–

Tommy wiggles his fingers to feel how much the stiff leather doesn’t give. “This is pretty fucking cool.”

Tugging the second glove into place, Adam presses a kiss to his shoulder before straightening up. They’re custom-made, covering Tommy’s arms up to about an inch below his armpits. Dozens and dozens of clinking metal rings track the full length of each one. No way is Adam going to lace him up all the way the first time out, but the possibility is there. “And you look really, really good in them.”

Flexing his hands again, Tommy grins. He’s on his knees on the bedroom floor, Adam in front of him, a thick quilt folded up beneath him to cushion the beating his knees are about to get. The gloves are the only thing he’s wearing. With Adam fully dressed all the way down to the kick-ass wedge boots, looming above him, Tommy already feels small and vulnerable in the best possible fucking way. After the first few times he went off before they were both ready, Adam’s been more careful about using his size like this. Tonight, it’s totally the point.

“Let me see again how close you can get them,” Adam says, his hand soft on Tommy’s jaw urging him to bend forward.

Spreading his knees further apart for balance, Tommy tucks his arms behind his back, metal hoops chiming. They’ve been practicing for this. Not with the gloves, but with him on his knees while Adam fucks him, dragging his arms back and pinning them. It goes against what Tommy would’ve figured, but Adam says he’s looser, more relaxed, when he’s got a dick up his ass. Getting his elbows touching on his own is easy.

“Beautiful,” Adam says, stroking his cheek. Tommy nuzzles into his palm, happily. He’s as addicted to being touched by Adam as Adam is to touching him. There weren’t many boundaries between them before the start of all this, and now it’s hard to think of even one. Tommy always thought they could tell one another anything. By the time that became true, they could do anything, too.

The really kinky shit, though, that’s usually all Tommy’s idea. Adam sees sequinned zebra-print pants and has to try them on, Tommy sees hardcore bondage porn and has to try it out. Whatever. It works.

The tips of Adam’s fingers trail up to touch the liner dark around Tommy’s eyes. Tommy went all out with feminine soft tonight. His hair’s falling all around his face, tousled and spike-free, his lips are quiet pink, his cheeks lightly blushed. The makeup’s more for him than Adam. It feels good, stark against the harsh black leather on his arms, the way his cock’s already curved up hard and thick. Big money says Adam likes it, though.

“One day I would love to crawl inside your head,” Adam says, smiling. The plain black cord for the binder is snaked around his arm, dangling lazily from his wrist. “Find out exactly what you’re thinking when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Could always ask.”

Quietly, the touch on Tommy’s face sliding down to become a hand pressed to his throat, Adam asks, “What’re you thinking, Tommy Joe?”

“I love your dick,” Tommy says, no hesitation at all. “I really fucking love your dick, and I want you to let me suck it, let me try to cram it straight down my throat.”

Adam huffs a startled laugh. He should totally be used to shit like that flying out of Tommy’s mouth by now. Somehow, he isn’t. “I so asked for that.”

“You totally did,” Tommy says, and leans harder into Adam’s hold. His shoulders are starting to ache from the effort of keeping his arms back by himself. “Gonna lace me up, give me what I want?”

Adam says, “Yeah,” voice thick. He uncoils the cord, lets it whisper through his fingers, drape against Tommy’s upper back. “Bend over for me, baby.”

A shiver skittering down Tommy’s spine, he rests a hand on Adam’s thigh, settles between the spread of Adam’s legs with his shoulders butted right up against them. Once he’s sure he’s got his balance, he tucks his arms behind his back again, lifting them as much as he can for Adam to start lacing the cord through the hoops.

They could’ve done this first, had it ready. The cord’s long enough. But every time Adam drags it through a loop, it’s a slithering kiss on his ass, trailing up his back, and that is so fucking totally worth the effort of keeping still, his head bowed between Adam’s legs. Adam’s boots smell sharply of leather and mink oil, and he breathes in deep, even.

“That’s it, baby,” Adam says, running a hand down his arm, up again. Tommy lets his shoulders relax, heart kicking when the binding holds. They’re not tight yet, not even close, but he doesn’t have to work to keep his arms back anymore. “Good?”

“So good.” Unlacing his fingers, Tommy flexes his hands, listens to leather creak. The sound travels down his spine straight into his balls. “Jesus, this is crazy. I’m like really fucking hard. I might lose it before you get your dick in my mouth.”

Adam laughs, bedroom-sexy and delighted. “Let me worry about how close you are. Gonna tighten it now.”

Tommy’s okay comes in him locking his fingers back together.

There’s hardly any pressure at first. Nothing compared to when Adam’s pinning him, anyway. It comes in slow, creeping stages, gentle tugs that bring his arms closer together bit by bit until he can feel the muscles bunched up tight between his shoulder blades, the ache of it spreading out and down into his chest. When that teasing, floaty feeling starts rising up, he makes the mistake of grabbing at it. He groans miserably as it slips away slick as an eel.

“Don’t work for it,” Adam reminds him, digging blunt nails briefly through the cords into Tommy’s back. That’s another one of those things Adam says Tommy responds to wonderfully that he has his doubts about. But maybe Pavlov wasn’t totally cracked, because the second the pain spikes, he quits reaching for what he wants, lets Adam bring it to him. The soft, affectionate praise Adam murmurs in its wake doesn’t hurt, either. He is such a sucker for Adam’s voice.

By the time Adam nudges him back up on his knees, the ache in his arms has turned into a low-grade burn. For a long, long minute, Adam doesn’t do anything else, just watches Tommy’s face as the burn flares hotter, drowns under an endorphin flood and begins to build again, smouldering under skin. It’s that rhythm, waves of bite and release, that finally start to drag Tommy down.

The loud snick of Adam unzipping brings Tommy’s gaze dragging up. He doesn’t try to focus. Trusting in Adam’s hand on his jaw to guide him, he opens his mouth, his chest rising slow and easy as Adam’s cockhead slides over his tongue. Ignoring the urge to lick up all the thick taste of Adam’s precome, he opens up wider, invites Adam to do whatever he wants, tease them both with it, keep fucking against Tommy’s tongue like that, anything, as long as he doesn’t stop.

When Adam’s fingers dig into his aching shoulder, he groans, ends up sucking eagerly anyway. Adam lets him get away with it, too. He takes Adam’s cock as deep as he can manage without his hands to help guide it, brushfire heat breaking out all along his skin as it bumps the back of his throat, sticks there. His cock jerks, a sticky string of precome snapping and slapping back against his belly, hot wet cling. Seconds count off in his head in sluggish heartbeats. Right before Adam moves, Tommy knows he’s going to, but he’s expecting to be hauled off Adam’s dick, not driven down further on it. As Adam’s cock wedges into his throat, the urge to choke rises up fast, dies off even faster.

He can’t breathe. He can’t actually fucking breathe, can’t get away with his arms bound, with Adam’s grip twisted tight in his hair, and oh fuck, he’s gonna come.

“Not yet,” Adam hisses. He does choke then, fighting the need to cough until Adam’s dick is pressed wet and hot against his cheek. Fingers take its place, hooking over his teeth to keep mouth open as he struggles to breathe. When his tongue grazes the pads, it’s like he can feel every dip, every whorl of Adam’s fingerprints. He sucks the salt from Adam’s skin, nuzzles his face against the rough, scratchy weave of Adam’s pants. The scent of leather rises up again and he sinks down, knees spread as wide as they’ll go, to lick at Adam’s boots. Seams rough against his tongue, he wonders what the hell made him want to do that, why the sharp bite of oil in his mouth isn’t disgusting, why he can’t stop, not even when Adam tells him to.

“Oh, god, baby,” Adam says, “stay there for me. Don’t move. Please don’t move.”

Swallowing a breath as Adam moves away, Tommy realises the soft scratch against his forehead is carpet fibres. He groans, miserable at the loss of Adam’s heat, and again, shockingly honest, when the dull thud of Adam hitting the floor behind him registers. Two seconds delayed, he feels Adam’s hands on his bare ass, fingers pushing slick into the crack, up inside him. It doesn’t even seem real. It hurts and then it doesn’t and then it does again, endless feedback loop. He wants Adam to touch his dick. He wants Adam to stay far, far away from it, because the second Adam’s hand is on it, he’s going to come so hard. So fucking hard he can already taste it.

Hot through thick leather, Adam’s hand curls into his. He can’t ride Adam’s fingers like this, no leverage, his body not listening to him when he tries to make it move, but Adam’s fucking him anyway, sweet and slow and amazing. He holds onto Adam’s hand as hard as he can, pressing the shape of Adam’s fingers, knuckle and bone and flesh, into his palms. The taste ofAdam’s cock is still thick in his mouth, the feel of it, so hard and soft all at once, branded into the burn of his throat.

“Please,” he hears his own voice rasp, though it doesn’t feel like him talking at all, “please, I want it. Adam. Please.”

Through the haze in his head, he catches Adam telling him it’s okay. But it’s not. It’s fucking not okay. He wants Adam’s cock in his mouth, Adam’s come on his face, and he’s not getting it, and he fucking wants. Adam tells him easy, breathe, but how the fuck is he supposed to do that when Adam’s not fucking listening to him.

There’s a loud scuff of leather on carpet, Adam’s boots sliding past Tommy’s face, and Adam saying, “Baby, baby, c’mon,” as he stretches out on his side, curled around Tommy’s body, his leg beneath Tommy’s head to give him something to rest on so he can catch his balance. Tommy strains for Adam’s cock, catching the head between his lips and sucking the whole thing hard into his mouth. The sharp hiss of air between Adam’s teeth makes him fight to take more, struggle for it, scalp tingling from Adam’s grip holding him off. He whines and sucks harder, as hard as he fucking can, and gets a rough knot of three fingers in him up to the last knuckle instead of more dick down his throat. Sensation peaks, shining sparking incredible, so much he can’t tell one thing from the other anymore, doesn’t even try. It’s forever and no time at all before Adam drives in hard, stills and floods Tommy’s mouth full. Sometimes swallowing is a bitch and sometimes, like now, Tommy does it without thinking, not even a drop leaking free even though when he pictured this moment in his head, he had Adam’s come all over his face.

“Got you,” Adam says, smoothing back his hair, “just breathe, I’ve got you,” Adam’s heartbeat suddenly loud beneath his ear, a firm, steady rhythm for him to match. He thinks he maybe whimpers as the cord binding his arms releases, not sure if it’s disappointment or not. The manic buzz of deadened nerves coming back to life isn’t much of a relief, and he tries to squirm away as Adam massages his shoulders, his arms, making it so much worse.

One of Adam’s arms locks tight around his back. “Don’t fight me, Tommy Joe.”

Tommy sucks in air. It didn’t hurt before. Now it’s fucking killing him.

Adam keeps saying breathe slow, it’ll pass, and for a few tortured minutes, Tommy doesn’t actually believe him. Then the horrible buzzing starts to ease bit by bit, mellowing out enough for him to feel the ache of muscles used, abused, beneath it. Blinking his eyes open, he finds himself staring straight at the slant of Adam’s collarbone.

“There you are,” Adam says when he glances up. “Don’t worry about moving yet.”

Closing his eyes again, Tommy burrows sluggishly closer. He’s mostly on top of Adam, the quilt that had been on the floor draped over them both. Moving is a hell of a lot of effort. Talking’s almost as much. “How long was I under?”

“Half an hour since you came,” Adam says, combing his fingers through the hair at Tommy’s nape. “You still look like you’re pretty far in.”

“Feels it.” Oh hell, does it feel like it. Grounded so firmly, floating so far. There are times Tommy wishes he could bottle this feeling to save for later, take tiny, tiny sips when he needs it most. Usually when he does, Adam’s right here. But sometimes, life happens.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Adam promises. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not the whole weekend. I’m all yours, baby, as long as you need me.”

“Good,” Tommy says, already planning on taking a nap right here, shored up by Adam inside and out. In a few minutes, Adam’s going to haul him into bed to get a proper night’s sleep while he can. Despite him being perfectly willing to, Adam’s never let him crash for long on the floor. “Keep that schedule clear,” he mumbles. “Gonna need you a long time yet.”

–

End

–

Sam sets a six-pack of the local light lager on the counter next to Dean’s flask of cheap rye whiskey. He spares the sour middle-aged woman ringing them up a small smile and goes for his wallet. Which he finds out isn’t in his jacket pocket, or any pocket, because Dean fed it to the black dog back in Colorado that’d been trying to take a chunk out of Sam’s thigh.

On a deep sigh, Sam says, “Dean.”

Flipping intently through a magazine on the far side of the counter, Dean says, “Hm?”

“Could you get this?”

Dean grunts softly, his eyebrows coming together as he turns another page.

“Dean. Money.”

The woman’s gargoyle-nails tap out a quick rhythm on the plastic case full of scratch n’ win lottery tickets.

Plastering on a tight smile, Sam jerks Dean’s wallet out of his back pocket. He catches a glimpse of the glossy pages his brother’s staring at and rolls his eyes. “Seriously. Like you don’t get enough.”

“No such thing, Sammy,” Dean says, tossing the cashier a casual wink.

She doesn’t look impressed, but she takes the crumpled, smoke-stained twenty Sam hands over and slaps his miniscule change on the plastic.

“Thanks,” Sam says, carefully tugging the brown bag out of her reach. “Have a nice evening.”

Distractedly, Dean scoops up the coins one-handed and tucks them in his jeans pocket. “Don’t mind him,” he says, barely glancing up from the two-page spread he’s got folded over that doesn’t leave a damn thing to the imagination. “He’s got this thing about paper cuts.”

With a merry tinkling of the bell, Sam lets the door swing shut in Dean’s face.

Sam steals the rest of the pillows from the other bed before flopping down next to him, the greasy pizza box open between their hips. “D’you have all the beer?”

Dean jerks his gaze away from the magazine he’d tossed at the foot of the bed. The cover is bright and garish, a woman with a red-painted mouth offering up a set of fairly high-end fake tits. Sam wonders if she tried to write them off as a business expense.

Belatedly, Dean says, “Yeah, sorry,” and slaps a cold one into Sam’s outstretched hand. “What’s with you and the local shit?” He slumps lower on the bed, one foot slipping to the floor as his legs sprawl wide. There’s no mistaking the heavy bulge of his dick.

“Dunno.” Cracking the top on the edge of the scarred nightstand, Sam helps himself to a healthy swig. It’s not so bad, just a little too much on the woody side for his taste. “What’s with you and the porn?”

The two spots of colour high on Dean’s cheeks deepen but his smile stays steady. The lamplight catches on the tiny bit of grease smeared at the corner of his lips. “Paper pussy’s the only kind I’m gettin’ these days.”

Sam takes another longer pull on the bottle. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was playing games, but that’s just not the way they do this. It’s one of the things Sam was so startled to find turned him on. There’s something to be said for Dean being perpetually horny and up-front about it.

“Are you trying to tell me you’d like to go pick up a girl for a threesome?”

After a two-second delay, Dean’s laugh echoes sharp and happy. “Knew you were a kinky son of a bitch.”

Absently picking at the label with one blunt nail, Sam says, “Well, are you?”

“Why, you honestly up for it?”

Sam gives that a moment’s serious thought. The idea’s pretty hot, and it’s not like he’s afraid of the damage some random girl could do (wasn’t even really afraid of that before he found out what the inside of Dean’s mouth tasted like). “Maybe,” he ventures. “Not tonight.”

Dean slaps his knee, says, “Atta boy,” and Sam figures that’s the end of it. He wipes his fingers on his jeans, poking at a bit of cheese stuck between his teeth with his tongue because it’s sorta rude to suck somebody off with food in your mouth.

Unless that’s their thing. Sam’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t secretly harbour a food fetish, no matter how worked up he gets over a mini cheesesteak.

But Dean’s gaze has wandered back to the magazine, with occasional, uninterested glances at the television. His breaths are quick and shallow, a dark flush creeping out from under the worn collar of his tee. When Sam nudges the pizza box aside and slides a hand up between Dean’s legs to get his attention, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, forcing out the laugh caught behind the lump in his throat. “You want a girl that bad?”

“Nah.” Dean tilts his hips into the press of Sam’s cupped hand, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks everywhere but the magazine and Sam.

“So.” Slowly, Sam traces up the length of Dean’s fly, just hard enough to follow the curve of his dick to the head. Dean’s eyes threaten to close as he rubs tiny, deliberate circles around the ridge, and that combined is almost enough to make Sam forget what the hell he was going to say. “What’s with the magazine?”

Dean’s hips jerk and his eyes squeeze shut. Both of Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that his brother’s maybe oversexed and responsive as fuck (which is hot as fuck), but Jesus.

Sam’s nail scrapes hard over denim. “Dean?”

“Page fourteen,” Dean blurts, smoothly rolling off the bed and grabbing the empty ice bucket on his way. He scrubs a hand over his hair all the way down to the back of his neck. “I wanna do that. Gonna get some ice,” he says, and bolts.

Blankly, Sam echoes, “Ice?” and the television helpfully answers that tomorrow’s low is going to be fifty-two.

Clambering up to his knees, Sam makes a grab for the magazine. “Fourteen, fourteen,” he mutters, absently rising to pace a rapid circuit from the foot of the bed to the dresser as he flips through page after page of pierced nipples and shaved cunts. He hits the end of the magazine, staring at it dumbly before quickly flipping back.

It’s actually page fourteen and fifteen. One giant closeup.

Then he figures out what the hell he’s looking at and hits the bed like a sack of potatoes.

“Okay,” he says, just to make sure his voice doesn’t squeak. “Right. Sure, Dean. Sure.” Casting a wary glance at the door, Sam scrubs first one palm and then the other dry on his jeans, careful to not drop the magazine. It’ll be at least ten, fifteen minutes before Dean wanders back, sheepish grin warring with that hopeful, eager light in his eyes.

The laptop boots up with a hiccupping whirr. Crossing his fingers, Sam starts poking around for unsecured wireless. It only takes him about a minute to find what he’s looking for. Hunkering down, one hand pressed to the insistent throb of his dick, he starts reading.

It ends up being more like twenty minutes before the knob clicks and Dean eels his way inside. He takes one look at the laptop and the abandoned magazine and his shoulders slump.

Before Dean can slap on some bravado, Sam asks, “You sure?”

The half-empty ice bucket thunks on the smaller table near the door. “Wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t.”

Carefully, since one hard thought might be enough to have Sam cream himself at this point, he stands, starts backing Dean up against the locked door. “So you’ve thought about it. A lot.”

Dean goes easy, one hand coming up to curl solid and warm on Sam’s waist like a habit. “Enough. Got some chafing there, Sammy?”

Sam lifts his arms, bracketing Dean as he flattens his hands on bubbled paint. He shakes his head once, letting a tiny smile quirk the corner of his mouth.

Dean swallows, flashing the sharp white edges of his teeth before they catch briefly on the softness of his lower lip. “Too kinky for you?”

Fingers hooked in Dean’s empty beltloops, Sam jerks him away from the door and shoves him right back up against it, face-first. He fumbles the zip the first time, wrenches it hard enough to hear the catch and grind of metal teeth the second. Dean sucks in a breath that’s half-laugh, half-moan when Sam grabs him by the pockets and yanks his jeans straight down to his ankles in one go.

Sam’s got a couple things he might want to say, mostly about Dean’s methods of communication, but now that he’s on his knees and Dean’s shuffling back, boots inching further and further apart, it doesn’t seem all that important.

Brushing a light, brief kiss to the dip of Dean’s spine, Sam says, “Both hands.”

On a rough noise, Dean reaches back, long fingers dark against the pale skin of his ass, and spreads himself wide. Sam has to swallow twice to get his heart back where it belongs, eyes fixed on the pink flush of Dean’s hole. Dean doesn’t have much in the way of shame or interest in playing hard to get, but Sam’s not sure he’s ever seen his brother go this easily without at least a couple minutes heavy screwing around.

“How long have you been thinking about it?” Sam slides his hands up the insides of Dean’s thighs again, framing Dean’s sac with his palms and his thumbs stretched out, barely brushing the tight rim. It feels dirty as fuck to just sit there and watch it twitch.

“Few days, maybe,” Dean says, low and too steady. There’s precome already smearing the head of his cock and Sam hasn’t even really touched him yet. “Sam, c’mon.”

“What?” Gently, Sam thumbs dry at Dean’s hole, leans in close enough to let his breath tease. “This?”

Dean’s fist thumps against the door. “Yes, fuck, that.”

Sam swallows again, mouth suddenly Sahara-dry. “You clean?”

Above him, Dean freezes. A sound sort of like a laugh leads into, “Why’d you think I took that shower?”

The image of Dean locked away in the bathroom actually preparing for this pulls a low sound out of Sam’s gut. He breathes slow and deep, air saturated with the warmth of Dean’s skin filling his lungs. “What’d you use? And don’t move your hand,” he adds, dropping a quick kiss to tightly-clenched muscle.

“What d’ya mean, what’d I use?” Dean twists to glance down, meets Sam’s gaze. “I- Jesus Christ, Sam, just my fingers, what else was I supposed to do?”

Sam lets out a hot, gusty breath that makes Dean’s skin prickle into gooseflesh. “C’mon,” he says, standing up to grip the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Bathroom.”

Warily, Dean says, “What for?”

“To do this right,” Sam says, tugging Dean steadily across the room by whatever grip he can get and keep on the shambles of Dean’s clothes. Halfway through wrestling Dean out of his shirt, Sam stops to kiss him again, this one hard clash of teeth and tongue that knocks Dean back a step. When Sam breaks free, Dean’s lips are as flushed red as his cheeks.

“Shoulda confiscated the laptop,” Dean mutters, shrugging the rest of the way out of his button-down.

I’ll make it good Sam wants to say. But the truth is, the hot lump sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach isn’t so sure. Dean might’ve just looked at that magazine and thought hey, hot without thinking about why.

Sam’s thought about why quite a bit in the last half hour.

“Take off your boots.” Sam grabs the hem of Dean’s tee to haul it off. Dean stumbles again and tosses him a look that might’ve been irritated except for the grin that won’t wipe clean. “In the tub.”

“Not that I got a problem with marathoning it or- Christ, Sam, what the hell?”

Following Dean’s gaze, Sam shrugs. “Short notice.”

Cautiously, Dean wanders over to poke the thin hose draped over the edge of the rust-pocked tub. “Short notice for what? Perfecting your siphoning technique for the national gas shortage?”

A tiny sparking thrill lights at the base of Sam’s spine. He clears his throat and gestures vaguely at the tub before pushing the ratty curtain aside. The smallest of their holy water jugs sits empty beneath the leaky faucet, hose jabbed into a hole cut on one side and sealed as tightly as Sam could manage. “It’s the pre-game show?” he ventures.

Dean’s mouth works soundlessly as a dark flush creeps steadily up his chest. The fluttering heat in Sam’s stomach flares. “Are you serious?”

“As you are.”

Another few seconds of loaded silence, then, “That’s… pretty kinky.”

Relief surges druglike through Sam’s veins. “Boots,” he repeats, busying himself with searching through the sparse stack of towels for the least threadbare one. By the time he turns around to spread it over the tub’s chipped enamel, his hands have stopped shaking.

Dean steps into the tub, hesitating before Sam says, “On your knees, facing away from the tap.”

“Just what kinda sites did you hit for info, Sammy?”

Sam smoothes his hand up Dean’s spine, wetting his lips at the rippling shiver that follows in his wake. “Good ones,” Sam answers, his smile strong in his voice. He splays his hand wide between the sharp lines of Dean’s shoulder blades. “Chest down.”

“Ass up, legs wide? Coulda just told me to assume the position,” Dean says, joke falling short on a hitching breath as Sam pushes.

Settling down on his own knees, Sam lets his fingers drift back down Dean’s side, dip just under the curve of his ass and up between the cheeks. “I guess that means you don’t need me to talk you through this.”

There’s a half-second delay that says this has gone pretty far beyond what Dean had in mind. But he says, “You want to talk dirty, be my guest.”

Releasing a slow breath, Sam gets some slick on his fingers and goes right back to where he left off, one fingertip at Dean’s hole with only a touch of pressure. With his mouth trailing wet almost-kisses up to the red-hot shell of Dean’s ear, Sam says, “You’re really gonna let me do this, huh. Clean you out before putting my whole fist up inside you.”

Dean exhales loudly at the harder press of Sam’s finger, twisting as if to glance up and thinking better of it. “Yeah, guess so.”

“You know what that’s going to feel like?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean’s teeth scrape his lip. Leaning closer, Sam slips his free hand down Dean’s chest, feels him tense in anticipation of it wrapped firmly around his cock. Sam stops just before the dark hair low on Dean’s belly fans out in neatly-trimmed lines, spreading his fingers wide.

“Right there,” Sam says, the stubble on Dean’s cheek rough against his mouth. Two fingers sink easily into slippery heat, but it’s the push of his hand against flat stomach muscles that earns him an eager twitch of Dean’s cock. “That’s where I’m gonna be.”

“Not if you don’t fuckin’ get on with it, you won’t.”

Any other time, that’d be enough to tempt Sam to call the whole thing off. It isn’t the fact that this is probably as willing as Dean’s ever going to be, or that quitting now would make it harder for Dean to ask next time he wants something not so vanilla. It’s not even the selfish ache in his dick to see his brother split wide open and vulnerable.

The wet noise of his fingers pulling free echoes obscenely loud on the cracked tile. He reaches for the hose and turns the taps on slow, checking the temp a couple times to make sure. Trailing a dripping hand across Dean’s ass, hoping like hell his voice doesn’t crack like he’s just hit puberty for round two, Sam asks, “You ready?”

“Go for it.”

Water trickles clear and clean from the free end of the hose as Sam experimentally lifts the jug. It takes him a couple tries to force words past the thick lump in his throat. “Tell me if it’s too fast.”

“Sam.”

“I’m serious.”

When the water flows warm across Dean’s ass, following the same path of Sam’s hand, Dean jerks. Heat prickles under Sam’s skin, spreading out from the twisting coil low in his belly. One small shift has the flow spilling straight over Dean’s hole, washing away the slick.

Sam inches closer until his knees bang against the side of the tub. He plugs the end of the hose with his thumb, awkwardly smearing lube around it one-handed, obsessively checking for all the nicks he’d already smoothed away. “Dean,” he says, two parts warning, one part request.

“Okay, I’ll-”

“Tell me how it feels,” Sam cuts in. The black rubber is stark and cruel-looking against Dean’s flushed skin. “I want to know.”

Less harsh, Dean says, “Okay,” and drops his head down, forehead cushioned on a loose fist. “Just- Quit making me wait.”

Watching Dean open up around that slim bit of hose, hearing the way his breath skips a beat, sends a throbbing rush straight to Sam’s cock. He palms the cheek of Dean’s ass, meant it to be soothing but ends up being all about pulling him open, seeing the clutch of tight muscle force the hose out just to slide it back in deeper.

“God.” Scrubbing his mouth dry on the back of his wrist, Sam snatches up the jug again. “God, Dean, you gotta ease up.”

Dean shakes his head, grunts, “Don’t warn me. Just do it.”

That’s not a good idea and Sam knows it, knows he’s lying to himself when he thinks okay, but only because Dean wants it, because it’s that he wants it. Wants to hear the shock, see it in the startled flex-shift of muscle.

Sam rubs the edge of his thumb around the stretch of Dean’s hole, holding off as long as he can. It’s only a few seconds before impatience shows in the set of Dean’s shoulders. Before he turns, Sam shifts the jug higher, eyes darting between the water level and Dean’s flushed face.

It’s only the span of a heartbeat but feels like a molasses-thick eternity before Dean breathes out, “Christ.”

“Okay?”

“Fucked up, Sammy,” Dean says, shifting restlessly. He eases forward a few more inches on his elbows, stretching his back into a long, sinuous line. Sam nearly drops the whole works. “This is real fucked up.”

Sam breathes his agreement, not sure he could actually form words. The water’s draining faster than it really should. He tries to gauge how much Dean can take and bites off a groan as he fidgets again, muttering curses.

Hoping it isn’t, Sam asks, “Too much?”

“S’okay.”

“Then clench.”

“Wha- fuck.” A fresher, darker flush explodes on the back of Dean’s neck. “Jesus Christ.”

“You said not to warn you.” Sam tugs the hose the rest of the way free and lets it drop, getting both hands back on Dean’s ass to pull him open, take a nice, long look at his hole gone red and desperately tight. One gentle stroke of his fingertips has Dean hissing in warning.

Sucking in a harsh answering breath, Sam says, “You can hold it,” and leaves two fingers pressed firmly to Dean’s hole. His other hand slides down, and he’s squirming as much as Dean is, cock a heavy throbbing weight, when his fingers skim over the slight rise of Dean’s stomach, press lightly against it.

Dean says, “Don’t.”

“You can hold it,” Sam repeats, pressing harder, spitting a single reverent curse over Dean’s sharp gasp. “You can, do it for me.”

Sam flattens his hand to Dean’s sweat-damp skin, rolling the heel against the liquid fullness. A warm trickle of water over his other fingers accompanies another sharp noise and half-hearted attempt to squirm away from the pressure.

Shakily, Dean asks, “You getting off on this?”

Darting a quick glance up, Sam says, “Fuck, yes,” unable to stop himself from rolling his hand a little harder or the greedy noise it yanks out of his throat. “Stand up.”

Dean’s breaths turn quick and shallow, panic-edged, as he shuffles one foot under himself. “Can’t,” he pants. “What for?”

“You’re not letting go in there.” Sam hooks a hand under Dean’s armpit and steps to the side, clearing the way to the toilet. “C’mon.”

Fingers scrabbling at the smooth tile, Dean tries to jerk out of Sam’s grasp, breath hissing glass-sharp between his teeth. “Don’t need an audience.”

And maybe Sam should feel bad about the high-pitched, shocky noise bouncing of the walls when he slaps his hand flat to Dean’s belly. Maybe he would, if it weren’t for the haze filling up his head.

With one hand fisted at the base of Dean’s spine, Sam forces him closer, palm pressing harder against him bit by bit. Sam feels more than hears the groan building up low in his throat. The sweat slicking Dean’s neck tingles against his lips as he pulls Dean out of the tub, turns to back him up one unsteady step after another.

“But you’ve got one.”

“This is seriously fucked up,” Dean says, his voice already ragged like morning-after. He resists the weight of Sam’s hand on his shoulder, his eyes gone almost totally black when they focus on Sam’s face. “Sam, this isn’t-”

The rest Sam forces him to bite back, first with his tongue stilling Dean’s, then his knuckles digging into soft, vulnerable flesh. “You asked for it,” Sam says, putting more weight on both his hands, not worried that it’s only a half-truth, not quite comfortable that the sound Dean makes is more like pain but it sings as sweet as sin in his ears.

“I put it in you, you push it out. That’s it.” Under Sam’s insistent hands, Dean’s knees buckle slowly, his hands grabbing for support in pure reflex. “Just finish this for me.”

Dean grates out, “Should make you promise,” which is more like surrender than he probably thinks it is, and stares resolutely at the dirty grout on the floor.

Dean’s hair is almost too short for it but Sam finds enough to fist, jerking Dean’s head back up and pulling him forward until his chin rests on Sam’s belly, right above the open buckle of his belt. “Don’t look away.”

The moment stretches long enough for Sam to think he’s fucked it all up, then Dean curses low and quiet like he’d look away if only Sam let him. But he doesn’t break the hold Sam’s got on him, doesn’t even try, not once. Water streams out of his body, emptying out in one continuous rush, background noise. The heat pouring off him sears Sam’s skin.

It’s finally Sam manhandling him back to the side of the tub that makes him look away, holding him, pinned back to chest, to clean him off with one of the tattered washcloths.

When Sam rinses the cloth for the last time, Dean’s head is still bowed. The lube’s where Sam left it, balanced on the very edge near the faucet. He snatches it up, flicks open the top and aim’s a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.

At the first touch of Sam’s fingers pushing back between his legs, Dean’s shoulders hunch. “Sam,” he says, voice cracked and raw. On one slow push, his spine arches.

Sam closes his eyes, narrowing his focus down to how easily Dean takes the slow, steady thrust of two fingers right to the first knuckle, the pliant weight of his brother in his arms. Drug-heady warmth swims up through him like a current.

Dean stumbles crossing the threshold. Another thrill spikes into Sam’s gut, pleasure sharp and real as a strong-fingered hand squeezing tight around his dick. He steers Dean towards the bed, caught up in the sloppy half-kisses they’re sharing and the breakneck rush screaming through his head. They’re really going to do it. Dean’s going to let him.

“Up on your knees,” he says, crushed-gravel rough. “Like in the bathroom.”

Slow as honey, Dean crawls up the bed, tucks his arms beneath his forehead. With anybody else, it’d be a show, deliberate and a little cheap. Somehow, Dean just makes it honest.

“You wanna see,” he says, not really a question no matter the hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Sam kneels, still in his jeans because he can’t risk the temptation. Soft, scarred skin is familiar under his hands but somehow new, different. Like it’s the first time he’s really touched Dean when he already has every ridge and dip and stretch memorised. He should be grateful Dean trusts him this much but all he feels is power-drunk and not nearly wary enough of it.

Lube squelches between his fingers, glistens all the way up to his wrist. Before the taste of it mars Dean’s skin, he bends down, tongues one sweet kiss to pinkened flesh. Dean’s almost too clean. The lack of salt-sweat heaviness in Sam’s mouth makes him want to stop right here, rim Dean until he’s slicked and senseless.

Dean takes both of his forefingers with barely a sound, saving a whimper-hiss of breath for when he pulls them apart, opening Dean up to his tongue. Lube smears Sam’s chin, wet, cool. The heat inside Dean burns his lips, leaves them tingling and alive when he draws back to see how wide Dean’ll willingly spread for him.

“Harder if you want,” Dean says. His body is tense, anticipating. Pleading. Sam gives him three, pulls against the tight flesh of his hole and his back bows again, a hitching moan spilled out onto the sheets.

A flash of blood-rich, pink inner flesh drags a lower, deeper sound out of Sam. “More?” he asks, giving up the sight to feel Dean clench around the knot of his fingers. Dean’s body clings to them, greedy and not yet loose enough for the flirt of a fourth. But Dean takes it anyway, jerking and cursing at the slightest twitch of Sam’s hand between shallow, panting breaths.

Sam pushes up to the wide set of his knuckles, pausing there, waiting with a breath held on the teetering edge. Teeth sinking into his lip, he eases off, listens to the rustle of Dean wiping sweat from his face onto the sheets. Again and again, fucking slowly up to his knuckles and back, Sam waits for Dean to say yes, go, do it, but all he gets are noises lodged like smouldering coals in the base of his brain.

“Dean,” he says, smoothing a hand up the too-sharp curve of Dean’s spine, “tell me you’re ready. Fuck, tell me, I want-”

“You want,” Dean cuts him off, like he’s going to finish the sentence, but says, “Please, please, c’mon.” His hands are curled into claws, sunk deep in the pillows. The long stretch of his arms tremble. “Asked for it, didn’t I.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “Yeah, you did,” and he squeezes his thumb in tight to his fingers, watches slack-jawed and so hungry for it his whole body aches, throbs in time to the beat of all his blood pounding south. The world spins around him, and he can only imagine how it tilts for Dean.

At the base of his thumb, Dean’s body seizes up, stopping him short. Dean’s saying, “C’mon, please, c’mon,” rocking back into it, taking bit by tiny bit. A hand on his ass barely even slows him down and Sam thinks about pulling away, going slower, but it’s like Dean’s the one inside him driving him on, owning him.

When Dean’s body finally gives, opening up to let Sam’s hand sink in to his wrist, his rough curse is weaker than a whisper and completely drowned out by the thick, bone-deep groan drawn so damn slow out of Dean’s throat. For a long minute, Sam can’t even move, frozen with a hand buried in his brother’s guts and eyes glued to the fitful twitch of his red-swollen hole.

Reverently, barely aware he’s doing it and powerless to stop once he is, Sam’s free hand runs up and down Dean’s thighs, trails across his lower back and his ass, over and over. He eases another fraction of an inch deeper, pressing from the outside against Dean’s stomach, desperate to curl his hand into a fist to feel it.

Another fraction, and another, almost his whole wrist and Dean says, flimsy as slashed ribbons, “Wait, god, wait.”

Bending forward to press a kiss to the centre of Dean’s back gains Sam another grudging millimetre. He says, “Dean,” like a prayer and starts to spread his fingers, drowning in the impossible heat pressed so snugly around them.

“Wait,” Dean hisses. “Not yet, not yet, let me.”

“Let you?” Sam croaks out, his own arm starting to shake. “Fuck, okay, okay, just-” He fumbles the bottle the first time, nearly drops it a second after he flicks at the cap with his thumbnail. He slicks lube about a third of the way up his forearm, so much it drips to the sheets, pools at his wrist to drip slowly down to Dean’s balls hanging heavy between his legs. “Okay?”

Dean’s answer is one hand slapping against the headboard, skidding wildly from the sweat on his palm until he reaches the edge to grip. Between sharp gasps, he spits, “Now. Now, now, now,” fucking himself back onto Sam’s arm. He can’t mean what Sam thinks, just can’t, but he says, “Sam,” like he knows exactly what’s going through Sam’s head.

Painfully slowly, afraid to feel Dean break from the inside even while he craves it, while the shift of muscle to accommodate him makes him need it, Sam curls his fingers one by one into a fist. Dean stills instantly, head tossed back, eyes screwed shut. His mouth is open on a scream that’s silent until Sam rotates his wrist, pushing against the walls of Dean’s body, and even then it barely ekes out, high and breathless.

Sam gropes for Dean’s cock, finds it hot and slick enough that for a second, he thinks Dean’s already gotten off, but Dean’s still hard, rutting hesitantly into Sam’s grip.

Fucking asking permission.

Words slurred against the soft, vulnerable spot above Dean’s kidney, Sam says, “Tell me.” Dean gasps out a garbled answer, jerking from the scrape of Sam’s teeth. “Tell me.”

“Aches,” Dean blurts. “Too deep, fuck, it aches. Feel it everywhere.”

Biting viciously hard at the inside of his lip, Sam asks, “Too much?”

Dean shakes his head on another broken moan. “Not enough, almost. I, Sam-”

It is too much. Sam knows that. Even split wide open and nearly incoherent, Dean knows it, too. So that doesn’t explain why Sam braces his hand between the sharp jut of Dean’s shoulder blades, why he puts all his weight behind his shoulder and shoves, buries his arm inside Dean up to the shiny line of slick. Or why this shattered, cracked-glass noise breaks on the pillows when Sam starts reclaiming his hand, the widest part lodged against Dean’s abused hole when his brother comes in thick, jerking waves all over the sex-stained sheets.

Dean goes limp the moment Sam’s hand is free, barely caught in time from cracking his head on the bed. “Christ,” Sam says, tugging him backwards, “Dean, roll over, Jesus Christ, I have to-”

Dean goes bonelessly willing onto his back, his eyes glazed and heavy, dark. His fingers are slippery with his own come as he cups his balls, reaches beneath to lift them out of the way, guide Sam’s eye to the prize.

Sam doesn’t even have to slick himself up, just rips at his jeans, lines up and sinks right in. It’s like nothing else, hot and slippery and so fucking loose, soft flesh clutching at him with each of Dean’s ragged breaths. He edges his fingers back down Dean’s thigh, barely imagines what it’s going to feel like before he forces his fingers in next to his cock and Dean’s legs just fall open wider, yielding.

White-hot pleasure slams like a sucker punch. He feels Dean tense up, deliberately try to drag it out. The highway traffic rushing by only a few dozen feet away is drowned out by his heaving breaths synching up with Dean’s.

He eases himself down, tucking his arms under Dean’s shoulders, his forehead against the beat of Dean’s pulse. Dean’s skin tastes of sweat and sex again, rich and perfect. Sam licks it from his skin, then from his lips. Dean’s kisses are languid, heavy and drugged as the banked light in his eyes.

Sam almost asks if Dean got what he wanted, just to hear him say it, but doesn’t really have to. What he is going to ask, just as soon as he can, is that next time Dean wants something, maybe he could be a little less of an ass about it.

–

End

–

Warning prickles the back of Daken’s neck the second he steps inside his room. As the door slides quietly shut, he tilts his head up to aim a smile at Mac lurking on the ceiling above it. “Hello. Forget which room is yours again?”

Mac’s alien eyes narrow. It’s fascinating to watch the symbiote twist to fit human facial expressions. Even with only half a face to work with Mac is surprisingly more expressive than most. Lester has the market on malicious, generally accompanied by disgust or glee, but Mac manages to pack a wary, hungry sort of angry hope all in the shape of his eyes.

“I see,” Daken says, unbuttoning his vest as he crosses to the bathroom. The whisper of Mac creeping along directly above his head brings a slow curl of satisfaction. Osborn’s grown lax on his iron throne. Mac may be as loyal as a dog but he’s a dog that must be fed. Osborn is never willing to give up a pound of his own flesh.

Cool water splashes into the sink as Mac crawls over the top of the doorframe. Daken wets his face and runs damp palms back over his hair. “Which is it tonight?”

Mac makes a noise tinged with the symbiote’s hunger. His tongue snakes out as he drops lightly down, body bulking up to fill the doorway. He’s slowly beginning to understand what the symbiote has always known. Unlike the games with Mac’s hookers, this one doesn’t end.

Lifting a brow, Daken puts a hand to his belt. An eager ripple goes through Mac and spills out in the symbiote’s thick cordite scent. His clawed grip splinters the heavy granite counter. He says, “I’m hungry,” like a plea, repeating it over and over as he prowls across the tile. Slivers of his humanity peel away with each piece of clothing Daken drops to the floor. He looms behind Daken in the mirror, big hands closing carefully over his arms, claws pricking along ink and tongue chasing after the water trickling down his neck.

The symbiote quivers as Daken sinks back against him. That same quiver finds its way into Daken’s belly as tendrils separate from Mac’s hands to flow thickly down to cover his arms, heavy as tar but smooth, slick. It tightens its hold slowly, drawing his arms back until his wrists meet, then his elbows, then tighter still, every inch gained perfectly timed. It possibly knows his body as well as it knows Mac’s by now, and he wonders at times why it hasn’t tried to bond with him. Either it prefers what he can do for Mac like this or–and most likely–it knows something he doesn’t. He tips his head back to look Mac in the face instead of the mirror. “Is this your way of telling me you’re feeling playful?”

Mac’s response is a slow curl of tongue up the centre of his chest, a tingle like rubbing alcohol evaporating from his skin in its wake. The shiver that follows isn’t faked. Neither is the soft moan that accompanies it. As practical a tool as sex is, there’s no reason to not enjoy it when the opportunity is there, and Mac is the most interesting fuck he’s ever had. Definitely the most interesting thing he’s ever controlled.

The symbiote stays clamped tightly around his arms, shifting with a fitful eagerness as Mac’s hands slide down to cup the backs of his bare thighs. He spreads his legs easily enough, not as desperate as Mac for the main event but certainly as willing. Keeping his claws sheathed as he’s lifted from the floor requires a bit more effort, Mac’s strange silence needling under his skin.

A quick swipe from the symbiote knocks the few bottles on the counter aside, a few tumbling into the sink as Mac grates a contrite noise, but he doesn’t stop until Daken’s settled onto the counter, balance precarious with his arms bound behind his back and his knees spread wide on either side of the sink. Thin ropy tendrils snake out to loop over his calves, thickening to anchor him in place as smaller pieces creep up over his knees, webbing out along his thighs like veins. He glances up from their progress to take in his reflection. The brush of the symbiote weaving across his belly is like walking through a spider’s web but firmer, strong enough to catch and hold. It flutters teasingly over his cock before pinning it. It’s provocative, full of a brutal sensuality. “Mac,” he says slowly, a fond, teasing lilt that he knows Mac doesn’t want to like, “you’ve been holding out on me.”

Crooked teeth scrape the tight bunch of Daken’s shoulder blades. The symbiote adjusts seamlessly as he bends forward, inviting the hot slick of Mac’s tongue to sweep lower. A slight shift in his scent would hurry this along but Mac hasn’t needed that extra nudge for weeks. He stretches his fingers out, tips barely grazing the curve of Mac’s cock still covered. He flexes his hands, encouraging them to let it free for him to jack, but instead of Mac’s dick pushing hotly between his palms it’s cotton-thin strands of the symbiote twining around his fingers. A flutter at the corner of his lips prompts him to open his mouth. He doesn’t expect the invitation to go ignored. Anticipation buzzes through his blood like little flies trapped in Mac’s webs. He’s honestly curious which one of them, symbiote or Mac, is calling the shots here. Neither has an impressive track record with delayed gratification.

“I realise you get confused sometimes but I promise, it’s very straight forward.” Daken strokes his thumbs over the symbiote quivering between his knuckles. It seems to enjoy the threat of his claws pushing up the beneath skin. “Fuck me or eat me, Mac.”

Mac’s joyful screech ricochets off the polished tiles. His hand clamps to Daken’s jaw, thumb and forefinger almost as large as his face, and wrenches his head back so quickly the symbiote surges to keep him anchored. A kiss wasn’t quite what Daken was expecting, and it isn’t quite what he gets either; without the teeth Mac’s lips are latex-slick, his tongue hot and thick as it pushes into Daken’s mouth, strangely textured, purely alien. As clearly as if it’d been spoken aloud it says the kiss was the symbiote’s idea. It’s genuine in a way Mac isn’t, eager to please. Simply eager in all things, as if its lust for life doesn’t stop at things made of flesh and blood.

His idea or not, Mac enjoys it just the same, grinding against Daken’s hands when the symbiote allows them to curl over his cock. The shape of Mac’s mouth shifts slowly while they’re still pressed tightly together, one type of monster sinking into another. Teeth pricking at Daken’s lips brings up a moan that Mac licks straight off his tongue. Good isn’t the right word for a kiss from Venom. Thrilling maybe, like staring down the barrel of a gun, standing at the edge of a cliff. A match in one hand and gasoline in the other.

Cooler air rushes in as Mac draws away, his tongue lengthening to keep the tip tracing along the slack line of Daken’s mouth, and a hot puff of breath forcing the chill away again as it flicks at his jaw, his ear, the slope of his throat before it wriggles bizarrely beneath the heavy fall of his hair. His gaze jumps back to the mirror to watch it wrap around his neck, thick coils shifting restlessly, glistening in the bright track of lights.

His stomach swoops south as the symbiote pulses. He doesn’t have the leverage to get free if it tries something this time. His control is best through Mac but even as drenched as he is in Daken’s power, it takes more time than the few seconds the symbiote would need to bond. Mac hisses a pleased noise in his ear as his heart rate climbs and the symbiote spreads like an oil slick into the gaps where his skin shows through its tendrils. It flows over and through the coils of Mac’s tongue, an endless shifting mottle until it reaches his face, stopping so close to his eyes it brushes his lashes when he looks down. The shadows make it impossible to tell where he ends and Mac begins.

One second drags into the next. It fits as closely as a second skin, alive and thrumming with power, pulsing in time to his speeding heart. It’s crawling with impatience, pricking straight through skin to graze raw nerves. The sensation is incredible on his cock, tightening his muscles as it drags on, his thighs beginning to shake.

“Gotta feed it.” Mac’s low chuckle at the jolt he gives when the pleasure peaks feels like dry sand whispering though his bones. “You make it hungry, you gotta feed us. You have to feed us. Feed us,” Mac repeats, the words slipping from the symbiote itself, stripped of humanity to leave it shrilly resonating. His claws join with and then sink through the symbiote covering Daken’s thighs, piercing the skin beneath. It barely registers over the tightening of Mac’s tongue around his throat until the symbiote penetrates the wounds, burning like gasoline through raw flesh. A scream lodges in Daken’s throat, caught on the breath he can’t draw. Mac chokes it to nothing as the symbiote wriggles deeper.

The steady build of pressure in his head fights the squeezing pressure in his chest. A lick of black at the corners of his vision makes him think the symbiote has crept across his eyes. He blinks it away and it comes crawling back, speckled with starbursts. Distant pain bursts along his arms; the tips of his claws skim through the symbiote as it parts, then crawls up their ragged edges through the split of his skin, up into his arms. The black surges up to blind him.

Mac makes a harsh cooing noise as a sliver of air trickles down his throat. He slumps in the symbiote’s hold, eyes squeezed tightly shut against a wave of lightheaded relief. The symbiote gives an interested twitch, rippling against his cock and Mac makes that same sound again, deeper in his throat. Through the pounding in his head Daken hears him say, “Smells so good, do it again,” and the symbiote presses slick and gentle to his hole, slides easily up inside him. It grows thicker as it rubs against his prostate, another jolt of too-sharp sensation followed by the slow spreading ache of it sinking further, splitting to twist like fingers. He slowly opens his eyes, not at all certain if it’ll be Mac or the black insides of the symbiote he’ll find.

“There he is,” Mac murmurs, the shape of his hands forming in the black coating Daken’s chest. They skim down like a wave beneath the surface to frame his dick as the symbiote fucks up into him, pulling him into a slow, rolling rhythm that turns Mac’s heavy breaths short. He doesn’t think before triggering a fresh spill of pheromones into the air. They never reach it, instead sinking directly into the symbiote. It jitters the same as if he’d taken a live wire to it and Mac lets loose with a grinding screech, savagely pounds into him.

He keeps his body lax, pliable, and Mac’s hold on his throat stays loose. The gentle shifting of their reflections doesn’t at all match the roil of sensation inside him. The vague suggestion of a hand strokes along his dick, a low-grade buzz next to the constant dig of the symbiote into wounds it won’t allow to heal. If they expect him to get off, this isn’t going to cut it, and that’s not how this goes. It always goes the way Daken wants.

Mac’s vicious grin scrapes from his neck to his shoulders. The symbiote’s steady thrum pitches higher, sounding more like an instrument out of tune than something alive. He feeds them another spill of pheromones and watches it shudder in violent glee. Mac’s rhythm changes immediately in response, a reward of real pleasure instead of being used simply for their own. An unsteady laugh leaks through the smile that bares his teeth at Mac’s reflection. They have learned something from him after all.

He gives it more of what it wants and Mac starts mumbling nonsense at him, praises that sound like pleas and demands for more, half-finished promises and a steady loop back to how good he is to them, how good they can be. It stinks like love and devotion, of hungry desperate obsession, and Daken moans for them, tilts his head back and licks at the slippery length of Mac’s tongue.

Black spills into his mouth. He jerks back, resisting the urge to try to scrape it off his tongue. He can’t hold back a flinch when it flows up over his nose and covers his eyes. His throat locks up on instinct to save the scrap of air left in his lungs. Mac laughs at him, that same grating laugh as always, but this time he hears it scraping the inside of his skull. There’s no air, no light, no scent except the endless suffocating outpour of all the things the symbiote wants and needs and will destroy worlds to give him. He can have everything they are as long as they can have this one little slice of him. It muffles the wretched sound that tries to push up out of his chest, forcing him to the peak of orgasm and holding him there twisting and writhing and unable to draw a breath until he simply gives up trying. Yes, echoes in his head, yes, yes and yes, and it isn’t really a word he’s hearing at all.

He comes back from the edge of nothing to the harsh glare of simulated light with Mac’s cheek pressed to his side and the symbiote receding like the tide. It lingers in gentle lover’s caresses, gradually slinking back to leave only Mac’s hands stroking long lines down his thighs, easily supporting most of his weight. The aches they’ve left behind are already fading.

Very calmly, Daken asks, “What did you do?”

His head darting back, Mac says, “I didn’t do anything. Didn’t even fuckin’ take a chunk outta you like I wanted.”

Daken trails his fingertips across the back of Mac’s restless hands. Mac doesn’t notice. “Why didn’t you?”

A paper-cut thin line of red slices a smile across Mac’s face. “Got something better.”

–

End

–

Some moments in life are really just that fucking important. There’re the big ones–birth, death, a second mortgage–and the ones that some people skip right on over without a clue, not even realising. This is one of the big ones. Like, the really big fuckers. Fucking mammoth.

And if Adam doesn’t quit fucking laughing at him, Tommy’s going to bite it right the fuck off.

“Hey,” Tommy snaps, flinging his hair back out of his face and settling a little more firmly on his knees, braced and ready, “fucker, I’m tryin’ to do this right.”

“Baby, honestly,” Adam says, the backs of his fingers brushing along Tommy’s jaw. “Don’t think about it so hard.”

“I’m not just gonna stick it in and go,” Tommy mutters, licking his lips wet again because they keep fucking drying up on him before he has a chance to get down to it. At first he’d been admiring Adam’s cock, right, because it really is kind of pretty, sweetly curved and thick, soft and hard all at once. Then he’d sized it up with intent, because it was also big, like, big, and he objectively knew that before the pants had come down but now he knows it in that visceral, got-it-in-the-palm-of-his-hand way.

Adam, stupid logical Adam, says, “Why not? Figure it out as you go. S’what everybody else does the first time around,” and how he can apply actual reason when he’s about to put his dick in the mouth of a total cocksucking virgin here, Tommy doesn’t fucking know. It might have something to do with half the fucking minibar sloshing around in Adam’s veins. Tommy would also like to know how the fuck that happened, because he’d totally planned on destroying that thing one Bacardi fucking sugar-loaded Breezer at a time, and somehow Adam had sucked down every single last one of them in the last three-quarters of an hour.

Tommy says, “You’re gonna regret that when I take a chunk out of it with my teeth,” and relishes the dark twist of satisfaction in his belly when a flicker of worry shows in Adam’s eyes. It’s not fair that he’s the only one with the jitters. Okay, he’s scared out of his goddamn mind, but still. It’s the fucking principle of the thing.

Then Adam’s drunk swings back full force, spilling out in a lopsided smile and a soft tug on Tommy’s hair. And that’s okay, nice, familiar, and it’s not like Adam’s really hurrying him along here or anything but he’d kind of like to get to the main event. Sorta. He’s enjoying the slide of Adam’s dick through his fingers, wet with just the spit on his hand. The angle’s weird but that’s no big deal, and when he goes a little fancy Adam’s eyes go dark and heavy, so that’s fucking awesome. Licking at the head gets Adam’s mouth falling open, short sharp noise echoing through the room, and Tommy hums a little under his breath, pleased. It’s a good thing Adam’s so fucking easy.

“I like that,” Adam says, tiny hitch to his voice when Tommy sticks his tongue out, flicks at the slit again. “God, I like that a lot,” and okay, Tommy doesn’t need the encouragement, he totally signed up for this whole thing, but he’s not going to complain if Adam wants to offer a pointer here and there.

He’s still not so sure about the mouth to cock ratio, though, so he sort of skips over that to nibble on Adam’s balls a little. They’re smooth against his lips, lots of thin, delicate skin that he can catch and tug, and like a circuit closed Adam’s hand in his hair fists tight. Pleasure arcs down his spine, shocking it straight. He’s a fan of the rougher stuff, no secret from Adam there, but a quick glance up says that was all reflex. Which is really fucking hot. Most times Adam’s all about the deliberate, sneaky even when he’s being spontaneous, and with a eager thrill in his belly Tommy ducks closer, opens his mouth against Adam’s balls and sucks.

Straight off Adam’s hips shoot up and he grinds against Tommy’s face. His cock drags against Tommy’s cheek, hot and thick, and Tommy catches it in one hand, presses it there while he tries to keep back the grin threatening to break the pretty decent suction he’s got going on. He’s not too bad at this part, kind of the same sort of territory he’s used too anyway, even if the landscape is totally different, so he throws in a bit of tongue, a saucy little curl, and yeah, yeah, this is really fucking good.

So good he heads up north, drags his open mouth up one side of Adam’s cock and the flat of his tongue down the other. He gets a good taste of the salty slick at the head this time around, and he licks back up, little teasing flicks that shake up Adam’s deep, steady breaths. At the tip he pauses and drags in a deep breath of his own, psyching up for it. He can feel Adam’s gaze on the prickling heat creeping over his face and he finally says screw it as he wets his lips one last time before sliding them down over the head of Adam’s dick.

Adam makes a strangled, quiet noise, thigh quivering beneath the hand Tommy’s got splayed out over it. His hips jerk and Tommy flinches, seriously expecting the whole nine yards suddenly jammed down his throat, but Adam’s cool, totally got it under control and it was just one of those reflex things. Really seriously fucking hot too, especially since he’s not like, gagging on cock.

But now he feels a little guilty for thinking Adam’s a facefucking asshole, even if he didn’t actually say that out loud or anything. He pushes the flat of his tongue against Adam’s cock, kind of cradling it there in his mouth for a second with his hand loose around the base while he tries to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do with it now. This is seriously a lot harder than anybody’s ever let on before. It’s a whole coordination thing, teeth and tongue and lips and compensating for the urgent little roll of Adam’s hips, which still isn’t a demand or anything like that, more like a please make up your fucking mind and do something.

Letting Adam’s dick slip straight out of his mouth probably isn’t what Adam had in mind, though. Cutting through Adam’s indignant–fucking adorable–squawk, he hooks a few fingers in the waist of Adam’s jeans. “Get these fuckers off.”

Adam’s eyes go a little round. “Fuck, okay,” he says, scooting back onto one elbow with an easy wriggle, jeans and purple starburst shorts bunching up around his knees. And okay, Tommy had been sort of expecting commando here, but it figures, right? Despite the whole celebrity circus thing, it’s not a show everyday, and that shit’ll chafe after awhile.

Tommy tugs at the zips on Adam’s boots, most of his attention on the long, long, really fucking long lines of Adam’s bare legs. He gets it together enough to help haul Adam’s jeans all the way off, though, because Adam’s quit trying and is staring at him, dazed and a fuzzy, drunk sort of happy. Only after Tommy flings Adam’s jeans aside, loose change jangling, does he realise that he’s got Adam up there half-naked while he’s down here fully dressed, boots still on, and Adam’s got his knees up, spread wide, cock and balls and everything right there in front of Tommy’s face.

“Oh man, fuck yeah,” Tommy says, because this is what he’s fucking talking about, okay, this is so it. He gets both hands on the insides of Adam’s thighs, maybe nudges them a little wider even if he doesn’t really need to, and then he nuzzles up under Adam’s sac, tonguing at the smooth, stupidly soft skin right beneath it. And so yeah, he teases a little, because Adam’s got to know where he’s going with this, and anticipation is at least half of what it’s all about anyway.

Bringing his thumbs in, he gets Adam spread nice and wide, does a bit more of that nuzzling thing because holy shit, Adam’s dick might be fucking Cockzilla but his hole’s tiny, and tight, and pretty fucking sweet looking flushed all sex-pink. Even if he’s sort of compelled to keep a few fingers angled up so Adam’s cock doesn’t jab him in the eye, a rimjob’s a fucking rimjob and there’s no way he’s going to disappoint.

“So, uh, it’s cool if I stick my tongue in your ass, right?” he asks. Those Breezers really nailed Adam hard, he’s got to be the responsible one here.

“That is so very cool,” Adam says, hazy like he’s half asleep up there or something, so Tommy lists to the side to double-check. Tommy’d really hate for him to miss this.

“No, hey, no,” Adam says, a hell of a lot louder than two seconds ago. He nudges at the side of Tommy’s face with his toes. “Back the fuck where you were, sweetheart.”

“Just making sure I got your attention,” Tommy says, snapping his teeth in the air above Adam’s ankle, a warning that gets Adam snatching his foot back like he’d stuck it in a piranha pool. Smiling a toothy, satisfied smile, Tommy gives Adam’s hole a quick smacking kiss and watches muscle tense, relax. “Yeah, s’right.”

“Tommy,” Adam growls. Like seriously fucking growls, no joke.

“God, yeah,” Tommy says again, just in case his feelings on the matter aren’t totally fucking crystal clear, and he scoots in closer, works his jaw from side to side for a quick second before running the flat of his tongue up from the base of Adam’s spine all the way along the seam of his balls. He dives right back in before Adam’s done moaning his name, tongue pressed up nice and snug to Adam’s hole, licking and licking and really getting the fuck off on how Adam can’t or won’t and just isn’t staying still for it. It’s worse-better when he firms his tongue to a point and pushes in nice and slow, straining to get a little deeper, get Adam’s voice swinging up another octave or two. A dirty wriggle gets him a choked, bitten-off sound and that’s just as good, maybe even fucking better because the only thing hotter than Adam not being able to shut up is Adam not being able to utter a fucking word.

And then Tommy sort of loses track of things, or at least anything that isn’t his tongue up Adam’s ass and Adam fucking down onto it, and yeah, he could probably get a couple of fingers in there, but honestly, sometimes they just get in the fucking way. He is seriously into how easily Adam’s opening up for his tongue and all those sounds spilling out of Adam’s criminally gorgeous mouth are really doing it for him. As soon as he’s done here, he is going to jerk off so fucking hard.

When Adam’s hand catches in his hair he sucks in a deep breath, so totally ready for Adam to grind down on his face. A couple of seconds later it’s still just a weird flicking movement instead of a good vicious tug and Tommy drags himself away to figure out what the fuck’s going on. Turns out Adam’s pretty busy jacking off, and apparently really close to losing it if that curse he snarls in Tommy’s general direction is anything to go by. Tommy tosses him a sunny smile. “You get spunk in my hair, you’re fucking washing it out.”

“Sounds good,” Adam says, and angles his wrist, big ridiculous grin on his face when a couple dozen strands of Tommy’s hair catch on his sticky cockhead.

“Fucker,” Tommy mutters fondly, shaking his hair free. As if he actually gives a shit. Well, alright, he cares a little, because dried jizz in your hair sucks, but he totally believes Adam’ll take full responsibility for it in the morning. He flicks his tongue at Adam’s cock playfully. “You wanna shoot on my face?”

“Holy fuck,” Adam says, rough and like he actually means it in that whole reverence and awe way. His eyes squeeze shut on a harsh breath.

“Oh hell yeah,” Tommy says, hooking both arms around Adam’s spread thighs, leaning in close so every off-centre pull gets Adam’s cock skimming his lips. “Fucking knew you’d get off on that,” he adds, because he so fucking did, and rewards himself with a little nuzzle into Adam’s thigh, his hair catching softly on sweat-slicked skin.

When Adam tenses up, Tommy digs blunt nails into his bare thighs. Adam’s eyes fly open and Tommy says, “Yeah, that’s it, gotta watch this,” and Adam groans something back at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Once Tommy’s sure Adam’s there, ready to blow and not going to do something stupid like close his eyes again and miss it, Tommy’s snap shut. A few seconds later, when he remembers what the fuck’s actually going on here, he lets his mouth fall open and ends up fighting a grin as Adam’s voice dissolves into a messy groan. He touches the tip of his tongue to his lip, lewd and such a fucking porno cliché, but fuck, man, sometimes cliché’s just a word that means works like a fucking charm, every fucking time.

He’s not sure if Adam’s aim is off or not when the first shot of spunk takes him high across the cheek. Sure, he said face, but then he offered up his mouth too, and he is totally not one bit fucking surprised when Adam goes for both. Sliding his tongue out to give Adam a target, he gets the head of Adam’s dick pushing in over it instead, come spilling all the way to the back of his throat. He flounders for a second, tongue working furiously because he’d seriously like to not clog his lungs up with jizz, thanks very fucking much. Then he gets a hand on Adam’s cock, opens his eyes and closes his mouth, tries a good hard suck that wrings this really fucking sweet noise straight up from the pit of Adam’s stomach. If it works, it works, so he goes with it, gets a bit of a rhythm going between his hand and his mouth that has Adam’s hips rolling up off the mattress.

When Adam’s smooth little fucks go shaky, one hand tugging hard at Tommy’s hair, Tommy eases back and licks at the corner of his mouth sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says, surprised when his voice comes out rough, used-sounding, “kinda got into it a little late.”

Adam lets out an explosive breath, the tail end of it turning into a fuck, whatever grunt. “No false cocksucking modesty. Fuck, Tommy, I love your mouth.”

A warm shot of pride angles straight for Tommy’s belly. “Yeah?” he says, crawling halfway up onto the bed, still draped between Adam’s spread legs. He scrubs at the spunk on his cheek. “Kinda tiny.”

“Tiny and perfect and would you get your skinny ass up here so I can kiss it already?”

Clambering up, Tommy flops right on top of Adam, because hey, it is a skinny ass, and Adam’s a big boy, he can handle it. He props his elbows on either side of Adam’s head, sort of hopes he doesn’t have the same goofy smile on his face that Adam does, though he seriously doubts his chances there. He puckers up and Adam says, “Freak,” all sweet and warm, thumb skimming over his mouth to ease it back to a smile, then kisses that away so Tommy’s mouth is soft and open and totally all his for the taking.

“Okay, so,” Tommy says, the second he’s got space to talk, “how long’s it gonna take for you to get it up so I can try that shit again?”

–

End

–

The sun blazes red-pink-gold over the South Pacific. There’s a lyric slinking through the sunset haze that Tommy can’t put his finger on, so he takes another long drag, breathes out smooth and slow and squints through the smoke as if he’ll find it swirling there.

Flaked out beside him on an oversized lounger, skin sticky where they touch from elbow to wrist, thigh to calf, Adam says, “You’re so toasted.”

“Fuck yeah,” Tommy says, hoisting the joint like a trophy. The horizon wavers behind it. He blinks once, lazily, and when he opens his eyes again, the world’s full of Adam. A smile carves its way across Tommy’s mouth inch by slow inch. He hooks his arm over the top of the lounger, keeping the joint out of Adam’s freakishly long reach.

“This is why you can’t have nice things,” Adam says, grumpy twist to his mouth. His hair shines in the last of the day’s light, jet black and heavy from the shower. The freckles on his lips are like the steps to a dance Tommy wants to follow with his tongue, little teasing flicks, quick-quick-slow.

Instead, he says, “Fuck you, you gave it to me.”

“I’m starting to see the error of my ways, Tommy Joe.”

Tilting his head back, way back, turns into a languorous stretch Tommy feels all the way down to his toenails. Along the way he figures out that pressure against his thigh is Adam’s hip, and that tickle near his shoulder is the lace on Adam’s leather bracelet, and that slow slinking tingle up his spine is courtesy of his half-hard cock. He holds the joint up again, slanted between his fingers, chin up, Adam’s gaze sliding like fingertips down the length of his throat. “You wanna?”

“Yeah, I wanna,” Adam says, and makes a clumsy grab for it.

Tommy dodges, says, “C’mon,” smoke filling his lungs before the word’s faded from the air. He holds it, and holds it, slithering build of pressure, and when Adam doesn’t sink down to meet him, he lifts his head, lets it trickle free in a smoky kiss to Adam’s slack mouth.

Time hangs, hushed, the sound of waves or blood in Tommy’s ears, and then Adam sucks in a sharp breath. The smoke’s already wafted away on the coconut-breeze, but Adam’s chasing it to the source, lips dry against his, dry and warm, with a promise of slick wet heat. A shiver hop-skip-jumps from his chest to belly to groin. He can’t help but wiggle in its wake, bask in the heavy, sleepy pleasure. Tiny bright sparks flare where Adam’s touching him and he catches a giggle on teeth dug into his bottom lip.

“I’m so fucked,” he says, grinning through it, and puts the joint to his lips again, takes a long, deep drag. He’s so very fucked, because this time Adam is right there to take its place, lips a little damp, parted and pressed softly against his. He sucks back half the smoke on a shocked noise, like he wasn’t expecting Adam’s mouth on his, hadn’t fucking asked for it. Adam’s thumb presses to the hollow of his throat, long fingers wrapped around his neck, dragging him up and in until there’s barely enough space for the smoke to slither out between them.

It’s too chaste to be a kiss, too intimate to be anything else. He spends forever just hanging there in Adam’s hold, live-wire thrill streaking through his veins, and then he slides his tongue tentatively forward, barely even tasting the inside of Adam’s mouth. He’s done this dozens of times before, on stage, off it, in front of friends and family and only the two of them saying hello, but it’s not the same. Not even fucking close, not when he can feel the tension stringing Adam tight, a quiver to Adam’s lips that matches the one in his belly. Right then and there he knows Adam’s gonna fucking flip his shit, ’cause this is the start of something.

Breaking away, Tommy keeps his gaze down. “One more,” he says, and fills his lungs and his head with a warm fuzzy haze. He really doesn’t give a shit about Adam’s boundaries aside from the fact that they’re Adam’s, and Adam’s trusting him to stick to them. They’re always shifting, though, one step to the side and two back so that tiny pecks hello become full on mouth-to-mouth deals, a cuddle on the couch becomes sleeping together twined close and sweaty in the early morning heat, riding the high after a show becomes fucking into the loose sloppy tunnel of glitter-speckled hands.

He waits for a murmured warning, the quiet growl of his name Adam uses like a leash to control him. Waiting for it and fucking wanting it because there’s nothing else like that safe panic-trill shooting through him, knowing he’s wriggled his way deeper beneath Adam’s skin, rooted there, and Adam’s never going to dig him out. It’s so messed up, fucking crazy and stupid, and he loves it. Wants it too much, needs it too hard, and it’s going to fucking kill him the day Adam tells him no.

But for now there’s nothing except the slow shivering breath Adam takes, then the pressure of Adam’s mouth opening his up to share the hit. Adam pulls the smoke from his lungs, every last scrap of air and a sliver of his soul, and that’s the fucking pot talking, not him–it’s never him; it’s the stage-high or the rockstar-thrill or the pot and Mai Tai cocktail in his blood, but not him. He teeters on the edge of asking for something he’s terrified he won’t get, but the bright bite of pain at his fingertips jolts him, stumbling and gasping, back from the drop.

“Motherfucker,” he hisses, flicking the stubby joint into the sand. “Yeah, s’right, laugh it up, asshole,” he tells Adam, a smile on his face and fond vengeance in his voice. The weight’s gone from between them and he wants it back, thinks maybe this time he’d have dived in headfirst even while he’s sure he wouldn’t have, not unless Adam told him to first. This isn’t so bad, though. Adam’s got that sparkle to his eyes, that mischievous quirk to his mouth he thinks he only ever does on purpose but gives him away every fucking time.

“Oh, baby,” Adam says, all poor-sad-you, and catches his hand. “Will you ever play bass again?”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, leaving his hand happily captive–gets a thrill out of Adam’s big hand wrapped around his, and hell if that isn’t the saddest shit ever–and gropes for the joint ready and waiting on the table. He jams it between his lips, lights it one-handed and gives the Zippo a careless toss aside. Taking his time with the first hit, he lets it by turns mellow and spike the churning in his belly as Adam lazily, absently, traces the lines on his palm. He’s on his second, or third, or probably still the first when, “Kiss it better,” instead of a lungful of smoke comes slinking out of his stupid fucking mouth.

Adam’s eyelashes sweep down. He turns Tommy’s hand over in his own, traces the bumps and dips of Tommy’s knuckles with a thumb. “Say please.”

Breath sticks in Tommy’s throat. There’s an edge to the playfulness in Adam’s voice, a dark corner, dangerous and subtle. He swallows once, hard, and says, “Please,” without a clue what the fuck he’s even asking for anymore.

Bringing their hands up, Adam presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the tip of Tommy’s finger. Then another, slower, slight part to his lips, tiny flutter of his lashes. And one more when the air in Tommy’s lungs has turned thick and heavy, the heat against the pad of his finger going from dry to wet, the tip of Adam’s tongue sliding smoothly down, ticklish on the edge of his palm. Tommy’s fingers twitch, curl, and he’s breathing hard and fast and quiet, squirming in the shade of Adam’s shadow, cock dragging against the inside of his cargo shorts.

Something in the way Adam looks, a shift in the set of his mouth or the feather of hair across his eyes, makes Tommy lift the joint for another hit. The smoke’s barely reached his lungs, let alone seeped into his blood, when Adam’s mouth is on his to steal it away, and it slams into him anyway in a thick dizzying rush. He shoves up into the kiss, he’s so going to get his tongue in Adam’s mouth this time around, but Adam’s is already pushing into his, a lewd wet slide that sets off lust like an atom bomb in Tommy’s gut. The sturdy wood lounger creaks as Adam rises up above him, pushes him deeper down into it, licks and sucks at his tongue until he’s shaking and moaning and fucking dying from the chaotic jumble of needs and wants and half-formed cravings screaming through his head.

Fingers brush his jaw, skim close to his mouth, and he darts towards them, gets the hard edge of Adam’s nail catching his lip but doesn’t fucking care. Pineapple and the salt-sweat tang of Adam’s skin explodes on his tongue. He ducks his head, digs his teeth into Adam’s knuckle to keep his fucking finger right where it fucking is, and licks up every scrap of flavour he can find. But it’s not enough and fades too fast, leaves him with the taste of bare wet skin, and he grabs at Adam’s wrist, other hand skidding down to hook on Adam’s elbow, perfect angle to suck Adam’s finger further into his mouth straight to the first knuckle, weird fucking thrilling press of the tip against the soft tissues near the back of his throat.

“Tommy,” Adam grates.

Months of habit have Tommy pulling away before he figures out that wasn’t his cue to back the fuck off. Adam’s finger fucks back in, hooking over his bottom teeth to pull him in close. He goes with it, high and dazed, cheeks hollowed and cock fucking throbbing in time to his heartbeat as Adam fingerfucks his mouth. Somewhere along the way one finger becomes two wedging his mouth open, thick on his tongue, pinning it down. He knows what Adam’s hands feel like on his dick and now it’s too fucking easy to imagine them pushing up between his legs, slick wet fingers at his hole, and god fucking damn it, that fucking high-pitched whining noise is coming from him.

Forcing his eyes open, he meets Adam’s heavy gaze. For some fucking crazy reason Adam’s quit moving, is up there just staring, sunset and sweat glistening on his throat. This time when Tommy eases back Adam doesn’t stop him, and a slow lick to Adam’s palm becomes an open-mouthed kiss trailing down his wrist, along the soft underside of his forearm. Even without the sun the heat presses in, stifling, and Tommy can feel the sweat gathering on his thigh where Adam’s calf is pressed to it, the spliff burning between his fingers, but it’s weird, hazy and distant as a dream.

“You should fuck me,” slips out of Tommy’s mouth, bizarrely casual.

Even weirder, Adam says, “I want to, so fucking bad.” That’s not how this goes. There are lines in the sand and Tommy’s allowed to touch them, give them a little nudge, but not step right fucking over them like that. And if he does, when he does, Adam’s the one to push him back, draw a new line. If there’s a little ground gained between it and the old one, neither of them say a fucking word. But it’s different now, something’s fucking changed, it’s crackling like something alive under Tommy’s skin.

Dropping the joint, Tommy spreads his legs and slides on down, gets Adam fit snug between them. He likes the look of Adam right there, dazed, turned on. There’s this sizzle of fear in his belly, thrilling and awesome, too much to keep inside so it all comes spilling out. “So what’re you gonna do about it? Gonna finally get your dick in my mouth, teach me how to suck you off? Been fuckin’ dying for the chance. Know you want it, want to see me tryin’ to take it all.”

Adam’s hand slides from his knee to thigh, shorts bunching up and so fucking in the way when it skips up to cup his cock. His mouth drops open and he bucks up into the slight squeeze, slaps his hand down on Adam’s to keep it there as he grinds into it. He can’t even fucking breathe when Adam leans in close, not-quite-kiss bumping along his jaw to his ear where Adam whispers, “Thought I’d get yours in mine.”

“Fuck,” Tommy grunts, cock jerking. “Don’t, don’t fucking dick me around about shit like that.”

“Not teasing,” Adam says, fingers plucking at the buttons on Tommy’s shorts, words hot on Tommy’s neck. “I want to get my mouth all over you. Bet you taste so fucking good.”

The second Adam’s hand gets past the zip, Tommy’s hips come up. He grabs onto Adam’s arm and shoves, gets Adam’s knuckles skidding past his cock, his balls, wants them to keep fucking going but Adam stops short, fingers splayed wide. “Come on,” Tommy says, free hand fisting Adam’s hair, “come on, know you wanna, I fucking know you want your fingers up in me, want to know what it feels like, watch me open up and take it,” and he’s talking about Adam, what he can fucking see Adam wanting, but fuck if it isn’t really everything he wants too.

“Your fucking mouth,” Adam says, and jerks up to his feet, hauls Tommy straight to the edge of the lounger and then up off it, right into Adam’s arms with his fucking shorts hanging off his ass. He scrambles to get his knees up, ankles locked around Adam’s waist, can’t help rocking into Adam’s motherfucking cock nestled snug against his. He buries his face in Adam’s neck, breathes in the mellow smoky tang layered over clean sweat, and he seriously doesn’t give two shits about anything right now except how fucking amazing Adam feels pressed all up against him.

“Gonna say fuck it and do me up against the wall?” he says, mouth on autopilot, hands skidding over Adam’s back, pressing into the flex of muscle. He’s got a crystal-fucking-clear idea of how easy it’d be for Adam to lift him up, drop him down, slick gritty burn. “Get your fingers back in my mouth, keep me quiet? ‘Cause you know I’m gonna be fucking noisy, can’t keep my mouth shut, gonna fucking choke screaming when you get your dick up my ass.”

“You watch too much fucking porn,” Adam says, but his grip’s gone bruisingly tight on Tommy’s bare ass, and his eyes are wild, pupils blown. Tommy’s jostled as he steps over the threshold, door banging off his elbow, and they fucking forgot to crank the A/C because it’s a sauna in the cabin, air so thick it’s hard to breathe. Adam dumps him on the sliver of clear space on the bed, sweeps the rest clear, clothes and books and phone sent flying, and climbs up over him, hands under his shirt to peel it off. The second he’s free Adam’s mouth is on his rough and sloppy, and Adam’s shoving at his shorts, getting them halfway down his thighs. He wriggles a little further onto the bed, totally intending to help, and Adam latches onto the idea, hands gripping him under the arms and just fucking flinging him up to the pillows, clothes left behind.

Tommy would have something to say about this manhandling shit, he really would, except he’s really fucking loving it, his dick’s aching in that crazy perfect way, and who the fuck is he to argue what that. Adam’s not done, anyway, and all he ends up with are a few mauled syllables grunted into the bed as Adam rolls him over onto his belly. A hot, bone-deep shudder spills out of him in a moan.

“Just want to look at you,” Adam says, and like fuck Tommy’s burying that, not when he’s all splayed out and ready, but all he gets are Adam’s hands on his ass, cheeks spread and hole exposed, and the thick knot of nerves in his stomach tightens in a creeping, burning itch. He waits, and waits, tiny twitch of muscle he can’t control. Adam’s breath hitches. He drags his knee up higher, lifts up and rocks down so Adam can see the soft crush of his balls against the tousled sheets, and then his heart’s in his throat because Adam’s mouth is on his ass, slick wet glide of tongue up the inside of his thigh and straight to his asshole.

“Fuck,” Tommy says, muffled and strained, softly reverent, “Adam,” lost in the pillow. He pushes his hands under it, grips it tighter to his face as his back arches, hips shoved up, fucking begging. Ticklish pleasure skitters out along his nerves, and he doesn’t know what the fuck it feels like except it’s good, it’s fucking amazing, incredible, he wants Adam’s teeth on him, tongue in him; he wants everything.

Adam’s tongue drags soft and flat over his sac, a brief flick over his hole and then a dirty wet wiggle against it, teasing hint of pressure. His body goes tight then loose, and Adam’s groan slips in a shiver under his skin. Trying to press closer gets him shit fuck all and he lurches up on one knee, awkward burn in his hips before he manages to get the other one up, his coordination shot to fucking hell. Then his face is on fucking fire because he’s ass-up like a porn star, chest pressed to the bed and moaning like Adam’s dicking him for real instead of this slow, fucking annoying, stupidly amazing almost-tonguing thing.

“C’mon,” he says–fucking whines–heat blazing up the back of his neck, “stick your fucking tongue in me already, fuck, kiss it if you’re gonna, just fucking, fuck,” and there’s no air left in his lungs, no room to suck any back down when Adam’s thumb rubs over his hole, pushes up and in and it’s so wet and fucking slick, perfect. He screws back into it, knows exactly what he looks like with his dick hanging heavy and leaking between his legs, and he seriously couldn’t care less how slutty he gets as long as Adam doesn’t fucking stop.

Adam drags a wet kiss across his ass. Fingers fan out over his balls, squeeze once, soft and fleeting, and then Adam’s thumb is dragging free, hooked on the rim for a second before a few fingers take its place. Anticipation pulls his muscles taut and an easy trickling breath becomes a quick rush of air sucked in between his teeth as spit-slippery fingers push in deep and hard and way too fucking slow. The quivering in his belly spreads out and down, thighs trembling as Adam’s fingers crook, press and pull all at once and it’s the fucking weirdest thing ever, Adam in him like that, stroking from the inside, fucked up and so hot. So motherfucking hot.

“So tight,” Adam says, kind of a stupid, awe-struck mumble, and Tommy wants to say, No fucking kidding,, because it fucking is, pressure like he’s never felt. Adam’s fingers are way thicker than his, sinking a hell of a lot fucking deeper than he’s managed on his own before. “Ease up, baby, don’t wanna-” and whatever the fuck Adam doesn’t want gets lost in the flick of his tongue between his fingers, quick and shocking.

“I’m fucking high,” Tommy bites out, scrubbing hair out of his face with the pillow, crisp cotton cool on overheated skin. “Ain’t gonna get any fucking looser.”

Adam groans a curse, harsh and vehement, right into the meat of Tommy’s ass. His thumb sweeps up, flirts delicately with the stretched rim of Tommy’s hole, but it’s a third finger that nudges in alongside the other two. He echoes Tommy’s shuddering groan and then just fucking stays there, wedging Tommy wide open on the thick bunch of his knuckles with his tongue flicking around them, between them, driving Tommy seriously fucking insane.

Tommy bucks his hips, desperate; he wants Adam to fucking move already, give him something besides the slow-build pressure to focus on. Adam’s hand slaps to his ass, a hard jolt that goes straight up through him and shoves a ragged, ruined sort of noise out of him. He shoves up on the palm of one hand, groping for the headboard or the wall or fucking anything except the slippery sheets to brace against, because, “Fuck, Adam, do it again.”

A twist of Adam’s fingers sends a hot flash of blood rushing through his ears. He thinks Adam says, “What?” sharp and stuttering, so he spits back, “Slap me, fucking slap me again,” and he could fucking cry when Adam does. It feels so fucking amazing, quick biting sting and heavy full pressure. He moans for it, cock throbbing, head pounding, and Adam’s fingers fuck up into him on the next smack, out and in again on every tiny bright slap after.

He chokes on a warning but it’s too late, all that heat pooled in his belly coils tight and lashes out, fucking sucker punch orgasm that drops him down to his elbows. Head bowed and with blurry eyes he can see Adam’s hand on his dick, jacking him, but there’s so much buzzing along his nerves he can’t tell what’s sending those wracking shivers up through him. He presses into it all anyway, even when the sensations are too sharp, skating the edge of pain as his arms give out on him, and then his legs go and he’s sinking down, sprawled out awkward and panting.

“Tommy,” Adam says, hazy as an afterthought, and Tommy’s skin prickles at the sound of foil tearing. “I’ve got to, fuck, you look so good, you’re so good, baby,” and Tommy moans something back at him that means go ahead, do it, just fucking go for it. Hands grip Tommy’s thigh, his side, and he grunts as he rolls over, legs falling shamelessly wide around Adam. Adam looks fucking wrecked, sweet hot mess with his cock all shiny-slick, and Tommy scrubs both hands over his face, up into his hair. “C’mon, baby,” Adam says, hauling Tommy halfway up into his fucking lap, pausing to strip off his shirt and then he’s naked, angles and curves that shouldn’t fit right against Tommy but they fucking do.

Tommy’s so fucking loose for it when Adam’s dick presses to his hole, opens him up and slides on in slick and easy. He fists a hand in his hair, body loose and boneless and all these sounds just slipping out unchecked, full-on pornographic hitching little breaths because Adam’s not giving him a chance to adjust to the feel of a cock hot and thick up inside him. He doesn’t even want a fucking breather here, it’s better this way, fucking fantastic with every sharp thrust jolting him up higher on the bed. His nerves are fucked raw, a heavy sore ache spiralling down to where Adam’s driving into him, and he twists sluggishly on the sheets, reaching down to feel his hole stretched hot around Adam’s cock.

Adam makes this noise, high and helpless, and words start breaking through Tommy’s shaking moans, filthy street-corner trash-talk unsteady and threaded through with too much honesty, because he really does fucking love this, loves the feel of his body strung out and used, abused, bone-deep buzzing ache that he’ll carry for days. And that’s not the sort of shit he’d take for just anybody, high and hard up for a good lay or not; not the sort of shit he’d want at all if it wasn’t Adam up there giving it to him.

He gets a clumsy hand tangled in Adam’s hair, drags him down for what should’ve been a kiss but ends up just being their open mouths pressed together and a flick of tongue in the hot space between. It’s impossible to breathe with his knees almost in his fucking chest, but when Adam lets go of his legs, shoves both arms under him with hands curved over his shoulders to drive him into every thrust, it really doesn’t fucking help. He can’t keep still but there’s nowhere for him to go, pinned by Adam’s weight, and it’s kind of suffocating in a really awesome way. Bits and pieces of the world fall away, the creaking of the door Adam didn’t close all the way, the feel of the sheets wadded up in his hands, until all that’s left is Adam fucking him, pressed so fucking close he can’t tell anymore where he ends and Adam begins.

Looping a shaky arm around Adam’s neck, Tommy groans, “C’mon, Adam, come the fuck on already, give it up, give it to me,” into the mess of Adam’s hair, not even sure what the hell he’s saying but they both know what he means. At least he thinks Adam does, because Adam rears back, this hectic sort of glint in his eyes right before they squeeze shut and he finally, fucking finally lets go. It’s not the first time Tommy’s seen him come, won’t be the fucking last time he watches that shock of bliss flash across Adam’s face if he’s got anything to say about it, but it nails him like a bullet punching into his chest every god damn time.

“God, Tommy,” Adam says, forehead to forehead, breath hissing as he pulls out, notices the trembling Tommy can’t seem to shake off. “I can’t, I’m not sorry, I can’t be fucking sorry for that, oh my god, I want to fuck you again just like this,” and he sounds like he can’t believe what he’s saying, like it’s a fucking surprise that he wants Tommy already fucking wrecked and out of his mind before sticking it to him all over again.

“Knock yourself out,” Tommy wheezes, not even caring about the come drying tacky on his belly, the mess between his legs. “Soon as you can get it up, cowboy.”

A weird strangled noise echoes deep in Adam’s throat. His fingers flit across Tommy’s hole, and Tommy doesn’t need to see it to know exactly what it looks like, red and puffy, sore as it feels. Their breath hisses in tandem when the tiniest push gets Adam’s fingers sinking into him, all three right off the fucking bat. And Tommy whimpers, he actually makes a noise that could be classified as a fucking whimper, because it hurts but it really, really doesn’t, and it’s way too fucking easy to imagine Adam pushing him over onto his side, spooning up behind him and really fucking going for it this time.

When that doesn’t actually happen, it takes him a second to reconnect with the world. Adam leans close to nuzzle kisses at his mouth until he opens up, takes the slow push of tongue to match the lazy rhythm of Adam’s fingers in his ass. Just as he’s getting used to it–but not really, there’s no getting used to Adam inside him like that–Adam’s hand slides away, and the mattress shifts.

Before Adam gets any stupid ideas about slinking off, Tommy groggily says, “Cuddle me, bitch.”

Adam laughs quietly and drops carefully down beside him, and if there’s an edge to it, kind of hysterical, worried, he’ll get the fuck over that soon enough. Those boundaries he’d been clinging to are blasted all to hell now and Tommy’s not letting him build them back up this time. Whatever the hell Adam thinks love is when he’s up on stage singing his fucking heart out about it, this is it for Tommy. Either Adam’ll figure that out on his own or he won’t, and no matter which way that potential clusterfuck goes, Tommy’s staying right here.

–

End

–

“You got in my fucking way!” Lester screams, blood-specked spittle clinging to his lips. He jabs a finger at the smoking ruin of what used to be a very nice car. “What the fuck was that shit supposed to be, huh? Are you blind or just fuckin’ stupid?”

“Calm down,” Daken says, simply for the pleasure of watching Lester’s eyes bug. “Most of them are still alive.”

“Osborn’s gonna blame me this went south, you shit-sucking fag,” Lester snarls. The arrow clutched in his fist snaps. “Me, because you’re too dumb to get the fuck down when somebody’s yellin’ at you to get the fuck down.”

One of the kids hunched on the sidewalk starts wailing. Karla throws them an irritated glance before going to deal with the news crew, leaving Ares and Bob to pull the surviving civilians back together. That show alone would be worth the price of admission. Except Lester’s up in his face, spitting curses, and Mac’s lurking at the edges, as wary and hungry as a coyote, desperate for the chance to shut Lester up.

“Hawkeye,” Daken says, voice pitched low for their audience’s benefit. He takes Lester by the shoulder, picture-perfect comrades-in-arms, and relishes the uneasy shadow cast over Lester’s face. “Maybe I was more concerned with you getting yourself killed.”

Disbelief flickers in Lester’s eyes, then with a tiny nudge, a guarded sort of acceptance. His head tells him one thing but thanks to the pheromones built up in his blood, his instincts are telling him something else and he’s a far more accustomed to listening to that than the speck of sanity left in his head. He mutters,”Son of a bitch,” and shrugs free, stalking off to take his earful from Norman with gritted teeth.

“Don’t look at me,” Mac says, holding his hands up placatingly when Daken’s gaze lands on his. “All I wanted was him to quit screaming. My head’s killing me.”

“You’re just hungry,” Daken says. He settles an arm around Mac’s shoulders, humming a hello under his breath as the symbiote quivers in recognition. “Let’s go do something about that, shall we?”

No grin splits Mac’s face out here where there are too many to see it, but Daken can feel the urge ripple under Mac’s slick black skin. He doesn’t bother to hold his back.

“You’re adorable,” Daken says, idly watching Mac gulp down the last of his late night snack. Unlike Daken, Lester doesn’t care for subtle, and somebody’s going to notice that blood pool come morning. He wonders if the hot pink pump left standing in the middle of it is a souvenir for Lester or if the synthetic leather didn’t thrill Mac’s sophisticated palette.

Perched on the edge of a dumpster, Lester sneers and says, “Oh, was that your girlfriend?”

Mac’s chuckle is a metal file grinding down bone. The hairs on Daken’s arms prickle. “Oops.”

“So,” Daken says, settling his back to the filthy brick wall, perfectly annoying lilt to his voice, “how long have you two been dating?”

“The fuck,” Lester snarls.

“All these late night trysts, a romantic dinner under the moonlight. Honestly, Lester, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Mac’s eyes narrow to tiny white slits. His tongue slithers out, thick and wet. A helpful pheromone dump reminds him Daken has more to offer than a ten minute reprieve from the hunger that’s gnawing at his insides. He thinks he doesn’t like it, or the smile Daken aims his way, but the second he reaches out over the smear of all that’s left of the hooker, claws glinting like cobalt, the symbiote starts screeching.

“Shut up, Mac.” Metal clangs as Lester jumps down, lips peeled back in a snarl. Mac hunkers back with a glower, filling the air with the musky scent of confused hunger. “Gonna run off and play tattletale? Norman’s got bigger shit to worry about than a buncha dead hookers.”

Daken shrugs, his smile edging wider. “I like watching you work. How long did it take you to learn how to bring them down quietly so he can eat them while they’re still wriggling?”

“About thirty seconds.” Lester’s grin shows every tooth in his head. “Want to see it up close and personal?”

“You’d like that. But I’m not them, Lester.” Sinking into a crouch, Daken hooks the shoe up on the tip of a claw. Dirty red drips from the heel. “If you do it right, the first time isn’t the only.” He tosses it aside with a flick of his wrist. “Too bad you don’t have the patience for it.”

“I’ve got patience,” Lester growls, oblivious to his own eager stink. “I’ll carve off chunks of you to feed him myself.”

Mac slinks behind Lester’s back, the symbiote rippling as it layers on extra mass, becomes a hulking shadow at Lester’s shoulder. Mac doesn’t have a clue what’s going on here. Daken isn’t entirely certain the symbiote understands either, but he’s in no rush. The game is interesting enough all on its own.

Daken says, “So that’s how you say you’re sorry,” and watches the savage rows of Mac’s teeth sprout in a smile.

“Change the fuckin’ channel,” Lester snarls.

Daken calmly turns the page of a magazine he isn’t reading. Neither one of them paid his arrival a quarter of an hour ago much attention beyond a slight tightening of Lester’s shoulders. An added twist in the air smoothed it away, and the thickening of the symbiote’s scent in response sailed on harmlessly above Mac’s head. It’s almost pathetically easy. Somehow that doesn’t sour his enjoyment.

Across the room, couch springs creak as Lester lunges for the remote. Mac slithers back, his laughter turning wet and thick as his mouth splits open and he gives the remote a toss, snapping it out of thin air with a loud crunch of teeth. Lester breaks out in a flurry of creative cursing, including several suggestions that only someone with Mac’s unique anatomy could hope to survive. The dull thud of Lester’s fist against Mac’s shoulder echoes in a shiver down Daken’s spine.

When Lester draws back, black tendrils stretch out tar-like between them, sticky and clinging. He doesn’t notice it at first. Only when it quivers to life, looping lazily around his wrist, does his gaze jerk down. He snaps, “What the fuck,” staring stupidly with more than enough time for him to jerk free before it snaps taut. But all he does is watch, eyebrows drawn tightly together as it strokes his pulse and curls higher, snaking towards his face.

Phantom sensation prickles at Daken. He wonders if Lester can feel the electric life thrumming through it. “Give it a kiss, Lester,” he says, his tone mild, only a measure of fascination leaking through to perk the symbiote’s interest. “It likes a little tongue.”

Perched on the arm of the couch, Mac grabs on to the symbiote as if he intends to yank it back. Uncertainty ripples across his face. Daken tosses the magazine aside and settles deeper into his chair, tracking their silent conversation by the shifts in Mac’s breathing, the slight bulking of his form. It took physical contact to sway Mac last time, both he and the symbiote working in tandem. This time, it knows exactly which buttons to push without him.

“Lester,” Daken says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Lester.”

Wide eyes snap to Daken’s face. Lester’s hand hovers over the tendril curling too close to his mouth. He completely misses how Mac leans closer, eyes crinkling as a smile starts to split his face. “What the fuck do you want?”

Daken drags in a slow breath, savours it. Lester stinks of confused lust and the sweet tinge of fear. “Open your mouth.”

Mac’s hand snaps out, claws half formed, and clamps to Lester’s throat. The symbiote surges up to fill his mouth when it drops open, smaller tendrils skittering up to push at his borrowed mask.

“Leave it,” Daken says, and rewards the symbiote’s instant stillness with a push of affection. It’s surprisingly as susceptible as its human host to such simple emotions.

Lester makes a choked noise around the symbiote, panic in his eyes and driven thick as smoke into the air. He claws at it uselessly, scratching up his own face as it slithers away, twining around his head to hold him in place as Mac prowls down off the couch’s arm. It’s Venom who ends up couched above him, face split in a huge and hungry grin, tongue flicking lazily against Lester’s cheek as the symbiote slinks back to join the oversized hand Mac still has on his throat, stretching his neck to the limit.

A swipe of Mac’s claws opens Lester’s uniform from shoulder to thigh. Real fear, fear that Daken is more than happy to feed, makes him strike awkwardly out, and with a quick snap Mac has his arm trapped lightly between the jagged points of his teeth. Dozens of deep red pinpricks well up, glistening in the bright overhead lights as blood trickles slowly down. Lester makes a noise Daken imagines would’ve been a scream if only he had the breath in his lungs to manage it.

“Tiny bites,” Daken says, thumb and forefinger held up about a half an inch apart. “It takes him a long time to grow back.”

“Son of a bitch,” Lester wheezes, and Mac pretends not to notice the flat look Daken gives him for allowing Lester the space to talk. “Take a chunk outta me and I’ll fuckin’ kill you in your sleep.”

“Think of it as your usual foreplay,” Daken advises. “Just without the hooker this time.”

Mac spits out Lester’s arm with a screech. “I ain’t fuckin’ him!”

Rolling his eyes, Daken props his elbow on the chair’s arm and his chin on his knuckles. Mac looks from him to Lester, who is recovering far too quickly for his liking. Mac’s sudden bouts of conscience-driven indecision aren’t nearly as intimidating as a cannibalistic alien about to eat your face. Daken bites back a sigh. “Hold him.”

Lester lets loose with another string of inventive cursing as Mac pins him down with one hand to the chest, palm spread almost the entire breadth of it. Their uncertainty sweetens the air as Daken crosses the room, a tinge of terror coiling back through it as he drags his hand lightly up Mac’s arm. The symbiote quivers eagerly, echoing Mac’s needs and amplifying them, feeding them back into the empty head it’s shackled itself to. When he catches Mac by the chin and leads him up for a kiss, there’s no resistance in him. Daken scents the surge of Lester’s disbelief and smiles, fitting his hand to the back of Mac’s head to pull him into a deeper kiss, slow and lazy with his tongue licking at Mac’s, coaxing it to follow the slide back into his own mouth. It leaves his mouth tingling with a strange tastelessness when he pulls away, and Mac sways forward, dazed. Daken slants a look down at Lester.

“No fuckin’ way,” Lester shouts, a shrill edge to it that makes the symbiote ripple in annoyance. The whites of his eyes show in a wide circle around the blown-out black of his pupils. “No fuckin’ way, cocksucker, I-”

There’s a moment of hesitation barely longer than that last slow flutter of a heart valve before Mac surges forward and yanks Lester up into a vicious imitation of Daken’s kiss. Teeth not quite human catch on Lester’s lip and he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw forced wide as he gags on the shove of Mac’s tongue. A whisper of encouragement is all it takes for Mac to tonguefuck him, his fingers scrabbling over the slickness of Mac’s skull, the distension of his throat as strangely arousing as the desperate noises gagged by the slick push of Mac’s tongue down the back of it.

Lester spits when Mac releases him, sweat-slicked chest heaving. His rattling breaths are wet and thick, a fascinating match to the useless rage beneath the tears glistening in his eyes. The air he’s breathing is clogged with a cloud of pheromones so thick Daken imagines them puffing out on his breath like moisture in the cold, but only a fraction of them are meant for him. Controlling Mac is like swinging a sledgehammer. Lester deserves a lighter touch, the slip of a scalpel between layers of skin.

Dropping to one knee beside him, Daken rubs a thumb along his bottom lip, giving his sluggish brain more than enough time to realise what’s about to happen before claiming a kiss of his own. It’s slow and soft in a deliberate counterpoint to Mac’s, a sweetness to it that freezes Lester like a child caught in the headlights of a semi. Lester tastes like flat soda and potato chips, like lust and dread. He twists away from the push of Daken’s fingers along with a tongue into his mouth, but Mac has his head again, and honestly, he isn’t really trying anymore. Mac’s eager little growls push hotly against the back of Daken’s neck.

Mouth to mouth, Daken says, “He’s going to fuck you,” and bites at the twitch of Lester’s lip. “Surprisingly he isn’t terrible at it. Now spread your legs, Lester, and let him shove his tongue up your ass.”

Lester grabs at Daken’s hair, managing to twist a few strands around his shaking fingers. Everything he tries to say is chopped to pieces halfway out of his mouth. He doesn’t understand why he hasn’t already killed them both. He’s pissed off and scared and so hard it hurts, and it looks wonderful on him. He jerks at the wet-tissue tear of heavy material beneath Mac’s claws. The tip of one hooks in the drape of the loincloth across his thigh and rips it free as Daken moves around to lean on the arm of the couch behind his head. Mac’s grating chuckle draws dark lines of fury across his brow. A hand wrapped beneath his chin tilts his gaze upside down to meet Daken’s. “I’ve always thought that suited you,” Daken says, and licks at the wrinkle of his scar. “Make it good for him, sweetheart.”

The muscles in Lester’s thigh jump. He snarls and rears up in a sloppy attempt at cracking Daken’s jaw off the top of his skull, but the pheromones soaking in his blood have made him slow, predictable. Mac grabs his leg and hooks it up over the back of the couch, grabs the other and shoves it out wide. Panic flashes across Lester’s face, a split-second of pain as razor-edged claws dig in.

“Sorry,” Mac mutters, a guilty look tossed over Lester’s head as he backs off. “Breaks easier’n you.”

Palms pressed to the sides of Lester’s face, Daken forces him to watch the slither of Mac’s tongue up his thigh. He jerks away from it, wilfully blind to the thick jut of his own cock until it slaps against his belly. A full-blown shudder takes the place of the shivers that had been skittering under his skin. He makes a wounded noise when Mac’s tongue dips between his legs, and the hitched whine that follows marks the exact moment it pushes up inside him. Shudders become panicked squirming, wordless sounds burst into snarled promises of pain broken seconds later when they sink into a ragged groan.

“Fuck him,” Daken hisses, eager for Lester’s shocked jolt as Mac drives deeper. Too eager, he knows, and loosens his grip on Lester’s face before creaking bones break. There hasn’t been a thrill as sweet as this heating his blood since the day he took his father’s mask for his own. But even that had come with disappointments. Imagining the agony tearing Logan apart on the inside was a pale shadow compared to watching those anorexic hopes crumble to dust. He presses his cheek to the side of Lester’s head and relishes the stink of defeat curling beneath the stubborn refusal to accept it.

Lester’s body rocks with the slick surge of Mac’s tongue. He grits his teeth uselessly against the noises it pushes out of him, jagged sounds of aching pleasure he doesn’t want to believe. He’s right that it’s all a lie, but what Norman’s done here has proven that lies become truths easily enough. His nails dig into Daken’s scalp, eyes flying wide when Daken says, “Stop.”

Thin bloody scratches crisscross Lester’s skin like a roadmap. Sweat trickles down the hollow of his hip. Mac’s tongue twitches with the urge to lick it up but he remains still, hungry and eager and hopeful for the chance to sink his teeth into flesh. Lester is far enough gone that he’d probably enjoy it. At least for a moment.

“More,” Daken orders, “slowly,” and Lester’s body snaps taut. Mac slinks closer, mouth gaping wide, long dagger-tipped teeth scraping delicate flesh. Daken’s breaths briefly sync to Lester’s short shallow gasps, the rippling surge of Mac’s tongue out of sight but so clearly visible in the wracking shudders overtaking him. He twitches violently at the gentle kiss Daken gives the tight corner of his mouth. “Incredible how much your fragile human body can enjoy, isn’t it. Go ahead, put a hand on your dick. I know you want to.”

Lester fights the urge stamped clear as crisp newsprint across his face. Fights it and inevitability fails, crumbling like a brick wall with the mortar rotted through. He spits hastily into his palm and jacks his cock as if he’s been waiting hours for the chance. As badly as he thinks he wants to kill Daken, if only he could hear the things slipping out of his mouth now he might actually find a way to make death stick.

The second he seizes up in the grip of orgasm, Mac lunges forward, teeth bared on an ear-splitting screech. Daken spits a curse at missing those few precious seconds of Lester broken down and vulnerable and surges up to jam his hand down the back of Mac’s throat. Searing pain shoots into his chest as teeth scrape bone. Mac rears back, dragging him along by the teeth caught between the bones of his forearm. His back hits the floor with a jarring thud.

Bloody saliva drips sluggishly onto his chest. Mac’s tongue coils along his arm down past the elbow, chasing after the darker drops of red. “Don’t even try it,” he says, backing up the warning with a prick of claws on the softer flesh of Mac’s insides.

Mac’s eyes narrow. “Said I could,” he slurs.

“And when was this?”

The tip of Mac’s tongue quivers fitfully. He slinks back with a huff, teeth disengaging as gently as possible as he settles back on his haunches, knees spread wide on either side of Daken’s hips and arms crossed. Daken tucks his good arm behind his head. “Good boy.”

“Shove it,” Mac snaps.

A wheezing laugh from the couch brings Daken’s attention swinging back to Lester. “Fuckin’ freaks of nature,” Lester says, wiping his hand off on the cushions. He sits up gingerly, wincing at more than just the mess slicking the insides of his bare thighs. “I’m gonna kill you both.”

Mac wavers between a guilty shrug and an eager hunch forward. The hold Daken has on his excuse for a will wins out in the end and he splits a grin, clawed hand coming down to pin Daken’s healing arm to the floor. It’s easier for Lester to hide what he’s thinking now that Daken isn’t concentrating on him, but he can’t conceal the reflexive twitch of interest that’s been freshly written into his blood.

Daken tugs his shirt off over his head. Mac’s focus snaps back to him like he’d lifted the top off a platter of steaming ribeyes. “Still hungry?” he asks, the wet loll of Mac’s tongue a yes he doesn’t really need. He smiles at the symbiote’s eager quiver, so much like Lester’s. Couch springs creak as Mac fits a hand to his throat, but there’s no hiss of displaced air as the door opens to follow it, no sudden drop in Lester’s scent on the air. “Give me a kiss,” his says, smile spreading like the slow creep of the symbiote around his arm. “And I’ll think about it.”

–

End

–

Thick grey fog crowded close, clogging Watson’s lungs. A muffled shout pushed through the leaden mist on billows of steam as the gears in one of engines that kept the streets from flooding ground shrilly. He dodged back as engineers materialised to swarm like ants over the hulking machine. A lady stood on the raised walk watching them in fascination, shielded from the rain by a glass umbrella, its dozens and dozens of minuscule panes held in place by expertly twisted copper.

It was no remarkable sight to Watson’s eyes, accustomed as he’d grown to London’s mechanical grind, and the sharp bite of seared metal stung his nose. He paid little attention to the engineers as he detoured down Linhope Street, his wonder at their skill reserved for the far less commonplace and his worry for the backwash that would surely soak him to the knee should the pumps fail entirely. He’d had his fill of damp and dirty for the day, his chilled bones already yearning for Mrs. Hudson’s excellent tea.

Fingering the crumpled pamphlet for the Exhibition Gala, he hoped he would find Holmes, freshly shaved and impeccably dressed, seated at the table already enjoying a cup and not as he left him the night before, drifting listlessly through their rooms like a leaf in a stagnant puddle.

Despite the testament of his empty wallet, he still tended to favour the long odds.

Rainwater blackened with the soot of coal-fires dripped from the eaves in staccato counterpoint to Holmes’s measured pacing. For the third time he paused in front of the fractured mirror on the mantle and adjusted his collar, brushing invisible lint from his tie.

“Perhaps an earlier carriage would have been in order,” Watson said, tossing aside yet another telegram that begged for Sherlock Holmes’s aid in a case so trivial it bored even him. “Or the lifts.”

“Absolutely not.” Holmes snatched the Oberlin stove’s ivory handle from the mantle and jammed it into the lid. Cranking it open, he lit his cigarette from the flames that leapt upward. “The City Line has been pulling awkwardly for two weeks and three days. Unless I have grossly miscalculated–and I never do—the couplings will fail within seventy-two hours.” A sour twist to his mouth, and before Watson could speak, he added, “Yes, Watson, I have dutifully informed the Lineguard.”

“Still upset with you over November, is he?”

The stove’s lid clanked down. “I certainly don’t see why,” Holmes said, the tip of his cigarette flaring hellfire red. “Surely the loss of one car is preferable to the loss of the entire system. And that was not even my fault.”

“The Lineguard tends to take a very lateral view of things,” Watson said, though in the questionable privacy of his own mind–there were indeed times he thought Holmes quite capable of reading his thoughts as easily as he read the morning paper–he found his sympathies lay firmly at the feet of the Station. Holmes hadn’t actually needed to conceive of so dramatic a trap for the saboteurs.

Holmes grunted his agreement and stalked to the blanked windows, his dressing gown furling in his wake. A scowl settled between his brows. “We could simply stay in.”

Pouring another cup of tea for himself, Watson served up one for Holmes with a dollop of honey and wished it were so easy to sweeten the onset of a black mood as easy as it was a black tea. “You’ve been in for two days. Here.”

Holmes stared down at the neat little teacup and saucer as if it were an adder. “In is vastly more interesting than out.”

“It is not. Drink.”

“But it is,” Holmes insisted, his restlessness momentarily banished as he sank into a languid drape in the chair to Watson’s left, his elbow cocked over the back and his long legs crossed. “The city has become a cesspool of nothing of much consequence at all. I assure you I can find a far better use of our time if you would but grant me the pleasure of your company today.”

“You may take as much pleasure in my company as you desire,” Watson said, relieved when the cardbox mounted above the sideboard chimed. It rolled from the neat little illustration of a breakfast nook set for two to that of a carriage. If Holmes persisted, his will would falter. The few hours of pleasurable distraction he could provide would not be enough to stave off the ennui threatening to engulf the last scrap of light in Holmes’s eyes. “But you shall have to do so on the way to the Exhibition.”

Holmes heaved a sigh worthy of Atlas himself as the weight of the outside world settled on his shoulders. “If I must.”

The transparent roof of the Glass Palace wavered beneath the deluge, a steady hiss riding the cacophony of life rattling about inside its thick plate walls. The air inside was as clogged as out, leaden with the smells of exotic foods and scorched wiring, the shouts of eternally optimistic inventors vying for the attentions of a generous lord’s purse.

Inspector Lestrade’s gaze darted ferret-like between them. “Imagine my finding you already here.”

“Indeed,” Holmes sniffed, plucking the magnifying spectacles from the ribbon on his rakishly-tilted hat. He peered intently through them at an inconsequential seeming speck of dust.

“I procured tickets only this morning,” Watson said, resettling his weight more firmly onto his walking stick as Holmes searched the bright Indian carpets piled about the display. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will send your constable back from Baker Street post-haste.”

“Sure that she will,” Lestrade agreed, rolling his eyes as Holmes slapped his ankle to move him three steps to the right. “He’ll have a fine time of it with the lift out.”

Holmes barked a triumphant laugh and continued his investigation of crushed carpet fibres.

With a tight smile, Watson fished a small brass-bound notebook out of one pocket and a matching pre-inked pen from another. He scraped the nib a few times to removed the crust of dried ink. “If you wouldn’t mind terribly, relate to me again the details?”

As Lestrade droned on in his uninteresting manner, Watson dutifully took notes for Holmes’s later perusal. A great deal more of his attention remained on Holmes crawling about the floor, eyes alight and lips twitching minutely as he muttered to himself. A sense of well-deserved satisfaction glowed warmly in Watson’s belly. There would be no room for a blackened mood and the cocaine-bottle now.

“Watson, I am at a loss for words.”

“Surely not,” Watson said, carefully schooling the corner of his mouth to a sardonic slant before lowering that evening’s edition of the Pall Mall.

Holmes tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe against his forehead and paced to the chemical bench. “I can see how the thief has done it but not why. The why concerns me, Watson.”

“How so? The thing is hardly dangerous.”

“Exactly!” Holmes shouted, whipping about to jab the pipe into the air. “Hardly dangerous and hardly useful. There must be some personal intrigue here.” He stuck the pipe back into his mouth and puffed, giving a disgruntled snort when he recalled he hadn’t yet lit it.

Watson struck a match and offered it. “A rival?”

“I think not.” Bent low over the arm of Watson’s chair, Holmes puffed again, humming contentedly as smoke curled from his nostrils. “Thank you, Watson. I believe there is a very personal relationship at the root of this fellow’s troubles. We must discover who so very badly desires his invention to fail.”

“From his account it doesn’t seem as if it requires any aid in that respect.” Neatly folding his paper, Watson set it aside with the intent to join Holmes in his smoking. Before he could stand to fetch his pipe a fine Lowland cigar appeared, already snipped, in the palm of Holmes’s hand. “I was looking for my pipe,” Watson remarked, taking the cigar.

“But you wanted that,” Holmes said, pipe clenched between his teeth as he offered the flame of the compact firestarter.

The name of which Watson had always considered slightly misleading; the firestarter itself was indeed compact but the flame it boasted was most definitely not. Wary of a singed moustache, he leaned carefully forward. At the first warm curl of clove-laced smoke, he realised Holmes had been right. His self-congratulatory mood was far more suited to this indulgence.

“I am inclined to agree with you,” Holmes said, flicking the firestarter in the general direction of the mantle and turning on his heel to perch delicately on the arm of Watson’s chair. “No doubt it would have been a dismal failure regardless, but this thievery has guaranteed such an outcome if we cannot recover it in a timely fashion.”

Buoyed even further by Holmes’s infectious energy, Watson laid his arm along Holmes’s thigh. Well-developed muscle tensed minutely–Holmes was not quite surprised by this free affection in the middle of a case but startled by its rarity nonetheless. Watson was generally very careful to not divert Holmes’s attentions at such times.

Expecting it to go unremarked, Holmes in turn gave Watson a start by saying, “What is this, Watson?”

Watson gave a tiny shrug. “I’m glad to see you so engaged.”

“I am beginning to suspect you wish to see me differently so.” One fine eyebrow arched questioningly.

“You are your most lively when caught in a puzzle,” Watson allowed, curling his fingers to sweep beneath Holmes’s knee. At the slight hitch in Holmes’s breathing, he wondered quite honestly why he’d never tried this before.

“Indeed,” Holmes said, agreement and statement both as he slid gracefully from the chair’s arm to the square of carpet in front of it. His long fingers curved about Watson’s upper thighs and pushed them very slowly wider. “And you at your most accommodating.”

“I’m always accommodating,” Watson said, his lungs squeezing tightly as Holmes plucked at buckles and buttons with clear intent. “I do hope you bolted that door.”

Holmes flashed a smile worthy of the most impish street urchin. “Mrs. Hudson would never be so crass as to enter without knocking.”

“Your clientele’s manners are sometimes lacking,” Watson said, the last of it spilling out in a breathless rush as Holmes pushed aside cotton and concerns alike to draw free his cock. His fingertips dug into the upholstery as Holmes stroked him lazily to full hardness and then simply held him cradled in one hand, thumb rubbing absently near the tip. “For the love of God, Holmes, please tell me you don’t mean to only look at it.”

“Not at all. Though I do enjoy the sight.” His leg jerked as Holmes thumbed his slit, encouraging the spread of slippery wetness. Holmes smiled. “I enjoy it quite a bit.”

Watson groaned and slumped deeper into the chair, his knees falling shamefully wide. “You’re wretchedly cruel to me.”

Warm breath shivered over Watson’s damp skin. “You enjoy it.”

“I must be mad to.”

“Undoubtedly,” Holmes said, and pressed his clean-shaven cheek to Watson’s cock, his breaths slow and deliberately measured. The ticking of the faceless clock above the mantlepiece grew louder, plucking at Watson’s nerves as he waited with breath caught for Holmes to turn, take him into the warm lushness of his mouth.

But he did nothing and Watson’s will to wait broke. He took Holmes’s face in his hands, thumbs curved over the sharp rise of his cheekbones. Holmes’s eyes slid slowly shut, his weight resting heavily on Watson’s uninjured leg as he willingly let his mouth be guided, his lips parting and closing softly around the head of Watson’s cock. His tongue curled forward, firm and as clever in sin as it was in conversation as it slipped beneath foreskin to drag along the ridge.

“Holmes, your hand,” Watson said, and sucked air between his teeth as Holmes’s grip immediately tightened. He set his fingers beneath Holmes’s jaw to urge him forward, his own head falling back to rest on the chair as Holmes’s mouth opened wider to accommodate his cock’s heavy thickness.

There remained the thrill of newness to this still, a spark of the unknown. Holmes was not so practiced as he was confident that all Watson truly required was a bit of physical stimulation to go along with the dizzying rush of such debauchery. But where Holmes frequently pushed Watson to his limits so did Watson wish to return the favour here with Holmes’s breaths shortened, his nostrils flaring wide and the delicate flutter of his throat so close to closing around the head of his cock.

Holmes coughed and pulled quickly back, said, “Perhaps less accommodating than I’d first thought,” his voice a dark alleyway rasp. Saliva glistened at the corner of his smile. “Shall we try once again?”

Chest constricted, Watson forced out a simple, “Please,” and Holmes returned, lips soft and wet and parting slowly to begin anew. Watson’s thumb slipped down to press lightly against Holmes’s throat, eliciting a short sharp noise that would’ve made him snatch it away again if it weren’t for the desperate fist Holmes tangled in his open trousers. He gave a small thrust, his heart clogging his throat in mute sympathy of his cock steadily filling Holmes’s. Holmes swallowed once, weak and fluttering, then a second time as his face flushed darkly.

Watson choked on a word of caution and seized Holmes’s hair to shove him back before he did the same but Holmes would have none of it. A trickle of tears dampened the corners of Holmes’s eyes, catching on his fluttering lashes as he forced his gaze upwards.

The raw need glittering darkly in his eyes finished Watson as surely as if Holmes had barked it in an order. He’d seen a need like that dozens of times before, a much more mild glimmer that came with what he’d thought for so long was the unnecessary praise he felt compelled to give Holmes’s brilliance. How desperately Holmes desired it would never cease to shock him.

Stitches tore as he seized a handful of Holmes’s shirt. He surged upwards, a breathless apology leaping to his lips when Holmes did choke and still refused to pull away, his throat constricting tightly as he struggled to swallow the proof of Watson’s pleasure. Unable to manage it he finally eased back, his eyes falling shut again as his mouth filled and a small droplet leaked from the corner . He touched it with unsteady fingers, smearing it back across his lips until they glistened wetly.

The rustle of cotton stirred Watson from the lassitude threatening to overtake him. “Up,” he said, tucking his hands beneath Holmes’s armpits and tugging weakly.

“Across your lap?” Holmes said, laughter echoing in his roughened voice even as he clambered up to straddle Watson’s thighs.

The chair gave a mighty groan at the extra weight. Watson couldn’t care less if the entire thing gave way beneath them. He watched Holmes’s hand move over his cock, the entire length made shiny in the lamplight by spit and his come, and when the urge struck he thrust his fingers in his mouth without a second thought, wetting them thoroughly before shoving his hand into Holmes’s trousers and rubbing gently at the tight clench of his hole.

Holmes made a strangled noise deep in his throat, something he obviously intended to be an admonishment from the expression on his face as he lurched forward. The head of his cock dragged over Watson’s bared belly and his hand clenched tightly onto the chair’s back, eliciting another protest from its sorely-tried joints. A noise so broken it sounded as if it had been wrenched from the pit of Holmes’s gut spilled hotly against Watson’s cheek, followed swiftly by the warm spill of come directly onto his skin.

“Watson, you are terrible,” Holmes said, his muscles still twitching in the aftershocks of his pleasure. “I had no idea you wished such sport tonight.”

“Not particularly,” Watson said, though the thought gave fresh spark to his lust, “but you so frequently remind me that I have the liberty to take such liberties as I like.”

Holmes rested their foreheads together. “Then if you have no objections, I should like you to take the liberty of kissing me.”

The kiss Watson took tasted of the half-dozen sins they had blissfully committed, and later, when at Holmes’s urging they moved to the settee to curl about one another in a light doze, he was hard pressed to recall an evening so pleasant.

All was not so idyllic two days later at 221B.

After breakfasting alone Watson sat down at his desk to write another chapter or two of what he was determined to title The Mystery of Musgrave despite the numerous derisive glances Holmes insisted on flinging his way. Not ten minutes later the discordant plucking of strings emanated from behind Holmes’s closed door. Gritting his teeth, Watson persisted, the clack-grind of his auto-writer underscoring the increasingly ear-shattering shrill of Holmes’s playing.

Mrs. Hudson’s cardbox vainly beseeched Quiet, please! three times in quick succession, to which Watson slammed the case down on his auto-writer and went to pound his fist against Holmes’s door. “Holmes! Holmes, stop that this instant! You shall drive our good landlady to absolute distraction!”

The notes of one last defiant screech set Watson’s eyes to watering. “Thank you, Holmes.”

Silence.

“I realise the case is giving you a spot of trouble, old boy, but perhaps a spot of tea would soothe your nerves.”

“My nerves, Watson!” came Holmes’s incredulous cry, followed by a loud bang and the clattering of glass. “My nerves would be fine if you would cease your infernal clacking!”

Watson leaned his forehead against the door and counted slowly to five. “I would be happy to, but you confiscated all the ink to be found in the house for your experiment yesterday.” Which was, he refrained from noting yet again, a dismal failure.

More silence, then a huff and a shuffle and the door flew open to reveal Holmes still in his nightshirt and dressing gown and inexplicably, his favourite hat. His feet were bare and looking rather chilled, though that could have been a projection on Watson’s part due to the frigid arctic blast that accompanied Holmes’s appearance. The small potbelly in the corner looked as if it hadn’t been lit in a week.

“I suppose you expect me to apologise for that,” Holmes sniffed.

“Not at all,” Watson said, as that was not Holmes’s way and he had already pilfered a few coins from Holmes’s pockets to give to Mrs. Hudson for a resupply. “But I do wish you would eat something. You’ll feel better.”

“I have no time for food, Watson,” Holmes moaned, leaning his arm against the doorframe and his forehead against his arm. “I had been so certain!”

“Of?” Watson cautiously prompted.

“His wife.” Holmes jerked away from the jamb at the touch of Watson’s hand to his elbow but trailed placidly along as Watson steered him towards his wide, high-backed chair. “Who else could have more reason to spare Mr. Blackleby the mortification of his invention’s public failure?”

“I hadn’t thought a thief could possess so altruistic a motive.” Brow furrowed, Watson went to the table to pour Holmes a fresh cup of tea. Since he’d ordered breakfast for only one, he filled his own cup to the brim and brought it over with a scrap of cold toast. The tea itself was lukewarm at best but he doubted Mrs. Hudson would be in much of a mood to provide a fresh pot right then.

“Nonsense,” Holmes said, sipping daintily at his cup. “The majority of thieves steal for those closest to their hearts. My God, what is this, chafe?”

Watson cleared his throat and assumed his own seat after stoking the fire. “Toast. You’ll recall you refused to join me earlier.”

“I was otherwise engaged,” Holmes said, a bare hint of mollification in his tone.

“No doubt,” Watson muttered, and crossed his legs. “So you have concluded that Mrs. Blackleby did not make off with her husband’s invention?”

“She did not,” Holmes agreed, nibbling on a crust. “It all smacks of the most personal involvement yet my attempts at pinpointing have only managed to clear the good Mr. Blackleby’s family and friends–even associates and erstwhile schoolmates!–of all blame. It is most frustrating.”

Breathing easier now that Holmes seemed fractionally more settled, Watson asked, “What of your attempts to locate the device?”

“Oh, that. It’s either in a Southwark warehouse or the vicarage in East Dulwich.”

If he’d had tea, Watson would have choked on it. “Well surely you must tell Mr. Blackleby!”

“Must I?” Holmes sighed gustily into his cup. “Mrs. Blackleby promised me a half sovereign if I didn’t.”

Watson’s eyes widened. “That is exceedingly generous.”

Holmes plopped his chin into his hand. “Most especially compared to his three shillings if I do. But the money hardly matters, Watson, it is the thrill of it. I wish to know why Blackleby’s confounded contraption went missing in the first place.”

Since Watson was the one most often struggling to pay his half of the rent, something he stubbornly insisted upon doing despite Holmes’s sometimes fond, sometimes worryingly serious offers to make him a kept man, he rather felt the money did matter. “You’ve been quite content before to consign the whys to conjecture following the closing of a case.”

“There is something not right about this one,” Holmes said, and tapped his lips with his forefinger as he lapsed into a thoughtful silence. The sky rumbled overhead, voicing its own displeasure at the state of the world as the endless spring rain fell harder. The gaslights flickered wanly. “And you have been remarkably unhelpful, Watson.”

In the midst of rising to fetch something of substance for Holmes to eat, Watson eased back into his chair. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may beg all you wish, I shan’t grant it,” Holmes said. “Your performance thus far has been entirely sufficient. I’ve come to expect more of you.”

“I don’t see what more I could do,” Watson protested.

“Inspire me, Watson! I have overlooked something obvious, help me to find it.”

Watson delayed the inevitable by tugging at his cuffs, then his collar. “You have eliminated all possible motives,” he finally said. “If no harm nor help comes to Mr. Blackleby from his invention’s theft, then of course you are right: there must be some personal gain for the thief. But you have already concluded that the machine will be of absolutely no use to anyone at all.”

Holmes opened his mouth to speak and abruptly shut it again. A moment later he leapt to his feet and dashed into his room, calling, “Exactly, Watson, exactly! The machine is of no use at all to anyone, but its disappearance may well be!”

Watson considered this to the backdrop of slamming cupboards and scraping drawers. “Surely you don’t mean Mr. Blackleby planned this to increase his invention’s value.”

Appearing briefly in the doorway, a half-dressed Holmes proclaimed, “And why not?”

“Well,” Watson said, and duly reconsidered. “I suppose if only he, his wife, and now you and I are aware of its destined failure, it would be possible to convince others it holds an unproven value. But to what end, Holmes?”

“Investors, my good man!” Buttoning his waistcoat, Holmes emerged from his bedroom and moved through the sitting room, picking up his coat, gloves and hat as he went. “I shall return before nine. I trust that is enough time for you to convince Mrs. Hudson that I am dreadfully sorry for disturbing the peace of her house and do what you can to ensure she won’t hold supper hostage again? Excellent. Good day, Watson!”

In the relative silence that followed Holmes’s hasty departure, Watson smiled and resettled himself at his desk. With the sitting room his own for the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, there was a good chance he could finish his manuscript and have it ready for his editor by morning.

The telegram arrived at a quarter past seven marked URGENT. Expecting it to be another desperate plea for attention from a lonely lady, he took his time getting around to opening it. When he finally did, he nearly dropped his glass of port.

“Holmes,” he growled, balling up the piece of paper and flinging it into the stove as he stomped by on his way to the narrow staircase that lead to his room.

The gaslight sputtered when he cranked the knob, throwing out sharp-edged shadows. He bypassed his service pistol sitting on a side table beside the model Royal Berkshire dirigible he’d spent the better part of two years constructing entirely and moved to his wardrobe. Throwing aside his clothes, he opened the false back and pulled out the undercoat harness, strapping it on one-handed while he reached for his flechette gun.

Tugging on his overcoat, he checked the fit to make certain it didn’t show when he moved. His service pistol he tucked into another harness hidden inside his deep pockets, checking the draw as he clomped back down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson met him at the bottom. “What’s this now, Doctor?” she asked, her folded hands twitching only slightly as she fought the urge to wring them. “Should’t you be calling the Yard?”

“They’ll be of no use at all out there,” Watson said, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder to move her aside. “Mr. Holmes is in need of a quiet touch.”

“Yes, so he said but- Oh, don’t bother looking at me like that, Doctor. A telegram is not the most secretive method of communication.” She plucked his hat from the stand and his gloves from the table beside it. “All right, off you go,” she huffed, about-facing to retreat back to her kitchen haven. “I’ll leave the boiler fired. Do not drop mud all over my foyer when you return!”

“Oh Holmes,” Watson whispered, picking his way carefully through the debris-ridden path. “What the devil are you doing here.”

The watery gaslights demarcating the boarders of the Mechanical Graveyard reached only a dozen feet past its gates. The dark lantern he held fought vainly against the sheets of cold rain, the single stream of light that made it through the torrent glinting dully on weathered scrap. Crooked towers of junk rose on either side to blot out the distant rain-hazed glow of the city proper. Billows of shredded steam from the grinders drifted low to the west.

He moved as stealthy as he could over the clogged muddy ground. He saw the lamps belonging to resurrectionists hunting through the scrap once or twice but never one of them, only the great heaps of salvaged metal they carried on their backs.

The telegram had said south of the grinders, so that was where he went. The filthy maze of the Graveyard turned a trip of twenty minutes into forty. Beneath the churning soup of mud and rust he sometimes caught sight of metal direction plaques set into the cobblestones that had once been straight and neatly-planned roads and altered his direction, checking his compass to be certain they weren’t leading him astray.

The icy rain dripping down the back of his collar did nothing to cool the worry burning beneath his skin. There was no good reason for Holmes to be in such a place.

After another harrowing ten minutes during which unending panoramas of all the terrible danger Holmes could be in played inside his head, Watson reached the south-end of the grinders. As he searched for a trace of what Holmes was about, the hot sparking dust and hissing steam stinging his eyes, he wished he’d had the wherewithal to have taken a pair of protective goggles on his way out.

He found his answer in the familiar shape of old moorland code; instead of rocks and twigs it used metal gears and shards, but the message was clear enough. Watson’s shoulders slumped. The rain beat down onto his hat, running in rivulets off the brim.

“Holmes,” he growled a minute later, and decided right then and there the cab he fetched home would be charged to Holmes’s account.

Mr. Blackleby’s testament to the unimaginative ingenuity of the common man sat gleaming innocently on the dining table. Holmes sat in a chair beside it, a freshly steaming cup of tea and a voluminous towel at his elbow. He smiled. “Don’t look so sour, Watson.”

Watson transferred his glare to the clock. Half eleven. “Holmes, I’m very cross with you right now.”

“I suppose that is fair, as I was very cross with you some time ago.” Holmes stood and gathered up the towel. “Come here before that puddle about your feet becomes a lake.”

Stripping off his coat and jacket, Watson left them in a crumpled pile topped with his hat and gloves just outside the sitting room door. He leaned heavily on his walking stick as he stumped over to the fire. A warm curl of satisfaction slithered through his belly as Holmes’s eyes widened at the sight of the flechette gun at his side and the poignard strapped to his arm, but it was sadly not enough to combat the chill that had stolen to his very marrow.

“Your telegram was urgent,” Watson said, reaching for the towel when Holmes drew near.

Holmes smoothly sidestepped and began patting his face dry with a corner. “Not quite that urgent, I would think.”

“Do you recall the last time I braved the Graveyard at your behest?” It had not been the most pleasant of evening. Echoes of Holmes calmly stating that Mycroft held his last will and testament in trust still haunted Watson’s sleepless nights.

“Ah,” Holmes said, in a manner clearly indicating he had forgotten entirely until that moment. He cleared his throat. “My sincerest apologies.”

Feeling rather foolish about whole debacle, Watson heaved a sigh. “We could spend all night on apologies.”

“Indeed we could,” Holmes said, flinging the towel around Watson’s shoulders. “I suggest we turn our attention to more important matters. You may begin by telling me why you made off with Mr. Blackleby’s Mastertoaster 1615.”

“Why I,” Watson began. “Holmes, I’m not sure what you mean.”

Hooking a chair closer with his toe, Holmes sat down and began unbuckling the flechette’s harness. “I realise you orchestrated this little case for my benefit but I would very much like to know why.”

Watson scrubbed at his moustache with the towel’s edge to delay his answer. “When did you come to that conclusion?”

“Only after I went to Southwark to fetch it,” Holmes said, his teeth showing for just an instant when he smiled. “You do have the benefit of being the one person I would always least suspect.”

“Mr. Blackleby’s performance was quite genuine,” Watson said, his pulse speeding as Holmes set aside the poignard and started in on his belt. “But his wife is going to be very disappointed with me. I may have to return her sovereign.”

Holmes paused, his fingers curled beneath the tails of Watson’s shirt and less than a hairsbreadth from touching skin. “A whole sovereign? My goodness, Watson, you are a thief.”

“A sometimes-thief,” Watson clarified, gooseflesh prickling all along his arms as Holmes released his braces and they slithered off his shoulders to clunk onto the floor. The back of his trousers dipped from the extra weight. A flick of Holmes’s fingers sent them slipping down to pool damply about his ankles.

“You must still tell me why,” Holmes insisted, hands skidding up the backs of Watson’s thighs to deftly deal with his underthings.

Standing half naked in the middle of their sitting room, Watson found his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. Holmes peered patiently upwards, sharp chin digging into Watson’s belly, one eyebrow raised as if to say he was perfectly capable of staying exactly like this until either Watson offered an answer or they both perished of dehydration.

“The lethargy threatened,” he said, tucking a loose strand of Holmes’s hair behind his ear. That he was allowed such freedoms with a man so adverse to a casual touch remained as thrilling as the heat of Holmes’s kisses.

“It often does.”

Watson closed his eyes and breathed deeply before opening them again to meet Holmes’s steady gaze. “I could not allow it.”

Both of Holmes’s brows made for his hairline. A long moment of silence stretched between them before he softly said, “Ah, Watson.”

“‘Ah, Watson’ nothing,” Watson snapped. “If it is at all in my power to stave off these terrible moods then rest assured I will do so. I would cast your damnable cocaine-bottle down a public privy if I thought for one moment–for one single moment, Holmes!–that the loss would not do you more harm than good.”

Seeming to come to a decision, Holmes stood. “You feel quite strongly about this.”

“I do,” Watson agreed, his steps shuffling and unsteady as Holmes backed him away from the stove.

“Then there is only one thing to be done.”

Watson’s heel landed awkwardly on the edge of a commonplace book. Holmes’s hands clamped immediately to his sides to steady him, palms hot through the damp cotton of his shirt. An answering rush of heat stole up the back of Watson’s neck.

“You must strive to occupy my attention at all times,” Holmes went on, a devilish light sparking in his eyes. “Never allow my hands to slip into idleness, my mind into wandering.”

The backs of Watson’s knees bumped against the settee. “I must sleep at some point.”

“I suppose,” Holmes said, entirely as if the matter was not one of pure biological necessity, and then, “Wait!” his grip tightening to keep Watson from sinking down onto the cushions. “I have changed my mind.”

Dumbly, Watson could only say, “What?”

“We must go upstairs this instant,” Holmes said, dropping to his knees to rid Watson of his shoes and the trousers still circling his ankles.

“I am most certainly not about to go walking through the halls like this!”

“You must,” Holmes insisted, leaping back to his feet. “Only your bed will do tonight and we have no time for your modesty.” His hands back on Watson’s hips, he propelled Watson to the door. “Out and up with you.”

Sputtering, Watson nearly stumbled over the pile of clothing he had left near the door. By then it was too late for protests and with an alarmed glance to the stairs leading down, he darted up. Holmes followed close on his heels, “Quickly, Watson, quickly!” snapping like a whip at his back.

Once inside the familiar warmth of his attic room, he had no time to turn before the door swung shut and Holmes again took hold of him, the thump of Holmes’s knees hitting the rug and the hot gust of breath on his thigh all the warning given before Holmes parted his cheeks and lewdly kissed him. His hands grasped at air, the pleasure all the more shocking for the darkness that surrounded them. He felt more than heard Holmes’s soft moan, the sensation almost enough to send him crashing to his own knees on the floor when coupled with the slick and filthy wriggle of Holmes’s tongue pushing at his asshole.

“I do have a gel for that,” Watson said, thankful indeed that Holmes couldn’t see the flush rising on his face as he hunched over just bit and spread his feet a little further apart, well aware that if he couldn’t convince himself that it was to preserve his precarious balance then he certainly couldn’t fool Holmes.

“Of course you do,” Holmes said, and kissed the reflexive clench of muscle as warm breath teased damp skin. “And you will need it very soon.”

A shiver skittered up the length of Watson’s spine as Holmes stood, one hand dragging up the inside of his thigh. “The bed, please.”

“Then also the lamps,” Holmes said, his hand falling away.

The bed creaked long before Watson had lit the first. He dutifully attended to all three, brightening the room to the soft light of dusk before he allowed himself to turn and find Holmes reclining still in his shirtsleeves and trousers, though the buttons of both were open and his bare cock, slicked and ready, rested heavily against his belly.

He crooked his fingers, the lamplight revealing that they too were smeared with slippery gel. Excitement and arousal making him feel like he was a lad again, Watson made his way to the bedside and set a knee upon it, hesitating for only a moment to take in the sight before swinging up to straddle Holmes’s hips. “You are the very worst sort of invert.”

“As are you,” Holmes agreed, wasting no time in pushing between Watson’s spread thighs. He barely bothered to wet delicate flesh before firmly pressing upwards with the tips of two fingers, forcing Watson’s body to open to him with a slowness that bordered on horrible simply because it was so very slow.

“If you’re going to do that, you might as well skip your fingers all together,” Watson said through gritted teeth, and no sooner than the last syllable passed his lips Holmes complied, the blunt tip of his cock sinking easily to the depth his fingers had reached and pressing further, filling him with a blissful ache.

He rocked down not with impatience but a singular eagerness for more, the flare of his pleasure like a match struck and set to tinder. For a long moment he registered nothing but the feel of Holmes inside him, stroking slickly against delicate inner flesh with every shift of their bodies, and when he blinked back to awareness he saw Holmes staring up at him as if he’d finally seen the face of God Himself.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man he had ever mistaken for reverent, and despite his best efforts a wide grin split his face. Holmes crooked an eyebrow, somehow placing a question in that one small twitch and the roll of his hips, and with a gasp Watson said, “You looked very much not like your usual self.”

“Understandable,” Holmes said, his hands skidding up beneath Watson’s shirt to grip his sides, “as you look like very much more than your usual self.”

Air hissed through Watson’s teeth. The flats of his hands smacked to Holmes’s bared chest, a shallow grunt accompanying the shift in his weight, but unless it came with protests concerning the lack of breath reaching Holmes’s lungs, Watson cared not a jot. He completely ruined the rhythm Holmes had set, establishing one of his own that had sweat breaking out across Holmes’s upper lip and trickling down his back. His game leg gave a strident protest that he stubbornly ignored.

“Watson,” Holmes said, and whether it was warning or plea there was no chance to discover. His hands slid down to Watson’s ass in a grip firm enough to mottle flesh. Bracing his heels against the coverlet neither one of them had paused to turn down he thrust up, the force of it enough to knock Watson off balance, sending his hands skidding up Holmes’s chest and thumping into the pillow.

“I wanted to be surrounded by you,” Holmes said, answering Watson’s unvoiced question as to why they’d darted up the stairs like misbehaving schoolboys. “The bedding smells of you.”

“That is a remarkably romantic thing for you to say,” Watson attempted to reply, but rather thought most of it came out as a shameful burble of noise as Holmes wrapped one chemical-stained hand about his cock.

He rutted into Holmes’s hand with little thought to anything but his own completion and found it mere moments later as soft lips brushed the shell of his ear. He pressed his mouth to the curve of Holmes’s shoulder to muffle his moans as he came, unable to fully manage it when he could feel his release smearing from Holmes’s knuckles onto his belly. He might have been ashamed to admit to the lassitude that turned him into little more than a boneless heap in the few seconds between his peak and Holmes’s, but if he were truly going to bother with being ashamed of anything in his life now, it wouldn’t be his ability to wipe Holmes’s perpetually busy mind clean of all thoughts but him, even if only for a moment.

Far too soon, Holmes said, “You have made quite the mess of us, Watson.”

Watson replied with a satiated grunt, which at the moment he thought was the most suitable answer in the world. His body was only beginning to make its opinion of the matter known, and it would have to be a far more stridently voiced one to prompt his relocation to the warmth of the bath.

“I see,” Holmes said. “I do dislike being dirty without good cause.”

Summoning up second grunt for such a ridiculous statement was simply too much effort.

“Mrs. Hudson will have words when she discovers your underclothes in a heap by the fire.”

“Oh my God,” Watson said, stunned, and leapt from the bed to snatch up his dressing gown, throwing it on while Holmes’s bright and shining laugh chased him down the stairs.

–

End

–

There’s stupid shit, and then there’s stupid shit. It’s not like Tommy’s got the market share on either, but instead of forcing out the words jammed up in his throat, he’s busy staring at the clean lines of Adam’s face like a total freak. Half an hour on Google gave him a pretty solid handle on all things Lambert. Okay, yeah, it ended up being more like two hours, but it’s a job interview. Gotta be prepared. Which is why he’s rockin’ the amped-up glam version of his usual right now.

But he wasn’t ready for this. Even squinting he can’t find a speck of makeup on Adam’s face. There’s no glitter, no leather, no awesome gloves with more spikes than he’s had birthdays. Just Adam, smiling, laughing, in a soft jersey tee and tight worn jeans and bare toes painted OPI Ink. The bottle’s sitting on the floor next to a takeout cup with a teabag string hooked over the edge.

“Yeah, totally,” Tommy says, not sure if it’s the tea or the toes that rattled the pileup past his tongue. “I can totally learn bass for you.”

No sparkle on Adam’s face, but that lights one in his eyes. It spreads out into the curve of his mouth, bright and broad and feeling kinda a lot like he’s whipped Tommy’s legs out from under him at sixty miles per. Gravity packs it in because Adam fucking Lambert smiles like Tommy just said he won the world.

It’s the single most brilliant, fucking stupidest thing Tommy’s ever done.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Tommy says the second he’s off stage, and can’t quit saying it. He says it a few more times, adds a couple of adjectives, bites his lip and hopes it’s going to stop tingling sometime in the next century. The crowd had no fucking clue that was coming. He didn’t have a fucking clue and he went to the goddamn rehearsal. Now that shit’s all over YouTube and he’s going to be stuck seeing his knees go out from under him for real on endless replay for the next ten fucking years.

Adam sweeps down, a tidal wave of glitter and spikes. “That was fucking amazing. I want to do it again. Right now.”

“Wasn’t bad,” Tommy says, fumbling for the wall just in case. There’s this weird echoing roar in his head. Blood rush, crowd rush, who the fuck knows.

A flare from the stage lights brightens Adam’s face. “Best fucking kiss you ever got.”

Tommy’s not so sure about that. Hard to be sure about anything when he’s still trying to figure out exactly what the hell happened. If it even happened. Warning might’ve been nice. Maybe. Okay, no. Kisses like that aren’t supposed to come with prep time, because then they aren’t kisses like that.

The stage is still running hot in Adam’s blood. Whatever it was out there that keyed him up, Tommy’s staring at it reflected in his eyes right the hell now. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s about to happen this time.

“Say no,” Adam says, and for a second there Tommy’s trying to figure out if that one’s a request or an order. Either way it’s one he’s going to ignore. Time slows down to a syrup-thick crawl as Adam’s hand comes up, fingers light on his chin to lead him in for the sweet slow push of Adam’s tongue into his mouth. He opens up for it, just sinks right into it, because when somebody’s serious about getting their mouth all over his and he likes the somebody who’s attached to it, that’s what he does. Adam is pretty fucking serious about it.

There’s nothing to grab onto this time around except the wall or Adam and so far neither one’s working out so hot. Adam’s shirt slips out from under his fingers. The tips catch on Adam’s belt, so he fists that tight, yanks Adam in like he hadn’t had a chance to out there. Underneath the layers there’s a hint of warm skin, firm muscle, Adam’s motherfucking cock, hard and thick and right there. Dick is hardly ever Tommy’s first choice off the menu. But there it is, ten points for presentation, and sounding more and more like the perfect chaser to Adam’s tongue.

He isn’t ready for that to not happen. He’s not ready for the fallout that starts up about five seconds after Adam quits sucking on his lip, half the fucking nation horning in on what should’ve been the private freakout he didn’t bother having.

He is so not ready for any of this.

Halfway to the door, Tommy stops short. “Like, do you want actual coffee or that blossoming flowery thing pretending it’s related to a bean?”

Adam makes a face. Lots of things about Adam spite all attempts to fit them into tidy labelled boxes. The faces drive Tommy insane. This one’s some cracked out mashup of fondly exasperated and gleeful disappointment. Like Adam actually fucking sits around waiting for Tommy to do something worth teasing him over. “Don’t mock my tea, bitch.”

“So fucking drink coffee,” Tommy says, gnawing on the jagged edge of a nail as he flicks one-handed through crumpled bills. Half the time when Adam says, ‘Hey, Starbucks, awesome idea,’ what he means is, ‘I’d love some boiled rose petals.’

Adam lifts one eyebrow into a perfect dark arch. Lounging on the cramped bus couch with his phone in one hand and the other curved over his hip, he’s ready for cameras to start flashing. It’s just the two of them, though, hanging out waiting for the others to get back. He’s not even sure how long they’ve been on the road. Days and nights and cities blur together like time-lapse photography.

The corner of Adam’s mouth hitches up as Tommy gropes for his phone, aims. He says, “Yeah?” and slumps deeper into the cushions, tilts his chin up and does some shit that clicks the atmosphere from casual and easy to sex about to happen. Some days Tommy seriously wishes sex was about to happen. Most days. He’s not so screwed in the head he doesn’t know a good time when it’s staring him in the face.

He’s also not so screwed in the head he wants to fuck this up. Adam’s more caught up in the whole label thing than he is, forced into speaking the language the straight-laced masses do. It’s a lot less about the parts than the person they’re attached to. Adam is fucking stellar, his parts are pretty cool, and if his kisses are anything to go by he sure knows how to use them.

“You are so fucking crazy,” Tommy says, and shoots another picture when Adam blows him a kiss. The A/C’s on blast but the bus has gone stuffy like two hours into a show. “I’m putting this shit on your Facebook.”

“Put your face on my Facebook,” Adam says, mangling the end of it with a giggle. He actually fucking giggles right in the middle of being sex god extraordinaire, this cute burst of sound so genuine it kinda hurts. Somehow it clears the air clogging up Tommy’s lungs instead of making it worse. “Ask somebody else to go.”

“Y’know I’m gonna come back, right? With your shitty flower-nut tea.”

Adam says, “You better,” and it sounds like a threat, a promise, another one of those really fucking awesome good times Tommy really, really wants to have.

But the stage is like Vegas. What happens there, stays there. Motherfuck it all.

Except, he’s sick of that shit. “Gimme a good reason not to,” he says, and Adam’s eyebrows fly up. “Go, I mean.”

Edging towards confused and covering it with a laugh, Adam says, “Like I’m technically your boss?”

“Come on, that’ll just make me go. Like stickin’ it to the man,” Tommy says, and counts off the seconds it takes for the oxygen in his lungs to go from normal to soupy to solid lead weighing him down. It happens right when Adam tunes in to the same wavelength he’s been riding since November. He thinks about saying something, then not saying something, then pretty much blurts, “No concerned-parent coalition here,” like it’s something dirty he’s got to work up the balls to say.

“No,” Adam says slowly. “Just a sexual harassment suit.”

Tommy’s face goes flat. “You do not think I’m going to pull that shit. Not now.”

“You? Fuck, you’re the one hitting on me.” Adam pauses, leans up a little more. “You are hitting on me, right?”

“Well now I’m gonna say no, ’cause you’re threatening to sue my ass.”

“Honey, that is so not what I would do to your ass–and now look what you’ve done,” Adam says, swinging up with a finger waggling. “I have no impulse control. You see what you made me do? ”

Adam stares at him expectantly. So that’s not rhetorical. Tommy was really hoping. Explaining a dicked attempt to get into Adam’s pants doesn’t really fit with that good time he’d been thinking about having. “Um.”

“No, nope, never mind,” Adam says, waving both hands. He’s really working the whole diva thing. Tommy’ll have to trot that one out later, once he’s got a minute to sit down and figure out what the fuck is actually going on here. “This didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.” He points at the door. “Starbucks.”

After the sun’s glare fades behind the safety of his sunglasses, Tommy says, “Huh,” to the clear blue sky. That had kinda gone a little differently in his head.

“You,” Adam says, glaring down at him with daytime demon eyes, “are going to get that all over my bed.”

Stretched out on his stomach, bottle caught in his right hand and applicator carefully smoothing down the last bare nail left on it, Tommy waves his foot in a pft, never gesture. The boring news show droning on the background, pre-empting his quality time with infomerical bingo, clicks over to a commercial break. “I have been doing this shit since I was five, man. Go shower. You smell like a buffalo.”

Adam’s mouth twists up on one side like he’s trying to figure out which is worse, the hotel pissed at him for getting his rocker glam all over the duvet or stinking like a hairy herd animal. He finally says, “As soon as you put that down, I’m shoving my sweaty buffalo shirt all up in your face.”

“Been there, licked that.”

“Can’t wait to do it again,” Adam tosses back, hauling his shirt off and folding it haphazardly before stuffing it into the laundry bag slumped in the corner. Which makes absolutely zero sense. Who fucking folds dirty laundry? A good question that does nothing to distract Tommy from the billions of freckles spattered across Adam’s shoulders. “Now what the hell are you doing.”

Not looking up from his phone, Tommy says, “Tweeting gay emo lyrics. Seems the time, right?”

“Baby, it’s always time for that.” Adam pauses with his hand on the bathroom door. “Knock if you take off.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and wonders as the door swings partway shut, when Adam’s going to fully drop the question mark that’s still hanging around at the end of that sentence. They’ve got this thing now. Adam’s no big fan of being alone and Tommy doesn’t really resent the company, so when there’re no interviews or special appearances or sound checks to be done, they hang out. It’s not like it’s constant chatter-chatter-chatter either. It’s them doing their own thing, together. It’s pretty sweet. Adam would make a great housemate.

Tommy kills the volume on the television. Even before the shower switches on, Adam does. His voice starts out soft and low, gauging the acoustics with nonsense sounds that melt into words, half-formed sentences. Bits and pieces of Voodoo meld with Goldfrapp circa 2002 and a sliver of some toned-down Zeppelin. Should be a royal fucked up mess, but somehow it works. Adam makes it work.

When the shower dies and the concert slinks on back around to Sleepwalker–always the moody stuff in the bathroom, he’s not sure what’s up with that–Tommy figures enough’s enough. He loves that fucking song, yeah, but happy fits Adam better, sassy and fucking proud of it. He belts out the opening line to Strut, losing it halfway through when laughter erupts from the bathroom. He’s on key (not the right one) and keeping time, over the top and full of awesome. Thirty seconds later Adam flings the door open and parades on out in his favourite pair of lazy day jeans and a random tee. Face clean and hair slicked back, he picks it up before they hit the chorus, adding in the dance moves Tommy’s only hinting at because hey, he’s still flaked out on the bed thanks very much.

“I can’t tell right now if you’re hot or ridiculous,” Adam says, dropping into the space Tommy didn’t need to shimmy over to make.

“Hot,” Tommy says, and throws in a smoulder for kicks. “Always hot.”

Adam gives him an odd sideways look. “That one was adorable. The other’s still open for debate.”

Rolling onto his back, Tommy gives his hair a toss out of his face. He’s loving this style but for kicking around he’s really got to start in on that plan for stealing the coolest of Monte’s scarves to keep it back.

Or not. That flick is all the invitation Adam needs to gather up a tight fist of it, and that is so not going to happen if he’s got a stupid scarf on his head. “Watch the nails.”

“Watch the nails,” Adam echoes, traces of a laugh wound through it. “Nobody knows how big a brat you really are.”

“You do,” Tommy says, like it means something. He didn’t really intend for it to come out like that. It just did. And now Adam’s looking at him with a soft sorta smile and a weird light in his eyes that makes the base of Tommy’s spine tingle. He nuzzles into the press of Adam’s knuckles, neck arched, exposed, mouth parted on a short intake of breath he didn’t think he could fit into his lungs.

“You’re doing it again,” Adam says, another question mark hanging crookedly off the end.

It’s fucking working, Tommy wants to say. He braces both elbows on the bed, pushes up and says, “Tug,” instead.

For a second it looks like Adam’s going to blow it off, turn it into a joke, but there’s that dark glint in his eyes right before his fingers tighten. He yanks Tommy back down like those first few times on stage, edging close to too hard too fast, and the remote goes flying to the floor as Tommy’s arm goes out from under him. It’s a fucking good thing he sucked down that scrap of air when he could because there sure as hell isn’t any more fitting in there now.

“You want me to kiss you,” Adam says, mattress dipping as he slides up onto one knee. His shadow falls across Tommy’s face when he shifts closer, knee bumping Tommy’s thigh, and Tommy spreads his legs easily, live-wire thrill sparking in his belly as Adam straddles his leg, leans down close. “You want it so fucking bad.”

“So do it,” Tommy says, heart thudding against his ribs in a steady bass line. “Have the fucking balls to jam your tongue down my throat right here where there’s no audience for an excuse.”

Adam’s free hand closes over Tommy’s throat. His smile’s a slow, slick spread that doesn’t fit the sunshine streaming in through the windows or the clean wet scent of his skin. Tommy’s seen it before, had it pressed to his mouth with Adam’s savage gorgeous urge to just have sweeping out through the crowd, turning screams for more of Adam to ones for Adam to take more of him.

When Adam’s mouth comes down on his, soft and slow and sweet, it’s not his fault he makes this weird gasping noise. It is absolutely not his fault he does it again at the flick of Adam’s tongue along the inside of his lip, or when he goes to press up into it and Adam holds him down, makes him take it the way Adam wants to give it. Which is like the best fucking idea ever. He hooks his fingers into the back of Adam’s jeans to get a little more of that and ends up scraping his tongue on Adam’s stupidly sharp teeth when Adam jerks back. He gets as far as, “The fuck,” before Adam’s palm slaps across his mouth.

“This is a bad idea,” Adam says.

Tommy shakes his head emphatically no. All that gets him is a narrow-eyed glare instead of more kissing, so he switches to an eyeroll that means maybe and shrugs. Epically worse things could happen. Armageddon, for example. Both the movie and the real thing.

Adam’s gaze slides down to where Tommy’s dick is trying to get a word in edgewise. He says, “We are not fucking,” in the exact same tone adults use to deny children delicious fresh-baked cookies before dinner. Adam’s a fucking cookie-nazi. Motherfucking cock-nazi.

Holding up his thumb and forefinger, Tommy’s, “Little bit?” comes out as a mumbled mess. He tosses in a shot of wide-eyed hope to get the message across.

The disapproving frown trying to ruin Adam’s smile loses its grip. “No cocksucking either.”

“Oh come the fuck on,” Tommy explodes, shaking free of Adam’s grip. “There is no motherfucking good reason why you can’t stick your dick in my mouth. I’m right here asking for it. I would like to please suck your cock right now. Okay? You get that? Work for you?”

That puts the hottest look on Adam’s face. A little shocked, a lot eager, x-rated Christmas morning come early. A second later Tommy’s jeans are open and hauled down over his ass, Adam’s big hand pushing up past his balls to settle a couple of fingers right at his hole. Tommy’s heart skips a dozen beats and ends up lodged in his throat, fluttering frantic as a trapped bird. Adam being Adam, he’d expected a token nod to foreplay first, but he’s willing to count a month and a half of making out on stage if Adam is.

“Fuck,” Adam says, low and reverent. His hand closes snugly around Tommy’s cock, a flash in his eyes to match the hitch of Tommy’s hips. “Look at you.”

“Yeah, look at me,” Tommy says, “just fucking look at me. And you were gonna say no. Can’t even believe you tried, you freak.”

Adam gives him a rough squeeze, making the k cut sharp. “So tiny and vicious. Gonna get pissed if I want you to fuck my hand? Show me how sweet you move?”

A moan sticks in Tommy’s throat. By the time Adam gets a spit-slick hand back on his dick, he’s swallowed it back down. Practically fucking choking on it because Adam’s fingers are right there playing with the idea of pushing up inside him. He grabs onto Adam’s wrist, trying to control the angle, to get himself off in about three seconds flat, and Adam’s smile slips into a dark tease.

Watching Adam lick a few more fingers wet almost does it for him. But then those fingers press back up between his legs, and that really almost does it. His hips stutter, brain totally fried and body caught in the impossible decision between which would be hotter, fucking Adam’s hand or fucking himself on Adam’s fingers.

Turns out Adam figures why fucking choose when he could have it all.

“Shit,” Tommy says, fist twisted up white-knuckled in the bedspread. He’s wedged wide open, legs shaking, and tiny flint sparks lighting up his belly with every twitch of Adam’s hands. “Shit, shit, fuck, hang on, fuck.”

Adam goes to back off and Tommy makes a noise that’s supposed to be, Don’t fucking move. He manages a shaky nod when Adam gets it, and an even shakier no when Adam asks, “Too much?”

Licking sweat off his lips, Tommy says, “Your fingers are fucking huge.”

Colour splashes brightly across the bridge of Adam’s nose. “You just, you took one so easy.”

Tommy blinks. They’re barely even fooling around and Adam’s tripping over words like he never does, voice dipping into this crazy low register that makes Tommy think blowjobs. A quick clench gets him nothing except an unsteady puff of Adam’s breath and a crack in his voice. “What’d you do, try to fucking fist me?”

“No!” Adam bursts out, one part shock and one part something that belongs some place dark and hot and hazy. He catches the smile flirting at the edge of Tommy’s mouth and mutters, “Saucy little bitch, I gave you two. Should’ve given you three.”

Tommy’s stomach swoops for the stratosphere. He shakes a bit of hair out of his eyes, rolls his hips, and has to struggle to keep enough air in his lungs to say, “So c’mon, finger me like you mean it.”

A curse hisses out between Adam’s teeth. He hesitates, obviously thinking Tommy’s got something he’s trying to prove, but the jump of Tommy’s dick when his fingers crook takes care of that stupid idea. He pushes all the way to the last knuckle nice and slow and easy, eyes on Tommy’s face and bottom lip hitched on his teeth.

The weird tickle of Adam’s thumb skimming the stretched rim of his hole clashes with the deep, heavy feeling settled in his gut. He rocks with the press against his insides, a sharp gasp shoved out of him when Adam brushes his prostate and that fullness turns to an electric rush. A tug on his dick gets his hips rolling to Adam’s rhythm. Any fucking second his nerves are going to fry. Fuck, that is so going to suck, because this is incredible.

Then Adam says, “Fuck yes, that’s it. Come on, baby, let me see it. You fuck so sweet, don’t you, c’mon, give me a little more,” and Tommy really wants to know how the fuck Adam figures he’s going to do anything except spectacularly blow his load. Adam’s got five seconds before the mother of all wet spots takes over his big god damn bed.

Make that three, because Adam’s tossed in some fancy twist of his wrist to the peak of each pull on Tommy’s dick–Tommy knows a few tricks, okay, he’s not a total loss here, but that is some seriously fancy shit–and nope, wrong again, he’s coming right the fuck now. It gets all over his stomach and the crumpled hem of his shirt, and he so does not give a flying fuck about walking out of here with come-stained clothes. It is totally and completely worth it.

He’s still turned on by the time he comes down and Adam’s fingers slide free. Pretty hard not to be when Adam’s opening his jeans one-handed to tug his cock out and fisting it right in front of his face. “You want me to-”

“Lie there and look pretty,” Adam grits out, and Tommy’s insides do another one of those zero-gravity shimmies. He drags a few fingers through the sticky mess on his skin, curling a little closer to Adam to get a hand on his thigh, sliding it up to cup his ass. He’s usually more into participation, but Adam’s gotten him used to this sort of interactive prop thing. Probably helps that it’s fucking hot.

It still takes him a second to get with the program, though, and then he’s blurting, “You’re gonna fucking come on me. ‘Cause that’s not kinky at all, shit.”

Instead of an answer Tommy gets a crooked smile and Adam dropping down to give him a kiss that’s more tongue than anything, rushed and maybe a little sloppy compared to his usual flare but the guy’s smack in the middle of jacking off. That definitely makes the slick glide of Adam’s tongue against his several hundred degrees hotter. Hotter again is the noise Adam makes when he’s close, teeth scraping Tommy’s lips, catching on his chin on the way down to dig into his throat. He echoes the moan Adam sends shivering under his skin, flashing ahead to the mark that’s going to leave, a jumble of oh fuck yes and no sweater for awhile and fuck yes, more rattling through his head.

The second Adam comes it all goes blank. Tommy stares down at the blurred curve of Adam’s ear, past that to where his hands are twisting up the back of Adam’s shirt, and wishes he could see instead of just feel the hot wet spill of Adam’s come on his thighs. He jerks at the brush of Adam’s cockhead close to his balls. He would so go there right now if they had a rubber. Chances are good they do.

And then it’s all over too fast. He holds on tighter, but Adam’s sliding away, grabbing up the towel Tommy hadn’t seen him drop beside the bed and wiping everything away while it’s still body-warm. Adam ignores his grumble, or writes it off as ew, come which is so far from what he meant it’s not even funny, but Adam curling up beside him kills his mild foray into grumpy. Adam is big, and warm, and nuzzling at his neck all sweetly. Nobody could grump their way through that.

“Aw yeah,” Tommy says, “gonna get your cuddle on.”

Adam mutters, “Shut up,” without any heat behind it and wraps an arm snug around Tommy’s middle.

Cuddling’s good, though. Hell, with how touchy-fucking-feely they are, it’s a wonder they hadn’t said fuck it weeks before and made with the puppy pile nightly. With his jeans still down around his knees that draft is gonna go glacial any second, but before it gets a chance Adam drops a leg heavily over his and rolls him closer, tucking him firmly between the mattress and Adam’s bulk.

So now he’s kinda squished, but he’s warm. He’ll bitch in a minute.

When he finally gets around to it, it’s heading into the golden haze of late summer afternoon. Adam’s gone, the duvet that’s doing a shit job of taking his place hauled up haphazardly around his shoulders, but it’s still warm, it still smells like Adam, and that lazy glow he’s feeling might not be from the setting sun after all.

Some misalignment of the stars or the planets or something freaky happens the next day. From there everything goes wrong. On stage Adam’s the same, but off it he’s so careful to keep out of Tommy’s orbit they might as well be in different universes. He doesn’t get it. One second he’s fucked halfway out of his mind, the second he’s cuddled back to earth, and now he’s fucking lucky if Adam accidentally blinks in his direction. It is not cool. He wants to know what the hell he did wrong here and he’s not even getting a chance to find out. Which is just fucking weird, okay? Adam likes to talk. Rambles on and on and on when he’s happy, takes a microphone to shut the guy up for crissakes, and oh. Right.

A solid lump of lead materialises in Tommy’s gut. Adam is not happy. Probably should’ve figured that one out about a week ago.

Because, a whole fucking week of this shit. They should’ve been screwing like bunnies by Tuesday at least. Next Thursday he’d been planning on going for it bareback. (No, he should not be poking through Adam’s private papers. Adam should not leave them out where nosy people can easily find them. That’ll teach him.) At this rate he’ll be lucky if Adam holds his hand by Christmas.

He’d really been looking forward to the hand-holding. He’s never been the little hand before.

Monte started giving them looks a day after Adam went weird. A couple of the others noticed it too, but when Longineu gave him a, “Hey, what’s up with you and him?” one afternoon instead of a plain hey, hi, how ya doin’, that was it. Shit had gone on long enough. You do not cave in to half a year’s worth of fantastic sexual tension with the most amazing handjob ever and then blow the guy off. Even when you’re Adam fucking Lambert. Especially when you’re Adam motherfucking Lambert.

Problem is, Adam’s good at this dodging thing. It’s like the entire universe hops on board with Adam’s plan by rewriting physics and letting him slip through solid walls. And it sucks, it so fucking sucks, because the tour is taking over the world one city at a time, everything’s sold out everywhere, another album is going to happen, and now Tommy’s stuck wondering if he’s still going to be here when it does.

The first hour in a hotel without Adam sucks. Another two hours after that doesn’t make it any better. It’s empty and boring and too much like Adam’s avoidance has skyrocketed to a whole new level. Tommy loves the fans. Ten thousand screaming people is a boost to anybody’s ego. Lines get blurred, crossed, but stalking the hallways searching for Adam’s room is some seriously uncool shit.

Kinda funny in a tripped out way, too. But mostly uncool, since it means that instead of crashing with them, Adam’s been smuggled into a hotel on the other side of the city.

By hour five he’s done. And worried. Not that there’s anything to worry about; Adam’s a big boy, balls the size of Asia Pacific. Man, does he have the balls to handle this. So maybe it’s Tommy who’s got the jitters. It’s not co-dependency. It’s healthy work-life balance. So not his fault Adam has a starring role in both. Fuck, he hopes it’s not his fault this is all fucked up. He might actually fucking cry in a really pathetic way.

He whips out his phone and is halfway through a tweet before he stops to think. He seriously wants to alert somebody to his awesome plan. And he could use the support. The problem there is he’s alerting somebody. Two point five seconds after the tweet goes out, he’ll be mobbed. Mobbed does not equal slick ninja tactics.

So he puts his phone away and opens his suitcase instead. He strips down, hauls on all the boring basic pieces he’s got and grabs a handful of gloop for his hair on the way to the bathroom. There’s no makeup to worry about scrubbing off since he did it three hours ago in an attempt to calm the fuck down, and some water slicking back his hair along with a generous spritz of hairspray takes care of that. All in all, not bad. Maybe a little like daddy’s boy playing dress-up, but whatever. He’s on a mission.

Butterflies start tickling his belly on the elevator ride down. The whole huge complicated plot he concocted to dodge the fans turns out to be a bust, because somehow he sidles right on through the lobby without anybody, tricked-out glamwhore or not, giving him a second glance. It’d be disappointing if it weren’t so killer. He is so fucking slick.

The cab ride across town takes approximately four and a half billion years. He fiddles with his phone, retweets an awesome photo that adds three inches to his height, types up this obtuse direct message to Adam before he remembers that shit’s not on and with his luck he’ll fuck it up and Twitter will explode the internet. This would’ve been so much easier in the 80s. The only thing phones did then was fucking ring.

He gives the driver too much cash and a mumbled thanks as he tumbles out the door. Somehow he skips the lobby, the elevator, the hallway, everything right up until he’s standing in front of 503 with his knuckles poised to knock. Half the paint’s chewed off his thumbnail again. It looks weird near the smooth cuff of his shirt.

One quick knock gets nothing. He checks to make sure the coast is clear before pressing his ear to the door and knocking again, calling, “Adam?” in a voice so low he can barely hear it. Clearing his throat he tries again. Still nothing.

Fuck Twitter, he’s going straight to the source. He texts, Open up, fucker, and hits send with a vicious jab. Adam had better not be ignoring him like some goddamn diva. Two seconds later he flips off the peephole and keeps his fucking hand there until the goddamn bolt clanks and the door swings open.

Adam, still in full-on glam mode from a piece after the show, gives him a slow burn once over. “I didn’t order this from room service.”

“Fuck you, lemme in.”

False surprise shapes Adam’s mouth. He steps back and gestures grandly.

“Thanks,” and, “Fuck,” come tumbling out of Tommy’s mouth one on the heels of the other. He scrubs both hands through his hair, turning in an aborted half-circle to take in the absolute generic nothing of another hotel room. There’re little pieces of Adam strewn about though—a jacket folded over the back of one of the chairs, the suitcase open on the stand beside the armoire, weird coconut water open on the bedside table. “Sorry.”

“Hey, whatever,” Adam says, bolting the door. He settles back against it to give Tommy too much space. “You are so stressed.”

Now that he’s here and it feels like there’s actual oxygen in his lungs for the first time in six hours, he also feels like a total douchebag. He’s also not saying anything, which prompts this minuscule crinkle of worry on Adam’s face. He should so say something. He totally will, as soon as he’s done breathing.

“Alright, now you’re freaking me out a little.” Adam points at the bed. “Sit. Speak.”

“It’s intense,” is the first thing Tommy blurts. Adam gives him a steely look and points at the bed again, so he plops his ass down before Adam does it for him. His elbows go on his knees and face goes in his hands, muffling his voice. “I kinda figured it would be, right? But not this crazy.”

After a beat, Adam says, “You’re not talking about what I thought you were going to talk about, are you?”

“Probably not.” Risking a quick glance up is a bad, bad idea. Adam is seriously looking at him. Not just looking at him, but looking at him, reading him like he reads a song before it’s written. It’s not good. Okay, it’s awesome, because it kicks the flutter in his belly up to a whirlwind, but it’s not good. Shit happens when Adam makes like he’s reading souls in the slant of somebody’s mouth.

The toes of Adam’s boots slide into view. Then his knees, his hands; Adam crouches down in front of him, thigh muscles bunched up tight beneath battered black jeans, waiting until Tommy gets done with the procrastinating and meets his gaze before saying, “So, I’m going to make you say it.”

“Say what?”

Adam shrugs. “Whatever it is you need to say. You’ve got something rattling around in there you want me to hear.”

“You’re a dick,” probably isn’t it, but that’s what Tommy goes with.

A sad, shy little smile quirking his mouth, Adam says, “Yeah. Keep going.”

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Tommy says, but instead of angry it comes out miserable. Well, maybe a little angry by the look on Adam’s face, but mostly miserable. “Seriously, what the hell. You could’ve fucking warned me I’d be a one-off.”

Adam goes through about fifteen different expression before he settles on some weird bastard mix of resentment, shock, and maybe a little bit baffled, if baffled had a fourth cousin twice removed. His mouth opens. Then shuts. Opens again to let a noise possibly related to a word squeak out.

“But you’re fucking you.” Tommy waves a hand, like that one little gesture could encompass all that is Adam. “Mr. Monogamous. A one-night-stand-free zone. Curtains and chintz and shit. Salads. Fucking mini-me sized salads.”

Adam says, “Salad,” like it’s some alien word written backwards in invisible ink. “After all that, you end up with salad.”

Tommy gets pissy when he’s hungry. Impossible or not, eating salad actually makes him hungrier. Celery is fucking Satan. “Fucking lettuce.”

“Hey,” Adam says, “hey,” and catches his chin between a couple of fingers like he’s some fainting chick in a made-for-cable historical. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

And there’s the crushing disappointment. He’d been hoping heart-sick was just a word people used. There’s actually a hard lump of pain smack in the middle of his chest where his lungs used to be. “Yeah, well, whatever, okay, just quit treating me a leper, and if you make one joke right now about me knowing what a leper is I will punch you in the nuts for real.”

“No, hey, no,” comes tumbling rock-slide rough out of Adam’s mouth. “I mean I messed up. I really fucking messed up, okay? I didn’t think you wanted a whole thing. And I can’t do halfway. Fuck, you know me, I so can’t do this halfway and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tommy takes a second to breathe. No matter how hard he tries he can’t get enough air. “So what, you figured I couldn’t do it all the way? No, okay, that I wouldn’t, and I did it anyway? Because that is so much better.”

Adam cringes. “I freaked out a little.”

A smile creeps in at the corners of Tommy’s mouth. “You freaked out a lot.

“Do not ask for logic from my heart, Tommy Joe.”

Tommy’s gaze slides down. “Maybe you should listen to your dick a little more.”

“No talking about my dick until you fess up about this being a thing or a fling.” The words are easy but the look on Adam’s face isn’t. It’s dead serious, cracked all around the edges like splintered glass. Too easy to break.

“I had plans,” Tommy says, scooting back and dragging a hand through his hair. “Big plans. I was gonna make you get doors for me and everything. There were roses or lilies or some shit in there, too.”

Adam’s head tilts a little to the side with the weight of his smile. “Is this you asking me out?”

“This me practically fucking proposing. Is it gonna be like the blowjob thing where I gotta spell it out for you? Because I do know you, okay, and I wouldn’t have tried to get into your pants if I didn’t want to stay there.”

A tiny crinkle forms between Adam’s eyebrows. “That is weirdly sweet.”

“Fuck, I know, I’ll rot your damn teeth out, are we done? Can we fuck around now?”

Adam rocks back with a bark of laughter. “Y’know, I didn’t say yes.”

“You fucker.” Fisting the front of Adam’s shirt, Tommy yanks him back in. “Get your stupid lying tongue in my mouth.”

“You talk so sweet to me,” Adam says, but he drops down onto his knees, perfect height to lean in and lay one on him. It’s rough and slow all at once, edging towards desperate before Adam takes over. Tommy’s got close on one hundred and fucking forty-four hours of no-kissing to make up for here, it’s not his fault he’s rushing into it.

All those plans he’d had start jostling around in his head, distracting him from the nip Adam gives his lip until it turns to a full out bite. He jerks back, catches the playful disapproval in Adam’s eyes and blasts it all to hell with a well-placed, “You are so fucking me tonight.”

“Baby, I-”

Tommy darts in to smear whatever’s on the tip of Adam’s tongue to nothing. He mumbles, “Know you wanna,” between half-kisses, “gonna spread me out and fuck me, watch me take everything you got.”

Adam sucks in a crackling breath. He rolls up onto his feet and Tommy drops back to his elbows, puffing at the damp hair caught on his eyelashes. Adam looks so big from all the way down there, maybe kinda huge, kicking Tommy’s feet wider to get a knee in between his legs. It slides on up, firm pressure snug against Tommy’s balls while Adam gets a hand on his face, tilts it up like he’s going for a kiss that doesn’t happen. And Tommy would bitch about this lack of kissing except it means Adam’s caught up in being a fucking tease so the way’s clear to grab his belt and yank it undone. He’s got it hauled out of three of the loops and Adam’s low laugh’s echoing in his head before he remembers that’s all he needs to get at Adam’s fly. The backs of his knuckles brush Adam’s bare belly and then Adam’s hand is closing over his wrist, forcing it back down to the bed.

“Don’t need to warm me up,” Tommy says, tongue thick, clumsy, words all a jumbling rush. “Just get your fucking clothes off. Wanna see you naked this time.”

Adam slants him one of those back-alley smiles and rocks back up on his knees. “Go ahead.”

It hangs there for a beat and then Tommy’s got hold of his belt again, yanking it straight off. He’s nicer on the buttons of Adam’s shirt, not really because he figures he shouldn’t rip the guy’s clothes off or that he’s suddenly all on board with the slow it down take it easy thing, but because he wants this to last a little longer than fifteen seconds. Thirty at least. Forty’s pushing it. Leaving Adam’s shirt gaping wide, Tommy spreads his hands out over Adam’s bare chest, runs them down and back up and really seriously plans on doing something other than mindless groping. The second he fixes on the piercings, though, the flex of muscle in Adam’s belly catches his eye and he skips on down to that, then the thin, dark-but-so-not-black trail of hair peeking out from Adam’s open fly reminds him there’s still too many clothes. He leaves Adam’s shirt hanging haphazardly off his shoulders and goes for the good stuff, the tight bulge of Adam’s junk in his jeans not half as awesome as getting his hands on it. He even manages to take his time about it instead of jumping all over it like a sex fiend, kinda caught up in how different Adam’s dick feels in his hand, thick and heavy and running about ten degrees hotter than a normal human being should.

Adam’s nails graze the inside of his wrist. He hums softly under his breath when Tommy jacks him and says, “You like that?”

It’s corny, and ridiculous, and somebody should do something about Tommy’s brain/mouth filter, but he says, “Yeah, like it so much I’m gonna take it for a ride.”

Adam laughs, rough and happy, and shrugs out of his shirt. Totally all for it, Tommy sits halfway up to start stripping off his own clothes. It takes longer than it should, like the cotton’s not just clinging to his skin but glued on, weirdly magnetized, and that ripping noise was probably a seam. Or a button. He fights with the zip on his jeans, mutters a few choice words for his taste in fashion–looks great, does not come off easy enough–and scoots back, flailing one leg in the vague direction of Adam’s hand.

Reason who-knows-lost-count why Adam is so fucking awesome: he grabs on and tugs and gets rid of sloppily-laced boots right on cue for Tommy’s jeans to slide straight off. Everything hits the floor with a thud and Tommy slumps back with a relieved puff of breath. The tail end of it turns into moan when he finally gets his hand on his dick. Feels like he’s been hard for fucking days.

The weight of Adam’s gaze brings his up. Tommy licks the pad of his thumb wet through the grin tugging at his mouth and rubs all around the ridge, spit and precome glistening in the hotel’s soft mood lighting. The hitch in Adam’s breathing is almost as good as the hand that closes over his, turns his slow jack to a rough squeeze. “You’d better have some shit in here somewhere.”

Dropping closer, Adam nuzzles a kiss under his jaw. “You mean you didn’t bring any?”

“I didn’t count on getting fucking laid,” Tommy says, a hiss caught between his teeth and leaking slowly free as Adam’s thumbnail grazes his slit.

A pause, then Adam says, “Are you clean?”

“‘Course I’m fucking clean. Last thing I want is my goddamn dick to fall off,” Tommy says–snaps, but c’mon, he deserves a little wriggle room here. He’s been thinking about this for months. Jacking off to it for weeks. Things need to start happening faster.

A hand curled under his chin yanks his attention away from the wet sheen on Adam’s dick. The look in Adam’s eyes clogs his throat. Oh.

“Yeah, uh.” Tommy licks his dry lips. Pure electricity tickles his insides. “Did you– Are you serious?”

Dumb question. Adam is always very, very serious about sex, even when he’s laughing his head off.

Adam says, “I’m safe,” and leaves it at that.

It should probably take Tommy more than half a second to come up with an answer for that, but all he’s got is, “Oh fuck yes,” and the vicious need to get his tongue back in Adam’s mouth. He goes with it, scrabbling back up on his knees, arms hooked around Adam’s neck. Skin to skin is fucking amazing. That is Adam’s naked dick digging into his stomach.

Adam’s hands slide down, cup his ass. He’s not sure whose groan that was but hell if it matters, not when Adam’s pulling him into a slow dirty grind. He tries to eke out a couple extra inches of height to get his cock rubbing against Adam’s and the fucker goes and laughs at him.

“Hey,” Tommy says, working up a half-assed scowl.

Adam totally doesn’t buy it. “Cute and tiny, just how I like you,” he says. His gaze drops. “And hot. Very fucking hot. Lie down, sweetheart, I want to watch this.”

Tommy’s stomach pulls another one of those crazy backflips. He flops back onto the pillows, one arm flung above his head and the other dragging across his hip. Adam stops, and stares, and then stares some more. This is good, this is all really fucking awesome, but Tommy’s got plans. He says, “Hey,” and makes a kissy face.

“Brat,” Adam says, but it gets him moving. Which is a whole new level of awesome. Tommy’s got a clear view of his jeans sliding down his hips when he roots through the suitcase. He hooks his thumb in the waistband and helps them along, baring miles and miles and fucking miles of thigh, his slanted gaze on Tommy the whole time.

Throat closed up tight, Tommy applauds.

“I do love an appreciative audience,” Adam says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. Tommy’s too busy checking out his package again to be sure.

When Adam’s knees hit the bed, Tommy hauls his up, feet planted squarely on the rumpled covers. The smile falls straight off Adam’s mouth on a grated curse. He drops the bottle to skim both hands up the insides of Tommy’s thighs, pressing them wider, murmuring something that sounds a hell of a lot like, “That’s it, open up,” under his breath when Tommy lets his knees fall wide.

Instead of watching Adam’s hands, Tommy gets one of his own cupped under his balls and watches Adam’s face. His stomach’s all tied up in jittery, anticipatory knots by the time one lube-slick finger slides over his hole. Swallowing hard, he gets his other hand down there with Adam’s and spreads his ass a little more. Steady prickling heat crawls up the back of his neck. Fucking’s fucking, lots of messy wet parts, somebody else’s business all up in his and no time for worrying about that weird Iowa-shaped freckle on his ass, but Adam’s dropped down to one elbow, and he’s really fucking serious about this whole watching thing.

And then Adam moans, “Fuck, yes, like that,” and the two fingers rubbing over his hole push up and in, slippery and thick and sparking a fresh rush of heat out from his belly. His thigh quivers with the effort of not rocking down. He wants to hurry this the fuck up but he wants to feel it, wants give Adam what he wants, too.

Turns out Adam might really be some kind of sex god, or at the very fucking least a mind reader. He glances up, says, “Go on, baby,” again, and Tommy grabs on to a handful of crumpled pillow as he rolls his hips, gets Adam’s fingers sinking in all the way to the knuckle.

Then it’s more pressure, a tattletale glint in Adam’s eye and a third finger sneaking in there along with the other two. Tommy drops the pillow in favour of scrabbling at the headboard, looking for something with some heft to hold on to, but the stupid thing is too damn ultramodern to do any good. He latches onto the arm Adam has looped around his leg instead, flesh mottling white beneath his fingertips.

“Fuck,” Adam whispers, and then he’s sitting up, snatching at the bottle rolling away. He stops with his hand poised to slick up his dick. “Last chance, Tommy.”

“Wait,” Tommy says, and tries not to laugh when Adam gapes at him, stricken. It’s not funny. It’s really not except it so totally is and he fails miserably at that not laughing thing. “No, I mean– Sorry.” He rolls up onto his side and takes a deep breath, scoots out of the way and tries again. “I mean you lie down first. On your back.”

“Tommy Joe,” Adam says, and it looks like there’s a bright grin trying to break out but it can’t get a foothold with so much lust softening the curve of his mouth, “I am so glad you’re a pushy little bitch.”

Tommy says, “You got that fucking right,” mostly because he’s got to say something and that seems a little better than a spontaneous declaration of undying love, or letting the rush of fuck, yes, now-now-now, fuck, now in his head tumble free. Adam slides into place so smoothly it’s like he’d been practicing, the same as he’s always practicing his moves for the show, eyelashes dipping low as Tommy crawls up over his legs to settle right on his dick.

Tossing a glance down, Tommy asks, “Gonna hold that for me?”

“So fucking mouthy,” Adam says, and gives Tommy’s ass a slap to get him lifting up again.

Tommy doesn’t have a chance to hold back the noises piling up in his throat when the bare head of Adam’s cock grazes his ass. There isn’t a single fucking universe in existence now or ever where that’d be anything more than a crazy pointless dream. He braces his hands on Adam’s chest, thumbnail close enough to flick the bar through Adam’s nipple if he could somehow figure out how to do anything except breathe. Adam’s dick is hot and slick and so much fucking bigger than it’d felt in his hand.

The head settles against his hole and all it takes is the tinniest nudge from Adam to get him sitting down on it. He goes slow, easy, because yeah, he wants to feel this and he is so fucking feeling it. All the air gets wedged out of his lungs by the push of Adam’s cock up into him and there’s no space left for him to suck any back down. Things go hazy for a second and when he clicks back in it’s to the floored hey-think-I-see-that-Jesus-guy look on Adam’s face. Biting down hard on his lip he keeps going, manages to work it a fraction deeper before having to pull off and go again. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck, a ticklish trickle to the hollow of his throat, but there’s no way in hell he’s stopping now, not until he’s got that too-full feeling as deep as it’ll go.

Both of Adam’s hands go to his hips, hold on tight like he means to slow this down. Whatever noise Tommy manages to squeeze out changes his mind, though, or maybe he wasn’t going to try that shit at all. The next second he’s pushing down, arching up, finishing what Tommy started. Tommy slumps forward with a shivering gasp, air sweet in his burning lungs, heart pounding so hard against his ribs he wonders if Adam can see it shaking under his skin.

“Come on,” Adam says, wanting it so bad Tommy can see it in his fucking eyes, but he’s not jostling Tommy along, is willing to wait, “come on, show me how pretty you are.”

But Tommy’s arms don’t want to hold him up. It takes him a couple of tries to get the right roll to his hips so he’s fucking back onto Adam’s cock, not just rubbing his dick all over Adam’s belly. Adam’s close enough to kiss, hot little puffs of breath skimming his cheek, but Tommy’s mouth doesn’t want to listen to him either, hanging open and being totally fucking useless. All his attention’s on the gritty pull as he rocks forward, the slick pressure on the way back, the way he can feel it in his fucking teeth when Adam’s bottomed out.

Shoving up, Tommy says, “Faster,” and Adam gives him this look like he’s going to argue about it. The next thing out of Tommy is a sharp grunt and okay, not the sexiest sound ever but when he clamped down to head off any protests he didn’t expect it to feel quite like that. Either way Adam’s not rattling off some shit about first time anal, so mission accomplished. Doesn’t mean he can’t do it again, though, even if it ends up ruining the slow rhythm Adam’s trying to drag him into. Adam’s open-mouthed shock of pleasure is worth it.

He goes with Adam’s lead for a minute, kinda amazed at how easily they fall together. He’s not used to working this angle but if he’s riding sloppy, Adam doesn’t give a flying fuck. From the look on his face, Adam wouldn’t give a flying fuck about the whole building crashing down around his ears.

Just to prove it, Adam goes and says, “Holy fuck,” all rough and wrecked, full of ragged edges. Hearing more of that sounds like an awesome idea, and Tommy figures he’d better get it now while the getting’s good. Give it another few minutes and Adam’s going to be too fucking busy blowing his mind for him to go for it. He leans back, presses down on the one knee Adam’s got raised up until it sinks back down. He follows right along after it, bracing both hands on Adam’s thighs, unable to lift up off Adam’s cock very far like this but oh hell can he grind it in. When Adam’s fingers dig like iron bands into his hip he even figures out how to get a slow rock forward in there and it jumps straight from the most amazing thing ever to fucking miraculous.

This time it’s Tommy who’s saying, “Come on, come on,” ’cause he’s losing it fast. There’s too much building up inside him to keep a lid on it, spilling out in all these little half-hitched noises he kinda wishes he didn’t know he could make but that are doing some pretty amazing things for Adam so it’s not all bad. His dick jerks against Adam’s belly when a hand tangles in his hair and he opens his eyes to see Adam curl up to drag him back down. He goes easy–he always fucking goes easy for Adam–lets Adam pull him in close and pin him there, chest to chest with his knees splayed wide. Adam’s thighs press close to his, breaking the rhythm for a minute as Adam arches up off the bed, goes for fucking broke without the mattress in the way. Tommy curls his hands over Adam’s shoulders and holds on as best he can, one minute grating at Adam to just go ahead, blow it and the next he’s the one shaking and moaning his way through the best fucking orgasm anyone’s ever had anywhere, fucking period.

Adam’s mouth skims his cheek. Bits of his hair catch and cling to Adam’s lips and Adam nuzzles in closer, teeth finding the edge of his jaw and scraping lower, digging in hard against the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Sorry,” Adam mumbles, and, “Almost, fuck, Tommy,” and Tommy really doesn’t have the first fucking clue what the hell he’s rambling about. He knocks it off before Tommy can figure out how make a sound that isn’t a croak, his grip on Tommy’s ass gone so tight Tommy would fucking swear he can feel Adam’s heartbeat in his fingertips. Then he goes and makes this perfect fucking sound, harsh and gorgeous like it’s ripped straight out of his chest. Tommy scrambles up to get a look at his face, burn into his brain the shape of Adam’s mouth and the sharp slant of his throat and the way his eyes squeeze shut when he comes.

It takes Adam a good few minutes to get back to earth afterwards. Tommy stays draped over his chest feeling pretty god damn smug, twirling the damp little flicky bits of Adam’s hair around one finger in a vain attempt to get them to curl while he blinks back to life. He lets out a slow breath, eyes crossing hilariously as he tries to figure out what the hell Tommy’s doing, and then a crinkle appears between his eyebrows as he loops back to whatever it was he was trying to say in the middle of fucking them both stupid. He gets as far as, “I,” mouth snapping shut when Tommy bops him on the lips with one finger.

Tommy’s grin is lopsided and ridiculous. Good sex is better than a high. That was some incredible fucking sex right there. “If you apologise I won’t blow you in the morning.”

Adam’s expression flips back over into shock. A happy kind of shock, though. Like the surprise birthday-Christmas-Hanukkah-whatever kind of happy shock.

“Not my first time,” Tommy says, and oh man, Adam has got some serious yay!-oh-wait-boo going on over there.

“But you said, you told me.” Adam’s face screws up. He’s really having trouble figuring out if he’s ecstatic or furious. “You did not lie to me about not sleeping with boys.”

“Pegging. Google it.”

“Tommy Joe,” Adam breathes, but it sounds more like oh god yes. He catches the upwards hitch of Tommy’s eyebrow and smiles impishly. “Not that it matters in a potentially sleazy way.”

“Uh huh. Do your gay virgin ass sacrifice thing while I’m asleep, ‘kay?”

Adam’s eyes go bright. He ducks his chin down in a way that is totally and complete adorable. “Gonna do the walk of shame?”

“Fuck you, rockstar.” Wriggling closer, Tommy makes sure his bony knee jabs Adam. “You can carry me to the motherfucking bus.”

“You cling any harder and I’ll have to.”

Tommy keeps his eyes resolutely closed. “Aren’t you supposed to go all good boyfriend now? Get me a wet cloth since you jizzed in my ass?”

He can’t see it but he can sure as hell feel the face Adam pulls. “You straight boys and your aversion to jizz.”

Tommy’s got a comeback for that one. Tommy’s always got a comeback, but one thing he’s figured out for sure is Adam loves getting the last word in. So much so that there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Tommy nap until he gets it, so Tommy shuts up and cuddles some more.

All of five seconds later, Adam’s hand stroking along his back becomes a finger-walk over his ass. He ignores it, and ignores it, and then fails entirely at conveying anything even remotely like how much he is so not paying attention to Adam’s prodding. “Fuck,” he groans, levering up. “You’re one of those freaky people energized by sex, aren’t you.”

Adam shrugs, corner of his mouth hitched up in a very not contrite way. “Ten minute power nap, go?”

Burying his face in the crook of Adam’s neck, Tommy moans, “Fuck,” one more time to make sure his feelings on the matter are totally clear.

Adam’s a fucking lying liar who only gives him five minutes. Tommy stays pliant for another three, waits until Adam huffs his name and doesn’t get even a twinge of guilt when Adam isn’t ready for Tommy’s teeth digging into his shoulder.

–

End

–

Everyone talks about how easy it is, after. They’re so willing to forget the bones their new city is built on, the spilled blood that had washed their streets clean, how the faces of the past are crushed beneath their feet in a desperate stampede to something more. They all forget that their bright, glorious future will soon enough be someone else’s dull and dingy past.

It isn’t so easy for him.

The dealer careened through the alley, skidding through a huddle of trashcans and scrambling to his feet with desperate fury. He fired wildly into the hazy gloom of the rooftops, his lips peeled back in a snarl and his voice hoarse from screaming.

Tucked safely in an alcove by broken old chimney, Dan waited for the guy’s crazed burst of panic to fade. They were three blocks from the wharves and he didn’t want to lose him there. Low-level scumbags never knew much, but all he needed was the next scumbag up the food chain.

“Get away from me!” Another shot rang out, then another, both bullets pinging loudly on metal, a fire escape or the overflowing dumpster. “Son of a bitch, I said get away!”

Dan frowned. He eased closer to the ledge in time to see the dealer crack headfirst against a brick wall. Slow measured footsteps echoed through the alley as he watched the dealer roll into a stagnant puddle, whimpering and clutching at his head.

“Hey!” Dan shouted, bolting upright. “Be careful!” The alleyway went silent. He swung down off the ledge to the fire escape, then to the cracked, dirty asphalt, landing face to fickle face with Rorschach for the first time. The blurry pictures he’d seen of that mask weren’t nearly enough to prepare him for the real thing moving like something fitfully alive. “I need what’s left of his brain to stay in his skull.”

“Wishful thinking,” Rorschach grunted. “Sorry, he ran.”

Dan whipped a pair of cuffs off his belt and went to take care of the dealer. There was a nasty split in his scalp and he was probably concussed, but his eyes focused when Dan’s fingers snapped in front of his face a few times.

“What’re you doing all the way out here, anyway?” Dan asked, propping the dealer up against the wall with the rest of the trash. “I’d heard you’d claimed Lower East.”

Rorschach’s head angled a little to the left. The inkblot shifted slowly. “No, I followed him.”

“You’re after Kiev?” Daniel rubbed at his chin. The mask shifted again, forming a pattern of consideration, acknowledgement. “That’s why I needed this guy. I know it’s a long shot, but-”

“I know where Kiev is, just mopping up.”

Dan couldn’t help a smile. “Mopping up happens after you make the mess, not before.”

Rorschach shrugged.

“Would you object to an extra pair of hands?”

The question hung limply in the damp air. What little he knew of Rorschach he’d read in the papers, and all they had told him was that the job got done. In the lines between the white and black, he’d read about someone like him, wanting to do something right, being able to, and doing it.

Rorschach turned and walked away. Disappointment spread sourly in Dan’s mouth, but he hadn’t really expected much else. They’d all worked alone since the Minutemen. It was safer that way, gave them the ability to pick when and where they fought without having to worry so much about being ambushed on the way to the dry cleaners.

Near the mouth of the alley, Rorschach looked back. A thin line of black slinked along the mask where his mouth should’ve been as he jerked a nod towards the storage yards.

The masks were what really caught everyone’s attention. Rorschach’s always had something to say even if the man beneath it didn’t and it was a hell of a lot easier to read. After a while he began to recognise the patterns; this way for mildly annoyed, that for a grudging smile, another for the split-second before the fight was won, wild and exultant.

That endless swirl of white and black clung to the inside of his skull like a whisper in a language only he had been allowed to learn, and he clung awkwardly to that knowledge, held it too close.

The problem with inkblots is that they say whatever you want them to.

“Shit,” Dan hissed, “shit.” He pressed a hand to his side. It came away slick, glistening darkly in the shadows. A few more inches and it could’ve been his kidney on a skewer instead of the deep gash seeping blood inside his clothes. “The creep with the trench knife got me.”

“Need an emergency room?”

“No, it isn’t that bad. I’ve got a kit at my place.” Dan squinted at the skyline, blinking sweat from his eyelashes. They’d chased the guy more than ten minutes out from where they’d ran into each other again that night, sharing the hope that he’d lead to something bigger than throwing a wrench into street sales for a day or two. “Where the hell are we?”

Rorschach pointed to the east. “Subway’s that way, or it’s a forty minute walk.”

Dan ran a quick mental tally through the contents of his utility belt. Short of a bullet, he hadn’t expected to encounter anything strong enough to inflict so much damage through his armour, and he was already running through the equations again when he caught up to what Rorschach had said. “You know where I live?”

Rorschach’s face shifted into a wry grin, or a very pointed stare. “I followed you, too.”

Gathering up a wad of his cape, Dan pressed it to his side as he started walking. “Isn’t that cheating?”

Saying nothing, Rorschach fell into step, his usual stride slowed to something that wouldn’t leave Dan bleeding out into his shorts.

Dan slowed down a bit more, then stopped. “Aren’t you going to go after that other guy?”

“You’re wounded,” Rorschach said, barely glancing at the lights before stepping down off the sidewalk to cross the street. “Can’t leave you like that, too easy a target.”

With the choice of being left behind or following, Dan started walking again. “I didn’t think you’d want to let him get away.”

“He’ll still be here tomorrow. And if he’s not?” Rorschach’s expression shifted into the approximation of a shrug. “One less scumbag to worry about.”

Puffing out a breath, Dan nodded and pressed a bit harder on his wound. Sweat stung the raw edges and blood was soaking into his undershirt, thick and warm. “You’re sure it’s forty minutes?”

Flatly, Rorschach said, “Let me hail you a cab,” and stuck his thumb out into the very empty, very quiet street.

“Well, a crimefighter shuttle service might be nice.”

That gained him a tilt of Rorschach’s chin and an inkblot like a smile before they lapsed into silence, Dan trudging along gnawing at the inside of his cheek and Rorschach’s face constantly shifting, melting from concerned to indifferent to watchful. He’d broken a couple of his toes once, when some dealer had dropped half a ton of cargo barrels on him, limping around on a swollen foot for weeks his price for being a fraction of a second too slow. This was a hell of a lot worse.

“You know how bad paper cuts sting?” Dan said, and Rorschach nodded. “I feel like I’ve got the granddaddy of all paper cuts.”

“Here,” Rorschach said, slipping smoothly under his arm. “It’ll ease the strain.”

Dan nodded his thanks, the going awkward for a few minutes until Rorschach learned to match his pace. It helped, but relief flooded Dan’s veins in a drunken rush when they neared a familiar graffiti-laden warehouse hulking in the dark. He breaths were labored by the time they made it down the rusty old ladder into the tunnels and came together again, Rorschach taking on more of his weight as he led the way through the pitch black.

“So, you knew about this, too?”

“I spent some time checking up on you. Thought it’d be a good idea since we partnered up.”

Dan glanced down, startled. “We partnered up?”

“What else would you call it?” The stale underground breeze gradually shifted direction, and Rorschach slowed. Tension sang in his shoulders, and Dan tried to ease up. “Which way now?”

“Let me get the lights.” Dan shuffled away, immediately regretting the loss of Rorschach’s strong support. He fumbled at the panel and remembered to yank his goggles off at the last second before the flood of light blinded him. “Home, sweet home.”

Rorschach’s hands slid into his pockets as he turned slowly around, taking in the sprawl of worktables, the rusting tracks and the wardrobe Dan had jammed into an alcove to store his finished gear. “Cosy.”

“Give me a hand with this,” Dan said, lurching up the stairs to the platform one step at a time. “The buckles are on the other side, there.”

Rorschach followed, gloved fingers peeling back the thick latex hiding the closures from sight. He helped Dan slide free with minimal wriggling and hesitated with a hand on the edge of the cowl.

“Go ahead,” Dan sighed. “You already know who I am, anyway.”

Dan winced as the cowl peeled free, his skin prickling as the cool air dried his sweat. He scrubbed a hand though his hair.

Rorschach crouched, tugging a glove off to lift the stained undershirt out of the way. He said nothing when Dan hissed a quiet curse as it stuck, just kept pulling, slow and careful, and used the hem to daub at the fresh rush of blood.

“That needs stitches,” Dan said. “Damn it.”

“Where’s your kit?”

“Upstairs. Should’ve moved it down here.” Gingerly, Dan touched his side. The gash was longer than he’d thought. “You’re not squeamish, are you?”

“Stay here,” Rorschach said, brushing by. “Under the bathroom sink?”

“Hall closet.”

Rorschach’s footsteps echoed loudly on the wooden stairs. Dan peeled off one of his gloves, wrangled one of the stools out from beneath a worktable, and plunked down heavily on it, still breathing hard. As soon as he was stitched up, he’d have to reanalyze his armour’s ability to withstand shearing forces. Bullets had been his chief concern but the inches-long hole carved into his side made a good case for an overestimation of his own abilities in close quarters.

“Here,” Rorschach said, tromping quickly back down with an armful of fluffy white cotton and the first aid kit. He dumped it all on the table after handing Dan a damp towel to loosen the crust of blood and stripped out of his trench coat, flinging it over the railing.

He wore a slick well-cut pinstripe suit beneath, the material a perfect match to the wide band on his fedora. Without the mask, he would’ve fit right in to some society gala. It was weird costume for a crimefighter, but as the guy running around dressed up like a giant owl, Dan didn’t really have room to judge.

Taking the towel away, now stained red, Rorschach knelt down and got to work, cleaning and stitching without much more than an occasional warning about squirming. Dan watched his hands while he worked, sizing up the breadth of his palm, the length of his fingers, trying to dream up the face that went with thick knuckles and dexterous, gentle fingertips.

When Rorschach was done, the line of Dan’s stitches curved in a tight, neat track over his side. “Tidy,” he said. “Do you sew your own buttons back on, too?”

“Made the suit.”

“Really?”

Even the mask couldn’t hide Rorschach’s withering stare.

Twelve years isn’t a long time. It sounds like a hell of a long time to know somebody, but it isn’t. It went by in the flash of cameras and guns, gritty streets striped in neon blood, and he had nothing to show for it but a roadmap of scars and a few fingerprints in the dust, a cupboard full of cheap beans he’ll never eat.

Nothing but his grainy memories of footsteps in the hall, the crinkle of paper wrappers, and the unexpected smattering of freckles across the tip of Rorschach’s nose.

“Easy,” Dan said, spinning the co-pilot’s chair around with his knee so he could settle Rorschach into it. “Your brains aren’t leaking out of your ears, are they?”

Rorschach slumped back, his hat clenched in one fist. His breaths were slow but shallow. “Mask keeps them in,” he grit out, and gingerly touched the back of his skull. “Minor laceration, probably mildly concussed.”

Worry gnawing at his insides, Dan fired up the engines. Until tonight, where skill had failed, luck had stepped in. It was bound to happen sooner or later. He’d been expecting it. He just hadn’t been prepared. “Headache, dizzy?”

“Didn’t hit me that hard, Daniel.”

“He knocked you out.” They struck a small patch of turbulence that knocked one of Rorschach’s grudging grunts loose, and Dan swung smoothly to the side, leaving it behind. “With a lead pipe. I’ve never seen anybody knock you out, ever.”

“Sloppy,” Rorschach said, tugging his gloves off and loosening his scarf so he could slide a few fingers beneath the back of his mask. He felt around for a moment, tilting his head from one side to the other.

“I’ll say.” The corner of Dan’s mouth quirked in a wry smile, a second mask for him to hide behind. “He should’ve made sure you were down and out before he stepped over you, huh.”

“Never leave an enemy at your back,” Rorschach agreed, rubbing his smudged fingertips together. “Or give him a clear shot at your genitals.”

Even while his smile spread out into something real, Dan couldn’t help a wince. He almost wished he’d imagined the thick crunch of the guy’s nuts against the sole of Rorschach’s heavy boot, and definitely wished he’d managed to take him out first. Witnessing that sort of thing from a ringside seat left a mark on a man. It certainly made him glad he hadn’t taken his predecessor’s route of choosing speed over protection.

“You missed my rooftop,” Rorschach said.

“You’re concussed.”

“But not blind. You have to stop taking me home with you, Daniel.”

Dan scowled out at the sea of murky lights. “Unless there’s someone waiting for you at home that knows how to treat a concussion, you’re staying at my place tonight. In the guest bedroom, too,” he added, “not that dusty old cot in the basement.”

“You sleep on it all the time.”

Archie rocked more than usual as Dan swept down into the old tunnels. “What makes you say that?”

The weight of one of Rorschach’s looks settled on him. He’d never actually seen one of those looks, so like the shape of Rorschach’s eyes or the exact colour of his hair (Dan guessed a very light brown, maybe edging towards blond, because the stubble he’d seen on Rorschach’s chin was a warm reddish-gold), Rorschach’s expression existed only in his imagination. But he felt it. “I needed a replacement hook,” Rorschach said. “You were on asleep on the cot. There was a book over your face.”

Dan waited until he’d brought Archie in for a landing to reply. One day, he’d get around to widening the mouth of the tunnel, but it always seemed like something far more important cropped up every time he remembered what a pain it was to navigate. Like a concussed partner, for instance. “So that’s where that hook went.”

Rorschach hit the release for the hatch and thumped down the steps, stuffing his gloves inside his coat’s pockets before shrugging out of it and tossing it over the nearest table. By the time Dan finished the short run of post-landing diagnostics, the noise of him rummaging through the kitchen cupboards was filtering down the stairs.

Dan started stripping out of his costume, piece by piece. He’d known exactly where that hook had gone, even if he hadn’t realised Rorschach had been there that specific night. Food vanished from his fridge, bandages from his first aid kits, once a shirt from his closet, but he knew where they had all gone. Neither of them had said a word about the extra boxes of cereal showing up in the pantry; they were emptied and Dan replaced them. It hadn’t taken him long to find out Rorschach liked Captain Crunch and hated Rice Krispies.

Back in his civvies, he cleared away all the random bits and pieces that had found their way onto the cot and shook out the blankets. Rorschach came back down a few minutes later, grunting when he saw the cot ready and waiting for him but going to settle down on it anyway. “Kettle’s boiled,” he said.

Dan glanced up from the new set of goggle’s he’d been tinkering with. “There’s blood on your neck.” Again, Rorschach grunted, lifting a bare hand to smear through the thin red rivulet, and Dan cleared his throat quietly to say, “Maybe I should take a look at it.”

Rorschach froze, propped up on one elbow. Dan tugged roughly at the buckle on the goggles, thinking he’d finally crossed that line and trying to come up with a way to take it back when Rorschach eased slowly up to sit on the edge of the cot, one leg tucked under the other. “Fine,” he said, rolling the mask up over his mouth and nose. “But you worry too much.”

“About a partner that doesn’t worry enough.” Dan dropped the goggles, the stool grating over concrete as he stood. He scrubbed his palms clean–dry–on his slacks.

Rorschach slung an arm over one knee, watching quietly. When Dan was close enough, he bowed his head, the lazy shift of blank ink like his eyes closing.

The mask was warm where Dan touched it, a little damp. Rorschach held the front in place as he lifted the back, revealing the soft brush of hair against his knuckles to be a startlingly bright copper red. In all the times he’d pictured the man beneath the mask, he hadn’t imagined this, or the splash of freckles that lay over the peak of Rorschach’s spine. Beneath the pinstripe jacket, Rorschach’s shoulders shifted, and Dan pictured a stretch of pale Irish-blood skin over whipcord lean muscle smattered with freckles like dozens of tiny ink drops.

The curious tilt of Rorschach’s head knocked him out of it, and he combed his fingers quickly through the short strands. “You’re a redhead, that explains a few things,” he said, forcing his tone light as he followed the tacky trail of blood to its source near the tip of Rorschach’s ear. The edges of the wound were rough, clotted. “It’s already closed, but try not to lie on it.”

Rorschach grunted, rolling the mask back down and tucking it under his collar. “Minor laceration, as I said.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Dan said. He pressed his fingertips together, trying to push the odd tingle out of them. “I’ll wake you up in an hour or so.”

“Probably won’t sleep.”

Dan offered up a shrug and a carefully steady smile, and went upstairs to fix a cup of coffee. A single glass sat next to the sink, water clinging to the inside. Back when Rorschach first started raiding his kitchen and he hadn’t found any used cereal bowls in the sink, he didn’t bother to buy extra milk, thinking Rorschach didn’t bother with it. Then, forever running out of it, he finally figured out that Rorschach ate the cereal straight out of the box and drank a glass of milk with it.

Sometimes, he thought about how many of his quirks Rorschach had learned over the years. Most of the time he was sure Rorschach just didn’t bother to pay attention, but then something like this would crop up. Rorschach would mention some small thing in passing, some private, pointless piece of Dreiberg trivia, and Dan would wonder if the goggles helped him see things as clearly as he thought he did.

Keeping his footsteps light, Dan returned to the basement, coffee mug in hand. Flicking off the large overhead lights in favour of the smaller, focused lamps over his workspace, he settled in for a long morning.

Five minutes later, Rorschach began to snore.

For every person that hates the masks, there’s one that loves them still, or so say the profit margins on Veidt’s line of neatly packaged plastic lies. The new world’s fascination with them outweighs the lingering fear, and now more than ever there are those spending their days digging up all the tiniest bits and pieces of the men and women who dared take up the law in one hand and a mask in the other.

The fanatics are never hard to find, asking the questions they do, poking their noses where they shouldn’t, but finding the last of Rorschach is.

“Rorschach! Rorschach, stop!”

The man’s face was pulp by the time Dan reached them. Dead. The woman too, her neck broken by the fall, her body half-buried in a filthy grey snowbank. Rorschach let go of the man’s hair, letting the body fall to the alley floor with the rest of the trash.

“Jesus Christ, Rorschach,” Dan breathed. “You didn’t have to kill him, he was coming in without a fight!”

“Addicts,” Rorschach said. “Abusers that abuse the system, push their filthy addictions through their blood onto their children. Better world without them.” He picked up his hat and flicked snow off the rim. “And language, Daniel.”

“We’re not them,” Dan snapped. “We don’t kill.” He jabbed a furious finger in Archie’s direction. “And we need to leave, now.”

For the first time since they began working together, Dan hung back, waiting for Rorschach to scale the knotted rope slung from the apartment’s roof not because he was watching his partner’s back, but because he wasn’t sure Rorschach would be at his. Blood, the blood of a dead man, spattered stark and cruel beside the solid black lines shifting through the white on Rorschach’s face.

“We don’t kill, Rorschach,” he said, needing the words, bricking them up like a wall between him and what he’d witnessed. “Not unless we have to. Not like that.”

Calmly, flexing his fingers in bloodied gloves, Rorschach said, “Have to. No one else will.”

Without thinking, Dan grabbed his shoulder, spun him around and stared down in shock at the tight clench of his own fist seconds away from slamming into his partner’s jaw.

Rorschach stood quietly looking up at him, not placid, just watching, waiting for the choice to be made. Dan had been the one to start this partnership; Dan would be the one to end it.

“No,” Dan said, unclenching his fist but not releasing his hold. Life took its toll on everyone. There was a price to pay for doing what they did. He wouldn’t make Rorschach pay it alone. “No. We’re protectors, not executioners.”

“We are what we’re compelled to be.” Rorschach lifted a hand, rapped his knuckles against the heavy armour covering Dan’s chest. “Soft, Daniel. Too soft.”

It’s a house of cards propped up by matchsticks, Adrian’s peace and this ramshackle building both. The air’s thick with dust and heavy with the stench of stagnant water, human filth and rot. The stairs wobble beneath his feet and it feels as if the long wait is over, that the whole world is finally ready drop out from under him.

But the steps hold and he goes on. If there’s anything of Rorschach left, it’ll be here, in this shadowed place that reeks like the grave.

“Back again,” Rorschach grated.

“I thought I heard something down here,” Dan said, hiking his pyjamas up higher on his hips. “Did the grappler seize up again? I told you not to bash people over the head with it, it’s not made for that.”

“No.” Rorschach smoothed a hand over Archie’s hull, his head tilted up as if looking it straight in the eyes. “Thought you’d come out tonight.”

Dan crossed his arms to ward off the chill of the underground. “You shouldn’t be. They’re looking for you now, after that stunt you pulled.”

“Not a stunt. Furniss was scum.”

“What do you want, Rorschach?”

Metal clanged at Rorschach rapped a knuckle against the ship and turned to face him. “Looking for me. Need a place to stay.”

Dan snorted. “You’ve got other places.”

The stark black stain on Rorschach’s mask shifted. It could’ve said everything as it changed from one pattern to the next, or nothing at all. Dan couldn’t tell anymore. “Used to.”

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Dan shoved away from the wall. “Hide out here as long as you want. I’m going back to bed.” In the three months since the Act’s passing, he hadn’t managed a full night’s sleep once. Most of the time, that wasn’t Rorschach’s fault.

“Daniel.”

He paused with his hand on the light switch.

“Used to have a partner.”

It would be so easy to say the hell with it all. They’d operated outside the law for so long, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to go headfirst and headstrong against it. But things had already gotten worse. This was supposed to make them better. “Times they are a-changin’, buddy.”

“No. Not yet. Not without us.”

“Without me,” Dan said, and flicked off the light.

He didn’t bother going back to bed, knowing sleep wouldn’t come now. He sat in the middle of the stairs instead, a useless, worthless waste, until the light of a false dawn sent Rorschach back out through the tunnels, the echo of his footsteps lingering long after he’d gone.

Things weren’t getting better, and Rorschach was getting worse.

It takes him an hour to find it. The leather is mouldy, the binding cracked, and rats have made a desperate meal of the edges. Most of it is illegible, the handwriting a cramped, tiny scrawl, the cheap ink the words are written in faded and blurred, leaching into the fibres of the pages like blood in the snow.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever is left of them, now these words are his.

Rorschach’s Journal, March 23rd, 1965
Met an owl tonight.

–

End

–

Rogue finds him in the back of the Blackbird hunched over a six-pack of empties, the last dangling from the loose clutch of his knuckles, dregs going warm and flat. His nose twitches at the new-leather scent of her uniform. Not for the first time he misses the smell of silk and cotton warmed through by her skin.

“‘Least I know you won’t be runnin’ in this,” she says, hand light on the paneling.

He snorts a laugh and drains his beer. It dissolves like bitter fluff on his tongue, wholly unsatisfying. She offers that shy shadow of a smile and tucks a white streak of hair behind her ear. A slow creeping itch starts up in Logan’s forearms. The world’s making her grow up too fast, and there’s nothing he can do to make it slow down even a bit.

She says, “We’re waitin’ on you,” and Logan hears, I.

Dropping the bottle into the case, Logan leans back. Closing his eyes only shuts out the light. “Be sober in a minute.”

“Okay.” Leather creaks, rubs softly against skin; her boots clang hollowly on the floor and first his lungs then his head fill with her. She sits close beside him, a gentle line of heat from shoulder to knee. He can pick out where she’s been by the trace of dishsoap clinging to the shampoo-smell in her hair and the arctic cool lingering on her gloves. Her lipgloss is something cheap from the drugstore, artificial strawberries and banana. It’s like a burst of flavour on his tongue when she rubs her lips together.

“Just say it, kid.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” she says, too quick. A prod from her toes clank the bottles together. She’s taller than she used to be. Taller than him one of these days if she doesn’t quit growing.

He slants her a sideways glance. “I don’t need a sniff to know that was a lie.”

Quiet and subtle, her heart gives one syrup-thick thump. “Are you really drunk?”

“Not anymore.” A frown tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms and gives her a level stare. Months ago a look like that made her quail. Now she gives a tilt of her head that means something else entirely. She’s watched him with a shadow of that sparkle sitting bright in her eyes since Canada, back when she thought the thrill was worth the risk. “Why?”

“Got anymore?” she asks, leaning forward to peer under the seat. Her back is a long, smooth arch. Her hair slithers over her shoulder and she tucks it behind her ear again. She doesn’t tie it back much anymore, especially around him, and he wonders when she figured him out.

“Barkin’ up the wrong tree if you think I’m givin’ you booze in Xavier’s house.”

“I didn’t say I wanted any,” she shoots back, a spark of attitude flaring and dying all in the same breath because she did want some and she pushes harder at him than the others, knows he’ll give a little more. They’re all still kids to Storm’s eyes, even Scott’s when he manages to lift his head above the grief he’s mired in, but most times Logan’s not sure what he sees when he looks at them. He knows what he wants to see, and that’s not always what he gets.

“You can quit lyin’ to me anytime now,” he says.

Too late he figures out it was the wrong thing to say, or maybe exactly right. He can’t read the thoughts flickering in her eyes but he doesn’t need to; he can smell the sweetness of them and the ache that follows is swift and terrible. Her smile’s still shy but wanting, certain, and in a flash he remembers the girl that thought she saved his life, stole a ride and sassed him back, piloted a ship she didn’t know how to fly.

Level and strong, she says, “You first.”

He wants so badly to say she’s too young to know what she wants but he’s not going to insult her like that, and saying she’s wrong about what she thinks he does is just as bad. There’s the kid, boy her own age he should be marching her straight back to, and that’s another insult right there, him thinking she hasn’t thought this through. He’s the one who’s been avoiding all the thinking. Time’s are he really is the best at what he does.

Her hair’s body-warm against his knuckles when he pushes it back over her shoulder. Her pulse beats stronger when he leans in, breathes in the scent of her, soap and sweat and leather and the thin chemical trace of coloured powder. His mouth’s less than inches from skin and he knows how soft it is, the memory of it burned into his head the same as she says he’s in hers. He can’t touch her but he’s marked her on the inside, and he knows sure as hell that’s something he shouldn’t be so goddamn smugly satisfied over.

Her hand twitches against his leg like she means to bring it up between them. All she says, the lust he can smell soaking through leather thickening her voice, is, “Careful, Logan,” and he hears the whisper of eyelashes against her cheeks when she closes her eyes. He holds back the growl pushing its way up through his chest until the back of her hand resting lightly against his thigh becomes her palm skidding up over it.

A jarring clang of metal tells him he’s on his knees for her long before his head figures it out. The startled noise she makes, high and nervously happy, arrows straight under his skin. The shallow curve of her waist fits perfectly between his hands. Her knees fall open when he jerks her forward onto the edge of the seat, her ankle glancing off the case and rattling the glass inside, mirror image of the jangling of his nerves. Colour fills her face but she meets his gaze square on, gives herself away with a shaky swallow as he noses at the inside of her thigh. Fingers safe and untouchable beneath another layer of leather skim up his jaw, hook behind the hinge and urge him higher. He can smell the sweet ache that’s making her tremble long before he presses his mouth to it and then he’s snarling his frustration at finding the bitterness of leather on his tongue instead of her, so close but it might as well be on the other side of the world. He nuzzles harder, sucks at her through the suit, bares his teeth and bites down when a cry slips free. A second follows long before the first’s done echoing in his skull, edged with what might’ve been a curse, and he looks up to find she’s hanging off the seat, one leg thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Some of the haze clears from her eyes when she realises it too, the fresh rush of colour staining her cheeks at odds with the nonchalant shrug she can’t quite muster up.

“C’mere, darlin’,” Logan says, one part honesty and two parts pure badness’s sake. He wants to know how low that flush goes, if it’s him that’s making her blush so deep or if it’s how new this is. She clings when he pulls her from the seat, lets go again soft and easy when he lays her out on the floor. Turns out he’s not fast enough for her though, and she catches the zipper at her throat, starts tugging. All the willpower he’s got isn’t enough to make her stop but the knowledge that he’s not going to be able to touch her is and he forces her arm out of the way to skim his mouth over the swell of her breast. “I’m gonna want to see you,” he says, the flash of bare pale skin whittling away at his control, almost enough to convince him it’s worth dying a little to feel it. “As much as you wanna give me.”

She says, “I’m not shy,” and means it, the hitch in her words all for the scrape of his teeth over her nipple, the gentle tug he tries to give it through the suit. He opens his mouth wider, feels flesh and leather mound between his teeth and for a moment that’s all he needs. When she pushes up into him it suddenly isn’t anymore and he bites harder, keeps telling himself to ease up but those noises keep spilling out of her, quiet whimpers in the back of her throat like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it. The only thing he ends up doing is rocking the heel of his hand against her cunt, coaxing her hips to meet the rolling rhythm. Her entire body sinks into it, the heat cupped in his palm growing damp. He can smell how wet she is, how she’s opening up for him, and he curves his fingers down to feel her muscles twitch, presses up and in as if he could sink straight through the leather into her.

He muffles a ragged groan in her belly. “Gonna kill me,” he says, dragging his hands away to brace himself above her. The breather he means to take to calm the blood pounding in his skull doesn’t happen, his palm already smoothing down the curve of her ass, her thigh, and she lifts her legs, the light in her eyes threatening to go as wild as the bits of hair clinging to her face. “That’s it, wrap ‘em around me.”

Before he can sink down against her, her hand darts between them, bold as brass when it curls over his dick. He ruts against her palm the same as she had his, wishing so goddamn hard there wasn’t anything between them but sweat and sin. Getting a hold of himself’s another fond wish to add to the pile when she starts yanking his shirt free, fumbling at the buttons one-handed until impatience finally gets the best of her when she finds his undershirt and she shoves up under the whole works instead. He’s the one that pops the buttons off, desperate to get her slim hands closer.

A wicked slant creeps across her mouth. She drops back to the floor, one hand landing carelessly on the cushion of her hair, the other skidding down over his arm, back up again to hook around his neck. The only hint of uncertainty in her when she says, “I want to see what you would do, if y’could,” is in the quick dip of her eyelashes, and god help him, it makes him try harder to do this right.

“Already doin’ it,” he says, then flashes a grin, adds, “most of it,” with his mouth skimming close to hers. He can taste those strawberries on her breath. “Later I’m gonna kiss you, and maybe you’ll knock me on my ass for a few days, maybe you won’t, but it’s gonna be worth it.”

“Logan,” slips into his open mouth, a warning crackle. Her legs snap tighter around his waist, jerking him down into a slow dirty grind. If she says anything else after that, he misses it all, too caught up in the give of her body beneath his, the way he can’t even smell the leather anymore, only her. He curls a hand over her hip and drives her down into his thrusts, fucking with their clothes on, and the thought rips a groan straight out of his gut. He wants to fuck her proper, feel her fall apart for the first time from the inside.

He noses aside her hair, whispers, “This gonna do it for ya?” in her ear to feel it shiver on down to her toes. Her answer is two small hands slapped to the small of his back and a moan when she finds the right angle to rub off on his cock. She’s not one bit shy about guiding him, one hand fisting in his belt to yank him down harder when she wants it that way, stronger than she looks when she holds him there and writhes. Too soon she arches up, quaking, and he gulps down greedy breaths leaden with the scent of her pleasure. He growls at her to open her eyes, look at him, but she bites her lip and shakes her head.

“Then go again,” he snarls, shoving his arms beneath her to roll them over, her a boneless sprawl atop him and his nerves singing, stretched taut. “C’mon, darlin’, one more time.”

She slaps a hand to his shoulder and levers up, her hair dragging across his face. “Sugar,” she says, a low teasing lilt, and catches her lip between her teeth again, arches her back and rocks down onto the hard ache of his dick. Slower this time, easier for her but not for him. Easy’s long lost and unforgotten on the sinuous curve of her body as she rides him, one hand stealing down to press against her clit, get herself off and watch him this time while she does it, something secret and satisfied lurking at the corners of her parted lips.

The tab on her zipper’s cool between his fingers, the sound of it opening loud through the echoes of her panting breaths. A flush ghosts the tops of her small breasts, two perfect handfuls he nearly bites through his own lip to keep from taking. “Surest way to sober up a man.”

Her belly draws in from the brush of his knuckles, a ticklish reflex that keeps him safe. “Keep goin’.”

“Pretty sure we got clothes to wear under these.”

“I’m wearin’ clothes.” Rogue glances down, filling her smile with her name when he stops short, staring at the cheerful scrap of teal plaid that’s playing at being a pair of panties. They’re wet halfway to the band. A fresh rush of blood heats her face and she shakes her hair back, pretends it isn’t. Her hands aren’t too steady when she reaches for his jeans, but she doesn’t smell one bit nervous now. She’s excited, eager, and he’s got no worries about any blood left above the waist to colour his cheeks.

He slumps back to watch, equal parts grateful and sore about the chance to catch his breath. Either way he wants to paint it, it doesn’t last long–she wraps him up in a snug grip and hauls him free of his shorts, gives him this look he can’t decipher but likes just fine all the same. Her gloved thumb skims down over the ridge, pushing his foreskin the rest of the way back. He still can’t read what’s in her eyes but he knows what it feels like; seen at least one uncut but never touched, and he ain’t no skinny-dicked teenager. “Wouldn’t love anything more than lettin’ you play for awhile, but I wasn’t kiddin’. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Can’t have that,” she says, all sass and sparks. She flexes her fingers on his dick, squeezes a bit. His stomach jumps. “Say if you want it different.”

It’s a bad idea, a whole week’s worth of them, to graze his fingertips over the front of her wet panties but he does it anyway, and then he goes and does it again, pressing harder to feel soft flesh part. His hand looks good on her. “Slick your fingers up for me.”

She looks down again, takes her hand from his cock to slip under the elastic. Another gentle flick of his knuckle brings her swaying forward, damp hair curling along the curve of her breast. His gaze hooks on the small peak of her nipple, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth when he imagines what it would feel like against his lips, between his teeth and on his tongue. A flex of muscle in her arm brings his gaze sliding back down to the curve of her fingers beneath thin cotton. Her glove leaves a glistening trail on her belly when she draws her hand free.

Pain lances through his arms. He grunts, forcing his claws back as he reaches for her hand, tugging it up to his mouth. The bitter leather’s easy to ignore this time around, easier to appreciate when it’s warm and supple from her body heat and he can feel her fingers beneath. He takes the tip of one between his teeth and flicks his tongue against the pad, thinking about how easy it would be to roll her over and suck on her clit, get her writhing and screaming proper this time.

Curling her wrist out of his grip, she drags her fingers across his tongue and then down over his cock. He bucks up harder than he means too, expecting it but not, and with a smile he’s sure she learned from somewhere she’s got no business being, she wraps her other hand up in his shirt to help keep her seat while she jacks him good and hard and far too skilled for the first time she’s put hands on him.

Either he’s easier to read than she is, though, or she’s just better at it, because she gives him another one of those smiles and says, “Told you, you’re in my head.”

“Sounds like cheatin’,” Logan grits out, a hell of a lot closer to losing it sooner than he wants with a lap full of half-naked woman to enjoy.

“I like it,” she says, teeth creeping out over her lip again when she rubs her thumb firmly over his slit. He’s got something else to say to that, something he’s sure needs saying, but she’s rising up on her knees, angling the head of his cock to brush too close to her cunt for him to manage anything more than trying to keep his lungs full of air. His knuckles go white on her thigh, probably bruised her already, and sweet Jesus if he had a rubber in his wallet he’d be begging baby please.

Rogue gives a shallow groan of her own and lists to the side, dropping down on her elbow and scooting closer without so much as a hitch in her rhythm. He plants his boots and drives up into her grip as soon as he’s free, the soft press of her breast through his shirt twisting the ache in him into a vicious knot. Looping an arm around her back, he drags her as close as she’s going to get without crawling up inside his skin. It feels like she’s already there, anyway, buzzing along his nerves better than the hum of alcohol, better than anything when she chokes on another noise and starts rocking against him, going for number three while he’s racing to hit the finish line. He muffles his groan in the thick fall of her hair, senses peaked for a brief moment of bliss where he can smell everything she’s feeling on the rush of her blood.

That’s what pushes the choice that’s been kicking round inside his head. Her startled noise is sweetly thick when he pulls her into a rough and clumsy kiss. She deserves better but he’s riding that edge of orgasm too close to try for it, the headlong rush rising up grab him by the balls seconds before the connection snaps into place. Everything blanks out on the sound of her taking his pleasure and making it her own.

She’s long done by the time he comes around again, stained glove open on his hip and a sliver of worry slipping from the slant of her mouth. “Shame I missed it,” he says, and she laughs low in her throat, tired and sated. The flush is fading from her face but her eyes are still hazed. It looks good on her, and he’s got more than his fair share of selfish pride for the part he played in putting that lax contentment in her bones. He jostles his shoulder to settle her head on his chest. “Not that I’m complainin’, but somebody’s gonna come lookin’ for ya sooner or later.”

“I told them to start without us,” she says, and curves a private smile as she combs her fingers through the hair curling beneath Logan’s navel.

He grunts a lazy laugh. The floor’s hard and cold but she’s soft and warm, smelling sweet with the scent of sex and sweat and strawberries. He knows he’s the one who’s gonna get slapped with the blame for her missing class, and she’ll smile that smile letting him take it.

–

End