Completed fic - Four Days in August (2/2) - Professionals slash
Continued from: http://community.livejournal.com/snarkyllama_fic/3159.html
They still had to walk back to the cottage, and Bodie wanted a dark alley.
He wanted Doyle's lips. He wanted to put his fingers in Doyle's mouth and watch how cocky that always made him.
He wanted to watch Doyle's eyes light up in challenge. What went through his head then? Come on, you bastard, stick something bigger in me? Or was the light in his eyes because he knew all of Bodie's secrets? Knew that every time he slipped into Doyle, he ached for the gesture to be returned ten-fold? A thousand?
Whatever the reason, Bodie wanted it.
He'd get his fingers slick in Doyle's mouth, and then watch Doyle's eyes lose focus when his trousers were yanked down and those fingers dipped into his arse. Doyle's cock would jump and jut even harder against Bodie's thigh, and his hands would clench and grip Bodie's biceps so tightly there'd be marks to admire the next day--and Bodie had never thought bruising easily was a good thing until he'd had regular mementos of Doyle's need for him scattered secretly in amongst all of the other marks the job left on him.
He'd press close and let Doyle feel the bricks at his back. He'd pin him there and listen to him gasp--
"Bodie!"
Bodie jumped.
"Come on, it's this way. Or has the blood rushed out of your feet as well?"
Christ, it was just sunset now, and there wasn't a dark alley to be had.
"Come on, Handsome, one foot in front of the other."
"Next time," Bodie said, "we're taking the car."
"Not for a mile, we aren't."
"But--"
"Come on. 'Miles to go' and all that." Doyle paused and chuckled so lewdly that shivers ran down Bodie's spine. "Miles to go and a big, butch lad to do."
"That a promise?"
"It is if you get moving."
"Going to nail me to that bed?"
"I might," Doyle said. "Unless you fancy the wicker?"
Bodie got moving.
#
The next morning, a sound startled Doyle awake, but in the half-second rush to full alertness, he lost track of it. He'd recognized it, he was sure, but for the life of him, he couldn't say what he'd heard. He lay tense, his heart tripping from adrenaline, and listened. All he could hear was Bodie's steady breathing. He matched his breaths to Bodie's and let that lull him, certain that Bodie wouldn't have slept through danger. Whatever it had been, it was nothing.
He closed his eyes, and a raucous squabbling pierced the silence. Doyle jumped, as well as one could jump with Bodie spread over him like a lead blanket, and his bladder chose that moment to make some urgent demands of its own. Christ. Two birds fighting over a bit of garbage or something, and any plans for a nice lie-in were shot to hell.
He sighed and pushed at Bodie. Then he pushed a bit more, and wriggled, and somehow managed to make it out of bed, most of the sheets coming with him. He kicked himself free from the tangle clinging to his left ankle, and headed for the loo.
He relieved himself, and then stood, idly scratching and remembering when Bodie had first started sharing his bed.
Doyle had been just out of hospital, and Bodie had been a wreck--scared to touch Doyle, for fear of hurting him, yet seemingly unable not to touch him. He'd lain there on the far side of the bed, bleeding off nervous tension worse than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and making it absolutely impossible for Doyle to sleep. Doyle had had to take over, to manhandle Bodie just to get some kip.
He'd haul him to the middle of the bed, poke and prod until he was a comfortable cushion for Doyle to rest against, and then pray that he hadn't strained his stitches too much by lugging a great weight like Bodie about. As Doyle had recovered and gained more energy, and become a little more observant, he couldn't help but notice Bodie's physical reaction to being manhandled by him. He'd noticed and taken advantage--and look where that had got him.
Nowadays, he almost had to resort to GBH to get out of bed. Sleeping with Bodie was like sleeping with a Kevlar octopus. He didn't know how his birds put up with it, but then... well, he suspected that Bodie wasn't as bad with them. He wasn't unconsciously shielding all of his bed partners from harm. The stupid bastard, he'd better not think that Doyle would let him take a bullet in his place.
Doyle stretched, yawned, and dug through his kit for the toothpaste. It wasn't worth thinking about their sleeping arrangements, he told himself as he brushed his teeth. The truth was simple, he'd always had a knack for sleeping in less-than-comfortable spots, and sleeping crushed under Bodie was better than sleeping without him. At that, he bent over the basin and spat. If anyone could hear his thoughts, they'd tell him he was in love.
He didn't want to be in love. If you could fall in love, you could fall out of it. Look at Waltham. Married for twenty five years, and then he just wakes up one morning and decides to kill his wife? No, thank you. If he and Bodie managed to live that long, he wanted something better for the two of them.
He headed for the kitchen. The copper-and-enamel clock on the wall proclaimed that it was just past seven. He inspected the cooker, and then poked through the sacks of groceries that Bodie had dumped on the counter. There were plain biscuits, chocolate biscuits, and the packet of Jaffa Cakes with only one cake left. Doyle ate it while sorting through two oranges, a bag of crisps, and a large wedge of cheddar. The second bag held a loaf of bread, a pot of strawberry jam, a tin of tea, another orange, and a fairly good bottle of champagne. Why had he ever thought Bodie and self-catering would be a workable combination?
He put the champagne in the fridge, and discovered a bottle of milk and a jar of instant coffee. Did someone think "freeze-dried" meant "keep cold"? He set the milk and coffee out, and filled the kettle. He coaxed the cooker into lighting and went to shave.
Bodie would probably want to sleep half the morning away and then head for Bournemouth and the regatta. Or, more likely, Bodie would want to sleep half the morning away and then spend the rest of the day in bed. Come tea time, he'd moan about missing the regatta, get up long enough to change the sheets, and then drag Doyle back to bed.
Doyle could think of worse ways to spend a Saturday, but he hadn't driven a hundred miles to miss the scenery. He'd make Bodie some breakfast, then sweet talk him into borrowing those bicycles and checking out the New Forest, and--Doyle, you bloody idiot!
Scratch that plan. He should have thought of it before fucking Bodie so thoroughly last night. Well... there was still the Motor Museum or that motorcycle one, Bodie wouldn't say no to that.
He finished shaving and returned the razor to his kit, then blinked at seeing his razor already tucked inside. He must have nicked Bodie's. He shrugged, then smiled and put it in his kit anyway. Let Bodie get a little scruffy, maybe that would keep the birds away.
He made toast, slathered Bodie's with jam, and licked off the blob of strawberry that ended up on his thumb. He set the table, fixed their coffee, then strode into the bedroom to wake up Sleeping Beauty--and grab some trousers so he could actually sit down on those chairs.
As soon as he stepped into the room, his intentions for the day flew out the window. Sunlight was flooding the room through the thin curtains. It glinted off the brass bed frame, puddled in the white linen sheets, washed over Bodie's naked back, and--
God.
Bodie had moved and lost the modest shield of that last bit of linen. Doyle may have been screwing him off and on for three years-and lately, more on than off--but he'd never seen so much of Bodie so well lit.
He stepped closer, and--Christ, the man should come with a health warning. Forget about the cholesterol clogging up Bodie's heart, he'd outlive any randy bastard who saw him like this.
Bodie's right leg was bent, giving Doyle a lovely view of his arse and the back of his balls tucked so safely between his legs and yet so exposed. Doyle's gut flashed with fire, and he cupped his own balls and tugged gently. Women were supposed to be the delicate and vulnerable ones, but they could never be quite this exposed, could never arouse quite this need to take and claim, and lose himself in his lover.
He wanted to pour himself over Bodie and feel every inch of that skin. He wanted to plunge himself into him and be surrounded by those muscles. He wanted--
He bit his lip and stroked himself once, twice, before crossing to the bedside table and the lubricant they'd left there last night. Bodie didn't stir. You wouldn't think anyone could sleep through being stared at like that.
Doyle returned to the foot of the bed. He slicked himself up, keeping his strokes slow and even, fighting the urgency he felt. He tossed the bottle of lubricant onto the bed by Bodie's hip.
Protect? Or plunder?
Or, God, just keep this up? Let himself go?
He could almost see it. His come would look perfect pooling in the small of Bodie's back. Afterward, he'd kneel between Bodie's legs and wake him by licking it off. Doyle knew that taste, the combination of Bodie's skin and his own essence, but would it be different? Would it taste different lapped up off of Bodie's back than it did when sucked from Bodie's fingers?
His hand tightened on his cock.
He wanted that, but Bodie would be disappointed. Oh, he'd like the thought of Doyle indulging in some strange kink, unable to help himself in the face of Bodie's beautiful self. But he'd pout over a missed opportunity to watch Doyle toss off.
To watch...
Huh.
That girl yesterday had asked him his favourite sexual position, and what had he done? Checked to make sure that Bodie was still watching him. That's what he wanted, Bodie watching him.
For Bodie to always watch him.
He squeezed his cock and tried to think. That mirror over the fireplace, if he could get it off the wall...
It was secured with a wire and two simple hooks, and came down easily. He carefully carried it into the bedroom. It wasn't too heavy, but its ornate frame was pointy and surprisingly sharp. He looped the wire over the bed's headboard, tested it, and further adjusted its tilt by jamming his pillow under it.
Okay, the scene was set, and Doyle knew what he wanted. But he'd had a head start. Now it was time to see how quickly he could get his fine piece of machinery revved up and roaring.
"Bodie."
He knelt on the bed.
"Bodie," he said again.
Bodie's muscles tightened ever so slightly, and Doyle gave him a heartbeat to remember where he was and who was with him, before putting his hand on Bodie's thigh. Bodie tensed, and the movement rubbed Doyle's thumb over the curve of Bodie's arse, right where the heavily-muscled thigh ended and the plush swell of his backside began. Bodie went so still at that, he didn't seem to be breathing.
"Come on, Handsome," Doyle said. "Wake up, but don't move."
"Ray?"
"Yeah?" Doyle bent over him.
"We're alone?"
"Yes."
Bodie relaxed. "Why can't I move, Ray? Is there a tarantula in the bed?"
Doyle laughed. "Is that a complaint about me hairy legs?"
He climbed on top of Bodie and straddled him, using his own legs to force Bodie's closer together. Bodie started to roll over, and Doyle pinned him down.
"No, I need you just like that."
Bodie turned his head, trying to see him. "What's this? Are you coming over all masterful again?"
"Look to your right, Bodie."
Bodie did, and completely stopped his wriggling.
"You see it, Bodie?"
"Yeah," Bodie whispered roughly.
"You see us?"
Bodie nodded, and in the mirror, Doyle could see him licking his lips.
"You know what you need to do?"
Bodie's eyes were huge and dark as he stared into the mirror. Doyle thrust hard against him.
"You know what you need to do?" he repeated.
Bodie swallowed. "No."
"You need to be perfectly still. All you're allowed to do is watch me indulge myself." Doyle rolled his hips. "Oh, and Bodie?"
Bodie groaned, "Yeah?"
"You have to watch. If you stop looking at that mirror, if you stop watching us, I'll stop."
"Ray--"
"Got it, Bodie? I'll stop. I'll go into the bog and lock the door, and get myself off where you can't see."
That left Bodie speechless, and now that Doyle had his complete attention, he could begin. He moved so that he was between Bodie's legs instead of straddling them, and slid his hands up Bodie's thighs. When he reached the top, he cupped Bodie's cheeks, and then used his thumbs to spread them open.
He bent low, and then asked, "Are you watching?"
Bodie gasped.
"Ah, you must be."
He let his breath tease Bodie's flesh and watched, fascinated, as Bodie strained towards him. It was such a small movement, only a few millimetres, but it spoke so eloquently of longing and control. It was beautiful. Bodie was so beautiful with him like this.
Doyle had to kiss him. He pressed his tongue to that little stretch of skin between Bodie's arsehole and his balls.
Bodie's moan filled the room, and Doyle agreed with its sentiment whole-heartedly. This was perfect, but he needed more. He laved at his balls, cupped them, kissed them, then pulled Bodie's hips up enough that he could get under him and squeeze his cock as he pressed his tongue inside.
Bodie roared.
That's it, love, Doyle thought, unwilling to pull his mouth away long enough to encourage him out loud. That's it. And he worked him hard in his hand, and when his tongue was no longer enough, he rested his cheek on Bodie's arse and watched his reaction in the mirror as he pressed a finger in and stroked his prostate.
Bodie's control was good to the end. There was only a single second as he came that his eyes shut, and then he opened them and stared at Doyle, meeting his eyes directly in the glass.
Doyle surged up and wrapped his come-covered hand around his own cock and gripped hard. He didn't--he couldn't--he had to be with Bodie.
He struggled up the bed, and Bodie broke the rules, rolling, and pulling Doyle into his arms. Doyle caught at him, kissing him fiercely, even as Bodie's hand joined Doyle's on his cock, and he came, gasping into the kiss.
#
Bodie held Doyle and smiled as he watched him lick their come off his fingers. The silly bastard obviously loved him like crazy.
Good, that's how it should be. And speaking of how things should be...
"Hey," Bodie said. "What did you make me for brekkie?"
They still had to walk back to the cottage, and Bodie wanted a dark alley.
He wanted Doyle's lips. He wanted to put his fingers in Doyle's mouth and watch how cocky that always made him.
He wanted to watch Doyle's eyes light up in challenge. What went through his head then? Come on, you bastard, stick something bigger in me? Or was the light in his eyes because he knew all of Bodie's secrets? Knew that every time he slipped into Doyle, he ached for the gesture to be returned ten-fold? A thousand?
Whatever the reason, Bodie wanted it.
He'd get his fingers slick in Doyle's mouth, and then watch Doyle's eyes lose focus when his trousers were yanked down and those fingers dipped into his arse. Doyle's cock would jump and jut even harder against Bodie's thigh, and his hands would clench and grip Bodie's biceps so tightly there'd be marks to admire the next day--and Bodie had never thought bruising easily was a good thing until he'd had regular mementos of Doyle's need for him scattered secretly in amongst all of the other marks the job left on him.
He'd press close and let Doyle feel the bricks at his back. He'd pin him there and listen to him gasp--
"Bodie!"
Bodie jumped.
"Come on, it's this way. Or has the blood rushed out of your feet as well?"
Christ, it was just sunset now, and there wasn't a dark alley to be had.
"Come on, Handsome, one foot in front of the other."
"Next time," Bodie said, "we're taking the car."
"Not for a mile, we aren't."
"But--"
"Come on. 'Miles to go' and all that." Doyle paused and chuckled so lewdly that shivers ran down Bodie's spine. "Miles to go and a big, butch lad to do."
"That a promise?"
"It is if you get moving."
"Going to nail me to that bed?"
"I might," Doyle said. "Unless you fancy the wicker?"
Bodie got moving.
#
The next morning, a sound startled Doyle awake, but in the half-second rush to full alertness, he lost track of it. He'd recognized it, he was sure, but for the life of him, he couldn't say what he'd heard. He lay tense, his heart tripping from adrenaline, and listened. All he could hear was Bodie's steady breathing. He matched his breaths to Bodie's and let that lull him, certain that Bodie wouldn't have slept through danger. Whatever it had been, it was nothing.
He closed his eyes, and a raucous squabbling pierced the silence. Doyle jumped, as well as one could jump with Bodie spread over him like a lead blanket, and his bladder chose that moment to make some urgent demands of its own. Christ. Two birds fighting over a bit of garbage or something, and any plans for a nice lie-in were shot to hell.
He sighed and pushed at Bodie. Then he pushed a bit more, and wriggled, and somehow managed to make it out of bed, most of the sheets coming with him. He kicked himself free from the tangle clinging to his left ankle, and headed for the loo.
He relieved himself, and then stood, idly scratching and remembering when Bodie had first started sharing his bed.
Doyle had been just out of hospital, and Bodie had been a wreck--scared to touch Doyle, for fear of hurting him, yet seemingly unable not to touch him. He'd lain there on the far side of the bed, bleeding off nervous tension worse than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and making it absolutely impossible for Doyle to sleep. Doyle had had to take over, to manhandle Bodie just to get some kip.
He'd haul him to the middle of the bed, poke and prod until he was a comfortable cushion for Doyle to rest against, and then pray that he hadn't strained his stitches too much by lugging a great weight like Bodie about. As Doyle had recovered and gained more energy, and become a little more observant, he couldn't help but notice Bodie's physical reaction to being manhandled by him. He'd noticed and taken advantage--and look where that had got him.
Nowadays, he almost had to resort to GBH to get out of bed. Sleeping with Bodie was like sleeping with a Kevlar octopus. He didn't know how his birds put up with it, but then... well, he suspected that Bodie wasn't as bad with them. He wasn't unconsciously shielding all of his bed partners from harm. The stupid bastard, he'd better not think that Doyle would let him take a bullet in his place.
Doyle stretched, yawned, and dug through his kit for the toothpaste. It wasn't worth thinking about their sleeping arrangements, he told himself as he brushed his teeth. The truth was simple, he'd always had a knack for sleeping in less-than-comfortable spots, and sleeping crushed under Bodie was better than sleeping without him. At that, he bent over the basin and spat. If anyone could hear his thoughts, they'd tell him he was in love.
He didn't want to be in love. If you could fall in love, you could fall out of it. Look at Waltham. Married for twenty five years, and then he just wakes up one morning and decides to kill his wife? No, thank you. If he and Bodie managed to live that long, he wanted something better for the two of them.
He headed for the kitchen. The copper-and-enamel clock on the wall proclaimed that it was just past seven. He inspected the cooker, and then poked through the sacks of groceries that Bodie had dumped on the counter. There were plain biscuits, chocolate biscuits, and the packet of Jaffa Cakes with only one cake left. Doyle ate it while sorting through two oranges, a bag of crisps, and a large wedge of cheddar. The second bag held a loaf of bread, a pot of strawberry jam, a tin of tea, another orange, and a fairly good bottle of champagne. Why had he ever thought Bodie and self-catering would be a workable combination?
He put the champagne in the fridge, and discovered a bottle of milk and a jar of instant coffee. Did someone think "freeze-dried" meant "keep cold"? He set the milk and coffee out, and filled the kettle. He coaxed the cooker into lighting and went to shave.
Bodie would probably want to sleep half the morning away and then head for Bournemouth and the regatta. Or, more likely, Bodie would want to sleep half the morning away and then spend the rest of the day in bed. Come tea time, he'd moan about missing the regatta, get up long enough to change the sheets, and then drag Doyle back to bed.
Doyle could think of worse ways to spend a Saturday, but he hadn't driven a hundred miles to miss the scenery. He'd make Bodie some breakfast, then sweet talk him into borrowing those bicycles and checking out the New Forest, and--Doyle, you bloody idiot!
Scratch that plan. He should have thought of it before fucking Bodie so thoroughly last night. Well... there was still the Motor Museum or that motorcycle one, Bodie wouldn't say no to that.
He finished shaving and returned the razor to his kit, then blinked at seeing his razor already tucked inside. He must have nicked Bodie's. He shrugged, then smiled and put it in his kit anyway. Let Bodie get a little scruffy, maybe that would keep the birds away.
He made toast, slathered Bodie's with jam, and licked off the blob of strawberry that ended up on his thumb. He set the table, fixed their coffee, then strode into the bedroom to wake up Sleeping Beauty--and grab some trousers so he could actually sit down on those chairs.
As soon as he stepped into the room, his intentions for the day flew out the window. Sunlight was flooding the room through the thin curtains. It glinted off the brass bed frame, puddled in the white linen sheets, washed over Bodie's naked back, and--
God.
Bodie had moved and lost the modest shield of that last bit of linen. Doyle may have been screwing him off and on for three years-and lately, more on than off--but he'd never seen so much of Bodie so well lit.
He stepped closer, and--Christ, the man should come with a health warning. Forget about the cholesterol clogging up Bodie's heart, he'd outlive any randy bastard who saw him like this.
Bodie's right leg was bent, giving Doyle a lovely view of his arse and the back of his balls tucked so safely between his legs and yet so exposed. Doyle's gut flashed with fire, and he cupped his own balls and tugged gently. Women were supposed to be the delicate and vulnerable ones, but they could never be quite this exposed, could never arouse quite this need to take and claim, and lose himself in his lover.
He wanted to pour himself over Bodie and feel every inch of that skin. He wanted to plunge himself into him and be surrounded by those muscles. He wanted--
He bit his lip and stroked himself once, twice, before crossing to the bedside table and the lubricant they'd left there last night. Bodie didn't stir. You wouldn't think anyone could sleep through being stared at like that.
Doyle returned to the foot of the bed. He slicked himself up, keeping his strokes slow and even, fighting the urgency he felt. He tossed the bottle of lubricant onto the bed by Bodie's hip.
Protect? Or plunder?
Or, God, just keep this up? Let himself go?
He could almost see it. His come would look perfect pooling in the small of Bodie's back. Afterward, he'd kneel between Bodie's legs and wake him by licking it off. Doyle knew that taste, the combination of Bodie's skin and his own essence, but would it be different? Would it taste different lapped up off of Bodie's back than it did when sucked from Bodie's fingers?
His hand tightened on his cock.
He wanted that, but Bodie would be disappointed. Oh, he'd like the thought of Doyle indulging in some strange kink, unable to help himself in the face of Bodie's beautiful self. But he'd pout over a missed opportunity to watch Doyle toss off.
To watch...
Huh.
That girl yesterday had asked him his favourite sexual position, and what had he done? Checked to make sure that Bodie was still watching him. That's what he wanted, Bodie watching him.
For Bodie to always watch him.
He squeezed his cock and tried to think. That mirror over the fireplace, if he could get it off the wall...
It was secured with a wire and two simple hooks, and came down easily. He carefully carried it into the bedroom. It wasn't too heavy, but its ornate frame was pointy and surprisingly sharp. He looped the wire over the bed's headboard, tested it, and further adjusted its tilt by jamming his pillow under it.
Okay, the scene was set, and Doyle knew what he wanted. But he'd had a head start. Now it was time to see how quickly he could get his fine piece of machinery revved up and roaring.
"Bodie."
He knelt on the bed.
"Bodie," he said again.
Bodie's muscles tightened ever so slightly, and Doyle gave him a heartbeat to remember where he was and who was with him, before putting his hand on Bodie's thigh. Bodie tensed, and the movement rubbed Doyle's thumb over the curve of Bodie's arse, right where the heavily-muscled thigh ended and the plush swell of his backside began. Bodie went so still at that, he didn't seem to be breathing.
"Come on, Handsome," Doyle said. "Wake up, but don't move."
"Ray?"
"Yeah?" Doyle bent over him.
"We're alone?"
"Yes."
Bodie relaxed. "Why can't I move, Ray? Is there a tarantula in the bed?"
Doyle laughed. "Is that a complaint about me hairy legs?"
He climbed on top of Bodie and straddled him, using his own legs to force Bodie's closer together. Bodie started to roll over, and Doyle pinned him down.
"No, I need you just like that."
Bodie turned his head, trying to see him. "What's this? Are you coming over all masterful again?"
"Look to your right, Bodie."
Bodie did, and completely stopped his wriggling.
"You see it, Bodie?"
"Yeah," Bodie whispered roughly.
"You see us?"
Bodie nodded, and in the mirror, Doyle could see him licking his lips.
"You know what you need to do?"
Bodie's eyes were huge and dark as he stared into the mirror. Doyle thrust hard against him.
"You know what you need to do?" he repeated.
Bodie swallowed. "No."
"You need to be perfectly still. All you're allowed to do is watch me indulge myself." Doyle rolled his hips. "Oh, and Bodie?"
Bodie groaned, "Yeah?"
"You have to watch. If you stop looking at that mirror, if you stop watching us, I'll stop."
"Ray--"
"Got it, Bodie? I'll stop. I'll go into the bog and lock the door, and get myself off where you can't see."
That left Bodie speechless, and now that Doyle had his complete attention, he could begin. He moved so that he was between Bodie's legs instead of straddling them, and slid his hands up Bodie's thighs. When he reached the top, he cupped Bodie's cheeks, and then used his thumbs to spread them open.
He bent low, and then asked, "Are you watching?"
Bodie gasped.
"Ah, you must be."
He let his breath tease Bodie's flesh and watched, fascinated, as Bodie strained towards him. It was such a small movement, only a few millimetres, but it spoke so eloquently of longing and control. It was beautiful. Bodie was so beautiful with him like this.
Doyle had to kiss him. He pressed his tongue to that little stretch of skin between Bodie's arsehole and his balls.
Bodie's moan filled the room, and Doyle agreed with its sentiment whole-heartedly. This was perfect, but he needed more. He laved at his balls, cupped them, kissed them, then pulled Bodie's hips up enough that he could get under him and squeeze his cock as he pressed his tongue inside.
Bodie roared.
That's it, love, Doyle thought, unwilling to pull his mouth away long enough to encourage him out loud. That's it. And he worked him hard in his hand, and when his tongue was no longer enough, he rested his cheek on Bodie's arse and watched his reaction in the mirror as he pressed a finger in and stroked his prostate.
Bodie's control was good to the end. There was only a single second as he came that his eyes shut, and then he opened them and stared at Doyle, meeting his eyes directly in the glass.
Doyle surged up and wrapped his come-covered hand around his own cock and gripped hard. He didn't--he couldn't--he had to be with Bodie.
He struggled up the bed, and Bodie broke the rules, rolling, and pulling Doyle into his arms. Doyle caught at him, kissing him fiercely, even as Bodie's hand joined Doyle's on his cock, and he came, gasping into the kiss.
#
Bodie held Doyle and smiled as he watched him lick their come off his fingers. The silly bastard obviously loved him like crazy.
Good, that's how it should be. And speaking of how things should be...
"Hey," Bodie said. "What did you make me for brekkie?"