on my mind

by urfavanon

Summary:

tom gets horny for his good friend matt

Notes:

HELLLOOOOOOOOOOO ALLLLLLL imagine i screamed that

anywya im so excited i have a lovelt smut brought to you by me and i was inspired by my freaking FRIEND 😵 yes i am making more friends who like smut like me so anyway my friend's name is :kuj0goth on twitter🤖 hes really cool and nice so go check that mfs art out right now

about this fic its basically porn so nejoy that, and ive got some shit coming i thin i need to do more tomtord so ima do dat and also whtv the fuck else i said id write. i hope you guys love this because i was actually high for a majorty of the time while writing it so yeah 🫥 if its like shitty my bad i cant stay awake anymore

love u guys adios

Thomas was slung across the couch next to Edd, his legs kicked wide, straining the fabric of the worn sweatpants he had on. Some brain-dead humored sitcom played on the TV; canned laughter lilting through the room every few seconds, even though the shit really wasn’t that fucking funny. The two of them passed a joint back and forth, the cherry glowing orange then dimming, smoke curling up in pretty swirls. It was Saturday. One of Tom’s favorite days. Not shit to do today, nothing scheduled tomorrow, so you could basically be as lazy as physically fucking possible and call it ‘me day’. He’d also somehow managed to stay stoned the entire weekend already. Who was judging?

 

 

Well. Actually, someone was judging him.

 

 

A certain ginger-haired bird had been orbiting him literally nonstop all weekend like a fucking mosquito, buzzing about some party he just had to come to. Tom usually avoided that whole scene because it often sucked for him. He hated being around strangers who expected him to be as gratingly loud as they were. He also hated having to fake a good mood when his default setting was already “mildly pissed off.” The music was so loud it made your teeth vibrate, sticky floors that fucked his shoes up, and there was always somebody inevitably spilling warm beer down your back, even though half the time that somebody was him.

 

 

Of course, he’d hang with Matt sometimes on an occasion where he felt like he needed to go and do something; get drunk, whatever. But a full-on party-rave type event? Hard pass.

 

 

Matt, naturally, was the exact fucking opposite. He was probably the biggest socialite Tom had ever met. He knew everybody in a five-mile radius and could probably make friends with a goddamn lamppost if it stood still long enough. He could have a new friend within seconds. Likable, loud, outgoing, gorgeous. Tom often found himself comparing the two of them, not in a self-deprecating way, but in terms of how different they looked next to one another. He felt like a fucking four standing next to a ten. And yet somehow the ginger still liked having him as company. Company he was unfortunately going to have to go without him tonight.

 

 

“Come on, Tom. Please.” Matt was draped over the back of the couch now, elbows planted between them, chin practically resting on Tom’s shoulder. “It’s been months since you last came out with me. You said you would!”

 

 

Beside them, Edd choked on the hit he was holding. “Wow. You said you would, Tom? You have to go now.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, but it didn’t seem like Matt caught it, or he just ignored it.

 

 

Tom sniffed, shook his head once, making it deliberate so he could get his point across. “I said maybe. I didn’t say yes.” His nose wrinkled at the mental image of Matt standing over him with three different shirts held up for him to switch between. “Come on, Matt. I don’t feel like putting on an outfit and getting… ready and all that shit.”

 

 

Of course, he wouldn’t admit out loud that sometimes— only sometimes—the attention did feel kind of good. Being fussed over by someone who actually took an interest in what he looked like. But admitting that was something he that he genuinely could not even fathom. He’d actually never hear the end of that shit.

 

 

“Damn it! Please, this is supposed to be a really fun party. Everyone’s gonna be there, and the drinks are gonna be free,” Matt crooned, voice dipping into that syrupy affect he used when he was trying to be extra persuasive with someone. He leaned further over, one nimble hand delicately sliding into Tom’s perpetual bedhead, manicured nails scratching lightly at his scalp in what was probably some messed-up form of coercion. The touch was warm, nails just sharp enough to feel good for about three seconds.

 

 

Tom let it happen longer than he meant to; eyes half-closing, shoulders loosening despite himself—before he slapped Matt’s hand away with a gruff scoff. “No, Matt. Another time.” He tilted his head all the way back over the couch cushion so he could actually look up at the ginger. The angle made his throat stretch, adam’s apple bobbing. He forced an apologetic half-smile, the kind that showed a sliver of teeth and looked kind of sincere. “I swear. For real. Next time.”

 

 

Matt tried to hold a sneer, but it cracked fast; a reluctant smile broke across his pink lips anyway. “Fine. But I’m serious. Next time you’re going, or I’m gonna drag your ass.” He reached down and flicked the back of Tom’s head, sharp enough to sting but not hard enough to hurt, then pushed off the couch and strutted back toward his room.

 

 

Tom let out a long, relieved sigh at Matt finally letting him free of the request. He stretched both arms over his head until his spine popped, shirt riding up enough to hike up his stomach a little. He passed the joint back to Edd. It had gone out a long while before.

 

Edd rolled his eyes pretty damn hard at the sight. He snatched the roach, dug around in the couch cushions until he found the lighter, and started flicking it back to life. “How come he can push you around so easily?”

 

Tom dropped his gaze to his phone screen, thumbing mindlessly through nothing. A faint heat crept up the sides of his neck, prickling under his jaw. “He doesn’t. And that wasn’t easy.”

 

Edd’s stared for a moment before grinning and shrugging his shoulders. He didn’t say anything else; he just took a long, crackling hit and passed it back.

 

Tom accepted it without looking up, cheeks still faintly warm, pretending the embarrassment wasn’t sitting right there on his face, plain and fucking obvious.

 

 

Thankfully, Matt kept his word and didn’t bug him anymore about the party, and Tom stayed successfully lazy as all fuck for the rest of the day, getting higher and higher because that’s honestly the best way to kill time. Edd eventually called it quits; said he had to go work on some fucking art or whatever bullshit, and left Tom to smoke the rest of what was already ground up

 

Tom was busy rolling a joint with the last of it, fingers moving slow and a little clumsily. He never had Edd’s neat little precision; the paper kept wanting to crease wrong and the weed kept spilling over the edges. He was tonguing carefully at the seam when Matt came bounding back into the living room, clearly about to head out. And fuck, of course he looked fine as hell. Tight ripped-up skinny jeans hugging every line of his long legs, even tighter magenta tank top that—up close—was basically see-through, thin enough you could make out the faint pink of his nipples underneath. There was body glitter caught in the light across his chest and collarbones, like someone had dusted him in fucking sugar. His navel piercing glinted, that sharp V of his hips disappearing into the low ass waistband. Unsurprisingly, he was always ridiculously pretty—but something in Tom’s stomach still curled anyway, a low twist of disappointment that he wasn’t going out there with him. Meaning Matt was about to walk into a room full of people who’d all be staring, touching, fawning. The thought made Tom’s jaw tighten a little.

 

He cleared his throat, forced his eyes off Matt’s body. “You look good.”

 

Matt glanced over from where he was cramming his phone, lip gloss, and some random card into his little crossbody purse. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

 

He sauntered over, hips swaying just enough to be obnoxious, and before Tom could protest, Matt was climbing right into his lap. He lifted the rolling tray out of the way with one hand, then settled his weight down, knees bracketing Tom’s thighs. Up close the glitter sparkled even more, and Tom could smell the sweet coconut of whatever body spray or lotion Matt had slathered on, mixed with the sharp mint of his breath.

 

Tom swallowed hard; almost comically loud in the quiet room—when Matt tilted his chin up to meet his eyes. Then the ginger leaned down and kissed him, soft at first, then firmer, leaving a sticky stamp of gloss and lipstick across Tom’s mouth. When he pulled back, Tom chased the kiss without thinking, lips parted, already leaning forward.

 

Matt grinned, sharp and pleased. “Shame you can’t come with,” he hummed, nails dragging lightly over the stubble along Tom’s jaw, coaxing his chin up higher to follow the touch.

 

 

“…Yeah,” Tom muttered, eyes shamelessly locked on Matt’s shiny lips again, trying to angle for another kiss.

 

 

“But, like you said, next time, right?” Matt sighed, layering fake pity into his voice, exaggerating the little sad tilt of his head so Tom’s next attempt at a kiss missed and landed on his cheek instead.

 

 

Tom’s hands found Matt’s hips automatically, fingers digging in through the denim. “Matt,” he huffed, not afraid to hide his annoyance.

 

 

Matt laughed—the sound bright and airy, something that always made Tom’s chest do like these weird flips that he would never admit to. “Sorry, baby, you’re gonna mess up my lips,” The ginger pouted them for effect, full and glossy. But his hand stayed on Tom’s face, thumb sliding slowly over Tom’s bottom lip, tugging it down just a little.

 

 

Matt couldn’t keep the act up either, though. It was only a matter of seconds before he leaned back in and they were making out again—properly this time, open-mouthed, tongues pushing together, Matt’s hands braced on Tom’s shoulders, Tom’s fingers flexing against his waist. A few minutes passed like that, wet sounds and shallow breathing, until Matt’s phone buzzed hard in his back pocket.

 

 

He broke the kiss with a reluctant little noise. “Alright, I need to go, my Uber’s here. I’ll be late—don’t wait up.” He pressed one last quick kiss to Tom’s cheek, leaving another sticky smear of gloss behind, then climbed off his lap.

 

 

Tom just nodded, dazed, watching Matt hurry toward the door, already pulling out his lip gloss to reapply while he walked. The front door clicked shut behind him.

 

 

Tom let out a long, heavy sigh. Heat sat low in his belly, fucking restless and no easy fix for it. Well, there was technically one fix. But jerking off alone always left him feeling needy and unsatisfied, like scratching an itch with gloves on. He couldn’t ever get the same kick without another body there, hands, or mouth or weight pinning him down. He groaned, slapped a hand over his face, trying to scrub at the glittery gloss still clinging to his lips and chin. It just smeared.

 

 

Well, fuck it. He might as well finish rolling this joint, smoke it down, and then figure out what the hell to do with this annoying ass horniness that wasn’t going away anytime soon.

 

 

Thomas did end up smoking what was left in the grinder, which was exactly about a gram, and spent the next thirty minutes staring at the TV without really seeing it, just thinking about Matt. Every few minutes, he’d catch himself and think about something else for a little while and try to refocus on the screen. It was kind of pathetic how caught up he got sometimes, but the thoughts just kept curling back anyway. No point in trying to shovel them out of his head, they’d just keep piling up.

 

 

After dragging himself to the kitchen to grab a water and chase the dry, burning feeling out of his throat, he decided to head back up to his room and wallow properly. Now he was wishing he’d gone with Matt. Funny how that shit worked.

 

 

He dropped onto the edge of his bed, staring at the time on his phone. Yeah, it was gonna be a long night before Matt came back—if he even did. Sometimes the ginger got so fucked up he’d just crash at whatever friend’s place he’d met that night. Tom hoped that wasn’t happening. The thought made his stomach turn over in a way he didn’t like.

His eyes drifted from the clock to the flask lying sideways on the bed. He picked it up, gave it a little shake—still a decent amount of vodka sloshing inside. So he unscrewed the cap and took a long pull, then another, letting the burn spread down his chest. Maybe… if he drank enough, he’d stop feeling so horny and restless. What a perfect solution!

 

 

After shooting the rest of the vodka in a few quick gulps, Tom tugged his hoodie off over his head, wincing when static snapped in his messy hair, and rolled onto his stomach. He propped a pillow under his chin, opened his phone again, scrolling mindlessly for something to distract himself. Except instead of dumb videos, he ended up on Matt’s social media. Go fucking figure. Endless posts, selfies, candids, group shots—every single one of the ginger looking flawless, like he’d been airbrushed even when he was clearly wasted.

 

 

Tom rutted his chin deeper into the pillow, glaring at the bright screen. Damn it. He switched over to Matt’s story. Of course the fucker was already spamming it—copious amounts of drunk videos, blurry shots with friends, doing shots, dancing, posing, whatever stupid thing he was up to. And Tom watched every single one, thumb hovering, unable to stop.

 

 

His stomach twisted again, replaying the moment right before Matt left: the tease in his voice, the way he’d known exactly what that slow, sticky kiss would do to Tom before walking out for hours. Those long, nimble fingers tickling under his jaw, green eyes boring straight into Tom’s black ones like he could see every filthy thought in there.

That same heat pulsed low below his waist, heavier than before. Tom dropped his forehead into the pillow and groaned. Fucking hell.

 

 

He stayed like that for a few moments, breathing into the fabric, hoping the feeling would fade if he just ignored it. It didn’t. It couldn’t, not when his brain kept looping back to Matt’s mouth, his hands, the way he felt in his lap. Finally, he gave up. God damn it.

 

 

The man rolled onto his back, lifted his head just enough to check that his door was at least closed; not locked, whatever, no one was coming in anyway. Then he let the familiar wave of shame roll over him for a second. Not the first time he’d done this, not even close, but it still hit him every time.

 

 

He lifted his phone again, navigated away from Matt’s page and into his camera roll instead. There they were: a ridiculous, shameless number of nudes Matt had sent over time, all saved and locked in an album like some kind of dirty little secret. Tom scrolled until he landed on the first one: a mirror shot, Matt showing off his long torso, lean and model-cut. Muscle definition just shadowed enough to be noticeable, freckles scattered across pale skin like constellations. That sharp V-line cut down, disappearing under the low edge of a towel.

 

 

Tom sucked his teeth, the sound loud in the quiet room. His free hand drifted down, blunt fingers brushing through the thick, dark hair curling below his navel. He was trying to mimic the way Matt touched him, always so slow and teasing at first—but his own hand was too warm, too calloused. Nothing like the chill of Matt’s perpetually cold fingers.

 

 

He kept going anyway. Slid his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, through more coarse pubic hair, teasing himself for a few seconds. He bit the inside of his cheek, eyebrows pinching together. He knew Matt would probably drag it out longer, make him squirm, whisper some sick shit in his ear. But Tom didn’t have the patience or the self-control for that kind of game right now.

 

 

So he let his fingers slip lower, sliding through damp folds with shameful ease. He was already wet—actually he had been since Matt climbed off his lap and left him hard and aching. The realization made his face burn hotter.

 

 

Regardless of the self-deprecating thoughts he had, he persevered. He scrolled to another photo, one that made him sigh softly through his nose. A bird’s-eye shot Matt had taken himself: phone lifted high over his head, chin tipped back to make an exaggerated silly face at the camera. But his sweats were shoved down low with his other hand, thumb hooked in the waistband, exposing the base of his dick and the trail of faint freckles that continued downward.

 

 

The ginger was always shaved to pristine smoothness, completely bare except for that neat little landing strip at the root. Tom couldn’t even fathom caring enough to do that to himself, but on Matt, it just looked fucking hot. It actually made everything look more obscene somehow. His face started heating up fast, a flush crawling from his neck to his ears. His fingers were already moving back and forth between his folds, lazily spreading the slick around without ever going direct. Just enough pressure to keep the ache simmering.

 

 

The next picture finally revealed the prize: a straight-up dick pic. Just like the rest of him, Matt had a pretty fucking dick, which is, in fact, rare to come across. It was pale as the rest of his skin, faint freckles scattered at the base, pink flushed at the tip. Faint veins ran along the length, subtle but visible when he was hard. Average thickness maybe, but definitely longer than average—long enough to hit that spot inside Tom that felt fucking heaven-like every single time, the one that made his thighs shake and his breath hitch.

 

 

Tom hissed under his breath at the memory alone. His fingers crooked immediately, pressing at his entrance. The tips slid in easy, warm and wet, but he didn’t sink them deep yet; just shallow, teasing pumps. His chest tightened, lungs pulling in short, hot breaths. He stared hard at the photo, vision blurring at the edges, trying to force himself to slow down and just tease, but fuck, he didn’t want to wait.

 

 

Eventually he gave in, having absolutely no self-control of course. Two fingers sank inside fully, knuckles brushing damp skin. His walls clenched around them automatically, slick and hot. He huffed out a shaky breath and scrolled to the next picture; one that had both of them in it. As much as Tom hated being photographed, this one sent a fresh rush of heat straight between his legs.

 

 

Another high-angle shot, only made possible with Matt’s stupidly long arms. The ginger was grinning down at the camera, devilish and smug, and between his spread legs was Tom. Head dipped low so his face wasn’t visible, but the implication was crystal clear. Tom remembered that exact moment too well.

 

 

Matt’s hand was buried tight in his curls, tugging just enough to sting uncomfortably. Tom choking around his dick, throat working, spit slicking his chin, while the shutter snapped over and over. He’d wanted to pull off and curse Matt out, but the ginger kept crooning those sweet, filthy praises—“so good, baby, look at you”—petting through his hair with deceptive gentleness, fingers locked tight at the roots.

 

 

The memory hit hard. Tom held his breath without meaning to, fingers curling inside himself, pressing against that spot. A low curse slipped out. He wished so fucking desperately that they were Matt’s long fingers instead of his own shorter, thicker ones.

He got bored with his own hand fast. His mind briefly flickered to something else he owned. Something he was more than a little embarrassed to use, but Matt—the perceptive bastard—had actually gifted it to him for exactly this reason.

 

 

Months back, drunk and loose-lipped, Tom had admitted he got off to thoughts of Matt all the damn time. Matt had laughed, then oh-so-casually gifted him a dildo molded after his own dick (insanely vain, Tom was aware)—insisting Tom should get “the full effect.” Tom had scoffed in his face, called him a cocky prick, but he’d taken it anyway and shoved the box deep in his dresser drawer like it was evidence.

 

 

That same drawer he was staring at now. Heat smothered his whole body, skin prickling, urges screaming at him to stop being a bitch and just grab the damn thing.

He argued with himself for maybe thirty seconds, internally calling himself pathetic, needy, embarrassing, all the works before his bodily urges won out. He tugged his hand free of his pants, deliberately not looking at how shiny and slick his fingers were. He reached over to the bedside dresser, yanked open the second-to-last drawer, rummaged blindly through clothes, old papers, and random guitar picks and amp chords until his fingertips hit the long box.

 

 

He heaved a sigh, pulled it out. His eyes narrowed at the obnoxious, brightly colored sex-toy packaging. He proceeded anyway, ignoring all the text, and ripped it open, tugging out the silicone toy. Heavy in his hand, realistic texture, slightly cool at first. He figured he should probably lock his door now. He still didn’t.

 

 

Instead he kicked his pants and boxers the rest of the way off halfheartedly; fabric catching on his ankles before he shook them free. He glanced at the toy, then back to the drawer. Shit. No lube. And he sure as hell wasn’t about to suck on the thing like some porn setup. He’d have to use what he had.

 

 

Another irritated, embarrassed sigh. He settled back down on his back, thighs falling open, skin sticking slightly to the sheets from sweat. He grabbed around blindly for his phone, found it, and unlocked it with a light thumbprint press. Back to scrolling through the nudes like a goddamn pervert.

 

 

The next series of photos were all different poses and angles of Matt: dick fully out, half-hard and hanging heavy, tucked away but outlined through sinfully tight pants, leaking a little at the tip in one shot. Tom let the images wash over him while he dragged the blunt head of the toy through his folds.

 

 

It felt cold at first against his overheated skin, making him twitch. Then slick, his own wetness coating it in slippery drags. He pressed the tip against his entrance, just enough pressure to feel the stretch start, breath catching in his throat. His free hand gripped the sheet beside his hip, knuckles paling.

 

 

Finally, Tom’s thumb caught dead on one of the copious amounts of media stored away. A video. His thumb clumsily twisted to hit unmute, the other fingers fumbling to drag the volume slider down before it got too loud. A few quick taps and the audio kicked in: wet skin slapping, low grunts, that unmistakable voice.

 

 

His stomach burned at the sound, spiking heat that shot straight down to his cunt. The sight on screen made it worse. At the surface level, humiliation washed over him—he hated thinking of himself as the type to get off on recording sex and shit. But ever since Matt asked, ever since the first time they did it with the phone propped up, it had made him unbelievably horny. Especially watching them back later. Partly because that was exactly why Matt took them: to have proof of how wrecked Tom looked, how needy he sounded, how he quite literally fell apart.

 

 

The screen showed Tom’s ass, the video clearly shot from Matt’s point of view. Tom was slumped forward against a pillow, face half-buried in it, gripping the sheets so tight the fabric bunched under his knuckles. His arms flexed hard, biceps and forearms corded, veins standing out from the strain. Matt’s pretty hand rested idly at the small of Tom’s back—long fingers splayed, palm warm and steady, keeping him pinned exactly where he wanted him.

 

 

That hand stayed firm the whole time while Matt’s hips snapped forward repeatedly, a steady, impressive pace and force for someone so lean and lanky. The sound was obscene: wet and rhythmic, the faint creak of the mattress underneath like a baseline.

 

 

You could hear Tom’s muffled grunts and moans vibrating into the pillow, breath punched out of him with every thrust. But what really set Tom’s face on fire was the ginger’s voice coming from behind the camera; soft, sweet, almost sing-song.

 

“Thereeee,” Matt crooned, tone so gentle it clashed hard with the way he was fucking into him. “Very good, Tom. So well-behaved,” he practically sang, voice lilting like he was praising a pet.

 

 

Tom nearly groaned out loud at the video. He snatched the phone closer, pressed it right to his ear so the audio blasted against his eardrum, tinny and close. At the same time he lined the toy up and finally let it breach, slow stretch at first, then the thick slide inside. His eyebrows furrowed tight, mouth dropping open in a silent, shaky moan. The silicone was warm now from his body heat, unyielding as it filled him.

 

 

The audio worked like gasoline. He sank the toy nearly all the way in within a minute, forceful little shoves until it bottomed out, the base pressing flush against his slick folds. He started moving it immediately, short, hard thrusts because the angle sucked for anything deeper. His inner walls fluttered and clenched around it, slick dripping down his perineum, making everything messy already.

 

 

His fingers trembled where they gripped the sides of the phone, sweat collecting in his palm, making the case slick. Heat rolled off his whole body, wetness beading at his temples, sticking his hair to his forehead in damp clumps. Fuck, this was going to be hard. He couldn’t even reach his clit properly from this position, couldn’t get the direct pressure he needed. The ache just kept building, unsatisfied.

 

 

But, stubbornly, he refused to drop the phone. He kept it glued to his ear, listening to Matt’s voice praise and tease and croon while he pumped the toy with intensifying vigor—desperate, sloppy thrusts chasing release that stayed just out of reach. His phone kept shutting off from inactivity, forcing him to stop, swipe it back awake, then start over again. His wrist cramped from switching between the toy and clumsy swipes at his clit, his fingers slipping in the wetness, too hard to get a firm touch.

 

 

He loved hearing the ginger, but the same phrases looping over and over started to lose their edge. Then, an idea pricked through the haze at the back of his mind. He slowed his motions, chest heaving, until the toy was just sitting inside him.

 

 

He had worked himself the fuck up now. The insides of his thighs were sticky and hot, slick cooling where it had dripped down toward his ass. Sweat sheened his chest, his stomach, his neck, making every damn shift of his body feel uncomfortable. He released the toy, let it sit idle, and pulled the phone from his ear.

 

 

It was about 3:10 a.m. Matt usually stayed out till five; he’d said he’d be late, but Tom decided to check. Just in case. He switched over to Matt’s feed, seeing consistent spam posting up until about 2:25. Fuck. Was he out? Or had the party died?

 

 

Tom hurriedly opened the location app, embarrassed, but it was serving him now. The little dot showed Matt in a vehicle, moving along the main highway back toward the house. Fuck. Tom’s heart jumped hard, excitement spiking in his chest. He flicked straight to Matt’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button—then caught himself.

 

 

Was he really about to humiliate himself over the phone while Matt was probably in a friend’s car or an Uber? Just because he needed to hear the man’s voice a little more so he could finally get off? He stared at the button, chest rising and falling slowly. His cunt throbbed, empty and aching around the toy still buried inside him.

 

 

Fuck yes, he was.

 

His thumb pressed down. The screen flicked to the ringing icon. Tom held his breath, gently switched it to speaker, and set the phone down beside his head on the pillow. Please fucking answer.

 

 

Relief crashed through him when the line cut and Matt’s voice burst through, loud and unfiltered. Tom briefly felt bad for whoever was driving the guy.

 

 

“Tom!!” The ginger squealed, bright and drunk and happy.

 

 

Tom’s chest went tight at the sound alone. “…Hey,” he managed. His voice came out rougher than he meant.

 

 

“Oh my god—I have so much to tell you, holy fuck, you won’t believe what happened—” Matt launched straight into a long, rambling story: party was bumping and packed to the brim, he’d taken and drank god knows what, was gonna bar-hop with some friends but then one of the girls’ boyfriends got arrested and some more bullshit Tom couldn’t bring himself to focus on.

 

 

Tom just let him go on. One hand idly gripped the base of the toy, feeling it shift inside him with every small movement. His stomach clenched in anticipation. With his other hand he brushed his index and middle fingers over the hood of his clit, light, slow circles, barely enough to tease.

 

 

“—and the bitch ended up getting fucking arrested too because she kept yelling at the cops, oh my god, it was so fucking funny. Tom I wish you would have comeeee, you would have thought it was so funny,” Matt whined, voice ringing clear through the speaker.

 

 

Tom was busy. His hands already moving again, greedily pumping the toy in and out of his slick hole, wet squelching sounds he prayed to fucking god weren’t loud enough to carry through the phone. The other hand swiped firm, quick strokes over his clit. He’d forgotten to answer.

 

 

“Tom?” Matt’s voice came again, sharper.

 

Tom hissed softly, didn’t stop. “…Yeah?—sorry, that sounds fun,” he answered lamely, huffing into the microphone a little too hard. A moan edged into it, unmistakable.

 

Whoops.

 

 

There was a moment of telling silence on the line. It felt like fucking hours.

 

 

“…Any specific reason you wanted to call me, love?” Matt replied eventually. His voice had shifted; gone from giggly and bright to that slower, syrupy register that settled heavy at the forefront of Tom’s head.

 

 

Tom made a small noise in the back of his throat and bit hard into the inside of his cheek. His face twitched. “…J-uh, just wanted to hear your voice,” he muttered, tipping his chin toward the phone like Matt could see him.

 

 

He heard Matt laugh, light and soft right into the microphone. Tom’s skin crawled with need, goosebumps breaking out down his arms and thighs.

 

 

“Oh—poor thing,” Matt sneered, playful but not bothering to hide the bitchiness. More shifting sounds on the other end. “Don’t worry, dolly, I’ll be home soon,” he whispered, voice hushed now, intimate.

 

 

Tom fucked the toy in a little harder, nodding rapidly even though Matt couldn’t see. A plea spilled out before he could stop it, voice clearly strained. “Please.”

 

 

Matt cooed, clicked his tongue. “…But you have to be good, yeah?” he murmured.

 

 

“…Fine,” Tom rasped.

 

 

“…And that means what?” Matt pressed. Tom could hear the smirk in his voice, could picture it perfectly.

 

 

“…I can’t cum,” Tom finally huffed. He lifted one leg higher, pressed the toy in at a sharper angle. His breath hitched hard, abs tightening.

 

 

“Right. So cool it,” Matt said, voice going a little firmer before sliding back to sweetness. “I’ll see you when I get home, babe,” he purred.

 

 

Then the line went silent—cut off before Tom could cling to any more of Matt’s words.

 

 

Fuck. Well, with nothing to listen to and Matt’s warning taunting him, Tom was left to use his goddamn imagination.

 

 

He seethed softly, kept working the toy with slowed-down pumps, but pulled his fingers away from directly sitting over his clit. Instead, he let them tug idly at the hood—gentle little pulls that made his hips jerk every time. His pubic hair was damp with sweat and arousal, matted and clinging to his skin, making every small touch feel raw.

 

 

Luckily, masturbating half cross-eyed and out of it with your face mashed into a pillow actually passed the time pretty fast. That, or Matt paid the Uber driver to speed.

 

 

Tom had been inhaling his own moans for about ten minutes straight now, muffled into the pillow, wrist sore and achy from the angle while he pushed the toy in and out. Every thrust made his inner walls flutter and clench; the sheets stuck to his skin. His breaths came heavy, chest heaving, lungs burning a little from how hard he was trying not to make noise.

 

 

Then, a miracle, a faint knock at the door before it slid open.

 

 

Tom could hardly lift his neck. He squinted through the haze of sweat stinging his eyes to see the ginger standing in the doorway, looking impossibly smug. “Hey baby,” Matt greeted, voice low and pleased. He closed the door behind him with a soft click and dropped his purse on the floor with a careless thud.

 

 

Tom briefly analyzed him. Matt’s walk was swayed, loose, and drunk, his clothing disheveled, jeans riding low, hair frizzed out from the humidity and movement, makeup smeared under his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Wasted. And his pupils were blown wide, definitely probably Molly, something Matt frequently indulged in.

 

Tom held his breath as the ginger approached. Matt sat down on the edge of the bed, smooth palm sliding over Tom’s stomach where his muscles tensed and pulsed under the touch, tight little ripples every time Matt’s fingers dragged across the fuzzy skin.

 

 

“Oh, wowww, you’re really worked up. All from that kiss?” Matt chuckled, already starting with his teasing.

 

 

Tom tilted his head back again, trying to come off as irritated, but Matt’s fingers were dragging slow through his happy trail now, nails scraping lightly over the coarse hair, making his legs twitch involuntarily. “Don’t act like you didn’t do that on purpose,” he mustered. His shoulders raised when the ginger’s fingers dipped between his folds just slightly; barely a brush—before retreating.

 

 

“…Yeah, you’re right.” Matt admitted it proudly, smirking. He gave Tom’s thigh a light smack before standing up to start tugging off his shirt. “You didn’t cum, did you?”

 

 

Tom pushed up onto his forearms a little, watching with focused appreciation as the ginger stripped down to his briefs, lengthy torso stretching, freckles shifting under pale skin, pink belly piercing glinting as he moved. Tom shook his head slowly. “…No.”

 

 

“I suppose that means I should treat you,” Matt sighed theatrically. He climbed fully onto the bed now, settling between Tom’s thighs. His hands pressed against the thick muscle there and gently pushed them apart wider—thumbs digging in just enough to make the skin dimple. Matt’s gaze dragged over Tom’s body: sweaty chest, stomach, the dark trail below his naval leading down—before landing on his cunt, eyeing the toy still wedged deep inside.

 

 

“Good to see this is getting some good use,” he teased, apparently not able to help himself on that little quip. One hand drifted down to grip the base of the toy and wrench it back a little; a slow pull that made Tom’s walls drag against the silicone—before he pushed it deeper than it had been before. The stretch burned suddenly, and Tom winced, hissed through his teeth, thighs jerking.

 

 

 

Matt dipped down now. His free hand splayed wide over Tom’s chest—palm warmed up now, pressing sticky kisses up the expanse of his body. Over the surgery scars, up his collarbones, along the side of his neck. He sucked a deep mark into the pressure point just under Tom’s jaw; his teeth grazing and lips sealing tight, pulling blood to the surface until it throbbed.

 

 

Tom lifted his hands to encircle Matt’s lithe shoulders, fingers digging in without meaning to and dragging him down closer. He wanted to kiss the ginger, get at those lips, but Matt was purposefully staying buried near his neck, breath hot against skin. The hand between them kept pumping the toy in and out; steady, deep strokes that crooked against that spot unfailingly, making Tom’s hips twitch up involuntarily.

 

 

Tom could feel his gut tightening gradually, a low and heavy coil winding tighter with every pull. His eyes watered at the edges from the building pressure, the promise of release he might actually get this time. But he didn’t let himself get too worked up just yet—because he knew that Matt was not going to give it to him this damn easily.

 

 

Matt kept fucking Tom with the toy, slow drags out, then sharp shoves back in that made Tom’s hips jump every time the silicone hit those nerves. The angle was brutal; Matt’s wrist twisted just enough on every thrust to drag the ridged head along the front wall, sending sparks up Tom’s spine that he couldn’t ignore. Sweat had pooled in the dip of his lower back, making every shift of his ass against the sheets feel sticky and gross.

 

 

Tom finally had enough of the ginger assaulting and probably smearing his neck with gloss. His hands slid up Matt’s shoulders, fingers digging into the lean muscle, and he yanked the ginger’s face away from his throat. Matt let out a surprised little huff, kind of laughing, but didn’t fight it. Tom crashed their mouths together sloppily, teeth clacking once before they found a rhythm. Their lips move fluidly, spit smearing across lips and chins, Matt’s spit a lovely mix of tequila and mint gum.

 

 

They made out like that for a minute while Matt kept the toy moving. Steady pumps, not letting up, the wet squelch of it loud enough that Tom was wishing there was some noise to fucking overlay the sex. His own hand had snuck down between them without really thinking about it; fingers finding his clit and rubbing tight little circles that matched the rhythm of the toy. The double sensation hit good as fuck, the pressure inside and out making Tom groan straight into Matt’s mouth, hips suddenly rolling up to chase both at once. He was getting self-indulgent, too blissed out to care how obvious it was.

 

 

 

Andddd Matt noticed. Of course he did.

 

The toy stilled immediately; buried deep, the base pressed flush against Tom’s folds so he couldn’t even squeeze around it properly, leaving a weird burning feeling. Then Matt pulled it out in one slow, condescending ass drag, letting every inch scrape against sensitive walls until it popped free with a sound that was simply terrible. Empty air hit him like a slap; his cunt throbbed hard. He could feel his fucking heartbeat, good god.

 

 

Matt broke the kiss with a cruel little laugh, lips still brushing Tom’s as he spoke. “Oh no, you don’t.” His hand caught Tom’s wrist—the one that had been working his clit—and pinned it down against the mattress, fingers tight enough to kind of sting. “You think you get to just help yourself? After I told you to be still?”

 

 

Tom’s breath hitched a little, caught off guard. He tried to glare, but it came out more like a dazed, frustrated pout. “You’re such a fucking prick,” he griped, voice hoarse. His hips twitched up anyway, searching for friction that wasn’t being produced anymore.

 

 

Matt just smirked, pupils still blown wide. He leaned back on his knees so he could look down at Tom properly spread out, all sweaty, stomach rising and falling fast, cunt shiny and empty. He dragged the slick toy along the inside of Tom’s thigh, leaving a wet streak, just really being a dick about it all.

 

 

“Poor baby,” Matt crooned, voice syrupy and mocking. “Look at you, humping the air that, so shameless, Tom... I thought you hated being needy.”

 

 

Tom made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Just—fuck, Matt, put it back or do something, I don’t care—”

 

 

Matt tilted his head, pretending to think about it. “Nooo, not yet,” He tossed the toy aside carelessly; it landed somewhere on the floor with a dull thump. Then he leaned down again, mouth hovering over Tom’s, close enough that Tom could feel the heat of his breath but not the contact. “You’re gonna wait. And you’re gonna keep your hands where I can see them. Or I’ll just walk out and leave you like this.”

 

 

Tom frowned, eyes flicking up to Matt’s face—searching for a tell, the crack in that smug mask that’d prove it was just talk. But Matt’s expression stayed poised, like he’d already checked out the door in his head. Tom couldn’t tell if the ginger would actually follow through or not, but the bluff alone was enough to kill any sneaky impulse he had left. His hand unclenched from the sheet, falling limp against the mattress.

 

 

“…You’re a dick,” he muttered, but the words came out breathy, sounding way more like a plea than the insult he’d aimed for.

 

 

Matt made kissy-lips, then leaned down to allow his lips to brush Tom’s without actually closing the distance. His pupils remained shot, high and glassy, but the smirk on his face was controlled—he was clearly savoring every second of this.

 

 

“Good boy,” he murmured, voice low and velvety. “Hands above your head where I can see them, sweetheart. Now.”

 

 

Tom’s jaw clenched. He hated how easily the command made him fold; how his arms moved before his brain could argue. His forearms lifted, biceps flexing under the skin as he crossed his wrists above his head and pressed them into the pillow. The position stretched his chest, made the old scars pull tight, and made his shoulders ache a little from the awkward angle. He could feel the difference in their physical builds right then: his own stocky, more solid frame: broad shoulders, strong arms that could probably bench Matt without breaking a sweat—pinned under the ginger’s lithe, much more elegant weight. Matt’s long fingers wrapped around both of Tom’s wrists anyway, pinning them down with deceptive ease. Not because he had the raw strength, but because Tom let him. Because the second those cold hands closed around his skin, something in Tom’s gut unclenched and went liquid.

 

 

Matt sat back on his heels between Tom’s spread thighs, letting go of his wrists but keeping that expectant stare. He tilted his head, considering, like Tom was a particularly delicious piece of meat he hadn’t decided how to cook yet.

 

 

“Look at you,” Matt said softly, his voice almost polite, eyes dragging down Tom’s body—sweaty chest hair matted, gut rising and falling fast, thick thighs trembling, cunt still swollen and glistening from the toy. “All nice and wet for me. You’re very desperate, aren’t you, dear?”

 

 

Tom’s breath stalled. He wanted to snap something back and call him a smug prick, tell him to get on with it, but his tongue felt heavy. Instead, a low, frustrated groan slipped out when his hips rolled up again, chasing nothing.

 

Matt’s lips curved, pleased with Tom’s desperation. “Yes, sweetheart. Just like that.” He reached down, long fingers trailing idly through the coarse hair on Tom’s lower stomach, then lower, brushing the soaked curls at the top of his folds without giving any real pressure. “You’re making such a mess. I can see how badly you want to be filled again. Poor thing.”

 

 

Tom’s hands flexed above his head, his fingers curling into fists, then opening again—fighting the urge to reach down and finish himself. “Matt,” he rasped, voice breaking. “Stop fucking around and—”

 

 

“And what?” Matt interrupted, voice still that calm, spoiled drawl. He leaned forward, one hand braced beside Tom’s head, the other sliding between them to trace the slick outer lips of Tom’s cunt; it was light, maddening circles that never dipped inside. “You want me to be quick? To just fuck you like some impatient little animal?” He clicked his tongue softly. “No, darling. Not tonight. You’re going to be patient for me.”

 

 

Tom’s lips curled into a scowl, biting down on the inside of his cheek till he tasted copper. His thighs jumped harder when Matt’s fingertip finally nudged just inside, teasing, then pulled back out. The empty ache flared hotter, walls fluttering uselessly. Pressed together like this, he could feel how much bigger he was in every other way: his arms thicker, chest broader, body heavier—but right now he felt fucking small under Matt’s gaze, pinned by nothing more than the ginger’s smug patience and the way his own body kept arching toward every cruel touch.

 

 

Matt watched it all with an expression akin to boredom—just barely giving Tom his interest. “You’re so handsome when you’re frustrated, you know that?” he said, voice dripping with sweetness.  “All that muscle, all that strength, and yet here you are, letting me play with your needy little cunt like it’s mine to ruin.” His fingers slid back in—two this time—slow and deeper, curling just enough to brush that spot before pulling out again. “Tell me how badly you want it, sweetheart. Use your words.”

 

 

 

Tom’s head tipped back into the pillow, throat working. Sweat trickled down the side of his neck. “Fuck—Matt, please. I need it. I can’t—” His voice broke on a whine he couldn’t swallow. “Just do it, you asshole, I’m dying here.”

 

 

Matt laughed; soft and fucking cruel. “That’s better.” He leaned down, lips brushing Tom’s ear. “But you’re still going to wait, dear. I haven’t decided how many times I’m going to edge you before I let you cum.”

 

 

Tom’s whole body shuddered, but he remained still like the ginger had requested him to be. That didn’t stop his half-hearted glaring, though.

 

 

Matt stayed poised above him for another long moment, eyes flicking over Tom’s face perceptively. He finally spoke, “Very well, sweetheart,” he said, voice curt, “I think I’d like a taste now.”

 

 

He reminded Tom one more time, “Hands stay where they are, darling. Don’t test me.” Then he drifted down between Tom’s legs, long body folding gracefully, all lean lines and elegance against Tom’s broader bulk. Matt’s hands settled down, one splayed low on Tom’s stomach, fingers tracing possessive circles through the dark trail of hair; the other resting on the thick muscle of his inner thigh, thumb stroking in slow arcs that made the skin jump.

 

 

Tom’s breath caught when Matt’s nose nudged between his swollen folds, cool tip brushing overheated, slick skin. The ginger inhaled once, as if he was savoring the scent of him, and Tom’s face burned so hard he had to turn it into the pillow. Then Matt’s tongue slid out, and he finally gave Tom something.

 

 

He was really good at giving head. Too good, actually. Methodical, slow, never rushing. He licked in slow sweeps around the outer labia first, tracing the puffy edges with the tip of his tongue, then flattening it to drag through the slick gathering there. Every pass made Tom’s hips twitch, but Matt’s hand on his stomach pressed down just enough to keep him pinned firmly, reminding him who was in control.

 

 

And the ginger never went inside, either. Never giving him the stretch or the pressure he was fucking dying for. He just circled his hole with feather-light flicks, teasing the rim until Tom’s was hissing, clenching around nothing. A few delicate kisses landed soft and sweetly right over his clit, then quick swipes of the tongue that were gone before Tom could even buck into them. Never fucking enough. Always pulling back right when the heat started to coil tight.

 

 

Tom was very quickly devolved into a mess.

 

His thighs tensed hard, muscles tightening under Matt’s palm, wanting to snap closed and lock around those narrow shoulders, trap him there and force him to finish what he started. But he didn’t. Not with Matt’s quiet command still ringing in his ears. Instead, his legs just shook, spread wide and trembling, heels digging into the mattress. His stomach flexed under Matt’s tracing fingers, abs tightening and releasing in helpless little spasms. Sweat beaded along his hairline, trickled down his temples, and soaked into the pillow.

 

 

“Matt—” Tom’s voice cracked, mellow and breathy. “Please. Fuck—please.”

 

 

Matt just hummed against him, clearly in no rush to hear what Tom had to say because he reluctantly pulled away from his task. “Yes, love?” Matt murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny with Tom’s slick. “What is it, sweetheart?.”

 

 

 

Tom’s head thrashed once, side to side. “Just—God dammit, do it properly. I can’t—” Another soft, broken “please” slipped out, quieter this time, embarrassed.

 

 

 

Matt’s laugh was soft and mean. “Oh, listen to you. So sweet when you beg.” He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over Tom’s clit, letting it linger this time, letting his tongue flick once and twice before pulling away again. “Keep crying. I like hearing you make a fool of yourself.”

 

 

 

Tom refrained from straight-up cursing the man out, his eye twitching a little. Regardless of his budding irritation at the nonstop teasing, he managed a brief nod.

 

 

 

Matt cooed at him, dipping back down to what he was doing. His tongue finally had some fucking pressure with it; flat tongue dragging from the base of his folds all the way up over the swollen head. Tom’s hips snapped up so hard Matt had to press down harder on his stomach to keep him still. Then another lick—slower, circling the hood, flicking the underside with the pointed tip. Tom’s thighs started to shake in earnest, muscles locking and unlocking, toes curling into the sheets. He got close fast.

 

The coil in his gut wound tight in seconds, his breath punching out in short, desperate bursts, cunt throbbing under Matt’s mouth. His whole body tensed, right on the edge, right there— and then Matt pulled back fucking again.

 

 

Cool air hit his overheated skin, and Tom actually whimpered—angry and broken, hips jerking uselessly into nothing. His clit pulsed visibly, untouched now for whatever sick reason Matt had.

 

 

Matt sat up just enough to look at him, his cheeks flushed and lips glossy. He wiped his mouth slowly with the back of his hand, like a cat finishing cream. “Not yet, baby,” he said, licking his lips. “You’re doing so well, but I’m not finished.”

 

 

Tom’s head dropped back against the pillow with a frustrated groan. His whole body was already fucking overworked, and Matt had literally done jack shit with him. He looked like a damn mess, too. Matt leaned down again, pressing one soft, teasing kiss to the inside of Tom’s thigh.

 

 

“Be patient, Tom,” he purred. “You’ll get what you want, baby, don’t worry,”

 

 

 

Tom let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded a little too close to a sob.

 

 

 

Matt finally pulled away from between Tom’s legs, humming pleasantly and stretching his arms a little before he got to getting rid of his own undergarments. Fucking finally.

 

 

Tom’s eyes locked on the motion; he couldn’t help it. He watched intently as Matt dragged the fabric down, slow and showy, like he knew exactly what he was doing to him. The ginger’s dick sprang free—long, flushed pink at the tip, already slick with pre and the faint sheen of arousal from grinding against Tom earlier. It bobbed once, heavy and obscene against his pale stomach, freckles dusting the base like always. Tom swallowed hard, throat clicking dry.

 

 

Matt kicked the boxers off somewhere behind him without looking, then settled back between Tom’s thighs. His hands slid under the backs of Tom’s knees, pushing them wide—wide enough that the stretch burned in his hips, muscles straining. Tom’s thighs trembled from the position, spread and vulnerable, hairy and thick against Matt’s smoother, leaner ones.

 

 

The ginger draped himself over Tom’s chest, long body covering the shorter man’s broader one. Matt’s weight pressed down just right; enough to pin without crushing, enough to make Tom feel every inch of the difference between them. Matt’s lean frame against Tom’s stocky build. Tom could’ve shoved him off if he really wanted. He didn’t.

 

 

Matt started dragging kisses and wet smooches over Tom’s face, all slow, messy, possessive. Lips dragging across his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, leaving sticky pink smears and flecks of body glitter that caught the dim light. Every press left a faint mark, a glittering trail like he was claiming territory. He was taking his sweet time.

 

 

Matt’s dick slid between Tom’s legs, not inside yet, just riding the slick groove of his folds, gathering spit and arousal, the head bumping against his clit with every lazy roll of his hips. The friction was irritating and nowhere near enough. Tom’s body twitched hard under his own restraint, arms still locked above his head, biceps flexing, shoulders aching from holding the position.

 

 

One of Matt’s hands drifted up—long fingers wrapping loosely around Tom’s throat. Not squeezing, just resting there, thumb stroking the side of his neck where the pulse hammered. The pressure was teasing, skirting up to the base of his jaw. Matt finally reached down between them, long fingers wrapping around his own dick. He lined up slow—tip nudging Tom’s entrance, sliding through the soaked folds once, twice, coating himself. Then he pushed in.

 

 

It went easy as fuck, unsurprisingly to both of them. Tom was so wet, so open from the toy and the genuinely endless teasing, that Matt sank in smooth and deep on the first slow thrust. It made Tom shudder hard, body jerking slightly, a choked “fuck” punching out of him. His walls fluttered and clenched around the length, greedily pulling Matt in deeper.

 

 

Tom lifted one leg on instinct, hooking it around Matt’s narrow waist, heel digging into the small of his back to nudge him in further. Matt giggled, a delighted little noise against the side of Tom’s neck that kind of tickled.

 

 

“There we are, darling,” he purred, easing himself the rest of the way in until his hips met Tom’s ass with a wet slap. He bottomed out fully, buried to the hilt, and stayed there—didn’t pull back, didn’t thrust. Just ground in slow, filthy circles, hips rolling in lazy figure-eights so Tom could feel every inch stretching him, every subtle drag against that spot inside.

 

 

Tom’s head tipped back into the pillow, throat working under Matt’s loose grip. His cunt throbbed around the intrusion—full, finally full—but Matt wasn’t moving fast. Wasn’t giving him the pounding he was dying for. Just those slow, deliberate grinds, letting Tom feel the heat, the weight, the stretch, the way Matt’s dick pulsed inside him.

 

 

“Feel that, love?” Matt whispered, lips brushing Tom’s ear now, voice sweet and cruel. “How easy that was?”

 

 

Tom’s hips twitched up; he couldn’t help it, chasing more friction. A low whine slipped out, muffled against Matt’s shoulder.

 

 

Matt tutted softly, the sound sharp and disapproving. “Ah-ah, darling. Stay still.” His hand tightened just a fraction on Tom’s throat, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse. “Be good,” He sang softly.

 

 

Tom’s arms strained above his head, his entire body strung the fuck out. Glitter smeared across his face, lipstick marks blooming on his skin, Matt’s hand still resting there like a collar. He could barely fucking think straight he was so goddamn horny.

 

 

Matt stayed buried deep, hips flush against Tom’s ass, and for a long moment, he didn’t move—just let Tom feel him. Every subtle throb of his dick inside, every tiny shift when Tom’s walls clenched around him, impatient as shit. Tom’s arms were still locked above his head, wrists crossed, forearms trembling from the effort of holding the position. He wanted so badly to drop them. To grab Matt by the back of the neck, yank him down, tangle fingers in that frizzy ginger hair and drag him close enough to kiss properly, to feel the lean body pressed harder against his own. He obviously didn’t.

 

 

Matt had said keep them up. So they stayed. The obedience felt humiliating and hot as fuck at the same time—his body obeying even when his brain was screaming to take control. He could feel the strength difference mocking him. And yet here he was, pinned by nothing more than a spoiled brat’s voice and his own aching desire to be good.

 

 

Thankfully, Tom didn’t have to mull over that much longer because Matt finally started moving. And it was tortuously slow.

 

 

He dragged his hips back, inch by slow inch, letting his dick slide out almost all the way, until just the head was still inside, stretching Tom open. Tom’s cunt fluttered desperately around the loss. Then Matt rolled forward again, just as slow, sinking back in with a wet, deliberate glide until he bottomed out once more. The drag against that spot inside made Tom’s breath hitch hard, hips twitching up on instinct, trying to chase more.

 

 

Matt did it again. And again. No rhythm, no build; just long, lazy retreats and languid returns, letting Tom feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse. The ginger leaned down close enough that Tom could smell lingering mint on his breath, their noses almost brushing

 

 

Tom tipped his chin up, lips parting, chasing. Matt stayed just out of reach—hovering, smirking, letting Tom strain for it. Holy fuck.

 

 

“Matt—” Tom’s voice came out rough, frustrated. “Fucking kiss me already.”

 

 

Matt tilted his head, eyes half-lidded and amused. “Be patient,” he murmured for the millionth time, voice condescending. “You’re doing so well keeping those arms up. Don’t ruin it now.”

 

 

Tom huffed, beginning to get a little more than just irritated. “You’re such a fucking tease. If I did this to y—”

 

 

Matt’s hand moved fast. A light, open-palmed slap landed across Tom’s cheek—not hard, just sharp enough to sting and make his head jerk a little. The sound cracked in the quiet room.

 

 

Tom’s eyes widened for a second, breath catching. Heat bloomed across his face, prickling, and—fuck—He liked it. More than he was willing to admit. The sting lingered, sharp and bright, making his cunt clench hard around Matt’s dick still buried inside him.

 

Matt’s hand slid back to Tom’s throat—fingers tightening just enough to make his pulse jump under the pressure. Not choking, just holding.

 

 

“Careful, sweetheart,” Matt said, voice dropping into that cruel, descending lilt that always made Tom’s insides burn. “You don’t speak to me like that when I’m being generous enough to fuck you at all. Do you?”

 

 

Tom swallowed under the loose grip, Adam’s apple bobbing against Matt’s palm. His face was flushed, splotchy, and red from where Matthew had just humiliated him. “...No,” he muttered, voice meek.

 

 

Matt smiled, clearly pleased. “No, what?”

 

 

“No… sir,” Tom forced out, the word tasting bitter and embarrassing and so fucking hot on his tongue.

 

 

Matt’s thumb stroked once along the side of Tom’s neck tenderly. “That’s better, baby.” He rolled his hips again, deep and slow—grinding in a tight circle that made Tom’s eyes flutter shut, and a low, involuntary hiss slip out.

 

 

“Good boy,” Matt purred, leaning in until their lips were barely a breath apart. “Now stay still and take what I give you like I know you want to,”

 

 

Tom’s whole body shuddered—cunt clenching hard, hips twitching despite himself. He wanted to grab Matt. Wanted to flip him. Wanted to beg and curse and come all at once. Instead, he kept his arms up like a fucking trooper, kept his legs spread, and kept his mouth shut except for the shaky breaths punching out of him.

 

 

Much to Tom’s gratification, it appeared his good behavior was paying off. He forced himself to remain still; thighs spread wide, hips locked down, arms rigid above his head even though every muscle in them screamed to drop. He swallowed every sarcastic comment, every frustrated “hurry the fuck up” that bubbled in his throat, and kept his mouth shut except for the occasional shaky exhale. And Matt—shocker—actually rewarded it.

 

The pace gradually picked up.

 

Not fast or rough—just steady. Matt’s hips rolled forward with more purpose now, each thrust deeper and more deliberate, the drag of his dick pulling out slow before sliding back in with a wet, satisfying smack. He kept the rhythm controlled, even fucking graceful somehow, like he was going for a camera. He moved with that effortless model elegance; back arching just so, ginger curls bouncing slightly with each motion, skin still somehow looking dewy and pristine despite the sweat and the glitter transfer. His breath stayed even, lips parted in a soft, pleased smile, like this was all perfectly within his comfort zone.

 

 

Tom, meanwhile, was almost positive he looked a goddamn mess beneath him.

 

 

Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead in dark, messy clumps. Glitter smeared across his cheeks and jaw in uneven streaks, mixed with lipstick marks that had started to dry and flake. His chest hair was matted down, sticking to his skin in wet whorls; his stomach rose and fell fast with every punched-out breath. His thighs trembled from being held open so long, inner muscles jumping every time Matt bottomed out. He was swollen and sensitive, every thrust sending sparks up his spine that made his toes curl and his calves cramp.

 

 

And still his arms stayed up. Wrists crossed, fingers clenched so tight his nails left half-moons in his palms. The restraint burned painfully, shoulders aching, biceps shaking—but he didn’t move them. Couldn’t. Not when Matt was finally giving him what he’d been yearning for all night.

 

 

Matt leaned down again, close enough that their noses brushed this time. His hand stayed loose on Tom’s throat, thumb stroking the pulse point in lazy circles, while his other palm braced beside Tom’s head. He kept the pace steady, hips snapping forward just a little harder now, just enough to make Tom’s breath stall every time he bottomed out.

 

 

“You’re being so good for me, sweetheart,” Matt murmured, voice still that smooth, spoiled lilt, low and filthy. “Look at you—taking it so prettily. All that bitching and now, and you’re just lying here letting me fuck you like a good boy.”

 

 

Tom’s throat worked under Matt’s hand. A frustrated grunt slipped out despite his best efforts, exasperated wit matt dragging him along like this. His hips twitched up to meet the next thrust, and Matt’s fingers tightened just a fraction around his neck.

 

“Ah-ah,” Matt scolded gently, almost fondly. “None of that, darling. I already told not to move,”

 

 

Tom bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper. He wanted to argue he couldn't really fucking help it, but kept his mouth shut. Instead, his cunt clenched hard around Matt’s dick on the next slow drag out, trying to keep him inside. The stretch was satisfying—and every time Matt ground deep, the base of his cock pressed right against Tom’s clit, sending a jolt through him that made him melt.

 

 

 

Matt’s lips curved wider. He leaned in and finally kissed him—slow and deep, taking his time as his tongue slid with familiarity. Tom groaned into it, chasing the kiss even as Matt kept the rhythm maddeningly even, hips rolling, dick dragging, filling him over and over.

 

 

 

“Good,” Matt whispered against his mouth, voice dripping with satisfaction. “See? Behaving gets you exactly what you want.”

 

 

Matt kept the pace steady for another few thrusts; deep, controlled, each one grinding right against that spot that made Tom’s vision spark at the edges. He’d been edged for so long that the buildup felt almost painful now, every slow drag out and slow slide back in winding him tighter and tighter until he was right on the fucking brink again. Then Matt changed it again.

 

 

The next thrust came harder, hips snapping forward with real force. Tom’s breath punched out of him in a startled “fuck—” and his back arched off the bed. Matt didn’t slow down after that. The rhythm shifted fast: deep, hard, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Matt’s lithe body moved with surprising power now—long legs braced, hips rolling in tight, punishing strokes that made the headboard knock once, twice.

 

 

Tom’s arms nearly dropped. He caught them at the last second, fingers digging into the pillow, biceps burning. “Matt—shit, I’m—”

 

 

Matt’s free hand slid down between them, palm cupping Tom’s swollen clit, fingers pressing firm and steady. No teasing this time; just direct, constant pressure, rubbing in tight circles that matched the brutal pace of his thrusts. Safe to say, Tom came hard.

 

 

His whole body locked up hard, thighs clamping around Matt’s waist, cunt spasming violently around the length inside him. A choked, broken “fuck yes—” tore out of his throat as the orgasm ripped through him, hot and blinding, waves of it crashing so strong his toes curled and his vision whited out for a few seconds. Wet gushed around Matt’s cock, dripping down his ass, soaking the sheets even more. His hips jerked uncontrollably, riding the high, finally getting what he’d been begging for all fucking night.

 

 

Matt kept going—same hard, deep rhythm, hips snapping forward without missing a beat. The hand on Tom’s clit stayed right where it was, rubbing mercilessly through the aftershocks.

 

 

Tom’s eyes snapped open. “Whoa—wait—what the fuck—”

 

 

His voice cracked, breathless and wrecked. He lifted his head just enough to look down between their bodies; Matt’s dick still rock-hard, slick and flushed, plunging in and out of him without slowing. No sign of Matt being close. No hitch in his breathing beyond the faint huff of effort. Tom’s brain short-circuited for a second before it clicked.

 

 

Fuck, the drugs. Whatever party shit Matt had taken was probably keeping him hard and strung out, making it take forever for him to finish. Which meant Matt wasn’t stopping.

 

 

Tom’s head dropped back with a groan that was half pleasure and half worry at how long this might go on. Overstimulation was hitting like a freight train. Every thrust now felt too much, too fucking sensitive. His cunt fluttered and clenched around Matt’s cock in unbearable little spasms, walls raw. The hand on his clit was torture;  jolts shooting up his spine with every circle of Matt’s fingers. His arms twitch, wanting to come down and grip onto something for purchase.

 

 

Matt’s other hand pushed him back down by the throat firmly; just enough pressure to make Tom’s pulse hammer under his palm. “Eyes on me,” Matt panted, voice still coy even though his breathing was finally starting to sound a little ragged. “Arms up. Be good for me.”

 

 

Tom tried to glare—failed miserably. His whole body was trembling, oversensitive and wrung out, but fuck if it wasn’t hot. The way Matt kept using him, kept fucking into him like he was a toy, kept that hand rubbing his clit without mercy. His dick throbbed inside Tom, still hard as steel, dragging against every nerve ending that was screaming.

 

 

“Matt—holy fuck, This is too—“Tom’s voice broke into a keen, high and desperate. His hips jerked away instinctively, then rocked back up to meet the next thrust like they had a mind of their own. “—Too much—shit—”

 

 

Matt leaned down, lips brushing Tom’s ear, breath clearly uneven now. “You can take it, darling. You’re doing so well.” Another hard thrust, grinding deep. “Let me use you. Just a little longer..”

 

 

Tom’s head thrashed once—side to side—teeth gritted. His arms shook violently above his head, shoulders screaming, but he didn’t drop them. Couldn’t. The overstimulation was brutal—every slide of Matt’s cock felt like fire and electricity, every rub on his clit made his hips buck and his breath hitch in sharp, gasping sobs. But underneath it all was that dark, twisted heat: the humiliation of being so thoroughly used, the way Matt’s hand stayed on his throat like a collar, the way his own body kept clenching and fluttering around the relentless dick inside him even though he was wrecked.

 

 

He was sensitive as fuck—raw, overstimulated, borderline crying—but goddamn if it wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever felt.

 

 

Matt huffed a breathless laugh against his jaw, hips snapping harder. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and mean and wrecked at the same time. “Still so hungry for me. Still taking it so perfectly even when you’re shaking.”

 

 

Tom’s next sound was barely a word—just a broken moan. His cunt spasmed again, another weak, oversensitive wave rolling through him, not quite an orgasm but close enough to make his vision blur. Slick kept leaking out around Matt’s cock, making every thrust wetter, louder.

 

 

Matt’s hand tightened on his throat—just a fraction. “Good boy,” he panted, finally sounding a little desperate himself. “Just like that. Let me fuck you until I’m done with you.”

 

 

Tom could only nod briefly, Matt’s hand squeezing once before returning to its original loose hold around his throat. So Tom did what Matt ordered—he just took it. His breathless gasps turned into desperate pleas turned into wispy, broken moans that barely made it past his lips. His body jerked and twitched without his command—hips stuttering back to meet every thrust even when his brain was screaming too much, thighs quivering like they might give out any second. His vision blurred with tears that clung stubbornly to his waterline, refusing to fall just yet, making everything look soft and hazy at the edges.

 

 

The Brit twisted beneath the ginger, calling his name in pure exasperation. “Holy fuck—Matt, please hurry up and fucking cum—I can’t fuckin’—shit,” Tom groaned, lifting his head, pushing weakly against the hand Matt still had planted at his throat.

 

 

Matthew stared down at him, eyes clear and focused despite the molly, clearly trying to chase his own peak but not quite getting there. He shoved Tom back down with a grunt, a mean, irritated smile curling over his expression of frustration. “I’m trying.”

 

 

Tom hissed in the back of his throat, letting his head fall back and hit the pillow with a soft thud. He was just fucking wet with sweat—hair plastered to his forehead and neck, chest hair matted down in dark whorls, every inch of skin shiny and sticking. He didn’t even want to imagine the cleanup between his legs later—slick and sweat and whatever else had leaked out of him over the last hour. Fuck.

 

 

Matt suddenly halted, hips still buried deep, giving Tom a brief intermission that he couldn’t even really appreciate because everything down there was so goddamn buzzy and raw. Tom lifted his head again, curious and dazed, blinking up at the ginger through damp lashes. Matt had that thinking face on—head tilted slightly, lips pursed like he was considering something

 

 

“Let’s switch positions,” the ginger suggested casually, hands already sliding to Tom’s hips to pull at his body impatiently.

 

 

“—Wha? What position?” the Brit murmured, completely disoriented by being manhandled so suddenly.

 

 

Matt didn’t answer right away. He just pulled out in a drag that made Tom’s hiss irritably, the empty ache hitting immediately. Before Tom could even make a complaint about it, Matt flipped him over with surprising efficiency. Tom landed on his stomach with a muffled “oof,” face mashed into the pillow for half a second before Matt yanked his hips up high.

 

 

“Ass up, dolly,” Matt ordered. “Knees wide. Chest down. Arms out in front—grab the headboard if you need to.”

 

 

Tom’s brain was still lagging terribly behind, but his body moved on autopilot. He stretched his arms forward, thick fingers wrapping around the metal bars of the headboard. The position forced his back into a deep arch, ass lifted, thighs spread wide, face half-buried in the damp pillow. It felt a little too fucking obscene for his liking and way too showboaty, but the embarrassment turned him on, so he kept silent since he knew Matt wasn’t going to let him argue.

 

 

Matt knelt behind him, hands sliding up the backs of Tom’s thighs. Long fingers hooked under the meat of his ass and spread him open wider—thumbs digging in just enough to make Tom yelp a little. “uh—hey!” The brit shifted a little, wondering when matt would think enough humiliation was fucking enough. The shorter man felt the blunt head of Matt’s dick nudge against his entrance again, teasing the rim, letting Tom get a feel before actually pushing in. And he decided to run his mouth a little, too.

 

 

“Are you ready?” The ginger asked from behind him, graceful hands skirting over his overheated body, tickling and testing the muscles under Tom’s skin.

 

 

Tom groaned, pushing his forehead hard into the pillow. “Just fucking go, Matt,” he replied bitterly, not interested in any more of this back-and-forth shit the ginger kept pulling with him.

 

 

He pushed in slow at first—letting Tom feel every thick inch stretch him open again—but once he was seated deep, hips flush against Tom’s ass, he started moving. And fuck, the angle was devastating.

 

 

In this position, prone but with Tom’s hips tilted high, legs spread, back sinfully curved—he could definitely feel himself hugging Matt’s dick so much tighter. The natural tilt of his pelvis made everything feel constricted and drag harder against his front wall. This made it all the more frustrating for the shorter man, nails biting into the cool of the bed railing, eyes squeezing shut. Good fucking god, he was praying for some god to let Matt blow his load.

 

 

Tom was lucky because Matt groaned—low and foretelling of an orgasm, the first actual break in his perfect composure. “God—yesss—you feel that?” He rolled his hips forward, grinding deep, letting Tom feel how snug it was now. “You’re so fucking tight like this. Squeezing me so perfectly, darling.” He sneered, likely getting off at the sound of his own voice.

 

 

Tom’s fingers clamped harder around the headboard bars until his knuckles started aching. His face stayed smashed into the pillow, muffling the desperate and admittedly wrecked sounds spilling out; gasps of little punched-out “fuck—Matt—”s. The overstimulation hit like a second fucking wave—every thrust too deep, too much pressure on already frayed nerves. His cunt spasmed around Matt’s cock in restless pulses, getting beaten the fuck up.

 

 

 

Matt’s hands gripped Tom’s hips hard, pretty fingers digging into soft flesh and coarse hair, pulling him back onto every brutal snap of his hips. The slap of skin on skin was louder, wetter, terrible. Matt leaned forward, chest pressing against Tom’s sweaty back, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around the front of Tom’s throat again—thumb stroking the frantic pulse while he fucked him harder.

 

 

Tom could feel his body hitting its last fucking leg while Matt kept going. The ginger’s stamina had seemed endless all night, but now Tom was really being pushed to the brink—vision blurring with shiny tears that soaked into the pillow under his face. He gasped desperately into the cushion, every nerve lit up like it was on fire, raw and burning. He lifted his face, forcing words through his raw throat.

 

 

“Mattttt—Please, fucking come on,” His voice cracked, almost tapering off into a whine. “T—this is too fuckin’-“

 

 

Matt laughed, delighted and just mean as fuck.  “You can take it, baby. You’re doing so well. Look how tight you are for me. Look how perfectly you’re gripping me.”

 

He punctuated that nasty sentence by slamming in harder, grinding deep, and his hips circling so the base of his dick mashed right against Tom’s reddened clit through the new angle. Tom’s whole body straight up seized—another weak, oversensitive orgasm ripping through him without warning. He rasped tiredly, every muscle in his body flexed with tension that pulsed in and out.

 

 

Matt groaned low in his throat, pace stuttering a little. “That’s it,” he hissed, voice shortening at the edges. “Fuck—so good,“ And he didn’t stop, either. He kept going faster and harder, chasing his own peak now, using Tom’s wrung-out body like it was made for just this. Tom’s arms trembled against the headboard, teeth grit, and chin dipped down, trying his damn best to conceal himself.

 

 

And he remained obedient despite the pleasure crashing violently. Because even tore the hell up like this, even so damn sensitive he could barely catch a breath, it was still really hot, and something inside just him loved letting Matt have his way.

 

 

 

 

 

The brit was totally lost to the sensations now; most of his thoughts scrambled into white noise, lips not really able to form anything but trembling, broken moans that vibrated against the damp pillow. He just shoved his face deeper into it, trying to focus on not fucking pissing himself with the angle Matt was throwing his dick in and out at. Every thrust rocked him forward, the head of Matt’s cock slamming right up against that upper wall spot that felt dangerously close to his bladder, pressure building in a way that made his stomach clench and his thighs shake harder.

 

 

“Ooooh—shit, baby,” Matt hissed, voice cracking for the first time all night. Somehow, the skinny fucker managed to jerk his hips even harder, nailing that exact spot over and over like it felt any different for him. “I’m close—”

 

 

Tom groaned, shaking his head frantically. He lifted his face just enough to drag in a ragged breath and find the words. “—Matt, you need to fucking slow down, I’m gonna—fuh—fucking—”

 

 

He tried to lift an arm backward, fumbling to shove at Matt’s hip, make him shift the angle even just a little. But Matt merely caught his wrist mid-air and held it, lithe fingers wrapping tight around the thick forearm. And like always, although Tom had the raw strength to rip it away, his force went lax in the ginger’s hand. Shoulders locked up, body going pliant even as his brain screamed no. Matt stayed pointedly fucking exactly where he was; deep, relentless, grinding on that spot with every snap of his hips.

 

 

“The bed is already a mess, Tom,” Matt scoffed, voice still managing to be a prissy, irritated drawl even while he panted. “Just do it.”

 

 

What a little Prick. And so, Tom did, because of course, his body listened to Matt.

 

 

 

Not like he actually had a choice in the matter—his whole ass body was genuinely fucking shivering now, muscles jumping, cunt clenching so hard around Matt’s dick it hurt in a good way. The pressure built fast as shit, then snapped hard. A few pathetic shots of clear fluid squirted out around Matt’s cock, soaking the already fucked up sheets in a fresh dark patch. It wasn’t as dramatic as it could have been, but apparently it was enough to make Matt fucking happy, because the fucker laughed before the noise tore off into a shaky moan.

 

 

 

Matt hissed a low, wrecked “Tom—” and draped himself forward, chest pressing hard against Tom’s sticky back. His hips stuttered, grinding deep one last time as he came, hot pulses filling Tom, spilling a little as he shifted. The ginger stayed planted over him for a second, breathing ragged against Tom’s neck, then sat up slowly. He pulled out with a wet fucking noise, admiring the sight of his own dick of course; still half-hard, shiny with cum and slick—as a thick trickle of white followed it out, dripping down to join more of the mess on the mattress that Tom already dreaded cleaning.

 

 

 

Tom all but collapsed flat onto the bed, heaving, his face mashed sideways into the pillow. His whole body felt like jelly; his thighs were shivering, cunt still twitching with aftershocks, and his arms were finally dropping limp at his sides, sore as shit. Sweat was already beginning to cool on his skin in sticky patches, and he was now vaguely aware of all the wet stamps of gloss all over his neck. While mulling over all of this shit he had to clean, he heard the faint click of a phone camera. Then another. Motherfucker..

 

 

“Want me to send these to you?” Matt asked, voice smug now that he’d finally come down from panting. “Hah, why am I even asking—of course you do.”

 

 

Tom let out a weak grunt; he didn’t even feel like lifting his head to fight that accusation.

 

 

Matt laughed fondly, hand sliding over Tom’s back in a petting motion, apparently not minding how gross he was, probably since he put him in that condition.

 

 

“Geez, you really need a shower,” Matt commented, lifting a brow as he analyzed down at Tom’s disheveled state. “You look good like this, though,” He tacked on, saving it from being a total insult.

 

 

 

Tom managed to crack one eye open, glaring up at him through damp lashes. “Yeah, fuck off,” He murmured, jutting a shoulder at the ginger’s touch.

 

 

Matt’s grin widened, amused by the man’s perpetual attitude. He leaned down, pressing a sticky kiss to Tom’s shoulder, somehow still transferring more gloss that Tom would have to wipe off. “I thought I would have fucked the attitude out of you by now,” he chuckled.

 

 

The ginger eventually stood up, stretching his long arms over his head and yawning like he’d just woken from a nap and not fucked the shit out of his roommate. Tom tilted his head to watch, eyes tracing the ginger’s easy movements as he tugged on his boxers and crouched to rummage in his bag. Something soft fluttered in Tom’s chest; quiet affection that caught him off guard, even though Matt was right there, still flushed from the sex. He didn’t say anything about it, though. He usually just let the feeling fester, too embarrassing,

 

 

“Hey Tom, I hope you’re planning on getting up because you’re definitely taking a shower before getting in my bed,” Matt called over his shoulder, voice light but pointed.

 

 

‘Way to kill the vibe,’ Tom thought, but out loud he just groaned and made sure it was long, dramatic, and most importantly disagreeable. He heard Matt giggle at him, which made a grin split on his face, too. As he forced himself to sit up, his body ached in a dull and almost satisfying way: his thighs sore, lower back fucking tight(?), everything sticky. He rolled his neck until it cracked, blinking blearily around for his boxers.

 

 

Matt came back over, settling across Tom’s spread knees like it was a natural thing and didn't make Tom’s chest tighten again. He handed over the missing fabric with a small hum, cherry-pink vape already to his lips. Tom took the boxers, expecting maybe a kiss or some cute shit like that, but Matt just grinned and exhaled a slow cloud of nicotine right into his face.

 

 

Tom scoffed, swatting at the smoke and shooing Matt off his lap half-heartedly before tugging the boxers on. He took a second, gathering the energy to stand, and when he finally did, Matt leaned in and kissed him properly: both hands cupping his face, thumbs smoothing over  his cheeks, pulling him close with that gentle insistence Tom literally never knew how to resist.

 

 

Tom melted into it embarrassingly fast—hands coming up to wrap around Matt’s wrists, tasting the sweet cherry tang. It was slow and lazy, no urgency needed.

 

Matt pulled back first, thumbs still rubbing soft circles into the fat of Tom’s cheeks. His eyes slid over Tom’s face tenderly. “Soooo…shower?” he repeated, head tilting in that way he knew worked every time.

 

 

Tom sighed, head dropping forward until his forehead rested against Matt’s collarbone for a second. “Mhm,” he hummed, too tired to argue, and he was kind of looking forward to sleeping in Matt’s bed; the dude had soft ass sheets.

 

 

“Good. Come to bed when you’re done, love.” Matt pressed one last peck under Tom’s eye; quick, affectionate, then stepped back, grabbing his bag and slipping out toward the downstairs shower so Tom could take the upstairs one. The door clicked shut behind him.

 

 

Tom stood there a moment longer, rubbing a hand over his face. His cheeks were still warm, stomach doing that stupid flip shit that always hit after. Like so goddamn butterflies. Fucking butterflies. He hated how easy it was to feel so…light around Matt. It was fucking weird.

 

 

Regardless, he took his business to the bathroom and got cleaned up, and didn't think too hard about the way he and Matt fit perfectly together in his bed, or how the ginger petted the back of his neck and kissed his forehead fondly until Tom couldnt kepe his eyes open anymore. It was domestic as fuck. He let himself enjoy the brief leisure without overthinking and spoiling the moment; instead, he relished it, curling closer to Matt's infectious contentment.