hey, i’m crow! i’ll be your waiter today… and your chef. what can i say, we’re short staffed huh, i look young…? well i’m 18. i don’t much mind kids visiting as long as they don’t order our… alcoholic options. oh and… make sure to heed the allergy advice.
wanna order? here’s some some of the flavours i work with:
jjk
the love club: mots doux d'une défunte (the suppliers use alcohol in these, so we don’t serve these to under 18s. id in your bio please.)
csm
persona 3,4,5
love and deepspace
arctic monkeys
genshin impact— not the best with ingredients past sumeru so i wouldn’t recommend ordering something too… exotic
warnings : sex work, cheating, age gap (19 & 39), he is still very sad, unprotected sex, he pulls out, bath sex, riding, daddy kink, theres actually no feet in this one, hes weird
The steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek gently pulled you from your sleep, your face slightly squished against his warm, mildly sweaty chest that rose and fell in slow, steady movements as he held you tightly against him, one hand cradling the side of your face and holding you close. Your hair felt damp, stuck to both his skin and the cotton of his dress shirt he still hadn't taken off.
You could tell he was already awake before you even opened your eyes. You could feel his gaze burning into you through his heavy eyelids and his soft lashes. His breathing was too formulaic, a little too quick, and not quite as deep as it would be if he was still asleep. His thumb was gently stroking your cheekbone, his fingertips just barely grazing over your hairline as he admired you like a glittering constellation in the night sky.
He swallowed, the soft click of it just barely audible in the quiet of your room as the thick saliva rushed down his throat, like a subtle fracture in a glass, his Adam's apple bobbing with the small motion.
He adjusted his grip on you, one hand remaining firmly splayed across your lower back, his fingers spread wide, possessive, like he needed to be touching as much of you as humanly possible at once. His other hand held your face with deeply reverent care, as if he was scared to break you, like you were precious, fragile porcelain, or a treasured, irreplaceable jewel, and to him, you were.
He wanted to protect you from the cruel world around you, wanted to nurture you the way you deserve, wanted to hold you dearly when everything got too hard.
The feelings he had for you scared him. They festered in his stomach when you weren't next to him, tightly winding their way up his organs and bones like poison ivy, contaminating every inch of him with the way his body yearned for your touch, constricting and suffocating and aching persistently until he got to see you again.
The love he felt for you was like a bruise. A bruise that would form after you hurt yourself doing something you knew you weren't supposed to be doing anyway. A bruise that was so large and so deep, you'd have to hide for weeks after it formed, trying to disguise the forbidden way that it had bloomed. A bruise that came back again and again and again as you kept trying, really trying, to make what you knew you couldn't have work.
He sighed, brushing his thumb along your eyebrow gently, and you kept your eyes closed. His hand that had been holding your cheek slowly drifted down the soft skin of your neck, over your shoulders, across the bunched up fabric of your shirt that was still pulled up beneath your armpits from the night before, and his hesitant fingers sought out the flesh of your chest.
He cupped one of your tits in his palm, your other one pressed against his ribcage, and he squeezed it gently, not for pleasure, not to get himself horny, but just giving him something to hold onto, something physical to focus on to help prevent his mind from descending .
Your skin was warm against his hand, sending a gentle heat rippling through the veins in his wrist, up his arm, to his chest, and wrapping around his heart like a ribbon.
His lips jutted out a little as he pursed them slightly, and he brushed his thumb over the soft skin of your breast before freeing it from his grip, and he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric of your shirt, gently tugging it down over your chest to cover you up.
You kept your breathing slow, even, steady, keeping your eyes closed, and he tilted his chin down just slightly, pressing his dry lips to the top of your head. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the soothing scent of your hair and letting it fill his lungs like an internal cuddle. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, maybe honey, maybe berries, or maybe it was marshmallow, but it comforted him in a way he couldn't put into words.
You shifted on his chest with a small, bleary sigh, your skin that had been stuck to his from sweat peeling apart just slightly, and his hand came up to cradle your cheek again, his thumb brushing over your soft, plush lower lip as you flickered your eyes open.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he saw your lashes flutter, the slight movement mirroring a moth wing, and his fingertips gently ghosted your face, followed your jawline, brushed over your nose, and traced the soft lines of your neck.
His voice was rough with sleep as he spoke, deep and gruff, but his words were as sweet as caramel, the warmth drizzling over you like a blanket. “Good morning, beautiful girl…” he took a breath before continuing, his voice quieter, dropping to almost a whisper, but with no less sugar. “Are you awake, petal?”
You grunted softly in response, pulling your body taut on top of him as you stretched after sleep had tightened your muscles, the tension releasing from your body like sand through a sift. You'd been awake for a while, of course, just with your eyes closed, but you'd wanted to feel how he cared for you, loved you, cradled you, even when he thought you were asleep, even when he didn't know you could feel it.
“Big stretch, baby…” he murmured, almost like a coo, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles over your back as he coaxed you awake. “You sleep well?”
You nodded, just a slight movement of your neck as you nestled further into him, and he welcomed it, holding you closer and tighter. “Mhm,” the soft hum barely made it past your lips, almost lost between you as you buried your face in his chest.
“Did you dream about anything?” he asked, his hand on your back settling between your shoulder blades, his palm warm against your skin as he sprawled his fingers out.
You tried to recall your dream, broken fragments and wisps of strange but vague memories from your sleep coming back to you in a jumbled, incomplete order, blurring anything that you might've remembered.
You shook your head the best you could, your cheek still squished against his sternum, and you heard him let out a small laugh, just a huff of air through his nose.
You could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Do you remember if it was a good dream at least?”
His fingers traced small, spiralling patterns across your shoulders, like winding rivers, or a maze that he'd pay to get lost in if it meant being close to you.
“It was good,” you murmured, your voice still raspy, tainted by your drowsiness, and his hand came up to cup the back of your head as he pressed his lips to your hair once more, like he was unable to go more than a minute without contact.
You felt him smile against your scalp, just a slight tug of his lips, before he let his head fall back onto the pillow with a dull, cushioned thud, the soft fabric of the pillowcase crinkling where his head dented the cotton.
“You're beautiful, baby…” he said after a moment of quiet, his voice slightly airy, his heartbeat beneath your cheek speeding up slightly with each word he breathed. “Really. I look at you, petal, and it's like…” he sighed. “I don't know. It's selfish, really. Keeping you all to myself. You should be with someone your age.”
You swallowed hard at that, your fingers gently brushing over the crook of his neck. You knew the difference in your ages frightened him, that it was something that made him insecure, so you muttered, “Don't say that…”
“But it's true,” he replied insistently with his gruff voice, placing his hand over yours and holding it in his palm, his skin warm against yours. He brought it up to his lips, his eyes fluttering shut as he kissed it, rough and chapped against your gentle skin, before he released it with a muffled click, threading his fingers with yours.
You could feel his cock against your thigh, soft, but with a gentle pulse rippling through the length like a heartbeat. You lifted your head off of his chest, just by a little bit, your cheek damp, trying to ease the ache in your neck from being in the same position all night, and you looked down over him, over the moist, wiry hairs sprinkled across his chest, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.
His shirt from the night before was still on, white, creased beyond belief, untucked, and half-unbuttoned, exposing most of his abdomen, one cuff still clasped and the other pushed up past his elbow.
The mattress creaked and groaned softly beneath you as you rolled off of him, the springs old and reluctant, and he looped his arms around your waist, keeping you tucked against him.
His hip was warm under your hand, his skin soft, veined, the way men's skin gets when they're ageing. Thinner, in a way, and papery in places. You didn't mind, you liked the feel of him. The years etched into the lines beside his eyes, the fine crease just above the bridge of his nose, the salt and pepper in his stubble that scratched lightly at your skin whenever he nestled his face against you.
He turned on his side with you, facing you, and he brushed a few strands of your hair behind your ear before he kissed your forehead, your thin, pilled duvet long abandoned and kicked down out of the way.
His fingertips brushed along the side of your neck, and his eyes flickered down to your lips for a moment, soft and plump, before he opened his mouth.
“I couldn't…” he began before pausing, his tongue poking out and swiping over his lower lip, wetting it. “I couldn't have a bath here, could I?”
You blinked, a little surprised, before you smiled, and you watched as it infected him, the corners of his lips pulling up just slightly. “I didn't think you were a bath person.”
“I'm not,” he said, a small huff of laughter leaving his lips as he tried to reword it. “I meant, I want one with you, petal. You like baths, don't you?”
His thumb stroked your cheekbone as he scanned over your face, and you met his eyes. His eyes had that look in them. That gloomy, solemn whisper floating somewhere deep in his iris, prominent for just a moment before dissipating like smoke, a warning sign, telling you that feelings were imminent.
He seemed to have an internal bullet point list of things about you, constantly adding, constantly updating, even the tiniest things you hadn't realised you'd said, he remembered.
“I do,” you murmured, and he pinched your cheek between his index finger and thumb like a baby, a grin breaking out onto his face as he saw your smile. He pressed a kiss to your skin as it flushed from the pressure, his eyelashes fluttering against your temple like butterfly wings.
Your smile was the most important thing to him. He'd do anything to squeeze one out of you, to see your eyes squint, to see your cheeks crease, to hear that little huff through your nose that acted as a laugh when you were too tired to give a proper one. Your happiness was everything to him.
You gently untangled yourself from his damp limbs and sat up, straightening the crinkled fabric of your shirt and pushing your hair out of your face. Your shirt felt cold, and slightly damp with last night's sweat, clinging to your spine. Your thighs ached a little from the way he had you the night before, practically folded in half, and you glanced back at him lay on your bed. He looked so out of place there. Bare, long-limbed, still in half a dress shirt in your dingy little bed, the springs squeaking beneath him every time he moved. It was a miracle it hadn't collapsed already.
You left him on his back in your bed as you padded barefoot to the bathroom, his cock lay limply between his legs and the hem of his creased shirt resting on the tops of his thighs. He tucked one hand behind his head while he draped the other over his belly, his fingers idly playing with the small patch of hair there as he stared up at your ceiling, the plaster slightly cracked, and a damp spot in the corner invading like the moon darkening the daylight.
The bathroom floor tiles were cool against your feet as you stood beside the bath, the grouting beside the tub still stained slightly pinkish from when you tried dyeing your hair red a year ago. You leaned over the porcelain edge, and you gripped the slightly rusted hot tap, twisting it with all of the strength you could muster up before the stiff handle finally gave way, the water sputtering once, twice, before gushing out and steaming instantly, the temperature near scorching, flooding the room with the harsh crack of the stream thundering against the tub.
You pulled your hand from the tap, the strangely shaped red indent on your hand giving a slight ache as you clenched your fist around it, trying to ease the pain, and the sound of the water echoed in the small, dingy space, louder than it should've been, bouncing off of the cracked tiles and fogging up the mirror above the sink. That mirror, smeared with impossible to remove fingerprints and specks of old toothpaste dotted around like freckles, caught your reflection in slanted slices. You looked tired, flushed, fucked-out. You almost flinched.
You watched the water rise, the steam climbing quickly, the air growing thick and humid, sweetened as you poured in a peach-scented soap, the pink liquid ribboning through the water like syrup, spreading in lazy clouds before the harsh flow of the tap swallowed it. Thin, white foam gathered at the surface like a frothy blanket, clinging to the sides of the porcelain and rising with the waterline, as the sweet peach scent merged into the steam that rose from the bath.
You leaned down and let your fingers skim the top layer of the water. It was just hot enough to sting, to redden your skin for a few moments after, to boil away any tension that resided deep inside of your bones.
You watched the sheet of bubbles part and twirl beneath your touch, a few of them popping and disintegrating, the delicate skin of them rupturing silently, and you slowly swirled your hand through the sweltering water, watching as it lapped up the sides of the porcelain, greedily climbing higher as the tap continued to gush noisily.
The scent of artificial peaches continued to fill the air in the small room, acidic, sweet, and sickly familiar, comforting, in a way. A scent you'd come to associate with your down time, relaxation, when you can let yourself simmer in the quiet as the water washed away even your most secluded troubles.
The fog made the room feel smaller, like it was folding in on you, the walls closing in as the steam thickened.
You heard the springs of your mattress creak, just barely audible over the loud crack of the water, as Alex moved, maybe sitting up, maybe getting out, maybe just shifting in the sheets you hadn't washed for a week. You stayed still, your feet rooted to the peeling linoleum floor, watching the water continue to rise and swirl.
You waited until the water reached just below the rim, just by a few inches, the foam thick and inviting, bubbling gently across the surface like clouds. A few small clusters of suds clung to the sides, sliding down slow and lazy, dissipating into the heat. The scent of peach hung heavier now, warm as it travelled through your nose, but almost burning from the intensity of it as it hit the back of your throat, making it itch.
You leaned over and gripped the tap, interlocking your fingers with the rusty metal, and you tugged and twisted it off with a stiff squeak of reluctance from the handle before it coughed and sputtering, the stream finally coming to a stop. The last few dregs of water in the pipe continued to leak through the tap, dripping rhythmically onto the surface with tiny, muted sounds, disturbing the stillness of the water and the otherwise quietness of the room.
You stepped out through the doorway, the hinges creaking quietly as you pulled it open, and you padded back to the bedroom, the artificial sweetness of the soap oozing through the crack in the bathroom door and following you through the hallway.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands hanging loose between his knees. His white dress shirt was gone, crumpled and discarded beside him on the sheets, leaving him completely bare, his skin flushed in places and still carrying the glow of last night's sweat, slightly dappled from where your hands had held him, gripped him, marked him.
His chest rose, slow and heavy, the muscles there slightly soft with age, dusted with fine, dark hairs that shadowed across the centre of his chest. His cock hung between his thighs, thick and unbothered, already half-hard.
He looked up when he heard you, and his eyes softened instantly. That raw, tired tenderness that he only ever showed you in mornings like these, early and quiet, before the day ruined him again.
“Bath's ready,” you said softly, a small smile flickering over your lips as you looked over him, over his tousled brown hair, his big, deep eyes, the subtle hue of pink to his dry lips.
He didn't say anything at first, just reached for you, slow, and when you stepped between his knees, his hands came up to your hips, warm and certain, before drifting up your sides, caressing slowly, letting them rest on your waist. He pulled you in gently, the outer sides of your thighs brushing against the insides of his, and he tilted his head upwards to kiss your sternum, just once, but his lips lingered, keeping them pressed to your skin as he closed his eyes like it was the only place he'd ever want to be.
Then again, slightly lower, on your ribcage, just beneath your boobs, pressing his face against you as he kissed that soft spot. He moved again, lower once more, to just above your navel, his forehead pressed to your abdomen as he succumbed to the kiss.
You brought your hands to the back of his head, lightly tugging on the strands of his hair as you threaded your fingers through it, and you held him close, his hands lightly squeezing your waist as he pulled back, his lips parted.
You looked down at him, holding his head in your hands, and you scanned his eyes as he gazed right back up at you, trying to see if you could see anything floating in his eyes, worry, distress, or something that would gloss over his eyes in the way that always made your heart ache when you saw him like that.
“Come on,” you whispered as his hands ran across your lower back slowly. “It'll get cold.”
He gave a faint hum, but didn't argue, instead pressing one more kisses to your belly before standing, his body brushing right up against yours, warm and bare, and he let you guide him to the bathroom, trailing after you like a shadow.
He stepped in after you, his hand finding the small of your back once more like gravity, and you turned to face him, only catching a glimpse of him for a second before his mouth was on yours, slow and deliberate. Not rushed, not urgent, not frantic, just a tender pressing of lips, as if he hadn't had enough of you yet. His thumb brushed your cheekbone as he deepened it, and when he finally pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth too, then the dip in your chin, like he was unable to go even a few seconds without it.
You smiled against his mouth, the feeling of his kisses combined with the overwhelmingly sweet peach scent in the air making you dizzy.
His fingers found the hem of your shirt, still rumpled, and he peeled it up over your shoulders, slow and careful, like he didn't want to stop touching you for even a second. You lifted your arms without a word, letting him undress you, and he pulled it over your head before letting the fabric drop to the floor, leaving you both bare in the steam, flushed from the heat and the weight of each other's gaze.
He looked at you properly then, no attempted pretence, just that sad, quiet awe he always wore when he thought you weren't watching, like you were something he didn't deserve but couldn't bring himself to walk away from.
You folded your arms over your belly as you watched him lean over the bath, one hand gripping the edge, and he dipped two fingers into the water, but the moment his skin touched the surface, he hissed and yanked his hand back with a startled laugh, shaking the droplets off with a flick of his wrist.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his eyes flickering up to you once more. “You trying to boil me alive, petal?”
You let out a soft laugh, glancing down over the water. “You'll get used to it. It's meant to be that hot. It's how I like it.”
You watched as he tutted before he hesitantly stepped over the rim of the bath, careful and slow, his foot cautiously dipping into the water like he expected it to bite, and in a way, it did, just not with teeth. The moment it sank beneath the surface, he winced, pressing his lips together tightly as his face scrunched up, his whole body tensing as if he'd just been electrocuted.
“Christ alive,” he murmured through gritted teeth, one of his hands braced on the wall while the other dangled at his side. “You should've told me you liked them this hot before. I would've done them for you.”
You smiled. “You don't seem too keen on it now.”
“I'd've been happy to watch you.”
You ran your hands along your sides as he grumbled something about human soup before slowly lowering himself into the bath, slow and stiff, until the water swallowed his thighs, then his hips, then his belly, his face twisting into an exaggerated grimace as he sank down, his back meeting the porcelain with a sigh that was half pain and half surrender.
He pursed his lips, his lower one jutting out as he blinked slowly, his fringe already damp against his forehead from the humidity. His forearms rested on either side of the tub, his fingertips idly brushing over and smearing the bubbles that clung to the sides as his breathing slowed, relaxing despite the scalding temperature.
He looked up at you expectantly, just to see you gazing down at him submerged in the water. “You getting in, love?”
You smiled as you stepped forward, turning away from him as you lifted one leg over, easing your foot in, and you felt one of his hands slide up the back of your thigh before resting just above your ass cheek to steady you. His other hand came up to your waist, holding you as your second foot followed, and you settled yourself between his legs, the water climbing over your limbs and wetting your skin in glistening sheets. He looped his arms around your waist, just beneath your tits, his forearms pressed to your stomach as he pulled you closer to him, your back flush against his chest.
It was quiet for a while, the kind of quiet that always came with the bath, muffled and womb-like. Just the soft sound of water against skin, the faint fizz of the last stubborn bubbles giving up, and the occasional groan of an old pipe behind the wall.
You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, the back of your skull cradled against the hollow of his throat, and he turned his face slightly, nuzzling his cheek against your temple. You could feel his stubble, coarse and damp, scraping gently against your skin, and he kissed your hair, just once, without a sound as his lips met your scalp.
He tightened his arms around you, not crushing, just close, like he needed to feel all of you, every inch, to remind himself that the world wasn't all bad. He sighed in the way you'd grown painfully familiar to. It had become a sort of warning sign for your nerves, to brace themselves for the tsunami of emotions that were to follow.
“Sometimes I think she's waiting for me to end it,” he said after a pause, his voice just audible over the soft sound of damp skin against damp skin as he rubbed his hand along your torso. “Like she wants me to be the villain. Like she wants an excuse. But neither of us want to be the one to actually do it.”
He closed his lips, and you could hear the quiet, slick sound of his tongue wetting them as he prepared his mouth to shape his next words, breathing softly against your hair.
The heat of the water now settled into something bearable for him, almost comforting, like being wrapped in a blanket after being outside in the cold, the way the warmth seeped into your skin, through your veins, down to your bones, melting away the chill.
His voice came again as your legs brushed against each other beneath the water, making the surface ripple slightly.
“I lie awake at night sometimes, when I'm with her,” he said, his voice rough as if he needed to cough. “I just stare up at the ceiling, and she'll just be lying beside me asleep. If she's even in bed with me, that is. She doesn't care.”
You didn't move, couldn't move, his grip holding you like a vice.
“When I wasn't seeing you, after that argument…” he swallowed, his voice going brittle with regret as he thought about it. “I'm sorry, baby…”
He pressed his forehead to the top of your hair, his eyes squeezing shut as he let out a shaky breath.
Your heart ached, your stomach clenching at the sound of his guilt. You placed your hand over his beneath the water, giving it a small squeeze, and he sniffled before he continued.
“When I wasn't seeing you, I was really trying to make it work with her. I really fucking tried,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I bought her flowers, I cooked for her, I cancelled work shit just to spend time with her, took her out to the stupid fucking restaurants that she likes.”
You felt his chest rise a little sharper, a little harsher, his breath catching half way through his throat.
“I can't even remember the last time we laughed together. Like, properly laughed. One that makes your stomach hurt. We used to all the time, even when things were rough, before… this. Now she barely looks at me. I don't know if I want her to.”
He paused, his lips brushing your hair again, absentminded, or maybe just to keep himself from falling apart completely. He let out a soft but bitter laugh.
“I took her shopping, all those fuckin' Christmas markets. She didn't even thank me. And when we got home, she just went straight upstairs. Not even a fuckin' goodnight.”
Your fingers squeezed his hand beneath the water, but he didn't squeeze back, he just breathed, heavy and tired.
“She used to kiss my neck in the mornings,” he continued, his voice tight. “When she thought I was still asleep. Just… I don't know. And then she'd put the kettle on, and I'd lie there with my eyes shut pretending I didn't notice.”
He paused again, trying to dissect his own words.
“I miss that version of her,” he whispered. “Even if she was faking it. If she was, then I miss the part of me that believed it was real.”
His voice broke on the last part, but he didn't cry. Not physically, anyway. But something inside of him gave way. You felt it ripple through his body like a wave. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you let him, his eyes scrunched against your skin as he tried to keep anything that might spill out in. You reached up and tangled your fingers in the back of his hair, holding him there, reminding him that you were there.
Neither of you spoke for a while, the water cooling slightly around you, still warm, but not as sharp, not as biting. You watched as the steam kissed the mirror, and as the little droplets slid down the glass in crooked trails, leaving behind a shiny line in their wake before disappearing into the mist.
He shifted behind you, as best as he could in the small space, and you felt the water lap at your limbs from his movements as he pressed his lips to your nape, featherlight.
You felt his mouth shape each word against your skin as he spoke. “I don't know what's wrong with me.”
“There's nothing wrong with you,” you whispered, the feeling of him behind you sending a trail of goosebumps rippling across your skin.
He didn't reply, but you could tell he didn't believe you. He just let his hands continue to drift across your abdomen, slow, absent but reverent.
“I just really feel like I'm wasting my life,” he said after a moment. “Wasting it with someone who's already gone. But if I leave, completely, officially, physically, it'll mean I failed. And I don't know if I can handle any more.”
You turned your head slightly, not enough to look at him properly, but just enough to catch a glimpse of him in your peripheral vision. You could tell that his eyes were half-lidded, his lashes clumped and heavy. He looked so tired, like every last dreg of life had been wrung out of him.
“I don't care about her anymore,” he added, and the way he said it made your heart tighten in your chest. “Not in the way I should. But I still feel like I'm cheating when I'm with you.”
Your breath caught, not out of hurt, but out of surprise. You were shocked that he was so willing to admit it, to say it out loud, something you knew he was afraid to do if he knew the words he uttered would try and bite back.
He hadn't said it before, but you'd felt it. Of course you did. In the way he always looked around when he was out with you, constantly checking, constantly anxious. In the way he'd always hesitate, just for half a second, before kissing you like he meant it. You didn't blame him, but it still ached.
He kissed your shoulder, his fringe lightly tickling your skin, and he whispered, tender, quiet, “But this…” his hands splayed across your stomach again, his fingers spreading out like spiders. “You. This is the only part of my life that I look forward to anymore.”
You swallowed, and you felt his breath against your back now, even warmer than the bath water you were both submerged in.
“The shitty little hotel rooms I see you in,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice tight like a piece of elastic being pulled taut, nearing the breaking point. “The way you look at me like I'm not completely gone. The way you listen to me when I'm like this. The way you let me fuck you when I'm hurting.”
His voice cracked towards the end, like he was embarrassed, but he moved his head, slightly lower this time, his lips brushing against the soft skin just behind your ear.
“I don't want to go back tonight,” he breathed, his voice brittle. “Please don't make me go back.”
Your eyes trailed over the chipped enamel of the bath, before you leaned your head back against his shoulder, and one of his hands came up to the base of your throat, his fingers spread out slightly, and he held you there as his lips found the side of your neck, dragging his dry lips along the soft, damp skin.
His lips were warm, slow, tender, and he pressed them just below your ear and you sighed, tilting your head further to one side to give him better access.
“You can stay here again tonight,” you whispered softly, and you felt the muscles in his stomach that were pressed against your lower back tighten, twitch, in the way they always did just before his blood rushed, and his cock gave a low pulse behind you like punctuation.
He let out a soft sigh against your neck, his hand on your throat drifting down to your chest as he cupped one of your tits in his hand, his thumb lightly brushing over your nipple as it tightened into a hard peak against his touch.
He moaned softly as he squeezed your breast, the sound muffled by your skin, and you felt him stir against you, slowly hardening, the pressure nudging against the small of your back, and you reached behind you to lightly touch the side of his upper thigh underneath the water, your fingers gentle and reassuring.
He peeled his mouth from your neck as he felt the heat simmering in his belly, pressing up against his organs, and he licked his lips before saying softly, hesitantly, “Is it, um… is it okay without one today, baby?”
You tilted your head to the side slightly, just barely meeting his eyes, and there was a slight crease in his brow, and his gaze was a little too full. Not just of lust, but with exhaustion, sadness, longing for something to feel good. You nodded once. “Yeah.”
A flicker of something flashed through his iris, maybe gratitude, maybe pure, unadulterated joy, and his lips twitched. “Are you sure, petal?”
He looked over your face, scanning deeply for any ounce of uncertainty, trying to see if you were just agreeing to make him happy or if you truly wanted it, but he found none.
You nodded again, his fingers squeezing your tits and trying to pull you impossibly closer as he pressed his lips to your skin once more.
“Thank you, baby…” he whispered, his voice slightly strained, and his other hand travelled down to your thighs before he flattened it against your soft flesh beneath the water, his cock continuing to stiffen as he touched you.
His hands finally found your hips, and he gripped them as his cock pressed against his belly, wedged between his stomach and your lower back, throbbing and twitching with anticipation as he slowly lifted your hips as much as he could.
You bent your knees, your feet now planted on the porcelain floor of the tub beside the inner sides of his calves, and you leaned further back against him as his fingers found your heat, dragging his fingers over your folds and feeling the slickness, even in the water.
You gripped the edge of the bath with one hand as he looped his fist around his cock, and he exhaled shakily. He was so sensitive, so needy, that even his own fingers made him twitch.
The stretch when you sank down onto him was slow, almost torturously so, and he let out a long, shaky moan, the warmth constricting him in a way that made his toes curl.
You could feel every inch of him in ways you hadn't been able to before. Now with no barrier, no latex, absolutely nothing between you dulling the sensation. Just heat, just skin, just the tight pulse of your body adjusting around him.
His head fell back against the edge of the tub with a moan, his eyes fluttering shut. “Fucking hell…” he whined.
He held your hips tightly as you took him all in, his tip pressing against your cervix with a pressure that made your muscles tighten, and you both stilled for a moment, adjusting, your knees still bent in front of you, poking above the surface of the water, the air cool against your skin, contrasting the tepid water the enveloped the rest of your body.
He was deep inside of you, thick and hot, every slow throb making you clench gently around him, holding his cock in.
“It feels so different,” you breathed, your tone airy and laced with a soft whimper.
“It's too good,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You're so warm, baby… you're holding daddy in so well…”
His lips gently traced along your jawline while one of his hands slipped between your legs, lightly running along the inside of your thigh, teasing you, barely ghosting over where he knew you ached, where you itched for him to touch.
You shifted slightly in his grip, easing your weight while the water rippled quietly, lapping against the sides of the tub, but you were careful, your movements measured and slow. The last thing either of you needed was a flood in your tiny little bathroom. The bath was barely deep enough for both your bodies, and even the smallest shift sent warm waves licking over the porcelain lip.
His thumbs stroked soft, continuous circles on your hips like he was trying to soothe you, or himself. “You alright, petal?” he asked quietly, his voice low and hoarse.
You nodded, gripping the rim of the tub for balance, the cold enamel biting into your palm a sharp contrast to the storm of heat swelling inside of your lower belly.
You rose slowly, gradually lifting your hips inch by inch until just the leaking, scorching hot tip of him remained inside you. The water followed your movement, lapping gently around your thighs and your waist as he held onto you, your hips, your ass, your lower back.
You sank back down onto him, letting him fill you again, the head dragging along the most sensitive parts inside of you, leaving a trail of salty precum along your walls in its wake. His cock pressed against your insides, hot and bare, and you could feel every tiny detail of him. The thickness, the curve, the ridges, the veins, the stretch as your body swallowed him down.
His breath hitched behind you, and you felt his fingers tighten on your flesh, just a little, not urging you, not rushing you, just holding you there, like he needed something to hold on to to guide him through the sensations as you made him take it.
“Fuck, baby…” he murmured, pressing his forehead against the back of your shoulder.
You stayed there for a moment, your thighs trembling slightly as you adjusted, and just as the water had gone still once more, you moved again, slow, so slow, so slow it barely counted as movement at all. Just the smallest roll of your hips, easing up and down in a rhythm that matched the lazy swish of water around your bodies. The friction was deeper this way. Slower, hotter, more intimate. With no barrier between you, it felt like his cock was nudging against your soul.
You tightened around him instinctively, and he let out a low sound in response, something that was caught between a groan and a gasp and a whine. His grip slid lower, his fingers digging into the soft flesh at the tops of your thighs, like he couldn't control himself.
“Shit…” he whispered through clenched teeth. “You feel so good like this, love…”
You didn't answer, you just kept moving, gentle, steady, up and down, your pace almost torturous, in a way. You weren't trying to chase anything yet, just the feeling of him inside of you, the slow, liquid stretch, the way your body opened for him so willingly, was enough for now.
Your head dropped forward slightly, your chin brushing against your chest and your lips parting slightly, and the scent of sickly sweet artificial peaches harshly invaded your nostrils once more, tugging you from the haze of pleasure with the intensity.
You lifted your head, the water sliding over your skin with each movement, catching the morning light from the bathroom window in soft glints.
His chest was warm behind your back, his hot breath fanning over your shoulders as he panted. One of his hands drifted up your damp body, over your stomach, across your ribcage, settling just beneath your breast, his palm flat. He wasn't groping, wasn't squeezing, just resting it there, like he needed to feel you breathing.
You reached for his hand, your fingers sliding up the wet skin of his arm to get to it, and you covered it with your own as you rode him, your hips rising and falling in that slow, careful rhythm, the water kissing the edge of the tub but nothing spilling over. Yet.
The rhythm had began to dribble into something deeper, something smoother, your hips moved in slow, fluid rolls, and your thighs trembling just slightly as you worked yourself over him. The water sloshed around your bodies with each motion, licking at the edge of the tub like a warning.
He was so deep inside of you, every movement making your body tighten around him in slow waves, and you could feel him throbbing, heavy, warm, helpless, with every grind of your hips.
His hand squeezed yours while the other slid back to your hip, his fingers gripping a little firmer now. “Go faster,” he murmured, voice rough and needy against your shoulder as his cock twitched helplessly against your inner walls.
You hesitated, just for a second, before you nodded, and you shifted your knees to find a little more leverage, and you began to move again, this time a touch quicker, still careful, still measured, but increasing the pace the best you could. A bit more sound rose from the water, the tiniest splash, but you managed to keep it under control.
“Mhm…” he breathed, his lips parting around a soft moan. “That's it, petal… that's better.”
But he didn't even let a full minute pass before his grip tightened again, and you felt his greedy cock twitch inside of you, his body trying to thrust up slightly beneath yours even as he tried to hold himself back.
He pressed his lips together, trying to seal them to keep the words from spilling out, but he couldn't hold them in. “Faster, baby. Please. Just a little bit more for daddy.”
You bit your lip and braced your palms harder against the edge of the bath, and you tried, you really tried, to pick up the pace again. It wasn’t easy, not in the slippery porcelain tub doused in that peach soap, not with the water threatening to surge every time your thighs dropped harder onto his, but you gave him more. Shaky, careful bounces, the slap of your skin barely muted by the shallow water.
It still wasn’t enough for him.
He whined, a proper, needy, desperate whine, his forehead pressing into your spine as his fingers dug deeper into your hips, bound to leave persistent marks in their wake. “Fuck, come on. Faster, love. I need it, baby, I need you.”
His voice was at the edges, breaking with every other word, his palpable desperation bleeding through every syllable. You felt his cock pulse inside you like a second heartbeat, so thick and twitchy now, like he was barely holding back.
You winced a little as your heel slipped slightly on the enamel beneath your feet which was slick with a thin sheen of soap that had settled there. The bathwater sloshed hard against the side, a sharp wave that nearly spilled over, and you stilled, panting, your pussy aching with the desire to go faster, to take him deeper, but the physical consequences threw you off.
“I can't,” you said, looking down at the trembling water, distorting and warping your body parts beneath it, making things appear rippled and larger than they actually were. “If I go any faster, the water will spill over.”
He let out a shaky laugh, half pained and half apologetic, his head falling back against the edge of the tub again, his Adam's apple on full display, and his eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising and falling against your back.
“Sorry, baby,” he breathed. “You just… you feel so good, petal.”
You looked over your shoulder at him as he opened his eyes slowly. They were dark with need, heavy-lidded like his eyelashes weighed a tonne, and his pupils were blown out wide, almost bigger than his deep brown iris.
You leaned back against him again, rolling your hips just once, slow and deep, squeezing around him to pull a reaction from him. His breath hitched, and he gripped your waist again, this time just to hold you there, steady and still, and you said softly, “I'll go as fast as I can.”
You managed to find a rhythm, the fastest you were able to go without the water tipping over the sides. It wasn’t frantic, it wasn't rough, but it was steady, intentional, purposeful, and it made him claw at your sides.
Your thighs burned with the effort, your knees slightly wobbling as your feet pressed harder into the slick floor of the tub, but you didn’t stop. You moved for him, your hips rocking back and forth, up and down, your back arching gently against his chest, water lapping quietly with each motion. It was everything but silent between you, though. His soft groans, your stuttered breaths, the muted, barely audible sound of him sliding in and out of you beneath the water.
His hands were everywhere, one tight on your waist to steady you while the other trailed forward across your belly. His touch was slow at first, almost hesitant, in a way, but then his fingers slipped between your legs, finding the slick ache of you above where you took him in.
You jerked slightly, your hips faltering in their rhythm as his fingers brushed your clit, sweet and reverent, putting all of his care into the tiny movement. He did it again, more deliberately this time, in soft, slow, continuous circles, like he was matching your pace, and it made your moan catch in your throat, tumbling out of your mouth in a gentle but broken crescendo.
You gasped when he pressed a little firmer, his fingers moving in tighter, quicker circles, and his cock pulsed inside of you as your walls fluttered around him, around his thickness. Every sensation felt heightened, saturated, the heat of the water, the slick slide of your bodies, the weight of his cock inside. He was whispering things now, half-formed thoughts, a stream of babbled consciousness that sounded like both a praise and a prayer, and still, you continued to move.
You rolled your hips a little harder, a little faster, the water sloshing dangerously close to the rim, but you didn’t care anymore. Not really. You needed it. You needed him. All of him.
“Gonna cum,” you panted frantically, brokenly, your hand desperately clinging to the side of the bath to keep you tethered.
“Yeah, petal?” he coaxed, his voice tinged with a whine, his neediness seeming to bleeding into his hand as his fingers quickened on your clit in small, fast circles. “Come on, baby, cum for daddy. I've got you.”
His other arm curled around your waist, pulling you closer as his cock twitched again inside of you, thick and aching, and you could feel him holding back, just barely, just enough to hold on until you came.
And that was it, with a few more flicks of his wrist and a few more bounces of your hips, that tether inside of you snapped, your body tensing and your breath catching in your throat as the wave broke through you. You came with a quiet, shuddering cry, your muscles clenching hard around him, desperately holding him in, your thighs trembling as you fell forward slightly. The heat, the closeness, the intensity, it all drowned you.
He clutched your waist, his hand on your clit cramping with the franticness as he desperately tried to hold back until he'd fucked you through it completely, his balls drawing up tight beneath you.
His face scrunched up like he'd just sucked on a lemon, chewing on his lower lip as his thighs tensed, rock solid under the pressure of trying to hold back.
“Baby, I'm gonna-” he whined, his voice strained beyond belief.
You nodded, barely able to speak, and you lifted yourself up off of him just in time for him to slip free.
He wrapped his hand around himself with a sharp breath, his cock slick and flushed pink beneath the water, and he only pumped it once, twice, before he came with a low, broken groan, thick spurts painting and splattering across your lower back and the surface of the water, his forehead dropping to the back of your neck as his entire body trembled behind you, panting, spent, the tension finally melting away from his limbs.
Silence settled in the bathroom, broken only by the faint ripple of water and your breathing, shallow, matching his, and he pressed a soft kiss to your spine, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned in.
You leaned back against him, your heart still racing, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself bask in the afterglow of your orgasm as his hands gently caressed your hips, his grip looser now, but still holding on, still connected.
“I never feel like this with her,” he murmured, his words hanging between you for a moment in the quiet as he racked his mind for more words. “I don't think she cares whether I cum or not.”
You said nothing, as always, just letting him speak, and you felt the pulse in his wrist against your belly, slow, steady, human.
“She used to touch me afterwards. And hug me. And kiss me,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Now she just… leaves me. Rolls back onto her side of the bed and takes the duvet with her.”
Your tongue swiped out over your lower lip, dampening it, and you felt the small patch of now damp hair on his chest scrape lightly against the centre of your back, his skin warm.
He sighed again, deeper this time, and you felt it in your bones. “I don't know what I'd do without this. Without you.”
His words landed heavy, like an anchor, and you didn't know what to say, but you didn't need to. He interrupted you before you even got the chance to open your mouth.
He nudged you gently with his chin. “Come on, petal. We're gonna go pruney if we stay in here any longer.”
You smiled as you slowly shifted off of him, wincing slightly at the cool air hitting the rest of your body as it broke the surface of the water. He helped you up, his hands lightly squeezing your hips as you stepped over the edge, small droplets of water raining off of your body down onto the shower mat beneath your feet.
He groaned softly as he moved too, holding onto the rim of the tub as he got up, supporting himself and his stiff muscles, and his face scrunched up as he finally stood, one of his hands going to his lower back as he grunted.
You grabbed a towel from the radiator, the thin, scratchy fabric torn in places, and you dragged it over your limbs as he climbed out of the bath.
You felt his hands on your shoulders, dampening your skin again where you'd only just tried it, and he turned you around to face him. He took the towel from your hands, and he wrapped it around your torso, gently rubbing, padding away all of the water that clung to you.
He didn’t look away from you, not once, even as water beaded on his collarbones, slid down his stomach, glistened at the sharp lines of his hips, his gaze stayed fixed on your face like glue.
“Beautiful,” he murmured quietly, one of his fingers trailing along your jawline.
You felt your heart tug in your chest, not just because of the compliment, but instead because of the way he said it, like it hurt him, like the sight of you was both a relief and a tragedy, a contrasting collision in his mind that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make sense of.
He towelled you off carefully, his movements slow and meditated, gentle strokes down your arms, soft glides across your thighs, and he left your hair mostly wet, dangling in thick, damp strands around your face and sticking to your back and collarbones in wavy clumps like snakes.
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a few moments longer than necessary, and he pulled the towel from your bare body, now dry, but covered in small goosebumps. He wrapped the fabric around himself, dragging it over his chest, his arms, his thighs, the rough towel absorbing the dampness, and he still, he kept his eyes on you the entire time, like he was hypnotised, unable to peel his gaze away no matter how hard he tried. Not that he wanted to.
He shook his head, sending water flinging from his fringe before he tossed the towel aside, landing in a loose, damp heap on the floor near the radiator.
You padded barefoot back to your bedroom first, leaving a small trail of water droplets from your hair behind you, your footsteps soft on the carpet, and you pushed open the door with a quiet creak, the sound mirrored just a second after like an echo as he pulled the bathroom door open as well.
The air in your flat was cooler now, likely from a window that you'd cracked open just a tiny bit and forgot to close, or maybe it was the draft that leaked in from beneath your front door.
You reached for one of your shirts that had fallen off of the broken coat hanger in your wardrobe, left in a heap on the floor amongst whatever else had been carelessly tossed into your closet. You pulled it over your head, the soft fabric clinging to your skin in places where it was still slightly damp, your hair forming wet patches around the neckline of the shirt that stuck to your skin uncomfortably. The hem brushed over the tops of your thighs, just barely covering your underwear which you'd stepped into with a lazy ease.
You caught a glimpse of him in the corner of your eye as you adjusted the waistband of your panties, the elastic digging into your skin, and you turned your head to meet his gaze. The corners of his lips quirked up into a small, almost guilty smile as you caught him staring at you.
You glanced around your cluttered, messy room for his boxers, and you spotted the black fabric in a rumpled puddle beside your bed, wrinkled and inside out, and you nodded towards them vaguely.
He bent down to grab them, a soft grunt escaping his lips at the angle, and he flipped them the right way before stepping into them and tugging them up his legs, the dark grey waistband settling at his hips.
He scanned his eyes around your small room for the rest of his clothes, but he made no move to grab them. His shirt was crumpled across your floor like a ghost that had passed out, the buttons completely undone, and his dark linen trousers were kicked half way under your bed, the legs sticking out like a body at a crime scene. He didn't bother with either of them.
You moved past him through the doorway, making your way to the kitchen, and you heard the soft, faint drag of his footsteps behind you, following you, unhurried, almost hesitant, in a way. There was something tender about the way he always trailed after you, like he couldn't bare the thought of being apart from you, like it physically pained him, and to him, it did.
Your kitchen wasn't much. It was narrow, a bit dim, and the walls were painted an off-white colour that had yellowed over the years, but it was yours, and despite it being dingy, he loved anything that was yours. Even a tiny, cramped, strangely arranged kitchen.
You went straight to the kettle, which was tucked between a tall, leaning tower of unopened letters, some dating back years, and a chipped ceramic mug rack that had definitely seen better days, and you flicked it on with a soft click. Behind you, he made his way to the table, dragging the worn wooden chair back with an awful scrape against the floor before settling into it with a quiet grunt. He didn’t bother adjusting his boxers, just spread his thighs a little, comfortable, his elbows resting on the table.
The stack of newspapers was impossible to miss. Piled high towards the edge of the table, some spilled off onto the floor from the sheer amount all stacked on top of each other, haphazard and threatening to completely topple over at any given moment. The edges were curled, the paper looked old, and most were untouched, the ink still crisp. Your old neighbour insisted on dropping them round to your doorstep every morning, thinking she was doing you a favour. You never read them, but you never said no to her either.
He thumbed through the top few, flipping half-heartedly between the thin pages, and you heard the dry crinkle of the newsprint as he skimmed, his brows drawing faintly together now and then, confused as to why and how they built up.
“Do you ever actually read these?” he asked, turning his head to glance at you, his brow furrowed.
You turned to look at him, your lips slightly pursed, and you shook your head. “My neighbour brings them around most mornings. I guess it's sweet, but I don't know how to tell her I don't want them.”
He gave a faint smile before turning away again, then he flipped to the middle of one of the papers and let it fall open onto the crossword page. His fingers lightly tapped against the wood of your table, and you didn't have to look to identify the sound. It was something you'd grown used to after seeing him so many times, one of his many ways of finding something to occupy his mind when it got too loud.
He squinted down at the clues for a moment, rubbing his thumb across the corner of the page, before he asked, not looking up, “Have you got a pen, love?”
“Um…” you hummed, turning from the counter and tugging open one of the drawers beneath the countertop with a rattle from the jumbled contents inside. “Yeah, I think so.”
You started rummaging through the drawer which was filled with all sorts. Pens, blunt pencils, dead batteries, hair bands, a stray pair of earrings that hadn't seen daylight in a year. After a moment of searching, you found one that you thought might still work, hopefully, a cheap black biro with the rubber grip peeling off.
You handed it to him, and he took it without a word, your fingers brushing briefly, and he glanced down at it, then up at you, a smile playing on his lips. “This one of those pens that pretends it's got ink until you commit to writing something?”
“Probably.”
He smirked faintly and he turned back around before he leaned forward, testing it in the corner of the page, earning him a shaky, faded line. He tried again, which gave him a better one. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the crossword, his brows furrowed in concentration, one hand loosely curled near his mouth as he read the clues aloud under his breath, unable to read them in his mind without losing them in the tsunami inside of his brain.
You returned to the kettle as it clicked off with a puff of steam, and you poured out two mugs of tea, watching as the tea leaves bled into the boiled water, staining it. You crossed the room towards your mechanically humming fridge as the tea bags marinated, and you pulled the half-empty bottle of milk out of your fridge, the thin plastic cool against your palm as you brought it back to the counter.
You fished out the tea bags before lazily discarded them in your sink, and you poured a splash of milk into each mug, and stirred two sugars into his.
You gently set his mug in front of him with a dull clink against the table, being careful not to disturb the half-folded newspaper or the dodgy pen resting between his fingers.
“Ta,” he murmured quietly, distracted, focusing intently on the crossword in front of him.
You sat down across from him at the small table, your own mug nestled between your palms, the warmth bleeding through the ceramic against your fingers. The steam curled up toward your face and smelled faintly of the slightly-too-old tea bags you always forgot to replace.
He leaned forward a little now, his posture curved into a bend that was bound to make his spine ache later. His face was hardened in concentration while one of his feet bounced rhythmically beneath the table, helping to keep him focused. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at his nape and clinging to his skin. The pen tapped once against the paper, then twice, his tongue poking out slightly, before he scribbled something into the boxes with a quiet satisfaction.
“You doing good on it?” you asked, your voice low but light, not wanting to interrupt his focus. You liked watching him think, liked watching his tiny mannerisms that you'd come to adore that you weren't even sure he was aware of doing.
He looked up at you for a moment with a small smile before he said, looking back down at the paper, “Don't think I'm doing too bad. Some are a bit tricky, though, but I think I'm doing alright.”
He held up the folded newspaper with one hand, proudly showing you his progress, the grid half-filled with careful but slightly wonky capital letters. Some clues were scratched out then rewritten after he'd made a mistake and crossed it out before realising, and the lines in the corner where he'd tested the pen were smudged from where he’d been resting his other hand.
You scanned over the words, pretending to be more interested than you actually were, and you gave a small nod. “Looks good.”
He scoffed under his breath before returning to his puzzle, his eyes scanning over the next clue while you sipped your tea, the liquid still too hot and making you wince as it swilled over your tongue.
A few minutes passed like that, peaceful, comforting, familiar, the soft sound of the pen against the paper filling the quiet, occasionally accompanied by a quiet grunt of irritation followed by a few aggressive swipes of the ball point against the paper as the ink ceased every now and then.
Then suddenly, just as you were taking another sip of your tea, he sat up slightly, his expression changing, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile.
“Look,” he said, turning the paper towards you and tapping his finger on the grid. “It's you, baby.”
You leaned forward slightly, your eyes following his finger until your eyes landed on it. Written in a row of wobbly letters, P-E-T-A-L was etched into the grid, and your lips curved into a soft smile, your heart fluttering delicately, and when you looked up at him, he was already watching you, a warm, proud grin on his face.
Your heart tugged in your chest at how sweet it was, how strangely touched you were, and you watched as he flipped the paper over again, his eyes going back to scanning the clues over and over again, like if he stared at them long enough, the answers might reveal themselves to him.
He stayed like that for a while, hunched over, his posture mimicking a question mark, and he curled one hand loosely around the rim of his mug, the heat warming his fingertips, and his lips parted, the tip of his tongue ever so slightly poking out to run along them.
Every now and then, he'd pause, bringing the mug up to his lips for a small mouthful, swilling it around his mouth for a second before swallowing it and placing the mug back down onto the table. A few droplets sometimes spilled from his lips as he took a sip, the drops dribbling down the side of the mug before meeting the table, creating a small circle where his mug sat.
You didn't say anything, you didn't really need to. You just watched him with a quiet fondness, the light from the kitchen window slanting across the table in dusty lines, catching the edge of his hair and the side of his face.
You let your own tea go tepid between your hands. You preferred it that way. You continued to watch him in silence, the crossword hogging all of his attention, but at least it gave him a place to put his mind that wasn't loud, broken, or hard. Well, at least not too hard.
He exhaled slowly before scribbling in a word and smiling to himself, and then, without looking up, as if one of the clues had reminded him, he asked, “Is it still alright if I stay the night again, petal?”
You blinked, his voice startling you slightly. “Yeah, of course,” you said gently. “You can stay as long as you want.”
He looked up at you with a small, grateful smile, and there was something in that face, quiet, aching, something he always tried to bury, tried to disguise.
Then, without another word, he turned his head back to the crossword, the kettle ticking softly as it cooled down. You sipped the last cold dregs of your tea, and in that moment, nothing else in the world outside seemed to matter quite so much as the comforting quiet between the two of you.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
the next part is not going to be for a long while, my guess would probably be august/september, so im really sorry guys. i know theres quite a few people who really like him. theres loads of different ideas that i have that i really want to and am really looking forward to writing, so i hope you guys will enjoy those pieces too. kisses all round x
warnings : male reader, party, drinking, alex has anxiety, hes very awkward, sad feelings, bottom alex, car sex, unprotected, rimming (alex), nipple play, edging, anal, doggy, creampie. ps. just pretend the alcohol had worn off by the end. no drink driving x
The smash seemed to echo throughout the whole building, Alex undoubtedly managing to convince himself that the shatter was near deafening despite the sheer volume and thrum of some shitty house remix vibrating through the walls surely drowning it out, the shards of glass skittering outwards like frightened insects upon meeting the sticky floor.
The sharp sound sliced through his ears like violent lightning, and time seemed to cinch in on him tightly like a noose. His wide eyes darted from the mess on the floor to the man in front of him in a matter of milliseconds, the liquid he'd spilled on the front of the man's grey shirt darkening in a grotesque blooming pattern across his chest.
Alex's lips parted like he was about to say something, but no words came, just the flicker of his clumsy tongue against his dry, chapped lips, and the muffled sound of his breath catching in his throat on its way out. His shoulders twitched with the urge to hunch, fold in on himself and hide away, and he felt like his knees might buckle under the weight of disdain that the man's gaze carried.
Alex's bony hands trembled, his fingers still frozen in the position in which he'd been holding the glass, and there was a half-second of silence, or at least it felt silent, as silent as it could get in the cacophonous, headache-inducing pulse of the music in the club. It was like the whole world had paused for a moment and turned to witness his humiliation.
The stranger, taller than him, his shoulder broad, and his hair visually slick but likely rock hard with hair gel, was already swearing at him, something nasty and spat through gritted teeth as if the profanities were burning him. Alex didn't say a word as the man berated him, he just blinked rapidly, trying to stop the sting in his glassy eyes behind his grown-out fringe as tears threatened to spill, his mouth working uselessly around shapes he couldn't give sound to.
The guy shoved him, not too hard, just a small, disgusted push, but it was enough to make Alex stagger back a step or two and crunch the heel of his trainer into a piece of broken glass. He winced, his gaze shooting downwards towards his foot, his embarrassment so thick it was practically visible. The man muttered a final fucking idiot before trudging off into the crowd, leaving Alex completely alone, immobilised by his anxiety.
Alex didn't move for a long while, the shards at his feet glinting like little teeth, and he stared at them cautiously as if they might bite.
His cheeks burned red under the flickering LED lights, unevenly blurring through neon pinks and nauseous greens, casting long shadows across his jaw.
The cheap, watery mix of his rum and coke on the floor was already being absorbed into the grime of the club, mixed with beer foam, spilled pop, god knows what else, until it was completely indistinguishable from the rest of the filth, just like the drink itself. Nothing special. Nothing to salvage. Just £3.20 down the drain, which for Alex, might as well have been a small fortune.
He shuffled backwards like an animal retreating to its burrow, the shards wedged in the grooves of his trainer being crushed into a fine sand with each step he took, until his back met the wall, and he scanned his eyes over the room nervously, anxious, defensive, looking to see if anyone was still watching, but luckily, there weren't many. Just a few turned heads who's eyes still lingered, but most quickly lost interest, losing themselves in the trance of flashing lights and blaring music once more.
Alex stayed frozen against the wall as if he were stuck to it, his brain buffering in a loop of fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. His fingers twitched at his sides, awkward and useless, before one hand slowly rose to push his hair from his eyes with a self-conscious swipe, the strands slightly damp. His fringe was just a little bit too long, always falling into his eyes, but honestly, he preferred it that way. He thought it made him less visible, less of a spectacle.
His lips stayed half-open, the stale air of the club drying out the inside of his mouth, and his eyes, dark, wide, and framed by lashes far too pretty for someone who winced like he did, flickered down to the broken glass beneath and around his feet, a thin trail of cheap, likely off brand cola trailing towards the baseboard like blood at a crime scene from where it had clung to the rubber soles of his shoes and smeared along the floor with his stumbled steps.
He couldn't move. He wouldn't move. If he did, he'd draw more attention to himself, and that would be worse than anything. Worse than being shoved, worse than the splash, worse than the loss of the drink he'd rationed himself into affording.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uncertain breaths. He was hyper aware of his hands, of his legs, of every single part of himself. He was sick with it. The heat in his face wasn't fading, no matter how reclused and small he made himself in the corner. It had settled deep into the skin like a fever, and the air in the club felt ten degrees thicker than it had a minute ago. His throat was dry, sticky with the ghost of the cola and his all-consuming nerves, and he kept swallowing like it might make it all go away, wash away the syrupy remnants of his drink and disintegrate the anxiety that was caught and had gotten stuck there.
He didn't look up again. Not at anyone. He didn't want to meet eyes. He didn't want to know if people were watching, or if they were laughing or sneering or just silently pitying him. He knew how people tended to look at him when he got like this. With a sympathy that made his bones itch, made him feel stupid, or like he was a wounded animal that may still try to bite if not approached carefully. But he never bit. He just flinched, folded, and tried to hide.
He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, on the mess he'd made around him, and he thought about crouching down, about picking up the glass, but he was worried that would make people laugh at him too, or that someone would tread on his hand and pretend it was an accident, but all they really wanted to do was mock him. Stupid. He didn't want to get his blood on the floor either.
He blinked hard, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips just slightly, before he ultimately decided against cleaning up the glass, and he wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, more to look natural, human, something to do with his hands, instead of doing it for a purpose.
He tried to adjust his posture, pressing his shoulder blades against the cool paint, the sharp sting of the music pressing into his skull through the concrete. The shadows were thicker there. He was grateful for that. The lights didn't hit him as hard, and he could almost disappear if he didn't move, so he didn't.
He stayed there, locked into stillness, only his eyes darting towards the bar every once in a while with a kind of quiet devastation. No more drink. That had been it, just the one. He couldn't justify another.
So he just watched. The floor, the crowd, the lights. He tapped the scuffed toe of his shoes against the floor like a heartbeat, something to keep him steady, to keep his mind from spiralling. His chest still tingled with the ghost of the stranger's shove. It hadn't hurt, not really, not physically, but the shame of it had sunk deeper than any bruise could. It just sat in his chest, a hollow ache, a gnawing reminder of his clumsiness, his stupidity, how careless he'd been.
He didn't belong there. He never had, but he kept coming back anyway. The noise seemed to be the most effective at drowning out the harsh voice that dwelled in the depths of his head, and the dark corners helped make him feel less alone.
He lingered against the wall until his knees started to ache, until the soles of his feet went numb with disuse. He shifted his weight to try and not appear too different, too strange, crossing his ankles, then uncrossing them, his back curling inwards and his spine scraping against the paint behind him. The music throbbed on, and so did the crowd, but he stayed stuck where he was.
Eventually, he let out a tiny breath, barely audible even to himself, and he peeled away from the wall. He moved slowly, quietly, convinced that everyone had eyes on him even though no one noticed him. The bar looked no more inviting than it had earlier, but it was something, somewhere to go, some movement to justify his existence. He didn't want another drink, he couldn't afford another drink, but his fingers itched with stillness, uselessness, the static of having nothing to do with himself. He'd been nursing his shitty rum and coke for god knows how long, just so he wouldn't have to face the vulnerability of doing nothing with his hands.
He walked up, slid his way into a crack in the crowd, and he leaned forward over the sticky bar top just enough to catch the bartender's eye, before saying, still timid but loud enough to be heard, “Sorry, do you have a pen or something I could borrow?”
The bartender, already in motion, paused only long enough to toss a glance over his shoulder at the till, the ledge, the cup of plastic straws, and the stack of napkins, before he shrugged and said, “Nah, mate, not back here. Sorry.”
Alex nodded quickly, though the movement of his neck was only small, embarrassed that he'd even asked. He looked down at his hands, pale and skinny, his mouth tight. He'd wanted to doodle on them, a little flower, or a smiley face, or maybe a small cat, just like he used to do back in school when the lesson was too boring, or when he sat alone in his classes. It was something that had stuck with him, despite how often he got shouted at by his teachers for it.
You'd been stood nearby, leaning against the bar only about a metre away from Alex. You turned your head slightly as you heard the bartender's response, and you caught the vague disappointment that flickered across his features.
You'd seen him earlier. You'd heard the smash, followed by the aggressive shouting, presumably from the victim of his spillage. You'd seen the way he shrunk, followed by his attempt at hiding away in the corner, before his figure was swallowed up by the dense crowd again, hiding him from your view.
Your friends had been long since lost. You'd lost them hours ago, each of them drifting off one by one, whether they'd passed out somewhere, taken home a girl, or were drowning in the sea of people, they'd all left you alone. You'd ended up at the bar again, hoping it'd be an unspoken meeting point in case any of them were still there, but none had turned up.
You reached into your back pocket, fishing for a short, blunt, chewed pencil, a grimy one that seemed to only exist in pubs. You'd been using it to keep score in darts earlier in the evening, when the night had started out as just a friendly lads gathering with calm pints and a few tabletop games.
“I've got a pencil,” you said as you offered it, tapping it against the bar as you held it out to him.
He blinked, surprised, almost startled, and his eyes met yours for a brief second. His were huge, doe-like and glassy, and his lips parted to respond, but he hesitated, his gaze dropping down to your hand holding the pencil, then to the floor again.
He shook his head a little. “No, thank you. It's alright.”
You kept the pencil extended between two fingers for a few moments longer, watching the way his eyes flickered between it and the bar top like he was trying to decide whether to just take it to be polite, or keep declining until you went away.
You retracted your hand after a while, tucking the pencil back into your back pocket, and you noticed how stiff he seemed, a little jittery, like he wasn't sure what to do with the body he was attached to.
“Why do you want a pen but not a pencil?” you asked, your brows slightly furrowed as you perched one elbow on the bar and resting your chin with your hand.
He glanced up at you again, visibly confused, clearly not expecting the conversation to last this long. His lips pressed together tightly, and for a second, you thought he was just going to walk off.
“Dunno,” he mumbled, fidgeting and tugging at his fingers awkwardly. “I just… wanted to draw, I guess. Just a little bit.”
You noticed the little quiver in his voice, the slight tremor, and you could tell he was embarrassed, but you weren't sure what about.
“Why did you want to draw?” you asked, your tone a bit more accusatory, a bit more forceful than you intended, and you watched him tense up, almost flinch.
He clasped his hands together in front of him, clutching them tightly, his palms slick with sweat. He didn't exactly feel like saying because I'm anxious and alone and if I don't keep my hands busy, I might start crying in the toilets, so instead, he murmured, “I'm just bored, I think. That's all. Honestly.”
You nodded slowly, accepting his answer, and you let the silence settle for a moment before you said gently, “Do you come here much?”
He huffed out a small, dry laugh, the sound bleak. “Not… really. Sometimes. But I don't like it much.”
The conversation spilled out slowly from there, tentative and surface-level at first. You learned his name was Alex, that he didn't live far, and that he'd come out tonight “on a whim,” which sounded more like he'd forced himself out by telling himself that this is how he should be spending his early twenties.
You told him your name, that you'd initially come out to play darts with some mates in the beginning before you ended up there and your friends had vanished off to god knows where. You both talked about how crowded the club was, how expensive the drinks were, and how sticky the floor was getting by the minute.
Alex was careful with his words, that was one of the first things you noticed about him. Measured. Like every sentence went through a silent screening process in his head before he dared to let it out. His accent was soft and low, his voice always just below the roar of the music, like he was afraid of interrupting someone, or scared of accidentally doing something wrong. You could tell he wasn't used to being approached, or staying in conversations that didn't give him a clear or easy exit.
So when you asked him what kind of drink he liked, it didn't surprise you that he immediately rejected it, shaking his head vigorously.
“No, no- don't,” he stammered quickly, his eyes widening slightly. “Don't do that. Honestly. I'm fine. Really. Don't waste your money on me. I'm- I'm not even thirsty.”
You glanced at him, running your tongue along the backs of your teeth. “It's one drink, mate. Not a marriage proposal.”
His face colours instantly at that, impossibly fast, impossibly red, and he goes quiet, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“And because you didn't exactly get to finish your last one,” you added before turning towards the bartender.
He opened his mouth to protest again, but nothing came out. His jaw just shifted a bit, like he was chewing on the refusal, but then slowly, finally, he gave a tiny nod.
The first round of vodka cokes arrived with a clink, the bartender sliding the glasses across the bar with a bored flick of the wrist. You lifted yours before nudging the second glass towards Alex. He still looked hesitant, like he'd feel too guilty if he actually took the drink, but he reached out anyway, his fingers curling around the sweating glass, being extra careful not to let it slip.
The syrupy sweetness slid down your throat as you took a sip, the coolness cutting through the humidity that had settled into your limbs as the sharpness of the vodka warmed its way through your chest. You leaned a little closer, just enough for you to be able to hear each other without shouting. The conversation continued, not exactly deep, but more relaxed now, not necessarily out of comfort, it was too soon for that, but out of something that made Alex's gaze soften just a little, his fidgety fingers still easily, and his brain feel less jumbled.
By the time you'd ordered the second round, Alex was a touch less tightly coiled. He still flinched whenever someone brushed a bit too close behind him, and he still spoke like each sentence had to pass inspection before leaving his mouth, but he was drinking a little faster now. Smiling, too. Once or twice, he even managed to look you directly in the eye for more than a second at a time.
The third round came without much audible protest from him. You didn't ask this time, you just ordered, and he didn't try to stop you, though you could tell there was still a hint of guilt in his features. You saw his hand linger on the rim of the glass longer than before, tapping gently, his foot shifting beneath him with a quiet, jittery energy that seemed to fill every ounce of his body. He wasn't used to this; someone buying him drinks, someone sticking around, someone asking questions like they actually wanted and cared to know the answers.
“What kind of thing do you like to draw, then?” you asked as you wiped your hand on the front of your jeans, your fingers damp from the condensation of the glass.
He shrugged, his lips pursed slightly, but his shoulders a little less hunched. “I dunno. When I'm just… I don't know, doodling, just on my hand and that, I do little animals. Or flowers,” he said, his voice a little smaller, like he was embarrassed, like you'd think those were ‘girly' things. “But when I actually draw, I do, like… hands, and stuff. Some faces. Bits of bodies, sometimes.”
“Sounds cool,” you smiled, running your fingertip along the rim of your glass. He shot you a quick, almost defensive glance, afraid you might tease him.
“Not in a weird way, or anything,” he added quickly, a little too quickly, his cheeks reddening slightly. “Not anything… dirty.”
You laughed, your fist coming up to cover your mouth, shaking your head slightly. “I didn't assume that. But if they were dirty, I wouldn't judge.”
His face flushed more, colouring quickly from the base of his throat upwards like a tide over the shore, and he ducked his head, unable to hold the eye contact anymore, smiling shyly down at his drink.
By the fourth round, Alex had stopped clutching his glass like it was a lifeline. He was still nervous, of course, still fidgeting, still shifting, but there was a softness to him now. His shoulders had lowered just slightly, his chin was lifted more than it had been earlier. He was still talking in fits and starts, still leaving a few too many seconds between his sentences like he had to wait for permission, but at least he was talking.
There must've been something else in his drink, something that loosened his tongue, as he took another slow sip before saying, “You're, um…” he paused, rolling the glass between his palms and watching the dark liquid slosh and swirl around before he flickered his gaze back up to you. “...You look good.”
You blinked, and he didn't say anything for a second, then he added quickly, awkwardly, almost embarrassed, “Like, um… fit,” he cringed. “Or whatever word you wanna use.”
His voice trailed off into a quiet murmur at the end like he'd immediately regretted it, and you could practically see the guilt rising in him, riddled with questions of whether or not you reciprocated, and if he'd just completely ruined everything.
You watched as his fingers tightened around the glass and his tongue poke against the inside of his cheek, but you didn't tease him. You tilted your head to the side slightly, looking at him properly, and he glanced up, just barely, nervous, wary.
“You're pretty,” you said softly, your tone warmer, trying to coax him out of his shell of embarrassment that he'd built around himself like a shield.
His face changed in an instant. Almost surprised for a moment, like someone had knocked the wind gently out of him, then he smiled a real smile. Small but stunned, blooming slowly across his face like it was shy. His lashes fluttered down toward his drink again as he mumbled, his voice quiet, “Thank you.”
The fifth round came without much ceremony from either of you, the two of you swaying ever so slightly now, the buzz of the club completely blurred into the background. Lights smearing together, all of the people slurring into one, the noise blending into nothing but a hum. You handed Alex his glass again, and this time, he took it without any hesitation.
You leaned in a bit more as you talked, closer than before. Your arm brushed against his, and when he didn't pull away, you let your hand rest lightly on the side of his elbow. He was warm, not just from the booze or the humidity of the room, but warm in that buzzing, humming way that only nerves and alcohol can create. He tensed at the touch at first, then he softened, wanting to trust the contact.
He wasn't used to it, that much was obvious.
You moved your hand slowly, dragging it down to rest against the edge of his forearm, your fingers lightly pressing into the soft inside. You felt him shiver, not violently, just a flutter of movement, like his body didn't know how to react. His lips parted slightly like he might say something, but he didn't, his throat closing up on him, preventing any words from squeezing through.
“You alright?” you asked, your voice low and gentle, coaxing, noticing the way his body seemed to be betraying his mind.
He nodded too fast, his hair bouncing slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, really. I just… wasn't expecting, like… touch.”
“Do you not like it?”
“No! No, that's…” his voice trailed off, embarrassed. “I like it. I really like it. I just… it's new.”
You offered a small smile, finding his overwhelming shyness endearing. “You're sweet.”
He let out a quiet breath, his cheeks still slightly pink, before he said hesitantly, “I've never, um, done anything. With another man, I mean.”
You could feel the tension flood back into him in that moment, right after he let the words leave his mouth, like he was bracing for something, like maybe it would scare you off or turn you cruel. You didn't pull away, you didn't laugh, you just tilted your head a little, curious.
“Do you want to?”
He looked up at you, his eyes wide, brown, slightly glassy, and he bit his lower lip tentatively before nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he whispered, but you didn't hear it. You didn't need to.
You leaned in, slowly, carefully, giving him enough time to retract or to pull away if he didn't want it, but it didn't come. He didn't move.
Your lips brushed against his, just barely at first, feeling the subtle scrape of his dry ones on your slightly softer ones. You felt the tremble in him, the hesitation and want inside of him colliding in a silent, breathless battle. He didn't know what to do with his mouth, too stiff, too still, but he let you guide it, take control. Your hand moved up to his jaw, your thumb brushing his cheekbone gently, and he tilted into it, not realising how badly he wanted, needed, to be touched like that.
You kissed him again, deeper this time, softer, and his breath caught in his throat. You felt the exact moment his lips responded, clumsy but honest, nervous but so very open. You felt the soft, feather light brush of his lashes against your cheek as they fluttered shut, letting himself relax into it, almost surrender.
When you pulled back, you let your hand rest just beneath his jaw, gently caressing the soft skin there. “You okay?” you asked quietly, not really expecting too much of a response.
He nodded, breathless after you stole the air from him, his pupils wide and fixed on you in front of him, his cheeks blushed.
“I liked that,” he whispered, his tongue poking out to swipe along his lower lip.
“Did you?” you murmured. He nodded. “Do you want another one?”
He blinked up at you, his lips red and parted, your breaths mingling between you, letting his mind catch up to his body, and then he nodded.
You smiled before you kissed him again, heavier, less tentative, and he leaned into it once more, his lips parting wider for yours with a trembling eagerness.
You pulled back again, but only just enough to whisper against his mouth, “Come on.”
He didn't ask where, he didn't need to. You took his hand, and he followed, out through the crowd, past where he'd spilled his drink, through the exit that bled the club's sound out into the dark of the night, cold air kissing flushed cheeks, neon lights reflecting on wet pavement. The street was alive but not watching. No one noticed you, no one cared, all too caught up in the rush of their own nights.
Your car was parked down the way, tucked just under a flickering street light. The walk was quiet, except for the scuff of his boots on the concrete, and the shuffle of yours beside his. His fingers in your grip were tense, but he didn't let go, not once.
You could feel the buzz of nerves inside of him, the way he held his breath, the way his fingers seemed fidgety in your hand. He was hard already, you knew that without even having to look at his crotch. His steps were too deliberate, and his thighs were tight like he was trying not to brush against his own zip. He was high on this, on you, on the heat and the risk and the mystery of it all.
He was biting his lip when you glanced at him, his eyes wide behind that mess of hair strewn across his forehead. The softest line of sweat glinted along his temple, glistening slightly under the streetlight and catching your eye.
You squeezed his hand lightly, and he flinched as the pressure reminded him where he was. “You okay?” you asked, and he nodded quickly.
“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, just…” he paused before glancing away. “Just a bit scared, I think. Nervous. But in a good way. A really good way.”
You gave him a gentle smile, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. “We don't have to if you don't want to.”
He shook his head vigorously, his voice sounding a little more desperate than he intended as he said, “I want to. Please.”
You smiled, and finally, you both reached your car. You unlocked it with one hand and held the door open for him after tugging the handle, and he hesitated awkwardly for a moment before letting his hand slip from yours, and he slid into the back seat.
You followed, one of your hands almost instinctively finding his thigh as you shut the door behind you. Your lips met once more, and his breath hitched in his throat as your other hand came up to the back of his neck, holding him closer, pulling him deeper into the kiss, his lips struggling to keep up with yours.
Your hand on his thigh gently slid up to his hip, tracing your fingers along the waistband of his dark blue jeans, the soft white cotton of his boxers peeking out over the denim. His lips quivered against yours as he let out a brittle, barely audible whimper into your mouth, and you swallowed the small sound as your fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, the soft pop as the metal slipped through the hole, followed by the whir of his zip being pulled down.
You broke the kiss with a soft click, your lips connected for just a moment longer by a small, thin string of saliva before it snapped back onto your chin, and you tucked your hand beneath the opening of his trousers. It was warm in there, and you felt a small damp spot forming just slightly to the left of one of the leg holes.
You glanced up at him to see him already staring at you, his dark pupils almost wider than his iris, and his cheeks were dusted with a light pink, his face hot. “This okay?” you murmured, though you already knew what his response would be.
He nodded once more, his breathing heavy, and you felt his cock give a subtle pulse against your palm through the thin fabric of his underwear, making you smile softly as you slid your thumb beneath the waistband of his jeans.
He lifted his hips slightly, as best as he could, to help you get his trousers off, and you tugged them down his hips, over his thighs, until they crumpled in a puddle at his ankles, where he then shuffled out of them with his feet, toeing off his trainers as well before kicking them aside, both of them ending up somewhere beneath the driver's seat.
You palmed him over his boxers, feeling every twitch, spasm, and throb that his length gave in response to your touch, and he moaned softly, the sound shaky, high pitched, and almost brittle.
You glanced up at him once more, and his eyes had fluttered shut, his lips parted as he tried to steady his heavy breathing, tinged with a soft whimper every so often. You leaned forward slightly, pressing a small kiss to his soft cheek before sliding your hand beneath his boxers, your fingers finding his cock, warm and hard, and he bit down hard on his lower lip in an attempt to stifle his whine, the sound coming out muffled and desperate as it forced its way out of his throat.
Slowly, carefully, you peeled down the cotton of his boxers, revealing the flushed, sensitive skin beneath the fabric, his cock throbbing under your gaze. His red-hot tip glistened in the soft light of the street light bleeding in through the car window, and his shaft wagged slightly as he shifted his legs to shuffle out of his underwear.
Your hand returned to his thigh, squeezing the soft, plush flesh there gently, tracing small patterns along the inside, between his legs, before you murmured softly, your breath hot against his ear, “Bend over for me.”
You felt his thighs tense slightly beneath your grip, and his breath stuttered in his throat, like he couldn't quite believe it was really happening. He hesitated for a moment longer before he gathered up his limbs and nodded quickly, his breathing speeding up as he lifted his legs up onto the seat as well, his knees digging into the leather, and he leaned forward, pressing his hot face into the cushion.
He squeezed his eyes shut, not entirely able to believe how vulnerable he'd let himself become, and he heard you moving behind him, his back arching with an instinct that made his stomach tighten, a wave of goosebumps rippling over his pale skin.
You placed your hands on his hips gently, rubbing your thumbs along the plump flesh of his ass cheeks, and you heard him gasp softly, so incredibly sensitive, his muscles tightening as he tried not to flinch.
“Pretty,” you whispered, almost like a coo, and you felt him relax slightly. You leaned down, as best as you could in the cramped back seat of your car, your spine curving, and you held him open with the pads of your thumbs, your breath hot against him, making him writhe.
He shifted a little, pushing his knees slightly more apart, as wide as the seat would allow, and his face scrunched up as you pressed a small kiss to one of his cheeks, and what he felt next nearly made him squeal.
Your tongue moved slowly at first, languid strokes that made his entire body jerk. You felt his muscles flutter under your mouth, trembling with each teasing circle, and you kissed lower, then licked firmly, deliberately, flicking against the tender ring of muscle that clenched and quivered with every gasp that escaped his throat he tried to hold back.
“Fuck…” his voice broke, slightly muffled against his squished cheek, his hands clutching at the door before finding their way to his chest. His fingers dragged across his flat pecs before gently teasing his nipples through his shirt. A soft, breathy moan slipped from him as he pinched one between his fingers, his hips instinctively pressing back toward your mouth. He was losing himself, unraveling under your tongue and his own touch, chasing the dual sensations in every way he could.
“You like that?” you murmured against him, your voice low and rough as you pressed a kiss to his hole.
He nodded rapidly, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth slack. “Don't stop,” he begged, his breath hitching into a whine. “It feels so fucking good…”
You groaned softly and pressed in deeper, circling your tongue slowly, purposefully, pressing the tip inside for just a second at a time before going back to licking. He was so responsive, so vocal, his moans rising in pitch every time you tightened the grip of your hands on his hips to keep him still, steady and open. His fingers moved faster on his chest now, twisting and pulling at his nipples, feeding the pleasure that rippled through him like lightning.
You pulled back for just a moment, catching the flushed stretch of his back and the way his toes curled in his stained, white socks. Every part of him was strung tight, tense, his hole clenching around nothing until you pressed your mouth to him again.
Your tongue found a new rhythm, slow and firm, then teasing, torturing, before returning to deliberate, dragging strokes that made his face burrow into the seat. He was shaking now, every muscle in his limbs taut, the curve of his soft ass pushing back against your face with desperation. His thighs trembled, and every time your mouth pressed a little harder, a little deeper, a little faster, his whole body twitched like you were rewiring him from the inside out.
You licked lower, slower, then let your tongue press right at his centre, firm and wet, making him let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking. His voice cracked into the seat, a small trail of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the leather, “Oh my god…”
His cock twitched helplessly between his legs, leaking with every purposeful swipe of your tongue, his eyes squeezing shut as his whole body shivered.
He whimpered, twisting a fist into his shirt where it clung to his chest, the fabric damp with his sweat. His other hand returned to his nipples, pinching again, rubbing in frantic little circles, chasing that electric spark he couldn't seem to get enough of. You could hear every shaky breath, every gasp and whine that escaped his throat as your tongue coaxed more sounds from him, wetter, louder, more desperate.
You gave him one last deliberate lick, slow, flattening your tongue as you dragged it all the way up with purpose, before pulling back, your breath coming hot and shallow against the backs of his soft, trembling thighs.
He let out a desperate, wounded sound. "No…"
His voice was wrecked, breathless, high-pitched with the severity of his need. His hips rocked back instinctively, searching for your mouth again, slick and eager and wanting more. “Why'd you stop?” he whispered, face still buried in the seat cushion, his voice a ragged whine.
You didn't answer, at least, not with words. You sat back just a little, as much as you could, shuffling on your knees, and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, your chest rising with each heavy breath. The heat and humidity in the car had grown almost unbearable, the windows fogged up completely, the air thick with the overwhelming scent of sex and sweat and desperation.
He lifted his head slightly, his forehead slick and his fringe drenched, panting heavily, and then he heard it.
A soft, metallic click of your belt being undone, slow and intentional, and he froze, feeling the seconds that passed like his own heartbeat. He shifted slightly before letting his head drop back down onto the seat, returning to the small damp, shiny spot that had formed from his sweat.
You dragged the zip of your jeans down, slow and purposeful, the metallic sound slicing through the silence that had just began to fester, punctuated by his heavy breathing. Your hand slipped inside the opening, and you groaned softly as you freed yourself from the restrictive confines of your boxers that had grown tight, the weight of your arousal settling heavy in your palm.
Alex turned his head slightly, trying to glance back over his shoulder, but couldn't quite get the angle. Still, he didn't need to see. You knew he could feel it. The shift in energy, the anticipation blooming in the tight lines of his shoulders and in the clench of his thighs.
You leaned in closer, the scorching hot head of your cock brushing against the warm swell of his ass, and he shuddered. You rested your hand on his lower back, your fingers splayed gently against the curve of his spine. He was so warm beneath you, his skin flushed, trembling with every shaky breath he took, and you let your tip nudge against his wet hole, slick from your mouth, slow, teasing, barely a graze.
He gasped, the sound raw, and he pushed his hips back a little, greedy for more.
“You sure?” you asked once more, your voice low and barely more than a murmur, and he nodded quickly.
“Yes,” he managed to stammer out, his voice soft but desperate and needy. “Please.”
You spat into your palm upon hearing his small voice, slicking yourself up with a few quick strokes before guiding your tip back to him, one hand staying firm on his lower back, steadying both him and yourself, while the other guided you slowly forward.
The pressure was controlled, and you didn't push all at once, just eased in, letting his body open around you, inch by inch, and he sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers clawing at the leather seat beneath him, the muscles in his back twitching as he attempted to adjust.
“Fuck…” you muttered, your voice rough with restraint. “Doing so good for me…”
A loud, broken moan escaped his throat as you pressed deeper, your cock stretching him slowly, filling him with a deliberate patience that had him whimpering and arching his back into angles he didn't even know he was flexible enough to reach.
You paused halfway in, leaning forward to kiss the space between his shoulder blades. “Breathe for me,” you whispered, your voice coaxing, encouraging.
He did, just a slow, shaky inhale followed by an uneven, ragged exhale, but it helped. His body loosened a little more, just enough, and you managed to slide the rest of the way in, the base of your cock flush against him now, and he almost screamed. Both of you were breathless from the stretch, the heat, the overwhelming closeness, and Alex's stomach twisted and tightened as his body fought to accommodate the intrusion, your tip kissing that smooth rubbery spot deep inside of him that made him yelp.
You stayed still for a moment, your cock buried inside him to the hilt, letting him feel every inch of you, letting him feel how full he was, how claimed.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed out, his voice strangled and bordering on a sob. “You feel so fucking big…”
You smiled against his skin before straightening up, your hand smoothing down his side as you fixed your posture. “You feel perfect.”
You rolled your hips once, just a slow grind, and he shuddered underneath you, an animalistic sound escaping his lips that was somewhere between a rough groan and a loud moan.
“More,” he whined, his eyes stinging as he heaved, barely able to handle it.
You started to move, gentle at first, long, slow strokes where you pulled nearly all the way out before sinking right back in to the hilt, your cock dragging across every sweet spot inside of him that made his thighs tremble and his back arch. His moans came quicker now, messier, louder, his hips rocking back to meet your every thrust, the soft flesh of his ass bouncing against your hips.
The sounds were filthy, obscene, wet, skin against skin, the rhythmic creak of your car seat, and his breathy cries echoing in the close, hot space, bouncing off of the walls until they were replaced with another newer, louder, whinier one. You couldn't look away from him, from the way his back arched, the way his fingers had returned to his chest, playing with his nipples again, chasing every ounce of pleasure you gave him and still greedy for more.
“Feels so fucking good…” he gasped, his voice shaking as you continued to thrust in and out, back and forth, your cock dragging along the sensitive walls inside of him and bumping against that most tender, aching spot that made him cry out each time.
You could feel him tightening around you with every stroke, getting closer and closer and closer, his whole body trembling, and god, you weren't far behind, your cock pulsing relentlessly inside of him.
You continued to drive into him with slow, deep strokes, letting him feel the weight of you with every one of your movements, and he clung to the seat beneath him, his breath ragged, the occasional gasp breaking into something softer, needier, his voice unraveling along with the rest of his body.
You reached forward, brushing your hand across his ribs and up to his chest, helping him when his fingers fumbled, pinching and rolling his tender, sensitive nipple gently, watching how he reacted with a full-body shiver, each of his limbs trembling with the intensity of his pleasure.
“I can't- I'm gonna- fuck, I'm close….” he whimpered, grinding back against you with feverish little movements, the tension in his thighs unbearable as he chased his orgasm.
“Yeah?” you taunted, your hips rolling faster now, losing the rhythm in favour of that burning high that simmered in your belly. “You gonna cum for me like this?”
He nodded desperately, unable to speak, one hand reaching down beneath him. His palm wrapped around his cock, already slick, already leaking, and he started stroking himself frantically in time with your thrusts, his whole body straining, the extra stimulation exactly what he needed.
And then he cried out, sharp and broken, and you felt him tighten around you so suddenly, so intensely, it nearly undid you on the spot.
He came hard into his palm, his hips jerking, gasping with his mouth wide open against the seat as his whole body seized, his limbs locking up, flushed and shaking. Hot ropes of cum spilled across his hand, thick and wet, filling up his palm, and even though he tried to aim carefully, some of it dripped down onto the leather seat and slid messily down his wrist, like an ice cream you'd been holding for too long in the sun beginning to melt down onto your skin.
You groaned at the sight and at the feel of him pulsing around you, and you fucked him through it, your rhythm faltering as the pressure in your own gut twisted into something unbearable.
He was still moaning, soft and overstimulated, trying to keep himself upright with shaking arms as you delivered one final thrust and buried yourself deep inside of him with a rough gasp, your orgasm crashing through you in burning hot waves, thick and warm and filling him up to the brim.
Neither of you moved for a moment, only the heavy sound of your breathing filling the car. The air was dense, and Alex sagged forward with a weak whimper, utterly wrecked, and you stayed inside him for a few moments longer, your hand still resting over his heart as it pounded beneath his chest.
You eased out of him slowly, carefully, and he let out a soft, breathless sound, half whine and half sigh. He collapsed briefly against the seat, limp and quiet, unsure if his limbs even worked anymore, before he finally began to move, still flushed, still trembling just a little, and he reached down to grab his boxers and trousers from the car floor, shaking them out with unsteady hands.
He dressed in silence, first his boxers which he tugged up carefully over his shaky thighs, then his jeans, zipped up with a wince. His trainers followed, loosely tied. He didn't look up at you again.
You tucked yourself away, zipped up your jeans and adjusted your shirt, your hands moving on autopilot. Everything was still too warm, your skin buzzing with aftershocks, your mind struggling to catch up.
Without a word, you opened the car door for the two of you and you both climbed out of the back seat, the quiet accompanied by the creak of the seat beneath his knees. The cool night air hit both of you instantly, sobering. It was almost silent now, no traffic, just the hum of streetlamps and the distant bark of a dog that the owners likely refused to keep inside.
You stood beside him for a moment, the fog on the windows already beginning to fade in the night breeze as the door hung open.
“Do you want a lift home?” you asked, your voice low.
He shook his head. “No.”
“…Want to come back to mine?”
“No,” he said again, this time more firmly, but still not meeting your eyes.
You hesitated, searching for something else to say, but there was nothing that wouldn't sound wrong, so instead, you just nodded, not pushing any further. “Okay.”
You shut the back door before you opened the front one and climbed into the driver's seat. He stepped back from the car slightly, just about a metre, his arms folded tight across his chest and eyes cast downwards. You started the engine, the headlights lit him in a stark, lonely gold for a brief second as you pulled away, offering him one last, upside down smile through the window before you drove off.
He stood there a moment after your car disappeared down the road, the loud engine fading until he couldn't hear the rumble anymore. The night was colder now. Emptier, too. The back of his jeans clung uncomfortably between his legs, sticky and damp, and he shifted awkwardly, wincing at the fullness still lingering inside him. Every movement made it more noticeable. The ghost of the stretch, the warmth, the slow, inevitable mess starting to leak out and soak into his boxers like glue.
His lanky legs were unsteady, trembling faintly with each step as he stumbled onto the pavement, trying to find a rhythm. The backs of his thighs ached and his stomach fluttered. He reached up once to push his damp fringe out of his eyes, then stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
He kept walking, stumbling occasionally over uneven slabs or cracks in the pavement that were far too wobbly to be considered safe, disoriented, his eyes unfocused. He didn't even know what time it was. His body felt used, stretched open, marked. He could still feel it inside him. Each step jostled something loose, slick, messy, humiliating, but he didn't stop. He couldn't really. He kept moving, one foot in front of the other, alone under the fluorescent glow of the street lights, the sound of his footsteps the only thing chasing him home.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
this is set in a world where everyone is gay unless they say otherwise. ive also got another question. what is your opinion on mushrooms? texture is a big thing for me when it comes to food and i absolutely cannot handle them. im waiting for my time to like them to come around though, as every older person i meet seems to love them. same with brussels sprouts
