bea ୭౿

christmas of 1991 is easily the worst christmas you’ve ever celebrated. a few weeks earlier, you had imagined it perfectly in your head. you’d get to come home to manchester and spend the holiday with noel and liam, and split time between baking christmas biscuits with your mum and helping peggy decorate their place.

but now, you’re sat in your bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. your room looks exactly the way you’d left it in september, albeit emptier, as you’ve barely unpacked any of your clothes that you’d toted back from london.

clack.

you know exactly what that sound is and who’s outside your window. it’s liam, standing in your garden, throwing handfuls of gravel. and if your dad wouldn’t kill you over the scratches on the glass, you would’ve ignored him completely.

instead, you make your way to the window, pushing it open. the chill rushes in, hitting your face instantly.

“what d’you want?”

a wide grin breaks across his face, “well if it ain’t the ghost of christmas fuckin’ past!”

—

the park feels a lot like a graveyard, all bare trees, not a bird in sight. you’re sat on the edge of a picnic table, your boots on the little bench, while liam paces a small circle in front of you.

he’s already halfway through a four-pack of lager, “when you comin’ round then?”

you snort, cracking open your own can, “try never.”

“mam’s doin’ the decorations tomorrow,” liam says, “she’s got a tin of biscuits the size of a fuckin’ tractor wheel and she’s been moanin’ that she’s got no one to help ‘er with the tinsel.”

“and you can’t help her because…?”

he scowls, “she says i’m too clumsy.”

—

liam had promised you that noel would be out of the house and you took his word for it. you let yourself in through the kitchen door, because why wouldn’t you?

peggy is standing at the counter, her back to you, wrestling with a massive, battered tin of biscuits.

“liam, why don’t you–”

but as she turns, she realizes you’re obviously not liam. she lights up, absolutely beaming. 

“oh, love! look at you!” peggy cries, nearly dropping the tin on the counter. she wipes her hands on her apron and rushes over, pulling you into a tight, warm hug.

then the sound of liam coming down the stairs cuts through. he patters into the kitchen, looking far too pleased with himself. he’s carrying a cardboard box that’s seen better decades, overflowing with tangled strings of lights and some questionable tinsel from the early eighties. he stops by the table, dropping the box with a heavy thud.

the three of you sit around the table, talking about everything. you talk about the library, the noisy neighbors, and the way the tube smells in the morning. you carefully avoid mentioning the nights you spent staring at the telephone or how the last few weeks are the worst you’ve ever felt.

when liam goes to dig out a stepladder for tree-decking purposes, the back gate opens. the back door swings open, bringing a gust of december air with it.

and noel just stands there.

he stares at you, and then the biscuits on the table, the tinsel laid out, the empty chair next to you.

"alright," he mutters.

“you’re home early,” peggy says, reaching for the teapot. “i thought you were in town with the lads.”

“meeting was a bust,” he finally steps inside and lets the door click shut. 

before it can get any worse, liam comes back into the kitchen, ladder in tow.

“d’we start from the top and work our way—” he stops dead, “oh, fuck.”

“you said he was in town,” you speak up, keeping your eyes fixed on liam, who is suddenly very interested in the hinges of the stepladder.

noel doesn’t look at you, already walking toward the cupboards to grab a mug.

“didn't realize i needed a permit to come into my own kitchen,” he says, his voice dripping with that defensive sarcasm you used to think was endearing, “decorating, are we? making things look all nice and pretty for the holidays?

“i was just helping your mam,” your voice comes out all quiet.

"helping," noel repeats, ”right. noble of you, innit? coming back from the big city to show us how the common folk do christmas."

—

and somehow you end up at mass on christmas eve, at liam’s request. 

“just come.”

“why the fuck would i do that?”

“because if i have to listen to father what’s-his-fuckin’-name drone on, so do you.”

and you suck it up. and you go. and you end up between liam and noel, wishing you believed in god. because if you did, then you’d think everything happens for a reason.

but there’s no reason you should be shoulder-to-shoulder with noel on christmas eve wearing some stupid dress and some stupid tights.

“peace be with you.”

“no, peace be with you,” liam can’t be serious for more than thirty seconds at a time.

and when liam releases your hand from a ridiculously tight grip, you just look at noel’s outstretched hand and shake your head.

he half-smiles, “c’mon, it’s christmas.”

and you miss peggy’s face when you give noel the laziest, most placating handshake.

—

“oh, come off it. everyone’s hungover on christmas. workin’ class tradition, that is.”

you sigh, but you don’t turn around. the pub’s going to be packed wall-to-wall and the last place you want to be is anywhere noel is.

“fuck it. fine.”

and that’s how you find yourself crammed into a corner booth at the local, the air so thick with cigarette smoke and damp winter coats it makes your eyes water. the speakers are rivaling the roar of forty blokes from the estate, and every time the pub door opens, a blast of freezing december wind cuts through the heat, smelling like wet pavement.

it’s quite sweet actually. the way everyone goes to church for christmas to appease their families, goes out in their stiff clothes, and gets absolutely off their face.

“missing london then?”

you don’t have to look over. the voice and the smell of a benson is enough.

“fuck off.”

“y’look good in a dress. just thought you should know that.”

“don’t,” you sigh, "don't do that.”

he nods slowly and leans against the bar next to you. it’s quiet because there’s absolutely nothing to say.

his jaw works silently for a moment and then, “i miss you.”

okay, maybe everything does happen for a reason.

and you let him buy you another pint.

and another pint.

and then you’re both laughing.

—

and you’re still laughing when you stumble through the front door. liam probably won’t be back for hours. peggy’s at her sister’s. or somewhere. there’s too many fucking gallaghers.

and you’re laughing while noel kisses you like nothing’s ever changed and nothing’s ever gone wrong.

getting into bed is a right mess, tights strewn over the edge of his bed, noel a steady weight above you.

“how are you still this fuckin’ cold?” he laughs against your neck.

you shudder under him, arching your back just enough to press yourself completely into his warmth, your hands slipping under his jumper to find the familiar, solid line of his ribs. his skin is burning hot.

“i dunno,” you giggle, “just fix it.”

he grins, “you want me to fix it?”

you nod, your two stupid grins matching. noel slides his warm hands under the fabric of your dress, hands on your hips.

“god, i can’t believe you never let me fuck you.”

you pin him with a look.

“i can’t believe you never let me make love to you,” he rolls his pretty blue eyes.

you let out another breathless, giddy laugh, but the sound dies in your throat as his thumbs press deep into the soft skin of your hips. that sobers you right up.

“you sure?”

you nod, the soft movement of your neck careful.

he kisses you so softly that you feel like you’re about to stop breathing, your hands tangling in the fabric of his sweater.

the feeling of him pressing himself against your center is fucking dizzying, the rough denim of his jeans pinning you underneath him. his tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent. you pull him closer, and this is exactly what you’ve always imagined with noel.

perhaps you had imagined it sober, a bit sweeter, and without the underlying tension. but there’s not time to think about any of that when his calloused fingers dip inside your knickers.

he instantly feels how slick you are, wet and hot, “fuck.”

and maybe it’s the way your head is spinning, and the fact that he smells like noel. like home. “i love you.”

he freezes and then nods, two fingers sliding inside easily, “i know. i love you too.”

you let your eyes flutter closed, letting yourself feel the pliant stretch of yourself against his fingers.

his fingers move inside you, slow and deliberate, curling in a way that makes your hips jerk. you gasp, clutching at his shoulders, and he breathes a laugh against your throat.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit in lazy, wet circles, “c’mon.”

you’re already so close, all that missing and aching and wanting spilling over. he always was good at making you cum. 

his nose gently nudges the hollow of your throat, “c’mon.”

you can’t even answer him, the words turning into a broken, high-pitched whimper as the friction builds, sharp and white-hot. 

"yeah," he grins, cooing, "yeah, there. fuck, i know.”

the satisfaction in his voice is heavy, a low vibration against your throat that sends a whole new wave of heat straight to your cunt. your hips roll frantically into his palm, chasing that release.

and then… nothing. his fingers leave you empty with a wet pop.

“noel, what the fu—”

you open your eyes abruptly to find him settled between your thighs, looking up at you. he’s kneeling between your knees now, his hands sliding up to grip your thighs, spreading you wider.

then his mouth is on you, kissing at the soft mound of your cunt before his tongue laps at the spot his thumb has just abandoned.

a sharp, violent shiver racks your entire body, your hips coming up to meet his mouth as your hands fly straight to his hair. you try to pull him up, to make him stop because the sensation is entirely too much, but noel doesn't budge.

he keeps his heavy hands clamped around the back of your thighs, holding you wide open for him, unbothered by the way you’re writhing.

he’s relentless, his tongue sliding against you in long, wet, deliberate strokes that have your head rolling back into the pillow, your throat raw from the breathless noises you’re making.

“noel, please,” you gasp out into the dark, your back arching so high off the mattress that your knees shake.

one of his hands frees itself, coming back to your dripping entrance, the same two fingers finding their way back inside, the sound obscene.

the slick, heavy friction of his fingers moving deep inside you while his tongue sweeps over your clit completely shatters whatever control you had left. he drinks in every single sound you make, his tongue speeding up, matching the quick rhythm of his fingers. the heat is overwhelming, a pressure building so fast behind your eyes that the room starts to tilt.

he tears his tongue away from you, his fingers still pummelling your cunt with every twist of his wrist.

“let me fuck you,” his voice is husky, raw.

“noel—”

“please,” he begs, the moonlight glinting against his wet chin.

“please. i’ll never fuckin’ leave again. i need you. please.”

“is that really—” you let out a little gasp, “the best idea?”

his fingers stop moving, and he sits up, looking down at you. then he gets up off the bed, kneeling so he’s looking up at you.

“the best idea?" he repeats, his voice rough and gravelly, cutting straight through the heavy quiet of the bedroom. his chest is heaving under his jumper.

“i don’t give a toss about a good idea,” he pulls you to the edge, resting his face on your bare thigh, “just let me in. i-i’m sorry. i’m so fuckin’ sorry, you have no idea.”

your hand slides under his chin, turning his head to face you fully. his eyes are glassy, lips red and wet.

you lean down to kiss him, nodding, “okay. yeah… okay.”

he swallows hard, “did you… in london?”

“no,” your voice is impossibly gentle, “god, no.”

noel buries his face back into the soft skin of your thigh for a long, quiet second, his shoulders dropping as the agonizing tension finally melts out of him.

“thank god,” he whispers against your skin, his voice thick.

he pushes himself up, slowly getting his belt undone, gently pushing his boxers and jeans down and then off.

he climbs back onto the mattress carefully, the springs letting out only a soft groan as he shifts his weight. the winter draft brushes over the room again, but the moment he settles right back between your legs, the heat of his body drives the chill away.

“gonna be gentle,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper against your lips. he rests the hot tip of himself against you, his body shaking with the effort it takes to hold himself back. “i won’t hurt you, i swear. just tell me to stop if it’s too much, alright?”

and then, with a slow, careful tilt of his hips, he begins to push inside you.

he only gets the very tip of himself in before your muscles clench in a blind, instinctive panic. you wince, your nose wrinkling slightly.

he stops immediately, hips staying exactly where they are, “hey. hey, hey. you're okay.”

noel gently kisses the side of your face, “d’you need me to stop?”

"no," you shake your head, “just... give it a second."

he stays frozen, his brow furrowed, scanning your face like he’s trying to read a map he’s never seen before. he’s taking the “gentle” part seriously, his breathing ragged and heavy, his weight held carefully on his forearms so he doesn't crush you.

"y’sure?" he asks again, softer this time, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the curve of your hip.

"yeah," you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders to pull him just a little bit closer. "i'm sure. i promise."

he lets out a shaky breath, clearly relieved, and presses a lingering kiss to your temple. then, he begins to move again, slow, agonizingly deliberate inches. as he slides deeper, filling you completely, the panic dissolves into a dizzying rush. he watches you, his eyes searching, waiting for any sign of discomfort, but when he sees the way your head falls back against the pillow and your hands tangle into his hair, his jaw finally unclenches.

"there," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rasp against your skin. "you're alright."

he starts to set a rhythm, careful and steady, his movements measured as if he’s scared to break you. it’s everything you wanted, and everything you’ve missed.

"god, you’re so tight," he rasps, his voice breaking as the rhythm shifts. the careful, gentlemanly pretense is completely gone.

you’re gasping, your breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches. he’s hitting that spot, and you’re clawing at the sheets, your nails digging into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself. the sound of him, the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin, fills the small room.

"look at me," he demands, his voice a low, gravelly growl. he pauses, just for a second, locking his gaze onto yours. he doesn't wait for an answer. he just slams back into you, deeper this time, faster, his hips grinding against yours in a way that sends a wave of heat straight through you.

you can feel your control slipping, fraying at the edges. you’re a mess of tangled limbs, sweat, and breath, his mouth on your throat, his teeth grazing your skin, his pace relentless. he’s panting now, a heavy, ragged sound, his muscles tense as he pushes himself further, clearly fighting to keep it together just as much as you are.

"that's it," he grunts, his hands clamping onto your hips to hold you down, pinning you against the bed as he buries himself inside you until you’re unraveling, your hips twitching and trying to meet him, needing the friction, needing him.

the pressure inside you peaks, a rising heat that has you whimpering his name as your vision narrows. he sees it. he feels it. the way you begin to tighten around him, the way your body begins to shudder. and he stops fighting his own restraint. he thrusts into you once, twice, three times, each one deeper, his face pressed against your shoulder as he finally lets his own control shatter.

"yeah," he pants, his voice a broken rasp against your skin, "yeah, love, just like that."

—

the aftermath is a slow, hazy descent back to earth. the room feels impossibly quiet now.

noel stays heavy against you for a long time, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck. he smells like sweat, cigarettes, and that familiar scent of the gallagher house that has haunted you for months.

when he finally pulls back, his movements are uncharacteristically tender. he gathers you up, his arms wrapping around you with a protectiveness that makes your chest ache.

there’s a brief, shared rinse in the shower down the hall, a shared towel, and several tentative little kisses.

back in noel’s room, you pull on one of his soft cotton tees, the fabric ending at the top of your thighs. 

“noel, come here,” a content smile crosses your face as you pad over to the window between beds, watching a flurry of snow blow underneath the street lights.

his arms wrap around you from behind, warm and steady, “maybe we’ll get snowed in, hm?”

“in manchester?” you turn in his arms to giggle at him.

he looks like he’s thinking, really thinking, “stranger things have happened in manchester.”

you rest your head on his shoulder, “you’re so stupid.”

The low rumble of the metal grate beneath your feet as the Corbelan ascends leaves you feeling momentarily weightless, like you're floating before gravity pulls you down, feeling heavier than usual.

You’re strapped in, anchored by a sturdy crossed seatbelt that comes down over your shoulders and buckles in next to the opposite hip, white knuckling the lip of the seat on either side of your thighs, eyes closed tight as you hold your breath.

It feels surreal, your heart thumping hard against your rib cage, knowing you all just pulled off the biggest heist in Jackson Star’s history, stealing highly-regulated equipment to leave behind a shitty life of indentured servitude.

It's something you've all discussed at length for months, Tyler being the one to initially suggest the idea while you were all drinking late one night, mapping out an escape route in yours and Bjorn's shared trailer, sitting on his lap with his legs spread wide, arms loosely circled around your waist.

Still—you can't believe it actually worked, breaking into the hauler and getting it up off the ground without any hiccups, half expecting sirens to soon blare throughout the endlessly dark sky or for the engine to stall, it just feels easy. Too easy.

You feel Bjorn’s hand on your leg then, taking notice of your growing anxiety, always able to pick up on any shifts in your mood, no matter how subtle, not when it comes to you.

Running his thumb along the inseam of your dark-washed jeans, he squeezes your thigh afterwards out of reassurance. It helps, even if only just a little, your palm finding its way into his, weaving your fingers together between you, a fair bit calmer now that you're holding your boyfriend's hand, roughed up and calloused from mining.

He's always been able to read you, ever since you were little, knowing exactly what you needed when you needed it, sometimes even before you did, causing your progressively growing affection for him to flourish into something else entirely, something beautiful, until you were crushing hard and just couldn't bury it anymore, no matter how hard you tried.

Luckily the feeling was mutual because after your drunk little confession, the only two still awake and drinking, sitting in the cramped living room of his trailer away from where the others were passed out, you hooked up on his futon, sweating out years of romantic and sexual tension that had built and built and built between you until it finally came to a head.

Everyone was happy for you both as soon as they woke the next morning to you wearing Bjorn's loose tee from the night before and a pair of clean boxers, arms linked and swinging down between your bodies, going shy when Navarro sighed, “fuck—finally,” and Tyler coming up to squeeze Bjorn’s shoulders from behind, telling him, “see? Told ya’ she wuz’ just as inta ya,’ mate.”

That was three years ago and you've been dating ever since, completely mad for each other as Bjorn liked to put it, which you think sums it up quite nicely.

You complimented one another, able to make up for whatever deficiency the other was lacking in. You were the only one that could truly calm him, talk him down from the proverbial edge when his anger started to boil over in response to whatever bullshit life threw at him. Reminding him that you were in this together for the long haul, which always did the trick, watching the way he'd soften in your hold and silently nod, looking just as vulnerable on the outside as he felt on the inside.

And he was the only one that could truly get you to relax when you were stressed out, like a hydraulic press trying to crush you under the weight of your own problems. Reminding you not be so serious all the time, to enjoy the little things, like right at that moment, when he'd be spooning you in bed at the end of every night, drawing miscellaneous patterns over your midriff with one hand while he combs his fingers on the other through your hair, still damp with sweat after a passionate round or two.

It wasn't perfect but it was yours, and that was enough for both of you.

The hauler Navarro’s piloting hits a rough patch of turbulence as it cuts up through the polluted cloud cover, Bjorn withdrawing his hand from yours to unbuckle himself and stand, unsteady on his feet, forcing him to hold onto one of the steel bars to ground himself there.

He plucks a rolled up joint from the front pocket of his dark gray drop shoulder hoodie and lights it with one of his shitty zippo's, the confined oxygen combined with the freighter's acceleration causing the flame to shoot up high and wide, nearly singeing his eyebrows off. The others laugh at his accidental little joint trick, including you, watching him proudly nod his head around at everyone when he manages to keep all his hair.

It smokes fast, faster than he was expecting, his eyes rounding in surprise as the paper burns all the way down to the roach in just seconds, cheeks swollen with a sudden mouthful of smoke, thin milky tendrils slipping past the seam of his lips.

Then Bjorn leans down and cradles your face between his hands before capturing your lips with his without hesitation, not that you mind, permission never requested and approval never needed anytime it comes to kissing between you two, parting your mouth when he parts his, letting him exhale smoke into it.

It inflates your lungs almost instantly, like two blistering hot air balloons butting up against your ribcage, getting you super stoned off the rip. You feel the muscles in your body relax all at once, tangling your fingers in his hair to pull him in impossibly closer, working your tongue into his mouth.

There’s just something about shotgunning with Bjorn that gets you so worked up every time you partake in it, maybe it’s the intimacy of it, so close you can see Bjorn’s pupils dilate from the drugs and the desire, but you always find it ridiculously sexy whenever he does it.

You hear the quiet click of your seatbelt as Bjorn unbuckles it for you, pulling it up and off you before tugging on your wrist to get you to stand with him, pulling you into him, one arm circling your upper back to spread his fingers over your shoulder blades while the other grabs a handful of your ass, not once breaking the kiss.

It’s hot and heavy from the outset, it always is with Bjorn, likes to skip the teasing and jump head first into the deep end with you in tow. The slick sound of your tongues meeting is mostly drowned out by the pulsing engine and Navarro announcing the position of the gearshift when she changes direction, everyone pointedly ignoring the free show you’re giving them, already used to it by now, Bjorn never one to shy away from PDA.

However unlike him it took you awhile to warm up to it, always going a little pink-cheeked and embarrassed whenever he'd lick into your mouth or pinch your ass in front of everyone, but you learned to like it, love it even, looking forward to it every time he does it, which is all the time.

He places one knee between your legs and grinds his hard on up against your thigh, a low buzz humming between your ears like static from a television, swallowing the noises the other is making, grinding back against his thigh, your underwear getting increasingly wet as a result.

The friction between you is delicious—downright addicting, whining every time the denim of his jeans roughly catches your clit, dry humping his thigh that much harder, feeling pleasure quickly mounting inside of you, spurring on the frenetic roll of your hips. God does Bjorn know how to get you going, until you're needy and pliant and begging for him to fuck you.

“Such a naughty little minx ya’ are,” Bjorn exhales into your ear, a breathy groan that has you shuddering in his hold, “gonna make ya' come all over ma’ face while I go down on ya,’ would ya’ like tha’ princess? Me splittin’ ya’ wide open with jus’ ma’ tongue?”

Before you have a chance to respond, the others collectively groan in disgust, Tyler cutting in to voice everyone else's thoughts, “christ, can ya' take this somewhere else? Cousins really shouldn't hafta’ hear their cousins say shit like tha’ yanno!”

Bjorn smirks, lazily rolling his head in the direction of his cousin, running his tongue flat over the curve of his top teeth, “awe, jealous you ain't gettin' any action cuz?”

Tyler glares, no actual malice in his eyes, always willing to put up with Bjorn's ridiculous antics even when he clearly doesn't want to, “no, not at all, I jus’ feel like I need a shower now s’all. Ma’ brain hates ma’ ears fo’ even havin’ ta’ hear tha.’”

“Yeah, a cold one amirite?” Bjorn cracks as he walks away, leading you with his arm around your shoulders down the Corbelan’s corridor towards the back where the bunks are, tucked into his side while he playfully squeezes your bicep. He leans in close to nip at your throat just above the worn scoop neck collar, prone to leave marks, both of you liking the visual reminder that you belong to him.

There are two bunk rooms, the one Kay is lying in to help combat some of her morning sickness during takeoff, and the room adjacent to it, the empty one, is the one Bjorn pulls you into, crowding you up against the ladder as soon as you're through the open doorway, feeling metal rungs bite into your back through the loose fitting t-shirt you're wearing—Bjorn's shirt.

“Less get these rags off ya’ sweetheart, wanna taste tha’ pretty pussy of urs before we get inta’ space,” he rasps, grabbing the hem of the ratty fabric to pull it up and off your head, his hand easily finding the clasp on your bra to unhook it.

He licks his thumb and index finger to gently roll your nipple between them, eliciting a moan, high and needy in pitch, your head falling back against the platform the uppermost mattress is sitting on with a quiet ‘thunk’ because of it.

Bjorn chuckles watching your reaction, an arrogant smile on his face, always so smug with how quickly he's able to get you falling apart, always so receptive in his hands, more than familiar with every sensitive spot and erogenous zone located on your body, replacing his fingers with the wet suction of his mouth.

He doesn't take his time like he normally does, loves toying with your chest until they're red and raw and littered with purpling hickeys of various sizes until you're a whimpering, quivering puddle beneath him but tonight he's on a mission, having thought it out long before he filled you in back in the cockpit.

“I'd love ta’ suckle on ‘em titties a little longa’ but I got a betta' way ta’ use ma’ mouth, don'tcha agree princess?” He whispers, warm breath ghosting over your face, tickling your heated skin, causing the hairs there to stand at attention.

“Mmmmm,” you hum, short on breath, whining in response to him pinching the side of your heaving tit, knowing what he wants before he even voices it.

“Words babe, use ‘em,” he orders, circling his thumbs counterclockwise over your hard nipples like the joysticks on the console he plays when he's not playing with you. Your back arches into his heated touch, moaning, “I—yes. Please Bjorn—baby, want you to eat me out, want you to split me wide open with your tongue and come on your face like you promised you would. Please.”

“Well, since ya’ asked so nicely,” he grins, satisfied with your answer, getting you to lie down on the bottom bunk sideways so your legs are dangling off the edge of the thin bed.

It's a tight fit, definitely not big enough for him to crawl in after and fuck you in, regardless of the position you'd attempt to do it, but that's not his endgame right now anyway so it doesn't really matter to either of at you the moment. You'll figure that out later, when you're officially on course for the nine year journey to Yvaga III. The others are all gonna fucking hate you both by the end of it.

Kneeling on the ground between your legs he grips either knee and spreads them wide open, instructing you to lift your hips a little so he can shed your jeans, leaving you in nothing but your damp cotton panties.

You watch as he licks over his lips, slow and deliberate, like he’s eying his favorite meal, a new wave of wetness gushing out of you, reflexively trying to close your legs so you don't soak through the mattress but Bjorn's hands stop you from doing so.

“Don't get all shy on me now princess,” Bjorn smirks, thumbs brushing over the crease of your pelvis, flirting along the edge of your underwear, “s'not like I haven't seen it all before or nothing.”

Then he’s closing the distance, taking a big whiff between your thighs, the rapid flutter of his lashes and the growl that rumbles through his chest inciting a needy whine out of you, “always smells so fuckin’ good, so wet ‘n ready fo’ me like tha’ naughty little slut ya’ are. Gonna fuckin’ devour ya.’”

He blows cool air over your warm, wet core, causing you to shiver, trying to grind down on his face, his hands on your hips stopping you, punctuating the air between you, “patience sweetheart, we’ll get there, probably don't’ have much time left ‘nyway.”

Bjorn finally, finally rips your underwear down and off, throwing the bend of your knees over his shoulders before burying his face in between your thighs, licking between your dripping folds from the base of your throbbing core up to your clit, tongue circling around the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Oh fuck, Bjorn,” you whimper, electricity circulating through you like your veins are made of live wires, feeling high off the weed and arousal and adrenaline as your boyfriend eats you out, ankles locking behind the scruff of his neck to keep him there.

“Thas’ right baby, say ma’ name, is tha’ only one ur eva’ gonna moan cuz this pussy belongs ta’ me n’ me only,” he growls, giving your thigh a possessive little squeeze as he spells the letters of his name out on your clit to really drive the point home.

And the thing is—Bjorn's absolutely right, his name is the only one you're ever gonna moan, the only one you ever want to, because Bjorn doesn't just own what's between your legs he owns what's inside your chest too.

It’s the crude way Bjorn spits on your entrance that has you closing your legs around his head, moaning his name like a prayer, like you aren’t already wet enough, distantly aware it's just another way for him to stake his claim over you.

He probes the tip of his tongue against your opening, throbbing in anticipation, clamping down on the warm wet muscle as soon as he wiggles it inside, first an inch, then two, groaning as the taste spreads over his tongue.

It always drives you absolutely crazy how vocal Bjorn is when he's going down on you, like he's getting off on it more than you are, the noises he's making causing tremors of pleasure to undulate through you, blindly fucking back onto his tongue as a result.

He increases his persistence, steadily fucking his tongue in and out of you, one of the arms he has loosely circled around your thighs letting go to rub circles into your clit instead, applying just the right amount of pace and pressure to have you trembling in his grasp.

You continue to roll your hips down, growing frenetic with your rapidly approaching climax, cervical muscles contracting like wires being wound up tight, clenching around your boyfriend’s thick tongue while you grind up into his thumb, wet from his spit and your fluids.

Moans are freely spilling out of you know, oscillating between breathy little whimpers and needy whines of Bjorn’s name and phrases like, “baby—fuck,” and, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” orgasming just as the quiet boom of the Corbelan breaks through the surface tension of the exosphere and enters orbit, sunlight pouring through the window of the hauler and bathing you both.

Bjorn’s face is wet with your release, licking up your thighs and between your folds to clean you up, licking you into hypersensitivity, pulling your hips away when it starts to hurt. He kisses down your leg, gentle as he helps swing your legs in so you’re lying on the mattress correctly, crawling in to join you.

While it might not be big enough for you to fuck in its just right for cuddling, his arm going around your waist to reel you in close, groaning when you lean your head back against his shoulder to lick some of your juices off of him. He’s still fully clothed, hips pressed up to your naked ass, tracing over the dice tattoo on the back of his hand.

“Want me to return the favor?” You ask, fucked out and spent in his arms, feeling your eyelids grow heavy with sleep. Still, you’d power through the exhaustion if he wanted you to, just for him.

“No need princess,” Bjorn smiles, soft and affectionate, kissing behind your ear, “already gone limp. Gonna hafta’ change my boxers when I got tha’ energy. Tha’ pretty little sounds ya’ make really gets me goin.’”

You feel heat pool low in your core at the idea of Bjorn getting off on just your moans alone, meeting his eyes over your shoulder, dazzling in the sun. He kisses you then, full of love and passion, cradling your jaw to keep it turned towards him, thumb sweeping across your cheekbone, from the bridge of your nose back to your ear.

“Jus’ as breathtaking in tha’ light princess,” he whispers, eyes roving over your face, the same look he always gives you when he’s being incredibly sweet, like he’s been staring at the sun long before he saw the real thing.

But there were times when those cheeky fucks stopped being simply pathetic but turned out to be cocky instead.

When one of the nights you go out and Bjorn has his hand under the table, squeezing your thigh, laughing at a joke you just said, and suddenly one of them appears out of nowhere, asking for your name and if he can buy you a drink and all that other wacky shit.

Normally, Bjorn would've jumped the guy, but you had pleaded with him to let you handle guys like that.

So that's why decided to watch you politely tell him that you're not interested while leaning a bit closer to Bjorn. Yet that fuck refused to take the hint.

“Didn't you hear whattha lady said, you fuckin’ wanker?” Bjorn's rough voice captured the attention of the man, who turned to scowl at him.

“I think I'd understand if she wanted me to go,” The man said, glancing back at you with what you could describe as a sleazy smile.

“Are you sure? You don’ look like the brightest.” Bjorn countered but before the man could respond you cut him off firmly “I'm sorry, I'm not interested.”

The man looked between you and Bjorn before letting out a scoff and mumbling something about “not wanting you anyway.” while walking away.

Bjorn tore his gaze from the man to glance at you, a look of irritation crossing his usually playful features.

Encounters like this always left him fuming.

Coming up with some stupid excuse about him being tired, which wasn't entirely an excuse, he dragged you out of the bar after barely remembering to bid your friends goodbye.

He had one thought on his mind— to show you why you kept rejecting all of those guys.

So that's why he pressed you against a wall of his trailer as soon as you walked in, planting rough kisses on your soft lips.

“Bjorn—” you attempted to utter a sentence between his relentless attack on your lips and neck.

“I'm sorry, I'm not interested” He mocked your words from before, moving lower to your collarbone.

“I didn't mean it like that” Your words came out in ragged gasps.

“He shoulda be fuckin’ sorry he ain't the one about to fuck your brains out” He spat out, clutching at the neckline of your shirt and roughly pulling it down, showing more of your flushed skin.

He could easily just take your shirt off but the idea of pulling his lips away from you was utterly unacceptable in his lust-fogged mind.

You tried to gently push him away to take it off, worried that he's going to ruin your only clean work shirt but he quickly wrapped his fingers around your throat, pushing you against the wall even more.

“Every motherfucker thinks they can get a piece of you, stupid fucks.” He cursed against your neck, his teeth grazing your soft skin as he sucked and kissed you. “They don't even know how fucking loose you are.”

His harsh words pushed an even louder whine past your lips, his fingers pressed against your throat turned your usually silky voice, hoarse.

His other hand roamed your back before hooking his arm under your ass and lifting you up, his lips refusing to leave yours as he carried you to his bedroom.

He hastily kicked his door open and unceremoniously dropped you on his messy bed.

You quickly grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer to you. You heard Bjorn let out a mocking chuckle before saying “Look at you, getting all hot and bothered ‘cause I called ya a slut. You like being called a slut, huh?”

“Shut up.” You warned, burying your fingers in his messy locks.

But he quickly grabbed your hands and pressed them against the hard mattress, capturing your lips in a messy kiss, determined for you to be the one begging for more, and your fingers pulling at his hair was very…distracting.

Your skin felt like it was burning, and the fabric of your shirt and pants started clinging to your sweaty skin making you whine loudly.

As if to torture you more, knowing Bjorn that was probably the case, he positioned his knee between your spread legs, pressing lightly, annoyingly light yet enough to make you gasp at the impact.

Your neglected clit rubbed against the now damp fabric of your underwear, begging for attention making you go crazy at how easy it would be for him to just reach out and rub it until you were a moaning mess.

But he didn’t, he just smirked against your mouth as he bit your bottom lip lightly.

“Bjorn, Please” You pleaded and tried to wiggle your hands free.

“‘Please’ what? Want me to take these off?” He asked with a sly smirk.

“Yes.” You replied quickly, already out of breath.

“But ya look so cute like this. And I haven't even don’ anythin’, shit.” He snickered lowly.

You were sure you looked utterly disheveled right now. Your cheeks burning with arousal, your eyes stinging with tears, and nipples poking through your shirt uncomfortably, crying out for his tongue or fingers.

You looked so fucked out already and Bjorn debated if he should continue this or fuck you right

All his thoughts disappeared when he felt you press yourself against his knee, dragging your clothed core against him with a choked moan. You threw your head back in relief as you continued your clumsy movements, mouth wide open.

“Holy shit…” Bjorn mumbled under his breath as he released your hands and leaned back, unable to tear his eyes from your blissed-out face.

“Ah, fuck! Bjorn!” You cried out and quickened your movements sloppily like you haven’t been fuck in months when the truth is you and Bjorn had been all up in each other’s business this morning before work.

You'd feel embarrassed if you saw just how dark the stain on your pants was getting but right now all you could focus on was the blinding pleasure that spread through you the faster you moved your hips against the rough fabric of his pants.

His name fell out of your lips so deliciously that Bjorn was speechless— maybe for the first time in his life as he looked at you move against him so desperately, so utterly gone. For him. You looked like a fucking wet dream.

Soon enough he snapped off his trance and leaned closer, hand coming to rest on your neck while his thumb grazed your lower lip, dragging it down slowly. “Look at ya. Bet that fuck wouldn't even try if he saw you drool like a bitch in heat fo’ me.” He whispered lowly, a hint of amusement coating his voice.

You whimpered at his words, taking his thumb in your mouth and swirling your tongue around his digit as soon as it slid past your red lips.

The whine you let out when he took his thumb out of your mouth, was enough to make his dick twitch against his boxers. You were quickly silenced when he moved his hands under your pants.

He immediately started circling your puffy clit sending a jolt of pleasure flowing through you, cries of his name left you leaving your lips.

“That's it, love. Be a good slut and cum on my knee” He praised.

Your trembling hands grasped his shoulders as your hips moved up and down feverishly until you came all over your panties with a loud yelp, hips stuttering uncontrollably against him.

Shivers ran down your spine as you tried to even your breathing, barely noticing how the boy slid your soaked pants down your shaking legs and threw them somewhere in his messy room.

You came crashing back to reality when his fingers grazed your aching core over the drenched fabric of your underwear. You twitched at the sudden jolt of pleasure and grabbed his hand with your own, feeling too sensitive.

He raised a brow “You think I brought you here to watch you hump my leg like a dog?”You meet his hungry gaze before looking down at the wet patch that you left on his pants. 

You tore your gaze away, your cheeks burning with shame as he continued “Such a fuckin’ liar, acting like ya don't wan’ me to fuck ya stupid. We both know you're gonna beg for it in a few seconds, so why don't ya just take it like a good girl?”

You swore you could come again from his words alone and he could see it. He could see the raw need that fogged your eyes and it drove him crazy.

“Ya wanna be my good girl, mhm?” He asked with a crooked smile, leaning closer to your face, letting his hand travel under your shirt to squeeze your breast.

His hand slid lower to his abdomen, freeing his throbbing cock from his pants while waiting for your mushy brain to come up with an answer.

You nodded, tongue running over your bottom lip in anticipation.

Bjorn slapped your tit at the lack of a response earning a surprised yelp “I asked ya a question, doll.”

“Yes.” You gasped, rushing to give him an answer “Want to be your good girl.”

You gasped, squeezing his biceps when you felt his tip run through your folds, collecting your juices on his tip.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” He mumbled. 

with one fast push he buried himself deep inside your inviting warmth. He paused and groaned softly, mouth agape, savoring the feeling of your walls fluttering around his length.

“Bjorn!” You moaned loudly and threw your head against the pillows, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“That's it, that's it. Say my name.” He groaned against your marked neck.

So you did, his name slipping from your lips in a loud cry after each deep thrust. He snapped his hips forcefully, the sound of skin slapping filled the loud room. The overstimulation and Bjorn’s low grunts against your ear brought you closer and closer to release. His pace grew faster, movements becoming more erratic as he chased after his release, pants and moans spilling from his plush lips with every deep thrust.

“Bjorn, I can’t—!” You managed to blurt out in between moans at the aching feeling between your shaking legs.

“Shh, I’m close baby, I’m close.” He coaxed, his relentless pounding not faltering even for a second.

Tears ran down your flushed cheeks as the overwhelming pleasure sent shivers all over your flushed body. He didn’t stop, reassuring you through your second orgasm, one that made your head spin. Your walls squeezed him so hard, tipping him over the edge right along with you. He stilled inside you, filling you up to the brim with a loud moan.

He threw his head back with a dragged out “Fuuuuck.”

Bjorn dragged himself out of your gushing insides making both of you gasp. He leaned over you, hands grasping the sheets on either side of your head.

“Who’s gon’ fuck ya like this, huh? He breathed out, with a laugh.

“You’re a dumbass.” You snickered, making the boy frown. “When have I said I want anyone else?”

He threw himself to the side, pushing his bangs out of his sweaty forehead with a cheeky smile. “How can ya after I fuck ya so bloody well?”

“Yeah, that’s the only reason.” You joked and scratched his head lovingly, messing his hair even more. But the soft way your eyes gazed into each other told a very different story.