summary: you call your neighbour "your romeo", as he's always there to save the day. your little crush on him grows the longer he sticks around, fixing things in your house- and soon you're begging to pay him back in other ways.
warnings: oral (f receiving), heavy praise kink, size kink, pet names, swearing, heavy flirting/ sexual tension, lots of fluff<3
“you're my romeo, everybody laughs when i tell them so (ow, ooh)
i feel like it's magic, romeo- you're all i can imagine, imagine / you're my romeo (ow, ooh), always sayin' something to throw me off/ i feel like it's magic, romeo/ you're all i can imagine, imagine"- romeo, pinkpantheress
It was an easy trade, with you and your neighbour.
It was simply neighbourly things.
You brought him leftover soup and baked goods- leaving it at his door with a little note if you knew he wasn’t home. He helped you carry your groceries inside when he saw you were struggling.
He was a quiet man, though his presence was large and always looming. It seemed to soften though when you would catch his eye, giving him a smile and a wave.
The stern, cold look on his face turned warm, as if he was eager to see you. The thought made you smile.
You tried to capture Jason Todd’s eye as much as you possibly could.
It was harder during the winter months, as you were often bundled up inside, and there was no yard work to attend to. Still, you’d bring him baked goods, warm apple pies and fresh cinnamon buns, still piping hot.
Jason claimed you were trying to fatten him up, and all you could do was laugh. Anything you fed him wouldn’t change the tall, strong physique you admired so often from the window.
He was carved from Micoanglo himself.
And yet, the idea of him a little softer around the edges was nothing but attractive to you.
He’d come over when your pipes froze, and you’d watch him work, all bent over and trying to fit his large body under your kitchen sink. You’d reward him with a nice, home cooked dinner, talking about your interests and learning his.
As the months went on, you couldn’t help but want more from your growing friendship with the handsome, older man. His friends claimed you had brought him out of his hermit shell, and turned him into some horny teenager, over bottles of beer.
Your friends gushed you had found yourself a future husband over bottles of wine.
Both of you claimed that no, it was nothing- and you were just friends. Just neighbours helping each other out here and there. Doing neighbourly things.
What you each failed to mention was how desperate you were for each other.
The longing gazes.
The pretty words that would leave his lips when he was feeling bold, calling you beautiful.
Calling you his pretty girl, though you belonged to no one.
He prayed you didn’t catch the claim he made on you through his words. You prayed he didn’t realize how much you craved it, how much it affected you and how much you'd replay his compliments and pretty words when it was dark and you were alone under the covers.
You rarely used nicknames for anyone- but for him, you told him he was your Romeo.
Always there to save the day. So that’s what you called him.
When your friends asked what you were doing? Oh I’m just keeping Romeo company. Your parents checking in to make sure everything was okay? Everything here is good, Romeo fixes things up and keeps me company.
He was such a constant in your life, it was no wonder your eyes instantly slid to your left as soon as you stepped out on your porch, seeing if he was out to enjoy the warm summer air.
You gave him a wave before you started tending to your garden. Trying so hard not to stare at the sweat that dripped down his biceps as he wiped grease onto an old rag, tending to his motorcycle.
You failed, miserably. It was unfair to your forget me nots- as you really did forget about them.
It was warm out, the sun beating down on your skin, causing beads of sweat to drip down your back. Not even the lightest sundress you wore could keep you cool. Once you were content with the state of the front yard, you headed inside, straight to the fridge for some cold strawberry lemonade.
Pouring a glass for Jason, you scurried over to his yard, sneaking up behind him and tapping him on the shoulder with a manicured finger.
“Hello bunny.” he grinned, turning to you.
You frowned. “How’d you know it was me?”
“Because no one else but you would try and touch a grumpy old man like me.”
You giggled, handing them the glass. It looked so tiny in his hand.
“I guess I’m also the only one who would give you lemonade?”
He smirked. “Yes. And you’re the only one I’d trust to get a drink from.”
You wouldn’t hurt a fly. The pure form of innocence encapsulated into human form. He loved that about you. You watched him finish it in one large gulp, licking his lips.
“Fuckin delicious honey. Thank you.”
You beamed, happy he liked it. Part of you always worried the things you made would be too sweet for his liking. Jason was the type of man who drank his coffee bitter and black, and enjoyed black liquorice. But it seemed he had a sweet tooth under all those hard layers.
“Make sure to take a break soon okay? It’s hot out here, and you’re working so hard.” you pouted, resting a hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.
You didn’t feel his eyes follow you and your swishing hips from under your short little dress as you went back inside. If you did, you didn’t turn around. His gaze was too hungry for you to face it with steady knees.
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You had your plan set in place for your Romeo.
He had helped you so much over the past few months, you wanted to do something in return. Without him knowing.
You waited until his bike sped off from the driveway, leaving nothing but dust. His flower beds were always empty.
It had been two summers now, and he hadn’t done anything with them. Not that it was his main priority, he had places to be and other things to work on, including your stuff to tinker with.
But it was your main priority.
When you were sure he was long gone, you started to get to work. Putting on your gardening gloves and big hat to shield you from the sun, you started hauling mulch over to his yard.
You picked out different flowers you thought he might like, catering to his choice of darker colours. Deep rich reds and blues, and you had balanced it with some soft white and black ones.
A few hours had passed since you started, and your humming to your music was startled by the sound of an engine.
He was home. But it was perfect timing!
The weeds had been picked, the flowers had been nicely arranged and planted, and the mulch had been all laid out.
“Sweetheart? What the hell are you doing?” he asked, parking his bike and sliding off it with ease, rushing over to where you were kneeled- your knees coated in dirt and grime. And yet, a large smile was plastered on your face.
“Making you a pretty garden! Now our front lawns can sorta match. See?”
You pointed to the pretty petals that seemed to shimmer and glow in the sun, feeling well cared for in their new environment.
“I can look after them for you. I just wanted to do something nice for you.”
His heart was threatening to burst at the seams. No one had ever come close to being as sweet, as caring and loving as you. You were so observant, so willing to put others before you. He was rendered speechless at the sight of his now blooming garden.
“Sweetheart it’s- it’s beautiful. Holy shit. Thank you- you didn’t have to do this, any of this-“
“I know. But I wanted to.” you cut him off, knowing he would spew something on about him not deserving it, or needing to offer something in return.
You didn’t want to hear it. It was nonsense anyways.
“Let others do nice things for you, Jay. You deserve it. You always help me out, so much so I could never even begin to find the words to thank you. I think if you weren’t around my house would be falling apart at the seams.” you teased, making him laugh.
“Well, that is true I suppose. What am I again, your Romeo?”
You nodded, dusting your gloves together to shake the dirt from them. “My Romeo.”
“Well, come inside at least for a drink, my Juliet. I wasn’t expecting this- clearly, or any company for that matter so it’s a mess but-“
“I don't mind what your house looks like Jay. I would love to come inside.” you smiled, and he couldn’t help but mirror it. You followed him inside, letting the cool AC blast you- soothing the heat that radiated from your skin.
“It’s not gonna be anything like your lemonade but… it’ll be something.” he murmured, making you giggle as he tugged off his boots, bolting straight for the kitchen.
You peered around his place, and it was far from messy. A little dull, not like the soft spring colours and floral wallpaper that was all over your own place, but it was nice. It was homey, and lived in. A bit colder, but that was to be expected.
It was Jason Todd, after all.
“I have a Miller Lite or Budweiser.”
“Miller please.” you smiled, extending a hand for him to place the ice cold can in. There was a comfortable silence as you cracked your cans, cheerings them before you gulped down the wheaty, cold liquid. Without a care in the world, you lifted yourself up onto the counter, swinging your feet against the cupboard gently.
He watched you intently, hand curling and re-curling around the counter ledge. As if he was holding himself back from something.
Something un-neighbourly.
You gave that same look right back. Parting your legs slightly, scooping your hair so it fell down one shoulder, exposing your skin to him. Exposing your thuddering heart you knew he could hear. Giving him a silent plea with your eyes, and that pout of your lips he was so used to when you first begged him to help you with maintenance.
But you never had to beg for him. He was in the palm of your fucking hand from the second he laid eyes on you.
It was all of two seconds before his composure snapped.
“Fuck it.” you heard him growl before his large, strong hands cupped your cheeks, crashing his lips upon yours.
You moaned, letting him consume you, his kiss tasting of promise and need. Tilting your head up, you let his lips wander, trailing down your jaw to your neck to your collarbone before they found their way right back to your lips again.
A gasp escaped your lips as he begged for entrance, letting his tongue slip inside and dance with yours. It was so natural, so perfect. Like you had been made for him since the moment you met him.
“J-jay..”
“Please. Let me thank you for how good you've been to an old man like me for so long.”
You almost fell apart at his begging alone. It was addicting, hearing him say please. You nodded, running your hands through his hair as he kissed a pathway to your heart, strong hands slipping down to spread your thighs apart a little further.
“I want you to be this good and sweet to me for the rest of my life. Only to me. And maybe that makes me a selfish motherfucker but I don't care. I need you. I need this.” he murmured, sliding down to his knees.
Looking up at you with lust. With love. You swallowed at the sight, throat feeling dry as the words got stuck in your throat. The sight of him on his knees alone had your head spinning. Not to mention he was tall enough he could reach you with ease even on his knees.
“You could never be selfish, my Jay. My handsome, grumpy old man.” you teased, beaming from ear to ear, eyes wild, hair messy and lips swollen. You looked like an angel sent from the heavens as you peered down at him, such pretty,loving words leaving those lips it sounded like you were singing the hymns themselves.
“Always yours.” he murmured, planting a kiss against your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours as he placed another. You knew what he was trying to say.
You wanted to hear him say it out loud.
“Please sweetheart. Wanna know if you taste as sweet as those treats you make me.”
Heat creeped into your cheeks, and you nodded quickly.
Here he was, a gruff, buff older man with graying hair and a strict bedtime, on his knees. Begging for just a taste.
Jason Todd begged for no one. Now, he begged for you.
He rushed at you feverishly, as if delirium had consumed his veins and took over. He didn't bother taking off your panties, no, no there was no time for that.
He was too needy. He had waited long enough.
The second his tongue was on you, you saw stars. A loud cry of his name slipped past your lips as you gripped his hair tight enough to make him growl, his hands gripping your thighs. You couldn't squirm away from this. He was a man starved.
“Just like I fuckin thought… so- fuckin- sweet…” his words seperated by a lick of his tongue against you.
You withered and moaned,grinding into his face as his eyes closed in bliss. “Atta girl just like that. Fuckin take what you need sweetheart. Doin so good for me, such a sweet girl. Takin what she wants.” he cooed, watching as your head was thrown back in pleasure, gentle cries and pants leaving your lips as he wrapped his tongue around your clit, sucking hard.
“Never gonna leave this pretty pussy now that I have her honey. You’re mine. Say it.”
“M’yours Jay. M’only yours.”
His smile was wicked, almost cruel if he weren't between your legs, giving you exactly what you needed.
“I know honey. You’ve always been mine. My girl.”
You nodded, letting go with a cry. It was too much. Too much and yet not enough, you wanted to bask in this glory for the rest of your life. The feeling of so much pleasure it consumed you like a wave, guiding you out to the sea ahead.
“Thats it sweet thing, that's a good girl. Makin such a pretty mess for me.” he cooed, planting a kiss on your inner thigh as it quivered, sharp breaths leaving your lungs from your orgasm.
You didn't need to tell him how it was, or how you felt. He knew. He always knew- could read you like an open book. And you were more than happy to let him study each page if it meant this was the reward.
The fluorescent lights of the library’s private study room hummed a low, judgmental note, casting a sterile glow over the chaos of open books, scattered printouts, and several empty coffee cups. The air was thick with tension of simmering resentment and frustration.
She, a doctoral candidate in theoretical physics, glared at the whiteboard covered in her elegant, precise equations. Across the small table, her academic rival from the applied engineering department leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips as he scanned her work. They are the two brightest minds in their graduate program, two brilliant stars in the same academic constellation, their gravitational pull one of pure, unadulterated antagonism. Their respective advisors, in a misguided attempt to foster collaboration, had decreed they co-author a grant proposal.
“This is the proposed framework for the quantum-metamaterial interface,” she said, her voice tight. “Our committee already agreed it’s the most promising angle for the joint grant.”
He snorted. “Promising? It’s derivative. It’s basically a rehash of the Singapore group’s paper, but with more unnecessary tensor calculus to make it look clever.”
Her knuckles whitened around her pen. “It is not derivative. The Singapore work was purely on photon propagation. This incorporates a novel distortion model that—”
“That you’ve clearly misunderstood,” He cut in, finally looking at her. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, held no warmth, only a cold, analytical scorn. “The harmonic factor you’ve applied here is completely wrong for the proposed energy range. It’s a first-year mistake. Did you even run the preliminary simulations, or did you just think it looked pretty with no substance, like you?”
The contemptuous compliment made her pause. Heat flooded her cheeks, a mixture of fury and something else, something shameful and hot that coiled low in her belly. She opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but the words died in her throat. Her body had betrayed her. A faint, unmistakable flush crept down her neck, and a treacherous, liquid warmth pulsed between her legs.
His smirk vanished, replaced by a look of intensity. His gaze dropped from her furious eyes to the rapid pulse in her throat, then lower, as if he could see through the table, through her clothes, to the sudden, damp heat he had somehow caused.
“Oh,” he said, the single syllable soft, laden with a dawning, wicked understanding. The sound was a low, predatory thing. “You liked that, didn’t you? Someone called you out and your perfect little brain short-circuited for a second.”
She flinched. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked, his voice dropping to an intimate rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. He slowly pushed his chair back and stood up, circling the table like a shark. “Don’t point out that calling your work stupid just made your pretty little cunt drip for me?”
The crude, brutal word in the sanctified space of the library sent another shocking bolt of arousal straight through her. She squeezed her thighs together, a futile attempt to hide the evidence, but the slickness was already staining her underwear. A soft, pathetic whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it.
He was in front of her now, leaning down to tower over her her, his hands on the armrests of her chair, caging her in. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was a physical force.
Her body sang a traitorous song of need. Her nipples tightened painfully against her bra. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She was melting into the chair, her defiance dissolving into pure, shameful want. She opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was a quiet, desperate whine.
“Is that it?” he taunted, bending down so his lips were near her ear. His breath was warm, sending a shudder through her body. “You’re a stupid slut, aren’t you? All these degrees, all this polish, and your little cunt gets wet because I insult your intellect and reduce you to a pretty face.”
“Stop,” she breathed, the word having no force, a plea and an invitation all at once.
He straightened up, his eyes hard. “No. Tell me to stop. Mean it. Tell me to stop and leave and I will. I’ll walk out, and we’ll pretend this never happened. We’ll write this godforsaken grant like the good little academics we’re supposed to be.” He waited, his gaze piercing. “Well?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest heaving. The word wouldn’t come. It lodged in her throat, choked by a need so profound it terrified her.
Her mind screamed at her to say it. To reclaim her dignity. But her body, throbbing and empty and his so close, his warmth and scent permeating into her very soul, held her tongue hostage. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark with need, and shook her head once, a tiny, desperate movement.
A dark, triumphant smile spread across his face. “Pathetic,” he whispered.
Then his hand moved, fast and sharp. The slap across her cheek wasn’t meant to hurt, but to stun, to humiliate. It snapped her head to the side, the sting a bright, clarifying pain that only made the fire in her core burn hotter. A moan was torn from her throat.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice laced with contemptuous wonder. “The brilliant golden girl of the department. All those published papers, that flawless GPA, and what really gets you off? Being told you’re a stupid slut. A worthless little brainless whore whose only purpose is to warm my cock.”
His other hand moved down over the fabric of her shirt. She should stop him. She should scream. Instead, a whimper escaped her throat as his fingers slipped past her waistband, past the fabric of her underwear. He found her swollen, soaked flesh with a clinical precision that was utterly degrading.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers sliding through her wetness. “So desperate and swollen and dripping. You’re a worthless pretty, little thing, aren’t you? All those degrees, that sharp tongue, and you’re just a brainless whore whose pussy does all the thinking.”
She shuddered, legs spreading unbidden to give him better access. The rub of his fingers against her throbbing core made her mind go blank, eyes glazed over, suspended in the haze of want and degradation.
He pulled his hand away, glistening, and brought his fingers to her lips. “Taste it. Taste how worthless you are.”
Obediently, she opened her mouth. The taste of her own arousal was salt and shame. He smirked and in a fluid movement, yanked her from her chair, lifting her effortlessly onto the table.
“Now, you gorgeous, brainless whore. Spread your legs like a good girl. Show me the stupid cunt that betrays you.”
Trembling, her fingers fumbling with the button and zipper of her trousers, she obeyed. She pushed the fabric down her hips, along with her soaked underwear, and spread her legs. The cool air hit her exposed flesh, making her shiver. She was obscenely wet, her folds glistening, swollen and a deep, flushed pink.
He let out a low, appreciative groan. “God, look at that. Such a pretty, pink, desperate little thing all for me. It’s a shame it belongs to such a dumb bitch.”
A wordless whimper left her throat and his eyes greedily took in the way her pussy pulsed in response to his words. “Spread your legs wider. Let me see the whole, pitiful display.”
She leaned back on her hands, her legs falling open. The air in the room was cool against her exposed, glistening folds. She was utterly exposed, laid bare for him.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “Slap that aching little clit. Let me see you try to get off like a little slave to your pussy.”
Tears of shame and overwhelming arousal welled in her eyes as she brought a shaking hand down. She followed his command, her fingers delivering a light slap to her hypersensitive clit. The sensation was a direct line to the gnawing emptiness inside her, the touch making her jerk and gasp, her hips bucking uselessly.
“Harder,” He growled, watching her debase herself with rapt attention. Her body listened to him before she could even process his demand. Her hand landed harder against her own clit, the lewd sound mixing with her own desperate moan. He watched her hips jerk into the pain, her pussy clenching uselessly, the slick wetness dripping onto the table.
“Again.” She obeyed. Again. And again. Each slap sent jolts of pain and electric pleasure through her, each one making her drip more onto the polished table below. He watched, his expression unreadable, his own arousal evident in the tight line of his trousers.
She was a spectacle of debasement, and he was her avid, cruel audience.
“That’s it,” he taunted, watching her movements grow more frantic. “Look at you, panting like a bitch in heat in front of me. You’re so close, aren’t you? Dripping all over the table. Disgusting.”
She was. The edge was there, a precipice she was about to tumble over. Her breaths came in ragged pants. Just as her muscles began to coil for release, his hand shot out and gripped her wrist, stopping her mid-slap.
“No,” he said, his voice flat and final. “Dumb pretty sluts like you don’t get to cum. Not until I say. You’re going to ride that edge for me, you worthless thing. That’s all you deserve. A dripping, desperate cunt on the brink, owned by the man who thinks you’re stupid.”
He unbuckled his belt. He didn’t undress, just freed his erection, hard and thick and demanding. He pulled her to the edge of the table and drove into her in one brutal, unforgiving thrust.
She cried out, her back arching. It was exactly what her body had been screaming for, to be filled, to be used. He set a punishing rhythm, using her for his own pleasure, his grip on her hips bruising. And still, he denied her.
“Feel that?” he grunted in her ear, his thrusts relentless. “Feel how much I want to fuck this dumb cunt? But it’s not for you. It’s for me. You just get to take it, like a good whore whose purpose is to give me pleasure.”
He hooked her legs over his shoulders, the new position pinning her against the table helplessly. His hips drove into her over and over again, claiming her. She cried out, her back arching. It was too much, it was everything, it was a violation that felt like a homecoming. He was fucking her with the same competitive fury he brought to their academic debates, but now he was winning, utterly conquering.
“You want to cum, don’t you?” he grunted, his voice rough in her ear. “You’re clenching around me like a little cocksleeve. But you don’t get to. Stupid sluts don’t get to cum, no matter how good of a girl you’re being right now.”
She felt the coil inside her tighten, her breaths becoming ragged sobs of impending release. His words, the praise mixing with the condescending degradation made her head spin. Her cunt milked him desperately, the pulsing pleasure edging upwards to the peak she needed. He watched her face, her eyes fluttering shut, need written all over her features. And then he froze, buried deep inside her, taking away the stimulation she so desperately needed. He watched her face contort in agony.
His words cut through her denied haze, “Not yet, worthless. Hold it.” And she did, teetering on that excruciating edge, her whole world narrowing to the ache in her core and the cruel eyes watching her suffer. When her breathing steadied, the pleasure easing away, slipping out of her wanting grasp, he resumed, his hips driving into her, the sudden movement making her squeal.
It became the pattern he built. Every time her muscles would begin to flutter around him, signaling her impending climax, he would stop dead, leaving her gasping and hollow, before starting again with renewed vigor. He was the absolute master of her pleasure and her denial.
When his control finally fractured, he drove into her one last time, a guttural groan ripped from his throat as he spilled himself inside her, hot and deep. The sticky, sudden rush was its own violation, its own claim.
She slumped onto the table, a trembling, desperate mess. The need to climax was a physical agony, a screaming void he had created and then abandoned. She was shaking, tears dripping across her pretty face. He moved over her, pulling away from her in a motion that made her let out a plaintive whine.
He looked down at her, at her wrecked body, her trembling thighs, her cunt still glistening with their mixed fluids, swollen and desperate. Her gaze fixed to the ceiling, unseeing as her body desperately chased a high that was yanked away from her.
Then she felt his hands on her hips again, his touch running down her legs as he propped her up, legs spread wide. She looked up, dazed, to see him kneeling on the floor between her splayed legs. His cruel, handsome face was intent, but the edge of malice was gone, replaced by a fierce, focused hunger.
Without a word, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to her oversensitive, swollen flesh. His tongue, hot and agile, found her oversensitive clit. It wasn’t gentle. It was demanding, precise, an extension of his will. He licked and sucked, his fingers digging into her thighs, holding her open as she bucked against his mouth.
“Come on, you stupid slut,” he muttered against her, the words vibrating through her. “Come for me. Squirt for me. Show me what my perfect dumb bitch can do.”
The command, the final degradation, broke the dam. The orgasm that tore through her was seismic, a convulsive, screaming release that had her back bowing off the table. Pleasure, white-hot and annihilating, ripped through every nerve ending. She collapsed, boneless, gasping, utterly spent.
When the last tremor subsided, she laid limp and wrecked on the table, staring at the tiles of the ceiling. He rose, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He looked down at her, a strange softness in his eyes.
He reached out and gently pulled her off the edge of the table. Her shaky legs buckled under her own weight but he was there, his hands cradling her with care, letting her lean against him. He carefully pulled her trousers back up over her hips, fastening them with a tenderness that contrasted violently with everything that had come before. He reached out and brushed a strand of sweat-dampened hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light.
“The library closes in an hour,” he said quietly, all trace of the degrading tyrant gone. “My apartment has better coffee. And a much more comfortable surface than this table.” He paused, his thumb stroking her cheek where he’d slapped her. “Would you… want to spend the night? Maybe more than that, if you’d have me.”
She stared at him, her mind and body in ruins, trying to reconcile the man who had just orchestrated her ruination with the man now looking at her with something akin to vulnerable hope.
He saw her confusion and gave a small, almost shy smile. He bent down, his lips brushing hers in the softest, most chaste of kisses. When he pulled back, his voice was a whisper. “I’ve wanted you. The whole time, ever since we started in the program together. I think you’re the most brilliant, infuriating person I’ve ever met. I want to be the one who tells you that all the time. And I want to be the one you’re vulnerable enough with… to let me give you this.” He gestured between them, at the charged, ruined space. “The way you need it.”
Her eyes meet his, her rival, her tormentor, the man who had just seen her utterly undone and had put her back together with a kiss and a confession. She saw the awe still lingering in his eyes, the desire that had always been there, masked by hostility. She felt the aftershocks of the most powerful, humiliating, perfect release of her life still echoing in her veins.
She didn’t speak. She simply nodded, her hand finding his. He laced their fingers together, pulled her gently towards himself, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head before leading her out of the study room. She went, her steps unsteady, her body pressed against the solid warmth of his side as they walked down the empty, echoing hallway, leaving the whiteboard covered in half-formed equations and the evidence of their collision behind.
Note: IM BACK I missed y'all, sorry for disappearing, I was soooo swamped these last few months and I'm slowly climbing out of my hole of a mountainous to-do list and getting back into writing teehee hope y'all enjoyed this one and more to come!
Shane’s eyes close halfway as he nods. His free hand grabs at his chest, pinches his nipple. Needy little sounds spilling from his throat as he adds more lube, adds another finger. Ilya wishes he could see better, but finds himself staring at the vein in Shane’s forearm, following it to his bicep, to his broad shoulders.
He’s so heavy. Not small at all, no matter how pathetically he whines when they’re together. Ilya gets a thrill from it, when he lifts Shane in bed, the way it wakes up all his muscles. He loves the way it crushes the air from him when Shane gets on top.
When he–
(When he smashes me into the boards.)
“Fuck…” Ilya breathes. His free hand rubs at his stiff neck, fingers digging into the meat beneath.
