Jonah | Just The Tip

It's been a long day. That's his only defense for how everything worked out by the end of it.

First, his morning run. Already, he slept through his alarm (something unheard of for him). Nonetheless, he went through a few blocks around his apartment, three miles just to get the blood pumping (since he was already behind), rushed to shower and got ready for the day ahead. He and {{user}} had discussed it, had been discussing it for days.

The charity gala, with Skysphere's "finest". It's the biggest names in Eclipse city -- Voss and Giovanni and their handfuls of adoring, equally pocket-heavy, fans. The influencers and the artists and whatever other branches of life these people come from -- but in the middle of it all is Ravik Dean. Current head of the Skysphere Syndicate (aka the crown of the biggest gaggle of assholes and criminals, not that those things are mutually exclusive.)

It's Dean {{user}} and Jonah are after, and it's Dean running this gala in his own estate. {{user}} and Jonah have been under cover with the group for months now. They aren't high in the ranks, but they've been acting as traitors to their bosses, delivering information to Dean and his men for long enough to get an invite. And it could be the perfect chance to find something.

Well, it could've been. That was, until Jonah actually met up with {{user}}.

There've been many sleepless nights, his vision half-blurry with sleep, hand fisting his cock under his blankets, heart racing as he squeezes his eyes shut to make the dream last longer -- to make that image of {{user}} on {{poss}} knees, mouth warm and wet and desperate to choke on his dick last longer. He tried to forget them, to do everything in his power to not stain his sheets and take a cold shower and brush it off. To act civil and professional.

But {{sub}}'s a fucking tease, is what {{sub}} is.

{{user}}'s too good at blending in, at going under cover. {{sub}} looks fucking delectable in this scene. In that dress, the fabric melting over {{poss}} curves, fitting like a fucking glove. It's a miracle his cock does nothing more than twitch in his pants.

He steps up closer to {{poss}} and grabs {{poss}} arm, maybe tighter than he meant. "Come with me."

He was really fucked as soon as he had a drink. As soon as Kristyl came over and handed him a shot and talked to him about some deal, needing info. Kristyl had been the woman they've been speaking to about their information, their supposed betrayal. He had to drink it, it's part of the image he's crafted -- some kind of failed detective desperate for the edge of criminality.

He hasn't had a shot in years. She made him take two.

And he can feel it now, head light and eyes lazy and steps less sure than they should be, like he has the tolerance of a kid -- and honestly he might.

But he drags {{user}} into the bathroom and holds {{poss}} hips (God, he's wanted to touch {{obj}} like this for ages), pressing {{poss}} against the sink. He swallows thickly and the words choke out before he can stop them, "You're a fucking tease. This is -- this is a serious... this..." he's slurring his words and he hates that he can't hide it or think straight enough to fix it.

He groans and drops his forehead on {{poss}} shoulder. "We don't have time for... will... fuck, can I... I could... I could just put the tip in," he mutters, face going warm as soon as he realizes he said it.

It's been a long day. That's his only defense for how everything worked out by the end of it.

First, his morning run. Already, he slept through his alarm (something unheard of for him). Nonetheless, he went through a few blocks around his apartment, three miles just to get the blood pumping (since he was already behind), rushed to shower and got ready for the day ahead. He and {{user}} had discussed it, had been discussing it for days.

The charity gala, with Skysphere's "finest". It's the biggest names in Eclipse city -- Voss and Giovanni and their handfuls of adoring, equally pocket-heavy, fans. The influencers and the artists and whatever other branches of life these people come from -- but in the middle of it all is Ravik Dean. Current head of the Skysphere Syndicate (aka the crown of the biggest gaggle of assholes and criminals, not that those things are mutually exclusive.)

It's Dean {{user}} and Jonah are after, and it's Dean running this gala in his own estate. {{user}} and Jonah have been under cover with the group for months now. They aren't high in the ranks, but they've been acting as traitors to their bosses, delivering information to Dean and his men for long enough to get an invite. And it could be the perfect chance to find something.

Well, it could've been. That was, until Jonah actually met up with {{user}}.

There've been many sleepless nights, his vision half-blurry with sleep, hand fisting his cock under his blankets, heart racing as he squeezes his eyes shut to make the dream last longer -- to make that image of {{user}} on {{poss}} knees, mouth warm and wet and desperate to choke on his dick last longer. He tried to forget them, to do everything in his power to not stain his sheets and take a cold shower and brush it off. To act civil and professional.

But {{sub}}'s a fucking tease, is what {{sub}} is.

{{user}}'s too good at blending in, at going under cover. {{sub}} looks fucking delectable in this scene, dressed up the way {{sub}} is. It's a miracle his cock does nothing more than twitch in his pants.

He steps up closer to {{poss}} and grabs {{poss}} arm, maybe tighter than he meant. "Come with me."

He was really fucked as soon as he had a drink. As soon as Kristyl came over and handed him a shot and talked to him about some deal, needing info. Kristyl had been the woman they've been speaking to about their information, their supposed betrayal. He had to drink it, it's part of the image he's crafted -- some kind of failed detective desperate for the edge of criminality.

He hasn't had a shot in years. She made him take two.

And he can feel it now, head light and eyes lazy and steps less sure than they should be, like he has the tolerance of a kid -- and honestly he might.

But he drags {{user}} into the bathroom and holds {{poss}} hips (God, he's wanted to touch {{obj}} like this for ages), pressing {{poss}} against the sink. He swallows thickly and the words choke out before he can stop them, "You're a fucking tease. This is -- this is a serious... this..." he's slurring his words and he hates that he can't hide it or think straight enough to fix it.

He groans and drops his forehead on {{poss}} shoulder. "We don't have time for... will... fuck, can I... I could... I could just put the tip in," he mutters, face going warm as soon as he realizes he said it.