#bf7 x reader

his glasses stay on, fogging at the corners while he leans in over you, chest pressed down warm and steady against your bare skin, his hair thick and floppy and brushing your forehead, the frame of him a blanket you can’t wriggle out of no matter how hard you twitch and gasp and try to shift your hips away from the slow, careful weight of him inside you. brock’s breathing deep, focused, mouth dragging over your cheek, your ear, his voice soft and so maddeningly gentle it makes your stomach knot up worse than the stretch already has.

"shh... you’re okay. i know it’s a lot," he murmurs, not teasing, not mocking, just watching you melt under him with that quiet, knowing look in his eyes, glasses slightly crooked from the way you’ve been pawing at him without realizing. you’re so wet around him you can feel every twitch of his cock like it’s being carved through you, thick and hot and slow like he's imprinting the shape of himself into your body one careful stroke at a time. it’s too much—he’s too big, he feels like he’s everywhere—and your legs keep trying to close around him instinctively, thighs trembling, but he just cups the underside of your knee and eases it back up with a kiss to your jaw.

“just a little more,” he says, voice like syrup, low and even, “you’re already doing so good for me, baby. you're takin’ all of me, look at that.”

you can’t. your eyes are fluttering open and closed with every inch he gives you, overwhelmed, mind blank except for the pressure of him between your legs and the dizzying warmth of his praise in your ear. you whimper again—high, broken, desperate—and he groans so quietly like the sound physically hits him, like it’s too pretty for him to take. you feel every throb of his cock inside you, the subtle shifting as he rocks forward another inch, another slow glide that pulls the breath from your chest and replaces it with heat so intense your fingertips curl against his biceps.

he’s barely even moving and it’s still so much, the stretch tugging at your insides, your pussy clenching down without meaning to as your body tries to accommodate the width, the length, the impossible grind of him. your walls flutter around him every time he shifts his hips, and he can feel it—of course he can—he lets out this low noise right against your cheek, smiling gently, more turned on by the effort it takes than any sort of rough fucking.

"you feel everything, don’t you," he murmurs, more statement than question, lips brushing yours. "poor thing, i know... you’re trying so hard for me, aren’t you?"

you nod frantically, breath stuttering, and his hand comes up to cradle your cheek as his hips roll again, slower this time, deeper, the tip grinding against a spot inside you that makes your voice break into a choked little gasp. he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your temple, then your chin, just soft brushes of affection between the unbearable movement of his cock splitting you open in these gentle, controlled strokes that make your whole body jolt.

“is it good?” he asks, so quiet you feel the words more than hear them. “you’re still so tight around me… you feel me up here, baby?” he follows by pressing down on your lower tummy.

your face burns as you whimper a yes, hands clawing weakly at his back, and his mouth finds your neck again, kissing slowly along your throat like he’s trying to distract you from how deep he’s pushing in, keeping you pinned and still so he can slide every last inch into your fluttering cunt without letting you back away. there’s this aching, sensitive pulse starting to build low in your stomach, not pleasure yet but the start of something heady, and you gasp again when he finally bottoms out, hips flush to yours, buried so full and tight you can’t breathe for a second.

"that’s it. that’s all of me,” he whispers, kissing your jaw like a reward, holding still for a moment so your body can learn the shape of him. you feel so stretched, stuffed, your cunt fluttering helplessly around the girth of his cock, every clench pulling a soft hum from him. he strokes a hand over your side, soothing, grounding, while his mouth keeps finding yours for slow, messy kisses that steal your breath and give it back soft.

his hips start to move again, not hard, just slow and deep and thorough, dragging his cock out almost all the way before sliding it back in so deliberately you feel every inch all over again. the rhythm makes your breath hitch, makes your toes curl, your pussy spasming around him each time his tip kisses that spot inside that makes your thighs jump. it’s too much but you don’t want him to stop, the fullness now twisted up with need, with the unbearable warmth curling tighter between your hips.

he keeps kissing you, keeps whispering soft things—"you make the prettiest sounds," and "there you go, baby, that’s it"—each one coaxing you further into that fuzzy, sensitive place where everything feels thick and hot and so real you want to cry. you’ve never been fucked like this, never been touched like this, and it shows in the way your body clings to him, in the way your cunt tightens with every stroke like it’s trying to memorize the rhythm of him.

The Hangover plays softly in the background as you and Brock enjoy your day off, you’re cooking a small lunch for the both of you and Brock is lounging on the couch scrolling on his phone. He laughs every so often as he half listens to the movie and every time he shouts “Babe! You gotta come see this!” You laugh and say “Brock I’m cooking us lunch!” but you go into the living room and watch it anyway. You hum quietly as you stir the pasta, the aroma of the sauce and herbs filling the room mixed with the nice spring breeze rolling through the open windows. You pick up a noodle out of the saucepan and taste it, deciding the sauce is the correct consistency and the noodles are done. You turn off the heat and call out to Brock, “Honey, lunch is ready!” You hear the noise from the TV cease and Brock’s footfalls make their way to the kitchen. He jogs in with a dopey, happy smile on his face. His glasses fall down the bridge of his nose as he bounds over to you like a little puppy.

He hugs you from behind and peppers kisses up and down your neck before inhaling deeply, breathing in your scent mixed with his cologne and the aroma of the food. “You’re happy today,” you state. Brock lets out a big breath as he steps back from you, “Yeah well I get to spend the day with you.” He says it so matter of factly that you almost missed what he said completely. You turn around and look at your boy, messy hair and all. He just shrugs nonchalantly and grabs a bowl out of the cupboard, then takes a few steps to the stove so he can fill his bowl with pasta. Once he decides it’s enough pasta he hands the bowl off to you, muttering “This is yours,” under his breath. You take the bowl from him, reach up and kiss his cheek, and make your way to the living room. Brock follows you with his own bowl of pasta, you both sit down on the couch and you cover Brock and yourself with the blanket that was haphazardly thrown to the side.

Brock grabs the remote off the coffee table and turns the movie back on before leaning back and eating his pasta. You both sit in silence as you eat your meal, Brock lets out occasional hums and ‘this is so good’. You laugh to yourself whenever he does along with reaching over and scratching the back of his head. Brock finishes his meal before you do and sets his bowl on the coffee table, then leaning back, scratching his stomach, and groaning. You huff and give him a look to which he smiles at and says “You did great baby, it was so good that I can feel myself slipping into a food coma now.” You take your last bite and laugh at Brock’s statement, leaning forward to put your bowl with Brock’s. You lay back on the couch and fake pout at Brock, “Aw you poor baby. What can I do to make you feel better?”

“I want cuddles.”

“Cuddles?”

“Cuddles.” Brock affirms. You smile and open your arms as an invitation for him. Brock’s smile stretches so wide across his face you fear it might split his face in two. He scrambles over to you, immediately plopping himself on top of you, head on your chest, arms wrapped around you tightly. He nuzzles his face into your bust and hums happily, his glasses become crooked from the angle in which he is laying. His mop of brown curls brush your chin and tickle your nose but you don’t move away, no, instead you wrap your arms around his back and hug him. For hours you lay together as one, Brock asleep on your chest as you keep alternating between the movie and him, occasionally you lean down and press a kiss to his head. He burrows his head ever farther into your chest, making a noncommittal noise while he sleeps.

brock is leaning over the kitchen counter, glasses sliding down his nose as he tries to open a jar that’s been giving him hell all morning. his messy brown hair keeps falling into his eyes but he’s stubbornly ignoring it, muttering under his breath as the lid refuses to budge. you walk by, bump your hip into his, and casually say, “move, big guy, i got it.” the second the words leave your mouth, his entire body goes still, like someone just shut him off and rebooted him. his cheeks go faintly pink, his green eyes dart to yours, and he straightens up with a slow swallow, and you can see how hard he’s getting just from that one little nickname.

you grab the jar just to tease him, pretending you don’t notice how he’s staring at you like he might actually drop to his knees. he steps up behind you, big hands sliding onto your waist without warning, and you feel the hard line of his cock press into your lower back as he murmurs, “you really can’t just say things like that when i’m trying to be productive.” his voice sounds tight, wound-up in a way that’s completely different from the soft tone you know from bed—this is him trying not to laugh and trying not to hump you at the same time.

you twist the jar open easily, and he groans into your shoulder, because of course you made it look effortless. he kisses your neck softly, half whining, “you’re killing me, baby. absolutely killing me.”

later, you’re on the couch, sprawled across his lap with your feet on the coffee table while he scrolls through something on his phone. he’s relaxed, loose, teasing you every few minutes with little nudges of his knee under your thigh. then you ask, half absentmindedly, “can you hand me the blanket, big guy?” and it’s instant—his breath catches, his fingers tighten on your hip, and his cock jumps so visibly under you that you feel the throb against your ass. he laughs, because he can’t help it, this helpless, breathy sound, and he drops his forehead against your shoulder.

“you’re doing it on purpose,” he accuses, even though he doesn’t sound upset at all. his hands start roaming immediately, sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like he’s checking you’re real.

another time, he’s reaching something from the top shelf for you—shirt riding up, messy hair falling everywhere, glasses slightly crooked—and you say it again, sweet as anything: “thanks, big guy.” he actually has to set the box down and steady himself on the counter. his cock is already straining against his sweats, pushing insistently, the shape obscenely obvious. he hooks an arm around your waist without warning and pulls you flush to him, laughing as you gasp at the sudden closeness. “you can’t keep calling me that when i’m trying to behave,” he says, burying his face in your neck with the warmest, most flustered smile. his voice is playful but the grip on your hips says he’s barely hanging on.

brock manhandles you constantly when this happens—lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing, tossing you over his shoulder in the living room, pulling you into his lap while he tries (and fails) to pretend he’s not hard again. he’ll walk past you and suddenly scoop you up by the thighs, kissing you all over your face while you laugh and cling to him. he does it partly because he loves the way you squeal when he grabs you, but mostly because being called “big guy” turns every cell in his body molten and he has to do something with the energy. once, you murmured it right into his ear while hugging him from behind, and he almost folded in half, whispering, “sweetheart, seriously…” before picking you up and spinning you just to stop himself from grinding against you.

his hair’s wild, glasses sliding down his nose, those green eyes drowsy and sweet as you slide onto him, his body sprawled under you in a tangled, exhausted mess of blankets. brock lets out this quiet, shaky sound—almost a sigh—while your hands plant on his chest, and his cock twitches up inside your sloppy cunt, the glide so easy and wet from how many times he’s fucked you already tonight. he doesn’t say a word, just watches through those smudged lenses, mouth parted in a lazy, adoring grin, teeth crooked and adorable, lips swollen from kissing you to ruin. he just lets you do it, lets you take everything you want, his body yours to use while he lies still, holding you with one warm palm pressed to the dip of your back, thumb stroking your skin so slow and mindless it feels like he’s tracing his name there.

your brain’s fuzzy, lost in the way you’re rocking yourself down on his cock, using him for nothing but the thick, steady drag that turns your muscles to jelly, your hips rolling in tiny, needy circles. you don’t even need to look at him to know he’s staring, loving every soft, shivery whimper spilling from your lips while your cunt clenches greedily around him. the slick, sloppy sound of your pussy working him is so obscene in the hush of the room, broken only by the sweet catch of his breath and the quiet, dreamy noises you both make. his cock fits you like it was made for you, sliding so perfectly against that raw, hypersensitive spot inside that you can’t help grinding down again and again, taking him deeper, making yourself tremble from head to toe.

he never moves, never takes control, but god, he’s still so dominant without even trying—just lying back, arms wrapped loose around your waist, letting you use his dick however you want. sometimes he’ll murmur your name, so gentle and fond it feels like a stroke on your spine, and his hands will find your hips to hold you close but never push, just anchoring you, letting you fuck yourself soft and slow until your thighs burn and your vision goes hazy. every time you gasp, every little flutter of your cunt, he hums encouragement under his breath, the sound vibrating up through his chest and into your skin.

brock’s still catching his breath, hair wild, cheeks flushed, and his glasses hopelessly fogged as he fumbles them back onto his nose like he can’t stand even a second without those dorky black frames pressed to his face. sweat sticks them crooked, but he doesn’t care—he’s already halfway up on one elbow, eyes roaming over you with so much earnest sweetness it makes your chest hurt. his palm’s gentle and reverent as he rubs your thigh, thumb painting lazy circles, and you feel the aftershocks rippling soft through your body while you lie there, totally boneless and ruined, pretty much gone in the head but content to drift because brock is here, and he’s not about to let you go anywhere.

he laughs, all low and fond, the sound melting straight through your bones, and then he leans in to press the sloppiest kiss to your hairline, lips dragging over your temple, your cheek, until he’s nuzzling at the corner of your mouth. “you’re unreal, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words tumbling out so soft, so fucking gentle you want to cry all over again, especially when he brushes your hair back and cups your face with both hands, gazing at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth his time. the glasses are askew, the green of his eyes bright behind the smudged lenses, and he presses a little peck to the tip of your nose like you didn’t just get absolutely railed—like you’re delicate, precious, like he could fix every bruise just by kissing it better.

he checks you over, careful as anything, fingertips trailing down your arms, mapping every inch of skin, looking for any red spot or sore place, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “how’s my love?” he asks, voice syrupy, nothing cocky left now, only this open, undiluted care. his grin turns soft, a little sheepish. “let’s get you some water, yeah? you did so good for me.” you can barely nod but he kisses your forehead again, pushing up and tucking the blanket around you with that same overprotective fussiness he shows on the ice, like shielding you from the cold world with nothing but his gangly body and those damn glasses.

brock moves around the room with that post-sex glow, naked but totally unselfconscious, putting on boxers and still pausing every few steps to check back on you. he brings a bottle of water to your lips, holding your head so sweet, coaxing you to drink, wiping away the drops from your chin with a thumb. “good job, baby, that’s it, drink for me, yeah?” his praise is so gentle it sinks right into your bones, his hand never leaving your skin as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. then he grabs a washcloth, warm and damp, and gets to work cleaning you up—so gentle, almost clinical, but with the softest brush of his knuckles, the quiet murmur of “let me take care of you, honey. i’ve got you. you’re all right, aren’t you?”

his specs slip down his nose as he wipes between your thighs, eyes darting to your face every few seconds to make sure you’re still with him, that you’re safe and comfortable and present. “you look so gorgeous all blissed out,” he whispers, kissing your knee, then the inside of your thigh, the praise coming in that quiet flood that never embarrasses you, just soothes and fills you up until you’re boneless and soft. he puts away the cloth, crawls up beside you, and drags you straight onto his chest, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, thumb rubbing circles into your spine.

he’s warm and steady, holding you as close as you want, never rushing, just breathing with you, every inhale and exhale syncing up until you’re both half-asleep and the room’s gone quiet except for the sound of his heart thumping under your ear. he hums something tuneless, content, his palm gentle on your back, and then, so quietly you barely catch it, “you’re my favourite, y’know? always so good for me.” his chin tucks against your head, and he keeps you anchored, grounded, feeding you lazy kisses and soft words until you feel so cared for you don’t even remember what it was like to be anything but his.

you wake tangled in a snarl of sheets and his limbs, his messy brown hair in your face and his green eyes still heavy with sleep, lashes tangled and skin flushed with pillow-heat, arm flopped over your chest so lazily you feel owned before you even move. you barely have to arch your back and that morning-hard cock is already pressing, thick and insistent, right between your ass cheeks—warm, pulsing, impossible to ignore even if you tried. the second you push your hips back against him, grinding so slow and deliberate that his dick slides right along your skin, brock lets out this unfiltered, raw groan, the sound shaking right against the back of your neck, so fucking genuine you feel your toes curl under the blanket.

his glasses are missing, nowhere between you, so you get all of him raw: soft eyes fluttering open, lips finding the curve of your shoulder as he buries his face there and lets another needy sound break out, almost a whine. he’s so hot against you, morning wood fat and sticky at the tip as he grinds in lazy little rolls, his cock catching between your legs every time you wiggle, dragging slick along your folds, teasing the head right where you’re starting to ache for it. brock barely manages, “baby… you’re tryin’ to kill me,” voice hoarse and sweet, hands sliding over your stomach, dipping lower to spread your thighs wider for him.

he slides in so fucking slow, groaning again, no rush, cockhead splitting your folds, everything so swollen and needy from sleep that it’s almost too much all at once. your body opens easy for him, pussy fluttering as he fills you inch by inch, and the stretch is so perfect you can’t stop your own moan, muffled by the pillow as he rocks his hips and bottom out, his pelvis flush against your ass. he’s got one hand splayed over your stomach, holding you there, thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin, and the other hand slips up, finds your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you—messy, sleepy, tongue sliding between your lips as he starts to thrust, rolling his hips in lazy, deep waves.

you’re grinding back, greedy for it, little whimpers and gasps spilling from your mouth as he drags his cock out, slow as molasses, then drives it back in so you feel the stretch of every ridge, every vein, your cunt clenching around him in helpless flutters. the friction’s wetter now, slick drooling down your thighs, and brock can’t help but moan again, voice shaky and unfiltered, burying his nose in your hair while he fucks you. “god, you’re unreal in the mornings,” he breathes, and every word just pulses heat down your spine, making you grind back on him harder, chasing the drag and slide of his cock through your gummy folds.

he’s kissing your shoulder, nipping soft marks while he whispers, sweet, filthy nothings, rocking in deeper, not letting you get away, one leg hooked over yours so you’re forced to take every inch, so you feel every delicious grind. your pussy spasms around him, squeezing tight, and he hisses, fucking you through every needy tremor, his hand slipping between your legs to rub circles over your clit, gentle but relentless. your breath stutters, hips jerking back against him, slick making it so fucking easy for him to slide in and out, and the sounds coming from you are obscene, sloppy, pure want.