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These past few days of courtship have felt entirely foreign to P1. P4's shameless pursuit makes him feel brand new and watched. Watched raw, as if P4 held him bound in his gaze and every wanting, curious flick of his eyes was a lashing. Against his will, he's raw, and open, and burning, and fresh, and new, and young, and dumb, stumbling about. In truth, he's hardly given P4 anything of himself, nothing more than you could read in the papers. Maybe he likes it that way. He could watch him from a distance for hours. Something about him has drawn his attention so severely it feels wrong to look away. Like a blink-and-you'll-miss-it miracle. But it's more than that. Some feverish itching that asks for more, trumping out his mistrust and worries, and rewarding him with even more sweet febrility. This feels lethal. Brand new. And it is new. He's never been in love, never kissed anyone before P4, never gotten laid. Is this how it feels every time? Is it just that special cocktail of everything wrong with his brain flaring up absurdly, like pressing a sore muscle in just the wrong spot?
Some time ago, he had felt a grand apocalyptic conviction for a few hazy days and then he'd realized too late that he had been wrong. Nothing has been certain since then, and probably he'll never be so sure of anything ever again. Currently, P1 is sitting on a bed with his back against the wall in a motel room he paid for with money he doesn't have, feeling utterly clueless. P4 is in the bathroom preparing himself, which is a process P1 isn't sure he fully understands.
Ok, sure he's looked at porn before. He owns a couple magazines and he's rented some videos. Nothing guy-on-guy, though. He has some idea of what's about to happen, and P4 seemed to know what he's doing.
When he's tried to fantasize about this, it involves P4 whisking him away to some cozy darkened room, laying him down, showing him the ropes. He wouldn't be gentle with it, in fact he'd be forceful. Threatening, actually. He just wants P4 to yank his gun from him, kiss it to his temple, and then make him... make him... this is where things get fuzzy. By this point he'd have gotten himself well into the fantasy, and he knows what's supposed to come next, but there's some mental block in the visuals. His desperation fills it in with something else. The tiny occupied nests of potter wasps, or accordioned truck beds in rear-end collisions, or swaying bedside table lampshades, or sketchy handmade signs in gun shop windows, or writhing eels caught in crab traps. And that would be that.
He thumbs over the fantasy now, skull resting against the smoky wallpaper, hands folded politely in his lap, boots on the shoe rack by the door, and he just feels bashful.
“Get ready to helicoptor that thing, cause your pilot has arrived,” P4 announces. He steps out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a lacy garter belt, sheer stockings, and his signature shades. The sight is astonishing. He leaps onto the bed, startling P1 with a tangle of limbs.
P4 cups his breathless face and kisses him. It's just as shocking as the first time. The kiss is wider than he expected, with P4 taking his lips entirely in his mouth and P1 clicks his jaw trying to open to match it. P4 leads with his tongue. It's a sensation like no other, a foreign tongue in your mouth. With it, he gets lightheaded, as if P4 had sucked all the blood from his brain. A hand snakes under his jacket and finds the small of his back, then he realizes he's been ragdolling, just letting P4 do things to him, and that's not how you're supposed to do it. A little unsure, he corrects by petting P4's back, which nets him a hum and a thigh pressing between his legs. From there, he can't decide what to do with his hands. It may be time to start grabbing ass — and he does want to grab ass — but he doesn't want to muck it up. He loses focus on his mouth, letting P4's tongue do as it pleases. Then, his slack jaw lets a thick glob of drool slip past. It runs down his beard and all his muscles tense. P4 swings back to look over him. A string of spit follows him. P1 panics and clasps a hand over his mouth.
“You ok?” P4 asks. His face is glazed over with blush and his glasses are askewed. It's straight out of a silly movie.
“I'm ok,” P1 dismisses with a curt nod.
“Nervous?”
“Yeah,” he admits. Then, “Sorry.”
“It's alright, sugar lips.” His hand traces up his leg and cops a feel. “Oh, you really are nervous.”
Blood has been swelling in his face and nowhere else. P1 thinks briefly of shooting himself.
“Don't worry, dude. Your old man is gonna take good care of you,” he purrs. With one hand, he tilts his spit-wet chin to one side and leans into his neck. His hungry, wet kisses thaw a bit of his tension. It makes sense, now, what the hype about neck kisses is. His breath is hot and crowding and his body is all over him. P4's other hand starts messing with his belt. P1 feels lightly compelled to help him, but before he can offer, P4 already has his fly open and is slipping that hand past his waistband, still one-handed. He may as well have done a magic trick, the way P1 is awestruck.
“That shirt doesn't suit you at all. How about you take it off?” P4 urges, massaging his soft cock. P1 obeys, sliding his jacket off his shoulders, then pulling it out from under his ass and trying to throw it on a nearby chair in such a way that it would not fall in a wrinkly heap. It falls into a wrinkly heap anyways. It bugs him but he lets it go. Then he struggles out of his sweater, meticulously unbuttons his collared shirt, and finally strips off his undershirt as well.
As soon as his chest is exposed, P4 pinches his nipple, which mostly just feels weird. “Look at you go,” he says in some indecipherable sweet tone, licking his lips as he wolfishly looks him over. Greedily, he kisses him, tooth an tongue running all over P1's scarred and blemished skin. It dawns on P1 that not only has he not been touched intimately, but that he hasn't been touched by another person much at all. His skin doesn't trust it. When P4 kisses anywhere below his ribcage, muscles prickle up to meet him. He fights the urge to squirm. It’s a subconcious sensitivity deeper than ticklishness. But this view of the top of his head is perfect. Although he can hardly stand it, he lets him trail kisses down his body, bony hands pulling down his underwear.
It's working now. P4's lips are burning soft and magnetic around him. P1 reacts involuntarily with some strange warbly vocalization like a mocking fake laugh. Shame pricks his mind about it but P4 has him and he takes the sound as the compliment it is, then takes him down to the base in one skilled move. P1 is rock hard. He lightly worries about what to do with his hands, lands on P4's salt-and-paprika hair, to which P4 hums his approval.
He finds a real good pace. His hands are firm and grabby, grounding him more than tickling him at this point. P1 watches him down the angle of his body, meeting his eyes which continue to make him sweat and anxiously scratch his beard. P4 looks up at him past his shades, which slip down his nose as he bobs on the mid-length. Then he swallows him to the back of his throat again and P1 gets the sense that he must be using his pelvis to push up his glasses. He scratches his beard and thrusts slightly into his mouth.
Head fuzzy and awed, P1 registers the fact that indeed he is having sex for the very first time, with a man, no less. It occurs to him to wonder if he should feel some type of way about this and then P4 pulls a maneuver where he bonks him with a little bit of teeth then does something lovely with his tongue. Eventually, P1 realizes, he'll be learning what it feels like to do this to P4. The thought makes him scratch his beard again. He'd like to learn. He'd also like to learn how to fuck him. Right now, ideally, if P4 would be so kind.
It just feels like an inconceivable herculean task to figure out how to ask this of him. He resorts to pulling his head away by the hair between his choppy sound-snuffing breaths. P4 doesn't get the memo, just moans for him and does his thing. He's so fucking good. P1 may cum in his mouth right now. He tries to think of something else but there's images crab traps and tectonic plates and automatic weapons nestled in protective foam within locking hard-shell cases. It's been three minutes total. They lock eyes again and that bit of mental connection emboldens him just enough to stutter “I wanna fuck you.”
P4 pulls away. “Say no more. Not that I don’t love polishing your knob, but I'm itching for your tender loving, big boy. Dude want fucky.”
P1 has no idea how P4 can just say these things with the full measure of his voice and without skipping a beat. He's not really sure how to respond to it either, totally in spite of his usually stellar social competence. Luckily, P4 occupies the silence by getting off the bed to dig through his dicarded shorts in the bathroom, fully breaking their bewildering moment. Here, P1 takes the opportunity to pull his pants the rest of the way off and consider whether or not he should leave his socks. P4 returns with a handful of little foil packets of lube of unknown origin, and tosses one over.
P1 misjudges the strength of the seal on the lube and it jerks open, flinging lube across himself and the bedsheets. P4, with a finger up his ass, laughs at him and hands him another. He applies it to himself sheepishly, but the lusty look cross P4's face distracts him. This view, the cool lube, and the returning attention on his already hard cock make his toes curl.
P4 straddles him, content with this pose. He pulls him in for another kiss as he lowers himself onto his dick. It's ecstacy, shared between their body heat and voiced through P4's low, rumbling moan that pushes into P1's throat.
“Yeah, that's the ticket,” he sighs as he takes him in entirely. It's tight and firm but sweet around him. When he rocks back and forth, the slow pleasure wipes his brain. It's just this, now. P4's body is pressed up against him, hands pushing his chest for support and squeezing little breaths out of him. His little blissful noises click into P1's soul like tines of a precision-cut gear. Unable to resist, P1 grabs two handfuls of ass and starts thrusting up into him. For a moment it's like perfection, P4's hairy legs squeezing his sides, his sweaty hair brushing his face, so close their glasses clink. Close in a way he's never felt. Close, eyes shut, and although it's only just began, P1 finishes with another awkward hyena-laugh whimper.
Regret grips him in the midst of it and twists his comedown. Can't open his eyes.
“Did you jizz already?”
He bites it and looks. P4 is wearing a stupid boomer-shooter video game protagonist smirk.
“Sorry,” he manages to say.
“Do you wanna stop?” There's some masked notion of beratement.
“Yeah... Sorry.”
P4 rolls off and nuzzles up to his shoulder to catch his breath. Frozen uneasy, P1 glaces over him. He notices, alarmingly, that P4's completely soft. He had sort of spotted it before, but now he's become extremely, self-conciously aware that P4 has been flaccid this entire time.
“Could I... do something for you?” P1 suggests meekly.
“Eh, not this time. Don't worry about it. Little dude hardly ever stands at full mast anymore. Spent too many years getting all fucked up. Now my dick doesn't work and I just get fucked. Over and over again by pretty much everything in the world.”
This comforts P1 slightly.
“Were you nervous as well?” he asks.
“Nah. I don't find you very intimidating.”
He says nothing to that.
“Yeah I was really just hoping to get fucked good tonight. It's ok, though, you did fine,” he shrugs, watching the uncomfortable frown on P1's face. “I'm just glad I made you feel good. From floppy to quick-shot. Huzzah. I knew you just needed a jumpstarting. See I told you I'd take care of you.” He continues to watch the uncomfortable frown on P1's face. “Actually, y'know maybe you could use my dildo on me?”
“Ok,” P1 says like a hail mary.
P4 heads off to the bathroom again, briefly leaving P1 alone with his slimy soft dick. He returns with a toy so large, the thought of watching it go inside him has P1 blushing.
“We'll need to slick this one up good, ok? Toss me some more lube,” he says like the cat who got the cream.
P1 feels around the bedsheets, lands in the prior lube puddle, keeps searching.
“Huh,” says P4, glancing around the floor. “Guess I didn't have as much lube as I thought.”
“Shit, sorry.”
“Whatever. We'll just clean up and then I get to cozy up with my dude.”
So they clean up, smoke, let the lube on the blankets crust up and dry, leave washcloths all over the floor. Slowly, P1 starts to feel less embarrassed. P4's nonchalant attitude and optimism continue to work their magic on him. He manages to make him feel safe, just like he did when he first took interest in him.
They hop into bed and wriggle into weird cuddling positions, fool around a little. P4 can't keep away from P1's midsection, still sensitive. He can't tell if P4's noticed what it does to him or not. If this fascination is innocent or maliciously playful. Either way, P1 is caught off guard in a quiet moment when P4's fingers run up his happy trail. He jolts, leg coming up in between their bodies to perfectly knee P4 in the balls. He yelps and tries to back off. P1 wiggles away to help detangle him. In the long-limbed fray, his other knee comes up right and P4's face goes left and he knocks him hard in the jaw.
“Shit, sorry. Are you alright?” P1 cries, as shocked by the blows as P4.
“Fuck, dude. Careful with that thing,” he groans, scrunching up his face and taking a moment to shake off the pain. P1 follows him as he stumbles off to the bathroom.
“Look, you chipped my tooth,” he whines as he shows off a jagged lower central. The upsetness in his voice makes P1 want to crawl out of his skin. “You know that means I get to hit you back now, right?”
“It was an accident, hold on-” Too late. P1 interrupts him with a good crack in the jaw. Hackles raised, P1 reacts automatically by slapping him open-handed. They both reel back, a bit stunned.
“Oh it's on,” P4 chuckles. He comes at P1 hands swinging.
“Dude, stop. The fuck is wrong with you?” P1 whines as he defends. It turns into a full-blown slappy fight. Hands fly wildly, giggles are heard, sunglasses get flung, P1 swears he hears P4 hiss. The whole thing is very stupid. They chase eachother back towards the bed, slaps start turning to lewd gropes and contests of strength. Thankfully, just as P4 decided for himself that it was fair game to start biting, P1 manhandles him into a game-ending pin with P4 bent over the bed, arm behind his back.
“Alright. Uncle. I'm beat,” P4 yields.
“That's fucking right,” P1 spits.
“Oh, I like that from you.” His voice takes on that enticing curl. Even when P1 drops his arm, he stays bent and pressed up to him. He looks over his shoulder, just barely catching his eyes. “By the way, that tooth was already chipped.”
“I knew that.”
“You did not.”
“It's right in the middle of your face. I've seen it before.”
“No way. I totally got you. You went white as a sheet.”
“Whatever,” P1 snarls, sealing his point with a flat hand pressing P4 down between his shoulderblades.
P4 laughs heartily. “Fine. Let me up, now. I really am beat.”
Once they're back in bed, it doesn't take long for P4 to settle into a rock-like stillness. Not quite snoring yet, but falling. P1's parasympathetic nervous system isn't quite so prompt. The events of the night run through his mind. Vivid images this time around. He was too nervous to appreciate the scene in the moment. But he can do it now. He can keep the memories like trinkets and touch and feel them. The raised scar tissue patterns in P4's tattoo sleves, nylon socks on toned hairy legs holding him down. That good weight, that wet mouth, that connection point. “I like that from you,” he had said when defeated. The comment gripped and strangled him. Is that what P4 wants from him? Could he give him that? He could picture it. P4 bent again, watching him from the corner of his eye, this time supported with a gloved hand in his hair.
P1 sniffs the freckled shoulder pressed up against his chest. He's worked himself up to another unmerciful erection. Fuck this timing. P4 might be down if he woke him up. He might like it if P1 called the shots on when and how he wants it. The domination fantasy is right there in his mind, within reach. He could give it to him. He just doesn't have the fucking nerve. Best to just pray for this night to be over anyways. A wad of paper made from spit and chewed wood has been built in his mind. Wasps buzz. New life feasts. His body will not be quiet for a long while.
P4 sleeps and P1 would sooner die than disturb him. He's used to watching that c'est-la-vie smirk on his face, but he'd kill to make him smile for real. Maybe he could keep him. He'll put him in a container with all he could ever want and need, then seal the lid with only a few holes to breathe. Then P1 will do whatever P4 wants of him forever. It's a domination of sorts.