18. Marsh

EIGHTEEN

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: despite always feeling cold, his body is essentially a human-shaped weighted blanket that radiates warmth.

I never slept so well as I did when we were together. Whether I was big spoon or little spoon, having Data's thick body pressing against mine lulled me into a deep sleep. And sure, there were times where we had a tug of war over the blankets, or where I'd try to sneak his pillow in the middle of the night because it was firmer than mine, even though they were the same kind. But whenever his arms pulled me close, they seemed to shut out the world and quiet all the nonstop chatter in my head.

That's the thing nobody tells you about breaking up with someone: it fucks with your sleep.

I've slept like shit for the past six months. Tossing and turning as if searching for something perpetually out of grasp. Waking up with weird back pain as my body tries to adjust to a Data-less sleep position.

And having him under the same roof as me and not sharing a bed is making my insomnia extra severe. Last night, I barely slept, and tonight looks to be a repeat.

I glimpse the large, red numbers on the clock by my bed.

2:18 .

My body is exhausted from a day of packing, but my mind is acting like it mainlined espresso right before bedtime. I stare at the ceiling, the pathetic light hanging above me. Since I arrived, I've had a highlight reel from our relationship playing in my head, and it refuses to turn off. If anything, it's only gotten louder.

I've been doing my best to keep my distance from Data, to act cordially so we can be on good terms. But it's hard. Really hard. Harder than that time I tried to be a vegetarian, which lasted all of six hours.

God, holding him close as he talked about his mom and those fakakta pens, I almost broke. I almost kissed him and refused to let him go. My attempts to resist our sexual chemistry have been, shall we say, lackluster.

Yes, I want to put my hands and tongue everywhere on his body, but I also want to laugh with him, share inside jokes with him, sit in comfortable silence with him, and relish in the feeling of him taking up space with me. I want to tell him that he is the most wonderful, thoughtful son a mother could have. I want to talk to him about how my financial sitch is a mess because he would know what to do. I want to tell him how scared I am that it's never going to happen for me with comedy, and that I've thrown away a family business for nothing. I want to talk to him about how fucking scared I am about taking care of my dad. I want him to hold me in his arms and tell me everything will be okay—my flailing career, my bank account, my dad, and my life. That I haven't completely fucked it all up. That I am the man he still believes in. That there's still hope.

I sit up. No use going through the motions of sleep when it's not happening.

I turn to the clock again and its bright numbers.

2:21.

Why does my spiraling take up so little time?

I throw the covers off and walk to the door. That's another thing. I'm not used to sleeping with a closed bedroom door. My lungs prefer proper air circulation.

I creep into the hallway, only a few steps away from the kitchen. Immediately, I'm hit by the temperature change. It's a good five degrees colder out here. I tiptoe as best I can, making sure to step on the rug, not the creaky floorboards. Strips of moonlight slash between the trees and through the windows, providing enough glow for me to find the cabinet with the snacks. I take out a bag of Fritos ever so slowly. With the snacks in hand I let out a soft sigh. Fritos have never let me down.

I peek past the kitchen counter into the living room.

Data's up.

Well, he looks asleep, and most people would assume he's asleep. People who don't know him inside and out. He's smushed his body into a ball on the loveseat, legs tucked into his stomach with his eyes squeezed shut. Cat-like. Yet after sleeping next to the man for almost a decade, I can tell he's actually awake.

"Hey," I say when I sit on the arm of the loveseat. Data's eyes spring open and I turn the bag of chips to him. "Frito?" I ask, doing my best to roll the R.

He groans, but winds up taking a chip. "I was sleeping," he says.

"No you weren't." Data reaches in for another chip and I pull the bag back playfully before relenting. "You hate sleeping in the fetal position. You need space to stretch."

"I can manage."

"Your ass was falling off the couch."

"Must you always notice my ass?" he asks.

"It's very noticeable."

Data takes another chip.

"Why don't you just take a handful?" I ask.

"So half of them can fall in my lap like yours?" he shoots back .

I prefer scooping out a handful of chips and resting them on my stomach, whereas Data picks out and eats one chip at a time.

"You're not comfortable here," I tell him. "Why don't you share the bed with me?"

"We are not sharing a bed," he says adamantly, a flash of panic behind his eyes. "I will be fine here." He taps the loveseat, perhaps a little too forcefully.

"You've never been able to sleep on it. And it's cold out here."

"It's a little drafty, but I'm all right."

"You're going to get sick." I stand up defiant. I should've pushed for this before we went to sleep. I feel bad that he's tossed and turned on a too small couch in a drafty living room. "You're sharing the bed with me."

"Marsh, I'm f?—"

"Nope. You will not use the word fine. The only f-word I'll allow to be uttered is Frito Lay." I hold up the bag. "Maker of these chips."

Data falls back on the loveseat and whips the blanket back over himself. I forgot how damn stubborn he can be.

I stand over him, crossing my arms. "You're not sleeping out here. I may lack upper arm strength, but I will find a way to carry you into the bedroom if I have to."

"Marsh … "

I hold up my hands, the chip bag rustling between my fingers. "I promise only sleeping will occur. I will keep my hands to myself. If I spring a boner, you have permission to chop it off."

Data huffs out a breath through his nostrils. Is it weird I find it cute? I don't look at other people and swoon when their nostrils flare.

The struggle hiding behind his eyes is real. I know this will be awkward, but it doesn't have to be. We need rest. He can't sleep in the cold.

I can make it through one night of sharing a bed. Hell, I once went six hours without meat. This will be a cakewalk compared to that.

"Okay." He collects his blanket into a ball and shoves his pillow under his arm. He winces and hisses as he maneuvers himself off the loveseat. Almost fortysomething bodies aren't made to crash on couches.

I extend a hand, which he swats away.

"I don't need help."

"Okay, Grandpa."

Data grabs my hand. I pull back to lift. And maybe my upper arm strength is better than I thought because he launches off the loveseat and lands smack against my chest, our faces and lips perilously close.

He licks his lips, whether from the salty chips, the dry air, or something else entirely.

"Thanks." He steps back and heads into the bedroom before I can reply.

I promised him no boners, and I'm going to do my damndest to keep that promise. Glancing at my crotch I say, "Behave."

I thought sleeping in bed without Data was hell. Nope. Not even close. It was hell adjacent. It was Florida.

The real hell is sleeping in a bed with Data and not being able to lay a finger on him. My heated, human weighted blanket is purposefully out of reach. He's asleep, his back moving up and down in gentle rhythm. I turn away from him and face my alarm clock.

3:04 .

I can do this. I've fallen asleep pretty much every single night of my life. I can do it again. No biggie. Pretend that Data is a pile of clean laundry that I was too lazy to fold.

I shut my eyes and take deep breaths, avoiding the tightness in my chest. The peaceful lull of sleep begins to drag me under, but like a wave retreating back to the ocean, it's gone just as fast.

Shit.

I flip around to my other side wondering if that'll do the trick. When I do, I find Data staring at me in a cold, unblinking gaze, almost making me wonder if he's sleeping with his eyes open.

I study him for a moment, trying to gauge where in his REM cycle he might be, when he grabs me by the shirt and pulls me to him. His mouth covers mine, fills me with his hot Frito breath. As his lips meet mine, he groans, his primal grunts of lust filling the air, his fist clenching my shirt tightly.

I don't dare speak. Following his lead, I take everything he's giving. I grab his love handles and pull him flush against me, feeling his erection press into my thigh. Fluttering overtakes my chest and travels down to my stomach, landing in my groin where it sends a jolt of blood to my dick.

Data reaches down my pajama pants and wraps his fingers around my cock like it's a set of car keys he'd been searching for.

"God," I moan against his lips, wondering how I made it six months—fuck, try six minutes—without the feel of his hot skin.

I wait for him to be the one to pull back, to say something, to comment about what's going on, to slam on the brakes, but he's silent. Only our huffs and moans and smacking lips fill the empty air.

I run my fingers through his hair, thick strands mussed up from bed. The pads of my thumbs prickle over his beard, that beard I could set up permanent residence in. Our tongues slide over each other as I pull his face closer to mine.

My greedy fingers travel down his chest, pinch at his nipples, bump over the lumps of torso and through the grainy hairs. I savor every inch of him. The weight of him on me. The indulgence and more ness of his body, that it's all for me in this moment.

He strokes me faster. I hump up to meet his fist. His hand is dry and it's a little rough, but I ain't complaining. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close, smashing us together.

Data wrests from my grip just as fast. He sits up on his knees. I meet his gaze, and that same fixed stare is on me, as if he's forcing himself to stay in the zone and keep this as "just sex" as he can. He is a man on a mission, and there will be no detours.

He pushes down his pajama pants and underwear and scoots closer to my head. His cock is slick with precum and engorged, bobbing from the quick movement.

"Suck," Data commands, his jaw tight.

I only have to sit up a bit to meet his dick. My throat practically throws it a damn homecoming parade. I lap up its salty taste. My tongue slips around the head and slinks down the shaft. I take him all the way down, my head bumping into his furry stomach each time he fills me up.

He says nothing, only unleashes unabashedly loud grunts that echo with as much pain as pleasure. His fingers dig into the back of my head as he pushes me down on him, his bulbous cockhead filling my throat like a cork. I moan against him, wanting all of this.

I stroke him as fast as I suck, my hand-mouth coordination so in sync you could set the atomic clock to it. I'm determined for this blow job to live on in his memory. When he's ninety and surrounded by his twenty grandkids, he'll remember he once dated a failed comic with a mouth of gold. I have my faults, but giving mediocre head is not one of them. My neck aches from the odd angle, but I power through.

Data lifts his cock and presents his balls, all for the taking. I swirl a tongue around one, let his musky scent swarm my nostrils. My face is fucking full of him, but still it's not enough. It'll never be enough because I know it's only temporary. I clamp a hand on his thick thigh, fluttering my fingers over his hair.

"Fuck. You taste so good. Want your cum," I sputter out, my lungs claiming each new gasp of air as a victory.

"Not yet," he says, his voice deep. "Lift your legs."

The take off your underwear part was implied. My cock throbs even harder at the instruction. Data pulls back, giving me space to feverishly tear off the clothing rudely covering up my manliest bits. I hurl my boxers into the corner of the room. Fuck you, boxers!

I throw my legs in the air and hold them, the draft from outside suddenly hitting me. My hole is exposed, and I'm desperately counting down the seconds until it's fucked full of Data. He pulls the lube from the bedside table and slicks himself up. Moonlight slashes through the window, cloaking him in a milky glow. His eyes flick to me with a heavy-lidded stare drunk with lust—and only lust.

"Yes," I moan out when he leans down. He hasn't even made contact with my ass, and I'm already giddy and begging like a dog at the dinner table.

And then the scruff of his beard hits my most sensitive area. Data knows how this makes me squirm in all the best ways. He rubs it up and down my taint in a slow, controlled rhythm, eliciting an unending current of electricity up my spine. It's coarse and dirty and manly in a way I can't describe. If I was able to grow facial hair like him, I'd totally reciprocate .

"God, Data. Don't stop. Please don't stop." Only I'm lying because I want him to stop so he can fuck me into Canada.

His tongue makes contact with my hole, circling the rim, sliding up my crack, sending a new rush of feeling to flood my nervous system. He pulls back and spits on it, presses a thumb inside me to open me up. He slips his digit in and out a few times, more for practical purposes than foreplay. Data can be very attentive when he wants to be, but there is a momentum happening between us that neither of us want to slow. Sometimes sex is making love, and sometimes it's fucking. This is fucking.

He coats my opening with lube. I pull my legs closer to my stomach, dizzy with anticipation. It's like I've moved up in line and am next to ride the roller coaster.

He kneels over me, his big, beefy chest heaving for air. I meet his eyes. Behind the lust and mission-focus, there's warmth hiding way in the back. He's so beautiful I can't stand it.

"Data, I … "

He pushes his fingers against my lips. "Don't. Don't say it, Marsh. Don't say it." His voice is trying so damn hard to be firm, but it wobbles at the end, and it comes out as part-command and part-plea. "This is break-up sex part two. Closing the loop once and for all."

And with that, he presses inside me with ravenous thrusts that are painful for both of us. He grabs my legs and slams into me, his cock plunging in all the way. I arch my back to take him even deeper. Sweat drips down his chest. I love the way his gut hangs out and proudly takes up space as he fucks me. I love the sounds of our skin making contact. I love knowing he's inside me, filling me up.

My raging hard cock flaps against my stomach as he plows into me. Data gives it a stroke, hurtling me to the edge. My stamina withers in the face of his lust .

"Give it to me," I beg.

I try to meet his eyes, but he's looking down, watching himself rail me.

"I'm going to come," I cry out, my body tensing.

And then suddenly he pulls out. "No," he says, almost in a growl.

He pushes my legs down, and before I can make sense of what's going on, he's slicking my cock up with lube and straddling me. His big torso hangs in my face. He reaches behind himself and gets his ass prepped. My head spins as my cock tingles with need.

Data glares at me, his forehead wrinkled with determination as he impales himself on my cock. He bounces up and down, his beefy chest and commanding stomach right in my face and unbearably hot. There's both too much and not enough of him. I soon realize that my job is to lay there. I am a mechanical bull being taken for a ride, a human dildo fulfilling its owner's needs. He is going to fuck the orgasm out of both of us.

"Yes," he whines each time he falls back onto my dick.

I get him to meet my eyes. He stares back, his face strangled with heat and emotion, refusing to let me in. Our bodies are as close as could be, and yet he's never felt so far away.

His ass tightens around my cock as he shoots his load, cum splattering my stomach. His body loosens up in real time, as if he discovered a newfound peace with break-up sex part two.

"Come for me, Marsh," he says, his raspy voice cutting through the quiet.

The sound of my name on his lips is enough to keep me in the game. It's a thread that keeps us tethered just long enough for me to empty inside him.

He dismounts me and stands up, refusing to spend a second in post-coital bliss. He walks to the bathroom door and turns back. He begins nodding a few seconds before he speaks. "We needed to do that. The break-up sex gods are appeased."

And then he's gone, leaving me alone in the dark, wondering how the hell I'm ever going to get to sleep.