I can smell metal in the air tonight

Breathless laughter. You run a hand through your wet hair. "Trust me, it did. Gosh."

This older gentleman is Suguru Geto, your boyfriend of nearly one year. He lives five hours away by car, in an rural town surrounded by thick clusters of cypress and cedar trees, far from the hustle and bustle of the city you've settled down to study in. You met him there on a trip with your friends, and the rest is history. He's the best boyfriend you've had to date: caring and patient, supportive but comfortable in redirecting you when you need it. Obscenely handsome. Obviously. Your age difference was never an issue, because Suguru is always transparent with you, and never treads around speaking candidly.

The single downside is how far he is.

(Of course, the issue came up early. Suguru has roots where he's at. History. A stable line of work. He knows all of the locals by name, is well-loved by all of them. Between the two of you, it's obvious who'd be expected to move. 

Except you don't like that. You don't like that it has to be you, that you'd have to build your life around his just because he's older. 

And neither does he. So, at least for the time being, you're at a standstill.)

But now, he's right in front of you. Greeting you with a sunny smile, smelling lightly of oakwood incense and coconut oil, looking better than ever. Hair tied into a half up-half down bun, white threads gleaming silver in between the ink-black. He never believes you when you tell him they're sexy. Age wears him perfectly.

Hunger stirs in your gut.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he murmurs, leaving a kiss below your ear that really, really isn't helping his case. You're gonna eat him up. "I know you've been stressed lately… I was hoping I could keep you company tonight."

"Why are you apologizing?" you huff. "This was the best thing I could have come back to."

The corners of his eyes soften. They're dog-like, adoring, taking you in. Seconds pass without him speaking. You share a long, weighty look, the patter of rainfall crescendoing behind you: the summer shower is only getting worse. 

"Let's go inside," you hasten, tugging at his bicep. Fishing for keys in your front pocket. 

Your boyfriend follows, cluelessly.

As soon as the door closes behind you, a dull thud echoing down the hall— you pounce. Wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him down to your lips, sticky chapstick tethering you together when you mash them against his. A noise of surprise rasps in his throat, muffled against your mouth, but he's quick to catch himself; falling into your rhythm, parting his lips when you nudge at the seam of them, tongues gliding together in a sloppy, heated waltz. He tastes of pocket mints and need. An arm sneaks around your waist, hefty fingers dipping underneath your shirt to caress the dip of your lower back, causing your trembling frame to press closer. This ache in your chest feels like it'll never go away. Missing him, wanting him, drinking the oxygen straight from his lungs. Both the umbrella and plastic bag clatter on the doormat. 

Your breaths mingle in the dark corner.

When you have to pull away, slack-jawed and doe-eyed, you're met with his swollen lips and molten expression, honey-brown eyes hot with desire. He looks like he could eat you alive like this: cornered, taking a shallow, quiet breath. His cheeks dusted pink with peach fuzz.

But he maintains his composure.

(Age has made him patient, you think. He's always been good at holding back with you. Sometimes it makes you want to push and prod at that part of him— just to see how he'd react. If you could hit on something. Wear him out. He is weak to you; that much you're sure of.)

"… Oh, baby," he's breathless as he speaks, reaching down to pick the plastic bag off the floor. "I almost forgot to give you these."

Inside it is a blue bouquet, hydrangeas paired with clusters of baby's breath. The syrupy scent of rainy season sticks to their petals. He hands them to you with a sweet smile, all-together unfitted for the animalistic need you feel right now, tongue heady with the taste of his saliva and, but it still makes your heart bleed. Your boyfriend is something of a flower buff: because of that, you know what they represent. You know about the story of the emperor who gave hydrangeas to his neglected lover, in apology, in repetance. You understand what he's trying to say.

Suguru doesn't just talk to you in words. He speaks to you in actions, expressions, even bouquets. That's part of why you love him. You don't have to look hard to see his care for you.

"… They suit you," he compliments, watching them find home in your arms. 

"Thank you, baby." You give him a kiss on the cheek, struggling not to grin at how pleased he looks. "I'll put them up by the window."

"Good idea. They'll look perfect there."

"Did you bring them from home?"

"I didn't," he shakes his head. "The temple is practically overgrown with them, though. I could have bought a bouquet from Mrs Satsuko, but I didn't want to risk them wilting during the drive. They're sensitive flowers, you know."

"Huh. Are they?"

"Yes." He smiles. "They need cool air and moisture. It's why they bloom so vibrantly when the weather gets like this."

Curiously, you look at the bundle of blossoms in your arms: their petals shaped like fallen stars, the colour of an evening sky. Sucking on a quiet hum. "I'll take good care of them."

…

Silence settles. Then tension returns, even stronger than before— impossible to resist. You bat your lashes, closing in like a coyote.

"Now," you purr. "Where were we?"

Suguru's throat bobs. It's the only tell you get into how much he's holding back, otherwise the picture of composure, your saliva still sticking to his bottom lip. "… Where indeed," he croons. Pulling you closer, and closer, letting you tug him away as you stumble to your bedroom.

Everything else can wait. You need him now. The rest of the world will sort itself out.

You end up straddling his lap, clutching onto his broad shoulders, panties pooled around your ankles as you sink down on his cock. Suguru likes to prepare you thoroughly, with his fingers and tongue and dollops of lube,but the need between your thighs is too great for that kind of patience. He lets you go at the pace you like best. Trusting you to know your limits. The fullness is a comfort, familiar, as much as it strains your pussy to take him to the root— nudging the line of too much, too fast.

Still, you can't help but want all of it. So you take every inch, carefully, from the bulbous head to the curved middle, waiting until you're relaxed enough to sit down fully. Once you've planted yourself on his lap, you pause to take a deep, steadying breath. The stretch burns. Your head spins. Suguru leans in to lick up the drool at the corner of your lip. He's got his palms on either side of your hips, tethering you to the sweltering need between your bodies. 

"Take your time, little one," he murmurs.

It encourages you, if anything.

You start to move. 

He guides you seamlessly, steadily, up and down his condom-clad cock— he slipped it on before you could protest, firm in his choice, more careful with you than you sometimes think is necessary— lips drawn taut around a silent moan. You want to stick your fingers down his throat and pull it out, but you suppose you'll have to do it with your hips instead. "Good girl," he praises, palms slipping underneath your thighs. "You look so beautiful like this." 

The smooth, baritone cords of his voice make you dizzyingly wet: head spinning, slick sticking to his pubes, your feet planted on the mattress to support your pace. Up, down. Up, down. Suguru's thickness is there to welcome you every time, mushroom tip smearing kisses at your cervix. Up, and down. 

A whimper splits your lips.

"I can tell you missed it," he sighs, holding you close, breathing down the side of your neck. It jolts through your fluttering pussy. Something embarrassing scratches at your chest, but you swallow it back down, digging your nails into his shoulders. "You're working it so sloppy."

Knowing him, he means it as a compliment, but it makes your neck burn terribly. He must feel the heat at your cheeks. With a sharp inhale, you flick his hands off your body, sinking down harshly just to hear his breath hitch. You squeeze around him, pointedly.

"Just… lay back," you pant. "No more talking."

Without protest, he does as you say; elbows cushioning his fall, biceps straining deliciously under your watchful gaze. His body is lethal. Firm and muscular, yet softened by age, perfect for resting your head against on days where your thoughts are too turbulent to carry. He hums, eyes flickering with something not quite amused, but endeared, like watching you ride him so desperately is cute to him. It makes you wanna tug at his roots and make him yelp. 

(… Actually, why don't you?)

"Ah—" he sucks on a sharp noise, caught halfway between a moan and a wince, his grip on the sheets tightening like a snare. Desperate, just like you. You watch his throat jump, rosy lips falling open as you get a good grip on his silky black locks, pulling just the way he likes. "Oh, I missed you. I missed you so much, baby." 

Almost unconsciously, you speed up. Raising your hips, then sinking down, using his hair as leverage. The rhythm grows sharper, more purposeful, smacking his pelvis every time you spear yourself open around him. Plap, plap, plap. Sparks firing through your nerve-ends. His balls feel firm underneath you, heavy. 

"A little harder," he encourages, giving your thigh a tender— needy— pat. "I can take it."

"Don't… be greedy," you chastise, out of breath, flushed with heat and trembling. It's a struggle not to stumble on your words; all you're focused on is fucking him, working his cock until you're satisfied. So hungry for him that you feel it like a knot in your stomach. But you listen, tugging harsher, moving your entire body with every loud, slick bounce on his lower abdomen, legs straining with the tempo you've set. 

"Good girl," he moans. There it is. Whatever triumph you feel evaporates under the heat of his hands, coming back to cup your hips, not guiding, only resting. You think of chastising him, but all that leaves your lips is half-whimper, half-whine. "Look at you…"

For a while, he lets you use him. Laid down like a meal with hearts in his eyes, breath hitching around sinful, broken noises, muscles tense and coiled. He reminds you of a tiger. Broad, sharp-eyed, lying in wait. What would that make you— a house cat? Needy and in heat? Playing with his cock like it's yours.

(It is, he told you once. He'd tell you again if you asked. There's no shame there— never was. Only yours. You can have it any time, honey.)

Eventually, when your hips slow to a sluggish grind, exhausted by the effort, the tides begin to shift. Violently, a boat rocked sideways. The band of his patience snaps, your chest pulled flush against his own; his cock pumping in and out of you with steady rolls of his hips, lovingly firm, knocking the mewls out of your mouth. You're being cherished— you know that— but it's intense, sweaty skin slipping against sweaty skin, his pulse thundering through your body, hot like a furnace. Intense enough to make you want to run from it, even though it's all you've been dreaming of for the last two weeks. 

Not that you could— even through the fog in your head and need in your belly, you understand that. Suguru is just as pent up as you are. You're staying right here until you're tuckered out and boneless, no ifs or buts about it. The promise is unsaid, but you feel it in the firm hold he's got on your body. He's not as harmless as he seems. Not when you need something of him and he's promised to deliver.

Only when you're shaking and writhing around him, wetting his abs with your come, does he focus on his own orgasm. Using you harshly, yet lovingly still, dragging you over his cock. He makes little noise when he gets there, flooding the condom with sticky batches of warmth that you can still feel through the latex, panting at your ear while his palm rubs down your back, like you’re the one coming undone.

Then he lifts you off his lap. Sweat dripping down his brow, a drunken haze over his eyes, fingers hooked against your ribcage. 

"I need to taste you," he pants. Eyes dark with greed, pupils overblown. Gone is the control he keeps such a tight hold of. "On your back, baby."

Your heart beats hotly, foreboding twisting in your belly. Thighs sticking together with slick. Breath stuck in your throat. You almost want to ask for a break, but he's already tied his hair up.

Quietly, you swallow.

He's nowhere near satisfied, is he?

After hours of being ravaged, made love to, held and taken apart and put together again— your bodies finally run out of fuel. 

You're tended to with steady hands, every touch intentional, familiar with the process: cleaned in the shower as you drift in and out of consciousness, floating somewhere underneath the blank slate of your mind, then made to drink from a water bottle to soothe your worn throat. Wrecked. Wrung dry. Cunt buzzing like a livewire. The culprit walks into your bedroom with a hot plate of food, wearing an expression so content you'd think he just came back from a week-long excursion to a hot spring. 

Shameless. Stupidly sexy.

"Can't feel my legs," you whine, sprawled out on the mattress, tucked in like a child. Stretching out your sore limbs with a groan. "God, I needed this."

Warm, rumbling laughter. Suguru walks over to your bedside, wearing nothing but his boxers and a cardigan he'd left behind in your closet, hickies sucked into his neck and collarbone. Your canvas. Sunset kisses smudging skin. "I'm glad to hear it," he croons. "Here you are. Make sure to clean your plate, alright?"

Suguru leans towards quick, easy cooking for your aftercare. This time it's fried rice with plenty of vegetables and thin slices of meat, cooked a perfect golden brown, smelling of sesame oil, soy sauce and ginger paste. Your weary hands reach for it, bringing it to rest on your chest. Warmth spreads through the blanket he wrapped around your shoulders.

"Ahhh—" you sigh, scooping up a pile of rice with the spoon he gave you. "I love you."

One of his palms brush against your cheek, eyes bright with satisfaction. Delighting when you lean into the touch. "I love you too, baby."

Without having to tell him to, Suguru crawls under the covers beside you. Offering his shoulder as a headrest while you eat. The room is coated in a thin sheen of shadow, only lit up by a half-broken lamp by the windowsill. It lulls your mind into a state of docile fatigue. Your body grows softer with every bite, entirely limp once he takes the plate off your hands and puts it on the nightstand. This security is what you like best. Sex with Suguru is mind-breaking in many ways, but this is the most staggering. How ready he is to hold you when it's over, even though he's nearly as tired as you are.

Badump, badump.

Your ear at his heartbeat. His palms at your back, arms around your waist, securing you against him— a shipwreck to his shore. There's nowhere else you'd rather be. Boneless in your boyfriend's embrace, aching terribly between your legs, but only in good ways. Quietly, a pitter-patter rattles at your windowpane, smattering against the glass. 

The world outside your apartment is just as it should be. It's a comfort to listen to, bleeding into the mantra of Suguru's steady pulse.

"When are you leaving?"

He shifts above you, planting a gentle kiss between your brows. It makes your lashes flutter shut. "Not anytime soon," he promises. His voice barely-there, as if he's terrified of startling you. You believe him. "Go to sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up."

…

"Hey, Suguru," you whisper, feeling your mind sink into slumber. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"… Yes, my love."

You nose at his pulsepoint. Burying yourself in him. Murmuring, beneath your breath:

"I missed you."

Suguru stills. His wandering hands, his doting lips, even his rhythmic heartbeat. Before he can respond, your mind grows dull and quiet.