https ⤷ BRUISEDSOUPP

♯┆JULI. 19. albanian & brazilian. minors dni

masterlist ･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

send requests p please <33

best!friend steve  who loves when you get all squirmy around him <3

it’s late—too late—and both you and steve wrecked in that soft, boneless way that only comes after too many hours of nothing and everything at once.

you’re sprawled across him like you’ve been poured there.

his back’s against the arm of the couch, legs spread lazy-wide, grey sweats riding low on his hips. you’re straddling one of his thighs but twisted so your chest presses flush to his, arms looped around his neck, face buried deep in the warm crook where his shoulder meets throat. his heartbeat thumps steady under your cheek. you can smell the last of his cologne mixed with that sleepy boy smell—fabric softener, faint sweat, the tiniest hint of the pizza grease still clinging to his fingers.

you’re so tired your bones feel like syrup.

steve’s hands are under your oversized hoodie, not even doing anything—just resting warm and heavy on the small of your back, thumbs occasionally dragging slow, absent circles over your spine like he’s petting a cat that’s already purring itself to sleep.

you shift.

just a little.

enough that your hips settle more fully against him.

and oh.

there it is.

not even hard—just soft, thick, the natural heavy outline of him pressed right up against the thin cotton of your sleep shorts. the kind of print you can feel every ridge and curve of even through layers, because the sweats are so worn-in they’re basically nothing. it’s not sexual on his end. he’s half-asleep, breathing slow and even against your hair, probably thinking about nothing more than how nice it feels to have you close.

but your body doesn’t care about context.

heat blooms low in your belly, sudden and stupid and embarrassingly strong. your thighs flex on instinct. you try to stay still—really, you do—but your hips roll forward in this tiny, helpless little grind before you can stop it.

a small, pitiful sound slips out of you. barely a whine. more like a breath that got caught and turned needy.

steve hums. low. sleepy. “mm?”

you hide deeper in his neck. “nothing,” you mumble, but your voice cracks and betrays you.

another tiny roll. barely anything. just enough to feel him shift under you, to feel the soft weight of his cock nudge back against your clothed pussy like it’s saying hi.

your breath hitches.

“liar,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hairline. there’s a sleepy smile in his voice. “what’s got you squirmin’, huh?”

you’re burning. face so hot you’re sure he can feel it against his throat. “shut up.”

“nope.” one of his hands slides lower, cups the back of your thigh—not guiding, just holding. “you’re being all whiny and grindy on me. kinda rude when a guy’s trying to nap.”

“i’m not—i’m not grinding,” you lie, even as your hips do it again. slower this time. more deliberate. the friction drags a shaky little whimper out of your throat before you can swallow it.

steve exhales hard through his nose. his grip tightens just a fraction. “yeah you are. feel that?” he rocks up—just once, lazy, barely there—and you feel every inch of him press firmer against you. still soft. still not trying. but god it’s so much.

your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck. “stevie…”

“what, baby?” voice all soft and teasing and fond. “you want me to pretend i don’t notice my best friend’s getting wet just from sitting on my lap?”

you make a mortified noise into his skin. “don’t say it like that.”

“like what? it’s true?” he chuckles—quiet, raspy. his thumb strokes over the back of your thigh again. “you’re soaked through your shorts. i can feel it.”

you clench around nothing and grind down harder this time—shameless now. another tiny, wet-sounding whine escapes.

“yeah,” he breathes, almost to himself. “thereee she is.”

you’re trembling. it’s pathetic. it’s perfect. “this is so gross,” you whisper, even as you nose along the column of his throat, lips brushing skin.

“mhm. super gross.” his hand slides up under your hoodie again, palm flat against your bare back. “best friends don’t get off on each other’s laps, right?”

“right,” you echo, but you’re already rocking in these slow, needy little circles, chasing the dull ache that’s building way too fast.

he lets you. just lets you use him.

his head tips back against the couch. eyes half-lidded. watching you through his lashes like you’re the prettiest, most pathetic thing he’s ever seen.

“keep going,” he murmurs. “make a mess on me. s’what you want, isn’t it?”

you nod against his neck. tiny. desperate.

“yeah,” he sighs, all fond and wrecked. “knew it.”

your hips stutter. breath coming in soft, broken pants against his pulse. it’s not even about getting off—not really. it’s about how safe it feels. how disgusting and sweet it is to be this close, this needy, this shameless with the one person who’s never once made you feel wrong for it.

steve’s hand comes up. cups the back of your head. keeps you tucked against him.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers. “let it feel good, okay? i’m not going anywhere.”

you make another small, wrecked sound.

and then you just… keep moving.

best friends.

the best kind.

blonde keery omg my legs are spread bring that DIH HEREE

i have just been informed my ex was spotted at a party w another girl GOODBYEYEYEYEYEYEYR BYEE BYEBYE HYE BYEBYE AOMEONE PLAY FUTURE RN BYE OK IDC IDC IDC I SWEAR IDCCCCCCCCCCXCCCCXC SHUTFFUOPP

thinking about bestfriend!steve  ༝

it really did start with “just making out.” one tipsy movie night at his place, you’re both laughing about how long it’s been since either of you got laid, and suddenly he brings the idea up, “…wanna practice? like—purely hypothetical. so we don’t embarrass ourselves next time.” you roll your eyes but you’re already shifting closer. first kiss is clumsy and giggly. second one isn’t. by the third he’s got you straddling his lap on the couch, big hands squeezing your thighs, kissing you like he’s starving and you’re the only thing on the menu.

he’s the one who first suggests “prepping you.” says it so casually: “just wanna make sure you’re taken care of if some asshole ever gets lucky, y’know?” fingers you slow and focused on his couch, telling you to “relax, baby, i’ve got you” every time you tense up. he’s annoyingly good at it—watches your face the whole time, asks quiet little questions like “this okay?” and “here?” until you’re shaking and soaking his hand, whispering his name like a prayer.

the first time you return the favor he tries to act chill about it. fails miserably. you’re on your knees between his spread thighs, his jeans shoved down just enough, and the second your mouth touches him he lets out this broken “fuck—sweetheart—” and his head thumps back against the wall. his hand ends up cradling the back of your head—not pushing, just holding—like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go. he comes embarrassingly fast and spends the next ten minutes apologizing and kissing you stupid.

after that first blowjob there’s no going back to “just friends.” now every sleepover has an unspoken rule: clothes come off at some point. he eats you out like it’s his new favorite hobby—spreads you on his bed, hooks your legs over his shoulders, groans into your cunt every time you pull his hair. calls you “pretty” and “perfect” against your clit until you’re crying his name.

he gets possessive in the quietest ways. starts leaving hickeys in places your work clothes can’t hide. when you whine about it he just smirks and goes “good. let ‘em know you’re taken care of.” you call him a caveman. he fucks you harder that night.

the first time he slides inside you raw (after weeks of “just the tip” torture), he almost blacks out. buries his face in your neck muttering “fuck, fuck, you feel—fuuck, baby—” and has to stop moving completely for a minute so he doesn’t come instantly. you tease him mercilessly. he punishes you by fucking you slow and deep until you’re begging, tears in your eyes, telling him you can’t take it anymore. he still doesn’t speed up—just keeps that devastating rhythm while whispering “yes you can, you’re doing so good f’me.”

you both pretend it’s still casual. you’ll be watching a movie, his hand will slip under your shorts, two fingers curling inside you while he pretends to pay attention to the screen. you’ll be making breakfast in his kitchen wearing nothing but his jersey and he’ll bend you over the counter without a word. neither of you says “i love you” yet—but he fucks you like he’s been in love with you since sophomore year.

he’s obsessed with coming inside you now. every time. growls “gonna fill you up, baby—fuck—gonna keep you dripping with me” while his hips stutter and he pins your wrists above your head. afterward he stays buried deep, kissing you lazy and sloppy, telling you to “just stay for a little while, yeah?”

you’re still “best friends.”

you just happen to be the kind that regularly fuck each other stupid.

FINGERS  ༝

request by my lovely @glitterunicorndoll <3

the room was dimly lit, just the glow from the bedside lamp casting shadows across steve’s flushed face. he was on his knees at the foot of the bed, hands tied loosely behind his back with one of your scarves—nothing too tight, but enough to remind him who was in charge tonight. his hair was a mess from where you’d run your fingers through it earlier, pulling just hard enough to make him gasp.

you lounged back against the pillows, legs spread lazily, wearing nothing but an old tee that barely skimmed your thighs. steve’s eyes were glued to you, wide and pleading, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.

“mmm,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you trailed a hand down your stomach, inching the shirt up. “you want this so bad, don’t you, stevie?”

he nodded eagerly, swallowing hard. “yeah—fuck, yes. please, baby. let me… let me do something. anything.”

you smirked, lifting your hand to your mouth and slowly sucking on two fingers, making a show of it—tongue swirling, lips parting with a soft pop. steve’s breath hitched, his gaze darkening as he shifted on his knees, the bulge in his boxers straining painfully.

“not yet,” you said, pulling your fingers free, slick with saliva. “open up f’me first. show me how good you can be.”

steve’s mouth parted immediately, obedient as ever. you leaned forward, sliding your wet fingers past his lips, pressing down on his tongue. he moaned around them, sucking greedily, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back to yours—like he knew better than to look away without permission.

“that’s it,” you cooed, thrusting your fingers in a little deeper, feeling the heat of his mouth, the way his tongue worked desperately. “suck them like you mean it. imagine it’s something else, huh? bet you’d love that.”

he whimpered, the sound muffled, his cheeks hollowing as he bobbed his head slightly. “mmmph—please,” he managed around your fingers, voice garbled and needy. “tastes so good… want more of you.”

you pulled your fingers out slowly, a string of saliva connecting them to his lips before it broke. steve licked at his mouth, chasing the taste, looking wrecked already. “good boy,” you praised, and he preened under it, a soft whine escaping him.

but you weren’t done teasing. you settled back, spreading your legs wider, giving him a full view as you slipped your hand between your thighs. your fingers—still wet from his mouth—circled your clit slowly, dipping lower to tease your entrance. steve’s eyes went wide, transfixed, his body leaning forward instinctively.

“uh-uh,” you warned, using your free foot to press against his chest, holding him back. “you watch. that’s all you get right now. no touching.”

he groaned, low and frustrated, but he stayed put, his hands flexing uselessly behind him. “baby, come on… you’re killing me. look so fucking pretty—please, let me taste you”

you bit your lip, sliding one finger inside yourself, then two, curling them just right. a soft moan slipped out, and steve echoed it with a desperate sound of his own. “see what you do to me?” you breathed, pumping your fingers slowly, deliberately, making sure he could hear every wet slide. “all this because of you… but you’re just gonna sit there and take it.”

“fuck,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “you’re so wet—god, i can hear it. please, let me closer. i need to—fuuck, i need to lick you clean.”

you sped up a little, your head tipping back as pleasure built, but you kept your eyes on him, watching him squirm. “beg nicer, stevie. tell me how bad you want it.”

“please,” he rasped, knees shifting on the carpet. “i’ll do anything. just… let me watch up close? or—or suck your fingers again after? taste you on them? fuck, i’m dying here.”

you laughed softly, fingers working faster now. “so cute when you beg like this, all big eyes and leaky cock. my pathetic little boy”

he whimpered, head tipping forward until his forehead almost touched your ankle. “i’m yours,” he rasped. “all yours. use me. pleasepleaseplease—just—let me clean you up after? i’ll lick every drop. i’ll be good. i’ll swallow it all.”

the words tipped you over.

your back bowed, thighs shaking, and you came with a broken little cry of his name, fingers buried deep, pulsing around them. when the aftershocks ebbed you pulled them free—slow, so he could see how they glistened, how they dripped—and held them out.

steve lunged.

he sucked them into his mouth like they were the only thing keeping him alive, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, moaning so loud it vibrated through your bones. drool ran down his wrist, down his chin, pooling on his chest. he looked ruined—eyes glassy, lips puffy and red, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead—and still he kept sucking, greedy little kitten licks even after there was nothing left.

you carded your clean hand through his hair, tugging gently.

“good boy,” you whispered, soft and wrecked. “such a good, messy boy for me.”

he shivered all over, nuzzling into your palm, still suckling weakly at your fingers like he couldn’t bear to let go.

QUIET  ༝

it’s the holidays, and steve’s parents invited yours to stay at the harrington house for the week—your mom and dad tucked away in the guest room right next door, thin walls doing nothing to muffle the quiet of the sleeping house.

your cheek is smushed against steve’s bare chest, one of his arms slung heavy and possessive across your lower back, fingers lazily tracing the waistband of his sweats you stole.

you’re half-asleep, breathing slow, when you feel it: the subtle roll of his hips. just once. testing. then again. harder.

“stevie…?” you mumble, voice tiny, still syrupy with sleep.

“shhh. go back to sleep, baby.” his tone is so soft it almost sounds sweet. almost. but his hand has already slipped under the elastic, palm flattening over your ass, kneading slow and deliberate. “just getting comfy.”

you squirm a little—instinct more than protest—and he chuckles low against your hair, the sound vibrating through his ribs into your cheek.

“you’re so fuckin’ cute when you’re all drowsy and stupid,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “makes me wanna ruin you twice as bad.”

you just feel the heat crawl up your neck while his fingers dip lower, finding you already embarrassingly slick between your thighs from nothing more than his body heat and the gravel in his voice.

“steve—”

“quiet.” he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t need to. the word lands like a hand around your throat. “you’re gonna wake the whole house whining like that.”

you bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.

he shifts you like you weigh nothing—rolls you onto your stomach, then drags your hips up so your cheek stays pressed to his pillow that smells like his shampoo and cigarette smoke he swears he quit. your knees slide apart automatically. you don’t even realize you’re doing it until he hums approvingly.

“good girl. look at you. brain’s not even on yet and your cunt’s already begging for it.”

he doesn’t pull your sweats all the way off—just yanks them down to mid-thigh, enough to trap your legs together. makes everything feel tighter, more obscene. you hear the wet sound of him spitting into his palm, then the slick noise of him stroking himself once, twice, before he notches against you.

“deep breath, honey,” he coos, voice dripping fake tenderness. “you always forget how big it is.”

he doesn’t wait for the breath.

he pushes in slow—so slow—until your fingers twist in his sheets and a pathetic little sob bubbles out of you. he groans like he’s in pain, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

“fuck… there she is. that tight little thing still thinks it can keep me out.” he rocks forward another inch, stretching you open while you whimper into the pillow. “but we both know it can’t, right? we both know this pussy was made to take me.”

you’re shaking. not from pain—though it burns, god it burns—but from the humiliating way your body just… gives up. opens for him like it’s been trained. you feel so small under him, so stupidly full already and he’s not even halfway in.

he pulls back just to watch the way you clench around nothing, then sinks in deeper on the next thrust, bottoming out with a grunt.

“there we go,” he breathes against the nape of your neck. “all the way in that innocent little belly. feel that?”

you nod frantically, tears pricking your lashes. you do feel it. you feel everything. the way the head of him kisses your cervix, the way your walls flutter uselessly trying to push him out even though you’re dripping down your thighs.

he starts fucking you slow—mean slow. long, deep drags that make wet, filthy sounds fill the quiet room. every time you try to muffle yourself he reaches around, two fingers hooking into your mouth like a gag.

“nuh-uh. let me hear it. let me hear how my sweet dumb baby sounds when she’s getting her cunt rearranged at three in the morning.”

you drool around his fingers. you can’t help it. he laughs and speeds up just enough to make the headboard tap the wall once, twice, before he catches it with his palm and holds it still.

“careful,” he whispers, lips against your ear. “wouldn’t want your parents to know their good girl’s getting bred like a needy little bitch in my childhood bedroom, would we?”

the words hit like a slap. your whole body locks up, clenching so hard around him he curses under his breath.

“yeah… yeah, there it is.” he’s panting now, losing the slow control. “you love it when i talk to you like this, huh? makes you so fuckin’ wet i can feel it dripping down my balls.”

he pulls his fingers from your mouth, smears the spit across your cheek, then grips your jaw, turning your face so he can see the tears and the flush and the way your eyes have gone glassy.

“say it,” he orders quietly. “say ‘thank you for fucking me, steve’.”

your voice cracks, barely audible. “th-thank you for fucking me, stevie…”

he groans like you’ve wounded him, slams in hard once—hard enough that your teeth click together—then goes back to that devastating slow grind.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your crying eye. “so polite even when i’m balls deep in your guts.”

he keeps you like that for what feels like forever—slow, nasty, whispering the filthiest things into your hair while his hand slips between your legs to rub messy circles over your clit until you’re trembling, sobbing, coming so hard you almost black out.

he doesn’t pull out when he finishes. just presses in as deep as humanly possible and stays there, pulsing, filling you up while he strokes your spine like you’re something precious.

“stay,” he mumbles when you try to shift. “keep me warm. you’re so good at it.”

you’re still sniffling, still shaking, still leaking him when he finally rolls you both onto your sides again, tucking you back against his chest like nothing happened. like he didn’t just spend forty minutes dismantling you.

INNOCENCE ༝

STEVE HARRINGTON stands in the middle of your pastel rug, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair still damp from the shower he took in your tiny bathroom just to “get the garage smell off.” his eyes haven’t left you once since he locked the door.

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed in that soft cotton sleep set you usually wear alone — the one with the little strawberries printed across the shorts.

he likes the little set. you can tell by the way his jaw keeps flexing.

“look at me when m’talking to you, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. the gentleness is worse than yelling.

your eyes snap up. he’s already undoing his belt, slow, deliberate, the metal clinking like a warning bell.

“you still sleep with the little nightlight shaped like a fucking cloud?” he asks, nodding toward the corner. “that’s cute. makes me wanna ruin you even more.”

heat crawls up your throat. you try to answer but your tongue feels too big.

he steps closer until his knees brush yours. then he crouches, eye level, thumb dragging across your bottom lip until it catches on the corner of your mouth.

he spits — not politely, not a delicate string. it’s thick, messy, landing heavy on your tongue. you flinch at the wet heat of it.

“swallow,” he murmurs. “good girl. see? already learning.”

his palm cracks across your cheek — not hard enough to bruise tomorrow, just sharp enough to make your eyes water and your cunt clench around nothing. the sting blooms fast.

“you cried the first time i called you my pretty little whore,” he says, almost fond. “now you’re dripping just from a slap. progress.”

he stands again, belt sliding free. instead of using it the way you expect, he loops it loosely around your throat — not tight, just a reminder. a leash made of worn black leather.

“hands behind your back. hold your own elbows.”

you obey. the position pushes your chest out. he notices. of course he does.

he drags two fingers down the center of your throat, over the makeshift collar, then lower, between your breasts, until he hooks the hem of your tiny strawberry top and yanks it up over your head without bothering to take it off properly. the fabric bunches under your arms, trapping them.

“there she is,” he breathes. “my good girl’s finally starting to look like the filthy thing she really is.”

he pushes you back until you’re flat on the bed, knees bent at the edge, feet dangling. then he kneels between your thighs — not to eat you out, not yet. he hooks both index fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties at once and drags them down just far enough to expose you, leaving the cotton tangled around your thighs like makeshift cuffs.

he spits again.

this time straight onto your cunt.

the wet sound is obscene. it drips down your folds, warm, thick, mixing with how soaked you already are.

“you’re making a mess on your strawberry sheets,” he tuts, mock disappointed. “what would your mom say if she knew her sweet baby girl lets boys spit on her pussy?”

your hips twitch upward involuntarily.

he slaps your cunt — once, open-palmed, the wet smack echoing in the quiet room. you cry out, thighs trying to snap closed, but he forces them wide again.

“keep ‘em open or i’ll tie them to the bedposts with those pretty pink hair ribbons y’got on.”

you whimper. stay open.

he does it again. harder. the sting makes your vision blur for a second.

“say thank you.”

your voice cracks. “mmphf th-thank you, stevie.”

he smiles — the slow one that still makes your stomach flip even after months of this.

then he leans in close, breath hot against your ear.

“i’m gonna fuck you so deep you’ll feel me in your throat tomorrow. and every time you swallow — every time you take a drink of water, every time you try to talk to your friends like a normal girl — you’re gonna remember my spit was already there first.”

he lines himself up, not bothering to take off anything else — jeans still half-on, belt dangling, cock heavy and leaking against your entrance.

he doesn’t push in slow.

he punches in with one brutal stroke, bottoming out so hard your whole body jolts up the mattress.

your mouth opens on a silent scream. he fills the sound with another thick glob of spit, right onto your tongue.

“swallow around me,” he growls, hips snapping forward again. “let me feel it.”

you do. you choke on it while he fucks you like he’s trying to carve his name into your cervix.

the belt around your throat tightens slightly every time he bottoms out — not choking, just possessive.

his free hand finds your cheek again. another slap. then another. the rhythm matches his thrusts.

“you’re not allowed to come until i’ve spit in this little cunt too,” he pants against your mouth. “until it’s so full of me you’re leaking for days.”

your eyes roll. thighs shake. the strawberry shorts are soaked through now, ruined.

he grins against your lips.

“that’s it, baby. cry f’me. cry while i turn my innocent little baby into the nastiest fucking thing this room’s ever seen.”

GREY SWEATS ༝

you’re fucked the second you walk into the living room.

steve’s sprawled on the couch in nothing but those stupid grey sweatpants, legs spread wide like he owns the whole damn space, one arm thrown over the backrest, the other lazily holding a half-empty beer bottle against his thigh. the fabric clings in all the wrong-right places. you can see the thick outline of him, soft but still obscene, the waistband sitting low enough that you catch the dark trail of hair leading down.

your eyes betray you immediately. you try to look at his face—really, you do—but they keep dragging back down. and down. and down.

he notices. of course he fucking notices.

a slow, mean little smirk curls his mouth. “you good, baby?”

you swallow. nod too fast. “mhm.”

“liar.” his voice is low, amused, that classic steve drawl that makes your knees stupid. he sets the bottle down without looking. “c’mere.”

you hesitate maybe half a second before your feet move anyway.

when you’re close enough he doesn’t ask—he just reaches out, big hands clamping around your hips, yanking you forward until your thighs bump his knees. the grip is firm. possessive. you squeak.

“words,” he says, tilting his head, eyes dark and expectant. “use ‘em. tell me what you’re staring at.”

your face burns. “but steve—”

“nah.” one hand slides up, thumb brushing the underside of your tit through your thin shirt, teasing. “say it. or i stop touching you.”

you whimper. it’s pathetic. it’s perfect. “your… your dick.”

he chuckles, low in his throat. “good girl.” his fingers dig in harder. “you want it?”

you nod again, frantic.

“then take it.” he pulls you down until you’re straddling one thick thigh, then drags you forward so your clothed cunt settles right over the fat bulge in his sweats. “go on. grind on it like you’ve been eye-fucking it since you walked in.”

you try to hide your face in his neck but he grabs your jaw—quick, not gentle—and forces you to look at him.

“eyes on me while you hump my cock, baby. don’t be shy now.”

the first roll of your hips is shaky. embarrassing. you’re already soaked through your panties and he groans when he feels it, head tipping back for a second before those hazel eyes snap back to yours.

“that’s it. fuck—look at you. so desperate you’re dripping on me and i haven’t even pulled it out yet.”

you moan, high and broken, hips stuttering faster. the friction is brutal through the layers—the soft, worn cotton dragging against your clit just right. he’s so big under you, so solid, and the size difference makes your head spin. your whole body feels small against him.

he spits once—right onto his fingers—then smears it messily over your bottom lip before pushing two digits into your mouth. “suck.”

you do. sloppy. eager. whining around them while your hips keep rocking, chasing.

“god, you’re disgusting,” he murmurs, almost fond. “my pretty little slut humping my dick like it’s the only thing that matters. bet you’d come just like this, huh?”

you nod around his fingers, eyes glassy.

he pulls them out with a wet pop, then cracks his palm across your cheek—not hard, just enough to sting, enough to make you gasp and clench.

“say it.”

“i—i’d come,” you choke out, voice wrecked. “just like this. stevie fuuck please—”

“yeah you would.” another light slap, then he’s gripping your face again, thumb pressing into your bottom lip, opening you up. he leans in close, voice dropping to a growl. “go ahead then. make a mess all over my sweats. show me how bad you want it.”

you shatter almost instantly.

the orgasm hits like a fist—sharp, overwhelming, your whole body locking up as you grind down hard, soaking the grey fabric dark. you’re loud, shameless, little punched-out moans spilling out while he holds you through it, one hand fisted in your hair, the other bruising your hip.

“there she is,” he breathes, watching your face like he’s hypnotized. “fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart.”

you’re still trembling, panting against his mouth when he finally kisses you—slow, filthy, tongue pushing in deep like he’s claiming the sounds you just made.

when he pulls back his eyes flick down to the wet spot you left on him, then back up to your flushed face.

“you’re cleaning that up with your tongue later,” he says, casual. like it’s already decided. “but first…”

he shifts you just enough to tug the waistband of his sweats down, thick cock springing free—red, leaking, way too big for how fucked-out you already are.

“m’gonna make you cry on it next, baby.”

you whine. high. needy.

cute.

disgusting.

exactly how he likes you.

had a rough day & lowkey ts calmed me down, i so have a mommy kink guys mb. warnings: use of “mommy”.

the basement air is heavy, warm, laced with the thick sweetness of weed that’s been burning slow for hours. everything feels liquid—your limbs, the low thrum of music, the way steve’s breath fans hot against your collarbone.

he’s sunk deep into the worn couch, thighs spread wide under you, faded jeans straining where he’s already so hard it has to hurt. his big hands rest on your hips, not guiding, just holding like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. his hair’s a total wreck—sweaty strands falling into his eyes, cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed pink that spreads down his neck. pupils blown so wide the brown is just a thin ring.

you roll your hips down slow, deliberate, dragging the heat of you over the thick outline of him. a broken little sound punches out of his throat—half moan, half whimper. his head tips back against the cushion, throat exposed, adam’s apple bobbing hard.

“fuck… mommy—” his voice is wrecked, lower than usual.

you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice soft but firm. “what’d you call me, stevie?”

he shivers violently, fingers flexing on your hips. you feel the twitch of him beneath you, helpless.

you grind again—slower, harder, circling just right. his hips jerk up on instinct before he catches himself, biting his lip so hard it goes white.

“mommy,” he whispers, the word trembling out like a confession. then again, louder, needier: “mommy… please.”

you reward him with another filthy roll, pressing down until he’s practically vibrating under you. his hands slide up your sides, trembling, then back down to grip your ass like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

“gonna be so good,” he pants, voice small and raw. “such a good boy for you, mommy. promise. won’t come ‘til you say. won’t move unless you tell me to. just—fuck—just wanna make you feel good. please let me. please.”

you thread your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. his head falls back with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping open again—big, glassy, pleading. he looks completely gone, like the weed stripped every last layer of bravado away and left only this: needy, soft, desperate steve.

you rock down again and he moans loud, shameless, hips canting up in tiny, helpless thrusts that he tries, and fails, to control.

“mommy… feels so good,” he mumbles, words slurring together. “you feel so good. i’ll be perfect. i’ll be your good boy. whatever you want. just—don’t stop. please don’t stop.”

his face drops forward, burying into the crook of your neck like he needs to hide. you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your skin, the shaky exhale, the way he clings—arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding on for dear life.

he’s trembling now, little hitches in his breathing, mumbling “good boy, wanna be good” against your skin like a mantra.

TEASE ༝

steve is SUCH a tit guy !!

you’re standing between steve’s spread knees, still in that thin white tank you threw on after your shower, the one that’s practically see-through under the light. your new lacy bra—black, delicate, the kind that pushes everything up just right—is doing absolutely nothing to hide how perky your tits are tonight.

you’re mid-sentence, gesturing with the little shopping bag still dangling from your wrist.

“—and then i found these cute denim shorts at the second store, the ones with the little rips on the thighs? i tried them on and the girl working there was like, ‘those are so you,’ and—”

steve’s eyes are locked on your chest. he’s nodding slowly, lips parted just enough that you can tell he’s only half here.

“yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “shiit, yeah, baby. keep going.”

you pause, catching the way his gaze hasn’t moved once. “steve.”

he finally flicks his eyes up to yours, but the cocky little tilt of his mouth says he’s not even pretending to be sorry. “what? m’ listening. you said shorts. rips. hot. i heard you.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling up your neck anyway. “you’re the worsttt.”

“mhm.” he leans forward, big hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, tugging you closer until your knees bump the couch. “worst boyfriend ever. tell me about the top you got. the one you’re gonna wear with those shorts.”

you huff, trying to stay on track. “it’s this little cropped sweater thing, soft, like, sage green—”

his palms are already moving higher, warm and sure, until they cup your tits through the tank top. he squeezes once, gentle but greedy, thumbs brushing right over the lace where your nipples are already stiff against the fabric.

“steve!” you gasp, half-laughing, half-scolding.

he doesn’t let go. just looks up at you with those big brown eyes gone dark, that mean little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“mhm, i’m listening, baby,” he drawls, voice all honey and gravel. “sage green. cropped. gonna look so fuckin’ pretty with your tits spilling out of it.” he kneads again, slower this time, watching your breath hitch. “keep talking”

you try. you really do.

“and—and the shoes, they were on sale, these little strappy sandals—”

he groans low in his throat, leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of one breast right through the thin cotton, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“mmm, yeah,” he mutters against you, hot breath soaking through. “tell me more, sweetheart. i’m hangin’ on every word.”

you’re laughing now, breathless, fingers tangling in his messy hair to tug his head back so you can look at him. his lips are shiny, pupils blown, and that cocky, mean edge is still there—like he’s daring you to call him out on how shameless he is.

“you’re not listening at all, harrington.”

he grins, hands still full of you.

“baby,” he says, voice dropping lower, “i heard every single thing you said. shorts. sweater. sandals.” he drags his thumbs over your nipples again, slow and deliberate, watching you squirm. “and i’m still gonna fuck you in all of it later. now keep going. i like the sound of your voice when you’re trying to pretend you don’t feel how wet that pretty cunts gettin’ just from me touching you this way.”