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There’s a simmer underneath his skin, a red-hot, angry itch that doesn’t fade no matter how often he scratches to try and soothe it.
007n7 knows that this is just a phase of childhood, that his son will have his cranky days and his sleepless nights, and he will stay by his side regardless of how much he screams his throat raw and cries until his eyes are swollen and puffy, and beats his fists into 007n7’s thighs and sputters out I hate you and I wish I had a different dad.
It’s the stress, 007n7 knows. He’s tired and easily agitated, irritation settling deep inside of his bones, and 007n7’s insistence on the routine he has carefully crafted over the years isn’t helping with that. c00lkidd is different from all of the other Robloxians, as well; his biology is different, and his growth patterns are affected. His joints ache, and his teeth sit weird in his mouth, and he’s itchy and sweaty and everything is aggravating, and 007n7’s heart hurts at this sight of his baby suffering.
There’s not much he can do aside from hold him, wrap him in the heated blanket he’d bought, swaddle him late at night, comfort him through tantrums. Pain medicine doesn’t help him much, and when it does, he’s drowsy and his head is fuzzy and he sleeps, albeit fitfully.
It has 007n7’s nerves frayed. He hasn’t slept much himself, body too in-tune with the sound of shuffling, of c00lkidd’s soft whimpers from the next room over, and he’s afraid, afraid of sleeping and c00lkidd needing him, afraid of his son hurting himself trying to get some relief, afraid something, anything will happen. Anxiety lingers like a second skin, slotting itself between the folds in 007n7’s brain, and exhaustion twitches in his weary muscles, his body aching for more than a few hours rest every other night.
Coffee and his cheap energy drinks are enough to keep him going, until his chest starts to ache and his heart pounds a discordant symphony against his ribcage and he’s genuinely terrified he’s going to have a heart attack if he keeps going. He trades off with cold showers, freezing water searing at his overheated skin and leaving him shivering, shaking, and entirely too sensitive. His epidermis is stretched too tight over his muscle, and there’s a persistent throb in his stomach from forgetting to eat, and the pain in his chest crescendos once c00lkidd begins to whine again.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He’s not a good father, and he’s acutely aware of that fact. For all that he loves his son, he knows there could and will always be better. He doesn’t know how to take care of him the way he needs to be taken care of, and c00lkidd is only feeling worse and worse as the days go by, and he’s useless. The only thing he was ever good for is hacking and exploiting, and he’d left that all behind the second little paws had latched onto his shirt and soft coos slipped from the baby’s mouth ten years ago. He just needs it all to stop.
He’s so tired. He loves his son, he really does, and he is tired; tired of seeing him in pain, tired of forcing himself awake night after night when all he wants to do is curl in on himself, tired of feeling pathetic and wrong in his body, tired of the ever-present anxiety that presses into his ears, digs its ice-cold fingers into his skin, freezing his blood and his marrow, making him sluggish and weak and jittery.
(He needs these thoughts to go away.)
Noli has offered to come and babysit for him, citing your eyebags are darker than my skin and gods, do you ever go outside anymore, you’re as pale as a vampire, but 007n7 can’t stand to think of leaving c00lkidd with someone else while he’s struggling like this. Call it selfish of him, but even when c00lkidd scratches at him and bites his hand and looks at him with a vitriol no ten year old should hold in their eyes, and wails so loud his ears hurt and slams his fists into the drywall and stomps his feet against the floor, and curls up in his room and refuses to open the door for him, he doesn’t want to leave him alone, nor does he want to leave him with someone else.
After all, that’s his baby. His baby who was left on his front porch; his baby who he changed for, who he bettered himself for; his baby who he loves, who he raised, not to be an imitation of him, but to be better than him; that’s his baby, his big baby, his baby who will curl up on his lap and hold him tight and whisper soft apologies, hiccuping through his tears. 007n7 forgives him, every single time— how could he not?
He knows he doesn’t mean it. He’s just hurting, and he can’t stop hurting, and the pain grips his brain and drives him crazy. He can’t help it; he doesn’t mean it. 007n7 knows that, and it hurts deep inside of his chest knowing there’s no way of helping him. All he wants is for his little boy to feel better, to get decent rest, for the aches in his bones to subside and give him a moment to breathe. His baby doesn’t deserve this.
Which is why it’s such a relief when, after two hours of non-stop crying— the quiet type, c00lkidd curled into himself, claws digging into the skin of his shoulder that shake with the force of holding back his sobs— he finally nods off into sleep. Tear tracks still marr his face, and 007n7 thumbs them away gently, watching his little boy’s face scrunch up into his sleep, tracking the way his head tilts into the touch, as if starved for it. He’s deep in the dreamworld within minutes, and 007n7 catalogues every rise and fall of his chest before he covers him with his blanket, tucks his favorite stuffed animal between his arms.
He steps back, and breathes.
His skin still feels too tight, but the ache in his chest eases just a fraction as he watches his boy sleep, finally having tired himself out. He hopes, as he does every day, that tomorrow will be better, that sleeping it off will help and he’ll slip back into being 007n7’s rowdy child, running around and giggling wildly. His heart pangs as he realizes he doesn’t remember the last time c00lkidd giggled in the past couple of weeks, mood always sour.
007n7 is too wired to sleep, however. His body doesn’t like the thought of it, his brain too preoccupied sorting through the mess of worries that litter the space around, and there’s too much that could go wrong if he slept, too much that could happen— what if c00lkidd needs him, or what if he wakes up and he feels worse, or what if he has another nightmare, or what if, what if, what if?
As much as he knows c00lkidd will be fine, will wake him up or crawl into his bed, he’s still scared. He doesn’t want to sleep, he wants it to stop. All the fear that lingers, the itchiness under his skin, the constant tightness in his chest and the racing thoughts in his head— he needs it to stop. To go away. He wants so badly to just be brainless, to not have to deal with it all for five fucking seconds.
He needs—
He needs—
He doesn’t know. It won’t come to him. He needs to not think. He needs someone to take it from him, make him boneless and brainless, needs—
needs what?
He needs, he needs—
Elliot would know what to do. 007n7 is halfway out the door when he realizes that, and he would be embarrassed if he weren’t already crawling out of his skin, brain frazzled with the effects of stress and exhaustion. Elliot doesn’t live far away from him, right down the road, something he’d come to learn walking home from his shifts and striking up tentative conversation, wringing his hands together and hunching in on himself when Elliot hits him with a look— not a glare, not a smile; something unreadable that sinks deep inside his chest, carves itself into his memory.
His hands tremble on the banister as he pulls himself up the stairs of Elliot’s complex, knuckles blanched white against the metal, knees threatening to give up on him with every step he takes. The static in his head is overwhelming, building higher, higher, a swarm of bees that fill the gap between his brain and skull, and he needs, needs so badly it hurts, pulls underneath his nails and loops chains around his feet.
It takes great effort for him to even knock on Elliot’s door, his hands shaking violently as he does so, and the tv-static ambience is so loud it makes his ears ring. He hardly hears the jiggle of the lock, the creaking of the old door’s hinges as it swings open, but he does hear a curious, “Seven?” echo in his ears.
Elliot’s presence is grounding, and it makes his head spin with the sudden shift. He didn’t realize he had felt so untethered, weightless, about to float away; Elliot’s voice brings him back down to solid land, and an unfiltered sob slips from his lips. He knows he must look horrible, and the way Elliot’s eyes widen as he takes him in only confirms it. He can’t stop shaking; he must look like a tweaker with the way his muscles twitch involuntarily, the way he can’t stop trembling, the way his knees buckle where he stands— Elliot reaches out to hold him upright, brows furrowed.
“Jesus, Sev, what the hell?” Elliot curses— his hand is warm on 007n7’s skin, palm burning a brand into his bicep, fingerprints stamped into his bare skin. He helps 007n7 inside, confusion and concern etched into his expression; he kicks the door shut behind him, and then 007n7 is sinking to his knees, fists clenched atop his thighs, looking down at the ground.
It’s only then does the incessant pressure in his head begin to dull, easing out into something manageable, but still there. Still pressing, still present. Elliot inhales sharply, and the sound sticks in his ears, reverberates around. “Seven?” He murmurs, and 007n7 shakes, gripping the fabric of his pants. Elliot’s back is still against the door— he hasn’t moved since 007n7 had dropped, shell-shocked by his appearance, by the way his body had crumpled in on itself as he’d lost the will to keep himself up, as he’d given into the need to—
(to what?)
007n7 is not someone he expected to drop by, and it’s clear to see. They typically only see each other at work; Elliot is shirtless, only clad in a pair of plaid pyjama pants. As much as he and 007n7 have become increasingly close, he’s never invited 007n7 over, nor has 007n7 invited him over. It’s just how their relationship works; Elliot has seemingly never forgiven him for his misdeeds in the past, has never forgotten the smell of ash and burning wood that filled his nose as the pizzeria burned, has never forgotten the sadistic chuckle that had melded into a cackle as 007n7 watched the remnants of Elliot’s life crumble— 007n7 hadn’t born witness to Elliot’s own come-apart after that.
007n7 presses forward. His hair brushes against Elliot’s skin, leaving superheated trails in its wake as he rests his forehead against Elliot’s hipbone. The man above heaves a quiet exhale through his teeth, reaching down to gently comb a hand through the greasy brown locks. 007n7 aches, his mind a mess of confusing feelings, teetering on the edge of being overwhelming and yet blissfully blank, aside from the ever-present urge to ask Elliot for more, more, more. He should be embarrassed, should feel terrible for even showing up like this— Elliot could have been busy, could have been gone, and he just dropped by like the stupid, selfish, arrogant bastard that he is.
His breath hitches in the back of his throat, shoulders shaking. Fresh, hot embarrassment builds into tears, burning the corners of his eyes; he can’t stop the first strangled sob that slips from his mouth, shame mounting as he cries against Elliot’s skin, fists clenched so hard his claws dig into his palms, rivulets of red dotting on his pants. Elliot’s hand is still brushing gently through his hair, and the touch is a harsh juxtaposition to the cruel whispers in his ears, telling him he will never be worthy of something like this, that Elliot is just pitying him because of how pathetic he looks, on his knees like a dog, crying like a baby because, what? The stress?
As if he didn’t live his life leaving trails of devastation in his wake, uncaring for the people whose lives he tore apart, discarding their feelings like trash on the side of a road. He left fire and ash and utter hopelessness, and a bitter taste in the back of throats that never truly goes away. He left trepidation, fear, scorn and anger and hate in his wake, and he thinks he has a reason to whine?
Elliot scrubs a hand down his face, sighing quietly. 007n7 wheezes on an inhale, face scrunching up as he tries to fix his breathing, sounding dangerously close to panic, and Elliot—
Elliot doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He’s never been good at anything like this, too busy dealing with his own rage he keeps carefully locked behind his smile, teasing at the corners of his mouth, itching to be freed. Frustration swells deep in the pit of his chest, especially since 007n7 won’t listen, or can’t listen, too busy steadily working himself up. His hand in 007n7’s hair tightens subconsciously, and when he realizes, he curses again. “Shit, Sev, sorry,” he mutters, checking him for any discomfort— he’s already upset, and Elliot would rather not deal with a full-blown meltdown, but—
But 007n7 is quiet. His chest still rises and falls erratically, and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but he’s no longer crying; he’s staring up at Elliot, wavering where he sits, and the look in his eyes is unreadable. Elliot hums, low in the back of his throat. Tightens his grip in 007n7’s hair, just to test.
His lips part, a silent sigh slipping free. Elliot’s fingernails are digging ever so slightly into the skin of his scalp, scratching as he gathers more of 007n7’s hair into his fist, tugging gently. 007n7 feels calm. The bees in his brain have gone to sleep; the static is nonexistent. His mind is clear. The only thing he can focus on is the hand in his hair, the faint smell of coconut and shea butter lingering on Elliot’s skin; he presses closer, angles his head just a bit more, the tip of his nose brushing against Elliot’s hipbone.
(007n7 has— looked. Is looking. He has looked and he has wanted, and then he has stamped out the want because he does not deserve to want someone as selfless as Elliot. Elliot had given his all to his work, and 007n7 had stamped on it like it were a bug, laughed in his face, left.
The way Elliot looks at him, however, makes him wonder if maybe, maybe things could be different. 007n7 has changed, has retired the c00lgui, has stopped hacking and exploiting. Maybe, maybe, he can be worthy of Elliot’s touch, of his gaze.)
((And oh, does he not know that Elliot has thought, has looked, has dreamed and breathed the syllables of his name into the air of his bedroom, into the palm of his hand, has wondered just how it would feel if 007n7 put his weight upon him.))
It’s quiet, for a moment; aside from the soft, gentle exhales from Elliot and the deep, desperate inhales from 007n7, and the thrum of the air conditioning kicking on, the room is silent. Elliot’s voice slices through it like a blade through butter, and 007n7 can’t stop the shudder that wracks his body.
“What do you need, Seven?” He says, and his words reverberate in the corners of the room. 007n7 can’t think, can’t speak— he needs Elliot, but the words won’t come out; he lets out a strangled whine, and Elliot chuckles softly, bending down to loop his arms around 007n7’s back, pulling him upright. “C’mon, let’s get you comfortable. If you need to– y’know. Let’s go to the couch, okay?”
007n7 tries to nod; fails. His head feels too heavy, even as Elliot hums, not mean, not kind. Tugs at his limp body until he comes back to himself, moving his trembling legs until Elliot reaches his couch and pushes down on his shoulders until he’s kneeling. Elliot sits down in front of him, gently thumbing over the apples of his cheeks, and he leans into the touch gratefully, a soft whine falling from his mouth as he relishes in the casual touch.
Something seems to click for Elliot, then; his pupils dilate visibly, the corners of his mouth twitching up as he slips his hand down, until he’s cupping 007n7’s jaw. His thumb presses inward, just on the precipice of too rough, and 007n7 whimpers again, the sound broken and loud. It bounces off the walls and sits inside Elliot’s brain, rewiring his consciousness until he comes to the realization that he wants to hear that sound again and again and again.
007n7’s mind is finally quiet. There’s a lingering fuzz creeping at the corners of his consciousness, and he feels— light. The knot in his chest has loosened, and though he hasn’t forgotten why he was upset in the first place, he does feel much calmer, sitting at Elliot’s feet, jaw cupped in his palms. He reaches up just barely, settling his hands on Elliot’s calves; the breath that leaves his lungs is nothing but relief, the contact scorching, but this is what he needed.
The itch beneath his skin settles, an old dog finally laying down for a nap, and he can’t help the soft sigh that eases from his lips as Elliot’s grip on his face shifts. “I get it, I think,” Elliot murmurs, looking down at him. It isn’t cruel— the expression on his face is indiscernible, almost curious, almost hungry. It makes 007n7 shiver, the weight of his gaze heavy on his shoulders, curling through the fog that has settled down inside of his body.
He doesn’t break eye contact, though. Elliot’s eyes, deep and warm, are almost hypnotizing, magnetic in the way he feels as though he cannot tear his own away. A breath shudders out of him, and Elliot squeezes his jaw slowly, deliberately, lips quirking up into a smile as 007n7 keens.
Oh.
He’s enjoying this. The reactions 007n7 is giving him are spurring him on, and 007n7 wants. He wants to give Elliot everything that he can, wants to be good, wants to make Elliot feel good, wants to—
Oh.
That’s what he needs.
Elliot’s hand shifts; he tucks his thumb against the corner of 007n7’s mouth, head tilted to the side. He doesn’t prod, doesn’t ask, doesn’t command, but actions always speak louder than words do— 007n7 parts his lips, dips his head just a bit, feels the tip of Elliot’s thumb brush against his teeth before he shifts, taking the digit deeper, feeling the weight on his tongue. Saliva pools, warm and wet against Elliot’s thumb, and the man above him shivers in delight.
He wants more, more. His fingers tighten on the fabric of Elliot’s pants, and Elliot must know, he must, because he pulls his thumb out of the warm cavern of 007n7’s mouth and replaces it with his index and middle fingers. The slight tang of salt bursts onto his tongue, and 007n7 can’t help the moan that cracks and splinters out around the intrusion. It leaves a tingle that festers and spreads like a fire in his mouth. It’s everything and too much and not enough, all at the same time; 007n7 feels like a live wire, trembling under Elliot’s watchful eyes, under his hands, kneeling on the floor in front of him.
And, 007n7 is not a small man. He used to be, when he was eager and cocky and cold all the time, his cheekbones visible and his clothes hanging off of him, braces sitting awkwardly in his mouth, all knobby knees and gangly limbs. Fatherhood softened him, smoothed down all of his hard edges; his jawline is rounder, his cheeks more full, his hair curly and brushing against his shoulders, tucked back behind his ears. His stomach fills those stupid sweater-vests and his undershirt is tight around his biceps. He’s switched to pants that scream with tension as he sits down, pulling around thick thighs that squish together when he walks. Here, in front of Elliot, on his knees on the hardwood floor of his living room?
He’s never felt smaller. The thought is thrilling.
The fingers slide in further, wetting at 007n7’s tongue, and that old tingle bursts at the hyper-sensitive surface of his taste buds, warmth blooming and blooming. 007n7 whimpers, high and reedy in the back of his throat, and Elliot hums an appraising noise above him, shifting where he sits. And then he— he fucks into 007n7’s mouth, twisting his wrist just so, fingertips brushing against the sensitive roof of his mouth, and a flush rises in 007n7 like a fever, heated and unbearable and it’s too much, not enough.
He lifts a hand, gripping Elliot’s wrist loosely, feeling the jackrabbit of his pulse beneath his fingers. It’s relieving, like he’s just as affected by this as 007n7 is, like he feels it too— the collective weight of their glances, these touches that have branded themselves onto 007n7’s skin, like a burning man on a stake. Heat pulses inside of him, strumming at his veins, swirling through his guts, hot and acrid and full of want. It’s searing and scorching and it doesn’t quell, only swells in the pit of his stomach.
Drool spills in rivulets down Elliot’s hand, pools around his knuckles; Elliot chuckles softly, a head-spinning juxtaposition to the way he fucks his fingers deeper into 007n7’s mouth, his throat contracting around the intrusion. 007n7 sucks gently, just enough to rid Elliot’s hand of the excess saliva, and Elliot purrs above him, teeth flashing as he smiles, bright, proud, under the fluorescents.
“Look at you,” Elliot croons, voice raw, raspy around the edges, wonder soaking into his words, “all messy for me, huh?” He muses, more to himself than to 007n7, but it draws a reaction nonetheless, the slightest hint of desperation revealing itself through 007n7’s incessant squirming, how his face scrunches up with a sheen of pride, jaw slackening, his throat contracting as he swallows around Elliot’s fingers.
It’s gross. It’s obscene. It’s— erotic.
Elliot can feel himself growing harder in the confines of his pants as 007n7 writhes beneath him, pressing his thighs together, hips giving aborted little twitches as he searches for any kind of friction. He’d never pictured 007n7 to be this needy, to be beside himself just from a few fingers in his mouth. The glassy look in his eyes, the shine of saliva dripping down the corner of his mouth, the red-hot flush on his cheeks; he’s beautiful.
Elliot tells him as much, and watches as his face scrunches up again, a sob cut off by the harsh thrust of Elliot’s fingers inside of his mouth. He fucks into his mouth again, slower, a smooth drag and push back, and watches 007n7 shudder, satisfaction curling in his gut, heat blooming lower. “Taking it so good, aren’t you, Sev?”
(Is he a sadist? He might be a sadist.)
The reaction to his words is immediate; 007n7 cries, hand tightening around Elliot’s wrist, pulling his fingers out not unkindly, brushing a sticky, spit-slick kiss to the digits before he’s pawing at Elliot’s pants. “M— More. Please. I’ll be— I’ll be good for you. Please?” He’s looking up at Elliot, his lips red and swollen, tears beading at the corners of his eyes, and he’s messy, so messy, need stitched into every word he says.
How can Elliot deny him? He lifts his hips to help 007n7 slide off his pants, the fabric pooling at his ankles, hissing as cold air hits his skin. His erection bobs up, and he sucks in a breath as 007n7 leans forward, cranes his head to nose at his cock like some kind of worshipful dog, a flash of pink between parted lips and widened eyes. His breath puffs out against Elliot’s superheated skin, and though he just had his fingers in the older man’s mouth, it’s not enough to prepare him for the feeling of warmth, all-encompassing around the head of his cock, nor the sight of 007n7’s soft, red mouth circling him.
Fuck. Fuck. Elliot slips his hand through 007n7’s hair, not grabbing or pulling, just holding; 007n7 sinks down slowly, and molten fire spreads through Elliot’s veins as he does so. His thighs are trembling, 007n7’s big hands digging into the skin, and he lets his head fall back as 007n7 takes him halfway. The weight is heavy on his tongue, but he doesn’t mind, no, not when this is what he asked for, not when this is what he needs. Elliot is a bit bigger than average, his cock flushed and thick, and 007n7 opens his jaw wider to fit him deeper, drawing a whine from the man above him. The sound etches its notes into 007n7’s brain, catalogued with his favorite sounds. He wants to hear more.
“That’s— That’s good, Seven, you’re doing good. Don’t, don’t rush.” Elliot manages to get out through the onslaught of stimulation, and 007n7 hums around his cock, the vibration making his hips jerk up. 007n7 wails as Elliot’s cock drives forward, but he doesn’t sputter, nor does he make any effort to pull off of him. His throat flutters around the blunt head of Elliot’s cock, and it takes everything in Elliot to not thrust up again into that tight heat. “Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry,” Elliot babbles.
As gentle as he can, 007n7 shakes his head. His mouth is full of saliva, a slick, warm channel that molds around Elliot’s length so, so nicely. He sits there, laving his tongue over the sensitive underside of Elliot’s cock, swallowing around him; drool spills in a flood from the corners of his mouth, his nose brushing against the mass of curls framing the base of Elliot’s dick. The– admittedly, accidental– rough treatment has 007n7 clenching down around nothing, deliriously empty and yet deliciously full, his pussy drooling in the fabric of his briefs.
He holds him in his mouth, familiarizing himself with the feelings, the taste, the fuzz in his head that rises with the need to be good, good for Elliot, with Elliot’s hand in his hair, fingers twitching, with the heat that swells in his stomach, the stickiness of his briefs against his cunt, with the way every time he swallows, Elliot’s cock jerks, bitter precum spilling out and exploding on his tongue.
He wants to do this forever. He could sit here, be a hole for Elliot to rest himself inside of, and he would love it. Even if his jaw aches, even if his throat burns, even if he’s crying and choking, knees aching, lips chafed raw. He wants.
Elliot squirms above him, bottom lip clenched between his teeth, hard. His hand opens, closes around 007n7’s hair, and his thighs shake violently. 007n7 starts moving in earnest, tongue curling and licking, swallowing around him to get that contraction, and Elliot moans loudly, clamping his other hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds. 007n7 does it again, again, squeezes Elliot’s thighs— half to brace himself and half because he’s so turned on from this that he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. He’s doing good, he’s good and he’s making Elliot feel good, and it’s a feedback loop and nothing else exists except for the floating-yet-focused feeling he’s drowning in.
His head spins once Elliot decides to move, shallow little thrusts into 007n7’s mouth that meld into slow drags and fast pushes, the hand in his hair tightening almost painfully. Elliot’s so reactive, his body shaking with every push into 007n7’s throat, cock twitching every time 007n7 whines around his shaft, steadily dripping into 007n7’s mouth. “Seven, Sev, shit, shit, I’m gonna— gonna cum, holy shit,” Elliot grits out through clenched teeth, and 007n7 looks up at him, at his dishevelled hair and the sheen of sweat shining on his skin and the raw want on his face, wet flashes fluttering against his cheeks, pleading. I want it, I’ve been good, give it to me, he wants to say, but can’t.
The look in Elliot’s eyes, half-crazed and hungry, adoration twinging the edges, lets him know Elliot has read it in his face. He drives himself forward once, twice, crushes 007n7’s head to his pelvis and spills down his throat, voice cracking on a saccharine-sweet moan as he does so. 007n7 swallows around him; the bitter, slight-sweet taste of cum sticking to the roof of his mouth makes his head reel, and once Elliot is done, he pulls back just enough to lick him clean, still looking up at him from behind his lashes.
“Seven,” Elliot breathes out, his head lolling back against the couch. 007n7 lets his mouth fall open to show that he’d taken it all, he’d been good, and Elliot curses again, pupils blown black, hunger swallowing his iris. “You’re perfect, such a good boy for me.” Elliot murmurs, reaching down to stroke a thumb across the older man’s plump bottom lip. “C’mere, let me reward you, since you were so good.” He pats his lap, and the meaning is not lost on 007n7. “Ditch the pants before, though.”
Face flushing an even brighter red, 007n7 shuffles out of his pants and briefs, tugging at the hem of his shirt to cover himself. Elliot raises an eyebrow at the shyness, brushing his fingertips against 007n7’s fuzzy thighs, humming low in the back of his throat. “C’mere,” He orders again, tone dipping, and 007n7’s legs wobble as he lowers himself down, perching carefully on Elliot’s lap. The younger man is much smaller than him, and he’d hate to hurt him—
Not that it matters, since Elliot grips the curve of his hips and pulls him down, forcing his weight down atop his thighs. “Thought about this so much, Sev, you don’t even know.” He purrs, fingers flexing on the flesh of 007n7’s waist. He kneads into his hips gently, until 007n7 relaxes where he sits, legs twitching as they fall to either side, exposing a mound of glistening curls and the head of a pearly-pink clit poking through. Slick smears across Elliot’s bare skin as the man shifts in his lap, and the sight of the wetness against his skin makes his cock twitch with renewed interest.
He brings his hands down, around where 007n7 wants him, thumbing at the crease of his thighs and down, mapping out every inch of skin he possibly can. He wants to remember, wants 007n7 to remember the feeling of his hands on him. “You’re so good, so pretty here in my lap,” Elliot murmurs, and the sound that leaves 007n7’s mouth is nothing short of strangled relief, of unfiltered need, cracking at the edges, hips twitching involuntarily with every word of adoration that Elliot breathes out.
The praise is raw, unfettered; it leaves his face burning and his head spinning, and every neuron in his body titters with the need to be good, so those words will stick deeper, so 007n7 can run his tongue over the memories sticking to the roof of his mouth in the cover of his own home.
“Elliot, please,” 007n7 pleads, body trembling in Elliot’s lap, hands scrabbling for balance where they rest on his shoulders. He wants Elliot to touch him more, wants him to stop teasing, but the glimmer in Elliot’s eyes tells him he might not get that just yet. He whimpers, his chest hitching on a sob, his hole clenching around nothing. “I wanna— wanna be good, want you to touch me, please, Elliot, please, I’ll be— be good for you.” He sobs out, hips jerking against Elliot’s thigh.
Elliot just chuckles and pulls 007n7 closer, nosing at his neck before leaving soft, gentle kisses against the sweat-slick skin. His chest rumbles with the sound; 007n7 tilts his neck to the side, still grinding his hips in tight, little desperate circles, the need for release mounting with every graze of Elliot’s teeth on his skin.
He doesn’t expect the first bite, nor does he expect it to be so— vicious. Elliot’s teeth sink into his skin smoothly, a burst of pain following that has 007n7 keening loudly, voice bouncing off of the corners of the room. Elliot works his jaw deeper, presses his thumbs into 007n7’s thighs, and his pussy is steadily leaking as he whines and cries and pulls the younger man closer. It feels— feels like Elliot is marking him, claiming him, possessive and painful and so, so good.
He takes it gratefully, drinks in the way heat burns between them, the way he will likely be bruised in the morning, the way he knows; he’s greedy, after all. Give him an inch, and he’ll want a mile. Give him affection, praise, attention, and he will linger in the shadows like a stray dog showing his belly to the one person who’d been kind enough to feed him scraps. He wants with Elliot, has wanted everything with him for a long, long time now, and the way Elliot digs his teeth in deeper, draws blood that he laps up languidly, the scratchy glide of his tongue across 007n7’s bruised flesh, has him thinking, wondering, hoping—
Maybe Elliot feels the same, too.
The thought has heat pulsing between his legs. His cunt aches with the need to be filled, and 007n7 is properly sobbing now, frustrated tears slipping over his cheeks, clit throbbing as Elliot smooths his hands up and down the insides of his thighs, want consuming him. Elliot murmurs something he doesn’t quite hear over his own hitching, reedy noises, and then, and then— his fingers brush, featherlight and teasing and barely-there, around the head of his clit.
It sparks against flesh, lights a fire underneath his skin, sweet, shattered little nothings spilling out of his mouth without meaning to. Elliot grins sharply; he can feel it against his neck, and then two fingers are closing around his clit, circling firmly. He can’t help the way he jerks, the way his body locks up in response to the electric stimulation, the way he digs his nails into Elliot’s back, rolling his hips up into the touch.
It’s everything, all-encompassing, the way Elliot is just on the side of too rough as he rolls his clit between his fingers, slow, filthy strokes that have him trembling, muscles burning as he grinds forward into the touch, his cunt pulsing, slick trickling from his hole.
Elliot pulls him back to crash his mouth to his, hot and demanding, unspoken hunger igniting between the push of their lips in an instant. The kiss is all teeth and desperation, his tongue sweeping against 007n7’s lips, tasting him, claiming him as his own. 007n7 sobs into the kiss, and Elliot still rubs those deep, lazy, maddening circles around him. “So wet,” the younger man murmurs against his mouth, “all for me?” His voice is warm, low, the timbre vibrating in his chest, and 007n7’s chest hitches, shoulders shaking as he nods jerkily in response.
“Yes— yes, yes, for you, only you.” He says, and the croon that follows is deep and broken, splits apart deliciously in the air, Elliot’s fingers dipping further to trace the sloppy folds of his labia, feeling the heat of his arousal, flushed a pretty pink and soaked, slippery and wet. Ropes of slick cover his fingers, and he resists the urge to pull away for a taste. He’s teased 007n7 long enough; the first dip of his fingertips inside of 007n7’s aching hole has the older man whimpering, rolling his hips down into Elliot’s hand, frantic and needy. He wants to be filled.
Elliot takes pity on him, cooing softly as he presses up, breaches the thin ring of muscle. 007n7 sucks in a breath at the intrusion, hips rocking down onto Elliot’s fingers, slick spilling over his knuckles, glinting under the overhead light. It’s good, so good, and he clenches down on the digits, his cunt hungrily swallowing every inch that Elliot will give him. He fills him up slowly; two is a stretch, but 007n7’s greedy hole takes it despite the brief burn of pain, and with the way 007n7 gasps and heaves and grinds down, he can tell there isn’t much complaint.
Elliot rests his fingers fully inside, thumb stroking gently over the slick, swollen bud of his clit, listening to the way 007n7’s voice cracks on a whimper as he shifts, petting over the soft inner walls of his cunt lazily. 007n7 loosens over his ministrations, and he grins, peppering kisses against the side of his neck before he pulls his fingers out, slow and steady, thrusting them back inside at the same pace.
He keeps it up for a few moments, until 007n7 is fisting at his hair, shoulders shaking with restraint. “Please, Elliot, please— please, harder, I need– need more,” He begs, glancing between them. He knows he’s a big guy, but his pussy is small between his legs even if it’s chubbed up from his arousal, and in comparison, cast in startling contrast, Elliot’s hands are big. He finds himself entranced by the sight; the slow, languid strokes inside of him, Elliot’s knuckles locking and unlocking, his thumb pressing into his clit, fingers shiny with slick.
His hips grind down uselessly onto Elliot’s hand, just as soon as Elliot speeds up, wrist flexing as he pushes up, up, as if he’s searching for something. “You feel so good, sweetheart, pussy’s like fucking silk, you’re so soft. Already know you’re gonna feel so good on my cock when I fuck you. Gonna keep you sat on my cock until you’re crying for it, keep you as my good little cocksleeve.” Elliot murmurs, low and rough, groaning deep in his throat. The stretch sets his pleasure beneath a needlepoint, and he’s wet and messy, and the sounds— he’s never going to forget them.
His pussy squelching with every push of Elliot’s fingers inside of him, Elliot’s harsh breathing ghosting across his neck, the static that fills his ears with each of his loud, echoing moans, the litany of pleasepleaseplease filling the air. Elliot curls his fingers up, inquisitive, and—
Stars burst behind his eyelids, breathy strangled noises catching high in his throat as Elliot rubs that spot incessantly, bringing him closer and closer to orgasm. “El– Elliot, Elliot,” he manages to get out, eyes pleading; the only thing on loop in his head is the other man’s name, the sensations he is being gifted, the overwhelming presence of Elliot underneath him, inside of him, his fingers spearing him open.
So much sensation, so much, almost too much. He’s always been sensitive, but Elliot is pressing each and every one of his buttons skillfully, and he’s only driven closer and closer to the edge. He can’t help but writhe, grinding his hips helplessly into the pleasure, erratic in the search for salvation, tears streaming down his face. Elliot leans up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, gentle in contrast to the way he slams his fingers up inside of him, pounding his g-spot relentlessly.
“Oh– oh, fuck, Elliot,” He whines out, pitchy and loud, crumbling in Elliot’s hold. He sobs breathlessly, even as Elliot cranes his head to kiss him, swallowing up every needy sound greedily. He shifts his hand again, angling so he can rub circles into that spot while he thumbs at his clit, drinking in the flush on 007n7’s face, the way his body trembles and hitches into each touch desperately, noises falling from his mouth like a waterfall, sounding like absolute heaven to Elliot’s ears. It only spurs him further, the want to watch 007n7 fall apart on his fingers eclipsing every other thought that fills his head.
A familiar, caustic heat builds inside of him. He’s just on that precipice, slick gushing from his cunt, the feeling of Elliot’s fingers pistoning inside of him making pleasure sink its filthy claws deep into his muscle. He wants more, more. Wants Elliot to fuck him through his orgasm and then some, wants it to hurt. Pressure shoots through his abdomen, eyes squeezed shut even as tears roll; he’s slipping, whining incoherently, further into the delirium that fogs his mind so deliciously. He doesn’t want this to end. It can’t. He thinks he’ll die. He needs Elliot to ruin him, ruin everyone else for him, to make him dream of this, three fingers stuffed deep in his cunt when he’s alone at night, wishing for it, aching for it.
He needs it, more than he’s ever needed anything, oxygen, food, and it is lava-hot and spreading deep underneath his skin. The pressure in his stomach builds and builds, cresting in a crescendo that has his muscles clenching and his head thrown back, a strangled sound not unlike an aborted sob echoing off the walls, trembling in anticipation. “Elliot, ‘m close, gonna— gonna cum, please.” His voice breaks, pussy spasming around Elliot’s fingers, legs quivering as he chases the high.
Elliot hums quietly, kisses along his cheek, his jaw, circles around his clit. The stimulation is maddening. “Be good and cum for me then, Sev,” he says, his fingers continuing to push insistently into his sweet spot, and as he does Elliot’s orders, he obeys. 007n7’s body locks up as he clenches down hard, cumming harder than he has in a long time— his slick soaking past Elliot’s fingers and spraying out around his hand, his wrist, gushing down his forearm, high-pitched whines and moans filling the room. His head spins with the force of his orgasm, hips jerking into Elliot’s fingers and away, like he can’t decide if he wants Elliot to stop or to keep going.
All he knows is that his clit is throbbing and Elliot is whispering, good, good boy, Sev, you took my fingers so well, came so hard, did so good for me, sweetheart, in between gentle brushes of his lips against 007n7’s skin, reveling in the way his body shakes as he fucks him through his orgasm.
007n7 blinks back to himself after a moment, lashes sticky with tears and inhaling deeply, frenzied. Elliot’s fingers are still languidly pushing up inside of him, just on the edge of too much, and he scrambles to grasp Elliot’s wrist, pleasure-pain melding together deep inside of him. His knuckles brush against Elliot’s erection, hard and flushed, and he swallows; want courses through him, and he watches as Elliot smirks, tugs him down for a kiss, open-mouthed and filthy, kissing over to his jaw, breath washing out hot against his skin.
“Maybe next time,” Elliot whispers, threatens, promises in his ear, fingers still languidly pushing up inside of him, fucking him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, overstimulating his sensitive pussy even as he whines and sobs and jerks, “if you’re good enough, you can cum on my cock.”