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The last vestiges of the sun creep through the blinds, painting red-orange streaks along the walls. Sun sets differently in America and Romania. A Californian sun would color the streets near a fiery red before it says goodbye to make way for the night. And in Bucharest, the sun leaves a yellow gleam, a warmth that has his complexion shifting to gold, as though Midas has touched him. Nigel lies in bed alone, here in his boyfriend’s apartment. Bobby won’t be home until late at night, something about an audit at the precinct requires everybody’s presence.
He has no problem being left alone and unsupervised, contrary to other people’s beliefs.
Nigel has spent so many days and nights alone where he managed to entertain himself just fine. Entertainment involves drugs — he prefers drugs that stabilize his mood, grounds him, and better if it sends him off to sleep — and more commonly, alcohol. Compensating for Bobby’s absence are a couple items beside him: A bottle of gin, a box of cigarettes, a stash of pre-rolled joints, and some pills he took home from the club. He doesn’t do this often, no. Nigel has a healthy relationship with alcohol and drugs, unlike Bobby. He just does this sometimes to wind down, relax, and get himself centered.
Lethargy from the weed and the alcohol kicked in moments ago. Eyelids half-closed as he softly trails his fingertips on the scar running up his flank. A satisfied sound escapes his throat after remembering how he survived such injury.
And no, it’s not by hearing Gabi play her cello. His body simply healed itself back to health. He used to believe that bullshit about music notes miraculously nursing him, as if those sounds stitched the wound up. Fuck that. He was the one who stitched the gushing wound with unstable hands and dirty tools.
Gabi doesn’t get to have any credit for the things he did to help himself. Not anymore.
He opens his eyes completely. No more sunlight on the wall. He fell asleep unknowingly, yet the sluggishness remains. Nigel groans as he twisted to get his phone, checking the time, and seeing that he still has a few hours to spend before Bobby comes home. He misses him already.
He manages to light up a blunt despite being only half-awake, puffing consecutively before letting the rest burn on the ashtray. Nigel stirs in bed, suddenly aware of how soft the sheets feel against his bare skin. He slips his hand beneath the blanket covering his lower half, mindlessly cupping himself before he lets go. For a moment, he considers, hand stilling in place.
Nigel closes his eyes then, giving in to the urge to touch himself. With a retreating sigh, he wraps his hand around his shaft, slowly stroking it to a firmness. He can settle for this, languid and without much effort, building up the pleasure in tiny increments. His legs spread on their own as his free hand settles on his thigh, adding a pleasant weight there all while imagining that it’s Bobby’s hand and not his. Offering a soothing caress to himself, Nigel loosened the hand around his cock.
He can distantly hear a voice in his head telling him to be patient.
He isn’t really the most patient man. He folds a knee and plants a heel on the mattress, hips instinctively raise to chase his hand. He allows himself a few thrusts, pearly precum gathering at his slit. A shudder runs through him as he smears it around the head of his cock, index finger rubbing gently at the sensitive underside. Lips parting to release a sound of frustration.
Bobby should be here doing this to him, instead of him being alone in bed so late at night.
Nigel keeps himself on edge, not giving in to his desires because it seems all of the sudden, he's a masochist. Whenever he bucks his hips up, he splays his fingers, so his cock slides through the spaces, yet again receiving minimal stimulation. Arousal growing so fast without much contact.
He reaches for the burning stick on the ashtray, already burned to the hilt that when he puffed, he almost scorched his fingers. Gray smoke billowed over his head, blinking away the irritating sensation when it touched his eyes.
Palm once again wrapping his shaft, he strokes deliberately. Nigel leaks enough not to require spit or any lubrication. Nigel leaks enough that the sounds become obscene as he hastens his hand.
He delivers himself to a height of pleasure, so close to orgasm, and then he willingly halts. He does it again and again, edging himself for the fun of it. He doesn’t want to come so fast lest he spoils such incredible feeling. The room is dark and cool, sheets warm where his body has been laying for hours, and he's not thinking of anything other than himself… and Bobby.
It’s as if he’s prolonging his pleasure to stay suspended in this perfect dimension.
Haphazardly, he flips himself over. Stiff, wet cock pressed against the blanket, and he begins bucking his hips. After each thrust, another wave of precum stains his stomach and the bed beneath him. He picks up his speed and fucks in earnest, moaning into the pillow.
There’s no shame brewing in his chest even though he could clearly envision himself if seen by the eyes of another. Desperately rutting on the bed while moaning as if he’s doing it for someone else’s amusement.
His legs begin to tremble, toes curling so hard the back of his shins nearly cramp. With no mercy for himself, he stills his movements, wasting a few breaths into the pillow as he steadies himself.
At this point, his pleasure has become a whole different being. A separate entity — beguilingly smirking — watching him writhe because of his own doings. If only Nigel would just give in…
He parts from the bed to get on all fours and extends a hand to the nightstand drawer to retrieve something. The object — toy — remains in the drawer from how frequent they use it. As common as cigarettes and cans of beer scattered around the apartment.
A small bullet vibrator with a cord attachment to its control. Nigel brings the oval bullet to his mouth, and as if the precum on his fingers transferring to the object isn’t enough, he spits on it, wetting it further. Once he believed he wouldn’t enjoy having anything inserted inside him, despite having seen the clear expression of pleasure Bobby wore every time Nigel fucked him. A clear show of how enjoyable it is.
Nigel used to think he just wasn’t into 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 kind of thing.
But so much has changed since then. So much has changed within Nigel since then.
He reaches back and aligns the toy on his hole. The angle of his arm is a bit awkward, awakening a distant ache from the scar on his flank. However, it doesn’t stop him from arching his ass even more, spine curving until his abdomen nearly touches the mattress again.
Its whorish. He feels whorish. Nigel is whorish.
Without effort, he pushes the vibrator in, opening him up like a lone finger would. For a moment, the size is unsatisfactory. Nigel breathes after he notices he’s been holding back his air, all due to the need to have something inside him.
He slips a finger along, pressing down on the toy so it’s right upon his prostate. His finger curls once, causing his stomach to cave in as a hint of pleasure — a different kind — sends a flare into his bones. And he hasn’t even turned the vibrations on yet.
He's just so sensitive, so needy, and so desperate. It’s like everything aches.
Is he even sure it’s just weed he smoked?
Snug and directly against his prostate, Nigel thumbs the control and the small toy comes alive. So do the nerves within his flesh. Soon enough, it feels like the foreign object mends with his walls, and he could feel his whole body reacting to it.
He leaves it alone inside him. Brushing his hair back, wet fingertips getting even wetter with the sweat beading at his scalp. Nigel moans loud enough to be heard through several rooms over. “Fuck,” was a sharp sound from his dry throat before he collapses into the mattress again, face pressed against the pillow.
And this is only the lowest setting.
After what felt like hours of edging himself, the lowest setting would’ve been enough to get him off.
Until it wasn’t.
Nigel, the ever-needy Nigel, switches to the highest vibration, letting his impatience get the best of him. Instead of voicing out his pleasure, his teeth caught the pillow, biting hard to feel the fabric tear. It feels good. So fucking good.
Though his legs are begging to give up, he keeps himself on his knees with his chest flush on the bed. His hips buck due to the consistent vibrations, arching his ass and retreating them in as if there’s something beneath him that he could fuck into.
He holds his breath unknowingly again, jaw loosening up as he releases the pillow to let out a groan. Before he knows it, his cock twitches and he empties his balls onto the blanket, leaking white hot fluid beneath him.
He really wishes Bobby’s there right now.
His knees are jelly and he allows himself to finally lay down, only a little bothered by the wet spot. He turns off the toy almost in a panicked manner, daunted to be overstimulated. Yet, he doesn’t pull out the vibrator.
Nigel is frozen there, completely engulfed in this hazy, light feeling of his orgasm. He works on his breathing and briefly thinks about quitting smoking to do his lungs a favor, but then the thought eventually escapes his mind. Once again, he’s at a moment of peace and quiet, if a little worn and breathless.
Nigel needs and wants more. He’s not about to end the night with only one orgasm.
Perhaps, he can… just leave himself as is. Naked, spent, and sprawled on the bed for Bobby to find when he gets home. It would be like a gift. There’s weed already rolled, even a small bottle of poppers in the drawer, and he already has a vibrator in him.
Only thing for Bobby to do really, is announce his arrival by turning the toy back on, because by then, surely Nigel would already be asleep. Then Bobby could fuck him for as many times as he’d like. Even more, the detective could fill him up to the brim, leave him plugged up for another use in the morning.
Nigel would allow all of it.
He gives it a shallow thought, smiling to himself before he rolls over to the dry side of the bed, the cord wrapping around his thigh.
Or he can be evil and selfish. Just go snooze, and let Bobby come home to forcibly sleep on a wet patch on his own bed.
Again, Nigel considers it. He’s been doing a lot of thinking lately, might as well be considered a fuckin’ genius.
He swirls a fingertip on the small puddle of cum on his stomach, encircling it on the head of his cock before he brings his finger to his mouth to taste himself.
Ultimately, Nigel leaves the decision to Bobby once he gets home.