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“Christ, Dames—”
“It’ll hurt worse if you move.”
Damon gave Graham a coy, flirty smile as his hands expertly worked a rope around the brunette’s wrists. They were raw from wear, much like Graham’s knees, which had turned a purplish black as a result of continuous use. Like the sketches nestled on a shelf in the bedroom, he looked coloured by a watery pigment. Damon smiled like Monet.
“You’re rather pretty.” His voice was breathy and shaking with anticipation as he cooed, mentally tracing the lines of each scratch, bruise, and bite mark. Admiring them—his work. Graham tried to follow the other’s gaze, but the way that his arms were strung up on the headboard made such a feat very uncomfortable.
“Kiss me,” he begged, once he had given up trying to count each wound—and Damon did kiss him. His lips were salty with nervous sweat and pleasantly warm; they obeyed some perverse and innate urge to find Graham’s mouth and attack it into stupidity. That’s how it felt, anyways, considering the brunette’s mind and lips refused to work the moment the other pulled away. The bastard.
“Again.”
Like he had mused many times before: stupid.
“You’re cocky tonight, hmm?” Damon teased, crawling back to shimmy off Graham’s underpants. The brunette shuddered and tried to meet eyes with his partner.
“You lost me—lost me after ‘cock’.”
Damon had to smile; there Graham was, tied to the headboard of a bed, covered in lovebites, bruises, and scratch marks, yet still trying to be smart with him. His hand breached the thin cotton and out tumbled the younger’s red, pulsating member. When Graham moaned upon the innocent brush of fingertips against his skin, a sick sense of satisfaction coursed through Damon—he knew that the recipient was turning into putty.
For his own entertainment, the blond gave Graham a few, lazy pumps, watching with a smile as the guitarist writhed and tried to move his hands downward—though to no avail. And, Christ, when he began to whine with his face all scrunched up with pleasure, Damon’s belly began to ache with arousal.
He removed his hand quite suddenly, causing Graham’s breath to hitch.
“Please don’t stop—”
“I’ve got to undress myself,” Damon reasoned. His fingers curled around the edges of the elastic waistband and soon, he, too, had freed himself from the confines of his boxer shorts. Another smile graced his lips when he saw Graham’s mouth fall open, eyes locked on the singer’s cock eagerly. Instead of acknowledging the other’s desire, Damon merely crawled over top of him and delivered a light slap to his cheek. “Besides, I make the rules.”
Graham whined, an overly-dramatic pout forming on his face. God, he looked so good—Damon couldn’t wait to fucking ruin him.
He realised he’d been studying the younger man below him for far too long once Graham muttered another desperate, “Kiss me?”
“Fine. But not because you asked me to,” Damon half-lied. Hearing Graham plead was enough to make the blond do just about anything.
Before Graham could say something smug, Damon kissed him so hard he might’ve seen stars. The singer tugged Graham’s jaw down to allow for the mingling of tongues and saliva.
“You’re quite noisy today,” Damon breathed once he finally pulled his lips away. “I reckon I oughta shut that pretty mouth of yours.”
He eyed a piece of fabric from the bedside table, grinning deviously as Graham’s own eyes followed. Their gag.
“No, no…” the brunette begged profusely.
Damon conceded, planting a final rough, bite-ridden kiss to Graham’s lips before saying, “You’re lucky I love to hear you.”
With that, he spat on the younger (and that earned a whimper) and crawled back between his eagerly parted legs. Damon’s hand found itself wrapping around Graham’s cock and giving it another teasing pump, which made the guitarist’s body squirm and writhe.
“Please, again,” Graham cried.
Damon delivered a hard slap to the younger man’s thigh so as to scold him. “You know I love your voice but I’ll shut your mouth. You know I’ll do it.”
Really, the thought only aroused Graham more, made tears of denied pleasure roll out of those chocolate brown eyes. He shook his head “no” regardless.
“That’s what I thought. Now be my good boy.”
God, Damon was sure there was nothing better than having this man pliant and submissive beneath him. There was no greater pleasure than what spawned from Graham letting him do whatever he liked, all the while knowing that Graham loved it just the same.
With that, Damon redirected the attention back to his lover’s reddened member. Pre-come glazed the tip like an overly-frosted doughnut. Pearls of it sank down the sides like sweets. Times like this made him thankful he was vegetarian rather than vegan…
Graham cried out when he felt Damon’s warm tongue curl around his cock and lap at it like a cat. It was all too much, those little wet flicks gracing his tip or the long licks up his cock as if it were a lolly. Especially when Damon knew exactly what he was doing to the brunette. Graham could see it in his mock-innocent, heavily-lidded blue eyes as they stared into his own.
“Christ, Damon!” Graham pleaded, practically sobbing with pleasure. “Please, I-I can’t—”
The singer lifted his head up abruptly and moved away from Graham’s quivering legs. “D’you wanna come tonight? I’m starting to think I shouldn’t let you after all…”
Graham actually let out a sob at this—Damon had been withholding this treat from him for weeks and he’d finally been allowed to tonight. Now he’d gone and ruined it again before he really got the chance.
“No, please, I want to so bad—”
“You’re going to have to be on your best behavior,” Damon chided him, pointing his finger. “You know that naughty boys don’t get to come and you’re being awful naughty. I’m being quite generous, really, giving you another chance.”
“I’ll be so good. I promise,” Graham cried.
Damon studied him for a moment, running his hands along the guitarist’s bruised inner thighs. They quaked like the earth.
“I don’t think I trust you,” he said finally, a beautiful, smug grin gracing his lips. “I think we’re going to need some help, yeah?”
Oh, Christ. Here came the gag. Just what Graham was dreading. He recoiled at the feeling of cloth against his face, but it didn’t go where he thought it would.
No, the gag had become a blindfold, concealing the erotic scene and leaving it all to Graham’s imagination. He would have protested, but Damon’s lips intercepted the noises and swallowed them up before he could do much about it.
When Graham felt Damon’s lips lift up, he was entirely unaware of his surroundings. Anything could happen. The world was black and he was blind. For all he knew, Damon’s hand could be hovering over his cock and—
A hard slap rained down on his cheek. He let out a mix between a moan and a cry.
“I’m gonna do whatever I want to you, yeah? And you aren’t gonna come,” Damon’s voice said from somewhere in front of him. “‘Least, you certainly shouldn’t plan on it, with how you’re acting.”
Yet another slap—Christ, he moaned louder at the tingly hurt. It took everything in his power to not beg for it again and again and again.
A few seconds of whimpering, then one more, this one the most powerful yet.
“I know you love it, you slag.”
Graham nodded profusely, tucking an anxious lower lip beneath his teeth. Damon watched with pride as the recipient’s nose reddened with a blush, further revealing just how much he liked it. The blond loved it, too—loved it so much that he wished he could just keep Graham like this forever: shaking and desperate for his touch.
He obliged that silent request (his own request, if he was being honest) and traced the lines of Graham’s waist. The room was cold, and so when his fingertips met the brunette’s skin, he let out a loud whine from the chill of Damon’s fingers. The blond clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“I thought I told you to be quiet. Isn’t that why you’ve gotten this punishment in the first place?”
Graham opened his mouth to say ‘yes’, but, upon remembering Damon’s request, merely nodded his head.
“Speak. Say yes—say that I told you.”
“You told me,” Graham cried, already soaking the blindfold with tears of pleasure.
“Such a good boy,” came Damon’s response—a soft purr that only briefly preceded the wrapping of fingers around Graham’s aching length. The brunette’s breath hitched, but like Damon had told him to, he somehow remained quiet as he was being stroked. It was clear to the singer that Graham was practically delirious with the urge to orgasm and scream; he continued to ignore that knowledge.
“Bet you feel so good,” Damon teased, quickening his pace. Graham convulsed in response, restraints tugging roughly at his wrists. He looked like some gorgeous, dirty painting as his pale belly rose and fell with panting breaths. He looked like heaven as Damon pumped him even faster and Graham couldn’t help but throw his head back with a quiet sob.
The blond chose to ignore it, feeling his own cock twitch at the sound of Graham’s desperate whines. The sensation gave him an even dirtier idea—one he was quick to make his lover aware of.
It only took moments for him to crawl off of Graham and get back on his feet, hands quickly grabbing at his cock. He smiled as the brunette pathetically tried to look around and get a sense of where his partner had gone off to. A sultry laugh left his throat. “I’m going to come all over that pretty face.”
Graham immediately voiced his protest, rules be damned. “Wanna see,” he cried, “wanna—wanna touch.”
“My poor Grah…”
Damon clicked his tongue and continued to lazily stroke himself as he reached into the side cabinet and pulled out a small vibrator. Before Graham could even ask what the noisy movement was, the toy was being nestled between his legs.
“Ah—Christ—” he sobbed, jolting in his place. Damon assumed his original position next to Graham’s pretty head, which thrashed about the pillow and headboard, and quickened the pace of his hand.
Though it would never feel as good as when Graham did it, Damon’s hands were used to this sort of thing—he knew his body well enough to coax himself to the brink of climax in a mere few minutes. It helped that he had already been hard and that Graham was crying and writhing below him, surely miserable with pleasure. To further that sick, sexual torture, he allowed himself a moan.
“Feels so—so good…”
“Lemme…s-see—”
Graham could hardly get the words out as his body continued to thrash, yet they still caused something sick to curl inside of Damon’s stomach like a spring ready to uncoil. He was close.
“Open your mouth.”
Now THAT Graham could easily oblige. The only problem was that, with no lips to muffle the sound, a loud moan escaped him. Damon used his free hand to slap Graham’s cheek, then to slip a thumb inside of his mouth. With the brunette’s lips parted, Damon was able to easily spit between them.
“M’gonna come,” he then informed the other, breath hitching in his throat as his tip dripped with pearly beads of precum. It only took the soft feeling of Graham’s tongue on his fingertips for the phrase to come true and he began to climax with a loud moan.
“Oh, Grah—” he taunted breathlessly, squirting into the younger’s hungry mouth and atop his red face, “oh, I’m coming…”
“Please,” Graham sobbed, come gargling in his throat. His voice grew more jumbled as he continued, so delirious that his words simply refused to make proper sense. “Lemme see…I wanna come…”
Damon looked pitifully at the toy as well as Graham’s red, aching tip.
“I’ve already told you,” he purred, “you won’t come if you keep this up.”
He then snatched the toy from Graham’s underside and threw it off to God knows where, the only pleasure once again in the form of Damon’s hand around the other’s cock.
Graham’s legs were splayed in odd directions like a dead insect as he squirmed. He was rigid with pleasure and yet melting at Damon’s touches.
The older man swiped a thumb teasingly over the guitarist’s tip, eliciting a desperate sob. Damon smirked and tutted disapprovingly.
“Shame you can’t see how pathetic you look.”
Graham bit his lip, squirmed, and nodded. Damon immediately seized the brunette’s hips and planted them firmly back into the middle of the bed so that he was fully accessible, though Graham resisted.
“Am I going to have to tie your legs up, too?” the singer teased.
Graham shook his head wildly. Even through the blindfold, Damon could tell that his face was scrunched up in the effort of trying not to cry out.
Naturally, he wanted to take advantage of this. Damon let his hands explore the perimeter of the base of Graham’s cock, as well as the bruised interior of his worn thighs—anywhere but his cock itself.
His legs were bending, thrashing, desperately trying to make Damon’s fingers slip up and touch him. The singer furrowed his eyebrows at the trick.
But then a nasty bout of deviousness overtook him, even nastier than he already had been.
“You want me to touch you? I’ll do it.”
Graham nodded like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life. His poor cock seemed to nod with him.
“Don’t you dare think about coming,” Damon snarled.
Then, before Graham could rethink his decision, it began; a firework of pleasure coursing throughout his dick. If his hands were free they would have been cupping his mouth or desperately trying to push Damon away for fear of disobeying. Instead, his body trembled and he released small, breathy gasps.
Damon’s hand was moving so fast and he simply could not take it—he had to let the blond know. Whatever kind of punishment he’d get.
“I’m going to come, Christ, I’m gonna!” the guitarist sobbed.
“Hold it in,” Damon barked.
God, he just wasn’t stopping. Graham physically could not handle it. He was seconds away from that mind-bending hit of pleasure, one that would surely be followed by an immediate punishment (that he would inevitably love).
“Please, Damon, I—” Graham cried incoherently.
“Shut up.”
Damon could understand him well enough. He simply needed to wait for that fraction of a second where Graham was just about to let go. Only then would he remove his hand.
He found it when, in a fit of sobs, Graham’s breath hitched and his back began to curve abnormally. There was that precise moment where Damon could remove his hand and leave his lover in lust-filled shambles.
Graham wasted no time in crying out, despite Damon’s orders. “I can’t take it, I really can’t—!”
Left desperately on the edge. A few seconds of heavy breathing and gasps filled the silence.
Teeth dug into Graham’s mistreated inner thigh, right beside his cock. The pain sent electric jolts of pleasure straight to his aching, abused member, and Graham could only whine incoherently as he just nearly missed that point of no return yet again.
“I jus’ wanna see you… please… please let me come…”
“No, Graham. I believe I’ve made it very clear.”
As he walked back over to the head of the bed, Damon was sure this picture before him belonged in museums around the world. No one was prettier than Graham, all splayed out and used and tired and edged and trembling. The singer almost felt he could get high off of the sight.
Not to mention the sounds that escaped Graham, those little breathy pleas that only made Damon harder.
Graham was still quivering when a dreadful idea crossed Damon’s mind. His hands found the blindfold and pulled it off of the guitarist’s face. There were Graham’s beautiful, chocolate brown eyes, tearful as he looked up at his lover shamefully.
In a brief lapse of the scene, Damon bent down and pressed a sweet kiss to Graham’s sweaty hair, trailing it down to his swollen lips. The brunette received him gratefully through hitched breaths and hiccups.
“You’re doing so well, Grah. So well. You’re alright, yeah?”
Graham smiled bashfully, nodding—at least, to the best of his abilities after being brutally coaxed to the brink of orgasm and then left wanting.
“Good.”
Then the scene was back; Damon wasted no time in barking out his next order.
“I’m going to undo these ropes, then get in front of the mirror. Elbows on the counter.”
He heard another choked sob, watched as Graham nodded eagerly, noted the way his eyes didn’t leave Damon’s as the blond’s hands went to untie the ropes. It occurred to him then just how much power he had over Graham—not a sexual or dynamic sort of power, but the sort of power associated with trust. Graham let Damon tie him up, spit on him, humiliate him, amongst countless other dreadful things, and still he looked at Damon like the singer was the most beautiful and pure thing on earth. Still he scrambled eagerly upward, headlong towards the next stage of sadistic torture, just because it was Damon who had asked him to.
Towards the mirror. Elbows on the counter.
Graham looked even more gorgeous as he leaned on the surface than Damon could’ve possibly imagined. The arch of his back curved smoothly like a fine piece of architecture; it begged for the soft touch of fingertips and the waving movement of panting lungs as his over-exerted body searched for breath. His face, red with exhaustion and slick with tears and come, reflected back at him, but he wasn’t staring at himself. No, it was clear he was still staring at Damon, who had since situated himself right behind the brunette.
“Very good,” he purred, indulging in that desire to run his fingers along Graham’s arched frame. The brunette continued to let out loud gasps, still desperate for air and trembling as the lubed fingers went lower and lower until they were planted firmly at his underside, stretching him.
Damon guided his own member towards his lover’s pink, pulsating ring of muscle, feeling his own nerves spasm as he breached the tight barrier.
Oh my God—the way it felt, hearing Graham gasp, watching his back arch—he couldn’t fault the brunette for nearly falling victim to his coital urges. A part of him just wanted to give in, to start thrusting recklessly in and out of his lover until they were both coming undone, but the mirror beckoned back at him and Damon was reminded of why he had ordered them here in the first place.
“Since you wanted to see so bad…” He rolled his hips slowly and curled his fingers in Graham’s hair, “you’re gonna watch yourself, yeah?”
Graham couldn’t even respond normally, rocking his backside harshly against Damon’s member as he begged for the blond to quicken his pace. When Damon’s fingers curled harder around his hair, he only gasped wildly.
“Use your words.”
“Yeah, but I—”
“You what?”
Damon gave a hard thrust as he pushed Graham’s head against the mirror. A globule of spit fell out from the brunette’s mouth and he whined as the pressure grew stronger. It hurt so bad—so good—and Damon had taken to flirtatiously rolling his hips again; Graham could feel his insides stir.
It was no great surprise that he could hardly get his words out. “Day…’m so hu-humiliated…I can’t—”
“Can’t bear to see how pathetic you are for me?” Damon interjected, clutching Graham’s mop so hard he was sure to tug out a few hairs. The younger whined with embarrassment and tried to shake his head against the reflective glass. “I reckon you said you wanted to see—you take it back? You still want to come?”
“Please,” Graham sobbed.
“Then be a good boy and look.”
Finally, Damon pulled Graham’s head back, far enough so that the brunette was able to see himself. And then—and then, oh god… Damon smirked and began to pound into him—no, fucking drill into him.
Immediately, Graham’s face twisted up into a mix of humiliation and a continuation of the explosive pleasure from before. He watched himself fall apart in a mere few seconds, spit and tears dripping from every available space as his body sought to rid itself of some of this exertion. He felt stupid—explosive, knowing he was about to watch himself come.
“M’close,” he cried.
“We’ve just started.” Damon’s voice was ragged, but otherwise aloof. He smirked at Graham through the mirror, his expression a mix of pity and genuine admiration. Graham, for some reason, wanted to smile back, but when he tried, his face only fell back into an expression of unbearable pleasure.
It was embarrassing, how quick he’d succumbed.
A few more thrusts and he was already saying, “Please Dames, I can’t hold it—”
“S’alright,” the blond interjected, fingers still wound in Graham’s hair, “you can come now.”
And come he did.
It was a disorienting, knee-buckling, tear-inducing black-out kind of orgasm. Graham wasn’t even sure he’d ever have any come left in him afterwards.
But Damon didn’t stop.
To Graham’s evident horror as he stared at his own shame-ridden face, the singer just kept going. His thrusts were fast and strong, positively unbearable for the brunette spasming beneath him.
“Oh, Christ!”
“Thought you wanted to come?” Damon taunted him.
All Graham could do was watch himself tremble and convulse in the mirror as his orgasm melted into overstimulation, with Damon still hitting those precise little internal buttons that made Graham jerk upon contact. His head instinctively lunged forward, but Damon’s grip did not let such a motion occur. Graham whined at the pain.
He said through tears, incoherent, “I do—I did—fuck!”
Damon would have felt bad if only this weren’t the nature of their endeavours. Graham had even said it himself, in secret, that he wanted nothing less. The singer was eager to comply—now here they were.
He felt twisted, sick, as he slammed his hips into a trembling Graham, but it was a delicious sort of sick that they both adored.
“And I let you,” he cooed (God, he was still moving, Graham’s back was an “s”). “What do you s-say, Grah?”
Damon’s free hand reached forward and stroked the slope of Graham’s tear-streaked jaw, coaxing the answer from his swollen lips.
“Thank y-you!” he sobbed.
“So good. But now you’ve got to clean up that mess you’ve made, huh?”
Graham sobbed as he watched Damon’s hand leave his jaw and then sink beyond the visibility of the mirror; he knew exactly what would come next.
Sure enough, when Damon’s hand again caught the eye of the silver glass, Graham could see through tear-blurred eyelashes that his fingers were coated in a white, gooey mess.
Damon took advantage of the fact that his lover’s mouth was being forced open from overstimulation and dunked his fingers in. He ordered Graham to lick; even in this state he managed to swirl his tongue around the digits and rid them of his own come.
The guitarist’s eyes never left the mirror and for that Damon was very thankful—it was a sight he was so very privileged to have witnessed. A tearful, humiliated Graham doing his bidding out of a willful desire to please. It didn’t get much better than that.
“I’ll bet that tastes heavenly,” he breathed, earning a rushed nod from the younger.
Graham’s body still stuttered wildly with each thrust. He didn’t want to look at himself. He didn’t even want to think about himself. He didn’t want to know how desperate he looked when his lover fucked into him mercilessly, come decorating his red lips.
No—he whined. Of course he wanted this. He had all along. Graham wanted nothing more than for Damon to put him in his place while he watched helplessly, fully aware of how downright stupid and fucked out he looked, yet fully on board with it, hungry with the need for masochistic shame.
He was hungry for the way he was being drilled into, so hard that the mirror shook with each thrust. Hungry for how his hips would surely sport nasty bruises come morning and match the purple on his knees. Hungry for how his tired body pulsed around his lover. Hungry for the humiliation reflected in that bully of a mirror.
Above all, Graham was hungry for Damon.
And so he let it happen, even though it hurt so goddamn bad that he was on the verge of passing out. It hurt so goddamn good.
“I’m close, baby,” Damon whined from somewhere behind him, sounding as if at a distance.
Baby.
Graham shuddered and watched Damon’s lips move in the mirror, parting as he moaned and said things that Graham would never know, for his ears were ringing and his brain was turning into static. He could no longer hear in a normal way, but he could certainly feel and watch Damon’s hand curling around his neck like a shawl. He coughed.
“Can’t breathe.”
He spasmed and Damon clutched him harder.
“Don’t care.”
“I can’t…breathe!”
“Shut up.”
Damon’s nails dug into his skin and coaxed his head backward, his hair now draped about the singer’s shoulder. A slew of wet coughs and pathetic groans bubbled in his throat and tears were streaming down his face. Each sensation—every touch, soft tickle of breath—felt electric against his skin, with all of it funneling to the bundle of nerves in his groin. He was on fire and he still couldn’t breathe.
As if he knew, Damon finally released Graham’s head and the brunette was met with the sight of a red, spit-and-sweat-covered face staring back at him. A thought pushed to the forefront of his mind but the blond put it into words much quicker.
“My slut. My pretty slut.”
The pleasure coiling within Graham turned into hurt—a deep and shivering pain only reserved for the worst of flus. He supposed that was all he was—at least around Damon, right now: just a slut. A thing. He said it back, still tasting the come on his tongue.
“Your slut.”
It was like a prayer.
Damon grabbed hold of Graham’s hair and began to tug on it, rolling his head in all feasible directions as he pounded mercilessly into the shy brunette.
“That’s right, Grah,” Damon breathed. “My good boy.”
His other hand wrapped around Graham’s stomach and cradled it, pressing their bodies even closer together and, in turn, causing the guitarist’s hips to stop slamming into the counter in front of them.
At least, as best he could; Graham was still bent over, and every so often, a particularly powerful thrust would make him crash right into the wood. It didn’t matter much to the brunette, because Damon’s touch quelled the pain—and he liked that pain anyways.
Soon, all of the overstimulation had worn off and melted right back into pure pleasure. It was almost paradoxical, the way he felt—overly and disgustingly used yet clamoring for more. Especially when Damon’s fingertips nestled atop his skin and claimed him as his own. It was a soft touch, one that induced butterflies (unlike the painfully pleasurable feeling at his scalp), yet it still declared, “you’re mine and I can’t let you go.”
“I like that,” Graham found himself whining.
“Hm?”
“How you’re—you’re holding me.”
“Oh,” Damon breathed. “Yeah?”
Graham nodded against the singer’s grip. He met eyes with himself in the mirror. Strangely, it didn’t elicit that deliciously embarrassing response that it did before. It was more of an “I love Damon and he loves me; look at it” type of warm feeling. Perhaps it was only because he’d already come to the dirtier thought. Whatever it was, that didn’t matter—any way that Graham looked at it, he knew Damon could do absolutely whatever he pleased and Graham’d be on his knees thanking him, and then Damon would treat him like royalty afterward. That was the most sincere declaration of love of all.
The singer’s voice brought Graham out of his musings. “So close, Grah… you feel so good…”
“Christ!” the brunette gasped, a clear indication that he was just as ready to release.
“Where do you want it?”
Graham wasted no time in replying, “In me.”
“Bloody hell, you’re a slag. Say it—say that you’re a slag. Say it when I fill you up.”
Well, that feeling about the mirror was short-lived; Graham was back to experiencing a penetrating sort of humiliation that made him ever closer. He cried out loudly.
Suddenly, Damon’s hand tensed hard on Graham’s stomach, and, with a gasp, the brunette felt a few successive shots of warm spunk coat his insides.
“I’m a slag, I’m your slag,” he sobbed, rocking his hips desperately in hopes that Damon wouldn’t stop until his lover came, too.
He didn’t have to worry about it for long. That cocktail of feelings, of the warmth dripping out of him and of humiliation and usage, was too much, and he came loudly before he was even fully aware of it.
“I didn’t say you could come…”
Then Graham was worried. Worried because Damon was still slowly fucking him through orgasm. Worried because he feared he’d never stop. He didn’t know if he was physically capable of enduring it again in such a short period of time.
“Enuff, enuff,” Graham finally pleaded, choking over the words.
“I’m sorry. I was only kidding.” Damon’s hips twitched one final time and then he removed himself, letting his hand fall from Graham’s head and instead guiding it towards the other at the brunette’s stomach. Damon leaned down so that his chest met Graham’s back, bodies now one, with the younger propping himself up on shaking, outstretched arms.
“I love you,” Damon cooed, pressing a kiss to the trembling brunette’s ear. “You’re so good. So, so good…”
Graham let himself be hugged from behind, basking in the glory that was skin-to-skin contact. A nonsexual display of love that showed Damon really did care.
The blond kept his head resting on Graham’s shoulder as he recomposed himself in front of the mirror.
“Are you alright?” Damon said softly, studying the way his lover’s breath hitched and legs trembled. His brown eyes were still reddened with the remnants of tears.
“Yes. That was great, Dames.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I promise! I’m just rather shaken up.”
“Alright. Can I do anything for you?” He asked.
“It’s enough, having you here.”
Damon smiled and planted a kiss on the brunette’s shoulder. “You know I love you, yeah?”
Graham nodded, now grinning bashfully. Damon’s touch was so comforting. He could stay like this forever. “‘Course. I love you, too.”
“You’re wonderful.”
Forever.
But alas, all good things must come to an end—it wasn’t long before Damon suggested that they wash up and retire to bed. He detached from Graham, but only momentarily.
Momentarily because their skin soon met as they cleaned each other off. Momentarily because their lips were forever chasing the next kiss. Momentarily because the curvatures of their bodies settled into each other as they slept that night, and every night after that, because the only thing momentary was the second between each cuddle or loving touch.
They didn’t need a mirror to show it; their adoration was reflected in each other’s eyes as they said “I love you” and laced their fingers together in impossible knots. Forever.