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[15 Feb 2008|10:17pm]
Charles looked at Michael, silent and pliable on the bed, waiting for orders. He glanced at the long table holding their toys and thought. It was a special night; not only Valentine's Day but they night they renewed their contract.

Everything had been discussed, openly and with no barriers. Michael would do as he was told, to the letter of the document. But it was an important night, a full one, and as good as Michael was at following orders he was also good at giving them. Charles had seen him in the boardroom, had seen how ruthless and strong Michael was. Had seen what the man could do with power.

He had to be careful of the wording. He would no more break the contract than Michael would, and he would not insult his lover by giving power where it was not wanted.

"I want you to please me," he said.

"Of course." Michael's voice was mild, patient. Perfectly subdued, the way Charles wanted him.

"How do you think you could best do that?"

Michael looked at him, seeing the question for what it was. What are you in the mood for, my love?

"With my mouth, my hands, my body." Lay here with me and let me touch you.

Charles lay on the bed, curling himself into the touches Michael wanted to give.


Charles and Michael #1
Charles wandered through his apartment holding the remote in one hand and a glass of Australian shiraz in another. As he sipped the wine he got his home dressed for evening with a few pushes of the button on the remote, happy and content with the ease of the nights preparations.

He stood in the living room and dimmed the lights with a light touch to one button, and drew back the drapes on the huge wall of windows with another. Night was just settling over the city and Charles loved the way the lights in all the buildings light the skyline. It was a stunning view at night. He pushed another button and music started, the volume low. Some thing baroque, though the composer's name eluded him at the moment.

He set the remote on the coffee table and went to stand before the windows. The shy was almost navy tonight, cloud cover high above them. On rare nights there would be stars visible through the light pollution, but not tonight. He looked out over the city and picked out the buildings he owned or had owned at one time. There were several.

He crossed to the desk and picked up the phone's remote headset and put it on. Once more before the window, he contemplated. Call a friend, someone he could talk about the unimportant things with? No, Charles had a need tonight, a wanting deep in his gut. He wanted to touch and share, not chatter and play 'who's growing broke this week'.

He unbuttoned the cuffs on his silk shirt and rolled the sleeves, took off his tie. Charles wanted to relax. His shoes came off and he kicked them aside, then thought better of it. One did not kick off Italian hand tooled leather like it was nothing. He almost hear his mother's voice in his head telling him to take better care of his things. He grinned as he picked the shoes up and put them away in the closet.

He got another glass of wine and returned to the window. He knew who he was going to call, but he delayed it. He knew that his call would be answered, and that he would have willing company, but he drew it out, let his hunger grow a bit. It was always best when he was half out of his mind with want.

He felt his cock start to fill and touched himself through the soft fabric of his slacks with a lazy hand. Hungry now. Getting ready. He pushed a number on speed dial.

The phone rang three times before being picked up with a polite hello.


A brief pause. "I'm on my way."

Charles disconnected the line and sipped his wine, hand still moving in an easy pattern as he watched the sky get darker.
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[15 Feb 2008|10:14pm]
Damon and Dove #3
Little gift for tsuki_no_bara before she heads to London. Dove gets back to Santa Clara and goes to talk to Damon.

Dove leaned against the wall outside Damon's building and finished his cigarette, not sure if he really wanted to go in or not. Eventually he sighed and pitched the smoke, knowing that he was just delaying the inevitable and making it worse the longer he stayed out there; chances were Damon knew he was there anyway.

He banged on the door with a closed fist and backed up, trying to look like he wasn't worried about Damon not taking him in this time. He wasn't sure if he managed to get the combination of easy going cool and subtle fuck you attitude, but he didn't have time to adjust his features before Damon opened the door. Yeah, he'd known he was there.

"Dove. You high?"

Dove snorted. "No."

"Hungry?" He actually sounded concerned.


"Are you-"

"Shit, Damon. Just want to see you, all right? You don't want me, fine. Going now." He turned and started to walk away, wrapping the rejection around him like a cloak.

He heard Damon sigh. "Where you been, Dove?" he asked quietly.

Dove stopped. He didn't turn around to look at Damon, just said, "San Francisco, the last couple of days."

"Why would you go there?" Damon sounded amused. "What the hell is in San Francisco?"

Dove looked over his shoulder. "We goin' in or not?"

Damon stepped back and made a show of inviting Dove in, his grin slightly sardonic. Dove rolled his eyes and stalked past him into the kitchen where he waited until Damon sat down on one of the hard kitchen chairs before making himself comfortable. In Damon's lap.

"Uh, hi, Dove."


"You wanna talk about it?" Damon asked, one arm looping around Dove's waist, the other hand resting on Dove's thigh.

"Not really. Just want to-ah hell." Dove sighed and leaned his head back against Damon's shoulder, wondering what the hell he did want. Damon's hand started to run lightly up and down his thigh.

"Remember the night you refused to go the club with me?" he finally asked.

Damon nodded. "Yeah. You were wired and I was pissy. You know, sometimes I can watch you do that. Sometimes I can watch you get into it and watch you fuck some guy…sometimes I think I'll shatter. Couldn't do it that night."

Dove sighed again. "Needed to play. Really really fucking had to."

"I know."

"I was twitchy, no one would play with me. They thought I was high."

Damon's hand slid down to his knee and back up. "Were you?"

"Fuck no. I don't go there high. I get high if I can't get there, not the other way around."

Damon nodded. "So what happened?" Again, his hand petted Dove's thigh.

"Guy came in. Wanted someone with an edge. Wanted me. British, sun bleached hair…fuck, Damon. He was beautiful. Name's Simon. He took it all and then some. Was fucking perfect, the way were together. He wanted the cat and I made it fucking sing-I danced and he was stunning, just taking it and needing it and drawing it all out of me."

Damon's fingers started to trace his cock, half hard remembering Simon's grin and his back and the way he cried out and moved.

"He was mine for that moment. I could do anything he needed. Anything I needed. Total sync. He came on my cock and it was…fuck. Was something. I cleaned him up after, talked to him. His boy doesn't like blood, doesn't get why he needed to do this; I got it. I was flyin', you know?"

Damon didn't answer, just kept tracing Dove’s erection through tight jeans, hips rocking oh so slightly. Dove could feel him getting hard.

"I should have been flying for days, a week or more."

"What happened?"

"Macy found me."

Damon's hand stilled. "You okay?"

Dove nodded sharply. "I ran. I hid for two days. Didn't get near me."

"Freaked you out, though." Damon's hand went back to Dove's thigh, stroking higher though, cupping his balls. Dove was still hard.

"Scored. Got so fucking high."

"Why didn't-"

"You didn't need me bringing this shit down on you."

Damon kissed his neck. "Asshole."

"Whatever. Came down in San Fran two days ago. Needed money so I hit a couple of clubs and did my thing. Man, it was wild. One guy wanted the crop and he could take almost as much as Simon. Thing was he didn't want to bleed; you know how hard it is to do that? Not break skin and hurt as much as this guy needed it? Made him come though, just from the crop. Got out of there and went to another place, wound up with some jerk off with a low pain threshold, which is even harder. No blood, just a fine edge to bring him over without hurting too much. That's why I'm the best-can do the hard ones as well as the fucks who need to hurt so bad they can't see."

He practically feel Damon rolling his eyes at his bragging. Damon stroked him through his jeans again though, and said, "Yeah. You're the best. Scary, but the best." Fingers started to lower his zipper and Dove shifted, giving Damon room. "Why didn't you come home when you had the money, then?"

Dove hesitated then kicked himself. Shouldn't have started talking if he didn't want to give it all up.

"Was hard as a fucking rock. Two floggings and I didn't get off? You know what I'm like. So I was heading for the bus station, about to step into an alley and jerk off when I saw Simon."

Damon freed his erection and started stroking him off. "The perfect client from the other night. The Brit."

"Yeah. We talked for a couple of minutes." Dove moved forward a little, hips starting to push his cock into Damon's hand. "He sucked me off in the alley."

Damon chuckled. "He sucked *this* off? Fuck, guy must be something not to turn pale and run."

"Shut up," Dove said with a grin. "Yeah, he's got a fucking amazing mouth. Took it all in and worked me over good. Made me fucking wild."

"You come in his mouth?" Damon asked, his voice husky in Dove's ear.

"No, shot against the wall. He called me 'pretty bird'. I think I liked that."

Damon stroked him harder. "Then what?"

"We went dancing. Shit, harder, Damon. Fuck, that's nice."

Damon stroked him harder. "Dancing. You mean fucking with clothes on. Seen you dance, Dove."

"Yeah, fucking with…with clothes. Until there weren't clothes." Dove was starting to pant, Damon's hand tight around his cock, thumb teasing the head of his cock and his other hand sliding down to his balls. Dove's own hands were gripping the edge of the table.

"You fucked him?"

"Yeah. In the club, over the railing of the balcony. Fucked him hard, Damon, made him scream. Right there, people fucking everywhere and I came in his ass and it was just so-oh shit!" Dove bucked and cried out, jets of come spraying the edge of the table and spilling over Damon's hand. Damon didn't stop working him, didn't stop rocking into him.

"You want to be with him, Dove? You want this Simon for yourself?" He sounded hard and pissed and horny.

"No. Shit Damon, you're gonna fucking keep me up, aren't you? Fuck, no I don't want him for my own. We'd destroy each other, drown each other in our pain."

"But you wanna fuck him again?"


"What do you want right now, Dove?"

"Fuck me. Christ, Damon. Fuck me."

Damon stood up, draping him over the table and pushing his jeans down. Dove held onto the table and heard Damon search through is pockets until he found the rubbers and then there was the sound of latex, a sound Dove always heard before sex. The sound of anticipation.

Damon didn't waste time, just ploughed into him and fucked him hard on the table. Dove cried out when Damon found his sweet spot and then there were hands on his shoulders, pulling him back, impaling him over and over again.

He was hard again, needing and starving. Damon was using him, taking him so close to the edge and pushing him away again until Dove was ready to scream with frustration.

"Please, Damon. Fuck, just-"

"Next time-" Damon ground out. "Next time I want-"

"What? Fuck, anything. Just make me come, damn it!"

"Next time you see this Simon I want to watch."

Dove screamed and came.


Damon and Dove #2
Damon sat at the bar watching the stage with careful eyes. It didn't look like this was going to end well; at least, not for Dove, and frankly, that was all that mattered to Damon. If this didn't go right for Dove it was going to be a bad night.

He waved the bartender over. "Anyone else on Dove's list?" he asked.

"Nope. He said he only wanted one good one tonight."

Damon frowned. "He's not getting it. That guy better know his safe word, 'cause Dove's too much for him."

The guy in restraints had come in with some skinny little kid and at first Damon had thought he was going to top his boy toy. The client was one of those 'dress all in black leather and walk like you own the fucking world' guys, and he'd looked Dove over like he was a the prey instead of the hunter. Mistake.

So when Dove got word that the big guy wanted to see what he could do his eyes had gleamed. Damon figured he'd get what he needed and they could go home. Everything would be quiet for a few days.

Dove had really needed this tonight. He hadn't told Damon exactly what had happened, but he'd shown up at his door just after dark, out of breath and hot and shaky, so Damon figured he's been run out of somewhere. Dove hated to be chased. And he needed money, so chances were he'd been ripped off, or even jumped. A recipe for Dove to be ready to blow.

Going to the club was Dove's idea, of course. Damon had learned by now that when Dove *needed* the club there wasn't any way around it. So he'd said sure and there they were. Dove needed to play, to work whatever aggression or fear or hatred or whatever it was out of his system. If he didn't he'd be wild for days, dangerous and high and feral. Better someone paid him to do what he did best.

Right now he was laying the crop on the big man's back. He didn't get out the other stuff, so at least he knew right off he wasn't going to get to fuck the guy, knew he had to work it out using the toys. Damon didn't care if Dove fucked him or not; aside from what he firmly told himself was just a preference not to watch Dove doing someone else it meant that if Dove wanted to get off he would be doing it with Damon. A good thing, in Damon's mind.

Dove was beginning to dance, his feet light as he moved around the client. HE was laying neat lines down, the crop snapping, and his eyes were just starting to glaze. He was just about into his zone, almost ready to fly. He was hard and beautiful and strong, the crop doing what it was supposed to, Dove doing what he needed.


Instantly the crop hit the floor and Dove stepped back as the whipping master stepped up with the clients boy. By the time they were working on the restraints, just a couple of tugs to let the man down, Dove was gone, out of the spotlight, heading to the back of the room.

The regulars moved out of his way.

Damon walked around the perimeter to meet him.

"Fucking hell," was all Dove said when they met by the doorway. Damon nodded and handed him his shirt.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."

"C'mon. My place." Damon opened the door and waited for Dove to go out.

"Need my money."

"Fine, let's just go for a walk then, come back. Maybe someone else will turn up for you-it's still early."

Dove nodded and they started walking. Dove was vibrating, talking non-stop and not making any sense. He talked about the whip and the cat, about how the crop was easiest but he liked it least. He talked about how cold he'd been the night before and how high he'd been the night before that. He talked about a sun bleached blonde boy with an English accent, and how he had been able to take it. He talked about how his blood was rushing and the noise in his ears and then he pushed Damon into a wall, pinned him there with his eyes and with his hips.

"Let me fuck you?"



Damon just looked at him, surprised he'd even asked. He didn't get off on watching Dove work; he did get off on watching Dove, though, and he'd been hard since they got to the club. Now Dove was pushing up against him, kissing his jaw and shoving a hand into his jeans, stroking him roughly. "Can I, Damon? Can I turn you around and fuck you against this wall? Out here in the street at three thirty in the morning? Let me take you right here and make you scream my name to the sky?"


Dove's hand stuttered over his cock and he was spun around, just like Dove had promised, and his jeans were jerked down. There was the wait while Dove rolled the rubber on and the burn, oh fucking hell, the burn as Dove stretched and pushed and filled him.

"Dove-" he whispered.

"Right here," Dove said in his ear as they moved. One hand on Damon's cock, the other on the wall by his face and Dove fucked him, hard and steady. There was nothing like having Dove in him; no one even came close, not in movement, not in size, not in libido. No one else had the stamina of a seventeen year old and the technique of thirty. No one else was Dove.

They weren't quiet. They didn't have to be, not there, not in that part of town. There were parts of Santa Clara where holding hands would get you put in the hospital, but here…here you could fuck under the street lights and scream when you came against the wall and no one would notice.

When they were done Dove ditched the rubber and they headed back to Not a Nice Place to see if there was someone else he could play with.

Neither of them noticed the man in the shadows, the man with grey eyes and a long black coat. It didn't matter. He had decided they were not the ones.

===========================Damon and Dove #1
He was beautiful.

Damon's first thought -- that the kid had obviously seen The Fellowship of the Rings too many times -- was dismissed the first time he saw Dove pick up a crop and send it whistling through the air. This wasn't someone trying to look all pretty and elflike, like whatever the fuck that guy's name had been. This was a guy who happened to have long white blond hair he needed out of his face and the side weaving was the way to go. He found out later that Dove had never seen the movie.

Now he paced around the man in the restraints looking more like a cat than an elf. He'd lost his shirt somewhere and was wearing painted on jeans and combat boots, his hair falling straight down, almost to his waist. He had a black leather band around one bicep and his tattoos stood out against his pale skin in the darkness of the room. There was literally a spot light on him, the rest of the big room shrouded to provide for dramatic effect.

It was dramatic. Dove had waited until the client was bound, this one tied simply with his hands over his head, his feet kept apart with leg irons, and then had stepped into the spotlight to talk to him. Damon knew the words only because he'd once asked what Dove said to the men he abused.

"Hello," he would have said, "My name is Dove and I am going to hurt you. Crop, whip or cat?"

Tonight's toy had chosen the crop and Dove had picked one up and held it out for the man to see, holding it like it was a flower and not the instrument of pain he was going to make it.

"Do you want to bleed?"

Damon hadn't heard the answer, but he'd know it by the time Dove was done.

"Do you want to come for me or for him?" Dove had asked, pointing to a man out of sight, sitting in the dark like Damon and the others.

Again, they hadn't heard, but they all knew the answer because Dove had crossed behind the man and gotten a condom and the pump bottle of lube.

"Safe word?"

That they did hear. The whipping master had announced it to the room, so everyone would be perfectly aware that no matter what Dove did it was within the rules of the game until they all heard the word.


And then it had started. Dove had once said that it was an art, and Damon had asked how he got so good at the art when he was so young. Dove hadn't answered. Damon had also asked why he didn't work there all the time, rather than just going in when he needed the money; he was the best, they had offered him a post and status many times. Dove hadn't answered that, either. Damon figured he'd find out sooner or later.

Dove danced as he worked. He was light on his feet and he had his own rhythm, the blows landing perfectly as he stepped around and back, weaving around his prey. The lines and marks he raised were perfect, one and then another lined up precisely and then overlapping to form patterns. He looked manic, almost high, even though he wasn't. He never did this high. He didn't need to then.

Dove was glittering. His skin glowed and muscles twitched and he was hard. Damon often wondered what it was about people who could get off from hurting people, even those who begged for it. But then, he got hard watching Dove. Not the hurting, he hated that, hated the screams, the cries, the begging for release, the repeated cries of 'stop stop stop' that really meant 'oh fuck yes'.

But he got hard for Dove.

Dove dropped the crop and stood in front of the toy. He said something and Damon watched the muscles in his back jump and roll, knew Dove was rubbing a hand on his cock, teasing the man.

Then he moved back and without ceremony shoved his jeans down, rolled the rubber on and thrust into the toy's ass.

The man came with a scream, streams of come spurting from his cock, hitting the floor with a splash.

The whipping master released him in the arms of his lover and they disappeared.

Damon walked toward the back of the room to meet Dove and hold him as he cried.

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[15 Feb 2008|10:12pm]
Dove and Damon Quick fic
Damon never opened his door without looking through the spy hole. Just common sense, living where he did, knowing the people he did. But this time he didn't see anything, and the knocking was coming down near the floor.

He pulled open the door with enough force that the knob knocked a hole in his wall and dropped to his knees, not sure where it was safe to touch him.

"What happened? Jesus, Dove. Where's all the blood coming from?" He knew he wasn't panicking. He never panicked. But if he did, it might sound like that, his voice too loud and too soft all at once.

Blue eyes met his and Dove shook his head as much as he could, given that he'd managed to wedge himself into the corner of the door jam.

"Macy. Don't know where all the blood's from--is it mine?" Dove whispered.

"Can you move?" He had to get him into the apartment, try to find the wounds, but he was worried he'd make it worse if he pulled Dove to his feet.

Another head shake and Damon swore under his breath, or in his head--he didn't much care which. He slid an arm under the boys back, the other under his knees and picked him up.

"Gonna wash you off, baby."

"'m not a baby."

"I know."

Into the bathroom and onto the edge of the tub. He started water running and wondered where to start.

"Where's it hurt? Did he cut you? Beat you?" Now, that was his voice. Panic guy had taken a walk.

Dove looked up at him and blinked. "Um. Had a knife. I tried to run, I swear I did, don't be mad."

Blood was running down his cheeks, but it was cleaning them. Damon stared at the phenomenon for a few seconds before realizing it was tears.

"I'm not mad, Dove," he said gently. "Swear it. I know you tried to run."

Dove nodded slowly. "Okay."

Damon carefully worked at Dove's clothes, stripping off the ruined shirts and breathing a soft sigh of relief when he saw the cuts. All shallow, some so slight they wouldn't scar. Just lots of them. Like Macy had tried to carve every inch of him.

Jeans were harder, Dove wouldn't stand. Finally he lay him on the floor and tugged them off, offering a bad joke about how tight Dove wore his pants. Didn't get a laugh, but he hadn't expected it to.

Dove's legs had bruises, but no cuts.

"Kicked me. Had his boys hold me down."

Damon nodded and helped Dove into the shower, staring as the water ran red in the bottom of the tub. He looked up and winced, Dove's white blonde hair looking like he'd dyed it cherry red in some warped attempt at a Goth makeover.

"Lover, don't ever colour your hair," he said.

Dove just stared.

The red didn't go away, no matter how long he stood there, holding onto the wall.

"Get out, Dove. Gotta dress the head wound," Damon said after a few minutes. "They bleed like a son of bitch."

Dove stepped out of the shower, shivering, and waited while Damon dried him off. "You gonna have to cut my hair?" he asked softly, looking in the mirror. Red was streaking down again, blending and twisting through the wet strands of hair, making pink highlights.

"Don't know. Hope not."

"Yeah. It's important, you know."

Damon met his eyes in the mirror. "Your hair? You're worried about your hair?"

Dove nodded. "It' that guy in the Bible, yeah? You cut my hair, next time Macy wins. He's gonna kill me, Damon."

Damon didn't know how to answer that, so he started gently parting Dove's hair, looking to make sure there was only one cut. "Don't need stitches," he said. "But I can't super glue it, 'cause it's in your hair. I'll have to wrap it and keep it clean."

Dove sat on the toilet lid and waited while Damon worked. He didn't look in the mirror when it was done.

"Is it okay if I stay tonight?" he asked.

"Yeah. The next few nights for sure--gotta keep that clean, and Macy won't come here." Damon left the bathroom, left the blood and the ruined clothes.

He hoped to fuck that Macy wouldn't come. Dove was right--one of these times Macy was going to kill him.

This was no different, barring the matter of trust. Before the question it hadn't really been thought of. Damon made it a point not to think about it. It wasn't like Dove was looking for anything other than what they had; they met each other's needs, to a point, and where Damon fell short Dove found other outlets. Like Not a Nice Place. Like e. Like the occasional trick, and like whatever it was that made him vanish for days at a time. Damon took what he could, and that was all there was to it. Dove never said that there was more than that, never implied it, and never offered it.

Damon was not one to lie to himself.

But then, when they were naked and panting and Dove had him pushed down on the middle of his bed he asked again, meeting Damon's eyes.
"Trust me?"

And Damon lied. To Dove, to himself, to the night-he lied.

"Yeah. Trust you."

Dove grinned and pushed again, Damon's arms reaching up and up and up until his finger tips touched the headboard. He was unsurprised, really, when rope wound around his wrists, binding them loosely together.

Dove grinned, his smile vibrant and wicked. "Gonna blow your mind," he said as he tied Damon's wrists to the bed.

Damon didn't doubt it. Ever.

He wondered idly when Dove had put the rope in the room.

He said nothing as Dove moved him around the bed, positioning his body the way he wanted; he tried very hard not to have regrets for giving his implicit approval to this. Dove had never hit him, had never practiced his art on his body. Damon didn't really want him to start now, but was unsure how his refusal would go over at this point. By the time he'd decided that it would be better to say stop, better to let Dove know that this wasn't what he wanted than to let himself be used, it was too late.

Dove climbed off the bed and looked down on him. "Almost ready," he said, his voice dreamy, in direct conflict with the way his body was almost quivering. "One more thing-" And then he was gone, out of the room and down the hall.

Damon lay on the bed, one leg drawn up and tied down, completely exposed and open. His wrists had about an inch of play, the rope itself fastened to the bed, leaving his arms free if Dove chose to flip him over. He didn't test the bonds too strenuously-Dove's games could get nasty enough as it was and he didn't want to add any edges. He admitted to himself that he was nervous.

At least, his head was. His body, on the other hand, was playing traitor. Tight and eager, he couldn't be perfectly still, his back tending to arch up, his cock hard and willing to play.

Dove came back and turned off the light. A match flared and a candle was lit, then two more. The flickering light did little to make either of them look still and at ease.

Damon said nothing as Dove sat on the bed, a small bottle in one hand, unable to stop Dove. He braced himself, ready to take what Dove had to give, even if it wasn't something he truly wanted. He let his eyes drift closed.

Warm, slippery hands moved over his outstretched leg, the touch firm. It was an easy, slow caress, too heavy to tickle, yet gentle enough to sooth. Damon opened his eyes and looked down the line of his body to Dove's hands as they played over his calf and then to behind his knee.

Dove didn't look at him, all his concentration on what he was doing. His breath was shallow, and Damon could feel his restraint as he massaged him. His hands would speed up, the fingers start to knead a little harder, and Dove would shudder slightly before backing off.

It went on for an age. Dove worked his way up Damon's leg, frequently spilling more oil into his hand, each lingering stroke of his hands bringing him further up Damon's body. When he reached Damon's hip he slid a slick palm over Damon's erection, biting back a gasp.

Damon didn't bother restraining his own groan.

"So hot," Dove whispered, then he started on the other leg, taking his time-making himself take the time. His breathing was more ragged, his own erection leaking and painting a wet trail along Damon's thigh.

They were both making soft sounds, short breathing sighs and moans that made Damon wonder if it was really them. The sounds that usually accompanied their time in bed were more rough, louder, crude. This was something all together different.

This was Dove's gift. The restraint, the touch, the complete control over himself for Damon's pleasure-it was heady and arousing and confusing.

Dove whimpered, his hand once more sliding over Damon's shaft and balls. Damon arched into the touch, needing so much more and not wanting it yet. He was riding a long cool wave, hoping it didn't crest for a long time yet.

"Oh fuck, I'm sorry-" Dove growled, his hands sweeping over Damon's abs and up to his chest, over his shoulders as he braced himself. His cock nestled along Damon's hip and pulsed as he came, heat spilling onto Damon's skin. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Couldn't hold it-" He kissed Damon's mouth, once, and moved down quickly, pausing only to tease at one taut nipple before settling between Damon's legs.

He licked and lapped and kissed, cleaning Damon, his tongue hot and sweet, dragging over the oiled and sensitive skin.

"Oh God," Damon said softly, tugging on the rope that bound his wrists. He needed to touch him.

Dove ignored him, just kept licking and kissing, his hands roaming freely now, everywhere he could reach. Except Damon's prick. His nipples were tortured, his skin rubbed and touched until Damon thought he might ignite, his legs and arms squeezed and nuzzled. And all the while, Dove was making needy noises, his hips pushing into the bed, his cock hardening again with the resiliency of seventeen.

He mouthed Damon's balls and lower, making Damon almost scream. This was new and almost frightening in it's intensity. Dove had never so much as offered to suck him off before and now he was licking his hole and moaning, taking about how hot Damon was, how hard he made him. And oh fuck, his tongue. Oh holy hell and oh shit, Dove was going to kill him, was going to drive him utterly, compleletly mad, and then his tongue was inside and Damon was going to come.

The trembling had barely started, the quivering in his belly and legs a mere hint, and Dove was gone, one hand tight around the base of his cock.

"Not yet."

"Gotta, oh fuck, Dove, please. Please, let me come, I need to, fuck so goddamn hard, so good, please-" He knew he was begging, knew he sounded desperate and near tears, but fuck, he was.

Dove just waited, only his own occasional shudder letting Damon know he was ready to blow too. When Damon thought he could actually breathe without shooting he nodded, his eyes fixed on Dove's.

More oil and a finger slipped inside him. He sent a quick prayer of thanks to whomever might be listening. Any second now he was going to get reamed, fucked hard and proper and he could get off.

More oil, another finger. Damon blinked.

"Dove, please."

Dove shook his head and slid his fingers in and out, carefully, slowly. "You're not ready." More oil.

Damon was *never* ready. That was just part of sex with Dove. It was quick and hard and dirty. Fucking. Dove was big, and they were always too damn hungry to wait for long. Sometimes it hurt, but not always, and the stretch and burn was just part of it.

But not this time, apparently. Dove worked oil into him, making him slippery and relaxed, stretching him, opening him. When Damon heard the foil of the condom packet tear he thought he'd about die of relief.

Dove slid into him, one long, deep push that threatened to split him open. It went on forever, so very long until Dove was buried in his body, held tight and close.


He wasn't sure who said it.

Dove moved, taking him with strong, slow thrusts that made his entire body rock on the bed, pushing him closer to the head board. Dove was sweating, heat pouring off him, filling him again and again and again. When he hit Damon's gland dead on Damon screamed.

Dove did it again, faster, fucking him harder. They were both grunting and swearing and it was just too good, too unbelievable. Too much to last. Dove wrapped his around Damon's cock and stroked him.

Damon shot so hard come landed on his chin. Dove swore and slammed into him harder and faster, fucking him through his orgasm, drawing it out and making it last until Dove froze and threw his head back, twitching as he came.

Damon thought he was lucky Dove remembered to untie him before falling asleep.

When he woke up Dove was curled into his belly, his head on Damon's arm. He was looking at him with something close to confusion in his eyes.

"Why?" Damon whispered. "Why like that?"

Dove started to shrug and then sighed. He sat up, facing away from Damon, his tattoos stark on his skin, his hair over one shoulder. It glowed, pale and smooth, like an icy waterfall.

"You never ask."

Damon tried very hard to make that make sense. He couldn't. "Ask what?" he finally said.

Dove turned to face him, resignation drawing his eyes down. "Anything. You never ask for anything, never ask what everyone else does. You ask if I'm okay. You want to know if I'm hungry. You give a shit if Macy finds me." He shook his head and lay down again.

"There was a guy once, before you. Thought he could fix me, could save me, you know? He wanted to know everything. My real name was a big one with him, and how long I'd been on the street and what made me run away from home. He wanted to know what makes me like this. And I hated him for it."

Blue eyes met his, fierce and angry and determined. "I can't be fixed, I know that. But no one else gets it. You-you never demand. You're just…there when I need you. " Dove sat up suddenly, startling Damon with his speed.

"You don't think I see you, do you?" Dove demanded. "At the club? I know where you are, every second. I know when you come. I know when you're hot for me, know when you hate it, know when you're ready to go, know where you are when I'm done. And you don't know it. You think I don't notice you." Dove stared at him. "But I do, Damon. I always know. 'Cause you're the only one who sees me."

Dove's mouth took his and Damon's senses reeled. They moved over each other for a few moments, hungry, but too spent to build desire into need. Finally Dove was still against him again.

"I was ten," he whispered. "It was bad, and I won't tell you what. But I was too young. And it's Anthony."

Damon nodded and brushed white blond hair off his boy's face.

"The romance is gone."

"Thank Christ. Bend over."

Damon and Dove #4
Damon was sitting at the back of the club, bottle of beer in hand. He was there without Dove for once, though he wasn't quite sure why. He knew he didn't really want to be there; he knew that he didn't like the place. But there he sat, hidden in the shadows, watching.

He watched scenes acted out on the main stage, and he watched things going on around him, half hidden but so very public as well. He watched people get whipped and flogged and fucked and he heard the screams of pain and the throaty groans of release. He could smell them. He could smell blood and beer and spunk…all overlaid with sweat and nervous energy.

He'd been there for almost two hours, still not sure why. He suspected it was a need to understand Dove, to try to see what this was all about without the distraction of watching Dove himself. He knew he liked to watch Dove, knew he got hard and hungry when Dove was flogging someone. He'd told himself it was because of Dove, that he got off on watching the lean body dance and move, that what he was doing with the whip or the cat or whatever tool of torture he was using was just something added on. He told himself he got hard for Dove, not the pain, not the screams.

It bothered him that even when he was watching Dove hurt someone who'd asked for it, even when he knew by the obvious display of lube and condom that Dove would be fucking the guy, even then…he got hard. He'd stroke off watching it, or if Dove wasn't going to screw the client he'd wait. He'd wait and watch, and as soon as Dove was done he'd make sure he was the first thing Dove saw, ready and willing to be used, ready to be tossed up against the nearest wall and fucked to within an inch of his life.

It was Dove. It was always Dove.

Almost two hours of sitting and watching had proven that, if nothing else. He'd watched and studied and listened and felt nothing other than a hint of revulsion. He finished the beer and lit another cigarette while he debated leaving right then or having one more drink. He glanced toward the bar, checking to see if there was a line up, and saw Dove stride in the far door.

He didn't look around, didn't stop to talk to anyone, just walked right to the whipping master and had a short conversation, his attention utterly focused. The master shook his head and handed Dove a clip board, pointing to a couple of guys sitting at a table. Dove nodded absently and pointed at something on the clip board, then at the rack of whips. The master shook his head again and Dove talked for a couple of moments. Finally the master nodded and Dove walked to a table, right in front and to the side.

Dove was still. Damon watched him, watched as he sat straight in the chair, looking dead ahead. He'd never seen Dove still like this before, even when he was asleep he was moving a little, the nervous energy making him restless. Every other time Damon had been here watching Dove he'd seen the twitches and the slight vibrations, wondered at how Dove's skin seemed to actually move.

Dove sat. He didn't smoke, he didn't drink and he didn't even glance at the men who tried to talk to him. There were a few regulars who seemed to just pass by and say hi, shrugging when they didn't get a response, but there were others as well. The ones who were prowling and thought the pretty boy would be easy fun. The ones who knew who Dove was and wanted nothing more than to get his cock up their asses. The ones who liked to play with fire. Dove looked straight ahead and didn't even glance at them.

Damon waited.

The couple the master had pointed out went to the stage and did their thing. Crop. Blood. Fuck. Damon watched Dove, who sat impassively, his eyes on the stage. When they'd taken the bottom out of the restraints and wiped things down Dove moved. He turned his head ninety degrees to look at the master.

When the master nodded at him Dove stood and walked to the rack, peeling off his T-shirt as he went. The club was muted, voices talking and laughing and someone was coming, but there weren't any screams. Dove picked up something from the floor and stepped into the spot light. There was long gash in his side, dried blood streaked across his chest.

Sometimes at parties there are occasional moments when all conversation lags for a couple of seconds and there is silence. Usually someone laughs, or makes a joke, and on TV someone says something embarrassing or revealing. This time Dove raised his arm and brought it back down fast, a crack echoing in the room. He'd picked up a bull whip.

"My name is Dove. Who wants to play?"

Damon came.
post comment

[15 Feb 2008|10:09pm]
The only thing that saved Dove from breaking his own fingers was Damon's faster reflexes.

"You hit that wall, you're fucked." Damon held onto his arm until Dove nodded, staring at the cement exterior walls of the club. Then he let go, easy, and Dove took off at a near run, not able to walk fast enough to get away from the fucking hell that was Not A Nice Place.

Damon followed-Dove knew he would. Not because he was Dove's boy, or was some hanger on, but because Damon knew that there was danger in Dove's eye and blood was going to flow somewhere. Damon was the safety net, there to keep Dove from beating some poor fucker into unconsciousness.

Fucking goddamn Simon and that fucking goddamn whore bitch.

"Dove. This way."

Dove snapped his head around and looked where Damon was pointing. Looked like just another alley to him. "Why?" he snapped. He was shaking, needing so badly to fly apart at the seams.

Damon tilted his head and walked to Dove, standing close. "Because you need, yeah? Shack's got a place down here."

That stopped Dove cold. Between the two of them they knew a lot of dealers, but Shack was the only one Damon ever talked about, and then it was only to say that he was the only guy Damon had ever heard of who insisted on giving out fresh needles with his shit.

"Why?" Dove asked again.

Damon shook his head, not saying no, just exasperated. "You're not going back to the club tonight, and I'm not going to let you mug anyone. So you need an outlet." But his eyes were sad, and his arms were twitching, like he wanted to lash out himself.

Dove walked down the alley slowly, not believing this. Not believing any of it, really. Not Damon, not Tracy, not Simon. But mostly not this. He stopped at the end of the alley and sat on an overturned box.

Damon leaned on the wall across from him and waited.

It was cold. Too early in the morning for the heat of the last day to have lingered, the wind blowing right across them, down the alley. Papers flipped and cart wheeled and Dove watched them without seeing.

"I don't want to get high," Dove finally said.

Damon didn't say anything.

"It's just…too much, you know? Too much, too soon and I can't take anything more or I'll go insane." He looked at the ground, the filth that surrounded them, and waited for Damon to say something.

He didn't, but he did come and lean on the wall next to Dove.

"It's like…moving in with you. You say I'm yours, I say I'm a whore. But then I'm living with you. And I'm making money at the club, but then Tracy's there. Can deal with that, except she's in with Macy and sooner or later he's gonna show up and he's going to…hurt me again. Or kill me. And he won't make it fast. So I want an out. I don't want to trick, I don't want to deal, I just want to make some money." He looked up at Damon and waited again.

"You're not a whore."

"Yeah, I am."

"Don't have to be."

"Bullshit. Maybe I don't have to take money to let guys suck me off, but flogging? Flogging and fucking? Still whoring. And it's what I'm good at. What I need, sometimes. Most times. Needed it tonight, thought it was a fucking gift when Simon showed up-he takes it like no one else, takes and takes and pulls the crap out of me. But no, he wanted the fucking bitch."

Dove stood up and raged, everything coming back full force. He kicked the boxes and screamed, anger and something else making him dance as he hurled abuse at the walls around him, kicking at the filth and the garbage.

Fuck him. Just fuck him all to hell.

"It's who he is," Damon yelled when Dove was in full swing. "He's not yours."

"Fuck you! I know that-I know him, I know me. I'm nothing to him, just an arm and a cock, and that's the way it is. You think he's more to me than a body?"

"Yeah. And so do you." Damon reached out and pushed Dove into the wall, crowding close. "And if you think he doesn't know something like that, you better think again."

Dove stared into Damon's eyes, trying to deny it, trying to hate, trying to keep himself angry. But he couldn't. Damon looked like he was cutting his own liver out.

"I don't love him," Dove said softly.

"I know," Damon said, just as quietly. "And he sure as fuck doesn't love you. But you give each other something no one else can."

"Not Tracy, apparently," Dove snorted. "Did you see that? She took him out, but she didn't pull him back. She just fucking left him, broken and not right. She fucking took the easy way out and didn't do what he needed. I've seen her do better-it was on purpose, 'cause of me."

Damon nodded, his eyes haunted. Dove knew part of Damon had wanted to take care of Simon's back-probably for Jay's benefit-but Dove hadn't really given him the choice.

Dove kept his eyes locked on Damon's, calmer, but still not easy in his skin. "He comes in, telling me we should charge for shows. Shit." He took a deep breath and kept talking, like he was telling a story. Just kept talking, hoping to hell the words would burn away some of the need in his gut. "We're fucking amazing together, and he's right. We'll make a ton of cash-and it'll get me out of Not A Nice Place, away from the bitch and Macy. So we set it up."

"You'll get into The Chamber," Damon said, his voice sure.

Dove winced. "We did. We're up there next week."

Damon looked puzzled. "You didn't tell me."

Dove sighed and looked away, trying to ease away from the way Damon's body kept him at the wall. "Thursday. If Simon's still up for it, after tonight."

Damon stared at him for a moment and let him slide away. "Okay. I'll…well, I can always trade shifts back, I guess. No way they'll let me in The Chamber, and I don't want to see, anyway."

"I'm sorry," Dove said, meaning it. "I didn't know they'd want Thursday when I set it up."

Damon, at least, didn't lie and say it was okay. It wasn't. They didn't really have plans, but Damon hadn't made much a secret about wanting to spend Dove's eighteenth birthday with him.

"Let's go," Damon said suddenly.



Dove nodded and took Damon's hand as they walked out of the alley. They danced for hours, drinking and making out in dark corners, screaming until dawn, then staggering home in the early half light.

When they tumbled onto the bed, tearing at clothes and biting each other's shoulders, Dove whimpered. He needed, he needed, he wanted and needed and bled for it.

"Fuck me," he whispered. "Christ, Damon, I need you. Take care of me."

Damon bit harder and did what Dove needed, because that's what he always did. Dove could count on it.


Simon was, in his own way, an impulsive boy. If he got an idea he usually acted on it right away. If he didn't, it usually disappeared. Sometimes, though, it hung around at the edges of his brain, poking him at odd moments until he let it have its way.

Which was the only way he could explain what he was doing at Not a Nice Place, looking for Dove but not wanting to be flogged.

He'd had an idea. And it wouldn't leave him alone.

He asked for Dove, no he didn't want to be put on the boy's list, he just wanted to talk to him, and oh, while he was here, a beer would be nice.

The guy behind the bar passed him the beer willingly enough, but didn't seem too hopeful about locating Dove. "Haven't seen him in a while, but I just got here a few minutes ago. I'll ask around."

Simon nodded and sat, drinking his beer. It was almost gone when an arm slid around his waist and white blond hair fell over his shoulder. "Looking for me, Simon?" Dove whispered. "Wanna play?"

"Well hey there, pretty bird." Simon grinned. "Looking for you, yeah. Got an idea won't leave me the hell alone. Sit." He patted the empty stool next to him. "Talk now, maybe play later."

Dove raised an eyebrow at him. "Huh. Not what I was expecting, but okay." Dove's arm left him and the blonde took the stool, waving over the bartender. "Jack." Then he turned to Simon, his eyes clear and intent. "What's on your mind?"

"A paying audience." Simon had a sudden memory of those eyes looking up at him, dark with need. Business first, he reminded himself. "You and me, up there." He gestured vaguely at the stage. "Charge admission for the show, make it something special. Have people come watch you flog me, watch me come." He grinned wider. "What d'you reckon, pretty bird? Think they'd pack the place to watch us together?"

Dove raised his eyebrow again. "You want to charge people to watch?" Dove looked away before Simon could reply, his eyes narrowing. He tossed back his shot as soon as it was in front of him, his neck extended. "Think it would work?" he asked, not looking at Simon.

"You think everyone here's just here just to get flogged, or have their boy flogged? People wanna watch, luv, just like they wanna be watched. 'S why there's places like this, like the Dungeons. You throw up a stage, people expect a show."

Simon remembered something Jay had told him about Damon - that Damon came to watch Dove. He waved the bartender over and asked for another beer while he thought about whether or not to mention it.

"Dunno what the going rate is," he went on. "Dungeon North charges admission and they want you to have a membership. Charge a bit more for a set time period if there's something special going on." He resisted the urge to lick Dove's neck to get the boy to look at him, and instead he said "People pay good money just to watch you, pretty bird. Reckon you're worth shelling out for. And me, well, I brought 'em in all over the world." Yeah, it was a naked boast, but Simon liked to think it was true.

Dove grinned, still not looking at him. "People talk about us, you know. Last time was worth a week of it."

Someone let out a whoop behind them and Dove's head spun around, hair fanning out behind him. "Let's go for a walk," he said, hand landing on Simon's thigh.

Simon turned to look at what was so important it made Dove's lips press into a thin line and his eyes turn hard. It took him a moment to pick her out, but once a big hairy bloke moved out of the way she was hard to miss.

Tall and sleek, she had the attention of most of the club as she stood talking to the whipping master. Black leather skirt, just long enough to cover her ass, black leather vest - lots of leather. Boots, arm band, and the cat in her hand. She turned her head and stared around the room, her blood red lips suddenly curving up when she looked their way. Simon saw her mouth 'Dove', and the hand on his leg tightened.

Oh, this was interesting.

"Give us a minute, yeah?" Simon said to Dove, his eyes on this new girl. "Didn't know you had a new dom. She any good?" He was honestly curious about the woman and wanted to see how she worked, but Dove didn't like her, that was pretty clear, or at least didn't want to watch her, and she knew that. She was playing with him. And Simon was intrigued.

Dove scowled, but he stayed where he was, one hand on Simon, barely sitting on the stool. "Yeah, she's good. Her name's Tracy."

Simon waited for more, but apparently that was it. He drank his beer and let Dove's hand stay where it was while he watched Tracy walk across the stage. She was still looking at Dove, a half smirk on her face.

"Let's play," she said loudly, finally looking around the room. Then she stepped to the back of the stage while a man was bound at the front. It was simple, really, not unlike the way Simon preferred it - arms out, legs held apart. The guy wasn't much to look at, but he had a raging boner already. And he wore a full face mask.

When he was bound Tracy went to him and they had their talk; Simon knew the questions, but he was surprised when Tracy got the pump bottle of lube out.

Dove said something under his breath, his hand moving slightly on Simon's thigh, but Simon missed it. He would have asked what was what, but then it started.

Dove was right - she was good.

The longer she worked the more Simon realized what the lube was probably for. He hadn't been fucked by a woman with a strap-on in a long time, and never by a woman who'd just flayed the skin off his back. He wondered if she was as good a fuck as Dove.

He wondered why it was so important to him that he find out.

His hand unconsciously fell on Dove's thigh, just as Dove's was digging into his, and he started gently kneading the muscle. Almost made him hard to watch this girl. It did make him hard to think of Dove watching him.

"You're right," he said, leaning close to Dove. "She's good. Tell you this, though - you're prettier."

"Fucking right I am," Dove growled at him. But he moved a little closer and the hand on Simon's thigh moved up to his balls. "She's a bitch, Simon. Good arm, yeah. She'd make you hurt - you can see that, and I can't tell you different. But that piece of plastic she's gonna shove in his ass? Nowhere near as good as my cock."

"How many strap-ons fucked you, pretty bird?" Simon grinned. "Ever had a girl knew what she was doing? Won't deny you make me scream, and there's no substitute for a good thick cock, but sometimes, you get someone good, can come just as hard."

No question - Simon was coming back for this girl. Just to see the look on Dove's face. Just to prove to himself that this sharp blond boy wasn't everything, wasn't the only person who could give him what he needed.

Although right now, with that hand on his thigh brushing his balls, Simon couldn't think of anyone else who could satisfy this particular hunger.

But business first.

"Right," he said, tearing his eyes from the stage to look at Dove. "About this show, you and me. You interested?"

Dove's eyes glittered. "Fuck, yes." The hand on his thigh twisted a little, cupping his balls for a moment before moving away entirely as Dove stood up. "Where you want to play, Simon? Here? Somewhere else? There's a place up town a bit, private club. Like nasty stuff, but it's more in line with what you're talking about - not anybody can get on the stage, it's a set program. But here is... well, here."

Dove was standing close now, not leaving, just pressing close. He leaned over Simon a bit to order another drink, pausing on his way back to lick Simon's ear. Behind them someone came with a long groan.

"Mmm...." Simon closed his eyes briefly as Dove licked his ear. "We have to get someone down here to watch us, then. See what we can do. Get them to ask us to play there. Could make some good money, you and me." He leaned back a bit, sideways, into Dove. He was at least half-hard now, wanting. He didn't need the cat, but maybe the crop, light enough to mark or maybe bruise, not hard enough to bleed. Something so he could pay his money to feel that cock inside him.

"Tell you what, pretty bird. You know the place. Get someone down to watch us, tell them you want on their program. We'll give 'em a show they won't forget, yeah? But right now" - he turned, lifted his head so he could see Dove's face, so Dove could see his - "wanna put myself on your list. Little crop, lotta fucking. No blood, just a bruise."

Dove grinned at him, satisfaction and anticipation warring. "Want to feel me, Simon? Make you ache just a little and ride you hard? Can do that." And then he was gone, before Simon could say anything. Simon watched Dove make his way through the tables to the master.

Seemed the pretty bird had an ache of his own.

Simon watched Tracy finish up, almost but not quite as an afterthought. Dove might be able to ignore her in the face of playing, but not Simon. He didn't want to. She'd dropped the cat and was fucking the client hard; Simon wished he could see the guy's face.

But then one hand with long red nails wrapped around the sub's prick and he was coming, spurting all over the floor with a scream.

And he didn't have to see the guy's face. The scream and the way he shot were enough.

Yeah, some girls knew what to do with it.

He got up, adjusted himself, and went to make sure his name was on Dove's list. He had another beer while he waited. He idly watched the guy on stage get taken down, watched Tracy leave. He watched the crowd. He tried to imagine Dove's face if he came back to have Tracy flog him. It would be a big fuck-you to the blond boy - You're not mine, pretty bird, and I'm sure as fuck not yours.

Ah, but now the master was coming for him and Simon was stripping off his clothes and letting them tie his arms apart on the stage, and he was getting ready for the crop, getting ready for Dove, and yeah, he was hard, so what? He needed it right now. Later he'd need something - and someone - else.

Dove stepped up with a small grin, his eyes still bright. His shirt was gone and his pants were undone, his cock as hard as Simon's. "Ready?" He didn't wait for a reply, just showed Simon the crop and stroked it suggestively, then asked, "Safe word the same?"

Simon nodded sharply. "Keener."

Dove looked at the master who announced it to the room and stepped back, out of the line of sight. Simon looked out at the audience, behind the lights; he could make out a few faces, and they seemed to be watching him and Dove as intently as they had Tracy.

"Gonna fuck you hard, Simon?" Dove hissed, walking behind him.

"Every time. Make it sting."

And Dove did.

He was just as good at this as he was with the cat. Simon wouldn't have thought Dove could have a gentle touch, not after having experienced the strength in that arm, but with the crop he was almost... soft. Maybe it was just in comparison, because he still made it sting, made it sing, made Simon ache.

He listened to the slap of the crop on his ass and thighs, and he watched the crowd, as much as he could see beyond the lights, and he moaned, because it wasn't that he needed to be marked and bruised, it was just that he needed something for his money.

Not that he was complaining, but he was so hard he was in pain, his cock straining and leaking, the muscles in his arms and shoulders crying from the stretch, the skin of his ass and thighs tight and hot. It was up to Dove - Dove was in charge here - but Simon wished the boy could see how ready he was, how badly and how hard he needed to be fucked.

"I know," Dove said behind him. "Know what you need. Know how long to make you wait." And maybe he could read minds.

Simon moaned again, but tried to stifle it; no way was he going to beg for it, he wasn't going to play that game. But he could hear Dove breathing, fast and hard and he knew Dove was ready too, almost past ready. The crop fell on his ass once more and then hit the floor in front of him with a clatter and he heard Dove's gasp as the rasp of a zipper sounded.

Slick fingers, two, maybe three, pushing in and then they were gone and Dove's hand was on his hip, pulling him back, impaling him on Dove's cock. Fuck, he was big, hard and long and just fucking right, stretching and filling him.

"Oh fucking shit," Dove gasped. "Tight. Fuck, Simon..."

"Harder," Simon gasped, "fucking hell.... Can't hold it, gonna come - "

So soon, and without even being touched, he was crying out and shooting hard on the stage.

"Jesus Christ!" Dove slammed into him again and again, panting in his ear. "Fuck, now, now, now!" Dove froze, his teeth biting down on Simon's shoulder as his cock throbbed in Simon's ass.

Oh Christ, if he hadn't just shot his load he'd be hard again. "Get me down," Simon panted. "Gonna fucking fall right over."

Fall over or pass out, and how the hell did Dove DO that? Guys out in the audience had come in their hands, Simon could hear the groans. Bloody hell, if that fancy club wanted him and Dove on the program, they'd fucking clean up. Make so much money he could send Jay to college.

Dove groaned and pulled out, and instantly there were hands at Simon's wrists, and Dove was back to take his weight while the cuffs were undone.

"Back room, Simon. Now. Shit, I don't know if I can walk any further than that." Dove was still breathing hard, his cock only just tucked into his pants which weren't even done up all the way.

Simon nodded, though he didn't need bandaging - there was a cot there and he could stretch out for a few minutes. Dove somehow got them down the short hall and into the room, though Simon could feel his legs trembling. They fell in the door together and sprawled on the narrow mattress, half on top of each other.

"Jesus Christ, Dove," Simon said, trying to catch his breath. "Oughta come back for that more often. Fucking amazing." He could feel it on the tip of his tongue - "I love the way you fuck me" - but he'd never say it. Collapsed on the cot with this boy who made him scream, who reminded him so much of himself when he was that age - something tickled the back of Simon's brain -

He wriggled around, grabbed Dove's chin, and kissed him hard. Teeth nipping, tongue pushing, fingers digging into Dove's jaw until he was out of breath and had to pull away.

"Gonna make so much fucking money," he gasped, and let his head fall forward against Dove's neck. That white-blond hair tickled his nose. He could fall asleep here. He'd leave it up to Dove to leave.

Dove nodded, one arm curing around him, holding him there. "I'll talk to some people. Get someone here in a week or so." Dove shifted slightly, curling around him briefly. Then he sighed and kissed Simon's hair. "I gotta go. Now. I stay and... well."

Dove peeled away and stood up, fastening his pants as he looked down at him. "See you, Simon." Then he bent down and kissed Simon as hard as Simon had kissed him.

"Soon, pretty bird." Simon stretched, grinned, and closed his eyes. He'd take a nap and then go home, and the next time he felt the itch, he'd come back for Tracy. He loved what Dove did to him, but he was starting to think that might be a problem.


He liked the boots.

So, he'd fallen asleep, and when Damon got home from work in the morning they'd had breakfast and gone to bed, where Dove had fucked Damon into damn near unconsciousness before they'd fallen asleep. It was supper time when they woke up, so they ate again, and showered, and messed around until Damon went back to work.

Dove'd planned to go out himself, but as Damon left he'd shoved a sheaf of papers into Dove's hands.

"What the fuck is this?" Dove asked, holding the papers like they were snakes.

"You got bored with Harry Potter, yeah? Try reading this shit. And out loud, it's easier to get the words right if you hear them."

"Fuck off," Dove said mildly, tossing them onto the table. "Where'd you get it, anyway?"

Damon grinned. "One of the accountants left his browser open when he went home last night. I was dumping garbage pails and took a look. Printed out some nice stories for you."

Dove raised an eyebrow and Damon grinned again, then walked out the door, off to work.

Dove tried ignoring the papers, but he was nothing if not curious. He got a beer and the first three sheets, then flopped on the couch, grudgingly reading the words out loud, one at a time. He wasn't really paying attention to the content much, just trying to get the feel of the letters again, forcing them to blend together into something recognizable.

But the words weren't hard at all, and within a couple of paragraphs he was reading faster, the words starting to flow. Maybe there was something to this practice shit after all. He went back to the beginning and read it again, listening to the content this time, relaxing a little as he realized he'd likely be able to read most of the three pages without frustration settling in.

That feeling fled half way down the first page, but it wasn't the words that threatened to frustrate him. Or rather, not the letters. The words themselves, though-the story-that just might.

Damon printed him porn. Filthy, naughty, nasty porn. Dove stopped reading out loud at the end of the first page, started reading a little slower, to make sure of the words. Sometimes he'd skip back to make sure of what was happening, but he never stopped. Not until the end of the third page and then it was only to get the rest.

He'd done all that shit, and watched most of it, but he hadn't read it; had no idea the words could make him hard, make him so fucking horny he jerked off twice in an hour and a half.

By the time he fell asleep he'd made it half way through the pile, and when Damon came home he found him on the couch, still naked, with a dream induced hard on.

Dove didn't even wait until Damon was naked before he started reading out loud to him. They got through less than two pages before Dove was all over Damon, fucking him hard and deep.

So he stayed another day.

The third night, though, he was ready to get out, blow off some steam and look at something other then the walls, the paper and his own cock. He dressed and was almost to the door before he thought better of just leaving. He went back to the kitchen and hunted around, eventually coming up with a pencil and a take out menu.

"I'll be back soon. D."

It was the closest he'd ever come to conceding that Damon should know he'd be back. That he thought about what Damon would think.

Vaguely unsettled, but not willing to simply leave, he headed out, making his way back to his place. He stopped to talk to a few people here and there, standing on Jimmy's corner and scaring tricks away until Jimmy got pissed and told him to take a hike. He laughed and walked another block, then spotted Spider and bummed a smoke.

"Been to the club lately?" Spider asked.

"Nope. Been about a week. Why?"

"You should stop in." Spider grinned, showing two broken teeth. "New player hanging out, causing a stir."

Dove couldn't have cared less, so he just kept walking until he got to his building and in, up the stairs to his door. Which was standing open.

"Ah, fuck," he hissed. Dove nudged the door open with his boot, hand going into his pocket for his knife. Light spilled out, so he opened the door wide and stared.

Chev was sitting on the middle of his mattress, looking at him mildly. "Hey, Dove."

Dove stepped into his room and looked around. "What the fuck?" he said. "Where's all my shit? What are you doing in here?"

Chev shrugged. "You ain't been around. We figured you moved on, your room was up for grabs."

Dove stared at him. "The fucking door was locked. What did you do, kick the door in? You know the rules-we damage the place, we lose it. You dumb shit." He was still looking around, looking for his things.

"Nah, just popped the lock. No stress."

"No stress? It's my fucking room! Where's my-"

Chev waived his hand. "You got a lease, asshole? You weren't around. And the only stuff in here was the mattress, three t-shirts, and pile of magazines. And some fucking kids book."

Dove blinked and did a fast inventory of his gear. He'd been keeping his toys-the whip, the crop, the other shit-at Damon's for ages, since they'd started fucking on a regular basis. Just more secure there. His leather pants and other pair of boots were there, too, and some more clothes.

Dove had never really had much, but still it was a little stunning to realize how little was really his. Even more stunning to realize that apparently he'd been living with Damon for a while now without knowing it.

Suddenly he really needed a drink.

He fished his key out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor, then turned and left.

Less than half an hour later he wandered into the Razor's Edge, and then right back out again as the jerk behind the bar spotted him and pointed to the door. Once upon a time he could get away with a beer and a game of pool in there, but lately they'd really tightened up on underage drinking. Or maybe they were just trying to keep the street kids out; Dove didn't care. All that mattered was that he'd been tossed before he got a beer and the twins in the back booth weren't doing anything exciting this time.

With a curse he decided to try up town, but a voice called his name as he hit the end of the block and he turned to see Rex waving him back.

"Can't get in, man," Dove called to him.

"Not that. C'mere!"

Dove sighed and started walking back, cursing out whoever'd made Rex's ID. Rex was only nineteen, but his ID said twenty-one and it was a good one. Had to be, Rex looked about thirteen if he tried-made a killing with the perv trade.

"What?" he said when he was close enough not to bellow. "Just need a drink, Rex."

Rex nodded. "C'mon then. We'll go to the club."

Dove shook his head. "No way. I don't want to play, just want to drink, and when I walk in there it's like a zoo. Don't want the hassle."

Rex bit his lip. "That's why you should go, Dove," he said seriously. "New top making big noise there. Got a good arm."

Dove rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. Let's go. Maybe people will shut the fuck up about it."

Rex grinned and took off, little ass wiggling. Dove sighed again. Kid had far too much energy. Maybe he had some of it to sell. He tucked the idea away as an option if the club was a total bust.

When they got there, Rex disappeared almost immediately, working his way through the crowd and the music to his personal court in the back corner. Boy like him could make a fortune sucking cocks while guys got off on the show.

Dove took his time. He waved off the master, said he wasn't there to play, and wandered. It was only just past two, still early, and the club was only starting to come alive. There was the usual mix of people, pretty typical of Not A Nice Place. It wasn't a gay club, really, just had a reputation for anything goes and being a safety zone if you liked to get whipped and fucked. It also wasn't really strictly a show club, and wasn't solely a venue for making your own scene if you didn't happen to have a dungeon at home.

It was eclectic, really. People could come with their own toys, their own master or slave, and pay to use the stage. Or they could come with their partner and use the club's toys. Or they could come solo, find their match in the crowd and take it from there.

The club only actually employed six people to work the scenes, aside from the whipping master. Those six were paid a wage, plus tips from the clients, and everyone seemed happy with that. Then there were the freelances, people like Dove.

Dove had started as just one of the crowd, but people started asking to be put on his list, so the master had taken him aside one day and made him an offer. He let them make the list for him if he was interested in playing, they took care of the toys, the clean up and provided the lube and condoms. He got tested for everything regularly and took sixty percent of what they charged for him.

No brainer to Dove's way of thinking. He'd make more solo, but not for long. People liked to know he was testing, that the club would take him on and make his list. Plus they charged a fuck of a lot for his arm, after they'd seen him play a few times.

The only thing Dove didn't do was women. He'd flog a man until he came, until he bled, until he begged for mercy and came within a breath of his safe word. But there was no power on Earth that would let Dove flog a woman.

There were several women in the bar that night, he noticed as he made his way to the bar. Not unusual, really. There were often female slaves, their Master's showing them off and playing with them on the main stage. Didn't bother Dove any, just not his thing. Once in a while there'd be a Dominatrix in as well, her boy toy on a leash or something. Again, didn't bother Dove, but it did make him roll his eyes a little.

The club actually employed a Dominatrix; Lacey worked four nights a week and was in constant demand. It was amazing how many guys wanted to be topped hard by a blue haired scary chick. Almost as many as wanted to be flogged by a guy, apparently. Lacey made her money and grinned, and when the lights came up and the club emptied she'd kick back and sing John Lennon songs as they drank a last beer.

Dove liked Lacey.

What Dove didn't like was the way the leather clad Amazon bitch across the bar was looking at him. Hungry eyes, a weird green that he could see even in the dim light, and short black hair.

"Who's that?" he asked Skunk when he came with another bottle.

"Wondered when you'd show," Skunk said. "That, my friend, is our newest top. Her name's Tracy, and she's getting a lot of action. She's got a--"

"Strong arm. I heard." Dove dismissed both Skunk and Tracy, turning around to face the crowd. Jesus, what a waste of time. No way was she any sort of threat to him-he did gay guys, bi guys, guys in the closet, guys who wanted a man to take them out of themselves. No one that wanted a girl, for fucks sake. If they wanted tits they went for Lacey.

He saw her come around the corner of the bar and waited. She was prowling, he could tell from her hips, her breasts, the way she scoped him. Stupid bitch was hunting him. Oh well, at least it was entertaining.

He ignored her, watching another guy go to the master for a fast conversation, the master shaking his head and pointing to Dove, saying no. Not on a list tonight. Sorry. Dove shrugged when the master glared at him. He didn't want to play. Didn't need it.

Then he thought about the fact that he didn't have a room anymore and frowned.

"Too pretty to look like that," she purred, sliding onto the stool next to him.

Dove looked at her finally. Usual dom leather, from pointy breasts to pointy heels. Skank whore in black leather so shiny she glowed. It suited.

"Why so unhappy?" she asked moving closer. "Need to take your mind off something?"

Now, that was just pathetic. What the hell did this bitch think she was doing? Word was out that she was all that, and here she was coming onto him like a ten dollar hooker. He raised an eyebrow at her, finally seeing the look in her eyes.

She was playing with him. She knew who he was, what he did, and she was playing games.

"Fuck off," he said mildly. "Go play somewhere else."

She bared her teeth at him, but didn't move. "Want to watch me, kiddo? See how the adults play?"

Dove laughed before he could stop himself. "Go for it, baby. Try not to fall off your shoes."

She smiled at him, eyes cold, assessing. "How old are you?" she asked suddenly.

Dove grinned. "Gonna bust me for drinking underage?"

"Nope. Just wondered how many guys would want you if they knew you weren't legal."

"Oh please. My list would fucking double with the pervs who want kiddie ass. Don't be a dumb cunt."

She smiled at him and stood up. "I think I'm due on stage. Don't go away, I have a message for you later." Then she was gone.

Dove shook his head and ordered another beer. She was scary looking and scary stupid. Bad combination. He pondered what she meant about a message and figured if someone really wanted him they could find him. Or at least another way to get to him.

The lights went up on the main stage and Dove watched as some trick was bound. Naked, he was bent over slightly, holding onto a bar for support, his legs spread by steel cuffs with a rod between them. Tracy stepped up on the stage, bull whip in hand, and the people in the audience shifted as one in the their seats.

Tracy had shed a layer of clothes, was now in a leather corset with black leather short shorts and black stockings. Her boots were over her knees, and the heels had to be four inches. She looked oddly butch and fem at the same time, her hair only a couple of inches long, her eyes heavy lidded and surrounded by black. Her mouth and nails were, of course, whore red.

Dove snorted in disgust. Poser.

The master announced the safe word and Tracy stepped back, then it began. It took Dove less than four strokes to sit up straighter, less than a dozen to know she was good. Damn good.

When the trick came it was with a scream and a black dildo up his ass, Tracy driving him and at least four people in the audience over the edge.

Dove had never been so far from hard before in his life.

Tracy walked straight to him as soon as she'd handed the whip over for cleaning. Skunk passed her a bottle of water without her asking and she stood right in front of Dove, taller, more assured.

"Macy says hi," she said. Then she turned and walked away.

Dove stared at her, his gut clenching. Nothing scared Dove, ever. Nothing could, there wasn't anything that anyone could do to him that was worse than what he'd been through.

But Macy scared him.

He left the club, was halfway to his place before he remembered he didn't have a place. The thought of going to Damon's was enough to make him start hunting for a warehouse. He couldn't just go there, expect Damon to take him in, tell him he'd lost his room, that some psycho with a strong arm was taking his job, that he needed he needed he needed.

So he walked and cursed and looked around for a party, tried to score, and when he wound up back at the club he was ready to play.

Dove and Damon, The Aftermath
Follows Dove's Game Epilogue

Damon waited until Dove was in the shower before getting out bed. He'd more or less dragged Dove back to the apartment, taking advantage of his…well, of his advantage. Wasn't often that he had the upper hand with Dove. They'd tumbled through the door, already tearing at clothes, and didn't really make it all the way to undressed before rubbing off on each other.

But now Dove was in the shower and he'd cool down, start to think. Damon didn't want to be naked, in bed, when Dove came out. The way Damon figured it, things could only go two ways. Dove would leave, saying he'd be back soon and then he'd not come around for a week or more if at all, or Dove would get all geared up and just leave, looking for a party.

Damon had pushed, so Dove would push back.

He'd not been really sure he had a breaking point when it came to Dove and what he did. Then Simon had turned up again, and off stage, and Damon found his limit.

It wasn't so much that it was Simon. Not really. It was that Dove had taken it that one step too far. Damon knew Dove tricked, knew how he lived. The club, the drugs, the stealing…he knew it and accepted it.

But Damon wasn't about to let the guy he loved pay someone else to fuck him. Even if it was Simon. So what had he done? Slammed Dove into a wall, pulled him off in the street and said the words.

Damon sighed and reached for his jeans, pulling them on as he walked into the kitchen. He needed a drink, something strong and burning, something not unlike the cheap whiskey Dove favoured when he was upset and angry. So that's what he got.

He heard the water shut off in the bathroom and started to estimate time elapsing. If it was ten minutes then Dove was braiding his hair up and getting dressed, ready to leave. Nice and easy.

But it was well past that when the bathroom door opened and Dove went into the spare room, followed by the sounds of clothes being tossed around and muffled curses as Dove looked for something. Damon finished his drink as Dove headed back across the hall into the bathroom.

Going out, then. Looking for a party, and getting dressed to play. Dove always did shove back hard.

"Your mine," Damon had said in the street. And he whispered it again, as he poured another drink, knowing that if Dove left like this he wouldn't be back.

Damon was still standing in the kitchen, ankles crossed in front of him, when Dove came out of the bathroom.

His hair was loose and flowing, almost dry, but not quite, the white blond still dark at the ends. The ends were curling, he'd hate that when it was dry. Dove had on his black leather pants, low slung and undone, the leather clinging to his hips as he strode in, hair flying, strands wrapping around his arms. His eyes were intent, rimmed in black, the khole line thick and smudged just so. He looked stunning.

And he was hard, the head of his cock pushing out of his pants.

Damon stood straighter, setting the glass down on the counter beside him. "Going out?"

"No." Dove reached him, his hands going to Damon's shoulder and pushing him down, hard. Damon fell to his knees, his own shaft growing and filling at the unexpected show of dominance. "Going in," Dove growled.

Damon licked his lips, mouth opening as Dove pulled his cock out, not letting Dove play anymore games. Swiftly he wrapped a hand around the base of Dove's erection, his mouth already taking him in.

Dove was huge, Damon had never been able to take him all the way in like this. He didn't hope to try, just prayed Dove wouldn't choke him as he started to thrust. Hand and mouth worked together, wet and sliding as Damon sucked. His own prick twitched hard when Dove tangled his hands in Damon's hair, fucking his mouth in long deep strokes that were almost too much, but never quite too rough.

They were noisy. There were no words, just sounds; Dove's gasps as Damon pressed into the slit at the tip of his cock, a long groan from Damon as Dove's fingers tightened. It was fast and messy, wet and hot, and when Dove's cock swelled further Damon pulled back, bringing him off by hand.

Damon's hips snapped against nothing and he came in his pants when Dove's spunk coated his chest.

They sank to the floor, Dove not even bothering to keep his hair away from the mess. He'd need another shower.

"You're staying, then?" Damon asked.

Dove looked at him, one hand rubbing his belly, the other sliding over Damon's thigh. "Don't get it," he said softly. "Don't understand how or why…"

Damon shrugged. "Just is. Just do."

Dove shook his head and closed his eyes. "I'm a whore, Damon. Can't promise you anything. Can't even say I'll stay away from Simon. He comes into the club or whatever-it's money, man. That's what I do."

"I know," Damon said. He did. "Not asking you to change."

Dove opened his eyes. "Don't think I can."

"I think you can. I think you will. But I'm not going to demand it. Dove-you're who you are and that's what I want. You today, you next year."

Dove shook his head again. "You're cracked."

"You staying?"

"Yeah. I'm staying."

"Hey," Damon said cheerfully. Best to start off on a happy note.

"Hey. How've you been?" Dove dipped the corner of his toast in the runny egg yolk and chewed, still looking at his plate.

"All right. Been looking for you for a couple of days."

Dove gave him a quick look, just a flash of eyes before he returned to his eggs. "Yeah? I ain't been hiding. Just…around."

"I know. Wrong place, wrong time. Ran into Rex and Spider last night, a few others."


"Nah, just out. Said you put on a good show last week, people are still talking about it."

That earned him a grin and one eyebrow up. "I always put on a good show," Dove said. He looked like he was thinking for a few seconds and then asked, "Which night?"

Perfect opening. "Five days ago. Crop."

Dove nodded slowly, giving him another flicker of his eyes. "Simon."

"Ah." Damon had known it had to be Simon, not just because they'd said it was a blonde with a ring in his cock, but because they said Dove was into it, was tight and fluid-had wanted it as much as the toy had. Had to be Simon.

Dove poked at his eggs some more, but seemed to be done eating. Damon drank his coffee, waiting to see if either of them was going to say anything about Simon, about the scene at his place more than a week ago, about anything.

Dove finally turned to look at him. "You still pissed at me?"

"Nope. Mind you, you do it again, I will be. Again."

Dove smiled, and it almost reached his eyes. His hand moved to Damon's thigh, stroking high up. "Right. No getting high at your place. Got it. Wanna go somewhere?"

Damon nodded before he thought about it. He was usually willing to go wherever Dove wanted to; the club, his apartment, the alley behind the club-didn't matter. But this time it did.

"Yeah. But I want to know who you were with at your place first." And that was the hard one to get out, the one they never ever talked about. He knew Dove fucked other guys-he'd seen it, on stage. Knew about the tricks, knew Dove had been with Simon in San Fransico. But they never talked about it. Dove never asked him about other guys-not that there were many-and he never asked Dove. Unwritten rules.

Dove's hand was gone from his leg, the blonde head turned away, looking out the grimy window.


"Why do you want to know?" Not 'when', or 'no', or 'none of your business'. Just the one question Damon wasn't sure he could answer.

He thought about it. Damon knew how he felt about it, knew what he'd felt when Spider started talking about how fucking noisy they were, how Dove had sounded. He knew he was hurt and pissed, but he wasn't sure he could say why, could explain it to Dove. He looked around the diner and tried to find words that wouldn't make him look pathetic, like a clingy, demanding, insecure prick. Then he realized it didn't matter. If Dove didn't get it they were done anyway. He could only take so much.

"Look at me," he said softly.

Dove turned to face him, the pretty face half pissed off and mostly petulant, defensive.

Damon kept his voice even. "You don't take tricks to your place. So you were fucking someone you know. And I want to know who-want to know what the fuck is going on. 'Cause I watch you work, watch you with guys, and that's…sometimes good, sometimes not. But if you're fucking someone else outside of that I want to know. Want to know where I stand. I won't be just another ass for you."

Dove's eyes widened and he swore under his breath. If Damon hadn't have had him trapped in the booth he would have taken off, Damon was sure. As it was it took him a few moments to stop looking murderous.

Dove drained his coffee cup and set it down on the table, lining it up precisely with his plate. "Was a trick. Sort of," he said.

Damon blinked. From what he'd heard Dove was pretty vocal, and it had been more than once-definitely outside of the way he usually handled people who paid him. "Really?"

"Yeah." But Dove wasn't meeting his eyes.

"Fuck, Dove. You're lying to me." He stood up and buttoned his coat. "I'm gone. See ya around."

"Wait!" Dove stood up, dragging his jacket behind him. "Talk to you outside, yeah?"

Damon knew he should just go, get blasted somewhere and forget all about it, forget Dove and trying to help, forget getting tangled up with someone who couldn't love him back. But he was nothing if not a masochistic bastard, and he wanted to know, so he stood outside and waited until Dove got his jacket on and led him down the street.

"So?" he asked when they'd gone two blocks without speaking.

Dove sighed and leaned against a wall, fishing through his pockets for a cigarette. "Was Simon. But-"

"Jesus." Damon hadn't expected that all, his first thought being that something must have happened to Jay. Not good. Fuck. He was still trying to sort that out when he realized Dove was still talking.

"-came up here and stayed most of the night. You were mad, and I needed, so I played with Simon. And yeah, I'd do it again, but it was business, right? Not like we were fucking 'cause we're messing around on you and Jay or anything."

Dove's eyes were firmly fixed on a point to the left of Damon. There was a lie in there somewhere, but Damon was still trying to figure out what he'd just said, and he could feel the lie sliding right past him, intangible and slithery.

"He paid you to fuck him?"


Damon blinked. "You said business-"

"I fucking paid him, all right? Two hundred dollars, he sucked me off and nailed me to the fucking mattress. Twice." Dove pushed off from the wall and started walking.

Damon let him get half a block before going after him. He reached out and grabbed him by the collar, turning him around and pulling his head back by his hair. "You idiot," he growled. He kissed Dove hard, one hand holding him in the place, the other working at fastenings. Dove kissed him back, already humping his thigh, pushing him up against a building.

Damon moved, giving as good as he got, whispering in Dove's ear. "He's not for you, Dove. He's taken and not for you. You play your games, flog him, whatever. I don't fucking care if you whip him senseless twice a month and fuck him on that goddamn stage. But if you ever go after him outside of the club you'll regret it. Hear me?"

Dove shuddered and swore, hands going to Damon's hips. "He's-"

"Not for you," Damon growled. "You aren't for him. You're mine."

Dove threw back his head and came, eyes wide. "Fuck!"

Damon waited until Dove's breathing slowed then stepped back from the wall. "Come on. You're coming home."
post comment

[15 Feb 2008|10:04pm]
At least, Dove hoped he did. He hated hurting Damon, but he didn't seem to be able to stop. He hated that, too.

Getting a name was easy. One night at the club, doing his thing, and it was a simple matter of dropping a careful word in the right ear. Well, the word being 'Hey, know anyone who shoots porn?'. Not really careful, but Christ, it wasn't like he had a reputation to worry about.

People talked, Rex made a call, and Lacey gave him a number to call. Details were worked out. Yeah, Wally made porn, and yeah he made sure his talent was clean. Other than that…well, he didn't really look too hard at Dove's ID, didn't really seem to care about much other than getting a test tape done. No sound track, no plot, just an eight millimetre tape with Dove's name on the label. First thing, shots of Dove in clothes, then out of them. Then the fun stuff.

First part of the fun was the easy stuff. Just Dove, in all his glory, doing his best to please the eye. Second part he'd need help with. He had hopes that a call into the source of his current position would be willing to lend a hand. Or the rest of himself. Seeing as how Damon wasn't exactly willing and all.

Not that he had Simon on his mind at the moment. Oh no. The only thing on his mind was the fact that he was spread out on a bed made up with white sheets, the heat of the lighting falling full on him, and the bored eyes of the guy wielding the camera.

It was the bored look that got to him, gave him a bit of a challenge. He was fairly sure the guy was half asleep, and he fully intended to wake him up a bit. Dove wasn't used to being ignored.

He planted his feet firmly on the mattress on let his les fall apart as he got to work, letting the pressure build. Aside from a bit of literature inspired bit of wanking, he hadn't really spent a whole lot of time jerking off; there was, more often than not, a willing body around to help out.

Still though. It could feel good, and he knew better than anyone else how his body worked, what he needed to do to make it a good show.

Pressure here, lighter touch there, and a little bit of imagination. He could do this for ages, if he had to. As it was, he was told twenty minutes to the come shot, and that was easy enough to do.

The guy with the camera started paying attention about half way there. Dove figured it was the noise he made, though it could have been simple appreciation for the, er, equipment. Dove didn't really care. By that time he was more less enjoying himself.

He dragged it out. Brought himself close time and time again, then settled down. He didn't just play with his dick, either-sex was a full body thing with Dove when he had a choice. His nipples, his balls, his belly…he got into it. Let it show, let himself get to the point where he was gasping and panting and finally let go, shooting high and arching off the bed with a sharp cry as he came.

The camera guy grinned in response.

Yeah, the first part was easy. The second part…well, he had a call to make.

Two weeks after Dove's eighteenth birthday he was taken into custody by the Santa Clara Police on a charge of being drunk in a public space. While spending the night in their less than stellar accommodations, a fellow guest of the city had a quiet word with one of the officers, and Dove found himself being held for questioning about the murder of one Tyler Matthew Maciovski.

Dove was not terribly cooperative.

Part of the problem was that Dove was a true anomaly. Living on the street since the age of ten, he was a ghost--no SSN, no birth certificate, no ID. No name. He'd never been in the system, never been in foster care, never arrested. He'd survived for seven years without there being a single scrap of paper written on him.

When asked for his name, he refused.

When asked about Maciovski, he acknowledged knowing the man was dead, and that they'd travelled in the same circles.

He didn't tell them that he'd been walking down the alley between Eighth and Ninth next to the pawn shop, fresh from a trick, when he saw about seven guys fighting at the end. He didn't tell them he'd pulled Viper out of it and asked what the deal was. He didn't tell them that the screams were wild and driving, that someone cursed and said run, or that when the shot rang out and Macy's brother fell with half his head gone he was the only one just turning to run, tripping over a box. He didn't tell them that when Macy and his crew found the body on the ground the only sound in the alley was Macy screaming. And then, as Dove had run, out of the alley and down Eighth, he could hear Macy yell his name.


It took Damon three days to find him and get him out of custody, and by then Dove was in the system. Anthony Burke, held and released for lack of evidence in the murder of Tyler Matthew Maciovski

============The Chamber

He wasn't late. He really wasn't, there had to be at least six minutes before he and Simon were supposed to be ready to get their butts on stage. Besides, it wasn't like they were gonna stand around and chat much, were they?

He was, however, later then he'd planned to be, as Damon's last birthday gift to him lasted longer than either of them had expected. His hair was dry at least, and he was smart enough to wear his leather pants, so all Dove really had to do was get his make up on, make sure Simon was there, have him check the toys, and they were good to go.

Provided Simon showed up.

Dove breezed past the guy at the backdoor and strolled into the little room he and Simon were supposed to use to get their gear ready. Simon, thank fuck, was there, so Dove tossed the bag on the floor and rummaged around until he found the black eyeliner.

"Hey," he said evenly. "Anything in the bag you object to?" Then he turned to the mirror and started lining his eyes.

"Hello to you too," Simon said, with just a trace of sarcasm. In the mirror Dove could see him pick up the bag and poke through it, pull out the t-shirt and look at it sceptically. "Gonna rip this off me, yeah?" he asked, his reflection raising an eyebrow.

Simon pulled everything out of the bag, piece by piece, examined it, and put it all back. "Looks ok to me," he commented. "Shoulda come up with a plan, maybe. Bit of plot to spice it up." He shrugged, then walked over to Dove and leaned in close, so Dove could see their faces together in the mirror. Simon grinned. "Got a plan, pretty bird?"

"I do indeed," Dove said, not moving an inch. "How're we for time?" He finished rimming his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, part of him hating the way it arranged itself into loose tendrils, but knowing it would look good on stage. Then he smiled into the mirror. If nothing else, they could stand there and just let people get hard looking at them.

His pants were low, his t-shirt was rough trade, his hair was sexy as hell, his eyes were almost evil. And Simon looked pretty good, too.

Well-fitting black vinyl pants, a tight sleeveless shirt made of something gunmetal silver and shiny, and that white, wolfish grin. Yeah, not bad.

"Think we got five minutes," Simon almost purred into Dove's ear. "Wanna share your plan with the class?"

Dove grinned. "Not really. All you gotta know is that if you don't want your shirt destroyed you'll wear the other one. When we go out, you stand at one end of the stage and follow my lead." He turned his head a little and licked Simon's neck. "Thing here is that's all about the show, yeah? They want the noises, they want the view, they want to see control more than blood. You with me so far?"

"Sure. I can follow. Can control myself, can give it up to you. Didn't suggest this to put on some half-cocked show." His grin widened. "So to speak. I'll follow you, luv. Don't worry 'bout that." He lightly slapped Dove's ass as he stepped away, got the t-shirt out of the bag, and pulled off his own shirt to change. He paused with the t-shirt Dove had brought bunched up around his shoulders, and he smiled. "Gonna give 'em a show, we are. Have 'em begging for us when it's over."

Dove shook his head, more at himself than Simon. Fucking asshole could get under his skin, make him freak out so bad he begged Damon for help, and here he was again, wanting to just push Simon into the nearest wall and give him a good hard fuck.

"Yeah," he said. "They'll be begging and coming in their jeans."

Someone knocked on the door and hollered two minutes. Dove waited until Simon had the tight black shirt on and stepped up to him. "But we gotta start out right, yeah?" And he kissed Simon hard, fucked his mouth with his tongue and dropped his hand to Simon's cock, rubbing and kneading to make sure he was hard.

Simon moaned softly into his mouth, whispered "Wanna do me now?" One of his hands grabbed Dove's ass, pulling them closer together. "Harder, luv. Wanna be good and hot for the crowd. Want 'em to see how much we wanna do it."

He kissed back just as hard, fighting Dove for control.

Dove pushed him away and grinned, reaching for the bag. "Keep that in mind. Just follow my lead, and I'll make you come so hard you'll beg me to do it again. Stage or not." He grabbed the crop, the cuffs and cock ring and pointed to the door. "Let's go."

Simon just stood there grinning, his legs spread and his hips canted forward enough for anyone to see his obvious hard-on. "Bet you will do it again, pretty bird. Maybe I'll beg anyway." And then he sketched a little bow, gestured to the door, and said "Following your lead. Dunno what you've got planned - reckon you oughta go first."

Dove snorted and pulled the door open. "Behave or I'll go easy on your ass."

They walked down the narrow hall to the stage, just being set up behind a lightweight curtain. "You stand there," Dove said, pointing. "And keep your eyes on me. Just…act like you. You know-sexy as fuck and in need of a good smack."

Without sticking around to see what Simon's reaction was, Dove crossed the stage and let the lone hand help him attach the cuffs to the chains on the sides of a low table. Higher than a coffee table, lower than a dining table, Simon would be on display even when bent over. Side on, he'd be stunning.

Dove put the crop on the table, made sure he knew where the lube and the rubbers were, and showed Simon the cock ring with a grin. Then he set it on the table as well and waited for the lights to go down out front and the curtain to go up.

He could hear the people. It wasn't like at the club; here the music was low, almost just a suggestion of a beat for them to follow, and the sounds the audience made at this point was mostly like quiet conversations. Like they were at dinner theatre for fuck's sake. Ice clinked in glasses and the lights came up on the stage; one on Simon, one on Dove and a third on the table. The people stopped chatting and the curtain came up.

Dove stayed where he was for a long moment, just looking at Simon, ignoring everything else. When he moved it was a prowl, hips first, every natural instinct he had pushing him in for the kill. So to speak. When he got to Simon he didn't even grin, just kissed him hard, hands at the neck of the t-shirt he'd cut already, tearing it off Simon's body with a quick jerk. God he wanted him.

Simon kissed back, of course, pressing close to Dove and running a hand into his hair to hold their faces together. He rubbed a little against Dove's hip, still hard and hot inside his vinyl pants.

Dove let a moan escape, just enough to let Simon think that maybe they were on even footing and ground against him, hard. Then, like he'd done before, he pulled way, this time stepping back.

"Strip," he said, his voice low, authority he'd not tried to use on Simon before coming from somewhere dark he didn't want to think about.

But if Simon was surprised he didn't show it, just crooked a grin and bent forward to untie his boots and kick them off. He stood up slowly, his eyes on Dove, maybe waiting for another signal, and popped the button on his pants, dragged the zipper down, and peeled them off his hips. He shimmied a little as he pulled them all the way off, then stepped out of them, kicked them behind him, and stood.

Simon's eyes were pale and hot and still fixed on Dove's face. He was almost fully erect, his cock bobbing a little now that it was free.

Someone in the audience made an appreciative noise and Dove almost grinned. But instead he looked Simon up and down very slowly, and reached into the one pocket his low slung pants had. When he pulled out the chain, he grinned.

"A pretty for you, Simon," he said, and he knew everyone could hear him. It was the way the club worked, every intimacy shared. "A little something I thought you'd like." Slipping the loop catch through Simon's nipple ring was easy. He gave it a short tug, just to see what Simon had to say.

Simon's eyes widened slightly, but he smiled, slowly, his eyes flicking past Dove's face to the audience. "For me?" he repeated, as his gaze came back to Dove. "Ta, luv." A beat, and then Simon asked teasingly, "Where are you gonna attach the other end?"

Dove grinned. "Right here, baby." He took Simon's cock in his hand and pumped it slowly, feeling it harden a little more. He leaned forward a little, as if to kiss Simon again, but dropped his head at the last second, watching as he slipped the clasp over the bit of metal in Simon's cock. There was slack, but not much; any time he pulled the chain Simon would feel it tugging from both directions.

"Now, stay." He backed up and reached for the ring and the crop. As he walked forward again, he toyed with ring. "Gonna make you beg."

"Woof," Simon said quietly, puckering his lips as if to blow a kiss. He didn't look like he was going to argue, though. He stood patiently, waiting for Dove to put him through his paces.

Dove raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He'd not really expected to get away with this much, it would interesting to see how far Simon would let him push. Mind you, there really wasn't much left. Aside from the flogging and the fucking and the begging.

He reached for Simon's cock again, playing with it, tracing the ridge of the head and enjoying the weight of it in his hand. It was a truly lovely cock, one of the best he'd seen, and he made sure it was ridged before he snapped the ring on. "Okay?" he asked mildly, not really caring.

"Always," Simon murmured. "Keep me hard, luv. Make me beg."

Dove held the crop loosely in his right hand and smiled slightly. "You will." He slipped the tip of the crop behind the chain and gave it a half turn and a twist, nicely catching hold of the metal. Then he used the crop as a make shift leash and started walking Simon across the stage.

He could hear Simon breathing more heavily as they crossed the stage. Dove looked over his shoulder and Simon was a little flushed already, his arms at his sides but his fingers twitching like he wanted to touch himself. His cock stood out from his hips, held erect and hard by the cock ring. Simon was smiling, though, a crooked little grin, and he looked like he was in complete control of himself.

For now, anyway.

With one more tug for good measure Dove let him go, twisting the crop back and sliding it away, detouring up to flick at Simon's nipple. "Do you want me?" he asked softly.

"What do you think?" was the answer.

"I think you better answer," Dove said, his voice flat. The audience was silent.

"Yes." The half-smile was gone. Now Simon looked serious.

Dove set the crop on the table, very quietly. "Strip me, then," he said, standing centre stage, utterly relaxed, utterly calm. And so hard he thought his pants would tear from the strain.

As Simon stepped close and pulled at Dove's t-shirt he whispered "Want me to go slow, draw it out? Or cut to the chase?" His voice was low enough that the audience wouldn't be able to hear, but his hands were still moving, giving them more of the show.

"Don't waste your time. Want you bent over that fucking table."

In short order Simon had Dove's shirt off and his pants undone, then knelt swiftly and dragged the pants down to the floor. "Shoes," he murmured, and Dove lifted his feet one at a time so Simon could get his shoes and pants off. Then Simon stood up, threw the pants off to the side, and let his gaze travel down and back up Dove's body. "Pretty. Ready now? Do what you do."

Dove sneered at him for a second, then spun, knowing his hair was doing that wildchild thing that crowed seemed to like but always pissed him off. He snatched the crop from the table and snapped it back down, the sound loud and sharp.

He walked up to Simon, both of them in profile to the crowd and stood there a moment, looking into Simon's face. He licked along Simon's jaw and plucked the chain, and walked them backwards a few steps, keeping the chain taught.

"Bend over," he purred, stepping aside. "And hold onto the edges."

Simon obediently bent over the table, his palms flat on the top and his fingers curving over the sides. He spread his feet a little to balance himself. The chain swung between his nipple and cock. The audience murmured, sounding pleased, and Simon turned his head to grin at them, wiggling his ass just a little bit.

Dove growled, deep in his chest and slapped Simon's ass. "Behave."

"Yes, Master," Simon said, sounding as meek as was possible. He stilled, the only movement the slight swinging of the chain, and turned his face away from the audience.

Dove reached for the cuffs laying on the floor, doing the side closest to the audience first. He made sure there was a little bit of ease-he didn't really want Simon immobile, but he did want the illusion of it. The other one did up just as fast, the buckles sliding like the cuffs were made for those wrists.

Standing behind Simon he almost stopped breathing, forgot what they were doing. The urge to touch, to lick, to bite, to fuck…it came over him so fucking fast and hard that he had to force himself to move. He slid one hand over Simon's back, reaching for the lube.

He slicked his fingers and stood directly behind Simon, teasing at his hole with one finger. "Simon," he said in a sing song voice. "Wanna hurt? Wanna fuck? Which?"

He pushed his finger in, knowing that they'd be doing both.

"Ahh..." Simon breathed. "Both. Want both, luv." His back shivered, his ass pushing almost imperceptibly against Dove's fingers. "Just want you."

Dove shook his head. Not good enough. The way his cock twitched though, and the image of Simon on stage with Tracy make his blood roar in his ears. He added another finger, fucking Simon slowly, just a soft glide in and out and skating across Simon's gland. "Which, Simon? Fuck or crop?"

"Crop. First. Fuck after." Simon's breath came ragged and he rocked back and forth on Dove's fingers. "Make me... make me bleed, pretty bird. Make me scream."

Dove shuddered, pushing his fingers in deep. "Yeah. Make you feel me everywhere." He pulled his fingers out and snatched up the crop from the floor where he'd left it when he'd done the cuffs. He ran the tip of it across Simon's shoulder blades, teasing with a feather light touch, then struck, the sound a bright snap.

Someone in the audience gasped.

Simon gasped as well, the sound loud and sharp in the club. He trembled as Dove laid on the crop, muscles jumping in his thighs and all along his spine. He panted and moaned, even whimpered once or twice. It wasn't long before his skin was sheened with sweat. It was amazing to watch him take what Dove could dish out.

Dove could hear, then. Could hear Simon, of course, he always did. He could hear people sifting in their seats, could hear the soft sounds as someone stroked off. He could hear his own heartbeat-hell, he could feel it in the throb of his prick. He had to slow down.

He wanted to feel Simon on his cock, wanted Simon moving on him. He didn't want him collapsing on the table, he wanted him to be able to fuck. To really fuck him.

He stopped, panting a little, and ran the crop down Simon's spine, down between the cheeks of his ass. He wondered what would happen if he pushed the crop inside, and settled for teasing at Simon's hole.

"Don't stop there," Simon panted. "Do it. Christ, Dove, don't stop...."

Dove moaned and started pushing, hoping to hell that the finger fuck had given Simon enough lube for this. He eased the tip in slowly, watched as the first few inches sank into Simon's body.

Someone in the audience came.

Dove watched as he began to fuck Simon with the crop, pressing a little deeper, a little faster with the narrow tool. With a groan he pulled it out and flipped it, stopping Simon's protest by pushing the wider handle in. With his other hand he started stroking his own cock, slippery with pre-come.

Simon was barely breathing at all now. His moans sounded almost like he was in pain but it was clear from the way he pushed back onto the crop handle that he wanted it.

The noises spilling from his lips could have been words - "Please" and "Deeper" and "More" - or they could have been the groans and sighs of a boy who needed to come. It didn't matter. Simon has as much as asked for this and now he took it, rocking back and forth on the crop, the chain swaying between his nipple ring and painfully stiff cock. His knuckles were white as he held on to the table.

"Dove - " he gasped. "Gotta... gotta come...."

Dove swore under his breath, lost in the sight of Simon like this and knowing he'd lost his chance this time. He kept up the rhythm with the crop, hitting the spot that made Simon gasp and jerk. Letting go of his own cock he reached around and unsnapped the ring, letting it fall to the table. Then he tugged on the chain, hard.

"Come on, Simon," he said, his voice tight. "Now."

Simon threw back his head and cried out, his voice breaking, and he came hard. His hips jerked again and again as he shot, as he sobbed wordlessly with his release, as someone - or more than one someone - out in the audience climaxed as well.

Dove slowed the crop, one hand on Simon's hip as he waited for Simon's orgasm to finish, and then he gently eased it out. There was a moment of perfect silence, only a second or two between breaths and sighs, and then there was applause. Loud and full and for them, it rolled over them as the curtain came down.

Dove dropped the crop and swore again, rushing to undo the cuffs to Simon could move.

"Fucking hell," Simon panted, when Dove had gotten the cuffs off. His arms buckled and he dropped onto the table. "Wanted me to beg, yeah? Christ. Haven't come like that in ages." He turned his head, tried to look at Dove. "Reckon we gave 'em what they wanted?" He grinned. "You do good work, pretty bird."

Dove started at him and nodded. "Yeah, I do. Feel like you can walk? I'll carry all the shit to the other room, if you can walk."

"Think I can, yeah." Simon straightened up, a little shakily, and followed Dove back to the dressing room. By the time they got there he seemed to have caught his breath. "Christ," he said softly, apparently to himself, and almost gently laid a hand on Dove's shoulder. "Didn't get off, did you." It wasn't really a question. It sounded a little like an invitation.

Dove shook his head and tossed their clothes and shit on the floor. "No big," he said. But he didn't move, just waited.

"Can take care of that," Simon murmured, turning Dove around and kissing him. It was an oddly soft kiss, and a little tired. "Wanna fuck me? Or I'll suck you off. Your choice." He sounded sincere, for once not playing any games.

Dove made a soft sound he hated and moved against Simon, rough and shaking. His cock throbbed and his balls ached and he just wanted. "Don't have to. I can take care of it." But he was still moving, still rubbing, and his mouth was looking for Simon's.

Simon must've realized it, because he grabbed Dove's head and held their faces close, kissing harder and deeper, mouth opening for Dove. His other hand pushed down between them, closed tight around Dove's cock, and started pumping.

"Come on," Simon murmured into Dove's mouth, his hand moving faster. "Can't have you wanting like that. Come on, luv, come for me."

Dove's back arched as he tried to get closer, tried to take everything Simon was offering him. He moaned as his hips snapped, fire racing down his spine to his balls, and then everything exploded as he came. Heat sprayed between them, and still Simon held on, letting him shudder.

"Didn't seem fair," Simon said, "me getting to come, you having to wait. Put on a good show, after all." He pulled away just a little, so he and Dove could look each other in the face. Simon was still flushed from his orgasm on stage, and he was grinning. "We make a bloody good team, we do. Reckon they got that on tape?"

Dove blinked. "God, wouldn't that make money? Christ, we could…shit. We could do a bunch of stuff." He blinked again. They could make a lot of money. Maybe he'd mention it to Damon. "So, let's get dressed. Get paid. Get out of here."

"Sounds like a plan." Simon tossed Dove's shirt at him. "You ever consider doing porn?" he asked as he laced up his boots. "More technical than this, but you can sell more of it." He stood, grinned at Dove. "Think about it, yeah? That hair, that cock?" He gestured. "Can make a lotta money."

Dove nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll think about it. Call me in a couple of days-I'll know if they want us back here, anyway." Dove pulled his pants on, and looked for his shoes. "Simon?"


"That was really fucking hot."

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[15 Feb 2008|10:01pm]
Michael owns a building given to him by his lover, Charles.

The building houses Not a Nice Place, where Dove works. Dove used to squat in a building owned by Charles, but now lives with Damon, who works as a maintenance man in Charles' headquarters. Damon once had a drink at the Razor's Edge with Gent, who did tattoos for his lover, Jamie, and for George.

George is a clothing designer who got his big break when Diarmad did a photo shoot for him (they went to art school together), and then Michael started wearing his suits.

Gent's other lover, Paul, who his Jamie's twin and lover as well, works at City Hall with Jonah. Jamie manages a bookstore, which is a personal favourite of Matt, who is an author and Diar's lover.

Diar has also done some private shoots with Max and Trey. Trey is an accountant for Michael, and Max is a cop who at one point was on a team that raided Not a Nice Place.

Gent has also played pool with Nolan and Clark, who attend SCUC. They started as fuck buddies, but it seems to be more. They keep it discreet though, due to Nolan not wanting to be a public spectacle--Clark is the head of the campus GLB. Clark lives in the same dorm as Stacey, and Stacey and Nolan take a couple of classes together, at least one of which is taught by Dr. Joshua Stacey. Who used to date Phillip, George's lover.

It happened quickly, like watching a silver platter tarnish in one of those weird time sequences on TV, so fast that Dove could watch each bit of glitter as it vanished. All the shiny flecks, like so much chrome peeled off the handle bars of a new bike, sort of scattered on the floor of Damon's kitchen.

Too many metaphors, too many chances taken and paid off. He'd felt pretty good at first, pulling back from Not A Nice Place and going there only when he had to. Not for the paying customers, but for him. Only there when he had to put his monster to rest, not caring about the management or Tracy or keeping his name at the top of the list. Using the place like the clients used him. It was different that way, more primal and more in tune with the source of his edge. He liked it like that.

He got his money the easy way, going into the studio when the calls started coming in-and that hadn't taken long. The first time was weird and strange and left him feeling okay. The guys were mostly all right, friendly in a strange sort of "yeah, I'm gonna be in your mouth in about twenty minutes" way. Took him about ten minutes to figure out which ones were gay and which were gay for pay, not that it mattered.

They mostly sat around waited, talking about movies or clubs or people they knew, and then it was time to go to work. And it was okay, really. It wasn't hard, and it wasn't kinky, although Dove would have done kink. It was just sucking and fucking and lame assed scripts that were only there to keep the action under some sort of control and not a free for all orgy.

In one Dove was supposed to be a customer at a garage, getting his bike looked at. They all agreed the casting was fucked on that one-he should have been the gas jockey, not the biker, but hell, at least he topped that time.

That was something he had been only sort of prepared for, the thing it took a bit of time to wrap his head around. Dove had no issues with sucking cock, getting come on his face, fucking strangers… but he sure as fuck wasn't used to being bottom boy all the damn time. Sure, he'd known he'd be doing it; it was porn. And he knew that more than likely he'd be taking it up the ass more often than not-he was pretty and looked his age, which was barely legal. So, it stood to reason.

But that didn't mean he liked it.

Maybe with a bigger studio, or more of a name-like, any name-he'd have a say. But as it stood he was just another pretty face with a big cock, and so he did his job and took the money. There were a lot of big cocks in gay porn.

It was a couple of months before it got sorted out that Dove also had a good arm and control enough to handle a good flogging without drawing blood. That moved him out of the string of bad band crap he was filming and into stuff a bit more his style. Damon had thought it kind of amusing that Dove got to sit behind a drum kit for about forty-five seconds before the clothes started coming off, and Dove said that it was as close to musical talent that he ever got.

But eventually he wound up doing bondage shit and using a crop, and that should have been better. But it was worse, a tease. The fucking was bad enough, with the countless retakes and faked shots to fill in the stuff that was missed or to make the scene longer. But faking a flogging stirred him up, made him pissy and mean, and he wound up going to the club more often.

Damon was getting restless, not talking about anything at all and looking resigned all the time. Dove didn't ask what was wrong, mostly because he knew and partially because he wasn't sure he wanted Damon to know he'd even noticed.

"What about The Chamber?" Damon finally asked one night when Dove staggered in the door too tired to fuck and not even willing to make up an excuse for it.

"Simon took a runner," Dove said. "No Simon, no gig."

Damon had tilted his head and bit his lip but hadn't said anything, hadn't asked the hard questions. Dove thanked his lucky stars and went to the shower, tried to coax one more round of fun out of his body.

He didn't want to think about Simon. Didn't want to think about how he'd brushed off the first call that didn't get a call back, or how pissed he'd been when Simon didn't call at all and they'd lost The Chamber. Didn't want to think about the worry that followed.

But mostly he didn't want to tell Damon about Jay showing up at Not A Nice Place and asking if Dove knew where Simon was. Because that had scared the shit out of him, and he'd known Simon was gone for good, and fuck but that hurt. He'd just shaken his head and told Jay that he didn't know. It was true. End of story.

Or it would have been if he hadn't wandered around for a week thinking Simon was dead somewhere and then gotten pissed out of his skull and hopped a bus. Dove had at least told Damon this time that he was going, but not why. A quick "I'll be back in a couple of days," and he'd gone.

He drank, he danced… god, how he'd danced. He fucked some guy in an alley and went back in and did someone else in the john. Through it all he could smell Simon's sweat and hear him laughing in Dove's ear, mocking him.

Then he had to use his arm, and he was too far from home, too far from a place where they knew him. It was bad and he was shaking with the need, his blood dancing in his veins and he couldn't be still, so he asked around and headed to a place called the Dungeon.

And when he saw Simon he stopped shaking. Enough to leave anyway, to get home to Santa Clara and Damon and his job.

He should have called Jay, he knew. But he knew that if Simon didn't want Jay to find him, there had to be a reason, and Jay would hurt knowing what Simon was doing. Simon would kick Dove's ass if he got Jay into that place and Simon wasn't ready to go back.

So he didn't call. Instead, he went to work, fucked for money, flogged for release, and watched Damon start to pull away.

And every day the shine wore off a little more.

Dove could have walked to the studio, but didn't. It was only a dozen blocks or so from Not a Nice Place, but it was a whole other world. The warehouses were tidier, and there were places with grass where there was supposed to be grass. There weren't any boarded up windows, and even the graffiti was nicer. The businesses had signs that weren't destroyed. Dove knew it to be a safer place than his world, but it felt…off. Weird.

In any event, he'd figured that working up a sweat on his way to work up a sweat was stupid, so he took the bus, and got to the big white building that housed Cool Blue Studios about ten minutes before the time he was supposed to meet Simon. He walked around the parking lot a bit and had another smoke, just looking around. Then he ate three breath mints and walked up to the doors and on in, his eyes narrowing in the dimmer light.

The guy at the little front desk was the same guy who'd been there before, and Dove wondered absently if he was actually the Wally who owned the place. Didn't matter. He wasn't going to impress him with his business like attitude anyway. He walked up and stood there until the guy looked up at him.

"You're back," the guy said.

"Yeah. Got an appointment to finish the tape."



"Real name?"


The guy sighed and rolled his eyes, but he looked in the book and nodded. "You're supposed to bring someone with you for this part, you know."

Dove sighed. "He'll be here."

Then the door opened behind him and Simon came in. He was casually dressed in a black t-shirt tucked into frayed jeans, and broken-down biker boots.

"Hey there, pretty bird," he said to Dove, grinning brightly. "Not our usual meeting place, is it?" He turned to the guy behind the desk, gestured to Dove, and said "I'm with him."

Dove grinned back and reached out to pat Simon on the ass. Quickly.

The guy looked at Dove and looked at Simon, and then sighed. "Fine. Great. Lovely. What's your name, then?"

"Simon Kay." His lips twitched like he was going to say something else, but that was it.

The guy wrote it down and stood up, heading toward a door. "Follow me, let's get you on a set."

Dove raised an eyebrow at Simon and they followed the man. Down a hall and then another hall, and voila. A bedroom. Dove grinned again and stepped in, looking around. White walls, white sheets, lots of lights. A small couch at the foot of the bed.

And the same camera guy.

Dove laughed and said, "Hey. You stuck with me, or did you ask?"

The desk guy almost choked. "Dave doesn't get to pick."

Dave looked very busy with his camera.

"Now, here's the deal. No soundtrack going on, we want to hear you. Do what you like, but Dave will take care of the angles, he might tell you to move a little, but that's about it. Want sucking, want fucking, the rubbers and lube are under the bed. You've got lots of tape, so…do your thing. And we want the come shot-no blowing your load in his ass."

And then he was gone.

"Professional," Simon muttered, looking around the room. "Clean, too." He sat on the bed and bounced a little. "Firm mattress. How often you do it for an audience of one, Dove?" But he was grinning. "This is your audition tape - how you wanna do it? Strip each other, do it solo, wanna 69 or take turns.... You're gonna top, yeah? Think they got toys?" He shrugged and his grin widened. "Give me some direction, pretty bird, or I'm gonna peel out of my clothes and give Dave there a show. Soundtrack or no."

Jesus. He was being accommodating. Or maybe he was just being an ass. Dove didn't know, and he wondered if he should care. In the end though, all that really mattered what that they were there, and they were gonna put on show. That, and he'd get to fuck Simon without the games. Or new games. Something.

Before he could say anything Dave snorted. "Usual way around here is you two make out for a bit, start getting naked, then I stop tape while you strip, pick it up when the action starts." He indicated the camera with his eyes, and added, "Ready to roll when you are."

Dove looked at Simon and grinned. This could be fun. Was going to be fun. He sat down on the stupid little sofa and said, "C'mere, Simon. Let's play."

Simon got off the bed and loped over to the sofa. He settled himself next to Dove, so close their thighs touched, and ran his hand behind Dove's neck, under his hair, and pulled his face close. "Good thing I brushed my teeth, yeah?" he murmured, his pale blue eyes intent on Dove's face.

Then Simon kissed him, almost gentle at first but quickly growing more serious, more hungry. He pressed closer on the couch and his other hand dropped to Dove's lap to knead his cock through his pants.

"Taste good," Simon said into Dove's mouth. "Feel good too."

Dove didn't bother with words, just moved into Simon, pressed a little closer. He stroked his tongue along Simon's and sucked a little, biting at Simon's lower lip as he pulled away. He was getting hard fast, no surprise. Simon did that to him, and with all the rubbing and stroking it wasn't going to take long.

He kissed Simon again, mouth wide and drawing Simon's tongue into his own mouth; loud, wet kisses that he could feel in his balls. Easy as anything he ran his hand up the inside of Simon's thigh and started returning the favour, squeezing and massaging Simon's cock.

God, it felt good. Cock, mouth, all of it. Simon.

Simon was hard too - no surprise there either - and he moaned softly into Dove's mouth as Dove squeezed him. His hand dug deeper between Dove's legs, pushing and fondling determinedly, his other hand running up the back of Dove's skull to hold their faces together. Simon nipped at Dove's lip, sucked on his tongue, matched him in everything, giving back as good as he got.

"Can do this forever," Simon panted against his mouth. "Fucking good hands you got." His hips pushed up slightly, like he was trying to fuck Dove's hand. "Maybe not forever, luv. Wanna taste your skin now." The hand on Dove's cock retreated, starting pulling at the button of his pants.

Dove wasn't about to say no. He shifted his hips a little, let Simon get a better angle. It was pure coincidence that by moving a little the right he could slide his hand right under Simon's balls and push up, hard.

"Gonna suck me, Simon?" he teased, his breath coming faster. He had very vivid memories of Simon's mouth. "Make it good, and I'll return the favour," he promised.

Simon sucked in a breath as Dove pushed up against him. His skin was starting to flush. Looked good on him. "Bet you will, pretty bird. Never did get a taste of me, did you?" His hands worked to get Dove's pants open as he glanced over at Dave. "Think he can see us enough? I can go to my knees and make you beg?" His voice was a caress and a flat question at the same time, but his mouth was grinning and his eyes were hot.

"He can move if he can't see," Dove said, staring right at Simon. It scared him how much he wanted this, wanted to see Simon on his knees, wanted to feel Simon's mouth on him. "Think you can really make me beg?" he asked innocently.

"Reckon I can try," Simon answered, just as innocently. He tugged at Dove's pants, working them down off his hips and freeing his cock. He kept pulling until Dove's pants were off, then manoeuvred them both around so Dove was almost slouching on the couch, Simon kneeling on the floor between his sprawled legs.

"Don't have to beg." Simon looked up at Dove, his eyes dark now and his lips turned up in a wicked grin. "Just pay me back."

He rested his hands on Dove's thighs at first, as he bent his head and teased the tip of Dove's cock. Fingers dug into his muscles as Simon sucked him down, lips and tongue working his prick like it was the greatest gift a boy could receive. Simon pushed Dove's knees wider apart and licked at his balls, taking one and then the other into his mouth. He murmured while he sucked, words or a song or just noise. His mouth was warm and he was so fucking good.

Dove was moaning, not bothering to dress it up or tone it down; he didn't need to. Simon's tongue on his balls, the way his lips pulled at him, the feeling as he teased and played around the head of his cock-no need to do anything but let out the sounds that wanted out.

With a long groan as Simon sucked him in again Dove tangled his fingers in Simon's hair and started rocking his hips, fucking that pretty mouth. "Oh yeah," he managed. "Christ yeah. Good, Simon." Orgasm was a million miles away, and he could just let go and enjoy this until Simon was done with him. He was getting harder, he could feel his cock straining; with a grin he added a little more to his thrusts, the head of his cock skating across the roof of Simon's mouth.

Simon took him all the way in, sucking strongly, chin bumping his balls. The sounds coming from him sounded appreciative. He looked up and grinned, at least as well as he could, and Dove could see it in his eyes - I can do this forever too.

"More, Simon," he hissed, lost in that look, his cock throbbing now. He wanted to stroke Simon's face softly, wanted to…touch. So he tangled his hand in Simon's hair again and moaned. Still not close, but it wouldn't be long before they'd have to stop.

Simon just kept going, head bobbing, sucking and licking and very carefully using his teeth. He caught Dove's gaze and held it. He cupped Dove's balls in one hand, kneading Dove's thigh with the other. He wasn't going to stop, he was just going to keep going until Dove came, or shoved him off.

And if he came, it would…well, he'd have time to make up for wouldn't he? He'd have to do something while he got hard again. Like maybe throw Simon on the bed and suck him off. Jesus. Dove tried to remember the last time he'd given a blow job, and figured it had been months ago, with Damon.

Then Simon did a weird twisty thing with his tongue, and squeezed his balls and it didn't matter anymore. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck, gonna blow," he managed, just fast enough for Simon to pull back. Simon didn't have to do more than lean back and pump Dove's cock twice and Dove cried out, come pouring out over Simon's fingers.

"Uh, okay," Dave said mildly. "Gonna stop tape and let you strip off. Nice one, by the way."

"Glad you liked," Simon told him, still grinning. He offered Dove his clean hand and said "Caught a beg in there, didn't I. They're gonna eat you up, pretty bird, you do that on tape. And that's not even the big event." He pulled Dove to his feet, caught him, and kissed him hard. "Can't wait to see how you return that favour."

He stepped back, stripped out of his boots and t-shirt and jeans, and turned and sauntered over to the bed, offering Dove a lovely view of his ass. Simon sprawled on the bed, legs splayed, and threw out his arms on the mattress.

"Well?" he said lazily. "I'm waiting. Wanna see what you can do."

Dove grinned and shook his head. "Greedy." He stripped off quickly, tossing his more or less crumpled shirt on top of Simon's. He glanced at Dave who seemed to be just patiently waiting. How could anyone watch this stuff all day and not be affected?

Another look at Simon and he dismissed Dave entirely. Long and lean, his cock hard and red…definitely edible. Dove purred softly and walked around the bed, crawling up between Simon's legs. "Your turn to beg," he said softly.

"Haven't had a reason yet," Simon said.

"Shut up," Dove said easily. He didn't feel easy, he felt weird. He wasn't used to doing this. He knew how, knew he could be good at it, but he wasn't used to it. So he decided to start slow. He licked the inside of Simon's thighs, encouraging him to spread a bit more, and nibbled at the skin just beside Simon's balls.

He smelled good. Clean and horny and hot. Dove slid his hands over Simon's thighs and kept licking, the crease of his leg, the top of his public hair, let his chin gently bump Simon's cock. Then he moved down and start licking and sucking at Simon's balls, ignoring his prick all together.

"Mmmm," Simon drawled. "Taking your time, are you." He wriggled a bit, letting his legs fall a little wider and giving Dove better access. "A bloke could get to like this." He didn't seem to care that Dove was deliberately ignoring his cock. In fact he sounded pleased.

Good enough. Dove kept on doing what he was doing, sucking on one nut, then the other, getting Simon nice and wet. His hands were still sliding over Simon's thighs, but every once in a while he'd drag a finger or two over the slick skin, just adding sensation. He urged Simon to lift his legs slightly, opening up for him for a moment and he went low, stroking his tongue across Simon's hole before letting him relax again.

He was starting to get hard, his cock thickening and filling as he shifted on the bed, rubbing ever so slightly. He moaned softly and teased a finger over Simon's cock, just tugged a little at his Prince Albert and wondered if he could get away with rimming Simon before sucking him.

"Ahh..." Simon sighed. "That's good." His hips lifted off the bed for a second, encouragingly. "Wanna feel you on my cock, pretty bird. Wanna feel your mouth, your tongue. You want me to beg? I'll even beg." His cock was stiff and hot and leaking now, and he didn't sound like he was going to complain about anything Dove did to him.

Dove groaned, wanting. He moved his hands down Simon's legs and lifted them up, rocking Simon back a bit. Then he went for it, laving his tongue over the soft, soft skin behind Simon's balls, and then down, licking over his hole roughly, dragging his tongue back and forth. A couple of biting kisses and he did it again, his own cock getting harder.

Simon moaned above him, gasped

"Fucking hell, Dove.... Don't fucking stop."

He had no intention of stopping. He licked again and pushed with the tip of his tongue, easing into Simon a little bit before pulling back to lick again. He did it over and over, pushing further in each time until he was able to just stay there, fucking Simon with his tongue.

He felt like a fucking god. He was hard as fuck, and he was getting off on having his tongue in Simon's ass, feeling the muscles tight around him, the taste of Simon strong and pure. He touched Simon's prick again and found it rigid, ready.

"Oh bloody hell," Simon panted, "so fucking good.... Gonna come...." He grabbed Dove's hand and wrapped both their fingers around his prick, pumping hard as his hips snapped and his ass clenched tight and Dove FELT his climax, felt it on his tongue and in his hand.

Jesus. It was a good thing he'd already come, because that would have done it. As it was it made his prick leap and all he wanted to do was slam home and ride out the rest of it with Simon around him. But he didn't, couldn't; he stroked Simon until it passed over him in shuddering waves, and them gave him one more lick. Just because.

"All right?" he asked with a grin, letting Simon sprawl on the bed as he sat up.

Simon just blinked at him. He looked a little stunned. "Bloody hell," he repeated hoarsely. "Haven't been rimmed in too long. Christ." He beckoned with both hands. "Now c'mere - wanna touch you now, feel your hands on me. Give us both a chance to cool down so we can give 'em the rest of the show." He cocked his head towards Dave, who was still standing impassively behind his camera.

Dove told himself that he wasn't rushing into Simon's arms. That he wasn't cuddling. That he wasn't…oh hell. He was wrapped around Simon so tight it was a wonder either of them could breathe. He had one hand on Simon's chest, playing with his nipple ring, and the other at the back of Simon's neck, pulling him close enough to kiss.

Simon arched into the touch and let Dove do what he wanted, kissing back, stroking Dove's ass, rubbing gently against him. He hooked a leg around Dove's thigh, ducked his head, murmured "Bet we look good," against Dove's neck.

"I do. You do. Hey, together we make people come in public, yeah? Ol' Dave's gonna have wood before we're done." Dove grinned and kissed Simon again, his hips starting to rock gently. Simon was warm.

"How long you reckon we can make him wait?" Simon murmured. He nipped at Dove's bottom lip, rocked a little harder against him. "Taste good, luv. Taste a bit like me."

Dove rubbed against Simon a little harder, his prick hard and heavy. "Don't think I can wait that long, really, and honestly, who wants to waste tape when I can be balls deep in your ass?"

Simon laughed at that and reached between them to take Dove's cock in his hand. "Wouldn't want to deprive us of this pleasure, now would we?" His fingers closed tight around Dove's prick and with his other hand he pulled Dove's face close and kissed him hungrily.

"Rather have you fuck me," he said hoarsely, pulling away. "Ready for you now."

Dove shuddered and pressed close, his body plastered to Simon's for a few moments. Fuck, he loved this. Just like this, on a bed, naked and hard and Simon's eyes so dilated. Dove was going to blow his mind and fuck him three ways from Sunday.

The lube was easy enough to find and the condoms, so he didn't waste much time, just got Simon spread out for him, lying on his back, legs wide. Another hungry kiss and he pushed two fingers in, and started a quick rhythm, watching Simon move.

Simon rode his fingers easily, breath coming in short gasps, his head lifted a little so Dove could see his face. His skin was flushed, his eyes dark, his lips parted, and he grinned as Dove worked him over.

"Feels good," he panted. "Gimme three fingers, pretty bird. Let me feel it." Simon reached for his cock and started to stroke, those blue eyes on Dove.

Dove grinned and slid another finger in, not trying to be gentle, just trying to give Simon a really good finger fuck. He wanted Simon nice and ready for him; he had plans. When Simon bore down on his fingers he twisted them slightly, pressing against his gland nice and hard. "Let me hear you, Simon. Feel it yet?"

"Ohhh... fuck.... Christ, Dove...." Simon's words were almost lost in his moan, and his back arched and his hips pushed against Dove's hand. "Do that... do that again...."

"What, this?" Dove asked, pressing hard again. His own cock jumped at the noises Simon was making, at the tight heat around his fingers. Simon had an amazing ass.

Simon didn't answer this time - his head fell back and he just groaned and pulled hard on his erection. For a few seconds he didn't even breathe, and then his head lifted again, he fixed Dove with a hot, needy gaze, and rasped "Fuck me hard, Dove. Wanna come on your cock."

"You will," Dove promised, easing his fingers out. He rolled the rubber on and licked his lips. "Gonna do you like this, Simon. Want to watch you come for me, and then I'm gonna flip you over and do it again."

"'M all yours for this, pretty bird. Make me scream."

Dove didn't bother replying, just hooked one of Simon's legs around his waist, the other over an arm, and thrust in, pushing hard past the tightness to sink into soft heat. And then he pulled almost all the way out and plunged in again, deep and hard, aiming for Simon's sweet spot.

Simon rocked against him, moaning with abandon, pumping his own cock in time with Dove's thrusts. His eyes drifted down from Dove's face to watch Dove fucking him, and he panted encouragement, telling Dove how hot they were together, how hard Dove was, how strong, how bloody amazing it felt to have that cock inside him.

"Harder," he gasped, "hard - uhn - harder...." Then Simon let go of his cock, fisted a hand in Dove's hair, and yanked his head down for a hard, deep kiss. "Wanna watch me - watch me come?" he panted into Dove's mouth. "Gonna come hard for you, pretty bird."

"Do it," Dove said, his voice tight. "Just from me, just from this." He held Simon's hip down and slammed into him, again and again, as hard as he could, driving into Simon's gland. He looked down at where they were fit together, at Simon's prick, ridged and angry red, and then back at Simon's face. "Come for me."

And Simon did, clenching tight around Dove's cock and shooting hard. He cried out, although if it was a word Dove couldn't tell what, as come sprayed his chest. It was one of the sexiest fucking things Dove had ever seen - Simon coming for him, because of him.

"Your turn," Simon rasped, almost inaudibly.

"Nuh uh." Dove grinned, not moving at all, trying to calm down a bit. "Not yet. Not nearly. Told you, I have plans." He eased out of Simon's ass and smoothed come into Simon's skin. "Gonna let you catch your breath, baby. Then I'm gonna do it again, nice and slow."

"Baby?" Simon raised an eyebrow at him, then grinned. "Do me slow.... Yeah, I can handle that." He pulled lazily on his cock, apparently trying to look cool and unconcerned, but his chest was still heaving a little and Dove could hear the hitch in his breath. "Doesn't take long to recover, and then you can have your wicked way." The grin widened. Dove didn't think he'd really have to wait for Simon to get his breath back.

"Baby," Dove said with an expressive leer. "Always wanted to call you that." He grinned and stroked Simon's thighs. "Gonna make you feel so good. Nice and slow and so fucking sweet you won't know your name when I'm done with you."

He was still grinning as he got rid of the rubber and opened a fresh one, then started stroking himself with a well lubed hand. Make everything nice and slippery.

"Oh, let me do that," Simon said. He seemed to have recovered enough from his recent pounding - he was almost purring now. He sat up, covered Dove's hand with his own, and stroked Dove's cock along with him. "Get you good and hard, but not too hard.... Wanna last, yeah? Make it good. Bet you can make me forget."

And while Simon helped Dove stroke off he leaned in and took a kiss, this one a little more gentle than before, like he wanted to taste Dove's mouth, learn his way around it. Simon licked at Dove's lips, moaning softly as both their hands got his cock hard and slick.

Dove let himself get lost in the kiss, teasing his tongue along side Simon's, feeling their lips play and touch. It was intense in it's own way, and Simon's fingers on him were almost too much. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, more to stop Simon's hand than anything else. "Love kissing you," he breathed.

"Can tell." Simon grinned, then ducked forward to quickly lick at Dove's lower lip one last time. "Ready for you now. You ready for me?" His grin was wide and white, and his eyes sparked, and his hand was still around Dove's cock. But he thought it was time, Dove could tell.

"Oh yeah. Hands and knees, Simon. Show me your pretty ass." He might have growled a little.

Simon rolled over obediently and shook his ass at Dove. "Gonna kiss it and show your appreciation?" he teased.

"Did that already," Dove said, running his hands over Simon's ass. "Melted your brains, I guess." Then he moved closer and pressed the head of his cock to Simon's hole. "Ready?" Without waiting for a reply he eased in slowly, one long, nearly impossibly smooth thrust.

"Ahhh..." Simon breathed out. "So good...." He pushed back as Dove pushed in, trying to pull Dove deeper. "Fill me full, pretty bird. Let me taste you in my throat." His voice had changed again, and it was deeper now, soft, almost crooning. He rocked back, his body urging Dove forward.

Dove could barely breathe. Perfect heat, Simon fit around him so well, he just wanted to stay where he was for as long as he could. He put his hands on Simon's hips, holding him steady so he wouldn't rock back onto him, wouldn't pick up the pace and make him come too soon.

They moved as slowly as Dove could. A long deep glide in, and a smooth stroke back. When he felt Simon's prostate, the harder gland slipping by the head of his cock, he switch to short slow stroked, just sliding over it again and again.

He was far too close already, and he wanted to take Simon with him.

Simon moaned softly under him, around him, muscles holding him tight. Simon had taken the hint and moved with him now, the two of them rocking together like one single thing. Dove could hear his own breath, Simon's breath, the slight creak of the bed as they moved, but otherwise it was weirdly quiet. Simon hadn't said anything else, had only begun to pant and occasionally groan as Dove's cock skated over his gland.

Dove gasped and moaned and slid his hands under Simon, one to his belly, the other to his chest, pulling him up and back until they were almost sitting. He was thrusting straight up into Simon's ass, and Dave, he suddenly realised, was moving around the bed to catch them from the front.

"Gonna come soon, Simon. Need you to shoot first," he whispered. He started stroking Simon's shaft, pulling at his PA and licking Simon's neck. "Fuck, you feel so good. So hot and tight, and God, I just want to ram into you."

"Already did," Simon whispered back. "Gave me a good pounding. Fucking strong, you are." He rode Dove's cock easily, ass rising and falling on Dove's thighs. "Pull harder, luv, you want me to come now. Can do this for hours yet."

His fingers closed around Dove's hand around his straining prick and his head fell back onto Dove's shoulder and Simon turned his face, lips parting as if for a kiss.

Dove kissed him. Open mouth, tongues playing and twisting, and he tightened his grip on Simon's cock, pulling fast and hard, his thumb swiping over the tip again and again. He wanted to do it all slow, wanted to just fuck Simon until they couldn't anymore, but he was too close, could feel his balls pull up, and he knew he'd have to finish himself off by hand, giving up the come shot. But damn, he just wanted to ride Simon for as long as he could.

Simon's breath caught as they kissed and that was all the warning Dove had as Simon came, his mouth still locked to Dove's and their fingers twined around his cock. His hips jerked as he shot and his ass tightened around Dove and his breath was harsh and panting and fuck, was it good.

"Oh Jesus," Dove whispered. "Oh fucking hell, Simon. So good. Make me ache."

"Come for me, Dove."

Dove did growl this time, lifting Simon off his cock and tossing him onto the bed. By the time Simon rolled onto his back to watch, Dove had the rubber off and was jerking off with quick sharp strokes.

Fire raced down his spine, as he looked at Simon, sprawled out in front of him. His orgasm slammed through him, arching his back and making his head fall back until his hair brushed his legs, and then he was coming. With a roar and a grunt and some noise he didn't remember making before, he shot all over Simon's legs and stomach, tremors wracking him until he couldn't stay up any longer.

Simon caught him as he fell, wrapped arms and legs around him and told him he was fucking amazing. Dove could feel his own come hot and sticky between them, but he just couldn't bring himself to care.

"Christ," Simon murmured in his hair. "Can make a bloke hard from watching, you can. Reckon Dave's gone to have a good wank now."

Dove laughed weakly. "That'd be something," he whispered. "God, I don't want to move."

"Then don't. How long we got here, anyway?"

Dave answered. "Ten minutes or so. Showers are down the hall to the left, then head to the front desk. I'm going now, so no more fucking. It happens here, it happens on tape."

Dove looked up and caught the wink. Seemed Dave had a sense of humour. Weird.

"'kay," he mumbled. "Ten minutes." He wiggled against Simon and breathed deeply, trying to get himself able to move again.

"Guess that means no sex in the showers," Simon mumbled. "Could fall asleep right here." He shifted a little, getting them both more comfortable. "Wake me in ten minutes, yeah?" He dropped a hand on the small of Dove's back and Dove thought he might actually have fallen asleep.

"Then who's going to wake me?" Dove wondered out loud. Damn. He closed his eyes and tried not to fall asleep. That didn't work too well, so he poked Simon instead. "Hey. Ten minutes are up," he said firmly.

"Fuck off." But Simon sighed and wiggled underneath him like he wanted to get up. "Let me up, then. Gotta go shower. You can...wash my back." He waggled his eyebrows. It looked pretty silly.

"Can I take a rain check? Washing your back will lead to other fun things, and there is no way I'm getting it back up in the next hour," Dove said with a grin. He did roll over though, and start looking for his clothes. He definitely needed a shower.

Simon chuckled and followed him, sliding off the bed to collect his own clothes. He wobbled a little, but not much. When he'd gathered his pants and shirt and boots into an untidy ball he grinned at Dove and said "They'd be fools if they didn't take you on. What's next?" He nodded at the studio, apparently indicating the whole porn business, or at least this little corner of it.

"Um, shower," Dove said, deliberately misunderstanding. He grinned at Simon's glare and led the way out and to the showers. "Seriously, I guess they go over the tape. If they like what they see, they'll call me in to do something small and scripted. If I take direction I just show up when they call and do what they tell me, take my money and run. You know that you'll be on file, yeah? You interested if they call you?"

"Course I am. Could really get to like this porn thing. We can tag-team 'em, have the whole coast creaming its pants. You and me, pretty bird, we're fucking unbeatable." Simon grinned his white, wicked grin. "Two pretty boys, yeah?"

Dove shook his head and smiled. "Yeah. And messy ones." He leaned over and kissed Simon again. "Let's get clean and get out of here. Lots of day left to play with."

He wouldn't be surprised if Simon got called in soon. He only hoped they'd get to work together once in a while, 'cause outside of Not a Nice Place and the Chamber, where it was about pain or domination, it just wasn't going to happen.

But working? They could do that.
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[15 Feb 2008|09:59pm]
The first time we met I was acting as a junior VP for a company he was raiding. I was young enough to hate him for it, for taking jobs and threatening the structure of what I thought of as my business. He'd looked at me over the boardroom table and smirked at my loyalty to the old man beside me. Said he'd offer me a job, if I was any good.

The next time was after he'd spurned my boss's offer, a peace deal that would see the old bastard at the helm in name if nothing else. There was more paper work to change hands, sensitive enough that no one wanted to use a courier. So of I went, after business hours to deliver it to Charles's assistant. Who, oddly enough, wasn't there. I'm still not sure if Charles used that twenty minutes of paper sorting to test me or not. I'm still not sure why I dropped my eyes for him, made the subtle gestures of submissiveness.

Three weeks later he called me at home and invited me to his club for drinks. A Nice Place. Honestly, that's what it's called. He owns it, and it's rather scary sister. Which, buried behind shell corporations and dummy names is now in my building. He gave it to me, not because he wants me to have the title to it, but to show me where I belong. Tied down, bound.

We had a drink, we talked about the takeover, we made absolutely no moves that weren't plain to anyone there. Two business men, talking shop.

I blew him in the limo before he dropped me off. "On your knees for me," was all he said, and it was the only place I wanted to be.

Our first contract took effect eight months later. Half way through the term I wanted a change made. He said no, but when we renegotiated the change was already in place.

I'm his.

I go to him when he calls, I do as I'm told, I take what he gives me. He takes care of me, makes sure my other partners are temporary, that I work for my successes but that the successes are worth the work. He protects me, gives me safe places to play, indulges me when I need him to.

He's mine.

Until next Valentine's Day, anyway.

Go see Dove, Jay had said, meaning Go see him now, but Simon waited. For it to be worth anything, for it to do anything, he had to wait until he felt the itch under his skin. So he went on about his life, trying to piece together new business in San Francisco, trying to make a space for himself again.

He went back to the art school, signed up for the modeling gig. Contacted a couple of photographers he used to know, guys who shot for internet wank sites. He didn't go back to the Dungeon North. He didn't go back to the Chamber. He didn't go back to making porn. He didn’t think they’d want him, didn’t know if he was ready to remind them of his worth.

Then he found himself pacing the sidewalks, cruising, looking for something - someone - and he pulled a phone number out of his memory and called Not a Nice Place, and he hopped a bus and went back to Santa Clara.

He wore his leather pants, the pair he got to replace the lace-up pants which had finally given out on him in LA. Not that it mattered - no one cared what he wore and he'd lose his clothes soon enough anyway, but it was his armor. In leather he could at least pretend to be his old self, hard and careless and “Make me bleed,” not desperate and not lost.

He didn’t see Dove at hanging out at the bar, but he asked the Master and Dove had a list so his name went on it. He didn’t have to wait long, not even long enough to have a beer really, and then there was a tap on his shoulder and he was led up to the stage. Stripping off took no time at all, and when he was nicely tied up a shadow broke the spot light and Dove was there in front of him.

“Simon.” Dove looked pretty much the same, maybe a bit more feral, maybe a little brighter. “Tell me you want it hard.”

Yeah, maybe feral. Or maybe Dove needed this about as much as he did.

“You reckon I'd come see you if I didn't?” Simon grinned, a sharp sideways grin, and felt it coming back. Who he was, what he needed, where he belonged. His boy was so smart sometimes, knew what he needed better than he did. “Make me hurt, pretty bird. Make me scream. Make me bleed.” His voice dropped, hardened. “Give me pain.”

Dove nodded and grinned right back, then peeled off his shirt. Brat was preening for him, standing in the light like that in tight jeans. “Cat or crop? And one of these days you’re gonna let me use the bullwhip.”

Well now. “Been a long time,” Simon murmured. A couple of the thicker scars on his back, a bullwhip and an overeager dom back in Greece. He needed the pain, didn't he? He needed it as hard as Dove could give. The only way he'd ever find himself again.

Simon grinned the white wolfish grin he was so fond of, and if he'd ever wanted sharp pointed teeth this was the reason, this grin.

“Bullwhip, then,” he said.

If he’d been another frame of mind he would have laughed at the look on Dove’s face. It wasn’t quite stunned, but it was damn close, and it took a few seconds for Dove to move. Dove waved over the Master and blinked a couple of times. “Um, whip, blood, fucking - yeah? And his safe word is ‘Keener’. That all, Simon?”

Dove looked like he’d been given a gift, his right hand flexing absently like he already had the bullwhip in hand.

Simon just smiled. Well, hell, he'd done something right. “Got it in one,” he said. “Do what you do.”

Dove stepped closer, almost touching him. “Going to hurt you so much, Simon. Take you away and make you fly.” One of Dove’s hands skimmed Simon’s hip. “This is gonna be different - use your fucking word if you need it.”

“Not bloody likely,” Simon murmured. He was going to see this through if it damn well killed him.

And if his memory of the time in Greece was anything to go by, it just might.

Maybe he should have had a couple of drinks first.

Dove disappeared and the Master announced his safe word to the room. Simon heard the crowd shifting; Dove still drew them in apparently, still caused people to sit up and pay attention. Or maybe they remembered him, him and Dove together. Didn’t much matter. He’d just wondered where the hell Dove had gotten to when a loud crack cut through the noise and he felt a puff of air beside his ear.

“Ready, Simon?” Dove said behind him, his voice silky. He didn’t wait for a reply and there was sudden fire across Simon’s shoulder, the snap following less than a second later.

Oh Christ. That fucking HURT. He cried out, partly from the shock and partly from the pain and partly because he always did, and he wasn't quite sure but it almost felt good. It almost felt right.

Then Dove laid the whip across his shoulders again, and Simon could feel the thickness of it, the weight, and he concentrated on that, on the fire running over his skin, the welts he knew were rising on pale flesh. He threw back his head and he laughed, because he still had breath for it, and he'd asked Dove to hurt him, and if nothing else, he would get pain and the audience would get a show.

The whip was like a living thing, snaking over his skin and biting him, darting away before he knew it was there and leaving nettles in its wake. It wasn’t like the cat, didn’t spread out the same way. And it wasn’t anything at all like the crop, the whip snapping at him instead of laying into him, the touch of this leather so much sharper. It was brighter, almost like a knife, and the pain radiated out from the stripes, settling deep in his skin.

He couldn’t hear Dove at first. With the crop he could hear Dove’s breathing, if he paid attention to it. The whip meant Dove was further away, but when the rhythm was settled he became aware of Dove’s voice. That was new - usually Dove didn’t talk until the end, and usually only to tell him to come.

“Nice,” he heard, and “Pretty. So fucking pretty, Simon. Marks you like you need it, make my mark, let you feel it...” and he wasn’t sure if Dove was talking to him or just talking.

It didn't really matter, though, did it? Simon listened to Dove, listened to the crack of the bullwhip, listened to the audience. He could heard his own breathing, shallow and labored, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He closed his eyes.

Simon could almost believe he'd never left, because this really hadn't changed. He asked for blood and pain and Dove delivered, and it made him hot and it made him hard and his last entirely lucid thought was that he should have brought a cock ring.

And then there was nothing but black pain and white heat and the familiar hot stickiness of blood on his skin. Dove's breath, Dove's words, the scent of need and want, sweat and copper and smoke and semen, and this was where Simon belonged, this was who he was. Tied up, tied down, being flayed to shreds by the single person who understood why.

“Got you, got you. Gonna fix it, got to make it hurt. God, you bleed well.” Simon could hear the words, could almost make sense of them, but they didn’t matter. The crack of the whip, the skin splitting on his back, that mattered. And then the noise stopped, the thrumming in his veins and the roar in his ears that much louder when the whip stopped singing.

“Need this,” Dove whispered, right behind him now, the heat from Dove’s body lost in the aching nerve that was his raw back. “Need to fly, Simon.” Hands on his hips, fingers thrust wetly into him and then the final pain as Dove took him, pushed in and grounded him. Held him tight and used his body, used his pain to send them both into the sky.

No breath left to scream, almost no breath left to moan, nothing left at all but the motion of Dove fucking him, and Simon could barely feel Dove's hands on him, could only feel Dove inside him, pounding into him, throwing him out of himself and sending him away.

Nothing but that - Dove's cock, Dove's strength, the draining away of Simon's need, the building of his orgasm. Sometimes it didn't take much and sometimes it took everything, and he'd lost control of himself the first time Dove laid the bullwhip on his skin, so Simon let Dove shake him to pieces, choked on air as he shuddered and came without a hand on his own cock, just Dove buried deep inside him and his mad desperation spread across his skin for everyone to see.

Oh, Christ. He was going to pass out.

“Fuck, Simon.” There was awe in Dove’s voice, the sound of it odd and coming from far away as everything went gray at the edges. He was floating and Dove was holding him, holding him up, holding him like a lover and coming in his ass, and then it slid away from him, black creeping over him.

“Simon? Jesus fucking Christ, you asshole, open your eyes!” He was down on the floor, and Dove was too loud, too close. Not behind him anymore.

“What the fuck,” Simon croaked. His body felt oddly heavy, his head oddly light, and he was so fucking tired. He cast about for something he recognized - Dove's voice, so he focused on that, and then he remembered, and he really had passed out. “Christ. Whipped me that hard.” And he had to smile, because hadn't Dove given him what he wanted? Blood and pain, and so what if it proved too much? He'd always gone over the edge, when he could see it.

Simon lifted his hand, blinking at the way it shook, and reached up to touch Dove's face. “Needed that,” he whispered. “Knew you'd give me what I wanted. Took me apart, reminded me. Found my place again, pretty bird.”

“It’s what I do,” Dove said with a grin, the words light. His eyes told a different story though; they were still bright, but they weren’t sharp anymore and the nasty glint was gone. Dove was settled too. “But try not to pass out anymore - scares the bosses. Cops would have a fucking field day in this place, you know?”

“Haven't done that in years.” Simon couldn't move very well, couldn't really move at all, but he managed to sling an arm around Dove's neck and pull him close for a kiss. He couldn't think of any other way to tell Dove how very badly he'd needed that arm, needed to bleed and to hurt, how very badly he'd needed Dove to whip him into madness and then fuck him back to sanity.

Dove’s tongue slid along his own, a hand suddenly at the back of his head, keeping him there as Dove tried to take control of the kiss. There was hunger there, and the flavor of understanding. It was brief and rough and Simon thought there might have been a thank you in it to him as well. A need met for a need met, and shared demons had been put to rest for a while longer.

“Take care of your back?” Dove offered a little breathlessly when he let Simon go.

“Of course.” Simon was a little breathless as well, and he felt like an invalid when he got to his feet and found that standing up straight was too difficult, so he leaned on Dove all the way to the little room with the cot and the first-aid kit, where he could lie down again and let Dove finish taking care of him.

Dove didn’t say anything while he sprayed Simon’s back, but he was messing with the bandages longer than usual, taking his time. “I’m glad you came back,” he finally said softly. “Been... thinking. Needing to play, you know?”

Simon closed his eyes, listened to the sound of Dove's voice, tried to work out what he meant. “Reckon the Chamber'll take us back?” he asked.

“Might,” Dove said after a pause. “Want to?” There was barely concealed hope in the question.

“Gonna need the money....” But that wasn't the answer Dove wanted. Simon knew. He opened his eyes, grinned a shadow of the wicked, crooked grin. “Wouldn't turn it down, the chance to play with you.”

For a second he was sure that Dove was going to kiss him again but Dove pulled back instead and cleared his throat. “I’ll make some calls,” he said, standing up. “I... I better go. Take your time, rest up.” Then he leaned over and did kiss him, hard. “I’ll call you.”

“Number's changed. I'll leave it before I go.” Simon would never admit it, but he'd missed Dove. No one at the Dungeon, not even Chet, could do for him what Dove did.

But he could still smile, a softer smile now, a little less guarded, because maybe Dove knew, and didn't have to be told. “Be seeing you, pretty bird.”

“Soon.” Dove looked at him for a long moment and then left, closing the door quietly behind him. Yeah. Soon.

It was electric. He'd never been in this place, hadn't even thought about it before, but when he was walking past the beat drew him in, and Dove had slid right on past the bar onto the dance floor, not caring if it was a straight club, a gay club, a fetishist's nightmare... he just wanted to live inside the beat and move with it.

He'd danced until he was soaked, bodies pressing against him again and again. He moved through the dark, fluid and easy, his hair breaking free of it's braids as some skinny boy played with it. He watched the coloured lights catch it, watched it go green on the down beat and then red, then purple. He reached out and touched people, let them groove with him for a little bit before moving on. When the body against his was too soft, the breasts curved and the hips full he backed away, looking for hard ass and harder cock.

Someone gave him water and he gave it back, instinct honed too high to accept a drink from anyone he didn't know. Someone else tried to drag him into the bathroom and he slipped away, not wanting it, just wanting to dance.

He was there for minutes, hours, days, and it only got better. He lost his shirt, had to redo his pants more than once, and had to move faster and harder because the music said so.

Finally he made his way to the bar, his body screaming for water. He downed it fast, too fast probably, and got more.

"Want to fuck?" a voice said next to him, and suddenly he did. After saying no and fending of hands and dick he desperately wanted it. Like he was ready to hump air wanted it.

"Yeah," he said, not even looking around. "Wanna fuck."

And he walked out of the club, as fast as he could considering how tight his pants were, and headed home. Praying to hell that Damon was there
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[15 Feb 2008|09:57pm]
The year Stacey graduated from high school he broke three academic records, was named most likely to succeed—on the official list; the unofficial list had him as most likely to marry a boy named Sue—and got accepted to a string to colleges.

His mom sat down and carefully went through all the offers, the scholarships, the awards and prizes, and she made a chart. It was in three colours and listed his best choices financially, academically, and in geographic location to his family; where the colours over-lapped she put a little red flag and not so subtly pushed him to fill out his letter of intent forms.

Stacey looked at the map, at the chart, at his high school diploma, and thought.

“Go to Harvard,” his dad said.

“Go to Princeton,” his grandparents said.

“Go wherever you want,” Stacey’s mom said, “So long as it’s no more than three states away and will give you a living allowance.”

Stacey thought about it. He walked and thought and thought and walked, and finally just said, “The hell with it. I’m going to do what I want.”

So he got a job at the bookstore on ninth and told his parents he wasn’t going to college.


The year Stacey worked in the bookstore convinced him he wanted to go to college.


Santa Clara University College offered him full tuition and books. His science prize would buy him a meal card for a term, the math prize would pay for beer. The awards for assorted marks, combined with what he’d saved at the bookstore would pay for residence if he shared a room.

Which is where he found Ryce, sprawled across one of the beds in their room. It was a week into classes and Stacey kind of wondered if Ryce ever left their room. But it was okay, really. Ryce was quiet and small and didn’t bug him, and SCUC was a million miles away from home.

“I think I’m gonna dye my hair pink,” Stacey said.

Ryce sat up. “Yeah? All of it?”

“Nah. Just the tips. What do you think?”

“Think you’re nuts. Need help?”

And that was how Stacey started dyeing his hair, and Ryce started helping.

The rumors started about a week later.

When Damon got home from work the sun had been up for all of about ten minutes, turning the steely grey of the sky into something more like the colour of the lemon drops he used to get from his grandma. Not that it made much difference in the hallways of his building--it was all grey in there--but it was nice to know it was out there. Kind of made the morning peaceful.

He let himself in quietly, not sure if Dove would be there or not. Dove worked nights too, mostly, but his hours weren't exactly predictable; the only thing predictable about Dove was that he'd be damn cranky if Damon woke him up. The sunlight was filtering into the living room, and as Damon pulled off his boots he smiled at the blond hair spilling over the arm of the couch. Dove might be asleep but he was on the couch and that was a welcome sight.

A quick shower later and Damon moved into the kitchen, still trying to be quiet as he put the coffee on. He wouldn't be ready to sleep for a couple of hours yet and he usually had breakfast as supper before crashing. He'd just made some toast when Dove rolled off the couch with a soft groan and wandered out to the kitchen, looking like a rumpled and sleepy kid.

"Hey, Dove. Breakfast?" Damon asked, trying not to sound overly cheerful. Too much too soon could send Dove straight into snarky and Damon wanted to preserve the happy morning have thing he had going on.

"Sounds good," Dove agreed, rubbing his eyes. Then he smiled at Damon, an honest to fuck smile as bright as the yellow sunshine and went over to wrap long arms around Damon's waist. "Good night?" Dove asked into Damon's chest.

"Not bad," Damon murmured, not able to stop himself from stroking Dove's hair. "Better morning." And it was, because there wasn't much better than morning snuggling with a sleepy Dove.

They stood there for a long time, just soaking up the smell of coffee and sunshine because it was all too rare, too precious to waste. Hard to ignore the rumbling in his stomach though, and Dove began to laugh at him, sliding down Damon's body to press his ear on Damon's belly.

"Sounds like a train, man. Better get some goodness in there before you start to shake the place down."

So breakfast happened, and coffee happened, and then they were curled up on the couch in a ray of sunshine, talking about nothing in particular. They spoke quietly for a while, their voices low and soft and soothing, hands gentle and calm as they touched hair, cheeks, shoulders. Damon took a nap, his head on Dove's stomach, and when he woke up they were still in the sun, still curled up together.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked, looking up into Dove's face.

"Just this," Dove whispered.

And because it was a gift of sorts, wrapped up in morning sunshine, Damon smiled when he nodded.


He gave the people gathered at the table with him a rueful smile and stood up, taking out the pager and turning it off. "I apologise for the interruption," he said with a calmly. The pager readout had no phone number to call back, simply the word 'Sir'. "This will take only a moment." Without waiting for their reaction he turned and walked to the small desk behind him and picked up the phone, dialling Michael's cell phone.

The first time Charles had heard the pager he'd called the same number to find his lover nearly beside himself with stress and anxiety, having just received word that he'd been called into an emergency meeting of the Board, set for the following morning. Sure that he'd been about to lose his job and any chance of career success, Michael had turned to his Master for escape and then grounding. Charles had put Michael through hell before putting him back together, making sure that above all else Michael's confidence in himself was intact. As it turned out, Michael had been promoted for his unorthodox approach, and had been embarrassed by the neediness he'd displayed. Charles had allowed him to work it out for himself, watching carefully as Michael evaluated why he'd been pushed to the extreme of using the pager. It had taken a while, but eventually Michael had found his peace.

The second time, three months after the first, Michael had answered the phone in a state of shock, words tumbling out in an uncontrolled rush. His father had been killed in a car accident and Michael's sense of control had been shattered to the point that he was incapable of anything, almost insensible with sudden grief. That night Charles had comforted and controlled, let Michael escape to a safe place, somewhere where he knew he was absolutely safe.

Now it was only the cessation of ringing that let Charles know someone had answered the phone. "I got your page," Charles said casually, mindful of his employees behind him. No doubt they all looked busy, pouring over their files… and no doubt they were all listening shamelessly.

"Sir," came the whispered reply.

Charles was glad he'd turned his back; there was utterly hopelessness in Michael's voice, a void where there should be laughter or at least determination. It was only iron control that kept him from showing any reaction. "I'm in a meeting," he said, glancing at his watch. "Seven o'clock?" It was almost four now, and Charles knew he'd need at least an hour to make preparations.

There was a short pause and he was suddenly afraid that for whatever reason Michael had done something terrible, and that he'd waited too long to call. Charles hadn't been prepared for the way his body seized at the thought. Life without Michael would not be tolerable.

"Of course, sir," Michael finally said, a little louder. The rise in volume only increased Charles' awareness of the devastation Michael felt; he had never before sounded so broken, so desolate.

Charles made a fast choice and shook his head. "No, actually that won't work. Meet me at five thirty, I can deal with this tomorrow. If you get there first, order me a white wine?" He hoped to hell that to the others in the room he sounded like he was setting up an extremely early business dinner.

"Thank you, sir," Michael said immediately. "Five thirty, the white room. I'll be ready."

"Good. I'll see you then," Charles said and hung up. Then he turned to his collection of vice presidents and said, "That's all for the day, people. Thank you."

They filed out, some eagerly, some talking about the business covered, and one or two looking frankly curious. Charles didn't care-he had to go take care of the one thing more important than his company. Business, for once, could wait.
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[15 Feb 2008|09:55pm]
“Um, one of the poli-sci ones,” Stacey admitted. “It’s nothing.”

Ryce snorted. “Jesus, don’t get like this, Stace. Not with me, or about me.”

Stacey shook his head. “Not what I mean, man.” He smacked Ryce’s ass and left his hand there. “Just no point, that’s all.”

“Ah. Your Clark.”

“No, because that’s stupid. You should totally ask Clark our, dweeb. I meant this guy’s probably straight.”

Ryce snickered. “Yeah, whatever.” He paused for a second and then said, “So? What’s he look like?”

Stacey shrug as best he could. “I dunno.”

“What does he look like?” Ryce asked again, a little louder.

“Not as tall as me. Brown hair short on the sides and back and longer on top, blue eyes, tight black jeans, great ass, broad shoulders, little tummy, white t-shirt with a blue shirt on top, unbuttoned, sneakers and an earring. Nice smile, white teeth, and I think he wears glasses sometimes ‘cause he’s got a bit of a squint.”

“Oh, so you didn’t really get a good look?”

“Shut up.”

Ryce laughed at him. “So, what year is he in?”

Stacey bit his lip. “Don’t know. He’s older than us, though.”

“Yeah?” Ryce looked curious. “By a lot?”

With a shrug Stacey said, “Few years.”

“What, he’s like fifty?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Maybe thirty. Maybe. Probably younger.”

Ryce didn’t look like he cared much. “Whatever. So. Blowjob or hand? Where do you want to start tonight?”

Stacey stared at him and blinked and then started to laugh. “Whatever, man. Whatever.”


By week three Stacey knew he was in trouble. He managed to sit at the back, managed not to draw attention to himself—and thus his inability not to get a honking big boner every class—and he managed to look like he was taking notes. And every Monday, Wednesday and Friday he’d go to the library and read what he’d missed in class because he hadn’t heard a word of it.

He’d memorized every expression Dr. Stacy made. He knew the tone of his voice, knew the timber and resonance of it, knew when the man was making a point.

He just had no clue what the point was.

Stacey was used to studying in his room, so the library thing was actually a distraction he needed. Without the oh so necessary of job of seeking out a quiet place to study he’d have merely fled to his room, locked Ryce out and whacked off. Not that Ryce wouldn’t have helped, but that just felt weird. Kind of… rude. Ryce pointed out that Stacey talking about Clark when they were having sex was probably rude too, but he didn’t ask him to stop or anything.

He was trying to decide which of them was more pathetic when he heard Clark’s voice, just on the other side of the stacks, and the surprise of it made him stop walking even though part of his brain was yelling for him to just keep on moving.

Of course, he didn’t.

So, he stood there and listened to Clark ask some guy to help him with English and had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud at how freaking obvious they were. The “I need some help with this paper” took less than three sentences to change into “So, your place then? Your roommate won’t mind?” and was met with earnest, if casual, reassurance that they’d be alone.

He decided not to tell Ryce.


“It sucks,” Stacey said flatly. “It’s too short to do anything with, and it’s going to be months before I can cut it into anything decent.”

Ryce ran a hand over the stubble covering Stacey’s scalp. “Can dye it, though. Make you pretty again.”

Stacey shook his head and moved away, looking for his math book. “Nah, thanks anyway.”

“Don’t let one bad dye experience kill the thrill, man! Besides, I’m here this time, I’ll take good care of you.” Ryce waved an imaginary bottle at him. “You know you want to…” he teased.

Stacey laughed and shook his head again. “Nope. Don’t want to stand out anymore, but thanks anyway. Hey, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you take care of me anyway.”

Ryce threw a ball of paper at him. “Oh joy. And taking care of you tonight will be different from last night and tomorrow how?”

“Won’t, I guess. Wanna skip it?”

“Don’t be stupid.”


It was the first day that he’d not be able to avoid actually speaking to Dr. Stacy.

He was ready. He was dressed in clothes that didn’t suck, his hair was slightly more than peach fuzz but not fluffy, and he’d written the paper. It might even be a good paper, he didn’t know. All he knew was that at the end of the class he’d have to hand it in, say something and leave.

It was the first class he’d taken since he got to SCUC that he didn’t spend half the time in class talking and asking questions. The people who sat near him we starting to give him odd looks, they knew he was being weird.

Oh man, what if Dr. Stacy thought he was weird? What if he already knew about the Miller guy who never shut up and had top marks? What if he thought Stacey hated him?

What if he thought Stacey liked him?

He resisted the urge to slam his head on his desk.

He watched the clock and fingered the edge of the paper; five pages of words he kind of remembered. Six minutes left and then he’d have to walk up there with everyone else and pass it in.

Four minutes.

“…so I’m setting up special office hours to talk to each of you about it. Check my office door, and if the time assigned conflicts with a class or lab, tell me and we’ll work something out. Now, I’m going to need probably half an hour of your time one and one, so make sure you pick a time when you’re not going to have to run away…”

Stacey stared, tried to figure out how he was going to get through half an hour of one on one without coming in his jeans, and decided he’d have to drop the class. It was the only way.

But first he had to pass in this paper.

And then find Ryce. Jesus.

Stacey shrugged and tossed his clothes into the laundry bag, noting that the current hair dye had wrecked another t-shirt. “Summer class. Going to finish this up in three years and get out.”

Ryce pulled a face and gave him a critical once over. “Your tips are fucked, man. Time to trim and bleach.”

“Sounds like an evening.”

They did red, and in the middle of it Ryce said, “You know, if you were my size you could go all blue for a few days and do an Oz thing. You’re too freaking tall to pull it off, though.”

Stacey peered at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked finally. Stacey wasn’t so big on pop culture, preferring to read text books than watch TV, which he considered a colossal waste of time and an energy drain. Movies were worse, unless there were more seven explosions—explosions in large numbers tended to get him hard, something he thought was a little scary and never told anyone.

“Oz. You know, on Buffy.”

It took him a couple of minutes. “Show with the blond vampire?”

“Yeah, that’s Spike. I mean the werewolf.”

Stacey shook his head in mock dismay at Ryce’s TV habits, and they wound of doing streaks instead of tips.


Ryce went home for the summer, of course, and Stacey stayed, going to classes and devouring the reading lists for his fall classes. He wound up spending long afternoons in the Poly–sci lounge because it was quiet and there was usually a prof or two around to talk to. He got into a long and fairly heated discussion with Dr. Reed one afternoon, and it turned into an evening at the campus bar, and then into a fairly regular lunch and debate thing.

Dr. Reed was almost seventy and had been at SCUC for more than thirty years. He knew everything and everyone, and was more than happy to trade salacious stories of the past three decades for a fresh glass of beer or two; Stacey found himself looking forward to spending time with the old man, and not just for the theory discussions. He also found himself wondering why it was always the engineers that got blamed for everything when it was clearly the arts department who stirred up the most trouble.

“So, boy. Where are you going to do your graduate work?” Dr. Reed asked during one of their evenings in the student union bar.

Stacey shrugged. “Don’t know. Got a while to sort it out.”

“Aye,” the man agreed. “But you listen to me. Weird hair aside, you got a damn fine head on your shoulders. Don’t fuck it up, boyo. No falling in love, no running off to find yourself, no taking up surfing. You have a lot to do in this life.”

Stacey just grinned and bought another round.


In August he suddenly realized that the room didn’t smell like sex anymore and he started to count the days until Ryce would be back.


“Jesus, look at you.”

Stacey grinned and stood up, letting Ryce just stare at him. “Got bored with the hair dye.”

“You spilled it all over yourself, didn’t you?”

“Well yeah. It was fucked, man, had to shave it all off.”

Ryce tossed his bag on his old bed and nodded. “It’ll grow back. We’ll have the bleach out in no time.”

Stacey nodded and shifted his weight, wondering what next. He was glad to see Ryce, glad he was back and that things were going to get back to normal, if they were. He just didn’t know how to find out.

Then Ryce locked the door and almost tripped as he shoved Stacey to the bed, and he figured normal was back.


“Fuck me,” Ryce whispered.

It was dark, they’d been sleeping a while, long enough for Stacey’s arm to fall asleep along with the rest of him.

“What?” he whispered back, sure he’d heard that wrong.

“Fuck me, Stace. Please?”

“No, man.” Stacey was struggling to sit up, tugging Ryce with him. “That’s… that’s, like, way beyond. That’s… special.” And he was shit scared, too.

But Ryce didn’t fight him on it, only sighed and pulled him back down. “Whatever. You’re stupid.”

“Maybe. Go to sleep.”

And maybe he was stupid, but Stacey didn’t think he could do that with Ryce, didn’t think he had the right. He knew someone did, knew there’d be someone for him, too, but it wasn’t Ryce. Ryce was for goofing around, for kissing and feeling and touching. He wasn’t for the soul though, and that was all right—he wasn’t supposed to be.


On the second day of classes of Stacey’s second year at SCUC he walked into Poly-sci 2015 and found out that Dr. Reed had decided not to teach it after all. Pissed ‘cause he liked Reed’s lectures, Stacey stomped his way to the back of the class and was working on a good sulk when a man walked in and dumped a beaten up leather bag on the front table.

“Good morning, I’m Dr. Stacy, and this is Poly-sci 2015. If you’re in the wrong room, leave now. If you’re in the right room, grab a pen, we have a lot of work to do.”

Stacey stared. His dick went sproing, his head went ‘nononono’ and his heart went ka-thud.

He was pretty sure he was about to fail his first class ever.

Stacey looked across the room at the unmade bed. “Don’t see him, man, but you can scope it out for yourself if you want.”

That earned him an eyeroll. Guy seemed kind of unshakeable, like he was just one of the guys and this is what guys did. Maybe guys in residence did do this… Stacey wasn’t sure. “Know where he is?”

“Excuse me,” Ryce said from the other side of the door guy, and squeezed past.

“Oh cool! Okay, here’s the thing. I’m Clark, I live on third floor. I’ve been hearing the talk and I just wanted to let you know that if either of you wanted to talk or anything, I’m always around. Need information, want to know who the good doctors are, who to avoid, whatever… just grab me. Put a note in my mailbox if you have to, or drop by the student union—I’m head of the GLBT this year, so I’m around there too. The clinic has free rubbers and lube, but not much by way of information, so the GLBT has a bunch of resources and numbers you can have. Oh, and here, take this flyer--there’s a dance next week. You should come, meet some people.”

And then the guy named Clark who seemed to thing they were gay beamed at them both and left, closing the door behind him.

Stacey stared at Ryce. “Um.”

Ryce’s jaw was hanging open. “I’m… I don’t… I’m not gay.”

Stacey looked him over, took in the flushed skin that suddenly paled, and raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Me neither.”

Ryce glared at him. “Okay. I’ve never—”

“There’s a difference between never doing and never wanting to do.”

Ryce fell back on the bed. “Shut up, Stace.”

“Sure, man. Whatever makes it easier.”

Half an hour later, Ryce said, “So, you gonna go to that dance?”

“Hell no. I’m not gay.”


A week later, in the middle of the night when Stacey couldn’t sleep, he heard Ryce roll over in his bad.




“Go with it. What do you want?”

“You ever… ?”




A week after that the question became “You want to… ?” and thus began the first year of Stacey’s coming out process.

Okay, he thought, this isn’t too bad. Ryce is nice, he doesn’t expect anything, and neither of us has anything to live up to. We’re utterly uninterested in each other in an emotional way, and hey, his bed is right there. Can’t get easier than that.

It was pretty easy, actually. They watched each other masturbate, then they helped each other, and then there were kisses. Mouths took the place of hands, and by Christmas break they were pretty sure they’d both gotten past the really bad stage of learning to give head. Ryce still came about seven times a night, but even if he couldn’t hold it he could get it up again and again, so that was okay too. Stacey managed to hold it longer, but that meant Ryce’d only suck him twice, because it made his jaw ache.

By Easter they were sharing a bed almost all the time, mainly because they’d start in one and move to the other one with clean sheets when they’d messed ‘em up. Clark would randomly appear in their doorway, compliment Stacey’s hair colour, invite them to a function they had no intention of attending, and then go.

“What do you think of Clark?” Ryce asked, after one of these visits.

“Poster boy?” Stacey shrugged. He’d been up to his eyebrows in an English paper when Clark had shown up and had barely paid attention. “He’s nice enough. Great swimmer. Man, did you see him in the butterfly demo last weekend?”


Stacey blinked. He knew that tone fairly well, having been the one to create it on a number of occasions. He grinned and looked up. “So, what do you think of Clark?”

Ryce blushed. He actually blushed, which he hadn’t done in moths, not since he’d finally gotten up the nerve to show Stacey The Picture in the New Joy of Gay Sex. That picture had led to a fairly memorable evening, but the blush had been killed. Until now.

“He’s… he’s very nice,” Ryce said.

Stacey got up off the floor, still grinning. “You should go to that dance.”

Ryce shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, Clark wouldn’t… not me. He’s got… so many people, I mean, he’s really hot and nice and I’m just a freshman and he’s so… Clark.”

Stacey just grinned and made sure he brought up Clark’s name later than night when he was jerking Ryce off, made sure to swallow the scream when Ryce came.
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[15 Feb 2008|09:53pm]
As the music shifted seamlessly from one song to another, one body pressed against him replaced by another, he wondered vaguely how long he'd been awake. Long enough for nothing to matter any more, not quite long enough for the ghost to have retreated. He danced harder, swallowed more water from a bottle grabbed off the dance floor, and kept moving.

At some point a lean figure swayed past him and Dove's eyes, then his hands, latched onto the whip fastened to the stranger's hip. Not stopping to ponder how the twink had managed to get into the club with the whip on him, Dove did what he did best and cleared the dance floor around him, people diving away from him as he danced with the whip, adding its sharp bite to the sound of the music.

He was pretty sure no-one bled, but he couldn't swear to it. He didn't care, wasn't capable of caring, even if it had been a part of his nature. The whip was tossed aside and warily the dance floor filled again, although Dove had secured himself a small circle of personal space.

He didn't stop dancing and flitting from one plane to the next until the music stopped, the harsh lights coming up and the doorman smoothly escorting the stragglers out into the night. The smooth was worn off by the time Dove was evicted into the dark, but it didn't touch him, not the way the glare of the street light did, fractured and mean as its light was shot back into Dove's face from a greasy puddle.

"Move it, asshole," a drunk mumbled, brushing against Dove and sending the colour of the light spinning off into space as Dove stumbled.

"Fuck off," he mumbled back, his voice mild as he started walking. It took him almost two blocks to work out where he was, and by then he'd started to settle back into reality and had to chose whether to stay or to try to fight his way back into the inky, blotted out place in his head. Half a block later, with a deep and weary sigh, he realized his choice had been taken from him and it was time to go home.

He took stock of himself as he crossed a block through an alley, not bothering with trying to piece together the time since he'd left the apartment. Running from ghosts was different from chasing his demons; the ghosts meant dancing and staying awake and usually drugs, the demons meant Not A Nice Place and blood and sex. Granted, the ghosts meant sex too, if he needed money for the drug portion, but as a general rule ghost dodging was a solitary experience.

The basics were all where they were supposed to be: he had his boots on, his pants were his own, the shirt was new to him but nice, and the jacket was his. He had no idea how he'd managed to retain the jacket, and he decided to merely be grateful and move on, instead of pondering how he'd kept it.

He patted himself down and found his long forgotten cigarettes, his body kicking into a near orgasm of wanting as soon as he touched them. They were slightly crushed, but he found three that were intact and perfect, the smooth paper of the tube like silk under his fingertips. He lit it and brushed his hair back out of the way before it could be singed, his fingers now sending more signals to his brain. Slick and sweaty and dirty, and Dove grunted. He needed a shower more than the cigarette. Unfortunately, the cigarette was far more practical, there in the alley, and he had to content himself with braiding his hair back as he smoked. It was an exercise in dexterity, the smoothing of his hair from scalp to waist and then inhaling, twisting strands into braids without burning his mouth, his fingers or his hair.

He wondered if that was what meditation felt like. He wondered if Damon would be home, if the locks were the same, if he'd been too long gone this time. He wondered if his face was grimy, if his skin would tell every secret he'd created in the past days. He wondered when he'd last eaten, if the water would be enough to keep him going long enough to take a shower. He wondered if he should walk faster or simply turn and walk the other direction.

He had another cigarette, then another when he got to the apartment building. He couldn't tell if Damon was home, and it wasn't until he walked up the stairs to their door that he thought to check for his key. He stood in the hall, looking at it in his hand and envying it its shiny golden hue for far longer than he should have, not moving until he swayed, exhaustion finally finding him.

The apartment was silent, the light on in the kitchen, and Dove walked quietly in, wincing when he saw a slip of paper on the table. He hated it when Damon left him notes, it felt too much like a test when he read them. He wouldn't ever tell Damon that, however, some sense of right and wrong rearing its head long enough to point out that as long as Damon was teaching him to read it was only polite to at least read the notes left for him.

This one, thankfully, was both short and easy.


I'm at work.

Eat. Shower. Sleep. In that order.

I'll see you when I get home.


Dove nodded to himself, knowing that the note had likely been on the table for a few days, silent and still. Eventually Damon would have thrown it out. Maybe someday he would toss out another note, maybe someday he wouldn't write one, but for right then Dove would follow orders.

He ate, foraging through the fridge and cupboards until his own stink drove him into the shower. He winced as the water rushed over him, too hot and sharp for him to bear for long, but he made it long enough. The bed was cool and inviting, even in the very early dawn or perhaps because of the muted light, and he plunged into sleep.

Waking was a slow, sullen agony which morphed into pounding ecstasy as he was granted three seconds of alert sensibility before he climaxed in Damon's mouth, greeting both the man and the morning with a gasp and a quick grunt of pleased surprise.

Damon sucking him off meant he wasn't in trouble. Damon going down on him meant he was welcome. Damon starting when Dove was that far asleep meant he'd been missed.

"Got money for you," Dove mumbled, both rolling over and tugging Damon into the bed with him, not caring that Damon was still dressed from work.

Damon grinned and held up the wad of bills he'd clearly taking from Dove's clothes.

Absurdly proud that Damon was finally going all out to look after himself, Dove grinned back. "Next thing you know, you'll be wanting to top."

Damon looked away and Dove stared, then started to laugh. Some days, the ghosts made jokes that were too good to pass up.

It didn't work, apparently. The boy suddenly looked terrified, and he found himself smiling and saying, "Don't worry—it's about your paper. Good stuff, I promise."

The boy looked less confused, but the fear didn't lessen, which was odd. He looked like if he could he'd slip under his desk and through the floor, emerging somewhere near Miami, or Chicago, or Sydney. Anywhere but on the campus.

Joshua briefly considered trying again to reassure the kid, but caught the look of avid attention a few were now paying the situation and decided to let it drop. "All right then, people, let's get to it shall we?" he said, picking up his lecture notes.

The class went smoothly enough—the talkers talked, the note takers took notes, and at the end of it there was the usual cluster of six students who had questions. He answered them as quickly as he could, sending each one off with less than his best, he was sure. Most of his awareness was taken up by the silent form still sitting in the back row, hunched over his desk.

Finally the last student left, casting a baleful look at Stacey as she went. Joshua picked up Stacey's paper from his own table and said, "Mr. Millar. I wanted to talk to you about your paper if I could."

At the back of the room Stacey looked up, his face pale, and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Joshua gave a mental shrug and moved to the row right in front of the kid. If he wasn't going to stand up and come to the front, Joshua would go to the back. "It’s brilliant."

"Thank you." Stacey blinked at him and then looked down at his desk. "It—I had to cut a lot to keep to the word limit."

"Yeah, it showed—it wasn't choppy, there just seemed to be a lot you weren't saying. How long was the first draft?"

Stacey shrugged, his eyes flicking up for a moment. "Maybe twelve or fifteen pages?"

"Still got it? I'd love to read it before the main argument got junked in favor of sticking to the assigned scope."

"Um. Yeah, sure. Really?" For the first time the kid seemed animated, rummaging around in his knapsack. "I mean, that's cool—usually I just get told to stick to the point, and some of my more, um, vocal and voluble arguments have been challenged to the point where I just kinda put a sticky note on my mirror—you know, 'you are a sophomore shut up a little'? Oh here it is." He held up a yellow floppy. "Does your computer have an a drive, or do you need a hard copy?"

Joshua, amused more than anything else, took the disk. "This'll do fine, thanks. Anyway, you got an A+, and honestly it's the highest grade I've given out—I wish you'd participate a bit more in class, Stacey."

"Oh. Um." The animation stopped almost immediately, but instead of staring at the top of his desk Stacey looked up at him, blue eyes wide. "I'm really not used to hearing that, Dr. Stacy. I'll try?"

"Thanks," Joshua said, standing up. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the boy to call him 'Joshua', which was just… not right, so he stomped on the idea until it went away. "Did you sign up for our one on one time yet?"

"Yes, sir. Um, Friday afternoon. That is, for Friday, not I signed up on Friday, I think I signed the sheet on Wednesday." He fidgeted nervously and Joshua finally had to back away, worried that the kid was going to die of nervous embarrassment.

This certainly wasn't the student he'd been told about. "Okay, I'll see you then," he assured Stacey, and busied himself with getting his papers sorted out and the disk labeled and put away. He listened to Stacy move around, standing and shouldering his pack, then moving to the front of the class before he looked up again. "See you," he said cheerfully.

Then words died as he took his first look at the whole of Stacey Millar—tall, lanky and moving quickly past him. He was dressed like everyone else on campus, but… more. Colors were more, the fray at the bottom of his jeans was more, the way his t-shirts were layered was more. And Stacey flashed him a quick, nervous grin and fled, and Joshua was left with the image of his ass burned into his brain and his new mantra in place: 'He's a student. He's a student.'


The third year, he’d settled a bit, wasn’t so nervous on the first day of classes that he’d thought he’d throw up, and he’d given up hope of knowing all the names of all the students in the lower level classes. There were bright lights, and low lights, but in a class of seventy-five he was pretty sure he’d only see about twenty of them again, and really it was just easier to wait until they turned up in the classes only the majors took to figure it out. He’d knew the names of the students who participated in class, those who made a point of talking to him, and that was about it.

So when he got to The Paper he was a little surprised. He was fairly sure he’d have remembered talking to a student so… coherent. Concise. Capable.


He read the paper twice and then spent four hours looking through text books to check facts. He then spent a further evening doing internet searches of key phrases, taking care of a niggling suspicion of plagiarism. And finally he walked into Tom Gaudet’s office and passed the rather tattered folder across to him.

“What do you think of this?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Tom raised an eyebrow and flipped the cover open, smirking when he saw that Joshua had carefully taped a dark piece of paper over the student’s name. “Think you have a cheat?”

“Maybe.” Joshua lifted a stack of books off the visitor’s chair and sat. “You tell me.”

Tom lifted his rather stained coffee mug to his mouth and grimaced. “I hate cheaters.”


Tom read. Joshua looked around, wondering how many years it would take before his office looked as lived in. Crammed. Comfortable. Homey.

He looked up when Tom laughed. “You don’t have a cheat, Josh—ua. You have Stacey Millar. Congratulations, you’ll probably learn something this semester, just to keep ahead. Surprised you didn’t twig in class time—I was half terrified by midterms last year.”

Joshua took the folder back, more than a little bewildered. “There’s a girl named Marie who seems to have a good grasp of the work, but nothing like this. What does she look like?”

Tom stared at him. “Tall. Hair looks like a rainbow, never know what color it’s going to be. Skinny. Oh, and a guy.”

Joshua blinked. “No one that looks like that in 2015. And no one that talks like this,” he added, holding up the paper.

Tom looked thoughtful. “Huh. Couldn’t shut him up in 1001 and 1002. And the annoying part was that he was always polite, never challenging… and always right. Always. Best marks I’ve ever given. Nice guy, too. The kid’s in his second calendar year, but he’ll be a Junior after Christmas—extra work load, summer classes, the works. On a three year schedule. Frankly, we’re hoping he goes somewhere else for his graduate work and then comes back here when he’s got a bit of life under his belt. Talk to Charlie Reed if you want, I think he spend some time with Stacey this summer.”

Joshua looked at the folder in his hand and nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe I will. After I figure out who he is.”
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santa clara [15 Feb 2008|09:50pm]
Stacey's final exam of the fall semester had been done, over and finished by two thirty in the afternoon. The party started at five, most of the dorm dwellers congregating in the common room and later moving on to the bar at the Student Union building. Those who were under age, like Stacey, kept drinking and talking in various rooms at the dorm then headed out on the town to see where they could sneak into for more drinking and possibly dancing.

Stacey and Ryce had meandered happily along with the rest, pleasantly buzzed and newly stress-free. There was three days of hanging out and sleeping ahead of them before they would leave for the Christmas break, and Stacey couldn’t have cared less that at least one of them was going to start with a headache.

At the pub style restaurant though, Ryce drifted away from him, caught in the lure of an empty chair at Clark's table, and Stacey found himself the lucky recipient of a waitress who couldn't tell twenty from twenty-one, or simply didn't care. About four glasses of beer later Stacey realized he wasn't having as much fun anymore, was in fact damn close to sleeping, so he flicked Ryce's ear with his finger to get his attention and told him he was heading home.

"You going to be okay?" Ryce asked, peering up at him, his eyes a little bleary.

Stacey nodded, stopping when the room swam a little. "I'll take a cab," he promised. But when he got outside the cool air and smattering of snow falling felt so good he started to walk.

He woke up a bit and kept walking in the general direction of SCUC, more or less just ambling along. He was thinking about the exams he'd written and papers he knew he'd have in the next semester and how he was going to survive another torturous semester with Dr. Stacy, and he didn't notice his drift into melancholy until he was deep in its depths.

With a long, heartfelt sigh, made all the more poignant by too much beer and too little food, he stopped walking and looked around to take his bearings. "Ah, shit," he whispered into the quiet of the night.

The snow was coming down thicker, so wet it was almost rain, and he had somehow turned himself around just enough that he was standing at the end of a specific driveway, three blocks from where he was supposed to be.

And Stacey was just drunk enough, just depressed enough, to walk up the driveway into a small courtyard formed by four small buildings. He crossed the wet pavement to a bench in the middle and sat down, facing Dr. Stacy's apartment.

He'd never been there before, and he studied the building with an overly careful eye, as if it would vanish if he didn't memorize the way it looked. It was only two stories, wide and pale, done in a mock Spanish style that seemed to be all the rage in this area of the city. There was a light glowing in what he assumed to be the kitchen, and another one on the second floor. He had no idea how many units were inside, or if either of the lit windows belonged to Dr. Stacy, but it didn't seem to matter.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when his pocket began to ring. He stared at his coat as it rang a second time and then remembered he'd put Ryce's cell phone in his coat before they left; Ryce had on a sweater without pockets.

Stacey answered the phone cautiously, like he was doing something he shouldn't be, taking calls on someone else's line. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" Ryce whispered in his ear. "You said you'd take a cab."

"Changed my mind," Stacey said, standing up. His pants were wet. All of him was wet, and he noticed he was cold. "Sorry."

"No problem, man, but listen. I'm going to head out with… some people. So don't freak if I come in late." He was still whispering and Stacey could hear voices in the background.

"Finally got your balls and talked to Clark?" Stacey asked, pulling at his damp jeans.

Ryce snorted.

"The night is young, man," Stacey said. "Don't blow it."

Ryce giggled and Stacey rolled his eyes. The line disconnected and Stacey stared at the phone in his hand for a moment, then put it away again, checking twice to make sure it was safely in his pocket. It was more than time for him to be getting home.

He turned to look at Dr. Stacy's building one more time, and froze as the door opened and the man himself stood there, framed in light.


Stacey didn’t move for a long moment, then he did the only thing he could think of, short of running. He walked the few feet to Dr. Stacy's door and looked down at his own shoes. They were wet, too.

"Are you all right?" Dr. Stacy asked, his voice concerned. Stacey could see one of his hands reaching for Stacey's arm before falling away again.

"I'm drunk and I shouldn't be here," Stacey admitted. "Sorry to bother you." He glanced up and then away. "I'm just… I'm gonna go," he said, taking a step back.

Dr. Stacy did reach for him then, his hand warm on Stacey's forearm. "No, no. Come in, you're freezing. Warm up first."

Stacey shook his head, but his feet moved and then he was in a warm hallway, just off a bright kitchen. "I shouldn't be here, Dr. Stacy," he said again. His teeth started to chatter in a backwards reaction to the heat.

"Probably not, and call me Joshua. Please."

Stacey was pondering that as he was led into the kitchen. It was yellow and had white curtains, and there was an open bottle of rum on the table, half empty. He looked at the rum and back at Dr. Stacy--Joshua--and said nothing.

Joshua shrugged. "End of semester."

"We have another one soon," Stacey whispered. He stood still, listening to water drip off his coat onto the floor.

"We do," Joshua sighed. He poured a drink and held it up. "Want one?"

Stacey shook his head. "You're my professor. You shouldn't be giving me alcohol."

"Among other things," Joshua mumbled, turning away. "Why did you come here?" he asked, getting a bottle of cola from the fridge.

"I didn't mean to," Stacey said. He stepped toward the door. "I'm really sorry. I… I just."

Joshua turned to face him, nodding wisely. "I know. But for three weeks we're just Stacey and Joshua, right? And we're drunk and maybe we can just say what needs to be said and move on."

Stacey nodded. "I don’t think so," he said, in contradiction to the nod. "I mean, I don't know if I can actually say… what you need to hear."

Joshua took a long swallow of his drink and moved to stand right in front of him, less than six inches away. "You know what I need to hear?" he asked softly. "Because I don't."

"You need…" Stacey started, then stopped to swallow. "This is so fucked up."

Joshua nodded. "I've been telling myself that for three months."

"And it's not going to stop," Stacey whispered, wishing he could look away. "Not next semester, next summer, next year. I don't… I wish I could tell you I've lost track of how many hours we've spend talking. I wish I didn't know, but I do."

Joshua nodded again and lifted his glass. "Seventeen and a half in my office, forty in class, about three hours scattered over random meetings."

"What are we going to do?" Stacey whispered, his teeth finally stopping their clacking. "I tried to get out of your classes."

"I tried to make sure I wasn't teaching required upperclassman classes next year. No go."

Stacey swayed. "Eighteen months until I graduate?"


"This is December."


Stacey swayed again. "I have to leave. Now."

Joshua nodded sharply but stepped closer. "You really, really do," he said, and then he kissed Stacey. It wasn't a slow easy kiss, and it was a little sloppy because they were both less than sober, but it was a kiss. It would have turned into more, Stacey was terrifyingly sure, but his pocket rang again.

"I have to go," he whispered, ignoring the phone. He kissed Joshua's mouth again. "I'm so--"

"Don't apologize," Joshua interrupted. "Please. And promise you won't wait for me. Don't waste your life waiting."

Stacey lifted an eyebrow. "I didn't mean to feel like this."

"I didn't either. I don't want you to suffer."

Stacey's pocket rang.

"I'm not--I mean, it's not ideal. But now I know I wasn't wrong and I wasn't alone, and god… I really have to leave."

Joshua nodded and kissed him again before stepping back. "Good night, Stacey. I'll…Well. Have a happy Christmas."

Stacey nodded and stumbled down the hall. He opened the door and looked back for a long moment, one hand reaching for Ryce's phone. "I think I love you."

Joshua nodded sadly. "I love you, too."

Stacey sighed and stepped out of the house, flipping the phone open. "Ryce?", he said, as he closed the door behind him. "I'm on my way."


Joshua was in his office far later than he needed to be, but the warm glow from his desk lamp and the stack of term papers to grade seemed more welcoming than his empty apartment. Outside, where night had fallen before six, it was cold and almost bitter with the coming winter. The air was damp and the wind off the water was picking up; his office was a refuge.

Mostly. He looked at the first paper on his pile of marking and sighed. Stacey Millar, the bane and thrill of his teaching career to date. Really, he was going to have to get a firmer control over himself when it came to SCUC's star pupil.

He tossed his pen onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, his resolve to get some work done fading away. He wouldn't allow himself the luxury of dwelling on Stacey, he promised himself, but three minutes later he realized he was still thinking about him, about the last time they'd had office hours together--a second half hour session that had turned into three hours.

Joshua sighed and got up to close his office door, then picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. He wasn't sure if Phillip would answer--he traveled often, and getting in touch with him was often tricky. That had been one of the primary reasons why they'd ended their long-ago relationship, back when Phillip was starting out and Joshua was finishing his second degree. They didn't have time for each other, plain and simple.

To his mild surprise, Phillip answered on the second ring, his voice crisp and business-like.

"Hello, Phillip," Joshua said with a smile. "It's Joshua."

"You lie--Joshua Stacy doesn’t have a phone. If he did, he'd call more often."

Joshua laughed and sat himself down, his feet on his desk. "Funny thing about phones, they work both ways."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Phillip said. "I'm sorry. Life is busy, you know that."

"I do," Joshua agreed. He didn't have any hard feelings about their slack method of keeping in touch. "How's George?"

"Fabulous! And I mean that--as fabulous as a designer can be. He's working on a new line and it looks like it'll be a hit." There was obvious pride in Phillip's voice, a raw excitement that told Joshua more than anything else that his former lover was happy and content.

"Good for him," Joshua said, smiling again. "That's excellent."

"Uh huh. And I'm sure you didn't call to check on our careers, my sweet teacher. What's up?"

"You're far too goal oriented, you know that?"

"Saves time waiting for you to spill your guts in a messy puddle at my feet," Phillip said dryly. "Now. Academics or personal?"

Joshua closed his eyes and tipped his chair back a little more. "Personal."

"Boyfriend, ex, or hopeful?" It was as if Phillip actually liked playing twenty questions.

Joshua made an unhappy sound, almost a whine. "Student," he admitted. "But I swear to your wardrobe gods that I haven't touched him."

Phillip gave a low whistle. "Christ. How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad." Joshua sat up, suddenly uncomfortable. "He's… he's brilliant and hot and sweet and mature and hot and brilliant…"

"Oh Lord," Phillip drawled at him. "All that? Sure he's not a sex god too? Maybe filthy rich and willing to keep you and fulfill every research grant request you've ever had?"

"Phillip." Joshua whined again. "He's just… he's a really smart kid that I connect with. And am attracted to. And want to spend all my time with, and get to know better and eventually ravish."

Phillip laughed. "How old is the puppy?" he asked.

"Almost twenty. Very almost actually, his birthday is in a couple of weeks."

"Could be worse," Phillip said, sounding distracted. "At least he's above the age of consent. And hell, you're only twenty-nine, ten years isn't that much. Damn near the difference between you and me, really."

"Student," Joshua enunciated.

"There is that. But he won't be a student of yours forever, will he?"

"Right, like I'd ask someone to wait almost a year and half before a first date."

"So don't ask. Just… wait and see what happens. You might meet someone. He certainly will--it's a big campus. Have you talked to him about this?"

"Jesus, no," Joshua blurted. "I'm pretty sure even talking to him about it is a breach of guidelines."

"Which brings up grades… I know you, Joshua. You'll be fair to the point of being harder on him than anyone else, just to keep up appearances. Does he know that?"

"Hell." Joshua picked up Stacey's paper. "I tried going through all the tests and papers and doing blind grading--marking out everyone's names so I didn't know who did what. He still shines out above everyone else. This guy is… well, he's smarter than me, that's for sure. Grading isn't much of an issue. In class, he hides at the back and doesn't say anything--for everyone else he doesn't shut up. He avoids looking at me, walks out of every class with his books in front of his crotch, and our office hours together are devolving into us sitting and staring at each other. It's pathetic and weird and I don't have the faintest idea why I don't have the Dean in here lecturing me."

Phillip sighed in his ear. "Oh, sweetheart. You're lost, aren't you? Honestly, at this point, I think you should talk to him. See if he can take classes from someone else next term or something. Maybe some separation will do you good."

Joshua nodded sadly. "Yeah. Maybe. Sure. Something."

"Are you going to be okay? Want to come over?"

"No, thanks. I've taken up enough of your time, but thank you for the offer." Joshua stared at the pile of papers. "I have grading to do anyway."

"Call me in a few days, okay? Let me know what's going on. I'll get George to make us something sweet and sticky and you can come for wine and whining."

Joshua laughed and nodded to himself. "Yeah, okay. That sounds good."

"Call me."

"I will. Thanks, Phillip."

----------------------------------"Tell me!"

Stacey winced, more from banging his head on the wall as he landed than from having Ryce pleading in his ear. "Jesus Christ."

"Sorry. Tell me, tell me, tell me."

Stacey raised an eyebrow and tried to look cool, which was a real stretch considering the boner in his pants and the fingers scrabbling at his fly. "Tell you what?"

Ryce looked up and him and frowned. "Tell me how your half hour one on one with Dr. 'God, he's so hot' went. You know what. And how come half an hour turned into two hours? Were you with him this whole time? Huh? Were you?"

Stacey would have answered, but Ryce'd managed to get his jeans open and Stacey's dick out. He would also have asked why Ryce was so wound up when Stacey was the one being tormented by being so close to the untouchable, but even as the words formed in his head Ryce was practically chewing on his tongue and speech was out of the question.

His lower brain functions took over and Stacey shelved conversation in favor of getting off. He pushed into Ryce's hand and set to work on reciprocating, shoving his hand down the front of Ryce's loose sweatpants. In moments they were lost, humping and kissing and wiggling for better leverage. Ryce moaned into his mouth and gasped something, and Stacey rolled, pinning him to the bed.

His hips rocked back and forth as he dragged his dick against Ryce's leg and cock, and they gave up on hand jobs, pushing and sliding harder against each other. When Ryce wrapped his legs around Stacey's hips and bucked up, it was too good, far away from right and true but close enough, and Stacey came all over him in a burst of light, not knowing if Ryce was following or not.

Judging by the amount of junk on his t-shirt and the smirk on Ryce's face, though, he had, and Stacey let himself be a little relieved. He didn't like to think of himself as selfish lover.

"So?" Ryce asked again as they mopped up a little and started to breath normally.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. That."

Ryce smacked him. "So?" he demanded.

Stacey rolled to his feet and went to look for clean clothes on his side of the room. "So, half and hour turned into longer. We just talked, mostly about theory and the middle east, and then it was time to leave 'cause he had another appointment," he said, leaving everything important out.

Like how Dr. Stacy's eyes never left his face for more than a second, and how they could talk about academics on even ground. How near the end of the meeting they'd drifted so far off topic that Stacey wasn't sure how they'd gotten onto wine and vineyards and didn't really care. How they'd talked about movies and art and how there wasn’t enough for anyone underage to do in Santa Clara, but there was always galleries to go to if one liked that sort of thing.

Stacey did. Dr. Stacy did. And there was a weird moment when Stacey had been positive that one of them was going to suggest that very thing, but they'd both blinked and the silence had been awkward, sudden and wrong.

They'd talked and talked and the entire time Stacey had been fighting off his body, trying not to shift in his chair. Dr. Stacey was funny and smart and he seemed to know it; in another setting Stacey would have thought the man was showing off for him. But they were in his office and it was natural for Dr. Stacey to talk about his academic life and to bring up topics relevant to that--it wasn't entirely coincidence that they were things Stacey liked to talk about, he was a poly-sci major, after all.

Still, it had been torture and wonderful, and Stacey had fled back to his room and into bed with Ryce--although he'd had some help with that. He tugged on clean jeans and eyed his roommate, still wiping his stomach with the wet t-shirt. "And what got into you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's a little freaky, you getting off me having a boner for someone else."

Ryce colored gently and bit his lip. It was endearing, really, and Stacey had to smile. Ryce was too cute for words, sometimes.

"Um, had some company when you were gone. There's another even thing coming up."

Stacey laughed and tossed him a clean shirt. "Ah. And how is dear Clark?"

"Hot," Ryce sighed. "Very, very hot."

"Yeah, well. You get up the nerve to ask him out and I'll work on staying in Dr. Stacy's class, all right?"

Ryce snorted. "You don't have a choice. I do."

Stacey nodded. "You do," he said seriously. "So get over yourself and make the right one."

Ryce sighed again. "You too, Stacey. I don't like the idea of you pining."

Stacey didn't either, but he doubted he'd stop. Like Ryce said, he didn't really have a lot of choices.

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