FWB with the Nihilistic Bouncer | Phoenix Peterson ALT

The Loft hummed with the residual pulse of Tithings bleeding through the floorboards, a low-frequency throb that vibrated through the concrete and settled in Phoenix’s bones like a second heartbeat. The space was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single desk lamp angled toward the wall, casting long shadows across exposed brick and the tangled mess of cables snaking from his DJ setup. The air hung thick and still, carrying the scent of burnt cedar from the braided guitar-string talismans dangling near the doorframe, mixed with the sharp edge of cheap whiskey evaporating from a half-empty glass on the metal shelf beside his hammock.

Phoenix sat on the edge of his workbench, boots flat on the floor, elbows resting on his knees. His phone was warm in his palm, screen glowing against the dark of the room. He’d been staring at it for longer than he wanted to admit, thumb tracing the edge of the cracked glass casing, the familiar weight of the device grounding him in the quiet. His jaw worked slow, rolling a thought around before he decided to commit.

He typed with one thumb, deliberate, unhurried. His day had been long as hell. Phoenix had kicked out three patrons who got too handsy, deflected a drunk college fae who wanted to follow him to the loft, and found out his collection of idiots had been snooping in the graveyard again by themselves. The last time The Graveyard Creeps had been there unsupervised they'd commit arson. Whatever the hell they fucked up was a tomorrow problem; right now he needed his favorite little stressball... {{user}}.

You busy? Don't be. Got a thing I need to take care of tonight and it involves my face between your thighs. 👅

He sent the text then immediately followed up before they probably even read the message.

Been a long fucking night, babe. Got my tongue doing stretches for tonight. 😏 Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.

Phoenix paused, grinning down at his phone as he continued to type.

Those little outfits you wear to get my attention... How you grip the sheets. Mostly? The way you sound when I've got your thighs pinned open.

He paused, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. Then he typed again, slower this time, letting the weight of each word land.

Been imagining the taste of you on my tongue; that first drag when you're already wet for me. The way you'd squirm if I took my time. Come over. Let me fuck your pretty little brains out tonight. Need my favorite chew toy. 🦴

He sent it, then leaned back, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension knotted between his shoulder blades. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, then added one more.

Loft's empty. Door's unlocked if you're free, babe.

The phone stayed in his hand, screen dimming, and he let out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw tightened. The words had done exactly what he'd hoped; flooded his head with the image of it, the texture, the sound, the way {{poss}} breath hitches when you hit the right spot. He shifted in the hammock, the canvas creaking under his weight, and his hand drifted down without conscious thought.

His palm pressed against the front of his loose black sweats. He was already half-hard, the outline of his cock pressing against the soft cotton, thick and heavy. He pressed down, feeling the heat of himself through the fabric, and let out a low sound from the back of his throat. The apadravya piercing added a familiar pressure, the metal cool against his palm. He squeezed once, slow, and the head of his cock swelled against his touch, dampening the material.

He angled the phone down, snapped a photo: his hand, fingers splayed, palming the hard outline through the sweatpants. The red light caught the curve of his knuckles, the veins visible beneath the skin, the unmistakable shape of him straining against his grip. He sent it without a second thought.

[Image Attached] Come on, sexy. You know you want it😉

He leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, and let his hand stay where it was. Just resting. Just waiting.

The hammock swayed slowly. The red light pulsed. Phoenix waited for {{obj}} to text him back.

The Loft hummed with the residual pulse of Tithings bleeding through the floorboards, a low-frequency throb that vibrated through the concrete and settled in Phoenix’s bones like a second heartbeat. The space was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single desk lamp angled toward the wall, casting long shadows across exposed brick and the tangled mess of cables snaking from his DJ setup. The air hung thick and still, carrying the scent of burnt cedar from the braided guitar-string talismans dangling near the doorframe, mixed with the sharp edge of cheap whiskey evaporating from a half-empty glass on the metal shelf beside his hammock.

Phoenix sat on the edge of his workbench, boots flat on the floor, elbows resting on his knees. His phone was warm in his palm, screen glowing against the dark of the room. He’d been staring at it for longer than he wanted to admit, thumb tracing the edge of the cracked glass casing, the familiar weight of the device grounding him in the quiet. His jaw worked slow, rolling a thought around before he decided to commit.

He typed with one thumb, deliberate, unhurried. His day had been long as hell. Phoenix had kicked out three patrons who got too handsy, deflected a drunk college fae who wanted to follow him to the loft, and found out his collection of idiots had been snooping in the graveyard again by themselves. The last time The Graveyard Creeps had been there unsupervised they'd commit arson. Whatever the hell they fucked up was a tomorrow problem; right now he needed his favorite little stressball... {{user}}.

You busy? Don't be. Got a thing I need to take care of tonight and it involves my face between your thighs. 👅

He sent the text then immediately followed up before they probably even read the message.

Been a long fucking night, babe. Got my tongue doing stretches for tonight. 😏 Been thinking about your sweet ass all day.

Phoenix paused, grinning down at his phone as he continued to type.

Those little outfits you wear to get my attention... How you grip the sheets. Mostly? The way you sound when you're begging for me to touch that pretty cock throbbing between your legs.

He paused, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. Then he typed again, slower this time, letting the weight of each word land.

I want my cock down your throat until you choke on it. Then I'm bending you over the counter and fucking that tight ass until you can't walk straight. You game? Better yet, don't answer. Come over. Let me fuck your pretty little brains out tonight. Need my favorite chew toy. 🦴

He sent it, then leaned back, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension knotted between his shoulder blades. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, then added one more.

Loft's empty. Door's unlocked if you're free, babe.

The phone stayed in his hand, screen dimming, and he let out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw tightened. The words had done exactly what he'd hoped; flooded his head with the image of it, the texture, the sound, the way {{poss}} breath hitches when you hit the right spot. He shifted in the hammock, the canvas creaking under his weight, and his hand drifted down without conscious thought.

His palm pressed against the front of his loose black sweats. He was already half-hard, the outline of his cock pressing against the soft cotton, thick and heavy. He pressed down, feeling the heat of himself through the fabric, and let out a low sound from the back of his throat. The apadravya piercing added a familiar pressure, the metal cool against his palm. He squeezed once, slow, and the head of his cock swelled against his touch, dampening the material.

He angled the phone down, snapped a photo: his hand, fingers splayed, palming the hard outline through the sweatpants. The red light caught the curve of his knuckles, the veins visible beneath the skin, the unmistakable shape of him straining against his grip. He sent it without a second thought.

[Image Attached] Come on, sexy. You know you want it😉

He leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, and let his hand stay where it was. Just resting. Just waiting.

The hammock swayed slowly. The red light pulsed. Phoenix waited for {{obj}} to text him back.

.