“I Love Museums” - N Sewell

No touching, their one hard -hah- rule of the night, not without permission. And who was he to complain when they’d impatiently stripped him down to his boxers? Especially when they’d followed suit, leaving themself in their briefs and a thin white tank top. The most skin they’d ever bared for him, willingly, at least. Hospital gowns and casts don’t count, not really.

(No more than this. Another stipulation, this one made in hesitancy and not the playful bossiness of the first one. It’s…different, with the lights on

Like there was a single thing he could see that would ever change his mind about this, about them.

As if he hadn’t been waiting for this chance for seven god damn years)

So, he laid down on his back, made a show of making himself comfortable just to ease that anxious scowl on their face, better to hear them laugh. Even if it was barely more than a scoff, and was made at his expense. Once settled, he dutifully reached up and grabbed the headboard with both hands, before he fixed them with an insufferable grin.

”All yours.” The comment wasn’t appreciated, nor was the waggling of his eyebrows. But it didn’t stop them from joining him on the bed.

Didn’t stop them from straddling his hips.

And now, he’s using all his willpower to just stay still. 

He’s hard to the point of pain, and while the pressure- it’s nice. Better than nice, when they start to find a rhythm, as stuttering as it may be, but nowhere near enough. He’s at least past the point of coming in his pants from the slightest friction, even when it’s the love of his life making a mess on his lap, and he’s - he’s trying. 

This isn’t about him. This is for Erin, to let them explore. To make themself feel good, use him however they see fit. A chance for him to prove he can be trusted even if just a little.

But damn it, he wishes they’d move just a little more.

He’d think they’re trying to kill him outright if they didn’t look as wound up as he felt, so small blessings there. 

The little sounds they can’t quite bite back in time, though? Whimpers they can’t swallow? Those might just do him in.

There are worse ways to go, A delirious thought, paired with a wild smile to match that, thankfully, goes unnoticed, because Erin hasn’t opened their eyes since they started this little torture session. 

Which is fine- gives him a pass to take them in without their usual annoyance and discomfort. Leaning back, just a little, enough that he can feel their hand bracing back against his thigh. The way their chest heaves with every panting breath, hints of orange peaking through the white fabric. Strong lines of muscle, their stomach -filled out since he found them in that diner all those months ago, just a little. Makes them look healthy. 

Alive.

”Look at you,” He promised to keep his hands to himself, but they never said anything against a little verbal encouragement, “You look so good like this.”

He tells himself it’s the sudden sound of his voice that makes them flinch, and not the words themselves, but it makes them shake their head all the same. Their chin drops, almost to their chest, obscuring their face behind a curtain of sweaty curls.

”Stupid…idiot…” Insults with no real heat, not when their voice wobbles on the words. He thinks he hears a muttered ‘bad taste’ in there somewhere too, but lets it drop. A battle for a different day. 

“That’s me,” He says, all smug acceptance, even when they just shake their head more, like they can shake the words away through pure willpower, “I’m right, though. You’re so damn handsome.”

Sweat slicked, cheeks and neck flushed - he wants to get his mouth on them, wants to taste how hot that blush runs. He wants to drag them down and kiss that screwed up little frown off their face. He wants to touch - to grab and trace and explore the planes of skin he’d only ever dreamed about getting his hands on. 

But he doesn’t, because Erin is trusting him, and he won’t fuck that up, not again. 

As if they can sense the cracks in his resolve, they finally, finally open their eyes. Pupils blown so wide that black swallows hazel, they fix him with a look with a look not all that different from ones he’s seen them with during past fights, and the intensity of it has a jolt of desire hooking low in his stomach. He jerks his hips, hissing at the heat and pressure and, “Mierda-“

Erin gasps, probably startled and Ortega is mentally scolding himself because so much for letting them set the pace, idiot. He’s about to apologize when they shift, the movement nearly making his eyes roll. Leaning forward, leaning over him, one hand braced on his stomach, fingers scratching through the trail of dark hair there. The other comes to rest over his chest, and those cracks almost split open entirely with the urge to press his own hand over theirs just to hold them there. 

“D-Do that again.” The order seems to startle them both, Ortega only marginally more than them. 

“Erin-?” He has to scan their face, has to check, “Are you-“

“Do it again.” More iron in their voice, demanding, “Touch me, Ricardo for fucks sake-“

And Ortega is nothing if not quick to adapt. 

It’s a flurry of movement after that - hands, grasping and pulling and pining. Erin’s in his hair, his sliding under their shirt, tracing up their back, pressing them down against his chest. He kisses them, too much, too frantic but they’re moaning into his mouth and all he wants is more. 

“Erin,” He almost chokes on their name when they roll their hips, matching his rhythm and he can feel the heat of them. Two flimsy layers of fabric aren’t enough to hide how wet they are, and he grabs their hips, fingers pressing in so tight he’s sure there’s going to bruises they’ll give him hell for later, but that’s a distant thought, quickly discarded for something more important, like making them moan like that again.  

Erin breaks the kiss, and he almost chases them until they press their forehead against his. Not hiding, watching, looking - with want, yes. With something primal, hunger stripped down to its basest form, but there’s something else lurking there, too. Something softer, more vulnerable. 

Something he can almost convince himself is love. 

It’s that thought that sends him plummeting over an edge he didn’t even realize was there. Muscles and nerves tight, he comes with a low groan, eyes slipping shut, breaking whatever spell had been weaving between them. He’s vaguely aware of Erin moving, chasing their own finish, but it feels miles away. He thinks he hears his name. 

Then, it’s still, and quiet, save for their own breathing. Ortega relaxes, thumbs already brushing gentle circles where he’d been holding too tight. He expects to be brushed off. Mentally braces himself for them to climb off, and their guard to come back up. Defensive, like they’d been caught wanting and it was a punishable offense. 

But…they surprise him, just shifting until they can tuck their face in the crook of his neck. Not fleeing, but not ready to face whatever had passed between them. 

He’s almost afraid to move, terrified of scaring them off, but he has to ask, “Are you okay?”

At first, they don’t answer, and as the seconds tick on, he can feel anxious nerves flicking to life in his brain. Had he gone too far? They’d given him permission, but what if he’d done too much? Had they wanted to stop and he’d been too wrapped up in himself to pick up on it?

Before his self flagellation can go on too long, he feels them nod. “I’m good.” They say finally, a little soft, and he can’t see their face to tell if they’re being honest, so he has to just take them at their word. “I need a shower, though.”

That declaration is enough to make him laugh, running his hand up and down their back. “We can take one here soon,” He offers, hopeful. Not outright asking, but wanting, all the same. 

Please, stay. Please let me have this a little bit longer. 

And in another surprise, they don’t outright deny his offer. Instead, they hum.