Reblog To Lose 10 Lbs By Valentines Day

reblog to lose 10 lbs by Valentines Day 💓

me and the girls who still use tumblr in 2022

Lay All Your Love On Me

Pairing: Robin Buckley x Fem!reader

Word count: 6k

Summary: It’s a Friday night, and Robin has cleared her schedule to spend time with you. She wants to take you out, and you fully expect Steve to be your taxi like always, but Robin has a surprise.

Content Warnings: 18+ Fluff to Smut real quick. You might get whiplash. Romantic Robin. Mature language. Kissing. Making out. Pet names. Reader wears a dress. Non-serious thoughts of kidnapping. Dirty talk. Rough!Robin. Groping. Hair pulling. Finger sucking. Drool. Praising. Oral (Robin receiving) Light period typical homophobia. All characters involved are 18+

A/N: This fic can be read as a standalone or as follow up of 3rd Period.  l do highly recommend reading it as it provides more of a backstory to Robin and Reader’s relationship. As always, likes/reblogs/feedback is much appreciated.

🎵 Enjoy my 80′s Robin playlist here 🎵

The upbeat disco beats of Abba gently fill your room as you sit at your vanity, meticulously applying a light coat of blush on your cheeks. It’s a Friday night, and by some miracle, Robin doesn’t have anything to do. No band practice. No Family Video. No school projects. For the first time in a long time, your girlfriend has a clear schedule, and she fully dedicated the night to you.

Keep reading

good lord

when/if ur taking requests, could u do some dom!robin writings? i love all ur fics sm and would love to see some more robin

i was legit sitting in front of my computer writing so i wrote this rq. includes boot riding, finger sucking, choking (like inside the mouth), and i think that’s it …

Deep down, somewhere inside of you, hidden beneath an insane number of layers shrouded in hormones, you felt embarrassed.

Sucking on your girlfriend's fingers, slicking them up for her, was not the most embarrassing thing. The way she purposefully forced them down towards the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex until your eyes watered and your nose ran, was the most embarrassing part.

Robin practically had no mercy on you tonight.

You’d already begged for her fingers or cock or tongue, and all you got was her thigh. Which, you shouldn’t be complaining, you should be grateful you got anything at all.

But the brat within you could never be grateful for too long.

Begging for more––more than you deserved––brought you here.

Straddling Robin’s Dr Martens, only wearing your white panties, with Robin’s fingers down your throat, prepping them to eventually enter your cunt.

You had no idea when ‘eventually’ would come. It felt as if it’d been an eternity at this point. However, you still couldn’t complain because in all of the fuss you’d maid, and with all of Robin’s torture, she’d graciously let you ride her boot.

Your hips twisting and turning and grinding against cotton and leather. You hummed and moaned around Robin’s fingers, sniffing as you swirl your tongue around the digits.

Robin easily caught onto your endgame.

“Putting on a show?” She asked, tone condescending. The corner of her pink lips twitched up into a smirk.

Mm-mm your words muffled around her fingers. Robin scoffed and rolled her eyes, not believing you for a moment.

“Don’t lie, baby. Good little sluts don’t lie, right?”

You nodded, confirming Robin’s suspicions and answering her rhetorical question in one. She smiled, praising you and looking as if she was ready to devour you in one gesture.

“Now,” She finally removed her fingers from your mouth, her dry index crooking under your chin as she lowered herself until her lips were almost touching yours.

You knew better than to move so you stayed put.

“How about I finally give you what you’ve been begging for.”

ive been on here for 2 years and have almost 2k followers how have i not been deactivated

PLEEK

King Steve (Boxer!Steve x AFAB!Librarian Reader)

Just what life would be like if Boxer!Steve fell in love with Librarian!Reader and treated her like his little princess. Uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

(Warnings: possessive behavior, rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, violence.)

Read Pt 2 here!

Steve Harrington was known as King Steve in high school. He was always the funniest, handsomest, most popular guy around. Everyone adored him.

But after high school, when the rest of his peers went off to college, Steve started boxing. It was just a way to get fit at first, something to blow off steam and take his mind off the fact that he couldn't get into any of the colleges he wanted to. His father was disappointed in him, his mother couldn't bother to care about him, and he just wanted to be something.

Steve was insanely good at it. The controlled violence enthralled him. Punching and getting punched back and having no consequences other than a throbbing black eye and busted cheekbone. But the bruises and the scars and the blood were all just proof that Steve had done something, and that he had done it well.

King Steve was no longer his high school nickname —it was his professional persona.

You met him at a party that your friend insisted you accompany her to. You were miserable within the first twenty minutes, sulking off to a corner to nurse a root-beer and play with the buttons on your cardigan. The music was loud and the people were strangers, and your friend had disappeared with a guy the moment you stepped foot in the house. So, there you were, all alone.

Until Steve spotted you from across the room. He was talking to some old buddies from high school, people he barely saw anymore but hung out with when he was in town and had nothing better to do. You were so cute with your little ponytail and thick green glasses shaped like cat eyes. In a sea of short-shorts and crop tops, you were wearing a buttoned up cardigan and tight little jeans.

And fuck were you beautiful.

Steve left mid-conversation to head your way, flopping down beside you on the couch.

"Not having fun?" he asked you.

You looked up at him. Of course, you knew who Steve Harrington was. He was a few years your senior so you hadn't known each other in high school, but you did know him from the headlines in the paper —he had made your tiny town of Hawkins, Indiana famous with his solid right hook.

"Not really," you sheepishly admitted.

"Wanna get outta here, get some food? The music is loud, it's givin' me a headache."

Who were you to turn him down?

He took you to a pizza parlor down the street and you ate greasy cheese pizza in a red plastic booth, giggling together between bites. When you gave him your number, you hadn't really expected him to call; it was almost too good to be true, that someone has handsome and famous as Steve could want to be with someone like you.

But he called the next morning and insisted that you go out on a date. So, you did.

Now, you were inseparable. You had been dating for a year and you felt like he was your best friend. You did everything together: movies, dinners, press conferences, matches, practices. Steve wanted you by his side at all times, and if you physically couldn't be, then he insisted that you be seated in the front row where he could see you.

"Hey, I want Y/N sitting up front tonight," Steve told his manager, hand wrapped around yours as you headed down the tunnel toward his dressing room for the night.

He had a match in Chicago, and where Steve went, you went. You still kept your job at the library back in Hawkins, but you didn't work much. You were adamant about keeping your job, though Steve assured you he could provide for you both just fine. And while that proved to be true (he showered you with gifts and unnecessary things, even bought you a house you two shared together in Hawkins) you just weren't ready to become a housewife...not yet, anyways.

"Dude, come on," his manager groaned, shaking his head, "there's a big time client coming to scope you out tonight. He wants to make sure you're legit before they sign on for a fight."

Steve stopped, shoes squeaking against the floor. You jerked to a stop with him, looking up to scan his features. His jaw was tight, brown eyes narrowed, lips in a firm line.

"You got a fuckin' problem? If I said I want my girl front row, then she sits front row."

His manager sighed, glancing over at you momentarily before looking back at Steve.

"Alright, man. You're the boss."

His manager went to walk off, but Steve snapped his fingers.

"Uh-uh. Hey, you owe my girl an apology for questioning her importance."

You flushed bright pink, squirming next to Steve in your little pink dress.

"No, Stevie, it's okay—"

"It's not okay, baby. Apologize. Now."

His manager was as red as a tomato when his gaze slid to you.

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

Steve nodded once in approval and let your hand go to wrap his arm around your shoulders. He pressed a kiss to your temple.

"You forgive him, right, honey?"

You nodded immediately, flashing his manager a sweet smile.

"Yes."

Steve smiled brilliantly and smacked his gum.

"Good. Let's go."

You frequently went out to fancy restaurants to celebrate his victories. The whole gang of coaches, managers (his posse), you, and Steve all sat at the best table in the restaurant and ate the best dishes on the menu. Steve kept you close at all times, pulling your chair to sit flush against his, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, fancy watch dangling at your shoulder around his wrist.

You wore a gold necklace with his name in a pretty font: Steve. You wore it proudly and happily.

Steve wasn't much of a talker, which you came to learn a few months into your relationship. He became particularly quiet right before and after matches, no matter the outcome —he liked to keep his concentration, and after a match, he was always sporting a headache. They were chronic at this point, the consequence of frequent head trauma. He often wore a pair of black sunglasses to combat them, even when he was inside.

He spoke the most late night in bed when you stayed up and whispered between the sheets, or when he was rutting into you calling you his "pretty girl."

But at dinners like these he was quiet and broody, hiding behind his sunglasses. You were looking over the menu, scanning the entrees and appetizers for the best option when the waiter came over.

"And for you, miss?" The waiter looked at you.

You peeked over the menu, smiling at him.

"Oh, I'm still looking," you said sweetly.

Steve stared the waiter down through his blackened shades as he stood there, waiting. Steve pulled the sunglasses down his nose and tossed them on the table in front of him.

"The fuck are you lookin' at?" he barked at the man.

You blushed pink, putting a hand on his leg.

"She said she's still looking, so fuck off," Steve snapped, waving the waiter off.

The waiter skittered away nervously, and you sighed when he was gone.

"Stevie, you didn't have to do that. He was just doing his job," you murmured.

You turned back to the menu with a small pout, and Steve's hand darted out to wrap around your chin, pulling your gaze back to him. His brown eyes were rimmed with red from the fight, the left swollen and haloed with violet. There was a cut on his lip, split at the side from the fist of his opponent. His cheekbone was still sporting a bruise from last week, a faded green and yellow.

"You know I love you, angel. I hate when anyone else looks at you. You're all mine, you know that?"

You flushed again, nodding.

"I know."

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and leaned forward, movements slow and meticulous and slightly strained from the pain in his neck. He pressed his mouth against yours and licked into your mouth, fingers splayed out across your jaw to hold you in place. You gripped the hem of his t-shirt under the table in your fists, whimpering into his mouth. He pulled away and flashed you a sly, sideways smile.

"My pretty girl," he cooed.

You ordered the spaghetti and a creme brûlée for dessert, and you insisted that you split it with Steve, even though he said he didn't want any.

"Open up," you sang sweetly, bringing the spoon up to his face.

He looked away from the man he was talking to across the table and opened his mouth wordlessly, letting you push the spoon into his mouth and place the dessert on his tongue. You giggled and swiped your thumb along his lip delicately, careful of his cut, brushing away any remnants.

He flashed you a wink with his bruised eye and rubbed his hand along your bare thigh.

"Thanks, baby. So, anyways, I told him that he couldn't fight worth a' shit, and then he—"

Sometimes he can be possessive protective but that's only because he loves you with every fiber of his being, and he can't stand the idea of you getting hurt. You gladly let him be the protector, even if you don't agree with all of his methods.

Like that time you were buying a new pair of shoes for a night out, and you handed the money over to the cashier nicely and politely. When he gave you your change back, he tossed it on the counter and sent coins everywhere, causing Steve to hover over your shoulder and press closer to the counter, pulling his sunglasses to rest on the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes were stern and serious as he glared at the cashier.

"Hey. Hand it to her nicely, what are you a fuckin' moron?"

The cashier swallows and picks all the coins and bills up, arranging them neatly until they're sitting delicately in the palm of your hand. Steve pushes his sunglasses back up and smacks his gum, hand placed firmly at the small of your back.

"C'mon, angel."

To everyone else, Steve was a scary guy. He beat the shit out of people for a living and actually enjoyed getting beat back. He walked with squared, broad shoulders and long strides, commanding every room he walked into with his silent brood. He was a little dead behind the eyes, those brown irises blank and intense. And there you were, at his side, holding his hand in your colorful little dresses, with your floral perfume and glossy lips; his brilliant, bubbly, sickeningly sweet better half.

Something about Steve's personality made it hard for him to let go of control. While you didn't want to say he was controlling, you could definitely see why people thought that.

"Hey. No more," he would say firmly, leaning over and tapping your bare thigh when you reached to pour yourself more champagne at one of your fancy dinners.

You pout at him as you set it down.

"But, I've only had two—"

"And it'll stay at two. No more."

He goes back to talking to his friend, who glances at you wearily, embarrassed for you at the little scene, but otherwise says nothing. And you huff and sit back with a pout but don't bother to argue, but after a while Steve glances at you and rolls his eyes.

"Hey, I'm sorry. You gonna pout all night?"

You shrug, playing with your utensils.

"Maybe."

He huffs and leans over, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek. He grabs your chin and pulls it toward him, pressing another kiss to your lips.

"M'sorry, honey. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

And fucking hell does he make it up to you. Railing you in the back of the limo on the way home, banging you into the leather seats with low-throated grunts and a hand around your throat. The windows start fogging up and you're sliding all over the place, nothing but tiny squeaks leaving you as he slams into you so deep and hard that it shakes the car.

He automatically opens jars and bottles for you, taking them from whoever had been holding it out to you and popping it open before handing it back. He opens your doors and pulls out your chairs. He ushers you to the other side of the pavement when you're walking near a busy road, and never walks ahead of you.

You come to every practice, hand in hand as you enter the gym. He sets you up with snacks and a water bottle, and you always bring a magazine in case things run long. Steve sits you on a workout bench across from the ring as he sheds his t-shirt and tapes his hands up.

"Wanna do it, baby?" he mumbles to you, holding out the roll of tape.

You eagerly take it from him, unraveling it slowly around his knuckles and between his fingers the way you've seen him do a million times. When both his hands are taped up, you slide the thick gloves over his hands and tie them tight. He places the big, puffy gloved fist under your chin and kicks it up until you meet his eye.

"Gimme a kiss."

So you kiss him, sweet and slow and lovingly. He grunts in appreciation and then frowns when you pull away, giggling. His lips smell like cherry now from your chapstick.

"Go! They're waiting for you," you insist, giving him a little shove.

He pulls away and looks over his shoulder as he heads toward the ring.

"You're gonna stay there the whole time? No running off, no wandering?"

You nod firmly.

"Promise."

And at matches, you sit front row like he always requests, dressed in your prettiest dresses with your hair done up all nice. You crane your neck as you wait for him to come out from the tunnel, and when they announce his name over the mic, you leap to your feet and clap wildly. His eyes find you the moment he ducks under the rope and steps into the ring, smiling at you before shoving his mouthguard in.

He taps the glove once against his mouth and twice against his chest, eyes boring into yours. You kiss your hand and press it to your heart. It was a ritual you did before every match, your way of saying "good luck" and "I love you."

When he wins (because he almost always wins) he calls you over amidst the chaos and the shouts of celebration and helps you climb up the side of the ring, where he wraps a sweaty arm around you and kisses you heavily. He holds your little arm up and shakes it like they did with his, declaring his victory.

Your win was his win.

The way he fucks you makes you go wild. He loves to pull your hair and spank you, loves to see his marks all over your ass but refuses to ever put them anywhere else.

"Hate hurtin' my pretty little girl, but that's what you want, huh? That's what you want, baby, you want me to mark you up?"

And you nod vigorously and whine and beg for it until he just heaves a sigh, shakes his head, and goes:

"Well, alright, if you insist."

And then leaves a pretty picture of violet and crimson on your ass as you cry into the sheets.

He likes when you blow him in the dressing room after each match, absolutely delighted at the sweat on his skin and the manly scent he exudes as he towers over you, leaned against the wall with his fingers buried in your hair.

"Fuck, yeah. Fuck, angel, take me so well. Down a little more, down —yeah, oh god."

Sometimes, when you have the gym to yourselves, he throws you down onto the mat and shoves your legs open, slotting himself between them until you feel a delicious sting in your thighs from the stretch. His shoulders hold them apart as he latches onto your clit and devours you like a mad man, letting you yank at his hair and whine so loud that it echoes off the gym walls.

He likes fucking you from behind where he can see your ass bounce and he can smack at it with one hand while the other wraps in painfully in your hair. He's practically holding you up by the end of it, as you cry and whine and pinch your eyes closed at the pressure in your belly.

"Please lemme cum, Steve, please! Please lemme cum!"

"Come on, angel, cum on my cock."

And when he's tired from a match, bruises decorating the plane of his back, dried blood gathered on his chest from the cut in his eye oozing down, he eases back onto the bed and lets you climb on top of him. He's always quiet at times like those, while you slowly grind and bounce on his cock, taking your time with each roll of your hips, fingers splayed out along his hairy chest.

He'll reach up and brush your hair out of your eyes with rough, calloused fingers, cradling your face with his big hand. His thumb finds home under your chin and pulls it down to meet his gaze, and he watches through heavy lids as your face becomes flushed with pleasure and heat.

Neither of you say a word, but the passion between the two of you is so intense that it's like you can feel it in the air. A thrumming energy buzzing between your bodies.

Steve takes you to fancy parties (only the one's he's obligated to go to, because neither of you are party people) and you sit draped over his thigh the whole night, pretty little dress and sparkling lips. Steve is leaned back into the couch, one hand on your thigh and the other dangling over the arm of the couch, pretty brown eyes on display since the room wasn't too loud or bright.

You shimmy up his leg until your own are draped over his entire lap, sitting sideways, hooking your arm around his broad shoulders. He adjusts to the position silently, gaze steadily ahead on whoever was talking to him on the couch opposite yours. One hand sits on your ass and the other on your knee.

You reach up and run your fingers through the front of his thick chestnut locks, feathering out the strands. He drums his slender fingers along your knee absentmindedly, his touch so warm and he smells so fucking good —like pine and musk and smoke.

When the conversation starts to drag, you separate the front part of his hair and start to make little braids in the mound, and Steve lets you. He doesn't mind, content with your body pressed up against him, your sweet scent washing over him. You're halfway through the third braid when a new body flops on the couch across from you, a new and unfamiliar voice calling to you:

"Dude, what the fuck? You're just gonna let that bitch sit there and treat you like some doll, Harrington?"

You freeze, fingers pulling away from Steve's hair to curl into your lap. You look to Steve first, eyes sliding down from the crown of his head to his face. His eyes immediately cut over to the new man, narrowed into dagger-sharp slits with that dead look, brows angled down, forehead creased. His jaw clenches and you hear his teeth creak as they grit together. His hand tightens around your knee, other fingers pressing into the globes of your ass.

He doesn't move an inch, but his chest puffs with a humorless chuckle.

"The fuck did you just say?" Steve bites.

It seemed like the entire room had gone silent. You could hear a pin drop. You stiffened in Steve's lap, both offended by the man's name-calling and anxious for your boyfriend's reaction. All eyes were on the pair of you, or more so Steve. Everyone knew how Steve was, and they knew how he was when it came to you. It had become an unspoken rule that no one was allowed to say anything about you or question your relationship.

No one had ever dared to do what this man had just done, and everyone was on the edge of their seats in anticipation of what would happen next.

"I asked you if you're a doll, Harrington. Lettin' her dress you up all pretty?" the man cackled, either ignorant to how things worked around here or just plain fucking stupid.

You swallowed and placed your hand gently against Steve's cheek— but you knew there was nothing you could do. Especially when Steve sat forward, pulled you against his chest, and leaned in toward the strange man.

"Fuck did you call her? Cause it sounded like you called my girl a bitch. Did you do that? I mean, Mikey, did you hear this fuckhead call my girl a bitch?" Steve turns to his manager seated beside the strange man, hooking a thumb to the accused.

His manager shifts uncomfortably, but nods solemnly.

"He did."

All Steve has to do is tap your thigh twice and you're sliding off his lap to sit on the empty cushion beside him, crossing one leg over the other and watching helplessly as Steve rises to his feet.

"Stay here, baby."

He motions toward the door to his manager, a jerk of his head to the side and two fingers beckoning him to move, and then he's stomping out of the room without a word. The room is stiff as they watch his manager and a couple other guys haul the man that called you a bitch up to his feet and drag him out of the room.

You flinch at the sound of banging and pounding, glass breaking and things shattering in the other room.

Steve returns a few minutes later out of breath and hair astray, but smiles when he sees you and pulls you back into his lap.

"Now, where were we?"

You smash your lips against his and wipe away the blood on his knuckles.

King Stevie is such a protector 💗💗

Literally Boxer!Steve is so fucking angsty and broody and silently intimidating (the best kind of intimidating). It's giving Six from The Gray Man.

Quite literally "I'll beat up anyone that looks your way" vibes. He's so Daddy shaped, he has my heart.