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The early morning light through your ratty blinds wakes you from a dreamless, heavy sort of sleep. The alarm clock says it’s 5:43am and your whole room is illuminated already by the early summer sun. You attempt to suffocate yourself with the pillow for a brief moment before you remember that, actually, it’s your day off—a cherished, blessed day of relief that you’ve been desperate for all week.
Better yet, he stayed the night last night.
Even better yet, he’s still here in your bed. Sans just about everything.
Summer in Revachol is a fight, in the same way that winter is. Nothing here is built to deal with any sort of real weather, and the rooms that ice over in the cold become stifling and dense in the long summer days, despite the draughty windows and crumbling facades. At some point in the night, Kim has kicked the sheets clean off, and now snoozes peacefully on his stomach, hands clutching the pillow and arse just out, a beautiful soft curving mound against the ruffling covers.
You don’t get many chances to just admire your partner. His usual demeanour is a masterclass in cover-up, obfuscation, and even when you do spot something, he doesn’t let you linger there for very long. He’s not a self conscious man, doesn’t have a single body hang up, but he rarely makes a show of himself, even to you. You worship the ground he walks on, but he is for all intents and purposes unaffected.
He’s a fucking tease, is what he is.
His breathing is the even tone of sleep, so you indulge yourself a little longer. Every part of him is a delight, but you find yourself coming back to his arse. It’s impossible not to, really. It’s the only part of him that has any meat to it, ectomorph that he is, and you really enjoy that for some reason. You left your mark there, some 3 weeks ago—just bit him right on the cheek with raw abandon in a lusty haze, and he’d made the most wonderful noise. He couldn’t sit comfortably for a week, careful behind his desk and behind the Kineema levers. He’d loved it (he denies this to your face, but you know, you just know that he did).
It’s faded now, but you run your fingers over the skin where your teeth once left indents, and then grasp it gently with your whole palm, a soft and loving knead. Kim mumbles into the pillow in his sleep, and you catalogue the goosebumps under your callouses, a smooth caress to his thighs and then up over the hillock of his buttocks to his lower back, pulling yourself closer to him so as to plant one whiskery kiss to his bare shoulder.
He’s awake now, sleep-weary and bemused by your behaviour. He smiles at you, still half obscured by the fabric of the pillowcase, and hums gently as you lean in to kiss his temple.
“Good morning…,”
“Morning, gorgeous,” He scrunches his face up at the epithet and huffs a low note. He is gorgeous, and you don’t feel cowed by his admonitions whenever you babble an appellation at him. You kiss a line down from his shoulders, kiss each rib poking through the muscle and settle at his hip, hands still massaging at his backside, fingers flexing closer to the dip inbetween. He twists his arm and pets you, like an obedient dog, and it’s your favourite thing.
You press on, fingers swiping lower and gently pressing into the folds between his gently spreading legs—his sigh is almost imperceptible, both arms coming up underneath the pillow, face buried. He’s still slick from the night before, when you’d rubbed him silently to completion, as still as possible in the stifling heat and the dark. He slept better after such things, and you’d do anything for him.
He starts to angle his hips and pitch upwards as you gently piston two fingers into him, breathing heavily into his hip, your own moving without thought against the mattress as he gasps. The sound of him, the liquid rhythm of your sticky fingers sliding in and out is driving you slightly mad. You kiss the crease where buttock meets leg and he speaks your name into the quiet morning.
There’s a grumble in his throat when you pull out, but it’s soon forgotten as he realises what you’re doing—pulling his hips up, you manoeuvre yourself underneath, on your back, and then pull him down onto your waiting mouth, wrist twisted so as to enter him once more. You suckle at the burgeoning nub of his cock and roll your fingers inside him until he speaks your name once more, only this time strained and guttural.
He’s restraining himself, propped slightly on his forearms, head bent to watch you underneath him—you’ve got your free arm at his waist, holding him up, so he can spread his legs as wide as he wants without risk of spilling over. He cants his hips, undulates against your willing lips, back and forth against your fingers and tongue and buries his moan into the pillow.
It’s no small point of pride that you can get him off with remarkable precision and pace like this. If you maintained a notebook, as he does, your back pages would be filled with tally marks—how many times you made him come in one session. Your rolling total is 5, spread over an afternoon, and you could have managed more but Kim started to wise up and found it far more entertaining to deny you for the rest of the evening. Killjoy. Absolute bastard. Perfect, perfect man.
He’s close now, you can feel the beginning pulses of it under your tongue, and so you suck with greater fervour, twist your fingers and increase the speed of your hand until the muscles in your wrist scream. Kim is also screaming, or at least, what passes for screaming with him—you hold him tight to you as his hips buckle and jerk and he sobs your name into a fist.
You feel his hand paw awkwardly at your hair as he comes down, signalling the end of his orgasm, so you remove your fingers and lick a stripe up from where they once were to the base of his hardness. He gasps and laughs above you, unable to keep his hips from jumping. You keep a hand at the small of his back as you move, preventing him from turning over as you lower down onto him, hardness against his cheeks, back to kissing and laving his shoulders, neck, the base of his shave. He hums appreciatively at the weight of you, arms back under the pillow. You piston your hips once.
“Can I fuck you,” You rasp. “Yes,” he answers, and so you push into him again and moan against his skin.
Knelt over him, you can hold him at the waist like this and have both hands touch. It makes you giddy, how much bigger you are; the roughness of your hands against the tan of his skin, both scuffed and peppered with a litany of occupational hazards; the rise of your belly as you shift your hips into his and smack. The way what little weight he carries moves as you do, rippled by increasing rhythm. He warbles a little noise— a huh huh huh. You grunt it back and between you cobble together an indecent little symphony of skin and bed springs and moans. As you climb the peak, he shifts onto his shoulders and fits a hand underneath, circling back and forth where you once had your tongue.
It’s divine, the way his body clenches around you; you wail a little and stutter up against him, pulling him tight to you as you shudder and empty. You don’t have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You collapse to the side of him once you’re through, panting and sweaty—he runs a hand across your chest and pushes up against your side, hips still gently rotating, toes curling and uncurling into the sheets, the way his body always does afterwards. You finish like a ton of bricks but he floats down, everything still rolling through him, stretching and curling like a satisfied cat. He’d probably bite you if you attempted to rub behind his ears though. That’s rather more the sort of thing you’re into.
It’s exactly what he gives you, propped over you, fingers tugging through your beard as you rumble appreciatively—he kisses you, chastely, once then twice, then deeper, and you pull him against your chest, delighting in the tackiness of skin on skin, clammy even at this hour. In another, the two of you will be shackled to the vortex of your singular pitiful fan, still whirring away on the dresser. He pushes his whole body on top of you, smiling as one of your huge paws holds him at his backside, pressed nose to nose and silly in a way only two 40+ year old men in love can manage.
“Mmmm, still gorgeous,” He admonishes you by slapping you on the tit, and you laugh, pull him down once more to nip and tongue at his lips. It’s a mantra in your mind instead: gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.
He’s forgotten it’s Sunday. Telling him is the greatest joy you’ve had all week. You tumble him into the mattress and kiss every part of him, and he laughs at you, pulls you through your grotty apartment and into a shower. You build a little domestic oasis with him in the space between the disabling heat, pathetic in your earnest and eager smiles, greedy in your touches and foolish in your words.
He still waits for the evening to have his single smoke. You don’t have a balcony, so he leans out of your living room window, naked and peaceful in the twilight. His weight is all on one leg, his other heel-up and loose—he knows, he must know, how pleasing an image he is, how fantastic that arse is in such a stance. From your sprawled position on the sofa you say thank you around your own cigarette—you’re so far gone, thanking him profusely for his ass. He gives you the smile rich with affection, shakes his hips imperceptibly, eyes creasing even deeper when you choke on your smoke and laugh. He plays along with you. He allows himself this, allows himself you. You are an indulgence for a man who built his entire personality around control and composure. He lets you pull it all away, smiles wide and genuine with you, laughs in a way no one else has ever heard from him.
Before, you would have doubted it. But it’s been like this for long enough to know that it’s yours. You are no longer giving with both hands to someone who wants none of it. He receives and gives in return.
You are impossibly happy. From the window of your apartment you can see all the way out to harbour in the far distance, dotted with cargo boats’ blinking lights. You turn out your own and tumble back into bed with him.