omnia vincit amor (et nos cedamus amori)

by risingsuns (ploombeo)

Summary:

Sand walks into Ray’s apartment, destroys him like a Lego house hit by a wrecking ball, and assembles him back like it’s his passion project; then he walks out. He inhabits a pocket of Ray’s life that it’s easy to zip open and back closed. Sometimes the zipper threatens to burst open, but that’s a thought for another time.

Notes:

hello! welcome to another round of the “let’s see how many sanray dynamics i manage to write before the series airs” game :D (the answer is yes). this one is the soft sad horny vibe i believe??
this story is the product of about two months of me losing my mind and making it everyone’s problem (in particular roo and gwee - thanks for not yeeting me into outer space whenever i pestered you about the ~cat fic~ <3). here’s the post that kickstarted my insanity, in case you’re interested :)
please mind the tags. enjoy!

Chapter 1: omnia vincit amor

 

“Omnia vincit amor: et nos cedamus amori.”
Love conquers all; let us, too, yield to love!

— Vergil, Eclogues X.69

 

1.

The first time it happens Ray doesn’t think too much of it. The guy–Sand; Ray doesn’t know much about him other than his name, which is more than enough and he made sure to scream it plenty–is pulling his jeans up when the door they’d left ajar in their haste to get freaky creaks open and the kitty paws in. She never comes out when Ray has people over, the little distrustful beast. Ray wonders if he was being too loud and she came to check that he wasn’t being murdered.

Ray is too fucked out to actually do anything about it, and he’s still thinking of what to say in case his guest doesn’t like cats or is allergic, when he sees him bend down and extend an arm.

There’s a somewhat tense moment where the kitty’s tail shoots up, the tip of it curving into a hook, and she does the little sideways jump-y thing she usually does when she’s about to bolt away; but then she seems to change her mind. Very slowly she approaches Sand, until she’s close enough to sniff his hand. Huh. Not the hand that was in Ray’s ass until approximately fifteen minutes ago, thankfully.

Ray props himself on his elbows to have a better view and what he sees damn near shocks him–she’s bumping her head against Sand’s hand. The same antisocial furry beast who’s scratched him more than once and constantly bullies him into refilling her bowl is now asking a stranger to be petted. Unbelievable.

Sand chuckles as he pats her head. It’s a nice sound, if a bit raspy.

“What’s your name, furball?”

“She doesn’t have one yet,” Ray confesses, and Sand shoots him a very judgy look over his shoulder. He resumes petting the kitty with renewed verve, as if to make up for her owner’s negligence.

Ray sees Sand to the door, watching on as he ties the shoelaces of his battered Converse, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his old suede jacket.

He has a thick cock and clean nails and he smells nice and he brought his own condoms. Ray was already considering not blocking him on Grindr as soon as he’s out of the door, like he normally does with his one night stands–good good dick is so hard to come by.

Sand stands to his full height and he turns around, tilting his head to the side as he calls somewhere behind Ray, “Bye, kitty.”

His lips are curled prettily when he meets Ray’s eyes again. He looks insanely kissable.

“Hey, is it okay if I text you again?” Ray blurts out.

Sand blinks a few times before his expression settles into something Ray doesn’t have a frame of reference to interpret. Yet.

“Er, sure. I’ll see you later, then.”

 

2.

A sudden polite tap on Ray’s shoulder makes him jolt; he manages to catch himself onto the edge of the desk just in time not to fall backwards like an idiot, ergonomic chair and all.

“Boss,” Paul says in his colorless tone, his expression blank behind his huge, hexagonal glasses. Ray pushes a hand to his chest and tries to regulate his breathing. Jesus Christ. Out of all the ways he thought he would eventually leave the mortal plane, a heart attack in the office was not on his list.

“What is it?” he wheezes.

“We’re still waiting on that report on possible competitors that you said you would write–what is that?”

Paul leans into Ray’s space–still at a respectable distance, God bless GenZ’s distaste for physical proximity–and Ray nearly squeaks, scrambling to turn his iPad face down on the desk.

“I’ll have it ready by three!” Ray says–maybe yells a little–and Paul steps back, cocking an eyebrow at Ray as he walks out of the room.

Ray waits a minute more to make sure no one else is coming in, then he flips the iPad over and opens the app again. After a few seconds of loading, a black and white view of his living room forms on the screen. The kitty is still running around with her toy clutched between her teeth, stopping to lunge at it whenever it falls from her mouth.

Ray sighs, pressing a finger on her silly, slightly pixelated head. Ray might have separation anxiety–his staff joke about it all the time, and Ray appreciates it because it’s all in good faith and it lightens the atmosphere, but it’s true that he misses her.

This is his first week back at the office after he spent the previous two working from home so that he could make sure the kitty was adjusting. She’s–home. She’s healthy and she’s roaming around the house and she’s already monopolized most of Ray’s belongings, and Ray can’t wait to be back home tonight to smother her with kisses and to dodge her unforgiving claws.

…but his duties first.

 

3.

The second time Sand comes over, the kitty jumps and runs to hide when the doorbell rings, but she crawls out from under the couch and towards Sand while he’s crouching to take his shoes off in the hallway.

“Hello, furball. Has your dad given you a name yet?”

Ray gives him a sheepish smile, and Sand lets out an exaggerated sigh. He lifts Ray from the floor and carries him to the bedroom, dropping him on the bed like an Amazon package. By the time Sand presses his mostly naked body against Ray’s on the mattress, Ray is fully hard and leaking.

Sand ruts against Ray and sucks on his tongue with an admirable amount of coordination for how hard they both are. Sand’s mouth tastes like cigarettes and something that might be vodka.

“Do you mind? I was out when you texted me,” Sand frowns apologetically when Ray points it out. Well, that explains the cologne and the leather jacket.

Ray doesn’t really mind. He had Korean for dinner, his breath can’t be that much better; although he did spend an extra minute rinsing his mouth with mouthwash, garlic always finds a way to linger.

“Oh? You should have told me you were busy,” Ray says as he bares his neck to give Sand more access. He’s a biter, Ray has decided based on the way Sand’s teeth graze the tender skin of his collarbones, stilling when they meet the metal of Ray’s necklace. He’s just restraining himself, for some reason.

Sand leans back a little and shakes his head, his hair falling into his dark eyes, “This is better.”

He doesn’t offer any further explanation, but then again, there’s not much talking after that. Only a lot of cursing and moaning, mostly on Ray’s part.

Afterwards, Ray stretches lazily on the bed, still covered in come and his body sore in all the best ways. Sand is catching his breath beside him, the rise and fall of his sweaty chest a mesmerizing sight in Ray’s post-orgasmic daze.

“Was your date that bad?”

Sand turns his head slowly and blinks at Ray. “Not a date. Just a few drinks after work.”

Ray makes a skeptical sound, turning fully onto his side to show Sand his patented shit-eating grin. “Really? Who goes out after work looking that hot on a weekday? What kind of job is that and where do I apply?”

Sand scoffs, but he doesn’t look annoyed, just amused. “Clearly I didn’t fuck you hard enough if you still have so much to say.”

“Nah, it was good. But you should know that I can take more, for future reference.”

“Noted,” Sand smiles, his features softened by the glow of the bedside lamp. Ray is about to ask for a kiss, it’s too pretty of a smile not to trace it with his lips. But then Sand sits up with a little oof and he goes to retrieve his clothes.

Later that night, the kitty climbs onto the bed and curls into a ball next to Ray. The mattress springs squeaking in the silence startle him awake and it takes a moment for his heart to stop racing, but it’s such an adorable sight that he can’t find it in himself to be mad. He moves closer so that the soft fur tickles his arm. The faint smell of cologne and the kitty’s soft breathing lull him to sleep.

 

4.

Ray’s had a shitty day. He slept in so he arrived late at work, which isn’t that big of a deal normally since he’s the boss and all, but it cut into his prepping time so he had to half-wing his meeting. His favorite restaurant, perfect because it’s exactly in the middle between his apartment and his office, is temporarily closed for renovations, so he had to get something from the next place over for lunch–never again, the chicken was drier than his assistant’s sense of humor–and then, of course, there’s the neverending missed calls; which he might be missing on purpose, but that’s beside the point.

He face-planted on the couch as soon as he got home, but he could barely enjoy a few seconds of peace before the demon came barrelling from her hiding spot, meowing like a madman–madcat?–for food. Ray filled her water and food bowls, buried his face into her fur for a hit of kitty-induced serotonin, and went to take a hot shower.

Now he’s lying on his bed, still damp and with two fingers in his ass and his other hand around his cock, but somehow he still feels… empty. Like there’s an itch he can’t scratch no matter how hard he tries. He kicks at the bedsheets in frustration, wiping his hands impatiently on the blanket. He’s considering calling it a night and going to bed at a decent hour for once, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Sand walks into the apartment wearing loose sweatpants and a tank top, his skin chilly from the night breeze under Ray’s fingertips. He warms up easily as they kiss, though.

“You don’t need to–I already prepped, you can just put it in,” Ray exhales as Sand nudges his legs apart, one thumb tracing Ray’s rim.

Sand furrows his brows, but he reaches for the condoms nonetheless. “Don’t do it next time. I want to decide how much I stretch you before I give you my cock.”

Had it been anyone else, Ray would have defended his holy right to jerk off however the fuck he wants and most likely kicked them out of his house. But there’s something in Sand’s eyes, a dangerous fire that makes Ray want to reach out and touch the flame barehanded. He gasps as Sand slides in, reveling in the way Sand’s dick fills him just right.

He tries to grind back on Sand’s dick, but Sand pushes him down against the mattress with one hand on his lower abdomen, the other catching Ray’s wrists to pin them above his head. “Stay down. I got you.”

Ray does as he’s told, surprisingly, and Sand kisses him in what’s probably meant to be a reward. Then he does the teeth thing again, the scraping, this time along Ray’s jawline.

“You can bite,” Ray says–moans–as Sand’s dick rubs deliciously inside him. Sand picks up the pace, his hips snapping hard enough to almost lift Ray off the bed. He mouths at Ray’s neck, at the hollow between his collarbones where the pendant of his necklace rests, then lower. When he reaches Ray’s nipple, he finally closes his mouth around the areola and digs his teeth in.

The unexpected pain zaps through Ray’s body, mixing with the pleasure, and Ray cries out as Sand laps at the tender bruised skin, as if to soothe it. He comes like that, with Sand’s fingertips digging into his wrists, with Sand’s hand on his navel scorching hot like a brand, with Sand’s cock fucking him open, with Sand’s mouth sucking on the swollen mound of his tit.

He only realizes Sand has pulled out because he feels uncomfortably empty again all of a sudden, and he blinks his eyes open to see Sand tugging at his dick harshly until he spills in the condom. Ray thinks Sand should have stayed inside; he probably didn’t out of consideration for Ray’s oversensitivity, which Ray knows is nice on a rational level, but it doesn’t sit too well with his aftersex monkey brain.

“Good,” Sand presses a kiss to Ray’s lips. Ray tilts his head for more, but Sand rolls off the bed and searches for his pants. He ties the frayed strings haphazardly. The pants hang low around his bony hips.

“You good there?” Sand waits for Ray’s nod before he leaves the room.

Ray lingers for a moment longer on the bed, wondering why he’s feeling… miffed that Sand walked out on him like that. He hastily wipes the come off his belly and pads to the living room.

Sand is kneeling near the couch, feeding the kitty what looks like treats. When Ray comes into his field of vision, he grimaces. “Should you be standing with your dick out like that in front of her?” He covers the kitty’s eyes with his hand in an overly scandalized gesture and she nuzzles his big palm.

“She has a name now,” Ray says. His voice comes out rough; kind of like it does when he doesn’t speak for a long time–except in this case he just spent the last half hour screaming for his life, which is an undoubtedly better way to spend a Thursday evening.

“Really? What is it?” Sand scratches behind the kitty’s ears with his beautiful long fingers.

“Mew.”

Sand turns to look at him properly this time, “Like the Pokémon?”

“Yeah,” Ray lies, making a mental note to Google whatever it is that is making Sand smile like that, all goofy and pleased.

 

5.

“I should answer, shouldn’t I?” Ray sighs. He looks down at his lap where Mew–the cat–is sprawled. When he leans in to smooch her, Mew catches Ray’s necklace between her paws. Ray gently unhooks the claw she got stuck into the chain and pinches the soft part of her belly. Mew grips Ray’s wrist with her four paws on cue, her claws digging indents into Ray’s skin. Ray offers her a finger to nibble on and accepts the call.

“Fucking finally! I thought you were dead, man,” Boston’s voice sounds like a mix of exasperated and relieved. Ray’s stomach clenches on itself.

“I’m alive, just–”

“Busy, I know.” Ray can almost hear Boston’s eye roll. “You could still spare five minutes to reply to our texts and calls from time to time.”

Ray doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches. The words catch in Ray’s throat, all the things he should say–the things he thinks he’s supposed to say dying somewhere between his lungs and esophagus.

“No one’s mad at you, you know? We miss you. Mew is worried sick. I tried to explain to him that this is what you do, but he’s not having any of it and I don’t know how much longer I can keep him off your ass.”

A noise comes out of Ray’s mouth, something that must sound like a wounded whale stuck at the bottom of the ocean. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’ll call back soon. And call him too. Promise.”

Boston hums, and he doesn’t sound half as doubtful as he’d have every right to be. “Alright. I’ll leave you to–whatever it is that you do these days.”

“Bye, Ai’Ton.”

Ray lets his phone fall on the couch and lies down with his face in his hands. Mew crawls on top of him, her nails catching into the fabric of Ray’s top as she settles on Ray’s chest. She starts purring and Ray doesn’t want to disrupt her, so he tries to keep his sobs as quiet as possible.

 

6.

“You smoke, don’t you? Wanna have one on the balcony?”

Sand is tying the end of the condom in a knot; as always, he looks ready to leave right after business’s done. He does make sure that Ray comes first, though, ever the gentleman. Ray finally managed to convince Sand to fuck his mouth tonight, and he’s still riding the high–the headyness that comes with relinquishing control, sitting still on his heels with his mouth open obscenely wide, letting himself be used.

Sand looks the most relaxed Ray has ever seen him with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He blows out the smoke, and as it rises slowly, for a moment it settles around his head like a halo.

“So what do you do?” Ray breaks the silence, studying the harsh lines of Sand’s side profile. Sand turns to look at him and his face becomes rounder again, softer. “In my experience if you’re that enthusiastic about fingering–and good at it–you can be one of two things: either a musician or a surgeon.”

“I play,” Sand admits. “But I did study medicine-adjacent stuff for a while.”

“No way!” Ray laughs.

“Yeah.” Sand smiles, but he looks a tiny bit sad. “I wanted to become a vet.”

Oh. That makes so much sense, Ray feels dumb for not having thought of it sooner. And he does think about Sand–well, often enough. When he’s lonely, mostly. The good ol’ sad and horny combo that’s caused most of Ray’s bad life decisions. “What happened?”

“I can’t stand seeing animals suffer,” Sand explains simply. “Or thinking they could die in my hands…,” he trails off with a shudder. “Plus, vet school is crazy expensive and I tried working part-time while studying, but it just wasn’t feasible with the classes and the labs.”

Ray pats Sand’s lower back in sympathy. “Hey, you can come see my kitty whenever you want.”

“Why else would I come here?” Sand’s grin is smug and beautiful as he looks down at Ray with his head tilted to the side.

Ray leans into Sand’s space, holding onto Sand’s waist for balance as he rises on his tiptoes. “For this,” he says against Sand’s already parted lips, and they kiss.

 

7.

Ray hasn’t done this in a while, and yet it still comes easy to him, like second nature. She’s beautiful under the strobe lights, her dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders and her lips red and full; soft, too, when she throws her arms around Ray’s neck and kisses him. Ray drives them back from the club and she fills the car with easy chatter, her somewhat deep voice inexplicably attractive to Ray’s ears.

She kisses with her whole body, her hands eagerly mapping Ray’s back, which feels pretty fucking amazing and it gets Ray very hard very fast.

Ray is halfway through undoing her top, kissing down her neck–he can multitask–when she sneezes.

“Bless you,” Ray says automatically, but her chuckle is interrupted by another sneeze.

“Wait, you have pets?” she asks as she pulls away a little, disappointment coloring her tone.

“Yeah, a kitty.”

“Ow,” her eyebrows knit. “I love cats but I’m terribly allergic and there’s no way I could fit antihistamines in my tiny purse.” She shakes said purse a little for emphasis, but it almost slips from her hold as she bends forward to sneeze again, a comically high-pitched sound in stark contrast with her speaking voice. Ray can’t help but laugh, letting his hands fall off her.

“Too bad. Let me drive you home, then.”

The drive to her place is as comfortable as before, even though it’s clear to both of them that nothing much will come out of this encounter.

Ray parks his car in an empty spot outside the gate, and as he turns to look at her, his eyes fall on her thighs, her tight skirt riding up exposing soft skin.

“I could eat you out,” Ray offers, smiling at the sultry look she sends him, her long eyelashes drawing cobwebs of shadows high on her cheeks.

“Well, if you insist…”

 

8.

Ray has already stuffed his cart with all the essentials: cat food, litter, the treats Sand recommended because apparently this brand is a good compromise between affordable and of decent quality; and a few bottles of the disgusting sweet tea that every celebrity in Thailand seems to be drinking and that he’s shamefully gotten a little addicted to. Product placement does work.

He finds himself stopping by the snacks aisle on his way to the cashier. He supposes there’s still room for a few bags of chips in the cart.

When Sand comes over later, the first thing he does is get on all fours in the hallway–not for sexy reasons, although this is arguably better. Mew comes out at full speed to greet Sand, rising on her hind paws to bump her nose against Sand’s and tap on his cheeks. Sand bursts out laughing and it scares her some, but he gives her his palm to sniff in apology, “Hello, tiny one.”

Ray needs to book an appointment to get checked for diabetes as soon as possible.

“No special greeting for me?” He makes sure to sound overly whiny just to see Sand’s exasperated half-smile.

“Well, you didn’t run to me to boop my nose,” Sand says airily as he stands up after a final brush of his thumb behind Mew’s ear.

“Will you pat my head if I do next time?” Ray flutters his eyelashes in mock shyness, and Sand’s next laugh is pressed directly on his mouth.

The clothes shedding is a familiar ritual by now; Sand’s socks often end up in the weirdest places, so much that Ray has a few of them rolled up into mismatched little balls in his drawers.

“Do you have scissors?” Sand asks between the nips he’s disseminating all over Ray’s thighs. Ray is so horny that it takes him a moment to process Sand’s request–now, despite what the news may say about allowing strangers into the safety of your home and the proliferation of violent crimes, Sand doesn’t strike Ray as the type who’d cut him open. He’s had plenty of chances to, if that was his plan from the beginning.

“Try the kitchen.”

Sand comes back with the scissors Ray has used maybe a grand total of three times since he moved in last year, his other hand holding a condom. He cuts the condom down from the open end to the tip, looking completely unbothered as he takes his sweet time doing his little art and crafts project while Ray waits naked and hard on the bed.

When he’s done, he grabs Ray’s ankles and pulls until Ray’s calves are tucked between his neck and shoulders. He flattens the open condom against Ray’s rim and, without further ado, he digs in.

Ray enjoys eating people out just fine, but he’s not that used to being on the receiving end; it rarely is an option at all with casual partners.

Tonight Ray learns one vital piece of information about Sand: he’s evil. He edges Ray for what feels like hours, licking into him while he keeps his fingers in a tight fist around the base of Ray’s dick. He only stops occasionally to bite into the plumpness of Ray’s inner thighs, but other than that, he pays no mind to Ray’s progressively incoherent begging, his sole focus seems to be pulling at every last thread of Ray’s sanity.

“Sand,” Ray tries for the millionth time, “if you don’t let me come I’ll die.” That’s what he wants to convey anyway, although he’s not sure what comes out of his mouth are actually discernible sounds.

Miraculously, it works–Sand loosens his grip on Ray’s dick, though not by much, and squeezes and tugs at it until Ray comes all over Sand’s fingers and himself. He shoots so hard that it wouldn’t be surprising if some of it hit the ceiling.

Ray’s whole body buzzes and burns like a live wire splashed by water. It’s almost an out of body experience in the way he feels like he’s drifting, washed ashore by gentle waves.

When he blinks his eyes open he realizes that Sand is carefully wiping him clean, a warm rag in one hand while the other rubs soothing circles into the sore muscles of Ray’s calves. It’s a very nice feeling.

Sand inspects his face, letting go of the rag to push Ray’s sweaty bangs away from his flushed forehead. “Are you okay? Did I overdo it?” He sounds concerned; sheepish, even.

Ray shakes his head weakly and clears his throat, “No, it was…”

Life changing? Mind-blowing? One of the best orgasms he’s ever had?

While Ray is contemplating how to best describe the enlightening experience, something else distracts him. Something big and also very urgent.

He extends his leg as much as the jelly-like state of his limbs allows him to and presses his heel against the bulge in Sand’s pants. If he were able to be more coordinated he’d trace the outline of Sand’s dick print with his toes; but this seems to be enough. Sand hisses and falls forward a bit, catching himself with one palm against the wall so as to not topple over Ray.

“What are we gonna do about that?” Ray giggles; he can be silly, his mind is still fuzzy from his orgasm.

“Nothing,” Sand says, pinching Ray’s cheek before letting go of his face altogether.

Ray doesn’t know what is more grating–Sand’s verbal rejection or the loss of contact.

“But why,” he protests. “I can go again, jus’ gimme a minute.”

After a moment of hesitation, Sand finally cedes. “Alright. But let’s do it like this.”

He maneuvers Ray until he’s lying on his side, then he settles behind him. He coats the inside of Ray’s thighs with lube–it’s cold and it gives Ray goosebumps, but it feels weirdly soothing on his overheated, bruised skin.

When Sand pushes his dick between Ray’s thighs, Ray shudders and snaps his eyes shut. He was half-lying when he said he could go again, but the slow drag of Sand’s cock against his balls and perineum, the obscene squelching sounds, Sand’s mouth brushing the side of his neck, warm against the chilly metal of Ray’s necklace, all work together to push him so close to the brink again so fast it should be ridiculous.

And Sand seems to be aware of it, because he reaches from behind to grab Ray’s dick, stroking it torturously slow. It’s messy and sort of painful when Ray comes this time, but Sand holds him through the aftershocks, his palms sliding over the damp skin of Ray’s thighs in regular, comforting motions.

“I think I need a shower,” Ray mumbles, studying the experimental artwork made of their combined spunks on his chest and abdomen. He dips his fingertip into his bellybutton to catch some of it, amused by the sticky texture.

“Are you okay to stand?” Sand’s eyes are big and liquid with worry, his skin painted in blotches of pink that speak of exertion–and maybe a drop of embarrassment as well.

“I’m fine,” Ray draws out his vowels and grins. “I told you I can take a lot.”

He returns from the bathroom to see Sand on the couch with Mew on his lap.

“She stole my sock,” Sand explains without lifting his eyes from the tug of war game he’s playing with the kitty.

Ray hums in agreement, “She’s a little hoarder. I keep buying her toys but she always finds the most random things to play with.”

He needs to leave then, because the sight of Sand cooing at Mew is a bit too much for him, especially after two brain chemistry-altering orgasms back to back.

“Hey, you hungry?” he throws behind himself as he opens the pantry. There’s a beat of silence, then Sand shuffles behind Ray, one arm hovering around Ray’s waist, his hand resting half a centimeter away from Ray’s on the counter.

“Did you buy the whole store?” Sand teases, taking in the variety of bags and cans crowding the shelves. He taps the side of Ray’s hand with his pinky–softly enough it might have not been deliberate, but it leaves Ray wondering; and tingling, but he blames it on his oversensitivity–before reaching above Ray to grab a pack of some sort of seaweed flavored abomination and a can of candies.

Okay, so maybe Ray did go a tiny bit overboard with his shopping, but in his defense he didn’t know what Sand likes. Sand has been bringing treats for Mew consistently since they started hooking up, the least Ray could do is return the favor by feeding him.

Ray grabs a couple of bottles of sweet tea from the fridge as an afterthought before they relocate to the living room.

“For some reason I didn’t peg you as a snacker,” Sand comments as he rips the bag of crisps open. He removes the lid from the can of candies and sets both between them on the couch.

“Nonsense,” Ray exclaims, “I snack all the time.” He picks up one candy from the can and pops it into his mouth to prove a point–the point being that he’s a liar and it backfires immediately. Who the hell came up with the concept of sour candies anyway?? As if life doesn’t suck enough as it is.

Sand predictably cracks up at Ray’s expression, but he also leans in and takes a hold of Ray’s chin. “Give it,” he says; except what he actually does is take it. Directly from Ray’s mouth, with his tongue.

And how is Ray supposed not to think about just how skillful Sand is with his tongue after experiencing it first-hand earlier–Sand pulls back, saving Ray from the embarrassment of getting hard from a kiss.

“I should go,” Sand barely suppresses a yawn. “Last bus.”

He looked so comfortable lounging on the couch, lazily petting Mew with one hand, stroking Ray’s calf with the other. He moves away from Ray’s side to haul himself up and the room feels unbelievably cold all of a sudden. Ray needs to remember to turn the aircon down a notch.

Before letting Sand leave, he drags him to the kitchen again and makes it his mission to stuff all of Sand’s pockets with snacks. “One more for the road,” he keeps saying, and Sand humors him, laughing all the while.

 

9.

“What do you need?” Sand asks softly, reaching to brush Ray’s flushed cheeks with his knuckles. “Tell me.”

Ray leans into Sand’s touch, his eyes falling shut on a sigh, but it’s not where he wants Sand’s hands right now. He’s sitting on Sand’s dick–has been for a while, long enough that he’s so loose Sand’s dick kept sliding out of him, so he gave up on bouncing on it and now he’s half-lying on top of Sand, propped with his palms on Sand’s chest, his hard dick sandwiched between their sweaty abdomens.

Ray brought this upon himself–the part about riding Sand specifically–but it was actually Sand who started it: he’d finally gotten fed up with Ray’s pillows being in the way, so he pushed them around to make space for their bodies on the bed. “No one needs these many pillows,” he’d said, “not even a pillow princess like you.”

Ray had let out an indignant sound–he happens to need lots of pillows, his head is where the magic happens after all–and rolled them over until Sand was under him, and he’d bristled, “I’ll show you pillow princess.” Then he’d bit Sand, because why not, right on his Adam’s apple, and had lowered himself on Sand’s cock.

Sand held him by the hips throughout, a bruising grip on Ray’s soft flesh, and he stopped Ray whenever he got close, and he forced Ray to wait it out until the flames in his belly sizzled down, and then he pushed his hips up and hit Ray’s prostate dead-on.

This has been going on for at least twelve days according to Ray’s calculations. Sand’s stamina is simply unreal.

“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” Sand corrects him, his blunt nails scratching the underside of Ray’s chin, because Ray was babbling again, his complaints lost among the strings of curses and prayers.

“Your hand,” Ray finally manages, a long whine that makes Sand’s knowing smile stretch further. “Please.”

Sand takes pity on him; he moves his hand from Ray’s jaw to his mouth, “Make it wet.”

And Ray does, his tongue immediately lolling out to lap at the inside of Sand’s hand, and he lets saliva pool in his mouth before spitting it into Sand’s palm.

“Good,” Sand murmurs appreciatively, searching down between them to wrap his spit-slicked hand around Ray’s dick.

Ray moans, his hips grinding towards Sand’s hand on their own. It’s so good–the spit has dried up already but Ray is leaking so much that it doesn't matter, plus he loves the drag of Sand’s calloused fingers on the sensitive skin of his dick. It’s the right amount of overwhelming.

“Are you close?” Sand asks, rubbing his thumb along Ray’s lower lip. It’s perfunctory, he knows Ray is close because he can always tell–and even if he couldn’t, the way Ray’s walls are squeezing around him are a definite giveaway.

Still, the raw, deep quality of his voice tickles pleasantly the inside of Ray’s brain. He nods, flicking his tongue to lick at the tip of Sand’s thumb, and Sand takes it as his cue to push the finger inside Ray’s mouth. He gives Ray two more fingers to choke on, prodding around the back of Ray’s mouth until Ray gags on them.

Ray knows by now that most of the orgasms Sand gives him transfer him into another plane of existence, so he lets it run through him, lets his mind and body be wiped clean as he falls into Sand’s chest to catch his breath.

Ray tunes out for a bit while Sand cleans them up, fixes the pillows, goes to open the door for Mew. He only opens his eyes when Sand crawls back on the bed with Mew in his arms. He puts her down and she stretches and climbs the pillows, slotting herself in the nook between the padded headboard and one of the pillows in the outermost layer.

Ray rests his cheek on Sand’s chest, his half a dozen pillows momentarily forgotten, counting Sand’s heartbeats as Sand’s fingers absently skate over his side.

Ray tips his head back and looks at Mew from upside down. She looks ridiculous from this angle, all eyes and ears, and she stares back at Ray and blinks and starts purring, but she’s so small and she’s half-hidden in the pillow cake so Ray can only see her head shaking, and she looks like those little dog figurines with bouncy heads that some taxi drivers stick to the dashboard of their cars.

Ray tells Sand about it and Sand bursts out laughing, carefree and unrestrained, the movement jostling Ray slightly so that Sand’s sternum digs into his cheek. Ray thinks he’s said funnier things, but maybe Sand is currently dumbed down by his climax. Ray is very tempted to test his theory, to try and make Sand laugh more like that.

“I still think you have too many pillows,” Sand says. “But it’s cute that she nests in there, so I’ll allow it.”

“That’s so kind of you,” Ray comments, which earns him a pinch in the waist.

Then Sand’s phone pings, and he curses under his breath. “My ride must be here,” he explains in a rush, already scrambling to put his clothes back on.

“Oh,” Ray says. Right, it’s later than usual, Sand must have missed the last bus. He’d tell Sand to just stay over, but Sand’s driver is most likely waiting for him outside the building.

“Goodnight, princess. Goodnight, kitty.” Sand smiles, evidently pleased at his own joke, and leaves.

 

10.

Sand comes over a couple times a week, sometimes more if their schedules allow. It doesn’t matter who texts whom, Sand is at Ray’s door within forty-five minutes. He kisses Ray in the hallway every time without fail, but sometimes he pulls back before lust gets the better of them and they start tugging at each other’s clothes like rabid animals, and he says, “Show me your hands.” And Ray does, palms facing forward, then he flips them over, showing the backs, wriggling his fingers and sucking air into his cheeks to hold back his laughter.

“They’ve gotten better,” Sand hums in approval. “Your ankles next.”

Ray rucks up the hems of his pants if he’s wearing the long, soft ones–the ones he knows Sand likes because of the way he runs his fingers over them, smoothes the fabric down before stripping Ray out of them–or just lifts his legs, first one then the other, presenting them to Sand’s scrutiny, if he’s wearing the booty shorts that Sand also likes–he fondles the soft curve of Ray’s ass for an extra minute whenever Ray wears them.

Sand examines Ray’s ankles, sometimes he circles them with his fingers, strokes the bones on the inner sides with his thumb, and he nods solemnly.

This is something Sand taught Ray–that he should encourage Mew to chew on her toys instead of on him when she gets bitey or grabby, or she’ll learn the bad habit and then it will be too late to teach her not to tear into things with her teeth and claws when she’s older.

When Ray was as small and fragile as Mew is, a similar lesson was beaten into him. Except he was never given a replacement toy, and maybe that’s why the instinct to gnaw and scratch still lies dormant within him. He tries to suffocate it, but it constantly threatens to shoot up and through the surface like a geyser–it’s happened before, and the consequences still haunt him to this day.

 

11.

whore inc. ceo
quick question
whats a good excuse for when u show up at work with a limp
i feel like ~fell down the stairs~ is a lil overused

sugar 🍬
sorry who is this??

whore inc. ceo
weve been over thissss
stop pretending you dont remember abt me >:(

sugar 🍬
i will when it stops being funny ;)
are you safe? should i be concerned?
do i have to kill a man please tell me i have to kill a man

whore inc. ceo
as much as id love to see you running around with a machete theres no need
for now

Ray sighs as he momentarily puts his phone down. He tentatively stretches his legs in front of himself and the movement instantly sends a pang of discomfort upwards. His resulting groan alerts Mew, whose little head perks up to squint at him. Upon realizing there are no imminent threats around, she swats Ray’s thigh with her tail as if to scold him and curls back into a pretzel-like shape.

“Sorry, baby. Daddy’s an idiot,” Ray whispers, patting her head softly in apology.

Ray noticed some minor bleeding when he showered but he already took care of it–nothing to freak out over, it’s happened before and it will happen again.

And God, was it worth it. The evening had started like many others–Sand had walked in, greeted Ray’s furry freeloader, carried Ray to the bedroom like he weighs nothing, stripped him down to his birthday suit. There was some sort of urgency in the way he’d kissed Ray, his warm hands spanning Ray’s body like they couldn’t decide where to settle, like they wanted to touch everything at once.

He’d calmed down a bit after he’d latched his teeth onto the side of Ray’s neck, sucking a bruise on the tender skin there. He never leaves marks in visible places, but Ray found out he doesn’t mind–he’ll suffer the heat in a turtleneck tomorrow and that will be it. Clients seem to appreciate the Steve Jobs inspired look anyway.

Sand is not particularly talkative during sex: Ray normally fills the silence just fine with his litanies of creative curses and gasps, while Sand’s contributions are short and straight to the point; but tonight he was especially quiet.

He manhandled Ray onto his hands and knees, placed a pillow between Ray’s abdomen and the mattress so that Ray could hump it when it became too much and he needed to come, and proceeded to eat Ray out within an inch of his life without saying much more than “okay?” and “good.”

It didn’t take Ray long at all to come. He wishes he could say he’s developed an immunity to Sand’s tongue in his ass, considering that Sand goes down on him pretty much every time they meet these days, sometimes both before and after anal; but alas. Ray’s a weak man. And Sand is so good at taking him apart.

Ray was drooling into the pillow, trying to keep himself from drifting away, so it took him a moment to realize Sand’s hands were back to roaming around, starting from his shoulders all the way down his spine. He spread Ray’s asscheeks apart and hesitated, and that was when Ray twisted his neck to see what the wait was about.

Sand’s eyes were impossibly dark as he stared down at Ray’s hole, and Ray felt himself tighten, his softening dick twitching weakly against his belly.

“Do you think I can… like this?” Sand had whispered, so low that Ray wasn’t entirely sure Sand was talking to him. Still, the thrill that had zapped through Ray when he realized what Sand meant made him collapse face-first onto the pillow.

“Sure,” Ray had croaked out. “Go on.”

Sand had breached in then, slow and careful, his hands clutched around Ray’s waist trembling with what Ray suspected was the effort to control himself. Sand’s cock felt even bigger and harder than usual with the lack of prep, it pushed the breath out of Ray’s lungs as it throbbed deeper and deeper inside. Ray bit the pillow to muffle a scream when Sand bottomed out–he’d never felt so full in his life before, the thickness forcing his muscles to stretch despite the way his hole kept clenching on instinct.

Ray was barely there anymore at that point: everything, everywhere was Sand, time but a blurred concept. Inside him, around him, on top of him–Sand was pressed to him chest to back, his weight grounding and welcome in Ray’s frazzled state.

“Does it hurt?” Sand had asked, a shaky breath against Ray’s ear.

“Yes,” Ray had sobbed, surprised that his mouth was still in operation at all, “Don’t stop.”

Sand hadn’t stopped, but he’d built a gradual rhythm, giving Ray only as much as the tightness allowed.

It felt like Sand was carving a place for himself inside of Ray, and the shocking thing about it was that the thought didn’t register as a bad one in Ray’s mind–what was left of it, barely surviving the onslaught of pain and pleasure.

Ray might have blacked out for a moment towards the end, because he doesn’t remember releasing, only the aftermath. How Sand had taken care of him until he shifted from the liquified entity he’d melt into back to his solid shape.

The thing about Sand is that he can spool Ray back just as easily as he unravels him. He gives Ray what he needs before Ray has even formulated the thought. There’s a visceral understanding between their bodies, a wordless give and take the boundaries of which keep stretching and expanding like play dough. It’s… confusing, but Ray decides not to linger on it for the time being.

He reaches blindly for the imprint of Sand’s teeth on his neck, fitting two fingers underneath his necklace to push them into the mark. It stings, but it’s a good kind of pain. The kind that draws Ray like a moth to a flame. The kind that distracts him from bigger, more terrifying things.

sugar 🍬
i’m more of a baseball bat kind of gal
anyway. you good?

whore inc. ceo
yeah
im great

 

12.

“...and this is why you should pick us–turn over a new leaf with In Bloom PR.” Ray holds his arms in the air and keeps his business smile on for a few seconds more, before slouching and sending a dubious look at his one-woman audience.

Lana–the team’s copywriter–clears her throat and claps her hands together once.

“Well… boss, have I told you how much I like your style? Turtlenecks in 89% humidity–bold move. Truly inspiring.”

Ray crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow, “Don’t bullshit me, Lana.”

Lana narrows her shoulders, a sheepish smile trembling at the corner of her lips, “I think it still needs some work.”

Ray groans in frustration, letting himself fall on the closest chair. He’s the one who insisted the pitch has to be perfect, he can’t really fault his team for being so strict.

“Look, boss, you’ve said it before–we need it to be bulletproof. We need to sweep the man off his feet, we need to plant–pun intended–the idea in his head that he needs us.”

“Nice one,” Ray says. He waits for Lana’s high five, then he sighs. “You’re right, you’re right. I guess I’m getting impatient. How’s the work for KF Pharmaceutical coming along?”

Lana brightens up at that. That project is her baby, Ray trusted her with it for a reason. “Great, actually! I’m almost done with the presentation, do you want me to send the slides over?”

“Sure,” Ray grins. “Coffee?”

They walk to the break room together, and Ray fills one mug each. His was a gift from the team–it says “best dad” in a hideous font, but “dad” is crossed out and replaced by “boss.”

“Did you have Jane take care of the infographics?”

Lana nods, but there is also the faintest blush on her cheeks; Ray is tempted to tease her about it, but it might be too soon. Or not, considering how fast lesbians move forward in their relationships–Namchueam would bitch-slap him if he ever said it out loud.

“It’s good to have you back,” Lana says before they separate. Ray knows she doesn’t only mean in the office, but also in the game. Ray feels a brief yet harsh sting right into his gut–guilt.

“Glad to be back,” he smiles through it. “Although I have a feeling you guys were doing great on your own. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll forfeit the keys of the kingdom to you.”

He winks, and Lana laughs like he’s making no sense; then they get back to work.

 

13.

“By the way, what do you play?”

Sand looks slightly taken aback by the question. To him it was probably out of nowhere, since he can’t be aware of Ray’s train of thoughts. Thankfully so.

Ray was, once again, thinking about Sand’s fingers, watching as Sand held Mew’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.

“Mostly the piano these days.”

“Really? That’s surprising,” Ray chuckles. He takes in Sand’s worn ripped jeans and his overused band tee, the print on the front half-faded, the collar loose enough that it dips below his collarbones. “You don’t look that…”

“Classy?” One corner of Sand’s mouth lifts in amusement, almost as if he’s used to that kind of comment, but he doesn’t mind if it comes from Ray.

“Pretentious,” Ray corrects.

Sand gives him a contemplative look and shrugs. “Music is music. Doesn’t have anything to do with what you look like.”

Ray approaches Sand then, propping himself with one knee on the couch and a hand on the edge of the cushion where Sand’s head is resting to lean in towards him, his necklace dangling between them. “What about me?”

“What about you?” Sand’s eyes are so pretty from up close, the mole below his left eye begging to be kissed. He reaches to catch the pendant in his hand, halting its rhythmic oscillations.

“You play me so well. Don’t I count as one of your instruments?”

Sand laughs, then, a startled snorty thing; but he also blushes, and Ray kisses the mole under his eye, the one on his cheek.

“Music is one of the most ancient forms of expression,” Sand says later, when they’re basking in the afterglow and everything feels lighter, softer. Ephemeral. “We slept in caves and ate raw meat and pooped in bushes and we sang.”

He’s tapping his fingers to some unknown rhythm over Ray’s thigh, and Ray thinks that Sand is always making music in some way; singing under his breath, tapping his fingers, bouncing his leg. And he makes Ray vibrate, too, and sing.

The bedsheets rustle as Ray rolls on top of Sand and grinds against him, relishing the cut-off moan that breaks out of Sand’s swollen mouth, his dick already hardening again.

“Let’s do it rough and dirty, then. Make our ancestors proud.”

Sand grins as he grabs Ray by the ass–his fingers digging hard enough they both know it’s going to bruise, and it goes straight to Ray’s dick–and draws Ray in against himself.

“Bet.”

 

14.

Ray’s day usually starts around five in the morning with Mew either chewing on his hair or kneading into his belly. One day he’ll find her in the kitchen making her own pastries for breakfast and Ray is totally supportive of her ambitions to open her own bakery. The chewing is a little more worrying, though. He wakes up every day hoping not to find bald spots on his head.

He lights up the torch of his phone because he refuses to turn the lights on this early and finds his way to the kitchen, Mew trotting a few steps ahead, and he fills her bowls while she rubs against his legs and hooks her tail around his calf.

Ray passes out for about an hour more until his alarm rings and he has to get ready for work.

He has breakfast perched on one of the tall stools behind the kitchen island, black coffee and one of the shitty protein bars he’s been receiving in boxes upon boxes since they saved the producer from bankruptcy through a thorough rebranding. He opens Line and scrolls all the way down the unread messages in his muted chats, fast enough that he can’t linger on the words, and only because he hates seeing the tiny numbers informing him of just how much of his friends’ lives he’s been missing out on. He’s also scared that if he actually read the messages, he’d find them talking about him. He’s not ready. Not yet.

He leaves his phone on the counter and checks Mew’s favorite hiding spots. She lies in wait for him to be close enough that she can jump his shins, and Ray pretends to be startled and steps back, grabbing the closest of her toys and tossing it to the other side of the room so that she can go after it. He entertains Mew until she loses interest and either disappears again to nap, or runs off to climb her cat tower and train for the national boxing championship with the little fish toy hanging from the top of the tower; then he goes to the bathroom.

He shaves religiously every morning. He has great genes for everything else–one of the few things his parents ever did right–except for body hair. It grows back so fast it’s a goddamn curse. He brushes his teeth and he dabs moisturizer on his face and he styles his hair with an appropriate amount of gel.

He picks his clothes based on the least amount of cat hair stuck onto the fabric, grabs his leather bag and leaves the house, sending one last look of longing in the direction of Mew. It’s only until lunch break, he tells himself.

He goes to work and he gets shit done and he tries to joke with his team, to make it look like he’s okay, like he’s back to normal, like he’s back for good. He goes back home and spends his lunch break with Mew and when he leaves again he tells himself it’s only a few more hours until he clocks out. He grabs a sandwich from the convenience store and drives back to work and then he goes home and he weeps a little in Mew’s fur. He ignores his phone unless it’s work-related, or sex-related when he’s in the mood to focus on someone else’s body and forget his own.

He goes to bed and he lies awake staring at the ceiling and he waits until Mew settles either on the pillows behind him or next to him. He falls asleep sometimes.

Rinse and repeat.

 

15.

“Someone’s been calling you,” Sand informs Ray when he walks back into the living room from the bathroom.

He points with his chin at Ray’s phone on the coffee table.

“One ‘my beloved Mew’?” He smiles down at the kitty happily licking from his palm. “I thought I was having a stroke for a moment there.”

The droplets running down Ray’s neck from his damp hair suddenly turn into icicles. His whole body freezes and oxygen struggles to find its way in and out of his lungs.

“They made quite a few attempts. You should call them back, I was about to leave anyway,” Sand continues, already lifting the kitty from his thighs so he can deposit her safely on the couch.
When he finally looks at Ray, his eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “Are you okay?”

“Why don’t you stay?” The words roll out of Ray’s mouth in a clumsy, awkward sequence. He bites his tongue immediately afterwards at how Sand’s shoulders tighten, his expression closing off.

“I’m a great cuddler and we can have another round in the morning,” Ray keeps rambling nonetheless, his hands finding his necklace to fidget with the two intersecting metal bars. “The only downside would be Mew chewing your hair to wake you up for food kinda early, but I can set an alarm to feed her and–”

“Okay,” Sand says. He’s standing in front of Ray now and he untangles Ray’s fingers from the necklace to interlock them with his own. “Do you have anything I can wear?”

Ray rummages in his closet for one of his older t-shirts, the ones he doesn’t wear anymore because they’re from when he used to hit the gym regularly and he was bulkier. It hugs Sand’s broad shoulders nicely.

It’s only mildly weird when they settle under the blankets. Ray is not used to sharing a bed, not anymore, and their knees keep bumping until Sand seems to run out of patience and he moves Ray around so that Ray’s back is pressed against his chest. It’s an arrangement that works, especially when Sand slots one leg between Ray’s and lets his arm fall around Ray’s waist.

With their bodies locking in place together, something in Ray’s mind quietens. He didn’t realize his thoughts were swarming around in his head like bees in a hive until the buzzing stopped. He finds sleep fairly easily after that.

When the alarm rings, Ray’s arm automatically shoots for his phone on the nightstand. He turns it off and blinks blearily. As soon as his eyes get used to the darkness, he spots a black hairy blob draped across Sand’s ankle. She yawns on cue as Ray swings his legs off the bed.

“Let’s go get breakfast, baby, what do you say?” Ray whispers as he picks Mew up in his arms. She only lets Ray carry her around like this when she’s still half asleep, and Ray makes use of her slow reactions to pepper her head with kisses. He puts her down and he leaves so she can enjoy her food in peace.

He closes the door of the bedroom behind himself and shuffles back towards the bed. He reclaims his spot in the inward curve of Sand’s body, and Sand’s arm locks around his waist again.

“Did I wake you?”

“’s okay,” Sand drawls, nuzzling Ray’s neck. It tickles and it makes Ray squirm a bit, which pushes him even closer to Sand and–

“Oh, I did wake you.”

Sand grumbles something unintelligible against Ray’s nape.

“What was it that got you going?” Ray teases as he turns in Sand’s hold. “My ass look that good in these briefs?”

Sand makes more vague groggy noises while Ray laughs against his collarbones, hands pushing Sand’s shirt out of the way so he can kiss down Sand’s chest.

There’s a wet spot on the front of Sand’s underwear; Ray feels it when he noses Sand’s crotch.

“Condoms’re in my pants,” Sand mutters, his voice throaty with sleep and anticipation.

Ray pauses to look up at him. He can’t make out Sand’s features in the dark, but he sees the liquid quality of his eyes. Ray runs his hands up and down Sand’s slim thighs, gnawing at his lips. “Do I need it?”

The little hitch in Sand’s breath echoes in the quiet; his head moves subtly from left to right.

That’s all Ray needed. He pulls Sand’s underwear all the way down and his cock springs free, throbbing and leaking and ready for Ray to put his mouth on. The taste is as intoxicating as the smell, if not more, now that it’s not partially hidden by latex–Ray tugs back the foreskin and dips his tongue into the slit to collect a drop of Sand’s precome. He lets it sit on his tongue, savoring the explosion of saltiness on his taste buds, the musk.

Sand’s thighs tremble under Ray’s hands as Ray licks a stripe from the base to the tip. He knows he could just take all of it in one go, but he kind of wants to make it last longer. Sand’s reactions are so good; he’s more sensitive than usual and it makes Ray grin as he presses his tongue flat against the bulging vein in Sand’s shaft to feel him shiver.

He lets go of Sand’s dick momentarily to mouth at his ball sack–he sucks one into his mouth, delighted by how heavy it feels, how full; the other he fondles in his hand, squeezing it gently to make Sand squirm and gasp.

When Ray lets the tip of Sand’s cock brush the back of his throat, Sand’s hands fly to bury into Ray’s hair, as if to keep Ray’s head there. Ray stays, allowing Sand to jerk his hips up. Ray lives for that one moment of fear where he’s forced to relax his jaw and loosen his throat and he needs to remember to breathe through his nose. It’s then that he goes pliant and his brain fills with static and the only thing that centers him is the cock fucking down his throat.

It’s a bit different in this case because he still has to meet Sand halfway, to bob his head down as Sand thrusts up, and although it becomes a fairly automatic movement after a while, Ray still needs to focus, can’t turn his mind off entirely. But then again, maybe it’s better, because like this he can notice all of Sand’s unconscious tells–the way his breath comes out in quicker huffs, the tremor in his thighs, how his cock swells and pulses right before–

He gets a harsher tug on his hair as a warning before Sand spills in his mouth; but Ray had been waiting for it, so he makes sure to swallow all of it. Sand’s taste, the thought positively resounds in his head. He keeps sucking lightly around Sand’s soft tip, unwilling to let go just yet, determined to work him for every last drop, until Sand taps on his shoulder.

Ray pushes himself up, settling with his chin on Sand’s sternum, peering at him. He wishes he could see Sand’s face right now, more than just the blurry contour of it; he wants to know if his skin is flushed, if there’s sweat beading his hairline, if he’s bitten his lips raw. The last one he gets to feel soon, though, because Sand finds Ray’s nape and guides him up for a kiss. Sand’s lips feel tender when Ray runs his tongue over them; he digs his teeth into Sand’s upper lip to hear him gasp, to feel Sand’s hold tighten around his nape.

They keep licking into each other’s mouths lazily, morning breath and come be damned, and soon enough Sand’s hands travel downwards.

Ray is reminded of how aroused sucking Sand off made him when Sand kneads his ass, breathing against Ray’s mouth, “Can you get the lube?”

Ray loses the plot a bit after that; he can only focus on Sand’s calloused fingers scissoring inside him, the pressure against his prostate when Sand hooks them, the fact that he keeps adding more.

“How–how many is that?” Ray manages to ask; it’s a slurred sequence of vowels more than words, and he’s pretty sure he’s slobbering all over Sand’s chest.

“Six,” Sand replies calmly. His voice is a thrum, a vibration from his thorax that Ray feels where his cheek is mushed against Sand’s chest. “Three from each hand.”

“No way,” Ray exhales. He wonders if he sounds as delirious as he feels, his whole existence threatening to burst out through the seams of his boiling skin.

“Make yourself come,” Sand urges. Orders, but it’s soft.

“How?” It seems like an impossible task; Ray can’t even feel his hands at the moment, in fact he’s not sure he has a body at all anymore.

“Can’t you think of a way?”

“Don’t be mean, Sand, I can’t think right now–”

“Rut against me.”

Oh. Right. Ray can do that. He tests it, and it seems his hips are still working, most likely out of basal need. It feels so good already, he sees lights crackle and burst behind his eyelids like small fireworks. The friction is just on the right side of painful, only their sweat and Ray’s precome tempering the roughness of it.

When Ray comes he instantly goes limp on top of Sand. Sand’s fingers keep fucking in and out of him, holding him impossibly open; Ray feels himself spasm around them. His dick keeps weakly spurting semen all the while, and Sand only lets go of him when Ray whimpers and writhes, his very blood on fire.

Sand’s mouth brushes his temple. “Feeling better now?”

Ray finds that he does; still, he’s surprised that Sand noticed at all.

“Yeah.”

Light is filtering through the gaps in the blinds by now. Best way to start the day, Ray thinks. He’s still not going to be easy about it, though.

“Sand!” he starts, whiny and accusatory, when he feels that he can form words again. “How am I supposed to go on with my day knowing that you put six fingers in me–six! That’s a fist plus one.”

Sand finally pushes Ray to the side and onto his back. He begins the process of wiping the worst of their fluids using the shirt Ray lent him–Ray can’t remember when he took it off, but he’s glad Sand did, because now that the room is less dark he can ogle Sand’s chest, the shadows and the light sculpting his lean torso in a beautiful chiaroscuro.

“You could call in sick.”

Ray spreads his arms and legs on the mattress, a naked and sweaty starfish. “Right! I should call in sick and then you can stay here and take care of me.”

Sand sends him a look, the corners of his mouth quirking up. That’s his signature I’m gonna humor you because I know you’re gonna be insufferable otherwise smile. At least, that’s Ray’s interpretation of it.

“Sure. I’ll email your boss right now.”

He waits with his palm up and Ray tries to keep a straight face as he hands Sand his phone with the email app already open and the address filled in. Sand taps away for a while, his eyebrows knitted in concentration. He makes to return the phone to Ray, but it vibrates in his hands and he glances at the notification, “Woah, they’ve already replied–”

Ray waits until the light bulb goes on in Sand’s head. He relishes the way Sand’s mouth falls open and his eyes go huge, the blueish light from Ray’s phone screen making his face look ghostly, ethereal.

“What did the boss say?” he grins smugly when their eyes meet.

“That you’re a brat,” Sand gruffs out. He tosses Ray’s phone to the side and tackles him on the bed, his fingers digging into the softness above Ray’s navel.

“How does it make you feel that you’re fucking a hot young CEO?” Ray cackles, but he also turns his head so that Sand can nip at his earlobe.

“Don’t push it,” Sand warns, his tone and the warmth of his breath on Ray’s jaw giving Ray goosebumps. “You’re already on thin ice.”

In the end, Sand leaves and Ray goes to get ready for work. He still demands that Sand carry him to the bathroom, and he’s met with a somewhat fond eye roll and a purposely overzealous “sure, boss.”

 

16.

“Your hands are not that much bigger than mine–why do they feel huge when you touch me?”

Ray wraps his fingers around Sand’s wrist to guide Sand’s hand up in the air next to his own; as expected, they’re very similar in size. To confirm it further, Ray turns his hand–and Sand’s–so that their palms are pressed together. Their palms are very close in shape but Sand’s are slightly wider; their fingers are almost the same length, except Sand’s middle fingers are very long–no wonder they’re usually the first to find Ray’s prostate.

“You’re tiny, that’s why,” Sand says, and Ray almost startles upon hearing his voice–he got a bit lost in some, huh, unholy thoughts.

Sand places his free hand on top of Ray’s thigh. It spans almost all of it, Ray realizes when he flicks his eyes down. He swallows.

“Hey, do you maybe wanna…” Ray breathes out, but Sand is already reaching for his groin, and when Ray looks up again, he finds his eyes half-hooded and burning with desire.

“Yes,” Sand says, his next breath exhaled against the base of Ray’s throat–he already left a few hickeys there earlier, but his teeth tease Ray’s purpling skin again.

Ray really likes when Sand gets a little insatiable, a little desperate, mostly because he’s the same and he’s been made to feel wrong for it too many times to count.

Ray has worked so hard to cut his ropes loose–he vowed that he wouldn’t be bound anymore. He earned his freedom. There is only one yoke left, wrapped snugly around his neck, sitting right above his necklace, invisible but not any less heavy; but he tied it there himself, so it’s different.

Sand is good because, quips and jokes aside, he never really judges. He’s the chillest person Ray has ever met. He walks into Ray’s apartment, destroys him like a Lego house hit by a wrecking ball, and assembles him back like it’s his passion project; then he walks out. He inhabits a pocket of Ray’s life that it’s easy to zip open and back closed. Sometimes the zipper threatens to burst open, but that’s a thought for another time–now Sand is probing inside Ray’s loose and wet hole, and Ray’s brain cells desert for a while.

 

17.

Sand is lying with his head in Ray’s lap, Ray’s fingers brushing through his hair. Sand just blew him–no condom, for the first time; Sand insisted–and Ray spent quite some time tasting his own come from Sand’s mouth. As a result, Sand’s lips are red and puffy, Ray sees the way they pucker from above.

Sand touches his fingers on Ray’s thigh, on the bite marks he left all around Ray’s tattoo; a bloodied frame, but not permanent like the ink.

“What does it say?” Sand is using the tone he always uses when he asks Ray personal questions, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask but curiosity eventually got the best of him.

“It’s from a Latin poem,” Ray explains. “It means something like ‘love conquers all: let us surrender to it, too.’”

There’s a moment of silence, then Sand taps against one of the purple marks, “So the piano is pretentious but Latin isn’t?”

Ray shifts his leg, searching for more of Sand’s touch, trying to get Sand to press harder into the tenderness of his fresh bruises. “Shut up, I was young and in love when I got it.”

“Must’ve been nice.”

Ray’s not sure. It ruined him, but he wouldn’t replace the memories with anything else; and if he could go back in time, he’d choose to relive all of it. Still, the tattoo isn’t supposed to be romantic–rather, it’s a grim reminder of Ray’s powerlessness. He tries to think of a way to explain it to Sand, but he can’t seem to find the right words.

“How do you even know Latin?”

“Knew. And it wasn’t by choice, it was…,” Ray trails off, struggling to find a way to put it other than fucking Hell. “A whole thing at my boarding school. You know, joining hands in prayer before meals and stuff like that.”

Sand hums in understanding, his eyes flicking to the cross Ray wears around his neck. Then he goes back to running his thumb along Ray’s tattoo, tracing the shape of the letters etched into Ray’s skin.

“Do you still believe it?” It’s asked softly enough that Ray could pretend he didn’t hear and steer the conversation elsewhere. But Sand just ate his come–a part of Ray is inside him right now. Ray anxiously wonders if there is any chance it will poison Sand’s soul, corrupt him irreparably. He tells himself it’s not possible.

“Sure,” Ray finally says; it’s not entirely a lie either. “Although I’m not the dumb kid who’d get a tattoo about it anymore.”

“About the dumb part, I might have some news for you…,” Sand starts, and Ray tugs at the tuft of hair he’s currently combing his fingers through.

Sand kisses Ray’s tattoo in apology. “At least you’re doing right by her,” he gestures at Mew, who is lying on her side at the foot of the bed, lazily pawing at her stuffed toy. She must realize they’re talking about her, because her ear twitches and she twists her head to look at them for a moment before deciding she’s not interested.

They let her back into the room after they were done doing the nasty. Sand is very adamant about not indulging in anything potentially traumatizing in front of her.

Ray wants to believe it, that he’s doing something right–that he might be shitty at taking care of himself, but at least he’s trying his best for the sake of another living, breathing creature. She’s so small that he feels like crying sometimes, thinking he can only do so much to protect her, to give her a happy life. He doesn’t say any of it out loud out of fear of sounding overly dramatic; although he feels that Sand might understand. Maybe Ray will tell him someday. Maybe Sand will reassure him again, and maybe Ray will believe it for real.

For the moment, Ray pouts and makes his voice purposely whiny, “Really? I think she loves you more than she loves me!”

“That’s because she sees you every day. You know what they say–distance makes the heart grow fonder, or something. How’s that for a tattoo?” Sand grins up at him, pinching Ray’s other thigh. “You could get it here. Maybe we can Google how to say it in some other fancy dead language–”

He yelps as Ray playfully tugs on his hair again. He wriggles out of Ray’s hold, but before he can retaliate there’s a flurry of movement: Mew leaps from the feet of the bed onto a spot between Sand’s shins, a sock in her mouth. Ray doesn’t even know where she got it from–she was playing with her stuffed toy until two minutes ago.

Sand retracts and rolls onto his belly, settling into a stance similar to Mew’s. “Hold that thought, I gotta teach this stinky sock stealer a lesson first.”

They spend the rest of the evening chasing Mew around the apartment, and it’s the most fun Ray has had in ages.

 

18.

“Can I ask you something? No judgment, I’m just curious.”

Ray tries not to grimace as he zips his pants up. He starts counting to one hundred eighty in his head and he plasters a fake smile on his face, “Shoot.”

“Who’s Sand? You kept calling his name.”

Ray’s fingers falter on the last few buttons of his shirt. The background tingle he’s been feeling in his fingertips on and off for the past few days turns into a tremor. He lets his hands fall and clutches them around the hem of his shirt instead.

The guy apparently interprets Ray’s silence as a green light to keep running his mouth, “I don’t mind by the way, it’s just funny. I thought stuff like that only happened in movies.”

“You must have misheard,” Ray says flatly, his smile already splintering at the corners, much like his patience for this conversation. Who said people have to talk after nutting? Especially if the sex was subpar–Ray should be allowed to just walk away: he had to finish himself off, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention that he’s always anxious about leaving Mew alone at home late at night, even though these encounters never last long. And he can’t exactly bring people over either, not with how territorial she gets usually.

“Right,” the guy starts, one eyebrow raised, but before he can share any more of his brilliant insight, Ray checks one last time that he collected all of his belongings and leaves.

It’s possible that he was thinking about Sand a tiny bit, but who can blame him? He hasn’t seen Sand since last week, some astral conjunction made their respective schedules busy enough that they couldn’t meet. Ray texted him earlier to no avail, so he pulled up his Grindr chats and picked the last guy he’d left on read.

In hindsight, it was not worth it. The silly cat figurine Sand bought for Ray from a tourist shop bounces its head rhythmically on the dashboard of Ray’s car as he drives home. He turns the radio on to drown the white noise of regrets.

Once he’s back home, thoroughly showered and ready for bed with Mew dozing off next to him, Ray checks his notifications again. Sand is still quiet.

The queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach starts spreading to the rest of his body, so Ray does the next best thing: he texts Namchueam.

 

19.

Two chaotic bisexuals tied together by a half-failed hook-up are bound to become best friends. That’s what Ray likes to think, although he’s sure that, if asked, Namchueam would say she barely tolerates him. She has a way to berate Ray with her husky voice that is very refreshing–and sexy, but like friend sexy, not ‘I daydream of your dick in me’ sexy.

“Bad day ahead?”

Ray blinks at her wordlessy, his eyebrows rising in question.

“I know Mondays are rough, but you’ve been staring into the void for five minutes.”

“Ha,” Ray says; then, “Oops. Sorry.” He takes a sip from his mug. His coffee’s gone cold already; he should have just gotten an iced Americano.

“So is this still about the kitty whisperer or someone else?”

Ray’s heart does a little useless flop in his chest, like a–like a Magikarp, because he knows what that is now.

“No but yes,” he says. He sighs as Namchueam sends him a pointed cut to the chase look. Naturally, Ray stalls.

“Have I ever told you he makes his own dental dams from condoms?”

Namchueam looks impressed, her lipstick-red mouth curving slightly, “That’s resourceful.” She gives Ray time to work through his torment, but for some reason it makes Ray even more nervous.

“The other night I–,” Ray’s voice dies; he clears his throat and tries again. “I had sex with a random guy from Grindr and–God, this is so fucking embarrassing–and I called his name!”

He fights the urge to hide his face with his hands; he’s pretty sure he’s blushing, and one thing Ray, twenty-eight year-old CEO of In Bloom PR, does not do, is blush.

The truth is that it’s not even the most embarrassing part–if Ray had to make a list, he’d have to mention how he yaps so much about Sand that his friend gave him the cutest nickname; or how the other day Mew slow blinked at him and the first thing he wanted to do was to call Sand to tell him, and maybe cry a little on the phone. How he’s tried having sex with other people, but no one gets his body like Sand does.

He doesn’t even have Sand’s number.

“What do you mean you don’t–how do you even decide when you’re meeting up?”

Ray looks down at his coffee, his distorted reflection thankfully hiding the distress on his face. “We message on Grindr.”

Except Sand hasn’t replied in a couple days. The eggplant emoji-three drops emoji combination Ray last sent sits unanswered in their chat.

“Dear God,” Namchueam exhales. “You’ve been hooking up for months and you have no other way to contact him?”

“It’s worked so far!” Ray protests, but it sounds weak to his own ears. “Besides, it’s just sex–what am I even gonna do with his number? Text him? Talk to him on the phone? I don’t want him to get attached.”

“You don’t want him to get attached? What about yourself?”

Ray shakes his head firmly, “I’m good at compartmentalizing.”

“Does compartmentalizing include moping because you haven’t heard from him?” It probably wasn’t her intention, but her words cut deep into some part of Ray that he isn’t entirely ready to face yet, and he flinches.

“I’m just saying,” Namchueam continues, softer this time, cautious, “it’s obvious that you like him, why don’t you just tell him and see how it goes from there?”

Because it can’t go anywhere, Ray wants to say. He thinks about how barren he is inside, how empty. About the gaping wound of want that has only just started to scab. There is nothing left in Ray’s chest for him to give to anyone else. It’s been this way for years and Ray has learned to live with it. More or less.

He thinks about the distant melancholy in Sand’s eyes as his long fingers trace the words on Ray’s thigh. It’s enough. It has to be.

 

20.

The thing is, Ray wouldn’t be feeling so uneasy about Sand’s sudden silence if that hadn’t happened.

It wasn’t a fight–Ray isn’t sure they’re close enough to actually fight; but Sand did look upset. It was the first time Sand had looked–and sounded–genuinely unhappy.

It’s Ray’s fault. Sand doesn’t know him that well, because if he did, he’d know that Ray is a massive idiot with a penchant for fucking up.

It started from something silly. They were lazing around in bed and Ray got rambly, the way he does sometimes after sex, and usually Sand looks at him through half-lidded eyes and nods, or shakes his head and sighs deeply as if he’s had enough of Ray’s bullshit, but it’s just for show.

So he told Sand that it’s going to be a busy time at work for a couple of weeks, mostly because he was planning to be a little obnoxious, to cling onto Sand’s arm and say something to the effect of don’t miss me too much if we don’t get to see each other.

“Tell me about it,” Sand had requested, his eyes fluttering closed as if he wanted Ray’s voice to lull him to sleep, and he’d nuzzled Ray’s neck.

Ray has explained what his job entails to Sand before, in broad strokes, never in detail because it’s not as straightforward as, say, being a musician. When Ray first mentioned that he works in PR, Sand cocked his head to the side, his big eyes blinking at Ray, so Ray had to follow it up with “I gaslight the public into thinking that terrible, powerful, wealthy men aren’t so awful after all.” Sand didn’t take him seriously, he kept looking at Ray with the corners of his mouth curled up like he was waiting for the bottom half of the joke, and Ray just pursed his lips and watched Sand’s smile fall off his face.

Ray could have told Sand that that’s how he started, but he busted his ass to make a name for himself in the business so he could have the freedom to pick his clients; or about the pro bono work he does–that he still needs the bloody money of filthy rich despicable men, at times, to turn it into something good.
But he didn’t, and the topic hasn’t really come up again anyway. Sand is fairly mysterious about his own life, and he doesn’t directly ask Ray about his either, so it came as a surprise that he wanted to know.

“We’re wooing a big client,” Ray finally said. “Aspiring politician with a severe case of foot in mouth syndrome. Plus a bunch of–alleged–power abuse accusations.”

Sand perked up at that, “Is it the one who was in the news recently?”

“Yeah,” Ray confirmed. Sand went silent, and his hand that was drawing ticklish patterns on Ray’s navel stilled.

Ray should have told Sand that his team has been racking their brains to lay out a plan to convince this man he needs a thorough image change, and that it’s good money; money that would keep the agency afloat, that would allow Ray to honor his promise to sponsor the promotional campaign for this year’s Bangkok Pride. That it’s his fault they’re going through a rough patch, that he feels guilty and ashamed for jeopardizing the livelihood of his whole team because of his own stupid drama.

He looked at Sand and he wanted to ease his frown and smooth out the thin line his mouth had shrunk into; but that would require making himself vulnerable. The disapproval Sand gave off in waves already stung on its own, but even worse was the realization that, in that moment, Sand didn’t see him. And not only just then–there is a trench between them that they usually skirt around, and it’s easy to pretend that it’s not there when Sand is buried fourteen centimeters deep into Ray, or they’re cuddling on the couch with Mew purring on Sand’s lap, or when Sand falls asleep next to him on a bed that Ray had vowed would stay empty, just in case.

It shouldn’t have bothered Ray as much as it did. So, clearly, he had to make it worse.

“I haven’t been a good boy, Sand,” he whispered suggestively, slinking out of Sand’s loosening hold to climb on his lap. He took Sand’s hands and guided them to his ass, “You should spank me about it.”

Sand’s grip on him was unsure and his frown ran even deeper than before. “Do you really want me to?”

Ray didn’t know what he wanted–still doesn’t–but this seemed like a good distraction; a compromise of sorts, since he couldn’t bring himself to be vulnerable in more meaningful ways. “Yes.”

Sand made him lie belly-down over his knee, Ray’s naked skin flush against Sand’s clothed legs–he’d wanted to put his pants back on. The contrast made Ray’s breath unsteady, and he forced himself to calm down as Sand’s palm rested flat on his tailbone. “How many can you take?”

“Twenty,” Ray faked certainty, although he’d never done this before–not this way, at least.

“Alright,” Sand said, in a tone Ray couldn’t decipher. “Count for me.”

The first slap was more noise than pain; it startled a gasp out of Ray, his mind swimming with the awareness that it was–real, that it was happening.

Sand’s open palm collided against him, again and again, on his asscheeks, on the back of his thighs. The pain spiked and crested and it became harder to count out aloud, harder to breathe–useless, Ray couldn’t even do the one thing Sand had asked him to.

You can never do anything right, it rang in Ray’s head, and the ache was drowned by pure, unadulterated despair, and it wasn’t Sand’s hand that was hitting him; it was bigger and harsher and ruthless, and it made Ray feel insignificant, inconsequential. Worthless; nothing but a broken receptacle of sorrow, spilling from the cracks, an ugly cry gone unheard.

He only realized he was crying because of the fat tears streaming down his cheeks, because of the sobs wracking his whole body, and for a second he was sure he was going to die–there was a boulder crushing his chest and bile filling his mouth and he couldn’t breathe–he wasn’t breathing, in fact.

It all came to a head when he felt a bigger pressure wrapping tight around him, and his face made contact with something warm and damp that moved regularly–an easy rhythm that Ray understood, and he started counting again, his breaths this time, and it felt easier and easier to inhale and exhale.

When he managed to open his eyes and he tried to see through the fog, he was half-expecting to find himself reflected in the round lenses of a pair of glasses–but it was just eyes, pretty and brown and misty.

“You’re an idiot,” Sand said, his voice shaky. “Never make me do shit like that ever again, I–”

“Sorry,” Ray forced himself to say, despite the tightness in his throat, a new wave of sobs threatening to rip out of it.

Sand shook his head, reaching to dry Ray’s mess of a face with the back of his hands, mindless of the silent tears slowly making their way down his own cheeks.

Ray turned around, then, suddenly ashamed of what he’d just let Sand see, a pathetic show of weakness. How unattractive it must look. Stupid.

Sand left the room–Ray swallowed down the tinge of anguish at the sight of his retreating figure, but Sand came back soon after with a tube of cream. He applied the ointment on Ray’s smarting skin, and Ray did his best not to wince. He focused on the familiarity of Sand’s hands on him, although Sand’s touch felt… restrained.

“I should go,” Sand said in the end, even though he had already put his sleep clothes on, and Ray limped his way to the door to see him out. Sand talked to Mew in a sweet, hushed voice, but when he stood to face Ray, he fiddled with the holey strap of his messenger bag and he didn’t quite meet Ray’s eyes.

Ray felt like someone had peeled off the outer layers of his skin, leaving him a bloody mass of pulsing flesh, raw and exposed and hideous. Maybe that was why Sand couldn’t stand to look at him.

“I’m going to be busy too,” Sand said vaguely; not to Ray, but to a spot behind him.

“I see,” Ray said, wishing he could bite Sand’s ankles, dig his teeth and claws into them like Mew used to do to him when he’d just taken her in and she didn’t want to be left alone in a house too big, too scary for her.

But he couldn’t, of course he couldn’t. Sand left.

Sand has a life, obviously, one outside of Ray’s bedroom; and he said he’d be busy, but the more Ray thinks about it, the more convinced he is that he’s ruined it.

 

21.

Ray is sitting in the middle of a briefing with the team when Sand’s reply comes. He usually puts his phone on airplane mode when he’s at work, but he hasn’t in a few days. He drops his phone from his hands and it lands on the table with a dry thud, which at least serves the purpose of covering Ray’s low curse.

“Boss?” Paul calls, and Ray puts his phone away and slips an apologetic smile on his face. “I think we’re good here, aren’t we? Great job, guys.”

He locks himself in his office and he sits in front of his computer, clicking open the draft for the press release that Lana sent him and that he’s supposed to look over. He can barely focus on anything, the words keep blurring into one another and his fingers tremble on the keyboard. It’s not a very productive day.

“Sand is coming over,” he informs Mew when he gets home in the evening. “You know what that means.”

Mew tries to squirm away when he starts running the brush through her fur, but Ray keeps one arm steadily around her midriff, so she resigns herself to the torture. “We gotta make you all pretty for Sand,” he says, and Mew turns her head to look at him with the saddest eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. At least you don’t need to clean your ass out, do you know how much of a hassle that is?”

Mew meows like she does know, and Ray supposes she has a point.

Sand steps into Ray’s house and Ray greedily takes in his appearance. He looks okay, save for the dark circles under his eyes. Ray wants to press his thumbs on them, and then his mouth.

Mew all but throws herself in Sand’s lap while he takes his shoes off, and Sand lifts her in the air, leans in to kiss her nose.

Ray wants to cry. “She missed you,” he says instead.

“Did she?” Sand turns his head to the side and their eyes meet. Ray swallows around his useless tongue; it feels swollen and dry, suddenly too big for his mouth. Sand puts Mew down and it’s Ray’s cue to move to the bedroom.

He sits on the edge of the bed and waits, his stomach twisted into a tight knot, until Sand joins him, closing the door behind himself. Sand tugs his shirt over his head, shimmies out of his sweatpants. He steps in front of Ray and waits. Sand still hasn’t touched him, but Ray tries not to let it dishearten him. At least Sand is looking at him, although Ray can’t really put a name to the myriad of emotions he sees swimming in Sand’s eyes.

Ray slowly reaches to circle his fingers around Sand’s wrist. He feels Sand’s pulse quicken under his thumb, and Sand’s hand twitches slightly, but he doesn’t move it away.

Ray guides Sand’s hand to his mouth, kisses along the lines of Sand’s palm, the hardened skin of his calluses. He brings Sand’s hand to his face and lets it rest against his cheek. He breathes out in relief when the hand stays.

“Are you scared to touch me?”

Sand nods, a little jerky motion of his head, confirming Ray’s suspicions. Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? he wants to ask, but to that he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“I know that you want me to hurt you,” Sand says. He sounds… tired, more than anything. The press of his fingers on Ray’s cheek is almost tender. Ray can’t bear it, but the alternative–the loss of contact–is way worse.

Ray never asked for it out loud, not openly, but somehow Sand knew. He saw right through Ray, and Ray is suddenly terrified to know what he may have found.

“But that wasn’t okay.”

Ray closes his eyes and he hates himself. “I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t think…,” his voice breaks, because he doesn’t know how to continue. What was Ray thinking, letting Sand witness the ugliness that he usually works so hard to hide?

Sand cups Ray’s face with both hands now, forcing Ray to look at him, “What happened?”

Well, that is certainly a question. Where to even begin? More importantly, would it be appropriate to dump his trauma on an almost stranger? Of course not, Ray doesn’t even dump it on himself–in fact, he smothers those thoughts as soon as he feels them form in his head. There’s a bunch of pill bottles neatly stacked in his bathroom cabinet to that end, a tiny orange plastic forest.

But Sand is looking at him expectantly, his glistening eyes searching into Ray’s, and Ray knows he has to say something, or Sand will leave again–he’s almost certain.

“I was overwhelmed,” he says in the end. “Because I thought you were disgusted at me and that you were punishing me for it–I know it’s stupid, I asked you to hit me–”

“Why did you think I was disgusted at you?” Sand interrupts, confusion written all over his face.

Ray gestures vaguely at himself, as if to say your pick, the whole package is damaged.

“Ray,” Sand says, in a tone so intense it sends shivers down Ray’s spine. “Do you think I’d be here at all if I disliked you?”

Ray is inclined to say yes–he fucks people he doesn’t like all the time. But he also ghosts them afterwards.

At Ray’s silence, Sand lets out a long-suffering sigh and squishes Ray’s face between his palms. “How have you even survived so far being so damn clueless?”

“I haven’t,” Ray says–tries to, because right then Sand kisses him. He’s still holding Ray’s face and he uses his grip to angle it so that their noses don’t bump and he can suck Ray’s lower lip into his mouth.

Ray feels so much lighter all of a sudden, as if he just dropped the boulder that’s been crushing his lungs for the past week. Sand runs his tongue along the seam of Ray’s mouth and Ray lets him in, locking his arms around Sand’s shoulders to keep him close.

“I cleaned myself–only cleaned,” Ray pants when Sand cages him on the bed, his teeth working the unblemished skin of Ray’s neck. Just like you told me is implied.

“Good,” Sand says, and he pushes his swollen dick inside.

He fucks Ray missionary, his dark eyes never leaving Ray’s, their bodies pressed so close together that when they’re done, the shape of Ray’s pendant is carved below Sand’s slender collarbones.

Ray brushes his finger against the shallow cross-shaped mark as he holds a dozing off Sand in his arms afterwards, comforted by the thought that it will have faded come morning.

 

22.

Show time, Ray thinks, putting on the improved version of his business smile–accommodating but firm, Lana-approved. There’s a round of wais and greetings and hope traffic wasn’t too bads.

It’s a three against three kind of formation, Ray flanked by Paul and Lana while Khun Soikham sits between his legal representative and his assistant.

“In this day and age, curating one’s public image is essential. One word out of place and people will rush to take it out of context–threatening to,” Ray finger quotes, modulating his tone to sound sarcastic, “cancel you left and right.”

Nods and murmurs ensue; Ray inhales discreetly and keeps going.

“Social media are easy to manipulate, if you know how to. It’s not that hard to go viral, but the only way to make it happen for the right reasons is to control the narrative.

“The press, too–they will flock like vultures the moment they smell blood. But you can feed them bait and trick them into thinking they’re in control.”

Ray pauses, giving his audience time to let his words sink in.

“It all boils down to one word: distraction. We spin the tale, the public and the press gobble it down, and you get to do whatever you want behind the scenes. We’ll be out front taking the blows, and you won’t hear the first word about any of it.”

Ray notices with no small amount of satisfaction that Khun Soikham looks captivated–he’s sitting on the edge of his chair, his chin resting on top of his interlocked fingers. His assistant next to him is jotting down notes like crazy in his small notebook. Ray smiles in victory.

“I will now pass the baton to my team, who will walk you through the step-by-step details of our offer.”

Ray nods at Lana and Paul, who stand on cue to get the slides ready on the wall screen. Ray sits down, back straight against his chair, and hides his trembling fingers under the table.

 

23.

“Have you eaten? I ordered food,” Ray greets Sand by the door, his arms folded against his chest as he watches Sand take off his shoes and pet Mew.

Sand squeezes his waist and kisses the corner of his mouth, “You celebrating something?”

Ray is about to tell Sand that they’ve almost closed the deal, they’re only waiting for the other party to look the contract over and send it back; but then he remembers what happened the last time he mentioned work stuff and he–doesn’t freeze, but something close to it.

He leads Sand to the kitchen so he doesn’t have to look at him, and he starts arranging the takeout containers on the table.

“Not really. Just felt like treating myself.”

Sand hums as he rummages in the drawer for spoons. Once he’s seated opposite Ray at the table, he peers into the plastic container and smiles, “I love tom yum.”

Ray loves it too. Mew’s mom used to make it for them every time they scored high on their uni exams–it’s one of Ray’s comfort foods. This restaurant is good, though not as perfect as the soup in Ray’s memories. He realizes he’s been spacing out when he hears Sand blow on his soup, and he rushes to do the same.

Sand talks about his latest gig at a fancy bar, he says that Ray would like the place, his grin teasing but fond. Ray tunes in and out of the conversation, laughs and tries to reply to Sand’s jokes but his mind is far away in space and time. He jerks back into the present at a light squeeze of Sand’s hand on his own. Ray blinks at their fingers laced on top of the table, at his half-eaten soup. He lets the foot he had unconsciously hooked around Sand’s calf fall to the floor and then looks up at Sand.

The beginning of a wrinkle appears between Sand’s eyebrows, but the crests of his cheeks are dusted with pink.

“Wanna move to the bedroom?” he asks, and Sand nods and follows.

There is an edge of softness to Sand’s touches–Ray can’t remember if it’s been this way since the very beginning or Sand is being especially gentle, his knuckles brushing Ray’s jaw, one hand splayed on Ray’s navel as he presses soft kisses on his shoulder. Even the drag of his dick inside Ray is slower, the rocking of his hips shallow. Ray’s stomach drops with a sudden sense of unease.

“Sand,” he calls weakly. “Harder. Please.”

Sand seems to hesitate for a moment but he complies, pushing his knees up so that he slides in deeper, to the hilt, and Ray gasps, but it’s still not… still not enough.

Ray guides one of Sand’s hands to his thigh, the other to his neck. “Here too,” he pleads.

Sand gets the hint, because he always does. He caresses the back of Ray’s neck and unclasps his necklace; he places it on the bedside table with a muted clink. Ray feels more naked than before, but he isn’t sure whether in a good way or in a bad way. His thoughts are running a mile a minute, he can’t seem to focus on any of them. He sees the blurry silhouettes of them, but no more than that.

Sand rubs two fingers against Ray’s Adam’s apple, then his pulse point, and Ray shivers against Sand’s chest, feeling very close to combusting into a million jagged pieces. Sand wraps his hand around Ray’s neck in a loose hold, his thumb searching for a spot below Ray’s jawline. He taps three times, then he applies pressure.

Ray’s mind immediately quietens, his anguish and his arousal and his fear fading in the background as his body processes the lack of oxygen.

It’s exhilarating, to give up control like that, to entrust himself fully to Sand’s hands. Sand releases the pressure and Ray struggles to take in as much air as possible in the space of time between Sand’s next three taps and his thumb pressing on that spot again.

Ray feels lighter and lighter; he loses sense in his fingertips first, then slowly in the rest of his body, the points of contact between his skin and Sand’s the only thing keeping him from floating in the air like a helium balloon.

For a moment between one rush of euphoria and the next, he wishes Sand pressed harder, cut off the air from reaching his windpipe altogether. How sweet it would be, how peaceful. To make it all go away.

But Sand is… his hand on Ray’s neck is gentle and steady, the one on Ray’s thigh is rougher, harsh kneading and blunt nails digging into Ray’s skin, keeping him tethered, keeping him grounded.

Ray comes untouched, and Sand holds him, shushing him and wiping his tears and pressing kisses all over Ray’s body, whispering, “you’re fine, I’m here.”

Sand is there, body warm and heartbeat regular behind Ray, and maybe that’s part of the problem.

 

24.

“You’re starting to piss me off,” Namchueam declares, twirling her fork in the air like a weapon. They’re at a restaurant waiting for their pasta orders, because Namchueam looked at Ray from head to toe and decided he needed carbs. Ray has tried inviting her over to hang–after making sure she’d taken her allergy pills–but Mew did not appreciate the intrusion. “You’re glowing but you also look miserable. Can’t you just pick a side?”

The part of Ray that isn’t busy ruminating on… stuff almost finds it amusing. “The work thing I told you about, remember? The asshole client–we signed.”

“So that’s the glow,” Namchueam reasons, reaching to pat Ray’s knuckles in her version of congratulations, I knew you’d slay.

Ray disagrees; he thinks the glow has more to do with the way Sand has been treating him–like he’s resigned himself to shoulder the whole weight of Ray’s existential grief–than with securing the deal he’s been working towards for months. Which used to be one of his priorities, but now that it’s done he doesn’t feel a single shred of the happiness, of the satisfaction, of the relief he thought he’d feel.

“So what’s the misery about?”

Every fucking thing, Ray thinks bitterly. He heaves out a wistful sigh, letting his head fall onto the table cheek-first.

“Oh boy. Don’t tell me this is about what I think it is, because I might throttle you.”

This is a pattern–Ray has been venting about his Sand-related woes to Namchueam pretty much since they became friends, and Namchueam’s progressively more irked advice is always something like, just talk to him (as if!) or you’re basically dating already (horrifying), or give me your phone, I’ll text him right now that you’re head over heels for him so you’ll stop going on and on about this like a broken record (ridiculous).

Ray wants to shake his head vehemently, but he’s still trying to open a portal into the sticky table of the diner so that he’ll disappear forever and he won’t have to face–anything, so he shakes his hand instead. It’s more like a fruity wrist flick, but it’s the best he can do at the moment.

“Enough about me. Lemme live vicariously through your life for a bit.”

As much as she enjoys teasing the shit out of Ray and nagging at him, Namchueam is a good friend, as well as an amazing person all around. She drops the topic with awe-inspiring smoothness. “My friend is opening her own bar and she hired me to work on the interiors.”

Ray straightens up, his curiosity piqued, “Oh??”

“It’s my first solo project and it’s–well, it’s not much, but it’s one step closer to leaving that circus of an agency and spreading my wings, you know?”

“Hell yeah!” Ray leans forward and presents his fist for a bump that immediately arrives.

“I’ve been in your shoes before,” Ray says later, around a mouthful of carbonara. They ordered two different pasta dishes to split, but in Ray’s opinion this one is better than the arrabbiata. He’s waiting for Namchueam to call his ass out for eating more than his allotted share.

“Trying to build a solid client base isn’t easy, but you’re about ten times smarter than I am, so if I made it there’s no reason you won’t be able to.”

Namchueam hates being mushy, so her eyes only glisten for a split second before she breaks into her beautiful bitchy grin, “Try a hundred times.” She pushes her half-eaten plate towards Ray, “Time to switch–don’t think I didn’t notice you hogging the carbonara!”

 

25.

Ray wakes up around five in the morning, courtesy of his inner clock, and he extricates himself from Sand’s embrace to pick up a drowsy Mew and carry her to the kitchen.

“You’ve gotten so big,” he tells her. “Soon enough you’ll be too heavy for me to carry like this. Isn’t that sad?”

He feeds her and then has his own breakfast, black coffee and the usual tasteless bar; a lifelong supply.

He goes to the bathroom and he shaves and he moisturizes and he ponders on whether he needs some concealer for the dark circles under his eyes. He dabs some onto the fresh marks on his neck as a compromise.

He styles his hair and he gets dressed and he lingers by the bed.

Mew must have sneaked back into the room after Ray fed her, because she’s snuggled up to Sand now, her head resting on Sand’s bicep–exactly where Ray’s head was earlier. Sand is mindlessly stroking her ears and down her back, but his eyes are closed and the room is silent save for Mew’s constant purring.

“I need to go,” Ray leans in to whisper to Sand, “But you can stay a bit longer if you want.”

Sand hums, turning his head slightly to the side. His eyes stay closed but his lips pucker, and Ray ignores the faint ache in his chest in favor of kissing him softly. He kisses Mew’s cheek next, her whiskers tickling him.

“You gonna spy on us with your kitty cam?” Sand asks in his sleep voice, thick and raw, and Ray wishes it didn’t do what it does to his dick and his heart.

“Maybe. Are you into that?”

Sand laughs, and when Ray kisses him this time, he blindly wraps his free arm around Ray’s shoulder to keep him there, and they exchange kisses, close-mouthed and unhurried. Ray is definitely going to be late again.

There’s gunk in the corners of Sand’s half-mast eyes and his morning breath is no joke, but at the moment there is nothing Ray wants more than to burrow back under the blankets and stay.

He sighs as he straightens up, fixing the hopefully not too deep creases in his shirt. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“We’ll build a pillow fort,” Sand taunts, all cheek and soft edges, then he waves his hand in the air as if to shoo Ray away.

When Ray drops by the apartment at lunch time to fill Mew’s bowls and hang out with her before he has to go back to the office, Sand is gone. Of course he is.

Sand has a life outside of Ray’s bedroom, of Ray’s home.

 

26.

It’s not that it’s not good. It’s perfect as always, and it keeps getting better because Sand is so accustomed to Ray’s body, and Ray to Sand’s, that they know how to work together. The sex is probably the best Ray’s ever had.

When Ray first let Sand into his house, he could have never imagined one day he’d feel a twinge in his chest upon seeing his turned back in the hallway. That he’d struggle to leave the bed in the morning not because of his depression, but to stay a little longer in the safe cocoon of Sand’s arms.

He doesn’t know what it means. He wishes Sand spelled it out for him, because he has an inkling that Sand knows more than him, about this, about them.

But other times Sand’s eyes are distant, his movements stilted, and he goes quiet. Ray doesn’t know what that means either; but maybe the coldness, the hardness is easier for him to bear. More familiar.

There’s a feeling of impending doom that haunts Ray, like the ghost of a past lover he never stopped mourning. The notion that he needs to do something about it settles at the front of his brain, but also in the pit of his stomach, a permanent churning.

He’s not in the best of moods when he lets Namchueam drag him to her friend’s bar for the opening event. “You need a distraction,” she said with a firmness that Ray couldn’t refute. “Just put on your tightest jeans and your sluttiest top.” Then, softer, “This is important to me.”

And Ray is trying hard to be a better person, a better friend; especially since he fears he’s failed his other friends. Which is how he finds himself awkwardly holding a cocktail glass in his hands, standing somewhere in the middle of the bar, Namchueam and a few of her girl friends chatting excitedly about something Ray cannot focus on enough to follow. He’s become the awkward, quiet guy that tags along. He doesn’t know who he is anymore.

There’s movement on the stage, the band is climbing the little wooden steps to put their instruments in place. Ray’s eyes fall onto the guy holding the electric guitar, long legs clad in ripped jeans and a faded band tee tucked inside the waistband.

Ray’s breath stops. He feels like he’s in one of those scenes in movies where the main character is stuck into place and the world turns around them at double the speed, a swirl of color and neon lights and sounds that he can’t catch up with. He feels dizzy, nauseous, like he’s about to throw up the entirety of his inner organs onto the polished dark floor. Namchueam picked that shade because it went well with the industrial vibe of the place, she had told Ray.

He reaches blindly to the side to tap Namchueam’s arm. “What the fuck. Sugar… that’s him.”

Namchueam sends a look up at the stage; somehow, she seems to know who Ray is referring to without him having to point his finger. “He’s cute. You should buy him a drink after his performance.”

“Terrible idea,” Ray manages to articulate despite the panic clogging his throat. “I need to leave.”

Namchueam turns to him, no doubt to tease him about his lack of initiative, but her grin morphs into a grimace as soon as she sees Ray’s expression. Ray wonders distantly how obvious it is that he’s majorly freaking out, if he should be embarrassed that he’s potentially making a scene. If he should feel guilty because he’s ruining an event important to a friend, once again.

“You won’t die if you meet him outside of your bedroom,” Namchueam told Ray once with an eye roll that spoke of how done she was with Ray’s dramatics.

Wrong, Ray thinks now. He’s about to pass out.

 

27.

Namchueam drives him home. She fusses until she’s sure Ray can walk on his legs, but she leaves him at his doorstep to avoid triggering allergic reactions.

Mew must sense Ray’s pitiful state because she curls on his lap and lets him bury his fingers in her fur.

This is a new low, Ray thinks. He thinks about the unopened pill bottles in his bathroom cabinet, but the mere idea of swallowing something right now is revolting. He’s not sure how long he stays on the couch; maybe he dozes off a bit, but he rouses to consciousness when the doorbell rings.

Ray jolts up–it couldn’t be…

What if Sand saw him in the crowd? Saw Ray leave pathetically, Namchueam’s arm around his shoulder for support because his knees kept buckling and his head kept spinning.

Knuckles rapping on wood; insistent, impatient.

Ray’s legs are heavy as lead as he drags himself down the hallway. He hesitates for a long moment with his fingers around the doorknob. This is it, he thinks. This is how I die.

He opens the door; but he doesn’t meet a pair of big, brown, pretty eyes. It’s round lenses and concern and anger tempered by relief.

 

00.

Ray found Mew–the cat–on a rainy evening. It was a scene straight out of a drama–it was pouring and howling like the end of the world and Ray dodged the puddles to follow her desperate mewling deep into an alley. She was drenched in what remained of a seeping cardboard box, and Ray didn’t have to think twice before he knelt to scoop her up in his arms. He’d had no choice but to take her home.

Mew–the person–found Ray in a not so different manner. Similarly scrawny and wet and beaten, similarly kicked out of his house and with not much to hold in his hands anymore.

Mew had taken him in, his family welcoming Ray with open arms like a long-lost son. Mew had treated Ray like a brother since day one, and Ray had thought that the fuzzy feeling in his chest was gratitude; and disbelief for being so whole-heartedly accepted. Wanted.

Ray spent long nights staring up at Mew’s sleeping face from the thin air mattress Mew’s mom had laid out next to Mew’s bed for him, committing his features to memory, unable to fall asleep because he was terrified he’d wake up still trapped in Hell.

Sometimes they slept together in Mew’s bed, but it wasn’t big enough for two growing boys, so they had to sleep pressed together–a fun time for Ray, who was figuring out his sexuality at the same pace as he was working through his feelings.

The problem was that what was once a puny ball of yarn cradled in the middle of Ray’s rib cage grew and grew, until it enveloped Ray whole. It took Ray a while to give a name to it, but even when he did, he still didn’t want things between them to change.

The thought that Mew might stop looking at him with that twinkle in his eyes, or that he might not want to hug him anymore, his warmth instantly melting all of Ray’s worries, was enough for the words to condense into Ray’s throat. He didn’t mind the way they coiled like barbed wire around his windpipe–if it was for Mew, he could take this and more.

Then came Boston, who understood Ray better than everyone else, maybe because Ray never felt the need to mold himself to Boston’s liking; and Nick, one of the many victims of Boston’s gravitational pull, but the only one who stuck around.

Then Top.

The nights Ray spent longing for Mew became nights he spent berating himself, thinking that maybe he should have fought harder, he should have confessed how he felt. But he wasn’t equipped to deal with Mew’s inevitable rejection, much less with Mew disappearing from his life; so he chose to break his own heart instead, day by day, bit by bit.

One night, while he was wallowing in pain and self-pity, he suddenly remembered reading a poem in a book he stole from the forbidden area of the school library. It was the story of a man who, on his deathbed, wrinkled and consumed, kept calling the name of his loved one–even though the latter had abandoned him for someone else. His love ran so deep that even the Gods were left astounded. Love is a burden, the realization struck Ray like thunder. Its ineluctability bears a special kind of cruelty. Ray felt as helpless as that man, and, try as he might, he didn’t see the end of it. He couldn’t imagine a day in the future where he’d stop feeling the way he felt. The man in the poem lost his mind and wandered the wilderness, carving his grief into tree trunks and surviving off hunting. Ray wanted to get the words the man said tattooed around his neck, right above his necklace, an eternal reminder of how he couldn’t shout his feelings out loud, how he let them rot inside. But the tattoo artist looked at him like he was crazy (he was, as well as starry-eyed drunk) and offered to do his thigh instead.

As good of a talker as Ray is, he couldn’t say shit when it mattered, and all he could do was watch as a by-stander as Mew found happiness with someone that was… similar to him, but not him. Maybe less broken, easier to deal with.

Granted, Ray found ways to cope–some more destructive than others, but all in all he was fine. Even though he had locked his heart away and thrown the key into the ocean he could still see people, be with people; strangers to share the bed with for one night, sometimes more. A semblance of normalcy.

He built a career, bought a house, put together a neverending list of hookups and failed friendships with benefits; and now he has a cat as well.

Sometimes he felt like his pain made him stronger, a martyr of his self-inflicted sorrow. In a way, taking care of Mew–the cat–was like giving back for everything Mew–the person–has given him: a second chance at life, a home, unconditional love. Just not the kind that Ray desperately yearned for.

Then Sand came into Ray’s life. Sand is… something else. He knows how to hurt Ray just like he needs it, as though he was handed an instructions manual directly from God. And the inexplicable, infinite sadness in his eyes speaks of a pain Ray is not privy to, but Ray is not honest about his own either, and maybe that’s what made them click. Maybe it’s also what’s going to destroy them eventually.

Ray knows he’s not in love with Sand; he knows because his term of comparison is Mew, and nothing has ever felt–feels–as heart-wrenching and overwhelming and all-encompassing as that.

With Sand it’s mutual understanding, and trust. It’s softness and roughness, pain and pleasure. It’s comfort. A new type of familiarity.

But not love.

 

28.

Mew hugs him, and Ray crumbles in his arms. He’s seventeen again, crouching under the leaky roof of the bus stop in his damp school uniform, and he’s hopelessly in love with his savior.

“I’m sorry,” Ray cries against Mew’s chest. For ruining your engagement party, for disappearing, for always being too much, for loving you.

Mew drags his palm up Ray’s back, noses the top of Ray’s head. “I know.”

They sit on the couch and Ray keeps sniffing occasionally and Mew still has concern written in capital letters on his face, but he asks Ray how he’s been, about his job. He tells Ray about the house he moved into with Top, about the venues they’ve been scouting for their wedding. For a moment, it’s almost as if Ray hasn’t been hiding in shame and mortification from Mew for the past six months. Almost as if he never got drunk off his mind and made a fool of himself on what was supposed to be one of the best days of Mew’s life.

“Are you still seeing your therapist?”

Ray averts his eyes, knowing fully well that lying would be pointless. “I’ll go back, I promise. It’s just been so hectic, with the move and the job and the cat–”

Right then, the kitty comes out from hiding and she approaches them slowly, her head held low.

“She’s cute,” Mew beams, reaching down to pat his calf as if to call her over. The kitty stays at a safe distance. There is only one person she approaches willingly. “What’s her name?”

“She doesn’t have one yet,” Ray lies. “You know how I am, can never settle on one damn thing.” He tries for a laugh but the dubious look Mew gives him says he doesn’t sound believable.

Mew stays the night. He lies on the spot Ray has been keeping open for him, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel right. Like Mew doesn’t belong there.

“You need to let go of me,” Mew says, quietly, almost a plea. He’s not talking about the way Ray is hugging him from behind, clinging to him in a pointless attempt to make up for lost time.

“I know,” Ray whispers. It hurts, but more like an old scar than a fresh wound. “Just a little longer.”

Notes:

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