Need These Two CARDINALLY

I NEED HIM

Pairings: Oliver Quick X !fem reader

Summary: Oliver is upset because something happened at uni so seeks you for comfort. later in the night things get heated

CW: NSFW!! kissing, bad language, fluff that turns to smut, sub!Oliver dom!reader, handjob, blowjob, 69, pussy eating, praise, ma’am kink, orgasm denial

WC: 2k

warning: i am dyslexic so don't expect all words to be spelled correctly, also i don't autocapitalise my words

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

‘Oliver honey i’m home,’ i yell into the seemingly empty house, ‘Oliver?’

i make my way into the kitchen, setting down the shopping bags on the counter. i hear a sniffle from the living room and walk towards the noise.

‘Oliver baby, are you okay?’ i can’t see him but the shaking blob under the blankets on our sofa tell me he is under there.

i sit next to him and slowly move my hand to take the blanket off of him.

‘go away please y/n,’ his voice is low, broken, i don’t like it at all.

‘what’s wrong baby?’ i ask, hand still on the blanket.

he sniffles again and when he makes no effort to move i pull the blanket off of him completely. there he is, my Oliver, knees bent to his chest, his eyes red and puffy. It broke my heart to see him quivering and sniffling like that. My sweet, sweet boy. So small and broken yet still so beautiful. the whites of his Hiscobalt blue eyes had turned bloodshot, his lip quivering slightly.

‘what is wrong Oliver?’ i ask again, a few more tears escape his eyes.

‘it’s nothin’ i’m bein’ silly,’ his accent is particularly thick when he begins to talk, little voice broken.

‘Oliver, it’s okay,’ i assure him, cupping his face in my hands, ‘you can tell me.’

‘at uni,’ his voice breaks, ‘i was tryin’ to get to class an’ someone tripped me. im okay but my glasses broke.’

‘awh, baby,’ my hand moves to his hair, ‘it’s okay, we can get you some new ones.’

he finally looks at me. his face is tear stained and it breaks my heart a little.

‘really?’ he wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve, ‘you think so?’ my heart breaks a little at the sight of the man in front of me.

‘of course, we can book an appointment at the opticians tomorrow, how’s that sound?’ he gives me a weak smile, eyes still glassy.

‘okay,’ he leans forward and gives me a big hug, ‘thank you y/n,’ he speaks into my hair.

he pulls back and i give him a kiss on the lips.

‘i feel so silly,’ he wipes his eyes free of tears and chuckles to himself a little.

‘don’t. it’s okay to cry in front of me, you know this,’ i assure him.

‘thank you y/n,’ he mumbles, ‘for everything.’

‘don’t thank me silly,’ i get up, and go into the kitchen.

i unpack all the shopping and find Oliver asleep on the sofa, a movie playing on the tv.

i walk over to him and shake his shoulder a little, the time that is displayed on the living room clock reads 9:03pm, ‘Oliver baby, wake up.’

he opens his eyes a little and squints a little, ‘im awake.’

‘you coming to bed?’ i ask.

‘mhm, you coming too?’ he replies, eyes shining in the light.

‘of course,’ i smile down at him.

i go to our shared bedroom and get in bed, Oliver comes in a moment later. he undresses and slides into bed beside me and pulls me into him so he is spooning me.

‘goodnight my love,’ he whispers into my neck.

‘goodnight,’ i sigh contently.

an hour or two must pass before i’m awoken, Oliver is still asleep, his short breaths coming out rigid against my neck. his hips are rutting against the curve of my ass, his dick hard. he’s having a wet dream. little whines are coming from his parted lips. i open my legs a little, moving so his dick is between my thighs. i close them slowly, clenching slightly. he’s still sleeping when his pace picks up, pulling me closer to his chest. he’s fucking my thighs at a good pace, whimpering into my neck, still sleeping. i move my hand down to where the head of his cock pokes out from between my thighs and lay it flat. every thrust forward his tip is pushed against my hand. he gets louder at this and speeds up. humping my thighs like a deprived animal. i smirk to myself. i can tell when he gets close by the urgency of his thrusts. before he can cum however, i move my hand and open my legs. with nothing to rut against he lets out a huff of air. i wonder what he is dreaming about.

‘Oliver,’ i drag my hand up his arm that is tight around my waist, ‘Oliver baby wake up,’ i push my ass against him.

he jolts awake, pulling away from me ever so slightly.

‘Oliver?’ i question into the darkness.

‘mhm,’ he responds, tiredness creeping into his voice.

‘you horny?’ i know he gets shy when i’m vulgar.

‘shh,’ he scolds, knew it.

‘want me to take care of you baby,’ the hand on his arm reaches between my legs to stroke his dick.

he winces, ‘please.’

my hand comes off of his dick and turns on the lamp at the side of our bed. i sit up and turn to look at Oliver, his eyes are tired but his dick is rigid and swollen with need.

‘lay on your back for me,’ i pull the blanket off the both of us.

he obeys instantly and lays his head back on the pillows.

‘good boy,’ my hand travels down his chest towards his thighs.

when i get close to his erection he bucks his hips up, so needy.

i tut, ‘that how much you need me?’ i give his right thigh a light slap.

his eyes are now clouded with something other than tiredness.

‘yeah, just please,’ he whines, bucking his hips up again, ‘touch me.’

‘beg,’ i state simply, sitting back, legs crossed.

his eyes meet mine, then rake down my body. they falter slightly at the sight of my hard nipples but continue down til he just stares at my increasingly soaking pussy.

‘Oliver,’ i warn, ‘my eyes are up here.’

his eyes shoot to my own, cock throbbing a little.

‘beg.’ i say once again, reaching for his dick but stopping just before i touch him.

‘please y/n, please touch me. fuck, i need you so bad. make me feel good. i promise ill be a good boy. just touch me,’ he shudders when my palm comes in contact with his leaking tip.

‘such a good boy, Oliver,’ i praise, finally wrapping my hand around his cock.

he closes his eyes, whines and whimpers leaving him when i begin stroking him at a slow pace, he needs more, i know this. i dont give him it though, i want him to be a writhing mess by the time im finished with him. he moves his hips up when i get to the head of his dick on the fifth stroke. when he does so i take my hand away.

his eyes shoot open, ‘why did you stop?’ his cock pulses once again.

‘you get what i give you. don’t take more. do you understand?’ i look expectantly at him.

he nods, ‘i understand.’

‘so if you understand that why do you still move your hips when i’m touching you. am i not good enough? would you rather go back to sleep with an aching cock? huh? would you rather have me pressed against you all night, so close to slipping into my pussy, but knowing you can’t?’ i’m teasing him.

‘no ma’am, you’re more than enough. i just need you so bad. please touch me again,’ a streak of precum makes its way down his dick, pooling at his pelvic area.

i take a finger and follow the trail of precum up to his tip. he moans, loud, and throws his head back.

i wrap my hand around his aching erection once more and begin stroking him a little faster than i was before. i pick up my pace when tears fall from his eyes but stop when i can feel him tighten under me, knowing he is about to cum.

i bring my hand completely away and wait for him to recover before speaking, ‘we’re going to play the fast and slow game, okay baby? you think you can do that for me?’

he nods, ‘yes y/n, i can do it.’

‘good boy,’ i praise, ‘let’s get started then, start slow.’

his hand slowly begins pumping his cock, i watch him making sure his pace doesn’t slow down nor quicken.

after a few moments i speak up, ‘a little faster baby,’ he obeys.

the head of his cock had turned an angry red shade now, needing release.

‘go as fast as you can sweetheart,’ his hand moves fast, almost inhumanely so.

i see his orgasm approaching, ‘stop,’ i tease, his hand stops and moves away from his cock.

‘you’re doing so well baby. you’re listening so good,’ he’s panting and his cock leaks some more with each praise.

he gets calmed down again, ‘start fast baby,’ he does so.

his strokes are messy, he needs release and he needs it soon.

‘you think you can slow down a little for me baby, and only work on the bottom half of your dick?’ i ask, a plan formulated in my head.

he nods breathlessly, moving his hand down so he is going at a medium pace on the base of his cock. i lean over and take the top of him in my mouth.

he hisses, ‘fuck y/n. i’m going to cum.’

i pull my mouth away and slap his hand from his cock.

‘i’m going to suck your cock, you’re going to eat my pussy. is that understood?’ i plant my dripping pussy right over his face.

‘yes ma’am,’ he replies obediently and i lower myself onto him.

he licks and sucks on my clit like a starved man, i grind myself into his face and lean forward, taking his strained dick in my mouth. i take him into my mouth and hum around him, he thrusts his cock deep into my throat but i don’t scold him. with the way he is devouring my pussy i don’t want to stop him. he moans against my clit, hands on my hips, digging into them. he’s holding me down, almost as if he didn’t id pull away. i’m still working on his cock when i cum on his tongue, a moan escapes my lips, sending vibrations down his cock. he’s still sucking and licking on my pussy, sending me into overdrive. i take him deep in my mouth one more time before his nails dig into my hips and he jerks forward one more time, emptying himself into my mouth. i swallow everything and give him a few more sucks before pulling away from his dick with a pop.

‘you did so good baby,’ i say, trying to lift up from his mouth, his hands are still gripped into my hips and his mouth is still working on my pussy.

‘Oliver, let go or i’ll make you cum another three times,’ i warn.

he lets out a groan and lets me get off of his face. it’s all glossy in the dim light of the lamp and it makes me chuckle.

‘you look pretty,’ he comments, head tilting to the side.

‘you look slimy,’ i crinkle my nose.

he laughs but pulls me down into him, kissing me.

i can taste myself on him and i’d be surprised if he couldn’t taste himself. regardless of whether he could or not he continued kissing me like his life depended on it. only pulling away when he needed to breathe.

‘thank you for taking care of my y/n,’ he gives me another short kiss before getting up to wash his face in our bathroom.

i follow him a moment later to brush my teeth. we don’t speak til we are back in bed, facing each other.

‘you truly are my favourite thing in this entire world,’ he moves a strand of hair out of my face, ‘i love you so much.’

‘i love you too,’ i move closer and give him a long kiss, ‘goodnight baby.’

i turn around and turn the lamp off, Oliver moves closer to me and we fall asleep spooning once again. this time not waking up til morning.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

THANK YOU @lovandr FOR HELPING ME WRITE THE FIRST SECTION AND ALSO BEING THE PERSON WHO READS ALL MY STUFF BEFORE I POST. I LOVE YOU 😚😚

I’ve crawled out of hibernation to say

LOOK AT MY WIFE

Look at how cute he is oml. i freaking adore him.

AND TAZ SKYLAR IN THE LIVE ACTION?????

Pardon my French… BUT FUCKING HELL MAN

he is sooo

DEAR GOD SANJI VINSMOKE

I WANNA KISSY HIM ALL ON HIS FACE JESUS . H. CHRIT.

that is all.

Sooo saltburn…

jesus christ that movie is unhinged but i fucking LOVED IT.

BARRY DID SO GOOD PLAYING OLVIER OMDS LIKE.. IM IN SHAMBLES.

AND JACOB??? WOOH LORD

if u see a Saltburn fic at any point mind ya business.

word.

a piece of me dies every time im reading a fic and taylor swift lyrics pop up😭 then i realize the description of the oc or “reader” are very white coded like OH! that’s not…

yes. but i still like the post.

most of the time it’s because i can’t stop thinking abt the word and it messes with my reading flow but i still engage with the work because every writer deserves to be acknowledged and just because i couldn’t finish it doesn’t mean someone else won’t

do people really exit entire fics just because of a single word????????

me every time I post something

so… im alive.

how yall been?

feeling veryyy “god made you for me” about him!

ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | NSFW | 18+ | Kissing | Light Choking —barely | F!Receiving) ᴡᴄ : 4ᴋ ᴘᴛ.2

The bell over the door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, stepping in from the heat and dust of the street — 𝓑𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓸𝔀 & 𝓒𝓸 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀 ɢʀᴏᴄᴇʀʏ & ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴛ Your shoes were worn thin. Your dress was simple cotton, sticking to the back of your knees.

And you were tired — bone-tired — from chasing one dead-end job after another across this godforsaken town.

You needed work. Or a miracle. Or both.

The store smelled like tobacco and dry wood, with a hint of something sweeter — maybe the candy in the jar by the counter, or the bright bruised apples piled up in baskets.

Shelves lined the walls, packed with everything from flour sacks to pistol rounds. It was the kind of place where a man could buy a loaf of bread, a hammer, and a coffin without walking more than twenty feet.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, wiping sweat from your forehead, trying not to look as desperate as you felt. It was quiet inside, but not empty.

There, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, stood a man.

And Lord Almighty. You almost forgot how to breathe.

He was fine — broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist — and the worn suspenders crossing his chest did nothing to hide it. Dark hair, a little mussed like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning already. Sharp jaw. Sleeves pushed up. And a cigarette dangling careless between his lips.

He watched you over the top of the ledger he was scribbling in, one eyebrow tilting up slow, like he wasn't quite sure if you were real or a heat mirage rolling in off the road.

"You lost, darlin'?" His voice was rough, low. Not unfriendly. But not soft, either.

You swallowed. Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun outside.

"No, sir," you managed, clearing your throat. "I'm lookin' for work."

He tilted his head a little. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers as he tapped ash into a tin. There was a long, heavy pause, stretching thin between you like taffy pulled too far.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the counter, and you caught the faint scar along the side of his throat — a rough, pale line disappearing beneath his shirt. He smelled like leather and smoke and maybe something wilder, something you couldn’t name.

"Ain't much work left 'round here," he said finally. "Dust's got more jobs than we do."

Your heart sank. You started to thank him anyway — ready to turn, ready to leave with your pride shriveled up tight inside you —

But then he said, almost too casual:

"You know how to tally numbers? Take stock? Keep folks from stealin' when I ain't lookin'?"

You blinked up at him. Nodded fast.

"Yes sir. I can read, write, count. And I can run a register." (You prayed you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt.)

Bo Chow smiled then — real slow, real lazy. Like maybe he hadn't smiled all day until now. Maybe longer.

And damn if it didn’t feel like that smile was just for you.

"Might have somethin' for you after all," he said, nodding toward the back room. "Mornings, couple hours. Pay ain't much, but it's clean work. And you get first pick if any more fruit comes in."

You tried to smile back, tried not to look like a fool.

"I'd be grateful," you said. "Truly."

"Name's Bo Chow," he said, holding out a calloused hand across the counter. "Most folks just call me Bo."

You put your hand in his, and he squeezed it firm — just enough to make your stomach flip once, twice. His skin was warm. Rough in the right way.

Your name felt small and clumsy on your tongue when you said it. He repeated it once under his breath — tasting it — like he was putting it away somewhere safe.

You heard boots scuffing behind you — a couple old-timers coming in, hats low over their faces — and Bo dropped your hand slow, like he hated letting go.

"Be here six sharp tomorrow," he said, voice dropping a little lower. "Don't make me come hunt you down."

And Lord, the way he said it — like it was a promise, like it was a threat, like maybe he wouldn't mind hunting you down at all —

You walked out of that store with your heart rattling around in your ribs, a stupid grin tugging at your mouth. The dust hit your boots. The sun hit your eyes. But you hardly felt it.

All you could think about was him. About Bo Chow, the cigarette smoke curling around his smile. About how, maybe you'd finally found something worth staying for.

The next morning, you showed up just before six — hair pinned back, boots polished best you could manage, apron folded under your arm.

The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale silver smear over the flat line of the fields.

The streets were empty except for a stray dog.

You hesitated at the door, heart hammering. What if he changed his mind? What if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble?

But the second you pushed inside, the warm smell of tobacco and cedar wrapped around you like an old blanket — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled again over those damn forearms, shirt tucked messy into dark trousers, suspenders hanging low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to fix them yet. He was counting cash, cigarette stuck lazy between his teeth, the smoke curling up in slow silver ribbons.

He glanced up when he heard the door — and you swear, you swear, for a half second he smiled. A real one. That soft kind, just at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

"You're early," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Good."

You nodded, setting your things down behind the counter.

Your hands shook a little, but you kept busy — dusting, sweeping, checking the register like he told you. He didn’t hover. Just gave quiet instructions here and there, moving around the store slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

And it was the little things — God, it was the little things — that drove you crazy.

You noticed it first when he leaned down to pull a crate from under the counter — how his shirt stretched tight over his back, fabric whispering against muscle. How a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he huffed it out of the way without even noticing.

You caught yourself staring. Snapped your head down fast, pretending to reorganize the fruits and vegetables.

Then it was the way he stood — shoulders wide, hips cocked lazy — arms crossed over his chest as he watched you figure out how to load the till.

There was something about the way he moved — no wasted steps, no fidgeting — like he didn’t have to try to own the space around him. He just did.

And Lord, when he laughed —

Low, unexpected — a real rough chuckle that rumbled from his chest when you nearly dropped the glass candy jar and caught it at the last second — God, you felt it down to your toes.

"Careful, sunshine," he drawled. "Ain't but one of you, and glass is expensive."

You ducked your head, face burning. But you couldn’t help smiling.

Around mid-morning, after he nailed up a new shelf in the back, Bo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You offered him the water you packed — nervous, feeling silly. He took it with a little nod, mouth brushing the rim where yours had been without hesitation.

And when he handed it back — his fingers brushed yours. Calloused. Warm.

You felt it like a jolt of lightning, sharp and sweet under your skin.

"You doin' alright?" he asked, voice low. "Ain't scarin' you off yet?"

You shook your head fast.

"No, sir."

That slow smile again — like he was proud of you, somehow. It made your chest ache.

The rest of the day passed in slow, golden hours. He showed you how to track inventory, how to read the order forms, how to spot the difference between good grain sacks and ones chewed through by mice.

And every little thing — the way he squinted against the sun when he stepped outside, the way he twirled the pencil between his fingers when he thought, the way he touched the brim of his hat polite to the older ladies who passed by — every little thing made you fall harder.

You were a fool. You knew it. But God help you, you couldn’t stop.

Near closing time, when the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, Bo lit the oil lamps and turned the sign to CLOSED.

The town settled into quiet outside, the cicadas starting up their low hum.

You packed up your things, heart heavy. You didn’t want to leave.

He leaned back against the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo, watching you with that unreadable look. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching.

And before you left — just as you reached the door — he said:

"You did good today."

You turned, surprised.

He flicked ash into a tin, voice casual, almost too casual:

"Could use someone steady around here. Someone like you." "If you want it — job’s yours."

You tried to speak — tried to say yes, of course, yes, thank you, yes — but all that came out was a breathless little whisper.

"I'd like that."

Bo nodded slow, eyes never leaving yours.

"Good," he said. "Real good."

You just huffed and left the store.

You showed up early again the next morning. Couldn’t help yourself. You barely slept — just laid in your bed all night staring at the ceiling, heart banging around your ribs like a fist.

You kept seeing him — that rough smile, that lazy slouch against the counter, the way his hands moved — big and calloused and sure — like he could tear the whole damn world down if he wanted, but he didn’t. He was gentle with you.

You dressed careful — simple skirt, neat tucked-in blouse, hair tied back. Nothing fancy. But you caught yourself smoothing it down a dozen times on the walk to the store.

You weren’t scared of work. You weren’t scared of Bo, either. Not really.

What scared you — if you were honest — was how badly you wanted him to look at you again the way he had yesterday. Like he saw you.

The bell over the door jingled when you pushed inside — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Good Lord.

You almost had to grab the doorframe to keep from sliding down it.

Today he had the vest on — rich brown canvas, snug over his shoulders and chest — shirt rolled at the sleeves again, forearms out, tan skin dusted with faint scars like old stories he never bothered to tell. Trousers fit firm around his slutty waist, boots scuffed from work.

He looked up from stocking the shelves — and when he saw you, a flash of something warm crossed his face. Almost hidden. Almost.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Thought you might show."

You swallowed hard, managed a nod.

He stood up slow, dusting his hands off on a rag. That damn vest hugged him in all the right places. Made your stomach flip and knot in ways that felt dangerous.

You got to work without being told, moving behind the counter, checking the inventory list. Trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t about to explode out your chest.

It didn’t help that Bo kept brushing close — not on purpose, not really — but every time you turned around he was there.

At one point, you bent to grab a crate from under the counter — and when you stood up, you bumped right into him.

Hard, solid chest — vest scratchy and warm against your back — his hand catching your waist automatically to steady you.

Big palm. Firm grip. Fingers splaying wide before he yanked them back like he touched a hot stove.

You both froze.

For one wild second, the whole store was silent — just the sound of the clock ticking on the wall — his breath brushing the back of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Easy, now," he said rough, almost scolding. "Ain't tryna bust that pretty nose, are ya?"

You flushed so hot you thought you might catch fire. Mumbled something — you didn’t even know what — and ducked your head fast.

Later, you were coming out of the storage closet — arms full of ledgers — right as Bo was striding in.

Instead of waiting — instead of shrinking back — you moved right past him. Real smooth. Real bold.

Except — the space was too damn narrow.

Your hip brushed his thigh — your shoulder scraped his chest — and your ass — oh, Lord — your ass skimmed right up against his front when you slid by.

You felt him go still — felt his hand twitch at his side like he had to physically stop himself from grabbing you. You didn’t dare look up.

You just kept moving, pretending you didn’t notice, pretending your whole body wasn’t screaming at you.

Behind you — you swore you heard him swear low under his breath. Real soft. Real dangerous.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt just to keep from smiling.

By noon, the air inside the store was thick and heavy with heat. Bo shed the vest finally, slinging it over a hook near the door. You caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to him — the long line of his back, the strong slope of his shoulders.

You caught yourself staring again — caught yourself wanting — and forced yourself to look away.

But Bo must’ve noticed, because a minute later he drifted close — reached past you for something on the shelf — his hand landing light on your waist to move you out the way.

He didn’t even think about it. Just did it. Like you were his already.

Your breath hitched so fast you nearly dropped the jar in your hands.

"‘Scuse me, sunshine’," he said, real soft in your ear. "You’re in the way."

You stood there dumb, blinking, as he brushed past — close enough to smell the salt and sun and cigarette smoke on him.

It wasn’t until later — after closing — when you were wiping down the counters and Bo was locking the door — that he spoke again.

"You work good," he said, voice low and thick. "Real good. Smarter than most the men that come through here."

You turned, heart hammering.

Bo was leaning back against the door — arms crossed — watching you. Face unreadable. Eyes dark.

You opened your mouth — to thank him, maybe — but he cut you off.

"How old are you, anyway?"

You stiffened.

You knew what he was asking. Knew why he was asking it.

You met his eyes steady, chin tilting up just a little.

"Turned eighteen last month," you said. "I'm grown, sir."

For a second — just a breath — something flickered across his face. Something hungry and dangerous and real.

Then it was gone, shuttered behind that calm mask he wore like a second skin.

He nodded once. Slow. Like he was making peace with something ugly inside himself.

"Alright, sunshine," he said rough. "Long as you know what you’re doin’."

You smiled — small and sweet and secret — because you did. You really, really did.

And Lord help you — you weren't planning on stopping.

The day dragged in slow — hot and heavy, same as always — but you didn’t mind.

Not when you got to watch him.

Bo moved like he wasn’t even trying. Stacking crates, counting stock, slouching against counters — and all you could do was sneak glances every chance you got.

The way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows — showing off strong forearms, tan and scarred, veins running beneath the skin like little rivers. The way the muscles flexed under the fabric when he lifted something heavy.

His hands — God, his hands.

Big and rough, palms calloused from years of work. Knuckles scarred like he’d been in more fights than he’d ever admit.

You imagined what they’d feel like — skimming your skin, wrapping around your throat, curling in your hair.

It got harder and harder to focus on anything else.

You were wiping down the counter again — pretending to clean when you were really just looking at him — when you realized:

No customers.

None.

Just you and Bo. Alone. Heat swirling between you like smoke.

Your heart kicked up — wild, reckless.

And before you could talk yourself out of it — before you could remember to be scared or shy or good —

You moved.

Not too fast — a normal shaky pace.

You crossed the space between you in a few quick steps — grabbed his hand — and tugged him toward the back.

He let you.

No questions. No hesitation. Just a soft grunt, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he followed.

"What’s this, sunshine?" His voice was rough, curious, amused. "You stealin' me?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him through the narrow back door — into the storeroom, dim and warm and empty — and shoved him back against the wall.

You stood there, breathing hard. Heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it.

Bo looked down at you — those dark eyes burning — and for a second you thought maybe he’d laugh, maybe he’d brush you off, maybe he’d tell you to run along like the little girl you weren’t anymore.

But he didn’t.

He tipped his chin down — lips brushing yours — and said low:

"You sure, sunshine?"

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice.

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. Hard. Hungry. Hands grabbing your hips, dragging you against him.

Your head spun. The world tilted.

His mouth was hot and rough, teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make you whimper — and God, the sound you made must’ve lit him on fire because he growled low in his chest and kissed you harder.

You clutched at him — hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer — and he let you, let you crawl all over him, like he was starving for it.

Like he’d die if you stopped.

At one point, you stumbled — tried to pull back to catch your breath — but he chased you, mouth claiming yours again, hands framing your face so careful, so tender even with how rough the kiss was.

You were dizzy with it — with him — with the feel of his body pressed against yours, all hard heat and steady muscle.

And then —

You did it.

Hands shaking, you grabbed his wrist — guided it up — placed his big, rough hand around your throat.

Gently. Like a question.

Like a please.

Bo froze.

For one hot, crackling second — everything in the room stopped moving.

His thumb brushed the side of your throat — slow, thoughtful. Not squeezing, just holding — just letting you feel the strength there, the weight of him.

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye — something dangerous and filthy gleaming behind his gaze.

And he grinned — slow, wicked — all teeth and bad intentions.

"You into that shit, sunshine?" His voice was dark velvet, wrapping around you, making you shiver.

You nodded — breathless — grinding your hips against him like you couldn’t help it. (You couldn’t.)

His fingers flexed slightly, tightening just a fraction — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was bigger, stronger, in charge.

You whimpered — so soft, so needy — and he laughed, low and rough, like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough and reverent. "You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me."

Then he kissed you again — deeper, dirtier — hand still cradling your throat, the other roaming down your spine to pull you flush against him.

You melted into him — opened for him — let him take whatever he wanted.

Bo’s hand stayed loose around your throat a moment longer — thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, his breath ragged against your mouth — before he finally let go.

Not because he wanted to stop touching you — no. Because he wanted more.

He gave you a rough, breathless little grin — one you could feel in your knees — then reached down and grabbed you by the waist like you weighed nothing.

Lifted you right up.

Set you down on the nearest wooden stool — still warm from the heat of the barn outside, a little unsteady, but solid enough.

Your hands grabbed the edge of the stool instinctively — steadying yourself — eyes wide, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear.

Bo leaned back a half-step — just enough to drink you in.

The way your dress rode up, baring the soft skin of your thighs. The way you sat there all breathless, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate for him.

He dragged a hand down his face — as if trying to keep himself together — and then just said low, almost to himself:

"Christ, you're pretty."

You didn’t even realize you were doing it — but your eyes kept dropping.

To his hands. Those big, rough, dangerous hands — scarred and calloused and strong.

You could feel the strength of them from here. Could imagine them wrapped around your hips, your waist, your throat — holding you down, holding you up, whatever he damn well pleased.

Your mouth went dry.

And Bo noticed.

His mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.

"Yeah?" he rasped, voice dropping. "You like the look of my hands, sunshine?"

You swallowed hard — nodded.

You didn't even try to hide it.

And that was all he needed.

Bo stepped between your knees — crowding you close, body heat washing over you like a furnace — and ducked his head down.

Started kissing along your jaw — slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower and lower.

You gasped when he found the spot just under your ear — sucked there hard enough to leave a mark — and he grinned against your skin when you tilted your head for him, helpless and wanting.

"Good girl," he muttered into your neck. "Gimme that pretty throat."

You could’ve melted right then and there.

His hands were everywhere — roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, dragging along the soft curves of your waist like he was memorizing you.

You arched into him — not even trying to play coy anymore.

You wanted him.

All of him.

And Bo — he was starving for you.

Before you could blink, he dropped to his knees.

Big, broad body sinking down in front of you — pressing your knees wider apart with those strong hands, pulling your panties down — looking up at you with something almost feral in his eyes.

"Gotta taste you, baby," he rasped, voice half-broken with need. "Been fuckin' dying for it."

You whimpered — hand flying to his hair instinctively — fisting in the thick dark strands as he shoved your dress up higher, higher, exposing you.

No hesitation.

Bo dove in like a man half out of his mind.

The first press of his mouth against you made you cry out — sharp and sweet — hips bucking up without you meaning to.

Bo groaned — like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted — and grabbed your thighs, holding you down, forcing you to stay right there for him.

His mouth was ravenous — lips and tongue working you open, devouring you like you were his last meal.

Messy. Loud. Absolutely, devastatingly good.

You tried to pull away once — overwhelmed, shaking, breath hitching in your throat — but he groaned and pulled you back down harder.

"Nah, baby." "You take it." "You let me eat this pretty little pussy just like this." "You fuckin’ taste how bad I want you."

You sobbed his name — it was pathetic, really. Hips grinding helplessly against his mouth — and Bo just groaned again, deeper, like he could come from this alone.

The wet slide of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth just barely grazing. The way he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there until you were shaking.

He licked you like he owned you. Like he wasn’t gonna let you walk outta this storeroom until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And when you finally came — loud and desperate, thighs clamping around his head — Bo just kept going.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t let up.

Made you ride it out — every shudder, every whimper, every sweet little broken cry.

When you finally slumped forward, boneless and ruined, hands still fisting in his hair —

Bo looked up at you — mouth slick with you, eyes dark and wild — and said, low and rough:

"Ain’t done with you yet, sunshine." "Not even close."

And you believed him.

You wanted him.

God help you — you wanted everything Bo Chow was about to give you.

A/N: LAWDDDD — I love me some Bo Chow...

pls help me pass my exams lil guy. im counting on you