From The Road

Aaron’s boyfriend is away on a road trip and calls him from the road to get them both a little relief.

This is NOT safe for work, just to warn you. For those of you who follow/have followed me elsewhere, you might recognise this story in another guise 😉

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Tainted By Our Choices – Extract

 

Tainted By Our Choices Edit 2

Jack stretched up just enough to peek down through the tinted glass of his office window at the protesters gathered outside holding hand painted placards and could only bring himself to sigh. They had moved in that morning, encroaching on all the best parking spaces in the parking lot and chanting angry slogans that Jack thought perhaps were kind of funny but would do nothing to stop what was going to happen.

The fracking would be going ahead, whether anyone objected to it or not. Works had all been approved, reams upon reams of paperwork signed and countersigned, and if some bureaucracy involving clandestine deals and exchanges of money between those further up the chain and the local authorities had happened, well. It was absolutely nothing to do with him. Jack had done his job. He had produced the environmental report that had helped win them the contract, carefully detailing all of the possible risks and hazards involved, right down to potentially affected species in the local vicinity, and models indicating the likelihood of contaminated water coming into contact with nearby residential supplies.

With another sigh, Jack looked over his mostly-completed work for the morning and pushed himself back from his desk, spinning one full circuit on his chair before coming to a stop, then doing the same the other way. He stood with an exaggerated stretch, wandering over to rattle the cafetiere and frowning at its betrayal when he found it to be empty.

With every intention of topping up from the coffee machine in the break room, Jack made his way there, the voices drifting out to him immediately changing his mind. He took a brief stop in the restroom and gave himself a quick glance over in the mirror as he washed his hands, tugging at his hair and telling himself that lighter color was definitely blond, not gray, in his usual brown.

Biting down on his lip as he debated with himself with himself, Jack decided on a local bakery with excellent coffee and even better cakes, then shrugged into his suit jacket and headed out. If he was staying late as usual to go over those complex habitat surveys for their most recent site acquisition, and had to survive the dreaded afternoon meeting, caffeine and sugar would be essentials to get him through his day.

With a carefree jog, he took the stairs down, noting with no real surprise that the chants outside grew louder and even angrier the closer he got to the exit. Giving a brief nod to the receptionist Jack stepped out into the bright, sunny morning, shielding his squinting eyes behind sunglasses from both the sun itself and the attention of those protesting. His face became a neutral mask as he passed the group buzzing like irate bees over to his right, hoping they wouldn’t pay him any attention. This wasn’t his first experience with opposition against what the company did and he’d learned early on to feign indifference, despite what he might really think.

A mop of messy black hair caught his attention, though, as it always did, whispering to him to take a look just in case. Jack’s gaze turned casually in the group’s direction as he continued walking, coming to a complete, shuddering stop and ripping his glasses off in disbelief as he watched pale blue eyes look him up and down in contempt, then spark with recognition before narrowing in quiet fury. His stomach sank and his mouth grew dry, and the only sound Jack could hear in that moment was the misplaced shriek of the crashing of waves.

1993

On a clear day, when the sky was the brightest blue and the reflection the sea gave back just as vivid, it made Jack feel like he could stare out at the horizon forever and never know where one started and the other began. The waves roared away any sense of unrest he might be feeling, waxing and waning with soothing sounds that never ceased to keep him calm.

Jack had been visiting this beach since before he could even walk, crawling along the sand and fisting it up into his chubby palms, squealing at the crunch and squeak of it between his fingers. He remembered helping his little brother build his first sand castle and watching the water lick it away one misshapen turret at a time. He remembered a red checkered picnic blanket pinned down beneath a cooler box to stop it blowing away, and laughter as he chased a corner of it that got repeatedly caught up in the breeze. Happy memories were what Jack had when he thought of this place. Happiness and home.

Today was not a clear day. The normally creamy colored sand was painted with jet black slickness, foam churning up gray against the shoreline. As if in sympathy the sky was dull and flat, clouds outlined with dirty smudges that bled into one another. It seemed to Jack in that moment as though all the color had been drained from the world. The waves rolled in as they always did, as they always had, but on that day, could do nothing to bring stillness to Jack, as each crest spewed out further victims of the oil slick everywhere he looked.

Though surrounding him was a flurry of activity, with rescue workers rushing about clad from head to foot in once white hazmat-like suits and carrying bird after bird away to cleaning stations further up the shore, the only noise that got through to him, that broke Jack’s continual horror at what he was seeing all around him was one of heartbroken, hiccupping sobbing.

A boy knelt off to his right, gently stroking his fingers over a bird whose head, he had rested across his lap at an unnatural angle. The oil from the bird’s feathers left glossy rivulets of black running down the sides of his thighs, and he continued his gentle path along its back as though touch alone could bring it back to life. A trembling hand ran over the flat of the bill, tracing against the curved tip that suggested a hint of its natural red color beneath the poisonous black that every other inch of the bird was coated in like a terrible second skin.

Jack looked at the boy’s mass of messy hair and decided it was the exact same shade as the oil staining his fingers. He stepped closer to him, his own heart heavy despite what he’d been witnessing all morning. His footfall caught the boy’s attention, and when he looked up at Jack with a quivering lip and piercing blue eyes rimmed red with tears, Jack felt an inexplicable need to bring him comfort.

Now

“Dylan,” Jack choked out, utter disbelief rippling through his voice as he continued to stare at him open-mouthed. Dylan glowered back at him, dropping the oversized placard he was holding down to waist height and resting his hands along the top of it in a fierce grip. He glanced up behind Jack at the office complex snorting in derision before dropping his eyes back down to Jack’s face in blatant scorn.

“You work here?” he asked, incredulous, a furious glare pinning Jack in place.

“Yeah,” Jack mumbled, and for a second he felt determined not to show any of the shame that surged through him just from being in Dylan’s presence. He managed a full three seconds of maintaining eye contact then found his gaze dropped to the tarmac beneath their feet.

“How the hell did you end up in Houston? Working here of all places?” Dylan demanded, so full of anger Jack struggled not to take a step back from it.

“I-”

“So, this is what you’ve become, huh?”

“Dyl…” Jack pleaded, lost for any other words to say. What was he supposed to say? What could he, after all this time, without it sounding like a string of poor excuses?

As though reading his mind Dylan rolled his eyes, glaring back at him with ice lighting those eyes that Jack had first stared back at so long ago. “Thought you wanted to change the world, Jack? Not rip it apart from the inside out,”

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Goaded

For those of you who follow/have followed me elsewhere, you might recognise this story in another guise. And this is just as ridiculous and silly here as it was there 😉


“Jay. I am 34 years old. It is not a question of not knowing how to. Do you honestly believe that… just because I haven’t tried something before, that I couldn’t?”

Dean studies Jay’s face in that way he does when Jay knows he’s being an idiot but just keeps on talking anyway, and waits.

“Uh…” Jay stumbles, feeling lost for any kind of meaningful words.

He’s known Dean coming up to four years now, and on some days Jay still can’t work out how the two of them have become such good friends. Where Jay is practical, act-now-think-later, and very much a learn-by-doing, Dean is meticulous, researches and cross-references things he wants to know about to a point of obsession, and is the first to admit that spontaneity is a dirty word.

He’s also serious, thoughtful, loyal and compassionate to the people he cares about. Dean makes Jay feel he might be worth something, and that’s not something he’s used to being. And above all else, he’s patient with him, stays calm when Jay is close to panic, talks reasonably when Jay’s lost all sense of his. So it’s sort of funny seeing the slightest evidence on his face of being flustered that suggests for all of his blustering bravado, he’s actually a little nervous. It’s kind of cute, Jay thinks, then catches himself thinking it and pretends he isn’t.

“Yeah, Jay,” Matt pipes up next to him, grinning at Jay’s discomfort. Matt’s smirk drops instantly when Dean’s assessing gaze turns to him, as though Matt is being equally stupid.

This is what you get, Jay berates himself, trying to keep a lid on the whine that’s threatening to climb up out of his throat. This is what you get for arranging for your closest friend stroke not-so-secret forbidden crush to come over for dinner, and not forcing your kid brother out of the house you share. It’s inviting trouble, really, and he can’t blame anyone but himself for whatever’s about to unfold.

Dean continues to stare at him as this internal berating goes on for Jay, silently demanding an answer.

“Knowing the theory isn’t actually the same as… you know. Doing it,” Jay finally offers a little helplessly, flinching as Dean’s eyebrow raises a notch.

Jay looks longingly towards the doorway of the kitchen, to safety and escape.

He’s not going to get away from this that easily though, he knows that, acknowledges that the only way out of this is down. But he is going to have this out with Matt later, that much is for sure. How dare he bring up something like this, when he knows… Jay knows Matt knows… about… well. Things. About stuff.

“Well,” Matt relents after a minute, and Jay’s trying to concentrate on that, rather than the way his heart is attempting to leap out of his chest, “we’ve evidence, Dean. For example, from the last time you, uh… tried to help us cook. That… just ‘cos in theory you know how to do something? In practice, it doesn’t always work out all that well,”

“Omelette,” Jay blurts out, and for a moment, all three of them frown in sync, avoid looking at the black scorch mark on the frame of the patio door, and each other. Then Dean’s eyebrow cranks up a fraction more, in blatant disdain for their stupidity.

“I choose not to cook. It is not a question of not being able to,” he retorts, his scowl turning into a full on glare when Matt snorts, and Jay’s mind takes him back to the day of The Omelette pinpointing that as the start of so many of his current problems.

Dean had been insistent. Obnoxiously so. And most indignant, when Matt and Jay hadn’t believed he’d be able to do something as ‘simple’ as make an omelette. He’d raised an unamused eyebrow at both of them – very much as he is doing now – then shrugged out of both his coat and suit jacket in one fluid movement, and slowly rolled up his sleeves, all whilst Jay watched him open-mouthed like a man gaping at a beer after a taxing Dry January. Discreetly, of course. Discreetly.

Jay had continued watching Dean’s back as he’d walked over to the sink to wash his hands, dried them on kitchen towel like a pro, and then stalked over to the carton of eggs on the counter, bringing them back across the kitchen to leave next to the stove. Jay had swallowed roughly to see the pull of the shirt over Dean’s muscle and had stood, transfixed, willing himself to look elsewhere, but failing dismally.

Next, Dean had walked over to the fridge, bending down to peer inside in interest, and giving Jay a very distracting view of the way his pants tightened over his ass. Jay couldn’t help staring at things like that on any given day when he was around Dean, honestly he couldn’t, and at the time, Matt had given a delighted snort, grinning victoriously in his direction. Jay grimaces uncomfortably for remembering the look of comprehension on Matt’s face, still shrinking back from the wickedness emitting from his brother after all this time, wanting to turn quickly on his heel, and leave. Matt had that effect on him a lot when it came to Dean, Jay reflects then, fighting back yet another whine.

But Matt and Jay’s attention had then turned immediately to the bowl Dean clunked down noisily on the counter, and the way he threw in everything at once, before stirring the mixture vigorously and slopping it all over the sides.

Sure, in principle, the idea had been good; eggs, cheese, and bacon were acceptable – essential, ingredients perhaps, for making an omelette.

But, as Jay had sidled up to him, taking in the bits of shell floating on top of the mixture and the bacon fat sticking out like little white islands in a sea of yellow, he couldn’t help but laugh.

Even if Dean did spin on his heel and glare at him in contempt.

The second attempt, when the first had been thrown with some force into the trash, fared slightly better to start with. But Dean couldn’t seem to get to grips with the pan, and even Matt, who had been strictly forbidden from doing anything more complicated than reheating or nuking things in the microwave, howled in laughter, as Dean pushed stubbornly at the black mess that in a former life had once been eggs.

The third attempt, using up the very last of the eggs, had resulted in that black mark on the door frame that all three of them are currently glaring at, and Jay tactfully takes a slight step to the side, blocking everyone’s view.

“This is different,” Dean assures them with the most serious of expressions on his face.

“How is this different?” Matt laughs, boldy. This doesn’t really impact him one way or another, after all. Aside from watching his brother die from mortification. Unless it’s a really underhand way to get his share of the house, Jay thinks, considering just how evil Matt is, and what his limits may or may not be.

Dean stares at Matt curiously, and somehow that makes Matt laugh more. “Because, Matt. The omelette… incident…” Dean glares at them both for a second, daring them to comment. They do not. “I had never considered making an omelette before. It was not something I had ever spent a lot of time thinking about. You are both aware that I prefer to eat meals that are prepared for me,”

Jay straightens up from where he’s been slumped back against the counter, and his eyes narrow. “Wait,” he says, half-extending a hand towards Dean but curling his fingers back before they actually reach him. “You’ve been thinking about this? A lot?”

“Yes, Jay.” Dean tells him with utmost certainty, calm and assured as he is almost always calm and assured.

There is a look on Jay’s face that Matt instantly recognises as jealousy. He knows it, and has known it all his life; usually when Jay thinks Matt’s got more toppings on his pizza than he does, or has unknowingly poured himself an inch more wine from a shared bottle, it’s true. But still. He knows jealousy on Jay when he sees it, and finds himself smirking a little harder.

“With who?” Jay demands, stepping that touch closer, his voice tinged with bristling anger.

Dean’s face contorts, showing he’s really not sure what Jay’s problem is.

“I would have thought that would be obvious by now,” is all he can offer in answer. Which Jay growls, actually growls at, and Matt barks out a peal of laughter at, earning himself another glare from Jay.

“So,” Matt eventually manages when he’s finished his gleeful laughter from the safe step back he’s taken away from Jay’s mood. “What you’re saying, Dean. Is that. Is that. Unlike the omelette thing. You’ve been thinking about doing this. A lot. So you know exactly what to do here.”

“Yes,” Dean gives him simply.

Matt shrugs. “Prove it.”

“Matt,” Jay blasts out, eyes full of rage for Matt and spinning around, fully turning his back to Dean.

His eyes drop the second he feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder, and raise back up again in shock as Dean is pushing him back against the counter with no gentleness at all.

“Uh…” is all he manages, before Dean is against him bodily and kissing him firmly on the mouth.

There is a moment, a tiny moment, when Jay registers Matt laughing hysterically beside them. But it is only a moment, because right now, his brain has shorted out for the absolutely most impossible thing to be happening to him. Dean is kissing him. He’s actually kissing him, willingly, very ably, he’d very much like to add, and from the feel of… yep, that feels a lot like, well, interest, he seems to be enjoying it just as much as he is.

Unconsciously, Jay’s arms curl around Dean’s lower back, pulling him that little bit more firmly against him, making Dean moan into his mouth in appreciation.

I’ll die happy, is the only thought Jay manages, sagging under Dean’s weight.

Matt is doing all but cheering them on, resisting the urge to clap and forcing back the slight tears he’s feeling pricking in his eyes to see what he’s seeing before him.

Never in his wildest dreams would Matt have believed that what was a glib challenge to Dean about his never having kissed another man before, would have led to this. To seeing Jay, so utterly and thoroughly caught up in, well. Kissing Dean, like Matt damn well knew he’d been thinking about for an eternity. It made his little shipper heart sing, it really did.

Although.

Perhaps that level of enthusiasm was a little too much for his eyes, and oh hell he knows he just saw tongue.

Choking back the laughter that’s threatening to erupt yet again, Matt clears his throat, which neither Dean nor Jay acknowledge him doing.

“So, uh…” he tries pathetically, knowing there’s no way he’s getting their attention any time soon.

“Uh… you can thank me later, Jay,” he manages to half-call out eventually, backing up slowly towards the kitchen door.

Jay must be somewhat aware that Matt’s still standing there, because he slowly raises the hand he’s got wrapped hard around Dean up, flips him off, then slowly gives him the thumbs up Terminator two-style, before putting his hand back firmly on Dean, a little lower this time.

Matt’s eyes widen to see that, and he thumbs a gesture over at the door, making a quick exit with an absent wave, averting his eyes as he does.

To Forget

**previously published on Hot Chili Erotica** – suffice to say, this is not safe for work…


Rebound sex is supposed to be messy. Sweat stained sheets and spit-slick lips, no thoughts other than want, no feelings but release, a momentary pause in the heartache to remind that life goes on.

This bar, just the right side of sleazy, is perfect.

A room thick with bodies, the heat from the summer sun so heavy that the atmosphere in the bar feels almost smoky, and liquor on tap to smooth the way for getting exactly what you came for.

A wall of sound that is the disembodied conversations of other people also here to lose themselves allows you to tune in, yet switch off your own thoughts. Your fingers curl around the cool glass of the tumbler that you’ve emptied several times now, the whiskey hitting the back of your throat and providing a numbness that puts a temporary silence on the painful memories taunting you on repeat.

Absently, as though you are viewing through frosted glass, you observe the room; blond by the pool table, gym bunny at the end of the bar in jeans tight enough to make a small smile flicker across your lips. Over by the cigarette machine there’s a guy with hair so dark it looks streaked with blue under the poor lighting, standing on chaotic end, and reminding you so very much of—

Cold glass pressed in warm grip as you reign your thoughts back in yet again, signalling for another drink. You take a moment to compose yourself; this should be getting easier already, you should be able to switch off; he clearly has, able to walk out of your life as though all that time together was nothing more than a fleeting thought.

He should be easier to forget. Or at the very least, momentarily replace.

A denim-clad knee grazes solidly against yours as the stool next to you is occupied. The quick glance you give to your side shows a muscled thigh and a tanned, equally-muscular arm beneath a tight green t-shirt, and there’s a wash of relief that trickles through you. This is perfect. This is what you want. This is what you need to take your mind off—

He knows you’re looking at him. You know his eyes are lingering over you too, and you resist the urge to hold you breath, suck in unnecessarily, as those eyes lift slowly until they meet heatedly with yours.

That denim-clad knee knocks against yours and stops there, making you swallow with difficulty, as a thrill of excitement begins to stir.

You watch as he orders, smile as he gestures for the bartender to refill your own glass, and nod in thanks. There is small talk; you hear a name you intend to forget the second this evening is over, and possibly long before then.

When he leans in, you lean back.

He’s making conversation, and you’re nodding in all the right places so that to anyone who might be looking in your direction there is nothing happening that shouldn’t be. But there are fingertips pressing just above your knee, sliding a path that’s steady, and sure, and your legs part without you even thinking as those fingertips brush over your fly, pressing gently, until there’s a whole hand cupping, moulding, exploring.

His thumb strokes insistently against your length, and you shuffle slightly on the stool, feeling yourself begin to stiffen and swell under his touch. For a second you lose yourself in the feel of it, close your eyes, let a soft sigh spill from your lips. Then remind yourself that this is where you’re supposed to reciprocate.

Shaky fingers find hardness, and that’s when the low swell of desire swirls its way around your gut. This is good. This is what you need, and most definitely what you wanted from this evening. The whiskey is thrown back with the same rapidness as the previous ones, and you surge forward, parting dry lips with your tongue and swallowing the resulting groan.

The burn of stubble sings against your own, and you reach a hand up to slip through hair, angling an unfamiliar head towards you as you turn in slightly and give him better access to where he’s stroking you solid.

He tastes good; part whiskey, part unnamed spice, and your hands appreciate the firmness of the chest beneath your palm as you slide it upwards, resuming the grip in his hair as you keep him just where you want him.

There is movement, and you neither know nor care which of you is the one to initiate it; moments later there is the sound of a bathroom stall being locked and the feeling of being pressed roughly back against a door, his mouth back on yours instantly. He pulls away for a moment, a trail of kisses down your neck where he bites first into your pulse point, then back up to nip at your earlobe, forcing out a soft moan from your own mouth.

You feel the press of a button being undone, and your fly sliding down, and hands sliding around your waist into your boxers, as those and your jeans are firmly tugged mid-thigh. You spring free, feeling the coolness of the air hit you momentarily, before a thumb sweeps over your head, swiping up the slickness already there.

You fumble to do the same for him, but he smacks your hands away, and gives you a grin that makes your cock pulse in its freedom. And he’s squatting down until he’s at eye level with it; you can’t blame him for not wanting to kneel in here, but the way he’s looking at you makes you thrust your hips forward until your shaft is bumping against his lips, insistent about what you want.

There is no objection on his face. He laps out his tongue, and the instant you feel that wet lick through the smear of pre-cum that’s budding out of your slit, your head drops back with a thud against the thin cubicle wall. This is most definitely exactly what you came here for. He laps over your head again, swirling his tongue in a way that has you grunting in appreciation, and half-forcing your hips to steady, before he’s sucking you in hard enough to startle a groan out of you that you know full well was far too loud for this public place.

You can’t find it in yourself to care, not with that sensation of wet heat that’s pulsing around you, teasing you harder as hands steady themselves on your sides, then slip around to mould your ass. You look down, watch the stretch of his lips around you, take in the wink he gives you as he adjusts his position. And then he’s sliding, taking in even more of you, until you feel the constriction of his throat around your head, squeezing as he swallows.

His eyes never leave yours, and there’s something about that that makes you even harder, that and the way he slowly slides off you as though to emphasize just how much of your length he’s just taken in. He swirls his tongue over your head again before those lips slide down over you once more, and again he’s sucking you down, squeezing you tight, a roll of heat surging through you that makes you lift your hands, grab his face, fuck into his mouth.

You lose yourself in the feel of him gripping and swallowing around you, the build of your orgasm burning away any other thought. But then as quick as he started he stops, rising quickly to his feet and pressing himself hard against you so you can feel how hard his dick is just from sucking you off.

You taste yourself on his tongue, shove your hands into his jean pockets and pull him close, groaning to match his own as you rut together. He whispers something about going back to yours and your mind freezes, taken over for a second by an assault of images, of someone else in your bed; of someone who left.

You shake your head, both in answer and to force the images away, and instead reach out, unzipping him quickly and wrapping your fingers around him, swirling the mess of pre-cum on his head down his shaft, then line him up against your own cock, and stroke.

He moans against you, and it’s sinful, spurring you on to set a steady rhythm that blocks out anything but the feel of skin on skin, mouth on mouth, tongues sliding and bodies grinding together. He slots his fingers in the gaps between yours and then you’re grinding harder, biting bruises into lips and digging fingers into flesh to keep you both upright as you jack off.

Your mind is clear, of anything but the sensations of him, and you, and the sounds you’re both making, the way the very stall is shaking as you rut and groan together. You’re getting close, the heat in your core growing hotter as the slickness between you grows sloppier, and your hips jut at an ever erratic pace.

He’s building there with you if the gasps he’s letting out are anything to go by, already pushing up his own shirt and hooking his thumb up under yours, expecting mess, any moment now. Your hands move faster, your tongues lick deeper, and teeth bite into lips as you get closer, and closer still.

And then you come, feeling your balls contract tight as you empty yourself, slumping at the pleasure rippling through you, spurting against both your chests just a few thrusts before he is painting you the same. He swears, leaning against you, head in the crook of your neck as you both take a moment to catch your breath, already aware of the cooling mess dripping down between you both.

Another minute passes, and there is a lazy kiss, followed by a hasty wiping down, a grimace as the toilet is flushed, and then you each zip yourselves up, standing up straight and sated. There are smiles, and he cups your face in his hands for one more kiss, before he’s gesturing at the door and you’re sliding the bolt across, following him out.

You wash your hands side by side in silence, and he waits as though he is expecting you to be the first to leave.

You are.

You pay your tab, leave, walk home pleasantly numb and empty in the best kind of way. It isn’t until you’re letting yourself into an empty apartment, hearing the resounding click of the door shutting behind you, that the feeling of emptiness changes, morphs into loneliness, and your heart aches all over again as the memories assault you once more.

You walk through empty rooms, look at shelves with dust-free spaces from taken-down photographs, pause in the doorway of your bedroom and notice how wrong it looks with your pillows in the centre of the bed instead of to the side, next to his pillows, next to—

You cross the room in three strides and wrap your fingers around the cold glass of the half-drained whiskey bottle on your bedside cabinet, and you gulp down a good measure of it before slamming it noisily back on the side.

You fall, heavy on the bed with a drop that leaves you bouncing, succumbing to the images that have been taunting you all day.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself. Tomorrow you will forget him. As you have forgotten him every night in different bars for the past five nights.

It’ll stop hurting soon.

Whatever Comes First

whatevercomesfirst4002

Matthew isn’t looking for a relationship. Ask him, and he’ll say it’s because between work and studying there’s just no time. Ask his best friend, Sarah, and the story is a little different and involves a failed relationship that left him raw. 

Enter Joel, a childhood friend of Sarah’s recently back in the area. He’s not looking for love, either, but he’s not adverse to the idea of a little fun. Uncomplicated and on the same page: what could possibly go wrong?

Whatever Comes First. New book on Less Than Three Press.

 

A New Experience

Meet college roommates Derek and Jordan. Jordan is frustrated and inexperienced; Derek quite literally gives him a hand.

This is NOT safe for work, just to warn you. For those of you who follow/have followed me elsewhere, you might recognise this story in another guise 😉

Derek had never been good at getting the cold shoulder. He’d go out of his way to try to turn the mood round of whoever was annoyed at him, whether he felt they were justified for it or not. He’d spent all his childhood trying and failing to meet his father’s approval, and attempting to judge other people’s moods had become ingrained in him as a result.

He went out of his way to double check and overthink the reactions of others’, fearing their disappointment in him more than anything else. It wasn’t that he was shy, or even uncertain of himself in any way; Derek had an incessant need for people not to be mad at him, ever, no matter the circumstances. Even his little sister’s squealing squad of friends who’d been fluttering their far-too-young eyelashes at him for years before he escaped to college; even them he went out of his way not to offend.

With Jordan, Derek was lost.

When Derek had signed up for the roommate pairing service he’d seen on the noticeboard at college towards the end of the summer term, he’d been both hesitant and excited. It was a chance to live in a space infinitely bigger than the tiniest of dorm rooms he’d been in throughout his first year, and maybe even to make some new friends in the process. When he and Jordan had been assigned each other, the two of them hit it off immediately, trading emails back and forth all summer long.

They moved into their small apartment in walking distance of the college on an awful, grey kind of day, celebrating their new freedom and friendship over pizza and beer and solidifying that friendship with warm smiles and easy conversation. And though neither of them was perfect, and occasionally they found things to disagree on, their lives together were mostly problem free, with barely a single bad word between them. Barely.

Derek hated it when he’d pissed Jordan off, intentionally or otherwise. The slightest glib comment or not thought out teasing and Jordan would stiffen, turn away, refuse eye contact altogether. Derek would then spend hours sometimes, coaxing Jordan back into talking to him. He’d chew on his lip, worrying at it until it was near bleeding, watching Jordan as though staring alone would force him to forgive him.

Their friends often watched Derek watch Jordan in silence, in utter bewilderment at how oblivious the two of them were, whilst nudging into each other’s sides and taking bets on just how long it would be for them to actually get together.

A few nights ago, a crotchety Derek had snapped at Jordan on more than one occasion after he’d come home late from a weekend visiting his parents and not answered his string of messages. It had come out of fear and concern, because Derek knew just how unreliable Jordan’s car was, but his words had come out sounding angry and condescending.

There had been much slamming of doors, noisy unpacking of bags and Tupperware boxes full of food from Jordan’s parents, and aggressive filling of glasses of water, those glasses then banged down on kitchen surfaces with a cold, clinking sound that echoed throughout their kitchen making it seem far larger than it was. And it was at the sink that Derek had finally turned on Jordan, gripping him firmly by the forearms, forcing him to look at him.

“Look,” he began, ducking his head just a fraction so that he was at eye level with him, “I know I’m a cranky bastard sometimes, alright? I know. But you’re not much better when you’re like this. And I was worried, okay? So just… stop being mad at me. I hate it when you’re mad at me,”

Jordan purposely avoided his gaze again, turning his face to stare emptily over Derek’s shoulder.

“Jordan…” Pleading had been in Derek’s voice then; he was exhausted after a late Saturday night and a long Sunday of trying to get ahead on his studies, but he knew he’d never be able to fall sleep if he went to bed with Jordan still angry at him.

“There’s no reason for you to talk to me like a kid,” Jordan huffed, finally deeming to speak to him, albeit in an accusatory tone.

“I know,” Derek nodded, wiping a rough hand over his face as though to re-energise himself a little, before returning his grip to Jordan’s arm, “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out like that,”

Jordan looked at him properly then, because although Derek seemed perpetually sorry for something, his actual sorrys were few and far between, and at least in Jordan’s case, never said without being meant. Jordan relaxed a little under Derek’s grip, and Derek’s shoulders answered in a slump of relief.

In their tiredness, the usual way they had come to carefully keep a little distance between them slipped, and they relaxed into each other without their usual overthinking. And Derek would swear he never knew how, but that he’d never regret, the way he found himself kissing Jordan then.

He felt Jordan’s lips under his own, dry, and soft, and willing, and then he’d felt himself sigh out in a way that said, finally. A hesitant movement and Jordan’s hands pressed into Derek’s chest, before slowly sliding upwards to rest in a curve around his shoulders. Derek wove his arms around Jordan’s back, leaning him against the counter though gently enough to not trap him there.

Their kiss was long, chaste and sleepy, and to Derek, it was perfect. Perhaps not like the thousand different ways he’d imagined kissing Jordan for the first time, having been harbouring a not-so-secret crush on him since probably day one of meeting him, but perfect nonetheless.

It hadn’t happened since.

The following morning, Jordan had smiled at him with a faint blush on his cheeks, which Derek had returned in kind. But somehow, they’d succeeded in avoiding being alone together, and Derek couldn’t help but notice Jordan’s tone with him becoming clipped, annoyed, and guarded.

He’d been completely sincere when he’d told Jordan he hated him being mad at him, and the thought that Jordan was unhappy about Derek kissing him filled Derek with actual despair. Which is how he’d found himself stood outside Jordan’s room, hand raised to knock but not quite managing to do it. He stood there for a while, rehearsing the things he’d say, and how he thought Jordan might respond, and then what he’d say in response. Planning conversations was always exhausting, and Derek found that the ones he planned with Jordan in particular never went the way he expected them to.

In a moment of bravery, he knocked, his heart jumping at the sound and impending result. He listened as Jordan approached the door, swallowing hard when the door was swung open and Jordan scowled at him across the doorway.

“Hey,” Derek managed, thickly as though his tongue was swollen from the weight of all the words fighting to be let out.

“Hi,”

Derek peered over his shoulder and shuffled on the spot. “You busy?”

“Not really,”

“Then,” Derek’s voice cracked, and after he cleared his throat he tried again, “can I come in?”

Jordan’s sigh was heavy and put upon, as though Derek was intentionally causing him the most amount of difficulty possible. But he backed away from the door anyway, waving him inside and closing it firmly behind him. Derek stood awkwardly beside the bed, looking between it and the chair draped with clothes, and not wanting to presume he should sit in either place. Jordan slumped down on to the end of the bed hard, saying nothing.

Derek’s heart sank. He’d hoped, for so long, that when he and Jordan finally got around to something in the category of more than friendship – because he had been so very, very sure that Jordan felt the same way – that Jordan would be a willing participant. He felt stupid now, and hurt, that clearly the kiss that had plastered a stupid grin on his own face for the past few days had not been received as it had been given.

“I didn’t mean to…” he tried, then started over, “I shouldn’t have…” but Derek’s stumbled words failed him and left him wringing his hands together and fiddling with the ends of his shirt, adjusting the cuffs, anything to keep himself busy.

“I liked kissing you, Derek,”

Derek’s eyes widened when Jordan finally spoke and looked over at him, taking in the resigned, weighted look there and hearing but despite it not being said out loud.

“I thought maybe you-”

“I really enjoyed our kiss, Derek. Very much,”

A new kind of beating took up in Derek’s heart, and he cursed at himself for getting over-excited. “Then why are you avoiding me, huh? Why so angry suddenly?” he demanded, impatiently waiting for an explanation and watching for so long that he thought Jordan was never going to answer him.

“It’s so uncomfortable,” Jordan finally blurted, and the frustration in his voice Derek would have found funny were it not being aimed in his direction.

“Uncomfortable,” Derek repeated, waiting for confirmation that that was what he’d really heard, having no idea at all what it meant.

Jordan answered by waving a hand vaguely over his lap, a heavy sigh blasting out of him as he curled back in on himself and avoided Derek’s gaze, but not before Derek’s eyes automatically flew to what looked like a prominent bulge in Jordan’s jeans.

Derek’s mouth dried out and he stared at it, gawping and telling himself not to.

“I am… almost constantly aroused, Derek. It’s… frustrating. And painful. And so much worse when you’re anywhere near me. Even more so since we kissed; it was like it before, but… but it was never like this,” he said, forcing out the last word so very incredulously then scowling at Derek as though he expected him to laugh.

White noise assaulted Derek’s ears then, making him feel a little light-headed. The confirmation that Jordan too had been feeling something for him was warring with his stunned realisation that perhaps Jordan wasn’t particularly experienced with these things. It left Derek both cautious and excited, and probably a lot more turned on by it than he should really be feeling, he thought, shifting awkwardly where he sat.

“I…” Derek managed eventually with his voice cracking all over again, “I… you. You never said,”

“Neither did you,” Jordan pointed out with a raised eyebrow that had Derek shrinking back in his chair and swallowing hard.

“You ever thought about doing something about… That?” he managed after a pause, in a rush of words the flew out of him unchecked, cursing himself for the blush he felt forming on his face as his eyes dropped again to Jordan’s fly.

Jordan’s hands slapped heavily against his thighs in obvious irritation. “But I don’t know how!” he half-yelled, “don’t you get it, Derek? The reason I never… the reason I don’t… is ‘cos I never have. I’ve never… I mean I’ve never…”

Derek’s mind raced through a thousand thoughts at once, though got stuck on just how very cute Jordan was when he was flustered; it was something he’d never seen happen to him before but would have absolutely no objection to seeing over and over again. And of course, if Jordan was a virgin, there were so many things he could teach him, and he’d be his first, and he’d-

Derek cut himself off, attempting to silence all the thoughts bouncing around inside his head, all while his own jeans tightened painfully in response.

“You could… you’d know what to do, if you tried. Instinct. Or you know… YouTube…” he finished with weakly as Jordan rolled his eyes at him, and for a moment, they sat in awkward silence.

Then Derek found himself standing. He walked the short distance towards Jordan, raising one knee to press on to the bed and then swung himself forward, his other knee resting at Jordan’s hip.

He steadied himself with a hand on Jordan’s shoulder and Derek lowered himself a fraction, his eyes never leaving Jordan’s, his breath catching in his throat as Jordan’s eyes grew wider the closer that he got.

“You like me, Jordan?” Derek asked, so very shy, desperately needing to hear him say it before he did anything about it.

“Yes,” Jordan whispered, his eyes lingering over Derek’s lips as though silently asking that he kiss him again, “yes. Very much,”

Derek settled himself properly on Jordan’s lap, smiling as his mouth fell open at the feel of Derek’s own arousal against his, and which only had Derek hardening more. He cupped Jordan’s face to pull him closer, and this kiss was anything but chaste, nipping at Jordan’s mouth, encouraging it open and darting his tongue inside, closing his eyes with a satisfied moan as Jordan slid his tongue under his in exploration. Jordan’s hands rested on Derek’s thighs before sliding up to his hips, his fingers digging in. He kissed back just as hungrily, uncontrolled gasps escaping in the few seconds their lips weren’t pressed together.

“See how easy you find kissing, Jordan? Instinct. You feel… so good,” Derek breathed into his mouth, eyes half closed.

“This… this isn’t helping,” Jordan panted out, his eyes too fluttering closed at the feel of Derek’s fingers dug in his hair, “I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I mean… I don’t know how to deal with this,” he blasted at him, a brief look down at himself before dragging his eyes away again, embarrassed.

Derek pressed himself into Jordan but pulled back to stare at him intently. “I… I could help you, you know. If- if you wanted me to…” and as Derek had expected him to, Jordan froze, with an expression that was part fear, part want, and part uncertainty.

“Help me?” he asked, his voice trembling, digging his fingers harder into Derek’s sides.

Derek nodded, swallowing thickly, the only sound managing to escape his mouth being, “Mmhmm,” and his eyes flitted back down to Jordan’s lap for another second.

Jordan’s mouth opened and closed again. “I… don’t know if I’d even like it,” he finally settled on saying after what looked to Derek several false attempts at starting.

Derek snorted. “C’mon, Jordan. Everyone likes it.”

“Not necessarily,” Jordan denied with a quick shake of his head. His eyes rested on Derek’s lips again, and Derek took that as an invite to kiss him again, pressing himself ever closer and feeling Jordan’s throat stutter beneath his fingertips.

“How come you’ve never tried?” Derek asked, lingering kisses over his face and closing his eyes as Jordan’s fingers bunched tight in his shirt.

“I just… I just never… I never really felt like this before,” Jordan whispered, bravely claiming his own kiss then leaning back to check Derek’s expression to know it was okay.

“Before?” Derek repeated, his heart thudding a little faster.

“Before you. Before I met you, I never wanted… I never- I don’t know how,” Jordan settled on, sounding just as frustrated as the first time he’d said it.

Images came to Derek then of being the first to get his hands on Jordan, of talking him through it, of watching him come for the very first time, and he found himself grinding against him, the unconscious movement forcing another tortured gasp from Jordan’s mouth.

“Let me…” he whispered against Jordan’s lips, pressing a kiss onto his nose, his forehead, and at a spot just beneath his jaw that seemed to make him whimper.

“I don’t know…” Jordan answered, though tentatively rocking up against Derek as he did, his fingers curled tightly into Derek’s shirt as he avoided his eye contact.

Derek lifted his chin, breathing a soft, “Please…” into his mouth before licking his way back in.

After a long, long pause, and an equally lengthy exploration of each other’s mouths, he felt Jordan nod slowly and let out a shuddering breath in response, resting their foreheads together.

“Thank you,” Derek smiled then, sitting back and moving himself so that he now knelt beside Jordan instead of over him. Jordan let out a long breath as though to calm himself, and when his eyes met Derek’s, they were full of trust, but also nervousness that Derek had every intention of taking away.

Derek nodded towards the pillows at the head of the bed, and rested a hand on Jordan’s arm. “Think you can shift up here a little for me?”

Jordan did as asked, awkwardly laying his hands over each other on a thin stretch of skin above his jeans. Derek looked at that skin in fascination, idly wondering what response he’d get if he bent down to lick it. The look on Jordan’s face stopped him though, reminding himself to slow down, take things one at a time.

Instead, Derek reached out, a thumb and finger resting on the button of Jordan’s jeans but not moving any further. “Can I?” he asked, keeping perfectly still, watching as Jordan gave a hesitant nod and dropped his hands to the sides to clench tight into the duvet.

Derek flicked open the button and slowly slid down Jordan’s fly, his eyes never leaving Jordan’s even as he gave a little gasp at the sudden freedom he felt from his jeans. Derek raised his hands, fingers skimming over his hips and hooking lightly under the edge of his boxers. He leaned down to kiss Jordan then, again asking for permission.

Jordan nodded a little faster this time, breathing hard as Derek slid his thumbs down under the fabric. His fingers spread out and did the same; when Jordan felt Derek pulling his boxers and jeans he raised his hips, allowing Derek to pull them down and off slowly in one go.

Derek couldn’t stop himself from looking down; Jordan was swollen hard and straining, and possibly the most glorious thing Derek had ever seen in his life. His mouth watered, and again he had to stop himself from allowing his thoughts to wander to things Jordan definitely didn’t seem ready for just yet. Derek made a mental list of all the things he wanted to try with him and had to resist the urge to start palming at himself.

Instead, he dragged his eyes upward to meet Jordan’s, mumbling, “Fuck, Jordan. You any idea how hot you are?”

This seemed to be the very thing to say, because the tension Derek had seen Jordan holding on to slipped away as he offered up a shy smile. Derek rewarded him with a kiss, his hand gently resting on his stomach and pushing his shirt up a little, exposing more skin that he couldn’t resist swirling his thumb over.

“This is where I need to ask if you trust me,” Derek said quietly, one hand now resting around Jordan’s hip. He waited until Jordan nodded, then nodded back in turn, taking his own levelling breath before allowing himself to continue.

Derek brushed his fingers gently from the base of Jordan’s cock and upwards, feeling it jump in response and hearing his breath hitch in surprise. He swirled his thumb in a circle over Jordan’s cock head, smearing down the precum already pooling there and smiling at the startled noise that blasted out of his lips.

Gently, Derek wrapped his fingers around Jordan’s length, feeling himself straining against his own zipper at the weight of him in his hand. And slowly, his eyes never leaving Jordan’s, not even for a second, he began stroking him, slow and steady.

Derek could never have fantasised adequately about just how good Jordan sounded, or felt there beneath him. He watched his face, and the way his lips parted, listening to the litany of surprised moans that escaped with each stroke. Every time Derek circled his thumb over Jordan’s head, he gave a choking whine, and Derek smiled in encouragement.

When Jordan involuntarily began thrusting into Derek’s hand, his eyes widened, and he shook his head from side to side against his pillow as though he thought he was doing something wrong.

“It’s okay, Jordan. It’s good. Real good,” Derek licked his lips, cataloguing every one of Jordan’s moves and moans.

“I feel…” Jordan blurted out in a hurry then came to an immediate stop, worry laced through his voice and across his face.

“What do you feel?” Derek leaned down to kiss him, nuzzling against and reassuring him without altering his grip even for a moment.

“I feel… there’s heat. In my abdomen. And it feels stretched. Too stretched,” Jordan’s words came out hurried, and panicked, and he looked down at Derek’s hand wrapped around him then back up to his face, his expression caught between fear and pleasure as though he couldn’t decide which thing he should be feeling more.

“It’s okay. I promise. It’s supposed to feel like that. I promise,” Derek told him, claiming himself a sweet kiss and smiling in reassurance all over again.

“And my…” Jordan’s voice came out shy, and his gaze fell back down at himself. Derek stopped his stroking to see if he would find the words he needed, and Jordan whimpered in protest, which had Derek smiling triumphantly at. Pressing another kiss to his lips, Derek thought he knew what Jordan was meaning, dropping his hand down slowly to cup and begin to play with his balls. Jordan answered that with another startled gasp and a wanton sound blasting out of his mouth, his knees falling open and Derek’s own cock straining hard against his fly for the sight of it.

“S’good, Jordan,” Derek mumbled thickly, fingers massaging and pressing in all the ways he liked on himself, “do that. Open your legs a little more for me,”

Jordan did just that, letting out yet another surprised moan. “Are they… should they feel like that?” he asked in a whisper, watching Derek’s hand as it moved.

“Like what?”

“Tight. Like they’re… tensing up,”

Derek nodded, biting down on his lip to try to maintain some kind of control over himself, taking in the nervous though clearly lust-blown expression on Jordan’s face and not knowing how long he was going to last himself just for looking at him.

“It’s so hot. So hot. In my stomach. I don’t know if-”

“Shh…” Derek kissed away his doubt, his hand shifting back to start stroking his cock again, loving how Jordan arched immediately in his touch, “it’s okay. It’s supposed to feel like that,”

Jordan’s eyes fluttered and his mouth opened and closed, choked gasps punctuating the thrust of his hips.

“I’m going to speed up a little, okay?” Derek asked, waiting again for permission before doing just that.

“Derek,” Jordan gasped out urgently, the worry back in his voice and a tight grasp against his shirt, “Derek… I don’t know if I can-”

“Does it hurt?” Derek asked softly, releasing him for a second to lick over his hand a few times then gripping him again in a slicker hold, keeping up the same rhythm as before but ready to stop if Jordan asked him to, relieved when he shook his head repeatedly.

“Is it bad?”

“Nno. No, Derek. Not bad. Feels really good. Really good. But I don’t know if-”

“Hey,” Derek whispered, pressing another kiss into his lips, “I promise. It’s gonna be okay. I promise,” then licked his way into his mouth, thrusting his tongue in time with the pumping of his hand, his breath catching as Jordan groaned heavily in response, jerking up his hips and shuddering all over.

“Can I make you come, Jordan?” he asked quietly, in between more kisses, “Please?”

Jordan’s eyes were wide but he was nodding rapidly in agreement, his mouth gaping open as Derek changed the pressure and pace of his stroking again.

“Derek,” he choked out, and suddenly that was the only word he seemed able to remember. Over and over he chanted Derek’s name, the tone of it heading straight to Derek’s own cock in a way that told him he would come hard and fast himself later. He kept his focus on Jordan though, revelling in the way Jordan writhed at his touch and his hands gripped knuckle-white to the bed.

“Derek,” he stammered out, a tremble in his voice, and a terrified look on his face as he looked down to watch Derek’s now furious pounding of his cock.

“It’s good, I promise, you’re doing so good,”

“Derek…” Jordan’s tone was urgent, reverent, terrified and in awe. Derek held his breath as Jordan gave one final, jerky thrust up into his hand, moaning out the dirtiest of sounds Derek thought he’d ever heard, and coming hard and hot over Derek’s hand and his own stomach.

Jordan seemed to melt against the bed, his breath coming out in short, sharp bursts. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and Derek pressed a kiss into his temple, tasting the salt there and nuzzling against him.

Derek gently milked him until his hips began to stutter, then removed his hand, resting it lightly against his hip. Jordan closed his eyes as he forced deep breaths into himself, and for a moment Derek wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But then his eyes cracked open and his hand reached out, shakily grabbing the back of Derek’s neck and forcing him down into a messy, grateful kiss, which Derek was more than happy to oblige him with.

When Jordan pulled away, Derek rested his head on his chest for a second, then placed a kiss there, before sitting up to look around the room for something to wipe him down with. He picked up Jordan’s discarded boxers from the floor and cleaned him up as best he could before roughly wiping his own hand, then lay back down beside him, waiting.

Jordan reached out a hesitant arm, looping around Derek’s shoulders and pulling him into his side.

“You good?” Derek asked, relieved to feel Jordan kiss his hair and mumble into it, then turned to smile into the crook of his neck with his own smile. They lay in silence for a while, Derek enjoying the simplicity of just watching Jordan’s chest rise and fall as his hand rested gently against it. He almost complained when Jordan turned so that they were facing one another, his eyes intently focused on Derek’s own once again and immediately biting back a gasp as without warning Jordan reached out to stroke along Derek’s still swollen length though his jeans.

“Do you want me to…?” Jordan’s voice drifted off uncertainly, and there was a frown on his face that Derek couldn’t help kiss away, “I… don’t know if I could… as good… but…”

Derek would not say out loud how adorable an embarrassed-sounding Jordan was, but he would think it over and over and smile internally.

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling against his lips, “this was about you,” though part of him was aching to get back to his own room and get his hands on himself, no matter how good it felt being snuggled up to Jordan as he was.

“But doesn’t it… isn’t it uncomfortable?”

“Sure. But it’s fine. I’ll… deal with it later,” he added, knowing his cheeks flushed at his own words. Jordan sucked his lower lip into his mouth and kept palming at him despite Derek’s words, leaving Derek helpless but to groan against him.

“Derek. Don’t you want me to see?”

Derek’s hand reached up instantly to cup Jordan’s face, forcing him to look at him. “If you want me, I’m yours, Jordan. And you can see all of me. Anything you want. Anything at all,” which had Jordan smiling again, then raising his eyebrows as if to prompt him on.

Derek kept Jordan’s gaze as he reached down, fumbling open his own button and fly, shifting just enough to free himself and his cock springing out thickly against Jordan’s thigh. Jordan’s eyes fell to look at Derek pressed up against him and smiled, looking pleased with himself, then leaned over Derek and pressed him onto his back, encouraging him to stay there. Jordan shifted to make himself comfortable, propping himself up on one arm, his eyes fixed on Derek’s hand expectantly.

Derek’s cock jumped in response at that look, and he knew from here on out, Jordan would be able to get him to do literally anything he wanted him to. He wrapped his hand around himself, groaning deeply at the contact and bucking his hips up a little without any control over the movement. Jordan bit down on his own lip at that, his eyes riveted as Derek began stroking himself.

“Derek,” he breathed, wonder in his voice that only added to the feeling building in Derek as he quickened his pace, his other hand reaching down to cup his balls. Jordan’s eyes widened and his tongue darted out to flick against his lips as he kept watching.

Derek let his knees fall open, and to his surprise, Jordan wriggled down the bed, transfixed by Derek’s hands. Derek may have felt a little self conscious for a few seconds, but the looks Jordan kept sneaking up at him, and the way he stared open mouthed at him touching himself did nothing but make Derek groan low and loud, completely forgetting even the thought of feeling nervous.

“Jordan,” he stuttered out, and Jordan looked startled at first, but then pleased at the use of his name. Derek gave up any lingering sense of holding back then, throwing his head back against the pillow and working himself furiously. Jordan’s name was on his lips with the final thrust that tipped him over the edge, coming in thick stripes over his own chest. Jordan’s smile was a mile wide as he looked up at Derek with an expression that read nothing but awe.

Derek closed his eyes as he took a moment to get his breath back, but they shot open again at the feel of Jordan swiping his finger through the come on his chest and sucking it into his mouth with a soft hum. The way he darted his tongue out over his fingertip for more of the taste Derek was sure was going to have him hard again in seconds, but then Jordan’s expression became tender as he mirrored Derek’s earlier actions and wiped him down, and Derek felt himself grinning like an idiot. Happiness settled in Derek’s chest at the thought of many more times like this for them together, if Jordan allowed it, if Jordan wanted it, and god, how Derek hoped that he wanted it.

They turned back to face each other, far too spent to begin the conversation that they needed to have, yet unable to keep their hands and eyes away from each other. Instead, Jordan whispered, sounding so hopeful himself, a single request for him to stay.

Derek answered by gesturing for Jordan to move so that they could wriggle beneath the duvet, but not before removing his shirt and waiting for him to do the same. He pressed one more lingering kiss to Jordan’s lips and took a moment to trace his fingers through the stubble at his jaw. Then he pulled him close, sighing with contentment at the feel of Jordan curled naked against him.

 

As Nature Intended – Extract

As Nature Intended Edit 2

Elliot remembered with painful clarity the events that had led up to the exact moment he thought his life might be effectively over.

One early evening the week after his fourteenth birthday during a sweltering summer, Elliot was stood on his aunt Ellie’s porch in the still blazing sun, sipping on homemade lemonade, when he first felt an unfamiliar ache in his lower back. He and his cousin Sebastian had been busy playing with the family’s new puppy, chasing it back and forth across the lawn, and in and out of the small cluster of trees at the bottom of the garden for most of the day, so it had taken him a while to notice, acknowledging far too late that the pain had been with him since early that morning.

By the time the sun finally set, Elliot’s skin was glistening with sweat, and a fever raged just beneath the surface like an itch he couldn’t scratch. His pulse raced, his heart trembled with a sense of anticipation, and coursing through his entire body was the palpable need to be ready, all radiating out from a point deep inside himself that ached in a way he didn’t understand.

Aunt Ellie had sent him to bed with pain relief and a soothing kiss to his temple, a grim set to her jaw that told Elliot even then, that she knew something that he did not. And when the following morning came, when that ache and need had him writhing and moaning in unaccustomed agony, leaving him trying to seek friction, and fullness that he couldn’t place, Elliot understood. With quiet horror, he moved, feeling a leaking slickness coming from him that soaked straight through his clothes and the sheets beneath him on the bed, leaving him unable to deny his new truth.

Omega.

An oppressive stillness had come to him then, forcing up memories of biology classes in school that he’d thought he’d tuned out at the time. About how somewhere along the line of humanity, it had become possible for both men and women to conceive offspring, and that from that development was borne the Alpha, Beta and Omega dynamic. Betas carried on much as regular people always had done throughout human history, but instinct drove Alphas to impregnate, and Omegas to get pregnant, with those needs underwriting every aspect of an Alpha or Omega’s life. During a period of population crisis, the allele for Omega had shifted from recessive to dominant, and Alpha to recessive, with geneticists theorizing it was because a single Alpha could impregnate many Omegas, and were therefore in an evolutionary sense far less essential. Elliot remembered joking about telling that to his Alpha friends, and the laughs it had gotten around the class.

Elliot also remembered from those classes the apparent fucked up way the human body chose to reproduce. How once upon a time, many, many generations ago, when the world was evidently an even worse state than it was then in Elliot’s lifetime, women could carry a healthy baby to full term at around nine months. But in Elliot’s lifetime, male Omegas statistically proved stronger breeders, had overall better fertility, could endure gestation periods of almost eight months, where most Beta women, if they made it at all, could barely cope with six. Omega women fell somewhere in between, and considered very rare, but were still at higher risk of complications than Omega men.

That only two genders were legally recognized, when an entire spectrum of creation, and existing was possible between people, would continue to baffle Elliot, even then, in that moment, trapped in a sterile waiting room where he was waiting for his results to be confirmed and unable to stop his thoughts from wandering, desperate for good news.

He had already paced around the room several times, pausing once or twice to glare at his reflection in the mirror to critique his appearance, taking in the family trait of strawberry blond hair that on his cousin Sebastian appeared red in places yet on himself Elliot could only think to describe as dirty. Pale blue eyes stared back at him, accusatory and mocking, goading him into actions he wanted no part of, until he had to turn away, only to be drawn back once again to looking at all his flaws, seeking out a visible reason for his predicament.

Elliot strained to hear the nurse beyond the closed door, but only muffled voices taunted him. The waiting left him incensed with fear, because the last thing he needed was for what was happening to him then to really be happening. But he could feel it intensifying in him, his instincts fighting to be allowed to surface and force him into wanting things he really didn’t want to think about. There was no other word for it; Elliot was frightened. He remembered that first, overwhelming heat, when he’d thrashed and begged for things he didn’t know, couldn’t understand, as his family stood by helpless and unable to do anything for him, and that aching sense of hard arousal so out of place in his innocent fourteen-year-old body that left him feeling wrong, and broken. Corrupted.

He remembered scaring Sebastian, only a year younger than him yet almost the same height, his petrified eyes peering at Elliot through a crack in the door as Uncle Bernard and Aunt Ellie tried to soothe him, tried not to look at Elliot as though he was different, something fearsome to them, because they didn’t really know what they needed to do.

Elliot remembered hearing Uncle Bern’s panicked call to his already-absent father, Carl, and his subsequent though much-delayed arrival, only to glance over Elliot with callous eyes that told Elliot one thing; this was his final failure as a son being what he was.

Remembering all those things, Elliot couldn’t, wouldn’t allow the Omega in him to rise and force such mindless need on him. It would not be his reality, and he would do all he could to fight it, whatever it took. He closed his eyes to the final assault of his most painful of memories. Of overhearing snatches of a phone conversation between his aunt and a doctor. Of being given sedatives, then picked up and carried in gentle, loving arms, bundled into a car and driven to an imposing-looking clinic to figure this out.

The Heat suppressants prescribed for him at the time, a carton of pills pushed across a pharmacy counter into his trembling young hands and clutched there as though they were his lifeline, had worked ever since. He’d lived normal – as normal as he could do, anyway, and more than that, he’d lived well. They couldn’t fail him, not after how hard he had worked.

Those muffled voices he still couldn’t make out were ending their conversation. Elliot swallowed hard and straightened in his chair, then leapt up to follow the nurse as soon as she appeared to beckon him into an office. He sat rigidly and watched her work, precise fingers typing furiously at a computer, not paying him any attention until she had completed what she needed to do.

“So?” Elliot asked, the moment she looked up at him, because patience was not a gift he’d been blessed with. “Tell me.”

The nurse looked at him kindly, and it was the worst look Elliot could have hoped to receive. Without her even opening her mouth, enough hesitance in the nurse’s expression for Elliot to know what she was about to tell him.

“It would seem, Mr. Roderick, that the reason your suppressors have ceased working to full effectiveness is because your body is ready for you to breed,”

***

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On Being Guided

Jason’s recently acknowledged his attraction for men. His friend- now boyfriend, Michael, is helping him come to terms with that.

This is NOT safe for work, just to warn you. For those of you who follow/have followed me elsewhere, you might recognise this story in another guise 😉

“I’m sorry for being such a girl about this,” Jason mumbles, and instantly looks up at the click of disapproval Michael is giving him.

“I’ll never understand why being nervous about a new experience is something that is purely a feminine thing,” Michael tells him with a stern look, “or why being ‘a girl’ in this situation is meant to be something derogatory,”

Jason winces, instantly chastised, and reaches out his fingers to tangle around Michael’s. He’s not used to this, not used to watching his words, thinking before he’s speaking, and up until a few weeks ago, when he gave into his interest in Michael, Jason had thought nothing of the usual banter that he’d grown up hearing from his father and older brother. It’s been a steep learning curve, and Michael has been a very attentive teacher. In more ways than one.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, grimacing to himself. “It’s just a… kneejerk kind of expression,”

“It is an outdated one,” Michael tells him firmly again, raising a shrewd eyebrow.

For a moment, Jason feels cornered, like he always does when he’s said something wrong. But soon Michael is relenting, rolling his eyes a little, but smiling as he nudges himself in between Jason’s legs where he’s sitting, and bending down to kiss him.

“There is nothing wrong with being nervous about this, Jason. It would be ridiculous if you weren’t,”

Jason purses his lips together and nods, trying to believe that.

It’s a few weeks into, what Michael still gets the strangest jolt in his stomach for acknowledging, their relationship, and while they’ve grown skilled with their fingers and mouths on each other, they’ve still been moving the physical side of things between them along at a slow, undemanding pace.

Yesterday, when Michael had trapped their leaking cocks between their stomachs and rolled down on Jason until they both came, Jason had allowed himself to wonder what it might feel like to have something more. The subsequent ache all the way up inside him for imagining that had him closing his eyes to it, and tucking himself firmly into Michael’s side.

Jason and Michael have known each other a couple of years now, forming an instant friendship when they’d been paired with one another in an evening Spanish class and gone for a beer afterwards. Speaking in Spanish is fairly easy for them after all this time, with neutral subjects such as ordering food and discussing opinions on whatever is in the news. But actual, honest speaking in his own native tongue, revealing what he honestly thinks and feels, is an alien concept to Jason. Yet another thing that Michael has been going out of his way to teach him.

So, because speaking is a thing they do with each other now, instead of loaded silences and so many possibilities for misunderstandings, Jason had said exactly that. How he thought he might be ready to take that further step between them. How he wanted to find out what it might feel like to have Michael actually inside him. The moment the words were passed his lips, Jason felt that aching clench again, and realised just how badly he really, really wanted that to happen.

Michael’s pupils had dilated to hear it, and Jason had watched as he’d swallowed repeatedly before he could speak. His kisses had been loaded with want, and promise, and carefully they agreed that it would happen sometime soon.

Very soon.

Telling himself they weren’t going to make a big deal out of this, Jason had mumbled a suggestion about maybe getting a room somewhere so they had privacy for it. Not that it was a big deal, or that they were making an event out of it or anything like that. Not out loud, anyway.

And as he’d packed up an overnight bag, Jason’s eyes had fallen onto the bottle of lube he’d brought with blushing cheeks at the pharmacy, and he’d had to drop down on the bed, clutching his head in his hands, and tell himself not to be such an idiot.

But here they were now, in a hotel much too nice not to acknowledge the importance of what was about to happen between them.

Michael uses the tangle of their fingers to guide Jason to his feet, dropping them to cup his face and pull him closer for a gentle kiss. Jason sighs into it, wrapping his arms around Michael’s waist and dropping his eyes closed as Michael presses right up against him.

Undressing each other has become something of a cherished routine between them, with every revealing of skin comes a brushing of lips or hands, leaving them both gasping for more. As always, Michael is the one who’s guiding them to lay down on the bed, and as his hand runs up from Jason’s knee, to his thigh, and rests lightly on his hip as he leans over him, the look he gives Jason is nothing but heated.

Jason reaches out a hand and wraps it around Michael’s cock, as Michael begins a trail of kisses over his skin. He doesn’t miss a spot; neck, cheek, ear, only pausing to give the occasional thrust into Jason’s hand and follow it up with a soft groan.

Michael reaches down and gently grips around Jason’s wrist, bringing it and his other hand to lie flat on the bed at waist level, and pins them there. He’s leaning completely over Jason and kneeling between his legs, and begins a trail of kisses down his chest.

When he’s at eye level with Jason’s cock, he glances up for a second, then flicks his tongue out and over the head, smirking at the stutter Jason gives in response. Michael wants to suck him into his mouth entirely, but already knows Jason’s body well enough not to overstimulate him all in one go. So, he moves on, raining kisses over his stomach, hips, and down his thighs, before pressing another kiss into each kneecap. With light fingers, he lifts Jason’s knees, encouraging him to lay his feet flat against the bed.

Michael presses lightly on Jason’s inner thighs until they’re parted as comfortably as he can get them. Only then does he look up and over Jason, and the look Michael gives him then makes Jason’s cock twitch just to see how much he’s wanted. With another kiss to his thigh, Michael leans up for a moment to reach for the bottle of lube Jason’s got next to him on the pillow. He kneels back between Jason’s legs, looking down at the bottle in thought before uncapping it.

“You know, Jason,” he begins, drizzling the gel onto his fingers, “I still can’t believe you’d never even used lube for you and me started… you know,” then raises his eyes to Jason and smirks. Jason’s cock twitches again, and Michael reaches out to swipe up the precum there, smiling again as Jason judders at his touch.

“I know,” Jason manages to choke out, “I know. But-”

“I’m not complaining, here. Seeing your face the first time I jerked you off with my hand all slicked up is probably one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says triumphantly, scissoring his fingers in mid-air as he warms the gel. “Are you ready?” he asks then, glancing back up to Jason.

Jason sucks in a breath and nods rapidly, swallowing hard. His eyes are fixed firmly on Michael’s fingers as they dip between his legs, and as Michael uses one hand to hold him gently open, Jason’s juddering breath makes Michael pause, and look back up.

“Jason-”

“It’s okay. It’s good. Just… nervous,” Jason chokes out, nodding at him and opening his legs a little wider.

Michael looks back down, and slowly presses the tip of his finger in until the first knuckle disappears, glancing up again. Jason is nodding, so he slides in a little further, and a little more, until Jason’s blowing out a shallow breath, and flicking him a smile that tells him to keep going.

So Michael does exactly that, pressing his finger in as far as it can go. He stays there, letting Jason get used to the feel of the intrusion for a moment before withdrawing it again. He pumps it in again slowly, drawing it back out, then slowly in again, and it’s on the third stroke in that Jason gives a surprised moan that says he’s liking it.

Michael glances up, receiving another smile that encourages him on. He continues stroking in and out of Jason whilst holding eye contact, and Jason’s breathing becomes heavier as he watches. When Michael withdraws his finger this time and he feels him pushing in two at once, the strange, burning pleasured sensation it shoots through him has Jason dropping his head back against the pillow in a thud. Michael keeps stroking into him as though he’s in no hurry at all, smiling at the noises Jason is making.

It’s when he presses in and around Jason’s walls, scissoring his fingers and glancing them against his prostate, that Jason lets out a long, low grown, and arches up, unconsciously pressing himself down on Michael’s fingers with a grunt.

By the time Michael has drizzled more lube on his fingers and is sliding three fingers in and out of him at a steady pace, Jason is a whimpering mess, writhing and shaking his head back and forth on his pillow as his cock strains erect and leaking.

“Do you think you are ready, Jason?” Michael asks, and Jason’s grabbing for him as though he’s trying to drag him up the bed.

Michael shifts onto his knees again from where he’d sat cross legged as he’d worked Jason open, rolls a condom over himself, and with his fingers pumping into Jason to keep him used to the feeling, he awkwardly uncaps the lube and slicks himself up.

Michael kneels forward, lining himself up between his fingers to press bluntly against him, looking at Jason again, to make sure he is absolutely sure. When Jason nods, Michael slowly withdraws his hand, and he’s convinced he can hear Jason’s heart thudding. He presses his hole open with his thumbs and rests his cock head there, but doesn’t move any further until Jason nods again.

Michael rolls his hips only a touch, and only until the head of his cock slips inside him. He bites back the groan rippling through him at how good that feels, because Jason’s stuttering and tensing beneath him, and Michael doesn’t want to rush him. So Michael waits, until he feels Jason relax enough for him to push in again.

He gets a little further in, and Jason’s scrambling his hands out for him, calling out Michael’s name in a panic and gripping hard on to his forearms. Michael stops, slides his hands up and on to Jason’s stomach and rests them there, waiting again. He smiles when Jason unscrews his eyes and stares up at him in astonishment, and in another moment, he feels the give around his cock that says he can press in again.

Jason’s breathing out shallower and shallower with every inch that Michael is filling him, and when Michael is fully inside him, Jason lets out a soft, choked cry that immediately has Michael tensing up with worry.

He leans forward to kiss Jason softly, nuzzling against him. “Are you okay?” he mumbles into his lips, then pulls back enough so that he can see all of his face, to make sure that Jason is going to be honest about what he’s thinking, and feeling.

Jason nods his head frantically, shakes it a little, then laughs at himself. “I don’t know, Michael. It feels… I don’t know how it feels,” he says, and Michael knows he’s holding his breath, tensing against the feel of him buried inside him, not knowing what to do with it yet.

“Can we give it a minute?” Jason asks haltingly, his fingers fluttering anxiously at Michael’s sides, seeming torn between wanting to touch him, wanting to not offend him by not being more enthusiastic already, and just plain scared.

“Of course. We’ll take as much time as you need,” Michael reassures him, before smiling again, shifting so that he can brace himself against the bed better, and starts a long, leisurely kiss, that soon has Jason sighing out relaxed and reaching his arms up to loop around his neck.

“I think you can move now,” Jason whispers against his lips after a little while, and Michael waits another moment before doing just that.

Michael can’t stop the groan escaping this time as he rocks himself out and slides all the way back into him, because Jason feels so good, so tight, warm and slick, and everything feels so right, that there’s no way to not show how much he’s enjoying this. And after a few, purposefully slow thrusts, Jason’s giving that soft, surprised moan of appreciation he’d given earlier, letting his hands drift down Michael’s back and rest around his hips.

Michael rocks into him and does his best to keep his movements even, and steady, and Jason’s breaths are coming out more and more erratic and surprised. When Michael shifts how he’s kneeling, Jason lets out a stifled bark of a grunt, and Michael smirks, knowing exactly what, and where, his cock is hitting. He winks at Jason, and Jason gives a small burst of laughter to see it, then begins rolling his hips up in time with Michael’s, still with that look of utter amazement on his face.

And soon they’re a writhing, moaning mess, lips pressed into skin and glancing against one another as Michael reaches between them and begins stroking Jason’s cock. Jason lets out a noise that sounds a lot like a keening whimper, and he’s glancing down at Michael’s hand around him and up at his face like he’s about to burst with every sensation he’s experiencing at once.

Michael slows his pace a touch because of Jason’s expression, and now Jason really is whimpering, grabbing him impossibly closer, shaking his head, pleading brokenly for Michael to keep fucking him just there

At the encouragement, Michael is relentless, and Jason is choking out, tensing up, chanting his name hoarsely as his orgasm builds, and builds, and builds to an intensity where there’s a roar in his ear and a wave rushing through him, and he’s coming in a long arch that feels like it starts somewhere up at his throat and ends down at where Michael is deep inside him. Michael moans out to see it, and uncontrollably starts pounding into him harder, falling forward, growling out Jason’s name until he stiffens, arching hard against him, before spilling himself in Jason with a deep, rumbling groan.

Michael falls forward on Jason’s chest, and Jason gives a little huff at the weight of him, before pressing an absent kiss into the side of his head. He wraps his arms tightly around him, holding Michael firmly in place for a moment as his heart continues racing, before Michael is sliding himself out and falling heavily beside him.

The moment Michael hits the bed, he’s opening his arms wide to Jason and whispering for him to, “Come here,” then wrapping his arms securely around him as Jason buries himself into his chest. Michael rubs soothing circles into his back and repeatedly drops kisses down on the top of his head, until he feels the tremble in Jason subside, and knows that he is calm.

Michael waits a little longer, until Jason raises his head and looks up at him, his mouth curving up with a smile that is both shocked, and happily sated. It’s at that point that Michael grins at him, leaps up with a lot more energy than Jason thinks he should be feeling, and definitely doesn’t feel himself, and returns with a wash cloth to gently clean him down. Then he’s crawling back beside Jason, pulling him into his arms again, and kissing him firmly on the mouth, all while still grinning wide.

“Don’t know what you’re looking so pleased with yourself about,” Jason grumbles, although his grin has spread just as stupidly.

“Yes, you do,” Michael tells him, raising an eyebrow as he smiles once more. Then presses forward and claims another kiss.

A Wasted Evening

It’s time to give up.

This wasn’t meant for you, anyway, not really, wasn’t something you ever dreamed you’d get to experience. And look how right you were about that; nothing has happened between you at all. Not for all those looks, those lingering fingers that have pressed into your skin in passing, nor the whisper of a thousand unspoken words, that all of the holy sonnets would have paled in comparison to, if only you could hear them said out loud.

He doesn’t want you. Or in truth, he does, you know he does, but he won’t let himself. And if you’re honest, that’s the thing that’s hurting most about this – the denial of it all. These feelings might be frightening for their intensity, and his fears things that you can’t ever know. But you hear him without him speaking, and you know him, more than he allows anyone else to know. Yet still, he won’t. And it’s not frustrating, or excruciating anymore, it’s just numbing. Numbness that spreads its way through you, for every snatched back hand, every clenched jaw biting back words, every almost action. Because not acting says just as much as acting ever does; more even. And by not acting, he has left you this; stranded, in ways you never thought be stranded. In places you were never meant to tread.

You could have, you tell yourself, said, or done something yourself, been the one to make that all-important first move, or first confession. But since you lack the experience, and have, foolishly, romanticised things between you, you have always secretly hoped that he’d be the one to show you the lead in this. And maybe that’s selfish, naive, or just too hopeful. But how can you be anything else, when hoping is the way he’s taught you how to live?

Maybe you’re just not enough for him, and this is his way of telling you. He whispers it in sentences that never pass his lips, seals them in the flicker of an eye, or a tilt of a chin that says, you aren’t anything to me; sure as hell aren’t enough. So maybe it’s not numbness you’ve been feeling, but just acceptance. Acknowledgement of all the ways in which you lack.

It’s over now.

In all the time you’ve known each other, there’s been enough time to realise, to notice, that this isn’t where you belong. He is not who you belong to. You belong nowhere, tethered only by the torment of the thoughts you allow yourself to have, when none of this was ever yours.

The waitress is pretty, you think to yourself, a mass of curls and a warm smile that widens every time she catches your eye. He taught you this game, you remind yourself, shifting in discomfort, wondering if that’s the answer to this low, gnawing pain that’s eating away at you, core deep; losing yourself in the pleasure of something you’ve never been attracted to, never even really seen much point to, when it wasn’t with someone that you loved.

Love, you scoff to yourself, returning that smile just a little too brightly as you signal for another drink, love wasn’t something meant for you. Nor was home, peace, or quiet, but you fooled yourself into thinking that they might have been once – more than once, actually. And each time it was snatched away from you, crumbled before your very eyes, or just denied. And it hurts, it hurts to feel like this. Why would anyone choose to feel this way, you ask yourself in astonishment. Surely there are more, better things to feel, than the sensation that your heart is being shred apart.

The evening drags on, the drink burns your throat, but it’s the way you’ve been taught to grieve, so there’s really nothing else you can do. Or would know how to do, you amend, then laugh, adding the reminder that there is nowhere for you to go, besides home. And home is just a reminder that you are alone; that he doesn’t want you. Because you were meant to be with him tonight, and you mistook that invite for something as more than friendship. The look on his face when you’d blurted your rehearsed words out telling him that You could isn’t a sobering thought, but is enough to signal for another refill.

It’s so late now; perhaps you can stumble your way on a walk somewhere, down a rain-soaked street on a storm-filled night. You can even convince yourself that your feet won’t carry you back to his, to look up at his window willingly, and wish that you were inside, in his warmth.

You stand, hands wide around the bar stool as you right yourself, fight for your wallet, throw bills down on the counter that you don’t even count. Turning is an interesting feeling, as is the knowledge that you’re not sure if you can even make it to the door. The door where he is now standing, you think, jolting a little, blinking repeatedly and telling yourself he’s just a figment of your imagination, or a conjuring of all the spirits you’ve been drinking.

If you weren’t so numb you’d pinch yourself.

Drawing strength from depths flooded by oceans of alcohol, you square your shoulders, suck in a breath that pricks sickness into your throat for all you’ve been drinking, yet you fight it back. Stand as tall, proud as you can, though proud is not how you feel. You stagger towards him, words muted of their meaning that you still fight to try to form into value, heart pulsing, every pound pulling you closer to him.

No amount of whiskey will ever dull his features to you. You can make out his eyes, his cautious smile, the twitch of his hands that are an invitation, even through all that fog in your mind. And as you get closer, those features morph and shift with every pace. Sadness, shame, guilt. Longing. Love. Hope?

“I’m sorry. I overreacted. I panicked,” he tells you, his fingertips grazing just above your elbows, seeping heat through your jacket into you skin as he rights you, the breath of space between you as he draws you near making you realise just unsteady you are. “Can we start over? Can we talk?”

It’s everything that you want to hear; everything.

“Let’s get you home,” he tells you, and how do four simple words have such power over you? How do they succeed in wiping out all the melancholy you’ve been feeling all evening? How can they restore all that hope that you dissolved in glass upon emptied glass?

The blast of cool night air against your face is alarming, and as you stumble at the force of it, his grip tightens for just a second before dropping altogether. You curl after it, missing his touch already, but there’s no need; a warm, steadying arm is thrown around your shoulder, pulling you too him, and even more alarming is the kiss pressed to your temple as he guides you towards his car.

The tenderness with which he gets you seated and secured is overwhelming, and you tell yourself it’s the whiskey speaking when the look in his eyes is so soft, you could sink into them. As is the way that when he’s seated, he grabs your hand, drags it across to his lap and presses, secures it there, like it belongs there, for the entire drive.