Gift Details ♥
Reader: Dealer's Choice (afab!reader)
Character: Thatch Kink: #2 Praise Kink
Prompt: Dealer's Choice (I winged it and oh... oh my gods.)

Summary: Is it possible to have a praise-war between you and your new beau? Most certainly.

Content Notes: I... I don't know. Incorrect use of icing. implied smut. It's really sweet and also like, WHEW.

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

"Your icing work is so pretty!" You had beamed a few weeks ago, watching Thatch decorate the birthday cake for the month. He'd squeezed the tube too hard, red in the face and completely off-guard, and it had been how the two of you ended up getting closer together.

Thatch wooed you like an old man, and you teased him for it, but the intent was adorable. He'd bring you flowers from the islands, or make icing flowers around the edges of your food. You'd tug his scarf when no one else was nearby and steal a kiss, causing his face to go red again.

Everyone teased Thatch more than you, but the chef seemed to revel in it. The sea dog was a romantic at heart, and he loved all the praises you lavished on him.

After your first night together, a quiet evening of searching hands and soft kisses and hours of worship between the two of you, Thatch asked if he could do something self-indulgent. You agreed, and agreed a second time when he said it would have to happen in the galley.

Now you're sitting on wax paper laid out over a table, naked and smiling as Thatch is making icing-flowers around you. His ears are red as you've already started praising his work.

"At least now I understand why your hands were so steady on our first night." You muse softly as you watch him work. "And so... precise." You say pointedly and watch Thatch's fingers twitch.

This time he manages to keep his cool and not squeeze half the icing onto the flower, but you can see his ears flush red. He clears his throat a little, looking up at you with a smirk.

"What I would give, so that everything in my life was as sweet as you," he replies, standing up enough to kiss you. You can feel the heat rush through you, your heart fluttering at the sweet words and warm kiss, struggling to keep your breath and yourself steady.

"How're your legs?"

"Fine, nothing is uncomfortable." You assure him. "I told you, I can sit like this for hours. My flexing hasn't disrupted your flowers, I hope?"

Thatch looks around and then shakes his head. "Not even a little." There's a devious grin on his face as he nuzzles into your neck, goatee teasing your skin before his lips do. "I wonder if those little flexes will disrupt the decorations I put on you."

"O-on me?"

Thatch smiles at you and you feel your heart thump heavy in your chest. He picks up a different piping bag and begins to wind thin green "vines" up from the flowers around you. The thin lines of frosting are a little cold, but they were very thin, and thus very light, sitting atop the fine hairs on your thighs and sending odd shivers into your skin from what was an impossibly light touch.

"Stay still, my sweet." Thatch admonishes lightly, focused on his work. "I don't want to make any mistakes."

Something in his tone warms your core, and the confidence you had a few moments ago is slipping away. You were certain you had the chef wrapped around your finger – a little praise, a shy look, and Thatch melted to your will. You weren't leading him on, it was pleasant for both of you, but now you felt a little like a thief caught by their own trap.

"Th-Thatch." You whisper softly as the vine twists and turns up your thighs toward your hips.

"Yes, mein törtchen?" He answers, not looking up from his work.

"Y-You're not... making any more... flowers?" You're struggling to not shiver from the sound of his voice.

Thatch stops, swirling a vine just inside your thigh. So close, he's so close and you're so wet, he has to know, you're certain of it. He straightens, hand gently caressing the side of your face as he gives you a soft smile.

"But you, are the flower." He says softly, slowly closing the distance between your lips and his. "No baker would make a flower on top of one that's already perfect."

Thatch's hand is on your thigh as his lips capture yours, devouring your surprised squeak as icing smears against your skin. A deep kiss and needy hands were the start of your evening, and hardly any of the flowers survived the night without some sign of the passion shared between the two of you.

Not even you.