He could hear himself distantly, making soft, keening noises interspersed with harsh grunts when Sullivan laid into him particularly hard, and he was on fire, everything hurt, and it was so... God, he couldn’t hold on. He had to, he wanted to, but he couldn’t, but he had to.
He wanted Sullivan inside him so badly. More than fingers. He shifted his leg up, begging with everything he had in him, and behind him Sullivan sucked in a breath.
“Fuck,” Sullivan muttered, and he bent down, his mouth finding Tobias’s shoulder, his teeth sinking in, the pain almost blinding, Sullivan’s breath fast and hard against the damp, sensitive skin.
Tobias’s hips couldn’t hold still—he was pulling away from the force of those thrusting fingers, and pushing back into it, and wanting more, always more, he wanted Sullivan’s cock deep inside him, stretching him wider, making the burn brighter. He wanted Sullivan to feel just as good, wanted Sullivan to have everything Tobias was, everything he could give, and if his body could deliver on any part of that, he wanted it.
Sullivan’s fingers pulled out, and for a heartbeat, a lovely, perfect heartbeat, the head of his cock was there, pressing against Tobias’s rim, far larger and hotter, and even that small contact was far too much, but he pushed back anyway. He made a sound that could only be termed a whine, and maybe he’d be embarrassed about that later, but for right now, he just fucking wanted.
Then Sullivan was growling, “Goddamn it,” and pulling away. There was a flurry of movement behind him, the shocking, cold sensation of more lube, the tearing sound of a condom wrapper being opened.
“I want to fuck you,” Sullivan bit out. “It’s going to hurt. Color.”
“Green,” Tobias moaned, “God, please, do it.”
And then Sullivan was finally, finally sliding his cock inside him. He sank in completely with that one thrust, an unspoken demand that Tobias’s body yield everything. Even loose and relaxed, Tobias still found it too much, and he cried out in wordless protest instinctively, scrambling away from the intensity of the sensations.
He was hugely, deeply satisfied when Sullivan didn’t hesitate for a second, using leverage and his weight to keep Tobias where he wanted him, already withdrawing and shoving back in, angling for Tobias’s prostate, and Tobias cried out again. It did hurt, badly enough that he couldn’t lie still, couldn’t stay quiet, but it was also immensely good, contributing to the pleasure, the fullness and weight of Sullivan inside him far more important than the burn. He was on fire, the pain sharp and acute and raw, the pleasure dagger-edged and welling up, impossible to resist, and he couldn’t come, he couldn’t, not until he knew—
His jaw unlocked. “Please, Sullivan, can I? Please. God, I have—”
“You—Jesus.” Sullivan sounded startled, and vaguely unhappy for a split second. But the unhappiness was gone when he continued with, “Yes, sweetheart. Go ahead.”
With a low, throaty cry, Tobias did, only dimly aware of Sullivan making a deep, punched-out noise and following. He slumped on top of Tobias like a lead weight.
“Jesus,” Sullivan whispered. “Jesus. You’re—Jesus.”
“No, I’m Tobias,” he said into the pillow. His voice was lazy and thick like he’d been drugged or something, and it was a horrible joke, but Sullivan laughed anyway, because Sullivan was nice. He was soooo nice. He had nice hair and nice arms and Tobias liked the stark black tattoos and the muscles there, and he liked the way Sullivan’s body smelled, especially now, first thing in the morning when he was warm and a little sweaty and recently asleep. Tobias had made a stupid joke and Sullivan had laughed, and this was all so nice that he giggled.
“You’re nice,” he said.
“You’re completely high on endorphins, aren’t you?” Sullivan asked.
“I don’t know,” Tobias said, still giggling. Sullivan pulled out of him and slumped to one side, smiling dozily, all those long muscles lean and graceful. God, he was hot.
“Yeah, hold on to that as long as you can.”
“I’m gonna be so sore.” Somehow that was really funny, and Tobias started laughing in earnest. Sullivan was laughing too, like he thought Tobias was being silly, and maybe he was, but he felt so good that laughter was the only thing possible.
* * *
Sullivan was fucked. He was so fucked.
Because Tobias was sweet and eager and he’d instinctively wanted permission to come even though Sullivan hadn’t asked—it hadn’t occurred to him that Tobias might think Sullivan expected it this morning, which was pretty shitty Dom behavior—and there’d been zero self-consciousness in the asking. It was outrageously hot.
And worst of all, Tobias had laughed afterward.
He hadn’t shown any sign of feeling tormented or scared or guilty. He wasn’t second-guessing the kind of sex they’d shared. In fact, as Sullivan cleaned Tobias up and smoothed a cooling gel gently over the raw skin between his cheeks, Tobias was nuzzling into the sheets like a damn puppy, warm and happy and spent, halfway back to sleep, and Sullivan wanted to slide down beside him and settle in for a nap.
Instead, he tucked Tobias in, rubbed his head until he was asleep—which took thirty seconds tops—and went into the bathroom for a shower.
He had to get a grip. This was a mess, and he had to figure out what the hell was going on so he could institute some kind of control over the situation. Logic. That was what he needed.
Okay, so he was clearly ready for sex with other adult humans at this point. Fine. Sex was good and healthy. He should have more of it. No reason it had to be Tobias, right?
But as he forced himself to consider finding another sub, his stomach flipped over in distaste. The idea of getting formally back into the scene didn’t appeal at all. Some people in kink got off on the feeling of the dark and taboo; Sullivan
