#hell yeahhhhh bitches

[bisexual-horror-fan]

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.

---

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