Contest Entry - Fanfic - "That Elton Grass" by shadowpoet89
Title: That Elton Grass
Author: shadowpoet89
Email: shadowpoet89@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/characters used: Dale/Saul, Red, uh, Bea Arthur?
Notes: Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.
Warning(s): Mild spoilers if you haven’t seen the movie. Also, there’s the graphic sex.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and, as such, I make no money from writing about them getting into all sorts of homoerotic shenanigans.
“Bea Arthur seems like she’d be the biggest bitch in real life,” Dale says, eyes fixed on the TV.
“Yeah, man, she just has, like, that look,” Saul says, nodding his agreement. “Most old people are nice but she doesn’t look like she’d give you any purse candy or play cards with you or anything.”
“She looks like she’d give you poisonous purse candy. Or candy that’s old and half opened and has, like, hair sticking to it and shit.”
“Man, that’s so wrong,” Saul says, sounding offended, and Dale wonders if he should point out that Bea Arthur never really gave him any nasty purse candy and that he’s only speculating. He opts instead for flicking through the channels again and settling on what appears to be a documentary about topless African women. Sweet.
They're sitting around Saul’s apartment, smoking shit and watching a Golden Girls marathon on Lifetime with the sound turned down really low. They were chillin' at Red's place for a while but his wife’s just gotten out of jail and he’s kind of exiled them. They'd kinda bitched at him for it, but really they're both just a little bit jealous that Red is gettin’ some and they’re not. In Red’s defense, though, he did offer to let them watch and it didn’t sound like that bad of an idea until the anal beads came out, along with a strap-on the size of a child’s arm, and Dale suddenly remembered that Saul left the gas on and they should really get back and try to rectify that potentially life-threatening situation, in the interest of, uh, not causing any deadly explosions.
So like, Dale is sitting there thinking of anal beads and Bea Arthur and mentally marveling at the fucking messed up thought combinations that make their way into his head when Saul says one of the weirdest fucking things Dale has ever heard come out of anyone's mouth - and that's saying something, because Dale has hung out with a lot of stoners in his day. Saul has laid out a few choice flavors of weed on the coffee table, letting Dale pick which one they light up next. He reaches for one at random when Saul stops him with a hand on his arm.
Saul shakes his head. "Nah, bro, you don't want any a'that."
"Why not? What is it?"
"That’s that Elton grass," Saul explains. "Rainbow roaches. That shit'll make you gay."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dale has heard some weird names for pot but that’s a new one.
“This guy I knew, Rob, right, smoked some a'that and woke up the next day sore-assed and gay married in fuckin' Toledo, man."
"What the fuck kinda people you hangin' out with?"
"Hey man, I'm just sayin'."
"You're just sayin'," Dale repeats, snorting. “Whatever. I call bullshit. Weed doesn't make you gay. Gay makes you gay."
“What?” Saul blinks blearily, looking confused, but he rolls the joint anyway. He brings it to his mouth, licking it to seal before he presses it all together and hands it to Dale.
Dale can't wrap his head around this.
"So you're saying that one hit off of this can make me like buttfucking?"
He holds the joint up, looking at it to see if it looks somehow different than any other joint. It doesn't. He lights it, takes a hit. Tastes the same, too.
"I don't know. I just know that's what happened to my one friend Rob." Saul reaches for it, and Dale hands it over.
“Well maybe Rob was gay to begin with, you ever think of that?" Dale says. "And anyway, if that’s true then why do you even have this magical gay-making weed? No, more importantly, why are you even smoking it?"
Saul shrugs. "This shit is so good I don't even give a fuck if it makes me gay." Saul closes his eyes, exhaling blissfully.
"That's really gay of you," Dale says seriously. Saul shrugs again.
"Hey," Saul says after a moment, sitting up and opening his eyes, looking suddenly interested. "Do you realize how many times we've said the word gay in this conversation?"
"You started it."
"But still."
"Gay," Dale says. "Gay. It's the word of the day." Dale chortles, as if he's never rhymed before.
"It doesn't even sound like a word anymore, like, seriously. It doesn't. That’s so weird, and kinda fucked up,” Saul says, giggling. “We just killed a word. We stripped it of its wordiness."
"Gay,” Dale says experimentally. "Gay. Saul is gay. This weed is gay."
"Saul is gay for this weed," Saul says.
They both crack up like that's the funniest thing ever.
"Dude, your weed is a man?"
"Yeah," Saul says. "Dickweed. Get it?"
And then they crack up again, because that really is the funniest thing ever.
"Hey, Dale?" Saul says, after they've quieted down and refocused their attention back on the TV. The girls are in jail. Dale has no idea how that happened. How do four old ladies end up in the clank?
"Yeah?" Dale says. He exhales and then lunges forward slightly to catch the smoke in his mouth again before it escapes.
"I think I'm gay for you."
Dale starts to giggle. "Dude, that's so gay."
"I'm serious," Saul says, and there's a slight whine to his voice when he snatches the joint from Dale's fingers. He sucks on it greedily, cheeks hollowing. Dale thinks he looks like Kate Moss when he does that, but he has no idea why (her cheekbones aren't even all that). He just thinks it.
"Well shit," Dale says. "No need to snatch."
"You're not listening to me," Saul says, though he passes the joint back.
"I am listening to you. You said you're gay for Dale," Dale says.
“No, I said I’m gay for you.”
“But I am Dale.”
"Fucker," Saul says and steals the joint back.
"So you're gay for me," Dale says. "Gay for Dale. Dicks for Dale."
"Dicks for Dale," Saul repeats, and bursts into laughter. By the time he finishes he ends up slumped on Dale's shoulder. He turns his head, burying it into the warm crook of Dale's neck.
"You smell like licorice," Saul says. He turns his head to watch Dale smoke. He seems to do that a lot - watch Dale smoke, like he's never seen it before, like actually getting high himself is only half of it and the other half is watching Dale take a hit right after him.
"No shit?" Dale says, distracted, and then catches up. "That's really fucking weird. Why the fuck do I smell like licorice?"
"I don't know, it's your fucking neck," Saul says, defensive.
"Well you're the one who's all up in it."
"All up in it," Saul repeats, nodding like he likes the sound of that. He nuzzles his face into Dale’s neck and when he speaks again it is quieter or maybe just muffled. "But seriously, man. I'm totally gay for you,” Saul says to his skin. Dale shivers from the feel of a mouth moving on his neck, even if it is just to speak.
Dale is quiet for a long moment.
"It's not gay if it's us," he says firmly, like he's been thinking about it. And the truth is, he has been. Saul looks up at him.
"What?"
"No, listen," Dale says. He's distantly aware that he's using that voice people use when they're high and convinced that they've just figured out the meaning of life after a particularly satisfying hit, but he doesn't care because this time he really has figured it all out. "I've been thinking. Like, how you're my best friend-"
"Best fucking friend," Saul interrupts into Dale's neck where he seems to have planted a flag and claimed as his home. Dale may or may not be totally cool with that. Anyway.
"Best fucking friend," Dale corrects himself. He takes another hit in an attempt to steady his voice, which has grown slightly shakier the longer Saul's mouth has been on his skin, just - there, not doing anything, but just there. He holds the smoke in for a long time before he continues.
"So like, being best fucking friends is kinda like being in a regular, boy-girl relationship. 'Cause like, you're together all the time. And you eat your meals together. And you call each other on the phone to say goodnight-"
"You do that."
"Only to make sure you're haven't fallen asleep with the stove on or something, asswipe. Let me finish," Dale says, kind of irritated that Saul felt the need to point that out. "Like I was saying. You do shit together. You smoke pot together - if the girl is cool. So like, you do all that shit. And if you do all of that and you're not fucking too it's kinda like you’re denying yourself what you should have. Or be having."
"That makes sense," Saul says, still speaking into Dale's neck.
"Damn straight it makes sense," Dale says. Neither of them point out that by that same logic they should be having crazy threesomes with Red involving anal beads and webcams. "We're like that lame couple in high school who don't have sex 'cause of abstinence pledges and purity rings and shit."
"Fuck a purity ring," Saul chimes in.
"And if you think about it, we’ve been going out for a while. Like, a really long time. In relationship years. Or months, or whatever. We’ve had like a million dates.”
"Like that time I got you to go see Phantom.”
Dale looks at Saul, who he can see is smiling goofily against his neck.
"Right," Dale continues, looking away hastily even though he can feel his face starting to flush. "So like, one of us should've gotten to third base by now."
"Is third base up the shirt or down the skirt? I forget."
"It's neither. Cause, you know. We're dudes."
"So you don't want to put your hand up or down my shirt or skirt?"
Dale looks at Saul like he's crazy.
"You sound like a fucking pornographic Dr. Seuss book."
"That's hot," Saul says, and begins to recite: "He will not touch me up my shirt. He will not touch me down my skirt. It won't hurt, his name is.. Bert." Saul trails off, laughing. Dale snickers, and waits until Saul's giggling has died down to speak again.
"I kinda want to, though," Dale says, more serious than before. The air between them changes, is quietly pulled taut and tense. The kinda part of Dale’s sentence is a lie, though. He really wants to. Saul's hand finds its way to Dale’s thigh, rubbing it. Dale closes his eyes. The movement of Saul’s hand is measured and painstakingly slow. Dale should be freaked. He should snap out of it right about now. He's not. He doesn't.
"I kinda want you to," Saul murmurs against his skin. Saul doesn’t close his mouth completely when he’s done speaking, and his lips are parted open on Dale’s neck, caught somewhere between a kiss and an accident.
"Put my hand up your skirt? But you’re not wearing one," Dale says pathetically, trying to laugh. It comes out as more of a throaty wheeze as Saul lifts his head and takes the joint from Dale’s fingers, bringing it deliberately to his mouth and taking one last long hit before he sets it down. He exhales, blowing smoke right into Dale’s face. Dale tries to turn away but Saul catches him with one hand, his long fingers cool against the side of Dale’s neck. Saul lowers his head to place his lips underneath Dale’s jaw, just holding him there, not quite kissing him so much as clumsily pressing his lips to the stubble on Dale’s neck.
"We can pretend, if you want," Saul says against his skin, and repositions himself so that he is sitting half atop Dale, his leg slung over the tops of Dale’s thighs. Dale wants to reach for the joint, take another hit so his heart can slow down, but he doesn't want to move. Saul has moved his face to Dale’s neck again and Dale can feel his heavy breathing. He feels Saul’s lips moving on his skin. When Saul grabs Dale's hand and places it on the side of his thigh, pressing and sliding it there, so slow, Dale needs no further invitation. He grabs Saul, pulling him onto his lap. He never thought Saul straddling him - hell, a guy straddling him - would have been so not-weird, especially considering their steadily hardening cocks that are now inches away from each other. Regrettable inches. Inches Dale would like to soon eliminate.
"Dale," Saul says. His voice is quiet, or maybe it’s how close their faces are that makes every word, ever breath, seem like a secret between them.
"Yeah, man?" Dale says, distracted. He is absolutely fascinated by the feel of Saul's thighs underneath his hands. He can't stop rubbing them, can’t stop touching them, can’t stop feeling them - feeling Saul. He can't imagine that anything can feel better than this but then he remembers that there is a thin layer of flannel separating his hands from Saul’s bare thighs and his cock jumps at the thought of getting to touch that skin with nothing between them at all.
"Yeah," Dale says again, partly to prompt Saul into continuing, partly in regards to his own thoughts.
"I dreamt about this," Saul says in a low voice. Dale suppresses a groan as Saul lowers his head until his forehead is on Dale's shoulder and Dale can feel Saul’s warm breath on his skin. He keeps touching Dale's skin like he's amazed that it's there. Dale doesn't know if that's 'cause he's high or if it's something else.
"Tell me about it," Dale says, voice rough. "Tell me what happened in your dream." He doesn't care if he's pushing or prying because he really fucking wants to know and anyway Saul’s the one that brought it up. He doesn't ask if Saul's dreams are anything like his own. He just waits for him to speak.
"It was a lot like this," Saul says. He begins to rock his hips, grinding slowly against Dale, and when Dale grips him tighter he speeds up.
When they finally kiss it tastes like pot and those homemade smoothies they had earlier, and it's awesome, like a pot smoothie, only even more awesome than that - like a pot smoothie filled with, like, sex somehow because Saul is grinding their cocks together and it's the best fucking thing. It’s a fucking - fucking sexy pot smoothie, shit, Dale doesn’t know, he can’t think right now, can’t think worth shit.
When they break apart, breathless and panting, Saul slows down, moves against Dale slowly. Unhurried - he's taking his time. When he manages to speak his voice sounds wet and unsteady.
"And in the dream, you know, the one that I was telling you about, your hands were…" Saul trails off, breathless. His eyes roll back in his head. "Fuck, Dale," he moans. "So good."
Dale reaches up, grabbing Saul by the hair and bringing their faces together, urging Saul to look at him. Saul’s eyes are red and unfocused when he does.
"Tell me where my hands were," Dale says. He doesn't know if he can do this without the instructions.
"Your hands," Saul says, and his voice breaks, it goes high and then cuts off altogether. He tries again. "Your hands were here." He takes Dale's hands and guides them to his lower back before he pulls off his shirt. For a moment Dale is struck by the distinct lack of breasts but the moment passes and he is urged to distraction when Saul moves again. He lifts up onto his knees so that he can pull his underwear and pajama bottoms down past his bony hips before he gets up to get rid of the clothing all together. Saul's hard cock springs up, straining against his stomach. Saul is standing naked in front of him. ‘This is weird, this is weird, this is so fucking weird,’ a voice in Dale’s head is insisting, but it fades to background noise. Cock always trumps brain, it’s like written in the Bible or something, and Saul moves to straddle him again. He guides Dale's hands to either side of his ass.
Dale curses.
"Handful a' Saul." Saul laughs, and it sounds rougher and lower and not very much like his regular laugh at all, though Dale supposes circumstance is everything.
"Then what?" Dale asks, voice rough. Saul has begun to lick and suck at his neck and it's kind of hard to get the words out but he really wants to know. "Tell me the next part involved someone unzipping my pants."
"Hells yeah," Saul says, and he's already reaching down, fumbling with Dale's fly. "Wanna feel you in my hand," he murmurs, and the feel of Saul gripping his bare cock is almost enough to send Dale over the edge, because fuck, Saul’s hands are ridiculously huge and he used to give Saul shit about it but he sure as hell ain’t laughing now, far from it. Somehow he manages to lift himself up, though, so that Saul can pull his pants down a little bit more, just enough to make things more comfortable.
"Wanna feel you in me," Saul continues, voice dangerously close to his ear as he rubs Dale's cock, slow flicks of his wrist. Taking his time.
"Shit. Shit, that's so gay," Dale says, rocking into Saul's hand.
"I don’t fuckin’ care. Want it so bad, Dale. Fuck, you don't even know. I dream about this. Dream about you fucking me all the time."
Dale doesn't ask whether he means that he dreams about it often or he dreams about a reality where Dale fucks him 24/7 because it doesn't matter, that's hot as shit either way.
"Fuck," Dale breathes out. He grips Saul's ass so hard he'll probably leave marks. "You want me to fuck you?" Dale asks, like he can barely believe it.
Saul moans quietly against his neck, this close to a whimper.
“Answer me,” Dale moans. He needs to hear it, needs to know that this isn’t some awesome sexy drug-induced hallucination.
"Fuck, Dale, isn't that what I've been saying?" He punctuates the sentence with a particularly brutal, particularly blissful tug on Dale's cock. Dale moans and swears up a storm.
"I wanna fuck you," Dale says, because he feels like he needs to say it or else Saul won't know. Which is ridiculous because he's this close to fucking Saul’s hand to kingdom come, but whatever.
"Then do it," Saul says. ''Fuckin' do it. I want you to. Y’know I want you to.”
Saul guides Dale's hand to his cock, and Dale can feel the pre cum already slicking the tip of it.
"Fuck," Dale says, "Fuck, hold on." He makes himself let go of Saul so he can reach into his pants, pull out his wallet. He fumbles when he tries to take the condom out. It'd probably be easier if Saul would stop that slow grind, that slow burn that’s close to killing him. He's unbuttoning Dale's shirt and is kissing and biting and sucking Dale’s shoulder.
"Hurry up,” Saul breathes.
"Fuck, I'm trying. It's kinda hard to concentrate when you're doing all that - stuff."
"You like it," Saul murmurs against his skin, and his breath is so warm and so close that it makes Dale's cock twitch with every exhalation.
Finally, finally he retrieves the condom without dying or coming first and when he does Saul wastes no time in snatching it from his hands.
"Ah ah ah," he says, holding it out of Dale's reach. "I gots this. It's my dream, remember?" He looks at him, a small smile on his lips and Dale watches, spellbound, as Saul tears open the package with his teeth. Saul focuses on rolling the condom over Dale's cock, eyes narrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking out just a little bit, in such a way that makes Dale want to kiss him, touch him, fuck him, anything, everything.
"Fuck," is all Dale says. He's not even embarrassed at how breathless he sounds. When Saul finishes he looks up and smiles again and it's so absurdly hot that Dale can't help himself; he grabs Saul by the hips and tries to guides him closer to his cock. Saul stops him.
"Wait. Wait, motherfucker," he says. "Ass bleeding wasn't part of the dream."
Before Dale can even fully comprehend that statement Saul has twisted around and leaned down halfway off of the cushions to reach underneath the couch and fuck, he's bendy. Seeing him twisting like that goes straight to Dale’s cock. In order to keep from falling off of the couch Saul grips him with his thighs, locking them around him, and fuck, that's not helping anything at all -or it is, depending on how you're looking at it, but Dale is looking at it from the view point that he doesn't want to come just yet.
Saul resurfaces with a half empty bottle of lube. That he pulled from underneath his couch.
"The fuck?" Dale asks, because apparently the area under Saul's couch is like the fucking Barney Bag, except instead of like gizmos and gadgets and string and shit there's old half-smoked joints and Astroglide.
"Like you don't keep this shit by your bed. Shut the fuck up,” Saul says, though he’s obviously preoccupied and sounds as much. Dale does not point out the difference between a nightstand and the area under a couch. Dale is not even freaked that apparently Saul jerks off on the same couch that he invites guests to sit on (namely, Dale). Instead, he just watches as Saul begins to coat his fingers.
"Gotta suit up," Saul says, smiling slightly.
Dale doesn’t answer. He’s completely distracted because Saul has shifted his position on Dale’s lap and is reaching down and touching himself there. It's slow at first, but he works a finger in, and then another, stretching himself - fucking himself- on his own fingers. And apparently having a helluva time at it - his eyes are shut tight, his mouth dropping open as his hips jerk erratically.
Dale is unbelievably jealous of those fingers. He wants to fucking kidnap those fingers, steal their identity and take their place, because fuck - he's never seen that look on Saul's face before.
Saul grabs hold of Dale's arm to keep himself steady as he moves, so torturously slow. Dale's hands are still on Saul's ass, and he squeezes it experimentally, marveling at the way Saul’s body seems to catch fire with Dale’s every touch.
Saul's eyes are only half open when he slowly pulls his fingers out.
"Your turn," he says, more like a breath with words tacked on, more like a fucking moan and so much like Dale's own dreams. There's a lazy smile on his face and when Saul sticks out his tongue to wet his lips Dale almost comes. He fights to remain still as Saul begins to coat his cock. Saul kisses him, long and lazy, and Dale doesn't think it can get any better than this, but he thought that a minute ago, didn't he. Saul lifts himself up and then down again, right on Dale's cock, so achingly slow as the tip pushes inside. He lowers himself until Dale is fully inside of him, and fuck, Saul moans into his mouth, and yeah, it can get better, because this - this is fucking - this is so fucking good.
"Shit. Shit!" Dale says. He grips Saul's hips as he thrusts up into him, trying to control himself as much as he can, but Saul is giving as good as he gets, pushing down to meet Dale's movements. He's fucking rolling his hips and shit. Saul's hands are on top of his, urging him on, pressing Dale’s hands harder against his hips as if Dale can't hold him tight enough.
Saul rides him like it's the sweetest fucking thing and if it's anything like the way Saul feels wrapped around his cock, it most definitely is. Dale shifts slightly in an effort to get more comfortable. He thrusts up and it's only a slightly different angle but it must be something new because Saul jerks and lets out a string of curses involving words that Dale hasn't even heard before because he's pretty sure they’re like Yiddish or something.
Dale grabs him by the waist and pulls him closer, impossibly closer, and Saul arches his back, exposing his throat.
"Fuck," Dale breathes. "Fuck, you're so hot." He winds his hand in Saul's hair and kisses his neck, kisses all the way up to his mouth. He grips Saul's cock in his hand, pumping it fast and hard, Saul fucking his hand in time with their thrusts.
"Oh fuck. Fuck, Dale, fuck," Saul babbles, panting, and before Dale is even sure what's going on Saul is coming all over his hand and their stomachs. Dale doesn't miss a beat, though, coaxing him through it as Saul shudders and grips Dale hard enough to hurt. Dale has never seen anything like it and he doesn’t know if that’s because Saul is a dude or because Saul is Saul. Whatever the case, it’s pretty fucking hot. Saul's exposed neck, Saul's harsh breathing, Saul's heaving chest, Saul's - fuck, just Saul. Dale has never felt so unbelievably turned on in his life. Saul clenches around his cock, so tight, so damn tight, and it’s enough to send Dale over the edge and into the best fucking orgasm of his life. And like, every orgasm feels like the best at the time, but fuck, this one really, really is.
Saul rides it out so hard, never letting up, like he wants to savor this, Dale losing it underneath him, wants to wring out every last bit of pleasure from Dale.
It fucking works. With one last desperate shove of his hips, the last waves of his orgasm ebb away and Dale slumps into the couch, completely fucking spent. Saul hunches forward, his head falling onto Dale's shoulder, and Dale pulls him close out of instinct and because it just feels right - one arm wrapped around Saul’s waist, the other at the base of his neck.
Time passes. Could be moments, could be minutes.
"Fuck," is all Dale can say.
"Ditto," Saul breathes. Dale somehow manages to snicker, even though he’s so fucked out that he’s pretty sure he actually pulled a brain muscle and died when he shot his load that hard.
"Ditto?" Dale repeats.
"Shut up,” Saul says, breathing heavily. Dale rubs the back of his neck, fingers playing at his hairline.
"We just fucked on your couch and all you can say is ditto?" Dale intends to continue giving Saul shit because the longer he does that the longer he can enjoy the glorious afterglow and put off thinking, but when Saul looks up at him his face is slick with sweat and his eyes aren't all the way open and his hair is a mess, or like, even more of a mess than usual, and his lips are all slick and bruised red and he looks all after-glow-y and Dale - his breath catches in his throat.
"Fuck," is all he can say.
Saul looks like he doesn’t quite follow but he also looks too tired to ask why Dale is looking at him like that. He just slumps forward again, nestling his head in the crook of Dale's neck. He seems to like it there.
"Can't move," he mumbles.
"Then don't," Dale says without thinking, fingers flexing where they’re holding onto Saul.
"Have to," Saul continues to mumble. "In the best interest of my ass." Gingerly, he moves, lifts himself up so that Dale's dick isn't just chilling inside of his ass or whatever. Saul removes the condom from Dale’s cock and if Dale were as young as his ex-girlfriend he'd be ready to go another round already just because of the intense way that Saul does it. Saul, he gives his complete attention to whatever he's doing, and Dale always found that kind of endearing but he never realized just how fucking hot that could be until that intense focus is centered around his cock.
His cock gives a valiant twitch.
"Well it looks like he can move, anyway," Saul says, and ok, Dale used to be kinda weirded out when chicks referred to his dick as a separate entity but it's kind of totally ok when Saul does it because when Saul does it he grins and fuck, it's Saul.
"I should get a towel," Saul says. He doesn't move.
"Fuck a towel," Dale says. He grabs Saul's shirt off of the edge of the couch and hands it to him. Saul doesn't even hesitate before using it to clean them both up.
"Gay sex," Saul says thoughtfully. "Awesome, but messy."
"Good messy, though, like chicks mud wrestling or something."
“Hell yeah, man," Saul agrees, and wads up the shirt into a ball and throws it somewhere in the vicinity of his bedroom. With a short, fleeting look at Dale he moves to lie on the couch, one leg still thrown over him. He looks at Dale expectantly, and when Dale doesn't get the hint Saul holds his arms out.
Dale looks at him blankly.
"Are you asking me to cuddle?"
Saul looks sheepish, though he tries to hide it with a laugh. "No," he says, even as Dale is moving to fit himself around Saul. Moments later, Saul says into his neck:
"Do you mind?"
"No," Dale answers. Surprisingly enough, he doesn't. It's like the naps he and Saul sometimes take together, only more naked. Girls used to want to do that shit with him and talk about how cuddly he was and it could get kind of annoying, because after sex a guy wants to feel like a man, not like some girl's giant be-dicked teddy bear.
Dale doesn’t get a chance to marvel at the new word he just made up (be-dicked: to be equipped with a dick, he muses) because Saul speaks.
"Good," Saul says. "Bitch," he adds, though it comes out kind of muffled and sleepy sounding. Without opening his eyes he reaches out with one arm to grab the still-smoking joint out of the ashtray. He brings it to his lips, taking a long slow pull and instead of exhaling he presses his lips to Dale’s and breathes out, forcing the smoke into Dale’s mouth who inhales it gratefully. He loves shotgunning, after deciding long ago that anything that combines getting high and making out gets his stamp of approval times infinity.
After a very brief bout of really unsexy coughing Dale catches up to the conversation. "Fuck you. You're the one who just had my cock up his ass."
"And?"
"And it was awesome," Dale blurts out, sounding a little surprised himself. He thinks he should be freaking out, but he isn't. He waits for it to feel weird, but it doesn't. It doesn't hurt that Saul's hand has found its way between them to leisurely stroke him as they talk. "You're awesome," Dale says, quieter.
"Thanks," Saul murmurs. "I think you're awesome too. You're like, the best fucking best fucking friend ever."
Dale doesn't quite follow that sentence, but whatever. He gets it.
Author: shadowpoet89
Email: shadowpoet89@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/characters used: Dale/Saul, Red, uh, Bea Arthur?
Notes: Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.
Warning(s): Mild spoilers if you haven’t seen the movie. Also, there’s the graphic sex.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and, as such, I make no money from writing about them getting into all sorts of homoerotic shenanigans.
“Bea Arthur seems like she’d be the biggest bitch in real life,” Dale says, eyes fixed on the TV.
“Yeah, man, she just has, like, that look,” Saul says, nodding his agreement. “Most old people are nice but she doesn’t look like she’d give you any purse candy or play cards with you or anything.”
“She looks like she’d give you poisonous purse candy. Or candy that’s old and half opened and has, like, hair sticking to it and shit.”
“Man, that’s so wrong,” Saul says, sounding offended, and Dale wonders if he should point out that Bea Arthur never really gave him any nasty purse candy and that he’s only speculating. He opts instead for flicking through the channels again and settling on what appears to be a documentary about topless African women. Sweet.
They're sitting around Saul’s apartment, smoking shit and watching a Golden Girls marathon on Lifetime with the sound turned down really low. They were chillin' at Red's place for a while but his wife’s just gotten out of jail and he’s kind of exiled them. They'd kinda bitched at him for it, but really they're both just a little bit jealous that Red is gettin’ some and they’re not. In Red’s defense, though, he did offer to let them watch and it didn’t sound like that bad of an idea until the anal beads came out, along with a strap-on the size of a child’s arm, and Dale suddenly remembered that Saul left the gas on and they should really get back and try to rectify that potentially life-threatening situation, in the interest of, uh, not causing any deadly explosions.
So like, Dale is sitting there thinking of anal beads and Bea Arthur and mentally marveling at the fucking messed up thought combinations that make their way into his head when Saul says one of the weirdest fucking things Dale has ever heard come out of anyone's mouth - and that's saying something, because Dale has hung out with a lot of stoners in his day. Saul has laid out a few choice flavors of weed on the coffee table, letting Dale pick which one they light up next. He reaches for one at random when Saul stops him with a hand on his arm.
Saul shakes his head. "Nah, bro, you don't want any a'that."
"Why not? What is it?"
"That’s that Elton grass," Saul explains. "Rainbow roaches. That shit'll make you gay."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dale has heard some weird names for pot but that’s a new one.
“This guy I knew, Rob, right, smoked some a'that and woke up the next day sore-assed and gay married in fuckin' Toledo, man."
"What the fuck kinda people you hangin' out with?"
"Hey man, I'm just sayin'."
"You're just sayin'," Dale repeats, snorting. “Whatever. I call bullshit. Weed doesn't make you gay. Gay makes you gay."
“What?” Saul blinks blearily, looking confused, but he rolls the joint anyway. He brings it to his mouth, licking it to seal before he presses it all together and hands it to Dale.
Dale can't wrap his head around this.
"So you're saying that one hit off of this can make me like buttfucking?"
He holds the joint up, looking at it to see if it looks somehow different than any other joint. It doesn't. He lights it, takes a hit. Tastes the same, too.
"I don't know. I just know that's what happened to my one friend Rob." Saul reaches for it, and Dale hands it over.
“Well maybe Rob was gay to begin with, you ever think of that?" Dale says. "And anyway, if that’s true then why do you even have this magical gay-making weed? No, more importantly, why are you even smoking it?"
Saul shrugs. "This shit is so good I don't even give a fuck if it makes me gay." Saul closes his eyes, exhaling blissfully.
"That's really gay of you," Dale says seriously. Saul shrugs again.
"Hey," Saul says after a moment, sitting up and opening his eyes, looking suddenly interested. "Do you realize how many times we've said the word gay in this conversation?"
"You started it."
"But still."
"Gay," Dale says. "Gay. It's the word of the day." Dale chortles, as if he's never rhymed before.
"It doesn't even sound like a word anymore, like, seriously. It doesn't. That’s so weird, and kinda fucked up,” Saul says, giggling. “We just killed a word. We stripped it of its wordiness."
"Gay,” Dale says experimentally. "Gay. Saul is gay. This weed is gay."
"Saul is gay for this weed," Saul says.
They both crack up like that's the funniest thing ever.
"Dude, your weed is a man?"
"Yeah," Saul says. "Dickweed. Get it?"
And then they crack up again, because that really is the funniest thing ever.
"Hey, Dale?" Saul says, after they've quieted down and refocused their attention back on the TV. The girls are in jail. Dale has no idea how that happened. How do four old ladies end up in the clank?
"Yeah?" Dale says. He exhales and then lunges forward slightly to catch the smoke in his mouth again before it escapes.
"I think I'm gay for you."
Dale starts to giggle. "Dude, that's so gay."
"I'm serious," Saul says, and there's a slight whine to his voice when he snatches the joint from Dale's fingers. He sucks on it greedily, cheeks hollowing. Dale thinks he looks like Kate Moss when he does that, but he has no idea why (her cheekbones aren't even all that). He just thinks it.
"Well shit," Dale says. "No need to snatch."
"You're not listening to me," Saul says, though he passes the joint back.
"I am listening to you. You said you're gay for Dale," Dale says.
“No, I said I’m gay for you.”
“But I am Dale.”
"Fucker," Saul says and steals the joint back.
"So you're gay for me," Dale says. "Gay for Dale. Dicks for Dale."
"Dicks for Dale," Saul repeats, and bursts into laughter. By the time he finishes he ends up slumped on Dale's shoulder. He turns his head, burying it into the warm crook of Dale's neck.
"You smell like licorice," Saul says. He turns his head to watch Dale smoke. He seems to do that a lot - watch Dale smoke, like he's never seen it before, like actually getting high himself is only half of it and the other half is watching Dale take a hit right after him.
"No shit?" Dale says, distracted, and then catches up. "That's really fucking weird. Why the fuck do I smell like licorice?"
"I don't know, it's your fucking neck," Saul says, defensive.
"Well you're the one who's all up in it."
"All up in it," Saul repeats, nodding like he likes the sound of that. He nuzzles his face into Dale’s neck and when he speaks again it is quieter or maybe just muffled. "But seriously, man. I'm totally gay for you,” Saul says to his skin. Dale shivers from the feel of a mouth moving on his neck, even if it is just to speak.
Dale is quiet for a long moment.
"It's not gay if it's us," he says firmly, like he's been thinking about it. And the truth is, he has been. Saul looks up at him.
"What?"
"No, listen," Dale says. He's distantly aware that he's using that voice people use when they're high and convinced that they've just figured out the meaning of life after a particularly satisfying hit, but he doesn't care because this time he really has figured it all out. "I've been thinking. Like, how you're my best friend-"
"Best fucking friend," Saul interrupts into Dale's neck where he seems to have planted a flag and claimed as his home. Dale may or may not be totally cool with that. Anyway.
"Best fucking friend," Dale corrects himself. He takes another hit in an attempt to steady his voice, which has grown slightly shakier the longer Saul's mouth has been on his skin, just - there, not doing anything, but just there. He holds the smoke in for a long time before he continues.
"So like, being best fucking friends is kinda like being in a regular, boy-girl relationship. 'Cause like, you're together all the time. And you eat your meals together. And you call each other on the phone to say goodnight-"
"You do that."
"Only to make sure you're haven't fallen asleep with the stove on or something, asswipe. Let me finish," Dale says, kind of irritated that Saul felt the need to point that out. "Like I was saying. You do shit together. You smoke pot together - if the girl is cool. So like, you do all that shit. And if you do all of that and you're not fucking too it's kinda like you’re denying yourself what you should have. Or be having."
"That makes sense," Saul says, still speaking into Dale's neck.
"Damn straight it makes sense," Dale says. Neither of them point out that by that same logic they should be having crazy threesomes with Red involving anal beads and webcams. "We're like that lame couple in high school who don't have sex 'cause of abstinence pledges and purity rings and shit."
"Fuck a purity ring," Saul chimes in.
"And if you think about it, we’ve been going out for a while. Like, a really long time. In relationship years. Or months, or whatever. We’ve had like a million dates.”
"Like that time I got you to go see Phantom.”
Dale looks at Saul, who he can see is smiling goofily against his neck.
"Right," Dale continues, looking away hastily even though he can feel his face starting to flush. "So like, one of us should've gotten to third base by now."
"Is third base up the shirt or down the skirt? I forget."
"It's neither. Cause, you know. We're dudes."
"So you don't want to put your hand up or down my shirt or skirt?"
Dale looks at Saul like he's crazy.
"You sound like a fucking pornographic Dr. Seuss book."
"That's hot," Saul says, and begins to recite: "He will not touch me up my shirt. He will not touch me down my skirt. It won't hurt, his name is.. Bert." Saul trails off, laughing. Dale snickers, and waits until Saul's giggling has died down to speak again.
"I kinda want to, though," Dale says, more serious than before. The air between them changes, is quietly pulled taut and tense. The kinda part of Dale’s sentence is a lie, though. He really wants to. Saul's hand finds its way to Dale’s thigh, rubbing it. Dale closes his eyes. The movement of Saul’s hand is measured and painstakingly slow. Dale should be freaked. He should snap out of it right about now. He's not. He doesn't.
"I kinda want you to," Saul murmurs against his skin. Saul doesn’t close his mouth completely when he’s done speaking, and his lips are parted open on Dale’s neck, caught somewhere between a kiss and an accident.
"Put my hand up your skirt? But you’re not wearing one," Dale says pathetically, trying to laugh. It comes out as more of a throaty wheeze as Saul lifts his head and takes the joint from Dale’s fingers, bringing it deliberately to his mouth and taking one last long hit before he sets it down. He exhales, blowing smoke right into Dale’s face. Dale tries to turn away but Saul catches him with one hand, his long fingers cool against the side of Dale’s neck. Saul lowers his head to place his lips underneath Dale’s jaw, just holding him there, not quite kissing him so much as clumsily pressing his lips to the stubble on Dale’s neck.
"We can pretend, if you want," Saul says against his skin, and repositions himself so that he is sitting half atop Dale, his leg slung over the tops of Dale’s thighs. Dale wants to reach for the joint, take another hit so his heart can slow down, but he doesn't want to move. Saul has moved his face to Dale’s neck again and Dale can feel his heavy breathing. He feels Saul’s lips moving on his skin. When Saul grabs Dale's hand and places it on the side of his thigh, pressing and sliding it there, so slow, Dale needs no further invitation. He grabs Saul, pulling him onto his lap. He never thought Saul straddling him - hell, a guy straddling him - would have been so not-weird, especially considering their steadily hardening cocks that are now inches away from each other. Regrettable inches. Inches Dale would like to soon eliminate.
"Dale," Saul says. His voice is quiet, or maybe it’s how close their faces are that makes every word, ever breath, seem like a secret between them.
"Yeah, man?" Dale says, distracted. He is absolutely fascinated by the feel of Saul's thighs underneath his hands. He can't stop rubbing them, can’t stop touching them, can’t stop feeling them - feeling Saul. He can't imagine that anything can feel better than this but then he remembers that there is a thin layer of flannel separating his hands from Saul’s bare thighs and his cock jumps at the thought of getting to touch that skin with nothing between them at all.
"Yeah," Dale says again, partly to prompt Saul into continuing, partly in regards to his own thoughts.
"I dreamt about this," Saul says in a low voice. Dale suppresses a groan as Saul lowers his head until his forehead is on Dale's shoulder and Dale can feel Saul’s warm breath on his skin. He keeps touching Dale's skin like he's amazed that it's there. Dale doesn't know if that's 'cause he's high or if it's something else.
"Tell me about it," Dale says, voice rough. "Tell me what happened in your dream." He doesn't care if he's pushing or prying because he really fucking wants to know and anyway Saul’s the one that brought it up. He doesn't ask if Saul's dreams are anything like his own. He just waits for him to speak.
"It was a lot like this," Saul says. He begins to rock his hips, grinding slowly against Dale, and when Dale grips him tighter he speeds up.
When they finally kiss it tastes like pot and those homemade smoothies they had earlier, and it's awesome, like a pot smoothie, only even more awesome than that - like a pot smoothie filled with, like, sex somehow because Saul is grinding their cocks together and it's the best fucking thing. It’s a fucking - fucking sexy pot smoothie, shit, Dale doesn’t know, he can’t think right now, can’t think worth shit.
When they break apart, breathless and panting, Saul slows down, moves against Dale slowly. Unhurried - he's taking his time. When he manages to speak his voice sounds wet and unsteady.
"And in the dream, you know, the one that I was telling you about, your hands were…" Saul trails off, breathless. His eyes roll back in his head. "Fuck, Dale," he moans. "So good."
Dale reaches up, grabbing Saul by the hair and bringing their faces together, urging Saul to look at him. Saul’s eyes are red and unfocused when he does.
"Tell me where my hands were," Dale says. He doesn't know if he can do this without the instructions.
"Your hands," Saul says, and his voice breaks, it goes high and then cuts off altogether. He tries again. "Your hands were here." He takes Dale's hands and guides them to his lower back before he pulls off his shirt. For a moment Dale is struck by the distinct lack of breasts but the moment passes and he is urged to distraction when Saul moves again. He lifts up onto his knees so that he can pull his underwear and pajama bottoms down past his bony hips before he gets up to get rid of the clothing all together. Saul's hard cock springs up, straining against his stomach. Saul is standing naked in front of him. ‘This is weird, this is weird, this is so fucking weird,’ a voice in Dale’s head is insisting, but it fades to background noise. Cock always trumps brain, it’s like written in the Bible or something, and Saul moves to straddle him again. He guides Dale's hands to either side of his ass.
Dale curses.
"Handful a' Saul." Saul laughs, and it sounds rougher and lower and not very much like his regular laugh at all, though Dale supposes circumstance is everything.
"Then what?" Dale asks, voice rough. Saul has begun to lick and suck at his neck and it's kind of hard to get the words out but he really wants to know. "Tell me the next part involved someone unzipping my pants."
"Hells yeah," Saul says, and he's already reaching down, fumbling with Dale's fly. "Wanna feel you in my hand," he murmurs, and the feel of Saul gripping his bare cock is almost enough to send Dale over the edge, because fuck, Saul’s hands are ridiculously huge and he used to give Saul shit about it but he sure as hell ain’t laughing now, far from it. Somehow he manages to lift himself up, though, so that Saul can pull his pants down a little bit more, just enough to make things more comfortable.
"Wanna feel you in me," Saul continues, voice dangerously close to his ear as he rubs Dale's cock, slow flicks of his wrist. Taking his time.
"Shit. Shit, that's so gay," Dale says, rocking into Saul's hand.
"I don’t fuckin’ care. Want it so bad, Dale. Fuck, you don't even know. I dream about this. Dream about you fucking me all the time."
Dale doesn't ask whether he means that he dreams about it often or he dreams about a reality where Dale fucks him 24/7 because it doesn't matter, that's hot as shit either way.
"Fuck," Dale breathes out. He grips Saul's ass so hard he'll probably leave marks. "You want me to fuck you?" Dale asks, like he can barely believe it.
Saul moans quietly against his neck, this close to a whimper.
“Answer me,” Dale moans. He needs to hear it, needs to know that this isn’t some awesome sexy drug-induced hallucination.
"Fuck, Dale, isn't that what I've been saying?" He punctuates the sentence with a particularly brutal, particularly blissful tug on Dale's cock. Dale moans and swears up a storm.
"I wanna fuck you," Dale says, because he feels like he needs to say it or else Saul won't know. Which is ridiculous because he's this close to fucking Saul’s hand to kingdom come, but whatever.
"Then do it," Saul says. ''Fuckin' do it. I want you to. Y’know I want you to.”
Saul guides Dale's hand to his cock, and Dale can feel the pre cum already slicking the tip of it.
"Fuck," Dale says, "Fuck, hold on." He makes himself let go of Saul so he can reach into his pants, pull out his wallet. He fumbles when he tries to take the condom out. It'd probably be easier if Saul would stop that slow grind, that slow burn that’s close to killing him. He's unbuttoning Dale's shirt and is kissing and biting and sucking Dale’s shoulder.
"Hurry up,” Saul breathes.
"Fuck, I'm trying. It's kinda hard to concentrate when you're doing all that - stuff."
"You like it," Saul murmurs against his skin, and his breath is so warm and so close that it makes Dale's cock twitch with every exhalation.
Finally, finally he retrieves the condom without dying or coming first and when he does Saul wastes no time in snatching it from his hands.
"Ah ah ah," he says, holding it out of Dale's reach. "I gots this. It's my dream, remember?" He looks at him, a small smile on his lips and Dale watches, spellbound, as Saul tears open the package with his teeth. Saul focuses on rolling the condom over Dale's cock, eyes narrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking out just a little bit, in such a way that makes Dale want to kiss him, touch him, fuck him, anything, everything.
"Fuck," is all Dale says. He's not even embarrassed at how breathless he sounds. When Saul finishes he looks up and smiles again and it's so absurdly hot that Dale can't help himself; he grabs Saul by the hips and tries to guides him closer to his cock. Saul stops him.
"Wait. Wait, motherfucker," he says. "Ass bleeding wasn't part of the dream."
Before Dale can even fully comprehend that statement Saul has twisted around and leaned down halfway off of the cushions to reach underneath the couch and fuck, he's bendy. Seeing him twisting like that goes straight to Dale’s cock. In order to keep from falling off of the couch Saul grips him with his thighs, locking them around him, and fuck, that's not helping anything at all -or it is, depending on how you're looking at it, but Dale is looking at it from the view point that he doesn't want to come just yet.
Saul resurfaces with a half empty bottle of lube. That he pulled from underneath his couch.
"The fuck?" Dale asks, because apparently the area under Saul's couch is like the fucking Barney Bag, except instead of like gizmos and gadgets and string and shit there's old half-smoked joints and Astroglide.
"Like you don't keep this shit by your bed. Shut the fuck up,” Saul says, though he’s obviously preoccupied and sounds as much. Dale does not point out the difference between a nightstand and the area under a couch. Dale is not even freaked that apparently Saul jerks off on the same couch that he invites guests to sit on (namely, Dale). Instead, he just watches as Saul begins to coat his fingers.
"Gotta suit up," Saul says, smiling slightly.
Dale doesn’t answer. He’s completely distracted because Saul has shifted his position on Dale’s lap and is reaching down and touching himself there. It's slow at first, but he works a finger in, and then another, stretching himself - fucking himself- on his own fingers. And apparently having a helluva time at it - his eyes are shut tight, his mouth dropping open as his hips jerk erratically.
Dale is unbelievably jealous of those fingers. He wants to fucking kidnap those fingers, steal their identity and take their place, because fuck - he's never seen that look on Saul's face before.
Saul grabs hold of Dale's arm to keep himself steady as he moves, so torturously slow. Dale's hands are still on Saul's ass, and he squeezes it experimentally, marveling at the way Saul’s body seems to catch fire with Dale’s every touch.
Saul's eyes are only half open when he slowly pulls his fingers out.
"Your turn," he says, more like a breath with words tacked on, more like a fucking moan and so much like Dale's own dreams. There's a lazy smile on his face and when Saul sticks out his tongue to wet his lips Dale almost comes. He fights to remain still as Saul begins to coat his cock. Saul kisses him, long and lazy, and Dale doesn't think it can get any better than this, but he thought that a minute ago, didn't he. Saul lifts himself up and then down again, right on Dale's cock, so achingly slow as the tip pushes inside. He lowers himself until Dale is fully inside of him, and fuck, Saul moans into his mouth, and yeah, it can get better, because this - this is fucking - this is so fucking good.
"Shit. Shit!" Dale says. He grips Saul's hips as he thrusts up into him, trying to control himself as much as he can, but Saul is giving as good as he gets, pushing down to meet Dale's movements. He's fucking rolling his hips and shit. Saul's hands are on top of his, urging him on, pressing Dale’s hands harder against his hips as if Dale can't hold him tight enough.
Saul rides him like it's the sweetest fucking thing and if it's anything like the way Saul feels wrapped around his cock, it most definitely is. Dale shifts slightly in an effort to get more comfortable. He thrusts up and it's only a slightly different angle but it must be something new because Saul jerks and lets out a string of curses involving words that Dale hasn't even heard before because he's pretty sure they’re like Yiddish or something.
Dale grabs him by the waist and pulls him closer, impossibly closer, and Saul arches his back, exposing his throat.
"Fuck," Dale breathes. "Fuck, you're so hot." He winds his hand in Saul's hair and kisses his neck, kisses all the way up to his mouth. He grips Saul's cock in his hand, pumping it fast and hard, Saul fucking his hand in time with their thrusts.
"Oh fuck. Fuck, Dale, fuck," Saul babbles, panting, and before Dale is even sure what's going on Saul is coming all over his hand and their stomachs. Dale doesn't miss a beat, though, coaxing him through it as Saul shudders and grips Dale hard enough to hurt. Dale has never seen anything like it and he doesn’t know if that’s because Saul is a dude or because Saul is Saul. Whatever the case, it’s pretty fucking hot. Saul's exposed neck, Saul's harsh breathing, Saul's heaving chest, Saul's - fuck, just Saul. Dale has never felt so unbelievably turned on in his life. Saul clenches around his cock, so tight, so damn tight, and it’s enough to send Dale over the edge and into the best fucking orgasm of his life. And like, every orgasm feels like the best at the time, but fuck, this one really, really is.
Saul rides it out so hard, never letting up, like he wants to savor this, Dale losing it underneath him, wants to wring out every last bit of pleasure from Dale.
It fucking works. With one last desperate shove of his hips, the last waves of his orgasm ebb away and Dale slumps into the couch, completely fucking spent. Saul hunches forward, his head falling onto Dale's shoulder, and Dale pulls him close out of instinct and because it just feels right - one arm wrapped around Saul’s waist, the other at the base of his neck.
Time passes. Could be moments, could be minutes.
"Fuck," is all Dale can say.
"Ditto," Saul breathes. Dale somehow manages to snicker, even though he’s so fucked out that he’s pretty sure he actually pulled a brain muscle and died when he shot his load that hard.
"Ditto?" Dale repeats.
"Shut up,” Saul says, breathing heavily. Dale rubs the back of his neck, fingers playing at his hairline.
"We just fucked on your couch and all you can say is ditto?" Dale intends to continue giving Saul shit because the longer he does that the longer he can enjoy the glorious afterglow and put off thinking, but when Saul looks up at him his face is slick with sweat and his eyes aren't all the way open and his hair is a mess, or like, even more of a mess than usual, and his lips are all slick and bruised red and he looks all after-glow-y and Dale - his breath catches in his throat.
"Fuck," is all he can say.
Saul looks like he doesn’t quite follow but he also looks too tired to ask why Dale is looking at him like that. He just slumps forward again, nestling his head in the crook of Dale's neck. He seems to like it there.
"Can't move," he mumbles.
"Then don't," Dale says without thinking, fingers flexing where they’re holding onto Saul.
"Have to," Saul continues to mumble. "In the best interest of my ass." Gingerly, he moves, lifts himself up so that Dale's dick isn't just chilling inside of his ass or whatever. Saul removes the condom from Dale’s cock and if Dale were as young as his ex-girlfriend he'd be ready to go another round already just because of the intense way that Saul does it. Saul, he gives his complete attention to whatever he's doing, and Dale always found that kind of endearing but he never realized just how fucking hot that could be until that intense focus is centered around his cock.
His cock gives a valiant twitch.
"Well it looks like he can move, anyway," Saul says, and ok, Dale used to be kinda weirded out when chicks referred to his dick as a separate entity but it's kind of totally ok when Saul does it because when Saul does it he grins and fuck, it's Saul.
"I should get a towel," Saul says. He doesn't move.
"Fuck a towel," Dale says. He grabs Saul's shirt off of the edge of the couch and hands it to him. Saul doesn't even hesitate before using it to clean them both up.
"Gay sex," Saul says thoughtfully. "Awesome, but messy."
"Good messy, though, like chicks mud wrestling or something."
“Hell yeah, man," Saul agrees, and wads up the shirt into a ball and throws it somewhere in the vicinity of his bedroom. With a short, fleeting look at Dale he moves to lie on the couch, one leg still thrown over him. He looks at Dale expectantly, and when Dale doesn't get the hint Saul holds his arms out.
Dale looks at him blankly.
"Are you asking me to cuddle?"
Saul looks sheepish, though he tries to hide it with a laugh. "No," he says, even as Dale is moving to fit himself around Saul. Moments later, Saul says into his neck:
"Do you mind?"
"No," Dale answers. Surprisingly enough, he doesn't. It's like the naps he and Saul sometimes take together, only more naked. Girls used to want to do that shit with him and talk about how cuddly he was and it could get kind of annoying, because after sex a guy wants to feel like a man, not like some girl's giant be-dicked teddy bear.
Dale doesn’t get a chance to marvel at the new word he just made up (be-dicked: to be equipped with a dick, he muses) because Saul speaks.
"Good," Saul says. "Bitch," he adds, though it comes out kind of muffled and sleepy sounding. Without opening his eyes he reaches out with one arm to grab the still-smoking joint out of the ashtray. He brings it to his lips, taking a long slow pull and instead of exhaling he presses his lips to Dale’s and breathes out, forcing the smoke into Dale’s mouth who inhales it gratefully. He loves shotgunning, after deciding long ago that anything that combines getting high and making out gets his stamp of approval times infinity.
After a very brief bout of really unsexy coughing Dale catches up to the conversation. "Fuck you. You're the one who just had my cock up his ass."
"And?"
"And it was awesome," Dale blurts out, sounding a little surprised himself. He thinks he should be freaking out, but he isn't. He waits for it to feel weird, but it doesn't. It doesn't hurt that Saul's hand has found its way between them to leisurely stroke him as they talk. "You're awesome," Dale says, quieter.
"Thanks," Saul murmurs. "I think you're awesome too. You're like, the best fucking best fucking friend ever."
Dale doesn't quite follow that sentence, but whatever. He gets it.