So... Intrusive thought about Derek and goth!MC??
Light smut, don't look at me/I'm sorry/thanks for listening
Derek has always been a good guy. Kindness to strangers, opening doors and pulling out chairs, thoughtful and sweet and considerate. It's just who he is.
But while he's a good guy, he's still a guy. Not a saint, a human being with urges and vices and certain ... predilections. Ones he discovers on his phone late at night, hidden under the covers when he should be sleeping. Things he realizes about himself hunched over his laptop while his college roommate is off partying.
He never breathes a word of this to anyone -- why would he? It's not that he's ashamed, but it's private. No one needs to know.
Not even when he gets together with you, finding the courage to confess his feelings, confess his love and invite you to move in with him in one fell swoop. He keeps it to himself, the things he'd like you to do to him. All the dirty little things he's imagined.
But one day, a few months into the relationship, it breaks. And it all started with a pair of boots.
He'd come home from work one afternoon, tired and eager to see you, but when he comes into the apartment, you're nowhere to be found. He calls out for you, and hears your voice coming from the bedroom -- the one you share now.
As he walks down the hall, he smiles, thinking of nothing besides holding you, maybe giving you a little kiss in greeting. Pure, sweet thoughts of a man in love.
But then he sees you, perched on the edge of the bed. Plush thighs broken up by the pattern of your tights, skirt fanned out around you, and hunched over, lacing up what look to be a new pair of knee-high boots.
And suddenly, his thoughts aren't so pure and sweet.
You look up at him through your thick, mascara-heavy lashes, and he feels a rush of heat go straight to his groin. You see it, too -- you've always seen him better than most. You finish lacing the boots, then stand and walk over to where he waits in the doorway.
"Something on your mind?" you ask. He nods -- he wouldn't lie.
He's a good guy, after all. A good boy. Your good boy.
It's one word, one little difference in the phrase -- yours -- but it makes all the difference, and somehow confessions are made, desires shared, and Derek ends up stripped bare, kneeling on the bedroom floor, legs open and throbbing cock leaking onto the carpet.
You don't know what you're doing, not exactly, but it's not rocket science. And besides, you want to do it. He asked so sweetly for it.
"Step on me?"
His eyes are glued to your leg, the stiff leather of the new boot flexing as you move closer to where he kneels. You instinctively move a hand to his hair, gripping it lightly -- not enough to hurt, but enough to make him feel it. Black pointed tips card through his short brown waves, and you hear him whimper.
"You sure?" you ask, your voice hushed, tilting his head up to look at you.
He makes eye contact, emerald eyes dark with lust and want, and you nod, resolute. You softly, gently, bring the rounded toe of your boot down to press against him, and he groans, a deep, guttural sound that will echo around your head for days to come.
Later, when you lay side by side on the floor, your tights ripped but boots still firmly in place, you talk about it. You stroke his stomach, your touch loving instead of heated, and he tells you how good it feels for him when you take the reins, when he's able to turn his brain off and just want. How the idea of being powerless to someone -- and now the knowledge of what it feels like to be powerless under you -- turns him on.
He also offers to get you a new pair of boots, since he did make quite the mess on these.
