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You didn't do anything more than kiss him, that first night. This is new for him. He abandoned his work, his whole life for you. He can rationalize it as a second chance all he likes, but you are well aware that you hold his heart in your hands. Grip too tightly, and you’ll crush it. Crush him.
So you pulled him in through your window and pressed him to your mattress, his hair strewn everywhere, flushed a pretty pink and chest heaving before you even touched him. You leaned over him slowly, keeping your bodies from touching more. You cupped his cheeks and he shivered, and brushed your lips against his sweetly. His mouth was freezing, but warmed a bit under yours.
He didn't know what he was doing, of course, but that endeared you more. You tilted his head to a better angle, one where he wasn't smashing his nose into yours, and stroked his cheekbone when he let you. You hummed into his mouth when he started kissing back to encourage him.
After what could have been minutes or moments, you wondered if he needed to breathe and pulled away, just enough to keep breathing into his mouth. He didn't taste like rot or sour. Not at all. He tasted like spit and vanilla lip balm and very strongly of mint gum. You smiled to yourself at that. How presumptuous—and correctly so—of him.
The whole time he hadn't touched you. He clutched at your top blanket, white-knuckled. This is the man who asked sheepishly if he could sleep on your couch after confessing his love for you, not even daring to think of sharing your bed. For all his flirting and bullheadedness, he truly was closer to your little lamb than a scary grim reaper.
“Was that alright, Casper,” you whispered. “Stole your first kiss. Mine forever now.”
He licked his lips, a small unconscious flick of his tongue to wet his mouth. His pupils were huge once he opened his eyes. “Ah, very good, sunshine. Maybe I-I need another to compare.”
Your heart swelled at that. He was so pink, lips a little swollen and shiny with spit, and so, so flustered, but still stuttered through. “I suppose that's mutually beneficial. Sit up, you great lump, though. This is a killer on my back.”
If your orchestrated shy, soft first kiss did this to him, you knew that it would be far too much to press yourself against him and continue. For now, at least.
He acquiesced and sat himself up, cross-legged in front of you, his hands on his knees. God, what a beautiful man. His sweater, normally sliding off his shoulder to begin with, had practically fallen off him, only serving to pull at his delicate wrists slightly. His hair was ruffled from being pressed against your pillow—cheap fabric, not the satin you saw in his bedroom to protect his locks—and his eyes were a deep, inhuman dusky red. You shuffled yourself around to kneel comfortably in front of him, wanting to sit a little taller, and so, so slowly, began leaning into him. His eyes fluttered shut and he exhaled, softly.
Your face a handful of inches away from his, you so quietly said, as not to startle him with volume, “You can touch me, Grim.”
He went stock still at that. You touched his right hand, cold even through the glove, and held it, interlocking your fingers and stroking your thumb over his, and let your interlaced hands fall back to your bed. “Just like this.”
He hesitantly mimicked your movements, eyes squeezed shut. He copied you for a moment, and you felt the buttery soft leather of his glove against your knuckles. He shifted his hand against yours slightly, and pressed into your wrist. Interesting. For your pulse, maybe? He began stroking your wrist, butterfly-gentle, and you shivered. You brushed a lock of his hair that had fallen into his face behind his ear, and ran your nails against his scalp before cupping the back of his head. His hair was silky soft and so smooth. His breath hiccuped up at that. Noted.
“How do you keep your hair from tangling? At that length, I could brush mine six times a day and it would be enough.”
“Ah . . . I wash, wash it twice per week, but condition it more than that. I have a hair oil that I use regularly—” his voice petered out as you brushed your fingertips in small circles against his skull. “An—and, I rinse it with rice water—” his eyes opened a crack, obviously trying to be reproachful but really only managing to look like a blissed-out cat. “I somehow doubt you care about my h-hair routine right now.”
You wanted to tease him, so, so badly. Make him blush and beg and stutter like he did over your video calls. But.
But. He wasn't a stranger, anymore. Not a scammer you didn't care about, nor a friend you bantered with incautiously. You were a flirty person, had your own share of casual flings, but you wanted something different from him. Something lasting. And for you to bully him how you wanted, like this? It needed a longer conversation. Safe words that you knew he’d say. You were going to both need to be open and honest and vulnerable. You wanted to ruin him, and he needed to voice his boundaries for you to get to keep him after. How could you get the brattiest, mostly easily embarrassed man to willingly and productively do that? He’d surprised you with the flowers. And the love confession. He obviously had some skin in the game to do this. But with his lack of experience, you didn't want him to say yes to anything without genuinely knowing he was into it. And the things you wanted him to say yes to, well. You were certain he’s too proud—for now—to admit he wanted them too.
You had quashed those thoughts for another time. He wanted you to kiss him and you wanted that too. You pressed a kiss into the side of his mouth.
“What can I say? I want to know everything about you.” You didn't pull away from him, practically tracing the words into his skin.
He whined, a keening, stuttering noise for maybe half a second before he bit his tongue and stifled the sound, frozen yet again. You were delighted. You wanted him to do it again. Louder. More desperate. But that night was not the night to be cruel.
He stopped stroking your wrist with his thumb, and buried his face into the crook of your neck. His nose was cold against the hollow of your collarbone, and his eyelashes tickled. Ah. He was embarrassed.
“Aww, Casper, I liked it. I thought it was very sweet. No need to be shy.” Your words were teasing, but you kept your voice gentle. “Come back up here. I’ll stop bullying you, I promise. Kiss me?”
“You are infuriating,” he mumbled.
“Yep. I’m your little nightmare. Gimme a kiss.”
He sat up straight again, and looked at you. He squared his shoulders—adorable—and leaned into you. He reached up and gently touched under your chin, then spread his fingers to hold where your jaw meets your neck. It felt kind of possessive, especially as he grasped your wrist tightly again. You batted your eyelashes then closed your eyes as he began leaning in. A moment later, you felt the slightest brush of his lips against yours. You reciprocated, a little more firmly, and he melted against you, letting you take the lead once more.
It was nice, trading kisses with Casper, with nothing planned to follow. Just his mouth on yours, holding hands, as the minutes passed. It was moments like this that you realized just how lonely you were. God, as soon as you heard a notification from that chatroom you were there. You were just as desperate as he was.
“Grim,” you whispered against him, “Please tell me we don't have to rebuy your skincare.”
He pulled back from you, dazed, mouth still open, cheeks glowing pink, hair tousled from your hands. “What?”
“Your thousand step skincare. You brought it, right?”
“It's not a thousand steps. It’s six. Twice a day. Can you count?”
“Close enough.”
“Yes, I brought it.” He gestured to the side of your room where two well-made, black cargo duffle bags sit. They were very stylized and very edgy and very cool; he had an aesthetic to stick to and it was adorable. You hadn't noticed the bags earlier, whether that be by grim reaper magic or because your eyes were only on him.
“Great. As much as I want to keep kissing your cutie little face—” his nose wrinkled and he flushed— “it’s like ten PM and you’ve got to unpack.”
“Unpack?”
“You’re not living out of duffle bags, sweet cheeks. I’ll clear out some drawers for you; make some space in the bathroom for your million skin products—”
“Not a million.”
“—And I'll give the grand tour. Four whole rooms! In this economy? Be proud of me, Grim, and the lucrative profession of mortuary arts. And rent control.”
You pounced on him five days into your cohabitation. He always used the bathroom before you in the evening, at a truly wild seven PM. On hair wash days, an hour earlier. He liked changing into lounging clothes, washing off the day’s grime (“You need to leave my apartment before saying you're grimey, Grim.”) and doing his whole haircare and skincare routines, before settling into your side like a reluctant cat and cuddling in front of the TV. He emerged, soft-footed, wearing a worn black T-shirt and sweatpants. His face was still shiny with moisturizer and mystery cream, and his hair was tied out of his way in two loose, long braids for the night. Also shiny with more, different, mystery cream.
It was perfect. He was relaxed. Cozy. Comfortable. And importantly, not already in your arms, warm and pliant and agreeable from your embrace. It was time for honesty hour, whether he wanted it or not.
He began padding toward you, where you had some stupid medical drama playing on mute with the captions.
“Casper, I want to have sex with you.” You watched him freeze and flush out of the corner of your eye. “If that's something you also want, I want to talk about it. If you're not ready, or plain don't want to, that's fine too, of course, but should also be a conservation.”
You watched him swallow heavily. “Ahm, sunshine, is this a mortal convention?”
“Depends. It should be, yeah. Sometimes people just fall into it. But, I don't want you to fall where I can't reel you back.”
“Who-who says you would be doing the reeling?”
You looked at him directly. Your poor boy. “Casper. Do you think you would enjoy being in charge?”
His mouth opened in protest, but no words emerged. His hands flexed and unflexed. “Ah.”
“Come here, baby.” Your voice softened. “This is new for you. I’ve had enough experience to know that I could fuck you up pretty badly with that. And not in the fun way.”
He stepped through your living room and gracefully sat beside you on your couch. Not touching, but you had yet to get him to do that without prompting him first anyway. He was flustered and out of his depth. Gone was your smooth-talking, suave grim reaper from the first couple days, before his feelings flipped his life on his head.
“If anyone from your ‘experience’ hurt you, they will not have the privilege of another breath.”
“Okay, tiger, calm your jets. I’m fine. I’ve been fine. Plenty of men are terrible that haven't been terrible to me. What I really mean,” you continue, “is that what I want to do to you, and I suspect you also want, would embarrass you very much to admit.”
He pouted at that. “I do not get embarrassed.”
You laughed a little bit, but not unkindly. “As much as I would love to do our song and dance where I bully you into agreeing with me and you pretend you don't enjoy it, it’s time to be perceived right now!”
He stuck out his tongue. “I hate being perceived.”
“Yeah, we all do. There are a couple of ways we can do this. I want verbal confirmation but you don't have to look at me.”
You brushed your fingers on top of his hand. He flipped his over and interlaced your fingers, squeezing gently, before tracing his thumb along the ridges of yours, like all those nights ago.
“Do you want to have sex with me, in general, at some point?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to take the lead in a kinky sort of way?”
“. . . I don’t see myself opposed, if that is what you desire.”
“Casper.” Your voice got heavy. Authoritative. You saw him shiver. Gazing at the side of him made you realize even his ears turn red. “I want to ravish you. I also want verbal, explicit confirmation that you want that too.”
“. . .yes.”
You leaned into his side and kissed the top of his head. Miraculously, he didn't swat you away; he frequently needed his token protests at your cute, diminutive gestures.
“Thank you, Grimmy. I don't want to dom you through this whole process, as fun as that could be. Which is why . . .” You opened your laptop to the tab you had up and tilted the screen so he could read the text. “Very smart people have made quizzes for this.”
He arched a brow. “An online quiz made by mortals to discuss sex is your approach to this.”
“If you want to tell me all the ways you secretly want me to make you cry, go for it.”
“I—fine. I will do your ridiculous quiz for you, if you want me to do badly.”
“Quizzes , plural. I have a couple for you to test the waters, learn some vocab beyond what you know from degenerates on the Internet, and think about what you think you might like, but the pièce de résistance is one that we both do.
“This one is for both of us to see the others’ answers, but we only get to see the things we match on, or are complimentary on. I figure this way is less for you to get in your head about, and still gives us some things to work with.”
“That seems . . . fairly smart. For mortals.”
“Definitely. We’ve done a lot of crazy shit, but we have figured out kink negotiation. At least, some of us have.”
You cuddled him in closer, into the crook of your arm. His chill isn't something you were totally used to yet, but at least you’ve gotten more use now out of your heated blanket than you’ve had in years. You reached out to your laptop to hit enter and his phone buzzed from the coffee table where he left it last. His fancy hell PC set up unfortunately didn't come with him, but at least he already had a cell phone. “I’ve done the shared quiz on my phone, for you, and I’ve sent the links to you now. Whenever you want to, do this quizzes, and I’ll get a notification when your is done on the partner one. No rush, okay?”
On your lunch break the next day at work, you check your personal email, and see Casper’s results in your inbox. Eager, wasn't he. And predictable.
You open your apartment door, take off your work shoes, put on a pair of slippers from your basket by the door, and place your bag and keys on the narrow table by the door. You can see from your little front entrance Casper's head in the living room, as he knelt over the coffee table. He had gotten into puzzles over the last couple of days and was infuriated and obsessed with them in equal measure.
He looks up at you as you stride towards him “Sunshine. This puzzle piece evades me. How was your work?”
You sit down next to him, staying at his eye level. “Are you busy right now?”
“Yes. You can see that I’m—” he cuts himself off as you waggle your eyebrows. “I don't have to be busy.”
“Excellent.” You lean into his space and stroke a piece of his hair. “I do have plans, if you want to hear them.”
“Ahm, yes. I could do that, yes.”
Here it goes. Worst he can do is say no, but you really don't think he will. “Well. I’d take a guess that you're pret-ty sensitive.” You slide your hand down his hair, and press it flat against his stomach. “I want to see if you’ll come as soon as I touch you.”
His eyes go wide at that, and his mouth parts. Immediate blush, on his pretty, pretty cheeks. “I-I . . .”
“Is that a no, baby?”
He shakes his head at that, already leaning into your touch.
You continue. “It's . . . well, it's not embarrassing, but I know you would be embarrassed. That's kind of the reason why I want it. I’m going to tease you until you're desperate, and see what happens. No pressure either way; this is my horny thought experiment, not an expectation. Okay?”
He nods, once.
“I’ll be checking in, but remember your words. Stoplight system. I'll stop if you need me to.”
He nods again.
You lean in to kiss him, telegraphing your movements, and his eyes flutter shut. You pause, feeling his cold breath on his face (minty, again, the little brat), before pressing your lips to his. You start gently, sweetly, as most of your kisses have been so far. He relaxes into your touch soon after, and is happy to follow your lead. He’s the sweetest, sweetest man. You tangle your free hand into his hair, and pull . His mouth opens in a choked off, stifled gasp, and you slip your tongue into his mouth and continue. You feel his movements stutter before he reaches out to you, and wraps his arms around you to steady himself.
With your other hand, now trapped between the two of you, you slip your fingers through the gaps his buckled tank top leaves, and drag your fingers across his ribs. He squeezes you tighter in response, simply holding you.
You pull away from his mouth, just enough to speak, and he sways into you. “You’re doing so well, Casper. My good boy. Color?”
He can't keep himself from keening at that. A broken, high pitched noise. He's so responsive. So sweet. You tell him so, and move to mouth at the underside of his jaw.
“S-sunshine. Green. You’re . . . you’re so . . .” He trails off.
“Use your words, baby. I want to hear you.”
He doesn't respond immediately, his hands clutching at you tightly. His eyes are still screwed shut.
You nip at his neck, a warning, and hold his skin in your teeth for a moment before kissing him once more. He, so, so quietly, moans, and collapses into you. Your heart swells in affection. You keep him upright, mostly, his body a cold line against your burning one, and your knee now accidentally right against his crotch. He moans again, a little louder, and still so very sweet. You press experimentally into him. He's been hard since you put your hand up his shirt, but now with something giving him friction, he pushes into you instinctively.
He freezes immediately after, and you rush to reassure him, murmuring praise into his neck. He relaxes again, but doesn't yet grind into you. Just holds you against himself.
You reluctantly pull your knee away and look into his face. His pupils are blown, his cheeks the reddest you've seen them, and he pants like he’s ran a marathon.
“Color, baby?”
He sucks in a breath before responding. “Gods. Green.”
“You're doing so well. So good. As much as I would love to make you come in your pants right here, I did have other plans. Bedroom?”
He nods against you.
“I want you to say it, sweetheart.”
He just buries his face into you and shakes his head, his nose pressing into your collarbone.
You press your knee against his erection, hard, and as his hips grind into it you pull your knee away again. He chases after the sensation but he is firmly under your grasp, and doesn't get close enough. “Out loud.”
He doesn't meet your eyes, just sort of mumbles into your neck. That's fine for now. “I w-want to go to your bedroom.”
“Once more? Correctly?”
“Our . . . our bedroom.”
“That's it. You're beautiful, Casper.”
He whines into you. You graze your fingertips across his ribs and pull your hand out of his shirt, and make your way to your feet. He grabs up at you, instinctively and you reach back to him, grasping his hands and not letting go. He stands too, wobbly on his feet. You're not as visibly wrecked as he is, but the sight of him, the trust he has in you . . . God. He’s perfect.
You both pad into the bedroom. Your pet isn't on your bed right now, so you do a quick once over to make sure it's not in the room with the two of you, then shut the door behind you.
“Take off your sweater and sit on the bed, okay? You can get all cozy in there for me.”
He looks more nervous now. He's ducking his head to look up at you, and pushes his hair behind his ear. “Sunshine? Y-yellow, I think. Ahm, can you . . .?”
You're a little more nervous now too. You stop moving towards your curtains in the aim of shutting them, and go back to your reaper. “Yeah, baby. Tell me what's going on.”
He meets your eyes, resolutely, but his body language still reads a little lost. “Can you kiss me?”
What a sweetheart. “Thank you for telling me, Casper,” you say, earnestly, before leaning into him.
You kiss him softly, the way he’s used to now, and you feel the tension melt out of him. You wrap your arms around him and hold him tightly. “I love you, Grim.”
A soft, pleased sigh. “I love you too, sunshine.”
You kiss him until he feels more sure of himself and he starts grabbing more desperately at you again, winding his hands into the back of your shirt to steady himself.
“What do you want to do now? I’d like to close the curtains even if you just want a cuddle and a kiss, okay?”
“Ah, right. Yes. You can do that. I . . . Green. For the original p-plan.”
You finish closing the curtains and grab a towel from the clean laundry in the hamper, and spread it out over your bed sheets before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thank you for using your words when you needed to, okay? If you need to take a minute or pause again, we’ll do that.”
He nods and clambers onto your bed beside you, and shrugs off his sweater like you asked earlier. “How do you want me?”
He’s unfortunately too long for you to sexily manhandle him around on your bed. Sure, you can lug him around a bit, or if you’re standing steer him where you want him, but a soft mattress doesn’t really give you the leverage you would need. “Two ideas, so you get the final say. Do you need to see me?”
This is actually a genuine question from you. You figure the scene’ll be more intense if he can’t, more like your original plan, but you’re not sure if that would be too much for him right now, without your facial cues to reassure him.
“Gods. Are you serious right now?”
“Yep. Out loud unfortunately. If I break my favorite boy I don’t get to keep him.”
He ducked his head and looked away from you at that, his ears burning. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“I might be able to lie, but I’m not a liar, Grim. Favorite boy. Best boy. My sweet reaper. Darling cutie. I can go on?”
He buries his face in his hands. “No. Stop it. Fine. I like looking at you. I don't need to look at you. As—as long as you stay close. Whatever your original thought was . . . go for it.”
“Thank you, Casper.” You scoot up your bed to sit at your headboard, tossing some of your throw pillows off of your bed, and arranging the ones left behind you. You lean over to your bedside table and pull out a bottle of lube from the drawers, placing it in easy reach from where you sit. His eyes go wide at that. You let your legs fall wide and pat your thighs, like calling a dog. “Get up here, then. Cuddle in.”
Casper sighs, and shuffles himself to you, his body flush against your front and in your lap. His legs press into the inside of yours. You hold his hands and move your feet to step down in between his legs, to pin his lower body wider. It’s not the most graceful, sexiest pose of you, all stanced up, but your thighs rest on his nicely and you can keep him from getting friction against his dick until you want to give it. It’ll be another unsexy shuffle to get his pants off, but that's not your priority right now. His reaper strength could break this in a moment if he actually needed to, but you trust that outside of an emergency he would be too nervous of hurting you to actually try and get out of the hold.
“Comfy here?” you ask.
“Comfortable enough.”
You switch your grip on his hands so his palms are flat on the bed and your hands press into his from above, pinning him. “Real answers only here, sorry.”
He huffs. “Yes, I’m comfortable.”
You press a kiss to the side of his neck and he unconsciously tilts his head up to give you better access. You continue to mouth at the parts of his neck you can reach at a comfortable angle. He shifts under your grasp, trying to push himself more into you, but there's nowhere for him to go. You lean and nip sharply at the juncture of his neck and collarbone. He whimpers, a soft, high ah that makes you do it again, and again. He's properly squirming now, like a fish caught on your hook. You're not sure if his neck really is just this sensitive, or that he knows his relief and denial is the subject of your whims, or a combination of both.
You slow your onslaught against his delicate neck and collarbone and rest your face against him. He pants for a moment, trying to recover himself. You don't let him have long enough for that, just a full breath or two, before you bring his still-gloved left hand up to your mouth and kiss his fingertips. He shudders. You let go of his right hand and reach across him, practically embracing him as you fiddle with the clasps on his wrist and pull the gloves off. His fingers are long and delicate, and you can see the pale blue veins and tendons raised slightly from his thin wrist. His nails are perfectly rounded and manicured. You repeat the process on his right hand, carefully fold the gloves together, and place them on your nightstand. You’ve wanted his fingers in your mouth since the first time you saw him without gloves.
You hold his right hand down to the mattress again, and pull his left back up to your mouth, holding his wrist and dragging your thumb across his pulse point. You kiss his knuckles one by one, then flip his hand so his palm faces you. You kiss his palm sweetly then take his index finger into your mouth, fingertip to your tongue.
He jerks against you, the force of it tossing his hair messily into his face, and pants limply. “Ahhh, sun . . . sunshine. Gods.”
You drag your tongue along his finger then swirl it around the tip. You suck on it, continuing to rub his wrist with a feather-light touch of your thumb. He’s nearly shaking now, breathing through jagged gasps of air.
You pull his hand out of your mouth, keeping it brushed against your lips. “Will you keep your free hand still if I let go?”
He tries to take a moment to put together the shreds of his composure that remain. You pinch the tender flesh of his wrist, still in your grasp and the noise he makes at that punches the air out of your own lungs.
“Casper,” you say. “An answer, please.”
It's maybe a little cruel of you to keep pinching and rolling the skin of his wrist between your nails as you say that, but the sight of him, vapid with desperation and forced to form words is too much for you to pass up.
“I . . . I will, you n-nightmare.”
Brave words. You switch hands, squeezing sharply at his right wrist, feeling the fine bones shift slightly, and take his index and middle finger into your mouth. No romantic kisses as a warm-up this time, buster. You keep them in your mouth, resting on your flat, soft tongue, occasionally punctuated with a gentle bite of his knuckles. Nothing more than the gentle imprint of your teeth against his skin, but the way he whimpers at it you might as well be torturing him
His left hand now white-knuckling the sheets, you slip your free hand under his shirt and brush your thumb against his nipple. His hips jerk into nothing and he can't hold his noises back anymore—not that he’s been successful at that for a hot minute—a litany of moans and whimpers escaping him.
You keep your touches soft against his chest to begin with, tracing circles across his ribs and pecs and over his nipples, enjoying his shivering gasps whenever your nail grazes it. You pinch it sharply unexpectedly, and he cries out. You keep bullying the nub, while gentling your mouth on his hand from sucking and nipping to just laving at his fingertips. You think about getting lube for this, for teasing, slick touches against him, but how he cries out at the rough, dry twisting you do to him has you decide otherwise. You switch sides after a while, and continue your loving torture against him.
You tear your eyes off him for the briefest of moments to glance at the clock in your room. From the time you got home to making it to the bedroom till now, he's been holding up bravely. Well, bravely maybe isn't quite accurate: he’s limp against your chest, panting and keening steadily, with a small damp spot on the tent in his pants—and you haven't even touched his dick. Kind of your point, but still.
You take his hand out of your mouth with a final nip at his fingers to speak. “Casper, baby, color?”
“I-ah, ah, green. Please. P-please.”
How can you refuse him? You trace your fingertips along the buckle of his pants. “Can I take these off?”
His hips swivel frantically, seeking out any sort of sensation or friction to his dick, but the closures of his fancy pretty-boy pants are too high-waisted to give him what he wants while you press against the buttons.
“F-fuck, Gods. Please.”
“Thank you for saying it nicely, Grimmy. Hips up, if you can?”
Casper’s fine motor skills leave much to be desired at the moment, but between the two of you, you manage to shuffle his pants off his ass and down to his knees. He tries to kick them off entirely, but only manages to get his legs more tangled and bound. Wasn't on purpose, but the view of him struggling is certainly quite nice.
Pants mostly off, you gaze down at him. He's wearing dark gray boxer-briefs, the shade of fabric just light enough to see where he's soaked them through. His legs are all slender muscle and grace, his skin creamy and smooth. God, you want to bite at his thighs until the bruises there match what you left on his neck, but any sort of attempt at leaning down to get your mouth on him would break the hold you have him in. You'll make do.
“You’re so responsive, baby, look at you. You're so wet for me and I’ve hardly touched you. So sensitive. Just a little bit longer, alright?”
“Can . . . can I hold y-you?” he stutters out, peppered with breathless gasps.
Your beautiful, darling reaper. How can a man as precious as him even exist? “Of course, sweetheart, baby. Of course. I love you, you're doing so well.”
“Love you too.”
He winds his hands under your thighs and holds you close however he can reach. You ruck the front of his shirt up and stroke up and down his navel, pinching at his hip bones. You dance your fingers at and just barely under the waistband of his underwear and snap it against him and he cries out. You do it again, and he shudders into you—you can't tell if he's trying to move into or away from the stinging sensation, and you don't think he really knows either. You do it twice more for good measure, the skin there now reddened beyond his typical blush.
You pull his underwear off him slowly, dragging the fabric down his length. It's the first friction he’s had since your knee on the carpet, beyond the tightness of his pants trapping his erection. He writhes underneath you, trying to get any sort of meaningful touch against himself, but the tension of the fabric is barely anything, and all that you let him have.
He lifts his hips enough to get his underwear pushed down. His fingers are grasping into your thighs hard enough to bruise. His pubic hair is the same downy white and as neatly manicured as the rest of him, and his dick is flushed and desperate.
“You're beautiful, Casper. So, so beautiful.”
You reach over to your side and grab the bottle of lube, opening it with a snap. You pour some into your hands, close the bottle carefully and put it to the side. You begin by swirling it into the hair at his navel. His normal temperature is already cold enough that the cool sensation of it doesn't bother him, but you continue up and down, leaving lines of slick. You continue downwards to his thighs, bullying the sensitive skin. You drag your nails across the muscle there, dipping closer and closer to his cock. He strains against you, trying to push his hips into your touch, for any relief he can get, but you still keep your touch away.
You stay like that, kissing and nuzzling and whispering praises into his neck, biting more bruises into the column of his throat, and teasing his inner thighs just the same with your hands. He’s gone limp again, his body resigned to the waves of pleasure that you aren't letting cease. Perfect. He's perfect.
Your hands are still slick from the lube. You, in one swift moment, finally grasp hold of his length and stroke firmly, swiping your thumb over the tip, while biting down hard into the hollow of his collarbone. He shouts in surprise and goes entirely taut, thrusting into your hands again and again, white spilling from the tip. His whole body convulses, and you think for the briefest moment of what his face would be if you ruined it, how prettily he would cry, before putting a pin in the thought for now and continuing to work him through it. His movements slow after a moment. You keep your hands on him, stroking his softening length until he begins arching away from your touch instead of towards it. You meanly rub his tip a final time and he yelps, his legs kicking out.
You kiss his neck, soothing the bruises with your tongue, then move up to kiss his cheek. He stays panting in your embrace, totally and fully spent.
“Just a second, Grim, and then I’ll snuggle you until you can't stand me, okay?
He nods blearily and you lean away from him, getting a package of wet wipes from your bedside table. You clean off your hands and wipe up the now-tacky lube and drying come off of him. He hisses from overstimulation when you touch his dick, and you murmur soothing things to him sympathetically. You toss the wipes to the wastepaper basket by your bed, and roll the two of you over, spooning him.
He's too caught up in the afterglow to be embarrassed by his state of undress, and allows you to cuddle him close.
You kiss the nape of his neck and ignore the heat burning through yourself. “Cuddle time until you're less hazy, then we’ll get you some water, if that sounds good? How are you feeling?”
He nods, and rolls over to face you, saying very seriously, “You’ve taken all my bones from me.”
You huff a laugh at that. “I took your bones? Exorcized them through your dick?”
He pouts. “Don't be gross.”
“I’m not even a little bit sorry for that. I’m very glad to have stolen your bones.”
“I want to make you feel good, too.”
It's your turn for your cheeks to flush. “We'll take a minute first, okay? Got to get your bones back.” You let go of some of your tightly held composure and allow your voice to sound as wrecked as you feel as he pouts even harder. “I want that more than anything. We have plenty of time.”