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Summary
“‘Door’s not locked.” You mumbled into his uncharacteristically messy hair.
“Mn.” Too late to stop now, Steb was long lost in you.
Your smell, familiar and so normal compared to everything around you. Your softness, the way your unbroken skin gave way to his touch. How warm you were, gasping and arching into him. There was no helping himself as he drank you in greedily, moving your shirt’s neckline and peppering your collarbones with nips and kisses.
Both of you think the other might have died in the battle for Piltover, so you get emotional and fuck in a broom closet when you see each other again. Sounds fair, no?
Series
- Part 1 of ⋆.˚ 𓆞⋆.˚ fishsticks ⋆.˚ 𓆝⋆.˚
