I think i made you up inside my head

Steve moans loudly. Your hand is tucked into the front of his sweatpants, your fingers curled loosely around his cock, pumping slow and languid. It's wet and warm, his cockhead leaking precum enough to make your hand slick. His cock pulses and twitches in your hand.

"Y-yeah," His voice is breathy, his moan pressed into the hollow of your throat. "Yeah, baby, feels s'good."

You coo, letting your free hand curl up around his shoulders, tantalizingly slow. Your hand keeps working his cock as your nails scratch along the nape of his neck, dragging them down hard against the skin in the way you know he loves. Steve whines loudly, his hips bucking forward suddenly, canting into your hands. Your tummy drools with white hot lust.

"Y'look so pretty like this, honey," You say lowly. You let your lips scrape across his forehead, a soft kiss, and Steve moans brokenly— his hips thrusting forward again in your warm, wet, hand. He always was such a sucker for the sweet stuff.

You nuzzle into his hair again, letting your hand move up and up, til your palm brushes over the tip of his cock teasingly. Steve groans, his free hand which had been gripping the sheets shooting out to hold your side tightly.

"Pleasepleaseplease," His pleas fall out, moaned against the skin of your neck. You tease him for a second more before slipping down to cup his balls. Slowly, teasingly, you move your hand back up to his cock, thumbing over his slit again and reveling in the loud whine he makes. You've been tormenting him so long, his hips keep twitching forward, into your hand. It's adorable watching him trying to hold himself back.

"I'm— fuck, god, you're gonna make me—" A growl threads through his voice, his grip on your side suddenly tighter than ever. His fingernails press half-moons into your fiery skin. His voice melts away, pitching up as he wails into your neck, his words barely legible. "I'm— I'm— oh fuck, oh my god, baby, uh—"

He keens, whiny, staggered breaths in your ear as you feel the first dribble of cum spurt from his cock. His body tenses, face burying further into your neck as you keep moving your hand, fast and messy— Steve's hips meeting you midway with every thrust.

"That's it," You whisper, knowing he can hear you. "Let me have it all, baby."

"Fuuuuck," He moans, every sharp inhale laced with a whimper. A string of broken curses leave his mouth as he keeps thrusting, his cock still oozing ribbons of cum onto your hand. You slow your hand as you hear his voice go up, his lower groans turning into those whimpery overstimulated noises you love so much.

"That's it," You encourage him, still stroking him lazily. He always cums so much, always has so much to give you. You brush your lips against his forehead again, feeling how his fingers tighten on your torso when you do. "There we go, huh? Knew you needed this. Always have so much to give me, Stevie, don't you?"

Steve whines pitifully.

When you finally found a time that works for both of your schedules, you decided it would be time to make your move. Fuck waiting for him to initiate. You can do it yourself. You'd been subtle about it at first—a hand on his thigh, a few inches higher than where you'd normally place it, lips running over his jaw. 

The man had simply laughed nervously, and returned with a kiss to your forehead.

Briefly, you wondered if it truly is because he's not into you that way. However, that thought flits right out of your pretty head when you see the unmistakable tent slowly forming in his pants. 

So you’d upped your actions, nibbling at his earlobe in the middle of dessert, fingers trailing up his inner thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. Screw subtlety. (And hopefully, him too.) By the time you two sat in the back of the cab, he’s a squirming mess.

“S-stay the night?” he’d been so shy about it you debated teasing him a little more. Maybe if you weren’t so horny, you would have, but relief had simply flooded your veins. Finally. So you nod, teased him a little more in the back of the cab until he had to grab your wrists and hold them in place, because he swore he’d probably come in here just from one more brush of your palm. The lightest pressure and he’d be a goner, a pathetic mess, and you hadn’t even really done anything. 

There had been no build up once you got into his apartment. Simply an exchange of quick, sloppy kisses, Spencer pushing you deeper into his house until the couch hits the back of your knees and both of you came tumbling down. He’s already rutting his hips against your thigh, his erection hot even through his slacks. Clumsy fingers strip off fabric and shoes, leaving them strewn haphazardly on his living room floor.

You had pushed him away then, grinning enticingly as you went to straddle his lap. You ground your hips in circular motions against his still clothed crotch, gasping as the obvious bulge gives you even more traction to rub on. 

“No fair,” he whines, fingers leaving crescent shaped indents on your hips, “P-please stop teasing, you’ve been doing it all night.”

He’s so tightly wound it’s almost pathetic. He’s lucky you’ve some semblance of mercy left in your body, because you could probably come undone just from the friction that came by dry humping him. But you relent, sitting back on his thighs as you tug at his underpants. 

“All right baby, since you asked so nicely.”

Thus exposing what’s going to be the small issue of the night.

Rather, the large issue.

His cock springs free and for a moment you just stare at it. Red, veiny, pulsing and huge. Larger than anyone you’ve been with, larger than even the toys that hide in that one drawer in your bedroom closet.

“W-what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You paled a little.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips, “You didn’t tell me you were hung.”

His eyebrows scrunch, so ridiculously adorable you have to bite your lip to stifle another giggle.

“Hung?”

“Yeah, like, your dick is huge.”

Red blooms across his cheeks, “It’s - it’s certainly above average—”

“You know what the average length is?”

“I-in North America, yes.”

“I didn’t know you swung that way, baby.”

He groans, moving to hide his face into the crook of your neck, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, I know, I’m kidding.” You manage to shift and catch his head before he has a chance to press it to your neck. Your lips land on his, and he’s pushing his tongue inside your mouth sloppily. When you pull away for air, you add, “You’re just bigger than what I’m used to.”

“Is that bad?”

Is it? One hand wraps around the base of his cock, stroking up delicately, testing out the girth and the weight of him. He shudders, muscles tensing. His fingers dig into your hips. With a grin, you reply, “On the contrary, I think it’s exciting.”

You position yourself over him then, letting the blunt tip run up and down your slick folds. The friction makes you both shiver. Every single ridge and vein of his cock catches on your sensitive flesh, and you can’t help but start moving your hips up and down, rubbing your folds over the length of him. 

“You’re - ah - so wet.” his tone is wretched with desire and awe.

“All for you baby.” You continue your ministrations, letting his length part your folds, the tip hitting your clit at certain angles. His cock is covered in your slick within moments and your poor boyfriend looks like he’s about to combust. You feel the twitch of his cock, the shift in the way he moves his hips—rocking up desperately against you—and you know he’s close. So you stop.

You’re rewarded by another whine.

“Please,” his grip is hurting you now, palms clutching handfuls of your ass. You don’t think he’s even aware of how tightly he’s doing it. “Please, I’m so—”

“Spence, do you really want to cum without even being inside me?” That shuts up his whining. “Mhm, didn’t think so.”

“Can I— please, just—”

“What?”

“Wanna touch you.”

Your lips tug into a smile. At your nod of assent, one of his hands let go of your ass to move to your pussy, the pads of his fingers quickly locating your clit.

“Fuck, Spence,” your head falls forward, forehead meeting his, “Faster, baby.”

He obeys, tilting his head forward to capture your lips. Your mouth opens to him, muffling your moans as you begin to move, shamelessly riding his hand. His finger finds your entrance, dipping shallowly, hesitantly, but you’re so wet that, with a quick thrust of your hips, the digit slips all the way in. 

Spencer pulls away from the kiss to watch, the pupils of his eyes nearly eclipsing the ochre irises as your pussy swallows his finger greedily. Transfixed, he adds another finger and it’s your turn to squeeze and mark up his alabaster skin with crescent marks. 

“Yes,” you groan, gasp, writhe in his lap as his fingers curl and find the sweet spot inside you, “Oh god, Spencer, yes!”

He’s entranced as he pumps his fingers in and you, mouth hanging open as your pussy parts and accepts his fingers so prettily. To reciprocate, your hands—plural, yes both hands—wrap around his cock, starting a slow, lazy pace. That throws his rhythm off, fingers stilling inside you.

“Keep going,” you urge him, hands slowing to a stop as well, “Spencer.”

He whines, hips bucking up into your palms, but something in your voice seems to set him straight. Fingers thrust in and out of you again, long and elegant and stretching you for what’s about to come. Satisfied, you pump your hands over his cock again, twisting them every time you motion up, and squeezing as you go down. It doesn’t take long for him to fall apart, his cock twitching before cum shoots from the tip. Because you’re straddling his lap, it makes a mess and lands on both of you—his stomach, your chest, some even on your hair. 

“Oh god,” he’s whining again, embarrassed, “I’m sorry, I’m so—”

You silence him with a kiss, still stroking him, as your hips move over his hand. His brain manages to work, curling inside your fluttering walls. The movements are messy, uncoordinated as you chase your orgasm and he struggles to catch up. A whine leaves your lips, soft and needy. Something about it must trigger the neurons in his beautiful brain, make him remember you have the perfect bundle of nerves being neglected and he has more free fingers. 

With a slight shift, he presses his thumb to your clit. 

“Fuck, baby, yes!” you cry out breathlessly, head falling forward on his shoulder. 

“Good?” he asks, increasing pressure on that sensitive nub. Small, quick circles. You wonder when he became so dexterous.

You nod, thighs clenched and quivering as your climax nears, the pleasure in your stomach building and coiling into something white-hot and— “Oh, Spencer!”

His other arm wraps around your waist, crushing you to him as he helps you through your orgasm. In the steady comfort of his arms, the rocking of your hips slow to a stop. You feel his lips at your temple, not really kissing the spot, just resting there. Heavy breaths rifle strands of your hair. 

“Oh god,” he sighs, fingers slipping out of you with a pop, “Angel, that was amazing.”

You straighten up, grinning, “We're not done yet.”

“No?”

Eyes dart down suggestively, and his gaze follows to his own lap. Still completely erect, his cock lays flat against you, heavy and pulsating. “No, I think I need to take care of you a little more.”

“Y-you don't have—”

But you've already lifted yourself to your knees, fighting through the quake in your thighs, in order to position the tip of him at your slick entrance. His hands return to your thighs, nails clamping down on your skin.

“But I'm not— condom—”

How cute, he can barely speak. You grin, press a chaste kiss to the dimple on his cheek. “I'm clean. And on the pill.”

“You sure it’s okay?”

It's more than okay, actually. You're too shades shy of being desperate for his cock to split you open, but you're not sure if he'd survive hearing that sentence so you say, “Of course it is baby. Unless… you want me to stop?” If he catches the hint of insecurity in your voice, he doesn't show it. 

Instead, his head is shaking no, vigorously, lower lip jutting out in a pout. 

You smile, and kiss it away, “Okay then. I'll go slow, okay?”

You'd meant it as an empty warning. Really, there's nothing more you want than to impale yourself down on him and ride him like there's no tomorrow. However, as you slowly lower yourself onto his cock, as the blunt tip breaches your entrance and spreads your walls, you realize that going slow is probably more of a necessity. 

He's big. Almost uncomfortably so. 

One sharp exhale from your lips and he's suddenly looking at you in concern, “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” you gasp, although the furrow in your brows suggest otherwise. 

“You don't have to—"

“Hush, baby, I just need a moment.” You say, forcing yourself to relax and take more. The broadest part of his head pushes through, stretching you wider than you've ever been. Soft, keening sounds fill the air. It's hard to know which came from you, or from him.

You look up, and laugh when you realize Spencer's skin is dappled with large red splotches. He's staring at where the two of you are connected, his cock barely fitting inside you. With a deep breath, you roll your hips around, trying to get used to the feeling. He whines again, his torso falling back onto the cushion, “Oh my god,” he gasps, lower lips trembling, “Oh my god, please.”

“Need you to be patient for me, Spence.” you mutter, dropping down a little more. You place one hand on his thigh for balance, while the other wraps around the base of his cock, stroking him to give him some relief. The greedy bastard bucks up, involuntarily, and you hiss as another inch pushes into you before you're ready.

“Spence!”

“Sorry, I'm sorry! Just - oh god, oh god, please, oh did I hurt you?”

And then it happens. Something glimmers on his cheek as it catches the light. And then another. And again, this time on the other cheek. Your hand leaves his thigh to grasp his chin, tilt his head up.

Your boyfriend is crying. Splayed out on the couch, cushions embedded by the sharp joints of his elbows from where he's propped himself up. He's looking up at you with glimmering liquid gathered on the rims of his lashline. Dripping down his cheeks, only to be replaced by another bout. 

“Baby,” You sigh, pouting as you lean down. Soft lips catch his tears, leaving sticky residue on his cheekbones from the remains of your lip gloss, “It's okay.”

Another sob. Large teardrops crawl down his chiseled face.

Knowing that it’s your fault makes a feeling of power surge through you. “You’re so pretty like this, Spence.” 

“Angel, please—”

The sight of his tear streaked face does something to you, your walls relaxing and fluttering as you manage to accept another inch down. His reaction is instantaneous, nails sinking into your hips, head falling back. “No, no,” you say, hand coming to the back of his head, tilting his head forward again, “Look at me.”

Tear streaked and hazy eyed, he manages to keep his head steady in order to maintain eye contact. It’s a little sick, the way this turns you on, but it allows you to sheath his cock further in. 

You lift yourself up, until only the tip remains notched inside you, and his cock gleams with the evidence of your arousal. With a smile, you sink down again, walls fluttering as you take him deeper, until you have about three fourths of his length buried inside you and he’s little more than a puddle. 

A hiss escapes your lips, brows knitting from the stretch. It isn’t just that his length is impressive, it’s that he’s thick too, splitting your pussy open. But now he's buried more than halfway through, giving you enough room to lift yourself up, and sink down again.

You count that as a victory.

He groans, muscles tensing, and you know he's desperately trying not to buck up and meet your movements. With a small smile, you lean close, forehead resting on his. Large, honeyed eyes stare back up at you, still glassy with tears. You repeat the same motion of your hips, moaning as you feel every single ridge and vein of his cock straining inside your walls. 

“Feel good?” you murmur, swiping a stray teardrop with your thumb. 

“Mhmm,” he nods, breath hitching as your movements grow steady. The sting remains, but it's grown dull now that you’ve gotten more used to the size of him.

“Oh god, baby, why haven't we done this sooner?” you whine as you rock on top of him, enjoying the fullness of having him inside of you. The question is rhetorical, but he's in absolutely no state of mind to answer. His hands grip your hips tightly as he sniffles, unable to do anything else except enjoy the ride you're giving him.

Praises leave your lips, murmured in tones cloyingly sweet and half mocking. 

“Crying over sex, you're so lucky I'm so into you.”

“You look so pretty with tears in your eyes baby."

“Never had pussy this tight, haven't you?” 

That last one rips another sob from him, because you know this is his first, that you're making a mockery out of something significant for him. So you soothe with a kiss, and whispers of “I'm sorry, it's okay, you're doing so good, you feel so good.”

You punctuate it by moving faster, your pussy thoroughly comfortable and so wet that there's barely any struggle to bounce on his dick. However, you're still careful, still unable to take him all the way in. You figure it's something you both can work up to, something for the future. The thought makes you smile. 

Besides he doesn't seem to mind, moaning beneath you as you ride him. He seems to have lost all ability to articulate himself, instead just staring at you with red, tear filled eyes and a slack jaw. It makes you giggle, the way he looks so utterly fucked out. 

You clench around him, walls tightening sharply, sending sensations that make the two of you gasp. 

“I-I'm so close.” He manages to say, his hands now helping you, guiding your body as you impale yourself over his cock again and again, “Please, I'm so—”

“I know, baby, I know, you can come.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and his voice is especially strained when he asks, “Inside?”

You tug his hair teasingly, and his kids flutter open again. With a grin, you confirm, “Inside.”

A few more thrusts and he's gone, crying out, squirming desperately beneath you as spurts of his cum paint your walls. You don't stop, riding him continuously as you chase your own release. Thick, creamy liquid drips from your pussy and down the base of his cock with every movement. 

He sobs even more. 

“Touch me,” You whisper, pleading, “Spence, please baby, I'm so close.”

His fingers are at your clit in an instant, rubbing hasty circles as your pace grows erratic and sloppy. 

“Please,” He gasps, looking up at you with glassy, imploring eyes, “Please I wanna feel you come.”

Your body seems attuned to his desperate pleas, because as soon as those words leave his lips, your pussy clenches around him so tightly you both yelp in surprise. He doesn't stop his ministrations on your clit, helping you through your orgasm until you're panting. For the second time tonight, you collapse against him, face buried at the crook of his neck. 

“My god.”

He laughs, breathless, “My god indeed.” 

He shifts, moving slowly so he doesn't jostle your boneless frame too much. There's a hiss from you as he slowly pulls out. You find yourself clenching around nothing, feeling oddly empty after such an intense fullness. 

Silence wraps around both of you, heady and languid. His fingers in your hair, scratching your scalp. Soft intimacy after a whirlwind of lust.

And then he breaks it, so achingly sweet it almost makes you cry, “I'm sorry that I hurt you.”

“Mhm?”

“Earlier,” He clarifies, lips finding your shoulder and staying there. His voice becomes muffled and sheepish, “When I thrust up.”

“I didn't think you'd remember that.” You tease, fingers tangling into his hair and tugging at his curls.

“I've an eidetic memory, remember? I remember everything.” He laughs too. Relief makes his voice sound lighter. “I never want to hurt you.”

“You didn't,” You reassure him, “Well - okay, a little bit, but it's fine. I don't think you meant to.”

“Of course not,” He hums, lips traveling up your neck, “But I'll be more careful next time.”

“Next time huh?”

“Mhm,” Teeth on your jaw. Playful, teasing. “Next time.” 

It sounds like a promise. You know he intends to keep it. 

Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.

You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.

“Lando asked me out,” you breathe. 

Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”

You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.

“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”

“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”

You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.

Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.

“Done?”

You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”

He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.

“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”

Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.

“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”

You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”

He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.

Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.

Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.

He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself. 

You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.

“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”

He waitswaitswaits. 

You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then. 

You nod. 

It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.

You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.

He doesn’t.

He only steps closer.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”

You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”

You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier. 

You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other.  Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”

You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”

Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”

There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.

“That’s good to know,” he says plainly. 

You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”

You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”

Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”

It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.

You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.

“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”

You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused. 

“A little. But in a good way.”

Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.

Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”

You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”

You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient. 

You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.

Still, he waits.

“You okay?” he checks in.

You nod.

“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.

“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you. 

“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”

Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”

He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”

He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been. 

He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”

Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.

Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.

“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”

Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.

You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”

He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”

You look up at him, startled.

Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.

“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”

You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move. 

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.

Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.

You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this. 

Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”

You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.

“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”

You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.

“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”

Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction. 

Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”

You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”

“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.

You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly. 

You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.

After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.

Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.

But then you pause.

Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.

“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”

Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.

“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.

You go very, very still.

Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”

He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.

You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference. 

“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.

Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”

“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”

You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.

“Still okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”

You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”

You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”

You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”

“Coaxing?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”

You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.

Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan. 

Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”

He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.

And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be: 

Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.

Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.

Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.

You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.

He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?” 

“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”

Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.

He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."

You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.

“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."

You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.

“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.

You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."

Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.

“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."

You try again.

This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.

Because it’s you.

You, trying for him.

You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.

He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”

Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.

Lando won’t get this version of you.

Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”

You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.

Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.

“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”

Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”

He hates himself for saying it like that. 

Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.

You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”

Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”

You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.

The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”

He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.

You gag slightly. He pauses. “You okay?”

You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.

“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”

He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.

“Mouth so fucking perfect.” 

“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”

“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”

The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.

His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.

“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”

Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.

He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”

And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.

He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.

Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.

“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”

He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.

“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”

You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.

The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.

“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”

You do.

You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down. 

When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”

Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.

“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.

“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.

Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”

You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”

Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”

You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.

He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”

Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.

Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.

You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”

Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”

Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”

You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”

You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”

Oh.

It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.

“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.

He hesitates.

“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”

You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.

“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”

It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.

You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.

Not triumph. Not desire.

Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.

Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.

“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”

You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”

It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees. 

He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.

“That one?”

You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”

Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.

He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.

“Oh.”

Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.

You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”

He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”

“No, like. A lot a lot.”

He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.

Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”

He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.

You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”

He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.

Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.

The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”

You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”

Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”

“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.

Wet.

When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”

He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”

He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”

Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.

Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.

“You good?” he checks in again.

You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”

The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”

“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”

You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.

“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”

You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”

He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.

He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”

You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.

“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”

You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”

Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”

Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.

“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.

You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”

He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.

It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.

Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.

“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”

He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”

His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.

“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”

But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”

Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”

You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.

Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.

The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.

He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.

You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.

He should stop.

Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.

He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.

You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup. 

He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.

“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”

You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.

“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”

He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”

Your face burns.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.

The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.

Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.

“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”

When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.

Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.

Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core. 

He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.

Your cry breaks sharp in the air.

“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”

You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”

Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.

His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”

Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.

Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.

You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.

“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”

He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.

You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this. 

You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else. 

How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?

This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.

He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.

But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—

Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.

And he still won’t kiss you.

Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil. 

The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.

You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.

Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”

You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out. 

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”

You glance at him, waiting.

“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”

Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.

“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”

You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh. 

Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”

You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.” 

Does it sting to hear? Of course.

But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man. 

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat: 

Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐

Since then, there’s been a few texts. A few half-hearted excuses. Enough distance to make him think maybe that night was the sort of temporary madness you’d both agreed never to name out loud. 

Oscar pulls his hood up, fingers brushing over his headphones, ready to escape into the evening when the knock comes.

He freezes.

The sound is small, hesitant. He knows it’s you before he even checks the peephole. He opens the door, and you’re there. Date-ready. Hair smoothed, eyes lined in careful strokes, lips with the faintest sheen of gloss. A dress he’s never seen before, soft fabric skimming your thighs. It’s unfair, the way you look; it’s as if you’ve been painted in brighter colors just to remind him of what doesn’t belong to him.

He clears his throat. “Date’s over?” His voice is neutral, practiced. It’s the only way he knows how to speak to you now.

You shift your weight, the heel of one shoe scuffing against his doormat. “Yeah.”

That’s all you give him. No explanation. No mention of Lando’s name. Just yeah.

Oscar steps back, lets you in. He doesn’t say anything about how you smell like wine and night air, or how the curve of your wrist looks delicate as you shrug off your jacket. He doesn’t comment on how you’re beautiful in a way that feels deliberate tonight, not accidental like when you used to sprawl across his couch in joggers and a hoodie. 

Instead, he nods toward the kitchen. “Want some water?”

You glance at him, searching his face for something he doesn’t offer, and then you nod. “That would be nice,” you say with devastating, uncharacteristic gentleness. 

Oscar turns, every movement measured, deliberate. He doesn’t let himself look too long at the way your dress rides up when you sit on his kitchen stool, or how your knees press together like you’re still wound tight from the evening. He just fills a glass and sets it in front of you.

It feels like waiting. Again.

Oscar leans against the counter, arms folded, watching the way condensation gathers on the glass you haven’t touched. The silence stretches, taut as fishing wire. He lets it spool out until it feels almost unbearable, then cuts it clean with a simple question. “So,” he starts, “how was it?”

You look up, startled, as if you hadn’t expected him to ask. Your lips part, gloss catching the light, before you settle into a shrug. “It was fine,” you say. “Dinner was nice. Lando picked a place by the port, really good seafood.”

“Sounds riveting.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no heat in it. “He was funny,” you add, softer. “He made the waiter laugh more than me, which was kind of impressive. And he—he opened doors. Pulled out my chair.”

“Chivalry’s not dead,” Oscar murmurs. He watches the way you twist the edge of your napkin-creased jacket on your lap. “What else?”

You glance away, as if cataloguing the evening in your head. “We walked after. Down by the water. He told me about some race weekend stories. Stupid ones, mostly. Stuff he probably shouldn’t tell a first date, but…” You pause, a small smile flickering before it slips. “That was it.”

Oscar hums. He waits, patient, until the question itches out of him anyway. “Anything happen?”

The words hang there. He doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t need to.

Your expression shifts, frustration surfacing in the downturn of your mouth. You set the glass down harder than you meant to, water sloshing against the rim. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t what I thought it would be.”

There’s a furrow in Oscar’s brow now. “What do you mean?”

You draw in a breath, shaky. Your nails tap against the counter, a restless rhythm. “I don’t know. I thought it would feel different. Special, maybe,” you huff. “But it was just… dinner. Talking. Laughing. The whole time I kept waiting for something to click, and it didn’t.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He only watches you, the weight of your words settling heavy in the space between you, like the air before a storm. He stays very still, the kind of stillness that costs him effort. You’re watching the countertop when you finally come clean.

“It felt different when Lando… when he tried things.”

His chest tightens. “Different how?” The words come out flat, careful.

You shake your head quickly, defensive. “I don’t know. Just—different. Not the same.”

Oscar’s jaw works, a muscle twitching. He keeps his tone even. “You can be honest.”

“I am being honest,” you protest, but your voice is small. Your fingers knot in the hem of your dress like you’re afraid it might betray you.

He pushes off the counter, crossing the space between you in slow, measured steps. Close enough that he can see the flush creeping along your neck, the uneven rise and fall of your chest. Close enough to feel the static hum of your nerves.

“Tell me,” he says lowly. “What did he do?”

Your eyes dart up, wide, then away again. “He… he held my hand first. Brushed his thumb over my knuckles. It should’ve been sweet…” You trail off, frustrated, as if the words won’t line up.

Oscar reaches down, takes your hand gently in his, thumb dragging once over the ridge of your knuckles. Slow. Patient. He watches your breath stutter. “Like this?”

You nod faintly. “Yeah. But when you do it, it feels—different.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. He only watches you, expression cinched, while his thumb continues its quiet path across your skin. You inhale shakily, grazing your own forearm in a way that’s almost hesitant, “Then he… he touched my arm. Here.” 

Oscar mirrors it immediately, his fingers gliding along the same stretch of your skin. He notes the way goosebumps rise under his touch, the way your shoulders stiffen and then loosen in the span of a breath.

“Like that?” 

“Yeah,” you whimper. “It didn’t—it didn’t feel like this.”

“What else?”

You hesitate, cheeks heating. “He tried to put his hand on my thigh.”

Oscar’s eyes drop, briefly, before returning to your face. He waits for your permission, silent but present. When you give the smallest nod, he lowers his hand, resting it carefully over the fabric of your dress, just above your knee.

The room goes very quiet. 

His palm is warm, grounding. His voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Here?”

You release a breath that trembles. 

“There. Exactly.”

Oscar doesn’t let himself react. Not yet. He only presses a fraction more firmly, thumb brushing once against the inside of your knee. “Keep talking,” he says softly. “Tell me everything you he did.”

You speak carefully, as if each word costs something. “After dinner, we… we walked back,” you stutter. “To his apartment.”

The words knock something loose in his chest. He tightens his grip without meaning to, fingers pressing harder into the fabric of your dress. He draws in a sharp breath through his nose, tries to even it out. “What happened there?” The question lands harsher than he intends, clipped at the edges.

Your eyes flick up to him, gauging. “Not much. He—he tried. He touched me again. Higher.” Your hand gestures vaguely toward your hip, uncertain.

Oscar’s jaw is set, but he obliges. His hand slides upward with a deliberate pace, heat trailing in its wake. It’s not smooth this time; his touch borders on rough, betrayed by the envy he’s choking on. You don’t flinch. If anything, your breath catches in a way that makes restraint harder.

“And?” 

“He leaned in. His face—t’was close. His breath on my neck.”

Oscar closes the space without thought, lips brushing the line where your shoulder meets your throat. The contact is soft, but his breath is unsteady, his mouth lingering too long to pass as imitation alone.

“Did it feel good?” Oscar asks, even though he’s not sure if he wants to hear the answer. 

You nod, barely. You sound frustrated when you repeat, “But it was different.” 

The word scrapes him raw. Different. He keeps his mouth at your neck, lets the silence stretch, teeth grazing lightly in a moment he almost doesn’t control. His lips hover, ready to retreat.

“Did you kiss?” The question is strangled, not neutral this time. 

You stammer, something shameful burning in the pause. “I… well—when he—Osc…”

Oh. There it is. 

Oscar had every part of you except that. You’d let him use your mouth, let him eat you out and make you come more than thrice, but that’d been your line. No kissing. You’d been so adamant on saving that for Lando.

It’s enough to make Oscar pull back, breath drawn through his teeth, face shuttering. Hurt threads through the restraint, makes him shift as if to step away.

But your hands snap up, clutching at his shirt, holding him there. “Don’t.” Your voice trembles with urgency, raw enough to strip his defenses. “Don’t go, Osc. I—I’m sorry. I need you. Need you to make me feel good.”

Your grip moors him, the plea louder than the warning bells in his head. He stays where he is, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. He’s close enough to feel your heartbeat thrumming against his own, his own control threatening to crash and burn.

Oscar reads the frustration etched into your face. The tension in your jaw, the restless shift of your hands. He makes a choice. 

Without a word, he guides you toward the couch. His grip is firm but careful, a silent insistence, and when you sink onto the cushions he urges you onto your back. The air between you tightens, charged with everything unsaid, every flicker of doubt folded into silence. “You want to feel good?” he exhales, resolving himself to this. 

He leans over, lips brushing your skin in a scatter of deliberate touches. Your temple, your jaw, the line of your throat, the slope of your collarbone. Never your mouth. The discipline is calculated, punishing for him, but necessary. His voice weaves between the kisses, low and even, a steady counter to your anxious form.

“Breathe. I’ve got you,” he mumbles into your shoulder. 

Each kiss is an anchor, each word a tether. You keen softly, the sound breaking like relief, as though his touch is holding you together where you might otherwise unravel. His hand settles over your chest, palm spreading warm against the swell of your breast. The weight steadies you, and the subtle pressure draws out a shudder. When his thumb ghosts across your nipple through the fabric, the sound you make trembles on the edge between sob and sigh.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though his own control feels stretched thin, fraying at the edges with every soft plea from you. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He trails lower, mapping a path with his mouth. A slow, devotional descent. Each press of his lips feels catalogued, a point of reverence along your body. Your dress rides higher under his hands, and your body arches, seeking the path of his mouth. By the time he reaches the band of your underwear, your breathing is ragged, your body taut as a bowstring.

Oscar pauses there, a deliberate hesitation, lips brushing the edge of the fabric. He inhales once, catching the warm scent of you, and then mouths over the thin cotton, tasting heat through the barrier. 

Your hips jerk helplessly at the first press of his tongue, the fabric dampening under his insistence. He keeps his pace unhurried, deliberate, savoring each broken sound torn from your throat. There’s something obscene about this—Oscar, eating you out through your underwear. His nose bumps against your clothed clit and you end up gasping, the sound going straight to Oscar’s cock. 

“P-please.” Your voice cracks on your words as you squirm. “Oscar, please. Take them, hng, off.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, searching, as if confirming that you mean it. When he sees nothing but your absolute wreck of an expression, he obliges without hesitation, sliding the fabric down your thighs, letting his fingers trace as he goes. He tosses it aside, then returns to where you need him without so much of a preamble.

When his mouth closes over you properly, the difference is devastating. His tongue works with a precision that borders on cruel, deliberate strokes, designed to unravel you piece by piece. He revels in the way you break apart almost instantly, body seizing around the edge of pleasure before he’s even slipped a single finger inside. The sound you make cuts through him, raw and pleading. 

Maybe you’re all wound up. Maybe Oscar’s just that good. But you’ve barely gotten out your warning of “I’m c-close,—I’m coming!” before you’re finishing on his tongue, coating the lower half of his face with slick. Oscar hisses, hips jerking uselessly against the bottom of the couch as his cock blurts precum into his boxers. 

Your cry vibrates against his skin, and he slows, intending to retreat, to give you air. But then your legs clamp tight around his head, pulling him closer with surprising strength. Your hand fists in his hair, tugging him down, your voice wrecked and demanding.

“Don’t stop,” you say, delirious and wretched. “More, please.”

Oscar exhales hard against you, the sound swallowed into your skin. “Greedy,” he grunts, his fingers curling into the cushions. “My greedy, greedy girl.” 

Despite his taunt, he surrenders to your demand, his restraint dissolving under the urgency of it. His tongue moves deeper, firmer, coaxing new sounds from you, while one hand steadies your hip against the couch and the other slides lower, testing the threshold of your body. 

He presses a finger inside at last, slow but inexorable, careful even as desire frays his patience. Your body clenches around him immediately, another tremor racing through you, sharper, stronger. “Fuck,” you whine. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuck.” 

He feels the way you pull him deeper, the way your thighs shake against his shoulders, and knows—knows with absolute certainty—that you won’t let him leave you unfinished, won’t allow him distance or mercy until he’s given you everything you’re begging for. 

And so he obeys, mouth and hand working in rhythm, every movement tuned to the breaking point of your need, every sound you make pulling him closer to the edge of his own restraint.

Oscar works you open, his fingers moving with careful deliberation, easing into your heat as if he has all the time in the world. He keeps his eyes fixed on your face as he sucks at your puffy clit, reading every flicker of response. Every now and then, he pulls away from your cunt to coax at you. “Relax,” he says. “Don’t think too hard.” 

You clench around him, body betraying every ripple of sensation. When he adds a second finger, his pace remains unhurried, letting you stretch around the intrusion. His thumb brushes absently against your hip as if grounding you. Then, almost casually, his voice slips into something sharper.

“Did he get to touch you like this?” 

The question makes you seize, walls fluttering around his fingers. Oscar notices instantly. His mouth curls faintly, a trace of humor at the corner of his restraint. “No?” he hums. “Thought so.”

You whimper, eyes squeezing shut. He gives you a reprieve, his tone softening, coaxing again. “Don’t hide. You’re fine, baby. You’re doing so well for me.”

Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, each motion caught between desperation and shyness. He resists the pull to lean up, to kiss you where your mouth waits. Instead, he lowers his head, mouth brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. His tongue drags slowly over the outline of your nipple, and he feels the shiver ripple through you.

“I remember you said you liked it here,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before catching the peak gently between his teeth through the cloth.

You arch beneath him, the sound you make breaking high. His fingers never stop, stroking deep and steady, dragging you toward the edge with a patience that borders on cruel. Every time you falter, his mouth presses reassurance into your chest, lips moving over you in silent comfort.

When you finally splinter apart again, the sound is half cry, half sob, your body convulsing around his hand. Oscar holds you through it, fingers working you down from the peak, his mouth still warm against the front of your dress. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull back. He stays exactly where you need him, watching you unravel, the taste of control sharp in his own mouth.

Eventually, Oscar eases his fingers from you slowly, careful not to startle the sensitivity still clinging to your body. He straightens, dragging in a breath, and shifts as though to stand. “I should get something. Clean you up,” he says, already calculating where he left the towels.

But you’re faster, desperate in the way your hand fists into his shirt and pushes him back down onto the couch. His body lands with a muted thud, surprise flashing across his face. it’s quickly replaced by something darker when he sees the look in your eyes.

“I don’t want that,” you say, voice ragged. “I want—let me… let me do something for you.”

Oscar opens his mouth to protest, but you’re already tugging at the hem of his shorts with clumsy urgency. The fabric resists, and you wrestle with it, your impatience almost endearing. He doesn’t help you. He only watches, lips quirking, chest rising with controlled breaths. Deadpan, he manages, “Careful. You’ll rip them.”

You glare up at him briefly, flushed and determined, before dragging the shorts down in a single tug. His thighs flex as the fabric gives way, and the moment his boxers are revealed there’s no hiding the strain of him, pressed against the thin cotton, already thick and demanding. There’s a wet spot where he’s been leaking since the moment he started touching you. 

Oscar doesn’t flinch under your gaze, unembarrassed by his own arousal. If anything, there’s a flicker of satisfaction in the way your eyes widen slightly, the way your breath hitches.

“It’s not your first time seeing it,” he points out. 

“I know,” you say, “but it’s still a fucking monster.” 

God, you’re going to be the reason why Oscar’s ego swells. You sink to your knees before him, hands trembling. The sight coils heat low in his stomach. When you reach for him, tugging his boxers down just enough to free him, Oscar has to resist the urge to finish then and there.

For a second, he considers teasing again, a quip already at the tip of his tongue. But then your mouth closes over him, tentative and eager, and the air leaves his chest in one hard exhale. His head tips back against the couch, jaw slackening.

You’re clumsy, a little unsteady, but you remember what he showed you that first time. How to take him in slowly, how to hollow your cheeks, how to use your hand where your mouth can’t reach. The effort makes his stomach tighten, every shift of your tongue pulling another groan from his chest.

Oscar’s hand finds the back of your head, his touch featherlight. Not to force, only to guide. His voice, rougher now, doesn’t even sound like him. “Good. Just like that,” he praises. “You remember.”

His breath stutters when you hum around him, your inexperience outweighed by the urgency in every movement. He keeps his eyes half-shut, fighting the wave of pleasure threatening to undo his composure, clinging to the rhythm you’re building with every pull of your mouth.

Oscar lets his head fall back against the couch, thighs tight, breath staggered. You’re on your knees between them, clumsy but determined, your mouth stretched around him in a way that sends him perilously close to unraveling. He keeps his voice low, guiding, the same steady tone he used that first time.

“Yeah, that’s it. Hand at the base, keep the rhythm slow. Use your tongue—good. Just like that.”

You hum at the praise. He forces himself to keep speaking, because silence might ruin him faster. “You’re doing so well. ‘S exactly how I like it.”

But then the thought slithers in, uninvited: Lando. 

Oscar should keep it buried, but his chest tightens, his jaw clenches, and before he can stop himself, the question bursts out in between restrained gasps. “Did you and Lando… did you get this far?”

You still instantly. 

You pull back, lips swollen, breath uneven. Your eyes meet Oscar’s, and then they avert. Something dangerous sparks inside of Oscar’s chest. “Oscar,” you say, “I—I’m sorry—”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t need the details of how you were on your knees for another man mere hours ago. Oscar instead cups the back of your head and pushes himself back past your lips, shutting you up. The first thrust is shallow, cautious. He checks himself, checks you.

“You stop me if you need to,” he rasps. “Understand?”

You nod around him, eyes wide, obedient. Only then does he let go.

Oscar moves with care but without hesitation, hips rolling slow and deliberate, feeding himself into your mouth. The wet sounds of it fill the room, obscene and intimate. He watches your throat work, the tears at the edges of your lashes as you fight to keep up, the spit slicking your chin. Each time you gag, he withdraws slightly, only to guide you back down with a rougher groan.

His thoughts blur between what is and what isn’t. Between your mouth now, and the unbearable image of you on your knees for someone else. “Did you make those sounds for him?” Oscar hisses. “Did he know how desperate you get when you’re full?”

Your fingers claw at his thighs, head shaking in futile denial, but you don’t stop Oscar. You take it, all of it, until he feels your breath hitch in sync with his own. He knows he’s close. Too close.

He drags you off at the last second, jaw clenched. His hand fists over himself in rapid, desperate strokes. He comes hard across your dress, streaks of white catching on the fabric that only minutes ago had been pristine from your date.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his breath, ragged and uneven, and the sight of you below him. Knees on the floor, lips parted, dress ruined. His pulse thrums with jealousy, with relief, with something he refuses to name.

His mind clears, and he’s immediately mortified. “Shit,” he spits. “I’m sorry. God, I’m—” 

Oscar’s working through his apology when you get to your feet. He blinks as if stunned, because instead of recoiling at the ruin of your dress, you tug at the straps and peel it off your body in one fluid motion. 

The fabric lands in a heap at the floor, forgotten. He’d taken off your underwear earlier, and—Jesus Christ—you’re not wearing a bra. It means you’re left in nothing, naked in Oscar’s living room with his cum across your collarbone. 

“Don’t apologize,” you say, your voice quick, almost breathless. “I don’t care about the dress. I just… I want this.”

You climb over him, straddling his lap, and the press of your bare skin against his leaves him winded. His cock twitches despite him having just finished, the line of him sliding against your folds as you start to move. The slick drag makes both of you shudder.

“I want this,” you murmur, grinding down harder, your voice fractured. “Hold me?”

His hands find your waist automatically, holding you steady as if you might slip through his grasp. The friction is unbearable, almost too much, and Oscar feels his eyes sting, vision blurring at the corners. It’s too close, too raw, and still he doesn’t let go.

“You feel… fuck, you feel good,” you gasp, burying your face against his throat. “This is what I needed.” 

Your words lance through him sharper than the drag of your body. He tightens his grip, near desperate now, whispering into your hair as your rhythm falters into primal need. “Take what you need,” he says raggedly. “Take all of me.” 

Oscar braces himself as you move over him, the steady grind of your hips unrelenting, intent. He can feel every shiver of heat dragging across him, every fractured breath you spill against his skin. It’s catastrophic in its simplicity. How you don’t ask for more, don’t demand what he can barely restrain from giving.

Instead, you work yourself against his lap until your body seizes again, breaking open on top of him.

He’s hard, painfully so, but he leaves it, neglects the throbbing insistence in favor of wrapping himself around you. His mouth finds your shoulders, the curve of your neck, his lips ghosting where words won’t reach. He breathes you in, steadying himself against the weight of your release. Your trembling ebbs, little by little, your breathing dragged back into rhythm as though he’s guiding you down from the height with each kiss he presses to your skin. His control feels thin, stretched, but it holds, because he’d rather let you come apart in his arms a thousand times than take a single step too far.

Eventually, you lift your head. Your faces are close, so close he can count the flecks in your eyes, the flush still blooming across your cheeks. The pause hangs sharp between you, a silence taut with everything he’s refused himself.

“Oscar,” you whisper, and he’s convinced his name has never sounded this good. 

You lean in, decisive, breaking the line he’s held so stubbornly. Your mouth finds his, soft and insistent.

Oscar’s breath stutters, heart collapsing into the space you’ve crossed. 

The kiss doesn’t end quickly. It stretches, deepens, becomes something unruly in its patience. Your mouths fit, pull, linger, testing how far the line bends now that it’s been broken. Oscar’s hands cradle your back, your jaw, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold every part of you. The air tastes of want and restraint, of everything he’s been trying to keep buried.

When you finally break for breath, your voice is small and uncertain. “Do you… want it to happen here?”

Oscar almost laughs, a dry sound caught between disbelief and need. “On my couch?” he says. “Not a chance. You’re not having your first time like that.”

Before you can protest, he’s already shifting, sitting up with you still wrapped around him. His arms tighten, lifting you with an ease that makes you breathe out a giggle. The movement is careful, deliberate, his control stitched into every step toward his bedroom.

He lays you down gently against the sheets. You’re sprawled there, bare, the trust in your eyes knocking the breath out of him more than your body ever could. He strips his shirt without ceremony, the fabric tugged over his head and discarded to the floor. 

You reach for him instantly, tugging him down until his weight settles against you. Your mouth finds his again, hungry, pulling him deeper into the choice you’ve already made.

Oscar doesn’t give in to your urgency, not yet. You can feel the weight of him pressed against your thigh, the undeniable strain of his body saying he wants it as much as you do, but his hand moves first. His fingers slip between your legs, familiar now. The touch is enough to make you whimper, enough to make your plea stumble out again.

“Oscar,” you pout, “I want it now.”

He grins a bit. “And you’ll get it,” he laughs. “But not until you’re ready. I’m not ruining this for you by rushing.”

Two fingers slide in, slow, deliberate. You clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging lightly over skin, every inch of you fighting between relief and impatience. He keeps the pace unhurried, his voice steady against the tremor of your breath. 

“Let me do this,” he says. “You’ll thank me for it.”

When he works a third finger into you, the stretch draws a gasp, your body tightening around him. He leans in, lips brushing your ear, tone quiet but merciless. “That’s it. Open up for me, baby. If you can’t take this, you can’t take me.”

You cling harder, muffling a moan against his throat. He takes the sound as surrender, his free hand guiding yours down to his cock.

“Touch me while I’m touching you,” he instructs. “Wrap your hand around me—there, good. I want to, ah, feel you while ‘m working you open.”

Your movements are hesitant at first, but his groan betrays how quickly you’re finding him. He praises you between breaths, the restraint in his tone fraying. “Good girl,” he grunts. “That’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

His fingers curl inside you at the same time you squeeze him in your hand, the rhythm pulling him closer to the edge of patience. Still he doesn’t let go of the pace, steady and sure, determined to shape you to him.

“I’m going to finish again,” you warn, voice shaking with pleasure and impatience. 

Oscar laughs breathlessly. “Do you prefer I start edging you?” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

Oscar withdraws his hand abruptly, the sudden absence making your body clench around nothing. You start to protest, the sound caught in your throat, but then you see him reaching toward the nightstand. His intent is obvious, clinical—responsible in the way you always knew he would be. A condom. Of course.

Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist. His eyes flick to you, brows raised. You hesitate, then force the words past the heat rising in your chest.

“I… I want to feel all of it.” The admission is soft, halting. “I’m on the pill. I just—” Your voice falters, nervous under the weight of what you’re asking. “I want it like that.”

Oscar stills, every line of him taut. For a moment, he looks at you as if trying to read whether you understand the gravity of it. His throat works, but no objection comes. Instead, the hesitation breaks into something rawer, hungrier.

He surges forward, the restraint he’s clung to unraveling in one pull of his mouth against yours. His hands frame your face. When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his voice is rough with certainty. 

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he grunts. “I’m the cleanest driver on the grid.” 

Oscar holds himself above you, every muscle drawn tight, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on your face. Not on your body, though the sight of you spread beneath him is enough to undo him entirely, but on your expression. The subtle flickers of nerves and want, the way your lips part around a breath that doesn’t quite make it out.

The first push is only his tip, and already you’re thrashing under him, your hips jolting, your breath breaking apart in little gasps. He stops instantly, teeth gritted, forcing his own body into check. His voice comes out broken. “Breathe, baby,” he coaxes. “Let me in.”

“I’m trying,” you choke out.

Your legs tighten around him, a plea and a tether both, and he presses forward again, his chest brushing yours as if the closeness alone might ease you open. He whispers between kisses at your temple, your cheek. “You’re fine. You can take me. We’re gonna make you take me, yeah?”

Each inch feels impossible, a stretch that makes your nails dig crescents into his back. He winces, but it anchors him, sharp pain grounding him against the molten pull of your body. He eases in further, patient even as his control frays, every fraction of movement wrung out with care.

By the time he bottoms out, he’s trembling with the effort of holding still, your nails sunk deep into his skin. He presses his forehead to yours, swallowing hard against the rush of heat and relief, and murmurs, “There. You’ve got all of me now.”

Oscar stays still, every nerve alive, forcing himself into patience. Your body tightens, then loosens by degrees, your small sounds shifting from ragged gasps to something softer. He keeps whispering into the space between you, his voice low, coaxing. “Okay?” 

For a moment, it feels endless, this suspended stillness. But then you nod, eyes opening to meet his. “I can take it,” you say shakily. “You can move.”

He exhales like it’s a prayer answered. The first motion is cautious, a shallow pull and press, barely any distance at all. He watches every twitch of your face, every flicker of response, adjusting to each of them as though you’re speaking without words. The restraint is brutal, but he clings to it, steady as he eases into a rhythm.

“How do you feel?” His voice is strained, though he tries for evenness.

Your arms are tight around him when you whisper back, almost breaking on the word. “Full.”

Something inside him gives at that, a low groan caught against your throat. He presses deeper, still careful, but there’s no hiding how the praise slips free of him now. “That’s what I wanted you to feel,” he pants. “You’re taking me so well. Hold on, okay?”

You cling tighter, nails biting into his skin, your body arching up to meet his slow thrusts. Every movement is tempered with care, yet each one builds, layering want against want against want. And through every shiver, every tremor, he stays with you, guiding you through the rhythm as though the only thing that matters is that you feel exactly how completely you belong here, wrapped around him.

Oscar keeps himself buried inside you, but the tension beneath his restraint is starting to fracture. He reads the nerves in you easily—the way your nails bite deeper into his shoulders with every whispered praise, the way your gaze flits between his face and the place where your bodies are joined. 

He softens his voice, keeps it steady, but something slips through, unguarded. “Did you ever imagine Lando…?” 

The name lands like a stone. Your body jerks, clenching tight around him, your voice breaking into a startled sound. “Don’t,” you start, but it’s too late. 

The reaction shoots straight through Oscar, sharp as a blade. Jealousy floods him, sudden and unrelenting, and the careful pace he’s kept wavers. He drives into you harder, sharper, as though punishing the question, punishing the thought, punishing himself for even letting it out.

Your eyes widen, shame flickering there, but your lips part only to release a choked whimper. Oscar’s jaw locks. He knows you’re innocent—knows he has no claim over you, not yet—but the flare in his chest won’t quiet.

“You probably did,” he grits, but he doesn’t slow. If anything, his rhythm grows more pointed, his hips snapping with a certainty that shakes the frame of the bed. “But it’s, ah, me you’re in bed with right now, isn’t it? You let him sit there thinking he had a chance.”

He feels the shift in you before you even make a sound. The sharp edge of pain softens, melts into something that has you arching into him rather than shying away. Your muscles spasm around his cock, and the sensation drags a hiss from his throat. He’s watching your face, the tremor in your lip, the way your lashes tremble like you can’t decide whether to keep your eyes on him or shut out the weight of what you’re feeling. Every flicker of your expression is another pull at the tight wire of his restraint.

He doesn’t give you the chance to retreat. His words press harder than his body does, voice curling against your ear like a hand forcing you open. “Is this what you wanted from him? For him to fuck you like this?”

You shake your head, desperate, breath breaking as you whisper, “Don’t mention—please don’t—” The plea collapses into a moan, traitorous in how it curls upward, shivering with pleasure. The contradiction only fuels him. His chest tightens with the knowledge that you can’t control how your body answers for you.

“Why did you even go?” His voice is low, rough, each thrust punctuating the question, each movement heavier than the last. “Why let him put his hands on you when this—” He pulls nearly all the way out before sinking back in, groaning when you grip down on him. “—is what you needed?”

Your thighs quiver around his hips, caught between wanting to deny him and wanting more of what he’s doing to you. Your head tips back against the pillow, throat tight, a cry caught halfway between shame and want. You manage another broken, “Stop—” but it’s ruined when you keen at the very next stroke. 

Oscar’s mouth twists into something almost like a smile, except there’s no humor in it, only disbelief at how much he wants you undone, how much he’s willing to press until you admit it. “You don’t want me to stop,” he hisses against your jaw, his teeth grazing lightly before he pulls back enough to see your expression. “You’re clenching around me just from hearing his name. Fucking pathetic.”

The words make you shudder, your voice faltering, caught between begging him not to speak and begging him not to stop. Tears catch at the corners of your eyes as you writhe beneath him, pulled taut between shame and unbearable want. Your nails leave crescents on his back, dragging against the sweaty heat of his skin, your body betraying every protest your mouth tries to form.

His jealousy distills into possession, every thrust stamped with claim. “You feel that?” His hand slides higher up your thigh, gripping hard to pull you open wider for him. His voice carries both accusation and hunger. “This is mine. Not Lando’s. Not anyone’s. Just mine.”

You writhe, nails dragging red crescents into his back, and he swears you’re holding onto him like the words themselves tether you in place. Your head tips back, throat bared, and the sounds you make tumble out helpless, unrestrained. Each noise cuts through him, proof that the truth is already written into your body.

“Tell me,” he pushes, eyes narrowing as he watches every shift in your expression. “Tell me this is what you want.”

“Yes—” The word bursts out of you like air from underwater. “It’s you, Osc. Only you.”

The admission strikes him deeper than he expects. His chest feels tight, almost painful, but the drive in him doesn’t falter. He leans down, fucking you with a rhythm that borders on desperate. His breath comes ragged, his words breaking between thrusts. “Good. I’m going to make sure you don’t forget that.” 

You’re shaking now, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing holding you together. Oscar watches you unravel beneath him, every gasp and tremor etching itself into him like proof. His jealousy burns into reverence, frustration transmuting into a kind of worship he can’t disguise. He moves with a force that feels inevitable, each stroke declaring what he can’t stop repeating in his head—you’re his, his, his.

The sound of your moans mixes with his labored breathing, the room thick with the truth neither of you can take back. Oscar, locked on your face, feels the words steady inside him as certain as the rhythm of his body: this is where you belong, and he’ll carve that into you until there’s no space left for doubt.

Oscar feels the rush building, heavy and urgent, the rhythm of your body pulling him closer with every clench, every tremor that runs through you. His jaw locks as he watches you, the way your chest heaves, the way your thighs tremble, the way you give yourself over despite the fracture of your voice. He buries himself once more, feels the fluttering heat of you clamp around him, and it nearly breaks his control. 

With a groan, he drags himself out at the last second, fist tight around his throbbing cock as he spills hot over the trembling swell of your cunt. The sight of it—your body marked, flushed, spasming for him—makes his chest cave with something tighter than relief, something dangerous in its pull. His stomach knots, heat spreading in waves as he drags his release across your skin, unable to look away.

His breath comes ragged, his hand steadying against your thigh as though he’s holding himself up. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his temple, his eyes locked on you even as he fights to catch air. He’s still watching you, as though the mess he’s made of you isn’t the end but only the beginning of something he can’t stop wanting, can’t stop chasing.

Oscar doesn’t catch it at first. Your voice is thin, words running over themselves, half-formed and tumbling out too quickly. It’s only when your hand presses against his chest like you’re holding him back from some invisible blame that he realizes—you’re apologizing.

The sound of it is almost frantic, defensive. “It was good,” you’re saying, “so, so good. I don’t know why—why I didn’t—” 

For a moment, he just stares at you. And then he laughs, low in his chest, the sound warm and unbelieving. He leans down until his breath touches your cheek, where he plants a chaste kiss. “You think that matters?” he says, affectionate even now. “You think that changes what this is?”

“I didn’t—” you start, voice cracking. “I thought I was supposed to. I don’t want you to think I can’t—”

He kisses you before you spiral further, steady, grounding, as if he can bring you back into yourself. When he pulls away just far enough to speak, his voice carries that clipped, dry calm he uses when he’s stating the obvious. “Not everybody finishes from penetrative sex. Doesn’t mean you won’t. Doesn’t mean I’m leaving you like this.”

“But it was good,” you insist, almost pleading, your eyes wide on his. “I swear it was. I don’t want you to think you didn’t—”

“I know it was,” he cuts in softly, thumb brushing your jaw. “I could feel you. I know.”

Your confusion flickers in your eyes, brows drawing, lips parting like you’re about to question him. He doesn’t let you. 

His hand slides lower, steady and practiced, and then you gasp when his fingers press into the swollen heat of your clit. You jolt under him, body clenching again, impossibly sensitive. “Oh my God. Oscar.” The words spill out helpless, half a whimper, half a plea.

He’s using what he left on you, slick and messy, his touch circling slow until you’re trembling. He spreads his cum over your clit, using it as lubrication. “You don’t have to—” you try to protest again, but your voice breaks into a moan, betraying you. “Oh, that—d-don’t stop, please—”

Oscar covers your mouth with his, kissing the sound away, swallowing every broken noise like he’s collecting proof. He doesn’t waste time. He already knows where to go, what to touch, how to have you spiraling under him, and he gives it to you. 

His hand cups your breast, thumb teasing over your nipple until it pebbles; the way you arch into his palm makes heat flare sharp in his chest. He bends his head, mouth closing over the soft swell of you, sucking your nipple between his teeth just to hear the strangled gasp you give. Every sound you make feels like it brands him, burns straight through to the core. Your fingers claw against his shoulders, needy, almost frantic, and it only spurs him on.

His other hand works between your thighs, sliding through the mess there with slow, unhurried strokes, each one sinking deeper, curling until your back bows. The glide is obscene, slick with his cum and yours together, the sound wet and shameless. His cock twitches against your thigh, leaving streaks of warmth, and he grinds it there deliberately. Just so you feel every throb of him, just so you know what you’re doing to him.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice rough, caught between reverence and taunt. “Taking me back in. You’re so selfish, aren’t you? Can’t get enough of me, even now.”

He presses deeper, fingers curling hard, knuckles dragging against your walls until your whole body trembles around him. His cock smears more of himself over your skin, leaking hot against you. “That’s it—suck my fingers in, take it all,” he pants. “You like that, don’t you? Me pushing my cum inside of you.”

You moan something that could be his name, cracked and broken, your thighs trembling around his wrist. The sound pulls a low laugh from him, muffled against your breast where he leaves another sharp bite. “Let’s use our words, baby. Do you like the way I fill you up? Do you like it when I use you?”

Your voice stumbles over itself, wrecked, words tumbling free without shape until finally, you choke out, “Please—yes, I love it, I love it—”

The admission guts him. His cock throbs helplessly, smearing precum down your thigh in messy streaks as his fingers drive harder, deeper, fucking his cum inside you. He can feel how soaked you are, how your body can’t decide whether to cling tighter or push for more. His mouth roves hungrily across your skin—breast, collarbone, throat—kissing, biting, soothing as though he can’t bear to leave any part of you untouched.

“That’s it,” he rasps, need fraying his voice. “So fucking tight on my fingers. Drenched for me. You’re going to come all over me, aren’t you? Going to fall apart—the way Lando couldn’t get you to.”

The pressure builds quick, relentless, your body clutching at his hand as though terrified of losing it. You’re babbling again, high and frantic, words dissolving into cries that he swallows with desperate kisses. His thumb circles your clit, merciless, coaxing the tension until it breaks sharp and overwhelming.

Your body locks hard around his fingers, pulsing, dragging every spasm out of yourself against the unyielding curl of him. The sound you make is ragged, shivering straight into his mouth as your nails rake down his back, carving him open. 

He keeps working you through it, dragging you over the edge until the last tremor leaves your thighs quaking, your body limp beneath him. When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, your face is flushed, damp with sweat, lips parted and wet from his kisses. His fingers are still inside you, glistening, holding the mess of both of you there as though he doesn’t want to let go. His cock presses hot and swollen against your thigh, twitching with every shallow breath he takes, but he doesn’t push it further. Not yet.

Later, steam fogs the small bathroom, curling around Oscar as he steadies you under the warm spray. His hands are careful, washing away every trace with a gentleness that surprises even him. You sway, drowsy on your feet, so he holds you closer, lips brushing your temple. He rinses you slowly, as though there’s all the time in the world, as though this moment deserves to stretch itself out and live in memory.

He doesn’t let you lift a finger after. He steers you to the kitchen, pressing snacks into your hands before you can protest, watching with satisfaction as you eat what you can. There’s a stubborn part of you that insists you’re fine, that you don’t need this much fuss. “It was just sex,” you huff, cheeks tinged with pink. “It’s not like I’m sick or anything.” 

He only shakes his head, that small, flat smirk pulling at his mouth. “Humor me.”

When he’s finally satisfied, he shepherds you into his bed, piling blankets over you until you’re swaddled in them. You laugh at the absurdity, muffled under the layers, but he only tucks the edges tighter, leaning down to kiss your cheek. 

“This is ridiculous,” you protest.

“Not ridiculous,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s necessary.”

You end up face-to-face, eyes soft and heavy-lidded. The air hums with something softer now, the tension dissolved into intimacy. His fingers trace idle shapes against your arm, a rhythm meant to soothe. You search his expression, trying to pin down what comes next, but he beats you to it.

“We don’t have to know right now,” he says, voice low, steady. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Whatever this is.”

There’s nothing left in you to argue. 

Warm, fed, and cocooned in him, you let your eyelids drift down. 

Just before sleep pulls you under, you murmur drowsily, “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

He only smiles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He’s not even sure if you’re awake to hear his response. 

"You're my new pillow."

Eddie chuckled out the last of his smoke, leaning over to his bedside table to stump out your shared blunt. His laugh vibrated straight into your ears as you rested your head on his chest. You had clambered over him, straddling his waist and practically collapsing on top of him as you snuggled up to him in a child's pose.

You and Eddie hadn't been together for very long and the whole relationship thing was new to both of you. Well, it was definitely new to you - you hadn't actually been brave enough to ask Eddie about his experience in all of this. But so far, everything was going swimmingly. The two of you were still very much in the honeymoon phase and anything you did together had your heart pounding with nerves and excitement. You wouldn't be surprised if he could feel your heart pounding in your chest right now because you could certainly hear his. The two of you had cuddled plenty of times, but for some reason, this one felt different. Possibly because you had never cuddled in this position before and, now that you think about it, it was a rather intimate arrangement. The heat of your crotch was directly on top of his and any sudden movement would definitely have them brushing together. 

You would be lying to yourself if you said that you hadn't thought about being ... romantic with Eddie. The thought had crossed your mind numerous times, even at the simplest things he did; when he would stretch and the bottom of his shirt would ride up to expose his happy trail, or when he would place his hand on the back of the passenger seat and look back as he was reversing - it took everything in you not to pounce on him right then and there. It was as if you were a sex fiend. Almost all day, every day you were thinking about him. You'd never known anything like it. You had thought about pleasuring him plenty of times - even dreamt about it. You had dreamt one two many times about him using you how he liked; fucking your throat like a fleshlight, pounding your pussy ridiculously hard, spanking you as he pleased, breeding you. But perhaps that was a bit much for your first time.

You and Eddie hadn't really done anything sexual yet. There was the odd make out session where the two of you go a bit too into it, or when he would trail his hand up your thigh whenever he was sat next to you, but that was about as far as it got. You weren't a prude by any means, but the thought of having sex with someone and letting them see all of you, made you nervous - as it would anyone.  

Perhaps it was from the weed you had smoked together, but you were feeling particularly brave tonight. 

You completely relaxed into him, resting the full weight of your mound on his crotch. Your heart worked double time to catch up with his. Eddie cleared his throat, yet kept his eyes on the movie that was playing on the TV in his room. You could tell he was trying not to give you a reaction. 

But you weren't having any of that. 

You moved against him again, pretending that you were getting yourself in a more comfortable position, and gently rolled your hips over his. Eddie bit his lip to retain his moan but kept his eyes on the screen, looking as though he was staring through it rather than watching it. You rolled your hips again, testing the waters to see if he would stop you.

He didn't.

You continued to grind against him slowly, beginning to feel his boner prod at your clit. You sighed into his chest at the feeling and began to quicken your pace. The two of you were moaning freely now, getting lost in the feeling of each other. Eddie rested his palms on the globes of your naked ass, your shorts haven ridden up to expose your ass cheeks. You moaned again when he gave them a juicy squeeze before using them to guide you back and forth along his stiffness, feeling him become fully hard beneath you. You were completely disconnected from the world around you, focusing on the pleasure you were giving yourself (and Eddie in the process), and you fastened your pace even more to help you reach your climax. But Eddie's climax was quicker approaching than yours and he held your hips to slow you down.

"Sweetheart, you're gonna have to stop before I ruin these pants."

You snap back to reality and stop immediately, lifting your hips with a flushed face. You felt like you had been caught doing something you shouldn't have. Your pussy still throbbed despite suddenly feeling rather shy about the whole thing. Perhaps you weren't as brave as you thought.

"Eddie, I'm so sorry. I don't even know why I started doing that I---"

"Hey, it's okay. Don't worry I enjoyed it too." He laughed.

Your walls fluttered at the sound. Your thighs began aching as you hovered above him and boldly sat back down on top of him as to rest them. He bit his lip in the sexiest way you had ever seen at the feeling. His bulge was still rock hard beneath you. There was no way that was comfortable. 

Your mind began racing. Was it too early in your relationship to take things further? Two months was long enough, right. But now you were thinking that maybe you had waited too long. You'd had friends who had had sex within the first couple weeks, and some even on the first date. Eddie had been an angel letting you wait as long as you'd liked until you were ready. Maybe you weren't ready to go all the way, but it was about time the two of you went a bit further.

"What if I helped you out?"

Eddie blinked in surprise at the suggestion. "What, like jerk me off?"

"Or a blow job if you want." You had spoken before your brain could tell you not to. Perhaps it was your heart speaking its desires. "I mean I've never given a blow job before, but there's a first time for everything, right?"

Eddie perked up a bit. "Only if you're comfortable, Sweetheart. Don't think this is something you have to do,"  he shifted from beneath you, "I can just go to the bathroom and get rid of it myself."

"No!-" You stopped him before he could get up. "I want to."

He paused, his hazy eyes looking deeply into yours. "You're really sure?"

"I am." You spoke confidently. Even if you hadn't been smoking weed that night, you were sure your decision would still have been the same. "I just want to make you feel good."

Eddie beamed at you, relaxing his head back into his pillow and resting his arms behind his head. You almost laughed at how little convincing he needed. You dared to steal a kiss, running your hand up his clothed chest until they reached the soft skin of his cheeks. Eddie kissed back eagerly, almost making it hard for your lips to keep up with how desperately he kissed you. His fingers weaved through your hair to hold you closer, pressing your lips harder into his. He couldn't get enough of you - the softness of your lips, the taste of cherry soda on your tongue. He kissed you like a man starved. You refrained from grinding your hips again, knowing that he was close before. You didn't want this to be over any sooner than it needed to. You pulled away with sore lips , much to Eddie's dismay, and instead latched yourself to his neck like a leech. There was a rumble of a groan when you suckled on the spot just below his ear. His flesh was hot and salty when you soothed your tongue over the fresh bruise. Eddie was far too appetising to be left confided beneath his clothes, and so you made quick work of removing his shirt. You kissed down his body with the same fervour as Eddie had, through the sparse hair on his chest, down his soft tummy, and to his happy trail. You left a litter of hickeys in your wake, taking your time to savour every moan and groan from Eddie's lips. You tongued at the waistband of his sweatpants, eyeing him through your lashes for permission of removal. 

Eddie didn't reply. Instead he lifted his hips and the two of you pulled his sweats and boxers down together before he kicked them off and onto the floor. Your mouth watered at the sight of his cock standing tall and proud. Eddie fisted it out of habit, squeezing his tip to let his pearly arousal leak out. It took everything in you not to just swallow him whole, but you weren't even sure that you could. His cock was thick, and you wondered if you would even be able to fit your lips around it (or your cunt for that matter). You reach out and touched the head of his cock with the delicate tip of your index finger. Eddie hissed at the feeling of your fingers sliding his slick around his shaft. You experimented with a kiss, starting at the base of his shaft and trailing them upwards along the left side of his length. You teased a breath over the tip, but neglected to appease it with your lips, and instead repeated your actions on the right side of his cock. It twitched at your teasing and Eddie's breath hitched in his throat. He was staring at you in anticipation, yearning to feel the warmth of your mouth.

"Didn't take you for such a tease."

You kept your eyes on his as you licked a wet stripe along the underside of his cock, finally reaching his fiery tip to subdue its aching. Eddie's lip caught between his teeth. You did it again, only this time when you reached his tip you softly wrapped your lips around it. You suckled it lightly, rolling the muscle of your tongue along his hot flesh. It was taking everything in Eddie not to buck his hips and force his cock down your throat. Your tongue was swirling around his head, saliva leaking from the suction of you lips and dribbling down his shaft. Eddie groaned at the sight. If there was one thing you knew about Eddie, it was that he liked it messy. You could tell from the way that he kissed you - often with too much tongue and strings of saliva bridging between your lips.

You gently wrapped your hand around his hefty length, collecting the globs of saliva that had escaped your lips, and used it as lubrication to glide it up and down to start jerking him off. The moan he let out went straight to your core and you were eager to hear more. You took him deeper into your mouth, as far as you could go without gagging before pulling back up again. His moan was louder that time and his chest began to heave. You did it once again, going slow as to feel every ridge and vein along your tongue and following your hand up and down to stroke where you couldn't reach. You continued this action, picking up the pace a bit and languidly moving your wrist. His delectable moans and groans reached your ears and scratched at your brain. If ever someone was to find a way to bottle sounds, his moans would most certainly be your favourite memento.

"Watch the teeth, Baby Girl."

"Do that tongue thing again."

"Fuck yeah, just like that."

Once you were finally confident enough that you were doing the right things, you experimented by taking him a little deeper. You went slow again, testing the limits of your gag reflex. You got about 3/4 of the way down before you gagged and immediately removed yourself from him to catch your breath.

"You alright?" He panted. "Take it easy, Baby."

You sniffed and blinked your teary eyes with a nod before going straight back to it. You did it again, stopping just at your reflex so you wouldn't gag and began sweeping your tongue along his shaft, sticking it out so that it just barely touched his balls. Despite his advice, you were definitely not going to take it easy. In fact, it was the last thing you wanted. You bobbed your head, starting with rapid pace. He moaned again, this time he wasn't able to refrain from thrusting his hips and his cock sharply jabbed at the back of your throat. He pulled you off of him when you gagged loudly.

But you'd liked it.

"Shit baby, I'm so sorry I--"

"Do it again." You sniffed your watery eyes away.

Your walls were throbbing at the thought. You had had so many dreams of him using and abusing you. At this moment you wanted nothing more than for those dreams to come true. To please him any way that he wanted. 

He looked at you like you were a mad man. "I don't think-"

"Please." You pouted, slowly starting to guide your hand up and down his cock once more.

Instead of replying, he threaded his hand into your hair and guided your lips back to his cock. You opened them and gladly accepted his length. He started off with slow shallow thrusts, using your hair to guide your head up and down his shaft as he did. He did that for a while before he picked up the pace. You first began hollowing your cheeks to keep him in your mouth, until his cock gradually went deeper and deeper until you were gagging again. Only this time he didn't stop.

"Good fucking girl, taking my cock so well." 

You opened your mouth wider and relaxed your throat to accommodate the rest of his length. Your eyes squeezed shut in concentration, begging yourself to refrain from gagging when he thrusted deep enough to have your nose nuzzled in his bristly pubic hair.  You sputtered and gasped for air every time he his hips drew back. The idea of him using you the way he was had you absolutely soaked. You didn't know that pleasing someone else could make you feel that way.

"Fuck baby, I'm close."

His hips thrusted shallowly again, giving you a chance to catch your breath, and became irregular in his rhythm. He panted and gasped, and his moans became louder and more frequent with every thrust. He soon lost his rhythm completely and resorted to dragging your head up and down on his cock using your hair. 

"Fuck, I'm cumming." He pulled your head off him, to your disappointment.

The first two spurts of cum landed on his stomach, but you couldn't let that delicious cum go to waste. You had been craving the taste of him for so long that you greedily wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, letting the rest of his load shoot down your throat and pool on your tongue. You moaned at the taste - both bitter and sweet. You stayed there until his cock finally stopped twitching and he had finished completely. You swallowed it eagerly, some escaping the corners of your lips as you pulled yourself off his cock. Eddie couldn't believe it as you licked your lips.

"You didn't have to do that you know."

"I know." You gave him a cheeky grin before leaning down to lick the drips of cum that had landed on his stomach, not letting a drop go to waste. "Was I good?"

"Good? Baby, I don't think I've ever cum that hard in my life." Eddie laughed, wiping a dribble of cum from the corner of your mouth that you had missed. "Are you sure that was your first blow job?"

You wrapped your lips around his thumb and licked it clean, nodding your head. You felt his cock twitch beneath you when you swirled your tongue around his digit. 

"Well, you're a natural." He perked himself up. "Let me return the favour."

You froze. Any confidence you had gained from pleasing him had completely left your system at the thought of Eddie possibly seeing you naked. Your insecure little brain didn't know if you were ready for him to see you like that. You removed his thumb from your mouth and stared downwards, shaking your head.

"I don't think I'm ready for that just yet."

His shoulders fell, "I understand." But he paused in thought and his eyes lit up a bright as the lightbulb inside his head. "What if we did some over the clothes stuff"

"Huh?"

"Would you let me touch you if I did it over your clothes?"

"Oh, I don't know Eddie."

He pouted, staring at you with those sweet puppy dog eyes of his - your kryptonite. "I just want to make you feel good, Baby."

Fuck.

How could you resist him when he begged at you with those beautiful eyes and played with the ends of your hair, using your own words against you. As insecure as you felt, you knew Eddie wouldn't judge you. Heck, he's probably the least judgemental person you've ever met. Why would the "Town Freak" judge you? He's told you plenty of times how gorgeous you are and how lucky he was to have you. Eddie was your safe space. There was no reason to hide yourself from him. If he could unapologetically be himself, why couldn't you?

You gave one soft nod in agreement, "But how are we--"

"C'mere."

He sat up against the headboard eagerly. He seemed to already know how this was going to play out, and you wondered if he had given this some thought before. The idea of him thinking about pleasuring you, the same way you had thought about him, gave you a rush of intrigue and your dripping hole clenched around nothing. He made you rest between his legs with your back to his chest. He wrapped his arms around you and started by pressing soft kisses to your neck. Your head fell to his shoulder at the feeling. With this new display of skin, he began sucking at the junction between your neck and shoulder, causing you to moan aloud. You reached back and tangled your hand in his hair, pulling him closer to you as a sign for him to suck harder. He did so, leaving a trail of purple hickeys as he went. He kept a hand on your hip before trailing the other one up to your breast and squeezing over your t shirt and bra. You sighed in delight. The hand on your hip fiddled with the hem of  your shirt, itching to touch the soft skin beneath. He teased his thumb under it, stroking the soft skin of your stomach. Lost in pleasure, you almost didn't notice this hand easing its way up until it reached the wire of your bra. 

You spoke his name as a warning. 

"What? It's still technically over your clothes." You could feel his smirk against your neck.

You whimpered when he groped your breast, sliding his fingers over your hardened nipple through the thin material of your lace bra. His other hand soon followed, touching your hot skin with desire. It was all too much, yet not enough.

"More." You whispered in his ear.

You felt his softened cock throb against your back. He took his right hand and began trailing it down your stomach until he reached the waistband of your shorts. He paused, and you nodded in consent, expecting his hand to slide over your shorts. But his hands reached in, making sure to stay over your panties and he groaned when he felt how damp they were.

"Sucking me off get you all wet, Sweetheart? You liked it when I used your pretty little throat?" His voice was deep and raspy in your ear as he tickled the tip of his nose up and down the length of your neck to breathe you in.

You moaned a yes when his fingertips found your clit. His touch was light and he was being far too much of a gentleman for your taste. You placed your hand on top of his over your shorts and pushed down on his hand in desperation, making him put more pressure of your clit. You moaned again before guiding his hand to rub tight circles. He was actually perfect. He kept a steady pace and pressure on your clit that had you moaning and sighing his name. He began sucking on your neck again and squeezing your tit with his free hand. The combination of all three had you reaching your climax quicker than you had anticipated. You had never gotten yourself off this quickly before, you didn't think it possible.

"Touch me."

"I am touching you, Baby girl."

"No," You panted, "properly."

Eddie had to stop his eyes from rolling back. He knew exactly what you wanted. He stopped his movements, sliding his palm up your pubic bone until his fingertips brushed the waistband of your panties, torturously snapping them against your hips. He teased his fingertips under there, tickling them along your smooth skin. Your hips thrust upwards in desperation and he finally moved his hand through your soft pubic hair and to your clit. You somehow moaned louder at the rough pads of his fingers. No barriers between you - skin on skin. His fingers slipped through your slick and he continued circling your clit once more. You could've cried, it felt so good. You were panting heavily into his neck, bucking your hips into his palm for more.

"Inside me. Please."

"Yeah? You want to fuck yourself on my fingers?"

You nodded desperately.

His fingers slid downwards to your aching hole and immediately eased two fingers in. You roughly grabbed at his wrist from the unexpectedly quick penetration. You held him inside of you to let your walls accommodate to the stretch his thick fingers gave you. It was no trouble getting them in, seeing as you were practically leaking everywhere, but you weren't expecting to feel so full with just two of his fingers. You couldn't imagine what his cock would feel like. Once you had adjusted, you finally began rolling your hips, feeling his finger slip into you deeper and with ease. You moaned when he curled his fingers inside of you, immediately finding that one spot you had always so desperately tried to reach yourself, but never could.

"Mmm, right there."

"You like my fingers sweetheart?"

"Love them."

His chuckle rumbled against your back. The steady pace of your grinding hips turned sloppy as your high reached nearer. He pushed his fingers deep, allowing the heel of his palm to press against your clit. He moved his hand in time with you, finally thrusting his fingers in and out himself and allowing you grind your clit against his palm. Your head fell back onto his shoulder again, and your nails dug crescent moon into his forearms. Eddie thought he was in heaven - with your head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hung open in a silent moan of pleasure - he had never seen you look so beautiful.

When Eddie began quickening his pace you couldn't help but cry out. "Fuck Eddie, your gonna make me cum."

You had stopped thrusting your hips and allowed him to finish you off. His pace remained the same: unrelenting. He worked his wrist to keep his palm rubbing against your clit with every thrust and curl of his lengthy digits. Your walls squeezed them tight.

"That's it, Baby. Be a good girl and cum for me."

His words took you over the edge, and you cried out in pleasure as your orgasm swept over you. His name was released from your lips like a prayer. Eddie could only imagine how you would react if you had cum all over his cock. He practically growled at your moans as you fell apart on his fingers. The way your walls were clenching around them had him growing hard again, imagining how tightly they would squeeze his cock. But you fell back into him in exhaustion, struggling to catch your breath and stop the ringing in your ears. 

A whimper fell from your lips when he removed his fingers, leaving you empty and leaking. Eddie couldn't help himself when he placed a single finger in his mouth, moaning at the sweet taste of your release.

"Wanna taste, Sweetheart?"

He didn't really give you an option when he pressed his middle finger to your lips. You opened them as an automatic response with the absence of all thought. Your tongue licked at his finger as you had his cock moments before, and Eddie groaned at the feeling. He knew you were worn out and tried to stop his cock from growing any harder.

"You taste so good, don't you Baby?"

You moaned around his finger before pulling away with a quiet pop, your eyes blinking slowly. You couldn't tell if it was the weed kicking in, or the amazing orgasm that had made you so drowsy.

"Will you let me taste you for real one day? Let me eat that sweet pussy of yours?"

All inhibitions are controlled by desire.

"Mmmh, you can do it now, if you want." You sighed, euphoric from your latest high.

"Damn Sweetheart, you sure?"

"Please." You languished against his neck, tiredly.

Eddie wasted no time shifting from behind you, gently placing your head on the pillow he had previously been resting on. You snuggled into its warmth as Eddie climbed down your body. He lifted up your shirt, just enough so that it was still covering your tits, and kissed his way down your stomach as you had before. He left you a matching smattering of hickeys for you to wake up to in the morning. He tucked his fingers around the band of both your shorts and panties, looking to you for the heads up before sliding them down your legs. 

You whimpered at his breath on your bare pussy as he spread you folds apart slowly, savouring you entirely. His cock was growing harder by the second just looking at how pretty your pussy was, and he pressed it into the mattress for relief. Your folds glistened in the light of the TV - movie still long forgotten. Slick was still dripping from your hole and he lapped it up before it could drop on the bed sheets. You moaned at the unexpected feeling, raking your hands into his hair to pull him closer for more. He licked another stripe, starting at your hole and ending at your sensitive clit. You shuddered when he wrapped his lips around it and began gently sucking. It was a weird and wonderful sensation of his wet tongue massaging your folds, practically dripping his saliva everywhere. But you loved it just as messy as he did. He moved lower, prodding your entrance with his tongue before finally slipping it in as far as it could go. Your grip tightened on his hair and his nose pushed itself onto your clit. You could've cried when he started fucking you with his tongue, moving his head side to side to stimulate your swollen clit. His hips grinded against the bed in time with his tongue, imagining that they would swap places and he could have you wrapped around his cock. Your juices flooded his mouth when he started moving faster.

Your high was fast approaching thanks to your previous orgasm and Eddie went back to sucking your clit like it produced the elixir of life and he was a dying man. Your nerves were practically screaming and your muscles were tensing so much you thought you were going to cramp. Eddies moans vibrated your poor little clit as his cock slipped and slid over his bed sheets. But even when you began thrashing, Eddie didn't let up until you creamed on his tongue. Any fatigue you had before was long forgotten when you began to buck your hips, grinding yourself against his face until you were seeing stars. Eddie changed the pace of his hips to match yours, forcing himself to catch up with you so you could cum together. With one long moan of his name, you released yourself on his tongue, your entire body shaking and twitching as he continued to lap you up to ride out your high. He moaned into your pussy when he finally spurted ropes of cum onto his sheets.

He caught his breath quicker than you did. "You okay, Sweetheart?"

You lay sweating and breathless, eyes closed and completely absent from reality. Eddie called your name, kissing your cheeks to bring you back to him. You pried your eyes open to see his face in yours.

"You with me?"

"Barely." You joked, closing your eyes again.

"I'll go and get you cleaned up. You want some water?"

"Can you stay with me?" You pulled him back into you before he could climb off the bed, your voice quiet and airy with sleep.

You could feel him chuckle against you, letting him rest his head on your chest as the two of you cuddled. Your body was still tingly and floating, letting Eddie's weight anchor you back down to reality. The warmth of each others skin had you melting into the bed as you both drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

_____

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