Pros fic - Things in the Dark by Slantedlight - Part III
Monday, 10 October 2016 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
byslantedlightThings in the Dark
by Slantedlight
The man had his back to him, was mostly a dark-in-the-dark outline only just visible by the clouded light of the half moon - but that wasn't what had caught Bodie's eye from the street corner. It was the way he was leaning against the car parked almost at the end of the street, and nowhere as mundane as on the pavement, but standing in the street itself, all long legs and the most perfect backside Bodie thought he'd seen, a beacon in pale, worn jeans. Looking for attention.
It had been months since Bodie'd had a bloke - months since he'd wanted one, which was handy since George Cowley would no doubt take a pretty dim view of that kind of scandal - but blood and sand, he wanted this one.
He couldn't do it, he was CI5 now, and that meant more to him than anything, than catching that ship to Africa, than buying his first car, even than making the SAS. He was top of the top now, none his old mates up here beside him, though one or two had fancied it. No, he was the one Cowley had picked from the elite, to be his elite. And he couldn't fuck that up now, not just two weeks into the training.
But that was the most perfect backside, and he wanted it in his hands, in his sight, against his lips.
He wanted to be sinking into it.
Christ, if he didn't get off this corner, it'd be him the cops'd arrest, and what would Cowley say about that?
He had to walk past the bloke anyway, if he was going to take the short-cut back to his flat. Might as well - it was late enough, the last of the wine he'd had with Celia over dinner already dissipating, leaving him ready for his bed. She'd broken up with him of course, when he told her he couldn't see her for at least the next fortnight, but she'd been decent about it, no tears, and he'd miss her - she was a good kid. No time for all that now, not if he was going to prove himself with that bloke Martin. He might look past it, but Bodie'd seen him put down three men twice his size without even breathing hard. Bodie wanted to do that. In the meantime...
In the meantime, they weren't on training ops until Wednesday, and they'd been given tomorrow off to get ready for it - have their last hearty meal, as Cowley had said, a smile on his face, his eyes grim. No harm in one last look, maybe, before he gave it all up for his country - again. Probably turn out to have a beard, or a moustache or something, something that'd put him right off. No one could live up to that backside.
There was traffic going past on the main road, despite the hour, a bunch of kids outside the kebab shop further along, a drift of music from someone's window. Bodie left it behind, walked carefully into the darker, quieter street, almost silent himself, but he saw the moment the bloke realised he was no longer alone, caught a sudden tension in him, as if every muscle was alert. Waiting.
He'd have a piggy nose, or a mole on his cheek, or hair sprouting out his nose.
The moon hung high above them, nowhere near full yet, veiled now and then by wisps of October cloud. Cars and taxis and trucks growled softly to themselves behind him, but none of them turned their way, broke into the sudden spell between Bodie and the man, the air between them expectant.
One foot in front of the other, my son, one foot in front of the other...
Somewhere a door slammed, and the man looked up sharply, but it was at the back of one of the houses in the row, no one to see them here.There was a vague flurry of hard footsteps, someone said something unintelligible and a car door slammed, and the man relaxed again.
Bodie took a breath. Too late to change his mind now maybe, no matter what the bloke looked like. Bodie was right behind him, there was nothing to do but stop, and wait.
The man turned around.
(Artwork by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sw33n3y)
They looked at each other solidly through the night, through the dark of the midnight night, and for a moment nothing moved.
No snout, not a hair where Bodie didn’t want it. He looked like some young Roman god, Bodie thought, bemused, all sharp planes where the nearest streetlight washed his skin, and hidden shadows behind that, and below, sliding down between jacket and shirt and skin, and down... No, not yet. This was going to be good - something told him, this was going to be good - and he wanted to savour every second. A straight nose, though someone’d broken his cheek for him, eyebrows winging across his forehead, and a gaze that didn’t give anything away - and then softness. A riot of dark curls around his face, a slight roundness to his chin, and Bodie’s eyes were pulled to the man’s mouth, to his lips, which were wide and soft and almost as perfect as his backside.
“You got somewhere?” Bodie asked, not bothering with anything else, with the games he’d’ve played if this was Celia or some other bird. They didn’t need coy glances or soft words, they just needed…
Bodie needed, he reminded himself, as a glint of amusement appeared in the other man’s eyes, and played around his mouth - that mouth. Calculating Bodie’s worth, presumably, what he would pay, how much it was worth the man’s while. The other man might have needed or not - and Bodie thought he did, knew he did - but he was on sale, and for just this one night, Bodie could afford him.
The man glanced back at the houses again, and for a jagged moment Bodie wondered if he was watching for a signal of some kind, if there was more to this than met the eye - some partner, maybe, lying in wait ready to duff him up and rob him blind… but no, not with the way the man had looked at him, he didn’t believe it. And sure enough, the man just tipped his head in agreement and led the way back towards the main street, tucking his hands into his pockets. Two men, heading home at the end of a night out, and no one could see that Bodie’s blood was rushing fast through his veins, hear that his heart had sped up.
Home - or whatever arrangement the man had - turned out to be a bus ride away, then a quick walk down another road and up steps to a block of flats, all in silence, all in understanding, all in anticipation. Bodie could feel it fizzing off the other man too, more than business, more than just another customer, he was sure of it. He waited for the front door to be opened, standing close, so that they were almost touching, savouring it… The man led him up two flights of stairs - he was fit, and not afraid to show it, and it was all Bodie could do not to reach out a hand and slide it over the tight denim in front of him, to feel taut muscles, and hard curves…
If he did that they’d never get into the flat at all.
The man stopped at last, opened a door, waited for Bodie to slide past him, and then locked it with some complicated arrangement that was almost as bad as the one in Bodie’s new place. Couldn’t be too careful in his line of business, he supposed, watching the man’s hands, fingers nimble and efficient as he set this lock and that.
And then the man turned to face him for the second time that night.
They paused barely a second, and then they both stepped forward, hands reaching out to tug at jackets, shirts, trousers, lips meeting, breath catching. Bodie pushed, and the man gave way until his back was against the wall, so that Bodie could press against him, chests, hips, thighs, and between…. Between them, Bodie could feel the man’s prick as hard as his own, both of them moving in tiny, undulating thrusts as they kissed. A mistake, he’d made a mistake, he couldn’t stop now, he was going to… but then the other man was pushing him away, and Bodie barely had time to groan a complaint before he’d been manoeuvred to stand where the man had been standing, before the man had dropped to his knees and had his hands around Bodie’s prick, and then… Fuck, those lips, that mouth, and he was deep in the man’s throat, and coming harder than he had for months, maybe forever…
He managed to open his eyes again in time to see the man kneeling back, taking his own prick in hand, and working it hard, and fast, and then he was coming too, head tipping back in a silent gasp, lips parting - those lips that had circled Bodie’s prick, that Bodie’s prick had slid between…
They stood, knelt, for a minute, breath slowing, night air cooling around them, the dark broken only by the dull glow through the window of the streetlight outside, casting angular shadows on one wall, too far away to reach them, to show them to anyone else. Just enough to show them to each other.
Somehow, even kneeling on the floor, half undressed, jeans undone, and his prick out - and still half-hard, Bodie saw, knowing the man saw it on him too - even in that state the man was still god-like. He was watching Bodie, in the same silence he’d kept all the way home and through the door, and despite having emptied his prick into the man’s mouth just minutes ago, Bodie thought that for the first time he wanted to worship someone.
Christ, he hadn’t even asked him his name - hadn’t told him his, hadn’t heard his voice yet.
It was the man who moved first, reaching up to wipe his lips with the back of his hand, and then sliding smoothly back and onto his feet, zipping and buttoning his jeans without looking down. His eyes glinted at Bodie’s for a moment, then he held out a hand, and when Bodie took it, he pulled him away from the wall.
“Cup of tea?” he asked, letting go, “Or something stronger?” His voice was deep, nothing like Bodie had imagined, if he’d imagined anything in the voice of his god. Real.
“Combination?” Bodie suggested. “Best of both worlds.”
There was a flash of teeth in the dark, as the man smiled. “Better make it coffee, then.” He turned away, further into the shadows, there was a click, and a corner of the room was bathed in dim golden light. Bodie blinked, watched as the man crossed to a bay window and pulled the curtains across, then turned on a second lamp. He turned again, and disappeared through a doorway to the sound of another light snapping on.
Real.
Bodie could have waited where he was, but he’d never been the waiting type. He took a deep breath, liking the room less now it was empty, and followed.
“You got a name, then?” he asked, from the doorway, watching still as the man plugged in a coffee maker, reached up to a cupboard for coffee filters, and then tipped a jug of water into the machine.
The man looked sideways at him, amused. “Wondered if you’d get round to that,” he said. “Doyle - Ray Doyle. You?”
“Bodie.”
The man paused in what he was doing, spoonful of coffee in mid-air, and stared at him, obviously waiting for the rest.
“Just Bodie.” He shouldn’t have told him that much, should have made something up, but he’d been caught by the way the pale yellow of the man’s shirt - of Doyle’s shirt, Ray Doyle’s shirt - was twisting at his waist as he moved this way and that. No curves there, not like Celia, or Julie or any bird at all, just taut skin and muscle and strength and suppleness.
“Alright Just Bodie - if you open that cupboard beside the door you’ll find a bottle of brandy.”
“Sounds like my sort of cupboard.” His sort of flat, all in all, bright and airy, even in the dim life of midnight. The kitchen looked cluttered but efficient, and when Doyle led them back into the living room, mugs in hand, the sofa was the kind you could stretch out on, and it was deep enough for two.
Doyle didn’t sit down straight away, though he gestured Bodie to make himself comfortable, prowling long-legged from one side of the room to the other, pausing by the window and staring at the curtains as if he could see through them, then turning again and starting another circuit.
None of the ways Bodie had imagined this evening ending had involved a cup of coffee and a nervous hooker. He narrowed his eyes, but he still didn’t think Doyle was waiting for someone else, was working out how to do him over. He just looked… nervous suddenly. Unsure.
“You free all night?” he asked. Maybe that was it, maybe he’d brought Bodie back to his own place, and now he was worried about the score. “I’ll pay up front if you promise not to slit me throat before morning.”
Doyle stopped his pacing, frozen for a moment, then he lifted his mug and took a mouthful of coffee, looking at Bodie over the rim. “All night?”
Bodie nodded. “Oh I think so - don’t you?” He had that feeling again, that if he could get Doyle back into a bed, get the both of them naked, and under covers, and in the dark, it would be one of the best things he’d ever done. Best thing Doyle had ever done too, he thought, dipping his head slightly to look up at him through his lashes, because a bit of immodesty never hurt when you were trying to pull.
Doyle had stilled yet again, then his chest rose and fell, he drank his coffee again, and nodded suddenly, all business. “Alright,” he said. “You’re on.”
“In that case you’d better come over here and relax, hadn’t you.” Bodie held out his hand, an echo of what Doyle had done for him just minutes ago, and Doyle didn’t refuse him, let himself be drawn to the couch, to the cushions next to Bodie, so that first their shoulders touched, and then their hands, as Bodie took Doyle’s mug and reached to put them both on the coffee table, and then they were kissing again. Bodie leaned across, pushing Doyle back against the cushions, and then turning to straddle him, feeling Doyle’s prick against his belly, hard again, just like his was, riding him for a moment, until Doyle moaned into their kiss. Bodie drew back, looking down at him, eyes closed again, and breathing heavily, lips dark and swollen from their kisses. Christ… Some god.
He reached down to undo Doyle’s shirt, running his hands over Doyle’s chest, pausing at his nipples, and noticing a satisfying gasp as he moved his thumbs back and forth there for a moment. He dipped his head to lick at one, at the same time moving his hands further down to undo Doyle’s jeans again. Doyle lifted his hips accommodatingly, and Bodie skimmed his hands further down, finally over that backside, as firm as he’d imagined, as smooth as he’d imagined…
He let himself slide off the couch, onto his knees, let himself look at Doyle’s prick, thick and heavy, and huge against the pale skin of his stomach, then he opened his mouth and took it in, sucked him deep, and playing him with his tongue, more and more and more, until Doyle shouted above him, this time, and Bodie swallowed and swallowed again, and held Doyle still, his own church, his own temple, his own Olympus.
When they finally made it to bed, he fucked Doyle, and Doyle fucked him in turn, and amidst murmurs and laughter and gasps, they eventually collapsed into sleep at last, tangled together, whilst the brash world went on around them, closed outside, from morning to noon to evening once more. Somewhere through his haze of warmth and sex and hunger, Bodie knew he had to leave at last, so he woke Doyle by fucking him one final time, forced himself up and into the shower afterwards, and then out the door, wanting to go back for more kisses, more skin, slick and smooth, more Doyle. He made himself settle for leaving all the cash he had on him on the kitchen counter, where it’d be found easily, and then, just before he closed the door to the flat, going back to leave his telephone number too.
Which was ridiculous, because a hooker didn’t call his clients, it only worked the other way around.
But when Bodie finally did close the door behind him, when they were Yale-locked apart, he found himself smiling.
o0o
And in lieu of pictures, and if you can ignore the rather good Sergei Polunin while you listen to the song, I rather think it's this sort of thing that's going through Bodie's mind... well, if either he or Hozier'd had a time machine *g*
by Slantedlight
The man had his back to him, was mostly a dark-in-the-dark outline only just visible by the clouded light of the half moon - but that wasn't what had caught Bodie's eye from the street corner. It was the way he was leaning against the car parked almost at the end of the street, and nowhere as mundane as on the pavement, but standing in the street itself, all long legs and the most perfect backside Bodie thought he'd seen, a beacon in pale, worn jeans. Looking for attention.
It had been months since Bodie'd had a bloke - months since he'd wanted one, which was handy since George Cowley would no doubt take a pretty dim view of that kind of scandal - but blood and sand, he wanted this one.
He couldn't do it, he was CI5 now, and that meant more to him than anything, than catching that ship to Africa, than buying his first car, even than making the SAS. He was top of the top now, none his old mates up here beside him, though one or two had fancied it. No, he was the one Cowley had picked from the elite, to be his elite. And he couldn't fuck that up now, not just two weeks into the training.
But that was the most perfect backside, and he wanted it in his hands, in his sight, against his lips.
He wanted to be sinking into it.
Christ, if he didn't get off this corner, it'd be him the cops'd arrest, and what would Cowley say about that?
He had to walk past the bloke anyway, if he was going to take the short-cut back to his flat. Might as well - it was late enough, the last of the wine he'd had with Celia over dinner already dissipating, leaving him ready for his bed. She'd broken up with him of course, when he told her he couldn't see her for at least the next fortnight, but she'd been decent about it, no tears, and he'd miss her - she was a good kid. No time for all that now, not if he was going to prove himself with that bloke Martin. He might look past it, but Bodie'd seen him put down three men twice his size without even breathing hard. Bodie wanted to do that. In the meantime...
In the meantime, they weren't on training ops until Wednesday, and they'd been given tomorrow off to get ready for it - have their last hearty meal, as Cowley had said, a smile on his face, his eyes grim. No harm in one last look, maybe, before he gave it all up for his country - again. Probably turn out to have a beard, or a moustache or something, something that'd put him right off. No one could live up to that backside.
There was traffic going past on the main road, despite the hour, a bunch of kids outside the kebab shop further along, a drift of music from someone's window. Bodie left it behind, walked carefully into the darker, quieter street, almost silent himself, but he saw the moment the bloke realised he was no longer alone, caught a sudden tension in him, as if every muscle was alert. Waiting.
He'd have a piggy nose, or a mole on his cheek, or hair sprouting out his nose.
The moon hung high above them, nowhere near full yet, veiled now and then by wisps of October cloud. Cars and taxis and trucks growled softly to themselves behind him, but none of them turned their way, broke into the sudden spell between Bodie and the man, the air between them expectant.
One foot in front of the other, my son, one foot in front of the other...
Somewhere a door slammed, and the man looked up sharply, but it was at the back of one of the houses in the row, no one to see them here.There was a vague flurry of hard footsteps, someone said something unintelligible and a car door slammed, and the man relaxed again.
Bodie took a breath. Too late to change his mind now maybe, no matter what the bloke looked like. Bodie was right behind him, there was nothing to do but stop, and wait.
The man turned around.
(Artwork by
sw33n3y)They looked at each other solidly through the night, through the dark of the midnight night, and for a moment nothing moved.
No snout, not a hair where Bodie didn’t want it. He looked like some young Roman god, Bodie thought, bemused, all sharp planes where the nearest streetlight washed his skin, and hidden shadows behind that, and below, sliding down between jacket and shirt and skin, and down... No, not yet. This was going to be good - something told him, this was going to be good - and he wanted to savour every second. A straight nose, though someone’d broken his cheek for him, eyebrows winging across his forehead, and a gaze that didn’t give anything away - and then softness. A riot of dark curls around his face, a slight roundness to his chin, and Bodie’s eyes were pulled to the man’s mouth, to his lips, which were wide and soft and almost as perfect as his backside.
“You got somewhere?” Bodie asked, not bothering with anything else, with the games he’d’ve played if this was Celia or some other bird. They didn’t need coy glances or soft words, they just needed…
Bodie needed, he reminded himself, as a glint of amusement appeared in the other man’s eyes, and played around his mouth - that mouth. Calculating Bodie’s worth, presumably, what he would pay, how much it was worth the man’s while. The other man might have needed or not - and Bodie thought he did, knew he did - but he was on sale, and for just this one night, Bodie could afford him.
The man glanced back at the houses again, and for a jagged moment Bodie wondered if he was watching for a signal of some kind, if there was more to this than met the eye - some partner, maybe, lying in wait ready to duff him up and rob him blind… but no, not with the way the man had looked at him, he didn’t believe it. And sure enough, the man just tipped his head in agreement and led the way back towards the main street, tucking his hands into his pockets. Two men, heading home at the end of a night out, and no one could see that Bodie’s blood was rushing fast through his veins, hear that his heart had sped up.
Home - or whatever arrangement the man had - turned out to be a bus ride away, then a quick walk down another road and up steps to a block of flats, all in silence, all in understanding, all in anticipation. Bodie could feel it fizzing off the other man too, more than business, more than just another customer, he was sure of it. He waited for the front door to be opened, standing close, so that they were almost touching, savouring it… The man led him up two flights of stairs - he was fit, and not afraid to show it, and it was all Bodie could do not to reach out a hand and slide it over the tight denim in front of him, to feel taut muscles, and hard curves…
If he did that they’d never get into the flat at all.
The man stopped at last, opened a door, waited for Bodie to slide past him, and then locked it with some complicated arrangement that was almost as bad as the one in Bodie’s new place. Couldn’t be too careful in his line of business, he supposed, watching the man’s hands, fingers nimble and efficient as he set this lock and that.
And then the man turned to face him for the second time that night.
They paused barely a second, and then they both stepped forward, hands reaching out to tug at jackets, shirts, trousers, lips meeting, breath catching. Bodie pushed, and the man gave way until his back was against the wall, so that Bodie could press against him, chests, hips, thighs, and between…. Between them, Bodie could feel the man’s prick as hard as his own, both of them moving in tiny, undulating thrusts as they kissed. A mistake, he’d made a mistake, he couldn’t stop now, he was going to… but then the other man was pushing him away, and Bodie barely had time to groan a complaint before he’d been manoeuvred to stand where the man had been standing, before the man had dropped to his knees and had his hands around Bodie’s prick, and then… Fuck, those lips, that mouth, and he was deep in the man’s throat, and coming harder than he had for months, maybe forever…
He managed to open his eyes again in time to see the man kneeling back, taking his own prick in hand, and working it hard, and fast, and then he was coming too, head tipping back in a silent gasp, lips parting - those lips that had circled Bodie’s prick, that Bodie’s prick had slid between…
They stood, knelt, for a minute, breath slowing, night air cooling around them, the dark broken only by the dull glow through the window of the streetlight outside, casting angular shadows on one wall, too far away to reach them, to show them to anyone else. Just enough to show them to each other.
Somehow, even kneeling on the floor, half undressed, jeans undone, and his prick out - and still half-hard, Bodie saw, knowing the man saw it on him too - even in that state the man was still god-like. He was watching Bodie, in the same silence he’d kept all the way home and through the door, and despite having emptied his prick into the man’s mouth just minutes ago, Bodie thought that for the first time he wanted to worship someone.
Christ, he hadn’t even asked him his name - hadn’t told him his, hadn’t heard his voice yet.
It was the man who moved first, reaching up to wipe his lips with the back of his hand, and then sliding smoothly back and onto his feet, zipping and buttoning his jeans without looking down. His eyes glinted at Bodie’s for a moment, then he held out a hand, and when Bodie took it, he pulled him away from the wall.
“Cup of tea?” he asked, letting go, “Or something stronger?” His voice was deep, nothing like Bodie had imagined, if he’d imagined anything in the voice of his god. Real.
“Combination?” Bodie suggested. “Best of both worlds.”
There was a flash of teeth in the dark, as the man smiled. “Better make it coffee, then.” He turned away, further into the shadows, there was a click, and a corner of the room was bathed in dim golden light. Bodie blinked, watched as the man crossed to a bay window and pulled the curtains across, then turned on a second lamp. He turned again, and disappeared through a doorway to the sound of another light snapping on.
Real.
Bodie could have waited where he was, but he’d never been the waiting type. He took a deep breath, liking the room less now it was empty, and followed.
“You got a name, then?” he asked, from the doorway, watching still as the man plugged in a coffee maker, reached up to a cupboard for coffee filters, and then tipped a jug of water into the machine.
The man looked sideways at him, amused. “Wondered if you’d get round to that,” he said. “Doyle - Ray Doyle. You?”
“Bodie.”
The man paused in what he was doing, spoonful of coffee in mid-air, and stared at him, obviously waiting for the rest.
“Just Bodie.” He shouldn’t have told him that much, should have made something up, but he’d been caught by the way the pale yellow of the man’s shirt - of Doyle’s shirt, Ray Doyle’s shirt - was twisting at his waist as he moved this way and that. No curves there, not like Celia, or Julie or any bird at all, just taut skin and muscle and strength and suppleness.
“Alright Just Bodie - if you open that cupboard beside the door you’ll find a bottle of brandy.”
“Sounds like my sort of cupboard.” His sort of flat, all in all, bright and airy, even in the dim life of midnight. The kitchen looked cluttered but efficient, and when Doyle led them back into the living room, mugs in hand, the sofa was the kind you could stretch out on, and it was deep enough for two.
Doyle didn’t sit down straight away, though he gestured Bodie to make himself comfortable, prowling long-legged from one side of the room to the other, pausing by the window and staring at the curtains as if he could see through them, then turning again and starting another circuit.
None of the ways Bodie had imagined this evening ending had involved a cup of coffee and a nervous hooker. He narrowed his eyes, but he still didn’t think Doyle was waiting for someone else, was working out how to do him over. He just looked… nervous suddenly. Unsure.
“You free all night?” he asked. Maybe that was it, maybe he’d brought Bodie back to his own place, and now he was worried about the score. “I’ll pay up front if you promise not to slit me throat before morning.”
Doyle stopped his pacing, frozen for a moment, then he lifted his mug and took a mouthful of coffee, looking at Bodie over the rim. “All night?”
Bodie nodded. “Oh I think so - don’t you?” He had that feeling again, that if he could get Doyle back into a bed, get the both of them naked, and under covers, and in the dark, it would be one of the best things he’d ever done. Best thing Doyle had ever done too, he thought, dipping his head slightly to look up at him through his lashes, because a bit of immodesty never hurt when you were trying to pull.
Doyle had stilled yet again, then his chest rose and fell, he drank his coffee again, and nodded suddenly, all business. “Alright,” he said. “You’re on.”
“In that case you’d better come over here and relax, hadn’t you.” Bodie held out his hand, an echo of what Doyle had done for him just minutes ago, and Doyle didn’t refuse him, let himself be drawn to the couch, to the cushions next to Bodie, so that first their shoulders touched, and then their hands, as Bodie took Doyle’s mug and reached to put them both on the coffee table, and then they were kissing again. Bodie leaned across, pushing Doyle back against the cushions, and then turning to straddle him, feeling Doyle’s prick against his belly, hard again, just like his was, riding him for a moment, until Doyle moaned into their kiss. Bodie drew back, looking down at him, eyes closed again, and breathing heavily, lips dark and swollen from their kisses. Christ… Some god.
He reached down to undo Doyle’s shirt, running his hands over Doyle’s chest, pausing at his nipples, and noticing a satisfying gasp as he moved his thumbs back and forth there for a moment. He dipped his head to lick at one, at the same time moving his hands further down to undo Doyle’s jeans again. Doyle lifted his hips accommodatingly, and Bodie skimmed his hands further down, finally over that backside, as firm as he’d imagined, as smooth as he’d imagined…
He let himself slide off the couch, onto his knees, let himself look at Doyle’s prick, thick and heavy, and huge against the pale skin of his stomach, then he opened his mouth and took it in, sucked him deep, and playing him with his tongue, more and more and more, until Doyle shouted above him, this time, and Bodie swallowed and swallowed again, and held Doyle still, his own church, his own temple, his own Olympus.
When they finally made it to bed, he fucked Doyle, and Doyle fucked him in turn, and amidst murmurs and laughter and gasps, they eventually collapsed into sleep at last, tangled together, whilst the brash world went on around them, closed outside, from morning to noon to evening once more. Somewhere through his haze of warmth and sex and hunger, Bodie knew he had to leave at last, so he woke Doyle by fucking him one final time, forced himself up and into the shower afterwards, and then out the door, wanting to go back for more kisses, more skin, slick and smooth, more Doyle. He made himself settle for leaving all the cash he had on him on the kitchen counter, where it’d be found easily, and then, just before he closed the door to the flat, going back to leave his telephone number too.
Which was ridiculous, because a hooker didn’t call his clients, it only worked the other way around.
But when Bodie finally did close the door behind him, when they were Yale-locked apart, he found himself smiling.
And in lieu of pictures, and if you can ignore the rather good Sergei Polunin while you listen to the song, I rather think it's this sort of thing that's going through Bodie's mind... well, if either he or Hozier'd had a time machine *g*
