Chapter Text
The excitement never truly hits Blake until she gets in the car.
Everything which precedes that moment—making and eating a light dinner; changing her clothes and putting on her makeup; even picking out toys—is calming. Routine. She can pack what she’ll need into her gym bag and carry everything down to the street with a pleasantly detached sort of distance, without falling into daydreams about what any of it means for the rest of her night. It’s all still theoretical. Neatly compartmentalized.
The second she actually slips into the driver’s seat of her old beater of a sedan, though, and the inner pocket of her underwear-style harness brushes just right against her core—the seam and additional fabric deliciously present, even empty of the vibrator it was designed to hold—her blood rushes south, and her head starts to fill with warm static. Here we go. It’s time. Not even the engine taking three sputtering tries to start can ruin her mood; not when she can squeeze her thighs together languidly and picture what’s waiting for her on the other end of this fifteen minute car ride.
It’s Thursday. And while she enjoys every night she manages to get away and spend time at the club, well—
—she particularly enjoys Thursdays. What with her standing date, and all.
Blake pulls down her sun visor to check her eyeliner and tousle her shaggy bob in the mirror one more time. Satisfied with her reflection, she departs.
In moments, the playlist she’s built to help get her in the right headspace spills through her speakers: all dark, pulsing beats and sensuous synth that crests through her in waves and urges along the slowly-building throb between her legs. With every turn signal and traffic light she advances, the stresses of her life shrink back, eroded by the inescapable tide. The Blake of her day job—competent, accommodating, politely friendly—recedes, and a different Blake rises to the surface.
One that’s still very much all of those things… as long as she gets what she’s asked for.
It’s never too hard to find parking at Gianduja. The coffee shop sits in the middle of a strip mall, sharing its lot with a CVS, a dry cleaner, two different noodle places and a closed FedEx. Blake pulls in and grabs her gym bag from the trunk, hurrying so she can get out of the winter chill. Wearing a short-sleeved, short-skirted dress with no jacket probably wasn’t her best thought, but—she only ever has to walk to her car and back, and she knows she’ll end the night pleasantly overheated. What’s the harm?
She saunters across the parking lot to get inside, sighing in relief when radiating warmth and the heavy aroma of dark roast hit her upon opening the door. Ignoring the line and the baristas entirely, she makes her way to the back and goes through what looks like a supply closet door labeled—with playful, tongue-in-cheek audacity—SERVICE. On the other side is an industrial-looking set of stairs, and as she descends the smell of ground beans and the whir of the grinders fade away, gradually overpowered by the scents and sounds they exist to cover: latex and sweat, music and moaning.
At the bottom is another door, bearing a sign of its own: Anesidora.
Her favorite playground.
Blake opens the door, and finds herself face-to-chest with an absolute mountain of a man, his black t-shirt stretched thin over broad, intimidating muscles. It’s not every club that puts their head of security on door duty, but there are many reasons Anesidora has a sterling reputation in the city. Yatsuhashi is only one of them.
“Blake!” he beams, rolling his eyes fondly when she, as usual, takes her ID and membership card out of her wallet and he, as usual, checks them and stamps the back of her hand even though she’s a regular everyone knows on sight. “Running a little late for a Thursday, aren’t you?”
“Car’s still acting up,” she shrugs, handing over her phone and gym bag. The phone gets tucked into a Faraday pouch and placed into a locker; before turning his attention to a perfunctory rummage through her bag’s contents, Yatsu hands over a ticket bearing the locker’s number and a tackle box filled to the brim with colored jelly bracelets.
Posters explaining the bracelet system—based on the old queer bar handkerchief code, because Coco likes kicking it old school and Velvet likes indulging her—line every wall of the club, but Blake barely spares the nearest one a glance as she picks out those she needs and slides them on. Black, gray, and light pink bands on her left wrist, indicating her willingness to top in heavy SM or bondage scenes, and willingness to use a dildo to do it; clear on her right, to show she’s staying sober. Light blue on both wrists, signaling she’s happy to both give and receive oral. The last band she picks out, orange, is a little more versatile. On the left wrist it would mean anything anytime, to show she’s open for solicitation (or, if her wrists were otherwise empty, that the whole spectrum might be fair game); on the right, it would mean nothing now, telling everyone they can look but not touch—a sign some people use to show they’re monogamous, others use when they want to put on a show, and the rest use to indicate they’re only here to cruise, or watch.
Blake slips it onto her right wrist, because she knows who her dance partner is tonight, then hands back the box. She’s seen Yatsu kick people out for all sorts of bad behavior, but the earliest red flag is always arguing about the bracelets. Most guests see the wisdom of the phone thing—they appreciate the way it cuts down on recording risks, distractions, and the need for pockets—but some balk when the club then asks anything of them in return. Everyone’s got a reason they should be the exception: it will ruin the surprise, or I’m just here with my wife and we know what we like, or it doesn’t go with my outfit. None of it makes a difference. The rules are rules, and they keep everyone safe and on the same page. The code isn’t the end-all, be-all of what’s allowed so long as you gain consent, but it’s an efficient way to both establish boundaries and open up dialogue—a starting point to begin conversations, rather than a finite menu. And everyone doing it, always, models the correct behavior for newcomers.
Fully adorned, Blake winks at Yatsu and shoulders her bag again, moving beyond him through a small hallway lined with bathrooms and changing areas. The other end opens up to the main floor: a large, rubber-matted space decked out with various couches, lounging areas, and BDSM equipment between its support columns. To the right is an alcove housing the bar, and to the left weave additional warren-like hallways to private rooms. Blake scans the crowd for a familiar blonde head, letting the music and mood lighting drag her further away from her daily self and into her play persona.
The floor is full but not packed, as is often true for Thursdays around this time. A compromise: Blake prefers weeknights, because she doesn’t like dealing with all the rubberneckers and bad actors that inevitably come in on weekends when Anesidora is open to the public and not just members or their guests and referrals; her partner, on the other hand—
“Blake! Hey, over here!”
—well. Sun likes an audience.
She turns to follow his voice and spots him near the back of a group of onlookers watching a scene at the St. Andrew’s Cross, waving his hands over his head to catch her attention. Rolling her eyes fondly at his enthusiasm, she makes her way across the floor—passing amorous pairs and trios in various states of undress and passion as she goes. You don’t stay in the main hall unless you like being watched, so she lets her eyes wander; her nothing now bracelet fends off any would-be requests to join in so she doesn’t have to.
The fact that so many of the people she walks by are strangers is a testament both to the size of Vale and its suburbs, and to Coco and Velvet’s talents as owners (not to mention discreet promoters). Even the biggest cities can sometimes have kink scenes that feel as insular and gossip-ridden as small towns; how Anesidora manages to maintain its carefully-vetted exclusivity and queer-friendliness without resorting to catering solely to the same two dozen people every week is a mystery Blake’s glad other people are in charge of solving. As she rounds a chaise lounge to make it the last few feet to Sun, she passes a naked woman trussed up in delicate shibari bent over the lap of her lover, voice thick and slurred as she’s made to count each spank she’s issued. The sounds of her moans shoot straight to Blake’s core, and she feels her face flush with heat.
“You look great,” Sun says with a toothy smile, leaning over to squeeze her hand and kiss her cheek in greeting. She huffs, because she’s not wearing anything fancy—she chose the plaid dress because it’s unremarkable, and because the buttons up the front make it easy to remove.
“You look… cold,” she quips back after getting an eyeful of him, because he’s hardly wearing anything at all.
He beams as though she’s given him a tremendous compliment. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it, right?” he asks, striking a pose, and she can’t help but agree that he’s got it. Sun’s side gig as a personal trainer keeps him chiseled and toned, and his outfit has left little to the imagination: aside from the rainbow of bracelets running up his right wrist to advertise everything he’d happily bottom for, all he’s got on is his wedding ring and a familiar pair of clingy blue boxer briefs. The fact that there isn’t much visible bulge tells her he’s left his pack and play at home—and after two and a half years of doing scenes with him, that’s just as much a clue for her as the bracelets are as to what he’s hoping for tonight.
(“It doesn’t make you dysphoric to go without it?” she’d asked, early on. Back when every decision was heavy with the weight of being made for the first time.
“Eh,” he’d shrugged, teetering his hand back and forth. “Maybe a little bit, but—” he’d paused just long enough to give her a playful eyebrow waggle, “—not as much as it bugs me to have it on when I just wanna get railed and it’s totally in the way.”
His winsome candor had startled a laugh out of her—far from the first, and certainly far from the last—and that had been that.)
“So what are we watching?” she asks, nudging her chin towards the scene playing out. A quick visual scan mostly answers the question for her—the sub’s bound face-first to the cross in a fetish hood and not much else, their ass and thighs bright red from the dom’s expertly-wielded flogger—but Sun chuckles.
“It’s this whole intense roleplay thing about ‘the stolen documents,’” he says, which helps explain why the dom is in full camouflage fatigues. Sort of. “There’s, like. Lore.”
Blake hums. “Who are we supposed to be, then?”
“Oh, we’re the other prisoners who’ll get beaten next if they don’t talk. Worldbuilding’s pretty decent,” he says, but while his tone is chatty and amiable Blake can tell his mind’s barely on the conversation. He watches the scene with rapt attention, pupils dilating darkly with every swing and snap of the flogger as it finds purchase against flesh. His throat bobs as the sub cries out some endearingly scripted dialogue (“Please, no more! I’ll do it, I’ll tell you where they are!”) only for the leather tails to come down one more time, eliciting a scream.
Her own arousal stirring at the sight of his, Blake sways onto her tiptoes to murmur in his ear. “Is that how you want it, tonight? Splayed out and helpless, showing everyone just how much you can take?”
A shudder ripples through him. “Oh hell yes.”
Recognizing the purposeful cheekiness of the answer, Blake delivers a quick, chiding bite to his earlobe. Getting them both into character as she scolds: “Try again. Ask me nicely.”
Sun’s silent at first, so she bites at him again—slower, softer. Teasing.
“Please,” he groans, caving quickly to her ministrations.
“Okay,” she says, mind racing with possibilities as the couple using the cross wraps up their scene. Within minutes, it’s over, the duo flushing over the polite applause they receive as they retrieve antibacterial wipes from one of the canisters that dot the room and clean off the equipment they’ve used.
As most of the crowd wanders away from the cross, Blake instead heads straight for it, Sun trailing along behind as she sets her gym bag down and begins some mild stretching.
“Knees,” she prompts softly, and that’s all it takes for him to sink to the floor and watch quietly as she limbers up.
This—the waiting—is the first part of the ritual they’ve honed over countless sessions. Sun’s often found it difficult to get into subspace, mouthy and clever and present in a way most doms had dismissed as bratty rather than embraced as a challenge. Between that and the friendship she’d struck with him prior to starting play, it had taken investment for Blake to design something that actually helped him settle down quickly without straying into ‘morning Sam, morning Ralph’ banality. The kneeling is simple, but it does wonders to coax impatient, bombastic Sun into matching her rhythm—forcing him to master his own attention until he’s hyperfocused on the minute changes in her posture and bearing. She knows she’s done it right when all it takes for him to blush is for her to square her shoulders, straight-backed, and take a single step towards him.
Like now.
“There we go,” she coos, cupping his cheek and tilting his chin up so she can make proper eye contact—searching his face until she’s satisfied they’re both in the right headspace. When she rewards him with a smile and he nuzzles deeper into her palm, her gut flares with the same pleasant warmth she always feels with him. Not a spark, not exactly, but smoldering all the same. “Safeword?”
“Dex,” he replies dutifully, and it takes a second for both of them to suppress their mirth at the inside joke.
“Good. What am I?”
“The boss.”
“And what do you call me?”
“Blake.”
Most of her partners don’t—but then, most of her partners don’t send her into giggle fits when they try to call her anything else. It’s hardly an obstacle; being Blake when they do this is just as empowering. Plus, she thinks, they more than make up for it on the other end.
“Very good,” she praises, sliding her hand backwards to rest against the back of his scalp. “And you? What are you?”
“Your slut.”
“And what do I call you?”
“Anything you want,” he breathes, inhaling sharply at the way her fingers tighten in his hair at the correct answer.
“Good boy.”
Already, this call-and-response has drawn the attention of curious observers. Sun’s blush has traveled all the way down his neck to paint the top of his chest, betraying just how much he likes being noticed; she drinks in the sight with the appreciation it deserves. “Someone’s eager, isn’t he?” she notes lightly, barely pretending to direct her question at the gathering crowd. She knows how much that kind of soft depersonalization pushes all of Sun’s buttons; the phrasing’s entirely for his benefit.
And he knows it. “Blake—”
“Hush,” she orders, and the swift way his jaw snaps shut solidifies her plan for the evening. She’s put a lot of creativity, over the years, into discovering new ways to put him through his paces. She knows exactly how many handstands and chin-ups he can do; exactly how much punishment he can take when it comes to impact play. Anything to wear him out and burn off that excess energy.
Which is how she also knows the hardest thing for him to do…
…is absolutely nothing.
“You want to put on a show for all these people, slut?” she asks. (The word will never quite fall with ease from her mouth, not after the way it was once used on her, but—Sun loves it. And the way he reacts to it is still a turn-on, even if saying the word itself never, ever will be.)
He doesn’t let her down, moaning so hard at the question she has to press her thighs together. “Yes.”
“But that’s not all you want, is it?”
“N-no.”
“Of course not. You want what all sluts want: to get good and fucked.”
“Blake, c’mon—”
“Stand up. Legs apart; hands behind your head.”
He scrambles to assume the requested position, and her eyes roam his body as he presents it to her: the sculpted rise and fall of his muscles under sun-kissed skin; the unashamed slashes of his top surgery scars, boldly providing definition to his perfect pecs; the handsome smattering of dark hair that begins at his navel and trails mouth-wateringly downwards until it disappears beneath the waistband of his underwear.
It’s never hard to want him.
“Well if you’re that desperate for it, I’m going to give you exactly what you want. I’m going to make you feel good, pretty boy, and you? You’re going to let me. You’re going to stand there and take it while I edge you for a full half hour, and that’s all you’re going to do. If you move, if you speak without me asking you a question, it’s an extra minute to wait before I give you permission to come. And if you come before your time’s up? I will turn you around, give you ten lashes, and start the clock all over again from zero, over and over, until you do it properly. Do you understand?”
By the time she’s done speaking he’s squeezed his eyes shut and his breath has gone ragged, but the answer comes quickly enough: “Yes, Blake.”
“Good boy.”
She reaches down into her gym bag, coming back up with something most people wouldn’t associate with sex toys—a wind-up egg timer. Looking around, she spots the wipe dispenser affixed to a nearby pillar and trots over to place the clock atop it.
“Can you read the numbers well if I put this here?”
“Yeah.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
He swallows nervously and corrects himself: “Yes, Blake.”
“Better. Your time starts… now,” she says, twisting the dial to 30 and returning to where she left him, standing posed before the cross. “Hey, don’t look so stressed out. You’re supposed to enjoy this, remember? C’mere,” she croons, drawing him into a filthy kiss. He happily sinks into the contact, opening his mouth and letting her set the pace as her hands start to wander. She uses her nails, enjoying the way she elicits small, needy noises from the back of his throat every time she scratches his arms or sides. It’s clear from the tension in his body that she only has a few minutes before his legs start shaking from the effort of holding his pose; she’ll probably need to get him on the cross before too long so he can focus on more than not shifting his weight.
Easy enough.
“That’s it; that’s right,” she soothes, opening her hand and dragging her splayed fingers down to caress his neck, his chest, his abs. And further still, until she can palm at the swollen silhouette of his bottom growth through his underwear. “You getting hard for me, handsome?”
“Blake, Jesus—” he keens, hips snapping forward of their own volition as he presses desperately into the contact, and she clucks her tongue.
“Naughty boy. That’s two more minutes,” she reminds him, enjoying his whine of loss as she removes her hand and steps away long enough to re-wind the clock. When she turns back around, she half-expects to find he’s gone rogue and stuck his hand down his briefs, but no—he’s still standing obediently (if unsteadily) in the pose she’d directed.
Gifting him an approving smile, she steps back into his space and nuzzles her nose along his jawline. “I promised to edge you, and I meant what I said. I want you silent, and I want you still. If you keep breaking the rules, I’m going to have to tie you up. Does that sound fair?”
From the way he shivers at her words, she knows he thinks that sounds fantastic. Still, he clears his throat and answers: “Yeah, that’s fair.”
“Then relax, and let me take care of you,” she says, letting her hand slip down beneath his waistband so she can cup him properly. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, hyper-aware of what an intimate thing that is to say when she’s holding his growth in her hand, kneading gently. “I’ll stop when I have to; I won’t let you fail.”
Sun exhales heavily, lustily, but manages to keep it to only that; she kisses his pulse point in recognition of his efforts before turning her attention more fully to the… well, the job at hand. She loves touching him like this, the fact that he lets her touch him like this, and it’s not a privilege that she takes lightly. Using his arrhythmic panting as her guide, she teases and massages him confidently. He doesn’t have enough length for her to wrap her fist around and pump like she might with someone else, but she knows if she torques her wrist just so, takes her thumb and index finger and rubs, he’ll—
Sun groans as his body jerks, and he drops his head helplessly to rest in the crook of her shoulder.
“That was your only freebie,” she warns, bending the rules a tad so she doesn’t have to step away for the clock just yet. “You can rest there, so long as you stay. Put.”
“Yes, Blake,” he breathes, seizing the slightest chance to vocalize something, and she nips at his neck in response. She can feel his arms starting to quiver, pressed close to him as she is, and she decides to move them along for both their sakes. With a final caress, she slides her hand deeper down, her fingertips brushing forward to tease his entrance. He’s already soaked for her. Unable to stop himself, he ruts into the contact, body desperately seeking pressure and friction.
“Just as I thought,” Blake sighs theatrically, penetrating him with two fingers instead of pausing play—letting him dig the hole deeper as he tries to fuck himself on her hand. “Too much of a slut to follow even the simplest instructions. Someone wants to be punished, doesn’t he?”
“I—”
“Did it sound like I was asking you?” Blake interrupts, pitching her voice low and severe the way she knows makes him unravel—the way he comes to her for, because he won’t get it anywhere else.
His whole body is trembling now, hips stuttering as he tries and fails to hold himself back. “No, Blake.”
“You knew the rules. If you can’t hold still, you’ll be held down. Now loosen up, and get these off,” she orders, removing her hand and snagging the elastic of his underwear so it snaps against his skin as she goes. “I’m giving you ten more minutes, and be grateful it’s not more than that.”
She turns around to add the time to the clock, finally registering how much of a crowd they’ve gathered as the tunnel vision she often gets during scenes falls away. Many of the faces are at least somewhat familiar, and one in particular stands out—Dew Gayl, a perennially single sub with a breathplay kink Blake’s indulged on several memorable occasions. Blake shoots her a wink, relishing the way the tips of Dew’s ears turn pink at the greeting before she turns back to Sun.
He’s stripped naked, as requested, and stands before the cross doing deltoid stretches to get some blood flow back to his arms before they’re suspended. She trusts him to know his limits—in his line of work, he has to—but it doesn’t stop her from sidling back to him and checking in with a soft whisper:
“Need a saving throw?”
“All good,” he reports, and she squeezes his bicep appreciatively before straightening her posture and falling back into the scene.
“You did this to yourself, slut,” she announces, taking his wrists one at a time and fettering them in the cross’s dangling shackles. “So now I’ll make you a deal. You can move all you want, because we both know you’re not going anywhere. But in return… no more taking it easy on you. Understand?”
“Yes, Blake.”
“Good,” she says, then unceremoniously lifts her hands to his chest and rakes her nails cruelly downwards, leaving angry red trails in their wake. Sun howls, body wrenching as his instincts to evade and lean into the pain collide messily; Blake runs her tongue up one of the scratches, soothing the sting and drawing out a needy moan as he rocks his hips forward. “Awfully loud for someone who was told to be silent, there, stud,” Blake chides, before bending to graze one of his nipples with her teeth. He gasps. “Something you’re trying to tell me?”
“Please, please—”
“Yes?”
“I can take it, I’ll be good, just fuck me already—”
“I’ll fuck you when I’m good and ready,” Blake admonishes. “But if you’re that needy for it, while I’m busy you can hump my leg like the slut you are.” She tucks her knee between his parted legs to make good on the invitation, hiking up her skirt so he can ride her without chafing, and he doesn’t hesitate to use what little leverage he has to grind down on her proffered thigh. The feeling’s unbearably erotic—his heat, his wetness, the stiff jut of his growth dragging back and forth as he rubs himself all over her skin—and Blake swallows a moan of her own before returning her attention to his chest.
She never met him pre-surgery, but she knows from what he’s told her that he always liked it rough—even before minor post-op nerve damage and intermittent numbness made him all the more eager to chase every sensation he could. So she bites hard as she litters his clavicle with hickeys, squeezing and twisting his nipples in a way that would have her safewording instantly if anyone ever tried it on her. They’re both panting with effort, now, and as their heated bodies entwine Blake breathes deeply—smelling sex, and sweat, and the stupid coconut-banana styling mousse Sun uses on his hair. Scents that mean pleasure, safety, power; scents that carry the promise that she’s feeling good and in control. It’s ambrosial. Addictive.
“Blake, I’m gonna—I—”
She steps away from him immediately, his body sagging under its own weight as he slumps forward to catch his breath. “Sorry,” he gasps. “Sorry, sorry…”
“What am I going to do with you, huh? Breaking one rule to follow another,” she sighs, voice a teasing sing-song as she cups his chin and looks him over. He’s still riding high—all flushed cheeks and blown pupils—but he swallows hard and does his best to calm down and answer her.
“I can’t—I don’t think I can—” She waits patiently, allowing him the chance to catch his breath and order his thoughts. “Don’t think I can be quiet.”
“Of course you can, you just need a little help to settle down.” She buries her fingers in his hair, grazing soothingly at his scalp. “Do you like the sound of that, handsome? Do you want me to help you?”
He knows what she’s offering, and nods into the press of her hand. “Please.”
“Alright.” She steps away and crouches by her gym bag, rummaging until she comes up with the solution she’s seeking: a bright red ball gag. Returning to the cross, it’s the work of only a moment to get the strap properly secured. “Good fit?”
He nods.
“Give me dex,” she prompts, and Sun obediently snaps his fingers twice. “Thank you.” Glancing at the timer, she notes they’ve still got well over twenty minutes left. “Let’s try this again. Everybody’s looking at you, pretty boy; are you going to show them you can be good?”
Another, more fervent nod.
“Well if you’re that confident, let’s make this interesting,” she says with a dangerous smirk, going back to her bag just long enough to pull out two more toys: nipple clamps connected by a sturdy chain, and a rabbit vibrator. Sun yelps through the gag at the sight of them, and she makes a show of shaking her head and clucking her tongue as she sheathes the vibrator in a condom and adds more time to the clock before returning to him.
“I still expect you to be quiet, slut,” she reminds him, before pinching open the clamps and affixing them to his chest—a little higher than she would on someone else, where she knows he can feel it best. When she gives the chain a brief tug to make sure everything’s secure, Sun’s eyes actually roll back for a moment as he writhes… but no noise escapes. “Just like that. Good boy.”
This is the part, she knows, that truly does it for him. To be held back and aching and made to wait, unable to do anything to alleviate the throbbing, boiling need—not touch himself, not move, not even ask for what he wants. Perfectly powerless and at her mercy. From this point on, she’ll hardly even have to touch him to get him close again; the situation itself is more than enough to leave him wrecked and dripping.
But she’s going to touch him anyway.
“I’m gonna make you feel so good, gorgeous,” she promises, and the words make him gulp and mouth at the gag in anticipation. Small rivulets of drool leak down onto his chin, and she takes the vibrator—still turned off—and draws it lewdly through the saliva before lowering it between his legs. There, the torture continues as she drags and pulls the stationary silicone around in a slow tease, coating the toy in slick.
“Mrph—”
“That’ll be a minute,” she tuts softly, using her free hand to pet his shoulder like she’d gentle a spooking horse. “Just give in. I’ve got you.”
She dips forward to lick and nibble at the puckered skin of one scar, studiously avoiding the clamp and chain as she mimics the movement on his other side with the vibrator—rolling and pressing along the underside of his pectoral. With deliberate, agonizing patience, her ministrations wander gradually up and in, towards his nipples.
Only when she reaches them does she turn on the vibrator, and Sun’s body jolts as the duller stimulus unexpectedly inverts on him and the new sensation buzzes his clamped, sensitive skin.
“Easy; good boy,” she coos, lavishing him with attention and savoring the way it makes him squirm. A nearby moan that definitely didn’t come from Sun catches her notice, and she smirks into his chest. “Hear that? Look around, slut—I think you’ve pleased your audience.”
A helpless, wanting noise burbles from Sun’s throat as he registers the fact that several people in the gathered crowd have gotten turned on enough by the scene that they’ve started touching themselves or their partners; Blake nips him in rebuke and pulls away the vibrator. He cries out at the loss, only for the sound to dissolve into choked-off whimpers as she finally, finally plunges the toy between his legs and fucks him in earnest.
“Take what you’re given and calm down; hush,” she soothes. His hips chase the pistoning motion of her wrist, the gag barely stoppering his incoherent, blissful babbles. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re trying to run up the clock on purpose.”
Sun shakes his head, no, I’d never, but can’t muster enough self-control to quiet himself as his pleasured whining continues.
Blake’s free hand drifts up to caress along the strap of his gag. “Not good enough? Maybe that’s my fault.” Her hand travels further, her thumb slipping between the ball and the edge of his lip to tease the inside of his cheek. Her voice wicked as she ventures, “Maybe you’ll be quieter with a cock in your mouth.”
The gag stops him from sucking down at the thought the way he wants to, but he conveys his enthusiasm by laving at her knuckle and the pad of her thumb instead. She chuckles, withdrawing both of her hands from him; he slumps. “Alright, one second.”
She turns off the vibrator and tosses it onto a towel she’d left resting atop her gym bag. The ball gag, removed next, then joins it, and she reaches up to release his hands from the restraints. “Get the dildo and get on your knees.” She delivers a swift, sharp smack to his backside as he passes her, making him yelp, and while he heads to the gym bag she heads to the clock to add on the time he’s earned. A little over fifteen minutes left.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” she says, returning to his space and undoing the buttons of her dress with businesslike efficiency. With a shrug, the garment falls from her shoulders to pool at her feet, leaving her in just her bra and the empty harness. “I know you’re doing your best to be good. So we’re going to try this for ten minutes. If, in that time, you manage to get me off, I’ll spend whatever’s left on the clock making you come as many times as you can stand. If you can’t, we put you back on the cross to finish like we agreed. Okay?”
They both know it’s an empty ultimatum; as much as Blake enjoys getting blown like this, it’s not something she can come from. It’s rare for her to come during their scenes, full stop. Still, Sun grins at her through his glassy-eyed haze of endorphins. “Okay, Blake.”
“Good boy.” Deal struck, she takes the final step towards him and threads her fingers through his hair. “Go on, then. Anoint me.”
While she may have been the one to coin the familiar directive, its component steps were entirely Sun’s idea… a ritual that sometimes brings tears to her eyes if she lets herself think about it too hard. Bracing his hands at her waist for balance, he leans forward and paints her stomach with sloppy, reverent kisses—paying particular attention to the flowering nightshade tattoo that spans the left side of her pelvis, and the jagged scar concealed at its center. When her eyelids flutter and her hips start to cant, fingers tightening in his hair, he lowers her underwear just enough to slide the dildo through its O-ring; the ribbed ridges at the dildo’s back end press wonderfully against her core when he lifts the harness back into place. For his last step, he rips open a condom and rolls it down onto the toy. Process complete, his eyes flicker up to meet her gaze and await instruction.
“That’s a very good boy,” she praises, indulgently massaging his scalp. “Now suck.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
It never ceases to impress her how easily Sun’s able to transform an act she technically can’t even feel into a full-body experience. Roving, hungry hands stroke her thighs and knead lustily at the swell of her ass; his mouth is a marvel, all dexterous tongue and hollowed cheeks as he licks and suckles every inch of the shaft. There’s something almost contemplative about the way they sway as she starts to thrust. A trance-like calm that falls over the two of them, binding them together.
“All the way, handsome,” she coaxes, tugging gently on fistfuls of hair. “Show me you want it, like the cockslut you are.”
Sun moans, obediently relaxing his throat to take her deeper. The sight of latex-covered purple silicone disappearing and reappearing as he bobs his head should be embarrassing, ridiculous, silly, but instead it makes her clench and grind forward, trying to get as much friction out of the motion as she can. She loves this. He loves this. And that—
—that’s the thing domination gives her, that submission had once promised. The glow that comes from being of service; from being trusted to give someone exactly what they need and to take them exactly where they need to go. The satisfaction of a job well done, of being good enough. Yes, she likes being in control. And yes, she likes how that control—how being precise, measured, disciplined; how demanding that precision and discipline of others—can lead to such delicious, sexy messiness. But that’s not why she loves it. Why she needs it.
She needs it because doing it makes her feel worthy. Cherished. Capable.
And she never got that the other way around. Not with him; not after he ruined it. She—
The unexpected sensation of fingers pressing into the cleft of her ass startles her out of her thoughts; she patiently redirects Sun’s hands before he can really tease her rim through the harness. She’s not against the attention in theory, but she’s not wearing a navy wrist band tonight and he knows that. Plus, if they’re going to do butt stuff she’d prefer they do it properly—and either of them moving the few feet to her gym bag to grab lube feels like more effort than it’s worth. “Nice try, troublemaker; you just earned yourself an extra two minutes. If I want your ideas, I’ll ask for them.”
It’s only when he makes a noise of halfhearted protest that she realizes he goosed her in a last-ditch effort to make her orgasm; a quick glance at the clock confirms that the ten minute window has just closed.
“Ah. Cheeky,” she quips, smirking when the pun gets a laugh from one of their voyeurs. “Take a breather. You did well.”
He pulls off and smiles up at her, red-faced and breathless; heart swelling fondly, she offers him a hand and lifts him to his feet. “Need a break? A drink of water?”
“I need to come,” he whines, unthinking, then groans and wiggles his fingers derisively at the egg timer. “I know, I know. ‘That’s another minute.’”
“As long as we’re both on the same page about it,” she chuckles, trotting over to add the time he’s accrued as he steps back to the cross. “Eight minutes left. Think you can make it?”
“And risk doing that all over again if I don’t? You’re kid—” He catches himself and sighs. “I mean: yes, Blake.”
“Good boy,” she teases, letting the moment of levity linger a little longer. Once they’re punchy like this it can be difficult to stay in the right mindset, but she knows that the second the manacles go back on they’ll be good to go. That’s how it always is, with them.
She heads back to stand before him, cupping his cheek to kiss him softly before letting her hand drift down to the chain still suspended on his chest. “On or off?”
“Off.”
She removes the nipple clamps quickly, making him moan when she rubs her thumbs over the swollen, puffy flesh. He lifts his arms before she can even prompt him to, and she reaches up to close him into the cuffs.
“Almost there, pretty boy. This is it. No more toys, no more tricks. All you have to do is keep quiet while I take care of you. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Blake.”
“Good boy. How do you want it? My hands? My mouth?”
“Your cock,” he rasps thirstily, eyes plummeting to the dildo still jutting between her legs. Glistening with his spit.
“Good choice,” she purrs, voice a low growl as she wraps her arms around his neck and enters him without resistance.
It only takes about two thrusts for her to know this angle isn’t going to cut it; their respective heights don’t allow her to push as deep as he needs. He doesn’t appear to mind—too preoccupied, for the moment, with enjoying the way the fabric of her bra abrades his tender nipples—but she knows that won’t be enough. She tries to think past the way his hips grind and snap against hers, flooding her brain with dopamine, so she can puzzle through the problem and find a solution.
“Hey, stud? Put your hands around the chains and brace when I say so. I’m going to hoist you.”
Sun pants and nods, but his eyes are closed in ecstasy as he chases her every movement. He looks a thousand miles away.
“Not good enough. Ability check; I need your words.”
“Y-yes, Blake,” he stammers, reluctantly ceasing his writhing enough to properly get his feet under him. Planted, he’s able to grab at the chains he’s lashed to. “I got it. I’ll brace.”
Her hands drift down to cup his ass. “Good boy. Ready? Up.”
He hops, and she lifts, and suddenly his legs are wrapping around her waist and she’s holding him up and it’s perfect, perfect, perfect. She feels—strong isn’t even the word for it. She feels like a mythic champion. Like a goddess.
And judging by the way Sun’s gone suddenly boneless, moaning as he melts into her every thrust, she’s definitely found the right angle. Which—that’s hot as fuck, but not really sustainable when it means she can feel every ounce of how heavy he is.
“None of that. Pitch in,” she orders, nipping at his earlobe. With quaking limbs, he does his best to take some of his own weight and help her hold him upright. “Better. Thank you, that’s so good. You’re so good. Oh, look at you.”
She’s not playing fair; she knows what it does to him when the corrections stop and all she has for him is praise. Which is all according to plan, only—she has no idea how much time remains. She can’t turn her head to look at the clock without the risk of dropping him, and his movements are getting erratic. Wanton.
“Eyes open, handsome. Tell me how many minutes left.”
He makes a piteous little noise as she fucks into him, arching in pursuit of greater contact. “I… I…”
Then nothing. And while his stupefaction is incredibly flattering, she really doesn’t have the stamina to do this for another half hour. She switches tacks:
“Now, slut.”
“Two! T-two minutes.”
Thank god. “Two minutes is nothing. Hold it together.”
“Okay, Blake,” he mumbles dizzily, but she can tell he’s already floating halfway to orbit. So she digs her fingernails into the flesh of his thighs and starts talking, to keep him grounded:
“Stay with me a little longer, okay? You’ve got this. You’ve made it this far. Just a few more seconds left; don’t tell me you’re giving up now, stud. You’re so close. You’ve been so good…” Over and over, saying anything she can think of until finally—
—blessedly—
—the egg timer goes off, filling the room with its chipper ring.
“Good boy,” she effuses, nuzzling closer to croon in his ear. “All done, now. Relax. Relax and let go; let me have it.” He whimpers and shakes his head—so far into his plateau he can’t get there—and she hauls him upwards and shifts to get one arm beneath him, freeing her other hand to knead his growth. “It’s okay. You did it. Come for me.”
Seconds later, his whole body goes rigid as his climax crashes over him; she presses forward, letting the cross itself take as much of his weight as possible so she can rock with him through the aftershocks. They stay that way so long they lose their audience, the onlookers peeling away now that the show’s over. Slowly, eventually, his twitching muscles loosen. With a groan, he unwraps his legs from around her waist and lets his feet drop to the floor.
She brushes his sweaty bangs back from his forehead, waiting until he opens his eyes and blinks at her blearily to speak. “Hey, Sun. You with me?”
He chuckles. “I’m somewhere, alright. Jury’s out on whether my knees’ll hold up if I try to move, though.”
How does he think her arms feel after holding him for so long? Still, she’s only human; her ego won’t let that one go so easily. “Fucked you so hard you can’t walk, huh?”
“If you’re volunteering to carry me, then yeah, let’s go with that.”
“No way; you’re disgusting. Hit the showers,” she says, releasing him from the cuffs and helping him rub sensation back into the angry red lines they carved into his wrists in those last few moments he stopped holding on.
“You telling me what to do?” he teases. A tired joke he makes almost every time they finish a scene.
“You telling me you’re fit for company?” she shoots back, and he looks down at himself—stark naked, the myriad scratch marks and hickeys strewn across his skin coated in sweat and drool.
“The lady makes some points,” he grumbles, retrieving his underwear and heading back towards the locker rooms. “Don’t have too much fun without me!”
“How can I? You’re leaving me with all the chores!”
Not that she really minds it. There’s something settling in the motions—in cleaning off the club equipment and packing her own used toys away in spare Ziplocs. She slips the dildo out of her harness with an ungraceful, bow-legged tug, then digs out some baby wipes to clean herself off with. She prefers to wait and shower at home when she can get away with it; everything will need to be properly cleaned and disinfected there, anyway. Once she’s satisfied she’s presentable, she puts her dress back on, pumps some Purell onto her hands, and heads over to the lounge with her gym bag slung over her shoulder.
There, she finds exactly what she expects: Neptune Vasilias, sitting at the bar, fully engrossed in his attempts to fish the maraschino cherry out from the ice of his finished Shirley Temple with a cocktail straw.
“Sure you’re good to drive after hitting the hard stuff like that?” she quips in greeting, and he scrambles to not drop the glass as he jumps at the sound of her voice.
“You scared the shit out of me, I was concentrating!” he accuses, but he can’t hold his pout for more than a second before dissolving into easy laughter. “Jerk.”
“That’s me,” she agrees, happily leaning into his one-armed hug as he kisses her cheek. “Hey, Nep.”
“And a very good evening to you, Blake. How’d he do today? Fridge-worthy report card, ‘a pleasure to have in class?’”
She grins. “How about… ‘hard worker with a great attitude, but struggles with impulse control.’”
Neptune snorts, passing her one of the tall glasses of ice water he’s been babysitting for them. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Anything cool happening at work?”
She motions for him to wait a second, already halfway through chugging the whole glass. Sated, she hazards a smile. “Kinda, yeah! The MakerSpace has been driving up foot traffic, so everyone’s really happy about that. And we’re in talks with the Arts and Culture Commission to run a contest to find a muralist for the lobby reno. I think… appetite for programming has been solid lately, so I might be able to move into Adult or Teen Services soon if they need the help.”
“That’s awesome! Everything’s coming up Blake.”
Her smile falters. “Everything’s coming up library, at least. My car’s been doing that thing again.”
Neptune’s brow furrows. “You’ve gotta get that piece of crap into the shop. Or get a new one.”
“A new piece of crap?” she jokes, unable to resist.
“You know what I mean!”
“Maybe in a few months; things are just too busy right now.”
“You always say that.”
“I’m always busy.”
“Blake…” Neptune groans, but she’s saved from the lecture when he glances over her shoulder and his eyes light up. Turning around, she sees Sun fully clothed for the first time tonight—hair damp from his shower, massaging his understandably-sore jaw. Neptune masters himself just quickly enough to hiss “I am so not done nagging you about this” out of the corner of his mouth before he greets his husband with a merry, “Hey bud! Have good sex?”
Sun beams. “You know it!”
“Excellent, up top,” Neptune intones with a sage nod, raising his hand for a high-five. Of course, that quickly transforms into—
“They’re doing the secret handshake, aren’t they?” Fox asks from his spot behind the bar, and Blake laughs.
“Not even you’re spared the handshake?”
“Clap-clap smack-clap snap,” he recites, accurately describing the way the ritual sounds with a shrug of his shoulders. “But I am blissfully ignorant of the choreography.”
“Lucky man.”
“Blindness has its perks. Can I get you guys anything other than water?”
Sun looks up from his own glass with eager eyes, but Neptune shakes his head.
“No go; I’ve gotta take this guy home and get some pizza into him before he drops.”
(Blake can’t help but smother a tiny grin at the response on Sun’s behalf; for all that Neptune stands his ground on being Very Vanilla, most of the little tricks and phrases she uses to keep Sun in line come straight from him in one way or another.)
Fox accepts the answer, unfazed. “Blake?”
“I should probably head out, too; it’s a work night. Will you be around this weekend?”
“Will you?” he retorts, because they both know she almost never comes to the club on weekends. Still, he answers the question: “Saturday no, Sunday yes.”
“If I come in I’ll be sure to say hi,” she promises, before following the boys back out to the entry hall. There, she and Sun discard their bracelets into a bin by the door to be sterilized; Yatsuhashi takes their locker tickets and returns their phones, grabbing Sun and Neptune’s jackets from coat check. Sun grumbles about the burn in his thighs as together they climb up the stairs to Gianduja, then exit through the coffee shop and out into the night.
Blake shivers when the cold evening air hits her clammy skin. “See you Sunday?”
“Always,” Sun says, shooting her finger guns. “I’m thinking hot chicken. Or maybe shawarma.”
Neptune snorts. “I haven’t even fed you tonight’s dinner. Can you think with anything other than your stomach?”
“My dick,” Sun instantly replies, voice doubled as Blake volunteers “his dick” in almost perfect unison.
“…Yeah, I walked right into that one. G’night, Blake!”
“Night, guys,” she laughs, walking the last few steps to her car. Throwing her gym bag into the backseat, she slips in, buckles up, and starts the engine.
Or at least, she tries to.
“Oh, come on,” she groans as her engine makes a few sad, halfhearted whirring noises and then clicks off. “Come on, please.” She turns the key back and tries again twice more, only to be met with a few sadder, quieter mechanical chugs followed by silence.
Her phone lights up and begins vibrating on the passenger seat. Neptune calling, it says, displaying his contact photo—Neptune jerking backwards with a yelp as a seagull steals a hot dog right out of his hand, while Sun laughs his ass off in the background—with tone deaf cheerfulness.
Blake picks up with a sigh. “Please don’t say I told you so,” she begs, casting her eyes across the parking lot. Through her windshield, she can see Neptune and Sun inside Nep’s soccer mom minivan, illuminated by the soft yellow glow of his overhead lights.
She can also see his smug grin, all the way from here. “Blake, I’m a gentleman. Would I ever say something petty like that? I was just going to ask if you needed a jump.”
There’s no way around it that she can see. “Yes, please,” she mumbles, shoulders sinking in resigned petulance.
“Coming right up,” he chirps, pulling out of his space and driving around so that their cars face each other nose-to-nose. Regretting her decision to forgo a jacket, Blake presses the button to pop her front latch and steps back outside, walking around to raise the car’s hood.
As soon as she does, she wishes she hadn’t. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Sun asks, craning his neck to see over his armful of jumper cables.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to jump it. What the fuck is that?” she frets, pointing at the terrifying chemical cocoon of bright blue something coating one of her battery nodes. There’s something almost confectionary about it—a spun sugar, cotton candy cloud of Fuck Up Blake’s Night blooming ominously from the metal.
“Oh, shit,” Sun agrees. “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t touch that.”
Blake’s left eye twitches. “Of course we shouldn’t touch it!”
“Do you want to call someone?”
“At this hour? And if they have to tow it it’ll cost me an arm and a leg.”
Sun hums, conceding the point. “We can just drive you home? Let Future Blake deal with it?”
“Future Blake’s just as broke as Current Blake. And I still have to get to work in the morning.”
“No, we can still jump it!” Neptune declares, staring down at his phone. “We just have to clean it off with baking soda; people do this at home all the time. It’s just regular corrosion.”
Sun stares at his husband, jaw loose with surprise. “Dude, since when do you know car stuff?”
“Uh, since I googled ‘scary blue residue car battery’ and the internet told me? We can totally DIY this, I just have to grab a few things. Be right back!” Neptune calls over his shoulder, jogging towards the CVS.
“Our hero,” Sun says fondly, watching until Neptune disappears into the store before turning his attention back to Blake. Noticing the way she’s started to shiver, he frowns. “You cold? We can crank the heat in the van while we wait for him.”
“I’m fine,” Blake insists, the statement instantly belied by the way her teeth chatter as she says it.
Sun rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, opening the sliding door and rummaging around until he finds a gray zip-up hoodie and tosses it to her. Slipping it on, Blake determines it’s Neptune’s rather than Sun’s; the fabric’s relatively stain-free, and carries the subtle cedar-and-pine scent of Neptune’s aftershave.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
“Of course. Blake—”
“I’m really sorry for ruining your night,” she interrupts, knowing it won’t forestall any of his concern but trying it anyway. Meaning it deeply. (And… this is the other reason. The reason she needs it, the reason the club keeps luring her back. Because anywhere other than Anesidora? She’s a mess. She’s got no control at all.)
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Sun chides, stepping closer and wrapping her in a loose hug. Blake offers no resistance as he pulls her into his chest and props his chin on the crown of her head; she just leans in, enjoying the way she can feel his vocal cords vibrate against her skull every time he talks. “There’s nothing to ruin. You were my only plan for the night, anyway.”
“Me and pizza,” she contradicts.
“Pizza can wait.” They stand like that, quiet in the cold, until he musters the courage to press his luck again. “You really should do something about your car, though. What if this happened and we weren’t here?”
“Well, hopefully at some point it would have occurred to me to google it and I, too, could have gone to CVS for baking soda.”
“Blake,” he warns, and she sighs.
“I don’t know what to tell you. The city slashed our budget this fall and that ate up the raise I was supposed to get; between rent and loans and everything else what little discretionary money I do have goes to this.” She waves a hand in Gianduja’s general direction, trusting he knows what she means.
“But your parents—”
“Are so proud of how self-sufficient and independent I am, and I really don’t want that to change.” She’s never asked them for help, not once; not even after Adam. And if she didn’t need it then, she can certainly get by now. “I have an emergency fund. I just… really don’t want this to be an emergency, you know?”
He hums his understanding. Then: “You know, if our roles were reversed you’d be giving me so much more shit about this than I’m giving you.”
The truth of it makes her smile. “I know.”
Two minutes later, Neptune emerges from the CVS with a shopping bag held high in triumph. “Success!” he declares. Returning to their cars, he unpacks his spoils: rubber kitchen gloves, paper towels, baking soda, a large bottle of water, and—somewhat incongruously—a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. “Don’t ruin your dinner,” he orders as Sun makes a small noise of joy and lets go of Blake to tear into the packaging. “That’s just so you don’t crash.”
“Best aftercare ever,” Sun preens through a full mouth, beaming at him.
“Yeah, yeah. Blake, you’re Water Captain because that’s the science part and it scares me,” Neptune says, voice businesslike as he hands her the bottle and puts on his gloves. “Now unless the internet’s lying, this should be easy peasy. We dump on the baking soda—like so—” he narrates, shaking the white powder all over the coated battery terminal, “—and then we rinse. Blake?”
Blake obediently tips some of the water out, watching with fascination as, on contact, the corrosion instantly melts into a frothy discharge.
“Whoa!” Sun laughs. “Okay, that was kinda cool.”
Neptune shoos him to stand back. “Then we wipe up all that crap,” he says, doing so with a thick wad of paper towels, “and boom. Now we can give Blake a jump.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Nep, seriously,” Blake says, taking the leads Sun hands her and attaching them to her battery.
“And don’t you forget it,” he winks, double-checking the clamps on his own engine before returning to the driver’s seat and starting the van. “Okay, now you!”
Sending up a prayer to who-knows-who, Blake slips into her car and closes her eyes. “Please be good for me,” she begs, before hesitantly turning her key.
The engine roars to life, and Blake finally lets herself breathe.
Blake keeps the jumper cables, because Neptune insisted, and takes the long way home so that the battery has more time to charge before she turns the car off again. When she finally finds a spot in front of her building, she sees that she missed a few texts while she was driving:
- Sun
- giving u a jump + using the nip clamps earlier gave me an idea
- can we try electroplay? 👀
KinkLab Neon Wand Kit- …I would pay 4 it obvs I know you were just saying things r tight
- Nep says 2 stop txting u while yr driving so fine but think abt it and lmk 😎🥰
Today, 9:11 PM
Chuckling to herself, Blake briefly considers leaving him on read for the night just to make him squirm before caving and texting back:
Blake
Will definitely think about it.
Also just realized I stole Neptune’s hoodie; I’ll bring it on Sunday.
His thumbs-up reaction buzzes her phone before she can even return it to her pocket.
Wishing she could somehow teleport the final hundred feet home, Blake retrieves her gym bag and braves the cold at a slightly-embarrassing jog. The two flights up to her floor remind her all over again how dumb it was for her to hold Sun up the way she did—her legs are alright but her back’s killing her, which means she probably did it wrong—and she sighs with relief when she’s able to finally cross the threshold into her space, and deadbolt the door behind her.
Home sweet home.
Blake flips a few lights, then puts on a podcast Pyrrha recommended when banishing the dark doesn’t quite manage to make the place feel less empty. With meticulous, practiced motions, she hand-washes her dildo and the released ball of the ball gag before—following a quick check to ensure she didn’t forget any dirty dishes—loading them into the top rack of her dishwasher and hitting ‘Sanitize.’ While the cycle runs she turns her attention to everything else she used, giving each item a comprehensive cleaning. By the time she’s finished the dishwasher’s been running well over ten minutes; she takes her silicone toys out, dries them thoroughly, and packs the whole lot back into the locked trunk in her living room that doubles as a surprisingly stealthy coffee table.
It’s only when she goes to pause the podcast on her way to the bathroom that she realizes she hasn’t retained a word of it. Huffing in annoyance, she thumbs the scrub bar backwards so she can try again later and strips out of her dress and underwear.
Normally, her post-play shower is one of the highlights of her evening. A chance to cast her mind back and relive every moment she just experienced; her time to let go and enjoy herself (literally) with clever fingers, rolling hips, and a well-researched, personally-installed shower head. Tonight, however…
Tonight none of her usual tricks have any effect on her, and her thoughts insist on spiraling fretfully over what happened with her stupid car battery. There’s probably a joke to be made there if she were in the mood for it—something about repeated failures to start her engine—but the thought brings her little joy. Finally, her hot water flags and she’s forced to concede defeat, stepping out of the shower clean but unsatisfied.
Somewhere across town, she knows, Sun and Neptune are sprawled out on their couch, laughing their way through some dumb movie they’ve already seen a million times as a greasy meat lover’s pizza cools, half-eaten, on their kitchen counter. Neptune will invariably fall asleep before the third act break, and Sun will invariably fall asleep before he remembers he’s not supposed to let Neptune fall asleep during movies; if they’re lucky one of them will jerk awake around 2 AM and wonder why the hell they’re on the couch with all the lights still on, and groggily rouse the other to wash up and brush their teeth, pizza totally forgotten.
Blake, for her part, turns out the lights and gets in bed exactly according to schedule, and promises herself it’s easy to mistake solitude for loneliness when your goddamn buzzkill of a car has managed to make something as delightful as masturbation feel like a chore.
