Archive of Our Own

Victor isn't good with heat—which sounds weird to say, because he's not bad with anything, a big part of his whole thing is survival (almost) no matter what, and all that. It's not like it's really terrible, and he does enjoy lounging in the sun, but when it blares and blares and burns on his skin, when it's hot and humid, it starts to get really fucking annoying; which is why he's not a big fan of goddamn jungles.

Right now, however, he feels himself unable to think about any of that at all, because in the sun, at the beach, Monet is radiant. Her skin is sparkling with the sunscreen she's applied on herself earlier—something that made weird fantasies erupt inside of him, like her underneath him with his palms rubbing sunscreen into her back, and he shoves that away because she does not like to be touched and he needs to learn how to be normal about her, anyway—as she suns herself next to him, sunglasses on her face, bikini blood red. She's wearing a ruby necklace. The gems look like drops of blood on her cleavage.

(It really gets him going. Makes him feel ill with how much it does.)

Her towel is right next to his. She's barely apart from him; he could brush her arm if he reached out.

He doesn't.

There are more weird fantasies in Victor's head, steadily building with every second he spends with her, no matter how he fights it. Thoughts of being on vacation with her, sipping cocktails and lounging in the sun. Thoughts of her hands digging into his shoulders, or him feeding her some cheese. Thoughts of silk sheets—something he doesn't really care about, but Monet sure looks like she does—with her body tangled in them. His body tangled right there with her. Thoughts of her laughter and fizzy bottles of alcohol and hotel showers with clear doors. Thoughts of how her hair would feel while he's washing it.

But this isn't a vacation, and she's definitely not his girl like he fantasizes about her being sometimes, when he's alone in his room, when he's halfway sure she can't listen. This is just one of the beaches of the Savage Land and they're the X-Men (miraculously, in his case, but Magneto's their leader, so maybe it's not that miraculous after all; bad and bad sticks together, he supposes) and Monet next to him looks like she's inhabiting a whole other world than he is, even when there's barely any actual physical distance between them at all.

"You're staring."

Victor blinks. "Yeah, I am," he says, scratching at the side of his beard, the sun burning into his back. He doesn't get sunburnt; or, well, he always heals quickly. He doesn't care much for sunscreen, even when Monet twisted her mouth earlier when she offered him some and he declined. Victor thinks she probably hasn't heard no a lot in her life. Thinks—the stupid part of him—that he's also going to always say yes to her, even when he's evidently not. "Yer gorgeous."

It's easy to say things like these, because they don't mean anything more than the truth, that she's objectively gorgeous, don't reveal any of what's storming in his chest. Because they make her smile. And she is smiling now, grinning with half her mouth, her eyes invisible to him under her sunglasses. Yet another barrier between them.

"Thank you," she says with a giggle that rushes through him like a good drink. He's staring at the jewels on her tits again. "You're sure you're alright? Your back is starting to smell like bacon."

Victor rolls his eyes. "Fuck off," he says, "I'm fine."

And he is. Physically, that is. He's fine, the sun is burning on his skin and there's a beautiful woman next to him and he's fine. God, he's obsessed with her.

There's things he wants to tell her. M, being here with ya means much more ta me than you can imagine. M, do ya think 'bout me sometimes? M, I don't know what love is, but I wanna be with ya 'till the end of my days. M, I think I'd be okay just stayin' here even if ya never let me touch ya at all. M, you bein' next ta me makes somethin' in me feels all peaceful, an' I don't think I ever felt like that. Not in a long time, at least. M, can I have ya? Will ya have me?

He doesn't say any of that, obviously. That would make him look desperate, and he's not.

(It would make him look needy, and he thinks Monet probably couldn't handle that. Thinks she always needs this distance. Thinks she'd run away even further than she usually does, with that playful gaze over her shoulder. Thinks he needs to stop chasing her.)

"Are you gonna go in the water any time soon or are you just gonna stay here staring?" Monet asks then, and he smiles a little at the thought that he might be annoying her.

Swimming a little does sound great, however. It really is way too fucking hot, and the water is nice and cool, even despite the absolutely brutal waves of the Savage Land; which he'd withstand anyway. Or, well, he'd heal if push comes to shove. He wonders if Monet would fish his corpse out of the water and let him heal on land in the sand, and his smile widens.

"You're disgusting," she comments, and Victor doesn't even feel like telling her to stay out of his head. It's terrible, really; he doesn't even mind anymore.

"Drowning don't feel nice, I'll tell ya what," he says, grinning at the way she grimaces. Why is she so appalled, anyway? Surely she's seen worse.

But she hasn't seen worse happen to him, and he needs to stop that train of thought right there before he gets too stupid with it, too hopeful.

"Rather stay here an' stare anyhow," he adds, weirdly placating, and he has the distinct feeling Monet might be rolling her eyes under her shades.

She drives him crazy. He wants—wants, wants, wants.

(Wants to stare at her for ages. Wants to wash her. Wants to be on his knees in front of her. Wants her to look at him. Wants her to carve his guts out. Wants to kiss her. Wants to grab her; wants to touch, touch, touch. It drives him crazy. She drives him crazy. Been a long fucking time since he's felt anything even close to this.)

Monet shrugs. "Not like there's anything nicer to look at around here, anyway."

She's right, of course. But he's not that embarrassing yet, so he simply hums, watching as she stretches, watching her ribs move under her skin, the way her abs tighten until they release. He thinks he can taste her on the air with his mouth open so he can smell her better; all jungle and salt and sunscreen and something like vanilla, he thinks.

She purses her lips when a particularly intense visual of his tongue dragging over her skin crosses Victor's mind, and he feels his face heat up. Well, as much as that's possible with all the heat that makes him all sticky all around already.

He really needs to get a grip.

It's almost relief and disappointment both when she doesn't mention it, and for a moment he wonders if she saw the thought at all. But then she reaches for the sunscreen, hand brushing his shoulder (she does touch him, sometimes, and somehow, that makes it worse, because he's not allowed to touch her back, because he doesn't want to if she doesn't want him to) and he thinks about how they've barely been here an hour and does she really need sunscreen again anyway?

For some reason, even though he can't see her eyes, Victor can feel Monet's gaze on him as she pushes the necklace she's wearing over her shoulder—a movement he follows with something like bated breath, watches the gems sparkle, a hot shiver rushing through him at her pretty long fingers and the way her shoulder is reflecting the sunlight—before squirting some of the sunscreen directly on her cleavage.

Victor's brain short-circuits.

"Monet," he warns, but she gives no indication that she heard him at all, simply continues rubbing the sunscreen into her chest. With her free hand, she takes off her sunglasses, her eyes under it so dark brown they almost look black, shaking out her hair before spreading the leftover sunscreen on her hand on her nose.

"Lie down, big boy."

Fuck. Fuck. He stares at her with wide eyes for a few moments; there's something primal unfurling in his chest, something feral. He's half-hard already, trying desperately to get a grip, because she's not going to—this isn't—

He still lies down. Simply lets his chest sink to his towel, twisting his head so he can watch how she gets up on her knees, how she shuffles over to him, sunscreen still in hand, and then she's out of sight. His heart is racing so much he's getting stupid with it.

Her thigh brushes his waist and something inside of him jumps as Monet straddles him, and it's only when her palms—cold and strangely… wet—come into contact with his back that he finally puts two and two together. Right. Right. The fucking sunscreen. Right.

It still feels all too nice, the way she rubs her palms into his back, the way the sunscreen cools down his heated skin a little bit. It still feels all too nice, her weight on the small of his back, the warmth of her thighs framing him. Makes him want to die, really. How is he supposed to be normal about this?

She smacks Victor's shoulder but doesn't move an inch. "There we go. No more tiger bacon."

You're terrible, he wants to say. Wants to reach behind him and grab her arm, yank her underneath him until he can press her into the towel, until he can eat her.

"Ya don't like bacon?"

He can hear her scoff a little. It's driving him insane that he can't see her like this, really.

"I don't eat pork."

"Ain't no pig," he mumbles into the crook of his arm, and Monet laughs. Drags her finger down the bumps of his spine, one by one, and it makes him shiver. Makes him feel like he's going to explode every second now, tick, tick, tick, boom.

Her voice is haunting when she speaks; deep and dripping with something that's either lust or her making fun of him—he never quite knows the difference. The air smells salty and warm, but perhaps that's just the ocean behind them.

"You're pink like one, though."

All in all, not really top ten most sexiest sentences he's ever heard, but Victor is going insane anyway. It's not really about what she's saying; it's about the tone, the one she has when her fingers touch her lips, when she's grinning at him and batting her lashes, when he has the sick impulse to reach out and crush her in his grip like a butterfly. When he has the even stronger impulse—perhaps even sicker, too—to give her everything he has and more, forever, always, always, always.

"Monet…" he says again, but this time, it's less sharp. Less hissing. Less warning. He just… feels all warm inside, and he feels so much affection for her he could die, and by now he's definitely not just half-hard anymore.

Monet gets off him. A noise slips out of him involuntarily, a noise of loss, of frustration—God, he's so fucking stupid—but she's pushing at his shoulder and he follows her tug, rolls on his back, hisses at the coarse feeling of his towel on his skin. Maybe he does have a sunburn. Not that he can think about any of that in any particularly in-depth way, because Monet climbs back on him, now straddling his hips, leaning back a little to settle on his thighs.

She's too far away. Victor wants to grab her, wants to pull her closer, closer, closer.

As if sensing his frustration—and really, she could be, couldn't she?—Monet tilts her head and smiles, her hair falling over her shoulder like a wave of silk, dangling next to her cleavage, and puts her hands on his chest. That small touch is enough to send him spinning, to make another noise spill out of him; something like a growl.

"Now, now," she grins, her eyes sparkling. With the sun behind her, her black hair shines at the edges like she's wearing a halo. "You don't touch me, alright? You know the rules, Creed."

He does. He still wishes she'd call him Victor instead.

He squints at her—the sun stabs into his eyes and part of him wants to flip around again, but she's so nice on top of him, and she's grinning at him still, and he's going insane—before lifting his hands in mock surrender.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

It really is way too fucking hot. It really is way too fucking hot, frying his brain cells in his goddamn skull, and he really can't do anything about it when she starts spreading sunscreen on his chest, too. When her hands brush lower, pressing against his abs, when he squeezes his eyes shut and rolls his head back and pretends he's somewhere else so he doesn't completely lose it.

Monet is doing it on purpose. Shifting on top of him, hands lingering on his shoulder and his chest and his stomach for longer than necessary, her touch sparking on his skin, sending him spinning, she's doing it on purpose, she has to be. Jesus Christ. She's so mean about it.

"Ya done gropin' me any time soon?"

He can hear the grin in her voice when the very tips of her fingers ghost lower, lower, lower, tickling against the hair on his stomach, until they bump into the waistband of his swimming trunks. "I don't think so, no."

His hips jump a little with it, another sound clawing its way out of his throat, and it's just terrible. She's toying with him, she always is; and he's just fucking letting her, like he enjoys it.

One fingernail of her other hand ghosts over his adam's apple up to his jaw, undoubtedly leaving a red line behind, and he swallows at it, peeks at her with one eye. Yeah, she's still grinning at him like this—having entirely too much fun with him—and he's still having trouble looking at her without feeling a hot jolt rush through him, right to just a few inches above where she's sitting.

(He thinks that must have been on purpose, too. Wonders which option is more humiliating; having Monet sit on his erection or having her avoid it completely.)

"You're a little red," she says, her teeth a pearly white flash between red painted lips. "Are you sure you should stay out in the sun?"

Victor groans. "You're terrible."

It makes her giggle again, and for some reason, that makes the tight frustration in his body unfurl for just a second, for some reason, it makes everything alright for just a moment. He grits his teeth. What the hell is she doing to him anyway? What the hell is he letting her do?

Finally, he forces his eyes open. She's leaned forwards, her necklace dangling between them, and he can't, can't, can't take his goddamn eyes off her. She's radiant; not only because of the blinding sun behind her, making her a little hard to see—bright light is harder than darkness for his eyes, really—but just in general, she always is. Distracts him, really. Makes him fumble when he really shouldn't be fumbling, like on missions, and he's real tired of Betsy's and Magneto's sharp gazes, because he gets it, okay? He does.

Doesn't make her any less beautiful. Any less… well, hot, and it makes something like guilt boil in his stomach to think about her like this, because she could see. She could listen. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable.

(He doesn't want to chase her away.)

"Monet," he says again. Pleads, really, all the warning and the hiss gone from it, but really, his resolve has long since melted. But really, he'd have let her do whatever she wanted to him from the very first time he set eyes on her, as much as she pissed him off. But really, but really, but really, her eyes look like black holes like this and he wants to kiss her, wants to see if her lipstick will come off with it. Probably not. Seems like expensive waterproof stuff is like… the bare minimum for her standards, but it's also not like he knows anything about makeup.

And he's so fucking tired of not having a clue of how to deal with this. He doesn't want to go back—and really, Monet probably wouldn't be a big fan of the guy he used to be anyway; not that he's sure if she's a big fan of the guy he is now—but this frustration just keeps building, because she keeps being just so out of reach, looking over her shoulder and batting her lashes.

If she just didn't want him, he could cope with it, really. He'd just… whatever, silently pine after her from afar, she's so beautiful she must be used to it anyway with her stupid telepathy, so that shouldn't bother her, not too much, and that would be fine. But that's not it, isn't it, because she keeps fucking nudging him along, because she keeps hanging out with him, because she's now on top of him at the beach and he's going to burn up until there's nothing left of him.

Who knows, maybe her not liking him would be the best option, because he wants to touch her so bad he wants to die. Because more than that, he wants to—wants to tell her what she means to him, but he thinks that might be over the invisible line that's between them, thinks that might make her pull back completely, thinks that might make her drop their game or whatever the fuck it is they're doing.

Point is, Victor feels trapped. Point is, he's so far gone it doesn't even really bother him anymore.

Monet is smiling at him. It lacks its usual bite, the usual condescension, and it makes something warm erupt in Victor's chest, something that makes him think oh God, oh fuck. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die.

"Yeah?" she breathes out, and he can see it so fucking clearly, brushing his knuckles over her cheek softly, leaning up to kiss her, cupping the back of her head while she leans into him, can see it so clearly it prickles on his lips even as he lies unmoving on his stupid fucking towel.

With fantasies like these, he's never quite sure if they just come from his brain or if Monet puts them there, because they're so vivid. Thinks he wouldn't fucking mind either way, because he'd be in this hole even without them. She makes him fucking crazy.

"Please don't be mean," he croaks out. It's pathetic, probably, but there's something sparkling in her eyes, but she's biting down on her bottom lip, and maybe she likes him like that. Maybe that's why she's into him, because he's so fucking pathetic. Mystery solved. Great.

"But you like when I'm mean," she says with pursed lips, smile still sparkling in her eyes, drawing swirls and circles into the skin right above the waistband of his swimming trunks. Nails snagging against his hair from time to time, sending pinpricks of want through him.

And God, she's right, isn't she? He does like when she's mean. Wants to bury himself inside of it. Wants her to wreck him.

(Maybe there's something deeper behind it. These days, a lot of his life is ruled by guilt over the guy he used to be; maybe it's simply what he thinks he deserves, being tortured by a beautiful devil until the ends of his days without any hope for resolution. Maybe he's just into mean women, because he guesses he's been before, too.)

Doesn't seem to matter anymore either way, because it seems like Monet's done being mean. Because Monet leans back on his thighs again, snaps the elastic of his waistband against his skin, before flicking her eyes up to him, like she's making sure he's okay with this. Victor almost laughs. Why the hell would he not be okay with this? He's not insane.

(Well, he probably is. But still, he's not stupid; he'd never refuse her. How could he not want her?)

"Anythin'."

She laughs a little, and it's almost a soft sound, one that echoes in his chest next to all the needling she usually does. She's beautiful. She's beautiful.

And then he stops thinking anything at all because Monet tugs his trunks down enough so his cock springs free and it truly shouldn't be a surprise at this point—didn't she just ask? What did he think she was going to do? — but it still shocks him to his core, zaps through his body until his head is white-hot and empty. She wraps her hand around his shaft, squeezing, and a groan wrecks its way out of him, his hands twitching on the towel.

No touching no touching no touching.

"Look at you," Monet purrs, rubbing her thumb over the head of his cock, where pre-cum is already beading. He can't think about it staining her hand, or he'll come on the spot. "A picture of self control. But I think you can do better."

Victor's head is spinning so much it almost makes him feel nauseous. It's almost too much, all of it—the sun beaming into his face, the towel on his back, Monet's figure almost invisible in the light, her weight and heat on top of him, her hand curled around his cock, slowly jerking him, like she intends on letting him come sometime the next year.

And then none of it is enough at all because her hand disappears and then her weight disappears, too, the shade she was casting on his body gone, the sun so blinding his vision blurs for a moment. It causes him to gasp, disoriented, and it's only at Monet's laughter—a little mean again in a way that makes him want to grab her after all, makes him want to take her, makes him want to kiss her until they both cease to exist—that snaps him back, and he turns his head to where she's now lying on her back on her own towel, twisting her hand in the air. His cock is still hanging out of his trunks and he feels ridiculous and he knows she knows because she's grinning. He can't even be mad about it. Fuck, he can't even be mad about it.

"Come here, big boy."

It takes a moment until he understands, and his mouth is dry when he follows the beckoning of her hand. When he gets up on all fours and moves until he's hovering over her, hands planted on either side of her head, thumbs just barely brushing her hair, spilled out on her towel, some of it in the sand. Her head is tilted to the side, and she's smiling. A sly little smile, one that tells him there's a lot going on in her head right now, things she's planning, and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Makes him shiver in something like anticipation.

He's never cared much about other people's heads—except for ripping them off, back when he still delighted in things like that—but right now, Victor thinks he would give anything to be a telepath like her. To dig deep, to peel back her layers, to finally get at what lies behind that smile of hers.

Except for her hair, no part of her is touching him; by design, both his and hers. But she's right, like this, it will be much harder to hold back. Like this, when he's on top, when he could—

Monet clicks her tongue, and it snaps him back immediately, like an idiot. Makes him go rigid as both her hands brush down his chest, fingertips ghosting over the hair he has there and on his stomach, demanding every single shred of his attention.

"Look at me," she says, and he does. Looks at her sharp face, the slope of her nose, the almost dangerous glimmer in obsidian eyes, the way her full lips curl into a smile. The mole she has on her left cheek, a bit above her mouth, and he wants to press a kiss there. Wants to nuzzle in the crook of her neck. Wants, wants, wants.

But he knows the rules, and he really doesn't want her to stop playing with him. Doesn't want her to stop looking at him.

One of Monet's hands reaches its destination, wraps back around his cock, and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek and squeeze his eyes shut so he doesn't make an embarrassing noise.

Her hand freezes. "Look at me."

God, he thinks he's trembling. What the fuck is she doing to him? What the hell is happening? There's something clawing at his ribcage, a need like he doesn't think he's felt before.

(He likes this, he thinks. In the end, it still manages to be surprising. He likes this. Would like anything she's willing to give him.)

It takes a moment until he can force his eyes back open. Until he can blink, until his vision clears to her face again, a sight he thinks he'd like to always see whenever he opens his eyes. Oh, he's so fucking far gone.

She's still smiling. Lifts a brow in a silent question, and the shiver that goes down his spine this time is almost cold.

Monet is invulnerable. He can't hurt her, even if he wanted to. She's stronger than him, could pin him down, could tear him apart, and he doesn't really mind any of those thoughts—a part of him even likes them. But most importantly: Monet is a telepath. She could push into his mind and take him by force. She could rifle through his very being, see every fibre of it, decide if he's worth it or not. Could control his very mind and body. And—and he doesn't even mind that thought. He would give her anything.

It's scary, this feeling in his chest.

"I'm sorry," Victor says out loud, and her face softens again in something of a satisfied look, one that makes him burn.

"That's a good boy."

He glares at her and she laughs, but it makes a hot rush flash through him anyway. Makes him buck his hips into her touch, makes him hiss, and she bites down on her bottom lip, sending him spinning. Oh, fuck.

"Shut up," he hisses, but she ignores him, glances at his chest before batting her lashes and looking him in the eye again, smile almost sweet as she squeezes his cock in her hand. For a second, he thinks she might stop because he mouthed off to her—jerks through him tasting like panic, and when did he become like this anyway?—but then she starts moving her hand, jerking him with a pressure that's almost brutal.

There's something heated dancing in her eyes when he moans, when he forces himself to keep his eyes open, to keep his gaze on her face and not her tits or her legs or her stomach. Monet shifts underneath him, teeth still digging into her blood red bottom lip, and he thinks she likes this, too. It makes all the hair on his body stand up, her thumb brushing over the head of his cock again. She likes this, too, doesn't she?

"Monet," he gasps, back to begging, and she smiles with one corner of her mouth. He thinks her skin would be warm to the touch; heated up by the sun. Thinks she'd taste nice if he kissed her, if he buried his head between her legs. Thinks she'd feel nice around him, thinks he wants to die buried in her.

No touching no touching no touching.

He can't do this. He can't do this. His forehead sags to the towel next to her head, her hair brushing his skin, her scent so close he's spinning. Her hand around his cock unrelenting, and it takes tension in his whole body to force himself to not touch her.

"Monet. Please. Please."

Her hand stills again, and at this point, he's almost ready to weep at the loss. He's so fucking hard, and she smells so fucking good, and her hand is so fucking soft around him. He needs to—needs to—

God, he's so physical. He needs to bite her, to claw at her, to touch her, to press kisses to her skin. How the fuck is he supposed to survive this when she's not letting him touch her?

"Look at me," she repeats, and most annoyingly of all, she doesn't even sound impatient. No, she sounds like she's having the time of her life.

Obviously Monet legitimately doesn't like to be touched, generally, but right now, Victor thinks a big part of it is fucking with him, too. And Jesus Christ is she fucking with him.

He grits his teeth and lifts his head to glare at her, jaw tight, and Monet smiles back, her nose scrunching a little with it. She smells like delight. She smells like need. How does she do this?

Her free hand dances up his stomach and his chest to wrap around his throat loosely, and he lets her. Lets her, lets her, lets her. Anything, he said, didn't he?

She scratches at the side of his neck and starts stroking him again and he moans, squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them again once he remembers—look at me look at me look at me, no touching no touching no touching—and this time, she doesn't punish him for it. This time, she doesn't slow down, continues jerking him off, and there's the waves of the ocean behind them and the jungle in front of them and even though there's so much life all around them, Victor feels like they're the only people in the universe.

"You're cute, you know," she whispers, quickens her pace a little, and it sends his head spinning. He's tight all over, trying so hard to stay still, to stay in control, pleasure and discomfort rushing through him in waves, her hand so nice, so good, her smell so nice, so good, her face so nice, so good, and a desperate noise makes it out of his throat. "Shhh. I got you."

It's a weird parody of affection. It's sparkling in her eyes, this warmth, but her voice drips with a condescension that makes him reel. Feels like playing a fucked up game of love me, love me not, and Victor doesn't think he's ever been this desperate. Doesn't think he's ever been this willing to offer every part of him to someone else.

Fuck you, he wants to say, but he knows that the only thing coming out of him should he open his mouth would be more begging. More, more, more. Please, please, please.

Monet probably hears him anyway, because she softens her grip on his throat and cups his face, squeezing his cock so nicely, and he leans into her touch, some of the tension leaving him at last. He can almost forget about his burning need to touch her like this.

"I got you," she repeats, whispering it, and this time her voice is warmer, this time, it tingles through his body until he's coming. Until he's twitching in her grasp, groaning, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling it wash and wash and wash over him, like the brutal waves of the Savage Land ocean behind them.

His ears are ringing. He doesn't think he's ever gotten off so easily without any violence involved. He thinks no one has ever called him cute before, even when she was making fun of him.

Victor is gasping, catching his breath, and it's so fucking hard to hold himself up like this, to make sure he doesn't fucking touch her. His vision blurs into focus, Monet's face clearing underneath him once more, but she's glancing down.

Chest still heaving, everything inside of him still tingling, he follows her gaze, down himself to where her hand is still loosely wrapped around his softening cock, then down her body, to his cum on her stomach.

Oh, shit, he thinks, even when the picture rushes through him hotly, even when it strokes something primal inside of him. Even when he keeps staring at his pale cum on her brown stomach, even when he can't take his eyes off her. Oh fuck.

Finally, when he notices she still hasn't said anything yet, he forces himself to glance at Monet's face again, at where she's grimacing at her stomach.

"Sorry," he blurts, and she snorts a little. Lets go of his dick and his face, dips her fingers into his cum, and he groans, heat rushing through him again.

"I suppose it's my fault. I made you get on top," she says, lifting her hand to his mouth, and he opens up for her without thinking, allowing her to press her fingers to his tongue. He tastes salty and bitter and he wants to kiss her so bad. "Hm, your tongue is rough."

Despite the heat, Victor is shivering. Despite what he's done—which is fuck-all, at least physically—he feels strangely exhausted.

Monet keeps her fingers in his mouth for a few moments more, brushing against his teeth, and the visual from earlier returns; his tongue dragging over her skin, her taste almost palpable.

Then she pulls back and nudges at the back of his head, pulls him down, down, down, until he has to look up at her from under his lashes, until his nose brushes her stomach. There it is, the contact at last, and he knows what she wants, but it still feels like a relief so huge it makes him want to scream.

He obeys. Decides it doesn't fucking matter anymore anyway, because she's already taken him apart so thoroughly, because she's already proven she can do whatever and he's fine with it. So he cleans her stomach of his cum with his tongue, and he almost feels fucking grateful for it, because she lets him put one of his hands loosely on her waist, because he can nuzzle his face into her skin just a little bit, because she's so close and she's so warm and she smells so fucking nice.

Monet taps the top of his head, and he lifts it again, reluctantly moving away from the heat of her stomach.

"There we go."

There's the strangest impulse inside of him to thank her, but he doesn't. Instead, he just looks at her, silently; thinks he'd fall apart if he spoke now. He's still begging, he thinks. Maybe he'll always be.

Her face softens again, and something inside of Victor squeezes so tightly he thinks he'll die. She cups his face again, this time with both hands, presses a kiss to his nose. "I know," she says. "I know."

And then, before he can ask what she knows, she nudges at him again, and he gets off her.

"Go cool down, big boy. I'll fish you out if you bash your brains in on a rock or whatever."

He doesn't ask if he can return the favor. Maybe he's not brave enough to question her yet.