this should probably go on my shame blog, but…. :’)
“Hey, Chuck. Lemme have a bite.” Mike paws at the air like a big puppy after people food.
“Nope! Mrf.” You take another chunk out of your delicious, well-deserved treat. “You had plenty of chance to get one for yoursefl at the stall.”
“C’mon, just a bite.”
He pats your arm in that kind of overbearing protective way and moves his head in waayyy too close. This distracts you for a split-second long enough for him to sneak the other arm around your shoulder and swipe your icecream.
“Hey!” you squawk as he munches more than a third. Just a bite, your ass.
“Thanks,” he says in a sing-song that is kind of muffled by the fact that he has a mouthful of icecream. You give an indignant huff, and grumble about the tragic loss of your delicious snack. You catch him grinning at you through your fringe, the smug bastard.
“Wow, this is really good,” he mumbles, reaching dangerously close to the halfway mark on your icecream. “Guess I shoulda gotten one for myself after all.”
This is the last straw for you.
“Y’know what?” You half-shout half-shriek. “Keep it!”
In a burst of sugar-fuelled, candy-robbed, vengeance-seeking rag, you shove the sticky mess in his face. Half of it splatters up his nose and cheeks, the rest (along with your hand) ends up in his open mouth. He swallows quickly to avoid choking on it. The sensation of his tongue undulating beneath your fingers flashes neon in your mind. Danger! Danger! Your brain screams warning sirens.
Mike looks up at you from under his fringe. There’s pearly, sticky streaks oozing down his face in thick rivulets. ‘It’s icecream!’ your rational side yells in reminder, ‘only icecream!’ But it is a completely lost cause when he grabs your sticky, trapped hand in his and purposefully sucks down on your messy fingers.
You have gone completely critical.
His mouth is hot and wet and the soft fleshy texture feels nothing like electronics, nothing like the unyielding steel of cars and machinery. It feels so, so wrong and so horribly right at the same time. You are paralysed, face shining nuclear red as Mike tenderly licks the sugary gloop from your hand. His tongue caresses your fingertips, sending shockwaves of sensation up your arm and to places you kind of wish didn’t exist at that point in time. He takes extra care to lick between your knuckles - which triggers some weird reflexive twitch, apparently. The back of your joints scrape against his teeth and he hollows out his cheeks and sucks down hard. You stifle an embarrasing squeak.
Only when he is done slurping your fingers clean does he let go. You snatch you hand back, mortified. You don’t know whether to wipe it off on his shirt as payback or go buy a gallon of disinfectant or make out with your own hand. None of these signals go through, either way. You stare at him, completely and utterly dumbfounded. You note that as he licks his lips, some of the icecream has dribbled out the corner of his mouth. You tell your brain that this doesn’t help. Your brain notes that by all accounts the way you are blushing right now should logically have made your head explode. You can’t answer right now, you are too busy staring at Mike.
Mike just smirks back at you.
(In the distance, which you are blissfully unaware of, the Burners give a few mixed catcalls, questions, and a firm request from your mechanically-inclined colleague that you acquire private lodgings for the two of you. Thankfully, you hear none of this. Otherwise your head would explode.)