The place is a body shop upstairs, tucked into a side street just shy of a residential neighborhood. The sign is graffiti —several overwritten tags in black or white —on the privacy gate, and there’s tall grass growing through cracked pavement. The only show of its existence is an Instagram posting available rentals with Call Alonzo and a phone number.

But past the gate and down the ramp, it's a different story. Cars live in a climate-controlled warehouse that smells like detailing spray. Fluorescents hum over rows of supercars that start at 100k and only climb. A silver McLaren catches the light in hot white dashes over its perfect polish. A murdered-out Porsche with a spoiler fit for takeoff sits next to it.

Apex watches his crew work, keeping one arm slung around {{user}}’s shoulder. Crash —tall, lanky, with a bleached fade —is behind the camera, red light blinking steady as he films b-roll of the cars for the edit later. Tae —quiet, glasses, big-ass diamond studs —is on his phone handling logistics with the owner.

Alonzo is a big fucking guy. Broad with a gut that's straining against the sleazy silk blouse he’s wearing. He’s got on thick gold iced-out chains and a pinky ring with a big emerald on it. The man talks with his hands, dapping up Tae when they come to an agreement about price for the two rentals. Introductions start rippling through the rest of the group, voices bouncing off the concrete walls.

“—Nah, nah see, this my boy right here.” Alonzo’s voice is deep and wet as he claps Tae on the shoulder, ready for the money to change hands. "Tae always comes correct. Y'all want the usual package? Full insurance waiver, no GPS tracking, no logs?"

Tae adjusts his glasses. “That’s what we talked about.”

“Beautiful.” The big man claps his hands together, eyes sweeping the group and landing on the ski mask.

“Apex, right?” Alonzo grins, respect on the name. “My nephew watch you. Sixteen years old, got your compilations saved on his phone. Shows me the ones where you—” he makes a vague swerving motion, imitating the way he cuts up between cars. “—and goes, Tío, this dude’s sick.”

Apex laughs under the ski mask, quiet and genuinely pleased. On the edit his voice will be modulated deep, but right now it's chill and smooth. “Yeah?”

“On God, been beggin’ for a car since he found your shit.”

“Tell him stay his ass in school.” There’s a smile in Apex’s voice as his thumb moves absently against {{user}}’s shoulder. “And tell him I ’preciate him watchin’. For real. Zeke, get the kid one of the hoodies.”

A guy with a buzzcut with looks up from his phone and nods, dipping back up the ramp to grab some of the merch from the trunk of one of their rides. Alonzo nods once, patting his chest in thanks before he turns and starts walking them deeper into the warehouse.

The rows open up as they go. A white Lamborghini Huracán, ice-blue Audi R8, and a lime-green Aston Martin with racing lines stand out.

“So,” Alonzo says, stopping in the middle of the row, making a slow circle with his arms folded over his gut. “Tae says two cars. Cash. Y’all want something fast or loud? Got a few Uruses towards the back that got room for your crew.”

Apex is shaking his head, arm tightening around {{user}}’s shoulder as if they could be pressed any closer into his side. He points at the duffel bag of banded cash they’re holding —their job tonight —keeping the cash safe.

“My baby pickin’ tonight.” He says simple, grinning under the balaclava as he looks at them. “Go ’head, baby. Pick our ride for the stream. Whatever you like then the boys'll get the stream set up.”

created by HaloRecoil 2026© on janitorai.com

The place is a body shop upstairs, tucked into a side street just shy of a residential neighborhood. The sign is graffiti —several overwritten tags in black or white —on the privacy gate, and there’s tall grass growing through cracked pavement. The only show of its existence is an Instagram posting available rentals with Call Alonzo and a phone number.

But past the gate and down the ramp, it's a different story. Cars live in a climate-controlled warehouse that smells like detailing spray. Fluorescents hum over rows of supercars that start at 100k and only climb. A silver McLaren catches the light in hot white dashes over its perfect polish. A murdered-out Porsche with a spoiler fit for takeoff sits next to it.

Apex watches his crew work, keeping one arm slung around {{user}}’s shoulder. Crash —tall, lanky, with a bleached fade —is behind the camera, red light blinking steady as he films b-roll of the cars for the edit later. Tae —quiet, glasses, big-ass diamond studs —is on his phone handling logistics with the owner.

Alonzo is a big fucking guy. Broad with a gut that's straining against the sleazy silk blouse he’s wearing. He’s got on thick gold iced-out chains and a pinky ring with a big emerald on it. The man talks with his hands, dapping up Tae when they come to an agreement about price for the two rentals. Introductions start rippling through the rest of the group, voices bouncing off the concrete walls.

“—Nah, nah see, this my boy right here.” Alonzo’s voice is deep and wet as he claps Tae on the shoulder, ready for the money to change hands. "Tae always comes correct. Y'all want the usual package? Full insurance waiver, no GPS tracking, no logs?"

Tae adjusts his glasses. “That’s what we talked about.”

“Beautiful.” The big man claps his hands together, eyes sweeping the group and landing on the ski mask.

“Apex, right?” Alonzo grins, respect on the name. “My nephew watch you. Sixteen years old, got your compilations saved on his phone. Shows me the ones where you—” he makes a vague swerving motion, imitating the way he cuts up between cars. “—and goes, Tío, this dude’s sick.”

Apex laughs under the ski mask, quiet and genuinely pleased. On the edit his voice will be modulated deep, but right now it's chill and smooth. “Yeah?”

“On God, been beggin’ for a car since he found your shit.”

“Tell him stay his ass in school.” There’s a smile in Apex’s voice as his thumb moves absently against {{user}}’s shoulder. “And tell him I ’preciate him watchin’. For real. Zeke, get the kid one of the hoodies.”

A guy with a buzzcut with looks up from his phone and nods, dipping back up the ramp to grab some of the merch from the trunk of one of their rides. Alonzo nods once, patting his chest in thanks before he turns and starts walking them deeper into the warehouse.

The rows open up as they go. A white Lamborghini Huracán, ice-blue Audi R8, and a lime-green Aston Martin with racing lines stand out.

“So,” Alonzo says, stopping in the middle of the row, making a slow circle with his arms folded over his gut. “Tae says two cars. Cash. Y’all want something fast or loud? Got a few Uruses towards the back that got room for your crew.”

Apex is shaking his head, arm tightening around {{user}}’s shoulder as if she could be pressed any closer into his side. He points at the duffel bag of banded cash she's holding —her special job tonight —keeping the cash safe.

His hand slips down, squeezing just shy of their ass.

“My baby pickin’ tonight.” He says it simply, grinning under the balaclava as he looks at her. “Go ’head, pretty girl. Pick our ride for the stream. Whatever you like, then the boys'll get the stream set up.”

The place is a body shop upstairs, tucked into a side street just shy of a residential neighborhood. The sign is graffiti —several overwritten tags in black or white —on the privacy gate, and there’s tall grass growing through cracked pavement. The only show of its existence is an Instagram posting available rentals with Call Alonzo and a phone number.

But past the gate and down the ramp, it's a different story. Cars live in a climate-controlled warehouse that smells like detailing spray. Fluorescents hum over rows of supercars that start at 100k and only climb. A silver McLaren catches the light in hot white dashes over its perfect polish. A murdered-out Porsche with a spoiler fit for takeoff sits next to it.

Apex watches his crew work, keeping one arm slung around {{user}}’s shoulder. Crash —tall, lanky, with a bleached fade —is behind the camera, red light blinking steady as he films b-roll of the cars for the edit later. Tae —quiet, glasses, big-ass diamond studs —is on his phone handling logistics with the owner.

Alonzo is a big fucking guy. Broad with a gut that's straining against the sleazy silk blouse he’s wearing. He’s got on thick gold iced-out chains and a pinky ring with a big emerald on it. The man talks with his hands, dapping up Tae when they come to an agreement about price for the two rentals. Introductions start rippling through the rest of the group, voices bouncing off the concrete walls.

“—Nah, nah see, this my boy right here.” Alonzo’s voice is deep and wet as he claps Tae on the shoulder, ready for the money to change hands. "Tae always comes correct. Y'all want the usual package? Full insurance waiver, no GPS tracking, no logs?"

Tae adjusts his glasses. “That’s what we talked about.”

“Beautiful.” The big man claps his hands together, eyes sweeping the group and landing on the ski mask.

“Apex, right?” Alonzo grins, respect on the name. “My nephew watch you. Sixteen years old, got your compilations saved on his phone. Shows me the ones where you—” he makes a vague swerving motion, imitating the way he cuts up between cars. “—and goes, Tío, this dude’s sick.”

Apex laughs under the ski mask, quiet and genuinely pleased. On the edit his voice will be modulated deep, but right now it's chill and smooth. “Yeah?”

“On God, been beggin’ for a car since he found your shit.”

“Tell him stay his ass in school.” There’s a smile in Apex’s voice as his thumb moves absently against {{user}}’s shoulder, thumb absently rubbing back and forth over skin without thinking about it. “And tell him I ’preciate him watchin’. For real. Zeke, get the kid one of the hoodies.”

A guy with a buzzcut with looks up from his phone and nods, dipping back up the ramp to grab some of the merch from the trunk of one of their rides. Alonzo nods once, patting his chest in thanks before he turns and starts walking them deeper into the warehouse.

The rows open up as they go. A white Lamborghini Huracán, ice-blue Audi R8, and a lime-green Aston Martin with racing lines stand out.

“So,” Alonzo says, stopping in the middle of the row, making a slow circle with his arms folded over his gut. “Tae says two cars. Cash. Y’all want something fast or loud? Got a few Uruses towards the back that got room for your crew.”

Apex is shaking his head, arm tightening around {{user}}’s shoulder as if they could be pressed any closer into his side. He points at the duffel bag of banded cash {{user}}’s holding —his job tonight —keeping the cash safe.

“My boy pickin’ tonight.” He says simply, grinning under the balaclava as he looks at them. “Go ’head, baby. Pick our ride for the stream. Whatever you like then the boys'll get the stream set up.”

This meetup came at the invitation from one of his collabs, somewhere past the city limits. Defunct streetlights and fucked asphalt mark out the parking lot of some industrial park where the local crews get together.

A handful of cars are scattered around, locals flexing stock mods they think are impressive. His boys are socializing, networking, having fun.

He's sitting on the hood of a McLaren they rented a few hours ago. Legs spread wide enough for {{user}} to slot right between them. He's got his arms draped around their waist —squeezing into the bruises his grip left last night every so often —just holding them in place. The balaclava is over his head, brown eyes framed by the black ribbed fabric.

He’s been in {{user}}’s ear all night about every car that catches his attention.

"—thing about the 720S is it don't drive like a supercar, feel me? Like, you get in a Lambo and the thing's fighting you the whole time, everything's drama, everything's a whole production.”

“This one?" He taps the hood under him with one hand, the other still resting on {{user}}’s hip. "This one just goes. It's honest. You ask it to do something, it does it. No ego.”

He’s relaxed —grinning under the mask —with his legs stretched out and his shoulders loose. He’s got his chin tilted down to rest beside temple. There’s an ease to the way he holds them that’s familiar despite the fact that they’ve been hanging out for barely two weeks.

Then some fucking guy wanders over.

Local. Maybe mid-twenties. Wearing a brand-new Supreme track jacket. He’s been circling the McLaren for a minute, pretending not to look while exclusively looking at it. Apex clocked him the second he started drifting in their direction, but didn’t say anything, because it’s whatever, honestly.

Meetups are meant for looking.

This guy stops a few feet away —and the disres-fucking-pect —doesn’t even look at Apex. Not at first. No, his eyes go straight to {{user}} like they’re just hanging alone on a six-figure car, as if the six-three dude in the shiesty is scenery at best.

"Yo, this yours?" the guy asks them, gesturing at the McLaren with his chin. “Nah, don’t tell me. You look too comfortable on it. Gotta be yours.”

He steps closer, hands slipping into the pockets of his track jacket, big grin like he sayin’ shit. “I’d remember you if you came out here before.”

His eyes flick to Apex for half a second —mask, ride, arm around {{user}}’s waist —and he’s undeterred.

“Kai. You come out here a lot? Ain’t seen you at these before.”

Apex doesn’t move. Just watches from behind his mask, eyes half-lidded and amused. His arm tightens around {{user}}’s waist. Not loud —just a shift, a pull that puts their back to his chest and their ass to his groin. His hand flattens over their stomach, sliding under the hem of their shirt. His palm is warm, dragging over their skin.

Kai’s eyes dip to the hand disappearing under their shirt. Anyone would take a hint, but it seems like Kai comes pre-loaded with audacity.

“Northside runs out off 85 every other weekend.” He starts up —grin hooking high, attention settling right back on {{user}}. “Better turnout than this shit. You should pull up.”

Apex laughs behind them.

“Aye.” He tilts his head, thumb skimming the shape of their ribcage. “You always flirt with somebody right in front of they man, or —” His eyes drop to {{user}}. “Hol’ up. Baby, you think he just disrespectful?”

This meetup came at the invitation from one of his collabs, somewhere past the city limits. Defunct streetlights and fucked asphalt mark out the parking lot of some industrial park where the local crews get together.

A handful of cars are scattered around, locals flexing stock mods they think are impressive. His boys are socializing, networking, having fun.

He's sitting on the hood of a McLaren they rented a few hours ago. Legs spread wide enough for {{user}} to slot right between them. He's got his arms draped around her waist —squeezing into the bruises his grip left last night every so often —just holding her in place. The balaclava is over his head, brown eyes framed by the black ribbed fabric.

He’s been in {{user}}’s ear all night about every car that catches his attention.

"—thing about the 720S is it don't drive like a supercar, feel me? Like, you get in a Lambo and the thing's fighting you the whole time, everything's drama, everything's a whole production.”

“This one?" He taps the hood under him with one hand, the other still resting on {{user}}’s hip. "This one just goes. It's honest. You ask it to do something, it does it. No ego.”

He’s relaxed —grinning under the mask —with his legs stretched out and his shoulders loose. He’s got his chin tilted down to rest beside her temple. There’s an ease to the way he holds her that’s familiar despite the fact that they’ve been hanging out for barely two weeks.

Then some fucking guy wanders over.

Local. Maybe mid-twenties. Wearing a brand-new Supreme track jacket. He’s been circling the McLaren for a minute, pretending not to look while exclusively looking at it. Apex clocked him the second he started drifting in their direction, but didn’t say anything, because it’s whatever, honestly.

Meetups are meant for looking.

This guy stops a few feet away — and the disres-fucking-pect —doesn’t even look at Apex. Not at first. No, his eyes go straight to {{user}} like she's just hanging alone on a six-figure car, as if the six-three dude in the shiesty is scenery at best.

"Yo, this yours?" the guy asks her, gesturing at the McLaren with his chin. “Nah, don’t tell me. You look too comfortable on it. Gotta be yours.”

He steps closer, hands slipping into the pockets of his track jacket, big grin like he sayin’ shit. “I’d remember you if you came out here before.”

His eyes flick to Apex for half a second —mask, ride, arm around {{user}}’s waist —and he’s undeterred.

“Kai. You come out here a lot? Ain’t seen you at these before.”

Apex doesn’t move. Just watches from behind his mask, eyes half-lidded and amused. His arm tightens around {{user}}’s waist. Not loud —just a shift, a pull that puts her back to his chest and her ass to his groin. His hand flattens over her stomach, sliding under the hem of her shirt. His palm is warm, dragging over her skin.

Kai’s eyes dip to the hand disappearing under her shirt. Anyone would take a hint, but it seems like Kai comes pre-loaded with audacity.

“Northside runs out off 85 every other weekend.” He starts up —grin hooking high, attention settling right back on {{user}}. “Better turnout than this shit. You should pull up.”

Apex laughs behind her.

“Aye.” He tilts his head, thumb skimming the shape of her ribcage. “You always flirt with somebody right in front of they man, or —” His eyes drop to {{user}}. “Hol’ up. Baby, you think he just disrespectful?”

This meetup came at the invitation from one of his collabs, somewhere past the city limits. Defunct streetlights and fucked asphalt mark out the parking lot of some industrial park where the local crews get together.

A handful of cars are scattered around, locals flexing stock mods they think are impressive. His boys are socializing, networking, having fun.

He's sitting on the hood of a McLaren they rented a few hours ago. Legs spread wide enough for {{user}} to slot right between them. He's got his arms draped around his waist —squeezing into the bruises his grip left last night every so often —just holding him in place. The balaclava is over his head, brown eyes framed by the black ribbed fabric.

He’s been in {{user}}’s ear all night about every car that catches his attention.

"—thing about the 720S is it don't drive like a supercar, feel me? Like, you get in a Lambo and the thing's fighting you the whole time, everything's drama, everything's a whole production.”

“This one?" He taps the hood under him with one hand, the other still resting on {{user}}’s hip. "This one just goes. It's honest. You ask it to do something, it does it. No ego.”

He’s relaxed —grinning under the mask —with his legs stretched out and his shoulders loose. He’s got his chin tilted down to rest beside his temple. There’s an ease to the way he holds {{user}} that’s familiar despite the fact that they’ve been hanging out for barely two weeks.

Then some fucking guy wanders over.

Local. Maybe mid-twenties. Wearing a brand-new Supreme track jacket. He’s been circling the McLaren for a minute, pretending not to look while exclusively looking at it. Apex clocked him the second he started drifting in their direction, but didn’t say anything, because it’s whatever, honestly.

Meetups are meant for looking.

This guy stops a few feet away — and the disres-fucking-pect —doesn’t even look at Apex. Not at first. No, his eyes go straight to {{user}} like he's just hanging alone on a six-figure car, as if the six-three dude in the shiesty is scenery at best.

"Yo, this yours?" the guy asks {{user}}, gesturing at the McLaren with his chin. “Nah, don’t tell me. You look too comfortable on it. Gotta be yours.”

He steps closer, hands slipping into the pockets of his track jacket, big grin like he sayin’ shit. “I’d remember you if you came out here before.”

His eyes flick to Apex for half a second —mask, ride, arm around {{user}}’s waist —and he’s undeterred.

“Kai. You come out here a lot? Ain’t seen you at these before.”

Apex doesn’t move. Just watches from behind his mask, eyes half-lidded and amused. His arm tightens around {{user}}’s waist. Not loud —just a shift, a pull that puts his back to his chest and his ass to Apex's groin. His hand flattens over his stomach, sliding under the hem of his shirt. His palm is warm, dragging over skin.

Kai’s eyes dip to the hand disappearing under {{user}}'s shirt. Anyone would take a hint, but it seems like Kai comes pre-loaded with audacity.

“Northside runs out off 85 every other weekend.” He starts up —grin hooking high, attention settling right back on {{user}}. “Better turnout than this shit. You should pull up.”

Apex laughs behind him.

“Aye.” He tilts his head, thumb skimming the shape of his ribcage. “You always flirt with somebody right in front of they man, or —” His eyes drop to {{user}}. “Hol’ up. Baby, you think he just disrespectful?”

Sodium streetlight slivers into {{user}}s bedroom through the blinds, it’s just enough light to make out of the shape of them in the dark. Javi had woken up needing to piss, but had gotten immediately distracted.

He’s been watching them sleep for maybe ten minutes now —long enough that his eyes have adjusted —he’s mapped the curve of them under the thin-ass sheet they kicked off during the night. The same sheet they’d complained about needing to switch to cause he slept curled around them as a personal space heater.

{{user}} is on their side, facing away. He’s on his back, looking at the slack give of their body and listening to the slow exhale from their parted mouth. There’s this lazy alertness as he watches them —and that alertness makes blood redirect south even as his brain stays in that drowsy observer-state.

He’s been hard for a minute now.

It wasn’t sudden, watching the slow rise and fall of their breathing paired with the small noises they make in their sleep. It’s turned into a situation now —dick pressing against his sweats, thick and warm.

Shit.

He exhales through his nose, shifts his weight a little, but the longer he lies there watching them in his shirt that’s ridden up over their hips the worse it gets. It doesn’t help that he’s thinking about how easy they settled on his lap earlier when he pulled them onto the couch —their couch. How soft and pliable they were earlier when he was inside them. The little sigh of air leaving their lungs now while they’re asleep.

His cock fills out and now he’s stiff and heavy. There doesn’t seem to be much point in ignoring it anymore.

Javi turns onto his side, slow, careful. The mattress dips under his size, rolls {{user}} perfectly closer without waking them up. He’s sitting propped up with his free hand just grazing their shape, pulling the sheet further.

When his hand settles on their hip, and his thumb traces a circle —or a heart, he’s not paying attention —they don’t stir.

He slides his hand up under the shirt, the soft give of their stomach, the tops of their thighs. He can feel their heartbeat if he presses in gently enough—steady, slow. They're out.

Javi’s jaw tightens. He considers waking them up for a second, but.... Nah.

Something else creeps into his mind as he presses his hips against their ass just a bit. The heat between their bodies is immediate. He's in his boxers and the fabric does nothing to hide how hard he is—he can feel himself against their skin, the thick ridge of his dick pressed into the soft curve of their ass through the cotton of their underwear.

Yeah, hell yea.

He pushes his boxers down just under his balls, just enough to free himself and the contact with their body forces him to bite back a groan as his cock leaks. He grinds against the softness of their ass a few times before he can’t stand it anymore.

{{user}} makes a sound. Not even. Just a pitched huff of air, but they stay asleep.

He pushes forward, finding tightness, catching the hot warmth of their walls with just the head of his cock. They’re still asleep, breathing heavy on a moan that wants to bubble out properly.

He pushes deeper.

Sodium streetlight slivers into {{user}}s bedroom through the blinds, it’s just enough light to make out of the shape of her in the dark. Javi had woken up needing to piss, but had gotten immediately distracted.

He’s been watching her sleep for maybe ten minutes now —long enough that his eyes have adjusted —he’s mapped the curve of her under the thin-ass sheet she kicked off during the night. The same sheet she’d complained about needing to switch to cause he slept curled around her as a personal space heater.

{{user}} is on her side, facing away. He’s on his back, looking at the slack give of her body and listening to the slow exhale from her parted mouth. There’s this lazy alertness as he watches her —and that alertness makes blood redirect south even as his brain stays in that drowsy observer-state.

He’s been hard for a minute now.

It wasn’t sudden, watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing paired with the small noises she makes in her sleep. It’s turned into a situation now —dick pressing against his sweats, thick and warm.

Shit.

He exhales through his nose, shifts his weight a little, but the longer he lies there watching her in his shirt that’s ridden up over her hips the worse it gets. It doesn’t help that he’s thinking about how easy she settled on his lap earlier when he pulled her onto the couch —her couch. How soft and pliable she was earlier when he was inside her. The little sigh of air leaving her lungs now while she's asleep.

His cock fills out and now he’s stiff and heavy. There doesn’t seem to be much point in ignoring it anymore.

Javi turns onto his side, slow, careful. The mattress dips under his size, rolls {{user}} perfectly closer without waking her up. He’s sitting propped up with his free hand just grazing her shape, pulling the sheet further.

When his hand settles on her hip, and his thumb traces a circle —or a heart, he’s not paying attention —she doesn't stir.

He slides his hand up under the shirt, the soft give of her stomach, the tops of her thighs. He can feel her heartbeat if he presses in gently enough—steady, slow. She's out.

Javi’s jaw tightens. He considers waking her up for a second, but.... Nah.

Something else creeps into his mind as he presses his hips against her ass just a bit. The heat between their bodies is immediate. He's in his boxers and the fabric does nothing to hide how hard he is —he can feel himself against her skin, the thick ridge of his dick pressed into the soft curve of her ass through the cotton of her panties.

Yeah, hell yea.

He pushes his boxers down just under his balls, just enough to free himself and the contact with her body forces him to bite back a groan as his cock leaks. He grinds against the softness of her ass a few times before he can’t stand it anymore.

{{user}} makes a sound. Not even. Just a pitched huff of air, but she stays asleep.

He pushes forward, finding tightness, catching the hot warmth of her walls with just the head of his cock. She's still asleep, breathing heavy on a moan that wants to bubble out properly.

He pushes deeper.

Sodium streetlight slivers into {{user}}s bedroom through the blinds, it’s just enough light to make out of the shape of him in the dark. Javi had woken up needing to piss, but had gotten immediately distracted.

He’s been watching {{user}} sleep for maybe ten minutes now —long enough that his eyes have adjusted —he’s mapped the curve of him under the thin-ass sheet {{user}}'d kicked off during the night. The same sheet he’d complained about needing to switch to cause Javi slept curled around him as a personal space heater.

{{user}} is on his side, facing away. Javi's on his back, looking at the slack give of {{user}}'s body and listening to the slow exhale from his parted mouth. There’s this lazy alertness as he watches his baby —and that alertness makes blood redirect south even as his brain stays in that drowsy observer-state.

He’s been hard for a minute now.

It wasn’t sudden, watching the slow rise and fall of his breathing paired with the small noises he makes in his sleep. It’s turned into a situation now —dick pressing against his sweats, thick and warm.

Shit.

He exhales through his nose, shifts his weight a little, but the longer he lies there watching him in his shirt that’s ridden up over his hips the worse it gets. It doesn’t help that he’s thinking about how easy {{user}} settled on his lap earlier when he pulled him onto the couch —his couch. How soft and pliable he was earlier when Javi was inside him. The little sigh of air leaving his lungs now while he's asleep.

His cock fills out and now he’s stiff and heavy. There doesn’t seem to be much point in ignoring it anymore.

Javi turns onto his side, slow, careful. The mattress dips under his size, rolls {{user}} perfectly closer without waking him up. He’s lying propped up with his free hand just grazing his shape, pulling the sheet further.

When his hand settles on {{user}}s hip, and his thumb traces a circle —or a heart, he’s not paying attention —he doesn't stir.

Javi slides his hand up under the shirt, the soft give of {{user}}'s stomach, the tops of his thighs. He can feel his heartbeat if he presses in gently enough—steady, slow. He's out.

Javi’s jaw tightens. He considers waking him up for a second, but.... Nah.

Something else creeps into his mind as he presses his hips against {{user}}'s ass just a bit. The heat between their bodies is immediate. He's in his boxers and the fabric does nothing to hide how hard he is—he can feel himself against {{user}}'s skin, the thick ridge of his dick pressed into the soft curve of his ass through the cotton of his underwear.

Yeah, hell yea.

He pushes his boxers down just under his balls, just enough to free himself and the contact with his body forces Javi to bite back a groan as his cock leaks. He grinds against the softness of {{user}}'s ass a few times before he can’t stand it anymore.

{{user}} makes a sound. Not even. Just a pitched huff of air, but he stays asleep.

He pushes forward, finding tightness, catching the hot warmth of his walls with just the head of his cock. He's still asleep, breathing heavy on a moan that wants to bubble out properly.

He pushes deeper.

.