Chapter Text
He only stays as long as Aiden’s on shift. Once he leaves – the flurry of attention and cat calls following – Nigel vacates his table, leaves a very generous tip, and goes outside.
It’s been two months since he’d seen the way the young man would smile as he turned, part his lips to take a breath in the most fetching way. He has a delicious body, one Nigel imagined often, pulled taut and shaking with pleasure under his hands, and he had spent much longer than two months studying him from afar to get a taste for him.
He lights a cigarette and waits, just far enough out of the light of the streetlamp behind the back door to not be seen when people leave it. He knows Aiden isn’t long in doing so, he knows the route he takes home, has followed him the car a few times, inconspicuously enough for Aiden not to notice. He has yet to offer a ride. Although the weather is crawling its way to winter and he doubts Aiden owns anything warmer than the thick heavy coat he occasionally wears, a bulky thing, obscuring him completely into a mass shadow of nothing.
How Nigel wants to take care of him. bring him home, feed him up and fuck him, slow, deep enough to make the boy whimper, hand in his hair and bending him in a beautiful arc off the sheets.
He licks his bottom lip and drags his teeth over it before swallowing, eyes still on the door, nicotine burning his lungs on the inhale, soothed and poisonous as he breathes the remains of it away.
It’s only minutes later that the heavy thing swings open, a cloud of warm exhaled air heralding Aiden’s exit. He stands a moment, hands in his pockets, eyes closed as he mentally runs through the checks he does nightly. Phone, back pocket, wallet, front left, keys, front right, the evening’s tips – the wad thick again, with the generous tips from his favourite patron – in the pocket of his coat.
With that he turns to go, moving his head left and right to check the street before stepping out on it, oblivious of the figure just behind the streetlamp, off on the footpath opposite to where he’s going. Nigel watches. Lets the cigarette burn low before flipping it away, a stark ember in the night before it hits the gutter with a quiet hiss and darkens.
Most evenings it takes Aiden half an hour to walk home. Forty minutes in rain, twenty at a run. Tonight it’s just cold, and his legs ache from a 10-hour shift waiting tables, jaw aches from smiling the entire time. He sells himself just as fully as the girls who dance; his emotional labor costs him more than he allows himself to think, so he doesn’t think on it. he knows, at least, that his father can’t find him here. And for as long as it takes, he will work at the club and collect and save, and work on his graphic novel.
The mantra keeps him returning to work, six day weeks, over and over.
Dad can’t find me. dad can’t get me. I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m ok.
He times it to the beat of his boots against the pavement. Behind him, he hears an engine start and the car pull away.
He makes it perhaps four blocks before he sees them, the slow meandering pace of a bored gang just waiting for a victim. Aiden swallows, buries his hands deeper in his pockets and forces his heart to slow. Victims become victims by projecting a certain aura. Aiden has no strength left to outrun them or fight them, is too tired to turn down the next street and take the long way home, through the park.
He slows his pace, considers, feels the money slide sticky against his fingers in his pocket. It’s a lot of money, perhaps enough for rent and some food if he budgeted properly. And they would take it – and everything else – for spite and boredom.
It’s a split second between Aiden stopping and the leader seeing him. and it’s that second where adrenaline slips cold through his veins, a sickening familiar feeling, the second he finds himself stepping back half a step, up just on his toes to sprint, push past and keep the hell going for as long as his exhausted legs will carry him, for as long as the adrenaline lasts.
The second where a shiny black SUV pulls up right next to him, smooth as oil, and the window rolls down.
“Get in.”
The group of men ahead on the next corner were loud enough to pass through even the thick windows of Nigel’s car before he’d wound the window down, and he could tell with the way they rearranged themselves, shifted, turned their attention to Aiden, alone, on the sidewalk, that they had every intention of sending him home bloody.
He couldn’t stand for it.
He waits, for the initial flight response to settle, for Aiden to blink at him, recognition to slip into his expression before a sharp yell from the gang on the next street draws his attention and recognition bleeds into fear.
He gets in quickly, closes the door and closes his eyes, waiting until the car is in motion and past the yelled profanities before sighing out a breath and reaching for his seatbelt.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, turning to his rescuer, to the man responsible for most of the money in his pocket. Nigel just turns his head enough to check the rear view mirror before returning his eyes to the road.
“It’s a dangerous route you take, Aiden.”
“It’s safer than the park.”
Aiden gets a brief glance at that and shrugs his shoulders higher, ducking his head between.
“You can just drop me on the next street,” he assures him, “I can walk the rest of the way, it’s not far.”
Nigel merely slides his hands over the steering wheel. He doesn’t want to drug Aiden into this, to coerce. He wants Aiden to come to him on his own, take what Nigel is offering, grow to love it enough to beg for it himself. That’s what he wants, the reason he shows up at the club over and over, to watch the young waiter bend pleasingly over a table to retrieve drinks, or pass them out, to watch him flirt and realize, night after night, that Nigel wants him for himself. Wants no one else to touch him.
He would teach him well enough, when he had him, what any indiscretion meant. Not cruelly, he never wants his Aiden to hurt, but he will need him to understand, to know who he belongs to, who will make him cry with how good fucking him will be. He has to have him.
They pass the street Aiden usually turns on to head home and the young man follows it with his eyes, head turning back in a terrified longing, before turning to face the front again. He swallows.
“If you’re gonna kill me anyway, can I at least know your name?” he asks quietly.
“You don’t remember my name?” Nigel replies, the corner of his mouth Aiden can’t see turned up in amusement. He should remember. He had told him.
Aiden frowns, studying the man next to him from under his messy fringe. He’s seen him before, but he has seen countless others. Some mad drunk and grabby, already turned on by the girls and boys on stage and taking it out on the nearest warm body, others still coherent, trying their luck with the waitstaff. And then people like this man, he had always been quiet, always reserved, but he would watch, and his eyes would undress Aiden every time he was nearby in such a way as to suggest expensive fabric sliding over his skin slow enough for him to scream, rather than quick and rough and messy.
After the first few times, Aiden had started reciprocating; small looks at first, then a smile, then grins. Then he’d make sure to clean the tables nearest him in such a way as to be almost obscene, if he wasn’t in a strip club earning his keep without getting on his knees in one of the back private rooms. Leaning far over, arching his back, stretching his body in the most pleasing ways as those eyes paused in their systematic undressing and started caressing him instead.
“I don’t remember,” he lies, feeling his cheeks heat up.
He remembers. He remembers setting down a set of drinks, feeling the familiar hot stroke of the look the man had aimed at him as he straightened. He remembers watching his lips press a little harder around the cigarette in his mouth before he pulled it away, a sliver of blue smoke following before he exhaled the rest. It had been a busy night, and Aiden was riding high on exhaustion and the confidence that came with being watched more intently than any of the performers on stage. So he had walked over.
“What can I get you?” he’d asked, smirk sitting pretty on his lips as he’d tilted his head and cocked his hips enough to notice the motion. The man had raised his eyes, returning the cigarette to his mouth and exhaling again, tongue pressing against one of the sharp canine teeth Aiden could see in the dimmed blue lights of the club as he pulled it away.
“What do you think I want?” had come the reply, slow, carefully accented. Not the sluggish slur of the drunks who came here to get off, not the stammer of the nervous first-timers, but a delicious voice, smooth and warm just as his looks. And Aiden supposes that for a spur of the moment decision, shifting to slide into the man’s lap and taking his cigarette out of his hand, he could have made a worse one.
“I’m not for sale.” He’d purred back, licking his lips before taking a long drag. The smoke had tasted odd, flavourful and rich, and he’d let out the exhale in a slow long stream turned profile, the lights of the stage backing the smoke and his silhouette before turning his head just a little, just enough to catch the heat in the gaze. The man’s eyes had gone near-black under the lights in the club, and with something far more sinister.
“Perhaps a name then.” And he hadn’t moved to touch him, hadn’t moved to grope or tug, even as Aiden turned, deliberately rubbing against him with his thigh and gently returned the cigarette to the man’s mouth, his own lips parted as he mirrored the gesture the man’s made as they took the offering.
“A name for a name.”
And those dark eyes again, the smile growing slow and turning the chiselled face into something extremely, painfully attractive. The hand had come up, from behind Aiden, brushing his back with the inside of his wrist, and the cigarette was gone again.
“Nigel.” And Aiden had grinned, plucked the cigarette away once more and stood. He’d given his in turn and then the night had continued. It had taken him days to get the rich aromatic taste from his mouth.
“Liar.” Nigel’s voice brings him back to the present and Aiden’s eyes focus once more. He doesn’t say a word, not to deny or apologise, and Nigel doesn’t push for more.
After a moment, Aiden sits straighter and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and setting his chin on top. He watches the street ahead and doesn’t ask where they’re going, has a fairly decent idea of where and doesn’t fight it. why bother?
He was in the pink nylons today, not a color he particularly enjoyed but work was work. His only pair of walking boots rested dirty and loose up to his shins, laces tattered at the ends, one plaited to a tapered end. He kept his work shoes at work. They were the nicest things he owned.
The silence in the car isn’t uncomfortable but it is charged. Nigel lets it slide that the boots are going to leave dirt on the leather seats. He forgives in advance that they would leave residual dust on his shoulders when he pushes Aiden’s legs over them later this evening, his ridiculous uniform still on. He watches him from the corner of his eye and lets the silence rest.
“I did tell you I’m not for sale,” Aiden tries, quiet, as the car slides from the darker neighbourhoods to the affluent ones and Aiden feels the nerves and unused adrenaline grip his throat with nauseating worry. Nigel allows his smile to spread over his face, wide and smooth, not unlike the one he had levelled on Aiden in the club.
“I haven’t bought you.”
Aiden’s eyes flick up at the words but he doesn’t turn his head.
“Your tips would suggest otherwise.”
“I tip for services rendered.” He answers honestly. Aiden’s brows furrow and his jaw works, and for a moment longer he is silent.
“I doubt I’ve done enough for what you tip me.”
Nigel blinks, tilts his head up in lieu of smiling wider.
“If you seek to repay a debt, I will not be one to stop you.”
When Aiden laughs, it’s a nervous sound, a helpless one. This entire evening is his choice, and his alone. He had gotten into the car instead of running, had accepted every tip without question, had flirted, shamelessly, frequently with the man until the burning eyes following his every movement around the club became his constant comfort.
And now he was here, going home with a man he knows he can’t deny without severe consequences. He doesn’t even know what neighbourhood he’s in anymore to just up and run home. The panic seeps through his veins, tightens his muscles, causes his fingers to press hard against the stretchy material over his legs.
Nigel watches, blinks slowly, relishes in the fear that is radiating off the young man like heat. His sweet, precious boy. He wonders what sounds he can coax from those lips, how far he can push him and how hard before he bends, begs beautifully and lets him in.
He pulls into the carpark slowly, guiding his car to the space assigned him for the building and kills the engine. Next to him, Aiden nearly vibrates with the need to move, get out, get away. Nigel hopes, truly hopes, for his sake that he has the brains enough not to try and run. He doesn’t want to scare Aiden, but if he has to drag him to his apartment by that gorgeous mop of hair he won’t think twice. He gives the young man a cursory glance before turning to open his own door.
“Come.” He commands, exits the vehicle, and waits for it to be followed.
It takes a moment, long enough for Aiden to take a deep breath before sliding his feet to the floor of the car, unclip his seatbelt and get out. He watches the headlights flicker against the wall as Nigel locks the car, and forces himself to follow when he holds the door open for him. They take the three steps up needed to get to the elevators and wait, Aiden's hands in his pockets, Nigel's in front of him as he looks up at the numbers slowly flipping down, lower and lower until they reach the carpark level. The doors slide open and then step inside.
Despite Aiden's assumptions, Nigel does not instantly touch him. Aiden swallows and presses himself into the corner of the lift, just waiting as it takes them to what seems to be the top floor of the entire complex. He has no idea what to think of Nigel. He has heard rumours, but without a surname can never follow them up. He knows he is a rich man, can feel that he is a dangerous one, and yet beyond being painfully self-confident in Aiden's choice not to run from him, he has done nothing more than drive the young man to his house. Even at the club there had never been unnecessary grabbing, abuse or violence. Just the stare, the hot, delicious look that Aiden nearly shivers at the memory of.
Nigel notices, doesn't say a word. The anticipation is what's winding Aiden so high and it's beautiful to watch. He wonders if he'll need to even push before the boy goes on his own. He wants nothing more than to push him back against the corner he'd chosen, yank him up so his feet rested, spread, against the cool metal handrails that ran the border of the lift, and show him the meaning of anticipation. The mental image is certainly a pleasing one, he'll perhaps act upon it once he has the boy trained to his hand. It amuses him that he knows it will take a long time; Aiden isn't an easy victory. He fights suppression and control as hard as Nigel seeks to enforce it. It will be a beautiful collision.
On the 23rd floor, the doors hiss open and Nigel steps out first, confident that Aiden will follow. He has measures set up if he runs, of course. He'll let him get as far as he can on his own before driving out to meet him, be sitting in his dirty, tiny apartment for when he comes home, sure of the flimsy door's security. He smiles when he hears the drag of boots against the carpet behind him, and unlocks the door with brisk, practiced movements. This time, he lets Aiden in first.
The apartment is heavy in dark colors and antique furniture. Everything is pristine, and Aiden stops on reflex to push his shoes off with his toes, without bending. It's perhaps the gesture Nigel wanted, because he closes the door with a snap and locks it, before passing Aiden on his way into the apartment proper. He turns on few lights, preferring to allow the lights of the city to light the floor enough for them to see. Aiden supposes he could be raped in a worse location, but stops the thought with the single thought that he has agreed to every part of this, has followed along without coercion. He could have run, closed the elevator doors and attempted to make a break, but he hadn't, he'd waited before they started to close before leaving to join Nigel, he'd entered the apartment first.
Carefully he transfers his keys, phone and wallet into his coat pockets and takes that off too. He'd thrown on an over-long shirt before tugging on his only sweater and jacket. At the club he worked shirtless, in nothing but the ridiculous tights and the thin, stretch shorts that went on top. He hates it, but has his body in shape enough to not look overly repulsive. Regardless, he feels naked now, with nothing but two layers of fabric between his vulnerability and Nigel's attentions.
Nigel's eyes shift over the young man in front of him, watches his nervous movement, his resignation to the situation. It wouldn't do, he wants him willing. He wants Aiden pressing against him with breathless, quiet little whimpers, desperate in his need. It could take time, though, that he will allow. But he will have the boy in his bed tonight if he has to tie him down to keep him there. He doesn't offer Aiden a drink, doesn't offer dinner, just steps closer again, and lets him back up until Aiden's back hits the wall and he swallows, eyes up but chin down, defensive and scared.
He hooks one finger gently under Aiden's chin and raises it until he can meet Aiden's eyes properly; so wide and blue and worried. He is a remarkably beautiful boy, Ganymede in a dirty city, dressed in the only things he can afford, looking next to broken by his own circumstances. How he wants to take care of him, to own him and have the boy as his; to play with and pamper and punish. And he would punish him, often, for the way he attracted all the wrong sort of attention, the way he would be obstinate and defiant, how he would make Nigel expend effort to tame him to his hand. The thought alone makes him lick his lips lightly, eyes on Aiden's as they flick down at the motion before closing slowly, jaw working in Nigel's grip.
"Aiden," his voice is low, quiet, appropriate for the hush of the apartment, and serves to placate the younger man enough for him to swallow and open his eyes, glance directed down for the moment, those beautiful long lashes fanning out over his cheeks. "Look at me."
And he does, slowly, reluctantly, but he obeys, and his expression is one of wonder and vulnerability rather than hatred or distaste. Nigel nearly moans.
"How many people have touched you?" he asks instead. Aiden's brows furrow a moment, first in confusion then annoyance. His cheeks darken just a little and he blinks. He doesn't reply, doesn't open his lips or lick them, makes no indication that he's going to acquiesce to this request as quickly as he had to the other. And after a moment more he directs his eyes away, swallowing thickly, face darkening more. Nigel's hand slides from his chin to grip Aiden's hair and he tugs just enough to get the boy's attention, to have his eyes on him again, and Aiden makes a sound that goes straight to his cock, a sweet, quiet little whine. his pupils are wider and Nigel has to close his eyes before he does something he'll regret.
A little masochist. Oh, he couldn't be this lucky.
The grip on Aiden's hair tightens to painful and he makes another sound to indicate. It doesn't ease, Nigel stays still a moment, eyes still closed, before parting his lips on a slow breath. It smells of mint, and just a hint of nicotine underlying it. A cool smell, but not a clinical one. And Aiden wonders if he's angered him, if he should have replied that he had had experience enough with women but never here, and never like this. Maybe told him that Nigel had been the first and only man to so far get such a response from him. But perhaps that would be a bad idea, would bring out the worst in the person currently holding him behind closed doors in an apartment Aiden is sure is sound proof.
He takes a shallow breath.
"You can touch me," it's not permission, perhaps, so much as a reminder, and it draws a very amused sound from Nigel before he leans closer, fingers slackening the painful grip, and nuzzles against him gently. Aiden lets out a shaky breath and blinks quickly, eyes up at the ceiling for the moment.
Nigel lets his hands slide down Aiden's neck, lower, over the thin sweater and shirt beneath, skirts his hips for the time being and turns them to slide up against the warm skin, his hands just that touch colder to send Aiden shivering before he relaxes. He turns his head to draw dry lips over Aiden's throat and the other sighs, eyes closing again as he swallows. It's unexpected, this gentleness, and it worries him. Gentleness melds into cruelty too quickly, the line is very thin. He wonders if Nigel will hurt him, if he'll have bruises on his skin for the shift tomorrow, if he'll have to beg and plead with some of the girls back stage to help him cover them in make up.
He's about to ask, desperate and nervous enough to, when Nigel leans back enough to push their mouths together and Aiden just hums quietly and opens his mouth to it.
It's not unpleasant, but it's not something Aiden thinks he'd actively seek out. He can feel the very beginnings of stubble against his face as Nigel kisses him, bring up one hand to splay over his cheek, fingertips brushing his hair, thumb along the line of his jaw. He doesn't move to bring his hands up in turn, doesn't hold on or push away, he just endures it, worried that if he pushes one way or another, whatever gentle dynamic they have will twist.
When they part, he's breathless, and Nigel just watches him, sees the blush stay on his cheek, the way his eyes have grown brighter, darker, how his pupils have widened...
"You beautiful, beautiful boy." he tells him, and for a moment he wants to keep him as is, innocent and untouched and blushing with anticipation as he is now. When he kisses him again it's not as gentle, it's devouring, tongue insistent and teeth present in harsh nips against Aiden until he reciprocates, pushes back, offers something more than pliant resignation.
Aiden's heart hammers, as much from lack of air as with how quickly this is escalating and to what. It's not cruel, but it is urgent, and he would be blind to not feel how hard Nigel is, for him, as he presses Aiden harsher against the wall and pins him there, chest to knees. In its own way, it is ridiculously stimulating, knowing that just standing there, just being himself, exhausted and inexperienced as he was, he had gotten someone so hard. And at the same time it's frightening, because he knows where this will lead, what it will mean for him... he suddenly very much wants to go home, to pretend this happened and ended here, that he was allowed to leave through the door quietly.
Nigel rolls his hips down and Aiden knows it won't happen, feels himself surrender to this as much as he can before he hits the wall of nauseating fear that grips him and struggles from the kiss until he can turn away, panting quietly. Nigel just returns to drawing his lips - wet now, leaving cool trails as he breathes through his nose against them - over Aiden's throat. He can be patient. For a few more moments he can be patient before he turns Aiden against the wall and fucks him.
Perhaps he can be patient longer, just enough to throw him on the bed before he starts.
Aiden makes a sound of protest and Nigel drops the hand against his back down to rub between his legs, insistent and slow, enough to set Aiden's breath to hitch, to have his voice escape him on a quiet sound he tries to bite back. He pulls away enough to see him and lets his eyes slide to being only half open as he watches. The blush darkens, lips already rough kissed between teeth as though that tiny gesture will help keep the sounds at bay. It does nothing more than pull a growl from Nigel's throat, and he tugs the lip free with his thumb before tilting Aiden's head back up to kiss him again.
It's overwhelming, dizzying, and undeniably good. If Aiden could lie - and he can, even under duress, he had learned - his body can't, and he doesn't want to know the level of hell he would face if he tried. So he shifts, pushes his hips against the palm there, moans quietly as the kiss gets more urgent, sloppier, filled with biting more than gentle reassurance.
And it fuels Nigel to push harder, to pull back to breathe against Aiden's lips, watch as they part wider, watch as he slowly takes the boy to a place where his resistance wears thinner and weaker, to the point where he starts to push forward, hands finally coming up to clasp Nigel's lapels to hold on, eyes still down, still near-closed, but no matter. He'll have the boy meet them soon enough, and learn to love it. Meet his own, in fact, in the mirror, watch his face as Nigel takes him apart.
But later.
All later. Right now he needs to feel Aiden writhe under him, twist and push and inadvertently get himself closer, needy, desperate for it. He smiles.
"So obedient when you want to be, hmm?" he breathes, just watching Aiden try to get himself to neutral again, to meet his eyes properly and pretend this wasn't gently plucking him apart. He slides his hand against his harder, splaying his fingers around his cock that grows steadily harder with the friction and intent. Aiden makes another breathless sound and Nigel watches him.
"Say my name," he murmurs, watching Aiden blink himself from his bliss for a moment, try to regain his senses. Nigel stops moving his hand, Aiden's brows draw together and he arches, seeking the feeling again. "My name, Aiden, you remember it." he rests both hands on either side of Aiden's head, against the wall so Aiden can't cheat himself pleasure until he complies, until Nigel can hear his name whispered, whimpered, whined by the man in front of him.
It takes a moment for Aiden’s mind to catch up, to get on track with what was being asked and what it all meant.
“Nigel,” he says, and it’s breathless and a little unsteady, and the other sighs, lips turning up at the corners just a little. Like that. He wants no other name to sound like that on his lips.
“Again,”
Aiden swallows, tilting his head up when Nigel leans in again, tongue pressed against the pulse point at his neck.
“Nigel,” he repeats, suppressing a quiet moan when he feels teeth brush his skin, “Your name is Nigel.”
And that’s enough for the press of teeth, for Aiden to buck up against it both in a need to get more, and in a need to get away. He can’t come to work with bruises sucked into his skin and he’s fairly sure that by the morning he will have them everywhere. He struggles just enough for Nigel to draw his hands down, hook them under his thighs and hoist Aiden up, the unexpected loss of balance pushing the younger man closer before he just presses him up against the wall, teeth still against his throat and rolls his hips up.
Aiden’s heavy enough to feel, but not enough for it to matter. Nigel rubs their cocks together until Aiden’s twisting in his hands, making the most beautiful, sweet sounds against him. he’s almost tempted to bring the boy over like this, just to feel him come apart in his hands, to feel the wetness seep between his legs and the blush of humiliation that would inevitably follow. The thought drives a quiet growl from him, his hands tighten around the boy’s thighs and he pulls back from the wall to carry Aiden with him to where he wants him.
Aiden’s trembling by the time he lands in bed with Nigel’s weight on top of him. it’s too real now, no way to pretend that he can get out of this with negotiation. It frightens him because as hard as one part of him wants to escape, to push past, struggle, scream and hope someone hears, another part wants to stay, wants to see if he can adapt to this arrangement, if the initial pain and discomfort could be worth it in the long run.
He finds Nigel pleasing to look at but that’s as far as the attraction goes. He terrifies him. with his obsession and his need for control; he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to deal with his life being scheduled to suit the man’s fancy, he had escaped his father’s similar control with his life, just barely, he doesn’t need to fall into the same trap now.
He lifts his arms as his shirt and sweater are yanked over his head and discarded, sits up enough to bring his hands forward to undress Nigel in turn, concentrating on the buttons in front of him, the systematic undoing, over and over to calm his nerves. He allows himself, for the moment, to surrender. To take this as it comes. To moan when Nigel kisses him again, to spread his legs when the other indicates he should. The submission itself isn’t what’s difficult for Aiden, it’s the idea that it could be permanent.
And he looks so good undone, face so expressive, pupils blown, cheeks flushed… and the sounds he makes. The little moans, the needy whines as he draws one hand down Nigel’s arm, guides his hand between his legs again. he doesn’t let him, tugs Aiden’s arms up above his head and kisses him into pliancy.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, smirk tilting his lips. Under him, Aiden makes a discontented sound.
“No,”
And it sounds so petulant, so childish, from anyone else would be unforgiveable but from Aiden it sounds delicious. So he lets is slide. For now. Brings his hands down to tug at the ridiculous shorts the boy is wearing, pushing Aiden down with one hand splayed on his chest when he tries to move. They slide off easy enough, leaving Aiden prone in just the nylons and underwear, already shifting impatiently for Nigel to touch him again.
Aiden’s hips feel small in Nigel’s hands, he can feel the bones jut out against his palm, thinks again how he wants to feed him, dress him beautifully and keep him, and then he turns him in one quick motion and tugs him back so Aiden’s sprawled in bed, hips held up.
For a moment, Aiden stops moving entirely, eyes wide with one realization and multiple horror scenarios running through his mind. he feels Nigel run his hand down his back and lower, middle finger pressing down against the crack of his ass for Aiden to feel it. he pushes back against the sensation, when the fingers slip lower and press against his perineum and then down further behind his balls. It feels good enough to draw another sound from him before Nigel leans closer to press his teeth in one sharp, warning bite against one cheek.
“Stay still.” He repeats.
He leans the length of Aiden’s body to reach for the top drawer in the bedside table, tugging it open to get what he needs before returning to kneel behind the young man splayed for him. there’s something so fetching about him being half dressed, something possessive about knowing Nigel can control how much he removes and what stays on. So he doesn’t undress him further, just takes the stretchy fabric between his fingers and tugs until it rips.
Aiden shifts forward and feels Nigel press a hand against his cock again, cupping him and pulling him back.
“Aiden.” It’s a warning, barely veiled, and Aiden stays still, spreading his legs that little bit further and pushing down. For a while, Nigel lets him, relishes in the way Aiden works himself against his hand, rolling his hips in slow, pleasing waves over and over, turning just enough to change the angle occasionally, to draw a low needy noise from him. then he takes his hand away, sits back – disregarding the pleading whimper that Aiden makes – and insinuates his hand into the tear he’d made, pushing Aiden’s briefs aside to rub his thumb against his hole.
It’s an unusual sensation and Aiden tenses, feels his body respond without his express permission to, after a moment pushing back against that touch as he had forward against the other. He bites his lip when he feels the cool slide of lube against his skin and endures the initial penetration. For all Nigel’s impatience, he is gentle in preparing him, allows Aiden to get used to the sensation of one before adding another, eases the harshness of Aiden’s hiss at three by curling them and seeking the spot he knows will bring the boy to whimpering.
He doesn’t disappoint.
The feeling is incredible, sharp and electric and sending Aiden’s entire body to bend, just to get more. He brings one hand down to press against his cock for the friction, slowly working himself closer and closer until Nigel takes that away from him, curls his hand behind his back and holds it down as he leans to whisper, “You will get off on my cock or not at all.”
Aiden’s brows draw together but he manages a nod, lip between his teeth as the thrilling sensation runs up and down his spine until Nigel deems him ready and Aiden hears the sound of a fly being drawn down, the tearing of a plastic packet. He can feel the way Nigel’s hand flexes against his wrist as he works himself one-handed, hears the way his breath catches at the feeling, and then he’s pressing against him and Aiden tenses.
The breach isn’t painful so much as simply uncomfortable, and the way Aiden’s bent doesn’t allow him much movement to adjust. Nigel pushes slowly, taking Aiden’s hand to press it against the bed by his face, curling his fingers through Aiden’s and pressing down as he leans over him, warm breath against Aiden’s cool back.
He starts a slow rhythm, patient enough to not hurt his boy until the other arches into him, pushes back. Nigel can do kindness, is caring when he wants to be, cares for his things meticulously. He supposes he’ll treat the boy gently more than he will treat him rough. He has faith Aiden will get himself into enough trouble to warrant punishment often, enough to keep both sides of Nigel’s personality satisfied.
Once the initial burn passes, Aiden finds himself pressing back, lips parted on quick breaths and occasional sounds as the pace drives him slowly closer. It’s when Nigel sits up, lets go of his hand, and yanks him back into the next thrust that he makes a helpless noise. Whatever spot Nigel had found in him with his fingers feels painfully more sensitive when fucked against, and Aiden surrenders.
Nigel wishes he could keep him like this forever, shifting back against him, writhing and pressing himself closer to the bed, over and over as the sensations drive first whimpers, then sobs from him. he’s beautiful, completely gone and willing, begging for more with his body and sounds. He manages a word, just one, and Nigel curses, leaning down to bite just the top of Aiden’s spine as he comes, feeling Aiden tremble with the promise of following close behind. he lets him, brings a hand down to rub him through his underwear until Aiden stills, muscles tensed and body trembling and he can feel the sticky warm wetness against his palm.
Aiden’s aware of Nigel pulling out, knows he makes a faint sound of pain when he does, muscles sore and body completely exhausted as he lies heavy against the sheets and pants. It had felt good, embarrassingly so, and he bites his lip on a small smile. He can get used to this arrangement, if that is the most that is required of him, he can do it. he can come to the man’s bed, spread his legs and enjoy himself, please him. long enough for his finances to settle, long enough for Aiden to be able to get out.
And then he’d leave.
He undresses when Nigel prompts him to, follows the man to the bathroom to clean up with a warm soft cloth. Returns the sloppy kisses and gentle touches, presses close against the man’s chest and nuzzles him. he doesn’t say a word when Nigel tells him not to go to work the next day. He follows him to bed and curls up in his arms, content for the moment to be controlled if it leads to good food and warm sheets and safety.
Nigel sleeps after Aiden does, after he feels his muscles relax and his breathing even to gentle puffs of warm air against his chest. He strokes the hair from his face, smiles at how young Aiden looks in rest, when he doesn’t have the petulant expression, the hard eyes, the nervous gestures. He’s not a stupid boy, just as Nigel isn’t a stupid man. He’d felt the shift in Aiden when he’d chosen to accept this, had seen the way he moved, begged, went to his hand willingly.
He knows he’ll aim to leave. It would take time, but he’d aim to. And Nigel has no intention of letting him go.
When they wake the next day, it’s a struggle; Aiden demanding to go to work, bargaining that Nigel would see him there, that he could pick him up that evening and bring him back and fuck him in the shower. Nigel lets him go, after drawing his voice so loud on helpless keens that Aiden is shaking, legs like water as Nigel’s clever fingers work. He lets him go.
Until the evening.
Until he can pull him close, draw his hand down the soft skin of his inner thigh and remind him who he now belongs to.