wet

A key clicks in the lock, and Vizaeth tosses his phone aside as he scrambles off the couch. His foot catches on the edge of the rug, sending him skidding and stumbling over polished hardwood, but he manages to right himself before he cracks his head open on the coffee table, and makes it to the entry hall of the apartment just as Pharaun’s hanging up his jacket.

“You’re early!”

Pharaun chuckles as Vizaeth hurls himself into his arms. He tastes like whiskey—drinks after work, because it’s a Friday. Usually he’s not home until Vizaeth’s long asleep, so to have him here while the sun’s still up is a rare treat. His hand slides to the small of Vizaeth’s back to draw him close, a little gesture of affection that turns his blood to warm, sweet honey. He presses his face to Pharaun’s neck above his undone collar, searching for his familiar pulse, and the scent of cloves and cherries fills his nose. He stiffens.

“Why do you smell like Aliisza?”

“I don’t smell like Aliisza. She wasn’t even there, it was just me and Ryld.”

“Then you can tell Ryld I hate his new perfume.”

Vizaeth shoves away from him, nails gouging furrows into his palms. That bitch was there. She’s always hanging around Pharaun, desperate to get her claws into him. Fucking whore. He’ll slash her tyres again for trying to take what’s his.

Pharaun catches his wrist, tugs him back. “It’s not Aliisza’s perfume, and it’s not Ryld’s,” he says, thumb stroking gently over scarred skin. “The shop just reeked of it. My eyes were watering just walking through the door.”

“What shop?” Vizaeth mutters sullenly.

“The one where I got you a present.”

“A present? Why?”

It’s not his birthday, or Pharaun’s, or a holiday, or any of their anniversaries…at least he doesn’t think it is. His stomach drops. What did he forget? Pharaun draws him into another kiss, tongue and teeth and rich whiskey taste. “Do I need a reason? Or do you not want a gift?”

“No, I want one,” Vizaeth says quickly, and Pharaun laughs, low in that way he does that conjures a hot coal of desire in Vizaeth’s stomach, and leads him down the hall.

“I know you do. I know everything you want.”

Pharaun’s bedroom is perfectly kept. Vizaeth always makes sure it’s nothing less than immaculate, everything where it ought to be and most all of it marked with his fingerprints, blessed with his breath. Even when he’s not here, Pharaun is surrounded by him. Safe. Protected from the influence of sad little gothic sluts like Aliisza Vhok.

He perches on the edge of the bed while Pharaun kicks off his Oxfords and empties out his work satchel onto the desk. Diary, laptop, phone, remains of lunch—and a slightly crumpled black bag. There’s a gold logo on the side, one Vizaeth can’t make out properly. Pharaun holds it behind his back as he comes over.

“You want to see?” Vizaeth nods, and the corner of Pharaun’s mouth twitches, his eyes glinting. “Ask nicely, then.”

God, he loves it when Pharaun plays like this, it’s so fucking hot. He adds a touch of needy hunger to his voice, the kind Pharaun likes. “Please can I see?”

Pharaun smiles and reaches into the bag and pulls out a nightmare. Red satin. Black lace. Underwear. No, not underwear—lingerie, the kind they put on skinny model girls with airbrushed legs and fake tits. A bra so delicate a sharp word might rip it to pieces dangles from Pharaun’s finger by one thin strap. He tosses the bag aside and pulls Vizaeth to his feet.

“You are going to look delicious.”

Cold dread locks up all his limbs. “I…I can’t…”

“Of course you can.” The metal rasp of his zipper is so loud it hurts his ears. “Let me dress you up. I’ve been thinking about you in this all damn day.”

His jeans thump to the floor. Fingers tease the waistband of his boxers, tug them down, and there Pharaun is, knelt before him, a god pleading for just a little faith. Unable to be anything but devout, Vizaeth lets his legs be moved, and loving hands guide soft, cool satin into place.

“Gorgeous,” Pharaun declares, rising to his feet. “Arms up.”

And up they go, and off comes his shirt, and Pharaun slides the straps over his arms and fastens the little hooks at the back, and makes a pleased sound as he turns Vizaeth to face the mirror.

“See? Absolutely delicious.”

It’s a huge mirror, one that takes up most of the wall opposite the bed. Strip lights run around the edges, partially behind the glass, and whatever you’re wearing always looks incredible in it. Many times Vizaeth has slipped in here to see what his dusty dresser reflection has lied about, but now the usually magic mirror has turned on him.

Blood-red satin clings to hips which won’t ever shrink enough, no matter how little he eats. Black lace hangs limp and empty over a chest sliced flat by the most expensive surgeon Pharaun’s money could buy, yet by some foul illusion the scraps of fabric put back every lost curve. The scrawny mannequin staring at him is the most hideous thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and he wants to run screaming at the mirror and smash through the glass to choke the life out of it.

Behind him, Pharaun sets warm hands at his waist, soft lips at his shoulder. One hand slides down his stomach, and he presses his thighs together with a tight whimper, half a shake of the head, but Pharaun’s fingers are already there. He sucks a bruise—a bite—into Vizaeth’s throat and, with his usual accuracy, immediately finds his clit. The whimper becomes a moan.

“You’re even better than I imagined,” Pharaun whispers. “If I’d pictured this, I’d have been too hard to teach my classes. You’d have gotten me in so much trouble.”

He strokes his fingers up and down, moving lower with each pass. Heat gathers in Vizaeth’s core, and if he just ignores the mirror, he can let it consume him. He tilts his head back to look up at Pharaun, whose end-of-day-smeared eyeliner rings eyes bright with desire. A wild flush runs through him, that he can conjure such an effect with just his own existence. He widens his legs.

Pharaun’s clever fingers take full advantage. Vizaeth lets out a soft gasp as they push aside the already-damp fabric to find their way in, one and then two in a teasing exploration that has his thighs trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He can feel Pharaun’s hardness pressing into his ass—a pulse of want rolls through him, and Pharaun hums against his neck; his fingers are deep enough now to have felt it. His hand pulses steadily, a smooth slide that fills the room with its slick, repetitive sound.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs. “God, I want to taste you.”

Vizaeth’s whole body tenses.

“I know you don’t like it, but you look so good, you feel so good. Let me eat you, just for a minute.” Pharaun’s thumb slowly circles Vizaeth’s clit as he speaks. “Please, love?”

The only sound Vizaeth can make is an incoherent whine. Pharaun kisses his cheek. “I knew you’d say yes.”

In the space of moments he’s sprawled out on the bed, Pharaun at his feet. He curls his hands around Vizaeth’s ankles, runs them slowly from shin to thigh, spreading them wide, opening him like a void. Vizaeth shakes his head.

“Pharaun, please, I can’t, I—”

“Shh, you’re alright. Let me take care of you.” Pharaun kisses the inside of his knee, then an inch higher, then another and another. Desire and dread twine through him like silk-wrapped razor-wire, and it takes everything he has to keep his legs open. Hot breath brushes the very top of his thigh. He bites the inside of his lip so hard it hurts, flinching away.

“Relax,” Pharaun soothes, and Vizaeth forces his body to go limp against the sheets. “There’s my good boy.”

The warm, damp weight of a tongue drags a long, slow lick over already-soaked satin. Vizaeth grabs at his face, covering his eyes. Breathe. Will you just fucking breathe and enjoy yourself for once? Gentle fingers tug sodden fabric aside to allow that eager tongue the freedom of his flesh, and the sound of it—that awful lapping—sends him somewhere left of his skull.

His body, on the other hand, arches into the feeling. Pharaun licks at his clit, gentle at first, tracing the shape of him, searching for the places that make him gasp despite himself. He squirms, uncertain if he’s trying to get away or not, and Pharaun grasps his legs firmly in a way that turns him to an obedient puddle.

“Please,” he gasps out, meaning to say stop and instead crying wordlessly for more. Pharaun, always obliging, devours him. His tongue works over every inch, pressing in deep, relentless and ravenous, the hum of his enjoyment rolling through Vizaeth’s abdomen to vibrate his bones. A moan breaks from him, his skin tight, his stomach taut. The cliff’s edge races up and Pharaun sends him into the abyss with one last delicate flick of his tongue.

Vizaeth cries out and presses his hands hard over his eyes, sending swirls of colour through the dark behind his lids. His body’s gone foreign. Every twitch is an earthquake on the far side of the planet. He wills himself to stop spasming and, as usual, his anatomy doesn’t care what he wants. The bed shifts, Pharaun’s warmth moving away, and he peeks through his fingers, terrified to be alone with his treacherous flesh.

Pharaun’s still there, sitting up, smiling, lips glistening. He wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand.

“You taste exquisite.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He gnaws the inside of his lip as Pharaun undresses. Pharaun likes him like this. Pharaun thinks he’s hot like this; titless, cockless, wrapped in fancy lingerie that doesn’t fit the way it would on one of those perfectly unreal model girls. The way it would on Aliisza.

Pharaun soon returns to him, and he stretches out, arms above his head. His body tingles, electrified, the lingering buzz of orgasm sparking at Pharaun’s touch. He murmurs something against Vizaeth’s sternum, something like beautiful, maybe, and Vizaeth lets out a shaky sigh, the flickering beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Then teeth scrape his nipple through lace and he snaps back to himself. There’s nothing beautiful about the unfinished thing that lives in his skin and calls itself by his name. Pathetic little animal sounds rise and burst in the back of his throat and he grabs at Pharaun’s hair to pull him away, succeeding only in tangling his fingers in the thick, white strands. Pharaun playfully snaps one of the bra straps.

“I’m getting there, my dear, be patient.”

Pharaun shifts up properly between his legs and kisses him—Vizaeth tastes himself, and cringes. The kiss grows harder, hungrier, his own slick smeared across their lips; satin presses tight at the crease of his thigh, and he lets out a muffled cry at the burn of Pharaun’s cock hilting inside him.

Pharaun groans against his neck. “God, you feel incredible.” He takes one of Vizaeth’s hands and tugs it down to his chest, lace scratching his palm. “Touch yourself.”

With tentative fingers he circles his nipple like Pharaun circled his clit and Pharaun flushes, a wide and breathless grin lighting up his face. “Oh, you’re perfect. Simply perfect.”

Vizaeth’s nerves burn beneath his skin. If he peeled it off, he’d be an outline in red heat, not a boy but a web of white-hot desire. He’s enjoying this. He is—he wouldn’t be taking Pharaun’s cock so easily if he wasn’t. He gropes his chest faster to outrun the shivering distaste that chases the motion, both hands pressing lace into skin and scars alike. Pharaun fucks into him harder, matching his pace, driving him out of his mind and out of his body until at last he takes Vizaeth’s face in both hands, like it’s something precious, and captures his mouth in a sweet kiss as he comes with a deep moan. His hips jerk to a stop and Vizaeth…Vizaeth squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t think about all that wet between his legs.

He forgot the condom. Again. He always fucking forgets—Pharaun’s just so distracting. Fuck. It’ll be fine. It’s always fine.

Pharaun pulls out and Vizaeth rolls to his side, staring at the wall and seeing nothing. Arms wrap around him, pulling him tight against a firm chest. Pharaun nuzzles his neck.

“Don’t pout, you know I never leave you unsatisfied.”

He swallows a whimper as Pharaun’s hand fits back between his legs, pressing the satin over his clit again. It’s sodden, all of him drenched, and the sound it makes as Pharaun starts to stroke turns his stomach. But his body craves the touch, throbbing with the need for release, and he can’t keep from rocking into the motions. Pharaun’s fingers sneak once more beneath the fabric, and slip back into him with absolutely no resistance. He licks along Vizaeth’s jaw, nips at his ear, a satisfied smile in his voice.

“If I’d known you’d enjoy it so much, I’d have bought you something like this sooner.”

Vizaeth shakes his head frantically, gasping out denial. “I’m not enjoying it, I hate this, I...I…”

His words dissolve into a high-pitched keening sound as Pharaun rubs a slick finger over his bare clit, so swollen and sensitive it hurts.

“Pretty little liar. I could fit both hands inside you right now if I wanted. Would you like that? Having my hands inside you?”

They’d break him. Tear him. Rip him open from cunt to crown and make such a mess of Pharaun’s bed the stains would never come out.

“My wrist is getting tired, love. Come on.”

He speeds his motions, too hard and too fast, and Vizaeth lets out an ugly shriek of an orgasm and immediately wants to die. Pharaun withdraws his hand, and Vizaeth lays there and doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t move at all. His pulse throbs in his temples, putting pressure behind his eyes and a cold, hard lump in his chest.

Pharaun chuckles as he rises from the bed, trailing wet fingers along Vizaeth’s thigh. “Oh, you are thoroughly gone, aren’t you?”

Vizaeth doesn’t reply. He listens to feet pad across the room, then back. Silence. Click. His head snaps up. Pharaun’s looking at his phone, biting his lip. Before Vizaeth can protest, the camera clicks again.

“Stop it, I look disgusting.”

“You look like a wet dream.” Pharaun’s eyes flick to his crotch. He starts to press his thighs together; stops when he feels how cold and damp everything is. “A very wet dream. Go and get yourself cleaned up—I’m ordering Chinese food.”

Vizaeth sits up. “But you hate Chinese food.”

Pharaun grins. “I already ate.” Vizaeth’s face heats. “Go shower!”

He scrambles to his feet, still blushing madly, and trips over the pile of their discarded clothes. Pharaun catches him and kisses him, half-dipping him in the process. When they break apart, Vizaeth gazes up at Pharaun’s exertion-flushed face, the messy tangle of his hair falling over one shoulder, the lingering remains of the days make-up clinging to gorgeous eyes and the perfect curve of a smile, and all his insides melt.

“I love you.”

“I know you do.” Pharaun pecks his cheek. “Chicken chow mein?”

“Vegetable.”

“That’s what I meant.”

Vizaeth hurries off to the bathroom down the hall, full to bursting with Pharaun and the happiest he’s been all week. The feeling cuts off dead when the mirror over the sink flings a sticky, sweaty mess of a girl in his face. He slaps the light off and drops to the floor, face to his knees. Shit. Fuck! Why does his stupid body have to ruin everything nice Pharaun ever does for him?

Hands shaking, breathing hard through his nose, he peels the wet underwear off and flings it at the corner. Fumbling hands make long work of the bra, which finds a new home under the sink. He’ll clean them up later. They were probably expensive. If he doesn’t take care of them, he won’t be able to wear them again.

In the dark, he steps into the shower and loses himself beneath a scalding waterfall spray. Everything falls away, and by the time he’s dried and dressed and sane, the food’s arrived. He curls up next to Pharaun on the couch with his chicken chow mein—the restaurant fucked up, they won’t be ordering from there again—and they rip apart a dumb movie until he’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe.

Afterwards, he lays in Pharaun’s lap as the late summer sun finally sets, and wonders how in the hell he got so lucky.