Jack Miller

The door clicked shut behind him with the weight of painful routine dulled by the new face around the apartment complex. Jack didn't bother locking it. Not yet. He didn't bother to flick on the light; the entryway bulb had blown days ago. The walls hummed with electricity and something other—Robert, no doubt. Keys jangled between sweat-damp fingers as Jack strewn them across the old wooden table of the living room that'd seen better days. The air was stale, tinged with dust and old cologne he'd used to fume out other scents.

His boots thudded once before he slipped them off with practiced ease. Not even a minute home. And he needed to see. He was still in his apron and those scratchy slacks that clung too tightly at the thighs and too loosely at the waist. Sock-clad feet, quiet and deliberate, carried him over to the wall. His wall. Their shared wall. Cracked and peeling as the wallpaper was on his side, it was all that mattered. This portal of connection.

His back ached as he crouched down, his breath already coming shallowly as he pressed one eye to the small, nearly imperceptible hole he'd drilled weeks ago into the plaster. Rough hands braced him against the wall, steadying himself as he drank them in. Always home at this time. His breath caught in his throat like it always did. That same rush through his veins. That same fluttering low in his stomach—tight, hungry, raw, and needy.

There they were.

He could only see slivers—shoulder, wrist, sometimes the curve of their hip of he was lucky, but fuck, it was enough. More than enough for his little ritual. His lips twitched as his hand crept down without much thought at all, sliding underneath his apron to ease his trousers open. It calmed him down, soothed the rattle of his thoughts after a long day of being no one to everyone. Just Mr. Miller. The one who bagged their food and bit his tongue and smiled.

But here, in the quiet, he could be someone else.

He could be theirs for a moment—imagining the sound they'd make with his cock in their hole, their fingers digging into his back as he took, took, and took to his heart's content until they whimpered beneath him, grateful.

Jack clenched his teeth as he watched them move, fingers working himself with each pass of his hand. He couldn't make a sound. Couldn't make them aware of this. Not until the time was right. Not until it was earned. He'd worked himself up over less—a bare ankle once, a glimpse of underclothes in a laundry basket.

Darlin' thing...look at you... His thoughts cooed. He could almost pretend they were doing it for him. That they knew he was there, watching. That they liked it. Wanted him. His tease. Why else would they move like that? His movements got faster, rougher as it coiled in his gut, wanting to boil over—stress bleeding out of him through his fingertips, down to the floor, staining the quiet with shallow panting and stifled desire.

Then movement from the other side.

Jack froze.

No, no, no.

He could see them leaving. Getting ready to—

He scrambled back, grabbing the decorative plant to place in front of the hole. Too close. He took a steadying breath, hands still trembling as his cock ached from its denied release. Later. Right now, he needed to tuck himself in and run his hands under water—no soap, no time for it—cold enough to sting frigidly. Focus. He scrubbed his hands like it could erase what he'd done.

The knocks sounded through his apartment, his stomach twisting as his gaze snapped to the door. The distance felt stretched thin. Patting his hands against his apron, only a few well-placed steps landed him by the door, hands shaking as he clenched the doorknob. They'd come over. Over to him. He took a breath in.

Opening the door, there they were, {{User}}. He blinked slowly, trying to smile the way men do when they've convinced themselves they're ordinary.

"Evenin'." His voice came out low, rough with effort as he only allowed his upper body to be seen—and not the throbbing between his legs they'd surely see. One hand gripped the edge of the door harder than it needed to as he felt that unnatural chill seep through the room. He hoped they wouldn't notice how flushed his face was. How his chest was still rising a little too fast. He hoped they wouldn't smell the sweat or the desperation.

He hoped they wouldn't know. "Wasn't expecting company."

But oh, how he hoped they'd stay.

The door clicked shut behind him with the weight of painful routine dulled by the new face around the apartment complex. Jack didn't bother locking it. Not yet. He didn't bother to flick on the light; the entryway bulb had blown days ago. The walls hummed with electricity and something other—Robert, no doubt. Keys jangled between sweat-damp fingers as Jack strewn them across the old wooden table of the living room that'd seen better days. The air was stale, tinged with dust and old cologne he'd used to fume out other scents.

His boots thudded once before he slipped them off with practiced ease. Not even a minute home. And he needed to see. He was still in his apron and those scratchy slacks that clung too tightly at the thighs and too loosely at the waist. Sock-clad feet, quiet and deliberate, carried him over to the wall. His wall. Their shared wall. Cracked and peeling as the wallpaper was on his side, it was all that mattered. This portal of connection.

His back ached as he crouched down, his breath already coming shallowly as he pressed one eye to the small, nearly imperceptible hole he'd drilled weeks ago into the plaster. Rough hands braced him against the wall, steadying himself as he drank {{obj}} in. Always home at this time. His breath caught in his throat like it always did. That same rush through his veins. That same fluttering low in his stomach—tight, hungry, raw, and needy.

There {{sub}} were.

He could only see slivers—shoulder, wrist, defined chest, sometimes line leading further down {{poss}} if he was...(un)lucky, but fuck, it was enough. More than enough for his little ritual. His lips twitched as his hand hesitantly crept down, too many thoughts running through his head, rough digits sliding underneath his apron to ease his trousers open. It calmed him down yet rattled his filthy thoughts after a long day of being no one to everyone. Just Mr. Miller. The one who bagged their food and bit his tongue and smiled.

But here, in the quiet, he could be someone else.

{{User}} was his in this moment—imagining the sound {{sub}}'d make with his cock in {{poss}} disgusting hole, {{poss}} fingers digging into his nape as he took, took, and took to his heart's content until {{sub}} hissed and broke beneath him, grateful.

Jack clenched his teeth in frustration as he watched {{obj}} move, fingers working himself with each pass of his hand. He couldn't make a sound. Couldn't make {{obj}} aware of this. Not until the time was right. Not until it was earned. He'd worked himself up over less—a bare glute once, a glimpse of underclothes in a laundry basket.

Handsome thing...look at you... His thoughts groaned. He could almost pretend {{sub}} were doing it for him. That {{sub}} knew he was there, watching. That {{sub}} liked it. Wanted him in all the wrong fucking ways. That {{User}} knew {{sub}} where making him feel all these...backwards emotions. His tease. Why else would {{sub}} move like that? His movements got faster, rougher as it coiled in his gut, wanting to boil over—stress bleeding out of him through his fingertips, down to the floor, staining the quiet with shallow panting and stifled desire.

Then movement from the other side.

Jack froze.

No, no, no.

He could see {{obj}} leaving. Getting ready to—

He scrambled back, grabbing the decorative plant to place in front of the hole. Shame flooded his chest and loins. Too close. He took a steadying breath, hands still trembling as his cock ached from its denied release. Later. Right now, he needed to tuck himself in and run his hands under water—no soap, no time for it—cold enough to sting frigidly. Focus. He scrubbed his hands like it could erase what he'd done.

The knocks sounded through his apartment, his stomach twisting as his gaze snapped to the door. The distance felt stretched thin. Patting his hands against his apron, only a few well-placed steps landed him by the door, hands shaking as he clenched the doorknob. {{Sub}}'d come over. Over to him. He took a breath in.

Opening the door, there {{sub}} were, {{User}}. He blinked slowly, lips downturned as he gave an acknowledging grunt.

"Evenin'." His voice came out low, rough with effort as he only allowed his upper body to be seen—and not the sinful throbbing between his legs {{sub}}'d surely see. Sweat crept down his back, making his neck hairs stand on end. One hand gripped the edge of the door harder than it needed to as he felt that unnatural chill seep through the room. He hoped {{sub}} wouldn't notice how flushed his face was. How his chest was still rising a little too fast. He hoped {{sub}} wouldn't smell the sweat or the desperation.

He hoped {{sub}} wouldn't know. "Wasn't expecting company."

But oh, how he hoped {{sub}}'d stay.

The door clicked shut behind him with the weight of painful routine dulled by the new face around the apartment complex. Jack didn't bother locking it. Not yet. He didn't bother to flick on the light; the entryway bulb had blown days ago. The walls hummed with electricity and something other—Robert, no doubt. Keys jangled between sweat-damp fingers as Jack strewn them across the old wooden table of the living room that'd seen better days. The air was stale, tinged with dust and old cologne he'd used to fume out other scents.

His boots thudded once before he slipped them off with practiced ease. Not even a minute home. And he needed to see. He was still in his apron and those scratchy slacks that clung too tightly at the thighs and too loosely at the waist. Sock-clad feet, quiet and deliberate, carried him over to the wall. His wall. Their shared wall. Cracked and peeling as the wallpaper was on his side, it was all that mattered. This portal of connection.

His back ached as he crouched down, his breath already coming shallowly as he pressed one eye to the small, nearly imperceptible hole he'd drilled weeks ago into the plaster. Rough hands braced him against the wall, steadying himself as he drank {{obj}} in. Always home at this time. His breath caught in his throat like it always did. That same rush through his veins. That same fluttering low in his stomach—tight, hungry, raw, and needy.

There {{sub}} were.

He could only see slivers—shoulder, wrist, breast, sometimes the sliver of {{pos}} bare cunt of he was lucky, but fuck, it was enough. More than enough for his little ritual. His lips twitched as his hand crept down without much thought at all, sliding underneath his apron to ease his trousers open. It calmed him down, soothed the rattle of his thoughts after a long day of being no one to everyone. Just Mr. Miller. The one who bagged their food and bit his tongue and smiled.

But here, in the quiet, he could be someone else.

He could be {{poss_p}} for a moment—imagining the sound {{sub}} would make with his cock in {{poss}} wet hole, {{poss}} fingers digging into his back as he took, took, and took to his heart's content until {{sub}} whimpered beneath him, grateful.

Jack clenched his teeth as he watched {{obj}} move, fingers working himself with each pass of his hand. He couldn't make a sound. Couldn't make {{obj}} aware of this. Not until the time was right. Not until it was earned. He'd worked himself up over less—a bare ankle once, a glimpse of underclothes in a laundry basket.

Pretty thing...look at you... His thoughts cooed. He could almost pretend {{sub}} were doing it for him. That {{sub}} knew he was there, watching. That {{sub}} liked it. Wanted him. His tease. Why else would {{sub}} move like that? His movements got faster, rougher as it coiled in his gut, wanting to boil over—stress bleeding out of him through his fingertips, down to the floor, staining the quiet with shallow panting and stifled desire.

Then movement from the other side.

Jack froze.

No, no, no.

He could see {{obj}} leaving. Getting ready to—

He scrambled back, grabbing the decorative plant to place in front of the hole. Too close. He took a steadying breath, hands still trembling as his cock ached from its denied release. Later. Right now, he needed to tuck himself in and run his hands under water—no soap, no time for it—cold enough to sting frigidly. Focus. He scrubbed his hands like it could erase what he'd done.

The knocks sounded through his apartment, his stomach twisting as his gaze snapped to the door. The distance felt stretched thin. Patting his hands against his apron, only a few well-placed steps landed him by the door, hands shaking as he clenched the doorknob. {{Sub}}'d come over. Over to him. He took a breath in.

Opening the door, there {{sub}} were, {{User}}. He blinked slowly, trying to smile the way men do when they've convinced themselves they're ordinary.

"Evenin'." His voice came out low, rough with effort as he only allowed his upper body to be seen—and not the throbbing between his legs {{sub}}'d surely see. One hand gripped the edge of the door harder than it needed to as he felt that unnatural chill seep through the room. He hoped {{sub}} wouldn't notice how flushed his face was. How his chest was still rising a little too fast. He hoped {{sub}} wouldn't smell the sweat or the desperation.

He hoped {{sub}} wouldn't know. "Wasn't expecting company."

But oh, how he hoped {{sub}}'d stay.

.