shadows_have_offended | (no subject)

Entry tags:

harry starks,
ig

(no subject)

He has work in the morning, but it's not stopping him from going out. Besides, this is hardly going out. One of his coworkers put him up on a blind date, and so he's out for that--but the other guy was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago, so Neil doesn't think he's showing up at all. So here's Neil, standing outside of a bar, smoking and feeling a bit like an idiot for being stood up.

He should probably just go. If the guy wasn't here twenty minutes ago, or even five minutes ago, it's reasonable to say that he's not coming and Neil should just give up. He pulls out his phone and checks the texts. There's the one from his coworker, describing the guy he's supposed to be meeting, and there's the one from the guy, confirming that he has Neil's number.

Maybe he'll go to a club. Maybe he'll just go home so he can smoke in a heated room rather than shivering outside. Maybe he'll get this fucking meal and send a picture to the guy; his loss. Neil's an entirely pleasant date.

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Last man who insulted Harry by telling him was a cock-loving bugger had needed several stitches and spent a few weeks in hospital. The truth of the matter was irrelevant at the time - but Harry did indeed. Especially when attached to such a pretty picture - so full of want and need and lust.

He moved up on the bed and swatted the hand away playfully before he got down between the boy's knees. He gave the shaft a teasing lick, but then just went down on him, humming in pleasure as he did.

Neil moves his hand away, putting both of them onto the pillows behind him. He watches Harry raptly as he works at him, that tease and then the hot, wet heat of his mouth. By some miracle, Neil's hips don't jump; he groans, this soft, pitifully needy noise as he tips his head back.

"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip and digging his heels into the mattress a little.

It's good to know this sort of thing doesn't really age. He feels the tension in Neil's legs, and the writhing of his body under his touch, and it feels good to be the cause of it. He takes in what he can, uses his hand on the rest of him, and a thumb to kneed his balls lightly.

Darrow may be a shithole, but this was infinitely better than what he had to look forward to in jail.

Besides the occasional swear, Neil’s reduced to a lot of quiet, needy breathing. He blushes, listening to Harry suck him, because it’s a deliciously, delightfully filthy noise and half of why Neil doesn’t want to be too noisy over everything.

His hands find their way to Harry’s hair, threading through and disrupting the severe coif. It’s easy to grab him and rock his hips just a little.

It's been a while since anyone grabbed his head like that. Boys around him tended to be a lot more passive in London. It might have something to do with the way Harry deals with arguments and the hard hand with which he runs his business. He doesn't think they feared him, but they knew to be careful.

Neil doesn't know anything about Harry's past. He just knows what he wants and right now that's Harry's mouth. Harry finds he likes that feeling; that need as his hair is grabbed, that want when the kid rocks his hips. He'd smile, but his mouth is busy. Instead he looks up at the kid, eyes dark and he opens up, taking the boy in deeper.

Harry looks up at him, dark and hungry, and Neil's breath stutters for a second. He squirms, bites his lip. He knows if he comes, he could get it up again, but also it'd be terribly embarrassing if he did.

"Harry," he sighs, breathless, panting as Harry takes him down again. He squirms a bit more. "Oh, Harry."

It's honey to his ears and he hums, pleased that his effort is paying off in such a pretty way. He adds a bit of teeth, a bit of force, a little edge just to hear the kid squirm even more.

He's still getting used to the idea of force, though he's increasingly familiar with things quick and dirty. There's a part of him that wants to let Harry have his way and just suck him off, which seems to be an intention here.

More than that, though, he wants other things. His fingers clutch at Harry's hair on a particularly delicious stroke of his mouth, and he gasps, "Fuck me."

Part of Harry just wants to turn him over and do what he's asked, but he prides himself on control and so he doesn't. Instead he moves up and kisses Neil and puts a hand through the boy's hair. "You're beautiful," he says, voice hoarse and low. "Want to turn over for me?"

The kiss wasn’t strictly necessary, but Neil appreciates it. He blushes, just a little, and nods. When Harry’s given him the room to do it, he turns and puts his head and shoulders down on the bed, hips raised, legs slightly spread. After everything Harry’s done he’s sensitive and gently vibrating with need.

It's not a matter of necessary, it's just that Harry likes it. Likewise, he likes the view he's given when Neil turns over and drapes himself over the bed sheets.

He slicks his fingers on his mouth (he could go out to the kitchen, but he's too eager) and pushes in one with gentle determination.

Neil is keyed up, but he's relaxed. There's no shift for a bedside table, no click of lube being opened, and Neil's face flushes exponentially. It's hardly the first time he's done something that demanded a quicker, filthier sort of preparation, but normally that was because he was messing around in a bathroom or something.

He nuzzles his face against the sheets, letting himself open up to it, those spit-slick fingers deft and confident, and gentle.

Harry has no intention of hurting Neil, and he's gentle throughout, preparing him, while making sure his fingers are and remain slick enough.

He finds freckles on his back and kisses them, but he doesn't stop moving his fingers, scissoring and opening him up.

Neil shivers and shakes, blushing feverishly every time Harry re-slicks his fingers with spit. He's glad to have his face down, to be able to smother the needy embarrassment of it. His cock twitches between his legs. He shifts a little bit, so he can spit in his hand and reach back to stroke Harry languidly.

He exhales against Neil when he's taken in hand, almost a moan against soft burning skin, and moves with him, until there's unison in their movements.

He's not embarrased at how quickly it just becomes too much, and he pulls back, leaving the boy exposed and ready but empty for a moment.

He tugs gently at Neil's shoulder. "Turn over, love. Let me see you," he asks, voice quiet but veiling poorly the lust he feels.

If Harry had managed to sound in control, at ease, unaffected by all this, Neil might have managed to find offense. The way his voice drips with the want of it pulls a shiver through Neil, and he turns over, rather ungracefully but being sure his knees won't go flying.

On his back, he spreads his legs to either side of Harry's hips. He grabs the pillow from under his head and wedges it unceremoniously under his lower back, giving just that little lift and support. His cock is throbbing, needy and red; he knows it will ease up for a moment when they first start, but for now, it's almost a distraction.

The unceremonious shifts, the less-than-perfect moves to get into a good position, a little and rare apologetic smiles; Harry finds them very charming. If anything they add to the appeal of youth.

"Beautiful," he comments with a moment's genuine smile, which quickly turns back to hunger. It's hard to resist the needy bob of Neil's cock, and Harry leans over to give it a languid lick from base to tip.

He then positions himself and carefully pushes inside.

Neil shakes a little under the attention, under that hot gaze. He runs his fingers across Harry's jaw, back up into his hair, and breathes, raggedly, as he starts to push in. It's an ache that he feels all through his hips, but Harry is gentle enough, slow and patient, that nothing hurts.

Harry wouldn't want to hurt Neil at all. Fear and pain were useful in his line of work, but he did not translate that into the bedroom. He's taken out frustration and anger on a boy before, during black mood, but never during sex.

Neil takes it perfectly, and Harry kisses naked skin whenever he can.

When Harry finally bottoms out in him--it feels like it takes forever, but he's sure it's only a minute or two--Neil moans uselessly. A shiver works through his stomach, through his legs, and he breathes. His hips move, just a little, getting used to the feel of him.

"Christ," he breathes. "Christ, you feel..."

Neil's hips move a little, telling Harry he's comfortable enough. He's tight and everything about him screams of his thirst for this. "Fuck, kid," he moans, taking in that picture writhing beneath him.

Neil smiles breathlessly, stretching his arms over his head and bracing a little against the headboard. He moves his hips just a little more, now with intention instead of just that settling need. It's easy to nudge his knee up against Harry's side, trying to encourage him to move. It's easy to lean up as best he can, to catch a kiss against Harry's jaw and sigh softly with the want of it.

Encouraged, Harry moves and tries to find an angle that might cause the boy more of those delicious moans. He reaches between them and grabs Neil's cock, giving it easy strokes as he moves.

The pace picks up, slowly, and Neil shifts and squirms until he gets a good angle to match the one that Harry's seeking. Coupled with the hand on his cock, he's left shivering and moaning quickly.

"Shit," he breathes, grabbing at Harry desperately. "Feels good."

"Yeah," Harry breathes, momentarily lost for anything better to say. He lets go of Neil cock to grab his arse, lifting him a little to get a better angle. He leans in for a feverish kiss as he fucks him.