crowpill3d - Tumblr blog

crowpill3d · 8 days ago

Text

Your Secret's Safe Tonight

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

request (ily anon)

word count : 8,217

warnings : male reader, party, drinking, alex has anxiety, hes very awkward, sad feelings, bottom alex, car sex, unprotected, rimming (alex), nipple play, edging, anal, doggy, creampie. ps. just pretend the alcohol had worn off by the end. no drink driving x

The smash seemed to echo throughout the whole building, Alex undoubtedly managing to convince himself that the shatter was near deafening despite the sheer volume and thrum of some shitty house remix vibrating through the walls surely drowning it out, the shards of glass skittering outwards like frightened insects upon meeting the sticky floor.

The sharp sound sliced through his ears like violent lightning, and time seemed to cinch in on him tightly like a noose. His wide eyes darted from the mess on the floor to the man in front of him in a matter of milliseconds, the liquid he'd spilled on the front of the man's grey shirt darkening in a grotesque blooming pattern across his chest.

Alex's lips parted like he was about to say something, but no words came, just the flicker of his clumsy tongue against his dry, chapped lips, and the muffled sound of his breath catching in his throat on its way out. His shoulders twitched with the urge to hunch, fold in on himself and hide away, and he felt like his knees might buckle under the weight of disdain that the man's gaze carried.

Alex's bony hands trembled, his fingers still frozen in the position in which he'd been holding the glass, and there was a half-second of silence, or at least it felt silent, as silent as it could get in the cacophonous, headache-inducing pulse of the music in the club. It was like the whole world had paused for a moment and turned to witness his humiliation.

The stranger, taller than him, his shoulder broad, and his hair visually slick but likely rock hard with hair gel, was already swearing at him, something nasty and spat through gritted teeth as if the profanities were burning him. Alex didn't say a word as the man berated him, he just blinked rapidly, trying to stop the sting in his glassy eyes behind his grown-out fringe as tears threatened to spill, his mouth working uselessly around shapes he couldn't give sound to.

The guy shoved him, not too hard, just a small, disgusted push, but it was enough to make Alex stagger back a step or two and crunch the heel of his trainer into a piece of broken glass. He winced, his gaze shooting downwards towards his foot, his embarrassment so thick it was practically visible. The man muttered a final fucking idiot before trudging off into the crowd, leaving Alex completely alone, immobilised by his anxiety.

Alex didn't move for a long while, the shards at his feet glinting like little teeth, and he stared at them cautiously as if they might bite.

His cheeks burned red under the flickering LED lights, unevenly blurring through neon pinks and nauseous greens, casting long shadows across his jaw.

The cheap, watery mix of his rum and coke on the floor was already being absorbed into the grime of the club, mixed with beer foam, spilled pop, god knows what else, until it was completely indistinguishable from the rest of the filth, just like the drink itself. Nothing special. Nothing to salvage. Just £3.20 down the drain, which for Alex, might as well have been a small fortune.

He shuffled backwards like an animal retreating to its burrow, the shards wedged in the grooves of his trainer being crushed into a fine sand with each step he took, until his back met the wall, and he scanned his eyes over the room nervously, anxious, defensive, looking to see if anyone was still watching, but luckily, there weren't many. Just a few turned heads who's eyes still lingered, but most quickly lost interest, losing themselves in the trance of flashing lights and blaring music once more.

Alex stayed frozen against the wall as if he were stuck to it, his brain buffering in a loop of fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. His fingers twitched at his sides, awkward and useless, before one hand slowly rose to push his hair from his eyes with a self-conscious swipe, the strands slightly damp. His fringe was just a little bit too long, always falling into his eyes, but honestly, he preferred it that way. He thought it made him less visible, less of a spectacle.

His lips stayed half-open, the stale air of the club drying out the inside of his mouth, and his eyes, dark, wide, and framed by lashes far too pretty for someone who winced like he did, flickered down to the broken glass beneath and around his feet, a thin trail of cheap, likely off brand cola trailing towards the baseboard like blood at a crime scene from where it had clung to the rubber soles of his shoes and smeared along the floor with his stumbled steps.

He couldn't move. He wouldn't move. If he did, he'd draw more attention to himself, and that would be worse than anything. Worse than being shoved, worse than the splash, worse than the loss of the drink he'd rationed himself into affording.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uncertain breaths. He was hyper aware of his hands, of his legs, of every single part of himself. He was sick with it. The heat in his face wasn't fading, no matter how reclused and small he made himself in the corner. It had settled deep into the skin like a fever, and the air in the club felt ten degrees thicker than it had a minute ago. His throat was dry, sticky with the ghost of the cola and his all-consuming nerves, and he kept swallowing like it might make it all go away, wash away the syrupy remnants of his drink and disintegrate the anxiety that was caught and had gotten stuck there.

He didn't look up again. Not at anyone. He didn't want to meet eyes. He didn't want to know if people were watching, or if they were laughing or sneering or just silently pitying him. He knew how people tended to look at him when he got like this. With a sympathy that made his bones itch, made him feel stupid, or like he was a wounded animal that may still try to bite if not approached carefully. But he never bit. He just flinched, folded, and tried to hide.

He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, on the mess he'd made around him, and he thought about crouching down, about picking up the glass, but he was worried that would make people laugh at him too, or that someone would tread on his hand and pretend it was an accident, but all they really wanted to do was mock him. Stupid. He didn't want to get his blood on the floor either.

He blinked hard, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips just slightly, before he ultimately decided against cleaning up the glass, and he wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, more to look natural, human, something to do with his hands, instead of doing it for a purpose.

He tried to adjust his posture, pressing his shoulder blades against the cool paint, the sharp sting of the music pressing into his skull through the concrete. The shadows were thicker there. He was grateful for that. The lights didn't hit him as hard, and he could almost disappear if he didn't move, so he didn't.

He stayed there, locked into stillness, only his eyes darting towards the bar every once in a while with a kind of quiet devastation. No more drink. That had been it, just the one. He couldn't justify another.

So he just watched. The floor, the crowd, the lights. He tapped the scuffed toe of his shoes against the floor like a heartbeat, something to keep him steady, to keep his mind from spiralling. His chest still tingled with the ghost of the stranger's shove. It hadn't hurt, not really, not physically, but the shame of it had sunk deeper than any bruise could. It just sat in his chest, a hollow ache, a gnawing reminder of his clumsiness, his stupidity, how careless he'd been.

He didn't belong there. He never had, but he kept coming back anyway. The noise seemed to be the most effective at drowning out the harsh voice that dwelled in the depths of his head, and the dark corners helped make him feel less alone.

He lingered against the wall until his knees started to ache, until the soles of his feet went numb with disuse. He shifted his weight to try and not appear too different, too strange, crossing his ankles, then uncrossing them, his back curling inwards and his spine scraping against the paint behind him. The music throbbed on, and so did the crowd, but he stayed stuck where he was.

Eventually, he let out a tiny breath, barely audible even to himself, and he peeled away from the wall. He moved slowly, quietly, convinced that everyone had eyes on him even though no one noticed him. The bar looked no more inviting than it had earlier, but it was something, somewhere to go, some movement to justify his existence. He didn't want another drink, he couldn't afford another drink, but his fingers itched with stillness, uselessness, the static of having nothing to do with himself. He'd been nursing his shitty rum and coke for god knows how long, just so he wouldn't have to face the vulnerability of doing nothing with his hands.

He walked up, slid his way into a crack in the crowd, and he leaned forward over the sticky bar top just enough to catch the bartender's eye, before saying, still timid but loud enough to be heard, “Sorry, do you have a pen or something I could borrow?”

The bartender, already in motion, paused only long enough to toss a glance over his shoulder at the till, the ledge, the cup of plastic straws, and the stack of napkins, before he shrugged and said, “Nah, mate, not back here. Sorry.”

Alex nodded quickly, though the movement of his neck was only small, embarrassed that he'd even asked. He looked down at his hands, pale and skinny, his mouth tight. He'd wanted to doodle on them, a little flower, or a smiley face, or maybe a small cat, just like he used to do back in school when the lesson was too boring, or when he sat alone in his classes. It was something that had stuck with him, despite how often he got shouted at by his teachers for it.

You'd been stood nearby, leaning against the bar only about a metre away from Alex. You turned your head slightly as you heard the bartender's response, and you caught the vague disappointment that flickered across his features.

You'd seen him earlier. You'd heard the smash, followed by the aggressive shouting, presumably from the victim of his spillage. You'd seen the way he shrunk, followed by his attempt at hiding away in the corner, before his figure was swallowed up by the dense crowd again, hiding him from your view.

Your friends had been long since lost. You'd lost them hours ago, each of them drifting off one by one, whether they'd passed out somewhere, taken home a girl, or were drowning in the sea of people, they'd all left you alone. You'd ended up at the bar again, hoping it'd be an unspoken meeting point in case any of them were still there, but none had turned up.

You reached into your back pocket, fishing for a short, blunt, chewed pencil, a grimy one that seemed to only exist in pubs. You'd been using it to keep score in darts earlier in the evening, when the night had started out as just a friendly lads gathering with calm pints and a few tabletop games.

“I've got a pencil,” you said as you offered it, tapping it against the bar as you held it out to him.

He blinked, surprised, almost startled, and his eyes met yours for a brief second. His were huge, doe-like and glassy, and his lips parted to respond, but he hesitated, his gaze dropping down to your hand holding the pencil, then to the floor again.

He shook his head a little. “No, thank you. It's alright.”

You kept the pencil extended between two fingers for a few moments longer, watching the way his eyes flickered between it and the bar top like he was trying to decide whether to just take it to be polite, or keep declining until you went away.

You retracted your hand after a while, tucking the pencil back into your back pocket, and you noticed how stiff he seemed, a little jittery, like he wasn't sure what to do with the body he was attached to.

“Why do you want a pen but not a pencil?” you asked, your brows slightly furrowed as you perched one elbow on the bar and resting your chin with your hand.

He glanced up at you again, visibly confused, clearly not expecting the conversation to last this long. His lips pressed together tightly, and for a second, you thought he was just going to walk off.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, fidgeting and tugging at his fingers awkwardly. “I just… wanted to draw, I guess. Just a little bit.”

You noticed the little quiver in his voice, the slight tremor, and you could tell he was embarrassed, but you weren't sure what about.

“Why did you want to draw?” you asked, your tone a bit more accusatory, a bit more forceful than you intended, and you watched him tense up, almost flinch.

He clasped his hands together in front of him, clutching them tightly, his palms slick with sweat. He didn't exactly feel like saying because I'm anxious and alone and if I don't keep my hands busy, I might start crying in the toilets, so instead, he murmured, “I'm just bored, I think. That's all. Honestly.”

You nodded slowly, accepting his answer, and you let the silence settle for a moment before you said gently, “Do you come here much?”

He huffed out a small, dry laugh, the sound bleak. “Not… really. Sometimes. But I don't like it much.”

The conversation spilled out slowly from there, tentative and surface-level at first. You learned his name was Alex, that he didn't live far, and that he'd come out tonight “on a whim,” which sounded more like he'd forced himself out by telling himself that this is how he should be spending his early twenties.

You told him your name, that you'd initially come out to play darts with some mates in the beginning before you ended up there and your friends had vanished off to god knows where. You both talked about how crowded the club was, how expensive the drinks were, and how sticky the floor was getting by the minute.

Alex was careful with his words, that was one of the first things you noticed about him. Measured. Like every sentence went through a silent screening process in his head before he dared to let it out. His accent was soft and low, his voice always just below the roar of the music, like he was afraid of interrupting someone, or scared of accidentally doing something wrong. You could tell he wasn't used to being approached, or staying in conversations that didn't give him a clear or easy exit.

So when you asked him what kind of drink he liked, it didn't surprise you that he immediately rejected it, shaking his head vigorously.

“No, no- don't,” he stammered quickly, his eyes widening slightly. “Don't do that. Honestly. I'm fine. Really. Don't waste your money on me. I'm- I'm not even thirsty.”

You glanced at him, running your tongue along the backs of your teeth. “It's one drink, mate. Not a marriage proposal.”

His face colours instantly at that, impossibly fast, impossibly red, and he goes quiet, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“And because you didn't exactly get to finish your last one,” you added before turning towards the bartender.

He opened his mouth to protest again, but nothing came out. His jaw just shifted a bit, like he was chewing on the refusal, but then slowly, finally, he gave a tiny nod.

The first round of vodka cokes arrived with a clink, the bartender sliding the glasses across the bar with a bored flick of the wrist. You lifted yours before nudging the second glass towards Alex. He still looked hesitant, like he'd feel too guilty if he actually took the drink, but he reached out anyway, his fingers curling around the sweating glass, being extra careful not to let it slip.

The syrupy sweetness slid down your throat as you took a sip, the coolness cutting through the humidity that had settled into your limbs as the sharpness of the vodka warmed its way through your chest. You leaned a little closer, just enough for you to be able to hear each other without shouting. The conversation continued, not exactly deep, but more relaxed now, not necessarily out of comfort, it was too soon for that, but out of something that made Alex's gaze soften just a little, his fidgety fingers still easily, and his brain feel less jumbled.

By the time you'd ordered the second round, Alex was a touch less tightly coiled. He still flinched whenever someone brushed a bit too close behind him, and he still spoke like each sentence had to pass inspection before leaving his mouth, but he was drinking a little faster now. Smiling, too. Once or twice, he even managed to look you directly in the eye for more than a second at a time.

The third round came without much audible protest from him. You didn't ask this time, you just ordered, and he didn't try to stop you, though you could tell there was still a hint of guilt in his features. You saw his hand linger on the rim of the glass longer than before, tapping gently, his foot shifting beneath him with a quiet, jittery energy that seemed to fill every ounce of his body. He wasn't used to this; someone buying him drinks, someone sticking around, someone asking questions like they actually wanted and cared to know the answers.

“What kind of thing do you like to draw, then?” you asked as you wiped your hand on the front of your jeans, your fingers damp from the condensation of the glass.

He shrugged, his lips pursed slightly, but his shoulders a little less hunched. “I dunno. When I'm just… I don't know, doodling, just on my hand and that, I do little animals. Or flowers,” he said, his voice a little smaller, like he was embarrassed, like you'd think those were ‘girly' things. “But when I actually draw, I do, like… hands, and stuff. Some faces. Bits of bodies, sometimes.”

“Sounds cool,” you smiled, running your fingertip along the rim of your glass. He shot you a quick, almost defensive glance, afraid you might tease him.

“Not in a weird way, or anything,” he added quickly, a little too quickly, his cheeks reddening slightly. “Not anything… dirty.”

You laughed, your fist coming up to cover your mouth, shaking your head slightly. “I didn't assume that. But if they were dirty, I wouldn't judge.”

His face flushed more, colouring quickly from the base of his throat upwards like a tide over the shore, and he ducked his head, unable to hold the eye contact anymore, smiling shyly down at his drink.

By the fourth round, Alex had stopped clutching his glass like it was a lifeline. He was still nervous, of course, still fidgeting, still shifting, but there was a softness to him now. His shoulders had lowered just slightly, his chin was lifted more than it had been earlier. He was still talking in fits and starts, still leaving a few too many seconds between his sentences like he had to wait for permission, but at least he was talking.

There must've been something else in his drink, something that loosened his tongue, as he took another slow sip before saying, “You're, um…” he paused, rolling the glass between his palms and watching the dark liquid slosh and swirl around before he flickered his gaze back up to you. “...You look good.”

You blinked, and he didn't say anything for a second, then he added quickly, awkwardly, almost embarrassed, “Like, um… fit,” he cringed. “Or whatever word you wanna use.”

His voice trailed off into a quiet murmur at the end like he'd immediately regretted it, and you could practically see the guilt rising in him, riddled with questions of whether or not you reciprocated, and if he'd just completely ruined everything.

You watched as his fingers tightened around the glass and his tongue poke against the inside of his cheek, but you didn't tease him. You tilted your head to the side slightly, looking at him properly, and he glanced up, just barely, nervous, wary.

“You're pretty,” you said softly, your tone warmer, trying to coax him out of his shell of embarrassment that he'd built around himself like a shield.

His face changed in an instant. Almost surprised for a moment, like someone had knocked the wind gently out of him, then he smiled a real smile. Small but stunned, blooming slowly across his face like it was shy. His lashes fluttered down toward his drink again as he mumbled, his voice quiet, “Thank you.”

The fifth round came without much ceremony from either of you, the two of you swaying ever so slightly now, the buzz of the club completely blurred into the background. Lights smearing together, all of the people slurring into one, the noise blending into nothing but a hum. You handed Alex his glass again, and this time, he took it without any hesitation.

You leaned in a bit more as you talked, closer than before. Your arm brushed against his, and when he didn't pull away, you let your hand rest lightly on the side of his elbow. He was warm, not just from the booze or the humidity of the room, but warm in that buzzing, humming way that only nerves and alcohol can create. He tensed at the touch at first, then he softened, wanting to trust the contact.

He wasn't used to it, that much was obvious.

You moved your hand slowly, dragging it down to rest against the edge of his forearm, your fingers lightly pressing into the soft inside. You felt him shiver, not violently, just a flutter of movement, like his body didn't know how to react. His lips parted slightly like he might say something, but he didn't, his throat closing up on him, preventing any words from squeezing through.

“You alright?” you asked, your voice low and gentle, coaxing, noticing the way his body seemed to be betraying his mind.

He nodded too fast, his hair bouncing slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, really. I just… wasn't expecting, like… touch.”

“Do you not like it?”

“No! No, that's…” his voice trailed off, embarrassed. “I like it. I really like it. I just… it's new.”

You offered a small smile, finding his overwhelming shyness endearing. “You're sweet.”

He let out a quiet breath, his cheeks still slightly pink, before he said hesitantly, “I've never, um, done anything. With another man, I mean.”

You could feel the tension flood back into him in that moment, right after he let the words leave his mouth, like he was bracing for something, like maybe it would scare you off or turn you cruel. You didn't pull away, you didn't laugh, you just tilted your head a little, curious.

“Do you want to?”

He looked up at you, his eyes wide, brown, slightly glassy, and he bit his lower lip tentatively before nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he whispered, but you didn't hear it. You didn't need to.

You leaned in, slowly, carefully, giving him enough time to retract or to pull away if he didn't want it, but it didn't come. He didn't move.

Your lips brushed against his, just barely at first, feeling the subtle scrape of his dry ones on your slightly softer ones. You felt the tremble in him, the hesitation and want inside of him colliding in a silent, breathless battle. He didn't know what to do with his mouth, too stiff, too still, but he let you guide it, take control. Your hand moved up to his jaw, your thumb brushing his cheekbone gently, and he tilted into it, not realising how badly he wanted, needed, to be touched like that.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, softer, and his breath caught in his throat. You felt the exact moment his lips responded, clumsy but honest, nervous but so very open. You felt the soft, feather light brush of his lashes against your cheek as they fluttered shut, letting himself relax into it, almost surrender.

When you pulled back, you let your hand rest just beneath his jaw, gently caressing the soft skin there. “You okay?” you asked quietly, not really expecting too much of a response.

He nodded, breathless after you stole the air from him, his pupils wide and fixed on you in front of him, his cheeks blushed.

“I liked that,” he whispered, his tongue poking out to swipe along his lower lip.

“Did you?” you murmured. He nodded. “Do you want another one?”

He blinked up at you, his lips red and parted, your breaths mingling between you, letting his mind catch up to his body, and then he nodded.

You smiled before you kissed him again, heavier, less tentative, and he leaned into it once more, his lips parting wider for yours with a trembling eagerness.

You pulled back again, but only just enough to whisper against his mouth, “Come on.”

He didn't ask where, he didn't need to. You took his hand, and he followed, out through the crowd, past where he'd spilled his drink, through the exit that bled the club's sound out into the dark of the night, cold air kissing flushed cheeks, neon lights reflecting on wet pavement. The street was alive but not watching. No one noticed you, no one cared, all too caught up in the rush of their own nights.

Your car was parked down the way, tucked just under a flickering street light. The walk was quiet, except for the scuff of his boots on the concrete, and the shuffle of yours beside his. His fingers in your grip were tense, but he didn't let go, not once.

You could feel the buzz of nerves inside of him, the way he held his breath, the way his fingers seemed fidgety in your hand. He was hard already, you knew that without even having to look at his crotch. His steps were too deliberate, and his thighs were tight like he was trying not to brush against his own zip. He was high on this, on you, on the heat and the risk and the mystery of it all.

He was biting his lip when you glanced at him, his eyes wide behind that mess of hair strewn across his forehead. The softest line of sweat glinted along his temple, glistening slightly under the streetlight and catching your eye.

You squeezed his hand lightly, and he flinched as the pressure reminded him where he was. “You okay?” you asked, and he nodded quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, just…” he paused before glancing away. “Just a bit scared, I think. Nervous. But in a good way. A really good way.”

You gave him a gentle smile, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. “We don't have to if you don't want to.”

He shook his head vigorously, his voice sounding a little more desperate than he intended as he said, “I want to. Please.”

You smiled, and finally, you both reached your car. You unlocked it with one hand and held the door open for him after tugging the handle, and he hesitated awkwardly for a moment before letting his hand slip from yours, and he slid into the back seat.

You followed, one of your hands almost instinctively finding his thigh as you shut the door behind you. Your lips met once more, and his breath hitched in his throat as your other hand came up to the back of his neck, holding him closer, pulling him deeper into the kiss, his lips struggling to keep up with yours.

Your hand on his thigh gently slid up to his hip, tracing your fingers along the waistband of his dark blue jeans, the soft white cotton of his boxers peeking out over the denim. His lips quivered against yours as he let out a brittle, barely audible whimper into your mouth, and you swallowed the small sound as your fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, the soft pop as the metal slipped through the hole, followed by the whir of his zip being pulled down.

You broke the kiss with a soft click, your lips connected for just a moment longer by a small, thin string of saliva before it snapped back onto your chin, and you tucked your hand beneath the opening of his trousers. It was warm in there, and you felt a small damp spot forming just slightly to the left of one of the leg holes.

You glanced up at him to see him already staring at you, his dark pupils almost wider than his iris, and his cheeks were dusted with a light pink, his face hot. “This okay?” you murmured, though you already knew what his response would be.

He nodded once more, his breathing heavy, and you felt his cock give a subtle pulse against your palm through the thin fabric of his underwear, making you smile softly as you slid your thumb beneath the waistband of his jeans.

He lifted his hips slightly, as best as he could, to help you get his trousers off, and you tugged them down his hips, over his thighs, until they crumpled in a puddle at his ankles, where he then shuffled out of them with his feet, toeing off his trainers as well before kicking them aside, both of them ending up somewhere beneath the driver's seat.

You palmed him over his boxers, feeling every twitch, spasm, and throb that his length gave in response to your touch, and he moaned softly, the sound shaky, high pitched, and almost brittle.

You glanced up at him once more, and his eyes had fluttered shut, his lips parted as he tried to steady his heavy breathing, tinged with a soft whimper every so often. You leaned forward slightly, pressing a small kiss to his soft cheek before sliding your hand beneath his boxers, your fingers finding his cock, warm and hard, and he bit down hard on his lower lip in an attempt to stifle his whine, the sound coming out muffled and desperate as it forced its way out of his throat.

Slowly, carefully, you peeled down the cotton of his boxers, revealing the flushed, sensitive skin beneath the fabric, his cock throbbing under your gaze. His red-hot tip glistened in the soft light of the street light bleeding in through the car window, and his shaft wagged slightly as he shifted his legs to shuffle out of his underwear.

Your hand returned to his thigh, squeezing the soft, plush flesh there gently, tracing small patterns along the inside, between his legs, before you murmured softly, your breath hot against his ear, “Bend over for me.”

You felt his thighs tense slightly beneath your grip, and his breath stuttered in his throat, like he couldn't quite believe it was really happening. He hesitated for a moment longer before he gathered up his limbs and nodded quickly, his breathing speeding up as he lifted his legs up onto the seat as well, his knees digging into the leather, and he leaned forward, pressing his hot face into the cushion.

He squeezed his eyes shut, not entirely able to believe how vulnerable he'd let himself become, and he heard you moving behind him, his back arching with an instinct that made his stomach tighten, a wave of goosebumps rippling over his pale skin.

You placed your hands on his hips gently, rubbing your thumbs along the plump flesh of his ass cheeks, and you heard him gasp softly, so incredibly sensitive, his muscles tightening as he tried not to flinch.

“Pretty,” you whispered, almost like a coo, and you felt him relax slightly. You leaned down, as best as you could in the cramped back seat of your car, your spine curving, and you held him open with the pads of your thumbs, your breath hot against him, making him writhe.

He shifted a little, pushing his knees slightly more apart, as wide as the seat would allow, and his face scrunched up as you pressed a small kiss to one of his cheeks, and what he felt next nearly made him squeal.

Your tongue moved slowly at first, languid strokes that made his entire body jerk. You felt his muscles flutter under your mouth, trembling with each teasing circle, and you kissed lower, then licked firmly, deliberately, flicking against the tender ring of muscle that clenched and quivered with every gasp that escaped his throat he tried to hold back.

“Fuck…” his voice broke, slightly muffled against his squished cheek, his hands clutching at the door before finding their way to his chest. His fingers dragged across his flat pecs before gently teasing his nipples through his shirt. A soft, breathy moan slipped from him as he pinched one between his fingers, his hips instinctively pressing back toward your mouth. He was losing himself, unraveling under your tongue and his own touch, chasing the dual sensations in every way he could.

“You like that?” you murmured against him, your voice low and rough as you pressed a kiss to his hole.

He nodded rapidly, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth slack. “Don't stop,” he begged, his breath hitching into a whine. “It feels so fucking good…”

You groaned softly and pressed in deeper, circling your tongue slowly, purposefully, pressing the tip inside for just a second at a time before going back to licking. He was so responsive, so vocal, his moans rising in pitch every time you tightened the grip of your hands on his hips to keep him still, steady and open. His fingers moved faster on his chest now, twisting and pulling at his nipples, feeding the pleasure that rippled through him like lightning.

You pulled back for just a moment, catching the flushed stretch of his back and the way his toes curled in his stained, white socks. Every part of him was strung tight, tense, his hole clenching around nothing until you pressed your mouth to him again.

Your tongue found a new rhythm, slow and firm, then teasing, torturing, before returning to deliberate, dragging strokes that made his face burrow into the seat. He was shaking now, every muscle in his limbs taut, the curve of his soft ass pushing back against your face with desperation. His thighs trembled, and every time your mouth pressed a little harder, a little deeper, a little faster, his whole body twitched like you were rewiring him from the inside out.

You licked lower, slower, then let your tongue press right at his centre, firm and wet, making him let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking. His voice cracked into the seat, a small trail of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the leather, “Oh my god…”

His cock twitched helplessly between his legs, leaking with every purposeful swipe of your tongue, his eyes squeezing shut as his whole body shivered.

He whimpered, twisting a fist into his shirt where it clung to his chest, the fabric damp with his sweat. His other hand returned to his nipples, pinching again, rubbing in frantic little circles, chasing that electric spark he couldn't seem to get enough of. You could hear every shaky breath, every gasp and whine that escaped his throat as your tongue coaxed more sounds from him, wetter, louder, more desperate.

You gave him one last deliberate lick, slow, flattening your tongue as you dragged it all the way up with purpose, before pulling back, your breath coming hot and shallow against the backs of his soft, trembling thighs.

He let out a desperate, wounded sound. "No…"

His voice was wrecked, breathless, high-pitched with the severity of his need. His hips rocked back instinctively, searching for your mouth again, slick and eager and wanting more. “Why'd you stop?” he whispered, face still buried in the seat cushion, his voice a ragged whine.

You didn't answer, at least, not with words. You sat back just a little, as much as you could, shuffling on your knees, and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, your chest rising with each heavy breath. The heat and humidity in the car had grown almost unbearable, the windows fogged up completely, the air thick with the overwhelming scent of sex and sweat and desperation.

He lifted his head slightly, his forehead slick and his fringe drenched, panting heavily, and then he heard it.

A soft, metallic click of your belt being undone, slow and intentional, and he froze, feeling the seconds that passed like his own heartbeat. He shifted slightly before letting his head drop back down onto the seat, returning to the small damp, shiny spot that had formed from his sweat.

You dragged the zip of your jeans down, slow and purposeful, the metallic sound slicing through the silence that had just began to fester, punctuated by his heavy breathing. Your hand slipped inside the opening, and you groaned softly as you freed yourself from the restrictive confines of your boxers that had grown tight, the weight of your arousal settling heavy in your palm.

Alex turned his head slightly, trying to glance back over his shoulder, but couldn't quite get the angle. Still, he didn't need to see. You knew he could feel it. The shift in energy, the anticipation blooming in the tight lines of his shoulders and in the clench of his thighs.

You leaned in closer, the scorching hot head of your cock brushing against the warm swell of his ass, and he shuddered. You rested your hand on his lower back, your fingers splayed gently against the curve of his spine. He was so warm beneath you, his skin flushed, trembling with every shaky breath he took, and you let your tip nudge against his wet hole, slick from your mouth, slow, teasing, barely a graze.

He gasped, the sound raw, and he pushed his hips back a little, greedy for more.

“You sure?” you asked once more, your voice low and barely more than a murmur, and he nodded quickly.

“Yes,” he managed to stammer out, his voice soft but desperate and needy. “Please.”

You spat into your palm upon hearing his small voice, slicking yourself up with a few quick strokes before guiding your tip back to him, one hand staying firm on his lower back, steadying both him and yourself, while the other guided you slowly forward.

The pressure was controlled, and you didn't push all at once, just eased in, letting his body open around you, inch by inch, and he sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers clawing at the leather seat beneath him, the muscles in his back twitching as he attempted to adjust.

“Fuck…” you muttered, your voice rough with restraint. “Doing so good for me…”

A loud, broken moan escaped his throat as you pressed deeper, your cock stretching him slowly, filling him with a deliberate patience that had him whimpering and arching his back into angles he didn't even know he was flexible enough to reach.

You paused halfway in, leaning forward to kiss the space between his shoulder blades. “Breathe for me,” you whispered, your voice coaxing, encouraging.

He did, just a slow, shaky inhale followed by an uneven, ragged exhale, but it helped. His body loosened a little more, just enough, and you managed to slide the rest of the way in, the base of your cock flush against him now, and he almost screamed. Both of you were breathless from the stretch, the heat, the overwhelming closeness, and Alex's stomach twisted and tightened as his body fought to accommodate the intrusion, your tip kissing that smooth rubbery spot deep inside of him that made him yelp.

You stayed still for a moment, your cock buried inside him to the hilt, letting him feel every inch of you, letting him feel how full he was, how claimed.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed out, his voice strangled and bordering on a sob. “You feel so fucking big…”

You smiled against his skin before straightening up, your hand smoothing down his side as you fixed your posture. “You feel perfect.”

You rolled your hips once, just a slow grind, and he shuddered underneath you, an animalistic sound escaping his lips that was somewhere between a rough groan and a loud moan.

“More,” he whined, his eyes stinging as he heaved, barely able to handle it.

You started to move, gentle at first, long, slow strokes where you pulled nearly all the way out before sinking right back in to the hilt, your cock dragging across every sweet spot inside of him that made his thighs tremble and his back arch. His moans came quicker now, messier, louder, his hips rocking back to meet your every thrust, the soft flesh of his ass bouncing against your hips.

The sounds were filthy, obscene, wet, skin against skin, the rhythmic creak of your car seat, and his breathy cries echoing in the close, hot space, bouncing off of the walls until they were replaced with another newer, louder, whinier one. You couldn't look away from him, from the way his back arched, the way his fingers had returned to his chest, playing with his nipples again, chasing every ounce of pleasure you gave him and still greedy for more.

“Feels so fucking good…” he gasped, his voice shaking as you continued to thrust in and out, back and forth, your cock dragging along the sensitive walls inside of him and bumping against that most tender, aching spot that made him cry out each time.

You could feel him tightening around you with every stroke, getting closer and closer and closer, his whole body trembling, and god, you weren't far behind, your cock pulsing relentlessly inside of him.

You continued to drive into him with slow, deep strokes, letting him feel the weight of you with every one of your movements, and he clung to the seat beneath him, his breath ragged, the occasional gasp breaking into something softer, needier, his voice unraveling along with the rest of his body.

You reached forward, brushing your hand across his ribs and up to his chest, helping him when his fingers fumbled, pinching and rolling his tender, sensitive nipple gently, watching how he reacted with a full-body shiver, each of his limbs trembling with the intensity of his pleasure.

“I can't- I'm gonna- fuck, I'm close….” he whimpered, grinding back against you with feverish little movements, the tension in his thighs unbearable as he chased his orgasm.

“Yeah?” you taunted, your hips rolling faster now, losing the rhythm in favour of that burning high that simmered in your belly. “You gonna cum for me like this?”

He nodded desperately, unable to speak, one hand reaching down beneath him. His palm wrapped around his cock, already slick, already leaking, and he started stroking himself frantically in time with your thrusts, his whole body straining, the extra stimulation exactly what he needed.

And then he cried out, sharp and broken, and you felt him tighten around you so suddenly, so intensely, it nearly undid you on the spot.

He came hard into his palm, his hips jerking, gasping with his mouth wide open against the seat as his whole body seized, his limbs locking up, flushed and shaking. Hot ropes of cum spilled across his hand, thick and wet, filling up his palm, and even though he tried to aim carefully, some of it dripped down onto the leather seat and slid messily down his wrist, like an ice cream you'd been holding for too long in the sun beginning to melt down onto your skin.

You groaned at the sight and at the feel of him pulsing around you, and you fucked him through it, your rhythm faltering as the pressure in your own gut twisted into something unbearable.

He was still moaning, soft and overstimulated, trying to keep himself upright with shaking arms as you delivered one final thrust and buried yourself deep inside of him with a rough gasp, your orgasm crashing through you in burning hot waves, thick and warm and filling him up to the brim.

Neither of you moved for a moment, only the heavy sound of your breathing filling the car. The air was dense, and Alex sagged forward with a weak whimper, utterly wrecked, and you stayed inside him for a few moments longer, your hand still resting over his heart as it pounded beneath his chest.

You eased out of him slowly, carefully, and he let out a soft, breathless sound, half whine and half sigh. He collapsed briefly against the seat, limp and quiet, unsure if his limbs even worked anymore, before he finally began to move, still flushed, still trembling just a little, and he reached down to grab his boxers and trousers from the car floor, shaking them out with unsteady hands.

He dressed in silence, first his boxers which he tugged up carefully over his shaky thighs, then his jeans, zipped up with a wince. His trainers followed, loosely tied. He didn't look up at you again.

You tucked yourself away, zipped up your jeans and adjusted your shirt, your hands moving on autopilot. Everything was still too warm, your skin buzzing with aftershocks, your mind struggling to catch up.

Without a word, you opened the car door for the two of you and you both climbed out of the back seat, the quiet accompanied by the creak of the seat beneath his knees. The cool night air hit both of you instantly, sobering. It was almost silent now, no traffic, just the hum of streetlamps and the distant bark of a dog that the owners likely refused to keep inside.

You stood beside him for a moment, the fog on the windows already beginning to fade in the night breeze as the door hung open.

“Do you want a lift home?” you asked, your voice low.

He shook his head. “No.”

“…Want to come back to mine?”

“No,” he said again, this time more firmly, but still not meeting your eyes.

You hesitated, searching for something else to say, but there was nothing that wouldn't sound wrong, so instead, you just nodded, not pushing any further. “Okay.”

You shut the back door before you opened the front one and climbed into the driver's seat. He stepped back from the car slightly, just about a metre, his arms folded tight across his chest and eyes cast downwards. You started the engine, the headlights lit him in a stark, lonely gold for a brief second as you pulled away, offering him one last, upside down smile through the window before you drove off.

He stood there a moment after your car disappeared down the road, the loud engine fading until he couldn't hear the rumble anymore. The night was colder now. Emptier, too. The back of his jeans clung uncomfortably between his legs, sticky and damp, and he shifted awkwardly, wincing at the fullness still lingering inside him. Every movement made it more noticeable. The ghost of the stretch, the warmth, the slow, inevitable mess starting to leak out and soak into his boxers like glue.

His lanky legs were unsteady, trembling faintly with each step as he stumbled onto the pavement, trying to find a rhythm. The backs of his thighs ached and his stomach fluttered. He reached up once to push his damp fringe out of his eyes, then stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

He kept walking, stumbling occasionally over uneven slabs or cracks in the pavement that were far too wobbly to be considered safe, disoriented, his eyes unfocused. He didn't even know what time it was. His body felt used, stretched open, marked. He could still feel it inside him. Each step jostled something loose, slick, messy, humiliating, but he didn't stop. He couldn't really. He kept moving, one foot in front of the other, alone under the fluorescent glow of the street lights, the sound of his footsteps the only thing chasing him home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

this is set in a world where everyone is gay unless they say otherwise. ive also got another question. what is your opinion on mushrooms? texture is a big thing for me when it comes to food and i absolutely cannot handle them. im waiting for my time to like them to come around though, as every older person i meet seems to love them. same with brussels sprouts

#this made an italian man very happy #i think #please read this if you’re a bus #i will finish that gender neutral fic i promised you little italian lawyer #when i finish that wlw story #may post that here actually

39 notes · View notes