Primal Levity
Under the relentless drum of Manchester rain, Finn huddled at the train station’s edge, collar up against the wind slicing through his wool coat. The platforms echoed with distant clatters, the air thick with diesel fumes and wet concrete. He’d only been in this gray sprawl of a city for three days, chasing some half-baked dream of gallery shows for his abstract oils—swirls of color that captured the wild chaos inside him. But tonight, homesick gnaw hit hard, Galway’s salty gales a ghost on his tongue.
A shadow loomed, broad shoulders blocking the downpour. “Rough night for strays,” the voice rumbled, low and gravel-rough like engine gravel. Finn glanced up at Rocco—a beast of a man, olive-skinned, black curls plastered under a beanie, biceps straining his soaked flannel. Welder’s hands, scarred and thick, offered a cigarette. “Light?”
Finn took it, their fingers brushing—electric, that first primal jolt, skin to skin in the storm. They smoked in silence at first, breaths mingling with vapor, then words tumbled. Rocco lived blocks away, griping about shitty shifts at the yard, how the city’s pulse felt alive but feral. “You got that look, lad. Fresh meat?” Rocco grinned, teeth flashing white.
“Irish import,” Finn shot back, accent thick. “Finn. And yeah, meat’s fresh.” Laughter cracked the tension, easy, raw. By the time the rain eased to spit, Rocco’s flat was too far; Finn’s rented loft perched right off the station tracks. “Crash the storm out?” Finn asked, heart thumping with that undercurrent pull.
Rocco’s eyes darkened, primal hunger flickering. “Lead on.”
Jump to Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
Chapter 1: Rain-Soaked Ignition 🔥
They dashed two blocks, puddles splashing calves, laughter barking over the roar. Finn’s keys slipped twice in the lock, slick fingers betraying nerves—or excitement. The door swung wide to his loft: high ceilings, exposed brick still smelling of fresh paint from his unpacking chaos. Canvas stacks leaned against walls, turpentine bite sharp in the air. A single bulb cast golden pools on scuffed wood floors.
“Cozy den,” Rocco growled, peeling off his drenched shirt without preamble. Water trailed down his chest, carving paths over ridges of muscle, dark nipples hardening in the chill. Tattoos snaked his arms—dragons coiling like they wanted to burst free. Finn swallowed, throat dry despite the damp. Rocco’s scent hit: sweat, metal, clean male musk. Primal. Undeniable.
“Beer? Or something stronger?” Finn rummaged the mini-fridge, buying time as his pulse hammered. He poured whiskeys neat, ice clinking like tiny bells. Handing one over, their gazes locked—Rocco’s black eyes devouring, Finn’s green ones widening.
“To new cities,” Rocco toasted, clinking glasses. Whiskey burned smooth down Finn’s gullet, warmth spreading low. They talked shop: Rocco’s torch scars from molten steel, Finn’s brushes dancing fever dreams onto canvas. But subtext simmered. Rocco’s knee nudged Finn’s on the sagging couch, casual at first, then deliberate pressure.
“Fucking rain’s got me primal tonight,” Rocco murmured, voice husky. His hand landed on Finn’s thigh, squeezing through denim—firm, claiming. Finn’s cock twitched, heat flooding his groin. No hesitation now; he leaned in, lips crashing. Rocco tasted of smoke and spice, tongue invading rough, teeth nipping lower lip till copper bloomed.
Shirts flew—Finn’s lean runner’s build against Rocco’s tank. Fingers explored: Rocco’s calluses scraping Finn’s pale freckled skin, eliciting shivers. “Soft as fuck for an artist,” Rocco rumbled, pinching a nipple hard enough to draw a gasp. Finn’s hands roamed Rocco’s back, nails digging into sweat-slick valleys, primal scratches marking territory.
Chapter 2: The Bell’s Whisper
They broke for air, panting. Finn’s eyes darted to the side table, where his heirloom gleamed: a tarnished silver bell, small as a child’s toy, etched with Celtic knots. Grandpa’s gift on his 21st, smuggled from Galway’s old cliffs. “What’s that?” Rocco nodded at it, thumb circling Finn’s navel teasingly.
“Family secret.” Finn smirked, pulse racing. Vulnerability clawed—show too soon, freak the brute out? But Rocco’s grin egged him. “Ring it. Humor me.”
Finn snatched it, thumb flicking the clapper. A pure chime pierced the loft, vibrating through bones like a lover’s hum. Warmth bloomed in his chest; gravity loosened. Slowly, he rose—boots lifting off planks, arms out for balance. Rocco’s jaw slackened, whiskey forgotten as Finn hovered a foot up, grinning like a devil.
“Holy shit.” Rocco stood, craning neck, hand shooting out to touch Finn’s floating jeans. “Magic prick?” Awe laced his laugh, no fear—just raw intrigue. He yanked Finn down by the belt, crashing mouths again. The kiss devolved, feral: Rocco’s beard rasping Finn’s jaw, saliva strings snapping as tongues warred.
“Your turn,” Finn breathed, bell in grip. He rang once more, tugging Rocco’s hand. Rocco’s bulk lifted—reluctant at first, then smooth ascent. Those massive arms wrapped Finn mid-air, crushing bodies. Weightless grind: crotches bucking, zippers straining. The chime’s echo lingered, a sensual afterglow humming in their veins.
Finn’s mind reeled—first time sharing this curse-gift. Rocco’s weight felt anchorless, primal power surging between them. They spun lazy in the air, lips fused, hands roaming free—no floor to tether fury.
Descent came slow as Finn pocketed the bell. Rocco’s feet hit wood with a thud, eyes blazing. “Fucking levitate me balls-deep later.” Promise hung thick, cocks throbbing visibly now.
Chapter 3: Grounded Frenzy
Clothes shed in frenzy. Rocco shoved Finn against brick wall, cool grit biting spine. Jeans yanked to ankles, boxers tented obscenely. Rocco dropped to knees—beast kneeling worshipful. His nose buried in Finn’s ginger bush, inhaling deep. “Smell like sea salt and sin, Irish.”
Tongue lashed out: broad swipe up Finn’s sac, swirling heavy balls salty with sweat. Finn groaned, fingers twisting Rocco’s curls. Rocco’s mouth engulfed—hot vacuum sucking Finn’s seven inches, throat relaxing for girth. Gags wet and glorious, saliva drooling chin. Finn thrust shallow, fucking that face, primal rut overtaking manners.
“Choke on it,” Finn hissed, hips snapping. Rocco hummed approval, vibration shooting lightning to toes. Fingers pried Finn’s cheeks, probing puckered ring. One thick digit breached, knuckle-deep crook hitting prostate. Finn bucked, pre-cum flooding Rocco’s maw.
Switch: Finn shoved Rocco onto couch, ass up. Rocco’s hole winked—dark, fur-ringed, musky invitation. Finn dove in, tongue spearing, rimming sloppy. Tart tang exploded on tastebuds, Rocco’s growls muffled in cushions. “Eat that shithole, boy.” Finn added fingers, scissoring, stretching that vice.
Rocco reared, flipping Finn prone. Lubed spit-slick, Rocco’s blunt cockhead nudged—nine inches, vein-ridged monster. Breach burned exquisite, Finn’s ring yielding to invasion. Rocco bottomed out, balls slapping taint. “Tight as virgin cunt.” Pounds brutal, loft shaking, sweat flying. Finn clawed couch, moans fracturing to whimpers.
Edge neared; Rocco pulled, flipping Finn. Face-fuck resumed, ass juices glazing shaft—ass-to-mouth raw. Finn savored his own tang, gagging voluntary for thrill.
Chapter 4: Primal Aerial Assault 💋
“Bell. Now.” Rocco commanded, eyes feral. Finn complied, chime singing. Up they soared—naked, slick bodies entwined. Loft shrank below, rain pattering windows like applause. Rocco pinned Finn to air, invisible ceiling their limit. Legs hooked shoulders, Rocco plunged renewed—weightless slams deeper, balls smacking untouched.
Finn’s world spun: vertigo ecstasy, Rocco’s grunts echoing endless. “Feel that primal lift? Pound you to stars.” Rocco’s words dissolved to snarls, hips machine-pistoning. Finn’s cock bobbed free, leaking ropes onto Rocco’s abs.
New hunger stirred. Rocco descended partial, bell clutched tight. Fingers—three, greased ass-sweat—circled Finn’s wrecked hole. “Gonna fist that greedy pit.” Finn nodded frantic, primal need overriding reason. Rocco’s paw twisted in slow, wrist-thick stretch ballooning walls. Knuckle grind on prostate: fireworks. Finn howled, vision blurring, cock untouched spurting first load across chest.
Rocco punched deeper, arm biceps flexing forearm-deep. “Milk my arm like cock.” Finn clenched rhythmic, waves crashing. Rocco withdrew slick, fisting his own hole now—self-plunge demo, eyes rolling back. “Watch me wreck myself.”
They tumbled air-bound, 69 forming. Rocco’s tongue invaded Finn’s gaping crater while Finn nursed that ebony shaft, throat bulging. Cum tastes mingled pre, bell’s hum amplifying moans to symphony.
Balcony detour: door cracked, night air chilled sweat. Floating over railing, city lights blurring, Rocco impaled Finn reverse-cowboy aerial. Risk heightened thrill—drop edge teasing. “Fall for me,” Finn begged, grinding down.
Chapter 5: Fisting the Void 🔥
Back inside, heights peaked. Rocco splayed on floor, legs wide. Finn hovered above, bell ensuring float. Lubed to excess—spit, pre, ass cream—Finn’s hand dove. Rocco’s ring devoured, forearm vanishing slick. “Deeper, Irish witch. Punch my guts.” Rocco’s cock wept, untouched, as Finn twisted wrist internal.
Prostate massage turned Rocco rabid: hips bucked air, free-floated cock slapping belly. Finn added bell-rings, levitating Rocco’s entire frame mid-fist. Sensations layered—stretch burn, weightless drift, Finn’s knuckles dragging walls velvet-friction.
Climax built tectonic. Rocco roared, ass spasming vise on arm. Cum fountain arced, painting ceiling. Finn yanked free, plunging cock in sloppy seconds—riding waves of Rocco’s orgasm, walls milking relentless.
Finn’s turn redux: Rocco reciprocated, double-fisting tease with cock buried parallel. Taboo stretch pushed limits, pain-pleasure blur. Finn shattered second peak, seed flooding Rocco’s depths hot.
Collapse: bell silenced, bodies tangled rug. Trembles aftershocks, breaths ragged sync. Rocco’s lips brushed Finn’s temple, tender counterpoint brutality. “That primal shit… wrecked me good.”
Finn traced a weld scar on Rocco’s pec, vulnerability surfacing. “Galway whispers never prepped for Manchester beasts.”
Chapter 6: Dawn’s Lingering Chime
Morning light filtered grimy panes, tracks rumbling distant trains. They stirred slow, sheets tangled absent—naked heap on floor, limbs interwoven. Coffee brewed acrid-hot, mugs steaming as they sat cross-legged, recounting night’s blur. Rocco’s laugh boomed: “Floating fist-fuck? Better than any bender.”
Finn eyed the bell, innocuous now twinkling on table. “Grandpa’s folly. Levitates desires too primal to ground.” He rang soft—no lift, just chime warming cores. Rocco pulled him close, kiss lingering soft, tongues lazy dance.
New scene unfolded: shower steam. Water cascaded, soaping bodies reverent. Rocco knelt again, soaping Finn’s cock to steel, sucking languid under spray. Finn fingered Rocco playful, suds easing digits. No rush—aftercare glow, building fresh tension.
Rocco’s hand stilled on Finn’s hip. “Stay tonight? Loft’s mine now.” Hesitation flickered—Finn’s artist nomad itch versus this anchor’s pull. Primal connection sealed it: “Aye. Manchester’s got magic.”
Afternoon drift: Finn sketched Rocco napping, bell beside. Pencil captured muscled sprawl, eyes tracing curves remembered intimate. Rocco woke, peering over. “Paint me levitating next?” Grin wicked.
Evening promised more: bell chime prelude to round three. Rain cleared, city hummed alive. Finn felt rooted—stranger’s touch unearthed something ancient, feral in his blood. Rocco’s arm slung shoulder, guiding to kitchen for pasta steam-garlic haze. Fingers intertwined casual, futures unspoken but etched.
They fucked kitchen counter—bent over sink, Rocco railing domestic. Plates rattled symphony to slaps, moans over sizzle. Climax synced: Rocco flooding Finn’s heat, Finn stroking spill onto tiles.
Chapter 7: Eternal Float 💋
Weeks blurred. Gallery nibble on Finn’s work; Rocco’s shifts eased with Finn’s packed lunches. Bell wove rituals: mid-air mornings blowjobs, floating fucks balcony stars under. Primal bond deepened—arguments raw, makeups savage.
One night, storm raged anew. Bell rang, loft defying gravity. Rocco cradled Finn aerial, slow thrusts emotional. “Love this witchy shit. Love you.” Words hung weightless, truth heavy.
Finn clenched, tears mixing sweat. “Primal from the rain, eh?” Laughter choked, orgasms sealing vow.
Galway called faint now; Manchester’s pulse thrummed theirs. Bell chimed final story night—levitating lovers, tangled eternal in desire’s sky.
The end came quiet: bodies spent, earthbound embrace. But whimsy lingered—gravity optional in their primal aerie.
