#surrounding the BOOTH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Text

Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

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a-casxandra · 20 days ago

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❝𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫.❞

Caleb as your boyfriend x you as non-mc, birthday angst.

The bass thumped through the walls of the club, the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and neon lights. People danced like nothing in the world could touch them. But you sat stiffly in the booth, surrounded by people who belonged to a life you didn’t quite fit in.

Caleb’s birthday.

You’d dressed up. Spent an hour doing your makeup. Wore the dress he once said he liked—back when he still said things like that.

You hadn’t known MC would be there.

She was dazzling tonight, even if her lipstick was a little smudged and her laugh too loud from the alcohol. She was everything you weren't—familiar to Caleb, easy to be around. A shared history written in inside jokes and old stories.

She sat on his left. You, his girlfriend, on the right. But somehow, it felt like you were always outside the picture frame.

"Pipsqueak, I told you not to wear skirts—people are gonna stare at you at this point." Caleb said it teasingly to MC, pulling off his jacket and draping it over her lap like it was second nature. Like her comfort was instinct. Like you weren’t even there.

You stared down at your lap. At your own bare thighs, goosebumps rising from the cold. You wore a dress too. But he hadn’t even glanced your way.

Gideon caught it. Always did. He looked at you like he understood. Like he pitied you. He slipped his jacket off and offered it across the table.

You shook your head quickly. “I’m fine.”

But Gideon just smiled softly and insisted. “If my girlfriend were here, she’d be proud of me.”

You took it. Grateful, but humiliated.

Caleb didn’t even notice.

The night dragged on. You didn’t drink. Didn’t dance. You watched Caleb feed MC water between shots, steady her when she tripped in her heels, laugh when she whispered something in his ear.

You should’ve been used to this by now.

You were always understanding.

You knew they had a past.

But it didn’t stop the slow, aching stretch in your chest every time his eyes crinkled with laughter that wasn’t meant for you.

You followed them out to the car. Gideon had gone home already. MC stumbled toward the passenger seat, giggling about something only Caleb could hear. You reached for the handle—just a second too late.

She beat you to it, crawling in and immediately passing out. You looked at Caleb, hoping—praying—he would tell her to switch. That he'd remember you were here, too.

But instead, he just looked at you like this was normal. Like it was okay. “I hope you don’t mind sitting in the backseat instead.”

You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who hadn’t touched your hand once all night. “…Yeah,” you murmured. “It’s fine.”

You sat behind them the whole ride, like a stranger hitching a ride in her own relationship.

Caleb kept glancing at her—tucking her hair back gently, adjusting her skirt when it rode up, smiling softly at her nonsense muttering.

And you watched.

Watched and understood.

Because you knew that look.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t friendship.

It was tenderness. That raw, unguarded kind that you hadn’t seen from him in months. Maybe never.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste metal.

You weren’t even mad. You were just… tired.

Tired of being the afterthought.

Tired of being on the outside looking in on your own relationship.

When you got home, at Caleb's apartment. he carried MC to the guest room and tucked her in. Like a scene from a romance film.

You went to bed alone.

He didn’t even come to check on you.

And that night, you curled up on your side, arms wrapped around your own body, and whispered into the dark: “Just once more. I wouldn’t mind being burned if it means keeping you.”

But deep down, you knew the truth.

𝙃𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙖𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚.

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙧.

#lads #love and deepspace #lads xavier #lads sylus #lads caleb #lnds caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lads zayne #lads rafayel #caleb x reader #juneleb #caleb x you #caleb x mc #non mc reader #lnds xavier #I write story based on the song i've been listening to #angst #casxandraꔛ♥️

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jeondesu · 1 month ago

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ೀ⋆ SKZ + PRINCESS TREATMENT !

── ✧ ˚. ꒰ 𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ rich bf!skz x gf!reader ˒˓ established relationship 𝓰enre/𝓽ags. fluff, kissing, minor profanity, mentions of alcohol, jealousy/possessiveness, skinship, petnames, the boys are soo whipped for you, slightly suggestive but nothing explicit 𝔀ords. 2.6k

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — so.. i’ve had this in my drafts since forever ago and i just decided why not post it lol, i wrote most of this like months ago but i did try and edit some stuff so hopefully this ain’t too bad !

방찬/BANG CHAN — “ eyes full of desire, a soul full of fire ”

Chan doesn’t just spoil you— he worships you.

You’re the jewel of his empire, the one person he always makes time for, no matter the chaos surrounding him. When he’s not finalizing contracts in glass-walled boardrooms or flying across continents for meetings, he’s home— on his knees, lacing up your strappy stilettos with fingers that tremble slightly from desire and reverence.

His touch is careful, almost ceremonial, like he’s handling something sacred.

“Damn, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your ankle bone. “You’re gonna be the reason I lose my mind tonight.”

He buys you dresses in silk and velvet, personally approves every outfit sent by your stylist, and only wants you in heels that make you stand taller— closer to his lips when he pulls you in for a kiss.

At parties, you’re not just a date. You’re the moment. Every man in the room glances your way, but none of them matter— not when his hand stays on the small of your back, his arm slung over the booth with a dangerous smirk. “Eyes off,” he warns anyone too bold, “she’s mine.”

After too many glasses of Dom Pérignon, your heels dangle from your fingers and you’re barefoot in the back of a Rolls-Royce. He cradles your feet in his lap like they’re precious, rubbing gentle circles into your arches.

Later, in the bathroom of his penthouse, he removes your jewelry piece by piece. Each kiss that follows tastes like champagne and sin.

“Every man in that room wanted you,” he rasps against your collarbone. “But they’ll never touch you. You’re my queen. My only one.”

리노/LEE KNOW — “ he’s got a diamond mind. cold and hard, and brilliant ”

Minho is as sharp as the rings he wears— cold platinum, perfectly polished. To the world, he’s a calculated tycoon in black-on-black suits, the man who never cracks, never falters. But with you?

He melts.

You’re the only one who sees the cracks in the diamond. The softness buried deep beneath the cold precision. And he spoils you— subtly, intentionally, and always on his terms.

He doesn’t send you roses. He sends your favorite rare orchids, personally grown in his rooftop garden. Doesn’t give you a black card— he hands you a new Amex encased in velvet with a lazy, “Here. Don’t hold back.”

You’re perched on the marble countertop one morning, oversized button-down barely hanging on, as Minho fastens the dainty clasp of a new necklace around your throat— rose gold, with a sapphire he hand-picked to match your eyes.

And then comes that signature move: neck kisses.

“You wear my shirt better than I do,” he hums, mouth grazing your skin. “But next time… leave something on underneath. Or we’re not getting out of this house.”

Despite the stoic front he wears in public, Minho makes time for soft things. Coffee dates with just the two of you in private rooftops. Moonlit car rides where his fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on your thigh as he drives with one hand on the wheel.

But jealousy, oh, it turns him into something else.

One night, at a high-profile fashion event, a designer flirts a bit too comfortably with you. Compliments your neckline. Suggests a private shoot.

Minho’s jaw ticks.

He’s subtle— always— but you feel the way his grip on your waist tightens, the faint curl of his lip when he leans in and presses a possessive kiss just under your ear, hands splayed over your exposed back.

“Do you want him to lose his contract?” He murmurs against your skin, low and sweet like honey over broken glass.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“Relax, Min. You’re the only one I want.”

“I know.” He pulls you even closer, “but I hate when other people forget.”

And that’s the thing: to Minho, you’re not just his girl— you’re his weakness in a world where he allows none. He’ll slice through empires for you. And if someone touches what’s his?

He makes sure they regret it.

창빈/CHANGBIN — “ he’s like a song she can’t get out of her head ”

Changbin doesn’t date you. He composes you— in verses, in rhythms, in the way he memorizes your laugh and turns it into art.

You’re everywhere in his life. His phone wallpaper, the reason he wears color now, the girl who turned his penthouse into a second home instead of a museum of expensive furniture. And he doesn’t just want to impress you— he wants to drown you in the knowledge that you are it for him.

He flies you out to a private beach house on a whim— “You looked tired. I wanted you to breathe somewhere pretty.”

You’re barefoot, wine-drunk, and giggling under fairy lights when he plays you a new track on his portable speakers. It’s all soft bass and yearning piano.

You recognize the lyrics.

It’s you.

Your voice.

Your phrases.

Your name, laced with adoration and something so achingly desperate it makes your chest burn.

He pulls you to him, lets the wine and music blur the night. “You’re stuck in my head,” he breathes, lips ghosting yours. “I can’t write a damn thing without you bleeding into it.”

Changbin isn’t flashy, but he’s relentless. You mention liking a certain perfume? It’s already sitting on your nightstand in every size. You love vintage vinyls? He’ll bid half a million at an auction to get you the rarest edition.

He treats your smile like it’s the hook of his best chorus— repeating it, obsessing over it, addicted to the feeling it brings.

And when he kisses you? It’s never just a kiss. It’s a confession. A climax. A plea to never let him go.

현진/HYUNJIN — “ for she is his poet, and he is her poetry ”

Hyunjin lives like he’s stepped out of a sonnet— and loving you is the most extravagant poem he’s ever written.

You’re his muse, obsession, and masterpiece all at once. And he shows it in the grandest ways: silk sheets painted with roses, handwritten letters sealed in wax, moonlit portraits of you sprawled across his studio in nothing but his shirt and an entire chandelier’s worth of candlelight.

When he sends you flowers, they’re never basic bouquets.

They arrive in curated color palettes.

Blush, cream, and wine-red for love.

Lavender for the days you feel low.

Once, he sent 100 white roses— each with a note tucked into the petals:

‘For every time I thought of you today.’

His kisses are soft— reverent.

He doesn’t kiss like a man in a rush. He kisses like he’s studying art with his mouth. Like he wants to taste every emotion that made your heart beat that day.

And when you read to him— bare legs over his lap, glasses slipping down your nose— he looks at you like the heroine of a tragic romance film.

“Read slower,” he spoke softly, voice thick. “I wanna remember the sound of your voice for the rest of my life.”

On nights when the world gets too loud, he takes you to his gallery—one he privately owns, hidden in the hills. There, in a room filled only with paintings of you, he pours you wine and tells you about the constellations in your eyes.

Sometimes the moment turns heated— almost desperate. Passion rising like a crescendo as you press him against the canvas, smudging paint between fevered touches.

“You’re art,” he whispers into your skin. “Every inch of you.”

한/HAN — “ my entire sky craves your only star ”

Jisung’s love is loud, messy, and utterly devoted. He acts like you invented the concept of romance— like you crash-landed into his world and rewired the stars just by smiling at him.

He’s the type to fly you across the globe because “the moon looks better in Florence, babe. Come see it with me.” The type to sneak up behind you mid-morning and tuck his face into the crevice of your neck like you’re home, like he’ll suffocate if he doesn’t touch you every 10 minutes.

You are, quite literally, the only girl in his world— and he makes sure you know it.

His penthouse is littered with photos of you: polaroids from date nights, selfies you didn’t know he took, your face mid-laugh framed in gold on his nightstand. When his producer teases him about being “whipped,” he just grins and shrugs.

“She’s my star. My oxygen. You want me to breathe without her?”

He keeps you close in every way possible. His lyrics? About you. His passwords? Your name. His favorite hoodie? Now smells like your perfume.

But Han’s love language? Affection. All. The. Damn. Time.

Kisses when you wake up, featherlight and lingering, paired with sleep-drenched words like:

“Still dreaming about you.”

Kisses at parties, where he grabs your face in both hands and kisses you like you’re the only reason the lights are still on.

And kisses when he’s drunk— messy, dramatic, whiny kisses where he keeps telling you how hot and smart and amazing you are, face buried in your chest.

He’s never been good at subtlety.

He buys you matching jewelry— because, “If I get hit by a bus, I want paramedics to know you’re my soulmate.”

He keeps your favorite snacks in every car he owns.

And once, during a red carpet interview, he straight up walked off mid-question to bring you your forgotten lipstick because, “she can’t go without her lucky shade, are you insane??”

필릭스/FELIX — “ he smiled, and his face was like the sun ”

Felix is your personal sun— bright, constant, and utterly devoted to orbiting you.

He doesn’t just love you. He cherishes you. In his world of tailored suits, gold cufflinks, and first-class flights, you are the one thing that keeps him grounded. While his wealth might buy him anything, you are the one thing he never stops feeling lucky to have.

And he never lets you forget it.

Showering you with endless compliments (and gifts) was standard for him, he just couldn’t help himself— not a single minute went by where he didn’t think you were the most angelic little being to have ever graced this earth.

He’s sat on the edge of the bed while you’re getting ready for a gala, his eyes following every move intently, like a painter observing his subject. With his chin resting in his palm, gaze warm and unblinking, he proceeds to utter, “You’re so beautiful,” for the fifty-fifth time that night. “I doubt I’ll ever move on from it.”

He holds your shoes as you slip into your dress. Carries your clutch. Stands behind you at the mirror, fixing the necklace he bought you—a delicate chain with a charm shaped like the sun. “So everyone knows who you belong to,” he says with a wink, even though his eyes go warm with something much deeper.

And when you’re tired? He runs you a bath filled with rose petals, lights candles everywhere, and sits beside the tub just to massage your feet and tell you stories about his childhood in Australia.

His kisses are soft and lazy— like summer afternoons under silk sheets. The kind that makes your skin grow hot even after he pulls away. He holds your face in both hands like you’re made of crystal, brushing his lips over yours like he’s asking permission each time, even after years of being yours.

Felix doesn’t get jealous. He gets possessive in the gentlest way.

You catch a waiter lingering too long with your wine at a rooftop event, and he slips beside you like clockwork, arm wrapped firmly around your waist, lips brushing your temple.

“You doing okay, baby?” He whispers, voice light, but his eyes never leave the waiter’s.

Afterward, he doesn’t bring it up— just holds you a little tighter and tucks your hair behind your ear like a silent reminder: mine.

승민/SEUNGMIN — “ passionate and glowing, burningly real ”

Seungmin’s love doesn’t scream. It simmers. Beneath the rolled eyes and sarcastic quips is a man who burns for you— constantly, intensely, and without apology.

To the outside world, he’s calm, dry-humored, a little aloof— the heir to a clean-cut dynasty with a jawline that’s made headlines. But with you?

He’s yours. Only yours.

He shows up at your apartment with your favorite takeout and a scowl because “the chef was taking too long, so I made them re-do it with less salt. You’re welcome.”

But it’s the little things— the deliberate things— that give him away.

Like how he memorizes your coffee order down to the temperature. How he always opens your car door, even while pretending to grumble about it. How he lets you steal his hoodies and pretends not to notice, but secretly buys more just so you never run out.

At night, when his walls fall, his passion flares like firelight.

You’re wrapped in sheets, faces inches apart, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone. His voice lowers, serious and breathy.

“I don’t care about anything else. Not the company, not the press. Just you. Just this.”

And then he kisses you like he’s afraid the moment will disappear. Slow. Intense. Real.

He’s not touchy in public— but his eyes never leave you. If someone flirts with you at a fundraiser? He won’t make a scene. He’ll wait—cool and quiet— and when you’re alone in the car afterward, he’ll say, “Didn’t know I had to mark my territory so obviously.”

You’ll tease him.

“Were you jealous, Kim Seungmin?”

He just smirks, pulling you into his lap.

“I don’t share.”

And that’s the truth of it: he treats you like his world, because in a life that feels built on glass, you’re the only thing that feels solid.

아이엔/JEONGIN — “ you’re a love that i’d cross oceans for ”

To everyone else, Jeongin is the golden boy. Rich. Well-mannered. The face of his family’s empire with a smile that could charm billionaires. But to you?

He’s soft. Boyish. Yours in the most tender, achingly steadfast way possible— as if loving you is the only thing he’s ever known how to do.

It’s all or nothing when it comes to Jeongin. He doesn’t know how to be half-hearted. He brings you breakfast in bed— every Sunday, even if he’s jet-lagged. Keeps extra hoodies in his car just in case you get cold. Carries your lipstick in his pocket like it’s sacred.

He spoils you with the quietest kind of luxury. Not just designer bags or black cards, but experiences no one else could give you— like a private boat ride at golden hour where he kisses your shoulders under the sun and whispers,

“I’d sail across the world if it meant I got to come home to you.”

He kisses like he means it— sweet, slow, and then suddenly desperate, like he’s just remembered you’re real and he’s terrified he might lose you.

His favorite thing is watching you sleep in his shirts, sprawled across his massive bed while the morning light catches on your skin. He’ll sit at the edge, brushing hair from your face, cheeks flushed.

“You look too good,” he whispers. “It’s unfair how much I love you.”

But sweet Jeongin has a possessive streak— one he hides under soft eyes and polite smiles.

At a friend’s yacht party, someone calls you “gorgeous” a little too casually. Jeongin doesn’t say anything at first— just wraps an arm around you, kisses the top of your head. However, you can sense the tightness in his hold and the smile that stops short of his eyes.

He draws you in later on the balcony.

“I don’t like people talking to you like that.”

You laugh gently, “He was just being nice.”

He leans in, lips brushing your throat, voice low.

“Don’t care. You’re mine.”

And then he kisses you like he’s trying to erase any memory of someone else touching your air.

He’s soft, but he’s also the kind of man who’d fight the ocean for you— and win.

perm taglist: @justwonder113 @emilyywhyy @leeknowslefteyebrow @min-doesnt-know @velechi @kayleefriedchicken @jeonginsbaee @thelittletobsterthatcould @queenofdumbfuckery @met30rc1ty @mouthfullobats @geni-627 @amarecerasus @emma-your-goofy-girlfie @n4tr3ad5 | if you wanna be tagged in any of my future posts fill out this form here. ♡

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dissolved-g1rl · 1 month ago

Note

What if buck got a bit self conscious about being way older than the reader, like probably in the early stages of their relationship

Bc maybe someone told him or he overheard something at a bar bc they were hanging out there?

I just want to comfort my boy

imagine me & you ♡

He has his arm around your shoulder, gently running cool metal down your arm as you babble on about something about your stubborn professor who isn’t replying to your e-mails. “Mhm” he hums nodding along in agreement with your complaints. You bat your eyelashes at him, pouting, “You’re not even listening!” you grumble, the little furrow appears when you knit your brows. “Yes I am!” Bucky denies, using his thumb to smooth the little wrinkle. “What’d I just say?” You say lulling your head back. He cups the back of your head, pressing a kiss to you lips till that cute pout he loves is smothered away. “That you need another beer.” He says pulling away

He smiles when you push him towards the bar. He pads over, it’s pretty noisy, a big game going on at a local university. Guys and girls gearing more towards your age make the bar lively. He taps his fingers against the bar, ordering two more beers for the two of you. Two girls wearing sparkly shirts, a sorority he guesses, whisper to one another, cupping around their mouths and giggling—“old enough to be her dad.” he catches. He feels hot under the collar with embarrassment. Great, great, great granddad actually, yet he digresses. He thinks for a centurion he looks pretty good. Sure, he won’t always get your references, but he’s only old by logic. He’s got all the bells and whistles, gets it up just fine—maybe too easy. He’s got some stray grays, you and your drooly cunt like ‘em just fine. And sure, he’s put on a little bit of weight over the years, he doesn’t mind. Despite this, that hot feeling of embarrassment still weighs heavily on his heart. You could do better. Better than a man who has to check his sperm count annually, better than a man who still writes everything in cursive, better than a man who has more years behind him than in front. The clink of glass against the bar redirects his attention, right, beer.

He hands you your beer, you still crinkle your nose when you drink—he used to find it cute. He’s starkly reminded of the fact that you are not used to drinking yet. He sighs, smoothing the frizz in your hair. You raise your brow, patting his leg. “Something wrong?” You ask, tracing a heart onto his knee. He smiles, a bit tight lipped. “Nothin’s wrong baby.” Bucky denies pinching your cheek till you bat his hand away. “Yeah right, you big grump!” You say, draping your arm around his shoulders, shifting till you’re settled onto his lap. Your weight on top of him is a welcomed pressure, he wraps his arms around your middle, peppering your nape in kisses. People cheer, touchdown or something. He thinks it’ll be fine —you and him. He doesn’t have that much to teach you, not really, but you sure do teach him a lot of things everyday. He’ll have you for as long as you have him. Bucky hopes for forever. “Love you.” He chimes, just to you, it’s intimate. Secluded by the booth, yet liveliness surrounds you. “I love you too Buck!” You reply easily, you mean it—showing him your pretty smile that makes him almost queasy with how sweet you look. The three words soothe his worries, thats right, you love him, and he loves you.

credit to @cursed-carmine for dividers

a/n: not proof read, sowwy for any mistakes

#bucky barns x fem reader #bucky barnes x fem reader #bucky barns x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barns #anon ask #thanks anon!#.☘︎ ݁˖#anon

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pascallftv · 2 months ago

Text

not a fair fight

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader

summary: steve covers for robin at the hawkins fair. unfortunately for him, your booth is right across from his. he’s going to make you spit that gum out one way or another.

warnings: very brief discussion of weight (not towards reader), steve is an asshole, reader is a brat, brat taming, forced proximity kinda, enemies to lovers if you squint, f!oral, unprotected p in v, fingering, dom!steve lowkey, missionary, doggystyle, cock warming

word count: 5.6k

Steve hadn’t wanted to work the fair. He would have rathered to be at Tommy’s back to school party, but here he was, stationed under a rickety tent at the Hawkins fairgrounds, sweat beading on his forehead and gathering at the small of his back.

He wasn’t thinking when he made that deal with Robin.

Steve had struck a deal with Robin that if she watched the Family Video counter for him while he scattered off to help the kids for a couple days, that he’d do whatever she conjured up as payback for him.

In her case, it was Steve covering her shifts at the Guess Your Height and Weight booth for the entirety of the county fair. It was a bullshit deal really. It wasn’t like two shifts at Family Video even came close to an entire weekend at the fair, but Steve had no choice. A deal was a deal, and he wasn’t one to break his promise.

“How much you think I weigh, Harrington?”

Steve’s arms were crossed, his facial expression disinterested and borderline appalled. In front of him stood some girl he’d seen at a couple of Tommy’s parties, but her name was a mystery to him. Her blonde hair cascaded down her exposed back, her clothing leaving little to nothing to the imagination.

Steve mumbled out a random number monotone. He couldn’t care to actually guess, and quite frankly, he didn’t give a shit either way.

The girl gasped and crossed her arms. Her boyfriend stood behind her, his eyebrows furrowing. He stepped forward, wallowing his tongue around in his mouth for a second before spitting at Steve’s shoes.

“What the fuck, man?” Steve grunted, stepping back from the pissed off boyfriend billowing in front of him.

“Let’s go, baby.” He snapped, grabbing the girl’s hand and escorting her away from the booth.

“Hey! That’s two dollars!” Steve called after them. The boyfriend turned his head and flashed him a middle finger in response.

Steve sighed heavily and looked down at the wad of spit running across his shoe. His eyes flickered up and found you sat in a lawn chair, your leg propped up over the arm of the chair, swinging haphazardly. You looked up at him over the top of your book, smacking gum between your cherry lips, a taunting grin pulling at them.

“Smooth, Harrington.” You said, looking back down at your book and flipping a page.

Steve rolled his eyes and grabbed the towel off of the table tucked back in the tent and began wiping at his shoe. His eyes flicked up to you inside your booth. You were surrounded by a multitude of makeup products that he had no idea what they were. In his eyes it was all fucking junk.

“How many tubes of lip balm have you sold, baby cakes?” Steve called out to you. Your head didn’t move, just your eyes as you looked back up to him.

“None of your business.” You said, your voice bored and unamused.

“No one’s going to buy that shit.” He continued, grunting as he lowered his foot from the table.

You stared back at him, deciding whether or not you wanted to get up and strangle him or set fire to his booth with a flame torch. You were under the impression that Robin would be across from you all weekend, but much to your disappointment, it was Man Whoreington instead. You’d always fucking despised him ever since you moved to Hawkins two years ago.

A group of middle school aged girls hurried into your booth, squealing in excitement at all the products for sale.

“I’ll take one of each.” One of the girls said, smacking a one hundred dollar bill down on the table in front of you. You gazed up at her, then over to Steve, whose eyes were as big as saucers.

“Sure thing, baby cakes.” You bit back a smile.

It was absolutely ridiculous. Steve watched in awe as girls crowded your booth, the cash flowing.

“What was that you were saying, Harrington?” You cocked a smile as you packaged up the girl’s products. Steve ran his tongue across the front of his teeth and shook his head.

You blew a bubble with your gum as you waved the girls along, then sat back in your lawn chair, propping your legs up on a box. Steve had always been a douche to you, and you weren’t sure why. You’d always been nothing but nice to him, and you were especially nice to Nancy and Jonathan, as well as those boys you always saw Steve babysitting.

Your eyes were locked on your book as a figure loomed over the table in front of you. A throat cleared, and you lifted your eyes. Steve leaned down on the table, a strand of his brown hair falling over his forehead. Your gaze traced up from the moles on his neck to his hazel eyes.

“Can I help you?” You mumbled, looking back down at your book.

Steve's eyes trailed from your smug face, to your chest, then down to your bare thighs where your denim shorts had ridden up.

You didn’t move, just smacked your gum— sharp, loud, and completely on purpose.

“Jesus christ.” He muttered, straightening his back. “Can you not chew like a fucking cow for five minutes?”

You blinked up at him, your gaze innocent. “Something bothering you, Harrington?”

“Yes. That sound. It’s like—“ He mimicked the gum smacking sound with his teeth and tongue, his mouth opening in an exaggerated, and quite obnoxious, chomp. “That. It’s giving me a fucking migraine.”

You tilted your head and ran your teeth along your bottom lip, stretching your arms up over your head, exposing a bit of your belly. “Free will.”

“What?” Steve spat.

You sat up slightly and leaned your arms on the table. “It’s called free will, Stevie. You can walk away whenever you want.”

Steve laughed under his breath, running a hand through his wavy hair. “Believe me, I want to. But just our luck I’m stuck across your glitter and bumble gum empire this entire weekend. Gotta make sure you don’t choke everyone out with your raging estrogen.”

You smiled devilishly and grabbed a lock of your hair, twirling it around your finger. “Aww, Stevie. You watching me, then?”

“Would be hard to miss ya, all the chewing and—“ he motioned to your body, “everything.”

You popped another bubble, this one even louder and wetter than the last. You let it snap, then slurped the gum back into your mouth with a wink.

“Fascinating.” You spoke monotone.

Steve’s hands dropped to his hips, clearly running out of patience. “Spit it out.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“The gum. Spit it out. Before I do it for you.”

Your pulse quickened at his words. Not because you were intimidated, more just… heated. Not heated in a pissed off way, but in the kind that made your cheeks hot and in the way you wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging.

You rolled the gum to the side of your mouth. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

He leaned forward again, both palms braced on the table of your booth, his face inches from yours now.

“Depends.” He said softer. “You always this bratty or do I just bring it out of you?”

Your smirk didn’t fade, but you didn’t answer him. Maybe he was right, but you’d never admit that to him. And perhaps you wanted to see how far you could push this.

Just your luck, you watched a group of guys walk up to the Height and Weight booth across the way. You dramatically sighed and shook your head.

“Maybe if you can guess their weights correctly I’ll tell you.” You gestured towards the guys and leaned back in your chair, this time kicking your feet up on the table.

Steve turned his head and noticed the group, and you swear you could see the steam beginning to roll out of his ears. He clocked them immediately. They were the jocks that took over after he graduated. The kind you used to flirt with in school.

One of them waved from across the way, and you waved back, extra slow and sweet. Making sure Steve was watching, you blew them a kiss. You heard him mutter something under his breath. Then you watched his jaw tense so tight you thought all his teeth would break.

“Aww, don’t pout. You’ll get wrinkles.” You teased, drumming your fingernails against the back of your book.

“You’re not cute.” He snapped, not even looking at you.

“You sure about that?”

His head whipped towards you. He leaned back over the table, this time so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him.

“Keep pushing, sweetheart. And you’ll find out exactly how uncute I think you are.”

You popped your gum again just to spite him. Then slow and daring, you plucked the gum from your lips, holding the sticky pink blob between your fingers.

“Here, since it bothers you so much.” You said, extending it towards him.

He managed to get even closer, and grabbed your wrist. “Next time I tell you to spit it out, I won’t be so polite.”

You blinked, your pulse rising up your throat. Then, he let you go, turned, and stalked back to his booth.

You sat there, hand still half-raised, gum dangling from your fingers. Suddenly you weren’t feeling so smug.

The fair shut down for the night around eleven, the loudspeaker croaking its final calls. The lights began to dim across the fairgrounds, and the soft hum of generators filled the background with white noise.

You were back at your camper, freshly showered, bare-legged and barefoot, your cami clinging to you in the summer heat. You’d tossed your book aside half an hour ago. You couldn’t focus, not with this heat. Not with the constant vision replaying of your mind of Steve leaned towards you, his voice, his grip.

Then the music started.

Steve’s camper was close, too close. The walls were paper thin, and when he cranked the volume on some Billy Idol song, it vibrated the walls. You clenched your jaw.

You gave it five more minutes.

Then you slammed the door behind you and stormed the ten feet to his. You didn’t knock. You banged. Hard.

The music didn’t stop, but the door swung open a moment later. Steve stood there in shorts, shirtless, and his hair damp like he just showered. A towel was hung around his neck, and a smug grin toyed at his mouth like he had been expecting you any moment.

“What?” He cooed, like he had no idea what could’ve possibly inspired you to knock at his camper at almost midnight.

“Turn it down.”

“No.”

“Seriously?” You crossed your arms in disbelief.

“Seriously.” He leaned a shoulder against the frame of the door, deliberately relaxed. “Unless you came over to apologize for being a brat all night.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You were the one being a brat. You grabbed my arm.”

“Because you don’t listen.”

You scoffed. “You don’t scare me, Harrington.”

“Didn’t say I was trying to.”

But the way he said it, quiet and low, made your heart hammer against your chest. He watched your face shift, and something unreadable passed over his expression.

“You still chewing that gum?” He asked.

You blinked and wallowed your gum to the side of your mouth. “Maybe.”

“I’m serious. I’ll take that shit out of your mouth myself this time.”

Your breath caught.

A tense beat of silence passed between you, you standing there gawking at him in the low glow of the camper light. You hated how good he looked like this, casual, smug, and shirtless.

“You done staring?” He taunted.

“In your dreams, Harrington.”

You turned on your heel and walked back to your camper, trying not to let your knees buckle. His music continued in the background.

That didn’t stop you from laying in your bunk for the next hour, wide awake. The music finally stopped an hour ago, but you were still unable to sleep. You chewed haphazardly on your gum, blowing bubbles every few minutes.

You were half asleep when the knock came. It wasn’t loud or aggressive, just three measured raps against the door. You sat up slowly. The clock read 12:59 a.m. You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open.

Steve stood there, this time with a t-shirt pulled over his head. He looked tired and less smug than earlier.

You blinked up at him. “You lost or something?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You raised a brow. “So you thought bothering me might help?”

“Yeah, actually.” He leaned an arm against the door frame. “Look.. you piss me off.”

“You piss me off too. Why does this concern me at one o’clock in the morning?”

Silence. It was strange, seeing him like this. Quiet, no booth, no crowd, no one to impress. Just Steve.

“Can I come in?” He asked.

You hesitated for a second, and against your better judgement, you stepped aside.

The camper was cramped. One bench, one tiny sink, and a bed pressed against the far wall.

Steve moved slowly, ducking his head as he stepped inside. He didn’t say anything for a moment and looked around, then sat on the bench like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You leaned against the sink, arms crossed. “So now what?”

Steve looked up at you, eyes shadowed and unreadable. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“Which part? The part where you threatened me, or the part where you said I’m not cute?”

His jaw ticked.

“The part where I said you don’t listen. And the part where I said I’d take the gum out of your mouth myself.”

Your breath hitched.

He stood slowly.

“You’ve been acting like you want me to lose it.”

You stayed where you were, your pulse rapidly increasing. “And what if I do?”

His mouth twitched.

Then he crossed the room in two big strides and backed you against the sink. One hand planted beside your hip, the other grazing the strap of your cami.

“Then I guess it’s not a fair fight, is it?” He murmured.

Then he kissed you. Hard.

Your teeth clacked, and you tasted like bubblegum and he tasted like cherry cola. His fingers curled under your jaw as your hands bunched at the bottom of his shirt. He pressed you back until the countertop dug into your lower back, and you made a noise in the back of your throat that made him groan into your mouth.

He pulled back just long enough to whisper, his breath hot against your lips:

“Told you I’d shut you up.”

And then he kissed you again, like he was mad at you. For every eye roll, every gum smack, every moment you’d made his life hell. And god, you kissed him right back, like you’d been waiting all fucking day for this.

Steve’s hands were everywhere at once. He squeezed your waist, your hips, the backs of your thighs. He lifted you onto the edge of the counter like you weighed nothing, his mouth never leaving yours. You parted your knees around his hips, the camper creaking beneath the sudden shift in weight.

“This what you wanted?” He muttered against your lips. “Me losing my shit?”

You grinned against his lips as you panted. “Took you long enough.”

Steve chuckled once, his voice low and gravelly. He grabbed your jaw and tilted your face so he could take you in with his eyes.

“I want to take that fucking gum out of your mouth.” He said.

You wallowed the gum from the side of your mouth and went to reach for it, but he caught your wrist in his hand.

“No, I’ll take it out.”

Then he was kissing you again, this time tougher. His tongue swiped the gum from your lips, taking it for himself, then pulled away just enough to spit the gum into the sink beside you.

You gawked at him, your cheeks flushed and your lips swollen.

Steve grinned. “There. Better.”

You reached for him this time, yanking him by the front of his shirt to wrap your legs back around his waist. He groaned when he felt how hot you were against him. You rocked against him, slow and taunting.

“Still think I’m not cute?” You whispered, your teeth grazing his earlobe.

He let out a strangled laugh and slid his hands under your cami and over your bare skin. “No. I think you’re a fucking problem.”

“Well, you gonna solve it then?”

He didn’t answer, at least not with words.

Steve grabbed the hem of your cami and pulled it up over your head, and tossed it over his shoulder. His mouth went straight to your chest, his tongue flicking across your nipple. One hand reached behind your back to arch your closer.

You gasped, your fingers digging into his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him whimper.

“So fucking full of attitude.” He muttered against your skin.

You leaned back, watching through heavy eyelids as he dropped to his knees in front of you, his fingers trailing down your thighs, thumbs brushing against the waistband of your shorts.

“What are you going to do about it, Harrington?”

“Going to teach you a lesson.” He said.

He hooked his fingers in your shorts and dragged them down agonizingly slow. His smirk grew bigger as he watched your breath hitch.

“You gonna tell me how much you hate me?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. The look you gave him, your eyelids heavy, lips parted, and your body leaning into his every touch told him everything he needed to know.

Steve’s hands were rough on your thighs, his thumbs digging in as he pulled you close to the edge of the counter. He traced hot, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs, his teeth dragging just enough to make your grip claw into the edge of the counter.

“Still seem a little bratty.” He said, then landed his mouth on your mound from the outside of your panties.

You sucked in air as his fingers looped into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your legs, dropping them to the floor. Your brows furrowed in awe as you watched him take in the sight of your bare pussy.

“Fuck.” He breathed out, and reached a finger up to your folds, and ran a finger along the length of you, your arousal coating it.

You whined, titling your head over onto your shoulder as you watched his facial expression grow more concentrated. You sucked in a sharp breath and Steve’s mouth came down on you, his tongue licking an agonizing stripe up your heat, gathering your wetness. Suddenly his finger found your opening, prodding at it for a moment before pressing into you. You let out a gasp and jolted, your head tilting back at the intrusion.

He hummed against your folds, his tongue finding its way to your clit, flicking fast against it as his finger began to pump in a consistent rhythm in and out of you. You sighed deeply, a soft moan leaving your lips as his finger curled perfectly inside of you, teasing as your spongy g-spot. Steve added another finger, spreading you open wider. You whined out, your hand coming down to latch onto his hair. His mouth worked harder against your clit, the pleasure winding tight in your lower abdomen.

He pumped his fingers faster, curling them in perfect rhythm. You whined when he pulled his mouth away, but only missed the sensation briefly as his free thumb came down to circle your clit.

“Fuck.” You sputtered out, your pussy clenching at the added pressure.

“I can feel you squeezing my fingers.” Steve murmured, staring up at you through hooded eyes.

You panted heavily, the knot in your lower belly winding tighter at his words. He was relentless, his thumb still working magic circles and his fingers pounding into you with great speed.

Your orgasm hit you unexpectedly, your breath leaving your throat, your cheeks flushing hotter and your toes curled behind Steve’s back.

“That’s it.” He urged, fingering you through your orgasm, your come coating his knuckles.

You rode out your high, your eyes clenching shut in pleasure. You breathed out through your nose as you felt Steve’s touch leave you. He stood up between your legs his hand snaking up your belly to your nipple, giving it a gentle pinch.

“Still smug.” He murmured against the skin of your tit. “Even with my mouth between your legs.”

You didn’t laugh, still trying to catch your breath and regain your vision.

And then he stopped talking. You heard the rustle of fabric against skin, and you realized Steve was taking off his t-shirt. Then his fingers looped into the waistband of his shorts, pulling them down his thighs, exposing his erect cock. He wasn’t wearing boxers, just his short shorts. You stared down at him in awe, his tip leaking and angry. His hand fell to his length, pumping it in slow strokes, his gaze falling from your tits to your pussy, which was practically dripping, your arousal threatening to drop onto the floor.

“Cat got your tongue, baby cakes?” Steve grunted, his fingers sliding up your heat and landing on your sensitive clit, giving it a pinch.

You gasped, your thighs clenching together.

“Nuh uh.” Steve growled, his hands coming down to spread your legs back open. “These.. stay open.”

“Steve, fuck.” You said breathlessly, looking down at his erection. He was bigger than you expected, much to your surprise.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’re going to forget how to talk. Forget how to chew that stupid fucking gum.” Steve grumbled.

You watched through tired eyes as Steve ran his length against the inside of your thigh, teasing your core. A smirk tugged at his lips as he watched your eyebrows furrow.

“What do you need?” He said, his voice low. His tip was ghosting over your folds now, your arousal mixing with his precum.

“Mmm, fuck.” You tilted your head back as he nicked your clit that was still too sensitive from your orgasm.

Suddenly Steve’s hand slapped your ass hard, your body jolting from the sudden hit.

“Fuck!” You exclaimed, your legs tightening around Steve’s hips unwillingly.

“I said.” He leaned closer, his breath fanning over your lips. “What do you need?”

“Need you to fuck me.” You whispered, trying to close the gap between your mouths to kiss him, but he pulled away an inch to tease you.

“Hmm, couldn’t quite hear that. Might need to say it a bit louder.” Steve taunted you. Goosebumps littered your skin as his hand that was haphazardly stroking his cock trailed down to your clit, your legs jolting as he began to slowly rub in gentle circles.

“I-I need you.. to f-fuck me.” You struggled, your thighs clenching around his hand, but his assault didn’t stop.

He rubbed faster circles, this time he closed the gap between your mouths, and kissed you intensely. His teeth took your bottom lip, and he bit down slightly, not enough to draw blood, but enough to assert his power over you, even in a kiss. Then his tongue was against yours, tasting every bit of your mouth, running along your teeth. It was disgusting really, having him consume in such a thorough way, but you didn’t care. You needed more.

His tip prodded at your entrance, your pussy now throbbing from the lack of intrusion. His finger slowed on your clit, and you awaited the feeling of him stretching you. His free hand reached up to one of your nipples, giving it a gentle squeeze before slowly rolling his hips towards yours, his tip breaching your opening, the stretch radiating deep in your belly. Your head fell back in a moan, and Steve took this as an opportunity to litter kisses from your throat down to your chest, taking your nipple in his mouth.

He rocked his hips into yours, his length pumping in and out of you, your walls stretching to accommodate his length. You hadn’t had sex in months, and even then, your partner hadn’t been this big. This was uncharted territory and you feared after tonight, you weren’t sure how you’d be able to find someone who’d compare to this.

“Feels so good.” Steve grunted as he thrusted into you, his hands traveling all over you.

His hands squeezed at your breasts, then trailed down to your ass to squeeze the flesh of your cheeks, spreading them a bit, before finding their way to your thighs. You panted heavily over the sound of skin slapping, and basked in the feeling of Steve’s breath fanning over the sensitive pebbles of your nipples.

Suddenly Steve was pulling out of you, and you whimpered from the emptiness between your legs. He stepped back, and began lazily stroking his length again. He tilted his head toward the bed.

“Go get on the bed. On your hands and knees.” He demanded. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and your eyes trailed from his face, down the hair on his chest to his trimmed pubes, then to his hand wrapped around his cock.

You obeyed his orders and ambled over to the bed. You did as you were told and got on your hands and knees, your ass perched up in the air, your holes on display for him. Steve groaned at the sight of your drenched pussy catching the dim glow of the lamp as he got closer to you.

You exhaled shakily as Steve’s hands found their way to your ass, spreading the flesh to get a better look at you. Your brows furrowed when you felt his hot breath on your folds, and sharply inhaled when his tongue lapped up your arousal, brushing your clit.

Without warning, Steve was pushing back into you, not taking it slow at all. He fully sheathed himself in you, his girth stretching you once again. You gasped and grabbed a fistful on the sheet, your tits bouncing from his rapid thrusts.

“Jesus—“ You said between thrusts. “Christ.”

“Been wanting to fuck you like this all day.” Steve breathed out, leaning down so his chest was pressed to your back.

His hand snaked around your shoulders to lightly cup the front of your throat. He gave the sides of your throat a gentle squeeze, resulting in your pussy clenching down around him.

“Oh, you liked that, huh?” He said, his hand repeating its movement.

You whined, your back arching into his front. You were like a bitch in heat, and the sounds of wet skin slapping permeated the air. Never in a million years did you expect to be bent over by Steve Harrington, let alone loving it this much.

“I’m g-gonna come again.” You stammered, you lowered the side of your face into the mattress, Steve’s hands spreading your ass again to watch his length disappear and reappear from your entrance.

“Come on, baby. Let me feel it.” Steve said, a hand trailing down to your clit, rubbing gentle circles.

You whined out at the added pressure, your lower belly tying knot after knot. You flexed your calves, feeling the pleasure beginning to heat up deep inside you. Your next orgasm washed over you, your vision becoming fuzzy as every muscle in your body clenched. Your breath caught in your throat, and your grip tightened even more on the sheets.

“That’s it.” Steve muttered, his finger working your clit through your orgasm.

Your orgasm subsided, and your chest heaved in heavy pants as you came down from your high. Your senses were back, and Steve’s finger on your clit was about to make you scream.

Your hand swatted his hand away from between your thighs, and you groaned as his other hand gripped the flesh of your hip tighter.

Steve pulled out of you again, holding himself off from his release. He wanted this moment to last forever, and he wasn’t done with you quite yet.

“Lay on your back for me.” Steve said, his tone less demanding and softer.

You rolled over, and scooted yourself towards the head of the small bed, resting your head against your pillow. Steve climbed onto the bed and onto his knees, positioning himself between your legs.

“You on the pill?” Steve asked as he lowered himself over you.

“Yes.” You said, your arms reached up to cup his face, pulling his face down into a firm kiss.

Steve took the moment to sheath himself back inside you, your mouth parting. You would never get used to the feeling of him inside of you, and you’re not sure you ever want that feeling to stop. Steve fucked into you steadily, his skin slapping against yours.

His mouth left yours and trailed back down to your chest, his mouth working on one nipple while his free hand squeezed your other tit. Your head felt back against the mattress, your eyes rolling back at the new angle.

With every thrust you could feel his cock rutting up almost to your cervix, your g-spot being stimulating perfectly.

“God, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” Steve panted as he fucked into you faster. He was close, and he was shamelessly chasing his high.

“I hate how good this feels.” You said, your voice sounding almost drunk. You were half present mentally, your orgasms taking most of your energy.

“Yeah?” He bent down and rested his forehead against yours. “Want me to stop?”

“No.” You spat out quickly.

“Didn’t think so.” He said, and his mouth was on you again, this time sucking on the flesh of your neck like a vampire, his teeth working against your skin.

He wanted to mark you. He wanted those jocks to know you were already claimed and were off limits. He wanted you for himself.

“Not going to last much longer.” Steve sputtered, his thrusts becoming sloppier and more staggered.

Your nipples hardened as you felt the coil tightening again in your core, your third orgasm drawing closer. One of your hands trailed between you, finding your clit. Steve leaned up a bit to give you more room, one hand gripping your waist and the other squeezing the flesh of your ass. He took in the sight of you underneath him, your cheeks flushed, your tits bouncing with every rock of his hips, your fingers working in messy circles around your clit as you chased your high once again.

“That’s it, come for me again.” Steve panted.

He was dangerously close. He was feeling his lower belly beginning to tighten. Any second his muscles were going to betray him and let his high overcome him.

Your third orgasm hit you hard, and you involuntarily whimpered, your body shaking as it overcame you. Your toes curled and your back arched, and your hearing went fuzzy. Steve followed suit, his release shooting hot spurts deep into you, his lower abdomen clenching through his orgasm. He whined, feeling your walls clamp down on him, milking every last ounce of his seed into you.

Your high slowly faded, and you were still trying to catch your breath. Your skin was flushed and damp and Steve laid on top of you, his legs intertwined with yours, his cock softening inside of you. Steve’s chest rose and fell against yours, one of his arms draped lazily by your head, his fingertips toying with the ends of your hair.

Neither of you said anything for a long while.

Outside, the fair grounds were silent. No rides creaking, not fair-goers in sight, no sound of Steve’s music blaring. Just the two of you trying to catch your breath.

You finally shifted, just enough to look down at him, his face pressed to your chest. His eyes were open, looking off into the camper, like something was on his mind.

“You okay?” You asked, voice low.

He blinked, then shifted to look up at you. His hand moved to your face, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Yeah. Just wasn’t.. expecting that.”

A tired smile tugged at your lips. “Which part? Where you spit out my gum for me or the part where you fucked me and liked it?”

Steve huffed a laugh and shook his head. “You’re exhausting.” He muttered, but his voice was soft and fond in a way that made your chest ache a little.

“Seriously though. If you regret it and never want to speak to me again, I get it.” You tucked an arm under your head and watched his face.

His eyes narrowed slightly at you. “Do you?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. “No.”

He exhaled, slow. “Then I don’t either.”

Then, quietly and hesitantly, Steve shifted to pull the thin blanket up over you. It was then you realized he was still inside of you, soft, but you still felt full. His hand found yours beneath it, lacing your fingers together.

“Don’t tell Robin.” He murmured, half asleep now, using your tits as a pillow.

You smiled, eyes slipping shut. “Don’t tell her what?”

“That I like you.”

He said it like a secret.

And you held onto that like a promise, and you hoped that when the morning sun came, Steve Harrington wouldn’t regret those words.

#steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve x reader #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #my fic

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thehoneybeestings · 2 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲

𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

‧₊˚── Synopsis: Sevika has grown awfully fond of the owner of Zaun's only bakery; in fact, she'd do anything for her. So, when a hard heat hits the baker, Sevika can't help but offer a helping hand.

Word Count: 3.3k Content/Warnings: omegaverse! if it's not your thing don't read it; nsfw, top!sev, bottom!reader, soft dom!sev, reader is referred to w fem terms/pronouns, reader has female anatomy, sev has a dick bc i think all alpha's do?? idk im new here A/N: so... heyyyy guys... yes i know this is not on my wip list but i was struck with divine inspiration and who am i to work against higher forces! this is my first time dabbling in omegaverse so i hope it suffices...

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

There’s something tugging at Sevika.

She’s already scanned the room for what it could be, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. The booth she routinely occupies at The Last Drop feels no different than it ever has, the playing cards and poker chips littering the rickety wooden table in front of her are just as beat up as they always are, and her drunken opponents are as easy to beat as ever.

She’s slouched back against the wall behind her, brows furrowed and eyes trained on the half-empty glass of whiskey dampening its paper coaster. The anticipation buzzing around her shouldn’t feel so foreign; the woman’s M.O. is to be at attention, at all times, with no exceptions. Still, there's a hum of urgency that's much louder tonight than usual. Something is telling her-something is demanding her-to remain alert, attentive, ready to be of service.

Her flesh hand twitches, fingers squeezing around the rim of the glass she holds for a split second.

Someone needs her. Someone needs her now.

She can’t put her finger on who it could be, or why it could be, so she taps at the glass’s rim with it instead.

A voice, gruff after nearly a lifetime of smoking, pulls her from her concentration on ripples running through liquid amber.

“You even payin’ attention?” The ash of his cigar falls onto the table as the hand that holds it gestures towards her chips.

On an ordinary night, she’d shoot the shit. Give him a playful scoff. Tell him that she wasn’t paying attention at all, and somehow, she was still kicking his ass.

But, despite the normalcy of The Last Drop’s Friday night debauchery, despite the inventory she’d taken of her surroundings telling her that everything should be okay, she still can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It’s pulling her to her feet now. She downs the rest of her whiskey as she stands, mumbling something about everyone splitting her earnings evenly as she walks off. Her opponents are left entirely confused and a little bit richer as they watch her stride away with her usual purpose.

Where this pull is taking her, she has no idea. Frankly, she doesn’t care. She no longer feels her stomach wrenching as she tries to fight off the force yanking at her cloak, begging her to go wherever she’s going now. With every step, there is clarity.

Someone needs her. Someone needs her now.

She's getting closer to them. With every step she takes, she finds that her lungs are easier to fill now that she knows this person needn’t worry any longer.

When she ends up at your door, her entire body melts on exhale.

Of all the people in the world, there’s no one else she’d rather be needed by.

Be it the chaos that had ensued just before meeting you for the first time, or the way you seemed to calm her stormy seas at first glance, she remembers it like it was yesterday.

She remembers swinging the bakery’s door open in a panic, eyes wide and wild as they hurriedly scanned the room for a head of fluffy hair dyed blue.

“I’ve got her,” a voice rang out. A voice like honey to match your honeysuckle scent, she immediately noted.

You stood behind the counter, placing a piping bag down and wiping your hands on your blush-colored apron with a shy smile.

Lo and behold, there sat Isha, perched on the marble countertop next to you. She stared up at Sevika with big, innocent eyes; far too innocent for a girl who’d just escaped Sevika's grasp and booked it to the bakery she’d been begging to visit for weeks now.

“She’s quick,” you chortle. “Sugar may not have been the best idea, now that I think of it…”

You look over at the small girl whose mouth was now opening as wide as it could go to take a bite of the blueberry muffin you’d given her. It was too late. She was hooked and sure as shit to be bouncing off of the walls, now.

Sevika’s eyes trail from the crumbs stuck to Isha’s lips to the affectionate smile gracing your own. It was too late. You were sweet as honey, and she was hooked, too.

That was nearly a year ago, now. Trips to the bakery slowly but surely changed from Isha’s demand to Sevika’s suggestion. Eventually, Sevika began visiting on her own; before work to get a coffee, during her breaks to grab a cheese danish, after work to pick up a blueberry muffin for Isha.

It would have been less-than-chivalrous if she hadn’t begun offering to hang around until you closed shop so she could walk you home, would have been impolite to decline the Sunday afternoon taste-testing sessions you’d started inviting her over for.

She’s a gentlewoman. It’s only principle. That’s what she tells herself, at least.

That’s what she tells herself as her knuckles tap thrice on your door.

She starts to feel antsy again when you don’t come bounding to the door as usual, when your honeyed voice doesn't call out that you’ll be right there. She worries even more when you do reach the door, but it doesn’t swing open to reveal a bright smile, a pretty girl covered in flour and smelling of vanilla. Instead, you flick the deadbolt to the right, trail back to your room, and leave the door unlocked for her to enter of her own accord.

Her stomach turns like the doorknob she’s grasping, but as soon as the door opens, she knows what’s wrong.

The blossom of honeysuckle in the spring floats through the air. This much was a given; she knows this is what she’ll smell when she’s around you.

Tonight, though, it’s honeysuckle and something else. Something thick, hitting her like a brick wall. A white musk that nearly knocks her back when it crosses the threshold of your apartment door to meet her in the hallway.

She’s quick to step in and even quicker to close the door behind her. That scent was sure to attract unwanted visitors: Alphas looking to sink their gnashing teeth into something sweet.

She twists the deadbolt back to the left, her eyes darting across the room to find you. When that doesn’t suffice-when you’re nowhere to be seen- she follows your scent trail instead. Follows it back to your room, where her heart nearly breaks at the sight before her.

You’ve got what she figures must be every pillow in the house propped up against the headboard, every blanket you own pushed down to the foot of the bed, and you sit at the center of it all with your legs pulled into your chest, your head buried in your knees, and your arms wrapped around the ball you’ve curled yourself into.

There’s a pedestal fan pointed directly at you, despite the oversized sweater you adorn. You’re refusing to take it off, she bets. Want something soft and warm wrapped around you at all costs, even if it means you’ll sweat through it.

A soft grin spreads across her face as she approaches, slow and steady. It was her turn to calm your storm, now.

She sinks to her knees next to your bed, elbows resting on the flower-shaped throw pillow she remembers you buying when you were out shopping in the square with her one day. She’d taken a liking to it herself, always opting to rest her head on its pink petals as she stretched her long legs along the length of your couch, or holding it close to her chest as the two of you watched yet another horror movie you both knew damn well would keep you up all night.

She tries not to think too much of the fact that of all the pillows stacked upon your bed, it's the one you’ve got right next to you.

Her voice is nearly a whisper when she finally speaks, grey eyes soft and warm as they gaze up at you from her place on the floor.

“Hey, doll.”

All you manage to muster in response is a weary groan.

She exhales through her nose, eyebrows knitting together in concern.

“Rough heat?”

Your muffled sob cuts through the quiet, and her hand flies out to knead your thigh.

Her eyes widen in sudden consternation. Your skin is a brazier underneath her large palm.

“Janna,” she suddenly calls out, eyes frantic as they travel across your figure. “Y/n, you’re burning up. How long have you had a fever?”

She trades flesh for cold metal, anchoring her mech hand to your thigh in hopes that it’ll cool you down. Her right hand splays across your back, rubbing large circles across its expanse as you sniffle into your knees.

“Two days,” you mumble weakly, and much to her dismay.

Two days was too long for you to be in this state, nevertheless alone.

“I thought I’d have been claimed by now,” you admit, your voice wobbling.

“Don’t talk like that,” she commands. “There’s no timeline for this stuff. It’ll happen when it-”

“It’s not like that!”

Your head finally snaps up from your knees, teary eyes locking onto hers.

“It’s not… It’s not that I can’t find anyone. It’s that I can’t…”

Your voice breaks, and her hand trails up from your back to rest on the back of your neck, her thumb massaging the tightness at the base of your skull as she waits patiently for you to gather yourself.

You’re well aware that in the crux of an already grueling heat is not the best time to share an admission that very well could permanently alter your relationship with the woman you hold dearest. You’re also aware that you won’t be able to keep lying to Sevika for much longer.

You wouldn’t be able to keep lying to yourself for much longer.

Your words are still shaky despite the bracing deep breath you take before speaking.

“I can’t stand anyone else’s scent…”

Her hand stills, but her touch doesn’t falter. Her face doesn’t fall.

She’s still here. She’s still steady, still constant, but she needs you to be sure.

“Anyone else?” She asks, her voice low.

A small huff escapes you. You know Sevika. She doesn’t do vague.

She’s going to make you say it.

“I can’t stand anyone’s scent but yours.”

A pregnant pause settles in between the two of you.

And then, her hand is moving from the back of your neck to tuck a tendril of hair behind your ear.

“Do you want me to help?”

You nod fervently, words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them.

“Want you so bad, it hurts; please, Sev, I-”

Her lips crash into yours, stealing your breath away. Your heart is already racing, your core is already throbbing, you’re already whimpering into her mouth.

It was too late. You were sweet as honey, and she’d just gotten a taste.

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

It’s been hours. She’s been fucking you for hours.

You nearly feel bad for being so insatiable; only nearly, because she had made it very clear very quickly that you needn’t ever apologize for lasting so long, for needing the next round not even five minutes after the last, for wanting it faster, harder, deeper.

You needn’t ever apologize for allowing her the opportunity to take care of you.

Much to your dismay, sometimes taking care of you meant that she would slow down to check in, insist you take a breather, or get you a glass of water. Sevika knows that what you want is to be ravaged, to let your mind go all fuzzy and your body go all limp as she takes you, claims you, breeds you. Sevika knows that what you need is someone looking out for your best interest when you’re all-consumed by your heat, someone who knows that the responsibility of an alpha is to provide far more than a good fuck.

Still, she isn’t surprised that you nearly burst into tears when her pace begins to relent. Janna knows how hard it is for her to stop when you look so pretty laid out for her like this; legs thrown over her shoulders, hands desperately grabbing at firm muscle and cool metal, brows knit together in pleasure as you cry out for her.

She leans down to press a kiss to the beads of sweat forming on your hairline, and knows she needs to stop anyway.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you plead, wrapping your legs around her waist and rolling your hips up into her own, “please don’t stop, please keep going, Sev…”

She plants a kiss on your shoulder this time, the salt of sweat-sticky skin on her lips.

“You’re getting too hot, baby,” she purrs. “We’re not done, I promise. Just need to make sure you cool off for a second.”

You whine in defiance, and she hums in understanding, but you’re too fucked out to do anything but lay there and let her press a cool rag to your forehead and your flushed chest.

“You feelin’ okay, mama?”

She doesn’t miss the way your lip quirks up into the beginnings of a smirk.

“What?” She asks with a grin, bearing the gap in between her teeth. You’d told her it was cute once. The tips of her ears were dark red for the rest of the day.

“Don’t call me that,” you smile.

She just quirks a brow in playful curiosity.

“Not unless you plan on putting a baby in me.”

Her hands still. Her grin falters. For a moment, you worry that you’ve crossed a line.

Then, glittery grey irises go dark like a storm cloud rolling in. Her eyes are lidded, full of desire. Her jaw clenches, her nostrils flare, her muscles twitch for a split second.

Her head dips down to hide in your neck, but there, she finds that honeysuckle and musk hit her even harder here. You don’t miss the way her body writhes atop your own.

“Careful joking around like that,” she husks.

You buck your hips up in a challenge. “Who said I was joking?”

And then, she whines. Sevika whines.

“Couldn’t get you pregnant if I wanted to, doll,” she resigns. “I’m on suppressants.”

“That’s okay,” you coo, hands stroking up and down the length of her back, her skin warm and her muscles strong underneath your palm. “You can pretend. Jus’ want you to cum inside of me.”

This time, she growls, and you don’t miss the way her canines scrape across your pulse point.

She trails open-mouthed kisses from your neck, to your jaw, to the corner of your lips, breath shaky along the way.

Her resolve is crumbling, her restraint weakening. She had found you in need, and now, here she was, just as desperate as you had been.

“Come on, baby,” you urge, voice just over a whisper. “Take me.”

You're flipped over and pinned to the bed in a second. She yanks you up onto your knees by your waist, and her mech hand travels down your spine to push you further into the mattress while her flesh hand works to line herself up in between your legs. You gasp when you feel her sliding through your slick, whine when she presses an inch in before slipping back out and dipping down to nudge your swollen bud of nerves, groan when she finally presses into you completely, the head of her length prodding at your cervix.

She pants above you, both hands settling on your waist as she gives you a moment to adjust, and as soon as you're pushing back against her, she’s snapping her hips into you. Her grip is bruising as she pulls you back to meet every thrust. Your hands fly out to grab at the sheets next to you, your heady cries of pleasure muffled by the soft pillows piled at the head of the bed.

“How’s that? Huh?”

Her voice is gravelly from exertion. Sexier than it already is. How that’s even possible, you’re not sure. You don’t care. You can’t even think.

Sevika leans down to nip at your earlobe.

“Talk to me, baby,” she rasps. “This what you wanted? Wanted me to fuck a baby into you, hm? Wanted me to make you mine?”

You nod frantically, babbling out a yes, sobbing into the pillow. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, hiccupping against the breath you can’t seem to catch.

“I’ve got you,” she croons, her pace gentler now. “Deep breath for me, doll.”

Her flesh hand interlaces with your own, her thumb rubbing soothing circles into the meaty flesh between your thumb and your forefinger. You nod with a whimper, following her command.

“Good girl.”

She reaches down in between your slick-covered thighs to circle at your clit, rubbing lazy circles in tandem with her slow, deep strokes. She hisses at the feeling of your velvety walls clenching around her, grits her teeth as she begins to speed up.

You make it so damn hard for her to keep it together, reaching up to grab the hair at the nape of her neck and pushing her head down into your shoulder. She knows exactly what you’re asking for.

Her bite.

You’re asking her to sink her teeth into sugar, and Sevika’s always had a sweet tooth.

She clenches her jaw even tighter. Takes deep breaths through her nose. Fucks you into the mattress instead.

The bite will come later. When you’re not in heat, when you’re thinking clearly, when you can comprehend that what you’re asking for is to be bound to her. When it does come- when you do ask for that- she’ll say yes. No question.

She’s been yours since the moment she walked through the bakery’s doors nearly a year ago.

But right now, she’s here to take care of you. Nothing more, nothing in return.

A voice like honey rings out like music to her ears.

“Oh- fuck, don’t stop. Mm- gonna… gonna cum…”

“That’s right, baby. Give me another, yeah?”

And when she latches onto the juncture between your shoulder and your neck, sucking just hard enough for you to feel a dull pinch, you fall apart, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

That’s when she liked her name most. When it came from you.

This time, it’s what pushes her over the edge. It’s all nearly too much; the sound of you moaning her name, your scent inundating her senses, the feeling of you tightening around her, the pulse that thrums against her canines.

Shimmer doesn’t even make her feel this feral.

You can feel her twitching against your walls as she fucks you through your release with a new vigor.

“Fuck,” she grits, “say the word and I’ll pull out.”

“Don’t.”

Sugar meets spice. Your command is stern, and Sevika is good at following orders.

She ruts into you with a broken moan, hissing with each involuntary twitch of her hips as she spills into you.

Soon, she joins you in a leaden slump, her warm body caging you in and her cock still sheathed inside of you. The hum of the pedestal fan and the rasp of your pants fill the room like white noise.

And then, you giggle. A blissed out, breathy giggle that has the corner of Sevika’s mouth quirking up into a smile.

“What?” she pants.

“Nothing. Jus’ happy.”

She hums in contentment. “Feel better?”

“Much better.”

And Sevika can’t ignore the way her heart flutters, the pride she feels knowing she was able to take care of you, the desire she has to take care of you for as long as she lives.

The bite will come later, she reminds herself. Right now, there’s just you. Sweet as honey.

“Good,” she muses. “That’s what I’m here for.”

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

p.s. anybody want pt.2 feat. reader getting sev's bite...?

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #alpha!sevika #sevika one shot #sevika smut #sevika arcane #arcane #arcane smut #arcane one shot #sevika imagine #arcane imagine #lesbian #sapphic #wlw

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