Work Text:
hour one:
this was a great idea, you think to yourself for the millionth time tonight, watching eridan shiver on your couch. it took about half an hour to tie him up and get all the vibrators in place, but the results are above and beyond your expectations. you congratulate yourself silently, for being a genius.
then you decide to hell with that, he can't snark with a gag in his mouth.
you run your hands up his body, over the ropes that are keeping his legs folded, and over the tender skin of his inner thighs, and he whines, blinking at you, when you reach the vibrator in his nook.
"this was a great idea," you tell him, nudging it a little further in, adjusting the speed, and his eyes roll back. you watch the mucscles in his shoulders tense. his arms are tied behind his back; tensing his shoulders is about all he can do, right now. "i'm a genius."
he is still confused; he doesn't know what you're up to. he's probably expecting you to do something violent and inventively cruel, any minute now.
the gag keeps his mouth open and his tongue out, making him drool like an animal; he hates it. he's humiliated by it, finds it degrading, keeps trying to shut his mouth whenever it drips, snarling a little when he can't. when you settle down beside him he tries to bury his face in your shoulder. he has a fanatic need to be put-together and presentable, all the time, no matter what; you guess it's a little unkind to make that completely impossible, but it's cute. too cute for words.
other portions of his anatomy are also 'drooling'. already? well, that's sexy. you find it nice and symmetrical, and also really fucking hot. he's so eager. humiliating him is not really your goal, actually. you have lately been obsessed with learning how to tie increasingly intricate knots, with string and weaving; it seemed like a logical step to incorporate them in your relationship with someone who enjoys being immobilized.
you theorize that it helps him relax if he can pretend he doesn't have a choice.
you just wanted to ...
"god, you're pretty, aren't you," you muse under your breath.
his face-fins flutter. they're pointing down almost continuously, in an unconscious submissive/shy posture, but when he hears you they perk up a bit.
"nnnnnnnggghh?" he says, eyes woefully perplexed, and you run your fingers through his hair, circling the base of his horn with your thumb.
"duh. of course I mean it," you tell him.
he still doesn't know what to expect. you don't have a ring on his bulge, today. you aren't even smacking him around. he has this expression on his face, looking at you, that's almost a scowl and almost a question. it's the face of someone who's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
you slide an arm around his waist and tug him into your lap, his back pressed flush to your chest, his knees up and splayed slightly open. you taped a set of long bullet vibrators to his chest, at the edges of his gill slits where the skin is sensitive and the nerve endings are thick; you flick them on in pairs with your psionics, and he arches his back and mewls.
you can feel him start to sweat, feel his ribcage shudder as he breathes. he is shaking.
it's so lovely.
you sigh, on the back of his neck; you wrap your hands about his waist. with one hand you gently rub his stomach; with the other you touch lower, letting his bulge wrap around your wrist and running the slender tip between your fingers, alternating pressure, squeezing and stroking.
it's so nice.
it takes him about five minutes before he gives in and comes, and you can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench as he tries to control it, tries to stave it off. you hear him breathe rougher, you hear the sound of mild discomfort in the back of his throat. he hates making a mess of himself.
you crackle red and blue at the base of his bulge and the high-pitched noise he makes is, you can't really describe it, but it's perfect. violet stickyness pulses out of his nook, over the tops of your thighs; it's warm, and he's shivering, and his skin feels alive under your hands. it doesn't dislodge the vibrator, though - it's buried too deeply to move.
once he catches his breath you turn him sideways, letting him lean back into the crook of your left arm. you keep your right hand where it was, on his bulge - you're running your hand over him gently, teasing a few last shivers out, petting.
"good boy," you say. your voice is low and sonorous. he stares at you. a purple flush rises in his face. you can almost hear him thinking: who the hell do you think you are, calling him that.
normally you would be sarcastic as hell, calling eridan 'good', but not right now, not when he's looking at you like this - lost and groundless in the corners of his irate confusion.
you press a kiss to the bridge of his nose.
he still looks like he's waiting for you to bite him.
he hasn't caught on, yet.
too cute, too cute entirely.
hour two:
you continue to keep him cradled in one arm, and continue to thoroughly grope his bulge with your free hand, squeezing hard. you can actually feel the vibrator buzzing inside him when you rest your palm flat against his stomach and concentrate, and he squirms, whimpering, hips jerking.
you catch his mouth with yours and kiss him through the gag. he can't close his mouth or bite you, despite his clear annoyance and the darkening blush on his face; you are free to explore his mouth with your tongue as slowly and leisurely as you want. he could turn his head away, if he really didn't like it; he's blushing too hard, his eyes are glassy and dark, like looking into a pair of bottomless wells.
eventually his spine relaxes into the warm solidity of your arm and he starts to kiss you back, sucking on your tongue, tangling his with yours, rising to meet you if you pull back an inch. the noises he's making are a low, gentle hum of pleasure. he's still suspicious; he blinks, startled, when you run your tongue over the back of his teeth, over the roof of his mouth.
he's too drowsy-drunk with feeling to think about it, though. you know the look of desperate lust.
"you really are pretty," you breathe, and his eyes narrow. his chin ducks down to his chest - you have to follow him to keep kissing him, have to coax him to bare his neck for you again.
you give his bulge a parting twist, and slowly slide your fingers into his nook, sealing your lips together.
it just feels great, when you can feel him clenching down around you. his hands are bound helpless behind his back; his mouth and the soft split between his legs, these are the only two ways he can hold you, right now. it's endearing that he's trying. you can recognize the strange look of distant concentration in the set of his eyes - like when you finger him, he's taken somewhere else, like he's trying to figure out the shape of your hands by sucking you into him.
in time with the vibrator, you start to let your fingers spark, rub them against his inner walls.
he shivers and wiggles and flat-out writhes. you don't let him break off the kiss; he breathes harshly through his nose, you twist your fingers deeper, he's got your hand trapped between his thighs and his knees are stabbing into the back of the couch and his eyes are watering and he can't stop shaking and he's just too pretty, too easy to dissolve into pliant and helpless and sweet. how could anyone hate him? his bitterness is so easy to melt. all he really needs is to be fucked senseless.
you electrocute his insides and finally let him throw his head back, gasping for air, lips swollen.
you watch him shake apart in your arms.
he doesn't come as much, this time - it's more of a soft ooze, sliding down your wrist - but that's only to be expected.
"beautiful," you tell him, pressing kisses to his closed eyelids, to his chin, to the crest of his cheekbone. your tone is hushed. reverent, almost.
he watches you lick his genetic fluids off of your hand like he's watching a ship crash, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing, and you snicker at him. "are you scandalized?"
he narrows his eyes at you. his blush is a constant fixture now; he is still trembling, a full-body tremor of arousal. yes. yes, quite scandalized.
you drag some across his tongue, rubbing it onto his tastebuds, and he sputters a little, whining. his face fins snap so far down they're almost flat against his head; he's scowling fiercely.
"oh, come on," you tell him. "don't have a tantrum. you swallow mine."
his whole face blanches and then turns purple; you rub your thumb in circles on his tongue, and he doesn't try to pull it out of your grip. you smile at him.
"yeah," you say. "i notice these things."
very, very slowly, his eyelids droop, and his facial expression softens. he understands you aren't trying to make fun of him, right now. he is beginning to catch on.
"it's different?" you ask him, softly, pressing a kiss to the base of his fin, right above the tender gill slits in his neck. "because it's mine?"
he screws his eyes completely shut, and tucks his chin to his sternum again. it's almost, but not quite, a nod.
he is entirely too lovely, isn't he.
hour three:
you have a water bottle with a valve on the cap, to drip into his mouth until his swallow reflex kicks in and lets him drink it; you run your fingers gently over his throat, tracking the bob of his cartilage. you've laid him supine, but you have a pillow under his head and beneath his shoulders to keep him from crushing his bound arms. you're sitting between his raised knees; below the noise of his breath, the vibrators continue to hum.
very slightly, he continues to tremble. this shiver running through him is ceaseless. his whole body is electric flushed, his skin is almost glowing.
he looks up at you like he's seeing you for the first time in a sweep, eyes wide. he prods at the cap of the water bottle with the tip of his tongue.
"well, of course," you say, pressing a kiss to the middle of his stomach. "can't let you get dehydrated."
you grab a rag from under the table, wet it with water, and clean off the mess from his hips and thighs and still-oozing nook. he flinches away from it a little, because it's cold and because you have a terrible bedside manner; you kiss his stomach again, in apology.
his breath hitches.
you can taste the salt of his sweat.
his bulge hasn't resheathed; you slide your tongue further down his abdomen, and his breath catches in his throat again, you look up and you can see him staring at you, staring like he's lost and doesn't know up from down, staring at your mouth and your proximity to his exposed flesh.
you are absurdly pleased with him.
"you want me to eat you out?" you ask, gently running your hands up and down the sides of his torso, feeling his ribs heave as he pants. he looks absolutely poleaxed with arousal at that suggestion. his eyes are almost black.
he quivers harder, averts his eyes, stares furiously at the couch cushions.
"do you?" you ask again, breathing against his bulge; it squirms and he makes a noise that's almost like a cry.
he can't say yes.
but he can nod.
you keep his bulge out of your face with your hand, and press a kiss to the soft juncture where his thigh meets his pelvic bone. just a preliminary gesture. it's only polite. nothing exciting, nothing to write your lusus about.
he still sobs, audibly.
you drag your tongue up over the slit of his nook, as slowly as you can, pressing lightly into the dip along the way. you can feel him twitching under your tongue; his insides are clenching down on the vibrator further in. he can't stop making noises, noises that worm their way into your skin, noises that you appreciate more than you'll ever admit to him. he's so vocal. he's so noisy.
like when you press your tongue inside, or when you fasten your lips to him and suck, or when you lick him, slow-and-repetitive. he can't thrash around or try to jerk away, like he usually does; the convulsions are expressed in the way his muscles tense and shudder, the way he practically shouts in agony, the dribs of sweat running down his chest.
you really like doing this - the way he smells, sounds, tastes and feels. you like taking him apart with nothing more than your mouth. it's a power trip in a class all its own. because you know he hates the loss of control, he hates being vulnerable, he hates spreading his legs for you (he can't look down, he turns his head and shuts his eyes) but all the same he's never once refused it. your baby is a greedy bitch.
he doesn't have enough genetic fluid left to make you choke, which is pleasant. it's just a hard, jolting shudder and a mouthful of violet slurry, his thighs squeezing desperately. you keep your mouth where it is. he tastes nice, in a way. you associate the flavor with sex and victory, the satisfaction of bringing him over the edge. you don't mind swallowing - you don't mind letting it go to waste, either, but you aren't feeling very contemptuous tonight. the opposite, in fact.
really, the only downside to eating him out is that you can't watch his face when he comes.
hour four:
for the first time since you started, you switch all of the vibrators off, and prop him up against the pillows, tilting his chin back and pressing a few kisses to the bottom of his jaw. you mix powdered electrolytes into the 16oz water bottle and for about twenty minutes, you give him a breather, making him drink all of it, a slow drip into his open mouth. he needs it. he's been sweating a lot.
he's also been drooling and gushing genetic fluid a lot. and you think you see tear tracks. how fucking adorable is that? unbearably so.
"you look kinda concussed," you tell him. he blinks. his fins twitch. he swallows. you don't see an ounce of comprehension in his eyes; he's drifting somewhere inside his head, listening to the things you say and not really understanding. his bulge has resheathed; the sweat on his skin has dried.
at this stage, it's going to be a chore to get him aroused again. which is why you came prepared.
you tap his nose with your knuckle, and he blinks again. he manages to focus his eyes on yours; his brow furrows.
"we're not done," you tell him, gently. "not even halfway." you fish into the back pocket of your jeans.
you show him the small bottle of mind honey (you've been sitting on it, it's body-temperature) and his pupils widen dramatically. he goes very still. yeah, he's listening now.
"it'll be easier on you if you take it, but it's your call. i can make you come without it," you inform him, because, well, you can. you've used his body to perfect your control of your psionics; you could electrocute just the right parts of his brain, if you were so inclined. you could make him think his whole body itched. you could fuck with his ability to feel temperature. you could do a lot of really awful things. sometimes you are horrified by what you have the capacity to do; playing with eridan like this burns the nervous edge off that knowledge, vents the curiosity of your restless brain. he is a reckless, arrogant idiot, and if he had any sense whatsoever he'd be a lot more cautious, but he doesn't, and so he isn't.
there are certainly times when eridan thinks you are terrifying, but he is never afraid of you.
you don't want him to start.
he flushes a little, and very deliberately shrugs.
you feel very warm. arousal tends to be something that you can separate yourself from, something you can remain clinically detached from. right now you just really want to touch him. all over. hold him close, feel him tremble. never stop.
"... good boy," you murmur again, and he rolls his eyes at you. so much for sentiment.
you squeeze it onto your fingers and spread it over his tastebuds, and he shudders, shutting his eyes. it tastes good - you know from experience how good it tastes, how it leaves you chasing more until you're drunk on it. he's actually licking your hand - making slurping noises, which are fantastically lewd, and which remind you of the way he sounds sucking on your bulges. you drizzle more honey down his throat, between your fingers, and he practically purrs. right now he doesn't even care how he looks or how he sounds; he's lost to the experience, running his tongue between your fingers, making happy little noises. your stomach lurches. god.
you could ruin this (ruin him) so easily.
instead you feed him more, about half the bottle. you smear it against his palate, you rub it into his gums with your fingertips. it feels almost like you're fucking his mouth with your hand; he certainly reacts that way. his skin is warming up; his pulse is starting to race, you can actually watch it kicking into his bloodstream and getting him high, watch it reach every inch of him. he shivers as the tension leaves his body. he looks so relaxed.
he's so pretty.
you cap the bottle again and you kiss him, chasing the last bit of sweetness out of his mouth, and fuck, does he taste good. he's so good, he really is, you tell him he's awful all the time but look at him pliant and yielding and lovely for you. you just want to - you just fucking want.
"c'mere," you mumble, "come on, let me watch you."
you loop an arm around his waist, grab one of his thighs, pull him up until he's straddling your lap, kneeling over you, dazed and confused and blissing out on your drug of choice. he looks down on you in a fog of arousal. his bulge is unsheathing again achingly slow; he's gently rocking his hips, he's drooling a little, and when you slide your hand between his legs his nook is damp and shivering. he grinds down into your palm with a hiss. he isn't self-conscious at all; his eyes are nearly black, he's thrumming and alive and smells like sex. arousal. sweat.
you flick the vibrators on to their lowest setting and he groans.
"jesus," you tell him as he pants and squirms, grabbing his ass, making him squeak. "you're so fucking hot."
he actually whines at you, a high-pitched thing in the back of his throat; he ducks his head down and licks at your face, the way a pet would. it's cute for reasons you can't describe; it should be gross but instead it's terribly endearing. he can't hold you, his hands are clenched into fists behind his back, but he still wants to touch you. he wants to touch so badly he doesn't care for his dignity; his breath is hot against your face, he's breathing ragged and harsh.
you bury a hand in the hair at the nape of his neck and direct him to your lips. he kisses you with a sigh; with your psionics you turn the vibrators on to their highest setting in one abrupt jump, and he moans into your mouth, his whole body shaking like he's coming apart at the seams.
you stroke your hands over his skin, along his flanks and over his trembling gills, caressing the small ones on his neck. you can't stop kissing him, you can't stop rubbing his body like you're trying to smooth out the jitters - he's shaking so hard and he wants it so bad, he's trying to grind down on your thighs, but the position doesn't really allow him. it's so pitiful. he's the most pitiful thing you've ever seen. how the fuck are you meant to ever leave him alone?
"shhh, easy, easy," you croon, and slide your hand between his thighs again.
he pants a little harder and moans again. his spine is beautifully relaxed; you remember that the electrical conductivity of skin is increased during peak moments of arousal, so you rub him with your fingers and let psionic shocks travel in their wake. he moans a lot harder this time, ruts shamelessly against your hand.
(your pants are getting uncomfortably tight.)
"almost there," you tell him softly, pressing small kisses to the slits in his neck. "come on."
this time, when he finally goes over the edge, he only spills a little into your hand. it drips down your wrist. you keep rubbing him, gently, until the convulsions stop.
he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pants for breath, whimpering a little; when you realize he's whining with discomfort you crank the vibrators down to a much lower setting, and he nudges you with his nose, utterly limp in your arms. at this point you aren't sure how sore he is. you've been excruciatingly gentle, and you haven't let him grind too hard against anything.
this is meant to test your own endurance, as well as his. it's difficult, for you not to just throw him down and fuck him. you've done that plenty of times before, but your own pleasure is not the point of this exercise. the point of the exercise is...
he pulls back a few inches, gives you a solemn glassy stare. his face fins rise and fall as he breathes. the sobriety of the expression is diminished by the fact that he can't keep his tongue in his mouth or close his jaw, but he isn't really conscious of it anymore, he's settled into it.
you think he's probably catching on.
"four down, seven to go," you tell him, giving him your perkiest grin, and pinch his face.
eridan retains the presence of mind to look a little bit horrified.
hours five through seven:
not that horrified, though.
actually, it appears to seriously turn him on. which is gratifying. the blush that drenches his whole face is enhanced by the chemicals running through his system; you can tell from a thousand physical cues that he's flying on endorphins, but the most significant is that he's no longer visibly thinking about what he's doing, or what's happening. his expression is oddly tender. he looks at you with wordless want, leans into your touches, makes no attempt to rein in his voice when you squeeze him.
and within you, something answers it; can't help but answer him. he kisses you slow and languid and like he needs you. it's like you've pried off the shell of his exoskeleton and you're dealing with the helpless core of him. you couldn't imagine leaving him right now, couldn't imagine introducing pain to such a creature. you don't have the fortitude to hurt something this pitiful. he's told you over and over he prefers it rough, but you really can't. not when he's like this.
you sort of sprawl out on the floor, taking a few pillows with you, laying him down and stretching out beside him. you push your leg between his folded thighs, let him mindlessly jerk his hips against it. you make eye contact with him and you keep it, make sure to keep it even when you're kissing him, and he stares back. you bring him to orgasm three more times on the floor like that, maintaining steady eye contact, and in an odd way it's the most intimate thing you've ever done.
eridan is the most precious thing in the universe. especially when he comes. it's the most gorgeous thing, the way his body trembles, the way his head jerks back, the way his breathing changes, the way his eyes go soft and vulnerable. the way he surges up against you. you pet his hair, you pet his whole body, you slide your fingers in and out of him and you kiss all you can reach.
you suck bruises into his neck, across his collarbones, wherever makes him whimper and squirm the sweetest in your arms.
you kiss him breathless.
he comes so hard when you run little bolts of red and blue over his hickeys, and twist your fingers inside him; you are more than aroused right now, you're soaking your boxers and your bulge is practically fighting to get out of your (absolutely ruined) jeans. you're panting. god. look at him.
"you're perfect," you tell him, voice hushed and breaking. "like this."
the mood has changed. you were feeling kind of impish, earlier - you thought you'd be able to stay detached from eridan's devastation at your hands, but that was stupid of you. he practically oozes desperation, leaking pheromones from every pore. you're being pulled into it, you can't not respond.
hour eight:
eridan hums at you, softly, pitched low in the back of his throat. he wriggles closer, stretches one bound thigh over both your legs, and you can feel the muscles in his abdomen strain. he makes a small noise of protest.
"you wanna get on top?" you ask him, tucking his hair away from his forehead, gently pulling his chin up to catch his eyes again. he blushes a little harder and blinks at you. you realize you're smiling at him after the fact. "come on."
you help him lie flat on top of you, face resting against your shoulder, knees lying on either side of your legs; you're propped up a little on the pillows, you've linked your hands with his. he's still shaking.
"you okay?" you murmur into his ear. in response he makes a soft, choked noise, and he starts to move his hips, frotting against your clothed bulge. his own is trapped between your stomachs; he appears to be enjoying the friction, if the noises he's making are an adequate barometer of his arousal. his chest rubs against your shirt; you press kiss after kiss to the crown of his head, you run your hands soothingly over his body, you squeeze the curve of his ass.
you didn't expect him to get so into this. your chest feels unutterably full of something warm and sticky, like there's taffy melting inside you.
when he comes he barely gets anything on you, he's so empty, but he keeps grinding on you, keeps breathing damp against your neck, keeps keening low and wordless.
your resolve is crumbling.
hour nine:
slowly, leaning his weight against your hands, eridan manages to sit up.
he's directly over your crotch, and you know he can feel your obvious arousal through your jeans. he's panting; you can see his gill slits flutter open whenever he shudders particularly hard. his skin is so soft to the touch. you settle your hands over the jut of his hipbones. he looks down on you and his face stains a darker shade of purple.
"go ahead, baby, let me watch you," you tell him. his eyelids flutter to half-mast. he rocks his hips.
the high must be wearing off, or close to it. he didn't take that much. but to all appearances he is still in the throes of it, in the throes of something dark and hot and blisteringly sexual, lust so all-consuming it swallows the mind. he is still trembling and desperate and responsive as fuck.
god, you want to fuck him so bad.
he looks like he's enjoying himself, though. he's lost in a haze, all of his attention grounded in his nook and bulge, all of his focus centered in the root of his body. everything he's doing right now - none of it is calculated. he is beyond any capacity to try to arouse you on purpose. he's simply moving. reacting to your body. mindlessly thrusting and grinding. he is absolutely breathtaking when he cuts the bullshit and just allows himself to let go. it's so fucking sexy, it's driving you crazy, but -
not yet, not yet.
you can feel his nook spasming against your bulge through the cloth. you're so turned on it's starting to hurt.
you can't even imagine what he's going through right now. you can only observe the effects. how his eyes flutter shut from time to time as a jolt of feeling passes through him. how his ribcage shakes. how the muscles in his stomach spasm like crazy. at one point he stops for a second - you see a muscle in his leg cramping up - and you soothe it for him, electrocuting it, rubbing red and blue energy into his thigh.
you wrap a hand around the base of his bulge, and tug.
he sobs like a wriggler, shuddering out an orgasm that makes his entire body twitch for nearly a full minute.
he's too -
okay.
you give in.
hour ten:
you unzip your jeans and shimmy them off as you sit up, keeping eridan upright in your lap. he gasps for air as you roughly pull the vibrator out and slide into him, and he shudders deeply around you, knees sliding up around your waist as he groans. and you feel it in every inch of your body. fuck. you can't help squirming into him as deep as you possibly can, he feels so tight and hot and good and he's still insanely rocking his hips, canting them forward and back, even though he can barely move at all, he's still so hungry for it, even now.
he's still fucking gagging for it, even when he's so out of his mind with exhaustion he can't focus his eyes.
you kiss him like your life depends on it, sucking on his tongue, pistoning your hips up into him, letting his bulge curl around your wrist and pumping it roughly with your fist. he is wailing even on the inhales, now, a sound so desperate and pleading it makes something crack within you, you can't -
you can't not snarl and shove up into him as hard as you can -
you can't not cling to him like you're drowning.
it wracks through your body like a seizure and you're flooding him with it, briefly, before it slides out of him on a wave of his own slurry, and he's crying and your eyes are stinging you're so overwhelmed, so fucking overwhelmed -
he's crying, how is that fair?
you are dizzy with satiation. he is sobbing, softly, as your bulge slides out of him and as you pet his shoulders.
you're pretty tired yourself. nowhere near as exhausted as he is, though. the aftershocks rippling through him are practically the only thing keeping him awake.
you lay him down gently on your chest, and slide two fingers into him. he shivers, blinking at you.
"one more, baby. one more and you're done, promise," you murmur into his ear. "one more time."
he cries, feebly. he can barely stay awake; you zap him with your psionics, deep inside where your genetic material is still smeared, and he cries a little harder, tries to flinch away from your hand. so pitiful, so perfect. your bloodpusher aches horribly in your chest. you want to hold him forever.
"for me," you coax. "one more. just one more."
he quakes.
you kiss him.
he shuts his eyes tight; you plunge in a third finger and zap him, again, your other arm squeezing him hard around the waist. he jumps, a little, and you see his toes curl. you see his fingers curl up tight.
he does it for you.
hour eleven:
"oh," you sigh, watching the tremors pass out of him. and again, when he manages to raise his head and lick once across your mouth in the sloppiest kiss ever: "oh."
and then you realize he's actually barely conscious at all.
very gently, still floating in a cloud of endorphins, you unbuckle the gag and pull it out of his mouth, massaging his jaw. you untie his arms and legs and you toss the rope in the corner; you peel the bullet vibes off of his sides. you gather him up in your arms, buoying him up with your last few scraps of psionic energy, and you carry him to your recuperacoon.
you are giddy, still, as you watch him fall slowly asleep.
you guess the point was to kill him with kindness.
you think you've succeeded.
-
in the evening, once the sun has gone down, he blinks sleepily awake to the coffee you offer him. for a second or two he looks like he might try to get up, but obviously vetoes the idea the minute he manages to get fully upright.
he accepts the coffee without comment. after he's downed half the mug he gives you an owlish look. you brace yourself.
"... so."
"so," you agree. his face looks terribly blotchy, now that the blush is returning. for some inane reason, you find that charming.
"um. would i be totally outta my pan to assume you might be feelin a little red for me, sol?"
"you'd have to be stupid not to," you tell him, running your fingertips through his hair again. he really needs a trip to the ablution trap.
eridan fidgets a little. he clears his throat. "what if i'm stupid," he asks, tremulously. the mug shakes in his hands.
the uncertainty and pain in his voice are unreal. after you spent all of yesternight fucking him senseless! you almost can't believe he's this dense.
"i pity you so hard, ampora," you say. he blushes a little deeper violet. "you have no idea."
into his mug of coffee, he smiles a little. it's miniscule, but it's there.
"i, uh, i think i might be catching on," he tells you, and you are so pleased you practically glow.
this was a great idea. you are such a genius.