Despair.

Ch.16: You Think That's Enough?

One For The Road by Arctic Monkeys.

I like this.

I... really fucking like this, actually.

I never saw it coming. I fantasized, sure, but I never saw myself doing it to someone I knew. It was sort of the concept, the idea of totally surrendering for just enough minutes not to regret it. Of still being in control.

I kept thinking... this is the only way I could make someone feel that good, but fuck being used.  You see, I need some control. And maybe I need even more not to have any.

Now I kinda have it all.

Much like Ian's mouth, every part of his body is just like him. And this is his core, too— right in the middle of his body, naked and vulnerable and raw and desperate. Explicit and blushing and responding to every single swirl of my tongue.

He tastes like... need, I want every drop. I never felt this...free before.

Is this how he felt, too?

I'll try, but there's no way I can paint a faithful image. Ian in this state is... freaking NSFW art, really. It makes me want to draw it myself— shock. But this time my fingers twitch for it. 

I want to shade the pink on his face, the shine of sweat on his neck. The foggy irises, fluttering lashes, and lips sore from being bitten too much. I want to trace the way they curl just so, upwards, and a bit to the side, showing some of his teeth when he's hit by another wave of what looks like ecstasy. I want to trace his hair, falling on his eyes and driving all attention back to his mouth.

I want to freeze him in time until every line is fucking loyal to his beauty, and the way the lamp on my nightstand's painting it.

"You're... You're..." he tries, cause he's pretty vocal, too. "You're so good."

"You've never had anyone else," I pant. Maybe in retaliation, maybe in a plea for more.

"It doesn't matter," he growls, even scolds me a little. "You just are."

And I'm drinking it all up today— even his words. I slip him in and out of my mouth, my slightly swollen lips gliding like this is the most natural thing I've ever done and the only that makes my brain shut the fuck up. God, I love that feeling. It's peaceful between his legs. Like I'm in some sort of nirvana, both fed and starving but neither is too much or too little. Thirsty for his voice even though it keeps pouring down my throat.

I want to tie him to this bed and gulp him down every morning like he's a pill that will spark some joy into my brain, and feed off his lies until they become my truth. I want enough of his stupidly sweet whispers that those will clog my ears instead of blood when the fear strikes back. I want to cry, and scream, and laugh. And make him cry, scream, and laugh. Cry because there's no other way to let out the pleasure I'll be driving into him, when I figure out how.