Chapter Text
Oliver sighs as he stares at the boy across the study section of the library.
It's sinful, really, the way those lips seem to purse just the tiniest bit when he reads something particularly interesting. And most probably illegal, the way those eyes seem to squint just a couple of millimeters as soon as he glances at something attention-grabbing. It's habit, is the thing, the way Oliver's eyes seem to follow all of the boy's movements. He doesn't really remember when it began, just knows that it was a gradual feeling that Oliver observed over time until all he saw was the boy across the study section of the library.
Oliver remembers the first time he saw the boy, quite clearly in fact. Though that was mainly because the boy had a manic look in his eyes, the sort of expression worn by someone who was one poke away from implosion. He had burst through the door with a loud bang, literally and figuratively. The impact of the door against the wall was thunderous enough to have every single student turn their necks towards the source of the noise, only to be blown away by lips pink as cherry and skin smooth as milk. His dark eyes were piercing, messy hair blowing every which way against a killer jawline that seemed to be sculpted by Adonis himself. Oliver remembers thinking that the boy's jawline looked particularly nice with light scruff spattered all over. The boy had flashed everyone a frantic grin and trudged towards an empty table four rows across Oliver. It wasn't until a loud thud startling Oliver that he realized the boy was carrying about a dozen books and binders, with said books and binders placed harshly against the library tabletop.
He remembers that upon closer inspection, Oliver realized that the boy wasn't as he seemed. Under the fluorescent light of the library, the boy's milky skin that caught Oliver's attention seemed nearly yellowish from lack of wash. His cherry pink lips were actually red from being bitten a dozen times too many in a span of ten minutes. His piercing eyes were surrounded by dark, heavy bags. His messy hair looked sticky from lack of proper hygiene and the occasional brushing. Oliver guessed the jawline must have been thick with scruff from lack of time to shave. Oliver remembers smiling to himself and thinking the boy must be one of those law students who took everything too seriously and let no time pass by wasted. The manic look from the boy was probably from sleep deprivation, and Oliver remembers feeling sorry for him. He returned to his book, The Code of Codes, and relished how utterly interesting this book is. Traces of thoughts about wild-eyed boys with wilder hair all but at the back of his mind.
The second time Oliver saw him was days after the first. He remembers it as clearly as he remembers the first. Though that was mainly because what was proven untrue last time was proven true this time. Because this time, he didn't have a frantic expression. Because this time, he was exuding confidence and determination. Because this time, the boy took Oliver's breath away. The boy had lips pink as cherry, not from being bitten too much but from being licked a dozen times too many in a span of ten minutes. His dark eyes were piercing, not at all lacking in sleep but rather lacking in doubt and flourishing in self-assurance. His skin was smooth with a nice little sheen to it, most probably the results of a nightly ritual of skin care products. His messy hair wasn't at all messy, but styled with the front combed over his head, ending with a little curl hanging just above the boy's forehead. It looked sticky not from lack of wash but from abundance of hairspray or gel or whatever it was that made the boy's hair stay the way it stayed and shine the way it shined. His jawline was still thick with scruff, but styled so that it didn't reach his throat, shaved clean and cut just so that it complemented the shape of the boy's jaw. Once again, Oliver didn't notice the stack of books and binders the boy hauled with him. Though that must have been because the stack wasn't as tall and the books weren't as thick. But he did place it over the tabletop with another loud thud, but not from exasperation but from eagerness to get things done. And Oliver is left wondering if this was even the same boy from before. He returned to his book, Javascript: the Language of the Future, and relished how utterly uninteresting the book is. Traces of thought about boys with perfect skin and red lips dancing at the forefront of his mind.
Whoever said third time's the charm was obviously foolish, or at least they must have miscounted because the third time Oliver saw the Boy, yeah he's nicknamed him now, was the last time he ever wanted to see him. Though that was mainly because he was so embarrassed by what happened to him that he couldn't bear being under such scrutiny once more. Upon recollection, Oliver should have just went with the Iced Caramel Macchiato rather than the hot one, but it was weeks too late now. It was the third time that the Boy sat at the table four rows down. He had the same look of determination and eagerness as he did the time before. Every once in a while the Boy would get up and scroll through the bookshelves behind him, and Oliver absolutely did not watch the way his hips swayed with every step, or the way his fingers skimmed across the spines of thick, old books, or the way he'd arch his back beautifully every time it felt too stiff. And Oliver absolutely did not visualize having his hands placed nice and snug against the Boy's hips, or imagine being on receiving end of his seemingly soft touch, or daydream about watching the Boy spurt strings of come on his stomach with his back arched gracefully like a feline.
But the boy did something he'd never done the past two times he stayed here. Just as Oliver was about to drink from his steaming cup of Caramel Macchiato, the Boy made eye contact with a gorgeous man walking by, one held for longer than five seconds. Oliver drank the same second the Boy winked, and oh god, it never crossed his mind that the Boy was gay. Oh god, he had a chance with the boy. But wait, did he even want a chance with the boy? He must have, right? Or else it wouldn't have crossed his mind. Of course, it didn't come out of nowhere, but Oliver would ponder on that later on, because the Boy was winking at the the person passing by, and Oliver was spitting out his Caramel Macchiato with rough coughs and a semi-burnt tongue. It wasn't until the third cough that he realized everyone was staring at him, even the Boy and passerby, and Oliver felt his skin flush pink. He slammed the cup on the table a little too hard, and some of it spewed through the drinking hole, burning his fingers. Oliver retracted his fingers with a loud hiss and stood up quickly, only to hit the table with too much speed. Oh god, he was going to have a bruise on his thigh tomorrow, but worse was the fact that the bump made the coffee cup topple over and burst open with an explosion of hot, brown liquid. And worst was the fact that his new book, CSS: Coding with Style, got terribly wet. And he made a fool of himself in front of the Boy and the whole student body. There was that too. And yeah. Oliver walked to the front desk with his head held down, whispers buzzing behind him, and it wasn't the first time he'd done something embarrassing, but it was the first time he'd embarrassed himself in front of a person he sort of, maybe, probably had a harmless, little crush on.
He had flashed an apologetic smile towards the librarian, who in return gave him a deathly glare. Or at least, as deathly a glare could be given by a 56-year old lady. Lovely woman, the librarian. Oliver knew behind the glare was concern, because maybe Oliver talked to her before. It was a nice, little chat about her husband of 36 years, her daughter turning 35, son recently married at 29, second son just turned 27, all of whom were in different branches of engineering.
"I promise it won't happen again," Oliver said quickly as he passed by. "But I've gotta run, thank you for being understanding!"
And before lovely Mrs. Goodwin was able to respond, Oliver was already running to his dorm room leaving the librarian shaking her head after him with a put upon sigh.
The fourth time was by far the least interesting. Though that was mainly because the Boy entered with the passerby from last time on his tail, and Oliver may or may not be a tiny bit jealous because who wouldn't? His chance was definitely short-lived, goddarn his luck. In just a couple of minutes, the Boy had his head buried in a dull, gray book, and the gorgeous man from before had his head buried on the Boy's shoulder. And wasn't that a sight? Upon closer observation, Oliver realized he had practically nothing against the other boy. He probably wouldn't be even considered competition. The guy had clear eyes complemented by cleanly plucked eyebrows. His sunkissed skin was smooth and spanned across prominent cheekbones and a long neck. His lips were pink and pouted, and Oliver could do nothing but watch enviously as the darker man nuzzled against the Boy. Oliver ignored the heavy churning in his stomach and focused on Chapter VIII: CSS Syntax and its Values. If every now and then Oliver would slide his book low enough to get a view of the Boy and the Other One, well, nobody really paid attention to him anyway. And if every now and then Oliver would breathe in relief that the Boy wasn't really doing anything to show indication that he's noticed the Other One, well, nobody but him had to know.
However, the least interesting day became the most shocking. Because the next time Oliver snuck a peek, the two weren't in sight. And, okay? That was pretty weird in and of itself, but what was weirder was that their belongings were still on the table. And Oliver was struck with curiosity. He had never heard of what happens to curious minds though, and if he had, he probably would not have done this. But that wasn't the case, and Oliver was on his feet. He walked towards the Boy's table and was hit by a faint scent of spice, coffee beans, and honey. He inhaled deeply and marched towards the closest bookshelf only to hear a near silent gasp. He waited for several seconds to make certain he wasn't hearing things, or turning insane, or hearing ghosts and voices. Another gasp came, and he cannot be the only one who can hear this, right? Wrong. Everyone in the general vicinity seemed to have their earphones plugged in their ears, heads bobbing to the music or eyes scanning pages or hands scratching notes on papers. He followed the sounds and was stopped rather sooner than he'd expected. The gasp was more easily heard, though it wasn't at all loud. When he halted in front of the Historical section of the library, he saw through the spaces the Boy standing up with his head directed at the ceiling, mouth wide open in bliss, releasing soft gasps every time the Other One would push his head forward, meeting the Boy's pelvis. And oh god, he was witnessing a blow job. He made a surprised noise and quickly covered his mouth with a quiet slap of palm on lips. He wasn't sure if he went unnoticed as he was sure the Boy's eyes opened and flashed across the bookshelf he was hiding behind. But the Boy said nothing, eyes straying away from Oliver's bookshelf back up at the ceiling.
Oliver was so not staying for this and began retreating back to the study area of the library where his bag and books still sat. He quickly grabbed them and headed out the door as fast as he could. He waved goodbye at Mrs. Goodwin, who gave him a kind smile and a nod. Oliver ran to the nearest bathroom and nearly knocked someone over in his bid to take care of the growing problem in his private area. When he finally got to the closest bathroom, he opened the door to the nearest available stall where he hung his backpack behind the door and slid down his pants in less than 3 seconds. He finished in less than 2 minutes with rough strokes, a spit-slicked hand, and images of a certain dark-haired, dark-eyed, milky-skinned Boy playing behind his eyelids.
***
Today is the fifth time, and it is by far the most progressive. If he's glad that the Boy's alone, well, that's really nobody's business but his. By this time, Oliver knows his routine. Place the books at the upper right corner of the table, slide the binders at the corner opposite. Sit down with a breathy sigh, pull out a case of multicolored pens, three pencils, a white eraser and white out. Followed by three heavy inhalations and three powerful exhalations.
Oliver sighs as he stares at the Boy across the study section of the library.
It's sinful, really, the way those lips seem to purse just the tiniest bit when he reads something particularly interesting. And most probably illegal, the way those eyes seem to squint just a couple of millimeters as soon as he glances at something attention-grabbing. It's habit, is the thing, the way Oliver's eyes seem to follow all of the boy's movements. He doesn't really remember when it began, just knew that it was a gradual feeling that Oliver observed over time until all he saw was the boy across the study section of the library.
Just as Oliver sighs, the Boy looks up. Their eyes meet, and instead of fireworks and butterflies, Oliver sees code. Which, what? It turns out that Oliver had quickly hid behind the new book he was reading, Decoding the Code. He cannot believe he can be so stupid that he put a book about code, the language of misunderstanding, right between them. Oliver decides not to lower down the book at any cost, seeing as any further contact between them, physical or otherwise, would just result into something more embarrassing.
Oliver takes a couple of deep breaths, his glasses fogging up from what's probably heat seeping out of the pores of his face. And maybe his heart is beating a little too quickly for his liking, but it's not as if the Boy even knows what's happening to Oliver, or that the Boy is the main cause of the heart palpitations that Oliver is experiencing. His blood seems to be pumping in gallons, getting progressively louder with every second it rushes throughout his body. And Oliver is sure it echoes in his ear drums, but he's no anatomy major. The sudden increase in speed of Oliver's heartbeat has him dizzy, the world spinning in colors saturated and vibrant. He wonders if he's going slightly insane; he must be because he seems to be hearing unhurried footsteps coming his way and not soon after, the hushed creaking of a nearby chair.
This cannot be happening. But oh god, it totally is, and Oliver's heavy breathing got even heavier, and his damp palms somehow feel even sweatier, and okay, maybe a little peek over his book will prove him wrong.
Which, no. He was totally correct, because as soon as lowers down his book the slightest inch, he's blinded by raised eyebrows and a crooked smirk.
"Hi," the Boy says confidently.
Oliver doesn't speak, just gives an awkward nod partnered with an even more awkward smile. That is, until he realizes he still has his book covering the bottom half of his face, and he immediately pulls it down to present what's probably a manic grin. He does not usually do this, this talking to hot boys thing, and Oliver doesn't know what to do next.
Should he try to flirt? What does flirting even mean? Flirting never even entered Oliver's vocabulary until the latter stages of his high school life. And even then, he rarely felt confident in his own flirting and looks. He thinks a simple hello would suffice.
"H-hey," Oliver says nervously before closing his eyes and taking one quick breath. He straightens his back and says with a little more assertiveness. "Hey."
"I think you said that already," the Boy replies, an angelic laugh bubbling out of his lips. "Connor. Connor Walsh."
"Right," Oliver says self-consciously. He pushes his glasses up only for it to slide down as soon as he directs his eyes towards the ground. Just as he does so, he sees the outstretched hand of one Connor Walsh, waiting patiently right in front of him. And Oliver, ever gallant as he is, takes it expectedly and shakes it dramatically enthusiastically.
"And your name?" the Boy--Connor--asks, his voice the perfect mixture of eagerness and nonchalance.
"Oli-" He squeaks, but catches himself before he finished the sentence. He clears his throat, attempting to appear more manly. "Oliver."
"Very lovely to meet you," the Boy--Connor-- says smoothly without taking his eyes off of Oliver. Curse Oliver's quick need to blush because he feels his face heating up just by being on the receiving end of that smolder. He doesn't look away though, because he might not have another chance to stare at those eyes. It isn't until Connor smirks and flicks his eyes down that Oliver realizes he's still holding Connor's hand from the handshake earlier. Which, embarrassing.
"Sorry," Oliver rushes to say and tries to pull his hand out as if it caught fire. "I didn't notice that my hands-- that you were-- and I was..."
"Oh, no, not at all," Connor replies refusing to let go of Oliver's hand, which, alright.
"And you're... holding... my hand," Oliver says dumbly.
"Yeah, it's been feeling cold, and your hands are warm," Connor smirks. Oliver looks at their joined hands, notices the size difference between them. Oliver palm is much larger than Connor's, fingers thinner but longer and wrists with a slightly shorter width. It isn't until a few more seconds of observing their hands that Oliver realizes something wrong. Doesn't Connor have a boyfriend? Just the last time, Oliver saw Connor getting a blow job from said boyfriend, and oh god, the images are coming back. And oh god, Oliver thinks he's about to sport a semi soon if Connor doesn't let go of his hands.
"Why not have your boyfriend warm it up for you?" Oliver asks incredulously, and he takes advantage of Connor's shock by pulling his hands out of his grip. If he misses the warmth shared between them as soon as he pulls away, well, he won't be admitting it any time soon.
"I don't do boyfriends," Connor says coolly, and okay, that's such a turn off. Oliver can only imagine what the Other One felt when Connor said those words to him. Oliver and Connor aren't even anything close to being boyfriends, but he already feels crushing defeat as soon as he hears those words come out of Connor's lips.
"Right," Oliver stands up and picks up his book. "I'll see you later, Connor."
And Connor looks around wildly, confused. "Wait," he exclaims before grabbing Oliver's wrist with an alarmingly strong grip. "We should get coffee some time."
Oliver raises his eyebrow at Connor's question. He doesn't seem the type to do things like going out to get coffee. "What if I don't like coffee?"
"I find that hard to believe," Connor smirks and stares resolutely at Oliver's face. Oliver feels slightly uncomfortable, but he doesn't back off.
"And why is that?" Oliver challenges him, one hand on his hip and the other still being held in place by Connor's grip.
"Everybody likes coffee," Connor shrugs and says the next sentence slowly like thick honey. "And the third time I saw you here, you spilled the coffee you were sporting.
Connor is smiling now, left corner higher than the right with white teeth shining between shiny lips. And Oliver can do nothing but shrink into himself.
"You saw that, did you?" Oliver asks absentmindedly.
Connor stands up to full height now, but even if Oliver is taller than him, Connor's confidence in himself makes him seem much taller and more powerful. He leans in, lips close to Oliver's neck as he whispers hotly into Oliver's ears. "I'm pretty sure everyone saw you make a mess of yourself, but if you don't mind, I'd want a private show."
Oliver sucks in his breath and doesn't release it. Did Connor really just invite him to do sexual things? Oliver wouldn't mind doing anything with Connor, a face like that. If only Connor wasn't so deathly afraid of relationships or whatever it is he feels about commitment, then maybe Oliver would have wanted everything else more. It's only after he feels lightheaded does he realize he still hasn't exhaled his previous breath. He's probably blue right now from lack of oxygen.
"I'm- I'm gonna go," Oliver claims, thumbs pointing behind him. Once he turns around though, he is pulled back by the grip that Connor still has on him. Oliver got so used to its warmth that it feels harshly cold when Connor finally lets go. As soon as he does though, Connor presses right behind him and places his lips right behind Oliver's ears.
"Well, if you're not busy tomorrow, I'll be in The Java Lava between 1:30 to 4:00 pm, and there'll be an open seat next to me." Connor whispers nonchalantly. Oliver doesn't say anything else and hurries out of the library. If his neck is bright red, well, it doesn't matter. Only he and Connor know the reason why.
***
Come morning, Oliver finds himself in the nicest button up he owns even though he fell asleep to a mantra of I'm not going to the Java Lava tomorrow, I'm not going to the Java Lava tomorrow. It's only 1:45pm, Oliver didn't want to seem to eager about meeting Connor in what is maybe, possibly a date that will maybe, probably lead to some kissing, hopefully, maybe.
When Oliver opens the door, he sees Connor look up so quickly that Oliver wonders how the action didn't hurt his neck.
He's blinded by the shine in Connor smile, and Oliver wonders how grinning so widely isn't giving his face some minor pain. He approaches the table semi-cautiously, uncertain if they're really about to go on this not-date.
Oliver steels his nerves and places his hand gently on the seat next to Connor. "Is this seat taken?"
"Reserved, actually," Connor replies, smile still pasted on his sharp face. "For one Mr. Oliver."
Oliver takes the seat gingerly and pulls out the book he was reading from yesterday, Decoding the Code.
"May I get you something, Mr. Oliver?" Connor asks as he drinks from his mug. His eyes are downright fierce, and Oliver finds himself getting lost in them.
"Will you stop that?" Oliver tries to keep the smile off his face. It's quite difficult. "It makes me feel older than I am."
"Well then, may I get you something, Oliver?" Connor tries once more, smirking.
"Maybe a Caramel Macchiato?" Oliver is taking out his wallet when Connor stops him by keeping Oliver's hands in place with his.
"Don't worry about it," Connor says swiftly. "My treat."
Oliver doesn't reply, just tries to find some meaning in all of Connor's actions.
When Connor comes back with Oliver's order, he slides his seat next to Oliver so close that when he sits down, their shoulders are touching. He leans over a tiny bit, giving Oliver his macchiato. He doesn't pull away once he lets go of it, just puts his arm on the back of Oliver's chair.
"You know, I don't usually find hot men in the library," Connor admits nonchalantly. And when Oliver looks back at Connor, it's to find the other boy looking nearly predatory.
"Hot?" Oliver repeats disbelievingly. Sure, he's not ugly. But, hot?
"Totally," Connor says, leaning over. "What do you like to do on your free time?"
"Fill out crosswords and play sudoku," Oliver answers quickly. Smooth. He chuckles nervously, before saying, "Not too cool, am I?"
Connor shakes his head slowly, watching Oliver like a hawk. "No, no, no. I think that's very cool. Good for the brains and all."
"Right. What about you?"
"Lets forget about me for now," Connor suggest simply. "Lets focus on you. We've got all day, anyway."
"I thought you were only here until 4:00 pm?" Oliver asks, confused. Surely he remembers correctly, seeing as it was only yesterday.
"Yeah, but I never said I was free only until then." Connor is staring at Oliver like he's undressing him, and Oliver is a little dazed from it. He forgets what they were talking about, sure it wasn't anything important anyway.
"Have you traveled anywhere exciting?" Connor asks Oliver, and Oliver is sure this is just Connor asking out of politeness, not actually interested in what Oliver has to say.
"A few, actually. Philippines, Hawaii, and Australia. Though I've always wanted to visit France, Italy, and definitely Japan." Oliver answers, and he could almost see the boredom in the way Connor is staring blankly at him.
From then on, it becomes sort of like a game of 20 questions, except Oliver is the only one who answers. He doesn't miss the way Connor doesn't relinquish control of their not-date. They've covered an array of topics, all of which Oliver spoke truthfully.
There were questions about family, if Oliver had brothers and sisters. Ones about Oliver's ethnicity, Connor sure that Oliver was mixed. They moved on to food after that, favorite drinks and main dishes. Oliver had gone on and on about the wonders of coffee and how it goes perfectly with banana nut muffins and red velvet cakes. He said something about frozen Mango Margarita and Makers Manhattan and how they taste wonderfully with chips and salsa. He even brushed over some pasta (alfredo with shrimp or cubed chicken) and Chinese food (a side of chow mein with orange chicken and beef broccoli) and Filipino food (lumpia dipped in sweet and sour sauce and riced topped with Sinigang or Chicken Adobo).
Connor even asked about Oliver's career plans and major, all of which Oliver gave ample information of. But Connor kept coming back, kept asking about it, and Oliver ended up telling him his major (Computer Science and Business) and how he's only got one year left until graduation, making him 3 years older than Connor. Connor drank it all up, never complaining about how boring Oliver's tone is, or how uninteresting the topics are. Oliver's sure he's done it out of common courtesy, but there's something in the way Connor kept asking question that seemed genuine.
It's 3:23pm when Oliver tells Connor he has to go to the bathroom. He's blown away by how much time had passed just from talking about random topics.
As he gets up and saunters towards the bathroom, he feels Connor's strong gaze following him. When he turns back, he's proven correct. Because when looks back, he catches Connor looking at his bottom. Oliver smirks. If he puts a little more juice into the sway of his hips in his walk, well, only Connor would be able to notice it.
Oliver breathes out as soon as he closes the door and finds the closest available urnial. This not-date is turning out to be very much like a date, and Oliver is actually having fun. He's pulling his zipper down when he hears the door open. He feels warmth behind him, and Oliver is about to punch the person when he sees from his peripheral that it's actually Connor.
Connor bites his ear and pulls him towards an unoccupied stall, Oliver's zipper still pushed down with his underwear out in the open. Connor closes the door and draws near to Oliver, and Oliver does nothing but waits. Their mouths are inches apart, and Oliver can feel Connor's breath playing against his lips. It's hot, and Oliver wants to bite those red lips. Connor forces his leg between Oliver's, and Oliver can feel his dick hardening from the contact. He finds comfort in the fact that Connor's penis seems to be getting aroused as well. Oliver gives an experimental thrust, and he's rewarded with a shudder from Connor. From then, it's become a game of who can make the other lose control. Oliver starts grinding slowly against Connor, and the other boy begins to push back as well.
It doesn't feel good; it feels incredible. It's in the way Connor breathes against Oliver's mouth. It's in the way Oliver grips Connor's hips so tightly, he hopes there'd be bruises there come morning. In the way Connor has his hands in Oliver's hair, pulling at them enough to sting, but not enough to be painful. In the way Oliver pulls Connor closer than they already are, if that's even possible, to make the contact of their thrust even more intense.
Oliver is breathing heavily when Connor stops. They stare at each other for a while, unsure how everything escalated so quickly. They stay still, Oliver wondering if he should lean in, Connor wondering if he should suggest other things because kissing is intimate. Oliver is sure a millennium passes by before he finally decides.
Fuck it. Never let it be known that Oliver Hampton does things half-assed.
Oliver swoops in, catches Connor's lips with his in a surprisingly graceful motion. He thinks Connor is taken by surprise because the boy doesn't do anything for a couple of a seconds, and Oliver wonders if he shouldn't have kissed him. He's pulling back when Connor surges forwards, clamps Oliver's lips with his teeth and slowly pulls. Oliver lets himself be taken. Oliver opens his mouth, and Connor takes the invitation by entering it with his tongue. It's sloppy, the way they fight for dominance, tongues wrestling each other with their saliva sticking here and there. They don't stop their rutting, and Oliver hopes they never do because the feeling in his gut is indescribable.
Oliver pushes forward a little too harshly, but Connor answers back by grabbing Oliver's hand with his. And all of a sudden, Oliver feels his arms being lifted up and hears a loud slam right above his head. When he looks up, he sees his wrists are kept in place by Connor's grip, and Oliver looks back down at Connor in mild surprise. Oliver lets Connor's appetite for control slide. They don't ponder on it, because Connor locks their lips together until there is no space in between.
They're kissing wildly when Oliver feels the familiar swirl at the base of his stomach. Connor must catch it because his hips and lips are suddenly moving with more determination than before. Oliver is only human, and soon, he comes with an elongated grunt between their mouths. He arches his back, wants to keep contact with Connor as long as possible. Electricity surges through every pore in his body, and Oliver thinks he's gone slightly insane because everything is becoming a little blurry. And this is probably one of the best orgasms he's had in his life, and he's not even naked!
Connor manhandles him around. Oliver only has half a mind active right now, and all that he registers is the cold stall wall against his face and the quick, rhythmic thrust of Connor's hips against his ass.
It takes a while for Oliver to realize Connor is dry humping him, and fuck, isn't that so hot? Oliver feels Connor's hands on his hips, grip tight enough to sting. Connor's breathing is heavy, and Oliver pushes back experimentally. When he looks back, he's presented with a Connor who looks handsomely disheveled. His hair is sticking up in places it wasn't before, eyes shut so tightly that Oliver wonders if it hurts. His mouth is slightly open, tongue sticking out just the tiniest bit with his chest rising up and down in quick successions. Soon enough, Connor gives his last thrust, hard and refusing to release contact with Oliver's clothed ass. His groan is low and heavy, cheeks flushed pink.
It's probably the hottest thing Oliver has ever seen.
They stay in that position for quite a while, Oliver's body facing the stall divider, face turned towards an exhausted Connor. Connor is looking up, eyes still shut with a satisfied smirk stuck on his face. His hips are still pushed against Oliver, and it takes what seems like hours for them to finally let go.
"Fuck," Connor gasps.
"Not unless you buy me dinner," Oliver says courageously and only half joking. He regrets it as soon as it escapes his lips though, because Connor stills. He's about to take it back when Connor begins to speak again.
"How's Friday sound?" Oliver is surprised by the question, but it seems Connor is even more surprised with himself because his eyes are blown wide, and his mouth is open in shock. They take a moment to relish what just happened, before deciding that, yeah, Connor really just asked Oliver out again.
"Sounds great, actually." Oliver answers.
When their not-date ends, Connor has Oliver's phone number, and Oliver has his. When their not-date ends, they've made plans for Connor to pick Oliver up around 7:30 to go to Applebee's because Connor is "on a budget, damnit." When their not-date ends, Oliver feels his stomach flutter with new feelings. When their not-date ends, Connor wonders when his type has become boys with huge glasses and big smiles and an even larger appetite for mathematics. He thinks it started the fourth time he saw Oliver in the library, hiding between books and watching someone suck Connor off.
At around 11:00 pm, it takes Oliver everything to refrain from sending Connor a good night text.
***
It's 8:00 am.
On a Wednesday.
It's the day after their not-date.
It's also the day after Oliver received Connor's number.
It takes Oliver everything to refrain from sending Connor a good morning text.
***
It's late in the day when Oliver receives a text from Connor.
[To Oliver]: I'm starting to think you're one of those guys who get boys' phone numbers and never text or call. ;)
Oliver is most definitely not like that.
[To Connor]: I am most definitely not like that. >:(
He adds a little frowny face to emphasize just how much he isn't like those people.
[To Oliver]: If you say so.
[To Connor]: I text so.
[To Oliver]: Okay, Mr. Technical.
Oliver is unsure of what to text back, spends a whole three minutes contemplating if he should move on to a new topic or maybe ask a question? But he's saved from the trouble when a new message alert appears on the screen.
[To Oliver]: What have you done today?
[To Connor]: Absolutely nothing.
Total lie. Oliver has done absolutely everything from his English Lit paper, moving on to the chapter homework for Differential Equations, and then finishing the online quiz for his Intermediate Programming class. He's had a very busy but certainly productive day.
[To Oliver]: Nothing? Not even handling your downstairs business?
Wow. Oliver considers lying.
[To Connor]: Oh, I definitely did that.
He actually did do that. He remembers quite clearly, in fact, how he searched for some good gay porn on google after finishing his Differential Equations homework only to find that there isn't anything good. Or at least, nothing good enough at that moment to rival Oliver's wild imagination full of dark hair and dark eyes and pale skin. He remembers closing his eyes and letting his cock go free, feeling the air hug it before grabbing at it with his hands, not lubricated. He likes it like that sometimes, dry and rough. It takes a longer time to reach orgasm.
He had played with penis until it hardened to full length, and Oliver had begun a slow stroke just relishing the feeling of it. If he had imagined it was someone else's hands, well, that was the point of all of that anyway. If he had also imagined it was someone else's mouth, well, that person didn't need to know the dirty thoughts that went on in Oliver's head. He remembers biting his lips and grunting softly with each pull, pushing his circumcised cock up with the slowest of speed, tightening his grip as he started thrusting with a rhythmic pattern. He had imagined pale skin on his, red lips on his, cocks rubbing with nothing to separate them. He had pictured lean muscles and scruffy jawlines with perfect teeth and thick fingers with the gentlest touch.
He remembers rutting relentlessly when he felt the base of spine twisting. He had thrust for the last time when he felt his balls tightening, stopping with his back off the couch and his hard penis pointing straight up. It was amazing, the way his come felt like a volcano, rumbling in his urethra as it was about to explode.
It was the first time Oliver came with 10 strings of come. He usually spurted 5 to 6 on average, could release 8 on the best of days. His come flew messy, striking him in the face down to his stomach. His chest was patterned with white lines, certain his cheeks looked the same. Some had splattered onto the couch, the white spots a stark contrast against the sophisticated brown.
[To Oliver]: Did you think of anyone in particular?
Oliver can almost see the smirk playing on Connor's face.
[To Connor]: You know what, I actually don't remember.
[To Oliver]: Not even a little bit? No traces of thought of dark, stylish hair with a pretty face and goes by a name that rhymes with honor?
Oliver wonders whether he should lie or tell the truth. And after a quick session of mind-racking contemplation, he decides fuck it and dives in head first.
[To Connor]: Rhymes with goner.
[To Connor]: Possibly.
[To Connor]: Maybe.
[To Oliver]: ;)
Oliver's heart is beating at top speed. Flirting via text message makes Oliver feel restless because he has almost no idea how Connor is taking all of this. He can make assumptions, but that's nothing to consider factual.
They spend the whole day talking about absolutely nothing, and when Oliver looks up at the clock, it's already past 9:00 pm.
He's brushing his teeth when Connor texts.
[To Oliver]: gnight
It looks rushed, as if sent on impulse after much consideration. It lacks Connor's proper knowledge in sentence structure--capitalization, apostrophe and a possible period. It makes Oliver's innards flutter nonetheless. If he falls asleep with a tiny smile on his face, well, nobody can see him in the privacy of his own bedroom.
***
Time has a funny way of working. It has the annoying habit of slowing down when you're eager for something.
It's only Thursday, and Oliver's need for it to be Friday is gnawing on him. It's virtually eating him inside out, and Oliver can do nothing but wait, and wait, and wait some more.
He spends the day slightly irritated. It seems that only his semi good looking Differential Equations teacher is enough to get him out his restlessness. Today, Mr. Mead is wearing a plain white shirt under a stylishly faded pink sweater. His pants is a dark maroon that clings quite nicely to his ass, paired with black Vans that has laces of the same reddish brown shade.
No 50 year old man should look that good. No 50 year old man should have biceps that prominent. Oliver is certain that his body is nicely muscled, patterned with light, coarse hair on his chest. He's sure that there are some on his abs as well, leading down to his underwear. His jaw is thick with scruff, dark spattered with gray. It's well kept though, styled so that it isn't too long that it looks messy. His glasses is regular and thick-framed in black. It brings a glint into his eyes, though, that makes him look smarter as well as devious at the same time. His monotonous voice booms in the large room, going on about the rules of the Laplace Transform, and just exactly how this theorem is applied to Physics and Engineering.
It's when he's showing the Laplace Transform of e^x sin(x) that Oliver feels vibrations coming from his pocket.
[To Oliver]: Want to grab lunch?
Oliver is starting to wonder if Connor really is the I-don't-do-boyfriends type of guy, because he very much seems like the I-definitely-do-boyfriends type of guy. He doesn't ponder on this now though, but he'll ponder on it later on. And when he does, he'll wonder just why exactly he let his guard down.
[To Connor]: Sure. After my hot Differential Equations teacher finishes his lecture.
[To Oliver]: Hot? Should I be concerned ;p
Oliver glances at his professor, lets his eyes wander about his teacher. Lets them study Mr. Mead's shoulder-to-waist ratio, allows them to glide over the muscles on Mr. Mead's back, before sliding down to his ass--not at all big, but by no means flat. Yeah, anyone 'talking' to Oliver should be concerned with the dirty thoughts of his teacher fucking him so harshly into his mattress that it creaks, thrusting into him while holding him against the wall, or laying down as Oliver rides him to oblivion.
But there remains the fact that Oliver likes Connor, and Mr. Mead is (happily?) married.
[To Connor]: He's married with two kids. So, probably not.
[To Oliver]: And if he wasn't?
And there's a good question. If given a different scenario where Mr. Mead wasn't married, or Oliver's teacher for that matter, he probably would have pursued him, if a bit awkwardly. However, there's also the fact that Connor is in the picture. And as soon as Connor enters this different version of Oliver's life, Oliver is instantly sure what his answer is.
[To Connor]: That question ventures on the possibility of there existing an alternate universe where reality isn't reality, my professor isn't my professor, and I am not me. I refuse to answer such absurdity :)
[To Oliver]: So I'll take that as a yes.
"You should take that as a no," Oliver whispers to himself.
[To Oliver]: P.S. you'd probably make a good lawyer. Ever think about changing majors?
Not bloody likely. Being a lawyer looks very exhausting. He knows. He's seen in television shows.
[To Connor]: No, I'm fine where I'm at thanks. I've seen how insane Criminal Justice students are; pass.
[To Oliver]: Oh, am I insane now?
[To Connor]: Hasn't this always been the case? Denial is the first sign, if you must know.
Oliver can almost hear Connor's little scoff and see his dumbfounded expression, eyes with a playful glint but whole face looking dramatically aghast. He really wants to see Connor.
[To Oliver]: Well, that begs the question of what exactly is the definition of insanity, and in whose or what standards is my being slightly cuckoo considered crazy.
[To Connor]: No need to have standards to see how apparent certain people's craziness is.
[To Oliver]: I take that back; you won't make a good lawyer. Innocent until proven guilty, regardless of your client's innocence. Or guiltiness.
This time, it's Oliver's turn to scoff. He can totally make a badass lawyer. He would own it. He'd hack his way into all these private information. He has to work on the intimidating aura though. Oliver doesn't think he has an intimidating bone in his body.
[To Connor}: Right. How exactly did we get to his topic?
[To Oliver]: Argument through Philosophy?
[To Connor]: We should have been Philosophy majors.
Oliver and Connor have lunch in the Three Seasons Cafe (weird name because there are four seasons). It's a little cafe built inside their university owned by the Culinary Arts department. They make a pretty damn good quiche, and that's what Oliver ends up ordering with a cup of coffee. He's not addicted to coffee; it just makes him feel really good.
Connor buys the Fruits and Nuts mix. Except, they end up playing with it--Connor throwing the almonds into Oliver's mouth, Oliver tossing the grapes to Connor's.
***
It's 10:30 pm.
On a Thursday.
It's the day before their next not-date.
It's also the day after he told Connor he's jerked off to him.
It doesn't take a lot for Oliver to send Connor a good night text.
He gets a reply in less than sixty seconds.
***
Time has a funny way of working. It has the annoying habit of speeding up when you're dreading an occasion. On Friday, Oliver wakes up bright and early. He makes himself a nice, steaming cup of coffee and reads the news from his iPhone.
He plays one set of sudoku before leaving for the gym where he runs on a treadmill at 8.0 mph for 25 minutes and works on his chest.
When he gets home, it's only 12:00 pm. He wastes some time playing sudoku, solving crosswords, and downloading new apps. He plays a mixture of 7 Little Words, and Words with Friends, and 2048, and other games that are just as time consuming.
It's five hours later that he starts to panic, and Oliver wonders exactly just where the time went.
He's going to dinner with Connor. Sure, it's only at Applebee's, but the setting doesn't make the occasion less significant in whatever this is between them. He takes what seems to be the quickest shower he's ever had, but his watch proves it to be ten minutes. He brushes his teeth and shaves slowly, making sure not to miss a spot, but it feels as if it only took less than two minutes.
He rifles through his whole wardrobe, certain that there isn't anything appropriate to wear. He thinks he's about to hyperventilate when he finally decides on his skinny jeans, plain white tee, and a gray cardigan.
And he's only spraying on his cologne when he hears the doorbell ring.
He takes a couple of deep breaths before he marches to the door and opens it with a smile. He's struck in place as soon as he does. Because in front of him is one blindingly attractive Connor Walsh with what seems to be Mr. Mead's style of tight jeans matched with a bright-colored sweater, and Vans. His beard is trimmed nicely around his jawline, lips stark red and eyebrows neatly plucked. His hair is styled in a combover, and Oliver doesn't admit that he digs it, but he digs it.
"Wow, you look great," Connor says genuinely.
"You look better than great," Oliver says dumbfoundedly. It's probably the understatement of the decade. "You look amazing."
"I doubt I look better than you," Connor smirks. Oliver doesn't believe it.
"Well, keep doubting, but you do."
Connor chuckles. "Lets stop complimenting each other. I have a feeling we'll be stuck here for quite a long time if we don't get going."
"Right," Oliver agrees. He steps out of his apartment and begins locking the door. When he finishes, Connor leads him with a hand on the small of his back. It feels nice.
When they get to the car, a Lexus ES that Oliver thinks is the 2010 model, Connor starts the night with grab on Oliver's ass. It's quick and chaste, a sort of greeting.
Connor doesn't open the door for Oliver, and Oliver sort of likes it that way. It doesn't make him feel as incompetent.
The ride to Applebee's was filled with small talk, seeing as they had already glossed over everything important through their constant text messaging. When they finally arrive, Connor and Oliver are led to a table near the window. Apparently, Connor had called beforehand so that they didn't have to wait.
It doesn't take long for their waiter to approach them.
Oliver is immediately tense because the boy looks very pretty, and Oliver is sure that their waiter has taken an interest in Connor because there seems to be spark behind his irises. He suddenly feels extremely protective of what isn't technically his.
"Good evening," the waiter says. "My name is Dan, and I'll be your server for tonight."
Oliver doesn't really listen though, wonders just how this night will end. He hopes it ends on a good note.
He hears Connor saying something about two glasses, and Oliver nods in agreement.
When the waiter leaves, Oliver releases a breath he didn't realize he was withholding. Connor is smiling at him already.
"No need to be nervous," he says coolly, before glaring at someone from across the restaurant.
"I'm not," Oliver lies. He huffs another breath before restarting his attitude. "Classes going okay?"
"Not by a mile," Connor says exaggeratedly. Oliver already knows that Connor doesn't really mean that. His expectations is just higher than most people's; where a B in a class means failing, and an A- means below average. Oliver is like that too.
"I'm starting to regret becoming a Criminal Justice major," Connor says semi-exasperatedly.
"That's a shame," Oliver claims.
"And why exactly is that a shame?" Connor asks, smirking. Oliver pushes his glasses up.
"I read that only a little over one million people in the United States are lawyers. Statistically speaking, that's pretty small. Assuming that the rate incoming and rate outgoing are nearly equal and of constant value; that's only about one in every 300 people you meet, i.e. between .35% to .40% of the general population. In addition to that, only about three fourths of that percentage are identified as male. Though that is decreasing because more and more women are entering the field--which we would use a differential equation to calculate a more precise number for. However, for arguments sake, lets say that that's constant as well. Only about 10% to 15% of those male consider themselves homosexual. All in all, only .03% of the American population are male, homosexual, and a lawyer, with an uncertainty of plus or minus .01%."
Oliver takes a deep breath after his long explanation. Connor isn't saying anything though, and oh god, Oliver has definitely turned him off. Who spouts bullshit statistics like that anyways? Nobody likes nerds, and most definitely not know-it-alls.
"I'm sorry," Oliver starts nervously. "I don't know why-"
"No," Connor interrupts him. He's staring at Oliver with what seems to be sparkles of admiration dancing in his eyes. "No. No. That was very impressive."
Connor leans closer across the table.
"And informative."
Connor places his hand on top of Oliver's.
"Mind-boggling, to be quite honest."
Connor is searching for something in Oliver's face, unblinking.
"And incredibly hot."
Connor kisses him from across the table.
It doesn't last long. Oliver doesn't really know what to say, wonders exactly what it is in him that makes Connor infatuated.
"Also, was that your way of telling me I'm one in a million? Because if not, I'd be mildly disappointed." Connor tells Oliver as he pulls away ever so slowly.
Oliver is saved from answering because the waiter comes again, a tray of two glasses of water and a pitcher in hand.
"One for you," he says as he places one in front of Oliver. When he sets the other glass in front of Connor, Oliver doesn't miss the way he lingers just for a beat too long. And it might also be in his mind, but he thinks he hears a flirtatious tone when the waiter announces, "And one for you."
Oliver doesn't usually give people the stink eye, but oh, he really, really wants to give the waiter one.
Lucky for the waiter, Oliver is trying to be in his best behavior on his and Connor's not-date. Not that it takes much; Oliver is a very peaceful person. Usually.
"Are you two ready to order?" the waiter (Dez?) asks, though he's facing more toward Connor. And Oliver is just a tiny bit irritated.
Oliver doesn't answer, waits for Connor to announce his order. It's only common courtesy. Connor, however, is silent. Oliver sees that Connor is staring at him on top of his menu, and it stirs something inside Oliver that even though there's this really good looking waiter not three feet from them, Oliver owns Connor's eyes.
It's awkward when nearly a whole minutes passes, and nobody has said anything. The waiter gives a light cough.
"I'm sorry?" Connor asks sweetly, not removing his gaze from Oliver's.
"Your order?" The waiter (Dylan?) repeats, and Oliver hears the slight annoyance in his voice. He may or may not find joy in it.
"Can we get the 2 for $20?" Connor begins.
"Mhm," the waiter starts writing on his little notepad.
"A 7 oz House Sirloin for me," Connor says dazily.
"And a Three-Cheese Chicken Penne," Oliver adds.
"And for the appetizer?" the waiter (Dave?) continues.
It only takes a beat for both Oliver and Connor to say in unison, "Onion Rings." And when they do, they both start laughing, not even noticing that the waiter had left with a mutter of "annoying" and "bloody four-eyes" and "freaking sticky hair."
It's when they're eating their appetizers that Oliver says something about it.
"You know, the waiter Denny has a little thing for you," Oliver says playfully.
"Dan," Connor corrects him. "And who cares. I mean, anyone who tries to hit on someone who's obviously on a date is just an asshole."
Oliver is about to say something when one word makes itself distinguished. He doesn't say anything, makes sure he's heard correctly. It rhymes with a lot of words, is the thing. Wait. Late. Mate.
"So... we're on a date, then?" Oliver asks cautiously. Connor looks at him as if he's grown two heads.
"Are we not?" And then Connor's eyes widen. "I mean, if you don't want it to be a date, that's totally fine. I just assumed that... this whole week... since you were... and I-"
Oliver thinks a flustered Connor is the most adorable. He decided to put him out of his misery though.
"I do. Well, I hoped. I wasn't sure, so thanks for clearing it up." Connor breathes a sigh of relief.
"For the record, I practically had to glare at someone to stop them from staring at you."
Oliver is disbelieving, but he does remember an instance where Connor gave a particularly nasty stare at someone across the room. He doesn't ponder on it though, just focuses on what happening now--a really, really nice dinner.
When they finish eating, Connor suggest he pay for the whole meal. But Oliver had refused, accusing Connor of treating him like charity. Connor relented in the end, and Oliver felt rather independent.
On the ride home, Oliver feels Connor up as he's driving. Connor jokingly calls him an 'asshole' and declares him 'incredibly mean' in between heavy gasps. He ends up stopping at a dark parking lot where Oliver begins unbuckling Connor's belt, and the other boy lets out a sigh when his dick finally springs free.
Oliver takes him in his mouth, open wide enough to accommodate every inch of Connor's member. He spreads spit all over Connor's penis, jerking it up and down with his palm as well as sucking the head. He pulls off to suck at Connor's balls, and the musky odor of it is almost irrelevant when Connor lets out a lengthy moan. It's guttural, and it sends a flare to Oliver's dick. He licks up the large vein, sliding his tongue smoothly from base to tip. And when he gets to the top, Oliver inserts his tongue in Connor's urethra and licks. He's rewarded with a shake from Connor's legs, hands on the seat with a grip so tight that Oliver is certain it's painful. He begins to suck at the tip again, slips his tongue between the head and the foreskin. He licks it clean before taking Connor wholly once more. Oliver tries not to gag when Connor takes him by the head and pushes up slowly. He thinks he feels the the tip of Connor's cock hit the back of his throat, but he doesn't get the chance to think about it because Connor is incessantly thrusting up now. And Oliver really wants to tell him to slow down a little bit, that he needs to work on this urgency to always be in control, but he can't really talk with a mouthful of dick. He just lets his mouth relax.
Connor's moans are getting louder and longer and hotter, and Oliver is sure that the climax is about to happen soon. He's proven correct when Connor pulls at Oliver's hair a little too harshly that it stings, pushes into Oliver's mouth so deeply that it brings tears to his eyes. Connor starts coming, groan reverberating against the windows of the car. Oliver lets the bitter-salty taste of it flow down his throat, milks Connor as much as he can before pulling off and wiping his spit-slick lips.
"Goddamn," Connor says, stroking Oliver's hair with his fingers. "Here let me do you next."
Oliver doesn't relent though, keeps his legs closed from embarrassment.
"No need for that," Oliver whispers, hopes Connor wouldn't ask any questions.
"Why not? I don't feel comfortable being the only who came." Connor retorts. And when Oliver doesn't say anything, Connor gasps.
"Unless, you came already?" Oliver doesn't look at Connor, just hopes the blush in his cheeks isn't prominent in the dim light. "You totally did! Oh my god, Oliver. I didn't know you liked sucking dick that much."
When Oliver looks back, it's to be surprised with a kiss from Connor. It's sloppy, with messy lips and even messier tongues. It's not hurried, but it is quick from the need to just taste taste taste. It's not careless, but it is lax from wanting to just want. And it's definitely not violent, but it is intense with the burning desire for each other. When they pull back, they don't say anything. They just stare out at the dark lot in front of them, and Oliver wonders exactly when he became so overwhelmed with lust.
Connor turns on the ignition for what seems like hours after the blow job session. When they arrive in front off Oliver's apartment building, they don't kiss goodbye. But they do hug, and Connor promises to call later tonight if not tomorrow.
Oliver takes what he can get and begins the walk up to apartment 303, hopes his legs are strong enough to carry him right now. When he finally gets inside his bedroom, he stops to think about the night. After a moment of recollection, he lets out a manly shriek before heading face first into his bed, stomach all but filled with fireworks, butterflies, and everything nice.