while with his gun the pagan angel rose to say

Fic: Show Me Where Your Dick's At - Tommy/Anderson

Fic: Show Me Where Your Dick's At - Tommy/Anderson

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Thank you to @GirlPhenom for wanting this at exactly the right time. You're all going to ignore the inevitable typos in this until [personal profile] rivers_bend and I get a chance to read it over while we're not all LOLOLOLOL in one another's faces.

Show Me Where Your Dick's At
Glamdom. Tommy Joe Ratliff/Anderson Brooks. NC-17. ~5800 words. For crossdressing on my kink_bingo card.
And right now, he's so got Anderson on the brain: Anderson's pretty, pretty face, and those long, long legs, and what Anderson's hiding under that skirt.


*

Show Me Where Your Dick's At


"You," Tommy says, scooting to the edge of the bench seat and listing over the table, "are so totally fucking pretty."

Split-second surprise widens Anderson's eyes. They've known each other for a while now, long enough that Tommy thinks nothing should surprise him anymore, because, c'mon. About shit like this, Tommy's a fucking open book. Get him drunk and the crap comes pouring out of him, whatever the fuck is on his mind. And right now, he's so got Anderson on the brain: Anderson's pretty, pretty face, and those long, long legs, and what Anderson's hiding under that skirt. The contrast is fucking killing him. In his head, somebody so fucking gorgeous comes with a stellar set of tits and warm, soft heat between smooth legs. Legs he really, really wants to have wrapped around his waist while he's sinking into that sweetness.

Knowing there's a dick under there, wanting to maybe get his hands on it to make sure, throws Tommy for a total fucking loop. But since Anderson's legs, and the teeny tiny skirt barely covering his pert little ass, are currently hidden beneath the table Tommy's using to prop himself up, Tommy settles for staring at Anderson's flat chest. With Anderson's flimsy shirt open to the navel, he's got a good view.

"And you're really drunk," Anderson says, not at all like he minds Tommy ogling him. Maybe kinda the opposite.

"Doesn't mean you're not gonna be as pretty in the morning," Tommy says.

And whoa, okay. That was a total come-on, and Anderson's looking at him like it's not such a bad idea, which means Tommy's got two choices here. One, he plays it off. He's drunk, Anderson's tipsy, and it wouldn't be the first or last time Tommy's said shit he didn't quite mean. Or two, he owns up to the play for Anderson's ass it so totally was. It doesn't even have to literally be his ass, even. The chance to cop a feel sounds pretty fucking good.

Shoving back in the seat, Tommy says, "C'mere," and pats his lap.

Anderson's eyebrow wings up. Looking almost like he's gonna laugh it off, something changes in his expression in the last second, eyes going darker, maybe, challenging. "Okay, Tommy Joe," he says, sliding out of his chair and rounding the table, a brief flash of skin high on the inside of one thigh as he sits sideways on Tommy's lap, legs crossed at the knee. "Now what?"

Tommy doesn't even fucking know. Anderson's a solid weight on his dick, his ass not nearly as bony as Tommy expected considering how slight he is. Tommy settles one arm around Anderson's waist, the other high on Anderson's bare leg, getting used to the few differences he can find between having a girl and a guy in his lap. "You feel really fucking good," Tommy says, fingers inching in past the gape of Anderson's shirt to get at more skin.

"I know I do." Leaning back, Anderson gives Tommy the space to keep heading down south if he wants. Like, Anderson's dick is right fucking there.

Totally too chicken-shit to go for it straight off the bat, Tommy drags his hand back up, traces the slender planes of Anderson's chest all the way to press his palm over one nipple. He rubs it a bit, feeling it go tight, peak. Just like a girl's.

Slinging an arm around Tommy's shoulders, Anderson slides down deeper into his lap. The skirt Anderson's wearing is more like a scarf tied around his hips, sitting flush to his thighs, and Anderson totally must've tucked tonight or Tommy would be able to see the soft rise of his cock. Realising that he fucking wants to see it, wants to spread Anderson's legs and get a hand up between them, hits Tommy right in the balls. He grunts, and Anderson laughs, a hand settling over Tommy's making his fingers curl in, like Anderson wants him to give his fucking tit a squeeze.

"Finally going to come home with me tonight?" Anderson asks, his head on Tommy's shoulder, mouth so close Tommy could kiss him. Tommy wants to kiss him. "Or are you still too afraid?"

"Not fucking afraid," Tommy says, shaking Anderson's hand free to rub knuckles over soft skin, come back and tease at his nipple a bit more, pretend like it's not Anderson's idea for Tommy to keep playing with it. Tommy's a big fan of curves, doesn't matter so much to him if he's got a generous pair of tits cupped in his palms or two nice, small handfuls. Turns out having to work to get something to hold does it for him, too, because Anderson so doesn't have anything extra up there, little more than muscle layered over bone, but squeezing tight, making flesh mound so Tommy's got a good grip on his tit, that is fucking awesome. Tommy wants to get his mouth on it, suck hard, flick Anderson's nipple with his tongue and worry it between his teeth to see if it'll make Anderson squirm.

"C'mon," Anderson says, hand braced on Tommy's chest like he needs the help staying upright, "find your balls already and come the fuck home with me."

Before Tommy knows what he's doing, his hand's skidding south, fucking forcing between Anderson's legs to cup his junk right there in front of everybody. But there's nothing even fucking there. He presses harder, searching, cursing on the skirt getting in his way.

Anderson snaps, "Jesus," and slaps at Tommy's hand. "You're going to ruin my tuck, stop it."

"I knew it," Tommy says, grabbing at Anderson's wrist to hold his arm pinned to his stomach. "I fucking knew it. Lemme feel it."

Pointedly closing his legs, Anderson twists in Tommy's lap, shaking hair back over his bare shoulders. "Kiss me first."

Not even bothering to waste time thinking about it, Tommy gets a hand on Anderson's smooth jaw and guides him in. Kissing's kissing, Tommy's always figured, and kissing Anderson doesn't do much to change his opinion. Anderson's lips part, the faint taste of berries on Tommy's tongue from shiny gloss before its overpowered by the wet heat of Anderson's mouth, Anderson yielding to him completely. He keeps an arm around Anderson's waist to hold him tight in case he's thinking about backing out since Tommy called his bluff.

It takes a hand on Tommy's shoulder pushing him back to get him to stop. Even then, he doesn't want to, but he's angling to get some now. The surest way he's ever found to get into somebody's pants is give them what they want.

"Okay," Tommy says, swallowing hard. He's so going to do this. He's really going to fucking do it. "Take me home already."

Taking hold of Tommy's hand, Anderson hauls him up out of the booth and through the crowd. Tommy stares at Anderson's ass, imagining getting his hands on it, working so hard to picture exactly what the fuck is going on between Anderson's legs right now, if his nuts and his dick are actually fucking physically tucked away down there, and what the hell does that even mean, anyway. Where the fuck does it go?

In the cab Anderson summoned up out of fucking nowhere, Tommy tries hauling Anderson back into his lap. Laughing, Anderson slaps his chest to hold him off, curling in against his side with legs crossed again, knee rubbing Tommy's thigh. "You're really grabby, Tommy Joe."

"Sorry," Tommy says, but only if it means he's ruining his chances. "You're really hot. And I like your mouth."

"Anybody with a dick usually does," Anderson says, his hand sliding into Tommy's hair, urging him down to kiss again, "sometimes even after they find out I've also got one."

Not really wanting to be a total asshole, Tommy holds off, says, "I like your eyes, too," with his fingertips tracing Anderson's brow, ghosting down to brush his cheek. "I'm not, like, I'm drunk, but I'd do you anyway."

Both of Anderson's eyebrows creep slowly upward.

"Fuck, shut up, you know what I fucking mean."

"I know you're really fucking horny," Anderson says, the hand he's got on Tommy's thigh sliding up to curve lightly over his dick. It takes everything Tommy's got to keep from slapping a hand down on top of Anderson's and grinding away like he's a fucking teenager again, and then he thinks, why the fuck not? and goes for it. He's got his other arm tucked around Anderson, holding him close, and it isn't a hell of a lot of work to snag Anderson's shirt, tug it askew, and get hand back on Anderson's tit, give it another little appreciative squeeze.

This time around, he gets a groan out of Anderson for his trouble. Like somebody's taken a match to him, Tommy's nerves light up, his cock giving a hard throb in Anderson's grip. He almost chokes on the sound that wants to come spilling out of him, his gaze flying to the rearview mirror wondering if the driver knows what they're up to back here, if the guy's gonna dump them in the middle of downtown for being filthy fuckers in his god damn backseat.

"Nobody cares as long as you keep it in your pants," Anderson says, practically in Tommy's lap again, "and tip."

"Seriously not making it easy on me."

Anderson grins, biting his lip. He realises what he's doing a second later, ruining the whole sultry femmeboy thing he's always got going on, and dials it back with a slow look down and a deep breath. And he's hot, okay, he is really fucking gorgeous, exactly the right kind of decadent flirting with the edge of slutty, but that flash of delight totally got under Tommy's skin. Everybody else that Anderson brings home probably doesn't get that. Tommy fucking wants it.

Twisting to snuggle in closer, pulling Anderson leg up across his knees so he can stroke from calf to thigh, Tommy says, "I kinda get it, right? Gotta be blind to not see how pretty you are, but it's like, it's not 'cause you look like a chick. No way am I pretending you're not packing down there."

Anderson says, "I didn't think you were," but he's curious, his hand light on Tommy's cock again, resting there like a reminder that he's not finished with it yet.

"I just," Tommy tries, "I really want to fucking see," which totally doesn't do a thing to explain where he's coming from here. Anderson doesn't fit with Tommy's concept of a guy, but he so doesn't fall into the girl category either, and the whole fucking binary thing is so limiting it's seriously pissing Tommy off. Even if Anderson swung the other way, had been so much more interested in the girls Tommy had been checking out earlier than in Tommy, Tommy's pretty sure he'd still want to get all up in Anderson's business, and he'd maybe even give it a shot. It's fucking stupefying how compelling Anderson is. Tommy's been wanting for ages to spread him out somewhere and just look at him, and touch, try to figure out what the fuck it is that makes Anderson stick under his skin.

"I hope you're going to do more than look at me," Anderson says, sliding away to open the door. He's out on the sidewalk waiting before Tommy realises they're here, and Tommy digs frantically for his wallet, throwing some bills at the driver hoping those singles he grabbed weren't actually tens. There's tipping the guy for putting up with their shit, and then there's like, sending his fucking kids through grad school.

Anderson keys open the building, bypassing the elevator to take the stairs up two flights. Tommy hangs back almost half a set, watching the muscles in Anderson's legs shift, his gaze drawn up yet again to the small dark space between them. He wants to get his hands up there so fucking bad.

"No Dana?" Tommy asks when Anderson leads him into a dark apartment. Not that he'd call this off if she were around. She's pretty easy-going, and wouldn't kick their asses for getting a little loud. Hell, she'd probably grab a book and head up to the roof for a couple hours, give them space like his roommates wouldn't even dream of doing because they're all cockblocking bastards.

Or they're so hard up for it they're willing to listen to Tommy fuck, whatever.

"She's got a show," Anderson says, flicking on a couple lamps on his way to the tiny kitchen. Glasses clink as Tommy rounds the corner, deep gold whiskey poured into two twin tumblers. Anderson offers one, hefting the other in a toast.

"I'm already pretty drunk," Tommy confides.

"Maybe I need more of a buzz on before I see you without your clothes," Anderson tosses back.

"You total asshole," Tommy says, grinning, and gives in. Like hell was he going to say no to more quality booze, anyway.

"Have another," Anderson says, reaching for the bottle. "I'm gonna go-"

"No," Tommy says, grabbing at him even though he hasn't made a move to leave yet. "Don't like, whatever. Let me do it."

"You want to take a leak for me?"

"No," Tommy repeats, shaking his head. Maybe he shouldn't have had that whiskey after all. "If you've gotta piss, whatever, but if you're like, I mean if you're gonna go take your dick out or something. I wanna see."

For the first time, Anderson wavers. "I honestly don't think it'll really be your thing."

"How the fuck d'you know; you're not in my head," Tommy says, holding on tighter, Anderson's waist so fucking tiny in his hands. "If I tell you it turns me on thinking about your junk just like fucking stuffed up there or what the fuck ever, and I wanna pull it out, feel you get hard in my hand, then it turns me on, okay?" Tommy hadn't actually been thinking about that last part until right then, but now that he is, whoo boy, he really fucking wants. So bad his dick's aching, and he's probably fucking leaking all over his shorts.

"If you freak out on me and I don't even get a handjob out of this, Ratliff, I swear to fucking god-"

"No freaking," Tommy promises, and figures if he wigs out a little, he'll be able to keep that much to himself. He drags Anderson in close so there's no mistaking how hard Tommy is. There's a split-second of disappointment that Anderson's dick isn't right there for him to grind against, finally find out what it's like to grind cock-to-cock with somebody, but they've got time. "Bedroom?"

Grabbing the whiskey bottle but leaving the tumblers behind, Anderson heads for the hall. Figuring that's about as much permission as he's ever gonna get, Tommy follows.

Tommy's seen Anderson's bedroom before. It's a lot like his, except instead of amps and guitars, it's makeup and clothes. There's a heap of shit on the bed Anderson yanks off along with the top sheet. The whiskey bottle goes on the floor in front of the nightstand, and Anderson turns around, waiting.

"Okay," Tommy says, wetting his lips. Stepping in, he cups Anderson's neck, thumbs skimming the corners of his lips, and goes for another kiss. Anderson opens up for it, but not quite as easily as before, making Tommy think about plying him with more booze, getting him as loose as he'd felt when he thought they were gonna straight up fuck around.

Before Tommy can reach for the bottle, Anderson sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed, knees spread wide around Tommy's legs. "Oh fuck," Tommy says, because that is a fucking tease, that's what that is, and he nudges Anderson back. "Fucking lie down for me already."

Anderson goes for his shoes, sparkly, lacy platforms tied high on his ankles, and Tommy gives him another harder nudge. "Pushy," he says, but scoots back on the bed, settling down with an arm tucked beneath his head.

"I'm so fucking hard even my nuts are killing me," Tommy says, catching Anderson's calf before he can cross his legs again, hand sliding up past his knee, underneath his skirt to really feel him this time. Anderson doesn't really seem like he's all that into it, biting at the inside of his cheek where he thinks Tommy won't notice. Having him off-balance the way Tommy feels around him most of the time is hot, but not if Anderson's so twisted up about it he's not going to enjoy this.

Going up on his knees, Tommy straddles Anderson's hips, pulling his hand down far enough so he's not in the immediate danger zone. "If you really don't want me to, I'll stop, okay? Like I will seriously fucking back right the hell off."

"You're so not playing by the rules," Anderson says, frowning. "You were supposed to let me go deal with it, put on a lacy pair of panties, and blow you in the stupid kitchen."

Tommy gets hit with that mental image so fucking hard he's seriously tempted to say fuck it, go back out there so Anderson can do his thing. But they're here now. He's got Anderson spread out beneath him, still all tucked away, and if being pushy makes him a bad hook-up, it's not his fault Anderson's got really shitty taste.

"Do that next time," Tommy says, and goes for the zipper on Anderson's skirt.

"Oh Jesus," Anderson says, batting at Tommy's hands, "at least fucking-"

"No," Tommy says, fighting him off, "I want to fucking see," as Anderson says, "You're gonna rip my fucking skirt," and Tommy snaps, "Fucking deal with it," and yanks the fucking thing down past his knees, forgetting all about it the second it's not in his way.

"Oh come the fuck on," Tommy says, probably not the nicest thing in the world, but for fuck's sake. Anderson's got the cutest little pair of boycut panties on under there, with abstract flowers and swirly designs and shit, all girly in pinks and blues, soft lace at the waist and legs. He's even looks all flat still, only a tiny mound like a girl. "That is fucking awesome. How the fuck even, dude?"

"Keep going," Anderson says grudgingly. "You'll find out."

Feeling sort of like he's unwrapping a present, and giddy enough it could be Christmas morning, Tommy says, "Fucking right on," and cups his hand over Anderson's crotch again, his fucking fake girl parts, whatever, and squeezes gently, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on down there. Anderson's breath hitches, barely enough to notice, but Tommy is like, so fucking zoned in on every little twitch, every sound, it's like he's got radar in his skull, for fucking serious. Trying to decide between groping at Anderson some more, since he's just gonna lie there for it and all, and really getting in there, Tommy finally curls his fingers in the lacy waistband. "Lift up, pretty boy."

"You're going to blow me so much for this," Anderson promises, hiking his hips up.

Obviously, Tommy had considered the possibility that this whole thing would involve dick in his mouth. If he's going to be honest about it, though, what he'd counted on was getting to fuck Anderson, and give him a friendly reach-around like a good friend would. He's a good lay, it's not like he'd be gypping the guy or something. Maybe if hadn't pushed his luck so far, that's what he'd stick with.

And then Tommy's got Anderson's panties tugged down, and he forgets all about the payback Anderson's gonna want for this. Anderson is seriously fucking tucked. Like, Tommy doesn't even fucking know what's going on, and he's got it right there in front of his face, his hands all over it. There's medical tape stark white on Anderson's belly, a neat little triangle of it sitting exactly like a bikini brief on his pelvis. His balls and his dick are like, gone.

"I told you," Anderson starts.

"Shut the fuck up," Tommy says, staring open-mouthed as he traces the tape down between Anderson's legs, feeling around the edges of it for his dick. It is so fucking weird when Tommy finds it tucked up between Anderson's ass cheeks, so fucking soft it's not even real, not even like flaccid-soft. Finally reaching the end of the tape, Tommy picks the edge of it loose.

"You do, and I'll kill you," Anderson says, hand planted on Tommy's chest as he flails for the whiskey bottle. "Get it wet first."

Despite thinking that a total sacrilegious waste of most excellent booze, Tommy plays it smart for the first time tonight by keeping his mouth shut as he snatches up the bottle. Plugging up the mouth with a thumb, Tommy carefully tips it over Anderson's belly, his other hand cupped between Anderson's legs to hopefully catch any spills before they end up ruining the bed. "How much?" Tommy asks.

"Let it soak through," Anderson says, kinda twitchy still.

Tommy gets it good and drenched, the smell of alcohol sharp in his nose, and makes sure to rub it in, dissolving the glue, before he puts the bottle down to start peeling the tape off. No wonder Anderson wanted a moment or two in the bathroom to deal with this shit. It is fucking on there.

"Let me," Anderson tries, and Tommy happily says, "Fuck off," the going easier once he gets the triangle anchor-type part loose. Pausing with it held tight to Anderson's body, Tommy says, "Hey, get your legs up. Lemme kneel between 'em."

"This is the most fucking ridiculous hook-up ever," Anderson says, a flush deeper than blush on his cheeks as he drags his knees up, trying to keep them a little too close together for Tommy's liking. An elbow shoved into Anderson's thigh gets them knocked wider, and a vicious, "Bitch."

"Says the guy flat on his back with his legs in the air," Tommy says, settling in closer, his thighs tucked under Anderson's. "And like, don't even try telling me this isn't so fucking hot. I got my hand on your dick." The tape's still holding it down, but only barely. Most of it's come loose on its own, and Tommy's hand splayed out over Anderson's groin is what's keeping everything tucked neatly away.

"I really wish you would already."

An eager thrill plays hopscotch all up and down Tommy's spine. "Yeah?" He stretches his fingers out, feeling something shift, thinking it's Anderson finally getting hard, things finally loose enough down there for the blood to really flow. He lets go slowly, dragging the tape away, and works Anderson's dick free. Anderson's sac comes along with it, weirdly empty-feeling, and he sucks in a sharp breath, squeezing it in his palm. "Dude, where the fuck are your nuts?"

"Straight boys," Anderson mutters, pushing up on the palm of one hand. "You ever pay attention in health class or what?"

"Paid attention to the whole condom on a banana thing." As hard as Tommy tries, he can't let go of Anderson's sac. That shit is seriously fucked up. In the hottest way fucking possible, Jesus Christ. "I know you got balls here somewhere," he says, pushing up, feeling another shift that is so totally not related to Anderson's dick. "C'mon, give 'em up."

"Quit pushing so hard," Anderson snaps, grabbing onto Tommy's shoulder, this look on his face like it kinda hurts to have Tommy rooting around down there so much. But Jesus, Anderson's getting a little hard, and there's that shift again, and that's it, Tommy's got it, Anderson had his balls fucking tucked up inside him like when shit gets too cold and they try crawling up there all on their own. Easing up, Tommy coaxes Anderson's poor squished nuts free, his own giving a sympathetic throb as they settle into place in Anderson's sac, cupped in his palm.

"Jesus Christ," Tommy says, staring.

Anderson grabs a rough handful of Tommy's hair. "Suck me now."

"Wait," Tommy says, wincing at the pull, "just, fucking wait a second," and he pushes up again, straight up, a tiny bit of resistance before he finds exactly the right spot to have one of Anderson's nuts vanishing inside him again. It comes out easier this time, now that Tommy knows how this whole thing works, and Anderson is fucking letting him do it, seriously playing with his balls in a way Tommy never would've thought even possible. He notices Anderson's dick resting thick against his wrist, but he doesn't really notice-notice, way too busy with all this other shit going on.

Anderson makes a quiet noise, strained, and Tommy eases up, cradling his sac in both hands. "S'hurt?" Tommy asks, stroking softly, his brain not really making the connection that this is another guy's junk he's fooling around with. He gets it, right, but it's like it's something totally different than what it is.

"Aches," Anderson grunts, kicking his leg to get his foot free of his clothes still trapped around one ankle, caught on his shoe. "I don't- Jesus, Tommy, I don't do it when I'm hard."

Since Anderson's dick is there, and he's mentioned it and all, Tommy's sort of compelled to grab it. Anderson lets out this shocked gasp, hips jerking, and Tommy tries giving it a couple tugs, squeezing close to the head the way he likes. From the way Anderson falls back, mouth open, it's obviously not a bad attempt, but the angle feels all wrong. Tommy can so do this better.

"C'mere," he says, swinging off of Anderson to plop his ass up by the headboard, legs spread wide to make space for Anderson to crawl between them. Catching Anderson around the waist, Tommy tugs him down back to chest, ass snugged up tight to Tommy's dick. And that feels fucking amazing. So good Tommy's got to hold him down by the hips for a minute, grind against him, take some of that edge off.

"Trying to win me over with your big dick?" Anderson asks, leaning back so Tommy can't miss the saucy smile curving his mouth.

"Gonna jerk you off," Tommy says, splaying a hand out over Anderson's belly to make sure he stays right where he is. Before he gets a chance to really get back to it, Anderson snakes a hand between them, palm curved over Tommy's dick to work it with the roll of their hips. Tommy ends up with his mouth pressed wide-open to Anderson's shoulder, Anderson's dick caught in his hand, balls in the other, not doing a damn thing with either of them because holy fuck, Anderson is good. Not like, enough to get Tommy off kinda good, but Tommy so wouldn't kick him out of bed for breakfast.

"Whenever you think you can handle it," Anderson prompts, flicking a glance down at his cock, his eyelashes a dark flutter against his cheeks.

Right about then, with Anderson slumped against him half-naked in the shadows, pretty lips parted and damp, it hits Tommy that they're having sex. Anderson starts making tiny, gorgeous do-it-more noises as Tommy slowly jacks him, kneading at Tommy's dick through his jeans. "This is seriously fucking awesome," Tommy says, rocking his hips in time, his mouth pressed to Anderson's neck, a small scrape of teeth making Anderson shiver.

"Be more awesome if you'd pay attention," Anderson says, getting his other hand over Tommy's, tightening his grip.

Tommy says, "Now who's fucking pushy," but he pays attention, letting Anderson guide him for a few strokes so he can get a handle on what the guy likes. If Tommy ever thought he'd spend a drunken Thursday night learning how to jerk off a friend, he's sure he would've pictured it more like a dare, the kind of shit that happens when the weed comes out, not like this. Shaking Anderson's hand off, Tommy mumbles, "Got it now," into his mouth, because he's so totally got it, that little flick over the slit that makes Anderson moan, the way tugging on his nuts makes him suck harder on Tommy's tongue. And that gets Tommy stuck on the whole tucking thing again, how Anderson just does that shit to his junk, and Tommy's got to maul the fucking hell out of him. Like seriously maul the guy, jacking him off way too hard with only some spit slicking the way, scratching and pulling at his nuts, making him twist and moan at clutch at Tommy's arm, spitting curses like he wants it to stop. The second Tommy tries to ease up, Anderson cusses him out even worse, and Tommy's finally got to shut him up with a couple fingers stuffed in his mouth. He blows it almost right after, sucking on Tommy's fingers, cock pulsing in Tommy's hand, come spilling down over his knuckles smeared shiny wet on Anderson's belly as Tommy keeps going, squeezing everything out of him.

When Anderson slumps down in a boneless heap, panting hard, Tommy gives a triumphant, well-stated, "Ha."

"Fuck you," Anderson says slowly, kinda fuzzy-sounding, like he's drugged. Tommy is fucking good.

"Straight boy's the fucking best you had all week," Tommy says, not caring about the come on his hand when he reaches up to tilt Anderson's face back his way, help himself to a couple sloppy kisses. Anderson mutters a complaint, something about jizz in his hair, and Tommy happily ignores him, licking deep into his mouth and trying to get him to sit up a little, put his ass back on Tommy's cock.

"Eugh," Anderson says, rolling away. He wipes his face off on Tommy's shirt.

"Hey," Tommy says, scowling. That is his favourite shirt. Plus, this is so not anywhere close to Anderson returning the favour. "I'm still hard," he points out, in case Anderson somehow missed the giant fucking bulge in his jeans.

Anderson laughs, smiling like a little tramp as he scoots down the bed, settling on his belly between Tommy's legs. And okay, Tommy was fine with the dick. He was. But now Anderson looks like a chick again, cute ass right there, long legs and high heels, and his mouth, alright, his fucking mouth smeared wet and all of four fucking inches from Tommy's cock. The tug of Tommy's zip lowering goes straight through him. Tommy shoves a hand into Anderson's hair, gripping tight, doing his damn best not to fuck the hell out of his face the second he's got Tommy's dick out.

"Be polite," Anderson says, angling Tommy's dick down, the head brushing his lips, "or I'm not swallowing."

"I'll be good." Tommy's going to be so, so fucking good. He tries not to judge, because that shit's not cool, but his last girl wasn't big on giving head. It's not like he's gonna fucking die without it, and just because he loved going down on her doesn't mean he resented her (much) for not returning the favour.

All Anderson does is lick him, once, tongue dragging wet all the way from his balls up to his slit, and Tommy wants the last five blowjob-less months of his life back.

"Oh honey," Anderson says, "you're so easy," and Tommy grunts, "Please suck," nudging his head down firmly and oh-so-fucking gently. Anderson kisses his cockhead, a loud cheeky smack that does absolutely fucking nothing to ease the ache built up low in Tommy's belly. He pushes harder, still trying to be nice about it, and Anderson deliberately goes off-target, mouth skidding down the side of Tommy's dick.

"Fine," Tommy grates, shoving Anderson back up, "don't fucking swallow," and hauls him down again, pure fucking relief when Anderson opens his mouth, takes Tommy's dick halfway down his throat. Tommy freezes, pleasure-shock still, staring at Anderson's lips stretched around his cock, the flare of his nostrils on short, shallow breaths, the way his eyes squeeze shut. And then the fucking flutter of his throat as he tries to swallow, barely-there and then harder, only once or twice before he's got to ease back. He doesn't even pull off all the way, doesn't even really take a break before he starts sucking, really fucking going for it with his hand and his mouth, working Tommy over so fucking good his toes cramp in his boots. His boots that he never got around to taking off, and he's probably messing up Anderson's sheets, and who the fuck even cares, Anderson is so fucking good at this Tommy's never letting him stop ever.

Until orgasm ploughs into Tommy like a semi careening off the highway, and Tommy doesn't even know what the fuck anymore. It's so fucking good, but he's got enough booze in his system he thought he'd last longer than like, thirty fucking seconds, even if it's been almost a month since he got some.

Once he can peel open his eyes, he finds Anderson lounging against his thigh, absently petting his cock like it's done a very good job. There's no come anywhere, no balled-up tissues, and Tommy can't help grinning.

"Shut up," Anderson says, threatening to flick Tommy's nuts. "My neighbours probably already think I'm murdering you in here. You are so fucking loud, Tommy, Christ."

Everything's so heavy, so perfectly hazy right now, that Tommy doesn't even give a shit. He scoots down lower, upsetting Anderson's perch for maybe five seconds before Anderson gets with the program, climbing up to flop halfway on top of him. Anderson's not the world's best snuggler, a little too fidgety, but Tommy'll take what he can get. Besides, Tommy'll wear him down. Give it another hour, maybe another blowjob if Tommy's lucky, and Anderson'll be perfect for cuddling, all worn out and sleepy.

"I'm staying over," Tommy informs him, in case there was gonna be some sorta debate about it.

Anderson starts to get up. "Tommy-"

"Fuck off," Tommy says, yanking him back down, rolling halfway over to pin him to the bed. "I'm your fucking friend, okay, not some random dude you brought home for a good time, so I'm not gonna blow a load in you and leave. That shit is not cool. I'm gonna buy you breakfast."

"Breakfast," Anderson echoes, flicking a meaningful glance at the clock.

"Fucking brunch, whatever." Tommy starts kicking off his boots. "Point is, I'm staying."

"Alright, god," Anderson says, secretly pleased about the whole thing, Tommy suspects. "But go brush your teeth, you stink like beer."

"You stink like dick," Tommy counters, "my dick," and licks Anderson's face, making sure to get beer-breath all over him.

*
End


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