When Love Is Bitter (5) (NSFW-ish) (Patreon)

"Let's start simple, so we don't freak each other out," Nic has sobered, and dawn is filtering through the curtains of my home. He shuts them quietly, tugging them together until the light has subsided, one sliver strip still highlighting the green of his eyes when he turns back to me, "this will be my first encounter with a naked guy that isn't on my computer screen." He's laughing, still carefree and light — and my hands are shaking in my coat pockets.

"What?" I snort at his carelessness, shaking my head, "I thought you were — I don't know...”

“Straight?”

“Where's all this comin' from?" I watch him as he shrugs, settles easily onto the corner of my bed. I forget how tall his confidence makes him seem to me, how much space he seems to take up with his smiles and laughter. Suddenly he looks very small.

"What's straight to me? I just like pretty people, I don't think much about it," He motions towards my jacket, a gentle wave of his hand that says it shouldn't still be there. "but we're friends, so I don't want things to get messy. I care about you."

My heart all but heaves.

"...It's not that heavy, why are you worrying about it," I try for conviction, an attempt at nonchalance — though my stomach is weighted and my heart feels like a hummingbird has taken it's place, "we've seen each other naked. We're just helpin' each other out, I guess."

"Oh, so that's easy. No feelings," He smiles softly, "no attachment. We're on the same page, aren't we? I guess you've probably had a hard time in Jameson."

"Very," I say, and it's strained and straightforward. It's not untrue.

"Well," He blinks, "like, how long has it been?"

I shrug off my jacket, ignore his steady gaze — and I know that my intentions aren't casual. That I want more, want Nic, I want to wake up every morning and hear him complain about the smell of coffee.

Suddenly, I'm one of the girls who leave their handprint against Nic's cheek... But somehow I think that I can be more. It's a foolish thought, and I should know better. I know better when I speak to my friends, when they consult me for advice in their own love life. I can't apply the same logic to myself; it seems.

Nic is reaching for my waist, his hands slipping up from the waistband of my jeans, and they're warm against my skin. Nervousness carries, and I'm overthinking it — find myself having a hard time keeping the neutrality in my tone. His bright eyes are comforting, though, watching my face carefully for any hint of a reaction.

"Four months," I shrug, and the surprise in his eyes comes from the fact that I'm private with my sex life. It's something I only share with Seth, but Nic is staring up at me, fingers tugging into my empty belt loop. My even tone — I feel that it suits me, and he must too — because the surprise and his hesitance fade quickly, "The last time Anna made me go to one of her LGBT parades out in Doveport...  It was a casual thing."

It wasn't Nic.

"Cool, so you're familiar with casual. Is this okay?" He asks, undoes the button of my jeans, "what are you okay with?" I pull the zipper down for him, afraid that the shaking of my hands will become apparent if I don't. "I don't really know where to start."

"I'm okay with it," Nic's lashes are dark, casting small shadows underneath them as they flutter. "I'm okay with anything."

I feel like I should be reacting, think like the proximity of his mouth to my dick should do something. He runs his long fingers over it, through the soft fabric of my boxers, I can feel it, I can see it —

I'm too nervous.

"Wow, nice. Too bad that it doesn't seem too interested," Nic frowns dramatically, fingers slipping inside the opening, "is there something you like? Or were you lying about finding me super unappealing?" He smiles, but then he noses the top of my boxes quietly — kisses the exposed skin, still delivering his gentle pulls. I can't, though — I really can't ignore the thrum in my chest.

"I guess it's still weird." I fumble out, because what a fucking' time to not get hard, and his stricken eyes flick up to mine, "not that I don't want to do it. It's just hard to see you this kinda way." It's a lie. It's hard to see him, so casually in such a lewd light — to not be able to kiss him, or cradle his head — it feels wrong.

"Maybe, uh.  Maybe we shouldn't then," Nic is leaning back away from me, and I don't mean to reach out and take hold of his shoulders, "I don't want you to do something you're uncomfortable with — or disinterested in.  I still want to watch The Exceptional Mr. McGee, if you do."

It can't end like this, though.

It can't.

I push him down against the sheets, and he lets out a muffled sound — one of surprise, one that sounds a little excited.

Before he can talk, before he can mention casual — or easy, whatever kind of confirmation that he needs that he won't undoubtedly break my heart,

I press my lips to his without proper warning, my stubble scratching and catching his soft skin. He presses back, open-mouthed — and my tongue pushes forward. It helps — it helps, and he feels so delicate wrapped against me, even though I'm the fragile one.

"It's different when girls do that,"  He breaths out; his hands splayed against my chest. He's staring up at me, and I reach down between us, cup the start of his erection. I knead it with a bit more force than necessary, and his head tips forward, burying into my shoulder. “Ah — Less scruff.”

"That okay?"

He gasps out, yes.  He says it a few more times, his hips rocking along with each muffled confirmation.

"Can I touch you too?" He mumbles, but it's broken with another shift of his hips. His fingers claw the top of my shirt, and I pull open his jeans easily.  "Yeah — Joseph?"

My stomach curls with heat. 

"No, not this time,"  I tell him — because I don't want to ruin this. He hums softly, thrusting into the curl of my fist quickly, and I feel like I'm losing the only sane part of my mind that's left when it comes to him, "...You still okay with this?" I repeat, quietly, my head ducked down on top of his.

I try to watch him, but he's curled so tightly into my arms,

"Yes, don’t ask me again," he bites out, "oh my God." and I pull his chin upward with my free hand, press my mouth against his once again. It's messy, and Nic's hips are erratic, "it feels good," and he presses his lips against my neck, against my shoulder, arms interlacing around my neck. I'm reacting now, but I attempt to hide it, brain fogged with the sounds coming from beneath me.

"This is — " of course, he's loud, of course, he talks.  One hand has moved.  He's pulling at the open, denim flap of my jeans.  "Unfair."

"I said," My fingers still — tighten at his base, and he huffs in frustration.  "Keep your hands to yourself, Nicolai."

He laughs at that,

"Oh, bossy."  Nic smiles.  His hand skirts under my shirt, over my stomach, through the trail of hair that extends there,  "fine.  Be a martyr." I hum, and he arches closer to me, “But next time — your turn.”

—

It doesn't feel as good when I wake up. Nic leaves before me. I reach out against the cold spot on my sheets, of the one sliver of light that's filtering through the window and against my bed.

It's not as warm as other mornings, not as bright.

I tell myself that it's something.

That it's half.