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The moon hangs low in the clear sky tonight, with stars that peek through the city smog. The night is swollen with the thrum of life; neon signs and rowdy drunks; the honking of horns, purring of cars. Slow rolling of wheels against the cracks in the pavements, sliding into potholes, up and down the steep hills of the city.
San Francisco: full of sin, temptation, opportunity. Dark alleys perfect for clandestine meetings, abandoned buildings boarded up with flimsy sheets of wood. Vandalism on every corner; markings of a once-revolution, covered up by slurs, fear, hatred.
Inside, Daniel sits alone at a bar that had been one of his favourites about a decade ago. The only one that’s still standing; that stood the test of time. Through police raids and earthquakes and disease.
The regulars still know him. He hadn’t been so cut off from his past life to forget them either. But they’re all changed. Some for the better; rings around their fingers, hope in their eyes. Others rail thin and weak. Some lost altogether.
It’s a lot quieter than Daniel remembers it being. The clink of glass against wooden tables, mild chatter, but the loudest thing by far is the television that blares in the corner in all its CRT glory. Some sports game Daniel’s only half-watching — he’s never really paid much attention to those things.
He flags down the bartender — a new face; Daniel recognises nobody that is working tonight — and says, “Can I get another one of these?” Daniel points to the triangular shaped glass in front of him, nothing remaining now but the cocktail stick.
“Sure,” the guy says, lifting the glass and giving Daniel a smile, “I’ll put it on your tab.”
“Thanks.”
What he really wants is a grasshopper. But that feels too much like regression.
Daniel watches the stranger pour his drink. Gin, vermouth, plucks an olive from the jar and skewers it with a stick. Daniel drinks things that are for real men now — martinis. Not grasshoppers.
God, he’s fucking lying to himself. What he really wants is a giant line of cocaine. The biggest he’s ever done. Admitting that, though… that truly feels like regression. Because once he admits it, the thought won’t leave him alone. A hummingbird at his ear.
Daniel’s been sober for a while now. Alice prefers him sober — actually likes him sober. And Daniel likes Alice, so despite how much he loves to live a life of vice, he’s been being good. No drugs, no sleeping around, throwing himself into his work.
That shit’s way harder than it looks.
The bartender slides the drink across to him. “Anything else?” he asks. Daniel’s been ordering these all night, and he doubts this one will be his last.
Still, he waves him away, “Thanks.”
He goes to serve the guy sitting a few seats away from Daniel. “Do you serve grasshoppers here?” he asks.
The guy’s pretty, even Daniel has to admit that. Maybe it’s the clothes — high quality shit, the type that screams ‘I’m really rich! Come rob me!’ — that used to be something Daniel looked for: someone with money to burn.
But, well, Daniel’s straight, not blind. This guy just stepped out of a modelling agency; a good one too. One that scores gigs at Paris Fashion Week, and not the Sears catalogue. Hair perfectly styled, tousled in all the right ways. Skin shining bronze. Slender, fidgeting hands.
The voice is distinct, accented. Generic English; nowhere specific, which gives Daniel the impression that it’s fake. It catches his ear, makes him perk up a little: suddenly interested.
The bartender gives the new guy a smile, like he’s charmed by the question. Or maybe by the guy’s good looks. Hard to tell in a gay bar.
“Course,” the bartender says, “you want one?”
“If you would,” he says, sliding a plastic card across the table. Daniel’s a little jealous. Nobody will offer a guy like him a line of credit.
Daniel watches the bartender make the drink with wide eyes. He should just order one too. It’s not like anybody here will judge him for it — just himself. The sweet crème de menthe mixing with the fresh cream; he sips at his martini and finds that he truly hates how dry it is. At least the burn in his throat is distracting.
His soul feels as green as the guy’s drink as it slides over to him. The sprig of mint almost wobbles right out of the glass, but the guy takes it between two long, delicate fingers. Gives it a little twirl.
Daniel bites his tongue. Goes back to pretending to be interested in whatever sport they’re playing on the television. Thanks God he never took that sports journalist job despite the steady income it would’ve given. Nothing is worth crushing his soul like that.
He feels the stranger’s eyes on him; oddly familiar, full of burning heat. Checking him out, most likely. The good part of Daniel is already planning exit strategies — the bad part of Daniel remembers what is awaiting him when he leaves this place. The bad part of Daniel is thinking of ways to get this hot stranger into the bathroom stall.
Remembering how good it feels to have big hands in his hair, pulling his curls, scratching his scalp. How it feels to have something in his mouth. His lips stretching wide, pulling back over his teeth.
The good part of Daniel tells him: Alice will hate you for this.
The good part of Daniel is being held underwater by the bad part. Aspirating water, dying.
Daniel bites the olive right off the stick, feeling the skin burst under his blunt molars. Filling his mouth with a briny taste; a shiny film of booze masking the worst of it with a strong heat. “Refill?” he asks the bartender.
He gets a wary look in response. His tab must be getting pretty large. Oh well, not like he had any intention of paying it off anyway. “I’m good for it, promise,” he says. The bartender’s wariness turns into straight annoyance.
The stranger’s voice then, “I’ll pay for it.”
And Daniel knows how that one ends.
“Nah, man, it’s fine.”
“I insist,” he says, pressing two fingers against his credit card, directing it back to the bartender.
Daniel looks up, meets his intent gaze. Brilliant, liquid amber surrounding bottomless pools of jet black. Curls held back with hairspray, bouncing around by his ears as he tilts his head. Lips patiently pursed.
The good part of Daniel stops struggling. Air stops bubbling to the water’s surface.
“Alright,” he says. Watching the bartender wordlessly take the stranger’s credit card and go to fetch the gin. “Daniel,” he says, nodding at the stranger.
“Armand.”
He watches Armand continue to pull at the sprig of mint with slender fingers. Wonders how soft they are, imagines he’ll find out soon. “Do you come here often, Armand?”
“No,” he says, “do you?”
“No,” he should really offer more. Part of that age-old social contract. A guy buys you a drink, you lay it on thick, he takes you home, you take off your clothes… “What brings you here, then, if not regularity?”
The corners of Armand’s mouth twitch upwards, like Daniel’s said something mildly amusing. “Just looking for,” he trails off, rolls his eyes around the bar, “a good time.” He shrugs as he says it. “And you?”
Daniel wraps his fingers around the stem of his glass as the bartender gives him another, mumbles his thanks, takes a swig. Too dry. He eyes Armand’s grasshopper. “I used to come here a lot.”
“Trying to recreate the past?” Armand offers. He plucks the leaves off the plant, puts one on his tongue.
“I guess. I didn’t really think about it like that.”
“Then how did you think of it?” he asks, grinding the leaf between his teeth. “Escaping the present?”
Daniel scoffs. He remembers these encounters being a little more carefree. A little less pushy. “You could say that.”
The twitch at Armand’s lips blossoms into a sweet smile. Daniel feels his eyes on him as he takes another sip of his martini. Feeling watched makes him try to school his expression; tries to keep it strong, not to show how much he fucking hates martinis.
He must suck at it, because Armand says, “Would you like to order something else?”
To prove a point, Daniel brings the glass back to his lips. “No.”
“You don’t seem to be enjoying your drink.”
Daniel shrugs, “Well, it’s booze. Are you supposed to enjoy the taste?”
Armand laughs, his eyes draw back to the bar, perusing all the pull tabs. “A true masochist.”
The martini goes down the wrong hole, spluttering into his lungs. He tries to be discreet in his choking, but Armand shuffles closer, pats him on the back. “A little forward, don’t you think?”
“My apologies,” he says. The hand on his back remains as the coughing subsides — the thumb rubbing little circles into his skin. “I don’t do pretense.”
“That’s for sure,” Daniel says. He takes another drink to soothe the irritation. Which is a bad idea because it just makes everything hurt more.
When he puts the glass back down, Armand pushes it away. “No more of that,” he says, stretching across to where he sat mere seconds ago to grab his own drink. “Here.”
“I’m not gonna steal your drink, man.”
Armand presses down on the bottom of the glass, “Drink.” The words leave no room for interpretation. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
Daniel doesn’t think he’s a subtle guy at all. So that’s awful news to hear.
The grasshopper is a tad thicker than the martini. Colder too, much sweeter. It does a far better job at soothing his oesophagus than the martini. Probably the fresh cream.
It’s sweeter than he remembers. And it tastes like he needs a line of blow, like yesterday. Reminds him of heated passion, and the salty tang of sweat, and boyish youth. It goes right to his head, despite being weaker than the martini.
Armand watches his throat bob with each gulp; doesn’t ask him why he didn’t order one for himself. Maybe he truly is not that subtle. Maybe this guy’s got him pinned like a butterfly on a corkboard. Something about that thought is hot.
That is something he’d always found attractive about Alice. She doesn’t bullshit him either. She reads him like a book, with all the pages spread wide, all the text enlarged and in bold. That’s how he knows she’ll forgive him for all this. She’ll be furious, of course, if she ever found out (and he’ll make sure she won’t), but she’d forgive him. She probably expected all of this.
In his mind: her face the last time he’d seen her, a few hours ago. Sad, certainly. Not disappointed. Barely a wisp of a sigh had passed through her lips.
“Yeah. Let’s talk about it later tonight. I gotta knock out another chapter.”
The screech of four wooden legs against the linoleum in the brasserie. The pound of Daniel’s own heartbeat in his ears. The ease with which the lie had slipped off his tongue; that had felt like regression too.
At the gay bar, inside of Daniel’s old haunt, he takes a big gulp of Armand’s drink. Focuses in on how cold it is, the sensation of the chill sliding down his throat. Feels it settle in his upset stomach. Like a balm.
The hand at Daniel’s back comes up, crosses over his shoulder. A cold palm at his neck, two fingers coming up to brush a curl behind his ear.
He should get up and leave. He should go home to his girlfriend.
Daniel doesn’t move.
“How is it?” Armand asks.
“Good,” he says, tongue flickering out to chase the remnants of flavour on his top lip.
The point of Armand’s fingernail traces the shell of Daniel’s ear, scratching its way down to his jawline. “Better than the martini.”
It’s not a question, but still Daniel nods. “Thanks,” he says. He feels a little stupid with all the alcohol in his blood — rushing straight to his head. “I haven’t had one of these in so long.”
“Why not?” Armand asks, pulling down towards Daniel’s chin before he lets his hand drop. “You’re enjoying it.”
“Too much of a good thing’ll kill you.”
Armand hums thoughtfully. “True enough,” he says. His hand starts to fiddle with the martini glass stem instead, drumming pretty clinking noises into it. “I’d say too little of a good thing might kill one too.”
Daniel brings the glass to his lips, takes a moment to inhale the freshness, the sickly sweetness. “I’m getting too old for overindulgence.”
“You’re 32,” Armand chuckles. “Plenty of time yet for indulgence.”
His hands pause with his bottom lip kissing against the rim of the glass. “How do you know that?”
The man beside him freezes unnaturally. Just for a moment, and then it’s shattered with a gentle smile, a breath of a laugh. Armand stops fidgeting with the martini glass. Feels around for something in his pockets instead. “I know a lot of things about you, Daniel,” as he speaks, he places something small and white onto the bar, slides it across discreetly.
Daniel rests his hand over it, shielding the object from view, raises his thumb to investigate.
A small plastic bag, tied into a knot at the top. Fine dust of white sitting on the inside.
He lowers his thumb back down. Takes a slow pull from his drink.
“Why deny yourself of life’s little pleasures?” Armand asks, his tone slow and methodical. “A sweet drink? A good high? A wet mouth?”
Daniel’s already broken. He’s already going to go have sex with this stranger in the bathroom. The way he pushes feels cruel. “I have a girlfriend. I—”
“Yes,” Armand interrupts him, “and in a few months time she’ll be the mother of your child. Perhaps a wife.”
The acid in Daniel’s stomach churns. Burns holes in his organs. He lifts his thumb again, like he needs to check the drugs didn’t disappear. Blinding white stares back at him.
“You’re afraid that your life will cease to be yours. That it already has. It doesn’t have to be so.”
Daniel doesn’t know why hearing it said aloud makes it less frightening.
Daniel closes his fist around the plastic. Feels it crinkle between the lines in his palm, the crunch of the powder against itself. The horrible friction.
He turns his head to look at the man beside him, and finds that Armand has been staring at him for a while now. Bright eyes burning a hole in his temple, drilling to the root of his thoughts. A blank expression on his face, but something real underneath — a curiosity. As though he doesn’t already know what Daniel is going to choose.
He reaches out, playing with the collar of Armand’s shirt. Purposefully not looking him in the eye. “Meet me in the bathroom?”
A little smile, a slow blink. “Of course.”
Daniel hops off the barstool. Leaves the unfinished drinks with Armand and his credit card. Let him max that shit out.
There’s already a couple in the bathroom when Daniel enters. He can hear the slick sounds of someone getting throatfucked; hears the giver hit himself in the mouth with his palm and bite down to stifle himself.
He tries not to listen in. Something about it makes him nervous. Instead, he plants both of his hands on the sink furthest from the door. Turns the faucet on for the ambient noise, and to watch the water spin its way towards the drain. Watches it sink down.
He feels around in his back pocket for his keys. Finds them — the keys to the apartment he shares with Alice. He has a picture of her trapped in plastic hanging off the keyring. Daniel holds the key between his thumb and forefinger, makes sure the photo is upside down against his wrist. He uses the key like a spoon into the bag of coke, scooping a line into the grooves.
There’s barely any hesitation in his movements. He brings it to his nose like he’s still trapped in addiction; not like a man who hasn’t done anything more than smoke a joint in years. And it burns on the way up his nose, down his throat, but he doesn’t splutter. Doesn’t cough or gag. Just takes it.
Tingling numbness in his throat, the tips of his fingers. Buzzing excitement licking its way up his limbs, down his spine, through his head. His field of vision feels wider; his eyelids lighter. Alertness blaring in his prefrontal cortex.
He thought there might be some guilt, some regret. All he feels is that awareness, and a simple euphoria.
Daniel blinks, slowly, lets his eyelids float closed. Opens them just as dreamily to face himself in the mirror. Dilated pupils that are a perfect companion to the boozy flush spreading across his cheeks, his nose. When Armand gets here, he’s going to know exactly what Daniel’s doing — if he doesn’t already expect it of him. The thought makes heat rush into his gut — and there it is. The shame. Straight to his dick.
He’s about to tie up the bag, but at the last minute, he dips his key back into the powder. Serves up another dose for himself. This one goes down a little smoother. He cleans up, puts his keys back into his pocket, and starts pulling at his nose. The sensitive skin inside is irritated, despite the numbing. Daniel isn’t sure if it is a real feeling or something that his mind has made up, but he’s certain there is powder stuck in the back of his throat.
He drags a disgusting noise out of his throat, pulling up mucus and perhaps a little blood. The couple in the stall seem to stall a little when they hear it. Surely, with disgust. Daniel finds that he doesn’t care. Whatever
Daniel finds himself smiling at his reflection. Fingers white-knuckling on the edge of the skin. He had missed this. He’s been away for too long.
He hums, stretching his head to the side. Getting lost in the deep pools of his pupils. Swimming. Drowning.
When the bathroom door pushes open, it makes him jump. It’s just Armand.
“Hello again,” he says, pressing back against the bathroom door as it closes. Taking stock of the environment, sketching out a plan. His eyes slide from Daniel to the occupied stall. Watches the wood rattle for a moment before his gaze returns. “Seems we have company.”
Daniel doesn’t think that it’s good manners to acknowledge them verbally. But — and maybe it’s the coke — it makes his dick twitch.
“Yeah,” he says in that same stupid voice he’d said it to Alice with. Like the word is stuck in his mouth, and the only way to work it out is to let it roll off. Casual in all the wrong ways. Armand smiles when it reaches his ears; Daniel sees it in technicolour. Brilliant radiance.
Armand steps forward, fancy shoes tip-tapping on the tile floor with what feels like agonising slowness. Daniel waits, watches him move in the mirror. Stays still. Lets Armand prey on him.
Daniel’s a touch shorter than Armand, so there’s nowhere for him to hide as he presses himself up against Daniel’s back. “You’re high,” he says, voice soft against the shell of Daniel’s ear. “Impatient thing. Greedy thing.”
Daniel’s brow pulls together at that. So tense from just a few little words. Arms wrap around his body like twin vines, ten points of delicate pressure against the thin polyester of his shirt.
Alice touches him like this. In the mornings while he shaves or brushes his teeth or puts in his contact lenses. She stands up on her tiptoes, presses her sharp chin into his shoulder. And Daniel pretends he doesn’t mind.
Armand stands, heels on the ground, and presses his cheek to Daniel’s curls. In the mirror, Daniel watches him inhale deeply. And Daniel finds that it makes his breath come out from shivering lungs.
Instinctively, he tilts his head to the side, presses back into Armand’s nose, feels the small upturn of his lips against his scalp. Armand’s neck bends, lips coming to press wetly on the curve of Daniel’s shoulder. Then up, and up, and up. The sharpness of his jaw, the round of his cheek, the lobe of his ear.
Hands cross over his abdomen, sliding lower, brushing over where his shirt tucks into his jeans. Cool breath on the wet patch of just-kissed skin, fingers dancing around the pockets of his jeans. Daniel tears his attention in two, focus intent on both feelings; sewed back into one as they send shivers up his spine.
When Alice does this, it doesn’t make his cock stir like it does now. It doesn’t make his heart pound.
Daniel closes his eyes. Pushes against Armand with a step backward. The mirror is too much now; the guilt isn’t fun when it makes his skin crawl like this, when he’s face-to-face with it. Armand kisses a tender spot at the corner of his jaw, pulls Daniel backwards into one of the open stalls.
Armand manhandles him, manoeuvres them until their fronts are flush together — droopy lids gazing at one another. He pushes, keeps pushing, until Daniel’s knees have no choice but to bend, sitting down on the lid of the toilet. Chin tilted up, eyes locked on the way Armand’s curls try to swallow his face whole. Armand looks at him for a moment; something in his eyes Daniel can’t exactly name. Desire, or need, or awe. And then he pulls away, turns to lock them both inside of the bathroom stall.
Daniel doesn’t try to move. His fate is long sealed by now. Wax-stamped. Sent first class.
Turning back, Armand captures both sides of Daniel’s face with his hands — so cold Daniel would jump if not for the fierceness of his grip. Plants a knee atop Daniel’s lap, presses down until his legs part to make space for him. Then pulls himself forward, pull Daniel forward, until the smooth curve of his knee is jammed up against Daniel’s heated groin.
“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes blinking closed as the electric sparks of pleasure travel up his nerves. A direct line to his brain. His hands come up, tangle in the cotton of Armand’s shirt, and pull him down to press their mouths together hard. Teeth clack, noses bump. Daniel doesn’t care. “How do you want it?” he asks, lips squished against Armand’s, words spoken directly down his throat.
Armand pulls away a moment. Too dignified to speak anything but perfectly clear words. He wipes a thumb across Daniel’s wet mouth, pulling at his bottom lip. “Eager, are we?”
The way he says it makes Daniel’s gut pulse in gorgeous agony. Condescending in all the right ways. His gaze flickers down to Armand’s mouth. Hungry for him. “Yeah, boss.”
He catches the delight that flits across Armand’s face. The intrigue.
Using his grip on Daniel’s jaw, Armand pulls him in for another kiss. Stretching out his spine like an accordion. Armand’s tongue pushes against Daniel’s upper teeth, begging for entry, desperate to lick into his mouth. Daniel lets him, opens wide for him, leans back as far as Armand’s hold allows.
Armand tastes metallic. Like rusted iron. Like the positive end of a battery. Daniel finds that he likes it. Finds himself licking up the taste with his own tongue, brushing over Armand’s lips, glossing over his teeth.
Alice tastes like Tic Tacs. Her favourite flavour: sour apple. Overpowering and sickly.
Embarrassingly, Daniel chases Armand as he pulls away, wanting to keep their lips locked. When his eyes open, he sees that delighted look on Armand’s face again. Somehow victorious; the cat with the cream.
“Give me your hand,” he says, and Daniel does; willingly, quickly.
Armand takes him by the wrist and licks a stripe up his skin. Presses his mouth to it, tongues the lines in his palm. Puts Daniel’s fingers in his mouth, sucks on them, presses his tongue between the vee of his fingers. Then he pulls away, eyes latched on the shiny wrinkles of the flesh. Rolls his tongue inside of his closed mouth and spits into Daniel’s palm. Daniel feels it slide — wet and slick — down his wrist.
It feels like looking at a porno mag. Worse, somehow, with the twin flames of disgust and desire. Daniel feels himself burn with it; shame, guilt. Bright red across his cheeks, pounding in his chest, turmoil behind his cock.
With his free hand, Armand works his pants open. Expertly undoes his buttons without looking, eyes intent on the shine of Daniel’s palm. Daniel can’t say he knows where to look. Too much stimulation, too much heat.
He can’t feel his lips. He presses his fingers to them, finds them kiss wet and plump with the beginnings of a bruise.
Before Daniel is really aware that it’s happening, Armand is lowering his wrist. Letting his wet fingers draw dark lines down the front of his shirt, skim over the exposed section of his stomach, pushing them down past his waistband.
Despite the fullness of his cock, despite the quickness of his breath, Armand feels cold in comparison to Daniel’s skin. Disinterested. The thought comes to him, you are disgusting. So desperate to touch another man.
Two hands now pushing their way into his curls, wrenching his head higher to look Armand in the eye. “Touch me, Daniel.”
Daniel wraps his spit-slick palm around Armand’s cock, thumb barely touching his middle finger. Then he pulls forward, watches Armand almost stumble with the pleasure; a delicate sound falls from his lips. “Yes,” he whispers, letting his hips chase Daniel’s warm hand freely. Daniel pushes back and feels Armand’s gentle thrusts.
And maybe it is okay — if Armand wants this as badly as Daniel does.
It’s a slow start. Daniel hasn’t done this to anyone but himself in years, but it’s easy to fall back into it. Easier than the grasshopper had gone down, easier than doing a line of coke off his keys. He remembers the little tricks; the right ways to flick his wrist, the brushing of his thumb across the head, the soft squeezes. Soon, he has Armand heating up in his hand. Punched out little noises coming from his throat. Fingers tightening in his hair.
The angle starts to feel awkward on his wrist, so Daniel gets up. Uses his body weight to push Armand back against the stall door, hard enough to make it rattle. A real moan spills from his mouth with that. Daniel wants to lick it up.
His free hand holds him up — planted unceremoniously beside Armand’s head — as he leans in to kiss him again, sucking Armand’s bottom lip into his mouth. Biting down. Feeling the vibration of his groan against his teeth. He pulls at it, pulls Armand open to fuck into his mouth. He almost grazes his tongue against the sharpness of Armand’s canines.
Armand’s hands roam his scalp. Fingers tangling in sweat-encrusted knots, nails scratching against the tender flesh there. It sends goosebumps down his neck, across his upper arms; makes him grip Armand tighter. Which makes Armand moan, and his hands pull harder. Feeding off of each other, desperation fuelling desperation. An ouroboros of pleasure.
So Daniel feels it when Armand starts to get close — pulling on his hair so hard that he will surely come away with short strands, maybe a full curl or two. Then he feels it in Armand’s pelvis, the building tension whenever his hand hits back into it. Tight, locked up.
Alice does that too. She pulls on his hair, her back bends, she fucks back into him. Daniel almost always fucks it up somehow — switches the rhythm, changes the angle. It’s instinctual.
“You close?” he says, voice coming breathier than he expected. The twinge of embarrassment barely has time to register when Armand opens his eyes, irises burning melted gold.
A barely-there nod. His mouth opens for a kiss, but lets a whiny noise escape instead.
He won’t fuck it up this time. It’s always easier with men.
And then, maybe it’s the coke, the heady indulgence, the taboo of it all, he doesn’t know, Daniel finds himself possessed. Asks, “You wanna ask me for it?” The words go right down Armand’s throat.
As Armand digests them, a blissed out grin spreads across his open mouth. Looking like the pinnacle of excess, of debauchery. A noise escapes him that might be a laugh, but Daniel can’t be sure with the way he punctuates himself with a deep groan. “Yes,” he says, “yes.”
Alice is not vanilla — hard to be when you grew up mourning the Summer of Love — but she has never liked this side of him. Never liked to lose the vice grip she keeps on control.
“Ask,” Daniel says, running his fingers up and down Armand’s cock quicker and quicker, squeezing at the base, tugging the sensitive skin. He’s making it hard to hold back on purpose, watching every inch of Armand’s body lock up with desire. Sounds pour from him like a fount, and Daniel would gladly drink them all down. But he feels caught, a hand in the scruff of his neck. Stuck in the scene.
A stuttering, disbelieving laugh from Armand. His hips fuck into Daniel’s hand like he can’t control himself — and maybe he can’t. Maybe this is all some shared sex-infused delusion between them both.
“Daniel,” the name drips from his lips like honey, like tar. Daniel presses his forehead to Armand’s neck, nestled in the crook of his jaw. He licks up the words Armand speaks as they drip off his chin. “Please,” he says, “I want it.”
“More,” Daniel says like a man starved. He is a man starved; this part of him has been locked away and ignored for years. “Come on, baby, gimme more.”
“I need it. Give it to me, let me have it, please.”
Daniel kisses his way up Armand’s face; over his jaw, across his open mouth, the bridge of his nose, between his brows. Then he pulls away so that he can watch Armand come undone. “Come on then. Come, make a fucking mess in my hand — in those expensive pants.”
The door bangs as Armand slams his back against it, tension flooding him like a wave rolling down his body. A moan so loud that Daniel wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear him over the thrum of life in the bar — in the street. No expression on his face at all, completely blank. Daniel leans in again, uses the wide spread of Armand’s mouth to push his tongue inside. Fucks him with it, bites down on his lips.
He feels his hand become sticky, but keeps moving until Armand’s hips stutter and he keens; until his body weight falls completely against the door of the stall. Daniel tries to remove his hand carefully — doesn’t really want to make more of a mess than he already has — but Armand takes him by the wrist again and tugs him hard. His hand seems to come free from Armand’s waistband and become trapped between Armand’s lips once more within the same moment.
Armand licks himself off of Daniel’s hand, pressing the fingers between both of their mouths. Daniel gets to taste him too — something odd about it, something immediately addicting, something that goes right to his dick.
Alice tastes like pussy. Hot and somewhat sour. So mundane. So human.
Daniel could drink Armand down all day. Sit under the desk at whatever fancy office gig this guy must have and suck on him for hours, days. He finds himself chasing the taste off of his hand long after they have washed it clean.
Armand smears his spit wet hand around the column of Daniel’s throat; holds him back, just a little, presses his thumb against the thick vein beneath the surface. “Thank you,” he says, planting a kiss — too chaste for a bathroom stall — against the corner of Daniel’s mouth.
A grin splits across Daniel’s face. “Don’t mention it, boss.”
Armand laughs at him again, the sound complete now but full of air. “How about I just repay the favour.”
The bulge in Daniel’s pants twitches; he moans just at Armand’s heavy-handed implication. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah I’d like that.”
Smiling like he’s keeping some sort of secret, Armand looks at Daniel through long lashes. Blinking once — doe-eyed and faux-innocent — before spinning them around faster than Daniel can comprehend. There’s a puff of air knocked out of Daniel’s lungs as his back hits the door. Armand immediately pressed against him like they were joined at the hips — or the dick maybe, Armand grinding the soft crotch of his ruined pants against the roughness of Daniel’s denim.
Armand slides down his body like a snake; forehead pressing against Daniel’s own, then his chest, his stomach, before settling against the cool metal of his belt buckle. One of Daniel’s hands finds its way into the black curls on Armand’s head, fingers squeezing together in a tense anticipation.
“Relax, Daniel,” Armand says.
Daniel knows a great way to do that. Or, well, to at least stop thinking if not to relax. He rubs his index finger across his tongue and sticks it into Armand’s little bag. Then swirls it around inside until his finger comes out powdery white, and rubs it against his gums, in the little indent above his incisors.
Armand watches every moment. Rapt. Soft awe on his face. Watches Daniel’s eyes slide close as the numbness spreads through his mouth again. Watches it spread across the lower half of Daniel’s face, until there’s only a mild awareness that that part of his body exists at all. Watches him lose himself in the dopamine rush.
A firm palm presses up against the hot hardness of his jeans and drags itself upwards, nails catching on the seams of his zipper. Daniel keeps his eyes closed, but he feels deft fingers unhooking his belt, pulling the leather from the buckle. They just leave it hanging, open and obscene; the buckle swinging against his thigh. Then those same fingers undo the button at the top, and slide his zipper down slowly — revelling in every moment.
Daniel sucks his own bottom lip between his teeth. Barely feels the pain as he bites into himself.
Armand pulls down his pants with a grip where his jeans start to flare out — where it’s loose enough for him to take a fistful. It isn’t an easy tug; it takes a few eager jerks. The impatience builds up in Daniel’s chest like a shaken soda bottle. Bubbling up behind his throat. The words already fully formed — needy, desperate begging.
He can feel the chill of Armand’s palms press against his upper thighs through the thin fabric of his underwear. The contrast to his overheating is nice, but it makes a shiver run down both of his legs. That makes Armand smile — Daniel can tell, even with his eyes closed. Two thumbs press — too hard, too fast — against the clothed head of his cock. Daniel’s jaw falls open. His hips move of their own accord, yet he isn’t sure whether it is towards the sensation or away from it. Armand shushes him, though he isn’t making any noise, and his thumbs start to move in soothing circles.
A shuddering gasp leaves Daniel’s lips; body seizing with each heave. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “you’re a tease.”
Armand hums, non-committal, and presses his cool lips to the cotton in front of him. Tongue rolling, mouth sucking, making out with his dick. Daniel’s hands fly up by his head on a reflex — his whole body contorting as muted pleasure rolls through him like a tsunami. His cock seems to push itself forward into Armand’s mouth, soundlessly begging him for more. He feels the cold breath of Armand’s laugh fan out under his shirt. Running over his skin like a phantom touch.
“You want it so badly,” Armand says; his voice is muffled against the fabric of Daniel’s underwear, against the heat of his body, “don’t you?” The sound vibrates through the cavities of his organs — guts, stomach, lungs, spreading through him like a disease.
Daniel’s jaw clenches, neck stiff as he nods.
“Good,” Armand says, “good.” His voice is soothing as his thumbs rub tiny circles into the sharp bones of his hips, as they push under the elastic of his waistband.
A choked off whimper bounces off the fleshy walls of Daniel’s trachea, bursting through his skin, loud enough for the world to hear. He feels Armand grin against his flesh; this strange, all-knowing creature pulling him by the strings, pressing buttons Daniel had left in the past and forgotten. The feeling of that; of being known somehow, so intimately, makes his body shudder with humiliation.
And Armand’s grin widens as Daniel’s dick flexes into his cheek. Because he likes that too.
“Poor thing,” he whispers the words just loud enough for Daniel’s ears. Another grunt from Daniel, this one accompanied by the thick thud of the back of his head hitting the stall door. “Don’t worry,” and Daniel finds that he is calmed by the cliche, “I’ll take care of you.”
As Armand speaks, his thumbs hook the waistband and start to gently tug down. Daniel lifts his hips off the wall — about all he is capable of doing to help at this moment — and lets it happen. Feels his own cock, hard enough to bounce off his stomach; notices how cold it feels with the temperature difference. Feels something colder still, like marble, press against the head. His body reacts — how could it not? Daniel instinctively tries to pull away from the chill, but there’s nowhere to go. It ends with him bashing his tailbone against the wood of the door, and then he arches away from the pain, right back into Armand’s open mouth.
“Fuck,” his voice trembles as he speaks. From the pleasure or the chill as he sinks behind Armand’s teeth, he isn’t sure. His hands move, brushing through the soft, black void of Armand’s hair. His fingers get lost in it, knitting through, gripping hard until Armand’s moan vibrates against the sensitive flesh between his teeth.
Daniel isn’t quite sure where to look — the yellowed and flickering light above, praying to it like a god; for this to never be over, for this to last for the rest of his life — or the tangerine eyes that seem so intent on him, barely blinking even as the head of Daniel’s cock brushes up against the back of his mouth, as his lips press against the thatch of hair at the base.
His fingers sink further back, down, until he’s past Armand’s ears. Armand slows down once he feels Daniel’s knuckles tense; silent permission for him to take it as he wants it.
Nobody’s ever done that for Daniel before either. Not Alice — who treats sucking him off like a chore, methodical and eager to be done. Alice who has to use her hands to jerk off what her mouth can’t reach. Alice who always makes him pull out; who doesn’t like it on her face, only on her tits.
Daniel makes Armand take him to the root, and keeps him there until his eyes redden. Until he feels the spasm of the throat around his dick. Until the gold of Armand’s eyes blow wide, leaking into the pupils, into the whites. After he’s satisfied, he pulls Armand back. Hears the wet gulp of breath as Armand pulls it in through his nose, echoing around mucus and tears.
“You like that?” he asks, panting like a dog, “you like it like that?”
Armand blinks up at him, slow and sensual; letting his damp eyelashes knit together. Daniel feels his attempt at a nod from the way his scalp moves under his hands.
From the tornado of sensation in Daniel’s mind, a thought pulls to the forefront: you like it too. It’s alright to admit it.
He stuffs himself into Armand’s mouth, feeling the surprised pulse of his throat, hearing the deep splutter in his chest. Overpowering that thought with more pleasure — a perfectly tight squeeze on his cock. “Yeah,” he groans, “like that.”
Another thought pushes through the haze: you can ignore it all you like. It’s better to give in.
The world looks so much smaller through the bars of the cage you have shut yourself away in.
The door is unlatched. Or have you forgotten?
Daniel’s fingers tighten, threatening to pull out Armand’s hair at the roots. The man under him moans with the pain. Daniel feels him shiver, feels the buzzing on his dick moving through his bones like an earthquake. Setting him off-kilter, tilting his world.
Poor boy. Ruled over by his own shame.
A delicate noise passes through Daniel’s lips; a high and pitchy whine. His ears pop with mounting pressure behind his eyes — half pleasure, half agony. He pulls his lips inward, bites down on them hard as he shallowly fucks Armand’s mouth. Hard, fast, slamming the cartilage of Armand’s nose against his pubic hair. Another strangled noise bleeds from his throat. He’s so close he can taste the endorphins on the back of his tongue, can feel the edges swimming around his brainstem. And yet, something blocks him.
It feels like he’s a dog on a leash. Tied down to a pole. The bone just out of reach.
Let go. It’s just us. You can be honest.
Daniel’s eyes squeeze closed. His head thumps off the stall door, neck bared, pulsing artery on display. His hands pull Armand’s hair back, nails scratching down his scalp. Armand takes it as a request; hollowing out his cheeks, moaning feeling like a vibrator right on the head of him. Trying to wrench the orgasm right out of him. Still, it’s stuck somewhere in the twirling of his gut, the tension of his spine.
Tell me how much you like it. How much better I am than her.
“You,” pours out between Daniel’s clenched jaw before he can stop himself, “is that you?”
Tell me, Daniel.
Daniel tries to ignore it — tries to flush out the block in his system, relaxes into all his feelings. The pounding in his ears, the whirlpool in his chest, the wet glide of a mouth around his cock. Tries to unlock every tight muscle in his body. All it does is ease the flow of words from his brain to his mouth.
“Armand,” and he truly doesn’t feel in control of the things he’s saying, “I like it, fuck, I love the way you feel. You and her — no fucking contest.”
Good boy.
A sudden wave of ecstasy washes over him; the epicenter of it all Armand’s mouth, lips tucked behind teeth. He can feel himself spilling down his throat, hips stuttering through it all, yet Armand takes it so easily. Daniel’s fingers loosen in his hair, going boneless against the door. Kept up almost entirely by Armand’s cool hands at his thighs.
Daniel’s still feeling it in his fingertips when Armand pulls off. He stares up with those neon orange eyes, making sure Daniel’s got his balance back before he straightens himself up. Armand places two hands either side of Daniel’s jaw, and pulls him in for a filthy kiss. Daniel can taste himself on Armand’s tongue — bitter and salty and so human.
Maybe Alice has a point about not swallowing. But then, Armand drank him down like ambrosia, like every moment spent touching him had been a blessing. Daniel feels a twisting in his stomach, fluttering up his throat. With his thumb, he pushes a loose curl back behind Armand’s ear.
When Armand pulls away — and it is him who pulls away, not Daniel — his eyes flicker from Daniel’s bruised lips to his eyes. He runs his index and middle fingers across the swollen red flesh, drawing attention to them. Silently asking how he will explain this away to his pregnant girlfriend at home, the one waiting up for him with her gaze locked on the clock.
Armand sighs. “The door is unlatched. It’s waiting for you.”
And then he pushes past Daniel, and then he is gone. Leaving Daniel alone in the bathroom stall of a gay bar. Bag of cocaine making a lump in his jean pocket, the humiliating taste of himself on his tongue.
Daniel washes out his mouth at the sink. The cold faucet running down his chin.