"Sorry," Hayden said, whether was warranted or not. It always seemed his go-to word when he didn't know what else to say. Setting his charcoal in the sill under the easel, he got up from his stool and hurried to the door. The thud of the doorjamb as he pulled the lightweight knob shut resounded in his chest, and he stared at the smooth wood for as long as it took to breathe in, and out.
When he turned around, Wyatt wasn't where he left him, instead fully robed again, standing over Hayden’s easel. He didn't have anything to hide, he reminded himself, but that didn't stop his pulse from hammering as he quick-footed back to his space.
"Sorry, if it looks weird," he prefaced, hands sliding into his back pockets - stained and all. He could merely watch Wyatt assess his own renderings in charcoal, the way to his stool blocked slightly by the bowing body.
"The door?" Wyatt asked idly, attention still held by the drawings - until he looked over his shoulder. Then, Hayden’s attention wa held by brown eyes.
"The sketches," he said, too overwhelmed to even consider the confusion of the door. What kind of art school artist didn't want their work picked over, anyway? He had done commissions and group galleries and portfolio reviews and only the most nerve wracking had affected him this much. This hardly should have counted.
He had the gall to think Wyatt looked rather awed by his second experiment in portraiture (even though the light strokes and emphasized lines hardly counted as a real portrait). What had felt natural in the moment felt like a mistake now. Hayden didn't need a reminder of his professor's criticism.
At least Wyatt was properly dressed now. Or as proper as a robe could make him. Hayden couldn't draw with him standing there but he wound up sitting down anyway, scooting himself around body and easel.
Too much silence for comfort, again. As much as Hayden hated the sound of his own voice, he might as well use it.
"I was just playing around," he tried, aiming for nonchalant as he collected what sketches he had accumulated. He realized how weird and secretive that looked now, but it was too late. Hopefully casual movements would save him.
"Really?" Wyatt asked, surprised. Hayden shrugged.
"It's very flattering," he murmured in explanation. "I'd almost worry about seeing more serious attempts. Seems likely to go to a man's head. You'll give me a complex."
All this, and Hayden managed to laugh. It might have been a little loud and it might have been a little sudden but the nerves had to get out of his body somehow. Drumming his fingers against his knee, covered in charcoal smudges that hadn't come out of his jeans in years, his brain tried to fight with him over whether Wyatt was just trying being nice or not.
"Well," he began, staring at the drawings like they offered an answer, "the less you draw, the less there is to see." It took a single heartbeat for him to realize he might have just implied that Wyatt was not as pretty as the drawings implied.
"Or mess up I mean," Hayden corrected, glancing up at Wyatt. Those brown eyes looked much darker, and it took him a moment to realize it was because of the sudden proximity, where light couldn't reach completely. At this point, Hayden wondered if he had to convince himself he was imagining things. Or alternatively, to be professional.
"Sorry, I don't talk very well..."
Then, all of a sudden world went dark for as long as it took Wyatt to loom close enough to block the lights, a realization Hayden didn't completely come to until it was too late.
A warm mouth, felt instead of seen, pressed against his, drawing a soft gasp as their lips made contact. Hayden didn’t know how to exhale, sitting their immobile, like an idiot.
He learned to breathe all over again when Wyatt pulled away, silent in the empty room. The pressure gone, Hayden’s lips felt cold, and he stared with rapt attention at a mouth he had just been kissed with. Tangible, unimagined, real.
The door could have been closed, locked, bolted, or wide open, blown off its hinges, and Hayden wouldn't have noticed either way. He pushed himself off the stool, standing uneasily as he brought himself chest to chest with Wyatt. It occurred to him that what happened might have been a mistake or an accident, but there was no way he could pretend. That it didn't happen, that it didn't jumpstart desires he might have ignored since the moment he focused, truly focused, on Wyatt's face.
Hayden advanced, silencing reservations as he aligned their lips together again on a swell of breath that got caught in his chest, tumbling around. The angle tilted his chin up and forward, and he placed hand on a terry cloth shoulder, putting him in better position to keep the kiss.
Wyatt’s arm lifted to get a grip on a handful of the artist's shirt, a half gasped breath hissing through his teeth as Hayden surged closer, only for them to open with the parting of Hayden's lips. His other hand lifted from his side, curving along jawline and cheek, tongue sweeping forward almost defensively, given how much Hayden had taken already.
Haydenis fingers curled tight against one of the shoulders he had been ogling for days now, still concealed under the robe. Now, Hayden longed for the supple texture of skin. As if the warm tongue prodding against his, almost languid, wasn't enough.
As if Wyatt's hands offered the permission he needed to get another grip, Hayden slipped his free hand forward blindly, lucky if surprised when a warm space between fabric and flesh tickled his fingers. Pressing his palm flush against Wyatt's hip, drawing him closer still, he took his time indulging the soft skin on his own, hands searching what his eyes couldn't. One sense at a time.
Except there were more. A savory taste as their mouths bumped lazily, maybe from a meal, and the smell of shampoo if Hayden tipped his head enough. Sighing around Wyatt's tongue, he caved, and opened his eyes. An amateur move, but he couldn't see much anyway.
Maybe that's what spooked him into prying his head away, taking in the ruddy sight of flushed cheeks. Suddenly he wished he had brought red pastels. His grip on the waist didn't falter though, and his other arm moved to join it, tucking Wyatt between his hands rather nicely, while Hayden stood there at a complete loss for words. He completely neglected to remember the black dust coating his fingers.
Something should probably be said. Hayden's thoughts inclined toward "let's get out of here", even if his tongue wouldn't quite work enough to get that past his lips. They had been working a lot in the last couple of seconds though, maybe they needed time to recover.
The only thing that kept him from muttering out an apology was the look on Wyatt’s face, which seemed to mirror his own. With both of them tucked around each other, there didn’t seem like there was anything to apologize for anyway.
Then Wyatt advanced again, pushing forward, sending Hayden knocking down against his stool. It wobbled under the harsh weight, and it took him a moment to realize he had been pushed to sit, hands flying away from Wyatt to grip the edges of the round top. There was little time to register anything at the precise moment it took place, but Hayden just managed to start as a nimble hand cupped the growing mound of a boner he hadn’t even realized he had, all while a skilled mouth pressed deeply into his neck. Curls tickled Hayden's throat enough to have him gasping again, trying not to squirrel away, even as his sneakers pressed into the bottom rung of the ladder with a bit too much force.
Anyone could have walked in at any moment, door closed or not. But no one had bothered them yet, and Hayden was starting to think maybe luck was with him today - for fucking once.
"Ff-f-fuck," he stuttered out abruptly, struggling for balance while he tipped his head and slid his arms back around Wyatt’s bare body, under his robe. This time, up and over his back, clutching close and desperate, the terrycloth shifting over Hayden's arms.
Wyatt assault on Hayden’s throat took him lower, stopped only by the fold and button of his flannel shirt. With his fingers curled around the still thickening denim-clad shaft, palm grinding down slowly, Wyatt shouldered out of the robe, reaching down to yank at the constricting belt and let the fabric settle heavily at his feet. Utterly bared, he moved to grip
waistband of Hayden's jeans as he dropped to his knees.
Hayden gave up his own grip as Wyatt shifted, back to clutching the seat as he panted and tried desperately not to grunt like a neanderthal against the oh so fucking insistent grip on his dick through his jeans. Suddenly Wyatt in all his naked Adonis glory was almost too much, despite having stared at it at least ten hours out of his life, spread across the month.
The trembling he had taken to like a spooked animal didn't let up in any way, shape, or form when Wyatt dipped away from his neck entirely, in full sight once again. It didn't take Hayden very long to figure out what down meant, especially when quick fingers came around his fly. He wanted to help, but he was too stunned to function. This was a viable path in the universe, happening right now, and he still couldn’t believe it.
He thought, maybe, he just died and went to heaven instead, when the overhead lights had brown eyes glinting amber at him, intense under thick bangs. Hayden didn't school his features in time, and didn't bother, staring unabashedly in awe as Wyatt worked between his thighs. Cool air hit him in the same breath as a persistent hand, and he found himself struggling not to topple backwards. Two years he had begged for a sturdier alternative to the old stools, something with a back preferably.
Instead, Hayden was forced to plant his feet on the floor and perch, as long as he wanted Wyatt to continue whatever course of action he had imagined. And fuck did Hayden want to see it through.
Wyatt pried Hayden free as gently as possible, stroked down slowly, as he pressed clinging clothes out of the way. Hayden’s mouth fell open soundlessly, sensation hitting him before realization.
If he thought that was overwhelming (and fantastic, and amazing, and oh my God-), then there may have been no conceivable way to prepare for the pale lips parted to press lightly against the soft skin along his flared head, tongue flattening against it. Lips already spit-slick, Wyatt slid down the underside, following the bumps and ridges of vein and nerve alike while Hayden twitched and trembled.
He couldn't fathom the reality of the situation he was in, here, now. The stuff of fantasies he never thought to have, at least about this particular person. When he blinked, he thought he'd be propped up again, sketching, looking at Wyatt thousands of feet away. But he didn't, and he was there, and he was doing so much more than looking.
"Oh my God," Hayden choked, clutching his fingers to his chest under blunt nails to avoid grabbing with more force than he thought either of them could handle. It was an effort not to slide off the stool, especially with his thighs trembling around Wyatt and his gentle, caressing mouth. Maybe the sheer ecstasy kept him pinned their to enjoy the supple, humid tongue.
"You're fucking gorgeous," he panted out, unable to help himself. After all he had thought so for so long, and neither the angle nor the activity changed that - fuck, it expanded upon it.
Honeyed brown eyes that had fallen shut opened again at Hayden’s harried statement, Wyatt’s mouth slipping away from the shaft. Hayden froze as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have. Fuck he hoped not, having meant the sentiment with every inch of his being, in that very moment. Watching Wyatt stare at him, his own flushed cock a breath away from his face, was a delicious kind of hell. Especially when he caught the half-second Wyatt allowed for an almost vulnerable smile, and Hayden knew he hadn't fucked up quite that bad.
There was little time to plot out the mental map of pinched cheeks and lines and teeth that made up the pleasant visage, though, before Hayden was overwhelmed again. Just as he mourned the second shutter of Wyatt’s eyes, he sank forward to swallow thickly around Hayden’s cock, sending a jolt of electricity up his spine. Moaning desperately, his head tipped back, only to tilt forward again, knowing he had to watch. He made it in time for Wyatt to do it all over again.
Hayden had complete and utter reverence for the naked form poised in front of him, quiet and subtle in the previous weeks, all of a sudden desperate and impassioned. He didn't dare grip or yank, but he was helpless to stop a hand from flying to one smooth sculpted shoulder, softer than the marble that came mind with every sweep down Wyatt's milky body. Already close, Hayden could feel the clench of muscles in his stomach, and he had just enough willpower to force away an early end to the administration, huffing all the while. Not now, when he had gazed in admiration for so long and gone even longer without.
He must have been too obvious though, because Wyatt off Hayden's cock with a startled pop - a strand of thick spit strung from his bottom lip to the swollen head for a long moment.
"What's wrong?" Wyatt demanded. For the whole rest of the week, Hayden would not feel as dumb as he did now.
At least he got to take in the appearance of Wyatt slipping his rounded mouth off his cock without the handicap of being incapable of processing the reality post-climax. If only he didn't look so concerned by Hayden’s sporadic tensing. He almost preferred the indifferent expressions depicted on his sketchpad looming in his peripherals.
"Nothing, nothing nothing," Hayden wheezed rushedly. How did he do this without getting pushy? Or worse, confessing why this had happened in the first place. "Keep, keep going. Please." That last bit, he hadn't intended to let slip, but there it was, dissipating into the air even as Hayden struggled for as much oxygen as he could, while he could.
"Oh," Wyatt murmured shifting on the floor beneath Hayden before slipping his hand around the still taut shaft again. A moment later his lips closed around the head again. A short, almost relieved sigh huffed past Hayden's lips as he watched, and felt. He couldn't help his eyes fluttering shut, awash with sensation that quickly grew from subtle to stifling. Only to force them open again when he got wrapped up in that wet heat of a perfect mouth again. Hayden couldn't miss this.
From under a thatch of gold curls, Wyatt stared up at him, until Hayden couldn't even hear his own embarrassed reactions under the thump of his heart, from that melted gaze. His mind would forever dance around wood, chocolate, and syrupy colors, but none would be quite befitting of the dark orbs so focused on him now, leaving him in wonder of the rapt attention.
Wyatt's swallow bumped down his cock, and Hayden choked out a gasp hard enough to knock his chin against his collarbone. He was utterly unprepared for the engulfing heat that consumed him a second later, fighting for balance. And with every turn of his head, even with his skin buzzing and heart pounding, his only mantra was look at him, look at him, look at him. Even though that meant the end for Hayden.
He managed to last a handful of seconds longer before not even his willpower was as strong as Wyatt's eyes, his mouth, his deft fingers. Tensing all of a sudden, legs cinched around the smooth torso, Hayden failed completely to warn Wyatt, and had the fucking gall to moan his name as his orgasm crashed upon him with a force that almost had the poor artist tipping backward out of his chair.
Coughing once, Wyatt swallowed, his hand rising as he retreated to cup his palm over the head, sparing himself any further taste. It took a couple lungfuls of air, clutching at the stool for balance, and relief from the pressure in his abdomen for Hayden to finally, finally find it in him to be downright fucking humiliated. Came right in a (for all intents and purposes) stranger's mouth without any warning whatsoever, save perhaps his name. Hayden was pretty sure, not for the first time in his life, he hated himself.
A shameful line of thought briefly interrupted by the sight of Wyatt's mouth shiny and red, still intense after all that.
"I'm so sorry," Hayden blurted, mortification aiming to make his face redder. He tried to suck in extra breaths between words. "I should've warned you..."
Hissing a bit at the pressure on his hypersensitive dick, Hayden dipped his hips away as much as the stool, and his jellified muscles, would allow. If he stood, he feared he would probably fall over. Thankfully Wyatt was still below him to create a tantalizing view for his eyes to drink in, knelt and bent, with his hand drenched white.
"I'll forgive you this time," Wyatt answered quietly, the lilt of a tease in
his tone while his lips curled in the corner. This time. Hayden’s pulse went racing, just when it had been starting to calm down. This time implied that there would be another time, possibly more, but one, at the most. If he was smarter, he would know that Wyatt didn't owe him anything beyond this if he didn't explicitly say so. But Hayden was well aware of the hopelessly romantic state of his personality. Stupid came with the territory.
Wyatt dragged other hand across his mouth, and though his face was mostly clean, Hayden couldn’t blame him for it. He struggled to pin himself back in reality, watching as Wyatt stood. The artist remaining glued to his seat, incapable of movement beyond the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Before he could think to offer reciprocation, or even get a look at Wyatt beyond his face or the plane of his pale chest the robe came back on, up from the floor and over square shoulders. It didn't take a genius to know that meant someone didn't want reciprocation - which Hayden tried not to feel disappointed about. After all, it could mean anything. Maybe Wyatt wasn't stupid enough to forget he'd have to go home covered in jizz.
"There's a sink here, if you need," Wyatt mentioned, pointing toward the corner. Hayden glanced over as if he had no idea the paint-splattered thing was there (offered to him by the professor in some snarky remark about getting charcoal all over his pants). Muttering a useless "Oh," he endeavored to test his legs against the floor. He could probably stand and walk the couple of feet, but just to give himself a little more recovery time, he fumbled his hands into his lap, dragging his underwear and jeans up to his hips, buttoning them closed. Now he looked just like Wyatt - like nothing had happened.
Hayden wasn't sure how to feel about that notion, but he walked himself to the sink anyway, turning on the water mechanically, while his brain whirred with ways to progress the situation. It was basically a dream come true. A dream he hadn't even fucking had. He was sure he could prevent himself from waking up, too, rather easily.
"Do you wanna get out of here?" he blurted out, turning back to Wyatt, even as he ran one (perfectly clean and dry, save black smudges) hand under the cold water. "Get coffee or something?"
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