yours truly, yours, truly.

Kinktober 2025

fandom: hozier

pairings: reader x hozier

A complete collection of my works for kinktober 2025.

I Never Really

fandom: greta van fleet

pairing: jake x f!reader, sam x f!reader

tags: College AU, sexual content, friends to lovers, marijuana use, cigarette use, alcohol use, angst, debilitating levels of mutual pining, this is technically a forbidden twin fic

word count: 80k

Dreadful Need in the Devotee

fandom: hozier

pairing: f!reader x hozier

tags: smut, snowed in, piv sex, unsafe sex, oral (f rec), strangers to lovers

word count: 23k

A Darkness So Deep

fandom: hozier

pairing: f!reader x hozier

tags: smut, hypnosis, dubcon, soft mind control, fingering, oral (f rec), orgasm denial, edging, crying

word count: 5.2k

When The Levee Breaks

fandom: hozier

pairing: f!reader x hozier

tags: smut, breeding kink, dirty talk, piv sex, creampie my beloved

word count: 4.2k

Lay Me Down

fandom: hozier

pairing: afab!reader x hozier

tags: smut, sub andrew, mild size kink, piv sex, overstimulation, edging, a bit of hair pulling, creampie <3

word count: 4.3k

Talk Refined

fandom: hozier

pairing: afab!reader x hozier

tags: smut, voice kink, andy is a switch, light voyeur, i guess it's technically phone sex, voice memo sex(?), lots of dirty talk, talk about bondage, the lightest whisper of petplay

Neither of you were strangers to psychedelics. You'd shared a number of wonderful trips, both together and alone. Mushrooms were easiest, thanks to a friend that grew his own. It was reconnecting with this friend, having him over for dinner, that set this whole series of events in motion. Andrew had handed over a handful of bills in exchange for a ziplock bag, with a species name you couldn't read, and a harvest date. You'd peered at the dried lumps inside the bag, poking at them while your boyfriend listened carefully to what your friend was saying, something about doses and baking.

It had been a number of weeks later that you'd taken some together, and you'd let slip a certain proclivity that you'd kept secret for some time. There had been no shame nor hesitation when you'd told him; such concepts didn't exist in your altered state. He listened carefully, as you tried to lay out exactly what you wanted.

A forceful wrenching of control from your hands was how you portrayed it. Intox, if you'd searched for a proper definition. You wanted to know what it would feel like for the trip to catch you off guard, to cede control of everything you knew: mentally, physically, spiritually. All of it would be in his hands, and he could mold you and play with you however he wanted. You were afraid, at first, that he would think you were some kind of freak, basically wanting him to drug you and fuck you. But the look he'd given you, his pupils dilated as far as they could go even as the evening sun shone on his face, was one of intrigue. It was clearly more than just curiosity, when he had to shift to make room for the hard-on he was now sporting under his layers.

You'd tabled the discussion for when you were both sober. But he seemed nearly as excited as you, asking for details the minute the effects wore off enough for you to both be fully present. You'd laid down boundaries, rules, what the ideal was. He nodded along, listening carefully, repeating the important parts back to you. It was settled, then. He would find a date and time, and he would help you relax.

It had been well over a month, and you'd well and truly forgotten about the whole ordeal. You'd even forgotten the mushrooms were in the house at all, as they sat in layers of foil-wrapped plastic bags in a rarely-touched corner of the freezer. You'd just finished clearing the table and tossing all the dishes into the sink, chatting away with Andrew all the while.

You made your way from the kitchen to the living room, properly stuffed, sprawling out on the couch. Suddenly, mid-conversation, Andrew paused and grinned. "Oh! That's right!" He exclaimed with a clap of his hands. "There's something I wanted you to try." He scurried off into the kitchen, before the sound of cabinets and drawers opening and closing filled the space.

"What're you doing in there?" You asked with a laugh, leaning over to try and see through the doorway. He was out of sight, only his shadow dancing along the kitchen walls as he moved. He didn't answer, and you wouldn't be surprised if he simply couldn't hear you over the ruckus he was making in there.

When he finally reappeared, he entered the room with a flourish, presenting to you a tiny plate with chocolates on it. He gave you a wide smile as he set it down in front of you, plucking one of the squares from the plate and tossing it into his mouth.

"Chocolate?" You asked with a tilt of your head.

"I made them." He looked remarkably proud as you turned one of the little squares between your fingers. Maybe if you'd been paying more attention, you would have heard the slight crack in his voice when you popped one into your mouth. "They're espresso flavored."

They weren't great, you thought to yourself. There was some kind of aftertaste that you would only later be able to identify as a several gram dose of the mushrooms in the freezer that you'd entirely forgotten about. But in the moment, you put on a sweet smile and complimented them, asking all the appropriate questions about how he made them, what made him want to try this, so on and so forth. You only somewhat noticed the gentle shake in his hands, and the gleam in his eye that always spelled trouble for you.

He disappeared once more to clear the table, insisting that he do the dishes. You settled on the couch with your phone in your hand, mindlessly scrolling while you listened to the clink of silverware and the splash of running water. When he finally returned to your side, you were feeling a bit funny, and a bit nauseous. It had you nervous – was it food poisoning? Did some ingredient go bad? Did you undercook something?

Andrew sat down with a glass in one hand, and a singular pill in the other. The liquid in the glass was pink, assumedly water with something dissolved in it. He set both on the coffee table, closer to your side, and sat back with an easy sigh.

"Babe," you said, not paying much attention at all to the items in front of you. "I think something was off. I kind of feel like shit."

"I know," he said, gesturing to the table. "Those should help."

You didn't question it at first, assuming that he could somehow tell telepathically that you weren't feeling well. It wouldn't be all that outrageous, he had been able to sense far smaller issues on far fewer cues. But after you'd swallowed the pill and drank down whatever was mixed into the water, a sense of uncertainty began to creep into the back of your mind.

"How'd you know I don't feel good?" You asked, curling up small and waiting for the nausea to subside. "Do you feel sick, too?"

"Well, you always feel like shit for the first half hour." He was sitting with his hands draped casually in his lap, his fingers laced together.

You furrowed your brow at him, confusion piling on top of unpleasantness. "What…?"

"Come on, love. I know you can put two and two together." He leaned back in his seat, holding his hands up in a shrug. "The chocolate?"

You only stared at him, mouth agape, brain working overtime to try and understand.

"It was spiked, baby."

Not comprehending at first, you let those two words wash over you a few times, echoing in the empty space around your brain. Spiked, baby.

"With what?" The nausea was already wearing off, and you swirled the remains of the pink stuff around in the glass.

"Do you remember those shrooms we bought?

So, he really had been receptive when you'd told him about that little fantasy of yours. In all honesty, you'd forgotten all about it, all of it. It was making your head spin, how quickly all of this was happening. Though, that was what you'd asked for, right? You knew it would be like this; shocking, disorienting, maybe even a little scary. And, oh, you would need to unpack the reasons behind why the predatory smile on Andrew's face was making you want to slink down to the floor and start shedding your clothes for him.

"But, you…you ate one too…"

"That one was just regular chocolate. Nothing in it." He watched you glance down at the empty glass in your hand, no doubt pondering the pill you'd swallowed moments earlier. "Don't worry about those," he said, gesturing at you. "The drink helps chill you out, and the pill was for the nausea. Promise."

A smile started to spread across your face as reality set in. It was far too late to try and throw up what you'd eaten, it was likely already fully digested and on its way to your brain. And, if the tingle in your fingertips was anything to go off, it was already nearly there. You hyper-focused on a spot on the wall across from where you were curled up, noticing smudges in the paint you'd never seen before. Was that always there? And did it always look like that?

If you'd been paying attention the night you'd had your friend over for dinner, you'd have heard the discussion he and Andrew had about the effects of this particular strain. You would have heard the nervous, awkward laughter as your friend mentioned the like, really fucking strong aphrodisiac effects of this type. Maybe you'd have even caught the glance Andrew shot at you, the gears already turning in his head, even before you had asked for this little fantasy to become a reality.

You jumped when he stood from his spot on the other end of the couch, your mind becoming increasingly hard to keep on a single track. This was the come-up, where you had a permanent smile stuck to your face and your stomach did backflips and your palms sweated fiercely. Normally, before a trip, you'd set goals and intentions, you'd meditate, you'd find the proper headspace. And if you couldn't, you'd save it, and do it a different day. Not having any of your usual preamble made you feel scattered. Instead of being gently lifted high into the sky, you were suddenly being placed on a rocket headed for space.

Andrew's face entering your tunnel vision made you jump again, having entirely forgotten about him, laser-focused on staring at the wall, and thinking. Music was coming from somewhere now, it was coming from the record player, and you knew that voice, was that Grateful Dead?

"Music to help you with the come-up," Andrew's voice said, not quite matching up with his lips. "How do you feel?" He asked, a soft smile on his face.

You tried to take in his appearance, focusing on an inch at a time. Every freckle and mole and crease of his skin, the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled when he smiled at you. The color of his hair, the gray in his beard, the shape of his eyebrows, the profile of his nose. He really was quite beautiful, so beautiful you were having a hard time fathoming it, so beautiful that tears had started to roll down your cheeks without your notice. He showed little concern — you were known to cry when you tripped.

"Hopefully that means good," he laughed, at your lack of response.

It was only then that you realized you'd never answered. With your final brief moment of clarity you'd have for the next two hours, you wondered just how high of a dose he had fed you. You weren't sure you wanted to know. "Yeah, good," you said, finally.

"Good," he replied with a smile. He planted a few kisses on your cheeks as your eyes slipped shut and you slid down to lay with your head on the arm rest of the couch.

You watched visions dance in the darkness behind your eyelids. Patterns and shapes you could never hope to describe when sober bloomed in your mind as clear as if you were watching them on a screen. A collage of animals you couldn't name and creatures you couldn't identify stretched and warped in color-shifting bands on the black background of your mind, and that permanent smile returned to your cheeks once more. Andrew could see it in your face and the movement of your eyes behind your eyelids, and he had the good sense not to interrupt you.

It was loud in your mind, loud enough that you wouldn't have heard him if he'd attempted to speak with you, anyway. Looping thoughts played like a broken record, thoughts about the looping nature of your thoughts, of swirls, seashells, golden ratio spirals. You thought of whirlpools and ammonites, and the curls in Andrew's hair. The music in the background was a nice touch, and for a moment you felt like you were made of strips of paper in a breeze, the words to Althea blowing right through you.

The peak was long, longer than you were used to, though it faded eventually, your faculties returning to you as you slowly opened your eyes. The light from the windows was nearly blinding, but the golden glow that bathed everything was beautiful enough that you could look past the way your temples throbbed. The world took on that wavy, warped look that you loved. Like nothing was solid or permanent. But that was the truth, if you really thought about it. Andrew's voice mingled with the music, and you had to take a moment to untangle the two from each other.

"Hi, love."

Any remaining negativity you may have felt over being basically thrown into this trip had faded away. Alongside all the noise in your mind, the spirals and the loops, there was a second channel, a more lucid one. One where you remembered what this was all about, that made you stretch your arms above your head with a sigh when you felt his hands slip around your waist. He showed up in your vision again, a smile on his lips as he pulled you into a sitting position, your back against the couch.

"How does it feel?" He asked, his hand resting gently on your cheek. His thumb brushed along your skin, his touch soft and warm and radiating through your jaw.

"You gave me a lot," you said, your words shaky with the way your breathing felt uneven. He looked like he was made of yarn, full of soft edges and twisted lines.

He leaned down to kiss you with a smile, and almost immediately, a deep need bloomed within you. You weren't sure you'd ever felt this way before, sober or otherwise. Like you needed him on every inch of your body. The two of you were not strangers to sex on psychedelics, you'd already tried it more than once – but never before had it felt like this. It was, you supposed, a combination of the shock of it all, the fact that he was sober, the way he'd already been a bit of a tease all day.

"You look like you need to lay down, love."

You hummed in agreement, studying the subtle blue glow that radiated from around his head.

Without warning, he was lifting you off the couch, onto unsteady legs. "C'mere. Let's get you to bed."

Every step felt so wrong that it had you both giggling uncontrollably by the time you managed to cross the house and collapse into bed. It felt like you were sinking into the comforter like quicksand, and you struggled for a moment to flip yourself onto your side, trying to look down at where Andrew was kneeling at your feet. You let out a frustrated groan when your body wouldn't work the way you wanted it to, and you had to wonder for a moment what was in that drink that he promised was just to help you relax. Because this felt remarkably like the combination of shrooms and weed.

He shushed you, running a calming hand along your calf, stilling your movements. "Relax, baby. I'll take care of you. Just make sure you talk to me, okay?" He reached out to touch a finger to your nose. "Tell me if it's too much."

His words had a double meaning to them. Both the dose he'd fed you and what he was about to do could easily overwhelm you. But you were seasoned at this, and you had no qualms. Your breath caught in your throat as he tugged you down the mattress a bit, rolling you onto your back, manhandling you in the way only he could. He slipped off your bottom layers easily, not bothering with the usual slow tease he was so fond of. You made a quiet sound of shock at how you were so suddenly exposed, though the air on your sweat-soaked skin felt so nice.

Clearly, he had no interest in going slow, or making you wait for it. He was on his stomach, lips latched to your thigh, before you could even fully process what was going on. Overwhelming wasn't the right word for how it felt when he pressed a gentle kiss to your clit. No, it was something more, something like mind-numbing, brutal in its intensity. Your hands flew out to grab the sheets, your eyes screwing shut as he ran a finger through the collected wetness at your entrance.

"Oh, love," he said, as if scolding you for already being so soaked. He almost scoffed when he slid a finger into you, finding zero resistance. "You needed this bad, huh?"

You tried to make a sound that resembled a yes, but failed entirely, only whimpers leaving your mouth. It was hard for your mind to comprehend exactly how it felt as he started to properly eat you out. Though he kept his movements a touch more gentle than usual, it was a stunning amount of sensory input all at once. Like you were hyper-aware of each movement of his tongue, and the curl of his fingers against your walls. You barely made a sound, too lost in all of it to find your voice, but he didn't mind. It was enough to feel your hips bucking against him, and feel your hand on the back of his head when he sucked lightly at your clit.

It occurred to you, quite quickly, that you absolutely did not have the wherewithal nor the strength to get away from him, even if you wanted to. Pushing him away was a non-option, even if you'd had all of your faculties about you. You were at his mercy, his toy for the evening. And that was the point of all of this, wasn't it? The thought alone had you squirming, scooting yourself closer to him, pushing yourself down onto his fingers with heavy, uncoordinated movements.

Heat was already pooling in your stomach, creeping along your spine as he walked you up to the cliff edge before pulling you right back. You were close, yet he wouldn't let you get too close, and it was maddening.

"Please," you whimpered. "I wanna cum." You sounded pathetic, but no part of you cared. Shame was entirely out the window, and the only thing keeping you quiet was your inability to form words without great effort.

He hummed against you, an amused little sound, before he pulled away entirely. His thumb replaced his mouth, drawing disjointed circles around your clit. "Oh, listen to her. She wants to cum."

If you'd had more control of your limbs, you'd be thrashing against him in a desperate bid to get the friction you needed. Instead, you could only grind your hips against his fingers, though he lightened his touch in response. His free hand settled gently on your hip, pushing you down as he shushed you. Even such a light touch was enough to hold you in place.

His hands around your waist tugged you further down the mattress again, strong arms lifting your legs until they sat the way he wanted, with him in between them. You wished you had the ability to lift yourself, as you heard the rustle of clothes, and felt the press of his cock to your entrance. It was exhilarating, sending a tingle down your spine.

"Can you take a couple deep breaths for me, baby?" His voice floated down to you through the haze, beautiful and wonderful and sweet.

You did as he asked, though your breaths were shaky. Every nerve in your body was running on overdrive as you struggled to process the sensations, everything heightened, dull yet echoing, like your body had become a pool of deep water. The second exhale turned into a moan as you felt him press into you, slowly, though he was met with no resistance; your body welcomed him as if you were built for him. The pressure was overwhelming, the sense of being so full blissful in its intensity. When his skin sat flush against yours, you both had to take a few slow, grounding breaths.

"Fuck," you breathed, grateful for the pause in his movements. He wasn't even moving yet, and you already felt like a single stroke might break you. "It's so…fucking big," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

His mouth opened and closed around a smile a few times, your words catching him off guard. "Oh yeah?" He breathed. You didn't comment on the size of him often, not anymore, but it would always leave him blushing on the rare chance that you did. He gave a few shallow thrusts of his hips, wrenching a remarkably obscene moan from you.

You moaned out nonsense as he found a pace, each slide of his cock pushing you up the mattress a bit, counteracted by his hands placed firmly on your hips. You felt like you weighed nothing, like your body was filled with feathers, like he could lift you up with one finger if he so desired.

"You're doing so good," he mused, so quietly you wondered if you were even supposed to hear it.

It felt like you were losing your mind, and you had no desire to keep your wits about you. Every thrust seemed to reach so deep into you that it knocked the wind from your lungs, overstimulation quickly mounting, bringing tears to your eyes and turning your whimpers into sobs. Nobody else could do this the way he could, nobody else could bring you pleasure on this level, where it felt like you were being pulled apart at the seams. This was divine; he was your god.

You tried to tell him as much, looking at him through eyes that refused to stay open and would not focus no matter how hard you tried. But you grew distracted quickly, by the rainbow halo that glowed around his head and the green of his eyes that you watched spiral and shift into ocean waves. What came out of your mouth was more nonsense, sprinkled with an attempt to tell him how much you loved him.

He tilted his brows at you with a smile, like he couldn't believe the state of you. "Yeah? Is that good?"

You didn't answer, but you let your eyes slip shut again, falling back into the feeling.

"Don't you want to stay like this forever?" A hand on your chin forced your eyes to his, where you watched ripples of rainbow light dance across his features. "All mindless and fucked-out?"

You nodded, barely processing his words, but knowing you'd agree with him regardless. Then, his thumb was pushing past your parted lips, pressing down on your tongue, feeling the warmth of your panting breaths. It felt strange, yet right, having more than one piece of him inside of you.

"You were made for this, you know." He hitched your leg up to his shoulder and planted a kiss to the side of your calf. "For me."

The change in angle had him pressing even deeper, and his words wrenched a sob from somewhere deep in your chest. You could only take the tiniest sips of air; filling your lungs felt impossible when he was already taking up all the extra space in your body. You tried to speak, and the words were there, clear in your mind. I was made for you. But they simply wouldn't come out, your mouth closing around empty syllables.

"It's alright, love," he said, reaching down to grasp your hand, twining his fingers with yours. "You don't have to talk. Just feel."

And feel you did.

Words left your mouth, but they were little more than meaningless noises, whispered against a pillow you'd brought to your chest, needing desperately to hold onto something. Were you in your right mind, you might feel some fragment of shame over the way you drooled onto the pillowcase, or the moans that hiccuped out of you with each thrust of his hips, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. Not when you were able to close your eyes and see shapes and colors that would mean nothing to the average sober person, but which you understood were the spiritual representation of love.

That spine-tingling sensation you knew so well was mounting, your fingers digging in to the sheets harder, your body clenching around him. He knew the look in your eyes, the subtle cues that told him you were close even when you didn't have the words to say it. He adjusted, never breaking his pace, coming closer to pull the pillow from your arms. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you against his chest. You realized, with stunning and sudden clarity, that this would be unlike any orgasm you'd ever had. The build-up alone was already far exceeding anything you'd felt before.

"It's okay, baby," he murmured, in response to the panicky-sounding noises that trembled out of you with every thrust. "You're okay. Go ahead."

It was the permission that drove you over the edge. You'd expected it to be explosive — it was the exact opposite. The feeling crept up from your toes, along your spine, down into your fingertips, up to your head, a tingling sensation, like getting a little too close to a fire. You wrapped your arms around him, only managing to let out a single, small whimper before the feeling completely overtook you.

"Oh, love," he whispered. "I've got you. It's alright." He spoke soft praises, pulling you along through it, making sure you knew just how good you were doing.

He wasn't far behind you, the flutter of you around him sending him careening off the edge just as you were coming down from your own high. Your fingernails dug into his back as he let out a soft moan, pulsing inside of you, the warmth and fullness positively divine.

For a few brief moments, the visuals intensified to something indescribable, like the world had been turned into one big allegory for love. You hadn't realized how badly you were craving this. All of it. The feeling of complete and total surrender, giving yourself up to him entirely. Feeling like he was something divine, something heaven-sent just for you.

It'd been a perfectly normal day up to that point.

You were in your kitchen, both doors of the fridge swung wide open, looking dejectedly at the containers of leftovers that you didn't particularly want to eat. But you didn't really want to cook dinner, either. How annoying. Your phone buzzed on the countertop, and you shut the fridge doors, grateful for something to distract you. Maybe when you looked again, the food in the fridge would actually look good.

On your phone was a single notification, a text from andy, with an emoji of an octopus next to his name. You couldn't remember anymore how that specific inside joke about the octopus had come around; it had been far too long in the past to recall it. You swiped at your phone screen, opening it and tapping on your texts. If you recalled correctly, it had something to do with his long limbs, and you'd been meaning to ask him for a while about the damn octopus thing, but you just kept forgetting, and as you opened the text, all of that fell away.

A gasp left your mouth without you even realizing it. Everything suddenly seemed very far away, and your lips curled into something like a nervous smile, likely looking much more like a sneer than a grin. From Andy, you'd recieved a photo, and some text. Thought you might like this lmao was typed out attached to the photo. The photo was one of him. It was in his bathroom, the one attached to his bedroom at home, the one you'd only used a handful of times during busy house parties. He was in front of the giant mirror that hung over the sink. His phone blocked the majority of his face, his eyes focused on his reflection in the phone screen, though wet curls framed what you could see. A small smile graced his face, the white of his teeth just barely visible through parted lips.

Naked. He was fucking naked. A towel around his waist was the only thing covering his body, still wet from a shower. Your eyes continued to trail down the length of him, in utter disbelief, unable to even properly react yet. The hand that wasn't holding the phone was gripped around the towel, tied below his navel, and he was pulling it down. Just far enough that you could see a mess of dark curls, and the defined lines where his thighs met his abdomen, and—

You nearly threw your phone back onto the counter, your hands flying up to cover your mouth as you stared across the room, wide-eyed. A quiet what the fuck? Echoed in your head, and you couldn't quite tell if it had actually left your mouth or not. Your palms sweated, and you started to pace in front of your phone, the picture still open. Normally, you would write something like this off as a mistake, obviously. If it had been anyone else, you would have averted your eyes and pretended not to see, responding to their apologies with grace and tact, and you'd forget it ever happened.

Andy, on the other hand, was not anyone else. As a matter of fact, the two of you were still on cooldown from nearly hooking up not more than two weeks ago. The drinks had been a bit too good, and both of you newly single, bored, and horny. You'd gotten as far as the alley behind the bar, his hands on your cheeks and your fingers on the button of his jeans, when you'd stopped. Both of you had seemed to come to your senses at the same time, and you withdrew, not wanting to risk the morning regret. Or the ruined years of friendship. It hadn't come up again, both of you pretending the entire encounter had never happened.

Until now, it seemed. Maybe he'd wanted to move a bit slower, which you didn't mind. You did adore the sensuality of a not-quite-nude photo. So, with a few deep breaths to steady yourself and slow your galloping heart, you marched yourself into the bathroom to give him the reply he deserved. It took a bit, changing into your favorite bra and panties, trying to decide how best to do this, trying to recall all the things he'd said he finds sexy. After what felt like far too long to have left him on read, you took your favorite from the bunch, and sent it his way. i think you might like this too, you replied, too frazzled to think of anything less corny.

Shitty wifi was already hindering your attempts at sexting, the progress bar moving slow enough that you were worried it might fail sending altogether. You sighed, watching with a pit in your stomach and sweaty palms, as it creeped closer to completion.

Your phone vibrated.

A text came through, from Andy.

Oh my fucking god

Your eyes darted between the text and the loading bar. Your own message hadn't sent yet.

Oh good god in heaven I'm so sorry

It was too late to cancel it.

Fuck oh everloving christ that was supposed to be a meme

I did not mean to send you that I must have hit the wrong thing and didnt notice

I hate this stupid phone

With abject horror written on your face, you tapped frantically at your screen, trying to find a way to cancel the text as it sent. You couldn't find anything. Maybe if you googled it quick, or— you could turn on airplane mode, that might—

It sent.

You could only stare, unblinking, at the screen as you watched your photo go from sending, to delivered, to read, all in the span of a second. The typing bubble popped up once, then disappeared, then popped up again, then disappeared again. The third time, it stayed for a long while, they disappeared again. You wanted to puke. How could you have been so stupid, to think he had actually sent that on purpose? Finally, a text came through from his end.

Oh

You buried your head in your hands with a groan, already drafting your apology in your head when another text came through.

The sounds were what stuck in your mind. You knew he was vocal — he always had been. But the sounds when he fucked you were different. Then, it was groans, heavy breaths, questions of does that feel good, baby? and instructions, no, demands. Here, it seemed that with every movement of your fingers, you wrenched a moan from somewhere deep in his chest. He was slipping away, down into some sort of mental rabbit hole, one where the only thing on his mind was you. It was a place you knew well, one that you entered every time he fucked you with a hand around your throat and his fingers circling your clit. You had every intention to keep him down there.

He relaxed onto your fingers, his hips rocking back to meet you, his arms clutched tightly around a pillow he'd dragged down from its spot near the headboard. Quietly, you could hear him speaking, strings of expletives and pleading falling from his mouth. If this was how he was with just a bit of fingering, you were almost worried for how he would respond to having the strap in him. Almost.

"What was that, baby?" You asked, after a string of words left his mouth that you could nearly make out. You slipped a hand around his cock, giving it a few cursory strokes.

A loud whine served as his answer, his hips rutting forward into your hand.

"So needy," you chuckled, marveling at the way he shook, the desperation in every movement.

When you pulled away for a moment, you thought he might just combust. He looked back at you as you spread a dollop of lube onto the dildo strapped between your thighs. The look in his eyes was something else entirely. He'd fallen down that rabbit hole and had hit the bottom, pun intended. Glazed, half-lidded eyes peered at you over his shoulder, until he could no longer contort his body to see you. He needed this bad.

You lined yourself up against his entrance, taking a few shallow breaths, trying to steady yourself. With the way he was squirming and very nearly humping the mattress, you'd need to focus on keeping him calm. "Deep breath, baby, okay?" You instructed, your voice quiet and soothing.

He sucked in a breath, as deep as he could manage, and let it out slowly. As he exhaled, you pressed into him, slowly, taking your time with him. It seemed like you knocked the wind out of him, his body shuddering and his mouth making sounds you'd never heard before, his mind trying to make sense of this new sensation. Your hands gripped tighter at his hips, fingers digging in until they met bone, drinking in every whispered moan and whimper.

The moment you found a steady rhythm, it seemed to nearly kill him. You watched with reverent awe at the way he pulled the pillow in his arms closer, the arch of his back deepening, the way his teeth closed around his wrist to try to control the wanton moans that left him with every stroke of your hips.

"Is it…this good — fuck — every time for you?" His voice was broken and shaky, words vaguely strung together through whimpers.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his question. "Yeah, it is," you told him with a grin, his back twisted and his neck craned to look back at you. "You probably fuck me better, though." It was hard to imagine, having him in this position, that he was ever capable of being anything but this. On instinct, you buried a hand in his hair, pulling him back to center with a swift tug that drew a sound from him that was so pornographic in nature you felt your cheeks burn. "Did you like that?" You whispered, silently wishing he wasn't so god damn tall so you could whisper it in his ear.

He nodded, his hips bucking, pushing back against you to meet your thrusts.

"Use your words, pup."

Neither of you reacted, but the word shot through both of you like an arrow. Pup. It had simply slipped out of your mouth, not a single proper thought about it.

"I—" he broke off with a gasp, trying desperately to hold himself together, starting now to break apart at the seams. "I liked it. Please— more, please."

Begging already. A part of you was stunned at how quickly his switch had flipped, and just how deep into it he already was. You wondered just how far you could take him, how far down he was able to go. Curling your fingers in his hair again, you pulled his head back, watching how his eyes screwed shut and his jaw dropped open.

"Yeah?" Your tone was thick with lust. "Puppy likes it when I pull his hair?"

He was just barely able to stumble through his words, saying something in the affirmative, before you were pulling out of him and releasing his hair. A gasp caught in his throat, quickly turning into a pathetic chorus of whining as he begged you not to stop, twisted and contorted to try to look at you.

You grabbed him around the waist, giving him a few nudges. "Turn over."

It was almost ridiculous, how he basically threw himself onto his back for you, stuffing a pillow under his hips without even being prompted. When he settled, you had to take a moment just to look at him, your eyes dragging slowly across his body. And what beauty lay there in front of you, pale skin against dark sheets, his eyes never breaking from yours, except when his eyelids fluttered shut with every drag of your hips.

"You were made for this," you whispered. "Made to be my sweet puppy."

He nodded weakly, one hand reaching for his cock as it dragged streaks of slick wetness across his stomach. You batted his hand out of the way, his whimper of protest quickly being replaced by a moan when you wrapped your hand around him. You moved in time with your thrusts, though your fist only moved in small, shallow movements. Any more, and you feared this would be over far too soon.

Words came to you naturally, praises that made him squirm until a stray tear was rolling down his cheek, his begging and pleading turning into rambling nonsense. You cupped your free hand around his cheek, running your thumb across his skin, marveling at the fucked-out obedient puppy of a man underneath you. You pushed your thumb betewen his lips, watching with a satisfied smile as he let you press down on his tongue. He bit down just a bit when you changed angles, fighting to keep his eyes on yours. Like lightning, inpsiration struck you, and a cruel, twisted smile parted your lips.

"Can you imagine if they could see you right now?"

His eyes widened, his teeth biting down a bit harder around your thumb.

"Look at you. A fucking mess." You replaced your thumb with two fingers, pushing them further into his mouth, running them along his tongue, pressing down until his eyes watered with the effort it took not to gag. His hands flew up to grip at your arm, not pulling, but clearly wanting to. Leaning closer, holding his gaze, you spoke in a whisper. "It'd be so easy, you know? My phone's right there." You glanced over to the bedside table. "Would only take a few seconds to take a picture and post it." You leaned back, pulling your hand from his mouth, framing him between your hands like you were sizing up a photo.

It was an empty threat, obviously. One you'd dreamed up ages ago after an errant comment about what would the fans think? had made him squirm a bit more than you'd expected. There was something there, something in the prospect of humiliation, of the ruining of his reputation. It was enough to have him rutting into your hand, his mind racing with fantasies, barely conscious in the present moment. He grabbed onto you with urgency behind his eyes, pleading silently, words forming and dying on his tongue. Even when you pulled your fingers from his mouth, he couldn't manage to speak, though you could read his body language well enough.

"Getting close, baby?"

He nodded, and in an instant, you knew he couldn't hold on. You watched with wide eyes and a satisfied smile as he gripped tightly to you, pulling you in close with a soft whimper. His release coated both of your stomachs as you continued to thrust into him, his cock sliding between the two of you. You only stopped when his labored breaths turned into a chorus of stop, stop, with a quiet giggle behind it.

It'd been clear as day in that voice memo he'd sent you, all those weeks ago. Andrew wanted to be tied up, simple as that. And you wanted to provide. So you'd bought the rope, you'd studied, you'd experimented, you'd tied strange knots on nearly every surface in the house. You were tying handcuffs on the stair railing and harnesses on the coffee table. And of course, you tied him. He never seemed to get used to it, slipping back into that headspace he'd been in when he sent you that message, without fail, every single time.

Truly, it was a beautiful sight to behold. Such a big man, tall and slender and all legs and arms and fingers, bound together with lengths of color. Sometimes, you'd even take pictures, though he blushed so fiercely every time that you thought he might just burst into flames. Some of those pictures had been taken on the old restored Polaroid he'd bought for you. The prints, with dates scrawled on the back with pen, lived in the same dresser drawer as the rope. One had caught your eye tonight, as you were putting away a length of rope you'd recently washed.

You set the length down, coiled and wrapped together neatly, and pulled out the photo with a smile. In it, Andrew was lit harshly by the flash of the camera, but it had added a type of softness that made it pleasant to look at. He was laid out on the bed, half on his stomach, though he was trying his best to twist around to look at you. A dazed smile was on his face, his eyes half-lidded as if the camera had caught him halfway through a blink. His arms were behind his back, stick-straight, tied together with several knots. The rope laced across his arms like spider silk, the knots ornate and thick, black silky fibers shimmering in the light of the camera flash.

His legs were bent at the knee, though that had been of his own doing. "To preserve a modicum of modesty," he'd told you when you'd pulled out the camera. His calves were tied in a similar fashion to his arms, with the addition of a lovely harness of ropes around his waist, down to his thighs. You'd been particularly proud of how that one had turned out. The black rope was one of your favorites, the way it contrasted with his skin, ghostly pale in the dead of winter. Now, your fingers still pinched tightly around the corner of the photo, you wondered how you'd tie him tonight.

It was something like a ritual for you and him. First, you would order him onto the bed. Sometimes, you would tell him what position you wanted him in, sometimes not. If not, like tonight, he would just sit cross-legged, his hands wrapped around his ankles while he fidgeted restlessly with the cuff of his pants. You would lay out three colors, three coils of rope, on the bed in front of him, and tell him to pick one. This was all, of course, assuming he had been good that day, good enough to deserve choices. Tonight, you laid out your three options — navy blue, black, or a murky maroon. He chose the maroon; you knew he would, he loved being tied in red.

The process of tying him would always go one of two ways: rough or gentle. It depended entirely on, again, if he had been good enough to deserve gentle. He had, indeed, been quite good lately, so you moved slowly with him tonight, taking your time. He loved it when you moved slow.

You spoke softly, just above a whisper. There was no reason to be any louder in the dead silence of your bedroom, the only sound being a fan humming quietly in the far corner. You had him stand — you liked to do the ties that required him to stand first, as he tended to grow more wobbly on his feet the deeper he slipped down into submission. An order to strip was next, and he did so with glee, lifting his sweater over his head and dropping his joggers before kicking them to the corner of the room. He was already half-hard, but that was to be expected. It didn't matter either way — he would wait patiently to be touched.

The slide of rope against rope was deafening in the silence, but it was its own kind of music. And with each knot you tightened, his breathing grew a bit more ragged, another instrument. You loved this part, the way the lines you drew across his body in your head came together. You were tying a harness across his chest, crisscrossing ropes along his hips and over his shoulders, around his biceps and between his legs. Praise was given as it was deserved, and he was being remarkably good today. Very little squirming or fidgeting, both of which made your job harder. You took a few steps back to admire your work, drinking him in. No matter how many times you did this, it would truly never grow old.

You guided him to lay down, his arms now immobilized behind his back, his forearms lashed together. Tying his legs was always your favorite part, specifically for the way the rope dug in to the thick muscles there. Columns of rope soon lay across his thighs, biting in to his skin, tied just tight enough to leave marks in his skin for long enough for you to admire them. He was whining now, each time your fingers brushed delicately across the inside of his thigh. Though, he kept himself quiet, and didn't beg, and was still and obedient. You couldn't ask for anything more.

It was all so sacred, this dance of hands and rope. With the perspective you had now, you wondered how you ever felt true intimacy in the past. This was by far the most intimate you had ever been, and the closest you felt you could possibly be. For him to put all of his trust in you so readily, to let himself surrender and be turned into a living puppet, was as close as you could fathom being with another person. Every time you made a mistake or tied something too tight or too loose, every muttered shit under your breath, every giggle in response from him, was worth a night of vanilla sex to both of you.

With every pull of rope across skin and every whispered question of that okay?, he slipped a little deeper. It didn't take long for him to reach the bottom, your fingers still working the lengths of maroon into knots, tying his calves to his thighs, and wrapping a weave around his ankles to link it all together. When you connected it all, it forced his legs apart, spreading them as if he was doing yoga. The butterfly pose, you thought it was called. He lifted his eyes from where your fingers steadily twisted and tied and pulled, up to your face, just simply watching you. You caught his gaze with a smile, before you went back to the knot you were tying.

"I'm almost done. Just one more, okay?" You said.

He hummed in response, his eyes full of love for you.

When you finished, you pulled back to admire your work. The maroon against his skin was stunning, even more so than you'd expected. He watched you as your eyes raked over his form, bound and immobile, stuck there on the bed. He shifted a bit, pulling at each junction. First his arms, trying to separate his wrists, then his legs, finding each knot was more than satisfactory. The bite of the rope into his skin was blissful, and you eyed the spots where you knew he would be left with marks and — if you were lucky — bruises.

Sex wasn't always a guarantee or a necessity when you did this. There was, of course, the matter of his cock, rock hard and a leaking mess, on full display between his spread thighs. If he'd been in his right mind, he would likely be begging, on the verge of tears, desperate for you to touch it, even if only for a second. But here, with his body immobile and entirely at your mercy, he knew better than to make demands. You wondered if he even had the ability to demand anything, or if he was stuck waiting on your command.

Of course, you would be merciful. He'd been so good, after all. You told him as much, while you rocked your hips in his lap, your legs wrapped around his torso. He whined a little louder with each good boy from your lips, his arms straining against the ropes with the need to touch you, his legs trembling and overworked from his attempts to thrust, held back by carefully positioned knots. You ran your fingers through his hair and told him he could let go when he whispered, strained and breathy in a voice you rarely heard, that he was gonna cum, and he couldn't hold it anymore. It was a miracle he didn't pass out, with the amount of panting and whining and whimpering of your name, his face buried in your shoulder.

The act of cleaning him up and untying him was its own ritual, and one of your favorites. How helpless he was to stop you when you let your fingers brush teasingly against his oversensitive cock. How his gaze turned mindless when you gathered up the remnants of his cum that your body hadn't been able to hold, slicking your fingers with it, holding them up to show him the mess he'd made. And, just for your own sadistic pleasure, you pushed your soaked fingers past his lips. You nearly had to jump back into his lap when he licked each digit clean, like he was greedy for it, never once tearing his eyes from yours.

On more than one occasion, when you'd started this journey, you had untied him too quickly. From your perspective, it was similar to sex — once it was over, it was over, time for cuddling and chatting and giggling in the afterglow. But for him, he wasn't always ready to be free the moment he came. He had to "wake up," as he called it. Shaking him awake, by pulling the knots apart right away, was an unpleasant experience, to say the least. So you sat with him, on your knees behind him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, as he slowly came back to himself. That familiar light returned to his eyes, and he leaned back to kiss you.

You maneuvered your way off the bed, bounding over to the dresser to pull out the camera that lived in the top drawer. "Feeling photogenic?" You asked.

He blushed, and looked down at the lines of maroon across his body, and the dips in his skin where the rope held him tightly. He gave you a nod, a smile, and a "sure."

There were days when no closeness was enough.

Today was one of those days. You laid snuggled against Andrew, in the crook of his arm, your fingers tracing patterns into his chest. You'd both already stripped yourselves of your clothes to try to get closer, skin to skin in as many places at once as you could manage. Legs were tangled together, one of his hands was knotted in your hair, your other hand was wrapped around his arm. Like two trees that had grown too close together, every limb intertwined. It was cold, late autumn, a freezing mist of rain darkening the sky and sticking to the windows. Lamplight warmed the room, and cast a gentle glow across your bodies.

It just wasn't enough. No matter how hard you pushed your body towards his, tried to pull him closer, you couldn't find it. What it was, you couldn't be sure. Some kind of closeness you felt you needed deep in your bones, like you wished to wrap your arms directly around his heart, bury your head between his lungs. He felt the same way, given the way he let his fingers dig into any part of you he touched, the way he buried his nose into your skin.

You didn't think much of it when your hand trailed down his body, along his ribs, tracing each mole and freckle, down to the trail of hair below his navel, until you grazed the backs of your nails along his cock. A little sigh from your chest shook both of you a bit when you felt it twitch, though still soft. You wrapped your fingers around it, giving it a subtle squeeze, feeling the way he almost immediately responded to your touch. He gave you a look, a small smile, a question behind his eyes. Do you want it?

A tentative yes gleamed in your own eyes.

He moved to switch your positions, to take control of the situation as he normally did, likely already salivating at the thought of tasting you. But you shook your head, taking your hand from his now half-hard cock to push down gently on his chest. Not a word passed between the two of you as you lifted yourself, swinging a leg over his hips, bracing yourself with two hands on his chest. Once again, he moved to help — his hands slipping between the two of you, intending to guide himself into you. But once again, you shook your head, placing a hand on his bicep until his arms came to rest, hands settling on the sides of your face.

You lowered yourself down as far as your hips would go, until you felt the kiss of skin on skin, of your soaked center sliding across his cock. His hands adjusted, sliding back to tangle in your hair, his eyes fluttering shut with a soft sigh as you rocked your hips. It wasn't much in the way of stimulation, at least not for you, though there was something so deeply intimate about this. It wasn't sex, not by the standards you'd consider to be sex. You didn't want it to be sex. You only wanted to be closer.

A few taps to his shoulders and pointed fingers, and he was throwing every pillow on the bed behind him, propping himself up to be nearly at eye level with you. This angle was better, easier on your hips, as you continued to rock yourself back and forth. There was no hurry, there was no goal to complete, no time crunch. You just moved as slowly as you wished, leaving the space between you a soaked mess. The sound it made would normally make you blush, the slick slide of your body against him, but it was all too intimate to feel the uncomfortable underpinnings of shame that tended to permeate sex for you.

Your hand reached down to guide him into you, but he made no movements, letting you chooose how you wanted this to go. It hurt a bit, the sting and the stretch, with no prep other than arousal to open you. But there was no rush. You took your time. Even when he was fully seated in you, neither of you had any desire to move. It was like you had found yourselves in some quiet, peaceful glen, a rare moment of total tranquility in your busy lives. Like doing this properly and slamming your hips down on him was unseemly, like it didn't fit the silence present here. So you simply sat. You adjusted to him, to his size, shifting your hips this way and that way to find a comfortable position. You whimpered softly at the stretch of him, the fullness, before you both sat in silence, beyond your shared labored breathing.

Finally, you felt the sense of closeness you needed. You adjusted, leaning forward a bit, resting yourself on his chest as if you were simply sitting in his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, one hand around your waist and the other snaking across your back to your shoulder, burying his face in your neck. This was intimate on a level you'd never explored, a deepness here that you'd never leave if you didn't need to. It was hypnotizing, the scent of him, the rush of chemicals to your brain, the way his fingers rubbed circles against your skin.

You noticed all the little things, things too subtle to be felt during any kind of normal sex. Things like the flutter of his heart, the way he pulsed inside of you with each heartbeat, so miniscule that you could have convinced yourself you were making it up. It almost brought tears to your eyes, to be so close that you could feel the rush of his blood from a place within your body. You noticed the little sounds he tried to keep hidden when you adjusted, shifting your hips or sitting up a bit higher just to settle back into his lap, like the slowest possible stroke of his cock.

It was hard to tell just how long you sat like that, warming his cock, just holding him inside of you. The entire experience was so blissful that you seemed to be forming gaps in your memory. As if you were dozing off while he was buried in you, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder. If you had been, you wouldn't mind. It felt like such a grand privilege you could scarcely fathom it, to have a man that loved you so deeply that he would simply be here with you like this. No pressure, no begging you to move, just letting you take what you needed without complaint. Not that he would have complained about this, anyway — he was loving it just as much as you were.

Sometimes, it was a bit boring, being the talent's girlfriend. You sat alone in his dressing room, waiting, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. The sound of the crowd waxed and waned, drifting down long hallways and through white-painted cinderblock walls. Eventually, it grew to a fever pitch, and the sound of familiar constant commotion echoed down the halls on the other side of the door.

You sat up with a smile when you finally heard the door open, met with Andrew's form sweeping quickly through the door. It slammed shut behind him, his back crashing against it, his hands coming up to cover his face. Your brow furrowed, and you watched him for a moment, waiting to see if he would address it himself. Only silence, and quick, shallow breaths. He was shaking fiercely, his knees half-buckled and his thighs trembling.

"Andy?" You called, questioning. "Are you okay?"

He spread his fingers, still latched to his face, peering at you from between the cracks. He didn't speak, he only shook his head.

This was starting to concern you, now. Clearly, something rather serious had happened. Possibilities rushed through your head – normally, if he'd forgotten a lyric or messed something up, he would laugh it off with you after the fact, his cheeks red and a hand over his eyes while you giggled trying to picture it. You'd never seen him like this before, and it had your heart dropping into your stomach as you tried to imagine what could have possibly happened to warrant this reaction.

"How can I help, love?" You kept your voice soft and caring.

"You're going to be absolutely thrilled," he said with a sarcastic sneer, each word shaking out of him like it was a struggle to speak.

"Baby, I don't understand," you replied, your palms breaking out in a cold sweat, now. Had you done something to cause this? "Just come over here and sit with me, and we can-"

"I can't…fucking move." He cut you off, speaking through clenched teeth, his hands slipping from his face to ball into fists at his sides.

You threw your hands up, starting to grow frustrated with this guessing game. "Can you just tell me what's wrong? Jesus christ, you're worrying me sick!"

It all happened so quickly, though the series of events played in slow motion in your mind. He looked away, his eyes now locked on the floor, his hands coming up to wrap around his lower stomach. You caught only a flash of panic in his eyes before he dropped to his knees, folded in half at the waist. You were on your feet in a second, though he held out a hand to stop you.

"I'm…jesus fucking christ, at my age…" He brought his head up to look at you, only briefly, and you could see tears in his eyes. "I…"

He seemed entirely unable to finish his sentence. Though, as you'd quickly find out, he didn't need to. A pathetic sound like a whine tumbled out of him, followed by a string of expletives, and you watched as a little wet spot formed on the front of his pants.

He was right, you were absolutely thrilled.

You couldn't remember how long ago it had been that you'd told him about this little interest of yours. And it was even harder to remember what his response had been, beyond a tilted head and an "I don't get it." There had been an attempt, though it was hard to explain the appeal when telling someone how hot you thought a person peeing their pants was. He certainly wouldn't understand it now, kneeling in front of the door, shaking and whimpering as he leaked into his pants.

"This place is like a fucking maze," he whispered, his voice shaky with frustration and tears. "And what kind of venue doesn't have a bathroom in the dressing room?"

You could only watch, words failing you, your breathing nearly turning to hyperventilating, your fingers gripping tightly to the fabric of your pants, just for some kind of grounding. His desperation shouldn't have turned you on the way it did, and you knew that. The chanting chorus of wrong, filthy, disgusting in your mind told you as much. But that was all part of it, the way you felt like a sick, rotten heathen for the way you throbbed, watching him leak all over himself. The thought of being aroused by something so strange was a turn-on all on its own.

A little whimper slipped from his mouth, a silent prayer forming on his lips, perhaps a prayer that he might miraculously be able to hold it. A prayer that, certainly, went unanswered. In stunned silence, you watched, as he fully lost control. What had at first been a few tiny patches of wetness, easily written off as getting a bit too close to a wet countertop in the bathroom, were quickly overrun by darkening fabric. Soon the whole front of him was darkened, gray pants turned to black. He soaked straight through them, a little stream pouring onto the ground between his trembling thighs.

A slew of nonsense tumbled from his mouth, swearing and pleading and apologizing to nobody. You could hear the waver in his voice, the sound of tears ready to fall. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, this time directed at you. "I couldn't– god, fuck..." His legs trembled with the effort of trying to stop it, to regain some semblance of control, but it was far too late. Every muscle was shot, and he wouldn't be gaining back control until he was empty.

"It's okay, baby," you soothed, though your voice felt far away, like you weren't even aware you were making the words. "We can- I'll help, uh, clean up."

Where the relief ended, the regret began. Though he kept his head down, you could see tears falling from his eyes onto the ground, simply adding to the puddle forming beneath him. You didn't know what to say, though you figured it might be best to say nothing. This was beyond a nightmare, beyond humiliating, beyond shameful. Although it left you squirming for all different reasons, you knew telling him as much would do no good. Not when he was on his knees, crying, dribbling out a steady stream of piss that he could no longer hold.

You could hear little whimpers leaving his mouth with every breath, genuine sounds of humiliation. You should have looked away, should have been looking for something to clean up with, pretending not to see, but you couldn't. He looked so pathetic like this, vulnerable in a way you would likely never see again. You wondered how good it probably felt, finally letting go after holding it for so long. Maybe he'd even leaked a bit on stage, just a drop or two, his body desperate to relieve the pressure? The idea of it nearly had you seeing stars with arousal, thinking of the panic he would have felt as a few drops forced their way out of him. Did he run here, fighting it with each step, desperate to just be alone? Yet here you were, watching him, a fire blazing in your stomach, as he wet himself.

"Do you have to watch?" His voice was small, far-away and shaky with tears.

It snapped you out of the trance you were in, the force of it nearly making you jump. "I'm sorry, I–" you could barely see straight, struggling to keep a solid grip on reality while you watched the scene in front of you. "I just– this is just so–" you gave up on your attempts to explain.

"I'm glad someone is enjoying it," he sniffled, and you could hear the hint of a smile in his voice.

"What even happened?"

"The fuck do you think happened?" He snapped, though the anger faded from his voice quickly. You wouldn't dare hold it against him, anyway. "This place is built like a labyrinth. Too many drinks before the show, couldn't find the bathroom." His voice was so shaky, like he was barely holding his psyche together. You figured that might be the case, too. "I just…couldn't hold it. Nothing I could do."

The idea of it, the sight of it, it all had you downright dizzy, and when he finally lifted his head to look at you, it must have been painted all over your face.

"This is probably torture for you, huh?" He asked, a cheeky grin lighting up his tear-stained cheeks. "Thank god it's you who was in here. And thank god this isn't gross to you." He tried to hide his embarrassment behind a fake smile. It sounded like a fresh batch of tears was lining up behind his eyes, and though you just barely see his face, you could see the quiver of his bottom lip as he held back sobs.

As much as you'd like to stand around and watch this happen, time was short, and he needed your help. With a few mumbled words about cleaning up, you snuck past him and into the hallway, speed walking past rooms until you found an unlocked janitor's closet and carried out an armful of towels. By the grace of god, nobody cared enough to stop you, or ask what on earth you were doing. By the time you scurried back and slammed the door shut behind you, he wasn't on his knees anymore. You caught a glimpse of him, opened your mouth to tell him you found towels, to reassure him that you would help him, that it would be alright, and froze. The words wouldn't come out.

He was sitting back now, legs spread, one knee up, soaked layers pulled halfway down his thighs, his cock resting against one wet thigh. A little rivulet ran across his skin and down to the floor, a sight that burned itself into your brain so intensely you could practically see the flash.

"Sorry," he mumbled when he caught your eye, quickly looking away. "The…the wet fabric, it's too warm, I just– I can't–"

"Please don't apologize. This sucks for you." A deep breath helped little with grounding you. "Sorry you got stuck with the girlfriend who likes seeing her man suffer," you said with a smirk.

The relief started to win out over the humiliation of it all, and a lazy smile spread over his face. You knew the feeling that was coursing through his body, it was a feeling you were all too familiar with. Something like a rush of good chemicals to the brain. If it was anything like you'd experienced, he was feeling a delightful prickle along his skin, the sensation in his head something similar to a good buzz.

You tried to shake yourself back to reality, remembering why you were standing here in the first place. "I, um, found these," you said, holding out the handful of towels, covered in flecks of paint and mystery stains.

You couldn't look at him for a second longer, your knees already weak, your stomach doing constant backflips. You'd return to this moment, you knew. Likely, it would hang in your mind forever. "Here," you muttered, dropping the towels by his side, and scurrying away. "I can't look anymore."