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Toot… toot… toot…
Even with all the paper strewn across the bed rustling as Leo moves, rolling left and right while he waits for you to pick up the phone, the dial up sound in his left ear is the only thing he hears. It’s not exactly melodious or inspiring, only something to make do with in adversity. The sound he’s longing for, however…
It’s sweet. Just the right pitch. Patient in how it waits for the right opening in his rambling to contribute. Understanding when there is none for a long time. Calm but never hesitant to match his excitement over big and small things alike. Fond, affectionate, loving when directed at him. A source of inspiration for many a song he has written. Dear to him like nothing else when it sings them no matter whether in tune or not. One to send a pleasant tingle down his spine when heard the first time in the morning or last before he falls asleep at night.
Especially then, he longs for it most. Just like right now.
If only you’d pick up the phone.
“Come onnn, (y/n)…” Unfortunately, whining about it – no matter how urgently and how much kicking his feet against the mattress involved – does nothing. After a few more beeps, he’s sent to voicemail.
Dropping his phone on the bed with a groan of frustration, Leo buries his face in a pillow. Unlike at home, it doesn’t even smell like you in your absence. There’s just the inoffensive but nondescript and bland fragrance of hotel linen. Even if he’s not the type to get used to sensory input quickly, he’s been exposed to this very scent so many times, he starts to wonder if there’s some sort of conspiracy going on – some company holding the monopoly on hotels’ detergent supply nationwide, or even beyond borders, with an iron fist and through unfair practices.
As tempting as it is to let his mind explore the possibility, you have his attention in a chokehold. Currently even more so than usual. You’re all he can think about – the steady presence of you in his thoughts for once not inspiring him to work but a compelling distraction. Your pull on his thoughts to wander off towards you is almost magnetic, a law of nature. Everything else – be it the scent in his nose, the texture of the bedsheets against his skin, or the noise of the AC whirring somewhere in the background – pales in comparison, turning translucent and fading quickly.
Why are you busy now of all times? Unfair.
If Leo were aware that you’ve dozed off early after a long, busy day – something he could be, had he looked at the time and thought about it a little – perhaps he wouldn’t be as miffed. He’d most likely only be mildly disgruntled about not getting a goodnight text or the chance to send one back, rather than pondering whether he’s being ignored – as unlikely as he knows that is.
But he misses you. And that weighs heavier than any logic to be applied.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. In this case, that means reaching for his phone again to scroll through the gallery. It’s an assortment of oddities – always has been – taken by him, downloaded, and shared by friends alike. But he pays no mind to any of the memes, or food, or cats, or unidentifiable, blurry blobs snapped in a hurry. (Surely a UFO upon closer inspection, though.) The only thing that makes his thumb still and tap on the screen to enlarge a picture is your smile in the thumbnail.
It's the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Not just the perfect curl of your lips themselves, but how it makes your entire face light up, laugh lines accentuating and framing your features like the work of art they are. Your eyes shine no matter the time of day or night, their warmth reaching him even through the cool, blue light of the screen. In the darkness of the hotel room, it’s almost blindingly bright.
He only realises he had been leaning in when his nose collides with the slightly cracked glass. And though it makes him recoil from the unexpected contact and unpleasant reminder of you not actually being right there in front of him, he does give your picture a tiny peck – just because what if you can feel it despite the distance?
Even if it’s practically impossible for him to look his fill of this, Leo keeps swiping after a moment. He remembers the date the series of pictures were taken on well, even if right now he can’t recall what happened to make you laugh. Was it something he said? Something happening while you were out and about? You did run into a very silly looking dog that day…
Though before he can finish the line of thought, his eyes end up glued to something much more interesting: Your top riding up a little at your waist.
The small strip of your skin visible because of that holds more information than one might assume. It glistens a little in the sunlight – the picture taken on an especially hot summer day with no shade to take cover within miles. You had folded up a random flyer you were handed on the street for a makeshift fan and if Leo squints his eyes – he’s too focused to think about zooming in – he can make out how your hair moves in the breeze. All that he remembers now just from a little bit of skin. No wonder it keeps him entranced for as long as it does.
There’s a faint orange stain on the fabric right next to where his eyes linger – residue from the popsicle he bought to help you cool down. It ended up dripping, melting quicker than you could eat it – not that you didn’t try, brain freeze included – and trying to wipe it away with a tissue only rubbed it in deeper. The image quality isn’t high enough to discern whether the treat also left a tint on your lips and tongue. But Leo remembers. In fact, he’s quite sure that there’s very few things in the world that could make him forget how they looked wrapped around the ice.
Trying to eat as quickly as you were, it was a messy thing to witness in every sense. Liquid dripping down your fingers aside, the slurping accompanying you enjoying your snack has forever ingrained itself in his mind. Both the visual and sound by themselves… It’s something he usually would associate with something else. He (fortunately) had been too busy laughing with you when you stuck out your – also orange tongue – at him to react at the time, but now in the solitude and quiet of his hotel room… It’s not his fault that his mind is going very different places.
It gets him worked up in an entirely different way than sulking over being unable to reach you did. It’s just as irritating as it starts to bubble under his skin, but more than the itch itself, it comes with the thought, the promise of relieving it.
And since you’re not picking up, it’s not like there’s anything better to do.
From there on out, his hands develop a mind of their own. One rearranges the pillows to prop the phone up against it right in front of his face and – most importantly – make sure that the screen doesn’t turn off at the most unfortunate time. The other tucks underneath his body and travels a familiar path down his torso, until arriving at the waistband of his underwear – not caring much to linger and tease as there is little need to build up his anticipation even more. His fingers slip past easily, a sigh escaping his lips when their tips brush against the base of his cock.
Leo finds no embarrassment in the fact that he’s half-hard already, just looking at an innocent enough picture of you and his mind doing the rest of the work. Neither in that of a few light touches – just trailing his fingers up and down the underside of his dick – being enough to get him fully erect. By spreading some of the precum gathering at his tip to ease the movement of his hand and firmly wrapping his hand around, he’s almost able to get it to feel like your mouth…
Okay, not really. You feel so much better, the heat and wetness nothing he could ever do justice with just his impatient fingers. But it’s the thought that counts. And fortunately, being as aroused as he is when staring at you, frozen in time in the photo, his thoughts spurring on his hand are more than enough to make him moan. With his cheek squished into the pillow it’s a little muffled, but there’s no one around to hear anyway.
He tries not to dwell on it, choosing to believe that you really are almost close enough to touch noses with, that you’d be able to feel his breath on your face as it starts to pick up when he begins to move his hand along his length. If anything, the factual distance motivates him even more to make the imaginary act as detailed as possible in his mind.
Your skin – tender and warm. Your breath – occasionally catching in your throat when you try to take him just a little deeper. Your spit – dripping past the tight seal of your lips and running down his shaft. It’s all there in his head, in his hand.
“(y/n)…” He’s been longing to hear your voice so badly, the thought quietly nagging him on and on while he was going about his day, working, eating… He knows exactly how it sounds – both in a situation like the one he’s imagining and in every other imaginable. However, it does come in handy that for this specific scenario, his brain doesn’t need to come up with too many words on your part. Rather than that there would be muffled moans and hums filling the space in between his unobstructed ones. He’s never been good at staying quiet. He doesn’t see the point. Especially not when voicing his thoughts never fails to get you worked up too. “More…”
You hardly mind him getting demanding either. A fact that very much works in his favour, because there is no way for him to keep the movement of his hand slow. He needs you. Needs you now. Needs you here. Below, on top, behind him… Leo doesn’t care so long as it’s close.
“Love, please…” There’s no need for him to consciously know exactly what he is asking for. His body knows. You know. You always do. And you don’t hesitate to use that knowledge to give nothing short of that.
In this instance, staying still safe for the back and forth of his hand seems to be the biggest part of Leo’s struggle.
You accommodate for that.
He can practically feel how your hands would settle on his thighs – a gentle reminder to not get too carried away and backup should he forget – how you’d look up at him with an expression so much more obscene than the cute picture of you would ever suggest you to be capable of. That you’re full of surprises is just another item on the list of things he loves and appreciates you for. It keeps steadily growing each day, nowhere near running dry just like his feelings for you won’t, no matter how much time you spend apart.
And with the reassurance that you’ll take it, that you’ll give what he needs, his hips start to move.
“(y/n)-“ The sound that leaves his throat once he starts to fuck his hand is almost too guttural to be recognisable as your name. It stems from the very same place that you reside in, deep and safe inside his chest – his heart. He has no plans of ever letting you out of there, but the sweet sound of your name isn’t something he’d ever withhold from the world. After all, you’re his muse and isn’t that exactly his calling? To share the music, you inspire him to make? Maybe he won’t share you specifically… But the emotion you evoke is something he’d like to see more of in the world.
Right now, though, the only music heard are his moans. There’s no time or capacity to analyse them for melody, outstanding artistic choices, let alone any clever turns of phrase in the lyrics. Without you there, there’s no harmony to complete, leaving Leo’s voice to ring out in the dark alone – a solo performance.
The only thing arguable there for guidance and reference is a rhythm, though that also seems to get more frantic and haphazard by the second. With no one to keep stroke, the speed is up to desire, growing with every thrust.
Your mouth isn’t enough – or rather, his hand isn’t.
Fortunately, his creative streak extends to situations such as this and he doesn’t need to waste any time thinking of an ingenious solution. In no time at all, he acts to adjust – but with a lot of chaos involved when the hasty rearrangement of the duvet and pillows sends his notes from earlier flying and knocks over his phone, your face now buried in the sheets just like his own was just a moment ago. Leo wants to see you though. It undeniably keeps the creative juices going and the more of them, the better is his policy on that.
Unlike his music sheets, you’re spared not only a glance – a very long one at that – but also a small, mumbled apology when he flips you back over and meets your ever-smiling eyes, his own not even trying to conceal his need. It lasts but a moment, before a single roll of his hips against the soft cushioning of the pillow tucked underneath makes his eyelids flutter and his forehead drop down, resting it on the bed right next to you.
“Ah-“ If he puts his mind to it, it’s just like moaning into your ear. Just like when you’re doing it like this for real. Your soft frame underneath him, moulding against his every movement, meeting him half-way when he grinds against you. Even though expensive, the fabric is nowhere as silky as your skin, but he tries to push the thought to the back of his mind before it can fester. He doesn’t need any distractions. He only needs you.
Abandoning all rhythm to chase the mind-numbing friction against his cock, Leo’s panting as he clings to his pillow. His hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, dripping down into the sheets with every vigorous movement of his body atop what he imagines to be yours, he holds no regard for his volume – or his unitmates next door. The only thing on his mind is you. And coming. But at the rate he’s going, that’s only going to be a matter of time. Likely a short one.
The one perk of this substitute could arguably be that there’s no need to worry about rushing it, about you not being able to follow when he does tip over that edge. You’ll be right there behind him, letting go together.
Hence, Leo is even less inclined to hold anything back than usual, both his moans and thrusts picking up until there simply is no holding back anymore – the final nudge to send him into orgasm another quick glance at your picture.
“(y/n)!” The pillow gives much more way than your body ever would when he digs his fingers into it hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. And unlike with you, there will be no marks left from them on the smooth pillowcase. Nothing for him to admire in the aftermath while catching his breath with you or to catch a glimpse of over the next few days.
However, the pillow isn’t going to emerge unscathed from this either.
Leo can’t say that he usually pays all that much mind to how much he cums. But right now, when his release adds to the sensation of riding out his high in the most toe-curling way, it’s almost too good. Almost too much. But at the same time so intoxicating and enticing, it fuels him beyond his limits, driving him into overstimulation as he humps his pillow until he simply can’t anymore.
The only thing stopping him, is his body quitting service eventually, legs giving out, lacking the strength to keep up the movement any longer. He simply can’t anymore, regardless of whether he’d have liked to keep going or not. In lieu of that, collapsing on top of the pillow and having his overstimulated cock trapped between himself and the sullied, crinkled fabric, his bodyweight does its work to continue to make him shudder from every little shift he makes while trying to settle down comfortably.
His head still feels fuzzy when he opens his eyes again. And doing so only to be met with the very same sight of you that’s been guiding his thoughts the entire time, makes his heart quiver just as much. It’s a funny feeling, tingly and warm, causing him to quietly giggle and snuggle up as close to you as the setup allows. It’d be more comfortable were he able to hear your heartbeat in his ear, slowing down together with his own. He doesn’t complain though. After all, you’ve done nothing but keep him the very best company, being a Muse of a quite different kind offering the very best relief – and all that without even knowing so.
“Thank you, (y/n)…” It’s only right he says so. “I love you…”
But with exhaustion quickly catching up to him now that his mind feels calm, those are the last words to his performance for the night. And with his breath steadily slowing down and his eyes drooping, your smiling face is the last thing he sees before drifting off to sleep. As it should be.
Even without a call, he’ll hear you in his dreams.
There are few things that could be as confusing to you as waking up to your phone showing you a notification you haven’t seen in years. Honestly, you can hardly remember the last time anyone bothered leaving a voicemail. Why not just send a text instead?
“You have one new message.”
And what a message it is.