I enjoy reading fanfics p.s. I don't own any of the artwork or fanfics when I reblog or the fanfics I write the characters or anything else involving them and storylines do not belong to me and Kuai Liang is ma hubby 💖💖: chicana & bi 🇲🇽🇲🇽 CHILDREN DO NOT INTERACT YOU WILL BE BLOCKED: 25 yr fem
kat…… pls consider - companion shoving her underwear in bobby’s mouth to shut him up (don’t save him he’s exactly where he wants to be smh freak)
canon event. golden era.
bobby is a little high and working toward his second orgasm of the night and his mouth is running. you're on top of him, riding him, and he's staring up at you with those glassy half-lidded eyes, and the filth pouring out of him has gone past dirty talk into something else entirely. raspy and slurred, relentless, telling you exactly how good you feel around his cock, how wet you are, how pretty you look bouncing on him like that, all pretty and needy, how he can feel you dripping down his—
and you're going to die. you're genuinely going to combust. every word out of bobby's mouth is tightening the coil in your belly and if he doesn't stop talking you're going to come so hard you leave your body and you're not ready yet. you want to ride this out. you want it to last.
but bobby franklin's mouth has never once cooperated with anyone's plans, least of all yours.
so you grab your underwear off the bed where he tossed them twenty minutes ago. and you shove them into his open mouth mid-sentence. just stuff them right in. and clamp your hand over his lips for good measure.
his eyes go wide. then they go black. pupils swallowing the pale blue whole. and the groan that comes out of him is muffled and guttural, vibrating against your palm and his hips snap up into you so hard your vision whites out and he comes. bobby comes so hard his back arches off the mattress and his hands crush your hips, his eyes rolling back and you can feel him pulsing inside you. wave after wave. his whole body locked rigid while he moans your name into a mouthful of cotton.
you take your hand away. pull the underwear out. he lies there, chest heaving, eyes unfocused, looking like a man who briefly left planet earth.
I know you mentioned valarr x companion (the golden couple) like only very briefly but they are NOT leaving my head anymore at all, so if you have ANY crumbs of thoughts on them I am begging very kindly miss kat
the thing about valarr and companion is that it's the love story that heals you in ways you didn't know you needed healing.
you meet by accident. maybe you work for a company he's doing business with. maybe you're in a meeting you have no business being in. whatever the reason is, he sees you. and you see a man who is tall and silver-streaked, has mismatched eyes and smiles at you like you're the only person in the room and your first thought is: no.
because you know better now.
you and bobby ended and it broke something in you that you're still finding the pieces of. not your heart. that healed, mostly. what broke was the trust. the belief that good things stay good. that someone can look at you like you're their whole world and mean it past tuesday.
bobby meant it. bobby loved you, and it still ended. so what's to say this impeccably dressed stranger with the warm voice, good looks, obscene wealth and devastating eye contact won't end too?
nothing. nothing's to say. so you keep your distance.
and valarr... he lets you.
he doesn't push. never crowds. doesn't do the thing that men do where they mistake persistence for romance. he's just... present. genuinely warm. a gentleman in the way that word used to mean something. holds doors without making it a performance, remembers what you said three conversations ago, asks you questions and actually listens to the answers. old school in a way that's hard not to get flustered by no matter how thick you've built your walls.
which almost makes it worse. because surely no one is this perfect? surely there's a catch?
you've been inside a love that looked perfect and you know what the cracks look like from the inside. you cancel plans. you pull back when things get a bit too warm. you wait for the frustration, the impatience, the "why won't you just let me in" that would prove he's like everyone else.
but he doesn't get frustrated. he gets coffee for you the next morning and asks about your day like nothing happened. like demanding boundaries is normal, fine.
it takes weeks before you kiss, and it's you who does it.
standing in his kitchen while he cooks you dinner, mid-sentence, because he said something about wanting you to feel safe and the sincerity in his voice cracked a door you'd been holding shut. you kiss him and he catches you so gently. his hand cradling the back of your head. his mouth soft and unhurried like he's been waiting for this exact moment his whole life, and now that it's here he wants to feel every second of it.
it takes months before you sleep together and when you do it's—
he's attentive in a way that borders on worship. learns you like a language. every sound, every response noted, every inch of you treated like something he can't believe he's being allowed to touch. he tells you you're beautiful and means it down to his atoms and you come so hard you almost cry because it's been so long since someone touched you like you mattered.
and still. always. the edge.
you can't name it. can't quite grasp the thread.
sometimes when he's inside you there's something behind his eyes that doesn't match the gold. sharper, darker, hungrier than the picture-perfect gentleman you're dating. a flash of teeth when he comes. his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise before he catches himself and softens.
but you don't pull the thread. because this is good. this is so good. and whatever opaque shape lives under the gold doesn't seem to want you any less. if anything, it wants you more. and you've been wanted carefully before but you've never been wanted like THIS. openly. loudly. without a single thing held back.
valarr tells you he loves you and he tells you often. he tells you in public and in private and in bed and in the car and at breakfast and it's genuinely, profoundly healing to be with a man who is not afraid of the word.
your guard comes down. slowly. brick by brick. you start laughing without checking if it's safe first. you start reaching for his hand without calculating whether you'll get hurt if he lets go. you start saying "we" and "us" and "ours" and the words don't taste like a risk anymore.
he takes you on trips. a villa somewhere warm where you sunbathe on the balcony and he watches you over his coffee with that look on his face. the one that's all gold, all warmth, all i can't believe you're real and here and mine. he asks you to move in. you say yes faster than you mean to and valarr grins brightly and it's the best thing you've ever seen.
he asks you to marry him eventually, probably somewhere quiet. probably somewhere meaningful to you both. probably on one knee because valarr does things properly. and you look at this man (this warm, patient, golden man who waited for you, who never pushed, who let you test him and test him and test him and never once failed) and you say yes.
and you love him. fully. the kind that puts down roots so deep you forget what it felt like to not have them.
but the edge stays. you catch it sometimes. a glint in his eyes when another man looks at you too long, the way his hand tightens on your waist in a crowd, the careful perfectionism that's always, always present. you never pull the thread. maybe you don't want to, maybe you don't need to.
because whatever lives underneath the gold chose you, too, and it chose you gently, and that's enough.
valarr is exactly what he's always been: perfect and loving, and you're the love of his life.
Kat I used to be too shy to ask for this even on anon but life is short so…
Aerion eating his own cum out of LS but from his POV 👀👀👀👀👀👀
no shame in this household. life is too short for that shit ‼️ 18+ mdni. aerion is nasty (nothing new there). oral (f receiving). cum eating. stark!reader. tt!au.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of you at college, you in your dorm room with your textbooks and your future and your perfect little life that has nothing to do with him.
Fourteen days of his hand on his cock in the dark of his trailer thinking about the sound you make when he bottoms out, and it’s never enough. His own hand is a fucking insult. A rehearsal for a show that never opens.
You get back on a Friday evening, drive straight to his lot without stopping home first, and Aerion knows what that means. Knows it in the animal part of his brain that tracks you like prey even when you’re six hours away.
You missed him badly enough to skip the shower, the unpacking, the performance of arriving home to the Stark house. Skipped being the good princess for an hour before driving to the bad side of town.
You’re barely through the door before he has you.
He fucks you on the mattress with the fitted sheet half pulled off the corner because Aerion hasn’t made the bed in a week. No point. You’re the only reason he bothers. His knees dig into the thin mattress, and your legs are locked around his back, heels pressing into the base of his spine.
You’re still in your skirt. Aerion didn’t take it off, just shoved it up around your hips because he couldn’t wait, couldn’t make himself do the civilised thing and undress you properly.
Fourteen fucking days. He’d been counting. Fucking pathetic.
He comes inside you hard enough that his vision whites out at the edges, his mouth gaping open against your neck, your name chewed up between his teeth.
You follow him few breaths later, clenching around him so tight it hurts. Your nails rake four bright lines down his back that he’ll feel under his shirt at work on Monday, and think about until he has to excuse himself to the bathroom.
For a minute Aerion just stays there. Hips flush against yours, softening inside you, his forehead pressed to the damp curve of your throat. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and he hates how good it feels. Hates that he’s panting like he ran a marathon. Hates even more that his hands are shaking where they grip the sheets on either side of your head. Because sex with you is always cataclysmic and he can’t find his way back to anything else after having you.
Clenching his jaw, he pulls out, and watches the glossy length of him slip out.
His cum leaks out of you. The slow, obscene spill of it, pearly white gushing from your swollen cunt, pooling on the ruined sheet beneath you. His. That’s his. Inside you for six hours on the highway, you were thinking of this, and now here it is. Evidence. Proof that you came back. That you always come back. That for all your college friends and your bright future and your Stark name, you still drive six hours to let him ruin you on a shitty mattress with no headboard.
Something hooks behind his ribs. Greed so thick it sits on his tongue like an after taste.
He kicks back and drops between your thighs.
You make a sound. A startled, bitten-off thing that rumbles at the back of your throat, your hand flying to his shoulder. “Aerion, you don’t have to—”
“Shut up.” He snarls it with his mouth an inch from your cunt, his breath ghosting over the mess he left. “I want to.”
He licks into you and the taste hits him like a fist to the throat
Salt and copper and you, the dark sweetness he’d know blindfolded, and underneath it, threaded through, himself. His come mixed with your slick, smeared across his tongue, filling his mouth. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting, objectively, by the standards of anyone who isn’t Aerion Targaryen at ten p.m. on a Friday with his face buried in the cunt of the only woman he has ever loved.
He groans against your heat. A real sound, pulled from somewhere low and primitive inside him. The vibration makes you jolt, your fingers fisting in his hair, and he feels your thighs twitch against his ears.
You’re oversensitive because you just came. Every lick makes you flinch and gasp and try to close your legs. He holds you open with both hands, thumbs pressed into the crease of your thighs, forcing you open, and keeps going.
He’s greedy about it, lapping at you sloppy and wet, his tongue dragging through the mess of them both, and the taste gets thicker the deeper he pushes. Aerion fucks his tongue into you, and feels the slick heat of his own come coat his chin. Pulls back and sees it glistening on his mouth and doesn’t wipe it off.
You’re peering down at him. Mouth parted, swollen. Your hand is still in his hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and your chest is heaving. The skirt is bunched around your waist. One shoe is still on. You look like a wrecked perfect princess, so very expensive, and completely fucking his.
“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, a laugh rumbling in your throat.
Aerion grins against your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollows his cheeks around it until you arch off the mattress, a sharp cry punched out of you.
Yeah. He is.
He’s disgusting and he’s starving and you taste like coming home, and the thing about him is that he’s never known when to stop.
Not with pills, not with fights, not with you. Especially not with you. He slides two fingers back into you alongside his tongue and crooks them forward, and the sound you make is close to a snarl.
Good. He wants the snarl. He wants you leaking and so overstimulated you forget your own name. He wants to lick every trace of himself out of you and swallow it down and then fuck you again so he can do it twice.
The closed circuit of it is what gets him.
His come, your cunt, his mouth. The ouroboros of it, the consuming.
He put himself inside you and now he’s taking it back and the taste will live on his tongue for days. He’ll be under a car on Monday licking his lips and tasting you still, tasting you both, and no one will know. The mechanics, the customers, the whole decent world going about its business. And him walking through it with the taste of his own come and your in his mouth like communion wine.
You come a second time with a sound he’ll replay until he’s dead. A broken, shuddering thing, your back bowed, both hands in his hair pulling hard enough that his eyes water.
Your cunt pulses against his tongue, and he tastes the fresh wave of you, sharper now, headier, less of him and more of you. Aerion chases it with his mouth until you’re pushing at his forehead, gasping stop, stop, I can’t—
He doesn’t stop. He gives you one more lick, slow and hungry, root to clit, sucking, and feels your whole body shudder.
Only then does he pull back. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Glances at you.
You’re destroyed. Boneless against his pillow, eyes glassy, skin shining with sweat. Your skirt is still scrunched up around your hips. The shoe finally fell off at some point. There’s a bite mark on your thigh he doesn’t remember leaving and a bruise forming on your hip from his thumb.
Aerion crawls up your body, settles his weight on you, pins you beneath him. Drops his mouth to your ear.
“Miss me?” he murmurs, hot breath tickling your ear.
You laugh. Weak, breathless, almost fond. Your arms come around his neck, fingernails scratching at the nape of his neck.
“You’re vile,” you tell him.
He kisses you. Deep and open, letting you taste it. Both of you. The whole filthy circuit on his tongue, pushed into your mouth, and you kiss him back without hesitating, equally as starved. Your tongue slides against his, one hand against his face, and you taste what he tastes and neither of you flinches.
“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips, voice rough, leaning down to press his open mouth against yours. “missed you too, princess.”
just read the monsterfucking fic. idk what line it was but it lead me to the possibility that BB does knotting
he has no idea what knotting is 😭 zero frame of reference. none. you'd have to explain it and the explanation alone would be an experience because you're essentially sitting cross-legged in the nest trying to clinically describe a knot to an ancient entity.
"so it... swells."
"yes."
"inside you?"
"yes."
"and I can't leave?"
"that's—yes, that's the point."
and you watch the information register proper.
you watch it travel through him. his eyes go distant for a second, processing, and then they snap back to you and they're dark and his lips are parted and he's already shifting, you can feel the subtle restructuring happening beneath the Bobby-suit because he didn't need to hear the rest. he heard can't leave, he liked the locked inside you part, he heard stuck together until it goes down and his entire being just went yes. yes please. immediately.
because to him it's not even a kink thing. it's a solution. his single biggest grievance with sex is the part where he has to withdraw, the fraction of a second where he's not inside you, and you just told him there's a biological mechanism where that doesn't happen? where he gets to stay? buried and swollen and plugged deep, spilling into you with nowhere for it to go, your bodies fused at the closest point two bodies can meet?
he's obsessed before you've finished the explanation. tries it that night. gets it right on the first attempt because of course he does (it's in the name 😔). and the sound he makes when it catches, when the swell locks him in and he physically can't pull out is relief. like coming home and bolting the lock.
in a situation where the events of ashford still take place and aerion is banished to lys, would aerion cheat on lady stark while they're apart? would they even be apart? would ls leave her place and title because she loves him or would she have to let him go? (i feel like the last question leaves room for love triangle between valarr and ls if she decides to stay in westeros and is lonely...👀)
so if we're talking DM verse where you and aerion marry after the engagement with daeron is pulled apart, aerion would literally rather gnaw his own dick off than cheat on you.
like this man's one universal constant across every verse is that he's obsessed with you to a degree that should probably be studied by scientists deadass. there's no version of him that strays. none. he doesn't have that in him. you are essentially same as his dragon obsession. the war crimes he would commit for you are genuinely concerning. he's insane. every single fixation point in his brain is already occupied by you and there's no vacancy for anything else.
(also lowkey you would wreck his shit so bad that he knows better than that 😭 you're truly the bride of his dreams and his biggest nightmare)
self-preservation is not his strongest instinct but it does exist in trace amounts.
also (and this is the beautiful thing about married!aerion in DM verse) ashford plays out differently because the trial of seven never happens. why, you might ask? because aerion is too busy absolutely terrorising everyone within earshot of your shared pavilion.
the puppet show incident requires him to be wandering around unsupervised and bored, and married aerion is none of those things. he is supervised. he's very much occupied. he's dragging you back to the tent every other hour and making knights set up camp further away. baelor lives because aerion is getting laid enthusiastically. boom. butterfly effect.
BUT. for the love of the game, let's say it did happen anyway. baelor died. trial of seven. the whole nightmare yadayada. aerion is sentenced to exile in lys.
he would demand you come with him. immediately, without question, without hesitation. you are his wife. the idea of being parted from you is so far outside the realm of what he considers acceptable that he wouldn't even frame it as a request. for him it would be an assumption at a bare minimum. of course you're coming. why would you not be coming? pack your things!
now, here's where it gets interesting. maekar, who just lost his brother because of aerion's actions, who is raw with grief and guilt and fury, puts his foot down.
you are lady stark. you are the north's link to the crown. you have a title and a duty and a father who will burn king's landing to the foundation stones before he lets his daughter follow a banished prince to a pleasure city across the narrow sea. so you stay. either you go north to winterfell or you remain in the red keep, but either way, you are in westeros and aerion is in lys, and there's a sea between you now.
and this is where valarr comes in.
because valarr has just become heir to the iron throne. his father is dead. the man who made sense of the world for him is gone, and the weight of everything baelor carried has just been dropped onto his shoulders without warning.
he's grieving and furious and terrified in ways he will never, ever admit, and everyone around him is either too careful with him or too ambitious to be trusted.
and then there's you.
you don't pity him. you never have. you treat him like a man who is expected to stand up and be king, and that steadiness (that cold, clean, northern certainty) is genuinely the thing that keeps him from cracking open.
you've always been someone he noticed at a distance, but there were always a thousand people between you. his father, the court, aerion, duty, your marriage. now half of those barriers are gone. you're alone in the red keep. he's alone at the top of a succession he never thought he'll have to deal with for years. you're both just... connecting properly for the first time.
but whatever grows between you would be pretty one-sided from valarr's end, because you love aerion.
you chose him with your eyes open, knowing every flaw, every cruelty, every sharp and ugly edge of him. you're married and you're loyal to the bone, and your heart is already occupied by a man who doesn't deserve it but has it anyway.
valarr would know that. he would feel it in every conversation that goes exactly far enough and no further, in the way you're warm but never soft, present but never his. and he'd keep coming back anyway because he can't help it. because a small, ugly part of valarr cannot stand the idea that aerion's rash actions caused his father's death, and now he gets to keep you as well.
and then... the rumours from lys begin arriving.
and oh what sweet knife they are.
because they're false. genuinely, categorically false.
aerion is spending his exile drinking too much and terrorising lysenese merchants and writing you letters that alternate between unbearable arrogance and rage or something so raw it hurts to read.
he's not touching anyone. he doesn't want anyone. he wants his wolf, his wife, the ice to his flame. but lys is a pleasure city and aerion is a beautiful targaryen prince with a reputation, and the court back in westeros is vicious. people talk. people invent. they poke at you specifically because you're too composed, too controlled, too visibly unbothered, and now alone.
your composure reads as a challenge, as arrgoance, to every courtier who wants to see the wolf crack.
so they whisper. oh, have you heard? the prince has found comfort in lys. well, who could blame him, really? those pillow houses, you know. and he always did have such appetites.
and you hear it and you know it's false and it doesn't matter because the image still lands behind your ribs. and you can't write to him and demand reassurance because that would mean admitting the rumours reached you, which means admitting that there's insecurity to prod.
and valarr is right there, solid and present and looking at you with those mismatched, hungry, kind eyes like he's trying very hard not to offer you something you haven't asked for.
the angst potential is genuinely so good. you have aerion across the sea going half mad with the distance, you'd have valarr falling for a woman who is kind to him but will never choose him, and you're stuck in the middle.
bobby franklin is a nasty man! (shocking no one with this one) he's not performatively kinky, either. he doesn't have a mental checklist. he's just a man who really, really loves sex and has very little shame about what he wants and will absolutely ruin you on a random lazy afternoon with the blinds open and the neighbour mowing the lawn next door.
the filming. obviously. because bobby is a cameraman and that lens is an extension of his brain and he sees the world through it.
so of course he wants you on tape. not in a sleazy way actually. in that intensely focused bobby way where he's framing the shot before he even knows he's doing it. the curve of your spine in the light. the way your face looks when you're on top of him and your head tips back. the soft shake of your body when he's hitting right spot. and he narrates behind the camera too, that low dragging voice, “fuck, look at you, stay right there, baby, just like that” and he's half-directing you and half-losing his mind. the footage is shaky because his hands aren't steady but that actually makes it hotter. he watches the tapes back when you're not home. alone. anyway.
your breasts. he's gone for them, regardless of size, shape, anything. obsessed in a way that borders on worship actually. face buried between them, hands full of them, fucking them, mouth on them for so long you're squirming because he's forgotten he was supposed to be going somewhere else.
he'll spend twenty minutes just. there. kissing and licking and sucking, groaning against your skin like he's being fed. one hand palming and pinching while his mouth works the other, and if you arch into it he makes a sound like you've genuinely hurt him. you pull his hair to redirect him elsewhere and he goes nowhere. he's staying. this is his home now. he'll get you off just from this if you let him and his smugness afterward is actually unbearable.
you on top!!! cowgirl specifically. because bobby is tactile and visual in equal measure and when you ride him he gets both at once (biblical greed).
his hands everywhere, your hips, your waist, your thighs, gripping and guiding and then just holding, letting you set the pace while he watches you with those half-lidded pale eyes and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. and the dirty talk gets worse from this angle because he can see everything. “god, look at you, riding me like that, so fuckin' pretty, baby, you know what you look like right now? you look like you were made for taking me, all mine to fill up.” and his hands tighten on your hips when you grind down and he tips his head back and groans loudly, the tendons in his neck going taut, flushed, and he's so pretty it makes you genuinely a little mean about it. you go slower and he suffers beautifully for it.
the dirty talk. because this man cannot shut the hell up!!! and the stuff that comes out of his mouth should probably be illegal.
because bobby doesn't just talk dirty. no, no, bobby talks mean. that same warm, fond drawl that calls you baby and sweetheart and praises you, will, without shifting register at all, call you a desperate little slut who's dripping all over his cock and isn't that embarrassing, huh? “look at the mess you're making, baby, fuck, you're pathetic, you're so wet I can hear you drippin’ all over my cock, you hear that? that's how badly you need me, dirty fuckin’ girl, can't even wait till I'm done talkin’ before you're grinding on me like a pretty whore.” and his thumb is on your clit the whole time, circling, pressing, pinching. and he's grinning.
and if you moan at it, if being called a whore in that affectionate santa clara drawl makes you clench around him (and it does, every damn time) he laughs. actually laughs. low and warm and mean. “oh, you liked that, huh? yeah you did. my filthy girl. bet you'd let me do anything right now, wouldn't you? bet you'd beg for it. go on. beg for me, baby. let me hear how pretty you sound when you're desperate for me to fuck you.” and he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him because he wants to see your face when the shame and the arousal hit at the same time and he can see both and he loves both.
the risky business!!! because yes, he will eat you out on a ferris wheel with people in the car below you and his only concession to discretion is putting his hand over your mouth, and even then he's smirking against your thigh because your muffled sounds are making his whole night.
he will fuck you in the back of clark's store during a shift, bent over a display table that definitely has a price tag on it, one hand fisted in your hair and the other clamped on your hip while clark is on the other side of the shop greeting a customer. "shh, baby, you want him to hear? actually, you probably do, don't you?" and he doesn't slow down. if anything he goes harder because the bell above the front door just jingled and your eyes went wide and you clenched around him so hard his vision blurred.
cars. parking lots. that one time in terrence's bathroom during a party while terrence was looking for you and bobby had to slap his hand over your mouth yet again, smirking while he held eye contact, still working you. bobby wants you everywhere. bobby wants you in places where getting caught is a real possibility because the possibility makes your pulse hammer and he can feel it and it drives him insane.
he's a biter. just... expect his teeth on your shoulder, your neck, the swell of your breast (yummiest spot, you have rings of hickeys on them), and especially your inner thigh. leaving marks he'll trace with his thumb the next morning with that satisfied little grin like he signed his name somewhere only the two of you know about. and if you wear something low-cut that shows the bruise on your collarbone he's genuinely useless for the rest of the day. can't focus. keeps looking at it. you catch him staring across the room and he doesn't even look away. just raises an eyebrow like yeah. I did that.
he's a tease. a vicious, patient, methodical tease. he will wind you up for an hour if you let him. fingers trailing everywhere except where you need them. mouth so close to where you're desperate for it and then pulling back to kiss your hip instead. and he talks the whole time, that low amused murmur, “what's the rush, baby? we got time. tell me what you want. use your words.” and he knows exactly what you want. he's just making you say it because hearing you beg in that wrecked breathy voice does something to him that he refuses to examine.
shower sex. bobby in the shower with you is a whole experience because that man is tactile and wet and has no concept of personal space. his hands sudsy and sliding everywhere and it starts as washing your hair and ends with your back against the tile and one of your legs around his waist and the water going cold because you've been in there for forty-five minutes and he's still not done with you.
he likes leaving you a mess. that's the thread running through all of it. the bite marks. the hair destroyed. your mascara smudged. the satisfied fucked-out daze you walk around in for an hour after. he likes evidence. proof that he was there, that he did this, that underneath the deflection and the sarcasm and the locked door, he's a man who makes his girl shake.
he's not complicated about sex the way he's complicated about everything else. this is actually the one area where bobby franklin is completely, transparently honest. he wants you. he wants you often. he wants you loud and messy and wrecked and clinging to him. and he'll tell you so, in vivid detail, against your ear, with that grin you can feel on your skin every time.
Companion finds pretty clothes for bb in da backrooms and dresses him up and bb is very shy but we just wanna jump his bones (non-existent)
the abandoned mall is on a level you've never catalogued before.
half the storefronts are caved in and the escalators run in the wrong direction and the music playing from the ceiling speakers is a song in genre you've never heard before, but the clothing store on the second floor is pristine. racks untouched. no dust. like someone stocked it yesterday and then simply forgot to invent customers.
and you lose your mind a little. because it's been months since you've seen clothes that aren't scavenged basics and suddenly there are colours and textures and actual options and you're pulling things off hangers with both hands going "oh. oh, try this. try this one."
BB stands in the middle of it holding a shirt you've handed him, baffled. "I'm already wearing clothes."
"different clothes, baby."
he stares. "... why?"
and you grin at him, teasing. "because it's fun."
the concept does not compute. he watches you riffle through a rack with the intently, humming under your breath, and he genuinely can't understand why you would remove a covering only to replace it with a different covering and then remove that one too.
but you're smiling. you're smiling so wide your eyes are crinkling and that's enough. he'd stand here and change shirts four hundred times if it kept that expression on your face.
so he changes. and you turn away each time, respectfully, even though you've seen every inch of him, because this feels different, playful and new and strangely domestic for a place with no sun. and when you turn back he's standing there in whatever you've picked, arms slightly out from his sides, that uncertain tilt to his head. is this right? am I doing this right?
and you step close. adjust the collar. fold the cuff back once because it's too long and his wrists are showing. you smooth the fabric over his shoulders and tug the hem straight and he is so still. because your hands are on him and they're not desperate, not hungry, not pulling him close.
they're fussing. they're doing the caretaking thing. a gesture that says I care about how you look and he's never had that. not once in his entire vast existence. someone adjusting his collar like it matters, like he matters.
you step back. look him over critically. wrinkle your nose. "okay no. that colour is terrible on you."
BB blinks owlishly. "is it?"
"truly awful. you look like a carpet swatch. take it off."
and he does, and you hand him the next one, and the next, and there's one (a deep blue button-down, slightly too big in the shoulders, sleeves pushed up his forearms) that makes you stop. and your face softens on an inhale. and he sees how your eyes track from the collar to his chest to where the fabric sits against his waist. and you say it before you think about it.
"oh. you're handsome."
not teasing. just the truth falling out of your mouth the way it does when you're not guarding it, and he hears the sincerity in those words plainly.
and he preens. there's no other word for it. his chin lifts. his shoulders settle. that crooked grin spreads slow and warm, and he doesn't even try to fight it, standing a little taller in a blue shirt in an abandoned mall on a level that doesn't have a number, glowing under praise the way he always glows under praise.
except this time it's not about touch or pleasure or the seven. it's about a collar you straightened. a colour you picked. your hands smoothing wrinkles out of fabric like he's worth the fuss.
he wears that shirt until it falls apart. you'll find him other things later but nothing will ever replace the first one. the one you chose. the one you called him handsome in.
he didn't know clothes could mean something. he does now.
Bobby occasioslly goes commando... Yeah, nothing, my brains just rewired around this now because WOW does that fit that crop-top wearing yung ass ho... And now all i can imagine is smut w bobby bc i jst know he'd be so cocky 😚
slutty cut-offs are bobby's go to. the ones that sit so low he's not even being subtle no more. no belt. no boxers. just denim slung across the sharp juts of his hipbones, crop top riding up because what else would it be doing? covering skin? please. no, he wants your eyes on the strip of stomach, the trail of hair disappearing into the waistband that isn't doing its job. he dressed like this on purpose. he looked in the mirror and chose violence and walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter like this is all awfully normal.
and he knows what he's doing. the second your eyes drop, the second they track from his mouth to his stomach to the hip bones to the open air below his navel where there should be a waistband and there isn't, bobby gets that smile. not the big grin. the slow, cocky one. the one that's all teeth, almost devilish. head tilted, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek innocently, watching you look at him like this is exactly what he got dressed for.
oh? like something you see, baby?
said so casually. said like he doesn't know exactly what he's doing standing there with his whole pelvis as a conversation starter. said while he's already shifting his weight, cocking his hip a little more, letting the denim slip another centimetre because he's a goddamn menace and he gets off on this.
and then you put your mouth on his hip bone.
just to test it. just to mess with him a little. lips against that sharp ridge of bone, tongue flat on warm skin, and his hand is in your hair before you finish the thought. keeping you there. bobby's breath goes ragged instantly. just this immediate, devastating sensitivity, his abs pulling taut under your mouth, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his head tipping back against the counter. you press your tongue into the groove of his hip and he makes a deep, throaty sound.
he's far too sensitive there and he knows it and he still walks around like this. on purpose. every day. the crop top, the low shorts, the commando, all of it engineered for exactly this moment. your mouth on his hip and his hand in your hair and his whole body vibrating under you like a live wire.
just saving time, baby. my girl should always have access.
hissed through his teeth while his hips are already twitching toward your mouth. said like a joke except his hand is shaking in your hair and there's nothing funny about the way he's looking down at you right now, eyes molten with hunger.
Bobby occasioslly goes commando... Yeah, nothing, my brains just rewired around this now because WOW does that fit that crop-top wearing yung ass ho... And now all i can imagine is smut w bobby bc i jst know he'd be so cocky 😚
slutty cut-offs are bobby's go to. the ones that sit so low he's not even being subtle no more. no belt. no boxers. just denim slung across the sharp juts of his hipbones, crop top riding up because what else would it be doing? covering skin? please. no, he wants your eyes on the strip of stomach, the trail of hair disappearing into the waistband that isn't doing its job. he dressed like this on purpose. he looked in the mirror and chose violence and walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter like this is all awfully normal.
and he knows what he's doing. the second your eyes drop, the second they track from his mouth to his stomach to the hip bones to the open air below his navel where there should be a waistband and there isn't, bobby gets that smile. not the big grin. the slow, cocky one. the one that's all teeth, almost devilish. head tilted, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek innocently, watching you look at him like this is exactly what he got dressed for.
oh? like something you see, baby?
said so casually. said like he doesn't know exactly what he's doing standing there with his whole pelvis as a conversation starter. said while he's already shifting his weight, cocking his hip a little more, letting the denim slip another centimetre because he's a goddamn menace and he gets off on this.
and then you put your mouth on his hip bone.
just to test it. just to mess with him a little. lips against that sharp ridge of bone, tongue flat on warm skin, and his hand is in your hair before you finish the thought. keeping you there. bobby's breath goes ragged instantly. just this immediate, devastating sensitivity, his abs pulling taut under your mouth, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his head tipping back against the counter. you press your tongue into the groove of his hip and he makes a deep, throaty sound.
he's far too sensitive there and he knows it and he still walks around like this. on purpose. every day. the crop top, the low shorts, the commando, all of it engineered for exactly this moment. your mouth on his hip and his hand in your hair and his whole body vibrating under you like a live wire.
just saving time, baby. my girl should always have access.
hissed through his teeth while his hips are already twitching toward your mouth. said like a joke except his hand is shaking in your hair and there's nothing funny about the way he's looking down at you right now, eyes molten with hunger.
Your recent update with Aerion and Witch Reader, chefs kiss but I can’t help but laugh at Reader’s newfound position that she found herself mostly because even though she’s not a royal and could possibly give birth to a “bastard child”, I think she’ll get a pass because of her effect on Aerion and that’s less stress for Papa Maekar 😂😭
oh 100%
maekar would see that his son isn’t causing anyone death or harm, isn’t spending time at pleasure houses or drinking or gambling or whatever, and he’s just so much more docile, and he would immediately legitimise that child because thank you woods witch thank you
maekar when his son isn’t causing a political incident and is instead obsessing over this random peasant woman he basically stole:
cockwarming with aerion is never something that really starts on purpose as such. it starts because he's already inside you and neither of you wants to move.
he came and he's softening but he stays, forehead pressed to yours (mouth still on yours, hot breath, pretending this isn’t a kiss) or face buried in your neck, and you can feel his heartbeat through his cock. this slow thudding intimacy that's more undoing than any of the rough desperate fucking that preceded it. and one of you shifts, adjusts, and the intention to pull out just… doesn't happen.
and the thing about aerion is that he needs to be inside you the way other people need to breathe. it's not even about sex half the time with him. it's about the absence of separation. no barrier, no space, nothing between his skin and yours. so when you're lying in his shitty bed with the blinds cutting stripes across the sheets and he's still buried in you, soft and warm and leaking, and your fingers are tracing the faded dragon tattoo on his back… that's as close to peace as he gets. that's his version of meditation. of prayer, maybe, if he believed in anything besides himself and you.
he'd never admit it's tender. if you pointed it out he'd bite your shoulder hard enough to bruise and roll his hips just to prove it's still filthy, still him, still the guy who calls you “princess” with his teeth in your neck. but he stays. he stays and stays and you can feel him twitch and thicken again inside you, not urgent, just… present. aware. his body responding to yours the way it always does, involuntary as breathing. and he'll murmur something against your throat, rough and low (fuck, you feel—) and not finish the sentence because finishing it would be too vulnerable and we can’t have that, now can we?
you, for your part, like the weight of him. you'll never say that either but you do. the way he pins you without trying, unapologetic, the heavy sprawl of him, the sheer want, his hips flush against yours. you can feel every exhale. every micro-shift. the slow, maddening throb of him hardening again while neither of you acknowledges it. your fingers in his sweaty hair, his hand on your hip, thumb rubbing absent circles into the bone. it's one of the most domestic things you do together and it's literally his cock inside you, which kinda says everything about your relationship.
sometimes you'll wake up with him hard inside you and his hand already between your legs, working you open with his fingers while his hips press forward in these slow, devastating rolls, and he'll whisper roughly against your ear (mornin', stark.) like this is normal, like waking up inside you is his god-given right, and the arrogance of it would make you kill a lesser man with your bare hands but instead heat drops straight through your stomach and you push back against him, nipping his lip, and let him have it. let him have you. let him take what he's been dreaming about all night.
the class dynamic actually makes it worse (better). because in his trailer, in his bed, with his cock inside you for hours, you're not a stark. you're not good breeding or expectations stacked ten generations high. you're just a girl clenching around him, drooling on his pillow with his arms tight around you, making soft sounds when he shifts. he gets to keep you like this, undone and unhurried, no armour, no pretence, just two animals who fit perfectly, and the possessiveness in that (the mine of it) is so raw it would terrify him if he let himself look at it directly.
he doesn't. he just holds you tighter and breathes in your faded perfume and tells himself it's just sex. it's always just sex.
a join-on from that recent ask you received about bb being dom. he gives the vibes during sex of sheer overwhelm and yeah he can go quick and ruin you as good as anyone, but imagine if you asked him to be rougher, a bit more dom. I could picture him being like "you want me to...hurt you?? no no I--no" and you have to explain its not wanting him to hurt you but just to be a bit rougher. cause you know its in there. you see it in the time he loses control the thing beneath the bobby skin peeks through. but maybe him literally not holding back, hand around your throat, whispering to you "no, you can take it, you can fucking take it" mhmmm yes yes #needthat
yes, his initial reaction is sheer confusion. but you see the words sink in. then confusion clears into understanding, understanding sharpening into a thing with teeth. because it’s so so easy to forget that BB is a predator underneath the borrowed face. the oldest one. and you just gave that thing permission to fuck you as hard as it wants.
“you will take it,” he drawls, and its not a question. the words come out layered, two tones woven wrong, the Bobby-voice with something vast and hungry moving underneath it. “you asked me for this. now you'll be good and you'll take all of it.”
and then he takes you. no more careful worship, or reverent restraint. he pins you down and fucks you like he's finally allowed to want you the way he actually wants you, deep and hard and relentless. every stroke punching the breath out of you, your body driven up the sheets with the sheer force of it. and any time you manage to drag your eyes open, any time you find him through the white-out of your own pleasure, he's watching. head tilted at that inhuman angle. eyes flooded fully black, no blue left. a slow twitch at the corner of his mouth like something that has caught what it was hunting and is taking it slowly apart.
“look at you,” he breathes, and its silky, darker than usual bobby tone. “made to come apart on me. that's what you're for.”
and then he doesn't stop.
you're sensitive, oversensitive really, trembling and gasping, clutching at him, and bb leans down close to your ear and keeps that punishing, devastating rhythm going, unbothered, patient, bottomless. “no. not yet.” the purr under it vibrates through your sternum, through your teeth. “you have another one in you. I can feel it. you'll give it to me before I'm done with you.”
and he spills into you almost as an afterthought. no pause, no stutter in his rhythm, just a low pleased sound against your throat and a spreading heat that leaves you overfull, dripping, and still he doesn't slow, working gushing come deeper on the next stroke and the next, using it, using you, like filling you is simply a thing that happened on the way to whatever he's chasing. “shh. I'm not finished,” he murmurs when you whimper at the overwhelm of it. “you can hold it. you can hold all of it for me.” his hand drops to your lower belly, patting over your womb before he settles his hand there. “this is mine, baby.”
said with certainty so total it leaves no room to argue, the certainty of someone who’s always known exactly what you can survive and intends to walk you right up to the edge of it because you asked. “that's it,” he murmurs when you break again, when you shatter helpless around him. “good. see? I knew. I always know.”
and you do give it to him. because he asked. because you begged for this. because the thing wearing Bobby's face has finally stopped pretending it's only a man, and some deep reckless part of you wanted exactly this. to be wanted by something that old, that sure, that hungry.
and after (the moment you're spent, wrung out, past speech) it folds itself away. the black bleeds back to blue. the predator recedes like a tide going out. and he's gathering you in, nuzzling into your throat, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your forehead, your cheek. “you did so good. so good for me. you're okay, I've got you.” fussing. tucking you against his cool chest. checking you over like he wasn't, moments ago, the one taking you apart one thrust at a time.
“Then thank me,” Aerion interrupts, stepping forward. He closes the door. “Say thank you.”
You look at him as he slowly crosses the room. You utter softly, “Thank you.”
“Thank you what?” Aerion stands before you now, trapping you against the desk.
You can feel the heat radiating from his body; the blemishless shine of his pale skin. He leans in close and you can feel his breath ghost across you, tainted with mulberries and hazel.
“Thank you, your grace,” you reply, challenging his gaze.
He grunts, a rough sound from the back of his throat, as he grabs your wrist. You let him steal your hand away from the desk, and you let him press your palm flat to the front of his trousers as he leans in closer. You smell ash and lavender wax soap across his skin. You bite your lip, ignoring the sudden wash of heat through your core, as he gently ruts his hips against your palm. There’s a shift beneath the fabric, and your lips part.
“Say it properly,” Aerion hisses, still looking at you. He runs your open palm against the front of his trousers, and you feel his cock give another jerk beneath the material.
His hand is warm around your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel the thundering of your pulse beneath his thumb.
“Thank you, Aerion,” you whisper, and the lilt in your voice has his hips rolling deeper into your touch. “For the room.”
“Thank me for bringing you here,” he says quickly. He gently moves your hand up and down, and you can feel a tent pitching beneath your palm. “Tell me how lucky you are to be here with me.”
You frown, turning your head, his eye contact too intense. It’s cloying, overwhelming, molten heat that sticks to you the longer you look. You shake your head slightly, muttering, “Aerion—”
The prince’s other hand snaps up and grabs you harshly by the nape of your neck. He forces you to look at him, his other hand continuing to drag your palm across the bulge in his trousers. He looks at you, waiting.
“Say it.” It’s firm and venomous in its delivery.
The heat inside you doesn’t vanish. It swirls deeper, fills you broadly, and your free hand grips the edge of the desk in an effort to stop yourself from trembling.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” you say quietly, and you notice something flash in the violet of his eyes. You continue, “I am… I’m very lucky to be here.”
“With me,” Aerion utters, hand squeezing the back of your neck.
I knw the reblog says bb coded and I could also see Bobby calling the companion “my baby”. Him saying something like “but I just found you my baby I can’t lose you again” if he has to lose her again to backrooms
funnily enough bobby does pet names aggressively. he knows exactly what his mouth does to you and he weaponizes it because he learned early that if you give people enough of one thing they stop noticing what you're withholding. so "my baby" sighed against the soft skin under your ear while his hand slides up your back. "sweetheart" murmured against your lips. "c'mere, pretty girl" drawled across the room in that low santa clara drag that makes your insides squirm.
he's generous with it. he's lavish with it. he'll pet-name you into a puddle and kiss the spot that makes you shiver and grin against your neck like he's won something, because he has, because he knows exactly what he's doing.
but "i love you"? those three words in that specific order? absolutely not. that's behind glass. that's in a locked room. the pet names are performance. not dishonest (he genuinely means every single one and deeply) but controlled. curated. he's giving you the warmth without the weight. he's giving you every word in the language except the ones that would pin him to the floor and make him yours in a way he can't take back.
because "my baby" is a thing you call someone. "i love you" is a thing you admit.
terrence has heard the closest bobby's ever come. because he heard it once in the truck at 2 am about a month after you disappeared, bobby staring through the windshield at nothing, hollowed eyed, and it came out so quiet it barely qualified as speech. i just want my girl back, man.
and terrence didn't say anything because there was nothing to say.
not my baby or sweetheart. my girl. the one he never uses on you because it's not a weapon and it's not a performance and it doesn't come with a grin pressed against your throat. it's just the truth, bare and undecorated, and he only says it when you're not there to hear it.
because he'll say it to your back while you're walking away. he'll mouth it into your hair when you're sleeping. he'll think it so loud you should be able to hear it through the walls but he will not, under any circumstances, say it to your face. because saying it to your face means admitting he needs you, and admitting he needs you means you could leave, and you did leave, willing or not, and now he's left with this emptiness you've left in his life.
this gif of finn in domina (also 😵💫😵💫 #needthat, also this looks like it could be the nest 👀) except its bb fucking companion and he can’t stop trembling and purring bc its so good yes pls. companion originally starting fully on her knees but the dicks too good and bb was not holding back so she just ended up prone with bb’s hand in her hair 😵💫😵💫😵💫
You start on your knees.
That's how it begins. You on your hands and knees in the nest, the warm pile of blankets bunched under your palms. The amber light of the lamp falling through the fabric he's hung from the ceiling like curtains, like veils, turning the whole space into something honeyed and intimate.
BB's hand is at the small of your back. Resting. His thumb tracing the knobs of your spine one at a time the way someone would trace the beads of a rosary, slow and reverent, committed to the count.
He's behind you. Not inside you yet. He's looking.
You can feel the looking. The seven translate it as a low warm pull behind your navel, all seven of them humming at half-attention, picking up the quality of his gaze the way skin picks up sun. The air between your shoulder blades feels warmer where his eyes are resting. You drop your head between your arms and breathe and wait.
"Ready, baby?"
His voice is low and a little rough at the edges and you nod into the blanket.
BB pushes in.
The whole length of him in a slow, careful slide that opens you up inch by inch. He doesn't stop until his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs, and the sound you make is not a word, it's just air leaving you like he's pushed it out from the inside. The seven light up all at once and BB's hand at your back spreads wide and presses down, holding.
"There," he breathes. "Oh—there, sweetheart."
He starts to move.
And he's not holding back.
You can tell immediately. The careful version of BB—the one who reads the seven in real time and adjusts, who treats your body like an instrument he's learning to play lovingly—that version is not here tonight. What's here instead is the drive, the thing underneath, the patient ancient hunger given permission to take what it wants, and what it wants is depth.
The first real thrust knocks the breath out of you. Deep, grinding, his hips rolling forward with a force that slides your knees an inch across the blanket, and the ridged texture of him—he hasn't bothered with the smooth human surface, he hasn't bothered with any pretence at all—drags against your inner walls in a long rippling wave that makes your vision narrow.
You moan, arching into the sensation. "Oh—"
"Yeah." His hand slides up your spine. Into your hair. His fingers gather the damp weight of it, gentle, then firm, tilting your head up from the blanket just enough that you can breathe properly. "Yeah, baby. I got you. Just hold on."
BB fucks you with slow, heavy strokes that use the full length of him, pulling back until you're whimpering at the wet drag and then grinding forward until the depth of him is pressing against places that make your eyes roll and your hands fist in the blanket and your mouth open on sounds you can't control.
And he's trembling.
You feel it first through his hand in your hair, a fine vibration in BB's fingers, not quite a shake, more like the hum of a wire pulled taut.
Then through his hips where they press against you at the apex of each stroke, the muscle of his thighs quivering. Then through the harmonic, which is not the steady controlled hum you know but something broken open, stuttering, catching on itself like a record skipping.
That purr-register gone ragged.
BBis inside you and he's overwhelmed, and the trembling is the body's way of trying to contain what is running through it, and it's failing.
"Baby—" his voice cracks, ragged on a moan, the Bobby-drawl fraying, "—baby, you feel— I can't—you're so—"
He can't finish the sentence. He gives up on the sentence. He gives up on language entirely and makes a sound instead. Low, wrecked, pulled up from somewhere underneath the Bobby-shape, somewhere old and wordless, and his hips snap forward harder and you keen.
Your elbows give.
A slow buckling, your arms folding under you as the force of him drives you forward and down, your breasts pressing to the blanket, your cheek turning against the soft pile of it.
You try to hold the position. Your knees are still under you, hips still raised, the angle still presenting, but the next stroke is deep, deeper than the last, and the one after that is deeper still, and your knees slide backward and your hips sink and then you're flat, prone, belly-down on the blanket with the warm weight of him following you down.
BB covers you.
His chest to your back, the cool-going-warm length of him draped over you, his mouth at your ear, his hand still in your hair, and the angle has changed—god, the angle has changed—the downward position tightening everything. The pressure of the blanket under your hips tilts your pelvis just enough that every stroke grinds the ridged length of him across the spot the seven have been guarding for months.
"BB—"
The name hits him like a hand on a bell. His whole body shudders.
Full shudder, crown to heel, the trembling cresting into a wave, and the harmonic pours out of him uncontrolled. Not the purr anymore but the deeper thing, the frequency, the one that vibrates through the floor and the walls and the warm pile of the nest and through your sternum. The seven sing back and the resonance between his body and yours and the seven becomes a single humming chord and you're flying apart from the inside—
"More," you choke into the blanket, moaning loudly into the blankets. "More, BB, I need—more—"
He whines in response.
A high, thin sound you have never heard him make before, and his hips stutter against you and you feel him shift.
The cock lengthens inside you. You feel it happen: the deliberate stretch of him reaching deeper, the ridges multiplying, the girth thickening by fractions, and the shift is not sudden. It's rolling. The shape of him rewriting itself to fill you fuller while he's still moving, and the sensation of being reshaped from the inside by a thing that is reshaping itself to match is—
You cry out.
Your hands claw at the blanket. Your face wet, tears soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has gone past the point where it's a distinct sensation and become a state. A condition, a thing your whole body is doing, every nerve firing in tandem, the seven blazing so bright they're almost tangible—
"I know," BB slurs against your ear. His lips are on the hinge of your jaw, his breath coming fast and uneven, the careful human rhythm of it abandoned. "I know, baby, I know, it's—it's so much, I know, but I need—just a little—just a little deeper, sweetheart, just—there—"
He presses deeper. You sob, clawing at the sheets.
"Just like that," he whispers, shaking. "Just like—oh—just like that, you're perfect, you're so perfect, you're so so perfect, baby, I can feel you. I can feel all of you—the seven are—they're singin' so loud, sweetheart, you should hear what you sound like from the inside."
His hand in your hair tightens. An anchor for both of you. His forehead drops to the back of your neck and his mouth is open against your skin and you can feel the harmonic coming out of him in waves now.
Not a hum anymore but a keen, the eldritch version of the sound you're making, and the two sounds layer and braid and the nest hums with the combined frequency and the lamp pulses and you feel the warm curtain-light flicker across your closed eyelids.
"BB—BB, I can't—it's too much, it's—"
Your voice breaks and you hiccup over the sound.
"I know." His voice is rough. Barely there. Slurring on the vowels, the consonants dissolving. "I know it is, baby, I know, I'm sorry, I just—you feel so good. I need to feel you, I need—just a little more, just—please—you feel so—I've never—nothin' has ever—"
He can't finish.
BB gives up on trying to finish. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and his hips roll into you. He's not thrusting anymore, not the sharp deep strokes of a minute ago, but a grind. His pelvis sealed flush against you and the full ridged length of him working in slow, devastating circles against the deepest place he can reach, and the texture of him is dragging against every nerve you have in a continuous rolling wave that doesn't crest and doesn't ebb.
It doesn't give you a single second to breathe between one pulse of sensation and the next.
Your mouth hangs open, your fingers clenched in the blanket to hold on.
Tears run freely now, soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has crossed some threshold you didn't know existed. Past the point where your body can process it as discrete sensation, past the point where the peaks are distinguishable from the valleys, into a place where it is just one thing. One continuous roaring note, your entire nervous system lit up and screaming and the seven are amplifying every single second of it.
And the seven are doing something they've never done before.
The feedback loop is open, wide open, all seven gates singing at full volume, and they're not just catching your pleasure and passing it to BB anymore, they're catching it, passing it to him, receiving his version back, amplifying it, and feeding it back to you.
And the amplified version hits your nervous system and produces more pleasure and the seven catch that and the loop accelerates—
Your vision goes white at the edges.
The warm amber curtain-light blurs and bleaches and for a terrifying, gorgeous second you cannot see anything at all. You're just sensation, just the grinding pressure of BB thrusting inside you and the seven singing at a pitch that is vibrating your actual bones and the weight of him on your back and the wet heat of his mouth on your neck, kissing and licking and sucking, and the harmonic pouring through your sternum and you are—you're going to—
"BB—" it comes out thin, desperate, slurred, "BB, I'm—I think I'm gonna—I can't see—"
"I got you." Immediate. Even wrecked, even shaking, even slurring, immediate. BB's arm tightens around your ribs. The grind slows by a fraction. Not quite stopping, he cannot stop, but easing just enough that the seven pull back from the screaming edge by one degree. "I got you, sweetheart, I'm here, I'm not lettin' you go anywhere. Stay with me. Stay right here. Just feel me."
You gasp, trying to nod as it dissolves into a whimper. The white recedes. The amber comes back instead, blurred through tears. You can feel your heartbeat in your whole body, hammering, and the seven have eased from their shrieking peak into something that is still blinding but no longer threatening to take your consciousness with it.
"There we go," he breathes against your neck, kissing the damp line, pulsing inside you. "There you are, baby. Right here. My good girl. So good for me."
And then, because the drive is still running, because the feel of you clenching and fluttering around him in the aftermath of almost going under is apparently more than he can take, BB's hips snap forward.
Hard. One sharp, deep thrust that punches the air out of you and buries him to the absolute limit of what the reshaped length can reach inside wit a wet squelch, and he stays, and grinds. That slow, devastating circles find the spot again and your body seizes around him.
You come with a violent flutter.
There's no crest. An avalanche. It takes you from the feet up, your toes curling, your calves locking, your thighs clamping around nothing because there's nothing to clamp around.
He's inside you and you're flat on the blanket and the only thing to do with this pleasure force is take it, and you scream into the pillow, a sound you did not know you could make, and the seven catch the scream and translate it and send it hurtling down the loop and—
BB snarls above you.
You feel the moment his body exceeds capacity. The trembling hits a frequency that's no longer trembling but vibrating, every molecule of the shape BB built shaking at a pitch that blurs the edges of him, and the harmonic doesn't just pour out of him, it erupts. A sound so deep and so vast that the walls of the nest bow outward like lungs filling and the blankets shudder and the curtain-light swings and somewhere in the corridor outside the room shifts.
BB comes inside you in a gush so powerful you sob, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth and into wrecked blankets below.
You feel the overflow.
The saturation point inside you reached and exceeded and the excess having nowhere to go but out.
What comes out is hot—hotter than he's ever been, the fever-warmth of him spiking past anything your body has memorised, the warm flood pouring into you in heavy pulses that the seven catch, each one, and hold.
It produces a secondary wave of pleasure in you that rolls through the first one and compounds it and your climax, which was already an avalanche, becomes a thing with aftershocks. Your body pulses around him in helpless clenches and flutters that you can't control and that BB can feel, each one, because the loop is still running.
Because the seven are still translating, because your pleasure is still becoming his pleasure is still becoming yours—
The loop runs for what feels like hours.
Peak feeding into peak feeding into peak, the two of you locked together prone on the blanket, his weight on you and his face buried in your neck, his arm a steel band around your ribs.
The seven sing so loud the sound becomes physical, a vibration you can feel in your teeth, in the small bones of your wrists. Your body is doing things without your input—clenching, releasing, clenching again, the involuntary rhythm of a nervous system in freefall, and every clench pulls another small sound out of BB, animal sounds, wrecked sounds, whines and gasps that have no Bobby left in them at all.
When the loop finally begins to slow by degrees, the peaks getting fractionally smaller, the spaces between them getting fractionally wider. Until the spaces are big enough to breathe in and you both breathe, a long shuddering simultaneous inhale that sounds like surfacing from deep water.
Your vision clears.
The amber comes back in full. The curtain-light steadies. The seven ease from their blinding chorus into a warm, steady hum that feels almost apologetic, like seven small fires banking themselves after nearly burning the house down.
He's still inside you, still shaking. The trembling hasn't stopped and you're starting to understand that it may not stop for a while. That what just moved through him was too large for the body and the body is still processing it the way a bell still rings after being struck.
"Baby," he manages. One word. The only word he can apparently find. His mouth shapes it into the crook of your neck like he's pressing it into your skin for safekeeping.
You try to answer. What comes out is a breath that might have been a laugh, and your hand finds his where it's clamped around your ribs and your fingers lace through his and you squeeze, once, because that's all you have.
One squeeze. I'm here. I felt it. I know.
BB squeezes back, his fingers trembling in yours.
You become aware of the mess slowly.
First the wet. You're lying in it.
The blanket beneath your hips is soaked. Warm and slick and too much, more than a human body could produce, because his is not a human body and what comes out of him does not obey human volume. It has pooled under you, gathered in the dip the weight of your hips has made in the nest, and when you shift even a fraction you feel the warm slide of it against your belly, your inner thighs, the crease where thigh meets hip.
Then the glow.
You almost miss it. Your face is still turned sideways on the pillow, eyes half-closed, lashes damp, and the amber curtain-light is soft enough that it takes a moment to separate one warm light from another.
But there—at the edge of your vision, where the blanket is darkest with mess of it—the faintest luminescence. Not bright. A soft bioluminescent shimmer in the slick of him, barely there, the palest gold-white, like something living at the bottom of a very deep ocean giving off its own light.
"BB," you whisper. "It's—it's glowing."
He makes a sound against your neck. A low rumble that vibrates through your spine, half-embarrassed, half-pleased, entirely spent.
He knows. He can feel it, the way he can feel everything that is still him regardless of where it is. The substance on the blanket, all the substance overflowing inside you, the seven rooted places. all of it still pulsing in the same slow diminishing rhythm, the tail end of the overflow settling into stillness.
BB's hand unlaces from yours. Slides down, slow, across your ribs, over the dip of your waist, and comes to rest low on your belly. His palm presses flat. Warm. Possessive in the old way, the way his hand always finds that place, but tonight there is intent in the pressure, a slow gentle push, and you feel it.
You feel him inside.
The cock is still seated deep, still hard. He doesn't soften the way human men soften. The refractory period is not installed, the body simply stays at whatever state of readiness he chooses, and right now he is choosing to stay full in you.
When his hand presses against your belly from the outside you become aware of the shape of him from both directions. The hard length of him inside, pressing against your front wall, and his warm palm outside, pressing toward it, and between the two pressures your belly becomes the held thing, the kept thing, and the sensation is so intimate it makes your breath catch.
BB rubs. Slow circles. Gentle, absent, the way he strokes the small of your back when you're standing in the kitchen.
Except now BB's hand is on the soft low curve of your belly and he's pressing just firmly enough that you can feel the ridge of him shift inside you with each pass. Feel the extra pressure push more of his release out of you, dripping down in a wet, thick gush.
Each circle pushes his cock a fraction of an angle, just enough that you feel it move, and the moving is not a thrust, it's not even sex, it's just... awareness. Him making sure you know he's still there, making sure you can feel the full shape of what is still inside you, hard and pulsing and present.
You're ruined, a wreck. Your face, tear-streaked, and your thighs, trembling. You're lying in a puddle of faintly glowing come in a nest an eldritch entity built you out of love, and his hand is on your belly, and his cock is still inside you, and you're so far past okay you don't have the word for it.
BB's hand keeps rubbing. Slow circles, slow circles.
that part of pt 5 where companion teaches bb how to kiss and he is all “was that right? did i do good?” like you can’t tell me this entity doesn’t have a praise kink. wanna ride him and tell him he’s a good boy and how good he feels just to feel him purr and mewl. heavily canon in my mind.
he has so many kinks he doesn't even have a framework for yet. no real context. no reference point. just you doing something new and his whole body going white-hot and he doesn't know why but he needs you to do it again. immediately. praise is the big one though. the big one.
because BB is bottomless. pleasure isn't a cup that fills, it's a hole that deepens, and every time you tell him he's good, every time you card your fingers through his hair and say yes, baby, just like that, the hole drops another floor and he falls willingly. he's purring so hard you can feel it in your teeth. he's whining into your neck. he's nuzzling closer and kissing your neck like he can burrow under your skin if he just finds the right angle.
eternity of cold and dark and nothing and now there's you. the sun. holding him. stroking him. telling him he's good. telling him he makes you feel good. that it's him doing that. him causing those pleasure-filled sounds you're making. he's genuinely dizzy with it. drunk. overfull and starving at the same time.
and he will not stop. he doesn't have a built-in threshold for enough. you will tap out long before he does. you have to actually tell him, BB, stop, I need to breathe, I need water, I need to not be perceiving anything for twenty minutes. and he'll stop instantly because you said to. but then he's fussing. pulling you close. petting your hair. getting you water. checking on you with those big stupid concerned eyes like he didn't just cause the boneless, dazed problem. rearranging the nest around you. tucking blankets. hovering. that low worried purr that's different from the other one, the one that means did I break you? please don't be broken. I need you to not be broken. let me hold you.
and you'll laugh, because you're fine, you're just human and need a moment (or several), and he'll press his forehead against yours and breathe you in and go still and quiet, telling you he's memorising this moment to keep.
and then ten minutes later. that head tilt again. that grin. again?
you created a monster. a very polite, very devoted, completely insatiable monster.
