#but NO! HE JUST DOES IT TWICE! AND BOTH CAMERA ANGLES ARE FLATTERING

[boysbeloving]

I fully appreciate the fact that cir straddled phu not once but TWICE in that blowjob-as-medicine scene

[harryandmolly]

Complicit // 5

summary: Shawn is under more pressure than he’s ever known. He craves release and comfort, the simplicity of sex. He gets more than he bargained for.

warnings: language, NSFW (my permanent tag for this series), fraying at the edges

WC: 7.3k

---------

The dialing sound Niall’s phone makes is the British one. He tries to feel comforted by it. It reminds him of calling his nan. He could use some comfort, that’s why he’s calling Niall. 

It rings twice more. Shawn’s very sure he’s about to get his voicemail which he doesn’t even think Niall checks and he doesn’t blame him because Shawn mostly texts him anyway, but he really wanted to kind of talk this out and--

“Hey, mate,” Niall greets. It sounds like he’s outside, probably in London. He hears traffic and distant car horns.

“Heyyyy,” Shawn begins casually, pressing his fingers through his hair and striding out to the balcony of his house even though he’s completely alone, “What’s up, man?”

“I’m over in London for a couple meetings and a friend’s wedding. Headin’ out to me local. What’s up?”

Shawn sighs. He squints one eye at the horizon, then the other. “I just did something… really stupid.”

Niall chuckles. His favorite start to any story. “How stupid?”

“Pretty… fucking stupid,” Shawn groans, closing both his eyes, “I just got back from Vegas.”

“I know! Everyone’s buzzin’ about iHeart Summer. Heard you killed it, mate, congratulations! Good craic?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was great,” Shawn mumbles distractedly, “But I brought Penny.”

“Oh,” Niall chirps, clearly expecting him to admit something much worse, “That’s fine, lad, I’ve flown Karina’r out places before. ‘S not a big deal.”

Shawn nods impatiently, “No, no, I know, it’s not that. We just… god, we had the most amazing night. It was… honestly, I really think it was the best sex I’ve ever had. And then I did something completely insane.”

Niall’s brow furrows. He keeps one eye up on the crosswalk signal. “Don’t tell me ya fookin’ married ‘er.”

“I… I bought her a necklace. A really, really expensive, insane necklace. Frank Sinatra gave it to Ava Gardner in like the 1950s. I had it delivered to her.”

Niall guffaws. His cornflower blue eyes dance as he cackles, stepping into the street, unbothered by the eyes he draws. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not,” Shawn croaks, slumping a shoulder against the sliding door, angling his eyes down, “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. I got carried away. We just… that night… and then the festival, I mean, shit, I’ve never played a show like that before. I’ve never had a night like that onstage. I thought I had and then I played that show and it’s like… god, Ni, she got me somewhere. I don’t even know where. 

“So I got back after the show like, buzzing. We were out all night celebrating after. I got back at like 5 AM and I called the guy that helped me pick out those earrings for my mom for Christmas and he said he had this necklace and Sinatra fucking designed it and, dude, she loves Sinatra, like loves him, and I just snapped and bought it. Put the fucking deposit on my Amex and called La Splendeur to arrange the delivery.”

Niall’s still laughing. “Wow.”

“I’m such an asshole,” Shawn mumbles, letting a short chuckle break through, “I mean, what the hell is she going to think? She’s going to think I’m fucking obsessed with her.”

“It kinda sounds like you are,” Niall prods, shoving his free hand in his pocket as he strides down the busy street.

“I know I am, but I don’t need her knowing that!” Shawn gripes.

“Listen, girls like her get fancy gifts all the time. She’s used to it, mate. It probably won’t faze her.”

That definitely doesn’t make Shawn feel better. If he’s going to be an obsessed asshole, he at least wants to be the only one in her life.

“Or worse, she’ll think I’m just throwing money at her because that’s all she’s worth to me.”

Shawn realizes with a swoop of his gut that that’s his true fear. The idea that Penny thinks he just wants to buy her makes him want to lose his lunch over the railing. He winces and rubs a hand over his eyes. 

“Mate, you’re overreacting. When you’re with her, do you treat her like a hooker?”

Shawn blinks. “No, of course not.”

“No. Because you’re a good lad. She’s spent enough time around you to know that. She’s not going to think you’re trying to reduce her to a piece of jewelry. She’s probably flattered. I’m sure she loves it. It’s a thoughtful gift, too, if she loves Sinatra. Hey, I love Sinatra and you’ve never bought me a priceless necklace that he designed.”

Shawn snorts. “When you fuck me like she can, I’ll get you his whole collection of pinky rings.”

Niall beams. “That’s the spirit.”

+

“I haven’t even touched it yet,” Penny hisses into the phone, circling the red box sitting dead center on her bed like a snake charmer eyeing a viper.

“Well, you should. It’s been in a box since the 90s. It deserves a little skin,” Silver replies.

Penny purses her lips. “I… cannot believe he did this.”

“Well, not to sound… anyway, it’s hardly the most expensive gift you’ve ever received.”

Penny’s mind jumps to the Aston Martin in her garage and she bites her lip. “No, I know… but… I mean, it’s so soon.”

Silver bobs her head and runs her finger along the strand of pearls at her throat, they themselves a gift from a client long ago.

“It’s the buzz, baby. Everyone’s saying his name after that performance of his. He probably just wanted to show you some gratitude. Several thousand dollars worth.”

Penny perches beside the open Cartier box, still a safe distance. She reaches out with a fingertip, timidly stroking the largest stone at the center, where it would hang beautifully between her collarbones if she weren’t too chicken to try it on.

She swallows. “He can’t… know how much this means to me. He can’t possibly, I’ve only mentioned it in passing.”

She’s referring to her lifelong love affair with Frank Sinatra. The people who know her well, and there are few, know Old Blue Eyes has been the apple of Penny’s eye since she was a kid. So to own something that was once his, that he helped to design, something he made for someone so important to him… 

“I don’t know if I can keep this,” Penny breathes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Silver nearly snaps, “This isn’t a sweater you can return. This is practically a historical treasure. And it’s yours, he wanted you to have it. And… Pen, it was Frank’s.”

“That’s the other thing!” Penny squeaks, springing up from the bed to launch into another pacing session, “I’m sure he has no idea of the implications of this necklace. He doesn’t know the story. Ava Gardner was the love of Frank’s life. He loved her madly until the day he died. Everything they went through together, everything they put each other through… it’s the stuff of Hollywood legend. It’s the kind of love you wish on your worst enemy.”

Silver quiets. Penny is flying off the handle. The only way to calm her down is to keep head head low.

“You’re right, I’m sure he doesn’t know. Please don’t panic, Penny m’love, it’s a nice gift. Take it as that. And for the love of god, insure it.”

Penny slumps into the vintage 40s armchair in the corner of her sun-strewn bedroom, eyeing the necklace again.

“Peter’s going to die when I tell him.”

Silver smiles. “I’ve got to dash, petal, give me a call tomorrow when you have time to run through our corporation paperwork.”

Penny signs off and drops her phone into the seat beside her. Slowly, she stands, heading for the full length mirror. She focuses on her neck, her unblemished throat, her stately collarbones. She runs her fingertips against her skin. She reaches down and lifts her tank top, tossing it aside. Her breasts are soft and full, more than a generous handful crowned by perky brown nipples. She cups them, massaging her warm skin, enjoying the weight of them in her hands. Then she goes for her pajama shorts, the little blue ones with the fluffy white clouds on them. She pushes them down until they drop around her ankles.

She stands naked as the day she was born in her bedroom. She turns, admiring the swell of her ass in her reflection, the glorious mapping of stretchmarks around her hips and thighs, brushing a hand over the birthmark on her lower back. She takes a deep breath and steps to the bed, reaching for the red box.

The necklace is so heavy. She knew it would be heavy, studded by 159 diamonds (she counted), but it’s even heavier than she imagined. Maybe it’s heavier to her because of its significance. 

The clasp is fiddly. She very gently eases it open, lifts her gaze to the mirror and guides it around her throat, only releasing her hold when she’s very sure the clasp is secure. Her eyes are closed. She adjusts its position until she can feel with her fingers that the largest diamond is dead center in the little valley between her collarbones. She can’t look until it’s perfect.

And oh god, it’s so perfect.

One of Penny’s hands covers her mouth, the other rests against her stomach as she sucks in a gasping breath. Her eyes well. Her bronzed cheeks flush. Slowly, she pries her fingers away from her mouth and takes a closer look.

It’s magnificent. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. And it’s hers.

He got it for her.

Penny wets her lips and closes her eyes, overwhelmed again. He can’t possibly know it, but he just gave her her most prized possession. How does she thank him? More importantly, how do they proceed from here?

The latter question seems too much to answer so soon. So she focuses on the former.

Chewing on her lip, staring at the largest center stone like it will show her the secrets of the universe, Penny thinks. After a few moments, her eyes flit to a shelf holding a bulky black DSLR camera with a folded tripod stashed underneath.

An hour later, she’s loading a set of photos onto a thumb drive and planting a pouty berry red kiss onto a piece of cardstock. Both get folded into a padded envelope addressed to a Mr. Shawn Mendes with no return address.

+

Standing over his suitcase with a hand on one hip, Shawn scrolls down to “Orthodontist” in his contacts and hits “new message,” feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

He hasn’t been home from Vegas for 48 hours yet. He’s unpacking his suitcase only to repack for the next festival, Wet & Wild Summer Fest in Atlanta. He’s calmed down a bit about the necklace fiasco. Niall helped assuage his concerns, as did a little time and space. Not much, but a little. He finds he starts to get twitchy after the 24 hour mark away from her when he doesn’t have another booking lined up.

It should be concerning. It should have him stepping back to reevaluate his priorities. It should mean his dick is fucking exhausted.

But it doesn’t.

Hey Penny, it’s Shawn. Idk if Colette gave you my number. I wanted to see if you’re around before I leave for Atlanta on Wednesday. So… tomorrow I guess lol

He hits send before he can think too hard about it. Thinking too hard is always his downfall. He hopes the message comes off as charming and casual. He shoves his phone in his pocket, on vibrate of course, so he doesn’t stare at it and pick it apart.

After-overthinking. Also one of his downfalls.

Five minutes later, the buzz in his back pocket feels like it gives him a mini heart attack.

Orthodontist: Hi! I wish I could. I’m not available tomorrow. 

Orthodontist: P.S. Received your gift. It took my breath away. I’m sending you a little something to show my gratitude.

Shawn drops the phone on top of the pyramid of sock rolls he’s loading into the suitcase and presses his face into his hands with a groan.

So much to overanalyze.

Admittedly, he had half deluded himself into imagining he was her only client now, that she’d cleared the bench for him. But that was naive. Of course he’s not her only client. Not only is she likely one of if not the most sought after women at La Splendeur, she has an established career with probably plenty of regulars. He’s just been lucky so far that she’s been so available to him.

He shouldn’t be reading into this as a “stay away from me you expensive necklace-buying freak” thing. Right?

Right.

Plus, she’s sending him something. What the fuck could she be sending him? His mind floods with possibilities, from the filthy to the ridiculous. 

But, really, the biggest thing is the pang he feels at the idea of going at least another week without seeing her. He would like to imagine their last encounter, as… un-fucking-believable as it was, would keep him on a high long enough to get him through it, but he’s too hooked on her already. He seems to need a fix more frequently than even last week, and even more desperately.

He really should think about slowing this down. Maybe stopping altogether.

… but god, what is she sending him?

+

She’s got Frank’s Come Fly with Me album spinning on the record player and her favorite Fleur du Mal skin-toned slip on as she brushes some Guerlain highlight on her cheeks, her eyes straying to the stunning necklace against her throat so often that she’s almost running late from the distraction.

Penny is never late.

She huffs at herself and stands back to assess. She catches Pamela’s big brown eyes in the mirror and grins, her shimmery nude-painted lips spreading.

“Stop looking at mommy like that,” she teasingly begs. At the sound of Penny’s voice, Pamela’s tail thumps against the ground. Penny laughs and shakes her head, her flossy curls bobbing around her upper arms as she reaches for her dress, a floaty sand-colored number by Alice + Olivia. In the right light, she looks almost bare. It doesn’t matter. Everyone’s going to be looking at the necklace.

With a final intoxicating spritz of Tom Ford Costa Azzurra, Penny steps outside to greet Gus.

Jamie got asked to a community center dance by a boy. Ty is beside himself, Gus likes to think he’s handling it well. Penny lives for the details.

Christian Becker is already waiting for her under the overhang of the Beverly Hilton. He doesn’t have to -- she wouldn’t have a problem following a young intern in to find him. He’s entirely too famous and important to be standing outside an event like this waiting for her. But he always likes to, so she lets him.

Christian is a thrice-divorced father of four. He’s the editor-in-chief of Vertigo Magazine, a once upstart music blog turned highly respected online publication (Lady Gaga was last month’s cover feature.) He’s also one of Penny’s oldest clients.

Gus rolls down the window as Penny gathers her clutch to step out.

“Evening, Gus,” croons Christian, smooth as ever as he leans into the passenger side with his wire transfer confirmation on his phone. Gus barely checks it. Christian is “good people,” as Gus likes to say.

“Mr. Becker, you’re looking well. How are the kids?”

“Getting bigger every day. How’re Jamie and Ty?” He holds open the door and takes Penny’s hand. Gus doesn’t bother to answer, smiling warmly as he watches Penny emerge from the back of the car. Christian releases a low whistle, looking her up and down as she steps out into the evening.

“Miss Penny, you’ve done it again.”

She tilts her chin coyly, narrowing her eyes. “And what is it I’ve done this time, Mr. Becker?”

“You got more beautiful. We’ve talked about this, Penny. You gotta stop that.”

She laughs, a laugh close to her very own. She shakes her head. “You sound like a grandpa.”

Christian mimes a dagger being driven into his chest, wincing. “I’m only 54.”

Penny nods placatingly, “And your Winnie is almost 16.”

“God, don’t remind me. C’mon, honey, let’s head in. Have a good night, Gus. Don’t worry. I’ll have her home by 10!”

Gus chuckles and pulls away back into the line of exotic cars leaving the event. Christian, head to toe in Dior, holds his flawlessly-tailored arm out for Penny to hold. She takes it and strides forward, matching his springy steps.

They look well together. Christian doesn’t look any older than 45, save for the salt and pepper hair. He’s extremely tall, fit and built, rugged, the kind of man who you can’t quite imagine without his facial hair. 

Christian’s smart. He’d have to be, obviously, to turn a blog screaming amongst the din of millions into a revered and oft-referenced bible of music. But he’s smart about the industry, too. He knows how it looks to walk into an event with a 21-year-old in a mini dress whose only contribution to a conversation is extolling the virtues of Ed Sheeran’s last album.

So instead, Christian brings Penny along as a friend. Truly, that’s all it is, all it has been since after their first night together. He said he liked her too much to continue sleeping with her, muttering something about how “everything my dick touches turns to shit.” Their dates are not sexual, they’re business. Penny can work a room. She can charm anyone into an exclusive interview, into drinks to discuss a potential venture. She’s his most powerful secret weapon and one of his favorite conversationalists. 

Tonight is Vertigo Magazine’s annual “Summer Lovin’” party where guests, exclusively musicians and industry types, gather to mix and mingle. Christian likes to brag that for the last eight years, a hit collab has come out of initial conversations had at “Summer Lovin’.” The bragging works -- it’s one of the hottest tickets in town.

The ballroom is packed. Real palm trees surround them, along with bamboo and waiters serving cocktails in exotic fruit. The theme is Blue Hawaii. Under the Dior, Christian’s in a custom designed Hawaiian shirt printed with Vertigo Magazine’s logo. The DJ is playing Iz.

Penny fixes him with a look. Christian barks a laugh.

“Too much?”

“I just got back from Vegas and I can confidently say, yes. This is too much.”

Christian grins in that boyish, easily forgivable way. “Just like I like it, then.”

He loops an arm around her waist as he surveys the garish decorations proudly, planting his lips on her temple as she swipes a frothy coconut beverage off a passing waiter’s tray.

Christian glances down at her and hums. “Speaking of too much, you’re the one dripping in diamonds.”

Penny only barely tries to hide her bashful smile. She lifts a delicate hand to press against the heavy stones. “Oh, you noticed?”

“Hard not to. A client gift?” he guesses, narrowing his eyes.

“Nobody you know,” Penny lies smoothly.

Christian laughs again, squeezing her hip. He ducks his head to speak into her ear when he gets distracted, waylaid by a passing VIP that Penny doesn’t recognize but probably should. Christian releases her temporarily to schmooze with a crooked smile and she turns to glance around the room.

She bobs her head to an oddly chosen Hawaiian folk song and twiddles the biodegradable straw in her drink. There are famous faces everywhere -- the Little Mix girls, Luke Bryan, Pitbull, Dave Grohl. Penny chuckles to herself. Only Christian could get away with throwing a party like this and still having the who’s who of the industry at his beck and call.

She sweeps a curl off her shoulder, unwilling to let anything get in the way of her necklace’s glimmer. As she does, she feels a gaze. It’s not exactly unusual for her. But there’s heat in it, enough to make her look back.

Head to toe in deep blue, shirt unbuttoned to mid chest, a perfectly placed curl hanging over his forehead is Shawn bloody Mendes staring straight at her, watching Christian Becker’s fingers absently trace over the ridges of the necklace against her collarbone.

+

Penny swings her head back around so fast her long hair swirls, catching in the scruff of Christian’s beard. She plays it off, giggling and swiping at it as she rests a hand against his upper back and tries not to feel like she’s on fucking fire.

This has happened before, she reminds her rioting body, You have been in this position. 

Of course she has. LA is a small, small town. There are only so many people that can afford her. Of course she’s been at public events and seen former or even current clients. It does not have to be an international incident.

But it fucking feels like one. Her heart is sprinting. Her head feels light enough to pop off her body to float around with the paper lanterns on the ceiling. Her hand on her chest is the only thing steadying her until Christian’s bulky, muscled arm pulls her back in gently by her waist.

Like the professional she is, she snaps in. Her smile is dazzling. Her quippy comment is light but witty, charming. The hand she places on Christian’s upper abdomen when they all laugh is soft but firm. She’s in control.

+

Shawn flies into a possessive, unadulterated rage for about 15 seconds before cold reality hits hard.

Somehow even before she turned around, he knew she’d be wearing it. She’s wearing his fucking necklace while another man’s hands are all fucking over her. His stomach is in knots. His neck burns hot, he bets even his exposed chest is flushed. He wants to scream, maybe even go full caveman and drag her away from Christian Becker, of all fucking people. He even likes Christian Becker. But Penny, he…

So not the path to go down right now.

Thankfully, the red mist doesn’t last long. He’s immediately disgusted with himself for even letting his mind start to go there. But he still can’t stop staring at her.

She didn’t take the Blue Hawaii theme as literally as he did. She’s radiant in a floaty dress that looks like a beach and he looks like a dopey extra on a movie set. He wasn’t even planning on coming to this party -- he’d much rather have spent the night with her in some hotel he doesn’t care about the name of getting his stupid mind blown. But Andrew convinced him, told him Tiffany had a suit ready, even had blue suede boots. 

So Shawn decided to play dress up and be friendly with industry types even if the only thing he cares about right now, other than Penny screwing his brains out, is the album he’s already written that’s being released in the fall. He’s not in the headspace to think about a collab right now. But that’s what he pays Andrew for.

It didn’t even cross his mind that she could be here. It did not even occur to him. But he knew it was her when he saw her even between throngs of people in dim lighting. It’s her bare shoulder blades. He adores them. He’d know them anywhere.

Once she’s turned back around, her poker face back on, letting Becker pet her and show her off, he slugs back a sip of his rum cocktail. He forces himself to turn around because he will certainly blow their cover if he keeps staring at the call girl he’s obsessed with from across the room.

Now that the rage is gone, it’s replaced by a hollow, whiny feeling. Turns out despite Niall’s sage advice and what Shawn thought were enough self reminders that this is something he could simply walk away from, he aches.

He’s being ridiculous. The truth is, he barely knows Penny. He doesn’t even know her last name. And it’s not like he thought he was her only client. He’s not insane. But… he feels a little lame beside Christian Becker. The man is a legend. He’s done blow with at least 75% of Shawn’s heroes. The stories he can probably tell make Shawn want to pout. 

But he can’t pout. He can’t even talk to her. He has to just deal with this and try to find a way to be a man about it. The best way is probably to ignore her as much as he can. It’s hard when she feels like a magnet in the center of a room, sparkling brighter than the disco ball even without the necklace.

God, the necklace. He had finally gotten to a place of feeling kind of ok about that outrageous gesture and now he can worry about it all over again, he can feel like a desperate young fool trying to get the attention of a sophisticated woman in a garish and heavy-handed way. He frustrates himself nearly to tears.

And then he sees her, in front of him this time, tooling with Christian around the bar. Before he can steel himself, he realizes she’s already watching him. He’s… stunned. He almost picks his hand up and, like, waves like an idiot but then she’s leaning into Christian as he says something.

He looks down. His glass is empty. He’ll wait to go to the bar.

+

It’s all she can do to keep from planting her feet, locking her knees and screaming “NO!” like an impassioned toddler when Christian suggests a trip to the bar. Shawn has been stationed there for 45 minutes with a couple members of his team and, inexplicably, Brad Paisley. She hopes there isn’t anything fruitful coming from that conversation. But soon she’ll be close enough to listen for herself.

She doesn’t usually drink so much on the job, for obvious reasons. But how she could be expected to get through this fiasco without booze is beyond her, so she keeps the pina coladas coming. Christian doesn’t seem to mind. Her strong desire to focus on anything other than Shawn and his sad, but somehow searingly hot eyes, his bare chest, his fucking blue suede shoes is compelling enough to have her at the top of her game. She’s wheeling and dealing beside him better than even he’s ever seen.

She talks a little louder, a little faster until she has slowly managed to get Christian far enough from the bar that she can breathe again. She still feels Shawn’s eyes every few moments, like he’s checking to make sure she’s still there, she’s still with her date, she’s still wearing the necklace.

As the night wears on, the eye contact grows… reckless. They’re both drinking. They’re both loosening up. They’re both curious. So they’ve made it a sport. They lock eyes occasionally, but never for very long, just long enough to get their pulses racing. Shawn will glance at her, she’ll tuck hair behind her neck, exposing the spot below her ear that gets her gasping his name. She’ll spare him a glance, and he’ll wet his lips before he takes a sip of his drink through a smirk.

It’s childish and irresponsible and it has Penny a little wet.

Finally, Christian takes the stage to thank his guests. Penny stands in the crowd, a beacon of grace despite the gallon of fucking Malibu rum in her system. She’s literally shoulder to shoulder with people like Questlove and Demi Lovato, but the only thing she can think about is where he might be.

And then, without knowing, she knows. She can feel him. He’s standing right behind her. She can smell his fucking cologne. She can feel the testosterone-fueled heat tumbling off him. She can even feel the smirk on his face -- it’s enough to make her want to turn around and force him to his knees. 

The worst part for Penny is knowing he’d go willingly.

She huffs an aggravated sigh and senses him chuckle, unable to hear it over Christian’s corny speech. She folds her hands over her front, nudging at her Cartier ring with her fingers. She tries not to imagine Shawn slowly looking her up and down but her goddamn skin is crawling with it like it’s ready to drag her back into his arms without her permission.

She grits her teeth and fights fire with fire.

Penny reaches back and drags her curls over one shoulder, exposing the shoulder blades he likes to teethe at, the clasp of the necklace he bought her, and the sensual nape of her neck all at once. She turns her face, lips parted, profile backlit by the stage lights. She doesn’t have to see him to feel him go stiff all over.

Checkmate.

+

The night is winding down. Shawn can already feel his hangover starting in his fucking teeth. He didn’t watch Penny leave with Christian. The game they were playing seemed a lot less fun when he realized it had to end without them in the same hotel room. He stayed behind after his team left to catch up with a couple producer friends he hasn’t seen, and to prolong heading home alone to wonder if Penny touches Christian the way she touches him.

He shakes his big, heavy head and reaches for his phone. He wants to text her. What the fuck he would say is of no consequence -- he’s not actually going to do it. He just wants to think about the option.

He doesn’t have to think about it, though. Because she’s there, standing by the pickup line, slouched against a column, probably waiting for Christian.

He’s a fucking masochist, but she already knows that. He strides up casually and stands on the other side of the column.

“Nice night?” he grunts, just hoping his voice doesn’t break.

Penny doesn’t look terribly surprised to see him. Shawn bristles at his own predictability.

“Lovely.”

“You look… really beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes holding on hers instead of scraping over her heavenly body, “The necklace looks amazing on you.”

Her eyes show a flash of guilt. She purses her lips and ducks her head. “Thank you. It’s…” She trails off, wetting her lips, “This means more than you know, Shawn.”

The same tingle he got when the jeweler sent him the photo sparks up again from his toes, the one that told him the necklace belongs to Penny. He lets it overwhelm him enough to look over at her, his smile tipping into goofy territory.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Penny runs a finger along the side of her neck. Shawn follows it, swallows roughly. He looks back down.

“Where’s… um…” He can’t bring himself to say his name.

“He left. His kids were waiting up for him.”

Shawn’s head lifts so fast his neck cracks a little. “He’s… you’re not…”

Penny’s nose twitches. She keeps her eyes forward on the cars. “Christian hires me to attend events with him. He enjoys my company. I act as a good buffer. We don’t fuck.”

She spares him one glance. His jaw has dropped.

“You’re… going home?” Shawn chokes.

“I’m going home.” Penny’s voice is smooth and warm like her naked skin.

Shawn takes a deep breath. He reaches behind the column and gently wraps his fingers around her wrist.

“Don’t.”

The air in Penny’s lungs leaves in a rush. She takes a moment to gather herself before glancing at him. She swallows and lifts her chin, ready to give him his marching orders.

“Stay here. Do the wire transfer. Gus will be here any minute. Show it to him. I’m getting a room. I’ll text you the number.”

He doesn’t have time to comment or argue (not that he would) before she turns on a heel and walks inside. If Shawn’s not totally delusional, she’s hurrying a little.

+

Gus is comfortable enough around Shawn to openly chuckle at his eagerness now. Another on the long list of indicators that Shawn spends too much time with Penny. Instead of bristling, he grins crookedly.

“Does she drive everyone this crazy?” Shawn asks, tucking his phone back into his pocket after Gus nods at the wire transfer confirmation.

Gus, behind the wheel, bobs his head with a mysterious twinkle in his eye.

“Yeah. But maybe you more than others.”

Shawn licks his lips and nods as Gus pulls away, still laughing. After two seconds of staring at his shoes, Shawn bolts for the elevator.

The party has cleared out, mostly. The only people left to see him bouncing on his toes waiting for the lift are the ones busy breaking down the event. When the elevator doors slide open, Shawn lurches inside. 

As it rises, Shawn grips either end of the mirrored doors, unwilling to look his reflection in the eye. He hears his own breathing, feels the way his heart riots in his aching chest. He closes his eyes. He has to calm down. He’s too riled up for her already, has been all night. The way she couldn’t stop looking at him, the way he couldn’t stop thinking about her -- about how she feels and tastes and sounds when she’s so close to coming that he doesn’t need the verbal warning she sometimes gives, he knows it like he knows his own name.

The elevator dings and he’s burrowed far enough into the thought of her that it actually takes him a second to scramble upright and get himself out before the doors shut. 

He knocks quietly, like he’s aware that the walls of this hotel held a lot of influential people only hours earlier. Tonight, he has to trust those walls with his secrets the way he trusts Penny. He fights not to scrape a hand through his hair -- Anna did it just so, so that the curl dropping over his forehead lands just right.

She opens the door barefoot, dressed but looking and feeling naked. In better light he can see the way the color of the dress nearly matches her skin tone beneath it. He grunts gently, letting his head fall back.

“Jesus, sometimes I just…” His voice wanders. He shakes his head and lifts it back upright to look at her.

“You fucking overwhelm me,” he mutters. His eyes land on the necklace again.

Still standing in the doorway, he wets his lips and shifts on his feet.

“Touch me,” she rasps, her chest filling as she inhales, tilting her chin up slightly as she invites him to her neck.

Shawn pulls himself into the room, letting the door shut behind them. He cups the side of her neck with one hand and explores with the calloused fingertips of the other, enjoying the way it sits on her, the way the largest stone in the center fits perfectly between the notches of her collarbone in the spot he likes to bite when she lets him.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his hand falling away. His smile is wistful.

You’re perfect.

His jaw clamps shut. He looks at her, waiting. Her eyes are hot with anticipation, but she’s not anticipating him -- it’s like she herself doesn’t know what she’s going to do to him, with him when she lets herself move. He revels in her electric indecision, willing and ready.

She throws herself into his body with a weak whine, one kind of like the sounds he’s prone to making around her. He catches her easily, holding her up so her toes skim the ground as she plunders his mouth. She’s still not quiet once she pins herself to him. She moans and whimpers and sighs like she’s never had him before. He’s too stunned to react beyond letting her do whatever the fuck she wants while he holds her.

Soon, she grows restless, unsatisfied by the limitations of standing in the center of the room, wrapping around him like a python. She needs more. Whatever it is, he’ll make sure she has it.

Penny nudges him backwards and wriggles until the tips of her toes meet the ground. She steers him to the bed, shoving him when they get close enough. He collapses into it with a yelping groan, but she swallows it so fast he’s gasping for breath in her mouth like he needs the oxygen in her lungs.

Does he know? Can he possibly know her so deeply already? The panic has been static in her mind for a couple of days since the necklace arrived.

Logically, she understands it -- she’s mentioned Sinatra, has played him a few times in Shawn’s presence. He probably just saw Frank’s name attached to the piece and thought she’d like it. He’s thoughtful. That’s all.

It doesn’t have to be deeper, but it feels so much fucking deeper. Everything did tonight. She’s never been so distracted on a date, even in similar circumstances where she was dodging one client while on the arm of another.

She’s deluded, she’s drunk on the night and his suit and his lips and his eyes and her fucking necklace but it felt… so big. Frank and Ava big. 

It’s just a necklace, it’s just a necklace, she chants in her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she shamelessly ruts against his pelvis, her dress riding up to her waist, the silk of her panties soaked through already. It’s no wonder why -- as she’s been tangling with her own mind, she’s been riding him hard.

She breaks off from his swollen mouth away to his jaw and he gasps an inhale so loud she thinks she was suffocating him. But he doesn’t let her go. He only locks his heavy arms around her tighter, one anchored to her ass, the other stretched between her shoulder blades that he loves so much.

“Fuck, Penny, I’m--”

She knows what he’s going to say. He’s beyond hard. He might even be as close as she is. He walked in the door under five minutes ago and she’s already heading for an orgasm like a train off its tracks.

She doesn’t fucking care. She’s not stopping now.

“No,” she hisses, “Just like this. Keep fucking me just like this.”

His breath stops in his throat. His eyes, glazed and dark, snap up to hers.

It’s just a necklace, it’sjustanecklace--

God, she’s going to fucking come. His cock is so hard against her clit even through their clothes. Her whole body pulses with it. She comes so much better, harder with something inside to clench down on but her body doesn’t care now.

“Penny.”

It’s not a whisper or a murmur, it’s just a breath and he says it like it’s his last one.

It’s not just a necklace. It wasn’t just a necklace to Ava. It wasn’t just a necklace to Frank.

Penny comes jerking, hips spasming, thighs clenched around him. It’s short and sizzling hot and she chants his name right through it until she sinks her teeth into his shoulder and he comes too, silent like she’s never seen him, his face going bright red as his voice fails him and his wet mouth drops open in a scream without sound.

It takes him longer to come down than her. As he trembles beneath her, she noses at his earring, the little hoop in his left lobe, peppering it with kisses, tasting and licking the salt from his sweat dripping down from his sideburns.

He’s quiet beneath her like he’s not sure what to say. She has no issue with this -- she doesn’t have much to say either. His hand, the one on her back, traces the distance between her shoulder blades with his fingers like he’s trying to measure without looking.

Slowly, like it’s difficult to physically separate from him, she lifts her head. Despite the circumstances, his hair is still pretty intact. It makes her smile and tug at the forehead curl with a smirk.

“You like it?” Shawn whispers, his voice fucked and broken.

Was he loud while she was on him? She doesn’t know. She couldn’t hear anything over her own frantic thoughts, until he said her name. She’s not even sure he said it. Maybe she just watched his lips form around it and her vivid imagination did the rest.

“Yeah,” she coos, “It’s got me all shook up.”

Shawn snorts appreciatively and lets his hand wander up her back, under her hair to play with the clasp of her necklace.

Penny closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to keep thinking about it right now. About what it means, about what it could mean, about what it meant for the lovers for whom it was made 70 years ago. 

She lets him cradle her in his arms and tip her off him, rolling her onto her back. He ducks his face into her neck, fluttering kisses, a varying pattern of barely-there brushes and firm, wet smacks along her necklace, like he plans to kiss her once for each one of the 159 diamonds in the settings.

Penny relaxes into the bed, closing her eyes and massaging his scalp with both hands like she knows he likes. She’s got him purring like a kitten for her in under 20 seconds.

Through her welcome haze, she feels his hand trail up her arm, reaching for the strap of her dress, then the other. She wriggles free of the sticky, clingy material as he drags it off her, the clinking of the zipper teeth loud in a room only soundtracked by their breathing, which is picking up pace again. He kisses each of her puckered nipples through her satin slip, then pushes that away too, followed by her drenched panties.

He sits back on his knees to stare down at her. She can see his cock starting to twitch under the fabric again. She lifts her arms over her head and sighs loud.

Shawn shivers. He shakes his head and wets his lips to speak.

“Fuck Ava Gardner. Sinatra designed that necklace for you.”

Before he can see the shocked tears in her eyes, Shawn spreads her legs, ducks his head and buries his face between them.

+

Shawn is awoken in the afternoon the next day by his doorbell. He rolls out of bed and checks the app on his phone to peek at the doorbell camera. He quietly prays to whatever’s listening that it’s not a teenage girl. He doesn’t have the energy.

It appears to be a delivery. He pulls a shirt over his head and stumbles to the door, signing and accepting the padded envelope.

On a piece of off-white cardstock is a red lip print that makes his pulse pound in his ears. He dumps the envelope onto the coffee table. Only a thumbdrive falls out.

He races to his laptop, throwing himself onto the bed as it boots up. He tries to jam the thumbdrive in upside down, winces and flips it over.

The drive has encryption software installed and asks him to create a password. After a few flutters of his tired eyes and a heaved sigh, he types: Sinatra.

The folder opens to tiny thumbnails, about 30 of them, and Shawn’s chest shudders hard before he can even get a close look.

She’s bare except for the necklace. She’s perched at the end of her bed, lying on top of it, on her side, sitting up, standing by the window, facing him, turned away. He gets so overwhelmed by all the images he stops himself and focuses on the first one, lets himself digest it.

She’s sitting on the end of the bed (and his heart skips a beat just looking at it, knowing it’s where she puts herself to sleep at night) with her legs crossed delicately at the ankle like the first time he met her. Her posture is perfect and elegant but not at all forced -- it’s just how she sits. She has a hand lifted to her chest, acknowledging the necklace, and her face is turned, her eyes down. He stares at the photo for minutes on end and can’t remember why he ever regretted buying the necklace, not for a second.

----------

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[popcorn-kitten]

Mallek Week Day 7 - Free Day!

Pairing: MallekxReader Rating: M/18+ Only Warnings: cyber/video sex, masturbation - in a public restroom stall, dirty talk (sort of) Read on AO3

You couldn’t believe he had you doing this, you couldn’t believe you were letting yourself do this, you couldn’t believe how fucking hot it was.

What had started as a nice lunch out with a friend had ended with you in the bathroom, fingers buried deep inside you as your matesprit coaxed you on.

When Mallek had called you, you hadn’t thought twice about answering. As soon as the video call connected you jumped up, holding the phone against your chest so Boldir couldn’t see. She quirked an eye brow at you as you quickly excused yourself from the table.

You slipped out of the shop and took the phone from yourself to glare down at Mallek. He was naked and grinning wickedly at you. You couldn’t actually see his bulge but his shoulder and arm were moving in a very obvious way, in a very obvious place.

You popped your headphones in, already having them plugged in from earlier – you would never answer a video call without them because doing so is wack.

“What are you doing?” You hiss, looking past the phone knowing full well you’d absolutely get drawn in if you actually watched him.

“What does it look like?” Mallek retorted. You could hear the smirk in his voice.

“It looks like you’re trying to-” You cut yourself off with a huff and finally look at your screen. Mallek has changed the distance a little so you can see the tip of his bulge twisting just into view and his prominent hip bones. Your face grew hot as Mallek’s grin spread wider.

“I’m busy, I’m with people Mal.” You whined; your eyes not able to pull away from him.

Mallek let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes, dropping his head back. You watched, mesmerized, as Mallek’s hips started moving with his hand, the phone camera dropping enough for you to finally see everything. His bulge was wrapped around his hand, his thumb and pointer finger holding tightly around the base. His other three fingers were buried in his nook.

Your mouth went dry and a whimper escaped you at the sight. Mallek then brought out his secret weapon – he moaned. Loud and deep from within his chest. He gasped in a breath and let it out as a groan, his purr cutting through his other pleasured sounds.

You squirmed where you stood, suddenly much hotter than you were a moment ago and a hell of a lot more aroused. “F-fine! Fine!” You choke out. “But just a few minutes.” You assert.

You aren’t sure if you’re telling him or yourself.

“Hold off for a second, I have to get somewhere else.” You mutter, putting the phone against you again and slipping back into the café.

You don’t know why you tried to deny him, you can never say no to him.

You stop by the table quickly and give your best apologetic smile. You tell Boldir you are suuuuper sorry but you have to take a call and will be back soon. You tell her to go ahead and order whatever she wants and not to hold up on your account. Boldir doesn’t comment but she does quirk the corner of her lip and nods. You’re pretty sure she knows though, because she knows everything. And if you were a more decent person you might be embarrassed, but right now you’re just horny.

You quickly dip into the bathroom and take the first empty stall. You have your back against the wall and stick a hand inside your pants moving your fingers against your already excited genitals. You let out a relieved sigh of your own and hear Mallek in your ears reminding you why you were doing this in the first place.

You look at your phone and Mallek has changed his positioning so the camera is leaning against something and giving you a full view of his naked body; including his dripping nook and bulge. One of his hands is tangled between his legs and the other is in his mouth.

Your breathing is heavier now and your hand presses tighter against yourself as you watch his fingers move in and out of his nook spreading the translucent blue lubricant all over his thighs and knuckles. You wish you were there to taste it.

“What = you doing?” He asks, craning his neck to – presumably – get a better look at you.

“What does it look like?” You tease, trying to keep your voice low enough that no one else could hear you. It was hard enough to keep your heavy breathing from garnering attention Mallek huffs at you, your eyes trail down to where his other hand has joined the first. One hand is moving slowly in and out of his nook, the other has his bulge twisting between and around his fingers as he moves the digits along the slick appendage. “I want to see;” He demands, pout as evident in his voice as on his face.

You roll your eyes but don’t complain, you’re realizing you must be a real freak because you really want to do this now too. You’ll blame him for this change in your modesty another time, right now all you want is to get more friction between your legs.

You remove your bottoms, with some trouble – a bit of a stumble and an almost face plant into the wall. But the feeling of the cool air hitting your heated skin has a groan pulling from deep within your throat. You hear Mallek let out a moan of his own and bring the screen back into view.

The sight of his fingers knuckles deep inside himself and his bulge squirming so helplessly in his palm is a blessed sight. Your free hand presses tightly against yourself as you work to build yourself up to his level. You doubt he can hold out too much longer; considering how he’s already been at it for a while. And you don’t want to be too far behind him.

You’re trying to keep your sounds in check, but notice the occasional too loud whimper. Mallek does too as his smirk is almost splitting his face now. He hums in approval when you gasp loudly after letting a finger finally enter you. You catch sight of the face you make – in the corner of the screen – upon its penetration and understand exactly why he purrs so deeply. Maybe you are kind of hot.

“Let me see;” Mallek requests. “It != fair that you get an incredible view and all I get = your – admittedly amazing – face;” He teases, scissoring his fingers to give you a deeper view of his nook.

You whine at the sight, imaging how good he must taste right now. You don’t trust yourself to speak, your mind too fuzzy and mouth too dry. So instead you nod.

Getting the right angle is awkward. You knock your knee into one part of the stall and almost drop your foot into the toilet. After a few moments of adjusting and quiet cursing you’re able to maintain a stable position.

Your back is against a wall, one of your feet is on the rim of the toilet. Your other foot is slightly forward and leg cocked so your knee is pressing to the cool porcelain, to brace your weight. One hand holds your phone upside down so the camera is directly on your crotch. You don’t know how flattering this view is, but you’ve noticed Mallek’s picked up the pace of his hands and his eyes are transfixed on you.

Your breathing grows a little heavier and you slowly bring your free hand to yourself. Your pace is slow at first, fingers just brushing along yourself. You shiver at your own touches and whimper in your throat. Mallek lets out a groan; the sound goes straight from your ears to your crotch.

You pick up speed to match Mallek’s, your fingers pressing against your most sensitive spots with a practiced movement. You alternate between light touches and more pressured ones. Your finger re-enters you and you let out a real moan at the feeling.

“That = my robo-buddy;” Mallek encourages, his tone deep and sultry. You can almost imagine he is there, saying it directly into your ear. Egged on, you add a second finger to yourself and roll your hips to get both digits deeper.

Your eyes lock onto your phone’s screen as your hips grind down on your fingers. You’re hyper focused on Mallek’s movements. His fingers slipping in and out of his nook, stretching and scissoring it as they go. His bulge wrapping around his wrist and slipping almost into his own nook. His other hand now by his mouth as he sucks on his own fingers, grunting and moaning loudly and without reservations.

You choke on your own groan as you add a third finger and increase your movement, riding your fingers and curling them inside you. You pull them in and out occasionally just to do some of your own stretching to show yourself off to Mallek. You whimper and gasp when your middle finger finds that right spot and you press tightly against it.

You hear Mallek let out a hum and look back down at his image. He’s licking his lips and staring intensely at you. You swallow hard and feel your face heat up from how unabashedly he is looking at you.

“I = liking this view;” He purrs, “It = so nice to see you from this angle; and your sounds are making me want to come find you right now;” He pauses for a moment and shifts his hips so they can better roll into his fingers. “If you = here right now; do you know what I = do to you?” He asks, knowing you can’t actually answer him. Your face is hot as you shake your head ‘no.’

Mallek smirks, his hand slowly going up and down the length of his bulge, blue material slipping between his fingers. “I = bend you over the kitchen counter and…make sure all the dishes were out of the way before I;” He pauses to take a breath, shivering from his own ministrations. “I = shove my th-thick bulge so deep inside your hot, tight alien; hng;” He stops again and drops his head back, bucking into his own hands. “I-I = own you entirely, you = be mine and only mine and never; nng; never forget it;”

He’s not great at dirty talk, it’s cute how hard he’s trying though. And you’re so horned up that just his voice is enough for you. He isn’t making much sense and some of his pauses are too long but when he punctuates his words with a deep groan, you couldn’t care less about the content.

“When I get home;” You whisper, taking a pause to roll your hips forward to take your fingers in deeper. “I need you to ruin me just like that.” Your voice is quiet and raspy and full of lust. And it seems to be the final push your matesprit needs.

Mallek comes at the end of your words, his back arches and his groans take up every sense you have left.

You cry out, completely forgetting where you are, as you come from your own fingers. You whimper and pant as you ride your orgasm out, your fingers pressing harshly inside you. Your breathing comes in quick short bursts as your hips twitch and thrust a few more times. You hold still for a moment, letting your fingers press against you a bit longer. They are soaked and pruned when you finally remove them, your middle finger is cramped and you are far, far too sweaty.

You’re still trying to calm your breathing when Mallek asks when you’ll be back. You tell him he’ll live without you for a few more hours.

Mallek grins at you, his body relaxed and his lower half coated in blue. “We = see;” he teases with a wink. You roll your eyes and don’t say goodbye before ending the call.

You lean your head back against the wall and take a final breath in before dropping your foot from the toilet rim. You grab a wad of toilet paper, clean yourself up, and flush it.

When you leave the stall, you make eye contact with another troll who is exiting their stall as well, their face is bright brown. You clear your throat and put on a friendly smile. Waving and saying hello in your friend-est making voice. They don’t say anything before they break eye contact and quickly leave, a hand over their mouth.

You thought it was gross that they didn’t wash their hands and wonder for a moment what could be going on with them. It hits you that they might have heard you fucking yourself on your fingers. You let out a puff of air and whisper a quiet ‘whoops’ to yourself. As you wash your hands you think of that troll going out and telling their friends what they heard. And Boldir overhearing them and knowing exactly what you ditched her for. You swallow hard and finally feel some embarrassed like a decent person. You hope you’ll find a way to make it up to her.

[missmarquin]

Worth the Embarrassment (Sylvix, NSFW)

“Would you send me a picture?”

Felix hesitates. This kind of request isn’t new, and it’s not like they never indulge. Felix has an entire folder of spicy pictures from Sylvain, carefully packed away for whatever lonely moment causes him to pull them out. But for some reason, this time it’s embarrassing. Maybe it’s the sweater, maybe it’s how he looks in it, maybe it’s because he likes the look of it.

----

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--

“You got my package, right?”

Felix rolls his eyes, but can’t help the small quirk of his lips. “Yeah, I got it.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone line and then, “And?”

“You can’t expect me to wear it,” Felix huffs. 

“You’ve worn worse--”

“Stop it right there, Sylvain. You and I both know that this isn’t the same as that terrible kingdom swordsman get-up that you bought once at the Halloween Store--”

“Hey,” Sylvain cuts in. “I remember distinctly how much you liked wearing that.”

Felix chews on his lip for a moment before looking in the mirror. The truth of the matter was that he is absolutely wearing Sylvain’s stupid gift. The sweater definitely isn’t something that he would have ever picked out but… Well, Sylvain sent it and he’s been gone for nearly two weeks, and while Felix would never, ever, ever admit to it, he misses the stupid man terribly. 

And so, the sweater went on as Felix regarded fond memories of Sylvain. 

“I liked what happened as a result of wearing that,” Felix finally admits. “But this… this isn’t the same Sylvain. It’s so… feminine.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” Sylvain mutters across the line, and Felix can just imagine the pink, embarrassed flush that has to be plastered across his face. “But I bet that you’d look amazing in it,” he continues, voice silky smooth, and Felix has to think about their eighty year old neighbor to stop the heat that’s pooling in his groin. 

“I look amazing in everything,” Felix snaps childishly. 

“Absolutely,” was Sylvain’s immediate response, his tone soft and affectionate. 

Felix sighs. The sweater is flattering in its cut and color. The deep wine reminded him of Sylvain’s favorite shirt, the color dark and elegant against his fair skin. The knit is soft and snug across his skin, twin slits along the front, tied together with neat little bows. Creamy skin pokes out from the open sections, along with dusky nipples, and Felix can’t help the little smirk that comes across his skin.

“Felix?”

“I haven’t gone anywhere.” He turns around to survey the backside, at the open back of the sweater where it’s tied together before ending just at his buttocks. His cheeks are round and tight looking, perfectly framed by the rich burgundy knit. It’s a good look and--

“You’re wearing it, aren’t you?” Sylvain suddenly asks him, voice quiet and Felix can practically hear the smirk that’s plastered across his face--

“Of course not,” he replies, but his words sound weak and there’s that tell-tale crack that happens when he lies, and Sylvain chuckles into his ear through the connection. 

“I knew you’d like it,” he purrs into Felix’s ear. “All bark, but no bite. Tell me Fe, does it look good?”

Yes, yes it does, and Felix is embarrassed to admit that he’s come to like the lines that the sweater weaves around his lithe figure. It hugs around his hips and ass, accentuates the best of his features and-- 

“Would you send me a picture?”

Felix hesitates. This kind of request isn’t new, and it’s not like they never indulge. Felix has an entire folder of spicy pictures from Sylvain, carefully packed away for whatever lonely moment causes him to pull them out. But for some reason, this time it’s embarrassing. Maybe it’s the sweater, maybe it’s how he looks in it, maybe it’s because he likes the look of it--

“One moment,” he murmurs, and there’s a catch of breath on the other end of the line. Sylvain hadn’t expected for him to agree so quickly, and normally he’d be correct. Felix is a prickly kind of man and it takes coaxing for him to respond to sexting in kind. 

It’s usually just tons of dirty photos from Sylvain’s end, rousing enough frustration in Felix to finally let loose and indulge. 

Felix pulls the phone away from his ear and flicks on the camera, holding it over his shoulder. He tries to cock his hips at a good angle, aiming to capture the perfect roundness of his ass, and the way the light hits his skin. If he’s going to cave into Sylvain’s ridiculous demands immediately, he might as well put in a good effort and look as desirable as he can manage. 

He picks the one with him smirking right back, an upturn of his lips as he looks over his shoulder with haughty authority. His skin is pale with a blush, warmed by the bedroom lights, and the knit of the sweater pulls tight across his backside.

Felix sends it to Sylvain without a second thought, turning back to the mirror proper before pressing the phone to his ear once more, biting his lip in anticipation and--

“Felix,” Sylvain groans into his ear, voice deep and already half gone, and suddenly there’s heat pooling in the pit of Felix’s stomach, because if there’s one thing that he cannot, cannot ignore, it’s that tone. The one where Sylvain’s gone dark and husky, mouth curved dangerously around well placed words praises, eyes dark and pupils blown wide.

Thinking about their neighbor Vera isn’t helping anymore, and Felix is annoyed at his hardening length, at his pink cheeks, at his cock jutting out from underneath the edge of this ridiculous garment. At the way Sylvain’s breath hitches at the mere sight of him in a picture. 

At the way Felix waits for more words to tumble from Sylvain’s mouth, his hand shifting downwards, downwards, downwards--

“Are you touching yourself?” Sylvain suddenly asks, like honey in his ear. 

“No,” Felix snaps, but he’d been close, he’d been so close to grasping his aching cock, waiting for Sylvain to say more. His hand stays paused just below his belly button, hesitating, waiting. 

“You should,” Sylvain replies smoothly. “And you should show me,” he continues. 

“You planned this,” Felix accuses, but he can’t stop his fingers from wrapping around his hot skin, fingers tugging gently at the right places. The touch isn’t enough, but any more would be too much too soon, and he’s not about to embarrass himself over the phone for an unsatisfying quickie. 

“Planned? What, me? Sending you a particularly sexy sweater, imagining you in it as you touch yourself, wishing that it were me doing the honors instead? Never. Darling, do you even know me?”

Sylvain’s pulled out the word darling, which means he’s holed up somewhere now, touching himself as well, and Felix nearly whines at the thought. “Insatiable,” he says instead, but his words lack bite as his breath hitches, his fingers stroking his length once, twice--

“Only for you,” Sylvain murmurs. “Always for you.” There’s a pause and then Sylvain continues. “Fe, show me.”

“Ridiculous, getting off on this,” Felix says.

Sylvain manages a clipped laugh, but then there’s the brush of clothing and a belt clinking to the floor, and Felix’s mouth goes dry at the image of him that runs through his brain. Sylvain, sprawled out, powerful thighs and long legs barely contained by the size of whatever couch, or chair, or mattress he’s laid upon. Sylvain, fingers gripping his length, ghosting along the rock hard and flushed skin there, as Felix watches with fervor. 

Sylvain, regarding him with such love and affection that Felix has to grip his own cock tightly at the base before letting go abruptly, because even in his wildest thoughts, it’s still enough to tip him over the edge with little effort. 

“Please,” Sylvain asks kindly, and Felix finds that he can’t deny him what he requests. 

He tells him to wait a moment before pulling the phone away. This picture is easier to take, the angle less awkward. He holds his cock proudly in his hand, the tip red and leaking, wanting and waiting. He smears the precome around with his thumb, the head of his length glistening in the soft glow of the light above him. 

It’s a good look and he’s no longer embarrassed, even wearing the stupid sweater-- he wants Sylvain to see this. 

“Goddess above, Fe,” Sylvain moans at the sight, and Felix can picture him, leaning back in his bed, hand tightening around his cock, expression pinched as he watches Felix stroke himself slowly. It’s a game they play often enough-- to watch, but not touch-- but it’s worse when you can’t really see and you can only hear, and you have to imagine the rest. 

Felix moves to the bedroom at Sylvain’s prodding, settling into the pillows and mattress, spreading his legs indecently as he waits for that honeyed voice to flow through the earpiece once more. He’s put the phone on speaker and lays it next to his head, only a breath away. 

“I miss you,” Sylvain tells him and Felix huffs.

“You’ve been gone longer before,” he intones, but he misses him too; he misses his stupid face, and the stupid way that he makes breakfast in the morning, and pulls open the blinds suddenly to wake him with a startle. He always misses Sylvain, starting with the moment that he leaves his sight. 

Sylvain knows this though, humming gently into his ear, his breathing uneven. “Are you touching yourself?” Felix asks him, biting his lip at the thought and dragging his fingertips along his length slowly. 

“How can I not? The thought of you drives me wild and the pictures were even worse. Truly Fe, you kill me in the best of ways.” 

“Tell me,” Felix demands. Sylvain is usually the one who wants to know, the one who asks what he’s doing with quiet words and utterings of praise. But this time Felix wants, and he asks with reddened cheeks and his hand squeezing tighter around the head of his cock. He pulls the sweater up around his chest and out of the way.

“I bet you look perfect,” Sylvain purrs, “Stretched out on the bed, that sweater pulling at your skin so perfectly. I should be embarassed by how hard I am just at the thought of it.”

“You’re never embarrassed.”

There’s a laugh, low and dark in his ear, followed by a hitch of breath. “You’ve caught me, darling. I could never be embarrassed at the thought of you, the way you look, how you feel around me.” There’s a low moan and Felix’s head falls back at the sound of it, eyes closed and lips parted as he just imagines. “My hand doesn’t do you justice,” Sylvain admits. “It feels good, sure-- but it’s not you, it feels nothing like you.”

“Sylvain,” Felix starts, but then swallows his words. 

“Do you want a picture?” Sylvain asks him, and no, no, he doesn’t. He wants him to keep talking instead and that’s what he demands, before pitching sideways and digging through the bedside table drawer. 

“Naughty,” Sylvain murmurs, and Felix can hear the smirk slapped across his face. “But I like you like this, just listening and taking it in. What are you imagining?”

Felix is imagining a lot of things at the moment, his fingers slick with cold lube. He’s impatient though, his fingers slipping down between his asscheeks as he rearranges himself for better reach. 

“Fe?” 

“You,” Felix breathes, his fingers circling his rim before one presses in. He can’t help the sudden intake of breath and he hopes, he prays that Sylvain can’t hear it. His fingers are too slim, he thinks, pressing the digit in and out. He adds another probably too soon, hissing slightly at the pressure and the familiar sting. Felix prefers the solid thickness of Sylvain’s, the way that he slowly moves them, pulling and dragging at him until he’s a writhing mess on the bed. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says to him, his voice warm and inviting. And then-- “How many?”

Felix’s fingers pause and he laughs at the absurdity of the question, because of course Sylvain knew, he could read him like a fucking book. “Two,” Felix breathes,  “But it’s not enough.” He presses his fingers in deep, keening when he manages to hit that spot.

“Perfect,” Sylvain tells him, “Really, the stuff of dreams. Tight and warm around me, making those beautiful sounds.”

Felix moans at his words, his fingers scissoring gently, catching on his rim and pulling at the muscle with delicious friction. His other hand glides over his cock, so hard he’s nearly bursting. It’s good, it’s so good, it’s too good. “I’m almost--” he breathes. Almost, not quite, but not far either. 

Sylvain moans in kind, and he can hear the slick motions of him fisting his own cock, a quiet rhythm in the background of the call. “Can you manage another?” he asks Felix. “Can you do a third, imagining that it’s me? Imagining that I’m the one filling you up, that I’m the one to bring you over the edge.”

Felix does as he’s told, slipping in a third finger, moaning loudly as a result. “Fuck,” he hisses and his body is practically on fire. 

“That’s it,” Sylvain coos, his voice comforting and warm and so fucking loving. Felix pumps his fingers with fervor, but it’s not the same, it’s not even close, but-- 

“You’re almost there,” Sylvain says, his voice pitching higher. 

Felix tips over the edge, hips stuttering as his fingers still. His other hand grips his cock loosely, fingers skittering along his burning skin as his release coats his abs. Felix can’t help the sigh he releases as he pulls his fingers out gingerly, or his pleased groan as he leans into the pillow in a boneless puddle of satisfaction. 

Sylvain says nothing, but Felix can hear the telltale, slippery sounds from his end. His lips curve into a smile as he turns towards the phone. “Always so good to me,” Felix tells him. “Always exactly what I need.”

“Fe--”

“Tell me, how do I feel?” Felix asks, beyond the point of embarrassment now. “How good am I for you?”

Sylvain lets out a sharp gasp, punctuated by a quick moan. “Perfection,” he manages, the baritone of his voice unusually high and Felix realizes that he’s gone, he’s barely there, he’s almost fallen over that edge as well. “Tight and warm and Goddess above, I can’t get enough of you. Fe, I love you, I--” 

Sylvain is always loud when he comes and this is no exception. Felix’s lips curl into a rare smile as Sylvain loses himself to the pleasure, feeling quite proud that he’s pulled such filthy rhetoric from him. Sylvain breathes heavily on the other end of the phone, and Felix is already coming down from the high of giving completely to yourself. 

“Felix, that was--”

“Entirely your fault,” Felix cuts in, fingering the sweater once more. “Truly, this sweater is an awful thing.”

“Awful,” Sylvain repeats tiredly. 

“I had plans today,” Felix replies with mirth. “Things that I had to do. Things that I’m too tired to do now.”

“My poor darling,” Sylvain sighs. “I suppose all that’s left to do is stay on the phone with me.”

It isn’t often that Felix hears such a request. Sylvain is out of town enough for them to get used to the distance, but it’s rare for him to be so… needy, let alone voice it. It warms Felix’s particularly cold heart. 

“I suppose that I can manage that,” he replies, trying to sound as annoyed and disinterested as he can muster, but he knows that Sylvain sees right through it. 

“Clean up and get changed.” He pauses for a second, and continues with, “And don’t throw out that sweater. Not until I can see it properly.”

Felix has already pulled it off, folding it neatly before tossing it into the laundry bin. No, the sweater wouldn’t go anywhere, it was now a beloved article of clothing. Not that Sylvain needs to know that. 

When he settles back into the mattress, phone pressed close to his cheek, he sighs. Sylvain’s in the middle of a long-winded story that he’s half listening too, and Felix suddenly interrupts him. “I love you,” he says quietly, and Sylvain pauses in his monologue, processing the words. 

Felix is rare with his open affection, but the moment seemed right, and he does miss him. Sylvain doesn’t answer immediately, but he can see that smile that is surely plastered across his face.