Archive of Our Own

Andrea Kimi Antonelli was well acquainted with the concept of the fleeting thought.

Human consciousness was deeply flawed and wildly unpredictable, prone to firing off nonsense at the most inconvenient times. People referred to them as intrusive thoughts, but Kimi preferred to categorize them as momentary glitches in the matrix. They were sudden and unprompted observations that hijacked the brain's processing power for exactly three seconds before evaporating into thin air.

For instance, earlier this year, Kimi had been standing in front of an ornate mirror in a hotel room in Florence, preparing to attend his second cousin’s wedding. He had been in the process of tying a knot in his silk tie. His hands were moving awkwardly, phone propped onto the cabinet next to the mirror with a youtube tutorial opened. And then, out of nowhere, his brain had paused.

Why?

He had stared at his own reflection, staring at the strip of expensive fabric hanging from his neck. Who created ties? What purpose do they serve? I am willingly tying a brightly colored strangulation device around my own throat to signal to my extended family that I respect marriage. This is absurd.

Fleeting thoughts happened all the time. Sometimes, Kimi would be walking down the pavement at their campus, his eyes locking onto a medium height brick ledge outside a bank, and his brain would helpfully supply: Huh. I could jump over that. I could absolutely clear that if I sprinted.

He had never done parkour in his life. He had no desire to do parkour. But the thought demanded to be acknowledged and perhaps, it was just the brain testing its own boundaries.

However, the fleeting thought that currently possessed Kimi’s mind was not about neckties or parkour.

It was a Tuesday morning. The sky outside the kitchen window was pale, and it was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant  sound of a bus pulling away from the stop down the street.

Kimi was standing at the kitchen island, doing something extremely mundane. He was peeling a banana, an efficient, highly portable source of dietary potassium. He snapped the stem, pulled down the first strip of yellow peel, and rotated the fruit to pull down the second.

He looked at the exposed fruit. He noted the size, then the girth, and the slight curvature.

And then, his brain short-circuited. A thought was demanding to be acknowledged.

Kimi froze, his thumb resting against the white flesh of the banana. He blinked, head tilting slightly to the left, analyzing the fruit in his hand in the form of a painter scaling an object.

This is familiar, his brain whispered.

Kimi frowned. Familiar?

The size, his internal monologue continued, entirely unbothered by the absurdity of the timing. The dimensions. The slight curve. It is remarkably similar.

To Oliver.

Kimi dropped the banana onto the marble countertop as if it had suddenly caught fire. The fruit landed with a soft thud.

Kimi stared at it. His heart executed a violent palpitation against his ribcage. He gripped the edge of the kitchen island, desperately trying to manually reboot his own prefrontal cortex.

He could not be thinking about this. He had a seminar on digital semiotics in two hours. He was just trying to consume his morning potassium.

But the thought was already there, fully formed, demanding, much like him. Kimi stared at the banana on the counter, swallowed hard, and thought: Huh. I could take him.

See, the thing was, Kimi Antonelli did not do this. He had never done this. He had never, in his existence on this earth, put a man’s penis in his mouth. He had never sucked anyone’s dick. Period.

To Kimi, the very concept of oral sex was terrifying. It defied all logic, reason, and basic human survival instincts.

First of all, from a purely anatomical standpoint, it was absurd. The human airway was a delicate system designed exclusively for the intake of oxygen and the expulsion of carbon dioxide. Introducing a foreign object, specifically, a solid, biological limb, into that environment was a choking hazard that might cause irreversible damage. The gag reflex was an evolutionary defense mechanism designed to prevent asphyxiation, and society had collectively decided to just... ignore it? For fun? It was madness.

Secondly, Kimi was a man who brushed his teeth three times a day. He flosses with religious fervor. He owned an expensive tongue scraper. He was the kind of person who refused to engage in open mouth kissing after a meal. 

If Oliver ate a garlic heavy pasta dish or, god forbid, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, Kimi would literally physically barricade himself behind a throw pillow until his boyfriend had undergone a thorough, two-step dental routine. The mouth was a sacred ecosystem. It had to be protected.

The thought of putting a penis in his mouth was fundamentally repulsive to Kimi's nature. A penis was an external organ. It spent its entire existence confined within layers of cotton and denim, existing in close proximity to sweat glands and friction. It had been places. It was an evolutionary design flaw when it came to hygiene.

He had established this boundary extremely early on.

It was their third week of officially dating. The heady, terrifying rush of new love was still vibrating violently through Kimi’s nervous system. They had been sitting in a highly aesthetic pretentious café in town. Oliver had been wearing a soft grey hoodie, looking like an overgrown, breathtakingly handsome lumberjack who had gotten lost on his way to the woods.

Oliver had been in the middle of enthusiastically explaining the complex rules of rugby. He had a massive, iced matcha latte in his hand, the green liquid swirling around the ice cubes.

Kimi had been staring at Oliver’s mouth, tracking the movement of his lips, feeling that familiar, terrifying swell of affection rising in his chest. And then, completely unprompted, driven by a sudden spike of panic about the trajectory of their relationship, Kimi had spoken.

"I am not going to suck your dick," Kimi had blurted out, slicing right through Oliver’s sentence about tighthead props.

The café had been quiet. A lo-fi jazz track had been playing softly from a hidden speaker.

Oliver had frozen. He had the iced matcha latte raised halfway to his mouth. His eyes had gone impossibly wide. He had slowly lowered the plastic cup to the table, looking incredibly startled, as if Kimi had just casually announced he was a sleeper agent for the KGB.

Ollie had blinked. Once. Twice. He had looked to his left, checking the empty table next to them. He had looked to his right, checking the barista behind the counter who was aggressively steaming milk.

Then, Ollie had looked back at Kimi, his brow furrowed in absolute, adorable bewilderment.

"Okay?" Ollie had whispered, his voice pitching up in confusion.

"I just felt it was important to establish expectations," Kimi had continued rigidly, his face burning hot, but refusing to break eye contact. "I am very particular about oral hygiene. And bodily fluids. I am a very affectionate partner, Oliver, but I have strict boundaries. I will not be doing that. Maybe ever."

Kimi had fully expected a reaction. He had expected disappointment. He had expected Ollie to slowly back away from the table and run for the hills.

Instead, Oliver Bearman had simply stared at him for a long, quiet moment.

"Alright, Kimi," Ollie had said softly, his voice a warm, soothing rumble. He had reached across the small, aesthetic table, his massive hand covering Kimi’s tense fist. "You don't ever have to do anything you don't want to do. I don't care. I just want to be with you."

And he had meant it.

That was the most infuriating part of the entire exchange. Oliver had completely meant it. He had taken a sip of his green, swamp-water drink, picked right back up with his explanation of the rugby scrum, and never, ever brought it up again.

Over the past ten months, their physical relationship had developed into a deeply passionate, intensely affectionate dynamic. It was built on mutual worship. It was built on Ollie’s massive hands mapping every inch of Kimi’s skin, and Kimi’s feral need to keep Ollie as close as humanly possible. Ollie was entirely devoted to Kimi’s pleasure, treating Kimi’s body with a terrifying mix of gentle reverence and breathless desperation.

And true to his word, Ollie had never pushed. 

He never nudged Kimi’s head down. He never made suggestions in any shape or form. He accepted Kimi’s boundaries with the unwavering loyalty of a knight swearing loyalty to a prince.

But this complete lack of pressure had created an unforeseen problem in Kimi’s psychological landscape.

Because Oliver didn't demand it, because Oliver loved him so purely and unconditionally without it, Kimi paradoxically found himself thinking about it.

And lately, the thoughts had evolved from a theoretical, clinical aversion into something completely unhinged.

It tied back to Kimi’s strange, feral urges. The feeling that simply touching Oliver, simply kissing his jaw or tangling their legs together beneath the duvet, was fundamentally insufficient. Kimi loved this boy with a violence that frightened him. He wanted to merge their atoms. He wanted to put his teeth on Ollie’s skin and claim him in the most primal, absolute way possible.

And what was more consuming, what was more definitively claiming, than taking someone into your mouth?

It wasn't about submissiveness. Kimi was not a submissive creature. It was entirely about possessiveness.

He had started analyzing Oliver’s anatomy with a new, terrifying lens. When Ollie stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped low around his hips, the water droplets clinging to his broad shoulders, Kimi would find himself tracking the heavy, prominent line of Ollie’s V-cut. He would observe the size of the man, the thick, athletic build of a boy who spent hours in the gym, and his brain would run frantic, highly inappropriate logistical calculations.

He had even, in a moment of midnight madness, opened a private browsing tab on his phone while Ollie was snoring softly beside him.

He had typed: Logistics of giving a blowjob TMJ jaw pain.

He had immediately deleted the search history, thrown his phone onto the bedside table, and stared at the dark ceiling, his heart pounding like he had just committed a federal crime.

It was a sickness. He was losing his mind.

And now, this damn banana.

Kimi was still gripping the kitchen island, staring at the half-peeled fruit. He was breathing entirely too fast. His internal monologue was screaming at him.

I can take him, the voice repeated, smug and utterly feral. It is a matter of angles and technique. The human jaw can stretch. I have excellent jaw mobility.

"Morning, beautiful."

Kimi jolted so violently he nearly knocked the fruit bowl off the counter.

Oliver shuffled into the kitchen. He had just woken up. He was wearing a pair of faded, incredibly soft red tartan pajama bottoms that hung dangerously low on his hips, and absolutely nothing else. His dark curls were a spectacular, gravity-defying mess, sticking up in every conceivable direction. His eyes were half-closed, his face soft and pillowy with sleep. He looked like a massive, lethargic bear emerging from hibernation.

He walked straight over to Kimi, moving purely on instinct. He wrapped his huge arms completely around Kimi from behind, engulfing him in a wall of furnace-like body heat. Ollie buried his face directly into the crook of Kimi’s neck, letting out a long, contented sigh that vibrated against Kimi’s collarbone.

"Why are you awake so early?" Ollie murmured, his voice a gravelly, sleep-rough rumble that sent a massive, electric shock straight down Kimi’s spine. Ollie pressed a heavy, warm kiss to the side of Kimi’s neck. "Come back to bed. It's cold out here."

Kimi was frozen. He was entirely surrounded by Oliver. He could feel the broad, heavy wall of Ollie’s chest pressed against his back. He could feel the solid weight of Ollie’s thighs bracketing his own. And, because of the thin, faded fabric of the tartan pajama bottoms, Kimi could feel the very distinct, undeniable press of Oliver’s morning anatomy resting right against the curve of Kimi’s lower spine.

It was a completely normal occurrence. It happened every morning.

But right now, with the discarded banana sitting right in front of him, Kimi felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, completely untethered from reality.

Angles, his frantic brain supplied. Breathing techniques. I would have to breathe entirely through my nose. I think I might have a deviated septum. I would need nasal strips. Would it be weird to wear nasal strips while doing it? Yes. It would ruin the mood.

"Kimi?" Ollie mumbled, lifting his head slightly when he realized Kimi was entirely rigid in his arms. He rested his chin heavily on Kimi’s shoulder, blinking his dark eyes open to look at his boyfriend’s profile. "You okay?"

"No," Kimi croaked. His voice sounded thin. It sounded like someone else's voice entirely.

"What’s wrong?" Ollie asked, his tone shifting instantly from sleepy affection to alert concern. His large hands moved from Kimi’s waist to rub up and down Kimi’s arms, trying to warm him up. "You're shaking."

Kimi closed his eyes. He could not keep a thought this large inside his head. It would expand and shatter his skull. He had to externalize it. He was a communicator. He had to communicate.

Kimi took a deep, shuddering breath. He reached out, picked up the half-peeled banana from the counter, and turned around within the circle of Ollie’s arms.

Ollie looked down at him, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. He looked from Kimi’s wide eyes to the piece of fruit in Kimi’s hand.

"Are you... mad about the banana?" Ollie asked, trying to parse the situation. "Did I buy the wrong kind? I know you like the organic ones, I'm sorry, Tesco was out-”

"Oliver," Kimi interrupted, his voice deadly serious.

"Yeah?"

"I have had a terrifying realization."

Ollie immediately went still. The golden-retriever energy evaporated, replaced by the solid, protective stance of a boy who was preparing to handle a crisis. "Okay. Talk to me. What is it?"

Kimi held the banana up, directly between them. "I was peeling this. For my potassium."

"Right. Potassium is good."

"I was looking at it," Kimi continued, his eyes locking onto Ollie’s. "And I was analyzing its structural integrity. And its... girth."

A slow, highly dangerous shade of red began to creep up Ollie’s neck. He looked at the banana. He looked back at Kimi. His jaw dropped open slightly.

"Kimi," Ollie whispered, his voice suddenly very hoarse.

"And I realized," Kimi pressed on, entirely ruthless, completely unable to stop the words now that the dam had broken, "that it is remarkably familiar. Anatomically speaking."

The red flush violently accelerated, consuming Ollie’s face entirely, spreading up into the roots of his messy hair. He looked absolutely horrified, completely mortified, and completely, utterly captivated all at once. He took a half-step back, his massive hands falling away from Kimi’s waist.

"Kimi, what- why are we talking about this in the kitchen at eight in the morning?" Ollie stammered, his eyes darting frantically around the room as if expecting to find a hidden camera.

"Because my brain has betrayed me," Kimi stated flatly. He dropped the banana back onto the marble counter. He stepped forward, closing the distance Ollie had just created. 

He reached up and placed both of his hands flat against Ollie’s bare, heavily muscled chest.

Ollie’s heart was hammering wildly against Kimi’s palms. It was beating as fast as Kimi’s.

"I told you at the matcha place that I would never do it," Kimi said, his voice dropping into an intense, low register. "Because of the hygiene. And the logistics. And the biological absurdity of the act."

"I know," Ollie nodded quickly, his breath catching in his throat. "I know, Kimi. And I told you it's fine! I've never asked! I don't care! You don't have to-"

"I want to."

Silence slammed into the kitchen.

The hum of the refrigerator suddenly sounded deafening. The rain outside seemed to pause.

Oliver Bearman stopped breathing. He froze, entirely petrified, staring down at Kimi with eyes so wide they looked completely black. He looked like a man who had just been informed he had won the lottery, but the prize money was currently on fire.

"What?" Ollie choked out, the word barely a squeak.

"I want to," Kimi repeated, and the moment he said it out loud for the second time, the fear suddenly vanished. The anxiety evaporated. The neurotic germaphobia was entirely overridden by the thrill of watching his boyfriend completely fall apart.

Kimi’s hands slid slowly up Ollie’s chest, his thumbs brushing against the collarbones, his fingers tangling softly into the hair at the nape of Ollie’s neck.

"It makes no sense," Kimi whispered, his gaze dropping to Ollie’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. "I find the concept disgusting. I will require a complete, highly sterile shower protocol beforehand. I will likely need to research breathing techniques on the internet so I do not asphyxiate. And if you make a sudden movement, I will likely bite you in panic."

Ollie swallowed loudly. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. His massive hands slowly came up to grip Kimi’s waist, holding on so tightly Kimi could feel the heat of his fingers through his t-shirt.

"Kimi," Ollie breathed, his voice shaking. "Are you... are you serious?"

"I am a rabid animal, Oliver," Kimi stated, completely unbothered, tilting his chin up. "I have decided that simply coexisting with you is insufficient. I need to consume you. I looked at that banana and I realized that I can take you."

Ollie let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-whimper. His knees actually seemed to buckle for a fraction of a second, his massive frame slumping slightly under the sheer weight of Kimi’s declaration. He dropped his forehead until it rested heavily against Kimi’s, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You're insane," Ollie whispered frantically, a breathless, hysterical edge to his voice. "You're completely unhinged. You're going to put me in the hospital."

"Most likely," Kimi agreed placidly, sliding his arms around Ollie’s neck, reveling in the absolute power he held. "I will need to order a lot of things. We will implement this protocol on Friday evening."

Ollie laughed, a wet, breathless sound, wrapping his arms tightly around Kimi and lifting him completely off his feet. He buried his face in Kimi’s shoulder, his entire body trembling with terrified joy.

"Friday evening," Ollie mumbled into the fabric of Kimi’s shirt. "Okay. Yes. Friday."

Kimi rested his chin on Ollie’s broad shoulder, dangling a foot off the ground. He looked over Ollie’s shoulder at the discarded, half-peeled banana on the counter.

The fleeting thought had been firmly, permanently secured.

—--

Oliver Bearman knew exactly what was in store for him pretty early in their relationship.

The realization had not been a sudden epiphany, but rather a slow, creeping understanding that dawned over a series of increasingly bizarre domestic incidents. It was the moment Oliver realized that his boyfriend, who possessed the delicate bone structure of a Renaissance oil painting and the aloof, untouchable aura of a snooty cat, was, at his core, completely out of his mind.

Kimi was weird. Behind that pretty, pretty face and those intensely dark, wild eyes, he was fundamentally weird.

Kimi was the kind of person who would refuse to eat a piece of toast if it had been sliced diagonally instead of vertically. 

Kimi was a man who operated on a psychological wavelength that was entirely inaccessible to the rest of the human population. He was neurotic, he was demanding, he was fiercely possessive, and he possessed a mind that over-analyzed every microscopic detail of existence until it collapsed under its own weight.

But the thing was, Oliver was also weird.

Oliver might have presented to the world as a straightforward, uncomplicated, perpetually cheerful athlete. He had the booming laugh, and the easygoing disposition of a man who just genuinely enjoyed life. But beneath that golden-retriever exterior lay a boy who was so happily subservient to Kimi’s brand of madness. He thrived on it. He loved being ordered around by a boy half his size. He genuinely enjoyed the chaotic, high-maintenance energy Kimi brought into his otherwise structured life. Maybe that was exactly why they worked together so incredibly well. 

They were two puzzle pieces cut by a lunatic, fitting together seamlessly.

But this. This current situation. This was a bit much.

For love, Oliver thought desperately, staring blankly at the glowing screen of his phone. For love. It is all for love.

It was currently Wednesday afternoon.

Since that terrifying, world-tilting declaration, Oliver’s central nervous system had been operating on a low-level, continuous state of panic and arousal. He hadn't been able to sleep properly. He hadn't been able to focus on his lectures. The love of his life had just promised to do the one thing he swore he would never do.

But instead of romantic anticipation, instead of sweet, flirtatious texts leading up to the main event, Kimi had chosen a different approach.

Kimi had been texting him links. Endless, relentless links detailing thorough, medical grade genital hygiene procedures.

Oliver was currently sitting in the silent study zone on the fourth floor of the university library. The atmosphere around him was thick with academic pressure. To his left, a panicked law student was aggressively highlighting a massive textbook. To his right, a girl was typing furiously on a glowing Macbook. And in the middle of this bastion of higher education, Oliver’s phone screen was currently displaying a comprehensive, incredibly graphic WebMD article titled: The Microbiome of the Male Anatomy: Cultivating a Pathogen-Free Environment.

Oliver stared at the screen. He scrolled down slightly. There was a diagram. A very detailed, cross-sectional diagram.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for strength.

First of all, Oliver was deeply offended by the underlying implication of these texts. He had an excellent hygiene routine! He spent half his life sweating on rugby pitches and in highly sanitized gymnasiums. He took two showers a day. He owned three different types of body wash, all of which had been meticulously approved by Kimi months ago. He exfoliated. He moisturized. He smelled like expensive cedarwood and clean laundry at all times.

Furthermore, Oliver was extremely diligent about his... personal grooming. In fact, before he and Kimi had made things official, Oliver used to shave himself entirely bald down there. It was just easier. It was efficient. It was what he had assumed modern partners preferred.

He vividly remembered the exact moment he discovered Kimi’s preference on the matter. It was their first time actually sleeping together. The lights were dimmed, the air was thick with nervous tension, and Oliver had been absolutely terrified of messing up. Kimi had slipped his hand down Oliver’s stomach, his cool, elegant fingers grazing the smooth, freshly shaven skin below Oliver’s waistline.

Kimi had stopped completely dead in his tracks.

"Oliver," Kimi had said, his voice entirely flat, pulling his hand back as if he had just touched a hairless mole rat. "What happened to you? Were you caught in a localized fire?"

"What? No! I shaved!" Oliver had stammered, his face burning hot with mortification. "For you! I wanted to be clean!"

"You are now an oversized plucked chicken," Kimi had informed him, his accent clipping sharply around the consonants. "I am dating a man. You are a large, athletic, English man. I expect a certain level of rugged sensations. This prepubescent aesthetic is highly distressing to me. You are banned from using razors on your body."

It was Kimi who explicitly requested for him not to shave because that beautiful freak wanted Oliver to be hairy, to look like a beast. 

So, Oliver let it grow out. He maintained it, carefully trimming it so it was neat and presentable, but he kept it exactly the way Kimi liked it. He accommodated the weird rustic fantasy. And even with the hair, Oliver always, always, made sure he was impeccably clean. He scrubbed. He took his time. He treated that particular area of his body with the reverence of a deep cleaner youtubers handling depressive houses because he knew how neurotic Kimi was about hygiene.

Which was why the current bombardment of medical literature felt incredibly unfair.

His phone buzzed again against the oak table, rattling loudly in the quiet library. The law student to his left shot him a dirty, sleep deprived glare.

Oliver aggressively muted the device, unlocking the screen to see a new message notification from a contact saved as: Bambi 🍑

Bambi 🍑: [Link: NHS Guidelines on Optimal pH Balance for Sensitive Skin]

Bambi 🍑: read section 4 abt unscented cleanser. i have ordered a specific med brand to the flat. use it starting tmrw.

Oliver stared at the glowing text bubble. He could practically hear Kimi’s voice in his head, sharp, fast, and completely unhinged.

Oliver let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He hunched his shoulders forward, curling his body into a defensive shrimp shape over the phone, terrified that the girl with the Macbook was going to glance over and witness his humiliation. His thumbs hovered over the digital keyboard. He deleted three different responses before settling on the most pressing, logistical question. Given the sheer level of panic Kimi was exhibiting, Oliver needed to be absolutely sure about the parameters.

Oliver: do i need to shave

He hit send. He watched the little gray Delivered notification pop up.

Instantly, the three little typing dots appeared. Kimi was clearly sitting by his phone, waiting. The dots danced on the screen for a mere fraction of a second before the response came through with the force of a gunshot.

Bambi 🍑: NEVER

Bambi 🍑: absolutely DONT. i expressly forbade the plucked chicken aesthetic in november. the aesthetic is vital to my psychological prep.

Oliver read the text. Psychological preparation. The boy was treating oral sex like a space shuttle launch.

Before Oliver could type back a reassuring confirmation that the razor would remain safely hidden in the bathroom cabinet, another flurry of texts rapid-fired onto his screen.

Bambi 🍑: but

Bambi 🍑: bc we are maintaining the natural state

Bambi 🍑: the hygiene protocol must be elevated

Bambi 🍑: you will scrub and use the medical wash

Bambi 🍑: and make sure you pull your foreskin back and make sure it's squeaky clean

Oliver’s brain halted. The gears literally ground to a screaming, catastrophic stop.

He read the last part again.

make sure you pull your foreskin back and make sure it's squeaky clean

Squeaky clean.

Squeaky. Clean.

Oliver was a grown man. He knew how to wash his own penis. He had been successfully managing his own anatomy for quite some time now without incident or complaint. He was intimately aware of the mechanics of his own body. He knew to pull it back. He knew to use soap. He was not a feral child raised by wolves in a muddy ditch.

But seeing the words squeaky clean typed out by his beautiful demanding boyfriend, sandwiched between a link to the NHS and a threat regarding his body hair, was simply too much for Oliver’s fragile psyche to bear.

It was the word squeaky that really destroyed him. The absolute, unhinged earnestness of it. It implied a level of friction, a level of aggressive, highly sanitized polishing that was generally reserved for washing fine china or detailing the dashboard of a luxury sports car.

Did Kimi expect him to sound like a freshly washed window? Did Kimi want a literal audio cue of cleanliness?

Oliver’s face flushed a deep, dark, violent crimson. The heat radiated off his cheeks, spreading rapidly down his neck and chest. He felt as though the entire library was suddenly bathed in a glaring, blinding spotlight directed entirely at his crotch. He felt profoundly exposed. He felt like a medical specimen that had just been handed a strict, terrifying syllabus.

The law student to his left aggressively flipped a page. The harsh, papery sound echoed in Oliver’s ears.

Oliver could not type a response to that. There was no combination of words in the English language that could adequately reply to a demand for a squeaky clean foreskin while sitting in a public academic setting. He had reached the absolute limit of his capacity to process Andrea Kimi Antonelli’s specific brand of romantic intimacy.

He locked the phone. The screen went black, throwing his own flushed, miserable, hopelessly enamored reflection back at him.

He sighed. It was not a quiet, dignified sigh. It was a massive, shuddering exhalation of pure, unadulterated defeat that came from the very bottom of his lungs. It was the sound of a large animal realizing it was trapped in a cage of its own making, and that the cage was locked from the outside by an Italian with a WebMD tab open.

Without breaking the smooth, agonizing trajectory of his surrender, Oliver simply let his neck muscles give out.

Thwack.

His forehead slammed down onto the hard, unforgiving oak of the library table.

The impact was startlingly loud. It echoed through the silent study zone like a gunshot. The law student jumped in her seat. The girl with the Macbook stopped typing, her hands hovering frozen over the keys. An elderly librarian two aisles over shushed him with aggressive, hissing venom.

Oliver did not move. He did not lift his head to apologize. He just stayed there, his face pressed flat against the cool, varnished wood, his arms dangling uselessly by his sides.

"Everything alright, mate?" a hesitant, whispered voice asked from across the table. It was an engineering student. He looked concerned. He probably thought Oliver was having a mental breakdown over fluid dynamics.

Oliver turned his head slightly, keeping his cheek pressed to the table. He blinked his dark eyes at the engineering student.

"I'm fine," Oliver whispered back, his voice incredibly hollow. "Just... preparing for an exam."

"Ah. Right. Good luck with that."

Oliver closed his eyes again. The wood was cool against his burning skin.

He was insane. They were both insane. Kimi was a terrifying, controlling little terror currently orchestrating a sexual encounter preparation with the clinical detachment of a lead surgeon. And Oliver was a massive, pathetic idiot who was going to go home, open a package containing a specialized unscented medical wash, and scrub himself until his skin was audibly squeaking.

He was going to do it because the thought of Kimi’s dark eyes looking up at him, the thought of Kimi overcoming his own deeply ingrained neuroses just to be closer to him, to consume him, was making Oliver’s heart hammer so violently against his ribs it actually hurt. He was going to do it because he loved this boy with a terrifying, earth-shattering intensity that completely defied logic or reason.

He would be rugged. He would be hairy. And he would be the cleanest man in the history of the entire European continent.

His phone vibrated against the table again, directly next to his ear.

Oliver slowly, painfully rotated his head. He cracked one eye open to look at the screen.

Bambi 🍑: aknowledge the instruction oliver

Bambi 🍑: i need confirmation that u will be squeaky clean

Bambi 🍑: do not fail me

Oliver let out another muffled, miserable groan into the wood. A dopey, devastatingly fond smile stretched across his face, completely betraying his humiliation. He lifted one heavy, lethargic hand, blindly tracing the keypad until he managed to type a single, defeated response.

Oliver: yes love. squeaky order received. love you.

He dropped the phone back onto the table. He closed his eyes. He had exactly forty-eight hours to prepare. May God have mercy on his soul..

------

The countdown to Friday evening had altered the ecosystem of their shared flat.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli did not do things by halves. He did not possess a casual gear. When he committed to a course of action, he approached it with the intensity of a military tactician.

And right now, Oliver Bearman’s internal chemistry was the battlefield.

It started on Thursday morning. Oliver had stumbled into the kitchen, his eyes crusted with sleep, his massive frame moving entirely on muscle memory toward the Nespresso machine. He had a brutal two-hour lecture on sports biomechanics at nine, and his brain desperately required the harsh, acidic kick of caffeine to function.

He had just reached for a pod when a cool, elegant hand clamped shut over his wrist.

Oliver blinked, his vision slowly focusing on Kimi. Kimi was already fully dressed in a crisp white button-down, his dark hair flawlessly styled, looking entirely too alert for this hour.

"Absolutely not," Kimi stated, his voice a flat, uncompromising line. He smoothly pried the coffee pod from Oliver’s thick fingers and dropped it back into the glass jar.

"Kimi," Oliver groaned, letting his heavy head drop forward until his forehead rested against Kimi’s shoulder. "Please. I'm dying. My blood is entirely composed of exhaustion."

"Your blood is about to be entirely composed of antioxidants and naturally occurring fructose," Kimi corrected, patting Oliver’s cheek with a patronizing lack of sympathy. He stepped back and gestured grandly to the kitchen island.

Oliver lifted his head. Sitting on the marble countertop was not a cup of coffee. It was a massive, terrifyingly vibrant, opaque yellow liquid housed in a large glass tumbler. It looked like radioactive sludge.

"What," Oliver whispered, staring at the glass, "is that?"

"Pineapple," Kimi replied briskly. "A highly concentrated blend of pineapple, mango, and a splash of coconut water and lettuce. You are going to drink all of it. And you are going to drink another one when you return from your lecture."

Oliver stared at his beautiful psychotic boyfriend. "Kimi, I can't drink a pint of tropical fruit at seven in the morning. I need coffee."

"Coffee," Kimi said, folding his arms across his chest, his dark eyes narrowing into a deeply clinical glare, "is highly acidic. It gives bitter compounds into the bloodstream, which are then excreted through the sweat glands and other... biological avenues. It severely alters the natural pH balance and the resulting taste profile of male bodily fluids."

The kitchen fell dead silent.

Oliver’s sleep-deprived brain took exactly four seconds to process the words taste profile. When it finally did, a violent flush of heat rocketed up his neck. He looked from the glaring yellow smoothie to Kimi’s perfectly calm, deeply serious face.

"You've banned coffee from my bloodstream," Oliver summarized, his voice cracking slightly.

"Until Saturday," Kimi confirmed with a sharp nod. "I am instituting a strict dietary plan. You will consume copious amounts of water, pineapple, citrus, and celery. You are essentially going to become a human fruit basket for the next few days."

Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face, completely overwhelmed. He loved this boy. He really, genuinely loved him. But the sheer logistical nightmare Kimi was constructing around this event was starting to break Oliver’s brain.

Oliver let out a soft sigh, leaning back against the counter. He decided to employ logic. It was a dangerous game to play with Kimi, but he felt it was necessary for his own sanity.

"Darling," Oliver started gently, using his softest, most placating tone. "I appreciate the effort. I really do. But you don't need to do all of this."

"I absolutely do," Kimi countered instantly. "I have read seven different peer reviewed articles on the impact of diet on seminal fluid-"

"No, Kimi, listen to me," Oliver interrupted gently, holding his hands up in surrender. "You don't need to worry about the... the taste profile. Or the liquids. Because I'll be wearing latex."

Kimi froze.

He didn't just stop moving; it was as if his entire operating system had crashed. His dark eyes went completely blank. He stared at Oliver, unblinking, the silence in the kitchen stretching out until it became thick and oppressive.

Oliver offered a reassuring, dopey smile, completely misreading the silence. "I know how you are about germs, Kimi. I know you hate bodily fluids. I assumed that was the plan! We have those premium condoms in the nightstand. The ultra-thin ones. I'll just put one of those on, and you won't have to deal with any actual... you know. Liquids. It'll be completely hygienic."

Oliver felt quite proud of himself for this realization. It made perfect sense. It bridged the gap between Kimi’s unhinged desire to claim him and Kimi’s pathological fear of bacteria. It was a compromise.

The temperature in the kitchen seemed to plummet by ten degrees.

Kimi’s expression slowly shifted. The blankness evaporated, replaced by a look of such unadulterated offense that Oliver physically took a half-step backward. Kimi looked at Oliver as if Oliver had just suggested they burn down the Louvre.

"Latex," Kimi whispered. The word sounded like a curse in his mouth.

"Yeah?" Oliver squeaked, suddenly very unsure of his footing.

"You think," Kimi started, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register, stepping closer to Oliver, "that I have spent the last three days suffering through a complete psychological breakdown, rewriting my entire biological code, and researching advanced oral mechanics... just to put a rubber balloon in my mouth?"

"I- well, I thought-"

"Are you out of your mind?" Kimi demanded, his accent spiking sharply. "Do you think I am a coward, Oliver? Do you think I am doing this for a simulation?"

"No! No, I just thought about the hygiene-"

"Screw the hygiene!" Kimi exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. "Latex tastes a dentist's office! If I am going to breach my own boundaries, if I am going to subvert my gag reflex and allow a foreign limb down my throat, I am not doing it with a barrier between us!"

Oliver’s jaw went completely slack. His heart began to hammer a frantic, chaotic rhythm against his ribs.

Kimi stepped right into Oliver’s personal space. He reached up, his fingers gripping Oliver’s soft grey hoodie, yanking the massive athlete down slightly until they were eye-to-eye. Kimi’s dark eyes were blazing with a terrifying competitiveness.

"If I am taking your dick, Oliver," Kimi enunciated, every single syllable clipping sharply in the quiet kitchen, "you best believe I am taking it properly. It is going to be the all-natural entity. I want the skin. I want the heat. And I want the cum."

Oliver stopped breathing.

His brain simply short-circuited. The sheer, visceral impact of those words, skin, heat, cum, falling from Kimi’s lips was too much. It was an overload of the system. Oliver’s pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. He stared down at his boyfriend, utterly paralyzed by the violent, terrifying purity of Kimi’s devotion.

"Do you understand me?" Kimi demanded softly, his grip tightening on Oliver’s hoodie.

Oliver couldn't speak. His vocal cords had abandoned him. He managed a single, jerky nod.

Understood.

"Excellent," Kimi declared, the terrifying intensity vanishing in an instant, replaced by satisfaction. He released Oliver’s hoodie and smoothed the fabric down with two neat pats. He turned around, picked up the glass of radioactive yellow sludge, and shoved it directly against Oliver’s chest.

"Drink," Kimi ordered.

Oliver wrapped his massive hand around the glass. He looked down at the thick, unappetizing liquid.

He wanted to argue. He really did. He had a solid, foundational understanding of the human digestive system from his sports science modules. He knew that the metabolic half-life of caffeine was approximately five hours. He knew that one cup of black coffee on a Thursday morning was mathematically, biologically incapable of altering the chemical composition of seminal fluid by Friday evening. The science did not support Kimi’s aggressive fruit mandate.

Oliver opened his mouth. He took a breath, preparing to gently explain the intricacies of renal excretion and metabolic synthesis.

He looked at Kimi. He looked at the fierce, determined tilt of Kimi’s chin, the wild spark in his dark eyes, and remembered the sheer, earth-shattering weight of the words I want the cum.

Oliver snapped his mouth shut.

He decided, with the absolute certainty of a man who values his relationship over his scientific integrity, to just shut up.

Without breaking eye contact, Oliver lifted the glass to his lips. He tilted his head back and began to chug.

It was thick. It was aggressively sweet. It tasted like an overly ambitious tropical air freshener. But Oliver drank it down, his adam’s apple bobbing steadily as he consumed every last drop of the mandated pineapple sludge.

He lowered the empty glass, gasping slightly for air, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Kimi watched him, a slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile spreading across his face. He reached out and gently patted Oliver’s cheek.

"Good boy," Kimi murmured affectionately. "Now, go get dressed. I have a cantaloupe in the fridge with your name on it for lunch."

Oliver just nodded, terrified.

----

Friday came.

The walk back to their off-campus flat usually took Oliver exactly fourteen minutes. Today, it took him nine.

He had practically sprinted out of his 4:00 PM sports psychology seminar the absolute second the professor dismissed them. He was walking down the pavement with his head down, his massive shoulders hunched, his stride so aggressively fast and rigid that he looked like a man who was actively fleeing a crime scene. He kept glancing over his shoulder, seized by the sudden, irrational paranoia that the general public could somehow sense what he was about to go home and do.

You really couldn't blame him for the sheer, vibrating state of his nervous system.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli was Oliver’s first boyfriend. Before Kimi, Oliver’s romantic history had consisted of a few clumsy, polite dates with girls in secondary school that never really progressed past awkward hand-holding at the cinema. Coming to terms with his own sexuality had been a relatively smooth, quiet realization, but actually dating a man? Actually being in a deeply committed, hopelessly intense relationship? That was all completely, terrifyingly new.

And this particular milestone, this highly anticipated, medically researched, fruit-fueled Friday evening, was uncharted territory for both of them. It was his first blowjob experience. It was Kimi’s first blowjob experience.

It was a mutual, high-stakes collision of complete inexperience, and Kimi was approaching it like he was trying to defuse a live bomb.

By the time Oliver shoved his key into the lock of their flat, his heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribcage. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for whatever sterile, surgical environment Kimi had constructed in the living room. He half-expected to find the furniture draped in plastic sheeting and Kimi waiting for him in a hazmat suit.

He pushed the door open.

Oliver blinked, completely thrown off guard.

The flat was... beautiful. The harsh, overhead lights were turned off. Instead, the small living room was bathed in the warm, flickering, golden glow of at least a dozen candles scattered across the coffee table and the window sill. It smelled like expensive vanilla and something spicy. The tv is playing something soft on Spotify.

And Kimi had built a nest.

He had dragged every single fluffy blanket and throw pillow they owned off the sofa and meticulously arranged them on the thick rug, creating a plush, ridiculously comfortable-looking sanctuary in the center of the floor.

Right in the middle of it sat Kimi.

He was wearing one of Oliver’s softest, oldest, vastly oversized grey crewneck sweatshirts. It swallowed his frame entirely, the sleeves pushed past his hands to bare his elegant fingers. His dark, usually impeccably styled hair was soft and completely natural, falling in soft waves across his forehead. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and he was looking up at Oliver with those enormous, impossibly dark, doe-like eyes.

He looked so soft. He looked so incredibly, breathtakingly pretty.

Oliver felt a massive, profound wave of warmth crash over him, completely washing away the anxiety of the past three days. The medical journals, the radioactive pineapple sludge, the sheer terror of the unknown, it all evaporated.

He was just a boy, standing in his living room, looking at the love of his life. Kimi had set up candles. Kimi was wearing his clothes. Kimi was looking at him with a quiet, entirely vulnerable kind of trust that made Oliver’s chest physically ache.

Oliver let his heavy backpack slide off his shoulder, hitting the floor with a soft thud. A slow, deeply affectionate, dopey smile spread across his face. The paralyzing fear was entirely replaced by a sudden, heavy rush of pure adoration and undeniable heat.

Okay, Oliver thought, his heart swelling. We can do this. This is going to be beautiful. I am ready to have my dick sucked by my beautiful, perfect boyfriend.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes locked on Kimi, ready to drop to his knees in the middle of that carefully constructed nest and pull Kimi into his arms.

Kimi watched him approach. He blinked slowly.

Then, his expression shifted. The soft, vulnerable, angelic aura vanished in a microsecond, entirely replaced by the severe, uncompromising glare of a health inspector.

Kimi raised a single, authoritative finger and pointed it sharply toward the hallway.

"Bathroom," Kimi commanded, his voice slicing cleanly through the romantic, candlelit ambiance.

Oliver stopped dead in his tracks. His dopey smile froze. "Baby?"

"Do not 'baby' me, you have been marinating in a lecture hall all day," Kimi said briskly, his posture straightening. He tapped his finger in the air, gesturing toward the bathroom door. "The medical grade wash is sitting on the edge of the tub. You are to use it."

Oliver let out a small, pathetic noise, the romantic illusion completely shattering around him. "Kimi, I'm clean, I swear, I showered this morning-”

"Oliver Bearman," Kimi interrupted, his tone leaving absolutely zero room for negotiation. He fixed Oliver with a stare that could cut glass. "Do a deep clean. And I mean deep." Kimi paused, his eyes narrowing slightly to emphasize the gravity of his next instruction. "Pull the skin back."

The silence in the romantic, softly lit living room was absolutely deafening.

The candles flickered happily. The vanilla scent wafted through the air. And Oliver stood there, a massive, muscular varsity athlete, completely and utterly defeated by a nineteen-year-old in an oversized sweater.

Oliver closed his eyes.

He let out a long, heavy, world weary sigh. It was a sigh that contained the weight of a thousand apologies to his own dignity.

"Yes, baby," Oliver mumbled brokenly.

He turned around, his broad shoulders slumping in absolute surrender, and trudged heavily down the hallway to establish the squeaky perimeter.

That’s how he had spent a grand total of thirty-five minutes in the bathroom, and he was relatively certain he had managed to scrub away at least three foundational layers of his own epidermis.

The shower had not been a relaxing, steamy prelude to intimacy. It had been an aggressive, highly methodical sanitization protocol that felt more akin to preparing a patient for open-heart surgery than preparing a boyfriend for a romantic evening. Oliver had followed Kimi’s instructions to the letter, driven entirely by a mixture of profound, overwhelming love and a healthy dose of sheer terror. He had utilized the medical-grade unscented wash exactly as directed. It had lathered up into a thick foam that smelled aggressively of absolutely nothing.

He had scrubbed his chest, his thighs, his stomach, his legs. He had washed his hair twice just to be safe. And then, he had addressed the primary objective.

He had pulled the skin back. He had washed. He had rinsed. And then, seized by a sudden spike of paranoia that Kimi possessed some sort of microscopic vision capable of detecting a single rogue bacterium, Oliver had washed it again. He had been so meticulous, so entirely heavy-handed with his own anatomy, that standing in the bathroom now, toweling off, he was acutely aware of a very distinct problem.

He looked down at himself.

It was clean. It was undeniably, empirically, perhaps historically clean. He was practically sterile. But as a direct consequence of his vigorous, panicked scrubbing, the skin was angry.

It was bright red. It was flushed. And it was sensitive.

It was not sensitive in the fun, highly aroused, thrilling way that usually preceded a sexual encounter. It was sensitive in the raw, slightly abrasive, I-have-just-exfoliated-a-delicate-mucous-membrane kind of way. The sheer friction of his own hands and the harsh, antibacterial properties of the wash had stripped away every single ounce of natural moisture. It was bone dry.

Oliver let out a long, heavy, thoroughly defeated sigh that echoed off the tiles.

He blindly reached for the clothes he had set out on the edge of the sink. He had deliberately chosen the softest, most non-abrasive garments he owned: a loose, faded cotton t-shirt that had seen hundreds of wash cycles,e and a pair of equally loose, grey cotton sleep shorts. He opted to completely bypass underwear, instinctively knowing that any tight, restrictive fabric pressing against him right now would be highly uncomfortable.

He stepped into the shorts and pulled them up over his hips. Immediately, the soft cotton fabric brushed against the over-scrubbed, sensitized skin, sending a jolt of sheer, abrasive discomfort straight up his spine.

Oliver closed his eyes, gripping the edges of the bathroom sink until his knuckles turned white.

This is going to be completely useless, he thought miserably, his massive shoulders slumping forward. I have ruined it. I have scrubbed my own dick into a state of unusable hypersensitivity. Kimi is going to touch it, I am going to flinch in pain, and the entire evening is going to be ruined. I am a disaster.

He stood there for another full minute, trying to mentally negotiate with his own localized nerve endings, before forcing himself to let go of the sink. He had to go out there. He had established the squeaky perimeter. The biological embargo of the fruit cleanse had been met. It was time.

Oliver turned the bathroom doorknob, the metal cool against his damp palm, and stepped out into the hallway.

The contrast between the bright, sterile fluorescent light of the bathroom and the soft, flickering, golden ambiance of the living room was jarring. The air smelled of expensive vanilla candles and the faint, lingering sweetness of the pineapple sludge he had been forced to consume for the past two days.

Oliver walked slowly down the short hallway, his bare feet completely silent against the hardwood floor, every step causing the loose cotton of his shorts to shift and rub uncomfortably against his hypersensitive skin.

He rounded the corner and stopped at the edge of the living room rug.

Kimi was sitting exactly where Oliver had left him, situated directly in the center of the meticulously constructed nest of fluffy blankets and throw pillows. The warm, flickering light from the candles on the coffee table cast dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic slope of his cheekbones and the dark, thick sweep of his eyelashes.

But the imperious, commanding dictator who had ordered Oliver into the bathroom was entirely gone.

Kimi had his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped securely around his shins. He had pulled the sleeves of Oliver’s oversized grey sweater down completely over his hands, and he was currently engaged in a frantic, nervous motion, twisting his hidden, fabric-covered fingers together over and over again. His posture was rigid. His shoulders were hunched defensively up toward his ears.

Oliver stood there, entirely silent, and just watched him.

And as he watched, Kimi’s dark eyes slowly lifted from the carpet. They met Oliver’s.

Kimi looked... scared.

There was no other word for it. Beneath the layers of intense possessiveness, beneath the terrifyingly clinical medical protocols and the bossy, commanding attitude, Andrea Kimi Antonelli was simply a boy who was absolutely terrified of what he was about to do.

Seeing that fear, seeing the raw, unfiltered vulnerability shining in Kimi’s wide, dark eyes, did something violent to Oliver’s chest.

Suddenly, Oliver didn't care about the medical wash. He didn't care about the fruit diet. He didn't care about his own chafing, over-scrubbed skin. He didn't care about the blowjob.

Blowjobs are overrated anyway, Oliver’s brain supplied instantly, operating purely on the frantic desire to shield Kimi from any form of distress. It’s just a societal construct. It’s a biological mechanic. We do not need to do this. We have premium vanilla. Premium vanilla is excellent. I am perfectly happy with premium vanilla for the rest of my natural life if it means Kimi doesn't have to look like a frightened animal.

Oliver took a half-step backward, fully prepared to call the entire operation off. He opened his mouth, the words We don't have to do this, let's just watch a movie already forming on his tongue.

But before Oliver could speak, Kimi unclasped his fabric-covered hands. He unraveled one arm from around his knees, reached out, and firmly patted the empty space on the fluffy blanket directly next to him.

It was a silent, undeniable demand.

Oliver’s jaw snapped shut. The protective urge was still roaring in his ears, but he recognized the stubborn, unyielding glint that had just flashed through Kimi’s fear. Kimi was terrified, yes, but Kimi was also stubbornly committed.

Oliver let out a soft, highly compressed breath. He crossed the living room, stepping onto the plush rug, and carefully lowered his massive frame onto the blankets next to Kimi. He folded his long legs awkwardly, trying to position himself in a way that minimized the friction of his cotton shorts against his overly sensitized dick.

They sat shoulder to shoulder in the nest of pillows. The silence in the room was thick, heavy, and practically vibrating with nervous tension.

Oliver turned his head to look at Kimi’s profile.

Kimi was staring rigidly straight ahead at a flickering vanilla candle, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

"You okay?" Oliver asked. His voice was incredibly soft, nothing more than a gentle, rumbling whisper that barely disturbed the quiet air of the room.

Kimi swallowed hard. The movement of his throat was sharp and pronounced in the candlelight. "Yeah," he clipped out, the single syllable tight and entirely unconvincing.

Oliver felt his heart twist painfully. He shifted his weight, turning his torso fully toward Kimi. He couldn't do this. He couldn't let Kimi force himself through a psychological barrier just to prove a point.

"Kimi," Oliver started, his tone deeply earnest, laced with a heavy, soothing warmth. "We don't-"

"Shut up."

The command was instantaneous. It was not shouted, but it was delivered with the sharp, cracking velocity of a whip.

Oliver blinked, his sentence cleanly severed in half.

Kimi finally turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto Oliver’s, fiercely bright and entirely uncompromising. The fear was still there, swimming just beneath the surface, but it was currently being aggressively pinned down by Kimi’s stubborn willpower.

"Do not," Kimi hissed quietly, "give me an out. Do not patronize me, Oliver. I have spent three days drinking ridiculous amounts of water and reading medical literature. We are doing this."

Oliver stared at the beautiful, fiercely stubborn boy beside him. He saw the tremble in Kimi’s lower lip, the slight tremor in the hands that were currently gripping the fluffy blanket. Kimi was terrified, but he was choosing to be brave. He was choosing to conquer his own mind, entirely for Oliver.

"Okay," Oliver breathed out, surrendering entirely. The single word was laced with such an overwhelming amount of love that it felt heavy on his tongue. "Okay."

He didn't make a move toward his own waistband. He didn't try to initiate the act. Instead, Oliver slowly lifted his massive right hand.

He reached out, closing the small distance between them, and gently cupped Kimi’s face.

Oliver’s palm was broad, heavily calloused from years of gripping gym equipment, completely dwarfing the delicate, sharp angles of Kimi’s jawline. His thumb landed softly against Kimi’s cheekbone, the skin there cool and impossibly smooth.

"I really appreciate this, baby," Oliver whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his thumb beginning to stroke a slow, soothing rhythm across Kimi’s cheek. "I really do."

The effect was instantaneous and utterly devastating.

The fierce, dictatorial tension holding Kimi’s body together snapped. It didn't just break; it completely dissolved.

Kimi let out a small, fractured exhale. His rigid posture collapsed. He practically melted into Oliver’s touch, leaning his entire body weight forward until his forehead bumped softly against Oliver’s shoulder. He turned his face into Oliver’s massive palm, nuzzling his nose against the calloused skin like a feral cat seeking warmth.

"Yeah?" Kimi mumbled, his voice muffled against the heel of Oliver’s hand. The sharp, commanding edge was entirely gone, replaced by a soft, seeking vulnerability.

"Yeah," Oliver confirmed, his heart swelling until it felt like it was going to crack his ribs open.

Oliver shifted his other hand, bringing it up to thread his thick fingers through the soft, dark waves of Kimi’s hair at the nape of his neck. He began to lightly massage the tense muscles there, mapping the familiar topography of Kimi’s skull.

Kimi let out a tiny, contented sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. He lifted his own hands, still swallowed by the oversized sleeves of the sweater, and loosely gripped the soft fabric of Oliver’s t-shirt directly over his chest.

They sat like that for a long, quiet moment. The frantic, terrifying pressure of the impending act was slowly, gently pushed away by the simple, undeniable comfort of their physical connection. Oliver was a furnace, radiating a steady, grounding heat, and Kimi was actively soaking it in, recalibrating his nervous system against Oliver’s solid presence.

Then, Kimi tilted his head up.

He didn't say anything. He just looked at Oliver, his dark eyes heavily lidded, his lips parted slightly.

Oliver didn't need any other invitation. He leaned in, entirely smoothly, entirely naturally, and pressed his mouth to Kimi’s.

It started as a soft, reassuring pressure. A gentle, familiar mapping of lips. Oliver kept his hands firmly planted on Kimi’s jaw and the back of his neck, anchoring Kimi to the present moment, trying to communicate every ounce of his overwhelming adoration through the simple contact.

Kimi let out a quiet, trembling breath against Oliver’s mouth, and then, he kissed back.

The shift was immediate. The soft, comforting reassurance vanished, instantly consumed by a spark of hot, desperate friction. Kimi’s hands slid up from Oliver’s chest, the oversized sleeves falling back to his elbows, and his elegant fingers tangled violently into the messy, dark curls at the back of Oliver’s head. Kimi pulled Oliver closer, closing the final millimeter of space between their bodies, kissing him with a sudden, frantic urgency.

Oliver groaned, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated deep in his chest. He opened his mouth, allowing Kimi entry, entirely surrendering control of the kiss.

There was a lot of kissing.

It was deep, wet, and consuming. It was the kind of kissing that blurred the edges of the room and drowned out the flickering candlelight. Kimi tasted faintly of the mint toothpaste he had aggressively utilized twenty minutes prior, beneath that, the warm, distinct, fundamentally Kimi taste that drove Oliver entirely out of his mind.

They shifted on the nest of blankets. Oliver twisted his torso, pulling Kimi practically onto his lap. Kimi straddled one of Oliver’s thick thighs, his hands gripping Oliver’s hair, kissing him with a possessive, territorial aggression that completely betrayed his earlier fear. This was Kimi’s comfort zone. This was the feral, claiming energy that Oliver was used to. Kimi’s tongue swept into Oliver’s mouth, claiming the space, his teeth lightly grazing against Oliver’s lower lip.

The heat in the small living room skyrocketed. The vanilla candles suddenly seemed completely insufficient to cut through the heavy, thick air.

Oliver’s hands mapped the familiar lines of Kimi’s back beneath the oversized sweater, feeling the delicate ridges of his spine, pressing him flush against his own broad chest. Oliver’s breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving heavily against Kimi’s.

It was grounding. It was exactly what they both needed. It reminded them that beneath the terrifying medical protocols and the psychological hurdles, they were just Oliver and Kimi, and they fit together perfectly.

And then, the dynamic shifted again.

Kimi broke the kiss. He pulled back slightly, his chest heaving, his lips swollen and shiny with saliva. His dark eyes were blown wide, his pupils completely blown out, staring down at Oliver with an intense, burning focus.

Kimi’s right hand slowly disentangled from Oliver’s hair.

Oliver stopped breathing. He felt the phantom trail of Kimi’s fingers as they slowly, deliberately traced a path down his neck, over the broad sweep of his collarbone, and down the center of his chest. The touch burned through the thin, soft fabric of the washed-out t-shirt.

Kimi’s hand reached the hem of the shirt. He didn't pause. His hand continued its slow, agonizing descent, moving over the flat, hard plane of Oliver’s stomach, and finally coming to rest directly over the loose, grey cotton of Oliver’s sleep shorts.

Directly over Oliver’s crotch.

Oliver’s entire body went violently, terrifyingly rigid.

He let out a sharp, involuntary hiss of air through his teeth. His hands, which had been resting warmly on Kimi’s back, suddenly clamped down onto Kimi’s hips with enough force to leave bruises.

Kimi froze, his hand resting lightly over the cotton. He looked at Oliver, his brow furrowing slightly, mistaking the sudden rigidity for hesitation. "Oliver?" he whispered, his voice thick and raspy.

"I'm fine," Oliver choked out, his voice an octave deeper than normal. "Keep going. Please."

Kimi’s gaze dropped. He looked at his own hand resting against the grey cotton. He took a deep, visibly shaky breath, fortifying his own resolve.

Slowly, Kimi slid his hand under the loose waistband of the shorts.

Oliver’s eyes rolled back in his head.

The physical sensation was an absolute, unmitigated disaster of over-stimulation.

Kimi’s hand was cool. Skin incredibly soft. But the moment his bare palm made direct contact with the over-scrubbed, highly sanitized, aggressively clean skin of Oliver’s anatomy, the friction was blinding.

It was so incredibly dry.

There was absolutely zero natural moisture left. Oliver had utilized a wash designed to strip away severe pathogens; he had essentially turned his own skin into a desert. When Kimi’s fingers wrapped around him, the lack of slickness meant that the skin pulled tightly with the movement. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it was so overwhelmingly sensitive that it bordered on an ache. It was a raw, bright, flashing alarm bell of sensation that shot straight to the base of Oliver’s spine.

And no artificial lubrication would be involved tonight. Kimi’s vowed to all natural.

"Fuck," Oliver breathed, his head falling back against the cushions behind him, his hips instinctively jutting forward into the cool, dry grip.

Kimi immediately stopped moving his hand.

He looked down, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. He could feel the lack of friction. He could feel how warm Oliver was, the heavy, pulsing heat radiating against his palm, but he could also feel the strange, unnatural drag of the skin.

Kimi looked up, his dark eyes analyzing Oliver’s strained expression. "Did you..." Kimi started, his voice dropping into a quiet, highly clinical whisper. "Did you scrub as aggressively as I instructed?"

"Kimi," Oliver groaned miserably, refusing to open his eyes, his massive hands squeezing Kimi’s hips. "I practically exfoliated my soul. It’s... it’s very clean. It’s just... really sensitive right now."

A short, completely unexpected sound broke the heavy, tense silence of the room.

It was a laugh. A quiet, wet, slightly breathless laugh.

Oliver snapped his eyes open.

Kimi was looking down at him, and the fear was entirely gone. The paralyzing, neurotic terror of the unknown had completely vanished, replaced by a sudden wave of devastating affection. Kimi was looking at Oliver like Oliver was the most ridiculous, foolish, utterly perfect creature on the planet.

"You are ridiculous," Kimi whispered softly, "You are a large, ridiculous English dog."

Oliver blinked, utterly confused by the sudden shift in tone, his brain struggling to process the insult while Kimi’s hand was still wrapped securely around him. "What? Baby, I just did what you asked-”

"Shh," Kimi soothed, completely taking control.

Kimi removed his hand from Oliver’s shorts.

Oliver let out a small, pathetic noise of protest at the loss of contact, but Kimi ignored it.

Kimi shifted his weight. He pushed himself off Oliver’s thigh, his movements suddenly deliberate, fluid, and entirely focused. He moved backward, sliding off the plush surface of the nested blankets until his knees hit the slightly rougher texture of the living room rug.

He didn't stop there.

Kimi shifted his knees apart, positioning himself securely in the V of Oliver’s sprawled, long legs. He adjusted the oversized sleeves of the grey sweater, pushing the fabric up past his elbows, baring his forearms.

Oliver watched him, entirely paralyzed. His breath hitched in his throat, completely stuck. The chaotic, chaotic dryness of his skin was instantly forgotten.

Because Kimi was on his knees.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli, the untouchable, ferociously proud boy who demanded perfection and refused to eat diagonally cut toast was currently kneeling on a rug between Oliver’s legs, bathed in the soft light of a dozen vanilla candles.

Kimi settled his weight back onto his heels. He kept his spine impeccably straight and reached out with both hands, his cool, elegant fingers catching the waistband of Oliver’s grey cotton shorts.

He didn't pull them down yet. He just held the fabric, anchoring himself.

Kimi slowly tilted his head up.

The angle was devastating. Kimi was looking up through the dark, thick fringe of his lashes. The candlelight caught the sharp, beautiful planes of his face, illuminating the slightly flushed, swollen state of his lips from their kissing. His dark eyes were terrifyingly clear. There was no hesitation left. There was only a feral promise.

He looked at Oliver, completely surrendering his pride, entirely ready to consume.

No one, in the entirety of his life, had ever properly warned him about the embarrassment of this specific physical arrangement.

Pornography certainly hadn't adequately prepared him. Late-night conversations in the rugby locker rooms hadn't covered the psychological nuances. The educational pamphlets the university clinic handed out entirely neglected to mention the fact that having your boyfriend’s face positioned mere inches from your own crotch was an incredibly vulnerable and deeply awkward dynamic.

Oliver’s brain, wired for equality and mutual comfort, was screaming at him. Kimi shouldn't be down there. Kimi shouldn't be lowering himself. It felt entirely too deferential, too submissive for a boy who usually dictated the terms of their relationship with the iron fist of a dictator. Oliver’s immediate instinct was to reach down, grab Kimi under his arms, and haul him back up to a level playing field. He wanted to yank Kimi onto his lap and spare them both the perceived degradation of this act.

But then, Kimi looked up at him.

The flickering light from the vanilla candles cast dancing shadows across Kimi’s face. Kimi didn't look like he was lowering himself, he looked like a predator who had finally managed to corner his absolute favorite prey.

Oliver froze, his hands gripping the blankets tighter.

And then, Kimi moved.

He lowered his head, tilting his face down, and with a deliberate slowness, he pressed his face directly against the soft, grey cotton of Oliver’s shorts.

He nuzzled it.

Oliver completely forgot how to breathe.

It was a soft intimate nuzzle. Kimi turned his head slightly, rubbing the soft skin of his cheek against the heavy, prominent bulge tenting the fabric. He pressed his nose against it, inhaling the clean, sterile scent of the medical wash mixed with Oliver’s natural, heavy warmth. Through the thin material of the sleep shorts, Oliver could feel the absolute heat of Kimi’s skin, the slight friction of Kimi’s nose, and the impossibly soft pressure of Kimi’s lips pressing a gentle kiss right against the center of his crotch.

The world around Oliver completely flatlined.

His brain, usually capable of spatial awareness, completely short-circuited, reducing his internal monologue to a series of panicked, monosyllabic dial tones.

Wow.

Okay.

I- yeah. Cool.

The overwhelming intimacy of the gesture, the fact that Kimi was voluntarily pressing his face into Oliver’s lap just to scent him like a territorial cat, was completely devastating. Every single drop of blood in Oliver’s massive body instantaneously obeyed the laws of gravity and rushed violently south.

He practically felt the physical lurch of his own arousal. The heavy, thick weight in his shorts swelled rapidly, pushing insistently against the loose grey cotton and pressing directly against the warm, soft curve of Kimi’s cheek.

Kimi let out a tiny, satisfied hum, a low vibration that vibrated directly against Oliver’s oversensitive anatomy.

Then, Kimi finally lifted his hands.

His fingers hooked into the elastic waistband of Oliver’s shorts. He didn't hesitate. With a single, smooth, determined downward motion, Kimi pulled the grey cotton down, dragging the fabric over Oliver’s hips and pushing it down until it pooled uselessly around Oliver’s heavily muscled thighs.

The sudden exposure to the cool air of the living room made Oliver shiver violently.

His length simply... flopped out.

It wasn't a majestic reveal. It was a heavy, gravity-dictated flop. Because he wasn't fully, painfully hard yet. He was trapped in that thick, heavy, half-mast state of overwhelming anticipation. It rested against his thigh, thick and curved, the skin a flushed, angry pink from Oliver’s desperate, aggressive, thirty-minute exfoliation session in the shower.

And it was completely, undeniably nestled in a chaotic thicket of dark, untrimmed hair. Kimi’s mandatory rugged authenticity.

Oliver closed his eyes, his head falling back against the cushions, his massive chest heaving as he prepared himself for the sensation of Kimi’s mouth. He was already so sensitive. The air alone felt like static electricity against the raw, scrubbed skin.

Then, he felt it.

Kimi exhaled. A soft, warm rush of breath ghosted directly over the flushed, hypersensitive head of Oliver’s dick.

Oliver’s hips jerked upward involuntarily, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing out of his throat. His hands gripped the blankets so hard he heard the fabric strain. God, he thought wildly, if just his breath feels like that, I am not going to survive this.

He waited for the touch. He waited for the friction.

He waited.

And he waited.

Five seconds passed. Then ten. The absolute silence in the living room stretched out, thick and heavy, completely shattering the erotic tension.

Oliver slowly cracked one eye open, lowering his chin to look down.

Kimi was entirely frozen.

He hadn't moved a single inch closer. He was kneeling on the rug, his hands gripping the loose fabric of Oliver’s shorts around Oliver’s thighs, and he was staring. He was staring at Oliver’s exposed dick.

"Okay," Kimi announced, his voice slicing through the heavy silence of the room. It was completely flat. Completely devoid of romance.

Oliver blinked, his arousal stuttering slightly in confusion.

Kimi didn't look up. He kept his dark eyes completely locked onto the objective, his brow furrowing deeply. "You know what, this is a bit too much."

Oliver’s jaw dropped. "Kimi-"

"No, no, it is," Kimi interrupted immediately, his accent clipping sharply, the nervous panic bleeding back into his tone. He let go of the shorts and gestured vaguely at Oliver’s lap with one hand, as if presenting a piece of faulty evidence. "It is disproportionate. It is impossible for the human jaw. It is inhumane."

"What-"

"You have a freak dick."

Oliver simply stared at him. He was currently sitting spread-eagle on a pile of blankets, completely naked from the waist down, his over-scrubbed, highly sensitive dick resting heavily against his own thigh, and his beautiful boyfriend had just paused the entire operation to diagnose him as a freak of nature.

"Kimi, what are you talking about?" Oliver sputtered, a hot flush of absolute disbelief and fresh embarrassment sweeping over his face. "It’s my dick! You’ve seen it!"

"Okay. No, no, it's fine," Kimi muttered rapidly, holding up a single, elegant finger in a classic stop right there gesture. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "Give me a second. Just... give me a second."

Oliver let out a hysterical, entirely overwhelmed laugh. "Give you a second? Baby, I have my dick out. You can't just call a timeout!"

Kimi snapped his eyes open, glaring at Oliver with furious indignation. He pointed a sharply accusatory finger directly at the center of Oliver’s lap. "Like, did you do something to it?"

Oliver stared at him. The absurdity of the question hung in the air, heavy and ridiculous. "Did I... did I do something to it? What does that even mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean!" Kimi snapped, the oversized sleeves of the grey sweater completely engulfing his hands again. He looked entirely petulant. "This is not the dick I had inside me last week."

"What? No?" Oliver’s voice pitched up an entire octave. He scrambled backward slightly against the pillows, instinctively reaching down to cover himself, completely thrown off guard by the accusation. "Yes it is! It’s the only one I have!"

"Do not lie to me, Oliver!" Kimi leaned forward aggressively, his dark eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. "I have an excellent spatial memory. I am highly observant. I swear to god, it was more manageable. It was less... aggressive. Last week, it was a perfectly reasonable average European dick. Tonight, it looks like a weapon of mass destruction."

"Kimi, I didn't swap it out!" Oliver cried out defensively, gesturing wildly toward his own crotch. "How could I possibly swap it out? I've been with you all evening! I drank the radioactive pineapple juice! I used the medical wash!"

The conversation was like a fever dream. Absurd. Oliver can’t believe this is his life. Defending the authenticity of his fucking genitalia.

"Aha!" Kimi pounced on the detail, his eyes flashing triumphantly. "The wash! Did the medical wash contain a localized swelling agent? Like a lip plumper? Because the skin is extremely inflamed. You look like you have a severe rash."

"It's not a rash!" Oliver yelled, his face burning a spectacular, violent shade of red. "It's flushed because you told me to do a deep clean! I scrubbed it for half an hour! It’s basically raw!"

"That does not account for the volumetric inconsistency," Kimi argued stubbornly, holding his hands up in the air, creating a rough, imaginary cylinder with his fingers. He stared at his hands, analyzing the gap. "Last week, the circumference was... here." He held his hands at a reasonable distance. Then, he looked down at Oliver’s lap, looked back at his hands, and dramatically widened the gap. "Tonight, we are looking at this. It is a terrifying discrepancy."

Oliver let out a long, loud groan of pure agony, letting his head thud heavily back against the wall behind the pillows.

This was his life. This was his relationship. He was madly, hopelessly in love with a boy who paused blowjobs to debate penile circumference and volumetric displacement.

"My love," Oliver said, his voice entirely strained, keeping his head resting against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "It is exactly the same size. I promise you."

"I am looking right at it, Oliver, do not gaslight me."

"I am not gaslighting you!" Oliver dropped his chin, looking back down at Kimi, desperate to impart basic biological logic to the stubborn genius in front of him. "Kimi, think about it. Think about last week. We were having sex. It was already... you know. In. It was situated. You weren't looking at it from an external vantage point while it was entirely exposed and heavily inflated with blood!"

Kimi stared at him, his brow furrowed, mentally processing the argument.

"And," Oliver pushed on, feeling incredibly ridiculous having to defend his own anatomy while sitting half-naked on the floor. "Last week, I was on top. Gravity was acting differently. Right now, I am sitting down. It is resting. It looks... heavier. It’s an optical illusion. Plus, I'm only half-hard right now."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Kimi’s entire body went rigid. The color completely drained from his face, leaving his skin a pale, aristocratic white in the candlelight. "You are... what?"

Oliver winced. "I'm only half-hard."

"You are telling me," Kimi whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated terror, his eyes glued to Oliver’s lap, "that this... this colossal, threatening, red entity... is not at maximum capacity?"

"No," Oliver mumbled, desperately wishing the plush rug would simply open up and swallow him whole. "It usually gets a bit... bigger. When I'm fully aroused."

Kimi slowly sat back on his heels. He slumped slightly, the defensive, argumentative energy entirely draining out of his body, leaving him looking incredibly small and profoundly overwhelmed. He stared at the floor, his dark hair falling over his eyes, entirely silent.

Oliver watched the panic set in.

The bizarre, ridiculous comedy of the argument instantly faded away, replaced once again by that crushing wave of protective instinct. Kimi was spiraling. The reality of the situation had finally breached Kimi’s carefully constructed, medically researched theories, and he was realizing that a mouth was a very small, very fragile space, and Oliver was a very large, very solid reality.

Oliver let out a soft sigh. He shifted his weight, ignoring the painful, dry friction of his skin against the air, and reached out.

He didn't pull his shorts up. He didn't hide himself. He just reached out with his massive hand and gently cupped the side of Kimi’s neck, his thumb lightly tracing the delicate line of Kimi’s jaw.

"Hey," Oliver whispered, his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrated through the quiet room.

Kimi kept his eyes squeezed shut, refusing to look up. "It is too big, Oliver," he whispered back, his voice incredibly tight, sounding genuinely distressed. "I am going to choke. My jaw is going to unhinge. I have read the medical literature on TMJ disorders. It is a genuine risk."

"Kimi, look at me."

Kimi stubbornly shook his head.

"Bambi, look at me. Please."

Reluctantly, Kimi fluttered his eyes open. He looked up, his dark eyes heavily laden with panic and a touch of deeply hidden humiliation. He hated failing. He hated feeling inadequate. And right now, staring at the sheer physics of the situation, Kimi felt like he was entirely out of his depth.

Oliver offered him a soft, incredibly gentle smile. The dopey, golden-retriever affection was completely back, shining through the embarrassment.

"You don't have to do it," Oliver said softly, his thumb continuing its rhythmic, soothing stroke against Kimi’s skin. "I told you that earlier, and I mean it. We don't have to do this. I am perfectly happy with just you. You don't have to prove anything to me."

"I am not trying to prove anything," Kimi muttered defensively, leaning slightly into the warmth of Oliver’s hand.

"Then why are we doing this, baby? If it's terrifying you this much?"

Kimi went quiet. He stared at Oliver’s broad chest, his gaze tracing the faded logo on the worn-out t-shirt. The silence stretched out, not tense this time, but heavy with unspoken emotion.

"Because," Kimi finally whispered, his voice so quiet Oliver had to lean forward slightly to hear it over the sound of his own pulse. "Because I want to."

"Why?"

Kimi let out a sharp, frustrated breath. He looked up, his dark eyes blazing with a sudden, fierce vulnerability that completely stole the breath from Oliver’s lungs.

"Because I am obsessed with you," Kimi confessed, the words tearing out of him like a physical confession. "Because you are massive, and you are stupid, and I want to know what it feels like to have your dick in my mouth."

Kimi’s gaze dropped back down, landing squarely on the heavy, flushed, hypersensitive anatomy resting against Oliver’s thigh. The panic in his eyes was still there, but it was being aggressively suffocated by a feral competitiveness.

"Even if it is ridiculously terrifying," Kimi added quietly.

Oliver let out a wet, breathless laugh. His heart felt like it was expanding so rapidly it was going to shatter his ribs. "Even then."

Kimi took a deep, shuddering breath. He reached his hands up, pushing the sleeves of the oversized grey sweater up his forearms once more. He set his jaw, the aristocratic, unyielding stubbornness locking into place.

"Okay," Kimi announced, determination returning, though softer this time. "We are going to proceed. However, I am implementing new parameters."

"Anything you want, baby," Oliver agreed instantly, completely at Kimi’s mercy.

"You are not allowed to move. You are too large. If you thrust, you will cause a severe internal injury. You will remain perfectly still. You are a passive participant until I understand this thing."

"Completely still," Oliver promised, his voice dropping into a rough, low register as the anticipation slammed back into him with the force of a freight train. "I won't move an inch."

Kimi nodded sharply, satisfied with the new contractual agreements.

He took one final, fortifying breath. He shifted his knees slightly wider on the rug, leaning forward into the space between Oliver’s legs.

He didn't hesitate this time. Kimi lowered his head, his dark hair falling forward to obscure his face, and Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the blankets, utterly terrified and entirely ready to be consumed.

It was a kiss first.

Not a lick. Not an experimental swipe of the tongue. It was a closed-mouth, astonishingly gentle, almost terribly reverent kiss.

Kimi leaned down, his dark hair creating a curtain that blocked out the flickering vanilla candlelight, and pressed his soft, slightly swollen lips directly to the very tip of Oliver’s flushed, over-scrubbed length.

The contrast was staggering. Here was this intensely neurotic, high-strung boy, who had spent the last seventy-two hours treating human anatomy like a biohazard, now treating Oliver’s most vulnerable, highly sensitized skin with the delicate care of someone kissing a bruised knuckle.

The physical reaction was instantaneous, violent, and entirely beyond Oliver’s control.

Every single remaining drop of blood in his circulatory system abandoned its assigned post and rushed southward with the sheer, roaring velocity of a collapsed dam. The heavy, half-mast state of anticipation was instantly obliterated.

It was entirely, profoundly humiliating.

Oliver lay there, propped against the nest of pillows, completely paralyzed as he watched his own anatomy betray him in what felt like agonizingly slow motion. It was as if someone had flipped a hydraulic switch. It simply... stood up.

It lifted away from the heavy muscle of his thigh, the flushed skin pulling incredibly tight as it swelled, expanding in circumference and length until it jutted proudly and unapologetically straight up into the open air in front of Kimi’s face. The angry, scrubbed redness of the skin only made it look more aggressive.

It was a full, rigid, undeniable salute.

Kimi pulled his face back by exactly two inches. He froze.

He didn't move away. He just stayed hovering right there, his dark eyes widening fractionally as he stared at the physical manifestation of his own influence. He blinked once. Slowly. The thick sweep of his eyelashes casting long shadows over his cheekbones.

Oliver couldn't take it. The sheer, overwhelming vulnerability of being entirely exposed, fully aroused, and actively scrutinized by his boyfriend was too much for his brain to process.

Oliver let out a high, distressed, whining noise that sounded entirely unbecoming for a man of his size. He ripped his hands out from beneath the blankets and slammed both of his massive palms over his own face, physically hiding from the reality of the living room. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, his cheeks burning with a heat that rivaled the core of the sun.

The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.

"Wow," Kimi breathed.

The single syllable was not laced with fear this time. It was not a clinical observation of volumetric displacement. It was a soft, incredibly genuine, breathy sound of absolute awe.

"Don't stare, please," Oliver mumbled miserably from behind the cage of his fingers, his voice thick and wavering. He tried to shift his hips backward, trying to retreat into the pillows, but the loose cotton shorts pooled around his knees made movement clunky and impossible.

"I will stare as long as I want," Kimi replied.

It was the sound of a possessive territorial creature realizing exactly how much power it held over its absolute favorite thing.

Oliver’s breath hitched. He peaked through a small gap between his middle and ring fingers.

Kimi hadn't moved back. He was still kneeling right there, hovering inches away, his dark eyes tracing the heavy, pulsing length with an intense, unblinking fascination. The fear was utterly eradicated.

"Okay," Oliver whispered, completely surrendering. He dropped his hands from his face, letting them fall uselessly back onto the fluffy blankets, his chest heaving. "Okay."

Kimi took a deep, steadying breath. He reached out with his right hand, the oversized grey sleeve of Oliver’s sweater sliding back down his pale forearm. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped his long, elegant fingers firmly around the base of Oliver’s rigid length.

Oliver clamped his jaw shut so hard his teeth audibly clicked.

It was a disaster.

It was so impossibly, brutally dry.

Oliver’s thirty-minute exfoliation session had eradicated every single micron of natural oil from the surface of his skin. When Kimi’s hand closed around him, there was absolutely zero slip. The friction was instant and abrasive. Kimi’s grip didn't slide, it pulled. It dragged the sensitized, raw skin upward with a tense, unnatural tautness that sent a flashing, white-hot spike of overstimulated warning straight up Oliver’s spinal cord.

It bordered dangerously close to actual pain.

Oliver’s entire body went rigid. His toes curled hard into the plush rug. His massive hands balled into tight fists, grabbing fistfuls of the blankets underneath him until his knuckles turned entirely white.

Do not move, Oliver screamed at himself internally, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Do not flinch. Do not make a sound.

He was absolutely, fundamentally terrified of ruining this. He knew exactly how fragile Kimi’s courage was in this exact moment. Kimi had fought through weeks of neurotic germaphobia, had instituted insane dietary laws, had built this entire candlelit perimeter, all to conquer his own mind. If Oliver complained, if Oliver made even the slightest noise of discomfort or tried to pull away, Kimi’s hyper-analytical brain would instantly categorize the attempt as a failure. He would retreat, the clinical wall would snap back into place, and he would blame himself.

Oliver would rather endure an hour of agonizing friction burns than see that look of defeated humiliation cross Kimi’s beautiful face again.

So, Oliver held it back.

He forced his muscles to unlock, one by one. He forced his breathing to remain relatively steady, drawing air in through his nose and releasing it through slightly parted lips. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to clear the water gathering in the corners of his eyes from the sheer, overwhelming sensory overload.

I am fine, Oliver chanted in his head, actively martyring himself on the altar of his boyfriend’s comfort. This is fine. I love him. I am happy to be dry-rubbed like a piece of brisket if it means he feels safe.

Kimi, however, was highly observant.

He felt the rigid tension lock down Oliver’s massive frame. He felt the absolute lack of moisture against his own palm. He gave his hand one experimental, slow squeeze and pull, and immediately felt the unnatural drag of the skin.

Kimi stopped moving.

He looked at his hand, wrapped firmly around Oliver. He looked at the flushed, angry red of the skin. And then, he looked up at Oliver’s face.

Oliver was actively staring at a spot on the ceiling, his jaw clamped tight, a single vein popping out on the side of his neck, trying desperately to look perfectly relaxed while physically vibrating with discomfort.

Three days ago, the concept of utilizing his own saliva in such a direct, unsanitary manner would have sent Kimi into a spiraling panic attack. It breached the squeaky perimeter. It was messy. It was wet.

But right now, looking at Oliver, looking at the boy who had scrubbed himself raw just to meet Kimi’s insane standards, the germaphobia completely evaporated. The clinical detachment died. The only thing that remained was a fierce, feral, absolute need to take care of what was his.

Kimi let go.

Oliver let out a tiny, suppressed breath of relief, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the ceiling.

Kimi leaned forward. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't offer a clinical warning or a medical justification.

He simply hovered his face inches above Oliver, parted his beautifully swollen lips, and let out a thick, heavy pool of spit directly onto the inflamed head of Oliver’s dick.

Oliver’s gaze snapped down from the ceiling so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

His brain completely flatlined.

The boy who refused to hold onto subway poles, the boy who sanitized his phone screen three times a day, the boy who had banned coffee from the flat because of its taste profile, had just casually spit onto him.

The reality of the warm, thick moisture hitting the overly sensitive, bone-dry skin was an absolute shock to the system. The cool air hit the wetness, creating an immediate, contrasting shiver that raced down Oliver’s legs.

Before Oliver could even process the visual, Kimi’s hand was back.

He wrapped his fingers around the base and moved his hand upward in one swift, fluid motion, smearing the thick, wet heat of his own saliva smoothly over the raw, flushed skin.

The relief was instant. The agonizing friction vanished completely, instantly replaced by a slick, hot, impossibly overwhelming slide of wet pressure. The localized agony morphed into a blinding euphoric spike of pure pleasure.

Oliver’s hips snapped off the floor involuntarily, a strangled, animalistic sound tearing out of his throat as Kimi’s grip slicked perfectly over him.

Jesus Christ, Oliver thought, his eyes rolling back, his fingers blindly clawing into the fluffy blankets, completely and utterly destroyed.

The relief of the moisture was so overwhelmingly profound, that for the first solid minute, Oliver’s brain simply ceased to record any higher-level cognitive thought. He existed entirely as a cluster of nerve endings, floating in a sea of blinding euphoria.

Kimi settled into a rhythm.

It was a familiar physical sensation, fundamentally speaking. Kimi knew how to use his hands. He knew the precise amount of pressure to apply, his thumb pressing perfectly against the heavy ridge just below the head, his palm wrapping snugly around the thick base. He stroked upward, dragging the slick heat of his own saliva over the raw, flushed skin, and then slid back down, pulling the skin taut before pushing it back up.

It felt incredible. It felt perfect. But visually, psychologically, it was an entirely different universe.

Usually, when they did this, they were tangled together in their messy bed, chest-to-chest, whispering into the dark, their limbs clumsily slotted together under the duvet.

Right now, Oliver was pinned, entirely exposed, staring down the length of his own body. And Kimi’s face was right there.

Kimi was still kneeling perfectly between Oliver’s spread thighs, his shoulders hunched, his elbows braced softly against the inside of Oliver’s knees. He was watching his own hand work with the intense, terrifyingly concentrated focus. The flickering golden light from the vanilla candles danced over the sharp curve of his cheekbones and caught the wet, shiny slickness pooling on Oliver’s skin.

It was devastatingly intimate. The proximity alone was enough to make Oliver’s heart hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs. 

"God, baby," Oliver gasped out, the sound ripped involuntarily from his throat. His massive hands blindly squeezed the fluffy blankets beneath him, his knuckles stark white. He was trying desperately to obey Kimi’s strict, dictatorial mandate. Do not move. You are a passive participant. But his hips were betraying him, executing tiny, involuntary upward twitches with every downward slide of Kimi’s hand.

Kimi didn't tell him to stop moving. He didn't say anything at all.

Instead, the rhythm of Kimi’s hand began to slow.

The steady, deliberate strokes decelerated, the pressure softening, until Kimi’s hand was just resting warmly at the base, keeping Oliver perfectly anchored.

Oliver blinked, his chest heaving, his vision swimming slightly at the edges. He looked down, his brain sluggishly trying to interpret the change in the routine.

Kimi tilted his head. He leaned closer.

Oliver stopped breathing entirely.

Kimi lowered his face, the dark curtain of his hair falling forward to brush feather-light against Oliver’s raw thighs, and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss directly to the slick, flushed center of Oliver’s length.

The sensation was catastrophic.

It was wet. It was impossibly hot. Kimi’s lips were soft and full, parting slightly to let the heat of his mouth envelop a small section of skin. He pressed the kiss firmly, a wet, suctioning sound echoing absurdly loudly in the quiet living room as he pulled back.

Oliver’s entire spine arched violently off the floor. "Kimi-"

Kimi ignored the strangled warning. He leaned in and pressed another kiss. And then another.

He was mapping the territory. There was no hesitation, no holding his breath in disgust. He was just kissing Oliver, leaving wet, hot stamps of absolute devotion against the heavy, pulsing vein that ran along the underside of Oliver’s cock.

And then, Kimi opened his mouth wider.

He let out a slow, stuttering exhale that ghosted directly over the weeping, hyper-sensitive slit at the tip, and then, he pushed his tongue out.

Oliver felt the broad, flat, incredibly wet muscle make direct contact with the underside of his head. Kimi didn't just flick it. He dragged his tongue in a long, slow, agonizingly deliberate upward stroke, painting a fresh layer of saliva from the ridge all the way up to the very peak.

"Fuck-” Oliver whimpered, the sheer volume of his own voice startling him, his head snapping back to crack softly against the wall behind the pillows. His hands let go of the blankets and flew up to grip his own hair, anchoring himself to his own skull to keep from physically grabbing Kimi and ruining the delicate ecosystem of the moment.

It was electric. It was a live wire of sensation, bright and blinding.

Kimi pulled his face back by a fraction of an inch, his lips wet and shining. He closed his mouth, his throat working as he swallowed.

Oliver peeked through his eyelashes, his heart in his throat. This was the true test. This was the moment of biological truth. The three days of nothing but water, citrus, and the horrifying, radioactive-looking pineapple-celery sludge that Kimi had blended every morning.

Kimi paused, his dark eyes slightly unfocused as he processed the sensory input.

A tiny, deeply satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of Kimi’s wet lips. The dietary measures had evidently paid off. The taste was acceptable. It passed the Antonelli Quality Control.

"Okay," Kimi whispered, the word soft and vibrating with a sudden eagerness.

He didn't hesitate anymore. Kimi simply closed his eyes, completely surrendering to the tactile reality of the moment, and dove in.

He essentially began to devour Oliver’s length.

It was not a choreographed porn star performance. It wasn't the smooth, perfectly executed technique of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

It was incredibly, beautifully, undeniably sloppy.

It was entirely uncoordinated. Kimi didn't fully take him into his mouth at first. He just mashed his face against Oliver’s length treating the heavy cock like he was frantically making out with it. He opened his mouth wide, dragging his lips, his tongue, and the soft, hot inside of his cheeks against the skin in a chaotic, enthusiastic frenzy. He kissed it, he licked it, he sucked wetly at the sides, entirely abandoning any semblance of rhythm or structural logic.

There was so much saliva. It was getting everywhere, slicking over Kimi’s chin, dripping down to pool heavily at the base of Oliver’s stomach. Occasionally, Kimi’s teeth would graze clumsily against the hyper-sensitive ridge, causing Oliver’s hips to jerk involuntarily, suffering from hot wet suction.

To anyone else, it might have seemed chaotic. But to Oliver, it was the absolute pinnacle of human existence.

He had nothing to compare it to. He had no baseline for what a "good" blowjob felt like. But as far as his nervous system was concerned, it was pure agonizing pleasure. Because it was Kimi eagerly, desperately tasting him, treating Oliver like he was made of something addictive.

"Baby," Oliver sobbed out, his voice cracking horribly, completely devoid of any masculine dignity. He was a trembling, overheated mess. His chest heaved with every fractured breath, his abdominal muscles locked in a state of permanent tension. "God, Kimi, you feel- you feel so good."

Kimi let out a muffled, frantic little hum of acknowledgement against Oliver’s skin, refusing to stop. He pressed his face harder into Oliver’s lap, his hands wrapping around Oliver’s heavily muscled thighs to anchor himself, his thumbs digging bruisingly deep into the meat of Oliver’s legs. He licked a messy, broad circle around the head, his tongue dipping hungrily over the slick, weeping slit, before sucking hard against the sensitive ridge.

The sudden, focused vacuum was too much.

The friction, the heat, the overwhelming psychological weight of the intimacy was all compounding, pushing him dangerously close to an edge he wasn't ready to fall over yet.

And then, he felt it. A slow, heavy bead of precum pushed its way out, hot and thick, welling up from the very center of his arousal.

Oliver’s eyes snapped open, panic piercing directly through the haze of euphoria.

Oh god, he thought, his heart dropping into his stomach.

It was one thing for Kimi to tolerate skin and saliva. It was an entirely different biological horror for Kimi to be confronted with actual bodily fluid. This was the line. It was messy, it was unsanitary, and it was happening right against Kimi’s mouth.

Oliver was deeply embarrassed.

"Wait," Oliver choked out, panic flooding his system. He broke the sacred rule. He moved. He reached down, his massive hands trembling, trying to gently push Kimi’s shoulders back. "Wait, stop. Kimi, wait."

Kimi pulled back instantly.

He sat up on his heels, his chest heaving, his dark hair a messy, chaotic halo around his face. His lips were wet and aggressively swollen, shining in the candlelight. He looked completely disoriented, blinking rapidly as if waking up from a deep, feverish trance.

"What?" Kimi asked, his voice rough and breathy, a flash of immediate, defensive worry crossing his eyes. "Did I use teeth? Did I hurt you?"

"No," Oliver scrambled to reassure him, his face burning with a mortifying heat. He kept his hands hovering defensively over his own lap, trying to shield the evidence. "No, you feel perfect. You feel amazing. It's just..." Oliver swallowed hard, unable to look Kimi in the eye. He stared at the fluffy blanket next to Kimi’s knee. "I'm... leaking. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. We can stop. Let me just wipe it-"

Oliver reached blindly toward the coffee table, frantically searching for a tissue, a towel, anything to sanitize the situation before Kimi spiraled into a panic attack.

"Oliver."

Kimi was staring directly at Oliver’s exposed, pulsing length, his dark eyes tracking the slow, thick bead of fluid as it slid heavily down the flushed side of the skin. And Kimi’s expression wasn't one of revulsion. It was one of undeniable fascination.

"Do not cover it."

Oliver lowered his hands, entirely paralyzed, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

Kimi leaned forward again. He moved with a deliberate slowness, keeping his dark eyes locked intensely onto Oliver’s. The eye contact was searing, stripping away every single layer of defense Oliver had left.

Kimi lowered his face until his lips were hovering a mere millimeter away from the skin.

He didn't break eye contact.

Slowly, Kimi pushed his tongue out. He traced the flat, wet muscle directly over the bead of Oliver’s precum, catching the thick fluid seamlessly and dragging it up the length of the skin, gathering every single drop.

Oliver stopped breathing. The room spun wildly off its axis.

Kimi pulled his tongue back into his mouth. He closed his lips. He swallowed, a slow, deliberate movement of his throat.

He tasted it. He actively, intentionally tasted it, looking right into Oliver’s soul as he did it.

"Mine," Kimi murmured, the word vibrating softly in the quiet air.

Before Oliver could even begin to process what had just happened, before he could open his mouth to form a single, coherent syllable, Kimi shifted his angle.

Kimi opened his mouth wide, flattening his tongue against his bottom teeth to protect the hyper-sensitive skin, and moved forward, sealing his hot, impossibly wet lips directly and completely over the entire head.

The seal was absolute. The suction was instant.

The sensation of the warm, tight vacuum perfectly enveloping the most sensitive part of his anatomy was a physical shock so profound that it bypassed Oliver’s brain entirely and registered directly in his soul.

Oliver’s vision blacked out for a terrifying split second.

"Jesus!" Oliver yelps. His back arched off the floor, his hips snapping forward involuntarily, driving himself a fraction of an inch deeper into the slick, wet heat of Kimi’s mouth.

Kimi groaned around him, a deeply appreciative vibration that sent a fresh shockwave of electricity straight to the base of Oliver’s spine. Kimi’s hands locked onto Oliver’s thighs, holding him firmly in place, as he pulled back slightly, maintaining the tight, wet suction, before sinking right back down.

The uncoordinated chaos was gone. Kimi had figured out the mechanics. He had claimed the territory, and now, he was actively consuming it.

Oliver’s head thrashed back against the pillows, his jaw locked open in a silent, continuous breathy scream, his hands clawing helplessly at the air. He was completely, utterly ruined, destroyed in the most beautiful way possible, entirely at the mercy of the boy he loved.

He was not going to last.

It was a rapidly approaching biological certainty. Under the terrifyingly enthusiastic, wet vacuum of Kimi’s mouth, Oliver possessed the staying power of a lit match in a hurricane.

Every time Kimi sank down, taking as much of Oliver’s flushed length as his jaw would physically allow, the hot, slick pressure compressed around Oliver’s most sensitive nerve endings, sending shockwaves of blinding white light behind his closed eyelids. And every time Kimi pulled back, the tight seal of his lips dragging agonizingly slowly over the inflamed ridge, the suction threatened to pull Oliver’s literal soul straight out of his body.

It was too much. It was too fast, too hot, and entirely too psychologically overwhelming. The knowledge that Kimi was doing this just to consume him, was an aphrodisiac so potent it was practically lethal.

The heavy, deep coil of pressure at the base of Oliver’s spine was tightening with terrifying velocity. It wasn't building to a steady crescendo, it was rocketing toward an uncontrollable detonation.

I can't, Oliver thought wildly, panic piercing through the hazy, euphoric fog in his brain. I'm going to ruin it. I'm going to finish in two minutes. I'm an embarrassment to the male species.

He needed to slow down. He needed an anchor. He needed to ground himself before he short-circuited entirely.

Under normal circumstances, Oliver would have sooner thrown himself into oncoming traffic than actively disrespect a boundary Kimi had set. He worshipped the ground Kimi walked on. To move, to physically interfere with the delicate, monumental operation Kimi was currently executing, felt like a betrayal.

But his body was no longer answering to logic, love, or obedience. It was operating purely on primal, desperate instinct.

Oliver let out a ragged gasp. His massive right hand, which had been death-gripping the fluffy blankets, let go of the fabric. His arm felt incredibly heavy, his muscles trembling violently as he lifted it into the air.

He reached forward, completely helpless to stop himself, and let his broad palm land softly against the back of Kimi’s head.

He didn't push. He didn't force Kimi downward. He merely slipped his thick, calloused fingers into the chaotic, dark waves of Kimi’s hair, gently curling his hand to cup the base of Kimi’s skull. It was a desperate, grounding tether to keep himself anchored to the earth before he spun entirely off his axis.

The moment Oliver’s fingers tangled in the soft hair, Kimi stopped.

The wet, rhythmic suction instantly ceased.

Oliver’s heart plummeted into his stomach. A cold spike of terror cut through the heavy heat of his arousal. I ruined it, Oliver thought, entirely devastated. I moved. I scared him. I overstepped.

"I'm sorry," Oliver croaked instantly, his voice thick, rough, and barely recognizable. He tried to pull his trembling hand back, fully expecting Kimi to retreat, to deploy the clinical, defensive attitude and end the evening. "Baby, I'm sorry, I couldn't-"

Kimi didn't pull away.

Instead, Kimi slowly lifted his head, sliding upward until his lips broke the tight, wet seal around Oliver’s length with a soft, obscene pop.

Oliver dropped his chin to his chest, forcing his heavy, dark-lashed eyes open to assess the damage.

The sight that greeted him completely, fundamentally rewired Oliver’s brain. It was, without a single shadow of a doubt, the most devastating visual he had ever experienced in his life.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli was completely ruined.

Kimi’s lips, usually a soft, pale pink, were now swollen and flushed a dark, bruised, agonizingly vibrant shade of cherry red from the sheer friction and suction. They were parted slightly as Kimi dragged in shallow, rapid breaths. Just past the edge of those swollen lips, the very tip of Kimi’s tongue was currently resting against his bottom teeth, wet and pink, unconsciously waiting for its next task.

His eyes were a catastrophe. The sharp, hyper-observant gaze that Kimi usually leveled at the world had completely dissolved. His dark irises were blown wide, the pupils massively dilated, leaving his eyes completely glazed over with a heavy, intoxicating fog of pure, overstimulated pleasure. He was looking up at Oliver through the thick, messy fringe of his eyelashes, completely unguarded.

And he was a mess. An absolute, undeniable mess.

The thick sheen of saliva coated Kimi’s swollen lips, caught in the corner of his mouth, and trailed down the sharp, elegant curve of his chin. It was profoundly, aggressively unsanitary.

And, as if the universe had decided Oliver wasn't suffering enough, Kimi’s brow furrowed slightly, and his bottom lip pushed out.

He was pouting.

It wasn't a cute, performative pout. It was the genuine, petulant, deeply frustrated pout of an overachiever who had just been forcefully interrupted right in the middle of a highly important task. Kimi’s glazed, dark eyes stared up at Oliver, silently demanding to know why his favorite new toy had suddenly stopped working, utterly bewildered as to why Oliver had halted the operation when things were going so perfectly.

The contrast was staggering. He was covered in Oliver, he was engaged in an act that had terrified him an hour ago, and he was pouting like a spoiled cat who had been denied cream.

It was the most fiercely adorable dirty little thing Oliver had ever witnessed.

Oliver couldn't stop it. His body acted entirely independently of his brain. Right there, hovering just an inch away from Kimi’s pouting, saliva-slicked mouth, Oliver’s thick, heavy length gave a sudden highly visible twitch.

It wasn't a subtle movement. It jumped against his own thigh, aggressively pulsing toward Kimi’s face, a desperate, physical demand to be put right back where it belonged.

Kimi’s glazed eyes immediately dropped, tracking the movement.

The pout instantly vanished.

A dark, knowing, incredibly feral spark ignited in the depths of Kimi’s dilated pupils. The petulant prince evaporated, completely consumed by the territorial predator who had just visually confirmed exactly how thoroughly he was destroying the massive rugby player beneath him.

Oliver let out a low, pathetic whimper, his hand tightening its grip in Kimi’s dark hair. "Kimi..." he begged, completely unsure if he was begging Kimi to stop or begging him to finish it.

Kimi didn't answer with words.

He let out a quiet, dark little hum of victory, parted his red, swollen lips, and leaned right back in.

It’s as if Kimi was a creature who had just discovered the absolute thrill of his own power, and he was completely obsessed with it.

Kimi began to stroke, matching the upward pull of his hands with the downward, suctioning press of his mouth. It was a completely coordinated assault.

As Kimi’s lips slid over the hyper-sensitive ridge, he let out a low noise in the back of his throat. Because his mouth was completely sealed around Oliver, the sound had nowhere to go but directly into the flushed, highly pressurized skin.

It felt exactly like a purr.

The vibration shot straight down Oliver’s length, a shockwave of pleasure that made Oliver’s hips completely detach from his brain’s command. He thrust upward involuntarily, a raw, filthy curse tearing out of his throat.

Kimi felt the jerk of Oliver’s hips, felt the sheer lack of control, and against Oliver’s skin, Kimi actually giggled.

It was a dark, breathless, utterly delighted sound. It was the giggle of a boy who had just won the most important game in the world and was actively gloating about the victory.

"Kimi," Oliver sobbed, his hands abandoning Kimi’s hair to drop back down, his fingers digging brutally into the plush rug. "Fuck, baby, please, I can't-"

Kimi ignored the plea entirely. He pulled his mouth off the head with a wet, obscene smack, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his face slightly, pressing his saliva-slicked cheek directly against the heavy, pulsing side of Oliver’s shaft.

He nuzzled it. He rubbed his face against the hot, taut skin like an affectionate, wildly territorial cat.

"I like it," Kimi whispered, his breath fanning hot and damp over the raw skin. His voice was thick, husky, and completely stripped of its usual edge. "Oliver, I really like it."

Before Oliver could even process the absolute devastation of that confession, Kimi’s tongue darted out.

He found the thick, prominent vein that ran along the underside of Oliver’s length, and he went to work. It wasn't a neat, organized process. It was frantic, sloppy, and ravenous. Kimi dragged his tongue in long, broad, incredibly wet strokes up the underside, lapping at the skin with an unhinged enthusiasm that made Oliver’s vision literally white out at the edges.

Kimi tasted the heavy drop of precum that had welled up again at the tip, entirely unfazed this time. He swallowed it with a soft, eager sound, his tongue sweeping continuously, leaving havoc in its wake.

Oliver was completely losing his mind.

He was weeping, silent tears of sheer, overstimulated frustration and euphoric agony gathering in the corners of his tightly squeezed eyes. His massive chest heaved, slick with a thin layer of nervous sweat. He was a passenger in his own body, entirely at the mercy of Kimi’s wet devotion.

Kimi paused the frantic licking, sitting back just an inch to admire his handiwork.

"So big," Kimi murmured, his voice a reverent, breathless whisper. His thumbs traced the thick, throbbing veins, mapping the territory he had so thoroughly conquered.

He leaned in closer, his brow furrowing slightly as the flickering candlelight illuminated the bright, localized flush of Oliver’s heavily aroused anatomy.

"So pink," Kimi observed, the sheer fascination bleeding into his tone. He tilted his head, looking at it from a slightly different angle, entirely lost in the visual. "Why is it so pink?"

"Because you're-" Oliver choked on his own breath, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched whine. "Because you're touching it, Kimi! Because you're driving me fucking insane!"

Kimi’s eyes snapped up to Oliver’s face, the dark, dilated pupils gleaming with a feral satisfied spark. The answer pleased him immensely.

Slowly, Kimi leaned forward and began to kiss it.

He didn't use his tongue. He didn't use suction. He simply pressed soft, open-mouthed, painfully gentle kisses directly to the thick, throbbing veins that mapped the underside of the shaft.

Kiss.

A soft, wet press of his swollen lips against the hot, taut skin.

Kiss.

He moved an inch higher, his breath ghosting over the hypersensitive ridge.

Kiss.

"Mine," Kimi purred against the skin, his hands tightening their grip at the base.

It was the ultimate, devastating juxtaposition. The terrifying, clinical scrutiny paired with the softest, most adoring worship Oliver had ever experienced. 

Oliver broke.

His entire nervous system was completely, utterly fried. He was floating in a terrifying liminal space where the concept of his own physical boundaries had completely ceased to exist. Where Oliver Bearman ended and Andrea Kimi Antonelli began was a blurred, chaotic line of friction, saliva, and agonizingly tight suction.

"Kimi," Oliver sobbed, a raw, wet sound that he didn't even attempt to suppress. His massive hands were uselessly pawing at the plush blanket on either side of his hips, his thick fingers tangling in the fibers like a drowning man clutching at seaweed.

But Kimi was entirely deaf to the state of his boyfriend’s sanity. In fact, he seemed to be actively emboldened by it. The overwhelming reality that he with nothing but his mouth, his hands, and his newly discovered confidence could reduce a man Oliver’s size into a trembling mess had completely intoxicated him.

Kimi pulled back. He broke the tight, wet seal of his lips with a resonant, highly obscene smack that echoed loudly in the quiet, candle-lit living room.

Oliver let out a shuddering, desperate breath of temporary relief, his head falling back against the nest of pillows. His chest was heaving so violently it physically ached. His skin was flushed a dark, mottled red from his collarbones all the way down to his thighs, a roadmap of over-circulated blood and pure, unadulterated sensory overload.

He really thought Kimi was giving him mercy, a chance to regroup his fucking sanity that had went scrambling away from his body.

But instead, Kimi shifted his weight forward, dropping his elbows heavily onto the insides of Oliver’s thighs to anchor himself. He snapped his head back up from the base, his dark hair flying wildly, and in one swift, aggressive motion, he sealed his mouth completely over the rigid head of Oliver’s cock once again.

"Wait," Oliver choked out, his voice cracking violently. "Fuck!" Oliver cried, his entire body bowing upward in a violent, uncontrollable arc. The muscles in his thighs cramped. His jaw locked so tightly his teeth audibly ground together.

It pushed him over the edge. He was coming. 

He was going to cum, and he was going to do it in the next five seconds.

Semen was not acceptable. Semen was fundamentally, aggressively unsanitary. It was sticky, it was thick, it was copious. If Oliver finished inside Kimi’s mouth, Kimi would gag and spend the next three hours sanitizing his tongue with mouthwash and crying from the psychological violation.

Oliver would rather die. He would literally throw himself out the window of their flat before he inflicted that kind of trauma on the love of his life.

"No, no, Kimi, off," Oliver panicked, the sheer force of his protective instinct overriding the paralyzing grip of his climax.

His heavy arms flew up. His massive calloused hands landed squarely on the delicate curve of Kimi’s shoulders. He didn't want to hurt him, he didn't want to shove him, but he needed to break the connection immediately. He needed to pull Kimi back, direct himself onto the rug, into a towel, anywhere, anywhere but there.

"Baby, please, I'm gonna- you need to let go, let me out!" Oliver begged, his voice frantic, his fingers curling into the fabric of Kimi’s shirt, trying to gently but firmly pull his boyfriend upward and away.

But Kimi Antonelli was a creature of stubbornness.

When he committed to a task, he committed with the entirety of his obsessive soul. He had overcome his fears. He had claimed his territory. And he absolutely refused to be denied the ultimate victory of his efforts.

As Oliver’s massive hands pushed against his shoulders, Kimi didn't yield. He didn't let himself be moved.

Instead, Kimi shifted his weight forward, dropping his elbows heavily onto the insides of Oliver’s thighs to anchor himself. He snapped his head back up from the base, his dark hair flying wildly, and in one swift, aggressive motion, he sealed his mouth completely over the rigid head of Oliver’s cock once again.

"Kimi!" Oliver gasped, his hands freezing on Kimi’s shoulders, completely paralyzed by the sudden, intense trap.

Kimi locked him there. He engaged his jaw, creating an airtight, inescapable vacuum, his lips pressing bruisingly tight against the base.

Oliver looked down, his chest heaving, his vision swimming with white-hot spots of approaching climax, and he met Kimi’s eyes.

Kimi was glaring at him.

The dark, heavily dilated eyes were fierce, burning with a terrifying competitive fire. And, entirely obscenely, Kimi was actively frowning around the heavy length stretching his cheeks. It was a dark, angry, petulant scowl that explicitly communicated: Do not touch me. Do not tell me what to do. I am finishing this.

To punctuate his absolute refusal to be moved, Kimi let out a muffled, furious little growl from the back of his throat, wrapping both of his pale hands around the heavy meat of Oliver’s thighs to hold the massive rugby player firmly in place. Kimi actively increased the suction, pulling hard, demanding the very thing Oliver was so terrified of giving him.

The sheer, overwhelming power of that visual, of Kimi violently fighting to keep Oliver’s cock in his mouth, was the final blow.

Oliver’s brain completely shut off. 

"God- fuck!"

The dam violently ruptured.

Oliver’s spine snapped off the floor, his hips driving upward with a terrifying, uncontrollable force, burying himself as deeply into the wet, hot furnace of Kimi’s mouth as physically possible.

The explosion was blinding. 

The world instantly dissolved into a wash of white static. A high-pitched, piercing ring erupted in Oliver’s ears, entirely drowning out the sound of his own ragged, guttural screaming. His massive hands flew from Kimi’s shoulders up to his own face, covering his eyes as his entire body convulsed.

He went blind and deaf for a few seconds.

He couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't feel the rug beneath him. The only thing that existed in the entire universe was the impossible, agonizingly tight heat of Kimi’s mouth, actively milking the heavy, relentless pulses out of him.

It was a lot. It was the result of days of built-up tension, a heavy, thick sludge that shot directly against the sensitive back of Kimi’s throat.

With every single convulsive pulse, Oliver expected Kimi to break. He expected the teeth to scrape, the vacuum to fail, the horrified, suffocating gag of a boy realizing he had made a terrible mistake.

But Kimi held on.

He kept his jaw locked, his hands digging bruisingly deep into Oliver’s thighs, his lips maintaining the absolute, iron-clad seal. Kimi took the first heavy pulse, and the second, and the third, his throat working frantically, visibly bobbing as he swallowed the thick, overwhelming volume of Oliver’s climax.

It felt like it lasted for an eternity. An agonizing, beautiful eternity suspended in white-hot static and the heavy scent of vanilla and sweat.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the violent convulsions began to subside. The world began to piece itself back together around the edges of Oliver’s vision. The ringing in his ears faded into the heavy, ragged sound of his own desperate breathing.

His body collapsed backward. The heavy muscle of his spine hit the plush rug, every single ounce of energy entirely drained from his massive frame. He was a hollowed-out shell, completely and utterly ruined.

He dropped his hands from his face, his heavy, dark-lashed eyes fluttering open, struggling to focus in the flickering candlelight.

He looked down.

Kimi was still there. But the fierce, territorial predator had vanished, instantly replaced by the terrifying reality of human biology.

Kimi slowly, weakly pulled his mouth off Oliver. The thick, white evidence of Oliver’s climax was everywhere. It was painting Kimi’s swollen, cherry-red lips, trailing down his chin in a heavy, messy line, catching along his jaw.

And Kimi was struggling.

The sheer volume had been too much. The texture, the thick, fluid coating his tongue and the back of his throat, was rapidly overwhelming his newly built tolerance.

Kimi’s dark eyes were heavily watered, tears gathering in his lower lashes. His chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths. His brow furrowed, his face twisting into a mask of pure, struggling discomfort.

A small, wet, choked sound slipped past his lips.

He gagged.

It was a tiny, suppressed convulsion of his throat. He clamped his hands over his mouth, his eyes wide and panicked, actively trying to force himself to swallow the rest, trying so desperately to be brave, to not ruin the moment, to prove to Oliver that he could handle it.

He was hurting himself to protect Oliver’s feelings.

Adrenaline, pure and fiercely protective, surged through Oliver’s exhausted veins.

"No," Oliver rasped, his voice a broken, raspy whisper. "No, baby, stop."

Oliver forced his heavy, leaden arm to move. He reached down, his massive, calloused hand trembling slightly as he closed the distance between them. 

Oliver slipped his broad, warm hand directly under Kimi’s jaw. He cupped his palm upward, creating a solid medium right beneath Kimi’s lips.

"Spit," Oliver commanded, his voice thick with unshed tears, entirely devoid of any embarrassment or hesitation. "Kimi, spit it out. Do not swallow that. Spit it right here."

Kimi froze, his tear-filled eyes darting down to look at Oliver’s massive hand waiting patiently beneath his chin. He looked back up at Oliver’s face.

Kimi let out a fractured, wet sob and leaned his weight forward, resting the exhausted point of his chin completely into the warm cradle of Oliver’s palm.

Kimi opened his mouth, his lips parting with a wet, sticky sound, and he let the heavy, thick mess fall.

He gagged once more, coughing softly, and spit the entire, heavy mouthful of Oliver’s cum directly into the center of Oliver’s bare, calloused hand. He practically emptied his mouth into his boyfriend’s palm, the thick, white fluid pooling heavily against Oliver’s life lines.

It was, objectively speaking, the most deeply unsanitary, entirely un-aesthetic thing that had ever happened in the history of their relationship.

Oliver didn't care. He didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the mess pooling in his hand.

He just looked at Kimi.

Kimi was slumped forward, his chin still resting heavily in Oliver’s cupped hand, breathing heavily through his nose. His eyes were closed, his dark eyelashes wet with tears, his lips a messy, beautiful catastrophe. He looked so incredibly vulnerable, trusting Oliver entirely to catch his mess, trusting Oliver to hold him together when his biology finally rebelled against his bravery.

Oliver sits there, his heart hammering a steady, profound rhythm against his ribs, holding a handful of his own fluids directly beneath the chin of the most beautiful and difficult boy in the world.

The realization crashed over him. It wasn't about the grand, cinematic gestures. It wasn't about poetry, or perfectly curated romantic evenings, or flawless physical intimacy.

It was messy. It was profoundly unglamorous. It was deeply, wonderfully entirely theirs.

Love is so fucking real, Oliver thought, staring up at Kimi’s exhausted, beautiful face, the static finally clearing entirely from his brain. Love is a tangible, living thing, and it is right here in this room.

"I've got you," Oliver whispered softly, his thumb moving to gently stroke the soft, saliva-slicked skin of Kimi’s cheek. "I've got you, baby. You did so good. You did so perfectly."

Kimi had pulled back, sitting back on his heels, his knees splayed wide over the crumpled blankets. His oversized grey sweater had slipped dangerously off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone. He was heaving, his mouth slightly parted as he dragged in shallow, desperate breaths. Slowly, with a hand that visibly trembled, Kimi brought his wrist up to wipe at his eyes, then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

He missed a spot.

A  streak of thick, pearlescent fluid was painted across the curve of Kimi’s cheek. It caught the dim light of the candles, a glaringly obvious testament to exactly what had just happened, trailing down his jawline toward his chin.

Kimi blinked hard, his long, dark eyelashes clumped together, actively blinking away a fresh wave of tears that were pooling in his heavily dilated eyes. He looked entirely wrecked. He looked entirely human.

Oliver stared at him. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

Fuck, Oliver thought, the word echoing in the quiet space of his own mind like a struck bell.

He is beautiful.

This was something altogether different. This was raw. This was messy. This was a boy blinking away tears because he had just pushed his own psychological boundaries to the absolute breaking point solely for Oliver’s pleasure.

He’s real. This is real.

And in that split second, staring at the streak of his own climax drying on Kimi Antonelli’s cheek, Oliver knew exactly how the rest of his life was going to play out. He was going to marry this boy. There was no alternative timeline. There was no other option. Maybe they would wait until after university. Maybe they would wait until they had a house with a proper, sanitized bathroom. But it was going to happen. He was going to bind himself to this impossible, difficult, brilliant creature for the rest of his life.

Oliver looked down at his right hand. It was still cupped, still heavy and slick with the copious, messy reality of his own climax that Kimi had spit into it. With a clumsy movement, Oliver reached out with his left hand, grabbing the stray shorts he had discarded earlier. He hauled the fabric up, dumping his cum-coated hand directly onto the cotton, and began wiping furiously.

He scrubbed his palm against the fabric, trying to erase the evidence, trying to clean up the mess he had made of their perfectly orchestrated evening. And as he wiped, the dam holding back his own emotional overload finally, irrevocably shattered.

A hot, thick tear spilled over his lower lash line, sliding down his cheeks. Then another. And another.

Within seconds, Oliver Bearman was crying. He was actively weeping, his massive shoulders shaking as he scrubbed his hand against the cotton shorts, entirely overcome by the crushing weight of how much he loved the boy sitting across from him.

He didn't make a sound, but the violent shaking of his chest and the erratic, frantic movements of his hand were impossible to miss.

Kimi, who had been staring blankly at the far wall trying to regulate his own heart rate, slowly turned his head. His dark eyes, still swimming with residual moisture, dropped to Oliver. He watched Oliver furiously wiping his hand, and then he saw the steady, silent stream of tears tracking through the sweat on Oliver’s face.

Kimi’s brow instantly furrowed. The slightly dazed, post-coital haze vanished, immediately replaced by that familiar, piercingly sharp concern. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as he leaned forward, bracing one pale hand on the rug.

"Why are you crying?" Kimi asked. His voice was completely wrecked, raspy, and stripped of its usual arrogance. It cracked slightly on the last syllable.

Oliver let out a wet, hiccuping gasp, pausing his frantic scrubbing. He dragged his clean forearm across his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision, feeling entirely exposed and ridiculous.

"I'm not," Oliver rasped, a blatant, pathetic lie, his voice thick with emotion. He sniffled, looking back at Kimi’s tear-stained face and the streak on his cheek. "Why are you crying?"

Kimi blinked. He reached up, his long fingers lightly touching his own damp cheekline, as if entirely surprised to find moisture there. 

"I was gagging," Kimi stated.

He said it with the exact same tone one might use to report the weather. There was no shame in it, no embarrassment, just a simple statement of physiological fact. 

Oliver stared at him. 

"Oh," Oliver breathed, a startled, watery sound escaping his chest.

Kimi watched him carefully. He watched the way Oliver’s lip trembled, the way the massive athlete was trying so desperately to pull himself together having his limp dick out.

Slowly, realization dawned on Kimi’s face. 

Kimi shifted his weight, crawling a few inches across the rug until he was hovering directly over Oliver’s chest. He didn't care about the mess on the shorts nearby. He didn't care about the state of his own face.

He reached out, his cool, elegant fingers gently brushing the heavy, damp hair away from Oliver’s forehead.

"Aww, Ollie," Kimi murmured, his voice dropping into a register of pure affection that he reserved exclusively for moments of absolute intimacy. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a small, incredibly fond smile. "You cried because I sucked your dick?"

"I- shut up!" Oliver sobbed, the laugh turning into a fresh wave of tears. He reached up, covering his face with both of his massive hands, feeling entirely, overwhelmingly silly. "It's not just that, you idiot. It's... everything. It's you. You're just... you're so stubborn, and you tried to swallow it, and I just love you so fucking much I feel like I'm going to die."

Kimi’s expression softened even further, a look of profound, victorious satisfaction settling into his dark eyes. He leaned down, ignoring the streak on his own cheek, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of Oliver’s massive hands that were hiding his face.

"You are incredibly dramatic," Kimi consoled him softly, his thumbs gently working to pry Oliver’s hands away from his face. "It is a good thing you are pretty, because your emotional regulation is shit."

"I hate you," Oliver wept, finally letting Kimi pull his hands down.

"No, you do not," Kimi replied easily, shifting his weight to straddle Oliver’s hips, settling his weight comfortably against the heavy musculature of Oliver’s thighs. "You are just overwhelmed by my throat."

Oliver let out another wet, hiccuping laugh, wrapping his heavy arms around Kimi’s waist and burying his tear-streaked face into the soft, oversized wool of Kimi’s sweater. He felt silly. He felt completely ridiculous. He was crying openly on the floor of his flat with his dick out.

Oliver took a deep, shaky breath, the scent of vanilla and Kimi’s expensive shampoo grounding him. He dragged the heel of his hand under his eyes one last time, clearing away the final tears, and looked up at the boy sitting on his waist.

Kimi looked content. He looked exhausted, ruffled, and deeply, deeply satisfied. But as Oliver looked at him, tracing the lines of his body, a sudden realization pierced through the post-coital haze.

"Wait," Oliver said, his voice still a little thick, his brow furrowing as he looked up at Kimi’s face. He let his heavy hands slide up the sides of Kimi’s waist, feeling the soft cotton of the sweatpants Kimi was wearing beneath the oversized sweater.

"What about you?" Oliver asked, a fresh wave of guilt suddenly washing over him. He had completely lost his mind, completely abandoned himself to the sensation, and he hadn't even touched Kimi in return. "You haven't cum."

Kimi froze.

"Who said I haven't cum?" Kimi asked, his voice a low, silky purr.

Oliver went entirely still. The remaining tears in his eyes completely halted. His brain, which had just finally begun to reassemble itself, flatlined all over again. He stared up at Kimi, his mouth falling slightly open in genuine shock.

"What," Oliver breathed, the word devoid of inflection, a pure expression of disbelief.

He processed the information with agonizing slowness. Kimi had been fully clothed. Kimi’s hands had been wrapped entirely around Oliver’s length or digging into Oliver’s thighs. Kimi hadn't touched himself. Oliver certainly hadn't touched him.

Kimi’s smile widened, a dark, thrilled blush rising to paint his own cheeks, clashing beautifully with the drying streak of white. He shifted his hips slightly against Oliver’s stomach, a subtle, heavy movement that confirmed the undeniable, damp reality of his own state.

"I came," Kimi stated, his voice hushed, entirely awestruck by his own admission. The clinical detachment was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, genuine sense of wonder. He looked down at his own hands, then back at Oliver’s face, his dark eyes wide and beautifully feral.

"I came... from sucking your dick," Kimi whispered, his brow furrowing slightly, as if trying to calculate the mathematical impossibility of what he had just experienced. He let out a short, breathless laugh, "That's crazy, I think."

Oliver let out a ragged, disbelieving sound, a mixture of a laugh and a sob, and surged upward. He didn't care about the mess. He didn't care about the streak on Kimi’s cheek. He grabbed the back of Kimi’s neck with both of his massive hands, pulling the boy down with a desperate, overwhelming force, and crashed his mouth against Kimi’s.

It wasn't a clean kiss. It tasted like salt, and sweat, and the heavy, undeniable metallic reality of his own climax. It tasted exactly like the boy he was going to marry.

Kimi didn't pull away. He didn't gag. He didn't flinch. He melted against Oliver’s chest, his arms wrapping tightly around Oliver’s neck, returning the kiss with a fierce, territorial heat, absolutely ruined, completely obsessed, and entirely in love.

Safe to say that from that evening, blowjob was added to the menu and it soon became a fan (Kimi) favorite.