Dire [MF] [implied age gap] [lusty ramblings] [past encounters] [I’d do anything for you]

It started with a finger tracing my flyaways, too short to join their friends in my ponytail, a finger that didn’t stop running past my ear, down my cheek, to the corner of my mouth.

It started with a question, which was quickly answered with lips parting, tongue curling, light gasping, vicious swearing. It started with you standing stock-still, as if afraid to scare *me* off, even as I jumped to your chest, wrapped my arms around your neck, settled my weight into your shocked but steady hands.

It started with a vicious shag on your work bench, your incessant apologies in my ear as my ass dragged against sawdust, you hadn’t thought I’d be here, you hadn’t thought—if you had thought—and I can’t help but laugh because of course it’s a nightmare but it’d be worse if you stopped, if you weren’t slamming home deep inside me with every tick of the second hand, and you think I’m laughing at you, and all I can do is kiss your confused, slightly helpless face as I pull you back into me, clenching myself around you.

It started as a joke, then, at least a bit. I don’t think either of us believed it when you lurched into me—when you froze in realisation—when I ran my hands through your hair quietly in the aftermath, you still inside me, not sure of your next steps. But it was always caring. You carrying me gingerly to the bath, staring at the ground as if you hadn’t just come inside me while placing a towel on the sink; you settling down on the bed next to me, silently asking me to stay the night; you hesitantly placing your hand on my ribs, only curling into me when I smiled and squirmed into your grasp.

I’ve always been funny to you. How it ever could have happened. But I’ve never not been serious, your most dire thing.

It’s what sends arrows through my heart when you slip your hand into my back pocket when we get on our train. When you casually extend a hand for me to varnish, not breaking the flow of explaining some beloved film to me. When I look through the window of a party to see you waiting outside, hunched on the kerb, cigarette in hand, unbothered by my need to be in a crowd, maybe because you know—as I do—that I’ll be the first to leave, crossing the frozen street to my shadow-man in the corner, kissing his frozen fingers until one just barely slips inside my lips—an inside joke and an oath, all at once.

I don’t mind your desperate need for an air and space because I know you also need to be coddled and stroked and whispered to and kissed very gently in a great number of places, and be told you’re so, so handsome and so, so miraculous. I don’t mind your reluctance to receive attention because I know—perhaps pettily—that the only attention you want is mine. You know you have it.

You know because I take notes on how your breath hitches just slightly when I twist your fingers in mine in front of our friends, unapologetic and unbothered to justify; on how the edges of your chest go flushed when I run my fingers through your hair and p u l l at the tangles; on how the muscle of your shoulder fades into the muscle of your arm flows into the end of your pinky, curled around my own.

You know because, quite frankly, I’d do anything for you. It’s my life’s mission to indulge you, with midnight takeaways and threadbare massages and bruised knees. I have never wanted to kneel for anyone else, but I love taking you in, keeping you warm, reminding you that all you are is skin and blood and bone, that the world will not falter if you falter, that the only person you owe anything to is right here, and you’re already giving all of yourself over. The only thing you need to do is breathe in, and touch me, and smile.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/judawt/dire_mf_implied_age_gap_lusty_ramblings_past