It’s not often that Guy feels ‘adventurous’, but Thomas hardly cares. Sexually, Guy is demanding; he’s a demanding bottom, biting whatever skin he can reach until Thomas gives in and lets him have his way, whether it be Thomas fucking him into the headboard or Guy’s ‘hands to yourself’ rule, under which he rides Thomas until he’s red in the face, hands clenched at his sides, trying not to grip Guy’s hips and fuck up into him like he so desperately wants to.
Everything is a game with Guy, and Thomas can’t see them ever growing tedious.

Tonight, Guy’s mood is different. It’s Thomas’ birthday and Guy’s cooked for him, chicken wrapped in prosciutto with rice and green beans, a sauce, too. He’d even made individual servings of chocolate mousse, piped into little heart-shaped ramekins that had made Thomas smile and Guy flush ever so slightly.
They eat dessert quietly, as always, poking one another’s feet beneath the dining table. Thomas manages to tickle the underside of Guy’s socked foot with his toes and it makes him buck and snort and giggle in his chair, covering his mouth so Thomas doesn’t have to see the train wreck of mousse inside.

When they were finished, they washed the dishes together, bumping hips and stealing slow, steady kisses in the short moments when Guy was scrubbing a pan or the remnants of mousse in the ramekins.
Everything is soft and easy and Thomas tastes like dark chocolate and cream. They haven’t finished the dishes but Guy wants to give him his ‘other present’. He drops the forks he was holding into the sink and wipes his hands dry on the front of his shirt before he turns, arching up onto his toes to twine his fingers through Thomas’ hair, kissing him. Guy licks around the inside of his mouth, searching out the Thomas-taste at the back of his throat; it’s there, beneath the chocolate and the salty proscuitto, and he makes a quiet, content noise against Thomas’ lips. The sound is swallowed in their throats.

The kisses melt into peppered pecks around Thomas’ mouth and then Guy starts to lead him to their bedroom, full of candles and some roses on the bedside table - all that stupid, romantic shit that Thomas likes. He hears the way Thomas gasps quietly, how his hand tightens around Guy’s. Thomas hadn’t been allowed in the bedroom all day; he’d been embarrassed asking Guy what he specifically wanted to wear when they went out for lunch, but it hadn’t mattered because Guy brought him something completely different, anyway, saying he needed to wear one of the shirts Guy bought him for his birthday.

Guy presses Thomas down into the mattress, smiling that small, nearly unnoticeable smile. He washed the sheets today and he’s proud; the bed doesn’t look like the haphazard mess it normally is when Guy tries to make it. He’s too small and has to fling himself across the width of the bed, sheets clutched in hand, if he’s to have any success.
He crawls between his legs and then kisses him again, hard enough that Thomas goes weak against the bedspread. “Gonna fuck you,” Guy mutters against his jaw, reaching down to cup Thomas through his jeans. The sensation is barely there but Guy’s hands are clever and probing and there’s a well-placed pinch to the head of his cock that makes his hips buck as he moans.

Guy smirks from beneath his chocolate hair, his fingers skating down the front of Thomas’ shirt, popping buttons easily. Thomas lifts up his shoulders when Guy pushes at the sleeves and then that soft, soft hair is tickling down his stomach, trailing after wet, warm kisses that make his stomach twitch. Guy undoes his jeans and tugs them down, sitting up to pull them off while Thomas kicks his legs feebly. When they’re on the floor, Guy’s back between Thomas’ legs, mouthing his half-hard cock through his boxer shorts, tonguing through the button down fly there until he finds the spot that makes Thomas shudder.
Guy continues with his little touches, the teasing nips and sucks and kisses until Thomas’ cock is buried in his throat, his fingers buried in his hair, manipulating Guy’s skull this way and that until he gags and coughs but moans for more. The vibrations seep into Thomas’ bones like rain into thirsty dust.

He pulls Guy up and off his cock, arches his hips upwards and tells Guy to take his underwear off. Guy’s pupils are blown, swallowing his irises and Thomas realises just how far-gone he is. Thomas likes to bottom but Guy favours it, too, and Guy always gets what Guy wants. Guy fucks him only a few times a year, like birthdays and anniversaries and Valentine’s Day. Holidays, too.
Thomas’ boxers are on the floor and Guy’s still fully clothed. “Strip,” Thomas says and he can see the shudder that rolls, slick like oil, down Guy’s spine. He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it, and he has to stand up to take off his pants. When the button fly is undone, Guy hooks his thumbs into both waistbands there and shucks off his jeans and underwear in a fluid motion. His hard cock springs forward, flushed and ready. It’s smaller than Thomas’ but what it lacks in length, it certainly makes up for in girth - that’s what Thomas loves so much. He loves being stretched.

Guy presses back between his legs and when he stretches over Thomas to reach for the lube on the bedside table, he tries to ignore the way Thomas tongues his nipple, presses teeth to the little nub until Guy hisses and his hips thrust forwards of their own accord.
Thomas arches his hips up and plants his feet flat against the mattress, watching that way Guy licks his lips. A lube-slick finger presses down against his taint and he bites his lip as Guy circles it around his hole before he eases it in. It’s been too long, Thomas thinks, moaning as electricity loops up his spine. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and goosebumps race over his forearms like rippling water.

Thomas pleads for another and Guy’s never heard a sound so akin to angel’s singing. He doesn’t deny him and he presses in a second finger along with copious amounts of lube. He feels Thomas twitch around them, and when he eyes the sticky topography of precome across Thomas’ stomach, Guy knows he likes the ache.
In total, Guy presses four fingers into Thomas, rubbing dizzying little circles against his sweet spot with the pad of his index finger to ease the stretch of each new finger. Thomas’ lips are red from where he’s bitten them and there’s a flush riding high on his cheekbones, leeching into his forehead like red dye.

“Guy,” he whines, verging on desperate, “Please now, please.”

He doesn’t catch Guy’s smirk, but it’s there beneath the shadow of his hair. Guy lubes up his cock and Thomas’ hand comes down to guide him in, as always. Thomas twitches and tightens around him as he eases in and it feels like the wind is knocked out of his chest.
When he’s buried to the base of his cock, he runs his hands up Thomas’ stomach, pressing his palms flat against his chest, flicking at his nipples until the lines of pain on his brow subside.

Guy starts to thrust, slow and steady, the way that makes Thomas turn to jelly at his touch. He leans down over him and Thomas wraps lanky legs around his hips as they kiss, his hands in Guy’s hair. Guy tugs gently at his curls with one hand, the other supporting him on the bed. Thomas touches his quivering bicep, like he’s soothing him, breathing in little moans that Guy swallows in their kiss. They communicate in a language of licks and bites, nips and kisses, of roaming hands over soft skin.
Guy and Thomas don’t fuck; they make love, always.

Guy thrusts slow, so slow, for what is almost an hour until Thomas’ breath starts to hitch and he whines against Guy’s neck. Their mouths are swollen with kissing and it’s beginning to ache, but they don’t stop, they never stop. Guy turns his head and kisses him again, pushing into Thomas faster, harder, deeper, and Thomas’ spine curls into a graceful arch. Guy slips an arm beneath him and holds him tight, trapping Thomas’ cock between their stomachs as he fucks into him. The friction makes Thomas wail, push his head back against the mattress so violently Guy worries about whiplash. Thomas comes when Guy does, painting their chests where Guy paints his insides. They twitch and gasp and pant and moan in unison, and when Guy’s arms finally give out and he lays on top of Thomas, he swears their heart beats are synchronised.

They lay there, throbbing to a beat of, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” They kiss after Guy pulls out and they lay together a little longer before Guy convinces Thomas to shower, leading him into the bathroom with soft touches, insistent hands. When they’re beneath the spray and Guy’s hair is slicked back from his face, he smiles up at him. Thomas returns it.

Guy arches onto his toes and presses a kiss into the smooth skin of Thomas’ cheek. “Bon anniversaire, mon amour.”

this got kind of silly.

“Guy, I didn’t mean it. I just got caught up in the sound of it all.”

Silence.

Guy hasn’t talked to him for two days now, not even murmuring goodnight or responding to his murmured, ‘I love you’s peppered throughout the day. He figures he sort of deserves it, in a way, despite that the argument is petty and the silent treatment is childish.

Guy had been working on a new track, alone, for the majority of the day. He’d finally called Thomas into the studio when it was on the final stretch, the last legs of the race, nearly finished. Thomas had unintentionally insulted Guy by batting his hands out of the way, tinkering with the track until it was finished, in his opinion. When he’d curled away from the equipment with an excited smile, Guy’s mouth was tense.
“What?” Thomas asks, mouth hanging slack, lips wet with saliva where he’d been licking them as he worked.
“You’re an asshole, Bangalter.”

It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked the track Guy created by himself; it was quiet and soft and easy, smooth like melted chocolate. Thomas had, stupidly, been under the impression that Guy wouldn’t mind if Thomas jazzed it up, added some heavier drums and a sharper high hat to hiss throughout.

Clearly, he should have known better. Since then, Guy’s been ignoring him - spare the times they’ve eaten together. They had soup last night and whenever Thomas slurped it off of his spoon or out of the bowl, Guy would look up, mouth drawing into a tight frown - his ‘bitch face’, as Thomas had named it. It was pretty, really, but demanding all the same and Thomas did his best to eat quietly while Guy tore small pieces from a baguette to dip into his own bowl of soup.

When they slept together, Guy didn’t touch him, with exceptions of kicking him away when Thomas tried to spoon him or press his face into his hair. They haven’t kissed and Guy hasn’t threaded his fingers into Thomas’ hair, tugged it gently so he looks at him to murmur a ‘good morning’ or an ‘I love you.’

Thomas thinks he might go crazy if Guy doesn’t drop this soon.

He gets home from grocery shopping; it’s two pm. He doesn’t know where Guy is but he thinks he can hear hushed curses coming from their studio. He puts away all of the food he bought, minus the loaf of bread he bought for Guy and some cheese to eat with it.
He raps his knuckles against the studio door but figures Guy can’t hear him, and when he walks in, Guy’s bouncing around the equipment, fingers flying and hair whipping about his head like he’s in the tines of a tornado. Thomas closes the door and sits on a stool nearby, the bread and cheese in his lap while he watches Guy work. It’s a remix, he realises, when a familiar voice throbs to life. A remix of their own song? Thomas doesn’t understand, but he likes it all the same.

The music keeps playing when Guy turns his head and Thomas has closed his eyes by then. The song comes to an end and when he opens his eyes, he almost tumbles out of his chair; Guy is standing right in front of him, so close Thomas would just have to rock forward and he could sink teeth into Guy’s stomach to leave the bruises he loves pressing his fingers into, the bruises that make Guy hiss.

Guy’s expression is flat and unreadable and it makes Thomas squirm uncomfortably. He sees Guy’s eyes glance downwards at the paper in his lap and he makes a small noise, mumbling, “I, erh, I got this for you. Er, or us, if you’ll have me.” Long fingers pull the bag open and the bread out; it’s freshly baked, still warm underneath and Guy takes it, sitting on the floor beside Thomas’ leg. He breaks off pieces and hands them up to Thomas while Thomas slices the cheese against his thumb, handing down slivers that Guy stretches across chunks of bread before stuffing them into his mouth, filling his cheeks like a chipmunk while he chews.

Thomas knows better than to comment on the rate at which Guy eats bread; he practically inhales it. Thomas has told him so and he received almost the same treatment as he is now, except it lasted longer and was accompanied by a month of no sex - even after Guy resumed talking to him.

They finish the bread and cheese together and Guy leans against the studio wall, rubbing his hands over his bulging belly like a pregnant woman feeling for kicks from her child. Thomas just watches, swallows the last of his cheese and bread, and then, timid, reaches out to comb through a tangle he can see in Guy’s hair with gentle fingers.
Guy presses into the touch, eyes closing. Soon, stroking Guy’s hair turns into Guy kissing his fingers, the palm of his hand, all the way up the inside of his arm. These kisses turn into mouthing at Thomas’ jaw until he turns his head and their lips finally meet. Both notice the shudder that ripples through their bodies.

The kiss keeps evolving until Guy’s balanced awkwardly in Thomas’ lap, hands pulling at his short curls, nipping his lips to swollen, cherry red. When Guy pulls away and tugs sharply at his hair, Thomas knows what he wants.

He smirks as he lays Guy down on the studio floor, mouths him through the denim of his jeans as he unzips them. Guy’s cock springs out to streak precome across his cheekbone before flopping into the curve of Guy’s hip and belly, and Thomas laughs, a short sound, just a syllable, and Guy rolls his hips upwards, impatient.

Good bread always fixes everything. 

There’s something behind those eyes and in the tension of that mouth that Thomas can’t quite place his finger on. He knows that he’s staring, but it doesn’t matter.

They’re at a business meeting, lurking in a conference room collectively. The lighting is harsh and Thomas is sure he looks washed out, but the man who introduced himself as Guy-Manuel looks angelic.

Thomas isn’t paying attention to his boss’ bickering with a client. He’s watching Guy doodle on a piece of paper, waiting for when he tucks his hair behind his ear again. He’s very feminine, Thomas thinks, but there’s no mistaking him for a woman. He has a stern jawline and a sharp nose and he’s very handsome, but his eyes are soft and quiet. Thomas likes his facial structure very much.
Sometimes, Guy will smile at Thomas when he notices his staring but other times he’ll duck his head and his hair will tumble forwards in a chocolate wave. Thomas wants to thread his fingers through it.

The meeting is soon over and Thomas pretends to know what’s going on. He thinks he can see Guy-Manuel’s mouth curl into a knowing smirk in his peripheral vision but he can’t be sure. His boss claps him on the back and he’s dismissed for the day. He and Guy are the last to leave the conference room and Thomas stands awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, waiting for Guy to look at him. It doesn’t happen, even when he clears his throat.
It’s early evening, five thirty Thomas thinks, and he wonders how early Guy likes to eat his supper.

“Guy-Manuel?” Thomas asks softly. He’s struck by the sharp cheekbones when Guy looks up and for a moment, he’s dazed. Guy looks at him like he’s not sure whether he wants to flee. “Would you, erm. Would you like to come to dinner with me? There’s a nice restaurant near the hotel I’m staying in.”
Guy just stares at him with that unreadable expression before a small smile curls his lips. “Okay.” He stands up and he’s shorter than Thomas predicted but only by a few inches. He watches as Guy shrugs into his jacket. It’s well tailored and nips in around his waist and Thomas wants to touch, because he’s pretty and Thomas likes nice things.

He holds the door open for Guy and each time he does, he gets a smile and an upward flicker of eyes, sometimes a murmured, “Thank you.” Thomas is dumbstruck every time; even Guy’s voice is beautiful.

They walk to the restaurant, it’s not far. Thomas is the one talking for the most part, about work of course. He talks about the people in his office and that no one takes him seriously because of the way his mouth hangs. Guy looks up at him here, and tucks his hair behind his ear in the same movement. It’s fluid and easy and Guy reaches up and thumbs across Thomas’ lower lip. It makes him flush.

“I like your mouth,” Guy-Manuel says, like now it’s a legitimate fact - like giraffes have the same number of vertebrae in their necks as humans do.

Thomas only smiles like an idiot for the next few minutes, hands in his pockets. He stumbles on his own feet every now and then but Guy seems to ignore him after the second time. He feels lanky and inelegant next to Guy. Guy is small and compact and he has soft, flowing hair and he walks like he’s the only man in the world. Thomas is tall and too-thin and his hair is short and curly. He walks alongside Guy, shoulders hunched until they get inside the restaurant.

They order an expensive bottle of wine and then Guy orders spaghetti bolognese. Thomas decides on a seafood pasta and tries to ignore the way Guy’s eyes flicker at him over the rim of his wine glass. It’s still bright outside, and the sky is pink as the sun starts to sink. Thomas watches, mesmerised, until Guy kicks him under the table. He jumps and almost spills his wine, turning to look back at Guy, waiting to be scolded. “Huh?”
“I said you look nice when you’re fascinated.”

Thomas flushes and mumbles a thank you before he downs the rest of his glass of wine. The waiter flutters over and pours him another and he smiles at her. Guy watches the ordeal with an eyebrow raised.
They spend the next few minutes chattering, sipping their wine. Their conversation is quiet and slow but awkward for neither participant. It’s nice, Thomas thinks, to have someone to talk to who doesn’t fire words at him.

Their pasta arrives and Thomas is unwilling to let their conversation die - they’ve been talking about Guy’s life in France. Thomas’ parents are French but he was born in the U.S.A, and so he’s never seen what he sometimes thinks of as his homeland. He’s talking through mouthfuls until Guy sends him a stern look, a warning to keep his mouth closed while he’s eating and he heeds it, going quiet until he finishes his mouthful. “I’d love to go to France,” he says. There’s excitement glittering in his eyes like a child contemplating the prospect of going to a circus for the first time.
“Well, maybe we’ll go some day.”

They finish their meal quickly after that and at some point, Guy has started rubbing the toe of his shoes along the inside of Thomas’. He returns the favour, trying to keep the smile from blooming across his face.
They go through another bottle of wine together before Thomas decides it’s time to leave. He invites Guy back to his apartment and his newfound friend nods, leaning heavily against Thomas’ side. After Thomas has paid and they’re walking to the hotel, Guy admits that he’s something of a lightweight. He looks genuinely distressed when Thomas chuckles and to soothe him, he steals a kiss - their first. It tastes of wine, mostly, but when Thomas licks inside of Guy’s mouth, he can taste hints of their food. He threads his hands into Guy’s hair and when he tugs his head back to open his mouth more, Guy makes a little noise, like a cut-off moan.

Thomas lets go of his hair and the kiss is broken. He furrows his brow as he looks at Guy, frightened that he’s done something wrong. “Did I hurt you?” He asks, stepping close to touch Guy’s hand gently.
Guy shakes his head and smoothes down his hair. There’s a flush riding high on his cheekbones and Thomas thinks he’s breathtaking, especially when a pink tongue flickers out to wipe over his lips. “I just. My hair.”
“Should I not pull it?”
”..Non. You can pull it if you want.”

There’s something in the way that Guy looks down after he said it that gives Thomas the impression that Guy is a little more complicated than he’ll let on. Does he want to have his hair pulled? If it’ll have him making noises like the first one then Thomas will happily do so.

They kiss once more before they go inside the lobby of Thomas’ hotel. They catch the elevator up and they kiss there, too, Guy pressed against the wall with Thomas’ hands roaming over his body. They’re drunk, they know but they’re still coherent. They trot down the hall to Thomas’ room and he swipes the card, and the red light flashes. He tries again, turning the card around while Guy chuckles cockily beside him, and this time the lock springs open and the light flashes green and they’re inside.

The room is small but it doesn’t matter. Before Thomas can say anything cheesy to welcome Guy to the room, there’s that hot mouth on his and nimble fingers shoving away his jacket, skimming down the front of his shirt to pop the buttons out.
He’s pushed down on the bed and Guy’s warm hands are pressing over his torso, running fingers over ribs, flicking nipples hard enough to make him arch. Guy’s staring at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in all the world and it makes Thomas flush.

“Thomas, can I ask you something?”
His brow furrows again with the way Guy’s staring at his mouth - he’s quite self conscious about it, really. “Of course.”
“Will you fuck me from behind? And. And erh. Pull my hair?”

Thomas’ blood starts to roar in his ears and his cock is hard and undoubtedly his face his flushed. His mouth tastes dry and so he only nods, rewarded with a pretty smile and kiss from Guy before he sits up straight again. He watches Guy toss his jacket somewhere on the floor and then he takes off his own shirt, too. Thomas can’t resist. He rolls them over in a flurry of limbs and the white of his shirt and the way Guy’s hair has fanned out beneath his head makes Thomas wish he had a camera.

“You’re really beautiful,” Thomas says, his words muffled against the skin of Guy’s neck. He’s kissing down his sternum and for a moment, he presses teeth to each nipple, tugs it between his front teeth until Guy is practically mewling, squirming on the bed like a whore.

Thomas has him naked quickly, and Guy spreads his legs while Thomas sucks him. His back is curling and he’s doing his best to clutch Thomas’ short hair but it’s so hard when it feels so good. He’s buried in Thomas’ throat and the muscles are hot and slick around his cock and it’s all in and it feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him.
It doesn’t last long, though. Thomas kisses the head one last time and gets off of the bed. He strips off his clothes and can see the way Guy is sizing him up before he rolls onto his stomach. He puts his ass in the air and spreads his arms forward like a stretching cat and Thomas is practically hypnotised. “Your ass is fantastic.” He’s getting lube and a condom when the words tumble from his mouth and it makes him flush, especially with Guy’s soft laughter as he gets back on the bed. He slicks up his fingers and eases one into Guy, who growls almost immediately for another. Thomas obliges and when Guy’s back has relaxed again, he thrusts them in and out, scissoring them wider and wider on each outwards tug. Soon enough he has three fingers in him, and then four and then Guy’s spitting words at him, “JesusfuckingChristfuckmenowIwantyourfuckingcock,” and Thomas’ head swims.

He rolls on the condom and then slicks his cock and he’s pressing in. Guy is perfect and hot and he tightens around Thomas’ cock when he’s buried inside of him. He rakes blunt nails across Guy’s back for the way he keens, reaches down and pulls his head backwards by his hair as he thrusts in again. His pace is brutally fast, but it’s all for Guy. He’s tugging his hair when he remembers and leaning down to bite the back of his shoulders until bruises begin to blossom and the flesh swells where Thomas’ teeth damaged the skin.

With all Thomas’ roaming hands and blunt teeth sinking into his skin - not to mention the pain prickling across his scalp and the white-hot pleasure of Thomas’ cock battering his prostate, Guy comes, untouched. He makes a mess and he keens and he arches like some sort of swan, and the way he clenches around Thomas’ cock, drawing him deeper as he spasms, has Thomas filling the condom. He pulls out quite quickly, eager to get the condom off and as he’s tying a knot in it, Guy rolls onto his back to look at him. “Under fifteen minutes. Who knew a fuck could be that good in under fifteen minutes.”

Thomas just smiles and bins the condom. He peels off the top sheet, the one covered in Guy’s come, and then settles beside him as Guy lights a cigarette. “I don’t think you’re meant to smoke in here,” Thomas says, frowning a little.

“Then open a window.”

Thomas does as he’s told and when he settles back into bed, Guy curls into his side, hair tickling his neck as Guy shifts occasionally with the intention of keeping his cigarette smoke from attacking Thomas’ face. They’re comfortable now and Thomas feels like he knows some deep, dark secret about Guy. He squashes the fact that this may be a one night stand, turns his head enough that he can see Guy’s eyelashes, the curve of his nose.
“Will you be here in the morning?” Thomas asks softly, afraid that Guy’s asleep.
“Yes.”