can i peel that for you?

He glances down. The little earrings—meant for his wing, apparently—gleam in the light. They're delicate in their intricacy, petal-edged, softer than his usual rapier points. The metal shines like the stars. It rates as gold, he knows, but the yellow of it is peculiar, a quirk of the planet it comes from. There is nothing else in the universe like it.

"I do not doubt their origin."

"Mhm," you say. "You should."

"Because of your assessment from—" he considers the distance between the two of you "—over 10 feet away?"

"Yup."

Sunday raises an eyebrow. He should go. His schedule is never-ending, always brimming with the duties that weigh down the curves of his slim shoulders. He has little spare time, and even littler to spend with someone like you. But—

"And you are an expert in the subject matter, I presume," he says dryly.

You smile. "Something like that."

His eyes dart back to the earrings. They gleam. There's nothing to even suggest that they're anything less than what the honey-mouthed diplomat had claimed. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

You laugh. "They said you were polite," you say. "But you do have teeth, don't you?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I suppose," you say. "Give them here. I'll test them."

He arches his brow again.

"They're not worth stealing, if that's what you're worried about."

"Hardly."

"Then give them here."

Sunday does. He steps closer and presses the box into your open palm, the velvet of it soft against your glittering palm. Gems, he thinks, inlaid in your skin like a jeweled glove. He follows their path up your forearm, your bicep, until they disappear under your gossamer sleeve, barely visible save the faint sheen of them flickering through the thin fabric like fireflies each time you move. Something rings in the back of his mind, a memory just out of reach.

You push yourself up from your indolent sprawl, and those same gems spill out across your neck, your collarbone, into the soft curve of your breast.

Perhaps you are an expert.

"Wow," you say, laughter curling in the corners of your lips again. "I didn't think you would."

Sunday didn't think he would either. It's unnerving.

You pop the small earrings out of their case, rolling them against your palm. They clack against your bejeweled palm, teeth against teeth.

"They're close, I'll give you that," you say. "Good fakes, expertly-made, really."

"There's no purpose in gifting me fakes," Sunday says. "And this hardly proves anything other than your commitment to your assumption."

You smile again. "There's always a purpose," you say.

You bring the earrings up to your face, holding one between your fingers. Sunday watches you, waits. You meet his gaze, something knowing in your eyes, and then—

You slip the earring between your lips.

Sunday starts. A surprised noise—an undignified one, likely—almost leaves him, but he bites it down with his iron control. He should—he should scold you, he supposes, or demand you spit it out, but there's laughter sparkling in your eyes. It feels like a challenge; a dare he can't afford to lose.

There's also the matter of your tongue.

He can see it pressing against the inside of your cheeks, your lips, as you roll the earring in your mouth. Sometimes, there's a flicker of the pink of it peeking out from between your lips.

Before he can gather himself enough to protest, the earring clicks against your teeth. You press it against your lips until they part, the metal gleaming wetly before it drops into your hand with a soft chime. There's a thin string of saliva connected to it. It's vulgar; it's mesmerizing.

The string snaps.

Sunday refocuses just in time to hear the end of the list of metals you're listing off. All of them are far from the prized yellow-gold of the planet the earrings purportedly came from.

"You can—" he starts, before catching himself.

"Taste it," you finish.

The echo of memory from earlier solidifies; a species from a distant planet that rarely leave their home, the way they can taste precious stones and metal alike, can break them down to their core. One of the diplomats had boasted of coaxing one off-world.

If that is you—and it must be you—you are an expert indeed.

As if sensing his thoughts, you smile again. You press the earring into his hand; your gemstones are cold, but Sunday can't help but focus on the wet, still warm earring against his palm.

he hates that, somehow, your terrible jokes are not a deterrent. quite the opposite, really.

"wait-", oliver rests his forehead on your shoulder to collect his self-control when your fingers sneak beneath the hem of his shorts to close around the shape of his cock.

"shut up for once", you stroke him gently and he swears you must've been sent from some angered god to ruin his life and make all his resolve crumble.

oliver practically never lets you take care of him first, always adamant on focusing on your pleasure and prepping you with the utmost precision before doing anything else. before allowing you to do anything else.

today won't be any different.

"what are you-", he stops your hand with his own, removing it from his underwear with a level of self-restraint he didn't know he possessed, "oliver!", you groan when he gets up from his couch so suddenly you're forced to wrap your arms and legs around him like a koala bear.

"my house, my rules", he pecks your lips once and you roll your eyes as he carries you to his bedroom.

"how are you so stubborn?".

he huffs out a chuckle.

"you're one to talk".

"wait, don't-!", you let out a little yelp when he quite literally throws you on his king size bed to then climb on top of you to kiss you again, again, again, until you forget whatever remonstrance you were about to throw at him.

he's so broad your legs have to be almost completely spread open to accommodate his body, which unfortunately also gives his fingers easy access to uncerimoniously push your panties aside and swipe two fingers through your folds. have you ever been this wet...?

"oliver, no!", you grab his wrist and he immediately pulls back, concerned eyes finding your agitated stare.

"what's wrong? did I do something-", words are tucked back into his throat as soon as he notices the crimson now staining his fingers. for a moment, he panics. then, your quiet apology makes him let out a relieved sigh. you're not in pain, you're embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry", you murmur, quick to cover yourself again, "I tried to... I didn't want to tell you".

oliver, now sitting on his heels, feels genuinely confused.

"why not?".

you purposefully avoid his attentive eyes, busy yourself by nervously playing with a loose thread on your skirt.

"I still wanted to come over", you admit, shifting uncomfortably against his pillows, "it should've been about you today, not me".

his gaze softens.

"I won't touch you if you don't want me to", the fingers of his clean hand gently dance along your knee, "but know that your comfort is the only thing that would hold me back".

you scoff.

"you don't have to do that. I know men think it's gross".

"and since you always seem to know everything", oliver leans down, his lips ghosting over your parted ones, "did you also notice I'm currently so hard it hurts?".

you blink, doubt still swarming in your gaze even as you can't help but check if he's telling the truth. isn't he always? oliver is many things but he's not a liar.

"you really don't care?", incredulous, you stubbornly search for any trace of hesitation in his eyes. he nudges the tip of your nose with his own.

"I couldn't care less if I tried".

"are you sure? I'll ruin your bed-"

"tell me to touch you", oliver whispers the words into your mouth, his pitch on the edge of turning desperate, "if you want me to, there's nothing else holding me back".

he gives you some time to consider his unexpected offer by kissing you so deeply your head starts spinning. you tentatively pull him closer, legs parting timidly, but oliver waits as the patient man that he is.

"please", you breathe out.

"please what?", he kisses down your throat, teeth grazing the skin he intends to mark later.

"please, touch me", you pull at his hair, the fire of your puerile frustration with him never quite dying. he hides his smile in your neck as his fingers find their designated place once more, between your legs.

"relax", oliver whispers and your body complies the way it always does with him.

you are soaked in arousal and blood. the way he can feel your entrance fluttering beneath his teasing fingers sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his dick.

it doesn't take long for your body to respond to his deft touches, your restraint long forgotten by the time oliver gently removes your panties to take a better look at the artwork his skilled fingers are creating.

his gaze darkens at the sight, the pads of his fingers carefully smearing what is dripping out of your quivering hole along the inside of your thighs.

"stop staring", he can tell the playful disapproval vibrating in your voice is still concealing some lingering self-consciousness and that just won't do.

oliver dips a finger inside you and nearly comes on the spot when it sinks in so easily. entranced, he watches the way your back arches for it, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

"be less beautiful, then", he adds a second finger and you nearly scream at the sensation. the rich, deep red glistening on your skin and his fingers, his palm from the way you're practically mounting his hand, makes oliver curse under his breath.

"oliver", you breathe out, already too far gone to even moan properly.

"tell me how it feels", he crooks his fingers and presses one hand to your tummy to keep you from moving as you tremble unederneath him.

"good, really good", you cry out, rock your hips to meet the relentless movement of his thick digits.

oliver is a patient man but every patient man has his breaking point. his cock is leaking in his briefs, so hard it feels on the verge of exploding, and he feels every ounce of composure abandon his body when you moan his name again.

you open your eyes when he slips his drenched fingers out of your cunt, a frustrated sob escaping your lips at the loss. it all happens so quickly: the warm, wet feeling on your hip bone where he grabs you. oliver's head between your thighs.

the first swipe of his tongue up your slit makes you buck your hips into the warmth of his mouth, a soundless scream leaving yours open. oliver eats you out mercilessly, the sounds he is making downright obscene, tongue swirling over your clit over and over until there are tears in your eyes and your fingers are fisting his once pristine sheets.

"oh, god-", you cry out when he returns his attention to your entrance, wet, warm tongue slipping so easily into your hole. his fingers are holding you still so firmly you can only take what he is giving you, broken moans making your throat ache as the wet squelch of oliver aiku devouring your bleeding pussy fills the room.

"are you not-", you jolt again when he sucks on your bundle of nerves, "breathing?".

oliver can't be bothered to speak. the low, guttural sound he lets out reverberates deep within you and your fingers dig into his curls again, nails scratching his scalp as his ruts against his mattress. fuck, he doesn't remember ever feeling this turned on. he doesn't remember ever wanting someone this much, he can't recall ever needing to ruin a partner this bad.

you orgasm with his tongue buried deep inside you, his thumb roughly playing with your clit as you choke out a moan while you tremble with hyperstimulation. the sensation is so overwhelming you think you might black out in his bed.

oliver has never looked more beautiful. crimson stains his face still, even after he tries to wipe the blood off his lips and chin, his chest heaving and his eyes fixed on you. purple lighting and forest green, dark, observant, promising.

"can't believe you almost denied me that", his own voice comes out hoarse and desire throbs once more between your legs.

"can't believe you almost killed me", you whisper and he smiles a boyish grin.

your foot rises to lazily trace the outline of his hard cock, still confined to his briefs. he grabs your ankle, presses himself further into you with a sharp breath.

"what do you need?", his hand rises to grasp your calf, leaving streaks of scarlet on your warm skin, "tell me", he rasps. it's infuriating how well he knows you, way too well for someone who is only supposed to be a friend with benefits.