Hi, I’m Ny and this is my side blog & I’m sorry 🤷🏼
[a myriad of fandom shit can be found here] || she/they || 30s, (18+ only) ||
(main: moongazingbeing) ⋆*☽ Fic recs ☾*
an: it’s been a long time since I wrote this guy, so go easy on me! this was just an idea I had this afternoon, so I wrote it down. dedicated to @intheorangebedroom — she’ll know why ❤️
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The movie ended about an hour ago.
The screen went black, and then the TV turned off, and the room was left in a dusky, liminal space, where nothing held its true color, only variations on the color that you knew existed.
The stripes on the worn blanket you were sitting on, the colorful skulls that hung on the wall from an exhibition you saw last month, the art you had framed – it was all tinged in a greyish-blue that served as a holding space for the tension steadily rising between the two of you, from your spots on the couch.
You had met him at a café – a lone American sitting at the bar while the locals sat outside. Your elbow had bumped into his when you went inside to pay, and your apology had turned into a conversation, and then into an offer to meet up.
He – Francisco, as he introduced himself – was traveling for a few weeks, and in a show of courage that had you surprising yourself, you offered to be his guide.
Maybe it was the glint of interest in his eyes. Or maybe it was the hint of dark curls under his hat, ones that had you wondering how soft they were. Maybe it was the look on his face – first an assessing, intensely soulful look that pinned you in place, then a surprisingly vulnerable one that held you there.
Whatever it was, you offered and he accepted. Day trips had turned into night walks, had turned into this meeting at your place for a home-cooked meal, which had then turned into….this.
This aching space, where anything was possible.
This muted space, that was devoid of color but so rich in other things: in the low, gravely drag of his voice, in the heady, masculine scent of his skin, in the gentle caress of his fingers playing idly with yours.
Slumped together on your sofa, shoulder to shoulder, a low pitch of conversation is exchanged between you in the dark room. Your breath is shallow, your heart racing, your mind hoping – yet you sit still and let him play: his fingers sliding between yours, his thumb brushing over your skin, his touch tracing your knuckles.
He is so close you can feel him talking as well as hear it. So close you can smell a whiff of the detergent he uses.
Turning your head in reply to something he says, your warm breath mingles in the shared space between your mouths. His breathing seems just like yours, a cross between holding it in fear of breaking the moment, and taking sips just to breathe each other in.
The room around you is pregnant with intimacy, with the occasional street noise that drifts in on the wind, and in this aching quiet, his hand lifts to cup your jaw, the tension between your bodies swelling to new heights….
And then, he kisses you.
His mouth is tender, exploring. Weighted, firm. His lips press fully against yours, capturing you in place, fingertips brushing against the hinge of your jaw. Your mouth parts to invite him in, and he accepts with a slow slide of his tongue, tasting, tasting, tasting. The kiss deepens with a sigh, your body melting backwards to pull him on top of you and he follows your guidance, seeking out your closeness and your flavor, his hands beginning to wander, just like yours.
The comforting, solid weight of his body presses you into the couch, his hips finding a home between the cradle of your thighs. You kiss, and kiss. Lips sealing together, mouths opening wide, tongues sliding together to savor taste.
The room sees it all – a blank canvas for the bright bursting thing happening between you two. The thing that’s been there from the start, finally coming to fruition. Everything drips – the grey walls bathed in intimacy, the muted tones awash with arousal, the clinging cotton covering your core.
Your laps grind together, your aligned bodies melding as his strong arms wrap around you to hold you close, and your ankles hook over his lower back. Your fingers slide through his curls and they are exactly as soft as you thought they’d be, like slippery silk.
You give them a tug, and are rewarded with his lowest, neediest groan yet.
Weighted with want, rumbled into your open mouth.
The movie ended an hour and a half ago, and his form joins the dusky tones of the room when he kneels between your bare thighs, your jeans and panties hooked around one ankle while it’s his tongue this time that sparks and lights, washing your body in arousal so strong it hurts.
He delves deep, licks wide, flicks and swirls and laps.
With your back arched, he devours.
His broad back is reflected in the black screen of your TV, the filthy image of his grey t-shirt pulling tight between his shoulder blades in his hungry hunch, his dark curls tucked between your spread thighs. Your fingers curl to grasp at the blanket beneath you and you roll your hips into his hungry mouth until your moans break the weighted silence, joining the night sounds from outside.
He joins you on the couch after that, even though it’s not big enough for what he has in mind. It’s a two seater, a small thing, but he makes it work when he stretches out on top of you and smears your own wetness against your mouth with his searing kiss, and reaches between the press of your bodies to unbuckle his belt.
There are other people in your building – a neighbor whom you share a wall with, who you only hear on football match days. A woman beneath you, the shouts of her children heard sometimes through the vents. Still more in the floors beneath them, and in the streets outside, and in the expanse of the city as it spreads across the earth – yet your entire existence is reduced to this one room when he opens your mouth with his just as he slides forward to break you open with a filling, weighted grind.
Your teeth catch his lower lip when you whine underneath him, and you can tell he likes it, this confirmation that he’s a lot to take. He grins against your mouth – decadent and filthy, slightly cocky and mischievous – and begins to fuck you on your couch like he’s been planning it since day one, from that first meeting in the bar.
He fucks with intent, with purpose. With experience, with competence. But also just like that first meeting, his intensity gives way to something more base, something feral and open and vulnerable. Like he can’t help the need that pours out, or the way he seeks your warmth.
His hips rock forward, demanding you take him in your pinned place underneath his body. His strokes are a rolled grind that has you lifting yours to meet his, forcing him deeper as your nails dig into his lower back, holding on.
The room absorbs every filthy sound: the humid panting of breath, the needy, low moans, his grunts that match the rhythmic punch of his hips. Filthy confessions pour from his mouth – your pussy feels so good, I wanted to fuck you the first time we met, bet your mouth was made for me too, your fucking pussy is so tight I’m gonna cum, you’re going to make me cum.
Every piece of praise washes over the sensitive hollow beneath your ear.
It’s like rebirth, like baptism. Like your life was as muted and dull as the small room around you and he found you and tugged you into the bright bursting daylight, plunging you into a colored life of sensation, of aching desire, of feelings too strong to be real.
When he comes, you join him, a tear sliding from the corner of your eye.
The movie ended two hours ago, and dawn breaks on the horizon somewhere outside. It trickles in through your open window, a slice of barely illuminated gold.
Sated and spent, he lays on top of you and your fingers drift mindlessly through his damp roots, over his soft shirt, along the firm planes of his skin. It’s a tight fit, an uncomfortable one that you don’t mind, when he shifts his weight off you to tuck himself into the back of the couch, holding you close against him.
While he dozes, you stay awake.
Bird sounds replace the quiet, light illuminates the darkness. From your spot crushed against his chest, you watch his pulse beat under his skin, strong and steady. Leaning in, you inhale his scent from the place on his body drenched with it – the hollow of his throat.
Slowly, lightly, as light slips into the room and brings color with it, you brush your fingers over the freckles that dot his skin just above his collar. There is a cluster you’ve been obsessed with since you first saw him, and you find them, dusted across his skin.
Resting your mouth against them, you let your eyes close as you press a kiss that lingers.
A full press of your mouth — one that lingers, then stays, as you fall asleep.
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