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ace-turned-confused · 6 months ago

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love thy neighbour

joel masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: joel miller x f!reader summary: you visit your parents for the holidays, and their new neighbour joel miller makes the trip far more exciting. word count: 3,6k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied & wears a skirt, food & alcohol consumption, christmas & new year celebrations, unspecified age gap, joel gets a sneak peak, smut, fingering, unprotected p in v, spanking, creampie hallelujah, come eating, dirty talk, praise kink a/n: MERRY VERY LATE SECRET SANTA EM @hellfire-state-of-mind !!!! this is over a month late and i've never felt more guilty about something in my life. ilsm you are a GEM! i hope this makes you twirl your hair and kick your feet and melt into a puddle, as you requested. 💛 this is the first fic i’ve managed to finish since SEPTEMBER and idk i’m just proud of myself, times are tough. 🫡 not beta'd

The neighbourhood has hardly changed since your last visit — no fresh coats of paint, no new landscaping, no new drama. The one thing that has changed, is a new face that’s moved in across the street from your parents. He waved to you the first time you passed each other, flashed a contagious smile and a cheeky wink as he collected his post and headed back inside his own home. You’ve been hooked since then.

Your childhood bedroom has a wide window that faces the street, with a clear view of the front of his house. Whether arriving home or leaving, or simply standing talking to someone, you always admired him. You made a habit of going out too — sometimes for no real reason — on the off chance you’d get a closer look at him.

He caught you staring one day as you dared to walk on his side of the street and met him in his driveway — brown tangled curls laced with silver, broad shoulders and arms that filled out his sleeves — you shot your eyes up before you could look any lower, a small smirk and knowing look on his face as he turned around to walk away. He hasn’t given you his name and you haven’t been bold enough to ask. You still stare, just not when he’s looking.

Your parents told you the house would be quiet this Christmas, with no extended family or friends — just the three of you spending some quality time together while you’re visiting for the holidays.

It's mid-Christmas morning and you’ve exchanged presents with your parents, with plenty of smiles, hugs and thanks. Your mom sets the table and your dad checks on the food while you get ready for lunch, still wanting to dress nice for the occasion. You hear the doorbell ring through your door, followed by muffled voices. Satisfied with your appearance, you head for the living room, a deep and unfamiliar voice becoming clearer as you enter the room.

There he is — the hot and mysterious neighbour you’ve been drooling over from across the road.

Your mom turns to you as you stand, fiddling with your clothes and unsure how to act.

“Oh, you’re finished! This is Joel, have you met already?”

“No, haven’t had the pleasure,” Joel cuts in and answers for you, standing before you with an outstretched hand. You take it, his hand dwarfing yours, calloused fingers rough against your palm.

“He’s on his own for Christmas, so I invited him to join us.” Your mom smiles at you. “It’s only us three, there’s plenty of food and Christmas cheer to go around!” She claps her hands together, waltzing away to the table.

Joel gives you that same cheeky wink and smile you’ve seen before, but up close it has a much stronger effect than you were prepared for — it’s going to be a long day.

Everyone sticks to the usual mundane topics of the weather and traffic and the best fertiliser to use for the lawn. You don’t say too much through lunch, distracted by Joel’s voice and charm and the occasional smouldering look he throws you. Every time you glance at him, he’s already staring at you.

When your parents get up to clear the table once everyone’s well-fed, you jump up instead and volunteer — if you have to watch Joel any longer you might just jump at him across the table, to hell with your parents. His eyes follow you over their shoulders as you leave the room, plates in hand. You look back to the table one last time, catching his eye as he smirks and takes a swig of his drink.

You start to rinse off the plates and put leftovers into containers, laughter and quiet chatter sounding from the dining room. Joel wanders into the kitchen and sets his glass down, leaning against the counter next to you and looking around the room.

“So, uh,” you clear your throat, awkwardly trying to make conversation and avoid embarrassing yourself. “When did you move here?”

“Couple months ago, nice neighbourhood… even better now, though.” You can see him grinning in your peripheral vision.

“Are you coming to my parents’ New Year’s Eve party?”

“I am, why? You lookin’ for your midnight kiss?” he teases.

“I have plans already,” you scoff at him, “I actually wanna have fun on New Year’s, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he falls silent and angles himself closer to you. “You make the dessert?”

“Mhm.”

“Nice ‘n sweet.” He grabs the dessert bowl from your hands and drags two fingers along the inside.

You watch him, your lips parting as he sucks his fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. What would it feel like if those were your fingers instead? Or, better yet, if he shoved his fingers into your mouth?

He pulls his fingers out and opens his mouth to say something more, but he’s interrupted by your parents as they enter the room. He shoots you his signature wink before giving them his attention, and that’s the last you see of him.

The week after Christmas flashes by.

You bailed on your original plans of partying with your friends, coughing up a poor excuse why you couldn't go out with them anymore — with Joel coming to your parents' house again, it’s the first time in years you're willing to spend the otherwise boring last night of the year at home. Maybe you’re foolish for lusting after him, but that’s what New Year’s is for.

After spending the afternoon plating snacks, chilling drinks and fluffing pillows, you now pace in your room, deciding what to wear tonight. Your pre-picked club outfit is far too disrespectful for the new company you’ll be in tonight, but maybe you could make parts of it work…

You ditch the stockings and swap out the heels for flats. Your skirt stops mid-thigh once you make some adjustments, and change your risque top for a more neighbour-friendly one with ties in the front — if you look hard enough you can still spot your bra peeking through the gaps, but nobody here tonight should be doing that anyways. Except for Joel, maybe. You make sure it’s a decent bra in case he does. After all the effort you’ve gone through, you hope he does.

Hijacking the aux as soon as you come out into the living room again — you do not trust your dad’s music choices — you sit pretty with a drink in hand as everyone from up and down the street starts arriving.

You’re cornered by The Nosy Old Couple, getting grilled about jobs, partners and general life choices when Joel walks in. He looks around the room as your parents greet him, eyes finding yours as you try signalling him to rescue you. He simply smirks before turning and walking away — that bastard.

Joel watches you the whole night. He really shouldn’t — the neighbour's daughter, definitely too pretty and likely too young — but he can't find it in himself to care. What's the harm in a bit of holiday fun?

He could have saved you from that gruelling conversation, but then he’d have to let you go sooner. And it would look rude, strange, even, to tell your father, thanks for the welcome, but I’d rather spend the night chattin’ up your daughter.

So he settles for watching, for now at least.

The shift from a forced smile to a genuine one, your shoulders relaxing as you get yourself another drink and keep yourself in decent company. His eyes roam now, and he allows himself to stare while in your calm state, the same way you’ve always stared at him from across the street.

The way your lips part and slide over the rim of your glass, the delicate grip of your fingers, the hint of lacy fabric in the gaps in your top. Your almost-too-short skirt and how it hikes up when you cross your legs. Would you let him pull the ties loose and watch it fall open? Glide his hands up your legs and underneath your skirt?

You stand and laugh at someone's joke, reaching for your things. Something falls out of your grasp and you bend over to pick it up, your panties peeking out from underneath your skirt, just for him to see. His jeans tighten just so, the air in the room heating up as he clears his throat. He should look away, but he keeps staring, his own lips parting now as he imagines what’s beneath that fabric.

You turn around and catch his eye, all unassuming and innocent. He wonders if you know what you’ve done. You walk towards him, maintaining that look, and it’s evident you’re unaware. He’ll make sure to tell you.

Most of the night has passed already, and you finally get to talk to Joel.

“So much for those plans you had for tonight.” He leans towards you as people push past behind him, raising his voice above the music.

“Oh, uh, my friends cancelled, so…”

“Still hopin’ for a night of fun?”

“Are you offering?”

He downs the rest of his drink, jaw ticked to one side as he stares you down. He dips to speak in your ear, “You should be careful next time you’re bendin’ over in this little skirt of yours, sweetheart… I could see those pretty panties from a mile away.”

You step back from him, mouth agape at his admission — he just smirks at you, his eyes darkening. You hoped Joel would look at you tonight, but it was a long shot. You're deciding what to say when everyone gathers in the lounge — your dad’s put a countdown on the TV, and it’s a minute before midnight. You pull Joel into the hallway, away from the crowd and out of sight.

“So, you gonna kiss me at midnight or not?” You spin to face him, leaning against the wall with a naughty smile.

“I reckon your parents won't be too pleased havin’ their daughter kissin’ an old man like me.” He stands firm, arms folded across his chest.

“Well, they wouldn’t be too happy having an old man like you looking up my skirt…” You trail off, distracted by his arms.

“You’re the dirty girl bendin’ over and flashin’ her panties. Would you have wanted me to look away?”

He unfolds his arms and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you to meet him as he leans to kiss you, his beard and moustache scratching against your skin and you reach up to hold his arms. It’s rushed and desperate and over before you can take in what’s happened, but god you need it to happen again.

He looks around at everyone cheering, hugging each other and topping up their drinks. He grabs your wrist and pulls you through the house without a word.

Joel sneaks you out of the house and drags you across the street towards his own. Your eyes linger on his shoulders and back as he unlocks his door. He turns a lamp on once inside and closes the door behind you both, pinning you against it.

“What are you doing?” You ask lazily, taking in his features in such close proximity.

“Givin’ you that night of fun you were wantin’.”

He kisses you again, licking into your mouth and taking his time now as he runs his hands down your body, lifting your skirt to bunch it around your waist. He pushes one hand down between your legs to cup you over your panties and you grind into him — subtly at first, but it’s enough for him to notice and he smiles against you.

“That needy already, huh?” He says lowly, huffing a laugh when you whimper quietly. “Don’t gotta be quiet, sweetheart. Why you think I dragged you here? Ain’t gonna be much fun if I can’t hear how good I make ya feel.”

He spins you around and walks you towards his couch, backing you into the armrest. He pulls the ties on your top and drops it to the floor, fixated on the lace now in full view. He squeezes your breasts, fingers tweaking your nipples through the fabric as he looks up at you again.

“You wear this lacy number every day? Or just on special occasions?”

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head, lips parted as he keeps working his fingers, “I wore it just for tonight, for you… in case you noticed it.”

“Oh, I noticed alright,” he chuckles.

His fingers slow down and his hands begin to roam again. You take the reprieve to lift his shirt over his head and drift your hands down his bare chest. You stare at his broad shoulders and torso, almost in awe, as you reach for his belt buckle and undo it. It clinks against the floor, and you make quick work of his jeans, popping the button and undoing the zip. He dips down to kiss you, his hands bumping into yours as he pulls his jeans down and off.

It was mostly a joke when you said you wanted a night of fun — you never expected something like this to happen.

Joel kisses you again, inching along your jaw and down your neck while his hands continue their blind exploration of your skin, caressing and groping and digging into any part of you he gets ahold of. You reach to palm his bulge through his underwear, hard and heavy as heat radiates off of him through the worn fabric.

He shucks your skirt down and off, leaving it in the same growing pile of clothes, his fingers zeroing in on your covered clit. You moan at his movements and he lifts off of you to take in the sight.

He grabs your waist to turn you around, holding you flush to him as he gropes your breasts and grinds into you. You push back against him, a fresh wave of arousal soaking into your panties, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear.

“You ready for that fun?”

“Please, Joel,” you whine.

“S’what I like to hear.”

He pushes you down over the arm of the couch, chest flush with the cushions and ass up in the air. He rubs his fingers up and down over the damp gusset of your panties and pulls them down, leaving them hanging around your knees. Now with no barrier, he traces a single finger through your folds, already sticky with need and prods your entrance before repeating the motion.

“Even prettier than that little preview you gave me, she’s soaked for me already.”

His breathing sounds laboured behind you, and you turn as best you can to watch him, eyes falling on his hand as he strokes himself, thick and throbbing.

“This what you wanted? This what you still want?”

You smile almost drunkardly at him, huffing a laugh as you nod, facing forward to rest your head on the couch again.

“Remember, I wanna hear all those noises you can make — dirty girl like you, I’m sure you sound gorgeous.”

He replaces his finger with the head of his cock, dragging himself against you and coating the length of him in your wetness. He slips in slowly, his hands in a bruising grip on your hips as he pulls out only to push in even further. The music from your parents’ party fades from your mind when he finally bottoms out; Joel sighs and you groan as he holds your ass flush against his hips. He stays there, grinding into you and never pulling back.

“Jesus, feels like heaven…”

All you do is whine in response — partly unsure if he wanted a response, and partly unable to say anything else — overwhelmed by Joel and finally getting what you’ve been dreaming of since you first laid eyes on him.

“How you want this, sweetheart?”

A moment passes and he smacks your ass when you don’t answer him. He leans over you, letting his body weight push you deeper into the couch cushions, pushing his cock deeper into you in the process.

“Cause this is how I see it… Your little friends didn’t cancel your plans, did they? They’re all still goin’ out on the town tonight and doing God knows what and fuckin’ anything with a pulse. But you backed out, thought maybe you’d stay home 'cause if there’s anyone you’re gonna fuck tonight, it’s me. Ain’t that right?”

You’re silent again, both annoyed that he has you figured out and relishing that he's on top of you like this.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He lifts himself off you and pulls almost all the way out, leaving just his tip inside your cunt. “Be good and I’ll give ya a real fun story for your friends.”

He spanks you again, giving you no time to react as he snaps his hips into you. You screw your face up at the stretch as he does it again and sets a steady rhythm, the room filled with gasps and grunts and heavy breathing. He smacks you a third time and you moan, loud and unabashedly and you hear Joel chuckling behind you.

“That’s it, good girl. Wanna hear you, sweetheart, hear how good I’m makin’ you feel.”

He’s reaching a spot nobody else has before — undoubtedly the most experienced man with the biggest dick you’ve ever seen — and you know your back is going to be fucked in the morning from how he’s got you draped over his couch, your hips will be tender for days with how tight he’s holding you, and you might not walk straight for a week, but God are you glad you bailed on those original plans.

As heavenly as it is already, you still need just that little bit more. Joel’s already clocked you once, and he’s done it again as he wraps an arm around your torso to pull you up again, his pace never faltering as he presses his chest to your back. The new angle has you seeing stars, and he pushes his free hand down to circle your clit.

“You hear that? Hear how wet you are? God, if I’d known you were gonna take my cock so well I woulda fucked you on Christmas… maybe even before that. You think anyone’s wonderin’ where we are? Anyone smart enough to put the pieces together?”

You clench around him at his lewd confessions and beg him to keep going, so close to reaching your end.

“You gonna come on my cock for me?” He breathes against you, his thrusts becoming clumsier the longer he goes on. “Come on, sweetheart, know you want to. Been such a good girl, lettin’ me fuck this sweet pussy.”

A few thrusts and swipes of his fingers over your clit later and you're tightening around him, head thudding against him as you reach up to grab the arm that’s wound around your chest. Your nails carve crescent moons in his skin and you yell out, and he keeps pistoning into you through your orgasm to chase his own.

His filthy words turn into mere ramblings, muffled when he lowers his face to drag his lips against your skin and breathe you in, tightening his arms around you. His breathing heavy, small moans turn into grunts and groans as he fucks into you one last time, holding you in place as he empties himself inside of you, warm and filling.

He keeps you there, both of you panting for air as you come down and he pulls out with a hiss. He turns you around to face him — you’re still dazed when he leans to kiss you, calm and kind as he cradles your cheeks.

His hands wander down your body and he follows suit, coasting his lips down over your bra between your breasts, over your stomach until he’s crouching in front of you. He peers up at you, pupils still blown wide as he thumbs your folds apart, captivated by how his spend seeps out of you. His tongue darts out, eyes fluttering closed as he tastes himself and licks you clean.

He stands now and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pulling your panties up and straightening the elastic. His fingers linger on your skin before reaching to do the same with your skirt. He does up his jeans and shakes out his t-shirt, his gaze staying on you while you ensure the gaps in your top are no bigger than when you snuck away from home.

“Maybe we should, uh, get back…” You trail off, boldness quickly fading as you start to second-guess tonight.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, opening the front door. “So, when you comin’ round again?”

“Huh?”

“What, you really wanna sneak around your parent’s house instead?”

“No! God, no,” you laugh, shoulders relaxing and Joel smiles at you. “I just wasn’t sure if… I don’t want to sound overeager or anything…” “Nothin’ wrong with that, sweetheart. Besides, I know what I’m doin’ next time.” He winks at you, glancing across the street in thought. The party still seems to be going strong. “Night doesn’t have to end right now, anyways.”

He ushers you out the door with a smack to your ass, leaving you giddy and giggling as he locks his door again. You both head back towards the party, bumping into each other as you walk. You smile at Joel and he winks at you one last time before you crack open the door, excited about what the rest of your time here might hold.

np taglist for some pookies who showed interest:

@almostempty @joelmillerisapunk @djarins-cyare @burntheedges @milla-frenchy

@604to647 @evolnoomym @beefrobeefcal @whocaresstillthelouvre @bitchesuntitled

@sizzlingcloudmentality @sixhours @strang3lov3 @guiltyasdave @morallyinept

@mermaidgirl30 @bbyanarchist @vichons @angiewatson @professionalpromqueen

@lordhurn @pidgeispunk @letsgobarbs

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @strangergraphics

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut

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inseobts · 4 months ago

Note

Hello!! I just found ur blog and I really like ur writing ☺️ I would like a imagine/scenario with fem!reader, she is in a relationship with the captain trio (kid, law and Luffy) just some silly things about them arguing about with boat she should stay for the next time (the captains are not with each other, they kinda "share" the reader) I also would like it fluffy please 😊 I'm sorry if that's confusing, English is not my first language

Three Boats, One Heart

law + kid + luffy x fem!reader (poly relantionship)

a/n: okay idk if I did it good but I loved that I didn't have to choose just one lmao

words count: 3.9k

tags: fluff, captain trio x reader, poly-ish, jealousy, silly arguments, established relationship/s

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The wind is soft today. The sea is calm. You’re smiling.

You should have known peace wouldn’t last long.

“I told you she’s staying with me this time!” Kid’s voice booms across the small island harbor, arms crossed and lips curled into a scowl. His red hair shines under the sun, making him look even angrier than usual.

“No,” Law says flatly, not even looking at Kid. His cold eyes are on you “She said she’d stay on my submarine this week. We made plans.”

“Plans?” Luffy cuts in, loudly. He’s already clinging to your arm like a koala “But she promised me meat night on the Sunny! That’s way better than boring submarine plans!”

“I didn’t promise—” you try to speak, but your words are drowned out by the three men yelling over each other again.

“She likes spicy food! My chef makes it best!” Kid growls.

“She said she wanted to read that book I found. That’s on my ship” Law shoots back, tightening his gloves.

“I have hammocks! And sea kings to see! And fun! You’re boring, Law!” Luffy huffs.

You stand there, blinking slowly, while your boyfriends, three of the most dangerous men on the sea, argue like kids in a candy store.

“Why don’t we let her choose?” Law finally says, raising an eyebrow “She has a mouth.”

“Yeah, and it’s gonna say Kid’s ship” Kid smirks.

“Meat night!” Luffy shouts again.

You sigh, putting your hands up.

“Guys. Guys. GUYS!”

They freeze. All three turn to look at you. Luffy’s eyes are wide. Law’s brow twitches. Kid grumbles something but shuts up.

You smile sweetly “How about… I choose after dinner?”

“No!” They shout in unison.

“Of course you’d wait until after meat night” Law mutters to Luffy.

Kid rolls his eyes “Typical.”

“Alright, alright,” you laugh “Then I’m flipping a coin.”

Three voices, instantly:

“No fair!”

“Unscientific.”

“Do two out of three!”

You take a deep breath.

This is your life now.

And honestly?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The sun dips lower in the sky, painting the clouds pink and orange. You sit on a crate at the edge of the harbor, swinging your legs. You should be relaxing.

But instead…

“Y/N.”

You blink. Law’s standing in front of you, quiet and serious. Too quiet. You squint suspiciously.

“What are you hiding?”

“…Nothing.”

He sits beside you. Then, very slowly, he pulls something from his coat.

Your eyes widen “Wait. Is that...?”

“The new novel from the Baterilla Book Fair,” he says calmly “First edition. I used Room to grab it before anyone else could.”

You gasp “Law!”

“I thought you’d appreciate it. Since you ‘haven’t had quiet reading time in weeks’.”

Your heart flutters. He even remembers that?

Before you can thank him, a loud clang rings from behind.

“Killer, give me the tray! Move!”

You turn just in time to see Kid stomping toward you with a whole plate of your favorite spicy dumplings. His metal arm is holding the tray like a fancy waiter. It’s kind of terrifying.

“You like food more than books anyway, right?” he says, shoving the plate into your lap.

“Excuse me?” Law snaps, standing up.

“Chill, Surgeon Freak. You can read your little book while she eats my food” Kid smirks.

You glance between them.

“…Are you two trying to bribe me?”

“No” Law says.

“Yes” Kid says at the same time.

“MEAT NIGHT!!!”

Both men nearly jump as Luffy appears out of nowhere, hanging upside down from a tree branch above you like a happy little menace.

“I saved you the biggest steak!” he grins “And I got Usopp to make you a sea cow milkshake! You have to come now!”

You burst out laughing.

All three of them stare at you.

“Okay,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye, “this is getting ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous” Luffy mumbles into your hair, now fully clung to your back like a backpack.

“Don’t touch her like that...” Kid growls.

“She’s not yours” Law adds.

“She’s mine right now!” Luffy says proudly, kicking his feet in the air.

You let out a long sigh, smiling at them all.

“Alright. How about this. Since you’re all going the same way, I spend one day on each ship. Three days, three ships. Fair?”

They look at each other. Then at you.

“…Fine” Law says first.

“Tch. I guess that works” Kid mutters.

Luffy hums “Only if I get to keep her the fourth day!”

“What fourth day?”

And just like that, they’re bickering again.

You sit back with your plate of dumplings, the new book in your lap, and Luffy still clinging to you like an overgrown plushie.

Yeah. Life is good.

The moon is up now. The island is quiet except, of course, for your three boyfriends standing in a triangle around you, arms crossed and eyes sharp like you’re about to make the most important decision in the world.

You hold up the coin “Heads is Luffy. Tails is Law. If it lands on the edge, I go with Kid.”

Kid’s eye twitches “What?!”

“Relax,” you smirk “It’s a joke. Two rounds. First flip is Law versus Luffy. The winner faces Kid. Final flip decides who gets me first.”

They all freeze.

“…That’s so dumb it might work” Kid mutters, crossing his arms.

“I accept this tournament” Luffy says seriously, like it’s a sacred honor.

Law just sighs “We’re gambling for time with our girlfriend. Ridiculous.”

“Still playing, though?” you smirk.

“…Obviously.”

You clap your hands once “Alright. First round: Luffy versus Law. Heads for Luffy, Tails for Law. Let the Coin Games begin.”

You flip it high. All three captains tilt their heads to watch it spin.

Clink.

“Tails!” you call “Law wins the first round!”

“HAH,” Law smirks, pushing his hair back “Try again next time, Straw Hat.”

“NNNOOOO!” Luffy drops to his knees like you just told him meat is illegal “I wanted to go first!”

You pat his head gently “So cute. It’s Law vs. Kid now.”

“Easy,” Kid scoffs, stepping forward “He’s going down.”

Law rolls his neck like he’s prepping for a fight “I hate this coin.”

You flip again.

It spins.

Clink.

“Heads,” you say, blinking down at it “Kid wins.”

Kid raises both fists in the air “HELL. YES.”

Law just stares in silence, his soul briefly leaving his body.

“I lost to him?” he whispers.

Luffy’s already back on his feet, grabbing your hand “I love this game! We should do this every week!”

Kid grins down at you “Guess who’s staying on the Metal Queen tonight?”

You sigh, half-laughing, half-panicking.

“Fine. Kid wins this round. But you two get your turns after, okay?”

Law and Luffy both grumble in unison but nod.

You don’t miss the way Law mutters “best two out of three” under his breath.

Or how Luffy is already planning “revenge”.

Aboard the Victoria Punk, the ship smells like oil, metal, and faint spice from the kitchen. It’s loud. Messy. Kind of chaotic. Very Kid.

He walks with you through the deck like he owns the world. Probably because he thinks he does.

“You’re not cold, right?” he asks suddenly, pulling off his heavy coat and tossing it around your shoulders without warning.

“It’s warm” you say with a soft smile, hugging it around yourself.

He scratches the back of his neck, looking away “Yeah. Whatever.”

Later, you sit in his workshop while he tinkers with something strange and sparking. He lets you sit on the counter, tosses you tools when you ask, and only yells a little when you nearly press a self-destruct button.

“I like when you’re here,” he mumbles, not looking at you “Ship feels less… noisy.”

You blink “Kid. Your ship is always noisy.”

“Exactly.”

You chuckle, reaching down to brush a bit of oil off his cheek. He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm like it’s no big deal.

You don’t tell him your heart stutters. He doesn’t need the ego boost.

You wake up in Kid’s room. It’s not as scary as people would think. Sure, there’s a pile of gears in one corner and his desk looks like a mad inventor lives there (he kind of does), but the bed is surprisingly soft.

Probably because he shoved every blanket on the ship onto it last night.

You stretch, blinking as the first rays of sunlight sneak through the window. A heavy weight is across your waist.

You look down.

Kid’s metal arm is draped over you like a guard rail. His face is pressed into the pillow beside yours, red hair a mess, mouth slightly open. He’s snoring. Just a little.

You try to move.

The arm tightens.

“…Don’t” he mutters, still half-asleep.

“I need to pee.”

“…Hold it.”

You snort “Wow. Romantic.”

He finally opens one eye “You got somewhere else to be?”

“I mean, eventually? The deal was one day each.”

“Tch.” He flops onto his back, metal arm now resting across your stomach like a very heavy paperweight “Not a good deal. Should’ve fought harder.”

“You won.”

“Yeah. But now I gotta give you up.”

You pause.

“…Did you just say something sweet?”

“No. Shut up.” He throws a pillow at your face.

You toss it back.

He catches it midair, grinning “You really like that coin more than me, huh?”

You smirk “The coin doesn’t snore.”

“Liar. Coin’s boring. I’m way more fun.”

He leans in and kisses you hard, no warning, no softness. It’s all teeth and heat and Kid. He pulls back just enough to murmur “Next time, I’m not letting that stupid surgeon or Straw Hat touch you for a week.”

You raise an eyebrow “Jealous?”

“Damn right I am.”

You wrap your arms around his neck “Then make this day count.”

He grins.

Challenge accepted.

Later on you stand at the edge of the harbor, bag over your shoulder, Law’s submarine already waiting in the water like a quiet shadow. You can see Shachi waving from the deck. Bepo’s holding a handmade welcome banner. It’s adorable.

Behind you, Kid is scowling like he just bit into something sour.

“You don’t have to go, you know” he mutters, arms crossed. His metal arm whirs softly as he flexes it without meaning to.

“I do,” you say, turning to face him “We had a deal.”

“Deals can be broken.”

“Not this one.”

He glares at the submarine like it insulted him personally “Stupid bathtub ship.”

You smirk “Aww. Are you gonna miss me, Captain Angry?”

“…No” he lies.

You step closer, rising up to kiss his cheek “Well, I’ll miss you.”

He shifts awkwardly, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile. But when you start walking away, he follows behind you like an annoyed cat.

You reach the dock. Law’s crew starts lowering a little platform to pick you up.

Kid frowns deeper “This is dumb.”

“Don’t start” you sigh.

“I don’t like this.”

“You agreed to this.”

“Under protest.”

You glance back at him, amused “Come on, Kid. Sharing is caring.”

That does it.

“I share nothing with them!” he snaps, voice echoing.

You turn around slowly, tilting your head. Then you smile. Not teasing. Not smug. Just soft.

“You do,” you say quietly “You share me.”

Kid blinks. His jaw clenches.

You can almost see the NO I DON’T forming on his lips, but he doesn’t say it.

He looks at you and his scowl twitches into something closer to pain “That’s different.”

“I know,” you whisper, stepping up to him one last time. You press your forehead to his “But I come back. Every time.”

He exhales through his nose “You better.”

“I will.”

“You better wear the coat I gave you. It smells like me.”

“…That’s why you gave it to me?”

He shrugs, smug again “Marking my territory.”

You shake your head, laughing, and step onto the lift as it takes you down toward the sub.

Kid watches the whole way, eyes sharp, arms folded tight across his chest.

You wave.

He doesn’t wave back but you know he’s still watching, until the sub door closes behind you.

The inside of the Polar Tang is calm, quiet, and weirdly clean. After the wild noise of Kid’s ship, it’s like walking into a library, if libraries smelled like antiseptic and steel.

Bepo meets you at the entrance with the banner still in his paws.

“Welcome aboard, Y/N! Captain said you’re not allowed to do any chores. And also that we have to ‘give you space’ but I don’t know what that means!”

“Thanks, Bepo,” you giggle “He’s just being dramatic.”

“I heard that” comes Law’s voice from down the hallway.

You walk toward it, dragging your bag behind you, and turn the corner to find him already leaning against the wall, arms crossed, trying to look bored.

He looks at you for one second too long.

You raise an eyebrow “What?”

“You’re five minutes late.”

“I know, Kid was being… Kid. But I’ll make up for it.” You smirk.

He glances away “Good.”

You roll your eyes and keep walking “So what’s the plan? Books? Tea? Staring at walls in silence?”

“I made a schedule.”

You freeze “You… what?”

He pulls a folded paper from his coat pocket “It includes meals, reading time, coffee breaks, and precisely two hours of optional nap time.”

You stare “You made me a day plan?”

“It’s important to have structure.”

You press your lips together “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You’re the one who dates me. And I’m the most normal one here and out there.”

You both smirk.

Later you’re in his room. Wrapped in one of his giant coats. Reading.

Law’s on the couch across from you. Also reading. Except he’s definitely not reading anymore because he keeps glancing over the top of the book every ten seconds.

Finally, you sigh and close yours “Okay. What is it?”

“…What?”

“You’re staring.”

“I am not.”

“You are definitely staring.”

He shuts his book and leans back “You smell like Kid.”

You blink. Then grin “Oh my god. Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Law…”

He mutters something under his breath and gets up, walking over to you. He plucks the coat off your shoulders, drops it on the floor, and replaces it with his own. It smells like clean linen and ink and something you’ve decided is just “him”.

You blink up at him, amused.

He leans down, cups your chin, and kisses you slow and deliberate.

When he pulls back, he mumbles, “There. Better.”

“Still jealous, though.”

“Shut up.”

You laugh and curl into his coat, dragging him down beside you on the bed.

It’s quiet. Warm. Comfortable.

This is his love language. Quiet touches. Shared books. Little things that say, you matter.

He tucks you close, arm around your waist, whispering almost shyly, “Don’t fall asleep yet. You haven’t had coffee.”

You smile against his chest.

“I don’t need coffee. I have you.”

He groans softly “That was awful.”

“You loved it.”

“…Yeah.”

You wake up warm, tucked under smooth sheets. Everything smells like fresh cotton and old paper.

Law is still asleep behind you, breathing steady against the back of your neck.

He’s the kind of sleeper that holds on without meaning to, one arm around your middle, the other curled loosely near your head like a shield.

You shift a little.

The grip tightens instantly.

“…It’s not time yet” he mumbles, voice gravelly from sleep.

You smile, still half-asleep yourself “We have around twenty minutes.”

“That’s twenty minutes too soon.”

You laugh softly “You made the schedule, remember?”

He groans and presses his face into your shoulder “Mistake.”

You turn to face him. He’s got bed hair, soft eyes, and that quiet pout he doesn’t know he makes in the morning.

“You could just come with me, you know” you tease.

“No.” He closes his eyes again “He’s too loud. And he’s going to jump on me.”

“True.”

You brush a hand over his bangs, then kiss the spot between his brows “But I’ll miss you.”

His eyes open slowly. Golden brown, focused. Honest.

“…I’ll miss you too.”

You both lie there for a little longer before he finally sighs and sits up, stretching “Come on. I’ll walk you to the dock.”

The Thousand Sunny bobs cheerfully at the edge of the water. Luffy is already waving both arms like a windmill “Y/N! Y/N! I made snacks! Hurry before Usopp eats them!”

You shake your head, laughing.

Law stands beside you, hands in his coat pockets, watching like he’s preparing for surgery. His mouth is a flat line, his shoulders a little too stiff.

“He’s… excited” you offer carefully.

“He’s loud.”

“You said that already.”

“He’s going to drop you.”

“I’ll survive.”

“…Unlikely.”

You nudge him with your elbow “You’re allowed to be annoyed. Just don’t kill him.”

Law exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh “No promises.”

You look up at him and smile softly “You know, Kid yelled the whole time when I left. You’re kind of… the opposite.”

“I don’t yell” he says, insulted.

“No, I know. You… hold it all in.”

He glances at you, eyes unreadable “Is that a bad thing?”

You shake your head “No. It’s a you thing.”

You lean up on your toes and kiss him. Slow. Thoughtful. Long enough to make Luffy groan loudly in the distance.

“STOP KISSING, START WALKING!”

You both ignore him for a second longer.

When you pull away, Law presses something into your hand, a folded note. You blink.

“What’s this?”

“A list.”

You open it and read: “Come back safe. Drink water. Don’t fall off the ship. Don’t forget me.”

You smile so wide it almost hurts.

“Romantic and bossy at the same time” you tease.

He shrugs “I multitask”

You take a few steps away, then pause and turn.

“Hey, Law?”

“…Yeah?”

“I’ll come back. I always do.”

He doesn’t smile. But his voice is soft.

“I know.”

You barely make it onto the Sunny before Luffy tackles you in a flying hug.

“YOU’RE HERE!!!” he shouts, arms wrapped tightly around your waist like you’re a piece of treasure he thought might vanish.

“Luffy! Breathing! Air!” you wheeze, laughing as he spins you in a circle.

The crew just watches fondly, like they’ve seen this a hundred times before.

“You’re late!” Luffy declares, finally setting you down.

“I’m literally on time.”

“But I missed you!”

You open your mouth to reply, but he suddenly cups your cheeks, squishing them “Do you smell like Law?! Ew!”

You grin “He gave me a coat.”

“I’M BURNING IT.”

Later he gives you a tour of the ship again like it’s your first time.

“Here’s your room! Just kidding, you can sleep in my hammock!”

“This is the kitchen—Sanji said I can’t cook anything, but I might have made snacks.”

“This is where Usopp and I tried to make a rocket once! It almost worked!”

He’s chaos on legs, grabbing your hand and dragging you from one spot to the next with endless energy.

But the moment you say, “Luffy, slow down” he stops instantly and looks back at you, worried.

“You okay?”

You blink “Yeah. I just want to be with you. You don’t have to impress me. And I’ve been on this ship thousands of times.”

He tilts his head, smile softening “I know. I just wanna show you stuff. ‘Cause you’re mine.”

You raise an eyebrow “Part mine.”

He frowns, dramatic “Don’t say that!”

You laugh and tug him down to sit on the deck. The stars are starting to show. The ocean sways under the ship like a giant heartbeat.

You lie back.

He flops down next to you, arms behind his head.

“I like this” he says.

“Just lying here?”

“Yeah. With you. It feels like the end of a good meal.”

You turn your head to look at him “That’s your best way of describing love, huh?”

“Yup!” He grins “Warm, full, and happy.”

You nudge him “You’re getting good at this.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“On who?”

He grins wider “On you.”

Later that night you’re curled in his hammock, swaying gently. Luffy’s tangled up with you, head on your chest, arms around your waist, snoring softly.

For someone who never stops moving, he sleeps like he never wants to let go.

You brush a hand through his hair.

“I’ll come back” you whisper, though he’s already dreaming.

He mumbles something.

You lean down.

“Luffy?”

“…Don’t go too long.”

Your heart twists.

“I won’t” you promise.

You’re still on the Sunny in the morning, sitting on the edge of the deck with your legs swinging over the side, sun warming your face.

Luffy’s beside you, leaning against the railing with a toothy grin, snacking on meat like nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

Then you hear it.

A mechanical thunk and a soft hum of teleportation.

You glance back.

Law steps onto the deck with his hands in his pockets. Kid is right behind him, arms crossed, face unreadable. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Luffy waves like it’s a reunion party “You’re late!”

“We weren’t invited” Law deadpans.

“Still late.”

You turn to them both, heart already in your throat.

“You guys came to fight over who gets the next turn?” you ask, even though you already know.

Law shrugs, casual on the outside “I assumed the coin toss would happen again.”

“Yeah,” Luffy says “Let’s flip it! Where’s the coin?! I'm going to win this time!”

You hold up your hand.

“No.”

They both pause. Even Luffy blinks at you.

Kid doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His jaw’s tight. That angry glint in his eye is gone, replaced by something more dangerous, quiet.

And that’s what gets you.

Because Kid is never quiet. He’s yelling, cursing, stomping, alive.

And right now he looks like someone who’s afraid if he opens his mouth, he’ll say something he can’t take back.

You step forward, past Law, past Luffy.

“I’m not flipping a coin this time,” you say softly “I’m going with Kid.”

His head jerks a little, eyes snapping up to meet yours.

“I said something dumb last time,” you continue “I thought I was being funny. But you’ve barely looked at me since then. You haven’t said a single thing, and that’s… not like you.”

He stays silent.

You step even closer, just a few feet away now.

“I think I hurt you. And if I did… I’m sorry.”

Finally, his jaw unclenches. His voice comes out rough, like it’s been held back too long.

“You didn’t hurt me” he says, not meeting your eyes.

“Then what?”

He looks at you and shrugs, like it’s not a big deal.

“I just don’t like when the person I’d rip the sea apart for calls herself something I have to share.”

Your heart cracks and stitches at the same time.

Before you can say anything, Luffy steps forward and grins.

“Okay!” he says “Then it’s Kid’s turn!”

Law doesn’t argue either. He just gives you a soft look. A knowing one.

“…a week each?” he says, not to Kid, but to you.

You nod and smile softly “That would be great.”

As you walk back toward the dock with Kid, he finally speaks again.

“…You don’t have to come back with me, you know.”

You look up “I want to.”

He looks away, ears a little red “…Good.”

Behind you, Luffy waves “BYE! DON’T DO TOO MUCH KISSING WITHOUT ME!”

Law just mutters something under his breath about idiots and walks away.

But in that silence, those few moments where nobody argues, nobody fights, you know that they understand. Not just you. Not just their place in your world. But they understand each other.

Even if they’d never say it out loud.

785 notes · View notes

yeahiveheardofbears-fics · 2 months ago

Text

Behind the Beaded Curtain

When you and Steve get stuck closing Family Video together, the usual banter takes a turn toward mischief—and maybe something more—when an empty store and a cart of VHS tapes lead to some questionable decisions. Between late-night chaos, awkward tension, and way too many adult films, Steve might finally figure out that sometimes, taking a chance is worth the risk.

hi guys! here's a little smut oneshot to hold you over till I post the next fic in my rewrite series! There is no use of Y/N and the 'you' mentioned is fem. I loosely based it off of my OC, Mac, but I tried not to be super descriptive so the X Reader girlies can get a little more immersed. This was just an idea that didn't make sense for my main fic, so i decided to write it as a oneshot. I'm goign to try and post my oneshots on this page as well as ao3! comments encouraged and I hope you enjoy.

enemies to friends to lovers, semi public sex, confressions, idiots in love word count: 13,619 TW: talk of porn, sex at work, body confidence issues, uh idk they fuck so if you don't like that i guess don't read it

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, IF YOU LIKE THIS, PLZ MESSAGE ME CAUSE I NEED INSPO <3

fic masterlist

read on ao3 or read below the cut:

The bell above the Family Video door jingled weakly, signaling the entrance of a customer. You leaned against the shelf you were restocking, the rough cardboard edges of a VHS cover pressed into your palm, watching Steve Harrington prop his feet up on the counter like he owned the place. His uniform vest clashing with his shirt, collar slightly rumpled, and his hair—perfect as ever—caught the light just so. You hated that he looked like he belonged in one of the cheesy rom-coms he was so bad at recommending to customers.

“Don’t strain yourself,” you called, sliding a copy of A Nightmare on Elm Street onto the shelf. “Wouldn’t want you to pull a muscle working too hard.”

Steve lazily swiveled the stool he was perched on, an easy grin spreading across his face. “It’s called delegating. You’re the one who offered to restock.”

You raised a brow, slapping another tape onto the shelf with a little more force than necessary. “You mean when you handed me the cart and said, ‘You’re better at this, anyway’? Yeah, real great teamwork.”

Robin appeared from one of the aisles, dragging a broom behind her and looking thoroughly unimpressed with both of you. “You know, it’s amazing you haven’t driven each other insane yet. You’re like two stray cats fighting over the same dumpster.”

Steve shot her an annoyed look, but you just smirked, leaning against the shelf with your arms crossed. “He’s not worth the energy,” you said, jerking your chin toward him. “I’d rather put my effort into alphabetizing the horror section for the third time this week.”

“Hey!” Steve pointed at you, his grin widening. “That’s because you have no taste. You keep shoving Gremlins into the comedy section.”

“It is a comedy,” you retorted, the hint of a challenge in your voice. “You’re the one who insists on putting it in horror.”

“Technically it’s a Christmas movie.” Robin interjected but you two were too into your usual banter to acknowledge her comment.

“It’s literally about monsters terrorizing a town,” he shot back, standing now, clearly ready for this argument.

“And it has a montage set to Christmas music,” you countered, stepping closer, refusing to back down. “Face it, Harrington. It’s a comedy, and your taste is basic.”

Robin watched the exchange with barely concealed amusement, resting her chin on the end of the broom handle. “This is how wars start, you know. One second it’s Gremlins, next thing you know, someone’s annexing the drama section.”

Steve ignored her, crossing his arms as he stared you down, his brown eyes sparkling with exasperation. “Oh, I’m basic? Says the girl who has a Misfits patch on her backpack like every other kid trying too hard to look edgy.”

You scoffed, stepping closer until you were almost nose to nose. “You wouldn’t know edgy if it bit you in the ass, Harrington.”

For a second, the room felt charged, like something was about to snap. Then Robin cleared her throat dramatically, cutting through the tension. “Okay, you two, this isn’t a cage match. Save it for the Halloween crowd this weekend.”

You stepped back, rolling your eyes as you returned to your cart of tapes. “Fine. I’ll let him live another day.”

Steve plopped back onto his stool, muttering under his breath but loud enough for you to hear, “You wish you could take me.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, already halfway down the aisle. “It wouldn’t even be a contest.”

“You know, for someone who spends most of her time glaring at customers, you’ve got a lot to say.”

“Somebody has to keep you on your toes,” you shot back, brushing your hands off and making your way toward the front. You flicked a stray strand of hair out of your face as you passed him. “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t charm every poor soul who comes in here. It’s starting to get embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Steve feigned offense, placing a hand on his chest. “I’ll have you know, plenty of customers appreciate a little charisma. You could try it sometime.”

“Charisma doesn’t mean flirting with everyone who rents ‘Sixteen Candles,’ Harrington.”

Robin let out a dramatic sigh, looking between the two of you. “I can’t decide if this is banter or foreplay, but either way, it’s exhausting.”

“Foreplay?” Steve sputtered, his cheeks flushing.

“God, no,” you said at the same time, shooting Robin a glare.

Robin laughed, leaning against the counter as Steve sighed, shaking his head with a reluctant smile. Somewhere behind the banter, in the dim light and popcorn butter air, the faintest trace of something real hung between the two of you—something neither of you was ready to admit, least of all to each other.

---

The last few hours of your shift crawled along, with Robin having said her goodbyes twenty minutes earlier and left you and Steve to close up. A post-dinner rush had left the place in chaos, with empty shelves and a mountain of returns now sitting on the counter. Steve, standing at the rewinder machine, was absently humming to himself as you finished putting away the last of your cart.

“Finally done,” you muttered to yourself, dusting your hands off. Just as you started to roll the empty cart back toward the counter, Steve sauntered over with a fresh pile of tapes, all rewound and stacked precariously.

“Perfect timing,” he said, grinning as he plopped them onto the top of your cart. “More work for you.”

Your eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as you stared at the offending pile. “You’re kidding me.”

“What? That’s the system!” he said defensively, his hands going to his hips. It was a classic Harrington move—half annoyed, half clueless.

“Your system sucks,” you shot back, pulling the tapes off the top and setting them on the counter. “And you’re helping.”

“I am helping,” he argued, gesturing to the now-empty rewinder. “I rewound the tapes. That’s like, ninety percent of the job.”

You snorted, grabbing the cart handle with more force than necessary and turning it toward the aisles. “Whatever. I’ll do it myself.”

Halfway to the shelves, you paused, an idea sparking as you glanced back at Steve, who was still standing there with his hands on his hips. “Actually…” you said, setting the cart brake and turning to face him fully.

Steve tilted his head, suspicious. “What?”

“You’re an athlete, right?” you said, your tone dripping with exaggerated innocence. “Former Mr. Cool Guy?”

He frowned. “I don’t like where this is going.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself onto the cart and sitting cross-legged on its flat surface, tapping the metal sides. “Put those skills to use and make this less boring. You push, I steer. I’ll call out the titles; you take me to the aisles.”

Steve’s mouth fell open, his brow furrowing. “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“This is dumb,” he said, shaking his head. “What if someone comes in?”

You leaned back, gesturing toward the door with a dramatic flourish. “Steve, it’s Wednesday. It’s 7 p.m. The only person walking through that door is someone too embarrassed to rent their adult movie during daylight hours. And if that happens, do you really want to help them?”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed, throwing his hands up. “Fine. But if you fall off, I’m not taking you to the hospital.”

“Noted,” you said, grinning victoriously. “ I always wanted to bleed out in the comedy section anyway.”

With a reluctant groan, Steve walked around the cart and grabbed the handle. “What’s first?”

You picked up the first tape from the stack beside you, holding it up to squint at the title. “Raiders of the Lost Ark. Action-adventure, aisle three.”

“Roger that,” Steve said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he started to push the cart. It wobbled slightly, and you leaned forward to steady yourself, already laughing as he picked up speed.

“Faster, Harrington!” you called, pointing toward the aisle like you were commanding a ship. “Aisle three awaits!”

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. He slowed as you neared the correct aisle, and you held the tape out dramatically, like a torch.

“Here we are!” you declared. “Place the artifact on its rightful throne.”

Steve grabbed the tape from your hand, muttering something about your flair for the dramatic as he slid it onto the shelf. When he turned back to you, you were already holding up the next tape.

“Ready for the next one?” you asked, wiggling the VHS case.

Steve let out a long-suffering sigh but grabbed the cart handle again, a reluctant grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is going to be the longest close ever.”

“Yeah, but you’re having fun,” you teased.

He didn’t respond, but the way his lips twitched into a full smile as he started pushing again gave you all the answer you needed.

Steve pushed the cart into the Drama aisle, his grip on the handle loose as he rolled his eyes at your smug expression. You waved The Breakfast Club over your head like a trophy, already looking triumphant.

“Drama section, as requested,” he said, stopping with a slight flourish. “But I’m just saying… it could also go in Romance.”

You nearly fell off the cart from how hard you laughed. “Romance? That’s what you got out of it? You think it’s about Claire and Bender hooking up?”

Steve raised a brow, his hands moving to his hips in that classic, I’m about to defend myself stance. “What? No, that’s not all it’s about. But it is a part of it. Opposites attract, right?”

You tilted your head, grinning like you’d just been handed the perfect opportunity to roast him. “Oh, sure. Opposites attract. That’s definitely a trope worth rooting for,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially when it’s just code for ‘the weird girl has to completely change herself to be worth the jock’s attention.’”

Steve frowned, clearly thrown off. “You’re talking about the makeover thing?”

“Obviously,” you said, flopping dramatically against the back of the cart, the metal sides rattling under your weight. “She was perfectly fine as she was—better, even. Then suddenly she gets some preppy glow-up, and boom, Emilio Estevez notices her. It’s such crap.”

He was quiet for a beat, like he was actually chewing on your words. His lips pressed into a line, and then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “I mean… I agree with you. She looked out of place like that. It wasn’t really her.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Wait… you agree with me?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, shrugging. “I mean, she didn’t need all that. She was cooler before.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. His tone wasn’t teasing or defensive—it was sincere. He looked at you with this genuine expression, like he actually cared about what you thought. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, and the quiet made your skin prickle in a way you weren’t used to.

Then Steve broke the tension with a smirk, shifting back to lean casually against the handle of the cart. “So, what I’m hearing is… you must hate Grease too, huh? Sandy changes everything for Danny at the end. That must drive you nuts.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, sitting up straighter and gripping the sides of the cart like you were preparing for battle. “Oh, don’t get me started on Grease, Harrington.”

His grin widened, and he gestured with one hand for you to continue, clearly enjoying this way too much. “By all means, let it out. This should be good.”

You took a deep breath, ready to launch into a full tirade about the crime that was Sandy’s transformation, while Steve leaned against the cart, laughing softly under his breath before you’d even said a word.

---

Steve jiggled the lock on the front doors, pulling them to test if they were secure before flipping off the outside lights. The neon "OPEN" sign fizzled out with a soft hum, leaving the store bathed in the sterile glow of its overhead fluorescents. He sighed as he turned the "CLOSED" sign around and shot a glance your way.

You were standing at the counter, finishing up the register deposit you’d started early since the rush had ended hours ago. You hummed quietly to yourself, seemingly in a good mood, which was rare for a late-night shift.

“Got any costume ideas for Halloween?” you asked as you counted the last stack of bills. “Since we get to dress up here and all.”

Steve leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Robin and I are going as pirates,” he said, his voice flat. “Her idea.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Let me guess. She’s all excited, and you’re just going along with it because you have no spine?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, though there was a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s got this whole ‘Captain Robin and First Mate Dingus’ bit planned. It’s exhausting.”

You snorted, finishing the deposit and closing the register drawer. “Well, I’m going as a devil. Simple, classic, but I gotta tone it down a little so Keith doesn’t spend the entire shift staring at my chest.”

Steve went stiff for a moment, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

“What?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, straightening. “So, uh, are you done with that?”

“Just about,” you said, locking the deposit bag and setting it aside for the morning shift. Your eyes drifted to the cart in the middle of the store, still loaded with a few stray tapes. “Looks like we’re not done with that, though.”

Steve followed your gaze and sighed. “Oh, great. More cart rides.”

You grinned, hopping back onto the cart and gesturing for him to take the handle. “You’re the one who insisted on delegating, remember? Now push.”

With another sigh—this one more dramatic than the first—Steve complied, wheeling you toward the horror section. You rifled through the tapes on the cart, calling out titles as he brought you to the correct spots. It went smoothly until you reached for the next tape and froze, reading the title aloud before you could stop yourself.

“Blondes in Heat?” you said, eyebrows shooting up. Your gaze darted to the rest of the tapes on the cart. “Oh, no.”

Steve groaned, already knowing what was coming. “Yeah, I’ll take care of those.”

You shook your head, holding up the tape with a smirk. “It’s fine, I can do it.”

“Seriously,” Steve said, his tone a little sharper. “I’ll handle it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, shrugging. “I’ve seen porn before, Steve.”

His eyes widened, and he stumbled over his words for a second before recovering. “What—you—you’ve—okay, I mean—”

“Relax, Harrington,” you said, clearly amused at his reaction. “You’re not the only person in Hawkins with a VHS player and curiosity.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, his face slightly pink. “I wasn’t—okay, fine. Just—don’t make it weird.”

You laughed, waving him off. “It’s not weird. Now push the cart.”

Grumbling something under his breath, Steve resumed pushing, steering you toward the back corner of the store where the beaded curtain waited. The clinking of the beads was just faint enough to make you second-guess the idea, but you straightened your shoulders and braced yourself. The cart rattled slightly as Steve slowed, and you gave him a look over your shoulder.

“C’mon, Harrington. It’s just tapes.”

The dim lighting of the ‘adult’ section made the whole thing feel way more awkward than it should have been. You broke the silence once more as Steve pushed the cart, and you, to one of the corners and had you hand him the tapes.

“You know, a place called ‘Family Video’ having a section for porn is a little weird.” You say as he shelves Blondes in Heat.

“Can you stop saying porn?” he sighs over his shoulder before walking back to you.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What would you rather me call it? The erotic arts? Adult features?"

"Just shut up," Steve says, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You hand him the next tape, which you had been staring at with an amused smirk. "How to Satisfy a Woman in Six Minutes or Less? Really?"

Steve groaned. "God, you're such a pain."

"I'm just saying. Unrealistic. Also why the rush?"

"Oh, my God. Shut up!" Steve says, trying not to laugh.

"What? I'm being serious! Six minutes is a lot to ask. That's barely any time for foreplay, and I don't think anyone wants a half-assed—"

"I am not talking about sex with you!" he says, a little too loudly.

You bite back a laugh. "Why not? It's not weird. I'm sure it's not even the most awkward conversation you've had this week."

He turns, an eyebrow raised. "Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh. Remember when Robin told you and Dustin the difference between tampons and pads?"

Steve visibly winced at the memory. "Okay, fair point."

"See? Not weird," you said, handing him the next tape.

"Yeah, sure," Steve said, rolling his eyes as he took the tape and glanced at the cover. Then his eyes went wide, and his whole body seemed to freeze.

"What? What's wrong?" you asked, trying to peek at the case. "Don't tell me it's worse than the last one. Oh, is it—"

"It's nothing," Steve said quickly, cutting you off as he turned away.

"Uh-uh," you said, jumping off the cart and walking around so you could see the front. "I want to see."

"No, no way."

"If it's really nothing, then why can't I see it?" you challenged, crossing your arms.

"Because I said so!" Steve shot back, his voice high and panicked.

"Fine. Hand it over," you demanded, holding out your hand.

"No."

"Yes."

"No, really, I—"

"Steven Harrington," you snapped, your patience running thin. "If you don't give me that tape right now, I will—"

"Alright, fine! Just stop yelling," Steve sighed, relenting as he shoved the tape into your hand. You stared at him, surprised.

"I yelled once."

"Still."

"Whatever."

You glanced down, and immediately, you felt your own body freeze. In a flash, the situation felt way too real.

Because staring up at you from the tape cover was an image of a girl who could've been you, if her hair was a different color. A girl, sprawled out on her back, naked. The camera angle was positioned above her, the lens angled to give the viewer a full view of her body—her face, her breasts, her legs spread wide.

Your face was on fire, your mouth suddenly dry. Beside you, Steve shifted nervously, and it occurred to you that you were both just staring silently at a porno tape that was clearly made for a specific audience.

"Uh... this is awkward," you finally managed, your voice a little hoarse.

Steve made a sound that was half laugh, half strangled cry. "Yeah, I could've done without the reminder, honestly."

You shot him a confused look. "Reminder?"

He waved his hands in front of him, clearly flustered. "No, that's not what I meant. I just meant—forget it. Forget I said anything. Can we please move on?"

"Not yet," you said, narrowing your eyes. "What do you mean, reminder? Is there a girl in pornos who looks like me or something?"

"Uh... maybe," Steve said, wincing. "But it's not weird, or whatever. It's totally normal. I just... happened watch this one. I wasn't trying to... or anything. I didn't realize..."

He was rambling, and it was kind of adorable. But there was also something about his nervous energy that made your skin prickle in the best way.

"So, if I look like this girl..." you said, letting the words hang as you tilted your head and met his gaze, which was locked onto yours.

"Yeah?" he breathed, swallowing thickly.

You stepped closer, holding his gaze. "Does that mean you've thought about me like that?"

"What?" Steve said, his voice cracking. "No. No way. Of course not. Why would I—"

"Liar."

Your tone was gentle, playful. It was a challenge, not an accusation. Steve's lips parted slightly, but he didn't respond, his eyes still locked on yours. You tried to keep a straight face, but you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you.

"You know- just give me that." Steve said, snatching the tape back. You watched him shove it onto the shelf, the movement quick and jerky.

"Hey, I'm just teasing! It's not that serious." You say, hands up in mock defense as you walk backwards and hop back up to sit on the cart.

"Shut up," he muttered, his cheeks flushed.

You bit your lip, unable to stop grinning. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Yeah, well, it's not funny."

You tilted your head, watching him as he fiddled with the shelf, his eyes not meeting yours. There was a vulnerability there, and a hint of shame. He looked almost hurt.

"Okay, seriously," you said, leaning forward and catching his gaze. "I didn't mean to actually upset you."

You hand him the next tape, attempting to make a joke about the absurd cover, but he just gives a noncommittal shrug. You frown.

"Steve, come on," you say, trying again. "I was just playing around. If it's really bothering you, I'll stop."

"It's not that," he said, shaking his head.

"Then what is it?"

He looked away, his jaw tight. You waited, giving him the space to say what he needed to. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, his words heavy with frustration.

"It's stupid," he said, still not meeting your gaze. "I just... we never talk about this stuff, okay? And then, the first time we do, it's because you think I'm some perv who gets off on looking at girls who look like you."

You blinked, caught off guard. "I... did not think that."

"Well, you should have," he snapped, turning to face you fully, his eyes burning. "Because that's how everyone thinks of me, isn't it? Steve Harrington, the former king of Hawkins High, screwing anything that moves."

You swallowed, not knowing what to say. Naturally, you went with humor to deflect.

"I mean if it helps, I've seen your luck with women lately, so I definitely don't think that..."

"Stop. Just—stop," Steve sighed, sounding exasperated. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is all we ever do. We can't have a serious conversation without joking about it, and it drives me insane."

You uncrossed your legs on the cart and let them dangle, leaning back against the wall of tapes, taken aback by his sudden honesty. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched. You had known each other through school, been friendly since he started at the store in July, but this was the first time he had ever really opened up. It was new, and a little scary, and definitely not something you knew how to deal with.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, and you meant it. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Yeah, well," Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not the best at sharing. Ask anyone."

"Hey, I've got no room to talk," you said, smiling a little. "I've kept my walls pretty high too, I think."

"You're not wrong."

The air hung heavy between you. Steve shifted, his eyes darting from the cart to the shelves, clearly feeling just as awkward as you were.

"You know that the person you were in high school doesn't, like, define you right?" you offered, your voice quiet. "Like, I don't think of you as 'King Steve' or anything."

"Really?" he asked, his brow furrowing skeptically.

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "I mean, we work together. I get to see all of you. The Steve who's actually really good at his job, and a surprisingly good teacher when you're helping Robin study, and an actual nerd about movies. Plus, y'know, the dingus pirate."

Steve rolled his eyes but grinned a little.

"And I mean, maybe you'd have better luck if you were that guy when you tried to uh, pick up women. The fake charm kinda just... doesn't work with this version of you."

"Gee, thanks," he said, feigning annoyance.

"No, I mean it in a good way," you assured him. "I think you're more real like this."

He was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the next tape and you went to grab it from the dwindling stack. You handed him the tape, your fingertips brushing his palm, and a rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

Get it together, you told yourself. You're not suddenly crushing on the guy because he showed a little vulnerability are you?

Steve, oblivious, flipped the case over, studying the cover. "Okay, so this one is... not great," he said, shaking his head. "I've had the misfortune of having to put away more than one."

"Oh, boy," you said, laughing. "I'm ready."

"Okay, here goes," he said, turning the case toward you. "Blonde Bimbo Gets Banged."

"Jesus Christ," you snorted. "Is there any way this can get worse?"

"Let's find out," Steve said, flipping the case back and reading the synopsis. "She's blonde. She's a bimbo. And she knows it. She likes to flaunt her blonde beauty. Her boyfriend knows she's a whore, and that's just the way he likes her. They get wild and hot together, and soon the whole gang is banging the blonde bimbo."

"Jesus Christ how many times do they have to say 'blonde' in one synopsis. Does the target audience have the memory of a goldfish? Does this company need a new marketing team?"

Steve laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, it gets worse. The reviews call this a 'stand-out-of-the-pack classic.'"

"Please don't make me read the rest," you said, waving you hand in front of your face while laughing. "I'm already scarred."

"You wanted to know," Steve said, his lips pressed into a line to keep from laughing.

"You're right. I did. I shouldn't have."

You two fell back into a comfortable silence, and you found yourself studying Steve as he went about his task, staocking the last of the tapes neatly on the shelf. He had always been attractive, but he was starting to feel realer. You could see the details of him now, the cracks and rough edges and the parts of him he'd rather not share. It was a dangerous thought, and you knew it. He was still your coworker, after all. And, maybe, your friend?

You watched him finish shelving the last tape, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly with the movement, and your stomach did a somersault.

Oh no.

Steve turned and noticed you staring. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

You shook your head. "Nothing. I was just zoned out, I guess."

"Right," he said, clearly unconvinced. But he didn't push it.

"Last one," you say as your got to hand it to him. "And the survey says... oh. Wow."

"What is it?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Oh, no, it's just this is the first time we've actually stocked something decent," you say, turning the case toward him. "Like, this one doesn't make me want to scrub my brain out with soap."

Steve studied the case, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, yeah. I've seen this one."

"Really?" you asked, surprised.

"Yeah, it's actually pretty good," he admitted. "There's, like, a plot and everything."

"You don't say," you said, smirking. "Maybe we should put this in the Romance section."

Steve rolled his eyes, shelving the movie. "Okay, wiseass."

"I'm just saying. Plot, characters, and actual sex? That's practically a Jackie Collins novel."

"Very funny," Steve said, walking back toward the cart. You were still sitting on the edge, the wheels of the cart rattling slightly.

"Huh. We actually got through the whole cart," you said, grinning a little. "Go us."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, leaning his hands against the cart and looking over at the shelf. "That was surprisingly easy."

"We're a pretty good team," you pointed out.

"Yeah, we are."

You leaned back a little, balancing yourself on your hands and studying Steve. He seemed to be doing the same, his gaze locked on yours. The air felt thick, heavy, and somehow electric. You could practically feel the sparks.

"We should, um," Steve swallowed thickly, glancing over at the beaded curtain that led out to the main sales floor. "We should probably get to the front."

"Yeah," you agreed, though neither of you moved.

You held his gaze, and he held yours, the tension between you was overwhelming, and intoxicating, and you could barely breathe.

"You got a deposit to finish..." he whispered, his voice low.

"Yeah, the main lights are still on," you said, your throat dry.

Neither of you moved. You could feel the pull, the urge to close the space, the electricity between you threatening to overload. Your pulse was racing, your skin tingling. You wondered if he could hear the thunder of your heart, if he could feel the warmth of your breath on his lips.

"This is dumb," he murmured.

"So dumb," you breathed.

"We're not gonna..."

"Yeah, we're not..."

And then his lips were on yours, and everything else faded away. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle but firm, and the world seemed to stop. His mouth was soft, the kiss slow, lingering. You melted into him, letting him guide the pace, savoring every second. He tasted like coffee and popcorn and something sweet, and the scent of his cologne surrounded you, enveloping you.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips felt swollen, and you were breathless. Your eyes fluttered open, and you stared at each other, the air crackling around you.

"We are so fucking dumb," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, a small, amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

You laughed, feeling giddy. "The dumbest. We should probably stop."

"Probably," he murmured. But his lips found yours again, his hand drifting into your hair, his fingers curling. You grabbed a fistful of his uniform vest, pulling him closer. He pressed into you, the pressure of him against your chest, between your legs, made your body ache. You moaned softly as he deepened the kiss, his tongue darting along your lower lip. You could feel his smirk as your lips parted, giving him access to the rest of your mouth. His tongue grazed yours, teasing, exploring. His free hand ran up the outside of your leg, his palm hot on your thigh even through the denim of your jeans. You arched against him, craving the friction, the feel of his weight, and he pushed back.

You tugged on his vest, and without breaking the kiss, he clumsily shed it and tossed it aside, his arms then circling your waist. Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, and you shivered at the contact with his bare skin. He sucked on your lower lip, making you gasp. Your fingertips dug into the muscle of his back, and he pressed harder into you. His body was solid, but soft, and he still held you so carefully. You wanted more of him, all of him, everything.

One of his hands moved to you shoulder to take the same hideous Family Video vest off of you. He broke the kiss only to make sure that he didn't rip it or pop one of your many pins off while doing so, putting it on the bottom of the cart. The careful action made you giggle. He smiled down at you before capturing your mouth in another heated kiss. You pressed your tongue into his mouth this time, running it along his bottom lip. He moaned softly, pulling you even tighter against him.

Your fingers raked down his back, nails grazing the smooth skin, and he moaned into your mouth, grinding his hips into you. The friction of him between your legs sent a shiver of pleasure through your whole body, and you groaned. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading your legs so that he could fit himself perfectly against you. He pressed hard, his body hot between your thighs, his chest pressed to your chest, his mouth on your mouth.

He rocked his hips into you, the slow friction driving you wild, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding on as he pressed his full weight against you, pinning you on the cart between him and the shelves. Your fingers gripped his shoulders as he moved again, his hands moving down to grip your hips. You could feel his arousal growing, and you shifted to match his pace, his hips rolling into you as yours rocked up to meet them, creating the perfect amount of friction, the pressure building with every thrust. You whimpered against his mouth as his fingers dug into your thighs.

"God, I want you," he breathed between kisses, his voice husky, sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.

"We—we have to—" you gasped, your words catching in your throat as he ground against you again, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding. His hands moved to your waist, pushing your shirt up and running his palms up the exposed skin, his thumbs grazing the soft skin of your stomach that that swelled gently over the waistband of your jeans, his touch reverent as he let his thumbs trace lazy circles there. You pulled away at the contact, suddenly feeling self concious with his hands on your exposed skin.

"Woah.. is this okay?" he asked, his voice a little strained. "If you're not—"

"It's not you, it's just..." you swallowed, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "I've never been with someone... like you before. Someone who... has expectations..."

His hands slid out from under your shirt as he took a step back, confusion on his face. "Wait, what?"

"I mean," you continued, struggling to find the right words, "You're so attractive, and I'm..." You gestured to your body with an open palm, not even able to find the words to express how self-concious you were about your body compared to the girls that usually got his attention. "You know," you finally added. "Me. So... I mean, I just want you to be sure, because..."

Steve's eyebrows pulled together in concern, his voice suddenly very serious. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean."

"No," he shook his head. "No, I really don't."

You stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then your eyes dropped to your hands, which were clasped in front of you. Your nails had been painted black with silver glitter, and the edges of your fingertips were rough, worn down from anxiously picking at them for so many years. Your thighs, while sat on the cart, pressed together, the soft curve of them spilling slightly over the edge, a reminder of how you never felt like you fit the mold of what guys like Steve usually went for. You thought about the way your jeans pinched at your waist or how you always avoided certain angles in photos because they made your arms look bigger than you liked. Your stomach churned at the idea of him seeing all of you—every mark, every curve, every imperfection that you’d tried so hard to ignore but couldn’t help cataloging in moments like this.

“I just…” you started again, your voice quieter now, “I don’t want you to feel like this is a mistake. Like maybe the weird girl is hot when you're at work, but in the real world...” You trailed off, biting your lip hard to keep it from trembling.

Steve crouched slightly to meet your gaze, his hands gentle as they rested on your thighs, grounding you. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice steady but insistent. “Look at me.”

When your eyes finally met his, the warmth in his expression nearly unraveled you. “You think I’m going to change my mind just because we take our clothes off? I'm rock hard in the middle of an adult section that smells like stale popcorn, and you think that's going to go away when your clothes are off? Really?" He asked incredulously, pausing to laugh at his own words. "That's pretty bold of you to assume."

Your breath hitched at the words. At his touch. The way his voice softened around your name. "Steve..."

"Seriously," he said, leaning a little closer. His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, and his eyes darted between your eyes and your lips, his hands still gently kneading your thighs. "It's you that should be careful. I mean... I can barely focus on anything when you're just standing around in these jeans," he admitted, his eyes moving to your legs, his palms slowly moving up the curve of them. You bit your lip, heat flaring low in your stomach. "But naked?" His eyes returned to yours, his voice suddenly rough. "I wouldn't stand a chance."

Before you could even respond, he closed the distance, pressing his mouth to yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, his hands gently kneading the tops of your thighs. You moaned softly at his touch, your arms sliding over his shoulders and tangling in his hair as you melted against him. He wrapped one arm around you, pulling you to him, the other hand sliding up your waist.

"Now," he whispered against your lips as he went to lift your shirt a little again. "Can I continue where I left off, please?"

You smiled, kissing him in reply. You parted your lips, deepening the kiss. He moaned against your lips, his hand slowly trailing up your waist again, lifting your shirt up more this time. Your body tingled in anticipation of his hands on your skin, his fingertips warm on your bare stomach, slowly trailing up to your ribs, then higher still, his thumb brushing the edge of the cup of your bra.

Your head tipped back as he broke the kiss to trace his tongue over your collar bone, then dipped lower, his breath hot on the exposed skin as his thumb gently brushed your nipple through your bra, your back arching slightly at the sensation. He pressed another kiss to your throat, and you moaned as his hand dipped under your bra, cupping your breast and kneading the soft skin.

You slid a hand under his shirt, trailing your fingertips across his waist, tracing the trail of hair that lead lower, the muscles in his stomach contracting at your touch. His hand on your waist tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you took the hint, reluctantly pulling away for a moment to peel the fabric over your head. Steve let out a low groan at the sight of you in your bra, and you smiled shyly, letting him take a moment to appreciate your newly exposed skin. His hand went to the back of your neck, his touch firm, grounding as he leaned in to kiss you again. His free hand found its way to your other breast, palming it and gently tugging your bra strap down.

You were both panting now, his fingers on you and your fingers on him, and your whole body throbbing for more. You ran your palm along the front of his jeans, feeling the outline of him straining against the denim. His mouth left yours and moved to the skin above your bra as his hand left your chest and fumbled for the clasp at your back. You ran your nails over the front of his jeans, your own pulse racing. You had to touch him, you had to see him. Your fingers found his belt, but it was difficult to work with his hands on you and your mind a haze of arousal and nerves.

He seemed to be having the same problem, because after a few more attempts he stopped trying to work your bra clasp and tugged impatiently at the fabric, his voice husky.

"This—can you take this off? Or should we move? Because I can't—"

"Here," you gasped, shifting slightly and turning so your back was to him. "Try again."

Steve hummed softly in acknowledgement, his breath tickling your shoulder as he worked to free you from the offending fabric, his touch feather light and torturously slow. You leaned forward a little, letting your hair fall in a curtain over your face so he wouldn't see how much his teasing was affecting you. But you could feel the wetness between your legs, the ache of anticipation making your knees weak. Finally, with a quiet, satisfied noise, he freed you from your bra, and you sat back against the self again, letting your hair swing back to frame your face again as you watched his reaction to your body.

Steve's mouth dropped open at the sight of you, the slow grin tugging at his lips doing nothing to ease the ache.

"Well, this isn't fair," he breathed, standing straighter with one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair, as if to calm himself down. He looked over you as you leaned back, braced against your elbows. He then let out a long, deep exhale, his hands moving back to take his own shirt off. He paused about halfway through the motion to peer down at you, looking a little ridiculous with the collar halfway up his face, one arm free.

"Oh shit, sorry, did you want my shirt off too, or did you want me to leave it on, or—"

"Shirt. Off. Please," you said quickly. Steve grinned and finished the motion, tugging the tshirt off and letting it hit the floor. Your eyes darted to his torso, his skin flushed and his chest heaving slightly from the anticipation. He had a nice, lean build, with broad shoulders and a surprisingly strong-looking core. His chest hair was a light dusting that trailed across his pecs and tapered into a faint line down the center of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. It added to his charm, giving him an effortlessly masculine edge. Your fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, to feel the softness of his skin under your palms, to trace the faint lines of his muscles beneath.

He definitely noticed you staring because he started grinning again, and when you noticed, he laughed a little. "What? Never seen a guy naked before?" he asked teasingly, making a joke of it to cover up the fact that he was suddenly a little self conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're beautiful." It spilled out of your mouth before you could stop it, and he looked surprised by the sincerity. His hands froze in mid-air and his eyes darted to yours. He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out, so instead he cleared his throat and grinned shyly at the ground.

"Okay," he said, clearly trying to collect himself, and you realized that he'd been flustered. By you. A wave of pride flooded your stomach, and you bit your lip as your smile grew wider. You weren't usually so forward, and it had surprised you too, but you were glad it came out. "Okay. Let me just, uh, find my brain."

"You left it over there, on the floor. With your shirt." You smirked at him and his eyes narrowed at the playful teasing. He bent down to place both his hands on either side of you on the cart, caging you in as he leaned closer to you and pressed his forehead to yours. He gave a slight push of his hips against you, just to make you aware of how much you were affecting him, before cupping one of your breasts in his hand and letting out a breath. He took your nipple in his fingers and rolled it gently. You moaned at his touch, your thighs spreading a little wider.

The sound was affirmation enough for him to take your other nipple in his mouth, and you leaned into his touch as he circled his tongue around you. His teeth grazed over it, biting just slightly and making you whimper with need. You could feel him smirk against your skin, and he slid his free hand down to your stomach, then lower. His fingers grazed over your jeans and pressed firmly against you through the thick denim.

He paused with his hand right above your waistband and he lifted his head to look into your eyes. He was clearly trying to make sure that he wasn't overstepping any boundaries and was silently asking for permission to keep going.

"You can always say no." His voice was barely more than a whisper as his fingers played with the button of your pants, not wanting to rush you.

You didn't hesitate, just leaned into him and whispered, "Please touch me. Please."

He gave a low groan, pressing a hard kiss to your lips and biting down on your lower lip, before breaking away and dropping his gaze to your jeans. You watched, biting your lip as he flicked open the button, pulling down the zipper, and slipping his fingers underneath the fabric of both your jeans and your underwear. He dragged a single finger over the slick, swollen heat between your legs, and you let out a shaky breath. He sucked in a breath, clearly affected, and then dipped his finger lower to stroke along your entrance. You shivered, letting out a low moan and trying to pull him closer.

You felt his breath hot on your shoulder as his other hand moved to tug the rest of your pants off, giving him easier access to you.

"So wet already," he breathed, and the feel of his lips moving against the soft skin of your shoulder made your thighs twitch, the tension of anticipation nearly overwhelming. He traced circles around your entrance with one finger before pushing in slowly. His movements were cautious at first, gauging your reaction as he worked up a slow pace. But it wasn't enough, not when you'd been craving the release for what felt like forever. You spread your thighs, trying to pull him closer.

"More," you breathed, gripping his wrist to guide him deeper, faster, harder. Steve gave a low moan as his finger curled inside you, finding that one spot that made your whole body ache with pleasure. He added a second finger, pushing deep and pumping into you again and again as you ground your hips up to meet him, chasing the feeling, desperate for more. You looked up to find him watching you, his lips parted and his pupils blown wide.

He leaned down to kiss you again, and the change in angle sent a new wave of heat through your core, a whimper escaping you. His free hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into him and holding you steady as he pressed his thumb to your clit. You cried out at the new sensation, and Steve broke the kiss to let you breathe, his lips still pressed against yours, your breath mingling in the space between. His eyes locked on yours, he curled his fingers again and began working them in earnest, the heel of his palm pressed hard against you as his fingers pushed deeper and deeper with every thrust.

The pleasure was building, every nerve on fire as your orgasm neared, every stroke of his hand, every graze of his thumb making the tension build higher. His fingers moved faster, and you moaned his name, clinging to his shoulder, his arm, your hips rising to meet his hand.

"You're like...way too good at this..." You breathed between whimpers. Steve grinned, slowing his movements and teasing you.

"Well, I do have a pretty decent reputation..."

You gave a frustrated growl at the sudden slow down.

"Steve," you whined.

He chuckled softly. "Mm-mm," he hummed against your ear, nipping at it as he slowly slid his fingers out. "Not so fast."

"Are you... you're really doing this? Now?" you panted, incredulous. You needed more of him, more of his touch, more of the release you had been so close to, but now he was denying you? You opened your eyes, watching as he grinned down at you while he began to unbutton his jeans, still wearing a smug expression as he slowly pushed them down over his hips and down his legs. Your eyes darted from his face to the obvious bulge in his boxers as you swallowed.

"You want to keep complaining?" He asked, pulling down the boxers a little before taking himself in his hand and slowly pumping once, twice. His eyes never left yours, the grin you were used to seeing every day coming back "Because we can stop."

You couldn't even pretend to be angry as your gaze flicked between his face and his cock.

"Oh. You are... that's..." you stammered, taking a second to drink in the sight of him, so close but still so far from where you needed him. The smug grin turned genuine at your reaction and he pumped himself a few more times as if he was putting on a show for you. He let go of himself to slide his boxers all the way down and then stepped out of them to kick them to the side. He put his hands on sides of the cart and gave it a small shove, testing its durability, which illicited a small laugh from you.

"What's wrong? Not confident that we can stay in one piece for a few more minutes?" You teased. He scoffed in mock offense, giving you a quick kiss that lingered as he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth.

"It's just precaution. Don't want you complaining if I get too excited and end up breaking this thing." He pulled away slowly, looking at the cart for a moment, thinking. "Actually, maybe I can—"

You wrapped a leg around his waist before he could finish his thought, pulling him to you so he was nestled perfectly against your hips. "You could also start with taking these off me," you suggested, grabbing the sides of your panties and tugging at the fabric. Steve let out a breath, his hands immediately moving to help you, though his mind was clearly distracted by what he wanted to do next. You watched as he pulled down the fabric over your hips, then your thighs, before dropping it on top of your jeans. His eyes trailed over the newly exposed skin, a look of pure desire on his face, his gaze hungry.

"God," he breathed. "You are..."

But you never found out what he was going to say, because your impatient hands had found him again, and you were pumping him slowly, watching him shiver in anticipation. His fingers dug into your hips, his mouth dropping open slightly, his gaze locked on yours as you moved, letting the feeling of your touch overwhelm him for a moment before he pulled your hand away with a small chuckle.

"Fuck. I almost forgot..." He bent to find his jeans and fished around in his back pocket. When he pulled his wallet free, your eyes went wide as you realized what he was getting. He held the square, foil wrapper in front of him.

You raised an eyebrow at him as he went to open the wrapper with his teeth.

"You brought a condom to work with you? Why would you ever think you'd need it here? In Family Video?" You questioned as he opened the packet, spitting the excess foil to the side, before looking at you with a lopsided smile.

"What, you think I put it there just in case we ran out of videos to restock? I had it there for after work one day, just in case," he explained as if it was the most obvious thing. You rolled your eyes, smiling and giving a slight laugh. "I mean, not with you. Not like... I had it there just in case I went on a date." He paused to wince a little. "Wait, no, that doesn't sound any better, does it?"

"I get what you're trying to say," you reassured him as you laughed a little harder, before the conversation took a slightly serious turn.

You glanced between the condom he was holding in his hand, and him. He was hard, aching even, and he looked desperate for your touch. You felt a small wave of pride that you could turn him on so much, and that you had the opportunity to be with him like this. To touch him and be touched.

You licked your lips, then said, "Put it on."

You felt like a teenager again, waiting with bated breath while he carefully slipped on the condom, his own breath shuddering as his fingers moved along his cock. When he finished, he leaned over you, caging you against the shelf once again with his arms on either side of your waist.

"For the record, I was hoping to take you on a date before… this happened. After work some time. Y'know, really take you out. Watch a movie with you, get dinner, go back to my car," He whispered the last bit into your ear, before kissing it gently and adding, "maybe get you in the backseat. But we can save that for another night."

You were too caught up in the feel of him against you to fully process what he just implied. A second night. This wouldn't just be a one time thing, you'd get to do this again... and maybe more?

Before you could react to that, you felt Steve line up at your entrance and your brain seemed to go on autopilot, your focus shifting to how you were about to get exactly what you needed. Your legs parted a little more, your heels resting against the lower shelves for leverage, your back arching slightly so your chest pressed against his. He paused there, looking down at you for a moment. Your breath caught at his expression—he was watching you intently, his gaze fixed on your face, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed.

"You want this, right?" The genuine question took you aback. The vulnerability was back in his eyes, and it suddenly became clear to you how nervous he was. "I just want to be sure this isn't—"

"Steve," you said, cupping his face in your hand. "Yes. I want this."

His breath left him in a rush as his lips curled into a smile, his relief clear. Then he gave a slight push of his hips and began to slide into you. His cock started to stretch you out, his length filling you inch by inch, and you whimpered at the feeling, the sensation of him inside you so overwhelming after having gone so long without being with anyone yourself. Steve stopped, his head falling to your shoulder as he groaned.

"Oh, god... you feel... Jesus, you're—" he was breathing hard, his chest pressed to yours, his hands gripping the shelf. His cock pulsed inside you, and you were trembling from the tension of it, the sweet ache of being filled, the need to have him buried in you fully. You slid your hands up his back and wrapped your arms around him, holding him as close to you as possible. He let out a ragged breath, then pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck, just below your jaw.

"Are you okay? Is it too much? We can stop—"

"I'm okay, just please—"

"What? Anything, just say—"

"Please keep going. Please," you whimpered. Your thighs twitched around him and you tried to pull him deeper, your body aching for him, for release. The angle was different and new, and it felt incredible. "I need more... please, I want you, all of you... "

Your words spurred him on. His mouth found your neck, sucking lightly at the spot just below your ear as he slowly thrust deeper, and deeper, until he was buried inside you. You felt your inner muscles stretch to accommodate his size, the pressure making you gasp as your legs quivered and your body flushed. Steve groaned, his breathing ragged, his body taut as he waited for you to adjust, every muscle in his back tense.

"God, I don't know how long I can hold out," he whispered.

"Then don't," you said. Your nails dug into his skin and you clenched around his cock. Steve bit down on your shoulder as he began to thrust in long, hard strokes, the friction making your legs tremble as you tried to keep up.

He pressed you to him, his arm looped under your waist, pulling you down on his length, the slow slide making you see stars. His hand snaked down between you, finding your clit and stroking you as he began to pick up the pace, the pressure building with every thrust. His moans were quieter now, more breathy as he drove into you over and over, the rhythm steady as he fucked you in time to the thud of the shelf against the wall.

You could feel yourself approaching the edge, every nerve tingling, every inch of you burning for release. The pressure of his body on yours, the way he moved, his moans, his scent, his hands—everything was pushing you higher, faster. His cock twitched inside you and you moaned, your own orgasm building with every stroke, every thrust, every touch. His pace became more erratic as you moved against him, your legs spread, your back arched, the angle deep and intense.

"I'm... fuck, I'm going to..." he managed between pants. "I want you... to come first..."

The way his voice shook, his hips stuttering with the effort of holding himself back, made your chest swell. He wanted you to finish before him, he wanted you to feel good. And it did, it felt good—so good, too good. Your heart hammered in your chest, the pressure of it making you feel like it might burst. He pushed harder, his fingers moving faster on your clit.

"Steve—" His name escaped your lips, breathy, as your body started to unravel. The tension in your core built higher, your hips jerking, the shelf hitting the wall harder. Your vision blurred as a wave of pleasure rolled through you, and you gasped his name again as you came around him, your body shuddering. Your muscles clamped down hard, making his pace stutter as he tried to push through. Steve groaned, his forehead resting on yours, his fingers digging into your side. He kept his pace even, thrusting through the aftershocks and holding you through your release, his mouth hovering near yours as he panted and moaned. You slid your arms to his back and raked your nails down, dragging your hands across the planes of his body, reveling in how his muscles twitched as your touch moved along his spine and to his ass, and you pulled him in deeper.

The angle was different now, the pressure intense as his pace sped up and he started chasing his own orgasm, his cock filling you up completely and sliding against every inch of you, sending another wave of pleasure through you. He looked so beautiful above you, his hair disheveled and falling in front of his face, his expression pinched as his pace increased. You wrapped your arms around his waist to pull him closer and pressed a soft kiss to his neck. The tender touch made him shiver, and he pushed in hard and fast, his whole body going tense as his cock pulsed, the waves of his own release flooding through him. He moaned softly and your name tumbled from his lips.

For a moment you stayed there, his arms around you, his face pressed into your shoulder. Then, as the aftershocks ebbed away, he pulled out, giving you one last slow stroke as he did so. The loss of his touch made you whimper. You felt so empty now, aching for him, and you couldn't help but feel a little vulnerable at the thought of him pulling away from you. Steve stayed close for a moment longer, kissing you softly, tenderly, and you could feel your heart clench. He wasn't rushing off, he wasn't pushing you away. He was taking care of you.

Your body hummed with the lingering buzz of pleasure as Steve pulled off the condom, knotted the end, and threw it into the wastebasket in the corner, grinning proudly when it landed in the trash.

"Nice," he said, nodding as if impressed with himself. "And with my left hand, no less. Maybe I should have tried for pro basketball."

He was being a dingus again. A post-sex dingus, but still, a dingus. And it was such a relief.

"Mmhmm," you hummed, watching him carefully as he found his discarded clothing on the ground and began getting dressed. You had no idea what would come after, what the dynamic of things would be. What were the rules here? The guys you'd been with in the past didn't stick around to help you get dressed. You just put on your clothes, left the guys to clean up their mess, and went home.

"So," you said, taking your time to gather your own clothes from the bottom of the cart, putting your underwear on first. "Now what?"

He gave you a small grin, buttoning his pants as you grabbed your bra. "Now..." he trailed off, as if in thought. You slipped your bra over your arms, reaching back to do the clasps as best you could with limited reach. Steve noticed you struggling, and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up, motioning for you to turn around so that he could help you.

You did as he instructed, turning so that he had easy access to the hooks. His fingers grazed along the skin on your back as he slowly clasped each of them together. Once he finished, his hands slid up to your shoulders and he turned you around to face him again. You smiled up at him as you continued to put on your bra, adjusting yourself slightly. He didn't pull back right away. He kept his hands on you, running his thumbs across the fabric on your shoulders, a content smile on his face as he stared at you.

"What is it?" you asked, noticing that he seemed to be stuck in his head. He didn't answer you right away. His smile widened and he leaned down, kissing you gently. It was so soft and slow, that you forgot what you had asked him to begin with. All you could think about was his mouth on yours, and his hands on your waist, and the smell of his cologne and sweat, and the way his hair was completely messed up. He pulled away after a moment and you blinked, dazed.

"Nothing," he answered after what seemed like forever. "Just... this."

"This?" you asked. You could feel your heart racing again. He was still smiling, and he kissed you once more before pulling away and reaching down to pick up his shirt.

"This. You and me," he said, as if the answer was obvious. He pulled his shirt over his head and cocked his head at you as you began to put your jeans on, not answering. "Unless you didn't... I mean, I kind of assumed... unless you just wanted to forget this happened? That's not really my thing, but I mean, it's okay, we could pretend if—"

"I like you." It just blurted out of you and he froze, looking surprised. You realized you were holding your breath. He blinked.

"Really?"

"Really. But I mean... I know you like to take girls out, so maybe this was just a—"

"You really don't know me that well, do you?" he laughed. Your heart was hammering.

"What do you mean?" you asked cautiously. You'd said too much. He was going to take it back now. You knew he would.

"I mean..." he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, but he didn't look like he wanted to back down. "I'm not just gonna... y'know, get with you at work and then bail on you. I like you, I like... being around you. A lot. I wanna keep doing it. Just in other places. Like outside of this shithole. And definitely without my uniform on. I mean, unless you're into that. I could probably bring my uniform home."

Your mind was going in about twenty directions at once, and it took you a second to process what he'd just said. He'd never... he liked being around you. And he wanted to take you out. You realized your mouth was open slightly and you closed it, biting your lip and feeling a wave of relief.

"You like me?" you repeated. "Not... you actually want to be around me?"

Steve stared at you for a second, a mix of disbelief and concern on his face, like you were the biggest idiot in the world for doubting him. Then his eyes narrowed, like he'd suddenly understood. He grabbed your waist again and pulled you back into him, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Are you telling me I'm so bad at flirting you didn't realize I've had a crush on you for the past four months? Are you kidding me?" He laughed a little at that. "You're actually insane. I thought it was so obvious..."

"I... what?" you stammered. "No! I had no idea."

"I mean," Steve started, pulling away slightly as he began to run through the list of times he'd been blatantly obvious in his interest for you, "I'm always trying to spend more time with you, asking you about yourself, finding stupid ways to make you smile or laugh or just... you know... pay attention to you... and like, the way I talk about you. Robin constantly call me out on it." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up a little more, which somehow only added to how endearing he looked.

"Well..." you mumbled, feeling your cheeks redden, "I just thought it was, y'know. Steve Harrington being Steve Harrington. Being a flirt."

Steve stared at you in silence for a moment, looking slightly disappointed that you were that clueless.

"Wait... do you really not know? About—" he looked up to the ceiling, and let out a short huff of air, before he looked back at you with his eyebrows raised. "The flirting, the winking, the talking about my parents not being home? Like... is it actually not obvious?"

Your face fell as you thought back on all the interactions the two of you had over the past few months, trying to pick up on clues. Had you really missed every hint that he had been dropping? You wanted to bury your head in your hands. You wanted the ground to swallow you up. But... he was still here. Still smiling. Still standing close and looking at you with the same interest that he'd had the whole night, since you had walked through the front door.

"You argue with me about everything, though," you said with a laugh, thinking of the many debates that the two of you had over what was a good movie, what was a bad one, which character in a movie was the hottest, if the latest rom com was really that good (spoiler: it wasn't), or even over the smallest, dumbest things that didn't even matter. "If I hadn't known you, I'd think that we just didn't like each other."

"That's just the chemistry," Steve shrugged, "You think I argue with all my coworkers about every little thing? Please." He chuckled as you blushed and shook your head, before he took another step closer to you, closing the distance between the two of you. "I like getting a rise out of you. You get so annoyed when you're trying to argue your point but can't think of the words. It's really cute."

You playfully nudged him with your elbow, before you finally put on the last of your clothes. Steve did the same, and when you looked down, you were both fully dressed. There was no trace that either of you had just fucked each other senseless a few moments ago. You glanced back up at him as he adjusted his vest.

"Lets go finish that deposit and then get the hell out of here."

You followed him back to the register, and he took the deposit bag and signed it, passing it to you. He waited patiently as you double checked to make sure that the deposit slip and the money matched. Once everything was correct, he gave a nod.

"Looks good. Ready to lock up?" he asked.

You nodded, and you both went to the breakroom to punch out. He opened the door for you, and you punched out on your time clock and gathered your things. You put your vest in your locker and closed it, turning around to see that Steve had already waited for you, patiently leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. You walked past him and out of the door, flipping the light switch as you walked out.

Whe you were outside the store, Steve locked the doors, then took the key and tossed it up and caught it. He turned and started walking backwards in the direction of the parking lot, as you headed to the bike rack to unlock your bike. Steve turned around, thinking you were right behind him and when he saw you at the bike rack, he spoke again.

"What are you doing? Are you riding that?"

"Um. Yes?" you raised an eyebrow, giving him a strange look as if to question what his problem was. "That's the plan. It's how I usually get home from work."

"It's freezing and it's late and I'm not letting you ride that back." He was being insistent. "No."

"Um. Yeah? It's really not that bad. I have a coat."

"Get in the car, leave your bike chained up. I have a morning shift tomorrow, I'll make sure it's there" he insisted, "Please? It's already past ten."

"Steve."

"C'mon. Just get in." he shrugged, his keys jingling in his hands. He wasn't going to budge and you were starting to get annoyed.

"It's really not—"

"Get in the damn car already." He rolled his eyes at you, clearly not buying the argument that you could get home by yourself and in one piece. It was dark outside, and a bit chilly, but that wasn't exactly uncommon for Hawkins. You sighed. You knew you wouldn't win this battle and it wasn't worth it to continue to argue.

"Fine. But just for the record, it's not that cold and I would have been fine. You know that."

"Mhm. Sure." Steve grinned, leading the way to the parking lot. When you got there, you stopped and glanced at all the empty cars and he frowned, before he gave a laugh of relief when he saw his BMW in the back corner. He unlocked the doors, you both climbed inside and he started the engine. He drove out of the parking lot, turning right onto the main street. You leaned your head on the window, your mind still spinning with the events of the last hour. Steve Harrington wanted you. You wanted Steve Harrington. This wasn't a one time thing, you could do this again. It was really happening.

As your eyes closed, you thought about the conversation you'd just had and something clicked. Steve's comment about him having a crush on you for months finally sank in. Your head whipped towards Steve in the driver's seat and you stared at him, as if you hadn't seen him in this light before. You couldn't help but stare. He was... perfect. He was absolutely, flawlessly beautiful and you just couldn't believe that someone like him could be so infatuated with someone like you. You leaned back in your seat, watching him carefully as he drove. You felt like you were going to burst, or pass out. You'd never been more attracted to someone before, but there was something else there. It felt more intense, more intense than it had felt before with anyone else. You felt your face turn a few shades of pink again as you thought of him.

The ride to your house wasn't a long one. Hawkins wasn't exactly known for being large, after all, and you didn't live too far from the store. Before you knew it, you were parked on the side of the road right in front of your driveway. You smiled at the sight of the familiar streetlight flickering every now and then. Home.

"Thanks," you mumbled quietly, as Steve put the car in park. "I... I mean... um, yeah, just... thanks." You fidgeted a little with the seatbelt strap and he nodded at you. He didn't move to take his hand off the wheel.

"Yeah... so," Steve gave a slight sigh as he leaned back, finally looking away from the windshield and meeting your eyes again. "Can we go back to talking about the whole you having no clue thing, because... I gotta be honest with you. I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life. You thought I was just..."

You stared at him for a second, watching the way he spoke, watching how animated he was as he explained his side of the story, as if it had actually been some huge deal that you didn't notice him pining over you. The thought of it was... sweet, and it was such a contrast from what you thought you knew about him before. He really cared about how you felt.

"You know that I would never use you, right?" Steve continued. "Like I really like you. I think I made that pretty clear at the store, but like, if I made you uncomfortable or—"

You reached forward and took his hand in yours. You took it gently at first, testing to see his reaction, before he took your hand in return. He glanced down at where your fingers laced together, as his thumb moved over your skin.

"Steve," you interrupted softly, and his head tilted up to look back at you again. He had been rambling.

"Hm?" He asked, clearly unsure of how to react to what you just said. He watched as you brought his hand up to your mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his hand. When your gaze met his again, you smiled, feeling the warmth of your breath on his hand, your nose brushing against him.

"Take me out." It was a request, a gentle demand, as if he didn't know that you would follow him anywhere at this point.

He grinned at that. The idea was definitely appealing. You saw the wheels turning in his head, imagining all the places that you could go on a date. What movies you could see, which ones would be worth sitting through for two hours with you, and which ones wouldn't. You were certain he had the entire month mapped out already.

"Can I pick you up at five on Saturday? There's this drive in theatre down the next town over." Steve offered, his eyes lit up with excitement.

"Yeah, I'm off on Saturday."

"I know. I've been staring at that calendar in the breakroom all week. I know all the dates you have off." Steve explained, as you looked at him in awe, with your mouth hanging open in surprise. "What? I wasn't lying back there. I had been planning to ask you out."

He didn't seem ashamed to admit it either, as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, then brushed his fingers over your cheek, as if to check that you were really there. You leaned into the touch and he smiled, letting out a content sigh. He took your hand and pulled you towards him, pressing his lips to your temple.

"I should get inside, my parents are probably wondering why I'm home from work so late." You whispered, looking up at Steve, whose face fell. He pulled you a little closer to him, leaning his head down to meet you, as if he didn't want you to leave.

"Saturday." He said it more to remind himself than to remind you. "I'll pick you up here."

"I'll be ready. Promise." you grinned, and he nodded in confirmation. With that, he gave you one final kiss, pressing his lips gently to yours for what felt like an eternity, but ended up only being about three seconds, before letting you go. He sat back up, putting the car back into drive, as you reached for the door handle.

"Have a good night."

"Yeah. You too." Steve smiled as he put the car back in drive.

---

extra lil bonus scene for the platonic!Stobin lovers:

The next morning at Family Video, Steve leaned lazily against the counter, flipping through a stack of tapes with all the enthusiasm of a kid forced to do summer homework. Robin, meanwhile, was loading the last of the returns into a cart, muttering about how she always got the worst tasks.

“You could at least pretend to help,” Robin said, giving him a pointed look as she pushed the cart toward the back.

“I’m on very important rewinder duty,” Steve replied, smirking as he leaned back against the counter.

Robin rolled her eyes. “You’re on very important doing nothing duty.”

She disappeared into the aisles, her voice carrying back to him as she headed toward the adult section. “Why do I always get stuck with the beaded curtain of doom? I didn’t sign up to alphabetize Hawkins’ finest porn collection !”

“Because you’re the captain, and I’m just a humble first mate,” Steve called after her, grinning to himself.

A moment later, Robin’s horrified yell shattered the calm.

“STEVE!”

Steve’s heart leapt into his throat as he sprinted toward the back, shoving through the beads to find Robin standing stock-still, staring at the trash can with a look of utter disgust.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, panting slightly.

Robin pointed at the trash can like it was radioactive. “There is a used condom in the trash can!”

Steve froze, his stomach dropping. “Uh…”

Robin turned to him, her expression a mix of shock and dawning realization. “Wait. Wait. Harrington. No. Tell me you didn’t—”

“I—it’s not what it looks like!” Steve stammered, raising his hands in defense. “I mean, technically, it is what it looks like, but it’s not like that!”

Robin’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you and—wait— you and her?! In the adult section?!”

“No! Well… yes. But it wasn’t—it was after close!” Steve groaned, running a hand through his hair, clearly panicking. “And it wasn’t planned ! It just… happened!”

Robin stared at him, blinking slowly. Then, she tilted her head. “So let me get this straight. You, Steve Harrington, had sex here, surrounded by titles like Butt Bandits 3 and Debbie Does Dallas? ”

Steve’s face turned bright red as he buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t say it like that.”

Robin then let out a bark of laughter. “Steve, do you have any idea how lucky you are that I found this and not Keith? Can you even imagine? He’d have a field day!”

Steve groaned again, his face still buried in his hands. “Please, don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not joking!” Robin said, laughing harder now. “You’d never live it down. He’d probably give you some gross high-five and call you ‘stud’ every time he saw you.”

“God, please stop. I’m already dying of embarrassment.”

Robin folded her arms, a wicked grin on her face. “Oh, I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. Who even does this? At work, Steve? In the adult section? What, were you inspired by the ambiance?”

“It wasn’t planned!” Steve repeated, throwing his head back. “It just… happened!”

Robin smirked. “Oh, I’m sure it just happened. ”

“Robin,” Steve said, glaring at her. “Please. I’m begging you. Just pretend this didn’t happen.”

Robin pretended to consider it, then shrugged. “Fine. But you’re taking the trash out.”

“What? No way!”

“Oh, yes way,” she said, shoving the trash can toward him. “You made this mess. Literally. Now deal with it.”

Steve sighed dramatically, grabbing the trash can and stomping toward the back door as Robin’s laughter echoed behind him.

As he reached the exit, Robin called after him, her voice dripping with amusement. “Oh, and for the record? Since she clearly likes you back, maybe next time, take her somewhere that doesn’t smell like old popcorn and desperation!”

Steve froze mid-step, turning to glare at her. “Robin!”

She just grinned, wiggling her fingers in a wave. “Have fun with the trash, lover boy!”

Steve groaned loudly, stomping outside as Robin’s laughter rang through the store, the last thing he heard before the door slammed shut.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #platonic!stobin #platonic stobin #robin buckley #oneshot #x reader #smut #friends to lovers #enemies to friends to lovers #no use of y/n #self image issues #idiots in love #family video #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things smut

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angelesca · 5 months ago

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d d d d dddd d DATING ANAXA HEADCANONS 🗣️🗣️🗣️ bc im proper insane, bonkers even (oh blimey she escaped the asylum again)

full art plug here😎

did i draw this and imagine a million scenarios during it? yes. yes idid. this post is the result. btw havent played 3.1 so here are my wrong headcanons (more mischaracterisation? love that) (w/ gnreader as usual!) bc i love my men bratty and smart. WARNING!! i broke my sfw rules for anaxa LMAOOO💔💔mix of sfw + NSFW ahead guys look OUT ITS NOT A DRILL THIS IS HAPPENING AAAAA😭🙏

starting off strong. i ant hold it in anymore ANAXA'S EROGENOUS ZONE IS UNDER HIS EYEPATCH🗣️🗣️🗣️ I HAVE SPOKEN MY TRUTH‼️THIS IS WHAT MADE ME QUESTION MY SFW STATUS I CAN FINALLY RELEASEMY DEMONS

i imagine he lowkey loves it when you have your finger under his eyepatch and. penetrate it. into his cosmos space thingy. and like he breathes really heavy, flushed cheeks, some tears, def some stifled moaning, and will hold your wrist to nudge your finger further in. basically bro is getting off to it. will clean your finger with his tongue after the session, but you have to help him walk around since his legs are deffo jelly after that DO YOU GUYS SEE WHAT IM SEEING PLEEEEASEEE SOMEONE WRITE THIS DONT MAMKE ME DO ITTT😭😭😭😭😭🙏🙏

EDIT: ANAXA HAS A "G-SPOT"/PROSTATE IN HIS SPACE CHEST🗣🗣🗣

WILL TAKE OFF HIS RINGS AND PUT IT ON YOUR FINGERS RAAAAAAAAAAH and he def teases you by sliding it on your ring finger, gauging your reaction as he smirks (that sly sod omggg)

"hmm, this finger looks a little lonely... i could change that."

interlaces his hand with yours to stretch it, like a massage. knows all the pressure points to help de-stress you

uses his wind powers to do fun magic tricks and play with you like imagine he only has to flick his finger and the wind pulls you closer to him HUUUUUUUUUUU SICKCCKKKK. will also blow a calm, soft breeze if you need to relax and take your mind off things.

literally gets a kick off of flustering you (it's his love language) every time you ask him why his response is: "so? don't like it?" mans not embarassed💔

if you have any texting habits, like sending cute stickers or kaomojis, anaxa will copy it bc he thinks its cute and amusing. always replying to your messages, although the same can't be said with the chrysos heirs who nag at him for ignoring theirs

anaxa: where are you? i've been waiting for ages ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴ you: ??? that's my kaomoji??? anaxa: ours now anaxa: (҂` ﾛ ´)︻デ═一 you: ＼(º □ º l|l)/

idk why i feel this so strongly but anaxa just does many smaller kisses, like pecks to the cheek. kinda playful, fleeting but always returning. i also feel like he's a neck kinda guy, always brushing his fingers along it or placing kisses. will secure you in place with a hug just to kiss the nape.

even though you two are together, anaxa will still give you stinky side eyes. loves to hear your gossip for sure, he doesn't say it but he loves chatting shit about others. will be the quietest ever when you have juicy stories.

will flame anyone who has made you upset to bits and pieces. bro's mouth is like a machine gun

likes to tilt your chin, moving it so you face him whenever he wants your attention.

he likes it when you take control, that brat taming typa shiii brooo00 he likes it when you rough him up, always a cheeky grin on his face. prods you as well, like "is that it?", "c'mon, harder my love..."

loves when you give him hickeys, or any markings like scratches. its like staking your claim on him and he fw with that😎

one sure way to get him flustered is straight up telling him "i love you". it forces him to confront his feelings head on and anaxa can't deal with that. will lightly flick your forehead, or anything to stop you from staring at his reddened face.

a/n: so. this is what happens whne im menstruating. how we feeling guys. it was jsut a few very insane headcanons tbh, the rest were fine, bit of an overreaction looool this is tame in comparison to my ao3 works. my god i need my daily cuppa where is it. this reminds me of when i was a wee teenager and experienced akechi from p5 for the first time. changed my trajectory fr. thanks akechi goro u saved ruined me

#my god im so deep inside (anaxa)#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #anaxa x reader #nsfw/smut!

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goosewriting · 5 months ago

Note

idk about you but joaquin drunk confessing that he's been in love w you since he first saw you is so personal to me

Enamorado

summary: Joaquín’s drunken love confession.

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: alcohol, drunk behaviour, established relationship

word count: ~760

A/N: i’m honestly not even sure if this was meant as a request or not but it was too good not to write something for 😩💕 you're so right anon,, have this lil blurb mwah (be safe when drinking, kids)

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

(title means "in love" in spanish)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Usually, you don’t go to bars much, but this time it was a special occasion, so you went out with Joaquín and Sam. Even Bucky joined you, but now that he's a proper citizen and all, he left early.

You glance at the time on your phone, it’s 2:46 am. Looking over your shoulder from where you sit at the bar, you see Sam on the dance floor, and smile to yourself. He’s having a good time, it seems. Joaquín is next to you, and as your eyes go back to him, he’s putting down his drink he just emptied. He looks at you with a goofy grin.

“Alright, then, that’s enough for you,” you say with a gentle smile, pushing his glass a little farther away from his hands. “Let’s take a break, yeah?”

You’re fairly tipsy yourself, but Joaquín is proper drunk now. He doesn’t let himself get to this point often. Luckily he doesn’t get angry or physical when intoxicated, instead he turns to absolute mush, incoherent mumblings about how much he loves you and Sam leaving his lips incessantly, muttering about how glad he is to be part of the group, how badly he wants to meet the Avengers. He also gets a little clingy, not that you mind. His hands will always be on you somewhere, your leg, your back, your face.

Right now, he’s leaning his forehead on your shoulder, grumbling under his breath, but you can’t make out what he’s saying.

“Wanna go take some fresh air?,” you offer.

Joaquín nods, getting off his stool, and he lets you pull him to the back, where you exit to a small patio. You breathe in the cool night air, the buzzing in your ears starting to dissipate. You lean onto the wooden fence and look out to the city below, the lights moving and dancing in the distance like a painting. Or maybe you just can’t focus your eyes right now.

You feel something warm coming up behind you, and Joaquín’s arms snake around your middle as he hugs you into his chest. He hums, swaying you both lightly from side to side, and you laugh, turning within his hold to face him, and you cup his face. His skin feels hot, and you can see the redness on his cheeks even in the dim light.

“You need to learn to pace yourself,” you say.

“Ssshuddup. Sam’s fault,” he retorts, and he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

“Right,” you chuckle. Sam and Joaquín did make some bet or other about how many drinks they could have before losing the ability to walk a straight line.

When he pulls back, his chocolate eyes find yours, albeit slightly out of focus, but his gaze holds so much warmth and affection, you can’t help but get lost in them. He hums again, a smile spreading on his lips. You tilt your head.

“Whatcha thinking about?” you ask.

“You.”

“Yeah?” Your heart flutters.

“Always,” he confirms.

“Anything specific?”

“I, when you…” he starts, struggling to form real words. “Desde el primer momento en que te vi…”

You chuckle, softly pinching his cheek, then cup his face again.

“English, please.”

“You, it’s always been you,” he speaks more clearly this time, and quickly turns his head to place a kiss to your inner wrist. “From the very moment I first saw you, I’ve been in love with you.”

You swallow, tears stinging behind your eyes as you smooth over his cheekbones with your thumbs. Joaquín’s hands slide from your waist to your back to push you closer into him.

“Madly,” he says, and places a kiss on your forehead. “Entirely.” Another on the tip of your nose. “Desperately.” His speech is a bit more slurred on that one, and he kisses the corner of your mouth, giggling goofily as he pulls back to look at you.

You mirror his love struck gaze, softly running your fingers through his curls before you hold the back of his head to pull him close, capturing his lips. It’s not as elegant as it could have been, kissing somewhat sloppily in the dark of night, but you can feel how earnest his words are in the way he holds you, breathes you in. And with every wet kiss he places wherever he can reach, he whispers ‘I love you’s into your skin, the press of his lips leaving a trail of fire, burning his words into your body, to remind you that you’re his and he’s yours. Madly, entirely, desperately.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!] @f1-tennisgirlie @magikdarkholme @tsunchani @Chuchu8293 @bitchy-bi-trash @guynamedaurel @crumbledcastle28 @sarahskywalker-amidala @crazy4lyricb

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

#listen. i’ve never really had celebrity crushes #but this man😳#good lord #yt keeps recommending interviews because i’ve been watching so many fjdskjfhk #he’s got the cutest accent when speaking spanish too #he’s just a couple years older than me im just sayin #haha jk (...unless)#beyond delulu i know #i might be in love bye #goose feathers #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #tfatws joaquin x reader #tfatws joaquin x you #brave new world joaquin x reader #the falcon x reader #marvel #mcu x reader #mcu

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pagesfromthevoid · 2 months ago

Text

Super-Man Wannabe | r. r.

Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x superpowered!reader

“I’ve got you,” he promises, lifting her chin just slightly to meet her eyes. “I’ve always got you.”

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Valentina is an actual lunatic, slight violence, brief descriptions of mania, established relationship

Author's Note: Idk about you but this feels like something Valentina would do. Part of the Honey & Glass universe but can be read independently. Also inspired specifically by this image of Superman and Lois Lane (fun fact, the Superman comics are canon in the Marvel comics!)

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3

Bob doesn’t like this.

Not that he doesn’t like taking pictures with her; he likes taking dumb selfies and bad polaroid shots with her.

No, no he doesn’t mind taking pictures. He just doesn't like posed, forced photos for photoshoots that Valentina schedules for them. He especially doesn’t like that he has to wear the Sentry uniform –he really hates wearing it, even if he’s not actively using his powers. It gives him a sense of dread; like they’re pushing their luck doing this. But Valentina insisted that this would be good PR and the PR manager –his girlfriend –reluctantly agreed with the director.

So they’re standing on the platform where the jet takes off, closest to being in the air without him actually flying. The photographer is still setting up, explaining something about making it look like a Super-Man comic panel. Bob thinks that’s kind of dumb, but he doesn’t say anything as he tries to straighten his posture out. It doesn’t really work, though, and he’s still slouched some as she walks out with her outfit on.

She’s dressed kind of like Lois Lane –which, he thinks, is what she usually looks like when she’s technically working. A pencil skirt and a nice shirt and sometimes a blazer or a cardigan. Except Valentina made her wear heels and make up, saying something about looking more feminine in comparison to him. Bob hates that Valentina doesn’t think she’s pretty enough, and he wants to say that, but she’s telling Valentina to “bite me” when the director complains that her lipstick isn’t red enough.

“I don’t like red lipstick and if you’re going to make me do something like this, I get to at least choose what I wear,” she says, walking up to Bob now and giving him an appraising look.

Her annoyed look softens around the edges when she looks at him, and it makes his heart ache. This is the first time she’s seen him in the Sentry uniform since…well, everything. And he wonders if she’s scared of him. The idea that seeing him in this suit scares her suddenly makes his thoughts spiral –what if she is afraid? What if she realizes she’s made a mistake, and she doesn’t actually love him because loving him means loving Sentry and Void and –,

But she’s reaching up to push his hair out of his face with a smile on her lips. “You look handsome,” she says, and even though Bob is in his head –fingers flexing against her waist gently –he smiles down at her thankfully.

“I would have preferred if he was still blonde,” Valentina complains, but she’s looking at her phone and not at them.

“I prefer whatever he likes,” she counters, and her eyes are on his as she rests a hand on his chest gently. The photographer had been taking pictures already of them interacting, saying something about catching the natural interactions between them. “It works just as well with your gaudy gold suit design, Val.”

Bob didn’t like the blonde. It was fake, and forced, and just…didn’t fit him. Whatever they’ve done now –not really blonde, but not really brown (according to the box dye she used on him to help fix it, it’s like a dark ash blonde) –he likes more. But he just wants his hair to grow back out to its normal color.

“Alright, let’s get this started –Robert, at some point, you will need to use your powers just a tiny bit,” Valentina orders, motioning for them to start.

“Wait –what? No, I’m not –I don’t feel like that’s necessary,” Bob quickly argues, shaking his head. “Why?”

“Yeah, why?” she demands, stepping slightly in front of him, like she’s defending him. Which Bob always finds a little funny, because he’s…technically indestructible. But he knows what she’s doing, and why she’s doing it. He likes that she wants to protect him. It’s the little things she does that help remind him that he loves her and she loves him. “You said he didn’t have to –,”

“We need to get a shot of the eyes,” Valentina reminds them, rolling her eyes. “Just a quick flash, then we can photoshop the rest.”

“I don’t use photoshop,” the photographer argues, shaking his head.

“That’s stupid,” she counters, giving both the photographer and director a dirty look. “Use photoshop or you don’t get gold eyes.”

“You’re being petty,” Valentina counters her counter, narrowing her eyes. “I’m just trying to help Robert here come off as a real hero –the people’s hero. What better way than showing the world he’s so very human with his very fragile girlfriend. Kind of like a wannabe Super-Man.”

“I’ll show you fucking fragile,” she snaps, but Bob is holding her arm gently, trying to coax her back from charging the director.

“I’d be more afraid if you could walk in those heels,” Val comments, motioning up and down at her. “Let’s get this over with so I can get back to DC.”

“I just need you two to do what you were doing earlier,” the photographer explains as Val steps away for a phone call. “Let me just…,” the photographer reaches out to Bob, but he pulls away almost immediately, frowning deeply. “No touching. Got it. Okay –just put your hands on her hips like you did earlier, when she was fixing your hair. And you, fix his hair again.”

She rolls her eyes but follows directions, reaching up to touch his hair. Bob is suddenly more awkward than usual (well, more awkward than he’s been with her in the last few months) as he touches her hips. The photographer makes some sort of dissatisfied sound though.

“Could you pretend like you wanna touch her?”

“I don’t need to pretend,” Bob snaps, and the photographer puts his hands up in defense. Taking a breath, Bob tries to calm down, pulling her closer by her hips. He doesn’t like how any of this feels; holding her while he’s in this suit, like Sentry is the one that’s in charge. “I feel dumb,” he whispers to her, ducking his head down some so it’s just between them.

Her hand is resting below his jaw, and she’s giving him an apologetic smile. “You don’t look dumb, if it makes you feel better.”

The clicking of the camera is louder than it should be –louder than it probably actually is but Bob is struggling to tune it out. Even with her touching him, he can’t seem to ground himself. Sentry is clawing just below his skin –he can feel it, trying to get out. Trying to be the one that’s doing this stupid photoshoot. It would make more sense if it was him; he’s more confident when he’s Sentry. But if Sentry comes out, then Void comes out, and Bob is too afraid of that to give in. He just…has to fake that confidence for now.

“Ugh, hang on,” Valentina complains and hangs up. Then she’s pushing the photographer out of the way, making her way over to them. “I’m going to show you what I want this to look like. Don’t move, either of you.”

He’s suddenly hyper aware that Valentina is far too close for comfort, especially as she adjusts his cape and pulls them apart. His heart is pounding in his ears, and he’s reaching back out to her but she’s just glaring at Valentina so he tries to remind himself that it’s okay. This is just…part of being a superhero. Or something. He doesn’t actually know what it means, he thinks.

“Can you just…,” Valentina adjusts her some, tapping her backwards towards the edge of the platform. She’s about to argue, clearly, as her mouth opens and she puts her hands up to keep Valentina from touching her. But the director is insistent, inching her backwards as she’s trying to keep herself steady in the heels that she’s been forced to wear.

It’s like time stops suddenly then.

She’s got this look on her face –like she’s about to scream, like she is suddenly terrified, and that’s when Bob realizes she’s in Valentina’s head. The director’s hand is outstretched, shoving her shoulder back just hard enough to set off her balance entirely –purposely pushing her. Purposely pushing her off the platform. Vaguely, he’s aware of the photographer screaming and Valentina telling the guy to wait.

But she’s falling.

She’s falling, and Bob isn’t thinking now as he shoves Valentina out of the way and damn near trips as he’s throwing himself over the edge. Then it’s like…everything makes sense in his head. The anxiety of Valentina’s closeness; the conscious suspicion that she was up to something. He knew –Sentry knew –that she would do whatever she needed to get Sentry to come out and she did. And somehow, even though that’s what the god-like being that lives in his veins wanted, Bob is very aware that he’s not happy.

She’s screaming, and the sound doesn’t scare him but it pisses him off. Then his hands are grabbing at her before either of them recognize the touch. And his arms are wrapping around her waist and pulling her close to his chest. Her fingers are deftly grasping at his chest and his shoulders, trying to find somewhere to clutch onto before she finally finds purchase around his neck. Where she’s pressing her face into the crook of his neck, hyperventilating as he brings them to a slow stop in midair.

Her entire body is trembling even as she slowly realizes that she’s no longer falling. He can feel her heart pounding in her chest, against his own that he’s trying to bring back down.

“I…,” she starts as their feet hit the platform again.

“I’ve got you,” he promises, lifting her chin just slightly to meet her eyes.

She’s refusing to let go of him, staring up at him with the same gaze she had when she first told him she loved him. Like he’s something worth loving; like this is the first time she’s seeing him again. Bob’s hold on her doesn’t slacken, and he doesn’t care that the photographer is still taking photos. Or that Valentina is looking disgustingly smug from the otherside of the hangar. All he cares about is that she’s looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters, but he wants to make sure she knows that…it’s her. She’s all that matters to him.

“I’ve always got you.”

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #sentry #sentry x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#lewis pullman #lewis pullman x reader

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stottlemorgan · 5 months ago

Note

Hello :3 idk if you do requests or whatnot so Ima ask.

Would you do a childish reader

(NOT A CHILD. and not like age reg crap or wtv)

just an energetic, childish adult x Arthur Morgan? Smut if you want :))!

Spirited

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Bubbly Female Reader. Summary: Arthur and Reader spend time together and try to go hunting together, what could Reader possibly do to exasperate our dear Arthur? Oh, and did I mention that they're sweet on one another? But of course! Author’s Note: Hiiii anon, thank you for the request! ₊˚⊹♡ I’ve bundled that description up into Bubbly Female Reader, I hope I hit the mark! Word Count: 2,599. Tags: Fluff, banter, it's just a cute little time with you being a sweet little dumbass who Arthur can't help but fall for. Ao3 Link

Arthur isn’t as fiery as he was in his 20s, it only really rises to the surface when he’s particularly tense or drunk. He’s much more keen to partake in the calm ebb and flow of the time in between scouting jobs and swindling marks. You on the other hand… You’re always buzzing with fervour, and if he’s honest with himself, you can be a tad overwhelming to be around. He’d initially thought that your bounding energy was due to the adrenaline of being on the run for weeks but it doesn’t seem to have worn off.

“-Not one bit,” He’d said to Hosea as they sat by the campfire one evening, his fingers tapping against the whiskey bottle in his hand as he pictured you, “Always yappin’, fallin’ over herself like a newborn calf.”

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you almost sound sweet on her, lad.” Hosea responded softly, a small smile on his face as he watched embers flick up and be carried off in the gentle breeze. Arthur let out a quiet, uneasy sound, shifting on the log beneath him before taking a swig of whiskey.

“Sweet? Naw, I ain’t sweet. She’s just a curious one is all.”

When he returns from jobs or hunts, you almost wind him with hugs. She does it with everyone, he reminds himself each time as he watches you scramble across camp towards him. You slam into his chest with a loud “Hi, Arthur!”. He stumbles back, looking down at the crown of your head, his arms out at his sides before he blinks and brings a hand to your head, patting slowly,

“And hello to you, too, Miss.”

“S’been days!”

“Sure has. Y’been holdin’ up alright?”

“Yeah, I‘ve been alright. Better now you’re back.”

You tip your head up, balancing your chin on his chest, looking up at him, doe-eyed and he swallows thickly, his hand still in your hair. He’s rarely the one to pull away first, too swept up in the gentle pressure of your chin on his chest, your enthusiastic embrace, the scent of your soap. And not to mention that goofy grin plastered across your face.

When Pearson finishes dinner, you’re usually the first one to jog through camp, earning a snap of your name from Miss Grimshaw to which you let out an aggrieved huff and slow down, rolling your eyes as you snatch your plate from the table and slop some stew onto it. Watching you eat is ever amusing; the way you shovel food into your mouth, humming appreciatively at the salty, hot meal. You also have an endearing (or unsavoury, as Molly dubs it) habit of talking with your mouth full and it’s not hard for your fellow camp-mates to notice how Arthur intently watches your features with the fondest of looks.

“You best calm down, girl. I ain’t gonna be the one squeezin’ chunks of rabbit outta you.” Arthur chuckles with a shake of his head only to be met with a full-mouthed scowl and the dull thump of your boot heel nudging into his calf.

After weeks of living side by side, Arthur has started to acclimatise to your sprightly behaviour. He’s found himself readily anticipating your hugs by taking in a breath, your nudges by tensing prematurely, and your ridiculous ‘Yackity-yack’ (as Uncle once referred to it as) with a roll of his eyes and a “Don’chu start now, girl.”. And despite his begrudging demeanour towards each of these behaviours, he’s found himself enjoying them more and more, and even subtly provoking them.

You’ve unknowingly graced the pages of his journal a few times, too, in the form of quick, sheepish sketches and words. He feels as though each part of his being is performing an almighty tug-o-war; you’re desired by his hands, his eyes, his pounding heart. Yet, his mind won’t allow him to want you, a constant tension laces his speech and superficial actions. There is always restraint, for your sake.

I doubt it would work out between us. A spirited gal such as her is bound to meet her match. It sure as hell ain’t me. I’d likely sap the light from her, drag her down into the dirt where I reside.

I can’t deny the light she fills me with, though. Sometimes I think that cloudy days exist because the sun decides it wants to spend the day within her.

“Where’ya off to, Arthur?” You call out, skipping across camp to the hitching posts where he is slinging his satchel over the rear of his horse.

“T’catch us all some food. Y’alright?” He asks, turning to face you fully. He tries to ignore the way his head tilts as he looks down at you attentively; one of the many subtle actions that snag in his psyche telling him ‘You’re gettin’ sweet on her, Morgan.’

“Yeah, m’alright…” You trail off, gently swaying from side to side, pursing your lips, “Huntin’, huh?”

Arthur’s brow furrows suspiciously before amusement swiftly follows, his voice lilting with a certain fondness reserved for you,

“Wha’chu want?”

“T’come with ya.”

His eyebrows raise. You? On a hunt? Holding a bow, holding your breath, having to sneak? Arthur takes a big breath and sighs deeply. That doesn’t sound like a stressful situation at all. You’re not at all the least patient person he’s ever spent time with. He’s not been avoiding each opportunity for time alone with you at all. He looks at you for a long moment, rolling his tongue about his mouth, narrowing his eyes. You’re standing eagerly, staring straight up at him, practically vibrating.

“Y’ain’t gonna take no for an answer this time, are ya?”

His grumbled question is answered by the mischievous smirk that curves your lips. Arthur’s shoulders drop and with another sigh, this time one of concession. He nods back towards his horse,

“C’mon, then.”

Your smirk breaks into a triumphant grin and you bolt to your tent to grab your things.

“And wear some proper boots-” He calls out after you, “-Not those scruffy things with the soles peelin’ off. The ones I gotch’ya last week that you still ain’t worn.” He folds his arms, forcing himself to focus on the clouds instead of allowing his thoughts to stray too far into what this hunting trip was going to be like and the slight nervousness coagulating in the fluid between his bones.

Much as Arthur expected, you natter away for the entire ride to the hunting spot and he genuinely wonders how you fail to tire. You ramble about everything under the sun from how much you hate embroidering to the ‘stupid big bug’ you saw in your tent the night before to how Uncle has started to teach you to play the banjo.

“Woah!”

“What?”

“Look at those horses!” You point enthusiastically.

Arthur chuckles, his focus following your finger to the pack of wild horses racing through a nearby field.

“I see ‘em.” The words leave him warmly as you watch the horses and he watches you.

The briefest of pauses passes before you puff out a breath through your nose, and Arthur’s lips form a knowing smile. He can almost hear your brain whirring with questions and things you’re noticing. He stays quiet, still smiling, and waits for you to speak, enjoying the moment of respite with you.

“So, where’re we goin’?” You ask as you look at Arthur, tilting your head playfully.

“Place called O’Creagh’s Run. S’not too far.”

You purse your lips, your focus drifting to a squirrel scuttling across the path and into the trees. “What kinda critters’ll we find there? S’it pretty?”

“Oh, lots o’ types’a critters. Deer, bears, ducks, rabbits. You name it, s’probably there… And yup, s’pretty-” He turns his attention to you, silently taking in the fit of your jeans and the way your body gently sways in rhythm with the rambling pace of your horse, “-S’real pretty.” Arthur allows himself a second more before looking back to the path.

When you reach O’Creagh’s Run, Arthur takes it upon himself to choose a spot and set up camp, letting you run about and take in the beauty of the new area. He can’t help but think of a dog that bounded up to him in Valentine the day before.

“Oh, Arthur. Pretty don’t do this place justice!” You shout to him from somewhere within the thicket as he pulls a bow over his shoulder before strapping a quiver to his thigh.

“Try not to run about too much, girl. Don’t want you spookin’ the game.”

After a moment, you jog back out to the campsite, huffing, a frown dragging your features south. Arthur makes his way to you with another bow and quiver, readying them for you, but he stops once his eyes meet your face.

“What’s gotten up your craw?”

“You’d think such a charmin’ place’d be chock fulla all sorts of flowers. I can’t find any anywhere.” You complain, still looking around you for any sign of flora. This earns a hearty chuckle from Arthur and he shakes his head while stepping closer to you.

“Naw, they’re a little more East of here.” He says softly before handing you the bow and lowering to one knee to strap the quiver around your thigh, “We ain’t here for flowers anyway.” He concentrates on tightening the buckles of the quiver until it’s flush with your thigh, his fingers grazing over your jeans. You go unusually quiet. When he looks up at you, you’re watching his hands with the faintest blush on your cheeks. Arthur puts it down to your running about like a madwoman, though the heat spreading through his chest tells him otherwise.

“Now, stay low and keep your voice down. And no gigglin’.” Arthur instructs gently, looking at you briefly over his shoulder before stalking through the thicket after a small herd of deer. You nod and give a comical salute as you follow,

“Yessir.”

Arthur’s expression is one of exasperation as he grumbles out, “Good girl.” before turning back around. You creep along behind him, your own bow readied, peeking over his shoulder. The crunch of your boots in the grass, the occasional soft sniff or hum, the feeling of your body at his back; it’s all heating him up quicker than the sunlight streaming through the copse. As you near the herd, Arthur lowers his voice further,

“Alright. I want you to watch what I do. No shootin’ from you until I think you’re ready.”

When he doesn’t receive a response, a huff escapes him. He knew it would only be so long before you caused trouble. With a curious frown, he halts and looks over his shoulder, only to see you skulking off into the thicket towards an opening.

“Hey-” Arthur hisses, “-Girl. Get back here.”

You’re already creeping out of the brush, batting at the twigs getting caught in your hair as you go.

“Girl.” He growls under his breath. He gives one more glance to the small herd of deer before sighing impatiently and striding through the brush after you.

When he reaches the clearing, he’s met with the image of you, bow dropped into the grass, squinting into the viewfinder of your camera. He softens despite his frustration, allowing himself to appreciate the way the late afternoon sun highlights your lustred skin, the way you’re just about balancing to get the shot, until his dreamy gaze lands on your choice of muse.

A bear.

One that is facing away from you, but a damn bear nonetheless. The swirling warmth in his chest exits through the shuddering breath that escapes him.

He quietly places his bow on the floor and inches towards you, keeping his steps as soft as possible. He makes quick work of clasping a hand over your mouth, his other arm wrapping roughly around your waist, yanking you back against him and shuffling back into the brush.

“You stupid?” He spits, his breath puffing against your skin, his mouth grazing your ear, “Tryna get yourself killed?”

“Mm– Arthur-” You whine in protest, your speech marred by his rough palm pressed against your mouth. He feels your teeth and tongue forming the syllables, wetting his skin and for a split second it throws him off. His next swallow is to tame the buzz in his head, before he tightens his hold on you, dragging you further back into the copse, to safety. You grab at his forearms as you stumble,

“Mm– Arthur– Get off–”

“Shu’ch your mouth–” He grunts into your ear, “Dumb sheep ain’t got the right to bleat.”

When he finally releases you, you meet him with a lower, clutching your camera tightly.

“I ain’t no dumb sheep–”

“Oh, you ain’t?” He laughs wryly, “Okay, sure, ‘cause standin’ out in the open a few feet from a bear is smart, is it?” He gestures towards the opening and narrows his eyes at you as he takes you in. Your face is flushed a deep pink, you’re still catching your breath from the surprise. You huff out a breath through your scrunched nose, and it takes Arthur a steady long breath in to not let out an abrupt laugh, thinking you look like an angry calf. Sweeter on her by the second, Morgan.

“Okay, well–” You raise a finger at him, as if to start on a tangent, yet what comes is not of much worth nor thought, “-You ain’t– I just wanted– It wasn’t lookin’ at me!”

“Even if it weren’t lookin’ ach’u, it was one change in the wind away from smellin’ you. Now, c’mon–” He shakes his head, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and guiding you the short way back to the camp.

Arthur makes you cook dinner as a punishment for giving him “a damn heart attack” and you oblige, directing the occasional ornery glance at him as you stir the small stewpot.

“Don’t gimme that look, girl.” Arthur exhorts as he takes in a mouthful of rum.

“Lucky I don’t spit in this here pot.” You grumble and he blinks, his brow raising at your attitude. He swallows, giving you a look.

“Lucky I don’t leave you stranded in these woods for that bear to find.” He gestures toward the thicket with the neck of the bottle.

Your stirring pauses and you scowl up at him, the glow of the campfire glimmering in your eyes. Your words puff from your lips in a more petulant way than you’d planned.

“You wouldn’t.”

A grin pulls at Arthur’s mouth, revealing his teeth, an expression you’ve grown to know only graces his features when he’s truly having fun. It causes your own snarky expression to falter, your defiance morphing into a lovesome warmth and plunging into the pit of your stomach.

“You know better than to provoke me, Miss.” Arthur shakes his head and glugs another mouthful of rum before continuing,

“Besides, spit or not, I’d still eat it.”

The groaning sound of repulsion that his words elicit from you serves to draw a surprisingly rich and bubbling laugh from Arthur. You find yourself wanting to do anything and everything to hear it again, to quickly snatch it up from the air and lock it beneath your ribcage, to nestle your heart within it; but all that comes out is waggish judgement.

“You’re wrong in the head.” You begin stirring the stew again, catching it just before it begins to burn. Arthur leans back a bit, a puckish glint in his eye,

“Maybe so, but I’m also hungry.”

#requests #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #evie's writing #fluff #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader fluff #rdr2 fanfic #stottlemorgan

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artbiter · 10 months ago

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wolf in sheep's clothing

art donaldson/reader nsfw summary: art falls for you first yet patrick gets the fortune of having you. what else is art supposed to do but play dirty? tags: stanford!art, stanford reader too, art is a borderline homewrecker, art donaldson is a SNAKE, patrick gets cucked right under his nose </3, oral, slight body worship, TBH idk note: hi this is my first time writing ff since .. 2021 .. and this is definitely a diff style from the ao3-approach i usually take to writing but please enjoy i really like art donaldson i really like challengers and i really like art taking what he wants (and i really like mike faist in blonde curls)

art donaldson is not a homewrecker, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't waiting for his chance with you.

he first meets you at one of his games, eyes flitting over the crowd and panting hard after a rather close singles win, before his gaze is magnetically drawn to your pretty face in the bleachers. smiling with your friends, you look so happy to just be watching this game, and when you make eye contact with art you wave excitedly like he's a celebrity, and whisper to your friends after he salutes back with a grin, trying to catch the breath your gorgeous smile has knocked out of him.

he wants to find you so bad after, and so he does. your friends are tennis groupies, hanging behind to flirt with any guy with a racket in hand, but you're just there for moral support. he chases after you just before you leave, just to say hi. an innocuous greeting and thanks for your support. and he sees how jealous your friends are that you tag along once with them and immediately get picked up by art freaking donaldson, but you seem to be oblivious, beaming at him and clasping your hands to your chest. you tell him he was great out there, that you've never "gotten" tennis but that you can feel he's a pro anyway. you part ways and he can't stop thinking about you.

when he tells patrick that he's met the prettiest girl he's ever seen at one of his matches, patrick thinks it's endearing and the epitome of dumb puppy love.

"did you even get her name? or were you just drooling over her?"

"nah, that would've been weird... right? oh shit, should i have? i was trying to be normal about it, i don't know." art beats himself up for not even picking up on your name in conversation, and resolves to seek out your identity and ask you out.

so when he finally has the fortune of seeing you again at a party, he's heartbroken when you smile and wave to patrick in tow.

"patrick!" you laugh and bound up to the pair. "didn't take you as a stanford party type of guy."

"i'm a plus one tonight. lucky i ran into you, huh?" patrick is eye-fucking you and doesn't even try to hide it, and art feels like doubling over in pure grief.

patrick notices but says nothing, only introducing you to art. "yeah, i'm here with my buddy art." he slaps art on the back lightly and art finds out that you and patrick met at another party before this. he remembers you from patrick's anecdotes over lunch, where patrick wouldn't shut up about the hottest chick he's ever seen who wouldn't go home with him, but has been texting ever since.

some other girl, presumably one of your friends, attaches herself to art's arm for the rest of the night, but he can't bring himself to notice or care when patrick kisses you and you lean into it.

patrick got to you first, and art hates himself for it. he won't admit it, but he feels the resentment festering inside of him as soon as patrick announces it's official.

the next best course of action for art is to play the best friend role, obviously. except like the unassuming snake art is, he's going to be your best friend, too.

he's your puppy, waiting on your beck and call — whatever you need, he's got it. your bio homework is impossible? sure, you can copy his. you got no sleep last night? he has your regular order from your favorite café committed to memory. patrick's being such a bad boyfriend? oh, tell him all about it.

"he's so inconsiderate," you whine, slumping over your pillow. "can you believe he forgot our six months? and when i brought it up, he didn't even say sorry. he was just, like, 'i didn't know we were still in high school.' i wanted to die, art, really."

art clicks his tongue in sympathy, criss-crossed on your dorm floor and nodding along to your laments. "no, he's definitely wrong here. i'm sorry he forgot something so important." for good measure, he adds in, "guys should be looking out for their girlfriends all the time. i'd be celebrating monthly anniversaries if i had a girl."

"ugh, right? i thought so, too." you flop back onto your bed, turning your head to gaze at art. he thinks you're so beautiful like this, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, bare faced with tears tinging your eyes. "you're a good guy. i don't know why you don't just date."

he doesn't want to date anyone if it isn't you, but he doesn't say this.

art watches you and patrick continue for another few rocky months, marked by arguments spawned from patrick's chronic nonchalance and your sensitivity to his perceived lack of care. and art gets the full report from both sides; patrick tells him all the time about how he's really trying to make you happy and support you, but he doesn't see why you value such small things. and you cry to art, sobbing that patrick never takes you out anymore if it isn't to fuck, that patrick is too friendly to other girls. art thinks to himself that patrick doesn't deserve you, but he rubs small circles on your back and reassures you that you need to do what's right for yourself.

(he's elated when you don't remove yourself from his touch.)

when you finally break it off with patrick, he hears it from his best friend first.

"dude, she dumped me." patrick's voice buzzes over the phone. "not gonna lie, i saw this one coming. but i thought i was doing good, seriously. fuck, what am i gonna do?"

"i'm sorry, man," art sympathizes before he hears a knock on his door. "yeah, it really does suck. take a breather for a few days. i'm sorry, but i really have to go right now." he peeks into the peephole and sees you standing outside. "let's talk more later?"

patrick is still rambling on the other end, but art hangs up and opens the door for you to immediately come spilling.

"art, i broke up with him. i really couldn't do it anymore." you tell art more things he already knows, like that you liked patrick a lot but you were just uncompatible in the end, and that you wished he listened. as always, art feeds into you, agreeing with your every word. something deep inside art tells him it's wrong to coax his best friend's girlfriend into breaking up with him, and that he's messed up for offering you his support when patrick technically should come first. but when you look up at art through wet eyelashes, sniffling and yearning for comfort, who is he to deny you?

art cups your face gently and presses his lips to yours. he doesn't miss how your eyes widen, but you don't jerk away. his heart pounds in his chest as he holds the small of your back with one hand while the other caresses your cheek. you smell so clean and warm, and your lips are so soft art wonders how patrick could ever give you up without a fight. it solidifies art's need for you, that if patrick won't make you happy, he will.

when you pull away from him, you're breathless, voice barely above a whisper. "art, i don't think we should—"

he can't contain himself from kissing your neck, relishing the soft, smooth expanse, inhaling your scent so deep into his lungs he finds it oxygen. "tell me you don't want this." he laps at your jaw, sucking light bruises onto the sides of your throat. "tell me you don't want me to treat you the way you should be, and i'll stop."

you moan his name involuntarily, and art takes it as the green light to carry you to his bed and kisses back up to your lips. "i'm sorry," he murmurs into your skin. "i'm sorry. i want you so bad."

"then show me," you sigh softly, hands rooting themselves into his blonde curls as his tongue probes your mouth.

like you even had to ask.

tugging down your sweatpants and feeling like coming just as the sight of your underwear, art immediately tears it off of you. he latches himself to your cunt, already weeping, and he looks up at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. "already so wet for me, baby?"

"mmf..." your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tighten their grip as you push his head forward, and he obliges.

he licks wide stripes, feeling you convulse and twitch every time his tongue comes in contact with your clit. his dick throbs in his pants just from eating you out.

"you taste so sweet. fuck, you're delicious," he pants, making out with your pussy like it's your lips. "don't know how i survived this long without you."

you buck your hips up into his mouth, mewling and spasming as he suckles and licks at just the right places. your cunt is soaked, but neither of you can tell whether it's from your arousal or how much art is slobbering over your pussy. "right there," you squeak out, a hot wave washing over your body as you cum on art's face.

and fuck, art almosts busts on the spot with you. his mouth doesn't cease, swirling patterns all over your vulva, grazing over your clit, dipping his tongue inside of you as you lock your legs around his head desperately.

"too much, too much!" you feebly try to pull his head up from your cunt, but he's so addicted to your taste he barely notices how sensitive you are now, how your clit twitches and aches for a break.

art can only laugh softly as he pulls himself back up to you, kissing you gently as his hands roam underneath your shirt and to your bra clasp.

"mm, you're so good," you gasp into art's mouth as his kiss becomes sloppier. "so good to me, art."

"it's what you deserve," he mumbles back, unhooking your bra and clumsily pulling your shirt off so your tits spill free. and even art is admired by his own self-restraint, just staring at your perfect body on display for him. he's been dreaming of this day for months now, jerking himself off late at night to thoughts of you sucking his cock, to pictures of you smiling on his phone, to the memory of your voice the day he met you. it's so wrong of him to fuck his best friend's ex fresh after the split, but why do you feel so right beneath him? "i've been waiting for this," he whispers into your neck. "been wanting to show you how much i want you. want to make you feel good. want to treat you so much better."

"fuck me, art, please," you beg him, relenting and palming at his boxers. you're so fucking easy, letting him touch you like this and being compliant as he undresses you, kisses you all over, shrugs his boxers off as you help him position his cock right at your entrance. it's not your fault that art has been nothing but kind and gentle to you. it's not your fault that he's been flirting with you since day 1, and now all his desires have culminated into head of a lifetime. and art finally has what he wants now: you.

and even when he barely pushes the tip in, he wants to cum inside of you so badly he feels dizzy. "so fucking tight, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum right now," he gasps in your ear as he unsheathes himself, stretching your warm, tight hole. "so perfect, holy shit. fucking made for me, baby, you feel so—" he can't stop himself from rutting into you, and he just about comes undone when he hears his name tumble from your lips in pained moans. it takes all the self-control in the world for art to not pour himself into your wet heat right now.

"slow down, art, fuck, you're so big," you sob, clawing at his back. he wishes he could fuck you nice and slow, the way he always envisioned his first time with you would be. he'd fantasized about nights with you full of languid strokes, making you scream his name with calculated, intentional thrusts straight to the spongy patch buried within you. but art is just a humble man, and when your walls, silky and warm, are choking his dick, he can't resist fucking into you like a jackhammer. you cry, moaning uncontrollably as your hands clutch tightly at him, letting his cock ruin you.

art's head goes fuzzy, and all he knows now is your pussy trying to milk him dry and that he can't say anything coherent besides strings of guttural moans telling you how warm, how tight, how good you feel on his dick, how your sweet cunt was made for him, how beautiful you look and sound at his mercy, how he wants you to be his so bad and that he'll do anything for you to be his. that his only regret is not claiming you first.

you keep crooning in his ear, honeyed moans that intoxicate him dizzier and dizzier as you tell him that he can have you. with a few more stutters of his hips, and a convulsing squeeze from your walls onto his cock, his head falls into the crook of your neck as he pulls out and shoots ropes all over your stomach, right as you cry out his name uncontrllably, heaving beneath him. a low, resounding grunt rips from his throat while his seed paints your abdomen, and he feels you shiver upon the warmth touching your skin.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again like the gentleman he is. his breath still heaves at an uneven rhythm, staggering as he attempts to regain his composure, but every time his eyes fall upon you it feels like he wants to go for round 2. "i'll clean you up, pretty girl. you were so perfect." he presses his forehead to yours, sweaty and damp, and whispers, "you were made for me."

some sick sense of pride fills art from head to toe as your body trembles in an attempt to catch your breath, your hair disheveled and lips puffy, patches of skin blooming pink and red from art essentially making out with every inch of your body. and you blush when you catch him staring, covering your face and murmuring for him to come back to bed.

he did this to you. he made you such a picturesque image of ruined perfection, splayed out on his bed and stained with his cum, pleading for his embrace.

patrick would have to pry you from his cold, dead hands.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson #art donaldson x you #challengers smut #challengers x reader

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huaiian · 11 months ago

Text

Imagine Being Loved By Me (Sylus x Fem!Reader)

Summary:

“I’ll relent. Give my kitten a few hours to…play with her toy. To do as she pleases.”

In short, it’s the MC/Reader’s birthday and Sylus let’s her have her way with him.

Pairing: Sylus x Fem!Reader or MC

Rating: Explicit, 18+ ONLY

Words: 4.6 K

AO3 Link Here

Tags: Light Dom/Sub, Dom!MC or Dom!Reader, Sub!Sylus, Bondage, Cumming (kinda) Untouched, Overstimulation, Porn but there's a thread of a plot

Author's Note: Hope you all enjoy! I haven't really written anything like this in a LOOOONG time so if it's not great I apologize. This is basically just me going hmm, what if you tied him up and made him cry. And well uhh….idk this happened. If you aren't into Submissive Sylus then I'm sorry, you'll probably want to skip out on this one ╥﹏╥

You awoke to rays of sun gently fanning across your face. Your nose scrunched up and you stretched your hands above your head, groaning slightly as your joints began to pop. You felt arms wrap around your waist and you smiled slightly, eyes opening slightly, glancing to the side.

“Someone’s up bright and early,” Sylus sighs, arms bringing you closer to him. His head moves to the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath and giving you a gentle kiss on your pulse point. Your smile widens, cradling the back of his head and guiding him upwards. You share a small peck before pulling back, adoration clear in your gaze.

“Happy birthday, my love,” he whispers into the morning air. You kiss him again as he envelopes you in his embrace.

The day progresses as any other day would, aside from the fact that it’s your birthday and Sylus will stop at nothing to shower you with gifts and attention. Did you mention a beautiful Tiffany & Co. necklace you wanted? He got you the entire collection. You said you wanted a new purse right? He took it upon himself to get you every Birkin he could find in person. It was all too much for you, having a more reserved and shy personality usually, but it’s your birthday so why not live a little.

Sylus led you from place to place, joining you in all of your favorite hobbies before surprising you at the end of the night with your closest friends and coworkers at the local karaoke bar. Sylus had to use his pseudonym, Skye, just as he did when you had coincidentally met him in a similar circumstance. Only this time, instead of trying to distance yourself from him the entire night, you were doing your best not to drag him towards you and kiss him until you saw stars.

“Sweetie,” he whispered in your ear, a shiver running up your spine, “you still have one more gift that you’ll need to open.”

“Oh?” You questioned, your eyebrow raising ever so slightly. “And what might that gift be? Don’t tell me you bought me an entire island or something ridiculous.”

Sylus was silent for a beat, causing you to straighten and whirl around, eyes wide and mouth agape at the implication. He chuckles while shaking his head, eyes scrunching up at the corners. “No my dear, though it can be arranged. All you need to do is ask,”

“NO, no I’m definitely happy and definitely don’t need you to spend anything more than you already have,” you stammer, a light blush coloring your cheeks. His laughter dies down and he smirks, leaning forward so his mouth is up against your ear.

“No love, this gift won’t cost me a thing,” his breath fanning out across your ear. Almost as if he could hear your confusion, he clarifies for you.

“I’ll relent. Give my kitten a few hours to…play with her toy. To do as she pleases.”

You could feel warmth rush through you in that moment, understanding the implication of his words. You never believed in the phrase ‘butterflies in your stomach’ until now, feeling the strange sensation combined with your heart stuttering in your chest, you could tell that it was going to be a long night.

After Sylus’ slight teasing, you slowly begin to exit the karaoke bar, hugging friends and catching up with some old co-workers here and there before finally making a subtle departure. You didn’t want to ruin the party for everyone else, but you also had a present waiting at home that had been plaguing your mind for hours now. You snatched Sylus’ hand and started dragging him over to his motorcycle, the man squeezing your hand gently.

“I see someone’s anticipation is slowly getting the best of her,” he teased. The motorcycle came into view, which only made you take larger strides.

“If I had known how much you’d enjoy this gift, I would’ve departed a long time ago-” his voice was cut off by you suddenly swinging him forward, leaning him against the bike before cupping his cheeks. His eyes widened before you brought his face forward, your lips colliding in an aggressive kiss, showcasing your pent up frustration. He hummed into the kiss before his hands came to rest on your hips.

As the kiss deepened, his hands snake towards your ass, that is until you swatted them away. You broke the kiss to find an adorably confused expression on his face. You lean forward, slightly on your tiptoes to try to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry, I thought the birthday girl was going to call the shots. Isn’t that right?” You questioned him with a smug demeanor. His eyes darkened before nodding. You grabbed his chin and pulled him in for another kiss, where it was obvious that you were in complete control. He could feel the smile on your face before pulling back again.

“That’s my good boy.”

He groans, eyes closing again before you bring him back into a possessive kiss. You wanted to muffle any sounds he might make in case anyone had the audacity of hearing him in this state; a state only you were allowed to see. You broke apart from him again, his eyes opening again and looking towards you for further direction.

“Let’s get you home baby, I’ll take care of you,” you softly tell him, hand cupping his face and thumb gently wiping just before his eye. He nods mindlessly at you before whispering “yes ma’am.” He climbs atop of the motorcycle as you follow close behind. Before you realize it, Sylus is weaving in and out of traffic at speeds you knew were nowhere near safe. Could it be due to your hand squeezing his inner thigh, your chest pressed against his back ever so tightly.

When you arrive at home, you notice that the twins and Mephisto aren’t there to welcome you home. You sigh slightly out of exasperation, taking Sylus’ hand once more before leading him inside the house. The darkness and silence is all encompassing, all that can be heard in yours and Sylus’ breaths desperately trying to calm yourselves of your racing heartbeats.

As you move through the house, you finally locate the bedroom door, noticing that candles had been lit, illuminating the room in a gentle glow.

“I’ll have to give the boys their thanks later,” you state, giggling slightly to yourself at the turn of events.

Sylus frowns slightly before squeezing your hand harder to indicate his irritation at the mention of the twins. You laugh openly now, ushering Sylus to sit on the bed.

“It seems that someone’s a jealous little toy huh,” you speak, an authoritative tone engulfing your words in a new weight. Sylus scoffs, crossing his arms and turning his head to the side.

“As though you wouldn’t be upset with me if I starting bringing up other women in the bedroom,”

“What other women Sylus,” you speak up, your hands grabbing his wrists and unfolding his arms. You widen your stance and take a seat on his lap, your index finger and thumb grasping his chin to force him to look you in the eye. He looks at you with a slight scowl on his face, but his widening pupils and growing bulge in his pants tells you that the expression is just for show.

“Enlighten me,” you tease, leaning forward so your lips ghost his ever so slightly, “what other women are you talking to?” The question falls upon deaf ears as your hand moves from his chin to his hair, curling around some strands before gripping tightly, tugging his head backwards. Sylus gasps sharply as you feel his cock twitch below you. You move your head swiftly to his neck, kissing up his neck before reaching his jawline just below his ear. You start sucking sharply, nipping at the skin to ensure that a mark appears in your wake.

He moans low, his hands fisting the sheets below him. His head falls to the side, allowing you greater access to his neck. You let go of the sensitive skin, but you don’t move away. Your breaths dampening the skin below you before you ask again, “Answer me Sylus: What other women are you talking to?”

“No one,” he states, sounding out of breath and ragged before groaning again as you bite his neck with pressure just enough to leave a mark. You release his neck before licking a stripe upwards, whispering in his ear, “that’s a good boy,” before softly biting his ear lobe.

Sylus’ hips buck upwards, searching for any kind of friction. You let out a ‘hmph’ before grinding down harshly, forcing a muttered ‘oh fuck’ out of his mouth.

“Now that won’t do,” you state, slowly getting up from his lap. He opens his eyes slowly, half lidded. His eyes watch you as you move your way towards the dresser, his breath stuttering as he sees you grab rope you both are all too familiar with. He kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the bed, positioning himself on his knees with his hands behind his back.

“How obedient,” you observe as he sits, awaiting for your instruction, “but we won’t be in this position today.” He quirks an eyebrow up at you, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. You smirk as well, knowing that the poor bastard had no idea what he had signed up for when offering his last present to you.

You kick off your heels and crawl in front of him on your knees. His chest starts rising and falling more noticeably and he tries to calm his breathing. You start undressing him, giving gentle instructions as needed. He obeyed without any resistance and as you were slowly peeling off his last layer, cock springing upwards and onto his stomach, you heard a quiet moan leave him.

You remove the boxers and throw them to the side, attention stuck on the pretty pink length twitching slightly at your gaze. You lean forward, licking a fat stripe on the underside of his cock, reveling in the way his breath stutters and his thighs shake. You give a quick suck to the head before pulling back, raising your head upwards to make eye contact with the man.

“Sweetie please,” he whispers, hand reaching forward to grab your waist. You quickly took his wrist and put your other hand on the middle of his check slowly pushing him backwards on the bed, pinning his hands above his head, straddling his hips. You could feel his cock underneath you through your jeans, moving your hips in a subtle circular motion. You hear him whimpering faintly, and you squeeze his wrists before letting them go. His wrists stay above his head, his gaze pleading with you to let him feel you in his rough grasp.

You grab the forgotten rope at your side before cupping his cheek, bringing him into a tender kiss. Sylus attempted to deepen the kiss, but you smiled and pulled away.

“Spread out baby,” you say to him, unraveling the rope. He rolls his eyes and spreads out, his hands and feet pointing towards their respective corners.

“You know, when I offered up this as a present, I wasn’t expecting…” he trails off, trying to find the right words, “all of this enthusiasm. I thought you enjoyed begging underneath me, begging for my co-”

He was cut off from his bratty tirade by a sharp slap to the inner thigh, causing his hips to buck and the words to die on his tongue.

“I didn’t think I needed to keep that pretty mouth of yours in check,” you say with a bored tone, sighing slightly. You finish up tying the last ankle to the corner of the bed, using a single column tie for his wrists and ankles. As you lean back to acknowledge your handiwork, you can see his arms and legs straining a little, testing out the ropes. Unfortunately for him, the ropes are secure and unless he’s willing to beg, there's no getting out of them now.

You straddle his midriff and he looks up at you with a slight scowl at you tying him down. You cup his cheeks with your hands and kiss him deeply, languidly. You’re able to take your time now and you’re going to savor every second of it. He kisses you back, matching your leisurely pace.

You part the kiss, a string of saliva connecting the two of you. “I have scissors in the left hand drawer,” you mutter, kissing the corner of his mouth. “The safe word is Featherstar. Do I make myself clear?�� You look at him sternly, wanting him to take this seriously. He nods his head and attempts to lean forward to kiss you once more. You click your tongue at him, moving away.

“I’m gonna need you to use your words my love,” you tell him in a hushed tone. He pouts at you but nods again, replying with a simple “Yes ma’am, I understand.”

“Thank you sweetie,” you whisper in his ear, causing him to shiver. You start kissing down his neck, leading the middle of his chest. You start sucking and biting different areas on his chest, knowing that the man would start unraveling at the seams. Sure enough, he was humming and groaning at the attention his chest was receiving.

You moved towards his nipple, dragging your tongue across the sensitive bud. You felt it perk up and start to harden as you swirled your tongue around it in small circles.

“Oh sweetie, fuck,” he sighs, his arms straining against the ropes. He lets out an annoyed huff followed by a low pitched groan and you start to suck on the raised bud. You continue sucking and your other hand caresses his side, trailing your fingers upwards until they reach his other nipple. You tweak the unoccupied nipple in between your fingers, pinching and rubbing it in small circles similar to your tongues movements before swapping the two. Your mouth comes and replaces your hand while your other hand comes up to caress his pec.

Sylus moans and twitches underneath you, becoming more and more agitated by his inability to touch you. “Baby, when will you release me? This is getting a bit boring, don’t you think?” He tries his best to keep his voice from wavering with arousal.

You look up at him and bite down on his nipple, causing the man to moan and tip his head back on the bed. You release his nipples and kiss your way to the center of his chest again. “Bargaining isn’t going to work my dear, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to get used to this.”

He tries to calm his breathing as you start caressing his body, your fingers applying feather light pressure to him, goosebumps rising on his skin. You venture lower until you’re sitting back, his cock straining against his stomach in a red color that looks somewhat irritated from the lack of attention.

Your touch delicately brushes against his length, his cock jumping and twitching with every touch. “You’re killin’ me sweetie,” he says, sounding out of breath. You continue the movements, making no effort to apply anymore pressure or stimulation. He whimpers as his dick starts leaking a constant stream of precum, creating a shallow puddle on his stomach.

“You can come just from this can’t you?” You ask, tilting your head to the side. He shakes his head slightly before flinching as your fingers gather some of the precum, teasing the tip. His thighs flex, trying to plant his feet onto the mattress but to no avail. You giggle at his reaction, playing with the slit before leaning forward, licking the shell of his ear.

“Don’t you want to make me proud? It is my birthday after all,” you purr into his ear, his breathing becoming erratic. You could tell he was close, all he needed was some pushing. You took your free hand and grasped his hair.

“Don’t you want to be a good boy, make me proud?” You say, tugging his hair so his head would be pulled back. He made a choked off noise and shut his eyes suddenly, whimpering as he came, hot streaks of cum shooting up towards his chest. You could see the veins in his arms protruding from being restricted. You smiled, cooing in his ear praises of how well he was doing.

Sylus took a few calming breaths before looking at you, his eyes glassy and gaze filled with longing. “Please baby, let me go,” he tries again. You shake your head before getting up, straddling him again. He quirks an eyebrow before you start to undress yourself, shimmying out of your jeans and pulling off your top, only left in a matching underwear set you treated yourself to for your big day. His eyes widened as he gazed upon the maroon lace seemingly painted across your breasts.

His distraction was evident as you started to crawl your way upwards, pussy hovering over his face. Even so, his eyes had not left the lingerie once. It seemed as though he was unaware as to what your next move would be, completely taken aback by your choice of attire to ask any questions. You gripped his hair again to tilt his head backwards so he made eye contact with you.

“Try to keep up,” you stated, using your other hand to push your panties aside. His mouth drops open, saliva beginning to pool in his mouth. Before he can retort, your thighs spread further apart, sitting yourself on his mouth, nose nudging your clit. You moan out as he tongue begins to work you open, lapping up the wetness with a new refound vigor. You started rutting against his mouth, grinding downward so his nose would grind against your clit at an addicting pace.

“Your tongue-” you groan, removing your hands so you could place them behind you, leaning back against his thighs, “God you’re good at this.” You gripped his upper thighs, feeling the firm muscle underneath your hands quivering. You lifted your hips up and away from his mouth for a moment to let him catch his breath. The smug satisfaction pools in the pit of your stomach as you see his chin glisten, mouth open while he takes a brief reprieve.

“You better get your ass back over here sweetie-” he starts, impatience in his voice. You roll your eyes at him once more pushing yourself back into his mouth. “I’m gonna need to punish you for speaking out of turn like that, ya know,” you tell him, grinding down harder and harder as he works you open. You gasp as he starts fucking you open with his tongue, moaning at your taste.

You glance behind you and find not only is he fully erect again, but it seems he’s just as close to release as you. And well, we can’t have that can we?

You could feel yourself getting close, and as rode him harder and faster, you reached for his cock behind you, squeezing just under his head. Sylus whimpers loudly in response, but continues to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

With one last nudge of his nose against your clit, your eyes rolled in the back of your head, body going stiff and you came on his tongue. You could feel him pant against your thigh as he tried to calm himself, hips thrusting upward to try and reach his release as well.

“Love please let me come, please, you tasted so good I wanna come too, please,” he begs, mumbling against the inside of your thigh. You pull back from his mouth as he whimpers in protest. You raise up, letting go of his cock as it falls against his stomach heavily. You take off your bra and panties, looking at him with a devious glint in your eye.

You grab him by the chin so his mouth would open slightly. “Open up,” you ordered and he reluctantly obeyed. You realized he was going to try to come up with a witty retort, but you knew how to satiate him for the time being. You took your panties coated in your wetness and shoved them in his mouth, gagging him. His eyes rolled in the back of his head and moaned loudly.

“Don’t worry Sylus, I just wanted to save your stamina,” you tell him, moving backwards so your cunt was hovering over his cock. He shivered and moaned at the feeling of you grinding down on his dick, heavy with want and radiating with heat. You moved your cunt against him, slicking up his dick. You finally lifted up and grabbed the base of his shaft, circling the head around your entrance. He started breathing heavily through his nose, the pressure from his yanking causing the ropes around him making the bed frame creak.

“Such a patient boy, you’ve been waiting so nicely,” you gasp out as you slowly start to sink down on him. He moans loudly, voice muffled by the panties. You take him inch by inch before sitting fully on him, feeling filled to the brim. All that can be heard are the desperate breaths between the two of you. You place your hands on his abs before raising yourself up, tip almost slipping out. As your hips come down forcefully, you hear a punched out moan escape Sylus, little noises escaping him the more you move, however slight.

You start riding him with new vigor, bouncing up and down on his cock, trying to get him to reach deeper and deeper inside you. His moans are becoming louder and louder, with whimpers escaping him whenever you take a moment to sit and swivel your hips in circular motions. The sounds Sylus begins to make sound more and more frantic, wobbly from desperation.

“It’s ok, cum for me Sylus. Fill me up, I wanna be filled with your cum,” your tone sounding strained and you uncontrollably start moving on his cock, desperate for him. It only takes a few more times bouncing on his cock before you hear a muffled shout, feeling warmth spread through you. You moan out, a high pitched squeal leaving your lips as you cum around his cock, milking him inside of you.

You look over and see his head lolled to the side, saliva dripping out of the side of his mouth around your panties. You lean forward and gently move his face so he looks at you. You cup his cheek and praise him as you gingerly remove the panties from his mouth. He breathes through his mouth deeply, coughing slightly.

You had planned to be done from here, thinking that you've had enough fun, but you can’t help but think of how far you’ll be able to push the infamous leader of Onychinus. A devious part in you wants to break him, while another part of you wants to give him mercy.

You decide to be selfish, still craving more and more from him. You squeeze around his cock and he groans out, mumbling a soft “baby, please”. Before long, you start moving in circles again, and Sylus is below you, pleading with tears in his eyes.

“Oh God, oh fuck, I don’t- I don’t know if I- SHIT!” He yells out, tears escaping from the corner of his eyes, head hitting the bed behind him hard as he tries grasping for something, anything to keep him grounded.

“Miss please, please, I can’t I- I need to touch you please please,” he begs, voice coming out shaky as you start lifting yourself up and down on his cock again. You were getting tired and felt as though his punishment had gone on long enough.

“Just your legs-” before you could continue, Sylus’ evol appears out of thin air, slicing the ropes that are connecting his ankles to the corners of the bed. You startle, stopping for a second before yelping, bracing your hands on his chest as he plants his feet into the bed, roughly thrusting up into you. You moan out harshly, sounds punching out of you with every thrust of his hips.

“You feel so good around me sweetie, so hot…so soft…kiss me,” he babbles. You prop yourself up and surge forward, meeting him in the middle. Your teeth clash and you can feel desperation in the kiss as you both try to ground yourselves with the other.

“Sylus please…please I need more, I need you to mark me, claim me, I’m all yours,” you whimper. His arms flex and his biceps bulge at the urge to grab you, feel your plush skin against his roughened palms. He whimpers at the realization of the restraints, giving you a pleading look that could send you to your knees.

“Touch me Sylus,” you order. Within an instant, his voice evol slashes the ropes and he’s grabbing you, taking you by the hips and physically lifting you up and down his cock. You scream out in pleasure as you can feel your release approaching swiftly. You can tell by his sloppy movements and frenzied expression that he’s close as well.

You begin to chant his name over and over, having the words be punched out of you by his thrusts. You feel him hitting you deeper and deeper, fucking his cum back into you over and over again. You grasp the back of his neck and pull him to you, kissing him sloppily.

As he returns the kiss to you, you break away slightly with a silent scream, hurdling over the edge and feeling nothing but a white static. Your body feels euphoric and, at the sight of your pleasure, Sylus gasps and thrusts up into you with one sharp movement, cumming hard to the point where it bordered on painful. After coming down from your highs, You languidly grab one of the random pieces of clothing you had discarded before to wipe off his chest.

Before you could get up to get some more cleaning supplies, Sylus holds you captive in his arms as he slowly leans back onto the bed, cradling your head and bringing you to his chest. As your breaths slow and the drowsiness starts to appear, you look up at Sylus.

“Thank you Sylus,” You whisper to him, kissing the center of his chest. He clutches you harder, kissing the top of your head. “I had no idea my love could be so…domineering,” he chuckled as you blushed, hiding your face into his chest. He laughed once more before kissing your head again.

“I don’t mind it though. We can play around a bit more in the future but,” he stops, contemplating for a moment. You look up at him with hope and mischief in your eyes. He sighs and holds you tighter, mumbling “maybe for special occasions only though. Don’t want my kitten to get too greedy with her toys now.”

You laugh and hug him closer to you, craving the intimacy of just being close to him. He tugs you upwards and burrows his head into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath in before he confides, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.”

You giggle a little at his words and kiss his shoulder, “I don’t think I mind that. Not at all.”

_____

Author's Note: HOPE YOU ENJOYED!! If you'd like to see any other stories or continuations of this let me know, I'd be happy to write some more.

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compress1repress · 3 months ago

Note

patrick loses a bet w art and ends up wearing a cute lil tennis skirt for a practice match, but it backfires horribly bc patrick is feeling his oats and art cant fucking focus for shit. like hes WHITE KNUCKLING the racket

"patrick. please stop"

"what? this is so breathable i should wear this every time 😋"

[the most deliriously horny hes ever been in his life] "please for the love of god STOP"

tashi walks by appreciatively and is like hey zweig. good form [nice ass]. maybe it gives her ideas and she goes online lingerie shopping. idk i just think his thighs would look good in garters. smudge some eyeliner on him while youre there idk. im just spitballin here boss

Woah. Clearly this got to me bc i received this five days ago and now I've written a 12k word fic that is only a part one. Like this doesn't even get into the eyeliner and garters of it all yet. I took some liberties but hopefully got the essentials :D hope it's okay!!

thank you for this ask <3 the part 2 will be started soon

-> AO3 VERSION -> PART TWO

cw: nsfw, mdni, i think you can tell from the ask what might come up, just general filth, light feminisation, 12k word count

im sure I'll have more to say tomorrow but for now here it is:

“She won’t be back until this evening,” Art calls out to Patrick after hanging up the phone.

“Why not?” Patrick’s laid flat on his back along the length of the couch, taking up a very unnecessary amount of space.

“Lily wanted to sleep over so Tashi’s going to stay for dinner before she comes back,” he explains, joining Patrick in the sitting room.

Tashi had taken Lily to her cousin’s, she had two children, one Lily’s age and one a little older. Usually Art would go too, and he’d sometimes have to play with Lily because she got too shy. They’d send her off with the other kids but she’d come back ten minutes later, pulling at Art’s sleeve and he couldn’t say no. That’s probably why Tashi had even agreed to this last minute sleepover, it’s a pretty big deal that Lily actually wanted to stay over. It’s also why she’s staying for dinner, just in case Lily changes her mind.

Art hadn’t gone because Uniqlo was sending over some outfits for their brand deal, and he had to sign for the delivery. That was the reasoning they gave Patrick at least. Really it was because it felt strange leaving him in their house alone, not because they didn’t trust him there.

They couldn’t exactly drag Patrick along with them to every event, they knew that, and he must know that too, but every time he’s left alone for a while he gets weird. He gets sad. Art and Tashi don’t explicitly talk about it, but there’s a shared understanding between them.

“So, we’ve got like four hours of an empty house?” Patrick muses, clearly trying very hard to keep his face neutral.

“We’re not fucking,” Art smiles down at him.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” Patrick tries but Art raises an eyebrow at him, “alright, why not?”

“Tashi said so,” and she’d been very clear on the phone to Art about it.

“Okay, no fucking,” Patrick nods, a smirk growing on his face, “but she didn’t say anything a-”

“No blowjobs, no hand stuff, and no touching under clothes,” Art cuts him off, moving to sit on the armchair since Patrick is taking up all the space on the couch.

“Well, we don’t have to take our clothes off to have a good time,” Patrick sits up, looking at Art with a hopeful grin.

“No dry humping either,” Art can’t help but snort at the disappointment on his face.

“Jesus, she really thought this through,” he flops back down, sighing, a look of both frustration and admiration on his face.

“I think she just knows that you’ll be trying to find any possible loophole,” Art snorts, and he can tell Patrick is still brainstorming solutions, “c’mon, she just wants us to wait until she gets back.”

“Fine,” Patrick relents, “but if I do come up with an ingenious loophole, we’re taking it.”

If Art’s being honest he had also hoped Patrick would find a way around it, then he could probably get off now and just blame it on Patrick later. That way Tashi would probably punish Patrick and he’d get to fuck her while Patrick watches.

Instead he decides to exercise some restraint, because he wants to be good for Tashi. It’s not like she was being mean, she just didn't want them to use up all their energy before she got home. Plus, he’s not that manipulative, not all the time.

Although, really, if he knew for a fact that Tashi would believe that it wasn’t his fault, he’d start riling Patrick up now, get him to think he was the one seducing Art into breaking rules.

Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure both Tashi and Patrick would see right through him.

“Sure, but how about we just watch a movie for now?” Art suggests.

“Yeah, alright, movie mashup?” Patrick asks.

It’s this thing they used to do when they were young, a tradition that had come back now they lived together again. If they wanted to watch a movie they’d both just name the first one that came to mind then try to find a middle ground between the two. It was their way of assuring they didn’t have a fight because technically they’d both equally chosen the movie. Some days it worked better than others, and occasionally they named the same film anyway.

Although, once when they were fourteen, Art had picked A Bug’s Life while Patrick had wanted Weird Science; they decided The Fly sounded like a mashup of the two (insects + eighties science? They never said the method was flawless), which ended up being a little traumatising. Art still has a slight fear of fingernails.

“Okay, I’ll count down,” Art waits for Patrick’s nod, “3…2…1…”

Art says, “E.T.” at the same time Patrick yells, “Sharknado.”

“Sharknado?” Art questions through a laugh.

“It’s fun,” Patrick defends.

“What’s the mashup, then?” Art asks.

It only takes a few seconds, because they had so much practice, and because this one is easy. Spielberg and sharks, duh.

They smile at each other, both getting it at the same time, “Jaws.”

“That might be the most satisfying mashup yet,” Patrick grins, “but are you sure it’s not too scary?”

“We’ve both seen it before,” Art rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, maybe we should sit as close as possible, just in case,” Patrick is so obvious.

“Patrick, we’re not fucking,” he warns, again half-wanting Patrick to keep pushing.

“Fine,” he groans, “just innocent cuddling then, for old time’s sake?”

He guesses that is what they used to do on movie mashup nights, pressed up against each other in one of their single beds. Sometimes one of them would have an arm around the other, because it was comfier that way, and neither of them ever really thought twice about it. It was hardly the height of their physical affection with each other, they’d done more on tennis courts in front of everyone.

Art hasn’t answered so Patrick adds, “seriously, I don’t have a sexual ulterior motive.”

“I know, but now I have a feeling you’re trying to lure me out of the comfy armchair so you can take it for yourself,” Art’s lying, he just wants to see what Patrick will do.

“You’re so cynical,” he gets up walking over, “guess we’ll just have to share.”

“You won’t fit,” Art shakes his head, letting him try anyway.

Patrick attempts to sit in Art's lap but he’s so tall, and the armchair is pretty small. He sits on one of Art’s thighs, his legs curled up the best they can.

“There we go,” Patrick reaches an arm around the back of the chair to keep himself steady.

“You do realise your entire body weight is on my left leg,” Art complains.

“You want a more even weight distribution? I can do that,” he shuffles, bringing himself to sit directly on his lap, his back against Art’s chest.

Art’s hands immediately wrap around Patrick's torso without even thinking, “I’m not watching this entire movie with your ass directly on my dick.”

“It’s not my fault if you can’t control yourself,” Patrick shrugs, not so subtly pressing himself further against Art.

“I’m not worried about myself,” he bites lightly at Patrick’s shoulder, “but also, I won’t be able to see the screen with you sitting like this.”

“Okay, final offer,” Patrick moves again, attempting to find a position that is less compromising and also doesn’t involve crushing Art with his body weight.

Patrick's legs now hang uncomfortably over the edge of the chair, and when he tries to adjust by resting his feet on the arm, he practically knees Art in the face.

"Maybe if I try the other side," Patrick shuffles again, on his way to switch sides, he swings one leg over Art's thighs, facing him as he straddles him.

"This isn't working," Art grabs Patrick's waist to hold him there, "your legs are too fucking long."

Patrick can't hide his grin at the position they're in but he tilts his head towards the couch, "yeah, we're gonna need a bigger boat."

Art laughs, "you know that's one of those misquotes, like it's actually 'you're gonna need a bigger boat' not we're."

"Who fucking cares," Patrick teases, "and if you're going to correct me, you should at least be right."

"It's true," Art says with a little more passion than necessary.

"No, you're thinking of the Star Wars quote," Patrick's also getting genuinely into it, "where Darth Vader doesn't actually say Luke, I am your father or whatever."

"Yeah, that's another famous misquote, doesn't mean I'm wrong about the Jaws one," Art's hands squeeze tighter.

"Alright, let's bet on it," Patrick suggests.

"I'm not betting about a stupid movie quote," Art snorts.

"Because you know you're wrong," Patrick's got this smug look on his face that always works on Art.

"Fine, I bet you $100 that it's you're not we're," he shrugs.

"I'm not betting $100 dollars."

"Exactly, because you know that you're wrong," Art grins, satisfied.

"No, I'm not betting that because it's got no stakes for you," Patrick explains, then leans in a little closer "and it's boring."

It successfully pisses Art off enough that he needs to prove a point. He can be creative and interesting.

Suddenly it hits him.

"Give me a second," Art's reaching his hands around Patrick at his thighs, one hand below his ass and the other at the small of his back, standing up bringing Patrick up with him.

He briefly lifts him up, turning around and then depositing Patrick back onto the armchair where he lands with a bounce.

Art watches the way his legs slightly spread as Patrick looks up at him, his eyes a little darker.

"What are you looking at?" Art asks, acting like he has no idea.

"Nothing," Patrick regains composure, smiling, "stop stalling. What's the bet?"

“I have the perfect thing,” Art walks to the corner of the room, where an opened package rests, “you know that delivery I signed for?”

“Yeah?” Patrick confirms, curious.

It was the Uniqlo delivery he had signed for earlier, and whether it was because they had just sent the whole new line, or if it had been intended for Tashi he wasn’t sure, but part of the order had been a tennis skirt. It was too big for Tashi, and not her style either way so he wasn’t sure what to do with it - until now.

“This came in it,” he holds up the skirt, it’s white and pleated so it flares out slightly, a tasteful logo embroidered at the hem.

“A skirt,” Patrick sits up, clearly Art’s got his attention, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that the loser has to wear this skirt while we play some tennis,” Art watches Patrick grin in response, he examines the skirt, “looks about your size.”

“Really, I think it’s more your size,” Patrick seems thoroughly amused, walking over to Art with a hand outstretched, “so, loser has to wear this the whole time, one set?”

Art shakes his hand, “deal.”

“Honestly, Art, I wouldn’t worry, your legs will look great in that,” Patrick points to the skirt.

“I don’t have to worry, because I am 100% certain that I’m right,” Art is actually probably 90% sure at this point, but no way is he backing down from a chance to get one over on Patrick.

“Alright, pull up the clip and prepare to eat your words,” Patrick grins, eager.

They use Art’s phone, eyes glued to the little screen, skipping to the crucial moment. They watch him, terrified look, cigarette in mouth, turn to captain Quint and then: ‘You’re gonna need a bigger boat.’

“Fuck off,” Patrick knocks Art’s phone out of his hand, but Art doesn’t even care. Victory feels so sweet.

Art musters up all the condescension he can, smiling at Patrick, “honestly, Patrick, I wouldn’t worry, your legs will look great in that.”

Patrick just flops down onto the couch groaning.

Art laughs again, “what do you think you’re doing? We’ve got tennis to play.”

Patrick looks up at him, eyebrows raised, “what? Right now?”

“When else are we going to have a free house?” Art shrugs.

"Fine," he gets up again, "bet I'll still beat you anyway."

"Not sure you're in a position to be making any more bets," Art grins

They both get changed, Art lets Patrick get dressed in the bathroom, joking about ‘giving him some privacy’. Patrick goes reluctantly, but he doesn’t complain, one thing about Patrick is he’s very loyal to the rules of a bet. Art is having too much fun, it’s maybe a little childish but it’s leftover from when Patrick would always win these type of things, so he thinks he’s allowed to gloat just a little. Patrick would be doing the same in his position.

Art waits for him by the back door, both of their rackets in hand, eager to get going. When Patrick emerges, Art doesn’t even look, not properly, all he can concentrate on is teasing Patrick.

“It’s actually pretty comfortable,” Patrick comments.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll get a nice breeze,” Art just jokes back, “c’mon.”

He holds an arm out, gesturing for Patrick to go out first.

Patrick slips past him out the door, snorting and grabbing the racket from Art’s hand on the way, “chivalry isn’t dead.”

“I pride myself on being a gentleman,” Art watches Patrick give an uneven curtsy.

“Or maybe you want to walk behind so you can look at my ass,” Patrick calls over his shoulder, walking towards the courts.

Art chuckles again but once Patrick has fully turned around and he’s not focusing on being as smug as possible about winning the bet, he finally actually looks. At first he just notices how mismatched the outfit is, the black sleeveless top not going at all with the white of the skirt.

Once his eyes reach the skirt though, he can’t stop looking. It’s something about the way the hem brushes against the back of his thighs, just barely long enough to keep everything covered. If there was a gust of wind or if Patrick bent over, even a little, he would probably be exposed. Something swirls in Art’s stomach.

Nope. This is not going to be a thing. It’s just because he knows they’re not supposed to fuck, and anything forbidden becomes instantly hotter. Or maybe it’s a power thing. Yeah. He’s just getting horny over Patrick losing a bet and being forced to do what Art said. Still, to be careful he avoids looking the rest of the walk down.

He’s concentrating so much on not thinking about it that once they get to the courts he obviously doesn’t hear Patrick asking him a question.

“Hello, Earth to Art,” Patrick’s waving his racket, then smirking, “anything in particular making you so distracted?”

“Nothing, I was just wondering if I should take pity on you,” Art keeps his eyes firmly at Patrick’s face, “how about we just do one game instead?”

Patrick looks at him suspiciously, “oh no, a deal’s a deal, I’ll play the whole set.”

“It’s your funeral,” Art shrugs, mustering up the best performance he can but Patrick is still eyeing him. He forgot how good Patrick is at reading him. It’s really fucking annoying.

Art serves first which should be good because he plays better that way and his serve is a strong point. His first serve is strong, and Patrick has to move quick to hit it back, lunging sideways to reach it. The movement makes the muscles in his thighs tense, fully on show for Art to see.

“0:15,” Patrick calls out.

Art has entirely missed his return. It’s so stupid and it doesn’t even make sense. He’s seen Patrick’s thighs before. He’s literally seen him naked. He’s always worn shorts whilst playing, often incredibly tiny shorts that showed just as much skin as this, and sure the sight of it sometimes turned Art on but never like this.

It’s just new, that’s why, he hasn’t seen Patrick in this before so it’s a little distracting that’s all. It’s fine. This is meant to be Patrick’s punishment for losing.

Art ignores Patrick, just focusing on the ball in his hand and the service box. It works, he hits the ball hard and fast into the top left of the box and Patrick tries and fails to hit back.

“Shit,” Patrick grumbles, swinging his racket in annoyance. He does a quick turn to head back to baseline and the speed makes the fabric of the skirt float up a little. What the fuck is that?

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he can’t help but yell.

“Um, do you have amnesia or something?” Patrick calls back.

“I don’t mean the skirt, I mean,” he gestures with his racket, “what’s underneath it?”

“Oh, yeah, well my boxers were longer than the skirt so I thought I’d just borrow some of your panties instead,” Patrick sways his hips, “much more fitting, don’t you think?”

“They’re not panties, they’re briefs,” he defends, “and you can’t just steal my underwear.”

He doesn’t care about that, he’s just mad about how much it’s getting to him and it’s not like he can yell at Patrick for being too fucking hot right now. No, that would give Patrick too much satisfaction. But really, it’s unfair. The skirt and now the underwear, Art’s underwear that look even tinier when Patrick’s wearing them.

“It’s not stealing, it’s sharing. We already share a toothbrush so I figured it wouldn’t matter,” Patrick shrugs.

“We don’t share a toothbrush,” he snaps but then Patrick’s got this amused look on his face, he’s messing with him, “fuck off.”

“Hey, if it bothers you this much I can always just take the underwear off,” Patrick suggests.

“No,” Art replies quickly, because he wants him to keep wearing the underwear or because he’s scared about what would happen to him if Patrick was fully naked under the skirt, “let’s just keep playing.”

They do keep playing, and Art loses the first game, badly. 15:40. He just can’t focus. His eyes drawn to Patrick, the way the skirt fits, the hem at his legs. This delicate floaty material, and the thick expanse of his thighs, the dark hair against the white of the skirt. He keeps looking, making sure that he’s still covered whilst also desperately hoping to get another glimpse underneath. The game is both slow torture and incredibly quick, he’s not sure he’s ever lost one so fast.

It’s Patrick’s turn to serve now, which is even worse. He throws the ball too high so he has to jump to hit it, which is definitely on purpose. It makes the skirt float up, revealing the tight black underwear again, the bulge definitely bigger now, the fabric straining more. Or maybe Art’s just projecting. Either way he can’t react in time. 15:0.

“Art, you do know you’re supposed to hit the ball back, right?” Patrick mocks, “have you forgotten how to play or is there something on your mind?”

“I’m just tired,” Art gets back into ready position, “probably getting bored because you’re taking so long to serve.”

Patrick grins especially wide and Art gets the sense that he’s messed up, only encouraging Patrick further.

Patrick throws the ball up to serve, but ‘accidentally’ throws it backwards so it lands behind him, rolling to the back of the court, “oops, I better go pick that up.”

For his own sanity Art should look away but he’s not thinking clearly anymore, just watching Patrick reach for the ball. As he bends over the hem rises, first just brushing lightly, exposing a few more inches of skin. Then a brief moment when he fully bends over that Art can see his entire ass, his own underwear against Patrick’s skin.

This is the problem, it’s the perfect in between. Showing enough skin that Art can’t help but be turned on, but also covered enough that Art has to use his imagination. Imagining standing behind him right now, Patrick trying to pull the material back over himself but Art would push it back up, ripping down the underwear and just fucking into him.

“I hope I didn’t show too much, I’d be so embarrassed if you saw my ass just now,” Patrick’s laughing, and Art hadn’t even realised he was stood up again.

“I wasn’t looking,” Art insists and it just makes Patrick chuckle harder.

“Nice grip,” Patrick comments, looking at Art’s hands.

Art looks down himself, both hands on his racket, gripping so tight his knuckles have gone white. He loosens the grip, has to actually shake his hands with how stiff they are from holding that tight.

“Just serve,” Art orders, and Patrick does.

Art loses this game even worse. 40:0. Not a single point.

Patrick tries to serve again, “it’s my fucking serve,” Art snaps, not wanting anything to prolong this stupid bet any longer than necessary. Maybe he should just give up, lose on purpose so it can just be over.

“Oh, my bad, that game was so quick I didn’t realise I’d already won,” Patrick knows exactly what to say to keep Art playing, there’s no way he’s throwing a game against Patrick.

Art tells himself that he’s going to play better this game, and he actually manages another point before he loses his concentration again.

Patrick’s prancing around, enjoying himself too much, talking about how he has “so much more movement in this skirt,” or how it’s just “so breathable.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. This was supposed to be humiliating for Patrick. It should be him embarrassed, and distracted while Art won the set with ease. Patrick unable to hit back, spending the game self-consciously pulling the skirt down and begging Art to take mercy.

Instead, Art’s the one stood all flushed and embarrassingly hard, unable to get more than a couple points. It’s 15:40, and Art’s just hit his first serve into the net. If he misses his second, Patrick will win yet another game.

Patrick is swaying his hips, twisting side to side so the skirt flies up a little, “honestly, I don’t know how people who wear skirts don’t spend the whole time twirling around.”

“I need to serve,” Art tries to say but Patrick either doesn’t hear or just ignores him.

“This is so great, only downside is I can’t tie my shoelaces without giving everyone a show,” he starts to bend down, as if testing out how much he can without the entire skirt riding up.

The side profile is just as bad as being behind, the skirt slowly slipping up, showing more and more of the meat of Patrick’s thigh. Before it can get any higher, Art cuts in.

“Patrick,” he’s aiming for stern but it comes out all pleading, a borderline whine as if begging him to stop.

“Problem?” Patrick is so pleased with himself, but he stops bending over.

“Just get into position,” he just about manages to not add a please to it.

“Which position would you like?” Patrick asks, dripping his words in suggestiveness.

It’s so stupid and so completely the opposite of subtle, even for Patrick’s standards, but it’s like opening Pandora’s box. Like giving permission for his imagination to run wild.

Art can’t take it, all these thoughts rushing to flood his brain. He wants Patrick on his knees, skirt fanning out all pretty across his thighs, eyes all glassy as Art fucks into his mouth. He’d stroke at Patrick’s curls, he’d swipe a thumb under his eye collecting the tears that form when Art pushes down his throat and he starts gagging. Art smiling down at him repeating, ‘it’s okay, I know you can take it’.

Maybe he’ll order Patrick to bend over, hands on the net, and Patrick will be so smug about getting him to finally crack until Art spanks him with his racket, wiping that smirk off his face. The black of Art’s underwear on him, the white of the skirt pushed up, then the pink of his ass. The visual makes him a little dizzy.

Fuck, he could sit in the chair on the sidelines, have Patrick in his lap like earlier. Art would pull himself out of his shorts, push Patrick’s underwear to the side and split Patrick open on his dick. Art would keep a tight arm around him, Patrick’s back pressed tight to Art’s front, holding him up straight as Patrick’s body goes weak with pleasure.

He wouldn’t even fuck him, not properly, he’d just keep him held there, tight and warm around him. The skirt would drape over them both, covering it all, so they could pretend like Patrick was just innocently sitting on his lap. Only they would know that Art’s cock was actually inside him, pressing up against that bundle of nerves. It wouldn’t fool Tashi, not for a second, but maybe she’d get so horny she’d forgive them for breaking her rules.

Or, most humiliating is the way Art kind of just wants to push him down on his back and kiss him all over. Especially his legs. He wants to lick all the way up them, he wants to bite at his thighs, he wants to savor it all. Because Patrick always pisses him off, and Art often gets the urge to shove him down and teach him a lesson. He’s still pissed off now, but this time he’s got this need to make him feel good. Make him moan all pretty as Art shows off his skills, and Patrick’s thighs would be right on either side of his head.

It’s the least filthy idea he’s had this whole time and yet it feels the most embarrassing. This thought swirling in his head where he’s not even thinking about getting himself off. Not right away at least. Just focusing on having Patrick, skirt and all, underneath him, pink all over from pleasure and Art’s the one making him feel that good.

Art’s at his breaking point, he doesn’t care if Patrick is actually ready, physically can’t look at him to check, instead he just serves. The energy thrumming throughout him makes him hit too hard, the ball soars past the service box and Art loses the third game.

“Double fault,” Patrick calls out, overjoyed, “I guess you are tired? Maybe we should take a break?”

“Perfect,” Art mumbles out, making a beeline for one of the chairs at the sidelines.

He slumps down, taking a sip of water and staring straight ahead. He’s aware of Patrick moving next to him but he doesn’t turn, not until he feels Patrick get to the floor out of the corner of his eyes. He’s too curious, and when he looks he sees that Patrick is on all fours. Of course he is.

Instead of sitting on his chair like he’s supposed to, Patrick’s on his hands and knees reaching underneath it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Art has to ask.

“Can’t find my water bottle,” Patrick reaches further under the chair, his back arching making his ass stick out further, skirt riding up. Art’s jaw clenches.

He’s pretty sure Patrick hadn’t even brought a water bottle, and either way, they can both clearly see that there is absolutely nothing under that chair. He can’t even bring himself to yell all this at Patrick.

“Just, take mine,” he snaps, holding it out, “and stop fucking doing that.”

“Thanks, I’m really thirsty,” he gets off all fours, leaning back to rest on his knees instead as he takes the bottle from Art.

Art doesn’t know if this position is better or worse than the last. Patrick tilts his head back, holding the water bottle above himself and squirting it into his mouth. Art watches the movement of his throat as he swallows, and the way some of the water misses his open mouth, dripping past his lips and down his neck. Worse. Definitely worse.

“Can you just sit normally,” Art watches Patrick put down the bottle and start to change position, but Art dreads what would be next so he changes his order, “or actually, how about you don’t sit on the floor at all?”

Art had meant for Patrick to go sit on his own chair, so that Art can just stare ahead and not think about him, and then maybe he can actually calm down. That’s what Art had intended, so of course that’s not what Patrick does.

"Fine, I should stretch anyway," he gets up, walking over to Art and putting a foot up on his chair.

"Patrick," he warns, his hands clenched tight at his sides, trying to ignore how close Patrick’s thigh is to his face.

"I need to put my foot somewhere sturdy," he shrugs, "my hamstrings get tight if I don't stretch."

"Nobody has ever stretched like that," Art's words are lost on Patrick, who ignores them, lunging deeper.

The expanse of his thigh is right next to him, Art’s practically drooling, he wants to get a mouth on him so badly, to just bite at his flesh. He can’t be the one to actually give in, he doesn’t want to give Patrick the satisfaction and he needs to be able to shift the blame for breaking Tashi’s rules.

From this angle it would be so easy to slip a hand up the skirt, feel at Patrick’s crotch, see if he’s as hard as Art is.

Speaking of that, Patrick looks down, “Jesus, no wonder you were playing so bad, that thing looks painful,” he eyes the way Art’s dick strains in his shorts, “I could help with that.”

“You need to stop,” Art’s hanging onto his last threads of restraint.

“That’s another thing about this skirt, it’s great for hiding a boner,” Patrick removes his leg and Art, foolishly, thinks he might actually be relenting.

Instead he returns, this time a knee on either side of Art’s thighs, straddling him. He sits up, hovering above Art's crotch, nothing actually touching Art’s dick yet.

“No grinding, remember,” Art reminds Patrick, so that he can tell Tashi, ‘I told him the rules, he just didn’t care’.

“I’m not,” Patrick says, but he lowers himself so that their crotches are now definitely pressed together.

Art’s hands snap up to grab his waist, holding him still, “don’t.”

“I’m just helping you cover up, look,” he tilts his head down, his skirt draped across both their laps, “perfectly innocent now. Nobody would know any different unless…”

Patrick trails off, his hand reaching for the hem, slowly dragging the fabric of the skirt upwards. It reveals that underneath Patrick definitely is just as hard as Art is, both of them pressed up together.

“Considering breaking any rules yet?” Patrick teases and Art is officially finished.

He moves one hand to the back of Patrick’s upper thigh, just below his ass, and the other to his lower back. Standing up, he once again lifts Patrick with him, and his legs instinctively wrap around Art’s waist.

“Where are we going?” he asks into Art’s ear.

The answer is: not very far. Art is beyond desperate, he makes it a few steps before lowering Patrick down onto the court on his back. Art drapes himself on top, hips fitting between Patrick’s open legs. He finally, finally, brings their mouths together, kissing sloppier than usual.

Patrick just follows, happily licking into Art’s mouth, pulling back briefly to ask, “are we allowed to kiss?”

“Yeah, kissing’s fine,” he says into his mouth.

“You could’ve told me that before,” Patrick bites at his lip.

“I knew you’d take advantage,” Art bites back, a hand slipping up the side of Patrick’s thigh, up under the skirt. Fuck.

“Thought we weren't allowed to touch under clothes?” Patrick asks.

“It’s not like I’m trying to undress you, it’s not my fault if my hand accidentally slips underneath a little,” Art can’t help himself, his hips pressing forwards against Patrick.

“Fair enough,” Patrick chuckles, then adds, “but you definitely said no dry humping.”

“It’s fine as long as we don’t finish,” Art’s making it up as he goes and Patrick nods in agreement, happy to go with however Art wants to bend the rules, as long as he’s the one bending them. Patrick’s pretty much off the hook now and Art can’t even bring himself to care.

He only pulls back when he realises he’s already getting close, and he just said they couldn’t get off like that. It’s fine though, he has other plans. He moves down Patrick’s body, everything speeding up and his mouth is at his knee, licking up and up his leg, stopping before his crotch. He does the same at the other side, then goes for the inner thighs, biting at the flesh. Patrick takes in a sharp inhale.

“Surely that’s not part of the rules,” he comments, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at Art.

“You’re still dressed aren’t you?” Art just raises an eyebrow at him like it’s an obvious point.

“Yeah, I guess it’s fine,” Patrick breathes out.

Art goes further up the thigh, his head now underneath Patrick’s skirt, those thighs either side of his ears. Exactly where he wanted to be. The fabric covers him so that Patrick can’t see when Art suddenly licks a stripe up his dick, over his underwear.

Patrick gasps, “fuck,” then, “what about the no blowjobs rule?”

“It’s not a blowjob. As long as it’s through the underwear, technically my mouth isn’t actually touching you,” Art reasons, and it isn’t a particularly sound argument but neither of them care.

“Makes sense to me,” Patrick agrees.

Art licks again and he feels Patrick relax, laying flat against the court again. God, this is fucking ridiculous. His head up Patrick’s skirt, licking him over his (Art’s) briefs, on the fucking tennis court.

He moves more vigorously, tonguing all over, from his balls up the shaft to the head. He lets himself drool, getting the underwear all wet so it slips against Patrick’s dick even smoother. Patrick’s moaning quietly, shifting his hips, trying to push himself more against Art’s face. He lets Patrick essentially hump his face, keeping up his tonguing movements, occasionally sucking instead.

Then Art sucks at his tip through the material and Patrick gasps again, “shit,” he props himself up, pulling the skirt back to look at Art all desperate, “can’t you just blow me for real?”

“We’ve been following the rules so well, no point stopping now,” Art smiles.

“I know, but I need something more,” Patrick bargains, “c’mon, what about a little fingering? Just slip in one finger, she’ll never know.”

“She’ll be able to tell if we lie,” Art argues, “so if we behave now, then when she asks if we followed her rules we can say yes, and it will be true.”

Well, truer than if Art actually did suck Patrick off properly.

“I know, I just-” Patrick cuts himself off with a moan as Art licks at him again.

“We’ve been so good,” Art keeps licking between speaking, “as long as you keep the underwear on it’s fine. You can finish like this, can’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick breathes out.

“Shouldn’t even be doing this, I just couldn’t help myself, you looked so good,” Art rambles, “the skirt was driving me fucking crazy.”

“Art, please,” not asking for anything in particular, just wanting more.

Art starts sucking through the fabric again, close to the head but not quite. Patrick whines, his hips bucking up.

“You need to be good,” Art reminds him, “you can cum like this.”

This time it isn’t a question, it’s an order, and Patrick manages out an “okay.”

Art presses harder with his tongue, swirling it around the most sensitive part. Patrick’s groaning, breathing quickly.

“I’m close,” he gets out, strained.

Art’s about to praise him but he can feel Patrick bringing a hand down, trying to get into his own underwear and touch himself. Art intercepts it, grabbing it and holding it down against the court.

“What happened to being good?” Art asks.

“I’m almost there, I don’t know if I can,” he’s squirming, trying to get friction.

“You can,” Art assures, sucking again, “tell me you can.”

“I can.”

Art focuses on licking at the tip again, it has Patrick thrusting up against him uncontrollably, and moaning louder. He switches to sucking, hard, directly at the head and now Patrick whines.

“Fuck, Art, shit,” his hips trying to move away from the intense feeling at the same time they try to press further into it, “I’m so close, I’m there, I’m going to-”

“You gonna cum?” he asks, a little smug, “you gonna be good, and finish in your panties for me?”

“Yes, yeah,” Patrick nods furiously, “for you.”

“Good girl,” spills out of Art, and then he’s bringing the tip back in his mouth. He sucks and swirls his tongue around it, and Patrick is moaning, his hips stuttering as they thrust up in sudden shock and pleasure.

Art feels a wet warmth spread across the fabric as Patrick orgasms.

He pulls back, observing his work. Patrick's chest rising up and down, quickly. He's flushed all pink, hair sticking to his forehead. He can see the way Patrick's underwear are damp with his own cum and Art's spit.

The sight is almost enough to make him forget what he just said. Almost. He feels himself turn pink, hot all over.

"What the fuck," Patrick flings an arm over his face, still breathing heavy, and Art's slightly worried he's crossed some sort of line.

Then Art watches a smile spread across his face, Patrick peaks out from behind his arm, grinning, "so you admit they're panties?"

Art laughs in relief, "fuck off," then looks Patrick up and down, "they are when you wear them."

He lifts himself up to sit properly, staring at Art's lap, "want me to help you get off?"

Art considers for a second, but if he rambled that embarrassingly just from getting Patrick off, he's scared of what he'd say if he was about to come himself.

"I shouldn't," he decides, "and you should probably shower, get rid of the evidence."

"Why do I need to hide anything, I thought you said this was all above board?" Patrick smirks.

"It was," Art defends, standing up and reaching a hand out to help Patrick, "but it's not going to look very innocent, that's all."

Patrick takes it, letting Art drag him into a standing position, laughing, "didn't feel very innocent either."

Art shrugs, feeling a little more relaxed now he's at least partially got it out of his system. He's still hard but once he has a cold shower he'll calm down.

They decide to use the shower in the clubhouse next to the court. It's a small building, basically an oversized shed, with a few lockers, a bench, and a smattering of spare tennis equipment. It only has one shower, and they usually just head back to the house to clean up.

It feels more convenient to use it this time, to get Patrick cleaned up and Art calmed down before they grab all their stuff to head back to the house.

Patrick tries to lure Art into the shower with him, "it's so much more efficient to do it together, and better for the environment. Do you even care about the polar bears at all?" but Art knows it's a test of temptation that he would definitely fail.

Maybe if he can go without an orgasm he'll be able to twist the blame on Patrick still. If the need arises. Hopefully they can head back to the house and be waiting innocently on the couch when Tashi returns, so neither of them will have to take the blame for anything.

Patrick hasn't mentioned what Art said, maybe he didn't hear it and Art's certainly not going to ask him about it.

He sits on the bench, facing away from Patrick showering because he's meant to be calming down. Except now he's thinking about it. Good girl. And Patrick coming right after. Where the fuck did that even come from?

Art had almost finished himself, his hips pressing against the rough of the court. It was kind of humiliating, that he got off on it so much. He hadn't even intended to say it. A familiar combination of shame and arousal swirl together in his stomach.

That fucking skirt.

He never should've made that bet.

It's just he didn't anticipate getting so worked up. He can't let Patrick wear that again. He also can't go without it. He got one thing out of his system but his head is still brimming with ideas.

He's supposed to be calming down but his dick strains as hard as ever against his shorts. Jerking off should be fine right? If he has no contact with Patrick whilst he's doing it? It might be bad for his health to hold it in, Tashi can't be mad at him for caring about his health, right?

Yeah, it makes enough sense in his head that he's already bringing a hand over his crotch, sighing in relief.

Patrick turns the water off, and Art hears him step out.

Patrick could always help out as visual aid, as long as he doesn't touch Art. The skirt is still here, and really it's only fair Art gets to cum too.

"Maybe I should get off," he voices, "it might be suspicious if I'm hornier than you are."

Patrick snorts like he knows it's bullshit, but he indulges nonetheless, "I wish you'd said this before I showered but sure, that sounds right to me. What can I do for you?"

"You can't touch me but maybe I can just look at you?" Art suggests, uncertain, still pressing himself over his shorts.

"You want me to just stand here while you stare at me and jerk off?" Patrick laughs in amusement, "oh, Art, I'm flattered."

"Not just stand there, I thought maybe you could put it back on?" He asks, hopeful and trying to hide his shame.

"Put what back on?" Patrick plays dumb.

Art groans, "the fucking skirt, and you know that's what I meant."

Patrick grins, reaching for the skirt where he'd chucked it on the floor unceremoniously.

"Well, I'm not putting those panties back on, so it will have to be commando this time," Patrick tells him, stepping into the skirt and pulling it up, zipping once it's around his waist.

"That's fine, that's, yeah, fine," Art struggles out, rubbing harder at himself and he needs more, "it's fine to touch ourselves, don't you think?"

"You know the rules, you do what feels right," Patrick just shrugs, not giving Art the easy way out.

He tries to just keep touching himself over the fabric but Patrick is there, only in the skirt and it's setting him alight again. For some reason the skirt feels more scandalous than just staring at him fully naked.

Art finally pulls himself out of his shorts, precum dripping from his neglected dick. Patrick eyes it appreciatively.

"Should I be posing for you?" Patrick asks, half joking.

"Stand with your hands against the wall," Art says too quick, knowing exactly what he wants.

Patrick looks delightfully surprised at how fast he answers, and about how specific he is. He follows the order with a grin, turning to the wall of lockers, resting his hands against them, slightly bent as he sticks his ass out.

Fuck. That was a bad idea.

Before his brain catches up, Art finds himself behind Patrick.

"I'm still not touching," Art reassures, even though Patrick hadn't asked.

He stands an inch behind him, dick in hand, staring at the way the skirt falls over his ass. He strokes himself slowly, trying to keep his distance. God, he wants to push the skirt up and jerk off until he comes all over Patrick's skin and the skirt at the same time.

He slides his hand up and down his shaft a little faster, “want to cum all over your ass like this.”

Patrick hums, “and that’s allowed?”

“It’s not like we’re doing anything to each other. You’re standing and I’m jerking off, two separate things,” Art explains, “if when I cum, it accidentally lands on you, we can’t blame ourselves. You want it don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes out, “still wish you hadn’t made me shower first.”

“Hmm, you are really clean right now,” Art looks him over, skin still damp from the spray of water.

“And you want to dirty me up again, right?” Patrick teases.

Art does. Badly. He wants to get him all filthy. He also wants something else. Art's mouth is watering again. And Patrick had just showered. He's so clean right now.

He moves a little closer.

"You just said no touching," he smirks at Art over his shoulder.

"I won't," Art promises, "not with my hands."

He lowers himself to his knees, slowly.

"What are you doing?" Patrick's breath hitches.

"It's fine, I'm only using my mouth, and you already came so you're not getting off," Art justifies, reaching a hand to push the skirt up.

"Right," Patrick nods, "except you are literally using your hands right now."

"It's fine as long as I'm not touching your dick or fingering you, and you've got the skirt on so you're basically dressed," Art's definitely waffling at this point.

"I'm starting to think you might not actually understand these rules," Patrick teases, "the excuses are getting real flimsy, dude."

"Who fucking cares?" Art finally gives in, bringing one hand to his own dick as his other goes to Patrick's ass, spreading him open so he can get his tongue at Patrick's rim.

Patrick moans in shock, swearing under his breath. Art swirls his tongue around his hole, jerking himself off at the same time. He doesn't know what it is about the skirt, but it makes him have this crazy urge to get his mouth on Patrick any way he can. Suddenly becoming the hottest thing he can imagine, just pushing the skirt away as he rims Patrick underneath it.

“Fuck, you never do this,” Patrick sighs.

“Yes, I do,” Art pulls back to reply, a little indignantly.

“Not like this,” and Patrick’s sort of right.

Art has done this a few times, got his mouth on Patrick’s hole, but usually as a way to tease him. To get Patrick worked up before he fucks him, if he’s feeling like he wants to drag it out. If Tashi wants to make Patrick squirm, she’ll direct Art into it as she touches Patrick everywhere except where he really wants.

This is different. He doesn’t even have a goal in mind. It’s not like Patrick's going to get that desperate since he already finished recently. It’s just Art couldn’t fucking help himself. Without thought he just wanted to sink to his knees and taste him, make Patrick feel good just because.

“You don’t have to,” Patrick tells him, “might be a while before I finish.”

“I know,” he does, and he doesn’t care, “I just want to, need to.”

He licks fervently, a circle around then presses in with the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck,” Patrick gasps out, not quite hard yet but Art’s sure he’s on his way.

Art keeps going, tonguing in and out, pushing past the tight ring of muscle.

“Art,” Patrick is shaky, “I don’t think we can justify this one to Tashi.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Art repeats, giving him a bite to the ass, “she won’t know.”

“I think that’s the wrong answer,” a voice calls out and Art falls backwards trying to move away from Patrick, tucking his dick back in his shorts even though it’s too late.

“Shit,” Patrick removes his hands from the wall, turning to the doorway, “Tashi.”

She’s standing there, hands on hips, looking fucking gorgeous, obviously. She’s got a navy dress on, it’s one of the more casual ones in her collection, it buttons down the front and the hem sits just below the knee.

“Who’s responsible for all this then?” she glares between them both.

Patrick doesn’t say anything but Art immediately defends, “it was Patrick.”

He turns to look down at Art, “you fucking snake.”

He can’t feel too guilty, it’s not like Patrick had been silent out of loyalty to Art, it’s just that he was never as bothered about defending himself, never really trying that hard to get out of trouble. Often wanting to do the opposite, in fact.

“Snake, yes,” Tashi speaks slow, looking at Art, “and a fucking liar too.”

“I’m not,” Art tries and it makes Tashi laugh.

“Really, because from where I was standing it seemed like Patrick was the one who had enough sense to think about the rules, even with your tongue in his ass,” Art can see Patrick grin a little at Tashi’s words, “meanwhile, you were the one saying ‘who fucking cares?’”

Shit. Had she been standing there that long?

Art can’t even say anything, just sitting there, boner tenting his shorts still.

“Although, I’m sure he’s not entirely innocent either,” Tashi walks over to Patrick, feeling at the skirt, “why are you wearing this?”

“I lost a bet,” Patrick shrugs at her, amused now that the surprise has worn off.

“Why do I get the feeling that you made a bet that you would purposely lose, because you knew he’d cave seeing you in a skirt?” Tashi says to Patrick.

He smirks, “no, I wish I'd thought of it but this was also all him.”

Tashi for a moment seems impressed, looking at him vaguely proudly before her face shifts back to stern.

“That’s two strikes, Art. You’re not doing very well today, are you?” she tilts her head at him, “what did you think you were going to achieve by intentionally sabotaging yourself?”

“I didn’t mean to, I thought it would be funny, I didn’t realise it would make me so…” he trails off, “I just wanted to embarrass him.”

“Right, because Patrick is famously easy to embarrass,” she snorts, and she’s absolutely right, he doesn’t know what was going through his head to think that Patrick would actually feel any type of shame from wearing a skirt, “and you seriously thought you wouldn’t get turned on by it? Are you stupid or just lying again?”

Art just ducks his head, face flushed.

Patrick laughs, “I think he was genuinely surprised about how horny he got.”

She looks down at the skirt again, thumbing the fabric, “so, what exactly were the rules for this punishment?”

“Loser has to wear it for one full set,” Patrick informs, letting her play with the material.

“And how far did you get?” Tashi asks, knowing that there was no way they actually managed it.

“Three games before Art was shoving me down on the tennis court and having his way with me,” Patrick grins, and Tashi’s eyes light up too.

She eyes Art again, “so you can’t even follow your own rules, huh?”

Art still doesn’t know what to say other than, “I tried.”

Tashi ignores it, “and you’re telling me that you’d already disobeyed me by fucking before that little scene I walked in on.”

“We didn’t technically fuck,” Patrick starts.

“We were good, we followed the rules,” Art interjects.

Tashi looks to Patrick for confirmation, he nods, “yeah, we were fully clothed, no touching, just his mouth.”

“I’m pretty sure I banned blowjobs,” she raises an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t a blowjob, I had underwear on the whole time,” Patrick smiles wide, “and Art didn’t even cum.”

“Jesus Christ,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, and looks over at Art, “and you still haven’t cum yet?”

He shakes his head and she nods in approval.

“That’s good,” Tashi thinks for a moment, “I think you should both finish the bet.”

“What?” Art asks from the floor.

“A chance for you to redeem yourself, prove that you can stick to your word,” she watches his blank face, “c’mon get up.”

He scrambles up quickly, still uncertain, “are you sure?”

“Yep,” she says, curtly, turning to Patrick, “you get dressed, and then both of you get out there and finish playing the full set.”

Patrick grabs the shirt he’d been wearing earlier, putting it on immediately, “alright.”

Tashi eyes his skirt, “when I say ‘get dressed’, that includes underwear.”

“Well, mine are kind of ruined from earlier,” he looks way too pleased with himself, “I’m happy to go without.”

She shakes her head, biting her lip, “no, you really should wear underwear with a skirt like that.”

Then Tashi does something which makes Art’s entire brain short circuit. She reaches under her dress, pulling down her panties, stepping out of them gracefully as she takes them off. She holds them out to Patrick, “here, you can borrow mine.”

What the fuck.

Art gets at least some satisfaction from the way Patrick seems just as affected as he is, Patrick stumbling on his words, “I, how, what?”

“Go on, you put them on the same as any other pair of underwear,” she’s smiling big, extremely pleased with their reactions, slightly condescending in her tone.

“Are they going to fit?” Art asks, and it feels like his ears are ringing with how dizzy it’s making him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she faces Patrick, “you’ll make it work, yeah?”

He nods at her, still in a slight daze. Taking the pair and stepping into them, he’s not as graceful as Tashi, needing to put an arm against the wall for balance. He manages to get them on but the skirt covers them before Art can get a proper look.

“Show us,” Art can’t stop himself saying.

“Not yet,” Tashi orders, and Art sighs.

He tries to imagine it. The pair isn’t Tashi’s tiniest or the most lacy in her collection, they’re what she would consider casual, but Art would still call sexy. They’re navy, matching her dress, the front is made of cotton which is a good thing, much more forgiving to stretch over Patrick’s cock. God, he must be straining against it still. The material covering his ass is lace, just about see through. Art can’t fucking do this.

Tashi is walking to the doorway, Patrick following, but Art just stays planted still.

“Tashi,” he pleads, “I can’t.”

She looks back at him, not giving him any pity, just smiling at him, “you can, and you will.”

In other words: you made your bed, now lie in it.

Standing on the other side of the net from Patrick feels even worse than before. He was already horny beyond belief before even stepping foot on the court and now he’s got Tashi sat on the sidelines watching them both. Patrick seems to have recovered from the shock and is now back to moving around the court like he fucking owns it. Like he’s never felt hotter.

Art feels like he blacks out the entire first game, Patrick is serving and he’s trying to hit back but honestly he’s not sure he’s even on the planet anymore. He keeps getting glimpses of the blue lace under the skirt. It had felt impossible when it was Patrick wearing his briefs, but it being Tashi’s panties is infinitely worse.

Again he needs to bend Patrick over, push the panties to the side and fuck him. He needs to get under Tashi’s dress and eat her out. He can’t work out the logistics of it, how he can fuck Patrick whilst also having Tashi in his mouth. Maybe if he lays down on his back, Patrick could ride him and Tashi could sit on his face? But then he wouldn’t be able to see Patrick in a skirt falling apart on his dick. He wants and needs and can’t have.

Patrick in panties. Patrick in Tashi’s clothes. Patrick in lace. Tashi sat with nothing on under her dress.

He can’t breathe. He needs to be put down.

The score is 40:0, and Patrick’s throwing the ball up to serve.

Art tries, he really does, he actually manages to hit the ball but it sails right into the net. Patrick wins another game.

“Nice form,” Tashi is calling out at him.

“Thought you hated my serve,” Patrick raises an eyebrow at her.

“I do,” she very obviously rakes her eyes up and down Patrick’s body, biting her lip as part of her performance. It’s a stupid innuendo. Art’s dick twitches.

They both grin at each other. How can they be so playful about this while Art feels like he’s going to bite a hole through his cheek.

“You’re a real pervert, you know that?” Patrick points his racket at her in a joking accusation.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she shrugs, slouching back in the chair, spreading her legs wider, keeping her eyes on Patrick.

“See how she objectifies me,” Patrick’s addressing him, but Art can’t possibly respond, he just stands there looking between them like a deer in the headlights. It makes them both laugh.

“Woah, it really is that bad,” Tashi tilts her head at him in amusement, “it’s your serve, Art.”

He nods, taking a ball from his pocket. He can do this. He clings onto the guise of playing a tennis match like a lifeline. Just think about tennis. Nothing else.

He plays minutely better, but still loses, 30:40 this time. He probably only gets those points because now Patrick’s distracted too, trying to catch a glimpse up Tashi’s dress.

Patrick’s up to serve again, and if he wins this game it will all be over. Art will be put out of his misery. He’ll also lose to Patrick, six games to his zero.

Again he tries to pull it together, and Tashi’s been calling out to him too, encouraging him. Except it doesn’t work because everytime he looks over at her he just starts thinking about how she doesn’t have any panties on. Then when he looks away he’s got Patrick in front of him, making him think about how Patrick does have panties on. It’s honestly torturous.

He manages to get it together for one second, remembering Patrick’s backhand is a little weaker than his forehand. He hits a ball to Patrick’s left, and it works because his backhand isn’t precise enough, and the ball flies out as he hits it too hard. 40:15.

Tashi must notice what he’s done, she gives him a little nod of approval.

“Patrick, I want you to win on a backhand,” she calls out to him, “you’ll get a treat if you do.”

Fuck, okay. If Patrick wins the next point, he’s won the set. If he wins it with a backhand, he’ll also get a reward. Art has to at least try to stop it.

Patrick serves, and Art puts all the will he has left into hitting it back. It’s a powerful shot, it flies towards the back corner on Patrick’s right. He’d have to run pretty fast to get it anyway, and he’ll definitely have to be fast if he wants to make it a backhand.

Inexplicably, Patrick manages it, darting sideways quick enough to get on the other side of the ball, hitting a backhand. The speed of his movement and the force of him skidding to a stop makes the skirt fly up. Art is fucked. The ball soars towards him, just about making it over the net, landing in before bouncing right past Art. It’s over.

He watches Patrick drop his racket, turning to face Tashi, bowing to her. She grins, beckoning him with her finger. Art just watches.

Patrick stands in front of Tashi, she smiles at him, “give me a twirl.”

He snorts, but does it, spinning around so the skirt fans out, “cute,” Tashi comments.

Cute is one word for it. Art has the urge to start gnawing at Patrick’s leg.

“So what’s my treat?” Patrick asks, and Tashi spreads her legs wider, pulling up the material of her dress a little further.

He gets the idea, lowering himself to his knees. Art watches Patrick kiss up Tashi’s legs, pressing his lips at the soft brown of her inner thigh. He doesn’t know who he wants to be more. To have his lips against Tashi or to have Patrick’s against his own thighs. Or maybe he wants a secret third thing (to plow into Patrick from behind and watch as he eats Tashi out).

Art grinds his teeth, making himself ask, “can I?”

He doesn’t ask for anything specific. Doesn’t know what he’s allowed. Just wants something.

“You can watch, for now,” Tashi gestures for him to come closer.

For now. He can work with that.

Art doesn’t know where to stand, next to Tashi so he can look down at the sight of Patrick on his knees? No. He moves behind, getting to look at Patrick’s ass, and to see Tashi’s face.

Patrick adjusts his position, leaning forward into Tashi so he’s more on all fours than just his knees, except his hands grab at her outer thighs pulling her cunt closer to his mouth. When he finally gets a tongue on her, her eyes flutter shut for a second, before opening to look at Art. Again he’s paralysed with making a decision. He can’t pick where to look.

He eyes Tashi’s face, relaxing with pleasure. Then trails down to Patrick’s head buried between her thighs, and then down again. The whole reason he’s in this predicament in the first place.

The skirt does nothing to cover him up now, and Art stares at the lace clothing his ass, also not doing much to keep Patrick’s skin hidden. From this angle he can see the way Patrick’s dick spills out of the fabric.

Art’s fists clench at either side, not allowed to do anything but stare. He enjoys watching a bit, it’s an infuriatingly arousing view, but that’s the problem. His patience has already been worn down to knife’s edge, he’s spent all afternoon inundated with arousing views.

Tashi must see the desperate look on his face but she doesn’t say anything, she just puts a leg over Patrick’s shoulder, and a hand on the back of his head. She sighs at the new angle.

It’s Patrick who takes pity on him, without even seeing his face.

He pulls back from Tashi to ask, “can Art join?” and when she hums uncertainly he adds, “he did come up with the skirt idea.”

Tashi looks at Art, then down at the skirt, then up again, “yeah, alright, he can join.”

Art moves quick, getting to his knees behind Patrick. He’s about to pull his shorts down when Tashi stops him

“What are you doing?” she asks and he just stares at her blankly. He doesn’t really know, other than that he needs his dick to touch something right fucking now, “did you think you were going to fuck him? We don’t even have any lube. And did you think you’ve earned that?”

“I don’t know,” he sounds desperate but he’s given up caring.

“Keep it in your pants,” she orders, “you’re allowed to dry hump and that’s it.”

He furrows his eyebrows at her, and she gets stern, “don’t give me that look. You’re lucky I’m allowing anything.”

Fine. It’s something at least. And he can grab Patrick’s ass as much as he likes. He does just that, rubbing his hand over it, feeling the lace, and the warmth of his skin. He brings his hands to Patrick’s hips and presses his crotch against him. Sighing in relief at the pressure against his dick, imagining that he was actually sinking inside him right now.

He can hear the sounds of Patrick’s tongue lapping at Tashi’s pussy, it makes him thrust his hips forward. The movement pushing Patrick forward too, and Art can’t stop thrusting against him.

“Art,” Tashi scolds, “stop that.”

“I can’t,” he scowls and she glares at him, he slows down, “fine.”

He grips Patrick’s hips tight, probably leaving fingerprints, keeping Patrick still as he rubs against him. Still thrusting but now Patrick doesn’t move with him.

He could probably cum like this, could do it very easily. It just doesn’t feel fair. Yes he broke some rules but he never even got to finish from any of it, so really, doesn’t he deserve a bit more than to pathetically hump at Patrick’s ass.

Tashi’s letting out more and more sighs, and he can hear Patrick moaning against her, trying to push back against Art, fighting against his strong grip.

“C’mon Tashi, he clearly wants me to fuck him,” Art pleads.

“And whose fault is it that you can't?” she asks with an arched brow, “if you had prepared then maybe you would’ve brought lube down here.”

“I’ll go and get some now,” he bargains, although he’s not sure he could pry himself away.

“No, you don’t deserve it, you broke the rules,” she smiles, mean, “if you had behaved then maybe you would be inside him right now.”

“If I had behaved, we wouldn’t even be in this position in the first place,” he snaps.

Tashi doesn’t say anything back because it’s sort of true. If Art had been good there would be no skirt. No tennis court sex at all tonight.

Patrick pulls back, “just one finger, I need something.”

“Fine,” Tashi relents, bringing his head back against her.

She gives Art the go ahead with her eyes, and he’s sucking at his own finger, wetting it. He stops humping to pull the blue panties to the side, circling the damp finger before pushing in.

Patrick groans, and the vibration of it makes Tashi moan quietly too. Art keeps pumping the finger in and out, still humping at Patrick, but just more at his thigh now rather than his ass. It’s better than how he pictured it, Patrick dressed like this, clenching around his finger and moaning into Tashi’s cunt.

Patrick doubles his efforts, licking at her faster, and Art can tell she’s getting close. He’s just so good like this, taking Art and pleasing Tashi. He can tell that Patrick wants more from the way he’s pushing back on Art’s finger. Tashi’s eyes flutter shut from pleasure, and Art takes the opportunity to slip another finger into Patrick. He would've gotten away with it if Patrick didn't let out this loud, surprised, moan.

Tashi’s eyes open, first looking down at Patrick, then at Art. He smiles at her innocently, but she notices the two fingers now pumping inside Patrick.

“Did I say you were allowed to do that?” she asks, rhetorically.

“He just looks so good, he deserved it, I could tell he needed it,” Art defends, not stopping his fingering.

Art’s a little shocked when Tashi laughs.

“God, what is it about this skirt? It’s got you misbehaving, and it’s got Patrick being good,” she strokes a hand through his curls.

Art raises an eyebrow, because Patrick hasn’t exactly been good. Just better than Art.

Tashi smiles, correcting herself, “alright, well it makes you want to treat him like he’s good anyway.”

Yeah. Yeah that’s exactly it.

Patrick must start sucking at her clit because she’s making these telltale signs that she’s close, her hand gripped tight in his hair.

She grinds her hips up against his face, “fuck, makes you want to call him a good girl,” then she’s shoving Patrick’s face against her, trembling as she comes.

Oh fuck. It takes everything in him not to come too. Tashi breathes out, slumping against the chair, almost boneless.

Tashi pulls Patrick away from her before she gets overstimulated, resting his head against her thigh. Patrick grins, “you guys really are similar.”

“What?” Tashi looks between them both, this alert searching look she gets when she’s missing information, Art stays silent so she looks down at Patrick again, “I don’t get it.”

Art fucks his fingers into Patrick faster, hoping to stop him talking, he moans but carries on.

“Art called me that too,” he says all smug, “turned bright red after.”

Art flushes.

“Yeah, he looks pretty red right now too,” Tashi gives him this delighted look, “this skirt thing really has you fucked, huh?” which is unfair considering she’d also said the same thing.

“Patrick’s the one who came immediately when I said it,” Art argues.

“That’s not a shock, I’m only human,” Patrick chuckles, “what’s interesting is how much the two of you apparently want me to be your good girl.”

He wonders if Tashi feels as embarrassed as he does. Probably not.

“Art you can take your dick out,” Tashi’s telling him, and he wastes no time removing his fingers from Patrick and pulling his shorts and underwear down at once.

“Look, I can take a lot, but there’s no way I can take Art’s dick right now without some lube or a hell of a lot more stretching,” Patrick jokes.

“He’s not going to fuck you, I just want him to come on you,” both boys moan a little, “knew you’d like that.”

Art doesn’t know what to do with himself now he can actually touch his dick against Patrick, he just grabs his hips rubbing his length on him. Already so close.

“You can touch yourself too, Patrick,” Tashi strokes at his hair, and Art watches Patrick reach into his underwear, pulling himself out.

He starts stroking himself quickly, “I’m almost there, already.”

“That’s okay, you’ve been so good already,” Tashi says sweetly and it makes Art shiver when she says good, on edge and full of shame, “I think Art’s close too.”

She just keeps talking, “look how pretty Patrick is for you, how he presents himself for you,” she says to Art, “what else can he do to get you to come?”

“I don’t know,” Art can barely think, reaching a hand around himself now.

“Arch your back a little more, Patrick,” she orders, and Patrick does, sticking his ass out even more, “and do you want him to come at the same time as you?”

Art nods frantically, not really understanding why Tashi's giving him what he wants all of a sudden.

“C’mon Patrick, you’ve got to hurry up if you want to come at the same time,” she leans down to whisper, but Art can still hear, “I know Art’s the one losing his mind but don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you get off on it too.”

"I get off on the fact that me wearing a skirt and panties gets you both off so much," he insists.

"Right, you get nothing out of this," She smirks down at him, "doesn't affect you at all to think about Art coming on you while you're in my lacy underwear, and a fucking mini skirt."

Patrick moans pressing his face into Tashi's thigh.

"I should buy you your own set, I think you'd like that, maybe get Art to pick it out" she then looks up at Art, "Patrick would wear it for you, he'd be so good."

And Art gets what Tashi's doing. She's trying to get him to say it. Art's not going to, he has a different idea instead.

"You guys are fucking obsessed with getting me in girls underwear," Patrick manages to say, "think Art would die if I had a whole outfit on."

"No, I'd be ready next time," Art keeps jerking himself, now determined, "I'd fuck you properly, and Tashi would get her strap and she'd fuck you too."

Patrick groans again and Tashi's eyes snap up to meet Art's, an understanding passing between them.

"I think you're the one that's obsessed, Patrick," Tashi looks down at him, "we could do it just like this, except I'd shove my dick down your throat while Art takes you from behind."

Patrick bites at Tashi's thigh.

Art lets go of himself, reaching around to replace Patrick's hand with his own, jerking him off. He can't bite at her anymore, his mouth falling open.

"We'd ruin you, ruin all your outfits and keep buying more," he leans himself over Patrick, jerking him off and grinding at his ass again, "and you'd let us, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Patrick moans into Tashi's lap, "gonna come."

"Art are you close too?" Tashi checks.

"Yeah, just want him to finish first, won't come on him until he does," Art keeps stroking.

"Patrick, you want to come?" She asks him.

"Already fucking said I did," Patrick grumbles out.

"Come on, don't be rude, I know you want to be good," she strokes his hair, "say it to me."

Patrick keeps his mouth shut.

"Patrick I'm going to stop touching you if you don't say it," Art warns, slowing down his movements.

"Want to be good," he mumbles into Tashi's thigh, it's a start but not quite what they want.

Art speeds up again, looking at Tashi, she whispers to Patrick, "a good what?"

He groans, shaking his head as much as he can in this position.

"C'mon Patrick, I know you want to finish, I can get you over the edge if you just tell us what you are," he squeezes Patrick's dick not moving his hand.

Patrick still doesn't speak, so Art swipes a thumb over his tip, it's too sensitive and Patrick moans but he won't come from it, not without Art jerking him at the same time.

Tashi watches with a grin, as Art swipes again making him whine. It's too much.

"What are you?" Tashi asks, and Art thumbs the head once more.

Patrick whimpers, then "I'm a good girl," he gasps out, and Art immediately resumes jerking.

Patrick thrusts forwards, spurting all over Art's hands, drooling in Tashi's lap as he trembles with it.

Art brings the hand, covered in Patrick's fluid to his own dick. He pushes up the skirt a little, then it only takes a few swipes and he's coming. White ropes shooting over the skirt, the lace underwear, and Patrick's ass.

"Fuck," Art gasps out, the sight of it all sending another wave of pleasure through him, a little more dripping out of him onto the blue panties.

Art falls back catching his breath, and Patrick just stays with his head against Tashi. Probably hiding his face. There are some things which still embarrass him.

Him and Patrick both breathe deeply for a while, Tashi looking pleased with her work.

She eventually breaks the silence, "what was the bet even about?"

Patrick mumbles out, "I don't remember anymore."

Art laughs, "it was about Jaws."

"Movie mashup?" Tashi asks.

"Yeah," Art smiles, "honest to God, we were just going to watch a movie while we waited for you."

Tashi laughs too, "we should watch one now."

"Mashup on three?" Patrick lifts his head up finally, then counts down, "1...2...3..."

Patrick picks Rocky, Art goes for Little Shop of Horrors, and Tashi lands on Bride of Frankenstein.

It's a weird selection, with a somewhat perfect mashup.

"Rocky Horror Picture Show?" Tashi suggests.

"It is on theme," Art snorts.

"Yeah, maybe we can get some inspiration for Patrick's next outfit," Tashi teases and Patrick groans.

"This is unfair, does nobody remember how embarrassing it was that Art got so horny he forgot how to play tennis?" Patrick complains.

"No, all I remember is you calling yourself a good girl and drooling in my lap over a handjob," Tashi jokes.

Art enjoys the fact that the teasing is off him for now, even though he knows he's probably never going to be able to live down the worst set of tennis he's ever played in his life.

All because he thought it would be funny to force Patrick to wear a skirt.

They put on the movie, but end up falling asleep on the couch before it's over. Patrick goes first and before Art drifts off himself he can practically see the cogs turning in Tashi's head, plotting something.

He can't help but feel they've both given her a secret weapon, a cheat code to get them under her thumb. He smiles to himself as he's pulled into deep sleep.

----

an: um. idk what the hell just happened guys. sorry about this one, hope you enjoyed :) part 2 with tashi buying patrick some proper lingerie.... I will start working on that

#truly cannot understand the length of this one!!!#im starting to overthink this so im just posting it. can't look at it anymore #i did have a lot of joy writing this though... of course i did it's patrick in a skirt #and i love art's insane brain yayy #challengers #throuple #smut #fic #starts out artrick then ends throuple #don't worry. i would never leave out tashii

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slut4thebroken · 4 months ago

Text

Va Va Voom

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Emmett x reader

Summary | “Cause I know he got a wife at home, but I need just one night alone.”

Warnings | Smut, cheating (lmaoo sorry, Nora), sloppy toppy (obviously), deep throating, face fucking, gagging, throat pie, riding, multiple orgasms, vibrator, emotional manipulation??, creampie, reader isn’t necessarily dominant but she’s definitely very confident.

Words | 3.5 k

Notes | Idk everytime I’ve listened to this song I’ve wanted to write a fic inspired by it lol so here it is.

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Also I think I’ve always subconsciously thought of Emmett for this song because I have an edit of him saved with it😭 but like Cillian or Tommy were also options and I almost went with Cillian because of “cause he look like a superstar in the makin” and “cause it look like he modelin' clothes in Dublin” but idk I just don’t think he’d literally ever cheat skdhsk

You weren’t stupid— you could see the ring on his left hand, clear as day. While you may not have been stupid, you’ve always been bold…

Which is how you found yourself beside Emmett, nursing your second cocktail while he drank his beer. Originally he was watching the game on the tv, but now he was engaged in conversation with you… doing his best not to stare at your tits…

“So, what are you doing here all alone anyway? I don’t think I asked yet.”

“I usually go to the bar after work on Fridays.”

“I see… There’s no one waiting for you at home then?” You already knew the answer, but you asked anyway.

“No- uh,” he said, clearing his throat almost uncomfortably, “my wife and two boys are home.”

“Ah.” You nodded, taking another sip of your drink. “Are they young?”

“Five and seven.”

“Wow. I don’t blame you for coming here after such a long day at work. Must be pretty stressful going home to that.” You were purposefully trying to empathize with him, laying the groundwork for your eventual proposal.

“I know my wife probably needs the help, but.. it’s just…”

“I get it.” You smiled. “It’s not selfish to indulge in some pleasure for yourself every once in a while. You deserve a break too.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, taking another sip of his beer, “pleasure is hard to come by these days.” He muttered. It almost seemed like the words slipped out before he even realized what he was saying.

“I’m sure it is. Two boys sounds exhausting— and on top of that you’re working all day?” You shook your head in disapproval. “If I were married, I’d never let my husband feel so neglected.”

“She’s not… like that.” He said, almost reluctantly.

“No? When’s the last time you’ve fucked her?” He seemed caught off guard by your sudden boldness. Based on his expression alone, you could already tell what his answer was.

“She’s tired from taking care of the boys, okay? It’s not…” he sighed quietly. “We would if we both had the energy.”

You hummed in acknowledgment and brought your drink up to your lips again. “Is she your age?”

“Only a few years younger.”

“Ah… Now it’s all making sense. I don’t blame her for being so tired.” You gave him a sympathetic look, but you couldn’t quite read his expression. “I don’t know… I’d hate myself if my husband was so unsatisfied— whether it was or wasn’t my fault.” He looked away and cleared his throat again. “You know what both of you probably need?”

“A vacation?” He scoffed a laugh, but you moved past his response quickly, knowing you were finally getting close.

“Too much planning and effort.” You said dismissively. “I’m sure someone younger— someone with more energy— would be exactly what you need. Same for her.”

“We’re not in an open marriage.” Was all he said.

“I wasn’t implying you should be. But every once in a while, you should be allowed to feel taken care of. Wouldn’t you want her to feel that way?”

“Would I want her to cheat on me? No.” He scoffed. You stared at him for a moment, then looked away and finished the rest of your drink. He almost seemed disappointed when you called the bartender over for your check. After you signed it, you grabbed a napkin and wrote down your address, then slid it over to him.

“If you change your mind, I’ll still be up for a while.” You gave him one last smile before walking out.

Honestly you weren’t completely sure what he would do. You were hoping your inkling was right though.

After getting home, you tidied up a bit and lit a candle just in case, then you waited. It was barely half an hour later that you heard a knock on the door.

Emmett was standing outside and you smiled when you saw him, then opened the door wider for him to come in. He hesitated for only a moment before tentatively stepping inside.

“I can’t stay long…”

“I take it that means you don’t want a drink?” When he didn’t immediately answer, you started walking to the living room— You had a feeling that doing this in a bed would be too much for him. “Either way, we won’t be getting to the main event for a little while so I’m sure you can have something small. I have whiskey, bourbon, and wine.”

“Uh… Bourbon.”

When you started walking to the kitchen, he hesitated. “You can sit down and make yourself comfortable.” All he did was nod and head over to the couch. After pouring some of the bourbon into a glass, you walked back over and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” He watched you get down on your knees, his eyes widening. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to… But you can’t stay long and I figured you wouldn’t want to kiss.” You explained, waiting for his permission before continuing. He cleared his throat, then nodded and chugged some of the bourbon. “Just relax, Emmett. Enjoy your drink and let me take care of you.”

You placed your hands on his thighs and slowly snaked them up, then used one to palm his erection over his jeans. He let out a shaky breath and settled back into the couch more, making you smirk a little.

“How long has it been?” You asked curiously, still just rubbing his growing bulge.

“Uh… My birthday, a few months ago.” He said, sounding almost embarrassed.

“Think you can finish twice?”

“Probably.”

“Good.” You smiled, finally starting to unbutton his jeans. He drank more of the bourbon, barely able to look at you as you pulled his erection out of his pants and underwear. You bit your lip and took it in your hand, stroking him slowly. If you were married to someone with such an attractive cock, you’d be offering up your holes 24/7, regardless of how tired you were.

When you suddenly enveloped the tip in your mouth, he let out a choked sound. You suckled gently while still stroking the rest of his cock, just trying to get him warmed up before you really got started.

“Would you rather I control the pace or do you want to fuck my throat?” You suddenly asked, making his eyes widen the slightest bit. In response, he tentatively placed his free hand on the back of your head. You grasped his thighs and started bobbing up and down, waiting for him to take over. When he still hesitated, you rolled your eyes and took his cock all the way in your throat, forcing a grunt out of him. As you stayed in place, his hand finally grabbed onto your hair, then started slowly pulling you up and down.

He released a low, gravelly moan and let his head fall back on the couch, grunting each time his cock slipped past your throat barrier into the suffocating heat of your esophagus.

“Fuck…” He groaned, taking a lazy sip of his drink. If your lips weren’t stretched around his cock, you would’ve smirked at how easily he came undone. When he pushed you all the way down and held you there, you stuck your tongue out to start lapping at his balls, making his hips flinch up, choking you. He cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on your hair, his hips gyrating against your face with his cock lodged deep in your throat.

After another moment, he finally let you pull back. You panted heavily, watching him down the rest of his drink, then set the glass on the side table.

“Feeling good?” You asked, just wanting to be sure.

“Very.” He said breathily, making you smile. You wrapped your lips around his cock again and he gathered all of your hair in his hand, then started pushing you down and pulling you back up. You moved one of your hands to gently cup his balls, forcing another guttural sound out of him. Unable to hold back, he started moving you faster. When you finally gagged, he pulled you off again.

“I’ll pinch you if I need to stop. Just keep going.” You said through heaving breaths. All he could do was nod and resume fucking your throat. He seemed to be going harder and faster now that he knew he didn’t have to stop if you gagged. For the most part, you took it perfectly fine, but you’d gag or choke every once in a while. Spit was rolling down his cock to his balls and your hand, making you finally pinch him. He let go and you immediately reached for his pants and underwear, pulling them down to his ankles.

“I didn’t want to get anything on your clothes.” You explained. “While I have more room though…” You pushed his thighs open a little more, then dove down, this time aiming for his balls. He cursed under his breath and his grip on your hair tightened as you sucked and licked shamelessly.

“Jesus-” He choked out, spreading his legs wider for you. Another moan slipped out when you grabbed his cock to start pumping slowly, adding to the pleasure. Finally, he tugged on your hair and let out what you could only describe as a whine. “I’m getting close already.”

You chuckled quietly, but relented. “Come down my throat,” you told him before putting your mouth back on his cock. He eagerly resumed fucking your throat and the sounds filling the room were obscene— your moans and his grunts, accompanied by the wet sounds of your throat each time his cock plunged deep.

You were still gagging, tears brimming in your eyes, but his cock was practically throbbing in your mouth… You didn’t want to make him wait for his much needed release just because you kept choking. So you moved your hands behind your back and clasped them together to keep yourself from pinching his leg to let you pull off.

“Fuck— I’m coming.” He choked out, jerking your head on his cock a few more times before releasing your hair to grab your skull and pull you all the way down. Your nose was buried in the tuft of hair at the base, his twitching balls pressed firmly against your chin, and his pulsing cock nestled deep in your snug throat.

His grunts were practically feral as his hips bucked upward, desperately trying to bury his cock impossibly deeper. You gagged so hard that your body convulsed and tears finally fell down your cheeks, but he was so preoccupied with his orgasm that you didn’t think he would’ve let you pull off whether you wanted to or not.

After another moment, all of his come was unloaded down your throat, but he didn’t let go yet. He panted heavily and savored the feeling of your esophagus convulsing around the sensitive tip of his cock. As his panting calmed down, he slowly loosened his grip on your head, then let you finally pull off. You coughed a little and struggled to catch your breath, swallowing down the remaining come that wasn’t immediately shot down your throat.

“You really needed that, didn’t you?” You asked with a small smile and he scoffed a laugh, keeping his head leaned back on the couch and his eyes closed.

“I can’t even remember the last time I’ve gotten head like that.” He said breathily.

“Can I still ride you or do you want to be done?” He finally let out a heavy breath and opened his eyes to look down at you.

“You haven’t come yet though.” That almost made you laugh a little bit.

“I’m not the one who hasn’t fucked someone in months. Plus, I can just finish with my vibrator after you leave if you want to head out.” He swallowed thickly and checked his watch for the time, then looked away, thinking. You rubbed a soothing hand over his bare thigh as you waited patiently for his response.

“I don’t have a condom.” He said weakly.

“I’m clean and on the pill.” He bit his lip, still not looking at you. The fact that he was hesitating wasn’t exactly a good sign, but you continued waiting patiently.

“I just finished that bourbon a few minutes ago… so I should probably wait a little longer before I drive home.” You tried not to roll your eyes at his excuse.

“Exactly.” He watched you stand up and reach behind yourself to unzip your dress. When you pulled it off and dropped it on the floor, he swallowed thickly, his gaze dragging over your body and lacy lingerie. “Do you want me to leave it on or take it off?” Usually you’d do whatever you were in the mood for, but this was about Emmett.

“Panties off.” He said simply. You pushed the fabric down your legs, then stepped out of them. He was completely entranced as he watched you kneel over his lap and grab his half hard cock to line up. When you slowly sunk down, his hands practically flew to your hips and his head fell back on the couch with a low mewl. You’re no virgin obviously, but Emmett was decently big so the stretch stung a little— However, you weren’t even slightly deterred.

“God- you’re so fucking tight.” He grunted, making you smirk. “I forgot how g-good it feels raw…” He choked out, struggling to calm his breathing.

Once you were fully seated on his cock, you paused, giving him a moment. “You okay?” You asked softly, running your fingers through his hair while your other hand rested flat on his chest. He nodded, but kept his eyes closed. “Yeah?” You mused, making him just nod again. “Can I start moving?”

��Please.” He choked out, his grip flexing on your hips. You began slowly rocking back and forth, letting him get used to the sensation a little longer. “More.” He all but whined. So you switched it up to start lifting yourself up, then dropping back down at a tortuously slow speed. You wanted nothing more than to bounce on his cock and fuck yourself silly, but it wasn’t about you…

“Touch me, Emmett.” You ordered softly, making him finally lift his head and open his eyes again. His hands snaked up your waist to squeeze and grope your tits as he stared at them, completely entranced. He pulled your bra down below your breasts, then rolled your nipples between his fingers experimentally, making you curse under your breath.

“Fuck… these tits…” He gruffed, unable to look away. You smirked at his reaction, but didn’t comment on it.

Finally getting worked up enough to go at your own pace, you suddenly sped up, making him grunt. You bounced on his lap as fast as your legs would allow. He moved his hands to your ass to guide your movements a little, but also so he could watch the way your tits moved as you rode him.

“Your cock feels so fucking good.” You moaned breathily, letting your eyes roll back as you lost yourself in the pleasure of the stretch. “So big…” You couldn’t believe that his wife wasn’t eager to have this cock inside her all the damn time, because you certainly were.

“I don’t think I’m gonna last much longer…” He choked out, and you tried not to audibly groan because you didn’t want to make him feel bad.

“That’s okay. Vibrator, remember?” You chuckled half heartedly— a little disappointed that you wouldn’t be coming on his cock. When he reached a hand between your legs, you reluctantly pulled it away. “Emmett, honestly, I have all the time in the world for getting off and all the energy I need to hook up with people whenever I want. I just want to make you feel good.”

“Fine.” He said, but his tone lacked resignation, making you a little skeptical. “Go get your vibrator.” Your brows shot up and your movements slowed to a stop. “Now, before I blow my load in two fucking seconds.” He growled impatiently.

You stared at him for another moment, then scoffed a laugh and carefully lifted yourself off his cock to go retrieve the toy— This was definitely a pleasant surprise.

When you returned, you eagerly climbed back on his lap and sat on his cock, then put the vibrator on your clit and turned it on. He let out a choked moan at the feeling of your cunt tightening around him and you bit down on your lip, barely holding back a loud, almost pornographic moan.

“Keep going.” He practically begged, bringing his hands to your hips. You started bouncing on his cock again, having a harder time focusing on keeping your movements fluid and constant.

Emmett’s hands snaked up your back to unclasp your bra and you helped him pull it off your arms, dropping it to the floor. He groaned loudly at the sight of your tits bouncing wildly as you rode him.

When his phone started ringing, both of you froze, just staring at each other for a moment. Finally, he cleared his throat and reached down to his pants that were still around his ankles, grabbing his phone. You turned off the vibrator with a quiet whine of displeasure, but let him answer.

“Hey, hon.” He said awkwardly. You started slowly moving up and down, making his free hand squeeze your hip hard enough to bruise. “Yeah, I’ll be home soon. Just lost track of time watching the game.” He bit his lip to muffle his sounds. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

The moment he hung up and tossed his phone to the other side of the couch, it was like he just snapped. He planted his feet on the floor and grabbed both of your hips, then started bucking up into you almost savagely.

“Fuck! Oh my god.” You cried out, moaning loudly. With one hand bracing yourself on the back of the couch, the other brought the vibrator back down to your clit. “Don’t stop— Please don’t stop, I’m so close!” He didn’t bother with a response, focusing on pounding you hard and fast, sending you hurtling toward the edge.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, the intense feeling of him fucking you being doubled by the vibrator. He groaned at the feeling of your pussy clamping down on his cock, fluttering wildly as you rode it out. Even after the pleasure faded, he kept rapidly bucking up into you, ignoring your pained whimpers as he focused on his own pleasure.

Letting out a low, borderline feral growl, he slammed your body down on his lap, impaling you fully on his length. He was grunting and moaning quietly, his cock twitching inside your sensitive hole, spurting out ropes of hot come.

You whined at how deep he felt, unable to do anything other than sit here and take it with how strong his grip was. Only after he drained his balls completely did his grip finally loosen, no longer tight enough to cause bruises. Both of you panted heavily for a while and you let your head drop down, moaning softly when you saw the way your stomach was bulging from his cock.

You waited for both of you to recover a little bit, then you gently lifted yourself off his cock, forcing a quiet grunt out of him. Not wasting any time, you quickly got down on your knees again and lapped up the rivulets of come that were dripping down his cock to his balls, making sure the mess couldn’t spread anywhere else. He hissed at the sensitivity and his cock twitched, but you were done before he could react any further. Even as you raised his pants and underwear to his thighs, he still remained boneless on the couch.

“Do you want a coffee for the road?” You asked, knowing he had to go sooner rather than later.

“No, I’ll be fine.” He sighed. After another moment, he finally got to his feet. You were pulling his clothes up the rest of the way before he had a chance to do it himself. “Thanks.” He said, staring down at you as you tucked his softening cock away, then buttoned his pants.

“Don’t mention it.” You smiled. When he held out his hand, you grabbed it and rose to your feet. Your nude body next to his fully clothed one made you blush, but you were far from shy or embarrassed. “I hope you feel at least a little taken care of?” All he could do was nod. “Good. You deserve it.” You reminded him.

You could tell he felt awkward as you both walked to the front door, but you were completely relaxed— especially after that orgasm.

“Um…” He swallowed thickly, struggling to maintain eye contact and not look at your body. “Thanks.” He said again, and you chuckled quietly, amused by his struggle to find words.

“If you ever need to blow off some steam again or relax… you know where to find me.” You said suggestively, looking up at him through your lashes, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. Once again, all he could do was nod, so you opened the door for him, letting him walk out, already knowing he’d be back eventually.

#emmett a quiet place #emmett x you #emmett x reader smut #emmett x reader #emmett smut #cillian murphy #kinktober 2024 #kinktober

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heavensenteden · 6 months ago

Text

✎ submit.exe | nsfw fic 🔞

☆彡

hello to the 10 SeekL fans out there, i bestow a gift upon you… odxny esex fanfic!

someone shoot me please dear god.

anyways, i have some new works upcoming i promise! i’m working on another crowe, sol, and a 14dwy piece ;P so stick around for those <3

much love to those who read! you guys have been so sweet on my other works!!

okok, now you guys can read, mwah

also make sure you guys listen to swim by chase atlantic while reading this or sum sexy, idk. set the mood for yourself

link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62761168

word count: 3856

pls minors dni and dnr ⭐️

cw: e-sex (lol), fingering, stalking-ish, degrading, mututal masturbation

💻˖ ִֶָ 𓂃⭒

It has only been a couple of days since you, or well, Thrim, landed yourself in a server full of skilled hackers, all looking to complete their… passion projects.

If you can even call them that.

In all honesty, it has been fun, learning new coding skills, getting made fun of, and, most of all, being able to talk to him. Odxny. The mystery man who wears a mask every time you call and talks about disappearing once it’s all over.

Today is no different. The server buzzes with activity as you scroll through endless lines of code, occasionally stopping to reply to a message from one of the other members.

You have already been working for hours prior to this, on your own little project, and of course, your mind is beginning to wander. Thankfully, your saving grace, Odxny, sends you a text.

odxny: busy right now?

thrim: for you? never <3

odxny: haha, could I call you then?

thrim: ofc ofc!

You shift at your desk, setting up your camera and smoothing your hair down so it doesn’t appear so messy. Then, the ring of a call comes through your headset, and as you put your earbuds in, you simultaneously click ‘accept.’

His face appears on the screen of your monitor. He is seated back in his chair, calm and unreadable as always, that mask of his only adding to the mystery as he grins at you. The soft glow of his server rack flickers in the background, the glow of his monitor bathing his covered face in a soft blue hue.

Despite calling him every single night since the day you joined the server, he looks just as pretty as the first time you saw him.

“Hey,” he says, his voice smooth and cool, as if he’s just casually checking in.

“Hey,” you reply, a bit too eagerly. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” he answers, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment too long. “Thought I’d see how you’re doing. Are you still helping Pep with codes, or are you taking a break?”

You lean back in your chair, trying to shake off the slight bit of heat just his stare alone causes. “Just the usual, I was helping him earlier, now I’m working on my own stuff. It’s been a long day though.”

“Mmm, I can tell.” His tone is almost too knowing. “You’ve been quiet within the server lately. Anything on your mind?” He leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on the screen in that way that makes you feel like he’s watching your every minor move.

You laugh nervously, not sure what to make of his sudden interest. “Just, uh, the usual. Lots of work, you know?”

He tilts his head, as if considering your words for a moment. “Mm, yeah. Sounds pretty boring. I figured you’d have something more exciting going on than that.” There’s a playful edge to his voice now, and you can’t help but feel your pulse quicken.

You try to keep it casual, teasing him back. “What, you want me to do something exciting for you?”

There’s a pause, and you watch as he takes a breath, as if he is considering his next words carefully. “Well, it depends. What are you into? I’m sure we could find something… fun to talk about.”

Your heart skips a beat at the sudden shift in his tone, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

You swallow, trying to ignore the way his words seem to linger in the air. “Uh, what kind of… fun are we talking about?” you ask, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

He grins behind that mask, leaning back in his chair. “Well, you know… I’m just curious what kind of ‘exciting’ things you’re into. I’ve known you for a couple of days and barely know anything… personal about you. Everyone’s got their little… preferences, right?” His eyes never leave yours as he speaks, his tone smooth and casual.

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of how close he seems to feel, even through the screen. “Preferences?” you parrot back, forcing a casual laugh, though your voice betrays you with a slight tremor.

“Mhm,” Odxny hums, his fingers absentmindedly tapping on his desk, the rhythm slow and steady. “Do you enjoy being in control of people, or… would you rather someone take the lead?” He says it so casually, as if it’s just a simple question, but the weight of his words makes your stomach flip.

Your breath catches in your throat, unsure if you should answer his rather direct question or just change the subject. But you can’t help it, there’s something about him that pulls you deeper into the conversation. “I… I don’t know. I guess I like both,” you admit, your voice betraying you once again as it hitches slightly.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Both, huh? Interesting… but which one do you think you’d really enjoy more?” There’s some curiosity in his tone, and an almost playful lilt that sends shivers down your spine.

You can feel your cheeks burning now, and you know your voice will give you away if you try to brush it off. “I don’t… I don’t know what you mean,” you stammer, though you really do know the answer, you just don’t want to admit it to him.

His smile widens, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Sure you don’t. It’s okay to admit things, you know. I won’t bite… unless you ask me to.” He leans in a little closer, and suddenly, his presence, despite being on a video call, feels overwhelming.

“So, tell me… when it comes down to it, do you like it rough? Or are you more of a… slow and passionate kind of person?”

Your body freezes. The question hangs in the air like a dare.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and it feels like your entire body is on fire.

You clear your throat, trying to force yourself to focus and answer the damn question, but it’s hard when Odxny’s calm demeanor makes everything feel like a simple game, and you’re not sure if you want to keep playing… or if you want him to take control.

"I… I’m not sure," you stammer, your voice shaky. “I guess… both, depending on the mood.”

His eyes narrow slightly through his little fox mask as he watches you struggle to find the right words.

"Mm, interesting."

He leans even closer to the screen, his eyes scanning you up and down in an almost predatory way.

"You know, I’ve been wondering… do you ever think about what it would feel like? To let someone really take control? I mean, you let us push you around sometimes, making you help us with hacks, and Incri likes to poke fun at you when they can…"

Odxny pauses, a grin growing on his face.

"I’d even be so confident to say maybe you like it—the way we push you around and make fun at times."

Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him.

He’s not wrong.

But you’d die before admitting that.

"Y-Yeah, as if…"

His voice drops lower, sending a shiver down your spine.

"I’d be fine if you’re into that. But can you imagine how it would feel? Giving yourself up to someone, trusting them to make you feel… good. But you’d have to trust that someone completely, don’t you think?"

You blink, caught off guard by how serious he’s gotten.

"Trust?" you echo, trying to deflect.

Did you trust Odxny? You’d only known him a few days but he had been somewhat welcoming, and a bit of a delight to talk to at night, so much so that you found yourself actually looking forward to your nightly calls.

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yeah. Because without trust, there’s no real connection. No... control.” His words hang in the air.

Your pulse quickens, your heart racing. “I guess I could trust... the right person.”

“The right person, huh?” He pauses, letting his words stretch out. “Tell me, do you think you could trust me?”

Your breath catches, and it’s as if the whole world tilts on its very axis. You want to look away, but you can’t. Something about the way he’s looking at you, so sure, so confident, pulls at you. He doesn’t give you a chance to reply before speaking again.

“What if I told you,” Odxny continues, his voice lower now, “that I could give you what you’re craving... but you’d have to let go of all control. All of it. Let me show you exactly how I could make you feel...”

A wave of heat ripples through your body, your mind becoming a mix of confusion, excitement, and… lust. You open your mouth to speak, but the words get caught in your throat. It’s too much, and yet... somehow it’s exactly what you need.

After days of flirting back and forth in the admin chat it was only a matter of time before something like this would happen right? You just didn’t think it would occur so soon.

“I... I don’t know if I can...” Your voice is barely a whisper, but the admission is enough to make Odxny smile.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “Just listen to me... do as I say and I’ll make you feel good.” He’s almost whispering now.

You feel your breath quicken, the weight of his gaze making you feel exposed in ways you never expected. The line between teasing and something much, much more is blurring fast for you, so fast it’s making your head spin.

“Go on,” he says, his voice low, as though he’s savoring the effect his words are having on you. “Be a good girl for me and unzip that hoodie, yeah?”

Your body freezes for a split second, something in your mind wants to pull away, to regain some sense of control from this moment, but a rush of excitement zips through your entire body instead. The sheer idea of being completely at his mercy, even through a video call, sends a shiver through your spine.

Your hand trembles as you unzip the sweater you had on, the oversized piece of clothing falling off your shoulders to expose smooth, unblemished skin. Underneath you had only been wearing a simple black tank top and black shorts, but despite it being casual wear, you hear Odxny draw in a sharp breath.

Odxny’s grin widens, satisfaction evident in his eyes as he leans back, letting you undress for him. “Good,” he murmurs, “I want you to stop thinking for yourself, stop trying to control everything. Let go, and let me show you just how good it can feel when you just listen to me, okay?”

His words are smooth, calculated almost, you feel like he’s reading every twitch of your body as if you were an open book, you’re teetering on the edge, and you know there’s no turning back now.

His eyes trail down, pausing to linger on what little clothing you had on as you press your thighs together, and for a second, a knowing look crosses his face. “You can feel that, don’t you? You’re getting so hot for me, aren’t you?” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it sent a shiver through you. “I can see it in your eyes. You want this.”

You’re so caught up in the way his words have taken hold of you that you barely realize your hands are moving to push your shorts down, and off your body, the piece of fabric being tossed to some dark corner of the room as you sat in your chair, tank top on and underwear on, being watched by the hacker.

His eyes immediately flick back to your face after lingering for a moment too long on your underwear, his eyes were dark with desire, and a low chuckle escaped his lips. “That’s my girl,” he says, voice thick with approval. “You look fucking gorgeous. Now… show me how you touch yourself.”

The command sends a jolt straight through your core. You hesitate only for a moment, before your fingers instinctively twitch, the heat between your thighs growing unbearable under his intense gaze.

Odxny doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t need to. The way he watches, silent, patient, completely in control, has your breath hitching in anticipation. His voice comes through the headset, low and teasing. “Don’t be shy now. I’ve seen the way you react to my teasing. I know exactly what you want.”

Your fingers graze over the waistband of your underwear, you swallow hard, your body burning under his attention. He hums approvingly, his grin widening behind his mask. “That’s it… nice and slow. Let yourself feel it.”

You try to relax your body, spreading your thighs for him, your nimble fingers rubbing slow, lazy circles against yourself through the damp fabric. Your breaths come out in soft, shaky exhales, the warmth spreading through you becoming almost unbearable—made even worse by the way Odxny watches.

His breathing is slightly heavier now, just a fraction off his usual composed self. The flickering lights from his server rack cast a dim glow against his silhouette, making the blue of his screen reflect off the edges of his fox mask.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something darker, deeper. “You’re so pretty like this. Completely at my mercy, yeah? Just listening, just following… you’re being such a good girl for me.”

The praise twists hot in your stomach, your fingers pressing harder, your body aching for more. You can’t stop the way your hips stutter, how your thighs tremble just from the sound of his voice.

“Take them off.”

You jerk, pleasure overtaking hesitation, sitting up just enough to push the remaining fabric off your body. The cool air kisses your skin as your underwear is discarded, leaving your lower half completely exposed for him, your fingers dipping back into your soaked pussy, rubbing circles gently, slowly.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then, you hear the faintest shift from his side of the call.

A sharp inhale.

A low, rough exhale, one he tries to control.

Your stomach tightens. Naughty boy.

“Such a quick learner,” he purrs, voice full of satisfaction. His eyes drag over your body, drinking in every inch of bared skin, every little tremor you make under his gaze. “I should’ve had you doing this nights ago.”

The way he says it has you spiraling, every teasing word winding that coil inside you tighter, tighter, until it’s nearly unbearable.

Then, your screen flickers.

It’s a brief static glitch. Quick. Barely noticeable.

But your mind, already hazy, already pliant under his control, almost doesn’t catch it.

Then his voice comes back, smooth, unbothered.

“You really do trust me, don’t you?”

Your breath catches.

Something about the way he says it… it feels wrong.

Another flicker. Just a second. But this time, you see it.

Something in your video feed, something behind him.

In the reflection of a mirror behind him.

It’s your own screen.

For a split second, the distorted pixels snap into clarity.

And staring back at you from behind Odxny’s shoulder is your own reflection, not from this call, but from another angle. An angle that shouldn’t exist.

Your bedroom.

Your desk.

The way you move in real time.

Your camera feed.

It’s not just this call.

He’s been watching you the whole time.

Your blood runs cold even as your body is still warm, still burning from the pleasure he’s drawn out of you. Your stomach tightens, the realization hitting you too late.

He’s seen everything.

Every moment. Every little touch. Every time you change. Every time you sat at your desk and talked to him like this was just harmless flirting.

And now, the look in his eyes, that fucking knowing look, tells you he’s reveling in your realization.

The call screen steadies again, your video going back to normal. Odxny doesn’t react to the glitch. He just exhales slowly, tilting his head like he’s studying you.

And then, the soft sound of fabric shifting. The movement of his arm.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

He’s touching himself too.

It’s subtle at first, like he’s still playing it cool, but now you know better. The rise and fall of his chest, the way his breaths have turned slow, measured, almost too controlled.

His hand is moving.

You can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but you know.

And he knows you know.

His voice is low when he speaks again, raspier, rougher.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmurs. “So fucking sweet. Letting me watch you like this.”

A pause.

And then, a smirk.

“…Letting me watch you for days.”

Your heart stops.

Before you can even process what that means, his voice drops lower, a teasing edge lacing every word.

“Come on, baby. Don’t stop now.”

His hand is still moving. Slow. Steady.

"You’re already mine."

You listen, of course. How could you not? His voice wraps around you like a vice, sinking deep into your bones, leaving no room for anything else. Your fingers slip back between your thighs, gliding effortlessly through the slickness pooling there, the wetness a humiliatingly clear sign of his hold on you.

And he sees it all. Every little reaction. Every twitch of your body.

Your fingers move, slow, shallow thrusts at first, easing yourself open under his gaze. You let out a quiet gasp, your thighs shaking.

Odxny’s chuckle hums through the headset. "Did you think I wouldn’t know?"

You pause for half a second, blinking at your webcam through the haze of pleasure.

"Did you think I wasn’t paying attention?" His voice dips into something lower, rougher. "Every time you touched yourself when I wasn’t around?"

Your breath hitches.

He laughs again, so smug, so infuriatingly pleased with himself, and it makes you squirm even more. "Oh, sweetheart. You think I don’t notice the way your breathing changes when we’re on call? The way your hands go out of frame sometimes? Or how about when you ‘need to go do some important stuff’ and you hang up on me just to go play with yourself.”

Your stomach tightens at his words.

Every single time you thought you were sneaky, every time you let yourself sink into filthy thoughts about him, he was watching.

"I know exactly what you do when you think I’m not paying attention, or when we’re not on call together," he purrs, eyes dark with amusement and something much filthier. "And look at you now, so obedient. You were always meant to be mine, weren’t you?"

His hand is still moving.

You can hear it now, so faint, but unmistakable. The shift of fabric, the slow, measured strokes.

He’s matching your pace. How romantic.

Your fingers pump deeper, curling inside of you, teasing that sensitive spot that has your body jerking just slightly, because you want to perform for him now. You want him to see how much you’ve fallen for him, how deep he’s dug his claws into you.

He exhales sharply through his nose, amused, ravenous. "That’s it, sweet girl. That’s exactly what I like."

The realization sinks deeper.

This was never just about control.

Odxny has been playing this game since the beginning.

Since that very first call. Since the first time you stumbled into his space, into his world.

A knowing smile tugs at his lips, his fingers tightening around himself, his movements just slightly rougher now. He’s close, too.

"Since that first call... I knew you’d be mine."

Your breath catches, fingers pumping faster as you whimper into your headset.

"You’re so perfect for me, baby," he continues, voice dipping into something possessive, intoxicating. "Just the way I like it. So sweet, so eager for me, so easy to break down."

His tempo speeds up, his breathing uneven through the mic.

"You’ll be mine, won’t you?" His voice is demanding now. "You’ll keep coming back for more, won’t you? I know you can’t resist. I can see it in your pretty little eyes how badly you want to be mine."

You don’t hesitate. You nod, desperate, lost in him. You want to be his.

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can even think.

"Yes... I’m yours."

It feels right. It feels inevitable.

Like it’s always been this way.

Like you were made for this.

His chuckle vibrates through the call, smug and victorious.

"Good girl."

His voice is so full of praise, of approval, but to you it’s more than that.

It’s his claim on you

"That’s what I wanted to hear. Now cum for me my sweet girl, show me how good I’m making you feel.”

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your fingers move faster, slick and needy, your breathing turning ragged as the pleasure coils so, so tightly inside you. You can hear everything, his breaths, low and uneven, the faint, sinful rhythm of him stroking his cock as he chases his own release.

"That’s it," he murmurs, watching you fall apart. "Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect for me."

His voice alone sends you tipping over the edge.

Pleasure bursts through you, hot and overwhelming, your body tensing for a few seconds before unraveling completely. A cry rips from your throat as your fingers stutter, your back arching against the chair slightly, your thighs trembling as the release crashes through you in waves.

Odxny groans, a deep, guttural sound that shoots straight through you.

You barely register the way his body tenses, the way his hand jerks rougher, faster, as if the sight of you completely undone has wrecked him too.

"Fuck—"

The sound of him coming apart is obscene. A harsh breath, a low, satisfied growl of your name. You don’t have to see it to feel it, how he must look right now, his body shuddering, his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, his hand covered in his own cum.

For a moment after, there was only silence, save for the shared sound of heavy, ragged breathing.

Your body is still buzzing, pulsing with the aftermath, your skin flushed, your heart pounding. You barely remember where you are. All you can think about is him.

Then a soft amused chuckle pulls you back.

"You’re such a good girl for me, you know that?"

The praise still makes your stomach twist, even now, when your body is already spent. You swallow, trying to even out your breathing, your mind clouded, hazy.

Then, his voice shifts, just slightly, a lower and more gentle tone.

"I meant what I said, baby."

You blink. Your heart skips.

"You’re mine now."

It’s not a question, but a declaration of sorts.

From the moment you joined the server, from the second you answered his first call, from the first time he looked at you like this.

You’ve always been his.

And now, you both knew it.

💻˖ ִֶָ 𓂃⭒

#seekl #seekl odxny #odxny #odxny x reader

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therogueflame · 4 months ago

Text

Velvet and Vice

hello my shes, theys, and gays,

here is this. i am no longer sad (your love is my drug by kesha really gets me out of a funk, and i also got a text from an ex lmfao). i did have some of this already written, so have a blast. its based on dis ask.

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

Summary: A prince seeks pleasure. You give him something far more dangerous.

WC: 7.2k

Warnings: 18+, prostitution, a metaphorical sizing up, smut, cursing, idk man, no description of reader, fem!reader, kind of a weird type of dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie, sex (p in v)

BrothelWorker!Reader x Daemon Targaryen

The door creaks open and you don’t bother to lift your head.

You’re already sprawled across the bed in full view, wine in hand, one leg draped over the edge like you might slip right off if you cared enough to move. Candlelight paints the room in gold and shadow, the scent of rose and sandalwood curling in the warm air.

You take a sip.

He stands there for a moment, just inside the doorway, saying nothing. Watching. You let the silence stretch. Let him look. You don’t rush things for men who need time to catch up.

“You’re blocking the light,” you say eventually, tone mild.

Daemon moves, slow and deliberate, boots heavy against the stone. He doesn’t stop until he’s just short of the bed. You tilt your head, finally looking at him through the rim of your goblet. His hair’s a little damp from the rain, dark at the edges. That annoyingly perfect mouth already drawn tight like he’s the one being tested.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, swirling the wine. “That usually means one of two things. Either you’re working up the courage to say something clever, or you’ve realized you’ve got nothing to offer.”

He doesn’t blink. Just watches you, eyes fixed and unreadable.

You smile without warmth. “Let me know which it is, so I know how much of this wine to finish before you start speaking.”

He steps closer. You don’t shift. The sheets rustle softly beneath you as you lift the goblet again, gaze sliding away like he’s already boring you.

Daemon steps closer still.

He doesn't touch you. Not yet. Just looks.

“You think highly of yourself,” he says at last, voice low and unrushed.

You hum, noncommittal. “I think precisely what I’ve earned.”

He chuckles, but it’s a dry, dangerous sound—more the scrape of flint than amusement. “Is that what all the lords tell you? Between groans and coin?”

Another sip. “Some do. The clever ones know better than to speak at all.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smirk, but it doesn’t settle. Something else simmers beneath the surface—not quite annoyance, not quite desire. Something warier. He’s used to being the storm in the room—swords drawn, throats bared, every breath his to command. But here, in this heat, you haven’t moved an inch. And he’s the one straining at the leash.

“You’re not curious?” he asks. “Why I came?”

Your eyes flick back to him, slow and deliberate. “Men like you never come for the same reason twice. Power. Worship. Distraction. Punishment. Doesn’t matter. You’ll leave with your pride cracked and your coin purse lighter. Just like the rest.”

He moves then—quick, a flash of impatience as he grips the bedpost, leans in close. You still don’t flinch.

“And if I wanted to break you?” he asks, voice near your ear now. You laugh. A real one. Soft, smoky, dangerous.

“Oh, my prince,” you murmur, setting your goblet down with a quiet click. “You’d have to hand me the gold first.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just breathes.

Then he sits.

Not at your feet like a humbled knight, nor beside you like a lover. He chooses the edge of the bed, just behind your dangling knee—close enough that you feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence coiling up your spine, but still not touching.

Smart man.

The mattress dips beneath him, and the tension thickens like honey in summer heat. The room is silent but for the crackle of candle wax and the lazy swirl of wine in your glass.

“I was told you’re difficult,” he says eventually, tone unreadable.

You exhale, amused. “Is that what you came for? A challenge?”

He doesn’t answer. Still working it out—whether he wants to conquer you or be consumed.

You set your goblet aside, shifting to recline on one elbow, angling toward him. Not an invitation. Just a change in posture, like a lioness stretching before the kill.

“I’m not difficult,” you say softly. “I’m expensive.”

He turns his head. You meet his eyes. Really meet them.

“And you’re wondering,” you continue, voice like silk drawn over a blade, “whether I’m worth it.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens. That mouth—always quick with a retort—stays silent. But his gaze doesn’t waver.

Your fingers trail lightly along the sheet between you. Not reaching. Not yet.

“But the real question,” you whisper, leaning in just enough to let him feel the shape of your breath on his cheek, “is whether you are.”

He still doesn’t touch you.

But gods, he wants to.

And for the first time since he entered, something in his expression cracks—not quite surrender, but a hairline fracture in that royal composure. His pupils darken, widen just enough for you to notice.

“You’ve made quite the reputation,” he says, voice rougher now. “Half the court whispers your name like a curse. The other half like a prayer.”

You smile, slow and all teeth. “And which half are you from, my prince?”

His hand finds the sheet where yours had been, fingers almost—but not quite—grazing the space you touched.

“Neither,” he says. “I don’t pray to things I can touch. And I don’t fear what can be bought.”

You laugh again, tipping your head back, throat exposed. It’s deliberate. A gamble. And you watch the way his eyes follow the curve of your neck like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.

“Is that what you think I am?” you ask, voice low, curious, dangerous.

There is a pause. Just long enough for the question to settle between you like smoke.

Then he reaches for you.

Not sudden. Not startling. Only a shift, slow and certain, as his hand finds your knee and begins to slide upward. His fingers leave a trail of heat, moving with the kind of confidence that comes from hunger held too long at bay.

His hand moves with the kind of certainty that only comes after restraint—fingers sliding from the sheet to your knee, slow and possessive, dragging upward over your bare thigh with infuriating control. Not rough. Not rushed. Like he’s daring you to stop him. Like he knows you won’t.

“I think,” he says quietly, “you’re very good at pretending none of this touches you.”

You hold his gaze, even as the heat of his palm spreads like wildfire. “And I think,” you murmur, voice low and velvet-smooth, “you’ve mistaken performance for pretense.”

His grip tightens slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to claim.

“I’ve known women who begged,” he says. “And women who bled.”

Your eyes narrow, the corner of your mouth curling. “And which one am I meant to be, my prince?”

He leans in then, finally, finally closing the distance—his lips brushing your ear as he speaks.

“You tell me.”

His breath is warm. You feel it in your throat, in your stomach, in the place where his fingers still rest against your thigh.

The candlelight flickers. Somewhere outside, the rain starts again.

You tilt your head, lips grazing the edge of his jaw—not quite a kiss, just contact. Barely there. A warning. A promise.

“I don’t beg,” you whisper. “And I don’t bleed for men who only know how to take.”

He pulls back, just far enough to meet your eyes.

“And if I give?” he asks.

Now it’s your turn to smirk. This one slow. Dark. Dangerous.

“Then maybe,” you say, shifting just enough to slide into his space, your mouth a breath from his, “you’ll learn what it feels like to be worshipped.”

His pupils dilate, a flash of something primal darkening his gaze.

"Worship," he repeats, testing the word like unfamiliar wine on his tongue. "Is that what you offer to all who cross your threshold?"

You draw back slightly, studying the planes of his face in the flickering light. The sharp jaw. The eyes that hold too much for a man his age.

"I offer nothing," you say, one hand coming up to hover near his cheek, not quite touching. "I trade. There's a difference."

Daemon captures your wrist before your fingertips can graze his skin. His grip isn't painful, but it's firm—a reminder that for all your words, for all your practiced indifference, he is still a prince. Still dangerous.

"And what would you trade for tonight?" he asks, thumb pressing against your pulse point.

You smile, slow and deliberate. Let him feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his thumb—a calculated vulnerability.

"That depends," you say, voice like honey and smoke. "What are you offering, my prince?"

His fingers tighten fractionally around your wrist. "You speak of worship," he says, "but I've never seen you kneel."

A laugh escapes you—genuine this time, rich and full. You lean forward until your breath mingles with his.

"Neither have you," you whisper against his mouth. "And yet here we are."

Something flashes in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. Or respect. His other hand rises to your face, fingers trailing along your jawline with surprising gentleness.

"They say you've ruined men," he murmurs. "Highborn lords who walked into this room and crawled out with empty purses and hollowed hearts."

Your smile widens, the candlelight catching the dangerous gleam in your eyes.

"Is that what you're afraid of?" you ask, voice a silken caress. "That I'll hollow you out and leave you empty?"

His thumb traces your bottom lip, testing its fullness. "I'm not afraid."

"Liar," you breathe against his fingertip.

Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the royal façade. He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.

"They also say," he continues, voice dropping lower, "that you've never let a man stay until morning."

You tilt your head, considering him. “Dawn reveals too much,” you murmur. “I prefer the honesty of darkness.”

His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, fingers spreading against your side like he means to keep you there. The heat of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of your dress, steady and unyielding.

For a breath, neither of you speak.

Then he moves. Just slightly. Just enough to bring your bodies flush, your knee brushing his thigh, your breath mingling with his. You feel the shift in him, the way restraint begins to slip, thread by thread.

“You speak like a woman with nothing to hide,” he says, voice rough at the edges.

“And you touch me like a man afraid to find out,” you reply, softer now.

That does it.

He surges forward, mouth capturing yours with a force that feels like a storm finally breaking. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t sweet. It is all heat and hunger and months of whispered rumors crashing into truth. His hand fists in your skirts, dragging you closer. Your fingers curl into his collar, pulling back just enough to bite his lower lip in return.

He growls against your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest. His hands are everywhere now—tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, sliding up your thigh with an urgency that betrays his earlier composure. You let him have this moment of control, this illusion of conquest.

When you pull back, his breathing is ragged. His eyes have darkened to storms, pupils blown wide with desire. You trace a finger down his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath expensive fabric.

"Is this how you imagined it?" you ask, voice low and knowing. "The infamous courtesan, melting at your royal touch?"

His jaw tightens. "Nothing about you is what I imagined."

You smile, slow and dangerous. "Good."

In one fluid motion, you push him back against the bed, straddling him with practiced ease. His hands immediately grip your hips, but you catch his wrists, pinning them above his head against the pillows. The surprise in his eyes sends a thrill through you—princes aren't often denied.

"You said you wanted to know what I trade," you murmur, leaning down until your hair curtains around his face, shielding you both from the candlelight. "First lesson: patience."

He strains slightly against your grip, testing. You apply just enough pressure to make your point. His breath catches, and you see it—the flicker of understanding. Of surrender.

"I could break free," he says, voice rough.

You smile, trailing your lips along his jaw, not quite kissing. "But you won't."

His pulse jumps beneath your mouth as you move to his throat, tasting salt and rain. You release one of his wrists, your hand sliding down to work the ties of his doublet. You feel him tense beneath you, anticipation and restraint warring in every line of his body.

"They all come to me the same way," you whisper against his ear, fingers deftly undoing each clasp. "Thinking they'll be the one to claim what can't be owned."

His free hand moves to your hip, grip firm but not bruising. "And what makes you so certain I'm like the others?"

You pull back enough to study his face—the proud lines, the barely contained desire. With deliberate slowness, you roll your hips against him, feeling his body's immediate response. His eyes flutter briefly, a small victory.

"Because," you say, voice like silk over steel, "power makes men predictable. And you, my prince, have never known its absence."

You push the doublet open, revealing the fine linen shirt beneath. Your fingers trace the outline of his collarbone, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. The candlelight catches the hunger in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold.

"Perhaps," he says, voice strained as you continue your slow exploration, "I came here precisely to learn what that absence feels like."

Something flickers in your chest—not quite surprise, but interest. You've heard many things from many mouths, but rarely such naked honesty.

"Careful, my prince," you murmur, leaning down to brush your lips against his. "Some lessons leave scars."

His hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair as he pulls you into a deeper kiss. This one is different—less frantic, more deliberate. When he breaks away, his eyes hold yours with unexpected intensity.

"Then mark me," he says.

The words hang between you, charged with more than just desire. There's something raw there, something unspoken that makes you pause. You've had princes before, lords and ladies and those who would claim to own the world. But something in his voice—in those three simple words—feels different.

You release his other wrist, both hands now framing his face. For a moment, you just look at him, really look, peeling back the layers of royalty and reputation.

"You don't know what you're asking for," you say, voice softer than intended.

His fingers trace your spine, sending shivers across your skin. "Then show me."

You lower your mouth to his throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where pulse meets collarbone. He inhales sharply as you bite down—not enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark that will bloom purple by morning. A brand that even royal collars won't fully hide. His hands tighten on your hips as you work your way down his body, marking a trail that maps his surrender.

"You know what they'll say," you murmur against his skin, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. "When they see these marks. When they know where you've been."

"Let them talk," he breathes, voice catching as your nails scrape lightly down his chest. "The court whispers regardless."

You smile against his stomach, feeling the muscles tense beneath your lips. "So the prince doesn't care about his reputation?"

His laugh is strained, transforming into a hiss as your hand slips beneath the fabric. "My reputation," he says, "was decided long before I entered this room."

You pause, eyes lifting to meet his through the veil of your lashes. His chest rises and falls, sharp and fast, each breath brushing the silence between you. Candlelight dances across the sharp angles of his face, gilding his cheekbones and jaw, catching the flicker of something near feral in his eyes.

Your fingers move slowly, deliberately, not for show but for control. You feel the tension in him coil tighter, feel the way his body tries not to react and fails. Every shift, every twitch beneath your touch betrays him. He’s unraveling, thread by thread, and you haven’t even leaned in yet.

You shift closer, letting the softness of your thighs brush against him, your mouth hovering near his throat. His pulse beats there like a drum. Thunderous. Unhidden.

He exhales sharply through his nose, as if the act of not reaching for you costs him something.

"Patience," you murmur, letting the word brush against his skin like a promise. "A skill so few princes possess."

His hands find your waist again, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with barely restrained need. "You test mine deliberately."

You smile against his throat, teeth grazing his pulse point. "Everything I do is deliberate."

In one fluid motion, he sits up, taking you with him. The sudden shift leaves you straddling his lap, your bodies pressed flush together, his breath hot against your neck. His hands slide up your back, finding the laces of your dress with surprising dexterity.

The laces loosen, and you feel the dress begin to slip from your shoulders. His eyes follow the descent of fabric with naked hunger, but he doesn't rush. Instead, he takes his time, revealing you inch by inch, as if unwrapping something precious and dangerous.

You allow it. For now. Let him think he's reclaimed control. The dress falls away from your shoulders, pooling at your waist where you sit astride him. His breath catches—a small, satisfying hitch in the silence.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, though the word seems inadequate on his tongue. His hand hovers near your bare skin, not quite touching. Asking permission in the only way his pride will allow.

You arch an eyebrow. "You've had beautiful before."

His mouth curves, something between a smile and a grimace. "Not like this."

"Flattery," you say, voice a silken whisper as you lean closer, "costs extra."

But you take his hand and place it against your breast, feeling his palm burn against your skin. His touch is reverent, almost hesitant—at odds with the hunger in his eyes. His thumb brushes across your nipple, watching with fascination as it hardens under his touch. You let your head fall back slightly, allowing a soft sound to escape your lips—not entirely performance, not entirely genuine. A calculated vulnerability.

His other hand slides up your spine, tangling in your hair to draw you closer. When his mouth finds the hollow of your throat, you allow yourself to react—a genuine shiver that ripples through you like ripples across still water. He notices. You feel his smile against your skin.

Your nails dig into his shoulders in response, just sharp enough to sting. A reminder that he hasn't won anything yet. His hiss of pleasure-pain vibrates against your collarbone as he works his way lower, mouth tracing the curve of your breast with deliberate slowness.

When his lips close around your nipple, hot and demanding, you arch against him. Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan. The sound reverberates through your body, settling low in your belly like embers catching flame. He sucks harder, drawing a genuine gasp from you. Your control slips, just for a moment—enough for him to feel it, to know that beneath your careful performance, there's real desire building. His hands grip your hips tighter, grinding you against him in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes your breath catch.

You pull his head back, forcing his eyes to yours. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted and glistening. You kiss him then—deep and consuming, tasting the hunger on his tongue. It's a dangerous game, this moment of mutual surrender. You've played it a hundred times before, but something about the way he responds makes your skin prickle with warning.

He's learning too quickly, adapting to your cues with an intuition that unnerves you. Most men—even the clever ones—are too consumed by their own pleasure to notice the subtle shifts in your breathing, the genuine flush that spreads across your skin when they find the right spot. But his eyes miss nothing.

When he breaks the kiss, you're both breathing harder. For a heartbeat, neither of you move. Just exist in the charged space between one moment and the next, bodies pressed together, the line between performance and truth blurring dangerously.

"Take off the rest," he says, voice rough with desire. Not a command, not quite. But not a request either.

You slide from his lap, standing before him in one fluid motion. The dress falls completely, pooling at your feet like spilled wine. His gaze travels the length of your body, taking in every curve, every shadow, with a reverence that borders on worship. You let him look. Let him burn the image into his memory. Let him want.

His jaw tightens. You see him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Come here," he says, voice barely above a whisper.You tilt your head, pretending to consider. The command in his voice doesn't move you—you've heard desperate pleas from kings before—but the raw need in his eyes sparks something dangerous inside you. Something you rarely allow yourself to feel.

"No," you say softly.

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. "No?"

You step forward, close enough that he could reach out and touch you, but you remain just beyond his grasp. "You don't command here, my prince. Not in this room. Not with me."

A muscle works in his jaw, pride warring with desire. For a moment, you think he might stand, might try to seize control through force or royal entitlement. Instead, something shifts in his expression—a subtle surrender that sends heat pooling between your thighs.

"Please," he says, the word clearly unfamiliar on his tongue. It sounds strange coming from him, like a foreign language he's only just learning.

You smile, slow and approving. "Better."

You move to him then, sliding back onto his lap with deliberate grace. His hands immediately find your waist, hot against your bare skin. You take his face between your palms, tilting it up to yours.

"Now," you murmur, "ask me for what you want."

His eyes darken, pride battling with need. "You know what I want."

You shake your head slightly, thumb brushing across his lower lip. "Say it."

He exhales shakily, hands tightening on your hips. "I want you," he says, voice rough. "All of you.”

"All of me?" you echo, amusement coloring your voice.

You study his face in the candlelight—the sharp angles softened by desire, the arrogance giving way to something more vulnerable. Something dangerous. Not to your body, but to the careful barriers you've built around what remains of your heart.

"Greedy," you murmur, but there's no bite to it.

His mouth quirks. "Always."

You roll your hips against him, slow and deliberate, feeling his hardness press against you through the remaining fabric between you. His eyes flutter briefly, breath catching. You do it again, setting a rhythm that makes his fingers dig into your hips, leaving marks that might bloom purple by morning. You tilt your head, watching him from beneath heavy lashes as you move again, slower this time, a languid drag that turns pleasure into punishment. His hands tighten, breath hitching, but he doesn’t stop you. He could. But he won’t.

"You could end this," he says, voice strained. "Take what you want."

You laugh, a sound like smoke and honey. "And deprive you of the lesson?" Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging his head back to expose the column of his throat. "No, my prince. Some things must be earned."

You bend to taste the salt of his skin, teeth grazing the spot where his pulse hammers beneath the surface. His hands slide up your back, desperate to pull you closer, but you resist, maintaining the maddening distance between your bodies.

"Is this how you treat all your clients?" he asks, trying for arrogance but achieving only breathlessness.

Your lips curve against his throat. "Only the ones who need to be reminded they're mortal."

In one fluid motion, you reach between you, freeing him from the confines of his breeches.

His sharp intake of breath is both victory and warning. You wrap your hand around him, feeling the heat and hardness, the way he pulses beneath your touch. Power shifts like sand between you—his royal blood means nothing now, not with his head thrown back, not with his throat bared, not with his pleasure entirely in your control.

"Tell me again," you whisper against his ear, stroking him with deliberate slowness, "what you want."

"You," he manages, voice breaking on the single syllable. His hands find your hips, trying to guide you, but you resist.

"Not enough," you murmur, tightening your grip just enough to make him groan. "Be specific."

His eyes open, finding yours with surprising clarity despite his desire. "I want to be inside you," he says, each word distinct and deliberate. "I want to feel you come apart around me.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words—not from the boldness, but from the raw honesty behind them. Most men you entertain speak of their own pleasure, their own conquest. His desire to witness your undoing feels different. Dangerous.

You rise slightly on your knees, positioning yourself above him. His hands grip your thighs, trembling with the effort of restraint.You sink down onto him, slowly, deliberately, watching his face as you take him inch by inch. His mouth falls open, a strangled sound escaping his throat. The fullness of him inside you draws a genuine gasp from your lips—a small victory for him, one you allow.

"Look at me," you command when his eyes threaten to close.

He does, gaze locking with yours as you begin to move. Slowly at first, a rhythm designed to torment rather than satisfy. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the hunger in his eyes. You set a pace that's maddening—deep but slow, each rise and fall deliberate and controlled. His hips buck upward, trying to increase the tempo, but you press him back with a hand on his chest.

"Not yet," you breathe, your voice a silken command. "You haven't earned it."

His jaw tightens, frustration and desire warring in his expression. You can feel him throbbing inside you, desperate for movement, for release. But he doesn't force it. Instead, his hands slide from your hair to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with surprising tenderness.

"What must I do?" he asks, the question stripped of royal arrogance, leaving only raw need.

You lean down, your breasts brushing against his chest, lips hovering just above his. "Surrender," you whisper.

Something flashes in his eyes—understanding, perhaps. Or recognition of a truth he's been fighting since he walked through your door. His hands move to your hips, not to control but to support, fingers splayed across your skin like a man trying to anchor himself against a storm.

"Yes," he breathes, the word barely audible.

And you move.

Not the calculated rhythm you’d set before, your hips rolling with newfound urgency. Not the controlled performance you gave, but something primal, unrestrained. Underneath you, the prince was helpless, his breath coming in desperate gasps, his eyes wide with wonderment and desire. Your pace quickened, your muscles contracting around him with a grip that was both a mercy and a torment. His hands, once clutching you with desperation, now found rhythm in their restraint, holding, following, feeling you. The sound that escapes him is raw, unfiltered, as if dredged from the depths of his being. Though the prince couldn't quite believe it, he knew his surrender was complete. Nothing like the carefully measured tones of court diplomacy.

You shuddered, legs trembling, all traces of pretense gone. Intensity unfurled inside you, sensation overtaking performance, raw vulnerability swelling under the weight of pleasure. Your head fell back and your mouth opens in a silent scream she cannot deny. He tightens his hold, bringing you down harder, faster, his body moving with a strength you didn't anticipate. His mouth is at your throat, teeth grazing skin, catching you in a dangerous moment. A moment you should have seen coming. The loss of control. One of his hands is clever, relentless, sliding between you, fingers working with unexpected skill and knowing precision.

Wave after wave threatens to drown you, drowning in the pleasure you swore you wouldn’t feel. The talent of his touch sends fire through your veins, your carefully constructed walls threatening to crumble and fall away. You fights to maintain control, to remember that this is transaction, not truth, but your body is a traitor, betraying you with each thrust of his hips, each stroke of his fingers. The edge is close, inevitable, and you teeter on it, teeter on the verge of undoing.

"There," he murmurs against your collarbone, voice rough with satisfaction. "Let me see you.”

Your rhythm falters as tension builds, coiling tighter with each cruelly perfect circle of his thumb. Where you thought you were teaching a lesson, you are suddenly the one with something to learn. His eyes are locked onto your face, watching with hungry fascination as your mask begins to slip, as your performance disintegrates into raw need. You bite your lip, trying to hold back the sounds threatening to escape, trying to keep the truth from exposing you the way his hands do, the way his touch does.

"Don't," he commands softly, voice undercut with certainty. "I want to hear you."

His thumb presses harder, circles faster, and something inside you fractures. Pleasure seizes your body, breaking like a wave, unexpected in its intensity. Your control shatters entirely. A cry tears from your throat—genuine, unplanned—as you shudder around him, and his name spills from your lips before you can stop it. A true confession. A betrayal of your own rules. Your body spasms, clenches, releases. Your mind blanks, whites out. His arms wrap around you, possessive, holding you close as you come apart, his lips at your ear murmuring words you can't quite comprehend through the haze of her release.

When the flood of heat finally passes, you collapse against his chest, breath coming in ragged gasps, skin slick with sweat. For a moment, neither of you move. Daemon’s large frame is warm beneath you, and he can feel the trembling aftershocks still coursing through you. You both just exist in the aftermath, your heartbeat gradually slowing against his, your breath steadying, your shameful surrender written on each heavy exhale. His hands trace patterns on your back, gentle now, almost reverent.

When you finally lift your head, his eyes are waiting—dark and hungry still, his own release withheld. The realization sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

Daemon is still hard inside you, still wanting you, still holding on. His muscles strain with the effort, but he is in perfect control. His desire is astonishing, consuming, unflagging. His face is wet with your sweat and his; there are bruises on his neck from your teeth. Your breath hitches in her throat. You should pull away. You should leave him wanting. You told yourself from the start you wouldn't fall into this trap.

But your fresh desire is a spreading flame. You begin to respond to his hunger with renewed passion.

His hands slide up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with surprising tenderness. There's something dangerous in his eyes now—not just lust, but a knowing. As if he's glimpsed the truth behind your carefully crafted facade.

"You said my name," he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk. Not a question. A statement of fact.

You try to look away, but he holds you steady, forcing you to meet his gaze. The vulnerability is excruciating. Raw. You've spent years building walls between pleasure and truth, between the acts you perform and the feelings you deny.

"A performance," you lie, the words hollow even to your own ears.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. "No," he says softly. "That wasn't for show."

Before you can fashion a retort, he moves—quick and decisive—flipping you beneath him in one fluid motion. The shift in power is sudden, disorienting, leaving you breathless beneath his weight. His body covers yours, pinning you to the mattress with deliberate pressure. Not to hurt. Not to trap. But to claim.

"Now," he breathes against your mouth, "it's my turn."

There's something dangerous in his voice—a promise that makes your skin prickle with warning and want. His hands capture your wrists, drawing them above your head in a mirror of your earlier dominance. The role reversal sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

"Is this how you reclaim your pride, my prince?" you ask, attempting to rebuild your walls with words. But your voice betrays you, coming out breathier than intended.

His smile is slow, predatory. "This has nothing to do with pride."

He enters you again, one long, deliberate thrust that makes you arch beneath him. Your body, still sensitive from your first release, responds with a shudder that you can't disguise. He holds himself there, buried to the hilt, watching your face with an intensity that strips away pretense.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, echoing your earlier demand. His hips roll slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "Be specific."

You narrow your eyes, defiance flaring despite the pleasure coiling through you. "You think one orgasm earns you honesty?"

He laughs—a low, dangerous sound that vibrates through your joined bodies. "No," he says, beginning to move with slow, devastating precision. "But I think by the third or fourth, you might forget how to lie."

The confidence in his voice should irritate you. Instead, it sends a thrill of anticipation down your spine. His rhythm is deliberate, each thrust calculated to draw the maximum response from your traitorous body. Your hands strain against his grip, not to escape but to touch him, to reclaim some measure of control. He doesn't release you.

"You think you're the first to try this approach?" you ask, voice catching as he hits a spot that makes your vision blur. "Men have been attempting to fuck the truth out of me for years."

His mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "I'm not other men."

The worst part is, you're beginning to believe him. There's something in the way he moves, in the way he watches you, that feels different. Dangerous. Like he sees past the courtesan to the woman beneath—the one you've kept hidden for so long you sometimes forget she exists.

His body rocks against yours, deep, insistent, more demanding with each powerful thrust. You don't have to see his face to know the expression he wears—intense, focused, drinking in each response he wrings from you, each moan that slips past your lips. His pace quickens further until it is breakneck, a rhythm that leaves you breathless and teetering on the edge of sanity. Your desire flares, unrelenting, spurred by the dominating need he shows, the endless need he fuels. Heat builds fast between you, drawing a fine sheen of sweat on your skin. You can feel the force of each movement echoing through every nerve and muscle, pleasure streaking through your veins like fire. His grip on your wrists tightens with each merciless thrust, then suddenly releases, leaving your hands empty, grasping for a lifeline.

He shifts, and the movement is a promise and a threat, a calculated act that knows exactly where it will hurt, where it will heal. One of his hands slides swiftly between your bodies, seeking, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves with infuriating accuracy. The touch is electric, and every calculated circle of his thumb sends you spiraling closer to the brink. A raw cry tears from your throat, unbidden, and it is his name, a confession neither of you can ignore.

Your free hand tangles in his hair, pulling him close, pulling hard enough to make him groan. The sound vibrates through the air like a living thing, primal, unrestrained. Your will to resist is a fragile thing, crumbling under the precise pressure of his fingers, the skilled thrusts of his hips. Sensation overwhelms, obliterates every rational thought, and you feel yourself surrendering again. Utterly. Completely.

"Say my name again," he commands, voice ragged with need. "Not my title. My name."

You bite your lip, trying to hold onto the last threads of your control. His fingers circle faster, his hips driving harder, and your resistance crumbles.

"Daemon," you gasp, the syllables breaking on your tongue like a confession.

His eyes flash with triumph and something darker, more primal. He kisses you then—deep and consuming, swallowing your moans as pleasure builds again, faster this time, more intense.

Your legs wrap around his waist, drawing him deeper, abandoning pretense for pure sensation. His lips crush yours, fierce and claiming, as he thrusts.

The wet heat of his mouth consumes, devours, as need eclipses everything else. You can feel the depths of his desire and his patience unspooling as his body moves with raw, unrestrained power. Each stroke is designed to drive you wild, to fill every part of you until you can't remember why you fought him, why you thought you could resist.

"Again," he growls against your mouth, driving into you with renewed force. "Let me hear you."

"Daemon," you breathe, then again, louder, as his fingers work their magic and his body fills yours. "Daemon!"

The sound of his name seems to break something open inside him, a dam no longer able to contain the flood. His rhythm stutters, becomes erratic and desperate, the careful control slipping away. You can feel him trembling above you, his muscles straining as he fights against the inevitable. It's intoxicating, this power you still hold even from beneath him, the way your surrender has turned the tables. His breath comes fast, ragged in your ear, and you can hear the same raw need you felt moments before. He is unraveling, and you are the one pulling the thread. You arch up against him, meeting each frantic thrust with shameless intent, your walls tightening around him deliberately, relishing the way he groans and gasps, the way he struggles to hold on.

"Look at me," you command, echoing his earlier words.

His eyes find yours and the connection sends a jolt through your joined bodies. They are dark, but there is something more, something complex and unfathomable, a danger that makes your chest tighten. Only you're beyond warning now. It's far too late to retreat, too late to rebuild your walls, too late to stop any of this from happening. The inevitability of it shakes you, and shakes you again. He holds you under his gaze, and the pleasure crests with terrifying speed, rising higher and higher, flooding through you sudden and overwhelming. You have no defenses left, no shields to protect you from the intensity of your release or from him, nothing but raw need and shattered resolve. His name tears from your lips once more.

The confession is genuine and uncalculated, a cry of surrender as you come completely undone beneath him. The aftershocks ripple like waves through your body, stealing your breath, blurring your vision, obliterating everything but sensation. The force of it sends your head reeling, your thoughts tunneling into pure feeling, pure abandonment, and he is there with you in it, watching you like he's never been more certain of anything in his life. You feel it all so deeply that there is nothing left to be afraid of, no careful plans left to ruin.

He doesn't last long after you, your sudden and unguarded confession triggering his own release. You feel it in the way his body tenses above you, the way he fights for control and loses, completely. Sensation overwhelms and he surrenders to it utterly, a wordless groan tearing from his throat as he spills into you. The sound is raw and unfiltered—a prince, a man, coming undone at the edges. There's something triumphant in watching him shatter like this, the careful control slipping away, unraveling the way it did when he first entered you. You can feel the full force of his release, the way it echoes through his body, the way it leaves him as breathless as it left you. His eyes squeeze shut, his forehead dropping to meet yours as his hips stutter with unrestrained urgency. His breath comes in ragged gasps that match your own, a wild and unsteady rhythm that fills the narrow space between your mouths.

For several heartbeats, neither of you move. Just exist in the aftermath, bodies still joined, breath mingling in the narrow space between you. The candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows across sweat-slicked skin and tangled sheets. His weight above you should feel oppressive. Instead, it feels like an anchor, keeping you tethered when you might otherwise drift away on the tide of your own release.

When Daemon finally rolls to the side, he doesn't pull away completely. Instead, he draws you with him, arm curled around your waist, keeping your bodies pressed together in the aftermath. The gesture is unexpected—intimate in a way that transcends the physical act you've just shared. Your head rests in the crook of his shoulder, your leg draped over his, as if you belong there. As if this isn't just another transaction.

The thought sends a flicker of panic through you.

You should move. Should rebuild the walls his touch has dismantled. Should remind him that dawn means departure, that princes don't linger in courtesans' beds, that this was nothing more than pleasure bought and paid for.

But your body feels heavy, sated in a way you haven't experienced in longer than you care to remember. And his fingers are tracing idle patterns on your bare shoulder, each touch leaving goosebumps in their wake. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heartbeat gradually slowing to a steady rhythm that threatens to lull you into dangerous comfort.

"You're quiet," he murmurs after a while, voice rumbling through his chest. "That usually means one of two things. Either you're working up the courage to say something clever, or you've realized you've got nothing to offer."

You recognize your own words from earlier, thrown back at you with gentle mockery. Despite yourself, you feel your lips curve into a smile.

"Careful, my prince," you reply, voice languid with spent pleasure. "Mimicry is the lowest form of flattery."

His laugh is soft, genuine, a low vibration that settles into the space between your ribs. His hand keeps moving, slow and aimless, fingers trailing over your arm, down your side, across your stomach—mapping without urgency, without demand.

It isn’t the touch of a man trying to conquer. It’s the touch of someone who stayed longer than he meant to.

You lie still, watching the candlelight shift on the ceiling, the sound of his breathing steady beside yours.

This was supposed to be a transaction. Instead, it feels like something you’ll remember.

And that unsettles you more than any price ever could.

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