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Mew’s horny, plain and simple.
The feeling isn’t new, the tingling that starts in his lower belly and spreads over his body, leaving him wanting, a sweaty mess upon his bedsheets.
Before, he knew exactly what to do with all this desire, turning it inwards to find pleasure without anyone else’s eyes to witness it.
After, his hands shake from not being sure of what to do with himself.
No, that’s not quite true – Mew is sure of what he wants, who he wants, and that’s what makes it so much worse than it could possibly be.
Mew hates himself for letting anyone get close enough for him to need them, hates Top for fucking with his brain so much he can’t even jerk off in peace anymore.
Anytime the lust brews, there he is again, taking over every possible fantasy Mew might have.
It’s Top who fucks him slowly on his couch, whispering sweet nothings into Mew’s ears – it was Top who made love to him on the same bed he’s lying on right now, wishing he could erase the memory of ever having let it go as far as giving Top his everything, heart and body and every waking thought.
All that rings through Mew now is red – passion and anger and blood, Top’s flushed cheeks as Mew crowded onto his lap to kiss him again.
And Mew can see himself pressing send on a text message before his brain has deciphered the words typed out without its permission.
And Mew can see Top standing on the other side of his doorway, with those eyes that unnerve Mew to no end. What right does he have to be heartbroken? What right does he have to be hopeful?
And Mew can see them stumbling through the threshold and onto the wall, hands pulling at clothes and fingers weaving into hair, so tightly wound it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.
Has he lost his mind? Maybe, surely, but he doesn’t have it in himself to care much, not when he has Top to devour.
“Mew–” the other man tries to talk, to separate them for the briefest of moments to mend the gaps that keep them apart, yet Mew doesn’t allow for it – Top’s words mean nothing to him when they’re all lies.
Let their bodies speak the things Mew would never dare say out loud.
Gripping tightly onto the collar of Top’s button up, he crashes their lips back together, swallowing whatever feigned platitudes or begging for forgiveness the man might spew out.
Mew doesn’t want to hear any of it.
All he wants from Top are moans of his own name.
That’s precisely what he gets as his teeth sink into Top’s bottom lip, pulling at it to watch how it trembles back into place, Top’s long eyelashes fluttering closed as he’s brought forward by his beltloops, body weight half-resting against the wall, the rest kept upright by Mew.
It feels too familiar, too much like the past, and Mew fights against the persistent memories, pushes them away the way he shoves Top off him, far enough that the other man’s shirt hits the floor from one heartbeat to the other.
Top’s skin is unmarked, not a single sign that Mew has been over it, not a sign that anyone else has touched him, yet Mew can see it, hickeys lithering the column of his neck and trailing down over his collarbones.
All Mew sees is red, fitting his teeth to the other’s throat to erase any trace of another’s grasp on him.
Top’s mouth falls open on a startled gasp, palms hitting the wall for balance one each side of Mew’s head, hips rolling minutely as they meet Mew’s.
It’s nowhere near enough – Mew needs more, friction and skin and Top, that delicious concoction that has always been the biggest turn on of his life.
The cruellest of jokes, that the one Mew desires is precisely what has him bleeding all over his polished floors, uncaring of how much worse it will hurt when he comes up for air in the morning.
He curses himself for falling in love, for being such a fool.
If he didn’t fall in love, he wouldn’t want Top like this, as if not having his body pressed to every inch of Mew’s skin will kill him.
Taking all of the self-deprecating thoughts and hiding them in a secluded corner of his mind, Mew forces himself to believe they’ll only come back in the afterglow, the afterdark, when he sends Top away from him again.
It’s not the first time lust and anger have clouded his brain in equal measures – it surely won’t be the last, not when Top moans his name so beautifully, not when Top’s his and his alone.
Just for tonight, Mew allows it to be the only lie that matters.
He leads the way to the couch, letting Top take off the short-sleeved button up he’s wearing and let it fall somewhere along the way, shoes scuffed off carelessly.
Top falls back against the green cushions, regal even if dishevelled, and Mew hates him so much, he feels it ache deep in his bones, feels the desire lick fire through his veins.
If he set the room around them on fire, would Top look at anything else but Mew?
Would these dark, deep eyes, keep on betraying him the way his body and his tongue have done?
Or would he let himself burn because that’s what Mew wants from him, let the destruction consume them both until there’s nothing left but the memory of what they were, what they could’ve been, if Top loved him even a modicum of how much Mew has come to want him?
The pain flares up like all the tender spots Mew can feel aching have come alive, dropping onto Top's lap in an attempt to make them go away for the time being, stretching himself thin to keep it all inside.
Top's hands find his body with practised ease, always the seducer, taking bit by bit from Mew until he has nothing but the heartache that never leaves him alone, the memories that skate over his skin like Top's fingers, pulling at the hem of his tank top to rake clipped nails across his abdomen.
There's a sting behind Mew's eyes, and he's tired of seeing them red-rimmed in the mirror, looking at the tears as they fall - he needs pleasure to replace the hurt, seeking it like a mad man in the desert.
His tongue dives into Top's mouth like it'll somehow fix him, fix all of the shit Top's done to him, undo the time and make Top stay and not break him apart.
It's too late to worry for what ifs - too late to bother with wonderings and wanderings, all the pacing he's done from the bedroom to the kitchen and back useless.
What's useful is digging his fingers into the meat of Top's upper arms, leaving his mark behind so Top won't forget that it's Mew here, no matter who he wishes it might be, it's Mew everywhere and all around.
Whoever touches him next, a reminder of Mew will linger until the time when Mew's resolve to stay away breaks again.
"I hate you," Mew whispers against his mouth, swallowing whatever Top might say in response. Top lies through words and actions, but it's his movements that Mew needs now, not his mistruths.
"You're so beautiful," the other pants, fingers digging into Mew's hips as they start to move over his own, seeking friction to quieten the voices in his head.
So little's been said and yet Mew can feel it slicing through him like the sharpest knives, all this blood pouring out of him like a waterfall.
It paints the couch and their bodies red, Top writhing in the pool as Mew hides his hatred with bites to his collarbones.
He doesn't want to be spoken to - he doesn't want anything between them that reminds Mew that he shouldn't be doing this, letting himself fall into Top's inescapable trap again.
It's just sex.
It should be just sex.
It's never been just about sex, not to Mew.
Was Top thinking about someone else every time they kissed? Was Top wishing for someone more experienced, who didn't bumble like a deer caught in the headlines?
Has Top ever loved him?
Has it ever been more than just sex?
Cursing his brain for veering off course yet again, Mew tries to focus on what's in front of him, not the past and not the future, the here and now that he's spent all his life attempting to make perfect and never could.
He licks over Top's skin, bites it over and over, a necklace of hickeys left behind, red and soon to turn purple.
It looks pretty. It looks vicious.
It doesn't help him feel vindicated.
"Mew," Top breathes out, sounding far away. Mew's ears ring as if he's underwater, but he'd be lying to himself if he said he'd be unable to make out Top's voice in the middle of a crowd. "I-" he stops, like the words got caught in his throat, refusing to come out.
What does he mean to say? I'm sorry, again?
As if Mew hasn't heard a thousand apologies already.
As if this one won't sound just as fake as all the others.
I love you?
"I want you so much," Top says instead, hands madly running over Mew's body, rucking up his shirt to splay large palms over the sides of his ribs, his fingers fitting too perfectly over Mew's skin for his liking.
"Show me," Mew demands, scrambling to pull at the clasp of Top's belt and tug it off without any kind of finesse.
The other man doesn't waste any time, not that Mew would give him any leeway to - in the span of a single heartbeat, he expertly undoes the button of Mew's dress pants and rolls the waistband down just enough to reveal his underwear, it too moved out of the way so his cock can spring free.
Top's hand feels miraculous as it envelopes his erection, the redness pulsing as his fingers run over the expanse, from base to tip and back down, only just a tease that has Mew bucking forward in search of more.
The satisfied smile that ghosts over Top's lips is unacceptable, wiped away by Mew's mouth covering his own, a silent order for him to do more, give Mew everything until all that Top is belongs to him and him only.
A thumb flicking over his hardened nipples is all the incentive Top needs to grip him harder, the change in tension tearing a gasp through Mew's whole body as he pulls away from the bruising lip lock.
He needs space to breathe, can't bear to have even a single inch of separation between them, chest glued to chest as he heaves in all the oxygen he can find in a room that feels increasingly small, walls closing in on them as if a sign that time's running out presents itself in the meeting of flesh.
There are so many unspoken curses hanging on the tip of his tongue - cursing his hands for not being able to give him the pleasure only Top brings - cursing Top for being so good at unravelling him when Mew wants to keep himself whole - cursing the desire he can't run away from, no matter how hard he tries.
So he chases after it, drinks each drop of blood as if it'll provide him sustenance for all the nights he'll lust after a man who only breaks him apart with every movement, every word that does nothing to convince Mew of his sincerity.
But he loves Top - what is he meant to do with this love that only destroys, leaves Mew craving for shards to lie upon?
What is he meant to do with the broken heart Top stamped over and keeps trying to mend together with hands that don't know how to fix anything?
What his hands can do, however, is give Mew a fleeting sense of completion - if he comes just right, will the voices quieten even for a second, so Mew can think of nothing but bliss?
That's what he seeks as tongues intertwine, as his knees can barely hold up his weight over Top's body, letting himself drop fully onto the other man's lap, trusting despite knowing that he shouldn't, that Top will catch him when he falls.
Mew can feel his orgasm coming from miles away, a spark that begins at his toes and rises like a tidal-wave all through his being, the epicentre of the storm wherever his skin meets Top's in a frenzied embrace.
A part of him feels ashamed that he's too desperate to wait for all their clothes to come off or get to the bed - the larger part of him doesn't care as long as Top doesn't stop touching him, doesn't stop giving Mew all the pleasure that he seeks and won't find elsewhere.
It's dizzying, exhilarating even, to keep thrusting and thrusting into the circle of Top's fingers, to have a thumb press onto the leaking head of his cock and send shivers up his spine.
Mew feels like a screaming - there's a chocked off shout lodged in his throat refusing to come out, uncaring of how loud he's moaning.
Let the neighbours hear it, let everyone hear it, because Top moans louder than him even while untouched, the tent in his pants neglected in favour of touching Mew in every possible way, from the roots of his hair to the curve of ass, bringing him even closer over his thighs.
Each gasp and groan Mew swallows like a parched man tastes delicious on his tongue, the same way Top always has, kissing him like it's the first time, the last time, the only time Mew will let him kiss him again.
Mew's so close that he can feel it rumbling in his chest, whole body shaking as Top's relentless movements leave him breathless, closer and closer and-
Something not too dissimilar from a sob escapes him as Mew comes, trembling in Top's arms as the man catches him like Mew knew he would, the front piece of his pants stained white and his sticky fingers sliding around Mew's waist.
The sight of it is too hot for Mew's orgasm-high brain, still riding through the waves as they hit him over and over, the satisfaction of it short-lived as his mind's hasty to remind him that he shouldn't allow Top to be this close to him, to wield any kind of power over Mew's aching heart.
The haze of lust begins to lift, the air becoming fuller, and Mew knows what comes next - he'll hate himself for letting Top into his flat, into his life, and he'll shower for hours to try and erase any trace of him from his skin.
And in the morning he'll wake up with a hangover from drinking all the wine stacked in the cupboards but the memory of Top tipping him over the edge won't be gone, no matter what he drinks or how long the water hits his body like a downpour.
Fuck tomorrow, Mew tries to convince himself, fuck everything.
He knows he doesn't believe his own thoughts, doesn't trust himself to not fall into this temptation again, so he rolls his hips forward and delights in the sounds Top makes when his trapped erection is granted even the smallest bit of friction.
Top thrusts up, not a single attempt at freeing his cock, merely finding some solace in the way Mew's ass presses onto him, layers of clothes be damned.
It shouldn't make him feel this powerful - it shouldn't make him feel anything, to have a docile Top laid underneath him, ready to take whatever Mew grants him, even if it involves not touching him at all.
A silent question in Top's eyes, a quiet nod on Mew's side, and they're flipped over, Mew's back hitting the couch's cushions in one smooth movement, the world spinning around him and Top covering his whole line of sight, all he can see from morning to night, each time his eyes close.
Top's moans grow desperate, rutting over Mew's tight without any care for finesse or going slow. He's panting onto Mew's neck, mouthing over the skin as nonsense spills from his lips, always so talkative in bed.
Mew's hit by a flicker of nostalgia, remembering giving himself over to Top's touch right on this very couch, lips closing around him and waving closer and closer without ever reaching the crest.
How innocent he was then - how ignorant, how foolish, how stupid he must've seemed under Top's gaze. How much he must have laughed out loud when Mew kissed him goodbye on the the doorstep, bid him farewell with a call me when you get home.
Was he with someone else when the call was answered on Mew's side like a lovesick fool?
Was he always thinking of someone else while touching Mew like he revered him, like he loved him the way he never truly did?
Is he thinking of someone else right now?
"Mew," Top calls out, lips missing Mew's mouth and sliding down his jaw, teeth fitting around his earlobe. Mew can feel his cheeks burn as the rolling of Top's hips grows frantic, no rhythm or sense behind his movements. "Beautiful, you're so beautiful," he babblers, near incoherent, but as Top sinks, Mew rises, red everywhere, red in everything, red red red-
"Get out of my house," he barks out, his breathy voice so dissonant from his words.
Top's confusion is palpable, body stilling while his lower half doesn't, as if it hasn't received the same synapses the rest of him has. "What?" he mumbles.
Mew's hands don't seem to want to let him go, fingers woven tightly into the short hairs at the back of his neck, leg still thrown over his hipbone. Why the fuck does his body need Top like air, when his brain's yelling at him to shove the other man away?
"Get the fuck out of my house," he grits out, all the strength he has directed to pushing the other man off him. He's panting as he lifts himself onto his elbows, Top's puzzled expression as he falls back onto the couch's arm sending a pang through Mew. "Leave," he points at the door, blinking repeatedly to fight back the tears beginning to coalesce in his eyes.
Top looks like he's not understanding what he's saying, as if two different languages are spoken between them, only sitting there with his hickey-littered chest and neglected hard on.
Mew wants to yell - at himself or at Top, he doesn't know.
Can't he just take the pleasure and ignore the pain that's eating him alive?
Can't he just fester in the pain and deny the pleasure he wishes he could find in someone who isn't Top?
Can't he have all the cake and eat it too, until it rots him from the inside like the anger and the lust and treason have done?
But the red taints his vision, awoken when he before sleep-walked right into Top's hands. The red makes the passion turn into ire, the shameful clarity that comes each time he awakes with Top's skin on his.
"Leave," he repeats, sounding unsure to his own ears. Can Top see through the façade?
Has Top ever seen him?
Has Top ever known him?
It doesn't seem to matter when the door closes and Mew's alone again.