#smarvis

Your gaze swept over him, taking in the slightly rumpled shirt, the perfectly knotted tie, the way his glasses had slipped just a centimeter down his nose. 

It has been a few months since you had known him: him perched up at the door of your office asking for a job to sustain his music-making before getting signed off to a label.

And you came to realize that he liked the routine of quiet observation, and of an almost unsettling enthusiasm to please. It was a quality you had come to appreciate, and if you were honest, to exploit.

“Jarvis,” you began, your voice deliberately low, watching for the subtle flinch before earning his full attention. It was almost overlooked: a small tremor, a tightening of the jawline.

He looked up, his eyes magnified behind his lenses, awaiting for your next words “Yes?” His voice was a soft rasp. 

You have seen him with a microphone held up against his thin lips, with a guitar hung across his shoulders, his confident voice filling up the small venues, and this, this was a contrast to that confidence he held on stage. Here, in the paper thin walls of the office, he was entirely different. He was yours.

“This article, Jarvis” You continued, leaning back on your chair, allowing your eyes to linger on the delicate curve of his wrist as he instinctively reached for a pen. “It’s not quite up to standard. The last section, specifically” a pause “It even has misspellings” 

He swallowed a visible bob in his throat. “I apologize, I thought I had” he cleared his throat “I will change it immediately.”

“Oh, I know you will, Jarvis” You said, a slow smile spreading across your face. His gaze dropped to his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. He knew. He always knew. “Come here, Jarvis,” You commanded, your voice now a silken thread, drawing him in. He rose, his movements were fluid and hesitant. He approached your desk, stopping just short, his eyes still downcast.

You reached out, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight tremor beneath your touch. “You understand, don’t you, Jarvis?”

He nodded, a barely perceptible movement. “Yes, I understand”

“Good” Your thumb brushing against his lower lip.

He turned his back to you, and began the painstaking process of re-ordering his words. The soft rustle of paper, the gentle click of the cabinet drawer opening and closing and the sound of the typewriter hitting the paper.

You resumed your work but only thinking about his fingers moving. It was a few hours later when the office was in a heavy silence.

On his clean desk, the rewritten article laid on the center.

You found him not at his desk, but in the corner of the room, on the armchair. He was seated, but not in the way one usually sits. His long form was arranged upon the chair, his wrists and ankles secured with soft, dark ties: not tight, not painful, but binding. His glasses were tossed to the side leaving his eyes exposed, reflecting the dim office light like a polished gem.

The overhead light casting long and dramatic shadows that played across his features. His shallow breathing was almost imperceptible, but the pulse fluttering at the base of his throat was frantic.

Your steps on the carpet were muffled as you approached him. He did not move, only watched you with an intensity that had you quivering inside if you were honest. There was no fear in his gaze, only surrender. He was waiting for the next instruction.

Your shadow fell over him, leaving his face in complete shadow. You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, then down the curve of his neck, feeling the rapid beat beneath your touch. His lips parted slightly.

“The article, Jarvis,” You murmured, a low hum against the quiet. “It is precise. Flawless, even.”Your gaze met his

You leaned closer, the scent of your perfume mingling with his own unique aroma. “And sometimes” You whispered, your lips almost brushing his ear, "I only have to ask you twice, no?” His eyes fluttered closed, then opened again with a spark of anticipation. 

The office was filled in an intimate silence. The ties on his wrists and ankles, far from being restrictive, were grounding him in a reality far more tangible than the fleeting applause of a crowd. A slow deliberate nod. That affirmation was your cue to continue. 

His eyes, still wide followed each of your movements as you stepped closer until you paused, your hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, feeling the subtle vibration of his body beneath your palm. 

Then, slowly, you shifted your weight. His breath hitched, a sharp intake of air. You lowered yourself onto his lap, the soft fabric of skirt rustling against his trousers as it bunched up to your hips, revealing a faint glance of your lace knickers. The chair creaked faintly under the combined weight.

His long legs, still bound, shifted then settled, accommodating your presence. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the rapid thrum of his heart against the skin of your fingertips that now moved to his chest, just over his heart.

His breathing, once rapid, began to synchronize with yours, in an exchange of air. Your eyes met his. There was no more avoidance, only a deep gaze that seemed to seek and find something in yours. In his dilated pupils you saw a mixture of curiosity and acceptance. This was the Jarvis the world didn't know, stripped of his wit and cynicism.

A slight, barely perceptible movement of your head was a question. His answer came in the subtle tension of his muscles beneath your weight, the slight tremor of his parted lips. There was no need to articulate the desire; it was in the way his body molded to yours, in the way that despite the bound on his hands, unable to move them, seemed to reach out to you. Longing.

A shiver ran down his spine, and a barely audible moan escaped his throat. “please” His voice was a thin thread.

Your gaze dropped to his lips, slightly parted. You could feel his breath on your face, warm and shallow, mirroring your  own. His head tilted and your own lips, finally met his. It was not a sudden, passionate clash, but a slow press, exploring his thin soft lips. A sigh of relief escaped him.

When your lips left his, his head tilted slightly to one side, resting against your shoulder, a gesture of trust that surprised you with its simplicity. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric, the soft brush of his hair against your cheek.

You kissed the side of his face gently “I’ve got you.” You whispered, tugging at his hair, urging him closer. 

His hips jerked forward at your words, and you gasped, finally aligning your own hips in a way that made your eyes roll back. He rutted into your clit perfectly, dragging his thick cock against your underwear that already had a visible wet spot against them.

He groaned, his voice was mixed with shame and pleasure, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t do it. His cock twitched through the fabric of his troussers, a hot, needy pulse that matched the frantic rhythm of his hips.

Your hands found his face, pulling him away from your neck so you could finally see his eyes, his parted lips that could barely hold back his moans. You dragged him closer until your mouths were hovering above each other, when he pushed harder, more desperate, as if holding on the edge.

“Make a mess on me, Jarvis” His hips jerked up, needy for friction. You stayed silent, hands threading through his sweaty hair. He hummed against your skin, not caring if he was going to ruin his clothes when he felt you lower yourself, moving your hips back and forth over his chlothed dick.

A tremor ran through his body after his release. His bound hands, which had been clenched before, now relaxed completely behind him, his fingers outstretched in surrender. You felt his body soften beneath yours.

You kissed the curve of his eyebrow, all along to his cheekbone, the tip of his nose, to finally meet his lips.

You rose slowly letting Jarvis feel the emptiness in his lap as his body adjusted to the absence of your weight. He didn't move, didn't open his eyes, and just remained there.