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Del (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} big_bad_wolf) wrote,@ 2007-05-31 18:14:00 |
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Band of Brothers (7)
Title: I'm Not Trying To Undress You: I Want To Intellectually Impress You.
Pairing: Speirs/Nixon
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Word Count: 2,867
Rating: NC-17
Lewis Nixon is wrapped up tight in post-VE celebrations dreams of garden parties. He's not overly fond of garden parties - they involve linen suits, which he loathes, and his father being drunk and obnoxious, which he loathes all the more for knowing it's very much like him, and they involve an endless revolving selection of filthy looks from his wife as he fails to behave in a manner befitting of ... something. He is dreaming of how the sky above West Virginia will fill with the jellyfish shapes of falling infantry and how the grass has caught fire when something jabs him in his ribs.
"Grr," Nix says as coherently as a man with a sock for a tongue can, and wraps himself more tightly in his borrowed eiderdown.
The next thing he knows he's on the floor and aching and the eiderdown is gone. Yanked away. He's not sure if the ache or the memories of similarly rude awakenings at school hurts him more.
Nix squints at the boot beside his face.
"Get up," says Captain Speirs, a few thousand miles above Nix's aching head.
Nix says something arch and grumpy about assaulting a superior officer which he doesn't entirely mean, and Speirs toes him none-too-gently in the shoulder with the tip of his very shiny boots.
"Didn't you get demoted for -" there is a clink, and Nix suspects Speirs has poked the bottle mortuary surrounding his temporary bed in order to make his point. Many, many bottles of champagne and assorted other fine beverages have met their doom in recent hours at Nix's hands - about the only things that ever have apart from his marriage.
Nix says nothing but considers moving into a more defensible position. Perhaps the foetal one. Anything to stop his head aching.
"Get up," Speirs repeats.
"I'm not moving," Nix groans. "I can't. And there's no reason to, the war is fucking over. Leave me alone."
"You still have responsibilities," Speirs reminds him, giving Nix another insistent toe-prod. "The occupying army has to be kept in check. The occupied civilians have to be dealt with. You have to go out and take surrenders."
"I'm not sure I can manage being surrendered to," Nix grumbles. It is cold down here on the floor, while he's naked and hungover, but he's sure moving will make him throw up, so he settles for squinting at Speirs' knees and hoping for compassion. "Surrendering I can do. I will surrender like France if you just let me go back to bed for an hour."
"That would hardly be appropriate," Speirs says gravely, and pokes Nix with his toe again, which Nix is pretty sure is hardly appropriate either. "Of course, if you want to bargain with me - "
"I don't have anything left," Nix explains to Speirs' knees. "I drank ... I think I actually drank all of it."
"No cutlery?" Speirs prods Nix again. Nix considers rolling out of the way of his foot, but rolling involves moving and moving involves vomiting and he's been doing too much of that lately. "No candlesticks?" Another prod, this time in the sternum. Nix barely sees the foot move, but it's not a hard enough kick to bruise him. Just persistent and unbelievably annoying. "No photograph frames?"
"Nothing," Nix confirms irritably.
"Then I guess you're just going to have to get dressed and start collecting up revolvers. Those officers won't surrender to NCOs, Captain Nixon." There is a long pause, during which Nix thinks don't you "Captain Nixon" me, and sounds petulant even inside his own head. And Speirs adds in a friendly voice, "or you could do me a favour."
"Uh-huh ... " Carefully noncommittal even when he was hugging the carpet, Nix thought proudly. Because who knew what kind of favour Speirs had in mind? Not that he believed any of the stories, of course, but soldiers weren't exactly known for their conventional and genteel behaviour.
"Lick my boots."
"What?"
"You heard me, Captain Nixon."
"They don't look dirty," Nix points out. He can actually see his reflection in them, in fact, and he rather wishes he couldn't because it's not an attractive sight.
He rolls onto his back at last and looks up at Speirs' I-Was-Just-Fucking-With-You grin, and realises that he's going to have to get up anyway.
"Fine, I will."
"What?"
Nix rolls back onto his stomach and puts his face to Speirs' boot, his probably very stinky morning breath clouding the pristine surfaces. Speirs puts a lot of work into those boots, and Nix has a tongue that could rival the mouth of the Hudson for grossness and smell right now. "I said fine, I will lick your damn boots."
'Bloody-minded, and frequently perverse' has been a favourite descriptor for Lewis Nixon since he was old enough to say "NO" and pout. His teachers used it, his parents used it, his wife used it, his employers used it. Even Dick has found cause to roll his eyes and suggest that Nix is being too stubborn for his own good. Right now Nix knows very well that he's doing this because Speirs thought he wouldn't, not because he even gives a shit about getting any more sleep. His head feels like it's been rolled around in some kind of industrial machinery and his stomach is threatening immediate evacuation through any means possible (he wonders if it's possible to sweat vomit), but that isn't stopping him from extending his pink-and-yellow tongue and licking tentatively at Speirs' boot.
It tastes of wax.
"Er," Speirs says above his head. It is the first time Nix has ever heard of Ronald Speirs hesitating. He is not a man of indecision or inaction; rumours or rumours, that much is definitely true. "I didn't mean that ..."
Nix ignores him, and struggles his arms out from under his chest, cupping the boot by the heel and the ankle and hauling his face closer to it. He decides to got town on it. Lick like a damn dog. You thought I wouldn't, huh? He brings his lips into it, starts frenching on the boot, half eating icecream with his mouth and half ... he's not really sure what the other half is. His mouth probably looks like that Aldbourne girl's did when she was ... that was a thought.
"Are you still drunk?" Speirs sounds uncomfortable. Nix is surprised. Discomfort isn't something the perfect soldier displays under normal circumstances either, and while having a naked captain frenching your toe isn't exactly normal circumstances Nix knows they've been living under much, much more extraordinary times than this.
Nix runs his tongue along the stitching, feeling each groove and bump against that wet muscle. He appreciates that these are very ordinary boots, made by the thousand, and that they're worn by a very extraordinary man – and he's pretty sure they broke the mould when they made Captain Speirs. The man in question has shifted his weight but seems to be in no hurry to yank his pristine boot away from Nix's less-than-wholesome mouth, so Nix goes right on, outlining letters on the toecap. Mouth to boot in a kind of footwear cunnilingus.
There's some rustling above his head, and Speirs' trouser legs bunch up above his boots, slide down. Nix ignores it. He can't ignore the rasp of rough palms on skin, though, and he pauses in his unconventional spit-polish to look up.
Ronald Speirs has his trousers down around his thighs and a full hard-on dragged from his thermals, nestling in his hand. He's stroking it lethargically and he looks Nix in the eye casually, like Nix licks his boots every day and he's breaking some sort of faith by glancing up, and says, "Don't stop," in a conversational tone. Conversational for Speirs, anyhow: the tone that always sounds as though he has something on his mind.
'Bloody-minded and frequently perverse' Lews Nixon does as he's told, turns his face back to Speirs' toe and imagines it's skin – the buttocks of some girl, maybe. He slobbers with renewed enthusiasm, marvelling a little that there is not the smallest trace of boot polish on his lips, or mud.
Captain Speirs is a conscientious man, a thorough man, and it shows in his boots; and he, Nix, is a slapdash and emotional man, and it shows in his nudity and his position right now.
"You look like a maggot," Speirs informs him. His tone is dispassionate but his voice is breathy, and above the thud of his own heart Nix can hear the rustle of Speirs' sleeve brushing over his clothing, the slap of skin on skin.
Nix proceeds to surprise himself by wishing it were skin on his skin, and covers his confusion by "accidentally" tugging Speirs' trousers down a little as he changes his grip on the size nine standard (everyone's a size nine, but Speirs is the shiniest size nine).
"Are you trying to undress me, Captain Nixon?"
Nix just nods unapologetically and keeps on licking. This exercise is making his tongue raw. He could soothe it with some of that Dutch gin he's pretty certain Private Webster has. Or he could soothe it in some other way.
Speirs squats suddenly, grabs Nix's hair in a thick, black, unwashed and greasy handful, and says flatly, "I won't be brought down to your level."
"You just were," Nix points out mutinously. Speirs' trousers are still down around his thighs, the waistband straining over his thigh muscles, and in the fold of his waist Nix can see the man is still hard. He wrenches his gaze upwards and tries to outstare him instead; foolish move, he realizes almost right away. Speirs could outstare a mirror.
Speirs sighs like Nix just put his rifle together back to front. "You can suck my cock now," he says. It doesn't sound like an insult, or an offer, or even an order. It's just a statement of possibility, the observation that cock-sucking is there on the horizon, if Nix were a cock-sucker. Nix is pretty sure he's not the kind of man who habitually sucks cock, although he's not been too choosy about who has sucked his in the past.
Speirs' knees are spread and just between his thighs, just above, Nix can see the head of his cock with its sole eye staring at him like a challenge. Bet you can't, it seems to say, and that's all Nix needs right now. He's feeling reckless.
Fuck it.
He grabs Speirs by the knees and pulls himself, like an invalid on a staircase, towards Captain Speirs' cock.
The good captain sprawls back on the carpet in surprise, saved only by his elbows, and Nix – naked, triumphant – takes some small mean pleasure in having wrong-footed him. You are at my level, he thinks, and slithering like a hairy hungover eel – a gold watch-wearing eel with a Yale degree, an eel with a divorce and three jumps behind him – he shoves himself between Speirs' thighs.
He grabs Speirs – suppose he'd better be "Ron" if they're about to be on cock-sucking terms – by the hipbones like they're handles, a railing to steady himself on. Grips the base of Ron's cock in his fist and finds it strange how strange of all of this isn't, this soft-skinned thing pulsing in his hands like a fallen fledgling rescued from the family cat, all power and vulnerability wrapped up together in velvety smoothness and surrounded by wiry dark hair. The hair gets caught between his fingers.
He does not look at Ron's face for a reaction, just licks down the underside of his cock the exact same way he just tongued the man's boot.
It doesn't taste much nicer – genital hygiene's hardly a wartime priority – but anything's better than a hungover mouth, and it's kinder on his lips than leather is. Nix bestows a hesitant kiss to the very tip of Ron's dick and it jumps beneath his mouth like a skittish horse.
Nix opens his mouth and corks it with cock. Sucks like it's a bottle of best matured from Inverness. It's kinder on his cheeks than those glass necks; and when Ron's hand touches the place where his hairline starts, brushes a sigil of encouragement there with gun-calloused fingertips – when Ron touches his nape, that's kinder on him too.
He's used to kindness from Dick – perhaps too used to it, perhaps he's started taking to for granted that Dick will always offer him kindness – but Ron's kindnesses are few and far between, and tend to be of the 'shoot the lame horse so it doesn't suffer anymore' variety.
Nix quits thinking about it so much and keeps on opening his mouth until his lips touch the first finger of his fist, and the head of Ron's cock nudges the grooves and ridges of Nix's mouth, fits there so well Nix wonders if the strange inner structure of his mouth was secretly really designed for holding it. It's a weird thought. It's weird how much he likes this; he can feel his own cock leeching the blood from the rest of his body, stirring against his thigh.
The taste of unwashed cock (sweat, dried urine just at the tip) is negligible as Nix recalls his Aldbourne girl's tender lips, and tries to mimic the way she'd flicked her tongue through the trough where his cock split. The curl of her tongue as, like a palm, it cupped his shaft. He rolls the sides of his tongue up to envelope Ron's cock, sucks his cheeks in, and as he bobs his head up, down, the length of Ron sliding in and out of Nix's mouth as easily as any girl's, he moves his hand in time. Can't swallow one whole, Nic thinks hazily, remembering bizarre fraternity games with hotdogs.
Nix's own cock is hard and sore, pressed between his stomach and the floor. He shifts his weight, feels the rough woolen fibres rake over his tender skin, and something hot and driven traverses his spine. Nix thinks his face is probably quite flushed now, but most of it his hidden by Ron's groin and his shirt.
He ripples his hips awkwardly, rubbing his cock back and forth over the rough carpet. It hurts, and it tickles, but it is friction and right now Nix is too wound up for anything but that to matter, and right now –
- right now is when Ron starts pushing up into Nix's mouth, his cock stabbing the roof of it and sliding away. For a while – Nix has no idea how long, time has trickled out of his field of perception like sweat from his shoulders – they are a perfectly synchronized caterpillar of flesh, Nix's hips and his head and Ron's hips all working in time like a line of can-can dancers, accelerating towards some grand finale -
Nix has a moment of dreadful moment of clarity: I'm humping the floor with a dirty penis in my mouth; and it's over, it's over.
Nix comes slowly, each new jet of come smearing up his stomach and down over his thighs, soaking into the carpet and probably staining it with all those would-be mini-Nixons forever and ever. A second or so later, a breath or a heartbeat, just as the post-orgasm horrors are beginning to set into, Ron comes, driving his hips up, half-choking an increasingly reluctant Nix on his cock.
Bitter, coffee-tasting stickiness the consistency of glue fills the back of Nix's throat. He feels like he's drowning. What the fuck do I do now? He thinks in a panic as Ron's cock – sticky, still hard but beginning to droop, pumping a little leftover semen down over itself like the last defiant shots of a retreating army – falls from his lips.
His Aldbourne girl had spat into a china mug on her windowsill with an apologetic smile, wiped her mouth on a handkerchief and offered him a cup of tea before he left; there is no mug within reach and the stuff is beginning to spill over the corners of his mouth like toothpaste-laced spit. Nix swallows.
It is very bitter.
He sits up and tries, awkwardly, to arrange his hair. It's a job for a comb and a vat of Brylcreem, not his shaking fingers.
Ron – Speirs, now he's dressed again – is once again impeccable and implacable. "Awake now, Captain Nixon?"
"Yes," Nix admits cautiously.
"Don't you think you ought to get dressed?" Speirs suggests. He is almost out of the door already, his familiar not-smile with its air of smugness strewn across the lower half of his face like Nix's belongings across the bedroom floor.
"Fuck off, Ronald," Nix says evenly, and Speirs smiles a quizzical half-smile at him before doing just that.
There is a stuffy silence to the room after he has left, and Nix sits naked on the floor, contemplating his navel and the drying smear of sperm on the carpet and whether or not he'll ever be able to look Speirs in the boots again with a straight face.
Probably best not to put the question to Dick.
So, who wants to play "spot when Derek got over her allergy to the word 'cock'"?
Title: I'm Not Trying To Undress You: I Want To Intellectually Impress You.
Pairing: Speirs/Nixon
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Word Count: 2,867
Rating: NC-17
Lewis Nixon is wrapped up tight in post-VE celebrations dreams of garden parties. He's not overly fond of garden parties - they involve linen suits, which he loathes, and his father being drunk and obnoxious, which he loathes all the more for knowing it's very much like him, and they involve an endless revolving selection of filthy looks from his wife as he fails to behave in a manner befitting of ... something. He is dreaming of how the sky above West Virginia will fill with the jellyfish shapes of falling infantry and how the grass has caught fire when something jabs him in his ribs.
"Grr," Nix says as coherently as a man with a sock for a tongue can, and wraps himself more tightly in his borrowed eiderdown.
The next thing he knows he's on the floor and aching and the eiderdown is gone. Yanked away. He's not sure if the ache or the memories of similarly rude awakenings at school hurts him more.
Nix squints at the boot beside his face.
"Get up," says Captain Speirs, a few thousand miles above Nix's aching head.
Nix says something arch and grumpy about assaulting a superior officer which he doesn't entirely mean, and Speirs toes him none-too-gently in the shoulder with the tip of his very shiny boots.
"Didn't you get demoted for -" there is a clink, and Nix suspects Speirs has poked the bottle mortuary surrounding his temporary bed in order to make his point. Many, many bottles of champagne and assorted other fine beverages have met their doom in recent hours at Nix's hands - about the only things that ever have apart from his marriage.
Nix says nothing but considers moving into a more defensible position. Perhaps the foetal one. Anything to stop his head aching.
"Get up," Speirs repeats.
"I'm not moving," Nix groans. "I can't. And there's no reason to, the war is fucking over. Leave me alone."
"You still have responsibilities," Speirs reminds him, giving Nix another insistent toe-prod. "The occupying army has to be kept in check. The occupied civilians have to be dealt with. You have to go out and take surrenders."
"I'm not sure I can manage being surrendered to," Nix grumbles. It is cold down here on the floor, while he's naked and hungover, but he's sure moving will make him throw up, so he settles for squinting at Speirs' knees and hoping for compassion. "Surrendering I can do. I will surrender like France if you just let me go back to bed for an hour."
"That would hardly be appropriate," Speirs says gravely, and pokes Nix with his toe again, which Nix is pretty sure is hardly appropriate either. "Of course, if you want to bargain with me - "
"I don't have anything left," Nix explains to Speirs' knees. "I drank ... I think I actually drank all of it."
"No cutlery?" Speirs prods Nix again. Nix considers rolling out of the way of his foot, but rolling involves moving and moving involves vomiting and he's been doing too much of that lately. "No candlesticks?" Another prod, this time in the sternum. Nix barely sees the foot move, but it's not a hard enough kick to bruise him. Just persistent and unbelievably annoying. "No photograph frames?"
"Nothing," Nix confirms irritably.
"Then I guess you're just going to have to get dressed and start collecting up revolvers. Those officers won't surrender to NCOs, Captain Nixon." There is a long pause, during which Nix thinks don't you "Captain Nixon" me, and sounds petulant even inside his own head. And Speirs adds in a friendly voice, "or you could do me a favour."
"Uh-huh ... " Carefully noncommittal even when he was hugging the carpet, Nix thought proudly. Because who knew what kind of favour Speirs had in mind? Not that he believed any of the stories, of course, but soldiers weren't exactly known for their conventional and genteel behaviour.
"Lick my boots."
"What?"
"You heard me, Captain Nixon."
"They don't look dirty," Nix points out. He can actually see his reflection in them, in fact, and he rather wishes he couldn't because it's not an attractive sight.
He rolls onto his back at last and looks up at Speirs' I-Was-Just-Fucking-With-You grin, and realises that he's going to have to get up anyway.
"Fine, I will."
"What?"
Nix rolls back onto his stomach and puts his face to Speirs' boot, his probably very stinky morning breath clouding the pristine surfaces. Speirs puts a lot of work into those boots, and Nix has a tongue that could rival the mouth of the Hudson for grossness and smell right now. "I said fine, I will lick your damn boots."
'Bloody-minded, and frequently perverse' has been a favourite descriptor for Lewis Nixon since he was old enough to say "NO" and pout. His teachers used it, his parents used it, his wife used it, his employers used it. Even Dick has found cause to roll his eyes and suggest that Nix is being too stubborn for his own good. Right now Nix knows very well that he's doing this because Speirs thought he wouldn't, not because he even gives a shit about getting any more sleep. His head feels like it's been rolled around in some kind of industrial machinery and his stomach is threatening immediate evacuation through any means possible (he wonders if it's possible to sweat vomit), but that isn't stopping him from extending his pink-and-yellow tongue and licking tentatively at Speirs' boot.
It tastes of wax.
"Er," Speirs says above his head. It is the first time Nix has ever heard of Ronald Speirs hesitating. He is not a man of indecision or inaction; rumours or rumours, that much is definitely true. "I didn't mean that ..."
Nix ignores him, and struggles his arms out from under his chest, cupping the boot by the heel and the ankle and hauling his face closer to it. He decides to got town on it. Lick like a damn dog. You thought I wouldn't, huh? He brings his lips into it, starts frenching on the boot, half eating icecream with his mouth and half ... he's not really sure what the other half is. His mouth probably looks like that Aldbourne girl's did when she was ... that was a thought.
"Are you still drunk?" Speirs sounds uncomfortable. Nix is surprised. Discomfort isn't something the perfect soldier displays under normal circumstances either, and while having a naked captain frenching your toe isn't exactly normal circumstances Nix knows they've been living under much, much more extraordinary times than this.
Nix runs his tongue along the stitching, feeling each groove and bump against that wet muscle. He appreciates that these are very ordinary boots, made by the thousand, and that they're worn by a very extraordinary man – and he's pretty sure they broke the mould when they made Captain Speirs. The man in question has shifted his weight but seems to be in no hurry to yank his pristine boot away from Nix's less-than-wholesome mouth, so Nix goes right on, outlining letters on the toecap. Mouth to boot in a kind of footwear cunnilingus.
There's some rustling above his head, and Speirs' trouser legs bunch up above his boots, slide down. Nix ignores it. He can't ignore the rasp of rough palms on skin, though, and he pauses in his unconventional spit-polish to look up.
Ronald Speirs has his trousers down around his thighs and a full hard-on dragged from his thermals, nestling in his hand. He's stroking it lethargically and he looks Nix in the eye casually, like Nix licks his boots every day and he's breaking some sort of faith by glancing up, and says, "Don't stop," in a conversational tone. Conversational for Speirs, anyhow: the tone that always sounds as though he has something on his mind.
'Bloody-minded and frequently perverse' Lews Nixon does as he's told, turns his face back to Speirs' toe and imagines it's skin – the buttocks of some girl, maybe. He slobbers with renewed enthusiasm, marvelling a little that there is not the smallest trace of boot polish on his lips, or mud.
Captain Speirs is a conscientious man, a thorough man, and it shows in his boots; and he, Nix, is a slapdash and emotional man, and it shows in his nudity and his position right now.
"You look like a maggot," Speirs informs him. His tone is dispassionate but his voice is breathy, and above the thud of his own heart Nix can hear the rustle of Speirs' sleeve brushing over his clothing, the slap of skin on skin.
Nix proceeds to surprise himself by wishing it were skin on his skin, and covers his confusion by "accidentally" tugging Speirs' trousers down a little as he changes his grip on the size nine standard (everyone's a size nine, but Speirs is the shiniest size nine).
"Are you trying to undress me, Captain Nixon?"
Nix just nods unapologetically and keeps on licking. This exercise is making his tongue raw. He could soothe it with some of that Dutch gin he's pretty certain Private Webster has. Or he could soothe it in some other way.
Speirs squats suddenly, grabs Nix's hair in a thick, black, unwashed and greasy handful, and says flatly, "I won't be brought down to your level."
"You just were," Nix points out mutinously. Speirs' trousers are still down around his thighs, the waistband straining over his thigh muscles, and in the fold of his waist Nix can see the man is still hard. He wrenches his gaze upwards and tries to outstare him instead; foolish move, he realizes almost right away. Speirs could outstare a mirror.
Speirs sighs like Nix just put his rifle together back to front. "You can suck my cock now," he says. It doesn't sound like an insult, or an offer, or even an order. It's just a statement of possibility, the observation that cock-sucking is there on the horizon, if Nix were a cock-sucker. Nix is pretty sure he's not the kind of man who habitually sucks cock, although he's not been too choosy about who has sucked his in the past.
Speirs' knees are spread and just between his thighs, just above, Nix can see the head of his cock with its sole eye staring at him like a challenge. Bet you can't, it seems to say, and that's all Nix needs right now. He's feeling reckless.
Fuck it.
He grabs Speirs by the knees and pulls himself, like an invalid on a staircase, towards Captain Speirs' cock.
The good captain sprawls back on the carpet in surprise, saved only by his elbows, and Nix – naked, triumphant – takes some small mean pleasure in having wrong-footed him. You are at my level, he thinks, and slithering like a hairy hungover eel – a gold watch-wearing eel with a Yale degree, an eel with a divorce and three jumps behind him – he shoves himself between Speirs' thighs.
He grabs Speirs – suppose he'd better be "Ron" if they're about to be on cock-sucking terms – by the hipbones like they're handles, a railing to steady himself on. Grips the base of Ron's cock in his fist and finds it strange how strange of all of this isn't, this soft-skinned thing pulsing in his hands like a fallen fledgling rescued from the family cat, all power and vulnerability wrapped up together in velvety smoothness and surrounded by wiry dark hair. The hair gets caught between his fingers.
He does not look at Ron's face for a reaction, just licks down the underside of his cock the exact same way he just tongued the man's boot.
It doesn't taste much nicer – genital hygiene's hardly a wartime priority – but anything's better than a hungover mouth, and it's kinder on his lips than leather is. Nix bestows a hesitant kiss to the very tip of Ron's dick and it jumps beneath his mouth like a skittish horse.
Nix opens his mouth and corks it with cock. Sucks like it's a bottle of best matured from Inverness. It's kinder on his cheeks than those glass necks; and when Ron's hand touches the place where his hairline starts, brushes a sigil of encouragement there with gun-calloused fingertips – when Ron touches his nape, that's kinder on him too.
He's used to kindness from Dick – perhaps too used to it, perhaps he's started taking to for granted that Dick will always offer him kindness – but Ron's kindnesses are few and far between, and tend to be of the 'shoot the lame horse so it doesn't suffer anymore' variety.
Nix quits thinking about it so much and keeps on opening his mouth until his lips touch the first finger of his fist, and the head of Ron's cock nudges the grooves and ridges of Nix's mouth, fits there so well Nix wonders if the strange inner structure of his mouth was secretly really designed for holding it. It's a weird thought. It's weird how much he likes this; he can feel his own cock leeching the blood from the rest of his body, stirring against his thigh.
The taste of unwashed cock (sweat, dried urine just at the tip) is negligible as Nix recalls his Aldbourne girl's tender lips, and tries to mimic the way she'd flicked her tongue through the trough where his cock split. The curl of her tongue as, like a palm, it cupped his shaft. He rolls the sides of his tongue up to envelope Ron's cock, sucks his cheeks in, and as he bobs his head up, down, the length of Ron sliding in and out of Nix's mouth as easily as any girl's, he moves his hand in time. Can't swallow one whole, Nic thinks hazily, remembering bizarre fraternity games with hotdogs.
Nix's own cock is hard and sore, pressed between his stomach and the floor. He shifts his weight, feels the rough woolen fibres rake over his tender skin, and something hot and driven traverses his spine. Nix thinks his face is probably quite flushed now, but most of it his hidden by Ron's groin and his shirt.
He ripples his hips awkwardly, rubbing his cock back and forth over the rough carpet. It hurts, and it tickles, but it is friction and right now Nix is too wound up for anything but that to matter, and right now –
- right now is when Ron starts pushing up into Nix's mouth, his cock stabbing the roof of it and sliding away. For a while – Nix has no idea how long, time has trickled out of his field of perception like sweat from his shoulders – they are a perfectly synchronized caterpillar of flesh, Nix's hips and his head and Ron's hips all working in time like a line of can-can dancers, accelerating towards some grand finale -
Nix has a moment of dreadful moment of clarity: I'm humping the floor with a dirty penis in my mouth; and it's over, it's over.
Nix comes slowly, each new jet of come smearing up his stomach and down over his thighs, soaking into the carpet and probably staining it with all those would-be mini-Nixons forever and ever. A second or so later, a breath or a heartbeat, just as the post-orgasm horrors are beginning to set into, Ron comes, driving his hips up, half-choking an increasingly reluctant Nix on his cock.
Bitter, coffee-tasting stickiness the consistency of glue fills the back of Nix's throat. He feels like he's drowning. What the fuck do I do now? He thinks in a panic as Ron's cock – sticky, still hard but beginning to droop, pumping a little leftover semen down over itself like the last defiant shots of a retreating army – falls from his lips.
His Aldbourne girl had spat into a china mug on her windowsill with an apologetic smile, wiped her mouth on a handkerchief and offered him a cup of tea before he left; there is no mug within reach and the stuff is beginning to spill over the corners of his mouth like toothpaste-laced spit. Nix swallows.
It is very bitter.
He sits up and tries, awkwardly, to arrange his hair. It's a job for a comb and a vat of Brylcreem, not his shaking fingers.
Ron – Speirs, now he's dressed again – is once again impeccable and implacable. "Awake now, Captain Nixon?"
"Yes," Nix admits cautiously.
"Don't you think you ought to get dressed?" Speirs suggests. He is almost out of the door already, his familiar not-smile with its air of smugness strewn across the lower half of his face like Nix's belongings across the bedroom floor.
"Fuck off, Ronald," Nix says evenly, and Speirs smiles a quizzical half-smile at him before doing just that.
There is a stuffy silence to the room after he has left, and Nix sits naked on the floor, contemplating his navel and the drying smear of sperm on the carpet and whether or not he'll ever be able to look Speirs in the boots again with a straight face.
Probably best not to put the question to Dick.
So, who wants to play "spot when Derek got over her allergy to the word 'cock'"?
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