Fic: As the Tide [Inevitable] - Colton/Posey
Fandom: Teen Wolf RPF
Pairing: Colton Haynes/Tyler Posey
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,719
Warnings: AU, PWP, shower sex, fingering, oral, comeplay, oblivious!Colton, recreational drug use
Notes: Written for transfixeddream for his Colton/Posey Exchange. I ended up taking a couple of his prompts mixed in with some likes and hitting puree, so hopefully it'll still be something you'll enjoy Trav!
Summary - If Colton ever treated a guy the way Tyler treats him, he'd either have a restraining order slapped on his ass or a ring on his finger. As it stands, he’s not sure a restraining order would be enough to keep him away from Tyler, and that’s just one of the numerous Posey-adjacent reasons his life is fucked.
Sand scrapes against worn wood like a gasp in the silence, punctuated by the steady pitter of salt water dripping from the hem of Colton's drenched shorts. Last he saw, Dylan and Hoechlin were still playing totalitarian dictatorship with the keg, but that was before Posey decided to reenact the opening scene of Jaws, so it's entirely possible they're already back. If so then there's no telling how many people are camped out in the living room, but at the moment Colton wouldn't feel too bad about waking any of them up with the racket he and Tyler are making weaving down the back hall - no less than they deserve for leaving him alone to rescue Posey from himself.
Tyler giggles, bumping into yet another wall, and with any other straight guy Colton knows, the fact that the word 'giggle' is in play at all would be cause for major harassment once everybody’s sobered up, but Tyler just uses it as an excuse to try and make Colton carry him, so he doubts that's going to work. The unhappy squawk he makes when Colton slaps on the bathroom light is a little vindicating, though. Would be even better if he didn't manage to look all scrunchy-faced cute as he hides his eyes behind sand-speckled hands.
Forcing down that particular line of thought - and the one about the water still dripping off the ends of Tyler's hair and running down his bare chest to get absorbed by the boxers that are hugging every gift God and his mama gave him like they were painted on - Colton twists the squeaking shower tap until the pitiful drizzle that qualifies as their water pressure splutters out.
With the buttery light spilling out into the hallway behind them he can see the fine trail they tracked in. Tomorrow that's really going to piss him off when he's sweeping out the kitchen for the five hundred and twenty seven billionth time this summer but just this second he's got bigger issues to worry about. Like the fact that Tyler's eyes have recovered from shock enough to let him slip back into his usual post-show, stoned giddiness and that with Tyler that translates to handsy mother fucker.
Unlike some people around here, Colton can make it through a house party with all his clothes on, which Tyler seems to have decided is a problem since he's busy working his hands underneath the clinging hem of Colton's soaked shirt. His palms pressing to Colton's lats are warm, a little gritty, Colton's shirt plastering them to his body as Tyler works his way up until his forearms are pressed to Colton's back.
On the plus side, however sexy guys may look in pictures with wet shirts pasted to their skin, the actual feel of being sopping wet in his cruising-for-a-hookup outfit isn’t anything close to appealing. That makes it a lot easier to not take the feel of Posey molding himself to Colton's front as the invitation that it probably is. He always knew straight boys were going to be the end of him. That he managed to become best friends with the cuddliest straight boy on the planet is probably an indicator of some kind of suppressed death wish. Death by blue balls. Joy.
"Alright, c'mon, shower," he barks, trying for stern-dad voice and failing hard when Tyler leans in and licks a stripe along his jaw. This is why Tyler is not allowed to toke after he plays a show - he already has too few boundaries, adding adrenaline and THC turns him into a bizarre combination of that girl who dances on the bar after two beers and a baby sloth.
He goes, though, when Colton starts walking him backward toward the tub. Steps in amenably, dragging Colton right along with like he wasn't planning to rinse off anyway.
The water's hot enough to sting against his goosebumpy skin, bleeding warmth out over his body in a hazy-edged fan as the half an ocean trapped in his clothes meshes with the vaguely chlorine-scented stream of the shower. The infusion of water helps to unstick his shirt and shorts from his skin, making them easier to peel away and shimmy out of. Tyler less so, but Colton's developed a talent for maneuvering his way out of Posey's grabby octopus arms when he needs to. If he happens to be a little less gentle than usual, well, Tyler can deal.
"What crawled up your ass?" Tyler huffs, shoulders canted back to lean against the tile. His arms are crossed, water pooling in the crooks of his elbows and one day Colton is going to get over this schoolboy crush bullshit enough not to stare at Tyler's nipples anytime he's shirtless. And wet. God, life is unfair.
His, "Nothing, thanks to you," is a little muffled by the splash of him wringing his clothes out and flopping them limply over the curtain rod. Bitchy, but true, nonetheless. And hey, he gave
up hitting on a bi-curious lacrosse player to drag his ass out into high tide to make sure Tyler didn't drown, so he's earned the rights on bitchy.
It'd be one thing if it was the first time, too, but this is becoming almost as much a habit as waking up alone and hard with Tyler's voice lingering in his head. Colton's only gotten laid twice since they rented the house down at the shore, because summering with three other guys is not conducive to privacy and Posey is some kind of idiot-savant of cockblocking. Add to that the fact that Tyler's failure to grasp the concept of personal space makes everyone they meet assume he's Colton's boyfriend and the dick-getting well has run depressingly dry. A more paranoid man would think Tyler was doing it on purpose.
At the best of times, Tyler's not very good at staying mad, and on pot his anger threshold is essentially nonexistent, so Colton's not exactly shocked to turn around and find the pout melting off Tyler's face as he tips his head back into the spray.
His hands drift as he reaches up to skin the hair clumped to his forehead back, messy waves turning to black satin under the cascade of water. Colton watches as Tyler plays as rinsing the salt out, gets distracted dragging his nails against his scalp instead and lets out a moan that could permanently cure the scourge of erectile dysfunction if they could find a way to bottle it.
Not that anyone in this shower is having that particular issue.
Colton’s cock twitches watching Tyler’s fingers traipse down his own body and it says epic Shakespearean tragedies about Colton’s life that he’s over being self-conscious about Tyler seeing his Tyler-induced boners. Doesn't hurt the Posey has one too.
Tyler’s cock makes an indiscreet smack against his wet belly as he casually shoves his boxers down and out of the way. Suddenly reminded of the fact that they left the bathroom door wide open - around here, closing it is just an invitation for somebody to pick the lock and flush the toilet to scald your balls - Colton throws a nervous look at the curtain like it’ll turn transparent for his convenience. He doesn’t hear anything other than Tyler and the spatter of water, so either a miracle has occurred and no one is bumming on their couch, or everybody’s so trashed that they haven’t heard Tyler’s XXX throwdown. Any of which works for Colton, but- Oh, son of a bitch!
The peal of Tyler’s laugher echoes off the tiles as he shakes his head like a shaggy dog, pelting Colton with water. Blindly, Colton smacks at him, one arm raised in the defense of his face. Naturally, Tyler latches onto the wrist of the other, using it to drag him in close under the hot water. To be honest, Colton doesn't fight it as hard as he should.
In all fairness, though, his body has been conditioned to respond to the promise of impending Tyler-head-rubs, so it's not entirely his fault. He's like a sleeper cell of self-inflicted sexual frustration. And Tyler doesn't disappoint, arms sliding over Colton's shoulders so he can work his fingers slowly through Colton's hair, smoothing it back, scratching a little and now possibly Colton's the one who's risking waking the whole house up, except this time he doesn't really care. For all that Tyler lacks in wingmanship, he makes up for in apologies.
The position puts their hard-ons in close enough proximity to brush against each other every few breaths, which is doing a lot to make said breaths come a lot faster on Colton's side of the equation. Tyler’s are puffing out hot against Colton’s neck, broken like a laugh on mute. Fingers tighten in Colton’s hair, just long enough to catch and then pressure is tilting his head up to meet the slick, soft heat of Tyler’s mouth on his own.
With a groan, Colton parts his lips to the press of Tyler’s tongue, settling his hands on Tyler’s hips to pull him in the last couple of inches for some wet, slippery friction. Melting into it, Tyler lets him take control of the kiss, easy as fucking pie whenever he’s getting what he wants.
If it was anyone else, Colton would say they’re fuck buddies, but Tyler doesn’t go for guys. In fact, Tyler doesn’t even notice guys, all of his sexual attention focused on a very specific ‘type’ - one that has a lot more tits and pussy than Colton’s likely to grow at this stage in his development. But then he gets high, or drunk, or plays a show, or has too much coffee or fucking something and he feels the need to climb Colton like a jungle gym.
If Colton ever treated a guy the way Tyler treats him, he'd either have a restraining order slapped on his ass or a ring on his finger. As it stands, he’s not sure a restraining order would be enough to keep him away from Tyler, and that’s just one of the numerous Posey-adjacent reasons his life is fucked.
The muggy purr of Tyler’s, “You wanna play with my ass?” into his mouth is another one, as is the fuck, yes Colton’s mind shouts in return. Or at least he thinks it’s his mind. Could be his dick. They’ve kind of fused into a two-headed chimera beast bent on the destruction of Colton’s ability to make positive, healthy personal decisions.
What he comes out with is, “You’re fucking high,” which isn’t so much the no it should be, but isn’t quite the yes he knows it’s going to be in a minute, so it’s almost like having self-control.
Tyler hums an affirmative over the squeak of bare feet on the tub as he hitches a leg at Colton’s thigh. Trying not to overbalance, Colton grabs for handholds, ending up with one palm splayed against the tile wall and the other full of Tyler’s ass. Like nearly becoming every pathetic ‘fell in the shower and died’ news story with some extra gay sex sprinkled on top is beneath his notice, Tyler grins and rubs all up on Colton’s cock. It doesn’t do anything to help Colton with his balance but he’s not inclined to make him stop either.
“Yeah,” Tyler says, encouraging Colton’s fingers kneading at him by canting his hips up into it. Moans loud enough when Colton runs fingertips over his hole that Colton jerks forward to try and swallow the sound. If the guy had any interest in dick at all, he could make a killing playing a cockslut in porn; he’s easily the greediest bottom Colton’s ever seen.
Fumbling sideways for the conditioner, Colton manages to knock over most of the contents of their overcrowded shower caddy - how the four of them have managed to accumulate enough product to stock a sorority house bathroom, Colton will never know - bottles clattering loudly. Reflex fear shoots a thrill down his spine, one ear out for sounds that still aren’t coming from the rest of the house, but it doesn’t stop him.
He clumsily gets the bottle open, accidentally squirts enough out to coat all four fingers and the better part of his forearm besides. And wow, his brain just went to the ‘fisting Tyler’ place and that is not an idea he is equipped to handle while expecting his knees to still hold them both up.
A hurt, eager noise trickles out of Tyler at the first graze of Colton’s fingers to his hole. He murmurs, “Yeah,” again, like Colton might not be able to interpret his enthusiasm, and hitches his foot up onto the soap tray that none of them ever use because who the hell uses bar soap anymore. That move really does almost upend them, but Colton just barely manages to press himself back against the wall enough to achieve equilibrium, tile a cold shock on his skin.
The water’s going cool where it sprinkles over his feet, white noise to the heat of Tyler’s body sucking in one finger like all of him is as hungry for it as his whimpery pleas make it sound. Colton dips his head to lick at the clean skin taste of Tyler's neck, scraping a little with his teeth to earn himself one of those pretty, unrestrained shivers that makes Tyler clench up around him.
This is one of Colton's biggest addictions, fucking bulletproof kink; knowing just how to touch and stroke to make somebody beg, work them like a finely tuned machine until they're a sobbing, panting mess. Yeah. Hell yeah. He'll take that over a first time fuck any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Maybe three or four times one Sunday. That's what weekends are for, right?
There have only ever been a handful of people whose bodies he's gotten to know as well as he does Tyler's, and that's a whole different realm of complicated, but it also goes a fair way to explaining why he's never as upset as he should be about Tyler getting in the way of him actually hooking up with somebody else. That and the Olympic-sized torch he's been carrying for Posey for a year and three-quarters, but whatever.
Point is, Tyler's head lolling back on his shoulders, eyes shut and mouth open on a sigh-turned-bedroomy-groan when Colton eases another finger into him is as good or better, in Colton's opinion, than the sloppy, amateur blow he'd been planning on getting from whatshisname college boy.
Colton spreads his fingers slowly, curling them to press at all that hot silky flesh because Tyler likes to feel it, deep as he can and just on the edge of too much. Posey jerks into it hips-first, grinding against Colton's cock in the damp space between them. Typically, Tyler doesn't get as wet as Colton does, but pressed together like this, it's hard to tell; spiderweb strings of precome bridging from the head of his dick to Tyler's, pulling tight as they move, snapping, smearing. If Colton had a hand free, he'd get it around both of them, make Tyler fuck against his fingers and his cockhead at the same time, but he’s really fond of not tumbling into the tub in a big bruised tangle, so instead he hunches down so his shoulders are pressing into the wall and his hips jut out, turning the unconscious way Tyler's writhing into riding him hard.
Tyler's breath catches in his chest, a swallowed sound that bursts free as a sob. That’s when Colton knows it’s time to pull him in a fraction closer and really start working his fingers. He teases at a third one, giving in when Tyler whines but slipping the first one out again, switching from pointer-middle to middle-ring and back until there are blunt nails digging at the back of his neck and Tyler's shaking like a leaf.
"Motherfucker," Tyler snarls, bumping his forehead against Colton's and doing that repeated flex-clench thing with his inner muscles that short circuits Colton's planning and reroutes to the 'my dick votes yes' folder.
Choking on a moan, Colton says, "You want three, I'll give you three," and goes straight in, all the way to the knuckle, to nail Tyler's sweet spot. Tyler lets out a long line of 'fuck's that get wrecked when he shoves his tongue into Colton's mouth, biting and licking like he doesn’t have the brainpower to coordinate a real kiss.
There's a loud slap as Tyler's hand hits the wall next to Colton's head, palm flat, nails grating when they stick on the grout. He's tipped over from willing to desperate, Colton can see it in his face, the scrunch of his forehead and the way he wriggles on the fingers slamming into him all threatening to melt Colton's spine.
"Give me anything I want?" Tyler mumbles, rambles, one hand carding through Colton's hair and sliding down is chest, hip, nail scores left behind like lines of fire as he traces back up to do it again. Unsteady and distracted-sounding, he rubs his cheek against Colton's, nuzzling in words he's not even sure Tyler realizes he's saying. "Give me your cock? I want it in me, you know I do. Wanna feel it. Fucking holding out on me, jesusfuckingfuck, Colton."
The weight of lean muscle suddenly crushes him against the tile, Tyler precariously balanced on the ball of his foot as everything in him tightens stone-hard under Colton's hands. His ass sucks at Colton's fingers, punctuating the beginnings of a serious hand cramp, and his dick kicks, spills hot and thick all over Colton's.
It's filthy and candy-sweet and probably enough for Colton to get off on if he could just get a hand on himself, but instead he gets the slick pull of come-covered skin as Tyler eases Colton's fingers free and goes to his knees like he's all liquid inside.
Without a second's hesitation, he faceplants in Colton's crotch. His mouth is wide open, soft and uncoordinated as he licks haphazardly at the shaft, sticky gobs of come glossing his lips and turning his cheeks and chin shiny. There are things in the universe that have been hotter, but the list is pretty much limited to supernovas.
The parts of Colton’s brain that are usually in charge of movement seem to have shorted out at the moment, so he just stands there and takes all the hot breaths and slithers of damp friction as Tyler lips his way around. This isn’t something they do. Making out, handjobs, finger fucking, that’s their standard. One time Colton got really wasted and rimmed Tyler until he came screaming all over his own pillow, but that’s as adventurous as it gets. They have very strict, unspoken rules about how this goes down and Tyler, well, going down is not in the forecast.
The shower has long since gone cold, but Tyler either doesn't notice or doesn't care that one side of his body is getting drenched from the waist down. He's too busy trying to see if Colton is actually capable of climbing the walls like fucking Spiderman under the power of pure need. His face is buried in the crook of Colton's thigh, rubbing at it with his cheek and mouthing, occasionally sliding over to suckle at his balls. He looks blissed the fuck out, like breathing in the smell of his jizz on Colton's cock is just as good as pot.
Against the base of his dick, Tyler mumbles something that sounds like, "Don't like it when it's you getting teased, do you?" that Colton's honestly too caught up to dissect. He's trying to distract himself by petting at Tyler's hair instead of using it as a handle to fuck Tyler's face, but it's a losing battle.
He's about four seconds away from jacking off all over Tyler, in fact, but then Tyler's kneeling up enough to get his mouth on the tip, trapping it against Colton's stomach to make out with like a teenager. Alright, so sloppy, amateur blows were not entirely out of the picture for tonight after all, but Colton can't help feeling that this is the best possible version.
Busy staring at the stretch of Tyler's lips - soft pout with the head of his cock slipping free around the edges, dirty wriggle of velvet friction from Tyler's tongue swiping and tickling, playing with him - and listening to wet slurps and pleased little hums he's making, Colton doesn't notice for far too long that Tyler's got an arm crooked behind himself. The view's obstructed by his elbow, but it doesn't take a lot of guess work to put together the rhythmic shift of muscles in his bicep and the occassional choppy burst of hot-cold breath on Colton's spit-soaked skin.
As if he hasn't been moaning encouragement this whole time, Colton jams the side of a fist against his mouth, bites something that wants to be a whine into his knuckles and bucks his hips forward. His dick slip-skids and paints a stripe up Tyler's cheek, shocky catch of teeth before Tyler figures out what's going on. He tries hard to keep up after that but Colton's losing time to the sparkler-burn buzz flaring up his spine and jittering out along his limbs. Finally he just grabs at Tyler's hair and twists, holds him still for Colton to use his fucking face to rub himself off on.
Colton's being a complete douche about it and he knows it, but he just sort of fails to remember why he cares with how good Tyler looks down there on his knees, glazed eyed and puffy lipped, come starting to dry in milky patches on skin gone penny-copper from the sun. He's got his tongue stuck out like a welcome mat, licking whenever Colton gives him the chance, heaving in breaths like he's getting off on this just as hard as Colton is.
Usually Colton's the kind of guy to give a little warning before he goes off, but there's nothing in his relationship with Tyler that qualifies as usual and tonight they don't seem to be playing by the rules anyway. His abs burn with how hard they clench as he comes, contracting over and over as he puts the cherry on top of the mess of Tyler's face, thick blurts of come sliding down his cheek and over his bruised lips, matting up the hair at his temple.
Tyler buries his dirty face in Colton's hip and makes a hicupping noise, almost like he's getting off again. Which Colton knows isn't possible because Posey is not allowed to actually be perfect, but still makes his dick jerk and try to pulse one more time.
As he comes down, tingling from his bones on out, Colton rubs his fingers through Tyler's hair in something that hopefully passes for soothing - he can't actually feel his fingertips right now to tell how hard he's doing it. He thinks he might literally have just gotten heat stroke from how hot that was. Fuck.
"'S cold," Tyler slurs after a minute that might have been several. The warm rush of breath over his balls makes Colton shiver, earning the curve of Tyler's grin mashed into the inside of his thigh and a bite hard enough to make him yelp in surprise. He smacks Tyler in the back of the head for it but Posey's still grinning when he grumble-groans his way to standing.
"You're filthy," flies out of Colton's mouth a lot more reverent than he'd planned, but looking at Tyler standing there all debauched and delighted about it dropkicks the air right out of his lungs.
"You like it," Tyler shrugs, then grimaces as he bends forward at the waist to get just his face back into the stone cold shower spray.
"I do," Colton agrees, because anything else would be a blatant lie. He reaches out to scrub a couple of matted clumps of Tyler's hair between his fingers under the stream until they feel clean again. If he detours a little to run touches down Tyler's neck and chest, skirting dangerously close to the hard pebble of a nipple, it’s alright. Tyler likes being touched, it's not like he'll mind.
The silence when Tyler switches the shower off is deafening. God he hopes Dylan and Hoechlin are still out partying because if anybody's here to have heard that, Colton's going to be living this shit down for the rest of the summer.
With a minimum of injury - Posey is physically incapable of using this tub without banging his shin on it at some point in the process - they climb out and towel off under the watery yellow light of the bulb over the medicine cabinet. Colton even makes Tyler hang up his towel afterward but that's as much of a concession as he's making to cleaning tonight. If the guys want to have a sand-free floor they need to do a better job of helping him babysit Tyler.
He doesn't think twice about it when Tyler follows him into the broomcloset-full-of-bed he's calling his room and burrows in under the covers. Tyler's probably spent more nights in here this summer than in his own. He does complain, though, when he gets into bed himself and Tyler sticks his cold, wet head right on Colton's shoulder.
"Gross, dude!" The shove he gives is totally ineffectual, since all Tyler does is reposition and throw his leg across Colton's hips to boot. Grudgingly - only not so much at all - Colton wraps his arm around Tyler's back, skin that never quite dries all the way in this humidity sticking together where his knuckles trail up and down Tyler's spine.
It's bizarre in how normal it feels, or maybe just bizarre because Colton's thinking about it. They do this thing, they joke and they play around and they get each other off. There's nothing really about tonight that's different about that, none that he can point to anyway. Tyler's been exactly the same as he always is, except for halfway giving him head and saying he wanted Colton to fuck him. And ok, he's said that before, so maybe that doesn't even count. Could be Colton's just in a weird headspace and that's making everything else seem off.
He startles when Posey's finger digs into his ribs. "Sleep," he commands, heavy-tongued, like he's most of the way there himself, "Or I'll have to sex you up again."
Colton fights off the flutter of excitement rising in his throat to make his voice flat when he says, “Oh no. Anything but that.”
Tyler giggles again, like a girl, and keeps right on using Colton as the world’s most authentic body pillow. That shouldn’t calm Colton down, but there’s only so much anxiety he can hang on to with Tyler’s slow, even breaths puffing against his chest and acres of warm, soft skin pressed flush against his; all cozy intimacy that makes him feel way more possessive than he’s got any right to.
He’d have bet money that Tyler was out like a light by the time he hears, “I’m not sorry. About the guy.”
With an effort, he swallows back the ‘me either’ that wants to bubble out and tries to fight his heart back into rhythm. Tyler doesn’t mean it that way, he knows. Tyler’s not into dudes, of which Colton obviously is one. Aside from all the sex he has with Colton. And the fact that he keeps Colton from having sex with anybody else without, apparently, feeling bad about it.
Their arrangement was so much easier to make sense of before Colton started thinking about it.
“I mean it,” Tyler adds after a minute, tucking his face against Colton’s neck to tongue a slow kiss in.
Turning to press his cheek against the damp mess of Tyler’s hair, Colton sucks in a deep breath that might account for how tight his chest has gone, but he doubts it.
“So do I,” he whispers, and hopes he hasn’t just made the biggest mistake of his life. Going by the grin he can feel pressing against his throat, he hasn’t.
Pairing: Colton Haynes/Tyler Posey
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,719
Warnings: AU, PWP, shower sex, fingering, oral, comeplay, oblivious!Colton, recreational drug use
Notes: Written for transfixeddream for his Colton/Posey Exchange. I ended up taking a couple of his prompts mixed in with some likes and hitting puree, so hopefully it'll still be something you'll enjoy Trav!
Summary - If Colton ever treated a guy the way Tyler treats him, he'd either have a restraining order slapped on his ass or a ring on his finger. As it stands, he’s not sure a restraining order would be enough to keep him away from Tyler, and that’s just one of the numerous Posey-adjacent reasons his life is fucked.
Sand scrapes against worn wood like a gasp in the silence, punctuated by the steady pitter of salt water dripping from the hem of Colton's drenched shorts. Last he saw, Dylan and Hoechlin were still playing totalitarian dictatorship with the keg, but that was before Posey decided to reenact the opening scene of Jaws, so it's entirely possible they're already back. If so then there's no telling how many people are camped out in the living room, but at the moment Colton wouldn't feel too bad about waking any of them up with the racket he and Tyler are making weaving down the back hall - no less than they deserve for leaving him alone to rescue Posey from himself.
Tyler giggles, bumping into yet another wall, and with any other straight guy Colton knows, the fact that the word 'giggle' is in play at all would be cause for major harassment once everybody’s sobered up, but Tyler just uses it as an excuse to try and make Colton carry him, so he doubts that's going to work. The unhappy squawk he makes when Colton slaps on the bathroom light is a little vindicating, though. Would be even better if he didn't manage to look all scrunchy-faced cute as he hides his eyes behind sand-speckled hands.
Forcing down that particular line of thought - and the one about the water still dripping off the ends of Tyler's hair and running down his bare chest to get absorbed by the boxers that are hugging every gift God and his mama gave him like they were painted on - Colton twists the squeaking shower tap until the pitiful drizzle that qualifies as their water pressure splutters out.
With the buttery light spilling out into the hallway behind them he can see the fine trail they tracked in. Tomorrow that's really going to piss him off when he's sweeping out the kitchen for the five hundred and twenty seven billionth time this summer but just this second he's got bigger issues to worry about. Like the fact that Tyler's eyes have recovered from shock enough to let him slip back into his usual post-show, stoned giddiness and that with Tyler that translates to handsy mother fucker.
Unlike some people around here, Colton can make it through a house party with all his clothes on, which Tyler seems to have decided is a problem since he's busy working his hands underneath the clinging hem of Colton's soaked shirt. His palms pressing to Colton's lats are warm, a little gritty, Colton's shirt plastering them to his body as Tyler works his way up until his forearms are pressed to Colton's back.
On the plus side, however sexy guys may look in pictures with wet shirts pasted to their skin, the actual feel of being sopping wet in his cruising-for-a-hookup outfit isn’t anything close to appealing. That makes it a lot easier to not take the feel of Posey molding himself to Colton's front as the invitation that it probably is. He always knew straight boys were going to be the end of him. That he managed to become best friends with the cuddliest straight boy on the planet is probably an indicator of some kind of suppressed death wish. Death by blue balls. Joy.
"Alright, c'mon, shower," he barks, trying for stern-dad voice and failing hard when Tyler leans in and licks a stripe along his jaw. This is why Tyler is not allowed to toke after he plays a show - he already has too few boundaries, adding adrenaline and THC turns him into a bizarre combination of that girl who dances on the bar after two beers and a baby sloth.
He goes, though, when Colton starts walking him backward toward the tub. Steps in amenably, dragging Colton right along with like he wasn't planning to rinse off anyway.
The water's hot enough to sting against his goosebumpy skin, bleeding warmth out over his body in a hazy-edged fan as the half an ocean trapped in his clothes meshes with the vaguely chlorine-scented stream of the shower. The infusion of water helps to unstick his shirt and shorts from his skin, making them easier to peel away and shimmy out of. Tyler less so, but Colton's developed a talent for maneuvering his way out of Posey's grabby octopus arms when he needs to. If he happens to be a little less gentle than usual, well, Tyler can deal.
"What crawled up your ass?" Tyler huffs, shoulders canted back to lean against the tile. His arms are crossed, water pooling in the crooks of his elbows and one day Colton is going to get over this schoolboy crush bullshit enough not to stare at Tyler's nipples anytime he's shirtless. And wet. God, life is unfair.
His, "Nothing, thanks to you," is a little muffled by the splash of him wringing his clothes out and flopping them limply over the curtain rod. Bitchy, but true, nonetheless. And hey, he gave
up hitting on a bi-curious lacrosse player to drag his ass out into high tide to make sure Tyler didn't drown, so he's earned the rights on bitchy.
It'd be one thing if it was the first time, too, but this is becoming almost as much a habit as waking up alone and hard with Tyler's voice lingering in his head. Colton's only gotten laid twice since they rented the house down at the shore, because summering with three other guys is not conducive to privacy and Posey is some kind of idiot-savant of cockblocking. Add to that the fact that Tyler's failure to grasp the concept of personal space makes everyone they meet assume he's Colton's boyfriend and the dick-getting well has run depressingly dry. A more paranoid man would think Tyler was doing it on purpose.
At the best of times, Tyler's not very good at staying mad, and on pot his anger threshold is essentially nonexistent, so Colton's not exactly shocked to turn around and find the pout melting off Tyler's face as he tips his head back into the spray.
His hands drift as he reaches up to skin the hair clumped to his forehead back, messy waves turning to black satin under the cascade of water. Colton watches as Tyler plays as rinsing the salt out, gets distracted dragging his nails against his scalp instead and lets out a moan that could permanently cure the scourge of erectile dysfunction if they could find a way to bottle it.
Not that anyone in this shower is having that particular issue.
Colton’s cock twitches watching Tyler’s fingers traipse down his own body and it says epic Shakespearean tragedies about Colton’s life that he’s over being self-conscious about Tyler seeing his Tyler-induced boners. Doesn't hurt the Posey has one too.
Tyler’s cock makes an indiscreet smack against his wet belly as he casually shoves his boxers down and out of the way. Suddenly reminded of the fact that they left the bathroom door wide open - around here, closing it is just an invitation for somebody to pick the lock and flush the toilet to scald your balls - Colton throws a nervous look at the curtain like it’ll turn transparent for his convenience. He doesn’t hear anything other than Tyler and the spatter of water, so either a miracle has occurred and no one is bumming on their couch, or everybody’s so trashed that they haven’t heard Tyler’s XXX throwdown. Any of which works for Colton, but- Oh, son of a bitch!
The peal of Tyler’s laugher echoes off the tiles as he shakes his head like a shaggy dog, pelting Colton with water. Blindly, Colton smacks at him, one arm raised in the defense of his face. Naturally, Tyler latches onto the wrist of the other, using it to drag him in close under the hot water. To be honest, Colton doesn't fight it as hard as he should.
In all fairness, though, his body has been conditioned to respond to the promise of impending Tyler-head-rubs, so it's not entirely his fault. He's like a sleeper cell of self-inflicted sexual frustration. And Tyler doesn't disappoint, arms sliding over Colton's shoulders so he can work his fingers slowly through Colton's hair, smoothing it back, scratching a little and now possibly Colton's the one who's risking waking the whole house up, except this time he doesn't really care. For all that Tyler lacks in wingmanship, he makes up for in apologies.
The position puts their hard-ons in close enough proximity to brush against each other every few breaths, which is doing a lot to make said breaths come a lot faster on Colton's side of the equation. Tyler’s are puffing out hot against Colton’s neck, broken like a laugh on mute. Fingers tighten in Colton’s hair, just long enough to catch and then pressure is tilting his head up to meet the slick, soft heat of Tyler’s mouth on his own.
With a groan, Colton parts his lips to the press of Tyler’s tongue, settling his hands on Tyler’s hips to pull him in the last couple of inches for some wet, slippery friction. Melting into it, Tyler lets him take control of the kiss, easy as fucking pie whenever he’s getting what he wants.
If it was anyone else, Colton would say they’re fuck buddies, but Tyler doesn’t go for guys. In fact, Tyler doesn’t even notice guys, all of his sexual attention focused on a very specific ‘type’ - one that has a lot more tits and pussy than Colton’s likely to grow at this stage in his development. But then he gets high, or drunk, or plays a show, or has too much coffee or fucking something and he feels the need to climb Colton like a jungle gym.
If Colton ever treated a guy the way Tyler treats him, he'd either have a restraining order slapped on his ass or a ring on his finger. As it stands, he’s not sure a restraining order would be enough to keep him away from Tyler, and that’s just one of the numerous Posey-adjacent reasons his life is fucked.
The muggy purr of Tyler’s, “You wanna play with my ass?” into his mouth is another one, as is the fuck, yes Colton’s mind shouts in return. Or at least he thinks it’s his mind. Could be his dick. They’ve kind of fused into a two-headed chimera beast bent on the destruction of Colton’s ability to make positive, healthy personal decisions.
What he comes out with is, “You’re fucking high,” which isn’t so much the no it should be, but isn’t quite the yes he knows it’s going to be in a minute, so it’s almost like having self-control.
Tyler hums an affirmative over the squeak of bare feet on the tub as he hitches a leg at Colton’s thigh. Trying not to overbalance, Colton grabs for handholds, ending up with one palm splayed against the tile wall and the other full of Tyler’s ass. Like nearly becoming every pathetic ‘fell in the shower and died’ news story with some extra gay sex sprinkled on top is beneath his notice, Tyler grins and rubs all up on Colton’s cock. It doesn’t do anything to help Colton with his balance but he’s not inclined to make him stop either.
“Yeah,” Tyler says, encouraging Colton’s fingers kneading at him by canting his hips up into it. Moans loud enough when Colton runs fingertips over his hole that Colton jerks forward to try and swallow the sound. If the guy had any interest in dick at all, he could make a killing playing a cockslut in porn; he’s easily the greediest bottom Colton’s ever seen.
Fumbling sideways for the conditioner, Colton manages to knock over most of the contents of their overcrowded shower caddy - how the four of them have managed to accumulate enough product to stock a sorority house bathroom, Colton will never know - bottles clattering loudly. Reflex fear shoots a thrill down his spine, one ear out for sounds that still aren’t coming from the rest of the house, but it doesn’t stop him.
He clumsily gets the bottle open, accidentally squirts enough out to coat all four fingers and the better part of his forearm besides. And wow, his brain just went to the ‘fisting Tyler’ place and that is not an idea he is equipped to handle while expecting his knees to still hold them both up.
A hurt, eager noise trickles out of Tyler at the first graze of Colton’s fingers to his hole. He murmurs, “Yeah,” again, like Colton might not be able to interpret his enthusiasm, and hitches his foot up onto the soap tray that none of them ever use because who the hell uses bar soap anymore. That move really does almost upend them, but Colton just barely manages to press himself back against the wall enough to achieve equilibrium, tile a cold shock on his skin.
The water’s going cool where it sprinkles over his feet, white noise to the heat of Tyler’s body sucking in one finger like all of him is as hungry for it as his whimpery pleas make it sound. Colton dips his head to lick at the clean skin taste of Tyler's neck, scraping a little with his teeth to earn himself one of those pretty, unrestrained shivers that makes Tyler clench up around him.
This is one of Colton's biggest addictions, fucking bulletproof kink; knowing just how to touch and stroke to make somebody beg, work them like a finely tuned machine until they're a sobbing, panting mess. Yeah. Hell yeah. He'll take that over a first time fuck any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Maybe three or four times one Sunday. That's what weekends are for, right?
There have only ever been a handful of people whose bodies he's gotten to know as well as he does Tyler's, and that's a whole different realm of complicated, but it also goes a fair way to explaining why he's never as upset as he should be about Tyler getting in the way of him actually hooking up with somebody else. That and the Olympic-sized torch he's been carrying for Posey for a year and three-quarters, but whatever.
Point is, Tyler's head lolling back on his shoulders, eyes shut and mouth open on a sigh-turned-bedroomy-groan when Colton eases another finger into him is as good or better, in Colton's opinion, than the sloppy, amateur blow he'd been planning on getting from whatshisname college boy.
Colton spreads his fingers slowly, curling them to press at all that hot silky flesh because Tyler likes to feel it, deep as he can and just on the edge of too much. Posey jerks into it hips-first, grinding against Colton's cock in the damp space between them. Typically, Tyler doesn't get as wet as Colton does, but pressed together like this, it's hard to tell; spiderweb strings of precome bridging from the head of his dick to Tyler's, pulling tight as they move, snapping, smearing. If Colton had a hand free, he'd get it around both of them, make Tyler fuck against his fingers and his cockhead at the same time, but he’s really fond of not tumbling into the tub in a big bruised tangle, so instead he hunches down so his shoulders are pressing into the wall and his hips jut out, turning the unconscious way Tyler's writhing into riding him hard.
Tyler's breath catches in his chest, a swallowed sound that bursts free as a sob. That’s when Colton knows it’s time to pull him in a fraction closer and really start working his fingers. He teases at a third one, giving in when Tyler whines but slipping the first one out again, switching from pointer-middle to middle-ring and back until there are blunt nails digging at the back of his neck and Tyler's shaking like a leaf.
"Motherfucker," Tyler snarls, bumping his forehead against Colton's and doing that repeated flex-clench thing with his inner muscles that short circuits Colton's planning and reroutes to the 'my dick votes yes' folder.
Choking on a moan, Colton says, "You want three, I'll give you three," and goes straight in, all the way to the knuckle, to nail Tyler's sweet spot. Tyler lets out a long line of 'fuck's that get wrecked when he shoves his tongue into Colton's mouth, biting and licking like he doesn’t have the brainpower to coordinate a real kiss.
There's a loud slap as Tyler's hand hits the wall next to Colton's head, palm flat, nails grating when they stick on the grout. He's tipped over from willing to desperate, Colton can see it in his face, the scrunch of his forehead and the way he wriggles on the fingers slamming into him all threatening to melt Colton's spine.
"Give me anything I want?" Tyler mumbles, rambles, one hand carding through Colton's hair and sliding down is chest, hip, nail scores left behind like lines of fire as he traces back up to do it again. Unsteady and distracted-sounding, he rubs his cheek against Colton's, nuzzling in words he's not even sure Tyler realizes he's saying. "Give me your cock? I want it in me, you know I do. Wanna feel it. Fucking holding out on me, jesusfuckingfuck, Colton."
The weight of lean muscle suddenly crushes him against the tile, Tyler precariously balanced on the ball of his foot as everything in him tightens stone-hard under Colton's hands. His ass sucks at Colton's fingers, punctuating the beginnings of a serious hand cramp, and his dick kicks, spills hot and thick all over Colton's.
It's filthy and candy-sweet and probably enough for Colton to get off on if he could just get a hand on himself, but instead he gets the slick pull of come-covered skin as Tyler eases Colton's fingers free and goes to his knees like he's all liquid inside.
Without a second's hesitation, he faceplants in Colton's crotch. His mouth is wide open, soft and uncoordinated as he licks haphazardly at the shaft, sticky gobs of come glossing his lips and turning his cheeks and chin shiny. There are things in the universe that have been hotter, but the list is pretty much limited to supernovas.
The parts of Colton’s brain that are usually in charge of movement seem to have shorted out at the moment, so he just stands there and takes all the hot breaths and slithers of damp friction as Tyler lips his way around. This isn’t something they do. Making out, handjobs, finger fucking, that’s their standard. One time Colton got really wasted and rimmed Tyler until he came screaming all over his own pillow, but that’s as adventurous as it gets. They have very strict, unspoken rules about how this goes down and Tyler, well, going down is not in the forecast.
The shower has long since gone cold, but Tyler either doesn't notice or doesn't care that one side of his body is getting drenched from the waist down. He's too busy trying to see if Colton is actually capable of climbing the walls like fucking Spiderman under the power of pure need. His face is buried in the crook of Colton's thigh, rubbing at it with his cheek and mouthing, occasionally sliding over to suckle at his balls. He looks blissed the fuck out, like breathing in the smell of his jizz on Colton's cock is just as good as pot.
Against the base of his dick, Tyler mumbles something that sounds like, "Don't like it when it's you getting teased, do you?" that Colton's honestly too caught up to dissect. He's trying to distract himself by petting at Tyler's hair instead of using it as a handle to fuck Tyler's face, but it's a losing battle.
He's about four seconds away from jacking off all over Tyler, in fact, but then Tyler's kneeling up enough to get his mouth on the tip, trapping it against Colton's stomach to make out with like a teenager. Alright, so sloppy, amateur blows were not entirely out of the picture for tonight after all, but Colton can't help feeling that this is the best possible version.
Busy staring at the stretch of Tyler's lips - soft pout with the head of his cock slipping free around the edges, dirty wriggle of velvet friction from Tyler's tongue swiping and tickling, playing with him - and listening to wet slurps and pleased little hums he's making, Colton doesn't notice for far too long that Tyler's got an arm crooked behind himself. The view's obstructed by his elbow, but it doesn't take a lot of guess work to put together the rhythmic shift of muscles in his bicep and the occassional choppy burst of hot-cold breath on Colton's spit-soaked skin.
As if he hasn't been moaning encouragement this whole time, Colton jams the side of a fist against his mouth, bites something that wants to be a whine into his knuckles and bucks his hips forward. His dick slip-skids and paints a stripe up Tyler's cheek, shocky catch of teeth before Tyler figures out what's going on. He tries hard to keep up after that but Colton's losing time to the sparkler-burn buzz flaring up his spine and jittering out along his limbs. Finally he just grabs at Tyler's hair and twists, holds him still for Colton to use his fucking face to rub himself off on.
Colton's being a complete douche about it and he knows it, but he just sort of fails to remember why he cares with how good Tyler looks down there on his knees, glazed eyed and puffy lipped, come starting to dry in milky patches on skin gone penny-copper from the sun. He's got his tongue stuck out like a welcome mat, licking whenever Colton gives him the chance, heaving in breaths like he's getting off on this just as hard as Colton is.
Usually Colton's the kind of guy to give a little warning before he goes off, but there's nothing in his relationship with Tyler that qualifies as usual and tonight they don't seem to be playing by the rules anyway. His abs burn with how hard they clench as he comes, contracting over and over as he puts the cherry on top of the mess of Tyler's face, thick blurts of come sliding down his cheek and over his bruised lips, matting up the hair at his temple.
Tyler buries his dirty face in Colton's hip and makes a hicupping noise, almost like he's getting off again. Which Colton knows isn't possible because Posey is not allowed to actually be perfect, but still makes his dick jerk and try to pulse one more time.
As he comes down, tingling from his bones on out, Colton rubs his fingers through Tyler's hair in something that hopefully passes for soothing - he can't actually feel his fingertips right now to tell how hard he's doing it. He thinks he might literally have just gotten heat stroke from how hot that was. Fuck.
"'S cold," Tyler slurs after a minute that might have been several. The warm rush of breath over his balls makes Colton shiver, earning the curve of Tyler's grin mashed into the inside of his thigh and a bite hard enough to make him yelp in surprise. He smacks Tyler in the back of the head for it but Posey's still grinning when he grumble-groans his way to standing.
"You're filthy," flies out of Colton's mouth a lot more reverent than he'd planned, but looking at Tyler standing there all debauched and delighted about it dropkicks the air right out of his lungs.
"You like it," Tyler shrugs, then grimaces as he bends forward at the waist to get just his face back into the stone cold shower spray.
"I do," Colton agrees, because anything else would be a blatant lie. He reaches out to scrub a couple of matted clumps of Tyler's hair between his fingers under the stream until they feel clean again. If he detours a little to run touches down Tyler's neck and chest, skirting dangerously close to the hard pebble of a nipple, it’s alright. Tyler likes being touched, it's not like he'll mind.
The silence when Tyler switches the shower off is deafening. God he hopes Dylan and Hoechlin are still out partying because if anybody's here to have heard that, Colton's going to be living this shit down for the rest of the summer.
With a minimum of injury - Posey is physically incapable of using this tub without banging his shin on it at some point in the process - they climb out and towel off under the watery yellow light of the bulb over the medicine cabinet. Colton even makes Tyler hang up his towel afterward but that's as much of a concession as he's making to cleaning tonight. If the guys want to have a sand-free floor they need to do a better job of helping him babysit Tyler.
He doesn't think twice about it when Tyler follows him into the broomcloset-full-of-bed he's calling his room and burrows in under the covers. Tyler's probably spent more nights in here this summer than in his own. He does complain, though, when he gets into bed himself and Tyler sticks his cold, wet head right on Colton's shoulder.
"Gross, dude!" The shove he gives is totally ineffectual, since all Tyler does is reposition and throw his leg across Colton's hips to boot. Grudgingly - only not so much at all - Colton wraps his arm around Tyler's back, skin that never quite dries all the way in this humidity sticking together where his knuckles trail up and down Tyler's spine.
It's bizarre in how normal it feels, or maybe just bizarre because Colton's thinking about it. They do this thing, they joke and they play around and they get each other off. There's nothing really about tonight that's different about that, none that he can point to anyway. Tyler's been exactly the same as he always is, except for halfway giving him head and saying he wanted Colton to fuck him. And ok, he's said that before, so maybe that doesn't even count. Could be Colton's just in a weird headspace and that's making everything else seem off.
He startles when Posey's finger digs into his ribs. "Sleep," he commands, heavy-tongued, like he's most of the way there himself, "Or I'll have to sex you up again."
Colton fights off the flutter of excitement rising in his throat to make his voice flat when he says, “Oh no. Anything but that.”
Tyler giggles again, like a girl, and keeps right on using Colton as the world’s most authentic body pillow. That shouldn’t calm Colton down, but there’s only so much anxiety he can hang on to with Tyler’s slow, even breaths puffing against his chest and acres of warm, soft skin pressed flush against his; all cozy intimacy that makes him feel way more possessive than he’s got any right to.
He’d have bet money that Tyler was out like a light by the time he hears, “I’m not sorry. About the guy.”
With an effort, he swallows back the ‘me either’ that wants to bubble out and tries to fight his heart back into rhythm. Tyler doesn’t mean it that way, he knows. Tyler’s not into dudes, of which Colton obviously is one. Aside from all the sex he has with Colton. And the fact that he keeps Colton from having sex with anybody else without, apparently, feeling bad about it.
Their arrangement was so much easier to make sense of before Colton started thinking about it.
“I mean it,” Tyler adds after a minute, tucking his face against Colton’s neck to tongue a slow kiss in.
Turning to press his cheek against the damp mess of Tyler’s hair, Colton sucks in a deep breath that might account for how tight his chest has gone, but he doubts it.
“So do I,” he whispers, and hopes he hasn’t just made the biggest mistake of his life. Going by the grin he can feel pressing against his throat, he hasn’t.