#bikerboy bbd

au where Salmon (or P Diddy?) is collectively adopted by everyone at Mad Dog convenience and Sweet Leash Motors

notes: dry humping, (slight?) choking, dominance (bb), teasing, overstim, fingering, little squirting, surprise unsafe sex (pls heed this one if it bothers you), kind of size difference, rough, bb is a tiny bit manipulative, misogyny, angst, fluff. switching between bb/werner, no use of y/n for reader, reader is insecure (so might think some silly things), and also scared of the dark

You don't really think you should be having so many thoughts about someone like BB.

Ever since he stepped into your life, you've been caught up in thinking about him. Logically, you should be scared of him. He's tall, muscular, won’t show you his face for some reason, and he’s always dressed in dark colors like he doesn’t mind fading into shadows. He'll only answer your questions when you find out something about him that maybe you shouldn't have. And, for a moment there, he wouldn't even tell you his name!

Maybe it's because he's so conspicuous about hiding something from you, you wouldn't be so interested in him.

You really shouldn't be interested in him since he knew where you lived without you ever telling him and made up a terrible lie that you're not sure even a toddler would believe.

But honestly?

You're bored. And he's the most interesting thing in this city, at your job, in your life. And—you already got a lecture about how stupid you are by Amelia so you’re aware—you're frankly flattered by his attention. You don't know why he's so interested in you and his attentiveness confounds you. You're not anyone most people care about (if you were, you wouldn’t be working this dead-end job). But he’s the first person in a long time to make you feel like you’re something special. Something worth treasuring.

Which is why he’s currently waiting for you outside in the freezing snow, looking extremely ominous as he stands guard by the road.

Winter nips at your nose as you walk out into the cold, fresh snow crunching softly beneath your shoes as you march toward the mysterious figure sitting calmly by the side of the road as if it isn’t freezing out here. The cold bites through your flimsy work top, and nothing about the apron is helping at all. His helmet tilts quickly once you’re nearer to him, and he turns toward you sharply with an air of surprise.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” BB starts, voice sonorous through his helmet and over the wind—almost authoritative enough to have you stopping in your tracks and turning back on your heel. Almost.

“I know,” you wave your hand at him dismissively as you step closer, “I need your help though.”

“You could have texted me,” he scolds, voice softening as he sees you winding your arms around your waist to avoid shivering.

You were stupid today and thought your zip-up would be enough for the cold. Unfortunately, the heater’s been working overtime in the store from the sliding doors constantly opening when customers coming in (and it’s been an oddly busy night). You thought just putting in more elbow grease would work your body temperature up, but when the wind comes in, the sweat on your forehead definitely doesn’t help.

“I know,” you flick a snowflake off your eyelash. In truth, you hadn’t thought of that, but he doesn’t need to know that. “But the heater’s not working anymore. It’s freezing and I’m about to close up but I can’t really do anything because my fingers are about to fall off.”

Before you can even notice or say anything about it, BB has already taken off his gloves and clasped your hands in his, rubbing them between his. You can feel the roughness of his palms on the back of your hands, quickly creating friction as he leans down to seemingly blow hot air before he realizes he’s got his helmet on, and he awkwardly leans back slowly to not make it obvious. You huff a little in amusement, your breath coming out like steam.  

He looks at you, then quickly takes his bare hands back as if remembering himself, “I apologize. Let’s go inside.”

The way he acts sometimes you wonder if a medieval king is missing his loyal knight. Did he somehow get stuck in this time or something?

“Aren’t you cold?” you ask him, glancing at the fleece camouflage jacket that is stretching over his biceps and chest. Must be pretty thin if it’s struggling against the width of his muscles (not that you’re entirely complaining).

“Hm? I’m fine,” he twists his body a little to take the brunt of a frosty breeze as he walks beside you like he’s your bodyguard against the insolent weather, “I’ve been in much colder conditions.”

You smirk sarcastically, “Ah, I forget. You’re from the land of Santa Claus—the North Pole.”

BB scratches the back of his neck as if searching for something clever to say, “I’m not an elf.”

You laugh, “No, you’re definitely not. You’re some sort of other mystical creature, though.”

You’re half-joking.

Perhaps you’ve actually given it some thought despite your cavalier tone.

He may not be a cute little (he’s not little at all) Christmas elf, but something about his manner is weirdly otherworldly when he’s not being randomly endearing. Something about his helmet and the accent lilting his rich voice, and the way he stands by the road waiting in a way that reminds you of an underworldly ferryman. It definitely doesn’t help when he speaks around things, like a fairy or a spirit cursed to speak in half-truths like in folk tales. You wonder if he believes in ghosts.

That is until he steals a shy glance over at you, looking sheepish. He’s such a puppy sometimes.

“I tried turning the heater on and off by the way. It didn’t work,” you pipe up behind him as he examines it, his fingers flexing over the vents. You watch the movement of his knuckles and his veins working in his hand, his tattoos rising and falling with every movement. He really does have nice and strong hands. You want them gripping—

BB looks back at you, and you realize he’s said your name.

“Huh?”

“It needs to be cleaned. Do you have a brush or a vacuum I can use?”

“Oh,” you scratch your brow, embarrassed, “Uh…there’s a vacuum somewhere? It’s really old…and kind of dirty, but it works. I’ll go get it for you.”

You scramble off to grab it before he can say anything, not really in the mood for the inevitable back-and-forth with him. Plus, you think you need the small break from ogling him. If you look at him for any longer you’re going to sink your teeth into him.

When you return to him with the vacuum in tow, he takes another quick look at you as you shiver behind him, “Do you want my jacket?”

You shake your head, “I’m okay. I don’t want you to freeze.”

He huffs a little like you’re being silly, “You’re alreadyfreezing, though. Here,” and then he’s taking off his jacket. You learnt your lesson that last time he was about to take his shirt off, so you just let your eyes wander instead of protesting. Unfortunately, he’s wearing a long-sleeve beneath, so you don’t get a full view, yet you’re given a crumb of brilliance when you see the bottom hem of it lift a little on his waist, exposing a bit of his wonderful navel. Your eyes go wide when you see a sliver of a tattoo and a nice little happy trail leading downward into his pants. Jesus.

You pretend you weren’t looking at him as he hands you the jacket and quickly pull it over your head. Well, at least it’s nice and warm. It smells like gasoline and musk.

“I’m sorry if it smells bad,” Werner mutters, gaze pointedly down at the vacuum, seemingly trying to figure out the controls.

“It’s fine—smells nice,” you lick your lips. Did you just say that? “It’s really warm.”

He lifts his head up to you and you hear him take a breath, “Oh. It looks…you look good. Looks better on you.” He clears his throat. Heat warms the top of your cheeks, and you rock back and forth on your heels bashfully.

“What a charmer,” you can’t help saying, smiling secretively behind your knuckles.

“Hehe,” is all he can muster up and you can’t help giggling at his excuse for an actual laugh. A little embarrassed flush crawls down the back of his neck and you want to lay your hand there, feel the heat from his nape seep into the skin of your palm.

You stand by him as he cleans so you can pretend that you’re there if he asks for help (you know he won’t), but you’re mostly there because you like watching him focus.

For all your appreciation for his looks (especially since they help offset whatever is off about him), just watching him work has been interesting to you even while you watched him at his job in the garage. He just seems so…single-minded and determined about getting things done. You know you’re a hard-worker—anyone would be standing next to Lane if they cared about keeping their job—but you don’t have the same amount of discipline that’s been evidently carved into him. A good amount of the time you’re just angry-cleaning because you’re working two people’s jobs. He’s so much less frantic than you, patient still as he cleans his hands off.

The two of you expect for the heater to work fine—and for a moment it does as it kicks in, but then the lights start flickering and the building goes eerily silent as the power goes out. The store is already a little creepy when it’s empty, but it’s even scarier when the power goes out especially after what you’ve seen in the news. Your heart falls into the pit of your stomach. You shouldn’t have thought of that. You step a little closer to him, looking around. It’s pitch-black inside the store and outside; the moon is hidden behind the clouds and what little light the snow reflects isn’t enough to keep the night’s darkness at bay. 

Your fingers fumble toward his shoulder, “S-sorry,” you stutter out, “was that because of the heater?”

His hand comes up to touch your arm, and you’re worried for a moment he’s going to push you away, but he just clasps his hand over yours, “I’m not sure. I should check the electricity. Are you alright?”

“Yes, just a little scared of the dark, it’s stupid,” you try to muster a smile, but you forget he can’t see you.

Werner is silent for a moment, but then you feel him standing up, your arm outstretching to reach him until your hand slips down to his bicep. You’re a little annoyed that feeling the width of his bicep is what helps grounds you.

“It’s not stupid,” he murmurs. You disagree, but his voice curls wonderfully in your ears so you can’t refute him. “We should look for a flashlight.”

You should, but your feet are rooted to the ground. He seems to notice when he tries to move and your fingers dig into his arm.

“Sorry,” you breathe out again, shame crawling up your spine. You really hate being scared of the dark at your age. You should have gotten over it a long time ago, but your mind has always been overactive. “I freeze up when I get scared,” you add on, hoping an explanation makes your actions less ridiculous.

“…I know,” he says confusingly (he knows?), “we can…stay here for a bit and see if the power comes back on in the meantime.” He steps closer to you, and you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin from how near he is to you, “Will you be cold?”

If you say yes, will he touch you?

“Yes,” you blurt, not as in control of your mouth as you usually are.

“Then…would you mind me…holding you?” he asks slowly.

“It’s fine,” you squeak.

“Okay.”

His arms come up to wrap around you, and you’re pulled into his space, your nose almost pressing into his ample chest before you turn your cheek and close your eyes to stop seeing shapes in the darkness. It’s a little awkward, being clutched against him, and he’s stiff like he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable by being too enthusiastic about holding you. His heart beats against your ear, steady, if just a tiny bit fast. You hope he’s nervous. You are.

Yet, you’re warm. Your arms climb up his back to steal the heat from there, splaying out your palms against the thin fabric of his shirt just to press yourself a little closer (and to feel his back muscles but that’s just an added bonus!).

“…Is this alright?” BB questions, voice rumbling in his chest and against your cheek like a cat purring.

You nod, “Yeah,” and then for some stupid reason you add on, “you feel…nice.”

“So do you,” he replies awkwardly, and you’re wondering if he’s talking about your chest. Well, you were kind of talking about his chest too, so it’s only fair, you suppose.

After some time, he seems to get a little more comfortable holding you and he curls you into him. Then you feel the scrape of his helmet against the top of your head, “Ow,” you say, moving back a little to touch your head.

“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes, straightening up again like a statue, loosening his hold on you.

“It’s fine,” you shake your head, hoping he won’t stop holding you.

“It isn’t,” he replies resolutely, “I should—do you mind turning around?”

You turn so your back is to his chest, waiting for him to hold you again semi-patiently. Your breath catches when you hear him fumbling with something, like a strap, and you realize he’s taking off his helmet. Is he really doing that? Does he trust you?

“…Don’t turn around,” is his soft demand, the order tempered by the feeling of his arms wrapping around your waist, pressing you back against him and into his warmth. Well, he doesn’t trust you, but he makes you want to fall asleep into the crook of his body. How does he generate so much heat?

You feel his chin rest gently atop your head and you melt. You have the worst desire of wanting to climb onto him like a koala and just cling your arms around him like he’s a tree branch.

After a while when it’s obvious the power isn’t coming on, you dread that he’s going to have the two of you look around for the flashlight. Instead, he just pulls you to a wall and sits back against it with the two of you on the floor (good thing you mopped). He doesn’t immediately pull you into his lap, but you sit there carefully anyway, not wanting to scare him off. You feel his breath hitch against the side of your head, but he doesn’t push you off.

You gulp as you place your arms on top of his, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as you press your hands against his forearms, urging him to hold you tighter. When he holds you closer, you don’t feel your heart skipping as much from the imagined figures in the dark and you can just rest the back of your head against his right shoulder, closing your eyes.

You really like him.

“Are you still afraid?” Werner whispers, breath skating across your temple. You hadn’t realized his face was so close. Your heart speeds up.

“…Yes,” you lie, curling your legs up so your knees bump against his thighs that are caging you in. He lays his legs out, moving your legs with his knees so you can lay yours flat on top of his. You smile a little, feet moving to rest on either side of his knees on the floor instead, “No, the ghosts will grab at your feet if you have them out like that.”

He huffs, a sharp nose pressing just a little against the side of your head before he moves back again, “They won’t be able to grab me. I’m strong.”

You giggle quietly, “Ghosts are stronger.”

“They aren’t,” he tightens his arms around your waist as pleasant warmth sparks up your insides, “not when you’re with me.”

“…Cheesy,” is all you can whisper, letting your head rest against his cheek. You’re scared again that he’ll pull away, but he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he want to show you his face? From what you can tell, this side of his face feels normal. His jaw feels sharp and structured, and his skin doesn’t really feel marred or anything.

What does his mouth feel like, then?

“So you’d fight the ghosts?”

“…I’m not sure that it’s possible that ghosts can be fought considering they’re incorporeal,” he ponders aloud, “but if they can be, and you asked me to, I would.”

You smile, “And you think you would win?”

“If they’re grabbing you, I would win,” Werner states, voice firm but with a small edge of superiority. He likes to seem humble, and then he says stuff like this, and has a nice, flashy motorcycle, and you can’t help but wonder if he is a little prideful sometimes.  

In a quieter, even more vulnerable voice, he continues, “I told you I’d fight your battles.”

He had said that, at the garage.

“And what if you couldn’t fight something that’s hurting me?” you whisper soberly.

You feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, “I can’t fight the dark. But I can hold you and try to help your fear abate. If I can…make things better for you, I will.”

It feels hard to swallow, all of a sudden, like there’s a lump in your throat. You clutch your fingers around his arms.

“Why me? Why do you…” you can’t bring yourself to say like in the chance that he doesn’t and he’s just playing with you despite all his effort denoting otherwise, “Why would you do so much for me?”

He’s silent for a few moments, evaluating your words, “You don’t want me to?”

You shake your head, “No, it—it’s not that, I just…I don’t think…” you rub your cheek anxiously, “I don’t really think I’m that special or interesting.” Not interesting like him, not in the least.

Nobody’s ever made you feel like how he makes you feel, anyway. You’ve had people in your past, but you knew you weren’t their favorite person no matter how much you wanted to be. You’ve never been anyone’s favorite person. You just occupy a space in people’s lives, like a placeholder, until someone more brilliant and worthy comes along. You thought you’d made peace with it by now. But then he comes into your life and acts this way, and you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to make sense of it.

Your words hang heavy in the air, and you squirm inwardly. Why did you say all that?

“…Does it really matter what you think?”

Your head snaps up sharply to face him, and you hear his voice a little farther away, “That’s—not what I meant. I mean,” he sucks in a breath, “You’re special to me. I don’t…think it matters why. You just are to me. You’re…a good person. A better person. Than me.”

You stew in his words for a moment, wondering if you should be disappointed by his simple words or rejoicing in that he really thinks you’re special to him.

All you can say is, “Oh.”

His heart starts up harder against your back and he shifts uncomfortably behind you.

A flash of heat crawls up your cheeks as you slide your hand down his arm to his hand, gently taking his arm off your waist to lift the back of his hand to your mouth. You don’t know what compels you to press a chaste kiss to his rough knuckles, but the moment is over quickly, and you place his arm back around your middle as you try to calm your galloping heartbeat.

You hear his breath shudder behind you, and his hand clutches just a bit tighter at your waist.

“What was that for?” Werner finally asks, voice stilted.

“A thank you,” you whisper, “for saying that. I like…I like your words.”

“…They weren’t very good,” he trails off, sounding regretful.

Your eyes crinkle, “Does it matter what you think?”

He’s silent and then—

“Touché.”

He sounds a little disgruntled at his own words being used against him.

You laugh, “You’re silly.”

“Am I?”

You nod, hearing his breath close to your face, “But I like it,” you drum your fingers atop his arm, “I like you.”

The words just slip out of you before you can hide them behind your teeth. But strangely, you don’t feel embarrassed about saying it—maybe a little shy—yet you don’t find yourself scrambling to cover up your tracks. You think he should know. You hope he already does know; you don’t think you’ve been secretive about it even when you’ve actually tried to hide it.

 But then he audibly gulps, and your heart trips.

“…Permission to kiss you?”

Oh.

You suck in a deep breath, clutching his arm tightly as a wave of tension moves through you. Now you’re nervous? You pinch the fabric of his sleeve between your fingers, trying to ground yourself.

Werner lifts his hand up and he lays it on top of your head, surprising you. Slowly, he moves it up and down, fingers gentle and his touch never harsh enough to push you into his space. You breathe deeply, your hold on his arm loosening.

He does that for a while, and then his other hand comes up to touch your face. He doesn’t cup your cheek, like you expect—he just smooths his thumb over your brow, then down over your eyelashes, to the bridge of your nose like he’s trying to admire you without seeing you.

“Everything about you is so soft,” he marvels, whispering, fingers drifting over the planes of your cheeks before coming down to your mouth. His thumb drifts over your bottom lip for a moment and fuzzy warmth shivers up your spine; but then he pulls back suddenly like he’s doing something bad, “I shouldn’t—”

“Wait,” you’re quick to wrap your fingers around his arm again, “please,” you don’t know why you’re begging, “you can kiss me. I want you to.”

The atmosphere of the store bends around an almost unnoticeable shift in his demeanor at your words, yet his muscles feel tight with restraint against you.

“You do?” he asks, hand falling to your neck, his breath fanning over your lips before he pulls back.

Does he realize he’s teasing you now?

“Please,” you murmur, voice on the edge of a whine, “Please, Werner.”

He exhales harshly from his nose, a curse rumbling in chest before he leans in and kisses you, cupping the back of your head to pull you into him. You hum, something pleasant and exciting spreading throughout your body as you revel in the feeling of his lips against yours. His lips are a little chapped, but softer and plusher than you’d expected. Little hairs above his lips tickle your skin, and you wonder if he shaves since his facial hair doesn’t seem long enough to be a mustache or beard.

You can’t really help yourself—always a bit too curious—and you try to reach for his face to feel before he’s somehow got your wrist and guiding your arm behind your back. He pulls back to adjust the two of you, finally letting you face him in his lap. His kisses are too gentle for the way he’s got your wrists bunched up in one huge paw of a hand behind your back, a clear sign he doesn’t trust you to keep your hands away from his face.

It should sting, that he doesn’t trust you, but your monkey brain is shooting fireworks and delighting in the way he’s restraining you. You don’t know why, but it makes your brain go mushy and your insides boiling. He should feel lucky that he’s successfully distracted you from ruminating on it.

His hot, slick tongue licks against your bottom lip and you whimper at the feeling. It’s almost ticklish, yet it has you squirming in his lap and wanting.

“Stop moving,” he orders you, cupping the back of your neck to pull you back. You flounder a little, annoyed that he’s stopped kissing you and that he’s ordering you around.

“I’m not moving—oh,” you choke on your words.

There’s a monster beneath your ass.

You’re not sure what to do about it. You should have noticed earlier; it’s stabbing against your thigh now! You freeze up like a lamb. What the fuck? You knew he would be at least a little big (have you thought about it?), but this is egregious. This is absolutely dangerous. How is that going to fit inside you—

“Sorry,” you blurt, still frozen like one of Medusa’s statues, “uh…do you want me to get off?”

“No,” his fingers tighten a little around your nape like he’s offended that you even said that; you resist the urge to shudder, dizzy, “just be still.”

“Okay,” you breathe out.

“Good girl,” and the monkey in your brain is making a ruckus in there, cymbals crashing against each other and confetti popping out from nowhere. It’s a festival in there as he leans back in to kiss you, tongue slipping into your mouth as you gasp, delighted in the way he licks against your teeth and your tongue, coaxing something desperate out of you.

His free hand moves down from your nape down to your décolletage, careful yet firm against your body as he cups a breast in his hand, squeezing gently through the layers you’re wearing. The feeling should be…muffled, but you shudder anyway as he presses his palm flat against your chest before circling a finger around your pebbled nipple. You whimper, squeezing your eyes as you try to control the quiver that rumbles throughout your body. You want to be good and obey him, but it’s hard to when his tongue feels so nice and his finger is waking up neglected nerve ends.

And for all that, you hear him plant his boots firmly on the floor as his hips grind against your ass, slotting his pelvis firmly beneath you so you can feel him through his pants. What a hypocrite!

Well—

At least it feels quite nice, so you let him swallow down the snarky protest you had with his tongue.

He finally pulls back from your mouth, and you pant as his large hand travels beneath his sweater on your body. A disgruntled grunt leaves his lips as his hand smooths over the apron that you’re still wearing. He’s quick to untie the knot at the small of your back, carefully pulling the strap off your head and out underneath, letting it fall somewhere.

Your cunt pulses against his hard-on as he returns back to your belly, breathing harshly as he pulls up your work top to smooth calloused fingers over the skin of your stomach. His hands aren’t soft, the surface rough like sandpaper. It feels weird against your smooth skin, but the friction tickles your senses.

Then he goes up, and up, smooth as he unhooks your bra behind your back.

“Take it off,” Werner says, letting go of your wrists. You sit there for a moment, blinking in shock as you try to make sense of his face in the darkness, but you still can’t see anything. He’s surely testing you.

Your breathing quivers as you sit up a little, feeling his hand squeeze your thigh as you lift up his sweater, just a bit awkward as you pull your arms out of the sleeves to take the straps of your bra off. You let it fall to the floor. And then—maybe you shouldn’t be doing this (he hadn’t asked you nor should you do it considering how cold it is)—you’re taking off his sweater and your work shirt.

The cold air bites at your skin and you shiver, instinctively wrapping your arms around yourself even though you’re already sweating.

His hands smooth down your bare shoulders at your movement, rubbing heat into your skin as he murmurs, “Poor thing.”

Does he think he’s helping as he leans forward to kiss tenderly at your neck, tongue laving over your skin like he’s about to suck a mark there? His other hand pinches your nipple between his fingers, making you squeak and jump in his lap.

You gasp as his hand slides around your neck, not pressing his fingers hard, but just enough to have you still in his hold. You’re dizzy with thrill as he hisses, “Didn’t I tell you to not move?”

Your throat works as you swallow nervously.

“Yes,” you whisper, mentally smacking yourself on the head as you feel the oddest urge to tack on, ‘sir.’

He pulls back, rubbing your cheek affectionately with his thumb to make up for his harsh tone as he continues, “If you’re going to move, do it properly then.”

Properly?

You frown, a little embarrassed at how much effort you put into thinking about how best to ‘move properly.’

Experimentally, you rock your hips forward, placing your hands on his biceps to brace yourself. He feels hot and hard like a rock beneath you; the pressure between the two of you feels good, but it falls almost on the side of painful as you press yourself against him, the seam of your jeans firm and tight against your slit. Heat scorches your cheeks as you rock forward again, trying to get a rhythm even though it makes you feel a little vulgar like you’re giving him a lap dance.

You huff loudly, your head hanging as your thighs burn from the effort. Man, this is a little harder than you’d expected. Usually you just use your fingers or a vibrator and call it day—humping your pillow takes too much effort and time and your hips are always sore from walking so much during your shift so it’s just not practical.

Yet he’s just sitting there too! His hands light on your hips as he makes you do all the work, not even going up to tease your nipples or leaning forward to kiss you. It doesn’t feel bad, you’re just working up more of a sweat, and the way your jeans are pressing into your clit is making your walls pulse around nothing. It just makes you feel a little lonely, humping against him and having to strain your ears to hear him make a sound. Is this enough for him?  

“Werner,” you sniffle pathetically.

“Hm?”

Ugh. You grunt, a twinge of hot pleasure riveting through your gut at the sound of his voice, “I’m tired.”

“Do you want me to help?”

You’re glad that it’s dark so he can’t see you pout, “Yes, please.”

He chuckles, squeezing your hip as he mutters something you can’t understand, “Søt jente.”

Well, whatever he said, you think it was good, because he starts rocking his hips up into you, hands tight around your waist as you try clumsily to meet his thrusts against you, but he’s much better at this than you.

Finally, finally, he helps you rock your hips, and he sits up to kiss you, swallowing down your breathy moans and whimpers as he rubs a soothing hand down your back.

It vexes you, how sweet he can be, and then he slyly goes down and presses at your clit through your jeans with his thumb, pulling your hips forward all the while. Your thighs shake as a wave of euphoria lances through you. Maybe you were closer to an orgasm than you thought.

When he releases you from a kiss, you press your head into the nook between his shoulder and neck, wrapping your arms around his back as you let his athleticism work for the both of you. He squeezes your ass, grunting deep in your ear as sweat beads down your back. His voice sends a shiver down your spine.

“Oh,” you moan, squeezing yourself against him tighter, your bare chest smooshed tight against his as the tight seam of your jeans shifts a little from the force of his hips humping against you, pressing just right on your nerve endings. He pants harshly, sounding on the edge himself as he swats your ass just to make you jump and shake against him.

Your clit is throbbing now; he doesn’t have to help you move as much because as much as your thighs are protesting, your hips buck anyway, your body desperate to get over the edge. Your nails dig into his shoulders, squeezing him tight enough that you wonder if you could rip the fabric.

Maybe it’s another swat at your ass that has you sent over the edge, maybe it’s not—you don’t really want to admit it.

But you sob a little against his shoulder as your orgasm is finally squeezed out of you, ripping throughout your body as your hips tremble against him. The sounds of him grunting and huffing, and the way his fingers squeeze your body keep you over the edge for just a bit longer. You can’t tell if he’s cum himself or not, but his hips jump against yours, and you hear his breath escape from tight teeth right next to your ear.

He calms you down by rubbing his hand down your back again, his touch soothing as your body melts against him, tiredness overcoming you as you cling to him. You think he’s still trying to keep you warm, but he really underestimates how much heat he gives off and the way he worked your body temperature up.

He says the beginning of your name, but then the lights flicker back and on the heater starts up loudly. You freeze when he goes rigid, his hand stopping on your back as his head moves, looking around.

You lick your lips when he doesn’t say anything, heart thumping against your ribs. You know he doesn’t want you to see his face, so you don’t move and just stare at the wall behind him, letting your hands fall limp so he can grab them if he wants to.

“I should take you home,” BB finally mutters.

Disappointment courses through you. You bite your lip; you shouldn’t protest, but it still hurts. Does he not want to? Does he not want you?

“Okay,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around your chest, suddenly self-conscious. His chest rises and falls for a moment, and he doesn’t move like you expect him to.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he says in a soft voice, turning you around carefully and placing you on his thigh. Your eyes are shut even as he dresses you, quiet and careful when he’s slipping his sweater back over your head. He splays a hand over your back to keep you from turning around as you hear him fumble with his helmet. Now it stings.

Then, “You can turn back around now.”

But you don’t. You just stand up from sitting on his thigh, taking your apron off the floor as you walk to the stockroom to put it away with all the others. You just feel stupid. It’s embarrassing how easily you would have let him have sex with you here of all places. It’s embarrassing that you thought he would even want to.

He doesn’t even trust you to see his face, so why would he even want to have sex with you? Even if he likes you.

He never even said that he likes you, anyway, even after you said you did. He just said that you were special to him and couldn’t even really explain why. Is he hiding something from you again? Ugh, you want to bash your head against the wall. What are you even thinking? You’re being dramatic.

Still, you can’t stop yourself from being silent on the way back. And it’s frankly awkward. You can tell BB knows that something is bothering you, because he’s rigid and overly polite on the way back like he doesn’t want to mess with your mood—but his civility just makes you even more annoyed. When he finally stops at your apartment, he offers to help you take off your helmet, but you dismiss him.

Unfortunately, you’re still not that good at taking it off and it takes you a while to take it off. He stands there patiently as you do, still not saying anything except looking at you like wants to offer again. You’re sweating again by the time you’re able to wrangle it off and you hand it to him curtly, giving him a small ‘bye,’ before you’re spinning on your heel.

Werner calls out to you as you’re about to make your way up to the door.

You stop.

“…Are you angry with me?”

You chew on your lip, wrapping your arms around yourself as you turn back around to face him.

He walks a little closer to you, and you turn your cheek, feeling foolish for how childish you’re being, but you don’t want to beg and cry for him to have sex with you because that’s not even really what’s hurting you.

“I’m not,” you finally bite out.

“I didn’t ask you to lie to me,” he retorts curtly, voice low.

You face him head forward to glare at him, eyes sharp, “You know, for all the pretty words you say and nice little things you do for me, I can’t help but think if you just did it because you just wanted to get off.”

His head tilts and something about his gaze darkens, “What?”

You keep going anyway, “I thought—I thought you liked me, and I just hate being lied to. I get if you don’t feel comfortable showing your face or whatever, but if you’re just hiding because it makes you easier to move on with the next girl, then just don’t bother with me anymore,” you scrub your hand over your face, trying to hold back the frustrated tears stinging at your eyes. Maybe Amelia was right, “I just think it was cruel to make me think that I was actually special to you.”

And now you’re rambling. You push away a tear, “I’m sorry for yelling. I’m going to go now.”

As you turn around, he snatches your wrist, but when you snap your head back he lets his hand fall away just as quickly as he took your wrist. He looks perplexed. And even a little angry. His hand is clenched at his side, and you watch for a moment as his shoulders rise and fall.

In the little time you give him to speak, all he says is, “I apologize that I made you feel that way. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Then he’s silent.

You listen to the sound of his motorcycle as he drives away, feet marching slowly up the stairwell, hoping and praying that Amelia isn’t here to say, ‘I told you so.’ You already know.

—

It’s actually good that Lane calls in sick for your next shift, because you’d been dreading the conversation (interrogation) he would inevitably have with you about, ‘Where’s your guard dog, huh? Did you drive him off?’ Now that BB isn’t out there where’s he been the past few days.

The store feels creepy again, without any company, but you’ve been stubbornly cleaning, stocking, and working the register without a break. Your back hurts, your wrists ache, and the sweat you’ve worked up no longer helps because he fixed the goddamn heater. Maybe you shouldn’t have let him do that. You try not to eye the part of the store where the two of you last were. It makes you feel ashamed—in multiple ways.

As you’re wiping the counter off for the nth time, the sliding doors open for the first time in thirty minutes. You sit up straight, putting away the little snack you’ve been munching on out of view of the customer. Maybe you’re too much of a worker-bee, but you always feel a little unprofessional for eating out in the open (maybe it’s because Lane does it).  

You hear heavy boots and your heart sinks.

BB walks down the aisle, pointedly scanning the shelves as you stare at him from the register. You can’t control the urge to smooth your apron down and fix your appearance (you looked at yourself earlier and it was just…yikes) as much as possible even though it annoys you. You ruminated on what you said the entire time you were awake, and you feel like it should have scared him off sufficiently. So why are you still trying to make yourself look better? Why is he even here?

He clears his throat as he finally stops in front of you. He places a single protein bar down.

“Hello,” he greets you, reminding you of a robot.

“Hello,” you echo, turning your gaze down as you scan it, “that’ll be $2.49.”

It’s a little…expensive for a snack.

“Here,” he holds out the exact change in his hand. You don’t glance at him as you take it, putting it in the cash register as you wait for him to grab his protein bar, not bothering to offer him a bag. Instead, he just stands there, staring at you.

You raise your brow at him.

“…It’s for you,” he mutters sheepishly.

“Oh,” you scratch your head, “I already have a snack.”

He kind of droops.

“Oh.”

“Uh—well. I can still eat it, it’s fine. Thank you,” you timidly take the bar, placing it where you put your other snack. He nods but still doesn’t go. You glance around, “Do—do you want me to pay you back?”

“No,” he waves his hands, “No, don’t.”

You lift your brows, “Then…?”

He glances to the side for a moment, messing with his sleeve, “I wanted to apologize for offending you.”

You stew on that, pulling your upper lip into your mouth, “You already did, though.”

“It wasn’t sufficient,” he states firmly. You blink at him. “I didn’t act very gentlemanly. I wanted to help you tonight as recompense seeing as you’re alone this shift, if you’d like.”

Your gaze turns down to your hands, “Um, I don’t know. I got a lot done already. I think I’m okay.”

You see him droop again in your periphery. You scratch at your jaw, feeling guilty.

“I’m not angry at you, BB,” you take in a big sigh, “I’m sorry for what I said. I think I was being childish. I don’t want you to feel like you should be forced into doing something you don’t want to.”

“…I think you may be assuming some things about me that aren’t true.”

You wring your hands nervously, “I know. I’m sorry. You’re kinda just…easy to project feelings onto.”

“I don’t want you to apologize. I believe it’s my fault for not being transparent enough. I’m the one at fault.”

“Why—”

He cuts you off, “Let me address a few things. I do like you—more than you’re aware of. I do want you, I simply didn’t think it was appropriate to continue our…activities…without formally asking you to be mine. I should have clarified that to you that night.

“And it’s not an excuse, but I am not showing you my face because I want to move on quickly. It is personal, but please don’t think I would hide myself forever from you. I simply…need time,” you see him continue to mess with the edge of his sleeve when you don’t say anything. You’re not really sure what to say.

“If you…really don’t want to bother with me anymore, then I’ll leave you alone,” he sighs, “But I want you. I want you as my girlfriend, if you’re amenable.”

You swallow, heart thumping loudly.

After you finally gather your wits, you ask, “Why didn’t you say anything that night?”

His shoulders move forward in a sheepish move, “…You seemed angry. I didn’t want to provoke you any further,” he continues, scratching at his helmet as if it’s his cheek, “I also have…limited experience being around angry women.”

You huff, “So that was uncharted territory for you?”

“Yes.”

A little smile raises the corner of your lips as you lift your lashes to look at him, “You’re silly.”

He gulps, “In a bad way?”

“No. You’re forgiven. I just…hope we can continue to be honest with each other in the future. I appreciate the things you do for me of course, but I would appreciate even more the dignity of being someone you trust enough to tell the truth. I understand we need to…build trust, but…” You trail off, face hot.

BB shifts on his feet, “So you want to be with me?”

You nod, smiling at him shyly.

“That’s good,” he breathes out, sounding a little shocked. He gives you a double thumbs up. You laugh at him, eyes crinkling. “Awesome sauce,” he says, and you snort behind your hand. You never pictured him ever saying awesome sauce like a kid in grade school. What a goober.

—

BB stands awkwardly in your apartment, looking around as he refuses to sit down. You let him in the meanwhile, going off to your bedroom to fish out his jacket from your closet. You come back to him with it folded neatly in your arms, “Here you go. I washed it.”

He takes it from your arms and pulls it up to his face to smell it but then he slouches when he realizes he has his helmet on. You smile up at him, giggling.

“Does it smell like you?” he asks, making your eyes go wide.

“What?” and he stares at you, genuinely expecting you to answer, “Oh! Well. I mean, it’s my detergent, so I guess so. What do I smell like?” you ask half-jokingly, kind of afraid of his answer because you’re always sweaty and greasy when you see him.

“Nice, like a…pretty lady,” he seems to realize what he’s saying because he does that sheepish shoulder shrug that makes him look less imposing.

“Thanks,” you tilt your head, unsure.

He nods, then goes silent and it immediately goes back to being awkward between the two of you. You kind of invited him up on impulse. You told him that you still had his jacket and asked him if he wanted it. He’d said sure and then told you that he would—in ideal circumstances—want you to keep it, but he unfortunately has a limited wardrobe. That’s believable.

He takes in a sharp breath, “Your apartment…is spacious.”

You look around a bit nervously, you shouldn’t have invited him up so spontaneously with your unwashed dishes just out in the sink, “Kind of. Is yours not?”

“No. I believe you would call it a ‘shoebox apartment.’”

Your brows furrow in concern, “Is it really so small? But you’re so…” your cheeks heat, “Not small.”

“Correct,” he agrees, “but it works for me. I don’t have many things to keep.”

“Oh,” you hum. You don’t really have many things to keep either, your apartment—while furnished—is barebones, and you haven’t had the money nor time to ever decorate it.

“I should go,” he says and you feel a little panicked all of a sudden. You should offer him something, like a water or food, but all you have is ramen and refrigerator water (and the protein bar he gave you). An amazing stock of food, truly.

“Um,” you blurt, “you didn’t want to…do anything before—before you left?” Oh god. What are you saying?

“Like what?”

You slouch, mumbling, “Like…kissing. Or other…activities.”

“…Is that why you asked me to come up?” Werner asks, voice low.

“Not originally,” you protest, “but…um. I would like to kiss you. I liked doing it that last time.”

He’s silent for a few moments, making you squirm on your feet.

And then—

“Noted.”

Maybe honesty really is the best policy.

It’s got you caged beneath him on your bed, with your hands pinned above you as he sucks a mark on your décolletage, finger swiping over your sensitive nipple. You had just said you wanted to kiss him, but then you opened your legs and now he’s rutting his not so small tent against your hips again.

His hand dips down beneath your underwear, panting as he feels his way up and down your slit, coating you in your wetness before he sinks a girthy finger inside you.

“Ah,” you breathe out, clutching the hand that’s captured yours. You should have known he’d have thick and long fingers. You were a fool to think that his fingers would ever be like yours when you fantasized about him one night, stuffing yourself full with your fingers, allowing yourself the one indulgence because you couldn’t fall asleep.

You’re not even sure that two of your fingers are as thick as his. Your walls stretch around him as he sinks his digit in, his breath fanning against your lips as you whimper. You can’t see him again, he turned off your lights and shut the cheap window shutters so no light could come in again.

You thought the dark would scare you again, but his weight on top of you is weirdly grounding. But shouldn’t it scare you? That you can’t see the face of the man that’s fucking his finger into you?

Well, again, you never said you were smart. You don’t think you can be smart considering he scissors in another digit, still rocking his hips against your thigh like he’s trying to keep himself on the edge. Tears spring at the edges of your eyes. It kind of burns—the stretch. The pad of his thumb is rough against the pearl of your erect clit, but it helps on the way in, makes you wetter, makes your walls squelch lewdly around him.

“Very wet,” Werner observes quietly, nipping at your jaw, “very tight.” He crooks his fingers up and you jump a little, squirming beneath him. He’s deep. He angles his hand again, letting his palm rub against your clit as he hooks his fingers again.

“Hah,” you breathe out, grunting as your toes curl into the bed beneath you. You’d heard about a spot that people have inside them that helps make them orgasm from penetration, but you were never able to reach it. Your fingers aren’t as long as his.

It feels like he just hit it.

He does it again, and your insides clench harder as you hiss out, whining as you feel yourself grow slicker, your thighs wet and sticky from what he’s doing.

“It feels kinda—” your bottom lip wobbles as he pumps his fingers, “like a lot.”

“It’s supposed to be,” he reasons, voice warm.  

You can hear your blood pumping loud in your veins as he rubs your clit again, pleasure blooming in your gut as your arms squirm in your hold. You tug your bottom lip with your teeth, trying to stop making embarrassing noises as he continues abusing that spongy little spot inside you. You sob a little, writhing beneath him as he pins your weight down with his own, not letting your hips buck up.

“Do you not want to cum?” he asks, rubbing his austere nose against your neck, smelling you like a dog.

“I do,” you shake, “it just—doesn’t usually feel like this.”

He hums unsympathetically, evident in the way he pistons his fingers in, letting the pressure coil in your stomach.

“God,” you whimper, trying to get a hold of yourself but it’s really a lot. You sink your nails into his knuckles, throwing your head back against your pillow, sweat beading down your forehead. He’s not gentle. Maybe he likes that it’s too much for you.

Wetness coats your thighs as your orgasm hits you full throttle, your eyes squeezing shut as you grit your teeth against each other, trying to brace yourself through the full onslaught of pleasure but you can’t help the grunts and groans that leave you.

He just continues like you’re not losing your mind, plays with your clit like your hips aren’t bucking against his. You feel like you can’t breathe.

Finally, he takes his fingers out of you, and you sniffle. You shudder as he rubs his wet fingers over your slit, making you feel even more sticky. As his hand pulls out of your underwear, the gusset slaps against you—wet and saturated. You gasp, chest rising and falling quickly. You’re not usually this wet after your orgasm? Maybe a little, but…

“Helps to make you squirt,” your eyes go wide. Squirt? You’ve only thought that was possible in porn categories.

You hear him fussing with his clothes, insides still pulsing. He tears your underwear down your legs. You wait for the sound of it to fall, but you just hear more clothes rustling.

And then he’s back on you, his cock hot against your stomach as he leans over you, briefly letting go of your hands to spread your legs wider. You swallow. He’s really big. You’re a little scared.

“Makes your insides wetter,” he continues, huffing as you feel him wrap his hand around himself, pumping up and down. Your mouth falls open.

To be honest, you didn’t think he would want to have sex with you just yet. You just thought you’d have a makeout session, and he’d stop the two of you then be on his merry way. Is he being indulgent?

You’re still sensitive from your last orgasm as he makes his way down to your slit, the fat head of his cock leaking as he presses it just against your entrance. He pushes your thighs up. You breathe out sharply.

“Relax,” he commands you, rubbing the soft skin of your belly with his hand. You take in a deep breath, feeling the weight of his hand on you as your lungs fill with air before you breathe out, trying to calm your thumping heartbeat.

He inches forward. You gasp as your entrance stretches around his girth to make room for him. That worked?

“Holy shit,” you swear, already feeling the pressure dawn on you as he moves forward just a little slower.

He pinches your clit. You jump and he takes the opportunity to angle himself further in. He chuckles as you try to wrap your head around the heft you’re feeling on your insides, “Cursing is bad for you.”

You whimper, frowning at his condescension.

Sniffling, you try to make an excuse, “It’s just…a lot.”

Wow, aren’t you eloquent?

“That’s alright,” he soothes his thumb down your hip, “you’re going to take it anyway.”

…There’s not much you can say to that. Your cunt flutters around him as a response instead. He groans quietly and you want to beg him to be a little louder; to lean lower so he can breathe and pant in your ear. Doesn’t he know you love his voice?

It burns like you expect it to with the way he’s moving, but maybe he was right? Squirting like that helped? It doesn’t hurt, you just ache, and every time he rubs his fingers against your clit it eases the way in even as you’re squirming and clenching like a vice on him.

It feels like he’s all the way in after a few moments so you half-haphazardly take advantage that he let your hands free to touch down between the two of you. Your mouth drops open in a high-pitched gasp as you realize there’s still quite a bit to go. How is this going to work? You already feel like you’re being speared open on his dick!

“Werner—”

He leans down to kiss you, and your protests are muffled with his mouth and tongue as he licks at your tongue, cupping your face in a way that feels tender, but you know he’s doing it so he can hold your mouth open.

You moan, feeling him finally thrust against you. It hurts a little now, but he just continues to lash his tongue against yours, letting pleasure soothe and anchor you.

Another thrust and your hands fly up to his back, feeling the way the muscles in his shoulders and back flex as he moves forward, grunting into your mouth. Your knees are pinned to your chest. You feel dizzy from the knowing that you’re actually taking him. He’s inside you, and not just a little.

“Fuck,” he actually growls, breath fanning against your lips. Jesus.

He takes in another sharp breath before he’s snapping his hips forward. You grit your teeth as he wraps his arms around your back, almost pulling you off the bed as he thrusts again, trying to bottom out.

You realize he’s finally there when you feel his pelvis rub against your clit, his hips slapping against your ass, the pressure inside your stomach full and overwhelming. Oh gosh.

You think you’re about to cum again. You clench a little too hard around him and he’s digging his fingers into the meat of your thigh, “Relax, I said.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” you sob, “I just think—I think I’m going to cum.”

“Oh?”

And then he’s spreading you open further, reaching down between your bodies to tease at that sensitive bundle of nerves. You thrash beneath him, tears spilling down your cheeks as he thrusts all the while, never letting you fully rest. You hate him for it. You’re obsessed. Just a little. Just a tiny bit.

But your orgasm doesn’t really matter even as you hold back a small scream, he just holds you down and thrusts harder, your bed creaking and whining with the force of his thrusts and his weight. He just lets the wave of euphoria keep going, letting your wetness slick the way in even more, until his finger on your clit hurts and you whine and sob. You push at his hand, and he pins your arm down onto the bed.

That’s his act of mercy, as he intertwines his fingers with yours, a semblance of sweetness that’s muffled by the way he pounds into you. You’re sure your downstairs neighbor is annoyed.

“Good girl,” he nuzzles his nose against yours, pressing a kiss to your cheek and licking at your tears as his free arm tucks itself around your head, pushing you against his chest as he pistons away. He doesn’t even sound winded. It’s not fair.

It’s really not fair because your teeth are clacking against each other, your brain rattled by his hips, angling just right so he can thrust up against that special spongy spot that has you seeing stars and fireworks behind your eyelids. You really can’t take this. You can barely hold back a third orgasm, unintentionally edging yourself as you wait impatiently for his say-so.

But you do anyway, not wanting to displease him, and honestly because you don’t want him to stop despite all the complaints you’ve enumerated in your head. You’re just overwhelmed. Your brain kind of hurts, synapses misfiring as your thoughts pop out of existence like bubbles.

“Cum,” he bades you, entitled to your pleasure.

A pathetic wail leaves your lips as you’re clenching around him again, nails digging and scraping against the skin of his back as you brace yourself with his body. He huffs and puffs those beautiful moans of his in your ear, his cock throbbing inside you as you both climax. He hisses as you feel his cum painting your insides. Oh man.

Did you seriously forget about asking for a condom?

You freeze a little, floundering even as his hips jump just a bit through his orgasm, trying to restrain himself from overstimulating you too much.

“Did you—did you cum—” his hand goes quick around your nape, squeezing just so to make you melt back against the bed, panic slipping out from you as he shushes you, smoothing his hand down your brow.

“I did,” he states, fingers still tight to keep your thoughts frayed, “we can get you the morning after pill later, hm?”

You nod, kissing him back when he presses his mouth to yours, this one more innocent than the last ones. He lets go of your neck, squeezing you against him as he rolls the two of you over, giving him space to lift your leg. He breathes harshly as he presses his fingers to your entrance, catching the cum spilling out of you just to push it back inside you. Your heart beats rhythmically against your chest, the sound making you sleepy.

Sometimes it’s hard to make sense of him, the way he flip flops between being the sort of guy who unironically says ‘awesome sauce,’ and then he does something like keeping his hand on your nape like it’s your scruff to keep you at bay. It makes you dizzy trying to keep up with it. But your monkey brain is alright with it. Very alright with it.

You yawn, wrapping your arms around his waist like a koala as he pulls the blanket over the two of you, pressing you to his chest. You like feeling special when he presses a kiss to the top of your head, snuggling against you.

He’s totally right, you can worry about all that other stuff later.

GRAAAAHHHHHHH, it’s finished y’all.✨

my sona is 23 in this universe 😆🤞🏻

I saw Laly pookie answering one of the questions that bb believes the only way to stop addiction is to be harder than the addiction itself and im like EEEGHHHH sooo hooot😣😣😣😩😩😩

soo i drew this smoking MC🥰