The world changes with the markings. Engraved flesh branded, wrists looped with the cursive of their supposed. Those who were once free now seemingly tied to another, possessed.
In the beginning the markings brought divisions. For some, the everlasting ink became natural, a therapeutic addition to their being, for others, stark violations, the root of heartbreak or plain futility and chaos. Yet the world progressed, talk of ‘The Birds and the Bees’ renewed to inform the ignorant of the derivation of the markings which, for some, would become the governance of their livelihood.
Mats was aged 4 before he truly registered the existence of the bond-markings, tracing that of his mother, the looped cursive familiar and yet foreign, his mother’s sad smile a shadow of his father’s absence.
He sees marks differ, Mr Morello from across the street thumbing over the bleached writing on his wrist with a wistful expression. Others are blank, the cursive never appears.
Mats is 13 when he receives his mark, waking up in crisp, white sheets, scrubbing a hand over his face the writing seems stark and bold against the backdrop of the lethargic morning. At first he thinks he’s read wrong, he never did get round to having his eyes checked, but the same 7 letters remain. Antoine.
He thinks it’s odd. Has never met an Antoine before, heck, he used to think Mario was an absurd name, his mother thought so too. He wondered what she’d think of Antoine.
Apparently she doesn’t think much, sitting silently, her Monday, morning mug of tea cradled in her hands. He thinks she’s disappointed but she tries, a small smile rising to her lips. Grasping his wrist, it almost seems as though she’s taken the soulmate into her own hand,
“You’ll make him happy, my boy. So happy,”
For Mats, that’s enough.
Football becomes an outlet, he climbs up the youth ranks, his time in Munich beneficial for both skill and sense of self. He meets others, he always knows when he’s found one. It’s in the way they rub their wrist self-consciously, as though to affirm that the name stamped upon skin is of legitimacy. Their eyes seem to shift around the locker room, analysing those within as though anybody and everybody in their vicinity could be their soulmate. Like most, Mats chooses to cover his mark with a soft, leather band. It becomes like a second-skin or perhaps a Band-Aid. Mats still doesn’t know if he wears it in denial or just for a scrap of discretion. Either way, he still finds himself peeling the leather back on stirring, murky nights to stoke the cursive, a conscious reminder of the deep rooted connection he holds for a boy that he still has not met.
Mats is 16 when he meets Benni. They share a mutual awareness for the absence of each other’s name on their wrists, but in the moment, it doesn’t mean anything. He likes Benni’s company, they climb through the youth ranks together their path lined by the passing of a ball, hushed conversations in damp motels and tentative, teenage kisses. It hurts a bit. Part of him loves Benni, his casual comfort and sunshine beams of a smile. But he knows that he isn’t Benni’s and Benni isn’t his. He tries not to think about it.
Mats is 20 when he moves to Dortmund. He still sees Benni, time spent together at under-21 internationals. He still hasn’t met Antoine, whoever he might be. Sometimes he forgets, just for a moment, the strip of leather on his wrist a mere accessory. It’s a bit of a nuisance. Casual flings don’t work for him, caresses counteracted by pangs of guilt, he finds it hard to connect when there’s someone else’s name on his wrist. He doesn’t mind though. His focus is football he tells himself and yet more and more he finds himself at matches, searching the crowd, as though his match could be there, watching him. He won’t admit it, but in the depths of the night it worries him. It’s not like he’s old, it’s just that, everyday he’s sees excited faces and proudly brandished wrists, signs of connection, love that has been found. For all he knows, he may never meet his match. Nobody mentions that. Lost love, love that could have been but was never found. He’s young and yet he thinks old. But he’ll never admit it.
Mats is 22. The name hasn’t been blanched yet. They’re not dead then, he muses to himself. He thinks about it more each year. Fuelled by anticipation, his mother says. He doesn’t even know anymore. Apparently it’s possible for him to feel simultaneously numb and on fire, seemingly every minute of the day. It makes him frustrated, patience is a virtue he questions whether he attains. The fire burns brightest on match days, as though football could be the facilitator for love…or perhaps it’s simply adrenaline. No matter what, it thrills through his veins and rushes to his head and he becomes delirious, enraptured with the game. The game becomes fuelled by love. And it hurts.
Mats is 25 and he’s headed to the World Cup. Rio de Janeiro, perfectly exotic. He still thinks about his ‘soul-mate’, he’s knows he’s somewhere and yet part of him has settled into an acceptance of solitude. Benni laughs next to him as they travel on the team bus. The leather of the seat sticks to Mats’ thighs and he wishes for a moment that the crinkle of Benni’s eyes could be his forever. And yet it’s not. Benni met a girl, his name on her wrist and her name on his, its perfect, so much so that Mats can hardly be jealous. He simply misses the familiarity.
They train hard in the Brazilian heat, the drills seemingly melding together and for the first time Mats doesn’t focus on the name brandished on his wrist. In those moments, football comes above all else. It’s as though he’s free.
They pass through their group stage easily enough before Mats becomes ill. He misses the match against Algeria. His head hurts, his body aches and his wrist burns. In that moment he decides that he must be the embodiment of uselessness.
Mats is back again for the match against France, his heart pounding beats faster than usual. He dismisses it, it’s not usual to play in a World Cup quarter-final. Löw tells them so, his pre-match spiel more concise than usual. Mats himself has calculated the French team, the perfect spell of old and young, it phases him more than it should.
They line up in the tunnel, Mats’ eyes fixed in front of him. He feels a buzzing in his veins, as though his blood is on fire. He rubs over his leather adorned wrist self-consciously. He’ll play for him he decides. Play for the unknown man whose identity has seemingly become the bane of Mats’ existence. He glance to the side, reads the names on the back of French jerseys. They’re all foreign to him, both literally and figuratively. His eyes drift along the players, back and forth, like some strange sort of therapy. He begins to notice intricacies. Like the dip in height between the notable jersey of Benzema and that of the slight figure standing behind him. Griezmann reads the jersey. Well that’s a name, Mats thinks to himself. The man is evidently handsome, as most men in sport are (or at least, that is what Mats thinks). He’s delicate, almost pretty, even his tattooed arm seems more intricate, and more alluring than the usual ink splatters that adorn skin. It’s clever he thinks, to have tattoos the inky reminder of soul-mates melding into the free beauty of tattooed images, no way to easily differentiate between choice and destiny. The thought of it distracts Mats, the thoughts that make up his personal life colliding with those of his professional livelihood. Philip turns around, signalling the walk onto the pitch. Mats removes his eyes from the French jerseys and instead fixes them ahead, towards the blinding green of the pitch and the deafening roar of his surroundings. It’s almost surreal, ‘a sensory overload’ Benni once described it as. He couldn’t agree more.
The racism statements are said, the anthems sung and now hands need to be shook. The opposition are almost faceless as he passes them, quick brushes of the hand. He comes closer to the slight man from before, Griezmann he recalls. Their eyes meet. The boy looks nervous, Mats probably does as well. His palm must be sweaty, he considers as their hands brush but he’s too preoccupied to feel self-conscious about it. The boy looks down at Mats’ leather-covered wrist and suddenly he feels exposed, rubbing the soft leather after they part.
The whistle blows and the ball rolls. It’s a scramble, big games always are. It’s almost confusing, the blur of jerseys the jibes of feet. It’s all too quick, too much. It feels consuming and Mats doesn’t know quite how to deal with it. Time passes slowly. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. It gets better, the ball becoming less of a foreigner, more of a friend. So much so that soon there’s a penalty and he finds the ball booted to his head. But, it’s in a good way or so he thinks as he hears the crowd roar. And then he’s running and he doesn’t know where but the air is scorching his lungs and he wants to scream because he just scored a goal, in a world cup quarter-final. That has to mean something.
Thomas runs over to him and he’s soon wrapped in his arms, and then there’s Mesut and the familiar, grounding presence of Benni. He doesn’t know quite how to feel. Extreme elation but also anticipation. It’s early days, he thinks to himself as he cherishes Benni’s embrace. Benni taps Mats’ wrist as he leaves, almost as a reminder. He’s doing it for someone. He doesn’t quite know who, but someone.
The game continues in what could be slow motion. The movements are quick but the ticking of the clock is not. Half-time rolls around and he sits, glazed, through Jogi’s words of improvement and inspiration. The numb feeling remains as he re-enters the pitch, the blurred screams and shouts doing little to de-frost his rawness. It’s ok though. He’s running on adrenaline, more so than usual and it carries him, like the waves of the Brazilian ocean, through the game. Stoppage time arrives like a fresh, sea breeze (to keep that ocean metaphor going) and the score remains. 1-0. He did that. That’s what Benni tells him as the siren sounds, cheers of praise and disappointment simultaneously ricocheting around the arena. It’s funny that, Mats thinks to himself. His success is so many others disappointment. He must be on the top of someone’s hit-list, he muses to himself.
The French team lies scattered around the field. Their faces paint a distressing portrait, some holding that blank, shocked stare (and Mats just knows that eventually that shock will be broken by disappointment, regret and depression). Others faces crumple, their emotions flowing in the present, the reality quickly setting in. Perhaps it’s easier that way, to face the truth before it comes for you. His own team is celebrating across the field with hugs, cheers and pats on the back. Again, it’s almost too much. Too much to process, too much to see. His eyes fall on the crouched figure of the little French superstar Griezmann, he’s crying and for some reason it effects Mats in a way that makes him forget his own success. The boy is young, he decides. It’s the type of emotion you can only really let out when you’re young, when opportunities are bountiful and disappointment haven’t yet blended together. Mats continues to watch him, trying to count the tears rolling down the boys cheeks. He’s really too far to do so, but it gives him an excuse to keep watching him. However, his tally is short lived as the boy is ushered away by the earnest, father that is Hugo Lloris. It’s then that Mats finds Benni again and they walk side-by-side back to the locker room. They walk in comfortable silence. Mat’s strokes his leather banded wrist and Benni kisses his own wrist, uncovered and carefree. It makes Mats’ heart pang, he wishes he had someone to share this with.
Jogi keeps his talk brief (for once) a quick congratulations and then a reminder, it’s not the end yet. It never really is, Mats thinks to himself. There’s always something better, something more to achieve, but maybe he only thinks that because he lives an unsatisfied life. He doesn’t get to be the man who flashes around his lover, gleefully advertising their name on his wrist. He sometimes wonders if that will ever be possible for him. Benni sometimes asks if he’s scared, about finding ‘the one’. He is, but even more than that he’s scared that he won’t find them. But he’ll never admit it.
He’s back in his hotel room, appreciating the solitude. It sets his mind to rest, for a while anyway. He can hear the faint noises of Thomas next door, the volume of his FIFA game blasted too loud. Manu wails (presumably in defeat) in accompaniment. Mats doesn’t mind though. It makes things normal and God knows he needs some normalcy in his life. This is apparently short-lived as he hears a gentle wrapping on his door. While admiring of Thomas’ never ending energy and dedication, Mats wasn’t quite in the mood to be roped into an unwanted and wrongfully competitive rematch of FIFA. He doesn’t worry about that for long as he opens his door. He isn’t met by the bouncing figure of Thomas, or even the lumbering wall of Manu. It’s a sight he could never have expected. Griezmann. Mats wishes he had another name to call him by but that’s all he knows. They stand in silence for a while, it’s not uncomfortable but it is palpable (and a tinge awkward). Mats doesn’t know what to say so he opens his door wider, hoping that the smaller man will take that as a signal to enter the room. The gesture is not lost in translation and the slight figure slithers through the doorway.
Mats can’t help but notice his slightly red eyes, his tears must have only just subsided. Or perhaps they just ran out. The room suddenly seems small, as though the wall were closing in on the pair. Mats’ counterpart moves forward, his actions provoking a sharp inhale from Mats. The boy’s fingers soon reach for his wrist and for some strange reason Mats doesn’t flinch. Maybe it’s because he figures he owes him something. Some secret, some wage to pay for the loss. The boys fingers are beautifully rough, slightly calloused, their touch stark against Mats’ skin as though they could imprint themselves there forever. Mats meets the man’s eyes, crystalline blue meeting chocolate brown. They hold contact for a moment, sharing the same air in silence. He feels him stroke the leather that covers his wrist, his brow furrowing in intrigue. Mats exhales shakily in anticipation. In anticipation for the exposure. The fingers daintily curl under the band, fingernails scratching skin. It’s peeled back slowly, or maybe Mats is just holding his breath. The boy inhales quickly, his finger shaking slightly as they trace the cursive on Mats’ wrist.
It’s then that Mats realises. He feels a thousand different things, almost numbed by the discovery. This was it, this was his moment, their moment. His hands twitch as he reciprocates the movements, clutching the hand of his soul-mate and searching the array of tattoos for the give-away mark. It’s like sifting through a jigsaw puzzle or maybe one of those Where’s Wally books. It’s frustrating, but only because he’s overly eager and has something to prove. It’s strange though, because it’s familiar (when he finally finds it!). He traces the letters, written in his own, signature cursive (far less extravagant than that of the Frenchman). They stay like that for a while, wrists clutch in each-others hands. Mats’ heart beats far too fast, his lungs filling as though he had just played the World Cup Final. It’s right there. His name. Mats. Printed amongst the swirls of ink adorning the boy’s skin. They’re both conscious of what it means as they stand intertwined in silence. Mats finally averts his eyes, taking a moment to spy his partner. His eyes are glassy again and he can’t figure out whether it’s because of the game they played today or the game they’ve been playing their whole life.
“I knew it was you,” the boy or, Antoine breaks the silence. Mats understands, internally thanking his mum for encouraging him to look towards linguistics. Mats doesn’t know how to reply but strokes his thumb over Antoine’s wrist in a mock response. It’s acceptable as the boy in front of him quivers. The multitude of what this means truly settles on him then. Years he had been waiting, the constant thought of a counterpart never far of his mind. He hadn’t expected a colleague of the sport but it doesn’t matter to him. One doesn’t wait 25 years of their life to complain about their soul-mates profession (really Antoine could have been a stripper or a conman!)
He eventually drops Antoine’s wrist and it falls limply by his side, the boy turned to liquid. Mats searches his face, enraptured, as a single tear meets his lip. His heart aches as he lifts a thumb, instinctively to the corner of the boy’s mouth where the tear has settled. It’s intimate but Antoine doesn’t flinch, instead, closing his eyes and nuzzling ever so slightly into the pressure of Mats’ hand and for some strange reason it doesn’t feel wrong, for either of them.
“I’ve waited so long,” Mats finally vocalises, his French coming out stuttered and uneasy his breath short and sharp. Antoine gazes up at him his eyes still brimming with tears.
“So, so long for you,” Mats continues stroking his thumb across Antoine’s cheek.
“Please make me forget,” Antoine whispers out, his voice husky with emotion as his eyes scrunch. Mats cups his cheek, staring into his eyes.
“Please,” the boy pleads with the beginning of a sob.
That’s when Mats swoops in, his lips closing over those of Antoine, as though he could kiss away his sadness. The smaller man lets out small whimper, pressing himself up against Mats his finger clenching in the front of his shirt. Mats has never felt so much, his head going light as he his fingers dance along Antoine’s neck. The boy presses so incredibly close their heat radiating together and Mats can feel the gentle rise and fall of Antoine’s chest against his own. He moves his mouth away from the Frenchman’s plump lips, kissing across his cheeks, lightly licking away the salty tear-tracks that stain them. His mouth makes it ponderous journey then, down the boy’s throat. He kisses lightly at the tanned skin that lies there, feeling the light thrum of Antoine’s pulse beneath his mouth. His skin is salty and fragrant as he latches his lips onto a small patch beneath the Frenchman’s ear. He moans in response, his fingers curling into Mats’ curls, tugging slightly in a way which makes Mats’ head spin. He worries the spot on Antoine’s neck for a while, his teeth nibbling over it slightly before he soothes the irritation with a flick of his tongue and a light peck.
Mats pulls away to view his handy-work, the spot flushed red. The Frenchman looks thoroughly debauched, his eyes red-rimmed and wide, pupils dilated so his previously oceanic aquamarine gaze becomes a lustful, murky blue.
“Please,” the boy repeats again, his hands tugging at Mats’ shirt.
“Are you sure?” Mats questions him, running his hands down the boys back.
He nods furiously in response before almost leaping to capture Mats’ face in his hands, enthusiastically joining their lips as though to prove his certainty. Mats doesn’t object as his hands creep lower on the boy’s waist, settling in the small of his back. The direction of their actions are now obvious, the endpoint clear. Mats bites gently on the boy’s lip, eliciting a filthy moan. In response, Mats slots his leg between those of Antoine, the boy eagerly accepting the leverage as he presses himself continually closer to Mats. Mats can feel the Frenchman’s erection, pressed hot against his thigh as the boy mounts his offered leg, rolling his hips against it. He whines as he does so, little puffs of air flying against Mats’ mouth, their kiss becoming sloppy. His hands travel down the Frenchman’s waist, resting against the plump, curvature of Antoine’s ass. He squeezes slightly, the flesh warm and receptive in his hands, sending a thrill of arousal through his body. Antoine moans wildly in response, riding Mats’ thigh with a blissful look on his face. Grasping the boy’s ass he guides his hips down onto his thigh, encouraging his desperate ruts.
“I want to see you,” the boys whimpers out between vigorous breaths as his hands scrunch in the material of Mats’ shirt. Dutifully, Mats withdraws his leg before peeling of his shirt, throwing it behind him, not bothered as to where it lands. He meets the burning gaze of Antoine, his blue eyes blazing in arousal. The boy reaches out, his hands warm against Mats’ chest. They stroke down his chest, relishing the rippling muscle and brawn before returning to his pectorals. Antoine looks entranced, his teeth nibbling at his lip to try to subside his arousal. Mats reaches out for him, his own hands pressing beneath the boys shirt before lifting it above the Frenchman’s head. The stand then, chest to chest, their skin hot and their breath short. Antoine walks him backwards, in what Mats presumes to be the direction of the bed.
They fall unceremoniously onto the plush surface, Antoine unhesitating as he crawls up onto Mats’ chest, settling himself on his thighs. Mats rises to capture his mouth, kissing him deeply. Antoine makes an unintelligible sound in response drawing Mats closer to continue to suck on his tongue. Mats manages to, quite smoothly, hook a leg around the smaller man’s figure, drawing him closer to further consume him. They seemingly forget to breathe, stealing air between intense kisses. Mats’ body feels as though it’s alight as he presses his hard, erection against Antoine’s, barley supressing a grunt as they make contact.
“I’ll take care of you,” Mats huffs out against Antoine’s neck, his hands clutching at the smaller boys ass, kneading the flesh there. Antoine sits back on Mats’ thighs, his eyes wide and mouth red. That was me, Mats thinks proudly as he traces the boy’s lips. His index finger presses against the mouth and the Frenchman soon invites the intrusion, drawing the digits into the hot crevice of his mouth. Mats bites his lip in arousal as he watches the boy sucking on his finger, dirtily, without any shame. His fingers are rough on the boys tongue and they drag deliciously along his mouth. Antoine flicks his tongue up to meet the digits, dancing around them teasingly before sucking them deeper into his mouth. His hips grind furiously against Mats’ as he does so, his eyes closed in concentrated arousal.
“What do you want?” Mats asks the smaller man who moans in response. Mats removes his finger from the boys mouth, tracing them along his collarbone and then down his smooth chest. He circles the pert, pink nipple lying there, pressing against the nub, Antoine’s breath rattling out of his lips. Mats’ finger continues its journey down to the boy’s navel.
“Touch me, please,” the man gasps out breathily, grabbing Mats’ hand to press against his arousal. Mats looks up at Antoine, the boy’s breath stuttering his eyes clenched shut in anticipation.
Mats’ fingers shake as they reach for the Frenchman’s buckle, unfastening it before palming off his pants quickly. He thumbs over the cotton-covered erection there, his mouth sucking persistently at Antoine’s neck. Antoine’s fingers scrape against Mats shoulder, as he pants against his neck. Mats doesn’t waste time, trying to best satisfy Antoine’s needs. Mats fumbles the soft-cotton off of Antoine’s ass, removing the offending article of clothing. He flips them over then, the Frenchman’s back hitting the crisp sheets. He immediately reaches for Mats’ pants, shucking them with his underwear so that both men lie, nestled together, exposed to the world. They pant together, eyes locked intensely as Mats nuzzles his body between Antoine’s legs.
Mats’ head dips down, his hair tickling against Antoine’s navel teasingly as he mouths towards his cock. Antoine hisses in response, his stomach clenching. Mats smiles against his skin, biting slightly at the boy’s hip. Antoine’s fingers fist in Mats’ curls as he fixes the man with a pointed look of desperation. Mats gives in, servicing the boy as he nuzzles towards his cock. It’s not the first time Mats has done this, although, it’s the first time it’s really meant something.
Mats noses closer, his lips hovering against the head of the boy’s cock, earning a loud moan in response. It makes Mats smile, a rewarding part of the whole experience. Mats leans further forward, sucking the tip of the boy’s genitalia into his mouth, tonguing at the slit. Antoine clutches at the sheets beside him, his hips bucking slightly. Mats kisses along the veined length of the boy’s cock slightly, teasing him before finally, fully wrapping his lips around the length.
“Fuck,” the boy gasps out as he fists his hands in Mats’ hair. Mats smirks around the boy’s cock in response, his tongue swirling around the head of the length as the boy continues to pant above him. Mats reaches a hand to the boy’s hips, steadying him slightly before humming around Antoine’s cock. His other hand wraps around the base of the length, twisting in rhythm with the plunging of his mouth. His mouth is stretched around the length and his throat burns slightly, but Mats welcomes it, egged on by the moans of pleasure above him. Antoine’s voice trembles above him, his loud pants sending sparks to Mats’ arousal. It’s almost too much, for both of them, so Mats pulls of the cock wetly before rifling in the draw beside him for some lube.
“This is what you want?” Mats asks the boy lying in front of him. His hips buck of the sheets in response as he lets out a high moan of affirmation. Mats nods at him before flicking up the head of the bottle. He’s nervous, hardly knowing what he’s doing it’s been so long. Before him lays the beautiful Frenchman, his pupils blown black, hair tousled with his cock leaking against his belly. Mat’s mouth waters slightly at the sight as he watches the smaller man’s chest rise and fall erratically.
“Please, I need you,” Antoine gasps out as Mats runs a fingertip along his thigh, reaching below to find the crease of his ass. Mats’ finger finds the puckered entrance, tracing along it lightly. He lets out a breath, as he pushes the first finger in. The boy is tight and bites his lip at the intrusion. Mats works methodically and carefully, not wanting to rush the process. He won’t hurt his soul-mate, not after waiting this long. The second finger pushes in easier and Antoine pivots his hips desperately against Mats’ hand.
“Oh,” he whimpers out as Mats fingers probe his prostate.
“Oh, fuck,” he continually moans, his head thrown back in pleasure.
“Please, Mats,” he begs, reaching a finger down to Mats’ wrist to trace along his own name. It sends a shudder down Mats’ spine as he stretches the boy with a third finger. Antoine’s hips jerk helplessly in response, profanities exiting his mouth in desperation. Mats’ own cock throbs almost painfully at the sight and he soon decides that he can’t wait much longer. He pulls away from Antoine’s body, removing his fingers from the tight entrance they’re encased in. The boy in front of him writhes at the sensation, his brow creasing at the loss of pressure.
“It’s ok,” Mats hushes him, stroking a hand down the Frenchman’s body. The boy looks up at him, his face full of desperate expectation as Mats shakily unwraps the condom packet. He rolls the condom on quickly, placing a hand on the boy’s hip before he guides his length between the smaller man’s legs. The anticipation is palpable, Antoine holding his breath, Mats’ hands shaking with contained arousal.
He slides in gently, feeling the boy’s passages clench around his length. Mats looks down at him and sees the fluttering eyelids, the gasping mouth. He stays still for a moment, letting the boy adjust to the stretch. He leans forward, nuzzling the boys jaw and laying delicate kisses along his flesh.
“Please,” Antoine utters out, wrapping his legs around Mats’ hips, inviting the older man to grind into the tight heat. He thrusts a few times, experimentally, still working to loosen up the younger man. It starts slow, Mats cherishing the smooth, slow slide, the mattress beneath them groaning in protest at the small rolls of Mats’ hips. The boy beneath him is panting furiously, his cheeks a mottled red of arousal. Mats leans in close, his mouth hovering over that of Antoine. They stay like that, choking on the same air as Mats continues to piston into the body below.
The pace quickens, Mats moving to spread the boy’s legs, the Frenchman moaning in response.
“Oh, yes Mats,” the boy stutters out. It’s the first time he’s said his name and it sends a pulse of arousal to Mats’ cock as he grunts in response,
“Fuck,” he groans out coarsely into the Frenchman’s neck, his hands seeking purchase on the headboard above their bodies. The boy below him continues his litany of ‘Yes’, ‘Fuck’ and ‘Mats’ the words like a choral hymn in Mats’ ears. He continues to rock into him his hands moving to keep the boy’s hips in place. He pulls back slightly, changing angle, before re-entering in a smooth slide that sends the Frenchman crying out in pleasure. Mats notes this, moving to repeat the move and continue his pleasurable assault on the boy’s prostate. He thrusts, firmly and with promise as the boy below him pleads,
“Please, Mats. I need it,” The Frenchman’s hands twist in the sheets beside him in pleasure as Mats continues to pant above him.
“Look at me,” Mats grunts out, placing his hand over Antoine’s heart. The boy’s head lolls around in pleasure, his eyes shooting open to meet Mats’ brown orbs.
“You’re so beautiful,” Mats stutters out, feeling an aroused tug in his stomach as Antoine moans in reply. Mats strokes the boy’s face,
“So damn, beautiful,” he punctuates with each firm, thrust of his hips. The younger boy whines beautifully and Mats reaches for his legs, hoisting them onto his shoulders to delve deeper into the boy’s heat. Mats can easily find his prostate continually sliding over it, rolls of pleasure soaring through the Frenchman’s body. The boy looks vulnerable, his eyes wide and pleading, his cherry lips open and wet, Mats captures them in a frantic kiss, holding the boy’s bottom lip between his teeth.
He moves across, nuzzling into the boy’s neck as he maintains his rhythmic thrusting.
“Touch me, please,” the boy beneath him writhes out and Mats obeys immediately, his hand wringing around the boy’s flushed cock-head. He sends Mats a filthy look in reply, raking his fingers down the German’s muscled back.
“Oh, I’m close,” the boy whines out as he arches up. Mats jerks his cock faster, his thumb catching on the tip, beads of pre-cum steadily flowing out.
“Say my name,” Mats gasps out, the hand not jerking off the boy moving to capture the Frenchman’s wrists. He inspects them, his thumb held taut over his name marked on the man’s skin.
“Say it,” he growls out huskily, sucking on the Frenchman’s neck.
“I can’t,” the boy stutters out and Mats groans in response, his hand tightening on the boy’s wrists. The younger man whines and heaves as Mats drives his cock deeper into his body.
“Yes, you can,” Mats whispers out.
“You’re so good. So beautiful,” he continues, the words flowing out carelessly.
“I need to hear you say my name,” he grunts as his hips snap furiously. It’s true, he needs to hear the boy acknowledge him. It will make it real. He stares at the Frenchman, the boys blue eyes brimming.
“Say it,” Mats asks one last time his right hand tightening on the boy’s cock, his chances of climax temporarily halted. The Frenchman blinks up at him desperately and Mats shifts his hand teasingly.
“M-Mats. Oh Mats,” Antoine heaves out his voice cracking around the name.
“Do it for me. Let go,” Mats pleads the boy, his hands moving to continue its strokes on the younger man’s cock. The boy looks up at him with wide eyes.
“Oh Mats, oh,” he gasps out, his hips rising wildly from the bed as he spurts beautifully into Mats’ hand. Mats bites his lip at the sight, his cock thoroughly squeezed by the Frenchman’s tight passage. He continues his thrusts, moaning wildly.
“Oh Antoine, oh baby. Yes,” he echoes out, burying his face in the Frenchman’s neck. He can feel the boy rake his fingernails through his hair, the gentle gesture sending sparks along his back.
“So good for me. Oh Antoine,” he punches out before he doubles over in climax. He pants into the boy’s neck, staying there for and age before rolling over, thoroughly sated.
They lie like that for a while, listening to the echoes of their breath around the room. Mats looks over at the boy, the faint stain of tears remaining on his face, Mats reaches over and kisses his cheek, interlacing their hands together. They fall asleep like this, the sound of the ocean outside, the sheets crisp beneath them.
When Mats wakes in the morning, his soul-mate is gone but he doesn’t mind. He knows he’ll see him again. Benni visits him that morning, ready for their routine walk down to breakfast.
“You look happy,” Benni greets him with a genuine smile.
Mats is happy. And he certainly will admit it.