while with his gun the pagan angel rose to say

Fic: The Looking Glass - Joker/Crane (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 01:35:31 GMT

I have so many shiny new obsessions. I'm going to die waiting for the 34227 comic book movies coming out over the next few years.

Yay for evil twins that make my Joker extra shiny and who writes Batman/Joker over here: The Frayed Ends. :D

The Looking Glass
Batman Begins. Joker/Crane. NC-17. ~2000 words. Breathplay.
Joker fit his fingers one by one to Jonathan's throat.

*

The Looking Glass

Joker sprawled on the low bunk, back against the stale concrete wall, hands folded casually on his stomach and that smile on his face. Not the one carved into his flesh, or the garish smear of slick greasepaint, but the one that said he could see straight through Jonathan's tidy navy suit, through the flimsy paper reports and the steady hand they're written with to the obsession that beat inside his skull like the fluttering and screeching of a startled bat.

"And how are we feeling today?" Joker asked.

He felt naked, exposed, without his briefcase, though as a symbol it was a sad, flimsy shield and what he carried in it meant nothing here, now, with this man. He suspected a mind like the Joker's would revel in his world of toxic chaos.

"You need to learn to relax, you're very tense," Joker said. "Just take a moment to breathe." He dragged in a deep, exaggerated breath and let it free on a gusty sigh. "Now there, you try it."

"I find it hard to believe you requested this session over concern of my well-being," Jonathan replied. With nowhere to sit, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

"I find it hard to believe in being well, but all right," Joker said, shoving away from the wall and smacking his palms down on his knees. "Let's have a little chat about why you like me so much. It's good therapy. Positive thinking works wonders."

Tension cramped Jonathan's shoulders. His pulse had spiked the moment he'd walked into the cell, had juddered erratically when the door sealed shut at his back, and now it danced to the Joker's tune. A thin layer of sweat gathered at the base of his spine. "What makes you say that?"

"Narcissism of the highest order. Everybody likes it when the popular boy comes over to play, and you're very popular around here. Not that I get out much." He darted to his feet, jerking Jonathan's heart along for the ride, and did a wobbly twirl. "I even dressed for the occasion." Sticking both hands in a frame around his face, he batted his eyelashes and asked, "Do you like it?"

"Do you?"

Joker frowned. "You could at least lie, you know. And spare my feelings."

Less than half a dozen feet between them now and a thick metallic taste coated the back of Jonathan's tongue. The viewing shutter was open but the hallway beyond the door sat silent, empty by his word. The slick smell of greasepaint stuck in his nose.

"I'll tell you why you like me, doc," Joker said, his voice dropping to a soft, scratching intimacy. "Why you can't get those big baby blues to go anywhere else." He paused, scowled, smacked his lips and puffed irritably. "And speaking of, doc, why're you- Why're you hiding behind those?"

Jonathan flinched as Joker's hand shot out.

"See, what'd I say," Joker said, wriggling his fingers in front of the lenses, "you've got to learn to relax." Gently, he slid Jonathan's glasses down, lifted them free and folded them, tucked them safely away in his breast pocket, even gave them a fond little pat. "There. Easier to see when the looking glass isn't in the way."

Scarred fingers ruffled Jonathan's hair, skittered down to curl under his chin, tilt his face upwards. Flesh showed through the jagged cracks in Joker's painted face like long-healed wounds. "Not going to tell me what you see, doc?"

Jonathan swallowed a breath, his insides a twisted, squirming mess at the slow-burn gleam it brought to Joker's eyes. "Why don't you tell me?"

Joker fit his fingers one by one to Jonathan's throat. He smiled while he did it, blood-red lip caught between his teeth and a muffled, humming laugh trickling out to fill the stale inches of air they shared. Jonathan's pulse fluttered fitfully under the press of his thumb.

"No, no, see." Joker jerked away, shaking his head and waggling his finger. "That's too easy. I don't think I want to make it that easy for you."

"For me?" Jonathan smoothed the front of his tie. "This is about you."

Joker froze, blinking madly. "Wrong again!" he crowed, slapping his hands together as he straightened. "This has nothing to do with me, it's all about you, doc. It's always about you. You, you, you. Ah okay, you're right, it's about me too." He made another low, considering noise. "How to explain?"

Bracing a hand on the door, though it was his chest and not his knees that rattled, Jonathan said, "Why did you stop?"

Joker cocked a brow. "Hmm?"

"You could've hurt me, killed me," Jonathan went on, ignoring the loud fizzle of the overhead light as he pushed away from the false security of the door. "You still can."

Wobbling a hand back and forth as if it didn't matter one way or the other, Joker shrugged.

"Fine," Jonathan, closing the distance Joker had put between them. "I want something from you."

Joker took a mincing step back, then another, goading, leading. "Ooh, another trade? A little tit for tat? Do tell."

"This. This is what I want." Grabbing Joker's hand, Jonathan smacked it to his throat, pressed rough fingertips bruisingly hard to the mad trip of his pulse. " I need to know why I'm afraid of you."

"Why, doc," Joker said, his voice a whispering grate on Jonathan's skin, "I never knew you felt that way."

Air exploded from Jonathan's lungs as Joker swung him around, slammed him up against the wall with one hand still at his throat and the other scrabbling at his belt. The toes of his shoes skidded on the warped tile floor as he dug at Joker's wrist with blunt nails, choking on desperate panic for the thin scraps of air teasing his lips.

The grip on his throat eased. He sucked in a harsh breath, most of it lost again as Joker's fingers wrapped roughly around his cock and pulled it free of his clothes. He sagged against the cold brick and breathed deeply, tried to stretch and fill his lungs before he missed his chance.

Joker's hand tightened like a vise, trapping dead air in his chest, the pressure growing, squeezing his clattering heart until it slowed, calmed. He grasped at the front of the Joker's ugly orange jumpsuit, pictured it the vibrant clash of colours he'd come in with as it crushed beneath his fist.

"Oh," Joker said, and laughing, leaned in. "Oh, oh, I know what you need. Trust me, I really do." The scar twisting his bottom lip was slick, smooth, and left a tickling smudge of paint at the corner of Jonathan's mouth. "But I've just got to wonder, you know, which one you want more."

Without the breath to answer, Jonathan kicked uselessly at Joker's shin, yanked weakly at the stiff cloth tangled in his fingers. The taste of cheap greasepaint lingered just out of his reach.

His hold loosened, and so did the Joker's. Air rushed in and he coughed into the ragged press of Joker's mouth, fighting his body's need in an attempt to learn the texture of the rest of the scars hidden beneath sloppy paint. His dead heart sputtered back to horrified, terrible life. He strangled a moan before it could escape when Joker gave his cock a casual tug, dropped his head back against the brick and closed his eyes as if that would erase the dense, oily paint smeared across his lips.

He didn't anticipate the jagged, bright spike of pain as Joker's teeth dug into his throat. It ripped a startled noise free, too sharp, too quick for him to stifle, and one of Joker's hands clamped over his mouth while the other slid smoothly, precome slick, down the full length of his dick.

"Remember to keep it quiet, dear Dr. Crane. You don't want anybody to ruin it now, do you? Hm?" Joker nuzzled under his jaw, licked a wide swath from there to his ear, bit at the lobe lightly, playfully. "Make those teeny tiny noises again for me, beautiful. Those lovely little choking moans."

Jonathan shook his head and shuddered, arched into the rise of pleasure as Joker worked him closer to an edge he wanted to be shoved over, forced into like a nosedive off a skyscraper. Lank hair brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes, saw the kiss Joker pressed to the back of the hand tight over his mouth and groaned at the phantom echo of it.

He wanted that stillness back, that sure, dark certainty, not the frantic rush of blood through his veins, the shuddering in his chest. He tried to shake Joker's hand free, sank his teeth into flesh and Joker carved a smile like the edge of a knife against his face.

He came with his gaze locked on the dank, water-stained ceiling, his bottom lip caught between his teeth to block his groans and his tongue pressed to the layer of paint lingering there, the taste of it flooding his mouth anew. For one brief, glorious moment, everything stopped, went silent, empty.

"Nothing to fear," Joker said, and smiled, tsk-tsked. He caught Jonathan's face with both hands, one wet with spit, the other with come. "Nothing to fear but fear itself, little boy, don't you know that."

Disgusted with the shaky rattle still plaguing him, Jonathan pushed Joker's hands away. "Platitudes," he said, wiping his come and the smear of the Joker's smile from his face. "Trite and useless."

Joker gave his cock another of those fond little pat and tucked it away, zipped up his slacks. "Well, I feel better. I love these little sessions, doc, honestly, I do. Same time next week?"

"Move," Jonathan said, and shoved at Joker's shoulder.

Joker seized his wrist, mouth and eyes flat as a snake's under the shadows and the smears. "You make me feel so cheap. I think I like it."

A sudden slick lopsided smile cracked into a real grin and Jonathan wrenched free, snatched his glasses out of Joker's pocket and shoved a hand through his hair as he went for the door. He pounded on it twice, paused and then pounded three times more. The loud clack of footsteps echoed through the hall.

"I'll give you one for free, doc," Joker said, gnawing on the jagged edge of a fingernail. "It's not me you're afraid of."

Metal screeched as one of the orderlies cranked the release. "So what am I afraid of, then?" Jonathan asked.

Joker stood tall, spread his arms wide, a maestro in a silent pit. The orderly glanced from him to Jonathan and back, shifted uneasily.

"Get it?" Joker said.

"Close it," Jonathan said, snapping his fingers to get the orderly's attention.

Joker's eyes flashed wide. "Wait, doc. Wait a second." Seeing him move, the orderly swung the door shut hard, the harsh clang still echoing in Jonathan's ears when Joker slammed up against the inside, face pressed to the reinforced glass. "Leaving so soon? But didn't you bring me a present? Ah, ah, don't make that face, you said you would, and the last one was oh so very nice." He ran a fingertip over his lips to fix the cracks in the red, pressed them together in a loud smack and blew a kiss.

"Nothing and no one goes in that cell except food and water," Jonathan instructed, his gaze locked with the Joker's.

Joker blew a lank string of hair out of his face. "Okay. All right." He tapped the glass twice. "Whether or not you let me pretty myself up, I'll be out of here like mist on the river soon enough. Ain't that right, Johnny boy?"

Calmly, Jonathan closed the viewing slot. He fixed the skewed knot in his tie as he walked away. "Nothing," he repeated, his voice loud enough to carry.

*
End

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

Fic: In the Upright Position - Tony/Starscream (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 04:29:44 GMT

Dear god, I KNOW. Face meets palm.

In the Upright Position
Iron Man/Transformers. Tony/Starscream. PG (for metaphorical sexin). ~800 words. For round nine of IJ's porn_battle.
"I believe that was a challenge, sir."

*

In the Upright Position

"Sir."

"I see it," Tony said, banking left and dropping a few hundred feet. "Coming up fast, isn't he."

"No faster than you."

"Nag, nag. Punch it up, Jarvis. Let's see if he's up for a joy ride."

With an easy twist, Tony rolled over onto his back to watch the approaching jet. It veered sharply to the right, arcing high and wide to come out in front. The engines throttled back as they drew level, driving Tony's heart up into his throat as it rolled directly in front of him and fell behind off to his left.

"I believe that was a challenge, sir."

Tony grinned, shouted, "It's about goddamn time!" across an open proximity channel, and shot straight up to leapfrog over the top of the jet.

A garbled crackle of static came across the line as the jet nosed upward. "Straighten that mess out," Tony said, corner of his lip caught between his teeth as he swerved down to the side.

"In progress."

"Call me overconfident, but is that- Holy shit. Cut it!" Gritting his teeth against the sudden buffet, Tony fell back as the jet again looped beneath him, the currents sending him tumbling through the air. "Son of a bitch's cocky for military."

"The craft is unmanned, sir."

"Now you tell me."

"Sir, you didn't ask."

"Remember that talk we had about relevant information?" Tony asked, climbing quickly as the jet rose beneath him again.

"Quite clearly."

"Tell me next time I'm playing chicken with a remote controlled toy."

Another harsh burst of static exploded in Tony's ears. He winced as it increased in pitch, gritting out, "Filter, Jarvis, filter," his pulse kicking into overdrive when Jarvis remained silent and the jet arced high.

He hit it with a jarring thud, metal screaming as he scrambled for a handhold, the signal peaking at a deafening screech. About two seconds away from shattering his eardrums, it cut out.

His ears ringing, Tony said, "That was cheating."

"Fair play is an excuse to let the weak live," came the harsh, grating reply.

Tony whistled softly. "Got a chip on your shoulder?"

"A gnat." The jet shuddered as if they'd struck turbulence and Tony held on harder, the metal plating buckling slightly under his grip. "Afraid to let go?"

"Hey, you put me here."

"Let go."

"Gonna catch me again?"

A laugh like an electric sizzle filled the silence where Jarvis should've been. "No."

"I hate to point out the obvious," Tony said, "but that isn't really incentive. For future reference, lie."

The jet dipped into a barrel roll. Slat plates shifted to compensate, slipping out of his grip as if they'd been slicked with oil. He skidded sideways, knees banging off one of the stabilizers and launching him into a freefall.

Slamming the manual trigger for his jets and not all that shocked when nothing happened, Tony said, "Now would be a good time to get back online, Jarvis. You know, whenever you're ready."

The jet dropped low, darting forward and swooping back in a move no pilot he'd ever met would've attempted. "You don't seem afraid."

"Falling's cool. I'm okay with falling." Once he could pick out the individual trees of the forest below, then he'd worry. "It's the landing that bothers me. Be a pal and unjam my friend." That had to be about ten thousand feet, give or take a few hundred. This was really going to ruin his day.

"You're not going to beg me to save you?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Tony admitted. "Think it'll help?"

"No."

"And here I thought we were bonding."

Something like a snort sounded across the comms line before the jet dropped completely out of sight. He slapped at his emergency chute again, nearly choking on the annoyed breath he huffed out when the jet shot forward under him. It banked smoothly as the cockpit windows slid down into the metal hull, scooping him straight out of the air.

Landing in an awkward sideways jumble, Tony wrestled a hand free and patted the curiously dark control panel. "See, I knew you liked me. Nice catch."

The clear plating began to slide back into place and the controller belatedly advised, "Move your legs if you want to keep them."

With some acrobatic wriggling, Tony settled properly into the seat, hands tucked behind his head. "And you said you didn't care."

"Don't make me regret it."

"I'd say I don't move this fast on the first date, but one liar in this relationship is enough. That, and I really want you to take me for a ride."

"Hold on," came the vaguely pleased reply.

*
End

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

Fic: A Trained Professional - Logan/Tony (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 02:33:51 GMT

Tony really does look good on everybody.

A Trained Professional
Marvel movieverse (Iron Man, X-Men). Logan/Tony. NC-17. ~4700 words. For 'virginity/celibacy' on my kink_bingo card. (As I type this, I die laughing. Die.)
If they'd been in the field, Tony might've been worried.

*

A Trained Professional

"This is nice," Tony said, gazing out over the expansive grounds. He slung his hands in his pockets for something to do without a drink to hold. "Very old money."

"It is a heritage estate, yes." Gears whirred quietly as Xavier rounded the edge of the oversized antique desk. Maybe if he asked, the professor would let him tinker with the chair while they waited. Nitrous was like Viagra. Everybody loved it. "Everything but the east wing is original."

"Everything?"

Xavier spread his hands. "I'm told the refrigerator is also new."

Though Xavier had said his next class wasn't scheduled for another hour, the door to his study burst open. "Hey, prof," said the guy, belatedly rapping on the stout wood, "when's the- Oh. Sorry. Didn't know you had company."

"Which is why knocking customarily occurs before entering, not after," Xavier said. "Logan, this is Tony Stark. Mr. Stark is here on business."

And Mr. Stark had just found where they'd been hiding the eye candy.

Logan lifted a hand, already halfway back out the door. "Nice to meet ya. Sorry for barging in." The voice went with the face, nicely rough around the edges.

"Wait, Logan." Xavier glided forward a few feet. He handled the chair as if it were a part of himself. "Scott is running late. Perhaps you could show Mr. Stark the mansion."

Logan's face went flat. He still looked edible, though that probably had more to do with how he'd packed himself into those jeans than anything. "I ain't a tour guide."

"I'd love to see the place," Tony cut in. "I'm big on architecture. Huge fan."

"Excellent. Logan, if you would."

Logan huffed out a breath. For a guy fully decked out in lumberjack couture, it was practically a snit. "Fine. C'mon."

"Beautiful," Tony said, heading for the door with a wave to Xavier. "Can we start with the liquor cabinet?"

"This is a school."

"All the more reason."

The halls were quiet. It was nearing three in the afternoon, so Tony assumed classes were still in session. Busy thinking of ways to wriggle his way into his guide's good graces--and tight jeans--he didn't notice the vision that had turned the corner until Logan said, "Hey, Storm-"

"Save it, Logan," the woman said, breezing by, the smell of exotic flowers and crisp ozone swirling in her wake. "He's all yours."

She was gone before Tony could compliment her on the unique silver-white of her hair or the sultry curve of her hips. Just because he was in the mood for a bit of rougher trade right now didn't mean he couldn't keep his options open for later.

Logan glowered at the door she'd closed very firmly behind her, his nose twitching.

"You heard the lady," Tony said. "I'm all yours."

Logan's gaze shifted three inches to the left. "You're one of those guys who really likes listening to the sound of his own voice, aren't you."

"Yours isn't so bad."

Under his breath, Logan muttered, "Christ."

Never one to be deterred, Tony rubbed his hands together. "Where to first? And don't say the gardens. I saw enough foliage on the drive up to last until next Fall. How about the hangar?"

"The hangar."

"Whose navigational chips do you think are in that thing?"

Logan cocked a brow, recognition lighting his eyes. "Oh, you're that guy. Makes sense now. Couldn't figure out why Mr. Perfection blew you off."

Most people might've taken that as an insult. Tony, though, was not most people, and he'd have thrown in the towel long ago if he were that easy to needle. "My reputation precedes me."

"Looks like."

"Up for it?"

For a second, Tony thought that one flew right over Logan's head, and then he said, "I thought you wanted a tour."

So much for the direct approach. Satisfied with sneaky, Tony gestured for Logan to lead the way. "Show me what you've got."

All right, so it wasn't that sneaky.

Logan snorted quietly and headed down the hall. Silence reigned.

Never one for too much of that, Tony said, "Logan doesn't sound like a codename."

"'Cause it's not."

"So what else do they call you? 'Bunyan Brute'? 'The Flannel Flyer'?"

A sound like a growl trickled out between Logan's clenched teeth.

Sure, he knew better than to poke at the Wolverine with pointy verbal sticks, but he was curious. Jarvis hadn't been able to dig up much dirt, which either meant someone had managed to hide information from Tony's expert hand (inconceivable) or there wasn't that much out there to be had (only slightly more conceivable).

He knew bits and pieces, words like 'government' and 'project' cropping up in the same sentence. Pretty much just enough to make him really curious, and to seriously consider digging deeper.

"Wait, I know-"

Logan's hand snapped out. Tony's heart somersaulted up into his throat, a perfect 9.0, but Logan had been aiming for an unobtrusive elevator call button, not him.

Logan smirked.

A short trip down, two steel-plated hallways and three and a half non-communicative grunts from Logan later, they entered a blank cavernous room. Tony's pulse slammed up a few notches. He'd seen the schematics for this place. While holographic technology was not his forte, he'd become the go-to guy for sensory feedback.

Jarvis still hadn't run out of cracks about that one.

"Up for it?" Logan asked, his voice like a slow tumble of stone.

Without his suit? Hell no. He'd be a virtual smear in five minutes flat. "Prime grade human over here."

That smirk still in place, Logan said, "I know."

Now that was a challenge. "How about a demonstration?" He shrugged out of his jacket and tucked his tie between the buttons of his shirt "Plug me in as civilian bystander."

"Ain't a babysitter, either."

After a quick glance around, Tony found an internal control panel. He slung his jacket beside it and started poking. "It's going to look like shit on your record when something squishes me."

The quiet whump of cloth hitting steel brought Tony's head up as the lights went down. The flex of muscle in Logan's bare arms made his mouth go wet. He'd bet his portfolio the rest was just as ripped.

"Ten seconds to initiation," a female voice announced as he rejoined Logan in the centre of the room and tossed him one of the small earpieces.

"Better stand back," Logan warned.

That was it. No questions about the program level, the terrain, nothing. If they'd been in the field, Tony might've been worried. In here he was too busy staring at Logan's fists waiting for those claws to make their debut appearance.

"A case of pilsner says you can't keep me alive for ten minutes."

Logan grunted. He decided it meant the bet was on.

With three seconds left on the clock, Logan's arms came up and the muffled scrape of steel on steel echoed loud in Tony's ears. Claws gleamed in the dim light, sleek and dangerous.

Sexy.

Then the lights cut completely and Tony said, "Show time."

The darkness took on a murky red-tinge. A brief flash of lightning cut through the haze and thunder rolled in the distance. He picked out the shape of a twisted car through the first of several quick flashes, then an overturned transport of some sort responsible for pumping out the smoke thickening the air. His lungs burned as if it were real.

Nothing moved, not even Logan, who stood stock-still scenting the illusionary breeze.

Rusty metal groaned. The car's front door snapped off with a crack of noise like a gunshot and crashed to the ground.

"Hard on the nerves," Tony commented.

A hand clamped over his mouth. He stopped short of punching whatever the hell it was when he caught the glint of Logan's claws all of one inch from his face. He'd really like to know when Logan had gotten behind him.

"Fuckin' stealth missions," Logan growled in his ear.

"Oops?"

"Shut up."

Tony would swear the graze of lips against his ear became teeth after Logan said, "And don't move." With herculean effort, he managed to do both. He figured the effort would be worth it for maybe two minutes tops.

The low whine started up a few seconds after that. He squinted into the dark as Logan stepped back and the noise grew steadily louder. Even knowing it was all in his head, his pulse picked up again.

"God damn it," Logan muttered.

"What-"

A small supernova went off less than five feet away. Tony threw up his arms to shield his face as the blast of heat roiled over him, searing his skin and stealing the breath from his lungs. A second explosion buffeted him from behind a split-second later.

Logan streaked by, teeth bared and claws flashing, his arms blackened to the elbow. He launched straight for a tiny pinprick of light, snarling as he lashed out and darted to the side in the exact same moment.

The blast caught him full in the back and sent him sprawling into the dirt. Halfway through the skid turned into a roll and he bounced up on his feet right in front of Tony's face, his shirt and more than a few layers of burnt skin flaking off his back.

"Holy shit."

"Five left," Logan said. "Worried?"

He hadn't expected to see the physical damage Logan had taken represented so realistically. Hell, for all he really knew, when he'd selected Logan's profile, it had authorised the use of live rounds.

Squinting wildly into the murk, Tony said, "I'd rather not explode."

"Hey, you were the one pushing buttons. Get down."

Tony dropped to his knees without a second thought. Finding his face level with Logan's groin, he tossed a grin up and caught a flash of teeth that could've been a snarl or a smile before that same whining started up again.

Stomping down his first instinct to turn and look, Tony ducked his head, braced for the crack and sizzle. He risked a glance up when he felt Logan dash by, charred bits of metal sloughing off his claws. Two more explosions followed, the whining racked up to a steady ear-piercing shriek.

"Roll to your ten!" Logan shouted, and Tony tore his hands away from his ears to tumble through the dirt. Grit and the acrid taste of smoke got into his mouth and he spat, trying to clear it.

Had it been five minutes left, or five of those things?

Three deafening explosions later he had his answer. They were coming faster now, practically one right after the other, and he watched in fascination as Logan wove between the blasts, sweat streaking gleaming tracks through the soot blackening his skin.

Another one went off way too close for comfort. Through the bright orange flare he saw one more heading straight for him. He scrambled up on his knees only to be knocked flat a second later, his teeth grit against the flare of pain that was to follow.

It took him long seconds to figure out it was Logan's weight heavy on his back, pinning him down and sheltering him from the worst of the blast. Then the blaze was gone and it was just them sprawled in the middle of the exercise room, his breaths loud and panicked and Logan barely winded.

But the shredded mess of Logan's shirt remained, the thick streaks of red and burnt black on his back real. Tony swallowed hard. Live rounds after all.

Logan's low chuckle rumbled through his back.

"You're a dick. No, don't get up." With a good bit of determined wiggling and a tiny sliver of breathing space, Tony squirmed over onto his back. "I like that you're a dick."

"I like that you owe me a case of beer."

"No beer here. But here we are, and you're all worked up, and I'm all worked up." Tugging what was left of Logan's undershirt out of the way, Tony slid both hands as far as he could reach beneath the tight band of his jeans. For proper emphasis he braced as best he could with so many hundred pounds of mutant on top of him and rocked up. "You can pop my mutant cherry."

"Your mutant cherry," Logan echoed, his voice flat but his mouth twitching upwards at one corner.

"Sure," Tony said. "Never been done by a mutant before." Well, he didn't think he had, but that was a small technicality. Nothing to worry about. "Lube's in my left pocket."

Like he didn't believe it, Logan went searching. Tony helpfully arched up, an added wriggle or two getting his left leg unpinned so he could spread his knees and settle Logan firmly between them.

When Logan lifted an eyebrow, small packet of Gun Oil in hand, Tony shrugged. "I should've been a Boy Scout."

"Should've stayed on your belly."

Lust like one of those bombs hit Tony right in the nuts. "You want me to roll back over, no problem." There wasn't much purchase but he gave it a good shot and managed to get only a little distracted by the firm heat of Logan's cock digging into his hip.

Logan's weight vanished entirely a second later. Protest rose up and died right on the tip of his tongue as wide hands took hold and flipped him.

"That works too," he said as strong, thick fingers pushed beneath him to find his belt and start tugging it free. He levered up on his elbows with a mind to help.

One of those hands landed smack in the middle of his back and shoved him to the cool floor. Logan's breath stirred the hair curled close to his ear. "Stay down."

"How about some incentive?" he asked, pillowing his cheek on his folded hands. "I'll even give you a hint."

"My dick in your ass isn't incentive enough?"

A shiver chased the hot dirty rush of that down the back of Tony's neck. "Not bad. Not what I was thinking but I have to admit, I'm a sucker for sweet talk."

Logan's answer was shucking his pants all the way down to his knees. He jolted away from the cold steel pressing against his cock, hissing a curse. Chances were good if he interrupted Logan to suggest they move this to a bed, or even a swatch of something not second cousin to the Arctic, they wouldn't get back to it. And that just wouldn't fly.

Logan's weight settled over him again, all rough heat in sharp contrast to the smooth chill under him. A hand fisted his shirt near his shoulder, the seam at the arm and the buttoned collar digging in as Logan's grip tightened.

"Breathplay's not until the second date," Tony said, lifting his head to ease the pressure. He sucked in a quick breath as Logan's fingers slipped around his throat. His was going to have bruises on the insides of his ribs at this rate, his heart was knocking around in there so hard.

Logan flicked open the topmost button. "Little late to be worried." The next two followed, the fourth out of reach as long as he held Tony down, and he yanked at the shirt still caught up in his grip, dragging the collar out from under Tony's tie and further down in the back. His mouth pressed to a patch of bared skin as he breathed in deep and released it slowly, the heat and his whiskers sending ticklish pleasure skittering out along Tony's arms. "You smell worried."

"Nah," Tony said, taking Outright Lie for five hundred. "Mutant cherry, remember? Colour me virginal."

Logan huffed a laugh against the back of his neck. His skin prickled as he heard the foil packet tear, and he hiked his knee up a little as Logan's weight shifted, giving the green light for Logan's slick fingers to run up between the cheeks of his ass.

One finger barely touched him before sliding in, slippery and slow and only a little easy. He felt more than heard the grunt Logan muffled against his neck.

"Told you," he said, taking a second to focus, relax as Logan drew back to push in again. "Give me a kiss, that'll loosen me up."

"Maybe shut you up, too."

Logan's bulk eased mostly off of him and he turned his head to find Logan's mouth right there all of two seconds before Logan's tongue skimmed over his lips. He opened up for it, fully appreciative of the take-charge attitude. Some of the best fucks he'd ever had were the ones where all he had to do was hang on and enjoy the ride.

"That's it," he said, words slurred by the press of Logan's mouth. He bit at Logan's lips and rubbed cheeks, liking the scratch of Logan's whiskers on his clean-shaven skin and then the catch and drag when his chin met scruffy jawline. "Keep it easy."

Grumbling something about still talking, Logan moved to take his mouth again and he spoiled it with a grin. "You could talk instead," he suggested. "That line you were running earlier was good."

Logan's fingers clamped under his chin, and just to be an ass, he kept talking while Logan tried to kiss him again. The result was a garbled mess and sharp-edged teeth digging into his lip. He gave up and let it happen right around the same time Logan decided what he needed was another finger up his ass.

He was forced to agree. Logan's fingers were thick, strong, and it was like Logan could read him better than he could, the pressure right on his prostate easing before it was too much, increasing again as soon as he'd caught his breath.

"Four out of five for technique," Tony grunted, pushing up from his elbows to the heels of his hands. Only one of Logan's legs was still carelessly flung across his, and it slipped away along with Logan's hand as Tony shoved at his shoulder, urging him to lie back.

Logan rolled easily, arm tucked under his head and slick fingers trailing a mess up the inside of one thigh while Tony spared a thought for what to do with the tangle of his slacks around his ankles. In the end, he only bothered to tug one foot free, a hell of a lot more interested in finding out how pretty a package Logan was toting around.

Yanking Logan's jeans down just far enough, Tony dipped a hand under the waistband of cottony-soft boxer briefs and pulled out cock and balls both. His mouth went as wet at the desert in the middle of a flash flood and he tugged Logan's clothes down a little more, only slightly disappointed when Logan didn't bitch about being the one with his ass on the cold floor this time.

"So that shuts you up, huh," Logan said, curling shiny fingers around his own cock. "Got a rubber?"

"You want me to put a jacket on this very fine dick?" And as nice as Logan jacking was to watch, Tony was keen to get a feel of it for himself. He batted Logan's hand out of the way and wrapped both of his around the wide length, his body clenching tight in anticipation.

Logan shrugged, fingers digging briefly into the cheek of Tony's ass before sliding over his hole. "It's your ass."

"So don't make a mess in it." Stretching out, Tony nabbed the leaking packet and squeezed what was left over Logan's cock and fingers. Glistening drops caught in the short dark hair around the base of Logan's dick, gorgeous to look at framed by the powerful muscles of Logan's firm belly and the haphazard slant of his open fly.

"Just gonna look at it?"

Tony grinned, corner of his lip caught between his teeth. "Savouring the moment." He couldn't remember the last time he'd went without a rubber. Too bad he had business to do or he'd say fuck it and take the shot of come up the ass while he had the chance.

The flat of Logan's hand slapped hard to his flank. "Save it for later," Logan said, and hauled him up like he weighed nothing, grip digging in hard under his ribs. He twisted around to grab at Logan's cock and wedge the head against his hole, his teeth close to slicing through his lip as he sank down.

Halfway there, he had to stop and catch his breath. As thick as Logan felt in his hand, it seemed a hell of a lot bigger shoving inside him. "Hang on," he said, voice dropping into a groan as Logan kept going a few long, gritty seconds more.

Logan grunted and hauled him back up, earning a protest in the opposite direction as Tony lost his cock entirely. He didn't wait for Tony to work up the spit to form words, switching his grip so he held his cock steady and pushed Tony down onto it, gaining at first an inch more than before and then the whole thing, smooth and steady.

Tony slumped forward with a moan. Logan ground up into him, holding him in place with hands on his hips as his voice crawled up those few lost octaves, shamelessly loud and the walls echoing his appreciation back at him.

"Ease up," he said, rising as soon as Logan's grip loosened enough to allow it and sinking back down with a slow grind of his own. A few more rounds of that and the strain turned to a smooth push, the sharp-edged pleasure that had been snaking out along his nerves mellowing.

He braced his hands on Logan's chest, fingertips digging into hard muscle. Wanting the feel of bare skin against his palms, he shoved them under Logan's shirt, losing his balance for a split-second as Logan thrust up. He wavered, hand skidding up through the scatter of hair on Logan's chest, and bit off a short laugh when he caught sight of the grin on Logan's face.

"Said you were a dick," Tony breathed, resettling to pick up the pace. "Can't let a man just enjoy the ride."

"That what this is?" Logan gathered up a fistful of his shirttails, wrist grazing his dick as he rucked it up out of the way. "Thought you were still warming up."

"Do you really think taunting is the way to go here?" But it so was, and Tony dropped down, chest to chest with Logan as his knees splayed wide.

"Guess so," Logan said, lopsided half-smirk firmly in place as he pinned one of Tony's arms behind his back, using it to hold him fast while giving a hard thrust up.

Tony let out a grunt, not expecting Logan's dick to go so deep so quickly like this. He twisted out of the hold to grab up two handfuls of Logan's hair between that thrust and the next, his breath shoved out of his lungs and shunted back in his face as Logan kept it slow and hard.

"Jerk me off," he said, aiming for a kiss and catching the side of Logan's mouth instead.

Logan gave him a look like a shrug and wormed a hand between them, keeping the other on his hip. He spilled another moan straight into Logan's mouth as Logan gripped him tight, going right for no-nonsense strokes that made him tense up for a second. His body clamped down, and the slide of Logan's cock almost all the way out of him turned to a rough drag.

He rocked back, meant to ride Logan as his orgasm built, but either he was too slow or he was closer than he'd thought. What should've been a slow ride ended up more like a frantic rut, him fucking Logan's fist while Logan braced and arched up, stuffed him full with nowhere to go and nothing to do except take it.

"Better," Logan said, the low grate of his voice sinking deep as the ache in Tony's gut. "Not thinkin' now, are ya?

Tony sucked in a breath for a smartass reply and lost it all on a ragged groan when Logan ground up into him. He started to shake, craving being fucked again, not just filled, and squirmed against the hold Logan had on him.

"That's it, that's what I like," Logan said. He let go to cup his palm over the head of Tony's dick and Tony rocked forward, the gritty friction of Logan's cock pulling out of him setting him off like a firecracker.

He hadn't even had a chance to catch his breath before Logan smeared his own come over his ass and rolled them over, the shock of the freezing floor not enough to distract him from the greedy shove of Logan back into his ass. His cock gave a hard twitch, spilling one last thick trail of come over his belly.

He hitched a leg up and grabbed onto Logan's broad shoulders, head thrown back and body arched. Teeth grazed his throat and he swallowed, choked on a groan as Logan bit down. A low, guttural growl hummed against his skin and he held on tighter, writhed, did anything and everything to keep Logan going.

Then he choked for real, his tie yanked tight across his throat and his eyes flying wide as his mouth fell open. Logan shoved in hard, froze for a split-second before dropping to lick into his mouth. A spasm locked him up tight, gut reaction to being filled up, pinned down, controlled, and Logan spilled a groan straight down his throat.

Logan kept on kissing him as he came back down from that spike, slowly but not gently, edgy like he was making sure his territory stayed marked. Tony managed a clumsy pat to his ass, too lethargic to bother with trying for anything more. He got an absent growl in response.

"Floor's cold," he mumbled, lazily returning the flick of Logan's tongue over his lips.

Logan eased back and blinked a few times, his eyes still a little unfocused like he wasn't all the way back down to earth yet.

"And you so took advantage of me," Tony went on. "Breathplay and a creampie. You could've at least bought me a drink first."

Dumbfounded, Logan said, "You're complaining."

"Nah, not really." Tony pointed a finger in front of Logan's face. "But you owe me one of those beers I'm buying you."

Logan grunted something that sounded like, "Fine," and withdrew nice and easy, sending shivers chasing one another up Tony's spine. Before Tony had a chance to move, Logan grabbed him just behind the knees and rolled him halfway onto his side, legs shoved together and up.

Casually, ass bared and leaking come, Tony pushed up on his elbows. "Dirtier than I gave you credit for."

Logan's big hand smacked down on his ass and spread him open. He forced abused muscle to loosen, gave a tentative push--first time somebody's wanted to see him dripping like that--and sucked in a harsh breath when Logan's thick fingers slid up through the mess and pushed it back into him.

"Rather you keep it," Logan said, slapping his hole to make him tense up. "Maybe I'll remember not to gut you if you smell like me."

Tony flopped back with a laugh, dizzied and drained and high all at once. "At least I can claim I tangled with the Wolverine and lived to limp away."

Logan gave him a hand up. It only took about ten seconds of squirming and bitching for Logan to march over to the console and yank out one of the rough first aid towels from the supplies to throw at him.

"Find me after you're done with One-eye," Logan said, hauling his flannel back on and leaving it hanging open. He watched Tony tuck in and zip up before heading for the door. "And bring my beer."

"Still counts as the first date!" Tony called, grinning as he smoothed his tie back into place. A new contract in the works and a few X's added to the X-Men. Not a bad day's work.

*
End

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

This is me, excited!

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 02:01:20 GMT

Bullet points are AWESOME.

- Yuletide assignment has arrived! This is very, very exciting. Most fandoms I signed up for this year are ones I've never written in before, so this excitement will turn to gnashing of teeth shortly, but in all honesty, I kinda enjoy that, too. Har.

- My days of monofandom are so over. This isn't even news or much of a realisation, I know. Comic books are eating me alive and I'm ready to write porn for things that haven't even been released yet.

- Writing original stuff is ~~fun~~ ~~hard~~ full of self-abusive joy. I've finally learned how to create characters for short stories. Today, mobsters, tomorrow, mercenaries.

- I'm watching way too many movies these days. And by too many movies, I mean not enough. If anyone has an recs, feel free to toss them my way. I'm not feeling genre-specific, either, though I don't enjoy slashers-for-the-sake-of-slashing. Yesterday, I watched Batman Begins before Breakfast on Pluto. I'm pretty sure that defines diverse (and a shiny obsession with Cillian Murphy). If only my Disco Pigs download would hurry up and download.

- I am hungry.

- Shit, I need to write my Dear Santa letter for Yuletide. D:

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

A weighty decision.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 19:47:00 GMT

I have decided to hibernate for LIFE.

i'm sick and miserable and it's raining and cold and i can't breathe through my nose and my ears are clogged and this novel won't hurry up and edit itself and i can't focus and i want money to magically appear in my bank account and my mother needs to not call me and surprise!period can go fuck itself sideways and i'm hungry but my tummy has decided all food must be forcibly evicted and blerg i say BLERG

*wheeze* And now I feel slightly better! :D Carry on.

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

Sittin' in Seattle, waitin' for my bus.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 22:39:18 GMT

Apparently, I am too polite for my own good. Seriously, who knew?

[edit] omgheehe! There are little starlings in the atrium where I'm waiting, and one just perched on my hat! My hat which I am wearing! So cute!

And it did not poop on me, so bonus. :D

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

Writing is still hard.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 22:44:53 GMT

But editing might be worse.

x_x

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

D:

blue@ponderosa121.com — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 01:24:09 GMT

I COMPLETELY FAIL AT PACKING LIGHTLY.

There's a penis joke in there somewhere.

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

x_x

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 16:07:03 GMT

Why am I awake.

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

It's about bloody time.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 08:52:01 GMT

Okay. I'm going to take a moment and be proud here, dammit. I am going to feel good about my accomplishment.

Somehow, even with four solid months of writing nothing at all (torture!), I've managed to break 300k for this year.

310,000 words, approximately.

Evil twin, I demand cookies.

And a magical editing wand. OH WAIT THAT'S YOU. :D

For my own interest, a breakdown. All approximate.

172,000 - Original
60,000 - Supernatural
41,000 - X-Men
21,000 - CSI wot
16,000 - Iron Man, Transformers, Fringe, Devil Summoner, Final Fantasy 7.

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

And now I don't know what to think.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 22:48:03 GMT

Is it really a fail when you skip the porn in an erotica to get to the plot?

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

Invite codes for Dreamwidth!

blue@ponderosa121.com — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 02:21:57 GMT

I has them! And I didn't even know, ahar. Toss me a comment with an email address, I'll go until I'm out.

Comments are screened. :D

Originally posted at Dreamwidth here. Please comment there using OpenID or ask me for an invite code. :3

This is news to no one.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 20:14:13 GMT

Writing is hard. :\

Fic: Only the Wild - Victor/Logan (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 22:41:01 GMT

Only the Wild
X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Victor/Logan. NC-17. ~4000 words. Underage. For 'animal play' on my kink_bingo card.
They are different, he and James. They're more.

*

Only the Wild

The baying hounds drive them deep into the woods. Victor tastes the river on the wind and angles for it, runs faster than he ever has before. Branches whip at his face, open stinging cuts that taint the cold night air with the smell of his own blood. He lifts an arm to protect his eyes and keeps his grip tight on James's wrist. James's pulse flutters like a trapped bird in his palm.

"Keep running," Victor hisses, dragging James back to his feet as he stumbles.

James nods, eyes glazed. His torn clothes are soaked with sweat.

"We need to reach the river." The distant water's gurgle spurs Victor on. "We'll be all right if we reach the river, Jimmy, you'll see."

James's rasping breaths are shallow, too quick. Victor tightens his hold, barely slows when James loses his feet. He drags his brother through the dirt, urging him to get up, get up; he won't stop but he won't leave James behind.

The river looms close, the hounds closer. Even the water won't save them if the dogs are near enough to track by sound. Victor scrambles over the rocks and shoulders James's dead weight. His nose twitches at the stench of bloody mud caked to James's feet.

The slam of glacial water brings Victor to his knees. James rouses with a whimper, clinging to his back. He's shaking so hard Victor can hear his teeth clack, rattle like a throw of dice, and right now, Victor thinks, everything's a gamble.

With a grunt he can't suppress, Victor heaves himself to his feet. Water rushes around his thighs; his shoes slip on the riverbed, almost send him crashing back down. He stops long enough to wrench them off, the current sweeping him deeper into the water until he can't reach the ground. His claws rip through James's nightclothes again and again until they're little more than rags twisted round his fist, but he can't let go, can't risk a looser grip.

The river's sharp bend brings him close enough to the bank to make a grab for trailing branches. His arm cracks against a boulder, blinding snap of bone spearing through his flesh, but he holds on, holds James close and drags them both out of the water. Not dead, not yet, he's still breathing and so is James, lying wet and shivering in an awkward tangle of limbs.

Victor crawls over the ground, arm cradled to his chest. The pain flares, brings thick bile up to sear the back of his throat. Long moments later it dulls and he flexes his fingers, spits to clear the acid from his mouth.

When he wraps an arm around James to set off again, careful and quiet with his nose to the wind, James buries his face in his shoulder. Victor pushes the hair out of James's face and uses softer words to push him on, ears straining for the faintest echoes of the dogs' bloodcurdling howls.

Near dawn, Victor tumbles into a hollow beneath a tree. He pushes James in tight against the twisted roots and covers his bother's small body with his own. James is barely conscious, grasping weakly at Victor's clothes, trying to burrow closer as jumbled apologies rasp over his cracked, bleeding lips.

"You did right," Victor tells him. "Don't ever think differently. He would've killed me one day, and you did right, James. It's all right." The same words over and over until his voice is raw. When James finally quiets, he lets the sucking blackness drag him down.

At nightfall, James's fever breaks.

*

On the second morning of their flight, James finds a ragged patch of berry bushes filled with shrivelled fruit. Before he shoves a greedy handful in his mouth, Victor knocks him away. His chest gives a sick lurch at James's barefaced shock.

Victor picks the spilled berries out of the dirt, spearing several with the tips of his claws. They're yellow and waxy, lumpy like cloudberries. He can't be certain. James's mother always chased him out of the kitchen and his father's pantry only held hard tack and cured meats. No women shared their preserves with the Logan men.

The juice explodes tartly on his tongue. He forces himself to chew slowly and to hold James's cross stare while he does it. They taste like the berries he's stolen from the checkpoint's stores. He's heard tales of poison bringing men to their knees in only seconds but aside from the hungry clench of his gut, he feels fine. Still, he waits a moment more.

James struggles to stand. The fever had weakened him and ruined his appetite for days. He's pale and wan and if he doesn't eat soon it won't matter if the fruit pollutes his blood.

"Here," Victor says, turning over the few berries he's wiped clean. "Cloudberries. You like those, don't you?"

"You struck me," James says. Anger bleeds swiftly from his voice to leave it wary, a little afraid. Learning to fear men is smart, it will help Victor keep him safe, but not if the man he fears is his brother. "He- he struck my mother, and-"

Panic tightens Victor's throat. He seizes James's shoulders. "Hush, James. I know. You have to be careful, do you hear me? Be safe and mind me."

"They're only berries."

Victor gives him a quick, gentle shake. "You're always sick, you've barely been outside your home. It's dangerous here. I'll keep you safe but you must promise you'll mind me."

Confusion still dark as storm clouds on his face, James nods.

A harder, rougher shake then. James has to understand or it'll be the death of him. "Say it."

"I promise, Victor," James says, shivering, hesitantly touching Victor's arm. "I promise."

*

The gash from James's fall against the stone's jagged edge is high on the inside of his thigh. The smell of his blood saturates the air, stirring a longing Victor can feel deep in the marrow of his bones. Tears James refuses to shed glisten in his eyes.

Victor tries in vain to shove the yearning aside. "You'll heal," he says, thinking of cleaning it in the river, wrapping it with the strip he's already torn from his undershirt. It's what he's been taught to do.

But James has already begun to change. His scent, even his blood smells cleaner, no trace of sickness left in him. The raw wounds his claws had gouged between his fingers are gone.

Gooseflesh prickles all along James's skin. He grunts in pain when Victor grasps his leg, holds it still. Victor puts his other hand to James's chest to push his back flat to the ground.

"What're you doing? Victor?"

"We're not like them," Victor says, voice thick in his ears. Tightening his grip makes the wound gape, brings forth a fresh rush of red and James's quiet whimper. "Little brother, you promised me."

Closing his eyes, Victor breathes in deep. His claws prick through James's shirt and James jerks, startled, but not struggling to get away. "That's it," Victor tells him, stroking his fingers beneath torn cloth, pitching his voice low, soothing his brother the same as he's soothed skittish colts. The sharp, iron tang grows stronger as he leans closer and under it, thick enough he can almost taste it, the sweet smell of his brother.

The first taste of James's blood is like the sizzle of Chinese firecrackers in his mouth. His mouth opens in a ragged moan over the wound, echoing the softer, hurt noise James makes. His brother is trembling in his hold, skin fever-hot against his lips. His tongue traces the wound's edge and this time it's James who moans.

The moment the gash closes, the heat surrounding it lessens. Victor licks away the last of the blood, heady with a fierce sort of pride. They are different, he and James. They're more.

Victor rubs his saliva into James's flesh, marking him. Their blood and sweat and more. From here on, they'll always be together. "I said I would take care of you."

*

The hare's summer coat has already begun to whiten enough to make it visible in the early evening light. James crouches silently by his side behind the cover of snarled brambles. His robe is gone, lost to the river, his nightclothes filthy and torn. He smells faintly of sunlight.

Mindful of his nails, Victor combs a burr from the wild tangle of James's hair. James barely seems to notice except for the way his head tilts into the push of fingers through his hair.

James's mother had done the same for him once, when he'd brought her fresh grouse to dress. There were times that the fancy struck her and she taught him things, his letters, simple sums.

"We've no snare," James says. "How will we catch it?"

"Its form is just there." Victor points to a shallow dip in the ground filled with flattened grasses. "It will sleep during the day. We'll catch it then."

Swallowing a shallow breath, James nods.

Victor stroked his arm. He will teach James what he needs to know now, and not out of pity.

*

Victor wakes with James's warmth curled close. He lays still, watching James's smaller hand rise and fall on his chest with each breath. There's a ruddy smear on the backs of his brother's knuckles where bone had pierced flesh.

Victor's memory is momentarily blurred by James's sharp hiss and the warm spill of their father's blood over his fingers.

Before sleep had claimed them, they had both stared at the fresh blood, both remembering, Victor's heart kicking at his ribs, James's breathing shallow in his ear. Without thought he'd pulled James to him, tried to soothe the sudden ache in his groin with his brother's slender weight. James hissed his name and he shuddered, stilled, bit his tongue bloody to keep from simply taking.

The need is always there now, plucking at his insides with cruel fingers. He blames the forest, his father, even James, but never himself. James will come to understand; it's simply the way they are.

Gently, Victor nudges James aside. He moves carefully through the underbrush, picking his way downwind of the hare's form.

*

Victor refuses to light a fire, claiming wariness of the smoke somehow giving them away but in truth, he has no matches and no flint. In turn, James refuses to touch the dead hare.

"You'll never grow stronger if you don't eat," Victor snaps.

James stares at the bloody carcass hanging from Victor's grip, too much white showing in his eyes. He shakes his foolishly stubborn head.

Adrenaline and anger squeeze Victor's lungs. James should be grateful to him, as proud as he is for catching it without help. He'd done James the kindness of skinning it, claws tearing through its wet flesh so James wouldn't have to see. And he's sick of always being hungry, scrounging for berries, berries and more berries.

James's softness will be suicide.

Furious, terrified, Victor hunkers down and rips a chunk of flesh from the hare's skinny body. James gags, turns away, but doesn't run.

*

Sometime before the next dawn breaks, Victor wakes to find James crouched beside him studying the hare's blood still caked beneath his claws. Air catches in his lungs as James leans close, tentatively sniffs his hand.

James wrinkles his nose. He moves to take his place by Victor's side, then hesitates, tests the air again. Once again after that, a long, slow breath that fills his chest.

"Victor?" James whispers.

Stomach churning, Victor remains quiet. His skin prickles at the sound of James shifting nearer still, heats as a hand settles on his chest. Certain James can feel his thundering heartbeat, he waits, strangles the noise building thick in his throat as James's hair tickles his cheek.

It slips free regardless as James scents the hollow of his throat.

James freezes just as the hare had before it bolted. Frightened his brother will do the same, Victor grabs onto the soft mess of his hair, startling a quiet sound out of him.

"It's all right," Victor whispers. "I don't mind."

James's throat clicks on a hard swallow. He buries his face against Victor, drinks down Victor's scent like Victor's wanted to do of his for so very long, the desire stronger now that the sickness is gone from his body.

Victor rolls to his knees, fists his hands in the tattered remains of James's shirt. It feels like his skin will split if he doesn't do something, anything. He shoves his face into the crook of James's neck, desperate for the warm scent of flesh and blood beneath the dusty layer of dirt. James's pulse quivers against his mouth, catapults him back to the night they ran, dizzy and sick and jubilant with the smell of his father's life smeared all over James's hands.

James's body jerks beneath the press of his teeth. His skin is unbroken but James makes a noise like it isn't, a sound of fear and hope that crawls into Victor's head and nests there.

"Don't make me stop this time," Victor pleads, forcing a hand under James to hold him close, barely noticing the harsh scrape of old gnarled roots against his arm. "Tell me you won't."

James twists beneath him, feet kicking at the dirt until they find purchase and he ruts up, grinds mindlessly against Victor's hip. His fingers claw at the ground searching for something to hold onto and coming up empty. He's finished before he's even begun, warmth spreading between their bodies as he shudders, falls lax in Victor's arms.

"Don't have to stop," he rasps, willingly baring his throat as Victor nudges aside his chin. His hands flit from Victor's shoulders to his back to the curve of his spine, grow bolder at Victor's groan, slip down to push them tighter together. "Please don't stop."

The pressure building inside Victor snaps. James cries out as his teeth slice into flesh, fills his mouth with blood by thrashing to get free. Victor clamps his jaws tighter on his little brother's throat and lets the pleasure sweep him away just like the river had as James finally quiets, accepts it.

This is what Victor's been craving.

*

The following day brings the chill of winter's coming. Victor props his back against a broken stump and watches James stir from sleep's warm hold. When he finds the space beside him empty, James jolts upright, choking on his own breath.

"I'll never leave you." The words have been knocking about the inside of his head for so long they feel strange on Victor's tongue. Afraid of the rejection he's seen drive his pathetic sire to bottles of drink, Victor waits for James's shaky nod. The horrible urge to vomit that'd kept him from sleep fades, replaced by foolish guilt for doubting his brother. James is far from a moment of fickle sport.

Nodding at the pile of berries collected in the early dawn, Victor says, "Eat."

James crawls to his side, grabbing a handful of berries on the way. He burrows under Victor's arm like he belongs there and licks the juice from his fingers.

"We'll have to move south," Victor says, resting his cheek against the top of his brother's head. There's no trace of anything but the wild in James's scent now.

James says nothing, slipping back to sleep as he watches the thin lines Victor's claws scratch along his arm vanish seconds after they're made. It must hurt, even if only a little, but he lets it happen.

"We could keep going until we reach the ocean." Victor digs a single clawtip in hard enough to draw a droplet of blood. Aside from the short hiss of his breath, James doesn't react. A fever nothing like those that had confined him to a sickbed burrows deeper inside him. "Do you remember it?"

"No. Do you?"

"I think I do."

"All right." James settles in closer, juice-sticky fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt. Victor remembers climbing into bed with him when the last fever struck, holding a cool rag to his forehead, his own skin burning with the imagined taste of James's pale flesh, his small, strawberry-pink mouth. "But do we have to stop there?"

Victor grins at the sky. "We don't have to stop anywhere."

*

On the third sunset after that, James creeps out from under Victor's arms, murmuring that he just needs to go, stay, sleep. Later, long after full dark has fallen, Victor snaps awake, alone.

He scrambles to his feet, calls, "Jimmy!" as loud as he can only to have it echo dully back at him. He tests the air for his brother's scent, searches the darkness for a trail, but the tiny clearing they've made beneath a towering spruce is rife with their coming and going.

"Jimmy!" A black and ugly fist closes tight in Victor's chest. He stumbles back into the tree, grabs hold of it to keep himself upright. There's been no one but them for miles and miles, the nearest thing resembling a road a day's walk east. He'd have known if someone found them. He'd have known if someone tried to spirit James away.

Victor takes off tearing through the trees.

*

The noon sun blazes harsh and bright. Victor claws at the rocks at his feet, snarling and spitting every curse he'd ever heard his useless father utter. The trail he'd followed here went cold hours ago, and even if it hadn't, ahead lies nothing but a sheer drop to a valley dozens of feet below. His fingers are a shredded mess, knitting themselves back together around the dirt, and he doesn't care.

The snap of a twig jerks Victor's head up. He whips around, blinded by the sun, but the smell of blood is sharper than the light slicing over the treetops.

"Victor," James says.

In a daze, Victor steps off the rocky outcropping. James's silhouette resolves slowly; his tattered shirt is gone, the hems of his pants caked with black muck. A spatter of dried blood on his bare chest tracks up over his shoulder, down to the stained spears of bone on his hand. He holds two grouse by their broken necks.

"You-"

Victor cuts him off with a snarl, closing the distance between them with steady, predatory steps. "You left."

"I said I'd be back. You always, you said we had to take care of each other, and I promised!" The birds' thin bones crack in James's tightening grip. "I promised! And you didn't wait!" He slams his fist flat against Victor's chest, his claws grazing Victor's jaw, angling dangerously close to puncturing his jugular. "You promised, too!"

Victor catches James's wrist, holds it right where it is, lets the frantic beat of his little brother's pulse against his fingertips quiet the screaming in his head. He tips his head down, feels James's claws cool and smooth on his throat, the hot prick of drawn blood.

"We're pack, Jimmy, we hunt together," Victor says. "Look at me. Look at me!"

James drags in a slow, shuddering breath. His nose twitches at the fresher scent of blood curling between them.

Something new slinks its way into Victor's gut. The movement slow and deliberate, he stretches his throat out in a long, clean line, watches as black swallows the colour in his little brother's eyes.

Victor slaps James's hand away and jerks him close, claws snagging in the snarl of his hair. "Don't you ever walk away like that again, Jimmy. Swear and mean it this time."

Sluggishly, as if the sickness has caught him again, James drags his hand through the blood on Victor's neck and brings it to his face, draws the smell of it deep into his lungs. When he pulls his hand away, his mouth is smeared red.

Victor has no time to react before James surges forward, knocks him flat to the ground and all the breath out of his chest. On pure instinct he tries to buck James off, not hearing the words tumbling out of his little brother's mouth until James's blunt teeth pierce the flesh of his throat in a sharp snapping bite.

Like the flare of a match lights a room, the pain pushes the panicked haze to the very edges of his mind. He realises his neck is wet from the pass of James's tongue.

James says, "Did you hear me, Victor? I said I swear, I swear I won't," the words slurred and muffled with his mouth pressed to the slowly healing wounds.

Victor's throat constricts on a sweet rush when James bites him again. Tension sings through his body, stomach swooping as James rips through the remains of the shirt he'd kept in concession to the chill. James's teeth scrape over his chest, his belly, and James pauses there, warm puffs of his panting breaths tickling Victor's skin.

"James-"

James snarls and digs his teeth in, lets go only after he's drawn blood to crawl back up the length of Victor's body. He's heavier than he used to be, stronger. He braces his hands on Victor's shoulders and settles himself between the sprawl of Victor's legs.

"Trying to fuck me, Jimmy?" Forcing words past the tight clench of his throat hurts but it's nothing compared to the thrill of them on his tongue. "Have you seen your barnboy on his back in the hay, spread like a woman?"

James's eyes snap shut, sharp hipbones bruising the insides of Victor's thighs as he grinds down. At the touch of Victor's claws to his sides, he gasps, "No," and his rutting turns frantic, sloppy. "Never felt- You let me before, Victor, please."

Victor curls his fingers over James's sides, shifts so the heat of his brother's small cock rubs against his own. Just like the first time, James comes in a quick rush and doesn't fight it when Victor holds him there, uses his body to bring his own pleasure.

Exhaustion doesn't claim James straight away this time. He gives the air a curious sniff, dips down to scent the thin sheen of sweat on Victor's skin. His nose bumps Victor's belly as he shuffles back, curls halfway on top of Victor's leg with his cheek pillowed near the damp seeping through Victor's clothes.

"You smell different," he says. "Good."

Still breathing heavily, Victor makes a vague noise of agreement and rests his fingers against the back of James's neck. After a quiet moment, he says, "So do you," but James is already giving in to sleep's tempting call.

Victor glances at the two dead grouse slung out on the rocks. That James hunted for him is more love than his father ever showed. He spent hours dreaming of how his life would change if James were his family instead of his master's son but it was never like this. It's become truth now, in name, in deed, in blood. Nothing can ever change that.

Tightening his hold on James, Victor drifts to sleep in the watery sunlight wondering at the taste of his little brother's first kill.

*
End

AUGH.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 22:01:34 GMT

After two days, TWO DAYS, I finally got my wireless working again. I'd like to claim in my defence that Shaw was being persnickety, and thus interfered with my troubleshooting, but in the end, it was a bum cable. A BUM CABLE. I didn't even think to switch out the cables with the extras until I reached Cid-level of *!*^@! cursing.

Fail.

In other news, I'm an ungrateful twat. I've trained myself up to an average of 10k a week and suddenly it doesn't seem productive enough. 10k. A WEEK.

What is wrong with you, Blue? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.

This icon is becoming more useful than originally anticipated.

Fic: Stumbling Over Reason - Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 23:24:52 GMT

1. Candyass
2. Pantomime
3. The Obvious

Stumbling Over Reason
CSI:LV (S7). Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler. NC-17. ~9000 words (!!). For 'nippleplay' on my kink_bingo card.
"You know, you don't have to get me drunk. I'll put out either way."

*

Stumbling Over Reason

When Greg finally trudged back to the lab on a sweltering Thursday night, up to his eyebrows in dirt and several other choice substances he was doing his best not to name by smell alone, all he wanted was a shower and his bed. The first he got, to everyone's palpable relief, but the second, not so much.

The table he'd appropriated for the pile of junk he'd dug out of the dump was starting to rival a king size at the Grand by the time Mike found him.

"Hey," Greg said, the weariness weighing him down no match for the crazy Pop Rocks fizzle of his nerves as Mike came up beside him to give the crap strewn all over the table a vaguely interested glance. It was like that every fucking time he set eyes on the guy, all hands on deck, all systems go-go-go. Pavlov's dog couldn't hold a slobbery biscuit compared to him.

"I'd heard you spent your night dumpster diving," Mike commented.

"Me and my luxurious Vegas lifestyle." Greg's back gave a painful geriatric twang as he straightened. "And ow."

Mike's eyebrow hitched up. Without a word, right there in the middle of the lab for all to see, he took a step back and plunked his big, warm hands down on Greg's sore shoulders.

Any objections he might've voiced melted as fast as a snowman in the desert when Mike's strong thumbs dug in, sure and steady. Greg wavered on his feet and grabbed the edge of the table, barely able to stay upright with the help.

"Good?" Mike asked, his voice low, salacious. He found all the knots like they were marked with flags, and hit more than one red flashing button along the way.

Greg practically bit through his tongue trying to hold back a thankful moan. With Mike's hands on him and Mike's voice in his ear, he didn't stand a chance. A sympathetic shoulder rub was one thing; the temptation to shove all the trash aside and bellyflop onto the table so Mike could make it a full body massage was something else entirely.

Still, he wasn't the one to pull away, and he gnawed on a few of the best new curses he'd picked up from the streets that Mike kept doing that to him.

Really, though, he'd much rather gnaw on Mike.

Mike gestured at the table, and Greg had a split-second to wonder if a) Mike could read his mind, which would explain a lot; b) he'd said that massage crack out loud; and most importantly, c) that familiar quirk of Mike's mouth was an invitation.

Greg never had this propensity for lists before he met Mike, he's sure of it.

"Don't let me interrupt you," Mike said, and Greg deflated in equal parts relief and disappointment. Not that he was going to just clamber on top of the table at the slightest hint or anything.

As Greg sighed and picked up the melted plastic he'd been examining, Mike said, "Your Vegas lifestyle, hm?"

"You know us wild, crazy kids. Party all night, sleep all day."

"Is that your plan after shift?"

A lazy tendril of something very not work-appropriate coiled all the way down Greg's spine. He surreptitiously watched Mike lean back against the table, fingers curled over the edge, the whole picture like a snapshot of the first time they hooked up, when it took sole position for the craziest, hottest thing Greg had ever done. Since then the items on his growing list had taken turns zipping past the rest, and every last one of them were Mike's doing.

His working definition of crazy and hot had also undergone a few revisions at Mike's hands. After the Incident (adjective: Mind-Blowing) at Mike's apartment, he'd gone straight in for a fresh run of tests and picked up nearly half a dozen boxes of condoms.

The lure of a screaming neon green dick or latex ribbed for his pleasure still didn't manage to make his most recent jerkoff fantasies any more responsible. Maybe he should've snagged the orange ones instead.

Prodding his thoughts back on track, he slapped on a shit-eating grin and said, "At that hour in the morning, the choices are pretty much booze, babes, or breakfast."

Mike made that low purr of a rumble that meant he was giving each one due consideration. It was like somebody had hotwired Greg's dick while he was sleeping and handed Mike the key. "So where are you taking me for breakfast?"

"Me?" The plastic in Greg's grip gave a warning creak and he quickly set it down before he did something even stupider than his usual of late, like blithely destroying evidence. He cleared his throat and tried for smooth. "I'm taking you to breakfast, huh?"

Smile sharp and glittering like the edge of a blade in his eyes, Mike gave him that long, leisurely once-over, so intense it felt like his clothes weren't even there. He shifted under the scrutiny, not exactly uncomfortable but definitely nowhere near relaxed.

Going for endearing, Greg teased, "No mountain of paperwork this time?"

Mike's gaze fixed on his mouth. "No."

Okay, so teasing was out. Mr. Keppler was all business. Business time worked for Greg. "There's a decent joint off Decatur," he said, wetting his lips. Mike tracked the swipe of his tongue and a whole platoon of invisible ants went marching one by one up his arms. He fumbled in his pocket for a pen and scribbled a quick map of cross-streets on a scrap of definitely-not-evidence. "Meet me there?"

"Get a booth." Mike clapped a hand to his shoulder on the way out, fingers drifting lightly across the back of his neck.

He shivered. His answer stuck his throat, and long after Mike had gone, he belatedly told the empty room, "Sure thing."

As a counter guy, man, he hoped that place had booths.

*

Bette's Breakfast Bar did turn out to have booths. When he'd arrived, nerves vibrating like guitar strings on the wrong pegs and stomach tying itself into fancy marina knots, Mike had been nowhere to be seen, so he'd strolled on inside. He'd changed his mind twice about where to sit, at first going for the ones in the back, thinking of the relative privacy there compared to the rest of the pickings. Then, rethinking it, he'd headed back to the front, not wanting to assume.

Except assumptions were exactly how he'd ended up with Mike fucking his brains out in the first place, so he'd turned right back around and plopped determinedly in the booth furthest from the front door, the washrooms, and the three sets of prying eyes.

One set happened to belong to the waitress. She gave him an eyeball so hairy as to give Cousin It a run for the money.

He fiddled with the menu as she made her way over, pen and pad at the ready like sword and shield. And sure, maybe he'd spazzed out there for a moment, but he wasn't all that bad.

A dazzling smile earned him a sharp crack of her gum.

"Uh, coffee?" he ventured. "I'm meeting somebody."

She gave his button down, snazzy vest and jeans a steady look. Deciding he was good for it despite his suave arrival, she swished away. He turned the plain china mug over before she came back, and cradling the steaming cup between his hands, slumped back in the booth.

The electronic door chime went off and he looked up, caught Mike's gaze. Playing it cool was the name of the game, so he kept it casual, tried for lazy interest as Mike circled round to slide into the vacant seat.

"Do you have one of those for me?" Mike looked at the coffee Greg held as he unbuttoned his coat and smoothed it down. He shook his arms out so the sleeves hitched comfortably and rested his elbows on the table, hands folded in front of his chin.

Greg's insides had long since turned to jelly. He went to signal the waitress but found her already on her way over, coffeepot in hand.

"Ready now?" she asked, filling Mike's cup and topping up his.

Not bothering with the menu, Mike said, "Two fried eggs, well done, a side of hash browns, a side of wheat toast, and a slice of tomato." He nodded at Greg like an afterthought. "Waffles."

She shot Greg a curious glance.

Reeling from that trip, he whipped up a smile and said, "The man knows what I like."

She went off with a chuckle, shaking her head, his awesome first impression faded into ancient history. That smile was back on Mike's face, the one that said Greg had done something he liked and he wouldn't mind if it happened again.

"You do that often?" Greg asked. "Order for people?"

"You didn't want waffles?"

Of course he wanted waffles. He always wanted waffles. He wanted to know how Mike knew he wanted waffles. Reading people only went so far. "Remember what I said about people who answer questions with questions?"

Mike dumped half a cream and half a sugar into his coffee. He took a sip and set it back down before sliding out of the booth to shrug off his jacket entirely. "Come sit over here."

Watching as he meticulously unbuttoned and rolled his sleeves halfway up his forearms, Greg said, "What?"

Like they were discussing the weather, Mike said, "I want you to sit next to me."

Dubiously, Greg pushed his coffee across the table and stood. Bette's was a little too far from the lab to be one of the group's usual haunts, but he couldn't vouch for the rest of the department. If somebody recognised them, it would be almost as bad as if they'd been caught in the lockers.

"You sure?" Greg asked, but his traitorous body had already plunked his ass onto the lumpy upholstery.

Mike slid in beside him, their shoulders bumping and thighs pressed snugly together. He stirred the rest of the open sugar packet into his coffee. "You seem nervous."

"No, not me," Greg said, dizzy from his eyeballs trying to scan every square foot between here and the other side of the street, just waiting for someone to pop up screaming fraternisation. "What would I have to be nervous about?"

Easy as you please, Mike draped an arm over his shoulders. He choked on his coffee.

Mike kept on smiling, rubbing soothing circles on his back. It might as well have been another offer of a blowjob right then and there for all the good it did.

"Don't do that," Greg wheezed, coughing to clear what felt like tar out of his lungs. "Surprise me like that, I mean."

"I didn't think it'd be all that surprising." Mike's thick fingers spanned the back of Greg's neck. "Should I give you a warning every time?"

Their waitress chose that moment to sashay her way back, a tray with a collection of steaming plates balanced expertly on one hand. Sliding one to Greg and the other two to Mike, she stepped back, cracked her gum again and said, "Anything else?"

Mike poked both eggs and seemingly satisfied, said, "An orange juice for him."

Greg didn't even bother to comment that time, instead sizing up the artful stack of waffles. With a little butter flower perched right on top surrounded by sliced strawberries, it was fancy considering the décor. Mike's plate was truckstop dull in comparison.

"Where would you be right now if you weren't here?" Mike asked, a flash of a smile garnering a wink from the waitress as she swung by with the OJ.

Spearing a strawberry, Greg chewed on both it and his answer. Most of the time he saved his boogie nights for the days he had off, because half-assing a party was about as much fun as half-assing an assignment.

Mike was up to something here. Mike was always up to something, and Greg was stuck trying to catch up.

"I know someplace I'd like to be," Greg said, pumping that one so full of innuendo it probably had all the subtlety of a Mack truck.

"And here I thought you'd want to fuck in your bed this time around."

Greg's mouth was full of waffle so his response to that one wasn't what he'd call eloquent. Swallowing his food turned into not swallowing his tongue as Mike's hand dropped to his thigh, blunt nails scratching all the way up along the inside seam until Mike's knuckles brushed his balls.

Right in the middle of the fucking restaurant.

Mike's hand flipped to give him a small squeeze and his knee banged the underside of the table, rattling the dishes. "Spread your legs."

The edges of Greg's fork dug into his palm. "Here?"

Calmly, Mike drank his coffee, all James Bond casual while his thumb followed the trapped curve of Greg's dick. Greg's jeans hadn't been all that loose in the first place, thanks to his keen fashion sense and perverse desire to highlight his assets for Mike's wandering eyes, and they were shrinking by the second.

Shooting glances at the other patrons, Greg slid deeper into the seat and let his knees splay. The waffles were melt-in-your-mouth awesome, but not half as awesome as the heat of Mike's hand cupping him.

When Mike popped the button on his jeans, he sucked in a hard breath. He felt a tug on his zipper and barely resisted the urge to look down, sure the middle-aged guy near the counter knew exactly what they were up to. He felt Mike's fingers on his bare belly and oh man, he did the stupidest shit around Mike, they were going to get in so much trouble, end up hauled in for indecent exposure, shit.

He could just hear Grissom's patented Greg-weary sigh and Nick's embarrassed laugh.

"Hang on a second," he puffed out, groping for Mike's wrist. At Mike's raised eyebrow, he floundered. "I mean, I like the opening act, but the venue's not so hot."

Mike's gaze dropped down and Greg's temperature went up. "I wouldn't say that."

The thing was, if Mike kept going, Greg would probably let him get away with it. Brain cells flew south whenever Mr. Keppler came calling, and boy, Mike and come were not concepts Greg needed occupying the same space in his head right now. But there they were, hand in hand, doing the kind of dirty floorshow you only got at the all-nude joints.

To Greg's dismayed relief--or relieved dismay, depending on how you liked your oxymoron served--Mike let up just shy of the goods. He snuck a quick glance around and went to do up his zip, not really all that shocked but still doubting his hearing when Mike said, "Leave it."

With a snort, Greg tugged at the little metal tab.

Mike caught his wrist. "Untuck your shirt." He dug out his wallet and flipped it open, grabbing a few bills seemingly at random to toss onto the table.

"Are you serious?" Greg hissed, more incredulous than anything. The shrinking of his pants had been metaphorical; an open fly was an open fly. Every time he figured he knew what sort of stunt to expect from Mike, out trotted a brand new low. Or maybe high, if he went by the dazed thrill he got out of it. "You want me to walk out of here with my pants down?"

"They'll stay up long enough to get to the car." Mike slid out of the booth and reached for his coat, taking his time unrolling his sleeves and shaking out his coat.

Recognising the measly cover it provided, Greg scrambled to haul out his shirt before he missed his chance. Scooting across the seat without his jeans slipping right down over his ass took some careful manoeuvring, and he stood up, nervously smoothing down his wrinkled shirttails.

"Don't fuss," Mike said, shrugging his jacket into place and straightening his cuffs with a practiced flick that made Greg's tongue go thick. Before Mike, he hadn't realised he had such raging hard on for older guys, especially for older guys in suits. There'd be a flutter every so often, a deep, resonating twang even less than that.

Since Mike could play him like a fiddle with a sideways glance and a hand smoothed down that solid black tie, maybe he mostly had a thing for Mike and the rest was sweet creamy icing.

Mike's hand settled in the small of his back to steer him to the door. Caught in the undertow, Greg went, steady but surely, not really catching on until they were about three feet from Mike's car. He'd been way too busy monitoring the slip of his jeans as he walked, calculating exactly how many steps he could take before his Lucky Brand slims stopped being so lucky and gave up the goods. Climbing the stairs to the parking lot out back had put him well within the danger zone.

"I'll need directions to your place," Mike said, jerking his chin at the passenger's side.

Swept up in the shiny thrill of picturing Mike in his bed, Greg barely even worried about the pile of laundry he'd left dumped on the couch. At least it was clean. He pulled open the door, grabbing on to his jeans to keep them up.

"Don't," Mike said, already settled in the driver's seat and watching.

"They're more than halfway down my ass," Greg said, and it came out a lot less like a protest than he'd meant.

"I know."

Grinning like a first class idiot, Greg slumped into the seat, completely unsurprised when his jeans slipped and tugged his underwear along for the ride. "You're horrible. As in the actual original meaning of the word. Horrible."

After absorbing the quick run down of directions Greg gave, Mike said, "Horrible would be telling you to pull your cock out and show me how hard you are right now."

Heat swept like a California brushfire up the back of Greg's neck, his whole scalp tingling with it. The seatbelt felt like it was crushing his chest. "Is that what you're telling me to do?"

Mike switched lanes, gaze steady on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The air inside the car smelled like him, warm and thick and ridiculously good. While Greg waited for an answer, his heart started up a one-organ disco dance party.

"No. Leave it in your underwear." Mike's gaze flicked sideways. "Palm it for me."

"This is kinda crazy," Greg muttered, but he leaned back in the seat, slid a hand in his jeans. If he'd lagged any leaving the restaurant, he couldn't tell now. He liked his own personal Mr. Right as much as the next guy but this time around, knowing Mike was there, watching out of corners of his eyes, blood surged at the first brush of his fingers. He grunted as his cock swelled painfully thick in the confines of his clothes. Bracing both feet on the floor, he arched up to relieve the pressure as he worked his dick out of the crook of his thigh.

Almost too softly to hear, Mike said, "Fuck."

That tiny little chink in Mike's armour dried up the inside of Greg's mouth like he'd swallowed the sun. He'd heard Mike lose it before, felt the precise, deliberate control crumble like a wall with rotted mortar against his back as Mike fucked him, but this was different. They weren't even really doing anything yet.

"You sure you don't want to see?" Greg spread his knees wide, the lights outside as distant as the stars as his knee bumped against Mike's hand on the gearshift. This wasn't like him, exhibitionism really hadn't ever been his thing, but the gleam in Mike's dark eyes and silence inside the car made him forget all about the others idling with them at the stoplight.

"Unbutton your shirt." Mike's voice had dropped past that low purr to something tighter, harder. "Fast, don't be a tease about it."

With no idea how close they were to his place, or what the hell he thought he was playing at, Greg fumbled open his vest. This wasn't anything like in the locker room, either, when nerves had made him jittery and Mike's directions had messed him up. The shiny buttons on his shirt slipped through his fingers.

Another red light brought them to a halt. Mike reached over with one hand to push his shirt wide open beneath the seatbelt, and when a thumb brushed his mouth, he didn't even think before he licked at it, the salt of skin warring in his mouth with a sweet trace of the jam Mike had spread on his toast.

Mike's hand spread dark and wide over his chest, slick thumb tracing a line beneath his nipple. He sucked in a shaking breath, gaze darting to the street to see who could be watching. The tint on the windows wasn't that dark.

"Don't worry about them," Mike said, fingers curling in to gently pinch at his flesh.

A hot line of pleasure shot from chest to groin. He grabbed at the door handle as Mike twisted lightly, his balls drawing taut and tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Sure, he liked to have his nipples played with, kept an extra blowjob or two in reserve when he found a guy willing to oblige and spend as much time with the foreplay as they did with the fucking. It had never felt like somebody strung a wire from his nipple to his dick before.

He turned in his seat as much as he could, offering up room for more and groaning when Mike's hand fell away. The car started forward. "Do it for me," Mike said.

Gingerly, he rubbed at his chest. Mike had been rougher than he'd first caught on, the dark red marks left behind on pale skin throbbing shallowly. "It's not really the same, you know?"

"Do it anyway."

The lights of Greg's building rose up like salvation. He dug for his keys, handing them fob-first to Mike so he could scan them in. His spot was empty, since they'd left his ride back in the lot. An all hours place on a busy enough street, it'd be safe until morning.

Mike killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt but made no move to climb out. His gaze was heavy, expectant.

Greg reached for his own belt and again, Mike caught his wrist. Greg's eyes jumped to the circle of Mike's big fingers indenting the skin of his arm. It gave him way too many ideas about letting Mike hold him down.

"I wasn't kidding," Mike said.

With an internal shrug, Greg brushed his fingertips over his nipple. It was okay, a tiny flutter of possibility, but nowhere near whatever Mike had done.

Mike huffed a laugh at him and leaned close. The seat creaked, and the centre console had to be digging into Mike's stomach, but no way in hell was he about to complain when the wet warmth of Mike's tongue touched his chest. He went for the belt release again and Mike stubbornly held him in place, grazing his nipple first with the edge of teeth and then with the dark shadow of stubble that had grown in over the course of day and night.

"Okay," Greg said, clutching at the back of Mike's head. "Okay, that's good."

Easing off, Mike flicked at his nipple with the tip of one blunt nail. The lights in the parking garage were bright but only reached inside the car enough to illuminate Mike's smile. A smile that said Mike was following the first part of the evil overlord list's number eleven to the letter. "Show me."

Muffling a groan, Greg tugged his hand free of Mike's grip and palmed at his cock. Slightly miffed, he scratched at his chest a bit harder than he'd meant to and sensation zinged straight through him, startling in its intensity.

"That's it," Mike encouraged, pushing Greg's hand over to the other nipple so he could pick up right where he left off on the first, rolling it between his fingers. "Do what I do," he said, cupping a broad hand over Greg's to give his cock a squeeze.

"No problem," Greg gasped, adding another bruise to his collection when his knee hit the underside of the dash. Except it was a bit of a problem, his reaction time shot to hell by the twist and tug of Mike's fingers on his chest and the dull, aching throb that started up beneath Mike's palm all tangling up in his gut. He jerked back in the seat as Mike bit him, tender flesh mounded thick in Mike's mouth. The swipe of Mike's tongue was anything but soothing.

"Can't do that," Greg said, hand fluttering from the back of Mike's head to his shoulder and back again. Mike sucked, sharp teeth digging in, and Greg's hand curled into a fist. "Shit, shit, I am so totally okay with fucking right here if you want to."

When Mike let out a considering noise and pulled back, Greg looked down to find a perfect imprint of teeth on his chest. He thought about the case with the dentist and choked on a nervous laugh as Mike gave his cock another squeeze. If he ever did bite the bullet in the middle of a kinky sex game, at least they'd know who had done him in.

"Used to get a lot of action in my car back in high school, this brings back memories. Pretty crummy memories in comparison it turns out." Greg shivered, all his skin going tight at once.

"Come on," Mike said, getting out. He waited by the back bumper, and like Greg was his very own Keppler polarised magnet, caught his wrist.

Greg had the fishy feeling it was more to keep him from straightening up his clothes too much than anything else, but being nearly dragged across the concrete to the elevator was a healthy treat for his ego. He wasn't even worried about the cameras in the elevators, since he wasn't all that bedraggled despite the excited flush he could feel creeping up his neck.

He punched his floor number after Mike waved the fob at the tiny scanner. "Sex in public, sex in the car, not gonna add sex in an elevator to tonight's menu?"

Mike gave him a sideways look and a slow, spreading smile before pushing his hand right to the hard swell barely hidden by Mike's neatly pressed slacks. "Go for it."

"Seriously?" Greg coughed the squeak out of his voice and shot a glance at the blinking red light up in the corner. He licked his lips. Somehow he cared less about his neighbours or the security guys than the fact that he'd scrubbed through hours of elevator surveillance and no one ever looked good going down on a guy from the bird's eye view. "Do you want me to?"

Mike followed his gaze, something dark and dangerous sparking to life in his eyes. Backing Greg into the corner beneath it, thumbnail scratching unmercifully at his reddened nipple, Mike said, "No. I want you to take me upstairs and fuck me."

Greg's common sense hit the bottom of the elevator and kept on going. He grabbed at Mike's collar and dragged him in for a sloppy kiss, and if he had even a single worry left about technique, the hungry shove of Mike's tongue into his mouth buried it. The stiff press of Mike's cock aligned against his through the open fly of his jeans and Greg caught himself just shy of hitching a leg up to rut against it like a horny teenager.

He couldn't even comprehend how hot the idea of fucking Mike was, his brain fizzing out like a bum television each time he thought about Mike on his knees, or stretched out on his belly, or fuck, laid out naked on his back.

The doors chimed. "Come on," Greg said, nearly stumbling over the uneven lip where the elevator wasn't quite level with the floor. He scanned the hallway, brain failing hard on serving up the necessary info. "Where the hell do I live?"

Mike chuckled.

"You just say shit like that," Greg accused, heading in what he hoped was the right direction. He silently counted off the numbers they passed. "Sometimes I think you sit around coming up with lines and test out the ones you think will kill me quickest."

"I don't think it'd be as much fun for me if I ever found the one that did." Mike's hand snuck under the trailing hem of Greg's shirt as Greg patted his pockets for the keys. "Here."

Greg snatched the ring and jammed a key into the lock. Luckily, it was the right key, and his brief fear that it had been the wrong one and would've broken off when he forced it, which would've meant they'd have to wait for a locksmith to show up before they could get to the bed evaporated. Which was awesome, because holy shit, that fiasco would have sucked.

Elbowing the door open, Greg slapped on a light. He moved to push Mike up against the back of the door, wanting to get back to that kiss, and Mike sidestepped, pushed him to the wall instead.

"No rush," Mike said, allowing a brief brush of their lips before he stepped back. He worked free the knot in his tie as he sized up the apartment.

No rush? What the hell was Mike thinking. Yes rush.

The place was tidier than Greg had remembered, meaning it was presentable but nowhere near Mike's spic and span pad. Bits and pieces of Greg's life were strewn around, laundry, mail, magazines and books, the console game he'd been killing time with earlier that morning. The furniture was deliberately mismatched, because Greg didn't believe in living in the middle of a staging room, but it meshed. At the time he'd bought it, he'd thought the replica of the Maltese Falcon looked pretty damn snazzy perched on his bookshelf.

Viewing it all through Mike's eyes now, he thought maybe it looked more like a dorm than a grown man's home. You are not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis.

"It suits you," Mike said, flinging his tie over the back of a chair. "Busy."

"Bedroom's this way," Greg said, shrugging out of his shirt and vest and holding them clutched in one hand. He couldn't stop thinking about Mike naked on his sheets.

Studying the vintage pulp fiction posters framed above the television, Mike said, "How about a drink?"

"Now I know you're trying to drive me crazy."

Turning, Mike sent his gaze sliding down Greg's bare chest, and Greg shivered, felt it like a touch. "I could be trying to make this last."

Tossing shirt and vest aside, Greg pushed his hands under Mike's jacket at the shoulders and eased it down. "I get that," he said, surprised when Mike let the jacket fall in a heap on the floor. He started in on the buttons on Mike's shirt, heart giddily tripping when Mike made no move to stop him. "Really, I do. I get that, but geez, Mike."

"You want to fuck me that bad," Mike said, not bothering to make it a question.

Lust kicked Greg so hard in the gut his knees buckled. He hadn't thought about it much, but when the idea had first cropped up, he'd figured Mike for a certain type of guy and left it at that. He was versatile, so it's not like it was a big point of contention. Sex was sex, and sex with Mike was stupidly, insanely hot, so he let it slide.

But it seemed there were a lot of things he figured Mike for, and one by one, Mike blew those perceptions straight out of the water. Every time Mike hit a line Greg had drawn, he stepped right over it, and Greg found himself scrambling over his own eagerness to follow.

That probably wasn't a good thing. He'd have to try to care later.

"Do you want to know what I wanted at the restaurant?" Mike asked, low purr rippling like water down Greg's spine, and Greg swallowed, croaked, "What?"

Mike seized his arms just below his shoulders. He grasped at the open edges of Mike's shirt, knuckles gone white. Anticipation coiled like a whip in his stomach, crackling, waiting to snap.

The wall Mike pushed him against was cool compared to his fevered skin. He had just enough time to come up with a crack about how often that happened but not enough for the delivery before Mike said, "To make you come right there and watch you lick it off my fingers like syrup. I didn't think we'd get out of there without fucking in the bathroom."

That sucked all the air out of Greg's lungs. His heart threw itself at his ribs, frantic and unsteady. "Are you serious?"

In answer, Mike pressed flush against him, the hard line of his body and harder line of his cock saying everything Greg needed to hear. Greg let out a reckless moan, back of his head hitting the wall as he grasped at Mike's sides, ground into that teasing heat.

"You're fucking with me," he said, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of his head insisting that he should have let Mike do it. "No way you would've."

"Guess you'll never know," Mike said, biting at the base of his throat before wedging a hand between them, found a sensitive nipple and twisted. Greg arched with a gasp and Mike held him pinned, rubbed to soothe the sting. "There's no reason you can't fuck me bareback, is there?"

"Shit." Greg hissed and smacked a hand flat to the wall as Mike pinched again. His chest was aching, burning hot under Mike's fingers, and it still felt so good. "No," he said, not able to think of all very good reasons why they shouldn't with his common sense still smoking at the bottom of an elevator shaft. "No problem there."

Mike growled something that sounded like, "Good," against his mouth and took advantage of another sharp gasp to slide inside, tongue touching briefly to his, coaxing him to follow until he licked at Mike's in the hot space between their mouths, slick and dirty.

Sometimes he couldn't read a single thing in Mike's dark, flat eyes, but when Mike pulled away this time, he saw that same predatory ease as when there had been a gun's muzzle staring him straight in the face. Stick him in a little red cape and call him Riding Hood, he so did not care.

"Bedroom?" he asked, not sure if he sounded young and hopeful or just stupidly turned on. It was tough to be suave when your balls felt like solid iron weights.

"Go," Mike said, releasing him, and it took all of his considerable willpower to saunter down the hall as opposed to taking off like a bat out of hell and dive like a champion onto the mattress.

He flicked on the overhead light. Ambiance was all well and good but he wasn't in the mood to squint at Mike in the lamplight. They could do that later, after he'd finally gotten a damn good look at what Mike was hiding beneath those crisp suits.

Glasses clinked in the kitchen. He grinned. He liked that, Mike making himself at home. Casual atmosphere, casual sex, everything flowing nice and easy. He chanced a glance at himself in the mirror by the door, relieved to see that as much as he felt like a kid in a candy shop, he didn't look like a sugar-rush maniac. Mentally clicking his heels together, he dug lube out of the nightstand.

His hand brushed by the platoon of condoms and he paused. It was kinda not really too late. Maybe they could talk about it. Not about exclusivity or anything--Greg didn't have time to do much else except eat, work and occasionally sleep, anyway. Mike didn't seem the exclusive type.

Picking up a box and frowning at it, Greg had to wonder, though. His score for reading Mike's type was stuck firmly in the negatives.

Light and teasing, Mike said, "Still dressed?" He held a glass of water in one hand and offered the opened beer dangling from the tips of the other.

Greg dropped the box he'd been staring at. He'd trot out the nifty nubby ones next time.

"Supplies," he said, waggling the tube and giving it a negligent toss onto the bed. He helped himself to a generous swig of beer, thick taste of hops exploding on his tongue and sliding cool down his throat. "You know, you don't have to get me drunk. I'll put out either way."

"Will you now?" Transferring the glass to his other hand, Mike ran chill fingertips across Greg's chest. They felt like little pieces of ice against his nipple, blessedly cool. "Go lie down."

"And get comfy?" Downing another mouthful, Greg set the beer down and rolled onto the bed, arms tucked under his head, legs crossed at the ankles and cheeky grin firmly in place. "Very comfy." He wiggled for emphasis.

Mike sat on the edge of the mattress and leaned over him, hand braced on the rumple of haphazardly straightened bedding. Setting the glass aside, Mike rubbed cool condensation over both his nipples, the pure pleasure at the touch to one clashing weirdly with the twinge from the other.

"Got a new fetish?" Greg asked, freeing one of his hands to glide up Mike's thigh.

"Showing you an old one," Mike countered, and leaned down to tongue at peaked flesh, teasing it tighter. He rolled it between his teeth, pressed in to the edge of pain and used the flat of his tongue to ease it. His other hand drifted lower, sweeping down Greg's side in a ticklish caress, and Greg shied away from it, close to laughing, then lost breath in a puff when Mike's hand curled over his cock.

In the same instant, Mike bit down. His tongue lashed hard over sensitive skin and Greg's fingers dug into the strong muscle of his thigh.

"Oh shit," Greg said, frantically trying to figure out when he became such a slut for having his tits played with. Liking it was one thing but this wasn't liking it, this was fucking dying for it. He caught a glimmer of what could've been a thought but Mike brought a second hand into play, fingers twisting his nipple between quick, hard sucks on it, and every single pull shot straight down to settle in the heavy weight of his balls.

Leaving one nipple red and throbbing, Mike switched back to the other, and Greg fisted a hand in the sheets, knees drawn up and spread wide. Mike nuzzled at it, the scratch of his face melting to the wet softness of his mouth then back again until up was down and down was up, one feeling like the other and both treading the fine line of real pain.

"You gotta stop for a second," Greg groaned, pushing at Mike's shoulder.

Mike gave him one last lick and backed off, the hand cupping his dick squeezing tight. His hips jerked. "Lasted longer than I thought you would," Mike said. He ghosted a hand lightly over Greg's chest, barely touching, and it was still too much.

Looking down, Greg saw the reddened mottle of his chest, a few darker patches that might turn to bruises before the night was out. "Holy shit."

"It looks good on you." Following his gaze, Mike touched one gently. The light pressure ricocheted down his spine, shocking a quiet noise out of him. "Sounds good, too."

"Yeah?" Greg asked, panting softly from too much stimulation on one end and not nearly enough on the other.

Taking it for an invitation, Mike pressed a nail lightly against the side of his nipple, probably not enough to even notice any other time but with his skin tortured and sensitive, he felt it all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He didn't hold back the sound that prompted, high and desperate and maybe a little embarrassing except for the way it made Mike's eyes flare.

Mike stood up and shrugged out of his shirt. That heavy leather belt was on the floor before Greg caught on, grey matter chugging along like steamship, and he bolted upright, knocked Mike's hands out of the way.

Mike raised an eyebrow.

"My turn," Greg announced, in case it wasn't crystal clear. His knees forced the mattress to dip and he splayed his legs wider. "If you had any idea how long I've been waiting to get you naked-"

"How long?"

Tugging down the zip, Greg said, "Long enough that I'm not gonna be patient about it."

"So I see," Mike said, bracing a hand on his bare shoulder for balance as he finally got his hands inside Mike's clothes and started pushing them down.

Maybe he should've taken his time and enjoyed it, but this thing with Mike was unpredictable enough that it didn't seem worth the risk. He pulled the waistband of Mike's underwear out to let Mike's heavy cock slip free, his mouth going wet as he realised he hadn't gotten a proper taste of it yet. He'd been sucked and fucked and somehow, they'd missed doing this.

No time like the present. He pressed his face to the tight dark curls at the base of Mike's dick and breathed in. He went dizzy from the thick smell, and when Mike's fingers threaded though his hair, tugged, it didn't help matters much.

"Never sucked a guy without a condom before, either," Greg said, catching Mike's cock to hold it steady for a wide lick. It settled hot against his lips. Any second now he was going to start drooling.

"Later," Mike said, voice strained, his grip in Greg's hair tightening. And that just made Greg moan, sucking eagerly at the head, searching for the heady taste of him at the slit. "Fuck me first."

"Fuck." Greg rested his forehead against Mike's flat belly. "Okay." He scrubbed his mouth dry on the back of his arm and stood up to shuck his jeans. He kept stealing glimpses at Mike, not all that surprised to see there wasn't a tan line in sight, and by the time he managed to wrestle them off, Mike was naked on the bed, both pillows tucked under his head.

When Greg set a knee to the bed, Mike's legs drew up, and Greg grabbed on to one to steady himself. He'd come up with his share of dirty daydreams over the last couple of weeks, and this was so, so much better. This was actually happening.

"Don't stretch me out too much," Mike said, pushing the tube his way with a foot. "Just make it wet."

"Sure." Hiding his shaking hands, Greg squirted enough gel onto his fingers to do the two of them, and if Mike did the eyebrow thing again, he'd claim he was following instructions to the letter. "That how you like it?"

"That's how I like it this time," Mike said, and there was no reason that meant their this time, but hope sprung eternal. The hard on Greg carried around for Mike had a half-life of about that, so he figured he could hedge his bets.

Shuffling between Mike's spread legs, Greg actually had to concentrate for a second on not losing it. He'd fucked people in the coolie before, and it was usually fun and no big deal, but this was Mike. Michael-fucking-Keppler. He cupped Mike's sac in one hand, kneaded at soft delicate skin, and pushed slick fingers between the cheeks of Mike's ass.

"Here." Mike lifted up to prop his hips up with a pillow and hooked a hand under his knee, holding himself open. "Since you like to watch."

Greg nodded quickly. "S'good," he said, voice cracking like he'd looped back around for a second shot at puberty. He pressed his thumb against Mike's hole and felt his lips part on a ragged noise when the wrinkle of muscle easily opened up for him. "It's really good. You, uh." He wet his lips. "You do this a lot?"

"Not with someone else." Mike stretched an arm above his head, palm pressed flat to the wooden headboard. "Give me your fingers."

Wary of being that guy, Greg gave him one, sucking in a breath as it slid smoothly into tight heat. He let air out on a groan and did it again, twisting to press against Mike's insides, dizzy with the thought of feeling Mike's body clutch at his naked cock.

A quick glance up revealed Mike watching, a tight curve to his mouth and one eyebrow lifted in question. "Don't want to rush," Greg said by way of explanation, but got with the program, pushed two fingers and more lube up into him.

"Feels good?"

The best Greg could manage was a nod. He spread his fingers a little, knowing damn well what Mike said and ignoring it, deliberately crooking his fingers to press against Mike's prostate, distract him.

And ended up distracting himself when Mike's hips jerked and muscle clenched tight around his fingers. He bent to lick at Mike's cock, the shiny wetness at the tip making his mouth water. "Holy fuck, Mike-"

Mike caught him under the chin before he got too close. "Come here."

"But-"

Fingers slipped down to curve flush to his throat. His heart gave a shuddering leap and he shuffled forward, his hand still between Mike's legs as Mike dragged him down for a kiss. It wasn't much of a kiss from his end of things, more like clumsy fumbling than anything, but Mike took it in stride, even seemed to like it.

Flashing back on the taste of gun metal in his mouth, he stayed passive, trembling with the effort. At his laziest, he still wasn't much for letting somebody else do all the work, and he could kiss Mike until his lips went numb and not get sick of it.

"Ready?" Mike asked, his hand staying put on Greg's neck as he rubbed knuckles over an insanely tender nipple. "All the way in, first try."

Greg's throat clicked as he swallowed. "'Kay," he mumbled, and went to draw back.

Mike's hold tightened, not close to cutting off his air but sending sparks shooting from nipple to cock with a slight pinch. "Like this."

Bracing himself with a hand on the back of Mike's thigh, Greg nodded shakily. There was more than enough Gun Oil left on his palm to do the job, and he slicked himself up fast, not sure how the hell he'd get even halfway through this without blowing it.

The feel of Mike's hole flexing against the head of his dick almost did him in. He gulped air, only his fingers to guide him, and ended up humping up against Mike's balls when Mike twisted at his chest, sent shockwaves rippling into his gut.

"Try again," Mike said, spit-slick fingers easing off to rub circles around abused flesh.

"Can't do it if you keep doing that," Greg gasped, grinding against the roughness of Mike's pubic hair. "Seriously-" Mike rubbed at both his nipples, and first it hurt, then it didn't, and it was so good. "Oh, shit."

"All the way," Mike told him again, palm pressed to his galloping heartbeat.

Easier said than done. Every time he lined up, Mike did something else to him, a pinch or twist or flick of a nail, and he shuddered, skidding off the mark. He grit his teeth and tried again, and when he felt tight heat opening up around the head of his cock, he went for it.

He slammed in straight to the root, and Mike jolted, smacked a hand to the headboard. Legs clamped tight around his waist, holding him in place. He shuddered and twisted up a handful of blankets, unable to hold completely still with Mike's body clutching at him. Christ, it was all he could do not to rut like a dog.

"Not yet," Mike said, shifting lower. He rubbed a thumb over one of Greg's nipples. "Not yet."

"Sorry," Greg gasped, stilling the grind of his hips. "Didn't mean to-"

"You did." Thick fingers skimmed over Greg's chest, found both nipples and rolled them. Mike could've taken a needle to him and he wouldn't have known the difference. "Want to do it again, just like that? All the way out and slam back in?"

Greg bit his lip. "You want me to?"

Mike took hold of Greg's hand, moved it to the back of his thigh. As muddled as Greg was, that was an easy cue to catch, and he pushed Mike's knees up.

Sliding out of Mike was incredible. It was all gritty heat as Mike's insides clung to him with slick, greedy flesh. He shoved back in hard and heard Mike groan, did it again and got another one, louder than the first.

"God, yes," Greg slurred against Mike's calf, slinging Mike's legs over his arms so he could get closer. "You never make enough noise, fuck you as hard as you want if you make noise for me."

Mike said, "Is that so," and his voice was a little breathless, a little unsteady. Greg had never heard him like that before and he wanted more.

He was close to getting it, too, until Mike started playing with his tits again and the slow, hard rhythm he'd set faltered. He groaned out his complaints, not really meaning any of them, and tried to pick it back up again. His chest was on fire, bruised and aching, and the slick drag of Mike on his dick made him writhe, fuck sloppily up into Mike like it was his first time getting his dick wet.

"Shit," Greg hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Shit, shit, gonna come, don't want to come yet," and Mike moaned, good and loud and shot all to hell. That was the end of him, right there. He came so hard he was afraid he'd black out, and he fought it, didn't want to miss a second of feeling his come smearing inside Mike, turning everything slick and wet.

"Stay in me," Mike said, "fuck, Greg, grind it in, come on."

He was already going soft but he tried, oh hell, did he try. Give him five minutes and he'd probably be ready to go again, but he couldn't think straight to tell Mike that, too busy watching calm, cool, collected Mike Keppler moaning and twisting under him, straining for release.

Struck by a bolt of inspiration from some perverted god on high, Greg squirmed a hand between them, fit the bunch of his fingers around his cock and pushed. Just like that Mike arched and came, spilling shiny wet all over his stomach without a hand on him. Greg's nuts seized, tried to punch another orgasm out of him while he was still recovering from the first.

Mike's legs slipped down while he was caught up wondering whether he'd actually come again or not. There was so much slick smeared between them he honestly couldn't tell, and forget figuring out what the hell his body was trying to communicate.

Strong arms wrapped around Greg's shoulders and he sank into the embrace, his cock finally slipping all the way out of Mike's body shocking a noise from him, and then the brush of Mike's chest against his prompting another.

"I'm gonna be black and blue by the time you're done with me," Greg said. He wasn't kidding, either. He already had bruises in the shape of Mike's fingers on his hips, and he'd found a couple on his thighs yesterday with no clue where they'd come from. "You seeing anyone about those territorial urges?"

Stretching out with a satisfied groan, Mike said, "You seem to be catering to them perfectly fine." He brushed the back of one finger over the nipple that had somehow borne the brunt of his attention. "Sore?"

"Understatement."

"Roll over." After he'd flopped onto his back, the warmth of Mike's hand settled just below the ache. "It'll be worse tomorrow," Mike said, sounding suspiciously like he was looking forward to it. "Wear something soft."

Greg dropped an arm over his eyes. "I didn't think of that. It's gonna drive me nuts, isn't it?"

Mike's fingers crept higher. "Probably."

Lifting his arm a fraction, Greg glared hard at Mike's hand. "Unless you're planning on producing a magic wand and Harry Pottering it better, stop right there."

Mike's hand swept down, unerringly finding the marks lingering on Greg's hip. "I'll get you a cool cloth in a moment. That'll help."

Perking slightly, Greg said, "Yeah? Get me another beer while you're up?"

Mike cupped the softness of Greg's cock, not one bit worried about the mess. A fresh tingle snaked out along Greg's frazzled nerves. "Just like that, huh? A beer and I'm forgiven."

Something in Mike's voice was off, but Greg couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't really apologetic. "You know, I wouldn't have let you do it if I didn't want you to."

Mike's dark eyes said he didn't quite believe that, and truth be told, Greg thought maybe he was right. Sometimes it seemed like if Mike wanted it, he did too, and there was no way in hell that wasn't going to blow up in his face one of these days.

Until then, though, might as well enjoy the ride.

*
End

The only way to improve cheesecake and booze.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 02:49:02 GMT

From miko_no_da!

Oh god.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 06:18:56 GMT

Roomie was just in to say goodnight and my email pinged, so, I checked it, right? And it was hilarious because it was yet more spam for BearTrapping.com or whatever, which just makes me giggle these days since I'm all zomg LIEV SCHREIBER every ten seconds.

So, so, I click load images so me and Roomie can see what bears they're pumping out (har) this week and have a giggle or two, and omg, Jesus Christ, the guy that pops up making eyes at us LOOKS LIKE MY BROTHER.

MY BROTHER.

GOD, WHY. WHY.

This is in no way spoilery for this season. Just a warning.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 05:57:23 GMT

Dear Supernatural,

Baby, just so you know, if you kill Chuck, we're breaking up.

With fickle love,
Me

I... I think I would write porn for Chuck. So adorable. :x

AUGH.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 05:44:52 GMT

Just in case anyone was wondering, I am here to say that yes, switching 30,000 words of fic from present to past tense is indeed incredibly time consuming. AND ANNOYING. OMG. >:O

Bitch whine weeble wobble woe.

Random post is random.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 21:08:34 GMT

I have this insane craving for delicious Mexican food. I think I woke up this morning in the middle of a dream about the wonderful teeny taqueria Jess and Miko and I found on our roadtrip back from YCon a couple of years ago. Also, the evil twin was visiting last week, and my brain equates evil twin with California with TACOS.

THEY ARE SO GOOD.

AND I AM HUNGRY. D:

Oh god, what am I doing.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 04:30:09 GMT

death_bingo. Why do I want to do such horrible things.

Let me show you my card.

Death (by) Bingo!
poisoning (accidental)	radiation	execution (lethal injection)	homicide (contract)	martyrdom
suicide (seppuku)	volcano	illness (cancer)	weather (other)	device (alien)
illness (sepsis)	spontaneous combustion	free space	homicide (filicide)	device (other)
homicide (assassination)	crash (boat)	illness (cardiac/respiratory arrest)	execution (other)	illness (plague)
crash (plane)	human sacrifice	weather (hurricane/tornado)	attack (bioweapon/ nanotechnology	g-force trauma

Fic: The Slow Hours of the Day - Victor/Logan (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 03:26:51 GMT

The Slow Hours of the Day
X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Victor/Logan. NC-17. ~5000 words. For 'rimming' on my kink_bingo card.
For years and years they've fought and fucked together, trusted in a single constant as the world changed around them, and somehow Logan had forgotten a time when Victor had watched him the way he watches now.

*

The Slow Hours of the Day

In a choice between the Pacific and Atlantic, Logan prefers the west coast. Far north of the border the summers are temperate, the rocky shoreline dotted with islands and coves and plentiful with fish and game. News reaches them at a snail's pace and that suits Logan fine. The less Victor hears of the war, the less likely Logan is to end up slogging through a bug-infested jungle.

If he were to find himself missing the cities, it would be now, with a couple dozen pages of Naked Lunch under his belt. Victor's taste in literature hasn't changed much over the years. To be fair, neither have the offerings. Every new generation that comes along seems to forget that depravity has been around as long as people have.

Sunlight streams honey-warm through the thin windowpane. Rather than trudge through another page of stimulating excess, Logan closes his eyes, tips his face to the light. The rough-hewn floorboards don't make for the most comfortable of seats, even with the thick blanket swiped from the mess of their bed, though it's hard to care. He's slept on worse and laziness weighs leaden in his limbs.

The back door of the old house bangs shut, startling Logan from his doze. It isn't peacetime that makes him careless, it's Victor's familiar scent wafting in on the breeze, the smell of freshly-chopped wood wound through it now. Logan traces his path through the kitchen to the bath by the quiet sound of his footsteps. The place they've claimed as their own was probably once a hunting lodge, or a young family's summer escape from the city, and it holds only three rooms. The largest serves as the main living space, a few wooden chairs and a low table cordoned off from the bed by a latticework screen. For them, it's more than enough.

Water tumbles into an old porcelain basin. Logan begins to drift again, conscious of Victor's easy approach, impossible to ignore it even if he'd tried. They've been away from the distracting bustle of everyone else for so long that Logan's grown hyper-aware of his brother, everything, even the air he breathes, saturated with Victor. His nerves spark like live wires whenever Victor's nearby.

Logan looks up at Victor's quiet laugh. Settling down beside him, Victor slides the book from his lax grasp, flips it over to scan the page. "Not to the part with the fancy club yet then, hm?"

"As riveting as it is," Logan says. He lets his eyes slide shut and his head fall back, surprised to find Victor's arm draping about his shoulders. The book hits the floor with a dull thump--his page lost, and that's no tragedy--and the backs of Victor's knuckles graze his forearm. The warmth of Victor's breath seeping through the cotton of his shirt prompts him to reopen his eyes, find the sunlight shining through the lowered fan of Victor's eyelashes, brightening the dark brown of his whiskers, his mouth pressed to Logan's shoulder. "What?"

Victor's gaze flicks up, hint of fang to his smile. "What do you think?" His lips touch Logan's neck, barely-there in a chaste kiss before they part. The light touch of his tongue brings a tight curl of anticipation to Logan's gut, along with something else not entirely new.

In the midst of civilisation or not, Victor never changes. Logan expects the press of Victor's teeth and he gets it after a fashion, a soft bite that's more a nibble between even softer kisses. His skin tingles in Victor's wake, the bit of wet left behind from the sweet drag of Victor's tongue hardly cooling before Victor's back for another taste. He'd only be lying to himself if he claimed it didn't feel good, and yet.

"Victor."

The hot push of Victor's breath along his jaw sends a shiver rippling down Logan's spine. It stumbles over itself on the way back up as Victor lightly nips, the quick sting soothed by the slow rippling press of his tongue. "You like it rough all the time?"

Logan glances down at a tug on the buttons of his shirt, Victor's claws idly flicking them open one after the other. For years during the wars Victor's claws had grown near black with dirt and old blood. Unlike Logan's, always coated with his own blood if not someone else's, now Victor's are clean, more white than yellow.

He knows what those claws can do as well as Victor does, took them in his mouth to learn their sharpness with his tongue, and his breath catches at the memory of how Victor had gone blind with lust as he'd sucked them. Victor had been the one who'd licked them clean afterwards, Logan flat on his back gulping breath as the ragged furrows Victor had clawed in his sides while they fucked slowly healed.

Belatedly, Logan says, "It's not that."

Logan's shirt falls open. Victor nudges it off Logan's shoulder with his chin, bristly scrape of whiskers before soft, sucking kisses. "So what is it then?" Victor murmurs, distracted by the pound of Logan's heart beneath his palm. Clawtips scratch near Logan's nipple and his spine snaps straight as the pads of Victor's fingers pass over it, tease it tight as tension sings through Logan's muscles.

Victor's mouth finds the flutter of Logan's pulse. His teeth frame it, dig in just shy of pain and then ease off again, leave the need for more rattling uncomfortably under Logan's skin. "It's easier," Logan growls, the weird jangle of his nerves shortening his temper.

Victor says, "Harder is easier?" and his claws dig in, slice four neat, hot lines across the centre of Logan's chest. The spark of hurt settles the worst twist of Logan's insides, too brief a respite before Victor's touch gentles, backs of his knuckles stroking away the sting as if they're children again. Another kiss, close to the curve of Logan's underarm, and Victor's fingers begin to wander, stroke as if to soothe the quivering jump of muscle and doing everything but. "You read too much of that book, little brother. You're not making any sense."

The snarl bubbling up the back of Logan's throat trickles from between clenched teeth. He shoves Victor's hand away, ducks out from under the arm circling his shoulders. Victor grabs his chin before he can gain his feet. The sharp twist of his spine as he's jerked back wrenches the snarl free right into Victor's face. A lick to the bared line of his teeth turns to a nip at his lips, melts like spring snow into a kiss he doesn't return no matter how loud the urge to taste Victor's mouth roars in his head.

As soon as Victor releases him, he rolls to his feet and stalks the length of the room. Restlessness he sees more often in Victor eats at him, the ease he'd felt earlier chased away by Victor's soft touch. For years and years they've fought and fucked together, trusted in a single constant as the world changed around them, and somehow Logan had forgotten a time when Victor had watched him the way he watches now.

"Going to be a tease and run?" Victor pushes up from the floor, closes the distance between them in a lazy swagger while Logan just stands there. On the battlefield, Victor relied so often on brute strength to see them through the day that it was easy to forget how smoothly he could move when he chose. "Force me to hunt you down and drag you into the dirt for a hard fuck?" The look in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, they say he knows the answer to that question, and the trip of Logan's pulse has already given him away. Victor can scent his want and will lend more weight to that than anything that comes out of Logan's mouth.

Fingers more suited to snapping fragile bones curl under Logan's chin, tilt his face up. Victor's gaze slides over features already committed to memory, mapped out a thousand times before with hands and mouth, and comes to rest on the slight part of Logan's lips. Logan almost manages to convince himself the uneasy lurch in his gut means he doesn't want Victor to kiss him again, exactly as before. Softness should be the last thing he wants from Victor's hands.

Victor's other hand reaches past him to push the old screen out of the way. The bed is maybe three, four feet away, and when Victor steps forward Logan grudgingly gives ground. The backs of his legs hit the edge and he lets Victor push him down, inching back to give Victor the space to kneel. Victor crawls over him, everything in the fluid shift of muscle saying, I win. Mine. The thin sliver of space between them quickly heats, the warmth of Victor so close pinning him down as solidly as if it were his brother's full weight. Lust tries to occupy the same space as the urge to kick Victor off.

The lazy kisses come then, first a slow brush of Victor's lips. Claws push delicately through the hair at his nape, angle his head just so to fit the slant of Victor's mouth to his. Air thick as molasses, drenched in Victor's scent, fills Logan's lungs. He closes his eyes to fight off the wave of dizziness that hits as Victor's tongue traces the shape of his mouth, slips inside to taste. Teeth catch his lip, tug sweet and tender, and Logan can't help the moan that builds low in his chest. Victor's palm presses harder to Logan's ribs as if he can feel it.

"See," Victor says, nuzzling his way under Logan's chin as easily as he slips under Logan's skin. "Not so hard now, is it?"

Logan huffs out a breath instead of the answer Victor wants to hear. He manages to get Victor's pants open before Victor says, "Not so fast," and catches his hands, pushes them to the bed. His frustrated growl earns him a sharper nip to his throat, a command a clear as if Victor had barked, Stay.

Victor's smile curves against the side of his neck. "Wasn't so hard twenty years ago, was it?" A slow, sucking kiss brings a rush of heat to the surface. Victor lingers long enough for a bruise to form, rubs his whiskers against tender flesh as it fades. "When you'd just open your legs whenever I'd ask. Be like a woman for me, wet and waiting." He flicks open the button of Logan's jeans, pushes his hand inside to cup cock and balls both. "So what changed, Jimmy?"

"Nothing changed," Logan growls. "You want to fuck me slow, fuck me slow," and even as he says it, he knows it's pointless. The only time lies work on Victor is when he doesn't care about the truth.

Victor gives him a languid squeeze, blunt curve of his claws pressed tightly to Logan's belly. "What if I want you to fuck me slow?" He grins at the hard jerk of Logan's hips, licks at the side of Logan's face. "If you're sick of taking it so often, you could just say so."

Logan barely hears the rumble of Victor's laugh over the pounding rush of blood in his head. That isn't what he meant and Victor knows it. Any real thought given to asking Victor to spread for him, stretch out on his belly like he lays Logan out so often, gets lost in the rush as Victor just takes what he wants. It's not as if Victor hasn't offered from time to time, though it's Victor's way to invite it by letting Logan win the occasional scuffle than by words. All Logan really has are adrenaline-blur memories with Victor twisting beneath him, fangs bared and claws tearing at Logan's arms, bloodlust edged just that little bit over the line for them to fuck instead of fight.

And those memories are more than enough to make his cock throb in Victor's grasp, bring a halt to what was almost another kiss. Drawing back just enough to catch Logan's gaze, hold it, his voice little more than a smug murmur, Victor says, "Does that turn you on, Jimmy? Thinking about fucking me?" He kneads at Logan's cock, not enough space with Logan's jeans still zipped to jack it properly, and he wouldn't anyway, dark glint to his eyes as Logan strains for more. "You like having me under you?" Another sharp squeeze, then, "You jack off to it?"

A ragged moan spills out of Logan before he can even think to check it. Victor huffs a quiet laugh against the side of his face, hand pulling free and Logan moans again, frustrated by the loss. Most of the time Victor doesn't have the patience to be a fucking tease.

Victor says, "Because I do," and rears up, flash of his teeth the only warning offered before Logan's belly hits the mattress. He growls a curse into the threadbare sheets, pissed off for letting Victor's toying distract him so easily. Always the same god damn story. He knows Victor wants him just as badly, gets just as caught up in the way his scent bleeds into Logan's, and still Logan's the one that ends up with his face shoved in the dirt.

Logan pushes up on his hands, loses his balance again with an irritated grunt that's mostly for show from the rough tug on his jeans. If Victor's losing patience with this game, the better for the both of them. Relief rises up with the thought that slow isn't what either of them prefers.

But that's the pace Victor keeps, big hands cupping Logan's bare ass, thumbs stroking all the way down to his thighs and back up, following the dip of his spine and rucking his shirt up on the way. Fingers fan wide, gently sweep down Logan's sides, so light it almost tickles. Logan fights off the need to shiver, manages just fine until Victor leans close, light graze of mouth and nose as he scents the thin layer of sweat all his playing's worked up. He tastes it with an open-mouthed kiss, tongue pressed like a brand to flesh. His hands go down as he licks his way up, paints a cooling trail from the centre of Logan's tailbone to the peak of one shoulder blade.

Logan's skin buzzes with the expectation of a bite that doesn't come. All Victor does it keep touching him, not even like the first time he put hands to Logan's bare skin, when it had been just as fast and vicious as the scuffle that'd preceded it. Fingers trace and retrace the line of his back all the way to the curve of his ass and linger there possessively, petting him like he's something owned.

"Up on your knees for me," Victor says, familiar want roughening his voice.

Logan turns his face to the sheets, his hot panting breaths shunted back into his lungs. Without a word he gathers his legs under him, muscles jumping at the sound of Victor's knees hitting hardwood. He's braced for the rasp of whiskers against the inside of his thigh and still it shocks a noise out of him. Victor's laugh scrapes like sandpaper on nerves already hyper-aware of everything Victor could do, let alone the reality of his hands spreading the cheeks of Logan's ass wide.

For a minute, there's nothing. Victor just watches, thicker and thicker waves of pleasure congealing in the air until it feels like his lungs can't pull it in. The fluttering anticipation in his gut turns razor-edged, snakes out along his limbs in an electric sizzle, a network of crackling cobwebs he can't brush away.

Victor nuzzles at his sac, grip tightening briefly at Logan's soft hiss. His tongue is warm and wet, so fucking wet, as he licks his way up to the tight clench of Logan's hole, and Logan can't even think straight as his brother nuzzles at him again. Sweet, tiny little licks coax him bit by bit to spread his legs wider, sink from hands to elbows to resting his forehead on his folded arms. Victor's quietly pleased hum as muscle loosens, opens to the press of his tongue, drills its way into the marrow of Logan's bones.

The backs of Victor's fingers skim up the inside of Logan's thigh. His pulse kicks, the soft shushing noise Victor breathes rushing warm then cool over his hole, doing so much more to wind him up than settle him down. There are times Victor is anything but careful, times when they're both gone savage, ripping and tearing at one another and the one thing Logan has never forgotten is that no matter what he does, Victor will heal. Nothing Logan can do will ever really harm his brother. Hurt him, but not harm.

When it's Victor's knuckle that presses against slick, vulnerable flesh, it doesn't do a damn thing to ease the iron clutch of a fist in Logan's chest. This is the catch, then. Why Victor's been playing with him. More often than he can count he's felt the deliberate bite of claws in his belly as Victor's had him on his knees, but whenever Victor's eyes had gone dark and lustful seeing Logan finger himself open, it's never been like this. All Victor's been aiming to do is get him off guard, work him up until the only thing he can think about is finally being split open on Victor's cock, and Victor's going to bleed him instead.

Victor rests his cheek against Logan's ass, knuckle stroking slowly, over and over. He rasps a curse, says, "Tell me what you're thinking. You smell so fucking good, Jimmy, you want me to fuck you that bad?" He licks at Logan again, moans shamelessly at the reflexive twitch of muscle and kisses it, long and slow.

"That what you're waiting for?" Logan rubs his mouth dry on the back of his arm. "Want to hear me say hurry up, fuck me already?"

The mattress dips under Victor's weight. Victor strokes a hand down his arm and curls close, mouth pressing briefly to the bend of his elbow. "You sure?" Victor asks, thumb tracing idle circles on his bicep, nuzzling up under his throat like no matter how hard Victor tries, he can't get enough. "Because if you ask, you can."

Logan closes his eyes, breathes deep. Victor doesn't smell quite like Victor anymore, he smells like Logan. And Logan doesn't even fucking know what he wants right now, he's open and ready, craving being filled, fucked. He wants Victor's scent all over him again, misses it as much as his own covering Victor makes his head spin; wants it inside him so the next time they fuck it'll drive Victor as crazy as Logan is right now.

Victor says, "Better make up your mind soon," and Logan rises up on his knees, shrugs off his shirt. When Victor curls up to do the same, Logan shoves him back down, rougher than he'd meant to. A smirk crooks Victor's mouth. "Thought we were playing nice."

Logan smoothes his hands down Victor's arms, a mirror image of how Victor's been touching him all this time. The shirt's in the way, the feel of bare skin beneath his palms teasingly close, but he holds back, says, "I am." He frames Victor's face in his hands, hesitating again. This isn't what they do, feels like they never have, never would've. Victor watches, waits, fingers hooked loosely over Logan's wrist, stroking the thin, delicate skin of it.

He's thought of kissing Victor like this before, soft and slow and sweet, the same as he's kissed women, their lush bodies so welcoming beneath his. Victor is none of those things and yet, here Victor is, his lips moving easily against Logan's, his eyes never quite closing, sound like a purr rumbling low in his chest as it drags on.

After Logan nudges his mouth to Victor's one last time, he pulls back to see Victor's lips a little red, wet and slack. Victor blinks lazily, slant of his mouth chasing off the dazed look in his eyes, and says, "The side of you I never see," turning his head just a little to rub his face against Logan's palm.

Anger flares, nearly slips free in a snarl. He should be used to Victor fucking with him by now, let it run like water off a duck's back like Victor does, but it never seems to flow that way.

"Well, you're seeing it now," Logan tells him, and starts slipping open the buttons of Victor's shirt. "So shut it." It'd be so easy to just tear through Victor's clothes to get at the warm skin beneath, so tempting as Logan's patience thins to a hair. Victor doesn't help, content to lick at Logan's skin whenever he's close enough, quick flick on his arm, longer, lazier almost-kiss to his chest as he stretches up to pull Victor's undershirt off over his head.

Victor lifts his hips as Logan's fingers curl over his jeans to pull them off, and that's when it finally hits Logan. His brother's lax, pliable, letting Logan strip him down as Logan likes. Victor's flat on his back, belly exposed, and enjoying it. Logan presses his face into Victor's stomach, short curls of hair always so surprisingly soft against his lips, and leaves Victor's jeans caught around his thighs to take his mouth, smear his purring laugh to nothing.

Fresh impatience gnawing at him, Logan drags the rest of Victor's clothes off, gives himself a moment to watch the play of muscle as the easy spread of his legs invites Logan to crawl right on in between them.

"Going to return the favour?" Victor asks, his knee grazing Logan's side as he draws it up. "Open me up as nicely as I did you?"

Logan spits on his thumb, presses it right up against Victor's hole. Never the one to hold back, and as shameless now as ever, Victor looses the hungry moan Logan would've tried to swallow. "Maybe I want you tighter," he says, and counters Victor's smirk with one of his own and, "but we'll save that for next time."

Catching Victor's legs behind the knee, Logan shoves them up, dips down for one wide, messy lick from balls to asshole that has Victor losing a sharp breath. So hard to be patient at first when he knows Victor can take him, would moan just as loud for the hard shove of his cock. The quiver of Victor's legs at the push of his tongue distracts him and he licks again, as lazy as Victor had, to feel another shiver ripple through Victor's body. Victor is so tight, muscle so small and soft and giving grudging way to his tongue, that if it weren't for his brother's scent, the familiar sound of his voice, Logan would think he's with someone else and foolishly convinced himself otherwise.

An eager hunger for more twists like razorwire up Logan's spine, burrows blazing hot in his brain. Letting go of Victor's legs, slight pause before Victor catches them, he pries the cheeks of Victor's ass apart to push his tongue deep, curl and lick and fuck it inside again. The muscles of Victor's stomach bunch as Logan lifts his hips higher, rubs delicate flesh with rough whiskers, and Victor jerks, moans for it. More than enough spit slicking Victor's insides for it and Logan sinks a couple fingers in him, watches how easily they slip in to his knuckles. He flicks his tongue at the stretched bit of muscle, the pulse of pleasure at the noise Victor makes forcing a thick string of precome from Logan's dick to smear wetly on his own skin.

Victor's claws tear into the bedsheets. His mouth is slack, the rasp of his short, shallow breaths loud in Logan's ears, urging him to ignore the strain, keep going, more, harder. The low sound of Victor's growls fill the air as his hips twist, fuck nothing. Logan's seen him wanting before, worked up and strung out and starving for it, but not like this. Never like this. How the fuck had he gone so long blind to it?

Logan rubs his mouth dry on the inside of Victor's thigh, strokes rough hands up Victor's sides, presses them to the pound of his heart. His mouth opens for Logan's kiss without hesitation or the punishing scrape of teeth. Even now, reeking of the same greedy, vicious lust that puts Logan on his belly more often than not, he's pliant, shuddering into the brush of Logan's cock at his hole, opening so easily for it.

And still Victor is tight, slick heat. Logan licks the moans straight off his tongue, his own body screaming at him to take more, take it all because Victor's done more than offer. The urge banks to a smoulder as Victor arches, legs sliding up, and Logan fights to keep his strokes long and slow at the feel of Victor wrapped so tightly around him.

More than worth the effort when Victor moans for him. Victor does everything for him; quivers at the ghost of Logan's knuckles along his side, bares his throat for Logan's mouth, knows Logan wants to breathe in the blood-thick scent of his lust and turns his head to offer it, pulse fluttering against Logan's lips. Logan hits the peak of a thrust hard just for the grunt it jolts out of Victor before lapsing back to the sweet, slow fucking Victor wanted so badly.

At the touch of Victor's hand to his face, Logan turns without thinking to lick his palm, fill his mouth with the fresh taste of Victor's skin. Claws lightly scratch at his scalp, the weight of Victor's hands framing his face enough to bring his gaze up from the press of his hips keeping Victor's legs spread wide. Victor watches him the same as before and something dark and selfish and wicked twines its way through the pleasure humming warm in his blood. This is only happening because Victor's let it, somehow knew Logan would want it as much as he would never take it on his own, and he doesn't know if it's better or worse this way. Victor's willingly his and his stomach gives a lurch at the pure, animal pleasure in it.

Logan slides his hand up Victor's arm to pull it from his face and Victor's grip shifts, becomes their fingers laced together. The easy rhythm Logan's set falters but it's Logan who links their other hands together, claws pricking at the backs of his and Victor's pressed to the sheets. Still it's sweet and slow and gentle as Victor's eyes slide shut, his mouth falling slack. Finally, Victor's not watching him anymore and Logan licks the softness of his lips, the harder line of his teeth. It's so strange to fuck without the taste of blood thick between them, but good. So very good, pleasure building as natural and inevitable as sunrise, sweeping him shuddering, gasping instead of snarling over the edge and like a domino fall Victor follows, his moans as thick as warm honey, and his grip on Logan's hands goes tight, skin still unbroken by his claws.

His pulse fluttering and lungs tight, Logan rubs his face in Victor's chest, drowning in the urge to mark him though he already reeks of sex. He lets lethargy bring him down and pulls one of his hands free from Victor's to push an arm beneath him, fingers curled over his shoulder, lightly stroking.

Victor's legs loosen, slip down, the shift forcing Logan to slip almost free of his body. Logan growls softly, not a warning or a threat, and his cock is softening but Victor's still fucked loose, slippery with spit and come. The pleased noise Victor makes as Logan pushes back into him and the hand sweeping low over his back helps soothe the need Victor's stirred up in him, and eventually the judder of his nerves settles, bleeds away to nothing.

Long after the hard kick of his heart has eased, Victor says, "We should go into town. Find something else for you to read." His hand follows the slope of Logan's spine up to curve over the back of his neck, thumb brushing idly beneath his ear.

While it's not much of a town, it's still more than Logan could care for now. "Suppose you'd like to catch up on the news," he says, loathe to lose the press of Victor's body against his own but rolling away just the same. He doesn't much like the muddy waters Victor's churned up inside him, needs the time and space for them to clear, and the riot of war is no place for that. The sinking feeling in his gut says even without, this unease won't fade.

Victor's arm settles heavily across his chest, possessive and easy and as close to asking instead of making Logan stay as Victor will ever come. "Eat at the diner for once," he goes on, as if Logan hadn't spoken.

Logan risks a glance down to see the look in Victor's eyes hasn't changed. Whatever this is, it isn't over by his score. "Tired of beans already?"

"Tired of hearing you complain about my cooking them."

This mood of Victor's will never last and he'll tire of playing at something they're not, leave off these gentle touches that breed like thorns through Logan's insides. "Town then," he concedes, looking to rise.

"Stay down," Victor says, as much warning as invitation in it as when he purrs it during a fight. It means much the same. "We have time."

Lifetimes between them, and if it is foolishness for Logan to take the lazy kisses Victor's face tilts up to offer, he'll suffer the consequences.

*
End

Fic: The Obvious - Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler (1/1)

blue@ponderosa121.com — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 19:47:51 GMT

And somehow, Team Porn has yet again created a mini-series.

1. Candyass
2. Pantomime

The Obvious
CSI (S7). Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler. NC-17. ~5500 words. Gunkink. For 'barebacking' on my kink_bingo card.
Getting accidentally shot isn't high on Greg's list of things to do; getting accidentally shot in a hot, twisted sex game didn't even get an honourable mention.

*

The Obvious

Coincidentally, and pretty damn impressively considering the whirlwind that had been raging in there earlier, the only thought in Greg's head on the elevator ride up is that this is a monumentally bad idea. However, precedent is set and his feet aren't listening to him. Possibly never will again.

Secretly, he thinks they've got the right idea. He wouldn't listen to him, either.

The doors chime and part like curtains to reveal an anticlimactic, nondescript hall. Generic carpet, generic paint, generically clean. All the doors are solid brown wood with gold, sweeping numbers. It all suits, and at the same time it doesn't. Too artificial, Greg thinks, not enough layers.

He slows to a stop in front of 602. It's a corner apartment, tucked away from the others, buffered by a maintenance room and the stairwell. Somehow, that makes it fit a little better.

Now that he's here, he's not at all sure what the hell he's doing. If it were Nick, or maybe even Sarah, they'd see through the flimsy excuse for what it was and let it slide. Then again, if it were either one of them, he'd have called first and made sure they were up for the invasion before he infected them with his sleepless chatter.

And if it were either of them, it wouldn't be more than company following a rough night and maybe a drink he'd be after. Not that he's exactly sure how he's going to go about getting what he's after. After the locker room, he meant to have a plan, a backup plan, and a contingency plan for his backup plan. Somehow, master of time that he is, he failed to schedule in the planning.

Too late now, anyway...though it really, really isn't, not until his knuckles meet the door in a quick knock. Now it's too late. He fusses with the files he'd dragged from the office and stares upwards, gaze falling a second later. Unable to stay still, he pushes a hand through his hair, pets it immediately back into place, and fidgets his way through the few tense seconds it takes for the to door swing open.

Mike fills the doorway, forearm propped on the frame. His jacket's gone, the tie with it. His shirtsleeves are rolled up just below the elbow and a few smears of black stand out on the strong fingers he curls over the door.

"Greg," he says, and Greg's insides do a little samba. All his best fantasies over the last couple of days have cast Mike's low purr in a supporting role. Would've been starring except other parts of Mr. Keppler had first billing. "Are house calls another Vegas peculiarity?"

"Quirks and foibles, that's us." Shuffling his weight to the other foot, Greg holds out the files. "Here's my painfully flimsy excuse."

Mike takes the folders and moves back a fraction. More than happy to take it for an invitation, Greg steps in from the hall, and when his arm brushes Mike's chest, stupidly exciting little jolts of electricity spark along his nerves. The sound of the bolt being thrown is like the raw spit of a live wire crackling at his back.

The apartment suits Mike more than his office does. It's open space, a similar level of obsessive tidiness but not as severe. A few boxes sit in a neat stack against one wall in the living room. The furniture is the usual fare: a couple of shelves, a couch, chairs, coffee table and television, all of it looking brand new.

Seems bigger than the typical Vegas apartment, a big chunk dedicated to a kitchen fancier than you'd think a single guy would need. Or at least more than Greg would. Maybe Mike cooks.

Boy, that's a nice thought.

A small two-seater table sits in the nebulous zone between kitchen and living room. It's covered with a cloth, bright blue streaked with black, a couple of odds and ends, and a gun. Matte black service issue.

Following his gaze, Mike says, "Cleaning it."

Greg ventures in a little further and tucks his hands into his jeans pockets before he starts picking at things. Imagining Mike's place is a crime scene helps until he starts thinking about gloves. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

Mike slants that knowing smile his way. "Sure you did. But you're here now."

The folders drop into the empty chair. Mike takes the other. Normally, Greg would figure that's a pretty damn clear hint to get gone. The thing is, Mike doesn't do clear hints. That's too easy.

So this is not how Greg expected things to go. Maybe he should've. If there's one thing Mike's good at, it's throwing people off balance, and Greg feels like he's treading a tightrope in the middle of a hurricane. The nervous, anticipatory thrill is so very worth every flip-flop of his heartbeat.

And if he wants to be honest about it, he hadn't gotten much further than a fevered daydream of interrupting Mike in the middle of something juicy. Just out of the shower. Just about to get in the shower. Maybe, if his stars were aligned and all the gods loved him, smack in the middle of a porno jerkoff session.

Evidently, no one loves him, and his stars have all migrated to another universe.

But somebody throws a bone his way as Mike's big hand closes around the gun, and he picks up the cloth abandoned on the table to polish off the barrel. Struck a little dumb by the easy way Mike handles it, and completely caught up in all the dirty, dirty jokes to be made, Greg says, "Wish I could carry one," without really thinking about how it sounds.

Whip-quick, Mike says, "No, you don't."

"Well, okay," Greg backtracks, "I didn't mean- It's just, you know-" and he cuts himself off with a sheepish laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. Trying to dig himself out of this hole will probably just bury him in shit sooner.

Mike makes a quietly considering noise, which Greg takes to mean he hasn't been written off as a hopeless idiot just yet. There's something shadowed in Mike's eyes when his gaze flicks back to the gun, something Greg can't quite put his finger on, but it sets every last nerve he's got to tingling.

As usual, Greg's mouth takes off at a sprint, the words, "Can I hold it?" flying at ludicrous speed straight out of it before his brain's even put its boots on.

Fully expecting the smackdown he deserves for that one, Greg's eyes go wide when Mike says, "Sure," without missing a beat. He flips the gun over and holds it out, butt first.

Maybe a little too cautiously--in their line of work it'd be stupid not to have a healthy fear of guns even with the safety on and the damn magazine still sitting on the table--Greg curls his fingers around the grip. He sucks in a quick breath as Mike stands up, hand sliding down to cover his, and swings around behind him, all classic and cool as if he's going to show Greg right here and now how to squeeze a few off.

Greg does his best to keep a lid on it, but oh man, Mike can show him that any day of the week. And it's a fucking good thing Mike's holding his hand steady on the gun. Mike is pressed up all along his back, he can feel the curve of Mike's dick snug against his ass, and he's really not so interested in firearms anymore. At all. Not even for the awesome metaphors.

Mike nudges his finger up over the trigger. The bottom of Greg's stomach drops straight through the floor to East Asia, and he twists a little to look up at Mike, something on the tip of his tongue that definitely needs saying. It vanishes in a Roadrunner puff as Mike turns a second later, their mouths so close and the corner of Mike's pulling up in a smirk. "So, you like guns as much as you like latex?"

It is absolutely in no way Greg's fault he can't work up enough spit to even try to answer that one.

Mike pulls the gun out of Greg's slack grip, nods at the couch. "Have a seat."

Talking wasn't really the thing he'd been hoping Mike would do with his mouth after that. Still, if he weren't up for Mike's game of cat and mouse, he wouldn't be here, so he shrugs out of his jacket, lays it over the back of the chair closest to the door.

Mike's hand presses into the small of his back. A quiet metallic click sends his heart knocking against his ribs. He looks around again to find the gun pointed at the floor, Mike's thumb on the safety. That tight, clever smile curves his mouth.

"Sit."

"Yessir," Greg says, and tosses off a shaky salute. He drops onto the couch, elbow slung over the top and his back propped against the arm. Those butterflies in his belly are working overtime. It feels like they've partnered up for the ballroom number.

"Want a drink?" Mike asks, and gives the gun a casual toss onto the cushion beside him.

Greg nearly jumps clear out of his own skin as it skids to a stop against his thigh. It sits there, completely innocuous, glinting dully in the overhead light.

Holy shit.

The rattle of glass as Mike opens the up the fridge manages to grab Greg's attention. A drink might be good. Maybe a beer. Or two. Chaser of vodka. No ice.

"Just some water," he says.

They shouldn't be playing at things like this. He knows better. Hell, Mike knows better, but the more Greg's around him, the more Greg gets to thinking as careful as he is, he's just the kind of guy to do all the things people say you shouldn't.

Instead of the water he'd asked for, Mike rounds the corner with a tumbler full of red dangling from his fingertips. He offers it with a slanted smile.

"Wine in a whiskey glass? Minus classy points," Greg says, and takes a quick sip. Cranberry juice and soda water. No liquid courage for him. Mike is so fucking with him and he's a sick, sick boy because he likes it.

Mike has this tendency to loom. Makes some people skittish. Greg's feeling a little skittish himself right now, that gun still on the cushion and shadows cut sharp across Mike's face. Mostly though, all he's really thinking about is how Mike's shirt is open down to the third button and how he'd really like to get at some skin this time around.

If this is a time around. He really, really hopes it is.

Mike props a hand on the couch near Greg's shoulder, leans in with predatory ease. Greg nearly fumbles the glass he's so eager to trade it for the taste of Mike's mouth instead. A big hand skids down his chest, curves right over the front of his pants, thumb hooked in the waistband dragging it down. Just shy of a kiss, Mike pauses, says, "I assume that offer is still open."

"Is it fucking ever." Groping in the vague direction of the coffee table, Greg tries to set the glass down without dropping it all over the hardwood. It bangs against the edge, some flopping out over the rim onto his hand. About half a second later Greg has both hands on Mike's face, pulling him back in for the kiss he's been dying to take since he walked out of Mike's office.

And Mike lets him just take it, mouth open, hand squeezing at him through his jeans, head tilting at the greedy push of Greg's thumbs over his chin. Unlike before, there's the slight scratch of stubble and it makes Greg's pulse beat faster. Mike's mouth is warm and soft and tastes a bit like cranberries.

There's a quick tug on his zip and Greg arches into it, cushions crushed beneath his weight. Going straight for the good stuff is so his style, no wonder he likes Mike so much.

The chill press of the gun's muzzle beneath the hinge of Greg's jaw stops his heart cold.

"Shit," he hisses, straight into Mike's mouth. "Shit, shit." He inches back, nowhere to go at first, heel slipping off the couch as he tries to get his legs under him. Then it's up, pressed to the back of the couch and still nowhere to go, Mike's too fucking tall. His fingers claw at the upholstery as his pulse kicks in again, bolting rabbit fast.

Mike eases back, arm straight, gun straight, barrel pointed right at his heart. Fear chases icily after the lust burning hot through his blood. He gulps down a shuddering breath and looks up, isn't sure what he expects to find but knows it sure as hell isn't the hunger stark in Mike's eyes, or the tight furrow of his brow that says he knows it shouldn't be there.

"It's not loaded, right?" Getting accidentally shot isn't high on Greg's list of things to do; getting accidentally shot in a hot, twisted sex game didn't even get an honourable mention. "Tell me it's not loaded."

"Safety's off," Mike says, and Greg heart gives another rib-crushing kick. A second later the gun slides away to point at the floor. "But it's not loaded."

Relief floods in but doesn't sweep away the nervous jitters. Or the ache in his dick. He really is sick in the head.

Before he gives himself a chance to think it through, Greg grabs at Mike's wrist. If thinking were high in his priorities tonight, he wouldn't be sprawled on Mike Keppler's couch with his dick half out of his jeans.

"I didn't say no," he says, trying to eke a bit of that dazed slur out of his voice in favour of some solid confidence. Casual, like it's no big deal he's about five seconds away from begging for that gun back in his face. "Or stop."

Mike's thumb slides over the grip. He steps back, gestures at the floor. "Stand up."

Shakily, Greg climbs to his feet. That safe sort of fear you get watching scary movies curled up on your couch at night twists tight through his gut. No bullets, no worries.

But that doesn't stop his breath from catching as the gun's sight scrapes over his cheek.

"What does this say about you," Mike says, moving in close, free hand coming up to cup the base of Greg's skull. His mouth follows the path of the gun until it dips down over Greg's throat and he veers off to drag in a slow breath near Greg's ear. "That you get hard playing with guns?"

"Don't know." Tentatively, Greg puts his hands to Mike's waist. Holding on, sure, because his knees feel rubbery as overcooked noodles. Maybe a little more catering to the bad guy vibe Mike's got going on here. It suits him way too well. "What's it say about you?"

Mike's fist closes in the front of his shirt. "I'm not as nice a guy as you think I am."

The grin Greg had ready in reply to that one falls straight off his face as Mike yanks him off balance, twists and sends him careening back into the wall by the couch. It doesn't hurt but it knocks the breath out of him, shock more than anything. No chance to catch it either before the gun shoved up under his chin forces his head back, throat taut.

People have rules for this sort of thing. Well, smart people do. Greg is so far past smart right now he's not even on the same planet. He's not about to stop Mike and talk red light green light over a little bit of shoving around.

Mike's the one who goes for the kiss first this time around. The two, possibly three functioning brain cells left in Greg's head just up and call it quits as Mike's lips nudge at his slack mouth. Not even a real kiss and Greg hears himself moaning for it, fingers hooking into Mike's belt to try to drag him closer.

The warm brush of Mike's tongue vanishes, replaced by cold, hard metal laid sideways across his mouth. He sucks in a quick, trembling breath.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" Mike asks.

Greg squeezes his eyes shut. Seriously, if he'd had the first clue Mike would get like this, he would've trotted straight into the guy's office with an arsenal on a sliver platter days ago. Sure, Mike had that unconventional streak, with the reverse forensics and oh yeah, kinky sex games in the labs, but this is off the charts. It's crazy. Full on insane.

It's fucking awesome.

Head spinning with all the possibilities of what trick is going to slip out of Mike's sleeve next, Greg says, "Yes." His lips drag against the gun's barrel and his tongue flicks out over them automatically, sharp taste of metal exploding in his mouth.

The gun slides away and then Mike's kissing him for real. Tongue shoved in his mouth, hard and a little messy because it takes him a second to get with the program. It's just that Mike doesn't seem the kissing type. Perfunctory pecks, nothing lewd in public, no full steam ahead macking on a guy.

As soon as he goes to kiss back, Mike lays the gun flush to his face. "I didn't say you could kiss me."

Greg mumbles, "Okay," because like hell he's going to argue at this point, and Mike's mouth back on his smears it to nothing. It's a little weird, like he's flaking out on his half of the fun, and at the same time stupidly amazing as Mike eases in closer, long line of their bodies pressed tightly together, and just keeps on kissing him.

The edges of Mike's teeth scrape over his lip. A hard bite has him jerking back on reflex, head knocking against the wall. He hisses out a muffled curse as Mike follows, catches him by the jaw and holds him there. The soft pass of Mike's tongue soothes the tiny hurt.

Greg is more than ready to call uncle except then Mike might stop.

With one last little tug on his lip, Mike stops.

Slumping against the wall, Greg uses the break to catch his breath. And while he likes breathing fine enough, tries to make a daily habit of it, he'd really rather Mike keep kissing him. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because I want you to turn around." The gun thumping back onto the couch distracts Greg momentarily from the hand Mike runs down his side. "Arms up on the wall."

"Arms up, huh?" Still game, Greg turns and does as he's told. Generally, he's pretty good at following orders, except when there are some pretty glaring errors. Such as Mike curling big fingers over the sharp cut of his hips, casually pulling jeans and underwear both down to his knees, and then walking away.

"Stay put," Mike says, pre-empting his protest. "I'm not planning on leaving you there."

"Good to know. Because for a second, I might've thought this was the beginning of the kinky voyeur part of the play."

A warm, quiet chuckle, dark and rich around the edges like pure chocolate, comes floating in from the bedroom. It chases a shiver up Greg's spine. Supplies, of course. They'd need something if Mike's planning on fucking him.

Holy shit. Oh holy shit. Mike's planning on fucking him.

He swallows a moan, knocks his forehead gently against the wall. He sure as hell hopes Mike's planning on fucking him, because if not, he's just going to have to convince him what an incredibly brilliant idea it is.

A handful of seconds later, Mike's back, saying, "It was a little." Fingertips trail up the outside of Greg's thigh, cut in under the curve of his ass. A few slip between, spread the cheeks just a little to graze dry over his hole. Mouthing at the back of his bowed neck, Mike says, "Wanted to do this the first time."

Completely on board with the plan, Greg helpfully shakes his jeans the rest of the way down and skids his feet as far apart as they'll go. The hem of his tee catches on his cock, bitch of a tease for what he really wants, and hides Mike's hand mostly from view as strong fingers wrap firmly around it and jack him once, nice and slow.

What it doesn't hide is the catch and drag of latex. Puffing out a quick breath, Greg says, "Knew I wasn't the only one."

"Definitely not the only one." Demonstrating once again that they really need to have a talk about timing, Mike pulls his hand away. There's a snap-click, loud enough in Mike's big apartment to have Greg's muscles jumping, and then those fingers are back, lube-slick latex sliding right over his hole, nothing so much as a pause or a warning or a may-I-please before one's pushing up into him, thick and blunt, fucking perfect.

It slides free and Greg rides up on his toes as another replaces it immediately. Back and forth, and Mike makes that same soft noise of approval as he rocks into the easy push. Mike's other hand twists up the back of his shirt in a fist and presses between his shoulder blades. When Mike pushes harder, forcing him flush against the wall, he slides his arms up out of the way.

Giving dry lips a quick lick, he says, "I can take more," and just like that it's both fingers sinking in slowly to the knuckle, like that's all Mike wanted to hear. He lets out a ragged moan and tries to inch a little further back, give Mike some more space to work with.

The seams of Greg's shirt cut in at the arms and Mike's knuckles grate against his spine. "Don't move. I like you like this."

And okay, fuck, nobody's going to argue with that. Least of all him.

"I hope you're going to fuck me." Greg rubs his mouth dry on his shoulder. If this keeps up much longer he's going to say screw it and jerk off all over Mike's wall. Mike probably wouldn't appreciate it. God, he can just imagine how Mike would demonstrate how much he didn't appreciate it. "I really, really hope you're going to fuck me. Soon gets my very emphatic vote. I'm on the election team."

Mike's hand skids away, backs of his knuckles dragging wetly over Greg's ass. "You're as patient as you are subtle."

"Really soon."

Determined to drive him absolutely stark raving mad, Mike pushes between his legs, rubs the back of his sac slick. As soon as he can remember what words are, and how to string them together in a meaningfully firm sentence, Greg's going to have something to say about this teasing business. Mike was the one who vetoed teasing last time, the hypocrite, and then turned around and teased him stupid over a little kiss.

Seems like forever before Mike's fingers push between the cheeks of his ass again, little bit of pressure to make sure he's spread wide and ready. This time when he shuffles out from the wall, Mike lets him.

When Mike's cock touches him, it's just hot skin on skin. He sucks a hissing breath in through his teeth.

Mike lays an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck. "Tell me yes."

For a minute, he doesn't have a clue what the hell Mike's talking about. Then it's holy shit, shit, shit careening at breakneck speed through his head. Bareback. Mike wants to do him bareback.

Cock riding slick in the cleft of his ass, mostly too late and still waiting for that answer, Mike nudges at his jaw.

Greg swallows hard and twists to close the distance between their mouths. It's not quite yes but it sure as hell isn't no, and fuck, fuck, they both know better. Blowjob on a whim, playing with guns, bareback fuck. He trusts Mike enough to believe he wouldn't ask if he weren't safe, but Greg's never had unprotected sex in his life and Mike's naked dick is right there.

Then Mike's fingers are skidding away, palms pressed hard into the cheeks of his ass keeping them spread, and the blunt, wet head of Mike's cock is at his hole. Pressing in, little by little, a slow, smouldering burn that razes every last nerve ending he's got.

Resting his forehead against the fist he has braced on the wall, Greg lets his mouth go slack, gulps down air. A guy needs more than a second to get used to the sweet slow drag of nothing in the way. A rough groan steamrolls the plea for a minute, he really just needs a minute, straight into the ground. It's already too much, hot air shunted back in his face, hot line of Mike at his back, hot push of Mike's dick into him, opening him up sure and steady and driving every last thought kicking and screaming out of his head.

The snug press of Mike's balls right up against his ass sends a full-body shiver rippling through him. Mike's hands are tight on his hips, holding him up as much as holding him in place. His tee slips down between them and Mike makes one of those displeased noises like when something doesn't go exactly right in the lab. He has just enough time to get his arms up a couple seconds later as Mike yanks it off over his head.

The first lazy roll of Mike's hips squeezes a low moan out thought the hard press of his teeth into his lip. Hands skim up over his back, his shoulders. One settles there and the other drops to splay possessively wide on his chest. The light scratch of barely-there stubble on the curve of his arm sends ticklish pleasure spiralling down low.

With another one of those languid thrusts and a lingering kiss to his shoulder, Mike asks, "Want to get on your knees?"

Greg breathes out a harsh noise. When Mike's chest presses to his back again, the thin layer of his dress shirt is still between them, barely unbuttoned. The open fly of Mike's slacks grazes the tops of his thighs. He's naked, pinned to the wall, and everything feels like more this way. Feels dirtier, grittier. Makes it hard to talk. "Said you liked it like this."

There's a quick, stinging bite to the peak of his spine, then Mike says, "Said I liked you like this."

Greg pulls in another too-hot breath. "So fuck me like this."

The slow, easy rhythm Mike's set falters, hardens. Fingers curve against Greg's chest, blunt nails digging in just a little. His mouth opens against Greg's shoulder in the brief idea of a kiss before he pulls away, and the hand he has curled over it tightens to the point of bruising.

Mike drags him away from the wall shuffling step by step until his arms are stretched long, elbows locked to brace himself. It feels like Mike's fingers slot in exactly the same place on his hips as before, not digging in yet but close, getting closer. Next time they fuck--god, he hopes there's a next time and this isn't the last hurrah before one of them comes to their senses--he'll have a bright new set of bruises to show off. He's got the feeling that's just the sort of thing that'll drive Mike straight out of his mind for a change.

A rough, grinding thrust almost knocks Greg's legs out from under him, and Mike holds on tighter, fucks harder. Something like an apology crackles like static in his ears and he moans it away, shoves back for more. There are worse ways to end up concussed than being fucked into a wall.

Mike shudders, makes this low, ragged sound barely caught deep in his throat. All the warning he's got to give before he starts to pull out, and he can't, not yet.

Greg's hand skids down off the wall, clamps over the one Mike still has on his side. He doesn't even bother to try holding back the racket he's making as Mike shudders, fucks back in as deep as he can take it. Maybe he should have his head checked for doing shit like this but if they're going bareback, they're going to go it all the way.

"Fuck," Mike breathes, and grinds like he wants to get a little deeper, his grip loosening just enough for blood to come rushing back and start forming those bruises Greg can already feel.

Greg has all of ten seconds to feel smug about how Mike's hand is a little shaky reaching for his cock before his mind blanks on the sloppy push of Mike's dick still inside him. He smacks the flat of his fist against the wall and tries to hold out just to hear Mike's short, sharp grunts when his body clamps down. Barely half a minute in he loses it, heat coiling tight, tighter, all the air punched out of his lungs when he comes and he's still shuddering his way through it as Mike's cock slips free.

He's a boneless sack of good for nothing when Mike hauls him up and he lets himself slump lax and lazy against Mike's solid chest. Mike's slippery hand drags over the cut of his thigh, smearing his skin filthy with his own come, and he thinks about maybe working up a twitch of indignity.

He forgets all about it when Mike nuzzles at the sweat-damp slope of his throat.

"Hope you don't mind me borrowing your shower," he says, and hardly recognises the croak of his own voice. Completely wrecked, it sounds worse than a highway pileup.

"I thought you might." Mike's palm sweeps up over Greg's belly, stuttering dry. Dips back down and up again, a slow, lazy caress that isn't helping him get his brain back online at all. "No hurry," he says, echo of before.

"You're not the one-" Greg swallows the hitch in his voice. "You know."

Mike makes that agreeably pleased noise of his.

A hand comes up dangerously close to Greg's face and he shies back on instinct, runs into the solid wall of Mike and puffs out a sigh. "So I might be the one who needs a shower, but you're pretty filthy."

"Is that a no?" Mike's fingers hover close to his mouth. The glove's long gone.

Ignoring the jitter of his insides, Greg licks at the pads of Mike's fingers. It's not that he's got something against the taste of his own come. It's just, sucking on Mike's fingers like that, his mouth opening to take them a little deeper at the slightest push, it isn't at all what he's used to. Of course, he's not really used to fucking his co-workers or letting somebody do him without a rubber and hey, Mike's not too concerned about those pesky facts of life either.

"You know, you could stay awhile," Mike says. Snake-quick, his fingers pin Greg's tongue down before Greg can so much as burble. "No strings. Think about it."

Mike's hold on him doesn't so much as fall away as it loosens enough for him to step free. Feeling ridiculous with his jeans still tangled around his ankles, he kicks it all off, sneakers included, fully intent on leaving them in a heap in the middle of Mike's tidy living room.

"That's a pretty fancy kitchen you have there," Greg says. His fingers itch to trace the shadowed lines of muscle hinted at beneath Mike's open shirt. He didn't manage to get the guy naked this time around either, so that one stays on the to do list. Just to see if he can get away with it, he slides a hand up under the hem, tries not to stare too hard at the slowly softening curve of Mike's dick.

But wait a second. Screw that. Greg hitches the hem up with his wrist, answers the crook of Mike's eyebrows with a smile. If Mike can fuck him with it, then he can stare at it. Period.

He was smack in the middle of insinuating something but damn if he can remember it now.

Fortunately, Mike's a smart guy and obviously doesn't suffer Greg's post-coital cognitive failure. "Takeout is as much as you'll get out of me after that."

That gets a curl of pride blossoming warm in his gut. "Done deal," Greg says, and hopes he doesn't fall flat on his face on his way to the bathroom. As healthy as his ego is, that would still take a sizeable chunk out of it. And he knows Mike's watching.

Just over threshold over Mike's neat and tidy bathroom, Greg pauses, backtracks just around the corner. Mike is watching. Greg grins.

"Kung Pao chicken?" Mike says, and Greg can't hide a flash of surprise. "I believe I remember you extolling its virtues at great length."

Once, for probably two, three minutes tops, and Mike hadn't even been involved in the conversation. "Uh, yeah," Greg says. "Thanks."

Mike says, "My pleasure," and with his gaze gone south, for once Greg isn't left wondering.

*
End

My life is a sitcom.

blue@ponderosa121.com — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 18:57:25 GMT

My horny neighbour, my loud horny neighbour, transferred in to Roomie's office.

HE WORKS WITH HER. HE OFFERED TO CARPOOL.

WHAT.