Chapter Text
“Hey, sweets?” It’s a lazy mumble, barely any warning at all before arms are circling around him from behind, freezing him mid-fold of a throw blanket. Startling, his knees knock against the side of the bed where he’s set up his laundry station, but he’s quick to settle back into the embrace after a rueful curse. Lips press just behind his ear in apology, hands smoothing along his hips, then a heated whisper fans over his lobe: “It’s time.”
Frowning in puzzlement, he glances around the unassuming walls of their room as if the answer will jump out at him. “For what?” Are they supposed to go see a movie or hang out somewhere? He’d been planning on a quiet night in, but it’s entirely possible he’s forgotten plans, having gotten used to Yancy’s knack for keeping track of those kinds of things for the both of them.
The short bristles of his beard scrape along the side of his neck as Yancy hums, dotting short kisses there that have him blinking rapidly, his fingers crumpling the blanket in his grip. The change in mood from not ten seconds ago is a whiplash he welcomes, head tipping to the side as he nearly forgets his own question. He’s swiftly reminded when Yancy nips at his ear, answering lowly, “Time for youse’s car to break down.”
For a millisecond, his brow begins to furrow, confusion brewing, but then his brain clicks it all into place, and he knows Yancy catches his sharp inhale where his hold has wandered up over his ribs, and he’s suddenly glad for the support, abruptly unsteady over what it is exactly that his boyfriend’s saying.
Yancy has been thorough since their initial talk on the subject, covering more than Ethan ever would’ve thought went into this, and for that, Ethan is extremely grateful. It had been embarrassing at times to candidly discuss their expectations and preferences, to negotiate kinks, to put all their cards on the table; he’s wildly unused to sex requiring so much open and intentional preamble, having more than enjoyed everything as it’s come naturally to him and Yancy’s relationship so far, and there had been a handful of times during their conversations when Ethan, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, had silently questioned if the discomfitting vulnerability, the (albeit unintentional) prodding of his insecurities, would be worth it. At the same time, Yancy’s meticulousness with the whole deal quieted his uncertainties and showed him just how serious he was about doing this the right way. And, very importantly, it gave him time to prepare himself, to accept that he had, indeed, eventually agreed to try this, with every follow-up discussion and random question cementing further and further that it was happening, that Yancy was prioritizing their safety. Ethan’s so thankful for that, for him.
But he’s realizing in this very moment that all the time in the world could never have prepared him for this, the exact second the idea stepped out and took shape in reality.
“Oh,” he mumbles dumbly, a zap of awareness frying through him, the blanket slipping through his fingers and spooling in a pile of green on the bed. “That time.”
“Mhmm.” Yancy continues nuzzling affection into his neck, his hands caught in a soothing, repetitive rhythm along his sides. “Everything’s ready, we agreed, right?”
Nodding, he bites his lip. They had agreed on that the last time it came up, yes. And he’d meant it, still means it, but the thready pulse of anticipation building with Yancy’s every touch is at war with a sudden flood of anxiety, and he feels cemented in place, fighting the stupid panic he’d known would come to ruin this.
“Uh-oh,” Yancy sing-songs quietly. “Somebody’s in his head. Better save him.” He spins him around, callouses rasping up Ethan’s neck as he tilts his chin up and presses a kiss to his forehead, his nose, and his lips in quick succession, drawing back to gaze down at him softly. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, babydoll.”
He’s waiting with bated breath for the day when talking about his emotions stops feeling like he’s an insect getting pinned in place, no escape. It’s a little easier these days, maybe, but his gut reaction is still to hurl. Which he valiantly doesn’t, instead burrowing his fingers into Yancy’s shirt, maintaining eye contact as though magnetized. “Just—nervous,” he admits, heart thumping harder because it’s a wild understatement.
“Nervous,” he repeats, thumbs petting along his jawline. “A bigger kinda nervous, or is this Civil War Eth we’s dealin’ with here?”
Huffing, he suddenly finds the wall behind Yancy very interesting to look at. His boyfriend’s nickname for Ethan’s ongoing worries over his own skills in this scene is perhaps apt, but the fact that it’s continuous enough to warrant a name in the first place is a blow to his pride. “…I’m gonna fuck it up,” he says faintly, hands finding and squeezing apologetically at his wrists because none of Yancy’s reassurances ever seem to fully stick, and it has to be aggravating, talking him into this over and over when this whole thing is already for him.
Tutting, Yancy tilts his chin to and fro between his hands. “Hm, I don’t see any fuck-ups here, just a very handsome and beautiful face,” he says, all too amused when Ethan squints out a scowl at him. His expression morphs into something solemn and gentle, though, cradling him like he’s some gossamer, ethereal being. “Youse my favorite thing, do ya know that? Nothin’ that happens from this is gonna change how much I love youse.”
It’s horrifying, knowing Yancy’s palms can feel the temperature of his cheeks rise in real time. Does he think turning Ethan into a sentimental, humanoid spaghetti noodle is going to help the situation? “Okay, well, that’s not going to magically make me cool under pressure, babe,” he points out, deflecting.
“No, but so long as ya know there ain’t an ounce o’ that pressure comin’ from me, we can work with this,” he says, patient, always so patient, never upset, not really.
And there it is, that idiotic burning behind his eyes, a toss-up between his internal frustration and his eternal gratitude for this man. Stubbornly, he blinks it back. “I don’t—I don’t know how, Yance. Like, I want this, you know I do, but I don’t have an off switch for my stupid brain—”
“Mm, but I do, Eth,” he murmurs, pressing closer until Ethan’s nearly cross-eyed staring back at him, perplexed by his certainty. “Told ya to trust me at the start o’ this, didn’t I? I’m gonna help ya focus on what’s important.” Then his hands are slipping back, anchoring in his hair to angle his head so he can kiss him, long and deep and slow.
His questions slip from his mind just as fluidly as they’d arisen, the warmth and breath of Yancy consuming his attention. When their mouths finally part, Ethan’s lungs are playing catch-up, hitching when Yancy latches onto his pulse point instead, no doubt feeling the earnest beat of it against his lips, like his heart is saying here, here, at your beck and call, I’m here.
There are hands caressing down his spine and along his hip, urging him backward until the world is tilting and he’s flat on the mattress next to the forgotten blanket, immediately followed by Yancy and his weight draping over him as he nips a trail down his neck. A heated little noise puffs out of him, and he grasps at the skin beneath the hem of Yancy’s shirt, silently forbidding him from going anywhere, and Yancy’s amused hum pressed so intimately against his throat makes him shudder.
“Needy li’l thing,” he breathes, swiftly quieting his potential protest by licking back into his mouth.
Time gets hazy from there, a blur of tongues, of harsh, stolen exhales, of the tidal pull where their sternums rise and fall together, of burnished rings meandering over him—it all becomes the focal point, and he’s bereft when Yancy pulls away, lips glistening. But he’s more than accommodating to the fingers slipping beneath his waistband, shifting his hips to allow his pants and boxers to be removed in a pull that grazes Yancy’s nails along his legs and has Ethan yanking him back to him as soon as the garments are discarded, needing him over him, against him.
Yancy obliges after rummaging in his pocket, mouthing along his jawline as he snags his wrist, slips something over it. Distractedly, Ethan turns to take in the bright, familiar yellow of the coil bracelet and dog training clicker they’ve been practicing with, stylized like a hot dog because they’re both easily amused idiots.
It snaps him out of the spell Yancy’s cast over him, though his voice is still breathy when he asks, “Wait, aren’t we—I thought—?” It’s difficult to finish a sentence with a grown man treating him like a chew toy and rucking his shirt up to his armpits, even when he has many important questions about why they’re veering wildly away from The Plan.
“Gotta be patient,” is the only answer he supplies, too busy skimming his hand down to where Ethan’s dick has taken a vested interest in the situation.
Oh. Well, Ethan is okay with this. They can try another day.
He’s little more than a tease, though, gripping him just long enough to spread the moisture beading at his tip along the shaft, and then he moves on, cheek twitching tellingly against Ethan’s chest when a noise squeaks out of him that is very much not petulant.
Smoothing to his hip, Yancy knocks there, three taps of his knuckles that are light but pointed, and it makes his teeth grit in exasperation. They’ve been over this so much lately, and Yancy’s already given up on the big plan for today, so would it really be so bad to slack this time around? They’ve got this already, they know the drill.
Yet, even in his impatience, there’s a sappy swell of emotion inside him, knowing Yancy’s just ensuring it’s muscle memory for when it matters.
Obediently, he presses the button on the hot dog, one sharp click! resounding. Green is what it means in response to the triple-tap check-in—a solution to Ethan’s tendency to go nonverbal in the throes of it all, and a way to keep the momentum of the scene going without ‘breaking immersion’ or whatever. He’s honestly a big fan, just not necessarily right now when his consent is clearly a given and he just needs Yancy to touch him, please, enough kink homework.
“Good,” Yancy whispers into skin that dapples over with goosebumps in response. Shuffling off to the side and propping Ethan’s thigh over his knee, one hand wormed beneath him and nestled in the mop at the back of his head, Yancy rewards him by finally grasping his cock and starting up languid strokes. “What if I went faster, though?” he asks, rapt on his face as he increases the pace, seemingly with every pass, and even with precum slicking the way, it’s too sudden, too intense, a grating pleasure that has him choking and writhing under the onslaught, the schlick-a-schlick-a-schlick soundtrack a gut-punch to his nerve endings. He latches onto Yancy’s forearm with one hand and white-knuckles the clicker in the other, pressing the button twice. Yellow!
Immediately, Yancy gentles, pausing his movements so he can catch his breath before returning to a more sedate and welcome speed. “Perfect,” he approves, pressing an apologetic kiss to his clavicle.
Ethan forgives him with a little squeeze where he still has his arm snared, heat high on his cheekbones as he watches his hand work over him, tanned fist shining around his reddened head from the mess he’s making, even more so now after his little demonstration. Thank whatever powers there may or may not be that he hasn’t forced Ethan to admit, in so many words, how much he likes when the other man is a touch overzealous, a smidge pushy of his limits.
Well. Actually, that might be exactly what had come of Ethan’s drunken confession, but there isn’t enough blood left in his brain to ponder that right this second.
He’ll never get over the disastrous noises Yancy pulls out of him in these moments, high, wounded things, but his boyfriend has always loved them, drinks them in, pupils wide and hungry for them, so Ethan’s far beyond trying to repress them anymore. Especially when he lets go, the motherfucker, arm pulling from Ethan’s hold; there’s a yip-like quality to the indignant “Uhn?” that follows, his cock twitching where it’s been rudely abandoned against his belly.
“Every time with youse,” he admonishes with a smirk, gesturing to where he’s begun pulling off his rings, and the sight of the familiar routine has him restless, and maybe a little spiteful, begrudging his level-headedness in a time like this.
He wedges his hand between the outside of his bare thigh and Yancy’s jean-clad one, searching, and triumphant to find a bulge waiting for him, pressing insistently into his palm. He folds his fingers around it with a happy hum, only to be thwarted when Yancy angles his hips away, snatching his wrist. “Gettin’ off track, ya damn menace,” he says, pushing the offending hand against the mattress above his head warningly, and Ethan’s confused, but then he notices the rings are gone and Yancy’s magically pulled a small bottle of lube from somewhere, so he promptly stops caring about anything else. His attention darts between it and Yancy’s face, a silent request.
Groaning, almost pained, Yancy clicks open the cap, drizzling it just beneath his sac. Ethan squirms to get his pelvis up so things are more reachable, breathing shallow as the fluid seeps downward. “Ya don’t even know what it does to me when ya look at me like that.” Yancy’s middle and ring fingers follow the path of the lube, tracing over his entrance in tiny, slick circles that make him quiver. “Like youse fuckin’ starvin’ for it. ‘S a good look, too beautiful for youse own good.”
He needs Yancy to shut up or he’s going to explode here and now. Yancy would like that too much. He juts his chin forward and leans into him, silently begging with wide eyes, and with his arm conveniently tucked up and out of the way, it’s easy for Yancy to close the distance and capture his lips once more.
Yancy’s tongue mimics his fingers below, teasing at first, just grazing the seam of his mouth, then nudging in slowly, simultaneous with the single digit he presses inside him, then withdraws, scant little centimeters that have Ethan chasing after him, with his tongue, with aborted twitches of his hips, with his hand that clings to the one buried in his hair, quiet entreaties for more, please.
But he’s not feeling overly generous today, if the way he draws back with a wicked grin is anything to go by, finger stilling inside him. “Yeah, that look, that’s the one,” he says, and Ethan’s hardly following the thread anymore, too busy trying to get him deeper and failing, his boyfriend—an evil, evil man, for the record—adjusting with each movement so his finger is simply there, and barely at that, none of the stretch he craves, no friction. Cooing, he nuzzles his hairline, easing the finger inside him fully, then out, maddeningly close to what he needs. “I know, sweetheart. Jus’ one more thing. Need ya to show me what happens if ya wanna stop.”
Whining, he shakes his head because no, he doesn’t want to stop, not when he’s going faster, second finger teasing at his rim, so close to being more. Beseechingly, he searches Yancy’s face and finds an almost expectant dare there, and his mouth falls open but words aren’t happening, just, don’t stop—
“Do it, Eth,” he chides, though with no small amount of warmth, but his ministrations continue, both a blessing and zero help at all. “Promise ‘m gonna give ya whatcha want, but first ya gotta show me youse can call Red even like this.” He inclines his head until he can mouth at the skin not covered by his shirt collar, beard prickling. “C’mon, be good, babydoll. Show me.”
It’s a horrid request, one he’s not sure he can fulfill, not when Yancy’s so around him, within him, so much but still not quite enough. But he manages to pry himself from the death grip he’s got on the hand in his hair, shakily gathering plastic in his palm—be good, babydoll, be good—and jamming the button an absurd number of times. Three or more clicks, that’s what he’d told him, he knows it is.
In a blink, Yancy withdraws his lower hand from him completely, leaving him empty, and he hates it, lips trembling as he whimpers, the loss icy and aching and completely wrong, Yancy promised—
“Shh, that was good, so good, sweetness,” he soothes, calming him some when he pets over the curve of his ass, again nearing where Ethan needs him. “Exactly like that. Now, gimme youse real color, ‘n I’ll keep goin’.”
Click! It rings in the air, nearly overlapping his words.
“Figured as much,” he sasses, but Ethan can’t be too upset when there are two fingers stretching him open, finally, precisely where they belong.
Time goes all wonky again, meaningless compared to how he’s held, delightfully stuck between his arm, his roving mouth over his neck, and his fingers thrusting inside him, fragmenting reality apart when they curl and bump into that spot that has electricity coursing through him, bursting out in staccato gasps.
Nipping his earlobe, Yancy’s breath is hot, joining the rushing tingles in his veins. “Little known fact,” he purrs wryly, “but another word for off button is actually prostate.” His fingers slow, needling there with exaggerated caresses that have his spine arching, liquid trickling a cool, sluggish river down the side of his hip from what must be a full-fledged puddle on his stomach.
Even after letting up on the exquisite torture in favor of unhurried passes fully in, fully out, and over again, Ethan has no idea how long the reprieve goes on for until the sentence at last lodges somewhere in his scrambled psyche. “Wuh?” he grunts out, almost a real word, which is impressive for someone as thoroughly preoccupied as he is.
He chuckles, a dangerous sound. “Ironic, ain’t it? But it makes sense. The thing that shuts youse’s brain off is exactly what turns youse’s body on.” He punctuates with another crook against his prostate, kissing fervently at his throat like Ethan’s moans are a physical thing he can lavish affection upon.
Ethan’s not entirely sure he follows, awareness tickling at the back of his mind, but it’s so far away. But he knows something’s definitely afoot when Yancy’s hand falls away again to speedily apply more lube—Ethan does not appreciate the pause—and then there are three fingers opening him up, so good his lungs freeze in place.
Three isn’t unheard of, but it’s not their usual; Yancy knows he prefers two, enjoys the burn of Yancy stretching him the rest of the way with his cock. He’d be worried this means he’s not getting his cock if there were any room left in him for worry at all.
Yancy eases in with short, pulsing movements, murmuring sweet nothings to him all the while, equal parts praise and teasing that set his blood boiling.
“So,” he sighs once he’s in up to the first knuckle, Ethan practically reverberating around him. His tone is a little deeper, more no-nonsense, and it pricks his ears even in this state. “Youse gonna knock on the door ‘n tell me youse’s car needs fixin’.”
His lashes flutter, teeth digging into his lip, muddled thoughts gradually giving way to clarity at the repetition of The Plan, the one they’ve gone over fifty times.
Keep it close to how we actually met, Yancy had said. Easier to remember, makes it simple. I’ll do most of the improvisin’.
“Ya know the script, babydoll. Just gotta get the point across, then I’m gonna take it from there, right?” His lips drag over the place beneath his jaw where Ethan knows he must be able to feel a thunderous beat, the realization dizzying and stoking his pleasure higher—they’re doing this, Yancy didn’t give up, it’s time.
He nods, breathless, crying out soundlessly at the rewarding delve of fingers, grateful when Yancy detangles his hand from Ethan’s locks and threads it with Ethan’s, a firm anchor.
“Ya got youse’s colors and youse’s clicker, and I’m always gonna make sure youse able to use at least one of ‘em,” he reminds him, sucking what’s sure to be a mark into his neck, and Ethan feels fiery all over, the filth and care of it all sending him careening towards the edge.
And then the fingers disappear.
Nearly howling his displeasure, he twists upright, just about ready to yank Yancy’s pants off and get to business himself. Or, he intends to, very much tries, but fails spectacularly when Yancy, apparently predicting this, places his palm flat to his sternum and shoves him back down on the bed, holds him there, easy as can be, lube-coated everything be damned.
“I’s spoiled ya good, huh,” he comments, like they’re discussing the weather. “Created a cute li’l brat. Ya gonna listen to me?”
He’d been struggling, reveling in the display as much as cursing it, but the question pierces through to him, makes the heat in his face go supernova as he halts in place, nodding.
“Good.” He smiles, leaning to give him a sweet kiss, and some of his tension melts, happy to have pleased him. But he pulls away again, and the four inches between them might as well be four miles. “Gotta save that strength, after all.”
Oh, geez. He licks his lips, trying to breathe and clear away the fog of want obscuring everything because that’s right, they’re doing this. Yancy’s going to fake forcing him, and Ethan’s going to fake hating it. The Plan.
While he can sense the flitter of nerves encroaching again, a shadowy vignette to this heady distraction, his cock pulses down below, a simpler creature making its own convincing argument.
Not that Yancy gives him time to waffle, once again seeming to pluck something from thin air—how big are his pockets, seriously? It’s a familar velvet pouch, which he opens, pouring a black silicone bulb—also familiar—into his waiting palm.
Staring at it, he finds that the desire pooling low in his gut is very much drowning out any and all thoughts that aren’t related to where that toy is going.
It’s hypnotic, watching him crack the lid on the lube bottle and dispense a dollop onto the tip of the plug, rivulets cascading down over its egg-like shape. He’s quick to nudge it between Ethan’s legs, pressing it in slowly, eyes flickering between it and Ethan’s face, answering his gasp with a long, contented sound, a drag of his tongue over his nipple, then a swift flash of teeth that has Ethan jumping with a smothered yelp, the pain sparking through to where he’s being speared open and seamlessly transitioning into pleasure somewhere along the way.
Mindlessly, he rocks into the incremental intrusion, reveling in the the size of it, still stealing his breath after the ample prep. He’s only able to distantly recall the few times Yancy has tortured him with this before, quickly superseded by the satisfaction of it nestling fully inside him, snug where it’s designed to be.
“So fuckin’ pretty, doll,” he tells him, sounding entranced as he shifts his grip on the base to tug until it’s stretching at his rim again, then easing back in, the slowest mimicry of what he really wants, and he whines, hand falling to his neglected dick.
Immediately, it’s slapped away, Yancy unsympathetic to his huff of protest. “No, youse right, that’s enough playin’, huh?” Then, contrary to his words, he returns to the plug, fumbling with it for a second, two, and—ah.
His chest expands rapidly at the sudden vibrations emanating from his center, nudged right up against his prostate so it’s relentlesslyly part of his awareness, a simmering want that he already knows is going to drive him up the wall. Another surge of clear, tacky fluid oozes from his slit, something that doesn’t escape Yancy’s notice, his eyes dark and fixed on the vulgar sight, and Ethan can’t even be embarrassed, too caught up in fighting the urge to rock into relief he won’t find.
It’s cruel, how he backs off, standing and leaving him in the purgatory of almost-pleasure with orders not to move. Aside from burrowing his nails into the sheets, he thinks he succeeds, pacified when Yancy’s swift to return, though less so when he begins wiping at the mess on his front and between his legs with a towel, the former being more of a losing battle. Yancy’s flippantly called him faucet boy before, and Ethan would be more sheepish if it weren’t both true and something his boyfriend’s endlessly captivated by. Despite this, he guides Ethan’s feet back through the leg holes of his boxers, then his sweats, ignoring his twitching and gasps as the maneuvering jostles the plug inside him. His dick is tucked neatly away again, straining the fabric, and then Yancy smooths his shirt back down, followed by a hoodie plucked from the laundry basket at his feet, finalizing his presentability into something that might pass as long as the beholder happened to be blind. He feels like a wanton mess, all shivery, heated skin, his hair falling in haphazard fringe around his eyes—but at least Yancy looks similarly disheveled, his mouth red, his own hair defying his mindful styling, and his jeans not quite camouflaging the ardent outline of arousal trapped beneath the zipper line.
It’s still extremely unfair, however, that he has enough mental capacity to tsk and scold him when he wriggles in place, seeking respite from the incessant buzzing. “Ah-ah. For this to work, ya gotta be very good, gotta listen carefully, alright?”
Said in that cajoling, feathery tone, how is Ethan supposed to do anything but nod?
He grins. “So youse gonna give me ten minutes—” he points to the alarm clock on the nightstand, hand circling mid-air emphatically, “and then youse gonna take the plug out ‘n immediately come find me so we can start the scene, ‘kay?” His palms gravitate to Ethan’s knees where he’s tenuously perched cross-legged, as if holding him still will counteract the need that flares within him at the firm touch. “Yunno how it’ll go down from there, ya got this, sweets. But in these ten minutes—” he shakes him emphatically, lips taking on a more devious slant as Ethan plants his hands behind him, lips parted at the rippling sensation, “—youse cannot touch youseself, ya hear me? No gettin’ off allowed. Jus’ gotta wait, then I’ll even turn it off for ya so yunno it’s time.” He pulls his phone out, jiggling it before him, a reminder of the app that Ethan is all too aware controls the vibrator.
Yancy really thought of everything. Which is good because someone certainly needs to make up for Ethan’s lack of brain function right now.
“And the scene’s done when the lights come on, like we talked about. Make sense?” Yancy asks, head tilted, and he nods, toes scrunching tightly as he tries to focus on anything but the buzzing fullness. “Good,” he says, fingers trailing up and down his arms, which really isn’t helping his cause. “Now, one last time ‘fore we start: what’s youse color, babydoll?” His eyes dart back and forth between Ethan’s, searching.
“Green.” No hesitation. He’s never been more sure of anything, largely thanks to the stimulating encouragement dropkicking his nerves somewhere far away. Even so, he does manage to form one coherent thought. “What… what about you? Your color…?”
The cocky slant of his mouth softens, and he reaches up to brush through Ethan’s hair. “Green, babydoll. Neon green.” Then he’s leaning forward and stealing another kiss, languid and assured and very much stoking the flames he’s been trying to ignore. But then he’s gone just as fast, slipping away and leaving him before Ethan’s mind can quite catch up.
Blinking dumbly, his lips tuck inward, tongue tracing where Yancy’s had just been. It’s not remotely the same.
There’s no time to dwell on it, not when the buzzing inside him ratchets up a notch. His head falls back, hips stuttering up off the bed, but there’s no avoiding it. He’s equal parts grateful and frustrated when the power dampens again, groaning. It takes all his control to keep his hands off himself, to follow Yancy’s orders, but the threat of disappointing him is enough to keep him behaved, fingers gouging the mattress instead.
This is going to be the longest ten minutes of his life.