Nate never asks. They have sex everywhere—in the shower, slip sliding, Brad dumping half the items on the counter on the floor as he reaches out the shower door in the quest for lube; on the floor after Nate’s come back from a run, sweat leaving an outline of their bodies on the hardwood; across the desk in Nate’s room, Brad pinning his wrists to the surface.
He learns that when Nate thumbs Brad’s pulse he’s imagining Brad naked, and when Nate fiddles with the hem of his shirt so that Brad’s eyes are inevitably drawn to Nate's dick, he wants Brad to suck him off. But he never asks to top. And Brad doesn’t know what that means. Sometimes he feels, in the moments before coming, Nate straining on his dick, flush extending down to his sternum, darkening his nipples, that he would like to know what it’s like.Nate’s expression is a revelation.
He must want it--to top, who wouldn’t want that tight heat clenching around his dick, pushed in so deep he feels at the center of everything Nate is. But he doesn’t ask and Brad starts wondering if he fucked this up, if they missed some important step, and now Nate feels like he can’t ask because Brad’s been straight until now and still doesn’t know what he’d call himself if somebody asked for his sexuality point blank.
At the end of NY fashion week Brad is going a bit out of his mind. He hasn’t seen Nate much. Brad has to keep ducking Calvin Klein's people who want him for some pornographic spread with Eva Mendes. Nate’s been invited to about 2 billion afterparties and openings and private get-togethers because everybody actually wants to suck his dick and listen to him talk about world politics while they do it. Nate walked for Elie Tahari and Brad did Dior Homme with Stafford, and they all got to laugh at Ray in his crazy hairdo for Lanvin. Pretty much every time he sees Nate it comes up in his head. And when they get back to their little apartment in NoLiTa after the whole thing is over, scrubbed down and subdued, he just out and says it.
He sets his keys down with a heavy clunk and asks, “Do you want to fuck me?”
Nate’s standing in front of the open fridge in soft ratty La Coste sweater he’s had for as long Brad’s known him, gulping down a Moroccan Mint Honest Tea. He turns towards Brad, shutting the door with an absent hand. The corners of his eyes crinkle with a grin and he sets down the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure.” He leans back against the kitchen counter mischievously. “Right here?”
Brad blows out a breath. “I..no, I thought you would…uh…” He can’t say this without completely ruining the atmosphere.
But Nate gets it. He steps into Brad’s space. “Ah, you want me to fuck you.”
“Is that okay?”
Nate brushes his lips over Brad’s jaw and says, “Yeah, that’s okay.”
He’s slow about it. He gets Brad laid out on his bed, kisses him slow and sweet as he slides the first two fingers inside. Brad makes a sound in the back of his throat, pushes down into the mattress. The sensation is unpleasant, and the unease of that knowledge settles in tight over him. Nate slows down, presses his thumb just under Brad’s balls. He tips Brad’s chin back further, hand at his throat, and fucks into Brad’s mouth with his tongue.
Nate doesn’t use any of the platitudes guys have for virgins and girls who are unsure--that Brad has used himself. He doesn’t say anything. He just smoothes a palm down Brad’s side, tightens his fingers around Brad’s hip, so that Brad remembers there’s more to his body than the uncomfortable stretch in his ass. His dick spurts out pre-come when Nate scissors his fingers and tongues at Brad’s nipple. Brad slides his fingers over Nate’s scalp, not wanting to stop that tenuous grasp he has on good. Nate's hands are brusque and efficient, but his mouth tells a different story. He uses it to tease Brad and keep him in the moment.
When Nate finally slides his cock in, Brad has to hold himself very still. As Nate sinks, inch by burning inch he's not sure what told him this was a good plan. And then Nate hits Brad’s prostate on the first stroke and pauses. Brad chokes, head bobbing drunkenly on his neck, stretched wide round Nate’s dick, and Nate drops a kiss in the hollow of his throat.
“Was saving that,” he says simply, flush running down his body.
Brad doesn’t like mysterious emo bitches. The new bartender in his favorite dive hums along to The Cure on the jukebox, has to push bangs out of his eyes, and gets kind of weird about the shit that’s happening on the TV. He's totally a mysterious emo bitch. Brad misses CJ, the old bartender who used to talk about his days working in a porn shop, like the time he got help up at gun point for porn tapes. The new guy’s taciturn at best. He’ll answer a direct question and chat for a bit if pushed, but there seems to be nothing to him. At least not other than the fact that he’s clearly depressed.
But then a careless patron shoves his glass off the bar, and the new guy catches it, hand shooting out in that dangerous moment they were all expecting it to crash to the floor in a shower of alcohol and glass. He sets it back on the bar top, only a little vodka and tonic dripping out over the side. Brad has never seen reflexes like that.
He knows the guy’s not military, but when Brad watches him now, he looks with new eyes. He can tell he’s had some kind of freaky training. The next time Brad comes in with a couple of guys he watches the new guy process every one of them, filing them away like he’ll need the data later. He wields a knife like an iron chef and has clearly picked up a book a time or two. He’s a puzzle.
Brad plops down on a barstool in front of him one evening while the new guy’s polishing glasses and says cheerily, “Where’d you do your undergrad?”
“Stanford,” the new guy says and then looks up, startled.
Brad grins, orders a Glenfiddich on the rocks, and slides over a twenty as he takes a long sip. He leaves without waiting for change.
The next pieces of information he picks up are that out of all the shots people buy the new guy, he only likes tequila; he has a tattoo just under his shirt collar, when Led Zeppelin comes on the jukebox it makes him sad, and that Stanford education lent him some authority about James Joyce and Derrida. He’s like the emo lit major version of the LT.
When Brad leaves, heading back through the alleyway to get to his bike, he finds the new guy leaning up against the brick wall, arms crossed. “You need to stop trying to figure me out.”
Brad cocks his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a smirk. “You want tell me what it is you’re hiding?”
“Well, too bad about that then.” Brad turns to walk out of the alley, but finds his way barred by the new guy.
“I’m serious,” the new guy says, eyes narrowed.
“I’ll bet you are, princess,” Brad replies, “but you want to get out of my way.”
The new guy laughs and doesn’t back down. He dodges the helmet Brad swings at him, and steps under Brad’s raised arm, into his guard, thrusting him back against the wall with a palm over his sternum. Brad gasps, the wind knocked out of him. They’re of a height. Brad might even be an inch taller, but somehow the new guy has the ability to loom like he’s a foot taller. Like how the LT could tower over guys when he was pissed off.
Brad kisses him--the first person he hasn’t paid for in years. He thinks he does it more to disarm the new guy than anything else. The new guy tolerates it for exactly a second before violently pulling away, large hand over his mouth.
“Is that why you…uh…were you interested…I don’t…” the new guy stutters out, staring at him.
Brad looks him over. “Yeah, you do.” The new guy looks somewhat betrayed. He stares at the fingers he touched to his mouth. Brad waits a moment and then says, “You going to come with me if I ask?”
New guy shakes his head. “It’s not me you want.”
Brad shrugs and looks up at the sky stained blackish red by light pollution. “Ain’t that the way.” He turns to go for his bike and can’t help a smile when he hears footsteps following behind him.
Ray sets him up with a match.com account for April Fools. According to his profile, his name is Brigita, he lives in Malibu, he enjoys margaritas *with* sALt, NCAA basketball players, and the AwEsOmE 80s band The Outfield. The picture shows an undeniably hot woman lounging in a white sundress in a hammock. Brad figures when he opens his e-mail on April 1st at 9:15 AM and finds 62 responses, that Ray found it in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
That is until he gets a very angry e-mail from firstname.lastname@example.org titled “WTF?” Brad picks up the phone and punches in Ray’s number. It rings a few times and then Ray picks up with a jubilant, “Hey!” clearly assured that he got Brad better than Brad got him.
“Where did you get that picture, Ray?”
“The internet, dude! That chick is hot! I wanna spread her over waffles.”
“Ray,” Brad says, keeping his temper in check, “did you steal it off somebody’s facebook?”
Ray coughs and doesn’t reply. Brad growls. “I just got an e-mail addressed ‘Dear Unstable and Delusional Person’ by an N. Fick complaining about how I used his sister’s picture to misrepresent myself as ‘a horny morally bankrupt barfly’s wet dream.’”
Ray cracks up. “Yeah, yeah, morally bankrupt, my ass. He’s obviously on the site.”
“According to the e-mail he was ‘shocked’ to discover his roommate e-mailing his sister on a dating site ‘obviously intended for sexual incompetents who couldn’t comprehend how easy it is to fabricate an entirely specious life history on the internet.’”
“Okay, so, maybe he’s not on the site.”
“Ray, I just had to explain to a little ivy league bitch that I’m actually a 25-year-old male getting my doctorate at Caltech who was pranked by his own former college roommate.”
“If you wanted him to believe you, I might’ve left that Caltech bit out.”
“You are such a toolbox,” Brad replies. “But that’s okay, I just deleted your facebook account. Good luck re-friending those 1,213 contacts.”
“What?” He hears Ray clatter around on the other end of the line, probably running to his laptop. “NO! BRAD! WHY? NOT MY FACEBOOK!”
Brad laughs long and hard. He hangs up still chuckling. An e-mail pops up in his inbox.
I hope you will forgive me for my somewhat enraged electronic rant. Mea culpa. I noticed that you took the profile down. Thank you. I will inform my sister to place tighter control over her facebook pictures.
I appreciate it,
PS. Caltech? Awesome! What are you studying?
Ferrando sent Walt to give Brad the latest lab report and to remind him to fill out the paperwork leftover from his little undercover op. Walt can’t find him anywhere. He ends up wandering around the station, report in hand looking lost. He knows Brad’s here, because his bike’s still in the lot and he didn’t sign out a patrol car, but he's made himself completely invisible. Walt finally throws up his hands and heads for the record room. It’s a long shot, because Brad is criminally allergic to the records room and always makes Ray go search for stuff for him, but it’s the last place left.
Walt doesn’t like going down to the records room because it aggravates his dust allergy. He sneezes once just from the thought. However, Godfather's red enraged face is worse than a date with Flo-nase, so he heads down the stairs to the basement. The light in the records room is on, he can see it through the old frosted glass-pained doors. Walt hears a strange noise behind the doors when he gets close and he peers around slowly, wondering if Brad’s crying or something. He blinks at what he sees.
Brad’s got Agent Fick backed up against a filing cabinet, one leg hitched over his hip. Agent Fick’s perfect double-windsor hangs loose and his head lolls on his neck as Brad licks a line over his Adam’s apple and slowly grinds their hips together. A low moan twists out of Agent Fick’s mouth and Brad pulls back to say with a laugh in his voice, “Shh, shh, I had to spend four hours convincing you to do this, I’m not letting us get caught.” He nips at Agent Fick’s ear.
Agent Fick’s cheeks are bright red and shining like tears have been running down his cheeks. “Putting…an aphrodisiac in my coffee cup doesn’t…count as convincing,” Agent Fick replies, hands scrabbling over the metal cabinet behind him. Walt sneezes again and despite his best attempts to smother it, he can tell Agent Fick hears it. He turns his head, eyes focusing like it takes effort. Walt freezes, caught, but Brad does something between their bodies and Agent Fick’s head thunks back hard, metal clang filling the room.
Walt uses that moment to bolt. He gets back to the lab and dumps the report back in the wire basket. He’ll get it to Brad later. He wonders if he should go to Peggy and have her page Brad over the intercom, but he figures Brad is already going to kill him.
“You okay, Walt?” Ray asks him, covered in fructose yet again. “You look a little flushed.”
Walt gulps, flashing back to Brad’s deft hands on the rounded swell of Agent Fick’s ass and how he ground against him like he didn’t have time for finesse. He looks over at Ray, who’s staring at him concerned, and imagines spending the rest of their shift closeted in the lab with him while those images run through his head.
Walt coughs. “I uh…need a personal day!” He scoops up his stuff, zips up his jacket, and leaves, Ray still staring puzzled.
The day after Jensen makes an ass of himself at Lady Treadle’s tea party, in front of her pig-tailed daughter and half the society mamas, including the mother of the girl he’s courting, Jared shows up ostensibly to cheer him up. He’s on a brand new bicycle in a brand new cream morning suit, cap perched jauntily on his head—it makes his already darkening complexion look golden brown. The sun beats down hard for May and his collar is already loosened.
He calls from the street, “Come on, Ackles, it’s a beautiful day, you can’t hide your face forever!”
“It’s hardly been a day!” he replies, standing reluctantly at the door. He doesn’t want to see anybody right now.
Jared shakes his head. “Come try my new bicycle, lunkhead. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”
Jensen sighs, already knowing he's not going away. If he ignores him Tibbs will just let him in the house and then Jensen's mama will be on him for ignoring guests. He takes his time—getting a cold pork sandwich, pretending that his tweed coat and hat aren’t hanging in Tibbs' arms, secreting a book in his pocket if Jared gets distracted and dumps him off. When he heads back outside, Jared’s leaning the bicycle up against his hip and half-smiling at him. “Thought I’d leave, did you?”
“One can only hope,” Jensen replies darkly, eying the contraption. He’s never been on a bicycle. He’s always found it silly. His own two feet do perfectly well for him, but if Jared hasn’t gotten tired and left him already, he’s not going to. He sighs and goes down the stairs.
Apparently what Jared means by ‘trying it’ is Jensen wobbling back and forth while Jared walks along side him and hangs onto the back. Jensen pedals, but his feet keep slipping off and everybody is staring at them. They barely get down the street before he’s had enough. “Ugh, I feel my dignity has been done a sufficient blow. You can take me back now.”
“You didn’t really ride it,” Jared replies, stopping.
Jensen is suddenly aware of his strong hand at the back of his seat and how close they are. Jared smells like bergamot and sandalwood and if Jensen turns his head, his nose will brush right across Jared’s throat. Jensen drops his eyes and tightens his lips, hoping he isn’t blushing. “I don’t need to ride it. There are books to read, things to take care of.”
Jared’s eyes turn warm with a smile and he ducks in closer. “You mean moping.”
“Oh shut up,” Jensen says, swinging his leg off the other side. He mostly manages to tumble off, Jared smiling behind his hand the entire time.
Jared shakes his head, amused, and takes his place on the seat. He stares at Jensen like he’s waiting for something. Jensen blinks back, until Jared makes a disgusted noise. “Come on! Get up on the handle bars.”
Jensen stares at him. “You must be joking.”
Jared shakes his head and gestures at the handlebars with one long-fingered hand. “It’s brilliant, Jenny boy, trust me,” he says. Jensen grumbles, clambering up on the handlebars with a long-suffering sigh while Jared holds the bicycle steady. Jensen’s trouser-leg catches on a wheel and gets a horrible grease stain.
“Well?” he says when he’s fully situated.
“Hold on,” Jared chuckles behind him and starts pedaling. Jensen is so surprised he grabs back at the handlebars with both hands. Jared’s hands are already there and Jensen should move his own, but he holds on, grip tight over Jared’s knuckles as they take off down the street.
It is brilliant. He feels like he’s flying over the pavement. He flexes his hands around Jared’s and Jared laughs.
“I said you would like it!” he says triumphantly and pedals faster. They sail past vendors, fruit sellers, and young people strolling down the street. Jared cycles into the park and Jensen laughs helplessly. They ride past a group of young ladies who turn to stare at them. Jensen kicks up his legs, rocking back against Jared behind him. “Stop that, I can’t see,” Jared chastises affectionately.
He pedals towards a willow tree, riding right onto the lawn. “Jared,” Jensen protests, but Jared pushes right on through the branches. Leaves whip past them and Jensen has to raise an arm to bat them out of his face. Finally they stop, safely ensconced inside the umbrella of the willow. Jared puts a foot down, balancing the bike.
“What? What is it?” Jensen asks, turning his head to look over his shoulder. Jared’s lips lift in one corner and he leans in and kisses Jensen. It’s barely a brush across Jensen’s mouth, but at the small sound Jensen makes, he does it again, tongue flicking at the bow of Jensen’s lower lip.
Jared pulls back, eyes lowered. His cheeks are dusted pink. He says, “Don’t worry, I’m sure Danneel’s mama won’t care that you dumped tea all over Lady Treadle when you tripped over her skirts.”
Jensen shrugs, raising his fingertips to his mouth. “I don’t care about Danneel.”
“All right,” Jared says softly, “where to next?”
Brad’s bike breaks down on the 273rd day after the event according to the calendar Nate stenciled onto the wall of a shed. There’s nothing Dean can do for it without spare parts. Brad just nods and walks off into the scrubby hills surrounding their improvised compound. His shoulders are a deliberately relaxed line that tells Nate just how upset he is.
Dean sighs and looks at his baby, the gleaming Chevy Impala that has come through hellfire and damnation looking like the day it was first driven off the lot. It’s a guilty look. He tucks a dirty red rag into his back pocket, and wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. A grease stain is left behind.
“Tell him I’m sorry,” Dean says, already turning towards the ramshackle cabin he shares with Sam.
“He knows,” Nate replies softly.
Before they came across the Winchester brothers and their little ragtag band of misfits, they were losing a person every day. Since then they haven’t had a single casualty. Nate knows that Brad figures the bike is worth it, even if he would never have had to ride it so far so hard if it weren’t for Sam’s missions. Realizing that is not the same as blithely accepting though. He blows out a breath, looks at the orange sky, and doesn’t know what to do next.
“You should go after him,” Sam says, suddenly behind him in that mysterious way he has.
Nate doesn’t jump, like most of the ragged remains of Bravo platoon, he’s gotten used to it. They all find amusement in the fact that it still freaks Ray out when Sam turns up out of thin air.
“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” Nate replies, turning to look at Sam.
Sam shrugs. “It’s what you want, it’s what he needs. Sometimes being there to let someone rage at you…” Sam shrugs and trails off, eyes going distant, reminding Nate that there is a lot of history to Sam and Dean and Castiel and Chuck that none of them know.
Nate bites at his lip and then nods. “Okay.”
He follows the direction Brad went, boots scuffing over dry dirt. It takes him awhile to find him. Brad has always been better at locating him than the other way around. Brad lies spread-eagled in a ditch, staring up at the sky. Nate slides down the side to sit next to him. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know where to start.
Brad turns to look at him. “What up?” he says, like it’s the old days and they’re just shooting the shit.
Nate rolls his shoulders. “We can…maybe find the parts to put it back together,” he offers weakly.
“It’s okay,” Brad replies, lip tilting sardonically at one corner. He still looks beautiful amid the broken detritus of their former lives.
Nate struggles to say something that’ll sum up the entire situation and make it better, but he’s never been good at this sort of thing, just stumbling by on earnestness and candor. “I just know it was the only thing you had left.”
Brad’s chin lifts. “Is that what you think?” He reaches up with dusty fingers to trace a line down the side of Nate’s face. Nate’s eyelids flutter and Brad’s fervid gaze makes him flush. Brad thumbs across his cracked and chapped lower lip. “It’s not what I think,” Brad says slowly and leans up to kiss him.
When Bruce finds Alex standing in the Batcave, staring at the Batsuit, his first thoughts are that he’s not felt such complete and utter despair in a long time. He’s been keeping this secret for so long and so well, his anger comes more from shock than anything else. He knew better than to take Alex back the manor after he saved him from the thugs, and yet some perverse instinct had lead him astray.
“Nice car,” Alex says simply and Bruce shakes his head. He can’t kill him, but he doesn’t trust him.
“You’re angry,” Alex says.
Bruce snorts. “Oh yes.”
Alex lounges back on the hood of the tumbler, long legs spread apart in obscene invitation. He looks like a very expensive slut. He eyes Bruce, face expressionless and tells him, “I’ve jerked off thinking about you.”
“I’m currently wondering how I’m going to dispose of you and you think that’s appropriate?” Bruce asks, incredulous.
Alex grins, resting back on his elbows. “Good time to be honest, I thought.” He’s wearing one of Bruce’s cashmere sweaters and it hangs loose in the shoulders, but ends several inches above his waistband, showcasing a tanned strip of skin. Bruce flexes his hands and breathes deep. He wants to punch something. Preferably Alex. In the head.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“No,” Bruce replies shortly. He yanks Alex by his knee, dragging him down the Tumbler until he’s flush between Alex’s thighs. “You cannot.” He bends down, placing his palm down hard on the car next to Alex’s head. Alex turns his head to look at it, eyes expressionless. Bruce guides his chin back with a forceful hand. Alex stares up at him unblinking and he bends to bite at Alex’s lower lip wanting to yank a reaction out of him. Alex jerks against him and Bruce notes that he didn’t break the skin. He soothes the abused flesh with a swipe of his tongue, reveling as Alex’s forever-grinning lips swell.
“I knew you liked me,” Alex breathes when Bruce pulls up, never losing his dignity even as Bruce tugs his head back to expose his throat.
“I knew you liked it rough,” Bruce shoots back, reaching between them to tear Alex’s zipper apart. He jams his hand inside, fisting Alex’s hardened cock and chuckling as Alex’s mouth opens on a soundless moan.
Alex’s swan neck, the muscle that runs up into his jaw, has been taunting Bruce and he nips it, feels his throat work as he sucks dark bruises into Alex’s skin. Alex moans, hand fisted tight in Bruce’s hair. “When was the last time you got laid?” he asks, voice roughened. When Bruce tightens a knuckle under the head of his dick, he clamps his legs tight around Bruce’s hips.
Bruce doesn’t answer. He covers Alex’s mouth with another kiss to shut him up and continues to work him with his hand. Alex likes it when Bruce presses his thumb into the slit. He likes it when Bruce sucks on his tongue before biting at him again. When Bruce pulls back to stare down at him, he curses, hips bucking up into Bruce’s grip. Alex shudders when he comes, one arm over his eyes as his mouth opens and closes. Bruce watches the entire thing, fascinated, mouth still wet from Alex’s spit.
When it’s over, the last aftershocks still making Alex tremble, Bruce extricates himself, wipes his hand off with a spare rag. When he looks back at Alex, he’s zipping himself up. Bruce swallows, as far as countermoves go, messing around with Alex on top of the Tumbler is pretty weak. Alex smirks at him, fingers at his buttons. “Should I not bother? I could go again.”
“Jesus, be quiet,” Bruce says, irritated by his lack of options.
Alex comes up behind him and runs his lips in a line just behind Bruce’s ear. “I won’t tell anyone if you let me fuck you.”
“And then what?” Bruce asks, leaning into the touch.
He hears Alex’s grin in his words. “We can play cops and robbers.”
Sam doesn’t know how he got from the emergency room to a cute little first floor apartment in Burbank. He doesn’t know how he ends up on a California king bed, naked, pressed back against the hard and still completely clothed body of Dr. Woodcomb or Call-me-Devon. He’s out of his mind with exhaustion, two of his fingers are probably broken, and Dean’s still in the hospital. He breathes shallowly, mostly confused.
The other Dr. Woodcomb or Call-me-Ellie gets up on the bed, sliding between his legs. She brushes her long curtain of chestnut hair out of her face and grins at him cheekily. Sam shuts his eyes, feels guilt settle in to his stomach.
“Shh, let us take care of you,” Ellie says, hair trailing over the inside of his thigh.
Devon strokes down Sam’s chest, past the ripples of his abs, to wrap tight around his dick. “Nice, how much do you lift?” Devon asks, thumb pushing hard just under Sam’s balls. Sam looks down his body, staring at his own muscles straining in sharp relief. Ellie smiles again and ducks her head to suck the tip of his dick into her mouth.
“I…don’t…” Sam tries to say as her tongue curls around the crown and then pushes against the slit.
“You don’t…lift,” Devon says in his ear, voice softly incredulous. He scrapes his teeth over Sam’s jugular and then bites down. “I don’t believe you,” he says against Sam’s throat. Ellie closes her hand around Devon’s, stroking his fist up and down Sam’s dick while she sucks hard at the head.
“Is she doing the tongue thing?” Devon asks, amused. He doesn’t let Sam answer. “That thing always gets me.”
Ellie looks up past Sam’s shoulder to meet Devon’s eyes and then sinks her mouth down to meet their clasped fists. Sam makes a helpless noise, dick hitting the back of her throat. He tries desperately not to move.
Devon turns his head, stroking a thumb over his adam’s apple and meets his mouth with a crushing kiss. Devon’s lips taste like chapstick. He's so achingly normal, even as he and his pretty wife sit here debauching Sam.
Devon kisses Sam like it could make him forget the last twenty-four hours of his life, large palm cupped over Sam’s chin. When Sam moans, Devon smiles against his mouth and traces a finger down the shell of his ear and nips again at Sam's lower lip. Ellie’s still stroking his dick, but it’s turned into lazy uneven pulls. Sam figures she must be watching them intently. He shudders in Devon’s arms and doesn’t know why that turns him on so much.
Devon pulls back slowly. He says something to Ellie that Sam doesn’t catch, but then Ellie’s pulling off her shirt and pants, and Devon’s sliding a condom on Sam’s dick, while Sam breathes harshly through his nose. Ellie meets his eyes as she straddles his hips, checking to make sure he’s okay. Sam nods and she slides down on his dick, one hand braced on his shoulder. She takes her time, flush spreading over her chest, and Sam has to struggle not to come right there. Ellie starts bobbing experimentally. She ducks her head to her chest and moans as he shifts and scrapes over her g-spot.
He can feel Devon’s erection against the small of his back, but Devon makes no move to do anything about it. He brushes a loving hand over Ellie’s thigh and keeps another one pressed to Sam’s chest, holding Sam back against him. Ellie’s started up a smooth rhythm and she rolls the nipple of one breast between her fingers, taking her own pleasure. Sam still feels drunk and out of control, he doesn’t even realize he’s crying, until Devon whispers softly into his ear and turns his head for another kiss.
He keeps it lazy and slow. It might be the sweetest kiss Sam’s had in a while, Devon’s tongue sliding in and out of his mouth, their lips catching together. Ellie comes first, contracting around his dick and trembling. She holds herself up with a palm in the center of Sam’s chest, pressing hard into his sternum. She continues to move languorously, up and down until Sam comes, groaning into Devon’s mouth.
“God,” Ellie says in a low voice, pulling off him. She rolls up the condom and ties the end off, pitching it at the wastebasket. Sam’s skin feels tight and too sensitized. His head rolls on Devon’s shoulder, and Ellie leans in and kisses him with a sweet flicker of tongue. “Thank you,” she says.
Stark’s bio anthro professor is a total fox. He wears about fifty layers that he doesn’t need, in colors that don’t match, and the effect is often horrible. So maybe nobody else knows that he’s a fox, but Stark does. He’s always chewing on the end of a pencil and looking up over the edges of his coke bottles in this way that Stark feels in his heartbeat. If Professor Skarsgard weren’t teaching bio anthro, Stark never would’ve taken it. He’d finished up all of his science requirements ages ago, he’s graduating in four months, he’s got lacrosse practice every day of the week, and duties to Kappa Alpha Epsilon, but Stark needed a challenge.
He tells Hugh about it in the KAE kitchen one morning over breakfast. “He’s Swedish and like 6’4 and wears these really terrible clothes, but sometimes, just sometimes, you’ll catch a moment of him, and you know, underneath all that crap, he’s totally effing gorgeous.”
Hugh eyes him blearily over his coffee and says, “You are so gay.”
“Yes, thank you,” Stark replies straddling the back of a chair, fresh from his morning run. “I just have to figure out what my hook’s going to be.”
“Suck his dick? I heard from an annoying little freshman that you’re good at that. Which, I thought we agreed no more pledges!”
Stark laughs. “You agreed, I never said anything.”
“Ugh, get out of my sight, you cad,” Hugh bites out and rests his head on the table. Stark decides right then to go for it at the next lecture.
“Excuse me Professor, I wanted to talk to you some more about the metabolic load hypothesis,” he says after class while Professor Skarsgard is zipping his laptop into its case. “Are you free for office hours or should I make an appointment?”
“Sands, right?” Professor Skarsgard asks, waiting for his nod before continuing. “I have office hours tomorrow from 2 to 5. Can you make that?”
He shows up at four on the dot and listens to Professor Skarsgard talk about lactational amenorrhea for five minutes before interrupting him. “Yeah, because of luteotropic hormone, I know all that. I did the reading.”
Professor Skarsgard leans back in his chair. “So what seems to be the problem?”
Stark blows out a breath, shoots Professor Skarsgard an up and down look, and then gets to his feet and walks around the desk. It’s crazy, but he’s just going to go for it. If Professor Skarsgard tells him to fuck off, he’ll just say he read the signals wrong. Which you know, not a total lie, since there’re no signals at all.
Professor Skarsgard watches him, bemused, as he steps closer. When he’s standing beside the professor's chair he bends down to gently pull the horrible glasses off. Professor Skarsgard doesn’t stop him. He blinks up at Stark and Stark sets the glasses down on his desk. He sweeps their mouths together, almost surprised when Professor Skarsgard kisses back. It’s a desperate press of lips, teeth clashing and tongues sliding together. Heat rushes through him and Stark knows definitively this really was one of his better ideas. Professor Skarsgard tugs him into his lap and Stark moans and sucks the professor’s tongue into his mouth. The low throaty sounds that Professor Skarsgard makes drive him a little crazy. Professor Skarsgard runs a hand down his back and then tugs, cupping Stark’s ass, so that he’s sitting directly on Professor Skarsgard’s dick.
When he pulls back Professor Skarsgard is smirking at him.
“You think I didn’t know?” he says, brow raised. “What with you sprawling in the back of the room, looking at me the way you were.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Stark breathes, their noses are only inches apart and he can feel Professor Skarsgard breathing like it was his own pair of lungs.
“Drop my class,” Professor Skarsgard replies and kisses him again.
They make out like that on the chair, Stark sprawled across his lap for what seems like hours. His mouth feels blood-hot and swollen and it tingles. He thinks he’s never going to get enough air. Stark finally works his hands between their bodies and starts shoving the many layers out of the way until he’s bared skin. He breaks the kiss to look down at his handiwork.
“Jesus, Professor Skarsgard, why do you hide this?” Stark asks, running a hand down Professor Skarsgard’s tan skin. The muscles in his abs flutter under his fingertips. Stark shakes his head. “God, that is such an awful sweater.”
Professor Skarsgard laughs and kisses Stark’s throat, nipping and sucking until Stark is practically writhing on his lap. “Call me Alex,” he says when Stark is starting to think he could come from that touch alone and tugs Stark’s zipper down.
Stark arrives fifteen minutes late to practice with two hickeys on his neck and an afterglow from the best handjob of his life. He’s going to have wet dreams about Alex’s hand wrapped around his dick for the rest of his life. His coach shakes his head. “What poor freshman did you fell this time?”
Stark shrugs and stretches, shirt riding up, enjoying the way one of their new recruits has to look pointedly away. “Eh, sorry, I had to turn in some forms to drop a class.”
Coach snorts. “Give me six laps around the track for being late and two more for being a little shit.”
Stark grins and sets off. “Love you, coach.” At seven tonight he’s going to meet Alex at The Anchor Bar and then they’re going to go back to his place. Alex told him to be prepared to be fucked up against the wall, on Alex’s kitchen table, in the shower, and maybe if he was good, in his bed. With that promise looming over him, he doesn’t care how many laps coach makes him run.
After the most hellish day at work Brad thinks he’s ever had, he goes to Nate’s place. Nate isn’t expecting him and he answers the door in a pair of ratty jeans and a heathered FBI t-shirt, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He takes one look at Brad’s face and tugs him through the open door. Brad sets his helmet down on the keystand and then collapses on Nate’s couch. It’s just big enough so that his legs don’t hang over the edge. There are papers and files all over the coffee table, and a half-drunk glass of red wine sits on the corner.
“Just trying to get my taxes together,” Nate says softly and presses a cold bottle of Amstel into his hand. He sits down on the sliver of cushion left next to Brad’s hip and doesn’t ask him to talk about it. Brad takes a swallow of beer and sighs in relief. He feels like the knot in his stomach has loosened a little and he runs a hand down Nate’s thigh in silent thank you. Nate nods and pulls his glasses off, squinching his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“So what’d you do on your day off?” Brad asks.
“Slept late, made pancakes, taxes, you know.”
“Mm,” Brad says and sets the beer bottle down on the coffee table. He leans up and kisses Nate, focusing on the sweet curve of Nate’s lower lip rather than all the bad stuff running through his head. Nate tastes like expensive Zinfandel and Brad smiles inwardly at the image of Nate uncorking a good bottle to sit down and do his taxes.
Nate pulls back and runs a thumb down Brad’s jaw. His irises are dark, swallowed by pupil, and Brad feels in his gut that Nate represents everything that’s good in his life. It’s a bit frightening. But Nate puts it out of Brad’s mind with a soft look. He shifts to straddle Brad, knees tight around his hips.
His smile is closed-mouthed, Brad’s hint that he’s up to something, and then he’s bending to brush his lips over the shell of Brad’s ear. He blows softly and says, “Want to come to bed?”
Brad closes his eyes, takes a minute to just enjoy Nate’s touch, his smell, the way his weight feels right on top of Brad’s awakening erection. “Yeah.”
Brad’s spent the night before, rubbed off on Nate on top of his six-hundred thread count sheets, kissed him until his mouth was sore and swollen, jerked Nate off and imagined sliding his dick between Nate’s lips. Something about this feels different. Nate gets up off of him and drains the last of his wine. He shoots Brad a come-hither look over his shoulder and disappears into the bedroom. Brad follows at a more sedate pace, shrugging off his shirt and stepping out of his jeans. He’s careful to fold them over his arm because Nate will freak out if he leaves them in a pile on the floor.
Nate’s pulled the covers down and piled up all the pillows when Brad gets to the bed. He pushes Brad back onto the sheets and nips at his mouth before Brad tugs Nate down on top of him. Nate cards his fingers through Brad’s short hair and then pulls, directing Brad’s mouth where he wants it. Heat coils in Brad’s stomach, spreading outwards so that he feels it everywhere. Nate strokes over Brad’s lower lip with his tongue and then slides it over the roof of Brad’s mouth. Brad moans and shifts instinctively so that their dicks are lined up. He feels warm and comfortable and being turned on seems minor compared to just touching Nate.
“Why are you still wearing clothes?” he breathes and pushes Nate’s shirt up his spine, fingertips dragging in the groove so that Nate arches, catlike. Nate pulls his clothes off between kisses. He drags Brad’s boxers down his thighs to get to his dick. Brad thinks for a second with Nate’s head bent over his dick, about asking him to suck it, but then Nate slides up his body to lick over his collarbone and into the hollow of his throat and he forgets all about it.
Nate makes these soft breathy noises when he’s turned on, like he’s savoring it, and he’s making them now as his inflamed red lips close over Brad’s left nipple. Brad’s hips lift and Nate chuckles softly. His eyelashes flutter, brushing over the skin of Brad’s shoulder.
“Do you want to fuck me?” he says into Brad’s skin.
“Always,” Brad replies. It comes out like a moan.
“Now?” Nate presses, rubbing circles over Brad’s shoulder.
“I...haven’t…I mean…do you…are you…uh.” Brad draws in a deep breath. “Yes.”
Nate smiles, flush spreading across his nose and cheeks, and reaches for the top drawer of the nightstand. He drops a condom on Brad’s chest and then starts tossing the contents of the drawer; he finally pulls out an obviously new tube of KY and waggles his eyebrows.
“You’re such a dork,” Brad says easily.
Nate winks and then raises up on his knees. He squirts lube on two fingers and then takes a deep breath before reaching behind. Nate’s face furrows in concentration, teeth sunk deep in his lip. A shadow passes over his face and he says, “I can’t…I’m not sure…”
Brad pushes up onto his elbows and says, “Let me,” which is how he ends up kissing a heavily breathing Nate, two fingers shoved past tight muscle into even tighter heat. Nate sounds like he’s run a race; he grips tight at Brad’s bicep and thrusts back against his hand. When Brad slides the third finger inside, Nate makes a sound that Brad will appreciate forever. There’s a fine sheen of sweat all over his body and Brad reaches up to taste it at his collarbone.
“Okay…okay,” Nate says, voice carefully measured, “I think probably now.”
Brad smiles against the thin skin of Nate’s throat and carefully pulls his fingers free. He finds the forgotten condom and carefully rolls it on while Nate watches, blinking distractedly. He positions himself at Nate’s entrance and Nate slowly thrusts down until his ass is flush against Brad’s pelvis. He’s ruddy and glowing all over, eyes squeezed tightly shut and Brad can do nothing but stare. Nate starts a slow pace, rolling his hips, breath catching in his throat. Brad trembles, trying hard not to come.
He reaches for Nate’s neglected cock only to have Nate push his hand away. “I got you tonight,” he says and presses a kiss to Brad’s forehead and speeds up. Brad can’t quite take it, the sight is almost more than the sensation—his dick disappearing into Nate’s body, Nate’s stomach muscles fluttering from exertion. All Brad can do is be thankful for being so lucky.
Nate’s hard, precome beading at the tip. Brad marvels, watching in undisguised wonder as Nate thrusts through the loose circle of his own fingers and then back down on Brad’s dick. He seems tighter and hotter with every stroke. More force and sensation travels down his spine, pooling there until it’s too much. Brad shudders and comes with a hiccupping gasp, fingers so tight on Nate’s thighs the flesh is white beneath his grip.
Nate slows, raising himself up and down lazily, breathing deep as the last aftershocks pass through Brad. He strokes himself faster, dick red and leaking. Brad swallows, unsure of when watching another man toss one off became so hot. He’s going to think about this now every time he looks at Nate’s hands. Brad finds Nate’s other hand and twines their fingers together, thumb brushing over Nate’s knuckles. Nate comes with a sound of surprise, Brad softening inside him.
“Oh god,” he says and tilts forward, uses his grip on Brad’s hand to catch himself. Brad rotates so that Nate’s lying beside him. He doesn’t say any of the things he wants to, like “You’re amazing,” or “God, I’m falling in love with you,” or “when you’re not there, you’re all I think about.” He doesn’t know how Nate will react to such displays of emotion, so he settles with drawing Nate close, and tucking his chin into the hollow of Nate’s shoulder.
Nate makes a low amused sound and says, “I think we did pretty good at that.”
“Yeah?” Brad replies, eyes closed.
Nate chuckles. “Mm, I think we can do it again.”
Brad snorts. “Oh good,” he says, nuzzling Nate’s throat. “Think you can give me a few moments?”