Fic: The Corner of 6th and How To Forget
Dec. 5th, 2010 10:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asimplechordThe Corner of 6th and How To Forget
Walt/Brad || 2637 words || adult
Complete fiction, meant to imply absolutely nothing about any real people whose names or faces served as inspiration.
Nothing but irredeemable porn here. Part of a college AU that is largely unwritten as yet, but should stand alone since there's no real plot to speak of. This ficlet started life as a drabble for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pjvilar and schlicky, and grew from there. Inspired by this photo and this NSFW one. Entirely unbeta'd, so hit me up with errors as you see them. Title and cut text from Old 97's Designs on you.
*
It's spring break. It's fucking spring break, and Brad's single, and he is going to go surfing, get drunk, and get laid. Not necessarily in that order.
He's not sure who scheduled Johns Hopkins to participate in the tournament at the University of Miami, but he'd like to thank them. Profusely. Especially when he manages to extend his stay for a few days after the tourney.
The waves are decent, but nothing he can't handle. The main reason he comes back to the same beach a second day is the hot lifeguard. Well, lifeguards, but the girl isn't what he's looking for right now. The guy? He's blond and tan, with a smile for everyone who comes up to flirt, business-like but kind in his refusals, and exactly Brad's type. If he had one. He didn't think he did - it was always just Ryan - but hey, he guesses he's got all the time in the world to figure this out now.
Brad figures he might get shot down, but that's not enough reason not to try. When he gathers his shit to leave and returns the board to the rental shop, he stops by the stand.
"Hey, you know a good place to get a beer around here?"
The blond lets his sunglasses slip down his nose a little, looks Brad up and down. "You looking for a drink or something else?"
Brad lets his smile widen. "I'm open to a local's input."
Walt - that's his name, Brad learns - gives him directions to a dive bar a few blocks from his hotel. Cheeseburger In Paradise is blaring from the sound system when he arrives, and Brad considers turning right back around and leaving, but then he considers Walt's dimples and ass, and he stays. He can deal with some Buffett for that trade-off. Brad tells himself he's not disappointed that Walt's not already there, but the fifteen minutes that he waits, nursing a pint of Smithwick's, seem to be far longer. When Walt finally arrives, sand and sunscreen scrubbed away, a loose t-shirt and khaki shorts on, Brad admits he's maybe a little more invested in this than he thought.
They grab a table and more beer. The first pitcher empties quickly, and the first shot of tequila goes down smoother than Brad expects. Still, he feels sort of awkward. Not that Walt's doing or saying anything to discourage him, but it's just. Weird. With Ryan, it was pretty much figuring everything out together, and then when they were old enough that fake IDs weren't laughable, they went to bars but there was never any doubt about who was going home with whom; since then, Brad's had no problems picking up girls at lacrosse parties or campus bars, but that's easy: buy a drink, flirt a little, and he's in. He's not sure what to do or say to get to that point with Walt.
He fetches another round of shots, and he makes no effort not to be obvious as he watches Walt lick the salt and slam the tequila. Walt flips the shot glass over and sets it down, and Brad's sort of distracted by the way Walt's tongue swipes at a drop of liquid in the corner of his lips when Walt finally says, "If you want to have another beer, we can sit here and talk about the 'Canes' shitty football prospects, or the reason they scheduled a lacrosse tournament here when they don't have an actual lacrosse team, or whatever. Or we could go back to your hotel."
Brad doesn't quite sputter, but it's a close call. He nods, and Walt heads to the bar to close their tab. The bartender grins and nods at him, hands over a bottle in a paper bag, and then Walt's back.
"Lead the way."
Brad tosses back the remainder of his beer and heads for the door.
Walt doesn't touch him, but Brad is acutely aware of the heat of his skin just inches away as they walk purposefully back down the street.
The longest part of the trip, it turns out, is the elevator ride to Brad's floor. Walt stands just a few feet away, and the presence of a woman and small child between them can't stop Brad from watching him. His eyes catch on the way Walt's fingers curl around the crumpled paper on the neck of the bottle, and Brad bites his lip to stifle the words that want to tumble out. Walt's fingers twitch, and when he looks up, Walt's eyes are focused on his lips.
Brad lets his bottom lip slip free of his teeth slowly, slicks his tongue over the indentations they left, and watches Walt's gaze follow it.
The ding of elevator announces their arrival at the correct floor, and when Brad exits, Walt is at his heels, silent.
His key-card in the lock gives him a red light on first pass, which elicits a muttered curse from Brad. Walt laughs, his breath warm on Brad's neck, and rests a hand on Brad's hip. Brad fumbles the key before trying again, a whispered, "Thank fuck," coming out unbidden when the light goes green. As soon as the door swings open under his hand, Walt pushes them over the threshold.
A hand on his hip turns him, and Brad's back hits the wall. The bottle hits the carpet with a muffled thud, and then Walt's got a firm grip on Brad's neck, dragging him the inch lower he needs to align their mouths. Walt sucks sharply on Brad's lower lip, and when Brad gasps a breath, Walt's kissing him, his tongue bold, fingertips directing Brad whenever he tries to take charge. Finally Brad slumps against the wall, slouching slightly and anchoring his hands at Walt's hips, and Walt's weight holds him there. That's good, that's awesome, but Brad's pretty sure it would be even better if there were skin involved there, rather than two layers of clothing. He pushes Walt away abruptly.
"What-?" Brad grabs the hem of Walt's shirt and strips it over his head before the rest of the protest is out. Confusion melts into humor, and Walt grins, slanting back into Brad's space.
"That's an excellent idea. I've been wanting to get this off you since I saw it." Walt's fingers work steadily on the buttons of Brad's plaid shirt. "It's a crime to cover abs like that with something like this." Walt tugs on the madras, and Brad's not sure if he should be flattered or offended for his fashion sense, but then Walt's lips find the spot below his ear and settle briefly, and Brad loses his train of thought.
Insistent hands push at his sleeves, and Brad supposes he can release his newfound grip on Walt's hips - really, they're the perfect height and curve for his palms - to get rid of the annoyance.
Then he's got Walt's mouth on his neck, hot skin against his, and firm, callused hands on his shoulder, at his hip, holding him in place. Fuck, Brad’s missed having something like this.
When he decides Walt's not moving fast enough, he wriggles a hand between them, manages to unbutton Walt's shorts and draw the zip down far enough to curl his hand around Walt's half-hard dick. He manages in one stroke, then two. Then Walt bites at his lip, moans, and there's a hand on his wrist, squeezing firmly before pulling it free of his shorts. Walt turns them, steers Brad until he hits the bed. He doesn't relinquish his grip on Brad's wrist, just pushes until Brad falls backwards, his arms above his head, and Walt follows him down, pinned there.
"Keep your hands there."
Brad could move, could shift, but he wants this, the heavy weight, equal strength, muscle and sweat shared. Instead he tucks his legs around Walt's hips to pull them harder against the vee of his legs, and that, yeah, he wants that too. The only thing that would be better is if it weren't blunted by fabric.
He bends that little bit more, grips fabric with his toes, and pushes down. Walt smiles against his lips and rolls to his feet to shuck his shorts. He hauls Brad's hips to the edge of the bed and efficiently removes Brad's shorts, taking his boxers with them, then picks up the bottle from the spot by the door that it landed.
Brad deliberately does not move, just watches as Walt saunters back, cracks the lid, and takes a sip from the drink before kneeling and tipping it over where Brad lies on the bed.
He closes his eyes when cool liquid splashes against his skin, and his fingers scramble to anchor in the duvet when a hot tongue follows it. There's a splash of tequila across his abs and hipbones. He feels a narrow stream trickle over the bone, down the crease of his thigh, and he tightens his grip, holds on for the ride.
Walt lays a line of wet heat across Brad's skin, lapping up the tequila as he goes, and the trail of cool skin left in his wake makes Brad shudder. The nip of teeth setting firmly over the sharp jut of his hipbone has him jerking upward, and the weight of one arm pushes his ass back down to the bed and pins him there. He's glad of it when Walt mouths up the side of his cock to the head, because it keeps him from pushing up insistently. Walt's tongue circles slick and agile around the crown, and then there's a gentle scrape of teeth before he swallows around Brad, wet and strong. When he draws back, even the huff of his breath feels cool on Brad's heated skin, and he shivers before Walt takes him back into his mouth, further and further with each successive pass until Walt's index and middle finger meet his thumb in a ring at the base of Brad's cock, and brush his lips each time he rocks forward. Brad can feel Walt's throat working against the head of his cock, feel the weight of one solid arm pinning him in place. Everything else is distant, and Brad needs to see, to participate in what's happening suddenly.
He pushes himself up on his elbows and watches the way Walt's forearm flexes against his belly as Walt figures out a good rhythm, alternating swallowing as much of Brad's dick as he can with moving up and sucking on head. The hand on his cock shifts so that Walt's thumb rubs gently at the base before cupping his sac, cradling his balls, pushing them together and up unexpectedly.
Brad moans and jerks forward, into Walt's mouth, just as knuckles brush against his taint. The next time Walt's mouth retreats and returns, his fingertips push against Brad's asshole. He can't decide if he wants to push up into Walt's mouth or down onto the fingers; when he tries to move, the arm on his hips limits his motion, so he rolls his hips down, a fingertip just breaches the ring of muscle. Another shift and it's in to the first knuckle, and Brad can't stifle his groan when Walt twitches his fingers a tiny bit, seeking.
He's panting heavily when Walt lets his dick slide slowly from his mouth, releasing it with a final lick to the head as he ask, "You're good with this?"
"Fuck yeah, right there."
Now Walt withdraws completely, and Brad would object, but before he can say anything more Walt gropes around, feeing for his discarded shorts. He digs into pocket, and tosses lube and a couple of rubbers onto bed before letting them fall back to the carpet, and then he's back. Two fingers return, lubed, and push in where one had been. It stings, but Brad relishes the stretch. When Walt sucks firmly on first one and then the other ball, Brad unknots his fingers from the duvet and curves one hand around Walt's head tentatively. The brush of the short hairs at nape of his neck where Brad's used to long hair or Ry's soft curls causes a moment of dissonance, but Walt hums, and the thought is gone, lost in the steady thrust of fingers and slick suction. Soon Brad's toes are digging into duvet, and heat pools in the base of his spine. One particularly insistent suck accompanies a stroke across his prostate, and Brad sees stars, yanks on Walt's hair to push him off.
"Stop."
Walt obeys, clearly surprised.
"If you keep doing that I'll come," he explains. Walt clearly has no problem with that, because he smiles, a crooked little grin, and bends his head back to Brad's body before Brad continues, "And you should fuck me first."
Walt rises to his feet so quickly it's almost amusing. Brad takes a second to admire the stretch of muscle, the ripple of flat abs, the way Walt's cock stands red and proud against tan skin. Instead of rearranging them on the bed, though, Walt rolls on a condom, smears lube onto it, and then slippery fingers lift one of Brad's legs up to his shoulder. Brad deliberately winds the other around Walt's hips to brace himself. There's an odd moment where he feels spread open and exposed, then Walt is leaning forward, lining up his cock against Brad's ass and pushing in. Walt surges forward, his hands on Brad's hips, putting him where he wants him. That's no small thing for a guy Brad's size, and he savors the sensation of not being in control.
Brad keeps his eyes open, watches Walt watch him as they fuck. The flush that starts on Walt's cheeks stretches down his neck and chest, and Brad spares a moment to wonder how there's enough blood for that and to keep his cock hard, but then Walt rocks into him again, and that thought is gone. Walt's eyes are focused on his cock disappearing into Brad's body, and Brad imagines what it must look like. He knows what it feels like, and that's fucking amazing. Walt bites his lower lip until it's red and swollen, and Brad wants to cover it with his own, tease it away from Walt's teeth and leave marks of his own, but that will have to wait, because what he's got right now is too good to stop.
When Brad takes his own cock in hand to jerk himself off, Walt's fingers tighten, digging in hard enough to bruise as he hisses, "Show me. Get yourself off for me."
It's no hardship to obey. Walt's rhythm changes, and he fucks Brad harder, faster. It's good, so fucking good, steady and hard, the pace increasing to near violence, and Brad's not sure if it's intentional or a happy accident but Walt's prodding against his prostate erratically now. Walt comes with a spate of muttered pleading and praise, his hips shoving hard against Brad's ass and staying there, and it only takes a couple more strokes for Brad to follow.
When they're both finished, Walt rocks on his heels unsteadily before pulling out and stumbling to the bathroom to discard the condom. Brad stays sprawled where he is despite the sound of running water and need to clean up, basking in the just-fucked glow. When Walt returns, he looks uncertain, his expression already losing the edge of satisfaction that good sex usually brings. He glances around, but before he can pick up his clothes and leave, Brad rouses enough to rise to his elbows.
"Is there any of that tequila left?"
Walt pauses and eyes Brad consideringly, guarded curiosity clear.
"Most of the bottle."
Brad nods, a barely perceptible tip of his head. "You should stay awhile. We'll share another round."
This entry was originally posted at http://favoritemistake.dreamwidth.org/9132.html.
Walt/Brad || 2637 words || adult
Complete fiction, meant to imply absolutely nothing about any real people whose names or faces served as inspiration.
Nothing but irredeemable porn here. Part of a college AU that is largely unwritten as yet, but should stand alone since there's no real plot to speak of. This ficlet started life as a drabble for
pjvilar and schlicky, and grew from there. Inspired by this photo and this NSFW one. Entirely unbeta'd, so hit me up with errors as you see them. Title and cut text from Old 97's Designs on you.It's spring break. It's fucking spring break, and Brad's single, and he is going to go surfing, get drunk, and get laid. Not necessarily in that order.
He's not sure who scheduled Johns Hopkins to participate in the tournament at the University of Miami, but he'd like to thank them. Profusely. Especially when he manages to extend his stay for a few days after the tourney.
The waves are decent, but nothing he can't handle. The main reason he comes back to the same beach a second day is the hot lifeguard. Well, lifeguards, but the girl isn't what he's looking for right now. The guy? He's blond and tan, with a smile for everyone who comes up to flirt, business-like but kind in his refusals, and exactly Brad's type. If he had one. He didn't think he did - it was always just Ryan - but hey, he guesses he's got all the time in the world to figure this out now.
Brad figures he might get shot down, but that's not enough reason not to try. When he gathers his shit to leave and returns the board to the rental shop, he stops by the stand.
"Hey, you know a good place to get a beer around here?"
The blond lets his sunglasses slip down his nose a little, looks Brad up and down. "You looking for a drink or something else?"
Brad lets his smile widen. "I'm open to a local's input."
Walt - that's his name, Brad learns - gives him directions to a dive bar a few blocks from his hotel. Cheeseburger In Paradise is blaring from the sound system when he arrives, and Brad considers turning right back around and leaving, but then he considers Walt's dimples and ass, and he stays. He can deal with some Buffett for that trade-off. Brad tells himself he's not disappointed that Walt's not already there, but the fifteen minutes that he waits, nursing a pint of Smithwick's, seem to be far longer. When Walt finally arrives, sand and sunscreen scrubbed away, a loose t-shirt and khaki shorts on, Brad admits he's maybe a little more invested in this than he thought.
They grab a table and more beer. The first pitcher empties quickly, and the first shot of tequila goes down smoother than Brad expects. Still, he feels sort of awkward. Not that Walt's doing or saying anything to discourage him, but it's just. Weird. With Ryan, it was pretty much figuring everything out together, and then when they were old enough that fake IDs weren't laughable, they went to bars but there was never any doubt about who was going home with whom; since then, Brad's had no problems picking up girls at lacrosse parties or campus bars, but that's easy: buy a drink, flirt a little, and he's in. He's not sure what to do or say to get to that point with Walt.
He fetches another round of shots, and he makes no effort not to be obvious as he watches Walt lick the salt and slam the tequila. Walt flips the shot glass over and sets it down, and Brad's sort of distracted by the way Walt's tongue swipes at a drop of liquid in the corner of his lips when Walt finally says, "If you want to have another beer, we can sit here and talk about the 'Canes' shitty football prospects, or the reason they scheduled a lacrosse tournament here when they don't have an actual lacrosse team, or whatever. Or we could go back to your hotel."
Brad doesn't quite sputter, but it's a close call. He nods, and Walt heads to the bar to close their tab. The bartender grins and nods at him, hands over a bottle in a paper bag, and then Walt's back.
"Lead the way."
Brad tosses back the remainder of his beer and heads for the door.
Walt doesn't touch him, but Brad is acutely aware of the heat of his skin just inches away as they walk purposefully back down the street.
The longest part of the trip, it turns out, is the elevator ride to Brad's floor. Walt stands just a few feet away, and the presence of a woman and small child between them can't stop Brad from watching him. His eyes catch on the way Walt's fingers curl around the crumpled paper on the neck of the bottle, and Brad bites his lip to stifle the words that want to tumble out. Walt's fingers twitch, and when he looks up, Walt's eyes are focused on his lips.
Brad lets his bottom lip slip free of his teeth slowly, slicks his tongue over the indentations they left, and watches Walt's gaze follow it.
The ding of elevator announces their arrival at the correct floor, and when Brad exits, Walt is at his heels, silent.
His key-card in the lock gives him a red light on first pass, which elicits a muttered curse from Brad. Walt laughs, his breath warm on Brad's neck, and rests a hand on Brad's hip. Brad fumbles the key before trying again, a whispered, "Thank fuck," coming out unbidden when the light goes green. As soon as the door swings open under his hand, Walt pushes them over the threshold.
A hand on his hip turns him, and Brad's back hits the wall. The bottle hits the carpet with a muffled thud, and then Walt's got a firm grip on Brad's neck, dragging him the inch lower he needs to align their mouths. Walt sucks sharply on Brad's lower lip, and when Brad gasps a breath, Walt's kissing him, his tongue bold, fingertips directing Brad whenever he tries to take charge. Finally Brad slumps against the wall, slouching slightly and anchoring his hands at Walt's hips, and Walt's weight holds him there. That's good, that's awesome, but Brad's pretty sure it would be even better if there were skin involved there, rather than two layers of clothing. He pushes Walt away abruptly.
"What-?" Brad grabs the hem of Walt's shirt and strips it over his head before the rest of the protest is out. Confusion melts into humor, and Walt grins, slanting back into Brad's space.
"That's an excellent idea. I've been wanting to get this off you since I saw it." Walt's fingers work steadily on the buttons of Brad's plaid shirt. "It's a crime to cover abs like that with something like this." Walt tugs on the madras, and Brad's not sure if he should be flattered or offended for his fashion sense, but then Walt's lips find the spot below his ear and settle briefly, and Brad loses his train of thought.
Insistent hands push at his sleeves, and Brad supposes he can release his newfound grip on Walt's hips - really, they're the perfect height and curve for his palms - to get rid of the annoyance.
Then he's got Walt's mouth on his neck, hot skin against his, and firm, callused hands on his shoulder, at his hip, holding him in place. Fuck, Brad’s missed having something like this.
When he decides Walt's not moving fast enough, he wriggles a hand between them, manages to unbutton Walt's shorts and draw the zip down far enough to curl his hand around Walt's half-hard dick. He manages in one stroke, then two. Then Walt bites at his lip, moans, and there's a hand on his wrist, squeezing firmly before pulling it free of his shorts. Walt turns them, steers Brad until he hits the bed. He doesn't relinquish his grip on Brad's wrist, just pushes until Brad falls backwards, his arms above his head, and Walt follows him down, pinned there.
"Keep your hands there."
Brad could move, could shift, but he wants this, the heavy weight, equal strength, muscle and sweat shared. Instead he tucks his legs around Walt's hips to pull them harder against the vee of his legs, and that, yeah, he wants that too. The only thing that would be better is if it weren't blunted by fabric.
He bends that little bit more, grips fabric with his toes, and pushes down. Walt smiles against his lips and rolls to his feet to shuck his shorts. He hauls Brad's hips to the edge of the bed and efficiently removes Brad's shorts, taking his boxers with them, then picks up the bottle from the spot by the door that it landed.
Brad deliberately does not move, just watches as Walt saunters back, cracks the lid, and takes a sip from the drink before kneeling and tipping it over where Brad lies on the bed.
He closes his eyes when cool liquid splashes against his skin, and his fingers scramble to anchor in the duvet when a hot tongue follows it. There's a splash of tequila across his abs and hipbones. He feels a narrow stream trickle over the bone, down the crease of his thigh, and he tightens his grip, holds on for the ride.
Walt lays a line of wet heat across Brad's skin, lapping up the tequila as he goes, and the trail of cool skin left in his wake makes Brad shudder. The nip of teeth setting firmly over the sharp jut of his hipbone has him jerking upward, and the weight of one arm pushes his ass back down to the bed and pins him there. He's glad of it when Walt mouths up the side of his cock to the head, because it keeps him from pushing up insistently. Walt's tongue circles slick and agile around the crown, and then there's a gentle scrape of teeth before he swallows around Brad, wet and strong. When he draws back, even the huff of his breath feels cool on Brad's heated skin, and he shivers before Walt takes him back into his mouth, further and further with each successive pass until Walt's index and middle finger meet his thumb in a ring at the base of Brad's cock, and brush his lips each time he rocks forward. Brad can feel Walt's throat working against the head of his cock, feel the weight of one solid arm pinning him in place. Everything else is distant, and Brad needs to see, to participate in what's happening suddenly.
He pushes himself up on his elbows and watches the way Walt's forearm flexes against his belly as Walt figures out a good rhythm, alternating swallowing as much of Brad's dick as he can with moving up and sucking on head. The hand on his cock shifts so that Walt's thumb rubs gently at the base before cupping his sac, cradling his balls, pushing them together and up unexpectedly.
Brad moans and jerks forward, into Walt's mouth, just as knuckles brush against his taint. The next time Walt's mouth retreats and returns, his fingertips push against Brad's asshole. He can't decide if he wants to push up into Walt's mouth or down onto the fingers; when he tries to move, the arm on his hips limits his motion, so he rolls his hips down, a fingertip just breaches the ring of muscle. Another shift and it's in to the first knuckle, and Brad can't stifle his groan when Walt twitches his fingers a tiny bit, seeking.
He's panting heavily when Walt lets his dick slide slowly from his mouth, releasing it with a final lick to the head as he ask, "You're good with this?"
"Fuck yeah, right there."
Now Walt withdraws completely, and Brad would object, but before he can say anything more Walt gropes around, feeing for his discarded shorts. He digs into pocket, and tosses lube and a couple of rubbers onto bed before letting them fall back to the carpet, and then he's back. Two fingers return, lubed, and push in where one had been. It stings, but Brad relishes the stretch. When Walt sucks firmly on first one and then the other ball, Brad unknots his fingers from the duvet and curves one hand around Walt's head tentatively. The brush of the short hairs at nape of his neck where Brad's used to long hair or Ry's soft curls causes a moment of dissonance, but Walt hums, and the thought is gone, lost in the steady thrust of fingers and slick suction. Soon Brad's toes are digging into duvet, and heat pools in the base of his spine. One particularly insistent suck accompanies a stroke across his prostate, and Brad sees stars, yanks on Walt's hair to push him off.
"Stop."
Walt obeys, clearly surprised.
"If you keep doing that I'll come," he explains. Walt clearly has no problem with that, because he smiles, a crooked little grin, and bends his head back to Brad's body before Brad continues, "And you should fuck me first."
Walt rises to his feet so quickly it's almost amusing. Brad takes a second to admire the stretch of muscle, the ripple of flat abs, the way Walt's cock stands red and proud against tan skin. Instead of rearranging them on the bed, though, Walt rolls on a condom, smears lube onto it, and then slippery fingers lift one of Brad's legs up to his shoulder. Brad deliberately winds the other around Walt's hips to brace himself. There's an odd moment where he feels spread open and exposed, then Walt is leaning forward, lining up his cock against Brad's ass and pushing in. Walt surges forward, his hands on Brad's hips, putting him where he wants him. That's no small thing for a guy Brad's size, and he savors the sensation of not being in control.
Brad keeps his eyes open, watches Walt watch him as they fuck. The flush that starts on Walt's cheeks stretches down his neck and chest, and Brad spares a moment to wonder how there's enough blood for that and to keep his cock hard, but then Walt rocks into him again, and that thought is gone. Walt's eyes are focused on his cock disappearing into Brad's body, and Brad imagines what it must look like. He knows what it feels like, and that's fucking amazing. Walt bites his lower lip until it's red and swollen, and Brad wants to cover it with his own, tease it away from Walt's teeth and leave marks of his own, but that will have to wait, because what he's got right now is too good to stop.
When Brad takes his own cock in hand to jerk himself off, Walt's fingers tighten, digging in hard enough to bruise as he hisses, "Show me. Get yourself off for me."
It's no hardship to obey. Walt's rhythm changes, and he fucks Brad harder, faster. It's good, so fucking good, steady and hard, the pace increasing to near violence, and Brad's not sure if it's intentional or a happy accident but Walt's prodding against his prostate erratically now. Walt comes with a spate of muttered pleading and praise, his hips shoving hard against Brad's ass and staying there, and it only takes a couple more strokes for Brad to follow.
When they're both finished, Walt rocks on his heels unsteadily before pulling out and stumbling to the bathroom to discard the condom. Brad stays sprawled where he is despite the sound of running water and need to clean up, basking in the just-fucked glow. When Walt returns, he looks uncertain, his expression already losing the edge of satisfaction that good sex usually brings. He glances around, but before he can pick up his clothes and leave, Brad rouses enough to rise to his elbows.
"Is there any of that tequila left?"
Walt pauses and eyes Brad consideringly, guarded curiosity clear.
"Most of the bottle."
Brad nods, a barely perceptible tip of his head. "You should stay awhile. We'll share another round."
This entry was originally posted at http://favoritemistake.dreamwidth.org/9132.html.
