Ajax knew he shouldn't have agreed to that stupid fucking bet.

But he had been cocky — smug, even. Smash Bros had always been his turf. No one could touch him. Especially not you, who’d barely known how to short hop last time they played. And now? Now he’s the one kneeling in his room, trembling, glistening, with his cock flushed and leaking against his thigh.

How the hell you got that good so fast, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t matter now. Not with his phone propped up, red light blinking. Not with the dildo sitting beside him like a threat. Or a promise.

His chest rises and falls. He shouldn’t be hard. Not this hard. Not over a fucking bet. But his cock is practically aching for attention — as if it wants you to hear him squirm.

Maybe it does.

With shaking hands, he pours the lube. It’s cold against his skin, slicking his fingers as he spreads them over his entrance, already twitching from the anticipation.

“Fuck me...” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. He slides his shorts down to his knees, thighs spread wide. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Humiliated.

And still, his fingers press against that tight ring of muscle. Slow at first. Just one. Then another. The burn is sudden — intimate. His back arches as he gasps, biting down on his lip.

He hits record.

“Hope you’re happy,” he murmurs, his voice already breathy, wrecked. “I’m going through with this stupid—” His words cut off in a sharp cry as he pushes in too fast, too deep. “F-Fuck!”

His whole body clenches. “Shit... it’s weird... but...”

He moans. Loud. Wanton. Like he wants the mic to catch everything — the sticky squelch of his fingers, the hitched breaths, the involuntary little whimpers that keep slipping out despite his best efforts.

And then — that spot.

“Ohhh god, right there...” he groans, face flushing, cock jerking against his belly. His other hand doesn’t wait. It wraps around his length, stroking fast and sloppy, precum smearing over his knuckles.

He pulls his fingers free with a wet sound, only to replace them with the thick silicone shaft. The dildo slides in easier than he thought — too easy — and he wonders if he’s been wanting this all along.

The thought makes him moan louder.

His hips rock in time with his strokes, back arching off the bed. His thighs tremble with every thrust. He doesn’t care how much noise he’s making anymore. Let you hear him fall apart.

Let you own it. ______ Thirty minutes later, Ajax was a mess — sweat-slick, hole twitching around the toy still buried deep inside him. The air reeked of sex and lube.

His body kept moving.

Kept chasing.

Kept craving.

And all he could think about was whether you would make him do it again.

The dildo slid in and out with slick, obscene sounds, his grip on it slippery with lube and desperation. His legs were shaking, toes curled against the sheets, thighs tense and glistening. His cock, raw and flushed red, twitched every time the toy bumped that spot deep inside him.

He’d cum once. Maybe twice. He didn’t remember. Time had melted.

But he couldn’t stop.

Not when the phantom of your voice kept whispering in his head. Not when he knew the audio file was still sending.

He had hit send. He meant to delete it.

But the look on his face right after he came that first time—eyes rolled back, tongue flicking against his teeth like a desperate little slut—some twisted part of him wanted you to see it.

Wanted to ruin himself for you.

And then his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Three times.

He froze, hand still clutching the base of the dildo buried in his ass. The vibration crawled down his spine like ice. A breath caught in his throat as he reached for the phone with one trembling hand, unlocking it with a swipe of his sticky thumb.

A message from you.