Chapter Text
“I can see you staring”
“I’m not trying to hide it”
Kant pauses with the glass at his lips, smiling.The boy’s been following him around for two days now — ever since he came to the studio for a tattoo. He’s exactly Kant’s type too, so it took every ounce of self-control not to give in when he started using every trick in the book to seduce him right there.
He’d gotten a hip tattoo and taken off his entire shirt for it. Kant told him that wasn’t necessary, but the boy just met his eyes and said, “But I want you to see me.”
Kant takes his job seriously. He wasn’t about to ruin it by fucking his client on the tattoo chair, no matter how good he looked.
By the time he finished — thirty minutes of that soft, milk-white skin, those quiet moans he knew were more teasing than pain, and the faint trace of expensive perfume — Kant was half-hard and in desperate need of a cigarette. Or a dozen.
And to make matters worse, after cleaning up and stepping outside for a smoke, Ray was there waiting, cigarette in hand.
Kant tried to ignore him, but it was impossible — he was looking straight at him, head to toe, and Ray looked like he wanted to devour him.
It’s not like Kant never had pretty clients before, he was used to that. Usually, he could treat them professionally, give them a pleasant experience, and let them go. Flirting happened often too, and he was good at handling it — laughing it off just enough not to be rude, leaving clients wanting more tattoos rather than more of him.
He knew how to be charming, and he knew he looked good. He wasn’t narcissistic, it was just the reality of things.
Ray, though… Ray was exactly his type. Small, pretty — so, so, soooo pretty — and hot. He smelled good, had a killer smile, a look that made Kant want to lose control. He looked like he fit just beneath him, and if his moans were any indication, he’d squirm beautifully. But more than that, it was the way he talked.
He flustered Kant in a way no one else could. Usually, Kant was the one dishing lines, making others flush. Ray had him on weak knees, and Kant liked it. He matched Kant’s energy, flirting in a way that left him almost speechless, unsure how to respond. So he didn’t. Afraid that answering might lead straight to a bedroom.
And trust, it’s not like Kant didn’t want to end up in a bedroom with Ray. He’d just met the guy, but the image wouldn’t leave his head…Still, he was a client. And younger than Kant, too. Maybe it was all talk. Kant knew these were weak excuses, but they were all he had to cling to.
It’s fine, he told himself. It’s a heat-of-the-moment thing. We’ll never see each other again. Better this way.
So he tried his best to ignore Ray while finishing his cigarette, who was sucking on his own with that look like he wanted to be sucking on something else.
That should have been the end of it. Except it wasn’t.
–
The next day, Kant wanted to grab some drinks, but his friend Style was busy with work and couldn’t make it to their usual spot. Kant decided to hit a bar closer to home instead.
He arrived, ordered a beer, and sank into a shadowed corner. He wouldn’t admit it, but his mind was still running with images of Ray’s naked chest, those seductive eyes, and even more seductive words. All Kant wanted now was to sit, sip his beer, go home, and jerk off. He didn’t even feel like picking anyone up — it wouldn’t be fair.
And he didn’t even know how it happened, but between his third and fifth drink, he looked up from his phone—and there was Ray. Not at his table, but close enough that he dominated Kant’s attention.
He was alone, looking completely out of place in this shabby bar. Black fur coat, tight pants, glossy lips. Kant could tell he smelled nice. He looked good enough to eat.
Their eyes locked, and Ray didn’t even flinch at being caught. Chin up, gaze fixed on Kant.
Kant took the opportunity to take a deep breath when Ray finally turned around towards the bar. When had he started holding his breath?
Seconds later the barman showed up with a beer in hand saying:
“Compliments of the gentleman over there”.
Kant’s disbelief must have been obvious. He followed the barman’s gesture and saw Ray—nonchalant, perched halfway up the tall chair, eyebrow raised as if to say, your move.
But Kant didn’t move. There was no excuse to deny him now—they were in public, Ray was no longer a client—but he loved this game. He wanted to see how far it could go before one of them broke.
Something deep stirred in his chest. Heat, anticipation, the urge to make Ray flustered and breathless.
He lifted the glass to his lips, still watching Ray, took a sip, and slowly licked his lips. Then he leaned back in his seat, spreading himself out.
He hadn’t dressed up tonight, but he always wore something that flattered him—half-open buttoned shirt, glasses pushed up in his hair, tattoos on display for anyone to see. He wasn’t looking at Ray, but he could feel those eyes on him, and it made his body burn.
A slow smile spread across his face. It felt good to be wanted.
When he finished his beer, he craved a cigarette. He took the longest route out of the bar, making sure he’d pass Ray without a glance. Leaning against the wall, he counted the seconds before the other would follow. Seventy-three.
“Do you have a lighter?” Ray’s voice cut through, no pretense—he was here only for Kant.
Kant let out a wicked smile, flicking his lighter open. Ray pressed closer than necessary. He looked incredible up close. And that perfume… it hit him again. Between the beer and the tension, Kant felt dizzy with desire.
“What are you doing here, Ray?”
“Thought that was obvious…”
“How did you even find this place? Doesn’t look like your usual spot.”
“I have my ways… And you know nothing about me, Kant.”
“Well, I’d say I know a thing or two…”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“For starters, I know what you want.”
“You only know that because I want you to.”
“You really have no shame, huh…”
“Why should I?”
Kant smirked, testing him. “I don’t think you really know what you’re asking for… I doubt you could handle it if I gave it to you.”
Ray’s eyes flared with anger, and Kant felt that spark—made him want to kiss him until he was soft and pliant.
“You really don’t know me, then,” Ray said, tapping off his cigarette with irritation. “But here’s something you should know, Kant: I always get what I want.”
And with that, he turned and walked away.
The way he sounded so sure of himself, the way his cologne lingered in the air, the way the beers swirled in Kant’s mind, fogging his thoughts—he bit his lip and closed his eyes.
Kant had planned on a quick smoke and maybe one last beer before bed, but after that interaction, he could only go home. As soon as he lay down and closed his eyes, his mind betrayed him: memories of Ray moaning in the chair, writhing under him, bright wet eyes looking up. The only way he could fall asleep was to touch himself—and he came so hard he basically passed out.
–
It happened again the next night. Style had messaged Kant to meet at the bowling alley, but Kant found an excuse and ended up at the bar near his place, without even pausing for a moment to consider his choices.
He’d been distracted all day. Every client in his chair reminded him of Ray, of that warm skin beneath his hands. He tried to pull himself together, but it was nearly impossible — by the end of the day, a low, buzzing heat ran through his whole body.
Kant wasn’t even surprised to see Ray already at the bar when he arrived. He still looked out of place, yet somehow it felt perfectly right.
Kant grabbed his beer and slid into a tall chair next to Ray.
“I can see you staring”
“I’m not trying to hide it”
Laughing silently, Kant found the same shadowed table as the night before. This time, Ray followed and sat right next to him.
“You look really good tonight. Did you dress up for me?” Ray was the first to break.
Kant took a sip of his beer, set the glass back on the table, and licked his lips. Then he turned to look at Ray.
He started at the shirt — a tight red one tonight, riding up just enough to reveal a shadow of the tattoo beneath. The leather jacket was draped over the chair. A delicate silver necklace rested on his neck, and Kant lingered there for a moment. Ray’s skin looked impossibly smooth, milky, soft — he could still remember how it felt under his fingers while tattooing him.
Kant’s gaze drifted up to Ray’s face. Always impeccable. His cheeks glowed, probably touched with makeup. He tilted his head slightly and held Kant’s stare, eyes locking with his.
They just stared, and Kant immediately knew it was a game.
Their breathing was calm, controlled. Ray tilted his head subtly, occasionally glancing down at Kant’s lips as if unconsciously.
Impatience crept in — Kant noticed Ray tapping his fingers on the table.
Kant winked, smirking as he saw Ray’s neck flush. Not wanting to lose, Ray leaned closer, lifting Kant’s beer to his lips. After a long sip, he tasted the foam lingering there and let out an “ah,” inching closer to Kant’s face, whispering, “Tastes good,” while his eyes flicked to Kant’s lips.
Kant smirked back.
“You’re very cheeky. Why don’t you drink your own beer?”
“Yours tastes better.”
“They’re the same beer, Ray.”
“But your glass has been in your mouth, and mine hasn’t.”
“So it tastes better because of my mouth?”
“Would taste even better without the third party. Just your mouth on mine.”
Kant let out a small laugh. Ray smiled too, subtly scooting his chair closer.
“I don’t understand why you’re resisting me when we both know you want it just as bad as I do, Kant…”
Maybe it was the beer loosening him, or maybe it was the attention of such a pretty boy on him, but Kant simply said:
“I don’t understand either, Ray… But this is fun, isn’t it?”
“Could be a lot more fun,” Ray said, pouting now.
Kant felt a little guilty. Just a little. The alcohol had warmed Ray’s face, cheeks slightly flushed, making him look even more irresistible. Kant’s mind swam with images of him in every position imaginable. He wondered if Ray was the clingy type in bed or more dominant. Either way worked. With a man this beautiful, he would take it either way.
Maybe he was feeling a little generous tonight.
He placed his large hand on Ray’s thigh, gripping it firmly, and Ray jumped slightly, caught off guard. He had been lost in his own thoughts, watching the other couples and groups in the bar, feeling a little defeated.
Kant leaned in, closing the small gap between them. Ray’s leg almost over Kant’s, burning up where they touched.
“And what’s your idea of fun, Ray?” he asked, voice low and teasing.
Ray immediately sparked back to life. He placed his hand over Kant’s, keeping it there.
“You touching me is a good start,” he shot back, dragging Kant’s hand higher with every passing second.
Kant felt a little lost. He had such a weakness for bold, pretty boys like this. It made him want to put them in their place—like a feral cat that needed taming.
His hand rested now on the crease between Ray’s thigh and groin, and his face was so close he could see how shiny and wet Ray’s lips were. He stretched his fingers and deliberately let them brush against Ray’s member, feeling it twitch.
Ray kept his expression even, but Kant noticed the way his eyelids drooped, his gaze never leaving Kant’s lips. He ground his hips forward slowly, pressing for more contact.
Kant found it all incredibly amusing. Just like that, Ray was putty in his hands.
“I’m gonna kiss you now, Ray,” he announced before finally closing in, their lips meeting.
The first kiss was slow and deep. Kant didn’t let it escalate into anything more intense, keeping it restrained while Ray continued to rut forward against his barely-there fingers.
Ray’s free hand went to Kant’s neck, pulling him deeper, and Kant let it happen. He dropped his other hand to Ray’s waist, guiding and encouraging his movements.
They were in their own little world, back at the bar, where the lights were low enough that no one could really see them—but the fact that they were doing this in public sent a thrill through both of them.
Kant was sucking on Ray’s tongue, letting his hand slip under his shirt, caressing his hip where the tattoo was still hidden under bandages. He scratched along Ray’s sides and felt him tremble at the touch.
Just as Kant was thinking, again, how easy it was to have him melt in his hands, Ray pulled away from the kiss. He stopped moving altogether, but kept his hands in Kant’s hair, kept drawing him in, pressing their foreheads together.
“Come home with me,” he said, his breathing fast, and Kant felt a little dizzy.
Kant didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he didn’t know how to say it. Plus, he liked making Ray wait. There was something about him that made Kant want to push him.
Maybe it was his spoiled attitude, his expensive clothes, the way he carried himself. It made Kant want to tease him, provoke him, get a reaction. Made him want to fuck the smugness right out of him. And he liked it, which was dangerous. He could see himself getting addicted.
“And what’s in it for me if I do that?” Kant finally said—but even as he spoke, he was sliding Ray’s legs away from his, tucking his phone in his pocket, getting ready to move, to stand.
“You’ll get to take me to bed. Finally touch me the way you wanted that day in the chair,” Ray said, rising as well and tugging Kant by the hand.
“Who says I wanted to touch you that day?” Kant dug in his heels as soon as they stepped outside. He pulled out two cigarettes, offered one to Ray, and lit them both. He was stalling, out of principle.
“I saw the way you looked at me, Kant. From the minute I walked into your studio, you wanted to take me to bed.”
Ray looked breathtaking under the moonlight. And infuriating.
“You wanted me just as much,” Kant said, realizing denial was pointless now that they’d kissed, touched, and lingered in each other’s heat.
Kant wanted Ray. He wanted to kiss him, undress him, taste him. Every day since the tattoo, Ray had never left his mind. Even when he was busy—working, talking to his brother, laughing with Style—there was a constant stream of Ray in the back of his head. His cologne lingered everywhere, his words had rooted in Kant’s brain, and his eyes had burned a permanent mark behind Kant’s lids. He was obsessed.
There was no need for Ray to answer Kant, so they stayed in silence, finishing their cigarette. Then Kant followed Ray to his car and before he knew it, they were parking before a large house.
“This isn’t where I live,” Ray said as they walked into the living room, “but I figure it’s better than a motel.”
It was a large, three-story house, but completely empty—a shell. Kant hesitated for a moment, then reminded himself that Ray was probably rich. He looked like the type to own more than one house. It also made sense that he wouldn’t bring Kant to the one he actually lived in—they barely knew each other. This was just a one-night stand. Kant found it amusing that Ray apparently disliked motels. He himself found them thrilling.
“Do you even have a bed here?” Kant asked, trailing after Ray, who was opening the fridge.
“Oh, don’t worry. The guest rooms are fully furnished,” Ray said, taking a bottle of water for himself and handing one to Kant. “Bathrooms too. Wait here.”
Ray disappeared into a small room by the stairs that looked like an office. Kant took the time to glance around. A pool stretched out behind the house. This was way out of league. He couldn’t even picture what Ray’s actual home looked like.
“Okay, let’s go,” Ray called, already climbing the stairs, assuming Kant would follow.
Kant followed him.
They walked into a large room with an open balcony overlooking the back. The décor was simple, but Ray hadn’t lied—it was fully furnished. A bed, a small two-seater sofa, and a cluttered bedside table made it seem like Ray spent more nights here than he admitted.
Ray sank into a chair on the balcony, and Kant followed him outside. From his pocket, Ray pulled a small metal box—the thing he’d taken from the office downstairs.
“I saw the bong in your studio,” he said, answering a question Kant hadn’t asked. Then he began rolling a joint.
The night was quiet, the air heavy with heat. The moon shone bright above, and the yellow glow from the bedside lamp inside was the only other light reaching them out here.
Ray looked, once again, breathtaking. He’d shed his jacket somewhere along the way, and the tight shirt he wore clung to his arms, emphasized the slimness of his waist, the delicate line of his throat. His hair was artfully messy—perfect in a way that clearly took effort. Kant couldn’t stop looking at him; he didn’t even know where to focus.
He wasn’t that distracted, though—he could still tell Ray was doing a terrible job with the joint.
“Give it to me,” he said finally, settling into the chair beside him.
He’d been smoking with Style since they were sixteen, and he’d always enjoyed the ritual of rolling a joint. He liked the precision of it—the way his fingers moved just right to make the perfect cigarette. Style always praised him for that.
“I usually smoke alone,” Ray said absently, as if it slipped out. It sounded like a confession. Something tightened in Kant’s chest, but he ignored it, lighting the joint and taking the first drag instead.
“This…” he said, coughing a little before passing it to Ray, “is some good stuff.”
“Perks of studying at a private university, I guess,” Ray replied, exhaling the smoke from his lungs.
They smoked in silence, side by side.
Kant looked up at the moon. This wasn’t how he’d imagined the night going. He’d pictured them finding a bed, kissing, touching, and then parting ways. He’d been looking forward to finally getting it over with, too. But this wasn’t bad. This wasn’t bad at all.
He felt the weed settle into his body; his thoughts blurred, his eyelids grew heavy. He stared at the moon for so long he forgot, for a moment, that he was a person on Earth—until the figure beside him shifted closer, their arms brushing. The touch sparked through him, sharp and electric, and Kant wanted more of it.
“You know… I get pretty hungry when I’m high,” Ray whispered against his ear, as if speaking any louder might disturb something fragile in the air. His hand was tracing lazy circles over Kant’s, and suddenly everything felt charged.
“Yeah, you’re not that special. Everyone does,” Kant said, voice light. “We can order something later. I doubt you have any food in this house.” He tried to sound casual, but the longer he thought about it, the more the idea of food—and Ray—seemed to blur together.
Silence stretched between them. Kant looked away from the moon and found Ray already watching him, eyes burning with a quiet, consuming fire.
“I’m not talking about food,” Ray murmured, moving closer with the slow grace of a cat. His hand slipped toward Kant’s belt.
Before Kant could form a thought, Ray’s mouth was on his again. The second kiss of the night—but nothing like the first. Time seemed to slow, their breaths tangled, and Ray tasted like something molten and impossible. For a moment, Kant could swear they were melting into one another.
The kiss stayed slow, unhurried, but Ray’s hands moved with purpose. His belt, the buttons, the zipper — all undone in a blur. Then cold fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his underwear, and Kant’s breath hitched.
He pulled back, gasping for air, and Ray took the chance to trail kisses along his cheek, down his jaw, to his neck. Each touch made Kant twitch in his seat, every nerve alight, the haze of weed amplifying everything he felt.
Ray rose from the chair only to sink to his knees between Kant’s legs, and all Kant could do was part them for him.
He looked down and saw as Ray struggled to pull his dick out of the underwear but it felt like it was happening to someone else. He could feel it all but at the same time he felt nothing at all. His hands stayed by his side, his mouth open. And then Ray’s mouth touched him.
He wasn’t hard yet but it wouldn’t take long - Ray’s hands were cold where he held him at the base but his mouth was warm where he closed around the tip. Ray kept sucking him while twisting his hands and soon Kant had to close his eyes and throw his head back in pleasure.
Ray blew him tortuously slow. If it wasn’t for the cloud in his mind, Kant would have thrust up and accelerated things a long time ago, but with the way he was right now everything just felt good.
He was sighing in pleasure more than moaning, his throat dry. Behind his closed lids all he could see was Ray on his knees, and the moon. Ray’s eyes looking at him, and the moon. Ray’s lips around him, and the moon.
Time went on, and Ray kept sucking him. It felt so good, Kant didn’t want it to stop but now he felt the urge to touch Ray again. He felt cold without him.
So Kant opened his eyes and when he looked down he saw Ray in just a lost state as he was - eyes closed, mouth a mess of saliva and precum, lips red and swollen. Kant needed to kiss him.
He gently carded his fingers through Ray’s hair and pulled him from his cock. Ray looked up at him, confused. His eyes were glassed over and he had a pretty shade of pink going from his cheeks down to his chest. Kant pulled him up and he got the hint, settling over his lap.
They kissed and it felt almost tender. Kant could taste himself on Ray’s tongue and he wanted more of it, licking it until the inside of their mouths tasted like them, combined.
Kant pulled Ray flush against his chest so that his cock was right between them, but they both ignored it in favor of keeping their mouths together. They were swallowing each other whole. Kant had never kissed anyone like this before.
The kiss lingered, slow and unrelenting. Every pause for air became an excuse to seek refuge in each other’s necks, only to return to their mouths as if separation were impossible.
Kant had no idea how long they stayed like that, lost in the rhythm of each other, until his phone buzzed in his pocket. Reluctantly, he pulled away to check it.
Babe: Where are you?
Reality hit hard.
When he looked back, Ray’s eyes were wide and pleading, a silent acknowledgement that this moment was fleeting.
“Stay over,” he whispered, his voice rough, carrying the same vulnerability from before, the one that had made Kant’s chest tighten then and now.
“I can’t…” Kant felt the disappointment mirror in his own expression. “My brother,” he offered.
Ray nodded, slipping off his lap and moving back inside. He retrieved something from his wallet and handed it to Kant.
“For the taxi home.”
Kant hesitated, wanting to refuse, but the haze of weed made it easier to accept.
“Will you be okay alone? Do you want me to call one of your friends?” Kant asked, beginning to dress again, pulling on his underwear and pants, securing his belt.
Ray collapsed onto the bed, and suddenly the room felt enormous around him. He looked small, almost fragile, hugging a pillow to his chest as he watched Kant get dressed.
“They’re busy,” he said quietly.
Kant paused, meeting his gaze. He wished he could stay. He wished he could give Ray whatever it was he so clearly needed. But that felt far too complicated for what was meant to be just a one-night stand. Still, leaving hurt more than he expected.
He handed Ray the bottles of water, making him drink at least half before he finally turned to go.
“Thanks for tonight,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Ray’s cheek before stepping out.
From the doorway, he glanced back once more, taking in the small, lonely figure on the bed. Then he left.
And Kant thought that would be the end of it.