Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ever downloading Tinder had been a mistake. A big one. Maybe the biggest one you had ever committed. But now it was too late. Now you were sat in a way too expensive café in a part of town that was gentrified to the max, somewhere close to your university’s campus.

You should’ve swiped to the left. You knew you should’nt have. And you knew you would not have swiped right any other day. But his profile came up when Tinder made you click on one of those Secret Admirer cards and that was enough for desperate you to even linger on it for more than a second. That more than a second turned into more than a minute and that turned into you staring at your phone screen for an uncertain amount of time.

This man had an awful Tinder profile. A profile that was not worthy of being perceived for longer than the blink of an eye. It was a profile which you would’ve usually swiped left without even fully processing the first image, let alone reading the name on it. It was the epitome of all bad you had ever found on Tinder and maybe, just maybe, that’s what made you actually look at the whole profile.

Not one picture was of his face. First of all, they were all shot in black and white. Not one slither of colour in any of them. Second, only half were of what you presumed to be him. He actually used all nine photo slots and only maybe two were of him. The rest were photographs of women in little and no clothing. Looking back, maybe all of them were completely unclothed. Their bodies draped themselves like blankets over random pieces of furniture. One of them looking like an IKEA Kallax shelf. While all those women’s faces were obscured by their arms or their hair falling in front of it, his face was obscured by him simply refusing to face a camera.

And now you were sitting in front of him. The man, the artist, Jere. Or what he called himself on Tinder: Lover of Aphrodite.

Aphrodite’s lover was sat behind a tiny menu with more milk than cake options on it, he had been reading through it for thirty minutes now. The menu was printed on an A5 sized page. One sided. In his other hand he held a half-smoked cigarette, that had already gone out, because he hadn’t taken a drag from it in quite a while. This had happened three times to this particular cigarette. He was talking about the vegan, gluten-free chia-seed-buckwheat-chocolate-pineapple cake. Your eyes were tied to his lips, without processing any of the words coming out of them. A heavy fin n ish accent laced what ever he was uttering at the moment. He stopped for a second, only to relight his cigarette, take a drag of it and then pull a snus box out of his pocket and putting one of the little packets in his mouth.

“I don’t get… this”, he paused. Finally, some words were registering. “This gluten free… thing, yes.” Another pause. You eyed the man in front of you. He had smudged eyeliner around his eyes, likely in an attempt to look like someone like Gerard Way, but it came off more like a six-year-old breaking into their mum’s make up drawer. The bangs of his bowl cut were gel glued to his forehead in something that reminded you eerily of the McDonald’s logo. You had been craving a burger ever since he had sat down in front of you. “Gluten”, he finally continued, “I don’t believe in this. It’s just… fashion.” God this man was insufferable. You could already feel your blood rush to your nether regions. Absolutely pathetic.

“I’m not hungry anymore”, you say, breaking him off and earning a surprised look. The first emotion this man has ever shown in your presence. You set your menu down on the table and raise a brow at him. You need to get this over with. “Wanna fuck?”

A couple of minutes later you are in his apartment. It’s a loft. Because of course it’s a loft. What else should it be? The struggling artist, as he described himself on Tinder, had not mentioned how this place was being paid for, but something deep inside of you knew it had to be his dad. This man for sure has a trust fund. The thought of it brought immense heat to your core.

He led you into a room that was both living and bedroom. There was a giant portrait of a shirtless man with green lips on the wall in front of the bed. It was a self-portrait, and it was staring right at you. Directly into your soul, judging you for ever entering this bedroom. Not because it was a bad decision on your side, which it definitely was, but because you were beneath him and not worthy of entering this room, let alone touching the bed placed directly in front of it.

The lover of Aphrodite sat down in the middle of the bed. Right. In front. Of the. Portrait. The Portrait. He looked at you. Almost in challenge. His hand slowly s naking down his stomach, hi s fingertips sliding under the band of his trousers, his fingers quickly undoing the button and zipper. A slightly below average cock popped up. It looked completely unremarkable. You surely have never seen a penis this boring. It was not even ugly, it was just… a verage . At best.

He looked at you through his lashes. His voice something one might hope to describe as sultry. “Suck,” he commanded.

You hoped he didn’t hear the sigh that slipped through your lips. Or maybe you did. This man was exhausting you with his sheer existence, yet he made you feel violent arousal. Your undenyable physical reaction to this pathetic excuse of an artist terrified you.

There was not a second you spent on making a show for him. You needed to be fucked by this man and it had to start by his cock filling your mouth. You needed it. Desperately. And it felt so good when the tip finally entered your mouth. You really did need it.

Soft moans from Jere hit your ears. This man had such a beautiful voice when he did not use it to talk about gluten. You could listen to him all day. It felt good. It felt so good. You almost didn’t mind it when he did start to talk. Almost. In the beginning you actually did not mind it at all. The soft praises of “so good” and “just like that” mixed in sent shivers down your spine. The positive kind. It was only when he started to near his climax when he started calling out for a person called Bojan, followed by a loud “peliä!” and hot cum hitting the back of your throat, that you wished he had just kept his mouth shut.

H e was panting heavily, his chest rising and sinking at a quick pace. Sweat was dripping from the dark arches that were his bangs. Without giving you a second look he pulled up his pants and got up. “Fun time, yes yes, you know where door, right?”

You looked at him, a bit shocked. The taste of his cum was still left in your mouth, salty but somehow sweet. Something inside you had switched to autopilot as you walked past him to leave his apartment.

As you closed the door behind you, you heard his voice one last time: “I’m not gay, this only one time thing!”

Don’t question it, you thought to yourself. Never think of him again.

Two weeks later you got a message at 3am on a thursday.

Lover of Aphrodite: you up?

Lover of Aphrodite: 029311945.jpg