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You’re already in the bedroom by the time Snake finishes brushing his teeth; you’d say that you’ve finished changing into your pajamas, but you’re still wearing the same t-shirt and sweatpants you’ve been in since this morning. The blinds over the window are those thin metal strips, dented in a couple of places, and you’ve given up on untangling the knot of the pull cords. The window itself is just a solid pane with no latch, overlooking a fence and the parking lot next door, and it’s a little bit stuffy in here. All things you’ve come to expect.
You don’t hear the lamp on the nightstand click off, but the light pooling over the pillows in your peripheral vision winks out. You turn back around to face Snake. The ambient light seeping in from behind you is just enough to see him by.
“Did you see that guy with the red hair, down at the mailboxes?” he asks, low, like someone might overhear him.
“Huh?” You come over to stand near him, next to the nightstand where you’ll put your glasses. You slide them back up your nose, for now, instead of taking them off; focus back on Snake’s face, his expression.
“Earlier,” he says, “when we were bringing our stuff up. He was watching us real closely.”
“Oh,” you say. “No, I wasn’t…” Paying attention. You swallow. Logically, you know that it’s a good thing that Snake notices more than you do-- that you should expect him to pick up on things that you don’t, with his history-- but something about it still makes you feel… nervous, you guess. Like a liability.
“He came up the stairs after us,” Snake adds. “Into 206.”
“206…?” you say, glancing towards the head of the bed. “But that’s right next to us.”
“Yeah.” And he eases closer to you, hands coming up to curl around your waist, sliding up under your t-shirt. “So we should probably be quiet.”
Your brain stutters a little at that, fans whirring, CPU overloaded, heating all the way up. “You want to--?”
Snake doesn’t say anything, just leans in and kisses you. It’s not sudden, but it still catches you off-guard, how much of himself he puts into such a little gesture. The exact angle he takes when he tilts his head to avoid knocking against your glasses, or how the tip of his nose is pressed into your cheek. You let yourself melt into it, and into his hands as they drag down to your waistline.
His thumbs catch in the elastic of your boxers as you pull back, breathing a little bit harder. “Really, though,” you stammer, “are you sure? It’s--”
“Shh,” Snake whispers, not sharp, not hissing. He catches your lower lip between his teeth briefly, just enough to get you quiet, then lets it go. When he turns you around towards the bed, he doesn’t have to say anything at all. His hand pressing up under your shirt, gentle pressure between your shoulder blades. Down.
The mattress dips as he climbs up behind you, warm and solid, still further away than you’d like. You try to lean back into him but he just puts more of his weight down onto his palm, pushing you into the pillows with your breath snagging noisily in your throat. Both of his hands moving, now, dragging the hem of your shirt up until it bunches at your armpits. You try to lift your arms up to help him strip it off, but his elbow is in the way, one hand curving around to the front of your body, the other settling heavy against the back of your head. Okay. You’re not quite sure what-- what he wants from you-- but it’s spelled out quickly enough: the wadded-up fabric of your t-shirt, lifted away from your neckline and fed in towards your mouth. Your head, caged in by his palms and his splayed fingers. You drop your jaw open and moan, before you can remember that you’re not supposed to. The shirt does a better job of stifling the noise than you would’ve, anyway.
Snake’s hand hovers just over your face for another beat. The lightest brush of his palm over your cheekbone, lifting your glasses up and away. You hear them set lightly down on the nightstand-- a rare audible. Then he settles his weight against you, hard against the back of your thigh, trapping your erection in the triangle of your stomach, his knee, and the mattress. You could get off like this, easily. He probably knows that. Snake settles his face in against your neck, chin hooked over your shoulder, breathing low and steady and hot. You wonder if he can still hear you panting through the gag.
You’re not even sure he’s really going to fuck you until you feel his thumb sliding between your cheeks, fingers pulling your sweatpants and boxers down below the curve of your ass. You feel the way you whine at that, more than you hear it-- vibration on a thin, tense wire, like a fish on a hook. Spreading your knees, as much as you can; breathing in against the sheets, listening for a sound that doesn’t come. No scrape of a drawer opening, no click of a bottle cap, but still-- Snake’s fingers, wet, sliding in and pulling, working you open. Deeper, pushing, a deliberate thrust. Heat sparking up your spine, into your stomach your shoulders your throat and spilling over. Grinding down against the mattress and up into his fingers, rubbing back against his cock as much as you can, wanting--
Snake’s teeth settle over the top of your ear, biting down just enough to make you go entirely still. You stay like that for a long moment, pulse thundering and eyes wide, not lifting your head enough to see anything. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. You are suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how quiet it is in the room, of how wet the fabric in your mouth is, spit wicking out to both sides.
Slowly, slowly, he lets go of you. The exhale is barely a word. “Quiet.”
You swallow, tongue rubbing up against damp cotton. You can still feel the tingling afterimage of where he almost bit you. The fear recedes until it’s just a thin layer of residue over the thrum of your arousal. Quietly as you can, you mumble something completely inarticulate-- just a small plaintive noise. Snake doesn’t say anything, but you feel him shift-- sideways, maybe; adjusting the weight on his knees-- and lean in, against your back. Listening, maybe.
You turn your head to the side, twist back over your shoulder a little to look at him. He’s actually close enough to touch, which sort of takes you by surprise. Not that it really helps. You still don’t know how to ask; you can’t beg him to hurry up like you otherwise might. But he’s watching you so closely that maybe…
You clench around his fingers as hard as you can, and get up onto your hands to rub your face against Snake’s, nosing at his cheek like a cat. You can feel him suck in a breath, and then he’s twisting his fingers and dragging them out of you in a long, slow pull. He touches his lips to your cheekbone, and presses his wet fingers briefly against the shell of your ear. You shiver, and let yourself fall back down again.
There’s nothing else to focus on when he lines up and pushes in, and nothing you can really do to vent that heat whirring up inside of you. It feels like your lungs seize up, like the air comes in razor-sharp through your nostrils and hangs there, can’t get out. You can’t get away from him, pressed flush against you from shoulders to pelvis, hands tight on your hipbones. He’s so deep inside you that you can sort of rub his cock over your prostate, when you squirm a certain way.
You think that he might stay like that forever (or at least for a very long time, based on past experiences), so it catches you off-guard when he starts to move. A familiar, devastating rhythm, smooth and measured, pistonlike in the most literal sense. You’re used to the sound of it, as much as the feel-- the impact of his hips against your ass; the throaty grunts so close to your ear. But there’s none of that now. No harsh slap of skin on skin, just the slick, wet noise of him sliding in and out. You realize, with a dizzying suddenness, that he’s not actually thrusting all the way in. He’s stopping just short of it, measured, precise. Your dick throbs, and you twist your fingers into the sheets for something to hold on to, trying to choke back the low noise that he’s knocking loose in your chest.
Your legs are shaking by now, arousal and the strain from the way you’re holding yourself up. When you start to slide down flat, Snake just tightens his grip on your waist and hoists you up, puts you at the angle he wants. It makes you lightheaded. You almost reach down to touch yourself, even though you know that you can get off without being touched, if you’re patient or helpless enough. But you’re so close, you need to tell him; you need to— you need— you don’t know what you need—
Snake nearly drops your hips on the next thrust, lowering you down so that you skid against the mattress, unexpected and just on the right side of rough. He finally fucks all the way in as he spills into you, and then stays there for a few more thrusts, not as bothered by the overstimulation as you would be. He rocks you back and forth against the sheets until you climax, and the high, desperate noise that claws into your mouth isn’t quite muffled by the gag, and you can’t stop making it for what you’re sure is far too long. You’re shivering as he pulls out, and the cum that spills out of you isn’t warm enough to make up for the sudden chill left on your sweat-slick skin.
Snake eases the t-shirt out of your mouth with one hand, and as soon as it’s gone you wish you’d tightened your jaw to keep it there, because you’re making the most horrific, sharp gasping noises and you can’t stop yourself. It’s too much noise. You’re starting to panic, even as you try not to; your breaths get faster, but it isn’t helping, it isn’t working, you can’t--
“Hey,” Snake murmurs, firmer than a whisper, and not scolding. “Hey, it’s okay.” Curling up behind you again, close enough to feel his warmth. His hands petting at your chest and abdomen in slow, sure strokes until the shaking starts to subside. “I’ve got you,” he tells you, resting you back against his chest. “I’m here.”
The first noise you make, once you’re steady enough that you can close your mouth and get control of your tongue again, is a groaning, exhausted little “uhnn.” The second noise is a sniff, as you lift one hand to wipe the wetness from your eyes and nose. “...Sorry,” you say, still sounding a little shaky.
“‘s okay,” Snake says, and you can feel the comforting rumble of it against your back.
“Don’t know what that was about,” you say, and try for a laugh.
“Don’t apologize,” Snake tells you.
So you don’t. You sniff again, harder this time, sort of a gross, snotty sound.
“You alright?” he asks, after a moment.
“Uh-huh,” you say, tiredly, letting your eyes drift closed. “‘m good.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just… a lot. But I liked it.”
“Anything I can do?”
You hum softly, brow pinching as you try to think. It takes you a moment, in the wake of all the adrenaline, coming down from that high. “Keep talking?”
“Sure,” Snake says, and immediately lapses into silence for a couple of seconds. “...About what?”
That stumps you, for a moment. “Was that real?” you ask eventually.
“Huh?”
“The thing you said, about the guy. The one that was looking at us. Did you… do you think he knows something?”
“Oh,” Snake says. “No. I mean, he was looking at us, but I doubt it was about Philanthropy. He probably just thought we were gay.”
You let out a little snort at that. “Yeah, I wonder why.”
Snake laughs at that, a full-chested chuckle that resonates against your shoulder blades. And then you’re laughing, too, a delirious little giggle that eventually tapers off.
You reach back to lightly tug at Snake’s knee until he throws his leg up over your hip the way you like. “Gonna pass out now?” he asks, with the barest audible note of teasing.
“Mm,” you hum, garbled around a yawn. “Yeah, probably. …You?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well,” you say. “Goodnight.”
And Snake’s responding echo, lips scraping lightly at the nape of your neck: “G’night.”