REVERENCE hamzahthefantastic x reader
summary!: He messed up, drifted too far, too long, but when he comes back, it’s not just to say sorry. It’s to feel you, hold you, worship you. Between whispered apologies and breathless moans, love and lust collide in the softest, dirtiest way
Pairing: boyfriend!Hamzahthefantastic x female girlfriend!reader
Trope: established relationship
Genre: smut, fluff, slight angst, terrible writing (mature/18+)
Note: my first request hello???? i hope i lived up to ur standards anon. also, i think this is lowkey terrible now that im reading back. 🥹🥹🫶🫶 based on this ask
Word count: 2.5k
warnings !: explicit sexual content, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, praise kink, dom/sub dynamic, light bondage (wrist restraints), mirror play, edging/orgasm control, overstimulation, slight breath-play, possessive language ("mine"), slightswitch!!hamzah, more dom!hamzah
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You haven’t said a word all day.
The sun dipped below the horizon hours ago, but you don’t bother turning the lights on. The only glow in the room is the soft pulse of your phone screen on the nightstand, message after message from him. You don’t read them.
Not because you don’t care. But because you do. Too much.
Hamzah has this way of disappearing without ever leaving. He’s there, physically, but with his headphones in, eyes locked on his screen, nodding absently while your voice dims into the background. And when you finally gathered the courage to say something, to tell him how empty it makes you feel, he looked shocked.
Like he didn’t even realize you were slipping away.
That’s what hurts the most.
So when the front door opens with a soft ding, you don’t move.
You hear his footsteps. The familiar clatter of keys. Then… stillness. Long enough to wonder if he’s walked right back out again.
But then you hear him, low, shaky.
“…I’m here.”
Your eyes remain on the wall.
“I couldn’t keep texting. I needed to see you. To be here. Really be here.”
There’s a pause thick enough to drown in. You feel his presence just beyond the door, like a heartbeat you can’t ignore.
“I messed up,” he says, voice quieter now. “I got lost in all of it--editing, numbers, people who don’t even matter. And in the process, I stopped seeing you. The one person who actually does.”
Your chest tightens.
“I thought you’d be okay with it. That you’d understand. But I stopped checking to see if you really were.”
The door creaks open.
You don’t turn, but in the corner of your vision, you catch him, hesitating in the doorway, eyes dark with regret, with something softer beneath it.
He steps in. Slowly. Like he’s afraid the floor might crack beneath him.
Then he’s kneeling in front of you at the edge of the bed, hands hovering by your waist like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t think he deserves.
“…Please,” he says, his voice a breath. “Don’t shut me out. I’ll do anything. Just—don’t be done with me.”
You finally look at him. And the moment your eyes meet, something in him unravels. His hands tremble. His jaw clenches like he’s holding back more than just words.
He leans forward, resting his forehead gently against your thigh. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “So fucking sorry.”
Your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap. Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, you reach out and grip the front of his hoodie. Tug him closer. Not as a pardon. Not yet.
Just to say I’m still here.
And that’s all it takes for his breath to catch, sharp, like he's breaking apart.
“I’ll do anything,” he repeats, his voice thick now, full of every emotion he tried to swallow for too long. “Let me make it up to you, baby. Please.”
His hands move, slow, careful, as he starts to slide the hem of your shirt up. His touch is reverent, fingertips ghosting over your skin like he's afraid you’ll disappear if he goes too fast.
He looks up at you, searching your face, waiting for the smallest sign to keep going. Want tangled with guilt, devotion laced with need.
And when you don’t stop him, when you breathe out, soft and shivering, and let him peel the fabric away, he exhales like it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to breathe in days.
“Thank you,” he whispers, like you’ve handed him something sacred. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Your shirt falls somewhere behind you, forgotten. Hamzah is still kneeling, still trembling, but his eyes never leave yours. There’s awe in them, the kind that makes you feel like you’re something holy. Something he’s not sure he deserves to touch, but desperately needs to.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, almost in disbelief. His voice cracks at the edges, reverent and raw. “I don’t know how I looked past you for even a second.”
He leans forward again, this time kissing the inside of your thigh, soft, apologetic. Another kiss, higher. Then another. He worships in silence, letting his mouth say what his words can’t. And for a while, you let him.
But then you thread your fingers through his buzzed hair, and he freezes.
“Up,” you whisper, tugging gently. “I need to feel you.”
Hamzah rises slowly, climbing over you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. But you don’t. You stay. You let your hands explore the planes of his chest under that hoodie, feel the rapid beat of his heart as your nails skim his skin.
And when you push the hoodie off his shoulders, when your lips brush his jaw, he exhales like he’s melting under your touch.
“I want to make it right,” he murmurs, breath hitching as your teeth graze his neck. “I want to give you everything.”
You hum, lips at his ear. “Then stop waiting for permission.”
That’s when something changes.
Something deep in his eyes flickers. Submissive no longer, still gentle, still reverent, but now charged with purpose.
His mouth crashes into yours, not rough, but intense. Desperate. Like he’s making up for every missed moment in the language of heat and skin and breath. His hands grip your hips, firmer now, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, the reality of you still choosing to be here.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he mutters against your lips, sliding his hand under your thigh and pulling you closer, “how close I’ve been to breaking just thinking about losing you.”
You gasp as he flips you effortlessly beneath him, the sheets cool against your back, his body warm and anchoring above you. That reverent touch is still there, but now it’s laced with command.
“I need to feel all of you,” he says, eyes blazing. “Every sound, every breath. Let me remind you who you belong to.”
He kisses his way down, leaving heat in his wake, until your back arches off the bed and your hands clutch at the sheets. And he doesn’t stop, doesn’t rush. He learns you. Worships you. Makes promises with his tongue, his hands, the way he holds you open like a secret only he knows.
And when you’re breathless, trembling, undone beneath him, he finally rises again, hair tousled, lips swollen, gaze locked to yours with that quiet, dominant fire.
“You’re mine baby, ”he whispers, voice rough now. “all mine.”
Your breathing is ragged, shallow, like your body hasn’t caught up to the storm he’s pulling you into. Hamzah’s hovering over you now, hair messy, chest rising and falling like he’s fighting for control.
But he’s already lost it. For you.
“You’re mine,” he repeats, slower this time, like a vow. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “Say it.”
And you do, because it’s the truth, because it always has been. “I’m yours.”
Something in him snaps.
His mouth is on yours again, hot, open, claiming, and his hands are already moving, one gripping your thigh, the other fisting the sheets by your head like he needs the anchor.
He grinds against you through his sweats, and even with the layers between you, the heat is blinding.
He pulls back just enough to tear his shirt over his head, his skin flushed, jaw tight. Then he’s tugging at your panties, slow at first, but when you lift your hips and help, he growls, low and possessive, and rips them down your legs.
“I missed this,” he murmurs, spreading your thighs again, mouth already trailing down. “Missed how you taste, how you sound, how you beg.”
You whimper as his mouth returns to you, more intense now, more focused. His tongue is slow and purposeful, circling your clit, teasing until you’re shaking. His fingers press into your thigh to hold you open, firm but never cruel.
And then, one finger, then two, slipping inside you with devastating precision. Curling. Searching. Finding that spot that makes your back arch and your cry catch in your throat.
“God, baby…” he moans against you, his voice wrecked. “You’re clenching so hard. You gonna come for me?”
You nod, breathless, and he doesn’t let up. Tongue flicking, fingers stroking deep, relentless. Worshipful.
And when you come, it’s violent in its softness, your body convulses, thighs squeezing around his head, and he moans like he’s the one unraveling.
But he’s not done.
He kisses his way back up your body, mouth dragging wet heat up your skin, and when he reaches your mouth again, he kisses you like you’re air. Like he’s drowning in you.
“You think I can stop now?” he pants, pressing the head of his length against your entrance, you don't even know when he stripped out of his sweats-- too delirious to pay attention to such a minor detail. “After that?”
You’re still trembling when he pushes in, slow, deliberate, stretching you until you cry out. And he freezes, just for a second.
Eyes locked on yours.
“Look at me,” he whispers. “I want to see your face when I fill you.”
And you do, you watch him watch you as he slides in, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated, his breath catching like it hurts.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel unreal.”
He holds there, buried deep, both hands cradling your face now, soft, intimate, until you shift your hips and beg for more.
Then he moves.
Not slow anymore.
Rhythmic. Deep. Every thrust punching out a sound from your throat, every snap of his hips harder than the last.
He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, holding you open, vulnerable, but you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more his.
“You’re mine,” he growls again, breath ragged as he pounds into you. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours.”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours, Hamzah. All yours.”
His rhythm stutters, sharp and frantic now. “That’s right. Nobody gets to have this but me.”
Then he slows, drags it out. Deep rolls of his hips. Pushing you to the edge again, and again, until you’re a mess of gasps and pleading.
“Can’t—can’t take it—”
“Yes, you can,” he whispers against your mouth. “You will. One more for me. I know you’ve got it in you.”
And when it crashes over you again, hot, electric, too much, he follows, spilling inside you with a groan that sounds like a man breaking apart.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just holds you, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling in the space between.
“You wreck me,” he whispers. “Every fucking time.”
Your heart’s still racing when he finally pulls you close, wrapping you up in his arms like you’re something fragile.
“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing damp hair from your face.
You nod, eyes fluttering shut against his chest. “More than.”
A silence settles, but it’s full. Safe. Warm.
He kisses the top of your head., and the rest of the evening fades to a blur.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Hamzah doesn’t sleep. Not really. Not when your body’s still warm and soft in his arms, and his brain is replaying every sound you made like it’s his new favorite song.
You shift slightly, still half-asleep, and he kisses your shoulder. “Baby,” he murmurs, deep, guttural. “I need you again.”
You laugh, low and breathy, still left in the remnant of your dream. “Already?”
“No,” he says, voice dark. “Still.”
He pulls you to the edge of the bed, body fluid and focused, like he’s been planning this the whole time. “Come with me.”
Your legs are wobbly, still aching from before, but you follow, trailing after him in nothing but his hoodie, down the hallway until he stops you in front of the full-length mirror.
“Look.”
You blink, dazed, as he steps behind you, hands on your hips. “See how fucking good you look like this? All mine.”
His hand slides between your legs from behind, fingers teasing over your clit again. Your breath hitches. “W-we just—”
“Exactly,” he growls. “And you’re still dripping for me.”
He watches your reaction in the mirror, eyes locked on yours, his other hand slipping up to wrap lightly around your throat again, not to hurt, just to hold. To own. “You’re gonna watch. Every second.”
His fingers start slow, sliding between your folds, rubbing that perfect rhythm again, light, maddening. Edging you back up, higher and higher.
“You don’t come until I say,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, tone sweetly cruel. “Think you can do that for me, pretty girl?”
You nod, desperate. “Y-yes—yes, I can—”
But he doesn’t stop. He speeds up. Fingertips circling your clit, other hand tweaking your nipple through the thin fabric of your -his- shirt that you must've absentmindedly put on after he completely wrecked you, whispering filthy praise like poetry.
“So sensitive now. So obedient. Fuck, look at how wet you are.”
Just when your legs start to tremble, he pulls away. Smirking.
You whimper, nearly collapsing. “Please—Hamzah, please—”
“Not yet,” he says, gripping your hips and pushing you gently down onto the ottoman in front of the mirror, your thighs spread, his body bare behind you like a sin you’re begging for.
Then, click. You blink as you feel leather. He’s pulling soft cuffs from a drawer nearby, wrapping them around your wrists, binding them behind your back.
“I told you I’d make this right,” he says, kissing your temple. “That means giving you everything. Including the things I used to be scared to want with you.”
He kneels between your legs again. Starts eating you out like a man starved, slow, then messy, then so precise you start begging through tears.
“Hamzah, I can’t—please, please—let me—”
“Not. Yet.”
His voice is dark velvet now, fingers deep inside you while he makes you watch the whole thing in the mirror, your body shaking, lips parted, eyes glazed.
After what feels like decades of cruel licks, sucks and flicks of his tongue, he finally pulls back, breathless. “You’ve earned it.”
He unbinds your wrists gently, scoops you up like you’re weightless, lays you back on the bed again, this time with your legs spread, hands on the headboard. “Hold yourself open f'me.”
You do it, bare, aching, on the edge of begging.
And when he finally sinks back into you, it’s slow and claiming, like he’s embedding himself into your bones. He's so big, so raw that you feel every vein marking the edge of his cock, every curve that hits you in the right spot.
“Now,” he whispers. “Now you come. Hard. All over me.”
You shatter. No build-up. Just fire. Your whole body arches, spasms, and Hamzah doesn’t stop, he grinds into you through it, saying your name like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing.
He follows fast, pulsing inside you with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours. “I fucking love you,” he breathes. “In every way. Every dark, messy, desperate way.”
He holds you after. Cleans you up again. Kisses your hands. Wraps you in blankets and himself like you’re precious.
“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair, fingers drawing circles on your back.
You nod, too soft and full to speak. And he smiles.
“Good,” he says. “Because next time, I’m tying you to the bed.”
a/n: idk. mixed feelings. also i think i js projected my submissiveness through this 💀💀
