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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter V

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

a/n: bjorn fucks you seven ways to Sunday. that's it, that's the chapter. also, I don't know why it took me five chapters to realize I never mentioned the title of the fic is from the song "small doses" by bebe rexha lol, the lyrics inspired the story, it's worth a listen if you've never heard it before.

warnings: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, nsfw, non-linear narrative, trauma bonding, resolved sexual tension, praise kink (both ways), oral (giving/receiving), loss of virginity, dirty talk, shower sex, falling in love

tags: @asvtrials @urfavhanna @orangebeauty @3arthtoeden @barnes70stark (comment if you wanna be notified when a new chapter drops)

wc: 5.1k

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It was meant to be a one time thing—sleeping with Bjorn.

Something that neither of you would ever bring up, not to anyone, not to each other, a silent pact of secrecy you mutually understood but, like everything else that's happened since your transfer to sector six, things don't go as planned.

Kay nearly lunges at you when she sees you again, having barely been extracted from the ruins of that specific section of the man made tunnel you’d been down in. Her fingers create wrinkles in the fabric near the shoulder blades of your grimy tee you haven't gotten a chance to change out of, face wet with tears, arms coming up to return her embrace, the first time you've actually ever done so.

She'd been crying ever since she heard the news, word having traveled fast about what had happened after you went looking for Bjorn in the mines. Kay and the others had immediately rushed over to the accident site only to be met with heavy yellow tape and traffic cones policed by armed guards, roping the area off to the rest of the colonists that had gathered there.

According to the reports, you and Bjorn had been trapped for just over six hours, which doesn't seem accurate, not when it felt like an eternity to you, throats tight from the fumes while you found comfort in each other.

Speaking of, you glance over to see Tyler and Navarro taking turns bear hugging Bjorn, squeezing him a little tighter, holding him a little longer, undoubtedly over the moon to have him back alive.

Navarro buries her face in his chest to hide her tears, never one to show her emotions just like her brother, though the shakiness in her shoulders gives it away, the flat of his palm running over her back to reassure her.

You turn the other way as soon as you realize Bjorn is craning his head to look in your direction, his gaze burning into your profile with the intensity of it, fighting the urge to look over and meet the icy blues of his irises.

While you keep your eyes trained elsewhere you can't help but wonder what Bjorn is thinking while he stares at you, if he's thinking about what you just did together. If he's remembering how you sounded crying out his name, the way you looked desperately bouncing on top of him, how it felt to be inside of you with nothing in between.

You suppress the shudder threatening to run down the length of your spine thinking about it, not wanting Kay to notice, even if you could theoretically write it off as a side effect from being trapped for hours.

That’s when Tyler makes his way over to you and Kay, who's just barely let you go, swapping places with her to hug you next and apologize profusely, feeling guilty for what happened, like he's trying to take responsibility for sending you in after Bjorn, like it's his fault.

“Tyler—Tyler listen,” you insist, hoping to assuage his remorse, finally getting him to pull back and look at you, holding you at arm's length by your biceps, “I don't blame you like—at all. How could you've possibly known what was gonna happen? Besides, it was probably a good thing, Bjorn and I talked it out and we're…okay now.”

Thing is though, you honestly don't know where the truth lies in that statement, having no clue where you and Bjorn stand at the current moment.

Yeah, you hooked up and yeah it was incredible, best lay of your life—which isn't saying much considering you were hammered every other time—but you have no idea how it'll affect your dynamic going forward, what parts of it will inevitably change and what will remain the same, if anything at all.

And that scares you, the uncertainty of it all, downright terrifies you. It's the entire reason you chose to isolate yourself from other people after your transfer, wanting to be left alone, a type of peace that can only be forged within yourself, finding solace in its predictability.

But you've been flirting with danger instead, ever since you accepted Kay's invite to hangout, telling yourself—lying to yourself—that you won't get too close as you were integrated into the group, so slow and imperceptible you didn't even notice until you were in too deep, up to your shoulders in a bottomless pit of quicksand.

Once the medical team on standby clears you and Bjorn you're free to go, watching Tyler sling his arm around Bjorn's shoulders and ask if he and Navarro would like to have a sleepover at his and Kay's, “yanno like when we wuz little,” he laughed, patting Bjorn's chest with an added layer of enthusiasm, Bjorn accepting the invite with an easy little smile and nod.

You part ways soon after, promising Kay you'll talk to her later after you've showered and gotten a good night's rest. Going home to clean off the dirt and debris and dry come, scrubbing extra hard between your legs, scrubbing your thighs until they're almost red and raw, like you're trying to erase what happened, washing the evidence down the drain by your feet.

Though it does nothing to get rid of the finger-shaped bruises sitting just under your hips or the hickey halfway down your neck, examining them while you stand naked in the mirror you have hanging in your bedroom, a gradually fading reminder of what happened between you and him.

A structural defect in the support beams, that's what you're told the day after the cave-in while you're clocking in for another sixteen hour shift, something that had resulted in a disastrous domino effect leading to the collapse. An accident waiting to happen, blamed on the colonists who first erected the area rather than the corporation that had them go into the mines in an unsturdy environment in the first place.

The rescue mission wasn't about you and Bjorn, you worked that out on your own, why would they care about two low ranking miners that were referred to by numbers anyways? It was about the valuable resources that could still be extracted, saving you was a byproduct of retaining that tunnel before it could bury it all under rubble and wood. Fucking figures.

After work you stop by a convenience store and pick up a variety of pregnancy tests from different brands just to be sure, rushing back to your apartment to take them in the privacy of your own home, holding the plastic bag close to your chest so anyone passing by can't possibly see what's inside.

The fifteen minute wait is eating at you, feeling longer than the time you spent trapped underground, leg jiggling impatiently while you sit on the closed toilet lid with your fingers loosely steepled together, one elbow resting on either knee.

You slump back against the porcelain tank, eyes rolling up to the plaster-ridge ceiling the same time all the tension in your body drains when they all, by some miracle, come back negative. Thank fuck. That's one less thing you need to stress out over. Now you just have Bjorn to worry about, which is significantly less terrifying.

There's a knock at the door, startling you, immediately sweeping your arm across the laminate counter to trash everything, yelling over your shoulder to, “hold on a fucking second!” when the knocking persists. It can't be Tyler this time, he isn't this impatient. Or annoying.

Although you wish it had been, your eyes meeting striking blue ones as soon as you answer the door, your heart plummeting to your feet like a runaway dumbwaiter in an elevator shaft.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” You hiss, looking left then right then left again to check if anyone is around, slightly relieved when you see no one—only slightly though, because Bjorn is standing on your doorstep like he just—belongs here.

“Whoa, calm ur tits love,” he responds, holding his hands up in front of him, “want me ta’ suck on ‘em again?” he smirks right after, causing your blood pressure to spike through the roof.

You curl your fingers into the loose fabric of his shirt, Bjorn letting you roughly yank him inside, using his back to slam the door shut behind him, still wearing that smug, shit-eating grin on his dumb face.

“The fucking nerve of you just showing up here unannounced!” You don't yell, not wanting the neighbor you share a wall with to overhear but you get pretty close to it.

Outwardly you're fuming, his shirt still twisted up in your clenched fist but inwardly—inwardly you're trying not to buckle under your own weight, inhaling the familiar scent of tobacco and winter gum rolling off his warm breath, remembering the taste of it, knees feeling a little weak and strange because of it. What the hell is wrong with you?

“And how exactly would I announce it? S’not like I got ya’ digits princess,” he reasons, punctuating his sentence with an annoying little chuckle.

“Even if I did I would've blocked your dumbass immediately,” you fire back, a bit harsher than usual, wanting him to take the hint and get the fuck out of your home. You don't even wanna look at his face right now, still coming to terms with what you'd done while under duress.

Because seriously—who fucks in a mineshaft when you're about to die? It kinda makes you wish you did, hoping for a sinkhole to open up from under your feet right now and swallow you whole out of sheer embarrassment.

“Ma’ point,” he says, tipping his head at you, making you huff, “whatever,” lacking a rebuttal, letting his shirt go to take a step back and tightly cross your arms in front of you, “why'd you come here anyway?”

“Well innit obvious,” Bjorn answers, taking a step forward, then another. And another. And another. And you freeze up, Bjorn close enough now your bodies are almost pressed together, gently placing his thumb on your chin while the rest of his fingers curl under your jaw so you have no choice but to look at him, “for a round two princess.”

Your eyes go wide in surprise and your lips goldfish apart—you don’t know what you were expecting him to say but it definitely wasn’t that. “I only did it in the first place because I thought we were gonna die!”

Bjorn rolls his eyes, leaning in to whisper into your ear, voice like coarse velvet, “don’t act like it wasn't tha’ best screw o’ ya’ life, princess. The way ya’ were moaning ma’ name and tha' heavenly way you wuz squeezin’ around ma’ cock. Haven’t stopped thinkin’ bout it since.”

So he was thinking about what happened in the mine when he looked over at you during your little reunion with the others. You briefly wonder how often he's replayed it in his head, if he lay awake last night while everyone slept around him, remembering how it felt to have his fingers inside you, his cock. If he dreamt about it, hearing your whimpers and pleas to a vivid degree, the sensation of his hands touching the most intimate parts of your body, burning hot like fire ants across your skin, just like you did.

He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, bringing your attention back to him, his touch gentle—barely there, like he's handling porcelain, staring into your eyes for an incredibly long, drawn-out moment.

Then his lips are on yours again, soft and hesitant, like he's testing the waters and you just melt into it, powerless to quit while you're ahead, your eyes falling close as you open your mouth, letting his tongue slip in.

It's easier to find the rhythm this time around, having gotten more than acquainted with Bjorn's style of kissing, the slick sound of it permeating through your tiny apartment, heat already gathering in your pelvis knowing what’s to come, where this is leading to.

Bjorn chuckles into the warm, wet cave of your mouth, thumb running over your now spit glossed lips, eyes roving over your face, seeming to like what he sees, “who knew I jus’ had ta’ stick my tongue down ya’ throat to get ya’ ta' shuddup? Woulda done it tha’ first night i met ya’ if I'da known.”

“Fuck off—hold on,” you pause, spreading your fingers apart with your hand on his chest, feeling his quickening heartbeat against your palm, “I'm not about to let you fuck me raw again,” you follow up, firm in your stance this time, thoughts wandering to the pregnancy tests sitting in the bottom of your trashcan. You were so fucking lucky not to get knocked up the first time around, you're not about to risk it a second time.

A smirk stretches across his face, reaching into the pocket of his tan quilted lined work jacket to fish out a box of condoms, “bought a pack on ma’ way ‘ere. And I hope ya’ know I plan on usin' every. Single. One o’ ‘em. These fuckers are bloody expensive.”

You exhale a breathy moan, nodding your head in return before you curl your fingers into his shirt again, except, instead of pushing him backward you yank him forward, smashing your lips back together.

It's intoxicating—making out with Bjorn, maybe that's why you're so utterly weak when it comes to his advances, whimpering so needy and eager in response to him slipping his hands into the back pockets of your jeans to roughly squeeze your ass through them.

The kiss you're tangled in is somehow more desperate than the one you shared in the mines less than forty eight hours ago, like you're both testing to see if the first time was a fluke or if it'll be just as incredible on the second go around.

“Ya’ gotta call tha’ shots last time princess, this time I wanna,” he tells you, more confident this time around, his eyes softening anyways, “if thas’ okay with ya’?”

The smile you give him is equally as soft, genuine, squeezing his wrist where it's still resting against the denim of your jeans, “what do you want baby?”

“Wanna eat ya’ out. Make ya’ come on ma’ tongue then fuck ya’ nice and deep,” he groans thinking about it, arms circling your waist to keep you close, moaning back just as weak and strained. You've never had someone care about your pleasure the way he does, never had anyone go down on you.

So you're pretty sensitive when he does, needy and pliant in his hands when he has your hips pinned down to your bed, jaw going slack as he licks up between your folds, following your breathy direction.

It's hard telling him what to do, a broken moan escaping you on every other word, legs quivering under him, repeating, “good boy,” like a scratched record every time his tongue finds your clit, able to pinpoint it after so many praises whimpered, circling his tongue around it, spurred on by the pet name.

Cupping the underside of both thighs, his nails bite into your skin, drawing them up so your knees are pointed to the ceiling, wearing them like a pair of earmuffs while he sucks on the bundle of nerves his lips are curved around.

“Mmm, yeah just—fuck that feels so good, you're doing so good, keep going just like that. Good boy,” you keen, high and pretty, your hand going between your legs to find the sweaty mess of his hair and yanking on it, making him growl in response. So, he likes his hair pulled too.

Bjorn settles his upper lip just above your clit, careful to cover his teeth, his bottom lip just above your opening before he licks into you, pushing his tongue in, causing you to grind down onto him, pulling on his scalp a little harder.

He spells his name out on your clit, like he owns it, says he read up on it just to make it good which turns you on all the more, knowing he cares enough to learn what to do and how to do it, how to get your thighs closing around his head and grinding down on the warm wet muscle penetrating you.

He shallowly fucks it in and out of you, the spit naturally produced on his tongue aiding in the slip and slide, warm breath wafting over the cooling trail of spit causing you to shiver even more.

It's when Bjorn's pushing his fingers in alongside and curling them over your g-spot that has your abdominal muscles spasming, coming on his tongue just like he wanted, licking you into hypersensitivity.

Bjorn looks just as drunk on it as you are, despite being completely sober when you pulled him into your apartment, lids droopy and his eyes glossed over, crawling over you to fuck you nice and deep just like he promised.

You go through three condoms that night. After the bed you make your way into the shower next, sliding up and down the steamed glass door as he fucks you up against it, your hands and tits leaving sweaty imprints for several seconds from behind because of it.

He has his shin resting against the lip of the low square tub to keep his balance, the warm water washing down over you with his fingers resting right over the bruises he left from before. Bjorn thrusts up into you, spearing you hard and fast, like he's trying to knock your pelvis out of its frame.

It feels so good, beyond anything you've ever felt before, grunting into your ear that you're, “jus’ as wet n’ tight as before’ and that you're a, “littla’ fuckin’ tease ain't cha’ princess?”

This is all under your command, something you told him to do after you soaked through your bedsheets, needing another spot to absolutely ruin, one hand curling over the lip of the glass door to keep it shut tight while he erratically fucks you up against it from behind, still learning how to channel it all in his hips so he can rail you that much harder.

Strands of hair are sticking to your face, trying not to swallow any of it as you cry out from the force of his thrusts, rattling the glass in its frame. There's no fucking way your neighbor doesn't know what's going on now, not that you really find it in you to give a shit at the moment.

He trashes the condom when you turn off the now cold water and get out, leading you back to the ratty futon you use as a sorry excuse for a couch, sucking another huge hickey into your neck just above your collarbone, like he's claiming his territory.

Bjorn's refractory period is incredibly short, already getting hard again as he's toweling off, rearranging you on all fours, ass up face down, his palm flat between your shoulders blades, fingers spread out over your still wet skin while he hits it from the back.

“Good—ah, good boy. You're doing so good, fucking me so well,” you keen, a high and needy pitch when your words have the desired affect and he plows into you that much harder. Work is gonna absolutely fucking blow tomorrow but you don't give a shit about that either, hoping to feel that ache between your legs every time you have to bend down and retrieve something or pick up the drill after a regulated break, vividly recalling everything he did to you.

“Fuck ur pussy’s so addictin’ princess, can't get a ‘nough o’ it,” he growls, adding to the bruises he's already left on your thighs to your hips this time, the wet slap of skin and your moans echoing off the walls of your tiny apartment.

Your fingers claw at the sheetless mattress, trying to cling onto something as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train, the imprint of your wet naked body left behind for the cotton drill fabric to absorb.

Bjorn grunts when he comes again, nearly collapsing on top of you, his gloved cock still inside as he slowly softens, peppering little kisses all over your back.

“Fuckin’ amazin,’” he sighs, sharing your sentiment. You've both proven your hypothesis correct, both times were just as mind blowing as the first, maybe even better, your bodies in tune now that you know what the other likes, what gets each other off.

You hum in agreement, your heartbeat slowly returning to normal. “Gonna have to go to bed soon. You know, for work.”

He groans in annoyance, rolling off your body to lie next to you, loosely steepling his hands behind his sweaty head, “right—work.”

“What, did you forget?” You snort, crossing your arms to rest your cheek on your stacked wrists while you look at his profile, from his pretty lashes down to the plush of his lips. Sometimes you forget just how attractive he is.

“Yanno,” he says, making eye contact with you then, holding a warmth you've never seen before, affection blossoming inside your chest as a result, “fo’a moment—I did.”

“Oh,” is all you can say in response, burying your face directly into your arms so he can't see how pink your cheeks are. You're not used to this, someone being sweet on you, at least not someone you're actively sleeping with, everyone else just faceless nobodies you met at a bar or in a liquor store.

Bjorn fucks you one last time before he leaves, this time with you on your back so he can look you in the eyes while he pushes in slow and deep, so deep it feels like his cock is brushing up against your pelvis.

There's no dirty talk this time around, just Bjorn whispering hushed praises like, “ur so fuckin' stunning it's unreal” and “ur so good ta’ me, ma’ good girl.” Kissing over your chest, your neck, your face, every one of them feeling like a thank you, your heart feeling strange inside your chest.

It's so incredibly intimate and foreign, something you've never experienced before, his hand finding yours so he can weave your fingers together, holding it up by your head while he thrusts inside, taking his time in taking you apart.

He kisses you when you come together, no tongue, no desperation, just an endlessly soft press of his lips to yours, kissing your forehead as he pulls out, cleaning you up with a wet washcloth after you tell him where to find them, boneless and tired against your futon.

You exhale into the quiet air as soon as he leaves, gaze tracing over the ceiling, like you're searching for an answer that isn't there. What the absolute fuck have you gotten yourself into?

After that night, instead of blowing off steam in the mines, Bjorn blows his steam off on you, coming around every night to fuck you once, twice, sometimes three times if he's feeling particularly frisky, having gone through three and a half boxes of condoms. That's like 140 condoms. Jesus he's so fucking horny all the time.

It's to the point you give him your door code to avoid any unwanted questions if anyone passing by just happened to see him waiting alone on your doorstep, sometimes coming home to him already naked on your bed if his shift ends before yours or hustles down the short hallway to tackle you if yours ends before his.

It's supposed to be casual, just something you do to work through all the pent-up tension you build while tearing down the rock in the mines, a way for you to forget about it all if only for a few hours. You want it to stay like this, easy and uncomplicated, so you keep it a secret from the others, something Bjorn ultimately agrees to when you insist on it.

He seems displeased by your request which takes you by surprise, figuring he'd be just as on board with it as you are but he doesn't argue, just nods his head while looking up at your ceiling, settled back against your upright futon still fully-clothed, chewing his bottom lip between his teeth.

You decide not to pry, even though you really, really, want to, itching to pick his brain and decipher why he doesn't seem to like it but a part of you, the majority of you, doesn't want to know the answer, afraid of what it might be, so you just don't open that can of worms.

You're at a bar with everyone, knowing full well Bjorn will find his way into your bed soon after—like he always does. It's the only sure thing other than the zero percent chance of sunlight LV-410 gets.

It's been two months since you and Bjorn started fucking on the down low. Kay is waddling now, very, very round and puffy. It's cute, she has that pregnancy glow about her, especially since the group's been splitting her shifts up amongst everyone so she can kick her swollen ankles up and relax, something she is endlessly grateful for. Promising to name her baby boy after every single one of you, but you don't think, “Tyler Bjorn Navarro Rain,” followed by your name then Harrison makes for a very good one.

You're nursing your cold beer in your hands, knocking back another swig as Tyler goes on another long-winded speech about giving capitalism the middle finger if he wasn't a cog in it, already drunk.

“Whoa,” Navarro whistles, looking at the side of your neck, at the fresh hickey Bjorn gave you last night, sitting too high up to hide under the collar of your shirt, like this was his plan all along, “who gave you that?”

Everyone turns to look so you slap your palm over the purpling bruise, flinching at the slight sting. God you're getting sloppy, you should've told him to suck somewhere you could hide, that bastard. Now you're flaming red, the intensity of your blush and the way your floundering for an answer confirming their suspicion.

“Oooo,” Kay joins in, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, giggling, “is there something you’re not telling us? Someone perhaps?”

“I uh—well. It's nothing. Just tripped is all,” you lie, very lamely you might add. It's too perfect and round to be anything other than what it is and no one's buying it, not even Andy. Andy.

“Yah n’ fell right into tha' jaws of a hungry shark,” Tyler cracks, slapping his knee over his own joke, like it's the funniest thing in the fucking world. It isn't, it really, really fucking isn't. You feel caught, like a fish in a casting net, out of breath and fighting for your life. This is the worst possible scenario, the absolute last thing you wanted to happen.

“Yah,” Bjorn smirks, torpedoing through all the noise, immediately lifting your head to glare at him, hand still over your neck, sending a flirty little wink your way, “why don’tcha share with tha’ class princess?”

“You’re the absolute last person I wanna fucking hear from jackass,” you seethe, biting his head clean off his shoulders, angry and embarrassed. He falters, picking up on your tone, looking sorry for saying anything. Good. He fucking should be. He isn't the one being grilled right now, even though he's the cause of it all.

“I gotta go,” you announce, rushing out of the bar despite everyone calling for you to come back. You'll never live this down, feeling like the talk of the town all over again, just like you were back in your old sector.

You don't let Bjorn leave hickeys on your neck anymore, making him swear that he won't do it again if he wants to keep fucking you so he obliges, apologizing between filthy, wet kisses which you appreciate.

No one asks you anything else about the guy you're sleeping with, aware that you'll just clam up and leave, which you appreciate even more, pretending like the whole bar incident didn't happen in the first place, denial your only way to cope.

Bjorn usually leaves after you're both fucked out and spent but then—then he starts to stay. Starts to hold you in his arms when you're done, tucking your hair behind your ear, kissing your scalp, telling you something along the lines of, “even assholes like me like a good cuddle every now n’ then.”

It's warm. Safe. Your head is pillowed against his chest, your ear pressed to his left pec, listening to the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat, the even rise and fall of his diaphragm. It's comforting, tangling your legs with his, feeling your eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion. You could stay like this forever, just you two.

But you don't want that. Can't want that. You've already allowed yourself to get close to people again but this—this is something else entirely, getting close to someone on an extremely intimate level like this. You're playing with fire and you know you could get burned at any moment. Will get burned. Emotions are the worst thing to have in a place like this, only producing pain when the inevitable happens, and it always, always does.

You just can't help but want to know how he's doing, if he's doing well, if he's thinking about you.

You don't just wanna see him at night when you're casually hooking up, you wanna see him in the morning too. Want to cook breakfast just for two and hold hands under the table while he makes fun of your terrible cooking but eats it anyway because you made it just for him. And you don't just wanna hold his hand in the privacy of your apartment, you wanna hold it when you're with the gang or walking around in general.

You wanna do stupid mundane shit with him like grocery shopping or folding laundry, washing dishes while he dries them or cuddling under the blankets while you enjoy a movie night, sitting in his lap or on the other side of the futon with your legs tangled in between while he tickles you even though you fucking hate being tickled. But you might not totally hate it if it's him.

And you wanna be greeted by him at the end of every night because these four walls are just a shitty space you reside in, you wanna come home to him.

Because Bjorn feels like home.

Your heart is so full and warm yet light and airy at the same time, like a swollen helium balloon wanting to float up and away into the atmosphere watching him sleep, a sort of peace on his face you don't get to see often.

Oh. Oh—fuck no, you think as the realization starts to sink in, utterly disbelieved that it's taken you this long to notice, to make sense of it.

You're falling for Bjorn.

#not to toot my own horn but i fkn ate this chapter up #enjoy the happiness while it lasts #bc I'm gonna break your heart in the next one >:)#bjorn alien romulus x reader #bjorn alien romulus fic #bjorn x reader #bjorn alien romulus #alien romulus #spike fearn

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