Sören's heart beats a little faster as the lights go on at Phoenix Books - Where old books get a new life - and he carries the cooler of supplies into the previously-unused back room which is now the cafe section, heading to the kitchenette portion where they set up a refrigerator, toaster oven, and professional coffee machine. He scrubs down the kitchenette then he makes a fresh pitcher of lemonade, and one of iced tea, to get started. All the sandwiches will be made to order, to reduce waste and keep things fresh and tasty, but that also means potentially dealing with busy periods. Sören hopes the shop does well and that the cafe isn't more trouble than it's worth, but he also hopes it doesn't get so busy as to be overwhelming; he doesn't want to hear "hurry up" from impatient customers waiting in a queue.
Eventually, if the cafe proves successful, Sören will make a "soup of the day" to go with the sandwiches and they can use or freeze any leftovers.
The shop is open from eleven AM to eight PM, though they start getting things ready at ten AM and "roll up" with cleanup and handling cash to go home by nine PM. The shop is closed on Tuesdays to give them a day off, though they take the occasional weekend off and close down for holidays.
It's a balmy August day - Sören is glad they live in Maine where the summers are milder; he doesn't think his Arctic-raised body can handle living someplace like Florida. Sören doesn't need to man the cafe unless there's a customer, so he sits in one of the comfy leather armchairs in random locations around the shop, this one just outside the cafe, across from the gallery featuring his paintings and pottery, and he puts his feet up on the ottoman and takes out his Wacom tablet.
Anthony makes a new arrangement of books and art in the front window, then he makes excited jazz hands at Sören just before he unlocks the door. Then Anthony puts on music, which is usually going in the shop - he goes with Foo Fighters. Sören puts his tablet down and skips over as "I'll Stick Around" starts. Sören grabs Anthony's hands and they start dancing, right there in the front of the shop. Anthony turns red and his face is lit up in a big cheesy grin that Sören loves. Sören reaches up to touch his boyishly handsome face, smiling at him, and musses the short black hair just beginning to show threads of silver. Anthony's moss-green eyes crinkle at the corners as the cheesy grin becomes a sweet, tender smile. He leans in to kiss Sören just before he dips Sören and twirls him around. Sören shrieks with laughter when Anthony scoops him up and spins, then puts him back down and they waltz and pogo across the shop floor till the song is done, collapsing on each other in hysterics.
"I hope we didn't scare away anyone passing by the shop," Anthony says, looking at the clock.
"I mean, that would just make me more likely to come in. 'Look at these fucking dorks.'"
Anthony laughs and steals a little kiss, then Sören goes back to his seat and starts sketching, every now and again looking up to see Anthony straightening a shelf here, pulling out a book to go on one of the display units there... looking over at the clock. Waiting.
Worrying.
The shop has a Facebook page, which Anthony maintains - Sören refuses to use Facebook - and they took out an ad in the Portland newspaper. Forty-five minutes after opening, Sören starts biting his nails, with fearful thoughts scurrying in his brain like weasels. Oh god, we spent this money on the cafe and the ads for nothing, we're going to have to shut down for good and find jobs -
The first customer of the day walks in - Gretchen, a spry old lady about the same age as Anthony's mother, who was one of their regulars before lockdown. Sören is relieved, both for some potential business as well as to see that such a nice old lady is still alive and kicking and hasn't died of COVID. Gretchen is wearing a light blue mask that matches her blue Hawaiian shirt, and with that, her cargo shorts, and a boonie hat, she looks like a tourist rather than a local. "I came for some reading material at the beach while we still have some summah left," Gretchen says in her Maine accent, waving at them both; Sören waves back, smiling, then realizes she can't see the smile through his mask.
"I'd give you a hug, but social distancing," Anthony says.
"It's all right, sonny."
Gretchen wanders around, and Anthony tries not to hover. Gretchen's brow furrows when she sees prices on all the books have gone up a bit - they're used books and they're still competitive with prices for the same on eBay and Amazon, if not somewhat better, but...
"The price of everything is going up so we had to adjust," Anthony says. "Sorry about that."
"Ayuh, I understand. It's still not bad, and I don't have to pay for shipping."
Gretchen spends awhile going through the different aisles - books are organized by genre; they tend to acquire books in bulk, such as from estate sales, and figuring out what category some of these old books are is a part-time job in and of itself - and then she pauses to look in the gallery. "You know, I'd been wanting to buy that one -" Gretchen points at Sören's photorealistic, surrealist "remix" of Van Gogh's Starry Night - "and then of course everything shut down. I think I better strike while the iron is hot, ayuh?"
Sören gasps.
Anthony takes the painting down, and brings it over to the cash register. Gretchen lingers by the cafe entrance, looking in at the menu on the chalkboard, and then she heads over with the stack of books in her basket. After she pays, she asks Anthony, "Is it all right if I leave this here while I check out your new addition?"
"By all means."
Sören gets up and salutes, which makes Gretchen laugh. She follows him into the cafe, and after taking what feels like forever to decide - Sören shifts his weight from one foot to the other, holding himself back from humming the Jeopardy theme - Gretchen orders a medium lemonade and a turkey, bacon and swiss sandwich, toasted.
Sören gets to work, and as the sandwich toasts in the toaster oven, Sören hears the bells of the front door, and just as he's giving Gretchen her food, he has another customer, a middle-aged suit type clearly on his lunch break. He orders two croque monsieurs with a hazelnut coffee. The cafe has four tables, both to keep within guidelines for social distancing, and so Sören doesn't get overwhelmed by crowds, and Gretchen sits at one to eat while the suit sits at another to wait. The suit puts a five-dollar bill in Sören's tip jar, and Sören says, "Thank you," resisting the urge to dance around the cafe. It's just five dollars, but it sparks a tiny bit of hope, that maybe things will be fine and he was worrying about nothing.
Then of course, he starts worrying again.
The suit gets his food to go, carrying the paper bag into the bookshop where he plucks used copies of Stephen King's last couple of books off the "featured" shelf, and when Gretchen leaves - Anthony carries the painting out to her car - Sören sits back in the armchair.
There's another lull that sends Sören almost into a panic, and then four ladies come in, one Black woman, one redhead, two brunettes, all wearing business casual. They browse, and flirt with Anthony - Sören tries not to laugh as Anthony gives them the side-eye - and when they've bought some books they head to the cafe. Sören's mask falls for a brief instant as he gets up, and when he readjusts, one of the women squeals, "Oh my GAWD, it's Jon Snow."
Sören gets this a lot. He supposes it's better than being misgendered, which happened constantly before he grew the beard.
The women giggle and Anthony raises his eyebrows at Sören, and Sören leads them into the cafe. He makes them sandwiches and coffee and they tip him generously, giggling away. A few minutes after they sit down and start eating, the redhead says "So, Lord Commander, you got a girlfriend?"
"Husband," Sören says, flashing his wedding ring. Most people wouldn't know to recognize Sören's leather O-ring collar as a sign of his "owned" status.
"Oh." It finally dawns on them. "The British guy?"
Sören nods.
"That's hot," the Black woman says, and the others nod.
Sören is relieved they're not homophobes.
"If you guys make out for us we'll give you fifty dollars," one of the brunettes says.
That's really tempting, but that would mean having to take masks off and Sören is still trying to be careful. There is, of course, plenty of video footage of them making out, and more, but they have a rule about not divulging their OnlyFans information with customers, and not telling their OnlyFans subscribers about the bookstore or any information where they could easily be tracked down, such as location.
"Mask mandate," Sören says. "Sorry."
"Maybe someday. This is a nice place, and this sandwich is really good. We'll have to come back," the brunette says, and the others nod.
"I should have figured he was gay, he can cook," the other brunette says.
That's an annoying stereotype but Sören doesn't bother to say so, he's just glad people like the food and they might get regular customers out of this. They giggle some more on the way out, and when they're gone, Sören pretends to hide behind Anthony's cash register, making Anthony laugh.
"That bad, huh?"
"I felt like I was the meat in the sandwich. Not that I always mind, but they wanted to pay us fifty dollars to make out."
Anthony laughs harder, turning beetroot.
Over the course of the afternoon more customers trickle in, some solo, some in pairs, some groups. A few leave without buying anything, most buy books, and Sören gets some more business in the cafe, more tips, more compliments - no other propositions, to his relief. Sören's head is still spinning from having sold a painting, and it's looking even more now like things might be OK.
Sören is tired by four PM - he can hear himself wheezing a little when he's in the kitchenette making food and coffee, and takes a bathroom break to puff on his inhaler - and he gets a rush, their biggest group yet, about ten students of mixed races and genders, Sören thinks late high school or early college. They buy some books and all want coffee or iced tea. Sören feels ready to drop by the time they leave, and he's embarrassed - he knows it's the chronic fatigue from the long COVID. But there's also a wave of relief, so much so that when Sören sits down again he laughs to himself.
Then he starts crying. He tries to pull himself together; he's going to have to change his mask when he calms down. Sören analyzes the feelings. He knows some of it is the sheer relief that they've gotten a decent amount of business today... but he also feels inexplicably sad. It's bittersweet, to be open again after so long, for things to be getting back to normal, and it contrasts with how hard things were for awhile, how uncertain and scary.
But that's not all. Sören finally puts his finger on it. It's sub drop. He's experienced it before, after an intense BDSM scene. Yesterday was wonderful, Sören had amazing orgasms... and now he's coming down from that high, crashing into reality. Sören cries a little harder, desperately trying to disguise it, not wanting to alarm Anthony or draw attention to it the next time a customer comes in.
Sören goes to the single-occupancy bathroom again, and tries to ground out by putting his hands under cold water, splashing his face, taking deep breaths. He puts on a new mask - a camo mask, matching his cargo pants - and when he comes out there's a customer waiting in the cafe. Sören rushes right in, before he can lose business.
"Sorry for the wait."
The guy stands up. He's about the same height as Sören and Anthony - five-ten - and has raven-black hair cascading to the middle of his back. That's the first thing Sören notices, the hair... and the piercing grey eyes, watching over a black mask. The man - Sören assumes it's a man - is wearing a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt and faded, scuffed jeans, with black leather Doc Martens like his and Anthony's. He has an olive backpack that he leaves in the seat, pulling out a worn-looking leather wallet as he approaches the counter.
The guy orders a lemonade and a BLT - the cheapest sandwich - toasted, and pays in exact change. He puts some change in Sören's tip jar, which Sören is mildly annoyed by even though change is better than nothing.
The guy pulls a paperback of Walt Whitman's poetry out of his shopping bag, and he reads as he eats and drinks. With his mask down, the guy has a face like a supermodel, with chiseled cheekbones, and full sensuous lips. He's one of the most gorgeous men Sören has ever seen, and Sören tries not to stare but fails at it, enough so that the guy finally gives him a look, eyebrow raised, before he goes back to his book.
Sören is mortified, and the tears start up again. He tries not to cry as he wipes down the counter, but the sub drop crash keeps crashing, now with a side of you made an idiot of yourself and he probably won't come back.
Sören takes slow, deep breaths, struggling to pull himself together. The guy gets up again - he's done eating, though he's still working on his lemonade - and he puts his books in the backpack before he slings it over his shoulder. He pauses and gives Sören a long look, and Sören's face is on fire again, jaw trembling underneath the mask, and the guy asks, "Hey, are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." One, one epic sub drop! Ah, ha ha. There's no way Sören is going to explain that to a customer.
"You're not fine," the guy says matter-of-factly.
Sören sighs.
The guy takes a few paces and holds out his arms. "Free hug?"
Sören is normally wary about being touched by random strangers, and part of him cautions this guy could be a pervert, followed by YOU'RE a pervert, followed by I am the good kind of pervert, OK, but it's also been so long since anyone other than Anthony has given him a hug, it's been lonely to be in that little us-against-the-world bubble for the better part of two years, and Sören finds himself accepting the hug, leaning on the handsome stranger, noticing the definition in his arms, holding him tight. He looks and feels strong, and in that strength Sören falls apart, crying on the guy's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Sören says. "I know this isn't professional."
The guy pats him. "Hi Sorry, I Know This Isn't Professional. I'm Mark."
Sören busts out laughing; the dad jokes are usually his line. Mark smiles - he's got a beautiful smile that would make Sören swoon if he wasn't married, and Sören still feels a giddy rush nonetheless.
Then Mark says, "Oops, sorry, mask." He puts his mask back on. While Sören is glad Mark is being courteous and not one of those "muh freedoms" people complaining about mask rules, he feels a little twinge of disappointment as Mark's smile goes behind the mask.
Stop that. You're MARRIED.
I'm married, not blind.
...Hi Married Not Blind -
"Thank you for putting your mask on," Sören says.
Mark nods. "Sorry I didn't put it on first." He says "sore-ree" like a Canadian. "We're not exactly six feet apart now, eh?"
"No. I have long COVID and don't need COVID Two: Electric Boogaloo."
Mark laughs at that. Then his eyes are soft, sympathetic. "Rough year, eh?"
Sören nods. "Rough couple years." Rough life. The sad part is this is still better than what his life was like in Iceland, especially when he lived with his shitty aunt Katrin the Jesus freak and uncle Einar the drunk. "It feels like things are back to normal but I don't want to get my hopes up too high... anyway, you don't need to know all that."
"I feel like part of what's wrong with the world today is people think people don't need to know all that. Neighbors and communities aren't there for each other anymore." Mark shrugs. "What do I know."
Mark sounds like someone from the older generation ranting about "the good old days" versus now, but he doesn't look a day over thirty-five; Sören would guess late twenties or early thirties. Then again, Anthony looks closer to thirty than forty, save the very beginning of grey.
"Thanks for the hug," Sören says.
Mark nods. "Thanks for the food. Sorry the tip isn't bigger -"
"Oh, it's... OK." Sören definitely can tell now that Mark doesn't have much money, if he's apologizing about that, and it makes him feel guilty for wanting a bigger tip earlier. "Hard times, yeah?"
Mark nods, more slowly this time. He looks at the clock - though Sören has the feeling Mark doesn't need to be anywhere - and then Mark shuffles off and pauses just before he steps out of the cafe, to wave. "You have a nice rest of the day, ah -"
"Sören."
"Sören." Mark pronounces it correctly, "sur-ren" rather than "sore-ren." He cocks his head to one side. "Danish?"
"Icelandic."
Mark lets out a low whistle. "You left one of the nicest countries in the world to come to this shitfire?"
Sören laughs again. He likes this guy. "I did it for love. For that dude out there." Just in case Mark is trying to flirt with him and hasn't noticed the wedding ring.
Mark nods. "That's dedication."
"And anyway, you can't talk because you left... Canada?"
"Long story. Anyway..." Mark lowers his voice and fakes a German accent. "I'll be back."
Sören does the same, catching the reference even though the movies were before his time. "Hasta la vista, baby."
Mark waves again and he's off, and Sören's head spins like he met a rock star instead of just a random customer. He notices Mark's tight ass in those jeans and he facepalms, hating himself for admiring.
Customer traffic ebbs and flows, and Sören continues to wrestle with sub drop. When they finally close at eight, Sören breaks down and cries again, not bothering to hide it as he wipes down the tables and cleans up the kitchen, while Anthony is vacuuming the carpet out front. When the vacuum goes off, Anthony hears Sören crying and stands in the doorway of the cafe section, unmasked, giving Sören a long, sad look before he comes over and takes Sören in his arms.
"Sweetheart," Anthony husks. "Are you OK? Was today too much for you?" Anthony frowns. "I was worried today would wear you out -"
"Well, yeah I'm kind of tired and achy but it's not entirely that. It's just, you know." Sören makes a vague hand gesture. "We scened last night and it was great and -"
"Oh god, sub drop." Anthony hugs Sören tighter, rocks him, pets his curls. "Oh, baby boy. My poor, sweet baby."
Sören clings to Anthony, comforted by the man he loves so fiercely, and then Anthony makes him sit down in the armchair by the cafe entrance as he takes over cleaning in there. Sören watches, feeling helpless and useless, once Anthony resumes tidying up the front, re-organizing bookshelves and dusting.
They take the leftover iced tea and lemonade up to their apartment. Anthony makes breakfast for dinner - cheese, mushroom, potato, onion and pepper omelettes with hash browns, something Sören loves - and then after Anthony does cleanup, he goes down the hall while Sören sprawls on the couch, wearing the cats, and Anthony comes back with the black leather leash that matches Sören's collar. Anthony dims the lights, clips the leash into Sören's collar, and has Sören sit on his lap, curled up against him while they watch Netflix. Anthony knows Sören needs to be held and pet, and that's what he does, the strength of him damming up the flood of Sören's emotions before he drowns.
After awhile Anthony says, "I can handle kitchen cleanup."
"I don't want to make you do more work. You already tidy up the front and clean the bathroom and organize all those books and that's a lot -"
Anthony puts a finger on Sören's lips. "Also, I think I need to get some sort of device to page me so if you get mobbed and you need me to come in and help -"
Sören bites Anthony's finger, which makes him laugh, and then Sören gives him a stern look and says, "That doesn't exactly help if you've got a rush of customers at the same time. Really by itself, just making food and coffee isn't that bad." It sort of is, with the vertigo and the shortness of breath and the weakness, but Sören wants to try. He knows Anthony would rather he not push himself but Sören needs to do this for himself, at least for now. "And like I said, it wasn't that, mostly. It was my brain breaking that we're back in business. I sold a painting." A pause. "And it's the sub drop."
"The sub drop."
"Last night was fucking amazing, I just wish I didn't crash so hard."
"I enjoyed it too, and yeah... I'm sorry this happens." Anthony kisses Sören's forehead. "We're not the only ones who had fun with what we did last night, apparently. This might cheer you up a little - I checked our account when there was a lull in customers and..." Anthony looks into Sören's eyes. "We got a lot of tips from last night's video, after I edited and posted it."
"Really? How much?"
Anthony tells him and Sören's jaw drops. He laughs and cries all over again. "Jesus Christ."
Anthony smiles. "I want to take you out to dinner to celebrate but I know we need to be careful with our money. It's just been so long since we went on a date somewhere..."
"We could do things that don't cost money, like make lunch to take on a picnic."
"We could but we do that anyway. I want to spoil you." Anthony strokes Sören's face; Anthony knows Sören grew up poor by Icelandic standards thanks to his aunt and uncle being drunks.
"Does that mean we can go to Cracker Barrel? Or Applebee's?"
Anthony facepalms, shaking with silent laughter. "I was thinking somewhere fancy."
"That's fancy."
"No it isn't, you." Anthony gives Sören a playful swat, then a kiss. "You and Cracker Barrel." Sören had insisted they try it shortly after Sören arrived in the States.
Sören strokes his beard. "Well, I'm not sure it's entirely safe yet to go to a restaurant... and I'd feel guilty about dropping that kind of cash till we know we're gonna be OK with money. We could compromise. We could get food from somewhere to take out on a picnic... and we could buy a bag of weed." Marijuana is fully legal in Maine - though Sören and Anthony limit their alcohol consumption because of family history, they toke up once in awhile, or they did before lockdown, not having spare money for that once their shop closed.
"OK," Anthony says.
"Maybe that clam shack I like? The one that does good lobster rolls? Excuse me, lawbstah rolls?" Sören puts on a Maine accent.
Anthony cackles. "That sounds good." He smirks, also affecting a Maine accent. "That sounds wicked pissah."
"Ayuh, wicked pissah."
They snuggle some more and the night wears down. They feed the cats, hit the lights, brush their teeth, and go down to the bedroom to get ready for bed. But once they're both naked, instead of putting pajamas on they fall on each other, Anthony tugging the leash to pull Sören against him, the two of them grinding on each other, caressing, kissing. As worn out as Sören is, he wants to get laid.
Anthony goes to their toy drawer and takes out the vanilla-flavored massage oil. "Here, let me take care of you, honey."
"Yes, Daddy."
Sören lays on his stomach, leash tethered to one of the bedposts. Anthony pours oil over Sören's back and ass cheeks and then he straddles Sören's hips and starts kneading Sören's shoulders. Sören groans and involuntarily flexes his fingers and toes as Anthony's hands rub away the tension of the day, soothing, melting. Anthony rubs Sören's arms down, then up, then back to his shoulders. He thumps and rolls Sören's back, kneads some more, and Sören shivers at the feel of Anthony's touch at his sensitive spine. Anthony leans down and kisses here, licks there, knowing what Sören likes.
When his tongue licks down Sören's spine, slowly, Sören moans, feeling his cock throb, his cunt dripping in response. Anthony kisses up Sören's back, hands brushing, stroking, and back down, kneading, rolling, squeezing, more kisses and licks driving Sören mad with sexual hunger. Anthony kisses and nibbles one of Sören's hips, then the other, then rubs Sören's ass, giving him relief and arousal all at once. Anthony rolls and kneads Sören's thighs, rubs and squeezes Sören's calves.
Anthony untethers the leash and Sören flips over on his back. Anthony re-tethers the leash and pours oil down Sören's chest and stomach, on one thigh and the other. Looking into Sören's eyes, he smiles as he rubs Sören's chest. They kiss, and then Anthony is kissing Sören's neck, knowing how sensitive Sören is there, making Sören moan, arching to him. Anthony rubs Sören's stomach as he kisses down to Sören's nipples, sucks on one as he plays with the other, going back and forth. Licking, suckling, Sören panting, whimpering. Anthony kisses and licks Sören's stomach as he rubs Sören's thighs.
He rubs a calf again and this time his tongue licks down, Sören watching. Anthony rubs a foot, and sucks on each of Sören's toes. There's nothing like the sensation of having the tension pressed out of his foot while Anthony's mouth teases his toes - Sören giggles and whimpers, sensitive there too. Anthony does the same with the other foot, and licks up Sören's other calf, rubbing, to the other thigh.
Anthony untethers the leash again and this time he wraps it around his right hand, tugging just a little at Sören's collar as he moves in between Sören's thighs, nuzzling Sören's bush before his tongue takes its first lick at Sören's horny, wet cock, his tongue brushing slow and feather-light. Sören gasps and cries out, and keeps crying out as Anthony licks and licks, so slowly, so gently, teasing. At last Anthony taps his tongue at Sören's cock, lashes it, before he takes it in his mouth. He sucks hard and fast, hungry for it, and Sören bucks, shaking, gasping for breath, sobbing a little, it's so good. Anthony gets him closer, and just as Sören thinks he's about to come Anthony stops and resumes that slow, sweet licking, making Sören writhe and scream with frustrated need. There are little pulses, not a full orgasm - Sören needs more.
Anthony laughs, knowing exactly what he's doing, and keeps licking slowly, until Sören is a babbling, incoherent mess. Anthony sucks Sören's cock again, and his fingers pump in and out, the sound of Sören's sloppy pussy as loud as his broken cries. Sören grabs fistfuls of the sheets, right there, but his body doesn't let him give in just yet, wanting more, wanting Anthony to never stop, nothing has ever felt so good...
Their eyes meet, and the look of lust in Anthony's green eyes sends Sören over the edge, calling out his name as he comes, like fireworks in his mind, supernovas, stardust. Sören moans as the contractions surge, that perfect instant of joy. Anthony gives Sören's thighs tender little kisses and slides up, kissing Sören; Sören moans again as he tastes himself on Anthony's mouth.
Anthony grinds against him, kissing and nuzzling his neck, and after Sören takes a moment to recover, he kisses his way down Anthony's gorgeous body, hands running over Anthony's chest hair and the hair on his thighs, loving the feel of it. Anthony is hard and dripping wet, and Sören moans at the delicious sight of it. And he tastes delicious, musky-sweet-salt, Sören slurping his juices as he sucks at Anthony's cock. Anthony grabs Sören's curls and rolls his hips, gently fucking Sören's mouth. Sören moans into him as Anthony tugs on the leash, and sucks harder, faster.
When Anthony's hips are rocking and he's yanking the leash harder, almost choking him, Sören whimpers into him, rubbing against the mattress, horny all over again, electrified by the domination as well as the hot cock in his mouth, the sight of Anthony completely lost in pleasure. Sören sucks like a vacuum cleaner and Anthony lets out a shuddery gasp as his cock twitches in Sören's mouth; Sören sighs as he watches Anthony contracting, and can't help reaching down to play with himself.
Anthony uses the leash to bring Sören up, and then he swats Sören's hand away from his cock, laughing. "Did I say you could touch yourself, brat?"
"No, Daddy." Sören bites his lip. "I want more, Daddy."
Anthony groans and they kiss. They make out for awhile, caressing each other, Sören's lust stoking hotter and hotter until Anthony is ready.
This time they sixty-nine, laying at each other's sides, viciously devouring each other, moaning and growling into each other. Anthony's fingers bang at Sören's G-spot, making filthy wet suctioning noises, and Sören dips his tongue inside Anthony, tongue-fucking him as he plays with Anthony's cock, teasing him to the edge before he sucks on it again, slurping away. Anthony's mouth is so good on his cock and Sören loves this, sucking and being sucked, pleasing and being pleased.
They come together and Sören gushes a little, not squirting as hard as he did last night, but enough to soak Anthony's face, who laughs delightedly and kisses Sören hard when they sit up, holding each other. Sören cleans Anthony's face with his tongue and they kiss again before they fall onto the bed together, facing each other, holding each other, lost in each other's eyes.
"I love you so much, baby boy." Anthony strokes Sören's face, smiling tenderly.
"I love you, Daddy." Sören takes Anthony's hand, squeezes it, kisses it.
Anthony boops Sören's nose, making him giggle, then kisses the tip of Sören's nose before he pulls Sören closer. They rock together, Anthony cradling Sören's head against his chest, and Sören is lulled by the strong thrum of Anthony's heart. The cats gather on the bed, purring, and Sören sighs, savoring the peace and contentment. This was just what he needed, making everything right again.
"Love you, baby," Anthony murmurs sleepily, arms tightening around Sören. Sören smiles as he closes his eyes, and like that, they fall asleep naked in each other's arms, their legs entwined, Sören leashed to the man who owns him body, heart and soul.
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