Down To The Feeling - Yandere!Levi x Reader
In Sickness and in Health - Levi x Reader, HWHBFO Sequel
No Duet Is Written For A Man Alone - Erwin x Reader
Production Put on Hold:
To Nourish A Serpent - Marleyan!Levi x Reader
Thank you for checking out my city! Warm wishes to you my friend :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Anyway, with that kind introduction, I’d like you to welcome Erwin Smith, our pianist turned vocalist. And bless him for his sacrifice, because he’ll carry this crooner’s piece with more elegance than I would. This is our lovely Maestro Erwin, with If by Tolchard Evans.”
In the few seconds between the applause and the beat given by Petra, Erwin finds how he can function as a singer on stage, holding the microphone and wandering the small space as he observes his band and his audience. He’s not trembling, but it’s clear he’s out of his element.
A short trumpet solo precedes his entrance, giving him hints as to the notes he needs to hold. The measure before he starts is nothing but a sluggish, shuffling drum beat.
Both you and Hange light up when his first note is clean and sustained, satisfied to see their shared pupil take his beginning step successfully. He can’t vibrato, but he has a full chest that gives every low note a rich, warm sound.
“If they made me a king,” he sings, his eyes pointed past his audience. “I’d be but a slave to you.”
“I knew it,” Hange murmurs, analyzing how he breathes and moves. “He’s really got potential. Oh, just listen to that low register. Some of my people would kill for a voice like that.”
You don’t answer, mentally recording every second of the beautiful performance. His voice is wonderful, and the words it spills are important. Authentic, even, to your needy heart. Maybe he would put aside his power to kneel before you, or maybe he’d stay unfulfilled until you were at his side. Maybe this entire piece was chosen to express what he hasn’t been able to articulate.
“If the world to me bowed,” he croons, “yet humbly I’d flee to you.”
Maybe that’s your desperation talking. Nevertheless, this sound won’t be forgotten, and you’d hate to think you could never hear it again. One way or another, you know you must have him sing in the future, if only to hear precious words like these.
He’s more relaxed when the horn takes a solo, finally given a break from what he experienced as a hectic first half. Listening to the instruments reminds him of his roots, lulling him into a calmer state of mind to begin his second verse.
He actually eyes the audience this time around, spotting his prized musicians just beyond the stage lighting. Their faces aren’t scaring him, although he’s had several days in Liberio to forget about his reputation. These people are good acquaintances to him now, and spending time with them is no longer a sin in his mind.
When he reaches the last few lines, he finally finds your face and shamelessly remains on it while he sings. He’s found his footing by now, and he’s giving you the full performance you asked for.
“If I ruled the earth,” he sings, and you imagine he already does, “what would life be worth if I hadn’t the right to you?”
You want to ask if that’s true. Could he, the ruler of the earth, find no purpose without you?
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The Program:
Jimmy Van Heusen - Come Fly With Me
The first piece Onyankopon sings in the jazz set. A timeless classic, right? The rendition by Frank Sinatra is the one I know the most (also, niche opinion, but James Darren does a damn good job too. that's my star trek fandom speaking)
Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - Maddest Kind of Love
Hey guys I LOVE this piece. LOVE IT. This is the piece Erwin does his piano solo on. I heavily encourage listening to the piano solo in this, it's INCREDIBLY sexy. The singing is pretty swell too ><
George Gershwin & Ira Gershwin - Let's Call The Whole Thing Off
Here's the piece that Onyankopon and Nambia sing. I think primarily of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong singing this piece :)
Dean Kay & Kelly Gordon - That's Life
The piece in the background while Reader is grilling Erwin about singing. And of course I prefer the version by Frank Sinatra.
Tolchard Evans - If (They Made Me A King)
HERE WE GO. Yeah this piece is absolutely my favorite. It's so perfect for Erwin. I won't deny that a majority of this fic was based around pairing him with this song.
I imagine Erwin has a tone similar to Dean Martin's deep baritone. The backing instrumentation is closer to the band with Louis Armstrong, though.
And I can't go without mentioning Perry Como's rendition, of course.
I love this piece so much. It's slow and heartfelt and just so precious to me.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
You wait until you’re at your cello case before addressing him. “I’m amazed I never noticed that before,” you laugh while opening the coffin.
Erwin is careful not to attract the ears of the busy musicians around you. “Noticed what, exactly?”
You’re conscious of them too, although there’s enough commotion in the room to muffle your words. “You already know, sir. That stare. I’d have never dared to look in the direction of another man if I knew those eyes were watching me!”
He withers against your mocking surrender, finding no dignity in having his vulnerability exposed. “That isn’t true. I have no vicious intent—and no possession over you. It’s nothing as malicious as you make it sound.”
“Maybe not, but you were glaring pretty hard. You weren’t even listening to the music anymore.”
In his scramble out of the pit of shame, he finds caustic rebuttal to be an effective tool. “Neither were you, it seems.”
That was meant to be witty and fierce, but it inadvertently reinforces what he has been trying to disprove.
“I knew it,” you sing, fitting your cello case inside its bed. “As jealous as they come.”
“Oh, should we compare records, dear cellist? I won’t be vilified by a hypocrite.”
That small loss has to be taken proudly. You do have more instances of bitter discomfort, or he is better at hiding his moments. With a shrug, you pick up your case. “Fair enough. I digress.”
“A wise choice.”
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The Program:
Felix Mendelssohn - String Quartet No. 2 in A minor, Op. 13
y'all...string quartets are so cool. why did i never learn a string instrument guys. shout out to all string instrument players you guys are SO cool.
Eugène Ysaÿe - Sonata for Solo Cello in C minor, Op. 28
Here's the piece Reader plays in the lobby! Coincidentally in the same key as the sonata Erwin is writing, hmhmhhmmmmmm
(genuinely a coincidence but can we pretend like i planned that)
most difficult problem of writing fanfiction is when you need a character to express the particular surprised/dismayed/disappointed sentiment of going "jesus christ" but this isn't a lore friendly thing to say and there's nothing lore friendly that conveys quite the same emotion
nsfw, cunnilingus, overstimulation, muliple orgasms, light cnc
Levi Ackerman/F!Reader, 1.7k words
“I can be mean.”
“Mmhmm.” A crease in the bed’s comforter is receiving more of your attention than the petulant man behind you. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Your lack of faith is pretty rude.” Levi steps beside you, scowling at your pointless chore of smoothing out the sheets. “I haven’t chosen to be mean before, but you never asked for it.”
Your boyfriend has an icy edge to his temperament, sure, but it’s never been indicative of his sexual desires. He’s a gentle lover, giving you an abundance of love that expresses the vulnerability he wouldn’t share with others. Only now, after a dinner date sprinkled with conversation of daring sexual fantasies, is he teasing the presence of a dangerous side.
“I never thought you would’ve enjoyed it.” Your arms instinctively lift by a hair as his hands snake around your waist beneath them. “You’re very kind to me in bed, you know.”
“I would enjoy making you happy.” His chin rests atop your shoulder, allowing his breath to coast along the taut skin of your neck. “And if being mean makes you happy, then I’d enjoy doing it.”
You draw a hand into his hair, fingering the threads that flow like silk. “You wouldn’t even know how, sweetheart.”
He tsks hard, the first layer of his softness stripped away. “Now you’re provoking me.”
“Mm, maybe.” Your stomach tenses as his hand slips under your shirt. “Don’t feel bad if you can’t deliver.”
“Quiet. You’re such a brat.”
“Just a bit. I—”
His embrace switches into a vice, one that sweeps you off your feet and hurls you onto the mattress. You’ve gotten this swift treatment before, and you’ve learned to brace for it. Your body craters in the mattress and splays itself for him, opening like a blossoming flower to accept his touch.
“Oh, I’m shaking,” you purr.
“Learn some patience.” He hooks fingers under your shirt and peels the fabric off with your assistance, taking your brassiere with it. He’s the impatient one, foregoing any seductive pace in favor of getting you naked as fast as possible.
Your spine arches as if on puppet strings when he kisses a line down to your abdomen, telling him wordlessly how wonderfully he’s doing. His tongue joins his teeth in teasing your skin, his nibbles fine-tuned to tickle your nerves and send frissons across your frame.
Your breaths are nasally and thin, remembering to take in oxygen in between the ripples of pleasure he’s feeding you. His shoulders are your usual anchor to dig fingers into, although his nape and hair are serving as delicious alternatives tonight. A fistful of strands are clenched when his nip shifts into a bite, a tiny act of defiance against his threat.
“That all?” you breathe, peering down at him across the expanse of your chest.
“Patience. Or I’ll do nothing but leave you hungry tonight.”
“That would be mean.” Your hips pick up as he tugs your waistband off them.
“I know. Don’t let it come to that.” He takes only a moment to consider the lace of your panties curving around your hips before stealing those too, treating himself to your splendid indecency.
He relishes the view for several moments, digging his own digits into his mouth to coat them in saliva before bringing them to your cunt. He feels you, just barely sensing you, as his fingertip is drawn up between your folds.
Your hips rock lightly, waiting for me. “Teasing won’t work. I have more stamina than you do.”
He shifts down, burrowing into the mattress as his head finds its place between your thighs. “I’ve disproven that. Several times.”
“Sure, love. You—”
You wouldn’t dare taunt the mouth that pleases, not when it connects with your cunt and tickles your delicate knot of nerves. A quick breath is sucked in and your cheekiness stops, exchanging sass for joy.
Your body happily relaxes as his tongue laps at your clit. Pleasure bubbles where his mouth meets your body, stripping your thoughts of clarity. It’s wonderful, and it’s a luxury you deem yourself so lucky to have.
And in his infinite kindness, he isn’t mocking your sudden submission. He is holding you and loving you thoroughly, offering his sweetness that has kept you hungry for him time and time again. He is a gentle lover despite his demeanor, and that gentleness is all that manifests in your shared throes of sex and pleasure.
He can’t be mean. He’s already given up and resorted to wielding his best tactic for pleasure. You won’t tease him now about it—best to wait until his dose of rhapsody is wholly consumed.
Your breathing turns whimpery when two of his fingers slip inside you and drag against your walls, working in elegant tandem with his mouth. “Fuck—Levi—” you spit out, and that pushes his motivation harder.
It’s nothing revolutionary, but its familiarity has stemmed from its effectiveness. You’re climbing fast, nothing but a quivering body of happy nerves and hot blood. At the moment, requesting a harsher edge to his play seems unnecessary.
You utter his name again as your clit throbs and your skull pushes into the mattress. Ecstasy is coiling up inside your gut, ready to burst. You think to repay him with an orgasm of his own once you reach yours.
“Levi—I—!” The sheets are twisted up in your fists as your thighs shake, moments from climax. He keeps his pace, effortless and consistent, and you fall victim to the greatest splendor a human can experience.
Your orgasm is good, and through, and strong. It shudders down your body and scrambles your mind, your body tensing hard around Levi’s head. He knows how effective he is; your trembling and twitching says as much for him. He maintains his tempo throughout your flight.
The high of orgasm fades, but the sensation doesn’t stop. You surface out of the ocean, yet the waves keep rolling, pelting you with more offerings of pleasure. His motions are pleasing objectively, but they’re not entirely considerate of the cooldown you’d like after riding such a high.
“Nn—Levi. Levi.” You’re mumbling his name now, almost questioning it. A hand reaches for his wrist, but it keeps twitching as your nerves keep leaping.
The mess between his lips and your cunt is only growing messier. Your body is adapting, learning to tolerate the excess and find joy in it yet again. It’s good, your mind says, and eventually your nerves agree.
It is good. It’s good when he fingers you and eats you up, his steadiness akin to that of a machine. His focus is just as mechanical; not so much as a word or a grunt has been uttered since he began. He has a goal, one far past the one you thought he was aiming for.
Utterances of his name crumble into spasmodic moans, the answer to a second orgasm dragged out of your body. It pulls through you laboriously, your muscles collapsing in on themselves and already boiling blood sent for another lap around your system.
Now your clit throbs hard in line with your heart, both enraged by the stimulation. It continues.
“Levi!” you spit through gritted teeth, your legs once wrought with orgasm now tight with frustration. “You—you’ve gotta ease—nn—ease up!”
He knows you too well to doubt his work. He’s well aware you’ve already come twice, and there must be some primal urge in him to coax a third out of you immediately. It can happen—and it has happened before—but that sort of repetition succeeds only with proper pacing. Not this relentless downpour.
Once realizing that he is deaf to your commands, you push a palm into his head, physically urging it off.
He resists. His posture hardens, in fact, gluing his mouth to you. One measly nudge won’t stop him.
“Levi!” Your heels dig wildly into his sides as the stimulation turns to torture.
And that’s precisely it: torture. This ravenous persistence isn’t by mistake. He found a way to subdue you, please you, and torture you as he promised. This is his version of being mean.
It’s what you asked for, so you don’t intend on safewording. Still, taking this torment meekly doesn’t suit you either.
You nail elbows into the mattress and hoist your torso up. In the next instant, his palm shoots up to force your body back down. His damned strength is more than you can conquer, especially when you’re hindered by the deluge of electricity in your limbs.
“Levi, I s-swear to god—” You dig fingers under his wrist in an effort to pry the brace off, but the might of two trembling arms is worthless against him. He maintains his wicked pace, and there’s little you can do to resist.
Somehow, a third orgasm ignites itself, but its warmth is overwhelmed by the blazing fire on your clit. Gravity seems to double as ungodly tremors help Levi in pinning you down, your body contributing to its own predicament.
Once you bear through it, your strength is returned even though the assault doesn’t stop.
“Levi!” Your nails might break skin with how fiercely they dig into his wrist. You’re livid, transformed into a thrashing animal caught in a snare and desperate for relief. “You’ve made your point!”
Only after that cry does he grace you with the smallest of hums, a tiny, smug laugh beneath his unending effort. It infuriates you more.
“I’m—I’m going to kill you, I swear—”
He likes your taunts. He keeps going.
“Levi, please!” Maybe begging will work better. Utter might certainly isn’t doing anything.
For less than a second, he shows mercy by breathing a quick, “Please what?”, before resuming.
“Please s-stop—it’s unbearable.” You’re clutching his hand now, using it as a lifeline. “It’s too much—I can’t take it.”
He hums. “It’s mean?” he asks against your swollen bud.
“Yes! Yes—it is. I-I believe you now.”
“Good.” He sits up, detaching his lips from your body and giving you freedom at last. “I’m glad we agree.”
You’re too occupied with soothing yourself, your legs coiling in as residual twitches jolt through them. You clench your jaw shut and push out some poor attempts at slow breathing, your head spinning too quickly to focus.
“We agree, right?” He’s looming over you, a hand coasting along your arm as if to warn you of a second round.
“Yes. Yes.” Your weight is lifted atop the elbow you plant in the mattress. “We agree. You can be mean.”
He presses a kiss on your cheek, one wet with your slick. “Thank you, love. I’ll be rough with you whenever you’d like.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
You reset your expression and cross the lobby floor, nearing the pianist and his lonesome melody. He’s noticed you, but his playing doesn’t stop. Instead, he curtly nods at the intentional spot available on the bench.
“Please.”
You accept, sitting close but allowing room for his arms to maneuver across the keys. This is a step forward for him—though slim, there is a chance someone could see the two of you together here. The fact that he allows the closeness anyway is proof of something changing in him.
“Thank you,” you say softly. He deserves gratitude for his choice.
“It’s nothing.” He slows his tempo, prioritizing his words over his music. “I’m glad you’re joining me. I’m always happy to have you with me.”
“I know that.” A chord teeters on dissonance before falling into a resolution. “I’m happy, too, to spend time with you. I really enjoy it.”
He nods wistfully at that, neither overjoyed nor disinterested. “You have been nothing but kind to me, and I regret having only repaid that kindness with distance. You’re deserving of more than that.”
His words, whether they are totally agreeable or not, come from a place of better judgment and contemplation. Whatever conclusions he reaches right now will most likely cement his mindset going forward. He’s changing, and his malleable form will soon harden.
“You’re in a difficult place,” you sympathize. “You’ve got people watching your actions and judging you. It must be hard to figure out how you should act.”
“Playing a part has never been hard for me.” He watches his fingers trill a pair of keys before he skips them down a dainty arpeggio. “I think it’s because I could achieve my goals by conforming to other people’s opinions. I can become a conductor through amiability and dignity, and I can earn an opera performance through connections—but a cellist—”
His music stops, although the sustain pedal is held and the last chord swirls in the air.
“But you,” he corrects. “My time with you means sacrificing something else. I haven’t had to do that before, and I haven’t decided how to handle it.”
You feel the note linger until the dampers fall and the strings inside the musical beast are muted. His hands rest on the keys, but they find nothing to play.
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The Program:
Isham Jones & Gus Kahn - It Had To Be You
Here we are, that classic little crooner piece. One of the pieces Reader suggests for Onyankopon's set. Both the Frank Sinatra and Doris Day covers are just splendid.
Cab Calloway - Minnie the Moocher
I LOVE this piece. My favorite rendition is absolutely the version by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, although the original is just as great. Another piece Reader recommends, and a much different one than the previous entry. So fun and ridiculous.
Erik Satie - Gymnopédie No. 1
Roughly what Erwin plays in the lobby while he and Reader talk. It's quiet, easy, and probably still sounds good even if the pianist is very distracted and mopey (it'll enhance the sound, if anything).
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Of course.” Already at his car, you realize your warm-up must be cut short. You have a few fleeting seconds to offer an invitation. “And, Erwin?”
By his car door, he rummages in the pocket of his coat. “Hm?”
“We’re going out again. The orchestra. There’s a late-night gelato place—Pieck and I go all the time.” You hope the question doesn’t even need to be asked. You hope he’s reached the point of enthusiastically agreeing to join.
“I see.” Having found his keys, he pointedly unlocks his car.
“And, again, I want to see if you’d like to come.” That hope was too unfounded. Being blunt is the only tactic that works against him. “The orchestra would like you to come. I would like you to come.”
That does pause him for a moment, his patterns disrupted by thoughts of your personal interest in his attendance. It’s a strong weapon, but his defenses have been meticulously crafted for years. One happy advocate can’t put so much as a scratch in them.
“I’m afraid I can’t. Please go on and enjoy your evening.”
The heartbreak doesn’t hurt as much this time. Perhaps you were already braced for rejection.
The hollow sensation is slowly filled with a query. Why can’t he? Why, after all your time together, is he still resistant to these outings? They’re far more innocent than finding a private practice room or trying on dresses. It’s time with the other musicians and nothing more.
“Oh,” you say aloud, the pieces at last clicking into place. “It’s the others.”
He reflexively reacts with a muted, “What?”
You return the eye contact you hadn’t realized you’d broken. “The—the other musicians. I mean, at first I thought you just had to keep looking professional, but—”
But he gave an unprofessional version of himself to you in private. Only you could see the softer side of him, and now it’s clear that he wants that privilege of yours to be a secret.
“You can spend time with me, but…you can’t be seen spending time with me.” The truth is so obvious it deserves to be spoken. “Or with anyone. God, I didn’t know…”
Without a word, Erwin is freezing into a statue, his cold face waiting for you to finish your calculations. You’re nearly there, scrounging up more and more of the damned thread that’s unraveling his motivations. The blizzard of conclusions brings you to a precipice, a sheer drop into woeful revelations that will twist this relationship into ugly knots.
“I didn’t know our time is so shameful to you.”
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No program this week! Unless we want to include the world's smallest violin that's playing for our poor Erwin.
Good progress is being made on this piece so there should be more frequent updates :) thank you all for reading!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“May I ask a favor?”
“And that is?”
“Would you mind showing me how to play the cello?”
Although your grip reflexively tightens around your precious instrument, you find the request endearing. “Is this an attempt to show me how amazing I am compared to a rookie?”
“Something like that,” he admits. “And I would like to try out a new instrument. I shouldn’t be an orchestra conductor if I remain so averse to learning a string instrument.”
Somewhat intrigued to see how the grand conductor handles a new experience, you gingerly hand over your beloved companion. “Alright, but be delicate. You’re going to want to hold it by the neck at all times—put it against your left shoulder. Yeah, like that.”
He has his legs spread, poorly imitating what he’s seen and testing how the new instrument rests against his lower ribcage. “I do need a bow, don’t I?”
“I’ll give you the bow once we fix…this.” His posture is a miserable wreck, at least in your eyes. He is a child’s drawing of a cello player, and you begin strategizing the politest way to adjust his rookie clumsiness. “Let’s lengthen the endpin a bit. This is sitting too short for you.”
Without much thought put into the action, you drop to the floor and cup hands under the curve of the cello. On your knees, you feel for the endpin screw as you look up the length of the cello to assess your sculpture. “Lift the cello for me. Get that lowest tuning peg beside your ear.”
For you, he heaves up the cello an inch while you lengthen the pin connecting it to the floor. This angle of you is eradicating his words and blurring his mind, leaving him bare for indoctrination and acquiescent to your instruction. He has forgotten himself, and he makes a noticeable effort to keep the cello firmly plastered against his body as if something hides beneath.
You notice that diffidence as you rise and pick up your bow. In a moment of clarity, you deduce what stole his tongue and—even though it injects you with a smidge of seductive pride—you choose to say nothing about it.
--------------------------------
The Program:
Frédéric Chopin - Waltz in F minor Op 70. no.2
The piece that Erwin plays while Reader is setting up. Just something nice and pleasant :)
(i half considered putting a d major scale in the program since that was the only other music played this chapter. but i shan't)
I’m being so normal about the new chapter of no duet the tension is THICK
Thank you!! I'm super happy with how that chapter turned out and I'm so glad you liked it! Our little lovers are getting so wiry hehe
I'm hoping I can carry that sensation throughout the next chapters as well! I feel like they need a lot more editing before I can publish but the story is moving along well. Thank you so much for your support!! I'm so grateful for readers like you <<<3
My version of John Everett Millais ''Joan of Arc'' (1865) for a ''classical art redrawn as eruri'' event on Bluesky.
The hours upon hours I've spent on this piece have been such a humbling and satisfying experience. It deepened my understanding and respect for the mind-blowing art artists in the eighteen hundredths could create without the tools and resources we have today. Millais's painting only uses reds, oranges and very little yellows but utilises saturation and light in clever ways that make the colors really pop. I'm continuously amazed by how much the eye can be tricked into perceiving colors in certain ways if they are set in the right contrast.
To say I had a lot of fun with this piece is an understatement. I literally couldn't stop drawing for hours at a time.
John Everett Millais put Joan of Arc (1865) into a very female and black suit of armour, and has her holding her sword and looking up to heaven. He gives no clues as to when in her life this was intended to represent: her face suggests it’s a moment of reflection, perhaps awaiting divine guidance, but there’s a touch of sadness in that face too. Millais’ limited range of colours make this more powerful. (Source below)
The life and death of Joan of Arc painted by Paul Delaroche, Ingres, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Annie Swynnerton, and oth
“Erwin.” You open the door with a strip of silk in one hand and a defeated expression on your face. “This set is fitting well, but I can’t get this stupid tie on.”
“Oh.” He suppresses a laugh once he sees your warning glare. “That’s alright. Let me see.”
He steps in and takes the tie from you, then delicately laces it around your neck. His fingers knead against your collarbone as they fit the fabric under your collar, and you’re embarrassed at how perfectly still you’ve gone for his sake. Knuckles rest against your sternum as he finds the appropriate slack on either end, his focus wholly on the knot he’s attempting atop your chest.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do it from this angle. I’ve only ever put them on myself.” As a solution to his conundrum, he steps behind you and wreathes arms around your body.
Now you’re seriously motionless. He’s made way for the body mirror across the room, and in it you see his frame cloak yours as he weaves a knot near your neck. His height is once again starkly obvious, and the breath of warm light on his head and shoulders gives him an ethereal quality.
And that divinity is inches away, nearly nestled against your back with you in its embrace. He’s putting a tie on, and that’s all he’s doing—but your mind has already devised a dozen actions he could be doing instead.
“That’s it.” His voice has softened in the stillness of this private room, producing a seductive quality that you’d welcome another serving of. He tightens the knot up to the base of your neck, and you actually feel your heart jump when the loop constricts ever so slightly.
The heat in your cheeks would give you away if the low light didn’t obscure it. When he comes back to your front, he makes another adjustment to the tie as he examines how it rests against your chest. For a brief, dangerous moment, he has the length of the tie in his fist, and you both know that motion is serving no evaluative purpose. You emit a tiny, indiscernible grunt, the barest noise that expresses some form of surprise.
Surprise, yes, and appeal. No part of these past few seconds has been unappealing, and now with your arousal peaked and your thoughts running amok, you have to expel just one iota of those urges. Whether or not he hears it, he deftly releases the makeshift leash and reels his hand back into his own personal space.
