Harry has always been a very present lover; easily aroused, heavy on the praise and encouragement, unrelenting eye contact and a hurricane of curiosity. He loves to know what makes individuals tick, where their sensitivities lie, always seeking permission before advancing and asking lots of leading questions. He feeds off of other people - a bit of a chameleon in the sheets but mostly he likes to have fun and make his partners shudder with orgasm as his name leaks from their mouths.
He's at a loss as to what has shifted his typical sexual drive so gravely. He understands that it is somewhat or possibly completely related to you, but his total lack of provocation is concerning. He hasn't felt the need to seek out anyone and he hasn't endured the least bit of attraction for another person since you've become a regular fixture in his life.
What shocks him is that it's not purposeful; every other time he's been in a relationship he's had to convince himself that he was content with exclusive love. Although the two of you are far from being a romantic pairing, he's understanding the drive behind exclusivity and finally coming to terms with how it could easily work for him.
He's been so wound up with you that it hasn't seemed possible for his heart to beat for anyone else. He isn't even sure what that fully means because he hasn't allowed himself a moment to sit and reflect. An identity upheaval seems daunting and terrifying, it makes his hands clammy with fear and distress whenever it so much as threatens to poke at his mind. That probably sounds a bit dramatic, but it's his truth.
He thinks about you when he wakes up in the morning and as he falls asleep, he's reminded of you when he does crossword puzzles or when he finds spatters of paint on the floor in his studio from your play fight. He thinks of you whenever he digs into his pocket for a toothpick or when his thumb drags over the band of your moonstone ring. He hears you singing when your Madonna tape plays in his car or sees your smile when his eyes fall on a Kit Kat bar in the grocery store.
He wishes he could see you every single day and spend every waking moment of his free time in your presence but that doesn't make him any less scared to truly kiss you. He's finally starting to understand that is what his heart wants, but he's inexperienced in the pursuit of women and the thought of your naked body in his bed makes him sick with anxiety. He recognizes that his approach is immature and timid, but you make him feel like a child since he's never learned how to be with a woman and now he's concerned about the possibility of some self destruction on his part.
He wants you, he wants every bit of you, but he might as well be a prepubescent boy when it comes to skill. The only sense of romance he actually feels comfortable seeking with you is adolescent flirtation, teasing, joking and playing and he's wondering if and when that will change. He keeps telling himself that you're his Ace and no one in the world makes him feel more relaxed than his Ace, but his heart drops into his intestines when he remembers how intense your simple spontaneous kiss was.
Harry's head is tipped back and lips parted slightly to allow soft pants to escape, his chest heaves with stirred breath and sweat is beginning to prick at his forehead and his neck. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off of his shoulders as a strong electric current roars up his spine. He groans and spreads his legs a bit to allow for more sturdy footing, his toes curling in his shoes and his eyebrows pinched together as he tries to catch his breath with the ardent burn in his belly.
His chin falls to glance down at the person on their knees in front of him, his medium length ash blonde shag falling into his eyes as he looks up and connects with Harry before taking him all the way to the back of his throat and gagging when his head presses against his uvula.
Harry moans and grips the kitchen counter tightly with one sweaty palm, his other hand resting on the back of his head to hold his mouth in place. He gags again and Harry moans a high-pitched whine before letting him loose, his fist reaching up to wrap around Harry's base and pumping to bring him closer to release as he takes a second to recover from the series of retching.
Harry had planned to stay in on Friday night, cleaning his house and fluffing his pillows, scrubbing the backsplash in his kitchen and listening to records while he paints in his well lit studio. When the familiar and adequate opportunity arose of an on-again, off-again, no-strings-attached fuck buddy asking Harry over for quick romp reared its head, Harry jumped on it.
He hadn't had sex with anyone in nearly two months and the closest he had come was that accidental peck on the lips with you in his office on Wednesday. It crossed his mind that you might be affected by him sleeping with someone else, but the two of you aren't dating and he's still unsure if you ever will. He convinced himself this is good and healthy for him, even if it strangely feels a bit like cheating or at least cheap avoidance. He sees it as an juncture to possibly reveal how formidable his feelings for you actually are and to uncover some self discovery with this single encounter.
He has been sleeping with this particular fuck buddy for years; pretty much strictly booty calls every several weeks, they're a good match in bed and they both have always enjoyed themselves when they're together. No frills fucking, guaranteed orgasms for both parties.
Deep down he knew he would feel guilty as soon as he agreed to the proposal and that assumption was cemented when Harry showed up at his door in a casual plaid button down, some tight-fitting straight legged Levi's and a backwards baseball cap. He had a bottle of champagne clutched at the neck in his left hand, your ring clanking against the glass bottle as he tapped his finger nervously. It was just a formality but it felt nice to shoot the shit for a few minutes before both of their pants were pushed to the floor.
Harry followed him into his kitchen, a bit more nervous than he remembered being in the past but he chalked it up to anachronistic jitters. They popped the champagne and after a glass each and a few minutes of bullshitting, he had Harry pinned against his kitchen counter with his tongue down his throat and his hands pushing up against his solid chest.
He dropped to his knees almost immediately, tearing apart Harry's belt and fly before pulling his rigid cock out of his pants and sucking him into his mouth straight away. He was a bit older than Harry with several years of experience and notches on his bedpost. Harry liked that he usually commanded their encounters; he wasn't one who necessarily had a proclivity for submission but sometimes it was gratifying to allow someone else to take control of the efforts.
Harry wonders how you would go about sucking his dick, how far down your throat you could take him and if you would make eye contact with him while you licked his underbelly from base to tip. He imagines your pretty and feminine mouth wrapped around him, your flirtatious eyelashes blinking at him innocently and your fingernails running red trails up his calves and thighs. He pictures your heaving chest, your tits and your nipples pressed against the delicate fabric of your sherbet pink bra.
His eyes pop open when he realizes where his mind has drifted to and his chest breaks out in a cold sweat. He's alarmed by how unlike him this is; to be lost in his own mind during a sexual encounter and now he's trying to remember the last words he's uttered out loud to his partner on their knees for him and his mind draws a blank. He glances down at him and notices that he's rotating his wrist in quick snaps, sucking his head into his mouth and trying desperately to revive Harry's erection.
He has no idea when he went soft but his neck flares with embarrassment, "um-", he clears his throat with an awkward cough. He's reminded of the last time he was with a man and how he never came, no matter how enthusiastically he sucked Harry's dick and now he's starting to consider if it was the blow job that was substandard or if Harry's mind had been wandering as actively as it is now.
He dips his tongue into Harry's slit before backing off, "is everything o-"
Harry nods quickly with a flash interruption, "yes, c'mere." He bends down and hooks his hands under his elbows to drag him to his feet, swapping positions with him and pressing him up against the kitchen counter. His mouth attaches to the scratchy stubble along his jaw as he bears his teeth and nibbles, sucking a tiny red spot there as he unbuttons his pants and slides his hands into his briefs.
He moans, his breath catching as he stifles a, "yes, suck me," and Harry's dropping to his knees in front of him, his kneecaps burning as they slam against the tile. He pulls his pants and briefs to his knees, wrapping a fist around his length before swirling his tongue around his tip and slowly sinking him into his mouth, his tongue laying flat against his shaft as he sucks his cheeks in and bobs his head up and down.
He praises Harry's mouth and his cheekbones, his jawline and his bone structure, his ability to take him farther than most others can. Harry pops him from his mouth and pants hot breath against his center, "s'good?" He nods and mumbles 'yeah' before pushing Harry's mouth back into his length, his eyes falling closed as he groans and allows his head to tilt back towards the ceiling.
Harry closes his eyes and finds his train of thought leading back to you; the day he made you take a shot of wheatgrass and your sour reaction followed by how beautifully shiny your hair was in the sun afterwards. The dress you wore clubbing and your tear streaked face when that fucker grabbed your wrist. Your approaching cuddle session tomorrow in his regal bed and how much he is looking forward to it, he imagines what you would wear this time since it was planned and you could bring your own pajamas.
He wonders if you'll bring anything with you at all or if you would prefer to borrow more of his clothing; he hopes it's the latter option so that he could wear the shirt after you do, moaning in comfort to himself as he falls asleep alone the following evening.
His fog is interrupted by a loud grunt, "stop, don't make me come. I wanna fuck you." Harry's eyes glance up to the man above him as his scalp prickles with discomfort, he's hauled to his feet and thrown up against his kitchen counter. His pants are yanked down to his ankles as he bends him forward and Harry feels bare and exposed, his forearms propped on the surface and his head hanging forth between his shoulders as he pants loudly in anticipation and pinches his eyes closed.
He hears the snap of the cap opening on the bottle of lube and a clammy sounding squirt of liquid into the man's palm behind him and suddenly Harry is crying out in a desperate rasp, "oh god, no! Please stop. Stop."
The man behind him freezes and pauses before scoffing, "really?" Harry nods but doesn't move, too ashamed to turn around and face him after he agreed to come over here for this very reason only to back out mere seconds before the exploit happens.
He tosses the bottle of lube onto the counter beside Harry's forearm, backing away from him in haste and frustration as he redresses himself and walks to the sink to wash his hands, "it's a chick, isn't it?"
Harry's eyes fly open, his heart attempting to pump through a closed fist as he rights his pants and turns to face him. His head is bowed in disgrace while he removes his hat to adjust his hair underneath with a shaky palm then replaces the cap, "what? Why do you say that?"
He steps around Harry to pour another glass of champagne and take a long sip, shrugging his shoulders but alluding to the fact that Harry was lost in his own mind, unable to stay hard and then backed out of fucking just as it was about to happen, "I never thought you were strictly gay."
Harry's eyes are burning holes into his now as they stare at one another in shocked silence, Harry's jaw fallen open in awe as the man in front of him coheres the ideas that have been pricking the surface of Harry's skin for a couple weeks now, "why- how come you never told me?"
He finishes off his flute of champagne before dropping his glass to the counter and shaking his head, "honey, I'm not your life counselor, I'm a booty call. But if you think you might be in love with someone else, then your sexuality shouldn't matter - you're in the wrong place right now."
Hangin' in there?
Love you all.
👇🏻⭐️