The look on Brad’s face when Nate stepped out of the truck, boots crunching gravel as his heart beat in his ears, said everything that two years and 2700 miles had stolen. Nate had been on the other side of the country when the meteor hit; in the pandemonium that engulfed the world in the aftermath, in the dust-covered darkness and cold, all Nate could do was head west and hope.
Somewhere west of the Mississippi, Nate had miraculously found Brad bent over a campfire, his M4 across his knees and his motorcycle parked at the edge of the circle of light; he was alone, searching for Nate in the blackness just like Nate was for him. Neither of them could speak; the desperate, overwhelming gratitude that they’d done it — they’d found the needle in the motherfucking haystack — sapped them of their words, so they spoke with fingertips, bearded cheeks, taut muscles, and dirty skin and the message was loud and clear. Not even the universe can throw down a situation that two Marines in love can’t unfuck.
A/N: Under a cut for dubcon related to slavery.
A/N: Under a cut for dubcon due to slavery.
Chuck had only gone out for milk and porno magazines from the corner store, but there might as well have been a spotlight shining down on the guy leaning up against the wall next to the door. He looked Chuck over and smiled, all white teeth and too-tight jeans; Chuck didn’t know if the guy noticed his slippers (he was just running out for a second, so he hadn’t really bothered to put on real clothes) but Muscles McTighterson over here definitely sent out the ready and willing for only $99.95 signal.
“Hey, come here often?” The blond asked, chewing gum like he was a kid in front of a candy store… except that was what Chuck was right now: facing a guy who wanted him, even if it was only for the wad of cash in his pocket, and Chuck could have him.
“Um,” Chuck said, freezing on the curb while the guy looked him over, pausing on Chuck’s dick and making a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, and then Chuck fished out his money and proffered it in his palm. “I don’t need any porno magazines?”
The guy smiled, nodding toward his pick-up truck and a good time.
"You know why I’m doing this," Dean whispers every time, and though it’s not what Dean would admit to, Chuck knows the real reason. But he howls when Dean spanks him, cries out as though in terror and pain so the rest of the guys in their cells can get off to the idea of Dean owning his little bitch every night.
"Tell me you want me to fuck you," Dean growls, loud enough for the adjoining cells to hear, and Chuck begs, "I want you to fuck me, oh please, don’t, don’t hurt me anymore, you know I want it." And he cries out when Dean enters him, makes choked and broken little noises with each thrust; the guys in the next cells, beating their meat to the show, don’t need to know that Dean’s utterly gentle, that he’s hiding whimpers of his own over the shouts of dominance. And Dean himself doesn’t know that when he touches Chuck, it’s like handling something rare and precious — that Chuck can feel the love that’s long since built between them in every single caress and breath.
Amy’s giddy with the adventure, and she’s supposed to get married in the morning, but dear Lord above the Doctor is pretty, with that cherubic face and those pouty lips that just make her….
"Oh, stuff it," she says, and launches herself at the Doctor, cupping that adorable round face in both hands and tasting her lips — oh, they taste of time and cinnamon, and when the Doctor’s lips part her tongue slips with perfect fluidity into Amy’s mouth, sliding there in a pace designed to drive Amy wild.
Arms that have rebuilt and destroyed worlds circle her waist now, and Amy can feel the beat of the Doctor’s hearts in the bosom that crushes against hers. She’s thrilling to every moment, pulling the Doctor down onto her bed and laughing triumphantly when the Doctor neither pulls away nor takes control, but lets it all happen at its own pace.
"I thought you were going to scold me," Amy admits when the Doctor shrugs off her jacket and begins to unbutton her blouse; the Doctor smiles and replies, "We’re big girls, Amy— we know what game we’re playing."
Doc had his sketchpad open to a blank page, but he lazily traced the end of his pen across the lines of muscle on Patterson’s chest, slipping it through one of the nipple rings and giving a slow pull. He was supposed to be drawing up a pair of designs for some mutual friends that had enough matching couples’ ink to choke a goddamn My Little Pony, but he had gotten focused on Bryan’s skin instead. Green and fading purple bruises circled his ribcage from the last boxing match he’d entered (decimating everyone in his age class, obviously); geometric black tattoos swept down each shoulder and along his biceps; and a trail of dark hair led south to Patterson’s half-hard dick. Patterson’s mug made a quiet clank as he set it on the bedside table when Doc took him into his mouth; Doc figured he might as well get something useful done while he brainstormed. They had all afternoon to make Doc’s jaw ache, their friends would understand if the tattoo art came a few days late…
“Action,” Godfather growled, obviously getting pissed with the constant stream of fuck ups behind the scenes: the boom mike in the shot, a fuse blown on the lighting, and the most ridiculous, trite script ever (and that was saying a lot considering this was porn).
Three hours in, Brad’s dick was getting bored even with Ray doing his best John Bender impression, brown eyed and rebellious… then Ray pulled up his gym socks and improvised.
“If you don’t like my performance, Coach, then why don’t you show me?”
The sound of it went straight to Brad’s cock, his pupils went wide and he grabbed the straps of Ray’s jock, manhandling him against the locker and shoving inside him balls deep in a single, expert stroke. Ray’s squeak of surprise was almost covered by the slap of Brad’s skin on his, but the microphones definitely picked up Ray’s breathy, “Oh yeah, Coach, fuckin’ show this ass what’s what.”
Deep red circles of color spread across his cheeks as fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his head back and revealing the long, vulnerable line of his neck. His whole body was covered in a thin sheen of perspiration as he gave his hole over to his Dom, taking every deep thrust, every sharp snap of his Dom’s hips with pink-lipped ecstasy.
Patterson stroked himself in a slow overhand, watching the way the boy’s eyes shone, pupils blown wide as his cock leaked to the floor between his feet showing his Dom how good the fucking truly was. Patterson had never seen someone so quickly go to this place, so completely giving themselves over body and mind like this kid could, and it make his cock twitch in his hand. He rotated his PA, pushing the ring through the head of his erection and then spinning it slowly back, using the smooth slide to focus himself, waiting for the boy to twitch and come and collapse with the intensity of this.
The knock on his door was so quiet that it was almost lost in Brad’s heartbeat; he clicked the magazine into his gun with the heel of his hand and turned the knob.
“Hi,” Nate said simply, and Brad took the sight of him in like a ghost from the dead, one that he’d seen in his dreams night after night; but Nate’s chest rose and fell with his breaths, and new lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled at Brad.
Fuck hi, Brad thought, but it never made it to his lips as Nate’s crashed down upon his, Brad’s gun forgotten on the carpet as Nate pushed him into the hotel room and kicked shut the door. Brad’s fingers wrapped around Nate’s shoulder holster and pulled him closer, taking in every bit of evidence to make sure this was real: Nate’s lips too dry, Nate’s ribs too prominent, Nate’s eyes still so hauntingly green.
His chest tightened when Nate ran his mouth across to Brad’s ear and whispered, “I couldn’t stay away.”