The outside's indefinite void satiates the glass panes, dulling there to be reason of conversation. School follows in the successive hours—of course, he should prioritize rest first. You should, too. This mind of his isn't as facile in shutting down, though.

Thoughts fluent on you are the stubborn alternative for his daydreams.

Why waste the effort for a mental image when mounting you on him is simpler? Real and solid right here.

"Fuck—" Your breathless oath gaps his sorry attempts, instinctual like the bunching of his sides. Shirt and flesh alike. Indication of a good sign, he hopes.

Your trap is free—free for the taking, and, predictably, he narrows the created void, hoping for an additional vestige he's doing this right. Some sounds, a yank, something to pat him in the back.

Then doubt peers its abomination of a head. Of all fucking times. Is it too much? Weight, force, speed? And, God, how humiliating it'd be to flub at the pivotal moment.

Worrying about this seems surreal. Back home, there is bigger fish to spare tolerance to, like his crappy dad. Now, if he rendered the closet as glass? Risky move, dude, and a guaranteed bye-bye to his home.

Except, well, here he is—dating a guy.

Travis lents the span of your maw heed, the dips of your collar, and furthering. Hands, they worship, tremble, and follow suit, too. Is this convincing enough to look like a pro?

Yes. No. Maybe-so. Stashed novels, plus films appealing to the lone, nocturnal senses—he thanks the brains behind them.

Yet, the fleeting memories of hands-on knowledge tragically flings itself out the window at the graze of metal beneath your hem. Well, there goes his confidence.

Fuck, he wets his lips, then a steadying breath. How the hell does anyone do this, anyway?