics with an expertise only you seem to possess. He likes that about you, though. There’s never a quiet or still moment when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he hums back.

You nod and move down to his neck. “I felt it a while ago, during our Night of the Living Dead marathon—” of which Steve has no recollection. He can’t remember a damn thing from those movies, but can still feel the tingle of your mouth against his own.

“—On the back of your head. Felt pretty gnarly.”

You switch the towel to your other hand and use your free one to swipe through his hair. Your fingers muss at his hour or more of hard work, but your touch is a far better reward than nearly quaffed hair. You weave through the chocolate strands until you reach a marred, barren line.

“Right… there.”

Steve, still buzzing with your touch, manages a breathy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. It’s a… It’s a really long, really stupid story.”

“Wanna give me the short version?”

The grin you give him is impossible to say no to.

“I’m a super klutz,” he summarizes with a shrug and a sloppy grin.

He mourns the loss of your touch when your hand slips from his hair. “Well, now I have to hear the story.”

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

“I like dumb,” you assure quickly to stop whatever self-loathing he was about to spew. “I’m best friends with Eddie Munson. I think I can take it.”

“Touché,” he chuckles under his breath. The remaining dishes are left forgotten in the depths of the soapy water when he turns his back to him. He leans his weight on the countertop and grips the edges of it in his hands. “You see, I did this really smart thing when I was a baby where I’d, you know, crawl backwards—”

“Crawl backwards?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah. I’d push with my hands — beep, beep, beep,” he flattens his palms and presses them against thin air to demonstrate it for you. “Always in reverse. I mean, it makes sense, right? You gotta push to move.”

“Sure,” you shrug. A laugh tumbles from your mouth shortly after.

“Did that until I reversed my way down a flight of stairs and hit my head pretty damn good,” he concludes with a wince. It’s like he can still feel the pain sometimes.

“Wow,” you marvel. “So, like… When people ask if you were dropped on your head as a kid, the answer would be—”

“Yep…” he sighs, then laughs when it makes you laugh. He looks over at you with sparkling cinnamon eyes. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think, like, right out of the gate, I’m super confident, you know? But I’m also a total idiot, which is just a brutal combination.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” you confess with a gentle sort of smile.

“Yeah?” he winces.

“Yeah. You do this thing sometimes where you get all… suave and cool,” you tell him, squinting and lowering your voice a few octaves for effect. “Like you’re trying to be King Steve all over again. And then you, like, trip over a stack of DVDs or something because the universe is trying to humble you.”

“That is a… really good way of putting it, actually,” Steve confesses with a laugh.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, the good thing is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. So, I guess I’m pretty glad somebody bumped my head before we met. ‘Cause things probably would’ve turned out… a whole lot differently.”

Steve watches your face contort from understanding to confusion. Your manicured brows pinch together and your doe eyes squint over at him. He watches you break down his words in real time.

“Somebody…” you murmur under your breath. “You mean… Are you talking about Nancy?”

“Yeah, uh… She gave me a— a pretty big thump, you know? Worse than the one I got falling down those stupid stairs,” he tells you with a reminiscent smile.

It makes you feel like a total idiot, standing in front of him like this — a carbon copy of the girl that tore his heart to shreds.

“I deserved it, though. I mean, you knew me back then, I was a… a total asshole. And sometimes, I think I still would be if she didn’t, you know… if she didn’t… totally rip my fucking heart out,” he concludes with a sad sort of laugh. “Now I’m kinda grateful she did. As bad as it hurt — as angry as it made me — I think, in a lotta ways, it made me better.”

“Better?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah… If she didn’t break up with me when she did — if I didn’t get that dumb thump on my head — I wouldn’t have changed. I wouldn’t be… here right now. With you,” he confesses, revealing more of himself than he ever has before, to a girl he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a couple of years ago.

He looks beside him at this costumed girl — at you — and he sees someone he probably would’ve given the time of day back in high school. The lack of dark, baggy clothing makes you look approachable — like you won’t actually bite him for coming near you like the rumors always said.

And Steve’s self-aware enough to know he probably would’ve treated you like shit back then. He would’ve fucked you just to fuck you, then only talk to you when he needed you to do his homework for him. And you wouldn’t have been the first girl he did that to either, and the thought makes him want to puke.

He’s glad he’s found you when he did. He’s even happier you met him where he was at, in that awkward in-between stage of growing up where you’re trying to be someone different while still finding comfort in staying the same. You never complained even once when he reverted back to his old ways.

And even though you’re standing right next to him, your chest nearly brushing his arm with every heavy breath you take, he finds himself missing you.

You’re not you — not without the fun outfits and the crazy hair and all your rings that clink together every time you move. He misses how the metal felt against his skin and the way they’d get caught in his hair.

You’re still beautiful like this, but it’s a strange type of beauty. One that both of you know doesn’t belong to you. You fit into it like baggy jeans or a too tight shirt. You’ve squeezed yourself into a ball to try to fit into a world far too small for you, because you thought that’s what Steve wanted.

“I’d still be that King Steve douchebag… Partying every night, getting drunk out of my mind, never settling down like I…” The words get trapped in his throat. He clears it to force them out. “Like I always wanted to, you know?”

“Right,” you murmur, voice not strong enough to be any louder than that.

“So, yeah, I don’t know. I guess, in some weird, roundabout way, I’m just to tell you that I’m not that guy anymore. King Steve,” he admits and presses his hip into the counter to face you fully.

When you gather the strength to look up at him, you find his gaze already dripping with honey and staring down at you. He’s all soft and mushy and twinkling with the adoration he’s got for you. And when he smiles, it’s so terribly sincere and coated with a distant sadness that’s been playing on the edge of his voice this whole time.

“And I know you might still see me as that guy. I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t really deserve to be looked at any differently, not after how I acted towards you—”

“Steve,” you breathe out in a tender sigh. “It’s okay—”

He shakes his head to himself. His eyes squeeze shut when his chin falls to his chest.

“It’s not. It’s… It’s really not. I just—” he inhales sharply, chest deflating on the exhale when his gaze turns back to you. He looks sterner now, but still so tender. “I just want you to know that I’ve changed, okay? I am changing. And I don’t want you to think I’m the kinda guy you have to change yourself for.”

When the weight of his words finally hits you, it feels a bit like being punched in the stomach.

It knocks all the wind out of you and makes it hard to think about anything other than the sudden loss of breath. Like a kid who’s fallen off the monkey bars and flat onto their back, you can’t do anything but writhe through the ache and hope you’ll be back to normal soon.

You got dressed that evening thinking you were the master of deception. You perfected your subterfuge and awaited Steve’s inevitable swooning because you looked like all the other girls he’d fallen in love with.

But he sees through every inch of your pretending with his secret x-ray powers, and now you’re just a stupid girl standing in front of him, soaking wet with embarrassment.

It’s a little like when he and Tommy and all his basketball goons would make fun of you. They’d talk about you like you weren’t there while they tossed tiny crumbled up pieces of paper into your hair so they could watch you struggle to get them out. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because now he’s apologizing, and telling you that he likes you, and that you never had to change a single damn thing for him at all.

You’re equally as self-conscious, though, and feeling like a total idiot for thinking you could even pretend to be halfway normal.

“Oh…” is the only thing that leaves your mouth in that moment. Your mind is still going a million miles a minute. You want to blurt out an apology and an explanation all at once, while simultaneously turning into a puddle at his feet and disappearing entirely.

But rather than break down, you stay standing. Too stuck in your head to feel all there.

Steve seems to notice your trepidation almost immediately. His eyes widen and his brows raise and his pretty mouth falls open to let all of his reassurances spill out.

“And it’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty! You’re— You’re perfect like this too, but I just…” he inhales and takes the tiniest step closer to you, putting an unsure hand on your waist. “I like you the way you were before. And this isn’t… This isn’t you.”

You blink back stinging tears and turn your gaze to where you toe your Mary Jane’s into the kitchen tile. You go to twist your rings like you always did when you were nervous before realizing you’d left them all at home.

“I just wanted to be like the girls you like,” you confess quietly.

“You are like the girls I like,” Steve corrects with a gentle laugh. “‘Cause I like you.”

Your eyes are all glassy when they flit back up to his.

Even though you don’t look quite like yourself, the way you look at him hasn’t changed. You still gaze at him like you can see right through the nice hair and the dumb smirks and the stupid persona he puts on when he doesn’t feel good enough the way he is. You look at him like you’re in love with the boy he tries like hell to keep hidden.

The exact same way he looks at you.

“I think I just got a little spooked. Girls like me aren’t supposed to end up with guys like you.”

“I stopped believing in that shit a long time ago,” he admits with the shake of his head. “The whole soulmates-love-at-first-sight thing, it’s all… bullshit. If I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna do it on purpose.”

Steve watches the lingering sadness in your eyes ebb to something sunnier. Your gaze sparkles and suddenly you’re beaming at him, not bothering to conceal the effect his words have on you. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

“I like that,” you murmur in approval, then more loudly proclaim: “Screw soulmates! Let’s start loving people on purpose!”

The two of you laugh about this promise you’ve just made to each other without really saying it to each other. It sort of goes unsaid — if I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna do it on purpose and let’s love each other on purpose. That’s what you mean, and neither of you has to say it out loud because you get it.

It’s that exact realization that makes Steve’s heart flutter something fierce. Suddenly, the urge to touch you becomes too great to bear. He wants to feel you like he did on the couch of his theater room, when a film he could barely recall crackled in the background because the feel of you was too loud for him to hear anything else.

He needs you like that again, on him and all over him. The ache is a palpable one.

The boy squeezes your waist again, as though to remind you he was still there. Or, perhaps, to remind himself that you were still there —the real thing and not something his brain conjured up.

“It’s not totally insane how bad I want to kiss you right now, is it?” he wonders quietly to you. The low, sultry nature of his voice is not at all forced like it usually is when he’s trying most desperately to flirt with you. His words are just naturally weighed down by his desire for you.

You shake your head in a silent promise, then command through a grin, “Kiss me stupid, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

He’s been anxiously awaiting his chance to touch you all night. He does so now with a vigor that makes you feel all of that anticipation. With one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jaw, you can feel his buzzing skin as it presses against your own — like the static of a television screen. His fingers settle between the strands of your hair while his thumb absentmindedly rubs along your cheekbone.

The softness of his touch makes you hum against his mouth.

His lips are familiar like home — more than, because sometimes you think you’ve never really had one.

There’s never been a cozy, warm, and tender place where you could rest your tired bones. Eddie’s trailer, maybe, but it wasn’t yours. No matter how often you slept within the four walls of his bedroom, no matter how hard you pretended like you’d lived there all your life, it would never belong to you.

But Steve could.

Steve could be yours.

And you wouldn’t even have to pretend either. It would be for real this time.

His mouth was welcoming and pleasant and gentle, far more than you’ve ever gotten out of four walls and a roof. The plush pink of his lips — the cushion of his bottom one you like to dig your teeth into and the rough pad of his tongue that explores your mouth like undiscovered territory — is perhaps the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Even when he kisses you harder and guides you until your back is pressed against the edge of the countertop, it’s still so, so tender.

Steve’s hands migrate to your hips. His fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt as he cages you against his weight and the counter, as though out of fear you might slip away.

Your touch mirrors his desperate one. You cling to him with a similar intensity, balling the fabric of his navy blue Henley in one hand while you waltz through the pretty strands of his neatly styled hair with the other. You let him kiss you the way he wants to kiss you, keeping your obedient mouth plaint for him while he opens your mouth wider with his tongue.

His touches turn bruising, and yours go soft like summer rain.

Steve holds desperately onto you, like any moment he could wake up and none of this could be real. He kisses you like he won’t ever get to kiss you again, having no idea that you’ve already started to build a home in him.

Meanwhile, your fingers tips trail like drops of water down his chest and stomach. They settle at his waist, on the top of his belt, and linger along the leather edge of it. You’re not quite sure what to do next — if you should wait for Steve to say something or if you should go ahead and take the lead.

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

Steve’s lips click wetly as they part from yours. He peers down at you through heavy lids, amber eyes swimming with honeyed desire. His lips are pinker now, and swollen from being kissed so ardently. His brows pinch in concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t w—”

You barely let him get the words out before you press your mouth to his again. Your hands twist at the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to you. You stand on the tips of your toes to meet him halfway.

“I want to,” you mumble, practically slurring from being so drunk on his touch.

“I wanna treat you right—” he tries to tell you. Some of his words are muffled against your mouth because you find yourself totally unable to stop kissing him now. “—Take things slow with you.”

You smack a final kiss to his lips. When his honey eyes flutter open again, he finds you wearing a mischievous sort of smirk. There’s an accompanying teasing glint in your glazed over eyes.

“You can do all that when you’re inside of me,” you promise lowly, bold in a way neither of you are used to. The brazen nature of your dirty words is foreign but no less exciting.

They make Steve’s head get all swimmy and his cock tightens as it stiffens in his slacks. His spine tingles with his borderline overwhelming desire for you.

“Have mercy…” he murmurs within a heavy breath, more to himself than to you.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

It’s a questionable blue and gray plaid that you doubt he picked out himself. The framed pictures of sports cars only add to the boyish flair of his bedroom. It doesn’t look like him, though. None of it does.

The only real trace of Steve The Hair Harrington is the poster of Christie Brinkley hanging beside his window, diligently placed right next to his bed. It’s a blown-up Sports Illustrated cover — a beautiful, soaking wet woman posing less than effortlessly against a palm tree in all her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfected-bodied glory. It’s the most King Steve you’ve ever seen.

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

He grumbles in annoyance at your teasing as he clicks his door shut behind you.

“Well, you can thank my mom for my great taste, okay? She decorated the place when we moved in, like, forever ago. I just haven’t, you know, gotten around to changing it yet.”

“I can tell,” you laugh and turn to him with a smirk. “Really cool bedsheets, by the way. I mean, seriously. This is state-of-the-art design here, Stevie.”

It isn’t until he’s being pelted with your relentless teasing that he remembers he’s got dinosaur-patterned linens spread out on his mattress.

Steve typically likes to alternate bedsheets in between washing them. His plain gray ones would’ve perhaps been more appropriate for times like this, but they were in his hamper along with another set of plaid ones. His dino sheets may be immature, but they’re no less comfortable. It’s not his fault they just happened to fall on the week you were coming over.

“Alright, Punchy—” The boy rolls his eyes and splays two wide hands on your sides, pressing himself into you rather shamelessly. You wonder if the clothed stiffness against your lower stomach is just your imagination. Any other teasing remarks dissipate from the tip of your tongue as your eyes widen.

Steve notices your silence and smiles. “—You wanna keep making fun of me, or do you wanna make out some more?”

“I think we can do both,” you answer with a shrug, resting your hands along his waist. “I’m quite the multitasker, Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

He smashes his lips into yours again. You meet him halfway. It’s all too easy to fall back into the swings of things — the desperate mouths and longing touches. Maybe because you’re always desperate and longing for him. And, with the way he’s clinging to you now, you figure he must always be those things for you, too.

You relish in all of his little touches, in the duality of them. He cups your jaw so tenderly yet clutches your hip like he’s still trying to discern whether you’re real or not. Then his palms slide around your waist and up your back until he’s all but hugging you. It’s too sweet a gesture for how he’s prying your lips open with his mouth to slip his tongue inside.

His hands settle, finally, at the very bottom of your sweater. They linger at them hem, not pressuring you to do anything, just waiting for you to make a move.

You part from him to abide by his unspoken want. Your trembling hands work together to free you from your top. You’re more than grateful to pry the itchy thing off of you.

Steve doesn’t get the chance to admire the bra you wear. He catches a glimpse of frilly lace, but there’s little time to praise your topless form before you’re pulling him into another searing kiss. It’s full of tongue and teeth now, far more hungry that just moments ago. Your fingers slither through his hair and curl in the strands. You keep him firmly locked against you as his lips trail down your neck.

He finds your most sensitive spot in record time — the one just under your jaw, right beside your racing pulse. Your legs nearly give out when his tongue runs over it. A breathy moan exhales from your mouth before you can stop it and you feel him smile against your neck. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps kissing you there in the hopes that you’ll do it for him again.

You do.

Steve sucks and nips at your delicate skin, and you revel in the feeling of his mouth. Head thrown back, you let him paint your neck in varying shades of red. Some will disappear come morning; others will darken into souvenirs for you to admire for the next few days.

The thought of him marking you drives you nearly as crazy as the feeling of his lips against you.

You stopped trying to hold back your whines somewhere around ten of them ago. It was easier, you found, for him to kiss you and to let yourself enjoy it than be hyperaware of all the sounds you were or weren’t making. Steve seems to like it when you moan for him, anyway. Every time you do, he kisses you harder, holds you tighter, and hums out his own subtle moans against you.

He digs his teeth into your skin. It makes you whimper. The desperate, high-pitched noise fades into a lower moan when the rough pad of his tongue rushes out to soothe the bite. He moves on to kiss you elsewhere. You shiver when your spit-slicked skin meets the cool air.

You don’t notice that you’ve hitched your leg up his hip until you feel his warm hand on your thigh to hold it up for you. His fingers inch up until the tips of them rest beneath the hem of your skirt.

You don’t bother to hide how much you want him.

He doesn’t bother to hide how badly he needs you close.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into your neck, smiling when his words make you whine. “Can I make you feel good?”

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

He parts from you for the first time in several minutes. His heavy gaze meets your own. “Can you say it for me?” he asks, not teasing you, just wanting to make sure you want this. Him.

“Want you to…” you start, then swallow when your voice is tighter than expected. You manage the rest through bated breaths. “…to make me feel good.”

Steve kisses you again, a long and thorough stamp on your lips, followed by several tinier pecks. Then his mouth starts its journey down, down, down your body, stopping only to admire your exposed chest. He’s more than pleased to find that what you’re wearing is hardly a bra at all.

It’s a sheer thing with dainty lace detailing. He figures it’s more for decoration than to push up your breasts. There’s no padding at all. Just a pretty tulle number that leaves very little to the imagination.

You watch him intently with a smile, enamored by how enamored he seems to be by a pair of boobs. You never thought yours were much to ogle over, but Steve presses tender, wet kisses to them anyway. He takes the plush between his teeth, sucking on the delicate skin to leave a blossoming bruise there. He only trails further down when he’s satisfied with the mark he’s branded you with.

Steve falls to his knees with a soft thud upon the carpeted floor. The faint sound is much more obvious in the quiet of his bedroom. He looks somehow prettier below you — soft and delicate and sweet like chocolate syrup or marshmallow fluff. But he’s still got this air about him, something stern and domineering, that tells you he’s still got all the power.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, just above the top of your sock, then several more further up. His fingers raise the fabric of your skirt the higher his lips travel. And, strangely, you’re not all that nervous about being half-naked in front of him. It’s hard to be when he’s kissing you like you’re a beautiful thing that deserves to be touched so tenderly.

Steve keeps pushing up your skirt and stills when he reaches the apex of your thigh, right where the top of it meets the joint of your hip.

Your underwear doesn’t match the bra you’re wearing, he finds. It’s orange all over and spotted with bats — the color has faded slightly, like you’d bought them some number of Halloweens ago.

It’s endearing. Everything about you is endearing. Even when you aren’t trying.

“Hold it up for me, yeah?” he asks you with your skirt in his hands.

It shouldn’t surprise him when you do the exact opposite. You step back from him to shove the thing down your legs, then leave it in a pool of forgotten fabric on his bedroom floor when you gravitate towards him all over again.

His hands rise to your outer thigh and rub soothingly along the warmed skin. You wonder if he can feel the goosebumps pebbling there. The smirk he flashes up at you tells you that he does.

He’s got a twinkle in his eye when he teases you. “Really cute underwear, by the way.”

“I was obviously very prepared for this,” you retort with ease, making fun of yourself just as effortlessly as you can make fun of him.

“I like them,” the boy assures. “I really like them. Very on brand, Punchy.”

“Would you like me better out of them?”

Your arched brow and knowing smirk, kept caged between your teeth, is met with a bemused gaze. Steve’s eyes go wide at your forwardness.

“Uh, yeah— I mean… yeah,” he nods with a breathless chuckle. Then, more sincerely says, “Only if you still want to.”

You scoff at his timidity, though it’s more at yourself than him. “Look at me, Steve,” you answer plainly, motioning to your half-naked form and the damp spot forming in your underwear. “If I didn’t want this, you’d know by now.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, just before pressing a chaste kiss to the black bow of your panties. He noses at the softness of your stomach while his fingers curl around the hem. He tugs them slowly downward, giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted.

A part of him is still convinced that none of this is real — you, namely. Truth be told, he’s waiting for a smack to the face and a rant about how all of this was just bullshit.

It never comes, though.

Instead, he gets a sheepish grin and a sparkling gaze as you hold onto his shoulder to step out of your underwear. The giggle that spills from your mouth when he tosses them over his shoulder makes him smile.

Your pussy is as pretty as the rest of you. It’s more manicured than he imagined for a girl as wild as you. There’s a tuft of hair on your pubic bone, cut down and shaved around the edges. It leaves your lips bare and glistening with your accumulating slick.

Steve’s all but salivating at the sight of you.

“You wanna put that mouth to work, Harrington, or do you wanna ogle some m— oh,” you try to tease him, all amused at how he looks like he’s never seen a naked girl before, knowing full well he’s seen plenty. But your taunts evaporate from your tongue when he finally puts his mouth on you. They ebb into a breathy, high-pitched moan.

The tip of his chiseled nose smushes against you while he licks at the rest of your pussy with a practiced tongue.

It’s more than obvious he’s done this before. Enough to have become a borderline professional at it. He finds your sensitive button within seconds and with minimal effort. Your legs are already buckling, practically turning to jelly, and he’s only just started.

He latches onto your lips with a swollen pink mouth. His warm, wide hands wrap around the backs of your thighs to keep you steady and anchored against him.

Steve kisses your cunt like he’s making out with you. He opens and closes his mouth in slow, rhythmic motions, rutting his tongue along your glistening skin all the while. He’s sloppy with intention. Every touch is meticulous. He’s trying to figure you out, trying to learn what you like the most and what makes you moan the loudest for him.

Steve’s attentive. He’s ambitious and ardent. It’s like he enjoys kissing you down there, and not like he’s doing you a favor so he can get something in return. He moans against you like it’s every bit as pleasurable for him, as it is for you.

He alternates his efforts while he discovers you like unexplored territory.

You giggled like it tickled you when he stuck his tongue into your cunt the first time, then moaned when his nose nudged your clit. “Your mouth is so good,” you’d praised through bated breaths, but your whines had gotten too quiet for his liking. He opted to give his tongue a break and latch his slick lips to your swelling clit.

You liked it most when he sucked you there. At least, he figures you must, with the way your mouth parts in a silent cry and your hands dart to his hair to push him further into you.

“You like that?” Steve asks you, just to be sure. He pulls enough away so the words are intelligible, but still close for you to feel the vibrations of them against your skin.

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

Steve barely lets you answer before he’s licking a flat stripe up the length of your pussy. He slows methodically when the tip of his tongue catches your puffy clit, just so he can see your legs tremble. They do, rather intensely so, and he revels in the way your thighs quiver at his temples.

He wishes he’d laid you down before putting his mouth on you. He regrets not getting to spread you open, to part your soft folds with his thumbs, and admire you the way you deserve to be admired.

But to be under you this way is a reward in itself. To get on his knees for you, to let you grind your hips against his face, it’s heaven. He never wants to stop feeling you this way.

“Please, Steve…” you moan breathlessly. “Please, please, please.”

You plea like it’s a mantra. Your voice grows tighter and tighter the closer you get to your peak.

Steve’s not entirely what you’re begging for. You’re not either, really. You just know that the pleasure is swelling. The wringing knot in your stomach is close to snapping. The thought alone is borderline overwhelming. You want to run away from the crescendoing feeling and keep it locked against your pussy all at once.

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

“You can take it,” he promises, speaking the words into your cunt. His lips smack when he pulls away from you, just for a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his tongue darts to graze his bottom lip. “It’s yours, baby. Just take it—”

You’re a goner the second he wraps his lips around your clit again. He suckles there like his life depends on it. Your hips twitch and you tug at his hair when you come, perhaps a bit rougher than you realize. Steve delights in the burn at his scalp. He groans shamelessly into you, a hearty grumble that rolls over every inch of your body.

You make the mistake of looking down at him in the midst of your undoing. You bring your chin down to your chest and open your fluttering eyes to peer down at the boy below you. He’s already looking up at you, you find, with his own bleary gaze. His cinnamon eyes glitter up at you and you melt for him.

Something about the sight of Steve on his knees for you, face snug against your cunt, and gaze lidded with desire makes you keen. Your hips flex, then still against his mouth while you gush for him.

“There you go,” he murmurs against your cunt. “There you go, baby.”

A high moan gets hung in your throat at his praise. It escapes in a delicate cry when your orgasm pummels into you full throttle. You’re whining and terribly sensitive when the buzzing feeling starts to ebb.

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe.

He knows to leave your throbbing clit alone now, but seeks to prolong your pleasure in other ways. He gathers the honey you leak from your pulsating hole with an eager tongue and doesn’t relent until you’re twitching away from him. Only when you’re tugging him off by his hair is he satisfied.

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

He presses little kisses to the burning flesh of your thighs and runs his palms along the backs of them to coax you back to the earth again.

When your cries fade to more contented sighs and your eyes find his again, he smiles sweetly up at you. Too sweetly. He shouldn’t be grinning so tenderly, not when his lips and chin and nose glisten with your slick.

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hands as he rises to his full height in front of you.

“Was that… Was that good for you?” he wonders, suddenly sheepish like he wasn’t lapping at your pussy a minute or more ago.

“Are you kidding?” you retort, trying to laugh at him. All that comes out is a fatigued scoff. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt and you lean heavily against him when his arms wrap around you again. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

That nearly does him in right then.

He leans to press a languid kiss to your mouth. There’s a foreign musk to his tongue now that wasn’t there before. You hum a moan against him when you realize it’s you that you’re tasting.

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes.

There’s hardly a thing he wants more than to feel your warm mouth on his cock. He’s been hard and aching since the second he got you into his bedroom. And that’s exactly why he knows he won’t last.

He usually jerks off before dates for that exact reason. At least, King Steve did because King Steve knew wherever he was going, he was getting laid. He wouldn’t have the reputation he did if he only lasted eight seconds.

He would’ve gotten himself off before you came around, made sure he was able to last as long as you needed him to if he’d expected you to need him at all. But he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen — especially not for you to come against his mouth and ask to give him a blowjob minutes later.

He didn’t invite you to dinner in the hopes you’d put out after. Call him old-fashioned, but he enjoys spending innocent time with you. He would’ve been more than happy to cook you dinner and kiss you on the cheek before you left.

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right?” you shrug at his silence. “You deserve to get off too.”

“You don’t have to. Not just because I did it for you—”

“I’ve been hearing about your dick since the tenth grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl in the class of ’85 that hasn’t seen it. The least you can do is let me give you a measly blowjob,” you confess lowly.

Steve, knocked senseless at your words, starts working his belt off without a second thought. His hands fumble with the buckle while he smirks at you. “Yeah? What have you heard?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” you answer vaguely and saunter the short distance to his bed. You plop down on the edge of it and lean your weight on your palms. “Just that you have a monster-sized dick and that Marianne from Soc nearly broke it when you took her virginity.”

“That was a rumor!” he defends as he steps out of his jeans. His shirt goes next. He pulls the thing up and over his head with an admirable sort of finesse, leaving his toned torso and hairy chest on display for you.

“The monster-sized dick or the Marianne from Soc thing?”

He doesn’t entertain with an answer, just drops his boxers and lets you figure it out for yourself.

His cock is already hard and glowing a faint strawberry color at the tip with neglect. It curves to his right hip and hangs there, weighed down by its own size. The hair upon his pubic bone rises to meet the happy trail on his lean stomach, trimmed slightly but still a bit wild. Tanned skin, heavy balls, and a singular vein that trails like a river from the base to the head — Steve Harrington’s got the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re gawking at him because you’re too busy trying to figure out how either could be rumors. You’re looking at beast right now, a wild thing that tiny, little Marianne from Soc certainly couldn’t handle. You’re not even entirely sure if you can.

Steve blanches at your hesitation. He sees you retreat into your head and rushes to bring you back. “Hey, we don’t have to… We don’t have to do this if you do want to. We don’t have to do any of this if—”

“I want to,” you assure quickly, eyes widening when you realize how quiet you’d gone. You can imagine how mortifying it must’ve been, for him to get naked in front of you and be met with total silence. “You just… have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

His concern ebbs to a relieved smile. “Well, thanks for stroking my ego, princess.”

“I would love to stroke something else,” you quip with a playful grin that’s far too proud of such a dumb joke.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

He wants it on record, though, that he’s not grinning at your mindless innuendo. It wreaks too much of Eddie. You both seem to possess a similar sort of humor in that way, in how you can make anything into a joke — particularly a dirty one.

“Thanks for stroking my ego,” Steve would say and Munson would joke, “Well, we both know nothing else of yours is getting stroked, Harrington, so it’s the least I can do.” And Eddie would’ve been right. But Steve would never let him know that.

The boy settles in the middle of his bed and watches with a glittering gaze as Eddie’s best friend climbs between his legs. She spits into her palm and starts tugging at his hard cock with it. Steve isn’t sure of what to do — if he should rub it in this boy’s face or keep this piece of heaven to himself. He decides on that latter when your lips wrap around his leaking tip.

You’ll tell Eddie about all this tomorrow. He’s your best friend, after all — Steve will be doing the same with Robin, no doubt. And that alone is a reward in and of itself.

Getting him into your mouth was easy in theory, but you quickly find that it’s a harder feat than you realized. Steve’s not just long, he’s wide, and the combination makes it nearly impossible to take him fully.

You pay extra attention to his strawberry pink tip to make up for what you can’t reach. He seems to like that more than anything else. Pearly pre-come leaks from there and you happily lap up his dribbling honey. Steve shudders every time your tongue meets his mushroom tip. His cock keeps drooling for you, so you keep doing it.

You work the rest of him with your palm, made slippery with your spit. Your free hand anchors around his thigh.

The combined effort isn’t something Steve’s particularly used to.

Most girls choose one or the other. They either try to swallow him whole or opt to use their hands when they know that they can’t. That is, if they even want to suck him off at all. The foreign attention you give him drives him to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Hey, we should, uh— we should maybe stop,” he cautions tightly.

You detach from the head of his dick with a soft pop, but keep working him slowly with your palm. Your brows pinch together with concern. “You okay? Is it not… Is it not good?”

“What? No! It’s not— It’s not that. It’s great. That’s the… That’s sorta the problem,” Steve assures with an awkward laugh. “I’m not gonna… I probably won’t last much longer. And if you wanna… you know…”

“Fuck?” you finish for him with a teasing grin.

“Yeah. Then we should, you know, maybe stop now.”

Your hand stills at the base of his cock. Steve can finally breathe without the worry of bursting entirely.

“I mean, we can stop if you want to. You know, no pressure or anything, but… I don’t mind. I was sorta looking forward to you coming in my mouth.”

And how the hell was Steve ever going to say no to that — to you? He’s never denied you of anything before, and with that godawful track record, he wasn’t exactly equipped to start now.

Your mouth wraps around him again. You kitten lick at his tip and moan at the musky taste before sucking at his blushing head.

It feels good — it feels great — but he’s plagued with a lingering worry.

He wants so desperately to fuck you, more than he needs to breathe, it feels like. But your mouth is too perfect a thing to deprive himself of. He’s scared it’ll take him too long to get hard again, or worse, that he won’t be able to at all.

The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you, of not making you feel as good as he wants to make you feel, is an unbearable one.

There’s no way he’s stopping you, though. How can he when you’re sucking him off like your life depends on it? Your hand tugs and squeezes at the base of his cock while your tongue laps at his drooling tip. And on top of all that, you moan against him like making him feel good is making you feel good, too.

“Holy shit,” Steve forces through a tightening throat when your tongue dips just below his head to lick where the pale blue vein fades. His neck stretches as he digs the crown of his head into the pillow, revealing all of the pretty tendons you want to sink your teeth into.

“Your mouth is— fuck… Your mouth is fucking perfect, babe, shit.”

All of his little reactions spur you forward.

You want him to keep praising you. You want to keep making his legs shudder and his hips twitch and his cock jerk in your mouth. So you double your efforts, just to hear more of his pretty whines that get stuck in his throat.

When you duck your head to pay the same amount of attention to his balls, Steve’s a total fucking goner.

His hands, both of which were obediently fisting the bedsheets, immediately dart to your hair when you suck his sack into your mouth. One warm palm cradles your jaw while the other clings to the back of your hand. He doesn’t push you or force you to take him further — he just holds you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts before a groan climbs out from his throat. His head falls back again, but he forces it upright a moment later so he can keep on watching you.

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” he manages through heavy pants. “You want my come?”

You nod with his balls still in your mouth, then pull off of them with a pop to put his cock back in your mouth.

Steve gives you exactly what you want no more than ten seconds later, spitting several loads of his come onto your tongue. It tastes like what had been leaking from his tip, just a bit saltier and far more potent with so much of it in your mouth at one time.

Steve’s thighs tremble around you and hips buck wildly despite himself until he’s given you everything he can possibly give to you.

He allows himself only a few moments to relish in the aftermath of his swirling pleasure before reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside table. He rises to his elbows to hand you the napkin when his dick slips from your mouth.

“Here, you can—” he says, trying to offer you something to spit into. It’s a habit he’d developed after the tenth or so girl refused to swallow.

You’ve already wolfed down his come, though, and wiped the excess at the corners of your mouth with the tips of your fingers. You don’t let a single drop of him go to waste.

All this time, Steve assumed he just tasted bad. He figured that must’ve been why no girl ever swallowed for him — not even Nancy, the only other girl he was ever really serious about. And they were together for two years. On the off chance she ever actually wanted to give him a blowjob, he knew her swallowing his come was totally out of the question.

Steve never minded, though. He was a giver more than he was anything else and he preferred most to finish inside. But now, with you, he sees just how much he’d missed out on. It feels a bit strange and unearthly levels of gratifying.

The boy breathes out a laugh and falls back against the mattress. The tissue falls from his limp hand onto the carpeted floor as he revels in his post-orgasmic haze. With his head still swimming and his legs still tingling, his glassy eyes find the speckled ceiling above him but don’t focus on anything in particular.

“Was that—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interjects softly.

There’s no use in asking if you were good or not. Surely, you could answer the question just by looking at him. He’s a puddle of a man in the middle of his bed, pliant and at your mercy.

You giggle and slither in beside him, pressing your mostly bare body into his side. One leg wraps over his own. The warmth of your slick pussy lingers at his hip. You prop your head up with your fist while your other settles along his chest, busying itself with the tufts of hair there.

“That was, like, really good,” you praise with a sheepish beam. You wish you knew bigger words that might be able to describe it better. Really good doesn’t come close to explaining how heavenly it felt to come in his mouth, for him to come in yours. “You certainly lived up to all the rumors, Harrington.”

“You say that like we’re done,” he chuckles at your conclusive tone.

Your eyes flit from his face to his softening cock lying limb on his thigh, then back to his face again. You arch a skeptical brow. “No?”

“Not even close,” he shakes his head defiantly. His honey eyes flit between the both of yours. “I need to fuck you, babe, I just… I need a few minutes. If that, you know— If that’s okay with you…”

“You just give me life-changing head. So, yeah, I think I can give you a couple minutes,” you promise with a playful, but not insincere smile.

Even after having his mouth on you, and your mouth on him, you still like kissing him the most.

No amount of pleasure can sate the feeling of having him so close in this way. There’s nothing equally gratifying as sucking his bottom lip into your mouth or feeling the wet muscle of his tongue running itself over your own. You’d be more than happy to kiss him like this until sunrise.

Steve’s hands stay locked on either side of your head while he pries your mouth open with his own. He’ll occasionally pull back to admire your spit-slick, kiss-bitten lips for a moment or two. Then he’ll flash you a smile, like you’re a piece of finished artwork he’s happy with, before pulling you back down again.

You lean just over him, elbow digging into the pillow beside his head as you rest your weight on your arm. That hand twists itself within the strands of his hair, fingers lazing in the chestnut halo on his head. Your other migrates down his body, touching him with feather-light grazes to coax him hard again.

His stomach tightens when your nails sweep over the thin trail of hair there. His stiffening cock twitches where it lazes along his inner thigh.

“Top or bottom?” the boy mumbles between languid kisses. His eyes flutter open long enough to catch the brief flash of confusion on your face. You don’t stop pressing your lips to his, even amid your uncertainty.

“Like bunks?”

Steve sputters a laugh against your mouth. He pulls away so he can look at you. “No, like— I meant, do you wanna ride me? Or would you rather lay down?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer quickly. You figure the question must’ve puzzled you because no guy has ever asked before. This kindness is still a tad bit foreign. “I just— I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” Steve assures with a smile so soft it has to be sincere.

“Um… I don’t— I mean, I don’t know. Is that, like, something you want me to do?”

His right hand leaves your face to find his cock. He wraps his fist around himself, pumping slowly to keep himself hard for you. “It’s whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just thought it might be easier for you if you were on top. So you can take things at your own pace and everything.”

“Yeah,” you affirm within a heavy exhale. You feel yourself growing wetter at the mere thought of being on top of him like that. You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yeah. Okay.”

It isn’t your first time being in this position, but something about straddling Steve’s hips feels foreign. You’re starting to notice that most things you do with him feels that way — new and strange and alarming. Even the most innocent things, the mundane shit you’ve done a thousand times before, it’s all brand new with him.

You twist your hand behind your back to unclip your bra. Steve watches you with wide eyes like you’re doing some sort of magic trick. When you toss the piece of fabric somewhere on his bedroom floor, he spits into his palm to wet his cock.

His eyes flit from his hand, to your glistening pussy hovering just above his lap, to your face. “You can, uh— You can rub yourself on me, if you want. You know, to get it wetter. I don’t have lube or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” you trail off. I’m more than wet, you’d almost said. That felt a little too overzealous, though, so you settle on telling him: “I’m okay.”

“You’re still on the, um, the pill, right?” he wonders, feeling a bit lame for remembering something you’d said in passing so long ago.

You complained once that birth control made you feel crazy. You said it affected your mood so drastically sometimes that it didn’t feel worth it to take. That was weeks ago. A brief conversation you’d left in the Family Video parking lot.

You nod wordlessly in reply.

Steve holds the base of his cock to keep it steady for you as you pierce yourself with it.

Taking his blushing head was the easiest part. The sensitive tip slips so effortlessly into you, just bulbous enough for you to feel it but not enough to stretch you out. It’s a Goldilocks just right sort of feeling that has low moans crawling from the depths of your throats.

Down, down, down a couple more inches and that’s when the ache starts to set in.

His girth stretches you in an unfamiliar, but no less satisfying way. As good as it feels, the burning sensation is a hard one to ignore. It’s like a fire, a distant one. It’s sort of like reaching your hand toward a flame while your brain screams at you to not get any closer.

It’s a lot like that, actually.

Your brain cautions you about taking him any deeper than you have now lest he might totally split you in half.

“Sorry— Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sputter suddenly, a little embarrassed that he’s only a couple of inches within you and you’re already having so much trouble. With your chin tilted towards your chest and your eyes squeezed shut, you refuse to meet Steve’s concerned gaze. “It’s just… It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he assures quickly. He rubs two soothing hands along your hips and fights back the urge to thrust further into you. You don’t see the gentle smile he looks at you with your eyes closed. “Take your time.”

A little over a minute and a pep talk later, you finally build up the courage to sit on him fully. Come, you can do it, your inner voice spits at you. Stop being a baby. It’s just a penis, don’t be such a bitch.

Your face scrunches when you slide slowly down upon him. Steve expects you to stop and take a break for anothera moment like you’d done just before. He’s more than surprised when you try to take him completely.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t have to— holy shit, babe— don’t hurt yourself— fuuuck.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally sheathed within your pulsating pussy. A lazy, lopsided smile makes its way to your lips, delirious with pleasure and pride.

Both of you exhale faraway moans at the new feeling, heads falling back on their own accord. You’re already more than gratified and you haven’t even moved yet. He’s reaching parts of you that most guys don’t on their best day, making you feel full without trying. Even without his thrusting, the minuscule twitches of his cock are already driving you toward an orgasm.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him suddenly, smiling lazily at the ceiling.

Steve’s adams apple bobs as he swallows. Then he nods.

“I’m already really fucking close,” you confess with a breathless laugh, face crumbling under the weight of your pleasure halfway through.

Steve chuckles, then groans quietly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too.”

You laugh together and your coinciding embarrassment fades like an ebbing tide. The intimate confessions affirm what you were already more than aware of — that the both of you are just a couple of lovesick idiots who are head over heels for each other and in so far over your heads that you can barely breathe.

You’re spurred on by the sight below you. Steve’s wild hair and amber eyes and swollen pink mouth make you ravenous. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like the sight of you makes him hungry too, as you start to grind your hips over his lap.

He guides your rhythm with two wide hands on your hips. Your pace is slow, every roll of your hips is experimental, and he revels in every second of it.

You start by rocking back and forth over his lap, then by moving in small circles to add stimulation. When get more confident, you lift yourself up and down over his cock. He’s able to hit your most sensitive spot that way. Steve seems to like it too, because you feel the subtle jerks of his responsive cock.

He accommodates your every move — thrusting his hips in time with your bouncing, then flexing them to reach as deep as he can within you.

“That’s it…” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not exactly trying to praise you, but his words send lightning strikes of pleasure to your pussy anyway. He keeps babbling to himself. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that…”

You support yourself with your palms on his hairy chest when you double your efforts on top of him. Steve groans at the lewd sound of your slick thighs clapping over his lap every time you move down on his cock. Your cunt quickly drenches his lower stomach and the small thatch of pubic hair just below it.

You too easily forget that fucking is a marathon and not a sprint.

You overexert yourself quickly in your attempt to rush toward an orgasm and the effects of your sudden fatigue make your legs feel numb.

“Sorry,” you apologize breathlessly when you’re bouncing slows to a stop. You collapse to your elbows, nose nearly grazing Steve’s, as you swivel your hips slowly over his lap. You try to laugh at yourself. “My legs are just getting a little tired… I haven’t done this in a while if you couldn’t tell.”

Steve smiles sympathetically up at you. His hands leave the plush of your hips to cradle your jaw. He gazes at you with a stern sort of gentleness. “Stop apologizing. You’re good,” he promises, then pulls you softly down to peck your mouth.

He rolls his hips up into you and grunts when it makes you whine. “So fucking good…”

Steve tells you to tuck your knees further up his torso and you obey without thinking. You tuck your face into his shoulder and let him cradle the back of your head with one hand while the other settles on your ass.

He grips you there rather shamelessly, fingers digging into your plump skin, while he bends his knees behind you. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up into you without warning.

His pace is already a relentless one, having no need to work himself up to a rapid pass as you had. Being basketball team captain has done wonders for his stamina, it seems. He drills up into you and keeps drilling into you without tiring.

He keeps you securely pressed against him all the while and you relax into his embrace, happily letting him fuck you in his own delicious rhythm as he’d done for you.

The new position stimulates you from all angles. Steve’s hard cock pounds into your weeping pussy. Your swollen clit catches the coarse hair on his taut stomach with each of his thrusts. Your pebbled nipples drag along his furry chest.

It leaves you a whining, writhing mess on top of him.

“You like this?” he murmurs in your ear through broken pants.

He’s partly teasing you. He knows you mustlike what he’s doing to some degree because you’re moaning something fierce into his neck, peppering too sweet kisses in between your pretty whines. But he also wants to know that you like it. He wants to hear you say the words.

He feels you nod against his shoulder. “Yes...” You sigh, then whimper. “Yes, yes yes—”

“I knew you did,” he affirms. You can hear the smile on his face. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. You’re not sure if you particularly care either.

His stubbly jaw grazes your cheek when he turns his head to press a kiss to the burning skin. “Knew you’d like it… Takin’ my dick like a fuckin’ champ, babe.”

“Wanna be good for you,” you confess against his sweat-slicked skin, your voice high and wet like you’re close to crying.

Steve tugs at your hair, not enough to hurt you, just enough to pull you from the refuge you’d sought in the nook of his neck. He finds that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, brows pinching and swollen lips softly agape. His amber eyes are just as wild, heavy with hunger.

“You are good for me, baby,” he promises and seals it with a searing kiss to your wet mouth. He means it in more ways than one and prays you understand. “You’re so good for me… Fucking perfect, babe— shit—”

His cock twitches in your snug slick when you clench around him. He tightens the grip he’s got on your ass and spreads you wider to pound harder into you. You hope his scorching touch will leave bruises come morning. You want to remember how it felt to have him touching you this way.

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna…” you start, then whimper when you feel the familiar pleasure start to crescendo once more. It takes a moment for the words to return to you. “I’m about to come.”

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

Your lidded gaze widens. You peer down at him, bemused by his sudden request. “Huh?”

“Touch yourself for me,” he repeats, groaning when the request makes you tighten around him. “Want this to be good for you, too.”

He says this like you’re not already in heaven. You listen to him anyway, though, and squeeze your hand between your slick bodies to find your sensitive button. You rub at your clit until your thighs tremble around his waist. You try your best to ride through every bolt of lightning the pleasure shoots down your spine, despite the distant fear that you won’t be able to weather them.

“Yeah, there you go,” he praises lowly. “Keep rubbing your clit for me…”

Your free hand stays locked in his hair. Your grip tightens within the chocolate strands as you near your peak. Steve revels in the ache, groaning into your shoulder when the burn at his scalp spreads.

You’re already gut-wrenchingly close. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, a struck chord crescendoing — and then Steve changes the angle of his hips. He flexes them suddenly and his thick cock probes something much deeper inside of you. Something that’s never been touched before — not by another guy or a toy or you.

It’s tender, and much more sensitive than your clit. Your vision strays for a brief moment as a white-hot flame of pleasure makes you jerk against him. You gasp sharply, then forget how to breathe when a moan gets caught in your throat. Your hand stills between your slick bodies as you freeze on top of him.

The wet cry finally spills from your mouth after several long seconds. It’s as long and delicate and wet as the orgasm you gush around Steve’s cock.

The flame burns red hot just before you come, then turns to simmering embers when your cunt numbs from the intense pleasure. You blink, and suddenly the fire is burning blue. The rest of your body becomes a casualty to the inferno.

“Yeah? Is that the spot, baby?” you hear Steve wonder. He murmurs the words in your ear, but you don’t hear them. They sound muffled and far away.

You hope he doesn’t expect you to answer. You’re not entirely sure if you can form words anymore, or any actual conceivable thoughts. All you can do is suffer through every overwhelming wave of your orgasm that leaves you a crying and convulsing mess on Steve’s lap.

“Holy fuck—”

The boy slams his hips against you with a final, dense clap that sounds deafening in the quiet of his bedroom. Your gushing and fluttering cunt milks his cock. The feeling of your weeping pussy and the sound of your pretty whines throw him headfirst into his own orgasm. His thrusts still as he twitches within you. A moment later, you feel the subtle tingle at the base of your spine when he spits his come inside of you.

His come paints your welcoming, rippling walls. It’s warm, like the first sip of coffee in the morning or fuzzy socks on cold feet. It blankets you in a sinful comfort.

Steve noses at your cheek while he rides the high of his climax. He rolls his hips slowly into you, much softer now that his cock has grown so sensitive. He clamps his mouth shut between his teeth to stifle his too loud moans and desperate whines. They’re forced to crawl from his throat as suffocated grunts.

You mourn the loss of not seeing his face while you’re tucked so securely into the nape of his neck. It’s a work of art you can imagine so clearly — his pinched brows and scrunched nose and parted lips. But you relish in the searing hold he has on you now, happy to hold and to be held.

The shuddering is slow to subside, especially from you. The aftershocks of your orgasm keep your hips spasming over his lap. Steve groans into your shoulder every time your pussy quivers around his softening cock.

And then the two of you just lay there. You hold onto each other and try to catch your breaths. With the both of you covered in a fine sheen of sweat, your skin sticks together with every tiny movement. The feeling of it makes you smile. You feel like the two of you really are melting together.

Steve’s fingers part from your wild strands of hair and take to tracing the expanse of your damp back. You hum in contentment at the feeling, nuzzling your nose up and down the right side of his neck.

The moment is melted ice cream and early morning rain and marshmallow fluff. It’s spring mornings on the porch and warm breezes in the fall. It’s a soft and familiar thing that’s still so, so new.

You think you could spend forever here, if you had to. In Steve’s bed and in Steve’s lap and with all of Steve’s languid touches.

But sex is different when you’re an adult.

When you’re a teenager, you get to be irresponsible. Carelessness sort of comes with the territory. You have sex in a dirty bathroom of a bar you snuck into and don’t think twice about the implications of any it. But as an adult with bills and a nine-to-five and groceries you’ve got to get once a week, all you can think about is how inconvenient a UTI would be.

“I should probably use the bathroom,” you murmur, already grieving the loss of his touch before you’ve even parted from him.

You leave the safety of his neck to peer down at him. His heavy lids mirror your own.

“I have this thing where if I don’t piss after sex, I feel like I’m gonna be, like, cursed or something. Kinda like when you break a mirror and you’re stuck with shit luck for seven year— or however that dumb superstition goes,” you ramble, voice heavy with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “Anyway. Yeah. Plus, I should probably clean up, too.”

Steve breathes out a laugh at your sudden prattling but humors you nonetheless.

Somehow you manage to pry yourselves off of each other — you, feeling significantly emptier without him inside you and Steve, already shivering with the lack of your warmth all over him.

You separate just long enough for him to wet a washcloth in the sink while you piss just a couple feet away from him. The bathroom connected to his bedroom seems to be a foreign sight for you — a least, that’s what he assumes because you rave so enthusiastically about it the entire time.

It’s all Steve’s ever known, though, so he finds it difficult to do anything but nod along with your rambling. More than anything, he’s glad you’re not as weighed down by the domesticity of the moment as he is. Because he, for one, feels a little like he’s been hit by a freight train.

Perhaps spending so many years all alone has made him sensitive to closeness.

You sit on the marble countertop and rest your forehead on his shoulder while he cleans you up. He runs the warm cloth along your delicate folds and wipes away traces of your slick and his come that glisten on your thighs. He pleats the rag and does the same to his softening cock and surrounding skin.

It feels so strangely intimate, more than the sex somehow.

Steve tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and gives you a faded Hawkins Phys. Ed tee to change into. The loose fabric and baggy fit feels much more familiar than the costume you’d initially arrived in. He might be happier than you are, though, to finally get to see you in your most natural state — makeup sufficiently smudged away and ill-suited clothes forgotten on his floor.

You crawl beneath the mussed navy comforter of his bed and smush your face into his pillow. “See? The dino sheets aren’t so bad, are they?” the boy teases when you hum in contentment.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles in beside you.

You smile but don’t open your eyes. “I’m just sleepy… Sue me.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

“It’s your fault,” you argue, voice dripping with exhaustion. Your skin purrs as he reaches blindly beneath the covers to rub his palm along your forearm.

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning, ‘kay?” he promises, then laughs when you smirk and raise your brows — eyes still shut. “Not like that, you perv. I was talking about breakfast. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

You tell him you’re looking forward to it, to breakfast in bed and breakfast in bed. He falls further for you somehow, despite his lingering disdain for your silly little innuendos. It’s the price you have to pay when you love someone, he figures, like when your crush gets a bad haircut or has shit music taste.

It’s a quirk he welcomes along with your many others — your rambling and forgetfulness and social unawareness and inability to sit still. All your little idiosyncrasies weren’t obstacles he had to get over to love you, just more reasons for him to.

And it isn’t this one-sided thing, either. Most people would look at the two of you — at the dowager king and local freak — and they’d think he was doing charity work to love you. But Steve’s got peculiarities of his own.

His best friends are a fourteen-year-old nerd and a closeted lesbian because they were the first two people in his life that didn’t judge him. He chews on the ends of pens and pencils, and his handwriting is shit because he never cared about school. He buys things without ever looking the price tag, then leaves them to collect dust in his room because he never really needed them anyway. He still feels the need to be the center of attention sometimes because the faintest hint of disregard makes him feel neglected.

These are all things you’re aware of. Most of them came with being the wealthy, popular kid from the right side of the tracks. And you liked him anyway — no, you liked him because of them. You adored him through all the heavy shit, and here he was, doing a shit job at pretending to like metal music and horror movies.

“Are you asleep?” Steve wonders after a few moments of velvet silence. He’s still looking at you, one arm propped beneath his hand and the other toying with your fingers splayed on the mattress between you. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at you.

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Your heart stops at the innocent question, tired eyes flying immediately open and knocking you out of your fatigued stupor.

All of a sudden, it’s 1984 again. You’re the weirdo who bites people and Steve’s royalty who’ll fuck anything that walks — and here you are, in bed with the asshole. For a moment, you expect Tommy Hagan to bust out of the closet with a tape recorder and for Steve to tell you this was all just some stupid bet.

It’s a pang of blue lightning, an ice pick to your abdomen, that lasts no more than a couple of seconds.

Internally, you curse yourself for getting so worked up. You make a promise to yourself to work on all that — the regressing and the disbelief that comes with the not-feeling-good-enough bullshit.

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

“I don’t actually like Dio. Or Def Leppard,” he confesses, finding it hard to meet your gaze like a child who’s been caught in a lie. He focuses on running his thumb over the irregular pattern of your chipped nailpolish. “And I don’t collect vinyls either, not really. I just… I kinda just said those things so you’d like me.”

And, compared to the web you were just spinning in your head, that’s nothing.

“Ooh,” you wince playfully. “Def Leppard I could take, but Dio? I don’t know… That might be a dealbreaker, Harrington.”

He only smiles because he can tell you’re making fun. “I could learn to like them, you know? If it means that much to you. That’s what we’re doing now, right? Loving things on purpose?”

You capture your smile with your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes sparkle at him when you nod. “Yeah… We are.”

“Which means you could learn to like football and Bruce Springsteen,” Steve jokes and shifts on the mattress so he’s closer to you.

Your feet bump together, then entwine effortlessly. He plops his head on the same pillow you’re using. The proximity leaves your faces no more than a couple inches apart.

You scrunch your nose, wondering if you should hide your disgust in his playful request or make a joke out of it. You don’t do either. “I could… If it means I get to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he scoffs. “Good luck, getting rid of me, Punchy.”

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

He’s smiling like he’s kidding, but you can tell there’s an edge of self-loathing to his tone.

Your hand crawls from beneath his own and settles on his stubbly jaw. You run your thumb over the cheek, effectively sealing your promise into the blushing apple of it. “I’m never gonna get sick of you, Steve Harrington.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head against the pillow, then shove the side of your face further into it when you get nervous. There’s a timid quirk to the corners of your lips and a more sheepish glint in your eye. “You don’t get sick of people you love,” you tell him.

Steve opens his mouth to retort. He wants to tell you that he gets sick of Dustin all the time, but that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the little shit. He gets sick of milkshakes and pizza and Cheers re-runs when he consumes too much of them in a single setting, but he loves all those things too.

You get sick of things because you love them, he reasons, because you love them too hard and you hate how much you need them.

He doesn’t get the chance to argue any of this, though.

“Not when you love them on purpose,” you clarify with a sunshine-coated grin.

That shuts him up real quick.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #stevie oneshot #st oneshots #punchy x steve

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mypoisonedvine · 9 months

Note

Kitten with a reader who loves body worshiping her but genuinley feels wierd being Touched intimately (but is severely touch starved), so kitten restraines reader to finally be able to touch and kiss them

OH LORD THIS IS VERY REAL FOR ME WOW

warnings: kinda dubious consent?, oral f receiving, bondage, established relationship, extreme fluff

"I'm almost scared to ask what you're up to," you mumbled as Kitten showed you the silky ropes, her grin growing even wider.

"Haven't you ever tried it?" she asked.

"E-erm, no, not really," you shrugged. "But we can, if you want."

"I do," she assured. "Right now."

"Oh," you laughed, "eager, hm? Alright-- I can't deny, I think you'll look pretty all tied up in these."

"Oh, I would, sweetie-- but these are for you," she giggled, making your eyes go wide.

"Me?!" you choked. "What am I supposed to do, all tied up?!"

"You're supposed to lay back and let me use you," she winked, pushing you back onto the bed as you blinked up at her in shock.

Even though you still hadn't quite wrapped your head around the whole idea, you ended up with your wrists tied to the bed, Kitten hovering over you with a wide smile-- because she was just persuasive like that. Still, you felt oddly exposed, as if she hadn't seen you naked hundreds of times... but she didn't usually see you like this, basically spread eagle and trapped here for her to do whatever she pleased.

Too curious not to ask, you swallowed the lump in your throat and spit it out: "What is it you plan on doing to me, exactly?" you asked.

"Something you wouldn't let me do if you weren't tied up," she laughed, leaning down to kiss you-- and then the kiss started to move, lower and lower, as she slowly and gently spoiled you with sweet kisses down your stomach.

"Fuck," you breathed softly, trying to fight off the discomfort and insecurity that clawed at the back of your mind as she gave you all this attention. "Don't feel like being more specific?" you pressed.

"I just wanna... worship you," she whispered, making your heart skip.

"You know I'm always down for a little sacrilege," you sighed, "but me? Am I really worth--?"

"Shh," she stopped you with a finger over your lips. "Enough of that. You're worth the world. You're my world. And you won't even let me say it, let alone show it, without getting all snippy with me!"

She spread your legs open and hummed as she looked between them, making you shudder with nervousness.

"I mean, you shower me in affection every night-- at least-- and you won't even let me tell you how beautiful--" she kissed your thigh-- "and sexy--" she kissed a little higher-- "and lovely you are? It's just not fair, love."

"W-well, it isn't," you admitted, "but I just prefer--"

"Maybe tonight isn't about what you prefer," she pouted. "Maybe I'm in charge and you're tied up with no way to stop me. Now zip it and let me lick you all over, you little devil."

You couldn't fight the shudder that ran over you, nodding hazily. "O-okay, Kit-- if you say so..."

But still, you weren't quite expecting her to start where she did, running her tongue over your raised nipple slowly-- you couldn't help but whine through your teeth, shutting your eyes for a second.

"K-Kitten," you panted, whimpering when she suckled on the bud for a moment. "Oh, Christ--"

"Now now, it's only Saint Kitten," she corrected with a wink, "and it's you we're supposed to be worshipping."

She started to kiss you all over once again, humming praises along her way: so pretty or look how sweet you are or even sometimes I can't believe I get you all to myself, darling. It was more affection than you were ever prepared to handle, and you sometimes had to shut your eyes tight just to try to tolerate it.

"I love this part of you, right here," she cooed as she softly tickled the curve of your waist. "It's hard to pick a favourite, though... maybe your shoulders? So fun to hold onto while you're fucking me with that pretty strap of yours-- or maybe your lips, you know I could kiss you for hours, and that's not to even mention all those lovely, filthy things you say with those pretty lips..."

"Kitten," you pleaded nervously, your face so hot you worried she could feel it somehow, "I-I don't know what to do with all this attention."

"Say 'thank you'," she instructed simply. "That's the polite thing to do when you get a compliment. Let's practice: I'll say, 'I could taste your sweet little cunt all day,' and you'll say..."

"Th-thank you," you choked out, hearing her purr as she leaned down and licked a little stripe up the seam of your pussy for emphasis. "Fuck!"

"I can't believe you hardly ever let me eat you out," she groaned, "you're so delicious, darling. And look how wet you get! Oh, to think you let all that lovely juice go to waste-- mm. Shameful, s'what it is, just shameful."

"Kitten, please," you choked, moaning louder as she latched onto you again. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at you in the sweetest way, almost a pleading look like she needed to know that she was doing well for you. "F-feels good," you admitted softly, and you could feel her smile as she slid her tongue inside you-- that was when your head fell back, you couldn't resist it anymore. "God, yes-- fuck!"

Her hands pet your thighs softly, pulling your hips a little closer so she could bury her face harder into you. Your whole body quivered, the sensations nearly overwhelming after all that teasing she'd done...

"I'm gonna come," you blurted out, and she moaned against you-- into you, really. "Fuck, Kitten... you'll make me come."

Maybe you'd expected, or even hoped, that saying that would make her stop for a moment to taunt you for your weak stamina, but instead she just doubled down on her efforts, holding your hips still with a tight grip when you tried to buck them away.

'Fuck, fuck!" you yelped, feeling it start to take over you-- tears were stinging your eyes, and not just from the way her nose bumped perfectly against your clit when her tongue was thrusting inside you; you'd been struggling to hold them back all this time, overwhelmed by her kindness.

It hit you rather suddenly, and Kitten only stopped what she was doing when you kicked your legs hard enough to nearly hit her-- though thank god you didn't, you wouldn't forgive yourself if you hurt her somehow. "Oh, beautiful," she praised the second she broke away, giving a little peck of a kiss to your aching clit before kissing all over your thighs, stomach, breasts-- and your face again, guiding you into a sloppy and needy open-mouthed kiss that tasted strongly of your own arousal. "So beautiful when you come," she went on in a whisper, her hands delicately holding your face.

She untied your wrists quickly, letting you wrap her up in your arms as you kissed her harder, pulling her into you. "I love you so much," you breathed against her lips. "God, Kitten, I'm nothing without you--"

"Oh, don't get on that again," she rolled her eyes, "we'll be here all night. Just let me tell you how much I love you and let's leave it at that, alright?"

"But--"

"Shh, darling, you've said enough," she insisted, "or should I get you a gag to match those ropes."

You swallowed thickly, and she laughed with sick delight.

"You're too fun to tease, darling," she explained with a wink.

#kitten braden x reader #kitten braden smut #OOF MY HEART

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robinismywifee · 1 year

Text

straight girl || e. williams

pairings ellie williams x fem!oc/reader

summary maria sends a straight girl with a boyfriend and ellie williams, a gay girl with a girlfriend, to go on a trip together but an unexpected storm traps them in a cabin. takes place in jackson, one bed trope? 19 y/o ellie, no spoilers, 3rd person pov, ellie has a crush on oc

warnings NSFW, fingering (r. receiving), scissoring?, pet names (babe, good girl), cheating, slight masturbation??

a/n be aware that aime is an oc and dont feel insecure or anything if she looks nothing like you, youre literally beautiful trust me, also you can always find my oneshots on my wattpad, also feel free to request stories 💕

wordcount 5.8k

ellie has always felt different towards aime. ever since she was 14, right when she first layed her eyes on her, she never took them off.

how she always walked around with a hudge smile on her face, her smile was so perfect, and her uneven white teeth only made it more perfect

when they first met, she had a soft pitch voice, and had soft features, making her face look so innocent and adorable, but as the years went on, her voice got deeper and more raspy, making her more captivating and euphonic, she still had softer features, but they almost shifted in a way to make her more elegant

along with her face and voice changing over the years, ellie noticed her body changed too, she grew more curves, her stomach always layed flat but her breasts were full, and from what you could see when she wore her laced tanktops she loved, they sat perfectly too..

something about her and her sandy blonde hair was just so alluring to ellie.

ellie wouldnt say she had a crush on her, the only time they would talk was during patrol, exchanging simple words and short sentences, or if they walked by, aime would make sure to smile at her and wave, but they never failed to make ellies mind freak out—

am i talking too much? is my hair okay? shit she looks so fucking hot. how do i make her laugh without making it seem like im trying too hard? what? did she just complement me? holy shit i think im gonna pass out. how can someone look so goddamn hot while doing literally anything?

—are typical things ellies mind would be yelling.

aime was well known around jackson, well known for being pretty, nice, happy, and hardworking

her looks never failed to amaze people, practically all the teenagers of jackson has asked her out, and she was really nice, if she knew your name and if you werent rude to her or other people (who dont deserve it), she would make sure to smile at you walking by, which is why anytime she saw ellie, she would give a warm smile, she also liked complimenting people, seeing there faces brighten up from a simple comment made her face brighten up, and all her compliments were always genuine, she would never lie and say she liked a shirt on someone if she didnt, which is also why she would compliment ellie, ellie was easy to compliment, she was so beautiful and nobody talked about her enough- plus ellies reaction everytime made aimes face yank a big smile, ellie would always get blushed cheeks and flustered

aime only ever did hard and dangerous work, she did patrols a lot, keeping the bad away from her people, and she was talented on trips, if for any reason she got kicked out of jackson, she would survive. she had great agility, knowledge, it wasnt her thing but she knew how to track and hunt, she scavenged better then others, she wasnt the strongest, but she definitely knew how to win a fight, usuing her smaller size to her advantage. she was smart, and she was genuinely a happy person.

"i know aime is like, really good with trips, ive gone on them with her before, but just the two of us? i mean seriously?" ellie complained to dina, "i don't get why your angry, shes a nice girl and shes a good person to go on a trip with" dina shurgged, dina and aime were actually good friends, not close per say, but they hung out when they could, if aime didnt constantly drown herself in work she would have more time for friends and dina, but for the past two months it was either work or daniel

ellie stayed silence at dinas remark, so dina continued, "you know.. before her and daniel started dating, you liked her, always coming home from those patrols ranting to me about how she complimented you and was super hot as she killed an infected, but now that shes dating him you hate her? why?"

this caused ellie to stop packing her bag and look up to dina, "dina, her dating some random guy i dont know has nothing to do with this! i just dont want to go on a whole ass trip alone with her, its gonna be awkward!" ellie defended, but they both knew that wasnt why ellie was so mad, "the trip youve known about for 2 days? really? thats weird, considering you've been mad and annoyed at her for the past 2 months"

"its just- you and her use to go on those 'friend dates' or whatever you weirdos call it, like every month, and now that she has a boyfriend she cant make room for you? or any other of her friends? like, if you walk by her, shes with her stupid boyfriend, holding hands and giggling like, what can he say to make you laugh like that? probably some stupid joke that isnt even funny, i dont even get why she likes him, hes ugly with his ugly hair and he's completely useless, he does nothing and he probably isnt even dating her for her!" ellie ranted, throwing things into her bag for the trip

dina laughed.

ellies head shot up to her, "what? why are you laughing? you asked!" ellie said frustrated, "you're totally jealous, arent you?" dina smirked, "what? jealous? dina shut up! you know im dating cat!" ellie said, growing more and more frustrated by the minute

"okay yeah, but you have liked aime for wayyyy longer then cat" dina remarked, "i dont like aime! i just think shes hot, and literally everyone else with eyes thinks that so shut it" ellie groaned, zipping her bag and running out of her door, dina laughed some more, "wait up!" she said through her laughs

the sound of the horses feet clacking on the ground filled the empty forest.

"so howd you sleep?" aime asked, trying to spark a conversation. they had just left, and it was awkward between the two. ellie had been avoiding aime- for the past 2 months- changing patrol partners and running behind corners when she saw her to prevent that spark she felt in her stomach when she smiled at her

"fine" ellie mumbled, "oh, well, better then bad" aime remarked, "mhm" ellie hummed dryly, they rode their horses side by side in silence for a little, "i havent spoken to you in awhile, how's your life been?" aime asked, looking over to the girl, "the same" ellie said, looking down at the horses mane, aime looked away from ellie, down to her horses mane, trying to think of ways to get her ranting like how she use to to her

"can you tell me more about astronomy?" aime asked, thinking back to how she told her about it a few months ago, "uh.. why?" ellie said blankly, "sorry.. just thought you liked that stuff, and its fun to talk about stuff you like, you know?" aime explained, cheeks red embarrassed

aime was confused of why ellie was acting so different from usual, usually ellie would be cracking jokes and puns, telling funny stories, ranting about things she liked.. and ellie did seem to disappear for awhile, did she do something wrong? i mean, ellie wasnt even looking at her, it wasnt weird for ellie to avoid eye contact, she actually did that alot, but she wouldnt even glance in her direction.

while aime was trying to figure it out, ellies mind kept on repeating over and over and over again, aime and daniel stupid kissing and 'i love yous' right before they left.

"hey ellie" aime said, first time speaking in at least 2 hours, "hm?" ellie hummed, "did i do something wrong? because im really sorry if i did, but could you tell what it is that i did? i would never do anything wrong to hurt you on purpose, ever, in my whole life, and i sorta just spent however long we've been out trying to figure it out and i cant" aime ranted, which was sorta out of charater for aime, and aime apologizing for something that isnt her fault made ellie finally look over at her with sad eyes

it wasnt aimes fault that she felt like this, it was her own fault for letting something so small get to her, and she just wasted hours of aimes time for her to try and figure it out. thats what ellie though, and it made her feel like shit.

aime was suprised ellie was looking at her, and confused of ellies emotion displayed on her face- it looked like guilt.

"you didn't do anything aime, dont be sorry, im just tired" ellie said to her, hoping aime would believe she was just tired, but aime didnt believe that it was that, somethings going on

"hey, theres the cabin tommy was talking about, like a few miles up ahead, should we take a rest and eat there?" aime asked ellie, looking down at the map unfolded out infront of her while still riding the horse

"yeah, its getting dark" ellie agreed with her, looking up at the clouded sky, it was pretty sunny yesterday, this morning it was partly cloudy, and now all you could see were clouds, aime didnt think too much about it since last she checked they were bright white ones, but as she watched ellie looking up at the sky she did too, now noticing the clouds turning grey

"you think it will start raining before we get there?" aime asked, folding the map away and sliding it in her pocket, "i dunno.. im more worried about how long its gonna last, if you look more east the clouds are really dark, it might be a bad storm and we would have to wait it out" ellie explained her thoughts

"true.. but atleast we're gonna have shelter, could you imagine how bad it would be if we weren't by the cabin?" aime smiled, trying to brighten ellies mood, "yea, that would suck" ellie scoffed, aime, smiled a little bit more, happy that ellie gave more emotion instead of blankly humming as a response

"so the cabins just east?" ellie asked, looking over at aime for an answer, aime still smiling, now smiling because ellie was actually looking at her, maybe she was just tired.

"yeah, no sharp turns or anything i dont think, as long as we keep going straight it'll come into view" aime nodded, "perfect.. straight towards the storm" ellie mumbled, "it probably wont be that bad, ellie" aime tried to reason, but ellie was caught off guard by aime using her name

"y- yeah.." she stuttered

ellie and aime pushed the bookshelf infront of the front door of the cabin, their clothes dripping wet, the thunderstorm whistling and lighting jumping, the sound of rain dropplets slamming against the windows

"shit" ellie panted, "its way worse then i thought it'd be" she said, catching her breath, "yea.. its pretty bad" aime agreed, also out of breath, the rain had started about half a mile before they got to the cabin, and when it was in view it started pouring, then it get even worse with hard rain and loud thunder, they had to run and tie up their horsed in a shed, and run into the cabin as fast as they could to prevent getting even more wet, but here they stood, soaked

ellie looked at amie confused, "what? do i look bad with wet hair?" aime asked, pushing the hair that stuck to her face behind her ears, suddenly feeling insecure under ellies gaze

"bad? no you can never look bad, i just didnt exepct you to agree on me with that instead of trying to convince me happy things" ellie explained to the girl, aime smiled at ellies compliment, which ellie didnt even realize she gave

ellie turned her head to look around the cabin, she immediately spotted a mirror, she walked over to it, taking out her tangled bun, pushing her hair behind her ears and started messing with her bangs

aime watched her doing it, if i was a guy id have the biggest crush on her, aime though, walking over to her, standing shoulder to shoulder, ellie stopped fiddling with her hair and started fiddling with her hands looking down

"you're really pretty ellie, cats lucky to date you" aime smiled looking to her, ellies head stayed down, but aime noticed a blush creep onto ellies face

ellie felt like she could collapse at her calling her pretty and using her name, but the though of cat made guilt consume her. how can she date someone but think about anyother person way more? or how can she get crazy butterflies in her stomach when some random girl calls her pretty but doesnt really feel anything when her own girlfriend does?

ellie did like cat, she did, but ellie was starting to think she didnt really like her. she was fun to be around and she made her smile, she also liked how cat didnt care what others thought of their relationship, but everytime her and cat would go by aime, ellie would always pull away from cat, untangling her hands from her, putting them in her pocket or pretending to scrach her arm until aime was out of view.

"did you bring any extra clothes?" aimes voice snapped ellies thoughts away, "uh.." ellie looked up at her, "i dont think i have any pants since they would fit in my bag but everything else yea" ellie thought, "i think i only have a tanktop and boxer breifs" aime mumbled, taking her bag off her shoulders and turning around-

she was too focused on watching ellie she didnt even have time to look around, and ellie was too focused on making herself look presentable to look around

ellie turned around too, the cabin was really small, they already knew that from the outside but it seemed smaller on the inside

there was one big bed, queen size maybe, a small kitchen and a two person dinner table, a big carpet, and a fireplace, there was also a door by the kicthen, probably the bathroom

okay, good, theres a comfy bed for us, aime thought, before walking over to the kicthen, setting her bag on the counter before opening ir and pulling out her clothes. she didnt mind sharing a bed at all, she shared beds with whe friends all the time, even with twin sized ones, it wasnt weird

ellie stood there with widened eyes, the thought of sharing a bed with her made her feel warm, but she shook her head and walked by aime, setting her bag down next to her and looking for her clothes

while ellie was trying to find her socks, she saw in the corner of her eye, aime slipping off her jacket, which was whatever, but then she pulled off her shirt and reached for the buttons of her pants, ellies face went red, she tried to focuse herself on finding the socks in her bag, but her peripheral vision wasn't allowing it, so she mindlessly shuffled through her bag making it seem like she didnt notice

but aime knew ellie noticed her changing, aime watched her face go pink as she slipped off her pants, she smiled to herself, shes so cute, if i was a guy i'd have the biggest crush on her, aime thought to herself

"you finding your clothes okay?" aime teased, ellie felt her face get even hotter, shit shes so hot- "u- uh, yea, just fine" ellie stuttered, moving her back so aime wasnt in her peripheral vision anymore so she could actually focus on finding them

aime got completely nude, as the rain had soaked through her clothes and her underwear and bra were soaked, slipping on white boxer breifs and a white V cut tanktop, her bag was really full and these were the only clothes she could fit as they were thin and tiny

aime walked over to the fireplace, sitting infront of it. once ellie had her clothes layed out, on the counter, she peeked her head thinking aime was still behind her, but she wasnt, so ellie looked over her other shoulder to see her on her knees trying to started a fire, ellie watched as her damp hair dripped down her back, going through her thin white too and down to her shorts, ellie couldnt help but stare at her ass.

aime felt eyes on her, she peeked her head over her shoulder to see ellie immediately moving her head away from her, aime smilied to herseld before going back to the fire

ellie turned her back to face aime, before getting undressed, placing her heavy wet clothes next to aimes, as ellie got changed, she stared at aimes light pink laced bra that layed on the counter, she started to get butterflies as she pictured what aime would look like in it, she shook her head feeling grossed out by herself and turned around now clothed

aime heard ellie walk over to the now lit fire, she moved her head to look up at ellie, aime didnt know it but her face went a shade of pink seeing ellie in a thick strapped white tanktop, it was tight but long, covering half her underwear- her underwear being greyish purple and sort of boxer breifs like aimes exepct hers were a lot shorter.

as ellie sat down next to aime, aime pulled out two cans of chef boyardiee ravioli, she passed ellie a can along with plastic forks, the only noises being heard was the fire crackling and the heavy rain- followed by thunder almost every minute

"so how are you and cat?" aime asked, eating the now warmed ravioli, ellie stayed quiet for a minute, "we're good" ellie shortly replied, aime nodded, "i really like the tattoo she gave you, you look super good with it" aime smiled, making eye contact with her

ellie got red from that (again) "so.. uhm.. how are you and daniel" ellie asked, trying to return the question, but her voice came out bitter, aime didnt realize ellies tone, now stuck in thought if her boyfriend she didnt like, aime shrugged, "i dont know"

ellies eyebrows scrunched, "what do you mean you dont know?" she asked her, watching aime as she stared into the fire, trying to stop her eyes from going down to her cleavage, "uh, its nothing, i do like him but hes just very needy and- touchy" aime tried to explain without outting herself for not liking him at all

"how so?" ellie asked, now invested, she thought they had the perfect relationship, "he basically moved in with me without asking, he complains that i work too much, and like.. he always tries to get me to do it with him, but i don't want to yet" aime said, she whished she wanted to, but everytime he would touch her she just would squirm away and would feel gross

ellie was dumbfounded, "wait? you guys havent done it yet?" she really thought they did it like every night, aime shook her head, "have you and cat?" aime asked, placing the empty can to the side, "maybe" ellie simply replied, aime nodded, "i figured" she said, taking a sip of water

"whats that supposed to mean?" ellie asked, "like every couple of jackson does it im the only one" she shrugged, ellie sipped water, "well, you and kaleb definitely did it" ellie almost mumbled, "what? no we didnt?" aime asked confused, kaleb was her ex boyfriend, they were together for about a year and half, before she found out kaleb had been cheating on her for almost a year.

"uh, you guys were together for over a year" ellie said, confused, "yea, i know, thats why he started doing it with other girls behind my back" aime replied, "he what?" ellie raised her voicd, growing angry at him, even though it was years ago when they broke up, the reason the broke up kaleb and amie told people they both just lost feelings

"oh shit- i didnt mean to say that, ellie please dont tell anyone, please-"

"i wont, but what the fuck?" ellie questioned, "next time i see him hes gonna kiss my fist" ellie said angry, "ellie! its not a big deal and it was years ago, who cares?" aime asked confused of why ellie randomly got mad

"who cares? you dont date someone and go fuck other people because they werent ready for it!"

"no, trust me ellie, its fine, i didnt even really care when i found out, i didnt really like him" aime shrugged, "huh? whyd you date him?" ellie asked, "i- im done talking about this" aime said, unsure of how to reply

they were silent for a few minutes, just staring into the fire- well aime was, and she thought ellie was too, but ellie was staring at her

ellies eyes trailed from aimes eyes, to her nose, to her soft plumpled lips, to her slightly wet neck, almost dry from the rain, to her full chest, to her damp white shirt, her shirt was damp enough that you could see her shape and her nipples from her not wearing a bra, ellies eyes trailed even ferther to aimes bottoms, flickering back to her breasts. her mouth began to water, she thought about what her lips would taste like, what her skin would taste like, how perfectcly her hands would cup her breasts, how her pussy would taste- ellie tried to stop her thoughts but shes been holding them back for too long now, and they kept pouring into her head, ellie wondered what her face would look like, what noises would come out, she thought about her screaming her named-

ellie felt herself grow wet, she couldnt stop it, "im gonna go to the bathroom" ellie mumbled, standing up and walking to the door in the kitchen, she entered the bathroom, it was small, just a toilet, a sink, and a standing shower

ellie locked the door and sat on the toilet cover, she felt butterflies in her stomach, thinking of how aime would look riding her, how her wavy hair would drape over her naked body, ellie pressed her theighs together, "shit" she whispered, allowing her hand to go to her underwear.

"hey" aime smiled, ellie was bright red, i cant believe i just fucking did that, ellie thought to herself, slapping herself in her mind for doing that to not only cat but to aime

"hi" ellie said, standing up looking down at aime who still sat on the ground, "we should probably get to bed?" aime questioned, ellie looked back at the bed, shit i forgot theres only one bed, "uh- yea, probably" ellie nodded, "you okay?" aime asked, "yeah why?" ellie quickly said back, "you just seem, flustered? i don't really know"

aime put out the fire, the moonlight lighting the cabin, and held out her hand for ellie to help pull her up, which ellie did, once aime was up, she didnt let go of ellies hand, she smiled looking up at her, "can i ask a personal question?" aime randomly asked, still holding ellies hand, "uh, sure?" ellie said confused, "how many people have you.. done it with?" aime asked, hoping it wasn't too weird, but they were both 19 so aime wanted to compare their numbers.

"only cat" ellie answered, aime nodded, looked down to her feet, "how many have you?" ellie asked, "uh.." aime hummed, "im not like- gonna judge you or anything" ellie tried to comfort her, which it worked, "none" aime mumbled, "none?" ellie asked, making sure she heard it right, aime nodded, "oh" ellie said, which caused aime to look up at her, "i didnt mean that to sound like i was judging or- something- i meant oh as in just like that i was suprised" ellie corrected

aime laughed, "its okay, you can judge, ive had three boyfriends, im 19, and still a virgin"

"three?" ellie asked confused, she only knew of two, "oh, yeah, it was before you came to jackson" she shortly explained, "who? do i know them?" ellie asked, "uh.. lucas, but it was only like for 4 months and we were 13 so it doesnt actually really count" aime explained, which caused ellie to laugh

"well why havent you?" ellie questioned, "just dont want to, anytime the touch me i feel gross" aime shrugged like it was normal, "uh.. okay?" ellie said confused, "and if im being honest.. dicks are disgusting" aime whispered, which caused ellie to laugh again, "what? first of all, ive never heard a straight girl say that, second of all, did you just swear?!"

aime laughed, "oh shut up! everybody thinks theyre gross they just dont say it!" aime dragged ellie behind her as she made her way to the bed, ellie giggled as she crawled into the bed with her

"i should of brought a blanket" aime mumbled, the bed only has a sheet and two pillows, the blanket was nowhere to be seen

"yeah? how would you have brought that" ellie questioned, "uhh.. i would of figured it out!" aime said with a smile, they were both of their sides facing eachother, "yeah right" ellie laughed

ellie kept on flickering her eyes to how pretty her body looked, she needed to stop she moved and layed on her back

it was silent for awhile, ellie thought aime went to sleep and aime didnt know if ellie was awake or not, "ellie?" aime whispered, the rain still pouring, ellie turned her head and looked at aime, suprised she was awake, "yeah?" ellie asked, "im cold" aime said, her hands on her arms trying to warm herself up, ellie looked down at her and noticed her nipples poking through from being cold- "uh.. me too" ellie said, unsure of how to respond to that

"can we.. you know.." aime tried to say without saying it, "huh?" ellie asked clueless, "uh, i dont mean to sound weird or anything, i only mean it platonically but.." aime said nervously, ellie finally realized what she was getting at

ellie opened her arms up motioning for her to go there, aime smiled at the girl, and scooted till she was presseda against ellies said, she then rested her cheek against ellies chest, wrapped an arm around her waist, ellie closed her arms around her, hugging her gently

they layed in silence for a few minutes, aime warmed up a bit but her legs were cold, so she lifted her knee and placed it between ellies legs, ellie almost instinctively brought her hand to aimes leg, just above her knee, and pulled it up more so that her knee was only a few inches away from her heat, aime moved her hips to try and get closer to ellie, but since they were already touching ellie, and since aime's hips were in between ellies theigh, it only made aime's core brush against it, unexpected butterflies swormed aime but not in her stomach, and it felt good.

she sat in silence, her mind repeating how she felt when she moved her hips from a few minutes ago, she opened her eyes and looked up at ellie, but ellies eyes were closed and seemingly asleep. so aime pressed herself to ellie theigh, and moved her hips up, she let out a shakey breath, suddenly turned fully on- this is the first time she was every turned on with someone else in the room.

aime's eyes looked to ellies body, before she sunk her hips back down slowly, causing her to let out another breath as her clit rubbed against ellies skin, slightly gripping onto ellies fabric

she stopped herself, what the fuck am i doing? im straight, i have a boyfriend, and ellie had a girlfriend. what the fuck is wrong with me? i guess since daniels always in the house i never have time to touch myself so now that hes gone i wanna? she tried to reason

"whyd you stop?" ellies voice achoed the room as aime froze- "hm?" aime hummed, "you know what i said" ellie smirked looking down at the girl, but the girl had her eyes closed hoping she was dreaming completely embarassed, "stop what?" aime asked trying to sound confused, "don't play dumb" ellie said, moving her hand from aimes leg to her chin, she pulled her chin to look at her, aime looked anywhere but her eyes

"look at me" ellie ordered, aime scooted herself up more, hovering over ellie face to finally look at her in the eyes, they didnt speak anything, the sexual tension was so thick you could cut it with scissors

aime couldnt help herself, she was so turned on by ellie, her body, her face, and her voice, she without any thoughts slammed her lips into ellies, ellie immediately kissed back, putting all the anger she had for herself and for daniel into the kiss, ellie had her hands onto ellies waist, and aime just did what felt right, aime had one leg outside of ellies, the other in between ellies two, her hands holding ellies face

ellie leaned herself up, moving her hands more towards aimes hips, pushing them to help her move agianst them like how she was doing eairler, aime let out a moan through the kiss, which made ellie melt

aime started grinding her hips more to ellies theigh, "do you want me?" ellie grunted, aime only hummed in response, "i need words" ellie said, making lovebites on her jaw, "mh- i- i want you ellie" she moaned, she never felt this good in her life, she felt like she was in heaven, "good girl" ellie whispered

ellie gripped aimes hips, causing them to stop, she brought her lips back to aimes lips, kissing her with tongue, aime tried to move her hips but ellie was stronger then her and she couldnt

aime brought her hand to herself, trying to rub herself but ellie pulled away and gripped her wrist, "did i say you could?"

"n- no" aime whined, ellie licked her lips before she brought her face to aimes cleavge, she kissed it a few times before she pulled away, pulling aimes shirt over her head, ellie felt herself grow even wetter at the sigh, she stared in awe for a moment, before she started to taste her skin and message her boobs

"ellie- please" aime moaned wanting more, as much ellie wanted to tease aime more, she was teasing herself, ellie pulled away, looking at the marks she just created,

ellie grabbed aimes hips and lifted her up, before pulling her leg up too, and pushing her to sit back down on her so now she was straddling her instead of being in between her legs

ellie then brought her middle and ring finger to her clothed slit, rubbing her slowly, watching as she squirmed, she could feel her wetness seeping through the fabric, "youre so wet" ellie grunted, she moved her hand and pulled the waistband of aimes boxers, she sunk her hand into them, letting her wet lips come in contact with the pads of her fingers, "is this all for me babe?" ellie moaned, "only you" aime moaned

ellie began to drag her two fingers up and down her slit, as they slopply kissed, "i need you in me ellie" aime moaned, those words alone made ellie moan, so she sunk her fingers deep inside of her, aime bit her lip muffling her moan, "let me hear you" ellie moaned, jamming her fingers even deeper then before, aime let her jaw hang as she moaned, and began to grind her hips onto ellies fingers, "you look so pretty on me" ellie whispered as she began to pick up her paste

"tell me how good it feels" ellie moaned, starting to curl her fingers, "mmpfh- it- it feels so good ellie!" aime whinned, "good girl" ellie whimpered, "i- im gonna" aime tried to make out a sentance, but she cut herself off with whine, her stomach tightened, she arched her back onto ellies fingers, but ellie kept on pumping, overstimulating her as she dripped onto her fingers

"you did such a good job" ellie complimented, pulling her fingers out, aime didnt know what was to happen next, but ellie shoved her two fingers into aimes mouth, watching as aime complied, sucking on her fingers and twirling her tongue around them

"good girl" ellie whispered, she pulled her fingers out of her mouth, ellie pulled aime and turned her around so now aime was on bottom, ellie pulled off her underwear and pulled off aimes

she pressed her lips to hers, making out with eachother there tongues tangling. ellie then moved so that her left leg was under aimes, and that her right leg was over her others, pressing their clits together, aime let out a whine as ellie started to grind, there slits grinding against eachother

as aime gripped onto ellies leg, she leaned her head back and let out a whine, "fuck- ellie" she moaned, moving her hips grinding along with her, "daniel could never make you feel like this, huh?" ellie groaned, "no, only you can ellie" aime moaned, bringing her hand to ellies tanktop, lifting it up she could see her body

"thats it- good girl" ellie moaned, aime felt as if her ears had been blessed with the sound of her moaning, she wanted to get more of her noises out, aime brought her hand to her boobs, squeezing them and messaging them, "ugh- fuck- you're so hot" she moaned, leaning her head back grinding harder, "im gonna cum ellie" aime was able to pant

ellie felt her stomach tighten at her words, she rolled her hips once more before her and aimes moans were combained, ellie leaned onto aime with their chests pressed together, ellies head in the crook of her neck, both panting together.

#ellie williams smut #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader smut #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams tlou2 #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #ellie williams x oc #ellie williams x you #the last of us 2 #the last of us smut

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kaylinelizabeth4004 · 8 months

Note

Hii I loved your Alec fan fic sm any more Alec x f reader smut coming ?😭

Come As You Are

A/N: of course more Alec is coming, I just need time love. This one is for my midsize girlies ❤️

Summary: The Reader is feeling insecure about herself and Alec wants to help

Tags: 18+ minors dni, insecurity and mentions of body dysmorphia and self hatred, praise kink, body worship, consensual possessive language, and some fluff :)

The woman in front of her was thin and tall, with a beautiful head of curls and dark skin. Her eyes were shrewd as they took in DS Y/N Warner, standing in her frumpy suit with a notepad at the ready. Yet she certainly didn't look poorly on DI Alec Hardy, not that he would have noticed her little flirts. She angled her hips one way, answered his questions primarily, and smiled widely at his words, always looking right at him. If Y/N wasn't careful and reminding herself that she was on the clock, she had half a mind to kiss Alec right there and claim him. But she didn't.

DI Alec Hardy went to the car, and Y/N lingered for just a moment to clarify one of the points that got fuzzy.

"Right, and you work for Joan Topper Model Agency? Not to be confused with Topper Jane's Agency?" Y/N asked, checking the reference she had from the lady who'd referred them to this woman.

The woman nodded, her lips close to a sneer, "it's a very elite agency, Joan Topper."

"I'm sure."

The woman cocked her head to the side, "are you?"

DS Warner swallowed hard. She did not like not liking other women, it made her feel like a bad feminist. She should overthrow the ideas of women hurting other women and focus on the more particular idea that men made it up to make women dislike one another. And while that was very likely, it wasn't impossible for two things to exist at once. Men try to make women hate each other, and some women are just bitches. Not because they're women but because they're people.

And this woman, who couldn't possibly be over 21, with her gorgeous figure and curly hair, just happened to be one of those special humans. And it irked Y/N.

"You can't be over a size 4," the woman pressed. It was unclear if she meant you couldn't be over a size 4 in the agency, or in life. Her eyes lingered at Hardy's retreating form. "Men don't like it much."

DS Warner smiled tightly and nodded, walking back to the car and quickly getting in so she wouldn't have to see that woman again. Alec didn't notice the change in Y/N's mood, he wasn't always the best at that.

Instead of going to the station, they went back to Y/N's house. Alec hadn't actually moved in, but that was more of a title really. He stayed there nearly every night, had a section of the closet, and referred to it as home. They both knew that once they wrapped up this case, they would set aside a weekend and officially move in, but when cases got busy neither felt they could take even a day off. Work got in the way like that.

"Right, I'm going to pop in the shower then I'll be down to help," Y/N said, toeing off her shoes at the door.

"M'kay," Hardy answered with a wave of his hand, files in his arms.

She went up to the loo, started the shower and made quick work of her uniform. Her image in the mirror made her stop.

Normally, people described the moment before a shower as some of the most attractive. Moments when all of a sudden insecurities melt away and you could spend ages doing dance battles with yourself. This was not one of those days for Y/N. Maybe it was the insecurities she already had buried beneath the surface, maybe it was the late hour, maybe it was the woman who had subtly insulted her appearance, but whatever the cause she found she hated what she saw.

Y/N always felt a little trapped when she expressed her insecurities to friends. She couldn't say she was thin, because she wasn't. But she couldn't say she was fat, because she wasn't. She was an awkward middle ground that certainly didn't feel sexy. Her thighs touched when she stood, covered in little stretch marks and led to a small bush she tried to trim but it always looked wrong. Along her boobs there were stretch marks like purple tiger stripes, and she had small red bumps she couldn't explain. Of course in between the two lied the worst of the worst, a belly just bloated enough to look pregnant when she very much wasn't. Nope, Y/N was not a fan of this body.

Her cheeks flushed with emotion and the heat of the shower, and she tried to ignore it as she got in and scrubbed off the day. Her hair was clean so she left it up and tried to calm herself when she noticed her efforts were too harsh. God damn it, this was not what she had intended.

Not long after she joined Hardy at the kitchen table, sipping her hot chocolate he'd made, and pouring over the case files. Her mind began to wander but she was intent on stopping it.

"You alright?" Alec's thick Scottish accent broke her from the bank's reports, and it was among the first words he'd spoken all evening.

"Y-yeah," she said, not quite knowing what he was referring to. "Why?"

"You don't seem right."

Y/N didn't know how to respond, so she shrugged her shoulders, "I'm ... fine?"

He narrowed his eyes. Alec Hardy felt like he was in a bit of a limbo at the moment. His instinct was telling him that something was bothering Y/N, she seemed sad and distant. However, Alec was not known for having the best instinct with people and their feelings. He couldn't tell if he should leave it or press on. But it was DI Alec Hardy and he wasn't a fan of lying. "After that last interview you've gone funky."

If Y/N wasn't so uncomfortable trying to think of how to not expose this lame part of herself to Alec, she'd have focused on him using the word funky. "I didn't like her much."

"Did she say something?"

"More or less."

"Warner stop evading the question and tell me what's wrong." His voice was intense as he spoke, chocolate eyes imploring.

"I don’t like my body, I'm ugly," she said quickly, as though it would take away everything else.

Alec blinked, "wot?"

"I'm ugly and fat, Alec."

DI Alec Hardy did not know a lot of things. He was shit at expressing emotions and understanding others, he did not understand social media, thought scotch eggs were gross, had a temper, and was shit at accepting help. But he knew one thing. His Y/N was not ugly.

"No you're not." She laughed bitterly and looked away. He said it louder, his tone more stern. "Y/N you are not ugly and you're not fat."

Y/N's throat was tight as she said, "thanks Alec." She didn't mean it, they both knew she didn't mean it.

"Y/N-"

"It's fine, can just get on with it?" She snapped, her voice a hair away from a yell. Alec saw her retreat further into herself. "Sorry."

He sighed, closing his eyes to try and make his thinking clearer. Alec was proper rubbish at dealing with any of this. But then he had any idea, an idea she probably didn't expect. The detective stood up and walked towards the stairs.

His ever inquisitive Y/N craned her neck to watch as he went up the steps. He was impressed she managed to last a full minute without following after him, in which time he removed his jacket and shoes, before she appeared in the bedroom door frame with a questioning look on her face.

"C'mhere."

She did, though her steps were slow as she watched him with a shrewd eye. He took her hands in his, running his thumb over her knuckles. Alec's hands were always calloused and he never knew why, as he didn't do much physical labor. She liked how they felt.

Alec brought her hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss on each of them, "I love your hands."

He could see the little flush on her cheeks start up, but she didn't say anything else. Alec went to the edge of the bed, bringing her to sit between his legs, his chest up against her back. His hands ran up her arms, "I love that when I do that you get goose flesh."

"Alec what're you doing?"

"You've got lovely arms, lovely shoulders." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the skin of both. Then Alec pointed a finger in front of them, towards the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. They painted a lovely picture, a woman held by her man as he lavished soft touches on her. He planned to make the picture prettier. Though he wasn't always confident in sex, he was confident that he loved Y/N and that her self image was wrong. And that confidence overrode all other feelings of inadequacy.

"Alec..." she didn't know what to say. She had a feeling she knew what he was up to and she didn't know if she could handle it. He was being awfully sweet. And the scratch of his beard made her sigh. His fingers came to the straps of her flimsy, pajama tank top, pulling them until they snapped back on her skin.

In the mirror, Alec glanced up and made eye contact with her. His face was kind, tired but not of her. His hair was dark and mused, his eyes so chocolate it hurt to look at. And his freckles, the most wonderful part of the man was the freckles that ran along his face as though he never left the sun as a child. She nodded slightly, knowing that he was asking for permission.

The straps fell down, and Alec pushed the top down until her breasts fell from them, heavy and heaving against her chest. Almost instantly she felt a growing hardness against her bum, and she flushed incredulously. His hands came round and held her breasts, letting them overflow in his touch.

Throughout their entire relationship, Alec was not one who would just speak. He was the silent brooding type. The kind of guy who grunted when he asked if he fancied a pint - the answer was always no, he didn't drink. But Alec knew Y/N loved his voice, she called it sexy and he'd caught her getting off to a voicemail of his once. Whenever he got loud in the office, had to yell at someone, he noticed the way her thighs would clench and her cheeks flush. So while he was most certainly clunky at it, he tried his best to speak through his thoughts for her, hoping it could help her get to him.

"They’re one of my favorite bits of you," he murmured, his voice suddenly throaty as though he was struggling to speak with the sight of your breasts out and about.

He pressed them together, showing the deep line of her cleavage. "Don't get that on just anyone, now do ya?"

Y/N wanted to believe him, to look in the mirror and see a creature that was as attractive and he believed, but she just couldn't. Her words were soft but they were there as she said, "I have stretch marks and bumps."

Alec's brow furrowed and he held her chest tighter before letting them fall back. He was fully hard now and didn't shy away from letting her feel the affect she had on him.

"No one can expect your skin to remain the same your whole life. Doesn’t make it ugly." He said, kiss the junction between her neck and shoulder. She leaned her head back into him, letting herself feeling those beautifully calloused hands as they teased at her nipples, those soft lips kissing her skin.

He slowly dragged the tank top down until it met the waistband of her shorts. She did not look down to see the image in the mirror, this was not the body part she wanted to see. His hands were featherlight as they travelled down her abdomen, running his fingers along the rolls of her skin. The thought alone made her want to cry. Alec let out a breath, "you're so fucking soft."

That was not quite what she wanted to hear, soft wasn’t a word she felt was a good thing. Though that hadn't been his intention, Alec thought soft was one of the best things a body could be. He tried again, bringing his hands to her hips, "I love your belly. It's cute."

"It's not sexy."

"Fuck yeah it is," he argued. Alec pulled away from her and went to kneel in front of the bed. He spread her legs and went on his knees, putting his face right at her chest, which he noticed right away. Hardy brought his hand to her face and made her look at him, and he blew out a breath. She was a vision, leaned back, heavy breasts on full display and legs spread like a goddess.

He pressed a kiss in between her breasts, letting his tongue nip out to taste her skin. She giggled and said, "Alec!"

He brought his mouth down to her stomach, kissing each roll and holding her tightly. His beard itched and cause a pink rash to form, but she didn't have the urge to fight it. All along her abdomen, DI Alec Hardy peppered hot, wet kisses with nips of teeth. Then he growled softly, turning to see the mirror and force her to see what he saw. A stomach with small little love bites. "I decide what I find sexy. And that's sexy."

She hadn't even realized that she had started crying until it dripped down her face. It wasn't a sad tear, not really. It was more an overwhelming realization that Alec wasn't messing about, he wasn't saying this because he loved her. As his hands ran up her legs, prickly from unshaven hairs, he kissed and growled against her skin with the kindest love she'd felt. And she gladly let him remove her panties and shorts until she was bare, spread for him.

"I love your breasts and I love your belly, but these are some of my favorites," Alec said and he moved her thighs to sit on his shoulders. He bit at her thighs, lowering his kiss with each moment. Then he was there at the apex of her legs, with her slightly hairy, fully glistening cunt. His hot breath hit her as he murmured, "hey darling."

She shuddered, her body involuntarily moving to the sound of his voice. She had to stop the yelp that tried to escape when he extended his tongue and licked her bottom to top.

“I love that you’re so responsive down here,” Alec said between peppered kisses, letting his teeth ever so softly graze across her clit before sliding his tongue into her opening. Her muscles clenched, thighs beginning to shake as he lavished her. “I love the taste of you.”

He moved up, letting his beard scratch along her inner thighs in the way he knew she liked. Alec brought a careful finger to her opening, sliding it in with ease. She started to grind against it, hips bucking to meet his tongue as he began proper work on her clit. His fingers were long as they pumped in and out, curling i side her in the way that made her gasp. He laughed against her, he fucking laughed. A deep chuckle that radiated through her body, sending her arousal through the roof until her thighs were clamped round his head.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispered against her. But she heard it, and practically shoved him into her. Then Alec said, “you look so beautiful, you’re doing so good love. I’m so proud of my girl.”

Y/N cried out as she came, her body convulsing with each wave. It was positively impossible to describe, a kind of hazy pleasure that takes you from this world until you’re left panting on a bed, wondering how your antisocial detective boyfriend learned to do all of that. Her legs spasmed, squeezing against him in the way he adored.

Alec eased her through it, his kisses soft and messy. Her juices covered his face, were in his beard, but he seemed to proudly display her. Her thighs were going to be red from beard rash and covered in little love bites, some more possessive than others and she relished them all.

“Such a beautiful darling,” Alec said, rising slowly as he moved up her body. “I love your body, it’s bloody sexy is what it is. But my favorite part, yes even more than your breasts, is your face.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her, he kissed her with everything he had. It was rhat desperate, dizzying sort of kiss where words went unspoken but understood. She sighed, crying but now it wasn’t a hatred. Just like she realized earlier, and now it seemed to sink, Alec loved her regardless. He didn’t just put up with insecurities, he fought to fight them with her and show her what he saw. She might not see it yet, but to know that someone like him had eyes like that was comforting.

He tasted of her, of her musk and sweat and sex, and she found it embarrassingly arousing to know it was her wetness that did this to him.

Alec came up to the bed quickly, getting in the same position from earlier. Him behind her with her body in between his legs. Alex brought her to lean on him so her neck was ready for biting, “I fucking love your neck.”

“Bloody vampire!” She laughed.

Alec chuckled, bring his hands down her sides to grip her thighs. “That so?” With a strong yet gentle touch, he spread her thighs wide enough to rest on his, locking her in place.

“Alec I need you…”

“Oh what a pretty picture you make,” Alec whispered along her skin as he removed his cock from his trousers, going under her arse to tease at her opening. “Oh look at you, you’re gorgeous. My beautiful angel grinding against my cock, spread for the world to see. Perhaps another day. Shall I show you just how lovely you are, darling?”

Fuck. For someone who’d not done much dirty talk, he was damn good at it. She whined for him to take her, and he happily obliged, sinking into her with a slow thrust.

He let out a hiss at the feeling of her taut muscles clenching around him, holding him in place as though she couldn’t hear to lose him. She gasped the fullness, relishing in it and grinding just enough to cause Alec to make a guttural sound.

“You keep goin like that Angel and I won’t last much longer.”

“I don’t want you to,” she said, moving her hips again.

That movement broke Alec. He kept one hand tight on her hip, the other snaking down her body to start desperate ministrations on her clit. He thrust into her with a fury, bucking his hips to get as deep as he can. Y/N groaned, shocked at how quickly he was bringing her to climax.

“Come in me,” she said between breathy sighs. “Make me yours.”

Something in that sent the man wild. He stood, quickly helping prop Y/N up doggy style on the bed, and began to truly fuck her the way they both intended. They were so close to climax, his strokes uneven and wild, her clit buzzing with life.

“Say it again, angel. Tell me to make you mine.”

“I’m yours,” she groaned. “Come in me, I need you. I’m yours, make me yours.”

And he did, falling slightly into her and having to support himself on the mattress. He groaned loudly, those freckles flushing. But he knew she hadn’t come again, and he kept himself inside her as he leaned down, “now, any man you ever fuck you’ll know I’m here. You’re mine, angel. My darling.”

With a flick of his wrist, she came undone.

#alec hardy fanfic #alec hardy x reader #alec hardy #binging broadchurch #broadchurch fanfiction #i’m happy the 12 of you who read broadchurch fics will enjoy this #fanfiction #sexy david tennant woo wee #david tenannt is once again sad tired man #we cherish the men with heart conditions #he’s one fuck away from death #and I need him #reader insert #if your name is Becca leave leave leave #I have puns that no one will understand to make her leave #you know things you should not know #but I still love you #but never read this ever

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mariaxxxxx · 1 month

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Chapter 6 - Love at Night.

Summary: To save your nation You are given as a bride to a sea god.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY/ Minors DNI, Angust, Hurt comfort, Sex, Apologies, Crying, Creampie, Passionate sex, virgin!reader, size difference, smut, soft!dom!, HEA, somnophille, slight degradation, duvious consent, pregnancy, arranged marriage, inexperienced reader, abortion commented, unprotected sex (don't do that wrap this thing), kidnapping, aftercare, curse words.

A/N: English is not my mother tongue. I apologize for any errors.

A/N: I hope they haven't abandoned me. I was a little confused on how to continue this story, but after a lot of thinking I finally came to a good conclusion. I will try to post once a week.

Work count: 1.286

Serie materialist

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

You woke up when you tried to move in the reeds and found yourself immobilized by your husband's body entwined with yours. As you moved carefully, not wanting to wake him, you turned to him just to look at his beautiful sleeping face. The images of what you did made the discomfort between his legs pulse and his face take on a red hue. After the first time, her husband possessed her three more times; it was painful and pleasurable in equal measure. He used his tongue, his fingers, and his penis to take away that feeling of pure ecstasy from you. The gods had blessed him with a tireless, vigorous and virile companion.

Checking to make sure he wasn't awake, you then allowed yourself to wander your eyes to his naked body. That man had kissed every corner of her body, murmuring against her hot skin how much he longed to devour her, in every way. You sigh at the memory of your husband's tongue between his legs. Suddenly, a sudden insecurity takes over his brain. Your husband appeared to be older than you and as king he must have had the company of other women who knew how to satisfy him in bed.

He's been with other women, You thought as you traced his collarbone with your fingertips. He was with women who knew how to please him. I want to please him.

You ran your fingers down his chest through the soft skin, an old scar running across his left shoulder that extended to his armpit line and You wondered how he had taken it. His stomach had hard muscles, a thin line of black hair that formed a path around his cock. You, with boldness and courage, traced the thin skin over his hips, biting your lip as you mentally freaked out, bringing your hand to his member. K'uk'ulkan was already half hard and You wondered if he liked having your hand on him.

Tentatively You ran your hand down his length, seeing how his erection seemed to grow at the touch. You were surprised at how smooth the skin was in that area, like silk on rock. When You carefully circled him, stroking him lightly, K'uk'ulkan moaned and You lifted your head only to find him looking directly at You with eyes dark with desire and his lower lip trapped between his teeth.

"Sorry." You said, moving away to the other side of the reeds. K'uk'ulkan grabbed his wrist, stilling his movements with a smile on his face.

“You shouldn’t apologize for touching something that is rightfully yours.” He says his voice firm. “Touch me whenever you want my wife. You will never receive a complaint from me.”

When he noticed the touch of good humor and the firmness in his voice, a wave of tranquility bathed his body. Gathering all the boldness you possessed, you said:

“I’ll play it whenever I want.” You approached him. “What kind of queen would I be if I didn’t claim what’s rightfully mine.”

In a quick movement he grabs you by the waist and turns your body, putting you on top. In an attempt to accommodate yourself better, you placed your hands on his chest and sat better on his hips. In that position she could feel his erection better in her ass. You blushed when you noticed him staring at your breasts and, instinctively, you covered them with your arms.

"No". He said softly "Don't hide something so beautiful."

You drop your arms, still embarrassed. Pushing himself into a sitting position, her husband brushed away the hair that fell over her shoulders and kissed her bare skin.

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or embarrassed when you’re with me.” He said with his lips on the bare skin of her shoulder.

“I just want to please you.” You said, in a whisper.

“What a good wife I have. I will teach you how to please me, my love.” He looked at you, smiled mischievously and threw his back onto the cushions and crossed his arms over his head, exposing his wide, well-defined torso. “Move your hips. Slowly. Find your own rhythm.”

Understanding what he meant, you rolled over on his erection, watching him as he began to breathe more difficultly. You took a moment to watch K'uk'ulkan's reaction. In a desperate action, her husband threw her onto the reeds, ending up on top. He kept his face hidden in her neck, kissing the area ardently, eliciting loud moans, he then moved the kisses down towards her lap, sucking her nipple like a hungry baby.

“My husband...” You murmured between moans and sighs.

He let go of your hard, wet nipple to look directly at You.

"Yes." He said raising his head encouraging you to continue.

Ignoring all the embarrassment and modesty that tried to stop You from continuing, You said:

“Could you do that again? With the mouth. Down there."

The smile on her husband's face was predatory as he descended on her body. He played with her clit with his tongue providing pleasure. You tried desperately not to scream; You grabbed the furs around you, your husband's hair, anything to keep yourself grounded. With a deft swipe of his lips K'uk'ulkan sucked your swollen and sensitive clit You climaxed; You felt the pleasure numb your legs, and the moment you felt your release nothing else mattered, You screamed loud and shrill with the overwhelming orgasm.

K'uk'ulkan pulled away from her sensitive pussy with a soft, breathless laugh, his lips glistening with his release.

“You will never leave this bed, wife.”

“As long as You stay with me.” You said panting, tilting your hips up as he got on his knees on the reeds positioning his cock at your wet entrance. He settled between her legs and slowly pushed his member inside.

You bit your lip as you felt the burn caused by the previous night, your husband was relentless in his thrusts. Soon the pain dissipated, her body quickly getting used to his rhythm. He moved fast and hard, fucking her pussy mercilessly, moving both their bodies in a dance filled with lust and burning desire. The speed of your hips becomes powerful, much stronger as you increase the pressure. Her husband showed no mercy, clearly riding his own release. With one last powerful thrust he reached the peak spilling his seed, once again, into her pussy. You felt the heavy pulse against your pussy squeezing the cock pulling out every drop of semen. He whispers something breathlessly, as he feels the grip on him tightening. K'uk'ulkan chokes on a moan and goes rigid, his cock twitching.

After a few sighs everything goes quiet and the grip on your hips loosens. Sue's husband hid his face in her neck as he breathed heavily. You thought it was funny how now You tired him. He took out his softening cock still trying to regulate his breathing. K'uk'ulkan kissed her on the lips before collapsing onto the other side of the reeds.

“Wow…” Her husband exclaims. You wait for him to pull you into his arms and cuddle you, but he just falls to the side.

“K’uk’ulkan?” You call out to him. He doesn't respond, lying on the purple pillow with his easy expression of peace. A soft snore echoes.

You smiled at your husband's lack of energy. Now, You exhausted him and that made her extremely proud of herself. You let him rest, as they were still on their honeymoon. He'd probably sleep for a few hours anyway. You snuggle into his side, stroking his beard and listening to his peaceful breathing. In that moment, You allowed yourself to appreciate the peace.

#black panther #namor x reader #namor of talokan #wakanda forever #namor the sub mariner #namor #namor smut #namor x you #talokan #namor x y/n

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veespee · 1 month

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We all know that firebrand can be both cocky and insecure. And that's what he is. So what about him with a friend or something that just ignores all his insecurities and knows he's beautiful? Or just not an 'abomination of existence'. Because he isn't an abomination.

oo cool idea!!

here's my take on that:

First, i think he'd be very in denial. Like he just can't comprehend someone that actually likes him. I mean, he has Noah, sure, but it's different. Firebrand is always giving, but he never receives. Whether it be resources (ex. the money he gave to Noah) or just advice, he never expects something in return. Which is honestly pretty sad.

I think he's always seen himself as an abomination, maybe from the scars, or from the fact that he couldn't save himself like all of his other versions. So it'd be a suprise to find someone who actually cares. Even a small "hey, how are you?" would probably suprise him. I mean, we never see anyone really care about what Firebrand is doing or how he is in the series. Noah always expects help from him, and the others, Ren and Prebrand, really just get information from him. Firebrand has struggled SO much. He was trapped in a place where he hated himself, and was surrounded by people he couldn't stand. Maybe he got out of it with HABIT's help, sure, but he still felt trapped.

So yeah, he definitely wouldn't expect someone to care. And i think if someone did show care, he'd expect it to be some sort of joke, or maybe a tactic to get something from him. He'd never actually expect something nice to be given back to him. But i think after lots and lots of reminders that he actually is loved and cared about, he'd start to believe it. Also, I'd think he would definitely cry when he accepted it. But he would try SO hard to hold it in. Since he feels this need to keep up the cocky, confident, cold and intelligent persona he's kept up.

But anyways, i think that'd be very sweet :) the man has been through hell and back, and he deserves a bunch of love tbh.

thank you for the request!🖤

#slenderverse #tribe twelve #tt #t12 #firebrand t12 #firebrand #firebrand tt #firebrand tribetwelve #noah maxwell tt #character analysis #analysis #asks

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everythingsinred · 4 months

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Hey, has it ever occurred to you why Mikan doesn't like her hair down?

This is a pretty interesting question! I'll try to answer to the best of my ability, but to be honest this is all conjecture. Also I made this a NatsuMikan post because discussions about Mikan's hair/Natsume's back turn into NM on principle.

Very long NM rambling under the cut...

Yes, Mikan seems to be very uncomfortable about her hair being down.

In Chapter 24, Mikan is dressed as the prince and has her hair down for the role. She's instantly insecure and contemplates putting her hair up again. She needs outside validation from an opinion she cares about (Hotaru's) to make her feel okay about it in the moment, but after this she continues to keep her hair down.

A lot of it seems to come from feeling like she looks weird somehow with her hair down, and prior to this she says she feels "antsy" with her hair down. At no point does she elect to have her hair down between this and when she's stuck in the labyrinth. If she ever switches up her hairstyle, she still keeps it up, like at the Christmas Ball or New Years. Even when she sleeps, she keeps her hair in pigtails or braided.

I am not sure why having her hair down bothers her so much, but let's discuss some possibilities.

Mikan's iconic pigtail hair style is pretty childish. That makes sense, because she is a child, but when she's aged up by the Gulliver candy, she defaults to the same style, which prevents her from looking more mature. I might say from a narrative sense that Mikan's hairstyle being so childish is supposed to set her aside as being more immature than the rest of the kids in Class B. Hotaru's short and practical hairstyle seems leagues more mature and chic than Mikan's cute little pigtail thing.

It might be nothing more than a habit. Mikan likes sports, and keeping your hair up comes in handy when you're exercising. Whatever the initial reason she built this habit is, she might be so unaccustomed to seeing herself with her hair down that it feels bizarre and wrong.

But I genuinely don't know what an in-story reason for her behavior is, because it seems much stronger than a mere preference or habit. She doesn't like herself with her hair down at all, and never has it down until this moment in Chapter 24. Maybe she's just insecure for whatever reason and thinks she looks bad with her hair down (though she definitely doesn't).

In any case, my idea is that it feels vulnerable to have her hair down. She describes the feeling as "antsy", like it doesn't feel right. I think her wearing her hair up is a comfort zone thing, where she feels more protected with her hair in a do. In a way, it might be comparable to her insistence on smiling. Mikan is, despite everything, actually very hard on herself. She doesn't think she's smart, capable, pretty, useful. She is surrounded by smart people, by people with interesting and useful alices, by people she perceives as "strong" while she is weak. And, of course, people who are beautiful, when she is not.

Just like Mikan gets very pathological about her smile after being told it's a charm of hers, I think she might rely on her hair being up. She is not pretty on her own, but if she puts extra pizzazz into her hair, maybe it'll make up for how plain she is? Maybe is she uses different hair-ties, sometimes with ribbons, sometimes with flowers, she can be a bit cute sometimes? Mikan thinks very little of herself but is very interested in making up for it.

What's really interesting is when she starts wearing her hair down more. When is that? Oh, yes, during the time she's trapped in the labyrinth after coming to terms with her love for Natsume, who told her once that she looked better with her hair down.

Mostly she wears her hair down in the labyrinth when she goes to sleep, and that could easily be brushed aside as a given EXCEPT that Mikan has always had her hair up before, even when she was going to sleep!

So what makes this time period different? Why should Natsume have anything to do with how she wears her sleep when she goes to sleep anyway? It's not like he's living in the labyrinth with her. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she can hear him calling for her every night...

She does keep her hair up in pigtails when she's wearing her school uniform, of course, but when she's out of it, we see her exclusively with her down. The best example of this, of course, is on Christmas when she stays in her room because she's not allowed to go to the party.

She dresses it up a bit with those fluff balls, of course, but it's still down. And that's a big change when we consider that Mikan used to EXCLUSIVELY have her hair up, no matter the occasion.

When I was analyzing this chapters in my essays, I did say it helps make the confessions scene seem more surreal, having him dressed like a lil bat and her with her hair down, both of them out of their uniform. The surreal nature of the scene makes it dreamlike, for both of them, almost like it never happened, and I think that's important, but it didn't occur to me at the time how important it is narratively for Mikan that her hair is down for that.

I will concede that Hotaru told Mikan in Chapter 24 that she doesn't have to put her hair up, that it looks cute down. She does say that. But what Natsume says in Chapter 38 is a bit bigger. He doesn't use words like cute or pretty, but he makes a point of saying he prefers her hair down, that her pigtails won't suit her in a few years.

He doesn't say it out loud, but this is a compliment, and it clearly means a lot to her. If Mikan feels like she's not pretty (and she is called plain by so many people in the manga it's hard not to imagine that's how she views herself), and her putting her hair up is her way of "making up for it", then Natsume saying he likes her better with her hair down is, essentially, saying she looks pretty as she is, without all the trimmings.

It's kinda akin to those love songs where a girl swoons that a guy likes her better with her makeup off. Mikan wears her hair up because if her hair is cute or styled, then it can distract from her otherwise plain appearance. But Natsume prefers her as is, that the extra work she puts into tying her hair isn't necessary because he does think she's pretty, that she has nothing to make up for.

Once Mikan realizes she's in love with Natsume, and that this love is fully reciprocated, she wears her hair down more (or at all), because it's her way of connecting with him even though she can't see him as often. Her hair is down, and it doesn't need to be up, because somebody told her she looked better with it down. And, even more than that, she wears it down when she hears his voice, or there's a chance she might catch a glimpse of him, because she wants him to see her with her hair down.

Mikan, who got "antsy" in Chapter 24 with her hair down, sees Natsume in Chapter 144 and 145 and doesn't feel antsy about her hair at all. In fact, it's down because of him. For him.

I'm not saying girls should base their entire appearances off of what boys what, but that's not what this is either and I think that would be a cynical takeaway. Please don't misunderstand me! This is a boy making a girl feel better about how she looks, to the point where she feels like her hair down is a selling point, not another plain element to her appearance. There is nothing wrong with wanting the person you like to think you're pretty, especially when the person you like helped you feel prettier in the first place.

Anyway, that's basically the summation of my thoughts on this topic. I'm really grateful to you, Anon, for bringing this to my attention. Obviously, I did know Mikan didn't like her hair down and that Natsume did, but I have never observed it all that closely. This is one more aspect to the manga I was given the opportunity to analyze more and I'm so happy with having one more reason to love these two together!

#thanks again for asking this! and i hope u have a lovely day <3 #anon #answered #gakuen alice #alice academy #sakura mikan #natsumikan #ga #my meta #i mentioned before that i discover something new everytime i read which is why i love ppl asking me abt different parts of ga #bc theres always some new 'aha!' moment to be had and i LOVEEEE having those lol #also this turned my mood right around! im so happy after answering this so thank u<3

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servicetopping · 1 year

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Enjoying Fatness

originally posted on my fet, i doubt anyone here would be interested but reposting it here just cuz

I wasn't always fat, though I've always had a complicated relationship with food. Before top surgery, I had a very big chest (even after an insurance covered breast reduction).

I once read a short story about a trans man who was trying to live as a man in order to qualify for HRT and surgery, and while he himself doesn't do it he thinks of a friend who managed to do it because he was fat, and so his breasts didn't stand out. This was a fictional story so I don't know if anyone like that exists, or if that would even actually work, but I remember it stuck with me. While there wasn't a conscious effort on my part to "get fat," I think this sat in the back of my mind for a long time and, in combination with the general body neutrality my parents raised me with, led me to be more open and happy to see myself gain weight.

I still felt insecure, mostly in interactions with others when I would get teased for my weight. One moment that still stands out to me is when I wore a dress to school, just a simple bodycon dress made from a stretchy fabric I had got from Hot Topic, and as I was walking to my lunch table a girl I had almost never interacted with before told me derisively that I looked pregnant. I didn't buy or wear a dress for probably about 5 years after that, outside of a prom dress I got from the free clothes closet at school, and I spent a long time picking the right dress that wouldn't show my stomach.

I still get uncomfortable and fidgety when I wear dresses, especially anything that's made from a bodycon fabric. I now have a couple dresses, and I enjoy them, but I wish I had more. But I get very 'in my head' about dresses and how they show my stomach, so I don't often try them on or buy them even though I want them. I do better with skirts, and especially enjoy skirts that sweep all the way to the floor, and accordion pleats.

I've had top surgery now, and I don't feel at odds with my body every day. It has been such a relief. Now I pass as a man, I've found that I'm not and don't want to be 'just some guy' - at least as far as clothes are concerned. I want to wear bright colors, swishy fabrics, fuzzy coats, shining and jingling accessories, the whole nine. If being a fat man wasn't hard enough, now I was finding that being a fat femme is even harder. Especially if you're a fat femme who isn't a woman or isn't always a woman.

Dressing, presenting as, and/or being feminine while fat when your body is hairy and seen as masculine is terrifying. Even within fat spaces queer bodies are disliked, even within queer spaces fat bodies are disliked. Embracing, loving, and celebrating myself as a hairy, 'masculine-bodied' person who enjoys wearing feminine clothes and presenting in a feminine, gender bending, campy way, can be difficult at times. It's radical and transgressive and it's sexy and fun as hell.

Even though it's mostly online following and not always personal connection where we talk to one another, I have been bolstered to being able to feel this way and be loud and proud about it and about my sexiness by surrounding myself with other fat, queer people who are loud and proud themselves. A stretch-marked, hairy stomach overhanging flabby hairy thighs that are bulging out of ribbon adorned, ripping thigh highs that were made without fatness in mind... Is beautiful and sexy and fun.

It has taken time. A few years, surrounding myself with people who were fat. Queer fat people who unabashedly loved other fat people, and not only that, but loved fatness. Months of my main online feed being filled with professional photoshoots of fat models, amateur thirst traps from other fat users, and posts waxing poetic about the glory of a fat, hairy bear. To see fat people being loved and celebrated (not as a show of progressiveness or tolerance, but as a wholehearted and genuine love for fatness) and being seen as sexually attractive in part for their fatness rather than in spite of it - has been perspective changing in the best ways.

I've always been generally neutral on my body, I don't think about it as separate from me and I don't sit in the mirror and stare (especially not since top surgery). I don't hate my fat or hate myself for being fat. But I would still feel insecure about my fatness - not because of my own feelings, but because of what I knew about how others would see me. But now I was seeing other people who didn't see it negatively, or even neutrally, but saw fatness as something beautiful, something to celebrate. I took those perspectives, alongside the fat activism that was in my feed and that I seeked out to read, and it's been changing the way I think of myself.

When I step out of the house and my shirt rides up over my stomach, or I drip ice cream on my shirt, I still get a ping of insecurity. But then I stop and I think of all these things. When a skinny person's shirt rides up over their stomach, it's sexy, it's a thirst trap, people reply with a hundred comments of keysmashes and drooling heart eyed emojis. So when my shirt rides up, I know I deserve that same reaction, and that there are a lot of people out there who would give that reaction. When a skinny person eats something messy and drippy, it's sexy, it's innuendo. The same can be true for me. My body is simply my body, but it is neutral. It is fun, beautiful, sexy, and confidence-giving.

I struggle with eating - not out of any desire to be skinny or to control my body, but out of a tendency toward restrictive picky eating that evolved into something more pathologic. Combined with a neurodivergent brain, medication that interferes with appetite, and a fatigued body that often forgets or doesn't want to eat, struggles to plan and prepare food, dislikes changes in routine or exploring new things, & struggles with the sensory side of eating... It's difficult. It has been, and still is. I have found ways that have made me feel better, have helped me onto a path towards healing, but every day is another fight.

Enjoying fatness not just as a tolerance of fat bodies, but as a celebration of fatness and the sensory joy of eating food and feeling yours and other people's fat bodies, has given me a new avenue to explore food and heal my relationship with food and eating.

I am not a feeder or feedee, or particularly aroused by weight gain, and I know the communities have their ups and downs. There are plenty of people in those communities who fetishize fat people and who dehumanize us, all while arousing themselves to our bodies and to their abuse of us. I understand why so many fat people draw a strong line of not wanting to interact with anyone with those kinks or with chubby chasers as a whole. I have had the fortune to fall into a place near the fringes of these kink communities, where it is fat people enjoying, celebrating, and being aroused by their own and other people's fat bodies.

I enjoy focusing on my fat body, my stomach, and the pleasure and sexy-potential of eating in my play, but I only do it with my long term partner who is also fat. If I ever did something like that platonically, I think it would have to be with other fat people. I cannot stand any hint of degradation or humiliation within this play. Me and my partner have experimented with 'hucow' ideas, but that was approached from a petplay perspective, and is more of an intertwining of previous petplay establishments we had made along with celebration of fatness and body worship.

Body worship means to me, as a fat kinkster, fat worship. Not fetishization or dehumanization, but worship of a fat person as a fat person, and not just as a person who happens to be fat.

#personal

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gardenofyv · 6 months

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Blog Assignment #5

Adapted from the novel “Beloved” by Toni Morrison and directed by Jonathan Demme, the time period piece Beloved (1998) follows the story of a Black mother named Sethe who is haunted by the horrors of her past as a slave and her desperate pursuits of freedom for both her and her children. Being familiar with Toni Morrison’s work but not having yet read the original book version, I expected it was going to be extremely heavy in content; I expected to be uncomfortable. But in all honesty, nothing could have prepared me for the emotional rollercoaster this film took me on. With a run time of nearly three hours, Beloved (1998) is as beautiful as it is triggering, plunging into themes of slavery, generational trauma, but most importantly, the sacrifice of Black mothers and the pain held in Black women’s bodies.

The film itself springs from the insecurity of a mother under the institution of slavery. Much of the hardships specific to Sethe’s (or rather any Black slave woman) journey stem from the combination of slavery and corporatized sexual assault. We see this very early on in the film with violent flashbacks to a pregnant Sethe being held down while White slave owners “take her milk”, and again when she is whipped for speaking this truth. It immediately sets the tone and reminds the audience that under this system, Black women and mothers have no right to their own body, their children, or their lives. It conveys a sense of powerlessness and desperation in their reality to the extent that if they cannot protect themselves, they will do whatever is necessary to provide their children a chance at a life free from their struggles. So much so that mothers, such as Sethe, would rather kill their own children, than allow them to be taken into slavery, or in Sethe’s words, “hell here on Earth”.

To exemplify, when Paul D is made aware of the news report about Sethe trying to murder her children, there’s an exchange between them that powerfully communicates the position Black mothers are put in when it comes to protecting their children.

“Sometimes, I hear my boys laughing and laughing… First I get scared… scared someone might hear ‘em and get mad. Then I remember that if they laugh that hard till it hurt, that’d be the only hurt they have all day.”

“[It’s] Dangerous to love any one thing that much… Your love is too thick, Sethe… You got two feet, Sethe, not four.”

Here we are walked through the events that led Sethe and her children to where they are today. All the other characters see Sethe as inhumane- even animalistic- for attempting to murder all her children, blaming her love being too thick to resort to something so extreme. Yet Sethe’s rationale is not entirely shocking as her sole purpose as a mother is to save her children from even the possibility of going through an ounce of what she did at Sweet Home. Rather, it demonstrates a mother’s willingness to hold the agony of losing her children and withstanding the social stigma of being a murderer if it means saving them from a lifetime of suffering. That in itself makes her character incredibly powerful in her conviction to protect her children.

At the same time, this movie portrays the consequential pain and trauma that is trapped in the bodies of everyone, but especially the women. For instance, when we witness Sethe’s trek from Kentucky to Ohio, feet so swollen she can barely stand, nine months pregnant, alone in the woods, we as the audience feel like we’re able to empathize with her better taking this journey with her. But at the same time, we can never fully know her pain. Not just Sethe but Baby Suggs, Denver, even Beloved, are all intrinsically connected through their generational acts of self-preservation and survival. Overall, both Morrison's story and Akosua Busia’s screenwriting capture real heartbreak. Even though as the audience we know we’re watching a fictional story, it doesn’t feel like a fiction. It leans into realistic racialized violence as horror and unapologetically shows us what trauma looks like. It captures the feeling of being enslaved and the impact of slavery on this family, of which they never truly recover from. More than anything else, it brings to the forefront the struggles of the Black female experience and the sacrifices of Black mothers.

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josiebelladonna · 11 months

Text

in a mood. here we go again.

Perform a word association exercise with the word “sex.”

Secrets. Stop. Lies. Cheating. Shame. Hatred. Self-hatred. Discomfort. Disgust. Hopeless. Chanceless. Trapped. “What am I doing wrong?” “What’s wrong with me?” Nope.

Would you say that you have or have not had a strong sexual drive in your life? How does and did this level of sexual drive affect your intimate relationships?

I’m once again going to try really hard and not be negative with these, because I’m exhausted. Insecurity and no confidence are no joke and not something easily fixed by telling me I need to exude confidence or to “just be myself” because those pieces of advice are anything but helpful. And we wonder why I get so angry about it. These are meant to help me and meant to let me audit this part of me, this part of me that I have never loved or felt proud of before.

Looking over the last thirty years and I guess I let my own insecurities get the best of me—this shit always happens to me, too. Despite wavering and ebbing and flowing like the tides, I actually have had a very strong sex drive in my life: I just think about how boy crazy I am, how my eyes wander onto girls, and how I always have been nuts about it since I hit puberty. It’s only gotten bigger as I’ve gotten bigger, too.

Thing is I never know what to do with it. I could never picture anyone liking what they saw with me, so I always keep it to myself. I was so disinterested in the people, boys and girls, at my school that I never could do anything: being treated like dirt by your own peers since you were ten years old, yeah, expect to check out all together. There have actually been a few times I thought I was lesbian because I am really intrigued by the female form and to be honest, there are times I’m actually drawn to it more than I am men’s bodies and I wonder what lesbian sex would feel like. I never could experiment because of my environment: being openly lgbtq+ where I grew up was like suicide, yes, even in California.

There were no resources and I was too ashamed to talk about it anyway. I just told people I was straight because I didn’t want them to know this part of me. But… I do love men, though. I really love men, actually. I think men are absolutely gorgeous. I fantasize about men all the time. Hell, I have a crush on a man right now. So, I thought I was bi for a while and then I started seeing nonbinary people with really beautiful bodies. Ran around in circles and I eventually landed on pansexual. It’s good to know that there’s a name for it, but I still hold back. I can’t picture myself with someone, no matter what gender they are, who knows how to put a handle on this… this… thing that is my libido. I can’t do anything with this.

What struggles have you had with your sexuality?

Way too many to list. Way too many. I guess the big one is just being comfortable with it, to the point of genuinely angering me. I reject my desires, like I don’t find them normal or pleasurable. I don’t find myself as all that attractive, either. When I was a teenager, no one ever made a pass on me. Girls didn’t like me, boys were either taken or they didn’t give a shit. I didn’t actually start getting looks until fairly recently, like two years ago.

I have this very distinct memory from high school—I don’t remember the context, may have been for spirit week, I have no clue—there was a day where we all had to dress up in either red, yellow, or green, like the stoplights: red for “taken”, green for single, and yellow for “talking”. I remember I used to have green pants and I wore those plus my Green Day shirt. I got to school… and I’m not exaggerating. I was the only person wearing green. I was just in a sea of red with a few yellow spots here and there. I remember people staring at me, too, like judging me, like, how fucking dare I walk around out here advertising my singleness. If I recall correctly, it wasn’t just students, either, I had a couple of teachers look at me funny, too.

In what ways do you nurture your personal sense of sexuality, and/or sexual relationships?

I draw. I write. …I live on a mountain top, 20 minutes away from a trump bastion. it’s not like I have a ton of options.

I like to wear jewel tones and low-slung jeans: I do not like high-waisted jeans or shorts because they cut me in half and bunch up around my crotch and my butt (every. single. time); I really just… don’t get the appeal and why everyone clutches at themselves at the mere mention of anything low-rise. I like camisoles. I like pajamas. I like underwear: as much as I cringe at the thought of wearing lingerie, I do like just wearing a bra, and I do have a teddy in my closet, too. I like to wear jeans: I have never felt good in a dress before. I dunno, it’s a bitch to walk around in and sit in, and I hate how the skirt always wants to blow up (I’ve lived in windy areas my whole life). After a shower, I let my hair hang down for a few hours before I brush it: if I haven’t showered in a few days, I comb my bangs up into this pompadour upon my head so I have this Elvis/Dennis Miller thing going until I feel like climbing in. I like tops that are low-cut and are a bit snug: I really don’t mind if they ride up my body a bit. I recently rediscovered my love of midriff tops! They are the only things to let me put the exception on high-waisted jeans. Only makeup I have is chapstick and nail polish: when I was little, I’d put on lipstick and eyeshadow and mascara but I never could get into it, though. I always look over made. “You’d be so much prettier, though!” Heh, nope. Even just a little bit makes me look like I just walked out of the circus.

Write about your first sexual experiences. Interpret sexual experience any way like, even it’s about you first kiss.

(Resisting the urge to be angry, even though I kind of am annoyed just reading this)

I guess there was the first time I touched myself. I was in front of a mirror and I opened my legs and looked at myself there. I touched my clit the first time and I remember it really tickled me. I felt my labia and even stuck a finger or two in.

And then naturally, I got caught.

Write about your last sexual experience. How was it different from your first sexual experience?

I guess this could be the last time I touched myself: I was standing up and had my underwear on that time (just to play around a bit). Did very little but then I moved to my nipples and I was starting to go nuts a bit. I also tried between the legs again naked, with a shower head, and that really did something. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is I’ve gotten a lot more sensitive as I’ve gotten older.

What were you taught about sex as you grew up? What did you not know that you needed to know?

Sex ed from middle school onwards, plus I was told that guys just want to get in my pants by my drug addict father. I was never told about pleasure or anything good or that kinks are good or the range of sexual orientations or anything genuinely useful. Just your standard “insert penis into vagina, have babies” and that was it. I was also bombarded by these messages of “don’t be promiscuous or a slut, don’t get a reputation, no one will want you otherwise” and it was always in junction with being ladylike, too. Like, you HAVE TO BE LADYLIKE or no one will love you (gen z has adapted this ideology in worrying amounts, like nevermind triggering me for a second: you cannot tell me that this current generation is healthy when they adapt some of the most inhibitory behaviors ever). I also heard things like “if you have sex, you WILL get pregnant, FACT.” (i.e., the whole “men force abortion on women” thing that pro-life feminists claim is like science fiction to me)

How has your views of sex changed over time?

I guess i’m more aware of it and it’s not as alien to me, but that really isn’t saying much. 30 years old and I feel like I just scratched the surface.

Describe a sexual fantasy you have.

If I wrote it, and it has either a mature or explicit rating, it’s probably fantasy.

Turn a sexual experience into a piece of short fiction. Describe the setting. Use dialogue. Write erotic description.

Judge me forever.

Write about the best sex partner you have ever been with. Describe a special time together.

So… I’m a virgin. I really do feel like no one wants me and “they” were right.

What changes if any would you like to make about your sexual self?

I really want more confidence and freedom, and I’m so wary of saying that, too, because I know what the answer is going to be. It’s going to be this bullshit, hackneyed, so-called “advice” that’s only going to piss me off. I have felt so much shame about this fucking bullshit, that it’s a chore to even get out of bed. I hate my sexuality. I want it all changed so I don’t have to think about it anymore. But, aside from the changes in career, I have had my boundaries disrespected by family, friends, peers, classmates, everyone. Everyone apparently thinks it’s okay to invalidate my feelings and my choices, and that it’s okay to make fun of me when I change my mind and think it over again.

Take my whole issue with makeup: I literally hate wearing makeup, and girls often asked me why I don’t wear it. “I just don’t,” and also “I don’t like the way it feels on my skin”. Cue the “there’s natural makeup” and the “you’d look so much prettier with it”. I GAVE YOU AN ANSWER.

Write a sexual confession to your partner or someone you admire. Be straight forward or as kinky as you would like.

So, this took me about an hour to write up because I initially came up dry and then I found myself in a very vulnerable position when I started thinking about what I… really wish I could tell you everything I feel about you. I have so much fear around how I feel about you, and I really, really don’t know how you’ll react to this should you ever see it. I’m not confident in my words. I could lose you. I could push you away. I think my desires are terrifying and gross, and I just don’t know what to say to you most of the time: really, I feel like I’m bullshitting with you all of the time because you’re so intelligent and cool and content and seem to have everything together… and I’m not. I feel like I’m just not worth your time most days: there are far more women out there who are far more interesting than me, women who are better than me, like they have degrees and they’re accomplished architects who refer to themselves as gypsies for some reason even though that word is a level of self-hatred i can’t even begin to fathom (i can’t explain it, either—and you heard this from me, too—but she’s gay. Think about it: talks about you in businesslike fashion, makes you visibly uncomfortable, talks down to other men and is lowkey too friendly to other women, obsessed with frivolous nonsense to where it feels like denial of something else, it’s closeted homosexuality). But what have I done?

I look into your eyes, those deep blue eyes, as deep as the Pacific Ocean. I look at your handsome face, how it gets more handsome when you’re smiling. I look at your beautiful hair, at how it’s two-toned and soft-looking: I look at your hair from when you were younger and I want to play with it. Don’t cut your hair short again: it was cute, but you look so gorgeous with long hair (it suits your face better, too). No, you don’t need to lose weight: you look so healthy and so cute with a little belly, and I want you to have it back. Eat up. Bring that cute little tummy back for me.

I think of kissing you there, touching you and holding you around your full waist, especially after you’ve eaten.

I think of cuddling with you—I love to cuddle and be warm and safe.

I think of touching you below the belt, of feeling and fondling you there: I have often considered that belly rubs lead to handjobs, and belly kisses lead to blowjobs. I think of you doing the same to me: that velvet tongue on the insides of my thighs; those long fingers on my clit or around the rim of my belly button or around my nipples, those soft cherry lips on my skin…

I think of making out with you, just really slow, soft, sensual love-making where we’re close and feeling each other.

I think about some of the erotic fics I’ve penned about you, especially the really kinky ones, and I can’t help but want a few of them to come to life (like voice kink: I meant it when I said I love your voice).

I think of role playing with you: you’re the hot professor, especially now that you have glasses. Or we’re vampires or merfolk.

I also just think of kissing you, giving you a little peck on the cheek for being such a sweetie. You’re kind of everything that I’ve dreamed of, everything I love in another person, and if I’m being honest, you don’t even seem real sometimes because you really are that perfect to me.

What would you like to learn about your sexual self?

Why do I never attract the types that I like—I’ll admit it, too, I have a type (boys with long hair, artistic types who are liberal but have an open mind, smart ones, sweet ones, kind of round ones, curvy women, slender women, women with dyed hair, women with something unusual about them like bright eyes with dark skin). My facebook is littered with people I have no connection with, like there’s only a few that I really do consider friends. Why do I have so much shame.

What part of your sexuality seems the most mysterious to you?

Those lesbian thoughts I keep having. Even with as much as I love men, I can’t help but feel aroused by women as well.

And also why I keep coming back to this. Why did I keep my incredibly high sex drive under wraps when sexual energy is incredibly powerful.

The shame. Why is there shame. Why did you make this. How is this even possible.

When you hesitate to write something, what reminder can you give yourself to be as completely honest as you can, both factually and emotionally?

“I have nothing to compare myself to”. And “what are you waiting for, a bus?”

What, if anything, about sex distresses you?

I worry about getting pregnant, and I’ve always known that this is why I’m so bored with regular old penetrative sex, and why I feel genuinely repulsed by the affluence of it in fanfic: it’s the weirdest thing to me, it’s like everyone has baby fever, whereas I don’t want children. Plus, I’m just genuinely grossed out by the thought of being filled with cum.

My poor stomach has been through a lot, too: I worry about having to run to the bathroom because my own erotic tendencies are sending my digestive system into overdrive.

The pervasive feeling that i’ll never have it, either. I’m a virgin at 30. Most 30 year olds have had it several times, i’m lucky to have some rando on the street even look at me.

What change would you like to make in your sexual behavior?

Confidence.

What change would you like to make in your sexual attitudes or thoughts?

I wish I could be more open with them and not feel like they’re weird or gross.

What change would you like to make in your sexual emotions or feelings?

Same story there. I don’t want pain, either.

What memories came to mind from the previous questions?

Let’s see… my crying to my dad about feeling lost after I moved back to California and him being incredibly insensitive and telling me to “exude confidence” and accusing me of being an alcoholic (when I can easily tell you that I’m not) rather than be a shoulder to cry on, listen to me and give me space and tell me I’m not wrong for feeling this way. You know. Be a man and comfort the most important woman in your life.

All the times I was asked “why do you do this?” and I’d give a legit answer and then they would respond with unsolicited advice or opinions.

The phrase “raunchy side” *shudders* and feeling incredibly powerless in her wake.

This isn’t sexual, but one time, I cried in front of my paternal grandmother and she rolled her eyes at me. That side of the family just never cared about me.

All the times I showed any emotion and no one knew how to react… or worse, they wouldn’t leave me alone to the point of harassing me.

Nothing good or happy.

What do you like most about your current partner? Least?

I’m a virgin. Also, HEY. CAN WE PLEASE STOP USING THE WORD “PARTNER”I AM GENUINELY TRIGGERED BY THIS WORD.

Make three (or more) sexual wishes. Don't hold back!

I wish I could talk about this freely. I wish I was hot. I wish I was accepted. I wish I belonged. I wish I didn’t have to worry. I wish I couldn’t feel hysterical laughter whenever I say I’m a virgin.

Make a list of your sexual partners and write a few phrases to describe the relationship. What patterns do you see?

After years of research, I finally came to the perfect scientific conclusion: I’m a fucking virgin.

If you have a sexual partner now, write about this relationship. What works for you in this sexual relationship? What would you like to change?

Boy, you know, my hand not only does things to my clit and tits, but it can also become a fist to break the face of whoever implores the regular use of a clinical, completely loveless and soulless word like “partner”.

Describe what your ideal sexual relationship would look like today.

I’d say maybe something with polyamory given I’m polyamorous, but that’s about where it starts and ends, though. I don’t know what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like (I know what an unhealthy relationship looks like, so I guess … healthy is just the opposite? I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.)

If you have been sexually dissatisfied, what has kept you in the relationship?

Doesn’t apply. I’m embarrassed.

Are you able to ask your partner for what you want sexually? How do you do that?

The two times I have ever been out on a date, plus the time I cybered, I had the absolute worst time telling them about what I wanted, mainly because I couldn’t. The dates were first dates: even I can tell you that you don’t reveal too much too soon because that can push them away. It wasn’t like I could tell them anyway. But the second date, i.e., the time I was fixed up, I could feel that pressure, like… if this went past the first day, I would have to tell him. And I had no connection with him. He was more interested in socializing with my stepdad than getting to know me (and the second he walked through the front door, I thought, “nope, this is not going to be anything special.”) so I was literally bored and awkward sitting there next to him.

As for the time I cybered… I’m just going to assume that the first time is always awkward.

If you have difficulty asking for what you want, what are you telling yourself that makes asking difficult?

“Will they really know what I’m talking about?” and: “is this really what I want?”

What are your sexual limits with your partner?

I don’t want to be filled with cream. No, I’m completely turned off at the thought of being pregnant. I’m almost mortified by it, actually: use a condom or pull out, or let’s use our hands or mouths.

I like a little pain… not too much, though. I like little nibbles or scratches down the back, or spanking.

None of that “daddy” nonsense, either.

Don’t ever call me your “partner”, either, i fucking hate that word now. I want to know when it was normalized because it’s so sterile and cold and influencer-y. Call me that and I’ll straight up leave you.

What sexual behavior won't you do or would do only under certain conditions? Write about those to clarify your boundaries.

(see the tidbit with pain) Please don’t overdo it. My body is actually very sensitive and too much pain is too much.

As repulsed as I am by the idea of having penetrative sex, if there’s protection involved, I actually might reconsider.

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD BE PATIENT WITH ME. I’M DUMB AND TRAUMATIZED, I DON’T KNOW WHAT I AM DOING.

I don’t like it too rough: I’m slow and sensual for the most part, but a little quickness goes a long way if I think about it.

In what way might your relationship with your partner deepen or improve by talking openly about sex?

Hang-ups about… noonewantingtobeinarelationshipwithme aside, I really feel like an open conversation could help a relationship. For me, it’s a “make or break” type thing: if they aren’t comfortable with it, they probably aren’t for you. If they’re curious, but they’re like me and they aren’t comfortable at all with this stuff or they’re not sure or comfortable (to the point they hate) their sexuality, make them feel safe. Put your arm around them and help them because it’s very daunting, especially when you see they’re alone because everyone is either disrespectful and patronizing or “too busy”. Make it make sense for them.

Can you recall your first discovery of sexual fantasy? What was it about?

All I know is I was very young and I didn’t understand what was happening, either.

Write out three of your favorite sexual fantasies. If this is new to you, make one up now.

Yuck fou. Yuck fou again. Yuck fou some more.

How have you used your sexual fantasies up until now?

Haven’t. Can’t.

What began as a fantasy that you later took into action?

The time I told Alex I’m in love with his voice. It was way before I wrote voice kink one shot in eclipse, too. That one in particular was so much fun to write—kind of tricky, but fun, though.

What sexual fantasies work the best to arouse you?

I was pretty aroused writing Chave do Mar: Alex as a merman with a long shark tail, smooth milky skin, and black curls tousled over his shoulder. Same with Blood & Chocolate, too: Alex being over fed and it shows up on his body. The Black Orchid scenes from now it’s dark were pretty hot, too, when I think back to writing them: Joey surrounded by burlesque strippers.

Have you shared your sexual fantasies with a friend? What was the reaction?

…it’s pretty across the board.

Have you shared your sexual fantasies with a lover? What was the reaction?

I don’t know if I could be courageous enough to do that.

How important is it for you to share your sexual fantasies? What are your reasons for sharing or not? Does sharing fantasies break their "spell"?

You know that fanfic meme that talks about writing your dream fanfic filled with all your fantasies and dreams but choosing not to and keeping it locked away in your mind because you want it to yourself? Yeah, I don’t relate to that at all. I write them out because I want to make sense of them for the most part. I honestly don’t care if no one sees them, either, because I’ve never really seen my fantasies as all that mystifying: just these weird little scenes that roll around inside me and whether they face the light of day is up to me. I don’t write them out to arouse me, either: just to make sense of them. I literally don’t care, they’re stupid and pointless and painfully unsexy.

What, if anything, do you find distressing about your sexual thoughts or fantasies? Write about that to clarify it for yourself.

I don’t think they’re special or gossip-worthy or revolutionary or life-changing. They just… are what they are.

I think the one thing that’s distressing about them is how they almost always have an element of science fiction to them: I live in an imaginary world and to bring these out would defy the laws of science. They’re just not physically possible.

If you could say three things to the world about the nature of your personal sexuality and really be heard, understood, and accepted, what would you say?

I’m queer, plus I’m pansexual and polyamorous. Get used to it.

Please respect my boundaries and my choices. I don’t wear makeup because I just don’t want to, I didn’t ask for you to goad me into it because you think I’ll look prettier. I don’t wear dresses because I just don’t want to, I didn’t ask for you to tell me I look prettier when I wear one.

Make me feel safe and comfortable because… I never have felt safe to express this part of me. I have always felt judged, looked down upon, and made to feel small. We’re supposedly all about supporting women and their agency, demands, desires, et cetera… stop picking and choosing. What turns me on and what I find sexy is going to be radically different to what you find sexy and this does not give you the right to laugh at me or call it “cute” when I don’t intend it to be.

When was the first time you experienced feelings of arousal and what triggered those feelings? What did you think of it at the time? What was your emotional response to those feelings?

Like I said, I was very small. May have been from me sitting in front of the mirror and touching myself, I have no clue. I didn’t understand what was happening, either, or why the adults in the room freaked the fuck out over it, either.

The first time I wore a shirt that showed off my belly is another one: I was like four or five, and it felt right to me.

Describe your first sexual encounter. How old were you? Was it consensual? If not, what resources have you used to help heal from that encounter? If it was consensual, what did that experience mean to you at the time?

So, I’ve talked about this, how it was cybersex that started life as a tangent during a serious conversation in the wake of tragedy, and—it almost didn’t mean anything to me at the time, especially since it quite literally started as a joke to lighten the mood a bit. Almost, anyway: I didn’t see it as this huge deal like, “oh my gorsh, I just had cybersex!!” But at the same time, I’m always hesitant to talk about it because it hinges on something bad happening (Dan Wheldon was killed and the boy I talked to saw him as his hero, and I talked with him for hours, and it went the way it did). This is something that’s showed up in a number of my fanfics, and it has gotten me called disgusting, too.

Who was your first romantic, sexual partner? What about him or her appealed most to you? What did you hope would happen with that relationship?

I wish I could answer this. Aside from the above, I’ve never had a boyfriend. Almost 30 years old and I have never even been kissed. I’ll admit it, it’s pathetic. I got sick and tired of hearing “oh, you’ll find love some day” when I was 17, and now I know in my heart it won’t ever happen. Really, I could have confidence through the fucking roof and no one will want any of this. Whoever said “everyone has sex” has obviously never met me. It’s so exploitative, too: this unfair assumption that way too many people have had about me and it only makes me hate myself. (Why is that always the response to someone saying they’re single, too? It’s like, i’m just stating a fact, I didn’t ask for you to be fortune teller.)

Do you believe that sex and emotional intimacy are linked, or is it possible to have a sexual relationship without emotional attachment? What experiences influence your answer?

Linked but not exclusive, though. Casual sex is a thing, plus you can be emotionally attached but not want it; don’t believe everything you see on Twitter (especially now fucking hell). Just… my own observations about this.

If you could have the perfect sex life right now, what would that look like?

Something that lets me go about with my polyamory, I guess? I’m able to be with a man and a woman, or two men and a woman. (I’m just pulling stuff out of my ass here, tbh).

How do you define “awesome” sex (i.e. what makes sex better than good)?

Give me everything I want and maybe something the other person likes, like we’re all pleased—notice I said “all” and not just “both”.

How do you feel about PDA? (You can take this as far as “kinks in public,” too.)

Can’t stand it. Can’t stand seeing it, can’t stand the thought of it happening to me (insecurity and hang-ups might have something to do with that when I think about it), some things are just better left in private. As for kinks in public, though? I don’t know, that seems a bit much.

What do you think about when you masturbate?

Last time I did, I didn’t think about anything other than if I was doing it right.

What are your sure-fire turn-ons (and/or turn-offs)?

Turn-ons: touches on my head (you know when you get a haircut and they wash your hair really well beforehand? No joke, that genuinely arouses me). Touches on my breasts, especially my dark-ass nipples. Touches on my belly, especially around my belly button because it’s technically scar tissue. Fingers on my lips—not sure about tongues, though. Touches on my thighs and my knees (yes). Touches on my ankles. I like soft touch. I like being held. I like fantasy. I like intelligence. I like sweetness. I’m all about feeling and being close.

What are your thoughts about porn?

I still don’t see it as exploitative. One complaint I do have with it is unrealistic expectations. No guy is like that. No girl is like that.

What are your thoughts on foreplay? Favorite types? Best experiences? Wishes?

It’s so underrated. A few kisses or hickeys on a sensitive spot like on the neck or the belly, or fingers on the labia and lips on the thighs can take you a long way, and I can say that just from my own writing.

What parts of your lover’s body are you most drawn to? (If you don’t currently have a lover, feel free to consider past or future lovers.)

“Lover” is another pathetically overused word. My eyes have always wandered to the middle of the body, their belly their hips and their thighs. I like it when it’s nice and slender, like I want to put arms around them there and feel them up, and of course, I like it when it’s a little full and round there (like a nice chubby little belly but he’s healthy as a horse). I like a little chub, and I think some people just look a lot better with it: it makes me want to touch and feel, and they look kind of… I want to say “juicy”. Looking nice and tasty—

If you were to “recreate” the early days of your favorite sexy relationship, what would they look like? Would you change anything?

It’s weird to think that I can actually answer this: I don’t think I would change anything. Maybe I could have been a little more upfront with him about how I feel about him earlier on because I just think about that one night in March-ish 2021, but there was a point to that, though. I wanted to ease into it, and there had to be some sort of opportunity to find with him because I see people hitting on him all the time, and I always think I’m being inappropriate with him, oh my god 🫣.

The beauty of it being online is it’s kind of the whole entire point to it.

Really, if Alex and I take it offline, we lose the clandestine nature of watching each other on stories or him fanboying over me like he’s a teenage kid again. Although I will say this: if it’s taken offline, given I’m a cuddler and very touchy-feely and sensual… I don’t know about him, but…

What do you want more of in your sex life?

A sex life? But, you know, now that I write this out, like really write it out over and over and over again and not really come up with anything better, i feel bored by the whole sex thing. I have a crazy amount of shame that ruminating on it makes me physically sick, and I feel stuck inside of it, like I can’t get rid of it. I feel like I’m boring and underwhelming, like you would think that someone who identifies as pansexual and polyamorous and has a high sex drive would have at least one conquest but… I’ve just never been respected or built up or even seen. Plus, there’s this whole thing about how women are not supposed to chase, either.

Would you ever visit a sex therapist? What would be the reason and what do you think their advice would be for you?

I’m on the fence. No, because my only real problem is the feeling of safety and wanting to be comfortable. And yes because sometimes a second opinion can help.

Is there anything about sex that embarrasses you, causes shame or fear, or makes you nervous? Or…what’s the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you during sex?

My fear of pregnancy plus I worry about shitting myself.

Just the act itself. I literally can’t imagine anyone being that crazy about me, like I am not beautiful, I am not sexy… and I hate the expectation that comes with those words, like “you’re a woman! Be beautiful and sexy 24/7!” Fuck off. I could go away right now and no one would care or wonder what it would have been like to make love to me or toss a dick in me.

That first time you’re naked in front of them strikes me as nerve-racking, too, like that’s the moment of truth right there: when they see you naked the first time.

What do you tend to fantasize or dream about when it comes to sex? What kinds of porn or kink are you drawn to?

My fantasies are very sensual, almost artsy. There’s a lot of emotion involved, too, even if it’s casual, I still imagine so much emotion in there.

If you were to create a sexy playlist intended for a hot date at home, what would be on it?

So I tried this out yesterday and I got distracted by Queens of the Stone Age’s new album. I have never made a sexy playlist before so I wouldn’t know where to start.

What are your love languages and how do they apply to your sexual needs? What about your lover?

30% physical touch, 27% quality time, 20% words of affirmation, 13% gift giving, 10% acts of service (may have changed a little since I checked that but it sounds about right).

I want touch and time but no one is touching or spending time with me. My needs are a joke.

How do you feel about being naked?

No opinion. It just … is what it is. I don’t fixate on flaws (I never could, either, even with my troubled relationship with myself), nor do I see it as a beautiful thing: it just it what it is. I take care of myself but that’s about it. What do you do with it. Why is this controversial.

Now, when I think about being naked with someone else, look the other way.

What’s your favorite way to be seduced?

You put your guitar on your lap, you brush your hair really nice, you have this little twinkle in your eye like you’re up to no good or you’re secretly going commando out of camera, you have a glass of wine in hand, and you talk in a very soft, husky voice when I ask you about your underwear.

Do you have any trust issues surrounding sex or your sexual relationship(s)?

A feeling of safety is a running theme here. I want to feel safe and comfortable… and I never have felt safe enough to even so much as look at a guy or a girl.

What do you look like, and sound like, when sex feels good for you?

Whenever I write something erotic, every so often I have to stop myself and close my eyes because I feel things moving. I get really quiet (everyone talks about screaming during sex: I’m the exact opposite, I get really quiet) and my hands start itching for the feeling. I bite my lip a lot, too—sometimes I do that without even thinking, like it just happens. It’s a long slow burn with me. And yes: I feel guilty afterwards.

What is the most sexually daring thing you’ve ever done?

Flirted with Alex on stories. I’ve always sucked at flirting (I once went for five years without flirting with anyone because I suck so hard at it), let alone with a guy like him. I love calling him “baby” especially, because he’s sweet and precious like a little baby boy.

Flirted with Eric on stories (I called him “big guy”) and got him to take a selfie from the toilet. Wish I was making that up.

I asked “are we going to see a Jeff Becerra OnlyFans any time soon?” and mf literally replied with “only if the price is right” and the eggplant emoji.

Any time I post risqué art on instagram because they’re complete pricks with that sort of thing.

When now it’s dark was being written and I posted those ink drawings on instagram (completely oblivious to the fact Joey was watching me).

There was also one time in school one of my friends had his pants hanging down a bit and I tried to pants him and he caught me. I did get to pinch his butt when no one was looking, though.

In your opinion, what does it mean to be good in bed?

When everyone is pleased and had their kinks out in the open. I think.

Have you ever had sex in a public place?

Sarcasm aside, why would I do this?

When and how did you lose your virginity, and how did you feel about it? How do you feel about it now?

I’ll probably die a virgin.

Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time, watched others have sex, been watched? If not, would you?

I’m polyamorous so I’d definitely try it. As for voyeurism… maybe I’d like to be watched? Don’t know about watching others, though.

How often do you masturbate and what works best for you?

I go for long stretches of time without doing it, because I get bored with it. I’ve done it sitting down, standing up, on my back, stooped over, topless, with my pants on, in the shower, in bed… all with my fingers. Toys are one of my biggest hang ups: I used a vibrator one time and I threw it away immediately because it made me uncomfortable. At least with my fingers, I know where it’s coming from. But toys? I don’t know, I’m not really excited by the thought of sticking a piece of silicone or glass or plastic up a very delicate part of my body. I’ve thought about it, for sure, because I’ve changed since that first time.

Maybe I’m just not trying enough, but I look at some on lingerie sites like Spencer’s or wherever, and I shake my head in disgust.

“Find one that’s best for you”, they tell me. Yeah, but nothing here is jumping out at me.

What are you most grateful or thankful for in your sex life?

Can’t say that I’m grateful at all. I’m all about finding joy and pleasure, and I have never found it here. Oh, yeah, i’m totally grateful for something that brings me so much shame that it makes my chest hurt and makes it hard to even get out of bed some days. Oh, yeah, totally grateful for the judgements, the dirty looks, the snickers, the condescension, the guilt, the horrible feelings where there should be pleasure and confidence, what have you.

What is your favorite sexual position, and why?

Officially don’t know anymore.

Have you ever had an “inappropriate” crush? What was it about that person that drew you in, and what made it “not okay”?

All my crushes have been inappropriate lol

They all have been either older, or unavailable in some way like already taken or not interested.

I was never drawn to people at my school, so I looked beyond the borders: older people fit that bill for me.

Have you (or would you) ever tried role play? What roles are you drawn to?

I like fantasy and scifi characters (see my merfolk and vampire kinks; aliens and robots, too), and—you can blame you-know-who for this, too—I like the “sexy nerd” trope, too (the hot librarian or the hot scientist or the hot professor).

Are you more dominant or submissive (or a bit of both)?

I’d say “domme” but I’m definitely both. Yes, even with as much as I hate the female role and find it restrictive, there’s a sub in me.

How do you feel about your own body?

My hair, though very long, down to the halfway point of my thighs, is very thin at the crown of my head. I’m starting to grow out my bangs and I’m starting to get this Winona Ryder c. Beetlejuice look now.

I have a large head. A round face. Sharp eyebrows akin to Madonna or Zendaya’s eyebrows. A small nose. Brown eyes and coarse, wiry dark hair with blonde streaks and a reddish sheen. A thick bull neck and a slight double under my rounded chin. I get this weird growth of hair under my chin—weird because it’s like a Fu Manchu sort of thing in that it grows in two patches. Yeah, under my chin, too, so it’s a bitch to pluck.

Broad shoulders with soft collar bones. Lanky arms with slightly warped forearms—first time i gave blood, the nurse had to stick the needle in almost over the joint rather than in the pivot of my elbow; “knock-elbowed” as my mom calls it. Chubby little hands that are almost like paws. Soft skin but I can’t picture anyone wanting to touch it, though.

40ddd chest. A belly covered in stretch marks and was round even when I was thin: it’s even fuller and rounder now. Wide hips and thick thighs—my whole body is thick, though, my measurements are (get ready to faint) 54-43-57. I gain weight easily, almost way too easily—now you know the source of my anorexia and extreme angst.

My lips are small. And plain. Like any man’s dick is going to be a good fit.

I got fat knees. My lower legs are nothing to write home about, neither are my ankles. Slender, bony feet with toes that look like they just came off someone else’s feet.

This body is… I don’t know. Parents called me beautiful but if my piss-poor track record with my peers and crushes and this whole thing here is anything to go by… it should be clear that I have trouble seeing this myself. I only started actually getting hit on very recently, and looking at my appearance when I was a teenager, I did not look good at all. It makes sense that no one ever made a pass on me and I was the only one wearing green.

How sorry do you have to feel for a person having sex with you?

Kind of want to say “not at all”, really want to say “sorrier than sorry”, but I’m a virgin so I have no idea.

Could someone know you sexually, properly know you, and still like you?

If you know me sexually, would you be willing to like me?

#text #journaling #sexuality

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