warnings : he's back. very long one to make up for the wait. sex work, cheating, age gap (19 & 38, then 39), phone sex, masturbation (him), fingering (reader), argument, i guess implications of a little drinking problem, missionary, TINY footjob, feet kink, daddy kink, hes a bit strange again, hes still sad
You'd only given him your phone number a few days ago, writing it on the back of his hand with a broken pen you'd found in one of the hotel bedside table drawers that barely had any ink left. He'd been circling the topic for a couple of weeks, always in that tone where you couldn't quite tell what he was trying to convey, whether he was joking or if he was completely serious.
“At my age, you know, it gets hard walking halfway across the city as often as I do, looking for you,” he'd muttered last time as he tied up the laces on his shoes. “And it's not like anyone else has got a hold on you, anyway.”
You'd known what he was really asking for from the very first subtle hint he'd dropped, but you'd just been waiting for him to ask you properly, to tell you what he actually wanted.
It was just past midnight when your phone lit up on your bedside table with a dull buzz against the smooth oak wood, and you reached over with a quiet grunt to pick it up, tugging the charging cable out of the port with a click.
You squinted your eyes as the screen bloomed to life, a gentle glow that was a little too harsh for your eyes after they'd adjusted to the dark casting across your face as you smeared a spiral pattern across the dots on the grid to unlock it, your homescreen wallpaper greeting you with familiarity as it blinked on.
You swiped your notifications down, and nestled between a notice from the bank and someone adding to their Instagram story, there was a text with his name perched above the message, reading, You awake, baby?
You shifted on your side, one hand coming up to rub at your eyes while you considered whether or not you should even reply. You could leave it. Turn your phone off, plug it back in, roll over and fall asleep. Deal with him the next morning. But there was that nagging feeling inside you, whether it was in your heart, your stomach or your brain, you weren't sure, but it was persistent, gnawing. The thought of him sat hunched over alone in bed, or on the edge of the bath, or on the couch, undoubtedly with his trousers around his ankles, his cheek slightly squished as he rested his face in his hand, and staring at his phone screen as he waited for your reply. It made your heart ache, in a strange way.
You sunk your teeth into your inner cheek, your lips pursing as you contemplated for a moment more, before you pressed on the notification, the screen opening up to your messages with him. You hadn't sent many to each other, and most of them had been sent by him, usually just a ‘hello’, or small updates on how his day was going.
You pulled up your keyboard on your screen and typed, Yeah. You okay?
The two ticks tucked just beneath your words flickered to blue immediately after you pressed the send icon, and he replied quickly, Need to hear your voice.
There was a short pause after he sent that text, and your chest tightened, heart stuttering with something between dread and anticipation. You imagined him typing, deleting, then typing again, the hesitation palpable even through the screen, before he sent another message. Can I call you?
You let his message sit for a moment, your tongue poking out to wet your lower lip where the dryness had been spreading from your breathing, and you sighed before sending, Yeah.
Your phone screen lit up with the incoming call just a few moments later, softly buzzing against your palm like a heartbeat as it chimed. It felt heavier, as if just his name brought the weight of all of his burdens with it, no matter where it was. You answered it, rolling onto your back and looking up at the ceiling as you brought your phone up to your ear.
You could hear his heavy breathing on the other end of the line, coming in sharp, quick exhales and slow, quiet inhales. He didn't speak for a moment, waiting to see if you'd say something first, but when he realised you weren't going to, he said, “Hi, petal.”
His voice was rough, slightly gravelly, like he'd just been crying, or like he was trying his very best not to. You breathed in slowly. “Hi.”
You heard him swallow thickly before he asked, making an attempt at softening his voice, “I didn't wake you up, did I?”
One of your hands came up to your hair, your fingers fiddling with the messy strands, twirling and tugging, before you replied simply, “No.”
He exhaled and you heard the soft scrape of his hand rubbing over his face, over and across his stubble, and he murmured, “She's asleep on the settee downstairs. Told her I had heartburn. I'm upstairs. In the bathroom.”
“Are you?”
“Mhm.”
“You okay?”
“No.”
He sounded more tired on the phone, his voice weighted, and he sounded older, in a way, carrying a subtle rasp. “I've been thinking about you a lot,” he continued.
You smiled a little, and he heard it creep into your voice. “You say that all the time.”
“Because I'm thinking about you all the time.”
You didn't reply, letting the silence settle between you for a while, heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable, until his voice split through the quiet once more.
“What are you wearing, baby?”
His tone was gentle, sweet, coaxing, almost paternal, in an odd way. It made you feel warm, the tone of his words wrapping around you like a blanket despite the physical distance between you.
“Just my t-shirt. The one I sleep in,” you answered, idly running your fingers along the neckline of your top and fidgeting with a loose thin string.
There was another short moment of quiet, before he licked his lips, gripping his phone tighter. “Nothing else?”
You smiled. “No. Why?”
He didn't answer for a moment, his slow, slightly uneven breathing filling the silence on the other end. “I just wanted to imagine you. Safe and soft… all tucked up in bed…”
He trailed off, chewing on the inside of his cheek as a slow, coiling heat curled up through his belly like smoke from the end of a cigarette.
“I bet you look so cute…” he whispered, his voice slightly strained as he adjusted his grip on his phone, the stirring in his groin growing more pronounced and insistent as he imagined you. He closed his eyes with a small sigh, imagining you in a way he'd had you many times before, down on your knees in front of him, nestled between his legs, looking up at him with those devastating eyes that made his heart beat as loud as thunder.
You pictured him, whether he was sat on the floor, on the rim of the tub, or on top of the toilet seat, the harsh light of his bathroom throwing uneven shadows across his tired face. It sent a dull wave of warmth through your stomach like a tide at dawn, rippling up to your chest.
“What are you wearing?” you asked, shifting under your duvet and raising your back up off of the mattress, propping yourself up against the headboard before adjusting the neckline of your shirt around your shoulders.
He let out a small breath of something that resembled a laugh, just barely audible, and he said, “My top. Boxers. That's it.”
“No trousers?”
“Not at the moment.”
You heard a soft creak from his end of him shifting his weight, and he bit his rough lower lip. One hand rubbed along his thigh, over the soft cotton of his underwear, the fabric growing taut as his cock stiffened beneath it. He let out a small groan as he brushed his finger against his clothed tip, his eyes fixed on his crotch, and he murmured, “Wish you were here, love…”
The stems of the heat that had been rooted in your crotch made their way up your body, constricting and winding around your stomach, lungs, ribs and heart until they bloomed and blossomed in your chest, spreading a warmth through your, seeping deep into your bones.
“What would you do?” you asked softly, reaching behind your head to scratch an itch on the back of your neck “If I was there?”
There was a pause for a moment, and you pressed your thighs together beneath your duvet before crossing your legs at your ankles, and he finally replied with a slow breath, dragged out by tension and need, “I'd kiss you, baby… I've not been able to stop thinking about it. I haven't kissed my wife for days because I'm scared I'll forget what your lips felt like.”
He swallowed, his throat tightening as he heard your soft breathing on the other end of the line, uninterrupted, waiting, so he continued, thinking each word out to the best of his ability.
“Then I'd kiss your neck, all the way down… you'd be on top of me, baby. And I'd hold your hips, help you grind on me, feel how hard you get me…”
He cut himself off as he bit his bottom lip, his palm now working in slow, meditated strokes along his shaft through the thin fabric of his boxers, the friction of the barrier between his skin making his breath catch in his throat. A few of his particularly thick pubes poked through the soft cotton, scratching lightly against his skin.
You ran your hand through your hair as he continued to talk, his soft words laced with equal parts promise and lust. “I'd make you keep your eyes on mine… wouldn't let you look away, not once. And you'd call me daddy, wouldn't you, petal?”
“Mhm,” you replied quietly, letting him immerse himself in what he needed so desperately.
“Say it for me, baby…”
You could hear his breathing, thick and ragged, and you said softly, “Daddy.”
“Yeah…” he sighed, the sound melting into a whimper towards the end, and you heard the quiet sound of elastic snapping back against skin as he freed himself from the tight, constricting confines of his underwear, the cool air of the bathroom hitting his throbbing cock like a whip.
He wrapped his fingers around the base where his thick thatch of pubes had climbed up just a little like ivy, not too loose but not too tight, and he squeezed a little before you interrupted his thoughts, your voice gentle but enticing as you said, “Keep talking to me, daddy…”
He let out a small moan, dragging his fist up his shaft as he murmured, “I'd help you put it in, petal… make you feel every inch until it's all the way in.”
He rubbed his thumb over the tip, collecting and smearing the dewy precum that had gathered there along the swollen, angry red head before dipping it a little bit lower, using the pad of his thumb to rub small circles around that small ridge tucked just beneath the head.
He hissed out a moan through his teeth, pulling his hand up from the base all the way up to the tip, twisting his wrist to the left when he reached the top before bringing it back down again.
“Baby…” he whined, chewing on his lower lip as he felt himself growing so near to peak so soon. “Tell me you're touching yourself too, baby.”
You shuffled back down on your bed, resting your head against the pillow again before you said, your voice laced with a subtle, velvety rasp that he loved so much, “Mhm…”
You weren't, but that didn't matter. All that mattered to you was enabling him, letting him surrender to what he craved the most.
His chapped lips formed a soft ‘o’ shape as he let out a breathy, high-pitched moan, the noise raw and packed full of desire. The soft, wet squelch of his hand stroking up and down his cock bled through the small speaker on your phone, punctuated by his quick, shallow breaths, making your chest ache.
He choked out another few words, to keep the fantasy in his head going, his eyes fluttering shut. “I'd rub your clit for you, love… little circles… and I'd thrust up into you, just so you wouldn't have to do anything.”
He swallowed hard and tilted his head to the side, securing his phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he brought his other hand down to his shaft, planting his palm on the tip and rubbing in slow, tantalising circles, his hand growing slicker with each movement.
“You'd- fuck… you'd let me touch your feet, wouldn't you, sweetheart?” he panted, licking his lips at just the thought of them as a few of his sweaty strands fell in his eyes, and you hummed affirmatively in response.
The spark ignited in his lower belly as he tightened his finger around his shaft, his palm circling his slit as precum poured out of him like a fountain. The flame travelled up the fuse coiled inside of him, gradually burning and withering away the string as his grip on his cock tightened and his grip on his control loosened.
He managed to sputter out a few words in the midst of his haze, babbling, “Are- are you gonna cum too, baby?”
You smiled a little and let out a soft, fabricated moan before you hummed, “Mhm…”
He panted out a long, drawn out whine at your small noise, and he said, voice strained from both the angle of his neck and how close he was to the brink of his orgasm, just teetering on the edge, “Yeah- yeah, baby… gonna cum with me?”
His voice sounded broken, ragged, similar to how his tone usually sounded before he cried, and you murmured, trying to mask the fact that you weren't even touching yourself at all, “I'm gonna cum, daddy…”
He bit down on his bottom lip, hard enough to leave marks, and his flushed face scrunched up and he shut his eyes as the flame finally reached the bomb, his hips twitching and stuttering as he desperately clawed after his release.
His orgasm exploded inside of him, shrapnel hitting every inch and corner of his body as he cupped his hand that was on his tip around the head while his other stayed tightly wrapped around his shaft, his fingers squeezing and his wrist faltering as his cum shot out and pooled in his palm.
His phone fell to the floor beside him from his shoulder with a clatter as he moaned your name between breathless pants and gasps as he wrung himself out, the last dregs of his release dripping down his shaft with each slow upstroke of his fist.
Phosphenes contaminated his vision behind his closed eyelids, black and white shapes morphing and stretching like an optical illusion, like a kaleidoscope of checkered squares on a chess board.
When he finally peeled his eyes open, a little dazed, his pupils sunk down to his phone that had fallen on the floor beside his hip, face up, your name still displayed on the screen. He dragged his eyes to his cock, pulsating and twitching tiredly, lay spent across his palm as it slowly deflated.
You were still able to hear his deep, raspy breathing, though it was distant due to his phone being on the floor next to him, and you heard him shuffle a little, the crack of his knees giving him away as he stood up.
He hobbled the few steps towards the sink, twisting the tap on and rinsing his hands beneath the warm, constant stream of water, watching the remnants of his milky release swirl around the porcelain before meeting its demise and washing away down the drain.
He didn't bother with soap, just got the worst of it off with water before flicking the tap off and drying them off with an old towel with tears and holes around the edges that was draped over the rack.
He came back to his phone, dragging his feet with each small step, and he bent over to pick it up before bringing it back up to his ear, and he exhaled before murmuring softly, “You still there, petal?”
You let out a small, tired groan in response, and he laughed quietly. “Are you sleepy, baby?”
“Mhm,” you responded, slightly muffled, and you could hear the warm, gentle smile in his voice as he continued.
“You all tucked in, nice and warm?” he murmured, each word feeling like a kiss. “Daddy doesn't want you to be cold.”
That made your stomach tighten, even with how tired you were. He never referred to himself as daddy, he just liked to be called it by you.
“I'm warm,” you replied, letting your drowsy eyes fall shut as he continued to speak, his gentle but gruff voice gradually lulling you to sleep.
A small huff of air came from his nose, accompanied by a little quirk of his lips. “I wish I could take care of you, baby… all the time. I'd look after you how you need. Promise.”
You hummed gently, barely a vibration of your throat, before he continued, his voice more fragile, making way for his stream of emotions that usually followed his orgasms.
“I'd cook for you. Or I'd learn to cook for you, then I'd cook for you. I'd clean the sheets. Clean everything. I'd rub your back when your tummy hurts. You'd never have to do anything, petal.”
You let your mind feed into and believe what he was saying, his words tugging and pulling at the strings of your heart. It's times like this that made you wish it wasn't so unconventional. Wish he was twenty years younger, wish he was never married, wish you'd never gotten yourself into the harrowing cycle of sex work.
“Are you free tomorrow, sweetheart?” he asked carefully after a moment of quiet.
You inhaled deeply, still sleepy, before you replied, your voice barely a murmur, “Yeah.”
His smile crept into his voice. “Great, love. Can I see you tomorrow night? At The Swan?”
You couldn't recall which pub he was referring to, your mind starting to slip into unconsciousness, and you whispered, bordering on sleep talk, “Mhm.”
“Good girl,” he said, softening his tone as he started to realise you were hardly awake anymore. “I'll give you kisses, okay, baby?”
He didn't expect a proper response, and you gave another half-hearted hum, before he murmured, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Before ending the call, he brought his phone from his ear to his face, his heart clenching as his eyes scanned over your precious name, and he pressed a kiss to his screen, closing his eyes, letting himself feel closer to you for a moment. He pulled his lips back with a quiet mwah sound, a subtle pop of his lips, and he reluctantly pressed the red icon at the bottom of his screen to end the call.
He stared at his phone for a few minutes after. You were on call for just over thirty-four minutes. He read the numbers lined up in your phone number over and over again, studying them. He never wanted to forget them.
When he tore his eyes away from the poison of his phone screen, he looked down, his now-soft cock hanging heavy between his thighs, the underside brushing against the fabric of his boxers which were left clung around his hips.
He swiped his thumbs beneath the taut elastic waistband and pulled them back up to his hips with a dull snap as it hit his skin, and he trudged towards the bathroom door, wrapping his fingers around the handle before pulling it open with a squeak and a whine from the hinges.
He dropped one arm to his side, the cool screen of his phone brushing against the side of his thigh with each step as he padded down the hallway towards his bedroom, while the other idly played with the hem of his shirt, his fingertips accidentally brushing against his belly every so often.
He bunted the door to his bedroom open with his shoulder, and he craned his head around the doorframe quietly, just to make sure his wife hadn't come upstairs while he was on the phone to you in the bathroom. The bed was empty, as it almost always was these days, so he pushed the door shut behind him with a click, bent down to plug the charger into the port on the bottom of his phone, and he set it on the bedside table before climbing into bed, settling on the left side where he usually slept.
There was an indent in the middle of the pillows on his side, further indicating which side was his, and he nestled his head into it, letting the softness of it surround him, block out what he didn't want to acknowledge. His hair was a little greasy, falling in thick strands around his face, but he told himself he'd have a shower the next morning before he saw you, despite knowing you probably wouldn't care. You'd very happily fucked him in worse states before.
He let his eyes fall shut, sliding a hand beneath his pillow as he steadied and evened out his breathing, letting sleep take over his aching body and bruised mind.
When he woke up the next morning, it was to a soft hand snaking around his waist from behind, thin, delicate fingers dancing along his side.
He pursed his lips a little, his face scrunching up. She'd been touchier recently, not necessarily with love, but something that made itself comfortable in the space where their love used to lie.
“Morning,” she murmured, her voice hoarse in a way that felt too forced, too fake, like she was trying to trick him into thinking she slept well, something so small, and it irked him.
He hummed, his back still facing her, and he spoke with a groggy voice, “Didn't hear you come in.”
She hummed vaguely, moving her hand up to his chest and fiddling with the short hairs there before adding, “Didn't want to wake you.”
Her fingers traced patterns over his sternum, occasionally brushing against his nipples in a way that made him feel disconnected from his own body. He didn't like it. It had been a long time since he had liked it.
She kissed his shoulder blade, pressing her lips to his skin once, twice, then a third time, and it felt like she was doing it more for herself than for him.
He sighed internally before forcing himself to turn, the small movement looking and sounding like it took a lot more effort than it should, all the weight on his shoulders and in his mind making it hard for him to move as effortlessly.
He glanced down at her, nestling against his arm like she wanted to be tucked beneath it, but he didn't budge. He brought a hand up to his face, rubbing at his eyes as he asked half-heartedly, “You alright?”
She nodded quickly, the tangled strands of her hair tickling his arm, and it made him sigh. “Just tired.”
She shifted closer to him, throwing a leg over his, wrapping a hand around his wrist, resting her head on his shoulder, all with zero reciprocation from him.
He'd thought that maybe she was just trying. An attempt to fix what they both knew had long since crumbled.
Her tongue poked out to swipe along her bottom lip, her fingers still tracing patterns on his skin that had begun to irritate him, and she said, “I was thinking we could go out later. For a drink. Just us.”
He blinked up at the ceiling, biting at the inside of his cheek, and he looked down at her again. “Tonight?”
“Yeah, tonight. It's been a while, hasn't it?” she said, but to him, it sounded rehearsed.
He paused, his lips slightly parted before he said, making something believable up, “I can't, I'm going out with my mates tonight. I thought I told you.”
“Oh,” she said quietly, though he could tell there was some semblance of relief laced deep into her tone. “You didn't tell me.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, propping himself up on his palms behind him, the mattress denting and sheets creasing beneath his hands.
She let her hand slip from his chest as he sat up, the silence stretching between them thin and sharp as a blade.
He carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed, easing himself out from beneath the duvet, and he crossed the room to the door that she must've pulled to after coming in. He ran his hand through his hair as he walked down the hallway towards the bathroom, and it clung to his fingers slightly, the strands weighed down and a little limp.
He stepped into the bathroom, the harsh yellow overhead light illuminating the room as he flicked it on and stepped in. He could see the dark shadowed corpses of a few bugs above in the fixture of the light, but he brushed it off. I'll clean it another time, he said to himself for the thousandth time.
He closed the door behind him with a click before pulling his shirt over his head and peeling his boxer shorts down his legs, kicking them off and tossing them aside along with his top.
He reached over the edge of the bathtub, twisting the dial to turn the hot water on, and the shower head sputtered to life before turning into a steady stream. He scratched the corner of his eye before stepping in, the heat of the water hitting his skin and flushing it a soft red, like ruby roses blooming all across his body.
He tilted his head back, letting it run through his hair, over his shoulders, down his back and across his legs. It felt good, letting the steam envelop him like the embrace his body craved for, and he worked the shampoo through his hair, fingers scrubbing against his scalp a little harsher than necessary as the soapy water dribbled down his nape.
His hands travelled and explored his own body as he lathered the soap over his limbs. The scent was hard to put a finger on. It was undeniably very masculine. Almost minty, in a way. Musky. Woody.
He rubbed it into his skin with languid circular motions, the thin white bubbles spread across his body like sea foam. The water travelled through his hair and trickled down his spine, and he closed his eyes, damp lips parted as steam curled past his mouth, and he let out a long breath.
He let his mind wander to you, to later that night, picturing your sweet smile, your delicious moans, your soft hands. His cock stirred slightly, undoubtedly, twitching purely from the mental imagery of you. It was pathetic how easy it was for you to wind him up, even when you're not even there. Your warm mouth that just felt like home, your quiet whimpers whenever he coaxed you through it, your gentle voice calling him daddy in that tone that made his heart ache and his cock throb.
He swallowed thickly, his jaw tight and neck tense, and he rubbed his forehead, trying to distract himself from how much he missed you.
He rinsed off the rest of the soap in silence, slowly, dragging it out as much as possible to elongate his alone time. To try and gather his bearings, at least a little bit, before he had to pretend again. Pretend to enjoy her company, pretend to like the way she speaks, the jokes she makes, the opinions she has. Pretend to not hate the wallpaper plastered across the walls, the knick knacks tucked and perched on top of and in between bookcases and dressers, or all of the furniture that just looked wrong. All of which had been chosen by his wife.
But tonight, he'd see you again. Maybe he'd still hate the dated furniture in the dingy hotel room, despise the oddly patterned wallpaper stuck onto the walls of the rented space, but at least he'd be with you. And that was enough motivation to make it through another day.
Though it dragged on, like it was attached to two ball and chains, he pushed through. You were his prize for completing a tough day.
After his shower, he dressed himself quietly, quickly, a soft shirt followed by a black pair of boxers, then a pair of deep blue jeans that seemed to hang a little looser around his hips than they used to, and his black leather belt to hopefully hold them in place.
He made his way downstairs, the faint hiss of the kettle coming down after reaching its climax filtering into his ears as he stepped into the kitchen, and he saw her leaning against the counter, giving her a half-hearted smile before she asked, “Want a coffee?”
He shook his head, his damp strands shaking with the movement, and he said, “No thanks, love.”
He lingered in the middle of the room, watching as she tore open an instant coffee sachet and poured it into a black and white stripey mug that she often used before filling it with the boiled water, and he said, a bit awkwardly, “I'm gonna head out for a bit now.”
She turned her head over her shoulder. “I thought it wasn't until tonight?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, a few droplets clinging to his fingers. “No, no, it's not, I just want to get some fresh air.”
She peeled her eyes off of him after a moment too long, looking back down at her mug as she stirred, watching the foam swirl and spiral under the twirling movements of her spoon. “Okay.”
She didn't say anything else. Maybe she was happy he was going.
It was around mid-morning when he left the house, climbed into his car, and just drove aimlessly. He was on the road for a while, driving past familiar places as well as some places he'd only passed once or twice in his life before.
After about an hour, he finally pulled into a car park and slotted himself between two of the white lines on the ground, albeit a bit wonky.
He pulled out his phone and opened his messages with you, scrolling all the way back up to the start. You hadn't sent very many, usually just a few short words in response to something he'd said, but he cherished each and every one of them.
He pulled up the keyboard and typed, Can't wait for tonight x, before turning his phone off again and tossing it onto the passenger seat. His lips pursed as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, his eyes squinted against the gentle sun as he looked over the sparsely filled car park through his windshield.
He sat there for a while, in the quiet, in the still, indulging himself in his thoughts as he found a soft comfort in the silence. He thought about what he'd ask you for, if anything. Sometimes he just liked a cuddle and a chat, a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen.
The sun travelled higher in the sky, heating up the black leather of his car seats until they burned to the touch despite it being so late in the year. It was boring, sat alone in his car, doing nothing, but it was better than being home. Anything was better than being home.
The hours passed like boulders as he sat alone in his car, grueling, slow and heavy as they rolled by. He didn't know what to do with himself until the evening, until 7PM when he'd told you he'd meet you. The birds chirped and sang as they flew through the air and perched in trees, and his eyes scanned over the skyline once more before starting his car up again, the small screen in the middle of the dashboard flickering to life. The clock on the screen was an hour ahead, something that had been an issue ever since he bought the car that he'd never been able to fix.
By the time 6:30PM rolled around, he had already driven back to town and was sat in the small car park of the bar, tucked behind a few other buildings and a small, dingy playground that looked like it had definitely seen better days.
He reached over and picked up his phone from the passenger seat and opened his messages before typing a quick text to you, reading, Here x.
He hit send before tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans and opening his car door with a creak. He stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he made his way to the front of the bar. The exterior was nice, deep blue-purple lined with dark oak wood. You'd been here with him a handful of times, and he was sure the workers knew what you two got up to upstairs by now.
He pushed open the door of the bar, the hinges whining, punctuated by a small ring of a bell above the door. He made his way across the intricately patterned carpet, rogue pieces of chewing gum dotted across it, accompanied by a rather large beer stain contaminating the design of the floor in one corner.
He perched his elbows on the sticky oak wood of the bar, his eyes tracing along the edges of the rubber beer mat before asking the bartender for a whiskey.
His eyes scanned over the room as his drink was poured, over the group of elderly men in the corner who looked like they bet too much on the horses, over the woman with bleached hair and chipped nail polish chatting loudly on the phone, over the small group of lads who looked to be about your age dressed in football t-shirts with pints in their hands.
He took his drink to a small table in the corner, the chair squeaking as he sat down, and he set his glass atop a flimsy coaster. He took a slow sip, the liquor burning as it trickled down his throat, and he watched the clock, watched the seconds tick by with an embarrassing amount of concealed excitement.
He fished his phone out of his back pocket once more, more out of instinct than need, and he swiped it open with the pad of his thumb. No new messages, but he didn't mind. He opened the app anyway, your name perched at the top of his screen with a red heart beside it. It made him smile a little.
He wrapped his fingers around the short glass again, bringing it up to his lips for another swig. He drank a bit more this time, letting it fill his mouth half-way before he swallowed, the flame of the spirit tingling down his throat like the curling, blackened edges of a burning piece of paper.
He glanced at the clock mounted high up on the opposite wall. 6:44PM. Only sixteen minutes. Nine hundred and sixty seconds.
They crept by like years, 6:47, 6:51, 6:56. He shifted in his seat, the torn leather cushion beneath him on the seat creaking quietly, and he drained the last of his whiskey before setting the glass down with a quiet clink and wiping his palms on the front of his jeans.
He checked his phone again, lay flat on the shiny, tacky table. The read receipt nestled beneath his text had turned blue, indicating you'd read it, that you were on your way. His knee bounced and he fidgeted with his fingers beneath the table, but quickly retracted his hands when they accidentally brushed against a chewed up piece of gum that someone had stuck to the underside of it.
He licked his lips before lightly biting down on his bottom one. 6:58, 6:59, 7:00. His eyes darted to the door, but nothing. A couple more minutes passed, 7:01, 7:02, 7:03, and a miniscule flicker of doubt sparked in his chest, but he quickly buried it. He knew you weren't like that, but he knew what you were like. Usually late. But it didn't stop the small twinge of worry from festering in his heart, stemming from the strange paternal instincts he nurtured for you.
When the rickety door finally squeaked open, he smiled widely, his eyes squinting, and he tucked his phone back into the back pocket of his jeans. You looked beautiful in the dim light, making his throat tighten as he swallowed and his arm going still, thankfully preventing him from waving like an idiot.
When you spotted him in the corner, a smile spread across your face. He stood up as you crossed the room towards him, and he reached out to help you out of your jacket, just to touch you.
He pulled it loose off of your shoulders and bit down on the flesh on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too wide. “Missed you,” he said softly as he draped your jacket over the back of the chair opposite his. “Do you want a drink, love?”
You smiled, sitting yourself down in the chair he'd pulled out for you. “Please, yeah.”
He gave you another small smile before turning back towards the bar, the same bartender giving him a small nod.
He cleared his throat slightly. Vodka cranberry, please,” he paused for a moment before deciding to get another drink for himself. “And a vodka coke, please.”
He reached behind him into his back pocket and pulled out a few notes from his scuffed leather wallet as the bartender turned to pour the drinks.
He glanced around the bar quickly before asking, his voice more hushed, “Are there any rooms available upstairs? For tonight?”
The bartender looked back at him briefly over her shoulder. “Just for one night?”
He nodded.
She didn't ask any additional questions, just reached below the bar and pulled out a brass key with a wooden fob marked with a 3 in permanent marker. “Thirty for the night, then. Checkout by ten.”
He pulled a few more notes from his wallet and slid them over before tucking it back into his pocket along with the key.
He gave her a half-hearted smile and a muttered thank you before picking up the drinks and turning back towards the table.
He made his way towards you and set your drink in front of you. “Here you are, sweetheart,” he said before sitting down himself with his own drink. “I sorted the room as well.”
The corners of your lips pulled up slightly before you brought the glass to your mouth, the cold bite of the vodka and cranberry filling your mouth and travelling down your throat.
He watched, mesmerised in a way, looking adoringly at your lips pressed to the rim of the glass, the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed, the way your fingers wrapped around the cup.
When you set it back down, he murmured, his eyes dragging down your frame fondly, “What have you been up to today, baby?”
You sighed, swirling the ice around in your drink, the clink ringing in your ears. “I had work earlier.”
His heart stopped for a moment. Work? Did you see someone else? Was he not the only one anymore?
You looked back up at him and saw how his face had dropped. You brushed a few strands of your hair back before saying, “Petrol station. I have another job, I don't just do this.”
You saw a wave of relief pass over his face and he nodded, his dry lips slightly parted as he inhaled deeply. “Yeah, of course, cool. How was that today, then?”
As you started to tell him about your day at work, annoying customers, irritating managers, grueling tasks, his eyes drifted down your body, your curves carrying his gaze like a tide, and they landed on your fingertips, your nails still coloured with the deep, gloomy purple he'd painted for you. They were a little chipped now, a small gap between your cuticle and where the polish began from where your nails had grown, but it still made him smile, his heart fluttering in his chest.
When he looked back up at you, his cheeks lightly reddened, he gazed into your eyes as you continued to chat about your tiring day at work.
He glanced down to his glass, the carbonated bubbles swirling around the top of the dark brown liquid, weaving in and out of between the ice cubes floating in his coke like little islands.
When your ramble came to an end, you took another mouthful of your vodka cranberry, savouring the tart flavour as it embedded itself in your tongue, and you asked, “So, how was yours?”
He took a small deep breath, shaking his hand beside his upper arm with a motion similar to that of a tambourine being played, and he said, his voice coming out more awkward than he'd've liked, “Just, um… was in the car for a while. Drove around for a while. And that's about it.”
“You didn't have work today?”
“Not today, no. Just… a bit of breathing space.”
“Right.”
He brought his glass up to his lips, tilting it and taking a long sip as the sweet, fizzy liquid filled his mouth, chasing it with a gentle burn as he swallowed it down.
He shifted idly in his seat, feeling the key digging into his skin slightly through the denim of his jeans, and he murmured while watching you take a sip of your own drink, “I really missed you, petal.”
His lips quirked up in a small smile, and before you could reply, he added, “I loved our call last night.”
You let out a small huff of laughter through your nostrils, a soft sound that always tugged at the strings of his heart, and you said, your voice sweet, like honey drizzling into his ears, “I'm sorry that I wasn't very awake for it.”
He reached over the table, putting his hand over yours, feeling the soft, smooth, glossy polish on your fingernails against his palm, and he said, his tone full of reassurance, “Don't be sorry, baby. I know you were, and it's fine. As long as you were fine.”
You smiled and nodded once, the warmth of his strong hand enveloping yours. “I was.”
A quiet settled between you, comfortable and laced with ease, while the pub's murmur faded into the background. You both gradually finished your drinks, leaving just the melting ice cubes piled in the bottoms of the glasses, the water they exuded diluting the last dregs of the liquids inside.
He pushed himself up out of the chair with a slight scrunch of his face, his hand coming behind him to his lower back for a moment as he turned, before he picked up all three of the glasses and crossed to room towards the bar again, offering the bartender a little smile as he set them on the beer mat.
He came back over to you as you stood, and he reached behind you to grab your jacket off of the back of your chair before you could, and he draped it over his forearm.
With one hand ghosting lightly over your lower back, he guided you through the narrow hallway to the stairs that led to the second floor, and he let you go up first, gesturing towards the worn-down stairs, each wooden step a lighter shade of brown in the centre from years of being walked on and climbed up.
The click of your boots accompanied the creak that came with ascending the stairs, and he pulled the key from his back pocket, the metal cool against his fingers.
Once you reached the top, he slid past you, anticipation blossoming in his chest as he looked over the handful of doors, each one dark oak with a small sign with a number on mounted in the centre.
He slid the key into room three, twisted and unlocked it, before holding it open for you. You stepped in with a small smile, and he walked in after you, closing the door behind him, before he draped your jacket over the foot of the bed and toed his shoes off, kicking them aside.
His jeans followed, unbuckling his belt with a clink of the metal before he pulled the long strap of leather to one side, tossing it in the same general direction of where his shoes went, before he started on undoing his jeans, pushing the cool metal button through the hole and pulling the zip down with a metallic whir.
He slid his thumbs beneath the waistband and tugged them down his hips, off his ankles, and left them in a pile on the floor, leaving him in just his black boxers which clung to his thighs and ass like a second skin.
You watched as he undressed, your pulse quickening beneath your skin with each garment he shed, and you slipped your own boots off, tucking them neatly beneath the bed. Next came your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping before pulling the fabric down your legs. They were tight at your thighs and hips but loose and flared at your ankles. You folded your trousers and draped them beside your jacket over the foot of the bed, now only in your underwear and loose t-shirt.
He let his eyes float over you, slow and reverent, drinking you in, and your skin tingled under his gaze. He crossed the small space between you, his hand coming to your waist like gravity, and the soft fabric of your top bunched and creased slightly beneath his touch. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his pupils wide with adoration as his eyes met yours, and he whispered, “You're so beautiful… my girl.”
He tilted your chin upwards with his hand, his fingertips brushing against your jawline, and he traced your soft lips with his eyes before he leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his mouth to yours.
He pulled you close against him with his hand on your waist, his rough lips a stark contrast to the overwhelming gentle love he always gave you. His mouth moved against yours with patience and control, and his other hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, keeping you pressed to him.
You kissed him back, the chapped skin of his lips scraping against yours. There was no frantic urgency, no burning fire. At least, not yet.
He let out a soft whimper, a noise that seemed to escape him without him even realising it was brewing, and the kiss deepened, his nose pressing into your cheek.
When he finally pulled back, it was with a long sigh, and he rested his forehead against yours while his hot breath brushed over your lips.
He smiled, a little out of breath. “Told you I'd give you more kisses, baby.”
The corners of your lips tugged upwards at his words, and he glanced over your shoulder briefly, towards the bed, and he said, his voice low, “Come on. Let's get in.”
He gently helped you under the duvet, making sure you were comfortable, before he climbed in beside you, lying on his side to face you, and he slipped his hand beneath your shirt to feel your soft skin against his hand.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his head in his palm, and he looked down at you like you were the sun, like you were the stars and the moon, like there was nothing else worth even thinking about looking at.
His short fingernails grazed over your belly in soft patterns as his hand trailed over your body, and he said, his voice as soft and as sweet as a marshmallow, “Had a difficult day, didn't you, petal?”
You looked up at him, and you swore his pupils had turned to hearts. You nodded once. “Mhm.”
He trailed his hand lower blindly beneath the thick duvet, but using your body as a guide for his fingers, like following a map for treasure. “Want daddy to make you feel better?”
There it was again, referring to himself as daddy. You didn't question it though, didn't ask, instead, you smiled as you felt his hand gently rub over your thighs, slipping his fingers in between them to part them slightly. “Yeah…”
He rubbed his middle and ring fingers over the soft cotton of your panties, over that tender spot right in the centre, and he rubbed gentle circles over your clit through the fabric.
You let out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and he kissed your cheek. “That feel nice, petal?”
You nodded, and he pressed his face to the side of yours, his lips dragging along your skin as his fingertips rubbed along your clit through your underwear, the gentle friction making your breath stutter in your throat.
Your head tilted back against the pillow, and he took the opportunity to move his mouth to your neck, planting kisses along the side, accompanied by small licks or a light bite every so often.
He felt the dampness against the pads of his fingers through your underwear, and he moaned softly against your neck before he shifted his hand from between your legs, the sudden lack of contact making you frown, until he hooked his thumb beneath the lace trimmed waistband of your panties.
You lifted your hips slightly off the mattress as he gently tugged the fabric down, running his hands over the soft swell of your hips and giving a light squeeze to your ass before he pulled the cotton all the way down your legs until they were loose around your ankles, and you shuffled out of them entirely, losing them somewhere in the sea of the duvet.
He spread your legs a little wider before he slotted his hand right back between them again, the heat radiating from your cunt making his lips curl upwards against your skin.
He gently circled your clit, dipping his fingers lower and gathering some of the dripping wetness that flooded your hole, before tracing them back up and rubbing your clit with the slickness.
You moaned softly, your hand coming up to hold his that wasn't on your pussy, and he squeezed it tightly, reassuringly, interlocking your fingers with his.
He pressed a kiss to your jaw, his eyelashes lightly brushing against your skin, and he murmured, “How many, baby?”
His fingers continued their small, slow circles, and you panted softly, “...Two.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
He lifted his head slightly from the crook of your neck and pressed a kiss to your high cheekbone. “Tell me if it's too much, sweetheart. Or not enough.”
You hummed softly in response, and he dipped his fingers lower again, slowly easing his two fingers inside, and your muscles tightened around them straight away, holding them in.
He hovered his face above yours, looking down into your eyes as he gently slid inside. You let out a soft, airy sigh, the noise trickling into a whimper towards the end of your breath, and he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose.
Your eyes flickered shut for a moment as he fed his fingers deeper, centimetre by centimetre, but you opened them again when he murmured, his hot breath fanning over your cheeks, “Look at me, baby…”
When he finally pushed them to the hilt, his palm pressing against your clit, he squeezed your hand with his free one, keeping you in the moment with him, and you moaned under your breath, “Daddy…”
“That's it… you gonna take them deep for me?” he whispered. “You're being such a good girl…”
His thumb brushed against that aching spot just above where his fingers were buried deep, tantalisingly teasing, and he began to gently pump his fingers in and out, curling and bending his knuckles against the ridges of your walls.
You whined, pressing your lips together tightly before they parted, letting out a long sigh. You did your best to keep your eyes on his as he coaxed you through it above you, but with the gentle rubbing from the pad of his thumb on your clit and the slow twisting and thrusting of his fingers inside of you, it proved very difficult.
He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing your moans and whimpers before you could voice them, and he kept up the pace of his fingers inside you, his own centre pulsing, twitching, straining against the tight jail of his cotton boxer shorts.
He felt your walls throb around him and he smiled against your mouth, taking your lower lip between his teeth and tugging gently before releasing it, just slightly reddened ghosts of a teeth indent remaining.
He kept your eyes locked on his, whispering your name whenever they fluttered shut if he curled his fingers a little too tightly or pressed a little too hard on your tingling clit.
His fingers moved with a purpose, now drenched with the slick that proved how strong your desire was, how badly you wanted this, how much you needed him. Your legs twitched as he plunged deeper, the pads of his fingers insistently pressing on that spongy spot nestled deep inside you.
“So pretty…” he whispered, his voice thick with lust no matter how quiet he made it, how low he dimmed it. “My pretty girl, aren't ya?”
You nodded, your lips parting and eyes widening slightly as he circled your g-spot in time with his movements on your clit, and you bit back a cry, your throat tightening around the noise before it was able to escape.
“Say it,” he murmured, voice husky and gruff.
“I'm- I'm daddy's pretty girl…” you stammered, voice hoarse and trembling from the intense sensations and pleasure.
“Yeah…” he muttered, lowering his head and pressing his lips to your cheek once more.
Your hips rolled up into his hand unconsciously, chasing the build up, chasing the climax, starving and greedy for any ounce of friction.
His lips lowered to your shoulder, planting open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, sucking gently with every other press of his mouth against your skin.
You felt his length brush against your thigh, the heat scorching to the touch even through his boxers, and a choked moan came from your throat, a kind of sound you didn't even know you could make, and you promptly bit down harshly on your bottom lip to quiet yourself.
He felt the walls of your cunt fluttering and tightening around his fingers, and he smirked against your shoulder, licking a small stripe from the base of your neck up to the back of your ear, leaving a trail of faint sheen in his wake, and he whispered, nibbling on your lobe, “You gonna cum for me, petal?”
You whimpered, desperate and broken, and he smiled, licking his lips before it morphed into a grin, and he murmured, “Let go for daddy, baby. Come on.”
His coaxing words pushed you over the edge, and with a final press of his fingertips on your g-spot, a final flick of his thumb on your clit, you came. Your legs quivered, core tensed up and moans spilled from your mouth uncontrollable, babbling daddy for him, and he watched your face as the waves washed over you, slowing down but not stopping his hand movements.
He guided you through it as it tore through you, fast and hot, squeezing your hand and kissing your forehead while his fingers continued to move in slow, curling strokes inside of you, easing you down from the high.
“You did so good for me…” he whispered, his voice laced with pride, with love, and he gradually stopped the torturous movements of his fingers, leaving you breathless beneath him, spent, boneless, and twitching.
He pulled his fingers from you with utmost care, and he rested that hand on your stomach on top of your soft shirt, leaving a small patch of wetness on the fabric.
He didn't say anything at first, just dotted a few more kisses across your skin, on your forehead, your shoulder, your jaw. He gently stroked his thumb against your hand that was interlocked with his, helping you come down from your climax.
“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked quietly, his voice rough but doused in adoration.
You nodded, and he lay back, his head beside yours on the pillow, and he took his hand that had been inside you back, wiping the wetness off on his shirt. His eyes were fixed on a crack in the ceiling above, tracing it like it was fine art, and that's when it came. Like it always did, the words he'd been bottling up for a few days, waiting to be spilled in the safety of the silence he shared with you after the intimacy.
“This morning,” he began. “She got into bed with me. I told you, she fell asleep on the couch last night, but when I woke up, I felt her hand on my waist.”
You turned your head slightly, your chin nudging against his shoulder as he continued.
“She never does that. Well, I mean… I was sleeping in that bed alone for months, but every so often, for the past couple of weeks, she's been coming in and curling up like nothing's wrong, like we're all okay.”
He shook his head at the thought, his hair bouncing lightly under his movements. “It made my skin crawl. I felt… itchy. I don't know. It felt awful.”
You stayed quiet, just listened, like always. He never needed advice, just needed somewhere to store the ache, someone to listen, and that someone had become you.
“It's been like that recently, though. She's just been being… nice. Overly nice. It's never really been shouty, but… she's been trying to act like she used to. Like when we got married, when we were still good. But I can tell it's fake, that she's forcing it, and it makes me feel ill.”
There was a touch of venom running through his tone now as he drummed his agitated fingers against the mattress.
“She asked if I wanted to go out for a drink with her. Tonight. But she didn't seem too disappointed when I said no.”
Something inside you ached for him, either your brain or your heart, and you pursed your lips, contemplating for a moment, before you decided to say something, your voice soft as you spoke carefully.
“Maybe she's cheating on you too.”
He stilled, you felt his body tense up and stiffen against yours, and you regretted even opening your mouth, but that didn't stop the words coming.
“I've seen people do it. People get nicer when they're hiding things, it makes them feel less guilty. Like if they do enough nice things, it cancels out the bad.”
You turned to look at him. You'd made a mistake. But still, you added quietly, “Maybe she's got someone too. Someone she fancies.” you let out a small, awkward, self-deprecating laugh as you said, “Maybe she's got a sex worker too.”
The air froze cold.
He sat up slowly, his face unreadable in the dim light, but his jaw was clenched, his face hard. You'd never seen him look at anyone like that, letting alone look at you like that.
“Don't,” he spat sharply.
You blinked. “I didn't mean-”
“I said, don't.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, grabbing his jeans from where he'd left them in a pile on the floor. The silence that fermented between you was loud enough to deafen.
“You don't get to say that,” he muttered mostly to himself as he tugged his trousers up to his hips, doing them up with more force than needed. “You don't know her. You don't know what she's like.”
You swallowed, the guilt mixed with confusion clawing at the backs of your eyes and constricting around your throat. “I was just trying to help-”
“Yeah?” he snapped, raising his voice. “Well, you fuckin’ didn't. Jesus Christ.”
You sat up, propping yourself up with your hands behind you on the mattress, your heart pounding and stomach clenching.
“She's not you,” he said, bitterness flooding his tone. “So don't pretend you understand her.”
He shoved on his shoes and picked up his belt before reaching into his back pocket, ripping out the brass key and wooden fob before throwing it on the bed. “There's the fuckin’ key. Now you can fuck off.”
Then, without another word, he slammed the door shut behind him hard enough to make the wooden frame rattle.
You sat there in the bed, heart aching, stomach hollow, like your organs had just been brutally ripped out, but your skin was still warm, still tingly from where he'd touched you just moments before you'd made the mistake of speaking.
The room was quiet. Far too quiet. Save for the occasional round of laughter or clink of glasses from the bar downstairs, it was uncomfortably silent. Your shirt clung to your skin, and your eyes drifted down to the key he'd chucked on the bed, and it made you wonder what exactly you said that made him so angry.
Because he was cheating, wasn't he? He was a married man constantly and consistently sleeping with another woman. So why did he get so offended when you proposed the idea that maybe, maybe, his wife was cheating too?
You lay yourself back down flat on the bed, head in the pillow with your hair sprawled out, and your eyes blurred as you thought to yourself about why. Why did you have to speak? Why did you have to break the unspoken rule between you, where he talks and you listen?
You weren't meant to analyse. Not out loud, at least. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. You were his escape.
You pulled the duvet up higher, every breath of air you inhaled choking you on the way in. The hollow had settled inside your chest, spreading and infecting like rot, like burning poison.
You didn't cry yet, though your eyes stung in the corners with the need to. You just lay there in the stale air, breathing in the scent of him on the sheets, the once comforting smell now making your stomach twist, wishing you could go back a few minutes, wishing you'd've just stayed quiet.
The loud noise of a woman laughing downstairs echoed up through the floorboards, the cackle cutting through the quiet, and you looked down at your hands. Trembling. You let the silence swallow you whole, the guilt pressing heavy on your ribs with each breath you dared to take.
He'd never gotten angry at you before, and you didn't know if he was going to come back.
He drove fast, almost too fast. Just barely under the speed limit. He gritted his teeth, his fingers clutching the steering wheel with a force that bleached his knuckles white. Your words circled in his brain like a toy train.
“Maybe she's cheating too.”
His brow furrowed, wrinkles creasing lines across his forehead as he scowled. You didn't know anything about her. Sure, he'd endlessly complained to you about her, but that didn't give you the right to say something like that. To intrude on his life in that way.
And yet you'd dared to say it, dared to say it so casually as if it was just a fleeting thought. As if it was just a simple observation.
The city blurred past his window, the street lights smearing across the glass. The car felt too hot and too cold at the same time, but he didn't care. He wanted to sweat, and he wanted to shiver. He wanted to give his brain something to focus on other than the churning in his gut.
When he pulled into his driveway, the house was dark. No bedroom, living room or bathroom lights illuminating the windows. Her car wasn't even in the drive.
She wasn't home, and it made his chest tighten.
He got out of his car and slammed the door shut with more force than necessary, the loud thud echoing through the otherwise silent, still street, and he fumbled with his keys in his pocket as he trudged over to the front door, cursing under his breath before he unlocked the door and let himself in.
It was silent. Silent in all of his senses, except for one. No lingering smell of dinner, no sound of the television, no lights on in the house, no warmth enveloping his body from the radiator. But there was one thing he could sense.
As he parted his lips to inhale for a deeper breath in, he tasted it. The chemically burn of her perfume hit the back of his throat as he yawned, making him cough and sputter in retaliation.
His tongue poked out and swiped along his lower lip, wetting it as he dropped his keys onto the entryway table with a clatter. Maybe she'd gone out with her friends. He'd said no to her asking him to go out that night, so maybe she'd gone for a drink with her girls instead. For an end of week wind down, a gossip.
He dragged a hand down over his face, his hair ruffled, his stubble scruffy and his eyes still stormy.
He moved into the kitchen with heavy steps, the burden of the night weighing him down. The kitchen floor was cold under his feet, and he didn't flick the light on. The moonlight that seeped in through the window was enough for him to guide him to the liquor cupboard.
He swung open the door to the cabinet, reaching straight for the back where he knew the vodka was. It wasn't open. It was one of the expensive ones that she insisted they save for a special occasion that never seemed to come.
He cracked the seal after a few tries, his sweaty hands making it difficult for him to grip the cap properly, before he grabbed a shot glass and set it on the countertop with a dull clink. He poured it in, right up to the top, and he downed it. He hissed quietly as it burned down his throat before wiping his lips with the back of his hand, a thin streak of the clear liquid glistening slightly in the pale light of the moon, before he poured himself a second one.
He felt warm, both from the alcohol and the leftover rage. The words still echoed in his mind, over and over again.
“Maybe she's cheating too.”
He swallowed the second shot without much more than a quiver of his shoulders, much easier than the first one.
How dare you suggest that, as if you knew. As if you knew anything about the problems that came with being an adult. You were still a teenager, just barely out of your childhood years, and there you were, trying to act like you could and knew how to psychoanalyse his own wife.
The third shot hit harder, burned hotter, and he braced his hands against the counter as it settled in his chest, simmering down into his belly.
He didn't feel sorry for you. You'd overstepped, and you'd hurt him by doing so. He had a right to be angry, or so he told himself.
He left the small glass on the counter, not bothering to put the bottle away either. He barely managed to will himself into putting the cap back on.
He dragged himself upstairs, his body much heavier than it had been half an hour ago, and he stumbled into his bedroom. The room was cold, almost sterile, in a way.
He lay down, fully clothed, even his shoes still on his feet, and he stared up at the ceiling, his breath reeking of vodka with each exhale.
Something aching gnawed at the edges and backs of his eyes, something he recognised but didn't want to admit to himself that it was what he was feeling. Guilt. It stung him uncomfortably, but it was the truth that he wasn't ready to look at yet.
You hadn't moved, not really. You'd tucked your legs up to your chest, lay like a fetus, but that was about it. The tears that were gathered in the corners of your eyes threatened to spill at any given moment, the blur obstructing your vision, so you opted for closing your eyes completely.
God, you should've just kept your mouth shut.
It wasn't your place, and you knew that.
The guilt chewed on your insides with its rotten, razor-sharp teeth. It felt like your organs were bruising.
At some point, the weight of it all became too much, settling in your stomach in a way that felt like you'd eaten your body weight in wet concrete, and now it was drying inside you. The endless pit in your stomach somehow deepened, the ache in your chest persisted, and the silent throb of being wrong in your body continued.
Sleep didn't come gently, though. It didn't approach, it dragged, ruthless and raw in its determination to make you miserable in your last moments conscious before finally letting you succumb to the all-consuming exhaustion.
Weeks passed like slow healing bruises.
Christmas came and went, but it didn't feel like anything. Nothing special, anyway. You didn't have anyone to spend it with. No family, no friends, just you behind the dingy till of the dodgy petrol station, fluorescent overhead lights buzzing as they blinded you with their harshness.
He didn't come back that night. Not to you or to the hotel. He didn't text you, not once. Instead, he spent more of his time with her.
You saw them once, twice, maybe three times, walking through town together, all bundled up for the cold. He wore a stupid bobble hat, a colourful scarf and mittens, holding a takeaway coffee cup in his hand while he carried shopping bags in the other. She wore a long, black puffy coat, mittens, and the same stupid looking wooly bobble hat.
He didn't see you, or he pretended not to. Either way, it felt like a punch to the gut.
New Year's Day passed by without even so much as a flicker of change. It just felt like another day to you, or what just another day had come to feel like for you. Even when the fireworks cracked through the air as midnight struck, it didn't feel any different.
But what did feel different was a certain day, a little less than a week after New Year's. The sixth of January. His birthday. His thirty-ninth birthday.
You remembered it from the moment you opened your eyes on the morning of, and it wilted like a fading bruise in your heart. Soft, sore, tender and inescapable.
You thought about texting him, just a simple happy birthday, maybe accompanied by an emoji, a heart or a smiley face, but you ultimately decided against it. You didn't want to shatter anything else anymore than it already was.
He woke up in a mood that he couldn't shake all day. Tight-chested and short-tempered. It had been building up for the past couple of weeks or so, and he'd tried to blame it on everything except what he knew it was. Chalking it up to the weather, the cold days and sludgy snow, or the pressure of ageing, the aching joints and heightened exhaustion, or the ache in his jaw from how he'd been clenching it all night, every night, due to the pent-up tension and irritation he'd been refusing to let blow off.
But deep down, a part of him knew what it really was. It was you. Or rather, the absence of you.
He hadn't seen you in weeks, not since he'd shouted at you and abandoned you in that hotel room alone. He thought putting distance between you two would fix it, would fix him, mend the breaks and cracks that he knew only you could, even if you didn't do anything physical. Being close to you was his medicine.
That night, his wife booked a meal at a fancy restaurant for dinner, saying she wanted him to feel special. She wore a slim red dress, the hem ending at her mid-thigh, the kind of thing she only wore once in a blue moon, and she curled her hair and coloured her lips in a shimmery crimson lipstick.
He wore a soft white dress shirt that was just a little bit too big for him, and his black tailored suit trousers. He only loosely wrapped a black tie around his neck when she told him he looked too casual.
He barely tasted the food, all of the flavours merging into one as he blocked out her rambling from across the table. The expensive wine tasted so bland to him, it may as well have been water.
Because all he could think about was you.
The meal ended with a bitter tiramisu he barely touched, followed by a quiet drive home, save for her soft humming to some cheesy romantic ballad playing on the radio. She had one hand resting on his thigh, fingers brushing against the linen of his trousers, but the moment she parked the car, he climbed out and stepped inside, letting himself in without waiting for her, without even holding the door open.
When she came in after him, she slipped off her heels quietly and tucked them beneath the entryway table with a soft click as they tapped against the floor once more, and she mumbled some complaint about her feet hurting. It made him scowl.
She made her way into the living room and curled up beneath a soft blanket in the corner of the couch, and when he stepped into the doorframe, she extended her arm towards him. “Come here, birthday boy.”
He pressed his tongue against the side of his inner cheek before sucking his teeth. He opened his mouth again with a pop as he said, “I think I'm gonna go see the lads for a bit now.”
She frowned. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. Haven't seen them for a while.”
“But it's late, Al. And it's your birthday.”
“Exactly,” he replied, pushing himself off of the doorway and moving back to the entry hallway. “I'll be back later.”
He yanked his tie loose from around his neck and hung it on the front door handle before pulling it open, stepping out and closing it behind him, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt as he quickly made his way to his car.
He hardly realised what exactly he was doing until he was halfway across the city, but he knew exactly where he was going, exactly which corners to turn and which roads to follow.
He'd dropped you off more times than he could count, always waiting for you to turn around a final time and give him that small smile and wave before he allowed himself to leave. He'd never been up, never even asked, but he could recognise the street name and the winding of the roads that led up to it from a mile away.
When he parked, he sat there for a moment, the flickering street light reflecting off of his windshield, and it hit him. How much he missed you, how much he needed to see you again.
He stumbled out of his car, shut the door softly and made his way towards the opening of the block of flats. The lights inside were somehow even harsher than the street lights outside, but he climbed the first set of steep stairs, then the second, then the third before he stood in front of your door.
He took a deep breath, his heart weighing heavy in his chest, and he brought his hand up to knock. Just a couple short hits of his knuckles against the white door, the paint peeling off in more places than one.
When the first knock echoed through your flat, you barely blinked. It was far too late for anyone decent to be turning up at your door.
You were lay on your tattered old settee, knees hugged to your chest with an equally tattered blanket, held together by a few strings and hopes and dreams.
You hadn't even bothered to properly get dressed, just in a soft, worn t-shirt with holes and tears scattered around the collar, a pair of shorts you'd owned since you were fifteen, and mismatched socks with rips at the toes.
Your hair was a mess, every single strand going in a different direction. You looked tired.
When the knock came again, firmer, more insistent this time, you sighed and dragged yourself up, half-expecting it to be your landlord coming to evict you over a bill that was three months overdue.
But when you unlocked the door and swung it open with a cool draft, there he was. Alex. In the clothes he must've worn out to dinner, you assumed, and the moment his eyes met yours, he opened his mouth, and what came out was low and hoarse.
“I'm sorry.”
That was it. No excessive speech, no frantic excuses, no dramatic explanation. Just a word that sounded light, but felt like it carried the weight of the world.
You didn't say anything at first, just stepped aside to let him in, your shirt swaying slightly around your torso.
He stepped inside slowly, almost sheepish, tentative, and he glanced around quickly before settling his gaze back on you. His hands fidgeted in front of him as you closed the door with a click, and he bit the inside of his cheek.
“I'm- I shouldn't have-” he started, the words spilling out faster than he could structure them properly. “I was… I was really wrong that night. I know I was. I just… I was just angry. Not at you, not… not really. I just-” he stopped himself. “I'm sorry.”
You nodded, your lips slightly pursed, and you swallowed the lump in your throat, making room for the words to come out. “I'm sorry too,” you whispered. “It wasn't my place to say what I said.”
He looked at you properly, his eyes drifting over every crevice of your face, studying the details in a different light, and he slowly, cautiously took a step forward, and his hand rose to cup your cheek in his palm. His eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation, any hint of doubt, but when you didn't pull back, when your lips parted just a little and the breath caught in your throat, he leaned in.
He pressed his lips to yours, your mouths fitting together like two puzzle pieces destined to be slotted together.
He gently sucked on your lower lip before tugging on your top one with his teeth, and he cupped the back of your head as you moved together, in perfect harmony.
When he pulled back, it was only by a breath, and he stroked your cheek with his thumb, gazing into your eyes like they were the only thing keeping him sane, and in a way, they were.
Your fingers gripped the front of his open shirt, clinging to him, your fingertips brushing against the soft hairs beneath it. “I missed you,” he murmured. “So fucking much.”
You swallowed, and before you could reply, reciprocate, his lips were on yours again, his tongue licking along your lower lip, tracing it like he was marking out a secret pass code to gain access, and you parted your lips slightly, letting his tongue invade your mouth. He licked along your tongue, along the sides of your teeth and tracing patterns on the insides of your cheeks.
When he pulled back again, his lips were wrapped around the tip of your tongue, and he released it before pressing his forehead to yours, his hands bracing on either side of your face.
“I don't know why I thought it would work. Trying to move on, I mean. You mean so much to me, petal.”
You felt your heart thud, and you were sure it was audible to him. “I missed you too.”
One hand gently travelled down your body, over your ribcage, your waist and your hips, down to your thigh, and he rested it there, thumb gently stroking the soft skin.
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly, but not enough to break contact, the tips of your noses still lightly touching, and you said, “Do you… wanna go to my bedroom?”
The corners of his mouth twitched, not exactly a smile, but far from a frown. He nodded a little, just once. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I do.”
You nodded as well, a gentle smile playing on your lips, and you held his hand as you led him down the short hallway to your bedroom. Your flat was cluttered, a little messy, quite small, but it was yours. It was lived in, it was homey, it was cosy.
You pushed the door open with a squeak of the hinges and he stepped in after you, his hand slipping from your grip as you let go to pull your torn socks off.
The bed wasn't made, there were some clothes strewn across the floor, and there was a candle on the bedside table with a deep tunnel running down the middle from where you'd been too preoccupied with something else to scrape the wax off of the sides.
But none of that mattered to him. He was hyper focused, and only focused, on you. You climbed onto your bed, the mattress dipping beneath you, and you pulled the duvet up over your body, making his heart stutter.
He quickly worked on undoing his linen suit trousers, tugging them down his legs and nearly tripping over them as they pooled around his ankles in the midst of his desperation to get them off.
He burrowed into your bed beside you, faint, light hairs dusting over his thighs and brushing against your skin as he nestled into you, his lips finding your forehead as if you were a magnet.
He propped himself up above you with one hand, the sheets creasing beneath the weight, and he used his other to hook beneath the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down to his knees before lifting them one at a time to yank them down his calves and tossing them off of the bed.
He settled himself between your legs as you lay on your back before him, his cock hot and throbbing, twitching slightly as he rubbed his hands over your thighs, down your legs, and over the soles of your feet, and his length wagged slightly as he shuffled closer.
You let him maneuver and shift your legs however he pleased, and he brought one of your feet to his face and pressed his nose to the ball of your foot, breathing in slowly as his eyes fluttered shut, taking it in completely.
He rubbed his thumb over the arch before he set it back down, his reverent hands returning to your thighs.
He glanced up at you, meeting your gentle eyes, and for a moment, he felt a little embarrassed by what he wanted to ask.
“Will you, um… can you touch me with your feet?”
You smiled. You knew it wouldn't be long before he asked you for something as full on as that. You nodded, and murmured, “Of course.”
He took a deep breath, his face flushing as he tried to hide how much it turned him on behind a bitten lip and half-lidded eyes.
He guided your feet towards his aching cock, and he moaned, half-cry, half-whine, as soon as your toes just barely grazed over the sensitive skin of his shaft. He muttered a half-hearted apology, barely able to keep himself together as you stroked him with your soles, and he closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn't be able to last for more than a few seconds if he caught sight of your feet perched so beautifully around his dick.
He blindly held your ankle for something to ground him, to keep him from completely losing it, while you moved with ease, with grace, your arches cradling him like his shaft was something to be worshipped.
You smeared the precum that had beaded at the tip down over and along his cock, all the way down to the base where his wiry pubes lightly scratched and tickled your toes.
He exhaled sharply, a slight quiver underlying beneath the breath, and he forced his gaze downward, down to where your feet were wrapped around him, and his whole body jolted.
His thighs stiffened and his hips jerked forwards. You could have almost felt the surge of desperation shot through him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his hands sliding up your legs, up to your knees and gripping tightly. “Stop, baby, stop…”
You stilled instantly, your eyes flickering up to look at him with a slight hint of confusion. “You okay?”
He breathed heavily, his chest that peeked through the open front of his shirt flushed, and his cock twitched and pulsed helplessly against your ankles. “Yeah…” he panted, peeling his eyes away from your feet. “Just… I don't want it to be over so soon.”
You nodded once, moving your feet away from his throbbing, dribbling shaft, and his fingers trailed along the soft backs of your thighs, before he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of both your pyjama shorts and your panties, sliding them both down your legs at the same time with knew fluid motion. The air of your bedroom was cool against your newly exposed parts, but they were quickly heated up again by his fiery gaze.
You lifted your head up slightly, turning it towards your bedside table, and you reached over, tugging the drawer open before reaching in and grabbing a loose condom, still in the wrapper, that had fallen out of the small but battered little cardboard box they'd come in.
He took it with a gentle smile, before tearing the packet open and rolling it down his sensitive length with a small sigh.
He then leaned forward and pushed your shirt up until your chest was bare, your nipple tightened into small points, and the fabric bunched beneath your arms. He gently traced down your sides with his hands, loving and soft, before he gently pushed your legs up, one, then the other, placing them over his shoulders, the intimate shift bringing your bodies impossibly close.
His nose nudged yours, his face hovering just above yours while his cock brushed against your inner thighs, ghosting just over the spot where you craved him the most.
His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones, his palms warm against your skin.
“You're so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, thought his voice was gravelly and thick with the sheet weight of his desire.
You swallowed, barely breathing, your chest rising and falling against his, and he slowly rocked his hips as he adjusted his position, getting ready to slide in.
His grip on your face slightly faltered for a moment as he lined himself up, trying not to groan at just the thought of being inside of you.
He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth and whispered, “Breathe in for me, petal…”
You did as he said, slow and steady, filling your lungs with the air that had likely already made its way around his body, just from how close your mouths were.
Then, with another subtle twitch of his hips, he slid inside slowly, carefully feeding every inch into your warm, welcoming cunt as it took him in, dousing him in slickness.
He moaned, the sound like a drug to your ears, and he continued his gradual, measured thrust inwards, stretching you with every inch that your pussy gratefully took in until your thighs trembled on his shoulders.
“There we go…” he cooed reassuringly as he finally reached the hilt, his thick cock nestled inside you like it belonged there. “There's my good girl…”
His hands didn't leave your face once, making sure you kept his gaze the entire time while he filled you, his thumbs brushing your temples.
“Being so good for me… fuck…” he crooned, his low hum faltering slightly as your walls squeezed him, pulling him deeper and holding him in. “Just like that.”
You whimpered something unintelligible, your voice quivering as he rocked his hips gently, filling you even more, helping you take even more of him.
“You feel so good… so warm and wet… I could stay in here forever,” he murmured, brushing a few of your stray hairs back with his knuckles.
His hips began to move, a slow, gentle roll as he eased you into it despite how many times you'd taken him by now. Each thrust was deliberate, careful, purposeful, and deep, and he held back the slight tremble in his thighs as he plunged further in.
His face scrunched up a little bit above yours, and he whispered, his tone bordering on a whine, “So fucking good…”
You whimpered in response, your walls fluttering around his girth, and you reached up, clutching at his shoulders, his neck, the collar of his shirt, just anything you could hold onto to anchor yourself.
“I know, sweetheart…” he murmured, his words sifting into your ears like sugar. “I know it's a lot. But you feel so good… taking me so deep…”
He was already close, you could feel it from the tenseness in his shoulders and the twitch of his shaft inside of you as his latex-covered tip kissed your cervix with each thrust.
“Squeezin’ me so tight…” he drawled, his tone dripping with sweetness like syrup. He nuzzled his nose against yours, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes tightly shut and completely lose control over his body. “You're gonna make me cum…”
You kept your eyes on his, your gaze devastatingly heart-aching as you nodded, and he whispered encouragingly, “Yeah? You gonna cum too, baby?”
You nodded, your nose brushing against his as you moved your head, and he kissed your cheek, your forehead, your chin and your mouth, his hips still rolling into yours.
“You can let go, sweetheart. I'll be right there with you…” he cooed, coaxing. “Right there…”
And just like that, with your legs shaking over his shoulders and a daddy catching in your throat and spilling out somewhere between a gasp and a sob, you did.
You felt the muscles of your pussy spasm and contract around his length as you climaxed, your lower lip quivering from the intensity while you let out a long string of unintelligible curses.
He followed seconds later, his chest pressed tightly against yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, shuddering groan in your ear followed by a seemingly endless murmur of praises as he ground his hips into yours, riding out his high while prolonging yours.
He pressed his forehead against yours, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, and for a few moments, you both reveled in the comforting silence, punctuated by panting and the occasional whimper as he softened inside of you.
He pulled out slowly, his wide tip dragging along the sensitive ridges of your inner walls. He pulled the condom off, making an attempt to tie it once, then twice, before finally succeeding on the third attempt, and he lazily reached over and set it on your night stand.
He gathered you into his arms without another thought, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your gentle orgasm, and he peppered a few soft, loving kisses across your face, his stubble lightly scraping your soft skin.
For a long, tender while, neither of you spoke, letting the warmth of the silence envelop the two of you like an all-consuming cuddle, the only audible sound being the slow rise and fall of your chests as your breathing grew softer and slower as you came down.
You tilted your head up towards him, studying his face where time and age had left their marks, and your voice came, soft, barely breathless, and just above a whisper, “Happy birthday.”
He exhaled, his lips quirking up at your words before he looked down at you, his eyes reflecting a flicker of gratitude. “Thank you.”
He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear before kissing the top of your head, his lips firm as he pressed them down, before the quiet took over again, holding you both in its calming embrace.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
can i post my art on here some time? im only asking because they wont be alex or am related, i havent even drawn him in a while but ive been making a few attempts again recently. it's just because drawing has been feeling like a chore recently because i have to do it all the time for work and i miss just doing it for fun. on a different note, thank you @crowpill3d ive used about five different ideas in this that you inspired. love ya x
just started watching house and I thought yall were exaggerating but no. every episode is just like three wrong diagnoses that almost kill the patient and then house is like "he has underwater skunk herpes" and they give the guy a new butthole and he's cured. and then house chugs vicodin while talking about wanting to rail wilson.
Five: Next time I'm at the pet store, I'm gonna take a hamster and drop it in the scorpion cage. I wanna see what a hamster's face looks like when it goes, "oh, fuck."
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
