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You cannot figure out if you want to fuck the man or be the man. He’s got you pressed against the wall in the alley outside the bar and you’re gripping the back of his solid shoulder, the small of his waist, that fucking waist, and he won’t take off his glasses and his nose is like a pert arrowhead and his grin’s got canines. His grin says it knows something you don’t. You want to know what he knows. You want his tits, his thighs, that pink tongue that’s sliding slick against yours and he smells like expensive cologne, and an undercurrent of something old, something meaty. You want to hollow him out and embody his body. You want to grin that grin. You want to groan his groans.
The closest you’ll come is that you’ll cum. His tongue runs against the back of your teeth and you pull back and bite his cheek, hard. Something flickers across his face and in the space between heartbeats you’re worried you fucked it up, you were too fucking weird, but then he drops down to his knees and unzips your jeans and pulls down your underwear.
Rush of bare air. He exhales hot against you. Licks his bottom lip.
Starts eating.
Licking long warm stripes, mouthing, nodding up, low hums, hands gripping your hips like iron. Fucking lascivious, his nose pressing into the top of your bush and the skin under your happy trail tensing every time he groans against you, and this gorgeous man is fucking eating you out in the alleyway and even from this angle you can’t parse out his eyes, nor his fucking starvation, he’s closing his lips around you like you’re the last meal he’ll ever have, like he’s fucking ravenous, and it's cresting, it's cresting, and then he worries you between his teeth and you cum.
Full-body electricity. Head snapping back, your hands curling deep into his hair as you shudder (soft, soft hair) and your hips grinding into his mouth and you’re making noises you shouldn’t make outside, the music of the bar pounding through the brick and against your shoulder blades; and you want him, you want him, you want to be his tongue, you want to be his lips and his hums as he eats you through it until you’re begging him to let go, shuddering, begging, and he peels back your jeans from your inner thigh and
a sharp arc of pain. Warm, wet.
You look down and his mouth is pressed wholly against your inner thigh, pink lips flush against you—a bite, an honest-to-god whole-jaw teeth sunk-in kind of bite, and in your confusion his thumb presses against you again and your mouth opens in a wordless wail, electricity and clenching, shoulders bowed, his teeth scraping over your inner thigh and his content groans and his warm tongue lapping off the blood, there’s blood, fuck, and he’s still playing with you, firm soft pad of his thumb, and you can’t do more than keen through your teeth. His tongue lathing across the pain, and you, arching, your thighs closing around his head, and with the rumbling in his chest you wouldn’t know why but maybe he wants to hollow you out too, make his taste your taste, make your body his body—maybe he—wants you deeper—maybe he wants you deeper too.