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Title: After-School Snack Author: Glossing Pairing: DB/JM Rating: NC-17 James swabs the cotton ball, soaked in witch hazel, over his face. "Fucking white-ass shit. Swear it's going to kill me." The make-up comes off in streaks, revealing the tan he won't lose, the tan that gets his pay docked each and every week. "Little sympathy? Madame Pompadour over here with lead paint." David straightens up from the VCR he's been fiddling with -- no hope of fixing it without his good tools from home -- and crosses the trailer in a single pace. "Who? With the what?" "You're really not very bright, are you?" David cocks his head, grinning slowly at the mirror. He pats down his hair and nods at the result. "Know a thing or two." "Mm. I bet," James says as he tosses the cotton ball at the trash. Misses by several inches. David smirks. "I can make the basket, for one. Christ." James covers his face with a towel and scrubs hard. When he emerges, he is tan again and his newly bleached hair sticks up like a kid just out of the bath. "That's nice. God knows we need more muscle-bound jocks on the planet." David cuffs him hard on the shoulder. "Fuck off." "Just saying," James says, rubbing what's going to be a bruise, and on his mic arm, too. "That's a life skill. Bet Coach'd be real proud of his golden boy." David leans against the rickety counter, arms loosely crossed. The counter creaks ominously under his weight. "Still feeling a little high school bitterness, 'Fro Boy?" "Oh, yeah. How'd you know?" James slumps back in the chair, drumming his fingers on jean-clad knees, pointedly *not* looking anywhere near David. He's starting to regret having ever suggested these little trailer visits. Not like Stanislavski ever had to hang with overgrown homecoming heroes in the name of art. Not like David doesn't think Stanislavski plays wing for the Devils, either. "Know your type." David tries not to smile, seeing James squint as his jaw grinds. He's seen that look in people's eyes his entire life. Always thought it was just what people *did*, never connected it to himself, to always getting picked first for every team, making bantam Flyers at eleven, breaking every school record year in and year out, not until his mom explained something about pride and envy and humility. "Ate my type for breakfast, didn't you? Right after the Wheaties?" "After-school snack, actually." David stretches, knowing the shirt's riding up, knowing James is looking, not caring. James rolls his eyes heavenward. "My mistake. Jocks *were* after school. Cheerleaders were the homeroom evil." David nods, hoisting himself up onto the counter. The creaking gets shriller. He looks over his shoulder, like he's surprised by its rudeness in protesting. "Should get somebody to fix that." "Wouldn't have to if someone didn't insist on planting his fat ass on it every chance he got." "How'd we get from muscle-bound to fat ass?" David tugs his shirt up to his armpits. "Not fat, man. *Toned*." He thumps his abdomen for emphasis and grins. "Yeah." James sighs. "Point taken." He's looking through half-closed eyes, dark lashes blurring out the blue. "You can put it away now." David looks down at his chest and massages his stomach. "Why? Jealous?" "Fuck, what's next? You want a dick-measuring contest?" James tightens his hands into fists. The fucking tremble in his voice is pure high-school artfag all over again. David shrugs. "Sure." He skins the shirt off over his head, tossing it expertly past James towards the couch. "I mean, if you insist--" His hand hovers over his fly. James leans forward, hand outstretched. "Don't even--" He meant just to bat David's hand away, so how he's here, fingers brushing unexpected hard heat, then hooking around David's fingers and pulling him off the counter, he's not really sure. David follows obediently, though, grinning down at their hands. Grinning back up as he shifts forward, bringing their hands back to his crotch. "No?" he asks, more hoarsely than seems entirely *right*. "Sure about that, Jamie?" The nickname comes and goes; stays a while if David's drunk, otherwise flits away as soon as it leaves his mouth. The wife's name, but he says it so differently -- usually, anyway -- that it's barely the same set of syllables. James shakes his head. His hand's going numb and tingly all at once, plastered over David's fly. As his thumb finally finds the zipper and he jerks it down with his nail, David sighs, bending forward, bringing his mouth right to James's ear. He catches the lobe in his teeth, suckling harder and harder as James's hand worms its way in. Knuckles brush over his cock and he groans, swiping his tongue down James's neck. There had been a line; David knows that, it was about high school and the usual bullshit, flickered glances that stop at his body, conversations that never get held because he's always going to be a jock and you can't expect too much from him. There was a line, only it's fading fast now, drowned out by the taste of Jamie's skin, the sound of little whispers, nearly whimpers, he probably doesn't even know he's making, swept away in the twists and strokes he's giving David's dick. He'd be just fine if they never find that line again. David cups Jamie's ass with one hand, spreading the cheeks, squeezing in counterpoint to the strokes going up and down his cock. Skinny boys always have the best hands. His mouth moves upward, tasting astringent, sweat, and settles on James's temple. This close, he can see the crow's feet, fanning out from the eye, and he kisses there, lightly, working his tongue over the skin. "How do you want to do this?" Startled, David drops his hand off James's ass and pulls back. Not too far, and the slide of wet palm down the underside of his cock makes him push forward again. "What?" "You, dumbass. Me. How do you want to do this?" James looks up at him fixedly, turning his palm this way and that, licking his lower lip godawfully slowly. David's eyes are wide, still startled, but the surprise is sinking away, clouding with lust as he watches James's tongue. "Oh, yeah. Like--" David palms James's cheek, thumb sliding roughly down his nose and across his lips, as he pulls him closer, hips working against James's waist and trapped hand. There's laughter in Jamie's eyes. Never seen that, not this deep and dright, and if all it takes to get that kind of light and life from the guy is whipping your dick out and driving your thumb into his mouth, so be it. Jamie sucks hard enough to hollow out his cheeks; David's fingers have to curl to keep from slipping. His eyes close as his other hand finds Jamie's ass again, gripping and bunching the denim, holding on tight. Jamie is rubbing against him, hand firm around the base of his cock, letting David thrust as he bites the thumb in his mouth and groans, grinding back. His mouth is hot and tight around David's thumb. The thumb pops out and David leans in before James can close his mouth, tongue leading the way, hand skimming down his chest, fumbling blindly at James's fly. Thank god for the hand on his ass; James is dizzy and determined *not* to think beyond reminding himself again and again that he's older, this is different, he's fucking *older*. David's tongue is hot and agile against his teeth. He tastes like milk and bananas and other healthy dad-type things, and somehow that's hotter than anything else. His hand scrabbling across denim and metal, David knows he can do this, he can unzip his own fly blind, drunk off his ass *and* one-handed, but everything's backwards this way, and the solid promise of Jamie's cock just below his fingers isn't helping things any. James realizes that his question's gone unanswered -- it rises slowly through his fogging brain until it occurs to him to step back, right against David's strong grip -- and helps him out. David's brows knit in frustration, then lift as James gets the fly open. The shudders roll up James's chest unexpectedly. He should be cool with this by now. Not *this*, but in general, he shouldn't shake like a leaf when the big soft palm wraps around his dick, thumb brushing way too gently over the head. He thrusts forward, eyes closed, finding David's mouth again, and feels the counter hit his back. David whimpers at yet another interruption to the kiss, like a puppy losing his bone; big brown eyes open, ready to plead, then blink rapidly, watching as James hoists himself onto the counter and kicks his feet free of the jeans. "What?" James asks, reaching for the nearest bottle, remembering to check -- yes, moisturizer -- and tossing it at David's chest. He jacks himself a couple times, lingering on the downstroke, and smiles. "You've seen one of these before, right?" David swallows, catching the bottle one handed. "Shut up, okay?" James winces; David's voice is hoarse again, like he's fighting something back. "Okay." James knows he should apologize. Can't seem to, hopes that an outstreched hand, stroking the slanting muscle of hip and pelvis will do. "C'mere." Pants still around his ankles -- he really should take care of that -- David shuffles forward, concentrating on the bottle in his hand and the buzzing sensation he's getting from James's hand on his hip. He's good at blanking out when he needs to, focusing on something small, letting the rest slip away. Comes in handy. And now he's here, Jamie's wrapping a leg around his hip, and if he can hold out long enough, he'll make it through this. James can see the worry hovering, feel it somehow in the way David's skin tightens nearly imperceptibly under his hand, and he leans in, tightening his leg and lifting the bottle out of David's hand. "Chill, okay?" David nods. The worry's there, palpable and obvious in eyes still and almost watery and lips tightly pressed together, and sympathy surges through James even as the need and want ratchet up too. "Nothing to freak out over," he says, lying through his teeth, flipping open the cap and splurting lotion over his hand. He watches David swallow again, kisses his adam's apple as it drops, sucks lightly on the side of his neck until David exhales. This he can do; this he *wants* to do. Starts stroking him again, slow and easy, murmuring something that sounds calming. And sooner than he could have dreamed, David's arm is wrapping tightly around him as he kisses back, as sloppily, eagerly as if this is the first time. Their hands meet on his cock, twitching and slick with precum and lotion, and James leans back until his head hits the mirror and David's touching his chest, brow creased, breathing through his mouth. James really is trying not to rush this, but every hesitant flicker of touch is making his back want to arch higher, his legs spread farther, until finally an exasperated groan gets out and he pulls one leg folded up to his chest, urging David forward with the other. David nods. He's not stupid, it's just -- his fingers are doing their own thing, and every new patch of skin is like sizzling or something, right to the base of his spine and up his dick and he can't stop. Wants to kiss again, wants to fold and wrap himself around Jamie, get so close that words won't come out and it'll just feel *good*. His palm is skidding over nipples, back and forth, rolling them til they fit right in the center of his palm and he's looking down, trying to remember to breathe, watching thin thighs, just muscle wrapped around bone, nothing extra on Jamie, watching them spread. Focusing on the patch of dark hair that makes him want to laugh, crack something about bottle blonds, except his *cock* is there and David twists Jamie's nipple hard, yanks it, watching him jerk himself a couple times and then he is sliding back, tilting up, touching his *ass* and someone's panting and it's probably David. But he's here and not here. Can't be sure. He wants to help, knows he should, can't not help, so he slicks his fingers on his dick and touches Jamie's thumb with his own. Sharp blue eyes stare at him, surprised, so he leans in, kisses the half-open mouth hard as he kneads his thumb knuckle against his hole, working it until Jamie's hips jerk up and his thumb pops in. Jamie's squirting more lotion all over his hand, rolling his head back and forth so fast it's hard to keep kissing, and David's chasing him with his tongue as he slobbers lotion around, hoping this is right, screwing in his index finger until Jamie goes still, leg and arm tight around him. He kisses David back with full open mouth, muttering, rasping his tongue over and around David's. His hand's cramping, trying to get another finger in with his thumb still in there, and his dick is throbbing harder than it has since he was fourteen. Jamie pulls back, whimpering, eyes gone cloudy. "Okay," he says. Thrusts up once, gets his hand around David's cock. "Now's--" James drops his head back, gone somehow slack and tense all at once, all tendons gone as David's fingers burn their way out and sooner than seems possible, the head of his cock is *there*, nudging against his hole, and he can hear breaths whistling and groaning around them, the moist whisper of David's mouth on his shoulder, and he listens. Ignores the heat and protest, exhales like a yogi or birthing mother, willing it inside as David's tongue slides up his neck, snakes into his ear. Thunder of breath, words too close and loud to make out. "Want this--" he's saying and James nods, his mouth too dry, throat too tight, and *fuck* David's pushing in so slowly it hurts. He thrusts up again and again and gradually, it seems, David's catching on, pushing in faster, whispering the whole time. "Need this, want you--" David's eyes are *huge*, Christmas morning and Easter baskets and birthdays all at once, shining when James opens his eyes, fire scraping up his ass into his spine, and his mouth drops open, takes in David's tongue as David starts fucking him. It's supposed to be tight and hot, David knows this, and wishes there were other words for what it feels like. Slick and strong, definitely, like Jamie doesn't want his dick to move at all, even when he whines, even when he asks for it faster, he's gripping and pushing back and his cock is burning, fucking on *fire*, barely moving. He's got Jamie shoved up against the mirror, rattling it on every thrust, trying like hell to pull out and slam back in. Just -- he can't, too hot, too tight, clenching him in place so his hips are moving, Jamie's hips are snapping up and sideways, and he's fucking as hard as he can and it's still not enough. James's head rolls, empty and useless, against the mirror. David's pounding into him desperately, pleading and asking things James can't make out, holding onto his hip like a drowning man, and all of it -- sound and sensation and fire -- is doubling and splitting and doubling again until it's like he's getting fucked from his ass all up his spine right to his throat, his tonsils scraped dry by moans. He's squeezing back, riding David's cock, feeling splinters in his ass, hearing bottle after bottle topple off the counter, his cock scraping up and down David's stomach. He's bent nearly double, can barely breathe, and David's cock is swelling more, going deeper until James is shouting, until a hand clamps over his mouth and he bites down, shaking and jerking, hips going in every direction as he comes, shooting messy and random, cock still hard, riding his own cum. Jamie's got his teeth in the side of David's hand, and he concentrates on that, watches pain flower red and hot in his mind, as he pushes harder, not thrusting any more, just desperate to get as deep in there as fast as he can. He feels Jamie come, feels rings of muscle contract and hold his dick, feels them scrape past as his hips keep driving forward, concentrating so fucking hard that when the familiar sizzle starts in his balls and the pit of his stomach he barely knows what's happening until his dick is pulsing and pressing deeper. He's shooting before he knows it. His back straightens and stiffens as his ass clenches and he feels his cum all over his cock, deep inside Jamie. He goes slack then, burying his head in the curve of Jamie's shoulder, hugging him, feeling Jamie try to wriggle. He eases his softening cock out with his other hand before wrapping that arm around Jamie's waist, so he's lying there, bent over awkwardly, half-on, half-off Jamie, breathing hard. James gets one elbow under him and unhooks his leg from David's waist. Everything is slow and heavy, waterlogged and hazy, and even the cum on his stomach feels thicker and heavier than it should. He has to blink more, still can't see clearly, as he struggles to sit up. David's hand cups his cheek. Despite his weight, he seemed miles away until that touch, and James blinks again, the buzz still going hot and fast through his muscles. "You okay up there?" David nods, eyes hooded and dark, as he brushes his thumb over James's upper lip. James pushes up, bracing most of his weight on his hand. "You sure?" "Yeah, I'm good," David says. He looks down, takes in the sticky, spattered mess between them. Smiles to himself and looks back at James through his eyelashes. "You want like a towel or something?" "Towel'd be good, yeah." "Have to let you go," David says. Apologetically, James thinks, tries to make that make sense in his muzzy mind. Files it at the bottom of the pile, well behind larger puzzles about getting himself fucked to jelly by the quarterback. "The arm, I mean. To reach the towel--" James tries to smile, hopes his face cooperates. "Got it," he says raspily. "Go. Get towel. Return. Think you can handle that, Conan?" "Try to," David says. He feels fucking *bouncy*, just all buoyant and loved and strong. Swiping the towel over Jamie's chest, he grins and bounces on his heels. "You know, I bet Stella Adler fucked her costars *all* the time." Jamie's face tightens and his eyebrows fly up. "Hell you know about Adler?" David shrugs. "Know stuff." James clenches the towel and tosses it; he makes the target this time. It hits David square in the chest. -End  (Read Sequel)