#low down

The rain outside your place has replaced the lazy jazz record now hissing quietly on the turntable.

You are settled deep under the heavy floral quilt. You are barely moving, holding a paperback open against your hip.

It’s been a month or two that your apartment became a space where Cole’s thoughts don't have to race, or where he isn't constantly scanning the exits. He sits near the foot of the bed, with the denim of his jeans cool against his skin. He fiddles with the few damp strands of his copper hair that keep falling from the useless elastic tie.

He then shifts, watching you intently. He notices the light that catches the delicate curve of your collarbone he’s since learned to kiss at random, when he cuddles up to you after a tough day, or when you looked so damn irresistible in the cigarette smoke clouding the space in his kitchen.

He still can't quite believe you are here with him, together, and so often at that. The initial, painful awkwardness he’s been carrying around like a second skin has softened into a comfortable weight, like a favorite jacket he’s lent you many times now, for you love his sense of style, even if he doesn’t understand why.

Soon, Cole reaches out slowly and with the back of his fingers he grazes your ankle under the thick fabric.

Granted, first time you slept in the same bed you were both a bit awkward about it, but then he touched you gradually, and ended up fingering you gently under the sheets before you both fell asleep. His heart nearly exploded back then.

That was at his place, on his worn mattress, and under his ugly scratchy blanket. It was fumbling and sweet, and he worried the entire time he was doing it wrong, and that his hands were too big, or that he smelled too much like stale cigarettes and practice room dust.

He doesn't need to worry about that now, though. He is clean, his head is clear, and the gentle contact of his hand on your leg feels solid and real.

Your eyes lift from the page and a warm smile he adores so much spreads across your face. You know what that touch means. You know he is gauging the distance, the mood, and the space between you. You set the book down, deliberately turning it spine-up on the bedside table.

"Hey," you murmur, giving him all the invitation he needs to stay, to move closer, and to keep touching.

Cole’s smile is small in response. It’s a shy curve of the mouth that makes the freckles across his nose bunch up. He slides onto the bed, crawling across the quilt to reach you, and his jeans rasp softly against the cotton. He lowers his body over you, letting his weight settle, and begins to kiss on you slowly and deeply, letting his breath and his saliva mingle with yours. He quickly realizes that he wants the noise of the room, of the rain, the record, and the distant hum of people outside to disappear, for he wants only you; and for his name to slip off your tongue like it does every single time he lets himself love you right.

Like you’re his girl. His first steady girlfriend.

Like you deserve.

Cole smiles at that sentiment and his hands lift from your hips to settle immediately on the sides of your face, palming your cheeks, for that’s what he does when he feels moved somehow. By you. Which he does often. You know now that this gesture serves as his anchor, his familiar grip that grounds the rush of a feeling, and a necessary check-in before the rush takes over. His thumbs trace the line of your jaw, and he angles his head back down, deepening the kiss until there's nothing left but the sound of his breathing against your flushed cheek.

His hands soon break away, but his gaze stays put, holding you as he slowly pulls his thin shirt up over his head catching on the copper strands of his hair before the fabric falls somewhere onto the floor by the bed. He's pale against the bright florals of the quilt, freckled and bony in the low light.

You love just how soft he looks.

You can’t help but move to pull his jeans down and begin to ease the denim past his hips when he stops you with a hand on your arm. He keeps the jeans, as still, it’s a last line of defense he doesn't quite need but isn't ready to give up either.

You decide not to press and instead, you reach for the quilt. The sheet slides down, and the sudden exposure of skin to the cool air makes you shiver once.

He watches the movement, absorbing the sight like he always does with you, whether you make him a cup of coffee, or reach out to hug him tight when he looks like he needs your open arms to calm his nerves, or when he knows you’re naked under the covers, because “the weather is smoldering.”

Then he moves against you, and soon you’re taking pleasure in his bare chest rubbing against your bare skin. The contrast is immediate as you feel the rough denim of his jeans and the shocking heat of his body pressed so close to you. He groans low in his throat. He feels large and slightly awkward, unsure where to put his weight, but utterly centered on you.

He shifts again, sliding down just enough that his face is near your shoulder, so that you can feel his breath warm on your neck.

He murmurs into your skin, and the words catch on a sigh: “You’re... so warm. Oh wow.”

His arms tighten around your ribs and he pulls you flush against his body. The rough fabric brushes your thigh as he presses his hips down, seeking your heat. His hand glides down your side, following the curve of your waist, then hooks over your hip, pulling your legs closer to his body.

He adjusts his position and presses the length of his side into the curve of your thighs.

"I can feel it," he mutters, speaking the thought without giving it time to filter. He shifts his weight, testing the feeling and the undeniable warmth that's radiating from between your legs and soaking through the heavy quilt. "You're getting so warm."

It means he isn't forcing this. It means your body is responding, and that the energy is shared, and for a moment, the buzzing anxiety in his head quiets completely, replaced by the simple, glorious confidence of shared heat. He closes his eyes and moves his hips again in a gentle, searching press.

He keeps his gaze locked on yours for a breath, looking for a simple dip of your chin and a softening of your mouth.

He leans forward, taking a moment to breathe before he lowers his head. He presses an open-mouthed kiss low on your belly, as if marking the boundary of the space he is about to enter. The dampness from the earlier shower and the rain outside is replaced by your own sweet, rising warmth, and that alone seems to snap his focus completely.

He lifts his head, but keeps his hand moving down. His knuckles are wide and pale against your inner thigh as his fingers spread, so large against your skin. He uses his thumb first and brushes gently, lightly across your wet heat, exploring the texture and finding the slick, certain path towards where you’re at your most vulnerable.

He whispers, and the words almost get lost in the linen of the pillow beside your head, for his voice is strained with the need to do everything right. "My girl."

His fingers are big, the tips thick and blunt, and he moves slowly, sliding one into your cunt. It is tight, blissfully slick, and his hand tremors once from the overwhelming rush of sensation that runs down his abdomen.

“You’re taking them so deep,” he whispers. “That’s it. Take a little more.”

He seems to marvel at the stretch, and the fact of being inside you; it’s endearing. His second finger follows, easing past the resistance, until two of his digits are fully pressed into your body, making you gasp for air.

He keeps them still for a second, existing inside the heat, feeling the immediate squeeze of your walls around his knuckles.

"Can I add one more? Yes? Great..." he mutters. He doesn't wait for your response anymore.

He shifts his weight again, and his eyes finally lift to meet yours, seeking out the pleasure he knows he needs to see there. He then begins to move his fingers, pressing against your walls.

He’s flushed, and smiling, and he bites on his full lower lip as he locks onto the simple, perfect feeling of friction and wetness under his fingertips. He curls his fingers then, finding a sensitive spot inside you, and the heavy pressure causes you to gasp.

He moves his wrist, twisting the large knuckles against your tightness, exploring the curves and the depth, intent on making that sound happen again, and again, and again.

Deep down, you can tell that he is waiting for a signal, a tell, or anything that confirms he isn't just fumbling in the dark.

As his wrist twists and his fingers bend, his middle finger finds a spongy spot inside of you, and he presses against it. You exhale sharply, and your hips then tilt minutely upwards in a sudden, involuntary motion.

“Oh, here? The right... spot here?” he whispers, utterly flushed.

He watches your mouth and sees the answer written there before the sound leaves your throat.

He is a drummer after all, relying on precise timing and instinct, and your body is giving him the right rhythm.

He pulls back, then presses again, more firmly, seeking the sweet resistance he has just found.

He’s the type to discover a treasure on accident, too. It feels like stumbling onto the perfect drum break, completely unplanned, yet undeniably correct.

“Oh... here? Oh—here, I get it,” he murmurs to himself and makes you chuckle.

He surely is the sweetest, seamlessly funniest boy you’ve ever met.

You shift underneath him, which ultimately pushes you deeper onto his fingers. You lift your hips, reaching for his hand with your body.

"Can you do that again? Please? Can you squeeze on my finger—? Yes, that’s it." He mumbles as he intensifies the curl that makes you whimper so sweetly against him, pressing into you with a lazy pressure, moving in strokes that quickly become relentless.

His hand is suddenly no longer shaking, now anchored by the beautiful, demanding need in your body.

He loves to love on you.

“I can feel you squeezing around me, fuck...” he whispers, feeling your walls contract and tighten around his knuckles, as if claiming his hand completely. The pressure is a welcome vise; a proof that this is all real, all you, and all him.

Cole soon leans down, and his long unruly hair spills forward in a curtain of waves that brush against your belly and the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The unexpected tickle of the strands makes you gasp and arch towards the heat of his blushy face.

He doesn't stop, but he twists his body, bringing his mouth close to your ear. His breath is hot and rapid.

“Mind if I kiss you there too?” he whispers earnestly. “I want to.”

He pauses the pressure just enough to lift his head, and his eyes travel down your body, past his working hand, to the tight, swollen clit of yours he finds there. He stares for a moment, genuinely captivated. “It’s so cute and tiny,” he mutters, and it comes out so clumsy and honest, that it almost makes you laugh.

You shift, reaching to grip his shoulders, wordlessly giving him the hint he needs.

He immediately lowers his head and peppers the small, sensitive nub with quick, soft kisses. The tiny puffs of air and the heat on his tongue make your walls clench even tighter around his fingers.

As he curls them inside, driving deep with a slow push, he pulls his mouth away from your center just long enough to whisper again, sincere and utterly misplaced in the moment.

“I want to make love to you one day, you know, when we... feel like it.”

A nervous, breathy giggle escapes him then. He laughs even as his fingers are jammed deep inside of you, pressing so hard you feel them in your guts, pushing you past the point of thought or control.

You know that it is the most intensely vulnerable statement he could possibly make, and you know at that moment that you love him. You love this shy, bright boy dearly, with all his quirks and insecurities, his gentle fingers, and his endearing smile, and even now as he works you so gingerly, ever committed.

He can soon feel the final, powerful squeeze of your body around his fingers. You pant, and you whimper, and you bite down on your knuckles against the hot, messy wave of pleasure that hits you when the tip of his tongue flicks your clit just right.

You reluctantly come down from your high as you take in the shape of him still glued to your shaky thighs. His forehead is beaded with sweat, and the damp copper hair clings to his neck.

Slowly, just as reluctantly, he pulls his fingers free. He quickly wipes his hand on the discarded edge of the quilt, and then abandons the effort entirely to slide forward, shucking the heavy denim of his jeans and tossing them onto the floor with a soft thump that sounds deafening in the sudden quiet.

He doesn't waste a second finding your side, pressing his sweaty, trembling body against yours, burying his face into the familiar, comforting curve of your neck and shoulder. He is suddenly heavy; a dead weight of exhausted relief.

"You don't have to talk," Cole sighs. He means it—he knows the feeling of being too full of noise and light to manage speech. He just needs the contact, and the undeniable proof that he is safe.

You shift your arm, gently reaching for the thick edge of the floral quilt and pulling it up, tucking the weight around both of you until you are cocooned in the low, humid light. After a breath, you turn your head to press your cheek against his damp hair.

"I'm back now," you murmur.

Cole’s arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He knows that this quiet is more precious than the loudest, fastest beat he could ever lay down.

He closes his eyes, and his breathing settles against your neck.

The hiss of the turntable continues for a moment longer, running silently across the empty label, before the needle finally snags and begins to skip, gifting you with the last, lazy rhythm of the evening.

You smile as you feel the total weight of Cole relax, so heavy and sweet, as the sound of tick-tick-tick fades into the deep, shared warmth of your breaths.

A rhythm.

Heart like a drum.