summary: At some point in the eighteen months the Byers were living with the Wheelers, Will ends up in Mike’s room for a night. Old feelings and unspoken tension bubble to the surface, turning a quiet sleepover into a messy, heart-racing reckoning where playful shoves and frustration ignite into something entirely different.
cw: shared bed trope, angst, internalized homophobia, brief mentions of childhood trauma, kissing, rough kissing, fighting-to-kissing trope
wc: 4,056
Following the incident that essentially cleaved Hawkins in two, the Byers had taken up residence at the Wheelers’, tiptoeing over boundaries, sidestepping narrow halls, biting their tongues, and skimming along the wallpaper. The arrangement was strained at best, but it worked. For now.
The air in the house had gone stale, carrying that burnt-dust scent from the vents when the heat’s switched on for the first time; caught somewhere between too many bodies in too little space and late summer quietly giving way to early fall. That same in-between feeling seemed to set everything else in motion.
The house vibrated with its familiar disorder, a hum of life threading through the walls. Music leaked from bedrooms, conversations collided and overlapped, all while the kitchen radio battled to make itself heard over the din. Plates rattled against counters, toast browned a shade too far, syrup bottles wobbled dangerously on the crowded table. And through it all, Will’s gaze kept drifting toward Mike, drawn like iron filings to a quietly insistent magnet, a pull he had long ceased to deny.
Nancy sits quietly at the table, absently poking at the scrambled eggs on her plate, eyes half on the conversation and half elsewhere. “Jonathan coughed up a lung earlier,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Failed to inform anyone.” She sighs, setting her silverware down with a soft clink. “I’ll be in and out of the basement to check on him.”
Will and his older brother, Jonathan, had set up camp in the Wheelers’ basement since the so-called “move.” The space was stuffy, the temperature a mutinous thing, rising and falling despite Jonathan's late-night fiddling with the thermostat. It’s no wonder he’d gotten sick.
“Will,” Nancy began again, her voice was soft, but carried with it a subtle insistence. “I don’t want you getting sick—we can’t have you sick. Especially not now.” She scrubs a hand across her face, then shifts her gaze from her plate to him, “Why don’t you stay upstairs tonight?”
Will freezes mid-chew, fork suspended in the air as his stomach gives an unpredictable flip. “Where… upstairs?” his voice cracks, betraying the nervous thrum he’d been trying so hard to conceal.
Nancy's gaze softens, “Mike’s room. He has the bigger one, and… I just don’t want you getting sick down there. You need a proper bed, some space… a little peace, even if it’s just for one night.”
Will’s pulse leaps. Upstairs. Mike’s room. Alone with him. Heat prickles at the nape of his neck, and his gaze darts to the cluttered table as if it held all the answers. “Alone… with Mike?” he croaks.
Nancy shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “You’ll survive. Maybe even enjoy it.”
Will’s eyes flicker across the table, landing on Mike. He's calm, infuriatingly so. It's the kind of calm that makes Will’s thoughts scatter.
“It’s not like we’ve never had a sleepover before,” Mike says casually, freckled grin in place. “We’ve basically been friends since we were in diapers.”
Will’s stomach churns again.
No, not diapers. Kindergarten.
He’d been…aware of Mike for as long as he could remember; back when the world was innocent, when they’d shared snacks, traded stickers, and chased each other across playgrounds. Back then, it had been small and easy, something he could manage. Now, that shy seed of a crush had unfurled into a full-throated rose, sprouted big and riddled with thorns. Now, the thought of sharing a room—sharing a bed—with Mike Wheeler made Will's chest tight, his pulse erratic, and his thoughts betray him entirely.
“I… yeah,” Will mutters, forcing a semblance of steadiness into his voice, “I know. It’s just… It’s been a while, you know?”
Mike’s smirk flashes, a hint of amusement settling there. “Yeah… it has,” he says, leaning forward on the table. “But nothing’s changed. Same old sleepover rules. Don’t take up the whole bed, and try not to hog the blankets…”
Will nods, fingers thrumming nervously against his plate as the clatter of breakfast slides into a muted hum. All that remained was the way Mike’s presence pounded heavily on his chest, like wood on mylar, a gifted drummer staking his claim.
Mike catches the subtle shift, the tiny tilt of Will’s fork. His voice softens, just low enough to thread through the chaos: “Relax, Will. It’s just a room. Just me. You’re making it way scarier than it is.”
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
The house had quieted, though not entirely. Upstairs, the dull hum of the refrigerator mingled with distant laughter and the occasional creak of floorboards. Shadows pooled in the corners of the hall as Will moved carefully, like he was balancing on a wire strung tight over a pit of nerves.
His backpack hung off one shoulder, suddenly impossibly heavy despite being nearly empty. Every creak of the floorboards made his pulse spike, sharp and stupid. Mike’s room. Just a room. Just Mike. Will huffs out a scoff, shaking his head at himself. How could something so incredibly innocuous turn his legs to jelly and send his heartbeat into open rebellion?
He stops outside the door, hand hovering over the knob. His fingers tremble despite himself. The hallway was empty, silent, save for the faint sound of Jonathan coughing downstairs and the muted ticking of a wall clock.
Mike’s voice floats from the slightly ajar door before he could knock. “You’re here,” he says. “Thought you might chicken out.”
Will swallows hard. “I didn’t… I mean… yeah. I’m here.”
Mike steps aside, letting him in. The room was dim, the soft glow of a bedside lamp painting everything in amber. Posters lined the walls, comic books stacked haphazardly on the nightstand, and the bed—Mike’s bed—looked far too inviting, far too close.
“Nancy says I snore,” Mike says lightly, tossing Will's bag onto the floor, “but I don’t think so.” He gives a small shrug, settling onto the edge of the bed with casual ease.
Will’s heart hammers in his chest. “I’ll… manage,” he mutters, stepping inside. Every nerve felt alive, taut with anticipation. He focused on the floor, the wall, anything to keep from noticing the way Mike’s presence made the air between them feel.
Mike’s eyes follow him, amused, as he leans back, propping himself on one elbow. “Relax, Will,” he says, “It’s just me.”
And yet, it felt like everything.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
By the time they spread the board game across the carpet, the last lick of sunlight had finally dipped below the trees, and the room was now bathed only in the glow of the lamp on Mike's nightstand. Will sits cross-legged, fingers brushing the game pieces more than necessary.
Mike leans back on his hands, relaxed, easy—but Will could feel it: the subtle charge in the air, the way every glance or careless smile only made his stubborn heart beat faster. “I swear, you’re trying to psych me out,” Mike says, eyes darting towards Will, just once, before moving his piece with exaggerated care.
“I’m not…” Will's voice trails off. His hands tremble slightly as he sets his piece down, painfully aware of how close Mike’s knee was to his own.
“You know,” Mike says, “you always overthink everything. Even board games.”
Will's throat goes dry. “Maybe I just… like winning?” he mutters, though his attention had long since drifted from the game. He could feel the warmth radiating off Mike, the faint scent of soap and something else—something uniquely Mike—filling the small space.
Mike smirks, leaning a little closer. “Right… ‘like winning,’ sure. That’s what you call it.” His knee brushes Will’s again, a barely-there graze; accidental… or, maybe not. He tries to focus on the board, but it feels utterly impossible now.
The dice clatter across the board, echoing softly in the quiet room.
Will exhales sharply, trying to anchor himself to the game, but his hands betray him, fidgeting with a piece as if it could somehow absorb the pressure.
“Hey, careful,” Mike says suddenly, nudging Will's elbow lightly with his own. “You’re blocking my path.”
“I’m not—” Will snaps, too quickly, his words coming out sharper than intended. He immediately regrets it, cheeks heating.
Mike raises an amused eyebrow, leaning back just enough to grin down at Will. “Sure you’re not,” he teases, “Watch out, or I’ll move your piece for you.”
Will's hands shoot up defensively, but Mike’s faster, pushing the piece back with a playful shove. “Hey!” Will protests, the word coming out in a strangled laugh.
“Relax,” Mike says, smiling, “I’m just making the game interesting.”
Will jabs lightly at Mike’s shoulder in retaliation, but Mike catches his wrist, holding it between them. “Oh, come on,” Mike says, “you’re supposed to be the competitor. Don’t tell me you’re scared of losing to me.”
“I’m not scared!” Will protests.
“Sure,” Mike says softly, “Not scared at all.
Will’s heart skips a beat. He wanted to argue, wanted to shove Mike away—or maybe closer—but before he could do either, Mike nudges him again. It's playful, but frustrating all the same. Will's hands instinctively reach out to steady himself, colliding with Mike’s in the process.
The boys freeze, eyes locking, breaths hitching, the game forgotten between them. For a long moment, neither of them moves.
“Why are you so scared, Will?” Mike’s voice is low, insistent, but not gentle. It cuts through the cold space between them like a hot blade.
And there, Will's carefully constructed shield cracks.
“I’m not scared!” Will shoots back, louder than he meant to, heat flooding his face. His hands shook as he shoved at Mike—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. “I’m not scared of you!”
Mike’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “Then why are you always so… anxious? Always overthinking, always flinching at everything I do?” His push is sharper this time, more frustrated, and Will stumbles back against the carpet.
“I’m not anxious!” Will yelps, “Maybe I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do around you!”
Mike’s expression falters for just a second, then hardens again. “Well, maybe stop acting like every little thing is some huge deal! You can’t just… sit there, tense, and expect me to—”
“Expect you to what?!” Will snaps, shoving again, frustration and something heavier—something he couldn’t name—pushing through him. “Maybe I just don’t know how to deal with you!”
The room seemed smaller, the lamplight warmer, heavier, pressing down on the tension pulled taut between them, threatening to snap. Their shoves became tangled, half playful, half angry, hands brushing, knees bumping. Every jab carried with it something more than irritation; it carried feelings dying on tongues, truths neither of them could muster up the courage to admit.
“You make everything so complicated! And I’m tired of it!” Mike hisses.
“I’m not the one making this complicated!” Will shoots back. He rakes his fingers through his hair, chest heaving, “Maybe if you didn’t—didn’t—” He trails off, words failing him as Mike’s gaze pins him in place.
And just like that, the anger, the frustration, the heat—it all collided. Their hands met, brushing, gripping, shoving, faltering between hitting and holding.
Neither of them knew what to do next, but neither could stop.
Will shoves again, harder this time, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. “I—” His words die in his throat as Mike lunges forward slightly, their torsos colliding, hands tangling. Heat flares between them; sharp, undeniable.
Mike’s eyes widen for a split second, then, before Will can step back or protest, he leans in, cutting him off by pressing his lips to Will’s.
Will freezes, heart threatening to leap from his chest. His hands lift instinctively, brushing against Mike’s shoulders, gripping just enough to steady himself so he doesn't tumble backwards from the force—but the motion only presses them closer.
Mike’s lips are warm, firm, and for a moment, everything else—the shoves, the suppression, the resentment—collapses into this one consuming instant. Years of misdirected energy finally find their release. The boys barrel into each other like starving dogs, two beasts thrown into the same frantic, shivering arena.
There’s no slow approach, no polite space between them, just a sudden rush of mouths, lips, and teeth; marrow clashing, noses bumping, hands clutching and fisting into fabric as if letting go would undo it all.
They’re reduced to a collision of bodies, hearts hammering against sternums like mallets on skin; twin drums pounding to the same beat. It's that very rhythm that drives them together, lips crashing with a force that steals breath and sense alike.
Fingers claw at shoulders, at hair, at collars, anything to anchor themselves to the reality of each other.
Mike’s hands find Will’s sides, grabbing for purchase on the steady shoulders before him. His chest presses against Will’s, harsh and soft all at once. The kiss is messy, flustered, urgent—not gentle, not practiced—but it carries everything they’ve been bottling up: frustration, longing, confusion, the heat of emotions neither could name.
Will’s mind reels. Part of him wants to push away, to scream, to remind himself of boundaries—but another part, a part he’s been trying to ignore for years, melts into the contact, leaning in despite the molten heat of guilt pooling in his gut.
When they finally pull back, even just a breath apart, their foreheads brush, and both of them gasp, wide-eyed.
Will's chest heaves, hands trembling slightly as he attempts to catch his breath against Mike’s slack jaw. It takes him a moment to collect himself, realizing just how close they are; far too close to call it innocent. Mike’s smirk had softened into something vulnerable, something almost manageable. His expression was provocative and tender all at the same time, a face only Mike could pull off.
The board game lay forgotten, dice scattered across the carpet.
Will's hands fly to his face like he could shield himself from the chaos of his own pulse, reverberating through his flesh like fists on hollow doors.
“I—" the dryness of Will's mouth makes the noise come out hoarse and choked. Embarrassed, he clears his throat, and this time, the sound escapes with more clarity, "I didn’t—” he tries again, but the words catch on his tongue, swallowed by the pounding in his ears.
Mike blinks, just once, hands still hovering near Will as if letting go too quickly would break him. “Yeah… wow, uh,” he mutters.
Will exhales through his nose, heat burning his cheeks, spreading down his neck, into his chest. He wanted to shove, to argue, to deny it all—but the memory of Mike’s lips, the weight of Mike’s body against his, lingered hot in every nerve. “I—It’s not—”
“It’s fine,” Mike interrupts, hands finally dropping to his sides, though his eyes stay locked on Will’s. “It’s just… I didn’t expect it. Didn’t mean to—” His words falter, voice softening, catching on itself.
Will's chest heaves, trying to catch air that feels too thin. “Yeah. Me neither,” he admits finally. He wanted to step away, but his legs felt rooted to the carpet, and something in him refused to move.
Mike’s lips twitch into a small smile—still playful, but gentler, careful now.
Will's hand itched to push Mike, to shove him away, but all he could do was stare, mouth dry, pulse racing. “We’re… not… supposed to…,” he squeaks, fumbling over the words.
Mike’s smirk dissipates, replaced by a flicker of something softer, something almost hesitant. His eyes drop to Will's lips for a heartbeat, then back to his eyes, searching. “Yeah… I know,” he murmurs, “But I… can’t stop thinking about it.”
Before Will could process, before he could step back or argue, Mike leans in again.
Except this time, there's no hesitation.
The urgency of the touch makes Will's stomach swoop downward, like the wild lurch of a coaster dropping off its peak. His hands fly up, bracing against Mike’s shoulders, but it's impossible to resist. The heat radiating off Mike feels electric, crawling across his skin, sparking along his spine, igniting something raw and dizzying inside him.
Will's body shivers against the pressure.
He wants so badly to slip into Mike's lap, press his palm to bare, freckled flesh, and count the rhythm of the heart that beats there; just to know he's real.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Is this real?
Mike nudges forward, pressing his tongue into Will’s mouth. The suddenness steals Will’s breath, a jolt of shock that leaves him momentarily rigid. It’s daring, unexpected, and somehow exactly what he needed. Will swallows hard, the last trace of stiffness in his body easing with a timid gulp.
And there, it clicks.
Will tilts his head, answering Mike boldly, matching the motion with a hungry flick of his own tongue. Heat ripples through him, a heady mix of disbelief at his own boldness and the insatiable need to answer the demands of Mike Wheeler's lips. The lick of courage leaves him grasping at the taller boy's shoulders, leaning fully into the kiss despite every suppressed instinct screaming to flee.
Mike’s hands find Will's sides, blunt fingertips digging in lightly—not harshly, just enough to keep him there.
Will’s knees nearly buckle, his chest pressing into Mike’s, caught in the pull of something fierce. He tries to pull back, tries to argue silently with himself, but the world has already narrowed to the point where nothing exists outside the press of their mouths.
Mike’s lips are warm and firm, fitting against Will’s like they have been waiting for this exact moment, like muscle memory finally catching up to desire. Will exhales into it, a shaky sound he doesn't mean to make, and Mike answers it instinctively, tilting his head just enough to deepen the contact.
The taller boy runs a hand along the underside of Will’s jaw, the pad of his thumb rubbing Will’s jawbone in slow, tentative circles. The contact is careful, almost unsure, carrying with it the thought that’s been weighing on them both: isn’t this touch meant to be forbidden?
It coaxes Will’s chin upwards by a few degrees, a quiet invitation that swallows him whole, each movement of Mike’s thumb flooding his system with a low, spreading warmth.
Their breaths tangle, uneven and too close. Will feels every small movement, the faint drag of lips, teeth catching lightly, breaths hitching and colliding. There is nothing practiced about it. It is messy and real and full of restraint that is already fraying.
Mike’s mouth lingers like he needs more; as if he’s trying to pour all the years of hesitation, all the years of saying nothing and doing even less, into this single kiss. It stings with intent, with hunger held carefully in check, as if he’s memorizing it; as if pulling away would mean admitting that this could slip from his hands all over again.
Will's pulse rings out so loudly he thinks Mike might feel it through the press of their bodies.
Mike breaks the kiss just long enough to speak, lips brushing in a shaky exhale. “Will…” he murmurs, “I… I can’t—”
Will's chest heaves against his, words lost to the heat and the press of skin. He swallows hard and tilts his head back into the kiss, refusing to break it, refusing to admit just how much he wanted this.
Their breaths mingle; the tension of the day, the push and shove, the anger, the longing of it all—boiling over in that messy, careless kiss. Their hands drift over arms, backs, brushing everywhere all at once, and yet nowhere too boldly.
Will’s grip tightens once, and then it’s gone.
The panic hits fast, hits hot. It's too much closeness, too much want, too real.
He pulls back abruptly, eyes wide like he’s just woken up somewhere unfamiliar. “I—” he starts, but the word falls flat. His chest feels tight, not crushing, but crowded, like there isn’t enough room for everything he’s got inside.
Before Mike can finish whatever he was trying to say, Will slips free.
He turns and bolts for the bathroom, socked feet sinking into the carpet as he goes, the plush drag beneath him oddly unreal, like moving through something thick and slow. He shoves the door shut behind him with more force than he means to and twists the lock. The click sounds too loud in the sudden quiet.
Will braces his hands on the sink, head bowed. His reflection stares back at him, flushed, eyes bright and a little wild. He drags in a shaky breath, then another, waiting for the familiar spiral to hit.
Except, it doesn’t.
Will’s had panic attacks before, obviously, if you can even call them that. As a kid, mostly. Back when fear came without warning and stayed too long, back when his neck became riddled with goosebumps and his body learned to brace for things his mind couldn’t name yet. Those were sharp and suffocating, all static and terror, like he was trapped inside himself.
This feels different.
This feels heavy and electric and painfully alive. His heart’s racing, yes, but not with dread; it’s something thicker, something worse for reasons he can’t explain. It’s want, it’s the terrifying realization that he almost had everything he’s been pretending he didn’t need.
He splashes cold water on his face, the shock tearing a sharp breath from his chest. Droplets cling to his lashes and track down his cheeks, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His hands still tremble as he grips the edge of the counter, his fingers digging futilely into the porcelain, knuckles growing white as the skin is pulled taut, as if he could somehow embed this part of himself in the countertop, as if it could absolve him of this entirely.
Except, the feeling doesn’t spiral. It just sits there, heavily, before ebbing into something else entirely; something aching.
On the other side of the door, there’s a pause.
However, it’s not the kind of pause that feels like abandonment, or like Lonnie rearing back for a swing; it's the kind that feels patient, like Mike is choosing his next move carefully.
Then his voice comes through the door, it’s low and gentle, entirely stripped of its usual edge.
“Will?”
There's a certain lilt in Mike’s tone that exists solely for Will; an inflection reserved for him alone. It’s different from the way he speaks to anyone else. With other people, Mike’s voice runs sharp and quick, all dry humor and easy deflection. He teases, he snaps, his tongue is sharp. Mike keeps things light by keeping them at arm’s length. But with Will, the sharpness always softens, like something held back on purpose, and it’s been that way since they sat on swingsets.
This voice is quieter; warmer, almost… delicate. Like he's afraid of pushing too hard, afraid of shattering something fragile. Something like Will.
“I’m right here, William,” Mike adds, just as softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The sound of his full name makes his throat tighten, makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t have words for.
Will closes his eyes, forehead resting against the cool mirror. The chill seeps into his skin, a small, steady contrast to the heat still buzzing through his body. He focuses on that sensation, on the solidness of it, as if it might hold him together for just a moment longer.
He doesn’t answer right away; not because he doesn’t want to, but because he needs a second to believe he won’t fall apart when he does. His throat tightens, uninvited emotions pressing there.
He takes a slow breath through his nose, then another, counting them without meaning to. He needs a second. Just one. A second to make sure the words will come out steady. A second to believe that if he opens his mouth, he won’t unravel completely.
The quiet stretches, filled only by the sound of Will’s breathing and the faint rush of water still dripping into the sink.
“I just need a minute,” he says finally, voice muffled through the door.
Another beat of silence.
“Okay,” Mike answers. Simple, steady, there. Just as he always had been.
summary: mike & will finally put all their cards out on the table with a long-awaited first kiss.
cw: first kiss, kissing, making out, rough kissing, reveal of mutual feelings, a teensy bit of “why didn’t you tell me sooner?” angst, resolution, fluff, just cute byler :p
p.s. i am imagining this to be happening right after the events of s5e4 (& u should too) ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
the boys barrel into each other like starving dogs; two beasts thrown into the same frantic, shivering arena.
there was no slow approach, no polite space between them; just a sudden rush of mouths, lips, teeth. marrow clashing, noses bumping, hands clutching and fisting into fabric as if letting go would undo it all.
they’re reduced to a collision of bodies, hearts hammering against sternums like wood on mylar, twin drums pounding to the same beat. lips smashing together with a force that kidnaps breath and sense alike. fingers claw at shoulders, hair, collars; anything to anchor themselves to the reality of each other.
will’s voice breaks against mike’s slack jaw, “i… i didn’t know…”
mike captures the smaller boy’s chin between his fingertips, pulling him in, teeth grazing his mouth. “you didn’t know?”
the air burns, thick with wanton, every almost-touch, every season of restraint pressing into that one desperate, trembling kiss. heat, friction, longing, and the wild, unstoppable pull of years unspent finally erupting between them.
will’s hands fist in mike’s shirt, “why?” he croaks, “why didn’t you say anything?”
mike’s lips press to will’s neck, voice low and trembling against the gooseflesh. "i didn’t think… i didn’t know if you felt the same. i’ve been so scared to say it. but i can’t anymore.”
will racks his brain for explanations he knows won’t come; but this time, the thoughts don’t stay in his head; they tumble out of him in a shaking rush as his fingers clutch at mike’s shoulders, knuckles whitening.
“why now?” he breathes, voice breaking. “god, mike, why not sooner? do you know how long i’ve… how long i’ve been furious and lonely and so damn sure you didn’t feel anything? i was angry at you, and at myself, and at everything because i thought… i thought you’d never…”
will’s grip tightens as he presses closer, his legs trembling beneath him.
“all this time you’ve been right here, and now you want me. now, after everything. after all the nights i tried to convince myself to tell you, and then backed out because i didn’t want to ruin the goddamned friendship.”
will grits his teeth, mouth twisting like he’s chewing on his cheek, “and now?” his voice breaks, “look what’s become of this friendship i tried tooth and fucking nail to keep sacred.” his hands slide down mike’s chest, tears streaming down his flushed face as he leans heavily into the taller boy. despite the pain in his chest, he knows his legs would fail him and he'd hit the asphalt hard if it weren’t for mike’s weight holding him up.
“i spent years thinking it was one-sided,” he whispers, almost choking on it. “thinking i was just… wishing too hard.” will blabbers quietly, a pathetic stream of consciousness halted only by mike’s lips on his once more.
mike kisses him again, only this time, it’s nothing like the frantic, terrified press from before, it’s slow. a slow, trembling apology shaped like mike wheeler’s lips.
will goes rigid for a moment, a soft, broken sound catching in his throat. his hands, still resting on mike’s chest, curl into fists, gripping the fabric there like it’s the only steady thing he has left in the world.
when mike finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead falls against will’s. their noses brush. will’s tears wet both their cheeks.
mike’s voice is barely a whisper. “i know,” he says, and he sounds wrecked. “i know what i did to you. i didn’t mean to. i was scared. i…god, will, i was so scared.”
will huffs out something like a laugh, something like a sob. “you think i wasn’t?” he whispers. “you think i didn’t—every time you smiled at me, every time you pulled away from me—i thought it was because i was wrong. because i was reading everything wrong.”
mike’s breath shudders. his hands come up, hovering like he’s afraid to touch, like he’s afraid he’s already used up his right to.
will doesn’t let him hesitate. he grabs mike’s wrists and guides them to his own waist, holding them there. holding him there.
“you don’t get to be scared now,” will whispers, voice cracking. “not after everything. if you’re here… then be here. don’t… don’t disappear on me again.”
mike’s mouth falls open like he wants to explain, or apologize, or fall apart entirely, but no words make it out. he just pulls will in tighter, arms cinching around him with something close to desperation.
will buries his face in the warm space beneath mike’s jaw, breath shaking. “i can’t do that again,” he murmurs into his skin. “i can’t go back to pretending.”
mike’s arms tremble around him. “then don’t,” he whispers. “don’t pretend. not with me. not anymore.”
will’s eyes squeeze shut. the pain loosens, just enough to let a sliver of something else in...
hope.
mike’s arms tighten around him, as if will might slip through his fingers again. will clings back just as fiercely, the ache in his chest slowly blooming into something hotter, sharper, unbearably alive.
the apology in mike’s breath becomes something else—need, fear, longing, years of it—sparking between them like flint.
will lifts his head first. his face is blotchy, tear-streaked, but there’s something else there, too; something raw and unguarded. mike looks at him like he’s seeing a face he never thought he deserved.
and that is all the space they allow themselves before gravity wins.
they crash together again.
their hands roam frantically, like they’re memorizing things untouched, the contours of things sacred and dangerous; things they’ve been starving to touch—shoulders, jawlines, the tense curves of arms pulling each other closer. swallowed breaths and half-formed confessions press against the edges of every frantic kiss. they kiss like the night would swallow them whole if they stopped, like all the time lost might collapse back into their hands if they only held tight enough.
mike tears his mouth away just long enough to gasp, “i thought you’d never want this. i thought…”
“shut up,” will whispers against his lips, voice shaking. “just…don’t stop.”
mike’s smile shows in the kiss itself; feral, desperate, trembling with something close to relief.
desperation bubbles behind adam's apples, curling up their throats, nipping through tangled tongues and every sound they fail to push down, until the world collapses into teeth, lips, and skin fused impossibly close.
mike’s hands move with feverish certainty, one gripping will’s waist, the other threading into his hair and guiding him nearer. the press of their bodies is insistent, almost frantic, mike’s warmth burning through will’s trembling frame until he’s breathless and unsteady.
will clings to him, fingers curling into mike’s shirt, sliding along arms that feel commanding and steady. every kiss, every flick of tongue, is sharp, raw, and urgent; boiling over with unspoken claims and years of held-back longing. will gasps into mike’s mouth, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, dizzy with the ferocity of it all.
“god, mike,” he manages, voice breaking. “i waited so long. i hated myself for it.”
mike’s teeth graze the corner of Will’s mouth in something like a startled, hungry kiss, not quite gentle, not quite careful, just honest. will jerks at the spark of it, sliding his hands down mike’s shoulders and back; gripping, pulling, holding fast.
“you never had to,” mike breathes against his cheek. “i wanted you every damn day.”
heat flares through will, mixing with the shock of realization…mike wants him… wanted him all this time. the thought makes will respond with equal fervor, pressing harder into mike, letting his body echo the intensity of the taller boy’s friction.
their breathing stutters and tangles, ragged bursts and shared gasps between kisses, the rhythm wild and messy. their hands roam, finding anything they can grasp; holding, squeezing, claiming… as if fear and need are indistinguishable in the dark.
will pulls back just far enough to see mike’s face; flushed, desperate, eyes wide like he’s terrified the moment might vanish if he blinks.
“mike,” he whispers, breath trembling against his chin, “i don’t… i don’t want this to be something we pretend didn’t happen.”
mike’s hands tighten at will’s waist, not rough, just certain. “i won’t pretend. not after this. not after you.” mike's voice is steady, reassuring. "don't even question it, will."
will’s chest caves with something sharp and tender, an ache that feels like years collapsing at his feet. he leans in again, slower this time, but no less desperate, hands sliding up to cradle mike’s jaw, like he needs to feel the shape of the truth under his palms.
their foreheads press together, breaths mingling, the night humming around them like it’s holding its own inhale.
will’s voice breaks, small but sure. “then… stay. just stay with me.”
mike closes his eyes and nods, a soft exhale brushing will’s lips. "i've been trying to,” he murmurs. “i just didn’t know if I was allowed.”
the tenderness of it knocks something loose in will. he presses close, arms winding around mike’s shoulders, pulling him in until there’s no space left between them.
“you are,” he breathes, grounding himself in the warmth, “you always were.”
and there, in the charged quiet after the rush of it all,
in the lingering heat of their breaths,
the faint tremble in mike’s hands,
the way will fits against him like something finally found.
will collapses into the curve of mike’s body as if he were made for it. his forehead tucks instinctively beneath mike’s jaw, breath warming the hollow of his throat. mike’s arms wrap around him without thought—one crossing will’s back, the other anchoring low at his side—locking him into a hold so natural it feels pre-written into the shape of him.
will’s cheek finds the space just above mike’s collarbone, the place where his scent is warmest, where mike can rest his chin in will’s hair and feel him breathe. it fits too easily, too tenderly; will’s body molding into the lines of mike’s like he’d been leaning into him his whole life without knowing it.
mike feels the exact moment will settles, the moment his shaking quiets, the moment he lets himself belong. and mike’s hold tightens, almost unconsciously, as if to say yes, here, this is where you fit.
will’s breath catches, soft and disbelieving, against mike’s throat.
mike closes his eyes, turning his face just enough that his cheek brushes will’s hair.
the gentlest, most instinctual touch,
like he’s finally allowed to hold what he’s been aching for.
their bodies align in a way that feels impossibly right, and together, they feel like something that had been waiting to click into place for years finally had...
cw: afab!reader, softdom!reader, sub!art, porn w minimal plot, cunnilingus, face-sitting/riding, p in v sex, sex in the dark, dick-riding/cowgirl position, edging (m receiving) orgasm denial (m receiving), begging, praise (“good boy”), etc.
summary: you're in art’s dorm late at night; it’s dark, you’re in bed, and he’s so needy for you it hurts. all he wants is to be good for you, to prove how well he knows your body, even with the lights off... if you'll let him ;)
wc: 3,200
art knows you and your body by heart, by beat;
even in the dark.
his dorm is small, the kind of small that forces closeness.
the room is quiet, tucked away in that tender hour just before sleep gives up and morning takes over.
there’s a shelf above the desk cluttered with protein bars and folded sweatbands, tennis shoes half-kicked beneath the chair. the string lights above his desk are off. the lamp is off. only the softest gold leaks under the door from the hallway, casting a faint, broken line across the floor. the rest is shadow—warm, still, breathable.
you’re in his bed, curled against him beneath a worn stanford tennis hoodie and too many blankets. the mattress is narrow, barely made for one person, but you’ve managed to press close enough that there’s no space left between your bodies. your leg hooked over his hip, his hand is resting on the bare skin of your thigh, thumb stroking in slow, nervous circles.
he’s been quiet for minutes now—too quiet. his thumb is still moving, but slower now, like he’s trying to find the courage to speak.
then his voice, low and shaky, spills into the dark, “can i touch you?”
you smile, turning slightly toward him. “you’re already touching me.”
“i know,” he says, almost too fast. “i mean, like... more. i want to. i’ve been thinking about it since—” he cuts himself off with a breath, face nudging closer to your neck like he can hide there. “i just want to make you feel good. but i don’t want to... do it wrong.”
your stomach twists, soft and warm at the edges--because he means it. he always does.
you don’t answer right away. you let the silence stretch for a few seconds, let him feel the closeness between you. your breath evens out; calm, steady. but art's doesn’t, he’s holding it now.
when he starts to pull his hand away—slow, careful, like he’s changed his mind—you stop him.
you take his wrist gently, grounding him with your touch, and guide his hand lower, between your legs.
his breath hitches, but he doesn’t hesitate again.
art’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your sleep shorts, cautious but curious, the pads of them gliding over sensitive skin like he’s afraid to press too hard. he pauses when he finds you wet, and for a second he doesn’t move—just breathes.
“tell me if i’m doing something wrong,” he whispers, already sounding wrecked.
“you’re not,” you murmur.
he exhales like you’ve absolved him of something, and his fingers move again-- slow, focused; the kind of touch that says he’s paying attention to every twitch of your hips, every soft sound, every breath that catches in your throat. he circles your clit lightly, not too much, just enough to make you gasp.
“fuck,” he breathes, voice full of awe. “you’re already so wet. is that... is that for me?”
you lean in, press your forehead to his, your voice no louder than a breath. “lie back.”
he does; immediately, wordlessly, sliding onto his back like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for an order all night. his curls fan out on the pillow, his chest rising too fast, too hard. you feel the way he watches you even in the dark, gaze wide, like he doesn’t dare blink.
you shift, push the blankets down and swing one leg over him. he gasps when you straddle his thighs, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. his hands stay by his sides; obedient, trembling.
“can i?” he starts, but you’re already reaching for the hem of your shorts, sliding them down slow. he makes a sound, it’s quiet, almost stunned, as you lean over him, take his hand again, and guide it back to where you need him.
he’s gentler this time, more sure. his fingers glide through your slick like he’s learning you, memorizing the way you move against him. your hips rock slowly into his hand, and he breathes out something close to a moan.
“please,” he whispers. “please let me taste you.”
his desperation makes your stomach cartwheel.
you move up, shifting forward on your knees, and he follows, already trying to sit up like he’s ready to prove himself. but you push him back gently, making his shoulders hit the mattress again. his eyes flutter shut as you crawl over him, thighs on either side of his chest.
he’s panting now, breath shallow, mouth parted like he’s starving for it.
you inch forward, slowly, until you’re above his mouth, and he whines like the ache in his chest might split him open.
his hands come up to your thighs, tentative, warm. not to move you—just to hold. to steady himself.
and when he touches you, it’s so gentle it almost makes you ache; like he thinks you might shatter if he’s too rough, like you’re some fragile little hummingbird he’s terrified of startling.
he touches you like he’s afraid you’ll fly away.
he lifts his head without waiting, tongue darting out to lick into your folds, tentative at first. then firmer. fuller. the second you sigh, he groans—low and deep—like he’s never wanted anything more.
he eats like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
his tongue moves in slow, practiced strokes—circling your clit, then flattening beneath it, then dipping back down to taste you deeper. he’s already messy with it, mouth wet, lips slick, groaning softly each time you move against him.
your hips grind forward, chasing pressure, and he takes it like a gift. lets you ride his mouth, lets you use him, breath hot and uneven as he licks harder, faster, more focused. every time you moan, he tightens his grip, like he wants to hold on to the sound.
“art,” you gasp, your fingers threading through his hair. “fuck, you’re so good.”
he groans again, the sound vibrating through your core.
he wants you to fall apart on his tongue, needs it. he’s shaking with it.
his tongue never falters, even when his breathing does. he moans against you constantly, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, like he can’t help the way his mouth chases you, over and over, needing more, needing you.
the dark wraps around you both, soft and quiet, every movement magnified: the creak of the mattress, the wet sound of his mouth on you, his little whimpers when your hips stutter, along with yours, when he sucks just right.
“don’t stop,” you gasp, barely above a whisper.
his hands dig in at your thighs, holding you down like he knows you’re about to lift away—like if you pull back, he might fall apart.
“please,” he mumbles, voice wrecked, lips brushing your skin, “please come for me—i want to feel it, want to taste it, i need to, please—”
and you do.
your whole body clenches, legs tightening around his head, your breath catching as the pleasure crashes down. it’s hot and sharp and blinding, made worse by how good he is, how desperate he is, how much he wants it.
you cry out his name, something raw and shaky, and he groans so loudly it vibrates through your spine.
art keeps going.
even when your body trembles, even when you gasp and jerk from oversensitivity, he keeps licking you through it, slower now, tongue soft and worshipful.
“that’s it,” he murmurs, breathless against your thigh. “that’s so good. you taste so—fuck—so good.”
your hands thread into his curls again, tugging gently, and finally he lets you go, chin slick, lips swollen, eyes glassy when you shift off of him.
he looks like he’s in awe, like he just witnessed something holy.
you lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth, and he whines. even now, he wants more.
you don’t say anything right away. you just breathe against him, one hand drifting up his chest. he’s still panting, still hard, straining beneath his boxers, the shape of him obvious even in the low light. the tension in his body is unbearable—he’s trying so hard to be still, to be good, but it’s all over his face: the need, the ache, the way he’s barely hanging on.
you swing one leg over him, settling into his lap slowly, the pressure of your heat against the bulge in his boxers making him gasp. his hands hover near your thighs but don’t grip—he won’t, not unless you tell him to. instead, he breathes your name like it’s sacred.
“please,” he whispers. “please ride me. i want to make you feel good. i want to be good for you.”
you roll your hips once, just enough to tease, and his whole body tenses beneath you.
he’s so hard it must hurt.
“you want it that bad?” you ask, your voice low and calm.
he nods, frantic. “yes—god, yes. i think about it all the time. i think about you on top of me and i—fuck. i can’t stop.”
the way he whines beneath his breath sends a thrill down your spine.
you reach down between your bodies, slipping your hand into his boxers. he bucks up into your touch before he can stop himself, panting now, completely at your mercy.
“then stay still,” you whisper. “and let me take care of you.”
“okay,” he breathes, then babbles out a stream of desperation, “okay. i will. i promise. please, just use me.”
his fingers trail lightly across your stomach, hesitant, trembling just slightly, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you without asking, even now. but you can feel the need radiating off of him, thick in the air between you.
he’s holding his breath.
“you’re so warm,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. his voice is low, raspy at the edges. “i keep thinking i’ll wake up and you won’t be here.”
you shift closer, your hand sliding up beneath his shirt, palm resting flat on the soft plane of his stomach. he lets out the smallest sound at the contact, not quite a gasp, more like surrender.
“i’m here,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“i know,” he says, breath hitching. “i just—fuck. you don’t get it. i think about this all the time. you. us. this.”
your fingers move slowly, tracing the line where his waistband begins. he’s already hard, of course he is. he’s been hard since your legs touched under the blanket, since you crawled into bed with him and curled into his chest like you belonged there.
his chest rises and falls like he’s struggling to breathe as your hands slide up under his shirt, then pull it over his head.
he’s lean, all sharp collarbones and flushed skin, soft muscle beneath a layer of tension. sweat glistens at the hollow of his throat, and his stomach jumps when your fingertips graze down the center of it, catching on the faint trail of golden peach fuzz that disappears beneath his waistband. you can feel how hard he’s trying not to move, not to touch, not to want—even though he already does.
his eyes are wide in the dark, mouth parted, like he can’t believe this is real.
“oh my god,” he whispers, blinking at you, like he can't even fathom that you're real, here, in bed with him. “are you—are you gonna…”
a smirk tugs at the corners on your lips, and you curl your fingers around the waistband of his boxers. art whines, inhaling a sharp breath of air through his gritted teeth as you tug them down and his cock springs free, flushed and leaking against his stomach.
“do you want me to?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“please,” he whines again, composure completely dissolved now. “please, i need you, i want--i want you to use me, i don’t care, just-- fuck, i just want to feel you.”
you line him up, still slow, still steady, your hand wrapping around him to guide him to your entrance.
he grips your hips like you’ll disappear.
and when you sink down onto him—tight and wet and inch by inch—he falls apart beneath you.
“oh my god,” he moans, head falling back against the pillow. “oh my god, you feel—fuck, you feel so good, i can’t—”
you roll your hips, slow and deep, and his hands tighten, trying not to move, not to thrust up, not to ruin it.
“you’re so deep,” you whisper, and his whole body shudders.
the room is still cloaked in dark, nothing but the faintest light under the door--and it’s enough.
he doesn’t need to see you, he knows you.
he’s memorized you in every way that matters.
he grips your hips tighter, knuckles white with restraint. you can feel it in the way his breath stutters—like every part of him is straining to stay still, to let you move at your pace, to give you everything without asking for a thing in return.
and he’s trying so hard.
god, he’s trying.
“you’re perfect,” he chokes. “i don’t know how to—i can’t even think—just, please, don’t stop.”
you lean in, voice warm and low against his flushed-pink ear.
“i won’t stop, baby,” you murmur, “but you’ve gotta be quiet.”
he nods, fast, already panting too loud, too needy.
you shift your weight slightly, roll your hips again, and his breath stutters out in a whimper.
“ah—sorry, sorry—i’ll be quiet, i will, i swear,” he babbles, desperate and wrecked.
you smile, just a little, and bring two fingers to his lips.
“open.”
he does, instantly, mouth parting like instinct.
you slip your fingers in slow, and he groans around them—soft and muffled, eyes fluttering shut like it soothes him to have something to suck on, something to keep him grounded.
he closes his lips around them and sucks, obedient and messy, tongue pressing eagerly against the pads of your fingers like he’s trying to taste you wherever he can. his lips are plush and wet, pink from use, and he keeps his eyes on you even through the haze—like looking at you is the only thing anchoring him.
“that’s it,” you whisper. “good boy.”
his hips jerk beneath you at that—just a twitch, a gasp. you feel it in his cock, the way he pulses inside you, the way he can’t stop trembling.
you keep moving—steady, controlled—riding him slow and deep, fingers still in his mouth, his eyes dark and glassy beneath you.
he’s being so good; doing everything you say, taking everything you give him.
and he’s still so close—he’s been on the edge since the moment you touched him. you keep your fingers in his mouth, letting him suck like it’s the only thing keeping him quiet.
and maybe it is.
he moans around your fingers, muffled and needy, hips twitching beneath you even as he tries—really tries—not to move.
“you’re doing so good for me,” you murmur, voice soft like the dark around you. “just like that. you’re perfect, art.”
his eyes flutter shut at that. you feel him throb inside you.
“you like hearing that?” you whisper, curling your fingers slightly against his tongue.
he nods, frantic. suckles harder, moaning low in his throat.
“you wanna be good for me, don’t you?”
he whimpers. nods again.
you start to move faster—still slow, but deeper, dragging your hips against his with just enough rhythm to make his breath catch every time. his whole body responds, tightening beneath you, his thighs flexing, abs clenching under your palms like he’s holding on with everything he has.
he’s unraveling.
you can feel it in the way he shakes beneath you, the way his hands fist the sheets, the way his thighs tremble when you grind down just right, the way his cock twitches inside you, like he’s begging for release without daring to ask.
“don’t come yet,” you whisper.
he whines, eyes going wide, teeth pressing lightly to your fingers like he wants to protest, but won’t.
“you can take it, can’t you?”
he nods again, whimpering around your hand.
you slide your fingers out gently, and he gasps—soaking in air like he’s been drowning. his chest heaves with it, his hands finally grip your hips, not to take control, just to hold; to beg silently.
“please,” he whispers, voice wrecked and shaking. “please, i need—i need more. i can’t—i need you so bad.”
you ride him harder, not quite rough, but enough to make him gasp, enough to make his eyes roll back for a second.
“you’re so good like this,” you murmur. “so pretty when you’re falling apart.”
he’s flushed all over, sweat pooling at his temples, his chest rising and falling fast beneath you—broad, toned, dusted with soft hair and marked by the trail your nails left behind.
he’s a mess for you, and he loves it.
he's shameless, and he couldn't care less.
“you’re everything,” he whispers, the words tumbling out like he can’t stop them. “i’d let you do anything to me—i’d let you ruin me, i don’t care, i just want to be yours.”
you press your forehead to his, rocking down hard, and he cries out, barely swallowing the sound.
“you already are,” you breathe. “you’re mine, baby. look at you.”
he shudders. “fuck—i’m close. i’m so close. please—please—”
“you can take more,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “you’ll come when i say you can. not a second before.”
he's lost all composure, and he moans, louder now, shamelessly.
and still, you don’t let up.
you keep grinding down on him, slow and deep, fucking him through the edge until he’s trembling—sweat-damp and flushed, his mouth open on a silent moan.
he’s trying to hold on, trying so hard; but every time you sink down, he gasps, fists the sheets, bites back a cry.
“you feel so good,” he chokes, barely breathing. “you’re so—tight, i can’t—i’m trying—i’m trying so hard—”
you press a kiss to his cheek, to his temple, to the edge of his jaw.
“you’ve been so good,” you whisper. “you did everything i asked.”
he nods, broken and frantic, hips twitching up into yours like he can’t help it anymore.
art knows he’s earned it, knows he’s been good—so good—but he wouldn’t dare ask. he’s just lying there, trembling, waiting for the words to fall from your lips like they’re oxygen and he's drowning, like they’re the only thing keeping him alive.
“you wanna come for me, baby?”
and there they are.
“yes,” he breathes. “god, yes, please—i need it, i need you—please let me—”
you drag your nails gently across his chest, then rock your hips down hard, squeezing around him.
“then come for me.”
and that’s it.
he shatters.
his whole body locks up beneath you, hands gripping your thighs like they’re the only thing tethering him to earth. his mouth drops open, and a wrecked, punched-out moan tears from his throat as he comes—hard, hot, helpless inside you.
his hips jerk up once, twice, and then he’s gone, chest heaving, eyes wet, clinging to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
“fuck,” he gasps. “fuck, fuck, i’ve never—i didn’t know it could feel like that—”
you don’t move, you art him feel it, let him ride it out with you still wrapped around him, warm and steady and his.
you stroke his hair, kiss the corner of his mouth again, and he whimpers, soft and shaken.
“you did so good,” you whisper.
he nods, barely able to speak, hands smoothing up and down your sides like he’s still trying to prove something.
“don’t go,” he says quietly.
“i won’t,” you murmur, already curling down into his chest.
the room is still dark, still quiet. the hallway light’s gone out now, too, and it’s just you and art in soft, perfect darkness.
summary: just a lil drabble about patrick eating you out ;)
wc: 1.2k
no matter the meal, patrick always eats like he’s been starved for weeks beforehand.
the way he devours you is no different; like hunger lives in his bones, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t taste you fast enough. his mouth is everywhere at once: kissing, licking, biting, drinking you in like you’re the last thing on earth that could satisfy him. his hands follow, greedy and certain, pinning your hips, cradling your jaw, mapping every inch of you like he’s trying to memorize the terrain before it disappears.
you gasp, arch, writhe beneath him, and he just groans against your skin; needy, wrecked.
“can’t believe i get to have this,” he breathes, words muffled by your thigh, your stomach, your neck. he’s not asking for permission, he’s claiming you—slowly, shamelessly—like he already knows he’ll never get enough.
the pads of his fingers slide lower and you shudder.
“pat,” you whisper, broken on the edge of a moan.
he looks up, pupils blown wide, lips slick, dark tufts of hair falling into his eyes. “yeah?” he answers, hoarsely, like he’s already drunk on you.
you don’t even know what you meant to say, and maybe you don’t have to, because he’s already back on you; open-mouthed kisses down your ribs, palms spreading your thighs again, tongue slipping into the heat of you like he belongs there.
and god, he does. patrick fits like a secret you’ve kept too long; ike he was always meant to find you this way.
but he’s patient, too patient. with his head nestled between your thighs, he traces lazy, featherlight patterns with his tongue—not quite where you need him, just close enough to make your nerves fray at the edges.
the teasing is unbearable. you mewl for him, breath hitching, spine curling, hips rising in a silent plea.
“please-” it breaks from your throat, desperate and wanting.
he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush; just hums low against your skin, like your suffering is amusing to him.
he’s a menace, a master of slow destruction. he takes his time, savoring the way you tremble, the way you beg without saying much at all.
his tongue dips lower, closer, and your breath catches like it’s been yanked from your lungs. you feel him smirk—smug and sinful—against your thigh.
and then, finally—mercy. his mouth finds your cunt, lips parting around you, tongue sliding through slick heat like he’s starved for it.
the sound you make is something raw, something ruined. your back arches, your hands fly to his hair, grounding yourself in the only thing that feels real anymore.
“f-fuck-” the curse slips out of you in stutters, just like he wanted it to.
“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice thick, nose brushing your clit as he speaks. he kisses the inside of your thigh, then licks back up, just slow enough to make you teeter on complete and utter shamelessness.
you don’t know where to look: at the ceiling, at the heat between your legs, at the boy who’s ruining you.
his hands drift downward, find your ankles. he lifts your legs—gently at first, then firmer—crossing them at the ankles and pressing them down toward the mattress.
“there,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “fuck yeah, that’s perfect.”
your thighs tremble under the stretch, cunt dripping, and patrick just stares for a moment.
“now i can really get to work.”
and he does.
tongue sliding from your entrance to your clit in one long, obscene stroke. you cry out, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent gasp.
he groans against your slit, the sound vibrating through you like static. his mouth seals over your clit, sucking, slow and hungry, while his hands press your legs down with just enough force to make escape impossible.
not that you’d ever want to leave.
you’re unraveling. moaning, gasping, breaking open in his hands. every flick of his tongue is torture; every suck a spark down your spine.
and just when your body starts to seize, just when you’re teetering on the edge—he stops.
you whimper, lost, dazed, aching. he pulls back, face slick, lips swollen, looking up at you like he already knows how wrecked you are.
“you’re so responsive,” he says, low and dangerous, like it’s a compliment, like he’s proud of it.
“i could do this all night.”
then he’s back on you, mouth open, tongue eager, ready to pull you apart all over again.
your thighs are trembling now, pushed up and pinned, his grip firm but not cruel—just enough, like he needs to keep you here, keep you open, keep you his. he’s relentless. his tongue drags up your slit, circles your clit with devastating precision, then flattens against it, licking you like he’s trying to memorize the taste.
you’re a mess—hips bucking, breath shattering, fingers tangled in the sheets because there’s nothing else to hold onto. patrick’s name keeps spilling from your mouth in broken bursts, helpless and pleading, like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.
he hums again, satisfied, the vibration shooting straight through you. you feel it in your chest, in your belly, in the tips of your fingers.
“that’s it,” he murmurs between strokes. “just like that. let me hear you.”
and you do. god, you do. your voice is wrecked and breathless and beautiful as he builds you back up, slow and careful, until you’re there once more—eyes rolling back, thighs clenching around his head.
but this time he doesn’t stop.
he wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you impossibly closer, mouth locked onto you, tongue moving faster now, focused and merciless. your legs try to close on instinct, but he’s already there, keeping you open, keeping you spread.
“pat—fuck—patrick-”
you’re close. so close. your whole body draws tight like a wire ready to snap. he can feel it—the way your hips stutter, the way your moans break into whimpers.
“come for me,” he commands against your clit, “right here.”
and you do.
your release crashes over you like a storm—violent, consuming, gorgeous. your vision goes hot-white, your back arches off the bed, and your hands fly to his hair.
he stays with you through all of it; tongue softening, kisses turning gentle, lips brushing your skin like he’s soothing the aftershocks.
when you finally collapse, boneless and breathless, he lets your legs down slow, careful, like you’re something fragile. his face is flushed, chin slick with you, eyes dark and warm as he crawls up your body and settles beside you.
you’re still trembling, chest heaving, eyes glassy when he leans in and kisses your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone.
“you okay?” he whispers.
you nod, barely able to breathe. “yeah. just… fuck.”
patrick grins and presses his forehead to yours. “that good, huh?”
you let out a hoarse little laugh. “you’re insufferable.”
cw: 18+, mdni, switch!art, switch!patrick (idk, art bottoms tho), porn w plot, floor sex, pining, praise, oral, anal, aftercare.
summary: patrick wasn’t supposed to end up at art’s door. he was supposed to crash with tashi, pretend everything was fine, and leave before anything got too real. but then art opened the door, half-asleep and barefoot, and nothing went how it was supposed to.
wc: 4.8k
for patrick, a visit to stanford usually meant crashing in tashi’s room, eating her snacks, missionary on a twin xl, and pretending he belonged there. but this time, her door was locked, the room dim through the peephole, and her phone went straight to voicemail.
so he tried the room across the hall.
art’s.
he knocked without thinking, the familiar weight of his backpack slipping from one shoulder as he waited. the door creaked open after a few seconds, revealing art in all his half-awake, half-dressed glory: one sock on, curls flattened on one side from sleep, and a stanford tennis t-shirt clinging to his lean frame like it’d been slept in. the dorm behind him was dim, lit only by the desk lamp casting a soft gold over scattered textbooks, tennis gear, and a half-eaten bag of chips.
“well, well,” art said, leaning against the frame, voice low and gravelly. “if it isn't my dear friend patrick zweig, back to haunt my door.”
patrick took one look at him and snorted. “jesus, you look like you woke up in a lost and found bin.”
“i was napping,” art said, like that explained everything.
“you nap in jeans?”
“i didn’t plan to nap,” art muttered, rubbing at his face. “you want something or are you just here to insult my lifestyle?”
“tashi ghosted me,” patrick said, already stepping past him into the room. “figured you might know where she went.”
“don’t you two, like, communicate exclusively through psychic link?”
patrick flopped dramatically onto art’s bed—narrow, unmade, and smelling faintly of eucalyptus and detergent. his backpack landed with a thud on the floor. “she must’ve changed the frequency.”
art shut the door with a sigh and turned to face him. the room was small but lived-in: string lights drooped above the desk, their glow soft and warm. a calendar on the wall had half its dates crossed out in red ink, and a tennis racket leaned precariously against the nightstand. on the shelf above his desk sat a cracked mug holding pens and a framed photo of what looked like his team.
“you can crash here,” art said finally, voice casual but not careless. “but i draw the line at you stealing my toothbrush again.”
“i brought my own this time,” patrick replied, kicking his shoes off and stretching out like he belonged there. “aren’t you proud?”
“deeply.”
art sat down on the edge of the bed with a quiet grunt, shoulder bumping against patrick’s as he pulled one knee up and rested his arm on it. up close, the shadows under his eyes looked deeper than usual, like sleep had been a stranger lately. his curls—blonde, messy, in that kind of way that looked styled by accident—fell across his forehead as he glanced over.
“you okay?” he asked, not teasing this time.
patrick shrugged. “i’m fine, just didn’t feel like going home yet.”
“that’s not really a reason.”
“it is when you’re avoiding stuff,” patrick muttered, voice softer now. “i just thought tashi would be here. it’s easier when she is.”
art didn’t respond right away. he leaned back, bracing himself with one hand behind him on the mattress. his t-shirt rode up just a little, revealing a flash of skin above his waistband—pale and smooth, the kind of unthinking exposure that made patrick’s stomach twist.
“you really think i can’t fill in for her?” art asked eventually, smirking just enough to lift the corner of his mouth.
patrick turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “you gonna braid my hair and give me unsolicited advice about tennis?”
“if that’s what it takes.”
patrick grins, “you’re such a dumbass.”
“takes one to know one.”
and for a second, the teasing faded into something else. as the light pooled soft and golden between them, art’s knee bumped against patrick’s again, but this time, neither of them moved away.
the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just weighted, like something held in the mouth too long. the air between them thickened, warm and still, dust motes floating in the amber spill of sunset leaking through the blinds. patrick could hear the muffled thud of a tennis ball being hit somewhere in the distance, rhythmic and far-off, like it belonged to a different life.
art shifted again, his hand slipping back farther on the bed, fingers brushing patrick’s thigh without meaning to. or maybe meaning to. it was hard to tell.
his leg stayed pressed against patrick’s now, solid and warm through the denim. the skin at his waist still peeked out beneath his shirt, rising with each breath, and patrick’s gaze dropped to it for just a moment too long.
he looked up and found art already watching him.
neither of them spoke.
there was a faint twitch at the corner of art’s mouth, but it didn’t quite become a smile. his hair—messy and still damp from a too-late shower—curled around his temple, a little sun-bleached at the edges. his lashes were stupidly long, his eyes stupidly blue.
patrick swallowed.
art tilted his head, just slightly. “you’re staring.”
patrick didn’t look away. “you started it.”
“did i?”
patrick nodded, but his voice dropped lower, almost playful. “you’re the one showing skin.”
art raised an eyebrow, clearly fighting back a grin. “you mean this?” he tugged his shirt up a little higher, just a few inches. a challenge, a joke.
except, patrick didn’t laugh.
he reached over, slow, like testing a boundary he didn’t know he was allowed to cross, and ran his knuckles lightly along that exposed strip of skin.
art sucked in a quiet breath.
“you’re warm,” patrick said softly, like it mattered.
and art didn’t answer. he just stayed there—still, watching, like he didn’t want to break whatever spell had started pulling between them.
patrick’s fingers lingered longer than they should have, tracing the edge of fabric where skin met cotton. his knuckles grazed the subtle dip of art’s waist, the smooth rise of bone beneath it. he wasn’t sure what he was doing—only that he didn’t want to stop.
art’s breath had slowed, shallow now, like even air felt too loud.
outside the window, a breeze stirred the branches. inside, nothing moved.
patrick finally looked up, met art’s eyes again. they were darker now, but not with fear; more like wonder, like he was trying to memorize everything patrick’s face was saying that his mouth couldn’t.
“you’re really not moving away,” patrick murmured.
“you’re really not stopping,” art whispered back.
a beat passed.
then patrick leaned in—not all at once, not like a decision, but like gravity—like falling. his hand slid to art’s side, thumb pressing into soft warmth, anchoring him. art didn’t move, didn’t breathe. he just watched, lashes low, lips parted slightly, like he knew exactly what was coming and didn’t dare ruin it.
their foreheads brushed first, then stayed together, unmoving. patrick’s hand cupped the side of art’s face now, his thumb just beneath his cheekbone, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was holding him in place or keeping himself from letting go.
art’s hand came up slowly—uncertain, trembling just slightly—and mirrored the touch, fingers slipping into patrick’s curls. their noses brushed. their mouths hovered, close enough that every exhale was felt, every twitch registered.
patrick’s throat worked around something unspoken. his eyes were half-lidded, full of want and guilt in equal measure. “this is stupid,” he whispered, but his voice betrayed him—too soft, too wrecked to sound like he meant it.
art huffed a breath of a laugh, just barely there. “you’re the one touching me like that.”
“you pulled your shirt up.”
“you looked like you were gonna pass out.”
“you looked like you wanted me to.”
art didn’t deny it; didn’t move.
his fingers tightened slightly in patrick’s hair, and for a moment, it felt like something might break open—like they’d tip into whatever this was becoming.
but then patrick leaned back a hair’s breadth, still holding art’s face like he couldn’t bear to lose contact. “what the fuck are we doing?” he asked, a little too loud now, a little too sharp, like he had to snap the tension before it swallowed him whole.
art’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. “i was hoping you’d tell me.”
patrick let out a breath through his nose, exasperated. “god, you’re such a—”
“what?” art prompted, and there was something in his eyes now; something daring, something like hurt.
patrick didn’t finish the sentence.
he just looked at him; looked at the boy he’d known since they were too young to be anything but reckless. the boy who was somehow still sitting here with him, now—older, softer, messier. the boy who still made his heart beat like it wasn’t tired of trying.
his thumb brushed beneath art’s eye, so light it almost didn’t count as touch.
“we shouldn’t,” patrick said, barely audible.
“we haven’t,” art answered.
but then he froze, pulled back.
he stood, too fast, rubbing a hand over his face. “sorry. i just… i need a second.”
patrick sat there on the bed, watching him with something unreadable in his face; he didn’t reach for him, but he didn’t look away.
art let out a slow breath. “i wasn’t expecting it to feel like this.”
“like what?”
“like i want it to mean something.”
patrick stood, stepped forward, and then he dropped to the floor, cross-legged, looking up at art.
“then come down here,” he said. “no pressure. just… start over.”
art stared for a second. then sank down across from him, knees bumping.
his back hit the floor with a quiet thud, the cool tile biting through the thin cotton of his shirt. he let out a sharp breath—not from pain, but from surprise—as patrick followed, crawling over him like a hungry cat atop a field mouse. the overhead light was off, replaced by the warm spill of string lights from the corner, casting the room in soft gold and long shadows.
art’s curls were still sleep-mussed, his t-shirt askew from earlier, exposing a strip of pale skin as patrick braced himself above him. one of his socks had slipped halfway off, forgotten. the dorm around them faded into blue—scattered textbooks, the cracked mug, the faint hum of the fridge—but none of it mattered. just the tile beneath them, their bodies stretched out and tangled together, the air heavy with everything unspoken. they moved together like they couldn’t stop—like something had already tipped between them and there was no pulling it back.
art’s legs shifted slightly, knees bent, one thigh brushing against patrick’s hip. he stared up, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. “you sure?” he asked, voice rough.
patrick nodded once, then leaned down, their foreheads bumping gently. “i’m sure.”
art’s fingers twitch where they grip the tile beneath him as patrick’s hands slide slowly down his sides, over his hips, then to the waistband of his jeans. his movements are patient—like he’s unwrapping something rare—and art shivers at the deliberateness of it.
patrick’s mouth follows close behind, lips brushing lower, warmer, softer, until art lets out a soft gasp, his back arching from the floor like he’s been yanked upward by invisible thread.
“god,” art breathes, voice already fraying at the edges. “you’re taking your time.”
patrick just looked up at him from under messy hair, lashes low over steady, focused eyes.
art’s chest rose in a shallow wave as patrick finally hooks his fingers into the waistband of his jeans and boxers in one smooth motion. he pulls down slowly, baring inch by inch of skin as art’s cock springs free; it’s unbelievably hard, pressed flush against the blonde’s toned stomach; twitching angrily as it stands at attention, the tip weeping and flushed a dusty pink color, as if it's been waiting for this the moment for eternity.
art certainly had.
art kicks off the last of it, legs falling open instinctively, strong, toned thighs trembling from restraint. patrick takes one in both hands, grounding him, thumbs pressing into warm skin as he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of art’s knee.
art’s eyes flutter shut. “that’s not helping.”
“i’m not trying to help,” patrick murmurs, voice warm and low and thick with want.
he kisses higher, and then he breathes out, hot and close.
the sensation makes art moan—quiet and stunned—his hand flying to patrick’s hair like he doesn’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.
and then, finally, patrick takes him into his mouth.
art breaks; a sharp, shocked gasp claws its way out of his throat, his whole body bucking off the tile in a singular jerking snap. patrick’s hands are already there, steady on his hips, keeping him grounded, keeping him here, as his mouth works slow and wet and perfect.
art’s head thuds gently back against the floor, curls spreading out like a halo, his chest rising fast, mouth falling open in disbelief. “f-fuck—patrick—jesus—”
patrick hums around him, deep and deliberate, and the sound reverberates up art’s spine like it’s been wired straight to his bones. he glances down, barely able to hold focus, and what he sees nearly undoes him: patrick kneeling between his legs, shirt clinging to him, cheeks flushed, lips pink and slick, eyes dark and hungry.
art whines—actually whines—and grips patrick’s curls tighter.
“are you trying to kill me?” he gasps, voice cracking at the edges.
patrick pulls off just long enough to speak, lips slick and swollen. “You taste good,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret, or a confession.
art groans, both hands covering his face now, his hips twitching with need as patrick dives down again, this time deeper, slower, building pressure until it borders on unbearable.
he’s so close, too close, and patrick seems to know it—of course he does. he keeps him there, right at the edge, keeping his hips pinned with those strong hands, keeping the rhythm just right.
art is wrecked, utterly wrecked. he’s babbling now, voice a mess of half-formed curses and gasps, legs spreading wider, toes curling against the cool tile.
“patrick, i—i’m gonna—fuck—”
patrick doesn’t stop.
hell, he doesn’t even flinch.
and when art cums, it’s sudden and devastating—his body locking up tight, back arched, thighs trembling, hands clenching hard in patrick’s hair as he lets out a sound that’s half-moan, half-sob, all want. patrick stays with him the whole time, steady and sure, his mouth slow and open and relentless through every pulse of it.
art spills over, mind blank, body shaking with the kind of pleasure that leaves nothing untouched. when it finally passes, he collapses back to the tile like something holy’s been drained from him—limbs loose, chest heaving, curls damp, lips parted in a breathless, stunned smile.
patrick crawls up beside him, dragging a palm across his mouth, his own face flushed and glowing. he leans down and kisses art—soft and slow and filthy, letting art taste himself on his lips—and art kisses back, dazed and grateful, one hand curling around the back of patrick’s neck.
“i think i blacked out,” art mumbles into his mouth.
“you were loud, donaldson” patrick quips, nuzzling into his cheek. “someone definitely heard that.”
art laughs, weak and a little hoarse, "do i look like i care?"
patrick wraps an arm around art’s middle, drawing him close even as the tile chills against his skin.
they stay like that, tangled and breathless, the dorm’s kitchen a forgotten world around them—just two boys, bruised and breathless and finally not pretending.
it starts when art shifts to kiss him again, slow and deep, and patrick rolls with him—hands sliding low on art’s hips, gripping like he’s anchoring himself there.
and then he pauses, fingers curling just a little tighter.
patrick leans in, mouth brushing art’s ear as he murmurs:
“turn over for me.”
although, it’s not really a request.
one sharp breath, and then his hands were on art’s waist — firm, urgent — flipping him onto his stomach like something inside him had snapped; like holding back had become impossible.
art lets out a startled sound, but obeys, chest pressed to the tile now, arms folded beneath his head like he knows exactly what he’s offering.
patrick’s hands move again—slow this time, one on his back, the other curling around his hip. not forcing. just holding; anchoring.
art’s legs spread slightly, instinctive, open, trusting.
patrick swears softly under his breath—because this, this sight, this boy, offering himself like that, face turned toward the side, breathing fast—this undoes something in him.
the brunette positions himself behind art, one hand braced on the blonde’s lower back, the other dragging slowly down the length of his spine. he leans in, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades—quick, rough, like he couldn’t help himself. his palms slide beneath art’s shirt, dragging the fabric up, exposing pale skin inch by inch. he kisses lower. again. again. his mouth open now, greedy, sucking a mark into the dip of art’s spine.
art gasps, hips shifting involuntarily against the tile.
patrick grips tighter at his waist, fingers digging in like he needs something to hold on to before he completely loses control. the tension in him was sharp, trembling. he looks down at the boy beneath him and feels his chest pull tight, overwhelmed by how badly he wanted to give in—how badly he needed this.
that broke whatever was left of patrick’s restraint. he exhales, sharp and shaky, and moves to straddle art’s thighs, dragging his hands up the length of his back like he wanted to memorize every inch. like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch him like this.
“you good?” Patrick murmurs, voice low, the heat between them simmering.
art nods, but that’s not enough.
patrick leans down farther, his chest pressed to Art’s back now, lips grazing the edge of his ear. “i need to hear it.”
art’s voice is soft, vulnerable:
“i’m good. i want this.”
patrick groans—low and rough—and lets his hand slide lower, over the soft dip of art’s back, then down to his hips. he shifts forward, pressing his own erection up against him, not yet moving, just letting art feel the heat, the pressure, the promise.
art whimpers, a quiet sound muffled into the crook of his arm.
patrick moves slowly, grinding against him first—just the friction of body to body, fabric to skin, enough to make art gasp and arch up, toes curling against the tile.
“you’re already shaking,” patrick whispers.
art doesn’t answer—can’t, really. he just breathes, ragged and hot, mouth open against his arm, body pressing back into patrick like he needs more.
patrick’s hand spreads over art’s lower back, thumb brushing slow circles just above the curve of him.
then, with a gentleness that belies the heat behind his eyes, patrick leans in again and murmurs:
“let me take care of you like this.”
and art, flushed and pliant beneath him, nods again.
“please,” he breathes. “i want it. i want you.”
patrick’s fingers quiver as he pulls his own boxers down, not hesitating for one moment before grabbing his cock at the base, and aligning his flushed tip with art’s awaiting entrance. He presses forward slowly—not yet taking, just teasing, just letting art feel the weight of what’s coming.
art moans—quiet, high-pitched, aching—and pushes back instinctively, arching his spine, offering more.
patrick’s control frays at the edges.
he pushes forward again, slow, firm, deliberate. it's enough to make art gasp and tremble, enough to make patrick bite back a curse. his grip on art’s hips tightens as he rocks forward once—just once—and stays there, letting them both feel the heat and stretch of that first contact.
art lets out a noise that sounds like a sob, but it’s not pain. it’s too soft. too needy.
patrick leans over him again, kissing his spine, his shoulder blade, his cheek.
“you’re doing so good,” he whispers.
art whimpers, eyes squeezed shut, hands fisting futility at the tile.
the brunette opts to be kind today, craning his neck downwards to spit onto his own cock, lubricating himself for art. a whine escapes art’s throat at the obscenity, and patrick chuckles, a low smug noise, as he watches from behind as the tips of art's ears grow red.
patrick starts to move then—slow, controlled, rolling his hips in shallow thrusts, grinding deep with each one. his hands roam art’s back, gripping and soothing all at once. one finds its way under art’s chest, palm pressed to his heartbeat like he wants to feel every thump of it.
and the sounds art makes—choked, high, wrecked—drive patrick halfway mad. he murmurs praise with every breath, every push deeper, until they’re both lost in it, bodies moving together like they’ve done this a hundred times in dreams.
patrick’s breath stutters in his throat as he presses in further, the tight heat of art’s body stealing every coherent thought. his hands tremble where they grip art’s hips—not from hesitation, but from the overwhelming effort it takes to go slow, to savor, to treat this like the sacred thing it is.
beneath him, art moans again—quiet, almost dazed—as his forehead presses to the crook of his elbow. his spine arches instinctively, body adjusting, hips twitching as he exhales a shaky, shuddering breath. patrick feels the movement ripple through him—feels art take him, inch by inch, until they’re pressed flush together, joined in a way that makes patrick’s chest ache.
he pauses, jaw clenched, his own body vibrating with restraint. sweat beads at his temples, a drop trailing down the curve of his throat as he leans forward and braces a hand beside art’s head, the other still steady on his waist.
“you okay?” he croaks.
art nods once, then twice, too fast.
“y-yeah. yes, just—” he gasps, shifting against the tile, body already trembling beneath the weight of patrick’s stillness. “you’re big.”
patrick huffs a broken laugh into the back of his shoulder, pressing a kiss there, tender despite the burn of need low in his stomach. “you can take it, i’ve got you.”
and then he moves—not rough, not rushed, but deep—a slow draw back, then a smooth push in again, grinding into him with a kind of reverence that makes art’s breath catch on a sob.
“fuck—patrick—” art chokes out, hands scrabbling at the tile, at nothing, like he doesn’t know what to hold onto.
patrick leans down, body curving over his, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “hold onto me.”
art whines, and he does—reaching back blindly, catching patrick’s wrist where it braces beside his head. his fingers lock around it, tight and trembling, and patrick feels the contact like a brand.
their bodies move together now in slow, molten rhythm. patrick rolls his hips in long, deliberate thrusts, hips slapping soft against art’s skin, every motion sending a ripple up art’s back. he watches the muscles there shift and flex with each movement, watches the sweat bead and catch in the small of his back.
“god, art…” patrick groans, his voice rough and low. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.”
art can’t speak; he’s panting into the floor, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, body pliant and helpless beneath him. his thighs are shaking, his whole body trembling with sensation as patrick pushes in again and grinds.
patrick’s hand slips down to his stomach, pressing him back against his own body, palm flat to feel every twitch, every breath.
“you’re taking me so well,” he murmurs against his neck, “so fucking perfect for me.”
art makes a broken, keening noise—part moan, part whimper—and rocks back against patrick's cock instinctively, desperate for more, for deeper, for everything;
it's a silent plea that doesn't go unnoticed; one that patrick receives loud and clear.
his rhythm picks up slightly—not hard, still controlled, but deeper now, more insistent. their skin sticks where it meets, slick and hot, the sounds of it obscene in the quiet hush of the kitchen.
art’s cheek presses to the tile, curls damp with sweat, mouth slack and red from biting back noise. his hips are shaking now, legs spreading wider without meaning to, body yielding, open, trusting.
“please,” he gasps, “please don’t stop—”
patrick doesn’t. he can’t.
he drives into him slow and deep, again and again, one hand now gripping art’s waist while the other snakes beneath him, wrapping around the length of the blonde’s cock—already flushed, already leaking, every twitch of patrick’s fingers making art jerk and moan.
he pumps art’s cock in time with his own thrusts—slow, precise—making the boy beneath him shatters in his arms.
it starts as a stutter—hips bucking, thighs clenching, a sobbed gasp torn from his throat—and then he’s coming, hard, thick, white ropes of heat across the tile and patrick’s hand, his whole body tensing like a live wire before crumpling forward, boneless and whimpering.
patrick groans, burying his face in the curve of art’s neck, his hips stuttering once, twice, then again, and then he’s following—shaking through it, hands gripping too tight, everything inside him pouring into the boy beneath him, hot and desperate and whole.
they collapse together—sweaty and gasping, trembling with aftershocks—chests heaving, skin sticking. patrick stays buried against him, his weight carefully braced, lips still pressed to the top of art’s spine like he doesn’t want to let go.
art is limp beneath him, his voice a broken whisper against the tile:
“...holy fuck.”
patrick laughs, breathless and ruined, and leans in to kiss the sweat-damp curls at the back of his neck.
“you okay?” he murmurs again.
art nods slowly, like it takes effort. “i've never been more okay in my life.”
art was half on top of him, one leg thrown haphazardly over patrick’s, head resting just under his chin like he’d collapsed there on instinct and never thought to move.
his skin was soft, sticky in places, smelling like the detergent they both made fun of and something darker underneath—earthier, almost metallic, like heat and want and skin remembering touch.
patrick closes his eyes for a moment, trying to slow the world down. but all he could focus on were the places they were still connected: art’s fingers lightly curled against his ribs, the dull scratch of stubble against his neck, the lazy drag of a toe against his calf. sensation hadn’t left; it had just settled.
he tilts his head slightly, lips brushing against the crown of art’s curls. “you good?” he asks, his voice low, rough with the kind of softness that didn’t come easy.
art hummed to confirm, then moved, lifting his head to look at the brunette. his face was flushed, hair a total mess, lips redder than they should have been. his eyes, though—that was what undid patrick. pupils blown so wide there was hardly any blue, still glazed around the edges, but clear now; sharp and full of something naked and aching and real.
“you keep looking at me like that,” art said, voice barely more than a rasp, “i’m gonna start to think you actually like me.”
patrick snorts, the sound small but helpless. “you think I let just anyone…” he trailed off, cheeks going hot. “you know...”
art grins, “i do know. very, very vividly.”
patrick groans and covers his face with one hand. “god, shut up.”
but art didn’t. instead, he ducks down and presses a kiss to the hollow of patrick’s throat—slow, almost reverent. then another, just beneath his jaw, his hand splayed over patrick’s chest now, thumb brushing circles just below his sternum.
patrick lets the hand fall away from his face and meets his gaze again, this time with less panic, more awe. “you feel… different,” he murmured.
art tilts his head. “different how?”
“i don’t know.” patrick’s hand drifts down, fingertips tracing the slope of art’s spine, lingering where the curve met the dip of his lower back. "like something’s changed. like you’re softer. or maybe I’m just allowed to notice it now.”
that quieted the blonde, and his expression flickered—vulnerability tucked tightly behind smugness. “you’ve always noticed. you were just pretending not to.”
patrick didn’t argue. he couldn’t.
art was right; they’d always hovered like this, orbiting something too big to name.
now, they’d stepped into it.
the air in the room was warmer than before, thick with sweat and breath, their bodies still humming with leftover heat—hips sore, mouths bruised, every inch of skin tingling like it remembered exactly what had transpired.
patrick reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed, clumsily pulling it up over both of them. art shifts closer, tucks under his chin again like it was natural.
like it had always been.
anyway take a shot everytime patrick asks "is this okay?/good?"
cw (18+): sub!art donaldson, inexperienced!art donaldson (poor baby doesn't know what he's doing), soft dom!reader, porn w plot, taking care of art, messy dry humping, art is a whimperer, body worship, reassurance, praise, oral (m receiving), accidental facial, ear play(?) (idk, i'm obsessed with art's big ears hehe), talking him through it, fluff. ♡︎
summary: art is burnt out from tennis and scared that messing up means losing everything. he’s inexperienced in bed and unsure of himself, but you’re there to show him he doesn’t have to be perfect. you’ll guide him, on the court and in the bedroom, and remind him you’re not going anywhere.
wc: likee 5.5k (oh gosh)
note: this is my first challengers fic, pls be gentle ! & let me know your thoughts ◡̈
art’s tired today; you could tell by the shadows like bluish-purple thumbprints beneath his eyes and the way his shoulders sag just slightly, like something heavy has been pressing down on him all day. his posture tries to lie—still tall, still proud—but his body gives him away in the smallest betrayals: the slow drag of his feet, the tension that tightens his jaw, the way he blinks a little too long between glances, like the edges of the world are starting to blur.
he hasn’t said much since you met him at the courts; just a half-smile, soft and worn, and a quiet “hey” that you felt more than heard. even now, with his racket hanging loosely from his hand and the late-afternoon sun casting gold across his skin, he looks less like someone training for a match and more like someone bracing against a storm.
running himself ragged had become routine, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. he chased greatness in tennis with a kind of quiet desperation, as if wearing himself thin was part of the deal.
you’re standing just outside the baseline, arms crossed, the california heat clinging to your skin like a second layer. his shirt is soaked through, the collar dark with sweat, clinging to his back in patches. you’ve been here for over two hours, watching him chase precision with the kind of desperation that borders on self-punishment.
he winds up for another serve—shoulder tight, eyes narrowed—and the ball clips the top of the net, rolling forward with a pathetic spin.
“damnit,” he mutters, low but sharp, loud enough to echo against the chain-link. he grabs another ball from the hopper, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck pulled tight. there’s a rigidness in his movement now, not power—tension replacing technique.
you recognize the signs: the way his shoulders slope lower with each point, the harshness of his exhale, the blinking that’s too frequent and too forceful, like he’s trying to force himself back into focus. but it’s not working, he’s unraveling—growing clumsy, falling short—and he doesn’t even realize it.
a breeze picks up, stirring his hair. his golden curls are damp and heavy, some stuck to his forehead, others springing loose against the sun. you have the sudden urge to push them back, to press your hand to his face, to pull him off this court before something snaps.
“you’re exhausted,” you call, “take a break.”
“i’m fine.”
you step closer, lifting a hand to shield your eyes, “you’re not. that’s the third serve you’ve missed short. you’re pushing too hard, art."
he doesn’t look at you, just spins the ball in his palm as if the fuzzy, lemon-lime surface might tell him what to do next.
“i need to get it right.”
“you will,” you say gently. “but not like this. your body’s begging for a pause.”
his head lifts slowly, and his eyes meet yours for the first time in what feels like hours. there’s something fragile in them, something caught between pride and exhaustion.
for a moment, you think he’ll listen; that he’ll let the racket fall, walk toward the bench, and gulp down the water you'd filled hours ago.
but he doesn’t.
art tosses the ball into the air again, “just one more round, i swear.”
there’s a new tremble in his voice; not anger, not stubbornness—something quieter. like he’s running from something invisible and it’s gaining on him fast.
you stay near the fence, hands curling around the wire, helpless as he drives himself forward. it’s only a matter of time.
he lunges for a wide shot, feet a beat behind his instincts. his ankle twists hard, and he drops to the court with a thud that echoes into the still air.
“hey,” You drop your water bottle and rush to him, “art, you okay?”
he’s already sitting up, clutching his ankle with one hand, the other braced against the court. his face is flushed, not just from heat, but from something brittle and breaking.
“i’m fine,” he says, but it’s too fast, too hollow.
“no, you’re not.” you kneel beside him, voice firm now. “that’s it. you’re done. i’m not letting you hurt yourself just to prove a point.”
“i’m not trying to prove anything,” he snaps back, but his voice cracks in the middle.
he exhales hard and drags a hand over his face, smearing sweat across his cheek. his curls fall into his eyes, but this time, he doesn’t bother pushing them back.
“i just…” art's voice lowers, “i don’t know how to stop. if I slow down, everything i’ve been avoiding—it’s going to catch up with me.”
your hand finds his shoulder, and that’s when he meets your eyes again. but this time, there’s no deflection, no defense, just something wide open and vulnerable, like the noise in his head has finally gone quiet long enough to let you in.
“i don’t just want this,” he says, almost whispering. “the tennis, the tournaments, all of it. I need something that doesn’t disappear when i mess up.”
your heart catches but you wait.
art swallows hard and drops his gaze for just a moment.
art's body leans into yours—not fully, not desperately, but enough that you feel the weight of his trust in every step. you unlock the door with one hand, still holding him with the other.
inside, the space greets you like a breath; small, but warm-- the kind of cozy that makes people exhale when they step in. soft lighting glows from a corner lamp, casting golden shadows across the walls. a few plants cling to life on the windowsill. there are art prints and postcards tacked above your desk, mismatched mugs on open shelves, and a fleece blanket draped over the arm of the couch. the air smells faintly of vanilla and lemon balm.
your cat appears almost immediately, weaving between your ankles, brushing against his shin with a soft chirp. art bends down to greet her, his large frame folding carefully. you’re struck again by just how tall he is—how easily he could take up the whole room if he wanted to. but right now, he’s small. or maybe just tired.
you guide him to the couch, and he sinks into it like his body is finally allowed to stop. you return with the ice pack and a glass of water, kneeling beside him.
his cheeks are still flushed from the heat, the redness creeping up to the tips of his prominent ears. you’ve always thought his ears were kind of adorable—too big for his face, just slightly, and always the first thing to give him away when he was flustered. you used to tease him about it. now, you just want to touch them.
he looks down at you, and the height difference feels even more exaggerated with him seated and you on the floor. however, it doesn’t feel uneven, just close.
his eyes flick to your lips, then back again.
you smile softly, resting your hand on his knee. “your ears are red,” you say gently.
he exhales a shaky laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “of course they are.”
“they’re cute,” you add, and his gaze snaps to yours like he’s not used to hearing that.
you press the ice to his ankle gently. he winces, then exhales, gaze drifting toward you.
his eyes catch the light—big and blue and quietly searching. you can see the exhaustion in them, but also something softer, something waiting.
you notice the way a few blonde curls have dried into uneven waves along his temple, a strand falls in front of his face and stays there; he doesn’t move it. neither do you.
his skin is warm beneath your hands, flushed and a little damp, but steady now. his gaze drops to where you’re touching him, then slowly climbs back to your face. something in him loosens—like a string pulled too tight, finally released.
he doesn’t say it, not out loud.
he doesn’t need to.
not when his full lips part slightly, like he’s breathing you in. not when he tilts his head just the smallest bit, like he’s asking permission without words.
you feel the pull between you, slow and certain. the kind that doesn’t rush, doesn’t shout—but hums, quiet and constant, just beneath the skin.
you lean in first, just barely.
art meets you halfway.
the kiss is soft—tentative at first, like a question. his lips brush yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache. he smells like sun and salt and something familiar, something you’ve always known but never named.
he exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. his hand rises, hesitant, then settles against your cheek, thumb sweeping once over your skin. that’s when the kiss deepens—not hurried, not demanding, but full, like he’s pouring everything he can’t say into the way his mouth moves against yours.
you rise to your feet without breaking contact, guiding him with your hands at his jaw, at his shoulders. the blonde's lips chase yours instinctively, a quiet noise escaping the back of his throat when you pull just far enough away to breathe.
“come on,” you whisper against his mouth.
he follows—of course he does, despite his injured state. you walk backward, coaxing him toward the bedroom with soft tugs and smiles he can’t quite see but can feel. when his foot catches on the edge of the rug, he stumbles a little, cursing under his breath.
you laugh into the kiss, catching his face in your hands. “you’re such a mess,” you murmur.
he kisses you harder in response, like that ache inside him can only be answered through surrender.
and when you reach the doorway—when you guide him gently over the threshold—it feels like stepping into something irreversible. not in a way that frightens you, no, but in a way that settles deep in your chest, like you’re no longer circling what this is; like you’ve finally touched down.
art doesn’t wait; the moment the backs of his strong knees hit the edge of the bed, he sinks into the mattress with a low sigh. without breaking the kiss, he pulls you down with him, one toned arm wrapped loosely around your waist.
there’s nothing hurried in the way he moves, so you follow him down, easing onto his chest as he exhales hard, curling into you like it’s instinct. his hand finds the small of your back, palm splayed, anchoring himself to the heat of your body.
“i’ve thought about this,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw, “god, i’ve thought about this.”
you hum softly against his skin, fingers in his hair. “yeah?”
he nods, curls catching between your knuckles. “but i never thought you’d actually want me back.”
that breaks your heart a little—the way he says it, like he’s still surprised you’re here at all.
you lift your head, meet his eyes. “art,” you say, quiet but certain, “you’ve had me for a long time.”
he closes his eyes, jaw tightening like he’s trying not to fall apart. You kiss him again before he can speak—slow, sure, and deep. he kisses you back with all the softness of someone who’s finally stopped running.
he's less careful this time, and as his hand slides up your side, you feel it—the moment he hesitates, the moment he wants more but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to take it.
art shifts above you, his sun-kissed body moving gently, carefully, until he’s the one over you—arms braced on either side of your head, golden curls falling around his face like a halo undone. his body hovers, barely touching, like he’s afraid of being too much.
he exhales hard, almost shaky, as he lowers himself onto you—tentative at first, like you’re a dream he still doesn’t quite trust is real. his weight settles slowly, the warmth of him pressing into every inch of you, until there’s no space left between your bodies, only heat and breath and something so achingly soft it feels like the truth.
he buries his face in your neck for a moment, not kissing, just breathing you in.
“is this okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, barely there.
you nod, threading your fingers through his tufts of hair.
“yeah,” you whisper, tugging him down into a kiss.
art’s body melts into yours, warm and trembling, like he’s been holding himself together for far too long. you feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, then—slowly, almost hesitantly—he begins to move.
it’s subtle at first; just the gentle roll of his hips against yours, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it, like his body is responding to the closeness on its own. his breath catches in your ear, a soft, broken sound that makes you pull him closer.
your hands find the curve of his back, sliding under the hem of his shirt, fingers skating along warm skin. you feel the tension in his muscles—tight, taut—unraveling beneath your touch.
he groans quietly, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he moves against you again, this time a bit faster, more frantic-- that aching, desperate need to feel more of you.
you whisper his name, and he lifts his head, eyes heavy and searching.
cupping his face, you thumb gently at the curve of his flushed cheek. “you don’t have to rush,” you say, “i’m not going anywhere.”
his lips find yours again—messier now, more open, like he’s finally letting himself need you. and all the while, he obeys, his hips slowing against yours in long, grounding circles; like he’s trying to memorize how this feels.
it’s not long before he grows unsynchronized again; he’s clumsier now—his hips pushing into you with too much urgency, too little rhythm. there’s so much want in him, so much pent-up need, that it spills out all at once. he’s trying, but it’s messy, a little frantic, like his body’s racing ahead of him and he hasn’t quite figured out how to keep up.
he mutters something under his breath, almost a curse, like he knows it too.
you can’t help it—you giggle. not mean, not mocking. just this warm, breathless laugh that bubbles up from your chest because he’s so endearingly lost in it, so obviously trying to make it good, trying to give you everything without even knowing how.
he freezes instantly, lifts his head in a panic, cheeks already pink but now fully flushed, “was i—? am i doing something wrong?”
you shake your head, still smiling, cradling his face in your palm. “no, sweet thing,” you say gently, brushing your thumb over the edge of his ear, which has grown hot to the touch and bright red, “you’re just a little... eager.”
he groans and drops his head to your shoulder. "god, i’m ruining this, aren't i?” the blonde whines pathetically.
“you’re not,” you murmur into his hair, threading your fingers through his hair, “you’re adorable.”
he makes a helpless sound, something between a laugh and a whimper, and you tilt his face back up to yours.
“slow down,” you breathe against his lips.
he nods, barely, like he’s afraid if he speaks he’ll break the moment. his breath fans over your mouth, shaky and warm. you can feel how badly he wants to get it right—how tightly he’s holding himself, trying to rein it all back in.
“okay,” he breathes. “i’m trying.”
“i know,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “you’re doing perfect.”
and maybe it’s those words, or the way your hands move over his back, but something in him shifts. his body eases, his jaw unclenches, and the frantic edge in his movements melts into something quieter. he kisses you again, slower this time, less like he’s starving and more like he wants to savor it.
you feel the change in him—in the way he rolls his hips against yours now, finding a rhythm that’s more about closeness than urgency. he exhales into your mouth, trembling slightly.
“that’s it,” you murmur, your hands sliding up his sides, under his shirt. “just like that, art.”
he nods again, almost dazed at your praise, lips parted, eyes flickering open to look at you like he’s never really seen you this clearly before.
“you’re... unbelievable,” he says, his voice hoarse. “i don’t know how i’m supposed to survive this.”
you smile and kiss his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “you don’t have to survive it,” you whisper. “you just have to feel it.”
you kiss him again—slow, deep—and as his breath stutters, you feel the tension starting to rebuild in his body, that urgency creeping back in. he's trying to hold back, to follow your pace, but the need in him is still loud, pulsing just beneath the surface.
so you decide to take over.
your hands slide down to his chest, and you press gently, shifting your weight until he understands. art's eyes widen slightly as you guide him onto his back, pupils blown in awe, swallowing the blue up entirely. his body falls easily against the mattress as he doesn’t resist, just looks up at you, lips parted and breathless.
you straddle him slowly, your thighs bracketing his hips. the moment you settle over him, he exhales like he’s been punched—like he’s not sure how to handle this much want all at once.
his hands fly to your hips, unsure at first, like he doesn’t know where to put them. you guide them gently, lacing your fingers with his, grounding him again.
“let me,” you rasp.
he nods, helpless and wide-eyed, his flushed cheeks glowing in the low light. he looks so beautiful like this—spread beneath you, breath caught.
you roll your hips forward, slow and steady, dragging yourself across the hard outline straining against the front of his pants. art’s head tips back, a choked noise escaping his throat as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and tightens his fingers around yours.
you earn an obscenity from him, “fuck—” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut.
art's knuckles grow white around your hips as he maintains a bruising grip on them; unbeknownst to him, of course, the sweet boy doesn't even know his own strength.
you do it again, grinding down just a little harder, a little slower this time, and his entire body responds—arching beneath you, mouth falling open in a soundless moan. his curls are fanned across your pillow, jaw slack, chest rising fast.
“you’re so sensitive,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss just below his ear.
then—because you simply can’t help yourself—you nudge your nose along the flushed curve of his ear, lips brushing the shell before you suck gently at the lobe, then nip. not hard, just enough.
he lets out the tiniest, breathless giggle—then a soft whine, half-laugh, half-moan, his hands flexing at your waist.
“god,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “that’s not fair…”
you smile against his skin, licking again just to hear the noise he makes, then pull back enough to meet his eyes.
“i love these ears,” you whisper, kissing the tip of one. “you know that.”
he nods, cheeks flushed to the tips of them now, completely at your mercy.
and as you move above him, slow and deliberate, you find pleasure in watching him unravel piece by piece.
you slow your movements until you're still, watching him tremble beneath you—his breath uneven, his lips swollen from kissing, his eyes half-lidded and dazed like he’s floating somewhere between need and disbelief.
then, without a word, you rise.
his brows knit instantly in mock frustration, like the loss of your body against his is just too much. his hands twitch where they’d been holding you, desperate to follow, but instead of complying with his silent request, you opt to shoot him a steady glance.
“trust me.”
he does. you can see it in the way he lies back again, arms falling loose at his sides, like he’s offering himself up without condition.
you slide off the edge of the bed and kneel, settling between his thighs. the air shifts—he feels it, too. you watch his chest rise sharply as your hands smooth up the insides of his legs. his thighs tense beneath your touch, and he looks down at you like you’ve just pulled the ground out from under him.
“is this okay?” you ask.
he nods vehemently, voice catching on the edge of a quivering breath. “yes. god—yes.”
you press a kiss to the inside of his knee first, watching the way his hands curl into the blanket. he’s already panting, already trembling, like every ounce of restraint is hanging by a thread.
“you’re so beautiful like this,” you murmur, kissing your way higher.
and when you glance up at him—flushed, undone, barely able to keep eye contact—you see it.
he’s never been touched like this before; not like he’s cherished, not like this is about more than just hunger.
you trail your hands slowly up the inside of his thighs, fingers gliding over soft, worn cotton. he’s hard—so unbelievably hard—and the heat of him radiates through the thin fabric of his gym shorts, impossible to ignore. your breath catches, and your hand pauses at the thick outline pressing insistently against the material.
you blink, lips parting on a quiet gasp. your fingers trace the shape of him, slow and reverent, and your voice slips out before you can stop it, “oh, art, you’re kidding meeee,” you purr between flushed-cheek giggles.
his whole body stiffens, “w-what?” he stammers, half panicked, half dazed. “is that—are you—?”
you shake your head quickly, smiling up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “no. no, baby. i’m just…” you laugh softly, squeezing him gently, watching the way his hips jerk at the contact. “you've really been hiding this from me, art donaldson? you're huge.”
he groans, dragging a hand over his face, utterly undone. “please don’t say it like that,” he whines, eyes squeezed shut.
“why not?” you tease, lips brushing the waistband of his shorts now. “you should be proud.”
“you’re gonna make me lose it,” he mutters, voice thick and shaky.
you kiss him just there—right above where the fabric hugs him tight, and hum against his skin. “that’s kind of the point,” you murmur. “now relax, baby. let me take care of you.”
and he does; tension melting from his body, hands gripping the sheets, breath coming fast.
you hook your fingers under the hem of his shirt and glance up at him for permission. he nods, cheeks still flushed, lips parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe.
you ease the fabric up his torso, revealing inch by inch of warm-white skin, slick with sweat, warm from exertion and your touch. he lifts his arms, a little awkward, a little eager, and you pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside.
your breath catches.
he’s lean; all smooth planes and long lines, the kind of body built from hours on the court—toned but not bulky, every muscle defined by use, not vanity. his chest rises and falls fast beneath you, completely bare, no visible hair to hide the soft contours of his skin, just the occasional white-blonde peach fuzz nestled here and there, only if you were to really look. his collarbones are sharp, his ribs just barely visible beneath the stretch of warm, flushed skin. his stomach is taut, a trail of tension running all the way down to the waistband of his shorts.
you can’t help but touch him—palms sliding up from his waist to his chest, fingertips mapping out the shape of him like you’re trying to memorize it.
he shivers.
“you’re so pretty,” you murmur, eyes tracing the line of his neck, the delicate dip at the center of his throat. “pretty boy.”
he laughs, breathless and disbelieving, head dropping back against the pillow. “jesus,” he whispers, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
you lean down and kiss the center of his chest, right over his heart.
“that’s the idea,” you say, smiling against his hot skin.
you move lower, lips trailing down the length of his torso—kissing along the subtle ridges of muscle, over the soft curve of his abdomen. his pale, untouched skin is hot beneath your mouth, taut and trembling, every breath he takes shallow and shaky.
he’s watching you now, like a lost puppy in need of a command, propped up slightly on his elbows, curls falling messily across his forehead, his eyes wide and dark with want. you meet his gaze as you press a kiss just above the waistband of his shorts, lingering there, letting your breath warm the thin fabric.
his hands tighten in the sheets, knuckles white. “you’re... really taking your time, huh?” he murmurs, voice thin and desperate.
you smile against him, teasing. “i said i would, didn't i?”
your fingers hook into the waistband of his shorts, dragging them down slowly, carefully. as they slide past his hips, he lifts them instinctively, pliant under your touch. his cock springs free, flushed and thick, the size of him every bit as intimidating as you’d felt through the fabric. you can’t help the way your breath stutters again, or the soft, reverent laugh that escapes you.
“jesus, art…”
he’s flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip, a bead of precum glistening there like it’s waiting for your mouth. you don’t even try to hide the way you stare.
“you’re already dripping for me?”
he groans, covering his face with one hand. “oh gosh, don’t say that.. i-i’m a mess.”
“why not?” you grin, hand wrapping gently around the base of him. he twitches in your grip, hips jerking slightly. “you should hear how pretty you are.”
he whimpers—actually whimpers—and the sound goes straight through you.
“fuck,” he whispers, voice nearly breaking. “i’m not gonna last.”
you lean in close, your mouth hovering just over the tip of him, eyes flicking up to meet his again. “then don’t,” you murmur.
he groans, one arm flung over his eyes, the other gripping the sheets like he needs something to hold onto—something to keep him from falling apart. his chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, flushed all the way down to his collarbones, curls damp against his forehead.
you stay kneeling between his thighs, watching him with a soft kind of wonder. you could devour him, and he’d let you—would thank you for it, and there’s something sacred in that, something that makes you move slowly.
you lean in, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh.
he shudders.
another kiss, higher.
his fingers twitch.
“god,” he rasps, “i can’t believe this is happening.”
when you glance up, he’s looking at you again—barely, through lashes heavy with want and disbelief. you hold his gaze as you wrap your hand around him, fingers curling gently around the base. he’s hot in your palm, twitching with every subtle shift.
you thumb the bead of precum at his tip, spreading it with slow, delicate strokes.
he whimpers.
“look at you,” you chuckle soflty, “you’re already falling apart.”
“i’ve never—” he cuts off, swallowing hard. “no one’s ever touched me like this.”
you lean closer, your breath ghosting over him, lips barely grazing. “like what?”
“like i’m… worth taking your time with.”
your heart swells in your sternum at the blonde’s confession, an empathetic smile pulling at the corners of your wet lips.
and then, you give art what he’s been aching for.
you take him into your mouth, slowly, watching the way his whole body arches, his mouth falling open in a gasp that sounds like your name.
his hips twitch beneath you, instinctive and desperate, and he whines—high and broken, the sound catching in his throat like he wasn’t ready for how good it would feel.
“oh my—fuck,” he gasps, sucking a shaky breath of air into his lungs, hands flying to the sheets like he needs to anchor himself to something, anything.
you glance up at him through your lashes, and what you see makes your chest ache.
his head is tipped back, curls plastered to his forehead, lips parted and trembling. his toned chest is rising in sharp, shallow bursts. tears shine in the corners of his eyes, catching in his lashes but never falling—just suspended, like the rest of him, on the edge of coming undone.
he meets your eyes for half a second before shattering further.
“t-told you,” he whimpers, voice cracking completely. “told ya i wasn’t gonna last…”
you hum around him, soothing, your hand stroking what you can’t take as your mouth works him with aching care. his strong thighs tremble on either side of you, and he lets out another soft, desperate sound—more whimper than moan—his body pulling tight like a bowstring.
“too much,” he chokes out, even as his hips try to follow the heat of your mouth. “you’re gonna—fuck—gonna break me…”
you pull off for just a moment, lips slick, voice breathless. “that’s okay,” you whisper, kissing the tip of him, “let me.”
and then you take him back in—all the way this time, slow and deep—until he’s crying out softly, helplessly, your name breaking apart on his tongue like prayer.
he’s close—you can feel it in every trembling inch of him. his breath comes in sharp, helpless gasps, his thighs twitching beneath your hands, his stomach clenching with each pass of your mouth.
then, without meaning to, his hand finds the back of your head.
not rough, not forceful; he couldn’t be, even if he tried—it’s just not in his nature.
he’s not trying to take control, he’s just desperate.
his fingers tangle in your hair, and he pushes—not hard, just enough to guide, to press you deeper onto him with a broken, pleading sound.
“sh-shit—please,” he whines, voice wrecked, trembling with the effort to stay grounded. “i—i can’t…”
his hips buck without control, legs shaking profusely beneath you.
you feel it building in him—the panic, the pleasure, the overwhelming need to let go and the fear of doing it wrong all at once. you reach up quickly, steadying him with one hand splayed firmly over his thigh, holding him down as it trembles beneath your palm.
“easy, boy,” you murmur around him, lifting your head just enough to breathe the word. “i’ve got you.”
he sobs out a whimper, his head thrown back, curls sticking to his damp forehead. his legs are shaking so hard now you tighten your grip on his thigh, grounding him, letting him push, letting him feel.
“i’m gonna—” his voice cracks. “i can’t—fuck, i’m gonna—”
you hum again, the vibration tipping him over the edge.
his whole body locks, every muscle pulled taut as his orgasm tears through him, raw and uncontrollable. he cries out, legs jolting under your hands, hand still curled in your hair like he doesn’t know how to let go.
you hold him the whole way through, slow and gentle, even as he falls apart completely in your mouth.
he spills with a choked cry, hips jerking up despite your firm hold, his entire body wracked with release. you feel it—hot and sudden—thick, white, pent-up ropes landing across your lips, your cheek, your chin. you pull back instinctively as the last waves roll through him, watching the way he trembles, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving like he’s been beneath the water's surface for hours.
you sit back slightly on your heels, still catching your breath, heart pounding as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
he doesn’t even realize at first.
he’s too lost—too undone. his hand drops from your hair, his body limp and open, head turned to the side against the pillow, eyes fluttering like he might fall asleep right there.
but then he blinks, looks at you, and freezes.
“oh my—fuck,” he gasps, sitting up slightly. “did i—? shit, i didn’t mean—oh my god, i didn’t know i—”
you’re already smiling, eyes soft, wiping at the corner of your mouth with a chuckle. “it’s okay, art...you couldn't control it."
his face goes crimson, mortified. “no—god, I’m so sorry. i didn’t realize—i didn’t mean to—i should’ve warned you or said something or—fuck.”
“breathe,” you say gently, reaching up to touch his cheek, grounding him again. “it’s hot, art..." you kiss his hip, then the inside of his trembling thigh, "means i did a good job." you whisper, “and so did you”
the sun is already high by the time you reach the courts again.
california heat shimmers on the pavement, the air thick with late-morning humidity, but art moves like it doesn’t touch him. his shirt clings to his back, curls damp beneath his cap, and he’s already soaked through by the end of his first set.
but he’s electric.
sharp, focused, fluid in a way you haven’t seen in weeks. every serve lands clean, every volley hits crisp and low. even his footwork—the thing that usually gives him away when he’s tired or overthinking—is light, instinctual, controlled.
you watch from the sidelines, water bottle in hand, heart knocking quietly against your ribs.
there’s no tension in his jaw today, no slumped shoulders, no storm behind his eyes.
just him.
when he finally calls it, he jogs to the net to shake hands, then turns toward you.
his grin is blinding.
he barely makes it to the fence before he’s pulling his cap off, tossing it to the side, and reaching for the water bottle in your outstretched hand. he gulps it down, then leans in, his forehead damp against yours.
“i don’t know what the hell you did to me last night,” he says, breathless, smiling so wide it hurts, “but i feel like i could win the open.”
you laugh, fingers brushing his wrist. “see?" you quip, "you just needed rest.”
he looks at you, blues steady, voice soft as he murmurs against your awaiting lips,
You're determined to return that delicious favor Ace gifted you with.
So, you gently push him onto his back, a mischievous glint darting across your half-lidded eyes. Ace raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches you reposition yourself above him.
"You don't have to—" he starts, but you cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips.
"I want to," you whisper, your voice filled with determination. "Just relax for me."
You trail your fingers down his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his skin as you make your way lower. His breath hitches when you reach the waistband of his pants, and you take your time, savoring the anticipation in his eyes as you slowly peel them away.
His length springs free, and you can't help but admire him for a moment, your hand wrapping around his base as you lean down to place a soft kiss on his tip. Ace’s reaction is immediate, a low groan escaping his lips as his hands find their way into your hair, gently urging you on.
You start with slow, deliberate strokes, your tongue swirling around his head before taking him deeper into your mouth. Ace’s moans of pleasure fill the room, his grip tightening in your hair as you work him with expert precision. Each movement of your mouth is calculated, designed to drive him wild as you alternate between gentle licks and intense, focused sucks.
"God, you're amazing," he pants, his voice strained with need. "Just like that."
You increase your pace, taking him deeper, your hands and mouth working in perfect harmony to bring him closer to the edge. His hips start to buck, and you can feel the tension building within him, his release imminent.
"You're phenomenal," he groans, his voice thick with desire. He holds your head firmly, thrusting into your mouth, making you gag, just slightly. The sensation only heightens the intensity for both of you, his pleasure palpable in every ragged breath and strained moan.
His body is a mass of taut muscle and trembling nerves, every inch of him responsive to your touch. You can feel him pulse against your tongue, his arousal growing by the second. The sounds he makes, those desperate whimpers and groans, fuel your desire to please him even more. You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction as you bob your head, taking him as deep as you can. His taste, salty and uniquely him, fills your senses, driving you to push your limits.
"Please," he whimpers, his voice breaking. "I can't—I'm so close, please."
His desperation spurs you on, your movements becoming even more determined as you bring him to the brink. With a final, desperate thrust, Ace comes undone, his body trembling as he spills into your mouth. You swallow every drop, savoring the taste of him as he rides out his orgasm. When he finally collapses back against the mattress, spent and satisfied, you crawl up beside him, your head resting on his chest.
Naked limbs intertwined beneath sheets, Ace’s body is hot against yours; freckled shoulders caging you in, comfortably, though, leaving your body humming with warmth and security.
He shifts atop you, just slightly, to pepper more kisses along your neck, murmuring against your flushed skin, “Am I crushing you?”
“Mm, no,” you chuckle, letting out a small sigh against his jawline, “I like your weight on me--makes me feel safe.”
“Well good, I always want you to feel safe, pretty thing.”
You feel his lips curl into a grin against your skin as he speaks, placing his fingertip against your chest just to trace it downwards, igniting a trail of heat along your flesh.
He’s taking his time with you--each touch deliberate and precise--but gentle all the while, as his fingertip leaves a tingling path of intention down your body. His kisses trail from your neck to your collarbone, each one soft and lingering, as if he's memorizing--savoring-- the taste and feel of your skin. Your breath hitches as he moves lower, his lips brushing over the sensitive spot just above your heart.
"You're everything to me," he murmurs, his voice a low, husky whisper. The sincerity in his words sends a rush of warmth through you, your heart swelling with affection.
And then, the man atop you pauses, dark eyes darting upwards to shoot you a questioning glance. With a nod of your head, he captures one of your awaiting nipples into his mouth, making you gasp. His mouth is hot and wet, and his skillful tongue expertly swirls around the hardened bud.
“Ace,” you whine, allowing your head to lull back against the soft plush of his pillows, completely giving in to the pleasure he’s about to bestow on you.
His hand trails down to your other breast, his thumb circling the nipple in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. The contrast between his mouth and his hand sends shivers down your spine, your body arching into his touch, craving more of his caresses. He switches to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same meticulous attention, his tongue flicking and swirling as if savoring every reaction he draws from you.
Your hands find their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft, messy strands, urging him on. His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper, a plea for more, and he responds with a low groan that vibrates against your skin.
Ace's kisses continue their descent, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as he moves lower still, his lips tracing the contours of your ribs and abdomen. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you with a smoldering intensity that leaves you breathless.
He presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh, his eyes never leaving yours. The anticipation builds, a heady mix of desire and affection, as he takes his time, savoring the moment. Finally, he shifts, positioning himself between your legs, his breath hot against your most sensitive spot.
“Tell me what you want, pretty girl” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
“You,” you breathe, your voice trembling with need. “I want all of you.”
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face as he lowers his head, his tongue darting out to taste you. The first touch is electric, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. He works with deliberate precision, his tongue exploring every inch of you, drawing out your pleasure with expert skill.
“Feels like you're worshiping me, Ace,” you rasp between breaths.
“Who says I'm not?”
He responds with a deep, resonant hum that vibrates against your most sensitive spots, pushing you further into bliss.
His hands slide up your thighs, holding you firmly in place as his mouth works its magic. Every flick, every swirl, sends you spiraling closer to the edge, your moans growing louder, more urgent. The room is filled with the sound of your pleasure, echoing off the walls as you lose yourself in the sensations he's expertly drawing from you.
Just when you think you can't take any more, Ace changes his rhythm, alternating between soft, teasing licks and intense, focused strokes. The contrast drives you wild, your body trembling with anticipation and need. You can feel the pressure building, a coil tightening within you, ready to snap.
Your moans grow louder, more desperate, as he brings you closer to the edge. The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve ending on fire as he pushes you higher and higher. And just when you think you can’t take any more, he pulls back, leaving you teetering on the brink.
“Ace,” you plead, your voice a desperate whimper.
He looks up at you, his eyes dark with hunger. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing promise.
And then he takes you over the edge, his mouth and fingers working in perfect harmony to drive you to the peak of ecstasy. Your body convulses, a wave of pleasure crashing over you as you cry out his name, your mind going blank with the intensity of your release.
He stays with you through it all, his touch grounding you as you come down from the high. When the last tremors of pleasure fade, he moves upwards once more, his face contorted into a satisfied smirke before capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss.
The wick of the candle to your left grows brighter, its flame beckoning you to fall deeper into that unforgettable place Ace takes you each and every time the two slip between the sheets.
(author's note: this can be read as a loose part 2 to criss-cross ◡̈ )
insistent
Luffy's hands move with a gentle confidence, exploring the contours of your body, his touch igniting sparks along your skin.
He shifts with a grin, his strong arms flipping you onto your stomach. You let out a soft gasp, the sensation of his hands on your waist sending shivers down your spine.
"Please," you whisper, anticipation lingering on your tongue.
He doesn't respond with words, but you can feel his grin against your shoulder as he begins to plant soft, lingering kisses down the nape of your neck. Each kiss is a gentle promise, filled with affection and desire, as he makes his way slowly down your spine. The warmth of his lips against your skin sends waves of pleasure through your body, and you find yourself arching slightly, pressing back against him. His hands caress your sides, holding you close as his kisses continue their journey.
Luffy's lips move lower, leaving a trail of heat along your back. Each kiss is tender yet fervent, his affection evident in every touch. He takes his time, savoring the closeness of your bodies. Deliberately, he grips your hips, lifting you slightly until you’re on your hands and knees.
You feel his breath warm against your skin, his kisses growing more insistent as he reaches the small of your back. The sensation is intoxicating, a mix of love and desire that leaves you breathless and yearning for more.
"Luffy," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. The sound of his name on your lips seems to spur him on, his kisses growing even more passionate.
His lips travel lower, and you shiver in anticipation as he playfully bites along your thighs, each nip sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You can feel his hands at the hem of your skirt, fingers curling around the fabric. With a teasing slowness, Luffy begins to pull your skirt up, his breath hot against your skin. He leaves a trail of kisses along the exposed flesh, his touch both tender and thrilling. The sensation of his lips against your thighs, coupled with the gentle pressure of his hands, drives you wild.
The sound of fabric rustling fills your ears as Luffy tugs his pants down, freeing himself with an erotic-sounding slap of his hard cock to his abdomen. A surge of heat courses through you as he presses his tip firmly against your core, the sensation making your knees tremble. Instinctively, your body responds, arching back against him, your breaths mingling in the charged air between you. With a slow, deliberate movement, he begins to press into you, the sensation causing your breath to hitch and your heart to race.
Luffy's breath is hot against your skin as he murmurs your name, his voice low and concentrated. "I've got you,” the captain’s promise melts against the shell of your ear as he leans forwards, his chest now lying flush against your arched back.
He kisses sloppily down your neck, his lips moving with a fervent urgency, leaving a trail of warmth and saliva in their wake. As he begins to thrust, his movements are slow and deliberate at first, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body.
But then, fueled by that ever-growing, ever-nagging desire to achieve more, he begins to pick up the pace, his thrusts growing harder and more forceful. Each movement beckons stars to erupt beneath your eyelids, your head growing fuzzy as the intensity of the moment overwhelms your senses.
"Luffy," you gasp, your voice a mixture of pleasure and need. His name on your lips seems to spur him on, his thrusts becoming even more powerful. The sound of your bodies moving together fills the room, stifled only by your mixed moans and Luffy’s laughter.
“Yeah?” he sighs and groans in between chuckles, completely captivated by his ability to turn you to mush beneath him. “You like it hard like that, don’t ‘cha?”
His words, spoken between groans and laughter, send a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. "Yes, Luffy," you manage to gasp out, your voice trembling with pleasure. The intensity of his thrusts only increases, each one driving you closer to the edge. Luffy's hands grip your hips firmly, guiding your movements as he plunges deeper and harder. The feeling of his body moving with such powerful intent fills you with an overwhelming sense of desire and fulfillment. The friction, the heat, the rhythm—it all melds together into a symphony of passion that threatens to consume you completely.
He leans forward, his chest pressed tightly against your back, his breath hot and ragged in your ear. "So good," he praises as he furrows his brow, his voice thick with concentration. The words are a lifeline, grounding you in the whirlwind of sensations. You can feel every inch of him, his every movement resonating through your body, sending shockwaves of pleasure from your core outward. Your breaths come in short, desperate gasps as the intensity builds, each thrust pushing you higher and higher toward the precipice of release.
Luffy's kisses are hot and sloppy against your neck, his lips trailing down your spine once more. His movements are fervent, almost desperate, as if he's trying to pour all his love and desire into each kiss, each touch, each thrust. The feeling of his lips and his body against yours is intoxicating, drowning out everything else.
"More," you breathe, barely recognizing your own voice. It's a plea, a demand, a surrender. Luffy responds with a growl, his hands tightening on your hips as he drives into you with renewed vigor.
Your world narrows down to the feeling of his body against yours, the sound of his breath in your ear, the sensation of his hands grasping your hips.
The pressure builds within you, a tidal wave of sensation that threatens to overwhelm you. You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, your body trembling with anticipation. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth as you begin to lose control of your bearings, mumbling incoherent moans and pleas of ecstasy. And then, with a final, powerful thrust, you reach the peak, the wave crashing over you in a blinding explosion of pleasure.
Your cry of release mingles with Luffy's groan, the sound of your shared ecstasy filling the room. The intensity of the moment leaves you breathless, your body trembling as the waves of pleasure slowly subside. Luffy's movements slow, his thrusts becoming gentle and tender as he rides out the last of his own release.
As the waves of pleasure begin to ebb, you find yourselves lying together, breathless and trembling. Your breaths come fast and shallow, the intensity of your shared experience leaving you both gasping for air.
You can feel his saliva cooling on your skin, a physical reminder of the fervent kisses he trailed down your spine. It mingles with the thin sheen of sweat covering both of you, a testament to the intensity of your encounter. Luffy's arms remain wrapped around you, his grip firm yet gentle, as if he's reluctant to let go of this moment.
"I've got you," you murmur against his chest with a smirk, echoing his earlier promise. And with that, as you let your eyes close and finally relax into him, you feel his grip tighten around you.
He knows he needs to bathe, shed the layers of the week's grime. He’s utterly filthy, but his stubborn nature keeps him from stepping into the water.
The two of you sit hand in hand atop the Sunny's crow's nest, the sun casting a warm glow over the sea. Your head rests against his scarred chest, his heart beating steadily under your ear.
"Luffy," you say gently, looking up at him as determination nips at your tongue. "It'll feel so nice to wash away the salt and sweat. You can't keep putting it off forever."
He chuckles, the mischief clear in his eyes. "I don't need a bath! I'm a pirate! A little dirt never hurt anyone."
You laugh at his playful defiance, knowing he's just trying to avoid it. "Come on, you'll be a lot more comfortable after a soak. And maybe…” you tease, a sly smile playing on your lips, “I'll join you."
Luffy's eyes light up at your words, his curiosity piqued. "You'll join me?" he asks, a hint of excitement in his voice.
"Only if you promise to behave," you chuckle, “No splashing me."
"Deal!" Luffy agrees with a wide grin.
-----
With a gentle squeeze of Luffy's hand, you pull him along, your smiles matching as you descend the crow’s nest with your captain in tow. The sun's golden rays bathe the ship's deck in light, casting a radiant glow around you. As you walk, your fingers remain intertwined with his, a familiar and comforting touch.
You lead him toward the bathroom, passing by the others on the crew who wave and nod as you go. Luffy's easygoing demeanor brightens the mood, his laughter carrying on the breeze as you tease him about how nice it will be to finally get clean.
Luffy chuckles, but you can tell he's warming up to the idea, especially when you lean into him, whispering promises of relaxation and the pleasant warmth of the bath. His grip tightens around your hand in response, his excitement growing.
As you approach the bathroom door, Luffy grins at you, a mix of anticipation and affection in his eyes. "Alright, alright, I'm going!" he says with a playful laugh.
You nudge open the door, and Luffy lets you step inside first, the warm scent of candles and bath salts guiding your way.
“I’ll get the bath ready,” you tell Luffy with a smile, giving him a playful nudge. “You go ahead and get undressed.”
Luffy grins at you, giving a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain!”
As he begins to undress, you turn your attention to the bath. The water pours from the faucet, quickly filling the tub. You adjust the temperature, making sure it’s just right—not too hot, not too cool—for a comfortable soak.
While you focus on preparing the bath, you can hear the soft rustling of Luffy’s clothes as he removes them. He lets out a quiet, satisfied sigh as he frees himself from the layers of fabric.
Once the bath is ready, you turn off the faucet and glance over at Luffy, who stands bare and carefree. He gives you a playful grin, his eyes full of affection.
“All set!” he declares.
His confident stance, hands on his hips, and the playful grin he offers you make your cheeks flush with a sudden warmth. Your legs feel wobbly, and your heart races at the sight of him.
Luffy’s easy confidence and affection draw you in, making you smile despite your blush. He notices the pink hue on your cheeks and chuckles gently. “What’s wrong?” he teases, stepping closer to you.
You clear your throat, trying to regain your composure as you meet his gaze. “Nothing, just… you’re so ready to go,” you say, pathetically attempting to match his confident tone.
Luffy’s grin widens at your words, and he reaches out towards you, his fingers meeting the hem of your dress with a questioning tug.
“C’mon,” he grins, slyly tugging at the fabric, “Join me.”
Beckoned by his eagerness, you follow your captain’s nude lead, slowly pulling your dress up and over your head.
You feel a rush of warmth flood your cheeks as Luffy's gaze remains fixed on you, his eyes filled with a mix of admiration and affection. His playful grin widens as he watches you, his excitement palpable.
With your dress discarded, you stand before him in nothing but your bra and panties, feeling vulnerable yet strangely exhilarated by his gaze. Luffy's expression softens, a tender warmth filling his eyes as he takes in the sight of you.
"You look beautiful," he whispers, his voice uncharacteristically soft and genuine.
Your heart skips a beat at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks at his unexpected compliment. You smile shyly, feeling a flutter of excitement in the pit of your stomach.
"Thank you, Luffy."
Without another word, Luffy steps closer to you, his bare chest inches away from yours. The warmth of his skin against yours sends a shiver down your spine, igniting a spark of desire within you.
His fingers brush against your cheek, his touch gentle and tender. You lean into his touch, your breath catching in your throat as you feel his breath on your face.
Without warning, Luffy leans in, his lips capturing yours in a soft, lingering kiss.
The kiss is passionate, a bit messy, so Luffy.
Lost in the sweetness of the kiss, you and Luffy linger for a moment longer, savoring the warmth of each other's lips.
As you finally pull back, a soft smile lingers on your lips, your eyes meeting Luffy's with blushing fondness, "Alright, Luffy," you murmur, "We need to get in the bath before it gets too cold."
Luffy's grin widens at your words, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Right!" he agrees, his eagerness returning as he takes your hand in his. "No more delays, let's go!"
With a shared chuckle, you remove the last of your undergarments and step into the warm water of the bath, the comforting embrace of the steam enveloping you.
The warmth of the water encapsulates you both as you settle into the bath, a sigh of contentment escaping your lips. Luffy leans back against the edge of the tub, his eyes closed in bliss as he savors the soothing heat.
You sit beside him, feeling a sense of peace wash over you. The sound of the water lapping gently against the sides of the tub fills the air, creating a tranquil ambiance that lulls you into relaxation.
Luffy opens his eyes, his gaze finding yours with a soft smile. "This feels amazing," he murmurs, his voice low and content.
You nod in agreement, leaning closer to him as you soak in the warmth together, "I told you," you chuckle softly. The tension of the day melts away, leaving only the quiet comfort of each other's company.
"Alright, now let me help clean you up," you smile warmly at him, and he nods, leaning forwards to allow you to wash his back.
As you reach for the soap, you can't help but admire the intricate network of scars that crisscross Luffy's skin, a testament to the countless battles he's fought. With gentle hands, you lather up the soap, being careful to avoid aggravating any tender areas.
Luffy watches you with a playful glint in his eyes, his lips curling into a mischievous grin. "It's okay," he teases, his voice filled with warmth. "I'm made of rubber, not glass, you know."
You chuckle at his playful demeanor, continuing to wash him with care. "I know, but I want to make sure I don't hurt you," you reply softly, your touch gentle and soothing.
Luffy laughs, the sound echoing through the bathroom. "Don't worry about me," he reassures you, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've been through worse than a little soap and water."
You smile at his resilience, feeling a swell of affection for the man before you.
As you finish washing him, Luffy leans back with a satisfied sigh, his skin glowing in the soft light of the bathroom. "Thanks!" he exclaims, his voice filled with gratitude. "That felt amazing."
You smile back at him, feeling a sense of closeness that warms your heart. "Anytime, Luffy," you reply softly. "I'm always here for you."
As the water begins to cool, you glance at Luffy with a playful grin. "Although, I think it's time to get out before we turn into prunes."
Luffy merely grins at your suggestion, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
But before you can react to his sly face, he splashes you with a quick flick of his hand, the water droplets landing on your skin with a playful splash.
You roll your eyes at his antics, but a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. With a smirk, you lean closer to him, closing the distance between you. Luffy's eyes widen in surprise as you press your lips to his.
For a moment, the only thing that matters is the sweetness of his kiss, but you can't help but give in to the game your captain started.
When you finally pull back, you're met with Luffy's wide-eyed gaze, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
Even as you feel the warmth of the kiss linger on your lips, you can't resist the urge to quickly gather some water in your hand and splash it back at Luffy with a playful flick of your wrist.
The water splashes across his chest, eliciting a surprised yelp from Luffy as he blinks in astonishment. His wide-eyed gaze shifts from the water droplets to you, his lips curling into a playful grin.
"Hey!" he protests, his laughter bubbling up as he reaches for more water.
"Gotcha," you say with a grin.
You laugh along with him, feeling the joy of the moment wash over you. The sound of his laughter fills the air, mingling with yours as you engage in a playful water fight.
----
As you grow tired and the water stills, Luffy's first to stand up, water cascading down his glistening skin before he offers you a hand and a grin. You follow suit, rising to your feet with your captain's help, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated after your soak.
Together, you dry off and dress, the memory of the bath lingering in your minds as you return to the deck of The Sunny. As you watch the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you reach for Luffy's hand.
And although you don't look up at his face, far too captivated by the sunset, you know he's grinning as he intertwines his fingers with yours.
Heat makes its way from your lips, traveling over the soft ridge of your chin, down your trembling body to find its home in your core. Each press of his lips to yours, each sweat-coated, flesh-colliding dance of passion ignites a deep, forest-burning fire within your body, and simply rears its head in defiance at the mere prospect of being tamed.
Ace is relentless in his efforts to stuff you full; pressing your wrists firmly into the plush mattress as he hovers above you, thrusting his hips to greet your cervix with blunt, precise caresses of his tip.
“Come on,” he groans into your mouth, slightly agape as your pathetic attempts to catch your breath fall flat in the face of his merciless pace.
“Ace-” you whine, letting your head lull back, instinctively giving the freckle-faced man above you more access to your gulping throat. Your trembling hands dart down to grasp at his toned hips, tracing his v-line beneath your fingertips to guide his efforts.
“Yeah,” he murmurs lowly, dark eyes lidded as he gazes down to admire himself disappearing in and out of your sloppy cunt. “Show me how you want it.”
“C-Can’t-” you whimper, chewing on your bottom lip as you arch your back, pressing your chest into his to allow him to slide a reassuring hand beneath you, “gonna come, please-”
You can feel him in your belly and it’s almost too much, almost. For fear of tumbling off the edge, of making a mess of his cock with your essence, you half-heartedly attempt to pull away, secretly praying he’ll just pull you right back in.
And that he does.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” he tsks, slowly shaking his head side-to-side in mock disapproval as the pace of his thrusts only increases.
His mocking disapproval only spurs you on, the intensity of his thrusts sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Each deep, measured stroke leaves you gasping, your moans mingling with his groans in a symphony of passion. Your legs wrap around his waist, desperate to pull him even closer, to feel every inch of him as he drives you to the brink of ecstasy.
"Ace, please," you plead, your voice barely more than a whisper, fried and raw with need.
"That's it," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Beg for it. Let me hear how much you want it."
The fire in your core blazes even hotter, fueled by his words and the relentless rhythm of his hips. Your body arches into him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as you cling to him, desperate for the release that's so tantalizingly close.
"I want it," you gasp, your voice trembling with urgency. "I need it, Ace. Please."
His eyes darken with lust as he watches you, his movements never faltering. He captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure as he drives you higher and higher.
With a final, powerful thrust, he pushes you over the edge. Your body convulses around him, the waves of your orgasm crashing over you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. Ace's name falls from your lips in a broken moan, your nails raking down his back as you surrender completely to the ecstasy.
“Thank you, thank you, fuck, thank you!” you cry out, the words pouring from your lips in a desperate, grateful chant, your pleasure-filled squeals a testament to the skill of the man above you.
He follows you off the edge, his own release tearing through him as he buries himself deep inside you. His groan of satisfaction reverberates through your body, the sensation of his warmth filling you completely.
For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, tangled together in a haze of spent passion. Ace's breath is ragged against your skin, his body heavy but comforting atop yours. He lifts his head to look at you, a satisfied smile curling his lips.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, contented rumble. "You did so good."
You smile weakly, the afterglow of your shared pleasure making you feel weightless.
He chuckles softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before easing himself off you, pulling you into his arms.
In the dim light of the room, you rest against him, your body still thrumming with that undeniable pleasure only he can grant you.
willowbelle is back & (hopefully) better than ever! :) thank you for your patience, everyone, & i hope you enjoy this ace food. ♡︎
Cora rolls up his sleeves before pressing his hands into the floury dough on the countertop. His movements are deliberate as he shapes the batter into spheres and places them inches apart on a baking tray. His focus is evident in his furrowed brow and the quiet hum of concentration that fills the kitchen.
You walk in, still shaking off the remnants of sleep, the early morning light casting a soft glow around you. Your eyes are bleary, but the image of Cora working draws you in. He's absorbed in his task, his hands moving with calm precision as he shapes the dough on the countertop. You pause, too tired to speak, just smiling as you watch him work. He hasn't noticed you yet, so you simply lean against the doorframe, enjoying the peaceful moment and the soothing aroma of baking bread.
And then, it dawns on you--the room is completely silent. Cora, being the kind-hearted man you know him to be, must’ve muted the noise with a thoughtful mutter of silence, as to not disturb your much-needed slumber.
You linger in the doorway, enveloped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The scent of fresh dough mingles with the gentle warmth of the morning, creating a cocoon of tranquility. Cora continues his work, his big hands moving fluidly over the dough.
As you watch, your smile deepens. The love and care he puts into every touch are clear to you, a silent testimony to his thoughtfulness.
The calm of the room lulls you further into a state of peace, and you let your eyes close for a moment, savoring the serenity that surrounds you. But soon, the comforting rhythm of Cora’s work stirs a desire within you to be closer.
With a gentle push off the doorframe, you walk silently toward him. As you approach, you gently wrap your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his back. He finally notices your presence and looks down at you with a soft smile. His focus shifts to a touch of warmth and tenderness as he pauses his work, brushing a floured hand up and down your intertwined arms.
He tilts his head slightly, his voice gentle as he murmurs a pensive, "Did I wake you?" His concern is evident, even in his quiet tone.
You respond with a soft shake of your head, a reassuring smile playing on your lips. "No, not at all," you say, your voice a quiet murmur. "I was drawn in by the smell of what you're making.”
You hold him a little tighter, relishing the warmth of his touch and the comforting rhythm of his work. "I just wanted to watch you for a moment," you add.
Cora chuckles softly, his floured hands leaving gentle imprints on your arms as he turns to face you. With a smooth motion, he lifts you up effortlessly and places you on the counter, so you're closer to his impressive height.
The cool touch of the countertop beneath you is a stark contrast to the warmth of his hands. It’s a bit jarring, sends a shiver down your spine, but before your body can even react, the warmth is returned, this time with a tender touch of his hand to your cheek.
Your heart quickens as he leans in, his gaze tender and full of affection. His touch lingers for a moment before he gently kisses you, a sweet, lingering moment that seems to encapsulate the tranquility of the space around you.
As the kiss deepens, you feel the gentle pull of his embrace, his other arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close. His arms are strong and secure, keeping you grounded.
His touch is gentle, his fingers lightly tracing your skin with a feather-like touch, as if you were made of delicate glass. As you gaze up at him, his imposing frame strikes you, a testament to his strength and power—he seems as though he could consume you whole.
Yet, his warmth and gentleness is a stark contrast to his size, cradling your cheek with a tender caress that chases away any lingering chill; a lighthearted soul nestled within the body of a giant.
You savor the unexpected juxtaposition of his strength and tenderness, feeling completely at ease in his embrace. His lips press against yours once more, with a quiet, lingering passion, leaving you breathless and warm.
His hand shifts from your cheek to the nape of your neck, his touch soothing and secure. You find comfort in his closeness, the rise and fall of his chest calming your own breath. His playful soul shines through in the twinkle of his eyes, an energy that dances between you both.
As he pulls back from the kiss, his smile is gentle, full of affection. He lets out a low, contented hum, and you know he is just as lost in the moment as you are. You stay in his embrace, feeling his hands roam down your back, tracing gentle patterns that make your skin tingle.
Cora leans in closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face before murmuring a sweet, quiet,
"Maybe I should start baking every morning if it means waking up to kisses like that."
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