#bully romance

"I—I needed my pencil case—"

"Bullshit." You leaned forward slightly, your hand coming to rest on top of his head, fingers threading through his hair. "You could have asked me to bring it to school. Could have bought new pencils. You came back because you wanted to." Choso's face burned. "That's not—" Your fingers tightened in his hair, just enough to make him gasp. "Don't lie to me, Choso. We both know why you're really here." Your smile widened. "You've been thinking about Monday night, haven't you? Been thinking about touching me. About what it felt like to have my tits in your hands. About my tongue on your fingers." His hands tightened reflexively on your thighs. "I... yeah," he admitted quietly, unable to meet your eyes. "Of course you have." You tugged his hair gently, forcing him to look up. "Because you're pathetic. And desperate. And you'd do anything for another chance, wouldn't you?" Choso's throat was tight. "...Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'd... I'd do anything." Your eyes lit up with that cruel delight he was starting to recognize. "Anything?" you repeated. "That's a dangerous word, virgin."

"I know." You studied him for a long moment, your fingers still in his hair, your legs slightly parted under his hands. "Maybe I'll be nice," you said slowly, and Choso's heart leapt. "Maybe I'll let you touch me again. Maybe I'll even give you more than that." His breath caught. "Really?"

"Maybe," you emphasized. "But first, I want you to tell me something."

"What?" Your smile turned predatory. "When you texted me asking to come over, what did you think would happen? What were you hoping for?" You leaned closer, your face inches from his. "Did you think I'd just hand you your pencil case and send you home? Or did you have other... fantasies... about what might happen when you got here?" Choso's face went nuclear. "I... I don't—"

"Don't lie." Your fingers tightened in his hair. "I want the truth. Tell me what you really thought would happen. What you were hoping for in that pathetic virgin brain of yours." He couldn't. He couldn't possibly tell her. "Tell me," you commanded, your voice soft but firm. "And maybe—maybe—I'll be nice and make some of those fantasies come true." Choso's hands were shaking on your thighs. His whole body was shaking. You were looking at him with those cruel, beautiful eyes, and your fingers were in his hair, and he could smell your perfume and feel the warmth of your skin. "I thought..." His voice came out barely above a whisper. "I thought maybe you'd... that we'd..."

"Use your words."

"I thought maybe you'd let me kiss you again," he said in a rush, his face burning. "Or touch you. Or—or maybe you'd touch me. I don't know. I just... I couldn't stop thinking about Monday, and I thought maybe if I came back you'd…"

"I'd what?" You pulled his hair gently. "Finish the sentence."

"That you'd want me," Choso whispered, and immediately felt like an idiot because, of course, you didn't want him. You were just playing with him. Using him. He was nothing to you but a dog, a little idiotic loser nerd to mess with because he gave all the right reactions. "Want you?" You laughed, not meanly, but amused. "Oh, Choso. That's so cute it's almost sad." His eyes burned with humiliation. "But you know what?" Your thumb brushed across his cheekbone. "I do want something from you." He looked up, hope and fear warring in his chest. "I want to see how far you'll go," you said quietly. "How much you'll debase yourself. How pathetic you'll get for just a chance that I might touch you again." Your other hand joined the first, cupping his face, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to beg. Really beg. Tell me all those pathetic fantasies you've been having. Every dirty thought you've had about me since Monday night. And if you're honest—if you really humiliate yourself properly—then maybe I'll give you something."

Choso's heart was pounding so hard he could hear it. "But if you hold back," you continued, your voice dropping to something dangerous, "if you're too much of a coward to tell me the truth, then you can take your pencil case and leave. And I'll make sure everyone at school knows you came here begging for more and I sent you home with nothing." The threat hung in the air. Choso looked up at you, at your cruel smile and your perfect face and your hands cradling his cheeks like he was something precious, even though you were about to destroy him and made his choice. "Please," he started, his voice shaking. "I've been thinking about you constantly. About Monday night. About how your skin felt and how you tasted and the sounds you made and—"

"Go on," you encouraged, your smile widening. Choso, kneeling on your floor with his hands on your thighs and his dignity scattered somewhere far away, told you everything. Every fantasy. Every desperate thought. Every pathetic hope. While you listened with that evil, satisfied look on your face, knowing that with every word, you owned him a little bit more. Your hand shot out, fingers gripping his chin hard enough to make him gasp. You yanked him up roughly, forcing him to scramble for purchase on the armrests of your chair to keep from falling forward completely. Now he was hovering over you, arms braced on either side of your body, his face level with yours, breathing hard. "Listen to me very carefully," you said, your voice cold and sharp. "If—and I said if—I let you do even one of those pathetic fantasies you just confessed, how can I know it'll be worth my time?" Choso's eyes were wide behind his glasses. "You're a virgin," you continued, your grip tightening on his chin. "A pathetic loser who's never touched a girl before Monday. I'd be doing you such a massive favor letting you anywhere near me. And if it's not worth it—if you disappoint me—I will fucking kill you. Understand?"

"I—I'll make it worth it," Choso stammered. "I promise, I'll—"

"Promises mean nothing." You released his chin with a slight push, and he had to catch himself on the armrests. "You have to show me." You leaned back in your chair, your eyes never leaving his face, and deliberately you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sleep shorts. Choso's breath caught. You lifted your hips and shimmied the shorts down your legs, taking your time, watching his face the entire time. The shorts hit the floor, leaving you in just your oversized hoodie and a pair of pink lace panties. "Well?" You spread your legs slightly, your feet planted on either side of him where he knelt between them. "You said you wanted to worship me. Said you'd do anything. So prove it." You gestured down at yourself with one hand, that cruel smile playing on your lips. "Show me how desperate you are, virgin. Start small. Work your way up. And maybe if you're good enough, I'll let you have more." Choso's hands were shaking as they left the armrests and moved to your calves.

"That's it," you murmured, watching him like a scientist observing an experiment. "Show me." His lips pressed against your ankle first, tentative, reverent. Then higher. Your shin. Your knee. The inside of your thigh. Each kiss was desperate, worshipful, his hands sliding up your legs as he moved, his glasses slipping down his nose with each forward motion. You threaded your fingers back through his hair, not pulling, just resting there, feeling him tremble under your touch. "Look at me while you do it," you commanded softly. Choso's eyes lifted to yours, and God, the desperation in them was intoxicating. He looked at you like you were everything. Like he'd die if you told him to stop. His lips traveled higher up your thigh, his breathing ragged, his hands gripping your legs like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. And then, because apparently he'd gotten brave, or stupid, or too lost in the moment, his teeth caught the edge of your panties. He started to pull them down with his mouth.

Smack.

Your hand came down on the side of his head, not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to stop him immediately. "Tsk." You grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him back. "Did I say you could do that?"

"I thought—"

"You thought wrong." You forced him to look up at you, your grip tight in his hair. "You don't get to just take what you want, Choso. You have to earn it. Every. Single. Thing." His face was flushed, his lips swollen from kissing your skin, his glasses completely crooked now. He looked utterly destroyed, and you'd barely even started. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm sorry, I just—I got carried away—"

"You got greedy," you corrected. "You think because I let you touch my tits once that you can just do whatever you want now?"

"No, I—"

"Then act like it." You released his hair with a slight push. "Start over. From the bottom. And this time, don't do anything I don't explicitly tell you to do. Understand?" Choso nodded frantically. "Say it."

"I understand. I won't—I won't do anything you don't tell me to. I'm sorry. Please." You smiled, satisfied. "Good boy. Now..." You leaned back in your chair, spreading your legs a bit wider. "Start again. And if you're very good, and you beg very nicely, I'll let you do what you just tried to do." You watched him lower his head back to your ankle, his hands shaking on your calves, his breathing unsteady. "But you're going to have to earn it, nerd," you added softly, running your fingers through his hair almost gently now. "You're going to have to show me just how desperate you really are. How much you want it. How pathetic you're willing to be for me." His lips pressed against your skin again, softer this time, more careful, like he was terrified of making another mistake. "That's better," you murmured, your eyes half-lidded as you watched him worship his way up your legs again. "Much better." As Choso kissed and trembled and looked up at you with those desperate, devoted eyes, your finger traced across his lips slowly while your other hand kept his chin tilted up toward you. "You know what?" you said, your voice still carrying that cruel edge but softer now. "You're actually not completely terrible at this. For a pathetic virgin who's never done anything before." Choso's breath hitched at the backhanded praise. "Still desperate though," you continued, your thumb pressing against his bottom lip. "Still so fucking obvious how badly you want this. Look at you, shaking like a leaf."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize." You leaned forward, your face close to his. "I like you desperate. It's entertaining." Then you pulled him closer, gripping his chin firmly, guiding him until he was kneeling up higher, his face level with yours. "Don't move," you commanded. Choso froze, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You kept your eyes locked on his as your free hand traveled down his chest, over his stomach, to the waistband of his jeans. His breath caught audibly. "I said don't move," you repeated when his hips twitched involuntarily. Your fingers found his zipper, pulling it down with agonizing slowness. Then you worked his jeans down just enough, not off, just enough to access the black boxers underneath. And the very obvious bulge straining against the fabric. "Jesus Christ," you muttered, your hand palming him through the cotton. "You really are desperate, aren't you?"

Choso made a strangled sound, his whole body going rigid, but he didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just stood there trembling while you touched him. Your hand pressed harder, feeling the shape of him, and… Huh.

You kept your expression carefully neutral, your face still set in that cruel smile, but internally you were... surprised. He was bigger than you'd expected. Significantly bigger than you'd imagined when you'd been picturing the stereotypical "virgin loser nerd." Not that you were going to tell him that. "This is what happens when you're a loser virgin," you said instead, your voice mocking as your hand stroked along his length through the fabric. "Touch you once, and you're hard as a rock. Pathetic."

"I—fuck—" Choso's voice cracked. "Language," you tsked, squeezing slightly. "Such a dirty mouth for someone who's supposed to be a good boy." His hips jerked forward despite his best efforts to stay still, seeking more friction.

Smack.

You slapped his cheek with your free hand. "I said, don't move."

"Sorry, I'm sorry—" He was panting now, his glasses fogged up, his face flushed. "I can't help it, you're—"

"I'm what?" Your hand stilled, and he made a sound of protest. "Finish that sentence."

"You're—you're driving me crazy," he admitted, his voice breaking. "I can't think, I can't—please—"

"Please, what?" You resumed your movements, slow and deliberate, watching his face contort. "You want me to stop? You want me to keep going? You want me to actually touch you properly instead of through your boxers like you're some idiot who can't control himself?"

"Yes—any of that—all of that—I don't care—" You gripped his chin harder, forcing him to focus on your face even as your other hand continued its torment. "Look at you," you said softly, cruelly. "So desperate you can't even form coherent sentences. You'd let me do anything right now, wouldn't you? You'd let me ruin you completel,y and you'd thank me for it."

"Yes," Choso breathed without hesitation. "Yes, please, anything—"

"Such a good little nerd," you murmured, and felt him pulse under your palm at the words. "So eager to please. So pathetic." Your hand squeezed again, and his eyes nearly rolled back. "But you know what the best part is?" You leaned in close, your lips almost brushing his ear. "I'm barely even trying. I'm barely touching you. And you're already falling apart." A whimper escaped him. "What do you think would happen if I actually took these off?" Your fingers hooked in the waistband of his boxers, pulling slightly but not enough to actually remove them. "If I actually put my hands on you properly? You'd probably cum in thirty seconds like the desperate virgin you are."

"I wouldn't—I'd try—"

"You'd fail," you said with certainty. "Because you have no control. No experience. You're completely at my mercy." You released him suddenly, both your hand on his chin and the one touching him, and leaned back in your chair. Choso swayed slightly, looking lost and desperate, and completely wrecked. "But I'm feeling generous tonight," you said, examining your nails like you hadn't just been touching him. "So here's what's going to happen." You looked up at him, your smile sharp. "You're going to beg me—really beg, like your life depends on it—to let you finish what you started. To let you actually please me instead of just worshipping my legs like a desperate puppy." Choso was already opening his mouth, already starting to beg, and you held up a hand. "But," you continued, "if I let you do that, you have to promise me something."

"Anything," he said immediately. "You'll do exactly what I say. When I say stop, you stop. When I say more, you give me more. You don't get to make any decisions. You don't get to take control. You're mine to use however I want. Understand?" The word "mine" made something flash in his eyes. Desperation mixed with something darker, needier. "I understand," Choso said, his voice hoarse. "I'm yours. Whatever you want. Please." You studied him for a long moment, drawing out his anticipation, watching him tremble. "Good boy. Now..." You spread your legs wider, settling back in your chair. "Show me just how desperate you really are."

"Take off my hoodie," you commanded. Choso's hands moved immediately, trembling but obedient, gripping the hem of your oversized sweater and carefully pulling it up over your head. And there you were. Bare from the waist up. Your breasts were exposed to the cool air of your room, nipples already hard, and Choso made a sound, a high, desperate whimper that came from somewhere deep in his chest. Just from seeing you. You laughed sharply and delightedly and slapped him across the face. Not hard. Just enough to make his head snap to the side, to remind him of his place. "Did you just fucking whimper?" You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at you. "Oh my God, you're so pathetic it's actually funny." His face was completely flushed, his eyes glossy behind his fogged-up glasses, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, I just—you're so—"

"Shut up." You released his face and stood, pointing at your bed. "Sit. On the bed. Now." Choso scrambled to obey, moving so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet as he sat on the edge of your mattress. You followed slowly, deliberately, letting him watch as you approached. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, one knee on either side of his thighs, and his hands immediately flew to your waist before hesitating, hovering uncertainly. "You can touch," you said, placing his hands on your hips. "For now." You settled your weight on him fully, and the contact made him groan. You could feel exactly how hard he was through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing against your barely-covered core. Your hands gripped his shoulders, holding him in place, keeping him beneath you. "Look at you," you murmured, your nails digging slightly into his shoulders. "Fully clothed while I'm sitting on you in nothing but panties. How does that feel, virgin?"

"It feels—fuck—it feels—" Your finger traced down his chest, over his stomach, following the trail down to where his jeans hung open and his boxers stretched obscenely over his erection. You traced the outline with just your forefinger, slow and light, and watched him twitch and shudder beneath you. "These must be so uncomfortable, hm?" Your voice was saccharine-sweet and poisonous. "How many times have you touched yourself since Monday, loser?" Choso's face went even redder. "I... every night," he admitted in a whisper. "Every night since then."

"Every night?" You pressed harder through the fabric, and his hips bucked involuntarily. "That's so fucking sad, Choso. Touching yourself every single night thinking about me? About the one time I let you feel me up?"

"I couldn't stop," he gasped. "I tried, I—"

"You're addicted," you said, leaning in close, your breath hot against his ear. "Addicted to something you barely even got to experience. That's how pathetic you are." Then you bit down on his neck, hard, aggressive, your teeth sinking into his skin until he cried out. Not a gentle love bite. An actual bite, meant to hurt, meant to mark, meant to remind him that you could do whatever you wanted to him. "Fuck—" Choso's hands tightened on your hips, his whole body tensing. You pulled back, examining the red mark blooming on his neck with satisfaction. "Everyone's going to see that tomorrow," you said cheerfully. "Everyone's going to know someone marked you up. They'll probably ask who. What are you going to tell them?"

"I—I don't know—"

"You'll lie," you said simply. "Because you're too much of a coward to tell them the truth. That the girl who bullies you is also the one who owns you." You leaned back, sitting up straight on his lap, and gestured down at his legs. "Take your pants off. Just the pants." Choso didn't hesitate. He lifted you slightly, careful and easily, as he worked his jeans down his legs and kicked them off completely. Now he sat there in just his boxers and his oversized shirt, and you were back on his lap, grinding slightly just to watch him struggle to stay still. "Shirt too," you decided. "Take it off." His hands went to the hem of his shirt, and you helped, gripping the fabric and pulling it up over his head, tossing it aside. You stopped. Actually stopped and stared. Because Choso Kamo, nerdy, pathetic, virgin Choso who wore baggy clothes that hid his entire frame, was not what you'd expected underneath. He wasn't ripped. Wasn't a gym rat with bulging muscles. But he had definition. Clean lines. Lean muscle that suggested he actually did do something physical, contrary to what you'd assumed. His shoulders were broader than they looked in those shapeless shirts. His chest was defined. His stomach had visible muscle tone, not a raging six-pack, but flat and firm with subtle definition. He looked like someone who did bodyweight exercises. Pushups. Pull-ups. Maybe ran. Not like someone who spent all his time hunched over textbooks. "Did you lie about not working out?" you asked, your hands spreading across his chest, feeling the firmness beneath your palms. Choso looked confused. "I... I told you I don't go to the gym."

"But you do something." Your hands explored his shoulders, his chest, his arms, which had more muscle than you'd realized. "What, do you do pushups in your room like a fucking Boy Scout?" His face flushed. "I... yeah. Sometimes. And pull-ups. On my door frame. I just... it helps me think." You laughed, genuinely surprised. "So you've been hiding this the whole time?" Your nails dragged down his chest lightly. "Under those tragic baggy clothes?"

"I didn't think—I mean, it's not—"

"Shut up." You pressed your body against his, skin to skin now, and felt him shudder. "This is actually... not terrible. Still pathetic, but not terrible." It was barely a compliment, but you watched it hit him like a drug anyway. His hands tightened on your hips, his breathing ragged, his eyes locked on yours with that desperate devotion you were getting addicted to. "Please," he whispered. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need," you interrupted, rolling your hips against his deliberately. "The question is, have you earned it?" And you smiled, completely in control as Choso fell apart beneath you. You grabbed his face and kissed him. Not gentle. Not sweet. Hungry. Your mouth crashed against his, all teeth and tongue and dominance, and Choso kissed back desperately, graceless and eager and so obviously inexperienced it would have been embarrassing if he wasn't so pathetic about it. Your hand fisted in his hair and pulled. Hard. He whimpered into your mouth, high and needy and broken. "You like that?" You pulled harder, forcing his head back, exposing his throat. "You like it when I hurt you, little bitch?"

"Yes," he gasped. "Yes, I—fuck—" You kissed him again, swallowing whatever he was about to say, your hips rolling against his in slow, deliberate grinds that made him shake beneath you. Every movement, every rock of your hips, every pull of his hair, every bite to his lip, made him shiver and whimper and fall apart a little more. And you were eating it up. The power. The control. The way he responded to everything you did was as if his body belonged to you now. "So fucking pathetic," you murmured against his lips between kisses. "Shaking like a leaf. Whimpering like a puppy. Is this what you fantasized about, virgin? Me using you like a toy?"

"Please—" His hands gripped your hips desperately.

"Please, what?" You bit his bottom lip hard enough to make him gasp. "Use your words."

"Please don't stop—please—I need—" You pulled his hair hard again, and he moaned so loudly you had to kiss him to muffle the sound. Then you shoved him. Both hands on his chest, pushing him down onto your bed. Choso fell back against your pink comforter, his chest heaving, his hair a mess from your hands, his lips swollen, and his glasses somehow still clinging to his face. You stayed straddling him, looking down at him with cold assessment. "You know what?" you said quietly, your hands resting on his chest. "You don't deserve to fuck me." The devastation that crossed his face was delicious. "I—what? I thought—"

"You thought wrong." You tilted your head, considering. "You're a virgin. You'd probably last thirty seconds, and then it'd be over, and I'd be left unsatisfied. That's not fair to me, is it?"

"I could—I'd try—please, I'd—"

"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips. "I'm thinking." Your eyes traveled down his body, his flushed face, his marked neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and lower… To where his boxers were tented obscenely, a dark spot of precum was already visible on the fabric. A slow smile spread across your face. "You know what? Let's see what we're working with here." Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers. Choso's breath stopped completely. You pulled them down agonizingly slow, watching his face the entire time. And then his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and… Oh. Oh shit.

You kept your expression carefully neutral, but internally? You were genuinely surprised. Choso was big. Like, noticeably, undeniably bigger than Ryota. Bigger than any of the guys you'd been with. Not pornstar huge, but definitely above average. Thick. Long enough to make you reconsider your earlier assessment about not letting him fuck you. Well, fuck. You looked back at his face, at his humiliated expression as he waited for your judgment, and decided not to tell him. Not yet, anyway. Instead, you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, not stroking, just holding, and watched him nearly levitate off the bed. "Fuck—!" His hips bucked up involuntarily. "Don't move," you commanded, pressing your other hand to his chest to hold him down. Your thumb brushed over the tip, just the tip, collecting the bead of precum there, and Choso made a strangled sound. "So sensitive," you murmured, tracing around the head with your fingertip. "So desperate."

"Please—" His voice broke. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" Your finger circled the tip again, barely touching. "Be specific."

"Your hand—please—I need you to—"

"To what?" You pressed your thumb directly on the slit and he keened. "Say it."

"Please jerk me off," Choso begged, his hips trying to thrust up into your barely-there touch. "Please, I'm begging you, please—"

"That's better." But you didn't give him what he wanted. Instead, you just kept teasing, light touches, circles around the head, occasionally running a single finger down the underside of his shaft just to watch him twitch. "Please—" He was actually crying now, tears of frustration leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Please, please, I'll do anything—"

"You'll do anything anyway," you said matter-of-factly, still just teasing the tip. "Because you're pathetic. Because you're desperate. Because you'd let me torture you like this all night if I wanted to."

"Yes," he sobbed. "Yes, I would, but please—"

"Beg harder." Your finger traced the ridge of the head so lightly it was barely contact at all. "Beg like the little bitch you are. Make me believe you deserve it." And Choso did. He begged and pleaded and whimpered and cried, his body trembling, his cock twitching in your barely-there grip, completely at your mercy. While you sat there, straddling him in nothing but your panties, and enjoyed every single second of his torment. You didn't give in, even as Choso begged, his voice broke, and his hips jerked desperately seeking more friction, you just kept teasing. Light circles around the head. Occasional strokes down the shaft that were too light, too brief. Your thumb pressing against the slit just to watch him gasp. "Please—" His voice was wrecked now, barely recognizable. "Please, I can't—I need—please—"

"You can," you said calmly, your finger tracing the ridge again. "You can take it. You're going to take whatever I give you and be grateful for it."

"I am—I am grateful—please—" A sob actually broke through. Real tears now, not just the frustrated moisture from before. Actual crying. "Please—" You watched in fascination as the tears spilled over, running down his temples into his hair. His face was completely red. His glasses were crooked and fogged up. His chest heaved with broken breaths that were half-sobs, half-whimpers. He looked destroyed. And it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. "Oh my God," you breathed, genuinely delighted. "You're actually crying. You're crying because I won't jerk you off properly. That's so fucking pathetic I almost can't believe it."

"Please—" Another sob. "Please, I'll do anything, anything, just please—" Your hand stayed maddeningly light, just teasing, watching as more tears fell. "Please—" His voice broke completely. "I need—I've never—please—" He was sobbing now. Actually sobbing. His whole body shaking with it, tears streaming down his face, whimpers and broken pleas falling from his lips in an endless stream. Your hand never stopped its torture or gave him enough, never let him have what he needed. "Look at you," you murmured, your free hand coming up to cup his wet cheek. "Crying like a little bitch. All because you're so desperate to cum. So desperate for me to actually touch you properly."

"Yes—" He turned his face into your palm, his tears wetting your skin. "Yes, please, I'm begging you—"

"I know you are." You wiped away a tear with your thumb. "And it's adorable. Really. But I don't think you've earned it yet." A broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a wail, tore from his throat. You, sitting there straddling him, watching him fall apart so completely, so beautifully, felt something shift in your chest. This wasn't just entertaining anymore. This was addictive. You leaned down, your lips close to his ear, your hand still teasing mercilessly. "Here's what's going to happen," you whispered. "I'm going to keep touching you like this. Just like this. Barely enough to feel good but not enough to finish." Choso sobbed. "And if you can hold out—if you can keep yourself from cumming—I'll let you fuck me." His eyes snapped open, glassy and desperate and disbelieving. "What—?"

"You heard me." You pulled back to look at him. "If you can resist. If you can show me you have even a shred of control. Then I'll let you inside me. I'll let you feel what it's like to actually fuck a girl instead of just your hand." The look on his face was pure desperation mixed with determination. "But," you continued, your hand finally wrapping properly around his length, "if you cum before I say you can, then you don't get anything. I'll make you get dressed and leave and you'll go home knowing you failed. Knowing you were too pathetic to control yourself." You started stroking. Properly this time. Firm, steady strokes from base to tip. Choso's whole body went rigid, a strangled cry ripping from his throat. "No cumming," you reminded him, your hand moving in a steady rhythm now. "Not until I say."

"I—I can't—it's too much—please—"

"Yes, you can." Your hand twisted slightly on the upstroke. "You want to fuck me? You want to know what it feels like to be inside a girl? Then you're going to hold out." His hands fisted in your comforter, his back arching, tears still streaming down his face. "That's it, loser," you encouraged, your voice cruel and sweet. "Fight it. Show me you're not completely useless."

"Fuck—" His whole body was trembling. "I can't—I'm going to—"

"You're not," you said firmly, your hand never stopping. "Because you want this. You need this. You need to feel me around you more than you need to breathe right now." A sob tore from his chest, part pleasure, part desperation, part pure overwhelming sensation. "Please—let me—I need to be inside you—please—" His cock was leaking steadily now, precum making your strokes slick, and you could feel him getting close, could feel the tension building in his body. "Don't you dare cum, Choso. Don't you fucking dare."

"I can't—" He was crying harder now, completely overwhelmed, his hips jerking erratically. "It's too much—I've never—please—"

"Do you want to fuck me or not?" Your hand squeezed slightly.

"Yes—God, yes—please—"

"Then HOLD IT." Choso threw his head back with a broken wail, his entire body shaking violently, fighting with everything he had not to tip over the edge. And you watched, fascinated, aroused, drunk on power, as he sobbed and whimpered and begged while your hand worked him mercilessly. Testing him. Torturing him. Seeing just how far you could push him before he broke completely. Because if he could hold out, if he could actually show some control, then maybe you'd give him what he wanted. But if he came? Well. That would be entertaining too.

You stopped completely. Your hand released him, and Choso made a devastated sound, his body trembling violently, teetering on that edge but not falling over. He'd actually done it. Held out. Suffered through your torture because he wanted this, wanted you, more than he needed the relief. "Well," you said, genuinely impressed. "Look at that. The pathetic virgin actually has some self-control." Choso could barely respond, just sobbing and shaking beneath you, his cock still painfully hard and leaking. "You did what I asked," you continued, trailing a finger up his shaft just to watch him jerk. "So I guess I have to keep my end of the deal." You lifted yourself off his lap and stood beside the bed.

Choso's eyes tracked your every movement, desperate, worshipful, disbelieving. You hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your panties and slowly slid them down your legs. The sound Choso made was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His eyes went wide, fixed on you with an intensity that would have been uncomfortable if it wasn't so pathetic. "Oh my God," he breathed, fresh tears spilling over. "You're—I've never—I can't believe—"

"Shut up," you said, but there was less bite to it now. You climbed back onto the bed, straddling him again, and reached for your nightstand. The drawer opened smoothly. You pulled out a condom, one of the ones you kept for Ryota, though you'd never tell Choso that, and tore it open with your teeth. "Hands up," you commanded. Choso immediately raised his arms above his head, wrists together, completely obedient. You wrapped your hand around his base, he twitched violently at the contact, and rolled the condom down his length with practiced efficiency. "There," you said, positioning yourself over him. "Now you don't have any excuses." You grabbed both his wrists in one hand, pinning them above his head against your pillows. Choso's eyes were so wide, so glassy, tears still streaming down his temples. "I can't believe this is happening," he whispered. "I can't—thank you, thank you—"

"I said shut up." But you were positioning yourself now, your other hand guiding him to your entrance. And then slowly you started to sink down onto him. The head pushed inside, and Choso's entire body went rigid. His mouth fell open. His back arched. A sound came from his throat that was barely human. "Oh my God—" His voice broke completely. "Oh my God, oh fuck, oh—" You kept going. Inch by inch. Taking him deeper. And he was, fuck, he was stretching you more than you'd expected. More than Ryota ever did. The stretch burned slightly, that edge of too much that bordered on pleasure-pain. You had to pause, breathing through it, adjusting to the size of him. "Thank you—" Choso was sobbing again, full-body sobs that shook his chest. "Thank you, thank you, oh God, you feel—I've never—thank you—aah!" He was praising you. Actually, thanking you for letting him inside you while tears poured down his face. It was the most pathetic, beautiful thing you'd ever experienced. "Shut. Up," you gritted out, because you were trying to adjust, and his babbling was distracting. "I'm trying—fuck—you're bigger than what I usually take, so just—shut up and let me—" You sank down further, and the stretch intensified. God, he was filling you completely. Stretching you in a way that hurt just slightly but felt good. Felt right. Choso's wrists strained against your grip, his whole body trembling, more broken sounds falling from his lips. "Please—" he sobbed. "Please, I need to—can I touch you—please—"

"No." You tightened your grip on his wrists. "You don't get to touch. You don't get to move. You just lie there and take it." Finally you took him completely. Fully seated on his lap, his entire length inside you, and the feeling was overwhelming. For both of you. Choso actually screamed, a choked, desperate sound, his body spasming beneath you. "Is this—" His voice was completely destroyed. "Am I—am I inside you?"

"Yes, you fucking idiot," you gasped, because he was so deep you could feel him everywhere. "You're inside me." Fresh sobs tore from his chest. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—" You leaned forward, changing the angle slightly, and used your grip on his wrists for leverage as you started to move. Up. Slowly. Until just the tip remained inside. Choso made a sound of pure desperation. Then down. Fast. Taking him to the hilt again. "FUCK—!" You established a rhythm, pulling up until he was almost out, then slamming back down, taking him completely. Each thrust punched sounds from his throat. Sobs. Moans. Broken words that might have been pleas or prayers or just your name. Your free hand braced against his chest as you rode him harder, faster, chasing the friction and fullness and the intoxicating power of watching him fall apart beneath you. "This is what you wanted?" you panted, your hips rolling. "To feel what it's like inside a girl?"

"Yes—" He could barely speak. "Ngh!~ Yes, oh God, yes—"

"You're never going to forget this," you told him, leaning down so your face was close to his. "Every time you close your eyes, you're going to remember how this felt. How I felt. You're going to be fucking addicted."

"I already—fuck—I'm already—aa!" His hips jerked up involuntarily, trying to meet your movements, and you immediately stopped. Completely still, fully seated on him. "What did I say about moving?" you asked coldly. "No—I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—please don't stop—Ngh!~ please—"

"Then stay. Still." You punctuated each word with a slow roll of your hips. Choso sobbed, his body trembling with the effort of staying motionless beneath you while you moved above him. "Good boy," you murmured, and felt him pulse inside you at the praise. You started moving again, harder this time, faster, taking your pleasure while he lay pinned beneath you, crying and whimpering and completely at your mercy. His wrists strained against your grip. His glasses had fallen off at some point; you didn't even know when. His face was a mess of tears and sweat and desperate pleasure. He looked absolutely ruined. And you'd never felt more powerful in your entire life. "Don't you dare cum yet," you warned, feeling your own pleasure building.

"I—I don't know if I can—it's too much—please—"

"You will." You squeezed his wrists hard enough to hurt. "Because if you cum before me, I'll never touch you again. Ever." That seemed to focus him. Terror mixing with the overwhelming sensation. "I won't—I'll try—please—"

"Good." You leaned back, changing the angle, and rode him harder. Using him. Taking what you needed. While Choso sobbed and shook and fought with everything he had not to finish before you gave him permission. Because he was yours now. Completely. Utterly. And you were going to make sure he never, ever forgot it.

You kept thrusting onto him. “Ngh!~” another desperate whimper. Another thrust. “Ah!” another tear falling from those sweet brown eyes, his head thrashing around. His fingers dug into his palms; you were sure his palms would bleed. He was a red, crying mess, moaning and whimpering with every thrust with such loudness and pleasured agony. Choso was having the time of his life, really. His legs ached, and his core felt weaker. He felt that familiar ache in his muscles and balls, except he would feel you pulse around him, and it’d make his back arch up into you, hitting another spot that caused them both to moan.

“G-gonna– cum– cum. Cum!” He whimpered out, he was still stronger than you, and he was now thrusting upwards, bouncing up into you, switching control for a mere second as he twitched. “Cum– p-please— please– please cumming cum… your pussy… so so good. Ah~” He was slobbering and crying and whimpering as his mouth dropped open, hips sputtering rather quickly, and all you could do was bounce to his rhythm, holding onto his forearms as you felt him twitch one last time before he came into the condom. He settled like a ragdoll, going limp as his breath heaved rapidly. You werent done, though. You roughly grabbed him by his hair and continued bouncing at a rapid pace. You were close, so it wasnt long. But Choso mewled, hand going up to grab your wrist of the hand in his hair, “Ngh~ T-too much… too much, aa!” But he just whimpered as you continued, looking up through his wet, tear-soaked lashes as you held his head up. “What you deserve for cumming before I said, loser–” You came, throwing your head back as you rode it out on his spent cock, he cried along too, small whimpers as he felt the whole thing. You clenching then the gush of juice, it was like heaven, he wished he could have cum again.

The guy had tormented you since middle school, along with his minions Tommy and Carol. The two of you used to make fun of people like them, stuck up and out of touch, and then she became one of them. Just like that. You could tell she felt guilty, by the way she would send you a furrowed glance at lunch as if to say 'I'm sorry, I have to!', like she had no control over who she surrounded herself with. As if she had no choice but to curl up beside the guy that broke your elbow in seventh grade.

Like she couldn't help but fall into the arms of the guy that had made your life a living hell for more than six years.

You still occasionally spoke to Nancy. After all, you lived across from one another, and thus had to see each other at some points. She would sometimes invite you to study, but you had started to make excuses after you had seen Harrington climb the garage roof and into her window, not liking the thought of his impulsive tendency for a romantic rendezvous interrupting a study session whilst you were there. You didn't want to put Nacy through the grief.

Your 'Lost Lamb' persona left you the moment you started hanging out with someone you never thought you'd consider a friend in your wildest dreams, or nightmares, Chrissy Cunningham. Expecting her to be a total Queen Bee, she was nothing of the sort. She was warm and kind and sisterly, all the things you missed from your friendship with Nancy. She sat with you at lunch, went to the movies with you, and eventually secured you a seat at the table with the rest of the cheerleaders, their boyfriends and the rest of their gang. They welcomed you with unexpected sincerity, and that was that.

You started going to house parties on Saturdays, diners on Wednesday nights with the girls, study sessions with some of the basketball team that couldn't quite pass a class or two. People waved at you in the halls, remembering your name for once. You and Chrissy would have sleep overs, and you felt the hole in your heart that Nancy left slowly start to heal. More or less.

But then you got that stupid invite.

"Gotcha!" Chrissy closed your locker door, scaring you senseless.

"Jesus, Chris!" you stacked your books in your arms. She was smiling wide, as always, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "What?" you said, a raised brow and half a smirk making its way across your lips.

"Before you say anything, just let me talk," she made tiny praying hands to her chest, puppy dog eyes gleaming. "Promise?"

"Okay," you sighed.

"There's a party this weekend, and we're all going, and we all really want you to come." You looked at her with raised brows, as if to say 'go on?'. "It's Steve Harrington's party."

You'd managed to avoid almost every one of Harrington's parties with some believable, and some not so believable, excuses in the past year since your surge in popularity. "I don't know, Chris, I'm so busy with college applications this weekend-"

"Who needs them!" she cried, "We all know you're gonna get into Yale or Hardvard or Brown or whichever super crazy smart college you want to go to." She grabbed your hand, swaying it back and forth, like a child begging their mother for a candy bar at the grocery store. "Pretty please?" she did the puppy eyes again, knowing it would sway you to agree.

"Fine."

"Yay! I'll come to your house at nine tomorrow to get you!"

And that's how you found yourself in your old bullies house, red solo cup in hand, full of whatever lethal punch one of the football players had concocted. Already tipsy, lingering by the kitchen so that the constant stream of drinks wouldn't slow. Bodies moved ungracefully around you, shimmying and shoving through to the living room or to the ruckus of the back yard where people were throwing each other into Steve Harrington's large pool. You sipped on your drink thoughtfully, feeling the confidence built over the last year slip away from you as you returned to your old wallflower state.

"Why are you hiding in here, silly?" Chrissy came to your side, the shimmery pink eyeshadow on her lids making her green eyes luminous in the low light of the kitchen. "The gang's all next door, come on!" She grabbed your hand with surprising strength, dragging you into the large living room. Deep sofas lined the walls, each with a basketball player and their girlfriends curled up on one. On the one furthest from you, was Nancy and Steve. Next to them, Tommy and Carol. It made your stomach turn to see her with him. You avoided her persistent gaze. But Harrington's gaze, raking you in and eyes darting up and down, was harder to lose. He stared at you adamantly.

When the buzz of chatter died down, a few of the basketball players and their girlfriends left to find more entertaining activities, it was just a handful of people left in the living room. Including you, Nance and Steve. Tommy had the glint of wicked amusement in his eyes, and it made you uncomfortable. "I know what we should do," he said, eyes falling to you. "Let's play a little game." Carol perked up beside him, as if their minds were connected in some twisted way. "Yeah, let's do something fun."

"Games, come on guys," Jason, Chrissy's boyfriend, spoke up. "We're not in middle school anymore." Carol got her own wicked smile.

"Oh, certainly not." her eyes fell on you , analysing how your style had changed. You were wearing dark make up, smoking out your eyes and giving them an alluring pull. You showed off skin, knew how to present yourself. Her eyes narrowed, her smile a venomous sneer. "No, if this were middle school, I wouldn't be caught dead at a party with her."

You simply cocked your head to the side, giving carol a tight lipped sarcastic smile. Inside, you felt thirteen again. Instinctively, you grabbed your elbow, as if you could feel the pain of the break there now. Tommy barked out a laugh at Carol's comment. "Yeah, who knew the black sheep would turn into a black swan, huh?"

You felt gross as he raked his eyes over you, unashamed as he stared at the place where the hem of your dress ended.

"Fuck off, Tommy." you retorted, voice calm but heart racing a million miles a minute behind your ribcage. You felt like you were a lamb on a platter for the lions, ready for the slaughter.

"She speaks!" Carol squawked. Next to them on the couch, Nancy squirmed. Never one for confrontation, she excused herself to grab a drink. You caught her eye as she left. She looked guilty. You wanted to follow her, grab her by the shoulders and tell her to wake up. Tell her that her friends, and her boyfriend, were assholes. But she never listened before. She just couldn't admit it to herself.

"Been a while since we've seen you, babe. Where've you been hiding those legs, huh?" Carol smacked her gum as she spoke, obnoxious and loud.

"I found some better people to hang out with." Beside you, Chrissy stuck her arm over your shoulder. Her face was hard. It made her look older, the serious glare that she was sending Carol. Carol sneered at her, and the expression aged her terribly.

Steve caught your eye, shifted hard away from Tommy. He was gripping his beer with a tight knuckled grip. His eyes slithered down your neck, over your chest, and landed similarly to Tommy's. You grabbed the hem of your dress and yanked downward.

"One of the cool kids now, are you? Not following Wheeler around like a dog anymore?" Tommy took a long sip of his beer.

"We drifted apart." you said simply.

"Oh yeah? Since when?" Carol chimed in again and you felt your blood boil beneath your skin. Steve continued his obvious oggling.

"Since she traded her spine for a shiny new basketball player"

Nancy stood by the door, drink in hand. Her eyes were wide, like a deer in headlights. The whole group erupted into astonished laughter, Chrissy struggling to hold back as she clutched her stomach. Steve glared at the floor, as if willing it to say a comeback that would sting you back. Nancy sat down beside him, silent.

"Woah, you gonna take that Wheeler?" Carol guffawed.

She remained silent as a mouse at Steve's side.

"Nance was never one for speaking up anyway. "

You grabbed your cup and flittered out of the living room, the atmosphere suffocating you. You needed another drink, a cigarette, and some alone time. Drink secured, and obscenely strong, you crept up the stairs to the second floor. Once you found a room that didn't stink of puke or had two people sucking face in, an ensuite bathroom, you locked the door and sat in the tub.

Shutting the shower curtain, doc martens resting on the taps, you lit your cigarette. You still couldn't believe you were in Steve Harrington's house - let alone one of his bathtubs - after everything that went down all those years. Yet there you were. Nancy lost to the dark side, you in with the cool kids. Your middle school self wouldn't believe it. You rested your eyes for a moment, breathing in the smoke and taking gentle sips of your drink.

Your thoughts were interrupted by muffled yelling in the next room. You stubbed out your cigarette, trying to get out of the tub as quietly as possible, when you heard your name. It was Steve and Nancy, and they were fighting. About you.

"Why are you bringing this up now?" Steve said, exasperated.

"You guys were awful to her, Steve!"

"Yeah, like you did anything about it, huh Nance?"

You recoiled back into the tub, feeling invasive but caring more about what Nancy had to say for herself than your moral compass. It was a years' worth of pain cementing your form in the tub, ear preened toward the doorway.

"You tormented her!"

"And you watched! If anything, that's worse!"

"How is that worse than what you, YOU, did to her Steve?!

There was a pause. You could imagine Nancy's face; pouted lips, furrowed brow, cheeks blotchy from an ill-fated attempt to hold back her angry tears. Steve laughed humourlessly. It was a cutting sound, and you could hear Nancy take deep breaths.

"What we did, sure, it was stupid. Do I regret it? Of course, we never meant to get her hurt back then."

"You're still awful to her!"

"And there's the kicker," Steve chuckled darkly. "She always stuck up for herself. That's why we did it, we knew she'd give us some fun." There was a long moment where no one spoke. "You never stood up for her once, Nancy."

His words hung in the air like smoke, seeping into your clothes and clogging your throat.

"You never defended her, then or now."

Nancy was flustered, stuttering over her words.

"You never stood up for your best friend? Thats...awful, Nance."

You could hear as Nancy struggled to find a defence, as she used to with you. She would blubber to you, relaying how guilty she felt with enough tears that you eventually ended up comforting her, forgetting that you'd even come to her for help.

"Fuck you, Steve." You could hear as she grabbed her things, storming out of the room with vibrant language. The loud declaration that "it was fucking over" made a laugh - vindictive and partly delighted - rise in your chest.

You smacked a hand over your mouth in realisation. Your movements froze, fear jolting through your bones as you heard Steve pattering about the next room. His movements stopped abruptly as your foot knocked a bottle of shampoo off the edge of the tub.

In a split second - idiotic- decision, you decide to make a run for it. You rip back the curtain, jumping to the floor and striding for the door, the door you had so stupidly locked. A warm hand grabbed your wrist in a vice like grip.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

His voice was low, deep. It echoed in your chest. It made your heart thump. It made your blood boil.

"Get your hand off me." you seethed. His grip remained, making the skin of your wrist tingle. His touch was firm yet feather light. Unwilling to let you go, but not trying to hurt you. When his hand remained unmoving, you struggled against his grasp. "Get off, Steve."

He was leaning over you, shoulder blocking the door. He hovered above you, taunting, as he looked you over again. His gaze was relentless, inescapable. Confusing.

"Let go, Steve." You sighed out, defeated and embarrassed as he held you in place. You felt unnervingly calm. Strangely glued to the floor under his honey brown eyes as they bored into your own. You wanted nothing more than to move your feet - maybe stomp on his own so he would release the grip on your hand- and get out of the claustrophobic bathroom. You risked a glance up at the boy.

Christ.

Steve was never unattractive. Never had an awkward phase. He was always tall, athletic and tanned. Your hatred for the boy hadn't blinded you to the painfully obvious. But in the dim green light of the bathroom, shadows accentuating sharp cheekbones and jawline, you saw it. Saw it as the other girls did. Steve Harrington was gorgeous. He was painfully attractive, in every sense of the word. From the symmetrical lines of his cupids bow to the dark lashes framing honey eyes, he was hypnotic. And he had you completely under his spell.

"How much of that did you hear?"

His voice was aggravatingly quiet, gentle. Intoxicating. There was a gap between the two of you, small enough that you could feel the warmth of Steve's breath on your cheek as he spoke. You felt like a child being scolded by a parent, guilt driving you to complete honesty. It was the same tone that would make you confess to a teacher, had the same soft lilt.

"Enough." You replied, and your voice was hoarse. Rough, like you needed water desperately. You did, you felt as though your throat was bone dry. "Enough to hear you chew out Nancy."

Steve's eyes were inexplicably soft as he looked at you, and at the mention of Nancy they hardened almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, well," he sighed, languid and frustrated, "that was gonna happen, no matter if it was about you or not." When you raised as brow - both in shock at his willingness to detail the state of his relationship, and as a sign to continue- he went on. "All we do is fight."

"Hmm."

""What?"

"Karma came and bit you both in the ass."

The look Steve gave you made you feel bad for saying it, but it was overruled by the vindictive joy you felt at hurting his feelings. The way he backed up slightly, as if he'd not expected you to say something, made your heart jolt a bit. He'd been so awful to you for so long that the knowledge of his relationship being far from perfect made a smile creep its way across your lips.

Steve huffed, frustrated again.

"You are incredibly hard to understand." He said, the same sickeningly sweet voice at play. "You're very different...to how you used to be."

"You mean I'm not a loser anymore?" You quirked a brow.

"You were never a loser," he stepped closer to you, hand still on yours. "You were just...," he trailed off. His gaze was unashamed, staring straight down at your lips as he spoke. "Different."

'What a crock of shit,' you thought. This coming from the guy that bullied you all throughout middle school, even through high school. it was the biggest load of bullshit you'd ever heard. But your ears rang with the rush of blood behind your ears as your heart hammered inside your chest. Steve Harrington was a flirt, and a good one. You were experiencing his best lines. And they were working.

"Different?" there was hardly any space between the two of you now, Steve's lips brushing over yours as he shifted. You didn't stop him when his hand brushed your sides.

"Yeah," the hand that had been holding your wrist against the doorknob came up to cup your cheek. Steve's top lip was on yours as he spoke, "different."

The two of you crashed together with teeth and lips, a brawl of desperate hands and angry grudges. Fingers tangled in hair immediately, tugging and scratching. Steve tasted of smoke, beer and something innately Boyish. His hands settled at your waist, grasping the fabric of your dress there. His lips were pillowy and soft, addictive. You suddenly understood why Nancy put up with it; kissing Steve Harrington was like having your own personal drug. The kiss deepened as you shifted heads, turning for better angles and access.

Steve groaned as his tongue slid across yours, and the way he so clearly enjoyed the kiss made you feel powerful. He backed you up against the bathroom counter. "Jump," he whispered, your bottom lip between his teeth as he nipped the skin there. You did as he said, his voice husky and hypnotic, and he lifted you to rest on the sink. Legs parted, Steve rested between your open knees. One hand resting there, one working on shrugging you out of the jacket that clung to your shoulders. He pulled away from you, an amused smirk on his face as you whined, to rip the jacket away. Shoulders and neck exposed, Steve got to work on the skin there.

You were suddenly way more aware of what you were doing.

"You better not leave a mark, Harrington." you panted out, as Steve nipped a particularly sweet spot just below your ear. He chuckled, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine.

"Why?" he asked, smug lilt to his words. "Afraid of people knowing?"

"More ashamed than afraid," you said, choking on your words as Steve nipped at the skin of your throat. "Can't have people thinking just anyone can have me."

Steve pulled back, and god you melted right there. Hair a mess, eyes blown wide, and lips swollen. It was a glorious sight. "And I'm just anyone?" He was smug, overconfident. Irritatingly attractive.

"Yeah," you gripped the belt loops of his jeans, yanking forward. The bewildered look on his face made you grin. "so this stays between us."

"Aye aye, Captain."

And off you went again, lips colliding in heated snarls. There was a primal anger behind it, driving you into his strong arms as he encased you. Was this self sabotage? Maybe so, but it was the hottest thing you'd ever experienced. Steve's nimble fingers caressed their way up your back, finding the straps of your bra with ease. He snapped one against your shoulder, making you yelp and using the sound to slip his tongue back into your mouth. If it didn't make your bones feel like jelly, you would have chastised him for the cheap move. Carnal desire taking over your mind, you let your cold hands scrape up his chest, lifting the hem of his shirt to graze his stomach.

He tensed up at the touch, a stuttered breath fanning your face as he sighed. His two hands landed firm on your knees, creeping up your legs and stopping as he stroked your inner thigh with his forefingers.

"Permission to come aboard?"

You nodded, arousal coursing through you like a stake to the heart.

"Words, please...Captain."

"You find yourself funny, don't you?"

"Very." His fingers were so close yet so far from where you wanted them. "Do you want to?"

"Yes, I do."

"There we go."

He kissed you again, this time slow. It was harder than before, and as he swiped his tongue over your bottom lip, Steve slipped your underwear down your legs. He groaned into the kiss as he felt you, excitement clear by the wet patch on your panties. "God, you're wet."

You should have been embarrassed. You should have pulled your panties off the floor and run out of the house and all the way home without looking back. But you were putty in his hands as Steve slipped a finger inside of you, hooking upwards and finding that special spot almost immediately. A high pitched whine - one that shocked even you- made its way out of your mouth, muffled as you buried your head in Steve's neck as he set a slow pace. "What a pretty sound," he groaned, catching your face in his hand as you threw it back against the mirror. "You gonna keep making 'em like that?"

You nodded, breathless, and then he was out of your sight.

Steve kissed down your chest, shoving your dress over your stomach and kissing the skin as he went down. His fingers intwined with yours as they gripped the marble counter. You sat up to catch his eye, and what a pretty sight it was. Steve Harrington, pupils dilated with lust, with his head between your thighs. He kissed your thighs, and you mewled; so close yet so far.

"Please," you moaned. Embarrassment crept up on you, and you could feel the blood rush to your cheeks. "God, please Steve."

Steve dug his fingers into the skin of your thighs, toying with them. He kissed his way to your knees, enjoying the sight before him as you writhed about. "Please what?" he said, and had you not been desperate for him to bury his head between your legs you would have kicked him. He grinned as you fought the urge to beg. "What do you want?" He left surprisingly tender pecks to your knee.

"I want you."

"Where do you want me?" he was taking his time with you, partly for himself - savouring the moment, rejoicing in the way you fell apart before him- and partly to tease you into insanity.

"Jesus Christ," you groaned as he nipped the supple skin of your thighs.

"Steve is just fine." He laughed, putting you out of your misery as he licked one broad stripe up your centre. It was the stupidest, most reckless thing you could be doing, which made it even hotter as Steve hooked his hands under your hips, holding you on top of the counter as your legs wrapped round his head and your hands wove themselves into his hair. Almost immediately you understood Steve's reputation, and you felt a pang of possessiveness as his lips encased your clit, humming as he went. Your back arched off the tiles, mouth agape in a silent 'O' shape. Harrington knew what he was doing, that much was clear as your first orgasm crept up on you.

You could hardly muster words, the only sound in the jade coloured bathroom being the obscene wet sounds and your whimpers as Steve continued to ruin you on the counter. "I'm gonna - oh shit, Steve." The way you moaned his name - like it was the only one you knew, the only one that mattered- made Steve's jeans feel impossibly tight, palming himself for something, anything to relieve himself. He was just as desperate, just as wanting, as you were - if not more. The thought of what was to come made you clench around Steve's fingers, exploding in a white hot scream on his tongue. You fell back against the mirror, hairs sticking to the sides of your face, cheeks flushed with both heat and bashfulness. Steve crept up your stomach again, stealing a kiss when he made it to your lips.

You could taste yourself as he kissed you, slow and deep. His hands swiped the hair from your face, in a gesture entirely too sweet for a boy that had just ravaged you in his bathroom. It bothered you. That wasn't part of the interaction - there was no sweetness involved. It almost took you out of the moment, but as your hips bucked into Steve's, and he let out a strangled groan, the moment was saved. As his lips found purchase on your collarbones, your hands made work of unbuttoning his shirt - purposefully slow, you enjoyed watching his stomach tense as you grazed it. The sharp intake of breath as you began unbuckling his belt made you feel powerful, made your stomach do flips. "Here?" you asked, kissing down his neck to the space where it met his shoulders, "or somewhere else?"

Steve's eyes lit up like a christmas tree at the prospect that this - whatever this was- wasn't over just yet. He gripped your hands on his belt buckle. "Not here." With little effort, he hoisted you over his shoulder - much to your shock and dismay. You swatted his back but couldn't help the swell of arousal as his arm tightened round your waist. He set you down on the edge of the bed, standing in front of you with one hand on your cheek. In the dim light of his bedroom, Steve Harrington was devastatingly handsome. The soft glow of peaches and oranges made his eyes a molten chocolate, skin peppered with a red hue from...exertion.

"It's rude to stare." he said, voice void of the smugness from before. It made your ribcage rattle, heart thudding with the weight of his stare. It felt like he was looking at your soul, and it made you shiver. The boy who'd tormented you for years, was seeing you. Staring right back at him, your hands made their way to his belt loops. It was your turn to make him writhe a bit.

"Can't help it," you said, voice all airy and entirely foreign to your ears. It dripped with a lust, husky and soft. "You're somewhat of a looker."

You ripped his jeans open, nimble hands ridding him of the garment in seconds. As you grabbed the waistband of his boxers, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric, his hand stopping you. "As amazing as that would be," he said regrettably, "if I don't get you on that bed, I think I may lose my mind." He said it so breathlessly that it made your thighs clench together. He wanted you so badly. You cocked your head to the side, half playful and half serious as you said, "Do something about it then."

Steve didn't need to be told twice. He dove into you, hand steadying your head as your lips locked together - an irritatingly perfect puzzle piece finding another. You were a tangle of legs, arms, and lips as the two of you buried yourselves in Steve Harrington's bed, ridding each other of the clothes that stopped your from touching one another completely. His knee found its home between you, shifting your legs apart to make room for hips. You were encased in Steve; his scent, the feel of his lips on your skin, his legs locking yours in place. His hips rocking into yours as he kissed your neck with sinful skill.

Your hands grew restless, tugging at the hairs at the nape of his neck as if he would understand the morse code in the pulling. "Steve," you groaned as he knocked his hips into yours, "please."

You were begging, and you were embarrassed. You couldn't bring yourself to say the words- couldn't stand the thought of asking your middle school bully to fuck you in his bed at his own party. But the boy had other ideas.

"Say it." he toyed with your clit, thumbing it as you whined. When you stayed silent, he pinched one of your nipples between his fingers. he smirked at how quickly they puckered underneath him. "Say you want me."

Your cheeks burned with shame. You couldn't - wouldn't- beg him.

He hovered over you, hands either side of your head, nose brushing yours. You could feel the ghost of his lips over your own. His hand came to rest on your chin, thumb sliding over your lip, tugging it down and letting it slide back. "Open."

You did as he said, opening your mouth wide enough for Steve to slide his thumb into your mouth, a teasing smile on his face as you swirled your tongue around it. "Say you want me to fuck you." He pulled his thumb out of your mouth slowly, grinning as it made a satisfying pop. He leaned down to the shell of your ear. "Tell me you want me to ruin you," he whispered.

The burn in the pit of your stomach raged as Steve kissed the hollow of your throat, waiting for you to speak. Your breath was shallow, eyes closed as you whispered into the air, hoping the buzz of the party below would swallow your words.

"I want you to ruin me."

Steve grinned, wolfish and smug, as he lined himself up with you, locking eyes with you as he pushed himself in. You knew you were gone when he moaned your name like a prayer, said it like it was the cure to his troubles. Like you were something to treasure. One strong arm gripped the headboard as he panted. "God," he grunted out, "you feel incredible."

There was something electric about hearing praise from the boy that tormented you for years, something wickedly delightful about watching his mouth hang open with pleasure as he bottomed out inside you. You clenched around him, desperate for any friction to satisfy the burning between your legs. "Can I move?" he groaned.

"Yes, please."

In public, Steve was an athlete. Behind closed doors, under the sheets, he was an Olympian. He set a fast pace, hitting your sweet spot with every thrust, deeper inside of you every time. The sounds of the party- the drunken teens stumbling, the music blaring- were drowned out by the slapping of skin on skin, of your whines and Steve Harrington's moans as you fell apart beneath him.

"Shitshitshit- man, you're amazing." he moaned as he rutted into you. You were frozen in pleasure, mouth open from silent screams of pleasure. You bit your lip, so hard you would have tasted blood had Steve not being everything you felt in that moment. "Oh, fuck," you groaned at a particularly deep thrust, "I'm s-so close."

"Me too," Steve whimpered, and you were sure it was the hottest thing you'd ever heard. "Where should I-"

"I'm on the pill." you sputtered out.

Steve's eyes darkened, delighted at the permission, determined to get you to your peak before he fell apart himself. "Yeah? You gonna let me come inside?" His hand reached between your conjoined bodies, rubbing tight circles on your clit. "Gonna come for me?"

Your back arched off the mattress, the coil in your stomach snapping at the same time Steve collapsed on top of you, his stuttering as he came. You both panted, recovering from the exertion. Rolling over onto his back, you and Steve stared at the ceiling, the weight of what you had done sinking in.

It was wrong, so wrong. He'd just broken up with Nancy, seconds before you let him crawl between your legs. You would have felt terrible, like you'd betrayed her, had it not been so good.

You would have felt guilty, had you not felt the shake of your legs still reeling from the intensity of your orgasm.

Steve turned his head to face you. You turned to look at him.

"I'm sorry about how I treated you, before."

You snorted.

"You don't have to apologise just because we had sex, Steve." The ridiculousness of it made you laugh. "Thanks, though." You were both silent for a while, just laying there. You tried spying your clothes across the room. "Where's my underwear?"

"Oh," Steve mumbled, getting up from the bed and into the bathroom. You couldn't help but stare at his retreating form, back muscles flexing as he stretched. You did the same, a soreness washing over you. Steam filled the bathroom, the sound of the shower running loud against the dying party below. Steve returned in his jeans, smirking as pulled your lavender lace panties from the back pocket, tossing them at you. You caught them with one hand.

"Perv," you said, sliding them back up your legs. Steve smiled from the bathroom doorway. He was looking at you that way again. It made your stomach uneasy. "What?" you said.

"You can, uh, clean up here. If you want." He scratched the back of his neck. He gestured to the shower. You stomach flipped again. You rose from the bed, using the sheet to cover your chest. You stopped in front of Steve, who was struggling not to look down at your loosely covered front.

"This is not a thing, okay?" you said slowly, as if saying the words aloud would make them true. As if hearing them from your own lips would stop the way your lips yearned for Steve's the second they left your own. "This goes nowhere else."

Steve nodded, mockingly serious.

"Aye aye, Captain."

He grabbed your hand, making you drop the sheet, and led you into the steam filled bathroom. You let him wash your skin, all soap and too much affection given who he was to you. You didn't stop him when he kissed below your eye, on your nose, or when he placed an all too tender kiss on your lips for just a second. But it was long enough. You let him wrap you in a towel, drying you with gentle hands. You didn't object when he dressed you in his old basketball shorts and a tattered sweatshirt. You let him tuck you under his sheets, didn't flinch away when he tucked your hair behind your ear.

You let him wrap his arm over your waist when he returned, having kicked the last stragglers out of the house. You let yourself fall asleep in his bed, warm and soft and all too inviting, much like its inhabitant.

What you wouldn't do was let yourself fall for this, you thought. You wouldn't fall for Steve Harrington. Wouldn't fall for his moves, his overused lines. Wouldn't get wrapped up with the wrong guy.