Simon Riley likes ponytails. Long or short, curly or straight, braided or loc'd, doesn't matter, so long as it's enough to pull on, to wrap round his wrist and tug, force you back on his cock again and again, face angled to heaven, mouth craned open in pleasure as you bounce your happy ass against his groin, grind your pulsing clit against the wiry hair below his shaft. It's a thing for him, bad enough that just the sight of you putting your hair up, hairband in-between your teeth has him throbbing against his zipper. Desperate enough to leave with nary a word, slamming the stall door shut to fist himself, abuse himself to the thought of you. Choke up tight on his cock til the head turns purple, coming so hard his back caves in.
synopsis: your ultra rich boyfriend takes you shopping to apologize. again.
wc: 2.4k
cw: mdni, nsfw, intercrural, semi-public, light manipulation by reader, implied/allusions to cheating, bruce is, in fact, batman, angst, lying like a dog, spending his money to soothe the hurt.
author's note: i've returned with some bruce wayne, just before valentines.
You never thought you'd say it; but you think you're getting sick of shopping.
Okay.
Not technically true.
Gotham has an incredible shopping district in the midst of Miagani Island, where the buildings have reinforced bulletproof windows and the people are shiny and coiffed.
You're getting tired of shopping, because Bruce doesn't know how to apologize.
You fought again over how hard he's working, about his unexplained, seemingly random, absences. And you aren't stupid, he clearly isn't working at all hours like he says he is. Rich people, really rich people like Bruce Wayne and his playboy buddies never have to work that hard. Not anymore. You know that once your net worth hits a certain figure, people just do the work for you.
It goes the same every time. You lay in to Bruce about missing something important, he tells you it's to be expected, you threaten to leave. He offers to make it up to you with a new dress, and some sort of ritzy event; a charity benefit, a dinner at an exclusive penthouse restaurant, or some museum ribbon cutting. And stupid you, who decidedly did not grow up in Miagani, whose babysitter was a drug dealer, who scraped by on double shifts as a barista and a cater waiter, just can't help but get swept up in the novelty and glamour of it. You and Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne.
You inevitably accept, you shop together, he takes you out, you fuck til you're crosseyed, and somehow everything is better by the morning.
Not this time.
This time, it's obvious he'd been with someone, the night before. He missed your birthday dinner for Christ sake. You sat in that stupid restaurant for hours before fucking Dick, texted you that his father wouldn't make it. That he said he was sorry, that he wished "his girl" a happy birthday.
Pathetic.
Worse still, when he finally did let himself into your apartment, the one bedroom closet you inhabited rarely (unless you were, of course, fighting with your billionaire boyfriend), his hair was messy, and he smelled of perfume, something subtle and beautiful and expensive that turned your stomach.
You didn't say anything. What could you say? He'd only deny it. So you swallowed your anger, your pride and you let him sleep next to you. Knowing it would be the very last time.
Now you were in the midst of your make-up ritual, the sixth store in a row where you'd found outfits and accessories you just "had to have". Look, if you were gonna split from a guy richer than God, you were gonna leave with something. Or a couple thousand dollars worth of somethings.
"How many more?" Bruce groans, arms ladened with shopping bags, he'd wanted to stash them in the car but you'd sniped at him, letting him know he could sit in the car if the burden of his "apology" became too much for him to handle.
“I don't know, Bruce. How many stores are on this block?” You ask, tone mockingly airy and sweet. You tap a manicured finger to your chin, as if you’re contemplating anything other than slipping into at least four more boutiques, before you inevitably make him pay for an unnecessarily expensive dinner.
To his credit, Bruce doesn’t say anything, reshuffling the bags and frowning at you. You glare at each other for a moment, and you wish desperately for the ability to use laser vision, so you can melt his stupid, perfect face off.
Where the hell was Superman when you needed him?
One of the high-end store’s workers approaches, smiling in a way that tells you they earn commission. He’s buttoned-up and ramrod straight, all of his artificially white teeth visible when he smiles at you. He keeps his eyes trained on you, but it’s clear he knows who Bruce is, if the dollar signs practically glowing in his eyes are any indication.
“Hello! I need a dress that'll make a man's dick hard.” You chirp happily, letting your gaze swing from rack to rack all ladened with what was no doubt tens of thousands of dollars worth of garments.
The poor sales associate looks like he's going to choke on his tongue as he sputters "Excuse me?" He looks like his eyes are liable to pop out of his freckled face.
Bruce grunts your name, trying to censure you.
You press on.
“You know,” you leer, crossing your arms over your chest, “like a real showstopper!” The poor sales associate leads the pair of you to a cluster of rail thin mannequins draped in couture, their blank featureless faces stirring nausea in your stomach. You try to picture Bruce’s new girlfriend's face over them, and when sadness starts to brew in your chest you try to stoke anger instead.
“These just came in, they're very popular, Ma'am” He murmurs, sweeping an open hand towards one of the racks. You skim through the fabric, tugging dresses apart from one another with a critical eye, pretending you don’t have a six foot shadow tailing you.
“Oh, don't call me ma'am, do I look old enough to be a ma'am, honey?”
“No.” The sales rep shakes his head vigorously, so hard you worry he’ll hurt himself.
“Miss will do just fine.” Your smile is trite, tired from overuse, bordering on miserable.
You toss several dresses and jumpsuits over your arm, disappearing into the changing rooms without a single glance backwards at Bruce, who grumbles something under his breath.
Like it fucking matters.
You try on the dresses at a glacial pace, optioning and dismissing outfit after outfit just to piss Bruce off. Hell, occasionally you just stand in the changing room in your underwear, downloading dating apps with a malice you hadn’t thought yourself capable of. Eventually the space between your soon-to-be-ex’s grunts and huffs of frustration become non-existent, and you settle on a slinky red number, billionaire blood, you think briefly before you cringe. You are not this person, you swear. Bruce is making you this person. You poke your head out of the dressing room, catching the sales attendant looking an unearthly shade of Killer Croc green.
“I'm sorry honey, what was your name again?” Bruce stands off to the side, your shopping bags surrounding him.
“Oh! I…uh…never said, ma'am. Miss!” He corrects himself abruptly when you playfully glare and wag your finger. “My name is Trevor.”
“Trevor.” You coo, ignoring the way Bruce's jaw ticks with irritation. You hope he gets wrinkles.
“Would you fuck me in this dress?” You part the dressing room curtain, running your hands down the red satin suggestively.
Trevor's face shoots from sickly green to baby pink all over, the dusting on his cheeks spreading out and diffusing over his fair skin, like his body isn't sure whether to pale or to blush.
He chances a cautionary look at Bruce and you snap the employee's attention back to you as fast as possible, so fast you worry he'll be struck with whiplash.
“Don't look at him. He's not the one wearing the damn thing. Would you fuck me? In this dress.” Trevor gulps audibly and you’d almost feel sorry for him, if you weren’t about to tear a quarter off of Bruce’s back account just for his commission.
“Y-yes, Miss.” He croaks, sighing softly when you shoo him away with a nod and a smile. You don’t spare a glance to Bruce before you turn back to the changing room, which apparently is a bridge too far because Bruce crowds in after you, blocking out the paltry light in the enclosed space, sliding the locking mechanism closed behind him.
“Can I help you?” The words are bitten out through clenched teeth, his proximity cutting right through your desire to pretend, every word you hiss drips with the animosity of someone who’s been cheated on, probably multiple times, now that you’re meditating on it.
“No.” the answer is unusually terse, like it’s been wrenched from Bruce’s throat. “Take the dress off.”
“You don’t like it?” Like you give a fuck, “I’m not having sex with you in here.” You’re never having sex with him ever again, but you’ll drop that disappointing little bomb once your belly is full of $400 steak.
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I’d appreciate you sharing it with me, instead of punishing me for it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Bruce? I’m a great communicator. You’re the one who-”
What the fuck are you doing? You don’t need to argue with this asshole, in a few hours he’ll be crumpled up newspaper at the side of your bed and you’ll be in the club, getting drunk off your ass before you go back to a life of mundanity, serving rich douchebags their blinis and caviar. Back to life before Bruce.
So, instead of unhinging your jaw and tearing his adulterous head off, you mumble, “It doesn’t matter.”
It does.
“It does.” He’s in your head again.
“I’m not mad at you, Bruce.”
You are.
“You are.” Goddamnit.
“I apologized. I am sorry. I will make it up to you. I am currently making it up to you.” He has this way of speaking to you sometimes, the way he does with the press, a way you were content to ignore because honestly, if you lingered for even a moment on how condescending he sounded you’d have dumped his ass months ago. Sometimes, Bruce speaks like a politician, like his fingers are crossed behind his back. And maybe they are. Maybe he’s been fucking whoever she is for as long as he’s known you.
You don’t want to linger there. So you don’t.
“Okay. Then get out and let me finish in here.” You figure you’ve got maybe four more outfits to try on before Bruce totally melts down.
“Not yet.” Maybe two.
But your count is obviously off because before you can turn back to the pile of designer looks, Bruce is on you, framing your face in his hand and pressing his lips to yours, licking deep into your mouth like he can kiss the truth out of you, like he has the fucking right to.
He grabs the hem of the dress, rucking it up, up, up, over your butt and around your waist, pretends he doesn’t hear you protest against his mouth when he squeezes your ass with both hands. There isn’t much space for what he obviously wants to do, but he makes it work, skating his palms over your throat, chest, sides, rubbing his thumb against the waistband of your underwear. He’s looking over your shoulder, at your exposed backside in the mirror and the traitorous bitch in your head wonders if he’s imagining his little girlfriend instead of you. If he can’t even stand to look at your face anymore.
But Bruce doesn’t turn you around and fuck you bent over, doesn’t make you lower your head so he can picture someone else.
Instead, he draws back, looks you in the eye and brings your hand to the fly of his perfectly pressed trousers, makes you feel the heavy bulge of his erection, makes you watch as he frees himself, flashing you the ruddy, glistening tip.
Instead, Bruce Wayne peels your panties down at a glacial pace, just low enough to keep them on, cutting into the meat of your thighs, allowing him to slot his hard dick between them, nestling the length of him against your soft, burning hot cunt. He grits his teeth, eyes rolling to the sky before he shifts his weight, slowly, methodically grinding his cock between your folds, letting your clit rub and brush his erection.
“Look at me. Look at us.” He huffs, his voice thickening in the heat of your connection. You moan quietly, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, your self esteem, your pride and dignity are supposed to be stronger than the broad expanse of his hands and clear blue eyes. Yeah, Bruce is hot, and he’s rich and he fucks like a god but he cheated, on your fucking birthday. That’s not the kind of shit you reward with public sex.
Even if his fingers plucking at your nipples while he fucks your thighs feels distinctly like a reward for you.
Every forward motion has Bruce murmuring praise in your ear, and you swear to god if he says “only you.” like he did on the rare nights you spent wrapped up in each other, you will strangle him with a silk pashmina.
Luckily, Bruce seems wired tight, because you can practically hear him grind his molars, fighting the urge to spill hot between your thighs. Failing. Failing to fight the urge.
His hips cant forward, pushing him further between your thighs, grinding the vein threading the length of his cock against your clit, tip catching your entrance. It tilts you over the edge, submerging you underwater, pulling air from your lungs and popping your ears with the freight train momentum of it.
Bruce holds you close, shuddering against you.
“I am sorry.” He huffs into the juncture between your throat and shoulder, presses a kiss that lands like lead on the skin there.
“I know, I’m still…sore about it. My birthday, Bruce.” You turn up the petulance to cover the contempt, lest it bleed from your ears, nose, mouth. Whatever he says in response is drowned up by the thump of your heart, the high pitched ringing in your ears that only rage can conjure.
Then…because you want this dress, and the one on the mannequin by the register…and the one in the window display next door, you spout your next bout of absolute drivel.
“I’m sorry. I know I’m being a brat.”
And because you will never eat at an expensive restaurant like Konia ever again, you swallow what pride you have left, hitch your panties up, through his come, and plaster a smile on your face.
“Let’s have a good day, okay?”
You send him out of the changeroom with a touch to his arm and a kiss to the corner of his mouth, all while you try to keep the phantom scent of perfume out of your lungs.
wake up; reader getting fucked from below by neighbour!Simon who keeps your hands pinned behind your back while he bullies the thickness of his cock inside you, just a little too deep. All too happy to let you drool on his shoulder as he drives into you again and again, watching the reflection of your ass bouncing heavy and fast over his lap on the black screen of your television. Scarred and tattooed arms sinking into your sides, anchoring you to him, implacable, insatiable. He was only supposed to pick-up a package mistakenly delivered to your front door, too heavy for you to bring it over yourself. Only supposed to have 'a cuppa, if you have it, pet.' Only supposed to take a kiss, soft, fleeting. Only supposed to 'touch it, over yer clothes, promise.' Only supposed to rub against the outside, slotting his ruddy, leaking tip between the already soaked lips of your pussy. Only supposed to pull out, come against the curve of your ass.
But Ghost can be neighbourly, he can go above and beyond. If it's for you.
Soap's favorite toy to use on you is a wand, pressed between his thigh and your cunt while he's hunched over you, obscuring all light. He keeps it nestled between the lips of your pussy, perfectly against your clit, so when you inevitably cream yourself messy and stupid against it, the vibration makes the sound louder, obscene. He wraps a burly arm over your head and forces you to watch his face pressed to your chest, licking, sucking, biting until your nipples are soaked with his spit and aching in the absence of his mouth. When you shift your hips to get away from the almost numbing sensation of the toy, he presses down on your sides and raises his knee in response, and now it's worse. Now you can't do anything but cry to the ceiling while your abdomen and thighs tense and relax over and over. And your bodies are pressed so close that every half-motion you make rocks the two of you and your bed, creating a dip and rise pattern that only gets you closer, only makes you hold your breath til your head feels like it'll pop.
Price's favourite toy to use on you is a gag. And nearly every time he pulls one out, sometimes a ballgag, sometimes a pony bit, sometimes a simple piece of duct tape, you get this look on your face, this shine to your eyes, like you can't believe it's happening, even though you use one near once a week. He's got a collection worth marvel, Captain Price. The o-ring, however, is a favourite of both of yours, so it gets the most use. Price slides a large, calloused hand under your chin, inspects the inside of your forced open mouth with fingers first, calm and detached as he slides his pointer and middle over the wet plane of your tongue, pushes them deeper until you drool over yourself, until he feels the suffocating squeeze of your throat around his digits. Then, whether you're kneeling or laying back with your head hanging over the edge of the bed, he forces his cock as deep as it can go, watching that heady disbelief melt into glassy pleasure, watching your chest struggle and rise, your lungs burning for oxygen.
Gaz's favourite toy to use on you is a plug, especially after he's fucked you full for hours. He'll perch you on the edge of the bed, using wide, rough hands to control the rhythm of your hips, to drag your trembling body back and forth on his dick, spreads you open, forces you to drip nonstop down his groin, churns you so hard there's nothing you can say, no way to force coherent words past your craned open lips. Never wears a condom, would never dream of depriving you of that sticky full feeling, of his cum warming your insides so deep you forget what it’s like to be empty. He's a fan of the themed ones, tails, jewels, cutesy shapes, and the beautiful porcelain job with a hand painted KG you’d had made for his birthday. What really gets him is when you wear them in public, when a skillfully placed hand and a bit of a push can have you buckling at the knees, clinging to his side like he’s the only thing keeping you upright, mouth pursed tight to stop yourself from outright whimpering. What a sight.
Ghost isn't the type to use toys, Mr. hands-on. That is, unless he's away from you, forced from a distance to greedily accept videos and pictures of you speared open on a fake dick, gifts he replies to with offcenter images of his leaking, angry tip sandwiched between his abdomen and his waistband, begging for attention. You frequently harangue him for videos with the sound on, but typically only receive a quick, abrasive, “take it all the way in” text, clearly typed and sent with only one hand. You do as you’re told, of course you do, bear down on the dildo until your labia is flush with the silicone base, gripping and wet around the girth of it, leaning forward so Ghost can see clear into your insides, rhythmically pulsing around the dimethicone length. Then and only then do you receive a three minute long clip of Ghost abusing himself, gripping his ruddy cock tight, choking precum from the tip, hips frantic, voice a constant low groan, praising you.
Clark Kent is used to being one of the good ones. Farmboy. Kansas. Sweet. Secure, A good boy, raised by his Ma and Pop, the kind of guy you don't have to cross the street to avoid because he did it for you. He brings donuts to work, and gives the security guard, Marti (with an I and not a Y because it's actually short for Martine), a birthday and Hanukkah present every year. Because that's the kind of guy Clark is.
Good.
So why don't you like him?
Your kid likes him, adores him, actually. Always begging to visit Mr. Clark on the eighth floor, waving like crazy if Clark just so happens to be getting home at the same time the two of you skip up the subway steps. He's curious and sweet, with big brown eyes the size of dinnerplates when he figures out Clark's a journalist, that his name is in the papers under Superman headlines.
So what's your deal?
Everyone likes Clark. Dogs like Clark. Cats...don't openly despise him. He's never said a rude word to you, and his eyes didn't linger when you entered the elevator wearing that one shirt with the straps and mesh(?) that reminded him in an instant that he didn't live in Smallville anymore. But you never meet his eye and unless your son's with you, your mouth is pursed and screwed to the side, content to let the both of you positively stew in the awkward silence. And yes, he'd wished you a happy Presidents' Day despite not knowing if you celebrated or not but that wasn't grounds for outright disdain, right?
Right?!
And you don't have to talk to him, you don't have to be friends, Clark's not the type to force it. But there was one day, one long, long day where he'd clocked triple shifts as Clark and Superman, bouncing from the Planet to the sky and back again with not even a turkey wrap, half mayo in between. And he'd dragged himself home by what felt like his aching fingernails, only to find you and your son in the lobby, giggling and laughing at each other, reminding Clark why he did it. Why he keeps doing it. And that would've been enough, enough for him to breathe through the certainly broken ribs and haul his behind upstairs. But then you smiled at him, breathlessly apologizing for taking up space in front of the up and down buttons.
And it knocked Clark dead.
Maybe you'd just had a great day, or maybe you'd forgotten you didn't like him, heck, maybe you'd come back from the dentist's office and were still floating on laughing gas. It didn't matter to Clark.
You smiled at him.
And he wanted more of those.
Badly.
So he wasn't giving up, he'd keep saying good morning, he'd keep making lightsaber noises with your son and he'd keep wishing you a happy Arbor Day.
mdni. softdom!steve rogers x reader | bringing steve home
pt. 2 of my valentines event!
cw: new relationship, fluff, touchy steve rogers, discussions of bdsm, fantasizing, allusions to oral, cuddling, undressing, body worship.
“This is me.” You gesture with an open hand, letting Steve in before you, watching the man sweep his gaze across the interior of your home, tilting his head his way and that like he’s in a museum and not his girlfriend’s home.
“It’s not a penthouse or anything but it’s mine.” You laugh breathily, nerves compressing your lungs. You don’t do this, don't invite men to your place, let them peek inside your domicile. It felt too real, too intimate, like you’d given Steve a free pass to study your insides, poke at the viscera while he hms and ahs.
“In this city? No one could afford that. It’s nice.” He murmurs, lifting the framed photo of you and your two nephews, Gabriel and Michael, from your side table, smiling at the three of you, beaming back at the camera, covered in mud.
“Steve, you live in a brownstone.” It’s pretty outside, sunshine glinting overhead, even while tiny drops of rain patter your windows, and you’re grateful you won’t have to spend the better part of tomorrow morning babying your plants.
Steve pauses, and replaces the frame, mumbling; “It’s a fixer upper. I got a deal.” The blond sounds so put out it forces a laugh out of you, relieving a bit of the tension. The rest of it flees when Steve doubles back, interlacing his fingers with yours, pressing your palms together.
“Show me your kitchen.” His eyes are alight, frosty blue framed in fair lashes, clear and playful.
It’s nothing to sneeze at. The island kitchen is almost entirely tiled, bright blues and yellows under every step. Remnants from the old woman who’d lived in the house prior. You’d painstakingly stripped the dark teak of its original bright green paint, restoring the drawers and cabinets to their original wood finish. It’s gorgeous, and from the way Steve’s head is back on the swivel, doing rounds with his eyes, it’s safe to say the man agrees.
“Beautiful.” He sighs, rubbing a hand over the vintage gas range. You don't have the heart to tell him it barely gets used beyond boiling water for coffee. Steve turns to face you, and where a man would usually wink, his eyes are heavy lidded, full of playful suggestion. “The kitchen is nice too.”
You can’t roll your eyes hard enough, even as a shiver rolls over your body. You’re getting better at pretending Steve’s rare bouts of flirtation don't get to you, cheesy as they can be.
Pretending they don’t make you want to get on your hands and knees and stretch like a cat in the bright summer sun.
It certainly doesn’t help that you spent the better half of the ride to your place discussing the parameters of your new relationship.
Certainly doesn't help that you spent the worse half of that same ride imagining sitting astride his lap, pressing your lip to his jaw, slipping your hands under his shirt til you can follow his happy trail by touch.
When you’d gone home with him from the bar, charmed by his respectful, boy-next-door demeanour, you hadn’t figured him for a lifestyle type, although aren’t even entirely sure what that even means. Only knew your college roommate had also been in it, enough that she dragged you to a club once or twice with the promise of free drinks and good music.
“Can I get you anything? Water, juice, wine?” You’re fidgeting, you know you’re fidgeting, rubbing the pads of your fingers together while you stand to the side of your fridge like a particularly eager waitress. You should do something, right? Cut into that coffee cake your mother made, maybe put some music on?
“Sit, sweetheart. Let’s talk.” He says it in that smooth, soft way he says everything, but it has weight to it, firmness it didn’t have when you’d met.
So you can sit.
Sitting is good.
When you’re perched on an island stool, Steve makes quick work of standing before you, placing warm heavy hands on your knees, prying them apart, slow enough to allow you to protest, firm enough to ensure you really don't want to. He pushes between them, so close you could easily wrap your legs around his waist, cementing the two of you together.
Steve rubs the white linen of your skirt between his thumb and forefinger, humming “I like this,” while he anchors his hands around the thickness of your thighs, until his hold is implacable.
“Yeah?” Every word you speak feels simultaneously disruptive and inconsequential, like the sound of your voice shakes the silence of the room violently, right before it fades to nothing, like you’d never spoken in the first place.
“Mm.” Steve responds, which is…nothing. Noncommittal and carefree, but the way he holds you, the way his thumbs rubs at your flesh, separated by the thinnest layer of cotton, it has you sinking, melting, pliant and liquid, heat Steve can hold in his palms, sip from when he wants.
“So…” you start, if only to stop yourself from burying your face in his throat and inhaling his scent, rub your nose and mouth in the fair skin there, rake the blunt edge of your teeth over the tiny freckle that lives there. “How does this work?” Honestly, you’re imagining whips, leather, collars and the like, a train of thought probably reflected in your eyes. You’d be lying if you said it’s appealing.
“However we want it to work.” He shrugs, like it’s that simple, like the pinterest board of all black outfits and intricate lingerie you’d been curating meant nothing.
“This kind of relationship is an exchange, alright.” He holds your gaze before he continues. “It’s not about violence or pain for the sake of violence or pain. It’s reciprocal.” Steve threads a finger into your hair, tugging lightly, just enough for your scalp to tingle, enough to make you fist your hand in the side of his shirt. “You will be uncomfortable, sometimes, but you push through it because you know I’ll reward you. That I’ll be proud of you.” The idea of it, of relying on him, leaving things in someone else’s hands, relinquishing the control you held onto by your manicured fingernails…It’s terrifying.
He’s terrifying.
“But if you’re really uncomfortable or if you’re scared or worried about something, then we can stop or slow down.Whenever you want. That’s what safe words and gestures are for.”
You can’t stop your confused expression from spreading, eyebrow quirked high, “Gestures?” To his credit, Steve doesn’t seem all too perturbed at being interrupted, immediately answering your question, shrugging his shoulders.
“Necessary if you’re gagged. Or your mouth is otherwise…occupied.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
Heat flushes your system, so thoroughly it’s as if the tips of your hair stand on end, awareness seeping from every pore. It’s bizarre. Steve Rogers in your kitchen, a tiny white spot on his black t-shirt where his ice cream had dripped on him earlier today, discussing how he’d edge you into BDSM. How he’d give you what you need, take his pleasure from yours. How he’d have expectations, how he’d give you homework.
Homework! You haven’t had assignments in years, though you suspect essays weren’t on the table for you.
He’s gentle, every new bit of information incorporated with a touch to your cheek, a kiss above your brow, a hum of your name. Until the sun sinks below the horizon, leeching your kitchen of warmth and light, until you both slink further into your home, into your bedroom. Steve answers every question with patience and affection, undressing you piece by piece, lingering so he can imprint the image of you in that soft cotton skirt, warm white against the tone of your skin, hands rooted to your hips. He guides you beneath the covers, once he can bear to strip you completely, nose buried in your hair, holding your body so close you can feel his heartbeat steady and fast against your back.
Steve holds you until sleep is hard to fight, until you’re mumbling half smothered words moulded from half-formed thoughts. Until you doze off in his arms, drool into his elbow.
