sittin-pretty

Work From Home.

Originally posted by world-ofnothingness

Author’s Note: This is by far the dirtiest smut I’ve written so far. First Steve Rogers smut I’ve ever written. Definitely not the last. AGAIN! I’ve had little to no experience in this, so yeah…. 

Based on ‘Work From Home’ by Fifth Harmony

Summary: You and Steve have been together for six months now, meaning you two still had things to learn about each other. When Steve was sent on a two-week long mission without you, you couldn’t help but tease him during a debrief meeting. However, your actions did not go unpunished.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: SMUT, Sexting, masturbation, toys, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, boss kink, orgasm denial.

Words: 3476


I ain’t worried ‘bout nothin’
I ain’t wearin’ na nada
I’m sittin’ pretty, impatient, but I know you gotta
Put in them hours, I'mma make it harder
I’m sending pic after picture, I'mma get you fired

Two weeks. That’s the longest you’ve been separated from Steve since you two got together. And it was killing you. You missed him, worried about him, craved him. And it was driving you nuts.

You knew that whenever he goes on missions, contact was nonexistent for the sake of his and your safety. It just made his homecoming even more exciting. It spurred something in the both of you that made you guys get barely any sleep on his day back from a mission. This prolonged time away from each other only fueled your need for him. You were just straight-up horny, and touching yourself just wasn’t cutting it for you. Every night, you wore just a loose T-shirt and underwear to bed, trying to get off.

So you almost screamed in excitement when you got a text from him.

The team and I just got back from the mission. I’ll be home as soon as debriefing is done.

You bit your lower lip in anticipation at the thought of him being just a couple of floors above you. In less than a hour, he will be in between your legs, which made you more than impatient.

Hurry or I’ll get started without you. 👄

Keep reading

After escaping a battle
  • Sulu: I’d say worth a little risk.
  • Bones: Yeah, that was some pretty risky sittin’ ya did there.
  • Sulu: That’s right, of course. ‘Cause they wouldn’t arrest me if we got boarded. I’m just the pilot. I could always say that I was flying the ship by accident.
Failed Assignment

summary: in which lip loses his shit 

A/N: im a new blog and i’m rewatching and now im catchin feelings again smh send in ur requests tho

“You don’t give a shit about me. You don’t give a shit me because you don’t have to! Alright? You’re just sittin’ pretty in your ivory tower; I’m a fuckin’ insect crawlin’ on the wall ‘till you squash me, right?” His finger dug into the rough brown material of a knock-off suit that surely wreaked of whiskey and this mornings pool of sweat. “’Cause that makes you feel fuckin’ powerful? ‘Cause you fucked up your own life and you fuckin’ hate yourself for it!” 

The reaching voice bellowed throughout the building, feet scuffling backward with the race of Lip’s heavily worn out boots following after. You could hear his breath forcing way through his lungs, as if he didn’t want to waste a single moment breathing when he could be screaming, yelling, insulting and towering over the old man who’s hair hung soaked from sweat, his white eyes watching as the young boy backed him to the wooden double doors. 


“Fuck you,” it started as an instinctive backlash at the comments made; he probably didn’t even realise what had been said at first. The second time the words left his mouth, they were sour, twisted and bitter with the pure rage steaming through his shaking hands, “Fuck you!” 

The third time was the one that counted. The one were his voice hazed with a croak, most likely from the pain of the roars ripping from his chest earlier, where his eyes shot from one side of the hallway to the other, not even registering your presence. “Fuck you!” The words cracked, torn from his tongue, rolling off of his tongue, passed his lips and into the vicinity of where no one could hear but you and him. 

You recognised him from somewhere. You’d seen him locally here and there. It wasn’t a habit of you making a note of every time you’d stumbled passed him at some party when the both of you were out of your minds numb, or when you both sat on separate tables in the campus library, but you couldn’t deny that you’d notice if it was him; a good looking boy who was always too tied up in his own life to ever pay attention to anyone that didn’t know him or catch his eye. 

Stood at the very top of the flight of stairs you’d ran up, regretting the extra five minutes in the shower at this point in time since you were now ten minutes late for your afternoon class before you’d caught the scene outside, you just watched as the boy paced back and forth, his hands bawling into fists, the veins in his forearms bulging from his reddening skin, his jaw locked to the side, his lips murmuring incomprehensible curses under his breath, his eyes glossed. And then, suddenly, he stopped. “Got a fuckin’ problem?” He glared at you, the words hissed from his mouth. 

Your stomach sank at the sudden confrontation, but your eyebrows knitted together ready to challenge the rude comment, “’Scuse me?” 

His shoulder slammed into yours before his feet skipped two or three stairs at a time, the bottom of his boots slamming loudly once he’d finally met the flooring. Warm coffee splattered over your purple file holder, drenching the latest paper, which admittedly you hadn’t spent much work on, but did promise you’d hand in today, three days late. “Goddamn,” you muttered, rolling your eyes and throwing your head back. 

At the end of the old man’s pissed off lecture about life lessons and how trust is a construct of pain, you were set free, moving with the herd of the rest of the class, clutching your paper with an obvious F written on it. And you saw him, sitting on a bench in the dim blue light where the sun faded into the darkness. 

With a cigarette between his fingers, and his elbows leaning on his knees as his eyes watched the passing shoes on the cement before him, he sat silently. Until you obstructed his view, holding your failed paper out before him. He furrowed his eyebrows, flicking his vision up to you before gripping the paper, leaning back on the bench and taking a drag before sighing his words out with smoke lacing his sentence, “What’s this?” 

“A failed assignment.” You spoke back bluntly, throwing your back beside you as you fell to the bench beside him.

“Yeah, I can see that. What’s it got to do with me?” he questioned.

“Coffee caught it while you were throwing your little tantrum earlier. He wouldn’t even look at it.” You pursed your lips together, folding your arms over your chest. “I failed, because you can’t keep your shit together.” 

“Yeah, listen lady, I don’t even know you–” 

“Grow up, man.” 

“Excuse me?” He looked at you, offended,grimacing at your words.

“Yeah, excuse you. Just grow up. I’ve seen you around. You and me come from the same place. You know we got spotlights on us.” You spoke, shaking your head as the words came out, growing more angered.

“You don’t even know what happened, if you’ve been dealt what I’ve been dealt, you would–”

“I heard what you said. He’s a college professor. Not your dad. Not your pal. Just get a grip,” You stood up, leaving the paper beside him and strolling down the pathway. Who did he think he was? Who did he think you were, more to the point. 

“Fuck you, too.” He grumbled, shaking his head and peering down the other end of the path, avoiding watching you as you left the bench and made your way across the field. But then his neck turned, and he scratched his lower lip with the nail of his thumb, the sound of your assignment fluttering against the wind. 

Within five minutes of you entering your dorm, letting your bag fall to the floor, kicking off your shoes and replacing your rough denim ripped jeans for a pair of smooth velvet shorts, a knock rattled your door. Upon finding the scruffy haired boy standing in front of you, you folded your arms over your chest, leaning your weight onto your left leg and peering at him. “What, you stalking me now?” 

“Am I cool to come in?” He looked behind you, scanning your area with a hopeful look painted over his expression, something that caught you off guard. 

With a scoff, you shrugged, “Uh, I guess?” you slapped your hands on your thighs, moving to the side to make way for him. 

“Lip, by the way,” he introduced, sniffing loudly as if to compensate for the lack of talking or noise in your room as you shut the door behind him. 

Tilting your head to the side you leaned back on the wood, “And you’re here, why?” 

“Uh, well, first off, I wanted to say sorry for your paper,” he shuffled off his dark olive coat, throwing it on your bag.”

“Doesn’t make a difference now,” you mumbled, but sighed seconds after, “Thanks anyway. It was late anyway, and you know, he’s an asshole.” 

“A fucking asshole.” he furthered, hovering around, looking at the art on your walls, peering to the desk of your messy piles of paper and empty glass bottles.

“Is that all you came for? Because I gotta head for the library pretty soon.” 

“I was thinking, how I could make it up to you. I mean, I don’t really know you, but for some reason, you have a real problem with me fucking this whole thing up for myself.” he took two steps towards you, his hands fluttering the hemline of his shirt, the lining of his boxers peaking from his jeans, the trail of hair from his stomach peaking. 

“Just like to be helpful,” you shrugged, swallowing tightly at the back of your throat as his eyes read your actions, lining up your curves as he sucked his lip between his teeth. 

“Nothin’ more than that?” 

“What else would it be?” You couldn’t help but smirk at your own comment, leaning as far back to the door as you could, watching as he stepped his feet between yours, his large hands curving over your hipbones and pulling you towards him, the callouses on his fingers rough against your soft skin. 

“If we’re being open, I’d say somethin’ like, I don’t know, you wanna fuck?” the movement of his lips against your neck between the pecks planted on you sending butterflies through your stomach and fluttering to your chest, moving quickly with the beat of your heart. 

And that was that. Within moments, your leg curved over his thigh, his forearm curving under your leg and lifting it slightly higher as vantage, your fingers twisting through the curls of his hair and tugging, eager for the exciting night ahead. 

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“I’m not out my mind - I’m okay.” (Sittin’ Pretty by Fritzwa).

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