"Dalton, hey! Hey, huh…" You paused at the weird sound that attacked your eardrum. You had to pull your phone away from your ear for a second or two. "Dalton? What the fuck is going on?"

"I’m in the shower."

Well, that explained why he sounded like got torpedoed into a tsunami. You shook your head, there were worst things he could do… Like asking for his sparring partner to hold his phone with one hand so Dalton could punch the other while you discussed brand sponsorships. Or when the poor nurse at the hospital was asking him not to FaceTime you when she sewed stitches through his brow bone. Or the very infamous time he was busy with special ‘company’ at his house yet he picked up your call to have a little chitchat amongst the symphony of moans. Sigh. The highs and lows of being the publicist of the most notorious fighter of the UFC.

"What’s up?" Dalton asked, when you went silent for a bit. "Shit." He cursed loudly. "Got shampoo in my eye."

This was not helping the case of your pounding headache. "I can’t get to my hotel room." You rubbed your temple with your free hand while you explained the details of the situation. Something got mixed up with the reservation unbeknownst to you until just now as you stood by the front desk of the hotel, desperately trying to get the key. A genuine accident, the manager swore. The hotel was already jam packed with fans and press eager to attend the next big fight, there was nothing they could do aside from listing the other hotels in town that could take a last minute guest in.

"Why are you so stressed out?" Dalton answered bluntly. "That’s not a big deal —"

"Not a big deal?" You basically shrieked.

It was his turn to save his hearing abilities from your reaction.

"We need to prepare you for the press pool, we can’t do that if I’m on the other side of the fucking city." The front desk employee pulled out an iPad to show you one of the options they found for you: a questionable looking motel by the highway. It could not get any worse.

"It’s not a big deal." He repeated. The pleasant scent of the hotel soaps was not strong enough to waft through your phone and to calm you down from your very valid crash out. "I’ll handle it."

"The press?" You scoffed. "You can’t take them on without me. You know they’ll want to bring up all the shit you said about your next opponent the second they can get a camera in your face…"

"This isn’t about Jax." Dalton concluded dryly, leaving no more room for arguing. He did not want to talk about him right now, not after what happened at the weigh in. "This is about you. I’ll take care of it."

*~*~*

"There you are." Dalton greeted… The bucket of ice that contained one of those expensive Moët champagne bottles. He did not greet you first, of course not. He knew you would be exploding in his face the second he looked in your direction, so he took his time. He let the room service employee bring the full order inside, he dragged your ridiculously heavy suitcase and bags into the living room and, most importantly, he generously tipped the employee. No doubt about it, this tip appeared to be larger than a whole week’s salary.

You stood there, in the hotel suite that felt so spacious you could get lost in it. Your foot anxiously, and angrily, tapped on the floor, as you coughed to get Dalton’s attention.

"Told you I’d take care of it." He replied, you caught sight of the sly grin on his lips.

After your call, Dalton had explained to the hotel manager that they could just transfer all of your belongings to his suite where you would be staying until further notice. All it took was one long elevator ride to make most of your worries vanish into the void. Most of them, you were not sure that Dalton would hold back and not throw an uppercut at the first dumb journalist to ask him about Jaxon Harris. That upcoming fight had him on edge. But you could cross that bridge when you would get there.

"You’re welcome." Dalton joked. You did not need to thank him with words, that sigh of relief of yours when you sat down on the couch was more than enough.

You relaxed on the plush cushions and took in your surroundings. You got goosebumps at the thought of staying the night at the very questionable motel that the staff showed you. You appreciated the desperate attempt at making your situation better, but it was a miserable failure.

Dalton gave you some time to cool off, he knew you would start talking soon enough anyway. You did lots of talking — too much to his liking, at least sometimes, but he did not mind it. He disappeared into the bathroom to finish up what he was doing, coming back with a towel in his hands to dry his damp hair. If he had the decency to cover himself with a bathrobe for room service, he did not extend that respect to you. He came back, wearing only a pair of black briefs.

He caught it, that quick turn of your head as you looked the other way.

"Nothing you haven’t seen." He mused. A statement that carried a plethora meanings. Through your work. Through your personal lives. You had witnessed Dalton in all of the positions imaginable: from getting his cup perfectly fitted to his groin all the way to unexpectedly finding him with a series of one-night partners he probably forgot the name of before he even got them undressed. He knew you did not like to bring up the other (much more fun) times you saw him so scantily clad, it always brought heat to your cheeks and made you lose all your senses... He did not mind it either. In fact, he loved knowing he could still get you all flustered just at the thought of those several passionate occasions you both found yourselves in.

"Doesn’t mean I want to see it now." You replied with attitude.

"Yeah, right." Dalton gave you one of his signature smiles as he presented the platter of strawberries that he ordered, encouraging you to grab one.

"Strawberries and champagne?" You mocked with a mouthful of fruit. "That’s so Pretty Woman of you."

He quirked an eyebrow at you, staring for a moment too long. "Yeah, very pretty woman indeed." Dalton put the platter back on the coffee table, turning his attention to the bottle of champagne that he popped open effortlessly. No cork breaking through a window, not so much foam that it made a mess on the floor…

But it sure did make a mess on your blouse. "Elwood!" You scolded him in a shriek as the cold bubbles soaked the material of your clothes.

He scrambled to apologize, offering the towel he used to dry his hair so you could wipe the mess he made while he poured a flute full of bubbles for you. "We both need to loosen up, don’t we?"

Your attempt to clean yourself up fell in vain. You gave up, on this mess, on this entire mess of a day. You accepted the champagne with a defeated laugh.

"So…" Dalton let out. "Did you have something planned for tonight?"

You stared at him, incredulous, while you mentally went through the schedule. Fittings, photoshoots, training, physical health and blood tests… There was nothing left on Dalton’s schedule. Unless you were forgetting something, which you could not afford to do considering how much Dalton needed you to manage most of the tasks that did not take place in the octagon.

"Beside moving in with me for the weekend," he teased you about your unexpected sleepover in his suite.. "Did you plan a date or something?"

Oh, right. Today was Valentine’s Day. A couple sips of champagne gave you the guts to answer as bluntly as you could. "Where on Earth would I find the time to go on a date when I have to babysit you all day every day?"

Dalton’s smile faded as guilt painted his tan face. Guilt, yes, but something else laid under there… Relief, perhaps? He would be lying if he said he was not glad you were spending this special day with him… You were too busy tilting your head back to swallow the last sip of champagne to notice the shift in his reaction.

You thanked Dalton with a nod when he poured you some more champagne.

Silence fell between the two of you while you drank and snacked on the juicy berries. Dalton studied you — well, he studied the progression of alcohol in your system. First came the brutal honesty (which happened a second time as you lashed out at him again over your struggle with the hotel manager). Then followed the much more fun part. During after parties that usually followed his victories, you’d be singing karaoke and ordering humongous amounts of food to share with his entire entourage, you’d go around thanking everyone for their hard work in preparing him for a good fight… His favourite part was when you’d pose for photos with everyone, just so Dalton could wrap his arm around you a little tighter than necessary before you pulled away and made a beeline for the bathroom to throw up.

Throwing up the alcohol and your emotions, as you would pour your heart out in tears and (more often than not very valid) complaints… That was the state of drunkenness you tried your best to avoid.

And Dalton would help you do just that tonight. He wanted you relaxed and comfortable, not drunk and upset. As soon as he realized that you had reached that sweet spot, he tried to take your half empty glass from your hands. But, instead, he knocked the champagne flute and made more of it rain down onto your clothes.

"Again?" You whined and reached for the damp towel.

But Dalton grabbed it first. "I’ll take care of it." These were the magic words of the night, it seemed.

Your arms fell limp by your side while you let Dalton dab at the liquid that fell on you for the second time.

He was gentle, so careful in fact that the champagne had time to soak in the fabric of your clothes before he could even try to wipe them. Needless to say, it was pretty pointless except for the fact that it made for a good excuse to get closer…

You did appreciate that, for once, he wanted to clean up the mess rather than relying on you for it. It was your job to keep him in order, on a line as straight as his outbursts of cockiness would allow you. But, right now, you let him take care of it. Of you. "After I’ll shower to clean up, I’ll steal the bathrobe." You announced.

With a smirk, Dalton retorted. "Whatever will I do? I’m sure the hotel will run out of bathrobes just because you stole mine." The sound of your laughter felt warm, like it tingled from his ears and all over his body. It made his hand slip a little under your blouse, for which he apologized quickly.

"It’s fine." You shrugged it off.

"Nothing I haven’t seen, right?" He repeated his words from earlier and, like clockwork, heat bloomed on your cheeks.

You failed to give him a witty response, or any response at all. You looked at Dalton, he was sitting even closer to you now, as if this couch was not big enough to fit the two of you comfortably.

He gave up on cleaning up the rest of the champagne with a towel… "May I?" He asked for permission, while leaning in and aiming for your neck.

"Uh huh." You nodded.

He groaned, pleased to have received your approval. His lips peppered light kisses on your neck. They grew more insistent as you relaxed under his touch. "It’s my favourite champagne, but…" Dalton murmured while his mouth trailed down the column of your neck. "It tastes better on you."

That sent a shiver down your spine.

Dalton would rather blame the champagne bubbling in his veins than admit that he had been dying to do that today, to feel you under his mouth. He let his lips reveal what he was not bold enough to say before he came up with a silly question just to hear your giggles once more. "Did they do that in Pretty Woman?"

"Not after the champagne and strawberries, no…" You tilted your head to the side to give Dalton more room to work with and he happily obliged. "They discussed her hourly rates."

"Right." He remembered enough of the movie to put the pieces together. "Wanna discuss yours?"

You scoffed. "You’re walking down a very inappropriate path."

Dalton laughed too, conceding that you made a good point. "Will you report me to HR?"

"I’m pretty sure that I’m HR." You admitted, he agreed. "I’m basically your manager, your publicist…"

"My alarms, my hair stylist…" Dalton played along, listing more of your responsibilities.

"Can’t forget that I do your social media, that I hook you up with brand deals, that I had to teach you how to tie your shoes when you broke a finger…"

He could not contain his laughter as he remembered that time he broke his opponent’s arm in three places while all he got out of this fight was a finger bent a little weird. Dalton was now kissing your chest, exploring as much of your skin as your bloused allowed before you unbuttoned it for him. He paused, though, to make sure he would not cross a real inappropriate line. "I meant it, I’ll make sure you get a raise."

You certainly would not say no to that kind of offer. "I’m getting kisses and a raise?" You arched an eyebrow playfully.

"Oh, please. You know you’re getting a lot more than kisses."

"You do have a very notorious reputation."

"Especially with you."

"Especially with me." You echoed, guiding his head back up to yours for the heated kiss you had been both craving for.

Dalton’s hand replaced his mouth, caressing your chest and gently kneading your breasts over your clothes. Each of your little hums of pleasure encouraged him further. He unbuttoned your blouse, he unhooked your bra, he helped you to slouch comfortably on the couch so you would be nicely presented and accessible to him.

"Hold on, wait." You abruptly stopped this make-out session to get rid of your pants as well, leaving you in a pair of panties that looked ridiculously flimsy in Dalton’s (pratically expert) opinion.

But let you keep them on for a very good reason. "That’s probably the only piece of clothing I didn’t get wet with champagne."

You chuckled, bringing him back in for more love touches.

He loved you like this: assertive with what you truly needed, clear with your intentions of where you wanted this to go. Dalton was right there with you, craving the feeling of you that you both indulged in rarely. It was surprisingly easy to melt in this fire of desire with you, but the aftermath remained complicated. You worked together, professionally. But you also worked together very well, personally.

Your hips pressed against his hand, as it slipped under your panties. His hand was warm, heavy and strong yet it touched you with all the delicacy he could muster in this moment.

"Look at that…" Dalton invited you to pay attention to the way the damp fabric clung to the back of his hand. "Seems like I made it wet too after all."

You kissed the smirk off his face until he allowed your tongue to slip into his mouth.

Dalton hungrily swallowed your sweet moans when he started pressing his middle finger on your clit. The pressure increased, it was joined with teasing circles that only made you react stronger.

You did not want him to stop.

Dalton did not want to stop either. He wanted to feel you, more of you. He wanted to feel his fingers glide through your folds, coated in your arousal. He wanted to feel your walls flutter and claim him when he pushed a finger in… Adding a second one when he worked you open enough for it. For him.

"That feels really good." You murmured, locking eyes with him to the best of your ability because your lashes tried to stubbornly flutter closed.

"I know it does, baby." Dalton’s fingers pushed in and out of you, filling you up deliciously. He pulled your thigh over his lap, opening you up more for him.

You held on to his strong arm while his thumb joined in on the action, rubbing on your clit again. You moaned, you sighed, you gasped. You let out all of the noises that Dalton was desperate to hear from you. Heat pooled low in your belly, bubbling like the champagne from earlier.

Dalton knew that he was touching you good, just how you liked it. Although… He switched things up a bit. His forearm flexed at the change of gesture, his fingers curled at a different angle. He was just as determined (and just as confident) that he would make you fall apart any minute now, but he was getting greedy. Like a champion who could not stop winning.

"Oh my God! Oh… Fuck!" Your nails dug into the flesh of his arm. Your eyes rolled back and your jaw dropped open in bliss.

Dalton kissed the corner of your mouth, groaning at just how good you were being for him. "Give me a little more, that’s it…" You were getting so loud, your pleasure was all he could hear. "You feel it, huh?"

He tried to talk you through your imminent orgasm, but your ears started ringing and you could not hear anything beyond the rapid beats of your heart. It was truly unfortunate that you tuned out some of his sweetest words of praise, but he was fingering you too good not to lose your senses.

Dalton’s fingers curled and pressed within you, his arm kept doing the perfect motion while his thumb added just the right amount of friction and stimulation that you needed. "You’re so close… I know you want to give it to me…"

The sensations built strong and fast, a hot flash ran through your body. Even though all you had to do was sit there and be pretty for him, it was exhausting to receive this much pleasure. But you selfishly pulled every ounce of ecstasy out of Dalton in this moment. He wanted to give you an explosive release, and you would not move from this couch until he did just that.

"There you go, just like that… Yes!" Dalton groaned again, right at your ear.

The two of you witnessed the same beautiful thing: you coated his palm with your pleasure until it dripped down his wrist. He made you squirt on the hotel room floor, he made you squirt all over his hand. Your pleasure bubbled out of you the same way the champagne did when he popped the bottle open.

"You look so fucking beautiful when you make a mess for me." Dalton dragged a line of kisses from the shell of your ear to your lips. He moaned, too, as your walls fluttered around his digits as you came down this high. He withdrew his fingers from inside of you, but he let his palm rub over your core until the tremors subsided from your limbs.

You both sat there, panting and chuckling at the scene. Dalton waited patiently, not forcing you to make any type of move whatsoever until you recovered. You thanked him with a gentle, lazy squeeze of his arm. After a few minutes of pure, blissful silence, he spoke again.

"I’ll grab another towel. We need it." Dalton announced, taking in, one last time, the sight of your skin glistening under the dim light of the living room. You both had spent more time messing around with the alcohol rather than drinking it… Yet, he did not have a single regret about putting that expensive bottle to good use. And he certainly did not regret all the exciting stuff that ensued. His gaze lingered on your breasts, on the way your discarded clothes still have wet stains from with the champagne he accidentally poured on you and on the way you looked so beautiful for him. Messy and so fucking pretty.

"Yes." You replied to suggestion of the towel.

He stole a quick but rough kiss from your swollen lips. "And a condom."

"Yes, please." You repeated to the second, and most important, thing he said.

Dalton disappeared further into the penthouse, grabbing the necessities for what would come next. One quick stop into the bathroom, another into the bedroom he was looking forward to bring you in after this first round.

In the meantime, you relaxed on the couch. Careful enough not to move and bump against something that would make the champagne spill than you already did, but eager to get a bit of rest. Sooner than what you had hoped, you found yourself yawning loud and wide.

Your increasing tiredness greeted Dalton when he made his way back to you. He chuckled when you yawned again, he was starting to get worried you would hurt your jaw if you kept going. "I’ll take care of it." Dalton gently pushed your hands away so he could wipe your thighs dry.

You stood up as instructed when he was done with your inner thighs, letting Dalton clean you as thoroughly as he could manage.

A shower would do you good, but there was no way you would stay awake long enough to be rinsed down. "Falling asleep standing up like a horse, huh?" Dalton teased. Previous promises for more pleasure were put on pause. "You made it so easy for me." He mused, while he guided you to the bedroom with his hands firmly holding your hips to keep you walking in a straight line rather than a sleepy squiggle.

"Wait, what?"

He smiled. "You had way too much on your mind…" You could discern the mischief in his voice though you could not see it in his expression. "I didn’t have to fuck you dumb to shut you up. All it took was one little orgasm and you’re ready to be put to bed." Dalton paused as you sat down on the firm mattress. "Easy." He insisted.

You wanted to roll your eyes and give him the attitude he deserved, but your reaction got replaced by another yawn.

"Exactly." Dalton took your yawn as an agreement.

A small chuckle escaped your tired body when he winked at you.

He tossed the damp towel away, then he set the unopened condom on the nightstand. Dalton poured all of his focus on tucking you into bed. Sleep had already claimed your limbs: you needed his help to lift your legs up one after the other. You could not even get under the covers on your own, so he gladly handled that task too. Obviously, he finished by he squeezing you in nice and tight so you felt snug as a bug in the expensive bedsheets.

You freed an arm from under the cocoon of blankets that he worked so hard on. Your hand reached to grab onto his, pulling him closer.

"It’s okay, I’ll take the couch." Dalton immediately responded. "Might need to clean it first, though." He chuckled, but that sweet pout on your mouth changed his mind. "What is it?"

"You’re letting me go to bed alone on Valentine’s Day?"

He was impressed that you could put so many words together despite your exhaustion. "You’re right…" He was also impressed that you did not jump on the opportunity to hog all the bed and sheets to get the good night of rest you deserved. "Can’t be a dickhead on Valentine’s Day."

A victorious smile spread on your lips when he joined you into bed. You used the last bit of energy left in your body to roll onto your side and cuddle against him. The bed felt cold and comfortable, Dalton was warm and comforting. It was so easy to win against Dalton that you started to wonder if those big muscly guys on the octagon actually tried to take down this champion.

A few minutes passed before Dalton spoke again. "Hey."

"Hmm."

"I still owe you another round." The innuendo did not go unnoticed.

"More than one." You mumbled.

"Oh yeah? You’re feeling brave, champ?"

"If…"

He opened his eyes just so he could roll them. Of course, you had to slip in your terms and conditions as if he would put up a fight. You had worked with him for so long, you should know there was very little he would not do for you.

"If you behave and don’t make a scene."

There was very little he would not do for you indeed… Except that. When something, or most likely someone, made him angry; he just could not let go. Even if he tried his very best for you.

"If you do that," you pressed a lazy kiss on his skin before you settled your head on that same spot. "I’ll let you take me on a date."

Dalton scoffed at your bold demand, warmth flowed through his veins and pooled low in his belly at the thought of properly wining and dining you.

Perhaps it was the fatigue clouding your judgment and allowing you to forget how horrible of an idea it was to commit to this much more enjoyable part of your work relationship. Perhaps it could be nice if Dalton realized that coming back from a fight to a familiar face was better than to a nameless fan or stranger he picked up after the big events. Perhaps it was something that you both had secretly desired for a while without admitting it to your own selves let alone to one another… You did not think about it further for now, not that you could anyway. You fell asleep right as Dalton spoke his last words of the night.

"It’s gonna be the best Valentine’s Day of our lives." Dalton promised before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You would wake up to a bouquet of roses as big as the flower shops in town could manage to assemble. You would wake up to all of your favourite breakfast foods delivered to you by room service while he would be busy getting ready before the fight. Maybe, when no one would be looking, you would be sending Dalton off onto the octagon with a kiss mark of red lipstick under his shorts for no one else but him to see. For good luck, too.

to say you weren’t expecting to be in this position tonight is an understatement. at first it was just a friendly stranger at a bar, noticing you by yourself and offering to buy you a drink.

and then one drink became two became three, and friendly small talk became stories of how you got that scar on your knee and how he broke three bones in the fifth grade.

and now, suddenly, you’re here. on his bed in his dimly lit room, fully naked and a little foggy from cumming on his tongue maybe ten minutes ago. the lighting from his single bedside lamp casts a faded orange glow across the room, and his sheets smell faintly of his cologne. distantly, you catch the whiff of a long put-out cigarette.

his thick, heavy cock nudges your clit, forcing a harsh whine from your throat.

“please, eddie,” you beg again, your body wriggling slightly in frustration.

“please what?” he asks, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. big brown eyes putting you in a trance and keeping you there.

you huff, but your annoyance is half-hearted. you don’t have the energy to put your all into it, all you can truly focus on is how badly you want him.

“eddie, come on. i need you,” you whine, gasping sharply at another slick glide of his tip through your folds.

“you need me? what do you need from me?” he asks, lips so tantalizingly close to your ear, his teeth taking the softest nibble. it sends a shiver straight down your spine and to your center, your toes curling where they rest towards the end of the mattress.

“i need,” you swallow, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. “i need your huge cock inside of me, please.” your voice comes out sounding strangled, your breaths shallow as his lips press to your neck over and over. “i need you to give it all to me, right the fuck now.”

“fuck, baby,” he grumbles against your skin. his fingers dig in to your hips, your breath hitching. “is that right? need my big dick filling you up?”

“yes,” you pant, feeling him twitch slightly against you. “fuck me, eddie, please.”

“well, since you asked so nicely,” he says, nose brushing your cheek, hot flush of breath fanning your face.

your mouth drops open at the slow intrusion of him, finally, into your soaking core. pressing so deep inside of you, hitting every spot you needed him to hit. filling you to completion, a moan leaving your lips as if it was desperate to come out.

“there, sweet thing. nice and full of me,” he rasps, one ringed hand coming up to squeeze your neck. “now what do you say?”

“t-thank you,” you pant, your body squirming with the need for him to move.

‘’will you stop that.’’

‘’stop what?” Loki asked, his voice genuinely curious without his usual mocking, teasing tone behind it.

The way you stopped abruptly in the snow was followed by a mild feeling like someone was right behind you and you knew he had stopped quick so he wouldn’t bump into you. Spinning around, you were right and found yourself nose to nose with the god of mischief who didn’t hesitate to grin when he saw your face while you instantly had an irritating eye twitch.

‘’stand up straight.’’

‘’yes mother.’’ He chuckled and stood to his full height immediately, causing you to have to raise your chin just so your eyes could keep in contact with him.

‘’this isn’t funny..’’

‘’what are you referring to darling?” there it was.. there’s that teasing tone that matched his grin- how he stared down at you with his arms clasped behind his back like he didn’t know what he was doing.

Liar.

‘’look..’’ you sighed, knowing you were gonna try your best to contain your frustration so your eyes abandoned his a bit to concentrate. ‘’I know you are taller.. faster.. stronger.. a god-‘’

‘’keep going…’’ he said seductively and you felt your nails dig into your palms while you flashed a glare up at your boyfriend.

‘’and I’m a mortal and am a bit more restricted with such things. I know you care and are trying to accommodate- but I feel like they are just reminders like I’m.. I’m.. some weakling next to you-‘’

‘’weakling?” he furrowed his brows in genuine confusion.

‘’I’m basically handicapped compared to you.. you could have made it through this forest by now- Hel, you’re not even wearing a jacket-‘’ you waved a hand at him, seeing how his Asgardian attire seemed sufficient enough to make it through the cold and you weren’t truly sure why it was relevant. ‘’you walk slower because of me. you hold back because of me. you bend your damn knees just to show me some eye contact..’’ you began to pout.

‘’darling,’’ he stared and took your hands in his gently, going to bend down to look at you but paused, quickly standing up and now looking like he didn’t know what to do while his thumbs stroked your skin to try to gain your attention that way. ‘’I’m part Frost Giant, jackets aren’t needed for me- I hold back because I am the more dominant strength and I walk slower because I am taller.’’

‘’that’s the point Loki,’’ you sighed and looked up at him. ‘’we are different, and I hate how you have to accommodate on your end because of me..’’

‘’darling- everybody is different, everyone-‘’

‘’no one on this team changes for me. I’d rather get left behind and have to run faster than to have everyone hold back and make me feel weak-‘’

‘’you’re not weak darling, and they don’t change because they don’t love you like I do.’’ He said gently and pulled you up against him, a hand wrapped around your shoulders with the other pressing against your head to have it rest against him. ‘’I don’t want to-‘’

‘’don’t hold back.’’

Loki’s brows furrowed and glanced down at you while you stared out into the snow terrain in thought, cheek against Loki’s cold armor but you didn’t mind. ‘’I’m sorry?”

‘’I said don’t hold back.’’ You repeated and looked up at him, chin resting on him while his arms held you. ‘’for a day. Hel- start right now. Don’t hold back your strength, don’t hold back your speed, nothing. I’m good at adapting.. just do.. what you would normally do..i can take it..’’

Loki stared at you a moment, looking a little worried and also looking like he was trying to figure you out. eventually he sighed, giving you a nod while he somehow straightened up even more. How tall was he??

‘’alright darling, if you feel like you need this, then I’ll do it. Starting now until the end of the day, I will not accom- er.. I will do what I normally do.’’

You felt yourself relax a little and nodded, shivering once you pulled away to begin walking again and nodded towards where the jet was waiting for you both. ‘’okay, let’s get out of the cold then.’’

‘’it doesn’t bother me’’ he chuckled and dodged your arm from swatting at him before he began walking with you.

‘With you’ was an understatement. That man looked like he was taking on a casual pace but he was already five steps ahead. Literally. Yet you asked for this and you began to trot to keep up, looking on the bright side of things that at least you had a good look at his ass while he left you behind. You knew he was listening, making sure you were still behind him than to glance over his shoulder and risk belittling you. You’ll take it, and were curious on just how much different life back at the tower will be with a god that wasn’t holding back..

~

The more you actively tried to pay attention to how different Loki would be now that he wasn’t holding back on anything amongst ‘you mortals’, the more you realized there wasn’t actually much he really changed. You kinda felt bad bringing it up at this point but after today, things will go back to normal anyway.

He didn’t bend or lean down to talk to you anymore- having made you feel small or a pet being talked down to. If anything, he actually looked somehow ten times hotter when he looked down his nose at you with his full height at attention. Running was the only thing that you didn’t mind taking a break on- of course you would look like you were fine and hide your pants until he would turn his back again. Holding back a glare, you knew he was smiling when he continued on.

Lets not forget the nearly bone breaking grips and cuddles. He did have to apologize when you practically got shoved forward when his hand came in contact with your ass playfully but it was easily forgivable when you found out how aroused you got from it anyway.

Most people would be excited to have a tall boyfriend- there were many special benefits that you’d miss if you were any taller or he became shorter. You loved hearing his heart beat when you hugged. How he could save you a trip climbing up the counters by just reaching up on top shelves. How he would stand behind you with his threatening aura and let you run your mouth at someone that most likely would have gotten you into big trouble if you were alone. Stuff like that..

The idea was to apologize at the end of the day, knowing he didn’t actually try to belittle you or make you feel weak.. the more you thought, the more you appreciated. He was right, he did these things to take your feelings in consideration- no one in the tower really did that.

Your apology would have to wait because as soon as the bedroom door slammed closed, you were then pressed right up against it before Loki’s lips followed suit right onto yours. Affection was noticeably different today when he wasn’t holding back, and when he kissed you his body would also press up more firmly against yours, enough to take your breath away before he would then pull back and change positions.

You bounced onto the mattress, aroused more than ever while somehow feeling like a rag doll. You asked for this, you were prepared and knew sex was coming at the end of the day.. so why did your heart race at the same time like something deliciously scary was about to happen..

‘’darling..’’ he drew your eyes up to attention, seeing him begin to stripe down while he stayed at the foot of the bed. His voice was raspy, lustful while his eyes took their time coming back to yours while you laid there in your sports bra and shorts. ‘’you’ve asked me to not hold back..’’

‘’yes..’’ you confirmed quietly, a little unsure of what he was getting at while you tried your hardest to pay attention the more skin he revealed.

‘’I wish to warn you that holding back my.. Asgardian form also comes into play..’’

His words had your eyes look up at him and rounded. He had shown you his Jotun form before- there was no judgement there, but what did he mean hold back? Your confusion made him smile sheepishly a little bit while his hands made their way now to slowly undo his belt.

‘’you see.. it takes a bit of magic to stay in my Asgardian form. My natural one is indeed, Frost Giant.. think of it as a constant concentration in the back of my mind that I hold all day and night to the point where it’s all muscle memory..’’

You nodded slowly, squinting while you willed your eyes to stay on his while they screamed to watch as his pants came down and left him in only his boxers. However, there was a slight hint of red beginning to form in his eyes before you began to realize he was changing.

‘’you wish for me to not hold back.. to drop everything.. darling..’’ he drew in a breath, closing his eyes while he inhaled and rolled his shoulders back- beginning to grew taller- bigger in all aspects and blue.. gods that glorious blue.. ‘’this is me not holding back..’’

You felt your mouth salivate, watching how every inch of him changed into that glorious form he rarely showed you- or anyone else. The temperature in the room noticeably changed and you felt your nipples come to peaks within your bra, making Loki’s even more large cock twitch in his boxers.

This had you gulp.

‘’Loki.. if you’re afraid of hurting me in this form.. don’t be- I told you I can take it..’’ you didn’t sound to convincing, there was a small hint of worry in your voice while your eyes looked at the bulge in his pants shamelessly that twitched and screamed to be buried inside of you.

You wanted it.. SO bad.. but you also needed to keep in account of being ripped in half- despite preparation.

‘’darling I know what you are thinking- we don’t necessarily need to have sex tod-‘’

Loki’s words were nearly cut off in a choke of words when you lifted your bra from over your head and tossed it aside, followed by your hands now grasping at your bottoms.

‘’I said I can take it- and for you not to hold back today.. to do what you would normally do- and sex is one of them.’’ You said more confidently, determination now leading you on while you also watched his cock strain while Loki’s eyes watched how you stripped and leaned more forward in front of the bed.

‘’I hope you understand what you’re getting yourself into darling..’’ he said quietly, his eyes watching your hands slowly reveal your dripping cunt while your hands managed to slip your shorts and panties off simultaneously. Loki’s hands slowly came to the mattress, his new size making the mattress dip down even more before he began to crawl forward hungrily.

When he lowered himself onto his stomach in front of your pussy, the bed lightly creaked beneath you. If the bed broke, so be it. It would make things ten times hotter anyway. your fingers nervously curled into the sheets, your body laying you back more while you felt Loki’s eager hands hook under your legs to pull you forward just a bit more before leaving them over his shoulders.

‘’trust me darling.’’ he promised, knowing he’d stop immediately if you even so much as breathed your safe word before his tongue ran a long stripe along your cunt.

The cold wet sensation had a gasp leaving your mouth and your head falling back onto the mattress. Gods it was so cold.. so sensitive.. it made you shiver in all the best ways while your own body heat combined the perfect combination. Loki’s tongue moved slow, wanting to feel every reaction he could pull from you while the tip of his nose pressed to your clit and his tongue began to tease at your entrance.

His longer fingernails dug mildly into your thighs, leaving half moons while yours nearly ripped the fabric breathe you. Your back arched up, your eyes fluttering and your breath hitching. You could tell every part of him grew a bit bigger to where even his tongue began to stretch you out the more be began to plunge in and out with his nose brushing against your clit.

You felt that delicious coil begin to build and your hands already found themselves gripping onto his hair. How you wished you could have had this suggestion long ago if this is how you knew it would have felt.. sex with Loki was absolutely amazing- but having him in this form was icing on top of icing on the cake!

‘’so wet for me.. do you have any idea what you do to me..’’ Loki murmured, raising his head to kitten lick your clit while you watched how his hips ground into the mattress to try to find some relief.

‘’I need you..’’ you breathed, your mouth falling open now and again whenever he would lick across your entrance and back to your clit, teasing you to the point where your legs began to shake around his head.

‘’I know darling, and you will have me. but not until I have you prepared.’’ He smirked before he began suckling on your clit, making you gasp and buck your hips against his face- an arm coming across your pelvis to keep you down and still.

getting you properly wet for him was not an accommodation for his new size, but to take him in general and something he always did when you both were making love. Yet you wondered if that normal preparation was gonna be enough to take much more of him..

a large finger began to slowly ease its way into your entrance, making you moan and feel your cunt immediately begin to grip around it. Loki’s moan by feeling it to made vibrations send your clit into a frenzy. You squirmed beneath him, feeling how he would pause now and again before adding more of his finger into you until he finally got to the second knuckle.

‘’gods darling and that’s only one-‘’ he moaned, his eyes lowering to see just how stretched you were while your body began to shake.

Just one of his fingers alone made you feel the stretch, causing you to whimper when he slowly began to glide it in and out with a curl. Your hips began to follow his motions before you would whimper, him now and again surprising you with a lick now and again to your clit that would make your cunt clench down around him.

‘’so tight.. so tight for me..’’ he crooned, watching the sight with half lidded eyes and a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You couldn’t very much move, his larger arm draped across your pelvis that practically kept your lower half from moving. To sit up, you’d have to do a crunch and your body wasn’t strong enough to keep on your elbows when he would constantly surprise you with his tongue and shoot your pleasure up through your body like electricity.

His cold temperature mixed with the warmth of your cunt made you shiver and sweat at the same time. Your breathing came in pants, your fingers returning to grip the sheets while your head thrashed from side to side the faster he pumped. He then pulled out just to the fingertip before you felt him run his tongue against your entrance beside his finger.

Your eyes fluttered, head raising a little to see exactly when he was doing before you felt it. He began to slide a second finger along the first one and began to ease both of them slowly back into you- this time without pause. You moan left your lips while your back arched, eyes rolling to the back of your head while you felt the stretch even more than the first- despite your arousal.

‘’you are doing so well for me darling.. look at you, all wet and stretched.. you might be able to take me.’’ he cooed, leaning his head down to begin to leave open mouth kisses against your clit and run his tongue against it while his fingers continued to penetrate you.

The stretch was deliciously there, how it would almost begin to sting until you finally felt him stop and leave you stuffed. You could tell both digits were up to the second knuckle but he remained still while your body went to work at adjusting. Every now and again his fingers would flex, fingertips tilting up to feel your walls and would make you twitch and squeeze around them.

‘’you are so beautiful like this.. taking me so well in your pretty cunt.. I almost don’t want to let you leave this bed except for two exceptions.’’ He smirked and his eyes flicked up to yours that were fluttering and lust drunk. ‘’to stretch and to suck.’’

You felt your body shiver in pleasure at the mere thought of it before he took that opportunity to pull his fingers out and stop at the tips. Your cunt squeezed at the loss, searching for him before he began to push them back in more and make you moan. He did this a few times at a slower pace, bobbing his head up and down to lick against your clit before you began to feel even more stretched.

Your breath hitched, body tensing instinctually while he began to spread his fingers apart and begin to scissor them slowly, continuing his in and out motion at the same time. The stretch was indescribable- almost reminding you of your very first time, funny enough.

Your legs began to squeeze around his head, knowing he’s reassured you several times that you could squeeze your hardest and he’d be fine. ‘Every man’s dream to be taken out’ as he calls it. At this point you really had no control over your body because it acted all on its own. It’s as if it knew how to accommodate and react just how Loki wanted. The faster he went, the more your hips would buck and search for more. Your arousal could be felt dripping out now, leaving the most pornographic sounds as his fingers squelched back in and spread.

‘’I do believe you can manage this.’’ He smirked, the crueler side of him.. the more dominant side that tended to take over began to show while your eyes caught sight of his lustful, wicked grin.

It’s as if he couldn’t look away at the scene, seeing you stretched out more than he had ever seen you because- quite frankly- two of his Jotun fingers were a little over the equivalent size of his Asgardian cock- which was big already. You noticed slight movement and risked raising your head to investigate.

First, there was his large fingers raising your belly up and down to indicate exactly where he was inside of you. Second, his other hand helped him sit up to rest on his knees and heels before it lowered his boxers enough to spring his cock out.

When you said you’ve seen Loki’s Jotun form before, you did- but not ALL of it. He didn’t like to show it much so it was always quick peaks of merely face and upper body. This was your first time being his lower half, particularly his dick and the sight alone had you trying to sit up to reach out for it, making his free hand land on your chest and push you back down.

‘’ah ah ah darling, patience. I need you to be absolutely still for me so that I don’t break this perfect cunt.’’ he tsked and you could feel your arms stretch up above your head by themselves, making your eyes shoot up to find them bound magically to the bedposts.

‘’please..’’ you whimpered, not sure if you were whining to touch him or for him to take you already. His hand returned to his cock and he began to stroke it slowly while his other hand continued to scissor you.

Your eyes drank in the sight and your legs shook along his thighs with need and anticipation. You knew prep was necessary, but you were a very impatient person sometimes and could feel the muscles in your arms begin to ache while they unconsciously pulled to try to break free.

‘’eager aren’t we pet, you know I hate to leave you waiting.’’ He sighed with a playful mock in his voice before he began easing his fingers out of you but stopped to where only his fingertips remained inside.

His other hand began to slowly rub the tip of his cock against your clit, making you moan and squirm on the bed, doing your best to try to remember to remain still. Your eyes watched him, knowing if you were the one to hold his cock, your hand wouldn’t even be able to wrap around it fully. If his fingers were being shown through your belly when he pumped you, your body began to hesitate with his cock size. Your eyes flicked up to his awaiting ones, where he looked down at you with love and hunger.

‘’you can take it.’’

His fingertips then began to part, spreading you open into another scissor position. You felt the stretch even more when his fingers spread you wider than what they had been doing earlier. They then paused a moment before you watched Loki guide his cock with his other hand down towards your entrance and right between his fingertips like a landing strip.

The way Loki’s breath shuddered out of pleasure seemed to feed your own, loving the sound of his own noises while you willed yourself to relax and let him in.

‘’you’re so perfect..’’ Loki whispered, his voice being a balm while you felt him slowly slip his cock into your entrance, squeezing between his fingers until he pulled them away once his cock was in about an inch.

Your mouth opened into a silent cry, eyes squeezing shut while your back lifted off the mattress. Your cunt instinctually closed around him, almost choking him while his body came down onto his palms beside your shoulders, caging you beneath him. you barely registered his forehead pressing against your chest, feeling his shallow breaths fan your skin while his arms shook and willed himself to remain still.

There was a pleasurable sting to it all, a hot pain that also came soothed with his cold temperature. A delicious mix that balanced both sides. After merely a moment of calm, you felt the pain ease away and another inch slide in to revive it. Your nails would have been digging and drawing blood if he hadn’t tied them above your head- so you had to settle for your own palms.

The perks with Loki was that no matter what, he was able to heal all wounds. So fuck it.

You drew in deep breaths and met his eyes when he lifted his head, looking down at you while his ink locks framed his face. His eyes were a beautiful deep red and yet you would have recognized them in any color that they were your lover’s. your legs widened, tilting your hips slightly while you bit your bottom lip.

‘’you’re s-so big..’’ you murmured, feeling already full but knew fully well it wasn’t even half.

Loki grinned with a breath laugh, leaning himself down to capture your lips and swipe his tongue along your bottom one. You were happy to oblige and upon doing so, Loki added another inch of his cock into your cunt. your whines and moans were drowned when his tongue began to dominate, enjoying but also helping to distract while he lowered his hips slightly so his body could better drag against your clit with each rock.

He did this until all of him was buried to the hilt- rocking against your clit and massaging your tongue with his own. By the time you were full stuffed, your body was shaking and scrambling to adjust while Loki remained still. He pulled away enough to look down at the sight and grin at you after, watching how you squirmed.

‘’you take me so well..’’ he rasped and began to slowly rock his hips into you.

Your head fell from side to side, panting while your legs came and squeezed along his body that blocked them from closing. Your pleasure continued to build, feeling how his curls would drag against your clit in a maddening pace. He made sure his cock dragged along every inch, making sure you felt him thoroughly- all of him while his mouth came now to suck at your neck.

‘’so full..’’ you whimpered, feeling the bulge in your stomach without even having to look down.

‘’so tight..’’ he murmured, licking along your neck before covering it with teeth and kisses.

The more he would move, the more the pain would turn into pleasure. By now he was taking on a steady rhythm of long strokes with his weight being held now on his arms, holding the plank position so he could bury his face in the crook of your neck. You relished the smell of him, the feeling of him, shivering not just with pleasure but with the way his cold matched your heat. You wouldn’t be surprised if your entire body was hidden from sight, granted how his body was far larger in this form and he made sure not to crush you in any way you wouldn’t like.

‘’gods I’m.. I’m..’’ you whimpered, feeling him begin to thrust at an upper angle to rub against that special spongy spot-on repeat. Your orgasm was so close and your pleas along was enough to spur him on and chase it faster with each thrust.

‘’cum my darling.. cum on my cock- let me feel you tighten around me like a good girl..’’ he growled, nudging your face to the side with his own slightly to better access and catch your earlobe with his teeth.

He moved faster, the bed creaking below and the headboard banging against the wall. Neither of you cared, let along the shameless moans you both would give before you finally had your orgasm wash over you like a storm. Your body squeezed around him, getting impossibly tighter while Loki groaned with how much your cunt seemed to strangle him. one of his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you up against him body while he plunged mercilessly into you while you rode out your orgasm.

It wasn’t long before Loki came as well, pushing himself as deep as he could before you felt the feeling of hot liquid spill inside while your walls fluttered and milked him. your body shook, feeling how his cock just kept spurting to the point where some trickled out and dripped down. He made sure you were stuffed and plugged, keeping inside you while his body shook and panted. You weren’t sure when your hands were free but they quickly wrapped around him and you inhaled deeply against his neck.

One of your hands played with your hair, feeling his muscles relax and he had to quickly lay on his side to not land on top of you, making you laugh softly at just how much of an effect you had on him. his cock slowly slipped out and a bit of his essence began to flow out but you didn’t care. You curled up next to him while his body began to feel warm again. By the time you opened your eyes and raised your chin, he was back in his Asgardian form, smiling down at you with exhaustion and love.

‘’are you content with how things were today darling?” he smirked.

‘’I definitely wouldn’t mind this,’’ you giggle and press your cheek against his chest while the two of you laid together. ‘’but I’m sorry..’’

Loki’s brows furrowed and he looked down at you before his head fell back into the pillow, his arms pulling you closer with his thumb stroking your bare skin. ‘’why are you apologizing?”

‘’because you’re right.. I looked at you as holding back because I saw myself as weak- how you had to hold back, slow down, be careful and such.. but I came to realize today, that we adapt to those we love because.. well.. we love them.’’

Loki smiled and pressed a kiss to your head before he closed his eyes. ‘’I never feel like you hold be back darling, nor do I ever see you as weak or limited. Everybody is different, and you have far more strengths compared to mine that you know. I may have underestimated you.’’ There was a light tease in his voice that made you raise your chin and look up at him.

‘’strengths?”

Loki chuckled and held you impossibly closer to his side. ‘’you were able to take on my Jotun form darling. As a mortal, it surely should have been impossible.’’

Your eyes widened and you raised a brow. ‘’you took that risk??”

‘’I merely was doing what you requested darling- to not hold back. After all,’’ he smirked and looked down at you, his red eyes having returned and you already began feeling yourself get aroused between your legs.

‘’you said you could take it.’’

Other Jotun!Loki Fic: "Feral" & "Menu"

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, there are many things that you are immeasurably grateful for in the aftermath.

One of the most immediate ones– which might have been surprising in the moment, if there were any parts of your brain capable of engaging in conscious thought at the time– is Beck’s ability to be completely unmoved by anything . The knock on the door had made your blood run cold, sent a shock of nervous adrenaline lancing through your body that had cut clean through the not-unpleasant haze of whatever the fuck you had been feeling before that–

Beyond cursing under his breath, his eyes flashing dark with some unidentifiable emotion, Beck didn’t react– didn’t panic– at all. He had fixed you with a pointed stare and pressed a finger to his lips– be quiet – and then, apparently otherwise unfazed, he had reached for his belt from the desk and began working it back through the loops of his dress pants. 

The knocking– a student, presumably, because it was office hours, after all– stopped after a few minutes, and then there was silence, and when that silence had dragged on for what you deemed to be an appropriately safe amount of time, you slipped out the door of his office, not looking back once. Beck didn’t say anything to you, and didn’t make any attempt to stop you from leaving – your brain had been buzzing, overstimulated and racing with frantic, scattered thoughts that you couldn’t hold onto long enough to complete before they would disappear from you and others would take their place, and because of that none of it had actually felt real then. It would have, probably, if you’d been forced to focus on him again for even a moment– but he didn’t say a word, and so you didn’t have to, and you were glad for that, too.

You don’t remember getting back home, only that you must have. It had been a Friday, another thing you’re grateful for, because looking at yourself in the mirror of your apartment bathroom after having mechanically directed yourself through the process of a too-hot shower, there was a rapidly-darkening bruise at the base of your throat, another right over your jugular– something you knew, instinctively, in a distant and far-away part of your brain, would be there for a while. The sight of it triggered a twinge of something, like an echo, the flutter of your slightly-uneven pulse quickening in response– but it was still too recent to really register, then, still felt like a fantasy, or some strange hallucination existing in the realm somewhere between a dream and a nightmare.

It’s not until probably about eleven at night that everything slots into place and the memory fully realizes itself, integrates into the collection of all the other facts and realities that you know to be true. You’re laying sprawled out on your bed, motionless, staring up at the slowly-turning blades of the ceiling fan in the dark; these moments trickle back in reverse-order, in broad strokes, mostly. And maybe it’s because it’s late and you’re tired and you’re not thinking straight or really thinking much at all, but also maybe for other reasons that you refuse to acknowledge or elaborate on– but the very first thing you recall in its’ entirety, in brilliant, blinding detail, is what he’d said to you, his mouth low over your ear and his breath coming fast and hot–

Come on, honey. It plays back in your head, the edge to it, biting and cruel, not really urging you on as much as just telling you, like he knew that he was going to make you cum and he knew that there was nothing you could do to stop him if you’d even wanted to–

The surge of heat that flushes through you at the memory is so immediate and overpowering that it shocks you to your core. Your breath catches and then escapes in a totally involuntary, inarticulate sound, and you cover your mouth with your hand and screw your eyes shut as tight as you can— because after that it’s like the floodgates have opened or the dam has been breached and whatever wall you’d constructed between yourself and what had happened is gone, destroyed, swept away in the rush of everything you’d repressed rearing up to the forefront of your mind again, drowning out any other thought in a sea of white noise.

The mess of emotions that surges up with it is thorny and unfathomable and entirely too complicated for you to even begin to extricate, but you can recognize immediate, surface sensations, and wanting is one of them, the strongest one, probably, followed by fury and frustration and shame, none of which, you realize– alone or together– even come close to the intensity of your desire. Which is fucking embarrassing, honestly, what the fuck had he done to you? What the fuck had you let him do? And more importantly why and how do you already know with such a crushing and steadfast and terrible certainty that you’d let him do it again?

Your mind brings to the forefront, completely unbidden, the thought of what Beck might be doing, right now– you wonder if he’s thinking about it, like you are, but your instinct tells you that he’s probably not. He’s probably doing whatever the fuck it is he normally does at this time, collected and generally unfazed; you imagine that if he had any idea of you, the state you’re in, he’d smile one of those infuriatingly condescending smiles like every other time he’s managed to burrow his way under your skin, and your cheeks and your chest burn with an all-too-familiar embarrassment.

It’s not fair.

There’s an ache between your thighs again, a need, pulsing and trembling and wearing incessantly on the foundations of your fucking psyche, and you really, really, really want nothing more than to ignore it, to just roll over and go to sleep and not give him another inch of your resolve or the fucking satisfaction, but–

But the look he had fixed on you, before he kissed you, it plays behind your eyes; the feeling when he did kiss you, finally, how it had sated that frustration inside in a way that the confrontation hadn’t, better than anything else ever had to a degree that it was fucking frightening. 

You don’t push the thoughts away. 

So. Yeah. You’re grateful for a lot of stuff, in the immediate aftermath. Most of all, you’re grateful that it’s Thanksgiving break– that there are a whole ten days before you have to see Beck again, if only because it’s reason enough to justify that touching yourself to the thought of him later that night isn’t going to just make this whole thing that much fucking worse.

Ten days, it turns out, is not actually long enough for any of what you’re feeling to fade.

Come Monday morning you’re so high-strung that your anxiety is palpable– you drop your backpack on the floor twice just trying to hang it on the hooks on the wall outside of the lab, which is apparently out of character enough to warrant a concerned Hey, everything all right? from Dr. Banner, which absolutely does not help. Somehow, you manage to spin something about underestimating what a ten-day-break from XL coffees does to a person’s overall tolerance for caffeine, a spur-of-the-moment excuse that you’re quite proud of, especially considering it gets a laugh out of both him and your fellow grad students. 

You don’t actually see him at all that day. There are moments where you can almost completely forget about it, absorbed in lab busywork or chatting with labmates or grading assignments for Dr. Banner’s undergraduate microbiology class, but then there are also the moments where you’re alone and unoccupied and the thoughts are unavoidable, that same turmoil of emotions leeching up to the surface like a fresh bruise that you just can’t stop yourself from pressing down on.

Tuesday, too, is much of the same, and then Wednesday and Thursday after that; you’d have thought it would get easier with time, but it actually doesn’t– the longer it’s been since that day the fuzzier and more distant the memory, sure, but that frustration starts to build again in its’ absence. It’s kind of ironic, in a grating, infuriating way, the fact that you’re pissed off this time– for the first time– because he’s avoiding you, instead of the opposite. But it’s also so just like him– of course he’s unaffected, immune to this, and of course you aren’t, and of course he doesn’t give a shit. None of this is new, not really, it’s just different.

On Friday you end up having to stay late because one of your labmates fucks up a chemical extraction procedure that you were meant to be handling for the undergrads, meaning somebody has to remain in the lab for an extra three hours to run the dry ice bath and then transfer and separate the extract– it can’t be the person who actually fucked up, because they have work, apparently. But it could be you, of course, with nothing better to do, and you readily volunteer, because doing something is actually leagues better than sitting at home and wallowing in your myriad of unresolved issues– anger, mostly, but also other less appropriate things that you don’t want to think about.

So.

It’s five-thirty when the extraction is finally finished. You’ve run through the motions of locking up, putting all of the supplies back in their respective places, shutting off the overhead lights, kicking the door jamb out from where it’s wedged, the door itself having already been locked when Dr. Banner left at three. It’s November– December, now, actually– and so it’s dark and near-freezing outside by the time you’re done; the other end of the chemistry building is nearest to the parking lot, and so you decide that, in the interest of retaining feeling in your fingers, you’ll go down through the building and exit on the other side, thereby limiting the amount of time you actually have to spend out in the cold. 10/10, all-around solid plan.

Except Beck’s office is on this end of the building. You know that, and the knowledge prickles somewhere at the base of your spine as you sling your backpack over your shoulder and head in that direction, but you also know that it’s late, and that he doesn’t really ever try to hang around past four– much less past four on a Friday– so you’re comfortably certain he’ll have already gone.

(You’re wrong, because of course you are.)

You’d been thinking about what you were going to make for dinner, staring down at the faded tiling pattern on the floor and not really paying attention, until the sound of a door closing echoes down the hallway. You glance up, instinctively, drawn towards the noise, and–

Oh, fuck.

You see him before he sees you, and your brain kind of– short-circuits , freezes and stalls and shuts down like a glitchy computer. He’s turned with his back facing you, probably locking up. If you were thinking more clearly, maybe you would have turned back before he finished, but you don’t, can’t, frozen to the spot and unblinking.

Beck turns from the door, stowing the key ring in his pants pocket, and when he sees you his expression shifts from a kind of neutral ambivalence to one of those too-knowing smiles that had always struck you as just a little bit wrong in ways you hadn’t been able to figure out, not until he’d pinned you against his desk and–

You swallow, screw your eyes shut tight for a moment, and try your best to rid your mind of the thought. 

“Hey,” Beck calls out to you, “Heard you might be here late, honey.”

His tone is deceptively mild, conversational, but even so the nickname still kindles that heat again, brings all those thoughts you were trying so hard to suppress flooding right back to the surface, the echo of come on, honey that had played back endlessly any time you’d so much as closed your eyes ringing in your ears, somehow even louder than your thundering heartbeat. It takes an embarrassingly long second before the rest of what he’d said starts to filter in, drowned out at first by the immediate surge of heat that had flooded you; he knew you were here, you realize, and he’d probably been waiting for you. Waiting to get you alone.

Three weeks ago that thought would have made you furious. Now, though–

“Yeah,” you say, still moving towards him– towards the door, fuck; even the way you phrase the thought in the privacy of your own head feels like you’ve betrayed yourself. You’re aiming for nonchalance in your reply but you miss that mark terribly, breathless with anticipation and unable to fight off the impulse to shiver.  “Somebody fucked up an extraction that we needed to have ready for Monday, so I said I would stay—Dr. Banner’s gone to New York City for a conference, or I would have just come in over the weekend.”

You’re talking a lot, you realize, the words tumbling out of your mouth with a far greater ease than you’re used to when it comes to him; you know he’s able to tell, that he’s aware of the difference, he must be. But he doesn’t react or respond to it at all, just watches you, eyes dark and warm and expression infuriatingly unreadable.

“You’re a good student, to help out like that,” he says, after a long, unbearable pause, “Bruce is lucky to have you.”

A part of you has trouble comprehending the sentence as complete, still waiting for the other shoe to drop; the inevitable backhanded insult you’ve learned to expect whenever he says something even remotely positive, but it doesn’t come. That’s-- actually worse, somehow.

Beck tips his head towards the door. “Leaving? I’ll walk with you.”

That hum that had started in your body at the sight of him, the one that felt like it reached every part of you, even down to your bones; it ramps up higher. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t smile, but his mouth quirks up at the corners, like he wants to.

You walk in silence, your heart in your throat, a rush of energy flooding through your body, suffusing your cheeks with warmth and filling your ears with the thunderous echo of your pulse and driving a reflexive, arrhythmic twitch in your fingers that you try to hide in the bulky sleeves of your coat. This is probably the longest amount of time you’ve spent in each other’s company without him trying to upset you on purpose or you barely restraining yourself from ending up at his throat since– the last time. The thought of it– what had happened the last time, even as abstract and ill-defined as the notion was– still makes things worse, heightens your awareness of the space between your bodies; closer than you ever would have allowed him to be, before all of this. Still not close enough.

Beck trails to a stop at the end of the hall where the staircase to the upper floors sits across from the double doors that lead to the parking lot outside, having ended up a few steps ahead of you. You mean to just keep going; the door is within your line of sight, barely ten feet away, but it’s like as soon as you’re faced with having to move past him your feet are rooted to the ground, frozen, immobilized.

He’s staring at you again. You fold your arms over your chest, glad for the shapeless mass of your oversized winter coat that hides your reflexive, miniscule shiver.

“Ah–Y’know what, I forgot, there’s some things I need to grab for my lab,” he says after a moment, as if it had only just occurred to him,  jerking his head towards the door to the supply closet that’s tucked underneath the adjacent staircase and offering you an apologetic grimace that feels— exaggerated. Pre-planned. Performative. “This’ll probably take a minute. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

You have a response already half-formulated in the pause that follows before he adds, somehow still casual, “Unless you think you could stay a little longer and help me out.”

The implication isn’t even really an implication at all, evident in the way that he’s looking at you, obvious and unrepentant, and the tremble that it elicits from somewhere near the base of your spine, that knot of anticipation in your belly twisting and turning and coiling tighter– you already want it, him, and you’re certain he must be able to tell, the way your pupils, which are probably dilated already, must blow out even wider, like planets, like deep, endless oceans of black–

“It’s late, though, and I’m sure there’s other things you’d rather be doing.” That edge is back, mocking, sly, manipulative like he’s trying to trick the words out of you– no, actually, nothing. He turns to the door underneath the staircase and reaches for the key ring he’d shoved in his pocket earlier; you’re jealous, somewhere deep down, at how steady his hands are, firm and methodical, as he flips through a set of near-identical keys until he finds the one to the closet.The click of the lock is nearly drowned out by the sound of your own pulse thundering inside your head, every inch as unsteady and as volatile as you feel. 

The door swings outwards on creaking hinges. Beck fixes you with this look; like he’s already won, just by virtue of the fact that you haven’t moved. Maybe he’s right. He’s always been capable of deciphering exactly what you were feeling at any given moment in time, regardless of whether or not you wanted him to, always been better at getting you to rise to his bullshit than you ever were at getting him to rise to yours. He knows you, knows what you’ll do oftentimes much sooner than even you do. And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising— he’s a tenured professor, he taught you for four years, and he’s got nearly two decades on you. He was always going to be better at this.

Whatever. You don’t really care if you’re proving him right. You’re tired of fighting it, and you were never all that good at it anyway.

The inside of the supply closet is dim and dusty and cluttered and probably covered in cobwebs, but you don’t care. He’s touching you before the door has even closed all the way, stripping your coat from your shoulders and pulling you towards him by the waist, the press of his hand wide and firm and so fucking warm even through the fabric of your sweater; and fuck yes, god, even that, that one point of contact, it soothes that burning restless ache that had built inside of you for the past two weeks better than any of your own attempts at doing so ever did—

You’re the one who closes that last sliver of space, this time– and it should probably be surprising, how eager you are to do it, to drag him down by his shirt collar and push yourself up on your toes and kiss him, that nameless thing inside that’s followed you for the last two fucking weeks finally going quiet. He makes this noise against your mouth in the very first few moments, a rough and low and surprised sound, like he’s taken aback for a second. But it’s only a second, and then your back collides with the sharp plastic edges of the overstuffed rows of shelving that line the walls of the room hard enough that it forces the breath right out of your lungs, and in the moments where that gasp has your mouth opened up he licks into it, his tongue curling over your teeth and sliding against your own and wringing out a sound from you that you don’t even really try to stop this time. 

Beck hasn’t even taken his coat off, you realize dimly. It doesn’t fucking matter. His thigh is pressed up between your legs, the pressure obliging the warmth there, and you can feel his cock already hard against the jut of your hip– you wonder, hazy and far-away, if he was hard before this, before you’d even kissed him, if he had been thinking about it the whole time he was walking you to the door. He works a hand up under your sweater, and you lean into it– rough, large, warm, god, he must just run hot, because you can feel him even in the spaces where your bodies aren’t touching, his presence, like the air around you is made a few degrees warmer for it. 

When that hand under your sweater smooths down your abdomen to thumb over the button of your jeans there’s this frantic swell of panic at the immediate and overwhelming flush of heat that accompanies it, the trembling pulse between your legs— he hasn’t even touched you yet. He’s going to take you apart, again, and it’s not even going to be fucking hard. You want him to, shivering at the thought, but it’s your pride that stops you– for all that bullshit about being done fighting him, you’re not, really. 

A four-year habit is hard to break. Go figure.

It doesn’t take all that much force to push him the grand total of two feet backwards until his back is to the opposite row of shelves in the closet; he lets you, or more accurately, he doesn’t resist, if only because you don’t think he’s expecting it. With the door closed the little room is dark, the shape of him just a darker outline against a field of murky, shapeless gray, the only light the sliver of it from outside that spills out at your feet. It works out, though, because you can see everything that clutters the floor– old paint cans and ancient long-retired confocal microscopes and unlabeled industrial-sized plastic buckets of god-knows-what– and you can see right where there’s the space for you to kneel.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Beck says when you do; the question is clearly rhetorical, amused and a little patronizing, like he thinks you’re out of your depth again. You hate that it gets to you, but it does, brings that familiar annoyance searing back, bright and vicious and spiteful in the pit of your stomach. It’s the way that he’s looking at you that really does it– like he thinks that this is beyond you, or maybe just that he thinks he’s somehow uniquely fucking special, impossible to satisfy, and all of that– every possibility, every interpretation– it all pisses you off. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you reply, irritated, stubbornness ticking at the muscle of your jaw. “Do you want me to or not?”

Beck laughs at that, loud and sharp and something that might have even been pleased. He reaches to run his fingers through your hair and pulls, just a little, the pinpricks of pain rippling across your scalp as he forces your head back so that you’re looking at him, really looking at him, not just sneaking glances like you had been before. He has one of those bared-teeth smiles, something that base and instinctive part of you interprets as a challenge, even though it doesn’t really feel like it’s meant to be one. It feels like it’s meant to be a warning, maybe. Or a threat.

“Go ahead, honey,” he says, grinning wider. 

Beck doesn’t react at all when your hands find his belt, his breathing steady and his expression even and his posture annoyingly fucking relaxed; doesn’t move to help you with it, either, satisfied to just watch as you work it open and tug his jeans and his boxers down his thighs. He’s still unaffected even when your palm slides over the hard outline of his dick through his boxer briefs, and, god, if that doesn’t just piss you off more– the way that he’s just so effortlessly immune to this, the same way he’s always been immune to any of your retaliatory attempts to incite him. The painfully obvious way that you’re not; the way the sight of his cock, hard, twitching lazily, makes this unbearable warmth pool somewhere inside of you, your breath catching somewhere, hesitating enough that you know he must notice. No, you– you’re whatever the complete opposite of immune is. Vulnerable. Hyperreactive. Exposed. 

Except– 

When you reach out to touch him, several things happen at once; the muscles in his thighs twitch and his posture stiffens and his breathing goes still, all just for a fraction of a second before he’s relaxed again. That  tension is gone so quickly that you might have thought you’d imagined it, if it didn’t happen again when you lick a long wet stripe all the way up from the base of his cock and then again when you curl your tongue in a slow circle around the tip–

Maybe, you think, maybe he’s not really immune to any of it. Maybe he just hides it better.

It becomes more obvious when you put your mouth on him, not even really halfway; in the near-dark of the room you can see the shadow of him as he drags his hand down the lower half of his face, can hear, as wound-up and hyper-aware you are, the trembling breath as it leaves him, hitching when your tongue presses up against the underside of his cock as you pull back and move down again, further each time–

“Fuck,” Beck groans under his breath, the sound rough and low. “Oh, fuck, honey.” 

Yes, you think, the rush of satisfaction so immediate that it takes you by surprise; whatever flicker of shame that inspires in you is ridiculously easy to silence. Beck makes another noise, wordless and low, pretense of invulnerability abandoned-- his other hand has wrapped around one of the supporting beams of the shelf, like he’s trying to steady himself, and when you finally reach all the way down to the base and stay there, just for a moment, unmoving, his grip tightens around it so hard that the flimsy plastic cracks in his fist. Your answering laugh when you pull back is more of a hum than anything, muffled by him, cheeky and pleased– but that ruins it, whatever small amount of control he’d granted to you, something bordering on growl vibrating out of him that you would probably call touchy if you were able to speak, and then his other hand fists in your hair and he pulls, hard, drags your head back down until his cock is buried in your throat and your nose is pressed right up against his stomach. 

It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does— your tongue pressed flat against the base of his dick, your mouth flooding with saliva and your throat working around him and his hand on the back of your head, holding you there, the tremble that shudders through the solid muscles of his abdomen so close you can feel it — but your body is betraying you, again, again, just like before, your thighs pressing together with your hand squeezed between them, and even the insignificant pressure of your own palm through your jeans is enough that you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself from making some embarrassing involuntary sound if it wasn’t for him, the way he’s compressing your fucking voice box–

There’s the snap of plastic again, that same beam from earlier; he needs to let go of it, you think, the thought fuzzy as he pulls his cock out and saliva trails down your chin and then fuzzier still as he rocks it back in again, or he’s going to break it clean in half. 

He moves like that for a while and you just let him, or worse, you fucking enjoy it; until eventually the pressure of his hand at the base of your skull lessens and his grip goes slack and you can move again, your tongue curling up around the tip of his cock and then pressing firm to the underside of it when you take him back into your mouth– 

“God, honey, you’re such— such a terminal fucking overachiever, aren’t you,” Beck says, that edge in his voice, biting and mean, and you would roll your eyes at him if you could trust yourself enough to even open them, terrified that whatever way he must be looking at you right now would simply cause you to evaporate on the spot. The words alone are rough and cruel and dripping with condescension, but there’s still, contained within them, that begrudging admission that it’s good, that compliment hidden inside an insult or maybe the other way around, and it pleases you in a way that you know it really shouldn’t. He makes another sound, slurred and inarticulate, fist tightening in your hair— that control, it’s slipping through his fingers, that immaculate and insufferable level of self-constraint shattered and crumbling, and you’re dizzy with the thought of it; that you might be able to finally do something–even just once– that might actually get to him.

It doesn’t take long, after that. He wavers between letting you move, as willing and embarrassingly fucking eager as you are to do it, and moving for you, hand firm on the back of your head as he fucks your open, waiting mouth. You can tell when he starts to get close, passes the point of being able to fight it off just by slowing down, the muscles in his thighs twitching and his breathing turning rough and irregular, hitching and catching and forced out of his chest–

“Fuck,” He grits out, his palm suddenly flat against your forehead, pushing you back, away, muscles gone rigid and still. “Don’t.”

“Why,” you reply, breathless, aiming for something like teasing or taunting but ending up so shot through with desire that it doesn’t matter what you were even trying for anyways. 

He doesn’t even warrant that with a response, just looks at you, eyes dark and pupils blown out so wide that you can’t even tell where the sliver of his irises even begins– he looks at you like you must be fucking stupid, like the answer is obvious, and—

You shiver.

Yeah. It is, actually, obvious.

He drags you up from the ground by the collar, pulls so hard that you stumble to your feet, off-balance, and nearly come crashing into him. He only looks at you— at your mouth, swollen and bruised and spit-slick and red— for a moment, and then he kisses you again and you melt for it without so much as a single fucking thought. 

Beck forces you back against the other set of shelves; it’s not hard, with only about four feet of space spanning the whole room and with you swaying and unsteady and caught up in chasing his tongue as it roves through your mouth, for him to push you until the hard plastic corners are digging into your spine and the backs of your thighs again. He doesn’t let you touch him, grabs your wrist and pins it to the edge of the highest shelf up above your head when you try, fingers squeezing so hard that it hurts a little bit– that sends a sharp thrill of self-satisfaction flickering through you, the thought that he can’t take it, that you got him that close–and then he tears at the button of your jeans, the zipper, yanks them and your underwear only halfway down your thighs, just far enough to be able to–

The noise you make when he touches you is drawn from you so abruptly that you can’t soften it or even really try to make it sound less desperate; not that it would matter anyways, with the way that your body arches up, into him, how wet you know you already are despite having spent the last fifteen fucking minutes with his dick in your mouth and without him even really touching you at all–

“You fucking liked that– you were getting off on it, weren’t you, honey,” His mouth breaks from yours just to say it, like he knows what you’re thinking or maybe just like he’d been thinking the same thing, not even really asking as much as just stating a fucking fact,  that stupid smug smile spreading wide across his face again.

“Fuck you,” you manage to reply, not even really succeeding in saying it with any amount of vitriol, voice breaking at the last syllable; all he has to do is touch you again and everything inside of you goes hot and white and blank , your free hand flying out to grab a fistful of his shirt, so tight that your knuckles are drawn and bloodless, squirming uselessly against the solid unyielding hold he has on your other wrist as he works two fingers inside of you and curls them and finds some horribly sensitive something that you hadn’t even known was there, rubs the rough pad of his thumb against your clit as he works them deeper and no, no, fuck, it’s not fair–

He doesn’t make you come like that, even though it probably would have been so easy, and maybe later tonight or tomorrow or sometime next week you’ll remember to be ashamed of how absurdly fucking easy it always is for him to get anything from you, even this, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care. He fucks you open on his fingers until you’re whining and rocking back against him and begging for it in all but actual words, and as soon as the muscles in your abdomen start to tense and the pitch of your moans shifts up higher he stops short and tells you to turn around. You don’t bother to suppress the sound that elicits from you, petulant, frustrated and wavering, but you still do what he says; when he tells you to bend, to put your hands out flat on the shelf, you do that, too, without even really thinking about it. There’s something in the back of your mind that’s absolutely indignant at your immediate compliance– add it to the fucking long list of things you’ll think about later– but it falls silent as soon as he takes the space behind you.

His hand skims your hip and you take in a shaky, shuddering breath– you can’t see him, what he’s doing, and everything in your body is still wound so tight, the combination driving such a vicious surge of anticipation that it feels for a second like you’re going to come apart at the seams, or that you might have already and just failed to notice.

Beck notches the head of his dick right between your thighs, presses forward a little, urges you up on your toes until he’s aligned just right– there, right there, you think, trembling, yes, fuck, come on, please— and then he leans over you, his arms caging yours, his much bigger hands covering your smaller ones so completely, pushing them harder into the gridded plastic lattice of the shelf. You can feel his breath against your neck, warm, the heat of his body bleeding right through his clothes, soothing the prickle of goosebumps that had spread across the exposed skin of your lower back where the edge of your sweater has ridden up, bunched around your waist. It’s cold, here, much colder than it had been in the hall– presumably because there’s no heat to the storage closet, because why would there be– and that just makes it better, honestly, how much larger he is, how fucking warm. 

Please, you want to say, only remembering your pride at the last second, but then he moves closer and pushes into you anyways like he already knows what you want, and that’s fucking gone, too.

This time— balanced up on your toes, your hands braced against the shelf, the latticed plastic surface biting into your palms and his hands over them, keeping them there, your legs only spread as wide as the jeans pulled half down your thighs will even allow— you know it will take even less to break you than it did the day in his office. Beck is barely moving, short shallow motions as he works you open, but even still he’s already nudging something sensitive and electric inside of you that has your head dropping down against your outstretched arms, against his, too, where they overlay your own. It’s the angle, probably, you manage to think,  flushed and shivery and barely breathing; or maybe it’s just him, and he’s just too good at this. He finally bottoms out and the noise you make– stretched out and filled up and satisfied, that stupid needy thing inside of you gone completely fucking silent at last-– is so unlike you that for a second you don’t even really register it as your own, even muffled as it is by the fabric of his shirt where your face is pressed to the inside of his arm. There’s a twitch in your fingers, like you’re searching for something to hold onto, and Beck obliges that with a mocking chuckle that rumbles out low in his chest and vibrates against your back– he threads his fingers through yours, his palms over the tops of your hands. There you go, honey, he murmurs against your neck, saccharine, patronizing, like you’re this poor pathetic helpless thing, and any other time you probably would have hated him for it. Maybe you still do, even now, and maybe that just makes it even better.

There is something– probably something significant– that is just deeply wrong with you both, you realize, and then he starts to fuck you in earnest and the thought vanishes. 

This isn’t anything like the last time– every inch of you goes soft and pliant like you’re melting beneath him, not fighting it or fighting him or even trying to. Every time he rocks into you it wrings out this desperate hiccupping keen that might have just been the same continuous sound, stretched out, fading and then brought back to life again before it can ever really end. He releases one of your hands to reach down to touch you, the rough pads of his fingers dragging across your clit, and that involuntary noise he’s pulling out of you pitches up higher in response, taking on this breathless shivering quality that you recognize– you’re still fucking wound up from before, vibrating with it.

You realize far far too late that he fucking did this to you on purpose, made sure to keep you from touching him, make sure to get you close before he’d even started. The thought of him fucking you past your rapidly-approaching orgasm triggers something panicky and nervous inside of you; anticipation and apprehension and the sinking realization that you had missed something like you always do, and he had gotten the better of you, again. But there’s nothing you can do about it, really, not now, its’ approach inevitable no matter how hard you try to force your breathing to steady or your muscles to relax–

You know he must be able to feel it, just like last time, the way that you tighten around his cock, the shivering pulse of your muscles and the tremble that runs the length of your whole body. He still hasn’t stopped touching you, and he hasn’t stopped moving, either, the shelf and all its’ contents shaking with the rhythm of it, and you can’t silence the sounds or even try to mute them, the wordless inarticulate whine that pitches up higher each time his cock sinks back inside— 

“Be quiet,” he pants against your shoulder. His hand– the one that had still been covering yours and pressing it harder against the latticed surface of the shelf– it moves up to your throat and then higher still, curling around your jaw, and you should remember to be embarrassed about how quick you are to just let him when he pushes his fingers into your mouth, should be fucking ashamed the way your tongue roves around them, instinctive, obedient, but you can’t think , can barely even remember to breathe. It’s somehow even worse, more overwhelming, now that he’s not bracing his weight on the shelf, the bulk of it resting against you, makes it so that his cock reaches somewhere even deeper inside, his other hand still splayed flat below your stomach, his fingers still against your clit, firm, not really even moving, the friction generated just from the force of him fucking you enough to make something drop out of the pit of your stomach like you’re free-falling because you know with a startling and crystal-clear certainty that you’re going to— that he’s going to make you— again—

Beck must know it too (of course he does, of course) because he presses the fingers in your mouth further in and down firm against your tongue to quiet the noise that breaks out of you when you come for a second time, something that probably would have been closer to a sob than anything, but stifled as it is it just comes out as another incoherent sound. You’re shivering, muscles in your calves and your thighs strung taut, sore and burning like they might give out under you, and when he starts to really touch you again you almost bite down on his fingers, hypersensitive and overstimulated and unable to even move to escape it, with the shelf in front of you and the weight of him pressed to your back–

Maybe he makes you come again, or maybe he doesn’t— it doesn’t really matter, anyways,  the usually-clear delineation between your orgasm and the build to it has been erased, your body so high-strung you can’t even tell the difference anymore. It all just bleeds together, like trying to stay standing and upright in the ocean, in water that’s chest-deep, knocked down by a wave and only barely able to regain your footing before there’s another, and another, and another, rhythmic and relentless and entirely without respite. Beck chuckles, breathless, the sound low and mocking and warm against the shell of your ear,  laughing at you, at the state of you, presumably, and it just drives that tide even higher, until you can’t keep your head above water even in the spaces between the waves.

You should have expected this, you think, with whatever part of your brain that’s still even capable of it— just like any other time you’d ever tried to get the better of him. He always pays you back tenfold.

It could be forever or it could be ten seconds before his own breathing starts to catch and turn ragged, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway, each of his thrusts making something bloom hot and bright across the backs of your eyelids, closed as they are– actual physical evidence of your brain short-circuiting, of everything falling apart; your thoughts, your sense of time, your tenuous, tattered hold on fucking reality. He moves both hands to your waist to pull you back against him, pace growing rougher, more erratic, and without his fingers in your mouth to mute the sound you have to bury your face in the crook of your arm to stifle it as best you can, fingers twitching uselessly, catching in the grids of the shelf and curling there even though it makes the tendons burn, holding tight like you’re trying to anchor yourself to it, to something , anything at all—

“God, fuck, yes,” Beck groans into the crook of your neck, one arm wrapped all the way around your waist and holding you there, flush against him, finishing so fucking deep inside that you think you can feel it in every inch of you, the steady, slowing pulse of his cock, the warmth of it, his trembling, indistinguishable from your own.

It takes a while for everything to settle, after that; for his breathing to steady and for your body to stop shaking and your brain to return to some approximation of functioning . You notice the details in pieces; the crisscrossed marks on your palms and forearms, bitten into the skin there from the latticed grid of the shelf, the ache in the muscles and tendons in your thighs and your calves , the feeling more pleasant than painful.

Eventually, Beck pulls out and his weight shifts away and a shiver runs right through you at the immediate chill of the air in the space he had occupied, the absence of that warmth; you try to straighten up, to stand, but make the fundamental mistake of letting go of the shelf before thinking to check if your numb, trembling legs can even support your weight–

The warmth is back, and you don’t fall.  “Careful, honey,” he says, mocking, mouth pressed against your hair, steadying you in his arms; you don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s grinning wide again.

“You be careful, asshole, you’re gonna stain my sweater,” you reply, unthinking, only fuzzily aware of how it’s slid back down from where it was rucked up around your waist and the solid pressure of his dick against the small of your back, still mostly hard.

He huffs out a laugh.

“Oh, right , of course, my mistake. I’ll be sure to just let you fall next time,” he replies, languid and amused and still a little breathless— and something inside of you trembles, somehow, even fucked-out and shivery and already sated as you are, going a little more lightheaded just at the thought.

Next time.

You don’t even bother to argue or to even act affronted at the presumption, the ability to even shape the words, much less deliver them convincingly, beyond anything you’re capable of right then.

The living room was bathed in the flickering glow of the TV, some forgotten horror movie playing on low volume—The Thing, maybe, or was it Halloween?—its eerie soundtrack warping under the weight of the thick, sweet-smelling haze curling through the air. 

Eddie had outdone himself with this new strain, something sticky and potent that left his limbs heavy and his usual sharp edges dulled into something languid and warm, his thoughts perhaps a bit too syrupy.

“—I know I talk a big game, man, but fuck. I have no clue what I’m doing when it actually comes down to it.”

His voice was a low mumble, words slipping out like he hadn’t meant to say them at all. He tipped his head back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers.

Steve blinks at him, slow and rhythmically, before snorting. “What, like… at all?”

“Yeah, man. Like—”  Eddie waves a hand vaguely, the silver of his rings glinting as he moves. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what sounds are real and which ones are fake? It’s fucking Russian roulette.”

The next reaction from Steve is immediate, no hesitation. Just a lazy, knowing smirk as he stretches his arms behind his head. “Huh. Well, once you know the difference, it becomes pretty obvious.” He pauses, just long enough to take a quick glance over Eddie’s face. “If you really need some pointers, I can ask my girlfriend if she wants to help you out.”

Eddie nearly comes crashing to the fucking floor.

Because fuck. He’s had a crush on you for, like, forever. Not that he’s ever admitted it out loud — not when Steve Harrington has a reputation for rearranging the faces of guys who so much as look at you wrong. Eddie has seen it happen: some poor asshole at a party, fingers skimming your ass as you passed, and bam — Steve’s fist in his jaw before anyone could blink. There’s even a rumour some other idiot once stared just a little too long at the way your lips wrapped around the neck of your beer bottle and then slurred, “Wanna spin the bottle?” Word is, Steve dropped him in one hit. No warning. No theatrics. Just pure, primal instinct.

So yeah, Eddie’s kept his mouth shut.

But now? Now Steve is watching him with this lazy, half-lidded expression, like he hadn’t just detonated a goddamn bomb in Eddie’s head.

“You’re fucking with me.” Eddie pleads, his voice rough.

Steve just grins — slow, deliberate — his eyes dark with something Eddie can't name. “Nah, man. She’s actually really into that kinda stuff.” His voice drops, gravel scraping over each word, and Eddie’s stomach flips “And I’d do anything for her.”

The air feels thick as Eddie’s pulse roars in his ears, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Was this a test? A trap?  Christ.  Harrington was going to be the death of him, and worse—Eddie knew he’d fucking thank him for it.

His fingers twitch at his sides. “...Yeah?”

Steve’s smile only widens, but his eyes soften. “Yeah.”

When Eddie shows up at your place the next night, he’s strung tight enough to power Hawkins twice over, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours convincing himself he’d imagined the whole conversation, that there was no way Steve Harrington just offered— 

And then you open the door.

Dressed in nothing but one of Steve’s old band tees, the fabric riding high on your thighs, you greet him with a smile that damn near stops his heart. “Hey, Eddie.”

His mouth goes dry. And before he can choke out a response, Steve is behind you, hands sliding possessively around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. And then — Jesus Christ.

The kiss Steve gives you isn’t just heated — it’s filthy. All tongue and teeth, your fingers twisting in his hair as he backs you against the doorframe, his hands already under your shirt like it’s a regular Tuesday afternoon.

Eddie’s knees nearly give out.

“Watch,” Steve murmurs against your lips when he finally breaks away, his gaze flicking to Eddie over your shoulder. His voice dark and commanding. “And pay attention.” 

Then, right there in the doorway, Steve pulls the shirt over your head — meticulously slow, like he wants Eddie to memorise every second. And, well — Eddie does.

He memorises the way your breath hitches when Steve’s fingers brush over your ribs, the way you arch into his touch, the soft, real sounds spilling from your lips as Steve’s mouth finds the top of your breasts— 

Eddie’s throat protests as he swallows, fingers twitching at his sides like he can’t decide whether to bolt or drop to his knees.

Steve notices —of course he does— and his lips curl into something dangerously close to a challenge. “You just going to stand there, Munson?” His hands slide down your hips, squeezing just hard enough to make you softly gasp. “Thought you wanted to learn.” Eddie manages to get control over his brain just long enough to answer “I— Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. I do.”

Steve hums, pleased, and spins you around to face Eddie fully, his palm splayed possessively over your stomach. “Then get over here.”

It’s not a request.

Eddie moves like a man in a trance, close enough now to feel the heat of your skin, to catch the intoxicating scent of your perfume. His gaze darts between your face and Steve’s fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your collarbone.

“First lesson,” Steve murmurs, leaning in to nip at your earlobe.  “Don’t just touch. Listen.”  His free hand reaches out, grabbing Eddie’s wrist and dragging it toward you. “Feel how she reacts.”

Eddie’s fingertips brush your waist—hesitant at first, then firmer when you shiver under his touch. His breath hitches as you lean into him, lashes fluttering when his thumb grazes the delicate curve of your ribs.

“Good.”  Steve’s voice is low, eyes locked on Eddie’s every twitch. “Now kiss her.”

Eddie’s head jerks up. “What?”

Steve’s grin is all teeth. “Unless you don’t—”

“No, I—fuck.” He surges forward, crashing his mouth against yours like a man starved. It’s messy and desperate, and he barely gets a taste before Steve yanks you back by the waist, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.

“Jesus Christ. Not like that.”

Eddie stumbles after you as Steve kicks the door shut behind them. “It’s like you were raised by wolves.”

Eddie opens his mouth to protest—then snaps it shut. Because Steve’s right. He’s a wreck.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?”  Steve’s voice is rough with impatience. “Kiss her again.”

Eddie hesitates—just for a second—before lust wins the war. This time, when his lips find yours, it’s still hungry, but it’s also aware, his movements more controlled. For a heartbeat, he’s terrified Steve will deem him unworthy of you altogether and kick him back to the curb—until you moan into it, until your fists twist in his shirt and drag him closer.

Steve groans in approval against your shoulder. “That’s it,” he rasps, pressing you forward just enough that Eddie can feel your heartbeat against his chest. “Now slow down. Make her want it.”

Eddie whimpers, but obeys, pulling back just enough to tease your lower lip between his teeth before licking into your mouth like you’re water and he’s been dying of thirst.

The sound you make — the soft, wanting whine—it's the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Steve pulls you back again, but this time, there’s satisfaction in his grin. “See?”  His thumb swipes over your kiss-swollen lips, smug. “She likes it when you take your time.”

Steve doesn’t let go of you—not really. Even as he nudges you toward the couch, his palm stays glued to the small of your back, steering you like he owns every inch of space you move through. Eddie doesn’t need to be told to follow; his pulse hammers in his throat, fingers flexing like he’s already imagining the weight of you beneath them.

“Sit.” Steve’s order cracks through the air, and Eddie drops onto an armchair like his strings have been cut.

You don’t get the chance to join him. Steve catches your wrist, yanking you back against his chest instead. His mouth brushes your ear, voice a low, possessive hum: “Nah, sweetheart. You’re staying right here.” His fingers trail down your arm before guiding your hand to Eddie’s jaw. “Let him earn it.”

Eddie’s breath stutters. Christ. Up close, you’re devastating. The way your eyes shimmer with pure lust, the way your lips part—just slightly—when Steve’s fingers skim over the lace of your bra. The syrupy moan you let out when he pinches your nipple over it, just enough to make your back arch—

“See that?”  Steve’s voice is rough against your ear. “She gets loud when she’s turned on. You just have to know how to listen.” Eddie nods, swallowing hard. His hands hover over your hips like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve under his touch. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Munson. You’re not going to break her.” He grabs Eddie’s wrist, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. “Feel how warm she is? How fucking desperate?”

Eddie’s fingers twitch. He can feel it—the rapid rise and fall of your breath, the way your skin burns under his touch.

“Now”, Steve murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder, “show me what you’ve learned.”

Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s relaxed—calculated. He licks into your mouth like he’s savouring it, one hand sliding up your ribs while the other tangles in your hair. And when you moan, when your hips jerk forward like you just can’t help it, Eddie groans against your lips like he’s just discovered fucking religion.

Steve watches, eyes dark with approval. “Better,” he rasps. Then, with a smirk: “Now get on your knees.”

Eddie freezes, and Steve arches a brow,“got a problem?”

“No—fuck, no.”  Eddie’s already sliding to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a thud. His hands find your thighs, gripping just tight enough to feel the muscle tense under his fingers.

Steve’s smirk widens. “Good.”

The praise goes straight to Eddie’s dick.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp—and God, Eddie’s never been so hard in his life.

Steve’s voice is a murmur as he trails a path down your throat, bruises already blooming under his mouth. “Now, make her beg.”

Eddie’s breathing is ragged as he looks up at you—fuck, the way your pupils are blown wide, the way your chest rises with every shaky inhale. Steve’s fingers are still tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a tenderness that feels domestic. Your eyes meet Eddie’s just before they flutter shut, and it’s all the permission he needs. His mouth finds the inside of your knee first, lips dragging slow and hot up your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. Steve hums, tracing your ribs and sliding your bra strap down your shoulder. His palm cups your breast as it spills free, kneading with a lazy possessiveness that has your hips jerking forward — but Eddie holds you steady, determined. 

His tongue traces past the waistband of your panties like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you, and when his eyes flick up to Steve, all he finds is lust, raw and unfiltered. So Eddie hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls, dragging it down your legs as he kisses a trail after it, reverent even in his hunger. His fingers work you with surprising precision, his gaze desperate for approval — and when he curls them just right, you gasp, arching into his touch with a moan loud enough to make Steve’s smirk falter. He wasn’t expecting that.

The slip in Steve’s control sends a thrill through Eddie, and he murmurs against your thigh, voice rough: “You sound so fucking sweet — bet you taste even better.”  Steve’s grip tightens on your hip, hard enough to bruise, but you don’t seem to mind.

He’d meant to teach. Now, he’s learning.

And the way you’re unravelling under Eddie’s touch stirs something awake inside of him. Eddie’s got a musician’s dexterity, his fingers able to coax sinful melodies from you with every twist. When you whimper Eddie’s name, Steve’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop him. Just watches with a gaze darker than the midnight sky itself as Eddie’s breath ghosts over you, your thighs trembling. “Please—”

The word barely leaves your lips before Eddie adds another finger, crooking them until your thighs squeeze around his wrist. He groans against your skin, resting his forehead against your leg as the vibration tears another broken sound from your throat. He fucks you with his fingers — slow and deep, then fast and relentless, like he can’t decide whether to savour you or ruin you.

Eddie, drunk on your praise, dares to glance up at Steve with a smirk. Steve’s nostrils flare, but instead of shutting him down, he drags a thumb over your cheek and growls, “You gonna cum for him?” You can’t even answer. Your back arches, toes curling, and Eddie drinks it in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. The moment you shatter, he loses it. He’s not sure what destroys him more — the way you choke out his name, begging him not to stop, or the filthy, approving rumble of Steve’s voice as he speaks, “Good girl.”

Eddie finds himself at an impasse, torn between begging for more and staying silent as the two of you decide his fate. His fingers twitch where they grip your thighs, his breath ragged, his entire body coiled tight with anticipation—and fear. Steve detaches himself from nipping at your collarbone when Eddie wavers, his movements faltering. A reprimand flashes in Steve’s darkened gaze, sharp enough to make Eddie shudder again. “Didn’t you hear her, Munson?”  Steve’s voice is a low, warning growl. “She told you not to stop.”

But Eddie freezes. The reality of where he is—what he’s doing—hits him like a freight train. He has no idea how to continue.

But Steve doesn’t tolerate hesitation. His hand fists in Eddie’s hair, yanking him forward with a rough, “Stop thinking.”

Eddie obeys like a man possessed, and the moment his tongue drags over you, his whole body jerks—holy shit. You taste even better than he could’ve dared to dream. Sweet, addictive, and the way you gasp when he flicks his tongue over your clit?  He’s ruined. Forever.

Drunk on you—on the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way you’re so wet it’s coating your thighs—he laps at you like his life depends on it. Steve watches with drowsy satisfaction, his palm sliding possessively up your stomach to cup your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple just to hear you whimper for him again.

“Listen to how she sounds when you do it right,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Isn’t it the most beautiful sound in the world?” He doesn’t wait for Eddie to answer. Instead, he tilts your jaw toward him, locking you in a searing kiss. You moan into Steve’s mouth as Eddie continues, his tongue relentless, his own desperate noises vibrating against you. Steve chuckles darkly when Eddie whimpers, his cock straining against his jeans just from tasting you. He hasn’t even touched himself, but he’s so close he’s shaking.

“Are you going to come just from this, Munson?” Steve drags him off you by his hair, grinning at the dazed, wrecked look on Eddie’s face. “Fuck, look at him, darling. He’s a mess.” Eddie’s lips are slick, his chest heaving, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. Steve doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He pushes Eddie back into the armchair, his grip firm, dominant. Then he guides you onto the couch with a smirk.

“You did good,” he tells Eddie, voice dripping with condescension. “Now let me show you great.”

Steve doesn’t waste time. In one smooth motion, he hooks his hands under your knees, spreading you wide —putting you on display— before dragging you to the edge of the couch. His gaze locks onto Eddie’s, making sure he’s watching as he leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, a shudder running through you at the sensation. “See how she shivers?” Steve murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, laced with something Eddie can only describe as devotion. “It’s because she knows what’s coming—” Then he devours you. 

Unlike Eddie’s frantic, eager strokes, Steve’s tongue moves with precision — deliberate, decisive licks that have you arching off the couch within seconds. He teases you, circling your clit until you’re gasping, then he pulls back with a cruel smirk.

“Steve—” you whine, fingers scrambling at his hair. “Patience, sweetheart,” he muses — before sucking your clit between his lips, hard. Your cry echoes through the room, and Eddie’s hands clench into fists, his hips jerking helplessly as you overwhelm his senses without even touching him. Steve doesn’t let up; he works you with his mouth until your thighs tremble, until your moans grow longer and heavy, until you’re right there—, and he pulls away.

“No, no, baby, please—” you beg, but Steve just clicks his tongue, amused, sliding two fingers into you without warning. “Look at her, Munson,” he orders, curling his fingers just right, making you sob beneath him. “This is how you give her what she deserves.” His thrusts are ruthless, his palm grinding against your clit with every movement. You’re a writhing, whimpering mess, your nails digging into Steve’s shoulders as he fucks you on his fingers, his eyes locked onto Eddie’s the entire time.

“She’s close,” Steve taunts — he doesn’t even need to look at you to know, too busy watching the way Eddie’s jaw clenches.  “You want to see what happens when she comes on my hand?” Eddie can’t even speak. He just nods, frantic. Steve smiles wickedly and makes do with the response. “Then watch closely.”

He crooks his fingers again, pressing deeper, and you don’t just shatter — you explode. Your back bows like you’re possessed, broken screams tearing from your throat as you squirt, and Eddie swears he’s seeing stars. Your hand finds Steve’s bicep, clinging desperately, like you’re afraid he’ll stop. Eddie can’t look away; he doesn’t dare blink — if he misses a single second of this, he’ll never forgive himself.

Steve works you through it, drawing out every last spasm until tears streak your face, until you’re oversensitive, trying to squirm away. Only then does he finally relent, licking his fingers with a satisfied hum before brushing featherlight kisses up to your neck. The moment you feel his proximity, you meet him in a kiss — not heated like before, but purposeful, delicate, like Steve is guiding you back to reality with it. He doesn’t rush you; he just lets your fingers weave through his hair until your breathing steadies. Then, he speaks again. “That”, he says, “is how it’s done.” He meets Eddie’s stunned gaze. “You shouldn’t even be thinking about getting your dick wet until she’s clenching around nothing.”

Eddie’s so hard it hurts. His cock throbs against his jeans, neglected and aching, precum soaking the fabric. He’s never been this turned on in his life—and the worst part? Steve knows it. The bastard smirks, dragging a thumb over your lower lip. You suck it in eagerly, tongue swirling, before he pulls away and stands. It’s a fucking performance. Steve undoes his belt like he’s savouring the way Eddie’s eyes cling to his hands, the leather slipping free with a final, damning shush. You whimper, still boneless from your orgasm, but your eyes flutter open when Steve’s palm slides up your thigh, squeezing. “Please, Steve?” you breathe, and his grin turns feral. “Not yet, love.” He glances at Eddie, whose throat bobs under the weight of his stare. “Munson hasn’t earned it yet.”

Eddie’s stomach drops. Fuck. He’s dripping in his pants, his hips twitching like a fucking teenager, and Steve’s going to make him wait?  But then— 

Steve grips Eddie’s chin, forcing his gaze up. “You want her?” he asks, voice rough. Eddie nods, greedy. “Then prove you can take care of her.” And just like that, Steve shoves him onto the couch with you. “Do it like I showed you.”

For a heartbeat, Eddie can only stare—at the way your breath hitches when he touches you, at the way your eyes lock on Steve, who’s sprawled in the armchair like it’s a fucking throne, lazily stroking his cock. Your lips part, and Eddie swears he sees your mouth water—fuck, it’s obscene. His hands tremble as he touches you—really touches you—this time. His mouth finds your thigh, kissing up the sensitive skin, trying to mimic the way Steve had worshipped you earlier. But when his tongue drags over you, your breath catches—wrong—and Steve’s low chuckle cuts through the room like a knife.

“Christ, Munson,” Steve sighs, his grip tightening around his cock. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Eddie grits his teeth. He is. He’s thinking about the way Steve had made you scream, the way your back arched off the couch like you were trying to fuse into him. He’s thinking about the fact that Steve’s watching, lazily stroking himself while Eddie fumbles like a virgin.

And the nail in the coffin? You’re watching Steve too. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, eyes heavy with desire—but not for Eddie.

“Fuck,” Eddie rasps, pulling back. His voice is wrecked.“I can’t—I don’t—” Steve leans forward, fingertips ghosting over your throat as you keen toward him. “You can,” he growls. “Stop trying to perform. Just feel her.”

Eddie’s breath comes in sharp bursts. This time, when his mouth finds your cunt, he doesn’t think. He listens. To the way your breath catches when he licks a slow, experimental stripe. To the way your hips jerk when he sucks just there. And when your fingers fist in his hair—finally—it’s not to guide him, but to hold on.

“There,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with approval. “Now you’re getting it.” Eddie moans against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat. Fuck. He’s dizzy with it—the taste of you, the sounds you’re making, the way Steve’s gaze burns into him like a brand.

But then Steve stands. Eddie barely has time to register the loss before Steve’s dragging him up by the collar, spinning him around to face you—really face you. Your lips are swollen, your chest heaving, your thighs slick with Steve’s work.

"Look at her," Steve growls, his voice a dark scrape against Eddie’s ear. "Don’t just glance—really look."

And Eddie looks. He sees the damp flush between your breasts, the way your hips lift like you’re already chasing it, the way your pupils blow wide when Steve’s thumb swipes over your bottom lip. "She’s not yours," Steve breathes, dragging his teeth over Eddie’s earlobe. "But fuck, look how bad she wants you to try."

Eddie’s pulse races. Then Steve steps back, gesturing like a king permitting a subject to kneel. "Go on. Make her forget my fucking name."

So he closes his eyes, trying to drown out the noise in his head, to sync himself with the thrum of your heartbeat beneath him, to dissolve into every breath you take. He wants to belong here, in this moment, where Steve’s approval hangs heavy in the air and your pleasure is the only thing that matters — success. A satisfied hum from Steve when Eddie finally finds the right rhythm, a broken moan from your lips. But your eyes — your eyes stay locked on Steve, even as Eddie’s mouth works you over.  It’s still him you want. Hunger battles with pride in Eddie’s chest. He hates how badly he craves this—how much he needs Steve’s approval—but god, he longs to pull those sounds from you himself, to unravel you with nothing but his touch. And so he moves like a man possessed, single-minded in his mission to play you like an instrument, to pluck every string until you snap.

Your taste is intoxicating, something he’s already addicted to, something he’s not sure he can live without anymore. Your eyes scrunch shut as pleasure blooms, so lost in it that you don’t even notice Steve speeding up his strokes, his grip tight on his cock. Eddie gets close—so close he can practically taste your climax—but you linger on the edge, just out of reach. He’s aware he’s missing something, some final piece to send you over, but he can’t find it. Then your eyes flicker open again, searching for Steve’s gaze like it’s the only thing that can save you. And Eddie knows—he’s pushed his luck too far. Steve’s patience snaps—not with his pleasure, but with Eddie’s failure to give you yours. Next thing he knows, he’s being dragged back, the warmth of you ripped away too soon. Steve looms over him, a predator in human skin, annoyance rolling off him in waves. “If you want to get a chance to fuck her,” Steve growls, voice dripping with challenge, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” 

Eddie’s brain becomes the mental equivalent of a dropped Wi-Fi signal—because did Steve just imply—?

Every touch, every taste Steve has allowed him, Eddie has devoured with insatiable hunger. But now it hits him—this is more than just a demonstration. Steve might actually let him fuck you. Or he would have. Now, Eddie isn’t sure he’ll ever get the opportunity again. A sharp, breathy cry from you yanks him from his thoughts. Steve has already turned you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one foot perched on the armrest behind you like a damn king claiming his treasure. Eddie is so close to your face now, your slick still glistening on his chin as you blink up at him, dazed. Steve teases your entrance with his cock, just enough to have you pushing back, begging for it. And for one glorious, heart-stopping moment—you look at Eddie.

Not at back at Steve.

At him.

Your gaze is pure, primal desperation—like he’s the one you need. Steve drives into you in one brutal thrust, and your eyes screw shut in ecstasy. You sob Steve’s name, but your eyes flicker back open as you you look at him.

“Baby, please—” And it dawns on him—you are begging Steve, but not for Steve. No, you’re begging for permission, your gaze locked onto Eddie like he’s the only thing anchoring you to earth. He doesn’t know what you’re asking for, but Christ, he already knows he wants it just as much. 

Steve, of course, does understand. He drags his cock into you agonisingly slow, pressing tender kisses along your spine even as his voice comes out harsh. “You think he deserves it, honey?” You whine, desperate, but Steve doesn’t need more than that. He leans over you, his thrusts deliberate, sinful. “How could I ever say no to you?”

And fuck, Eddie gets it now—gets why Steve turns possessive, gets why you love it. He’s watching the two of you move like a single entity, Steve’s hips rolling into you with a precision that rewrites Eddie’s entire understanding of sex. And the real tragedy? He’s pretty sure you’re only getting started. Your fingers fist in Eddie’s collar, yanking him down hard. His breath stutters as your lips take him in, hot and needy, and he doesn’t think—just reacts, his hands tangling in your hair as Steve’s thrusts rock you forward, forcing Eddie deeper into your mouth. You moan around him, the vibrations nearly undoing him right there, but then your hand tugs at his belt loop like it’s personally offended you, and Eddie’s thoughts fry into static. What do you want? He glances at Steve for answers, but the bastard just laughs, driving into you harder like he’s savouring Eddie’s confusion.

And God help him, Eddie looks. It’s downright pornographic. Steve’s cock glistens as he pulls out, your body clinging to him like it never wants to let go, and every time he sinks back in, you clench, a broken noise tearing from your throat.

As Eddie freezes, you take matters into your own hands, undoing Eddie’s belt with ruthless efficiency. The zipper’s barely down before his jeans pool at his knees. He looks at Steve again—helpless—but Steve just shakes his head, smirking. “Jesus, Munson. Keep up.”

Your fingers brush the straining outline of his cock through his boxers, and his hips jerk. Your mouth finds the spot beneath his ear, teeth scraping, and—fuck—it nearly sends him over the edge right then. You’re not gentle. You know exactly what you want. In seconds, his dick is in your hand, your grip perfect, and the first stroke has him grinding his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He wants to keep his eyes open—to watch, to devour every detail of every second—but his body betrays him. A shudder wracks through him, his lashes fluttering helplessly before his head falls back, lost to the crushing wave of ecstasy."

“Fuck—!”

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze, dark with amusement. “That’s it, sweetheart. Show him how good you can be.” His hand tangles in your hair—not guiding, just holding—like he wants Eddie to see he’s the one in control. That every gasp you make, every shudder Eddie can’t suppress, is because Steve orchestrated it.

“Bet he’s never felt anything like you.” Eddie’s thighs tremble, his cock twitching against your tongue. He’s close, too close, and Steve knows it—fuck, he’s enjoying it. “Look at him,” Steve murmurs, dragging his cock out of you just to slam back in, punching a moan from your lips.  “Already shaking for you.  Bet he wishes it was him inside instead.” His thumb swipes over your clit, and you whimper, your rhythm on Eddie faltering. “But he’s got to earn that, doesn’t he?”

Earn it? Eddie’s vision blurs at the edges. He’d shamelessly beg if it meant— Then your tongue swirls over the head of his cock, and he chokes, almost falling forward into you.

“Steady,” Steve warns, though his voice is anything but calm. “You cum before she does, and I’ll make you watch while I fuck her twice as hard.”

Eddie’s groan is nothing short of pure agony. Steve fucks you more slowly then—cruel, like he’s savouring Eddie’s torment—dragging his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your eyes water. But your dedication doesn’t waver; if anything, it burns hotter. “Shit—”  Eddie’s hips jerk involuntarily, but you swallow him deeper, humming around the salt-bitter heat of him. His fingers scramble at the cushions, knuckles white. “Jesus, sweetheart, where the hell did you learn—?”

Steve’s laugh is a dark, knowing thing against your neck. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you wider as he presses inside, slow, letting you feel every fucking inch. “She’s full of surprises,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “But you’re not going to last long enough to find out, are you?”

Eddie’s groan disintegrates, the way you swirl your tongue around him, the slick pressure of your throat—it’s nothing like the groupies who’d thrown themselves at Corroded Coffin. This is ruination. This is worship. Your mouth works him with practiced greed, and Eddie’s vision blurs.

“Fuck, I’m not—I can’t—” 

“Yes. You can.” Steve’s voice doesn’t leave room for argument—this isn’t a suggestion; it’s a command. His hand moves from your scalp to your nipple, pinching just shy of pain until you whine around Eddie’s cock. His other hand slips between your legs, circling your clit with filthy precision. “You going to come for us, sweetheart?” he rasps. You nod frantically, lips stretched lewdly around Eddie. “Good. Let him see.” You break with a cry, muffled around Eddie’s cock, and Steve growls as your body clenches around him. “That’s it,” he grits out, hips snapping harder, “that’s my girl—” Eddie’s spellbound.

 Steve fucks you through it, your tears smearing Eddie’s thighs. His breath comes in punched-out gasps, cock twitching against your tongue—

Steve loses control first. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he spills inside you, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Eddie’s hips stutter when you whimper, oversensitive, as Steve grinds into you one last time—claiming you like he wants to brand the feeling into your skin. And then— “Fuck!”  Eddie’s back arches, his cock jerking as you pull off with a slick pop, begging Steve for mercy. He comes untouched, frustration and relief searing through him as he gasps your name like a prayer. Steve laughs, low and satisfied. Eddie’s too wrecked to care, chest heaving—until Steve’s next words send him tumbling straight back into want.

“Let me know if you’ve got any requests for the next lesson.”