#cherrizbakery

obviously the answer is yes, but what isn't obvious is this man's attention to detail.

the way those brown, doe eyes stay fixtated on your gaping cunt, practically crying on his long fingers as he fucks them in and out of you. sucking him in with the most dirtiest squelches coming from your heat.

"hm," eddie would hum. "she's fuckin' soaked for me, sweetheart."

it only gets worse (for you, not for him) when his mouth joins in, tongue lapping at your clit eagerly, the tip of it tracing his name along the sensitive bundle of nerves. he learns quick, and he wants to play you like one of his guitars.

his lips wrap around your clit with a soft suck, dragging his tongue up and down. it's not long before his chuckling vibrates against your cunt as you clench around his fingers and come all over his face.

"good fuckin' girl."

and if you tug at his curls?

round two is coming faster than you'd think.

SMUT AHEAD, 18+

Travis can’t stop talking. It’s not that he loves to talk or just loves to chat with people he doesn’t even know; he literally isn’t able to keep his mouth shut. You both know that it’s gotten him into trouble, situations that have involved jail and a shitty job at the storage unit he works late nights at. 

But, he especially can’t stop talking when he’s buried deep inside of you, specifically when you ride him on your couch. 

Travis’ breathing is heavy, lip wedged in between his teeth as he holds back whimpers that threaten to spill from his lips with every slow drag of your hips. His head is tilted slightly to the side whilst his hands guide you up and down on his length, his neck tattoo peeking out at you in the low light of your lamp. 

“You feel so good,” Travis moaned out, eyebrows furrowed in concentration—he can’t come too fast, he needs to make this last longer than before. “Fuck, you’re so tight, oh my god, baby—” 

You can’t help but smile at his rambling, clenching around him to watch him stutter on his words, finally letting out that low whine that he’s been holding back for minutes. 

“Keep talking, T.” You hum, leaning down so your chest is pressed against his, the angle deeper than before and way more intimate. Plus, you can hear him loud and clear like this. All breathy and whiny. 

“Can’t believe you let me fuck you again, not complainin’, but—fuuuuck.” 

You chuckle; every downward motion sends a slap of skin on skin to echo through your small apartment. 

“I’m so sick of this fuckin’ job,” Travis groans as his hands guide you faster and harder onto his cock, the tip of him hitting that spot that makes you damn near see stars. “I know I need it, but they couldn’ta picked somethin’ else? Like, I dunno, a zookeeper or some shit?” 

The laugh that escapes you is genuine and breathy, hips slowing so you can speak normally. “You’d rather work at a zoo than at a clean storage unit?” 

Travis shrugs, propping himself up so he’s upright, wrapping his toned arms around your waist. “You don’t know if the place is clean, there could be some weird ass shit happenin’ there, and we wouldn’t even know.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, like what? Hiding aliens in the basement, or wait, even worse, zombies?” 

Travis chuckled. “Maybe, now please stop talking, you’re ruining my boner.” His hips buck up into you, feet placed firmly on the couch cushion as he drills up into your wet heat once more. You both moan in unison at the pace, one of your hands moving to grip his blonde hair, digging into the brown roots. 

“What?” You mewl. “You fucking started it, you never shut up.” 

Travis face flushes. “Do you want me to?” 

Smirking, you wrap your arms around his neck and press a small kiss to his lips. 

“Never.”

Safe to say, Travis heads to work that day with a goofy and satisfied smile on his face.

small steve harrington x reader blurb

wc: 321 words

Steve always knows when something's up with you.

That little crease between your eyebrows when you're frustrated, how your lips form a line when you're focusing really hard on trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

All it takes is one look, and he's there.

Specifically now, as you sat on his bedsheets, covering your eyes with your hands as sobs break free from your throat.

"Oh, baby," He coos, a mix of affection and concern plastered among his face. Steve's immediately on his knees in front of you, hands resting gently on your knees through the rough fabric of your jeans.

His hazel eyes are soft and solely focused on your hands. Back when you'd first started dating, he hadn't known what to do when you broke down crying in his Beamer with no warning whatsoever. It'd been a hard day for you that day, he remembers, after your professor had torn into your essay with no remorse.

"He's an asshole, who probably, no offense, is pissed off because his wife left him or something---" Steve had suggested. It wasn't supposed to make you laugh. But the wet giggle that'd escaped your mouth relieved the frustration building within the car, along with the silent tension between Steve and his fear of consoling you.

Now, he's a fucking expert at it.

Steve knows you don't like to talk when you're like this, too embarrassed and way too hurt to voice it. Instead of pressing the issue, he slowly gets up from his place from in between your legs and sits next to you on his blue bedsheets.

Wrapping a ginger arm around your waist, encouraging you to lean into him, as you do. It's a familiar routine you've both gotten used to.

The comfort of knowing how to console you? The best thing Steve could ask for and learn how to do.

He loves learning you.

Summary: You didn't lie--you tried to tell him--loving you gets messy. But Steve Harrington makes it his mission to keep loving you, no matter how many times you push him away.

Warnings: a little angst, fluff, no established relationship, no use of y/n, sexual tension, hurt/comfort

wc: 2.5k words

a/n: first fanfic! i'm so excited for you all to read this, and i hope you enjoy! this fic is inspired by the song, 'Messy' by Renee Rapp. as always, stay for a while, like, comment, and reblog, it helps a lot :)

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! ୨ৎ

It’s late—way too late for this man to be outside of your window trying to get your attention. Glancing at your bedside alarm clock, you grimace at the red digits that tell the time: 3:47 AM. What the hell is his problem?! 

Steve Harrington, King Steve, is a lover boy. You’d figured that out a month or two ago while shopping at Melvad’s General Store, standing in aisle four, looking for a pack of razors. Picking up pack after pack as your sneakers squeaked against the freshly mopped floors. “Let me know if you need any help!” Joyce, the only cashier working at the moment, had offered sweetly. You nodded, tending back to your business. And then, there he was. 

Steve Harrington, rushing into the store wearing his ‘Scoops Ahoy’ sailor uniform, which you snorted at because who the hell wears that thing out in the open with no shame whatsoever? But, you had to admit, he did make it look good. 

You continued to look for a certain pack of razors, grinning in satisfaction once you found them sitting on a higher shelf. Pushing yourself up on your tippy toes, you reach for the pack with your left hand. Shit, you thought. This is higher than you thought it’d be. 

Ever the resourceful (and slightly thirsty) gentleman, Steve notices almost immediately and saunters over to you. 

“Need any help?” He asks, as if you’re not shaking as you’re lifting yourself to grab what you need. It’s a dumb question, and the situation is even dumber. What in the rom-com movie is this? 

You huff and nod your head, as if you’re about to pass up this opportunity. You’ll be able to gloat to your friends about the Steve Harrington helping you out. Stepping to the side, you flash him a soft smile. “Thanks.” 

Steve nods back, the gesture both respectful and stupidly charming. He looks good like this, way better than when you remember he used to hang out with Tommy and Carol. Those two assholes always brought him down and made him look like a douchebag. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Steve Harrington used to be. 

Obnoxious pool parties in his huge backyard you weren’t invited to, simply because you weren’t interested in drinking beer all night and watching girls trip over themselves to impress Steve, and he didn’t know you existed. All those times you’d pass each other in the hallways without a second glance, basketball games at which Steve was sneaking off with Nancy Wheeler, and you were cheering on your friends on the court. 

Things were normal. At least, that was your version of normal in 1983. 

Then 1984 swiftly came along, the times changing as well as your “relationship” with Steve. Apparently (according to Nancy’s annoying younger brother, who can’t keep his mouth shut), Steve had gone through a breakthrough. He and Nancy were going through a rough patch, and rumors quickly spread around the school. 

“Steve Harrington is a dickhead,” Some would say. 

“Steve Harrington tried to work things out with Nancy, but she’s just too young and too much of a priss for him.” Others would argue, specifically girls who were bitter about the whole situation. 

You? Immediately stayed out of the situation because you were graduating that year, on a one-way road to going to college and forgetting about Hawkins and its existence, until that night of Kim’s party. 

Halloween, 1984. Your friends are dressed up in a variety of costumes; one of them is dressed as Indiana Jones, which you cried while laughing at because it’s a teenage party, she’s going to get eaten alive by people who were too drunk to understand what her costume even is. You went casually dressed, in a pair of cuffed jeans and a sweater. 

Steve also caught the right idea and didn’t wear a costume but brought Nancy Wheeler on his arm. When you saw the two together, you couldn’t help but stare. Weren’t they broken up? Isn’t she with that weird Byers brother? It didn’t matter. You weren’t there to worry about Steve, Nancy, or any of that shit; you were there to get drunk off your mind and forget about school for the night. You’re dancing, snagging a cup of spiked jungle juice on your way to the kitchen as you migrate through the room of sweaty bodies. 

Your friends had all decided to go their own ways throughout the cramped house, probably hooking up with random dudes somewhere, so you decided to do some exploring of your own.

Steve’s there, at the table, pouring himself a cup of straight-up vodka, and the laugh that escaped your lips catches his attention. He looked at you and raised his eyebrows, prompting an explanation. 

You shake your head. “Just…um, that’s a lot of alcohol,” you stated, still chuckling. “Rough night, Harrington? 

Steve joins you with a huffed laugh of his own as he downs his cup, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to impress you or if he genuinely had a rough night. However, you don’t stop yourself from glancing at his throat as the alcohol makes its way down and he swallows it. His jawline is strong, yet clenched. 

“Yeah,” he says once he slams the cup down onto the table with more force than necessary. “Somethin’ like that.”

And once his eyes land on yours? It sends an electric feeling through your veins, and suddenly you’re falling victim to the Harrington charm. Laughing at his jokes, leaning into him when he presses his chest against your back as you dance. 

You two had never even spoken before, but why does it feel like you two have known each other for years?

His hand rested on your lower hip, guiding you to grind back against him in a rhythmic motion that had you clenching your thighs together and forcing the heat blooming between them to calm itself. 

Steve’s mouth was right up against your ear, and you could’ve sworn that he’d noticed the way your legs started pressing closer together. “You come to these often?” He had asked, the casual words sounding dirty as his lips grazed your sensitive skin. 

You shook your head, tilting your head back and onto his shoulder to get a good look at him. “No, not really.” You’d replied. 

Just as the words had left your lips, his mouth crashed against yours. It wasn’t soft or caring, or any of that shit they describe kisses to be in the movies. It’s heated and clearly filled with pent-up frustration as his tongue swiftly slips into the wet cavern of your mouth. Your hips are still grinding in time with the low music that’s playing in the background, and all you can think about is Steve Harrington and his stupidly gifted tongue. 

Later on that night, he walked you to your car. He wanted to make sure you “got there safely,” but in reality? As soon as you started to open your car door, he’d pressed you against it. 

“Steve.” You said his name, once, a warning. 

All he did was smile and lean in, and then he was kissing you. It was way softer than last time, just a simple press of his lips against yours. 

“Have an amazing night,” Steve muttered against your lips, which made you snort and gently shove him away. 

You didn’t wish him a goodnight back; instead, you got in your car and drove off, back home, knowing that you definitely weren’t going to tell your friends the…intimate details as to why you snuck off that night. 

And that’s only the first scenario. 

The second happened a few months later, in the summertime, at Melvad’s. 

Which is why you were ogling him in his outfit as he handed the pack of razors to you with that stupid smile, just a bit softer with a glint in his eyes. 

Oh, no. 

“How’ve you been?” Steve asks, shoving his hands in his shorts’ pockets to keep himself grounded. He’s nervous, which is reasonable. You hadn’t spoken since the graduation ceremony, which was about a month ago. 

You nod, tossing the razors into your shopping basket, and start moving down the aisle, looking at random things to avoid looking into Steve’s prodding eyes. “Fine, you?” 

That’s a lie, and he knows it. 

He follows, just a few steps behind, as he watches you pick up a magazine with Ralph Macchio on the cover—that damn karate kid had been everywhere since the movie had come out. “He’s too old for you,” Steve joked. 

“He’s, like, 22 years old!” You countered. 

“He’ll be twenty-three in November—” 

“---why do you even know that? Just shut up.” 

You both laugh, especially when you end up buying the magazine anyway. He walked you to your car in the parking lot, alluding to that moment back on Halloween. With the way he went quiet, you could tell he was thinking of it too.

The way he’d pressed you against the cold exterior of your car door, 

How he’d kissed you softer, less urgently, than when he did earlier, 

The way he wanted so much more from you, but he knew to tread lightly. You were different, he was sure. 

…which is why he’s standing outside of your window on a chilly September evening, that knit sweater probably doing absolutely nothing against the fall breeze of Hawkins. But Steve knows this is worth it. It has to be.

You shuffle out of bed with a grumble, throwing your blanket off your body, the chill of your room immediately hitting your skin, therefore irritating you even more. You storm across your room and push your window up, glaring down at the man below you. 

“What the fuck, Steve—” You hiss, enough to be heard but low enough not to wake the whole damn neighborhood. 

He holds his hands up in surrender, that sheepish, boyish look painting his features. He’s guilty, but not enough to feel bad about what he’s doing as he looks up at you with those puppy-like eyes, and the sight alone is enough to cave in and go down there and kiss him crazy, but no. He doesn’t deserve it. 

“I know,” He starts. “I know. This is crazy, and you have literally every right to be mad at me, but can we please just talk, honey?” 

You roll your eyes. “I told you not to call me that.” 

Steve scoffs. “Right, yeah, sorry.” 

He’s not sorry in the slightest. Of course, he knows you don’t like it when he calls you ‘honey’, or ‘baby’, hell, anything that isn’t your name is deemed as disliked, and it’s not because you don’t like it when he calls you them. It’s because it feels too intimate. Too secure, too slow. 

“Why are you here, Steve?” You sigh, leaning against your windowsill, waiting for an answer. 

“I wanna talk. About everything. About us.” He responds. 

“There is no us.” 

He runs a hand through his hair with a groan, as if your words are hurting him. “Can you at least tell me what I did?” 

You shrug, silent for a moment. 

Your mind doesn’t let you forget about what happened in August, last month, and as much as it pains you to say this…but Steve isn’t the problem here. You are. Back a couple of weeks ago, he’d caught you at the annual Hawkins fair with your friends. The vibrant lights of the fireworks illuminate against your smile, bright and toothy. But it died down as soon as you saw him, standing all the way at the hot dog stand. 

Steve thought, then and there, that maybe this wasn’t going to work after all. He’d been trying relentlessly to get you to like him, hell, just talk to him, after all of the moments you two had over the course of months. But that thought instantly disperses from his mind as he watches your friends shove you toward him. 

You huffed, walking over and standing in front of him. 

“...hey.” 

“Hey, you.”

Following that, you two had spent the night laughing and drinking enough spiked slushies to share a kiss on the Ferris wheel, sweet and simple. So, Steve wondered, why was this so difficult for them?

You knew the answer, and it was so damn clear. You love Steve Harrington. You knew it from the moment at Melvad’s when he joked about Ralph Macchio, obviously jealous of the older boy on the magazine that held your attention rather than him alone. It was the small things that made you fall for him, and you hated yourself for it.  

“I’m not Nancy Wheeler.” You blurted out before you could even stop yourself. 

Steve blinks. 

“...what?” 

You immediately regret it as soon as you see his reaction—confused, conflicted, yet still here. Neither of you moves for a moment, and then you break the silence. 

“I’m not her. I’m not on top of all of my classes, I’m not in every fucking club the school has to offer, and I’m just not her. I’m messy.” 

Steve laughs, once, shaking his head and lowering it to the ground. He’s thinking, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek—that “motherly” looking stance he’s picked up since he’s always around that group of kids you see flocking around him, all of the time. 

“Come down.” He states, once. “Please.” 

Your feet are moving before you can comprehend it, shutting the window and slipping on a robe and bunny slippers as you nearly trip down the stairs to the front door, pushing it open and seeing Steve on the side of your house, now looking at you. His hands are on his hips as he smiles at you. 

“You do know that’s why I like you, right?” Steve starts, slowly walking toward you. “You’re nothing like Nancy.” 

Another step closer. 

“You’re stubborn,” 

Step. 

“Independent,” 

Step. 

“So smart that it makes me look dumb. And come on, look at me.” 

You look at him, you’ve been looking at him. 

“We’re so fucking messy, honey, and that’s why I like this. Us.” 

Steve’s in front of you now, looking into your eyes as his hands hover over the sides of your face. You nod, giving him permission to touch you, and he does. The warmth of his big palms on your cheeks instantly forms a melty smile on your face, and suddenly? Everything feels right. This, right here, doesn’t feel confusing.

“You don’t have to be Nancy,” Steve states, gentle and firm at the same time, as his doe eyes never leave yours. “Just be you, the girl I fell in love with.” 

Those words plunge right through your jaded heart, and you let out a wet chuckle. “I love you, Steve.” 

He smiles, “I love you too, honey.” 

This time, you both meet each other in the middle with a kiss. Steve’s thumbs draw small, random circles on the soft skin of your cheeks as he tilts your head back, kissing you even deeper. 

Yeah, Steve’s a lover boy, and he’s yours for as long as you’ll let him be.

warnings: just pure angst.

wc: 817 words

The words die on your tongue at the sight of your boyfriend looking down and into the abyss.

The lab, eerily alive as if it's sensing the weight of the atmosphere and the situation, is melting around the three---no, two of you.

Steve is on his knees, chest heaving with breaths that won't come out, won't let him feel the relief of taking a deep breath to calm his mind and body.

The relief you'd felt a minute ago has vanished and turned into something darker.

The death of a moment hurts more than of a person.

You rush over to Steve, scraping the fabric of your scruffy jeans in the process as tears cloud and blur your vision.

"Steve," Your voice cracks on the word. "We have to go!"

Tugging at his jacket doesn't work. He doesn't budge, blink, or even look at you. His big hazel eyes, usually filled with a warmth that makes you melt, are filled with tears and shame.

He couldn't save him.

"No, no!" Steve shouts, causing a flicker of panic to build and shoot through your nervous system as your body tenses in response---Steve's never raised his voice at you before.

"He's still down there. I can save him, there's still time to---"

Just as the words escape his trembling lips, another piece of the building collapsing can be heard in the distance.

If you both don't leave, right now, you'll both be a distant memory to your friends waiting for you on the rightside up.

You attempt at tugging Steve's bicep again.

"Steve, baby, please!" You plead. "We have to go, or we're going to---"

Steve yells, a cry that makes your heart clench. His fists are balled up so tightly at his sides that the forming crescents of his fingernails are starting to draw blood.

"This is my fault!" Steve's eyes stay laser focused on the dark, shadowy space that is the unknown. There's no light, no sounds, just uncomfortable silence that you know you can't fix.

Taking a deep breath, you place a hand on Steve's tense shoulder.

"He would have wanted us to keep going, Steve."

Your other hand, slowly and gingerly, cups his cold cheek, brushing your thumb against the underside of his eye. The simplicity of the action seems to have woken him up from his frozen state, eyes finally meeting yours.

He's angry at himself. He's the "protector" of the group. He wasn't gifted that title, nor was it bestowed upon him, no.

Steve earned that title on a random day trying to win Nancy Wheeler and her stubborn heart back, and Dustin Henderson ordered---no, convincingly demanded that Steve drove him to the junkyard because a demodog ate his cat.

He earned it when he got his ass handed to him by Billy Hargrove to defend the kids.

Steve fucking owned that title, but now it's a distant memory to him. He couldn't protect the person that truly made him feel like a hero.

Dustin Henderson is gone.

And neither of you got to say goodbye.

"If I hadn't left," Steve buries his face into your neck, words breaking on the verge of a sob.

"If I hadn't have said what I said about Eddie, he'd still be here."

Another crash sends both of your head shifting to the side. You both know that you time is limited.

"Steve," You breathe out. "Dustin loved you. He loves you. He'll always love you."

You pause, because what is there to even say in this moment? Dustin Henderson, Steve's best friend, is dead.

Swallowing, your try again.

"We need to live for him. For Eddie, too."

Steve pulls back from the warmth of your neck and nods his head. You're right. Dustin wouldn't want to see him like this, discouraged and hopeless. He knows he needs to move.

Stick to the plan.

You stand, together.

Steve takes one last look into the darkness with glassy eyes and then guides both of you out of this hellhole.

Somewhere down there, Dustin stopped screaming. He succumbed to his fateful end, eyes closed and bracing himself for the inevitable impact.

He thinks of Eddie, his guitar riffs will be the first to greet him into the afterlife, followed by that cheeky smile of his.

Dustin thinks of you; Steve's amazing partner who willingly inserted themself into this mess with no hesitation---he'll miss bickering with you over what candy is the best Halloween candy.

And then there's Steve. Poor Steve. He shouldn't have fought him; he knows Steve was just trying to knock some sense into him and show him the hard reality of the situation they'd been living through. But it's too late to dwell on his mistakes.

Dustin smiles. "You die, I die."

The fall isn't so bad anymore after her whispers those words into the void.

Going out like this? In Eddie's words, would be "metal".

wanted to request a fic for him, he catches reader touching herself in the shower, but he's too shy to hop in and help out bc they haven't gone all the way yet, so he just sits on the bed

and when she comes out he's just sitting there, blushing and flustered asf 😭

Shower Thoughts

In which Travis walks in on a "private" moment after getting off work. <3

a/n: this is so travis coded 😭 thank you for requesting this, anon! requests are open for all!

warnings: travis peeping on you, fem!masturbation, he's a horny doofus in love, leave him alone

wc: 1.2k

When Travis steps out of his car at an ungodly hour of the morning, he knows you're awake. The porch light of your tiny house, just bought a couple of months ago under the promise that you'd go half and half on the rent, had been left on for him. He smiled gently at the sight, but he quickly thinks that it's stupid to be getting oddly sentimental over something so small. 

“It's just a fuckin’ light,” He mutters under his breath, running a hand down his face. 

Travis likes—no. Travis loves you; he's pretty damn sure of the fact. You, you of all people, he thinks, chose to be his. It still baffles him to this day how someone as amazing as you is with him. He didn't always think too much of himself, always taking up space and doing what others asked of him without a single thought.

He’s working on it, though. Not just for you, but for himself. (you made him pinky promise).

He quickly shuts his car door and shoves his keys in his left jeans pocket as he makes his way to the front door. Fumbling with the keys, muttering a few curses before he succeeds at opening the door.

“Hey, pretty lady—”

Travis’s greeting dies short when his gaze falls on the black couch in the living room, where you're usually sitting when he gets off work. You're not there? Why not? 

Travis’ mind immediately jumps to conclusions; he can't help himself. Were you angry at him? Did he do something? Forget something? Oh, god, he totally forgot to put the fuckin’ toilet seat down again—

His scrambled mind immediately turns into white noise as another sound accompanies his thoughts. The steady fall of shower water hitting the tiles, coming from the creaked-open bathroom door just right down the hall.

You're in the shower.

Travis lets one small chuckle escape his lips, unsure if he's laughing at himself or relieved that you're doing something as mundane as showering. He almost thinks of joining you, but the thought leaves just as fast as it came.

You two weren't that far yet, even if you two had been living together for a couple of months now. It wasn't because Travis didn't want you; it's never about that. Or the fact that he's never actually been sober whilst hooking up with a girl, no.

It's because he cares about you, and he wants to take things slow. He'd suggested the idea over dinner, a date night around a year ago. 

“You're really fuckin' beautiful, and I hope you don't take this the wrong way, which you won't, I hope you won't. But, uh, I don't wanna have sex with you. Wait—fuck—that came out wrong. I don't mean ever, I just—”

You had cut him off with a short and quick kiss to his cheek. “I understand, Travis, don't worry about it. We can take things slow.” You'd said, and you used his real name. Not the stupid nickname he was given because of an even stupider situation. His actual name. Travis wanted to say I love you right then and there.

However, you'd both decided to take things slow. Which is why he's not about to invade your privacy. 

Even if his dick twitches at the thought of you, your gorgeous naked body lavished in bubbles as you’d lather your favorite body wash over the expanse of your boobs. The washrag you’d use, slowly trailing down your stomach as your head tilts back to allow your hair to sit under the stream of water that’s trickling down your thighs. 

Travis blinks—once, that familiar heat building in his gut as dirty thoughts after even dirtier ones flash through his mind like a movie he never wants to stop watching. He perks up, like a damn dog, when he hears you from the bathroom. 

A soft sound, something sweet and relaxed. Maybe you’re out of the bathroom now, he thinks, so he carefully walks over. His steps are soft because he doesn’t want to disturb you, but once he peeks his head in the steamy room? 

Travis didn’t think he could any harder, but here he was. 

There you were. 

Leaning against the white shower tiles with your back arched. Breasts dripping in the shower’s stream, droplets dropping from your nipples and onto the floor beneath you. Your head’s tilted back in pure pleasure, and your perfect, pretty lips are parted. Travis’s gaze flickers from one part of your body to another as he simply admires you, and not just what you’re doing. Even if that’s…pretty fucking hot too. 

Your middle and ring fingers steadily rub at your clit, stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves with a certain type of gentleness he wants to learn to do himself. The way your fingers move so fluidly leaves Travis absolutely breathless. Is that what makes you feel good, or are you just now starting? God, have you been touching yourself this whole time? Questions race through Travis’s already frantic mind, but suddenly? He can’t find it within himself to speak—not right now. He won’t dare interrupt this angelic sight in front of him. 

He watches as your foot slightly lifts and your toes curl—you’re close, aren’t you? Fingers rubbing faster, moans breathier, and a crease between your eyebrows has formed like you’re concentrating on a goal. He’s seen that look on your face before. How focused you get when you’re reading a recipe on your phone, or when he starts rambling about something completely random, and you’re trying to understand him. God—he wants to leave that look on your face himself, and not just from his own talking. He’ll put his mouth to good use. 

Travis imagines himself in between your legs in that shower, your glistening leg hitched over his shoulder, and his face buried in between your legs. He bets his tongue would feel so much better than your own fingers, swirling and prodding at your soaking cunt with adamant eagerness. He’s not entirely sure if he’d be any good down there, but he’s a fast learner. 

The whine that escapes Travis’ lips as he watches you come is borderline pathetic. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as your hips start shifting and shaking against your soaked fingers, and he can’t hear you with the shower on the highest setting, but he makes out one word that escapes your lips when you come all over your fingers. 

“Travis!” 

Fucking hell. 

He immediately leaves and ushers off to your bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed. Holy shit. Glancing down at his pants, he winces at the bulge that has formed just by looking at you. He’s whipped. So, utterly whipped for you. 

Travis is about to shove his hand down his pants and get himself off with his name on your lips fluttering around in his head, but he hears the shower turn off. He flings himself up and against the pillows, trying to make it seem like he’s been lying there for ages…like he didn’t just watch you masturbate in the shower you both use. 

“Hey, T.” You hum, strolling in with a towel wrapped tight around your body as you use another one to wring out your hair. 

“Hey.” Travis rasps out, clearing his throat and leaning up in an attempt to hide his raging boner. 

“How was work? The shower’s free if you need it.” You hum, collapsing next to him on the bed, and he nearly whines.

You’re fucking unreal.

i get to see this fine ass man later today in cold storage 😩

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO MEEEE