Walk of Shame: Hate F*cking in the Hookah Lounge (NSFW) 1/1
Hi! I'm back with another NSFW fic featuring my OC's! Pics of them here. It has a long buildup to the actual sex (sorry)!! No context is needed to read this fic if you're just here for the smut.
Summary: 6.5k words. OC m/m. Prince Bellamy hate fucks Nass in a sex club. Both of them sneeze because I can't resist.
TW: Alcohol and smoking mention.
*Hookah (photo here) is a water smoking pipe, often shared communally via a long hose. Smoking Hookah is very popular in clubs and lounges across the Middle East, parts of Africa, and Southern Europe.
EXPLICIT CW & TW!: All characters are adults in their mid 20's. All sexual acts described are completely consensual. EXTREMELY NSFW (18+)! Contains, voyeurism, sub/dom dynamics, character with the kink being sneezed on, light mess, having sex in a sex club, swearing, oral sex, anal sex, orgasms, light mockery, and heavy emotional dynamics. Please read at your own discretion.
Read the rest of the Yekitiverse here
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“Your turn, Nass,” his friend Moha elbows him. “Nass. Brother. Your turn.”
“Oh,” Nass startles, blinking back into the room. “Right.”
He drops a card on the table.
They’re at the Leaky Faucet — the kind of city bar that smells like damp wood and rain, the kind of place mages in Yekiti frequent for cheap drinks. It’s a gray, drizzly Saturday in mid-March, and the place is half-empty. Laughter drifts from the next table, but at theirs, Nass feels like he’s forcing every word out of his mouth.
He hasn’t seen his childhood friends since the summer, not with how heavy this school year has been. His childhood friends aren’t mages, but they all grew up together and he should feel good seeing them after so long. But something in him feels off. Detached. Like he’s watching himself from outside his body.
And maybe it’s because Bellamy is across the room.
Tucked into a corner booth, hair falling into his eyes, talking to a Northern girl with long blonde hair and green eyes.
Bellamy had said his friend from home, Camille, was visiting him this week. But he hadn’t said she was beautiful — the kind of beautiful that makes Nass want to grind his teeth.
Is Bellamy into women? He’s never asked but now sitting here with his childhood friends, it’s all he can think about.
But to be fair, Bellamy had been here first when they’d arrived. He’d given Nass a little nod of acknowledgement when he noticed him, but that was it.
Just a nod. Nothing else. Nothing to give away the nature of their relationship to his friends.
“I know what you’re staring at,” Moha elbows him. “You’re staring at that rat of a prince.”
Nass nearly chokes on his beer. His pulse jumps to his throat.
“I get it,” Moha sends a dirty look Bellamy’s direction. “That bastard is drinking in our bar in our capital city like he’s one of us.” He slams his drink down on the table, the sound sharp. “While his father continues to nearly bankrupt Yekiti and erase our people. He’s crazy to show his face.”
Nass opens his mouth to say something, anything—
Tell them he’s not like his father. Tell them he’s your friend. Tell them he—
Moha lost his father to battle when King Richis waged war against the South many years ago. And Miguel’s family’s shoe making business has nearly gone bankrupt with the king’s new tax order.
So how can he sit here and defend Bellamy against his childhood friends, who’ve lost so much to the North? They won’t care that Bellamy’s nice, or funny, or thoughtful.
All they will see is the king’s offspring.
“Marwa told us that you co-taught with him last semester?” Miguel snickers.
“Yeah,” Nass shrugs, voice flat. “I did.”
He glances back toward the table Bellamy had been sitting at.
Empty. They must’ve left.
“I don’t know how you managed to look at his face every day,” Miguel continues. “Hear his stupid fucking Northern accent. How did your ears not bleed?”
Nass blinks, staring down at his cards until they blur. Then he forces himself to laugh too.
“It was difficult.” He says it lightly, but the words taste like metal.
He hates himself the second they leave his mouth.
“Tell us you made that bastards life hell, Nass,” Miguel says. “Payback for what his father did to your mother. Our village. The south.”
They’re all looking at him now — waiting, leaning in. Expecting him to hate Bellamy the way they do.
And Gods, his life would be so much easier if he still did.
Just tell them your friends, he thinks. You don’t have to tell them you’re sleeping together. Just something ambiguous like you’ve seen him outside class.
“I certainly tried my best,” Nass says instead, his words feeling like acid.
“A good man then,” Moha slaps him on the back. Nass jumps. “Did you ask him if his father will reverse the Kureesh ban in the south?
“I’m the wrong person to ask,” Nass says finally, shrugging. His throat feels tight. “We were co-teachers, but I don’t know him well. I don’t associate with Northerners unless I have too. Least of all the prince. You all know that. Can we talk about something else?”
He blinks once. Then again. His stomach sours immediately at the lie — bile rising, guilt curling hot under his ribs.
He might be a terrible person.
Moha nods, tossing down a card. “Yeah. We’re thinking of heading out around eleven tonight—
“Where are you going tonight?” A calm voice asks.
Nass’s heart nearly explodes out of his chest as he whips around at the familiar voice.
Bellamy is standing behind their table, posture as rigid as a board.
His face is completely neutral — almost eerily so — but it takes one look at him for Nass to know he heard every single word. A vein in his forehead ticks and his eyes are a cold, hard blue fire. He looks at Nass once — just once — before cutting his gaze away, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumps.
And in that single look, Nass knows.
He’s seriously, very seriously hurt him.
A wave of nausea slams into him. His throat closes, his beer starting to inch its way up. Gods, he’s going to be sick. Right here. In front of everyone.
Bellamy is never going to forgive him for this.
“Your Majesty,” Moha says finally, though there isn’t an ounce of respect in his voice. Every syllable is glass and ice. “I’m afraid it’s no place for a… royal like yourself.”
Nass’s stomach drops. They’re going to a sex club. That’s where they’re going tonight.
“Hm.” Bellamy’s tone is calm, but there’s something razor-sharp beneath it. He steps forward, rounding the table until he’s directly in front of them.
“Try me.”
The air shifts. A heavy silence spreads around the group like a storm cloud. No one moves.
Nass doesn’t dare look up. Instead, he stares at a knot in the oak table until it doubles, blurs.
His pulse roars in his ears.
Say something, Nass thinks. Say you’re sorry. Tell your friends that you’re seeing the prince.
Nass opens his mouth. But nothing comes out.
He can feel Bellamy’s presence — the heat of him, the tension, the hurt, coiling beneath his stillness.
He closes his eyes — a very bad idea — at the immediate flood of memories. Three weeks ago holding Bellamy through an allergy attack. Last Friday after their tutoring lesson, bending over the prince’s bed, his long fingers on Nass’s waist as he fucked the week’s tension out of him.
“I see,” Bellamy says after a long moment of silence. His tone doesn’t waver, but it’s so calm it’s a little terrifying — the kind of calm that comes right before something detonates. “How about this?”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small bag. The clink of metal is the only sound before he drops it onto the table with a heavy thud. The coins scatter faintly against the wood the sound making Nass flinch.
“We play a round of poker,” Bellamy says evenly. “If one of you wins, it’s your lucky day. If I win you all split the money. But you have to tell me where you’re going tonight.”
Moha stares at the bag, then up at Bellamy. There’s a flicker of hesitation before he forces a grin. “Hard to say no to the royal dollar.”
He gathers the cards, shuffling them with sharp, snapping flicks. “Everyone in?”
Bellamy slides into the empty seat.
The table shifts with the movement — wood creaking, beer glasses rattling slightly. Bellamy sits close, close enough that Nass can feel the heat of his arm, the faint scent of lavender. It hits him so sharply it almost makes him dizzy.
Nass forces himself to breathe. He picks up his cards, but his hands are trembling so badly he keeps them low, pressed to his chest. He doesn’t think he can speak; guilt is sitting like stone in his throat.
Bellamy doesn’t look at him. Not once.
But Nass doesn’t need him to. The hurt is rolling off him in waves — cold and thick and suffocating.
The first card hits the table. Then another. The sound of shuffling fills the silence — rough, steady, final.
Nass picks up his cards, holding them low to hide the tremor in his hands.
The others laugh too loud, bluff too hard, toss out careless jokes about odds and luck. But under it all, the tension hums — an invisible thread strung tight between Bellamy and Nass, vibrating every time the prince breathes.
Bellamy plays with an eerie precision. Every motion deliberate. The curl of his fingers. The exact angle of his smile. It’s all too careful, too contained and it’s making Nass nervous. He takes a swig of his beer just so his trembling hands can do something.
What the fuck is wrong with him? How can he lie about being with the person he loves?
“Two cards,” Miguel says.
Moha deals. Coins clink, chips slide.
Bellamy cold blue eyes finally land on Nass. He nearly jolts.
“Wow, Nassim,” he says, voice smooth as a blade. “Look at your poker face. You must be excellent at hiding things.”
It hits him like a punch.
Nass chokes mid-sip, the beer burning up his throat. He slams the glass down as the bubbles sear his esophagus, sparking up to his sinuses. He twists into his elbow and coughs so harshly that Miguel thumps him on the back. He takes a big gasp for air, the bubbles coaxing out a sudden “Ih..ht’SHhiue!”
He twists into his elbow, shoulders hunched, tickle teasing him with a second hh! —hEHSHHh’iueh!”
“Should we show our final cards?” Bellamy says calmly.
“Hhh-TSCHuu!” Nass gasps out in answer, quickly raising a spare bar napkin to rub at his nose.
“Wow, bless you,” The prince raises his eyebrows.
Nass doesn’t think he can speak over the guilt wrapping tight around his throat. Instead, he makes a mortifying noise of acknowledgment to the blessing, thumbing away tears that have sprung to his eyes.
Moha shoots a weird glance at Nass — before laying his cards down with a grunt. “Two pair.”
Miguel shrugs. “Three of a kind.”
Nass swallows, throat raw. He forces his hand open — nothing worth keeping. A wash.
Then Bellamy spreads his cards across the table.
The room goes silent. Even the music from the next table seems to fade.
Nass stares down at his winning hand, blinking rapidly.
“Well,” Bellamy says softly, leaning back. “Care to enlighten me on your evening plans, gentlemen?”
Moha hesitates. Then finally — “We’re going to Hookah’s Lounge. The speakeasy across from the port.”
“You mean the sex club.” Bellamy’s voice is smooth again, measured.
Moha nearly chokes. “You know it?”
“What is the password to get in?” Bellamy says in way of answering.
Moha swallows. “Bastard blue.”
Nass feels sick. The cruel nickname of of the royal family’s trademark blue eyes.
Bellamy’s blinks once, twice. If he is hurt by the mockery of the password, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he stands.
“Well,” he says quietly, “I might see you later, then. Enjoy your earnings.”
He nods toward the bag of coins, still sitting on the table, untouched.
Then he turns and walks out.
The bell over the door jingles softly — absurdly bright in the heavy silence he leaves behind.
Nass stares at the coins for a long moment, his pulse thudding so hard he can feel it in his ears.
He almost stands to go after him. Almost. His legs are jelly, and he fears if he gets up, he might fall flat on his face.
But then Moha lets out a low whistle. “What the absolute fuck was that?” he mutters. “Crazy silver spooned bastard.”
He picks up his beer, downing the contents with a grunt.
“There is no way the Prince of Yekiti is going to come to a sex club.”
“Another round, Nass?” Moha asks, motioning to the bottle of whiskey.
“Sure,” Nass says, leaning against the red velvet cushion of the booth.
Around them, Hookah’s Lounge hums in half-shadow — red and blue lights pulsing like a heartbeat, a bass so deep Nass feels it thrum through his ribs. The air is thick with smoke and perfume, everything shimmering with low heat. A huge blue-lit pool glows in the center of the dance floor, reflecting the movement of half naked bodies like a shifting mirage.
Nass takes the shot Moha pours for him, not even feeling the burn as it slides down his throat.
“You think you’ll use the red rooms tonight?” Moha grabs the long hose of the Hookah in the center of the table, the glass base glowing blue as smoke curls up through flavored water.
He takes a drag, the scent of cardamom hanging in the air.
The rooms at the back of the club are hidden behind heavy curtains — a narrow hallway of red light and secrets, where people go to have sex.
“I don’t think so,” Nass shakes his head, taking the hose and drawing in a long drag. The Hookah smoke cuts through his lungs, sharp with clove.
“Not interested,” he exhales, blowing a smoke ring into the dim air and watching it dissolve like a ghost.
He feels so horrible about what happened today at the Leaky Faucet that the only thing he wants in his future is to be blackout drunk and forget this day ever existed.
Bellamy is never going to forgive him. And maybe he shouldn’t.
“If this is your way of telling me you’re seeing somebody, Nass,” Moha grins, yanking the hose back. “Then you should’ve just invited them here.”
“Holy shit,” Miguel mutters suddenly, elbowing Nass. “The prince is here.”
Nass’s head whips toward the door. His mouth goes completely dry.
The music doesn’t stop, but it feels like the entire room shifts around Bellamy as he walks in.
He’s dressed in white — linen shirt rolled at the forearms, the top few buttons undone to reveal the clean, carved line of his chest. A long amethyst pendant catches the red light at his throat.
He’s holding Camille’s hand, her sparkly red dress glimmering like fire beside him as he leads her down the steps onto the dance floor.
Bellamy looks like he’s made of moonlight and control. Nass feels his stomach drop.
“I can’t believe he’s actually here,” Moha says, equal parts awe and disgust.
The crowd parts like the Dead Sea around Bellamy and Camille. Not only are they the only two Northerners in the room, but surely, no one expected to see their prince at one in the morning on the dance floor of a sex club.
Heads turn. Whispers ripple through the red-lit haze.
But Bellamy moves like he belongs. He glides up to the bar, white linen catching the glow of the lights, returns to Camille with two drinks, resting a hand on the small of her back — casual, confident, possessive.
Nass’s stomach twists, acid biting at his throat.
“I want another shot,” he says flatly, staring down at the table.
“I know, Nass,” Moha says, clapping him on the shoulder with a sympathetic look. “The sight of him makes me want to drink too.”
They clink glasses and toast, although for very different reasons.
Nass tries to rejoin the conversation, laughs where he should, tries to take longer pulls from the Hookah hose. The smoke sits thick in his chest. But he can’t stop himself.
At some point, his gaze drifts back.
Bellamy and Camille are still on the dance floor — their drinks gone, their mouths locked, viscously making out. She’s pressed flush against him, his hand sliding down the curve of her spine, her fingers tangled in his curls.
Just last week, his hands had been in Bellamy’s hair. Just last week, Bellamy’s breath had been on his neck.
Now he might never touch him again.
And then, suddenly, Bellamy pulls away. He laces his fingers through Camille’s, glances once up towards Nass’s table.
It’s brief. But in that split second, it’s everything — fury, an ocean of hurt.
Nass freezes. His lungs forget to work.
Then Bellamy looks away, as if the sight of him burns. He leads Camille up the stairs past Nass’s table, parts the curtains, and disappears with her into the red rooms.
Nass immediately climbs to his feet.
“I’m going to dance,” he says.
And he does. He downs two more drinks, dances to at least five songs, kisses a stranger who tastes like whiskey and cigarettes. The music thrums through him, but nothing numbs the ache sitting heavy in his chest.
Eventually, dizzy and hollow, he slumps back into the booth.
He’s just pulling on a drag of Hookah when Bellamy steps out from behind the red curtains. His curls are mussed, shirt unbuttoned even lower than before, skin flushed and kiss-bruised. Camille is grinning beside him, her lipstick smeared, basking in that after sex glow.
Nass watches as she reaches up to kiss Bellamy’s cheek, murmurs something in his ear, then turns and drifts away through the crowd — the sparkly red of her dress catching the light before she disappears through the club doors.
Interesting, Nass thinks.
And because he’s drunk — and possibly can’t have a worse day than the one he’s already having — he calls out, “Hey, Bellamy.”
The prince’s head turns immediately.
“Over here,” Nass shouts, patting the empty space beside him.
“Are you mad?” Moha hisses as Bellamy crosses the floor toward them. “What the hell are you doing?”
Nass doesn’t answer. He’s past the point of caring.
“Nassim,” Bellamy says evenly when he reaches their table, “and friends.” He bows slightly. “What a crazy coincidence, seeing you here.”
His eyes are still a hard blue fire, but they have that wild look in them, the same one he had when he fucked Nass in the Hammam.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Your Highness,” Nass slurs, gesturing lazily to the space beside him.
“No, thank you,” Bellamy says coolly. “I’ve heard you don’t associate with Northerners. Especially me.”
The words land like a slap. Nass flinches; the world tilts. His own words, echoed back at him, feels like poison.
A long, suffocating silence follows. The music thrums low in the background, months of history hanging thick between them. Then, maybe because he’s drunk or desperate or both, Nass grabs the Hookah hose, takes a long drag, and rises to stand just in front of Bellamy.
He exhales a perfect ring of smoke into his face.
He doesn’t know why he does it. Just as a fuck you maybe.
Except his fuck you immediately backfire on him when Bellamy blinks through the haze of the smoke, inhaling sharply.
His eyes flutter shut, once, twice, and then he’s spinning away from the table, flinching into his elbow with a “IEGHkSsH’hue!! shoulders jerking as another tears through him — "HHhh- NgGkKSh’ue!”
He emerges from his elbow, blinking furiously. “What the fuck, Nass?” He sniffs, eyes watering. “Do you blow smoke in everyone’s faces or just-hh! IESHHhU! — mine?”
You have to be fucking kidding me, Nass thinks.
“Just yours,” Nass grits out, trying to ignore the heat flooding to his pants. “Most people don’t have that reaction, Your Highness.”
Bellamy’s lip trembles. It is so slight nearly misses it. “I am going now.” He says coldly, taking another step backward. “Wouldn’t want to torture you three with my Northern accent.”
And then he’s gone — disappearing down the stairs, swallowed by the red and blue light.
Nass is on his feet before his brain catches up. He hears his friends calling after him, but the sound is distant, muffled by the bass. He pushes through the crowd, heart pounding, shoving shoulders aside.
“Bellamy!” he yells, catching the prince’s sleeve near the edge of the dance floor. “Wait—”
Bellamy spins around so fast their chests nearly collide. “What, Nassim?” His voice cuts like glass. “What do you want?”
He’s furious — truly furious — and somehow, it’s worse than if he’d hit him.
“I — want — you,” Nass stammers out.
Bellamy laughs, sharp and bitter. “You want me? But only in secret, right? Not when your friends are looking.” He gestures toward their booth. “Because you don’t associate with Northerners, isn’t that right?” His voice rises, cracking. “In fact, you hardly know me, isn’t that right, Nass?”
Nass trembles. “I’m sorry, Bellamy,” he steps closer. “I shouldn’t have lied — said those things.”
“Then why did you?” Bellamy’s voice is low now, deadly calm.
“They’re my childhood friends,” Nass blurts. “Like brothers. Both of them lost everything to your father’s war. They wouldn’t understand. If they knew I was seeing you, they might never speak to me again.”
Nass closes his eyes. “But—” his voice breaks “—I shouldn’t have lied. I just—didn’t know how to choose.”
Bellamy’s face twists — fury, then something like grief.
“I don’t want to make you choose, Nass.” He takes a step back. And another. The flashing red lights spill between them, painting his face red.
Panic slithers down Nass’s chest. “You think I don’t hate this too, Bellamy? The way they talk about you like you’re not even a person?”
“But you didn’t defend me,” he says flatly, his words like broken glass. “Instead, you joined in.” Bellamy closes his eyes, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. When he opens them again, his gaze is fire and finality.
“This is over.” He gestures between them. “Whatever this is between us Nassim — it’s over.”
“I’ve spent my entire life being someone’s secret,” Bellamy says quietly. “My mother’s secret. My father’s secret bastard. I refuse to be yours.”
He turns towards the exit.
“Wait. Bellamy.” The words, rip from somewhere deep inside of him, a place that transcends all reason.
Bellamy stops, halfway turned. His jaw works. For a heartbeat, the noise of the club falls away. They’re suspended in the silence between bass beats, eyes locked on each other, both breathing hard like they’ve run a marathon.
“What, Nass?” He demands, stepping forward. “What the fuck do you want?”
They’re standing so close now their breaths mingle — red light flickering across the prince’s angular cheekbones, furry in his icy blue eyes.
And in that moment, Nass knows, with perfect certainty, that he doesn’t care if his childhood friends sitting over there hate him for the rest of his life.
He doesn’t care about anything over how much he wants to be with Bellamy. He can’t lose the only man he’s ever loved.
Nass reaches up, trembling, fingers brushing Bellamy’s neck. The prince doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But Nass hears his breath catch in his chest.
“You’re not my secret, Bellamy,” he whispers.
The club lights explode behind his eyes — pulsing red, flashing blue, the bass a living thing that thrums in his ribs. Bellamy makes a guttural sound low in his throat, halfway to a growl. His mouth crashes against Nass’s, hot and furious, tasting of whiskey, mint, and rage.
Every inch of him radiates anger. Nass feels it in the way Bellamy drags him closer, fingers sinking into his braids, tugging hard enough to sting. Nass answers with equal force, their mouths colliding again and again in a blur of need and desire, each kiss rougher, messier, more desperate.
Around them, the dance floor slows. Gasps ripple through the haze — music, lights, clove Hookah — but Nass barely notices. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t focus past the heat of wanting every inch of Bellamy.
Abruptly Bellamy tears his mouth away, chest heaving. His eyes are wild in the red light, pupils blown wide.
“Do you associate with Northerners, Nassim?” he shouts over the bass.
“Well?” Bellamy steps forward and Nass stumbles, until his back hits the black granite wall behind him with a thud. The marble is cold against his spine; Bellamy all furry in front of him. He leans in, breath hot against Nass’s throat. “Do you associate with Northerners?”
“Y-yes,” Nass manages, voice shaking.
“Louder,” Bellamy growls, his hands fisting in Nass’s shoulders, pinning him in place. “Say it so everyone can hear you.”
“I—” Nass’s throat burns. “I associate with Northerners, you fucking prick.”
The music pounds: people are now heavily staring. Somewhere in him, shame mixes with something molten.
Bellamy’s breath catches, a half-laugh, half-snarl. “And do you know me?”
“Yes,” Nass gasps. “I know you, Bellamy.”
“Good,” Bellamy says, voice dropping low. His mouth brushes the corner of Nass’s jaw, lips tracing heat along his skin. “And you’re a lucky bastard for that.”
“Now,” Bellamy murmurs, his lips ghosting his ear, “let me remind you how we do things in the North.”
He grabs Nass’s wrist, turning sharply. The crowd parts as the prince leads him through it — up the stairs, past the table where Moha and Miguel stare open-mouthed, through the velvet curtains and into the long red hallway.
At the second door, Bellamy shoves it open with his elbow. The music dulls to a faint pulse behind them.
Nass does not need telling twice.
The room is drenched in red light — everything soft and glimmering, like they’ve stepped inside a heartbeat. Velvet cushions spill across the floor, plush and inviting. The air is thick with smoke and spice; Hookah burning slowly on a low glass table in the center, its jeweled hose coiled like a serpent.
A long stretch of window takes up the wall facing the dance floor — one-way glass. From inside, Nass can see the crowd below, bodies moving like waves in a red haze, but no one can see in.
Bellamy is a silhouette in front of him — white shirt half-open, curls wild, eyes electric.
“Sit down Nassim,” he orders, slamming the door behind him.
He glances at the Hookah, at the slow curl of smoke rising from its jewelled base.
He’s going to get that bastard back.
He grabs the hose and takes a long drag, the glass warming as he pulls. When he exhales, smoke pours from his mouth in lazy ribbons, filling the red-lit room in a silken haze.
Bellamy’s trousers and boxers are already halfway down his hips when his breath catches; jerking his head aside with a sharp, irritated “Hh’TSCHhhuuxt!”
The sneeze snaps through the smoky haze, stiffening his erection.
“What the hell, Nass?” Bellamy sniffs, kicking his pants into the corner.
Nass can’t help the slow, smug smile curling his lips — not just from making Bellamy sneeze but also at the prince’s rock-hard member.
“Admit it, Your Highness,” he murmurs, motioning to Bellamy’s erection. “Admit that no one does it for you better than me. Not Camille. Not anyone else. It’s always been me.”
Bellamy’s gaze drags over him — slow, blistering.
“Fine,” he says at last, voice gravel rough. “It’s true.”
He peels off his white linen shirt, the fabric whispering against his skin. His chest gleams in the red light, muscles flexing as he turns his head with another involuntary “hhINtTSSZH’Y’ue!” that tightens every line of him.
Nass watches, pulse hammering, as Bellamy straightens, sniffs once, and says with a hoarse edge, “I’ll admit it.”
Silence blooms — heavy, electric, vibrating in the air between them. The only sound is the faint hiss of the Hookah, the distant thrum of the bass music from the dance floor.
He’s on him so fast that Nass barely registers what’s happening. He spins around the table like a whip cracking, knocking the Hookah hose clean out of Nass’s hands. It goes flying across the room, the mouthpiece clanking into the granite walls.
Then Nass is falling — caught, pressed into the velvet cushions. Bellamy’s weight pins him there, breath mingling with clove smoke. His thighs frame Nass’s hips, pinning him into the cushions like it’s nothing.
“How about you admit,” Bellamy pants as he hovers, eyes burning, “that you were jealous.”
All the breath goes out of Nass. His heart is a drum in his ribs.
Bellamy makes a low, angry noise. Then—just like that—he peels Nass’s red shirt off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. Nass’s entire body erupts into goosebumps, each nerve ending alive with heat.
Nass tries to move and suddenly Bellamy’s left-hand slams down, pinning him into the cushions with a force that made him gasp. Then Bellamy is on him again, mouth claiming his with an urgent hunger. Nass kisses back with everything, teeth and tongue, nearly seeing white.
He’s never wanted anyone so badly in his fucking life.
Bellamy pulls back suddenly trailing firm, demanding kisses along the edge of his jaw. Slow. Teasing. Then he’s sliding down Nass’s body, like a wave rolling over sand.
His mouth traces Nass’s collarbone, teases across the planes of his chest, over the hard ridges of his stomach, inching lower and lower. Every touch, every kiss, is fire on skin, and Nass can’t stop the moan that slips out.
Bellamy shimmies off his pants, his hands grabbing the base of Nass’s rock-hard member.
“Admit you’re jealous,” he says, low, smooth, dangerous. His strokes are rhythmic, teasing, perfect. Nass’s body jolts, shuddering into the cushions.
“Bite me.” The words tear from his throat. He cannot, will not, give Bellamy that satisification.
Bellamy’s face twitches, his grip tightening on the base of Nass’s cock. He strokes him faster and faster, his hands slick with precum.
Suddenly Bellamy gasps, grip tightening on Nass’s cock as he twists away. A much louder, heavier, “Huh’EhSHhhY’EUGiHh!” jerks out of him, the mist from the expulsion glistening under the red light.
Nass shivers, cock twitching in Bellamy’s hands. And because maybe, he’s had six drinks, Hookah, and is a little insane with desire he struggles into a half sitting position.
“I dare you to sneeze on me,” Nass dares, suddenly feeling quite drunk. “Not by accident. On purpose.”
“I—,” A muscle twitches in Bellamy’s jaw. He freezes, hand still tight around the base of Nass’s cock.
He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. A rare instance of his speechlessness.
And then his face collapses, nostrils twitching in need. He jerks his head away, entire body shuddering with another “IEGHkSsH’hue!!
Bellamy doesn’t get to try to fuck with him about jealousy.
Not without Nass fucking with him back at least a little.
“Hm,” Nass reaches down, running a hand through Bellamy’s curls.
“The Hookah smoke is making you sneeze, but you still can’t sneeze on me, can you? Even though you’ve done it before?”
“T-those were accidents,” Bellamy manages to get out. He’s blinking hard.
“Even though I want you to do it? You still can’t?” Nass mocks, index finger trailing a line down the prince’s long nose. “How cute.”
Bellamy’s nose crinkles under Nass’s touch.
“Aw,” Nass teases. “You can’t fully squash that Northern politeness can you, Your Majesty?”
The mockery elicits a sharp, almost feral glare.
“Shut up,” Bellamy growls. “I’m in charge.”
He pries Nass’s thighs further apart, swooping down to take Nass fully in his mouth.
In response, Bellamy runs his tongue up and down his shaft, his right hand still curled tight around the base.
Why the fuck is he so good at everything? That fucking prick.
Slowly, Bellamy moves up to Nass’s head, tongue swirling along the delicate skin in rhythmic motions.
Nass’s eye’s close in pleasure, pressure building low in his gut. He’s so lost in the sensation, that he barely registers when Bellamy removes his mouth from his cock. He opens his eyes, struggling into a sitting position just in time to see the prince pull a deep drag from the Hookah hose.
Bellamy coughs, before turning back around, blowing smoke down onto Nass’s erection.
A sound wrenches itself from Nass’s throat as the wisps of hot air ripple against his bare skin, the heavy clove smoke filling the air.
Bellamy hovers over his cock, taking a deep inhale through his nose.
“Bellamy,” Nass sputters, “what are you —,”
“hhAATCHSHhh’UYEh!!” Bellamy’s face snaps downwards, sneezing so hard that the tip of his nose knocks into the head of Nass’s penis.
Spray splatters all over his cock from the violent expulsion, making his damp member even damper.
“I’m calling your bluff,” Bellamy sniffs, taking him in his mouth again.
The world collapses to sensation. Nass can’t tell if it’s been a minute or five, only that every second feels suspended, stretched thin, unbearable. The air thickens, heavy with sound and breath and the fast rhythm of the blow job.
It feels like a heavenly eternity, the spell only broken when he feels Belllamy’s chest hitch. His shoulders rise in a shaky inhale. The prince yanks his face back, eyes fluttering, a hazy picture of nasal irritation.
““Hih! —hh!” He digs a knuckle into the side of his nose, rubbing at his furiously. “hiD- hh!!!” His eyes flutter shut, a tear trailing down the corner of his right eye. “H-aH!!”
Finally he crumples, burying his face into Nass’s inner thigh, pressing wet twitching nostrils into his skin, muffling a dizzyingly loud “HeH—HhDJSCChhh’UMFH!” That soaks his thigh.
A dizzying wave of heat shoots through Nass’s stomach. He moans, burying his hand in Bellamy’s dark curls, an anchor against his building orgasm.
“Bellamy,” he starts, voice a pitiful whimper. “Gods, I’m going to — ,”
“Not yet,” Bellamy sniffs, pulling his face back. “Admit you were jealous.”
He yanks Nass to his feet, spinning him around over the velvet cushions and to the window.
Nass bends, finger’s curling into the window ledge. He’s so close.
“Bellamy,” he begs as the prince’s fingers lock onto his hips. “Please, I — fuck.”
His next words die in his throat as the prince enters him.
“Admit it,” Bellamy growls as he begins to aggressively press into him. “Admit you were jealous Nass.”
Nass moans. He won’t admit it, he won’t, he —
Bellamy’s hand fists into his braids, yanking, hard. Nass nearly screams in pleasure, head arcing backwards.
“Admit you were jealous,” Bellamy jerks his hips. “And maybe I’ll sneeze again.”
That shatters the last of Nass’s restraint. He can’t see anything, not the room, not the prince, over the waves of intense pleasure building in him like a tsunami.
“Fine,” Nass shouts. “I was jealous of Camille!”
Bellamy immediately rewards him, taking a deep shuddery inhale, body seizing with a monstrous hUH’ HEH’DtZSSCHhhY’IUH!”
The sneeze sprays across Nass’s back, so loud that it partially covers up the sound of Nass moaning, as he pulses through his orgasm. His vision explodes in a rainbow of colour as he spills himself onto the window, decorating the dancing crowd below in thick white ribbons.
The world clicks back into focus in slow, dizzying waves of clarity. Behind him he is dimly aware of Bellamy, savagely fucking him, smug energy rolling off him in waves.
“Was that so hard?” Bellamy says riding him faster and faster.
Nass doesn’t answer. He can’t over how hard Bellamy is fucking him.
A minute later the prince gasps out in pleasure, spilling himself onto Nass’s back.
Nass’s knees give out the second Bellamy pulls away. He thuds down onto the cushions breathing hard.
Vaguely he feels the sting in his ass, the sting in his chest from the window but it all fades to a distant background hum.
That might just have been one of the best orgasms of his life. Second to only when they first hooked up.
The sound of Bellamy blowing his nose breaks him out of his post orgasm glow. The prince is standing near the Hookah table, emptying his sinuses into a wad of paper towel.
“Is this just sex, Nassim?” Bellamy asks, lobbying the paper towel in his direction. It hits him in the chest before sliding into his lap.
“N–no,” Nass says, dazed. He tears off a piece of cloth, wiping his back, then the window. “It’s not just sex, Bellamy. It’s never been.”
“Then what do you want to do about it?” Bellamy pulls on his pants and shoes, each movement clipped and controlled.
“I— I don’t know,” Nass stammers. He looks up at him, blinking stupidly. He can’t move. He’s too sore. In a good way, but still—he’s wrecked.
Bellamy crouches, scooping up the pile of clothes like he’s tidying up a battlefield.
“Then figure it out,” he says, wrestling into Nass’s red shirt. “Instead of lying about it.”
Nass blinks. “Bellamy— that’s my shirt. And my pants.”
“I’m aware,” Bellamy says, tucking Nass’s green pants under his arm like a trophy. “I’m going now.” He throws his own white linen shirt into Nass’s lap. “My gift to you.”
“Bellamy.” Panic shoots through Nass like a spark. He scrambles to his feet as Bellamy backs toward the door. “Give me back my clothes.”
“No.” Bellamy’s tone is calm, almost too calm. “I think I’ve earned the right to keep them.” He gestures to his shirt. “Tie that around your waist. That should be enough to keep you decent.”
Nass’s eyes nearly bulge of his head.
“Bellamy— seriously. Give them back. I can’t walk out of here in only your shirt.”
“Don’t worry Nass. It’s the middle of the night.” Bellamy shrugs. “There really isn’t anyone around to witness your walk of shame back to campus.” His expression flickers—hurt and anger fighting for space. And if there is…” His gaze locks with Nass’s, eyes burning. “Then they’ll know you do, in fact, associate with Northerners.”
Nass lunges, but Bellamy is already gone before Nass even makes it around the floor table, the door slamming behind him. The sound echoes, final and hollow.
Nass stands there frozen, blinking at the door, chest heaving. Bellamy’s still mad. Of course he is. He has every right to be.
But gods was that the best angry sex he’s ever had in his life.
He glances down at the crumpled linen shirt in his hands, exhales through his nose, and ties it clumsily around his waist, the fabric barely covering his lower extremities.
His cheeks heat. He’s going to have to walk through the club like this, up the port, and ride the fucking gondola up to the university like this. He looks ridiculous. Probably exactly what Bellamy wanted.
Nass’s fingers hover on the door handle. With a deep breath he wrenches it open, the hallway pulsing with red light as he steps out. He swallows, a laugh catching low in his throat.
Maybe he deserves the walk of shame.
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