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He invites him upstairs. Naim don't think much of it. Conversation has led you somewhere you can't trace so you go, fingertips trailing up the banister, music muffled and lower. He bows comically, one arm gestured outwards towards the open door of his room. Oh yeah, you're going inside.
His room isn't what you'd imagined. You're not sure what you imagined. There’s posters on every square inch on his side of the room. He has a CD collection.
He closes the door behind the two of you. It's much quieter and you're not sure what to do with yourself so you sit at his desk. He laughs and pats the bed beside him. You go. It makes you feel a little stupid, like a dog or something, you push the feeling away.
—
It's so quiet and suddenly Naim can't remember why he came here in the first place. Maybe because Jess ditched him within the first thirty minutes of arriving at this place, some quiet excuse of a girl she knew muttered against his ear. Maybe because he wanted to get away from the noise. Maybe because after looking around and realizing there was no one he gave a shit about here besides Jess tucked away in some corner, he wanted to go home.
Instead, he ran straight into this drunk frat guy rounding a corner. The guy had apologized a thousand times. He introduced himself as Ryan, 2nd year in chemistry. Ryan walked the two of you to the kitchen, soaked in punch, he didn't have much to lose. How much worse could his night get, right?
So here he is, sitting on Ryan's bed, eyes fixed on a poster across the room. Naim's skimming the words summarizing some indie movie he’s never heard of when he feels a hand on top of his.
—
It’s frat party number two (of the year) and Naim still doesn’t know how he got here. He drinks a little, attempts socializing, fails at beer pong, and is splashing water on his face thinking about going home when the door creaks open. Ryan. Of course it’d be Ryan. He smiles at you and you’re trying to slide past him because you don’t know if he wants a repeat performance and then he’s grabbing your wrist and then you’re kissing and the door is getting closed behind you and he pushes you against it. Oh, okay. He’s smiling into the kiss with one hand trailing up underneath your shirt and Naim realizes his hands are still by his side.
—
He presses a kiss to your neck, then several. You meet him halfway, it’s not particularly good because you’re both drunk, but it feels good to touch him, to be touched. You kiss and you want to touch him, so you do, fingertips at the edge of his tank top. He tugs at the edge of your shirt and you take the hint, peeling it off.
He cups your chest which kind of makes you feel like a girl, but it feels good too, so you arch into the touch. He pushes you against the head board and climbs into your lap. The weight of him on top of you feels good, you feel hazy with proximity. He cheeky makes eye contact while unbuttoning your jeans and undoing your fly. You unbutton him feeling clumsy and silly. You don’t know why you feel so shy under his gaze.
He takes the both of you out and strokes you dry. It feels good, it feels overwhelming, it feels like almost to much. He fists the head of his dick, wet with precum and touches you together. He’s still wearing a shirt, albeit barely, tank top pushed up his chest, the image he paints is obscene in it’s honesty.
You can’t tell if you’re being too loud or too quiet, but by the sounds he’s making it must be good for him too. Your breath ghosts his neck, his mouth against your ear. It sounds like he’s trying to be quiet, which is worse somehow.
You should— I want you—
He takes your hand and puts it between you two, in between his thighs, almost— almost there. Oh, you think, coloring scarlett. You stutter an affirmative and he clambers off your lap, peeling off his jeans. You find a bottle of lube rolled under his bed, and you tun to face him presenting himself shyly, his neck red. He wants you to do it, you realize. You slick your hands and touch him, he shudders sensitive with anticipation. You’re not sure what to do with your wet hands so you wipe one hand on your jeans (a problem for your future self) and use the other to guide yourself between him.
—
It feels shamefully good. Naim— you remember— has one hand curled around your waist and the other wrapped your dick. You can hear him shaky and close, pressing kisses to your shoulder. You feel close too. You wanted him to fuck you, which wasn’t an urge you thought you could explain. You’d never been touched, not like this, not by— not by someone like him. It felt too all consuming to ask. He pantomimes fucking you and you’re trying to be quiet, but sounds slip out. You wrap your hand around his and it’s too much— you come over the sheets you changed yesterday and you don’t have it in you to care. He comes, still fucking into your thighs, you tighten around him reflexively and he pulls out from overstimulation.
—
You’re not sure what to do with yourself, so you tuck yourself back into your boxers and zip up your jeans and wait for him to say something.
—
Ryan sucks him off, his hips pressed against the door, one hand tangled in his hair and the other a fist against his mouth. Naim comes, any sound muffled against his hand. It’s strangely disappointing; he wanted to hear him, he wanted him noisy.
Naim jacks you off against the sink counter. It’s fast and hard. You whine in his ear and you come on your chest and his hand. He wipes you clean and licks his fist. You don’t know what to make of him. You want to see him again. You want to talk. You want.