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When had their little arrangement started? Heathcliff was never one to overthink things, but it did crawl at the back of his mind regularly, whenever he entered Meursault’s room after a long day, checking this way and that to make sure nobody was around to see him shuffle into a door that wasn’t his — like a child that had been caught sneaking out of bounds. He supposes there are no Hindleys or Josephines to catch him and send him running astray now. They’re dead, after all, seen to it by his own hands. Or, well... Maybe he should be focusing on the very alive person that he had come here to visit in the first place. Yes, that would be good — Heathcliff gasps as he readjusts his grip in Meursault’s hair, reframing his lips against the pair that are inhaling so desperately between kisses that Heathcliff can feel every expansion of his chest and a rush of air every time he pulls the slightest bit away. Yes, Meursault was alive, as per contract, and, in the plainest terms, he felt good. Meursault is an almost addictive kisser, grabbing hold of the front of Heathcliff’s shirt like a lifeline, only to forcefully yank him closer at times, to never part from each other’s lips for more than the time it takes to join back together again, one kiss forceful and the next tender as they push and pull on each other in a never-ending conflict.
When they finally part, Heathcliff gasps for air while Meursault stares up at him, barely afflicted at all aside from a slight sheen of saliva on his lips. “You’re behaving differently than you are on most days,” are the first words uttered since Heathcliff entered his room. “Typically you would have most of your clothes off by now.”
Heathcliff almost feels like laughing at the bluntness of the statement, if not for how he’s encapsulated by how the flush on Meursault’s cheek reveals something beyond words; a subconscious, subliminal response. “Do you not like it?” he mumbles, stealing chaste kisses from his cheek. His hands wander lower, to the fabric of Meursault’s vest, undoing its buttons and pushing it off his shoulders.
Meursault doesn’t flinch. “You feel good.”
For a moment, Heathcliff is stunned by the paleness of his chest and stomach, as if his skin hadn’t seen the sun in years; Meursault grabs him by the arm and the contrast is stark as night and day. The thought disappears as a tug on his arm forces them closer, the thick denim of their pants providing just the right friction to satiate their urge for stimulation as their bodies rub up against one another, sharing space and heat. Meursault lets out a quiet exhale as his hips buck into Heathcliff’s, returning that pressure as warmth begins to buzz under his skin; Heathcliff works him like dough, pressing up against his cock and kneading out the tension in his spine through each repetitive, comforting movement of his hips. A hand comes to reciprocally rest on Meursault’s waist, strong and firm in its grasp, as Heathcliff grows heavier in his movements, more forceful — his long eyelashes have squeezed shut, a heavy breath escaping his mouth. Meursault chooses not to kiss him again in favour of letting him breathe, although he won’t deny that the act of physically stealing Heathcliff’s breath would not be beyond his current desires — the stiffness of Heathcliff’s erection, as well as his own, give each other something more tangible to grind up against, stimulation causing more stimulation; he can feel it in every twitch of Heathcliff’s thighs and stuttering breath as he chokes on the smell of their arousal. Meursault reaches up and undoes Heathcliff’s tie; it falls onto his chest before he immediately tackles the buttons on the front of his shirt, ignoring the harness in the way before sliding his hands down Heathcliff’s chest. A thumb runs over each nipple — Heathcliff bites his lip and leans into the touch, harshly bucking down as heat surges through his body.
“Like looking and touching, don’tcha?”
“Of course,” Meursault affirms with a small nod. Heathcliff grins and slows his assault; he arches his back slightly, leaning into that touch, the curve of his waist becoming more prominent to accompany the look of his tits. Meursault pinches one nipple and uses his other hand to slide down the small of his back, pulling him up closer onto him and coaxing his nipple to harden, the calluses on his thick fingers giving just the right friction to stimulate his arousal, until it’s replaced by the much better feeling of Meursault’s mouth around it instead. A tongue works its way around his flesh, playfully pressing against his nipples, the hand on his waist trailing up to play with the other. Heathcliff’s chest is warm and soft, the tip of Meursault’s nose is cold as he relentlessly digs into his flesh.
Teeth clamp down around him gently — “Ngh, shit, mate,” Heathcliff gasps, gripping tighter onto Meursault’s waist as he feels a light pinch. Although his own blood had been acutely pumping through his veins, a sensation deeply familiar before and after a fight, he feels more of that blood rush down south at the inkling of danger. Meursault lets go at the instinctive recoil from Heathcliff, a small string of saliva connecting him to Heathcliff’s chest. He wipes it off with the back of his hand, lips slightly raw and tender and parted as he takes air into his heaving chest, shifting his uniform greatly with every breath.
Heathcliff glances down at Meursault to search for any kind of discontent — the only thing he sees is a glorious, dumb, fucked-out look in his emerald eyes. A light blush has settled on his cheeks, and his typically laser-sharp focus is scattered, piercing, his analytical eyes hazy with lust. For a moment, the two of them just breathe , the air filled with the sound of them catching their breath. In, then out, then in again — the expand and contract of Meursault’s own chest, which is far broader than Heathcliff’s, reveals just a sliver more of skin from under his unbuttoned shirt every time; he wants nothing more than to peel off that second skin to get to the meat below. Heathcliff is sure he looks the same. The thought makes him grin as he palms up Meursault’s crotch, feeling his cock twitch through layers of fabric, momentum returning through the carnal desire to feel flesh against flesh, pleasure for the sake of pleasure; his palm sinks into that softness, feeling around for the tip of his cock and Meursault’s eyes flutter shut, his lips parting with a gentle exhale through the nose. “Continue,” he breathes, feeling up Heathcliff’s chest with both hands.
“I’ve had a rough-“ he yanks off Meursault’s pants swiftly, before reaching into the bulge in the man’s boxers, “fucking day…” he trails off, half forgetting the rest of the sentence. A slight shiver goes through his spine at the weight of his cock in his palm, the prominence of its veins running along the shaft evident by touch rather than sight, almost yearning to be in Heathcliff’s hand.
“I know,” Meursault says, and his voice is as smooth and soothing as can be, as he rolls Heathcliff’s nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “And it appears you would be planning to take it out on me.”
Heathcliff takes a deep breath in as he runs his thumb across the man’s slit, precum slick and drooling over the cockhead. Meursault opens his eyes as Heathcliff stares back apprehensively, teasing out the moment with his thumb. A soft groan escapes him as Heathcliff pumps his shaft at an aggressive place, the calluses on his palm and fingers flooding Meursault’s lower body with pleasure. He, too, then reaches for the zipper of Heathcliff’s pants, palming Heathcliff as a quick tease — a long, drawn out breath escaping him through grinning lips as Meursault’s heavy palm pushes against his cock. His hips jitter into the warm and welcoming hold; by cause of friction, Meursault also jerks with him as he tugs on his cock, a startled gasp spilling out of his typically composed demeanour. Heathcliff lets go of him in favour of fighting off his own pants.
“Hurry up,” Meursault says. “Get your clothes off faster.”
Heathcliff clicks his tongue in disappointment but crawls off of him anyway, hand still moist with arousal as he kicks off his pants and undoes his shirt, careful not to soil it. “Unfair,” he breathes, watching as Meursault exposes more of his chest as he shrugs off his work vest, “I already did all the heavy lifting for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Meursault says. “But it appears you are already willing to listen to anything I tell you.” A small smile threatens to break through the edges of his expression — the slight curve of his lip and the hitch in his voice is more than enough to make Heathcliff practically melt with arousal.
“Yeah, yeah, only ‘cause you’re hot enough to get away with it.” Heathcliff mumbles in return. He strokes himself to appropriate hardness (which doesn’t take him long) before climbing over Meursault, who has equally stripped himself of his pants and vest (but not his shirt or socks, curiously enough). Meursault catches him staring and opens his mouth to explain — “A word outta there and this cock is going down your throat, ya hear?”
Meursault closes his mouth and swallows; his throat bobs, and for a moment Heathcliff enjoys dangling that power over his head. A smile breaks out on his face, wide-toothed and scandalous, his already narrow eyes pushed up with laughter. Meursault is only allowed to indulge in the image for a second before he’s closed the gap between them, and encapsulates Heathcliff’s lips in his once more. Although the arousal of kissing was strong enough — or rather, has been strong enough, with the amount of times Heathcliff would steal a dirty kiss or two in the middle of work, after he’d riled himself up with adrenaline before and after a big fight — it’s almost nothing in comparison to him pressing their bodies, chests and stomachs, together in the same motion, as if Heathcliff were attempting to attack Meursault by cutting off his air supply and trapping him under his body weight. He grinds up against him, the weight of his cock against his stomach heavy and hot against him; Meursault unabashedly moans against Heathcliff’s tongue as he sucks and bites on his lower lip. After a few experimental thrusts, Heathcliff finds the right rhythm against his body and begins rolling his hips in a steadily, the heat of his cock rubbing up against his inner palm and Meursault’s cock dribbling with precum already. Despite his body’s insistence on feeling out the entirety of Meursault’s mouth, he pulls away from the kiss in favour of thrusting up against him better. Saliva cools the moment their lips part with a light gasp, wiped away before it reaches the point of discomfort by the back of Meursault’s hand once more. Heathcliff steals a peck on the corner of his mouth before readjusting his position, seating himself nearer between Meursault’s pale thighs.
The new position brings Heathcliff just up to Meursault’s broad chest. A stifled moan escapes him as he thrusts into his own hand, the thickness of Meursault’s shaft rubbing up against him in just the right way; his head falls to the wayside, ear pressed tight up against the light grumble that emanates from the man’s chest, and something in his own tightens. There it was — the hammering of his heart in his chest. Proof that he doesn’t solely live in his dreams. Real, reality, physicality of being so desperately pushed up against each other, wordless and free of judgement, just the meeting of bodies and no minds behind it.
Heathcliff squeezes his eyes tight, perspiration threatening to seep through his eyelashes as an open-mouthed groan escapes him, pushing up closer, harder, faster against Meursault’s body and the broad expanse of his shoulders. He was not a small man by any means, but Meursault was just bigger than him — slightly broader around the shoulders, thicker around the upper arms, a little taller and slightly more well defined around the thighs. Heathcliff wraps his hand around them tighter, pressing his thumb against his tip, and then Meursault’s; by nature his cock is slightly longer than his too. As he pushes in slightly, attempting to make his thumb level with both cockheads in hand, Meursault lets out a deep groan.
He might be imagining it, but he can almost feel Meursault’s heart skip a beat.
He breathes deep, pressing his head closer to his chest, feeling his warmth permeate his cheek and the blood run just under his flushed skin. Heathcliff’s eyes close as he thrusts against Meursault’s stomach, feeling the way his well-trimmed hair rubs up against him along with every twitch of his stomach flexing, the heat of his body thrumming through him like fire and searing him open through arousal and embarrassment that crawls over his heart like ice. Meursault’s grasp tightens around him, almost protective, and yet sensual in the way he slides closer down to Heathcliff’s inner thighs, and it makes his mind slip from all sense of reason. He’s so close, so warm, so alive — the tender flesh containing all of him free for Heathcliff to explore. If only he could feel that heartbeat stronger against his cheek! Suspended in heat and warmth and sweat, the steady rhythm makes him want to split open that pale chest and curl up against its beating heart, so that he may never forget its pattern, so that it would be completely and entirely his to feel, to touch, to hold. How, surely, if it would cause him no pain, he would be closer to him, and this pleasure from their proximity would only be heightened the closer and closer they were — if only he could be closer than beyond the physical boundaries of skin, if only he could split open the milky white of his chest and press his cheek up against that throbbing heart, only to be enveloped and drowned in the blanket of his skin and become one with his bones, because he could never be close enough! How tragic it is to be born in this body, where his skin only hinders him from that beating core he wants. If only it wouldn’t stop him from closing that degree of separation, if only he could be the only one to see and feel his partner wholly and completely until they were one and the same, if only–!
“I am beginning to suspect that your enjoyment goes beyond what one would typically consider appropriate.”
Heathcliff snaps back to reality, freezing as if his thoughts had been caught mid-think. To his amazement and horror, precum trails down his knuckles, as if staining his hands with the physicalization of his thought crimes. “Ungh…” Pleasure thrums hot behind his eyelids, as if Meursault pushing him to the edge has turned his brain into a thick sludge, but he wants to hold on for that bit longer, to share this moment for a few more minutes, hours, eternity . “Haah, fuck…”
“Your heartbeat is particularly elevated,” Meursault says, the slightest softness colouring the corners of his speech as he caresses his inner thigh. Heathcliff shivers as he presses ear closer to the vibrations of his chest as he speaks, “and so is mine.”
“I know,” Heathcliff groans. “I can… feel it.” And he doesn’t tell Meursault, but he tries to time his strokes in time with that beating heart under his skin, to match every step and stutter of it. Shame and anxiety washes over Heathcliff in crashing waves, his cheeks reddening and his heart palpitating, yet the sensation only spurs him on to imagine Meursault doing this to him directly; reaching in and pumping his dead heart back to life, writhing in its place as the horror of realisation that Meursault has not only witnessed but understood his depraved actions dawns on him. Every erratic contraction of his heart is only amplified by the heat, the shame, resounding in his ears and pounding against his chest, begging to be set free.
A hand is suddenly pressed into the side of Heathcliff’s head, an almost comforting, assuring gesture, one that’s surprisingly more tender than sexual by any means. Meursault’s palm is warm and oddly dry, and his fingers take great care to not obfuscate his vision or hearing. Heathcliff shudders as he all but melts into Meursault’s palm, the warmth of his hand and chest.
“You seem to be responding well to external stimuli on top of your new fascination.”
Heathcliff doesn’t say anything. Whether it’s shame or something else he doesn’t know, but frustration of his building arousal not matching the explosive feeling in his chest is enough to make tears threaten to prick at the corners of his eyes—
“Typically,” Meursault continues without prompting, and there’s such a slight hitch in his voice as to barely indicate that Heathcliff is having some sort of impact on him, “the resting heart rate is around sixty to one-hundred. Mine sits on the lower end of that resting rate, and yours… yours tends to be faster.”
His low voice reverberating through his chest straight into Heathcliff’s ear makes the sensation more delectable. Precum dribbles over Heathcliff’s hand from his weeping cock, making each stroke smoother and hotter — a buzzing sensation stirs in his core, wanting to be stimulated further, but he’s in something akin to heaven right now and it would really be a tragedy if it ended; still, Heathcliff feels that familiar indulgent shame stir in his gut. “How the fuck do you even keep track of all this…” he breathes, voice cracking. It isn’t enough; it’s overwhelming; his palm squeezes around Meursault’s cock and digs into his own, heaving shaking breaths from his chest.
“It’s not hard,” Meursault deadpans.
“Well I’m hard right now, so keep going .”
“…You’re shaking more than usual.”
“My bloody knees hurt, shithead, you think this position is easy for me to be in?”
Without another word, Meursault grabs Heathcliff by the waist and flips them so that they’re on their sides, pushing up against him in one swift motion. The added flexibility makes Heathcliff grit his teeth as a moan escapes him, taking a second to feel around their cockheads and readjust his grip, the precum beading from both of them serving as excellent lubrication.
“...There. Now there’s nothing you can do but enjoy it.” Meursault breathes, also having the mobility to thrust back against heathcliff. His eyes half-lid in concentration as he continues muttering per Heathcliff’s commands. “My resting heart rate is seventy-seven BPM. Currently, due to a multitude of factors-”
“What. Factors.”
“Physical activity, a heightened sense of arousal. You, lying on top of me, or beside me, pressuring me .” He takes Heathcliff’s chin into his hand, pressing the blunt top of his fingertip into his lower lip and tilting his chin towards him. Violet irises meet emerald green, his typically unnerving stare ever vibrant against the now red flush spreading over Meursault’s cheeks and the sweat dripping down his furrowed brow. “Your eyes on me.” His hand teases against the inside of Heathcliff’s thigh, rubbing circles into the bone at the intersection where his leg meets his crotch. Unwittingly, Heathcliff’s thighs spread slightly to give better access, a content hum resounding through Meursault as he slots himself neatly into that space, their legs becoming as entangled as their hearts.
“Can I feel a pulse through your lips?” Heathcliff asks, slowing his pace.
“Typically not. That’s why it is ideal for-”
He surges up and encapsulates Meursault’s lips in his own instead of entertaining him with a response. Teeth clash against teeth; there’s a brief, stunned recoil at the chaos of their bodies and lips meeting, before Meursault forces his smooth lips against the scarring of Heathcliff’s, drinking in the way his lip trembles at the sudden movement, how their breaths intermingle as Meursault gasps into his mouth, chest expanding and pushing up against Heathcliff’s with the motion. Hand abandoning their cocks in favour of gripping Meursault closer, rutting up against him now, Heathcliff presses his tongue against Meursault’s and tastes the musky flavour of his breath, raw and unfiltered — much like him, it is undeniably and unforgivably Meursault . He pulls away first for a breath of air, inhaling deeply from his chest as if he were on the brink of drowning, before Meursault steals his breath again. Lip-to-lip, chest-to-chest, their heart-to-heart makes the taste of another man that much sweeter. Heathcliff’s tongue is soft and tender and responsive, and even if he tries to pull back to breathe , Meursault is reluctant to end their connection. He only chases the presence of his warm mouth against his, the weight of his cock pressing into the man’s abdomen as Meursault traps him between his thighs. A strangled noise comes from beneath him, and Heathcliff’s tugging becomes more insistent; he relents and allows those chapped lips to part and gasp for air, but still kisses up the side of his mouth as Heathcliff finds any kind of grip on Meursault’s back, slipping with each and every of his laboured breaths. The man above Heathcliff presses tight-lipped kisses into his jawline, the scarring on his chin and where it interrupts the contour of his stubble, tracing it down to the underside of his chin. With his thick fingers gripped tightly into Heathcliff’s hair, he yanks backwards — underneath his lips, he feels Heathcliff’s throat bob as a sharp, breathless gasp is sucked in, the smooth skin of his typically guarded throat exposed to Meursault’s apathetic yet merciless attack.
At the brush of teeth against his neck, Heathcliff unwillingly keens a quiet, high sound. His breath hitches in his throat — Meursault presses his quivering lips against his Adam’s apple and Heathcliff recoils as if he’s been shot, gasping as he arches into the bed, the pressure of Meursault’s palm against his shoulder and pinning him down fading to the sensation of forceful lips kissing him on the sensitive precipice of his throat so desperately that it hurts, overstimulation wracking his body with tremors as his lips part in silent prayer. His hips rut up into the body above him unwillingly, the heavy weight of Meursault’s cock resting against his stomach a perpetual reminder of his inferiority intermingling with intense arousal.
“You asked me once if I felt anything. If I empathise with others. I do not. But, in attempts to better understand your perspective, I am attempting to understand how you feel.”
“F-fuck,” Heathcliff hisses as Meursault presses his tongue against his jugular, dipping into the crevice of his throat.
It takes him a minute for Meursault to sort out his feelings. First, Heathcliff seems rather aroused rather than upset at his leveraging of his body size against him. Second, the vulnerability seems to be getting to him too — every time he finds a new spot on Heathcliff’s neck or chest that causes the man to twitch and buck his hips into Meursault’s, a sinking, hot feeling surges through him, which urges him to make Heathcliff react again and again in differing ways. Spurred forth by each new discovery on his skin, Meursault grinds against him heavier in pursuit of pleasure, each contact of skin against skin making Heathcliff tremble against him and dig his nails deeper into his back.
“I want to be inside of you,” Heathcliff moans senselessly into Meursault’s ear. I want to cut open your skin and wear you like a blanket, to hold and own your heart so it may never leave me. It gets the desired reaction out of him either way — a short gasp, his throat bobbing as Heathcliff nips at his ear and breathes down his neck, cheek against Meursault’s neck and his heart hammering so loudly, so shamefully in his chest that he can feel it pulsing through his own veins in his neck and palms and cock, up against Meursault’s skin and blue-green veins. The reciprocal pick-up in pace of that hammering doesn’t go unnoticed; it fills Heathcliff with satisfaction along with a spark of pleasure straight to his cock, that tell-tale sound driving him mad, even as his skin loses full contact when Meursault pulls back to kiss at his neck. He holds Meursault’s head closer to his neck, and the man’s eyes suddenly squeeze shut, a delectable stuttered moan escaping him as his teeth scrape against Heathcliff’s throat, kissing over the delicate skin as if to feel each and every one of his veins pulsing beneath the surface.
To find the threat of him arousing rather than something to be avoided — Meursault sinks his teeth into scarred skin before he can finish that thought.
“Ah- fuck!” Heathcliff hisses. White hot pain sears his body, down from his neck to his groin, his heart hammering so heavily in his chest that it might just burst out entirely, and he’s sure, so sure that the pressure behind his eyes is matching the blood pumping through Meursault’s veins at the same pace, at the same rate until they might as well be one in the same—
Streaks of cum paint his stomach — not his, Meursault just blew his load all over him — fuck, he must have enjoyed it — and Heathcliff can feel every throb of his thick cock matching the pace of his heart as it releases all over him. He feels his entire mind slipping too, left with nothing but his aching body pulsating with heat; with a shuddering breath, he holds Meursault close, digging his nails into his flesh and lets his mind go blank with pleasure. His entire body is pulled taught on invisible strings as he releases onto himself, hazy thoughts only distracted by his orgasm pulsating through him to the beat of his anxious heart, and the feeling of pure and utter bliss.
When he comes to his senses, Meursault is sitting above him, his chest heaving with heavy sighs as he catches his breath. At last Heathcliff feels some sort of serenity in their silence, some sort of peacefulness that comes from feeling like someone desires him and doesn’t find him inherently repulsive — it makes him courageous enough to kiss Meursault before he’s had the chance to finish catching his breath. Meursault deepens the kiss, fingertips lightly skimming across Heathcliff’s throat. Heathcliff goes lax with a deep exhale into Meursault’s mouth moments later as he feels his veins throb against Meursault’s fingertips — it soothes him like a sweet lullaby, a hymn to the body and soul.
Overwhelmed with emotion, Heathcliff comes crashing down on the bed, flopping weakly from Meursault’s arms. “Shit…” he mumbles, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck and cum uncomfortably cooling on his stomach as the ringing in his ears fades. He lets his eyes flutter shut, the perspiration against his lashes sticking to itself. “I got… a bit carried… away there…”
“I liked it,” Meursault says without a hint of discomfort — or anything, really, leaving no room for unnecessary rumination. “I enjoyed how you seem to have fewer restraints on your behaviour when we are alone together like this.”
“…Fewer restraints?”
“Biting, whining,” Meursault says, kissing Heathcliff’s cheek. The taste of his own breath is hot against Heathcliff’s cheek. “Describing what you want very clearly. I enjoyed it.”
Heathcliff presses his thumb to Meursault’s waist, feeling the slight rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes. “You weren’t… weirded out by it or anything?”
“I don’t care.” Meursault deadpans. “I have no reason to care. Your pleasure does not detract from mine.”
“...’course. Of course. I uh… fuck, yeah, okay.”
Meursault reaches for the towel by his bedside and starts wiping Heathcliff down first courteously. “Judging from past experience, you would most likely enjoy it if we explored this further, yes?”
He opens his eyes just to roll them at Meursault, still catching his breath even after he wipes himself down quickly and tosses the towel to the side before settling down between Heathcliff’s legs. “Sure- whoa there-!”
Meursault pulls him into a sitting position, tugging with such force that he nearly loses balance. He finds his head pressed flat against Meursault’s chest again, right over his beating heart; a shiver runs through him, not only at which the ease Meursault… forced him into position, but also the slow pounding of his heartbeat, just slightly above its resting rate. His cock twitches against Meursault’s thigh, and the man holding his head to his chest lets out a small exhale — the faintest trace of a smile curls at the edges of his voice when he speaks. “Let me know when you would like to go again.”
Heathcliff steadies himself, his weight supported with a slight tease of his thumb tracing Meursault’s muscular inner thighs. “Again?” Warmth spreads through his core as he grinds his soft cock against Meursault’s skin as his eyes lock onto his. He can’t help the wide grin that spreads across his face, especially as his expression softens and his heart flutters in place, pumping heat through his veins and making him feel ever so alive. “Mate, I haven’t even started.”