sal loves it when you wear skirts.
it was the effortless way the fabric moved with you, not hugging your curves like some desperate grasp, but floating just right, pleated edges brushing your thighs, inviting his curious eyes to follow every subtle shift. and god, you looked incredible in them.
his favorite part of the day would probably be when you finally settle onto his lap. especially after larry suddenly decides he wants to go home and smoke, throwing out some half-thought excuse before slipping out. he wastes no time setting his gameboy aside, attention lazily shifting entirely to you, the air still faintly curling with lazy swirls of smoke as if the room itself was settling into the moment with him. his mask long since discarded, he looks at you with a hesitant, almost pleading expression, his brows knitting together as his gaze flickers up to meet yours before dropping again. his fingers twitch slightly at his side, like he’s unsure what to do with them, and when he finally speaks, his voice comes out quieter than usual, soft, almost needy, as a small, breathy ‘please’ slips from his lips, carrying more need than he probably meant to show.
he beckons you over with a small adjustment of his posture and you waste no time moving, a small, fond giggle escaping you as you give in without hesitation, like his expression itself was all it ever took. the skirt pooled around your upper thighs, the soft cotton pressing against his jeans, warm and yielding. it felt nice. hell, it was intoxicating. the way your body molded to his without strain, the loose hem riding up to expose the smooth expanse of your skin. his hands would instinctively slide under the fabric, fingers tracing the edge where skirt met flesh, pulling you closer until you were fully seated.
and the scarred side of his face, rough, textured, brushes against your neck or shoulder when you lean in, your skin so impossibly soft in contrast. it was a tactile revelation every time, the silkiness of you against his marred flesh sending shivers down his spine. he’d nuzzle closer, inhaling your scent, the gentleness of your body a balm to his hidden wounds. that softness made him want to keep you all to himself, to lose himself in the difference between your unblemished warmth and his own jagged edges.
even the accidental teases got to him. you never meant to, of course, just reaching for a Sanity Fall’s CD on his high shelf or bending to pet gizmo, the skirt lifting enough for a quick glimpse of those black cotton panties. it left him flustered every time, dick twitching in his pants, face heating under the mask as he averted his eyes too late. his mind would race with images of himself buried in between those thighs, but he’d play it cool, voice gentle when he muttered something casual, forcing himself to look away, all while his pulse hammered with restrained want.
creds to @uzmacchiato for the dividers!
