Killius Propaganda Machine

It has been a long month. Both of you have been so busy. He almost never took a break and you are no better. Just two workaholics who sometimes just can’t shut off. So, with all things considered, this rare occasion where you two finally can be together, alone, undisturbed, and free to do whatever, is truly a blessing.

You chose this place, close to the waters where you and Tom can tread in the morning, basking in the mythical British sunlight. You would watch him swim laps, vigorous, in his element. But you don’t swim. Not now. Not in this vacation.

The reason? Simple.

If Tom sees you in your swimsuit, barely distinguishable from your nice underwear set, and on top of that, all wet, he will not be swimming anymore—and he needs his swim. You also don’t want to spoil that for him.

Even though he has expressly told you how he wanted you, even as immediate as the moment you two stepped into this accommodation, you two didn’t do it last night. The only thing stopping him was the inevitability of biochemistry: you two needed some fucking sleep first and you two, even in your starvation, do not succumb and logic still triumphs. It is mandatory to be strategic as you age, both of you agreed.

This morning, you woke up alone in bed. A simple note on the bedside table, scribbled in a familiarly messy handwriting that you have grown fond of, telling you to get ready for when he returns.

Oh, certainly.

But Tom knew you are not to be told what to do.

Breakfast at the poolside seems quite reckless, but you are never worried. That man might be a gremlin sometimes, but he won’t ruin your food. That kind of respect is something that makes you yearn for him more—but not yet.

He must finish his routine—it’s necessary—and watch. You could just let him have it here, you are not entirely opposed to the idea, but there is the remaining concern that even with this solitary accommodation, no one should trust the communal area of a rented place. Tom saw when you arrived, paused his swimming just to greet you. How admirable, you thought, even as his want overwhelms his usually bright blue eyes, he does not even try to persuade you to leave the comfort of the land. He pauses every now and then just to stare at you, with frustration rapidly unmasked, knowing that you will lounge, wearing one of his nice shirts on top of your naked body. It covers a lot and nothing.

It is part teasing, and part indulgence. A torment so delicious in more ways than one.

So, you watch the man, back again in the water, paddling, running laps. You realised you should have worn your glasses because he is now just a long blob wandering the water. A handsome blob for sure, still a blob. You drink your morning tea to wash down the sandwich. You don’t like breakfast, but you will not hear the end of it if you don’t have it. Tom made the sandwich, after all.

You hear the absence of intense splashing, replaced with quiet sound of drawled footsteps against the water. The blob is now coming into form. There was no smile, not even a cheeky one. His cheeks flush, ears red, eyes focused. He runs his hand through his wet hair, showing off his shapely triceps and unshaved pit, his chest muscles move along. He knows how your eyes travel to his sternum, fixating on the shape of his pecs and the hair that covers it—now plastered against his skin. He knows your eyes observe the droplets racing on the surface of his damp body. He watches you, the blue in his eyes has almost gone. His lips part. He breathes through them just so you can hear. He means business.

“Stop it,” he says.

“I have not started anything,” you answer, feigning innocence, but even you cannot stop the smirk. Tom knows it all too well. With an effort that seems to be equally light and wild, he lifts himself out of the water.

That is your cue to leave.

You sit up, feet on the floor, fluidly leaving the lounge chair. He notices, but he can't get you yet. You pad across back into the house, almost on your tiptoes, like you were doing ballet steps. Tom will have to dry himself first because he is a gentleman, so you have some time to pick your next move.

The bedroom is hardly touched as you two are almost clinical—for the better or worse. You pull the drapes, letting some light inside. Tom is beautiful under natural light. Maybe you can bait him into sitting in the sunlight. See the light pass through his eyes, showing off each coloured fibre that helps build that striking blue that holds you captive, drowns you, and robs you off your coherent thoughts.

You hear him before you feel him.

Arms locked around you right beneath the line of your chest. The residual dampness seeps through the only layer separating you from him. He kisses you on the cheek, then on the neck, down to your shoulder. He sighs. You pull his right hand and hug it between your breasts. You feel his body temperature rise so rapidly, as does yours.

“Do you want me to beg?” Tom asks, voice raspy, arms tightening. You feel the hardness against your backside. He has, so kindly, got rid off his trunks.

You can play this game longer, but just because you can doesn’t mean you should. So, you gently push his arms away, just enough so you can turn around. You don’t really like how wet he is, especially when you are, for the most part, dry, but you still run your fingers across his face, upwards along the thin shadow cast by his beard and then downwards until you can cup his face. Your hands are too small to cover more than half of each side, but he leans into your touch, persuading you quietly to indulge more. You wait until he rests his gaze on you.

“You know I love a good begging,” you say. “But you—you know you don’t have to.”

Tom gives you a look. The only reason you haven’t laughed is because you know you have teased him for a bit too long. So, with a smile, you guide him down.

The kiss is like the breath you take after a long dive. It’s not sweet, not arousing, just a gasping relief. You pretend so long that you are the restrained one—it was suffocating. You feel the stretch of your back as you try your best meeting your much taller partner midway. You push against his devouring kisses, tiptoeing as he braces you with his tight embrace. You feel his discontentment.

“Fuck it,” he breathes. He tightly holds you and lifts you.

There is certainly no better way to do this—bed, for example. You say nothing and just play along. If he thinks he could do it, then let him. Your legs locked around his waist. His hands firmly secure your exposed backside. All this and not once your lips apart for more than a few seconds. Between breaths and bites, the heat pools south.

“Bed,” you gasp, “Now.”

The comforting surface hits your back. Tom makes sure you land safely first, not to pancake you with his weight. God, this man—you hook him by the waist with the balls of your heels. He stops himself from falling on top of you.

“You—” he can’t stop himself from chuckling, “You know you are not made of steel.”

“I know,” you answer mischievously, hands busy mapping his toned back and hairy chest, “and I know you will protect me.”

“That is irresponsible of you.”

“Maybe I want to be irresponsible for once in my life,” you tease. Tom has completely eased up now, giving you his easy smile.

“Don’t,” he almost begs, albeit seemingly unserious about it, “You are playing a dangerous game here.”

Your only reply is a long kiss, followed by a needy nudge so he can finally stopped with the entrée and get on to the main course. By the way he almost ruts against you, you know he is in complete agreement with you. He is working on the button of your shirt—he likes a bit more exposure—and you help him.

“I’m so mad that I can’t rip this off,” he mumbles.

“You can,” you sing.

“Love—”

“I know, I’m helping!”

He bites you on the chest as soon as it is exposed. He is so lucky that you are absolutely nobody so if he leaves those, no one will care. It takes you a minute to coax him out of the foreplay phase. You’ve had it, but Tom, as always, wants to enjoy you. When it finally starts, you just cling to him. In your inching incoherent mind, you feel vindicated for your decision to discard the rituals as you feel Tom losing himself. Just as the flow goes according to your liking, a buzz interrupts.

You two freeze. Was it for this house? You wait, no word spoken. Another buzz. It is for this house.

“Tom?”

A voice. You look at the name bearer, inquiring what this could mean. He looks as lost as you think you do.

“Let me—”

He is so reluctant to leave you, but he needs to check his phone. You hear the buzz again and then Tom’s deep sigh. He shows you his phone. It’s not like you are not expecting him to visit, but not this early. Luke said in his text that he booked the wrong ticket and he arrived way too early and had nowhere to go. Well, that’s fucking bullshit. You sit up, watching the cock you yearn bagged up in khaki shorts. For reasons totally unknown, Tom has an impish smile after noticing your face.

“I’ll handle him.”

Cross-legged, unamused, and Tom-less, you tap your fingers on Tom’s phone. You hear their chattering outside the room. From the direction of the voices, Tom is trying to show Luke where he can stay. You bet he even asks Luke if he has breakfast yet. Ugh, what a sexy, kindhearted man that should have been fucking you right now.

Then, an idea.

You march out of the room as you are. Your usually soundless steps now stomp, attention demanded. The two men immediately turn their eyes at your direction. Luke’s face goes through several shades of red upon noticing your state of nearly undress.

“Luke Dale,” you call.

“Yes?” his reply is timid. If he somehow didn’t, now he understands the landmine he has activated.

“Love, there is no need for violence,” Tom attempts to mediate. You hold up your hand.

“Bags down. Bedroom. Now.” You tread back towards the room, stopping at the doorway to throw a look at Tom. “You, too, Mr McKay. Your attendance is mandatory.”

“O-oh, fuck.” You hear Luke stammer.

You sit in the middle of the bed, shirt hangs half opened. You let one side of your shoulders exposed whilst the other covered. Hair on the exposed side so you can tease with the slight view of your nape and neck.

Luke enters first, not knowing what to do. Tom follows and closes the door. You can almost smell Tom’s lust, but most importantly, Luke’s mix of fear and arousal. You point at the chair by the window, the one you have wished for Tom to sit on.

“You can’t talk, can’t touch yourself, and you cannot leave that chair until Tom says otherwise,” you say. Tom is crawling to you as you say this.

“Me?” he asks. The way he feigns innocence is the reason you two are so insufferable together. At least, that’s what Luke has said before. You trace his jaw with the tip of your fingers.

“Oh, come now, don’t start,” you purr.

“You started it. It’s all your fault,” he murmurs, lips have begun to venture the skin you conveniently left accessible. Your eyes flick towards the third person in the room. The poor pup has seated himself as commanded. Hands between his knees, lips constantly bitten, sweats pour but not from the room temperature.

“It’s all Luke’s fault,” you sigh as Tom embraces you into the soft mattress.

“It is all Luke’s fault,” he affirms.

Luke opens his mouth, clearly has cooked up some justification for his early arrival, but he stops himself. He squirms in his seat as Tom pushes himself between your legs. The light hits him just right. His skin glistens. His blush so beautiful. Too bad he misbehaved.

Tom chuckled, as if reading your mind. He presses his thumb against your lower lip.

“You must have been itching to let your voice out, right, my love?” Tom says, loud and clear. It is not for you. The target is shrinking himself in fear that he might lose control of himself—understandable. But you know you have trained him well. Tom just wants to test him. You give him a teasing smirk, accompanied with a corresponding raised eyebrow.

“I’m sure you can help me with that.”

Tom eyes darken. Your hand find its way down.