Did I Ask?

---

Despite his better judgment, "Paulo" adores you. Sunshine is rare in Gotham but you're his own personal glimpse, making his days spent washing dishes and listening to Maroni's whispers a little less dreary. He'd die if you happened to know.

Every once in a while, in between tables, you catch him studying you from his post at the sink. You greet him with a tiny grin before retreating to the dining room, missing the way he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He always looks like he's biting back a secret, fighting the urge to speak his mind, but with everyone else, the secret looks bitter.

Tonight, business is slow. The managers left nearly an hour ago, leaving the shift leaders to close the place.

With your last table on their way out and your tip shoved deep in your pocket, you allow yourself a tiny break. You slip through the kitchen and out the back door, into the crisp air and ambient noise of the alleyway.

Much to your surprise, the alley isn't empty. Paulo stands with his back against the brick wall, hands trembling as he attempts to light the cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth. The door swings shut and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Are you alright?" you ask.

He answers you with a curt nod, but his eyes never leave yours. For once, the guy who has an answer for everything is speechless - it intrigues you.

You take a bold step towards him and gently prise the lighter from his grip. He watches as you carefully guide a flame towards him, shielding it from the wind and letting him light his cigarette in silent bewilderment.

-

He'd never admit it but that's when he fell for you. He fell hard and fast and never quite recovered.

Your tables are always bussed first. Your side jobs - refilling salt and pepper shakers, changing tablecloths, mopping the floor - are always finished when you get around to them. He keeps his head down now, simply listening (always listening) but specifically keeping a keen ear out for your voice.

There are no more stolen glances from the kitchen door but a part of you knows it's because he's afraid you'd catch him. You look anyway.

You know he knows that you look anyway.

-

The walk-in freezer serves as your own private sanctuary when the restaurant is too much. The frigid air calms your nerves (and the steel walls muffle yells of frustration well enough.)

The dining room is packed full of large parties, all cheering and speaking at the top of their lungs and calling you pet names, and all you want to do is get away from it all, just for a moment. You kick a metal shelf and cuss under your breath.

When you step back out into the kitchen, Paulo watches you. For the first time in a while, he watches you with that careful gaze, and when you meet it, he freezes and grabs a plate, dunking it into the water like he's trying to drown it. You chuckle under your breath and drag your fingers through your hair.

A particularly loud cheer sounds from the dining room and you groan, remembering the tables you still had to serve. But your jacket hangs right next to the back door, and you know those parties won't tip well, no matter how much you laugh at their jokes.

With a dejected sigh, you stealthily clock yourself out and put on your jacket, slipping out the door without a word.

The alley is chillier than usual. You hug yourself and rest against the wall, trying to calm yourself down but failing. The brick feels rough against your back, even through your layers, the air bites your cheeks, and the noise that usually soothes you now grates at you like roofing nails on a chalkboard. Your shoulders shake and you hardly even hear the back door open again.

"You're not quitting, are you?"

Paulo's voice snaps you out of your tiny spiral. You shake your head, hardly even questioning why he followed you outside. A familiar voice sounds nice, even when you realize that those are the first words he's ever said directly to you.

"What's going on?" he asks, a little more insistently, "Are you drunk?"

You give a tiny chuckle and shake your head again, perfectly content to let him ask his questions.

There's a moment, however, where the questions stop, and although you don't look at him, you can hear the change in his voice when he speaks again. It's a softer tone you've never heard before - you doubt anyone in the restaurant had ever heard him speak softly.

"Do you want me to walk you home?"

You pause, before answering him with a small nod.

-

In a way, Oswald is glad you won't look him in the eye right now. Because frankly, he's petrified.

He's leaving his job, the job he'd literally killed a man for, to walk someone home. If anyone asked why he did it, he wouldn't have an excuse. (Outside the obvious, outside the blaring, horrendously obvious---)

He blinks quickly and follows you out of the alleyway, scolding himself for getting distracted. Of course he's not walking just anyone home. It's you, the only person in the entire staff who isn't jaded or brusque, and you're walking home, at night, in Gotham City. Besides, he liked to think that his mother raised a gentleman.

The city's background hum has never bothered him before, but now the silence feels deafening. He tries to think of something, anything to say now that he has your attention, but for the first time in his life, he can't think of a single word.

Luckily, you break the silence before he has to, asking, "Does your leg hurt?"

He swallows a lump in his throat and finds himself telling the truth without thinking, "It broke and never healed right."

The look of pity on your face makes him sick to his stomach; he doesn't want to see you pity him. He wants to see you smile, but again he falls silent, lost in his own thoughts. He can't help but remember the icy cold of the river, enveloping him like death's shroud. He regrets not bringing his own jacket.

Before he knows it, you've reached the entrance to your apartment building. He opens his mouth to bid you farewell but you gesture for him to follow you.

The look of confusion on his face must have been loud, because you bit back a chuckle and said, "C'mon, it's freezing out here. At least let me make you a coffee."

For once, he follows his heart instead of his head and steps into the building behind you.

Your apartment is cozy. He feels like an intruder, but you beckon him inside and he obeys, shutting the door behind him.

You're quick to start the coffee machine; the noise is dreadful but you don't seem to mind, flitting around the kitchen like a hummingbird, or a butterfly, anything that seemed too delicate for him to touch.

Soon enough, he's sipping from a warm mug and wondering whether he's overstaying his welcome or not.

-

Your tables no longer call you pet names. Customers don't whistle for you, or snap at you like a dog when you take too long to notice them. The change is subtle, but it makes your shifts all the more bearable. However, it's not long before something far worse happens.

-

Oswald regrets the hit on the restaurant the moment he sees how shaken you are afterwards.

You screamed when the first shot was fired, cowering underneath a table as he tore through the kitchen to grab the money from the counting room. For a moment, he almost considered tugging you into the walk-in with him.

He justifies everything to himself in the end - he needs to prove his worth to Maroni, and now that he's been put in charge of the restaurant, he can satisfy both goals. He can rise in power and make sure that you're never placed in danger again. Just because he can.

He never wants to hear you scream. Never. Never again.

-

Some part of you knew that "Paulo" was never quite telling the whole truth. It was satisfying to know you were right, a small comfort compared to the horror you'd heard from your shelter beneath the tablecloth.

The name Oswald fit him a lot better, you thought. So did his new clothes. It seemed like the hit had allowed him to shed his cocoon, so once you had your affairs in order, you turned in your two weeks notice. You'd much rather visit as a patron than wait on (and clean up after) Maroni's men. Besides, you'd heard the place found a new manager.

Paulo, no, Oswald Cobblepot greeted you at the door, with the widest smile you'd ever seen from him.

-

Gertrud Kapelput raised a gentleman. She would never let him forget it. If he wanted something, he had to court it first. Woo it.

Every day when you come home, a delivery man knocks on your apartment door to bring you fresh flowers from a secret admirer. You knew who they were from.

He knew you knew who they were from.

-

Today was a good day. A long day, sure, but a good one.

You arrived home to find a vase of fresh flowers already outside your door, with the same embossed greeting card tied around the tallest stem. You brought it inside, setting it on the kitchen counter alongside the flowers from yesterday, and began your nightly routine. It was hardly 2pm, sure, but you were already home. You might as well settle in.

Just as you were about to draw a bath, you hear a knock at the door. Your brow furrows and you leave the bathroom, hugging your robe a little tighter around yourself before taking a look through the peephole.

Oswald stands outside your door, dressed to his usual nines and fiddling with his cufflinks. You can't help but smile as you unbolt the lock, watching as the noise makes him perk up like an excited puppy.

The door swings open and you say, "Hi! I wasn't expecting you!"

Surprise flies across his face and he backs away from the door, saying quickly, "I-I'm sorry, I've come at a bad time," smoothing down the lapels of his jacket and avoiding your gaze. You simply open the door a little further and gesture for him to follow you inside.

No one has ever seen you like this, so completely in your own element. It feels vulnerable, in an anxious but exhilarating sort of way. You know that he's cataloguing every moment in his mind, desperate to understand every part of you. Maybe that's why you don't immediately retreat to your bedroom to change. Maybe you're wishing he doesn't want to leave your little sanctuary at all. Maybe he doesn't want to whisk you away to some elaborate display. Maybe he just wants to be here.

When he watches you now, it doesn't feel like he's studying you. You're not under the microscope anymore. He watches like an audience member at the opera, almost reverent, and you feel your heart pounding in your chest, glittering under his spotlight.

The lights are off. You have the curtains drawn and scented candles lit; you hear him breathe deeply. Without thinking, you sink down onto your couch and stretch your legs, groaning softly as you roll your ankles.

His voice softly disturbs the relative silence, like he's trying not to break the spell you've put him under, "Is there anything I can do?"

And you feel bold. You can't help it, not when he asks you so genuinely, not when he's showered you with affection so openly, so honestly. You reply, like a prayer, hardly raising your voice above a whisper because you know if he can't hear you, he'd just read your lips.

"Kiss me?"

You meet his gaze, a silent plea plain as day, and he blinks quickly, not daring to look away, not now.

He smooths down his lapels, fiddling with his cufflinks as he carefully steps around your coffee table, joining you on the couch like he's trying not to spook you away. You nearly expected him to pounce, to leap at the chance to finally take what he knew was always his, but now, he ensures that this first kiss will be absolutely perfect, and your breath stutters in your chest.

He reaches for your cheek, giving you room to pull away from him, even now that you've asked. His palm is warm against your skin and you can't help but lean into it, ever-so-slightly.

You shut your eyes. It feels like trust, and you hear him suck down a breath to steady himself.

The first brush of his mouth against yours feels like a question, and you answer him with a tiny, content sigh, returning the kiss softly. His other hand cradles your jaw before slipping to the back of your head, not holding you there. Simply holding you.

Slowly but surely, you melt into his touch, resting a hand over his sternum and feeling the way his heart hammers in his chest like a hummingbird beating its wings against his ribcage. He lets out the smallest noise - it sounds something like a moan, or maybe a cry - before holding you a little tighter. In return, you close what little distance still remains between you, hooking an arm lazily over his shoulders and drinking in the praise he smothers you with.

By the time you break the kiss to breathe, he chases after you, still wanting more. He settles for pressing his mouth against your jaw, moving a hand to the small of your back.

Even now, he's asking questions. His hands hover but they don't plant themselves, his lips ghost over your pulse but he doesn't latch on, even when he has you in his arms, he asks question after question, desperate for an answer he can understand.

And a penny drops.

Bashfully, you nod your head. His breath catches in his throat and he holds you a little tighter, still hovering. Still not clear enough.

Softly, you say his name, not the one he gave you but the one he uses now. He nuzzles his face into your throat and smothers a sob against your skin, his crooked nose buried in your hair as he resists the urge to crush you against him. Your hands slide to his shoulders, up his neck to cradle his face in your warm palms.

When you try to look him in the eye, he hides. He hides in the nape of your neck, those soft lips ghosting over your pulse like he's trying not to devour you, trying not to ruin this moment by reaching too far.

This time, instead of a penny dropping, it feels like rain.

You swallow the lump in your throat, stroking his neck and burying your fingers in his hair before letting a hand fall to the tie of your robe. The knot comes undone with the tiniest tug but he notices, of course he notices.

At last he reaches for an inch. He presses an open-mouthed kiss against your throat, tasting the last traces of salt on your skin and trying not to lose himself in it.

All of the sudden the room feels slightly too warm and you have to imagine that Oswald, in his layers, has to be sweltering. You reach for the buttons of his jacket and he yields, letting you peel it from his shoulders. He looks softer without it; he looks smaller.

His hands tremble as he drapes it over the arm of your couch. Even now, he wants to keep up appearances, and some tiny part of you wants that to stop. He shouldn't have to perform, not now when you're being so vulnerable, but you of all people know the value in appearances. He wants to offer himself to you, not as some slobbering wolf only in your den to consume what you have to offer, no, he wants to be as lovely as you are. Your heart aches in your chest, but it also pounds with exhilaration.

You stand from the couch, hardly bothering with your robe as you step towards the bedroom. Confusion mixed with hurt flashes across his face before he realizes where you're going, and he leans heavily on his good leg when he stands.

He follows you out of the living room, taking in this special sight like a child seeing a movie on the big screen for the first time. Your bedroom is small; your bed is shoved in one corner, and bookshelves line the walls. Your closet was left open, and the bathroom light is still on.

Oswald stands near the door, only moving to join you once you sit down on the bed and pat the space next to you. You invite him closer with a smile and a tiny shift of your shoulders, revealing more of your collarbones and watching the way it makes his breath stick in his throat. He's almost bashful now, his freckled face burning with a blush you can see even in the dim light, and you can see a question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

This time, you kiss him. He lets out the smallest noise before giving in completely, hands moving to your waist and holding you like he's afraid you'll slip away. Your lips part and you drag your tongue experimentally across his bottom lip. The groan you earn from him sends a shiver up your spine.

An idea flickers across your mind. You can't help but be a little bolder around him; he makes it so easy, reacting to your touch like you're an angel sent down to Earth just for him.

You break the kiss gently and let your mouth trail down to his jaw, cupping the back of his head and dragging your fingers through his hair. In return, his hands move to your ribs, hungrily grasping the shape of you underneath the robe. You pluck the buttons on his waistcoat and he finally understands your request, parting from you for a moment to remove yet another layer from his carefully crafted facade.

You can't help but watch. Even now, with his trembling fingers and hunger evident in his gaze, he moves calculatedly, putting on a tiny show for you. A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth.

He doesn't say a word but his actions bleed an ill-concealed want.

You rest your hands on his shoulders, feeling his frame through the fabric of his shirt. He shivers, drinking in the sight of you, and it seems like he's trying his best not to drown.

When he kisses you again, he lets a hand splay against your bare skin, testing the waters. His skin carries the slightest chill but you welcome it, leaning into him eagerly. The flattery isn't lost on him. Of course it isn't. Nothing is lost on him, not when he's so intently tuned into you and the reactions you gift him with.

You break the kiss to breathe and he presses his mouth to your pulse, grazing your skin with his teeth and groaning when you move closer still. He asks, hands skimming underneath your robe, "Do you want to...?"

He doesn't have to finish the thought. You nod, lying back on your bed and presenting yourself like a piece of fine art to peruse.

Your robe falls open and you resist the urge to tug it closed again. He lets his gaze wander over every inch of exposed flesh, lips parted to let you hear his shuddering breaths. Hunger flashes behind his eyes - it's an expression you know all too well, the one he wears when an opportunity has presented itself to him. Only this time, it's not an opportunity that will sink its teeth into him if he's not careful. He returns your trust with adoration, trailing his hands along your skin like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.

Your heart hammers in your chest, pounding so loud you're sure he can feel it under his fingertips. Your thighs inch apart and he catches the movement with the slightest widening of his eyes.

He maneuvers carefully between your legs, watching your face for any signs of alarm or hesitation or anything that might tell him to stop. His hands trail up your thighs, reading every minute twitch and tremble like a story written just for him. A heavy blush blooms across your skin as he stops just short of where you need him, and you can't help but freeze.

He asks for permission with an uncertain look, and you answer him with a bashful nod. He lets out a breath he must have been holding and lowers himself onto the bed, keeping the weight off of his bad leg and hardly giving you a moment to think before licking an exploratory stripe along your sex.

You let out a tiny noise and he replies with a groan, repeating the motion before hooking his arms around your thighs. He anchors himself and buries his mouth against you.

He sets about chasing your pleasure, eyes fixed on your face, not daring to look away. His gaze is intense but you don't have the heart to break it, not now, not when he's made it his personal mission to unravel you in all the gentlest ways.

Eventually, you can't help but let your head fall back against the bed, eyes screwed shut as he quickly learns what you enjoy.

He falls into a steady rhythm, flicking his clever tongue over you and listening as your noises rise in pitch. You drape an arm over your face, melting into the covers as you feel an oddly familiar spring begin to well up in the pit of your stomach. Your back arches ever-so-slightly off of the bed, and any thoughts that he might stop just before you tip over the peak are shattered as he doubles his efforts.

He slips a finger inside your tight heat, practically whimpering against your folds and sucking your clit in between his lips. He adds another finger and you writhe under him, hovering on the brink of something completely new. A quick glance reveals the way he grinds into the mattress, and that's ultimately what shoves you over the edge.

Your eyes clamp shut and you let out a long cry, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he draws out your pleasure for as long as he can. He sucks at you like you're the only thing keeping him alive; in the throes of your orgasm, you could believe it.

He pulls away only when you start whimpering from overstimulation. He strokes at your thighs, looking up at you with that same questioning glance as his touch gently guides you back down to earth.

His name falls from your lips as you melt into the mattress. He answers you with an open-mouthed kiss pressed against your inner thigh and a whisper, breathing your name like a tiny prayer, like he's evoking an ancient god.

You doubt he's ever prayed before, but if this is his idea of worship, then you wouldn't mind lying pretty atop your altar.

He moves gingerly, trailing kisses up your body until he captures your mouth again. You let out a moan into his lips, your lips parting. You taste yourself on his tongue and it's utterly intoxicating.

He pulls away reluctantly, only to look you in the eye with yet another silent question. You can feel him pressed against your thigh and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, savoring the pure yearning that bleeds from every bone in his body. It stains his porcelain skin like watercolors and you hardly think as you nod.

He takes in a deep, slow breath as he undoes his pants, avoiding your gaze again as he palms his cock. You watch raptly as he strokes himself steadily, rising up onto his haunches and hissing softly when he puts weight on his bad knee - before you can move, let him lie on his back, he drags the tip over your swollen clit, allowing himself a tiny grin when he hears the noise you bite back.

Your entrance is slick and he slips slightly, finally catching and meeting your expectant gaze. His free hand strokes over your stomach, and you know he's waiting for permission, like he has all night. He asks if he can enter your apartment, he asks if there's anything you want from him, and even after he's made you come once he still asks if he can take this final step.

Your gaze is pleading, betraying nothing but need, and he lets out a groan as he finally begins to press forward.

Even though you're still basking in afterglow, the stretch is still intense. Your eyes roll back in your head and you let out a tiny, choked cry. When he bottoms out, his grip tightens on your thighs, and your name falls from his lips followed closely by a moan.

You feel completely malleable beneath his hands, pinned to your mattress with the sheer force of his adoration. You know he'd release you in an instant if you wanted him to, but you have no intention of ending this so soon. Not when he rocks experimentally and brushes against you just right, wrenching a pleasured sob from the back of your throat.

He drapes himself over you, scattering desperate kisses along your neck as he begins to move, thrusting into you slowly.

You cling to his shoulders, keeping him there with featherlight touches and soft noises that hardly make it past your lips. He can feel them, practically taste them through your neck, and he can't help but thrust a little harder, yearning to hear you properly.

Your legs hook around his waist, holding him there, and he seals his mouth over yours, swallowing the whimpers and cries you gift him with.

His kisses trail to your jaw, underneath your ear, down to the nape of your neck, before he scrapes his teeth over your pulse. Now that he has you, now that you've given yourself to him, he can't help but try and learn every inch of you. He acts like it's his duty to draw as much pleasure from your body as he can, plunging inside you deeper and harder until every one of your breaths is chased by a moan.

When you can finally summon words, you gasp his name. He meets your gaze and finds that seeing you is even better than simply listening to your voice.

He rises to his haunches again, ignoring the ache in his leg as the change in angle makes you keen. How could he care about his blasted knee when you're putting on such a divine show, just for him? He moves a hand to the spot where you're joined and rubs insistent circles over your clit, positively desperate to feel you come undone around his cock.

His thrusts grow slightly sloppy, his rhythm faltering as he feels your walls begin to flutter. His lips part, letting all manner of wanton noises escape him.

Your eyes flutter shut and your hips rock needily against his as you chase pleasure with him, and the friction proves to be just what you needed. Your orgasm hits you like a tsunami, washing over you and leaving your mouth hanging open in a silent cry.

He remembers in a moment of sheer panic that he forgot to use protection, and pulls out of you quickly. You let out a confused whimper at the sudden emptiness, until you see him spilling all over his hand.

You see an apology forming on his lips but you sit up gingerly, offering him a soft smile.

"I was going to take a bath," you say gently, "but... Maybe a shower would be better?"

"You could do that to Colt. He'd love it, I bet. He already walks around after you like a dog, why not collar him like one, too?"

So you took a little initiative and bought one online. A good one, too, made of leather and embossed with your name. Things have been going well with the two of you over these past few weeks and he deserves nice things for behaving so well. He's such a gentleman: holding doors open for you, carrying your bags, making you come whenever you spread your legs and beckon him towards you...

Allison's suspicions about his enjoyment when it comes to being marked as yours are confirmed the moment he lays eyes on the collar. His eyes go wide when you bring it out of your pocket, twisting it around your fingers playfully.

"You want me to wear that on set?" he asks, scoffing a little. Aww, he's trying to test his limits. Cute.

"I thought you liked being good for me?" you reply, widening your eyes in faux-innocence. That knocks the bravado from him and he deflates just a little, becoming the pillow-pliable man you know he can be.

"I just... in front of so many people...?"

"Your costume hides your neck, baby. It's so chunky. Nobody will know, just you and me. Our little secret, yeah?"

Oh, he just melts at that, leaning into your touch like a beloved pet when you scratch his cheek. You can feel his throat bob as he swallows thickly when you slip it round and tighten the little buckle, desperately trying to keep his hands to himself until you tell him to release. His fingers twitch as if they naturally want to gravitate towards your body, as if it is his most innate desire to keep you close.

"C'mon, let's get to work," you say, giving him a quick kiss on the lips and pulling up the neck of his costume to hide your name in leather.

It is so easy to see how distracted he is all day. They've got him wearing a jumpsuit with a turtleneck cableknit sweater - it's an action movie about a fisherman, go figure - so it's pretty baggy, but you know your Colt at this point. He's half-hard in his costume and you have to see him take a break to physically calm himself down, digging his fingernails into his palms to try and make his erection go away through sheer force of will. Those same hands keep carefully reaching below the thick knit around his throat to fiddle with something. Anyone who isn't in the know might just think it's uncomfortably tight. But for those of you are in the know...

Allison grins at you across the set where she's applying some fake blood to an extra and you shoot her a thumbs-up. God bless that woman.

You, on the other hand, are as cool as a cucumber. You're a great actor after all, you can't let anyone know how much the submissive stuntman on set drives you wild. You're aware of him staring longingly at you as you perform your scenes but are careful to pay him no mind, making him go just a little bit more crazy every time you don't fully return his eager smile...

By the time you retire to your trailer for the evening, he's done for. Colt can barely speak as he follows you into your little sanctuary and you close the door. His knees simply hit the floor and he buries his face against your stomach.

"Use your words, baby boy,” you hum.

"Need you so bad... this was torture..."

"You loved it though, huh? Having my name around your throat?"

"Fuck. Yeah."

"And I was right, it was a good idea to wear it on set?"

"You have all the good ideas. You were so right. Please, please... I'm so fucking hard..."

"Awww. That's okay, baby, I can take care of you."

You stick your calf between his legs, grinning when you feel his rock hard cock desperately stretching against its confines. Colt doesn't even bother to ask for permission, doesn't even ask for anything more; he just starts rutting up against you. His warm, broad hands sink into your thigh for leverage as his hips rut wildly, and he comes embarrassingly fast, totally soiling his stunt costume.

"Ah, Colt, we're gonna need to get that dry cleaned ourselves now! Not to worry. You're a good boy anyway."

At the sound of those two words he comes again. It's fucking impressive, but you feel another wet wave of release drip down against your leg as he trembles a bit.

"Fuck. You're incredible..." Colt murmurs, and you decide that the collar is never coming off.

“It’s not a birthday without cake,” you provided. You went back to cleaning. The cake tins were still in the oven, the decadent smell of chocolate sponge permeating your apartment. 

“You trying to make me fat?” Luke needled, leaning his decorated forearms on the counter. 

You snorted. “Now who’s being ridiculous?” You dumped the last of the batter-covered utensils into the sink and started wiping up four, which of course had gotten everywhere. Luke moved to help you. “Don’t even think about it,” you scolded, giving him a warning look. “I’ll take care of this. Go shower, I’m taking you to breakfast.” 

“What if I get lonely?” 

“I think you’ll survive without me for ten minutes,” you said dryly. “Now, get.” 

Luke cracked a smile and moved off to comply. “Bossy.” 

“Only when I need to be,” you tossed back. You resumed reclaiming the kitchen from the mess you’d made. 

*** 

“You gotta stop doin’ that,” Luke groused as you threw a sweatshirt he’d glanced at into the cart. 

“My bonus isn’t going to spend itself,” you supplied. You steered the cart further into the clothing section, having a mind to get him more socks. Luke’s riding had him wearing through the pairs he owned and you wanted to find some that would stand up to heavy use. 

“Could at least get yourself something too,” he muttered, trailing alongside you. Everything in the cart was for him: shampoo and conditioner that would lengthen the life of his dye, leather conditioner for his gear, several shirts and pairs of pants he’d made the mistake of looking at for too long before he figured out you were using his casual interest against him. You’d also snuck in a few bags of his favorite candy he’d find out about later; as much as he tried to deny it, Luke did have a bit of a sweet tooth. 

You found what you wanted and started browsing. “You can get me back for my birthday, does that sound fair?” 

Luke leaned against one of the racks, silently yielding. A little girl and her mother passed by, and the girl stopped and stared at Luke, huge eyes raking over his tattoos. Luke gave her a small smile and the girl ran off to catch up with her mother. You smiled at the not-uncommon interaction; kids were endlessly fascinated by his ink. You tossed a few pairs of socks into the cart and decided to spare him any further inflictions of kindness for the day. 

***

That afternoon, you held onto Luke as you sped down the thoroughfare, his bike singing beneath you. The day was clear and bracing, the Halloween decorations strung up around town lending it a whimsical touch and reminding you of the deepening of the season. Fall had long been your favorite time of year for the gradual return to colder weather and subsequent permission to once again wear your comfiest clothing and curl up under a blanket. Luke’s birthday was October 31, but you preferred to view it as Halloween happened to fall on Luke’s birthday. Kids who grew up in the foster system had a hard enough time feeling valued without the one day a year that’s supposed to be theirs getting hijacked by a major holiday. 

Stores disappeared and houses got fewer and farther apart as you neared city limits. Foliage gradually replaced man-made structures until the street beneath you became a road flanked by the mighty pine barrens that had guarded this part of the world for longer than could be remembered. You rode deeper into their embrace and smiled as you caught the rich scent of balsam. Luke was warm and you huddled against his back to escape the chilly wind. 

Luke pulled onto an unpaved access road and took it down about half a mile, riding relatively slowly. Riding two up on asphalt was fine, but staying seated on rough ground was difficult for you. He rolled to a halt and held the bike as you dismounted, its powerful engine quieting as he hit the kill switch. You removed the helmet you’d been wearing and tucked it under your arm. Together, you strode into the forest, Luke walking his bike at your side. You’d been out here many times. No one else ever came around and you had come to view this stretch of woods as belonging to the three of you; perhaps not belonging in the traditional sense of the word, but sanctioned for your use by the watchful evergreens who oversaw the comings and goings of those who entered their domain. 

You reached your usual spot marked by the fallen log that would keep you company while Luke outran his demons. 

“Think you can survive without me for ten minutes?” Luke challenged, attention on his riding gloves as he pulled them tighter. 

You smirked as you offered his helmet. “Only ten?” You knew him better than that. 

His maniac grin was the last you saw of his face before the helmet came down, and he barely let the bike wake up before he was laying into the throttle so hard the machine screamed at him while peeling out. 

You listened to the joyful bark of his thumper as it tore over the earth and kicked up dirt in its exuberance. The sound faded somewhat as Luke got farther away. You weren’t worried about him getting lost; among other things, Luke had been gifted with a phenomenal sense of direction. You unzipped your pants so you could get started on his next present. 

By the time he got back, you were naked from the waist down and sitting on the log on top of your shed clothing with your fingers buried between your legs. He ripped his helmet off and actually threw it to the ground, and you shivered as he closed in and didn’t stop working yourself open. 

Luke stank of gasoline and sweat, his hair tousled from the helmet. You met the hunger in his eyes with a defiant tilt of your chin. The heavy strokes of his breathing consumed the air. He tugged off his gloves and reached for the back of his neck so he could untie his bandana. When it was free he pressed it to your lips in a question. You opened your mouth wide. It was saturated with him and you whimpered. Luke tied it off behind your head, trying to be gentle, but the fabric cut a little at the corners of your mouth and you loved it. 

He took the time to coat two of his fingers with the lube you were using before pushing them inside. His other arm wrapped around you and you widened your legs to invite him deeper. You sighed into his ear. 

“Couldn’t wait?” he huffed from where his head was pressed against your shoulder. He hooked his fingers and your whine was muffled by the gag. You clutched at him. You were certain he was trying to make you come first, which you knew he liked doing and may have been your motivation for instigating this in the first place. Whatever he wanted, anything at all. 

“I’ve got you,” he promised, and was as good as his word. 

*** 

You laid in bed, listening with one ear to the road noise filtering through the closed window and with the other taking in the steady thump of Luke’s heart from where your head rested on his chest. Despite the cold night, there were no layers of clothing between you and you relied on the warmth of your bodies beneath the thick bedspread to keep you comfortable. Luke blew a plume of smoke into the air and offered you a drag of his cigarette, which you sat up to accept. You shivered and held the blankets close. The streetlights cast harsh shadows on the opposite wall, and Luke traced his fingers across your lower back. 

You handed back the cigarette and exhaled. “I love you,” you said. Luke pulled himself up and draped himself over your back, his strong arms wrapping around your middle. You knew the words were hard for him; it didn’t bother you like it used to when he couldn’t say them. So you were surprised when you heard a quiet “I love you” and a kiss was pressed to your shoulder. Your hand went to his forearm and squeezed. You closed your eyes and indulged for a few moments in the soft tide of his lungs expanding and emptying against your back. 

“I have one more thing for you,” you said. 

“Really?” he murmured, mouthing at your neck and being terribly distracting. 

“Mm-hm. Look in your drawer.” 

You immediately missed his warmth. You shuffled back a bit as he pulled a small box from his bedside table, and you watched him try to figure out what it could be by tilting it. Something heavy clattered inside. Luke’s brow furrowed. He removed the top of the box, then dropped both halves of it onto the bed as if they’d singed him. He crossed the room and stood with his back to you; his shoulders were shaking. 

“Oh honey, c’mere,” you pleaded, and were answered by a wet hitch of his breath. You went to him and held him, resting your forehead on his back. Luke’s stomach spasmed under your fingers as he cried without sound. You kissed his trembling expanse of muscle and ink and stayed. After some time, he turned and gathered you in a fierce embrace that you returned with equal ardor. 

“I love you,” Luke said for the second time, which nothing could have prepared you for. 

“I know,” you breathed, running your hands up and down his back. “I love you too.” 

You both came back to the bed and Luke gingerly removed your gift from the box. It was a butterfly knife, slightly larger than the one he already owned. Its burnished steel glistened as he turned it over in his hands. “Thought you might like one that was a little bigger,” you said, suddenly feeling the need to justify your decision making. Luke gave the knife a few experimental flips and you shivered despite yourself. 

He smiled. “It’s great.” He admired its workmanship. 

“Should I leave you two alone?” you teased. 

“You expect me not to want to look at it?” Luke bantered back. “That’s entrapment.” He flipped the knife closed and laid it on the bedside table. “There. Happy?” 

You laughed. “Don’t get defensive. I know when I’m not wanted.” You tried to slide off the bed, but Luke hauled you into his lap so you were chest-to-chest. 

“I don’t think you do,” he murmured, and began kissing your neck. 

You sighed in mock exasperation. “Again? You’re running me ragged.” 

“C’mon, it’s my birthday,” he cajoled, knowing by how eagerly you were pressing against him that you were ready for more. 

“Not as of ten minutes ago- ah!” Your admonishment fell flat as he sucked a nipple into his mouth. 

Luke didn’t miss a beat. “Pity fuck, then?” 

You pushed him onto his back so he could see you roll your eyes. “Not a chance.” You took his hand in yours and slid his index finger into your mouth, licking and sucking. Neither of you looked away. By the time you made your way across his whole hand, Luke’s breathing had become much heavier. 

He pushed his hips up into you, a wordless plea. “You gonna make it worth my while?” you purred. You placed his hand on your hip and he squeezed it gently. He nodded. “Good. Hands and knees, then.” 

He holds up a finger, telling you to wait—it was such a reliable gesture for Rocky that he’s started using it with you unthinkingly, which is both cute and a little annoying—before pushing himself toward the middle of the room where various pieces of equipment, papers, and notebooks are floating around. He is absolutely terrible at making sure anything is put away or strapped down before the Mary disengages its centrifugal configuration.

Once he finds the specific notebook he is apparently looking for, Ryland pulls himself back to you using the ropes he rigged around the ship. “I have thought about this problem, and I have a solution.”

Of course he has already thought about this, and of course he has written it all down, as if it were an experiment he was preparing to conduct. In all fairness, it sort of is, for him at least. You open the notebook to see his initial brainstorming about the idea: the pros and cons of sex in zero gravity (the highest pro is apparently just ‘would be very cool’), obstacles to doing it, potential accommodations to mitigate said obstacles.

You turn the page. “Oh. This is—you have thought about this a lot.” Your eyes flick up to him almost in disbelief. He is smiling a little smugly, and the only indication that this is about sex and not some other normal test he might conduct is the pink tinge on the tops of his ears.

The two-page spread in front of you is full of drawings and diagrams. They are quite crude and basic—there’s even some stick-figures thrown in there—but they get the picture across: you, tied and strapped to the wall of the dormitory, and him, tethered to the wall with a short length of rope. “So. What do you think?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “that maybe you have too much time on your hands. Also, you are not very good at drawing.”

“Hey.” You can hear his pout, but you can’t see it, because you are still looking at these drawings. He’s even considered what kinds of knots he would use for the ropes, drawn out how to tie them, scrawled little notes about their benefits and drawbacks.

You stare at them a little longer before you raise your head and sigh; but the corners of your mouth are already turning upward. He pumps his fist in victory. Not exactly the sexiest gesture, but you appreciate the enthusiasm.

--

In fact, you really appreciate his enthusiasm.

Loving and gentle hands had helped you unzip your jumpsuit, peel off your undergarments; the same hands tied your wrists to the straps crisscrossing over the wall in the dormitory, then your ankles, and each knot came with a small kiss pressed against your skin.

“Test them for me,” he murmurs. You try to move your arms, your legs, but you stay securely tethered to the wall, save for a little bit of swaying. Ryland is barely even looking at the points where the ropes wrap around your limbs—he is too busy sweeping his eyes over the bare curves of your body, the spread of your legs, the goosebumps that ripple across your flesh as the recycled air brushes against it.

You have to clear your throat a little before you speak, because you are already aching to be touched. “They’re good, I think.” He lets out a satisfied hum, mindlessly pushing his glasses up. “Also, I don’t remember your stick figure still having clothes on.”

His eyes flick up to yours, and then down to his own still-clothed body. “Yeah, I didn’t really have the skills to depict that.”

“So you agree. You are not very good at drawing.”

“Hush.” He grabs his short tether, then, and pulls until he’s flush against you, until the fabric of his jumpsuit is grazing against your bare skin. “Anyway. I think it’s part of the appeal.”

Yes, you think, you can understand that appeal now, particularly when the ribbed cotton starts catching against your nipples. His head dips so he can press his forehead to yours, while his hands leave the tether and come up to cradle your neck, your jaw. He smiles when you try to push yourself into him, when your arms strain against the ropes in an effort to touch him.

This is—it almost feels like you’re perched on the edge of a precipice: the ground beneath your feet is the desire to be in control, to push and pull at him and make him melt in your hands, while the open air in front of you is the impulse to simply let go, to float there while he does whatever it is that he wants to do to you.

“Where’d your words go?” He whispers. It’s as if you can feel every letter, drifting from his mouth and fanning onto yours. “Nothing to say?”

You shift against the ropes again. Is he mocking you? If so, this is new. Obviously, the two of you tease each other all the time, but not like this, not while—while—“Please touch me,” you finally whimper. It takes the last bit of your willpower to let your body relax fully, to let each muscle unclench and sink into pliancy.

His thumb starts rubbing idle shapes against the line of your jaw, just below your ear. “But I am. I am touching you. See?” He brushes his nose against yours, and then one of his hands dips down the curve of your neck, along your shoulder, until it rests on your upper arm. “Is that what you meant?”

“No.” The word comes out as a soft, trembling whine. It is a little unbelievable, how quickly you seem to have shifted into such a state.

Ryland shifts and tilts his face so he can press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You can feel the curve of his smile when you inhale a little, sharp intake of breath at the feeling. “Then you’ll have to be more specific. Specificity is really important, you know.”

There’s a small flicker of spite at his words; you’d like to tell him exactly what he can do with his godforsaken ‘specificity,’ but you let the flicker die. This is not quite what you were expecting when he first suggested this, but you’re finding that you would at least like to see where it goes. “Kiss me? Please?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

His lips are languid and unhurried against yours, then, and so is the slow swipe of his tongue along your bottom lip. He takes his time tasting you, mapping the divots of your teeth and the warm expanse of your own tongue. You try to only respond when he moves, following his lead instead of taking it for yourself.

“Your hands,” you mumble into his mouth, “I want—your hands.”

The palm on your arm smooths against the skin lying underneath it. “Where?”

The frustrated noise in the back of your throat dies when he pulls back, when he pushes away a little to float in front of you. Your brows draw up as you look at him with pleading eyes. “Everywhere,” you admit. There’s an incredibly distant part of your mind that wonders how desperate you must look right now. “Anywhere. Anywhere you want. Please.”

He nods and reaches forward, first to your shoulders to pull himself in a little closer again, then sliding his hands down over your collarbones, around your breasts. “That’s not very precise, but I’ll let it slide.” He looks up from where his hands are perched on your sides to search your face, eyes peering over the tops of his glasses. “Still alright?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Good.” His fingers skitter up your ribs until his palms slide over the peaks of your breasts, and you shudder at the feeling as a quiet moan slips out of your lips. He watches, carefully and methodically, cataloguing every twitch, every sound, every reaction his fingers pull out of you when they begin circling and pinching and rolling the buds of your nipples. “So sensitive. Why is that, do you think?”

He’s being an asshole. On any other day, you would tell him as much; but right now, all you can do is let out a confused, pathetic little noise, because his fingers are still moving, and you are still tied to the wall. It is quite possible that you are wet enough already that he could fuck you just like this, right this second.

“It’s alright,” he continues, when it’s clear you don’t have the words, “I think I know the answer, anyway. And now—what would happen if I—” And then he shifts down, using your breasts as leverage, until they’re at eye level, until his mouth closes over one of your pebbled buds and his tongue is lazily dragging over it.

You let your eyes slide shut at the sensation, let your mouth hang open and loud moans filter into the room. Technically, you can’t see it, but somehow you know that he’s still watching you while he laps and teethes at your aching nipples, still tracking every little thing the sensation elicits from you.

Ryland moves to your other breast after a little while—you have no idea how long, really, there’s no way you possibly could—pressing a kiss against your sternum along the way. “Have to test the other one, you know, see if the sensitivity levels are the same,” he explains, just before latching his mouth onto this one, too, carefully replicating the same movements, the same brushes and circles of his tongue. It’s a little impressive, honestly, not that you have the words to tell him so.

Just when you think he will simply do this forever, he speaks again, and though the words are almost impersonal, you can hear the slight strain in his voice, the effort it is taking him to remain measured. “I think—we can add another variable, yeah?”

You nod, even though you don’t really know what exactly he’s referring to. One of his hands dances down your side, then, over the crease of your hip, until his fingers are dipping into the wetness in between your thighs. “Oh,” you gasp, and it’s the first intelligible thing you’ve said for a while.

“So wet,” he marvels. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

Your eyes slide open so you can look at him; he’s already looking back, eyes wide with wonder as the pads of his fingers slip through the folds of your cunt. Each swipe sends a heady pulse through your body, even though he is pointedly avoiding the one little spot that you would very much like him to touch. “Ryland.” Your voice is breathy and downright desperate.

He lets his fingernail just barely graze your clit and dutifully tracks the way your hips jerk, the sharp moan pulled from your lips. “Hm? What is it?”

“Want, I want you. Inside me,” you practically mewl, because now his fingers are properly moving over your clit, slow and leisurely, and it is both not enough and exactly right.

There’s no response, not yet—he’s too busy faithfully recording it all, the different pathetic noises you make, the tightening of your abdominal muscles, as he experiments with his pace and pressure. He even lets himself drift until he’s face-to-face with it, so he can properly see every brush and swipe. Finally, he merely says, “Like this?” And then his fingers move down, and he carefully presses two of them into your hot and needy cunt, and, no, that’s not really what you meant, but you’ll take it.

His other hand moves down until his palm is pressed against your coarse curls, until his thumb can circle at your clit while his fingers pump, in-and-out, in-and-out, over and over and over again. You let your eyes fall shut again, melting into complete laxity, suspended and floating and hazy.

“Think you can do three?”

The sound that comes out of your mouth is stilted and choked; you think it’s possible that you intended it to be a word, but it’s anyone’s guess, really, at this point. A third finger joins the other two, and the fullness of it, the pressure, the drag, combined with the steady movement of his thumb and his palm just slightly pressing into your mound, it all makes you flush and keen and clench around him.

At that, Ryland takes the hand on your lower stomach away, but he quickly replaces his thumb with his mouth before you can complain. Unlike before, when he was methodical and measured, this is messy and fast and desperate, and something curls deliciously in your gut at the thought of him losing the little bit of control he’s been able to maintain throughout all of this. He groans into you, and it’s so good, it’s all so good, if he just keeps going, just like that, you can—

Suddenly, his fingers still inside of you. “Hm. Slight problem,” he says, pulling his face away slightly, “that I forgot to account for. I can’t get a full erection. It’s the—the lower blood pressure, from the lack of gravity, makes it more difficult to. The blood is going to my head instead.” There’s another involuntary clench around his fingers when you realize that he had moved his hand to palm himself through his jumpsuit. You open your eyes after a moment to peer down at him while he rambles. Yeah, his face is pretty red. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not going to pass out. But this really puts a damper on things.”

His fingers are still inside you, by the way. You squeeze, purposefully this time, to remind him of this fact.

“You know what—this is good. Great, even. I can pivot, I have another idea,” he continues, before you can gather your thoughts enough to make any sort of suggestion. “If I just—” His fingers slide out, and when they press back into your cunt you realize that he’s taken the third away. The way the two remaining fingers are moving, curling and crooking and gliding against your walls, makes it seem like he’s looking for something.

He finds it. “Oh, fuck.”

“Did you know—I read about this once—that they still don’t fully understand the anatomy of the G-spot?” His fingers continue stroking the spongy patch, and then his other hand returns to rest on your pubic mound, thumb resuming its earlier circling. He’s looking up at you during all of this, as if he were giving a lecture or a lesson, though his face is still flushed red. “One of the theories is that it’s connected to the clit, that it’s all a part of the same system of nerves.”

His palm presses against your mound, your lower abdomen. The pressure is—you don’t think you’ve ever felt something like this before, this amount of tension and heaviness building in your core, especially when his fingers angle up inside of you. “Ryland—that’s—I don’t—oh god.”

He looks up at you with what you can only describe as excitement, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. I just want to—see if I can do this, okay?” It’s not fully clear to you what exactly he’s referring to; if it’s making you come, well, he’s done that plenty of times before, but he must mean something else. “Do you know,” he chokes out, starting to get a bit lost in your moans and the feeling of your cunt around his fingers, your clit under this thumb, “what the Skene’s glands are?”

It is incredible to you that he is managing to recall all of this information right now. “No, no I don’t,” you manage to gasp.

His thumb starts moving faster, his fingers start applying even more pressure against that little spot. “They help with lubrication. And they—they contribute to female ejaculation.”

Oh. Oh. “That’s—I’ve never done that before.”

“That’s alright, that’s alright,” he half-soothes, pushing his hand into your lower stomach a little more. It causes you to drift back, until you’re fully pressed against the wall behind you. “Not everyone can. I just want to see—can I see? If you can?”

You nod frantically; you are starting to get a little curious about it, too, but above all everything he’s doing feels fucking amazing, and the pressure is almost agonizing, and you are desperate for its release. Then his fingers tilt just right, still gliding against your walls, against that tiny patch just inside your cunt, and you’re moaning and whining so loudly that it could probably be categorized as a scream. “Just like that—fuck, please, Ryland, that’s it, please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, I would never, I’ve got you,” he babbles, “I’m right here. Just let go, just like that—doing so well for me, so good.”

The praise combined with the last little bit of pressure he applies with both hands tips you over the edge, sends your wrists straining against the ropes and your eyes squeezing shut. The pressure feels like it explodes and ripples through you, and it is, quite possibly, the most intense thing you have ever experienced, the way its shockwaves spread through every nerve, every muscle, as you cry out, as tears slip out of the corners of your eyes.

This lasts much, much longer than you expect it to; the pleasure simply keeps spiking through you, emanating from your core all the way down to your curling toes, up into your foggy and sluggish head. When you finally come back to yourself, it feels a little bit like you just ran a marathon or lifted weights, with how exhausted your muscles feel from seizing up and releasing, over and over again.

You are, quite simply, not ready for the sight waiting for you when you finally open your eyes again. It’s—it’s all over his face, and his glasses, and some of it is floating in the air. Ryland catches a little bit with his hand, after he carefully slides his fingers out, and then licks it off. “Hm. Not urine. Good to know, I was wondering about that.”

A shaky laugh huffs out of your mouth. “You are—such a fucking freak.”

“Most scientists are,” he grins, like he’s just won the lottery. “The good ones, anyway.” He presses a kiss to your thigh before maneuvering to start untying your restraints. “Well. We didn’t do what we set out to do. But—new discoveries were made, so. I think we can label this as a success.”

“Sure,” you sigh. You feel like you need a nap, after all that. “Not sure if trying—that—was the best idea in zero gravity.”

He looks around at the little droplets still floating in the air and shrugs. “We can mop, or something, when we engage the centrifuge again.”

His hands are gentle when he cleans you up, while he helps you dress, just like they were when all of this started. His fingers run soothing paths on your wrists, your ankles, along the shallow imprints left by the ropes. Later, you will begrudgingly admit that it was kind of nice, letting go like that; right now, you are too tired, and minutes after the centrifuge is reengaged, you take a nice, long nap.

“The neck? Your neck hurts?” you check, your hands coming to the back of her head to find the cold sweaty skin. 

You shift a little, careful not to jostle her too much and slowly guide her head until it rests right on your knees. Her blonde hair spills over your lap like strands of gold, even though it’s damp with sweat right now. Your fingers slide into it naturally, combing through the soft waves, then moving up to her forehead. You press lightly, rubbing small circles with your thumbs, hoping it eases some of the pressure building behind her eyes. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” you whisper, and she lets out a shaky breath. 

The outside world is bright and deadly for her right now, Kara’s face is still twisted up, those dark veins crawling under her skin, but she leans into your touch anyway.

“Talk to me,” she whispers after a minute. “Please. Distract me… your voice.”

You suddenly become aware of many things: she’s so close, her head heavy and warm on your knees, trusting you like this while she’s hurting. For a second you wonder if this is the moment. You could just say it, spill everything about how your crush on her has been growing for months, how every smile she throws your way makes your chest feel too tight, how you’d do anything to keep her safe even on this stupid hostile planet. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, pushing to get out.

But no. Not now. She’s in pain, vulnerable, and the last thing you want is to make things weird when she needs comfort. You swallow it down, force a soft smile even though she can’t see it, and keep running your fingers over her forehead in steady strokes.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to bake cookies for the first time? I wanted to impress a girl at a party and it was a total disaster. I forgot the baking soda or something, I don’t even know. They came out hard enough to break a tooth.”

Kara makes a small sound that might be a laugh, or maybe just a pained huff, but her eyes stay closed. You take it as a good sign and keep going, your hands never stopping their gentle work through her hair and across her brow.

Your fingers trace down to her temples now, pressing softly, then back up into her hair. You can feel how tense she still is, the way her shoulders hitch every few seconds when another wave hits her. It kills you to see her like this. Kara is always the strong one and now she’s curled up depending on you. 

“Did you know that butterflies taste with their feet? They have these little receptors on their feet that help them determine if a leaf is suitable for laying eggs or if a flower contains nectar.” You stumble a little on the words but recover fast, laughing awkwardly under your breath. “Isn’t that cool?”

She shifts her head a bit on your lap, pressing her cheek more firmly against your thigh. “Keep going,” she mumbles. “It helps. Your hands... feel nice.”

That simple praise makes your face heat up, but you don’t stop. You card your fingers through her hair again, slower this time, letting the strands slip between them. Outside the cave the sun is probably still raging, but here it’s just you and her, the dim light filtering in just enough to see the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks.

“Alright… Well, my favorite ice cream flavor has to be caramel… sometimes salted caramel depending on which ice cream shop does it. What about you? No, don’t answer yet, just rest. I’ll guess. Something classic, maybe vanilla. Nah, you’re more adventurous than that. Probably pistachio, because you’re cool like that.” You chuckle quietly, your thumb brushing over her forehead again, trying to smooth out the furrow there. “When we get back home, I’ll buy you a whole tub. We can eat it straight from the container while watching bad movies. The ones with terrible special effects and lines that make you groan out loud. I know you secretly love those too.”

Time stretches out like that, your voice filling the cave with silly stories and half-baked thoughts. You talk about the dumbest things while your hands keep moving, soothing through her hair, across her forehead, down to rub the back of her neck where she said it hurt worst. Every little sigh she lets out feels like a tiny victory.

Deep down the crush is still there, but for now this is enough. Being here for her, distracting her from the pain, feeling the weight of her head on your knees like it belongs there. You’ll confess one day, maybe when she’s not hurting and the sun isn’t trying to tear her apart. For now, you just keep talking, hoping your words wrap around her until the worst of it passes.

bonus:

kara: it's bubblegum you: what? kara: my favorite ice cream flavor is bubblegum you *snorting loudly*: that's so lame kara my crush on you is over kara: YOUR WHAT

a/n: i needed to write some comfort and this is all i have to offer

Fine, you can be on top

Skin on skin, just how she likes it

Part 2^

Scissor City Captain

Early morning make out

Smushing her face with your tits cures depression

Eating her out

Fingering her on a lazy day

You sent her a video voicemail

"She's busy lil bro"

Your ex is calling again? Answer the phone

"I'm being so serious right now, Holt. I'm not going at the back. I want to be underneath!"

"Why are you being so insistent about this?"

Guy gestured at your naked body as you sat on the sofa, waiting for the two of them to end their argument and start fucking you.

"Because! Tits! In my face!"

"If you'd asked nicely I wouldn't have felt the need to argue with you."

"Wow. You act like you're so much better than me, but you're just as child-"

"Shut up you losers! Can we get on with this?"

With ruddy cheeks, embarrassed by Kendra's insult, both Guy and Michael got themselves into position, Guy sitting down and pulling your body onto his lap, holding his cock and letting it slide inside you as you rested on him. And Michael, careful to avoid contact with Guy, lubing his cock and pressing the tip against your asshole.

The sensation of being filled by them both, their hold on you, their out of sync thrusts, entirely competitive in nature, only made it far more pleasurable. It was one thing to have them fighting over you, another entirely to have the fight take place in your eager holes.

As you adjusted to the careless, almost selfish rutting of both Guy and Michael, you felt a gentle touch against your cheek, your gaze drawn to Kendra's face, a sweet smile and dark, warm eyes visible under her helmet.

"Let those two keep fighting behind you. I'll give you something much nicer to look at."

Guy scoffed, but he was quickly distracted by your breasts, stretching his neck to take one in his mouth. Michael remained silent, focused, on how tight you felt.

"See, I'm the real leader."

Kendra winked as she gripped the base of the thick, gold strap she wore.