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crush my skin under your hips (gently with a kiss)

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Stanley’s sandwich is dry, the cheese crumbles every time he takes a bite and the lettuce is floppy, it’s tasteless and a bit disgusting, if he’s being honest. If he wasn’t so famished, he’d throw it out, but he hasn’t eaten since this morning and even then, he’d only swallowed a lukewarm cup of coffee and a leftover piece of bagel, probably the remains of Boris’ breakfast that he hadn’t finished, or cleaned up, before leaving early. 

There are a few benefits in living and sharing your bed, and your heart Stan has to admit, with a literal mobster, but the strange schedules and work hours are not one of them. When Stan leaves in the morning, Boris is either already out or he’s just arrived and he’s exhausted, so sleepy that he barely takes his clothes off before dropping in their bed like a dead weight. He slept in his leather jacket once and it would be funny if Stan wasn’t slightly worried by the amount of work his lover is taking on his shoulders every day. Stanley knows that, before they were reunited, Boris has worked harder and more, he knows that Boris now takes good care in returning home to him every night, whatever the hour and to lay a kiss on Stan’s temple before he passes out but Stan also knows that Boris now works on energy and caffeine only, that Boris used to be powered by stronger drugs than expressos and he’s afraid, terrified out of his mind that Boris will either burn out or fall back into prickly, toxic arms.

Stanley sighs and sets his food aside, his hunger momentarily appeased as his mind runs back to Boris, to his tired smile and dark eyes rimmed with purple. His heart seizes in his chest and he has to step away from his desk, making room to breathe as he feels his throat close up. Is it possible to miss so terribly someone you see every day? He feels lost, unable to concentrate on anything that isn’t Boris or his strong jaw, his soft curls and his red lips. He misses him, not like you miss a lover or a partner but like you miss a part of yourself, it’s agonizing, but not like the loss of a limb, but like the trickle of your blood, pouring out of your body and leaving you breathless and cold. 

His hands find his phone and he thinks of calling Boris before he stops himself, aware that his boyfriend’s job doesn’t really allow him to take calls or make small talk just because Stanley misses him. He wishes they could be like Mike and Bill who call each other every time Mike sees a dog in the street or every time Bill finishes a chapter early, but he guesses it would tire him quickly and he’d stop responding after the first three Pug Warnings. He settles on sending a quick text, it won’t both Boris too much and it will calm Stan down just enough to finish his work. His message gets an automatic reply, which is strange enough, his simple Miss you gets the usual Boris Text Nightmare and he can’t help smiling as he tries to decipher what his boyfriend tried to answer.

 

u 2!!!! keep ur door open!!!

 

Stan frowns, his fingers hovering over the virtual keyboard, leaving his door open? Boris has the apartment’s keys, he lives there, maybe he forgot them this morning? But that seems unlikely, Stanley doesn’t remember seeing Boris’ ugly pink rubber pompom keychain, a gift of his brother, on the table when he left and it’s not really the type of object you miss. He types a quick question, still confused, but before he can hit send, he hears the glass door of his office open and he looks up to see his boyfriend, leather jacket and all, smiling like a very smug cat.

“Surprise,” Boris says, his grin almost too big to not look threatening on anyone else, on him, Stan finds it lovely. “Missed me, Kolibri?”

Stan almost jumps up, his knees hitting the desk as he stumbles to his feet, feeling his own lips form a wide smile, “You know I did,” He beams, wrapping his arms around his lover and letting his head fall in Boris’ hair, breathing in his sandalwood shampoo, the musky fragrance enveloping him like a comfortable and familiar blanket. “What are you doing here?” He mumbles, not wanting to step away from this warm embrace.

“Felt like it,” Boris replies, his head is lodged near Stan’s neck and his breath is almost too hot on the other man’s skin, “Needed to see your pretty face in the daylight.”

Stan chuckles, finally putting some distance between them in the process, “It’s not my fault that you’re always so busy, I have a normal schedule. You’re the one coming home past midnight.”

Boris hums, his hands finding Stanley’s collar and the accountant’s breath lodges itself in his throat. “Love when you call it home, Kolibri, love coming home to you.”

“Sappy bastard,” Stan pushes him a little but Boris’ fingers are clutched around the lapels of his shirt and it only brings them closer to the wall, which in this very case is also a window.

“You’re tactile today,” Boris purrs, letting his back hit the window as he brings Stan’s face closer to his, their lips brushing but not touching. Stan wants to bite them, he knows before he does that they’ll taste like cinnamon, gingerbread and coffee, Boris has a thing for Christmas drinks before the holiday season. When the holidays do arrive, he asks for overly complicated iced tea and watches baristas’ faith in humanity leave their bodies before he leaves a very generous tip. He’s such an annoying douchebag, Stan is absolutely smitten.

“Told you,” He says between two sugary kisses, “I missed you.”

“Should miss me more often,” Boris breathes, he’s getting pink, “You kiss better when you do.”

“I take offence to that.”

“Take offence all you want, kiss me again.”

Stanley presses his lips to the corner of Boris’ mouth, where a dimple shows itself every time the other man smiles. It’s such a strange feeling, this adoring love that warms his bones interweaved with scorching lust every time he hears Boris groan. How can one person both want to caress one’s cheek as well as devour him completely? 

“You think too much,” Boris says, biting his words into Stan’s neck, he’s travelling down, his fingers working quickly to unbutton Stan’s shirt and take off his tie. His nails scratch his collarbone, hard enough to send a spike of arousal down his spine and make Stanley grab Boris’ hand to pin him down.

It’s the beads of condensation forming under his fingers that remind Stanley that they’re leaning on a window. It’s not dangerous, he doesn’t think so at least, the glass is probably stronger and denser than the walls of their apartment, but he’s not certain he wants to find out if he’s wrong mid-make-out session.

He pulls Boris away from the window by the chain around his neck, the Star of David cutting his palm slightly. Boris lets himself be dragged from one spot to the other, settling himself near the few shelves behind Stan’s desk. He’s absently running his fingertips on the books’ golden titles, it’s more of a show than anything else but he looks nonchalant, absolutely unshakable, even with his swollen lips, scarlet red, and the blossoming love bite on his chest. Stanley didn’t even have to unbutton his shirt for that, Boris naturally presents more skin than most, not that Stan’s complaining, far from it.

“Why are you here, Boris?” He asks again and he’s slightly embarrassed by how breathless he sounds. His voice is lower and raspier than usual, Boris notices it too if his smirk says anything. “Do you need help with your accounting ?”

“I could,” The other man replies absently, picking up one of Stanley’s books and opening it as he sits on the edge of the desk. He turns a few pages before looking up, his eyes glowing like two burnt umbers, “Would it turn you on?”

“What? To do your taxes? It’s not usually on my role-playing list, no.”

“Such little imagination, Kolibri,” Boris retorts, finally putting the book down. He crosses his legs and Stan, who hadn’t been really focused on whatever Boris had decided to wear this morning, notices the very shiny pair of boots he has chosen. They’re a personal favourite, the heel is higher than the ones Boris wears daily, but it’s not exactly a stiletto, Stan doesn’t want to imagine how that would make him feel, no, the heel is higher but also thicker. The platform is chunky as well but Boris manages to make it look graceful, it’s almost annoying.

 “Maybe,” He continues, leaning on the desk, his rings scrapping the wooden surface. “I’m a client.” As he talks, he lets his jacket slide down his shoulders slowly, uncaring of where it falls on Stan’s things. “I need help, I’m desperate.” The jacket is off, and one of his hands, the one that isn’t propping him on the desk, goes to find the last buttons of his dark purple shirt. “I’m in trouble, very bad trouble, I’d do anything for your help.” Stan can see his navel and the happy trail of dark hair he loves so much. “ Anything .”

“What kind of trouble are you in?” Stan asks, taking one step towards the half-naked man in front of him. His feet are heavy and he feels too warm. 

Boris' fingers grab the buckle of his belt, “Dangerous one.”

“Because you’re a dangerous man,” Stan breathes out, extending one hand to trace a scar, an old one that he kisses every night, on Boris’ lower abdomen.

Boris nods, he’s eyeing Stan up and down, but he’s not touching him, he’s not moving, just watching. “But I’m not dangerous here.” He bends his head, exposing his neck, his jaw and the lines of his shoulders. Stan doesn’t let his eyes linger, he knows the pattern of every freckle on Boris’ skin, of every beauty marks and all the little imperfections that make Stanley’s blood boil. This is an introduction and he can’t let himself get distracted but the shape of Boris’ cupid bow or by the violet love bite blossoming just over his sternum. Like an iris unfolding from his heart, its petals just a shade lighter.

He grabs Boris’ arm, it’s not gentle but it’s not hard either, it’s in this perfect balance of urge and devotion, the type Stanley can still control right now, that he can still manage, not entirely dazed by lust. “On your knees,” He says, he doesn’t have to force Boris into position, he falls into it naturally, the weight of his heels hitting the floor harder than he usually would, it’s a little thrilling, a little new, how Boris needs to actively try to look detached, his body and clothes giving another story altogether.

The other man looks up between his lashes, Stanley can barely perceive the brown of his eyes, his pupils are so dilated, his eyes two dark night skies, their stars only shining for the moon, hovering over him, a hand already secured in his hair.

“You said you’d do everything for my help,” Stanley says, one hand on his pants, the other one directing Boris’ head, “Isn’t that right, Mr Pavlikovsky?”

Boris’ breath is hot on Stanley’s still clothed cock, he’s sending jolts of pleasure down Stan’s body without even touching the other man properly, the promise of is warm mouth enough to form a wet patch on Stanley’s underwear. He grabs Boris’ chin, wanting to see his eyes clearly and he groans when the star looking back right at him is almost unseeing, dazed and glassy,  as if Boris had already been face-fucked and he couldn’t help himself from crying. The sight is enough to make Stan’s grip tighter and the crave of getting those red lips around him becomes a need.

“I asked you a question,” He persists, then feeling bold, “ Slut .”

The moan Boris lets out is more than congratulating, “ Ya proshu, moya lyubov, ” He says before regaining his senses, “Kolibri-”

Usually, Stan wouldn’t point this out, he loves being Boris’ hummingbird, sometimes far more than he likes being Stanley Uris, but he’s not a small bird today, he’s not moving quickly, he’s lying in wait of what he wants. “Is that a way to call your personal accountant, Mr Pavlikovsky? I didn’t know us so familiar.” He’s very proud of himself for not grumbling the last words.

His sentence seems to cause a chemical reaction in Boris’ body because he twists, his back arching and Stan has to shake him a little, getting him between his legs and leaning over him to get him to stop wiggling. When he finally stills, his neck is red and his mouth, still so burgundy, is agape. 

He breathes out, still trembling and Stan would have some pity if he didn’t know this move of Boris so well, the uncontrollable submission, it does still hold a punch. “Yes,” He starts, lips shining, “Yes, sir .”

“That’s good,” Stanley says, “You’re doing so well for me,” The praise slips out of him like water out of a dam, he can’t stop it, even if his mind tells him that this is a moment for composed dominance and not tender prepotency, but when Boris looks at him like that, veiled behind his own lashes, he wants to caress his cheeks and kiss the moles on the back of his neck. He wants to hold him inside of his own heart, envelop him with adoration and drown him in devotion. “You’re always so good for me, darling, so so good for me.”

After that, Boris practically leaps forward, mouth open and hands finding Stan’s hips. Boris’ desperation to suck him off, to please him and lavish Stanley’s cock with kisses, it’s more than thrilling or arousing, it feels like a consecration, like the salvation of every single bad shit they’ve ever lived, manifesting in the warmth of Boris’ tongue, in Stanley’s moans of muffled I love you and their shared scorching deference. 

Boris isn’t sloppy, even when he’s overwhelmed, Stan remembers an entire evening of edging and blow jobs that had still left Boris in control long enough to swallow Stanley to the hilt, eyes focused on him and his hands behind his back, almost smug. But today is different, Stan doesn’t know if it’s because they haven’t fucked in a few weeks, too busy or too tired to muster the energy once they would find each other after their long day, or maybe it was the setting, the glass windows, the oak desk, Stan’s suit and Boris’ clunky heels. Either way, Boris isn’t usually so rough, so wet and so greedy. On casual days, he likes to take his time, to lick the underside of Stan’s cock while his hands are busy jacking him off or slowly massaging his balls, sometimes he’d even pop one in his mouth and let saliva run down his chin while Stanley moaned, but today he’s gone straight for the length of his partner’s shaft, Stanley immediately hitting the back of his throat as he hardens his grip on Boris’ hair.

“That’s it,” He says, and he can already fell warm pool at the pit of his stomach, warning him, “You always take my cock so well, baby, always drooling for it,” Boris hums around him, sending jolts of pleasure down his fingertips, “Just like a bitch in heat, Borya .”

Boris moans so loud, so hard, that Stan has to wrap two fingers around his cock to stop himself from coming on the spot. He doesn’t wanna finish like this, not yet, not in Boris’ warm and welcoming mouth, he has other plans.

“Get up,” He orders, pulling Boris off the ground and pressing his legs unto the desk until he topples over, he presses his hand to Boris’ lower back, making him fall and pinning him there. There’s urgency in his blood, an unsatisfied hunger that can only be soothed by the soft, peppered skin of his lover. He’s running too hot, his vision tainted red and before he lets himself tear Boris’ jeans in pieces, he lifts the other man’s chin delicately, his lips forming questions on Boris’ cheek, “What’s the safeword, darling? Do you remember?” He would never actually hurt Boris, he’d never leave marks on his body that hadn’t been planned and thought out, he’d never say words he knew hadn’t been green-lighted before, even if some are still a bit hard to let out on the spot. Even for a day like this where Boris’ arrival wasn’t scheduled, there’s no way in hell Stanley isn’t going to organise this scene a little bit, making sure that Boris hasn’t dropped too far yet and that he cant still make his choices clearly.

Boris exhales sharply, his head resting on the immaculate wooden surface, his breath forming little puffs of steam near Stan’s pens, “ Ananas .” 

Stanley makes him repeat it a few times and when Boris grows annoyed enough to start making cynical comments, he knows they’re in a mindset that will not get either of them hurt. That’s when he latches onto Boris’ pants, far too present in his taste, and he starts sliding them down, slowly enough to let the cold air hit Boris’ ass, since he refuses to wear underwear. But, something catches Stan’s eye as he disposes of the jeans, spreading Boris’ legs apart, something he isn’t used seeing.

“How long did you plan this?” Stanley asks, letting his fingers tap gently on the metal plug Boris is wearing. “Did you wear this all day? Just for your accountant ?” Every time his fingertips flick against the toy, Boris rocks forward, “Did you keep yourself open all for me? Just so I could slide into your hungry little hole whenever I want, Mr Pavlikovsky ?”

“Losing originality, sir ,” Boris retorts before he starts convulsing a little as Stan takes out the plug inches by inches, before slamming it back in. “You-aaah-you watched too many porn videos, vorobey.

“I told you,” Stan pulls the plug as slowly as he can, dragging it and making Boris’ rim turned red, “I’m not your bird today.”

The plug finally comes out and Stan doesn’t wait, he just subtly tries to examine if Boris’ is lubed enough and if this didn’t hurt him in any way, but he seems fairly content as Stanley’ tip enters him. He’s saying words Stan doesn’t know and scratching at the wood of the desk, his pants covering parts of his boots, the only thing that is helping his short legs hit the ground while Stan starts fucking into him.

It’s delicious, how warm and tight Boris feels around him, like he was made for it, made for Stan. The mewls, because that’s what they are, that Boris lets out every time Stan hits his prostate only make him go harder, sometimes rocking so violently that the desk glides a few inches forward. He can feel sweat build upon his shoulders and back, but he doesn’t care, too busy tracing with one finger the patterns, almost cosmic, of Boris’ freckles. Just below Boris’ left shoulder, where his arm meets his back, Stan can trace Apus, its wings fluttering as Boris starts trying to move back on Stan’s cock, looking for friction and some type of release, anything.

“Kolibri,” Boris babbles, drool collecting as he tries, in vain, to stay upward, his abdomen pressed so strongly to the desk that he almost looks part of the furniture. Maybe that could be a scene too, Stan coming back from the office to find his favourite coffee table replaced by a new, far more interesting one, one that could also double as a cockwarmer. “ Meni potribno pryyty ,” He shakes his head, maybe trying to clear his thoughts, “Please, let me come.”

“Patience,” Stan starts but he can feel it too, the tightness in his balls as he fucks back and forth into his lover. He’s growing tired and too aroused to keep going, but he’ll make sure that Boris comes first and comes without a hand on his cock. “If you want to come, you’ve got to come like this, Boris, rubbing yourself on the desk and fucked on my cock, but I won’t touch you.”

Boris cries out, “Please, touch me, please, sir , please, touch me.” 

It’s the title that shatters Stan and splits him into two, he gets a handful of curls, lifting Boris’ head and biting at his neck. “I don’t need to touch you, you little whore. I don’t need to touch you because you’re gonna come on my dick just like I asked and like you wanted, right? You came with your boots and your jacket, your rings and your pretty ass all stuffed so you’re going to come on my cock, like I ask or you’re not gonna come at all, suka .”

Boris’ orgasm must take him by surprise because he makes no noise of warning before he yells, voice breaking on Stanley’s name before he clamps around him like a vice and milks the other man’s cock. It’s messy and dirty and it will leave some dubious stains on Stan’s workplace, but he doesn’t care, he cannot care.

Boris is breathless under him but he’s also laughing, the idiot, “What’s so funny?” Stan tries to say, but he’s sure it doesn’t come out that way.

“I do not have other pants,” Boris giggles, downright giggles , “I have wrecked pants, wrecked ass and your office doesn’t have walls.” He turns, catching Stan’s lips in a sweet kiss, “It is truly a good day.”

“Yeah, talking about that,” Stan says, “Why exactly are you here? Were we celebrating something? A birthday? A murder?”

Boris grabs Stan’s lapels, shrugging and smiling, “Eh, just a Wednesday.”