Tags: MDNI, SMUT, unprotected p in v, finger fucking, overstimulation, breeding kink, cum play/eating, soft dom!steve, literally porn no plot whatsoever, fluffy ending <3
Notes: based on this comment from @68trash37 : i love thissss can you please do another one where he f.ck his c.m in to you with his fingers multiple times. So yeah… that’s what this is… enjoy <3
Part of the ‘Baby Fever’ collection
Masterlist
“Oh shit baby–fuck!”
Steve thrusted into you like he was trying to get his cock all the way into your throat from your cunt. He was rabid, sweating from head to toe, hair stuck to his forehead where it hung down as he looked at where he dove in and out and in and out.
“I’m gonna–ugh–gonna come, want you to take it, baby, fucking take it.”
He had one elbow next to your head holding him up over you, the other hand gripped the flesh of your thigh as he held it tightly around his waist to keep you close and get himself deeper.
“Please, I want it,” you croaked out.
You could feel him throbbing, waves pulsing through you like standing next to a loud stereo.
“Yeah you do, that’s my girl, so good for me–oh ah!“
Steve came with a guttural groan that turned his already flush skin bright red. His hips slowed, he dragged his cock out slowly from you, watching his fluids spill out with it. He dropped your thigh, his eyes fixed to where he had left his mark on you. Your pussy wet and stretched from him. He stared at you for so long you thought he had an aneurism.
“Steve–“
“Shh… just let me…”
Steve dragged two of his fingers up through your folds from your leaking hole to your swollen clit. You shuddered. He held his fingers up, they glistened in the moonlight that inhabited the dark bedroom.
“Look at all this, baby.”
His eyes were so trained to his fingers they were almost crossed. You looked between him and where he was looking. You both followed his wet finger tips as he lowered them back down between your legs. He slowly pushed them inside you and you groaned, you arched into his firm thrust.
“Gotta keep it all in that pretty pussy of yours.”
You nodded your head as you pushed it back harder into the pillow. Steve repeated his earlier movements of gathering up his cum and pushing it into you. Each time his fingers reached deeper.
“Taking it so good, baby.”
As he got down to the knuckle, he thumbed over your clit in fast circles.
“Fuck, Steve!”
You gripped the bed sheets below you, feeling so close to mixing your release with his. You clenched around Steve’s fingers, feeling your whole body tense up.
“That’s it baby, come for me. I know you’re close.”
“So close… oh!” You choked out a breath as you came with Steve’s fingers deep inside you.
He pumped them a few more times before pulling them out, an obscene pop following with them.
“Such a mess,” Steve tutted to himself. “I wanna feel it.”
You sat up on your elbows to get a better look at where Steve kneeled between your legs.
“Huh?” You questioned, feeling a little dizzy.
Steve didn’t respond, just started manhandling your legs up onto his shoulders. Your heart started racing even faster than it already was as Steve situated himself. His hands gripped your hip as he knelt before you. He watched intently as his cock disappeared into your wet cunt with an insistent thrust.
“God, Steve!”
“Holy–so fucking wet, feels so good, you feel so good full of my cum.”
He thrusted slower than before, like he was really feeling every inch of your sopping insides. The sound of his hard cock sliding through the mixture of your cum was deafening.
“You hear that baby?” He finally drew his eyes away from your cunt to look you in the eye as he asked. “That’s the sound of your greedy pussy, so fucking full–yeah–so god damn wet for me.”
Your head spun each time Steve ground his hips into yours when they met.
“You’re gonna take another load of me, yeah.”
It didn’t sound like much of a question but you answered as best you could.
“N–ugh,”
“What’s that? No? Can my poor baby not take any more, huh? Is she too full up?”
You shook your head against the pillow as adamantly as you could with how much you were involuntarily forcing it back.
“I–“ A particularly deep grind from Steve cut you off, a slanted smirk plastered on his face as he watched you fall apart under him. “Hmm, I can–ah–can take it.”
Tears brimmed in your eyes at how deep he felt. To your surprise, Steve pulled clean out just as you could feel him teeter on the edge. He let your legs fall to the mattress with a thud but kept one large hand on the inside of your thigh to keep you open. His other hand frantically wrapped around his cock, getting himself off between your legs.
You were confused to say the least, clenching around nothing as Steve chose to fuck his fist instead of you. Your cunt was practically crying out for him. So were you, a whine left your throat desperately as a tear rolled down your cheek.
Steve released over your folds, the gooey liquid coating your core and the inside of your thighs.
“Oooh baby,” Steve groaned, his hand slowing down to a lazy stroke.
“Steve,” you pleaded, wanting to feel his body on yours again.
He dipped his head down to place a kiss to the inside of your thigh. His tongue jutted out to a blob of his cum that settled there, licking it up.
“Stay just like that baby,” he mumbled over your skin. “Nice and wide for me.”
He nuzzled his head against your thigh, urging you to open up for him. He spread your other thigh wide with his hand.
“I’m gonna get all of this inside you, okay?” Steve said sweetly. “All my cum in your gorgeous pussy.”
Your hips bucked just from the words.
Steve chuckled, “look at you all needy for it. You wanna be full of me, baby?”
Steve’s hands spread over your thighs, his finger tips playing with his drops of cum.
You made some kind of needy noise of approval, nodding your head, your lips parted like you couldn’t physically close them to form words.
Steve licked a fat strip where your thigh met your pelvis. He took his tongue in his mouth, swirled it around to create a build up of saliva in his cheeks, then he spat forcefully over your pussy and you flinched.
“I’m gonna need you to say it.” His voice not so sweet anymore, like his cum had laced it with poison.
“I–“
Steve cut you off by using his large fingers to open up your folds, he moaned at the sight of you pulsing.
“Steve… give me all–mmm–of it.”
His thumb rubbed between your folds, just feeling the wetness that you made together.
“I love hearing you, baby.” His wet thumb rubbed your clit. “Talk to me.”
You took a deep breath, you always found it hard to articulate yourself while Steve worked his magic on you, but you knew he loved a bit of encouragement.
“Stevie,” you said, trying to regain some composure. He instantly smiled at how much you were trying. “Get it all on your fingers.”
He did as you said, dragging two of his fingers along your thighs and over where he drenched your skin with his cum.
“And–hmmm–put it inside me,”
Again he followed your directions, not that he needed to be told. Much like before, Steve pressed his fingers into your pussy, they glided in so easy with how wet you were.
“Oh baby, look at that, you take it so well.”
He pumped his fingers a few times and you instantly felt a twinge of overstimulation that left you whining and twitching against the sheets. Steve then pulled out his fingers.
“Missed a spot,” he said casually.
He gathered up some fluids that had spilled out, dragging his fingers all the way through your folds before thrusting back in with more force than before.
Then he really went at it. His fingers jabbing into you like his cum was going of expire if he didn’t get it in quick.
“Ohmygodohmygod.” All your words blurred together.
Steve had his free hand pushing down on your thigh to hold you open. Your other one started to close as you tensed up.
“No, no, no, c’mom sweet girl.” Steve’s drenched hand escaped your cunt. “Keep those legs open.”
He grabbed your hand and placed it on your other thigh. He squeezed it between his palm and your flesh, urging you to hold onto it.
“I need to see you take it.”
Steve’s fingers didn’t waste anymore time as he got back to work fucking his cum into you.
“Gonna breed you so good like this. My pretty girl taking all my loads.”
You moaned out loud, clenching hard around Steve’s fingers.
“You like that, huh?” Steve’s hand sped up. “You wanna get pregnant with my baby? We better make sure it takes then.”
Just when you thought his incessant thrusts couldn't get any faster, any harder, they did.
“Uuugh, fuck–Ste–Steve!”
Your back arched off the bed, your fingers dug into your thighs, your whole body shook. You felt Steve wiggle his fingers inside you as he got right down to the knuckle. His fingers curled like he was trying to push his cum into your deepest, most hard to reach crevices.
“I’m gonna–ah–I’m gonna fucking come–Uuugh!”
“Come for me. Feels good to be full of me doesn’t it, baby.”
You screamed out his name one more time as you came. Your vision blurred, your ears rang. Every sense overwhelmed by the feeling of his slick fingers still inside you. Steve slowly withdrew from your tired hole. Fingers wet with you and him.
You were still in a daze as you saw Steve’s face appear above you. He looked extremely proud of himself.
“You did so good, baby,” he praised.
You let out a whine you didn't know you were holding in. Steve kissed your forehead before he settled next to you on the bed. You stayed flat on your back, chest rising and falling quickly as you tried to catch your breath.
Steve’s gentle hand on your face brought you back down to earth. He turned on his side to face you and you instinctively turned your head in his direction. It was only then that you realised how wrecked Steve also looked. Hair everywhere, face red and sweaty. But his gorgeously soft eyes looked at you with such love.
“You look pretty,” you said to him, your voice just barely making it out your throat.
Steve smiled, burying his face in his pillow momentarily like he was shy.
“I should be saying that to you.”
“You tell me plenty.”
“And it will never be enough.”
Steve leant over you to kiss your lips. A firm peck that made your heart swell. You hummed against his lips.
“Let me get you cleaned up,” Steve said, moving to leave you on the bed.
“No wait,” you whined, reaching your hand out to grab his. “Stay for a minute, please.”
“One minute,” he said as he brought your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckle.
Steve settled back in bed with you, drawing your back into the matted hair of his sweaty chest.
“Maybe five,” he sighed as he felt you against him.
He took in a deep sniff of your hair.
“Ten,” you said.
Steve pinched your hip making you giggle.
“Don’t get greedy.”
“Seemed like you loved me being greedy a couple minutes ago.”
Steve laughed. “Yeah well, I’ve got a lot to give.”
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summary: Eddie Munson is your good friend and study buddy for sociology. when he mistakes the novel you're reading for your sociology textbook, you get a more...hands on approach to learning about power dynamics.
wc: 7.2k
order up: college!au, friends to lovers, d/s dynamics, jealousy, confessions
tw: explicit smut, p in v unprotected, d/s dynamics, use of petnames [princess, sweetheart, baby, honey, guys a whole mess of honorifics], spanking, eddie eats pussy because of course he does, ropeplay mention
a/n: hi hi hi, i have so many eddie requests in my inbox and while he isn't my brainrot rn, i really hope you guys enjoy this one because i loved writing it.
masterlist
Your dorm room felt smaller during midterms.
Books everywhere. Highlighters bleeding through thin pages. Half-drunk cans of cola sweating onto your desk because you kept forgetting they existed.
Eddie Munson was sprawled across the floor on his stomach, boots kicked off, rings tapping idly against his soda can as he flipped through his notes.
“You’re overthinking it,” he said for the third time, pushing his hair out of his face. “The professor literally said the theme was power dynamics. That’s, like, my whole brand.”
You shot him a look from your desk chair. “It's not a campaign metaphor, Munson.”
“Everything is a campaign metaphor,” he countered.
There was a comfortable rhythm to this.
You quizzing him. Him derailing you.
It was easy, being like this. Friends who studied together. Friends who argued about symbolism. Friends who definitely did not think too hard about the way the other stuck his tongue out a little when he concentrated.
Eddie groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back. “I need a different book. The one with the red tabs. It’s on your bed, I think.”
Your stomach dropped.
Because yes, there was a book with red tabs on your bed.
But it was not the sociology textbook.
It was tucked half beneath your comforter, face-down, like it had tried to hide itself at the last second. Black cover. Embossed lettering. A very intentional ropework design worked into cover in a way that was… not subtle.
You opened your mouth.
“Wait—”
Too late.
Eddie was already on his feet, crossing the room in three lazy steps, reaching down to grab the book from your bed before you could physically launch yourself at him to stop it. His fingers curled around the spine, and he lifted it casually, flipping it over—
—and froze.
"This is... not your sociology textbook." He says, eyes wide as he flips through the pages.
Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, visceral feeling, like an ice cube sliding down your spine.
Everything faded to a dull roar in your ears. The only thing that existed was Eddie, standing there, holding the single most damning object you owned.
He didn’t flip through it with shock or disgust. There was no theatrical recoil. Instead, his thumb brushed against the pages with a strange, focused curiosity. His eyes, wide and dark, weren't judging; they were reading. Absorbing.
He finally looked up, but not at you. His gaze landed on the open textbook on your desk, red tabs that marked actual academics and not fantasies.
A slow, disarming smile started at the corner of his mouth, one that you’d seen a hundred times after a good roll of the D20.
“Y’know,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards. “This… is a much more practical application of power dynamics than our textbooks.”
Your throat was dry.
"Thats not funny, Eddie." You turn, face red. "Give it back."
He tilted his head, studying your blush as intently as he'd studied the book. He didn't move to give it back.
"I promise you, my porn stash is way more embarrassing than this." He waved the book around a little. "At least yours has literary merit."
"It's not porn!" you shot back, your voice a little too loud in the small space. "It's research!"
The excuse sounded flimsy even to your own ears.
Eddie's smile widened. "Research," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "For what? Your dissertation on rope burns?"
He was teasing you, but it wasn't cruel. It was… interested. He wasn't making fun of you. He was engaging. He held the book out, not quite close enough for you to snatch back.
"This shit isn't even accurate," he said, tapping a page. "This is all showmanship. They forgot the most important part."
You blinked, confusion warring with humiliation. "What part?"
"The conversation." His eyes met yours, and for a second, the teasing faded. There was something serious there. Something intense but inherently safe.
"Well, the conversation isn't the sexy part." You mutter.
"Oh so you're admitting it's porn now?" He smirks and you narrow your eyes. "And also... the conversation is definitely the sexy part," he added, stepping closer. "It's the whole point."
You held your ground, even though every instinct screamed at you to snatch the book, throw him out, and crawl into a hole for the rest of eternity. Instead, you lifted your chin. "You think so?"
"I'm well versed, yeah."
He finally lowered the book, setting it down on your desk, on top of your sociology textbook. The juxtaposition was dizzying. Academia and anarchy. Theory and practice.
He took another step into your personal space. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of the joint he smoked outside.
"I'm going to guess you haven't put this into practice yet," he said softly.
You couldn't answer. The lie was stuck in your throat. Because he was right. The book, the fantasies—they'd always been in your head. A private world.
A world he had just stumbled into.
"So tell me," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, looking you directly in the eye. "Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?"
He waited.
And the silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.
His question hung in the air between you, shimmering and dangerous.
Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?
It was a test. A doorway. A chance to step out of the theory and into the practice.
"I mean, I don't exactly have a partner to, you know..." Your hands flew up in a vague, helpless gesture. "It's not like I can just walk into a bar and ask 'Hey, any of you guys into safe, effective, and nonjudgmental bondage?'"
The joke landed weakly, but Eddie didn't laugh. He just watched you, like a predator assessing prey. He leaned against your desk, crossing his arms, the casual posture doing nothing to hide the focus in his gaze. He picked up the book again, not to mock you this time, but to flip to a specific, dog-eared page.
"Okay," he said, tapping the pages of a sex scene you had clearly marked with interest. "This, for example. The rope work is all wrong for this position. It would cut off circulation after five minutes."
You blinked. "You... you know about ropes?"
He shrugged. "I have hobbies. Guitar isn't my only practical area of expertise." He met your eyes again.
"I guess that makes sense for your whole... look." You gesture vaguely at him.
That one does make him laugh a little. "Yeah sure the whole aesthetic probably doesn't hurt." He smirks at you, eyes scanning over you again. "But the look is just a bonus. Not a guarantee. I know people who are vanilla as hell who dress like me. And I know people who would put this whole book to shame who wear polo shirts."
You think about that for a second, mulling it over as he speaks again.
"Do you like my 'look' or something? You getting off on the thought of me being the one tying you up?" He teases you, but it's not a joke, not really. It's a question.
The question hung there, an invitation wrapped in a dare. Your cheeks burned, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.
"Okay, light teasing was fine but don't purposely be an ass about this." You warn him, the bite in your words making him raise an eyebrow. "And... yeah. The thought occurred once or twice. I'm not blind." The admission felt like ripping off a band-aid—painful, but necessary.
Something shifted in Eddie's expression. His smirk was softer, like he didn't expect you to admit it. He let it hang in the air for a beat, savoring the victory.
"Once or twice, huh?" he mused. "That's... nice."
He set the book down again, this time closing it. The conversation was moving on, past the fantasy and into reality.
He sits on your bed, not like he usually does where he's just sprawled out with no care in the world. This was different. He sat close to the edge, leaving a space between you, but the air crackled with new possibilities. He rested his hands on his knees, a position that was open, non-threatening, but still completely in control.
"I've thought about it like, way more than once or twice honestly. I've thought about what it would be like with you. So, like, if you want to try some things, or even just talk about them, I'm more than willing to be your partner in crime."
You couldn't speak, but he continued.
"Unless, you know, you'd rather ask that guy from your history class. What's his name? Mark? The one who looks like he was grown in a lab to sell minivans."
"Mark is just my project partner." You roll your eyes. "He's literally been here once to study."
"You laugh at his jokes a lot in the dining hall." He shoots back. "I've seen it."
You had no comeback for that. Because he'd noticed. And you had laughed. But Mark's jokes were safe. They were about midterms and dining hall food. Eddie's jokes were about things that made your stomach flip.
"Okay, that doesn't mean I want to jump his bones. And even if I did, which I don't, how is that even rele--"
It hits you then
"You're jealous." You say it out loud, a statement, not a question.
Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't deny it.
He just shrugged again, that infuriatingly casual gesture that meant everything and nothing.
"I'm territorial about things that interest me," he said simply.
You were no longer just a study partner.
"Look. We've been friends for a while. You know me. You know I'm not a creep. We can just… talk. No touching, no ropes, nothin'. Just words. We lay it all out. Boundaries. What you're curious about. What's an absolute hard 'no'." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering again. "Safe words. Pet names. the whole deal."
He was laying out a curriculum. A syllabus for your most private, secret class. And the professor was the guy who made fun of your D&D character for being too lawful good.
"This is insane," you whispered, the words feeling like bubbles in your chest.
"Is it?" He stood up and walked to your door, closing it and twisting the lock.
"Eddie... what if I say yes?"
He paused, his back to you for a second, before turning around. He leaned against the door, hands in his pockets.
"Then the real research begins." He gave you a small, genuine smile. "But only if you say the word."
The choice was yours.
"Okay." The word was barely a whisper.
He pushed off the door and walked back toward you, gesturing at your bed. "Okay. Rule one. Sit."
You carefully moved from your desk chair and sat on the bed, your back ramrod straight, perched on the very edge of the comforter like it might give way beneath you.
He sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. The mattress dipped with his weight, pulling you closer.
"You're tense as all hell, princess. Relax." The pet name was new. It wasn't teasing. It was... grounding.
You tried to unclench your shoulders.
"Let's start easy. Your safe word. It needs to be something you'll remember even if your brain is all fuzzy. Not something you'd normally say during sex. 'No' and 'stop' can be part of the scene. Your safe word is what makes the scene stop. No questions asked."
"Scene? That's so formal. So..."
"It's practical," he corrected gently. "It keeps things from getting messy. So. What'll it be?"
You thought for a moment, your mind racing. "Dragonfruit." It was stupid, random. No one would ever shout it accidentally.
A slow grin spread across Eddie's face. "Dragonfruit. I love it. Okay. That's ours. If you say it, we stop. Everything."
He shifted a little closer, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.
"Is there anything you like to be called? Or don't like?" He says, more seriously now. "Some people like being called a slut or a whore. Some people like 'good girl'. Some people hate it. There is no right answer, it's all about you."
The directness of the question made your breath catch. "Good girl," you admitted, your cheeks flushing with heat. "I don't think I'm ready for degradation yet..."
Part of you was worried saying that like you'd dissapoint him or something. but he just nodded, like you'd given him a perfectly reasonable answer.
"Alright. 'Good girl' it is. We can save the other stuff for an advanced class." The wink he threw you was both a joke and a promise.
"What about you?" you found yourself asking.
He seemed surprised by the question for a second. "Oh, well, I guess I'm pretty fine with most things. I mean, you could probably call me an asshole and I'd still like it cause it was your voice."
He said it so casually, as if he were discussing his favorite brand of guitar strings, and not the thought of you moaning for him.
"I liked when you called me princess..." You admit. "You could call me that."
"Princess," he repeated, the word soft on his tongue. "I can do that."
He was so close now. You could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
"Okay, new question..." Those big eyes drag down your figure. "Can you come sit on my lap? I want you closer."
He wasn't just asking a question about a hypothetical scenario anymore. This was real. This was happening.
Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. You slid across the small space between you, the comforter a whisper under your knees, and settled yourself onto his lap.
His big hands went to your waist automatically, steadying you. He was warm, solid. You could feel the worn denim of his jeans against the thin material of your leggings.
"Alright. First lesson." His breath was warm against your ear, making you shiver. "Power isn't about force. It's about control. My control, your surrender."
You nod, mentally taking notes and he smiles before leaning into to whisper in your ear.
"You can always say no." He says gently. "Right now, to me. You can say 'no, Eddie, I don't want to sit on your lap' and I'll let you go, no questions asked. This is still a conversation."
"I know." You say, a little breathless.
"But you aren't going to say that, are you? No... you want this."
"I do."
"Good girl." The words were a low rumble you felt straight between your legs. "I'm going to put my hands on your thighs now. Just to hold you. Alright?"
You could only manage a small nod.
You could feel the weight of his rings through your leggings.
"Looking so pretty, all for me." He whispers and you lean into him, your head falling to rest on his shoulder as your eyes flutter shut. You trusted him. You'd known him for years. He was safe.
This was what he meant, about the conversation. Every touch was a question. Every reaction, an answer.
"Are you going to be good for me?" He asks.
"Y-yeah," you manage. "I'll be good."
His grip on your thighs tightened just a fraction.
"I know you will." He nosed at your neck. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me hold them."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat tight, and slowly, deliberately, you moved your arms behind you, lacing your fingers together at the small of your back. The position pushed your chest out, making you feel incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed.
He made a soft, satisfied sound.
"Always like it when you wear a low cut top like this." He admits. His hands slid from your thighs to your back, covering your clasped hands with one of his own. The gesture was light, not restrictive, but it felt impossibly final.
His other hand came up to trace the neckline of your shirt, a single finger grazing your collarbone, then dipping lower, following the curve of your breast. He didn't grab, didn't grope. He just… explored. Mapping the territory.
"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I can feel it."
You couldn't answer. All your focus was on the path of his finger as it drifted to the peak of your breast, circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt and bra.
"Responsive little thing, aren't you sweetheart?" He teases.
He circles it a few times, making you squirm on his lap and you can already feel the hard length of him through your layers of clothes. The evidence of his own desire.
His other hand still holds your wrists.
"You like your nipples played with? I know you're sensitive." He asks and you nod again. "Let's see more of these pretty tits."
He doesn't ask to take your shirt off. He just does.
He expertly pulls the shirt over your head in one fluid motion, momentarily freeing your hands before he catches them again, this time pressing them more firmly into the small of your back. He then goes for the clasp of your bra and he undoes that too, pulling it down your arms until you're topless for him.
"Look at that." He whispers and it's the most turned on you've ever heard him.
He runs his thumb over the pebbled flesh of your nipple, and your breath hitches. The calloused pad of his thumb created a delicious friction, a direct line of heat pooling in your core.
"I'm going to pinch," he warned, his voice a dark promise. "Just a little. To see how you like it."
You tensed in anticipation.
He didn't make you wait long. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying a slow, deliberate pressure. A sharp, surprising jolt of pleasure-pain shot through you, pulling a soft gasp from your lips.
"Good," he rasped. "You like that."
It wasn't a question. He read your body as easily as he read the tabbed pages of your sociology textbook.
He keeps pinching and playing as he trails soft kisses from your collarbones and lower, purposefully avoiding where you want his mouth. He was kissing all around your breasts, teasing you with featherlight touches until you're squirming and whining.
"Shh, be patient." He whispers against the skin of your breast. "I'll get there."
He does it again to the other breast. The pinch, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely at his mercy. He was testing you, seeing what made you gasp, what made you squirm. And you were arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.
He finally lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, before grazing it lightly with his teeth.
The whimper that left you was undignified. Needy.
He pulled back, releasing you with a soft 'pop'. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with an emotion you'd never seen directed at you before. Possessiveness. Pride. Awe.
"Look what you do to me," he murmured, one of his hands releasing yours to guide your own down, pressing it flat against the hard bulge straining against the denim of his jeans.
"You're going to have to take care of that later, aren't you?" He says, pushing your hips down a little, making you grind against him.
The friction was obscene, a delicious drag through the layers of clothing that sent sparks skittering up your spine. You did it again, a little more boldly, rocking yourself against the rigid length of him. A groan rumbled in his chest, a purely male, primal sound of appreciation.
"Not yet," he said, his grip on your waist tightening, stopping your movements. "That's a reward. And you haven't earned it yet."
He shifted you slightly, adjusting your position so you could feel him more acutely, a perfect, infuriating pressure against your clothed core. His free hand drifted down to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers toyed with the elastic, a casual touch that made your entire body clench with anticipation.
"You're soaked through already, aren't you, princess?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it. All this fuss just from me playing with your pretty tits."
"Is that weird?" You ask, a little nervous now.
"Not at all. It's perfect." He says gently. "It means your body is honest. It tells the truth. And right now, your body is telling me how much you want this."
His fingers dipped below the waistband, not touching you where you craved it most, but just resting against the soft skin there.
"We could stop right now," he offered, his tone maddeningly level. "We can stop anytime you want. We can just put your shirt back on, order a pizza, and fail our sociology midterm together. All you have to do is say one word. Do you remember our word?"
"Dragonfruit," you whispered, testing it on your tongue. It felt foreign, distant. Not what you wanted at all.
"Now, tell me what you do want."
You took a shaky breath. "I want you to touch me."
"Touch you where? You have to use your words."
Every nerve ending was on fire. "My... I want you to touch me between my legs."
"Good girl."
He finally moved, his hand sliding further down, past the damp cotton of your underwear, through your slick folds. He didn't rush, exploring you with a surgeon's precision.
"This pussy is so fucking wet for me, princess." He breathes out in awe.
He found your clit with an unnerving ease, a single finger circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You jolted, a sharp inhale of pleasure.
"Right there?" he asked, feigning innocence.
You could only nod, your head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his slow, torturous circles. He was drawing it out, making you feel every spark, every tremor. You were wound so tight, a trembling knot of need.
Your hips began to move of their own accord, chasing the friction, the building pressure. But he stopped you again, holding you still with a firm grip.
"Uh-uh. My pace," he chided softly. "You don't get to finish until I say you can."
A whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure frustration.
"Patience," he murmured, kissing your temple.
You notice now, that he hasn't kissed your lips, but you don't make a comment on it, too busy feeling everything else to care.
He was a master of this, a conductor of your pleasure. He varied the pressure, the speed, watching your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you whine. He slipped a finger inside you, then a second, curling them upward to stroke that spot that made your vision blur.
"You think I should let you come soon?" he asked, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. "You've been so good for me. Sitting still. Taking what I give you."
"Please," you begged, the word ripped from you. "Eddie, please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me finish."
He chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "Since you asked so nicely."
He increased the pressure on your clit, the circles becoming faster, more demanding. His fingers inside you stroked with renewed purpose. The tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.
"That's it, sweetheart. Let go. Soak my fucking hand." he commanded.
You were cumming by the time he said 'let go', your body convulsing in a blinding wave of pleasure. You cried out, your back arching, your hands still trapped behind you, leaving you nothing to hold onto but him. He held you through it, his movements slowing, gentling, as you shuddered and trembled.
When you were riding out the after shocks he released your hands, letting you decide where to put them. You immediately brought them around to his shoulders, clinging to him. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, catching your breath.
His hands came up to your back, stroking you slowly, grounding you. He whispered sweet nothings against your hair, words of praise and affection.
"I know that wasn't as extreme as what your little book had, but trust needs to be built up slowly for things like that." He says softly, kissing your shoulder. "We'll get there.
You could feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your cheek. You could still feel the hard press of his arousal against you, a silent testament to his own restraint.
"Eddie..." you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."
He shushed you, a finger gently tilting your chin up. "Hey. it's okay. Tonight was about you. About learning you."
You looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen from where he'd been kissing your skin, and his eyes were dark and soft and full of an emotion that made your chest ache.
Without thinking, you leaned in and finally, finally kissed him.
He didn't move at first and you pulled back quickly, suddenly feeling stupid.
Was kissing not okay in this arrangement?
Did he only want the physical part?
Did he even like you like that?
Before you could speak, he did it first.
"Hey you, don't look like that. It's not what you think." He says gently.
"I- I just thought..."
"I know what you thought. And it's okay. I wanted to kiss you. More than anything."
"So why didn't you?" You ask, not in an accusatory tone, but a genuinely curious one.
"Because if I kissed you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wouldn't have been able to handle it if this was just a one-time thing. Or if this was just about sex. I wouldn't have been able to control myself, and we might not be here right now."
This confession was so raw, so vulnerable. It was more intimate than anything you'd done.
"So... what is this then?" You ask, your heart pounding.
"It's whatever you want it to be." He says honestly. "But I want it to be something. Something real."
You lean in again, slowly, giving him the chance to pull away.
He didn't.
He met you halfway, his lips finally claiming yours. It wasn't a kiss of frenzy or desperation. His hands cupped your face, holding you tenderly, as if you were something precious. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of you, of the cola he'd been drinking hours ago. He kissed you slowly, deeply, a conversation without words.
When you finally parted, you were both breathless.
"Do you still want me to do something about..." You trail off, letting your eyes flick down to the very prominent problem in his pants.
He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "Princess, you have no idea how much I want that. But I also want to do this right. So... right now, nothing too demanding, just let me fuck your brains out?"
You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made your whole body feel lighter.
"You're an idiot."
"You know what?" He says with a teasing smile, before flipping you so he was hovering over you on the bed. "I like it better when you're on your back, anyway."
He made quick work of your leggings and underwear, tossing them aside. He stood up to strip off his own clothes, and you watched him, your gaze hungry. You'd seen him shirtless before, at the lake, at a party, but this was different.
The chain around his neck rested in the dip of his collarbone. His chest was lean, a smattering of dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. He was all sharp angles and wiry strength. And as he pulled down his boxers, your breath hitched.
"You want this huh? This is what you were grinding against earlier?" He smirks. He was long and thick, flushed with arousal, curving up towards his stomach.
He climbed back onto the bed, settling himself between your legs.
"Take what you want," he commanded, his voice a low growl.
Your hand trembled as you reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm as you guided him to your entrance, and he pushed forward, just the head breaching you.
A shared gasp. You were so wet, so ready for him, but the stretch was still intense, a delicious burn.
"Oh, good girl, you listen so fucking well," he praised, before sliding the rest of the way home with one slow, deep thrust.
He filled you completely, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
"Fuck," he breathed, burying his face in your neck. "You feel better than I ever imagined."
He started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls was a fresh wave of pleasure. This was different from the sharp, focused intensity from before. This was a deep, all-consuming fire.
"Look at me," he demanded, pulling back just enough to see your face. "Hold on to the headboard."
You obeyed, your hands finding the cool metal bars of your headboard, as he began to move again. This new angle let him hit that spot inside you with every thrust, making your toes curl. He wasn't just fucking you anymore. He was claiming you. Marking you from the inside out.
"Who's making you feel this good?" he grunted, his hips snapping a little faster.
"You are," you moaned, your knuckles white where you gripped the headboard.
"Whose cock makes you feel this good?" He asks, a dark look in his eyes.
"Yours," you gasped, the words torn from you. "Only yours, Eddie."
"Fuck yes, it does." He says, a smirk on his face. "Not some loser from the dining hall." He speeds up a little, getting cocky. "Not your project partner. You wanna know who knows exactly what to do with you? Me." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust and you can't help but arch your back.
"You're mine now, sweetheart. This pussy is mine to use." His voice is a rough possessive rasp as he leans down to whisper softly in your ear. "Gimme a color, princess. Are we green?"
You were so far gone, but you knew what he was asking. "Green," you moaned. "So green, Eddie."
He smiled, a triumphant, feral grin. "Good girl. You want me to keep talking like this, honey? You want me to tell you how I'm going to fuck you every day after our study sessions from now on? How I'm going to bend you over that desk until you're screaming my name?"
"Yes," you whined, a desperate, needy sound. "Please."
"Then I guess I'll have to do it." His hips began to piston faster, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. "Would you like that, sweetheart? To be my good little girl? To cum whenever I say?"
"I would," you cried out. "God, I would."
He brought a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. He didn't circle it this time. He pressed down, hard, in direct counterpoint to his thrusts.
"Cum for me," he commanded. "All over my cock."
Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You screamed his name, a raw, ragged sound, as you convulsed around him, your body spasming with the force of your release.
"Mmm, gonna wake up the whole dorm." He praised. "Such a good fucking girl." He kept thrusting through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him.
He pulled out and kissed you softly, the kiss slow and deep as you shook under him. You could feel his erection against your thigh, hot and hard and insistent.
"You still haven't..." You begin, trailing off again as you try and catch your breath.
"I haven't bent you over the desk yet." He grins, before he pulls you up from your comfortable spot on your back.
His hands were on you instantly, guiding you to your feet and then turning you, walking you the few steps to your desk. He swept his arm across it, the textbook with the red tabs, a stack of flashcards—all of it clattering to the floor in a mess of academic debris.
His lips are kissing by your ear as he speaks, caging you in from behind. "You need me to get a condom?" He asks, and you are a little surprised by the question.
"I'm on the pill." You say quickly, and he makes a happy humming sound, kissing the back of your neck.
"Perfect." He whispers, before he's pressing your chest flat against the desk. The cool wood was a shock against your heated skin.
"Think you can handle a little more for me, baby?" He asked, his hands stroking over your ass.
You nod, your face turned to the side, your cheek pressed against the smooth wood.
"Use your words."
"Yes," you breathe out. "I can handle more."
He doesn't enter you right away. Instead, he kneels, spreading your cheeks, and you feel the hot, wet shock of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a long, slow stripe from your clit to your entrance, groaning at the taste.
"Fuck, you're delicious," he murmurs, before diving back in.
He was relentless, eating you out with a single-minded focus that left you trembling. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and pointed, targeted flicks against your clit.
His hands grip at the fat of your ass as he eats you out like a man starved, and you can't help but push your hips back against him. He eats it until your legs are shaking and you're whining for him to stop. When he does, he stands up, his chest heaving.
He pauses and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. You glance behind you to see him taking the rings off his right hand, leaning over your back to put them on the desk as he places small kisses on your back.
"What are you..."
Your whisper turns into a whine when a callous palm hits your ass cheek. Not hard, but enough that you gasp at the suddenness.
He shushes you gently, rubbing the reddening mark. "Just a little color for my pretty girl." He murmurs. "You like that? Just a little sting?"
You nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure and confusion.
"Words, baby." He reminds you.
"Y-yes. I like it."
He spanks you again, this one harder, and you feel the jolt of it deep in your core. He alternates between spanking you and rubbing the tender skin, until you're a quivering, whimpering mess.
Another smack and you don't even register when he lines himself up with your entrance, and glides in, slick and easy, bottoming out with a deep groan. The angle was different, deeper, and it made you feel utterly possessed.
He set a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. One of his hands grabs your face as he leans over to kiss you.
"Taste how fucking sweet you are?" He whispers against your lips. You're nodding dumbly as he continues to fuck you, tongue licking into your mouth.
His other hand slides around your body, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. It was too much, too intense, and you tried to squirm away.
"Uh-uh. You take it," he commanded, his voice a low growl.
"Take everything I give you, princess." He was praising you, his words stoking the fire in your belly. You were already so sensitive from your previous orgasms, every drag of his cock against your walls a fresh wave of pleasure.
"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.
More? Faster? For it to never end?
"I know, I know." He cooed at you. "Good girls like you need to be fucked until they can't think straight."
You clenched around him, and he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second.
"Yeah, you like me saying that, don't you? You like being my good girl." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust that makes you see stars.
Your clit was throbbing under his thumb, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. Your body was a live wire, humming with a frantic, desperate energy.
"Gonna cum," you sobbed, the words barely intelligible. "Eddie, I'm gonna cum."
He pressed you down more against the desk, his hips snapping faster, harder. He leans over your back so you can feel the sweat from his chest on your skin as he speaks right into your ear.
"Come on," he urged, his voice rough with strain. "Cum for me. One. More. Fucking. Time."
You whined out, needier than ever, as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on him. Your legs gave out, and you would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't been holding you up, pinning you to the desk.
He gathered your hair in one of his hands, pulling your head back slightly, the angle new and dizzying as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. This let him see your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. He looked wild, untamed, his pupils blown wide with lust.
"That's it, baby. Milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl." He moans as he starts to lose the steady rhythm. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate.
"Gonna fill you up," he growled, his grip on your hair tightening. "Mark this pretty little pussy as mine."
With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, both of you breathing heavily, trying to come back to earth.
His hand in your hair changed from a grip to soothing stokes
His fingers danced up your body from their ruthless attack of your clit, to splay across your stomach. You feel him press gently. He was still inside of you. Softening, but still present.
"You okay?" he murmured against your spine, the words muffled by his soft kisses to your skin.
You managed a weak nod, not trusting your voice.
He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through you. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."
He slowly pulled out, and the emptiness you felt was acute. You could feel his release begin to trickle down your thigh, a sticky, intimate reminder of what you'd just done.
He helped you to the bed, tugging you back into his arms. You both were sweaty, sticky, and your room was a mess. You couldn't bring yourself to care.
You curled into his side, your head on his chest. The steady, reassuring beat of his heart was a comforting anchor in the haze of satiation.
His hands never stopped caressing through your hair.
He was quiet for a long time, just stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your forehead.
"So," he said, his voice quiet. "Is the reality better than the book?"
You thought about it for a second. The book was theory. This was practice. This was real.
"I thought you said you weren't done with me?" You manage, weakly.
He just pulls his head back enough to get a proper look at your face, the most genuine smile accentuated by his dimples.
"Yeah, the aftercare. The cuddles. The praise. That's all part of it." He said, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Being the one who has to clean up our mess."
He sits up, leaning over the side of the bed to grab the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He carefully, almost reverently, began to clean you up. The cotton was soft against your sensitive skin.
"You're so good at that," You say softly, referring to the entire night, but more specifically the way he was taking care of you.
"Yeah? Well I'm a man of many talents." He teases, but the way he's looking at you is soft.
He's gentle, methodical, as he wipes away the evidence of your night together. Once he's satisfied, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls the comforter over both of you, cocooning you in the warmth of the small bed.
You're quiet for a long time again. Just listening to each other breathe.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hm?"
"About the kiss earlier..." he started, his voice a little hesitant. "When I said I didn't know if I could handle it if this was just a one-time thing... I meant it."
He shifts a little, so he's looking you in the eye. "This was never gonna be just a one-time thing for me. You have to know that. I've been wanting this for so long."
You are looking up at him in the dim light of your desk lamp. He's looking at you with a unguarded expression that you'd never seen from him before.
"You really have? I thought... I thought this was just... you know, because of the book."
He let out a small, breathy laugh. "Sweetheart, the book was just a convenient excuse. A cosmic sign from the universe to finally do something about the massive, soul-crushing crush I've had on you since we were assigned as lab partners in freshman chemistry."
His signature smirk reappeared then.
"The fact that you're also into the same filthy shit I am? That's just a very, very lucky bonus."
You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated happiness.
"So, what now?" You ask, your voice barely a whisper.
"Now I get to enjoy this body being all soft in my arms." He says, kissing your forehead. "Now I get to wake up next to you and make you breakfast. Now I get to walk you to our sociology class and sit next to you knowing exactly what you sound like when you orgasm."
He pulls you closer. "And now I get to tell you that I want to be your boyfriend. If you'll have me."
You tilt your head up to look at him, a slow, genuine smile spreading across your face.
"I'll have you," you said simply.
"Oh, no enthusiasm for the man who made you cum three times in an hour?" He teases gently. You just lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet.
"I think you fucked all the enthusiasm out of me." You mumble against his lips.
He chuckles, satisfied and proud.
"It's a skill." He smirks. "But don't worry. I'm a great teacher. We'll build up your stamina." He winks, and you feel a fresh wave of heat wash over you.
He pulls you to his chest, safe and warm. You could get used to this.
"Next time," he whispers against your hair. "Next time I'll bring my ropes."
You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll hold you to that."
He held you tighter, a silent promise. The night wasn't over. Your time exploring each other, it seemed, had really just begun.
Could you do sex pollen with reader? Something about him BEGGING to have relief 🤤 maybe a mission gone wrong? Trapped in a bank safe? Can you tell I’ve thought of this before?
[Masterlist]
18+ Only | 3.5k | Want to send your own request? | Homelander x female!supe!Reader | Sex pollen. Marathon sex. Dacryphilia? OR well tears are involved. Love confessions.
I am on a fucking roll! Follow-up to this. (spoiler alert: this mission deffo doesn't go like the cover picture)
The site was deemed too dangerous for the Vought camera crew to tag along. It’s rare to go on a planned mission without multiple cameras catching every angle of your ass in the stupidly contoured spandex suit. It's nice.
Even with your mind powers, Vought still wanted to pimp out your body. No asset left unused and unabused.
What isn't rare is going on yet another team-up with Homelander. You’re certain he’s been pulling strings—matching you both up together over and over again to create a media buzz. You’ve seen all the paparazzi photos from your missions. People couldn’t get enough of you. You knew this because Homelander made sure you saw each post—texting you daily yet another gossip magazine post about a brewing secret affair.
The message sounded similar. Always some variant of ‘we should give them something real to write about ;)’
He took great pleasure in flying you over slowly. Your body’s durability doesn’t come even close to your teammates in the Seven. Your brain has always been your selling point. While you will stop a bullet, you won’t survive Homelander’s speeds. It means, however, that he gets to keep you in the air for longer, talking your ear off about the plans he has for your relationship.
A relationship that isn’t there, mind you. Yes, you fuck on the side. Yes, you could admit to yourself that you care about him. But actually committing to a relationship? You’re not sure you can do that.
Homelander quietly lands you both on top of a shipping container in the quiet part of the New York harbour. It’s just past midnight, this place is eerily empty compared to how busy New York usually feels.
You’re on a mission to apprehend a rogue supe that Vought can’t sink their claws into. You have very little information on her besides that she has an amateurish understanding of chemistry and makes unstable concoctions and gases. This definitely feels like a Black Noir job but Homelander insisted you two take the case. You had no choice but to smile and nod at the team when it came to your agreement.
“Couldn’t you have landed us on the ground?”
“Mh no, I can see better from here.” You shake your head and roll your eyes to yourself as you properly stand up, brushing your hands down your sides to get rid of the bunched up wrinkles in the suit Homelander’s hands pinched into it during the flight.
You go to the edge of the container, jumping off as smoothly as you can but the thick heeled boots still make you stumble.
“Baby deer.” You hear a sneer from above you where Homelander has adopted his stupid little pose, condescendingly looking down at you.
“Suck my dick.” You throw him a finger and find your footing. “And be quiet. We’re meant to be discreet. You should have let Noir take this.”
“And miss my best kitty’s claws? Fat chance of that.”
You lose interest very quickly. You’re really not sure what you’re meant to do here. Your mind powers only work to a certain range. You can’t just seek out minds in the surrounding areas and affect them with the same ailments. Unlike Homelander, you’re not a fan of collateral damage.
You walk around aimlessly, taking care to not make much sound as you look through shipping containers or around corners but it all feels pointless.
Homelander is still standing where you left him, scanning the surroundings with his super-powered vision.
“Nice underwear.” He snorts behind you once he finally sets his feet down on the ground.
“You jackass, you’re meant to be scanning the area.”
“Well you kind of are in the area, babe.” He gives you a mean little smile when he tucks his hands behind his back, puffing his chest out in front of you. You don’t know why he bothers to taunt you all day long.
You walk away to create distance more than to secure more of the area. But you’re here to do a job after all. The city pays a hefty bill to have the Seven focus its efforts on supporting the forces ensuring the city’s safety.
Not much left for you to do now besides check the shipping containers. Surely Homelander hasn’t scanned them all. Some of these must be zinc-lined. Twenty minutes go by and you’re ready to call it quits so you can send the actual professionals suited for this mission in.
Opening the last container you patrol, you get hit with a pungent, eye-watering gas. You gasp and stumble, choking on red fumes that burn their way through your nostrils.
Homelander gets to you before you even have a chance to call for him. He pushes you back and away, confidently stepping into the metal crate before your wispy little “no” becomes audible.
God your head is spinning. Your heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of your fucking chest. Supporting yourself on the cold metal walls you wobble as much as your legs take you—which isn’t far.
Your forehead is so hot—are you getting a fever? You press yourself to the cold metal, grateful for the chilly air of the night. You slide down, settling down on the hard concrete ground. You can’t calm down, no matter how much you focus on your breathing to slow down your heart rate, it’s not happening. You feel wrong. Holding out your hands in front of you, you see how shaky your limbs have gotten. Your skin itches all over. It’s like the fumes have reached underneath your suit—underneath your skin—and infected every part of you.
This is not how you wanted to go. You can’t even say you’ve gone out protecting anybody. And the last thing you would’ve done would be calling Homelander a jackass.
Homelander. The thought of him alone makes your forehead break out into a sweat, veins burning with strange tingling heat from head to toe. You can’t breathe in without the fumes messing with your senses. It’s like all you can smell is the unfortunately all too familiar scent of clean musk, ozone and vanilla. Your mouth waters.
The hissing zap of lasers just about registers to your ears. Same with slamming of metal doors and creaking of metal sliding across sheets of equally heavy metal. It would’ve been grating to your ears if the thought of Homelander’s lasers didn’t make your head spin.
Now that you think about it, they’re really sexy. Ruby red eyes shining with the power nobody can hide from. Reality doesn’t feel the same anymore, you’re hazy. Has the world always looked this dreamy?
The quietest, “what the fuck,” reaches you. Homelander’s heavier, rougher groan follows right after. Has his voice always sounded this good? You tilt your head towards the empty shipping container where it all went down. You can’t see him, but the sound of his voice playing on repeat in your head has you trembling. A shiver runs all the way down your spine to the strong and sensitive nerves of your pussy.
What the fuck?!
It’s your turn to be shocked when the shameful wave of heat rolls through you again. Homelander groans again in the background and you barely manage to cover your mouth to hide the obscene moan that your body lets out. This wasn’t you doing it. You don’t act like this for him. You want to avoid playing the role of a needy slut who has to perform—regardless of how much he enjoys the thought of that.
That thought brings you back to two nights ago when you answered a booty call. Anytime Homelander has you over you refuse to fuck on his bed—it’s too intimate—so you sat on his lap, riding him through a couple orgasms.
Oh, how you want that. How you want to feel his thick cock inside you, his strength wrapping its arms around you, holding you down until he has his fill of your warm wet walls.
Your pussy aches. It throbs so painfully you push your palm against it, as if to quiet it down. Not that it fucking works. You wipe your forehead. You don’t really understand what’s going on. You feel so… wild—it’s so unlike you.
Shaking your head just makes you so dizzy so you lean ahead, bare palms biting into concrete when you catch yourself from falling onto the ground completely.
The metal creaks again and you look up just in time to see Homelander exit the now half-melted crate—thankfuckinggod he’s alive. He seems even worse off. As soon as he catches your eye he whimpers and groans, stumbling his way to you.
Oh god, he’s coming closer to you. Your heart is racing impossibly fast, your vision swims with past memories, vivid feelings and replays confusing your brain's concept of reality. You’re almost losing the control of your powers. You can’t even tell if you’re doing the same to Homelander.
“Oh fucking Christ.” Homelander finally reaches you, falling heavy onto his knees in front of you, leaning his entire weight against you when he sobs with the relief of feeling you close to him. You would do the same if you didn’t think that your sobbing wouldn’t stop right after you started.
“What the fuck is going on?” You’re barely coherent but he’s not listening. He pushes you closer to the metal wall behind your back, limbs thrown over each other as he dirtily licks into your mouth. Sucking your lips open so he can do what you can only describe as eat you alive.
“I need—” his whimper is cut short with an actual sob. His breath hitches, chest and hands shaking with each breath.
In a desperate attempt to pull his gloves off he ends up ripping them apart, the leather pulling apart as easily as he shreds metal. Once his hands—his beautiful hands, fuck, you want them on you so bad—are free he cradles your jaw with a need you haven’t seen before.
It’s sloppy kissing at best and messy rubbing of your lips at worst. Neither of you are very capable kissers at this moment. You don’t want to pull away, you don’t want him to ever pull away. So your kisses are just a messy exchange of saliva, tongues deep and wet in each other’s mouths with heavy hot breaths warming your already hot faces.
Homelander’s hand goes down your body, greedily squeezing a handful of your tits, prodding and poking at every part of your body just to feel close to you. You’re shaking with energy you don’t understand. Every nerve ending on high-alert, buzzing for the next touch.
Just as his fingers press into your clit, rubbing up and down the through pool of wetness in your suit you shriek into his mouth—biting his lip in the process. Any ordinary man would’ve bled from that.
“No! Fuck! You’re-you’re making it worse!” The desperate throbbing of your cunt is only made worse by the tease of his slender gorgeous fingers rubbing the fabric of your suit. Looking at him now you notice that his lasers are still subtly on. The flecks in his irises highlight his face in red.
Have you ever noticed how gorgeous he is? Sure, you’ve always been aware that Homelander is an objectively handsome man but have you really looked?
His eyes twitch and squeeze, desperate heavy breaths making their way out of him. His hands are equally shaky, if not more than yours.
He nods repeatedly. “Yea-yeah, okay.” He sniffles, angrily wiping a frustrated tear off his cheek. Just seeing him like this makes your cunt squeeze, oozing slick into the already drenched fabric of your underwear. He sniffles again, this time he inhales deeply. Like a predator he zeroes in on the target.
Your pants and underwear get ripped off you in one go, and before you get a chance to think about it you’re getting hoisted up. Your thighs get thrown over his shoulders, back pressed into the metal wall as he pins you against it with speed and need you’ve never seen.
“Homelander what—”
Homelander’s hot tongue immediately latches onto your pussy, groaning into the feeling of your hot flesh against his tongue. He gulps you down, noisily drinking down your pussy as if it was an ice cold water on a hot summer day.
“Do the thing,” he’s muffled by your pussy but you figure out exactly what he means.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I don’t think—I don’t know if I can control it.” It’s your voice’s turn to break. He’s holding his tongue against you in a firm position more than he’s licking you. Just like his fingers, it’s simply not enough. You try to wiggle against his tongue further to feel what your body so inexplicably craves but you can’t. His arms are holding you firmly in place.
Homelander tilts his head back. His subtle lasers illuminate his wet lashes. “Puh–please… I need—fuck—I need to come so fucking bad. I need you to help me. Please, pleaseplease help me through it.” He’s so choked up you almost feel awful for how hot that makes you feel.
You nod, unsure if he can see you particularly well through the mix of similarly hazy vision, laser distorted sight and the wet lines on his waterline.
Your powers still feel hazy, like you can’t quite grasp them in your mind. Like sand between your fingers they’re slipping through and you don’t have the fine control you usually possess. This means you don’t actually know what’s happening to Homelander’s brain when you meld your minds’ sensations together. You don’t know if it’s enough—what if it’s too much?
You’ve never experimented with what too much does to someone else’s brain.
You might be on your way to finding out because Homelander moans so obscenely as soon as he licks up your cunt you shamefully squeeze your thighs around his head. Not one to be deterred, his thick wet tongue gathers all your juices—swallowing down as much of you as he can.
Pretty blonde—now messy—hair sticks out in between your thighs as he laps at your cunt, licking up to your clit in fast bursts. He’s panting—scalding hot breath meets your already pulsating warm flesh. It’s almost too much, you’d feel like writhing away from him in any other circumstance but the fume-heavy cloud in your head urges you to push closer, urges you to dig your fingers into his hair and ride his tongue as hard as you can.
It’s no surprise that your orgasm comes quickly and explosively.
You’re not thinking about him but Homelander must come with you with the way he sobs into your cunt, sucking onto your clit in the rhythm of your orgasmic waves. He must feel every single throb of you in his own cock. You wonder how much he’s filled his cup.
He leaves your pussy red and raw, licking you furiously into two more consecutive orgasms, neither of which dull the sharp fume-enhanced nerves.
Staying in the fumes longer than you have must have dealt larger damage. The belt clicks loudly, falling on the concrete floor. He’s pulling his cock out, giving himself a couple strokes—but like his fingers on you, it’s not enough. He pulls your shaky quivering thighs off his shoulders and he sits you down on his cock.
“Don’t stop—I wanna feel you. I need to feel how you feel. Please let me feel it.” You didn’t even realise you’ve stopped broadcasting your pleasure to him, utterly focused on the stretch of his cock pushing into your orgasm-relaxed cunt.
You have no strength in you left to move, let alone perform, so you fall with your head against his shoulder and you let him fuck you—all while broadcasting each stroke of his cock inside you straight to his overstimulated brain.
He’s always been an intense lover but this is to a level you don’t think you could ever survive in normal circumstances. Though you’re not sure he could either.
He buries his head into your neck as he pushes his hips up, sharp shaky moves rattle up your spine, nerve endings slowly lighting up down your limbs as the next orgasm doesn’t afford you its usual waiting time. These orgasms have stopped feeling like a wave of pleasure after a stressful day and more like a temporary relief stopping you from losing yourself to the madness of your clouded mind.
“I love you, you know that?” He muffles into your neck. He gently nips at the flushed skin of your neck. You can’t stand it. It’s too much. It’s all too much. Your eyes prickle with tears and you shake with a sob.
“I love you so fucking much.” He breathes against you again with a heavy sob. Your neck feels wet. “You’re the only one—the only fucking one—who doesn’t-doesn’t fucking cower in fear, who doesn’t cry when I say one mean fucking word. Fffuck. I—fuck—I love you so much.”
You don’t know what to say. You’ve barely allowed yourself to come to terms with your care for him. You can’t just—
“I think I love you too.” Your own heavy tears surprise you. Your words surprise you even more. Do you? Is this honestly you speaking or is it the fumes messing with your head. Can you trust yourself now? How will you two walk away from this? How will you see this tomorrow?
None of those questions need answering now.
So you let him rock you harder, gasping into your neck as he spills his come deep inside you, warming you from the inside out.
It doesn’t end there. You both fuck your way through the whole night. He has you on all fours, pushing himself—still thick and hard—inside you from behind, leaning his chest across your back as he barely has any leverage to pull out before he stuffs you fuller.
It feels like nothing will ever be enough. You suck his cock three times, get fucked in the air twice and against the wall once. It ends with a missionary position, however uncomfortable on the hard concrete floor. Your bodies are as close as you can handle and that’s all that matters.
When the dawn breaks you both finally see things clearer. The haze is now a dull throb at the back of your mind, no longer taking over all of your senses. You’re exhausted. You need a couple of showers and a two-day-long sleep.
“Hm, get off me.” You murmur when his heavy hot body still lies on top of you after your last shared orgasm. You’re stuffed to the brim, hot, red, and overstimulated to the point that even if you had pants to put on, they’d hurt.
What was it with him and making it his mission to ruin all of your suits?
“Not what you were saying earlier.” He grumbles back but there’s no real bite to it, he’s equally exhausted. Hair messy and sticking out all over the place.
“I said many things.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you did.” He looks at you knowingly but you don’t want to get into it now.
Not that he’d ever allow that. “Did you mean it?” He does slowly pull off you and out of you, tucking his soft and equally spent cock back into his pants, belt clicking back into place.
His gloves are ripped and useless, though he still takes the scraps and tucks the fabric behind his belt so as to not leave any evidence.
“Do we have to do this now?”
“Yes.” His eyes meet yours. You avoid them.
“I guess, maybe? Yes? I don’t know. My head isn’t very clear right now.”
“Make it clear then, that’s your whole shtick.”
“Jesus, can I catch a breather please? I thought I was going to die today.”
“Fine. I just—I wasn’t kidding. I wouldn’t. Not about something like that.” You give him a sad smile. You know he’s speaking the truth. You don’t need to probe his head for it either. You just don’t know if you’re able to give him what he needs.
You don’t know if the extent of your love will ever be enough to feed the bottomless beast that resides inside him. You’ve seen glimpses of it at times. You’re scared to get formally introduced.
“I know.” You lean in to kiss his forehead. “Can we get out of here first? I don’t want anyone to find us like this.”
“Yeah, yeah we can.”
He can be a gentleman when he chooses to be. He takes his cape off and wraps it around your bottom—though it’s the least he can do after he ripped your pants into pieces a couple hours ago.
“Hey, what happened to the supe?”
“Ran away.”
“At least one of us is lucky then.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” And with that he sets off, taking you both home.
You’re not sure where this is going to take you. You’re not sure you’re ready for it or if you even want to be there for the ride. But after tonight you know, you won’t be able to hide from him for the rest of your life.
Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):
When you break something of Steve’s, he has to reassure you it’s okay.
pairing: steve harrington x byers!reader
words: 1.8k
contains: established relationship, angst (tooth rooting fluff ending dw), mention of an estranged relationship with a parent, lonnie byers just generally being terrible, emotionally abusive parent (nothing graphic, just alluded to), no use of y/n, female reader, pet names (honey, baby).
author's note: thank you to @babyluxbeat for this request! i hope i did it justice!! i made it sort of inspired by family lines by conan gray as it is a very byers coded song in my opinion
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
Watching Steve play guitar was starting to become one of your favourite pastimes.
Over two months ago, your boyfriend had randomly decided to learn how to play guitar. You’re not sure where it had come from but you had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with Eddie Munson.
And so, he sat on your bed idly strumming the guitar he had brought over—his fingers dancing around the strings and chords. You watched him, unable to stop the smile from tugging at your lips.
Steve notices—because of course he does—his ears turning a little red but he doesn’t stop. Just looks back at you with a gentle expression and big brown eyes as he continues the gentle playing of the guitar.
Falling in love with Steve Harrington wasn’t something you had intended to do. It had just happened. You had gone to meet Will at the arcade to walk him home and Steve had been there too, apparently to pick up Dustin. He offered to take you and Will home—you had insisted you would be fine but Steve wouldn’t take no for an answer.
It became a weekly thing after that—you’d turn up at the arcade to meet Will and Steve would already be there waiting in his beloved beamer.
You started showing up earlier so you could spend more time with him—so you could sit in his car a little longer and talk without the presence of Will or Dustin there to butt in. Then, one day he suggested you two go into the arcade together.
You hadn’t realised it was anything special until much later. Until Steve eventually admitted that he had given Will and Dustin twenty dollars to play Dig Dug for the entire evening. Paid them a further fifteen dollars to not interrupt as you two played foosball. Steve had let you win. You had smiled and told him not to go easy on you. But you still won. You figured he was just terrible at the game but really he just liked the delighted look on your face every time you scored a goal.
And later—he had made a tactical choice to drop Dustin off first. Will seemed to sense what was happening before you did, thanking Steve for the lift and racing inside before Steve had pulled up the handbrake. It was quiet then—until Steve broke the silence by asking you out. On a real date. That Saturday. The “yes” slipped from out of mouth before you could second guess it.
Seven months later, you were still wondering what you had done to deserve a guy like Steve. Even Jonathan was starting to like him.
“Steve!” Your mom called from the living room, pulling you out of your thoughts about your boyfriend strumming the guitar in his lap. “Could you help us with the—”
Your mom doesn’t even have to finish her sentence before Steve is setting the guitar aside and getting up from your bed. “Coming Mrs Byers! I’ll be right out.”
“I told you to call me Joyce—”
Steve smiles at your mom’s comment before he bends down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right back. She probably needs help with TV again.”
You smile before your eyes dart to the guitar.
“Can I have a go while you’re gone?” You ask as Steve walks towards your bedroom door.
“Sure thing,” he says. “Just be careful, yeah?”
You nod as you pick up the guitar carefully. Steve smiles fondly at the sight before he leaves your bedroom to go help your mom.
You look down at the guitar in your lap and try to recall what you had seen Steve doing. Try to copy his movements. Find the chords on the neck of the guitar but it was a lot more fiddly than Steve had made it look.
But you tried anyway, a look of utmost concentration on your face. It sounded awful. You stopped, pausing to try and tune the guitar by twisting one of the turning pegs. You kept strumming to see if it sounded any better when—
One of the strings suddenly snaps. The noise—the whip of the string makes you jump. Your eyes widen as a feeling of dread settles in your gut.
“No, no, no—”
Deep down, you knew Steve likely wouldn’t care. The logical side of you knew that. He had mentioned the strings being a little rusty only a few days ago.
But the side of you that was raised by Lonnie Byers? Well, it had taken the wheel and was making breathing suddenly difficult.
You remember being five years old. Maybe younger. That age before Will was born when you ran wild while Jonathan followed quietly. You had been playing dress up, your mom letting you borrow one of Lonnie’s suits which you forced Jonathan into the blazer of. You wore the tie like a bandana and demanded Jonathan walk the plank. Pushed Jonathan into the small inflatable pool outside just as your dad had come home from work. You hadn’t known that it was your dad’s best suit. You hadn’t known how much it had cost.
All you knew is how angry he got when it was soaking wet and covered in dirt from a day of playing.
Growing up, you had learnt how to tiptoe around Lonnie. How not to ruin things or break things that belonged to him. It happened anyway—you were a kid, of course you broke things from time to time. And while your mom reassured you it was fine, kissed your head and told you not to worry—you knew the argument that broke out that evening was because of you. Because you had been careless enough to break something.
Even now—years after Lonnie had moved out and stopped sending birthday cards—you felt the need to be careful. To not break things. To not be careless with things that weren’t yours.
And so, the snap of that guitar string awoke something in you.
You felt the tears before they began to fall. Felt the burn in your lungs and tightness in your chest. Your hands shaking as you tried to fix the mistake that—in the moment—felt irreparable.
Your eyes, still burning with tears, flickered around your room for something that would fix this. You briefly wondered whether glue would work or even a copper wire. Anything that could fix what you had broken. But just as you set the guitar down onto the bed and let out a shuddering breath, your bedroom door opens.
“Think you need a new aerial for the TV,” he tells you, kicking the door shut behind him before he walks over to his jacket slung over your desk chair, rummaging for his car keys. “I’m just going to head to the hardware store to get one before your mom misses an episode of Cheers if you want to come with—”
He stops, finally looking up when he hears a small sniffle. And when he sees you—perched on the edge of your bed with tears falling down your face, he feels his chest tighten.
“Honey—what’s wrong?” He asks you gently, big brown eyes searching your face for an answer.
“I b-broke it,” you sob out, sniffing as you look up at him—tears falling down your cheeks and suddenly feeling five years old again and scared Lonnie was about to yell at you.
Steve looks at you for a moment, perplexed but then his eyes move to the guitar on the bed—to the single broken string and understanding begins to spread over his face. Steve knew you well enough to know why you were upset about breaking something of his and fuck—he wished he could take it all away. Every yell, every fight, every punishment. Wished he could find Lonnie Byers and make him sorry for making you scared to make mistakes.
“Baby, it’s just a guitar string,” Steve says gently, stepping in front of you before he sinks down to his knees. Hands finding your shaking ones and bringing them to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “It was going to break at some point. Don’t worry about it, I can replace it.”
“But I—”
“Hey, hey,” Steve hushes you with a kiss to each palm this time. The action makes you look down at him—his eyes full of love and patience. Two things you had never seen your father look at you with. “Don’t you apologise for breaking something that you didn’t mean to. You don’t need to do that. Especially not with me. I can replace it. It’s you who I can’t replace.”
Your heart thumps in your chest. Steve’s sweet words like honey. Your nose twitches as you try not to smile.
Steve notices—the way he notices everything you do—and smiles as he reaches up with one hand to wipe away your tears. Hating the fact that they had even fallen in the first place.
“Don’t worry about it, really,” he tells you in a voice so soft that you couldn’t help but feel the weight in your chest lift. Just a little. Your breathing slowing as you blink away tears. “You don’t have to be scared to break anything of mine. Unless you break my heart. Then I might have a problem.”
The comment makes you laugh. A wet laugh that makes Steve beam as though it was his favourite sound in the world. As though he had won a million dollars, climbed the tallest mountain or ran a marathon. Your laugh as precious as gold.
”C’mon,” he murmurs with a small smile, standing up as you sniffle and wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your cardigan. “Let’s get this aerial for your mom and then we can go to that bakery you like and get the biggest cinnamon bun that we can find.”
You nod, allowing Steve to pull you to your feet where he wiped away your remaining tears with gentle hands.
”Can we get extra icing with the cinnamon bun?” You ask him quietly.
”Baby, we can get whatever you want,” he tells you—leaning in to brush his lips against yours in a gentle kiss. One that said he was sorry for what you had experienced in the past. One that promised your future would be better. That broken guitar strings meant nothing to him when it came to you. He pulled away from the kiss to smile down at you. “I‘ll buy you a year’s supply of icing if it makes you happy.”
”You’re ridiculous, Steve Harrington,” you tell him with a smile that made him feel a million things at once.
”Ridiculously in love with you, Byers,” he says, leaning back in to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Now c’mon, we have a cinnamon bun with our names on it.”
ROOKIE LEON IN A STRIP CLUB FOR THE FIRST TIME WOULD BE AMAZING AKBFKSVFKAVFK. I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED IT TILL YOU MENTIONED IT 😭😭‼️
Also tysm for all the yummy fics, they keep me sane <3
Don't think the stripper likes you
[Rookie!Leon Kennedy x fem!Reader]
Warnings: nsfw, no outbreak au, age gap, older reader (early 30s), tits play, slight mommy kink, orgasm denial, sw, you didn't come to the candy store to buy raisins
part 2
this is pure fantasy, sex work is work and if you disagree you can kindly fuck off <3
Summary: Rookie cop Leon Kennedy starts with the RPD. The boys think it would be fun to take the rookie out to visit his first strip club as an initiation ritual. You see the guys from the police station walk in, ready to make a bag. Rule no 1: don't think the stripper likes you, right?
Notes: He is so cute, I can't. Look at his sweet little face. Also, you guys are so cute, I can't. Thank you so much for all your comments, requests and support. Uh, let me know if you want a part 2?
word count: 2.4k
Masterlist
It was a slow day at the club. Monday evenings always were, the buzz of the weekend already wearing off.
But the customers that did come in during the week were a lot nicer to work with. Regulars mostly, people that meant business. None of those inexperienced misbehaving frat boys and bachelor parties that didn’t know what was what.
When you saw the guys from the police department come in, you rolled your eyes. Now, privately, you hated cops. But professionally, some of the boys from the RPD were regulars and especially the middle aged ones, who still had manners, tipped very well.
So in that case, police officer was your favourite profession and matter of fact, your dad had been a cop, too. Oh, had he just not so tragically died on the job, bla bla. The best thing about men in uniform was that you could play them like a fiddle.
There was a new one there with them. A face you hadn’t seen before. Baby face, barely weaned off the tit and old enough to be in kindergarten. Pretty, though. Must be the rookie, you thought.
“Boys are in a good mood,” Crystal, the bartender said. Nobody here used their real names. That would be insanity. In the club, she was Crystal and you were Lola.
“Time to make a bag,” you said, finished your water with lemon (you were a high performance athlete and hydration was key) and slid off the barstool.
It technically wasn’t your turn, but Helena, the new girl was shit and the boys from the RPD were your clients.
“Helena,” you crooned. What kind of stripper name was that anyway? Helena. The most beautiful woman of Troy, alright. But nobody came here for a lesson in classics. “Do you mind if I take your turn?”
Helena looked you up and down, then over your shoulder to see who was at the club at this hour. Don’t pretend like you know how to read the crowd, you thought, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
“Sure,” she shrugged. “Go ahead.” You smiled. She was so desperate for good connections, still. Poor thing. A hopeless rookie, like the guy from the RPD.
“Thank you, I owe you one,” you replied and winked at her.
Hips swaying, you slowly prowled up on stage, signaling to the DJ to announce Lola instead of Helena.
So Lola danced, in her stripper heels, skimpy outfit and god given assets. And the dollar bills kept coming down like it was the rainy season in the tropics.
The rookie caught your eye, all nervous, no idea what to do with himself—or his hands, looking to the older guys for guidance. You smirked, grabbing the pole and bending down right in front of him, giving your ass a good shake and meeting his gaze from between your own legs.
His mouth slightly agape, his brows knitted together in helpless enjoyment, as if he didn’t know if he was even allowed to like this or not. You decided to kick it up a notch and ran your hands over the back of your thighs, deepening your forward bend, watching him watch you—entirely mesmerised, eyes glued to your ass.
You slapped the back of your thighs with a sharp clap and he jerked at the sound. A grin spread over your face, as your eyes caught his again and you rose, your back in a deep arch.
He returned your smile, all polite and shy and it was so utterly inappropriate for the environment he was in, you wanted to take his face and just squish it.
Eyes still on him, you took your performance to the ground, crawling toward him, so he could get an even closer look. You rolled over onto your back, arching off the ground, maintaining eye contact.
On the last beats of your song, you pushed up onto your knees, popping your hip out for him to have easy access to the waistband of your thong. He slipped a twenty dollar bill in, hands shaking. Strong hands, but gentle when they grazed your skin.
You threw your head back and cackled.
"Jesus, I'm old enough to be your mother," you taunted him, before you gathered up all your dollar bills in one big sweeping motion. It was actually the supreme discipline of being a dancer to still look hot as hell while you collected your tips.
"No, you're not," he replied and you nearly melted at his adorable voice.
You leaned in a little closer. "You can call me Mommy regardless."
His throat bobbed.
“Hey Lola,” one of the cops called out to you. “Don’t give our rookie a hard time, we still need him.”
“It’s my first day,” said rookie announced cheerfully.
“Is that so?” You pursed your lips, running a hand over his chest playfully and he nodded eagerly.
“So why don’t the seasoned officers treat you to a private dance, hm?” You flipped your head over to the older cops. “To celebrate the occasion?”
The officer that had been talking to you chuckled. “You know what, why the hell not?”
“Do you want to?” you purred, batting your eyelashes at your prey. His breath hitched but he dipped his head ever so slightly.
The older officer got out his wallet. Your favourite sight to see. “Still a hundred, yeah, Lola?”
You nodded and blew him a kiss as you took the bill from him, securing it in your stage bag alongside the rookie’s twenty and all of your crumpled up tips.
“It’s your lucky day, rookie. She’s very good.”
“Okay,” the rookie whispered, voice quivering with anticipation. You took his hand and pulled him out of his seat, guiding him toward the rooms for the private dances.
“Have you ever done this before?” you asked, as you closed the door, the atmosphere a lot more intimate in here.
"I'm not allowed to touch, right?" He clasped his hands behind his back, all prim and proper. You chuckled and set the timer.
“Sit, enjoy yourself.” He obliged so quickly, it sent the faintest shiver down your spine. Oh, this was going to be a fun one.
You started off low and slow. The first few minutes were meant to make their mouth water, have them begging for more. But something told you the rookie was already on his knees.
So you sank down onto yours in front of him, repeating your manoeuvre from before at the pole, softly slapping your ass this time.
"Oh my god," he whispered.
"So, it's your first day, huh?" You moved closer, nestling your ass into his lap, careful to hover slightly so you had freedom of movement in your hips and knees still, the stripper heels helping a lot with that. There was an art to it. And a whole lot of core muscle engagement.
He nodded, a crease appearing between his brows, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, as you rolled your ass against him over and over again. You bit your lip. You didn't want to toy with him. He was what? Twenty-one years old, maybe? But when you saw his cute face, trying to keep it together so badly, you couldn't help yourself.
You turned around, putting one leg on either side of his hips, fully straddling him. He gasped and you pressed your pelvis into him. He was rock hard in his pants. You hummed in delight and ran your hands along your torso, gyrating your hips over his crotch.
"Oh fuck," he groaned, looking up at the ceiling. You clicked your tongue in a scolding manner, firmly grasping his chin and tilting it back down to look at you.
"You wouldn't want to waste the dance, would you? I'm trying so hard for you," you purred, tantalisingly moving your hands over your tits suspended in, yet barely covered by your stripper outfit. You loosened the straps in the front, letting them bounce out of their restraints. His eyes glazed over and you pinched your nipples, pushing your tits together right in front of his face.
The rookie gulped and bit back a moan. "Has anyone cum in their pants in here before?" he pressed.
You chuckled. "Are you that close already?"
"I'm not sure, I don't want to be kicked out."
"If you do, it’ll have to be our little secret," you breathed. He kind of grew on you. He was very sweet. Maybe he deserved a little treat.
“As will this.” You gently reached behind him, loosening his iron grip and pulling his hands forward.
“Wha—” he gasped, “But that’s against the rules.”
“I won’t tell, if you don’t,” you teased, as you guided his hands to rest on your hips and you continued to roll them into him. He drew in a sharp breath, watching you as if he had never seen a woman before. His grip tightened and his fingers pressed into your soft flesh.
You couldn’t help the breathy moan slipping past your lips. The feeling of him pressing up against your barely clothed pussy was delicious, you weren’t gonna lie. Also, it was a little hard to tell with the thick fabric of his jeans separating you, but you kind of got the impression that the sweet little rookie was not so little at all.
“Oh my god,” he whined and you felt mischievous. Why not torture him a bit more?
You leaned forward, lips just barely grazing the shell of his ear. “But you know who will be so disappointed if you do cum in your pants? Me. So you can’t do that, okay?”
The rookie nodded desperately, eyes squeezed shut.
He was so damn cute. You couldn’t help yourself but let your lips glide over the shell of his ear a second time. “Promise.”
“I promise,” he choked out, breath ragged.
“Good boy,” you praised, rewarding him with another roll of your hips and he whimpered.
You took your hands in his, loosened them from your hips and guided them up to your breasts. “Play with them if you want. That’s my treat to congratulate you on your first real job.”
“Holy fuck,” he groaned and his hands closed around your tits like a vice, squeezing them. “They’re so perfect, you’re so perfect.” He brushed his thumb over your nipple, pinching it softly with his fingers.
You moaned a little, but it was a purely physical reaction. As were your nipples standing to attention at his touch. You were a professional after all. In all professionality you leaned in closer. Soft, full lips closed around the tip of your breast, sucking your nipple into a hot wet mouth.
You gasped and pushed him back by his broad shoulders. He looked up at you, cheeks all flushed, lips slightly parted. “I’m sorry,” he panted. “Is that not allowed?”
You looked into his deep blue puppy eyes. Fuck it. You pushed his face back against your chest and he latched onto your tit, sucking.
Your head fell back and you moaned, feeling yourself soaking through your work uniform and right onto his jeans. You were going to get in trouble. But meeting his eyes looking up at you in nothing short of devotion, as he moved on to your other tit, you thought maybe this would be fine just this once. You were supposed to enjoy your job after all, right? Not only show up but show real work ethic.
You reached between you both, undoing his belt and unzipping his pants, pushing them down enough to feel his clothed cock through his boxers pressing up against you, begging to be let out of its restraints.
The front of his underwear was damp with precum. You moaned, ending in a chuckle. Inexperienced rookie. You wondered if he was a virgin for a second. But the way he was working your tits suggested otherwise.
Either that, or he was still being breastfed at twenty-one. But you highly doubted that. He didn’t seem like a creep at all.
You ground your hips down onto him again and a moan tore from you. He was big. You looked down between you, examining the outline of his thick cock straining his underwear. You wondered if he even knew what to do with that thing. A dick like that would split a girl in half.
A hand slipped between you, tracing the outline of your pussy through your panties and you grabbed him by the neck, pushing him back into the seat.
“You’re not allowed to touch there, rookie,” you hissed.
“Sorry,” he whispered, breathing heavily, both hands falling by his sides like he had burned himself. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”
You continued to dance on him and you felt him throb through his underwear, ready to erupt in thick white ropes of cum at any moment.
You realised then that the timer had stopped long ago. You probably lost about three other private dances because you couldn’t behave yourself and decided to fool around with the rookie. Shit. He was your first client of the night, you couldn’t have that if you wanted to make it worth your while tonight.
You leaned back, slowly pulling yourself off of him. “That was fun. Come see me again.”
He whined at the loss of your body on his and stared at you starry eyed, all dishevelled and flustered, as you secured the straps of your stripper top back around your upper body.
When you stood completely, you felt yourself gush into your panties. As if they weren't already absolutely soaked with slick anyway. You sighed.
You couldn’t continue dancing in those. Feeling a little frisky, and a little sorry for the poor boy and like maybe you could make a loyal customer out of him, you pulled them down your legs. Having a regular you really enjoyed spending time with was always nice.
The rookies’ gaze dropped down between your legs. “Oh, fuck me,” he groaned. "You're so pretty."
You scrunched up your wet panties and pushed them into the pocket of his jeans so he could see exactly where they were. “This is for you, because you did so well.” You cupped his cheek, the tiniest bit of stubble scratching your palm.
“What’s your real name?” he scrambled, drunk on your handiwork.
You softly shook your head. “We don't do that here."
You raked your fingernails across his chest. His hard chest and washboard abs. Wow. What were they feeding them at the academy these days?
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Summary: Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies. But after spending far too much time with nothing more than a couple lingering touches—you’re getting a little frustrated. Too bad Dean can’t seem to take a hint.
CW: Barely any plot, quickies, unprotected PIV, hot library sex (mmm), reader is a little a lot frustrated, Dean’s a major cock block, getting caught (so, accidental voyeurism? I guess?), and no, they’re not into it… sorry!
WC: 4.6K
Based on this request!
Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies.
It’s a fact that you’ve, rather unfortunately, become painfully aware of over the past year. One that can make you melt one moment, and lose your mind the next.
Because when it comes to you, Sam takes his time.
If he had it his way, every night spent with you would stretch long past midnight, bodies tangled beneath motel sheets while the rest of the world seems to fade into nothing. He’d kiss you so slow that your lungs would run out of air, and you’d have to drag it back in between gasps as he touches every inch of your skin with careful hands. There’s nothing rushed about the way Sam loves you, and nothing careless, either. He makes damn sure that you’re nothing less than spoiled, left boneless and worshipped against his chest, drifting in the hazy bliss of exhaustion as his heart thumps beneath your cheek.
And God, you love him for it. Most of the time.
But the downside of dating Sam is that his life comes with a permanent, trauma-bonded punishment attached at the hip, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester.
You love Dean. You really, really do. He’s family, always has been, and always will be—that’s just a fact of life. But there’s moments, usually when you haven’t spent more than five uninterrupted minutes alone with your gorgeous boyfriend in over a week, that fantasizing about wringing out the older man’s neck like a dish towel becomes your go to form of stress relief.
The two of you need to run some errands? Dean has the impalas keys in his hand before either of you can speak.
Need to interview some witnesses for a case? Well, apparently, the only thing better than two fake FBI agents is three.
Want to stop at some cute diner you noticed for a bite to eat? Oh, you’ve just read Dean’s mind, because he’s been dreaming about pie since last week.
It’s endless, and it’s starting to become unbearable. Especially when you’ve spent the last two weeks with nothing more than a little heavy petting, and it’s starting to feel like some forced dry spell. By day fifteen, you’re pretty sure Dean’s doing it on purpose.
Maybe not meticulously, or even consciously, but either way, you’re going a little insane. For a man so sex-oriented, you’d think he’d be less oblivious about how much of a cock block he’s become; and there’s only so many interrupted moments and unwanted third-wheeling a woman can take before she starts making up conspiracy theories.
Like tonight, for example.
You and Sam had finally managed to peel away after dinner under the excuse of breaking into the local library past close, and digging through some lore archives for your case of the week. Your plan to jump your adorably clueless boyfriend, and climb him like a fucking tree, was in full swing.
And God, it almost worked. It should have worked. Dean had barely looked at you over his burger as he waved the two of you off, mumbling something about not wanting to join in on your little nerd club.
But, of course, fate had other plans. Because not ten minutes later, he’d had some stupid change of heart. And coupled with Sam’s inability to say no, your sweet little library date had turned into a three-person job.
So, you sit wedged beside Sam in an old rickety chair, pressed close enough to rest your shoulder against his, as Dean slouches across from you looking bored out of his skull. Honestly, you’re just grateful he’s finally stopped bragging about his alarm disarming abilities after the three of you busted in through the back door. The silence that’s settled in in the aftermath, though, only makes you twitchy.
Sam’s warm at your side, his thigh brushing against yours every time his leg bounces against the dusty floor. To his credit, he really is researching, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. There’s that familiar, deep furrow in his brow, accompanied by a look of intense focus lighting up his hazel eyes as he scans each page. You, on the other hand, haven’t flipped a single page of your copy of ‘Daemonologie’ in over twenty minutes.
Because Christ, it’s pretty damn hard to focus on mind numbing lore when Sam’s so close, and smells like fucking heaven.
It’s a little stupid, really, how a few dry weeks have managed to wound you up so tight, that you’re vibrating in your seat like a bitch in heat. But that revelation sure as hell doesn’t stop your foot from tapping restlessly against the floor, or do a damn thing about the way you’re practically salivating over the scent of Sam’s shampoo. But, hey, you’d thrown away subtle nearly ten minutes ago, the moment Sam’s beautifully long fingers started tracing the faded ink of some demonic sigil, and you had to resist every primal urge to lick the veins on his hand.
You’re about five seconds from drooling when you break the silence.
“Alright.” You slam your hands down on the table, spooking an unsuspecting Dean, who’d just laid his head down over his forearms—Sam’s head snapping towards you. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Dean groans his agreement, shoving away the book that he hadn’t touched since he’d sat down. “…Thank God. Y’know, I saw a dive a few blocks over. We should—”
“—There’s a microfilm reader in the back,” you interrupt smoothly. “We can flip through old newspapers, look for an actual, visible pattern.”
Dean’s mouth clicks shut at your words, and you swear you’ve never seen him look quite so betrayed. He blinks at you, before throwing his head back like he’d just been sentenced to life in prison.
Sam, on the other hand, folds his book closed with silent care, tilting his head towards you in silent question.
“Microfilm?” he echos, raising a brow, before offering a shrug. “I mean. Beats sifting through physicals, but…”
You shoot him a less than friendly look, one he must some-what understand (bless his soul), because his mouth snaps closed before he can finish his sentence.
“…Right,” he amends.
“Whatever, sweetheart,” Dean grumbles, already moving to stand. “Let’s all go stare at some ancient newspaper clippings ‘til our eyes start to bleed.”
And oh. Oh, absolutely not.
“Dean,” you say flatly, “you hate microfilm.”
He freezes halfway to standing, argument already on the tip of his tongue, but you’re faster.
“Last time, you almost smashed the damn thing before Sam took over.”
You stand quickly, too quickly, knee thumping against the table in your haste, your hand falling to plant firmly on Sam’s shoulder.
“You stay here, Dean. Keep watch, take a nap, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing for the past half an hour. We won’t be long.” You give Sam a soft squeeze. “Right, Sammy?”
Sam lifts his head to meet your gaze, staring at you with those big, earnest puppy eyes, wide and slightly confused. He looks unfairly pretty in this light, all messy hair, sleepy focus, pink lips slightly parted in silent question.
He glances at your hand on his shoulder briefly, then back to your face, like he’s trying to piece together why you’re suddenly so intent on getting him alone. Which, unfortunately, is a fair question. Not that you care.
“Uh,” he buffers quietly. “Yeah. ‘Course.”
Dean plops back down in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, kicking up both his feet. He doesn’t even pretend to read this time, just watches you with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, and, well. Maybe mild annoyance.
You spare him one last mostly well natured smile as Sam stands, but you don’t let him get another word in before you’re practically herding his brother across the library with far too much enthusiasm to be casual. The back room is quiet, dimly lit, and just far enough from the main library to fall out of earshot. Perfect. The door groans in protest as you pull it shut behind you, creaking loud enough to make you wince. And then you notice it.
No lock.
The realization gives you pause for exactly half a second before it’s buried beneath need so thick you have to swallow it down to keep it momentarily contained. Because honestly, now that you finally have Sam alone… a flimsy detail like that is nothing but an afterthought.
Sam, the sweetheart, who somehow still hasn’t managed to connect the dots, moves instinctively towards one of the desks in a few short strides. He leans over the tabletop, bangs falling lazily over his forehead, his hand moving for the knob.
“What are you doing?” you ask, unable to keep amusement from creeping into your tone. His finger hovers halfway over the microfilm reader’s power switch, eyes flicking from it to you. That big, Stanford brain of his trying so hard to decipher where he’s missed a cue.
“What?”
The question comes out a little croaked, and the puppy-eyed sincerity of it damn near brings you to your knees.
“Sam.” You take one slow step forward, tilting your head with an almost innocent smile. “I thought my eye-fucking was getting a little obvious.”
He freezes. Not dramatically, no, more like a slow, dawning realization washing over him like a wave. That sweet, dumb face of his finally cracks into something else, something warm. Something darker. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip, and heat coil low in your core.
His hand slides away from the switch in a slow, teasing drag, as he pushes himself back up to his full height, stalking towards you in a few measured steps. Shadows fall over his features, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose—and that gorgeous dimple that’s just begun to show itself with the heated smirk that spreads across his lips.
“Oh?” he breathes, voice rougher now. “Really? Here?”
“Yeah,” you purr, and there’s nothing subtle about the way your gaze drops to his lips before flicking back up. “Here.”
You don’t let him think too hard about it before your fist is curling around his collar, and his lips are crashing against yours.
It’s not slow, or testing, or soft. No, it’s immediate hunger. It’s you pouring weeks of desperation and need into a single action, mouth devouring his with every ounce of frustration you’ve bottled up tight enough to burst. He exhales into it, a warm puff against your cheek, as those big hands that have been haunting your fantasies slide up to cradle your jaw with infinite levels of care. His fingers splay over your cheeks, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as he tilts your face closer to his like he can’t get enough.
He pulls back just long enough to drag in a breath, the taste of him still heavy on your tongue.
“We’re in a library,” he reasons, your noses brushing, breaths mingling.
“We are.”
“Dean’s just outside.”
“He is.”
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, and you can tell he wants to drag this out. Make it last. Take you apart so slow that you’ll be shaking in his grasp, and the only word left on your tongue is his name.
But right now? That… that just won’t do. You part again with a slick pop.
“…And you’re sure about this?” he asks, of course he does, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest.
You raise a brow, moving for another kiss, but he dodges you with a chuckle. You can’t help but glare.
“That’s not an answer, baby.”
“Been soakin’ wet since you bitched out that asshole cop earlier,” you tease, raising one palm to trace down his chest. “That an answer?”
He pauses for a moment, considering, then his expression breaks out into a sweet, cocky grin, and then he’s crushing his lips back on yours. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the surface. Like he wants nothing more than to drink you down and swallow you whole. One arm loops around your waist, cradling you closer, spinning you until you’re caged between him and one of the cold, veneer-lined desks. His tongue slips between parted lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that belies the tenderness of his touch.
“Up,” he murmurs between licks, tapping your hip with two calloused fingers, before hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting. You squeak, a sound that earns you the world’s most panty-dropping snicker, your ass hitting the desk with a thud. The heat of your core contrasted by the cool surface sends a new spark of want through your system, left sizzling beneath layers of pesky fabric.
Hot, feverish kisses pepper your throat not a moment later, as he splays his palms over your thighs, nudging them apart until they bracket his hips. Massive hands hold you in place, heavy and warm and so damn close to where you’re aching for him. A shiver rips through you like lightning as his lips trail up your neck, soft and wet against heated skin. He finds that sensitive spot, the one just below your ear, lingering on it with slow, open-mouthed kisses, nipping gently before soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue. Sparks climb up your spine like a kindling fire, a poorly-stifled moan whirling from your lips.
You’re already panting, heart slamming against your chest, your fingers sliding to tangle in his messy hair to keep him right where you want him. Your other hand drags swiftly down his front, pressing into the butter-soft expanse of his chest, finally palming at his belt with fingers that have already begun to tremble.
His lips disconnect with your neck with a sharp inhale as he straightens up, meeting your darkened gaze. You almost fucking whine at the loss.
“Woah, hey.” His large hand covers your wrist, not pushing you away—thank God—but turning it over gently in his grasp, thumb sliding to rest over your racing pulse point. Even that simple touch has you squirming. “Easy, baby. ‘M gonna take real good care of you first, yeah?”
It’s sweet. Really sweet.
In fact, it’s so sweet, that your pussy clenches around nothing, and that simply won’t cut it. The only thing it really does is make you want him even more. As in, like, as soon as fucking possible. You pinch your eyes shut, forehead thumping against his chest, before looking back up at him with the most pleading look you can muster.
“Sam. Sweetheart. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before Dean barges in here ‘cause he’s bored,” you argue, and the tight-lipped, almost shy look he gives you almost has you melting right there. “Just need you. Right now. Please.”
Sam swallows hard, pulse thumping so hard in his throat that you can practically see it. The man is quite literally vibrating with need, a shaky breath escaping him as his eyes drop from yours, traveling back to your kiss-bitten lips. If he was attempting to be nobly subtle, he unfortunately fails. Miserably.
“…I don’t wanna hurt you,” he lands on, and it’s so Sam that you have to fight the primal urge to shut him up with another kiss.
“You won’t.”
He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, or say something far too responsible for your liking, but instead, he loses. His mouth surges firmly back onto yours with such force that your head gets tilted back, and you let out your second embarrassing sound of the night, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. His tongue shoves right back through the seam of your lips, licking hot against yours with such fever that the situation in your jeans starts to become a little unbearable.
“Okay,” he concedes, mostly to himself, tugging his belt open in one sharp movement that probably shouldn’t make you nearly as stupid-horny as it does. You want to complain about not being able to do it yourself—but you forget every word of protest the second he tugs down his zipper, and your gaze lands on the throbbing bulge in his boxers.
Yup. You’re going to be wet for fucking weeks.
“C’mere,” he purrs, his big, grabby hands scooping around your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the desk until you have to white-knuckle his shoulders to stay upright. He chuckles, the sound vibrating straight through you, his nimble fingers popping the button of your jeans, helping you to shimmy them away. You wiggle and squirm until they fall somewhere beneath Sam’s feet, and he kicks them aside, taking a greedy handful of your now bare ass. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
He latches his lips back just below the curve of your jaw, licking and suckling at your skin as his fingers squeeze hot over your thigh. Your eyes flutter closed, consumed by the arousal flooding your senses, and finally, fucking finally, you feel two thick fingers pull your ruined panties to the side.
The fabric peels from your core, sticking to your drenched pussy as Sam’s fingers replace it swiftly, and oh, it’s electric. His breath comes faster than before, warm against your neck in punched-out puffs as your body reacts to him, arching into his touch. Two tough finger pads glide easily as he parts your folds, applying a ghost of pressure over your clit for one heavenly second before he’s circling your entrance. You’re dripping. Clenching around fucking nothing. And still—he’s teasing you slow with those unfairly hot dimples popping on his cheeks.
“Sam,” you scold, but God, it’s weak. Real fucking weak. And when one finger dips into your weeping cunt, you damn near cry. “Please, baby. C’mon...”
“Shhh…” he croons, sneaking a quick, mean kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just makin’ sure you’re ready f’me.”
You don’t get to complain before he’s adding another digit, curling just right, dragging across that spongy, fluttery spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back, and has a broken gasp tearing from your lips. It’s like he intended to shut you up, and it absolutely worked.
“You weren’t kiddin’ about the cop thing, huh?” he teases, and you squeeze his fingers like some sort of warning. He full body shudders like you’ve just done it around his dick. “Soaking wet. Musta’ been a little uncomfortable, baby.”
“You have no idea.”
Your twitchy fingers snake right back between the two of you, this time dipping below his waistband. Your fist circles around his thick cock, and you relish in the very sexy groan he spills into your ear. He’s hard enough to hurt, leaking onto your palm, and he drags his fingers out of you just to help you free his throbbing dick in one quick movement. You can’t help but ogle as you pump him once, twice, nudging that fat cockhead between your folds, his thumb holding the soaked gusset of your panties to the side.
“Ready?” he asks, just one more time, those dark, blown pupils studying yours, glittering with arousal.
“Shut up n’ fuck me already.”
Whatever hesitation he was holding onto snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He kisses you hard, a rough collision of teeth and tongue. One hand braces on the edge of the desk while the other guides his dick through your dripping pussy, collecting the slick that’s practically caked to your core. When he finally presses forward, it’s slow. So damn slow.
So slow that you feel every bit of the delicious stretch, and his pulse pounds against you in more ways than one. Your back bows into the feeling as your chest presses against his, heat exploding through every nerve ending.
You’re panting by the time you take half of him, and when he’s fully seated, you have to suck saliva back in through your teeth before you drool dumbly. Sam’s thumb slides off from your panties, opting to splay his full hand along the expanse of your inner thigh, holding you as wide as you can go. The pressure in your belly coils so hot that for a moment, you wonder how the hell you’ve survived over two weeks without this.
A groan rips out of him, unfiltered and raw, and the second it hits your ears, it’s already vibrated through his chest and yours alike. Sam’s eyes slam shut for half a second like he’s just been electrocuted by the tight squeeze of your walls so perfectly around him. It’s beautiful, really, a sight that would have you dripping if you weren’t already. His jaw clenches hard, tendons standing out on his sweat-slick neck, fighting for control. His hips shift just slightly then, a gentle, testing rock that has fire licking up your spine.
“Fuck, yes,” you gasp, fingers curling around his strong forearm. And oh, that’s all he needed.
He pulls back gently, before snapping forward in a deep, enthusiastic roll. The desk creaks beneath you like it’s threatening to break, and suddenly, he’s not being so careful anymore.
You wiggle in his grasp, a plea for more, and he doesn’t spare a single moment. He scoops one leg up high over his waist, hips canting into you with a new kind of fever. The pace he sets is dizzying, desperate, damn-near sob worthy, his thick cock splitting you in half so fucking perfectly that stars explode behind your eyelids. Each thrust presses you harder into the desk, his breath huffing ragged against your neck. You reach for him instinctively, fingers splaying everywhere you can reach, taking greedy fistfuls of Sam.
“Y’take me so well,” he chokes, as he leans back to fuck you in powerful, measured strokes, driving you higher and higher with every slap of skin. His muscled abdomen clenches taut as arousal pulls at his belly, and you can feel the tension beneath your palm. “So—so fuckin’ good, just for me.”
White-hot pleasure crashes through you in waves with every ruthless pound. You barely have it in you to hold yourself upright, raising your hands so your fingers can dimple hard into the meat of Sam’s shoulder for even the slightest lick of leverage. Your cunt sucks him in like it was made to, the heavy upward curve of his cock brushing right fucking there, over and over and oh fuck, you can only hope the room is soundproof.
“S-Sam, don’ stop, p-please—”
Gasps and moans and pleas tear from deep in your chest, ecstasy bubbling through you so hot, that you have to bury your face in the crook of Sam’s neck before you wake up the entire city.
He hums into your hair, a smooth, comforting rumble, such a contrast to the way his cock bullies your sweet spot with every brutal thrust. Your lips find his throat, sucking sloppy kisses to his heated skin, but busying your mouth sure as hell doesn’t stop the string of cries from spilling into his ear.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, one arm slipping around your back to tangle in your hair, holding you tight to his chest. It leaves little space between you, if any at all—his hips snapping in quick, short thrusts that hit so deep that you swear you can taste it. “Feels so good, doesn’ it? So full? Tha’s what you needed, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm,” you manage, but it’s broken. So broken. It’s hard to remain coherent when you’re being fucked dumb, and Sam isn’t exactly leaving room for mercy. He squeezes his hand between you, thumb finding your clit with expert-level accuracy, and suddenly, you’re done.
You’re right there. Right fucking there. You tumble closer, closer, closer, until you’re teetering on the edge, dangling off, Sam’s perfect fingers and his perfect cock about to push you over, and—
“What the hell?!”
The sharp, deep voice of Dean-fucking-Winchester stops your orgasm cold like a silver blade slicing through flesh. Shock tears through you as you squeeze Sam tighter than a vice. His hips snap forward hard, way too fucking hard, his body enveloping yours as his palm slaps over your mouth to muffle your forced-out cry.
Sam’s torso practically crushes yours, sparing most of your dignity (thank God for those damn shoulders), your forehead thumping against his chest as his hand slips from your face. Your heart pounds like a snare drum against your ribcage, the strangest combination of sexual frustration and utter mortification washing through your veins.
“Get. Out,” Sam barks, quick, his strained voice sharp as he turns his head towards his brother. You’re suddenly incredibly thankful for your haste—because, hey, at least Sam’s jeans never made it below his waist—but yours sure as hell did, and your only cover is Sam’s body. You tilt your head just enough to peek through the sliver between Sam’s arm and his side, and oh. Oh God.
You’ve never seen Dean look like that before.
He’s white as a fucking sheet, and if you weren’t completely horrified, it would probably be hilarious. Standing in the doorway, he looks entirely scandalized, jaw hanging wide open, eyes threatening to pop right out of his skull, before he snaps out of it long enough to throw a hand over his eyes, turning his head away.
“Yeah, I—don’t you think I’d freakin’ love to?” he spits, shaking his head like he’s seconds away from losing his mind completely. “I mean, Jesus, what are you two, high schoolers? You’d think—”
“Dean,” you choke, and Sam flinches like he’d forgotten you were there entirely. Which, well, is unlikely, considering the fact that he’s still buried to the hilt inside of you.
“We’ve gotta go. Now. Apparently my, uh, alarm disarming skills are pretty rusty,” he stammers, the hand that isn’t covering his eyes reaching for the door. “Put your freakin’ pants on, and go. There’s goddamn cops outside.”
Well, shit.
If that isn’t just worst case scenario, you’re not entirely sure what is.
He finally stomps out of the room, muttering an irritated “seriously!” as he goes, and the second he does, a long puff of air floods from your lungs in a ragged sweep. Every cell in your body is practically vibrating for you just crawl in a hole, and never return—but there’s another part of you that’s just pissed. Because Christ, after waiting so fucking long, is a little bit of relief really that much to ask for?
You’re busy wallowing in your newfound despair, attempting to shuffle your ass backwards to get up, when two warm palms plant firmly on your cheeks, tilting your face up to look at his. Sam’s eyes are wide, undoubtedly panicked, brows pinched so hard that a sharp crease has formed between them.
“Fuck—‘m so sorry. Are you—you okay?” His thumbs swipe at the sweat beading at your temples, touch gentle now, fingers shaking where they cradle your face. “Did I hurt you?”
“What? I’m fine, Sam,” you grumble, but that sure as hell doesn’t ease the look of pure concern on his sweet face. Still, you push yourself back just a little more, and he takes the hint, pulling out so tenderly that you barely even hiss at the feeling. “…Physically, anyway.”
“You’re sure? I just, Jesus, just fuckin’ manhandled you, baby.”
Somehow, that makes you laugh despite everything. “Pass me my jeans,” you snicker, and he moves quickly, following your command without another word. His free hand fumbles with the zipper of his pants, and you hop off the table on wobbly legs.
But that fire in your core?
Apparently, a two-week dry spell turns you completely insatiable.
Sam stands again, passing you your now wrinkled jeans. But instead of taking them back right away, your hand lifts, curling around his collar again, pulling him close until only a lick of distance remains between your lips.
“We’re not done,” you whisper, and God, you watch his pupils swallow all colour in his eyes in real time.
“…Later?” he purrs.
“Later.”
AN: So, I’d actually planned to post something else, and then got distracted and wrote this in a couple of hours. My bad. Needed something fun 🤣
I’m going to take this opportunity to apologize for my very, very slow writing skills… there is so much going on in my life right now, it’s driving me crazy, and I can’t focus on my word porn as much as I’d love to. But hey, gimme a couple weeks, trust the process!
