Oh, god.

Doubling down was a mistake. This was getting to be too much. He was using entirely too much of his processing power to focus on not mouth-breathing like a creeper.

And then Alex--

Holy shit.

His fingers stilled once again as he had to squeeze his eyes shut and repress a full-body shudder because get your fucking head out of the gutter, holy shit.

“Alex, I--,”

He really should excuse himself. He really should. He was stuck in some horrendous, lecherous no man’s land where he didn’t really know how to do that (or want to, if he was being extremely honest), and also because he didn’t know if Alex knew the effect he was having.

Memo blinked. He had to know… right?!

Then the question of running was pushed out of his mind because Alex was telling him to do it again. So he glued his courage to the sticking place, made sure his hips were well back, and said, “O-okay, yeah.”

He’d worked his way down to the small of Alex’s back and hadn’t found anything super bunched up or knotty, so he ran one fingertip up the line of Alex’s spine and started from the top again, working with thumb, palm, and knuckles at the spread of his shoulders, with a little more force this time. If he really focused, he could ignore how stupid turned on he was. Mostly.

Alexei Ivanov

☉

His mouth goes dry and he forgets how to breathe, just, completely; his hands are moving without instruction, finding the spot under Alex’s right scapula that had made him come undone before; he presses at it with trembling hands, thumbs working the muscle down and away.

He bites his lip to stop a moan from accidentally escaping and he-- he needs to say something, because he’s going to die, he’s literally going to burn up and die, right here, on the towel, R.I.P Guillermo Marceliño, August 26th 1996 to Splashfest 2022, died of horny.

And before he knows it, he’s talking, and the words are more or less coherent, if a little breathier than normal:

“I-- Arceus, I need to. T-take a break.” He squeezes his eyes shut at how pathetic he feels, and before he can come up with a good excuse, it just comes out of him in a rush: “I’m too turned on right now and if I don’t stop I’mgonnadosomethingstupid.”

His hands are still moving, he realizes over the rush of blood in his ears. Amazing that he still has any to go there.

Alexei Ivanov

☉

Oh my god.

“Oh my god.”

He wanted to die. 100%, he was going to die. Why did Alex’s hearing stop working as soon as he was going to say something really stupid and/or important?!

Guillermo buried his blushing face in his hands and wanted to pretend, just for a moment, that everything was fine, that he was capable of being a well-adjusted member of society, and that he wasn’t a salacious, creepy reprobate. But no amount of pretending would make the situation go away, and Alex had asked him a question.

A chance to renege? To rephrase? To find another excuse?

No, no time. Just say it.

“Fuck.”

Just say it, you coward.

“I-- fucking… got too turned on giving you a massage, like a freak, and now I need to take a break or-- or things will escalate.” He slumped, on his knees, pouting, but free of the weight that had been riding on his shoulders since this whole freakin’ sunblock escapade started. "I just-- I think you're really hot and, um. You're always very dressed? And it's probably weird. Sorry."

Way to ruin the day, bud.

Alexei Ivanov

☉

Yeah... yeah, he was blushing. He was red all the way from his cheeks down his neck-- he could tell by the vibrato heat strumming throughout his body. But it wasn’t nearly as adorable on him as it was on Alex. So when Alex perks up on one elbow and looks at him all he can do is shrug and give a single, half-hearted nod.

And he’s fully expecting a scolding, at the worst, or at the very least a simple explanation of boundaries and lines they shouldn’t cross-- or, in Alex’s case, lines they weren’t ready to cross. And he’s fully expecting them to pack it all in and each go their separate ways, in which case Guillermo needs an urgent date with a cold shower.

The silence stretches for eons when it really only could have been, like, twenty seconds.

And then Memo is sure-- 100%, completely-- that he’s died. For real this time, he’s died. He looks up just in time to catch Alex’s wink and the sound he made was definitely the sound of his soul leaving his body.

“I--,”

He cocks his head, wets his lips.

“Better keep working on that problem spot, then.”

Common sense-- not to mention common decency-- thrown to the wind, he plants one knee on either side of Alex’s hips-- when he sits back he’s resting on his own heels and not Alex’s legs-- and, after making sure Alex is laying flat so as not to injure him, he simply goes back to what he was doing, thumbprints on each side of the head of Alex’s spine.

It’s different now, though, because he doesn’t have to worry about his own little gasps or the way he chews on his bottom lip to stop from moaning. Fingertips press down and around Alex’s left scapula, his shoulder blade; it’s different now, too, because he doesn’t stop himself from setting one hand in the space beside Alex’s head and leaning down so he can nuzzle into the hair at the nape of his neck; it’s different, now, as he presses gentle, soft kisses to the side of his spine, in the crook where jaw meets throat, and along one shoulder.

It’s different because this is all he wanted, he thinks, teeth working Alex’s coconut-flavored skin; he applies a little pressure and lets it loose with the quietest pop, kissing the faint red mark he’s left there in the shape of his teeth.

Alexei Ivanov
not us cruising towards more proboards tos throat punches.

☉

He was entirely too self-satisfied to reply-- just sat back on his heels and moved over to Alex’s right side. Thumbs, fingerprints, heel of the hand. Find the spot under the right shoulderblade, though it’s less a knot, now, and more a well-worked nerve. Plant his hand on the other side of Alex’s head, nuzzle into the skin on his neck, his shoulder.

“Not in any way that’s ever mattered,” he says, voice intended to be a purr-- and it comes out as one, more or less. He sits up again, thumbs to spine; fingerprints, heel of the hand.

“Has anyone ever told you that you make such incredible noises?”

Alexei Ivanov
not us cruising towards more proboards tos throat punches.

☉

Okay, that settled it. They needed to get somewhere decidedly less public before Memo had even more trouble keeping his hands to himself.

“I know it’s not your preferred place,” he said, forcing his voice to have some modicum of steadiness and heft, and not come out half-moaned, “but my apartment-- is really close by.”

He’d leave the kids here. He let them come to the beach by themselves all the time. Between Atalys and Smokey, they’d be safe.

“If you’re… interested,” he added, with a tweak of his thumbs into the sensitive spots under Alex’s shoulderblade.

Alexei Ivanov
not us cruising towards more proboards tos throat punches.

☉