Work Text:
You feel like a creep.
For the past couple of weeks, you’ve been eyeballing a coworker of yours. Not on purpose - you’d just kind of noticed him skulking around near the back of the Ganesh. He looked like he was trying not to be noticed, so you sort of feel bad about being so fucking interested in him. But he’s an interesting guy, dammnit, you can’t help it. He’s got fiery red hair down to his shoulders, which is always covering the sides of his face as he’s hunched over near constantly. You assume he hunches to make himself appear smaller, because he’s also freakishly tall. And lank. Funnily enough, that doesn’t make him look any older. Despite him hiding his face with sunglasses and that goatee of his, he still only looks… 21 at most. Perhaps younger?
You’d ask, but he seems like he’d shrivel up and fucking die on the spot if you spoke to him. Besides, it’d be a weird question to ask. The mental image makes you cringe. Waltzing up to him, and asking him how old he is… god, you really are a creep. The real kicker about this whole situation, the silent staring, the looking away before he notices, the almost stalker-like behaviour from you, is that neither of you have once spoken to each other. The closest you’ve gotten is a passing glance from him - you don’t even know his name. He has a nametag, you’ve seen him holding it - before he tucks it away in his shirt pocket until the end of shift.
So, for now, he’s just the Unnamed Interesting-Looking Coworker. You restock the last of the chocolate bars. Redhead is nowhere to be seen. You wonder why your manager hasn’t fired him yet. You almost never see him actually working; he just hangs around the back of the store doing fuckall. Not that you’re hoping he gets fired or anything - just that you wouldn’t be surprised if it happened. You slide more food into display boxes. It’s mind-numbing work, but maybe that’s why you’re good at it.
Three hours left until end of shift. You’ve got this.
You wheel the outdoors signs back inside, and that finishes work for the day. Couldn’t have taken any longer. You crack your knuckles and head out the door again. The sun is still fucking blistering, and you don’t know how, because it’s almost 5pm. God, you hate Paradise summer. It feels like everyone’s in your way on purpose as you begin the trek back home. The walk is only thirty minutes, but it usually feels longer. You swerve past a guy that’s bent over and throwing up on a wall - nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until you hear footsteps. Loud ones. Loud and fast. Footsteps that are at a running pace, you quickly realise. And they’re getting closer. You sharply turn on your heel, expecting some guy with a knife charging at you, only to be met with… your coworker?
He’s panting, out of breath, and possibly the loudest you’ve ever heard him. “Sorr-sorry,” he breathes out - his voice is jarringly nice on the ears - “You forgot your phone,” he says, pulling the device out from his pocket and holding it up with two hands, as if it’s a precious gem. There’s an uncomfortable silence while you’re trying to recollect your thoughts before muttering out a thanks, taking your phone back. You’d think you would’ve realised you left it…
“…Uh. Get home safe.” He pushes his sunglasses back up his nose.
You blink once, twice, then give a slow nod. “Yeah, you too, um…?” He pauses for an awkwardly long time too. Long enough so that you kind of want to crawl into the ground and never resurface. “Call me Dude.”
“Okay, Dude.” You reply, mentally digging yourself back up. And then you’re expecting him to turn in the opposite direction and go home himself. But instead, he just stands there.
Well, that’s not your business, so you turn around and start walking again. Shortly after, you hear footsteps trailing you again. Was he…? You stop walking. Dude also stops. “Why are you following me?” You don’t turn around when you speak. He sounds like he just choked on something. “Shit- I mean— sorry. My place is also this way. I probably should’ve said that.” Ah. Okay. That makes some more sense. But, wait… “I’ve literally never seen you walk this way before.”
You almost flinch when you notice that Dude has sidled up beside you. God, he really is quiet. And for such a (vertically) big guy, too. “I usually wait for you to leave first.”
Oh. Uh.
“Okay.”
Weird. But then again, isn’t everyone? You glance at the stretch of sidewalk in front of you before turning back to Dude. Your mouth opens a few seconds too early. “…Well. I’m gonna start walking home.”
“Okay,” Dude repeats after you. When you start walking again, he follows, strolling alongside you near-silently. You wonder if he’s naturally this quiet or if he steps softly on purpose. You were also not exactly expecting him to start walking you home (or is it that you’re walking him home?), but now that it’s happening, you won’t stop it. It’s not like it changes your routine otherwise. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have some company in general - the days have started to blur together again. Having another presence around would probably be good for the psyche. Keep you grounded. And maybe you could even get to know Dude better.
Your train of thought stutters. What were you thinking?
There’s a clicking sound to your left, and you glance towards Dude. He’s trying, unsucessfully, to light a cigarette. When did he get one out? Anyway, his lighter is clearly out of juice, so you fish your own out of the bottom of your pocket and wave it in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, but he does toss his dead lighter on the pavement in favour of using the one you offered. He hands it back when he finally gets a small flame going. “You smoke?” He says, cutting through the silence.
You start playing with your lighter instead of putting it back in your pocket. “Yeah, sometimes. Mostly weed.” And it only occurs to you that perhaps you should’ve thought about whether to say that or not after you’ve already blurted it out. Oh well. He doesn’t seem like the tattletale type. You switch to your other hand when your thumb starts burning.
“Me too.” Which all of a sudden makes you feel a strange sort of… kinship with him. Stoner solidarity, or something. Or, like, it’s nice to know that you’re not alone. You are a social species, after all… as far as you know. You doubt that sometimes. Dude exhales, tainting the oxygen some more. You put your lighter away, feeling almost jealous. You haven’t had any nicotine for a long 24 hours, and getting practically teased isn’t helping. At least you know that you have some bud at home; small mercies. The strain is not anything spectacular, you’d found out when you got it, but it’s something. And something is usually better than nothing.
You haven’t eaten since this morning, so you try to mentally catalogue the food you have in your house while strolling. Well, you remember that salad. That was from yesterday. And… the cereal that you regret buying. Some chicken that you’re pretty sure will give you salmonella even after you cook it… that you also regret buying so much of. Frozen vegetables. Oh, and, the instant noodles. Your saving grace.
You suppose you could finish the salad before it goes bad.
Dude must be good company, look at you making good diet decisions. Most days, you can’t even be bothered to recall what you have at home until you get back there. Perhaps you ought to keep him around— well, if he wants to hang out more. You hope he does. You’re having quite a nice time just walking with him, so you briefly imagine what he may be like while high. More talkative? Giggly? You know you get giggly sometimes. Or maybe he’s one of those types that just gets totally philisophical. At least, they think they sound philisophical.
You’re almost at your house, you notice.
There’s only one way to get an answer to your previous question.
Dude turns around to face you when you stop abruptly. You stare back, trying to come up with the least kidnapper-sounding way to ask him the question on your mind. He looks like he’s about to leave when you finally spit it out.
“Wait—”
“Yeah?”
“Um,” you’re going to sound like a kidnapper whether you like it or not, “I’ve got some extra food. At my place. If you want to come over? I can throw together something.” Dude gives you a look that you can’t put your finger on. Okay, time to backtrack. “I mean— you don’t have to come over if you don’t want to. I know this sounds weird.”
He chews on the inside of his mouth for a moment, dropping his cigarette on the ground and stamping it out. “No,” and your heart almost drops, “that doesn’t sound weird. I’m kind of hungry, anyway.”
You’d like to kiss sweet baby Jesus right now for this heavensent blessing.
“Oh, okay. Cool. Cool. I’m just down here,” you gesture to the apartment building you’ve had the misfortune of living in for the past couple of years. “I’ve got some weed for us too, if you’d wanna do that.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound bad.”
Dude wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist. “Thanks,” he says flatly, and he looks like he doesn’t know whether he wants to get up or not. You place your dish to the side, deciding you’re too full to finish. “Oh. Don’t worry about your plate, I’ll sort them out later.” (You realise after saying that, that you most definitely won’t, and you’ll leave them piled up at your kitchen sink… as per usual). You push your chair out to stand. “Let’s just go smoke, yeah?”
Dude follows, and he nods slowly. “Yeah, okay.” He follows you all the way to your living room, opting to sit on the partially empty beanbag on the floor instead of the couch. Your bong is sitting on your makeshift coffee table (that being some boxes). You don’t remember leaving it there. Anywho, you don’t mention it, packing a generous amount of weed into the bowl. “Do you want the first one?” You thought to ask, looking over to Dude. He seems to perk up at that.
“Yeah, sure,” he says as you pass the bong and lighter to him. The water bubbles up noisly, filling the silence. He takes a long rip before pulling away — clearly he’s in his forte, because he also doesn’t cough after all that. You fiddle with a zipper on the case of the pillow that you’re leaning on while he finishes up his cone. When he does, he offers your bong back with an extended arm. You accidentally brush fingertips with him when you take it. Neither of you acknowledge it. His hands are weirdly cold.
The rest of the evening is spent with Dude, and cones passed back and forth. You think you might be on your sixth one. Or is this your seventh? Actually, it might be more, because since when were you two almost finished a full sandwich bag of bud? You loll your head side to side, like you have a weighted pendulum inside of it. Well, you don’t know the answers to those questions, but you do know that you feel good. Dude must feel good too, at least you assume that, because he’s staring at the roof as if it’s got those plastic glow-in-the-dark stars plastered all over it.
“Okay, that’s enough for me,” you finally decide, leaving Dude the bong with the other half of your cone in it. After he finishes it off down to the ashes, he leaves it back on the boxes. He shifts on the beanbag so that he’s laying on his back. His hair drapes across the edge of it like kelp on rocks. He sighs. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks. Again.”
“It’s cool, man.”
“No, really. Thanks. Nobody really…” he seems as if he’s about to trail off for a moment, “Nobody really has me over.”
“You don’t get out often?” You reply, and his is as blunt as it is quick. “No,” and then he speaks before you have another chance to. “Work is… exhausting.”
Your eyebrows furrow together. “Yeah, I get you. Sometimes I think we should be allowed to kill at least one person per year, you know?” You snicker at your own half-assed joke. He huffs amusedly. “Yeah. Would be nice.”
He rolls over onto his stomach with a small groan. His legs that look too long for the rest of his body are resting on the hardwood now, not able to fit on the too-small beanbag. Like you've been sort of noticing this whole time, he's fucking tall. You wonder if he knows how intimidating he could read — if he so desired, that is. Well, not now. Right now, he's turned docile. He seems more relaxed than he did before, hands tucked close to his chest like paws.
Your eyes do a slow pan over his features. His cheekbones, his hair (again), the goatee too. It's all sculpted in an aesthetically pleasing way. The way his hair shapes his face, and his fingers that look just a touch too long, like with all his other appendages. Your gaze won't stop moving back to the hair. Jesus, the hair. It's not dead straight, there's definitely some volume there, and it's got these stray strands all over that just add to it. And from where you're sitting, it looks silky. Like, zero resistance if you were to run your fingers through it.
The low sound of Dude's voice snaps you back into the present moment. “…Hey, uh? You want to listen to some music?” He seems almost reluctant to ask as he pulls his phone out from his pocket.
“Huh? Uh— yes, sure. Yeah.”
“…Okay. What do you usually listen to?”
“Metal, I guess.”
Dude seems to perk up, glancing up at you with a small smile. “Shit, really? What's your favourite band?”
You glance outside your window, scratching your neck. “I don't really have one, it always changes. I listen to a bunch of nu metal, if that helps.”
“Dude, me too. Well, I mean, right now I've been into Angelmaker - they do death metal stuff, you know them? The vocalist is so fucking mean.” He says, with the most enthusiasm you've heard out of him tonight.
“I haven't, actually. Hit me with a song.” And P1 scrambles to get his phone open, swiping on the small rectangular screen like his life depends on it. “Okay, okay… uh, here. This one's called A Dark Omen. It's from their debut album.” He moves his thumb up on the side of his phone to turn the volume up loud enough for you to listen too. And he's right, the vocalist is mean.
He puts his phone on the floor and lets the song play out, repeatedly glancing back up at you as if looking for approval. Eventually, you two lock eyes, and you just shut your eyes and nod. He smiles crookedly. You open your eyes, and now he’s picking at his nails. He looks like he’s debating whether he wants to say something or not, but he doesn’t say anything, so you don’t say anything either. Soon enough, the song slows to a stop. Dude takes his phone from the floor. “So, uh… what’d you think?”
“Really not bad. I could get into that.”
“That’s— yeah, cool. Cool.” He strokes his thumb with the other one. Okay, now it’s your turn to pick a conversation topic, you realise. Um. Wait, no. You’ve got something. You lean off the edge of the armrest a little more to talk. “What about you? You watch anything? Shows? Movies?”
Dude stops fiddling with his hands, nodding quickly. “Yeah, mostly older horror. I recently watched House of Wax.” he pauses, then, “I like Hellraiser too.”
You only know the latter, so you definitely don’t look slightly too hard at his face again and instead compliment his taste in movies, to which he mumbles something you don’t quite catch, while shifting his weight off his elbows. You think it might’ve been a shy thanks.
It should be criminal for any guy to be this pretty — and yeah, you used the word pretty, that’s the only word that comes to mind while you gawk at him. And, yeah, gawking is also the only appropriate word for what you’re doing.
“I like your hair, by the way.”
Dude freezes. He looks like he’s been stabbed. But there’s no blood, no knife, and no masked murderer. Just the two of you. “…Huh?”
“Your hair,” you gesture, “it looks nice. What shampoo do you use?”
The reflection of your hands in his sunglasses stare back at you as the cogs turn in his head. “…Er, something from the Ganesh…”
“They sell shampoo there?”
“Aisle five.”
“Huh. You’d think I would’ve restocked there.”
“…Guess not.” He fiddles with the ends of his locks. You slink down the front of the couch and shuffle on the hardwood to sit closer to him. He becomes noticeably more meek with your presence, keeping his arms tucked even more as if he’s trying to make himself look smaller. When you reach for the tips of his hair, he doesn’t tell you otherwise, so you take a generous section between two fingers and use your other hand to comb through it. He will not stop snatching quick glances at you before looking back at the ground, you see in your peripheral. You were totally right, it’s smooth like butter. There’s barely any knots throughout the rest of it. You hardly realise that you’re practically preening your fucking coworker, even when he lets his head rest against your hand.
It takes you far too long to notice it. When you do, you don’t move away, or get grossed out. You scritch his scalp instead, and he tilts his head downward. You can see that his eyes are closed behind his sunglasses. He doesn’t say anything. Does anything need to be said? Not really, no. You keep your mouth shut too, letting the moment pass by in comfortable THC-kissed silence.
When you stop, his eyes open again, and he reaches out for your forearm. The grip he has is insistent. It’s asking you something. You already know what he wants. As you reach back up, he makes a noise in his throat - a good-sounding one, to be specific. “Okay, okay,” you mumble, gently rubbing against his scalp. He tilts his head back down again, looking as if he’s ashamed of wanting this. You should stop this - you’re the older one, after all - the two of you barely know each other, you’re both high out of your minds, therefore he can’t consent — but he’s fucking cute. Saccharine sweet, more cat-like than man as he gives in to your ministrations. He clenches his jaw, groaning in low-pitch. His head dips back down.
God, maybe you are a kidnapper. Look at you, snatching up younger guys and taking them home.
The thought passes as you decide that you don’t particularly care whether this is weird or not. He’s here, he’s clearly enjoying it (as are you), and he’s legal, so there’s no reason to dwell on it. It’s as simple as that. You reach up with your other hand to cup his jawline, and he pulls back a little, eyes opening again. They dart frantically in their reddened sockets before landing back on you. His expression doesn’t change, however. It’s not one indicating any strong emotion, but rather that he is still present. His eyes are still there, as in, being full of life. You’re careful not to be too forceful with it as you tilt his head back up towards you. The void of his sunglasses stares back, just as it did before.
You’ll try. You stop holding his face, pulling his sunglasses off his nose and leaving them on the makeshift table. He seems like he wanted to fight back, but he didn’t. He has very olive eyes. You’ve been catching glimpses this whole time, but you didn’t anticipate them to be this intense of a shade. He then decides that he’s had enough, looking back at the ground. He really is fucking cute.
“C’mon,” you say, leaning against your couch’s armrest. You pull on his arm in a request to ask him to come closer himself. He’s incredibly pale, and it only makes the colour on his cheeks stand out more. “C’mooon,” you say, again.
“I, um… not now.” He shifts on the spot. Your eyes are only able to stay half-open after you slowly blink at him. “Don’t make me lay next to you on the floor… c’mon.”
“Not now,” he insists, and his leg shifts up.
“At least get on the couch with me, then.”
“I…” christ, he looks just bashful. “I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?” You slur those last vowels. It takes more willpower than you’d like to admit to not just yank him by the arm and pull him close. “Fine… I’ll be up here. All by my-self.” You hoist yourself up onto your couch again, laid on your back this time, letting an arm dangle off it.
You grin when you hear Dude shuffling around. When he inches up to the couch, you notice that he’s obscenely hard. You’ve been half-hard ever since you touched his hair, and you had a strong feeling he was anyway, so you don’t bother commenting on it and spread your legs for him to fit between instead. He glances down, then back up at your face.
He curls up at the other end of the couch, resting his head on your stomach. You’re only getting more hard the longer he rests on you, and of course you relish every moment. Once it starts really pressing up against him, he sits up and looks your way. The throbbing between your legs is kind of insane right now. “I’ll do you a favour if you do me one,” you say, far too casually. You blame the weed. Dude gets thrown for just about the third loop today. He looks behind you. “It’s getting late, though.”
“You pussying out?”
“I didn’t say no.” He quips back near-instantly, placing his hands on both your thighs. A tickle runs up your spine, and it was a herculean task to not rut upwards. One of Dude’s hands starts wandering. To your crotch, to be specific. And it keeps wandering, until— “Shit,” you suck in a breath. He gives you another earnest rub through the fabric, before undoing your awful-terrible-uncomfortable work pants. The only thing eclipsing his view now are your briefs, which he hastily pulls down. Then he looks overwhelmed. His hands are still all over you, but they’re uncoordinated. Unsure, hesitant, but curious nonetheless. It’s borderline virginial. You’re starting to think he is one, based off the way he’s going about this. You wouldn’t doubt it either, considering his (well, estimated) age.
“Um,” he shuffles back to give himself room to crouch down, “I don’t really know how to do… this.” He says the last word like it’s forbidden. And you hadn’t thought that he’d just come out and say that he is, in fact, a virgin, but it makes you twitch all the same.
“It’s fine, just go for it.”
He holds you at the base, pressing a curt kiss to the head of your cock. You rock your hips upward. Oh, god. You don’t deserve this. He’s too nice. Your eyes roll back into your skull a little when he parts his lips around you and takes the tip in again, this time, rubbing at it with his tongue. Feeling up the slit and the frenulum — you have to quickly grasp him by the hair and tear him off your dick before you cum prematurely. “Don’t- not there.”
He merely grunts in response, lowering his head again. This time, he decides to take you in about halfway, while creating a divine suction. An ugly, hoggish part of you wants to see his pretty face ruined via a brutal facefucking, but that’s not what’s going to happen tonight. For his sake, mostly. You try with what little self control you have left to not fuck up into Dude’s mouth as he gently suckles and laps at you. You are trying to be kind about this, you really are, but he’s just- fuck. It’s all so overwhelming and sticky sweet — literally. Your stomach ties another knot in itself every time he smears your own mess on your tip to act as lube.
The ends of his hair is tickling your lower stomach, but you don’t mind. It kind of adds to the experience, actually. This shit is cosmic. Otherworldly. You might not be able to jerk off for weeks after without thinking of this — you’d go as far to say months, even. All you’d wanted initially was to get to know The Cool Coworker marginally better, and lucky you, you’d gotten to know him in quite literally the best way possible. You huff with effort (something like that, a whine slips past you too), clawing at the peeling leather of your couch. Your hips won’t stay still. Dude moves himself off the head of your cock again, usurping you with his hand instead. He still won’t meet eyes with you, but if you’re being honest, you don’t want him seeing your stupid fucked out expression anyway, so you’re taking that as a positive.
He has black nail polish on, you hadn’t noticed until now. That just turns you on more. He’s doing these twisting hand motions on you every time he strokes upward, it’s fucking— it’s awesome, it’s like a gift from god himself. The man himself may as well be jerking you off right now, really. You don’t know what you ever did to deserve this gift, but you lay there and take it all graciously anyway - after all, you are a simple creature. If something feels good, of course you want it to keep coming. That’s just basic instinct.
You finally dare to glance at him. He looks like he’s almost being tortured, the way his entire face is tightly wound, eyes hazy and squinted, eyebrows tightly knit together, digging into his bottom lip with a protruding canine. That, and he’s really fucking red. Maybe from also being incredibly turned on, maybe from his efforts. Probably both, now that you think about it. He either doesn’t notice your staring, or doesn’t care, and moves his hand lower on you so that he can press you to his tongue again. He’s open mouthed this time as he keeps jerking you off, rubbing that same spot just below your tip —
You whine, and it is an awful sound.
He creates suction again when you start spraying on the back of his tongue, and spray you do, more than you’ve ever remembered doing before. Dude removes his hand again to take you in halfway. You were entirely right - you will not be able to jerk off to anything else for at least a few weeks. By the time you’re softening up, he’s wiping his mouth on the back of his forearm. He sits back up, and that sheepish and ashamed look has made its way back onto him. You quickly tuck yourself away again before clearing your throat. “Um, do you want me to…?”
He seems so taken off guard that his eyes open properly for the first time in a while, then he starts shaking his head profusely. “No- I mean- That-”, he closes his eyes, “It took care of itself.”
…
“Oh.”
“Okay,” You reply after a pause. Dude won’t move his hand away from his face. “You know,” you go on, “If you don’t want to walk all the way home, I’m fine with you crashing on my couch.”
He responds with speed implying that that was a total fucking no-brainer. “Yeah, I… I’ll do that.” He looks around the room. “Where’s your bathroom?”
You crane your neck up to sight the door properly, pointing across the back of the couch. “Over there.”
“Thanks.”
When he gets up, the lack of warmth on your lap feels foreign.