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Kevin is sucking the ice from his second vodka tonic, the second of only two he allows himself these days, but if Jeremy doesn’t stop talking about squirting he’s going to break his own rules and go get a third. Maybe a double.
“It just – it’s so gender affirming, you know?” Jeremy says, cheeks flushed by tequila and the pulsing heat of a queer bar too full of patrons on a Friday night.
Kevin does not know. He fishes another ice cube out of his glass, ignoring the subtle smirk on Neil’s face as he stares Kevin down.
Jeremy is sandwiched between his two boyfriends, Neil on one side, Jean on the other. Neil is clearly amused by the conversation, Jean slightly mortified by it but unwilling to shut Jeremy down. He looks fond and displeased all at once, a look only Jean could pull off.
Kevin sucks ice and thinks, a little unkindly, about how selfish it is for Jeremy to have two boyfriends when some people—particularly Kevin-shaped people—have no boyfriend at all.
“Drink’s empty,” Andrew says, tapping Kevin’s glass.
Kevin spits the ice cube in his mouth back into it. “It’s my second.”
Andrew knows the rules, but he slides out of the booth anyway, taking Kevin’s glass with him.
Kevin is immediately irritated. Well, he was already irritated. Or horny. Probably both. It’s a constant state of affairs these days. Either way, he follows Andrew to the bar, ready to unleash his irritation in a way he can’t do on Jeremy. But before he can crank himself up, Andrew orders him a Shirley Temple.
“Hey,” Kevin says, trailing off, his irritation reluctant to depart even though his target is apparently not only respecting his newly minted alcohol boundaries, but just requested extra cherries in his virgin cocktail.
“Not everything you drink has to be alcoholic,” Andrew says blandly, sliding the bright red drink along the bar. It has at least ten cherries in it. Maybe more. Fringe benefit of fucking the bartender, Kevin thinks, though he is not entirely sure Andrew is still fucking the bartender. Fringe benefit of fucking the bartender at some point in time, then. Roland winks at Andrew as he pours a double of something amber colored and then waves Andrew off when he pulls out a wallet. Andrew leaves a ten dollar bill on the counter and turns to Kevin. “What?”
Kevin tries and fails to arrange his face into something different than whatever solicited that what, but he can’t help but glance at Roland. The look in Andrew’s eye is knowing. Smug.
“Shut up,” Kevin says lamely, and sips his drink. He looks up to catch Jean watching them, but Kevin makes himself cozy against the bar, scanning the room instead of returning to their table.
“Seems like it’s Jeremy you want to shut up. Tired of Captain Sunshine and his adventures in the bedroom?”
Kevin frowns and fishes out a cherry.
“Oh I see.”
“You see nothing,” Kevin says.
“I always see you Kevin,” Andrew says, easily, like it’s nothing, like those words don’t wrench Kevin’s heart sideways. “The question remains: which of the man’s boyfriends are you jealous over?”
Kevin chokes on the cherry stem he’d been trying (and failing) to tie in a knot.
Andrew spares him a glance, maybe making sure he’s not actually dying. Then, because Andrew must actually hate him, keeps going. “I can see the appeal either way, though I think Neil is more your type.”
“Because he’s a short asshole?” Kevin bites out without thinking.
Andrew hums against the rim of his glass and eyeballs him, one side of his mouth tilting up, and Kevin flushes when his brain catches up with what his mouth just said.
“Whatever,” Kevin huffs, letting the cherry stem fall against his bottom lip in defeat.
Andrew leans in close, reaches up, and Kevin freezes as Andrew plucks the stem deftly from Kevin’s mouth and pops it in his own. Andrew pins Kevin with a stare as he works that clever, clever mouth. It’s not even thirty seconds before he opens his mouth, the stem tied in a perfect knot and pillowed on the pink tip of Andrew’s tongue.
This does nothing for Kevin’s blush.
Andrew waits, tongue out, until Kevin plucks the thing back. He should deposit it on a napkin, drop it in his drink even, but instead he puts it back in his mouth, sucking the sultry taste of whisky from the loops of the knot. Kevin knows he’s surprised Andrew when one of those sharp eyebrows raises ever so slightly, and Andrew goes back to humming at his drink, gaze calculating and still riveted on Kevin.
“It’s not about them,” Kevin says, finally.
“Then it’s the sex.”
Kevin shrugs. He’s down to four cherries, and one of them is missing a stem.
“Kevin,” Andrew says, in that voice. The one that says I will read the words written on your soul and you better not bullshit me on the way down to find them.
“Squirting,” Kevin says, very very quietly. So quietly that he’s not sure that Andrew will hear him over the low thrumming trip hop the DJ is spinning, so quietly he’s not sure that he wants Andrew to hear.
But Andrew does. He always does. “Have you never?”
“You would know,” Kevin mutters.
Both of Andrew’s brows go up at that, and Kevin tries to look away, but Andrew grips his chin tightly and keeps him in place, reading him like a book. “Oh, Kevin,” he says, as quietly as one of his hums.
“It’s not a big deal.” Kevin moves out of his grip and Andrew lets him this time.
“No one else,” Andrew says, his tone unreadable.
It’s not a question, so Kevin doesn’t answer it. Andrew knows what he meant. Knows, now, that Kevin has never slept with anyone else but Andrew. Andrew was his first. Kevin hadn’t managed to find a second.
Hence, Kevin thinks, his very reasonable ire at Jeremy the Boyfriend Hoarder.
Andrew comes to some kind of conclusion. He downs the rest of his drink, sets the glass precisely on the bar, and hooks a finger in the belt loop of Kevin’s jeans. “Come home with me.”
This is a question. A dangerous one. One that Kevin should absolutely say no to.
“Bad idea,” Kevin says. He’s down to one cherry. He pops it in his mouth, resolved to die alone.
Andrew tugs him closer, hooks his free hand around Kevin’s neck. It’s annoying how good it feels, Andrew’s warm hand, an anchor keeping him on his feet.
Kevin misses it. He misses Andrew.
That, plus the two vodka drinks—so Kevin tells himself—is why, when Andrew pulls, Kevin yields all the way to his mouth.
If Andrew’s grip is grounding, his kiss is a catapult. His tongue is hot, whiskey soaked, and so achingly familiar. Kevin doesn’t even realize that Andrew has stolen his cherry until Andrew pulls back to grin at him, crushing the fruit between his front teeth and tying a messy knot of want in Kevin’s belly.
“I can make you squirt, Kev,” Andrew murmurs, holding Kevin captive still, close enough that Andrew doesn’t have to reach far to brush his lips along Kevin’s once more.
He leaves maraschino in his wake. Kevin licks it off and says nothing.
“You would have to let me finger you.” Andrew says it like it’s nothing, this offer.
Kevin, historically, has not been up for fingering. Something something dysphoria, something something trust. Annoyed, Kevin says, “I’m not stupid, I understand the mechanics.”
“And you want that.”
Kevin does. And Andrew is the only one he’d let give it to him. “Fine,” he mutters, ignoring the swoop in his belly when Andrew tightens his grip on Kevin’s neck.
“That’s not a yes.”
Kevin rolls his eyes and steels his nerves. It’s into Andrew’s ear that he whispers, “Take me home and make me come so hard I squirt.”
That, apparently, is enough of a yes for Andrew.
Andrew heads directly for the exit, but Kevin swings by the table. Jean drove him, after all. Neil’s knowing look when Kevin says he’s catching a ride with Andrew is annoying enough that Kevin flips him off, but it’s the disapproval Jean tucks into his, “Kevin,” that really annoys him. It’s not like Jean is going home alone tonight.
Andrew is pulled front and center when Kevin leaves the bar, his ridiculous car rumbling, the engine more of a growl than a purr.
Andrew had been rebuilding the Mazda RX-7 from the ground up when they’d dated. The smell of motor oil still kicks something pavlovian into gear in Kevin’s belly.
Kevin folds himself into the passenger seat, pushing it back as far as it will go, and when Andrew shifts gears and peels out of the parking lot Kevin’s breath catches.
The aftermarket speakers thrum with bass, the music loud enough that Andrew wouldn’t hear him if he talked, and what is there to say anyway? It’s not the first time they’ve done this since they broke up, but it’s the first time Andrew has promised him something he’s never had.
Instead Kevin watches Andrew shift gears and shift again, his thighs flexing as he pumps the clutch, the muscles in his forearm cording with each movement, the tendons in his hand distracting. That distraction gets him all the way to Andrew’s driveway, the little yellow bungalow lit up briefly in the Mazda’s headlights before Andrew cuts the engine.
Kevin hasn’t been to the house since the last time he made this same bad decision.
“Aaron home?”
“Night shift,” Andrew says. He taps the steering wheel thoughtfully, looking at Kevin. “Second thoughts?”
“No,” Kevin says, and gets out of the car.
Andrew beats him to the door, slipping the key inside and brushing a hand along Kevin’s low back to guide him inside. It puts him close, intimate, and he doesn’t move away until he’s guided Kevin to the worn leather couch in the den and pushed him onto it.
“Stay,” Andrew says, pointing at him.
Kevin stays, fiddles with the stereo remote until something low and thrummy that he doesn’t recognize but likes comes through the speakers.
Andrew returns without his shoes, his leather jacket shucked off, and a glass of whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t stop his trajectory, climbing right into Kevin’s lap and straddling him without spilling a drop.
“Did your two drink maximum leave room for dessert?” Andrew punctuates the question with a roll of his hips, grinding into Kevin’s packer at just the right angle to rub Kevin’s clit, and Kevin’s answer is a quiet, embarrassing whine.
Andrew sips his drink, and leans in for the kiss. Kevin couldn’t, wouldn’t do anything but open for him, and he does, lips already parted for Andrew, for his whiskey soaked tongue, for the perfect burning swallow of liquor Andrew paints Kevin’s mouth with.
This is muscle memory, this is the dinner bell.
Kevin melts under Andrew’s touch, gives in to him, hands hovering for purchase until Andrew mumbles, “Waist up,” against Kevin’s lips and then Kevin’s greedy hands land on hard muscle, pulling Andrew closer, as close as he’ll come.
They finish the drink that way, amber fire kissed from Andrew to Kevin until the glass is empty and tossed aside to the carpeted floor. It frees Andrew’s hands to plunge into Kevin’s hair, to hold him captive, to steal his breath and his heart and his soul.
It’s always like this.
Kevin lets his head fall back as Andrew bites and licks open mouthed along Kevin’s jaw, down his neck, and he’s so fuzzy headed, so surrounded in Andrew that he doesn’t realize Andrew is saying something until he’s pulled away, sitting up amused and disheveled and clearly asking for not the first time.
He’s still got a hand tangled in Kevin’s hair, and Andrew rubs clever, soothing fingertips against his scalp when he says, “It’s only ever been me?”
Kevin slips his hands under the back of Andrew’s shirt, spreading his fingers against warm muscle. He sighs, guttural. “Yes. Don’t be an ass about it.”
Andrew rolls his hips and it’s everything Kevin can do not to buck up against him. “Does it look like I am being an ass about it?” Andrew rolls his hips again and Kevin groans, tries to reach for a kiss, but Andrew holds him captive, fingers tightening in Kevin’s hair.
“Tell me why.”
“Fuck you,” Kevin groans out.
“Soon,” Andrew promises. “Answer the question.”
“Andrew,” Kevin begs, packing every ounce of pleading he has into his name. “Not now.”
The unspoken please hovers in the air between them and Andrew considers him for so long Kevin thinks he’s ruined it, that Andrew is going to crawl off of him, walk away, leave him alone and lonely with a swollen clit and a scotch taped heart.
Instead Andrew hums his little hum and slides down Kevin’s thighs, dropping to his knees between Kevin’s feet.
Kevin breathes out a soft, reverent, “Fuck.” Andrew is backlit, surreal and ethereal in the low light, the music floating around them as he undoes Kevin’s button, his zipper, and shucks him free of his jeans and boxers and packer in one fell swoop.
Kevin’s clothes are tangled around his ankles, but he doesn’t care because Andrew presses one hand to Kevin’s abs, and leans in, passes the flat of his tongue rough and wet over Kevin’s dick once before sucking it in between his lips.
All the air leaves Kevin’s lungs as Andrew sucks, his lips pillowed, his tongue clever and perfect and rough and wet and warm and— fuck.
Andrew takes his time, and Kevin shudders with it, his hands desperate but careful on Andrew’s shoulders, tucked into his hair. Andrew knows how to get him off in no time at all, how to press his dick to the roof of his mouth, how to suck, how to hold him captive with the flat of his tongue, how to carry Kevin over the precipice into toe curling release … but this is not that.
This is Andrew licking and playing and swirling until Kevin is writhing in want, drowning in need, almost impatient for his orgasm. Enough so that he forgets himself, tugs a little too hard at Andrew’s hair, whines a little too loudly.
Andrew pulls back slightly, laughs, a soft huff against Kevin’s wet, puffy lips. “Don’t forget the assignment, baby,” he says, and Kevin’s dick twitches at that baby, at the evidence that Andrew is just as gone in this as he is.
“Andrew,” Kevin says, a breathless whine, a wishful command.
Andrew crawls up to his lap again, wraps his thighs around Kevin’s, and slots them together, Andrew’s erection pressed to Kevin’s through his tight black pants. Kevin wants to palm him, to feel that sleek velvet length on his tongue, but Andrew is there, kissing him, pressing him down, down, until Kevin is sprawled on the couch, legs tangled, Andrew pinning him down with hips and lips and hands and Kevin wants to be drunk on this alone for the rest of eternity.
He arches up into Andrew’s hold unbidden, but Andrew pushes a hand to his chest. “Relax,” he says.
Kevin frowns at him, wants to beg, but then Andrew is on the move again, lips on hip bones, on inner thigh. Kevin breathes and watches as Andrew pulls off Kevin’s shoes, his socks, and then rids him of his pants entirely, arranges him until Kevin is bare assed on the leather couch, one knee rucked up over the back cushions, his other foot on the floor, spread wide for Andrew to settle at the very core of him.
“Should we … move to the bedroom?” Kevin asks, uncertain. He’s relaxed enough that he remembers the assignment. Andrew promised him squirting. He feels the flush spreading on his chest at the thought of it, at Andrew’s hot gaze on his body.
Andrew shakes his head slowly, locking eyes with Kevin, pressing palms to Kevin’s thighs. “No,” he says, and Kevin would protest again, except Andrew says, “Take your shirt off,” and Kevin gets distracted pulling his shirt over his head.
Andrew’s gaze warms and he says, “Good boy.”
Kevin blushes, just like Andrew knew he would. “Yours?” Kevin asks. He’s hungry for Andrew’s pale skin, for the light freckles across his shoulders, for the velvet rose of his nipples. Andrew doesn’t hesitate to reach behind him to grip the collar and pull his tight, black t-shirt off in one motion that puts his biceps on mouthwatering display. Kevin bites back the ridiculous desire to good boy him right back.
Andrew drops lower, pushing at Kevin’s leg until his right knee is even further up the couch. “Close your eyes,” Andrew says, and Kevin does. “I’m going to finger you.”
It’s a statement, but it’s a question too. He’s giving Kevin an out, a release valve for the bravado he’d displayed at the bar. Kevin doesn’t need it; right now he wants nothing more than Andrew inside him in any way he can have him. Andrew licks him, presses his tongue into him, then pillows his cheek on Kevin’s thigh as he waits for Kevin’s affirmation. Kevin thinks he’d say yes to anything Andrew asked him, just now.
“Okay. I just lay here?” Kevin asks, already starting to worry. He likes to be an active partner, he likes to earn his gold star. He’s not used to just laying back and taking it.
Andrew nips at his labia and Kevin whines, opening his eyes to level a glare at Andrew, but Andrew is already soothing the bite with his tongue.
“Relax,” Andrew says for the second time. “Let me do this for you.”
Kevin blinks down at him, his heartbeat paused, his lungs forgetting their function.
Let me do this for you.
Andrew’s face is soft, his touch grounding.
“Okay,” Kevin says again. “Okay, okay.” He closes his eyes.
Andrew’s mouth roams, his lips soft and seeking and distractingly delicious. Kevin lets the music engulf him, lets himself feel the touch, feel Andrew taking care of him. He’s slick and more than ready when Andrew slips a finger into him, easily sinking to the knuckle.
It’s then that Andrew starts talking.
“There you are,” he says, low and satisfied as he crooks his finger up, stroking steadily. Kevin squirms. Andrew’s soft, “Shhhh,” is chased with a soothing hand stroking up and down his thigh. He retreats for a moment before pressing in with two fingers, crooking them up, pressing fingertips with that same steady motion.
“Just like that,” Andrew croons, “Open up for me, Kev.” Kevin obediently spreads his legs wider, breathes and breathes until he thinks his breath is connecting with the maddening little circles Andrew is making with his fingers inside him.
It feels … weird. Good weird, Kevin thinks.
He stops thinking when Andrew’s tongue lands back on his dick, licking him lightly in time with his strokes, Andrew’s fingers pressing up up up to meet the soft press of his tongue. Kevin sinks into the feeling, feels his body unfurl, seeking more, seeking something he’s not quite sure of, but that’s building in him all the same.
Andrew speeds up. The sound of his fingers steadily jacking Kevin’s wet cunt is obscene, it makes Kevin’s cheeks burn. Andrew surges forward, fingers working, always working, holding Kevin up and split wide as Andrew catches Kevin’s thigh with his shoulder, spreading him impossibly open. Andrew’s free hand lands on Kevin’s chest and Kevin grips it with both hands, holding on tight as his thighs start to shake.
Andrew doesn’t stop. Kevin can’t escape his fingers stroking, stoking, pushing, incessant, and pressure is building, growing, swelling, it’s – Kevin can’t name it, can’t tame it, and a low moan releases unbidden from the back of his throat.
“That’s it, let it happen,” Andrew says, but Kevin can’t, he can’t, he feels like –
“Andrew, I am going to pee!”
“You aren’t,” Andrew soothes. “That’s what we’re chasing, baby. It’s not pee.”
But it feels like pee, Kevin feels like he is going to pee, he doesn’t want to pee. “I don’t want to pee, Andrew, Andrew, I don’t–”
Andrew stills, his fingers falling lax inside of Kevin, and somehow that’s worse, somehow that makes Kevin want to cry. “Do you want me to stop?” Andrew asks.
The question makes Kevin keen in refusal. His eyes fly open, he shakes his head. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” he says, and Andrew says, “Look at me, trust me.”
Kevin does, he does. “I trust you,” Kevin gasps out, and then Andrew is moving again, jacking his fingers in a brutal, relentless motion that makes Kevin want to snap his legs closed, but he can’t, he can’t, because Andrew is holding him up, holding him open, has turned him inside out, is going to break him in two.
The pressure is already building again, is doubling, is threatening to break him, but Andrew has him. Kevin knows Andrew has him, will never drop him, not here, not like this. Kevin takes a gulping breath, and then another, and then another, and Andrew holds him pinned with those liquid gold eyes, knowing him, seeing him.
Andrew shifts, presses his free hand to Kevin’s low belly, stroking, stroking. He says, “I’ve got you, Kevin. Let go.” And then he presses down.
Something in Kevin shudders, spills over, rolls through him. “Andrew!” he says, his legs twitching in one last vain attempt to snap closed, but Andrew is unyielding, an unstoppable force. Kevin’s orgasm gushes out of him and he gasps, mouth dropping open, pinned under Andrew’s gaze.
“Fuck yes,” Andrew says, and he doubles down and somehow it happens again, the wave crashing, spilling over, everything is wet, pulsing.
“Andrew!” Kevin gasps again as another wave hits, as he writhes on Andrew’s fingers, chasing the feeling, terrified of the feeling, not sure he hasn’t just peed but it feels so amazing he doesn’t care, his cunt clenching helplessly around Andrew and he wants, he wants –
“I want—”
“Tell me.”
“Fill me up, Andrew, now, god, fuck me, fuck me.” Every word is a plea. Kevin feels unfinished, unmoored. The loss of Andrew’s fingers is devastating, but no time passes before Andrew’s shoved his own pants down, crawled over Kevin.
“Put your arms around me,” Andrew demands, and Kevin holds on tight as Andrew sheathes himself in one full thrust.
“Andrew!” Kevin whines, and trusts that Andrew knows what he wants, what he needs. Kevin is too far gone to care about the sounds, the wet smack of Andrew fucking him, the squelch of it all, twisting the coil in Kevin’s belly up all over again, Andrew’s teeth locked on his neck, Kevin holding on to him for dear life as Andrew drives Kevin’s orgasm as far as it will go, until Kevin is infinite, is nothing but the storm brewing under his skin, fueled by Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
Kevin starts chanting, can’t stop, “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew,” and Andrew slips a hand between them to grip Kevin’s dick between his fingers, and that’s what does it, that’s what spills him over the edge one last time, sends him shuddering and shaking into the ether.
Kevin loses time after that.
The next he knows his teeth are chattering and Andrew is no longer inside him, and he feels empty and bereft. He blinks his eyes open. He looks down, realizes that Andrew has come on his stomach. He swipes a finger through it. “Oh good,” he says stupidly.
And then he starts crying.
“Hey, you’re okay, I’m here, I’m right here,” Andrew says as he comes quickly into the room, a towel in one hand, a glass of water in the other.
“Left me,” Kevin says. Saying the words make him cry harder.
“Kevin,” Andrew says. “You asked me to get you water.”
“Don’t remember that,” Kevin sniffs.
“Okay, that’s on me, I didn’t realize you were that far out of it.” Kevin stares, wide eyed, his tears dried up just as fast as they appeared.
“Did you just apologize to me?”
“Yes,” Andrew says. He wipes first between Kevin’s legs, then cleans up his stomach. “Here, sit up, drink this.”
Kevin struggles to obey, but his limbs feel like jelly and he doesn’t want to move. “Can’t,” he says.
The corner of Andrew’s mouth crooks up at that, but he clasps Kevin’s hand and pulls him upright without a word, hands him the water.
Kevin drinks it down, nothing has ever been as wonderful as this glass of water. When he’s finished, Andrew takes the glass, and Kevin realizes he's sitting on very wet leather. He blushes, hard, mortified, pawing at the dampness under his thighs.
“Stop,” Andrew says, carding a hand in Kevin’s damp curls and tugging. “That was hot. You are hot. I don’t care about the couch.”
“But Aaron–”
“I’ll take care of it before he gets home.” Andrew cards his hand again and again, petting him, and Kevin leans into it, rides it for as long as Andrew will give it to him. Kevin knows it will be a short ride; Andrew will send him home, and tomorrow Kevin will once again be alone and lonely.
Until the next time that he has two drinks at the bar and follows Andrew home like a lost puppy.
Except, Andrew says, “Come upstairs.”
Kevin blinks at him dumbly. Maybe the post orgasm glow is making him stupid, making him hear things. “What?”
A flash of something crosses Andrew’s features, there and gone again. “Stay,” he says.
“The night? But—”
“Stop thinking so much,” Andrew says. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
Helpless to say no, Kevin follows him upstairs, to the bedroom he hasn’t set foot in for over a year. Andrew gives him a pair of stretched out, faded boxers and an old soft, orange t-shirt that Kevin has never seen before. It’s just big enough to be comfortable on him. They take turns in the bathroom and then change together, facing each other, Andrew’s eyes molten and unreadable.
Everything feels surreal and quiet in the bedroom, like a spell has been cast. Andrew backs him up to the bed until he is sitting, and Kevin goes willingly, spreads his knees for Andrew to step between them, both hands carding into Kevin’s hair again, scratching at his scalp.
“Tell me,” Andrew demands, and Kevin knows he isn’t getting out of it this time.
He sighs, tilts forward until his forehead is pressed to Andrew’s chest, gratified when Andrew lets him, doesn’t berate him for hiding his face like this when he says, “I don’t want anyone else, not really. I don’t trust them. I’ll get over it, eventually.”
Andrew says nothing, but his hands don’t stop petting, sliding down Kevin’s neck, his back, returning to his hair. Kevin sinks into it, lets himself be soothed. He is wrung out, boneless. His heart and his cunt empty. It’s not a bad feeling, though, not here. Here he is safe, held between Andrew’s palms, sequestered away from the morning sun and all the truths it will bring to light under harsh rays.