Based off an idea given to me by @thesuspicousorange, in relation to chapter eight of Casually Devoted. If you haven't yet, read "Half-Baked Heartache." fine it here!
Casually Devoted. Part Eight. "Half-Baked Heartache." Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader.
Hello, hello, hello! So it's been about two months since chapter seven went out! This is the first official chapter of 2026 for Casually Devoted! MAN! So this chapter is a massive labour of love, long as fuck, and it's got it all. So there are TWO more chapter to come and then the epilogue! We are getting so close to the end of this series! It's been my main creative driving force for MONTHS! How much people love this series and have engaged with it, means everything to me. And of course the biggest shoutout in the world to my incredible beta reader, @29bohemianmoons, without her this fic wouldn't be HALF of what it is. I hope you all adore this update as much as I did writing it, thank you in advance for reading it and any comments or reblogs! So! Without further ado, lets get into it!
Masterlist found here.
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Rating: Explicit. Length: 23K. (I KNOW!). Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: So Much Context Needed. Seriously Read The Earlier Chapters. Jump Scare. Fluff. Domesticness. References To The Pizzadent. Bobby's First Appearence. Angst. Feelings. Panic. Emotional Turmoil And Pain. Deep Talk. Confessions. Neediness. Desperation. Cunnilingus. Fingering. Vaginal Sex. Riding. Creampie. Brownies Were Harmed In The Making Of This Fic. Realizations. General Overthinking. The Idiots Being Idiots.
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The Campbell house is mostly quiet on this fall afternoon, save for the muffled sounds of a man on a mission. In a flurry of movement in the stillness of the upstairs hallway, Erik departs from his bedroom with a mostly packed half-opened bag in his hand. He shuts the door behind him before slipping downstairs in a rush. He's got one last pit-stop to make before he can be on his way to yours for the latest sleepover. His steps thud with purpose as he makes the turn into the living room, setting the bag down near the doorway and standing in front of the TV, before starting to unhook the gaming console. He is in the middle of winding up cords, partway through the process, when he hears the unmistakable patter of Bobby’s feet coming down the stairs.
His brother's footsteps are easy to place, since he's got this odd kind of gait when he's half distracted, making it pretty obvious who's making their way towards him right now. Sure enough, Bobby finds his way to the living room, a half-eaten banana in one hand as he looks around before spotting Erik's crouched form. He blinks, watching him for approximately five seconds before asking, “What are you doing?”
“Unhooking the console?” Erik fires back in a confused tone that screams, “Isn’t it obvious?”
Bobby sighs then pivots, “Fine. Where are you taking it?”
Erik wants to sigh as well; he was hoping to avoid this. He just wanted to slip out of the house without so much as a glance in his direction let alone someone questioning him, and yet here he is. Now he's gotta come up with a good enough lie to keep the suspicion to a minimum. This happens far too often for his liking, and he's not really sure how he keeps all the lies straight at this point. Not wanting to keep him waiting, Erik opts for the first thing that pops into his head; Something familiar, short and to the point, “To Malcolm’s.”
Bobby inches closer, taking another bite of his banana as he squints at the console in his brother's hand, as if attempting to find clarity in the cold hard plastic. When his search comes up empty, he looks at Erik again, his words slightly muffled by his mouthful as he asks, “Malcolm has his own console though?”
Of course, Bobby is right about that; he does have one. He would know because he’s been to Malcolm’s plenty of times, and with him as well. Too familiar...Fuck. Erik reluctantly doubles down, “Well, duh, I know. We're going for like a real old school LAN party hangout, ya know? I’m sleeping over there tonight, too.”
His brother perks up immediately, “Ooh, no way! I was actually hoping to play later. Can I come, too?”
Oh, for fuckssake!
Erik's hands pause on the last cord he was about to place in the duffel at his side, turning to stare into Bobby's wide, hopeful eyes. God, this fucking blows. Erik hedges his next reply cryptically, “I dunno if that’s a good idea.”
Bobby guffaws, but his befuddlement didn't last long before he's questioning him again, “Why not? I thought Malcolm liked me?”
He sucks his teeth in sympathy before reassuring him. “He does! He does, Bobby. But listen man; Normally I’d say totally, but he just wanted this to be a low-key th-”
“What?! I’m low-key, I’m super low-key!” Bobby insists and Erik tries to subdue this conversation before it spins out of control, “I’m not saying you aren’t! Tonight's just...not a good night, okay? Maybe some other time, alright?”
Bobby goes silent, and Erik takes that as a sign that he's accepted his words. Oh, how wrong he was. He lets out a silent sigh of relief, but as he's lifting the console off the coffee table, Bobby hurls another, admittedly more concerning, question his way, “Is this about the pizza-dent?”
This is rapidly devolving. Erik hangs his head with a groan, “Oh my God, not this again-”
“Because I apologized, but I knew it! Malcolm is still upset about it!” Bobby babbles, and Erik wants to die. He lifts his head and turns his body to look at his brother seriously, “Bobby. Malcolm isn’t upset about it, no one is upset about it! I promise no one else other than you has even thought about it-”
Bobby cuts him off with a question, “Then why haven’t I been invited over again since the pizza-dent?” Erik replies, “Because he hasn’t had people over! He’s been busy with work, and he had that trip he went on-”
“But he’s having people over tonight, but not me! So that means it has to come back to the pizza-dent-” Bobby continues and, Erik cuts in again, voice raising, “Stop calling it that! Please, it’s so fucking stupid! It isn’t such a big event that it needs a goddamned code name!”
The event that Bobby is referring to is a movie marathon at Malcolm’s of which they both were in attendance about a month ago. Partway through, pizza was ordered; Bobby thought there was another unopened box, but there was not. Meaning? He unknowingly ate the last slice without asking anyone else if they wanted it. Bobby has convinced himself this was so inexcusably rude and such a social faux-pas that it has affected people’s opinion of him. Thus, the pizza incident, or “pizza-dent” as Bobby has dubbed it, was born. Erik has tried to convince him that it was nothing, and everything is fucking fine, but he refuses to believe him. Further still, in his lie to try and leave without exposing his true intentions to drag the console to your place, he has managed to unearth this clearly unresolved pizza related trauma.
Erik is staring, Bobby is staring back, incomprehension hanging between them. He comes forward, his hands gripping Bobby’s shoulders as he implores, “Listen to me, Bobby. Malcolm still likes you, he has just been busy and just wants me to come over. He is not having a bunch of people over without you. He has nothing against you, and I am sure he would love to see you soon, okay?”
“Okay.” Bobby repeats and then is chewing his bottom lip. Clearly something is still weighing on his mind, as they hold eye contact. Finally, he speaks, “Should I buy the pizza next time? As like an apology?”
Erik sighs heavily, letting go of Bobby as he says, “If it’ll make you feel better? Sure, buy the damn pizza and then please, please! For the love of God and my sanity, let it go?”
When Bobby simply shrugs in response, Erik doesn't buy it.
"Swear to me, Bobby, that you'll put it to bed now?" Erik insists as he secures the duffle onto his shoulder before probing him for confirmation, "Well?" Bobby rolls his eyes at his brother's seriousness. "Fine, I swear–"
Erik interjects with conviction, "On Paco?" The living room goes silent save for Bobby's sharp gasp, his hand flying up to his chest and his eyes widening at the mention of his beloved pet at a time like this. When the initial shock wears off, Bobby's expression morphs into indignation as he exclaims, "On Paco?!" On the inside, Erik is gutted to have taken it this far, but he persists, "If you were gonna swear anyway then it's no big deal, right?"
Bobby rubs the back of his neck, wincing as he begins to protest again, but Erik cuts him off, "Come on Bobby, it's been a fucking month since this 'pizzadent' happened. Now I for one am not going to sit through another lament over this in another month's time. Now, just swear on Paco, please?" God he hates himself. Even more so when Bobby sighs, conceding shortly after, "I–I. I swear on Paco. There are you happy now?"
No, he isn't.
He departs the house five minutes later. Despite reassuring Bobby that they would both hang with Malcolm soon, Bobby was still a little disappointed. He makes a note to plan that hangout as soon as possible to make up for that failure of an interaction. As he begins the trek to your place, he can't help but have a lament of his own; over the unnecessary heartache he had to inflict on his unassuming brother just now. He resents the fact that he lies about where he's going and who he's going to see so often now, that it's almost become a routine.
He hates the secrecy of it all in hindsight. As much as it may seem sexy to have a dirty little secret, in reality, it's just a giant headache. But he can't complain about the fact that these last few months have been so amazing. And yet, he can't shake the feeling that this is all going to bite him in the ass in the end; like karma's got a bounty on his head and it's only a matter of time before she comes to collect.
What the hell is wrong with him, truly? How desperate has he become over this sneaking around that he is lying to Bobby, of all people...and going as far as to making him swear on Paco? He's despicable, that's what's wrong with him. He rarely keeps things from Bobby, if ever. In fact, he considers Bobby one of the few people he can be completely honest with. He'd be lying, well no shock there, if he said it isn't absolute torture to not be able to talk about you to one of the most important people in his life.
He thinks of little else, all the way up to Erik letting himself into your place with the key you gave him. He feels heavy, mind clouded with the thoughts that are still plaguing him as he goes through the motions, taking off his coat and shoes. Erik finds you in the living room and greets you as usual, “Hey.”
“Erik! Hi! Oh my God, amazing timing. Come here!” You scoot over and excitedly pat the spot he usually takes on the couch beside you. He sets his bag down and makes his way to you as he inquires, “What’s got you so excited?”
He sits down as you inform him, “I finally showed my uncle my tattoo since it’s totally healed up.”
Erik perks up at that, he was curious how he’d react. You are already turning your phone towards him to let him see. Erik reads the section of the text chain you have pulled up and sees the several excited strings of emotes before a video message which you click on. The short video of your uncle begins to play, he puts on a tiger striped baseball cap and then speaks, “Okay so first of all-” He pulls up a matching orange and black whistle into frame, then blows it before pulling it away and calling out, “-goooooooo tigers!” The action pulls a laugh from Erik and another from yourself. Your uncle says next, “Second of all, is that actually real? And third of all, if it is? It looks amazing!”
You pull the phone back now that the video has ended. Erik comments, “How many tiger related things does he own?”
You tell him, “Ha! You don’t wanna know. This tiger thing is very serious for us. He totally loves it and thinks you crushed it. Told me to pass the praise along.”
Erik should have expected this, yet he is still surprised, “You told him about me?”
“Yeah! Of course, I told him about you. He was seriously blown away by your work, he even asked me if it’d be weird to get you to do a tiger tattoo on him.” You confess further, and Erik wants to ask just what you said.
How did you classify him to this very clearly important person in his life? He is endlessly curious. How could he ever ask without coming off as totally needy, though? Besides, you probably just flippantly referred to him as a friend anyway. He lets it drop when his stomach does and says, “If he really wants, of course, I’d love to do one for him.”
“Awesome! I’ll let him know. Who knows the next time he will be able to come to town though, might be a while.” You then tell him, “Thanks again, by the way. I love it, but my uncle's reaction really put it over the top. He couldn’t believe that he never thought of getting a tiger tattoo first.”
Erik is amused when he asks, “Is it like a kind of contest? Who can do the most or best tiger reference?”
“Exactly like that!” The conversation wanders, he feels better, lighter. He finally puts his earlier thoughts aside, he can worry about all that when he isn’t around you.
The pair of you end up having a pretty good night. He’s brought along a stack of fighting games and have a mini tournament just the two of you, there is a lot of playful shit talking and fun that is had. You order in wings with fries, have some beers and of course get physical. The sex you have that night is on the living room floor, leaving you with a few fresh hickeys on your shoulders and rug burns on your knees by the end of it.
You stay up far too late considering you have to work the following day, but you were having too good a time to call it early. When you do wake, it is to Erik’s wandering hands and his erection pressed to your ass rather than your alarm. His hand starts on your hip and drags up until it comes to rest on one of your breasts, toying with your nipple. His opposite hand is between your legs, slowly starting to touch. You could get very, very used to waking up this way. It happens wordlessly, rolling onto your back, legs falling open and him slotting his body against yours as you begin to make out. Soon he is kissing your neck and his mouth drags down lower, you arch nearer, and he keeps going. He doesn’t stop until the sheets are pooled around your hips and his shoulders as he is between your spread thighs. Before you’ve even rubbed the sleep from your eyes, his tongue is sliding over your clit. You sink deeper into the comfort of the mattress, totally giving yourself to him.
Erik takes his time, from soft kisses to purposeful rolls of his tongue up through your folds and around the most sensitive part of you. He hums and sucks, lingers and makes the climb to the top leisurely as he slowly teases your orgasm from your body. By the time you’ve cum against his tongue, gasping wordlessly and shuddering, you are completely awake.
You are laying there, staring up into the ceiling and panting as kisses are placed over your trembling inner thighs and your hips. He works his way back up your body, kisses you, and you taste yourself clinging to your mouth. When Erik breaks the kiss, he utters a playfully fond, “Good morning.”
“Mmmm morning.” You hum in reply as your arms slip around his shoulders. You can feel how hard he is, and your hips squirm, grinding against him as you lean up to kiss him once more. His underwear was discarded at some point so you are both bare as you slide together. You tragically only get a few kisses in before your alarm goes off, causing your head to fall back against the pillow with a groan.
“Ughhhh fuck-” You groan, leaning to the side. While Erik is still on top of you, your hand fumbles for your phone, and you hit your phone screen so the sound stops. You wish you could stay in bed with him and didn’t have to go to work, but alas, you do. With a sigh you start to get out from under him, or rather you try to. He still has you caged in with his arms, stopping you easily. He captures your mouth in another kiss that you briefly return until he pulls back. Erik asks in a half serious tone, “Where do you think you are running off to so fast?”
You have a smile on your face when you retort, “I have to start getting ready for work.”
“Oh come onnn, you really expect me to believe that you hop out of bed the second your alarm goes off?” He teases, rocking his hips so he brushes against your slick and sensitive folds.
He leans down, mouth against your ear, “Like you don’t set your alarm to give yourself some time to lounge around in bed before getting up?”
He knows you too well. You sigh out, “Maybe.”
He mockingly repeats the word, “Maybe." Before suppressing a laugh against your throat and breathing out, "Sure.”
You don’t fight him further. You do have a little time to spare, so you let him lead and get swept up in the moment. It is very good, natural and easy. You wish you could have morning sex all the time, it really is a fantastic way to start the day. When you finally catch your breath and check your phone, you realize the sex was too good; you got too caught up. Now, you were now going to be late.
“Shit!” You hurriedly untangle yourself from Erik and the sheets, “Fuck, fuck, fuck-” You ramble as you get up and out of bed, uncaring about the mess spilling down your thighs as you tell him, “-I’m going to be late!”
You rush through getting ready as quick as you can. You are not as put together as you would normally be when you come into the kitchen, asking Erik, “You can lock up, right?” You are getting out the lunch you packed last night and putting it into your bag.
“Yeah of course.” Erik says easily. You close the fridge door and look to see him. He’s partly dressed, only underwear and a shirt on. He turns to you, “Here.”
He has his hands full, holding out a bagel and your travel mug. You are surprised, it stops you in your tracks, your brain stalls as you say, “Uh-”
Erik tells you, “S’ my fault you are running behind in the first place, so here. Get going already.” Him saying that launches you back into action. You take the mug and the bagel and are struck with this sudden urge to kiss him goodbye. God! What is the matter with you? He isn’t your fucking boyfriend. You push the urge way, way down and tell him, “Thanks, I’ll text you later, bye!”
“Bye! Try to have a good day!” He calls as you turn and hustle to the front hall. Your coat and shoes thrown on, and you are out the door.
When you get to your work, you are less than a half hour late and no one even noticed. No one comments on it, no one makes a big deal of it. You think partly because you are always on time, you’ve earned some grace in this respect. While seated at your desk, eating the bagel he made and drinking the coffee he prepared, you are struck with this extra warm fondness. He remembered just how you like your coffee, which is sweet, but it’s more than that. Usually, you hate being late, especially when someone else is the cause of your lateness. And yet. When you sit at your desk, thinking about this morning, you can’t bring yourself to be even slightly annoyed forget about actually mad. How odd and unlike you.
You text him a thank you for a great morning and for your to-go breakfast, and Erik texts back that it was, "No problem." He lingers on your mind almost all day and when you go home later after work, you find the dishes you’d left in the sink the night before clean and your bed made. You text him another thank you and have to hold yourself back from texting him a lot more than just that.
When you go for your shower, you trace the hickeys left by him while looking in the mirror and feel far too soft. You are in such trouble.
Halloween is here, Erik and you are both busy with your respective friend groups, with no plans to see each other. So when a text from you comes in after 10 PM offering, “I’m home early, going to watch some horror movies, swing by if you want.” He jumps at the chance. He makes up a lame excuse and bails, alerting you that he is coming over with a text and then heading straight to yours.
Erik arrives and unlocks your door, slipping inside, the lights are low and feel appropriately spooky for the holiday. “Hey, M’ here.”
No response. Odd. Shoes and coat off, he starts down the hallway, calling out again, “Freak?”
He is wondering just where you could be as he passes by your ajar bedroom door, and you jump out from the darkness. You catch him completely off guard and scare him badly. One hand flies to his chest and the other to the nearby wall as he jumps nearly a foot in the air, “Jesus fucking Christ!”
You are nearly cackling with laughter immediately, half doubled over. As soon as it clicks that it’s you and what happened, he sighs with an unimpressed look. You gush, “Oh my God, I got you so fucking good!”
“Ha, ha, realllly fucking funny.” He deadpans. You straighten up with a grin, “I sure thought so.”
You turn and gesture him to follow, “C’mon. I got the living room all set up.”
He follows as he asks, “Were you just waiting in your dark ass bedroom to do that shit?”
“I mean yeah, but it was so worth it.” You respond as you come into the living room to see how you have it set up. The orange string lights hung up on the wall over the couch with little black paper bats taped around. The candles in ceramic jack o lantern holders lit on the coffee table cast that is strewn with Halloween candy and treats, the usual throw blanket and pillows have been replaced with more fitting themed ones. He hums, “Cute, you really go all out.”
“I love a holiday.” You say with a shrug as you flop onto the couch. Looking him up and down, you ask, “So what are you supposed to be?”
You shockingly hadn’t discussed costumes leading up to Halloween. His outfit doesn’t look that different from his usual fare; all black and still fairly casual, some make-up on his face but nothing crazy. He takes his seat beside you and leans close, craning his neck to show off the two puncture marks on his neck. You hum upon seeing them and when he pulls back with a smile you catch the fangs and say totally delighted, “Oh my God, a vampire?”
“Exactly right.” He says with a nod before asking, “What about you? What are you supposed to be?” You look good, made up and in a black mini dress with shiny knee black knee-high heeled boots, but he isn’t sure what you are going for.
“Hold on.” You get up and go over to the bar and dig through the purse left sitting on the counter and pull out your props. A mini cross bow and a wooden stake and declare, “Buffy the vampire slayer!”
Without talking about it, or planning it, somehow against the odds you’ve ended up matching again.
Erik laughs in disbelief, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Dead serious!” You reply enthusiastically. Erik sighs as he starts taking out his phone, “Well obviously, we have to get some pictures together.”
You are unbelievably excited by the very thought and rush back over to join him on the couch. “Yes! We must!” Thus begins the impromptu mini photo shoot on your couch. It’s fun, in one shot you are jokingly threatening him with your fake wooden stake, to which he looks appropriately scared. The next has him pretending like he is going to bite your neck and then giving you a playful bite for real that has you squirming and laughing. By the time it is done, you both have a good set of new photos in your gallery.
With that done, you retrieve some drinks, leftover Halloween punch you made for your friends while pre-gaming at your place. You tell him as much, leading him to ask, “Couldn’t finish it?”
You admit, “I might have made too much, no one wanted to drink a lot. In case them bailing early didn’t make that clear enough.”
He takes a sip and nods approvingly over the drink, he swears any drink you make is always criminally good. He inquires, “Yeah, what happened with that?”
“We usually go to this bar that does a first time in drag show on Halloween, and it’s usually a great time! But some idiot broke one of the toilets and the place flooded! We all had to evacuate, my friends didn’t want to come up with something else to do on the fly, so they decided to call it.” You sigh and take a hearty pull from your own cup. He hums in sympathy, “Fuck, that sucks.”
“Tell me about it, you should see this show sometime! It’s always a treat.” You confess before turning a question back on him, “Shocked you actually came over though so quickly. Were you not having fun with your friends?”
“Eh, just wasn’t in the mood for a late night out, so your offer gave me a good out.” It isn’t entirely a lie and if you notice it isn’t totally truthful, you don’t call him on it. You hum, “Lucky me.”
Erik loves the times he can salvage your night, like you’ve done for him many times.
You start in on the first movie, you picked Hocus Pocus claiming it to be a Halloween classic. When he questions it, you make sure to set him straight, “Today is THE day to watch this movie, Erik. If not now, then when?”
“I dunno, hopefully never?” He teases. You scoff with a roll of your eyes, “Whatever, it’s a fun movie! Just trust me and watch.” You unzip your boots, pulling them off with a wince.
Erik picks up on the sound immediately and asks, “You alright?”
You drop the boots off to the side and sigh, curling and uncurling your toes and flexing your feet as you tell him, “Yeah, M’ okay. Bought these boots for this costume and I haven’t broken them in totally yet. My feet are honestly hurting.”
Next, you snatch up a handful of candy off the table and lean against the back rest of the couch, getting comfortable. Erik leans down and without comment, he grips your ankles, and then when he sits back up he drags your feet into his lap; this causing you to turn slightly when he moves. You look down the length of your body to him as you ask, “What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” He asks while adjusting to a better position so he is half facing you and both of his hands begin to rub your right foot. His thumbs are pressing into the tender arch. You mention your feet are hurting, and he just sets right to giving you a foot rub? You try to speak up and pull your legs away, “Oh Erik, you don’t have to do tha-”
He has his eyes on the screen as his grip tightens, refusing to let you escape. He states, “Yeah, I know, but I’m doing it anyway.”
Erik increases the pressure as he massages, your head falling back against the couch, giving in and letting him carry on. It feels so good that you let out a quiet moan of, “Ohhh-kayyy.”
“There you go, relaaax.” He praises, you can hear the smile in his tone. You hum in reply. You let him work and enjoy every second of him easing the ache that has been building in your feet all night. The first half hour passes by easily like that, with the usual kind of conversation you have while a movie is on. When he finishes, you feel so much better and thank him again. Then adjusting your position to curl into his side, leaning your head on his shoulder. Erik slings an arm over your shoulders and relaxes further with you cuddled close to him, bathed in the light of the TV and on the couch with you.
Midway through the movie you ask him, “So fuck, marry, kill: The Sanderson sisters and keep in mind! That there is a right answer.”
Erik pauses mid-chew of his fun size KitKat taking a moment to think before asking, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Campbell.” You huff, fingers digging into the box of nerds you are currently enjoying. He sighs as he looks at you, “I…I don’t think I have that much of an opinion on the fucking Sanderson sisters?”
“Laaaaame.” You declare. He concedes to your major annoyance, “If that makes me lame then fine, I’m fucking lame.”
Your gaze turns up to his face, give him your best pout and press, “C’monnnn indulge me.”
Like he can ever say no to you. He turns to the screen again and squints in consideration, before saying, “Okay, so, marry the blonde one-” You cut in helpfully, “Sarah.” He presses on, “-kill Bette Midler and fuck the last one, I guess?”
“They all have names Erik! Also you are so wrongggg.” You tell him before then explaining, “You should marry Winifred, fuck Sarah and kill Mary.”
“And what is the logic there?” He inquires. You tell him, “You gotta marry Winifred because she is nuts and would accept nothing less and is super major jealous. Then you fuck Sarah because like duh of course she is the most fuckable and can keep it on the down low because she is nasty like that. Leaving you the only option left, forcing you to kill Mary.”
“You’ve thought way, wayyy too fucking much about this!” He insists with a laugh.
The conversation continues on, meandering as the movie plays, eventually it turns to the treats you’ve been consuming.
You ask Erik, “What’s your favourite Halloween candy?”
“When it comes to chocolate, I’d say Twix is pretty high up there and for non-chocolate, sour patch kids.” He states before asking, “You?”
“Oh, Reese’s all day, the absolute best.” You tell him with a nod. Erik surveys the table and all you have available and says, “I don’t see any here, you already eat em all?”
You laugh lightly and say, “No, I didn’t buy any.”
That baffles Erik, leading him to ask, “Why not?”
Your gaze tears away from the scene of Bette Midler mugging on the screen to look at Erik as you explain as if it should be obvious, “Because of Bobby’s nut allergy?”
Even more confusing. He tries to clarify further, “Because of Bobby, my brother, who you’ve never met and has never been over here and probably never will be?”
You lean forward and snatch up a bag of sour patch kids and open it as you expound on your thought process, “Yeah, I’ve never met Bobby, and he’s never gonna come over here, but you do. You told me his allergy is extremely severe, so I stopped buying anything that may contain nuts.”
That has him staring at you as you pop a candy in your mouth. He can’t help himself when he haltingly questions, “You stopped…Buying anything…That contains nuts?”
You are chewing casually as you explain, “I had this thought of what if you came over here and ate something not realizing it contained nuts and went home and interacted with him and set it off-” You shake your head, “-much too big a risk. I’d hate to cause something like that, even by accident.” You shrug your shoulders and tell him, “It just seemed like the obvious and natural to do, not like it was that hard either.”
Erik stares at you, but says nothing, the movie completely fading into the background as he sits there, totally taken aback. For such a quiet gesture, the fact that you did it so easily just to keep his brother–a total stranger to you– safe, speaks volumes. Simply because he's one of the most important people to him, you willingly gave up peanut butter in the slim chance it may indirectly harm his brother.
Erik is all too familiar with people who refuse to take Bobby’s allergy seriously. Most people are far too flippant about it and don’t understand how deadly it is. This is the first time he's experienced the exact inverse of this scenario.
You taking what was a throwaway conversation months ago to heart and doing a full house cleanse like it's a no-brainer, is impossibly sweet and thoughtful. He can picture it; you combing your cabinets after he tells you about Bobby's allergy, checking labels for anything that may contain nuts and chucking them in the trash like it’s no big deal.
The more he thinks about it, the harder it hits him. Without even realizing it, you have been showing more care and concern for his brother than he has in months. He's family, and all Erik seems to be doing is avoiding him or flat out lying to him. he's nothing to you, and yet you vow to make your place a safe haven for someone who will never even know who you are, let alone set foot in your home. If he didn't feel like shit enough already, well this just takes the fucking cake.
He has to ask, so he does, “So you just don’t eat peanut butter anymore?”
With a laugh, you confess, “I mean, I didn’t say that. I just have it out of the house, especially when I don’t think I’m going to see you. Last week when you were busy, I went out for dinner with my friends, I got a slice of this chocolate peanut butter cheesecake at that place State and Main that was to die for.”
You are ridiculous. Kind, endlessly considerate and utterly ridiculous. Erik is very touched by this gesture.
By the end of Hocus Pocus you’ve convinced him that it was a good seasonally appropriate watch, he had a much better time watching it with you than he would have with anyone else. You are no longer cuddling, instead stretching your arms above your head as you ask, “So, since I chose the first movie, the next is on you. What are you craving, Campbell?”
He hums in consideration, thinking it over for a moment before suggesting, “How about Halloween?”
You lean nearer again as your arms lower, teasing him, “Watching Halloween on Halloween? Like florals for Spring, groundbreaking.”
“So that’s a no?” He fires back. You laugh lightly, “Just busting your balls, it’s a classic! And you know I’ve got it on DVD.” You pull out your binder from the lower shelf on the coffee table, and start to flip through the pages. Once the disc has been pulled out and put into the player, you go to retrieve more drinks for you both.
He watches you walk away, God that dress is so short. He is thinking about maybe starting something up when you come back. Erik thinks about tugging you into his lap so you are straddling him and kissing you, his hands slipping up and grabbing your ass; making you grind down on him. He lives for the sounds you make when he is kissing you and the friction hits you just right, the gasp you make into his mouth is addictive. As great as that would all be, there is no rush, he has the whole night ahead to fuck you stupid.
Erik instead wonders if now is the right time to ask what has been lingering on his mind all night before you both get too into the movie, and he decides that better now than later. He waits for you to come back to the couch and settle beside him anew before saying your name to get your attention. You hum in recognition as you pass off his cup to him, and he asks, “So you know those concert tickets my parents got me for my birthday?”
You nod as you take a sip, eyes flitting from the screen to him.
He just needs to do it and get it out, so he asks casually. Attempts to hide the nerves he is feeling behind nonchalance, push down the worry and adopt a veneer of not caring if one way or another if you come. “Well, the friend I usually go to shows with is busy. So I was wondering if you’d want to go.” It’s a half lie, he never even asked that friend if they were free that night. He could be wide open and down to go, but he wants to go with you.
Shock overtakes. You are sure that he has other concert friends, or other friends just into the same music as him yet he is asking you to go with him. Your brows raise in surprise, and you ask, “You want me to go to the concert with you?”
“Yeah, I think it’d be really fun.” He says it with a half shrug, trying to play off just how badly he is hoping you’ll say yes. His mind is practically playing the word “please” over and over again, silently begging that you’ll come along. You are totally sold, over the moon. You agree enthusiastically, “I’d love to! Which band is it? You never said before.”
“One of my favourites, this fucking sick metal group named Miriam, I think you’ll really be into them.” He imparts it sincerely, excitedly, and you are sure that you will. Erik has yet to steer you wrong with the music he has shared, and going to see one of his favourite bands with him live is going to be insane. You ask, “What night is the show?”
“A week from tonight.” He informs, and you thankfully have not a single thing planned. You tell him, “Yes! I’m totally free. I am so, so in.”
Thank fucking God, it would have been awful if you turned him down.
Neither of you make it all the way through Halloween. Erik wakes up disoriented. It takes a moment for him to put it together. He looks around slowly as he registers everything; the movie is on the DVD menu screen, his feet are propped up on the coffee table. You are leaning against his shoulder, still asleep. You both passed out during the movie leaning on each other. You look so peaceful like this, no stress or worries weighing on you, features soft. You usually wake up first, and the times he does? He doesn’t usually take the time to look at you like this, and he isn’t sure why he hasn’t. The thought passes through him slowly and easily, “You’re beautiful.”
Erik picks up his phone that he left on the couch arm slowly, he checks the time, it’s past three AM. He needs to get you up and into bed, sleeping on the couch like this with your neck at that angle all night is a terrible idea. Erik’s hand reaches out and grips your shoulder. He gently shakes you, stirring you awake. He watches your eyes crack open, and you slowly blink several times, a questioning hum. You start to look around as he says, “We fell asleep on the couch, it’s like 3 AM. Let’s go get in bed.”
You stretch slightly and nod, “Mmhmm.”
The way you had your feet tucked under you means that your legs have fallen asleep too, so Erik helps you up. He turns off the TV, the candles have burnt out, and he brings you to the bathroom. You lean against the counter and, in the glow of the nightlight you keep plugged in the wall socket, Erik helps clean off your makeup and his own. He is careful as he sweeps the makeup removing wipe over your cheeks and soon enough, teeth are brushed, and you are in your room. A quick change into pajamas for you and Erik stripping down to his underwear and you both slide between the sheets. Your head hits the pillow and you immediately close the distance, curling up to him. He welcomes it, his own arms closing around you. In the dark and with such closeness it isn’t clear who really makes first contact, it’s an accidental brush of lips without a clear instigator; it’s gentle, soft and sweet. The reaction is natural, the affection turning into a more purposeful kiss with a give and take that is slow and languid. It leads nowhere else, a simple moment of intimacy that finds it’s end and leaves you both feeling pleasantly relaxed.
You pass out very quickly after that.
You sleep amazingly well that night and wake up still wrapped up close to Erik. You both take your time getting up, when you eventually do, you make a breakfast skillet for the pair of you to split. Chopped potatoes tossed in oil and seasonings, cooked till crispy and served with melted cheese and fried eggs over top with.
While enjoying it over coffee, you pipe up with, “Thanks for getting me into bed last night, I would have slept terribly if I stayed on the couch.”
“No problem.” He replies easily with a half shrug before adding on, “Can’t believe we both passed out so hard.”
“Day must’ve caught up with us. I still had a really fun time.” You muse before taking another sip of your coffee. You ask him, “So, what do you have going on today?”
Erik sighs, “Fucking work, I’ll have to take off soon, got some shit to do at home before I clock in. You?”
“Off today. Errands to run, cleaning, usual shit. Might treat myself to a bath later.” You tell him. The rest of breakfast passes by with relatively easy conversation until he has to leave. He tells you he will text you later on, with a quick hug, you wish him a good shift and off he goes.
It isn’t until an hour later when you are dressed and about to leave, that it clicks. You and Erik didn’t have sex last night. That has never happened before. It is totally unheard of! Sure, there have been times you and Erik have seen each other and not had sex, but those are when you are out and about. But being here at your place, for hours all alone and sleeping over too, every single opportunity and not taking advantage of it? The very thought has you paused in your front hallway, one shoe on, and in the middle of putting on your jacket.
Why didn’t you have sex? You love fucking Erik, and it was Halloween last night too! You had the perfect costumes for a role play scenario, too! A vampire and a slayer? You could have had so much fun with the struggle for dominance to see who would have ended up on top. You lean against the wall, grip on your purse loosening until it comes to rest on the ground, your brain stuck wondering just what the fuck is happening? Your mind pours over last night, it was a good time, a standard hang out, just not sexual. Why didn’t it go that way?
Erik realizes it while at work. He is sat behind the counter with a sketchbook splayed out with a pencil in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling for a particular song. His mind is pouring over last night while thinking about the conversations you had and what a good time it was, until the same thought you had enters his mind. Last night, you did nothing more physical than cuddling and-
A single kiss.
You and he shared that kiss, he has no clue who started it, genuinely he isn't sure. No kiss has previously happened that didn't lead to, happened during, or immediately after sex in your arrangement. Just what exactly it was registers, it was the last thing before you both went to sleep. There is no denying it as anything other than a kiss goodnight. The first of its kind and he has no idea what to do with this information, this revelation. It was a very good kiss, innocent and chaste, removed and different from encompassing heat and want that usually comes with every other kiss you have had but so fucking good. He wishes he could experience it again. Kiss you again like that, in all the big and small ways, but he can't have that and he knows he can't. He has to stop hoping for more outside of your arrangement.
His mind has that stupid thought again, “What would Brody do?” And he is snapped out of his spiral and immediately says quietly out loud, “Oh my fucking God, no.” He shakes his head with a laugh of disbelief and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Erik utterly refuses to engage with that stupid question this time.
He commits himself to think through this rationally, not emotionally.
By the end of his shift he has come to one conclusion about that kiss, it was accidental and means nothing more. You were both half asleep and it was a reflex, your mouths met in the dark and did what feels natural; what happens every time your lips touch. You kissed and it was just that, a kiss, nothing more.
You don't get the chance to see each other in person again, until the night of the concert. You and Erik agreed to meet up for a late dinner before the show. Erik is on time, but he remembers well what you’ve said previously, “If you aren’t early, you’re late.”
So when he crosses the threshold of the bar/restaurant’s door and a quick scan of the place, he is not surprised to find that you have beaten him and arrived first. You are sat on a stool at the bar, one hand holding your phone, the other cradling a pint glass of beer. He starts making his way over, and when close enough, he calls out your name. You raise your head, upon seeing him you smile.
He watches as you slip your phone into your bag and wave as you call out, “Heya music man!”
You turn on the stool and stand up, he assumes to give him a hug in greeting, and when you do that he is able to get a much better look at what you are wearing and oh my God. A tight black tank top with a leather mini-skirt, torn up fishnet tights. He has never seen those boots before, but he is hoping tonight won’t be the last time. He stops right in front of you and says fondly and just a little awed, “Oh my fucking God, wow.”
You grin, asking in a teasing tone, “Wow? Why wow?”
“The whole outfit.” He gestures with a hand sweeping over your body. He cannot stop from staring openly and greedily. You laugh lightly, reaching out, you pull him down into a hug that he gladly returns. You say, “You seem awfully surprised.”
He pulls back, hands on your biceps as he says, “I am to be honest, I never knew you owned something like this.”
You scoff playfully, “Like you’ve raided my closet? You have no idea all the treasures I’ve got stashed away.”
He wants to get to know it a Hell of a lot better. His hand traces down your arm and asks, “New jacket?”
You preen a little, adjusting the lapels of the leather blazer style jacket you have on, “Bought it to go with my Buffy costume on Halloween originally.” It looks very good on you, the cut is feminine and flattering, it feels very you. Part of him also loves that you are both unintentionally matching again. While your jackets are different styles, them being the same material is more than enough to make him happy.
You sit back on your stool, and he takes the one next to you as you order a drink for him. He is still stuck looking at you, even when the beer is set down in front of him, and you couldn’t be more pleased with yourself. You eat up every one of his reactions, and you lean closer while teasing him, “I’m worried you are gonna be drooling into your beer at this rate. You gonna be okay?”
He coughs slightly and picks up his glass, finally looking away from you as he says, “Yeah, totally, M’ fine. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
You hum, unconvinced and take a pull from your own glass when Erik does. When he brings his away he asks, “So why the sudden style change?”
“Oh come on, thought it was obvious! The concert tonight? I’ve gotta blend. This is like your scene, you can’t be seen with someone not looking the part.” You inform with a meaningful look, one finger playing with the choker around around your neck. He says, “Ah you are thinking of my rep, how sweet are you?”
It makes perfect sense honestly, and he appreciates you getting into the spirit of it. The effort you’ve expended is extremely appreciated. You take the time then to comment on his own attire, “You are looking pretty good yourself tonight, got a little dressed up for the show yourself, hm?”
“I’m excited, what can I say?” He admits with a smile.
You would never say that Erik dresses poorly, just very casually, unless at a particular Italian restaurant of course. Tonight his clothing feels him, but very elevated. His jacket is the usual one he loves dearly, but the jeans and shirt are ones you've never seen but the quality is great. There are no holes to be seen unless there for style. The occasion also apparently calls for a wallet chain that hangs over his hip, you want to tangle your fingers it and use it to pull him closer to kiss him at some point this evening. You are truly stuck on are the fact he is in boots, not sneakers tonight, the heavy duty kind that someone could use to kick a skull in were they so inclined. This is to say nothing of the jewelry, the fact he is wearing some, you wish he would more often.
You reach over and snatch up a menu, then leaning over, so your shoulder nudges his as you pass it over, “We did come here to do more than just have a pre-show drink and talk about how hot I look, right?”
He has to fight to tear his gaze away from your face; he can't handle how kissable your lips look in the darker shade you swept over them. Nor the way the subtle glitter in your black eye shadow catches the low light, it is much too captivating. Erik somehow manages it and opens the menu, spreading it out on the bar top in front of him and casting his eyes down, “Yes, we should order soon.”
You pick up your own menu and open it. Deciding on what to eat is easy, the place you’ve chosen is well known for their classic pub style food. You settle on a fried chicken sandwich and fries, and Erik on steak and ale pie with mashed potatoes. The food is delectable, you heavily praise the fries, leading to him stealing a few of them and agreeing they are great. He offers some of his own potatoes in kind and you take him up on it. Naturally the food you got doesn't require silverware so you weren't given any, the action is done without a second thought; him holding out some on his fork. You lean in and it isn't until you are pulling away with a pleased hum that he realizes he just fucking fed you and Christ, there are those domestic feelings kicked up again in him. You are gushing about how good they are and he wants to offer you more.
You pick up the tab when he is in the bathroom, which he playfully gives you shit over as you depart. The concert venue is not that far off from the place you met up at, the walk is brisk and passes by easily, during which he asks you, “Are you seriously not cold?”
You have your hands in your pockets, and you shrug as you reiterate, “I told you, Erik. Whores don’t get cold.”
He sighs with a fond roll of his eyes, “And I told you that I don’t think that is how it works.”
Next you quip, “I can’t help but notice how both times this has come up you haven’t fought me on the whore part?”
“And I’ve never fought anyone when they assert the sky is blue either. Facts are facts.” He retorts. You nearly snort laughing, leaning into him for stability while steeped in your mirth and his laugh follows as it so often does when you're together.
You arrive at the venue, tickets scanned, your bag checked, hands stamped and entrance given quickly. The pair of you have timed it perfectly, the opening act is just going on, some group you have never heard of. Erik has heard of them previously, he tells you, “They aren’t anything to write home about.”
“Nobody likes the opening band.” You reply sagely. He agrees, “Truer words have rarely if ever been spoken.”
Since neither of you care much to pay attention to the current act, Erik suggests over the din, “Drink and hit the merch booth?”
“Looove the way you think, lead the way.” You respond and hold your hand out, and he takes it. The place is filling up quickly, and you rationalize it as not wanting to lose each other in the crowd. The merch booth is closer, so that is visited first. You are determined to get something to commemorate the occasion, have a physical reminder of the first concert you’ve attended together. You and Erik stand side by side, hand in hand and shoulders nearly touching, attention fixed on the wall behind the merch booth and everything posted up available for purchase. Your eyes scan over everything from beanie hats and canvas totes to of course the classic concert merch staple, a series of t-shirts.
Erik leans closer and asks, “What are you thinking?”
Honestly, you think classic might be the way to go. You tell him, “I’m thinking a shirt. You?”
“Yeah, the new ones they’ve got look great. My old shirt of theirs is looking rough, I could do with an upgrade.” He responds as he starts to pull out his wallet and asks, “Which one are you thinking?”
“I think the one on the end there.” You say with a point of your hand that isn’t holding his, gesturing to the black T-shirt all the way to the right. The one with the red “M” that is the band's signature, with flowing artful red, yellow and orange flames coming off the sides. It is very cool, and you can see yourself wearing it.
“Oh yeah, awesome choice.” He praises. Your hand comes down and goes to your bag, unzipping it and reaching in to get your own wallet when he says in a playful tone, “Put that shit away, I’ve got it.”
“Erik, I can buy my own-” You start, but he doesn’t even engage, doesn’t even attempt to do that cute arguing back and forth habit you've fallen into. He steps forward, wallet in one hand and the other still holding yours. He looks down at the bored and very goth looking attendant sitting in the black folding chair and says with a point, “Hey, can I get that shirt-” before you can even begin to protest further. The pin pad is pushed forward as he removes his card and Erik taps it, his wallet is pocketed, and he takes the shirts with a, “Thanks.”
Then stepping away, pulling you with him to allow the next person to step up to purchase whatever they want. When you’ve cleared enough space, he hands over your shirt with a casual, “Here.”
You tell him, “Seriously, thank you.” Glancing down, you catch the back of the tag and confirm what you were thinking. You ask, “You remember my shirt size offhand?”
He gives you a curious look and asks, “Yeah?” Then tacking on, “Don’t you know mine?”
You do. You have for months, so why are you so thrown by him knowing yours? You refuse to dig deeper on that front, certainly not in front of Erik. You conceded with a soft, “Touché.”
He fires back with a, “Mhm, that’s what I thought.” Before pulling you off towards the bar.
When close enough, you let go of his hand, looking over your shoulder and informing him, “I got this one.” You wiggle through the throng of people crowded around the bar, manage to catch one of the bartenders attention quickly with a wave. You order two beers and two bottles of water, pay and in two minutes your hands are full, and you are back over with Erik.
“You always get served so much faster than I ever do.” He says, as he takes one of the beers from you. The retort flows off your tongue easily, “You’d get served just as quick if you were a hot girl.”
You say next, “Hold this for a second.” And pass off your beer to him, before slipping the two water bottles you bought into your bag beside your new t-shirt you rolled up and stashed inside. Telling Erik, “For later.”
“Very smart planning ahead, great idea Freak.” He intones with a smile, and you grin in return and take your beer back. You take your first sip and so does he, it is coolly refreshing and delicious in the already warm venue, you just know it is going to get even hotter once the show gets going and the place reaches full capacity.
“Thanks.” He says with a gesture of the bottle in his hand, and you tell him with a shake of your head, “Thank you again for the shirt.” At the reminder of the shirt you ask, “Wait which one did you get?”
“Same one you did.” He said holding it up and even folded and bunched you can clearly see the bright red “M” on the front of it.
You can’t help how happy that knowledge makes you, a coy smile overtakes as you say, “Awe, you wanna match? How nauseatingly, disgustingly, adorable of you.”
Erik picks up on you quoting him word for word, exactly what he said back on your end of summer sleepover when it came to painting your nails in matching black.“That’s meeee.” He jokes before saying more seriously. “It’s a good shirt, and you’ve got good taste, sue me.” Erik fires back with a casual shrug. He puts the shirt over the back of his neck, letting it hang over his shoulders to free up his hand and taking another sip of his beer. It is your turn to hum unconvinced, you slip your hand back in his and with a nod you say, “Let’s go get comfortable while we wait for the main act.”
The pair of you settle yourselves in an open space, near the middle and off to the left, not anywhere near the barrier and still with lots of space from the back. Even away from the major crowd you still hold hands, the pretense of not losing each other still firmly in place and unquestioned even though it isn’t necessary at this exact moment. You are talking over the opening band that is still playing, enjoying the atmosphere and the evening so far.
You ask, “So, you’ve been into this band for a while?”
“Oh my God, yes, years!” Erik says sincerely, “I came to one of their shows with a friend who assured me that I would love them, and they were so right. I've seen them multiple times.” He continues on to say, “They are local and struggled for a while to break out but finally, their last album? They are getting the recognition they deserve. Went on their biggest tour yet, their last few stops on it are some of the local haunts that gave them their start.”
You are enthralled while listening to him, and then tell him, “Oh my God, I love when bands do that! Honour their roots.”
“Yes, exactly!” Erik utters enthusiastically, squeezing your hand. You squeeze his back, staring up into his eyes, faces a few inches apart. It’s easier to hear each other when closer together, that's the reason for the clinginess you reassure yourself.
Erik says, “Seriously, I was so grateful to get these tickets, every show this tour including this one is sold out.”
“Damn! And your parents managed to clinch them? Shout out to Brenda and Howard yet again.” You praise.
The conversation continues on until opening band's last song wraps, and they get off-stage. You both finish your beers and hit the bathroom in the interim before the main act goes to take the stage. Checking yourself over in the mirror while washing your hands, you confirm you still look very good. This fact is reassured for you when a drunk girl slurs a compliment at you over your make-up, hair, and whole outfit. You compliment her in kind as you dry your hands and ball up the paper towel, tossing it into the bin. While wrapping up the brief interaction you hear the opening chords of a song ringing out, your brows raise, and you bid the kind stranger goodbye. You come out of the bathroom to find Erik leaning against the wall, waiting for you.
“There you are! Come on!” He takes your hand and starts up the stairs, you rush along with him. Soon breaking out back onto the main floor. The lights are low, the stage still empty for the moment, the guitar is getting louder. He leads the way and weaves through the crowd to a spot Erik deems good enough. Erik stops and so do you, both of you look forward, as the band members start to filter out. The excitement feels palpable, building as each one comes out. You watch with him and the murmurs of the crowd grow, and when she comes out, that is when the cheers really start. The drums get going, the lights kick on and her voice rings out and holy shit you get it immediately.
She does no introduction, apparently it is not needed, and you believe that wholeheartedly. There is no shout out for the town they are in, or any easing in, they just go for it. You feel the shift, the energy radiating off of Erik beside you is intense. Stealing a glance you catch the look on his face; blue eyes wide, lips parted and curved up in a smile, he looks positively elated. You have to fight to turn your attention back to the stage, and you really take in the scene.
Honestly, all the band members are pretty cool and elaborately dressed, but your eyes are constantly drawn to the lead singer. She has such incredible stage presence. She has pale skin, long black hair with matching black lipstick, eyes seductive and beckoning. Her attire is a black shirt with elbow length bell sleeves with lacy edges, a leather corset with several belt buckle closures on the front over top of it. Paired with a floor length black skirt in a silky material that moves like water, with a slit that is insanely high. Even with her tall thigh high-heeled boots, the skirt still drags on the ground behind her slightly. She is completely captivating, with a powerful voice and an attitude that sells the lyrics. A phenomenal sight to behold.
She is who the band is named after, Miriam. By the time the first song is done you totally get why this band is blowing up, and it is deserved.
It is only after that first song wraps that she addresses the crowd, a clear, “Good evening! Everyone having a good time?” ringing out. The response to the call comes with a loud cheer that affirms that yes, everyone in fact is.
“That’s what we want to fucking hear!” And with a gesture from her, the next song kicks up to another screaming cheer from everyone around you.
The show goes by in a blur, it is one of the best you have seen. Whoever the lighting tech is, they are doing an incredible job. The band plays their heart out, Miriam herself is a total show stealer, the pyrotechnics are unexpected but welcome. You and Erik don’t even make it through three songs before your jackets come off. He keeps holding your hand through it, keeping you close to him. The crowd understandably goes a little wild, you both back up to give some space. Before the halfway point, you know that you are going to be a lifelong fan of this band. You and Erik can’t stay still, dancing, helpless to the rhythm. Swaying at some of the slower songs in the repertoire and jumping along with everyone else at the faster songs. Miriam addresses the crowd in between songs and through that you get a sense of more of her personality, she seems confident yet down to Earth, it’s an intoxicating combination.
Erik doesn’t sing along to every song, but when there is a particular line he loves he can’t hold back from belting it out. Seeing him having such an unapologetic good time is infectious and endearing. He notices how into it you are getting and loves to watch you fall in love with one of his favourite bands in real time. You and Erik are pretty sweaty, both with your water bottles in your hands that aren’t clasped together, a little out of breath but still high on the energy of the performance.
Finally, Miriam sighs out, “Okay, one more! And you all know we don’t do that encore shit so don’t even think about trying it!” The crowd groans in both utter despair and unison. She consoles them with a teasing coo, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, “I know, I know, it always goes by too fast for me too! But we can’t play allll night tragically.”
She says next, “Realllly try to enjoy this last one because who knows when we will be back again. You all know this one-” The guitar and drums start and there's a sharp gasp at your side. You turn to see Erik pumping his fist before exclaiming, “Yes!”
You speak up, calling to him, “What?”
Erik explains, “I’ve heard they’ve been closing out with this one, it’s like THE fucking song by them-”
Miriam takes a deep breath and cuts him off when her voice rings out, “Mariiiiannneeeeee-”
And his train of thought is abandoned as every single person there, Erik included, calls back, “-of my dark heart!”
Within a few seconds of this song commencing, you realize that, surprisingly and inexplicably, it manages to knock you off your feet, blowing every other song played previously out of the water in one foul swoop. It's clearly a very intensely personal song. The lyrics drip with emotion as Miriam pours her heart out as a last hurrah to an already insane performance.
From what you gather, it's a song about a woman, named Marianne, who clearly means a great deal to Miriam. The exact nature of their relationship is unclear, but it was obviously deep and intimate. It also becomes apparent that things ended quite suddenly; so much so that it shattered her, leaving her longing for what they had lost. The only solace Miriam has from this turmoil is recalling the memories–every cherished moment shared within their rose-tinted world–before they had ever fathomed parting from it one day. Whether it was romantic, platonic, or somewhere in between, their love was a love that would live on in those memories. And she would immortalize their love in this song and perform it for all to hear, show after show, night after night, forever.
For the next five minutes, you and Erik are completely engrossed, practically clinging to each other while your eyes remain locked on the stage. As your fingers lace together, you try to soak up as much detail as you can of this very last moment in time.
You can't help but feel for Miriam, but also more than a little jealous of the love she was able to experience with her Marianne. Stranger still, the longing you feel is not unlike hers; it seeps out from your pores into the open air, and before you know it, you think of the man at your side. Does Erik think about the inevitable end of your time together? Because let's be honest for a moment; if someone like Miriam can have such a wonderful relationship end so suddenly, nothing's stopping you, a pair of casual fuck buddies, from suffering the same, if not worse, fate.
If there's one lesson you can learn from Marianne and Miriam's story, it's that all good things come to an end. The only question that still remains is, will you and Erik look back fondly on the memories and experiences you've shared, or it will become a blur like the retreating figures of a time long gone once your arrangement inevitably comes to a close?
Maybe you'll not physically change, but you both may very well become permanently altered when the high of being completely swept up in each other wears off, leaving two strangers with nothing to do but part ways. You know that you will never forget the time you've shared, but can you say the same for Erik? Sure, he invited you here, bringing you into another part of his world, but will your time in his world leave a lasting mark when you've made your exit? You can't lie, it hurts to think about other shows he'll attend without you; even more so that, eventually, someone else will be standing in your place, a girlfriend, maybe even a wife.
Even though there's no way to know what the future holds, you can't help but cling onto Erik, and to the present even tighter in response to this melancholy realization.
When the song ends, you and Erik release each other's hands to join in on the clapping, whooping and cheering. Miriam bids you all goodnight, the band members leave the stage. You stay there for a minute, coming down.
You and Erik drain your water bottles and then start to head towards the exit hand in hand. Once outside in the cool evening air, ears ringing slightly, you both groan in relief. You pipe up first, “God, it got so fucking hot in there.”
“Yeah, all the leather you chose to wear tonight did not help, I imagine.” Erik teases. You tell him, “No, but still worth it though.”
He has to agree, you look incredible. The pair of you are walking down the sidewalk, trying to get out of the way of the many people still all leaving the venue. You can’t help yourself, the song firmly planted in your head. Swinging your clasped hands you sing, “Mariiiiannneee-”
Erik grins and joins you as you both sing out, “-of my dark heart!” The group of three people you pass by who are smoking also piped up on the last word causing you both to laugh. With a wave to your mutual concert-goers you continue on your way. He asks excitedly, “So what did you think?”
You tell him, “In-fucking-credible! Life changing, genuinely I mean it! I can’t believe I didn’t get into them sooner my God.”
The pair of you have enough distance that you are able to stop and talk and the show. "-Seriously though, if it was anyone else, I don't think those lyrics would work! But-"
Erik jumps in, knowing where you are going with this, totally on the same page. "But Miriam totally sells it right?! Like I'm completely aware, reading em out, they could be totally corny in the wrong hands-"
And you are agreeing, "-yet they crush it! Yes exactly!"
He tells you, "I've thought this so many times, Freak, you've got no idea-" You both ramble about songs, lyrics and moments from the show, and it is a wonderfully lively conversation. By the end of it, Erik says, “I don’t want to stop hanging out yet.”
“Me either. You want to come back to my place?” You offer and Erik says, “Actually, I think I might have a better idea.”
You give him a curious look, and he asks, “How would you like to come back to mine?”
Did you hear him right? You aren’t sure, because right now it sounded like he asked you to come back to his house, the one that he shares with his family. You thought that was completely off limits and was always going to be. Honestly you had to hear him wrong, so you ask him to repeat himself, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Are your ears ringing that bad from the show?” He teases with a laugh, nudging your shoulder. Then clarifies, “I said how would you like to come back to my house?”
You did hear him right and holy fucking shit, you legitimately never expected this. You do want that, very, very badly but you are still confused. “I thought that we agreed that me meeting your family would be a bad idea?”
“We did, and that hasn’t changed, but no one is at my house tonight.” He explains further, “Mom and dad took off on a trip for the weekend, Bobby’s friend has an away game, and he went along to support him and Julia is at some sleepover. We’d have the place to ourselves.”
Absolute jackpot, what serious fucking luck. You enthusiastically say, “Yes! Please, I’d love to come over!”
“Fuck yes!” Erik says next, “I was thinking it’d be a chance for you to use the trampoline too.”
Oh yes! You still have a ton of energy from the show, and the trampoline seems like the perfect way to work it out. He pulls his phone out, he says, “We are a bit far out, I’ll get us a ride.”
You can’t stop yourself from bouncing next to him, shifting from foot to foot, “I can’t believe I’m really getting to go over to your place! Tonight is the fucking best!”
How amped up you are is absurdly endearing. He laughs lightly as he taps at his phone screen, as he agrees, “Tonight is very fucking awesome.”
Thankfully, there are a lot of cars on the ride-share app in the area thanks to the concert. A few minutes later, you get into one and on your way. There is no further reason to be holding hands, there wasn't one as soon as you left the venue. Yet, you find yourself wanting it still. Instead of reaching for him, you lace your own fingers together, with your hands in your lap. You make yourself focus instead of listening to Erik talk about what he loved best about the concert.
The trip doesn’t take long, and soon the pair of you are sliding out and are standing on the sidewalk outside his house.
You let out a low whistle, before saying, “At last. Castle Campbell. Damn Erik, you didn’t tell me it was this nice!”
“No real reason for it to come up in conversation.” He says with a shrug, “It isn’t like it’s really mine anyway, it’s my parents.” He nods towards the house and says, “Come on, this way.”
You follow where he leads, going around the side of the house and to the sizeable backyard. Your hands are in your pockets as you trail behind him, eyes scanning over the space. When your eyes land on it, you exclaim, “You have a fucking wet bar?”
“Again, I don’t-” He starts, and you wave him off, “Yeah, yeah it’s your parents I get it, but still cool!”
"It gets a lot of use in the summer, my brother loves to play bartender." Erik explains and you wish you could try a drink his brother makes. Hell, you want to use it yourself but you know that is not going to happen. You try not to let it get you down, pushing the small sad twinge far away.
Once you see the trampoline you make your way over with Erik close behind.
You unzip and then take off your boots, set your bag down too. Next you throw your jacket on the grass before climbing up. Erik sits himself down on a nearby lawn chair and you ask, “You gonna make me bounce by myself?”
“Watching you play with yourself is one of my favourite pastimes.” Erik jokes as he leans back on the chair as he watches. Their is a warm smile on your face and the tentative beginnings of your bouncing. You get into it quickly, arms out and jumping much higher, a joyful giggle spilling out as you do. His family has owned the trampoline for years, he went through periods of loving it and being over it many times over and hasn’t really played on it in a very long time. He thought he totally grew out of it, but you are having such a good time, and he feels compelled to join in.
He lasts less than five minutes before he gets up and comes over. He takes off his own jacket and shoes and says, “I’m coming up.”
You pause your bouncing, hands on your hips as you say, “What happened to watching me play with myself?”
“Eh, we both know I can never stop myself from joining in.” He fires back as he climbs up. You tease him, “Yeah, your self-control is as bad as mine.” He doesn’t fight you on that. You start to bounce again, eyes on him, and he follows.
Erik pipes up, “We doing this in sync or do you want me help you get some serious height?”
“Boy band style for sure.” You tell him with a nod and when he gives you a confused look, you clarify, “In sync.”
Leading him to groan with a roll of his eyes, “Ughhhh, fuck you.”
You break down laughing at your own joke in that way that only you can, the way he loves. The pair of you have a good time, more of a sweat worked up as you lose yourselves to the rhythm of sharing the trampoline together. You do allow him to help you, quote “get some serious height”. You sit yourself down, and he jumps around you, making you bounce a few feet easily and cannot stop the delighted squeal that leaves you at the air you catch. Returning the favour is natural. You can’t make him go quite as high as you do, but you still get a very satisfying, “Whoa!” from him with his arms out that makes you laugh.
Minutes later after more casual fucking around, and you are both standing again. His hands find yours, and he says, “Okay, this next thing is kinda stupid-” He starts, and you interlock your fingers with his as you cut him off to say sincerely, “I trust you.”
He takes you in and God he is staring again. You are sweaty and flush from the exercise, makeup slightly smudged after all of tonight’s activities, smile unable to leave your face and eyes alight with playful excitement. He pushes the affection he is feeling down and says, “Okay, on my count.”
You nod, and he starts, “One-” A jump that he initiates, and you follow, “-two-” the action repeated, he says, “-three.” You understand what he is driving at completely. With both of you jumping at the same moment, feet touching down together, it drives you both up higher and higher, the momentum building and the height climbing.
Usually with one person trying to get height and the other providing the control it is easy to be a spotter, to bail out when necessary. Doing this doesn’t allow for that as easily, it is kind of stupid, but the fun kind of stupid that is low risk and leaves you breathless. By the fifth bounce your stomach has taken on that same feeling it gets on a roller coaster drop, it has your hands gripping his tighter. Your gaze breaks from his, flicking down to the trampoline, on the seventh time your feet touch the trampoline, you rush out, “Erik!” On the upward swing you exclaim, “We’re getting pretty high-”
On the comedown he asks, “One more?”
Again you trust him as you call out, “Okay!” while holding tight you brace for the eighth and Christ, your heart is hammering out of your chest. When you reach the full height, he says, “Let go!”
You do, and you both fall. Your legs are tucked up, and you are spaced far apart, more evenly distributing your weight. The next few bounces are minor, and you are able to get a handle and control of yourselves until you come to a stop, resting on the sagging material on your knees. You are trying to catch your breath, gushing to him, “That was so fun! We were up so high!”
“The view is pretty crazy, right?” He asks as he leans back on his hands. You wouldn’t know, you couldn’t stop looking at him. You hum out the lie, “Very.”
“I didn’t think anyone could move that well in a leather mini-skirt.” He praises. You smile as you fix it from how high it bunched up your thighs, “Why you continue to doubt my flexibility and mobility is a mystery.”
The pair of you adjust, coming to sit on the edge of the trampoline. Your legs are dangling, sweaty and nearly shoulder to shoulder under the stars. It’s quiet, a nice, comfortable silence. You break it when you say, “Tonight has been one of my favourite nights we've ever had together. I’d love to go with you to more concerts…You know if you want to.”
He scoffs, “Of course I want to! This was one of the most fun shows I’ve been to.” He means it, you are an unbelievably fun concert buddy, he had a complete blast with you.
You smile eyes downcast, fingers curling around the cold springs under your hands, it grounds you to the now and burns the memory further into your brain through the tactile sensation. The moment and setting feels intimate, Erik is looking at you. He wants to hold your hand again, he wants to tilt your face up and kiss you, he wants to do plenty more too. He knows that he can’t. So he doesn’t.
“Thanks for inviting me over for this by the way, it was a real blast from the past.” You tell him. He responds, “Happy to. Glad everyone else cleared out to give us the chance.” Erik asks after, “So you said your uncle had one?”
You nod and tell him, “Yeah, whenever the weather was good when we were visiting me and my cousins could spend hours on that thing.” He has already been so sweet and indulged you so much. You are in such a good mood and feel particularly vulnerable and open, so why not share some more?
Your legs swing back and forth as you say, “So there was this thing we used to do-” His ears perk up, and he listens more closely, “-we weren’t supposed to but in the summer we’d camp out in the backyard and after everyone else was asleep? We’d sneak back on the trampoline and play around in secret.” You glance at him and say, “We’d have to be quiet of course, and eventually after we tired ourselves out, still on the trampoline we’d have these big talks. We'd share secrets and deeper stuff.”
God he really does love getting to hear this kind of thing. You so rarely share about your family, every new piece of information he gets to know means so much. He doesn’t think you are fishing for that experience, just sharing and being honest, but he still wants to provide it. Clearly it was important and meant something, and he’d like to share more of himself with you, the same way he always does whenever you open up. He offers, “I think I’m in the mood for some secret time and deep talk kind of shit right now.”
It’s your turn to perk up. A smile, head cocking to the side as you ask, “Really?”
He nods, “Yeah, totally. Hit me.” Erik offers further, “Whatever you want to know.”
There is one thing you’d like more info on, something that has been lingering on your mind. You’ve held back from asking because you have been worried about the answer he’d give. Curiosity has become too much and so you ask it, “What do you want in the future?”
He asks for clarification, “Like with my career or what?”
You elaborate, “I mean like, relationships wise. What you are looking for long term? You’ve never said and I’m curious.”
Interesting question. Erik supposes friends do talk about this kind of thing, so he doesn’t let himself spiral out about it. He just decides to be honest. “I want a partner that I can rely on. Someone who can be there and wants to share their life with me, and mine with them. Who makes time and space for me.” He starts and you listen. “I want someone who I can have fun with, but can be there for the real shit too. Someone funny, who doesn’t take life too seriously, has similar hobbies.-”
A small smile starts to break out on your face as you listen to him go on, “Someone who is passionate about what they like and unapologetic too. Confident and comfortable in themselves. Not too clingy, is okay with us still maintaining some independence.” The more you hear, the better you feel, until he says, “I want someone who can love my family and would introduce me to theirs and want me to be a part of it.”
That makes your heart stutter. You ask, “Yeah?”
He continues, “Yeah. It’s very important to me. It would be ideal for both of us to have good relationships with each other's families.” When you don't rush to add anything just yet, Erik takes the opportunity to expound, “See, I’ve dated, I’ve had girlfriends and relationships-” He takes a deep breath, “-but no matter how much I wanted them to, they never got serious.”
Erik's palms rub together absentmindedly, almost as a means to calm himself down. His eyes remain downcast as he tells you, “Time after time, I’d get invested with whoever I was seeing at the time to the point I'd want them to meet my family, but like fucking clockwork they’d always either skirt around it or avoid it altogether. Oh and the second I bring up meeting theirs? Out of the damn question. Over and over, without fail, every girl just couldn't…or wouldn't see me as a viable, long-term option.” He sighs heavily, “Not a single one ever took me seriously. Instead, they chose to brush me off, and eventually, they'd come to the conclusion that I was not their “Mr. Right”, just their “Mr. Right-Now.” Sure, they see me as THE guy to have a good time with for a while, but when it comes down to it, I'm the last person they wanna bring home to the folks.”
The laugh he emits bears an icy tone of bitterness that cuts through any mirth it may have had, “And I mean, look at me. Practically built to be every girl's dirty little secret, someone's phase to get outta their system, or just a distraction from their mundane, cookie-cutter cul-de-sac life. Save a dildo, use a 'hot alternative guy.', you know?” After letting the words sink in for a moment he continues, “You know, all of my relationships have never even lasted a full year. When something happens over and over again, you can't help but think that it's all you'll ever get. I stopped expecting much after that, but I'm hopeful that eventually I'll-” He exhales, “-break the cycle. It’s a numbers game right? It’s gotta happen eventually.”
It is abundantly clear now why that is so important to him, and you completely understand it. Adding onto the fact that he is so close to his family, it's only natural for him to want the ability to share that with his eventual life partner. Unease and compassion swirls in your gut at his words, sadness spreading through you with anger boiling just under the surface at the hurt and disappointment he's experienced at the hands of past lovers.
His words instill something in you, resonating with a part of you that you've hidden away so well, but now it almost wants to climb out of you and comfort him in this moment. As selfish as it may be, you can't shake the sadness you feel for yourself. Knowing his values in greater detail drives home the simple fact that you are so very wrong for him; You'll never fit into the ideal future he just described. You try to hide your now crestfallen demeanor by adjusting your posture. You should focus on him, not on you and your irrational, unwarranted feelings.
With a shrug that's far too casual for what he's about to say, Erik remarks matter of factly, “Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I’m just unlovable.” He lays back, hands behind his head and eyes staring up into the starry sky.
Your mouth falls open, your whole body turning to stare down at him in total disbelief. How could he actually believe something like that? You want to fix this; want to reassure him. Hell, the choice words you have for all those wastes of space that dared to make him feel unloved for even a second, were perched on your tongue at this very moment. At the very least, you wanted to prove him wrong, for him to know that he was definitely NOT unlovable. Everyone that found it apt to disregard or use him were the problem, not him.
You wish you could arrange all of his shitty exes in a line so you could clock each and every one of them in the jaw. Above all else however, you want to lean down and kiss him. You want to pour the last few months of your feelings into the gesture; to kiss away every single doubt that he could ever be less than worthy of love. But that is such a fucking terrible, selfish idea that you can't even fathom following through on. Instead, you adjust, getting on your hands and knees and crawling to Erik's side, looking down at him as you say, “Don’t say that, Erik. You are not unlovable.”
“What other explanation is there? Why have none of my relationships worked out?” He asks, and you scoff, “Erik, none of mine have ever worked out either. Do you think that makes me unlovable?”
He finally looks at you, brow knitted together. He responds like it should be completely obvious, “Of course not.”
“Well then, if that logic tracks for me then it does for you too!” You tell him, “Just because you had a string of bad relationships in your teens and twenties with some shallow, frankly, bitches-” He chokes out a laugh and you smile as you press on, “-who used you? And took advantage means you are unlovable? No way! It’s no commentary on you, but it is one on them. I’ve never met any of em, but what they did tells me a lot about them.” With a deep breath, you say lastly, “I’m sorry they all did that. You didn’t deserve it, and they didn’t deserve you.”
The silence is back, it stretches as you stare at each other. Erik is really touched, he knows you are being thoroughly honest, and utterly sincere. He hasn’t ever talked about this with anyone, a rather dark and self-conscious worry that has been tucked in the back of his mind for years. Yet, when he carts it out you don’t laugh or belittle. You don’t tell him that he is right, you refute everything and reassure and comfort him. It means more than he thinks he can articulate without crossing one of the many invisible lines in your current arrangement.
He allows himself a quiet, “Thank you.” A beat before he says, “I mean it, really, thank you for saying all that.” He did need to hear it. You say, “What are friends for?”
A painful reminder of your current relationship status. He ignores the small stab it brings and turns your question around on you. He needs to know, just as you were too curious, so he is.
“What about you? What are you looking for long term?” He inquires. You should have figured he’d ask this. You sit back on your ass, knees together and arms around them, hugging them as your chin rests on your kneecaps. Thinking for a moment, you tell him, “I…Don’t think I am cut out for serious relationships.” With a gesture between you both, you confess, “This is what I am best at, this is what makes the most sense for me.”
He presses, “You really don’t want more?”
You do. You really fucking do, but you don’t think it’s ever been truly meant for you. Truthfully, He isn’t meant for you. You'll only disappoint him in the end, you can't give him an ounce of what he has in mind for his perfect future with someone.
Honesty is something you never thought you'd have to withhold from him, but in moments like this, it's necessary. Not just for his sake, not really. This is to protect yourself as well, for the hurt that will surely come when he realizes that you can't give him what he wants. You don't want to be around for the moment he deems you damaged, and inevitably leaves you behind for something better.
You can’t rock the boat, you can’t let on that you have any second thoughts about the future; about this arrangement. You'll never be compatible long term. He doesn’t want more with you anyway. there's not a secret third option for you two. You are only ever fated to remain as you are; friends with benefits. Unable to face the lie you are about to deliver, you look away from him like a coward, uttering the damning phrase, “Not really no. I’m good where I’m at, honestly.”
He should have expected you to double down, you've been nothing if not transparent since the very beginning, but clearly he didn't want to believe it. His eyes turn skyward, refraining from pushing or fighting you on it any further. Erik wishes the circumstances between you were different, but you want what you want and you've made that abundantly clear time and time again. He knew what this was when he got involved with you, and tonight is no different.
Although, in his defense, back then he never imagined that his feelings for you would develop to this degree. He can't really blame himself for wishful thinking, you've been so incredible these past few month, and you've done so much for him. Your presence in his life has impacted him in so many ways, he can't pinpoint a single thing he'll miss because he will miss it all. He knows he will be so gutted when this arrangement comes to a close one day. But still, he does not and will not regret it.
Erik pushes the negative feelings aside, it’s been a great night, and he doesn’t want to taint it with overthinking. He can do that some other time, not in front of you. He pushes himself up and asks, “Since you’re here, do you want to come inside and see my room?”
You have no idea if you will ever get this chance again, and you want it incredibly badly so you agree quickly and enthusiastically, “Oh my God! Are you joking? Of course, I do!”
Rolling off the trampoline your feet touch down on the wet grass, you shove your feet into your boots and don’t bother to zip them up. Scooping up your bag and jacket, you look at him expectantly. He laughs as he gets off the trampoline, asking, “Excited?”
“Extremely!” You tell him with a grin, watching as he puts his shoes on and scoops up his jacket. He leads the way and you follow him back around to the front of the house. He takes out his keys and unlocks the door, then holding it open for you. He comes inside, right behind you and closes the door before flipping on the hall light. You take your shoes off and he takes your jacket, hanging it on the coat rack with his. Your eyes scan the area, giving a low whistle you say, “Wow-”
He starts down the hall towards and you follow as you say, “-very nice. High ceilings.”
“Certainly could be worse.” Erik fires back with a look of his shoulder. The climb to the second floor is quick, and soon he is opening a door saying, “Here we are. Sorry for the mess, wasn’t expecting you to see this tonight.”
You tell him, “Oh it’s totally fine.”
He heads in, and you have to purposefully stop yourself from running after him. You are so excited to see it in person. Erik turns on his bedside lamp to illuminate the room as opposed to the overhead light, and you start to take in all the details. The walls are a deep red, the floor is dark hardwood, a large rectangular black rug in the middle of the floor. Posters litter the walls, mostly from bands but also for a few movies, he has a bookshelf against one wall stuffed full, a large overflowing CD rack beside that. He has a desk that is cluttered bordering on messy, stacks of art supplies, sketch books, a laptop. The wall shelf above the desk is lined with video games and DVDs. He has a dresser, a floor length mirror and his sliding closet door is currently left open. You start to walk around the room, stopping to take in a cork board that is pinned with pictures of Erik at various ages with who you assume are friends and some of his family.
“So the current look started when you were a teen?” You question, looking at a picture of Erik on what looks to be a family camping trip. You’d place him maybe around 12, very much before black overtook his wardrobe or so. He tells you, “Yeah, I didn’t come out of the womb rocking this style, believe it or not.”
"I'm still in the camp of not." You inform as you continue your tour, commenting on posters, his CD collection and then pick up one of his various sketchbooks and start flipping through. The conversation is easy, meandering and fun. You are giddy, still in total disbelief that you are even in his room. When your eyes raise again to look at Erik, he is leaning against his dresser which is near his bed, and upon seeing that piece of furniture you abandon the sketchbook with a gasp. “My God!”
You come over and drop onto the unmade sheets, you gush, “At last! It’s like meeting a celebrity! It’s like I dunno what to do with my hands after seeing all the pictures and videos.”
He laughs, and you tell him, “I mean it! After all the glimpses over the months in what you’ve sent, I really can’t believe I am actually here!” You drop onto your back and stretch against the sheets. “Oh fuck, so comfortable.”
“I still think your bed has mine beat.” Erik responds as he watches you sprawl. His eyes drag up from your fishnet clad legs, to your criminally short leather skirt that is riding up your thighs. You pull your arms up over your head, back arching, your already tight tank top fits even more smugly over your chest with the action. Erik has been dreaming of having you in this very position for months, of you in his bed. He never actually thought it would happen. Now that it is, and the house is empty, he wants to take advantage of it.
You look insanely good, he's been totally taken with you all night. The tension has been building between you both, the physical closeness at the concert accelerating everything considerably. At one point he had moved you in front of him when the guy beside you had started getting a tad too rowdy. His hands squeezed your shoulders before trailing down to your hips, holding you close, your back leaning into his chest. Your natural reaction was to press your ass to his crotch as the pair of you swayed to the music. He could smell your shampoo and perfume while his fingers stroked over the smooth leather that is hugging your hips. By the time the song was done, he was fairly hard and wanting.
Erik hates the distance between you both at this moment deeply, and he decides to do something about it. He takes the few steps forward to join you on the bed, he doesn’t waste time. One knee comes down onto the plush surface, his left hand comes down onto the sheets beside you as he starts to lean over you; the response from you is immediate and automatic. Your legs part for him to slot himself between, your eyes remain fixed on him. A playful curve of your lips upwards, inviting him closer still. He is on the bed with you now, on top of you, his right hand traces down your side and you bite your bottom lip.
The possibilities tonight are truly endless, he has had countless fantasies of you in his bed, but which to enact? First, above all else, he does what he wants the most at that exact moment, he leans down and he kisses you.
God, you have been wanting this all fucking night. Your arms loop around his neck as you kiss him back. From the first press of your lips together, the energy spikes, intense and needy. The last time you had sex was before Halloween. With your advanced arrangement and seeing each other as often as possible, you'd gotten used to having sex multiple times a week, meaning? The unintended nearly two week break since you've last had sex has you both feeling rather desperate. Heat rushes through you, addicting and all-consuming. The last thing this make out could be described as is chaste or restrained, lips part, a shared moan released into the ongoing kiss. His tongue brushes yours in that particular way that causes your breath to hitch and your hips to twitch up into his involuntarily, seeking friction.
He provides. Erik grinds down and electricity jolts up your spine, writhing against the sheets as one of your hands slips up into his hair. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands and tug, he groans softly at the mild hurt as you direct his head, tilting it to the side for you to better deepen the kiss. Your hips squirm, slowly increasing the stimulation, the easy simmer of pleasure beginning in earnest; and so it goes. Over the next five minutes of grinding and making out, you become unbearably wet. The need becomes too intense to not do anything about it. You break the kiss, head falling back against the sheets as you beg, “Please, touch me?”
He rushes to comply, moving back to leave just enough space between your bodies to get his hand between your thighs. His fingers trace upwards before, pressing down over the two layers of your fishnets and the soaked fabric of your underwear. As the pads of his fingers swirl over your clit, the added stimulation that the texture of the fishnet tights provides makes you inhale sharply. You exhale out a soft moan of his name and he leans back down, kissing you, swallowing the sound, all while continuing to work his hand. His touch is sure and confident and feels amazing. You feel compelled to tell him as such, to let him know, just as you feel compelled to touch him in kind. One of your hands slides down to cup him through his pants, you squeeze drawing a delectable sound from him.
In between heated kisses, you gasp out, “Erik, fuck-” He kisses you again quickly, and you try to continue your train of thought even through your lustful haze when he pulls back. “-feels so good.-” The next kiss you steal, confessing further, “-I love-” One more press of your mouths is shared, before at last you reach your conclusion sharing it breathlessly, “-your hands.”
You are already starting to look wrecked underneath him, clearly the location of tonight’s hookup is getting to you just as badly as it is him and he likes that very much. The fact you were so excited earlier simply by being in his room was endearing, cute even; but you are getting off on being in his bed this intensely is very hot, flattering too. Your praise strokes his ego just as your hand continues to, makes him strain in his jeans further, hips bucking into your touch. He kisses you again, and you can feel him smiling into it. His lips still nearly pressed to yours he asks in that taunting and teasing tone, “Yeah?”
He increases the pressure and your hips arch upwards, silently begging for more as you respond, “God yeah.”
Your back bows, releasing him and your hands moving and catching the edge of your tank top, you start trying to take it off and Erik’s hand speeds up. You moan louder, the increase in pleasure making your movements become slower, messy. You whine out his name, and he hums in question, like he has no clue what he is doing to you and how much harder he is making this. As opposed to attempting to get him to understand, you summon your inner strength and rip your shirt off over your head. You toss it off into the corner of his room. Erik’s pace slows upon seeing the bra you have on, God, it makes your tits look incredible. The intricate lace detailing makes him want to feel you up. Before he can, you are removing your bra exposing your chest to him. You beg him, pairing those two little words together in that whiny needy voice that compels him to listen, “Fuck me?”
"Shit, yes." He agrees as his hand lifts and he takes off his own shirt as you half sit up, your hands coming down to help him with his belt and pants. He helps you rush the process along, once his pants and underwear have been abandoned on the floor he reaches to assist with your skirt.
You rush out, “Leave it-” Your hips arch and your hands adjust the garment so it is pulled over the swell of your ass, bunched around your hips, giving him access. So instead Erik starts to work at your fishnets. You groan in frustration, “Erik, please, I need you. Just-” You exhale shakily, encouraging him, “-just rip them.”
His hands pause as the unbearably hot request you gave him sinks in. Mouth moving without thought to confirm with you, "Are you sur-"
You cut him off, “They’re already torn up and full of holes, yes! Fuck, please-”
That is all he needs to hear. His fingers hook into several of the holes each, then he pulls, tearing the crotch out. The ripping of your tights sounds exactly like the of the last shreds of your self control giving way.
Your hand is between your thighs, moving your panties to the side and starting to wrap your legs around his hips to draw him closer. Erik lets you lead, his hands fall to the bed on either side of your head, his chest is nearly to yours and with a move of his hips and yours he lines up with ease. You feel the tip of him kiss your slick and clenching hole, and he doesn’t waste any more time. He pushes forward and doesn’t stop until he is buried in you to the hilt. Your eyes want to roll back from just the initial stretch, instead you gift him with another moan full of want, your arms wrapping around him and your heels pressing into the backs of his thighs. The wet heat of your cunt is incredibly good, Erik’s face is buried in your neck when he curses and pulls out halfway and thrusts forward again.
It is quick but so good. Startlingly intimate with how much skin on skin contact there is going on. He presses kisses against your throat as he rolls his hips and mutters, “I really fucking needed this.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders and nip at his ear when you tell him, “I’ve been dying for it too.”
Rocking together, finding the optimal rhythm is easy, happens swiftly, you cannot keep quiet but neither can he. His lips trace over your jaw and when he lifts his head enough you take the opportunity to capture his mouth in another kiss and the same making out from before kicks up again, but messier. The first few minutes happen like this, you on your back, clinging to him as he is on top and pounding into you. Sex with Erik is always good, but there is something about tonight that feels unreal. It is hard to place, you aren't sure exactly what it is but every movement feels astounding. From the kisses and grazes of teeth, the grinding friction against your clit, to the bullseye precision of his thrusts nailing G-spot; it is all spectacularly pleasurable.
He’s been working you so well, abusing you so perfectly both inside and out, that in the past few minutes he has already gotten you close. You gasp out, “Fuh-fuck, jus’ like that-” You whimper out the warning he’s heard near countless times, “-M’ al-almost-”
Christ he can tell, you are tightening up significantly, wetter and your whole body is taut with the tension spooled within it.
He wants to feel you break apart because of what he is doing so badly. He grits out, “Please, come onnn-” and then he breathes out your name, and it’s as if that is what you needed to make it happen; the last piece required to make you tip over and cum. You do with your eyes squeezed shut, the peak of it staggeringly strong. A cry of his name and trembling beneath him as the ecstasy of it crashes through you. Erik fucks you through it until you are letting out these little hiccuping, gasping breaths that he cannot get enough of.
Once your orgasm has run its course, he slows down considerably giving you a generous reprieve. Your legs unwrap, hands sliding back up into his hair and dragging his mouth to yours. You kiss him deeply, your tongue circles his and his hips slam harder into yours involuntarily in response. Finally breaking the contact, hands falling back away you huff out a breath as you ask him, “Stop for a sec?”
He doesn’t question you, just halts his movements. Your left knee hits his hip, requesting him to, “Roll over?”
Erik goes along with it, slips out of you just long enough for himself to get comfortable on his back and for you to perch yourself on top. Your hand grips his slick shaft, and you angle him right and take him back inside Erik’s head falls back to the sheets as your grasping pussy envelops him again. You don’t linger, starting a good, steady pace as you ride him. Erik’s hands lock onto your hips, his brows furrow as he stares up at you. The rhythmic rolls of your body, the way your chest bounces, lips parted. You look so gorgeous and fucked out with the current state of your hair and makeup. Erik’s favourite times are when you ride him, take charge and control, he loves being able to lay back and just feel. His knees are bent, and you have your hands on them, using that point of contact to help you better bounce. You force yourself down harder. You slam downwards over and over, the sound of skin on skin from your bodies is loud, if anyone else was home they would hear it for sure. Forget about the increasing pitch of yours and his moans.
He is in trouble in a few short minutes. You are panting out his name in this breathy pitch that makes him swallow thickly as the edge approaches rapidly. He confesses shakily, “I-I’m not gonna last-”
“S’ fine, I want it." A nod before you encourage him further, "Do it, cum in me.” You beg, and what’s a man to do when asked for something like that? His hands tighten their grip, fingers dig in. He moves with purpose, fucking up into you as you move down. The pair of you working perfectly together to ensure his release. He gets no more than ten thrusts into you before his own end overtakes. Your eyes are glued to his face, taking in his expression as his orgasm hits, completely swept up in sensation. God, is it any wonder why he has ruined you for traditional porn when he looks this good? He spills into you with a shudder and a harsh exhalation that you think might contain your name.
You feel the warmth flood you and with a few more gentle and tentative bounces you draw out the aftershocks beautifully. The movement eventually stops, you sit there, him remaining hard in you for the time being. You both pant and try to reign in your breathing. He is going to pull you down to his chest, wrap his arms around you for the post fuck kissing and cuddling, but you lift yourself. He hisses slightly in overstimulation as he slides out of you, the majority of the mess of you coming with it thanks to gravity. Your own eyes are downcast, soaking up the sight of the thick and creamy mix drizzling over his slowly softening shaft.
With surprising ease and grace, you get off of him and instead between his legs. You lean down and your clever lips and tongue clean him up. Every lick, kiss and suck has his hips tensing and his fingers curling in the sheets, as he chokes out, “Oh God-”
You hum, pleased over the heady flavour of you both, not stopping until you’ve swallowed everything back.
Only then do you allow yourself to flop onto the bed beside him. Your body is pressed to his and Erik’s eyes are staring up at the ceiling as he breathes out, “Holy shit-”
You laugh, and he asks lightly, “What?”
“Nothing just-” You giggle again before asking, “-have you noticed that is the thing we say post sex more than anything else?”
Erik’s mind casts backwards over previous after sex stupors you’ve shared. He realizes yes, both you, and he utter, “Holy shit” very frequently on the come down. It makes him laugh, admitting, “Fuck, you are totally right! I had no idea we said it that much.”
You curl closer, an arm around him and a kiss to the corner of his mouth, you offer up, “Maybe if the sex was worse we’d have something else to say?”
He hooks an arm around you, his hand on your back. He kisses you full on the mouth, an action you return before he pulls back. Erik responds, “Hmm maybe.”
Fat chance of your sex taking a turn for the worse and becoming anything less than mind-blowing and holy shit worthy. You lay with him, more relaxing and a few more kisses shared. It's blissful and both satisfies and stirs different feelings inside. Far too soon for Erik’s liking you comment, “It’s getting really late, I should probably go.”
It was very fucking late. The show wrapped well after midnight. Add in the drive to his place, the trampoline fun, his room tour and your sex; it was coming up to three in the morning. You still have to get home and clean up before falling into bed. Erik wants to do what you always do, ask you to stay, but he knows you can’t sleep over. The two of you are going to sleep in late, and he knows that by the time you’d wake some of his family would be home, and trying to explain all of that is the last thing he needs.
He doesn’t like the idea of you walking home this late so he says, “I’ll pay for your ride home.”
You thank him as he takes his phone out, he tells you it’s no problem. After both getting dressed, you go downstairs. Erik gives you a bottle of water, and you ask if you could have a snack of some kind. He tells you that anything he’s got, you are more than welcome to. After looking in the fridge he finds half of a leftover pizza and offers some out. You steal a slice greedily, taking a bite and moan around it, eating it cold happily. He encourages you to take another after the first and you do so.
In ten minutes you have your jacket and boots on, bag slung over your shoulder and finishing your second slice. You give Erik a one-armed hug, not wanting to get any pizza grease on him, and thank him one last time for a seriously incredible night.
Erik replies, “No, thank you. That concert wouldn’t have been even half as fun without you there.”
He opens the door for you, and you head down the front steps. A wave over your shoulder as you bid him goodnight and head off for the car waiting in the driveway.
Erik watches you go and then closes the door. Erik reheats some pizza for himself, rather hungry too, after he finishes it he goes back upstairs. He goes through the motions of getting ready for bed. He takes a short shower to rinse off all the sweat and brushes his teeth. By the time he is done, everything from tonight is catching up to him, and he feels so tired. Once back in his room he flops himself face down on the bed. He takes a deep breath and when he does, he realizes his sheets now smell like you and he groans. The lingering smell of your perfume and shampoo and your sweat clinging to his sheets, unmistakably you and God it makes him ache.
He rolls onto his back and thinks about the night. His mind passes over the good and the bad, the fun had. He thinks of the painful knowledge confirmed that you really don’t want anything more serious, not just with him but seemingly with anyone. He pushes that aside, not wanting to kill his good mood right before falling asleep, he instead thinks about the sex you just had and that is much better, until he recalls that compliment you gave, “I love your hands.”
The clarity he has now makes him view the filthy praise in a different light. You love his hands. His mouth, his dick, you love parts of him, but not all of him and that stings much more than he thinks it should. He got so lost in thought that when his phone buzzes it startles him, makes him jump. He checks it to see your text, telling him you got home safe and are going to bed, he sighs. He taps out a quick goodnight in reply.
Erik turns off his lamp and scoots over, lies on the other half of the bed lets sleep take him.
Over the next few days, the smell of you on his sheets lessens every day until it completely leaves and when the last trace of you does depart he finds that truly depressing.
It's days after the concert. Erik made a brief mention of wanting to get this new record for a band he likes, but that he was going to be so busy on release day he wasn’t going to get the chance to get to the store. Cue you strolling into his work mid-shift with the vinyl in hand, along with what has to be the best cherry cheese danish he has ever had. He told you that you didn’t have to, and you shrug telling him it was nothing. It doesn’t feel like nothing to Erik, it leaves a major impression on him. You don’t linger for long after that, but he really wishes you could have.
You are constantly doing sweet and thoughtful things for him unasked, and he tries hard to match what you do with such ease. He needs to do something as a thank you for your latest gift, and after he gets a message from you venting about what a terrible day you are having, he gets the perfect idea. He remembers what you said about brownie sundaes being your all-time favourite dessert. How nice would it be to do a little baking and bring them by to surprise you after work? Knowing your sweet tooth you’d probably greatly appreciate some dessert before dinner action. However, Erik knows himself and his ability well, he needs some help on this front. He knows just where to go.
Erik plants himself firmly in front of the doorway to Bobby’s room, it’s cracked open so he doesn’t bother knocking. He just kicks it open with a call of, “Bobbyyyy-”
“Jesus fucking Christ-” His brother exclaims, head whipping to the door as he says, “-you gotta stop opening my door like that! You’re gonna kick a fucking hole in it one day!”
“Nah, it’ll be fine, anyway-” Erik leans against the door frame, crossing his arms as he continues his thought, “-I need your help.”
Bobby is laying on his bed, his pet turtle, Paco, in his hands. He is no longer looking at Erik when he asks, “You need my help with what?”
“With baking some brownies.” Erik informs.
Bobby’s brow ceases when he asks, “If you want brownies, why don’t you just buy em from a store?”
Erik squints as he says, “Do I really have to explain to you why homemade is better than store bought?”
Bobby has to agree with him, he nods and gives it up, “Well you got me, there’s simply no comparison.”
Finally, Erik presses when he says, “Simply none, exactly. So come on, put Paco down and come help me out.”
Bobby still isn’t convinced, he asks, “Why don’t you just court order me to make em for you?” His voice drops quieter as he tacks on. “It isn’t like you haven’t done that before.”
Erik responds quickly., “Because I don’t want to do that all the time. I want to learn how to make good brownies myself, and you should be happy about that. It means I won’t be fucking bugging you whenever I want them.”
That seems to finally convince Bobby, who gets up off the bed while cradling Paco and heading to the turtle’s tank, “Alright already, you’ve worn me down. I’ll help you.”
Erik uncrosses his arms, watching as Paco is carefully placed back in his home. He smugly retorts, “I knew you would.”
“Yeah cause I’m a good person.” Bobby sighs as he closes the lid and turns around, “Let’s go.”
Bobby’s room is left behind in favour of the kitchen. Hands are washed and a few minutes later all the ingredients are pulled out and spread over the counter top. Erik could have just looked up a recipe, it’s true, but Bobby makes the best brownies, and you? Deserve nothing but the best. At first, it goes fine, preheating the oven and measuring the dry ingredients to be put in one bowl occur without incident. Mixing the wet ingredients goes fine too, the sturdy kitchen aid mixer on the counter easily combining the melted butter, sugar, eggs and vanilla. Everything is still fine even after the dry mix is added and fully incorporated.
Bobby tells Erik, “I’m hitting the bathroom, give the mixer another half a minute then turn it off. Then it’ll be ready to go in the pan and in the oven.”
Now is when trouble rears its head, when the mixing bowl has to be removed from the stand. The stainless steel bowl has a locking mechanism securing it into the mixer base, it isn’t complicated, a simple turn and it releases. Once again though, Erik isn’t one for baking, another major reason for enlisting Bobby’s help in the current task. He has some difficulty. Instead of waiting for Bobby to come back, he decides to do it himself and when it doesn’t give immediately he does the same thing he always does, he hits it. Honestly, it’s a bad habit, one he has never been able to kick, partly because he’s never really tried to. When he gets frustrated with anything technological he just wants to smack it and to be fair, often it has yielded him good results, so he does it without thinking. He hits it exactly wrong, because the bowl does come off the stand, hard and fast, the direction of it totally unpredictable.
“Shit!” Erik tries to catch it, completely misses and fumbles, leading to the metal bowl loudly clattering to the ground and spilling its contents over the side of the kitchen island and the tiled floor. The resounding CLANG still ringing in his ears as he looks at the large mess and the wasted, unsalvageable batter. He groans, head tipping back with a very angry, “Goddammit!”
Erik is berating himself mentally and still cursing in pure frustration at his stupid screw up when Bobby comes rushing back in, “What was that?” Then taking in the scene and asking, “What the fuck happened?!”
Erik starts to defend himself, “I tried to get the bowl off the stand and it just kind of…Slipped.”
He finishes lamely. Bobby gives him an accusatory look, “You hit it when it didn’t do what you wanted it to immediately, right?”
“It was stuck so I hit it!” Erik exclaims, and his brother sighs, hands on his hips and hanging his head.
After a moment, Bobby’s hand rubs over his eyes, and he says, “Well we are gonna have to clean this up, we can do this again some other time-”
Erik jumps in immediately, “What?! Fuck no! We can clean this up and do it again right away.”
Bobby lifts his head and examines his brother thoroughly before asking, “What? You want brownies that fucking badly?”
Erik glances at the clock, trying to mentally figure out how long this is going to take. He figures between cleaning, remaking the batter, baking and cooling; not to mention making his way to your place. He needs to get a move on to give himself ample time. Erik says, “Yes, I do. Very badly, it has to be today.”
“It has to be today?” Bobby repeats.
Erik reaffirms, tone annoyed as he snatches up the roll of paper towels, “Yes, it has to be today, okay?”
He isn’t buying it. Erik crouches down, starting to clean up the mess and avoiding the stare burning into the top of his head. Bobby isn’t stupid, this isn't the first time he’s noticed something is very off with Erik. In fact, he's known for a while that something is up and this just takes the cake. So he can’t take the farce any longer.
He demands with a start, “What the fuck is going on with you?”
Erik is wiping up the spilled chocolate, well more like trying to. He only manages to spread it around on the tile rather than actually cleaning anything. He isn’t looking at him as he responds, “Nothing is going on with me.”
Bobby is exasperated when he says next, “Erik please-” and he is cut off as Erik says more forcefully, “Bobby! Really, I’m fine!”
He isn’t going to let him squirm out from under his microscope this time. Bobby insists, “No! Something is up and has been for a while! You are way too worked up over a botched batch of brownies. There's something going on and you need to tell me now. You're acting so fucking weird.” Finally, Erik looks up at him and Bobby’s stare is hard, arms crossed as he says, “I’m here for you, so just fucking talk to me.”
A quiet and small thing breaks inside Erik, he pinpoints it as his resolve. “Fine. Help me clean this shit up and we can talk, okay?” Bobby silently joins the effort in response.
Erik handles the floor and Bobby cleans up the side of the kitchen island. The pause in conversation stretches on uncomfortably. The silence that falls between them is heavy. Meanwhile, Erik’s mind is running, grasping at straws and trying to figure out what the fuck he's going to say to Bobby. So far he hasn't got a clue and he's running out of time, since the kitchen is almost clean.
They are sat the table when Bobby speaks first, prompting Erik with a simple, “Well?”
Erik inhales deeply and releases it, he crosses his arms and rests them on the table. He stares intently down at the wood grain on the table as if it might have the answers he is looking for. Of course, it doesn’t. He can’t stall any further, so he starts, “I have this friend, and she’s having a really rough day. Her favourite dessert is a good brownie sundae, and I thought that surprising her with the stuff to make one might turn her day around.”
There is a heavy beat. No response comes, and finally Erik tears his gaze away from the table-top to look at Bobby, who looks completely baffled. His brow is furrowed, and he looks like he is trying to figure out how to process this. After another painfully long pause, Erik can’t take it anymore; so he suddenly pipe up, “What?!”
Bobby releases this slow exhale and says, “Just…Shocked I guess? You? Baking? For a friend?”
Erik laughs humourlessly and mockingly repeats what Bobby said haughtily, “Yeah. Me. Baking. For a friend. Why's that so hard to believe?”
“Cause you’ve never baked for anyone outside our family like fucking ever? Hell, even in our family, you don’t really do it! You've never even baked for any of your girlfriends, and now you're interested in baking brownies on a whim for a friend that's had a bad day?” It rolls off Bobby’s tongue quickly, and it raises Erik’s hackles.
He launches into defending himself, “So, I can’t pick up some new skills and hobbies? Who cares if I haven’t done it previously? I’m doing it now! I can change.”
Bobby still looks unconvinced but says, “I didn’t say that you can’t change, it’s just a big unexpected change! I mean, who is this friend that has driven you to bake anyway? You didn’t say. Have I met her?”
So many questions, ugh. Erik says simply, “She’s a very good friend and no, you haven’t met.” He takes a second to inhale before saying next, “Her name is-” And it is right then, as he is uttering your name out loud to Bobby, that he realizes this is the first time he has ever said your name to someone of note in his life. It is a wild thought. That in the past several months he hasn’t talked about you in any real tangible way, even with how much you’ve started to mean to him and how close you’ve grown.
Bobby questions this new information, “A good friend that I haven’t met?”
This isn’t that unusual for Bobby to be questioning; he has always taken an interest in Erik’s friends and the good ones he has met and tries to have a good report with, to the level that he has been invited along to hang many a time. So Erik explains, “We just started hanging out this year. We usually meet outside, or at her place.”
Bobby leans back in his chair and says, “Okayyy…” He then asks, “Can I meet her?”
“Christ! You do know that you don’t need to try and befriend all my friends, right?” Erik asks it in a serious tone, and it gets him an eye roll in response.
“Yessss, I know that.” Bobby isn’t letting this go though, he says, “Can you blame me for wanting to meet her though? I mean, this friend has you baking, you don’t bake for any of your other good friends-”
Erik has been pushed a hair too far, he can't keep a lid on this any longer. He corrects his earlier thought, “She’s more than just a good friend, okay?”
“What does that mean?” Bobby leans forward again and asks further, “Are you dating?”
“No! God no, we are not dating-” Erik starts.
Then his brother cuts in, “-Then what are you? Not dating, but more than good friends?”
There is no getting out of it at this point, he rips the band-aid off when he states plainly, “We’re friends with benefits.”
Bobby repeats that last word, “Benefits?”
Erik deadpans, “We’re fucking-”
And Bobby doesn’t let him say anything else, he makes a disgusted sound, and flails his hands as his eyes squeeze shut. He rushes out, “Ugh! I know what friends with benefits means! I was just repeating it in like fucking disbelief, God-” Bobby is far too familiar with Erik's antics, knowing if he doesn't head this off at the pass that he will be "treated" to many intimate details he seriously doesn't need or want to know. He rolls his shoulders, trying to shake what Erik said off before saying, “So what, the benefits are so beneficial it drives you to bake?”
With a groan Erik says, “Nooo, it's not as simple as that, it’s like…” He tries to find the right words and settles on, “It’s so much more than that! She is such a great friend, she is thoughtful and does seriously sweet things for me all the time and it makes me want to pay her back somehow.”
Erik has not gotten to talk about you to anyone, and now that he's started, it's like the floodgates have opened, “We talk daily, we hang out whenever we can, and honestly the days we do hang out are the days I look forward to the most these last few months.”
He casts a glance to Bobby who seems surprised, brows raised but he nods, as if encouraging Erik to go on. That is all he needs to continue his incessant rambling about you. “She’s insanely funny and almost as sarcastic as I am. God, she's an incredible cook and an even better baker. Everything she makes is restaurant quality, you wouldn't believe it! And uh–Oh she loves movies, albeit sometimes very odd ones. We even have the same taste in video games, as well.”
He barely stops to inhale before going further, “We have sleepovers at her place as much as we can, and we can talk about genuinely anything, it's very refreshing actually! We talk almost non-stop and the times we do stop the silence doesn't feel awkward at all. It's like we can share these insanely cozy comfortable moments where we don't have to say anything at all, just exist you know-” Erik continues to talk, knowing that he should probably stop but he just can't. “-She loves tigers so much that she even had me tattoo one on her not too long ago. Bobby, you should have seen what she did for my birthday!”
A questioning hum from his brother is his only cue to explain, “She got me these amazing gifts and baked my favourite cake, and-” Bobby is contemplating cutting in but he is stunned, Erik is barely taking time to breathe as he prattles on about the things you’ve done for him, almost listing out every little quirk and detail he has discovered about you, not unlike a scientist who's discovered a new species of bird to admire and ponder over. He cannot remember a time that Erik has talked like this about anyone.
At last, Erik admits, “She made me this playlist-”
Bobby considers this an absurdly thoughtful thing to do for a music lover like Erik. So he finally comments, “Oh wow, that's really nice-”
“No, It actually turned out to be terrible!” Erik insists.
Leading Bobby to question, utterly confused, “What?”
Erik responds quickly, “The playlist! It is just awful, I fucking hate it! There isn’t a single good song on it, but she made it for me so I listen to it anyway-”
Bobby cuts in one last time, confident in his latest assessment of the situation his big brother has found himself in the middle of.
Casually Devoted. Part Seven. "Let's Pretend You Aren't Killing Me." Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader.
SURPRISE BITCH! I know, I fucking know, I said no new chapter until the new year but the amazing and wonderful @28bohemianmoons thought she could get it out before the year was out and lo and behold! It is here! Merry late Christmas, happy holidays, happy fucking new year! Another mountain of a chapter to finish out the year! Three chapters and an epilogue to go before this series is wrapped! But for now? Sink your teeth into this hearty update, I cannot wait to hear your thoughts! Let’s get into it. Series Masterlist to be found here.
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Rating. Explicit. Length. (22K) (I KNOW!) Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Friends With Benefits. Complicated Feelings. Angst. Anxiety. Panic. Banter. Making Out. Free Use. Cunnilingus. Vaginal Fingering. Vaginal Sex. Squirting. Messy Sex. Teasing. Dirty Talk. Praise. Fluff. Domesticity. Reader FINALLY Gets Tattoo’d. Emotionally Vulnerable Conversations. Revealing Information From Pasts. Self Deprecation. Self Doubt. Freak Getting Down On Herself. Did I Mention Angst? Restraints. Pain Play. Blow Job. Throat Fucking. Sloppy Head. Edging. Denial. Toys. Cream Pie. Nipple Clamps. Terms Of Endearment. The Idiots Are IDOITING EXTRA HARD.
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Over the past few months, Erik's gotten a good sense of when you're working and when you're free. Even more so after the lazy morning confessions shared between you, and the pact to carve out more time for each other that stemmed from the mind-blowing kink session you had. But still, it never hurts to double-check. Such is the nature of this new development in your arrangement. Less than two days after visiting him at the shop to lock in your tattoo appointment, he texts you. “You busy?”
To which you respond with a simple, “Nope. I’m home, and free as a bird.”
“I’m coming over.” He replies as a statement rather than a question, and the subtle distinction makes you grin down at your phone screen as you twist the deadbolt for him.
True to his word, as always, he shows up thirty minutes later. The sound of the front door opening and closing signals his arrival, followed by the thump of his shoes being kicked off, and the shuffle of his footfalls that carry him to the doorway of the living room where he finds you perched on the couch.
You lower the book in your hands as you greet him, “Heya Erik.”
He doesn’t break his stride, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it onto a nearby chair before stopping right in front of you. He stares down at you with a hard expression, delivering a curt, “Hi.” You meet his eyes and notice the tension in his jaw. In fact, his whole body is visibly tense, and his hands are resting stiffly on his hips. Clearly, something's well and truly wrong, so you pipe up, “Are you okay?”
One of his hands rubs down over his face, and he inhales deeply before audibly exhaling, “No. Had a horrible day.” He then asks, “Can I use you?”
The fact that you both are very into free use and are trying to milk your arrangement for all it's worth has really opened the door for even more opportunities to use each other. And now that he had a terrible day, you're itching to help him out again. You sit up, bookmark slipping between the pages, and a sunny smile taking over your face as you set the book on your side table. You chime in sincerely, “Yes. I’d love that.”
He sighs out, body already sagging in mild relief as he utters, “Amazing.”
He falls to his knees in front of you and his hands reach out to cradle your face. He pulls you in and kisses you. You melt instantly, emotion sweeping through you in waves. Whenever he kisses you, it's as if the sense of longing and satisfaction are constantly at war, each side gaining and losing ground with every sweep of his mouth against yours. My God, he must have had a rough day, it's like he is trying to lose himself in you. Every press of his lips, pass of his tongue and small nips of teeth telegraphing just how much he needs this. You give as much in kind, swiftly matching his energy with how easily he sets you ablaze. His fingers hook in the waistband of your pajamas, his mouth dragging lower to attack your neck while you arch your hips to help him get your pants off.
Soon enough, you're donned in nothing but your thin t-shirt. You're leaning back to plant your feet on the couch cushions, knees bent and legs spread, with your ass near the edge. When Erik's mouth is between your thighs, you're definitely not complaining. If all he needs after a tough day is to come over, kiss you breathless, and eat the fuck out of you, then let's just say he can ‘use’ you any time he likes.
He is thoroughly enjoying himself, placing hot kisses on your clit over and over, and swiping his expert tongue in a maddening, unpredictable pattern. Your thighs tense and your toes curl against the cushions as his tongue flicks against you harder, causing you to gasp. “Ohhh my God-”
You are relishing in the steady build up, positive that you are going to cum quickly, when you feel his fingers brush over your entrance. He slides two fingers into your slick hole, crooking and curling them until he finds what he is looking for, and your breath catches. His mouth keeps pace with the digits inside you, hitting your sweet spot from inside and out, over and over again.
You whimper out, “Fuh-fuck, Erik! Ri-right there-”
He snorts in amusement, his mouth lifting briefly while his fingers continue their assault. He muses aloud, “I fucking love when you say that-”
His lips are wet with your slick, a playful look flashing in his eyes, as he chides, “-like I don’t know where it is.” His point is emphasized with another strong flex of his fingers, an extra hard push into you that makes your head tip back. Erik finishes with, “Like the sounds you make and how tight you're squeezing my fingers aren't as obvious as a flashing neon sign.”
He sighs out, “It’s adorable.” before he's trapping your clit between his lips again.
Erik doesn’t let up, and in about five more minutes, you are on the edge. However, thanks to all that intense g-spot play you feel another sensation welling up that you’ve become all too familiar with. You attempt to stop it in it's tracks, wanting him to ease up. “Wa-wait, fuck, Erik, st-stop I’m gonna-”
But, you're too late. Your sentence breaks off with a cry, breath shuddering out in gasps as he makes you squirt right there on the couch. As the wetness spills forth, Erik moans against you, satisfied with being rewarded with just what he wanted. You pant and curse as he draws out your orgasm perfectly. Erik overstimulates you for a few extra seconds until you whine, “Fuck, just ease up!”
He lathes his tongue over you once more before finally pulling back, and sliding his fingers out of you. Erik sucks them clean, before declaring, “God, I needed that.”
If you were able to, you'd laugh at just how content he sounds from such a seemingly simple thing. The sweet and forbidden affection you have for him seeps out from behind your ribs, leaving you feeling tremendously lucky to have found a guy as perfect as Erik. While you are still catching your breath, your foot lifts to nudge his shoulder as you inform him, “You are so fucking lucky this couch cover is machine washable, Erik!”
The culprit in question leans back, his hands resting on your inner thighs as he surveys the large wet spot under your ass, “Good thing it is. You made such a fucking mess.”
You take your shirt off, now completely naked and toss the fabric aside, “Yeah, well. Since I’ll have to wash it anyway, we might as well have even more fun.”
He watches you, transfixed on your now fully nude form. You move to get comfortable, laying your head over the armrest of the couch. A slight turn of your head and you're meeting his gaze, quickly offering, “Wanna use my throat next?”
Erik practically scrambles to his feet, hands already working his belt open. You laugh, a melodic sound of joy that brings a brief smile to his own face.
Soon enough, Erik is standing in front of you with his pants down and his shaft in his hand, hard and wanting. He lines himself up with the wet, slick heat of your open mouth and slides home. His hand falls away, coming to grip the back of the couch. He pushes deeper, and you relax your throat, allowing him to slide in to the base. When the head of his dick is notched snugly into the tightness of your neck, he moans your name so lewdly that you unconsciously clench your thighs together. You moan around him and he curses at the sensation, pulling out halfway before thrusting forward again.
He's always in awe of you, impressed by how well you reign in your gag reflex when properly motivated. He's not being particularly rough, but he's certainly not being gentle either; and yet you take it like a champ. His free hand comes down to firmly squeeze your throat, the added pressure making his breath stutter. He's obsessed–unable to stop the rhythm of his hips now–forcing you to take him again and again; reveling in the sounds bubbling out of you as he stuffs your mouth full.
As good as this feels, he can’t very well finish this way, not with this view stirring his hunger–your totally naked form splayed out and squirming–it’s simply too tempting. So he pulls out, but not before soaking up every sensation he can on the way out of your throat and mouth. His dick is an utter mess, just dripping in saliva. With your mouth unoccupied, you suck down some much needed air while your unfocused eyes stare up at him, glazed over with lust.
Before he could even ask, you beat him to the punch with your breathy plea, “Fuck me?”
His answer comes in the form of a few more tugs of clothing until he's just as naked as you. He adjusts you on the couch, situating you on your side before propping one of your legs up on his shoulder as he slides back into your slick cunt with a relieved sigh from you both. At this point, you're both too worked up for any real finesse, desperate for release. Finding your groove rather quickly, the sound of skin on skin fills the living room, accompanied by your hurried pants and genuine moans. It becomes quite clear why Erik picked this position; other than having your body splayed out so deliciously for him, it also affords him the opportunity to not only see the pleasure on your face, but also touch you however he wants. He drags a hand down to your chest, squeezing one breast before traveling lower to swirl your clit in lazy circles. You are so worked up that even the slightest pressure feels like fucking fireworks.
“God, Erik, yes-” Your sentence trails off, head falling back against the couch cushion as the intensity ratchets up and a wave of euphoria washes over you. He offers lightly, “Good?”
“Mhm!” You hum with a nod, your hands finding purchase on the couch arm to jerk yourself back against him, your movements becoming a blur. He gets you off again, abuses you inside and out so well that he manages to get you to squirt again, further marring the couch cover, as promised. The pleasure sharpens as it peaks, making you want to sob into the couch cushion your face is buried in while your hand is gripping the material so hard your knuckles ache. Still reeling and just barely recovered from your release, Erik rushes out a warning of his own impending orgasm, so you beg, “Paint me, please!”
God, he's a slave to your every whim. He pulls out, stroking himself through it as his cum lands in thick ropes over your tits and stomach. You lay silent and content below him, chest heaving on the comedown. Erik lowers your leg onto the couch, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand as he takes in the sinful sight of you covered in his cum.
“God, you look fucking incredible right now.” He admits, and you suggest, “Take a picture then.”
He takes you up on that, grabbing his phone and snapping a picture. Sliding a hand down your body, your fingertips drag through the cooling cum, and hold his gaze as you bring your fingers up to suck them clean. Now, how is he meant to function after something like that? Before he can comment, you pipe up, "You know, despite all the pictures and videos we've sent over the last few months, we rarely do it in person."
You're right and it's a shame, too. He would love to have some pictures of you both tangled up together to make the time spent apart much more bearable. You suggest, "One day, we should totally make a sex tape."
Erik groans in agreement, leaning down to capture your lips in a brief kiss, unfazed by the mess that sticks to you both now, as you return it with gusto. When he pulls back, he looks into your eyes with wonder before replying, "You have the best ideas." You giggle, quipping in response, "Mmm tell me something I don't know."
After helping you clean up with a few tissues, you both throw your shirts and underwear back on, uncaring to get fully dressed. When your legs are functional again, you start to remove the couch cover, before turning to Erik. “Come on, give me a hand.”
Of course, he jumps in to help; it's the least he can do for causing the mess. When the sticky couch cover is tucked into the in-unit laundry to wash, the two of you settle down on the floor of the living room, backs leaning against the couch and legs spread out under the coffee table. A TV show is playing in the background as you repaint Erik's nails. Even though there will be no sleepover tonight, you still offer to do them, noticing they are nearly fully chipped away now.
A moment into the peace and quiet, Erik breaks the silence, “So, what book are you reading, anyway?”
You hum in uncertainty, your eyes still focused on the task at hand, so he clarifies, “You were reading a book when I got here, what was it?”
With a sound of recognition you explain, “Ah! Yeah, sorry. Think that legendary fuck must have scrambled my brain-” your tone teasing before you answer more seriously, “Legally Blonde.”
He scoffs and asks in disbelief, “Really? Legally fucking Blon-”
Your eyes peek up at him through your lashes as you warn him, “Choose your next words carefully, Campbell. I will not tolerate any Elle Woods slander in my house.”
When he hears the word "my" it sticks with him. He's noticed that about himself in the last few weeks; he'd often ponder the smallest things you'd do or say, allowing his mind to stroll past reality and into various detours of delusion. But this moment in particular has the opposite effect. Instead of offering a sickly sweet taste of fantasy, your choice of words serves as the bittersweet tang of reality. This is your place, and despite how often he makes himself at home within these four walls–or how welcome he may feel within them–it will never really be his home. Your words allow him a moment to return to himself; to the cautionary tale he is, rather than the hopeless romantic he will never be.
He pushes his thoughts down as you sweep another coat of black polish over his thumbnail. He sighs a sigh of the world-weary and the put upon. “Fiiiine, Freak. But you really ask too much of me, you know?”
You throw on a pout, patronizing him unconvincingly, “Aww, I know. You are so hard done by–Wanna order in some dinner?” He does, so you get some dinner, and hang out until the couch cover is clean. Once said cover is returned to its rightful place, he heads home.
These impromptu visits become the new norm, much to your enjoyment. Sometimes you meet up for a coffee and a quick chat to brighten your day; One time he accompanies you while shopping for a new pair of jeans. You insisted he didn’t have to, but he reassured you in the only way he knows how. “And pass up the chance to stare at your ass as much as I want to without it being inappropriate? Never.”
In short, the quality time is amazing and you both feel better for it.
You've been very successful in your efforts to squeeze in more of the ‘benefits’ of your arrangement. Quickies became far more commonplace, serving as a means to satisfy even the slightest craving, which is more than welcome in your humble opinion. Over the weekend, Erik came over to see you before his late afternoon shift for some lunch, but that quickly morphed into you relieving his tension. He's less than thrilled to clock in on account of the supremely boring client that'll be waiting for him, so you naturally offer to turn that frown upside down.
The pair of you are sprawled on top of the sheets of your bed, working up a sweat and lost in the moment. You are on your hands and knees, moving back to meet Erik’s thrusts as his hands are planted firmly on your hips. You've angled yourself just right, every thrust hitting your G-spot fucking perfectly as a debauched series of moans spill from your parted lips. The pleasure is mounting for you, making you gasp out, “Fu-fuck, Erik! M’ getting close-”
Erik fails to suppress a grin, grateful that you can't see the look on his face right now in your current position. If you did, it'd definitely clue you in to his more nefarious intentions. One of his hands come up to trail his fingers up your spine, making you arch as he leans closer, his chest pressing flush against your back now. The warmth of your bodies mingle as his hips rock harder into you, hitting that spot inside you with bruising accuracy. Your moans grow higher in pitch as his hand grips the front of your throat, and even more so when he uses the leverage to pull you back onto him. Erik pants out, “Yeah, I’m not far off either-”
The confirmation that he's close has you racing to join him, the prospect of cumming together too good to pass up. Erik is ruining you just right and it feels fantastic. You're nearly there when his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, “-in fact-”
You are drowning in physical sensation but are still lucid enough to register his words as he utters, “-I’m fairly confident I’m going to ejaculate.”
Just like that, without warning, your moan is cut short, replaced with a loud laugh. It catches you completely off guard, you're helpless to the onslaught of laughter that envelopes you. The Van Wilder reference, so perfectly executed in the middle of sex is utterly ridiculous. Remembering how hard you both laughed when Tara Reid's shitty Pre-Med boyfriend uttered the exact same words does nothing to calm you, leaving you breathless. You are full-on barking laughter, completely unaware that Erik has already finished inside you. You continue to fight the onslaught of giggles until he pulls out, the mess starting to drip down your thighs as you manage to regain your faculties.
After sucking down a deep breath, you look over your shoulder at him, exclaiming, “Hey, what the fuck? I was so close!”
His shit eating grin is now on full display as he reveals, “Oh, I know. Yeah, this is payback for that little fake fucking playlist stunt you pulled months back!”
Your jaw drops open as you blurt out, “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Yes I am! I told you I was gonna get you back for that eventually. I never forgot.” He laughs pleased with how well he executed this. You gasp, “Oh my God, you are fucking evil!”
“No more evil than you are, Freak.” He placates you, his hands spreading you open and watching as more of his cum leaks out of you. Before long, he's got a hand between your legs, fingers pressing to your clit as he starts to rub in tight circles. You gasp in response, letting him work as you shift towards the pressure, confident he's going to have mercy after exacting his revenge. You're dying to get off, so it's not long before you're in the mood again, losing yourself to his expert touch. In a matter of minutes, you become a shuddering mess, but as soon as you're about to tip over, he suddenly lifts his hand and delivers a sharp smack right to your throbbing clit. You yelp as your arms give out from under you in a panic, causing you to fall face-first into the sheets. Miffed that your orgasm was thwarted for the second time that afternoon, you roll onto your side with a groan, shooting him a glare, “You fucking asshole.”
“That’s me.” He confirms, the wink that follows makes you roll your eyes. Your hand slips between your thighs while you bitterly retort, “Whatever I don’t need you, I can get myself off.”
He jumps into action, his hands gripping your wrists and using his body weight to pin them above your head, “Nahhh, sorry. If you can't do the tiiiime, don't do the criiiime.”
You struggle briefly, but your efforts prove futile. You relax in his grip and sigh, “You know, I can just do it when I go to the bathroom anyways.”
He hums in acknowledgment, “Yeah, true. You could, but you and I both know that orgasm would pale in comparison to what I can give you.”
The bastard is more right than you want to admit. He advises, “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you fuck with me.”
The orgasm you do give yourself after he fucks off to work is indeed pretty piss poor. You might have to heed his words, after all.
The long awaited Tattoo Day has arrived, hence why you are currently walking into the shop about ten minutes before your appointment. The high cut shorts you're wearing do nothing to protect against the fall chill outside, but you stroll in without a care, a water bottle in one hand and your wallet in the other. Saturday afternoon is a busy time, so almost all the chairs are already occupied, each customer in a different stage of the process of being inked up. You had been in the shop for less than a minute when you hear Erik call your name. Your head turns toward his voice, seeing him in the midst of setting up his station.
You smile and wave, making your way over before responding, “Hey! Hard at work already?”
He stands up as he replies, “Sure am. I didn’t want you waiting around for too long whenever you got here. Buuut, of course, you’re early as always.”
“If you aren’t early, you’re late, Erik.” You inform gravely. He sniffs in amusement before heading towards the counter. “Come on, follow me.”
You trail along, staying on the opposite side of the counter, as he slips behind it. He procures a clipboard and a pen, setting it down in front of you. “Consent form. Fill it out, sign away your soul-” He crosses his arms on the counter and leans forward as he finishes his thought with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows and a devastating smile, “-then the real fun can begin.”
“Can’t wait.” You pick up the pen and click the button on the top, and tug the clip board closer with your opposite hand, starting to read the form. You admit, “I’ve been really looking forward to this.”
Erik fires back, “Agreed. For a change, I actually didn't dread coming in today. All thanks to you.”
With a soft laugh, your eyes lift to meet his as you say, “Wow, that is a change! I’m honoured.”
A few minutes later, you're passing back the signed form and he gestures for you to follow him over to his station, encouraging you to sit on one of the chairs he set out. Once comfortable, he pulls out his tablet, showing you the finished concept of your tattoo that he sent you last week. “I just want to double-check that you didn’t want to modify anything before I start printing off stencils.”
You lean closer, inspecting the soft curving lines, intricate details, and vivid colour–he nailed it. Seeing his rendition of your beloved plush tiger tugs at your heart strings. You can’t believe he put this much effort into your first tattoo. Before you know it, the art he brought to life on the page was going to make it's home on your skin. It feels unreal. You can't find a single thing to hate about it, and tell him as much.
“It’s perfect, Erik, really! It was perfect days ago.”
He takes the tablet back and starts tapping at the screen again as he states, “Doesn’t hurt to be sure. It is going on your body forever, you know.”
Adopting a tone of feigned shock and amazement, you place a hand on your chest and ask, “Wait, really?” You point at his arms and pile on, “You mean those don’t wash off?!”
He laughs as the stencil printer kicks on, ]rolling his eyes fondly as he quips, “Hilarious, truly. Fuck me for doing my job, right?”
“If you want me to fuck you for that too, I suppose I can.” You joke as he walks to the printer. It is interesting getting to see this professional side of him, up close and personal. He speaks again before you can, “Nice shorts by the way. Weren’t you cold on the way over here?”
“Whores don’t get cold, Erik.” You retort simply, and he laughs as he sets the stencil aside for the moment, “Okay, I don’t think that's entirely true.”
“It totally is. Besides, figured I’d need to wear something like this for how high we are putting the tattoo.” You explain, and he says, “I mean it helps, but if you wore pants I still could've made it work. We have foldable privacy screens for that kind of thing.”
“And be pussy out in the tattoo parlour?” You ask comically, and he nearly snorts laughing as he snaps on a clean pair of gloves, “Jesus fucking Christ, pussy out in the parlour? So you wouldn’t be wearing underwear?”
You joke with a shrug, “You know me, it’s about a fifty-fifty shot on any given day.” Then you pivot and snicker to yourself over what he said, “There's definitely a joke to be made somewhere in there. Like the board game, Clue, but as a porn parody? Oh! It was the Freak, in the parlour, with her pussy out- ” You trail off, Erik momentarily joining in on your laughter over the immature joke.
“Alright, that's enough talk about underwear, or a lack there of. Stand up for me?” He gestures for you to get up, and you do as he asked. He gets down on one knee to get a closer look at where he's placing the stencil, and with a gesture to the area you previously talked about he supplies, “Here?”
You consider the spot before suggesting, "Down a half inch?"
He hums in acknowledgment and adjusts his hand, and you nod encouraging him, "Yeah, right there."
He asks, “Make your stance as relaxed as you can for me?” You comply, making sure your thigh muscle has as little tension as possible. You pipe up, “Does that affect it?”
His voice is quiet as he tells you, “Yes, it does.”
You take in how focused he is, cleaning your already shaved skin before carefully peeling off the plastic film, and lining up the stencil. After some scrutinizing and fiddling, he starts to lay it down on your thigh, the brush of his fingers very light and precise. Before long, he pulls away the paper backing, the stencil sitting perfectly flat on your skin. While leaning back on his heels, his mouth forms a line, brow creasing in concentration as he inspects his efforts.
Finally, he says, “Okay, go over and check it out. Make sure you like the placement and size.”
You walk over to the mirror, tilting your head as you consider it. You look at the dark blue ink outline and try matching it to the picture he showed you; imagining how it'll look with all the colour and detail. He comes up behind you and is also looking at it in the mirror as he states sincerely, “We can adjust it, resize it, move it literally a thousand times until it’s right, okay? It’s seriously no problem.”
You squint at it, starting by slightly twisting your right leg to and fro; then bending your knee while balancing on your left foot to look directly down at your thigh. This is going to be on you always, and you must say you are pretty fucking satisfied. You put your foot back down on the ground and announce, “I love it! No notes!"
“Shit, okay. Well...awesome!” He seems just as excited as you are over it. “Get in the chair, and I’ll finish setting up.”
You step back over and get ready to lay down on the flattened and adjusted leather chair, “Is laying down necessary?”
“I’ll take 'questions I never thought you'd ask' for one thousand, please.” He teases as you settle yourself down before clarifying, “But yes. It’s the ideal position for both of us, trust me.”
“Oooh, I love it when you talk dirty.” You jab playfully, and he sighs, “You know I am at least attempting to be professional, but you make it so hard-”
You jokingly interject, “It’s one of my many talents.” You know you're talking too much, but you're only trying to calm your nerves. Despite the convincing front, this is still your first time, and you don't know what to expect.
The conversation wanes as he gets everything in order; arranging the gun and ink onto the tray he just set out, swinging the task lighting onto your thigh and gathering a pile of paper towels onto his lap. You break the silence with the one question you’ve been holding back, “How much do you think it’ll hurt?”
He hums, shrugging as he explains, “It’s different for everybody. Sure, some spots hurt more than others, but a person’s pain tolerance plays a major role.”
“Where does it hurt the worst?” You inquire, to which he responds, “Right on bone sucks pretty universally in my experience. Honestly, the thigh is a good place for a first tattoo. You should handle it pretty well.”
He glances up from his current task to give you a more serious look as he reassures you. “But, if you need to stop at any point; to take a break, or whatever. Don’t hesitate to let me know, okay? It’s your first one, and I’m not gonna give you shit over it.”
Well isn’t that sweet, and good to know as well. But still, you tease, “So I don’t need to try and be all tough to impress you?”
He scoffs, “God, no! You already impress me all the fucking time, freak.” You love hearing that, you are still reeling slightly when he leans over. Erik is speaking a bit quieter, not like it’s needed with how loud the shop is right now, with all the intermittent chatter, blaring music and humming tattoo guns. “Also, just so you know, nine and a half times outta ten, the women I tattoo fair way better than men do.”
“Really?” You ask with a smile, and he nods, “Oh yeah! Better pain tolerance by a fucking mile.”
By now he has everything ready to go and is putting on yet another fresh pair of gloves when he finally asks, “So! Are you ready?”
You give him as confident a nod as you can manage and tell him, “Definitely.”
He rolls closer, tattoo gun in one hand, the other adjusting the light. Then his hand comes down on your bare thigh, the sound of the handheld machine humming fills the air, and finally it touches down onto your skin. Erik starts his work in earnest, and you find that it doesn't hurt that bad at all. After less than a minute, you release the exhalation you'd been intentionally holding in, uttering, “Huh, that's-”
“Totally not that bad?” He interjects, sounding very amused. You laugh sheepishly, “Honestly yeah.”
“I told you so. Might hurt a little more intensely in some spots, maybe when we do the shading or the colouring, but you'll be fine.” He punctuates his words with a wink, and you admit, “Yeah I should have believed you, this is your job after all. Sorry.”
“I'll be gracious and forgive you.” He teases. It is quiet for a few more minutes, when another burning question pops into your head. It seems like the ideal time to ask, so you do. “Hey Erik?”
“Yes?” He acknowledges you, and you respond, “I’m curious. Would you call this your 'forever job'?”
He finishes a line, the gun lifting briefly but his eyes still locked on your thigh, before he goes to start on the next. He says, “I think so. Well, maybe not forever at this shop, specifically. But the job itself, sure. Wasn’t always the case, but I really do love it.”
Interesting, you pull on this conversational thread and ask, “What did you want to do before settling on this?”
Fuck. This isn’t a story he was planning on telling today. Obviously, he trusts you enough to not be worried about you judging him or treating him differently. In fact, it might be overdue, so he's perfectly fine with you knowing. Working on the next line, he begins to explain, “See that was the problem, I didn’t really want to do anything. I liked art. I mean I’d been drawing since forever, but I was also smart enough to know making a living off art is infinitesimal at fucking best.”
You aren’t much of an artist yourself when compared to Erik, but you do know that to be the truth. Making enough money to support yourself from your art alone is tricky and complicated.
Your head turns slightly to look at him as Erik continues, “I applied to college; some program that could lead to a job that would pay well and hopefully-” His shoulders drop, almost imperceptible if you didn't have your eyes locked on him, before he finishes, “-make my parents proud.”
He shakes his head, brow furrowed as if the notions of his past self were absurd. Erik continues, “So I got accepted, and when classes started up, it was really hard. I didn’t really care about what I was learning. Trying to stay invested and find the motivation to continue became impossible, which made the whole thing worse. It was a lonely semester, so I was starting to get homesick. and then. Eventually, I was failing almost every class, and I just couldn’t hack it.” He shrugs as if to say, “What can you do?”
It makes sense, and you sympathize with him. Realistically, what else was meant to happen under those circumstances?
You ask him quietly, “So, what did you do?”
He exhales and tells you the hard part, “One night, my dad called to check in, and it all came to a head. I had been hiding how bad I was doing from everyone, but he saw right through me. He called it out, and I admitted to everything; the fucked up expectations I put on myself, the lying, the bad grades and the utterly miserable time I was having.”
You don’t say anything, choosing to listen as he rambles, “And do you know what he said? He told me that he and mom would always be proud of me, so long as I was happy. Told me if college wasn’t for me, it was fine; that I could come home and figure out what to do stress-free. So I did.”
“Wow.” You say softly, and he lets out this half laugh, “Wow, is right. It’s funny. I knew that they loved and supported me, they never made me feel otherwise. It was my own fault. I got in my own head about the whole thing and convinced myself I had to, I dunno, live a more traditional lifestyle. Thankfully, he knocked some sense into me.”
Holy fucking shit. You are completely shocked; there's no way you would have ever guessed something like this. The emotional vulnerability and openness he just displayed is so humbling. You love when he shares things with you, but something like this? It holds weight; it’s big. Him trusting you with this story is no small feat. You swallow thickly, a lump forming in your throat as the emotions of it all sits heavy on your chest. His story reminds you of your own past, so much so that you consider telling him-No. You definitely shouldn't. You push the dangerous thought away, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. When you trust yourself enough to speak, you confess, “I’ve never met him, but I think I love your dad.”
Erik catches your gaze for a moment and seemingly doesn't pick up on your brief emotional turmoil as he says, “Oh, my dad honestly is the best. I fucking love him, and I can always count on him if I ever need anything.”
You can tell, and you're glad he's got such great support from his family. You ask next, “So, what started the tattoo love affair?”
Erik proceeds as he continues working, “I got my first tattoo when I was away at college actually; to commemorate the occasion. I just turned eighteen, and was living away from home for the first time. It’s a big deal, you know? And that was all it took for me to get the itch. I started picking up my sketchbook again with more vigor than ever before, and when I got back home, my mind kept drifting back to that.”
You supply, “And you thought why not try it yourself?”
“Exactly. Became an apprentice, started tattooing and piercing. Eventually got a crop of my own.” He says, gesturing to his arms, as if your fingers haven’t absentmindedly traced them over a hundred times the past few months. You laugh, your head rolling to look up at him again. “They look really good on you. They just suit you. Like, I actually can’t picture them not being there.”
“Thanks, and luckily you don’t have to picture it, they are stuck on there pretty good. I think you’d look good with a few yourself. Hopefully this is the first of many.” He admits, and even though you aren’t even a quarter of the way through this first one, you joke, “I have a feeling that I’ll be coming back.”
“That's how it happens. All it takes is one to get the bug.” Erik says, you can hear the smile in his voice. There is a quiet moment before Erik says next, “You know, my fucking dad insisted on being the first person I tattooed?”
“Howard’s got ink?” You ask excitedly, and he confirms with a laugh, “Yes, really. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
He proceeds to explain further, “I did a lot of practice on those fake skin sheets as a lead up, but eventually you hit a point that you just gotta start doing it for real, on actual people. So I worked with him on what he wanted, and we made it happen.”
“What did he get?” You ask curiously, and he tells you, “Went with this very classic, traditional American thing. Did you know that Hice Pale Ale used to have a series of ads with a retro style pin-up girl?”
“I did not.” You admit, and he responds, “Well they did, and that’s what he got. He sat fine, was endlessly patient the entire way. It was a pretty great afternoon, honestly.”
You ask Erik where he got it, he explains, “High on his shoulder. You can only really see it when he goes swimming, orrrr whenever he wants to brag about me and hauls his shirt sleeve up to show it off.”
You inquire, “Awe, does he do that a lot?” Erik tells you, “Often enough. It’s sweet, really. I am thankful that he is so supportive, and that he loves it so much. Part of me kinda cringes seeing it, though. I’ve just grown so much more as an artist and I look at it and think of everything I could've done better. Sadly, he refuses to let me do a touch up.”
“I get it, he probably feels pretty sentimental over it. I mean, it’s your first ever tattoo! He must look back on that day as fondly as you do.” You say with a shrug, and Erik has to agree, “Yeah I know. I can tolerate some mild embarrassment for his sake.”
Erik’s turns this conversation back around on you as he asks, “So. I’m also curious. What's the story behind your thing with tigers?”
For some reason you are mildly surprised before you respond, “Oh, you want to know?”
He states as if it should be obvious, “Well, I figured that if it's important enough to have one permanently etched onto your skin, that you’d be dying to talk about it.”
You think about the fact that Erik was very open with you earlier, telling you about how he got into this career. So, You figure you'd do the same. “Sure, I’ll regale you.”
You take a deep breath and begin, “So it was my eighth birthday. My uncle lived kinda far and worked a lot, but he was in town for once. So I got to skip school, and he took me out.”
Your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, the mild pain of the tattoo fading to the background as you focus on the story, “He took me to the zoo, since I’d never been before, and we spent hours looking at everythiiiing. And then, we got to the tiger enclosure.”
A smile forms as you say, “We came on a great day, because they’d given the tigers this new ball to play with, and they were going totally crazy for it. Little ol' me was loving it and I got so amped up about it that I threw both my hands up and was all like, ‘goooooo tigers!’-” Your hands raising slightly as you reach this part of the story, your sentence breaks off with a laugh at the ridiculous memory. Erik joins you in laughing, with a soft and fond, “Oh my God.”
Breathlessly, you utter, “My uncle laughed too! He thought it was hilarious and started doing it too! We probably looked so stupid, the two of us shouting goooo tigers like that as we watched them play.”
“I wish I could have seen it.” Erik confesses. You say next, “Eventually we get to the gift shop, and he tells me I can get whatever I want as my birthday gift. I thought just going to the zoo was my gift, so I was losing my tiny mind at this point.”
He is wiping down your thigh to get rid of some of the excess ink, still clearly listening intently, his smile refusing to leave his face as you tell him, “I come across a display overflowing with tiger plushies of all sizes and upon seeing it I gasped and said with a point ‘Go tigers!’. My uncle broke down laughing all over again. He bought the tiger toy I picked out, and it has been a long-running joke for years. Whenever I see a tiger or something related, it’s become second nature and reminds me of that day.”
“Seriously?” He asked, and you hum, “I should show you our text chain, it is filled with tiger stuff. We send them to each other whenever we see something. And in case you hadn’t figured it out, yes, the tiger toy on my nightstand is that same one from that day.”
Erik is trying to cover up how badly your story got to him, he found it totally endearing, utterly heartwarming. He’s thankful you are looking up at the ceiling and not at him, or he fears you’d see right through him. You’ve never told him a story like that before including anyone from your family, and to share something so clearly important, and Hell the fact he gets to be part of it now by giving you this tattoo dedicated to it? Honestly, it’s getting to him in a major way. He attempts to play it off.
“Oh my God, I get to put THE tiger on you?” He says with an over-excitable tone that makes you laugh, “Yes, THE tiger, it’s a massive honour I know.”
“Wait, does your uncle know you are getting this?” He inquires, and you say, “No, actually! I am gonna send a picture after it’s done, totally surprise him. I’ll let you know what he thinks.”
“Please do.” He implores, and the conversation continues on as he works.
Roughly an hour later, there is a lull in your conversation, and Erik starts to hum as he continues to steadily work. You aren’t paying much attention at first, until your brain recognizes the pattern, you know this song. You swear it is just so familiar, but what is it? Then it takes only a moment more for it to click, and for you to place it. You gasp out, accusing him, “Oh my fucking God! Are you humming Fuck Her Gently, right now?!”
The gun lifts, and your head snaps up to catch Erik’s wide-eyed deer in the headlights stare at you. He tries to brush it off, schooling his expression into a mask of indifference, as he says, “What? Of course, I wasn’t!”
You purse your lips, eyes squint as you stretch out your next sentence, “Preeetty surrre yooou wereee.”
He scoffs and mimics you, mocking as he retorts, “Preeetty surrre I wasssn’t.”
“I think you are protesting way too much for it to be anything BUT true, music man.” You reply, and he snarks, “And I think you need to get your hearing checked, freak.”
You fucking knew it, his reaction tells you that you were spot on, no matter how much he denies it. With a laugh, you say, “I cannot believe it! I thought it was weird the other week when you suggested Zanzibar for our safe word, at first I was all, ‘is that a reference to Tenacious D?’ but I brushed it off. I said to myself no, no it couldn’t be, that’s silly!”
Erik is getting back to work, head down, pointedly avoiding your gaze as he cuts in, “Well you are right, it is silly. It’s just a complete coincidence, nothing more.”
You laugh louder, “Ha! I don’t fucking think so, you can’t hide it from me, Erik!”
He attempts to try and put a stop to this, “Listen I am really trying to focus here-” You cut in and don’t let him, saying, “Do you not like all our kinky sex lately? Do you wanna make some looooove-” You croon in your best Jack Black impression, and he groans, “Stoooop.”
“Come on, I am just too curious, I gotta know! So tell me, do you want to ball me discreetly or not?” You are grinning nearly ear to ear, and he finally looks back up to meet your eyes as he says, “If you keep this up, I might just never fuck you again, gently or otherwise.”
“Erik.” You say flatly with a shake of your head, “We both know that is an empty threat.”
He sighs heavily and then after a beat he admits, “Yeah, it is.” The idea is hilarious, you and Erik are in the same boat, totally helpless to the physical nature of your arrangement. As if you'd be able to stop fucking each other.
It is quiet for a moment as he settles back into working, you lay back down properly. Mouth opening to say, “So you never answered me-”
He interrupts you to fondly say, “Oh my fucking God! Fuck off and shut up!” Making you laugh yet again.
The conversation stops and starts, different things talked about and shared.
Honestly, you think this is all going pretty well, you enjoy the physical closeness and the surprising intimacy of this. You are having a good time, and you think that he is too.
It takes a long time for the tattoo to start to bother you really, you take it in stride. However, by the time the outline is done, and he is just over the midway point of the colours, you are struggling. The area is becoming very tender, simply for how long you’ve been going, and how the area has already been worked. Erik is very experienced at this and isn’t being rough by any definition of the word, but packing colour in on sensitive skin is going to hurt. You are doing pretty good at hiding how painful it is becoming until he hits one particular spot a bit too close to your inner thigh, inhaling sharply, face scrunching up slightly. At first, Erik doesn’t acknowledge it, until the small sounds of pain continue to slip out with more regularity, as much as you don’t want them to. It takes less than two minutes for him to speak up, concerned, “You holding up okay?”
You hum out, “Uh-huh, only really starting to hurt now, honestly.” He asks, “Do you want to take a break?” Your response flows out automatically, “No, please, keep going.”
A sound of acknowledgment is made, and just as you asked, he keeps going. You take a deep breath and hold it for a moment until you release it with a hiss. You utter quietly, “Fuck.” He asks, “We aren’t that far off from being done, but are you sure you can tough it out?”
You really want to do this all in one sitting, and it isn’t that bad, just hard to be quiet while you endure. Trying to downplay it, you laugh, “Totally, no sweat.”
Except yes, you very much were sweating. Your palms felt slick, and you were sure your legs were stuck to the fucking paper lining covering the chair, but you could handle this. You try to distract yourself from the pain, fingers lace, and you wring your hands, palms rubbing against each other for a distraction. The tension in your body is slowly ratcheting up and Erik can of course tell, he is touching you for Christ’s sake. The thumb on his hand that is resting on your thigh brushes reassuring over your skin, he speaks up over the buzz of the machine, “You’re doing great.”
The praise he gives helps. Another particularly painful pang hits, and you bite back a weak whimper, followed by a hurried, “I’m sorry-”
“Knock that shit off, you've got nothing to apologize for.” He assures before saying, “Don’t feel like you have to hold it all in, either.”
That leaves you questioning, “No?”
He shakes his head and explains, “It’s this thing I read forever ago, M’ not gonna bore you with the complicated explanation but if you verbally express pain or curse it helps.”
“No shit?” You breathe and he retorts, “Yes shit. Something to do with stress, increasing pain tolerance and providing momentary relief. Try it.”
You do, at the next sharp pang you allow yourself to utter a strained, “Fuck-” and shockingly it is in fact easier to handle.
So it goes, more conversation is kicked up to help distract you, but when it gets too painful you allow your sentence to break off with a curse of “Shit!” Or “Goddammit-” and it helps. Now, Erik is very used to this, to the occasional expression of pain from whoever he is tattooing, it is no bother or concern. With you, however, when you are struggling like this, it sounds a bit too familiar. Sounds too alike to how you sound during other activities you engage in.
He knows he shouldn’t be thinking like that, not now! He does try to maintain some semblance of professionalism, but this is you we are talking about. Erik simply cannot help himself when you whisper, “Fuck.” under your breath, in the same tone that you do when his tongue slides perfectly over your clit. Or a whiny, “Christ.” that is so reminiscent of when his teeth sink into the meat of where your neck meets your shoulder. So what if he is half hard while finishing up your tattoo, who needs to know that he is getting some level of sexual enjoyment from this? It’s your fault for sounding so good when you are in pain, really.
The rest of your tattoo session passes with not much more trouble, sure it hurts and kind of sucks physically, but you muddle through. Erik is pretty good at distracting you, leading the conversation, making you laugh, and with his tip about allowing yourself to express pain it genuinely helps. When he is wiping down the tattoo for the last time with clean paper towel, it stings, but it is replaced with relief when he says, “You're all done.”
“Are you serious?” You giddily ask, and he tells you, “Yes! You can get up. Check it out.”
You take no further cue to sit up, you look down, and your mouth falls open with a, “Woah!”
The urge to touch it is strong, but you hold yourself back, instead just looking, taking in the details etched into your skin. The soft curved back and curling tail, the little dangling limbs, all the stripes and the cute as fuck face, you are so taken with it. Erik is peeling off his gloves, looking at you as you check out his work and he eats up every reaction you give. You get up and make your way to the mirror to get another look, and you can’t stop yourself from letting out an excited sound of pure delight. Erik gets up off of his stool and comes over to stand behind your shoulder as you are ooh-ing and ah-ing in the mirror.
“So, what do you think?” He asks, and you turn your body to throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly but careful to not touch the still fresh tattoo against him by accident. Your words come rushing out, “I love it! Thank you! Thank you so much, oh my fucking God!”
He laughs, his hand resting on your lower back, his other arm hooks around you, and he returns your hug. “You’re welcome, I’m glad you like it.”
You pull back enough, looking in his eyes as you say sincerely, “Like it? No I love it! I’m being so serious it’s perfect!” You let go of him and turn back to the mirror, head cocking to the side with a wistful sigh. He lets you moon over it for another minute before he says, “Alright, come on. Let’s get some pictures of it in better lighting, and then we can get the second skin on it.”
You follow him, stand where he indicates and do as he asks as he gets some pictures and a short video. After that, the second skin is applied, and you are back at the counter. You pull out your wallet and begin removing bills as he informs you, “Three hundred, just like we talked about.”
You nod and pass over the money you withdrew on the way over from the ATM on the corner. He counts it out, and you watch with a steadily growing smile as his eyes widen just a hair as the number racks up. He finishes counting and splits the pile, his brows creased in confusion as he holds one of the stacks out to you as he says, “You gave me six hundred.”
You wave him off, pushing his hand back towards him as you explain, “Yeah. Three hundred for the tattoo, three hundred for the tip, duh.”
His jaw drops and he scoffs, “No! Not duh! That is way too much-” He tries to give you the money again, and you laugh, your hands raising high up and away, “Is not! You earned it! Please, I insist.”
A shocked laugh spills out as he says, “I insist back, this is crazy! The tip being as much as the cost? It’s way, way too much-”
“I can afford it!” You respond, and he replies, “Not the point!”
He stares, you stare back.
Erik can tell that you are not going to let this go, you clearly had been thinking about this before you ever set foot in the shop today, had this cash ready to go. He sighs as he takes his own wallet out, “You are fucking ridiculous.”
“You love it.” You fire back, and he thinks to himself, “I do.”
“If you are down, we can go out to eat, get an early dinner. I’ll let you buy.” Your hands slip into your pockets as you add, “If it’ll make you feel better.”
An early dinner sounds amazing. He did block his afternoon off for you, nothing else going on, and he just has to clean up, and then he can go. Erik says, “I’m actually starving, so yes, I’d love to.”
“Perfect, I’m gonna go hit the bathroom.” You inform and he responds, “Alright, you know where it is, I still have to go clean up my station before we can leave.”
With a nod you break away, heading to the bathroom you know all too well. Once you get to the door, you find it already occupied. You lean against the wall as you wait for your turn. Before long, the door swings open and you notice the tattoo artist whose station neighbors Erik's walk out and stop short upon seeing you. She has a mild, friendly tone as she points out, “Hey! It’s you, the girl Erik was doing.”
If only she knew the reality of such a casual statement. You respond, somewhat thrown off, “Yeah, that’s me... Hi.”
“So? How’d it come out?” She asked, and you perk up. You adjust your leg in her direction, showing off the fresh tiger sealed under the clear second skin. She takes it in before giving an approving nod, “Very nice! Erik's work always pops. This is pretty different than his usual stuff, though.”
That is actually a good point. You’ve never seen him do something quite like this, so it makes you feel special. She shifts back up from her half crouch to see your face as you admit, “Yeah, sure enough. It was sweet of him to indulge me for my first tattoo.”
She stares at you, almost through you, as if considering her next words before she requests, “Can I, um, ask you something?”
“Oh, of course. Go ahead.” You reply easily with a shrug, and she presses, “How do you know each other, exactly? Are you together, or? Because honestly, I’ve been working with Erik for a long time, and I’ve never seen him act like that. Seriously, he barely smiles let alone laughs at work, but you come in and it's like a switch is flipped.”
You soak in her words, barely holding back the grin that spreads over your face, as you consider this little nugget of information. The fact that someone he's worked with could not elicit even a sliver of the emotion that your presence could in a few short hours, is so profoundly heartwarming. You swell with pride that you've made such an overwhelmingly positive impact on him in an unexpected way. Thinking about how best to respond to the rest of her words, however, is not as fulfilling. You realize right then that, unknowingly, the choice words this innocent bystander opened the conversation with sums you up quite well."You're the girl Erik's doing." There's neither a grand confession of exclusivity to reveal nor a heartwarming meet cute to gush over with your new acquaintance. All you can offer is a lackluster 'easier to swallow' version of what you really are. For most people, including your current company, there is only three boxes a person can comfortably fit into without turning heads; friends, dating, or married. The hardest part of your arrangement is that you don't fit into any of those boxes. You're not a girlfriend, but you're not just friends like you've lead others to believe for simplicity's sake. Your struggle to form the words serves as another reminder of just how little you fit into his life in your purest form. Your eyes dim and your smile loses some of it’s warmth as you admit, “We’re just friends.”
The surprise on her face is evident, a flicker of disappointment flashing in her eyes as she utters a quiet, “Oh.” before adding flatly, “You must be pretty great friends, then.”
The words twist the knife in your heart, the dull ache turning into a sharp sting as you force out, “Oh, the best.” Before briefly excusing yourself to duck into the bathroom, your irrational feelings in tow. You feel so pathetic, feeling this way over a few simply words uttered a handful of times by now. But why does it bother you now that you're 'just friends'? You vigorously wash your hands in the sink, successfully avoiding your own eyes in the mirror. Reaching for a paper towel, you glance at the mirror, brows drawn and resolve shining in your eyes. You're not going to have another bathroom breakdown over your relationship status or lack thereof. You refuse to freak out over a label you were never interested in adhering to; Not ever again. Instead, you dry your hands, disposing of the used paper, along with the burden of your expectations, where they belong; in the trash. Walking out, you make your way back to Erik's station, giving a nod to his coworker as you pass her station.
You sit yourself down on the swivel chair, drinking some water and hanging out as Erik finishes cleaning up his station. In the spirit of celebrating your first tattoo as well as trying out more eateries in the area, Erik suggests you have dinner at a nearby burger joint he loves that you’ve yet to set foot in; You're sold.
You depart, he leads the way, and soon enough you are there and ordering. You get a burger with the works, a chocolate malt and onion rings, while Erik gets their double patty smash burger, crinkle cut fries and a cola. When Erik has paid for you both, and you’ve gotten your food, you find a cozy booth near the window to set up in. You had no idea how hungry you were until you smelled the food when you got into this place, as soon as you are seated, you are scooping the burger into your hands and taking a massive bite.
You moan around the mouthful and Erik laughs, “Hungry, hm?”
After chewing and swallowing, you proclaim with a nod, “God, that is sooo fucking good. And yes! I’m fucking starving. I had no idea getting tattooed could make a person so famished.”
“Oh God yeah, a meal is required post tattoo, doesn’t matter how much you eat before.” He informs sagely. Your mind is immediately filled with the image of future afternoons like this, getting a tattoo from Erik, the talking and joking paired with intimacy shared. Then going out and sharing a meal after, and you think you’d love to do this over and over again.
Erik’s text tone chimes, he checks his phone, exhales through his nose with a half smile before he starts tapping out a response. You push the earlier sentimentality aside, asking, “Something amusing?”
He puts his phone back on the table face down as he responds, “Yeahhhh, Bobby just sending me a video of him trying to do this latest stupid trick he’s obsessed with on our trampoline.”
“Your family has a trampoline?” You ask far too excitedly, and he gives you a dubious look as he responds, “Uh yes?”
“Oh my God, my uncle used to have one at his house, I loved it! Never got to use it often enough.” You confess before throwing out a hopeful, “Think I could come by to use yours sometime?”
God, your reaction is adorable, being so amped about something so simple. He sincerely wishes he could indulge you, but it would be a bad idea, he can’t bring you around his family for all the reasons listed at your sleepover months back. Erik knows that his family would make all kinds of assumptions and could jeopardize what you have. He reluctantly has to shut you down, he starts by humming out your nickname, “Freak-”
You don’t let him continue, jumping in with a, “Please? Come onnnn, it’d be sooo fun!”
“We have plenty of fun! We are literally always having fun and I love having a good time with you. But we just can’t at my family's house, okay?” He tried to soften his tone at the end, and you know all the reasons it is a bad idea. You sigh, “Yeah, I knew it was a long shot, sorry I didn’t mean to push.”
“No harm done.” He replies. The rest of your shared meal passes by with more easy conversation until you depart.
You don’t see him on his actual birthday, but that is perfectly fine, he’s got plans with his family. He told you that they always go all out and insist upon it, you get the impression that he pretends to hate it but actually secretly loves being so spoiled. You have plans for the next day, you asked him to come over after work because you have to give him his presents. Tragically, he unfortunately ends up working late, partially due to being off the previous day for his birthday. His call comes in around the time the shop is meant to close, you pick up your phone and answer with a casual, “Heya music man.”
“Heyyy Freak, was just calling to see if I was still cool to come over? I know it’s pretty late-” He starts, and you cut him off, “Uh of course! I wanna see you.”
He laughs softly before responding, “Okay, okay! I was just checking.”
“When will you get here?” You ask, and he replies, “I dunno like an hour, I gotta finish the close, and I’m starving. Soooo I’ll grab something to eat then walk over-”
“Oh, don’t worry, no need. I have food here, just come over.” You inform, and he agrees, “Fuck, that hard up for it, hm? It’ll be less than an hour then.”
“Amazing, can’t wait.” You tell him and then goodbyes are traded and you both hang up. You get up off the couch with purpose, with your phone still cradled in your hand you swiftly put on a playlist to accompany the next task.
Erik doesn’t take that long, he locks up and makes the familiar trek to your place. About a half an hour after your phone call he is at your door, he turns the knob to find it locked, he can’t remember the last time it was. Usually whenever Erik comes over it’s unlocked, he knocks and after a moment he can hear the tumbler turning over and the door opens.
You stand there, a smile on your face and what you are wearing, Christ, are you trying to kill him? You are in just a t-shirt, which is delicious enough on its own; but even better is that it's his shirt. He had been looking for it and now realizes he forgot it here the last time he slept over. It’s a tee he bought at a concert, it sports a very cool design but the only ones they had left of its kind were in a size that was too big even for him, still he couldn’t pass it up and sometimes loose clothing is more comfortable. You certainly look cozy and at home in the beloved piece of clothing. Further still, your newly healed tattoo is on display high on your thigh, and seeing that combined with you draped in his shirt makes something decidedly possessive clench inside of him. He should be more concerned about that, but he can’t bring himself to be.
You lean against the door frame, your expression fond and clearly very happy to see him, your greeting a soft, “Hey.”
He reaches for the obvious and easy joke as opposed to letting himself get swept up in his much too soft musings, it slips out casually, “Hi. Nice shirt.”
You grin and joke back, “Thanks! The last dude who screwed me stupid left it here.”
He laughs as you let him in, as he is removing his shoes and his coat. You are locking the door he pipes up with, “So the next course of action is to wear it?”
You breeze past him, down the hall, making your way back to the kitchen. He follows behind as you call over your shoulder, “Natch. It was left in my apartment, and I can do whatever I want with what's in my apartment, Erik.”
“A concept I’m becoming increasingly more familiar with.” Erik agrees, and you tell him, “Sit down, you couldn’t have timed this better, I was just about to plate up.”
Erik takes his usual stool at the bar and watches as you are scooping something that smells criminally good from a pan on the stove and onto a plate. He asks, “Did you cook just for me?”
“Yeah, jumped up to make this right after our call.” You inform, and that gives him pause. He takes in the scene, in the lower and softer lighting you prefer to use late at night as opposed to the overheads, a playlist he sent you is playing from your phone in the background. You are dressed in his shirt, the tattoo he gave you on your bare thigh clear as day, and you are serving him a late dinner you made just for him. It is all so painfully fucking domestic, you somehow keep finding new things to stir up in him and make him crave fresh impossibilities. Only you can make him feel like he is being emotionally skinned alive with your unending kindness.
He speaks again, sincere as he says, “You didn’t have to make something special just on my account.”
You give him a sideways glance as you say, “Really Erik? Like that is good enough for a special occasion like this? Hardly.” He watches as you sprinkle fresh parsley over the plate and then carry it over, a knife and fork in your other hand. You place the steaming plate in front of him and hand off the silverware, telling him playfully, “This is your belated birthday hang, and that means you are getting nothing but the best. Deal with it.”
He supposes nothing he can say will change your mind on this matter. “Well, thank you, I really appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem, I was happy to do it.” You are being honest and he can tell. He is still very grateful. He looks down at what you’ve put in front of him, some sort of pasta dish. He asks, “So what is this?”
“Doesn’t have a formal name really, but it’s probably my favourite meal to cook.” You tell him, explaining further, “It’s chicken thighs that have been heavily seasoned with a bunch of the classic staples, sautéed onions and garlic, orzo pasta cooked in vegetable broth.-” He listens as you explain on, and he starts cutting into the chicken, “-The whole thing is finished with cream and Parmesan cheese. Just this super comforting and filling dish, much too delicious for how few ingredients it takes and how quickly it comes together.”
He takes the first bite and fuck, he is never going to get over what a good cook you are. The meat is cooked perfectly, unbelievably tender. The pasta is incredible, the flavour somehow deep and more complex than the simple presentation would suggest. He can see why you love this so much, he is unable to stop the praise from tumbling out before he has finished his first bite. “Oh my God, this is so fucking good-”
You preen under his praise, watching as he eagerly goes in for another forkful. You reach for your glass of wine and indulge in a sip as he rambles further, “-how can you make something this good in like a half hour? It’s fucking witchcraft.”
“I’ve got magic hands in many contexts.” You tease cryptically before asking, “You want a drink?”
He nods, and after he swallows he tells you, “Yes please.”
“Well, what is the birthday boy craving? I’ll make whatever you want.” You offer with a gesture to the nearby and very well stocked bar cart. He thinks for a moment before asking, “What are you having?”
“Oh, just this white wine I love. It’s crisp and clean, citrusy notes with a bright summery finish on the palette.” You explain.
“Most pretentious shit you’ve said in a minute.” He teases, and you tell him, “Saying nearly anything about wine is gonna sound pretentious, just the way it goes. Wanna try it?”
You offer out the glass to him, and with a shrug he takes it. He takes a small sip, and usually he is not a wine guy, but this one is very fucking good, he understands the praise you’ve heaped onto it. Not only that, but it pairs well with the meal you made. He says, “Fuck me, that is pretty nice. I’ll have a glass of that.”
You are pleasantly surprised by that and happily get him out a glass and retrieve the bottle from the fridge. Pouring as he eats, you ask, “So how was your actual birthday with the fam yesterday?”
He was clearly a little busy yesterday so you haven’t gotten the full run down yet. You sit next to him, enjoying your wine as he tells you about the meals shared, the activities that went on and the presents his family lovingly picked out for him. Bobby got him a new video game he had been wanting, Julia passed over a gift card for a clothing store he favours, and his parents scored him tickets to a concert coming up soon.
He has another helping of the pasta, and then he tells you how today was as you pack food away and wash the small amount of dishes. By the time you’ve told him about your day, you are both a glass deep and feeling very good. Erik says, “Seriously, thank you again for that amazing dinner.”
“Glad you liked it so much. So you got room for dessert?” You inquire, and he gives you a look that asks, “Really?” But verbally, he assures, “For whatever you bake? Always.”
“Stupid question on my part, sorry.” You step away to the fridge and open the door, and pull out the cake you put the finishing touches on earlier that very day. You close the door with your foot and carry over the cake and set it down before him. He takes in your efforts, the outside of the cake is covered in shredded coconut, extra dollops of icing on top for further decoration and the smell is amazing. Earlier you had smartly placed a candle on the edge of the glass display stand and you place it dead centre into the cake. You open the drawer beside your right hip and pull out the long ended lighter you keep in there, you bring it to the wick as you begin to say, “So I’m not gonna sing you happy birthday-”
Erik grins as he cuts in, “Good, I can only tolerate that corny shit once a year, and my family filled that quota yesterday.”
You both share a brief laugh, the candle is now lit, and you drop the lighter back into the open drawer before you finish your own thought, “-but I could sing you Birthday by Katy Perry instead if you like?”
He groans, head tipping back slightly at the reference to the fake out fuck playlist you made for him months ago. You giggle over your own dumb joke for a second. Once he straightens out, looking up into your playfully mischievous eyes, he leans onto his elbows and teases, “Awfully bold of you to threaten that when your knife block is within reach, Freak.”
With a scoff, you reach over to said knife block and select the largest one. “Like you’d stab me before you get your birthday gifts.”
He takes a moment here, his eyes locked with yours still over the soft glow of the candle in the top of the birthday cake you baked, alone in your apartment with so much of your care and attention focused just on him. Many times people aren’t aware of how happy they are in the moment until long afterwards, but this isn’t the case here, no, he is completely cognisant and clued in.
You prompt him, “C’mon music man, make a wish already before the wax ruins my hard work.”
He does as you encourage, a deep inhale before he blows it out. The smoke curls upwards between you both, you pluck the candle out and put it aside. You speak up, “So I decided to take a crack at your favourite.”
He is very pleasantly surprised, tells you, “Oh coconut cream? Awesome.” You get out plates and small forks and begin to cut a piece for him and yourself. Once the slices are plated, you are seated next to him again. You wait with bated breath for his reaction. He scoops up that first forkful and brings it up to his mouth.
To say you killed it is a severe understatement. The cake is moist, the lime zest mixed in with the shredded coconut pressed into the icing is tangy and fresh, it cuts through the richness and speaking of, the icing it's delicious without being too cloyingly sweet. On top of that there is something else between the cake layers, it has him asking with a groan, “What is in the middle?”
You explain to him, “Oh I decided to take a risk, so I made a key lime curd and spread it between the cake layers. I wanted to give it something more instead of just extra icing, you know?”
You really went above and beyond for him. He asks baffled, “You made key lime curd? Like from scratch?”
“Yeah! It was a fun challenge, I haven’t made a curd before.” You tell him, then asking, “So it’s good?”
“It’s fucking phenomenal.” He praises as he is going in for more. Now you are taking your own forkful, relieved and happy that he loves it. You must admit, you really outdid yourself with this one. You had spent quite a few hours between planning this recipe out, buying ingredients, baking, and decorating, knowing all that effort wasn’t wasted is a great comfort. Furthermore, you would have hated to pour so much in for such a special thing for Erik and have it turn out bad. Still, you keep quiet about just how much went into making this cake, you don’t want to come off as try-hard.
There is a lull of comfortable silence for a moment, you break it when you ask that classic question, “So what did you wish for?”
He responds, “I can’t tell you that, if I do, it won’t come true.”
You sigh with a roll of your eyes, “Since when are you ever superstitious? But fine, keep your secrets.”
He really isn’t, but he can’t share what he wished for. It was the exact same thing he wished for when he blew out the candle in the slice of chocolate gâteau he had out at the restaurant last night with his family, that wish being; that you would always be in his life. It is far too sappy and sentimental to share, even if it is truly what he wants most. He is half worried you’d fucking laugh yourself sick if he told you that little tidbit.
You enjoy your cake leisurely, and when you are done with that you put the plates in the sink.
“Be right back, gimme a second.” You tell him and step away, only to return a moment later with your arms full, “So! Present time.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Freak! What store did you buy out?” He asks, and you scoff, “I got you like three things, shut up!”
You place down a tall skinny bag, a thin wrapped package and one very small box that gives him major pause. You gesture to the first bag, “Go on, birthday boy.”
He reaches for it and pulls out the tissue paper, reaching inside and his fingers close around the cardboard of a box. Erik pulls it out to see a very nice bottle of whiskey, this is the kinda shit that is kept in a locked glass case, that you need to ask an employee to get for you. He gives you an incredulous look and asks, “And this is just one of the things you got me? This is expensive!”
Your foot nudges his as you tell him, “Annnnd it's delicious too, you ever have it before?”
“No I haven’t, and stop avoiding the fact you dropped this much on one present-” You cut in and say, “I can afford it!”
He feels like he is having the same argument that you both did at the tattoo parlour. He sets the box aside with a sigh, “Again being able to afford it is not the point, but thank you-” Interrupting him again, you prompt, “You’re welcome! Open the next one!”
“Pushy, pushy.” He grouses as he picks up the next gift, unties the ribbon, and then rips through the paper. His eyebrows raise and he realizes that you got him a very high-end sketchbook. He flips it open, and he touches the first page, the quality of the paper is great. He smiles and glances towards you as he says, “This is really fucking nice.”
You lean forward on your forearms, resting on the edge of the counter as you ask, “Yeah? Glad you like it. I actually have a question about that-” He gestures for you to go on, and you explain, “So you use both a sketchbook and a tablet?”
“Oh, yeah. I prefer to do my first sketches in the book, then scan it and finish it digitally.” He shrugs, “Something about working shit out on actual paper feels better, makes everything come together easier.”
You love learning about anything related to his work, his creative process. When he was sketching out in the shop, plotting out your new and improved tattoo design while you ate and chatted, you found yourself watching him draw. You loved watching him sketch and figure it out, he could be a lot more boastful about his skill, but he isn’t. You appreciate that, the quietness he keeps about his talent. Modest isn’t the first word you’d ever think to apply to Erik, yet at times like these it suits.
You tell him honestly, “Interesting, I had no idea you had such a process.”
He leans closer as he muses, “I know, I must look like I’ve got not a lot going on upstairs but trust me, the hamsters are running in their wheels around the fucking clock.”
A giggle spills out, your head tipping forward at his joke, and Erik sets the sketchbook aside. He reaches over and picks up the last present you set out, the box is so small it fits easily in the palm of his hand. Erik inquires, “This is the last one, right?”
Your head comes back up, and you hum with a nod, “Yeah, it is, I promise.”
Erik opens the lid of the small box as he begins to say, “Good because just one would've been plenty, I mean three is just fucking excessiv-” In the middle of his sentence his eyes drop and catch his first look at the gift you’ve hidden inside. At first, Erik is confused, wondering just what he is looking at, or rather what this could possibly be for. He tilts the box, the soft orange glow of the lights above the bar he is sat at catch on the contents, a silver key shining up at him. Before he can ask, you explain. “It’s a key to my apartment.”
You consistently find new ways to leave him speechless.
You must have thought about this for a while. This doesn't seem like something you'd come up with on the fly, while combing for last-minute gift ideas. This has to be a symbol of your absolute trust in him. Offering him a key to your apartment with every intention of creating an even wider open-door policy for your arrangement is a big deal. In fact, it's a huge deal, or at least it should be, right? With this much free reign to traipse through your private space whenever he wants, and make himself more at home than he could ever dream of, is almost too good to be true. What's the catch? Considering the absence of hesitation in your demeanor, it feels like a reward; a privilege bestowed upon him as a thank you for his efforts in being the best friends with benefits you've ever had. But maybe that's just wishful thinking.
Even if he's not earned that title yet, this development is rife with possibility; he could find even more ways to make your day, whether it be letting himself in to surprise you with dinner after a long day at work, or staying over more often since he can just lock up before he heads home. He loves his home, but he'll admit, having another spot to decompress and relax away from his family, on top of the chance to spend more time with you, is beyond fantastic. This is easily his favourite birthday present he's received this year. He could kiss you breathless for offering him the key to freedom, so to speak.
He is seriously blown away, but this high seems too good to be true. There has got to be something more you want in return, something to make this mutually beneficial; a way to maintain the give and take that you're both all too familiar with. Or perhaps, is this your way of reaching out and trying to tell him you want more? Is this gesture of trust your way of saying you want to be more than friends with benefits? Reading into this is dangerous, he needs to be sure before he unsafely assumes something, and completely misses the mark.
Things like this require a delicate, subtle approach so he looks at you– his fingers curling around the box and bending it at the edges–as he scrutinizes every small detail of your face. Hope is blooming in his chest with every slow blink, upward tug of your lips, and tilt of your head in his direction. He allows the hope to build, as much as he told himself it was a bad idea, his heart pounding harder and harder against the confines of his rib cage. For a blissfully beautiful yet utterly terrifying moment, he thinks he may be reading it all right, until you speak again.
“I just thought that with how much we’ve been trying to hang out more, this would make it…I dunno…Easier?” And with that one sentence his hopes crumble like the box in his hands, his optimistic introspection screeching to a halt. No matter how often he tries to stay grounded in reality, he can't help getting his hopes up. Honestly, Erik's more than a little aggravated with himself for, yet again, allowing phantom feelings to take the place of cold hard facts. The proof is laid out. You don't want anything more than what you already have with him. If Erik could bring himself to laugh out loud, it would sound as bitter as the chill outside. Instead, he internally sighs while thinking, "Of course. Because it's easier to give me a key to your place. Right. Got it."
His eyes flick back down to the dreaded key still sitting in it's box, as if mocking him for actually thinking a little piece of metal meant more than just an instrument of convenience. He can't keep reading into things. But can you really blame him? It's a key for gods sake, not a gag gift. He's been trying his damnedest to focus on your arrangement instead of pining for something he can never have but you doing things like this for him, things that are so far out of the realm of friends with benefits, it's like you're dangling a treat in front of him and tugging the string every time he gets close enough to just barely grasp the damn thing. As he takes an imperceptible breath, one loaded question floats towards his subconscious, a piece of driftwood to cling onto in this endless sea of despair, “What would Brody do?”
The familiar mantra repeats over and over in his mind before he finally settles on an answer; Rather infuriatingly, Brody dearest would simply roll with it, ignore the instincts that are screaming at him to react emotionally, and stay impartial. His mind races with other equally infuriating conclusions, “He'd be cool and collected. He'd be grateful she wants anything to do with him, let alone trust him enough with a key to her apartment. He'd put Freak first and foremost, always.” Surprisingly the words work well to snap himself out of potentially ruining things with you. He forces a smile, eyes glancing back up to yours again. Erik attempts to play off the abnormally long silence, setting the box aside and acting relieved, “Thank God! I thought I'd be knocking on your door forever! What a great fucking idea, Freak.”
You return his smile, but it's strangely forced. You're happy he sees the vision, but somehow you can't help but feel a little disappointed that that's all he feels. Odder still, it feels as if Erik's reaction wasn't the one you were searching for? How could that be when all you meant by this gesture was to symbolize a token of your trust and a desire to better facilitate your hangouts? There was no other way for him to take it, and you made sure of that. Maybe it was the nonchalance in his tone, or the long pause before he reacted that's throwing you off. The hollow, biting chill of indifference creeps up your spine, without warning. You search your emotions, trying to understand this feeling, but the only conclusion you can draw is, “If only this meant more to him than just a key to my place.” Which is so absurd that it would be laughable if it weren't so sad. Yet another expectation you're unintentionally placing on the guy who's screwing you for fun.
Alternatively, what guy in their right mind would willingly accept such a gift without questioning your intentions? The only explanation for such a casual response is that he has already written you off as un-dateable; that Erik fucking Campbell has better things to do than consider 'going steady' with the likes of you. You're his freak, but you know you're not good enough to be his anything else. He deserves better than you trying to mold him into something he is not. He's not looking for a relationship, and if he was, this is a pretty fucking obvious sign he doesn't want one with you.
The fact you are still so hung up on this is fucking stupid! You are being utterly ridiculous. This whole internal debate with yourself is just plain childish. You need to get over this useless school girl crush you have on your fuck buddy. It's great that he picked up on how 'not that big a deal' this gift is and it's even better that you didn't ruin his birthday with your live grenade of a heart getting in the way. Seriously, what did you expect was going to come of this? Nothing is what the answer should be; what it will be for the foreseeable future as far as your 'feelings' are concerned. So you drop it, the doubt still weighing heavy on your mind, but slowly morphing into determination as the seconds tick by. Tonight is about Erik, and you should refocus on giving him the best belated birthday he's ever had.
You stop leaning on your arms, pushing yourself up and walking around the end of the bar to come closer to him as you say next, “I have been known to have good ideas from time to time.”
You are close enough that Erik can reach out and touch you, he does. His hand comes to your hip, and he pulls you closer, so you are between his spread legs. Erik’s fingers trail down and trace the curved back of the tiger tattoo he etched into your skin, checking it over as he muses, “S’ healing really well.”
“Been following your instructions to the letter.” You assure. He grins as you slide yourself into his lap at last, making yourself comfortable as his hands rest on your lower back. You are still trying to fully push away your emotional turmoil, and to acomplish that, why not do what you usually do when you want to turn off your feelings? You ask your next question, “So are you craving anything special for your birthday sex or-?”
Erik laughs at your bluntness, it feels very you, just cutting right to the chase. Little do you know he is thinking to himself that he could use the distraction from his own overactive imagination, he leans into the craving. His head tips forward, face to your neck, and you giggle from the sudden closeness and the giddiness that bubbles up in response internally from it. Soon the joyful sound breaks and bleeds into a moan when his teeth nip the sensitive skin. He starts to kiss up the side of your throat, and you suck in a slow inhale, squirming in his lap slightly as he murmurs against your warmth of your flesh, “Yeah, I think I’ve got a few things in mind.”
You are dying to fulfill any and every want he has tonight, so you ask, “Where do you want me?”
He hums like he is seriously thinking it over as he pulls back enough for you to see his face. Your eyes remain fixed there until he leans in and kisses your lips hungrily. You return his efforts automatically, completely needy, until he breaks it much too soon, after which he says, “Let’s keep it classic. I think your bedroom will do.”
Thank God, you cannot wait to have him tonight. You slip back out of his lap and take his hand, encouraging him to get up and follow you, something he does with zero fight or issue. Once in your room, you turn, still holding his hand you walk backwards, asking in a flirty tone, “So, what do you want?”
He enlightens you, “I’ve had a lingering craving lately, thought you might indulge me in it. I realized I’ve never seen your full toy collection.”
You are more than happy to show him. "Sure, my stuff is a little scattered, hold on." You gesture to the bed and encourage him to sit himself down. As he gets comfortable, you scoot over to your first nightstand and open the drawer. The process takes a few minutes to dig out your preferred treasures from both drawers and the box under your bed, as well as the other, other box that lives in your closet. Soon the items are laid out neatly and organized on the space of the bed that Erik is not currently occupying.
"That is all of it." You tell him with a confident nod, and he has his chin resting on one hand as he surveys the coated bedspread. Erik pipes up with, "It was like watching a magician pulling one of those never ending scarfs out of a pocket. You think it's done, but nope, it just keeps coming."
You laugh lightly and tell him, "Yeah, well, these are some of the few things I let myself splurge on the past handful of years. Needed some way to keep myself entertained while single."
Interesting. He thinks on that briefly, you haven't told him just how long you were single before he came into the picture. Erik is curious but knows better than to pull on that thread when there are other important matters to attend to, namely, you wanting to spoil him with obscene sexual excess for his belated birthday party for two. He starts to seriously consider what is spread out before him, and you are very well stocked. From bottles of lube in different consistencies for particular purposes, to vibrators and dildos he's either seen you use or used on you himself. You own a few artful pieces that are made of what looks to be glass and this wild looking one that is made of polished metal with a steep curve. His eyes pass over an intriguing series of anal toys, plugs to beads, and he is honestly surprised that he hasn't seen them, he is however not surprised that you own them. A few more battery powered toys that he isn't quite sure of their function, but he is positive they serve their purpose and have rightfully earned their spots in your drawers. There are two items that catch his attention, the first, a matte black pair of metal handcuffs, and next a set of two nipple clamps attached with a thick chain.
Erik plucks both up and with a lewd grin he says, "I think these will do."
"At the same time?" You inquire, hopeful and excited by the very thought, and he confirms with a nod, "Yes, absolutely."
And he says that you have good ideas. Everything else is swiftly dealt with by you, you clear the bed quickly, reorganizing everything can happen later after he is gone. Soon as that is done, you are joining him back on the bed, closing the distance quickly. One hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, his hands find your waist and you both are able to slot together easily, no verbal communication needed. You think that is one of your favourite things about your whole arrangement, how effortless physical affection is between you. Moving in tandem to accommodate the other, until you are both pressed completely flush together and kissing again. Erik has scarcely been able to look anywhere else all night, you in just his shirt has been kind of killing him, and having you up against him with hardly anything in the way is truly delicious. His hands slip from your waist and his fingers catch on the hem of the shirt, with the simplest move he is able to feel bare skin and the silky material of your underwear. His hands grip your ass and he uses that point of contact to pull you closer, and you happily let yourself be led, enjoying being pressed to him as the make out escalates.
Your fingers pass through his hair as your tongue brushes against his, your breathing is picking up at the heat he stirs inside of you. Being able to kiss and touch him, have this intense physical contact, it’s so beautifully maddening. He is taking his time, hands leaving your ass and much too slowly he is dragging his hands up, his shirt you’ve donned getting pulled with the motion. The wait is agonizing as he reveals more and more of your skin, until finally it’s high enough that he breaks the kiss to finish taking it off. The shirt is tossed aside, and now you are in just your panties, the thin material nearly plastered to your skin because of how wet you were.
At first, you think he is going to get back to kissing you, but no, his head dips. Instead you are treated to his mouth on your chest. You breathe his name out softly, enjoying the sensation of the kisses he lays down, as well as how his tongue traces around your nipple.
He is criminal with his mouth. Erik’s lips close around the sensitive flesh, he sucks, and then his teeth sink in and your fingers knot in his hair from the pleasantly painful jolt it sends careening through you. Drawing him closer, a silent plea for more, which he gladly provides. By the time he’s done toying with your chest, minutes later, both of your nipples are wet with his spit and swollen from his attention.
After pulling back enough to look up at your face, he says in that teasing and low timbre, “Hands behind your back.”
A thought that you know better than to vocalize, washes over your brain like water, “Whatever you say, officer.”
You comply quickly, sitting up and turning to give him better access, your hands resting against your lower back. Erik locks the cuffs around your wrists. The second the metal closes, the reaction is elicits is automatic, it is like having an itch that has gone too long without being scratched finally being tended to; the sound you release is one of pure satisfaction. Erik sits up as his hands skim up your arms, a kiss to the side of your throat and as if magnetized your body arches into his, drawn helplessly to him. You want more skin on skin contact but he is still wearing his fucking shirt for some ungodly reason, he needs to be as naked as you are as soon as possible. Your hands roll in the cuffs, feeling how sturdy and unrelenting they are, how much they restrict your movement and put you off kilter makes your situation worse. His name is on your tongue when his mouth leaves your neck, you want to ask for more but your eyes catch his hand as he picks up the clamps.
Deciding on which clamps to buy took you a while, you did a lot of research and read so many reviews before landing on these ones. Traditional clamps are just that, clamps, they open and then close, trapping whatever you put into them very effectively; the ones you pulled the trigger on? They have four-point screws, meaning you can adjust the pressure with so much ease, and not only that but it can provide stimulation on all sides.
You make yourself sit still as Erik starts to affix the first one onto you, he starts easy, simply focusing on two of the screws and the contact they provide, adjusting them carefully until it is secure enough that it won't come off easily. He starts to ask, "How is that?" but he looks up to your face in the middle of that sentence and your expression tells him everything he needs to know. You have your bottom lip caught in your teeth, eyes half lidded and seemingly very into the feelings he is providing with so little.
You rush out, "S' good-" A breathy exhale before you tell him, "-you can uhm, do the other ones too if you want to."
He laughs lightly, and asks, "Sure you can handle it?" He doesn't wait for your answer as he starts to engage the third screw on the first clamp. You keen out a very pathetic, "Yeahhh, I can take it." that he is all too pleased to hear. The last one is adjusted and he checks in, "Not too much?"
You think that you could handle more, but he still hasn't put on the second clamp yet and you are going to be wearing them for a while; it's better to start slow. You shake your head and inform him, "It's fine."
He starts in on the other one and you wince when he has all four points in place, the constant pressure on your sensitive nipples makes the haze of your arousal stronger yet again. It gets worse when he hooks his fingers in the chain and tugs experimentally for the first time, your body bows nearer to him, one of the most satisfying groans you've let out so far sends a rush to his head.
This is going to be very fun.
He'd ask again if you were alright but he is confident you've never been fucking better. He doesn't think or question the craving, it's easy to explain it away when this session is supposed to be focused on his desires, so he leans into it and you. Erik's mouth captures yourself in another kiss that you sigh into, returning it quickly. His tongue is in your mouth and you feel like you are melting, and he pulls on the chain again making you gasp and he swallows that debauched sound up with gusto. He indulges for a minute more, until the way you squirm against him makes his pants uncomfortably tight.
He pulls back enough to suggest, "How about you get on your knees?"
You hurry to do as he asks in a way that is completely endearing to him, struggling to get off the bed and onto the carpet with your wrists locked behind your back. "At least he didn't laugh." You muse. Watching you leisurely, he finally starts to strip. His shirt is off and he is working on his pants by the time you are perched on your knees on the plush carpet just as he prompted. Once he has gotten undressed, he adjusts himself, sits on the edge of the bed so you are right between his legs.
For this next part Erik doesn't have to tell you what to do or what he wants, it's abundantly clear. You lean in, your mouth gets to work, you kiss along his shaft slowly drawing a sharp inhale from Erik. Your lips are parted, letting each press get wetter and wetter, your tongue gets into the equation when you reach the head of his dick. You keep your tongue soft and pliable when you reverently trace over the defined ridge, you circle and play for a time until your own hunger becomes too much. The sounds you start to draw the longer you work him over are incredible. You sit up a bit straighter on your knees, unable to use your hands to adjust him means you have to chase after what you want with more purpose, catch his tip with your mouth and only then you are able to begin to take him inside.
Engulfing him into your slick and wanting mouth is one of the most natural things in the world, akin to breathing. Even with how turned on you are and desperate you are for your own relief, pleasing him like this makes your own bodily want falls more into the background. The first time you full take him to the base, he groans your name and the sinful way his own lips wrap around the syllables fills you with motivation and inspiration.
You get into the rhythm of it, sloppy and messy, allowing spit to run down him and even drip onto your own chest. Erik is transfixed as he watches you work, he feels pinned to the spot every time your eyes open to stare up and catch his reactions. You bob up and down, suck indulgently, moan against his shaft at points and Erik has only been getting louder as the pleasure increases. You treasure every sound from him. Another desire strikes, he goes with it, his hands lock onto your head. He holds you in place and you let him fuck up into your mouth and further into your throat. You take it beautifully, eyes going hazier as you are forced to helplessly picture him fucking into your drooling cunt just like this, hitting so deep you swear you could feel it in your chest. You clench around nothing and your hips rock, meeting only air and you whine pitifully and Erik swears to any and every God that there has ever been or will be that he has never been this fucking hard.
He is breathlessly muttering something that you can't quite catch as he drives into your open mouth a few more times before raising his voice, "Christ, I don't think I can take much more of this-" You being you, take this as a fun challenge. Your lips tighten around him, you don't let him continue to fuck your willing mouth as easily, you start to move, meet him in the middle and bring some serious suction back into the equation. His eyes actually roll back with a curse, he lets you do this approximately three more times before his fingers dig in with a hair more force and he pulls you off of him with a lewd pop.
Your chin is wet with spit, lips shiny and your voice sounding rather wrecked from that intense throat fucking, "Good?"
You and your constant need for a review. He huffs out a laugh, "Too good, get up here."
Like you need to be told twice. You've been blowing him for long enough that getting off your knees, without the use of your hands, is an even greater challenge. He is nice enough to catch you when you stumble in your attempt to change positions. His hands on your shoulders, as he asks, "You alright? Wine get to your head?"
"Fuck you." Those two words leave you with no bite and a laugh. Erik teases in response, "Yeah that's what I'm hoping for." His hand drag down, his fingers slide under the band over your hips and at last he removes the last piece of clothing, your underwear is totally ruined. You can feel how drenched they are when they pass down your thighs and pool at your ankles, you step out of them and he helps you slide back into his lap for the second time tonight.
You greedily grind on him once you are settled as you ask, "You want me like this?"
What a question. Erik wants you all the time, in any possible way that he can have you, he craves you desperately like he is completely starving. He keeps it casual though when he replies, "You might have put the idea into my head earlier." His hands are on your ass as you slide back and forth on him and he says next, "Now I'll be nice enough to help you with this next part but the rest is on you." Then one of his hands lifts, and his fingers are on the base of his shaft. He is holding himself steady and upright making it easy for you to angle your hips and begin to slide him inside yourself. You let out a shuddering exhale as you take him inch by inch, filling and stretching yourself all at once.
You take a moment then, sit perched there with him buried to the hilt, your knees resting on the bed and wrists tightly secured behind your back. The want to move is too great, so you do, begin to roll your hips and ride him in earnest.
Usually if you were to fuck him in this position you might loop your arms around his neck, or rest your hands on his shoulders, give yourself another point of contact to help yourself move, now? You have to rely completely on the rest of your body, but mostly your legs. Your center of gravity shaky at best as you rock against him. It already feels so good, you breathe out his name so quietly, as if awed by the sensation, "Oh God, Erik-"
You are fucking gorgeous when you are like this, pleasure playing across your face and breath panting out. You feel incredible, sweat slick and soaking wet, so hot inside and completely alive. His hands can't stay on your hips, he needs to feel more so he does. Palms slide up your sides and over your back, fingers flex, digging in as he draws you near and into a kiss. It is messy, open mouthed and it feels perfect. When the next moan is too loud you break the connection, head tipping back slightly and one of Erik's hands slides to the front of your body, fingers find the chain and he tugs. Your walls clench down on his thick shaft from the shooting pain, a broken sound tears from your throat and he moans too.
"Shit, you just gripped me so tight-" He pulls again, getting the same reaction and your riding stutters, hands behind you curl into fists and your nails bite into your own palms when he pulls a third time. A weak whimper falls from your lips, and he asks, "-you know just how addictive you are like this, right?"
He kills you when he says things like that, especially in the middle of sex, slightly out of breath and voice cut with pleasure. You give a questioning hum, not sure that you'd be able to string together a coherent response to express your disbelief. He insists, "I'm serious."
You know that he is, yet you still aren't sold on the idea he is trying to put forth. It isn't like it isn't amazing to hear, or absurdly hot, you just have a hard time believing it.
He tugs on that chain again and your hips respond, your pace is totally wrecked, you find your voice and whine out, "Erik-" He breathes your name in kind, in such a way it sends a shiver up your spine. He pulls much harder on that chain and rocks his hips upwards, the agony and ecstasy that is drawn from both of those actions has your body torn on how to respond; unsure weather to lean in or scramble away. Staying close wins out, as it always does when it comes to him. Another move of his hips as he holds the chain painfully taut, Erik tries to press upon you his original point, "I mean it, can't ever get enough-" You attempt to continue to move your hips to keep pleasuring him and yourself without pulling on your nipples further than he already is, you fail. A wince rushes out, you hope he will ease up but he doesn't.
Instead he pushes again, it reminds you of that conversation in the bar, him insisting that you are perfect and refusing to let it go. The next roll of your hips, combined with the clench of your walls, makes his brow pinch and this completely delicious sound leaves his mouth and it really strikes you. He is being completely honest, isn't just talking for the sake of it, he is just as into this as you are. With that realization crystalized and the fresh swell of emotion cresting along with the pleasure you babble out, "I kn-ow, I fucking know, I swear ah!-"
It's one of those funny things that you just can't get until you re-frame it right, and for you it hits when you tackle it with a little empathy; if you are addicted to him, totally infatuated with how he makes you feel and obsessed with the sex you have, then why can't he be too? There is a reason that your arrangement has lasted this long, right? This is some of the best sex either of you have ever had, and admitting to it only makes sense. At least that is what your lust addled brain conjures up as the reason in the moment. You profess further, trying to explain that his addiction is yours too, that is is totally mutual, "-I feel the same way."
You are a mess right now, sweat slick and moaning, thighs burning with the effort as you ride him. Erik can't stop looking at you, utterly taken with you to the point that he can't help but comment, "I love when you get like this, acting like you need this." Well you have to correct him on that immediately, confessing to him, "I do! I do need it, need it all the time, I need you all the time-"
With that he finally lets go of that chain, instead his hand smooths over your back and he pulls you closer, no verbal reply to your admission, instead he kisses you again. It is impassioned and needy, both of you are far too into it. Now that your poor aching nipples are getting a small reprieve you pick up the pace, riding him quicker and the angle is just right. The stimulation you are getting both inside and out, along with your hands still restrained and all the skin on skin contact, and the filthy tongue kiss you are currently engaged in-frankly everything is becoming too much; you are getting close. You moan into the kiss, your pace is getting sloppy, uneven, breathing wrecked as your climax approaches, the sensation climbing up your spine.
Breaking the kiss, you breathlessly rush out, "Er-Erik, I'm almost-" you cut yourself off with a harsh inhale and his hands slip down to your hips. He holds you firmly in place, no longer letting you move properly, you fight against his hold, and you fail. So instead you squirm uselessly in his lap and impaled on his cock, feeling your orgasm slipping through your fingers. You curse out in frustration, "Fuuuck!" He asks in that near mocking tone, "What's wrong? I thought you were about to cum?"
Fucking asshole. You whine out, "I-I was! But you aren't letting me-" He leans in nearer, his mouth on your neck and you shudder when he bites down. He murmurs against the side of your throat, "Excuses, excuses all the time."
God it is unfair and so hot. You are desperate to get off as you beg, "Erik please, just let go-"
"Mmm no, don't think I will." His tone is light as he teases.
You expect him to draw this out, edge you over and over, make you drunk so drunk on denial you beg and babble for his amusment before forcing you to cum explosively. However, Erik surprises you. He's decided to himself that he wants to feel you cumming on him sooner rather than later.
His grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into plush skin and he holds you steady as he fucks up into you causing you to gasp. Your head tips back as he sets a brutal pace from below you, both those spots internally and externally are being abused perfectly and you are not going to take long to get close again. You are nearly hiccuping out his name and holding on for dear life as he forces you to take it how he wants it. Your knuckles hurt, aching from how tightly your hands are balled into fists, and all too soon you are whimpering his name, on the very edge. This time, blissfully, he doesn't stop, you cum. He fucks you through your high and it is so strong your body tenses up, an incoherent cry that attempts to telegraph how fucking incredible it feels and yet, you still feel it falls short. It stretches on, stealing whatever remaining strength you had, thoughtless and blissed out. You feel far too good like this for him to last. You are not even fully through it when he unexpectedly cums into you with a shudder of his own, his face still buried in the space between your neck and shoulder. You think that he is going to leave bruises on your hips from how tight his grip is.
It is quiet save for your breathing for the next minute, both coming down from the high and bodies finally still. He lets go of your hips, his lips brush over your neck again and your jaw before kissing your lips. You lazily return his kiss, leaning closer so you are nearly chest to chest. In between kisses you praise him, "That was unreal."
He hums in agreement, "So fucking good." Another kiss is shared, lingered in then broken, before you say, "Seriously you were so hot, and when you started fucking up into me-" your sentence breaks off with a moan at the memory. He smiles before pulling you into another kiss, one that you both laugh into, floating on cloud nine. He's still riding high on the drug that is you when he breaks the next kiss, his lips lingering an inch from yours as he mutters, "Mhm, it was so incredible, honey."
Everything comes to a screeching halt just then.
You aren't sure if you heard him correctly at first, but the words replay in your head like a record that keeps skipping, "-so incredible, honey." There's no fucking way he didn't say that; he did say honey. He called you fucking honey! God did he ever sound so good saying it, too. He only ever calls you by your name, "freak", "cuck", or something equally as playfully degrading–uttered with an undertone of fondness or light-hearted exasperation when you push his buttons just right–a very unconventional term of endearment to be sure, but still quite thoroughly you. He's never called you anything so traditionally sweet and wholesome, but heaven above, you love it.
Erik's the one who said it, and yet it takes him a moment before the words fully register. It was like all his sense took a vacation at the exact moment he made the unconscious decision to stick his foot into his mouth and it just happened. Here he is, about to lose it as his hands still grip your hips; his mouth still so close to yours and his half hard cock still buried inside of you. His heart rate picks up, genuinely struggling as his mind swarms with the same question on repeat. "Why?" Over and over it runs through his mind, almost obsessively. Why the fuck did he say it like that? God, he's freaking out isn't he? He can't break down; not in front of you, not while still fucking inside of you for christsakes! So, he moves first, untangling from you wordlessly as he attempts to create some distance between you and the shit-storm on the horizon. Erik pulls out, the mess flowing freely down your shaky legs as he helps you settle down on the bed. You hiss in both discomfort and relief when the clamps are taken off, the pressure easing and the blood rushing back to the sensitive flesh. He picks up the key you left on the nightstand and helps you out of the cuffs. You're rolling your wrists and rubbing them a little when Erik blurts out with a gesture over his shoulder, "Bathroom. Water?"
"Mhm, sounds good, thanks." You respond and he heads out without another word. Once he clears the doorway, you fall back onto the bed with a blissful smile on your face, bathing in your afterglow. You can't help but giggle in content from not only the exciting kink play but also the sickly sweet nickname.
Erik quickly shuffles to the bathroom, slipping inside and turning on the light before closing the door. H instantly turns to see the mask of calm slip from his reflection in the mirror. He finally snaps, "Honey?" He grips the sink, leaning forward and creasing his brow, becoming even more disgusted with himself while he lets it all out. "Of all things, you say fucking honey? What is wrong with you?!"
He's supposed to be on his best behavior, keeping the casual and fun vibes while also aiming to make every filthy fantasy of yours a reality. The last time he checked, that doesn't include throwing out warm, syrupy nicknames like "honey" delivered so dotingly that it blurs the lines of an otherwise perfect arrangement. Let's focus on that for a moment; how in the world could he so carelessly let something like that slip? There's no excuse that can save him from this blunder of epic proportions. This is so like him to fuck up one simple thing and not even realize it until ten to fifteen seconds after the damage is already done. He was there; he saw you pause just like he did. You were turned off by it and he knows it. He is so stupid!
Brody would never have let this happen... Would he? Nope. He wouldn't dance across a crucial line so flippantly. From what you've told him, Brody could clearly keep emotions out of the equation, so why couldn't he? After he swore to be better than him, this bombshell is utterly disappointing. He is failing miserably at everything when it comes to you, it seems. You were awfully chipper when he suggested leaving, so it wouldn't surprise him if he soured the moment with his big mouth. You were probably desperate to be rid of him, and are probably figuring out the best way to let him down gently as we speak. He just earned himself a one-way ticket out of your life in a blink of an eye. In his defense, how was he to know that one lapse in judgement could cost him everything he's worked for?!
While Erik continues to scold himself in your bathroom, you've made yourself quite comfortable in his absence. The sweat still clings to your naked body while you lie sprawled on the sheets. The satisfied smile lingering on your face, even as you wrap your arms around a pillow and bury your face into it. Honestly, you had no idea how much you could love an average term of endearment until you heard him use it just then. It keeps playing over and over in your subconscious, slowly replacing any other conscious thought until something else filters through the lovely white noise.
Sadly your honeyed thoughts quickly turn sour when you consider the implications of such a sweet nickname and what it means for your arrangement. Unfortunately, you only come up with one conclusion. "It can't mean anything... It won't mean anything." There is no way this can really become a normal thing, can it? That would be too good to be true, surely. You already established the fact that he wants no strings, you both wanted that. Since when did you start to get greedy and pine for far more than what is within reach for someone like you? You're not girlfriend material–that's just something you thought you'd accepted about yourself a long time ago–but apparently that fact has yet to truly sink in. Anything good that comes your way has a tendency to break your heart, one way or another. That's how it always ends, in utter disappointment. You sign in resignation, your smile vanishing from your face. Solemnly, you roll onto your back, blankly staring up at the ceiling as the post orgasmic bliss slips away like the tear that rolls down your cheek before you quickly wipe it away.
Erik finally gets himself back together, leaves the bathroom, as prepared as possible for you to call this off and kick him out. He comes back into the bedroom holding your glass of water, you lift your head and look at him, eyes soft and with a smile on your face and he can't help returning it. He comes in and asks, "You alright?"
"Never better." You lie. Then ask, "You?" He responds with his own lie, "Pretty perfect, actually."
He gives you the water and settles beside you in bed. You don't give him shit or kick him out or tell him you want to stop this. You act fine and normal, he's relieved, momentarily berating himself for freaking out so badly, yet again. He reaffirms quietly that he can't slip up like that again, thankful that you've allowed him the grace to have this one mistake. He doesn't want to press his luck further. Erik pours his all into seeming perfectly fine.
It works. To you Erik does seem totally fine, so you hide your own hurt and the pair of you lay close but not touching as you talk casually about the sex you just had. You pipe up with, "You know you did a lot for me there, this was supposed to be about you-" He cuts you off with a laugh, he explains, "Yeahhhh I dunno if you noticed but sex that breaks your brain is some of my favourite. It was exactly what I wanted, I had a great fucking time." Erik says next, "Thank you by the way, for a seriously amazing birthday celebration."
"Everyone deserves a good birthday." You tell him with a small shrug, downplaying your efforts just like you always do.
Eventually Erik gets dressed, with the gifts you've packed into a bag along with more of the cake you baked for him in hand. He is putting his shoes on as he says, "I'll text you when I get home."
You are watching him, leaning against the wall and wrapped in your robe with your arms crossed. You hum in acknowledgment, mind weighed down and knowing you are going to spend your night overthinking and feeling sorry for yourself. He turns to look at you and a moment of eye contact is shared, he holds one arm open and you push yourself off the wall, uncrossing your arms and coming over. You both share a hug that you linger in for a little too long before letting go, he opens the door and steps out. An idea hits, you have your hand on the doorknob from your side, you suggest, "Hey, how about you use your present for the first time and lock the door for me?"
He sees no reason why not. "Yeah, sure."
Your smile broadens for a second, a small wave as you say, "Night music man." You close the door and he hears you step away. He reaches into his pocket, he pulls out his keys having already put your apartment key onto the ring. He slips the key into the lock and turns it, listens to the tumbler turn over and yeah it works.
He stays there for a moment. Holding the key still notched in the lock, taking this in, the first time he's used the key to your place. His forehead tips to meet the wood, eyes close and he sighs out only to himself, "Goodnight freak." Before pulling lifting his head, pulling the key out, stepping away and leaving down the hall.
Casually Devoted. Part Six. "Everything's Fine." Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader NSFW.
Okay, okay, hi! So! I know, nearly three months between updates, fucking crazy, but! When you consider the fact that this chapter is 20 fucking thousand words, hopefully it makes a bit more sense. Also my beta reader has been working hard as hell and I don’t want her to get burn out, still I don’t foresee another chapter taking this long to edit. Chapter seven? Already almost done the first draft of it. Chapters 8 through to the epilogue? Outlined. Overall Casually Devoted series vibe playlist? Under heavy construction and looking pretty fucking good, honestly. The point is! The bitches have been hard at work. I hope you all love this update, because I do! Please, please, please, any feedback or love you have to throw at this would be greatly appreciated! I have been sitting on this chapter for so long and I am simply DYING to know what people think! Of course the biggest fucking shout out in the world to my amazing beta, @28bohemianmoons, she seriously elevates my shit to a level that is insane, this fic would not be what it is without her!!! Series masterlist found here. So now! Let’s get into it.
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Rating. Explicit. Length. (20.7K) Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Friends With Benefits. Complicated Feelings. Angst. Anxiety. Banter. Joking. Mild Exhibitionism. Establishing A Safe Word. Kink Conversation. Making Out. Lingerie. Grinding. Extreme Sexual Frustration. Toy Use. Cock Ring. Multiple Reader Orgasms. Denial. Restraints. Dom/Sub Dynamics. You Top, Erik Is Made To Take It. Submissive Erik. Begging. Degradation. Mocking. Crying. Vaginal Sex. Cream Pie. Face Sitting. Cum Eating. Overstimulation. Aftercare. Sweetness. Praise. Banter. Calling Erik Out On Being A Slut. Longing. Yearning. Pining. DID I MENTION ANGST CUZ HOLY SHIT. NURSE THE IDIOTS ARE IDIOTING AGAIN HELP!!!
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The sharp ding of the elevator signals your arrival at the lobby of your work building, the doors sliding apart for you and your coworker to shuffle out as you remark sharply, “You owe me big time, you know that, right?”
You leave your co-worker trailing after you in your rush to the revolving doors to freedom, the hurried click of your heels echoing off the polished marble floor. She manages to catch up to your retreating form, frantically chiming in, “I know, I know! Seriously, I am so grateful for all your help. I can’t thank you enough. Gosh, I’m so sorry-” She gets in the rotunda before you, swiftly pushing the door to guide you both out and onto the sidewalk. Your brisk, unforgiving pace is only rivalled by the biting chill of early fall as you storm out to the parking lot towards the one of the few cars remaining. Your companion continues to lament while struggling to stay at your side, “-I honestly had no idea that the meeting would run so late!”
Neither did you, honestly; If you had, then you would have never agreed to lend a hand, especially when the reward for your good deeds is two hours of unexpected overtime. It’s not like your salaried ass is going to see a bump in your paycheck for the trouble, either. What was meant to be a simple fix for a coworker you liked well enough has not only shredded the last of your patience, but also risked your after-work plans. You are seething at the idea that you might be late; You hate feeling rushed, and you abhor anything getting in the way of your plans. Of course, your coworker’s not entirely to blame for how this afternoon went, but that fact does little to ease your foul mood. The only consolation is that she offered to drive you all the way to your destination in the hopes of making it up to you and ensuring you make it there in the time you have left.
Tonight? You’re meeting up with Erik at a downtown bar/restaurant; The same bar where you unexpectedly bumped into each other three months ago. This time, however, you were going to catch up after the hectic week you both had that incidentally prevented you from meeting up until now. You’re ecstatic to see him, and what better way to kick off your weekend than with drinks, cheap appetizers, and good company. Your coworker unlocks her car, and you slide into the passenger seat, fastening your seatbelt before she’s even settled in behind the wheel. She shuts the driver’s side door before turning over the engine, the car humming to life as she asks, “Alrighty, where am I taking you?”
“That place down on Cherry Street; The Alibi.” You supply as she quickly buckles her own seat belt and pulls out of her designated parking spot. Some top forty hit song starts playing on the radio; one that you know Erik hates with a passion. You can recall the five-minute rant he went on about this very song. He insists that every lyric sung, and every note played were “-absolutely unlistenable. Just awful. Total. Fucking. Garbage.” You smile as you picture the disgusted sound he’d make before rushing to change the station if he were here right now. Your coworker pipes up as she pulls onto the road in a light tone, “So, you got a hot date?”
That’s quite the loaded question; more so than she will ever know. You chirp automatically, “No, I’m just meeting a friend.”
Your clipped response effectively ends the conversation, so you opt to stare out the window, watching the scenery pass by as your mind begins to wander. You have been quietly ruminating over the fact that your feelings for your “friend” run deeper now than what you would have called platonic just a few months ago. You’ve been frantically pouring over the events of the past few months, desperate to find a rational explanation for these feelings. The alarm bells going off in your mind have been plaguing you since your initial realization, but the source of the disturbance still eludes you. After meticulous, and borderline obsessive, examination, you are only now bringing it all into focus.
You’ve been going above and beyond for Erik in ways you never would have done for Brody. Quite a few things you’ve done so far are definitely outside the realm of typical ‘friends with benefits’ etiquette. Sure, with your old fuck buddy, you would hang out, talk and vent to each other like any normal friendship. But as far as the benefits go, you would kiss, fuck, and engage in some kink here and there, then call it a day. The overall arrangement is about letting off steam, having fun and getting off. You thought you were doing the same thing with Erik, but if this dull pang in your chest is anything to go by, then you clearly have been overlooking a few key details. It’s not like you want to complicate things between you, but it’s getting harder and harder to avoid the elephant in the room. You just hope you can come to your senses soon.
Before long, your coworker is pulling up outside the bar right on the dot, which is as good as late in your book. You abandon your earlier train of thought in favour of making a hasty exit from the vehicle before you are actually late. Your fingers wrap around the door handle as you make quick work of the seatbelt with your other hand. You say over your shoulder before stepping out onto the sidewalk, “See you next week.”
She swiftly replies, “See you then! Sorry about today, but thanks again. Bye!”
You call out, “Bye!” before swinging the door shut none too gently after you.
Despite the inconvenience that was today, you turn on your heel, and head to the entrance of the bar. You take a few deep breaths, trying to roll the rest of the tension off your shoulders and onto the pavement at your feet before greeting the weekend with open arms.
You step inside and your eyes scan the crowd once, spotting Erik instantly. Warmth blooms in your chest and slowly trails up to your face as you make your way over to him. You greet him with a bright smile, “Hey, Erik! Hope you weren’t waiting long.”
He looks up from his phone, returning your smile with one of his own as he responds, “Hey yourself, frea…” He trails off as his eyebrows knit together in shock before uttering a soft "-woah." instead.
You mirror his expression at his reaction, your features marred with confusion and slight alarm. You ask quickly, “What? What do you mean, woah? Why the stunned silence?”
“Uhh, you’re dressed like this, and you’re surprised?” His hand drags over your outfit, and you glance down in recognition. Oh yeah, UGH. You drop your bag onto the table and sit down across from him, briefly explaining, “So, I helped out my coworker with this presentation she was doing for some out of town clients. It was kind of a big deal, so naturally I got a bit more dressed up-” You inhale deeply before letting it out slowly before diving back in, “-but then! The meeting ran ridiculously long, Erik! Two hours of unpaid overtime to be exact!”
“Jesus fucking Christ, that’s horrible.” He exhales in genuine sympathy. You continue your rant, “-because of that, I had absolutely no fucking time! I barely made it here in one piece, let alone go home and get changed, so unfortunately, you get me in my office attire tonight. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Seriously. It sounds like you had a terrible enough day without me fucking piling on.” He leans his elbow on the table, his cheek resting on his hand as he admits, “Honestly, you look good.”
It’s not like you don’t agree with him, you do look good, but you didn’t think he’d be so into it. You jibe sarcastically, “Oh yeah? Kinda hard to tell when the first thing outta your mouth at the sight of me is WOAH. What I didn’t expect was for you to be so surprised. I mean, I’ve sent you pictures of my work outfits in the morning before.”
He defends,“ Okay fine my reaction might have been a little intense I admit, but c’mon it was a compliment. Can you really blame me? You know it's different seeing you like this in person.”
With a hum of acknowledgement, you circle back to ask one more time, wanting reassurance for some reason, “You really like it, though?”
He scoffs with a fond roll of his eyes, “What’s not to like? You wear it well.”
From the feminine blouse, to the tight pencil skirt and heels, it was all exceptionally flattering on you. Just being here with him tonight is making you feel better, but the fact that he likes your outfit is boosting your mood tremendously. You clarify with a shrug, “Just didn’t expect you to be into the corporate look. You manage to surprise me yet again, music man.”
Erik is quite satisfied with that and sincerely hopes he continues to surprise you. He fires back with a wink, “Stick around and find out, freak. Peel back the layers of the onion, as they say.”
You laugh heartily at the analogy before asking, “So, is there a waitress or are we SOL?”
He lifts his hand to circle the air with his pointer finger, referring to the myriad patrons at the bar as he explains, “Apparently they’re swamped, so we’ll be waiting a little while ‘til she comes back around.” That just won’t do. You get up, announcing, “Well frankly, fuck that. I’ll just go up to the bar and get us some drinks at least. Then, we can order food whenever she shows up again.”
He asks with a grin, “So, the first round’s on you, then?” You reply smoothly, “It is! So pick your poison. Whatcha feelin’?”
“Just a beer. You know what I like.” He says easily, and you groan in approval, head tipping back as you agree, “God yes! A beer sounds like heaven. Be right back!”
He watches as you weave through the crowd toward the bar with a swish of your hips and a click of your heels. Damn, you really do look phenomenal tonight. With his mind now occupied with the image of your retreating form, he can’t help but get lost in thought.
Your jaw dropping office attire serves as ample fuel for his wandering mind to conjure a rather saucy daydream; Visiting you at your workplace, getting a private ‘tour’ only to end up fucking your brains out in the copy room while you try not to get caught. Seemed only fair considering you did the exact same thing in the bathroom of his workplace a few months back.
He pictures your elegant skirt rumpled and bunched up around your waist as you grip onto his shoulders, the drafting table he’s got you laying on squeaks louder and louder as he pounds into you at a bruising pace. He imagines the top buttons on your blouse are undone, allowing one of those gorgeous bras of yours to peek out as your breasts jiggle with the force of his thrusts. Erik imagines you switching positions to avoid detection, the way your ass glistens with sweat as he bends you over the photo copier before pulling your underwear aside and sliding into you to the hilt. He can see you moving backwards to meet his thrusts, panting breathlessly, and exhaling his name louder than you should.
He can hear the slight creaking of the machine, the slapping of skin on skin, and you breathing out a strained, “Oh my God, yesss, right there-” He can feel the smooth, cool fabric giving way to warm soft expanses of your skin as he runs his greedy hands all over your body while fucking you harder.
Zeroing in on his fingernails resting on the table-top, Erik taps them to the rhythm of the thrusts in his little debauched scenario. It’s an extremely hot thought, dare he say his best fantasy about you to date. Reality comes barrelling in with a glance down at the now chipped remains of the black polish you applied during your end-of-summer sleepover. He’s yanked out of the fantasy, similar to lying fast asleep in bed only to be woken to the sound of an air-horn in your ear much too early in the morning.
For what it’s worth, it was an exciting thing to imagine, but the chance of such a thing to actually happen is slim to none. Erik doubts he’d even be admitted into the building, let alone able to surprise you with lunch, or a quick fuck during office hours. He can imagine the stares he’d draw and the questions you’d surely get if you were both seen together. He just doesn’t fit in with that corporate scene, and he knows he never will. Painful as it is to admit, this is just another reminder that this arrangement and your relationship really has its limitations. There are certain boxes in your life, same as everyone else, and the ‘Work’ box is pretty high on the shelf compared to the ‘Play’ box he’s in at the moment.
Erik has mostly been able to keep the thoughts of you at bay, but recently he’s been slacking. With that slack, comes overthinking and overanalyzing. You’re a habit he just can’t break. All it takes is a text or call from you, and he’s hooked again, like a starving fish on a line. You’ve somehow got him wrapped around your finger. He has been throwing himself into other things, keeping busy, but you linger on his mind still. His fingers stop their rhythm against the wood, spreading flat on the table while his other hand rakes through his hair, as if he could reach in and pull out the thoughts that have been plaguing his mind for the past week. He repeats one thought like a mantra, “Leave it alone, leave it alone, leave it alone-” God, this is too fucking depressing even for him.
The sight of you sliding back up to him with two beers in your hands provides a welcome distraction from his internal monologue. Your voice takes on a professional tone as you announce much like a courier delivering a package might, “I’ve got a beer delivery for aaaa Erik Campbell. Is that you, sir?”
He plays along immediately as he jokes, “I’m just the guy you’re looking for. Do you need me to sign for it?”
“Oh yeah, you can sign riiiight here-” You tease with a half turn and a gesture to your backside. He snickers, taking you up on the offer and delivering a hard but playful slap to your ass, a grin stretching across his face at your antics.
You set his glass down right in front of him as you hum in gratitude, “Thank you kindly.”
When you place his ‘delivery’ in front of him, he notices your freshly painted nails just before you retract your hand from around the glass. He recalls you saying that you paint them every week, and it’s been over a week since your sleepover, so it makes sense. The deep burgundy red colour suits you, given that it’s the middle of autumn. He loves it, for sure, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling a tad disappointed that you no longer match. He wasn’t expecting such a small thing to get to him, but he wills himself to move on from it sooner rather than later.
Once you settle into your seat, you tip your glass towards him, “To your health.” He picks up his own glass before tipping it to yours with a clink, “And to yours.”
Your first sip of beer soothes and refreshes you both to the point that you nearly moan in delight. After setting your drinks down again, Erik points to his glass, asking in wonder, “What is this?”
You proudly explain, “It’s actually a seasonal release they just got on tap from Hice Pale Ale! It’s more of a spiced amber ale. The bartender recommended it and I figured it was a must.”
“Fuck. I’m definitely telling my dad, he’s gonna flip.” Erik says easily, and you ask genuinely, “Oh? Howard’s a fan, I take it?”
Erik elaborates, “God, it’s his favourite brand and has been since forever. The first beer I ever stole from the garage fridge as a teenager was a Hice Pale Ale.”
You get a kick out of imagining a young Erik sneaking into the garage late at night, moving as slowly and quietly as possible to pull off the mini beer heist. You can see him reaching for one of the bottles at the back of the fridge so it wouldn’t look suspicious. Hearing about Erik’s life before you came into it is always a treat; His words always paint such a pretty picture, which only endears him to you further. You admit with a smirk, “As a teenager, you had far better taste than I. My first drink was this godawful pomegranate cooler, you know the kind that has that like a battery acid aftertaste and hurts your teeth?”
Erik sucks his own teeth in sympathy at the thought before asking, “Are every one of your firsts this utterly fucking tragic?”
You laugh and tell him, “Not every first, but this one sure as hell was” You go on to explain how you got your hands on those aforementioned coolers, “I didn’t even buy them. One of my friends had an older sister who didn’t want them at the time. So, as most young teenagers do, we took them without hesitation and suffered through every terrible sip until we were drunk off our asses.”
Snatching up the bar menu, you suddenly ask, “Food?”
“Food.” Erik agrees, the menu finding its way between you both as you look over the appetizers. After a minute, you slip into a tone that’s much too serious for what you are about to ask, “I don’t know if the nachos will be any good. What do you think?”
He reaches out, his eyebrows raising in faux concern and his hand closing around yours as he asks, “Oh, I don’t know, Freak… Should we risk it?” You laugh and shake out of his gentle grasp, choosing to focus on his joking words instead of the warmth his touch elicits on your skin. “I think so. We’ll see if we want more food after we try these questionable nachos.”
While you wait for the waitress to come by, you start up the conversation again. “You’ll never guess what happened to me when I went up to the bar earlier.”
He takes a second before conceding, “You’ve got me there. I dunno, what happened?” You fill him in immediately, “So I finally get up to the counter, but before I could wave down a bartender, some fucking dude starts hitting on me.”
Erik’s grip tightens around his glass, his mind filling in the blanks as he waits for you to elaborate, the image of some chud practically undressing you with his eyes, close enough to run his hands all over you if he got bold enough. Fuck. This isn’t a train of thought he wants to ride for much longer. He feels his emotions unravelling his attempt at a poker face, before he manages to school them again. Somehow, he lets out a neutral, “Oh?” in response.
You continue, “Yeah! He instantly starts spewing total fucking cornball shit. He was leaning into me and was all like-” You clear your throat with a small cough, leaning both arms on the table as you look down before raising your head and mimicking the ridiculous expression he gave you. Erik immediately stifles a laugh at your parody of the encounter.
Your voice drops into your best impression of him, quoting him word for word. “-‘You look like you work hard, but I bet you play hard too. You need some help relieving your stress?’-”
Your voice goes back to normal as you let out an overexaggerated gag, your body leaning back in your chair in disgust before you exclaim, “Like Oh my fucking GOD!” Erik is doubled over in laughter now; he’s more than a little relieved at how unaffected you were by getting hit on. In fact, it lifts his spirits so high that he chimes in, “Aww really? But you do play hard, freak.”
“Yeah, with you! Not with random try-hards who look like they bathed in a tub of Vaseline before going on the prowl for the first girl drunk enough to consider their sorry asses.” The passionate way you defend against his comment makes his laughter bubble up again.
Erik playfully fishes for the most important detail. “So, you clearly didn’t succumb to his endless charm. But what did you say to him, exactly?” You take another sip of your beer, pulling the glass back before piping up, “I told him to save the spiel for someone who cares and to please go sweat somewhere else.”
He chuckles at the mental image of you swiftly and thoroughly kicking that loser to the curb, taking this as an opportunity to segway the conversation to one of his most recent burning questions. Erik probes as lightly and playfully as possible, “So you shot down the assclown. What about the rest of the circus? Anyone else catch your eye, or-?”
You exhale, amused, sweeping your hand between you as you reply, “God, no! I haven’t been looking at all! Haven’t fucked anyone else since we started doing this. Hasn’t been on my mind either, really.”
Erik leans into being overconfident and cocky, hoping to cover up how happy he is to hear that; To hear that you haven’t even entertained the idea of being with another guy in the months you’ve been fucking him. Erik boastfully muses, “I mean, why would you when I am just that good, right?”
You use his words as the perfect opportunity to compliment him heavily as you agree, “Exactly! I’m being so serious! Why even take the risk of bad sex with a stranger when I can guarantee phenomenal sex with my slut on speed dial?” You can’t help hurling his question back at him, too curious to pass it up. “What about you, Erik? Have you been slutting it up in that leather jacket, getting hot and heavy elsewhere when I’m not free?”
Erik easily retorts, “Nah, you're incorrigible. How would I have the time? You’re already a handful and I rather like warming your bed, thanks.” That makes you smile so hard it makes your cheeks ache slightly. You lean closer, mostly ignoring the giddiness bubbling inside you at this new bit of information, as you nudge, “Tell me, has it been hard not letting loose?”
He leans in as well, holding your gaze as he teases you, “No harder than I imagine it’s been for you, cuck.” Then he gets an idea, jumping right into it before he can talk himself out of it, “Hey, if you’re seriously not in the mood for these assholes, you know what might keep 'em away?”
You shoot him a curious look, prompting him to elaborate, “If I pretend to be your boyfriend.”
Your eyes widen in shock at the offer, allowing Erik to follow up with, “Guys like that, they don’t always take no for an answer, right? But one thing they have to respect is if someone else got there first.”
“Ah yes, of course. If they see that another guy has planted their flag, so to speak, they’ll back off, right?” You evaluate, and he readily agrees, “Yes, exactly! Sometimes the archaic way is the only way. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing that gets through to macho, mediocre man-children like them.”
You are all too familiar with the type, so you don’t need much more convincing than that. The promise of a more intimate night out sounds appealing in itself. You waste no time agreeing with him. “Well, I would love for us to hang out in peace without some meathead interrupting us. Sure, why not!”
“Really, just like that?” He asks, slightly taken aback at how easily you agreed to what he assumed was a shot in the dark. Then again, it isn’t as far-fetched when he recalls the impromptu fake date you had a while back, which was your idea at the time.
You snap your fingers for emphasis as you confidently reiterate, “Yep. Just like that.”
With that, Erik gets up, holding his beer in one hand, while the other drags the chair next to you a bit closer to yours. When you had arrived, you had been sitting directly across from him, but now he’s close enough that you could rest your head on his shoulder with little to no effort. What’s more, he slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer into his side as he places his beer back onto the table, all while holding your gaze. With his face inches from yours, he challenges, “Think you can play the part convincingly, freak?”
Why use your words when you can let actions speak for themselves? The hand that isn’t cradling your glass comes up to lightly trace your fingers on the edge of his jaw, before tilting his face towards your own as you lean in and kiss him. The easy display of intimacy momentarily stuns him, shocked at just how convincing you can be. He melts into you, his craving for you coming back with a vengeance when you part his lips with yours. He greedily deepens the kiss, and his tongue brushes yours in tantalizing circles that make your breath hitch slightly. Hearing the effect he has on you will never get old. You linger for just a bit longer before pulling back with a soft smile on your face. At last, you answer him, “I think I can handle it, music man.”
You sure as shit have him convinced.
You’re both about half a beer in when the waitress finally comes by, his arm still draped around you as you ask for the nachos. When the waitress dashes off to put in the order, you reveal your latest observation. “Hey, you know what I just noticed?”
“I dunno, what?” He supplies, encouraging you to elaborate, “I don’t have any pictures of us together.”
It was something you picked up on the other night. You’d scrolled through your camera roll while thinking of him, finding the usual fare: various photos of baked goods you made, meals you had, selfies of you in different outfits, and solo pictures you’d taken of Erik. However, it was abundantly clear that you lacked any photos of you both, despite all the time you’ve spent together the last few months. The realization made you inexplicably sad, fuelling you with a determination to rectify this tragedy that could rival the thirsty patrons vying for the bartender’s attention just behind you. You quickly follow up with, “Do you?”
He considers your words, recalling that his phone’s gallery has pictures he’s saved that you’ve sent him, a few he’s taken himself, but funnily enough, none of you together, either. He tells you, “No, neither do I, as far as I recall.”
You reach down into your bag and pull out your phone, exclaiming, “We should definitely fix that! What kind of friends are we if we don’t even have pictures together?!”
“Couldn’t agree more.” He affirms. You raise up the device and turn, leaning back into his chest while his arm tightens around you. His face turns up to the camera with a smile without any complaints, almost as excited as you are to fix this asap. You snap the photo and bring it back down to check it out; For a first attempt, it’s honestly a great picture! The intimacy and closeness you share reflects so perfectly in the photo, that it evokes an overwhelmingly warm feeling in your chest the more you stare at it.
You can’t help thinking, “We look right together.”
It’s like your heart is swelling well past its means, cracking your ribs open and flooding your body with a rich, gooey sentimentality that feels like a cozy blanket wrapping around your soul. This feeling is addicting, dangerous even.
Erik is staring at your phone screen while his chin rests on your shoulder, the easy smile still planted on his face as he comments on the photo. “Came out great! Send that to me?”
You take a mouthful of beer, hoping that the taste of cool foamy hops might drown out the feelings bubbling up inside of you; It doesn’t. With a nod, you pull up your text chain and send him the picture. “Sent.”
“Thanks.” He imparts his gratitude with such sincerity you can feel it.
The conversation comes to a pause when the nachos arrive, you both tentatively try them, only to dig in hungrily; They’re better than expected. Erik doesn’t have his arm around you any more, but you remain rather close, one of your heels resting on the bottom run of his chair and your legs brushing every so often. Throughout the night, you make yourself more comfortable, rolling up the sleeves and undoing a few extra buttons of your blouse. As you unfold into a more relaxed version of yourself, the more skin you expose makes Erik want you even more. He fights the urge to touch every inch of skin you present to him.
You’re both on your second beer, and you’ve killed almost all the nachos, a few chips lingering on the mostly empty tray. Exercising the last of his self-control to carry conversation up to this point, he can’t ignore the urge any longer, running the pads of his fingers back and forth just above your nylon covered knee. The contact prompts you to question, “You like, ‘em? How do they feel?”
His eyes meet yours briefly before dropping back down to watch as he shifts from the light touch to an affectionate squeeze. He quips, “Yeah, the material feels nice. Soft. Inviting. I guess you could say I’m a fan of tights.”
“Mmm inviting. Very nice word choice, Music Man.” You bring your glass up to take a sip while your fingers curl around his hand, dragging it up your skirt as your legs part.
His voice quiets, brows rising a bit as he asks, “What are you doing?”
You don’t grant him a response, giving him a half shrug and a look that implores him to humour you for a sec. He lets you guide his fingers to creep higher under your skirt. With the way the table and your bodies are situated, there’s no way anyone can see what you are doing, but still; this is a pretty scandalous thing to do in such a crowded public place. Erik isn’t sure what you are going for at first. He gets his answer when he can feel the intricate lace detailing at the top of your stocking and the clasp of your garter belt holding it in place. You lean in closer, your own voice softening as you jibe, “The fact that you thought I would even own a pair of tights is insanely fucking hilarious.”
He smiles, fingers catch under the thin but sturdy strap of your garter belt and tugs lightly as he says, “Ahh, of course, I should have known. For a freak like you, it’s stockings or nothing, right?”
“Exactly, Erik! Now you’re getting it.” His hand reluctantly retreats from under your skirt, and reaches for his beer once more. You decide that now is the time to shift the conversation to a topic you’ve been considering bringing up for a while now. “So! I actually have something very important to talk to you about.”
Oh. Oh, God! What could you possibly want to talk about? Something very important; It’s probably bad; It has to be bad because there is but a slim chance that a sentence with a lead up like that ends somewhere good. No one sits someone down to say: “I have something very important to talk to you about. What’s your favourite flavour of ice cream?” There’s just no way. It would be an understatement to say he’s nervous about the conversation you are about to have. Might as well get this over with.
“Do you, now?” He tries to swallow his suspense, refraining from immediately assuming the worst. You nod, taking your time to munch on another chip before getting into it, “Yeah, so it’s coming up on six months now that we’ve been doing this-”
Six months. Has it really been half a fucking year already? But wait, does that mean? His mind is reeling, running through scenario after scenario, and they keep getting more and more elaborate with each passing second you take to get to the point. Will it go something like, “It’s been six months. It was fun, but I think I’ve got everything I want out of this arrangement. We can still be friends though…” Or worse, “I’m bored, and I don’t think it’s worth trying to force it at this point. It’s best if we just go our separate ways, don’t you think?” Or god for-fucking-bid, “It’s just not what I thought it would be. I’m pretty disappointed with it all. I should see if Brody knows anyone else in the area looking for some fun. Why are you still here? We’re done, so run along now.”
Is this it? Has your arrangement already hit its expiration date? Are you about to call this off? He scrambles, forcing out the first joke he can think of as quickly as he can, “Ahhh, shit it’s our six-month-aversary, and I didn’t get you anything.”
He mentally berates himself for being so stupidly obvious, but you don’t seem to notice the poor attempt to cover up his nerves. You chuckle before relenting with a sigh, “I’ll forgive you this time, at least.”
“Lucky me.” He lets out an uneasy laugh, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. He finds himself praying to any god that would listen that what comes next won’t be as painful as what his self-deprecating mind has already conjured up. Part of him would rather you just get this over with; pull the trigger and end his misery humanely. After what feels like a century, you finally admit, “Anyway! Because it’s been about half a year, I figured a check-in was appropriate. Discuss where we’re at with the whole thing, ya know?”
Erik is completely convinced now; You are about to break the bad news that you’ve had enough. He’s hanging off the edge of his seat, bracing himself for the killing blow, as you take another gulp of your beer. After pulling the glass back, you ask, “So, Erik. Would you say that you are completely sexually satisfied with our dynamic?”
He releases a sigh of relief as quietly as he can. Phew… Is that all? Jesus fucking Christ, he damn near gave himself a panic attack over literally nothing. He considers the question; sexually, he would say he’s more than satisfied, but emotionally… Well, let’s just say he’d rather not reach for that box on the top shelf and risk the cluttered closet of his thoughts to spill out. In the end, he settles for a simple, “I’d say I’m happy on that front, yeah.” He reaches for his own beer, downing a fourth of the glass in one go in an attempt to wash down the humiliation he feels for overreacting the way he did.
“Yeah? Think the frequency is manageable, and what we do is exciting enough?” You press, causing Erik to laugh lightly as he sets the glass down. His worries start to creep in again, wondering if the reason you’re bringing this up is really because you aren’t satisfied. Tries to keep it light when he asks, “Definitely, but are you not happy with what we are doing, by chance?”
You gasp, appalled at his insinuation, before defending, “Erik! I am exceedingly fucking happy, thank you. Very. Much.” That comforts him to know, and yet he senses there is more you have to say on the matter. He takes another sip of his beer before prompting you, “Buuuut-”
Nudging his shoulder with a roll of your eyes, you carry on, “Buuuut like any great thing, there is always room for improvement.”
Okay, he can work with that. “There it is. Well, I think I can handle your critique. So. Lay it on me.” Erik nods, encouraging you to spill your guts about what he can improve, but you persist, “Fucks sake, I genuinely have nothing to critique! I bring this up, because I was just thinking the other day and realized we don’t even have a safe word, and it’s sorely overdue!”
Mild surprise overtakes his face, silently mulling your words over. Shit. Again, this was not what he was expecting at all. You take his silence as an opening to clarify, “Because if we have a safe word, we can properly explore more advanced kinks.”
So there it is! That is something he can totally get behind. He’s excited to hear the depraved things you have in mind. He grins, feeling more at ease as he prompts, “Like?”
“I was hoping you could help enlighten me on that, now that we are on the same page-” You lean closer, your fingers catching in the collar of his shirt with a playful tug on it. Your voice drops lower, reserving your next words for his ears only, “-I wanna know all the filthy things you want to do so I can help make them happen.”
God, he should have known better than to jump the gun. He leans into the desperate craving for more of you, hoping the whole “pretending to be your boyfriend” shtick will provide him with enough of an excuse to give into this sudden urge. He closes the rest of the distance between you both and kisses you. A pleased hum filters out of you as you happily kiss him back. When he breaks the contact, a breathless albeit genuine compliment spills out of him, “You’re the best.”
Your lips part from him slightly, letting out a giggle at the candid admission. He can feel your breath against his own as you tease, “Damn right, I am! You honestly should feel very lucky.”
He snorts, “And humble, too! Wow, you really are the whole package.” Pulling back so you are leaning on your chair’s backrest, you admit, “You’re more than I bargained for, and I’m definitely not complaining! So, let’s see if we can’t decide on that safe word.” You throw out an obvious and common choice first, “Pineapple?”
He shakes his head as he confidently states, “Nuh-uh, I think we can do better than that.” After a moment to think, you excitedly offer up, “Ooh, how about pancreas?”
“Ughhh, no. Vetoed immediately!” He groans. Another minute passes, then you laugh as you suggest, “Oh, has to be penicillin!”
“Super sexy…really gets you in the mood…not. Can we get away from the P words, perhaps?” He asks. A small scoff before you say, “Dunno who told you a safe word has to be sexy, Erik, but I don’t think that is a requirement.” Your next choice is diabolical as you move on. “Schuster?”
“Oh my God, I will fucking kill you!” He punctuates his words by flicking a cheese-free nacho at you before laying down the ‘law’, “No. Goddamned. GLEE references!” You’re laughing a lot louder now, and he’s just shaking his head at you. Once you reign yourself in, you retort, “Okay music man… I dunno if you’ve noticed, but so far, I’m the only one making suggestions! Feel free to join in at any time.”
“Fineee.” He thinks as you take a sip of your beer, and he does the same, the word falls from his lips with ease, a one word question, “Zanzibar?”
You nod, setting your beer down onto the table as you ponder the word. “Hmm.” That’s so familiar… Wait, is he referencing what you think he is? No, it can’t be.
“Thoughts?” He prods, and you deliberate aloud, “Honestly, I like it. It’s simple, easy to remember, and won’t come up in regular conversation. I’m sold.”
“Well, alright! That was easier than I thought it would be.” He’s pleased that’s out of the way, and now onto the more exciting part. You kick off the kinky roundtable with, “So! What is the first thing that springs to mind when you think about fun, kinky fuckery you want to do?”
He takes a minute, letting his eyes focus on you, when suddenly it dawns on him. “Okay, hear me out, but, honestly, it would be pretty fun to see you wear an outfit like this in the bedroom sometime.”
You gasp, a grin spreading onto your face immediately. “Oh my God! Like a secretary role play? That’s your thing?”
Seeing how excited you are by the prospect, his response comes easily, “One of them, yes! And exactly like a secretary role play. You don’t seem opposed to it. Quite the opposite, actually…”
“Ugh, how can I not be into it? Secretary 2002 was literally life changing! Talk about a sexual awakening-” You gush. He cuts in, wagging his finger in thought, “Is that a movie?”
“No way! You’ve never seen it?!” You gape as he shakes his head. “No, can’t say I have. What's it about?”
You barely restrain a squeal of delight at the chance to talk about one of your most beloved films. You rush to explain, “Let me set the scene. James Spader. Maggie Gyllenhaal. He’s a lawyer, and she’s his secretary. They start this intense BDSM-focused relationship during business hours! It is incredible, emotional and unbelievably hot-” He listens with a small smile on his face as you prattle on about a movie you clearly have a lot of love and affection for. He’s sold on it from your sheer passion alone.
Once you’ve stopped to take a breath, Erik suggests, “We should watch it together.” You agree with a wistful sigh, “Yes, we definitely should.”
Next, he poses a question, “Alright, I shared one. How about you? What ‘fun kinky fuckery’ do you wanna do?” Without missing a beat, you answer, “Restraints.”
He laughs lightly from the speed with which you responded, he says, “So, like silk ties, a rope rig, or what exactly?”
You have this beautiful, indulgent smile on your face as you confess, “All of the above, Erik. And more! Also, I don’t just mean using them on me. I want to see you cuffed to my bed.”
The possibilities that you just revealed to him are infinite, with each idea becoming more and more depraved and delicious. He would sincerely love to make this kinky dream come true. He readily agrees, “Absolutely. Any time you want it, I’m in.”
The conversation really explodes from there. You excitedly broach more topics that are readily agreed upon in near rapid succession; Everything from more toy use and exploring free use to sex in semi-public places and beyond. That last one branches off to the topic of one of Erik’s favourite genres of porn, which he admits is, shocker, anonymous sex; particularly, glory holes.
You immediately begin to formulate a plan. “Oh my God. You know, I hear some sex toy stores have porn viewing booths and some of them are outfitted with glory holes! Oh! Or sex clubs can have them too. I bet if we did some internet research, we could find a place and totally make this happen for you-”
Erik is so fucking blown away by you right now. He just mentions that he likes a kind of porn, and you are already drafting out ideas on how to bring those filthy videos to life just for him. He can see it clear as day. You’d both arrive together at the chosen shop or club before breaking apart; Him entering one of those booths and you waiting on the other side, mouth open and waiting for his cock to slide through the glory hole. Getting to experience the very tangible, semi-public location is a turn on in itself. But pretending some stranger is giving him a sloppy blowjob instead of you threatens to drive him crazy in the best way.
He doesn’t hesitate as he slips his hand into yours, staring into your eyes and interrupting sincerely, “You are perfect.”
The look in his eyes and the humble tone of his voice both threaten to confound you even more than your erratic feelings as of late. However, your first instinct is to brush him off. So, you run with it, huffing out a dismissive laugh as you reply, “Pfft okay, Erik-”
He doesn’t let you get away with downplaying things this time. His grip on your hand tightens slightly, trapping you in his grasp as he laughs, shaking his head at your poor attempt to deflect his compliment. His brows knit together in disbelief at the notion that you could ever see yourself as less than perfect. To him, it’s a fact as intrinsic as his eyes being blue or the grass being green. He insists, “I’m being serious! Perfect is what you are, and that’s a fact. You do know that, right?”
Your heart is pounding in your ears. You know this because his voice is more muffled now, as if he were sitting a few tables over and not right next to you like he appears to be. Your smile slowly falls, your tongue wetting your bottom lip as you stare at him. Meanwhile, your mind is miles away, struggling to get a grip until you finally come to the first reasonable explanation for his sudden sincerity. He is just playing the part. Tonight’s “boyfriend/girlfriend” ruse is the cause of this alleged sentimental moment. This is the kind of thing boyfriends say and do, isn’t it? Or maybe he’s complimenting how sexually compatible you both are. Considering the fact that every single suggestion thrown out tonight has been met with enthusiastic agreement on both ends, the proclamation isn’t so far-fetched. It can’t be any deeper than that, right?
All in all, it's still a sweet compliment. Who wouldn’t want to be perfect for someone on a sexual level. You are the perfect sexual partner for him. Nothing more, nothing less. You should be over the moon over such a compliment; should be basking in the praise, really. A part of you does feel happy to hear it, while another larger part of you feels apathetic towards how hollow the words sound. It’s as if they fell short of expectations you weren’t even aware you had to begin with. Why, after all this time, are you suddenly unsatisfied with being his ideal sexual match? Why do you feel like you fell short somehow? You attempt to push away the irrational hurt clawing at your insides, forcing yourself to refocus on his patient gaze. You finally muster your usual confidence as you respond, “Yeah, I do. Of course, I do, Erik!”
Satisfied with that, he lets go of your hand and concludes, “Good. I’m glad you do.”
You drain the rest of your beer with a few swallows as he does the same. Once you’ve killed your drink, you get up, plastering the smile back onto your face and announcing plainly, “Be right back. I’m just gonna go use the bathroom.”
“Sure thing. I’ll get us another round.” He informs, knuckles knocking on the table-top before he stands too.
You hum in agreement before breaking away. Your confident steps become less so the closer you get to the alcove leading to the bathroom. When you push open the door, you glance up, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above the row of sinks in front of you. Fuck, you are not looking good. You rush into the nearest stall, locking the door behind you and releasing the breath you’ve been holding since you got up from your seat earlier. Now that you are safely tucked away in your own personal bubble, you allow yourself exactly one minute to freak out over what the fuck that was just now.
This is not happening right now, or ever! You need to get a fucking grip. It was just a compliment between two very sexually satisfied friends with benefits. You and Erik are friends with benefits; That’s what you both agreed to when you set this whole thing up. Where are these expectations and touchy-feely emotions coming from? The only promise you made to each other was to keep this fun and casual. You begin to pace as much as the small stall will allow while you think through this, for the last time.
As far as you recall, it has been very fucking fun, and you see absolutely no reason not to continue your arrangement, so much so that you’ve even introduced a safe word to unlock even more fun! Digging deeper as to how you feel about your time together, you crave him in all the important ways. You’re attracted to him 1000% and even his lightest touches get you riled up. You actually enjoy his company, and you care about him. All good signs to continue, right? Your stomach turns at the thought of your time together coming to an end, so why did you allow yourself to be even an ounce ungrateful for such a kick ass dynamic? It was a lapse in judgment, that’s what.
And what the hell was with your reaction earlier? You would have none of it if Erik tried to brush off one of your compliments; would have forced him to repeat it word for word until it stuck. Meanwhile, you become a deer in headlights from being called perfect, really? It’s not like he was confessing his love for you. He wouldn’t waste either of your precious time getting caught up in his feelings, so why should you? All he meant by it was that you are both perfectly compatible, which is something to be proud of, not something to hold under a microscope.
Erik is the kind of guy who would go after what he wants, right? From your perspective, he has always been unapologetic in chasing after his desires; It’s how you two met in the first place. There is no way he would waste his time second guessing a clearly outlined deal made between two fully lucid adults. If he wanted more than that, he would have already done something about it. He certainly wouldn’t be ruminating in a bathroom stall over it.
You blink a few times, getting misty-eyed all of a sudden, before you reign in the stray emotions swirling around in your ribcage. You chalk it up to the tough love you just doled out to yourself. Regardless of your less than platonic feelings as of late, why be hung up on what will never be? You are just talking about kinks, improving your sexually charged dynamic to stretch the limits and have a fucking blast doing so. You’ve created a safe space to be as sexually free as possible with no judgments and no complex feelings, so you should be acting accordingly. No more reading into trivial things. Honestly, you need to get over yourself and just have fun, lean into what works. It’s moments like this that remind you that shutting off your brain and following what feels good have made for some of the best experiences you’ve had with Erik. So there’s absolutely no reason to deviate from that logic.
You give yourself a pat on the back for the grade-a pep talk, taking the small stitch in your side as a sign you’ve been standing in the stall long enough. With your mental crisis now averted, you let out a sigh of relief, shuffling out of the bathroom stall. You adjust your blouse in the mirror, before leaning in closer, choosing to ignore the flash of doubt in your eyes as you wipe away the eyeliner smudged at the corners of your lash line. With one last look at your reflection, you turn and head out the door. By the time you make it back to the table, Erik is seated with your refreshed drinks waiting on the table-top.
Despite the confidence you instilled in yourself to go with the flow, Erik doesn’t make it easy for you. His special ‘boyfriend’ treatment, while an effective douchebag repellant, was slowly undoing all the hard work you put in while inside that bathroom stall. Every lingering touch, occasional kiss, subtle display of intimacy and general closeness shared between you began to reawaken the feelings you’d only just managed to shove onto the back burner of your mind. The tight grasp you had on your not-so-platonic feelings is slipping, and fast. This is bad, this is so. Fucking. Bad.
Unbeknownst to you, you haven’t been making it easy on him, either. It has been equal parts invigorating and infuriating that you return every kiss and touch so eagerly. It’s as if you are not only expecting them but craving them. He’s imagining it, of course. This is all part of the illusion; keeping up the act that ensures your peaceful outing together, and that’s it. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
Meanwhile, you are still touching him in kind, leaning into his body and laughing against his neck at every stupid joke he makes. You look at him, the mirth clear in your eyes as your fingers stroke over his bare arm, giving him that devastating smile that completely ruins him. He can’t help but wish he could do this all the time. He allows himself to imagine being able to kiss you without question or pretence; being able to voice every compliment that pops into his head. Part of him is having an increasingly difficult time ignoring these wants, despite how inappropriate they are for your current arrangement. He wants more, and he wants it, badly. But, he doesn’t dare to push his luck. He should just enjoy tonight. As much as he wishes for more, he’s not an idiot. You were clear with your intentions, and he can’t fuck this up over a few unchecked emotions.
By the time you are done at the bar it’s getting late, but neither of you wants to end the night yet, so he walks you home. The conversation flows naturally between you, as it always does, the entire trip back to yours.
When you arrive, you leisurely begin unlocking your door while you try enticing him inside. “You know… Since I didn’t have time to come home and change earlier, I didn’t have the opportunity to slip into the new lingerie set I bought the other day.”
Erik needs no further convincing as he sighs in mock contemplation, “Well, I would be a sorry excuse for a boyfriend if I walked my girlfriend all the way home just to simply leave.”
You laugh at his attempt to extend the fake boyfriend bit, opening the door and ignoring the way your heart skips at hearing him referring to himself as your ‘boyfriend’ and you his ‘girlfriend’. Your hand catches his, pulling him along as you back into your apartment. You nod, playing along, “You would be letting the Better Boyfriends Bureau down, for sure.”
You both make quick work of your coats and shoes, leaving them in the hallway as you lock up. Shortly after, you shuffle off to your bedroom. You flick on your lamp and pick up a sleek, black, and criminally small shopping bag from the top of your dresser. The sight of it sets Erik’s mind alight with mischief, wondering what you could possibly have inside such a tiny package. With a gesture to the bed, you head back out towards the hall, noting, “I’ll be quick, just make yourself comfortable.”
Watching you leave, he nods before doing just as you asked. He falls back onto the bed, arms out, without a care in the world. ‘Making himself comfortable’ in your apartment has only become more natural now that you’ve been doing this a while. Dare he say, he can effortlessly make himself at ‘home’ when he comes over; when he’s in your bed. He can’t say it’s not the best part of his day being over at your place. He slips one hand behind his head while the other comes to rest on his stomach, eagerly awaiting your return. As his fingers tap against his torso, his mind drifts to you again. What sexy little number are you slipping into right now? The options are endless. True to your word, he already hears your footsteps approaching before stopping abruptly. Raising his eyebrows, he lifts himself up onto his elbows to see you waiting in the doorway.
God, no matter how long it takes, you are always worth the wait.
You linger in the hallway, your hands are on either side of the door frame as you let his eyes drink you in. Your excitement wins out, and you make your approach, unable to ignore the urge to join him on the bed any longer. The hallway is so brightly lit in comparison to your bedroom so he only starts to make out the finer details of your attire when you reach the bed and step into the lamp light. The dark material, a mix of silky opaque and fine see-through mesh, hugs your body tightly and makes your tits look incredible.
The parts of your skin revealed to him are just as enticing as those left to the imagination; so much so that Erik’s mouth begins to water at the sight. The bustier you are wearing is unique, low cut with several silver closures going down the front of it. A small portion of your stomach is exposed and framed by the built-in garters, which are fastened to what appears to be the stockings you had on earlier. He is beyond grateful for the chance to see them up close now that you are away from prying eyes. His eyes trail back up your legs to the matching thong you have on, which barely qualifies as such due to how fucking flimsy it looks.
Erik’s legs are still hanging off the bed, knees bent and feet planted on the carpet. You come to stop between his spread legs, one foot coming up onto the bedspread and resting against his outer thigh. He sits up straight now, hand coming down to circle his thumb over your delicate, nylon-covered ankle.
You ask, “So? Whatcha think? Does it look good?”
His hand hikes higher up your leg, shaking his head with a scoff and releasing a haughty laugh. “Good?! Oh no, no. ‘Good’ does not fucking come close to how it looks. I don’t think words would do it justice, honestly.” His hand snakes up to your thigh, feeling the lace atop the stocking and silently confirming that they are indeed the same ones from earlier. He asks, “Where did you even get this from?”
You ask him, “Oh! You know that place on Main Street? The Scented Drawer?” He nods in acknowledgement, familiar with the place. In fact, he knows it’s a rather pricey lingerie boutique that’s been around since forever, but he lets you continue. “I was hitting the ice cream shop nearby and noticed they were advertising a big sale, so I thought, ‘why not have a look?’ As soon as I walked in, I saw this-” You sweep your hand down the side of the bustier to emphasize. “-on display, and I was just so taken with it that I just HAD to have it!”
“A goddamn showstopper of a purchase, Freak.” He praises, fingers trailing up and down your leg in encouragement. You sigh in relief, “I am so glad you love it! I was thinking of you when I bought it, after all.”
You bought this and thought of him. Well shit. He smiles, uttering playfully, “For me? You shouldn’t have.”
Hmmm. This isn’t the first time you’ve purchased lingerie with him in mind. It is a sweet gesture, and very hot. Seeing you in yet another set picked out just for him has him straining in his jeans in record time. His mind is running wild, realizing that you put in so much effort for him; all the time. He wants to return the favour somehow, meet you in the middle and show his gratitude tenfold; But how? Ever since you admitted to having a shitty day at work, he has been trying to make it better. All night he set to work; making you laugh, leaving you the nachos with the most cheese, picking up the tab, keeping away the creeps, offering closeness and even letting compliments slip more freely. So far these gestures seem to have worked, but why not be 100% sure? Did he not vow to be the ‘best’ friends with benefits you’ve ever had? Damn right he did, and he will be damned if he doesn’t follow through.
“It’s my pleasure, truly.” You confess as you join him on the bed, swinging your other leg over and sitting yourself right in his lap. His hands settle on your hips while you play with the hair at the nape of his neck, your chest pressing to his as you lean down to kiss him. Despite your lips and hips doing sinful things to him right now, Erik is still hung up on his previous musings. For the first time, he’s not sure how to raise the bar. Then, as a last ditch effort to light a fire under his ass, he challenges himself with a simple, yet effective question, “What would Brody do?”
Considering the events that transpired tonight and the safe word you freshly enacted, he ponders what he must do. Brody would make it about you, and so would he, but he’d do it better. You break the kiss, and Erik is quick to suggest, “You know… You’ve had a really hard day. Why not take it all out on me, hm?”
He watches the shift in your expression, not-so subtle, in your interest and excitement at the opportunity he is presenting you with. He lives for the wild, untamed lust in your eyes as you deliberate his words. Your head tilts to the side, a mischievous grin overtaking your face as you smugly ask, “Are you serious?”
One of his hands slides up your back, revelling in the feeling of the fabric as he confirms, “I’m ten thousand percent serious.”
Heaven above, you are vibrating with anticipation, but you figure checking in one last time wouldn’t hurt. You opt for playfully challenging his words, “Are you sure you know what you’re-” You punctuate the question with another grind of your hips against his clothed erection, “-signing up for?”.
His hips arch up, chasing the friction you so kindly granted as light laughter bubbles past his lips, “I have a pretty good fucking idea, and I thiiiink I can handle anything you dish out.” You eye him doubtfully, but he clarifies, “And if not, I’ll just use our safe word. Easy, right? So no more second guessing, just-” He leans closer, staring into your eyes as he implores, “-use me as you please.”
Oh, he will come to regret those words; you’re sure of it. You lean down to kiss him again, melting into his lap. After grinding down on him one last time, you relent, pulling away to mutter, “Well, alright. I mean, you’re quite literally asking for it.”
“I certainly am.” He agrees, biting his bottom lip as you slide off of him. “I’ve got something fun in mind then.” You giddily admit.
Walking around the side of the bed, you drop to your knees and then quickly pop back up, showing off what you’ve been hiding under there all this time. You hold out a padded Velcro cuff with an eyelet attached to a black strap that slips down and out of view. He immediately understands. His eyes widened slightly, guffawing in mild disbelief, “Under the bed restraints?! You just have those ready to go?”
You admit, “I do! No point in getting rid of them when they are so easy to hide under the bed.” You make such a great point, he just has to concede. With a raise of your eyebrows, you ask, “So, you in?”
He hasn’t wanted anything this badly in a long time, so he all too quickly states, “Absolutely.”
Leaning up on your knees, you share another hurried kiss before prompting him, “Clothes off then.”
He does not need to be told twice. Erik sheds his clothes one by one, while you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, enjoying the show and drinking in every inch of skin he reveals. His shirt goes first, then his belt; jeans, underwear, and socks join the pile on the floor before he’s on his back again. You start with his feet, opening one of the padded cuffs and closing it around his left ankle. You do the same to the right, casually ask, “Not too tight?”
“No, it’s fine.” He kicks his feet out, testing the range of motion. You hum contentedly. “Good.”
Your fingers trail up his leg, lightly brushing over his hard dick as a gentle tease, before moving higher up the bed to secure his wrists. You are closing the padded material over his right wrist when you pose another question, “So, ever played with restraints before?”
“Not like this, just handcuffs a few times.” He admits, and you whistle softly, before commenting with one word, “Hot.”
You are securing his left wrist when he huffs out playfully, “Figured you’d approve, freak.”
“I mean, come on. Look at you right now-” You stand up and gesture to him splayed out on your bed, “-undeniably fucking hot.”
He preens a little under your praise, giving you a shrug as he sheepishly retorts, “Guilty.”
You are fussing with the straps attached to the cuffs, adjusting them slightly, and then ask, “Try to move now?”
He does as asked, struggling against his bonds for a moment. He feels pretty secure. His elbows are slightly bent, wrists up near his head, but even with a valiant effort, his fingers don’t so much as brush the side of his own face.
“Looks like I’m now fully at your mercy.” He says much too confidently considering his current position. He rolls his wrists in the cuffs and looks up at you to see the diabolical look in your eyes as you purr out, “Perfect.”
You open your nightstand, looking for something as you explain, “I bought something else the other day. Something for you to wear-”
He is curious what it could be, “Oh really?” Then he hears you exclaim, “Aha!” , signalling that you found whatever you were looking for. The drawer snaps shut, and you return to his side, holding up a thin ring of leather with silver snap closures before asking, “What’s your opinion on cock rings?”
“Pro. Definitely pro.” He murmurs, and you feel giddy as you reply, “Amazing.”
You settle on the bed again, resting your knees between his spread legs. After licking your palm, you grip him at the base of his cock, and his breath hitches. The warm, soft contact is just what he’s been craving. It never gets old seeing how effortlessly you wield the intimate knowledge of what he likes to undo him like this. Keeping consistent pressure, you jerk him off in earnest, and he’s unable to tear his eyes away from you. Touching him like this while looking like sin personified is driving him insane with want. You stroke him until he’s flushed and extremely hard, leaking pre-cum steadily as he breathes out in short puffs. Once you’ve effectively wrecked him speechless, you attach the ring to the base of his dick.
Once the snap is closed and secured, he shifts as much as his current position allows, which is not much. He quips, “Pretty tight.”
You laugh, lifting your hand from him, “It’s supposed to be. But it’s not too much, is it?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” He assures. He has to admit, it looks pretty slick. Good to know your good taste extends to sex accessories. He prods, “Sooo, what are you gonna do to me?”
“Patience Campbell. You got somewhere else to be right now?” You taunt, wiggling your eyebrows at him, making him want to laugh. Hardly, there is nowhere he’d rather be than tied to your bed right now. He can’t imagine being anywhere but here, with you.
You inch closer, nudging your legs until they lay over his, the backs of your knees resting over his thighs as you spread yourself out comfortably. Despite how close you’ve got, you still somehow avoid his achingly hard cock. Your hand slips down the length of your body and between your thighs, fingers dipping into your thong as you begin to touch yourself. Between the intimate touches and kisses you’ve shared and the kink centric conversations you’ve engaged in tonight, as well as the fact that you have him completely at your mercy right now, you are unbelievably fucking wet. The first brush of your fingers against yourself feels euphoric. You dip down lower to catch some of your ample wetness before dragging your now drenched fingers back up to rub your clit. Your mouth instantly falls open, and you let out a breathy moan.
He picks up on what you’re doing right away; You’re teasing him big time. You are close enough to touch him, but you don’t, focusing solely on yourself instead, and the worst part is that he can’t even see the action. His civil liberties are reduced to the feeling of your hand shifting against yourself and the sound of your blissed out moans, but that’s about it. He plays along, seeing the appeal and finding it fun, at least at first. Erik loves seeing you enjoying yourself, but usually he has some role to play in your pleasure, or has the ability to stimulate himself at the very least. He can’t help but feel a little left out as your pace picks up, while his cock is still left hard and untouched. He’s very turned on but unable to do a damn thing about it, but he soldiers on for you.
Or at least he does until your eyes squeeze shut, head tipping back as you let out a particularly saucy moan before exclaiming, “Oh my God Erik-”. His poker face shatters and he clears his throat. “Do you ah- think you could touch me, too? Just a little? Please?”
A light laugh tumbles out of you, hand slowing considerably before you respond, “Dunno if you noticed, but I’m a little preoccupied-” As if he could do anything but watch every squirm, shiver and exhale you draw out as you paw at yourself, desperate for release. “-if you want some attention, you’re gonna need to beg a lot better than that.”
He should have known. Your hand speeds up again when he doesn’t answer right away, fingers swirl over your clit even harder, making you moan even louder. He struggles against the binds a bit in chagrin before he tries again. He halfheartedly implores, “Oh, come on. Please touch me?”
You bite your bottom lip and with a shake of your head you hum, “Not good enouuuugh-”
The next few minutes of begging isn’t good enough, either; his efforts only earn him a few light, casual brushes over his shaft. Despite the severe lack of attention, he’s still kept extremely hard thanks to that ring. He decides to pivot to a more tantalizing strategy. “Can I at least help you out? I can make you feel so good. Please, you know I can,-” He tugs on his wrist restraints as he excitedly offers, “-you can ride my face, yeah?”
Your eyes peek back open, “Awe, that’s such a tempting offer, really.” You condescend before your sentence breaks off with a gasp, then you finish your thought, “But if you really want the privilege of tasting me you-mphm, you’ll need to expend a little more effort.”
Every time he’s offered to eat you out so far, you’ve practically jumped at the chance, impatient to have his mouth between your thighs. So, it’s unexpected that you’d deny him this time. It makes him ravenous for it; his mouth watering at the notion that he might get you to cave eventually. If he wants to do that, though, he really needs to step it up. He tries to entice you with a more detailed description of just how useful he could be, if only you’d let him. “My lips around your clit would be so good. My tongue would fuck you better than your fingers-”
You cut in breathlessly, “Hmm, you sure about that?”
Erik bites back his offended gasp. He knows that his mouth is leagues above your fingers, and he knows that you know it, too, but this is all part of the game. He plays nice as he grits his teeth and forces out, “Yes, I’m sure. Just give me a chance to- let me prove it to you, please.”
How ironic, he has more than proved his ample skills in this very room with you that first night. Erik felt how hard you came the first, second and third time he ate you out; he knows how to devastate you with his lips and tongue, and he desperately wants to do it again right now. He wants to touch you, taste you, be the sole reason for those sweet torturously sexy moans coming out of you right now. He insists, “Think about it. With my lips wrapped around your clit and my tongue winding around it over and fucking over again-I’ll make you cum so hard.”
The sound you let out in response is halfway between a laugh and moan. Your breath is shallow, needier than before as you confess, “Ahhh, trust me, I’m thinking about it.”
Your stocking clad leg slides up, purposefully brushing along the hot length of him, and he inhales sharply. Fuck, the smooth nylon feels so good against his sensitive tip, better than it should. He needs a moment to compose himself before he dares open his mouth again. His voice is hoarse with need, nodding at your words before egging you on, “Yeah? Thinking about my tongue buried deep inside you? Feeling me groan at how fucking good you taste? Doing everything I possibly can to make you cry out for me-”
You nod with a deep moan; the one that he knows so well; the one that tells him you’re so close to falling over the edge. You tell him as such, confirming what he already knows as you pant out, “Oh God, yeah! Keep talking, I’m close-”
He wishes the first orgasm you have tonight would be because of him, but still, he wants to see you fall apart, so he complies. He utters more filth, “The way you throb against my tongue when you cum is fucking incredible; how you squirm against my hands as I hold you in place, and the way you taste… single-handedly the best fucking flavour. Please, please let me-”
And that is when the leash breaks, and you cum with a cry of his name. The groan he releases comes out quiet with a mix of pure want and utter disappointment. He watches your body with longing as you shiver, toes curling into the sheets before splaying against the sides of his waist. Your breathing coming in short gasps, riding your fingers and prolonging the euphoria just a little longer. You’re just catching your breath when your pleasure subsides, while Erik is left still painfully hard and very much unsatisfied.
After a minute, he asks dumbly, “Was it good?”
“Mmmhm-” You nod with a pleased hum before admitting, “-but it could be even better.”
On not-so-steady legs, you get up, heading over to one of your night stands to fumble through the drawer for something. You make your way back over to Erik once you find it. He sees the toy in your grasp, and at first, he’s worried that he’s about to be made to sit back and listen to your criminally amazing sounds again with the addition of battery operated help. He doesn’t know if he can handle that again, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. You are going to make him take whatever you dish out, despite the rough state he’s already in.
To his surprise, when you return to the bed, you get on top of him. Your free hand adjusts his touch-starved cock before settling yourself down right on top of it. He inhales sharply at the sudden contact, your wet thong meeting his hot flesh as your hips grind against him back and forth in a teasing rhythm. His wrists tug against the cuffs yet again, aching to reach out to you; to plant them on your hips and help you move against him in a way that is sure to make you both feel divine. He rocks up as much as he can, grinding back against you and settling for breathing out your name at each buzz of pleasure that is nowhere near enough to make any real headway toward the finish line.
He wishes he could feel you bare. You’ve soaked through the thin sateen of your thong, but it still isn’t enough for him. Meanwhile, the head of his dick bumping against your clit is sending you to heaven in a rush, and you can’t help but comment, “Fuck, that feels nice.”
It does; it really does feel fucking insane. Then again, with how long he’s been without your touch, he’d take just about any friction at this point. All he can do is nod along, squeezing his eyes shut at the feeling of you, before he chokes out, “God, yeah. S’ good.”
With your eyes locked on his face, you muse aloud, “But it isn’t quite what I was thinking. Hmm. Do you want to fuck me?” His eyes snap back open almost comically, His lips parting to begin begging immediately, practically babbles out, “Yes! Yes, please! Oh, my fucking God, I want it- No, I need it-” With a shaky inhale, he debases himself further, allowing the neediness to seep into his tone as he utters, “-I need to feel you wrapped around me, need to fuck yo-”
Alone with you and fully at your mercy, there’s no need for shame, so Erik sheds it completely, absolutely sure that you’d keep teasing him till you got what you wanted anyway. Why would he even try to pretend that he has a fighting chance when you could just wait him out. Honestly, he’s got nothing left to lose when he’s this far gone already. He expects his wishes to go unfulfilled, confident you will make him beg even more. What he wasn’t counting on was for you to say, “I want that too,” before working your thong down your legs as he watches in pure shock, begging long forgotten.
You wrap your hand around the base of him and line yourself up, adjusting your hips until his tip catches on the rim of your soaking wet slit. You don’t waste any time sliding him inside your clenching hole, taking him to the base agonizingly slow, inch by inch. He doesn’t even get a quarter of the way in before his head is thrown back against the pillows with a broken moan of your name. When your hips are flush against his, you let out a heavy sigh, relishing in just how full he feels nestled deep inside you. After a few more torturous seconds, your body rocks up then back down exactly five times before coming to a stop, yet again.
You turn your vibe on and when you press it to your clit, your walls clench around him. He curses out at the new sensation.
He mistakenly gets comfortable, expecting you to resume riding him. About thirty seconds pass without so much as a twitch on your end, so his eyes meet yours, wondering why you’ve not moved yet. It isn’t until he sees the playful mischief lurking in their depths that he realizes his dreams were ripped away from him all too soon. A smirk graces your lips, and then the real fun starts. You proceed to masturbate with him seated inside, cock warming him but otherwise leaving him to his own limited devices again. He was very wrong; the ten seconds you waited before riding him earlier was, in fact, not torturous. This is. All he can feel is the occasional twitch and squeeze of your walls; nothing more, nothing less. He lasts all of two minutes before the begging comes in full swing, “Please! F-fuck. Ca-can you move, please? Just a little?”
A definitive shake of your head is all he gets in return. You press the vibe closer to yourself, the pleasure spiking deliciously. Your walls hug him tighter for a few seconds, sending a pulse down his shaft that makes his eyes want to roll back into his head. You assure him breathlessly, “Nah, I’m good. This-” You nod downwards, eyes flicking to where you are both joined, “-is all I need. Just something nice and thick to clench on.” Fucks sake, he is dying. You squirm with another unbelievably hot moan of his name, but he needs more.
He is held down too tightly to make any meaningful progress towards taking control thanks to the restraints. You also have him totally inside you, so he can’t even fuck up into you as much as he might want to. So he pleads with you instead. “Please, please! Fuuuck-”
You turn the vibe up, and with a very small swirl of your hips, your breathing stutters in the tell-tale sign that you’ve just ground the head of his dick into your G-spot. He wants to whine, he knows this feels incredible for you, but it’s hard to feel anything but pouty when he’s had only a fraction of the pleasure that you have so far. He utters your name, begging oh so softly “-it’d feel so good for both of us, I-I wanna feel good too, please?”
“Don’t care. Thi-this is about me right now-” You reach down and flick one of his pierced nipples, giggling at the yelp he releases before you conclude. “-deal with it, Campbell.”
You are being so mean and yet, so hot at the same time. He isn’t quite sure if he loves or hates it. Half of him wants to cuss you out, but he knows that isn’t going to get him anywhere, while the other half is totally smitten, loving every second of you like this. All too soon, though, you rush out with a shaky breath, “Oh God, m’almost there again!”
Your body is pulled taut, shaking from the amount of tension spooled inside, and he can feel you tightening up significantly. Erik knows you are being serious, your orgasm is not far off at all. His last plea rapidly pours out as you approach the edge, “You’ll uh ah-at least fuck yourself through i-it, right? Ah, r–right?!”
You do not; you don’t bounce, don’t move up or down even a half of an inch. Grinding into that internal spot while the vibe hums on your clit, you carry yourself through your climax. You are like pure poetry; the heave of your chest; the nails of your free hand digging into his thigh while your shuddering breaths fall from your parted lips. He can feel your rhythmic clenching around his shaft, and it is the most sensation he’s got in the past five minutes he’s been buried in your slick cunt. The vibe clicks off and yet again you surprise him. You lift the toy and with still trembling thighs you start to ride him hard.
His reaction is immediate, automatic: with a wavering moan and a thick swallow, he gasps out, “Oh my God, fuck yes-”
An easy smile spreads on your face at his desperation. “Yeah? That feel good?” He rapidly nods, his eyes fixed on every bounce and jerk of your incredible body he’s so enamoured with. His brain is melting, from so little stimulation to so much, it feels overwhelmingly phenomenal. He should never doubt you when it comes to your kinky ideas; you never disappoint. Moaning with abandon, he exclaims, “-so good, f-fuck. A-Ah, thank you!”
A beautiful and melodic laugh spills out of you, broken around the edges by the moan you let out in the process. Your hand reaches down to pinch one of his nipples again, but this time, you twist, making his back arch with a choked off moan. You feel him flex inside you, as if his body were answering your ministrations when words failed him. As your hips keep up the punishing rhythm, never breaking stride, you sigh out, “You’re welcome.”
You continue to ride him, teasing his piercings and enjoying every twitch of his cock in response to your toying. The sharp rolls of your body create the perfect rhythm to send him careening towards his end in record time. He wants it so bad; you already came twice, and he isn’t about to deny how desperately he wants to cum. So much so that he can’t stop himself from warning, “Fuck, I’m-I’m getting close-”
Just like that, you stop, and a groan leaves his lips as his head falls back to the pillows in defeat. You start your vibe back up and press it to your clit, forcing him to endure more of the torture. He feels his own orgasm slip through his fingers as the edge recedes, the small act of mercy you afforded him fading and giving way to your exclusive pleasure. And once again, no matter how much he begs, you don’t move.
You make yourself cum again, grinding into that perfect spot as the vibe does most of the work. The silence that follows is tainted by his continued whining and begging. Once you recover, you make sure to bring one very important and very erotic reminder to the forefront, “Remember that conversation we had months back outside the diner? Back when we first started all of this? Do you recall stating that I could ‘call you up whenever I needed a living dildo to fuck’?”
He does remember, affirming your words with a shaky nod before trailing off, “Ye-yeah, I remember…” You hum in agreement, “That’s all you are for me right now. And toys don’t need to cum, they just get used.”
Even in his extremely needy state, he’s still able to recognize when his own words are being used against him. He did, in fact, tell you to use him; he practically begged for it. He finds this precarious situation so much hotter than he probably should, but being your living dildo on call to get off on however you see fit, is so fucking debauched in the best way. Clearly, he’s at least somewhat a masochist to be liking any part of this in the first place. Without so much as a warning, you resume riding him. Bringing him closer with every minute that passes, you allow him to reach the moment just before he succumbs to the pleasure, before ripping him back to the bitter reality of his own personal torture.
After repeating the process one more time, and stealing one more orgasm from him, Erik begs more passionately than he has all night. You are dripping wet, making such a mess on his inner thighs that he can feel it. Similar to when he edged you into oblivion with ‘The Beast’, Erik’s voice is now raw from the sheer strain his desperate pleas have inflicted on his vocal cords. Despite that, he rushes out, “Please, fucking Ch-rist! I-I’ll do whatev-ever you want me to. A-any-anything you ask. Just please let me fucking cum!”
You laugh the hardest you have all night, and the clenching of your cunt around him makes him let out a choked, strangled moan of a man past the point of no return. You clarify condescendingly, “Awe, Erik? That’s cute, honestly, but look at you! I can already do whatever I want with you all tied down and helpless, silly.”
That sentence earns you the most tragic, mournful whimper you’ve ever heard, so you really focus on him now. Your vibe is tossed to the farthest corner of the bed as you really pick up the pace, slamming down harder, the flames of desire creeping up his spine like wildfire. He pants out between your thrusts, “Ple-please, fuck. D-Don’t stop this time! I’m al-almost-”
This time, you don’t stop. Your body slides against him freely, and his cock pulses and aches in time with your rolling hips. His heart is pounding; he doesn’t even feel his own nails biting into his palms. All he can focus on is his body crawling to the edge of the cliff, so ready to jump and yet still unsure if he’ll actually fall to the waves below. Erik feels like he’s a breath away from relief, and yet, after several shallow inhales and exhales, it never comes and neither does he. He felt it; he should have cum by now. He was way over the edge and still it didn’t happen, until finally it clicks. The fucking ring you put on him is too tight, he realizes. He isn’t cumming anytime soon with it still locked on the base of his shaft.
Your brows knitted together, tone chastising as you goad him on, “Well c’mon Erik! I mean, fuck, I didn’t stop, right?! You can cum, so cum already…”
His pleading becomes even more harrowing and broken, struggling to get even half a sentence out, “I-I c-can’t ack-actually ah-”
You interject, cutting him off so steadily, and far too casually compared to how aggressively you are riding him right now, “You can, Erik. I’m telling you, you can. You’ve got my full permission. In fact, I want it-” You shift your tone, making yourself sound needy, breathless and pathetic as you beg him, just like Erik did to you just now. “Er-Eriiiik I want it. I need it. C-cum in me? Pleaseeee?”
He is dying, this is his own personal hell, pleasure bleeding into agony the longer the torment and ridicule continues, and so long removed from the promise of release. It all feels so good that it hurts. He’s throbbing, balls uncomfortably full and tight. Your pretty begging is making this so much worse, your voice taking on that needy lilt, begging him to cum. He wants to oblige you more than anything but is, quite literally, incapable of doing so. He is tripping over his words trying to explain, “I wa-want to, God, fucking shit! Ssso mu-chhh bu-but the ring-ha, s’too too tight. I-I can’t!”
“Erik, pleaseeee fucking fill me up-” You whine, still taunting him, as he groans while shifting uncomfortably beneath you. He is tugging on his restraints as he pleads, nearly delirious, “Please take it offff-”
You tut, shake your head as your tone slips back into being completely in control with an edge of mocking, “You can’t make up your mind tonight, and apparently you refuse to listen too.”
“I-I can! I do, I me-an I-I want to, I just reaaally, ughhh, I can’t till-” He babbles, then starts to sniff. Your eyes snap up to his face as your ears register the sound. You notice his eyes are watery, and his cheeks are wet with freshly shed tears. He stutters out between sniffs, “-t-till you-”
Oh my God, he’s actually crying. How absolutely perfect. You need no further convincing, more than pleased with how beautifully you’ve broken him down. You feel and fumble between your bodies before finally snapping off the ring. Your hips don’t break stride as you coo at him one last time, “Cum for me.” With those three little words, his body quickly catches up.
His orgasm washes over him as if the afternoon tide were pulling him further out to sea. It knocks the wind out of him in an instant, forcing him to let out a broken and undignified moan. He might have felt embarrassed if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible at that moment. Neither a single thought crosses his mind nor does an intelligible word cross his lips, every playful bounce of your body stretches out his undoing. He’s positively trembling now, and you just watch, soaking up every juicy fucking detail. You silently sear this moment into your memory, marking it the single most captivating sight you will recall time and time again, long after the events of tonight are through.
You keep leisurely riding him through it, until you feel his pulsing and pumping cease completely. The post orgasmic bliss lingers before his brain and lips catch up, remembering how to form words. He quietly mutters, “Oh my fucking God.”
You reach out, dragging your fingers through his hair, and he leans up into your touch. You delay your response, letting him soak in the feeling of relief a while longer before softly asking, “You made a real mess of me down here ya know? Mind helping me clean up?”
Nodding with enthusiasm, his eyes zero in on the spot you are joined before giving you a heated look, eyes glazed over with pure lust. Fuck. He is so far gone. He begs one last time tonight. “Oh my God, yessss. Gotta taste you, fuck, please?”
And just like that, you lift yourself off him to shimmy upwards until your knees rest on either side of his head. You crouch closer to his face until he can effortlessly drag his tongue right up through your folds. The bright jolts of overstimulating pleasure tear through you, leaving you to shiver on top of him as he sloppily cleans up the mess. His nose presses into your mound, huffing out hard breaths and moaning against you with every lick. Some of your combined juices drip down past his eager mouth, mixing with the tears and sweat still glistening on his tired face, but he stays on task. In three minutes flat, you’re all cleaned up and pulling away from him.
Next, you carefully undo his restraints, letting your meticulous handling of him form a serene, comforting silence over you both. You stroke his arms and legs reverently, soothing the spots where the cuffs once were. Once he’s completely freed, you move to lay with him, your body perched higher up toward the headboard. Turning slightly to face him, you slowly hook one arm around his shoulders and slide him closer to you. Your other arm comes up to his face with a tissue, beginning to carefully wipe away the night’s activities from his face.
In a doting tone he hasn’t heard from you before, you begin to softly praise him, “You did so good for me, you know.” He hums in question, eyes still not quite focused on you yet. Poor guy looks more fucked out than anyone you’ve ever seen. You smile, acknowledging him sweetly, “Mmhmm, did amazing, actually. I was awfully mean tonight, but you took it so well! Just like I knew you would.”
The now used tissue is balled up and disposed of in the bin by your bed. You lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips, which he slowly reciprocates, but you pull away again to place another kiss on his left cheek; then the right cheek; and finally his forehead. The warm, undivided attention is melting him into the mattress. You touch him with such care, massaging his sore muscles slowly, and saying the sweetest things. The infinite supply of praise and comfort from you is slowly bringing him back to himself after experiencing such intense kink play. The process is delicate, unhurried, and fills you both with a sense of belonging and acceptance.
After having him drink some water, you are cuddled around him tightly, his arms wrapped around you, and his face safely buried in your neck. You’ve stripped the rest of your lingerie, your bare body providing him with ample skin to skin contact and grounding him in reality even further.
Your fingers busy themselves with stroking through all the knots in his hair, and he relaxes into your capable hands, loving all the affection you are showering him with right now. Oh, how he wishes he could have you like this all the time. You note his condition every once in a while, and when he seems to have regained his faculties, you check in with him, “All of this was okay, right? I wasn’t pushing it too far, was I?”
It’s really sweet just how worried you are, but that was one of the hottest things he has ever experienced. None of his previous experiences with kink come close to this. He’s never been able to be so vulnerable with anyone else, nor has he had another person take control and use him in such a way that led to such a satisfying night. It’s like a switch has flipped in his brain by being at your mercy, and he’s certainly not complaining.
It’s all too clear now what you were saying the other week, being edged until he cried really did feel like an intense emotional and sexual release. He feels fulfilled in a new, unique way; an addicting way that he could easily get used to. But he doesn’t say any of this to you, settling for simply huffing out a laugh as he gives you an affectionate squeeze instead. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes as he happily enlightens you, “God no, it was fucking incredible! You’ve got full permission to do that to me again sometime. In fact, I am pleading for it, begging even! Please, oh please torture me like that again, Freak.”
You definitely will. You laugh as you assure him, fingers slipping through the soft strands of hair near the nape of his neck, “I promise I will wreck your shit in some way, shape, or form; whenever you want it.”
“Yesss, thank youuu.” He utters blissfully, making you want to giggle at his chipper mood. You are relieved and content that he enjoyed it that much. You could jokingly warn him to be careful what he wishes for, but you choose to soak up the feeling of his body as he lay snug in your arms. The moment drifts comfortably between you, eyes lingering on one another until you break the silence, much like you did on your fake date night, to ask, “Stay?”
He doesn’t even have to think about it; there’s only one clear option. He pulls you closer again, eyes slipping closed with a hum, he says, “Yeah, I’ll stay. There’s nowhere else I wanna be.”
You smile, awarding him with another kiss into his hairline for his sweet words. Soon enough, you pull the blankets up and around you both before turning the lights off. In the darkness, you find warmth tangled up in one another, and drift off to sleep fairly quickly.
The following morning you rise naturally, the sun’s rays peeking in from the top of the curtains and creating a halo of soft light around you both. You linger in bed, limbs still lazily wrapped around each other, and feeling undeniably comfortable and well-rested. Despite the early hour, Erik has something on his mind, so he chimes in, “Hey, so about our whole arrangement…”
You grumble mindlessly as you turn to look at him before humming in consideration, encouraging him to continue, “I am very fucking happy with it, don’t get me wrong. But I think we should see each other more often, ya know?”
You couldn’t have asked for a better suggestion; you definitely want that too. The time you’ve been carving out for each other equates to about once or twice a week, which just isn't enough anymore. You consider his words for all of five seconds before agreeing, “I’d love that, but how?” He thinks for a minute, tapping his fingers against your bare arm as he considers the options. After a sigh, he offers, “Sure, our hangouts can’t always be a sleepover, a whole afternoon or even a few hours. But, we can just try and squeeze in an hour or two with each other more often; when possible of course.”
You can picture it now; stopping by the shop and bringing him lunch on one of your days off; meeting for a coffee while you are both out running errands; Him coming by for an hour or two after finishing work. All of these scenarios are extremely simple and casual. You can do that easily. In fact, you want to make the effort; Getting to have as much of him as you can get definitely sounds like a dream. So you tell him, “Yes! A million percent, let’s do it.”
You feel good after that, and so does he.
When you finally get up, you share a shower and the conversation is flowing as steady as the warm stream coming out of the shower head. You talk about how insane last night was, and recounting the fun you had. While scrubbing himself under the spray, Erik confesses, “I honestly had no idea you could be so mean!” Not that he’d been expecting how sweet and caring you were afterwards, either. He was thrown for a loop last night, but he can’t help feeling lucky to have revealed even more sides to you.
You’re watching him, mesmerized by the way the soap rolls down his lithe body until he steps further into the spray, Then, you chime in with glee, “I did warn you that you didn’t know what you were asking for. I was holding back before, but now that we have a safe word… You better buckle up, Campbell!”
“You’re gonna be the death of me, aren’t you?” He guesses, and you tease, “Maybe I will. But only if you’re good.”
What a way to go. “Hmm. Promises, promises.” He muses with a raise of his eyebrows.
After wrapping up the rest of your shower and getting dressed, you both shuffle to the kitchen. You enjoy some cereal and coffee while seated at your kitchen island. He mentions that he has work later, so he takes off shortly after breakfast.
You text a few times that day, and everything carries on as usual. However, you are doing your damndest to not show how much of a fucking wreck you are on the inside.
You pushed so hard to establish the safe word and took him up on his offer to use him last night in the hopes that focusing on adding more intense kink to the table would fix things; namely fix the fact that your heart is throwing a wrench into all your hard work. You were sure that shifting back to the sexual aspects of your dynamic would help you push your troublesome feelings onto the highest shelf and forget about it. You were so utterly and embarrassingly fucking wrong.
Instead, the events of last night reawakened the thoughts you kept mostly at bay. And now that you are alone, you can feel their persistent pounding against the confines of your mind, threatening to break free and ruin everything. Images flash behind your eyes in a frenzy; how beautifully broken he looked, how honestly and desperately he begged, and how fulfilling and satisfying it felt in the end. You keep circling back to the way you felt taking care of him afterwards. His neediness and clinginess made you ache, and the look on his face while hanging onto your every word of praise made your heart want to burst out of your fucking chest.
Just recalling it all again has your heart rate picking up and your throat tightening. He is ruling your thoughts and you can do nothing to stop it. The direction of said thoughts all point to one soul-shattering conclusion. Being with Erik is ruining you in every sense; it feels all-consuming and intense in a way you’ve never experienced before. And you want more. So much more.
What are you meant to do with that, exactly?
Much later that night, you’re standing at the bathroom sink, toothbrush in your mouth as you type out another text to Erik, “Did you get home safe?” You set your phone down on the edge of the sink, music from the last playlist he sent still filtering out of the speaker as you resume brushing. When you are done, you turn the light off and leave the bathroom. You head down the hall, humming to the song as you head back to your bedroom. Then, as soon as you climb into bed, your phone buzzes.
You read out Erik’s response before you even pull up the covers, “Yeah, I got in okay. Just finished eating and about to crash. Today was crazy busy.”
Your thumbs tap out your response, “Sounds like it. Just getting into bed myself.” You bite your bottom lip as you add last minute, “Talk tomorrow music man. Good night.”
When the three little dots dance at the bottom of the chat, showing he’s typing something, your eyes are glued to the screen. A few seconds later he sends, “Night freak. Sleep well.”
With a sigh, you turn off the playlist and drop your phone onto the cold sheets beside you. Your hand reaches out, flicking off the bedside lamp before you lay down and pull up the comforter. As you lie here in bed, alone in the darkened stillness and preparing to drift off, that mysterious yet familiar ache stirs up in your chest uninvited. You haven’t yet decided what to call this feeling, you don’t think it’s loneliness, but longing better describes the emptiness you feel.
Seeking comfort, you reach out one hand to the pillow next to you, the one Erik slept on last night, dragging it close, and cuddling it to your chest. Breathing in deeply, you inhale the scent of him still clinging to the soft pillowcase, and it makes you hug it tighter. Your eyes close and your free hand fumbles around for your phone, bringing it up to your face and clicking it on. As you stare at the screen, eyes locked on the last words Erik sent you, you have a single fleeting thought; you’d sleep better if he were here right now.
The outer corners of your eyes begin to sting, but you chalk it up to the brightness of the screen in the darkness when you start to tear up. It’s just a coincidence that the pang in your chest also intensified at that moment. Taking this as a sign to call it a night, you roll over to plug your phone in to charge before settling into the mattress once more. Still curled around ‘his’ pillow, the scent of him in your nose and the image of him in your head lulls you to sleep.
You didn't sleep well that night, however. And the next day is plagued with thoughts of him.
It’s a few days later that you find yourself headed to the tattoo shop to see Erik, a steaming takeout bag with dinner for two in your hand. He was stuck at work, manning the closing shift alone and starving, so you of course offered to rectify this tragic oversight. It also happens to be the perfect opportunity for him to show you the sketches he put together as concepts for your first tattoo. To say you are excited to see him would be selling it abysmally short.
The light jacket you have on fights off the evening chill, as you stroll down the street, a spring in your step as you ponder what ideas Erik’s cooked up for you. Now you can ask him yourself, you conclude as you reach the shop door, stepping inside to see Erik, cloth in hand, wiping down one of the leather chairs with alcohol. Upon hearing the bell above the door, his head raises, and a smile graces his lips in recognition, “Heyyy. There's my freak.”
Not even the sharp stench of astringent could shake you from the lavender haze he’s got you in just from adding the word ‘my’ before the nickname you’ve come to love so much. You walk deeper into the shop and towards him as you announce, “Hello! I’m here at last.” You raise the bag in your left hand in triumph, “With dinner.”
“Oh my fucking God, yes! My saviour!” He twists the cap back on the alcohol jug and tosses the cloth aside as he implores, “Thank you so much.”
When he stands up properly, you notice what he is wearing for the first time, and you nearly stumble. Stopping completely, now rooted to the spot near the door, you exclaim, “Slut alert! What the fuck are you wearing?!”
“What?” He asks with a look down to the usual shoes, black jeans and belt paired with his leather jacket and that’s it. You clarify, “Uh hello, Earth to Erik? You aren’t wearing a shirt?”
With a quirk of his brow, he asks much too casually, “So?”
“Soooo that is some grade A whore behaviour! Seriously, do you wear this often or?” You inquire, and he replies coyly, “Often enough when it gets hot in the shop. Maybe if you visited me at work more often you’d know.”
You laugh at that; wearing a jacket sans shirt when it gets hot seems pretty backwards to you. “Maybe if you left me alone for long enough, I’d have a reason to come and bug you at work.” You tease as you finally start to move closer to him again, your eyes rove over the skin on display, and you let out a low whistle before insisting, “Seriously you look so good in this it should be illegal, you Total. Fucking. Temptress!”
He laughs now, hands planted on his hips, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me! I mean, I knew you looooved being looked at, but this is insane.” You sigh and Erik asks, “I looove being looked at, do I?”
“Totally, why else would you wear this shit unless it is to get a very particular kind of attention? Tell me, do you eye fuck your clients while tattooing them too? Make them think they might get your tip to get a bigger one outta them?” You taunt causing him to roll his eyes, “Alright, alright, I’m a trollop, I get it. But I’m a starving trollop, so can we eat first then circle back to this riveting debate?”
He walks over to the counter and gestures for you to join him, which you do so happily. “Fine, I’m gonna be the bigger person and drop it. For now.” Chairs are pulled up, and you start to unpack the bag. Erik asks, “What’d you get?”
“I was craving Greek. Chicken souvlaki skewers, rice, potatoes, salad and tzatziki. Hope that is okay.” You tell him as you unload the containers, and he says, “Oh, more than okay, great choice.”
Soon enough containers are splayed open and disposable cutlery is passed out. The moan of appreciation he lets out over that first bite of the hot and juicy chicken lets you know that this really was the right choice.
“What place did you get this from?” He asks with a hand over his mouth to attempt to maintain some semblance of politeness. You tell him, “That two-story place a few blocks over, Mezes.”
“How have I not been there before?” He questions, and you shrug as you are spearing some potatoes on your fork, “To be fair there are a lot of good restaurants in that area, so trying them all is a tall task.”
“Sounds like a fun challenge.” He admits as he takes a bite of the obscenely fresh salad, and you agree wholeheartedly, “Maybe we can do that sometime! Run down the list, try all the local spots, and then determine who’s the best.”
He hums with a nod, “I’d be very down.”
Awesome, another thing for you to do together. You’ve already started to mentally plan out the places you want to try. It fits in perfectly with the goal you both set the other night; to carve more time out for each other. You’re wondering if he’s tried your favoured crêpe’ place before when he reaches under the counter to pull out his sketchbook, “Alright, let me show you what I’ve got so far.”
He flips past a good few pages and then holds it out. You put down your fork and take it as he points, “These two pages and the next one as well.”
Your eyes widen as you take the book, and you ask, “Three pages?”
He shrugs and admits with a sideways smirk, “Coulda filled more, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you with too many choices." That’s only half true, he could have filled a few more pages, but he already painstakingly crafted these three. He spent several nights on and off working on these ideas, and had been agonizing over even the smallest of details for days on end. He attempts to play it cool as he watches you flip through the pages, hoping that you like one of them enough to want to get it tattoo’d.
Your eyes drop, taking in the detailed sketches as Erik continues to eat, and are instantly blown away. Your gaze flits over each sketch, around five on each page, which add up to fifteen options total. He clearly put in a lot of thought and care into all of these.
There is a cluster of musical notes, a clear reference to your loud love for music. The next one that catches your attention is a clapper board that is used on movie sets for sound cues, which makes you smile. Another that you find yourself drawn to is a gorgeous, soft styled rendition of your favourite flower. That’s something you honestly don’t remember telling him, so you’re pretty shocked that he somehow knew. After spending a good while looking over the first two pages, making small comments and compliments here and there, you flip to the third and final page. Upon seeing the drawing in the bottom right-hand corner of the page, your breath catches.
Your hand comes down, two fingers tracing the edges and lines he reverently drew just for you.
“Found one you like?” He asks, genuinely hopeful. Your eyes flick up to meet his, then you tilt the book, fingers pointing to the sketch of a beautifully drawn tiger. You cheer quietly and excitedly, “Oh my God, go tigers!”
He laughs, head tipping forward, a hand runs through his hair as he lifts it back up and says, “And that is exactly why I added this one here. I remember you saying that the day I wore that shirt. Figured you must have some kind of attachment to tigers. Guess it was spot on?”
“You are right, I do.” You look down at the tiger again and then something clicks; it just feels right. So you tell him, “Actually, I think I might wanna go with a tiger. Can we change up the style, though?”
“Obviously, yeah. We can do whatever you want to. So, what are you thinking?” He asks, standing his fork up in the potatoes for the time being, hand now out to take the sketchbook back. You pass it over as you say, “Can we make it less realistic and moooore…Soft?”
“Soft like what, exactly?” Erik asks, and you fire back with, “Like, can we make it more like a plush toy?”
“Oh, are you a big Calvin and Hobbes fan?” He jokes, and you laugh, “Ha, nooo it’s more so tied to an important memory, actually.” You pull your phone out, “Hold on-” You tap at your screen, pulling up your gallery and scrolling to the picture you want before turning it around to show him.
“Ah, yes! This is the one sitting on your nightstand! You want it to look like this?” He asks and you nod. Next, he asks, “Send that to me?”
You do so, and he takes out his phone, picture pulled up, and he sets it on some free counter space. He has the sketchbook balanced on his knee and turned to a fresh page. He starts to sketch in between bites of food and more conversation, eyes going between his phone screen and the paper. During a quiet moment, you fill the space as you admit, “So I watched Hot Tub Time Machine 2 the other night, and it was so bad-”
His pencil stops moving, he looks at you for a moment as he responds sarcastically, “Really? So, Hot Tub Time Machine 2 wasn’t the pinnacle of cinema? Who knew.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to be! But the first one was at least fun and entertaining! The decline was so fucking steep it was shocking! Okay because listen to my argument-” You ramble, defending yourself passionately. He laughs, as you explain further how terrible the movie was, the conversation goes on.
By the time you’ve both had your fill of the food, he has another sketch done and turns the book to show you. The drawing is in fact much softer, he has emulated the beloved plush toy well, it is very cute, unlike any of his previous work that you’ve seen from him.
The smile on your face is massive. You gush, “I love it, yes! Something just like this. Maybe the pose could be a little different, though.”
“Yeah totally! Take some pictures of the little guy for further reference and send ‘em my way. I promise that I’ll do my damndest.” He asks next, “Where were you thinking of getting it?”
“I was thinking on my thigh.” You inform, and he laughs, leading you to ask, “What?”
“Oh, just getting something so cute there, it’s just totally you.” He nudges your knee with his, and then you prod, “I gotta say, this is pretty different from your usual fare.”
“I branch out here and there, and for you? Well I can do something cutesy, a first tattoo is a big deal! It deserves some special attention.” He admits, and you say, “Awe, I get special treatment, hm?”
“Yeah, you do.” He says it sincerely. You grin, helpless to the feeling what he said invokes, you ask, “What size do you think is good for something like this?”
“Hmmm, I’d say-” He gestures and reaches forward, his index finger touches down on your thigh and circles the area, “-around this size? Let’s call it three-ish to four inches?”
“You’re the professional here, even if you aren’t dressed like it right now, I defer to you-” You begin, and he scoffs, “Oh fuck off, it’s going on your body! Your say is more important than mine, idiot.”
“Okay, okay. Yeah, I think that size sounds good.” You say with a shrug, and he assures, “That can be a starting point. If we get the stencil on, and you decide you want it bigger or smaller or whatever, we can do that.”
You nod and ask next, “How much are you thinking for this?”
“Hmmm…Let’s call it three hundred.” He offers, and you question, “That’s like a hundred per inch, hm? Really thinkin’ that cheap?”
“Let’s call it the fuck buddy discount, alright? Does that make you feel better?” He teases, and you laugh, “Okay, I don’t think that’s a thing Mr. Professional, but whatever-”
He cuts in cheerily, “Great! So let’s look at my calendar and see where we can fit you in.”
He picks up his phone and taps at the screen before turning it to you. Taking his phone, your eyes scan over the days, and the appointments that are already marked down. You start to consider when you’d want to get it, until your eyes catch on the bright blue reminder marked for later this month, proclaiming, “Happy birthday!”
You can’t stop yourself from asking curiously, “Is it your birthday this month?”
“Yeah, it’s in like three and a half weeks. Why?” He divulges with a casual shrug, and you gasp at the lazy confirmation. Your hand smacks his shoulder as you say his name indignantly, “Erik!”
It didn’t hurt, but on instinct he bites back, “Ow, freak! What the fuck was that for?!”
“Uh your birthday is THIS month, and you didn’t fucking tell me!?” You say like that should be so unbelievably obvious. He laughs with a shake of his head, “I’m sorry? Jesus fucking Christ, I didn’t think it was a big deal!”
“Of course it’s a big fucking deal! I need time to plan!” You exclaim, and his face falls in confusion, “Umm… Plan?”
“Yes! I need time to get gifts, you idiot. I have to spoil you appropriately.” You shake your head and pull your phone out. He can see your screen as you mark his birthday down on your calendar app. You want to spoil him on his birthday, that feels unreal to hear. He can’t stop the smile that spreads on his face, and with all the things he could say, he settles on, “You are ridiculous.”
“For wanting to treat you well on your birthday? Sure, I’m ridiculous.” You scoff. Turning back to his calendar app, you say, “How about two weeks from today? It looks like your afternoon is wide open. I’m thinking, 1 PM?” He takes his phone back, and sure enough it is. He nods, “You got it.” He sets up the appointment before turning his phone around to show you the now filled spot aptly named, “Freak’s First Tattoo.” This is really happening, and seeing the little notification makes it feel real.
It’s quiet for a moment before you comment, “Hey, thanks for this. I’ve wanted a tattoo for a really long time and I kept putting it off, so I am very excited to finally get one.”
“I’m excited that I get to make it happen, honestly.” He admits. It’s a sweet moment.
He is beat and your time together is coming to a close. You pack up the leftovers and insist that he takes them. He finishes closing up, which includes putting on a shirt, apparently. Of which you’re happily giving him shit for while standing beside him as he locks up. “You had a shirt this whole fucking time? So this is purposeful!”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you!” He teases as he checks to confirm the door is locked. Once all is secure, he leans against the glass of the door, and you are stuck staring at him. He looks so good right now, you just want to reach out and touch him. The want to kiss him is so strong, but you don’t give in to the urge. It neither fits nor suits what you are to each other, and it would be too much. You don’t kiss goodnight. You bristle at the reality of such a statement, swallowing your pride and attempting to shake off the irrational hurt.
Instead, you simply offer with finality, “Text me tomorrow?”
“Of course.” He responds, and you reach out, sharing your customary goodbye hug. After you break apart, you split up, heading home in opposite directions. Despite the distance growing with every foot fall between your retreating forms, you feel like part of you stays with him. You can’t help but wonder if a part of you stays with him as well.
Casually Devoted. Part Five. "Mission Failed." Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader. NSFW.
Okay! Nearly a month between updates, I know, I know! But I did warn you this one would take a bit longer, my lovely and amazing beta reader and editor @28bohemianmoons has had a lot going on as of late, yet she still made the time to CRUSH this! She’s just that good. I hope the fact that this is over 18 thousand words makes up for it! So this is the fifth chapter of Casually Devoted, masterlist found here, and the halfway point! There are five more chapters to go! This is a big turning point, I hope you are ready to experience as many feelings as the idiots are! Without further ado, let's get into it! Oh, and happy Labour Day!
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Rating. Explicit. Length. (18.7K) (YEAH YOU READ THAT RIGHT!) Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Friends With Benefits. Established Hook-Up Relationship. The Reader Has Some Established Sexual Past And History (Get On Board With It Or Don’t, I Ain’t Your Daddy.). Apologies In Advance To Dude’s Named Brody. Venting. Making Out. Complicated Feelings. Choking. Sex Toys. Edging. Begging. Orgasm Denial. Crying Reader. Dirty Talk. Talking You Through It. Vaginal Sex. Extreme Frustration. Raw Sex. Cream Pie. Banter. Comfort. Talk Of Virginity Loss. Almost Panic Attack. Mental Spiral. Talk Of Previous Partners. Cuddling. Feelings. Angst.
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It’s midnight by the time he hits the pavement in front of your apartment building. His feet carried him back home at a slow but steady pace, accompanied only by the buzzing street lamps and the chirping of crickets. The day’s heat had dissipated significantly, and the sky was clear enough to see a few stars shining through the darkness. By all accounts, it was a nice night. He hated having to leave you so suddenly, but the shortbread you sent him off with softened the blow just enough. It was your token of reassurance that this amazing evening wasn’t soured by his hasty exit.
Not much time passed before he arrived at his front door. As quietly as he could, Erik unlocked the door and slipped inside before quickly locking up and making his way up the stairs. Thankfully, he managed to make it safely into his room without disturbing the peaceful hush that fell over the house at this late hour. He waits for a moment, hears nothing, and then exhales out a sigh of relief that he hasn’t disturbed anyone. Thank God. He quickly stripped before falling right into bed and shutting his eyes. He slept like a rock that night, understandably so after such a fulfilling time with you.
The following morning, he’s sitting at the table in front of a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal when Julia enters the kitchen. She gives him a very pointed look and asks expectantly, “So, how was dinner out?”
Expecting the question he keeps his cool, and suppresses his smile at the indirect mention of you. He keeps his tone disinterested as he responds evenly, “Told ya it was none of your business, Jules–” He takes a sip of his coffee before adding, “But it was fine, thanks.”
Erik looks back down at his phone as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, avoiding Julia’s careful examination of him. She doesn’t press or bring it up again, but he can tell she won’t let it go, not anytime soon at least.
It’s been one week since the ‘totally not a date’ that somehow ended up being a ‘totally not serious practice date’. He plays back the events of that night over and over in his head, which in itself, isn’t out of the ordinary for him. He usually thinks about your most recent escapades for days afterwards. However, he isn’t just lingering on the sex; great as it was. His mind instead drifts to other parts of the night, from how fun and flirty dinner was to the languid post-sex kisses you gave him in your bed. His scalp tingles at the memory of your nimble fingers scrubbing his hair in the shower as he recalls how passionately you talked up a show that he’s never seen, but would totally watch with you if you asked him to. Not only that, he’s also on his phone more frequently than usual throughout the day, checking for any new messages from you and responding back in record time when you do.
You are in a pretty fantastic mood for such an average work week. You attribute your stellar mood to two specific reasons; The first, of course, is your dinner with Erik last week; And the other is your plans set for this weekend. It was one of the last weekends in August left before autumn leaves replace gentle breezes and fluffy sweaters replace skimpy swimsuits. You and your friends were going to take advantage of this ‘Sunday Night of Summer’ and hit the beach. To make it even more memorable, you were also going to host them for a sleepover afterwards. It had been a hot minute since you’ve planned a whole day affair and you were ecstatic!
You had filled Erik in, your excitement infectious as you divulged how long it has been since you’ve done something like this, and he was happy for you. Tentative plans were made to see each other the following afternoon, and he was anticipating hearing all about it.
Erik woke up a little before noon, a few texts from you waiting for him when he checked his phone. Still laying in bed, he reads your first message; Your usual chipper “Good morning!” followed by a set of pictures of you in front of your floor length mirror. He taps the screen to open the mini fashion show, both images are of you in your bikini from the front and back, accompanied by your exclamation, “Excited for fun in the sun!” Sure seems like it, and God damn it, you look good. It makes him feel like he can start his morning off right when he wakes up to pictures from you. He isn’t a huge fan of swimming, but suddenly he’s grasping at a slew of potential excuses to justify him seeing you in that swimsuit in real-time.
Two hours after the first two pictures, you sent another one. This time it’s of you on the beach; you’re sitting under an umbrella with your sunglasses on and smiling brightly at the camera, which was clearly held by one of your friends when the picture was taken. There is nothing after that, but he assumes that’s simply because you’re busy having fun. Part of him wishes he didn’t have work so he could have joined you. Then he wonders, could he have tagged along? Have you even told your friends about him? Would it be awkward? Erik interrupts that train of thought to get out of bed and send a response. He compliments the pictures you sent before wishing you a fun time.
The shop is very busy today. Erik passes the time fairly quickly with several walks-ins and a back tattoo that he finished up that afternoon that took a few hours. By the time he has a free moment to check his phone, the sun is setting. There’s no new messages from you. Sitting back in his chair at his station, he wonders if you’re on the way home yet but decides to send a short and sweet text for you to come back to. “Hope the beach was fun.”
Before he can pocket his phone again, it vibrates in his hand and he raises his eyebrows. He brings it back up to see a new message already. It was from you, responding to him with a simple, “It was…” before requesting immediately after, “Can I call you?”
His brows knit together in confusion. You must be home already, but why on Earth would you want to call him when you are supposed to be with your friends? He supposes he’ll have to just let you explain. He responds with one word. “Always.”
His phone immediately starts to buzz, signalling your call. He gets up, heading out of the shop for some privacy. His lips quirk up at the sight of your smiling face and the word ‘FREAK’ emblazoned in bold across the screen before swiping to answer the call. He brings the phone to his ear as he greets you, “Hey, what’s up?”
Your tone sounds clipped as you respond, “Hi.” It’s strangely endearing that despite how annoyed you are, you still insist on a formal greeting. Before he can comment on your apparent frustration, you sigh audibly and ask, “Can I vent for a sec?”
This is a first; Usually he’s the one venting to you, so whatever’s on your mind must be bad. He settles into his spot, leaning against the glass window of the shop as he prompts you to continue, “Of course! Shoot.”
After a deep breath, the words sweep through your parted lips like a tidal wave, “Okay, so like, today was fun. Super fun, actually! Everyone arrived on time to carpool, and there was no traffic on the way to the beach. We got a great spot with plenty of space, and the water was perfect. We had a picnic lunch with drinks-” Erik nods along, everything sounding pretty great so far. However, he has a feeling it won't be all sunshine and roses by the end of this. He lets you prattle on, “-blah blah blah, the beach was fucking great…You get it.”
You pause to suck down another breath, almost bracing yourself for what you say next, “Eventually, it starts to get pretty late. So, we pack up and pile into the car, and I start asking everyone what we should do for dinner on the way back, right?”
“Right.” He parrots, and you say, “And then they all start chiming in, saying ‘Oh yeah about that, I can’t!’”
“Wait, what do you mean they can’t?” He asked, not following their logic at all. You say, “That’s what I said! And when I challenged them on it, they all started making up lame excuses to bail on the rest of our plans! And now I’m here with no friends, no dinner, no extended hang, and no sleepover.”
You sound even more frustrated, as if that’s even possible at this point, but Erik listens as you lament, “I was so amped for today! I got everything ready, and they waited until the drive home to tell me… Ugh! Is it just me or is that a supremely fucking shitty thing to do?”
Erik is completely on your side, and is honestly kind of pissed at your friends right now. He agrees as he says, “No, you are absolutely right. That is extremely fucking shitty of them.” You’ve been hyped about this weekend, excitedly talking it up for days. Therefore, the fact that your best laid plans ended up trashed at the last minute by your sorry excuse for friends sucks, immensely.
You sigh again as you respond, “Thank you! I could have understood some of their reasons, I guess…But a heads-up earlier would have been nice. At the very least, it could have saved my expectations from being completely shattered tonight...”
That would have been the bare fucking minimum in Erik’s opinion. Seriously. Who bucks an organized plan that has been set in stone well in advance, seemingly at the drop of a hat? Quite frankly, it’s rude. Furthermore, how could they balk at spending more time with you? He’s had numerous sleepovers with you over the past few months, and every single one of them has been obnoxiously fun. If your friends aren’t careful, they are at high risk of being diagnosed with terminal stupidity by one Erik Campbell.
You pipe up again, “Anyway, it’s whatever at this point. Thanks for letting me vent, and for confirming I’m not crazy for being upset about this!”
Erik assures you quickly, “It’s what I am here for. Not only that, you always listen to me vent when I need it. Also, hell no, you are not fucking crazy. Your. Friends. Blow.”
You insist, giggling lightly at his words, “Still, thank you.” Then you move on to ask, “So, what are you doing tonight?”
He has no plans, really; or at least none that he can’t abandon for something better. With that in mind, he casually states, “Oh. Well, I was just gonna wrap up here at the shop, and go home. Then, I’ll get a bag together aaaaand head over to yours, I guess.”
He pauses, letting you process his words fully. Before long you briefly ask, “What?”
He pushes himself off the glass and walks back to the front of the shop as he clarifies, “I’m coming overrrr. Did you hit your head?” As he steps through the door, your laughter rings out through the phone and you retort, “No, I didn’t hit my fucking head-”
He cuts in and says, “Ahhh so you just weren’t paying attention, got it. Here, I’ll do you a favor and make it easier to follow. You wanted a sleepover. So, you’re getting a sleepover.”
You prod, “With you?” He can practically hear the smile in your voice. He affirms, “With me.”
“Are you serious?” You ask incredulously. Erik takes a page from your book and exclaims, “Yeah! Come on, let me salvage your night!”
The grin you’ve been trying, and failing, to hold back fully spreads across your face at the sound of your own words echoing back to you, but you don’t mind at all. Already sold on the idea, you happily relent, “Okay, yes. Please, I would love that.”
Erik tells you confidently, “Alright. I’ll be there before you know it.”
You respond in earnest, “I’ll leave the front door unlocked for you.”
An hour goes by before he’s at your front door. He raises one hand to knock while reaching for the doorknob with his other hand. He opens the door, calling out and stepping over the threshold into your apartment, “I’m here!”
You call back to him. “I’m in the living room!” And like clockwork, he’s shucking his shoes and padding down the hallway to the living room he’s come to know so well these last few months to find you seated on the couch. You’re in your pajamas, and currently reclined against the arm of the couch. Summer may be on the way out, but you still look cute and comfortable in your loose cropped tee and matching short shorts. You drop your phone as soon as he enters the room, and turn to look at him with a wide smile. Leaning forward with your arms around your knees, you greet him warmly, “Heya music man.”
He makes his way over to join you, dropping his bag next to the coffee table and declaring affectionately, “There’s my favourite freak.” before sitting down beside you on the couch.
You raise your eyebrows at his words, “Oh wow, I’m your favourite?” He nods, “Oh, fucking easily. Ack-” He winces in slight discomfort when he leans back against the cushions. You notice, concern bleeding into your voice as you ask, “You good?”
He sighs, shaking his head as he tries to adjust in his seat. He dismisses your concern and explains his condition all in one breath, “My posture was fucking terrible working on a tattoo earlier, and I’m paying for it now. I’ll be alright, though.”
“You’re right. You will be.” You get up urging him to follow, “Come on.”
“What? I just sat down.” He complained, confused about why you are getting up so soon. You say, “I’m gonna help you with your back pain, idiot.” You roll your eyes and hold your hand out.
“How?” He questions you as he takes your hand, letting you help him onto his feet again. You lead him to your bedroom, reassuring him, “You’ll see! Fuckssake, you’re so impatient today.”
Once in your room, you look at him, commanding, “Get on the bed.”
“How many times have you said that with me in your room now? A hundred?” He jokingly asks, and you laugh, “Quite a few times, actually, but not even close to that many…Yet.”
You give him a wink before rummaging through one of your nightstands, finding what you are looking for in record time. As you turn to face him again, you hide the object behind your back, and implore him to hear you out. “Okay. So. Promise not to freak out, alright?”
His eyes widened instantly. He shoots you a dubious look before responding anxiously, “Uhhh I dunno if I can promise that right no-”
“What? Why not?” You interject, and he scoffs, “You do realize that dragging me to your room after cryptically offering to help me out only to beg me not to freak out just guarantees I’ll do the exact opposite, right?”
“God, where is the fucking trust, Erik?” You give up and say next, “Fucking, fine, whatever.”
You sit down on the bed and hold up a frankly massive wand vibrator for him to see. His jaw drops, and he exclaims, “Jesus fucking Christ!”
“So this is ‘the beast’.” You jokingly introduce the gargantuan sex toy. He holds his hand out, gesturing for it and you pass it over. He tests the weight with a laugh, “Aptly named.” He settles on holding it with both hands similar to how one might hold a bat or a lightsaber. He comments with glee, “This thing is comical. Ha! It’s as big as your forearm!”
“Haha. Yeah, it’s real hysterical. Now, give it here.” You hold your hand out and he hands it over with a sigh, feigning annoyance. Erik asks, “How have I not seen this thing before?”
“Because, weirdly enough, some guys can get pretty intimidated by a toy of this calibre.” You tell him sagely.
Slightly offended, he retorts, “I’m not intimidated by ‘The Beast’.” raising his fingers to form air quotes while addressing the hilariously named vibrator.
Picking up on his offence, you clarify, “I didn’t think you would be, necessarily. However, one look at this thing and any other guy would be driving me down ‘comparison alley’. Then all of a sudden we’re at a full stop at the intersection of ‘inadequacy avenue’ and ‘insecurity boulevard’.”
As he watches you turn the wand over in your hands, he supplies, “Comparison is the thief of joy, or so I’ve heard it said.”
You smile at that, “I agree. Comparison never ends well. It’s an exercise in futility.” You conclude, “Toys aren’t competitors, they’re teammates.” He nods in agreement before asking something that’s been on his mind since you pulled it out, “Do you actually use that?”
“Yes, Erik, of course I do. Haven’t you come across any previous girlfriends’ bedside buddies? You mean to tell me they didn’t have sex toys?”
He retorts, “Nowhere near as many as you have, and definitely not as heavy duty as this. If they did, well they sure as hell didn’t show me.”
“Feeding into what I said earlier… Ass.” You interrupt, insinuating that a previous girlfriend of his couldn’t trust him to react maturely to a little battery-operated help. Before he can react to the implication, you explain, “You know those jokes about what people say when their sex toy gets discovered accidentally? They’re all like, ‘Oh no, noooo. That’s just my uhh b-back massager!’ and they all laugh it off yada yada.”
“Well yeah. Duh.” He nods along, and you admit, “Well, funnily enough, that’s not far from the truth. Some sex toys CAN be used as a back massager.”
“So that is your bright idea? A back massage courtesy of ‘The Beast’?” He asks skeptically. You roll your eyes in response and instruct him to get comfortable, “Yes, now take your shirt off and lay down on your stomach.”
“Aye Aye, Captain.”
He salutes comically, then he is doing as you asked, tossing today’s band tee to the floor and laying down. You plug the wand into the wall outlet before kneeling beside him on the bed. He’s on his stomach, but when he goes to cross his arms to rest on them, you stop him by smacking his side lightly before chiming in, “Arms at your sides, I need full access to your shoulders.”
He begrudgingly complies, adjusting your pillow under his head as he gets comfortable. You swing your leg over, perching yourself on his ass. Once you are sitting, you ask, “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” He sighs.
He hears the click as you switch the wand on, and it’s loud; Distractingly loud. Erik wonders if this was why you never sent him any videos of you using this vibrator. You point the wide, cushioned head of the wand before pressing it to the top of his spine, sweeping with an even pressure down to the base of his spine and then back up. You make three passes up and down before you ask, “Tell me where it hurts?”
He smirks to himself as he thinks, “Okay Nurse Freak.” But he eventually pipes up over the din of the toy, “Uh, lower back and shoulder blades?”
You hum in acknowledgment, and adjust accordingly. You press the wand into his right shoulder, working the area in slow circles. You take your time, feeling his left shoulder for the knots you wanna blast next. Two minutes of you sliding the head of the wand against him, pressing and pushing diligently, and he folds. His body goes slack as he lets out his first groan of the night, “Oh my Goddd-” You smile smugly, continuing to work him with the toy.
“Good?” You ask, already knowing the answer. He responds meekly, “Uh-huh.”
Although it would be justified, you don’t say ‘I told you so’. You spend a good ten minutes working his entire back until he is sufficiently boneless. Pleased with your efforts, you get off of him, turning the toy off and asking in a sweet tone, “So, how do you feel now?”
He sits up, rolling his shoulders and arching back. He keeps a hand on his lower back, expecting the ache from earlier, but when he feels nothing but loose muscles, he’s positively shocked. Erik admits in a perplexed tone, “Fucking shit, it’s like night and day!”
“You’re welcome.” You say with a warm smile. He affirms, “I will never doubt you again.”
You drop the toy on the bed beside you as you insist, “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”
Erik carelessly flops onto his back, further confirming his renewed mobility as you prattle on some more. “So I dunno if you have a craving, but I could honestly go for some sushi-” He’s only partially listening, though.
Erik is more than a little preoccupied with what was at first a fleeting thought, but has turned into a persistent nudge at the edges of his mind ever since your ‘fake’ date night. He wants to kiss you.
This sudden urge, however, presents a minor problem. Erik is well aware of the routine by this point in your arrangement. There are only three instances that you ever kiss each other, and those situations are as follows: The lead up to sex, during sex, and in the fifteen minutes it takes to come down after sex. Beyond that, nothing. You don’t kiss hello or goodbye, either. So, if he’s going to kiss you like he so desperately wants to, then he needs to figure out how best to initiate it without breaking said routine. He can’t just go in for it in the middle of a conversation out of nowhere. That would be weird. He just needs to ease you into it, naturally, casually.
Erik knows just the thing, hopefully. He reaches out and picks up the wand again, whacking your arm lightly to get your attention before asking, “So how do you even use this thing?”
You don’t question his pivot to the subject and instead indulge him. You ask, rather amused, “Do you want me to show you?”
He shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on your mouth as he simply states, “No, I want to use it on you myself.”
Now it is time for your jaw to drop. He’s used your other vibrator on you, sure, but you didn’t expect him to suggest using this one. Caught off-guard, you ask, “Woah! Uh…Are you sure?”
“Very.” He confirms, eyes shifting slightly to properly meet yours, before prompting you, “So?”
You reach out and show him, pointing to the buttons on the wand's body as you run through all the controls, “So this is the power button. This one turns the vibration up, and this turns it down. Now, if you hold that one, it will go into the pulse settings, and you press it again to cycle through them.”
He nods along, watching closely as you demonstrate. When you finish, his thumb presses on the power button and it kicks on. Fuck, this thing really is strong. To get a sense of the power behind it, he cradles the head of the toy in the palm of his other hand and tests the strength of the vibration. Next he sits up on the bed, brandishing the wand in one hand while leaning his body closer to your lounging frame. You warn, “It’s so powerful, that direct skin contact is too much. So most of the time I use it through my clothes or over a blanket or something-”
“Oh, okay. You mean like this?” He suddenly thrusts his arm out, pressing the wand between your legs unexpectedly; You tense immediately, inhaling sharply. He sees the sudden wave of intense pleasure wash over your face as you fist the blanket beneath you. You start to move away from him as you nod once, “Ye-yeah-”
He’s definitely not having that. His free hand grips your throat firmly before gently pushing you to lay flat on the bed and pinning you in place. He keeps the head of the wand flush against you, the building pressure between your thighs from the consistent stimulation causes your mouth to fall open and you let out a wavering moan.
“I thiiiink I understand now.” He teases in the way he knows makes you melt. Your eyes are unfocused, and you squirm under his hold. Jesus, this thing is having a crazy effect on you. Seizing the moment, he leans down to kiss you, revelling in the feeling of your lips sliding against his. Finally, the itch he couldn’t scratch was within reach. With one hand still on your throat, he works the wand against you with renewed vigour. In contrast, he moves his lips against yours slowly, savouring the taste of you and swallowing down your moans. Stalled by his sudden ministrations that overwhelmed your senses, your lips find their rhythm against his, feeding his craving even more.
Honestly, this worked out better than he thought it would. It was perfect, actually. He could thoroughly express his gratitude for easing his back pain and satisfy his urge to kiss the fuck out of you without worry. Making you cum has become one of his favourite hobbies to indulge in for the past few months, but if he’s not careful, making out with you might make it onto that list as well. And that would be a line even he doesn’t want to cross.
Speaking of crossing lines, a more pressing matter comes to the forefront; your rapidly approaching orgasm. The intensity of the wand on your clothed cunt, combined with his grip on your neck and his tongue down your throat, Erik is about to help you cross the finish line in record time. And he’s willing to bet that your orgasm will be intense if your barely suppressed whimpers and staggered kisses are anything to go by. Unfortunately, that means you will be out of commission for a while, and that just won’t do. He can’t let the fun end so soon, not yet. In theory, he could hold steady and try to wring a few more out of you, but at this rate, the overstimulation will be too painful to continue. No, he needs to do something to make the most of this, to stretch it out for as long as he can until he’s had his fill of you.
Oh wait, the solution is obvious, albeit diabolical.
He pulls the wand away just before you cum, the tension in your body dissipated, making you sink into the mattress with a sigh into his persistent mouth. Erik continues to kiss you as he lets the edge fade, the fog of your impending orgasm receding as you begin to kiss him back harder. His thumb feels along the body of the wand, clicking the button you indicated earlier to start the pulse patterns. Maybe if the stimulation isn’t as consistent, he can stave off your climax even longer. After waiting another minute, he presses the wand back down onto you, causing your body to jerk as your choked sob is muffled by his greedy mouth.
Erik is enjoying his experimenting, but you, on the other hand, are struggling to maintain your sanity. It feels like he is breaking you down and threatening to outright drown you in pleasure from the outside-in. This is just so unexpected, and you love it. The situation went from zero to a zillion, completely throwing you off-balance. The wand is currently set on a pulse mode better known as the ‘wave’, which builds in intensity from the lowest vibration all the way to the highest over the course of twenty seconds and then ceases for five before starting over again.
This mode is definitely fun to play with, but Erik is in the driver’s seat this time, so this will be sweet torture. He fiercely kisses you, lightly squeezing your neck every so often, a gentle reminder that he’s got you right where he wants you. Meanwhile, the vibration ratchets up, up, and up before finally stopping dead, your orgasm following suit most ruefully. This once smooth ride has now turned rocky with enough twists and turns to effectively distract you from reaching your destination. Erik is content to be that obstacle, forcing you to take as many detours as he likes, leaving you no real room to protest even if you wanted to. This precarious position you find yourself is frying your brain like an egg on the sidewalk on a hot day. You are already so desperate to cum, but this ride is far from over. After a few more gruelling minutes, the third edge creeps up your spine and you pray it’s the last climb you'll have to endure, but when Erik hears the whine at the back of your throat, he lifts the wand again. You sag in defeat once more, groaning into his mouth with mild annoyance.
It goes on like this for what feels like hours. Erik continues to invade your senses with his lips and tongue, while brutally edging you two more times with his trusty wand of doom, ignoring your mounting frustration. Then he switches the setting again to release a rapid fire of inconsistent pulses at different strengths, which builds the sixth edge nearly three times as slow as the last one. Your body is trembling weakly, sweat gathering behind your knees, and pain radiating from your knuckles from how tightly you are gripping the blanket. You are internally begging, praying this will be the moment he grants you your orgasm. Your train of thought is beautifully broken, your subconscious driven to near insanity, “So fucking close, nearly there, God! Please, please-”
When he lifts the wand again, your heart sinks, cruelly denied one too many times. The tension is too much for you to handle, and you need to do something.
You could try to get his attention between kisses, but you doubt that would work. You’ve been whining his name and quietly uttering “please” for the past ten minutes on and off against his mouth, and he hasn’t so much as blinked in acknowledgement.
Drastic measures must be taken, so you turn your head, abruptly breaking away from Erik’s plush lips, and gasping his name loudly. That gets his attention, pulling back to look at you for the first time since he enacted his little plan, Erik finds himself at a loss for words. Fuck. You are utterly intoxicating, with your heart nearly beating out of your chest, your muscles pulled taut, and sweat on your face. However, the moment Erik looks into your eyes, his heart drops. Your eyes are shiny with unshed tears as you force yourself to mumble, “Please, Er-Erik, I-” You trail off, taking a shuddering breath in an attempt to compose yourself, before continuing, “I really, really wa-want to cum. C-can I, please? I dunno what you want me to d-do, b-but I’ll do it.”
Erik’s hand is still around your throat as you grip his wrist weakly, trying to ground yourself and implore him to listen. You sniff and sharply inhale, resigned to what you think he is expecting from you. Abandoning all shame, the need outweighing any pride you may have had and beginning to beg, “Please, ahhh-an-anything you want, Erikkk. I mean it. Just let me cum and I’ll do it-”
He most certainly went too far. He got so carried away that he didn’t realize how much this would affect you. You are a wreck, about to break down in actual tears, begging so desperately for him. All for him. He can’t deny that ruining you like this has lit a fire in him that he would love to explore later, but right now he should be merciful and grant you your release. He won’t make it too easy, though. He teases in his signature condescending tone that drives you wild, “Awe, I’m sorry. I don't really need anything.”
You whimper defeatedly, your lust clouded brain disheartened that bartering for your pleasure isn’t going to work. Erik’s thumb feels for the buttons and drops the fancy patterns, switching back to a consistent hum at medium intensity. He raises your chin to look at him again before piping up, “But…” You meet his eyes, aching for him to continue and he coos, “You were so nice to me earlier, so I should be nice to you now. It’s only fair, right?”
He presses the wand between your legs again before you can answer, and you are in utter bliss. You see stars, your back arching, and your head tiling back as you let out a loud moan. You grip his wrist tighter as your other hand curls around the blanket again. He doesn’t kiss you this time. Sure, it was the catalyst for all of this and having you squirming and moaning against him is always a treat, but now he wants an unobstructed view. He holds the toy steady on you, taking in the sight of the wand working its magic. Erik watches as your eyes go hazy, the rise and fall of your chest crescendoing as you writhe and shiver from the pleasure. The litany of half moans you let out while exhaling breathlessly is addictive.
In less than two minutes of squirming on the wand, your eyes shift to him and your begging begins anew. “Please, Erik, fuck! I’m so close-” You inhale harshly before rushing out the remainder of your pleading, “-please don’t stop this time, omigod-”
He laughs lightly, assuring you with a half-smile, “No more games, I promise. I won’t stop.” Leaning closer, he starts to talk you through it, encouraging you. “C’mon, I want you to cum. I wanna see it. Yeah, you’re close. I can fucking tell. Just a little more-” He presses the toy tighter on your obstructed clit, the extra pressure is all you need and you cum at last. Your climax tears through you, setting every nerve on fire and leaving you crying out pathetically in unadulterated ecstasy.
His honeyed voice cuts through your obscene cries, your name rolling off his tongue as he adds hotly, “There you goooo. That’s ittt.”
Christ, it feels like you are being crushed under the weight of all this pleasure, the feeling is indescribable. When it finally does come to an end, your hand slides down with trembling fingers wrench his hand back to lift the wand off and away from your overstimulated body. Your body relaxes against the bed as Erik releases your neck from his hold. Needing a minute to recover, you lay still, struggling to catch your breath. The only thing you manage to gasp out in that minute is, “Holy shit.” Thank fucking God, he decided to throw you a bone.
Erik turns the wand off and holds it in his hand, considering it for a moment. That has to be one of the hardest orgasms he’s given you to date. This will definitely not be the last time he uses ‘The Beast’ on you, not even close. Maybe he could find a good position to use it while he’s inside you? Something to consider for a later date. He drops his newfound weapon onto the bed and nonchalantly asks, “You alright there? Still alive, I hope?”
You throw your arms over your eyes as you huff out a soft, “Barely.”
“I’m just shocked you’re still conscious.” He points to the wand and admits, “I should have realized the second you plugged it in that it was going to be insane. I didn’t really see the appeal at first since you have similar toys…But I do now.”
With a nod, you sigh in relief, “Good. I’m glad I don’t have to explain. It should have been obvious, Erik. Some jobs need a wrench and others need-” He cuts in dramatically, “-a fucking jackhammer?”
You burst out laughing and he joins in. You lift your arms and bring your hands up to wipe your face. His stomach drops, slightly alarmed as he asks, “Wait, are you crying?”
You nod and admit, “Yeah, a little bit. It was just so intense-” You let out a shuddering breath, before continuing with a laugh, “-it was amazing. I think I really needed that, it wasn’t just a physical release but an emotional one too, I guess? I feel like a massive weight was just lifted off my shoulders.”
“Really? So this was okay, then?” What he’s really asking is if you are okay. Even if the tears aren’t a sign of something more serious, as you’ve said, seeing you cry in any capacity just doesn’t sit right with him for some reason. He couldn't help but be a little worried about you. You finish wiping the tears off your cheeks as you nod with a smile. “Mhm. More than okay. Seriously, I feel better than ever.”
He nods, making a mental note to add ‘edging you until you cry’ to his list of remedies for a hard day.
Your hands reach out, gesturing for him to come closer. He complies and with one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his shoulder, you drag him down the rest of the way to kiss him. He instantly sinks into you. Pulling back after a moment, you suggest, “You should lose those pants.”
“What about dinner? I thought you had a craaaving for sushi?” He inquires, and you scoff, “We are gonna do dinner, just a little later.” Your hands run down his arms, leaning up to give him another kiss, and he obliges you. When you pull back, you ask, “You said you wanted to salvage my night, right? Well, indulge me a little bit.”
He did say that and he fucking meant it. Erik doesn’t fight you on it further; He's here to help make you feel better and clearly you’ve got an idea that you are not going to shake anytime soon. He’s also painfully aware of his aching erection. After an intense make out session and your earth-shattering orgasm, can you really blame him?
As you undress, you share a few light kisses and fleeting touches. Your legs are mostly out of commission, still trembling even now. Erik takes the lead and gets on top, his hands sliding under the backs of your knees, and dragging his shaft along your dripping slit with a confident swish of his hips. He lingers, grinding himself against you and letting his piercing catch on your extremely sensitive clit, as you fight back a gasp. Erik slips back and forth a few more times before you’re breathing out his name, pleading for him to fuck you.
With that, he lines himself up and starts to slide inside, finding absolutely no resistance. Midway through the first stroke, he understands why you were so adamant about this. He releases a moan in shock, words spilling out of him unbidden, “What the fuck?”
You release a cross between a laugh and a moan as you agree, “Right?”
When he finally bottoms out, you are both transfixed, heads tipping backward and forward respectively as you and Erik exclaim in pleasure. He slowly fucks in and out of you before pounding in earnest. God. If he didn’t get the hint earlier, he definitely knew now.
Thanks to ‘The Beast’, you are unbelievably drenched and prepped for him. Your walls are hot, slick, and swollen; clenching so tight around him that your wetness leaks down your ass with every thrust. The squelching of your cunt and the obscene noises leaving your parted lips turn him on even more and it all just feels different. Erik forces your legs further back to press against your chest, effectively folding you in half, your ankles resting on his shoulders now. When he thrusts into you again, you squeeze your eyes shut and cry out his name, the head of his cock hitting your G-spot with enough force to make lightning flash behind your eyes. Jesus, you are already struggling to hang on to your sanity.
Every sound, every clench, and every drag of his cock inside of you spurs him on. He picks up the pace, fucking into you harder, and breaking you apart bit by bit. You shudder and gasp with every thrust, taking a few hiccupping breaths in between when you realize you are going to cum, and fast.
Erik doesn’t think he is going to last much longer, either. Without warning, your second orgasm rockets through you at break-neck speed, your body shaking and your nails biting into your palms. He’d taunt you for your failed attempt to stifle your moans if he could, but he isn’t fairing much better than you at the moment. Your contracting walls are milking him so good, begging him to fill you and leaving him helpless to the steady climb of his own release. He manages to get you to a third orgasm with startling speed before he joins you over the edge. When he comes, it’s an otherworldly bliss that completely overtakes him. His arms collapse from the intensity, his full body weight pressing into yours. As his cock is forced even deeper from the motion as he cums inside, you let out a strangled sound that he wishes he could play on a loop.
He stays inside of you for a moment, his hands still pinning your legs to your chest as you pant in unison. You open your eyes, meeting his gaze, but neither of you are quite sure what to say after such a mind-bending experience. The only thing you can think to do is unhook your ankles from his shoulders, with his help, and reach for the back of his neck to pull him down for another kiss. He plans on enjoying every last second of it, fully aware this might be the last kiss he gets from you tonight. When it does finally end, your head falls back as he slowly untangles himself from you. He pulls out, sucking his teeth in overstimulation and allowing your combined juices to leak out onto the blanket.
He breathes out, “You fucking wrung that out of me.”
It’s his fault for prepping you so heavily, really. “An hour of edging with the cadillac of wand vibrators will do that.” You sigh with a vague gesture to the wand still laying nearby on the bed.
“It was not an hour, but is it really considered top tier?” He scoffs and asks in one breath. You confirm, “Well, it felt like a fucking hour.” You add in your head, “Best hour of my life…” before continuing, “Yes really, European engineering is next level insane! They take their sex toy technology very seriously, I swear!”
“Sex toys from fucking Europe? So the Freak has expensive tastes…Noted.” He quips as he settles on the bed next to you. You make a sound of acknowledgement as you roll to face him, pressing your body closer to his and complimenting him heavily, “Seriously, that was fucking phenomenal! You need to get me in that position again sometime.”
Erik puts an arm around your shoulders, fondly squeezing them as he hums out, “Gladly.” He admits, “That felt pretty unreal for me, too.” You smile, relieved that he is down for a repeat of all of that. Now curled into his side, you let your eyes slip closed for a minute, enjoying the closeness. You could fall asleep right now, you were that comfortable. Or you would have until he decided to chime in and ask, “So, were you still thinkin’ sushi for dinner?”
Your eyes peek open once more as you groan out, “God, yes!”
He places the order on his phone while you both are still tangled up in bed. You gingerly point out what you want as you discuss your respective favourites. You tell him, “Get the salmon.”
He replies with a scoff, “Like we are gonna order sushi and not get the salmon?”
Once you’ve regained some strength, you toss your sweat-soaked clothes into the laundry hamper and get into fresh new pajamas. Erik pulls out his chosen sleepover attire from his bag, a loose fitting tank top and black sweatpants, sans socks. When he’s dressed, you walk out of your bedroom, asking him, “You want a drink?”
“Absolutely.” He follows behind you as you head to the kitchen. When you open the fridge, he asks curiously, “Beer?”
“Better.” You promise, taking out a pitcher and closing the door with your foot before turning to place it on the counter. You grin and announce as you turn to get wine glasses out of the cabinet, “Sangria.”
Erik inspects the pitcher as you do so, seeing the condensation already forming as the ice clinks against the glass. Inside, the sweet wine and peach schnapps swirl around the fruit slices invitingly. He can tell it’s going to be good. You quip, “I made it last night for me and the girls, but I guess it’s for you and me now!”
“Their fucking loss, honestly.” He says with a shrug, and you agree, setting two glasses down and pouring a hefty amount for you both. As you take the first sip, you find yourself relieved to be sharing this with Erik and not your friends. They simply don’t deserve something this good for flaking out on your plans in the first place. The sangria came out absolutely perfect; It’s sweet, refreshing and full of flavour. Erik is equally pleased as he exclaims, “Wow, that is so fucking good.”
“Thanks. Figured it would be a fitting farewell to summer with this being the last real weekend of it and all.” You retreat to the couch and he joins you. You settle yourselves down, and you suggest, “So while we wait on the food, let’s decide on tonight’s entertainment.”
You place your glass of sangria on top of the coffee table, reaching underneath it to the lower shelf, and pulling out one of your DVD binders. You unzip it and flip it open when he comments matter of factly, “Seems you’ve already decided on that.”
“Have not, your input on which movies we watch is important to me.” You scoot closer until you are hip to hip and spread the binder over both of your laps. You add, “I do have some suggestions, though.”
You flip to the sleeve you know it’s on and point down at the disc you had in mind. “How about The Sleepover?”
“Watching The Sleepover AT a sleepover? Isn’t that a little on the nose?” He inquires, and you smile, “Hardly, it’s the perfect time! Plus, it’s such a fun movie AND the cast is stacked.”
He still seems doubtful as he asks, “Who’s even in it?”
You reach over for your glass as you list out the cast for him, “Alexa Vega, Steve Carell, Jane Lynch-”
Erik cuts in jokingly, “Oh yeah, she was like the best part of GLEE.”
You abandon your drink mid-sip, pulling the glass back and turning your head to look at him in disbelief, “You’ve watched GLEE?!”
Erik wipes his face with his free hand in mild embarrassment, sighing heavily as he admits, “Julia had a phase, and she may have pulled Bobby into that fucking phase. But, I think he mostly joined in because he thought it was funny how much I hated that fucking show.”
You laugh, leaning closer as you ask, “Oh my God, are you serious?”
He takes a drink before responding, “Very. Regrettably. Sometimes I was left in charge while the parents were out, and it was less painful to just let ‘em watch the damn show than to fight them on it every time. When I did have to suffer through it, I admit Jane Lynch was the only saving grace for me.”
“So me adding that GLEE song to the playlist I made must have been ultra traumatic for you, huh?” You think aloud, and he laughs, raising his eyebrows at you, “Oh, you have no idea. What else ya got?”
“Alright, but just so you know, this isn’t helping you beat the theatre fan allegations. So if ‘The Sleepover’ isn’t your speed, how about…” You flip forwards a bit, “John Tucker Must Die?”
“What’s that one about? Is it a horror movie?” He asks, and you tell him, “Nope. It’s about four girls forming an alliance to destroy the man that fucked them all over.”
“Sounds like riveting cinema. I’m guessing the guy deserves it?” He asks, and you nod, “Oh totally, he’s a cheating scumbag.”
“Hmm, maybe another time.” He hums, and you sigh, “Alright, I won’t even ask if you wanna watch ‘Stick It’. So let’s pivot from the girly nostalgia genre.”
“What’s ‘Stick It’ about?” He watches you flip through a few pages as you automatically answer, “Jeff Bridges gymnastics movie.”
“Is he doing the gymnastics?” He laughs, and you say, “No, no. He’s the coach.” You flip some more pages and admit, “I don’t want to be here all night, so I am giving you three dude-bro comedies to choose from. Wedding Crashers, Blue Mountain State, or Superbad?”
“All amazing films, really.” He deadpans. You playfully poke his side before explaining, “Picking a ‘so bad it’s good’ movie is the whole point of a sleepover, Erik! It’s not about award winning flicks; It’s about something you can laugh at, laugh with, or BOTH while snacking, talking and whatever else we wanna do.”
Judging by the theme of tonight and what he reaffirmed earlier, he was going to go with the flow, for you. He swats your hand aside as he concedes, “If that is what you want then I trust your judgment. Pick whatever you think is right for the occasion.” You adopt a lower vocal register as you joke, “Yes, trust me: the keeper of ancient sleepover lore and conventions.”
He cracks up as you flip to a new page and slide a disc out of its sleeve.
The sushi arrives some time later. You lay it all out on the table, filling your plates as the opening credits for ‘EuroTrip’ begins to play. With your first bite, you are immediately gushing over how sushi was the right choice. A joyful moan around fish and soy sauce, “I could eat sashimi once a week for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
“Reading between the lines of what you just said, I got ‘buy me more sushi more often’. Am I way off, or?” He teases as he nudges your shoulder, and you shrug, praising him, “Awww! You are such a great listener.”
You engage in more light conversation as you eat, mostly ignoring the movie still playing in the background, until the graduation party scene rolls in and the main cast are in frame. You pipe up excitedly, “Oh my fucking God this song coming up is like one of the best songs made for any movie ever-”
Slightly confused, he asks, “What song is that?” You gasp before enlightening him, “Scotty Doesn’t Know! Hello??”
“That’s from this movie?” He asks in disbelief, and you say with a point of your chopsticks, “Yeah! The main guy, Scotty, is the Scotty from the song!”
He starts, “Wait, so what, the song is just played in the movie or-?”
You take the opportunity to cut in, beginning to talk out the lyrics to the song before it starts to play to explain, “Well see, Scotty, doesn’t know, that Fiona and ‘him’-” You point to a very alternatively made up Matt Damon singing on stage as you continue, “-do it in ‘his’ van every Sunday. She tells him (Scotty) she’s in church, but she doesn’t go! Still, she’s on her knees and-”
He rolls his eyes and groans as he realizes what you’re doing, finishing the lyric, “Scotty doesn’t know.” You cackle as he jeers, “Oh my God, you dweeb. Okay, I get it. It’s literally fucking spelled out.”
After briefly collecting yourself, you agree, “Yeah, the song is pretty clear at laying out what happens. It’s catchy as fuck, and that guitar? Ugh, obsessed.”
Erik asks then, “So this is how Scotty finds out his girlfriend’s been cheating on him for who knows how long? From the guy she’s been screwing behind his back performing this song at the fucking party?”
You laugh again before you exclaim, “Yes! How fucked is that? Like how terrible would that be, especially if the song is such a banger. I’d die of embarrassment!"
In a gravely serious tone that you know is genuine, Erik blanches, “I’d probably crawl into a hole and die.”
Initially, he was pretty indifferent to the idea of watching a bad movie for entertainment value. Sure, he’s ripped on a movie or two with friends, but it was nothing to write home about. However, with you, it feels like a whole different experience. Despite the obvious pitfalls and irreverent humor the movie may have, you find a way to enjoy them anyway. Your enthusiasm and attention to every detail is infectious and he can’t help but be swept up in it with you. At the very least, the hilarious commentary and jokes that spawned from watching this movie was very entertaining so far. For example, the character Jamie is onscreen getting a blow job that’s apparently so good that he all too willingly hands over his belongings to a man who's robbing him at gun point, and is far too engrossed in the immense pleasure he’s receiving to care.
You sigh out, “Okay, if someone tried to rob me while you were going down on me, I would definitely pull a ‘Jamie’.” Erik laughs into his wine glass, before tipping his head back against the couch, incredulous, “Seriously?”
“Oh my God, yes! You are insane at it! If I was in Jaime’s position, I’d pass over all my worldly possessions without a second thought! I doubt I’d remember my own name if I were pressed for it.” Despite your laughter, he can tell you’re being honest and your compliments hit home just as they were surely intended. The ease with which you not only find common ground with a character in the movie, but also proudly announce his mind-blowing cunnilingus ability is a skill he can respect. He is more than a little flattered by your praise, as he takes in the comfortable sight in front of him; You sitting close, legs thrown over his lap, and your glass of sangria still in hand as your eyes are glued to the TV. Yet again in his presence, you look happy, and it throws him off, but he also can’t help feeling like this is how tonight was supposed to go.
He gives your knee an affectionate squeeze and admits, “I wouldn’t be much better. Fuck, I wouldn't even need the gun to my head. When I’m in your throat, I feel fucking helpless.”
“Careful Erik, with all this romance, I might melt.” You joke before you muse softly, glass at your lips as they curve up into a fond smile, “But I must admit, you, helpless and at my mercy has so much appeal. One of my favourites, actually. Can’t get enough of it.”
“I couldn’t tell.” He chimes in lightheartedly.
A few more scenes to comment on and joke about, and the movie is over. Erik’s relieved he trusted you, completely sold on whatever other movie you suggest tonight. After EuroTrip, drinks are refreshed and the leftover sushi is put in the fridge. You pull out a charcuterie board for you and Erik to graze on for the rest of the night.
You pick Van Wilder next, claiming it’s great because, “Not only does it have a really fun vibe, BUT ALSO it features Ryan Reynolds before he got too up his own ass, and Kal Penn pre-Harold and Kumar.”
“Oh man, PRE-Harold and Kumar? Be still, my beating heart.” Erik bats his eyelashes playfully with a hand over his chest. You flip him off as you place the disc into your DVD player. While the previews run, you announce, “I want to paint my nails.”
You go to the bathroom to retrieve your box of nail supplies you keep handy, coming back and settling down on the couch again in a flash. After making some space on the coffee table to set down the box, you start digging through it, choosing the perfect colour. Erik inspects your extensive collection of nail polish before asking, “You want some help?”
With a small laugh, you ask, “What, you want to paint my nails for me?” He shrugs as he responds, “I mean, sure. That is another sleepover activity, isn’t it?”
You fire back, “It sure is! Does this mean that you’ll let me do yours?“
“Man, it has been a while since I’ve had mine painted. Fuck it. Sure, why not?” He sits up from his extremely relaxed position, and you are pleasantly surprised. You had previously thought he’d look good with his nails painted, but had no idea if he'd actually go for it. You ask, “So you’ve had them done before?”
“Psht, I have a younger sister. Of course I have.” He declares as if it should be obvious before gesturing to himself, alternative aesthetic and all, and adding “And I mean come on. Look at me.”
You laugh loudly, your hand slips into the box, and you ask, “What do you think then? Black?”
“Awww, you wanna match? How nauseatingly, disgustingly adorable of you.” He comments, placing his hands on his cheeks and pouting at you jokingly. You hum happily at the idea, and something warm and fond curls around the inside of his ribs as well, suspiciously close to his heart.
You and Erik sit on the floor side by side, tools of the trade laid out on top of the coffee table, and your legs stretched out underneath it. Amidst the commentary and idle chatter, you take turns painting each other’s nails, watching the movie in between brush strokes. He does yours first, cradling your hand in his, and smoothing down the colour in even sweeps. You quite enjoy being the subject of such care and attention.
Taking advantage of the lull in conversation, you bring up something that has been lingering on your mind. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it more, and I definitely want to get a tattoo. Soon if you’d still be interested in doing it, that is…” You trail off hoping you didn’t miss your chance.
His pauses, lifting the brush off of your pinky finger. He inspects his work before meeting your eyes. “Seriously? You’d want me to be your first?”
You nearly snort at his choice of words, and when he hums in annoyance it only makes you laugh harder. He drops your hand dramatically as he bites out, “Oh, you know what I mean, you fucking dork.”
With an apologetic grin, you say, “I know! I know, forgive me! I don’t know what came over me just then. It was unexpected, I swear.” The next part you say next more sincerely as you maintain eye contact with him, “But yes, I am serious. I would love for you to do my first tattoo, really.”
He holds his hand out, palm up, and you slip back into his touch. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand. He asks quietly, “What do you wanna get?”
“I still need to figure that out, actually.” You admit, and he offers, “I can draw up some ideas. If you like something in particular, it can be a jumping off point. Then we can tweak it from there?”
Honestly, the chance to see his artistic side and work together to create something to go on your body, permanently, is a very appealing prospect, indeed. You happily agree. “Yeah, I’d love that. I trust you.”
Although it should be a given at this point, the words hit him just as hard as the first time you uttered them so plainly. His eyes drop to continue working on your nails as he tries to ignore the soft warmth settling in his ribs again. When it finally subsides, he responds,“Alright, I’ll get started on the concepts soon.”
Ryan Reynolds’ pithy comments from behind the wheel of his golf cart start to penetrate the bubble of comfortable silence you found yourselves in as Erik worked diligently on your other hand.
When he gives you back your hand, signalling he finished your nails, you inspect his work. You happily note that all the colour is confined to your nails, not a single smudge in sight. You praise him incredulously, “Hot damn Erik! They look fucking phenomenal!”
Erik asks in a peeved tone, “Wait, what’s with the dumbfounded look, huh? You thought I’d fuck ‘em up didn’t you?” You scramble to defend yourself, “No, no, just-”
“You are taking too long to answer, Freak. I’d smack you with this pillow right now but I won’t be the reason my hard work is ruined.” He sighs dramatically, gesturing to your still drying nails. You say, “I’m sorry for being a little surprised, alright?”
“My forgiveness is entirely influenced by how well you paint my nails.” He insists. You take heed of his terms, planning on making it up to him the second your nails dry. You are confident you can pull it off, no doubt about that.
You have been painting your own nails about once a week like clockwork for years, so you comment on the ridiculousness of the current scene playing out in front of you while laying down the first coat of polish with ease. Tara Reid’s character is getting poorly fucked, by her dry ass pre-med boyfriend in an agonizing way that has you both doing an even poorer job of hiding your laughter. While you are painting his thumbnail, you practically squeal in response, “I cannot get over this fucking scene! I mean, can you imagine fucking someone, and they are narrating their bodily functions the entire time?! Put her out of her misery already!”
He honestly can’t picture experiencing that firsthand; The image is too insane. He’s having a hard enough time trying not to smudge your work from his unexpected laughter to think very hard on it. Until you mimic her boyfriend’s voice and deliver his line at the same exact time to a fucking ‘T’, “Oh, I am fairly confident I’m going to ejaculate.” Erik breaks, devolving into a fit of laughter that you chime in with.
When you finish his nails, he admires your handiwork. Giving you a coy sideways glance, he compliments you, “Not too shabby, Freak. I suppose this means I can forgive you. This time, anyway.”
“Phew, thank God! Suits you, by the way. I dunno why you don’t paint them more often.” You admit, and he says honestly with a shrug, “I get lazy, what more can I say?”
“Well, how about I do them whenever you ask? No need to return the favour.” You offer, and he counters, “Oh fuck that pro bono shit. Of course I’ll paint yours too.” When he sees your questioning look, he adds casually, “Well this certainly won’t be the last sleepover we’re gonna have. And, it is a classic sleepover activity.”
You definitely can’t argue with that logic. You absolutely love it.
By the time the movie is done, there is no more charcuterie left on the board and your nails are bone dry. You suggest watching one last movie and moving onto another sleepover staple; playing UNO. He readily agrees.
The beginning of Accepted starts playing in the background while you two are sitting cross legged and facing each other on the couch. You shuffle the deck as you insist this movie’s unique spin on the American education system is a palette cleanser for Van Wilder’s extreme pro-college message. “Plus, Justin Long is in it, and he’s always a treat.”
“How is it that you have so many opinions on movies I’ve never even heard of or seen before?” He asked. You respond simply as you deal the cards, “I love movies. Good, bad, doesn’t matter. The way I see it, every movie has some merit. I just think about all those people it takes to make a movie, working hard towards a common goal. It’s pretty wild.”
You make a very compelling argument; One that he felt like he could get behind. Sure, like any job, some movies are made for a pay check, but others are made because the people behind it believe in the vision, in their own way.
Commencing the game, you pivot the topic as you announce, “Alright, it’s gossip time! Anything juicy to share with the class?”
“Interesting gossip from my job? Hardly. My workday is, thankfully, pretty drama free. Then again I don’t talk to my coworkers all that much.” He sighs, and you sigh dejectedly, “Aww, figures. Hmm, I’ll just have to come up with another interesting topic then…”
You hum to yourself as you rack your brain for an idea, and eventually it hits you. “Ooh! Okay, let’s pull out the time capsule! How’d you lose your virginity?”
He widens his eyes in pure shock, “I am genuinely shocked you haven’t asked me this question sooner. I underestimated your level of self-control, it’s fucking impressive.” You both inspect your cards as you press, “Yeah, yeah. I have the patience of a saint. So spill! I am dying to know.”
Leaving no more room for him to protest, he drops the first card, divulging the ‘dirty’ details. “What’s there to tell? It was in high school. It was with one of the few girls who actually gave me the time of day in my not-so-charming years. I liked her enough to ask her out. It happened in the back of a car on a late night. You?”
Slapping your own card down over his, you tut, “Oh, I’m sure you were plenty charming, even back then. As for me, it was also in high school. It was with a guy friend. We were at a party he was hosting. I offered to stay behind and help him clean up afterwards. We ended up on the couch in his basement. Needless to say, not a lot of cleaning got done that night.”
You fire another question before he can, “How quick did you cum?” He laughs lightly as he responds,“Very quick, as is the standard. Yourself?”
You retort easily, parroting him with a shrug as he puts another card down, “I didn’t, as is the standard.”
“Tragic.” He groans in genuine sympathy, and you say, “I wasn’t expecting to, honestly. Didn’t with anyone else for a while after that, either.” You press him for more, “Come on music man, you gotta give me more details!”
With a roll of his eyes and a fond smile, he regales you with his less than glorious origin story. He tells you about this girl he had a crush on for a few months, and then out of nowhere she finally noticed him. They hung out and then went for a late night drive. Before they knew it, they ended up in an empty parking lot and it happened. He remembers how she kept her skirt and knee-high boots on but nothing else, running her fingers through his hair while riding him. He admits that yeah, he came pretty fast, but he focused on her while he recovered. They went for another round that went better.
“Bet you lasted a whole minute longer for that second round.” You tease with a grin but admit, “Still pretty hot, though.”
Erik snickers and retorts affectionately, “Yeah, of course you would think that, cuck. So go on, tell me all about yours.”
You proceed to fill him in, not nearly as much build up needed on your end. You briefly talk about the party, flirty banter included. Then there were a few weak attempts at cleaning, but eventually you both fell onto the couch and made out before getting naked. “The guy was a good friend, and an okay kisser. He made sure I was comfortable, and listened to me, making it as painless an experience as possible, thankfully. We didn’t hook up again, but that was fine.”
“I cannot stress this enough, that is tragic.” He gravely reiterates. He can’t really picture you back then, meek and inexperienced, not knowing what you want let alone going after it with that ferocity that rivals his own. Erik supposes everyone has to start somewhere; Lord knows he wasn’t a pro straight out the gate.
You pipe up with, “So we can agree that the first time is never good, right? So riddle me this; When was the first time it was actually good for you?”
“The first time it was actually good, eh?” He repeats, and you confirm, “Yeah. When was it noteworthy; like legitimately really enjoyable.”
He starts with, “You know, I would have to say it was honestly the first time I actually got to go down on a chick–” You cut him off with a shocked gasp, “You didn’t go down on the first girl you fucked?”
“The car definitely was not ideal conditions for eating pussy, so fingering had to fucking do, okay?! Now, can I finish?” He asks, brow comically creased in annoyance, and you giggle, “Yes, okay. I’m sorry, sorry! Just can’t imagine a time when you weren’t on your knees practically drooling and ravenous for pussy. But, go on.”
He says, “It was summer, and this girl and I were getting hot and heavy outside a drive-in movie theatre, the car seats pulled back this time. She looked me in the eyes and the way she asked me to go down on her just made me want to so badly. So I jumped at the chance, really.” You listen intently as he continues, “The taste was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. Not to mention the reactions I got from her were so hot. God, and the sex after was crazy. I was hooked on that feeling; so wet and sensitive; It was addicting.”
You eat the story up with gusto much like Erik’s eating out, spilling a dramatic gasp at the admission. “The cunnilingus connoisseur caper, my God! You could make that a movie, and it’d be my favourite flick to date.”
“Jesus, you’d own it on Blu-ray and everything, wouldn’t you? Damn, it’s times like these that remind me why your nickname is Freak.” He shakes his head, smirking as he turns the tables on you, “Okay, so what about you?”
You know just what to say, “Well, there was this guy in college. Yeah, I’d say the hookups I had with him were the first time sex began to feel genuinely good for me.”
“Was he a boyfriend or a one-night stand?” He asked with a quirk of his brow, and you say with a laugh, “Neither, actually. He was my first friend with benefits. We screwed around for a few months.”
Huh. Funny how that notion didn’t even cross Erik’s mind until just now. It’s as if the fact that he certainly wasn’t the only friend with benefits you’ve ever had just eluded him. He knew logically that you’ve had sex with other people and probably casual hook-ups or one-night stands, the same way he has. However, a dedicated friend with benefits is not your run-of-the-mill arrangement, now is it? Maybe he’s just curious because he is your current friends with benefits. He’s sure a few more details will help put this distorted picture into focus and quell his curiosity, at least that’s what he tells himself to quell the odd gnawing in his gut.
Before he could question his own mental state, he’s already asking, “What was so great about this guy?”
You pause at his words, feeling slightly awkward as you ask, “Uh, are you sure you want more details?” He asks incredulously, “Uh yeah, you asked for more of the gory details of my ‘pussy-eating origin story’, so why wouldn’t I do the same for your ‘sexual awakening story’?”
“I dunno, isn’t it, like, gauche to talk about one of your old fucks with your current one?” You tease, and he scoffs, “Haven’t we already been doing that? I think I can handle it, Freak. Are you gonna answer the question or not?”
You supposed that you did start this whole thing, it’s only fair to give him what he wants at this point. If Erik says he can handle it, you just need to trust him. With that, you concede. “Well, he was the first person I realized sex didn’t have to be this intimidating, serious act; That it could be fun. No complicated emotions or drama. Just sex. With him, it wasn’t a performance, it was just two people getting nasty but having fun with it!” After a moment, you divulge casually, “He was also the first person apart from myself to make me cum.”
Now that was unexpected.
Erik’s answer was much more simple; Honest yes, but simple all the same. The first time he’d considered any sex he had to be noteworthy was nowhere near as complicated as yours. He must admit, it did somewhat suit you from what he knows about you. You are an unapologetic, go-getter who is less concerned with outside opinions on your own life. You are taking another sip of your sangria, and now he isn’t as fussed about playing UNO with this new nugget of information you just graced him with. He was wrong, asking his follow-up question did little to quell his curiosity. In fact, it just made it more persistent and ravenous. He doesn’t even try to question this hyperfixation on the finer details of your sexual past. It’s to figure out more about you, he tells himself as he carries on with his line of questioning, “How did that happen?”
“Oh now you want my origin story, hm?” You ask as you place your glass back down, he says quickly, “Obviously I can’t be the only one bearing my fucking soul here.”
“You haven’t been the only one sharing, drama queen, but alright then. So, me and the guy-” You start, but he cuts in, thinking a name might shed some light on this guy’s character, which shouldn’t matter but it does to him in that moment, “Who issss?”
“Me and Brody…” You start over with a sigh, filling in the blank. God he wants to roll his eyes and all he’s heard so far is his name, thinking bitterly, “Fucking Brody? Yuck.”
“Anyway, we met in freshman orientation, gravitated to each other ‘cause we didn’t know anyone; Just a very obvious ‘new to college and away from home for the first time’ kind of bond. But we actually really got along.” You continue to tell him, “In our second semester that year we were having drinks, and talking about how stressed we were. Deep in to the talk, we got to this point-”
You remember that conversation well. You explain that you were both hanging out in your dorm room. Your roommate was out and you were both lounging on your bed, lamenting your sexual frustration when he had an idea. What if you just messed around with each other? You both were desperate for experience, had things, decidedly kinky things, you wanted to do and wanted to work out what you liked and disliked sexually. I mean why not? You were both attracted to each other and single. It seemed like a no-brainer. And so, you laid out a few ground rules: listen to each other, be honest with each other, give good feedback and pass zero judgment. The story is not even that explicit, but the vague synopsis is enough to grind Erik’s gears for some reason. Why should he care what you did years ago with some random guy. It’s not like Erik’s expecting all of your experiences before him to be horrible. That would make him a massive hypocrite, but he’s clearly just losing sight of the main goal of this conversation which is to learn more about you, not about Brantley, Benji or whatever-his-name-is.
“So you and this Bradley guy agreed to help each other sexually experiment?” He throws down another card, the first one he has in the last five minutes, and you clarify, “Brody. And, basically yeah, purely for experience’s sake. Long term; we didn't want to totally suck for our future serious partners, and short term; we wanted to relieve our own sexual tension.”
He can only imagine and, unfortunately, he’s in too deep to not imagine it. “And apparently it worked like a charm.”
You admit, “Not at first, but we were a well oiled machine fairly quickly. I cannot tell you how much I needed the release. We both did, really.”
You needed it… At some point in your life, you turned to a ‘Brody’ to help you out. Were the pickings at your college that slim? Fuck, that realization felt like an elephant sitting on his chest. He could have put an end to this conversation right then, he should have thought better of pressing you for more, but he just pushes and pushes his luck it seems, “Oh yeah?”
You give him a slightly curious look; It feels like you’re going too far, but maybe you’re overthinking it? So instead, you chose to proceed with caution, focusing on your growth from the experience. “He let me give him so much head. I spent afternoons figuring out my deep throating technique on him. And on his end, fingering? The difference was like night and day by the time we stopped hooking up.”
Why is this so hard to hear? What is wrong with him? He asks what might be his stupidest question yet, “And he was really the first guy to make you cum?”
With a bright smile, you laugh and Erik internally sighs in relief. He didn’t seem to make any waves with that one, luckily. You respond, “Yes, he really was. See, here’s the best way I can explain this: You, and I assume most guys, cum like every time you hook up with someone, right?”
“Basically.” He admits with a shrug, and you continue, “Yeah, well us vulva owners? We’re not so lucky, unfortunately.” You are quick to clarify, “I had sex with like three people before Brody, and none of them even got me close. Having sex with someone who not only listened, but actually wanted to get me off for the sole purpose of my genuine enjoyment, and not to inflate his ego was a complete game changer!”
He’s not an idiot, this all makes sense to him. Erik doesn’t care you’ve fucked other people. He’s been around the block more than a few times and fucked plenty of people in his time before you, and he doesn’t expect everyone you’ve been with to pale in comparison to his sexual prowess; Far from it. Even if Brody was one of the good ones, who is he to judge? He would never slut-shame you, he loves your unabashedly fiery sexuality, so why is it so hard to think about Brody and you without feeling like he’s being shoved into an active volcano? In the midst of his internal debate, Erik manages to top his last question with an even more ridiculous one, making him question his sanity. “How did he make you cum that first time?”
“After we finalized our arrangement, we gave it a go, deciding there was no time like the present, ya know. We made out pretty heavily, then he got a hand between my thighs and between kisses I gave some direction. And that’s when it happened.” Despite the admittedly tame details, your answer doesn’t clear the fog in his mind, but instead makes it worse.
So his first time fooling around with you, Brody managed to achieve what all your previous partners couldn’t. And he even managed to improve so well during your time together that it was, and he quotes, “Like night and day.” How good did he get, exactly? How many times did he finish you off before your clothes were even fully off? How often did Brody kiss you breathless? Did you let him mark up your skin so much you had to cover up the hickies for class the next day? Did you let him fuck you raw as well?
Before he can ask another mind-altering question, with a thoughtful hum, you tell him, “I think what did it, as well, was the feeling of… Security. Privacy. I mean with all of the high school shenanigans, there was always the fear of getting caught that loomed over our heads. I didn’t find perceived exhibitionism hot back then like I do now, so fully letting go was, like, impossible.”
What’s gotten into him? What is wrong with him? You are being earnest and vulnerable with him. You’re recounting your experiences and exploring your initial struggle with sexual satisfaction, how you navigated that, and how you figured yourself out; in college no less; fucking years ago. Why is he struggling to concentrate on you right now, like he’s been doing the entire night? Is the heat creeping in from an open window somewhere? His body is boiling hot. Then his limbs felt heavy, and his breathing feels strained, like he just cannonballed fully clothed into a scalding sauna.
Before he can stop himself, something else claws it’s way up his throat to torture him further as he retorts through gritted teeth, “Anything else notable to say about dear old Brody?” You offer, unaffected by his awkward demeanour, “Nothing too glamorous, really. He was pre-med, played hockey, was in a frat–”
Erik realizes then and there that he fucking hates this guy. He laser focuses on the last piece of information before it is even fully out of your mouth, “What fraternity?”
“I dunno, fucking Alpha Kappa, who gives a shit? All I know is that the parties were fun.” You laugh, and he forces out a weak chuckle in return. On the inside, his mind conjures the image of you and the douchey jock, and wannabe doctor, laughing it up at some frat party and that threatens to fry the last strands of his sanity. He imagines you in some criminally short skirt, parading around the place with Brody’s arm around your waist, the pair of you drinking and dancing, before staggering back to his bed at the end of the night.
He needs to end this, now. So, he tries to skip ahead, “So what made you stop?”
You oblige him, explaining how you saw each other for the remainder of that semester, took the summer off at home, and then got back to it first semester sophomore year. It came to an end shortly before Christmas Break. Brody went on a date and told you that he may have met the girl; the one that he wanted to take to the next level. He called it off not long after, and you were fine with it, more than happy for him.
Seemingly recalling a funny memory, you chuckle and admit, “He actually felt so bad for ending it so suddenly that he got me a goodbye present.”
“A parting gift? For ending it as fuck buddies?” Erik paled at the thought of whatever it might be, and you say, “Yeah, he bought me my first vibrator. Wrote me a corny card that said ‘Since I can’t do you anymore, here’s a little something so you can do you instead.’ I think I still have it somewhere-”
“The vibrator?!” He nearly shouts in indignation, you laugh assuming he’s joking and playing along, “God no! I wore that thing out fucking years ago! I meant the card. I think I still have it.”
Filling him in further, you say, “I thanked him profusely for putting me down that path. I swear, there is a sort of magic that you tap into the first time you use a vibrator. It was under a hundred bucks; a cheap little thing, really, but it got the job done! It’s such a particular kind of sensation, and having that power in your hand; having the ability to take control of it so easily-” you sigh wistfully, “-mind-altering.”
This whole experience you’ve so kindly laid out for him was clearly significant. It shaped you into the person he knows today. Someone who would willingly send salicaceous pictures to a total stranger, start up an anonymous sexting relationship with them, and then turn that online arrangement into irl friends with benefits. Someone who is down for the kind of sexually freeing, casually devoted bond that he has gotten fairly attached to these last few months. It shouldn’t affect him this much, it’s just a piece of your past, a series of clumsy firsts that are part of growing up.
He tries to piece together his frayed strings of coherent consciousness with his favourite balm, poorly placed comedic relief, “You’re singing this guy’s praises to the heavens tonight, Freak. Why don’t you just marry the dreamboat and call it a day?”
You visibly gag in disgust, hand placed on your chest in mock offence. “Ugh, marry Brody? No way. Even IF I wanted to, which I absolutely Do Not… Someone else is beating me to the punch next spring.”
Your outwardly disgusted reaction to the notion of marrying the golden boy provides him some comfort, enough to navigate his way back to himself again. He happily takes the chance to pivot to safer waters again, “Who’s the lucky gal, then?”
“The girl he broke off our arrangement for, believe it or not. They invited me to their wedding too. Hey! Maybe you can be my date!” You say excitedly, and he is more preoccupied with the fact that not only are you still talking to Brody, but are also happily willing to go to his wedding.
“Wait, so you’re still friends with him?” He asks and you confirm, “Mhm. We live a few hours apart, but he actually has some family in town. We usually meet up for brunch when he comes to visit them.”
You still talk to him, still call him friend, and you get fucking brunch with him?! He can just picture the ridiculous affair, you talking and laughing about old times while smiling over your mimosas and french toast like you didn’t fuck each other’s brains out for months. He quiets his mind long enough to ask, “And you’re close enough to be invited to his wedding?”
Too casually for his liking, you confirm, “Yeah, totally.”
Erik’s erratic emotions are still flaring, but he manages to keep the accusation out of his tone as he asks evenly, “And it isn’t weird? Being friends with an ex?”
You dismiss him with a laugh, “Oh my God, Erik! Please! We aren’t exes. We haven’t gone on a single date. We just fucked for a few months.”
“Oh right, how could he forget. This is all making sense. Brody was the first fuck buddy you had. And now he’s the shiny new toy. Hmm, wonder how long before he’s just someone you ‘fucked for a few months’?” Erik muses to himself as you continue to explain.
“-And it isn’t weird at all. I mean, the bride to be knows our history, and she’s fine with it. In fact, she even thanked me when we all got drunk one night. Said she knew that Brody was only a pro at eating her out because of me.”
That is the most off the wall, impossible thing he’s ever heard you say. He is pretty sure only you could pull off saying something like that like it’s as easy as breathing. Before he can dig himself a deeper hole, you halfheartedly press him, “If you’re so curious, do you wanna see what he looks like, too?”
He shouldn’t. He really fucking shouldn’t, but you shouldn’t be humouring him either. So he chimes in, “Yeah, obviously.”
“Hmm alright.” You grab your phone, cards forgotten for a moment as you tap away at your screen. After the longest half a minute of his life, you turn it around to show him a picture. The picture is a selfie, featuring a younger you and Brody, clearly at a Halloween party; probably one of those frat parties you mentioned. The pair of you are in costume standing close together. He isn’t wildly handsome, nor horrifically ugly. He’s just a normal looking guy, and for some reason that irked him. Couldn’t this chucklefuck be some stupidly handsome Chad with washboard abs or maybe even an ugly toad? Would either of those images have softened the blow? He’s not so sure right now.
The casual, almost smug way he’s got an arm around you, as if it belonged there. The fact that you’re leaning into him does little to quell the tender almost painful pang in his chest. It reminds Erik of how you touch him; So natural; An easy intimacy that reinforces everything you’ve told him. You stall the runaway train that is his mind right now by commenting, “Costumes are dumb as hell, huh?”
He was so consumed by every other detail, he didn’t even notice the costumes. He gives your outfits a once-over but he still doesn’t get it. “What are you even supposed to be?”
You lean in, pointing to Brody who’s donned board shorts, flip-flops and swim goggles, complete with a snorkel. His summer attire is so out of place for October. With a coy smile, you supply, “Muff diver-” You point to yourself next. You’re clad in a ridiculously tight white and yellow dress adorned with red and orange feathers, the lollipop in your hand your only accessory. With a giggle, you give the final piece to the puzzle, “-Cock sucker.”
Finally, he lets out a genuine laugh, the absurd display breaking his internal tension instantly. He breathes out between chuckles, “Those are the fucking stupidest, most dumbass college costumes you could have come up with.”
“Eh, we wanted to match and thought it’d be fitting considering.” You defend with a shrug and tuck your phone away.
You offer after a beat, “Are you stuffed already? Because I have the ingredients to make a s’mores dip if you want?” He could do with another distraction, and a sweet one at that. But he teases you first, “More food?”
You inform him cheekily, “It’s like a third of what a sleepover is, Erik. We eat, talk, and then we add some activity to do while eating and talking.”
He relents, “Fair enough, that tracks. Yeah, that sounds great. Go ahead and make it.”
You toss your cards aside since the game was a wash, getting too caught up in your sexually adventurous conversation to continue it anyways. You pause the movie as you pipe up, “Cool, I'll get it going now.”
“I’m just gonna use the bathroom.” You both shuffle off; you to the kitchen and Erik to the bathroom.
Once he’s safely inside the bathroom, he takes a minute to decompress. He runs his hands through his hair before letting them slowly trail down his face, leaning against the sink and staring at his reflection in the mirror. What. The. Fuck. Erik? His mind flashes back to that damn photo. Why did he agree to seeing Brody? He should have known the photo you’d pick would be one of you both together. I mean it was fucking obvious how friendly you still are with him. You were friends, what did he expect? That’s just it, he wasn’t thinking, he was too busy feeling. His mind pours over all you said tonight, and the worst part is that every blank space in the narrative is now being filled with images of his own design; Of that first time Brody made you cum, for instance. Flashes of you breaking the kiss to breathlessly ask Brody to shift his fingers inside you, and then of you moaning louder when he complies.
His mind is rich with images of you twisted up in pleasure but now that knowledge bleeds into this tortuous web his subconscious is weaving in real time. He can picture your sensitive body responding so well to Brody’s hands, shivering needily and clinging to him endearingly. Before long this expertly constructed scene has him pondering all the questions he held back from asking throughout the night. Did he even notice how your breath hitches right before you tumble over the edge, did he even realize that he got to be the first to see it? God, did he fucking appreciate it at least? More flashes come; one of you babbling happily like you do when the sex is so mind-blowingly good; another of you praising Brody for his fruitful efforts; and lastly of Brody smugly smirking at you as you admit to him with stars in your eyes, “No one’s ever made me cum before-” The words echo in his mind like a prayer, mocking him.
He feels horrible. The knots in his stomach have his soul in a vice grip as he thinks about what you could have been up to that Halloween. He imagines you and fucking Brody breaking off from the party to head upstairs so he can spread you out on the nearest flat surface to go down on you like the ‘muff diver’ he is.
Fuck, he needs to stop thinking like this.
Erik finally snaps out of his manic state enough to think clearly. He must hold onto reason, it’s the only way to claw his way back up this cliff he’s dangling from. He thinks long and hard, coming away with one plausible explanation. This all has to have stemmed from the fear of the unknown. That nagging feeling isn’t something childish like jealousy, but concern and fear that like all good things, this amazingly fun arrangement with you will end. That is the source of his sudden insecurity. You saw Brody for a few months, and you’ve been seeing him for a few months now. He’s just seeing a pattern and coming to a perfectly rational conclusion about it, that’s all. It’s the idea that you could get bored of him, or that you could meet someone you can finally settle down with like Brody did that has him in a tizzy. Simple. He could work with that.
He decides, right there in your bathroom, that from this day on, he’s going to make it his mission to become better than Brody. He vows to the determined set of blue eyes staring back at him in the mirror that he will be the best damn friends with benefits you’ve ever had, so much so that you’ll never want this arrangement to end. With a nod of finality, he steps out of the bathroom silently thanking the heavens that you’re still in the kitchen, and that he didn't take long enough to be conspicuous. He settled himself back down on the couch just before you came back out with a tray of steaming deliciously that smelled amazing.
The dip you made was extremely good. It had everything a good s’more would have; melted chocolate, gooey caramelized marshmallow, and graham crackers. With UNO abandoned and you both running out of things to do other than watch another movie, Erik attempts to clear the lingering dark clouds over his head from his bad mood. He manages to get back some semblance of normalcy by listening to your running commentary and chiming in where he could.
By the time the movie was over, you were both tired. You quickly set to work cleaning up and winding down, then moving to your bedroom to turn in for the night. In the quiet of your room, lit only by the lamp on your nightstand, you're slipping in between the sheets before you get his attention, “Hey Erik?”
He hums in question as he removes his tank top before fixing his gaze onto you. Looking into his eyes for a moment, you voice your gratitude. “Thank you for coming over tonight. I…I really appreciate you stepping up when my friends flaked like that.”
“Of course. It’s the least I could do since your friends woke up and decided that today was the day they’d totally fucking suck.” He lays down on the left side of the bed, the spot he usually takes whenever he sleeps over. He turns onto his side to keep looking at you, noticing your bodies are laying close enough that if he moved even an inch more, you’d be flush against each other. Before he can dwell on the heat of your body nearly engulfing him, you respond, “Yeah, they really did suck today. But thank you again, I mean it.”
Erik shrugs as he tells you sincerely, “It was my pleasure, honest.” You roll over to turn off your bedside lamp and now in the dark he adds on, “What are friends for?”
He reminds himself, almost reverently, before he can stop himself. “Yeah, friends. Just friends.”
Despite his body’s exhaustion from the day’s activities, his mind is restless, the remnants of his conflicting emotions about everything threatening to consume him as he attempts to fall asleep. Funnily enough, the only thing he can seem to fixate on is the gentle rise and fall of your sleeping form as your steady breaths hit his collarbone. It’s only when he turns away from you and raises the comforter up to his chin that sleep finally claims him.
A few hours later, Erik stirs awake to your still dark bedroom, his mouth as dry as sandpaper and desperately needing a drink. He pushes himself up and out of your bed as quietly as possible so as not to wake you. He quickly shuffles to the kitchen, turning on the hood light above your stove top. Then he grabs a glass out of your cabinet, filling it at the sink and chugging it down, before filling it again and repeating the action a few times. When he’s had his fill, he places the glass into the sink, flicks the light back off and drowsily makes his way back to your bedroom. The comforter and sheets are still warm when he slips back under them, since he only just left them.
Erik settles back down on his side, his back to yours, and prepares to fall back asleep in no time, since he’s tired as hell. His eyes drift shut when he feels you shift behind him, your body rolling over. He absentmindedly assumes you’re just getting comfortable when suddenly he feels your arm hook around his waist, scooting your body closer until your front is completely flush against his back.
Erik freezes. You place your hand over his heart, your legs tangling with his, and your clothed chest pressed snugly against his bare back. He feels and hears you exhale a soft pleasured sigh of happiness against his shoulder blade. Your lips brush over him in the ghost of a kiss before nuzzling into the comforting warmth of his body until he’s unsure where you end and he begins.
He listens for the tell-tale shift of your breathing to signal you’re awake, but you are still fast asleep. You probably never even woke up, he guesses. Erik lays still, now fully awake and his mind now racing with questions. The quiet hour makes that much easier for him to dwell on every little thing that pops into his skull unannounced. The loudest thought of them all is, “When was the last time I was held like this?”
He certainly can’t remember. Honestly, he never let himself admit this, but he missed it more than he thought he would. The soft comfort of your arms feels so nice, especially after everything that he’s been through mentally tonight. But at the same time, it stirs an aching longing in his chest that he’d rather not parse at three thirty in the morning.
He breathes deeply, trying to match the pace you are currently setting against his back while you sleep peacefully. As he attempts to slow his rapid heartbeat that you, had you been awake, would’ve surely felt under your hand on his chest, he briefly wonders what your actions in the throes of sleep could mean. He settles on the reasonable explanation that they most likely mean nothing at all, choosing not to overthink whether or not this is a normal thing for you. Nor does he ponder the amount of other guys you’ve done this with, pointedly ignoring the notion that Brody could have been one of them. Instead, he chooses to revel in the comfort of your warmth, making the conscious effort to be present in this soft moment with you. Now he embraces the quiet, no lingering thoughts to ruin it as he basks in the feeling of you spooning him on your bed; in your room; hours before you need to get up.
This time, with how comfortable your spooning made him, sleep overtakes him with surprising ease. He gradually wakes, roused by the feeling of your fingers skating over his skin and running through the patch of hair on his bare chest. He looks down to see your moving fingers, nails still freshly painted and shiny black, and then his own hand splayed on the sheets pooling at his waist.
At that moment, his first thought of the day formed, “We match.”, the quiet observation calming some deeper part of him he can’t quite pinpoint.
Alright, no more dwelling. The vow he made to himself in the safety of your bathroom coming to the forefront of his mind once again. He is going to be the best friend with benefits you ever had. Erik is going to blow fucking Brody out of the water.
Erik speaks first, “Morning.” You sigh sleepily, your fingers still traveling along his chest, “Good morning.”
“Sleep well?” He inquires, and you agree, “I did, I passed out hard. You?”
He only half lies when he states, “Well enough.” He lays with you for as long as possible until the odd pang in his chest stirs once more, spurring him to ask, “Breakfast?’
“Hell yeah, breakfast.” He silently mourns the loss as you untangle your limbs and pull away from him. God, it hurts when you hold him and when you leave him. What the fuck is going on right now? He pipes up, “I could make something.”
You pause, looking down at him shocked before asking. “Are you being serious?”
Indeed he is, which leads you to the position you are in right now; still in your pajamas, sitting at one of the kitchen island stools, and cradling the cup of coffee he just made you. Your eyes are fixed on Erik, his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips as he moves about the kitchen, surrounded by the ingredients you helped him pull out, and making pancakes. It's quite a sight to behold. He claims that these pancakes are not just any pancakes; that they’re, “-cinnamon bun pancakes. The best you will ever have.”
“You know how to make cinnamon bun pancakes?” You ask skeptically, and he says, “I do. A specialty of mine, you could say. See, my dad always told me that you should know how to make a few things to get by, right?”
The logic makes sense, so you nod, “Right.”
“But on top of that, you should know how to make ONE thing for each meal of the day really well. This is my showstopper breakfast, I make this the best.” He concludes. You respond as he’s whisking the batter, “Well, your dad sounds like he’s very smart.”
Erik assures you that he is. As he continues to make his ‘showstopper’ breakfast, he divulges how the tradition got started. His parents would sometimes go on overnight trips; date nights, weekenders, and anniversaries when he was old enough to be in charge of watching his siblings. And every time, they'd ask for a pancake breakfast. He conceded and regular pancakes are good but he figured he could do better. And thus, the ‘cinnamon bun pancakes’ were born.
“I still get asked to make them constantly, by the way. They make every excuse under the sun to get me to, really.” He sighs, and you press, “Like what?”
He is measuring out the cinnamon as he explains, “Okay, perfect example from this summer. Bobby comes into my room on the morning of July 27th announcing, ‘Hey Erik! Did you know July 27th is International Pineapple Day?!’”
“I didn’t even know that.” You admit, and he responds, tipping a tablespoon of cinnamon into a secondary bowl, “Well, it is. And Bobby thought that was a good enough ‘holiday’ to request my showstopper pancakes that morning.”
You set your mug back down as you laugh, worried you’d spill it if you didn’t. “So I said ‘Bobby, if it’s International Pineapple Day, shouldn’t we, oh I dunno eat some fucking pineapple instead of cinnamon bun pancakes?’”
“And what did he have to say to that?” You ask with a smile and Erik responds, “He was all like ‘uhhh I mean, Man can’t just live on pineapples alone, right?’” Shaking his head over the amusing memory as he continues, “I told him if he agrees to go buy some pineapple for us to eat later, then I’d believe he was serious about fucking International Pineapple Day.”
“Did he do it?” You ask, leaning on your elbows with your hands under your chin, totally enthralled. Erik retorts, “He did, and then I made the damn pancakes.”
He’s heating up the frying pan when you ask a very important question, “How was the pineapple?”
With a sideways glance, he admits, “Pretty fucking good, actually.”
The whole ordeal is very sweet. In fact, Erik has been pretty sweet recently. From wanting to salvage your night and giving you a mind-blowing experience with ‘The Beast’, to indulging your favoured sleepover activities and now making his special pancakes for you right now. You watch the light shine off your black nails drumming against the counter, and then on Erik’s matching nails as he flips the pancakes.
You think about the conversation you had last night over UNO as well. You hadn’t planned on talking about Brody, and it’s been a minute since you’ve really thought about him. Then again, you’ve been so caught up with all the fun you and Erik are having recently. But still, getting to be open and candid about what a positive experience that was with Erik was pretty nice. However, it has gotten you thinking, namely about the fact that things with Erik are so much better than they ever were with Brody. From a sexual standpoint, Erik runs laps around Brody, no question about it; but from an emotional standpoint, you feel like Erik is an even better listener, and a kick-ass friend.; One that you find yourself missing when you’re apart and wishing the times you spent together would last just a little bit longer. There is something else as well; an ineffable feeling that pops up every so often, that you’ve been struggling to pin down and define.
As you watch him work, your mind wanders, thinking about how nice it is having him here. You feel like you can trust him with nearly anything and rely on him whenever you need him and you don’t want this feeling to end-
Suddenly, the first plate of freshly made pancakes is placed in front of you. It pulls you from your thoughts, and onto the sweet smile Erik is giving you right now. Shit, you had gotten so caught up in your thoughts that you completely lost track of time while he was cooking.
He prompts with a tilt of his chin and a quirk of his brow, “Well go on, fucking dig in. Don’t wait on me. Gotta eat ‘em while they’re fresh.”
He watches in anticipation as you pick up your cutlery before cutting into the small stack of steaming, and frankly, amazing looking pancakes. You bring your first bite up to your mouth to taste the fruits of his labor, and holy shit. The pancakes are thick, blissfully warm and soft cakes that are absolutely bursting with flavor. They have this sort of crunchy brown sugar and cinnamon swirl studded throughout that gives them a texture, reminiscent of a real cinnamon bun, and topped with sweet melting icing instead of syrup. You release a genuinely delighted moan as you chew. You exclaim behind the hand covering your full mouth, “What the fuck? You could make these this whole time?”
He returns to the stove to make his own pancakes, letting out a laugh before retorting, “Now you know how I felt about your secret bartending skills.”
“I apologize, thoroughly. I’ll get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness later. After these are done.” You waste no time cutting into your pancakes again, desperate for more, and before long you devour them.
The rest of breakfast passes by easily, the routine ebbs and flows of conversation naturally passing between you as you proceed to destroy your respective plates of pancakes, and he whips up another plate that you split.
After breakfast, you tag team the dishes. Before you know it, Erik’s dressed and you see him out the front door, but not before hugging and thanking him again for coming over. Once he leaves, you decide to clean up the remnants of last night’s activities. As you gear up to do laundry, you find yourself thinking about Erik again and all that transpired between you. Your mind pours over how hard you came, the sex afterwards, then dinner. You find yourself laughing over the movie commentary and deeper conversations you had, something you’ve been doing a lot today. You’ve also been fixated on how much closer you feel to Erik after last night. Your mind drifts to the look in his eyes and the smile on his face as he held your hand in his and carefully painted your nails. You recalled his offer to help collaborate on your tattoo, the feeling of you cuddling with him in your bed, and how happy he looked while making you his showstopper pancakes.
Then, all of a sudden it hits you. The feeling can be best described as a glass shattering moment. No matter what you do now, it can’t be avoided, nor can it be fixed or altered in its current state. The dam of feelings welling up inside you has far too many cracks in the concrete, and the immense pressure of this realization is threatening to burst it wide open.
After pondering your thoughts about Erik and your time together, the feelings seeping through the dam in your heart have proven too great to ignore, and only one simple fact remains; These feelings you have for Erik are anything but platonic.
They are far too intense, burning far too brightly and vibrantly to be anything other than infatuation. You don’t just care for Erik as a friend or a fuck buddy, you have spun out into uncharted territory now. With Brody there was a line you never crossed, there was never any real emotion there, just baser needs and the love of having a good time. With Erik, however, there had always been more, just in increments. Cooking for each other, cuddling with each other, ongoing texts, calls, and even fucking routine sleepovers!
Somewhere along the way, this casual fucking had developed into something you never thought possible, but now it’s clear as day.
You are, without a doubt, falling for Erik Campbell.
Casually Devoted. Part Three. "Finding The Groove." Erik Campbell X FEM! Reader.
Hello, hello, hello! Part three of Casually Devoted, which has its own series Masterlist now because this train isn’t stopping quite yet. I have already started part four, I am unwell. I hope everyone is excited and into this newest update! A huge shout-out once again to @28bohemianmoons once again for being my beta, this would not be what it is without her and all her efforts and I MEAN that. The editing process took some real time but I think this is much better for it and your patience is very appreciated. The playlist I feature in this fic is real and I made it myself, it can be found here.
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Rating. Explicit. Length. 10.9K. Erik Campbell X FEM!Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Banter. Alcohol Consumption. Dirty Talk. Sex Toy Use. Edging. Orgasm Denial. Cum Eating. Hair Pulling. Mild Dom/Sub Dynamics. Pillow Fight. Semi-Public Sex. Exhibitionist Reader. Cream Pie. Some Softness. Some Beginnings Of Feelings? Watch Out! The Idiots Are Being Idiots.
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The afternoon sunlight is pouring in from the break room window, bathing you and the lunch spread in front of you in a soft, warm light. You are chatting with Erik on your lunch break at work, your phone cradled in your shoulder as you leisurely pick at your food. He’s currently rambling to you about a new game releasing in a few days, and how excited he is to play it. You were familiar with the game, having enjoyed playing an earlier installment in the franchise. You casually suggest playing the game together if he was interested, the offer rolling off your tongue without a second thought.
Erik jumps on the offer immediately. You’d previously agreed that you should have another sleepover, a planned one for a change, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.
He enthusiastically accepts, “We totally should. I already have off the day after it comes out. We can stay up late and play.”
You love the idea. You exclaim, “I’m very down!” before lightly probing, “So, does this mean I am finally going to get to come over to your place?”
He sucks his teeth audibly and winces. That isn’t a good sign. You ask, “What?”
He sighs, “I guess this was gonna come up at some point-” He pauses, taking a breath as if bracing himself for what he is about to say, “-but I am kinda still living with my parents at the moment. Not exactly by choice. But I’m working on it… So, for now, my place is out.”
You absorb his admission for a second before concluding, “Good thing I live alone… Guess you’ll just have to drag your console to my place.”
After all the details are hammered out, the plan is decided; and you are excited to have him over. The game releases a few days later; and the day after, your long awaited gaming session is about to officially commence. Alerted by the chirp of your phone on the kitchen counter, you see a text notification. Erik just let you know he’s on his way. You concisely respond, “Door’s unlocked, come on in.”
Within a half hour, the front door swings open, signalling his arrival. His voice carries over the threshold as he enters, “Hey, I’m here!”
“I’m in the kitchen!” You call back.
You hear the sound of the door closing; followed by him kicking off his shoes, then his footsteps echo down the hall towards you. You turn your head to see him stepping into the doorway of the kitchen, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. You greet him, “Hi.” He sets down his bag as he questions, “Yeah. Hi. You bake?”
You are standing in front of a bowl on the counter, rolling another handful of dough into a ball with your messy, sticky hands. With a smile, you place the finished cookie ball down next to the others you’ve made, spacing them out evenly on the lined baking sheet. You joke easily, “I do lot more things besides working, listening to the playlists you send me, and fucking you.”
Erik enters the kitchen and comes over to you, watching you work with interest. He rolls his eyes playfully, “I know that!” He adds in feigned amazement, “You film yourself jerking off and send it my way, too. You have a rich, full life.”
You turn your head and look him in the eyes as you say affectionately, “You know me so well.” Returning to your task, placing the last ball of cookie dough on the baking sheet. Walking around him and over to the sink, you wash your hands, explaining, “I thought it wouldn’t hurt to add some extra treats to the snacking rotation for our extended gaming sesh.”
He sits at one of the stools at the bar and says, “You are so thoughtful.”
“I know.” You dry your hands and come back to the oven. You slide the baking sheet inside, then close the oven door. You pick up the nearby plate of the still warm batch you baked earlier. Holding it out, you offer it to him, “Here.”
Erik takes one, and you watch his curious expression as he takes a bite. His expression shifts in an instant to one of unrestrained surprise. He covers his mouth with one hand as he says, “Oh my God.”
You grin, “Right?” It never gets old seeing someone react so strongly to your baking efforts; It is a true joy. You say, “Come on, let’s get the console set up. I assume you’ll need to install the game first and download some stupid launch day update”
You take a cookie for yourself, and he picks up a handful this time, despite the half-eaten one still in his other hand. He nods as he gestures over his shoulder with his head. While plopping the rest of said cookie into his mouth, he asks, “Living room?”
His question was so muffled by the cookie he was munching on, that you couldn’t help but laugh and scold him with a shake of your head, “My fucking God! Finish chewing, you animal! No one is gonna take it away from you, I promise. And yes, the living room.”
Setting up doesn’t take long; Erik found space for the console on your tv stand and began hooking it up. Meanwhile, you gather nearly all the pillows and blankets you own and haul them to the couch to make things more comfy. While the game is busy installing, Erik unpacks some of his stuff, and you pull out all your take-out menus to decide on what to order. You settle for Chinese this time. Now all that’s left to do is to wait for food, have some drinks and play for a good few hours.
As you both finally sink into the couch, Erik speaks up, “Thanks for letting me come over.”
You shrug, telling him, “Course. We were overdue for another sleepover.”
He lingers for a moment, deliberating on what he wants to say next. Eventually, he sighs and simply settles for, “And uh, thanks for not giving me shit about my living situation.”
Huh, you never thought twice about it, honestly. You assure him, “Why would I do that? I get you have your reasons, and you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
He starts, “You’d be surprised. Some people hear that I’m back at home, and they-”
You cut him off, “Joke about it? Look, I know we have this fun, humorous little dynamic going on, but even I’m aware not all things are fair game to poke fun at.”
He doesn’t say anything more, nor does he look at you, instead he chooses to focus on the beer bottle in his hand. However, his soft, grateful smile tells you he appreciates your words.
You both welcome the comfortable silence that permeates the room.
A knock at the door breaks the sentimental moment, and you pull yourself from the comfort of the couch to retrieve your food.
You eat and chat until the game is finally ready to play. Now the night can really kick off. Two more empty beer bottles are set on the coffee table among the cartons of remaining fried rice and egg rolls. The controller trades hands at different intervals while laughs and light jabs at one another get thrown out every once in a while. You fall into easy conversation as you both get more and more into the game. This is without a doubt one of the best hangouts you have had together.
You reach a good stopping point and take a small break. There is a lull in conversation, so you ask, “So. Am I ever gonna get the chance to come over? Like at all?”
He looks up from his phone and tells you, “Yeahhh, I dunno if that’s a good idea.”
“No?” You question. Erik tilts his head and tries to explain, “No matter what I do or say, if I bring you over… with my family? Oh, the accusations would be fucking flying. They’d be convinced you’re my girlfriend, hands down.”
You can picture it all too clearly: Coming over, being introduced as his friend and having to hear things like, “Oh, I’m sure she is” or “Mhm, Sure”. It plays out in your head like an obnoxious highlight reel. Being made to sit through an uncomfortable amount of jokes and accusations. You and Erik would refute them every time, and they would eventually relent, or so it would seem. The conversation would somehow circle back to your relationship status again and again, with no sign of stopping. The very thought of willingly risking the perfectly good arrangement you two have is enough to happily decide to pass on it altogether.
Pulled from your thoughts, you tell him, “Ooof yeah, okay. Maybe not.”
Erik starts by saying, “Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but that’s what families do, right? Give you a hard time about that kinda thing.” Next, he promises, “Trust me, I am saving you from an afternoon of torture.”
You get up, pick up the empty bottles off the coffee table and chime in, “I am truly grateful. Want another beer?”
He seems relieved by the subject change, “Yes, thanks.”
When you return with two fresh bottles, you pass one over. He takes it, and you wait until he takes a sip before asking, “Hey, did you bring your fleshlight?”
He nearly chokes on that sip, making you laugh so hard you fall back beside him on the couch. While you are still giggling, he clears his throat and answers as evenly as he can manage, “Yes, I brought it just like you asked, freak.”
You take a sip and nod, swallowing before you say, “You know, I realized something. Whether you meant to or not, you’ve made that my nickname.”
He turns to face you better as he asks, “What?”
You elaborate, “I call you music man, right? Well, the only thing you call me other than my name…is freak. Affectionately of course." You nudge his knee with yours. Erik considers your words then admits, “Shit, you’re right.”
“It’s better than the first thing you called me.” You say breezily, and his brow creases in worry, “Oh God, I can’t remember. What was that again?”
“You called me a cuck! Because I asked about the bathroom hook-up you had in that bar!” You exclaim. You swear you can see the gears turning in his mind as he responds, “Ooooh yeah, that’s right.”
Your bottle rises to your mouth as you assure him, “Lucky for you, I like freak, it’s apt.”
He gives you a dubious look as he questions in disbelief, “Seriously?”
Confessing, you tell him, “Something about the tone you say it in makes it okay.”
Erik starts tapping at his phone as he says, “Ah, See? Now this is why I call you a freak. Only a freak would like that shit. I’m changing your contact name right now.”
He turns the phone screen towards you and shows your updated contact; it does in fact say “Freak.” Your eyes focus on the picture he’s assigned to it. It was one of the few non-nude pictures you’ve sent him. You are outside, fully dressed with your sunglasses on, gripping a slushie and toasting the camera. It’s a nice picture, and the fact that he chose this one out of all the pictures you’ve sent him, is actually pretty sweet.
“Have fun explaining that to your family next time I call you.” You joke as he turns his phone back. The mental image of someone seeing that picture with the name “Freak” above it is comedy gold.
He smiles as he confidently snarks, “It will be fiiiine. I’ll handle it with quiet dignity and grace. If it ever happens, that is.”
You hum in halfhearted agreement before taking another sip of your beer, the night continuing in stride.
After four months of getting to know each other, you and Erik have been slowly developing a comfortable, casual intimacy. Now, you usually find yourselves naturally leaning on, wrapping your arms around, or even resting your legs on each other. It has easily become one of your favourite things to stem from your relationship, well aside from the mind-blowing sex you have.
A few hours into your gaming session, Erik’s sitting up with you lying down next to him, your head resting against one of his thighs. Your hand is sifting through a bag of chips while you watch him fuck up this boss fight for the fifth time in a row.
Eyes locked on the screen, you tell him flatly, “You’re shit.”
His character gets punched again, with a quarter of their health bar left. He scoffs, trying to keep his composure as he responds, “Shut the fuck up, I’m not shit.”
You sigh, watching in boredom when his character is grappled then swiftly slammed into the ground, again. Choosing to ignore his earlier remark, you reiterate in a blasé tone, “Sooo shit.”
His button mashing intensifies as he defends himself again, frustrating leaking into his slightly raised voice, “Fucking stop it-”
You cut him off with a shrug, “Stop being so shit, and I’ll stop.” Punctuating your sentence with the crunch of a chip. He curses and tosses the controller as his character gets ragdolled into a wall and the death screen flashes once again. You laugh, exclaiming, “Oh my God, that was so embarrassing!”
His chin drops to his chest to see you already looking up at him, and his brow creases in displeasure. He snaps, “How about you give it a fucking try?”
You smile easily and sit up, brushing your hands off before holding out your hand for the controller, “Finally! Gladly.”
He tuts but passes it over, sitting back, and crossing his arms as he watches you click to restart the fight. When the brief cutscene plays out and you are able to move, you implement the strategy you had been formulating in your head since his second loss. It takes less than five minutes for you to slay the boss. With a shriek, you let the controller drop into your lap, raising your hands above your head in triumph before exclaiming. “Now that is how you do it!”
“How the shit did you even do that?” He asks, sounding more than a little annoyed. You pick up the controller and start to explain as he takes the chip bag from beside you. He listens intently as you lay it out, and afterwards he insists on giving the boss another try. With an eye roll, you pass him the controller and say, “Sure, we haven’t saved yet. I am not bailing you out this time, though.”
He manages to get it on the first try this time, high-fives are exchanged, and you congratulate him. “Nice job, sixth time is the charm. I guess.”
“Oh, whatever! Next time you get stuck on a section, I am not letting you live it down.” He gives you the controller to play the next part. You make yourself comfortable and he doesn’t stop you when you rest your head on his shoulder.
It is well past two in the morning when you take another break, the controller left abandoned on the coffee table. Flirty advances sprinkled in between the laughing, chatting, and verbal thrashing fueled the sparks sizzlingly between you throughout the night. And now those sparks have been set ablaze, ending in you and Erik tangled together on the couch. You break the kiss first, intent on sharing the wicked idea you’ve been sitting on the entire night. Thankfully, he is into it.
The view is unbelievably hot, just like you thought it would be. Hell, it’s even better getting to see it live and in person. Him leaning back against the arm of the couch, shirt pulled up his stomach, and black sweatpants pulled low enough on his thighs to keep enough of his body on display. Your eyes rake over his exposed skin and that tantalizing trail leading down to the well trimmed thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You are sitting facing each other on the couch, your bodies bathed in the blue light of the game’s pause menu. Heavy breathing can be heard, along with the subtle sound of something slick. Your eyes are fixed on the source; The fleshlight gripped in Erik’s left hand. He holds it loosely, working it up and down his dick in a steady rhythm from base to tip. You watch with rapt attention as every inch of him engulfed by the soaked silicone is revealed to you, over and over again. God, you are so far gone for him.
However, you aren’t the only one enraptured by the view. His gaze is glued to the vibrator in your hand. The molded silicone humming away against your clit; Your tank top pulled up past your chest and your shorts pulled down past your legs, and hanging off one ankle. After all the videos and phone calls, this is long overdue. And yet, despite all the build up, the real thing still manages to shatter your expectations.
It starts decidedly separate, with you both slowly working yourselves up with your toys. Over the phone, there were certain limitations, so you could only go so far. Now that you are in person, your bodies are so much more accessible, and the urge to reach out and touch has never been stronger. As it turns out, you have slightly more self control than Erik because he’s the first to lean closer and reach for you. His fingers gently skim up your leg, sliding between your thighs to wrap around your hand holding the vibrator. Suddenly, he presses his hand harder against yours, increasing the pressure on your clit and forcing a louder moan out of you.
His own strokes slow significantly, more focused on playing with you at the moment, but that simply won’t do. You breathe, “Hey, no fucking fair-”
You move closer, and your opposite hand reaches out. He asks, “What?”
“You’re trying to make me cum first-” You argue as your hand grips the fleshlight, and you force him to increase his pace. He groans from the renewed stimulation, he answers you with a breathless laugh, “Uh yeah? Obviously.”
Most nights you hook up, one of you takes the lead and the other gives in, or you take turns. Apparently tonight, neither of you wants to concede control. And so, the race to see who can make the other cum first begins.
You grip the fleshlight tighter and set a rough but consistent rhythm, or at least at first. Erik’s fingers find the buttons, and he cranks the setting on your vibe, causing you to fumble. The pleasure burns brighter; the increased stimulation so abrupt that it causes your body to pitch forward, your forehead resting on his shoulder. You both relinquish control over your respective toys to each other, fully leaning into this impromptu contest. He hits another button, starts a pulse setting that makes your legs jerk.
He notices and taunts you with a half smile, “You are way too fuckin’ easy-”
He can be so annoyingly cocky, and you should hate how wet it makes you when he acts like that but it feels far too good to even consider that right now. You huff out, “I’ll show you ‘easy’.”
Your free hand reaches out and pinches one of his nipples, twisting the ring lightly. His hips buck in response, fucking into the toy on instinct. Erik releases a broken moan, and you think that you might be closer to victory.
However, this new development presents a slight problem. Every time you pull a good reaction out of him, it spikes your own arousal considerably. In other words, the better you are at pleasuring him, the hotter this all gets and the worse your situation becomes. You are damning yourself at an alarming pace, but his moaning and heavy breathing is too good. You try to focus more on him instead of the pleasure he’s giving you but despite trying everything your lust-addled brain could conjure up, you still lose. Because he is giving just as much as you are, his mouth wandering, teeth scraping over sensitive skin, and fingers sliding the toy against you with perfect pressure.
The climb sneaks up on you, but not Erik. Perhaps what gave you away was when your kisses trailed off from along his neck to just barely caress his pulse point, or maybe it was when every muscle in your body coiled tight against him. All you knew was that you are so fucked, totally doomed, and it was only a matter of time.
One minute you are handling yourself just fine, the next you’re on the razor's edge. Then out of nowhere, you’re tossed headfirst into your first orgasm of the night, losing to Erik by a wide margin to say the least.
He sounds utterly delighted at the sharp curse you release. His head pulls back as he declares his victory, “Ha, I fucking got you.”
The fleshlight slips out of your grip and onto the couch cushion as you are shuddering against him, still riding out your high. The pleasurable spasms are mind melting. You are barely managing to pant out, “Fuh-fuck you.”
He sounds completely amused as he teases you, “Maybe after you cum again.”
Erik’s fingers find the buttons once more, and he turns it up another level, making you yelp. Your response is immediate, an embarrassingly broken moan leaves you as your back arches. His mouth is on your shoulder and the vibe on your cunt is humming fiercely, and you are fighting for your life to not drown in sensation. This will not do, you are not cumming again when he’s not cum once. Somehow you rally and find your strength, your hand flying between you to snatch the toy from him. You switch it off and toss it to the opposite side of the couch. He laughs, “Awe, no overstimulation this time?”
You pick up the fleshlight with one hand, your other coming to rest on his chest. You push him back so he is resting on the back of the couch. “Yeah, sorry. Not tonight.”
You choose to ignore the mild trembling of your legs and carry yourself with confidence. You swing one leg over, perching on his thighs, and finally gaining control of the situation. One of your hands grips the base of him, holding him steady as you line him up with the soaked entrance of the fleshlight. You slide it down onto him, earning a throaty moan. You tell him, “You won, so just relax. Let me take care of you now.”
“Ohh-kay.” He breathes as he sinks further into the couch cushions. He doesn’t argue further.
You have been wanting to do this for so long, and it’s better than you imagined. You can’t blame him for getting so swept up just now, but you might let it go to your head a bit. You slide the toy up and down, hastening and slowing the pace as you see fit. You slam it all the way down and then twist, pulling it up as you do. The suction on this thing is incredible, taking a decent amount of force to pull it up again. The sounds that slip out as you fuck him with the sleeve are wet, obscene, and totally pornographic. You watch every reaction as the toy swallows his shaft up. His head tips back, lips parted, breathing wrecked by your hand.
His skin is flush with pleasure when he gasps out, “Holy shit, yes-”
You don’t let up, you are intent on ruining him the same way he did to you and so far, it’s not a hard task. You can tell how close he is by the way he bites his lip and swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing deliciously. You hear the hitch of his breath, his eyes fall closed, and that is the moment you stop. A full five seconds pass before his eyes open up, confused, “What the fuck? Why’d you stop?”
Your hand that isn’t holding the toy slips behind his head, your fingers tangling into his hair and tugging. You ask him condescendingly, “You want to cum, yeah?”
He winces slightly from the pain, but you enjoy his adorable, confused, fucked out expression. He tries to catch up after being so close to cumming, brain struggling to put two and two together. He nods slightly, responding like it should be obvious, “Yeah.”
“Figured so.” You hum, pulling the toy up slowly so just the head of his dick is encased in the tight and dripping wet channel. You pause before you drop it back down, causing him to moan. You continue, “I’m not stopping you. Fuck up into the toy if you need it so bad.”
You move upwards, painfully slow, letting the swollen head of his dick drag against all those delicious bumps and ridges inside the toy. He asks, “A-are you serious?”
Holding it still and steady, you give him a pointed look, “Yes. Very serious.” He huffs in annoyance, you tug his hair harder. You prompt him, “Come on, Erik. Work for it.”
Now he listens to you and fucks up into the toy. He breathes through gritted teeth, “You are such a bitch.”
His tone barely holds any bite, clearly enjoying this.
“Yeahhh, I think you like it, though.” You lean in, your mouth mere inches from his, and your eyes locked with his half lidded ones. His silence speaks volumes as he continues to rock upwards into the sleeve. It’s not long until he’s getting close again, frustration melting away. He’s unable to stifle his moaning now, panting softly. You pull the toy up and off of him, a near whine slips out before he can stop it. He schools it quickly, shifting to anger instead as he curses, “Fuck.”
You heard it all the same, but you don’t call attention to it. He tries to arch his hips to slide back into the toy, but you move it higher. The anger he felt is soon overshadowed by his burning need. He looks up at you, bottom lip shiny and eyes full of want. He utters your name, paired with a quiet, “Please?”
That is all you needed to hear. You bring it back down, the toy swallowing him up once more, again and again, without stopping. He works with you, fucks up as you slam down. A breathless chant more akin to a prayer leaves him, “Yes, yes, God. Please, don’t stop-”
He sounds too good, and you’ve been mean enough. You don’t break stride, closing the gap and kissing him. He tips over the edge, cumming deep into the toy, shuddering from the intensity of his delayed climax. He leans into the kiss with a groan and you deepen it, your tongue slipping into his mouth. You pull back when his shivering subsides to let him catch his breath.
After a minute, you ask, “How was that?” He exhales through his nose amused, he rolls his eyes, “You need a rating?”
You half shrug, letting go of his hair, “Naturally. Now don’t let this influence your decision, but tonight I’d give you a five out of five.” You climb off of him, getting on your knees between his legs. He starts to argue, “Cheap tactic! If I rate lower, I look like a total douche.”
“Your words, not mine.” He hisses from the overstimulation as you lift the toy off of him. You watch intently as the mess spills back out onto his softening dick, your eyes following every sticky strand. The urge to taste him ever present and not altogether irrational, given the view.
Still you rationalize, “waste not, want not”, before leaning in and cleaning up the excess with your mouth. He inhales sharply from the direct and unexpected stimulation, but he doesn’t stop you. He stares as you run your tongue up one side of his shaft and down the other. He makes the best expressions when you toy with him like this post orgasm. You understand why he likes overstimulating you so much, if you look half as good as he does right now. You take your time in tasting him, rolling over his piercing with purpose. Once you’ve swallowed all he had to offer, you ask, “So?”
He laughs, still reeling, “Shit, fine! Fucking five-star service.” You would hope so for being so thorough. You get up and stretch, joking, “Finally, my cum fetish is good for something.”
He cracks up at that before telling you, “It’s good for plenty. Just can’t usually do anything with it in polite company.”
The game is saved, and turned off for the night. Once the coffee table is cleared, leftovers are put away, and the toys are taken to the bathroom to be cleaned, you wind down for bed. You both fall asleep shortly after.
Gentle light shines in from the break in the curtains as you wake up before your alarm. You notice Erik first, his arm around you and your back pressed to his chest. Somehow the two of you started spooning in the middle of the night. This is a first, but not unwelcome in the slightest. You let out a soft sigh, cuddling closer into the pillows and him in equal measure. You could get used to this, waking up wrapped up in him. So much so you are already dozing off again.
Your alarm blares, your hand reaches over, fumbling with the phone before finally clicking it off. Erik stirs behind you, letting out a groan, “What time is it?”
“Half past noon.” You mutter as you lay back down. Now that he is awake, you wonder what he is going to do about your close proximity. He surprises you, pulling you closer and exhaling against your neck, “Guess we should get up.”
“Yeah, in a minute.” You counter, not wanting to end this just yet. He surprises you again as he hums in agreement. As you lie there together, you think about how nice your arrangement is; Just close friends having fun, no feelings making it weird, just fucking and cuddling without a care.
Eventually you get up and Erik gladly accepts your offer to make breakfast. He sits at the bar, keeping you company as you put some coffee on, and whip up some ham-egg-n-cheese breakfast sandwiches with a side of fruit. When breakfast is served, you continue to chat. After putting the dishes in the sink, you head into the hallway, “I am gonna go for a quick shower.”
“I’ll get dressed and start packing up. I still gotta unhook the console.” He replies, and you ask, “Running off already?”
“Got a family thing later.” He says easily, before adding, “I won’t leave without saying goodbye. Besides, we have a game to finish, you’ll be seeing me again soon.”
Satisfied with that, you go for your shower. When you are fully dressed, you come back out to the kitchen afterwards, he is fully dressed and has his bag packed. Biggest shock of all, he’s putting your pan on the drying rack. He looks over his shoulder and greets you, “Hey. Nice outfit.”
You smile at the compliment, and notice that he isn’t looking too bad himself. You like the open short-sleeved collared shirt he has over his black tank top, some actual colour for once. Coming closer, you notice that the kitchen has been cleaned up. You could mention it, but you opt instead to say, “Same to you, nice shirt. Go tigers.”
His brow quirks, he looks down at the aforementioned tigers on his shirt. He laughs, “Yeah sure, tigers are cool.”
He washed all your dishes, including the mixing bowl from last night’s baking. How nice of him. You have just the thing to show your appreciation. You rummage through the cupboard and pull out a small tupperware container, depositing a few of the leftover cookies in it.
“Thanks for breakfast, by the way.” He finishes his last mouthful of his coffee, he rinses the mug out and sets it aside. “Hate to run so soon, but seriously I’ll text you later.”
“No worries, thanks for coming over. It was really fun.” You say, and he agrees. He picks up his bag, and you walk him out. Once he has his shoes on, you put the packed cookies into his hand. “For the road.” You tell him. He grins as he takes them and asks, “Is this an apology for you being such a bitch last night?”
“Pffft more of a thank you for doing the dishes, but sure, let's go with that.” You tease. Erik responds, “You’re lucky I am so forgiving.”
“I’ll never take it for granted.” You vow.
A quick hug is shared at the door before he leaves. You wander back into your clean kitchen, lingering at the now empty and still damp sink. You feel lighter than air and would say your second sleepover is a major success.
Erik does come by a few more times to continue playing the game when you both have the time. Despite the pleasant distractions associated with the more physical aspects of your arrangement, you beat the campaign in just a few sessions spread over two weeks' time. The game has an online mode that he can keep playing on his own or with other friends, you promise to join him sometimes if he wants.
While at work one day, you check your phone to see Erik sent along a new song that he was into, and from there you get an idea. He sends a lot of music your way, from random tracks to whole playlists he’s made for different times and moods. You think that you are long overdue to return the favour tenfold, you set to work when you get home that night.
The following day at lunchtime, Erik gets a text from you. It reads, “Hey! I made this for you last night, check it out!”
You sent a link to a playlist named ‘Fuck Me? <3’ The picture that accompanies it features a red neon sign in a dark room that reads, “Play dirty” in curly font. Oh my God, you made a playlist to fuck to, he was very nearly too excited over the idea. Earbuds are pulled out, slipped in and he clicks play.
You were laying out ingredients in your kitchen when there was a loud, sudden knock at your front door. You were confused, you weren’t expecting anyone to come over. Abandoning your current task, you make your way to the door and open it to see Erik standing there. He is holding his phone up, so the screen is facing you, the playlist you sent him is displayed. He looks unimpressed. His eyes flick briefly to his phone as he asks, “What the fuck is this?”
You lean against the door frame with a smile, barely able to suppress a laugh, “You are getting into this terrible habit of not saying hello, Erik.”
His eyebrows raise, he shakes his head and says in an offended tone, “You don’t get a hello today! I’m being serious, what is this?”
He pushes past you and comes into your apartment. He takes his shoes off, and you trail behind him as he makes his way deeper into your place. He is ranting the whole way, “I mean this is insane! You send me this playlist, the clear intent is for us to fuck to it. Thoughtful; I’m into it.”
He turns around to face you, a sharp point and his tone accusatory as he finishes his thought, “But then I start listening to it! And it is just all songs that no reasonable person would ever want to fuck to!”
Now you are the one to push past him and make your way into your kitchen. He makes his way to the stools, and you ask in an innocent tone, “Really? You don’t think the songs I picked are sexy?”
He sits down, phone still in his hand, and he says, “No, I don’t think they are! And furthermore, I don’t see how you think they could be.”
“Like which ones? Give me some examples.” You ask in as serious a tone of voice as you can muster while you reach for the flour. He pulls his phone up and starts to scroll, “Oh God there are so many, where do I start?”
He starts to run down the list in such a way that you want to double over laughing as you try to measure. Erik rants, “One Week By The Barenaked Ladies, Hey, Soul Sister by Train, Pancreas by Weird fucking Al?”
Erik drops his phone, head in his hands, “Those are just in the first ten! It just gets worse as it goes along!”
“Worse how?” You press. He lifts his head as he levels a withering look at you as he goes off again, “You included Memory from CATS! There is a song from the Shrek 2 soundtrack, that is to say nothing of the fact that Santa Baby by Micheal Buble’ made the damn cut!”
You defend yourself with a shrug.“I don’t see what is so wrong about that last one.” He deadpans, “Why are any Christmas songs making it on the fuck playlist? And forgetting that, it’s summer!”
You nearly break for a second time. Somehow you hold it together and allow the tension to build, then you ask, “So you don’t like it?”
“No! I don’t like it! Sorry to be the one to tell you, but it is totally and thoroughly un-fuckable.” Erik exclaims, and you can’t stop it, the facade cracks and you die laughing. You end up laughing so hard you can’t remain standing. It takes a good minute for you to gain enough composure for you to hear him asking, “What the hell are you laughing about?”
You slowly stand up, wiping at your eyes as you say, “How funny you are!”
“Glad my freaking out the world’s least sexy playlist is hilarious to you.” He sighs. The poor guy isn’t getting it. You grin, palms down on the counter and leaning forward. You explain, “Erik. It isn’t serious. I made this as a fucking joke.”
He pauses. His face falls for a second, he utters, “Oh no.” Your hand reaches out, and you pat him condescending on the cheek as you say, “And you fucking fell for it.”
He is currently processing. His arms cross over the counter, and he lays his head down on them, face now hidden from view. You start laughing again, “Oh my God, I cannot believe you thought I was serious!”
“I did!” He whines pitifully, the sound dampened from being buried against his arms.
Your face is set to start hurting from smiling this hard. You say, “Erik, the playlist is sixty-nine songs and ends with Never Gonna Give You Up. I ended it on a Rick Roll!”
He keeps his head down, he shrugs. He seems fully aware that there is no defending this.
You prod, “I know I’m a freak, Erik, but Jesus Christ! You think I wanna fuck to the GLEE cover of Beauty School Drop Out?”
Another laugh threatens to bubble up as you imagine being on top of him and riding him to the smooth crooning music. The image was so hysterical when you were making the playlist, you had to include it.
Lifting his head, he rubs at his eyes, uttering mournfully, “It seems so fucking obvious now, no clue how I took it seriously once I started listening to it.”
“Amazing point! How did you?” You laugh again, and he defends, “I don’t know! I was into the idea, but then I turned it on, and I got so incensed over your song choices. I just, fuck-” He groans, sounding totally pained, and you laugh again with a clap as you finish his thought, “You got too caught up and never considered that it could be a bit, oh this is amazing!”
His hands reach out and grip your still clasped hands as he begs, pleading emphatically, “Kill me.”
Pulling your hands back, you shake your head and tell him, “No. Never. You have to live with this.” You are totally delighted. Continuing on, you say, “You actually came all the way over here unannounced over this. Fucking classic.”
Another weak attempt at defending himself is made, “Don’t act like you’ve never made a mistake and got too caught up in your feelings before.”
“Yeah, yeah, throwing stones and glass houses. I dunno if you noticed by looking around, but I am surrounded by brick and drywall.” You say as you gesture to the general space around you.
He sits up properly once more, and apparently notices everything all over the counter for the first time. He watches as you put salt in the bowl, he asks, “The fuck is all this?”
You tell him, “My friend’s birthday is tomorrow, so I am baking a cake for her.”
“Wow, that’s nice of you.” He praises, and you stop what you are doing. You squint at him and say, “Mmm, you can compliment me all you want, music man. I will not forget this anytime soon.”
“Shit.” He sighs, hanging his head, and you laugh at the fact that he thought that might work. You get the cake batter together, poured into the greased and floured pans and into the oven. After that, you both make it onto the couch, and he is scrolling through the playlist. He has calmed down enough to say, “You really put some thought into this.”
“Right? I am way too proud of it.” You are practically preening. He admits, “It is downright diabolical.”
You try to comfort him and joke at the same time, “It could always be worse. Be thankful no Bloodhound Gang made it on there.”
Erik laughs at the very idea, “Knowing you, The Bad Touch is too obvious a choice. What would you have picked?”
You recite automatically, “See, I couldn’t decide between A Lap Dance Is So Much Better When The Stripper Is Crying or Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo. So ultimately neither made it. ”
Erik responds, “I hope you know that I really appreciate your maturity.”
You pivot as you say, “I am too curious, what song came up first when you put it on?” You ask, and his gaze is averted as he says quietly, “Fucking, Ghostbusters by Ray Parker Jr.”
You collapse laughing again, falling back against the arm of the couch, but this time he joins you. Head forward, hand through his hair, shaking his head at how insane this whole thing is. Thank God that he can finally see how funny this situation truly is and is able to laugh about it. When you collect yourself again, you take his phone and press play, “Let’s see how bad it can get.”
You let the playlist run and have an extensive, hilarious conversation about how bad each song would be to have playing while you fuck, for research purposes. This goes on while you finish baking the cake, breaking away to take it out of the oven when it’s done and leave it to cool.
When you come back into the living room, “Video Killed The Radio Star” starts playing, and you perk up, “Oooh, turn it up.”
He makes a disgusted sound, “What? You pause in front of him on the couch, your hands on your hips. “I don’t wanna bone to it, but I like this song.”
“You like this song?” He asks in disbelief. You sit down next to him as you say, “Yeah, I like a few of the songs on that playlist.”
“Which ones?!” He asks, probably louder than needed, the tone he takes makes you laugh again. Erik insists, “I am being so fucking serious, which ones do you actually like in this tragic lineup?”
You scoff, “Why should I tell you? So you can make fun of me, metal boy?.” You reach out, you flick the collar of his shirt, “What band name is that anyway?”
He looks down at this black t-shirt, bearing the name of one of his beloved bands in that ridiculous font that only the most hardcore of hardcore can decipher. To you, it looks like a mess of lightning rather than actual words. He asks, “You can’t read it?”
“No? Think it starts with an M?” You say, and his mouth falls open. He picks up one of your throw pillows and he smacks you with it. Your arms come up to protect your head and you say, “Hey! What the fuck was that for?”
“The first one is for your bad taste-” He smacks you again in the stomach this time, “-and that one is for being so uncultured and uneducated!”
“I get hit because I can’t read the name of that stupid fuckass band on your shirt?” You question, and he raises the pillow to strike again. Erik says, “Notice how you aren’t fighting me on your bad music taste? Because you know it’s true.”
You snatch up the other throw pillow as you say, “No, I don’t! And knock it off!”
“Uh yeah you do! And absolutely not! I am gonna get those songs out of you even if I have to beat them out of you.” He declares, and you aren’t going to take that lying down.
The pillow fight that ensues is brutal, neither of you wanting to give up a single inch to the other. It is complete with hopping onto furniture and being loud enough you are sure your neighbours hate you right now. You don’t confess any song titles, and he doesn’t relent, giving as good as he gets. You had managed to steal his pillow and throw it across the room, leaving him defenseless to your next onslaught. Instead, tackles you onto the floor, making you drop yours in the process. Both pillows now having been abandoned, you are on your back on the carpet. Erik is on top of you, pinning your hands above your head. The pair of you struggle for a moment, but he has far too good a grip on you. He got you. Both of you are panting, you speak first, “Guess you won.”
“Damn right I did.” He leans down and kisses you, it is still playful, you can feel the smile on his face as he does. Returning it is automatic, kissing him back and arching up into him. It doesn’t remain so easy, it heats up in the way it always seems to when you get together. Your tongue slides into his mouth, your hips squirming up into his. Breathing, picking up again, writhing together, grinding and it’s good.
You can’t remember the last time you had a make out like this fully clothed and on the floor. It feels very high school in a welcome throw back kind of way. Weirdly fitting considering the song change, “I Think We’re Alone Now” by Tiffany, is playing from his phone in the background. Erik seems to finally register what is playing, causing him to break the kiss with a groan. His head leans against your shoulder, and you laugh, “Mood killer, huh?”
“Understatement of the year.” He confirms as his hands loosen on your wrists. He sits back on his knees, and you prop yourself up. Still trying to catch your breath, you ask, “Have you ever had a pillow fight end like that?”
He laughs as he untangles himself, “No, can’t say I have. You bring a certain porno quality to my life that I really appreciate.”
“You let me live out plenty of my depraved sex fantasies on you, so I think it’s pretty mutual.” You assure. Next you say, “I’m glad you came over this afternoon, this has been pretty fun.”
He has to agree. Feeling pretty hot and sweaty, you ask, “Hey, you want a drink?”
“God, yes.” He gets up and holds his hand out. You take it and allow him to help you get up. You lead him to the kitchen and ask, “You opposed to a cocktail?”
“Not at all, I don’t have work tonight.” He assures, and so you set to work. When you are done, you are passing him a summer favourite of yours, a boozy vodka based cocktail. It is a refreshingly tart hard raspberry lemonade, with a peach popsicle turned upside down and placed inside. He asks as he pokes at the popsicle stick, “What is this for?”
“Acts as a flavoured ice, as you drink it, the popsicle will slowly melt into it and change the taste. Or if you want, you can eat it at your leisure and drink the cocktail as is.”
Curious, he takes a sip, and he pulls it back. He sets it carefully on the counter and asks seriously, “And how have you hid your bartending skills from me all these months? Also, why are we still drinking beer when you can make shit like this?”
You laugh with a shrug, “Because sometimes a beer is what you need. Both drinks have their place. But if you do want more ‘shit’ like this, I can make it.”
Picking up your own glass and gesturing with your other hand, you make a move to the sliding glass door, “Come on. Let’s go sit outside.”
You seat yourselves on the comfortable lawn chairs you keep out on your balcony, protected from the sweltering heat by the neighboring balcony above. The view from the fifth floor is a good one. The sun dips lower, painting everything in a beautiful orange hue, as you chat idly and enjoy the refreshing drinks you made.
You are about halfway through your glass when your eyes wander over to Erik. Watching him stare out into the distance, his glass in one hand and the popsicle in the other, as he thoughtfully brings the frozen treat to his mouth, and his tongue rolls over it. He looks good, and honestly you enjoy seeing him like this. You can’t help but think that he fits into this picture perfectly, that he is meant to be here right now, with you. Watching as he brings the cold treat to his mouth, your mind is set abuzz, thinking about the last time he ate you out with relish. As you watch his lips and tongue working their way over the popsicle, you cross your legs, reminded of how wet you got while making out earlier. Should you?
It takes only another minute for you to decide, yes, you should. You set your drink aside on the glass cafe’ style table you keep out here between the chairs. Getting up, you cross the short distance and get in front of him, effectively blocking the view. Your hands slip under the skirt you wore today, fingers hook, and you drag your underwear down. He looks surprised as he watches you step out of the clearly damp material. He stops being speechless when you reach out to take the drink and the popsicle from him. Erik rushes out, “What are you doing?”
“Something I’ve always wanted to do out here.” You say succinctly and then outright demand, “Get your pants down.”
His eyebrows raise, but he complies as he watches as you deposit the popsicle in the glass before setting it on the table. You sit on his lap, a silent prayer thrown up for his chair’s ability to support both of your weights. This time you initiate the make out and grinding. Your tongue slips out, and he meets it while you rock your hips. The stimulation you get to your clit like this is delicious and fuels the ongoing energy.
The progression is natural, easy. Soon as he is hard enough and slick with your wetness, you are lining him up and are about to sink down when he takes control. His hands had been casual as they rested on your waist, but now he has a good grip on your ass. He is the one who brings you down, forces you to take it slowly and you feel every inch as he slips inside. You know that it’s impossible to really feel every ridge and vein and yet, you are convinced somehow that you do. When you do come to settle with him fully inside, you both exhale this breath at the same moment, as if you were sharing the same set of lungs.
You stay there for a moment, still reeling from the stretch of him. Erik speaks up, “I should have known you’d be into this kinda thing-”
A breathless laugh spills out, “You really should have.” You would have to remember to tell him that on more than one occasion, very late at night, you’ve gotten yourself off on the chair he is sitting in.
You have one hand on his shoulder, the other on the back of the chair, your feet on the ground on either side of his hips, and you start to ride him with him guiding you. He is making you do this a lot slower than you would, taking your time as you rise and fall with the sun at your back. He asks a question in that teasing lilt that makes you clench around him, “What if someone sees us?”
You know that he is doing it to get a rise out of you, feeding into the exact thing that makes this scenario so hot. You are helpless to the moan you let out. The urge is too strong, you kiss him, messy and quick before pulling back slightly you gasp out, “Then I hope they enjoy the view.”
Realistically, the risk is minimal. Your back is to the outside world and the balcony covers enough that you are able to lean on your forearms comfortably while sitting; your face able to see through your glass door into your apartment over Erik’s head. It would take a wild angle and some binoculars for anyone to see what you do next. Your own hands roll your thin t-shirt up and over, thanks to the lack of bra you expose your bare chest to him, and he takes advantage of your newly revealed skin. One hand remains on your ass to help keep pace, the other cupping one of your breasts as he leans in to tease your nipple with his mouth. You moan in response when his tongue makes contact, head tipping back and pace faltering slightly.
As you are made to contend with his slow and steady rhythm, what Erik is doing with his mouth makes you want to shudder. The urge to look is too great, when your head rolls forward again to glance down you find he is already looking up at you. Christ, it should be illegal to look that good. Blue eyes peeking up through messy hair as his tongue circles taut flesh before his teeth sink in and you are in serious trouble.
It should be quick and dirty. While the chances of you getting caught are small you always imagined when you did this it would be a rushed affair, a frantic race to get off but he isn’t letting that happen. He is making you sit and stew in this because he knows how much it turns you on. It makes it better, a beautiful kind of torture. Your thighs are burning slightly from the effort but if anything it adds to the pleasure you are feeling, you let out a pleading murmur of his name that makes him smile. He pulls back, lips still wet as he asks, “Yeah?”
“Ca-can we speed up?” You say it needier than you mean to, but crave too deeply to care. You get a hum in the affirmative, and he lets go of your ass, his hand slipping to the front and you catch on. He has his thumb on your clit and rubs as he lets you slowly increase the tempo as you need and in a few short minutes, bliss finds you. With your legs trembling and moaning his name into his neck, you cum and cum hard. Your hips manage to keep going, trying to draw every second out of your orgasm, he isn’t that far behind. Your pleasure finds its end and within a minute his starts and that has you biting your tongue. The feeling of him cumming raw into you so soon post orgasm is the perfect amount of overstimulation.
When it is over you both stay there, panting for the second time this afternoon and still tangled together, but this time the conclusion is much more satisfying. Breaking apart once you catch your breath is easy, both grab your glasses for a few swallows for some relief. You manage to keep most of his cum inside you until you get your underwear back on. It feels too hot to remain outside after all that, Erik complains, “Jesus, this is the sweatiest afternoon I’ve had in a while.”
“Same here. Let’s head in.” You adjust your clothing and go back into your kitchen with the remainders of your drinks.
Once inside, Erik looks around as he feels his pockets, and he asks, “You seen my phone?”
“Yeah, I think you left it in the living-” You stop yourself as the realization strikes. It hits you so suddenly, you can’t help the laugh you bark out. Erik casts a look over to you and asks, “You alright?”
Still giggling, you nod and say, “Mhm, totally fine.” He knows there is something up. He asks, “You wanna share with the class?”
“Oh, I don’t think you are gonna like it, buuuut sure.” You come closer. You make sure to look him right in the eyes as you tell him, “My playlist totally worked.”
There is a beat of silence for a moment. He breaks it and asks, “What?”
“My playlist. It totally worked. We listened to it, and it did end up leading to us fucking so-” You trail off and watch the change happen in his eyes and his smile fall. He looks devastated. He starts to say, “No way, no it didn’t fucking work, it-”
Now it’s his turn to trail off, apparently. This is too good, you can’t hold back from teasing him, “Today is gonna go down in history, I swear to God! It is just too good! And you call me a freaAHHH!”
His glass is set down harshly, before he pushes you back and into the counter while you are mid-sentence. This action causes you to abandon your sentence with a yelp and nearly spill your own glass.
He is pressed tight to you, boxing you in. While in your current position, you are forced to look up at the rather intense expression on his face. The look in his eyes promises major future retribution. He leans down closer and says to you in a tone that is sharper than the knives you keep in the knife block on the counter next to you, “I am gonna get you back for today. Somehow, someway. I dunno how yet, but I will. I fucking promise.”
There is something spine tingling in how he utters those last three words, you should unpack that later. For now, you believe him, and further than that you think you deserve it.
Then a smile spreads onto his face and he finishes up by saying playfully, “Okay, freak?” The mood feels light again in a flash, relief floods over the fact that you didn’t take this too far. You feel confident as you welcome the challenge, telling him, “Do your worst, music man.”
“I’ll make you regret saying that.” His declaration is met with you saying sincerely with a nod, “I’m sure you will.”
Fuck a handshake like you’ve done previously. This time? The dare is sealed with a kiss that you want to laugh into. When you eventually untangle again, he goes on the hunt for his phone. He finds it in the couch cushions, K-pop is filtering out from his phone speaker, and he groans as he turns it off. He complains to you, “My algorithm is going to be so fucked now thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome.” You sing-song out. He comes into the kitchen to see you making the buttercream for the cake. Erik tells you, “I’m gonna to get going, I have dinner with my family tonight, and now I desperately need a fucking shower before that.”
“No sweat, I’ll see you later.” You joke and bid him goodbye in one breath as he walks away.
“Ugh. Bye!” He calls from the front hall and you listen to him as he lets himself out. You pull out your own phone and turn on the same playlist that set this all in motion. Leaving it on the counter as you set to finishing the icing and get to decorating this cake.
It is late the following night, Erik is closing up shop when he gets a text from you, “Are you closing?” He taps out his reply, “Yeah, why?”
You don’t respond. He finishes the close and twenty minutes later he is locking the door. He is checking it is really locked when he hears your familiar voice calling out, “Hey!”
You have a hand up, walking down the sidewalk towards him. The skirt of the dress you are wearing swishes around your thighs, heels clicking on the concrete on your approach.
He pockets his keys and turns, a question already on his lips, “What are you doing here?” Once you stop in front of him, you are close enough for him to see how made up you are. You look distractingly good. You say, “Just coming back from my friend’s birthday. I got something for you!”
You reach into your bag for the small container, then hold it out. He takes it, opens it to find a piece of cake. You say, “I saw you eyeing it yesterday so I snagged you a leftover piece.”
“This is from the cake you made?” He questioned, it was decorated pretty elegantly, but more than that he was surprised by the gesture. The effort you expended is as sweet as the treat you’ve presented to him.
You nod as you tell him, “Yeah! Figured why not bring you some on my way home.” Erik is slightly taken aback as he says, “Wow. Uhm, thank you, this is actually really nice.” You nudge his shoulder and joke, “Fuck you, I can be nice!”
“I didn’t outright say that you can’t be-” He starts with a tilt of his head, and you hum, “Implied it plenty.”
Next, you confess, “Besides, the best part of baking is the joy of sharing it with other people you care about.”
Huh. You care about him. He knew that. Of course, you cared about him, and he cared about you. The pair of you were friends, good friends now he’d say, clearly good friends care about each other. Still, something about it being spelled out so plainly that way hits him in the chest in this funny, hard to define way.
“Anyway, I gotta get home. I have to work so early tomorrow, that I had to ditch the party before it was even over.” You turn and as quick as you come, you leave again, giving him a wave and say, “Enjoy the cake. Night!”
“Yeah, night.” Comes his quiet reply.
Erik watches you walk away for a minute till you turn the corner, then he looks down at the still open container. He holds it carefully, it's a funfetti cake. The white sponge looks moist and is flecked with rainbow specks; it is iced pink and decorated with swooping sky blue loops on the edges. It is bright, fun, and sure to be good, just like you.
He stands outside the shop under the stars and alone. Holding the gift you went out of your way to bring him, just because. He is touched by your gesture. He drags a finger through some of the icing on the side and brings it up to his mouth, he tastes it and woah. It is bright and sweet, sure, but there is more depth to it. He repeats the action to taste more, something else in there, a kind of tang that is hard to place. He cannot quite define it, yet he finds it addictive on its own all the same. Yeah, he can’t wait till he gets home to eat this.
He leaves and goes into the restaurant nearby that stays open late for the bars and gets a disposable fork. Erik eats the cake on the walk home and halfway through it, he pulls out his phone and texts you one-handed, “Holy fucking shit, this is good.”
