(fic) Taste Test
Title: Taste test.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction
Rating NC-17, hint of non-con
Pairing Brendan Morrison / Trent Klatt
Taste test.
You are sure he doesn't mean to do it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't. Be fucking hot and irresistible.
That buddy-buddy arm around your shoulders, making in-jokes, making you part of his pre-game ritual, making you part of his superstitions and his success. That fucking smell of him, dragging you in.
Involving you, drawing you in. Seducing you.
And invitations out. Away from hockey out. Like in the fresh air, fishing; in the murky air of the bar, drinking.
Dinner together.
Fucking dinner together, fucking him paying. Giving you fucking lazy smiles and saying "well, I never split the bill on dates, Mo."
Tease. That little smirk, licking his lips after having a drink. Fucking obvious stuff, frankly your control is hanging on by a fucking thread. Fucking thread.
Ok, yeah he does that to lots of people, but the difference is you, you who is freaking out and you who has their nerves on permanent boiling point.
You who are left needy and wild. You’re the dumb bunny who wakes up from who knows what dreams, rock hard and on the edge of release cursing your sub-conscious for waking you up a few seconds to early. But then you can finish yourself off with a picture of him in your mind.
Smiling, laughing, the curve of his tongue over his lips…
You are turning into some sort of junkie for his touch. Making little agreements with yourself, "ok hugged him when we got a goal, can't touch him until you hand him a water bottle, if you don't grope him on the ice you can stare at him in the shower, yeah that will work, peel that shirt off slower, fuck yeah."
And fuck but around him you are thinking of sparks, and explosions and lighting flames, and fuck yeah wanna heat him up and cool him down. And boiling point, you will be dry, all evaporated to steam if you don't get your damn hands on him soon.
So what the fuck is stopping you? Light a match; throw a log on the fire, take what you want, but you are just unsure enough to not touch. Well, to not touch-touch. Right now in the bar you can lean over the table and grab, um fuck what is this? Coaster - fucking fine that will do - and brush your arm against his.
You sit down and can feel the static of his touch lifting the light hairs on your arm, you are fucking floating. Floating but just a bit unsure.
But he would fucking like it. Fuck you can be sure he would like it, you are good at this.
"Need your phone."
He raises an eyebrow when you say that.
"The fuck for?" he yells back over the noise of the bar.
"Mine died, need to call, taxi." You improvise and motion to the back door. "Early start." You lie again. "It'll take a sec." You keep lying, you are pushing your way out of the booth and he is being shoved forward, and is drunk enough to be pliant and if he is already on the floor, he can follow you out the door, he can fumble around patting his pockets for his fucking phone, fucking hands on his ass, should be your hands.
He doesn't suspect your motives. The only light is the fire exit sign, and you're feeling damn dizzy with the cold air hitting the alcohol and fuck yeah he has a line of sweat over his top lip.
Not anymore.
He grunts in surprise, maybe he banged his head when you shoved the two of you back against the wall. Fucking concrete no give.
You fuse your lips together and force your tongue though into the warm softness of his mouth. He mummers and twists his head, maybe he did bang it on the concrete, you can soothe that hurt and fold your hand into the short hair as much as you can and pull his mouth even harder against yours.
Lick up the inside of his lips, suck his bottom lip in between your teeth, slowly lean your head back until you feel him shake and slump against the wall.
That is consent. Or submission, either way he's not fighting it and the light on his face - orange from the sign - is revealing a face slack with pleasure. Or shock, but un-moving shock, leaning there right in front of you for the taking.
Fuck his lips are wet. Glistening in the light. Swollen and shining and you lean in and kiss him again, softly until he starts to shift and you need to make sure he doesn't bolt.
You drop down onto the pavement, maybe there is broken glass and cigarette butts, but then this is the downtown fucking crack pipes more likely, nothing that you need to be concerned about. You tug at his clothes with drink-addled fingers, oops a ripped button, who is going to notice a button, he can pull his t-shirt down over a loose fucking button, thank fuck for zippers. So easy to get open, to get to the prize. There is a soft noise, there is no way you would hear it over the distant hum of traffic and the noise, the throb, of the club, but yeah your ear is right near his crotch.
So you are fucking close enough to hear. And fucking close enough to stretch your tongue out and lick the fabric of his boxers through the gap in his pants.
And yeah he moans and doesn't push you away so you pull the fabric down and his cock is there in the dirty alley, in fucking orange light, and right in front of your greedy needy eyes. And in the right place for your tongue.
Oh your hands are going to leave bruises on his hips, digging in holding him in place and you swallow him down, this has to be fucking quick, that is a damn shame, but need beats finesse and you feel the head of his cock swelling in your mouth and you let go of the death grip on his hips, well one hand, and stroke the rest of his dick with your hand. Getting harder and hotter under your lips and fingertips.
Maybe that moaning is him? Nope it is you that is ok; he's rocking his hips and not trying to pull away. You have to make sure and swallow him as far as you can. He tastes, you can't say, you can't concentrate on taste, on feel though yeah, you now know how his cock feels brushing against your lips, how it feels stretching your lips as it slides in and out.
You lessen the suction, just enough that he rocks his hips, then pull his thighs against your face, and you are fucking hungry, and he's moaning now, or something that sounds like your name.
It doesn't sound like "stop" or no" and you shove him back and hear the fabric of his shirt scratching against the concrete. Fuck yeah, he's into this, and it sounds like he is begging a little a sound like "please Bren…" and yeah you suck him into your mouth harder and deeper before and you now know what it feels to have your mouth, your fucking throat, filled with him and the taste of him.
There is not escaping for either of you. Suck him at the same time he is pushing into you. And his fingers are in your hair, but unlike him you have enough to get a grip on, and he is pulling your face closer, not pushing it away.
This means your hands are not needed to hold him place, and your fingers skate over the flesh they can reach, up the curve of his ass, the heat between, the muscles of his thighs, the warm broad spread of his back, your fingers skitter quickly over all you can reach ghosting over his ribs up his stomach, desperate to touch and you can remember and memorize later, because his breath is going in harsh gasps, and even though this is the first time with his dick it is pretty obvious he is going to come, and you can feel it, the way his back tense, arches, relaxes in your hands, and yeah he is coming and it is flooding your mouth and you are closing your lips around him making sure you get it all…
Don't want to stain his pants, or your shirt. Don't want to make a mess of this pretty alleyway you find yourselves in.
His fingers slide out of your hair onto your shoulders and rest there. But you know in a second that they will be biting into the flesh and asking why.
Good fucking question genius. What the fuck did you just do?
You quickly pull his pants back up and zip them, pulling his shirt over the button - hanging by a thread- and you shuffle back on your knees away from him and prepare to bolt.
“"Bren… Brendan…" He gasps.
Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.
Go now. Fucking now.
You stiffly get onto your feet. He is still leaning against the wall and you take a quick look at him, so you know what his face looks like slack after coming, and what his eyes look like when the lids won't quite stay open over them from pleasure and back the fuck away.
You scouted the land the last time you said you were going for a piss. You planned this; your escape route is behind you, that and a car you are going to drive home drunk as fuck.
And as you back away you are licking your lips, making sure you got it all, you keep it all, rolling the taste of him around in your mouth.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction
Rating NC-17, hint of non-con
Pairing Brendan Morrison / Trent Klatt
Taste test.
You are sure he doesn't mean to do it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't. Be fucking hot and irresistible.
That buddy-buddy arm around your shoulders, making in-jokes, making you part of his pre-game ritual, making you part of his superstitions and his success. That fucking smell of him, dragging you in.
Involving you, drawing you in. Seducing you.
And invitations out. Away from hockey out. Like in the fresh air, fishing; in the murky air of the bar, drinking.
Dinner together.
Fucking dinner together, fucking him paying. Giving you fucking lazy smiles and saying "well, I never split the bill on dates, Mo."
Tease. That little smirk, licking his lips after having a drink. Fucking obvious stuff, frankly your control is hanging on by a fucking thread. Fucking thread.
Ok, yeah he does that to lots of people, but the difference is you, you who is freaking out and you who has their nerves on permanent boiling point.
You who are left needy and wild. You’re the dumb bunny who wakes up from who knows what dreams, rock hard and on the edge of release cursing your sub-conscious for waking you up a few seconds to early. But then you can finish yourself off with a picture of him in your mind.
Smiling, laughing, the curve of his tongue over his lips…
You are turning into some sort of junkie for his touch. Making little agreements with yourself, "ok hugged him when we got a goal, can't touch him until you hand him a water bottle, if you don't grope him on the ice you can stare at him in the shower, yeah that will work, peel that shirt off slower, fuck yeah."
And fuck but around him you are thinking of sparks, and explosions and lighting flames, and fuck yeah wanna heat him up and cool him down. And boiling point, you will be dry, all evaporated to steam if you don't get your damn hands on him soon.
So what the fuck is stopping you? Light a match; throw a log on the fire, take what you want, but you are just unsure enough to not touch. Well, to not touch-touch. Right now in the bar you can lean over the table and grab, um fuck what is this? Coaster - fucking fine that will do - and brush your arm against his.
You sit down and can feel the static of his touch lifting the light hairs on your arm, you are fucking floating. Floating but just a bit unsure.
But he would fucking like it. Fuck you can be sure he would like it, you are good at this.
"Need your phone."
He raises an eyebrow when you say that.
"The fuck for?" he yells back over the noise of the bar.
"Mine died, need to call, taxi." You improvise and motion to the back door. "Early start." You lie again. "It'll take a sec." You keep lying, you are pushing your way out of the booth and he is being shoved forward, and is drunk enough to be pliant and if he is already on the floor, he can follow you out the door, he can fumble around patting his pockets for his fucking phone, fucking hands on his ass, should be your hands.
He doesn't suspect your motives. The only light is the fire exit sign, and you're feeling damn dizzy with the cold air hitting the alcohol and fuck yeah he has a line of sweat over his top lip.
Not anymore.
He grunts in surprise, maybe he banged his head when you shoved the two of you back against the wall. Fucking concrete no give.
You fuse your lips together and force your tongue though into the warm softness of his mouth. He mummers and twists his head, maybe he did bang it on the concrete, you can soothe that hurt and fold your hand into the short hair as much as you can and pull his mouth even harder against yours.
Lick up the inside of his lips, suck his bottom lip in between your teeth, slowly lean your head back until you feel him shake and slump against the wall.
That is consent. Or submission, either way he's not fighting it and the light on his face - orange from the sign - is revealing a face slack with pleasure. Or shock, but un-moving shock, leaning there right in front of you for the taking.
Fuck his lips are wet. Glistening in the light. Swollen and shining and you lean in and kiss him again, softly until he starts to shift and you need to make sure he doesn't bolt.
You drop down onto the pavement, maybe there is broken glass and cigarette butts, but then this is the downtown fucking crack pipes more likely, nothing that you need to be concerned about. You tug at his clothes with drink-addled fingers, oops a ripped button, who is going to notice a button, he can pull his t-shirt down over a loose fucking button, thank fuck for zippers. So easy to get open, to get to the prize. There is a soft noise, there is no way you would hear it over the distant hum of traffic and the noise, the throb, of the club, but yeah your ear is right near his crotch.
So you are fucking close enough to hear. And fucking close enough to stretch your tongue out and lick the fabric of his boxers through the gap in his pants.
And yeah he moans and doesn't push you away so you pull the fabric down and his cock is there in the dirty alley, in fucking orange light, and right in front of your greedy needy eyes. And in the right place for your tongue.
Oh your hands are going to leave bruises on his hips, digging in holding him in place and you swallow him down, this has to be fucking quick, that is a damn shame, but need beats finesse and you feel the head of his cock swelling in your mouth and you let go of the death grip on his hips, well one hand, and stroke the rest of his dick with your hand. Getting harder and hotter under your lips and fingertips.
Maybe that moaning is him? Nope it is you that is ok; he's rocking his hips and not trying to pull away. You have to make sure and swallow him as far as you can. He tastes, you can't say, you can't concentrate on taste, on feel though yeah, you now know how his cock feels brushing against your lips, how it feels stretching your lips as it slides in and out.
You lessen the suction, just enough that he rocks his hips, then pull his thighs against your face, and you are fucking hungry, and he's moaning now, or something that sounds like your name.
It doesn't sound like "stop" or no" and you shove him back and hear the fabric of his shirt scratching against the concrete. Fuck yeah, he's into this, and it sounds like he is begging a little a sound like "please Bren…" and yeah you suck him into your mouth harder and deeper before and you now know what it feels to have your mouth, your fucking throat, filled with him and the taste of him.
There is not escaping for either of you. Suck him at the same time he is pushing into you. And his fingers are in your hair, but unlike him you have enough to get a grip on, and he is pulling your face closer, not pushing it away.
This means your hands are not needed to hold him place, and your fingers skate over the flesh they can reach, up the curve of his ass, the heat between, the muscles of his thighs, the warm broad spread of his back, your fingers skitter quickly over all you can reach ghosting over his ribs up his stomach, desperate to touch and you can remember and memorize later, because his breath is going in harsh gasps, and even though this is the first time with his dick it is pretty obvious he is going to come, and you can feel it, the way his back tense, arches, relaxes in your hands, and yeah he is coming and it is flooding your mouth and you are closing your lips around him making sure you get it all…
Don't want to stain his pants, or your shirt. Don't want to make a mess of this pretty alleyway you find yourselves in.
His fingers slide out of your hair onto your shoulders and rest there. But you know in a second that they will be biting into the flesh and asking why.
Good fucking question genius. What the fuck did you just do?
You quickly pull his pants back up and zip them, pulling his shirt over the button - hanging by a thread- and you shuffle back on your knees away from him and prepare to bolt.
“"Bren… Brendan…" He gasps.
Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.
Go now. Fucking now.
You stiffly get onto your feet. He is still leaning against the wall and you take a quick look at him, so you know what his face looks like slack after coming, and what his eyes look like when the lids won't quite stay open over them from pleasure and back the fuck away.
You scouted the land the last time you said you were going for a piss. You planned this; your escape route is behind you, that and a car you are going to drive home drunk as fuck.
And as you back away you are licking your lips, making sure you got it all, you keep it all, rolling the taste of him around in your mouth.