Chapter Text
Small fish in a big pond; when has Guy not felt like that. In comparison to New York, London actually feels lonely, less people, less small comforts. He can’t even remember now what made him decide this was the place to come.
Yet here he is, getting by.
He's worked anywhere that might hire him; bartender, hawker, library assistant, barista. He's done it all, his scholarship pays for almost everything; but he needs to eat, still needs a reason to get out the house that isn't another lecture.
None of the jobs last very long, temping or seasonal, and he's left with the distinct sadness that comes with knowing he has to start the whole process over and over again. But tonight, he's free; no shifts, no studying, nowhere to be. And he's been sat outside some fancy bar for so long he's surprised he's not been asked to move on.
He's lurking, and he knows he's lurking.
Lurking, perhaps not the legal term, but loitering is not a crime in England. And it sounds far better than stalking.
He's never done anything like this before; although he's sure everyone who has done something like this before would say the same.
He hadn't meant to; he just couldn't stop himself.
The moment he'd walked past, this man had some strange pull on him. Dark expression, striking cheekbones, tall. He'd barely noticed Guy, briefly catching his eyes before continuing down the street, but Guy had felt like a forgotten piece of metal in an MRI machine. An undeniable force had his feet turning, moving in the same direction before he even knew what he was doing.
So now he's leant against the wall in the most casual fashion he can muster, wishing he had a cigarette just so that he had some reason to linger here.
As he watches the man through the window, sat with two equally suited men in black, all that rolls through his head is some pathetic jealous streak. Guy can see as well as anyone that this is some sort of business meeting, and yet, here he is balling his fists at the prospect.
More time passes than Guy would care to admit, out in the cold, waiting. They finish their meeting, most of the time spent talking about some book from what he has gathered, and the man picks up his coat to leave the others. As he casually walks towards the exit, Guy watches and feels some strange anticipation, relief that they will not he burden by the barrier of walls and windows, drawn together again. For all he is paying attention, he has not noticed that the man is staring at him through the window - too busy looking at every other part of his body.
What do we have here?
The man's voice is in his mind. In his mind. So clear and distinct, so obviously his voice for its gruffness and cadence matches his image perfectly.
All Guy can think, wide eyed, staring, is How can you do that?
Since he was young, he's never known another to do what he can do, never thought he might not be alone in this.
Through the glass, Guy is sure he sees the edges of his mouth curl into a smile. It would be easy to run, best to run, yet that magnetic pull does not let up and as the man disappears towards the exit, all can Guy hope is that he's coming for him.
Guy dithers where he stands, useless flitting between walking away and approaching the exit. But the choice is taken from him as the man appears at the door, and before he has a chance to move, he's coming towards him. As the distance between them lessens, the man brings up a hand, and it lands on Guy's shoulder to stop them from colliding entirely.
"Oh, sorry, kid, didn't see you there." It's almost a cruel laugh that leaves his lips; both of them knowing full well, the man knew exactly where he was.
The hand lingers, skirting over his neck, a slight scrape of sharp nails against his scruff as the man manoeuvres past him. The proximity is entirely unnecessary, given they are out in the empty street, yet Guy cannot help but lean into it. He pushes past him, his hand running down Guy's arm as he goes. Mutely, Guy stands watching him go, unsure how to cope with the sensations ripping through his body.
He's only a few steps away when he stops, turns back and comes back towards Guy. Guy has no idea what he expects him to say, but in his eyes there's something flickering, something beyond anything that Guy has ever known.
Where he can usually so easily read people, he is met with something similar to static, to white noise. The thoughts he has heard from him until now have been shared, intentionally, cast into Guy's mind and for him alone. Despite the cold night, he feels his cheeks blaze with warmth.
The man smiles at him, an expression Guy can only hope is hunger.
"You got a light?"
Guy scrambles in his pocket to find his lighter; he's only got it because the power routinely dies in his flat and he needs to light candles, but he's never been so glad of his misfortune.
It takes him a few tries to strike the flame, his hands clammy and nervous. Yet the man watches quietly, amused.
The man places the cigarette between his lips and waits for Guy to raise the lighter to him. In the dim light, the striking blue-white of his eyes becomes clear to Guy for the first time. Guy stares; the curve of his neck, the soft pink of his lip, the studious gaze upon him in return.
"Want a drag?" He offers.
Guy nods - he doesn't even smoke, but he doesn't think he'd say no to anything this man asked of him. He expects him to hand the cigarette to him, but he takes it from his own mouth, turns his hand and holds it out in front of Guy's.
Even as Guy leans to take it, the man does not defer the cigarette to him. His fingers remaining and Guy's lips draw so close in order to take the cigarette in his mouth that his lips almost touch the fingers.
Scent, taste, touch. All of it known to him, finally, all of it seemingly amplified beyond anything he's felt before.
In the low light, he cannot see much. But he can see the size of his fingers, the size of his hands, and a whir of strange emotion tightens within him. He places his lips to the end of cigarette and takes a small puff, hoping that his inexperience is not too obvious.
God, he wants to spit out the cigarette and take the man's finger into his mouth instead. He's never felt such an ache in his life; it must be written so distinctly across his face, must radiate out of him like a beacon. Good, good, he wants nothing more than this man to know what he is doing to Guy. How much he wants him to do whatever he wants with him.
He's so caught up in it, he forgets to breathe, and suddenly the smoke catches in his throat. As he rattles out a few meagre coughs, a wide palm lands on his back to pat him.
"Steady on, boy. Breathe, breathe."
The pats come against him even as the coughing subsides, and Guy feels his whole body move with such a force that he almost stumbles forward, into the man's arms.
"There you are. That's better," The cadence of his voice is so soothing, so pleasing that he could get lost in it.
And the hand, that had soothed his back, creeps its way back up until somehow the man is touching his neck again, so clearly pressing at this particular spot again and uncaring if Guy knows it.
But Guy wants nothing more than to get lost, is quite content that he remains here forever, beholden to the press bringing forth in him ripples of unknown sensation. Pain that he doesn't want to cease; shivering, aching, his forehead sticky with a cold sweat.
Leaving him bereft, the hand pulls away, and Guy, who is barely stood up on his own, can only quietly mumble his dissent, keep himself planted on the spot so that he doesn't crash at this man's feet. Although, I wouldn't mind that, Guy's traitorous mind thinks.
The man pats him on the cheek; hands that smell of tobacco and whiskey and metal brushing against his skin, brushing the corner of his lip before retreating entirely.
"Thanks, kid, you're a saviour," He says, waving the cigarette between them. See you around.
Guy cannot even attempt to reply, can do nothing but watch open-mouthed as the stranger leaves him with nothing more than a sly smile and a wink. He realises only after the man has turned from him, that he didn't say a word to him, that he didn't even manage to get his name. London is a big place, and he might never see him again.
It would be too brazen to follow him now. Yet Guy cannot help himself but wonder whether he'd take him up if Guy offered to get on his knees and get him off in an alley. Because that's what it is, that's what he must admit to himself, this strange sensation that's compelled him forward.
Want. Lust. Desire.
Whatever florid name you want to call it, it comes down to the fact that Guy wants to be fucked, hard. And, of course, he's felt that before. Of course, he's been horny many times before, but it's never been so vivid, so visceral as this.
Never with such a singular desire. He doesn't want just anyone; he needs it to be this man.
Pulling up his hood and sticking his hands in his pockets, as if to hide his mantled skin, he rushes home at such a speed, he's surprised he isn't mowed down by a cab or cyclist as he goes. Doesn't care as he bumps into people as he passes them.
Once he's home, the door firmly locked behind him, the curtain tightly drawn, he goes to the bedroom and he pulls off his clothes quickly. Across his bed, he lays a blanket and he settles against it with only one purpose. There's no use pretending; Guy's mind is so alive, sleep the last thing he could possibly think of. On the bed, he quickly gets onto his back to get comfortable. Beneath him, the blanket feels a cool comfort to the way his body grows warm.
His hand dips down between his thighs, two fingers tentatively pressing against sensitive flesh. His fingers brush against his clit, causing him to gasp out. As he parts the flesh, he feels how wet and warm he is.
He presses in one finger and fucks it in, progressively deeper as he grows used to the sensation. It's impossible to think of anything but the man; he imagines him watching, approaching the bed, his hand on Guy's knee and pressing it so he can more easily watch. As he thinks it, Guy's lips twitch, he screws his eyes shut so that when he opens them it might come true.
Impatient for more, he pushes in another finger, wanting more, needing to be full. And he's so wet, it's easy; so wet his hand, his thighs are quickly soaked as he fucks in and out. Parting his legs wider, pushing his hips up to better the angle - still imagining it is the man who guides him to do so, he practically feels those thick fingers pressing into him. If only his own fingers were longer, thicker. But this will do, for now. It has to.
He increases the pace, his hips fucking up towards the sensation, towards ecstasy.
Fuck. Fuck.
His hand comes up to his neck, pressing the same spot where he had been touched. But his fingers do not have the same effect, do not alight in him any tender need except all that he is already experiencing. His fingers drifts back across his neck, so he can pretend it's almost incidental as his fingers curve down against his throat.
He doesn't even need to press down hard, his palm against the jut of his exposed neck. The thought that the man could so easily hold him beneath his touch; one hand at his throat, the other fucking into his pussy. This, with the insistent press of his thumb rubbing circles into his clit, is quickly enough.
As it rips through him, it is a small comfort that washes over him. The wrongness in his body is forgotten for a moment. His legs part punishingly wide, as he continues to fuck into himself, feels the wet gush from him drenching his entire hand. And perhaps another ripples through him, though he's so sensitive, so needy, that he can hardly tell where one orgasm might have ended and the other started.
His head rolls this way and that, as he gasps out into the night. And he can't bear to stop, his fingers pressing of their own accord as they seek out something unknown with him, his thumb moving desperately against his clit. Frantic; his body jerks as he orgasms, jerks upwards to keep every part of him full and wanting. His thighs come together, trapping his wrist, trapping his fingers in his cunt, and he slowly rocks against them, unwilling for this mounting pleasure to subside just yet.
Finally, reluctantly, he pulls his crooked fingers away from his throbbing cunt.
Resting sticky hands limply against his thigh, for a long while he only looks up to the ceiling above. His chest rises and falls as he recovers himself.
As the high wears off, the coolness of the air hits his skin, clammy beneath him. He can't deny the shame, the confusion; his body is hot and is not free at all from the sensation. As the ripples of pleasure subside, the fantasy does not leave with it; he is still thinking about the man, but now it seems to come with the realisation that he does not, will not have him.
In some small attempt to avoid the feelings, he jumps out of the bed. The blanket is soddened, and even before he pulls it away, he knows that the sheets beneath also will be. When he does remove the blanket, he cannot believe how wet the sheets are, a dark stain left pooling out from where he laid.
Grabbing at them, they are even wetter than they look, soaked through.
What the fuck.
Quickly, he pulls off and bundles everything into a pile into the wash bin, moving to the bathroom in order to sort out the utter state he is in.
He doesn’t dare let himself look in the mirror to take in the dishevelled state of himself. Imagines it well enough as he steps into the shower. The stickiness of his fingers, between his legs, his hair sodden with sweat. He feels like a drowned rat, or a mangy dog. He feels like there's never been so much wrong with him.
He's boiling hot, yet the warm shower - thankfully working - comes as a blessing anyway. A blessing to wash away all his sins.
Or try its hardest.
As he lathers the soap across himself, Guy cannot allow his fingers more than a perfunctory touch. The tension rises in him again, a tightly wound coil. As he slips past his nipples, he finds himself moaning at the slightest brush. Within him again, the unbridled need rises. It's as if his body is not his own, as if the sensations he feels are amplified tenfold.
What is wrong with me?
Drifting downwards, he rubs soap against his stomach, into the patch of dark hair, across his thighs. And perhaps he had managed to wash it away, yet again he feels the warm slick between his legs as his fingers pretend to only wash him.
He can't help it, he feels like a man possessed as his pointer finger begins tracing over his pussy lips and back up towards his clit.
The pounding of the shower in his ears hides from him the rush of his heartbeat, the gasp of every small breath that leaves him, but, of course, he knows it is. Is beholden to it, as his body quivers with the force of needing more.
He slips his hand behind the shower curtain and reaches down to a drawer below the sink. His hand finds quickly what he is looking for; a vibrator about the length of his hand. A gift from an old partner, if someone who fucks you at 3am and leaves before sun-up counts as a partner. He's not used it since that time, yet he's never thrown it away. Perhaps in waiting of this very moment.
Although it is already clean, he lathers it with soap and washes it imprecisely. After a moment, he realises he is essentially jacking it off and can only wish something else were in his hand instead.
He switches it on, and takes no time with preamble, pressing it directly against his clit. Electric jolts rush through him at the motion, he feels how warm he has become, all the blood rushing to where his fingers have not stopped. He teases the vibrator across the entire length of his vulva, his stomach muscles contracting with the pleasure of it causing him to hunch over.
But it is not enough, he needs a better position. He needs it deeper.
He moves down onto his knees in the shower, grinding his hips back and forth against the vibration.
The water pounds against his back and he wants nothing more than to feel the weight of someone pushing him down, holding him close as they fuck into him. Someone with large hands, piercing eyes, a husky voice.
He's so wet that the vibrator tip slips into him easily and he falls forward as he presses it inside. The ease of fucking it in allows him to push it deep, deeper than his fingers, more forceful.
Oh. Fuck.
The vibrations rumble through him, pressing every overwrought and sensitive nerve to pleasured insanity. He's sure the man's cock would be much bigger than this, he imagines it stretching him out, come leaking out of his hole as he fucks it into him.
If he weren't so far gone, he might even feel shame, but Guy knows if he pulled back the curtain to see that man standing there, he'd tell him exactly what he wanted him to do to him. Although, he'd probably have plenty of ways to use him better than Guy could think of on his own.
And that's it. All physical pleasure aside, it is the prospect of being fondled by him, having him press into every part of Guy's body, that tips him over again. The hand holding the vibrator fails to the shower floor to help hold him up as he comes, and slowly the vibrator slips out of him, hitting the floor of the shower and sitting there, buzzing incessantly.
How easily he could pick it up again, slip it back inside himself and force himself few another few orgasms. It would be easy; he wants it so bad it hurts. Blindly, he finds the vibrator beneath him and clicks it off.
For a while, he stays hunched over with the shower raining upon him as if there is nowhere else he could possibly go. Nothing else that exists but the persistent warmth.
Finally, he comes to his senses, or what little he has left, and pushes himself off the floor. He grabs a washcloth, wiping across himself and avoid any inch of skin that might betray him, and quickly washes his hair. He knows he ought to condition it, to look after it properly, but he can't bear another step in the routine.
Out of the shower, he dries himself quickly. The horror of the unexplained, the dread caused by this unbaiting feeling, washes over him as he re-dresses. Picking the softest pyjamas he has; the least likely to cause any friction upon any part of his body. His traitorous body need only think too long on the idea of something touching him in one of many places, and within him certain tender feelings beginning to re-emerge.
He's never been so glad to be so exhausted, so depleted already the thought of doing it over again is too much to bear. His wrists aches, his knees are sore, and between his legs throbs from over-use. He'd go again anyway, but if he started, he wouldn't trust himself to know when to stop, to physically be able to stop once the feeling had him in its grip.
The task of remaking his bed is enough to tire himself out further, and he flops onto it, pulling the sheets up to his chin as if hiding himself away.
For only a few moments he tries to search for some reasonable explanation to this predicament. But all his phone provides is porn, or strange forums that don't seem to take any serious issue with feeling like this. Perhaps he should just call a doctor. But what had the doctors ever done to help him as a child? There had been so many things about him that were not as "they should be". So many things that took years to accept about himself because so many other people told him he should not.
So maybe it's a medical issue, but the thought of walking into a doctor's office and telling them he's unstoppably horny all of a sudden is about the last thing Guy wants to do.
He lets his head fall back on the pillow, knowing he's bound to have an awful, restless sleep. Although, when does he not?
As his eyes drift close, his hand instinctively comes up to caress the soft skin of his neck. It does nothing, not the same in any discernible way. His hand feels too soft, not coarse or strong as he wishes it were.
And the last thing he thinks, the thought that coasts through his dreams is Maybe that man knows something about what I am, maybe I should find him and find out.
It's a feeble excuse and Guy knows it, but he also knows there's no force on earth that would stop him from finding him.