Fic: RPS James Marsters/Gareth David-Lloyd
Title: Gimme A Reason
Author: Kita
Pairing: James Marsters/Gareth David-Lloyd
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Yeah, this one is pretty much just porno.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no claim as to what these men do with their personal time. I make no profit off this story.
Author’s Notes: Steve Himber, mentioned in this story in a non-sexual context, has managed James Marsters’ career for several years, and more recently also Gareth David Lloyd’s.
Feedback of any kind, including concrit, is welcome in this LJ or by email. Debates regarding the morality of RPS will not be entertained.
*
Predictably, they’re both fucking hammered the first time Gareth climbs into James’ lap.
James’ breath leaves his lungs in a sudden huff, because Gareth is heavier than he looks, and certainly heavier than anyone James has had in his lap lately. But unexpected is not the same as unwelcome, and Gareth’s kiss tastes like whiskey cut with water, slides down James’ throat sharp and burning.
There are pink slashes across Gareth’s cheeks when he pulls back. He blinks twice, teasing bit of tongue over his bottom lip. James grabs him by the back of his head, hauls him in for more. Slow sting settling low in James’ gut now, behind his eyes, between his legs; he holds Gareth’s face in both hands, tries to hold him still.
But he’s shimmying fast against James’ crotch, rolling his hips quick and dirty, fisting James’ hair.
And James is just drunk enough to be reminded of the stray cat he’s been feeding; the way it rubs up hard against his legs every night when he takes the trash out, but won’t sit still long enough to get pet.
“You got a date later or something?” James says, against that pretty, insistent mouth.
Gareth makes a noise like a strangled moan (or an annoyed cat), smiles down at James through his teeth.
“Your girlfriend’s around my age, you like young and horny.”
“My girl doesn’t hump my leg,” James says. He’d been aiming for dry, but he’s off by a mile. Or at least the couple of inches of denim and friction between his dick and Gareth’s.
“Doesn’t know what she’s missing, then.” Gareth’s breath whispers like cigar smoke and secrets across James’ face.
He rocks forward again, and the metal buckle of his belt is cold against James’ skin, where his shirt has ridden up.
James runs his thumb along the dip and slope of Gareth’s chin, slips it in between his teeth. Gareth doesn’t bite, just sucks it deeper inside, hollowing out his cheeks, fluttering his lashes shut. Making James grunt and press down, scrape his nail across Gareth’s tongue.
Then, hungry urgent noises, spit soaking his palm, and James caught unmoving, underneath all of this sweet weight and want.
“Ah, shit,” he mutters, head thumping against the back of the couch.
Gareth laughs with his mouth full. Swiveling his hips, dancing in James’ lap, hurling curses James can’t understand into his ear.
He doesn’t stop until his shudders are gone, until he’s sleepy eyed and sticky, making little humming noises that James can feel in his own chest. At some point, he’s let go of James’ thumb.
James smirks, rubs his still damp hand across Gareth’s cheek. Hears the rasp of stubble like a match being struck.
“Wanker.” Gareth wipes at his face with the back of one hand, looks down and wriggles as if he’s trying to escape his own wet pants. “Hunh,” he says, eyes on the bulge in James’ jeans.
He’s off the couch and on his knees before James has the chance to frown.
“Dude, you don’t- ” James starts.
“Pull the hair not the ears, but stop me before you go off or I’ll punch you in the balls.”
“That’s-”
Gareth tugs James’ dick out of his pants through his zipper. Wraps his whole mouth around it with the same needful kind of attention he paid James’ thumb earlier.
“-completely fair,” James manages, before his eyes have to close.
He can feel Gareth’s smile around him when he starts to suck. James digs one hand into the couch cushions, curls the other against the back of Gareth’s neck, and pushes him down down down.
Gareth pulls some more at James’ belt, paws at his jeans, but doesn’t bother to wait til they fall off his hips to keep going. No art, just dirty and simple, a tight fisted blow job with a sloppy, hungry mouth.
James leaves a constellation of nail marks in Gareth’s skin, all along that defenseless place where spine meets skull, low enough to be hidden by a shirt collar, deep enough to be felt tomorrow.
He has no idea how he avoids the punch in the balls.
*
A week later back in California, there’s an envelope in his mail box. It doesn’t have a return address, the post-mark says Wales. When James opens it he finds a note in loopy print-
“Payable in small American bills, please. -G”
It’s stapled to a dry cleaning bill for one pair of pants.
*
So really, the thing at the nightclub isn’t surprising.
Veil of smoke and perfume denser than the smog back home, and the two Nicoderm patches under James’ shirt aren’t doing a goddamn thing. His ears buzz: cravings, jet lag, lousy acoustics.
Gareth doesn’t sing like an actor.
The front row is a press of girl bodies, bouncy and sparkling with sweat. James sits in the back, where it’s dark and cool. The beer is warm, though. He’ll never get used to warm beer.
Gareth finds him after the second set, tips himself into the booth. Loud squeak of leather on leather when he leans back and shuts his eyes. The front of his shirt is soaked, and he’s close enough that James can smell him.
He pulls his hat off, drags a forearm across his head. Reaches over and swallows James’ glass of beer in one gulp.
“Happy to buy you your own, rock star,” James says.
“Nah.” Gareth is smiling, eyes still half-closed. His voice is hoarse and he looks high. James knows that feeling, knows how nothing else is quite the same. He gets a flash-fire of something like jealousy in his belly, but it dies quick.
“Here on your own?” Gareth asks, finally looking at him. Staring, actually, and for some reason, despite years of being stared at, it makes James want to shift in his seat. Gareth’s got a silver chain around his neck that could have come from James’ drawer.
“Yeah,” he answers, and Gareth blinks, slow like summer, like the blues.
“Brought bits of your cat with you, though.”
James looks down. Under the ugly black lights, James’ dark t-shirt almost twinkles with tiny, white cat hairs. He laughs.
“Not really my cat,” he says.
He actually did have a cat once; it even slept on his bed. When he paid it attention, it would purr, and look up at him like he was a god. When he went away, it would piss in his laundry basket.
Gareth’s eyes are wide and falsely innocent when he tilts his head. He has lashes like a girl. “Commitment issues?”
“The pussy joke is beneath you, man,” James says.
“You’ll find it’s really not,” is what James thinks he hears. But Gareth’s accent is thicker than James remembers it tonight, and together with the steady thump of background noise, James is having a hard time understanding him.
So he just smiles, because he’s good at that. Until Gareth tugs him upward by one arm, shoving him through the grabby crowd and out into cool if not clean air. The metal door slams shut behind them.
Gareth sucks in a deep breath, pulls cigarettes from his back pocket, a lighter from his front.
“Fag?”
“No,” James says quickly.
Gareth shrugs. Then he lights up and James’ mouth actually waters.
“Fuck it. Yeah.”
The gray mist makes James’ skin damp, makes his fingers slick around the paper. His ears haven’t stopped ringing. He’s watching Gareth’s mouth, wrapped around his own cigarette, with a little more interest than acceptable in polite company.
Gareth’s kiss isn’t polite.
It’s tough, careless, full of teeth and nicotine. James’ back collides with brick, and he’s glad he remembers to drop the smoke before pulling Gareth closer by his belt loops.
He likes the noise Gareth makes when their hips meet, a low and reedy moan that sounds like he’s singing. Gareth is already hard as the brick wall behind him, and James might be really fucking tired, but he’s getting there fast. Gareth has big hands.
Still, there’s a second, mercury slippery and quick, where James almost thinks about stopping this. Almost tears his mouth away from the hungry slide of Gareth’s tongue, almost asks what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. Neither of them are drunk enough tonight to make the necessary excuses for tomorrow.
But Gareth’s hands are big enough to make James rise onto the balls of his feet when he presses a palm between their legs. He squeezes once, James hisses. Twice. Three times and charmed before Gareth works their zippers down, catches both their dicks in one fist. Jerks them slow and sure.
And suddenly James doesn’t much care what Gareth is doing, so long as he doesn’t stop doing it before James gets off.
“Not paying for these pants,” James mutters, biting at Gareth’s bottom lip. He’s trying to find equal footing between the wall and Gareth, but it’s impossible not to arch his hips, not to cling to Gareth’s shoulders like he’s about to fall.
“You didn’t actually pay for the last pair, asshole.”
Rough thumb over the head of James’ dick on every upstroke, and now he really is about to fall.
“Check’s in the - fuck- mail.”
Gareth leans into him, drips sweat and laughter down James’ chest. Pinches his teeth into the side of James’ neck until James bends more more more, so that when he finally comes, Gareth has to hold him up.
After, they’re both sopping wet and stupid, but it’s James’s shirt that’s ruined.
*
He waits a week. Pulls Himber’s business card from his wallet, staples a ten dollar bill to it. Scrawls
“For services rendered-”
across the back, and sends it on to Wales.
*
There’s a hotel room back in the states which, very conveniently, is located thousands of miles away from conventions and other commitments.
“This what you been wanting?” James lets the shark-smile slither across his face, quick and almost mean, and Gareth’s chin trembles. Just a little. Just enough.
It’s Gareth’s back to the wall now, arms pinned to his sides, because James has undone his shirt but not pulled it off. He holds Gareth lightly by both wrists; he could wiggle away if he wanted to.
Gareth’s pants are hanging loose and low around his hips.
James presses in closer, leading with tongue and dick.
Gareth doesn’t wiggle away.
“Took you long enough to figure out,” is what he says instead, showing off his own version of the fuck-you-very-much smile. It’s not bad.
Gareth’s mouth is kiss bruised, and James is grinding up against him through what’s still too many layers of denim and cotton and secondthird chances. So it’s probably not worth mentioning that even if James had connected the dots earlier, it wasn’t as if he could have gotten a grope in edgewise either time.
He shrugs. Lets go of one of Gareth’s arms to slip a hand inside his jeans, stroke Gareth’s dick in a firm, lazy grip. Gareth tosses back his head until there’s a long, unbroken line of white skin, taut as a guitar string, under James’ mouth.
Gareth arches into James’ fist, dick hard and leaking, but James takes his time, takes another minute to just. Look. Lick his lips. Watch Gareth twist for him.
James takes his hand away.
Gareth whines, a desperate sound that James is going to be high on for a while. He makes a grab for James’ belt before James blocks him.
“Dude, is it always like being molested by an aggressively friendly Welsh hurricane with you?” He makes sure to keep his voice light, but he waits for the answer.
Gareth blinks opens his eyes. He’s staring at James the way he did that night back in the bar, the solitary, silent focus which had made James want to duck his head. It has the same effect now; James can feel the burn creeping up the back of his neck.
“This is a one-off, yeah?” Gareth says, finally.
“Hey,” James says, mock-offended, palming Gareth’s naked stomach, watching those lashes flutter some more. “I’m not that fucking old, pretty sure I can go at least twice.”
“No, I-” Gareth actually shoves James back a bit now, fingertips spreading on his chest. “I’m serious.”
“Ok, look,” James starts.
Stops.
He wipes the back of his hand over his lips, presses them together, takes a breath. If this turns out to be some sort of weird-ass power thing, he’s going to punch Gareth in his pretty pretty teeth.
“I dunno what the fuck you want me to say, man. I got an ex wife, two kids, and a girlfriend I actually like. If I thought this was gonna be a thing, I never would have- ”
Which is all James gets out of his mouth before the hurricane pins him to the floor.
And once again, James could stop this. He could ask. But they’re both half naked and all ready, and James is fairly certain that Gareth’s got a girl he actually likes too, somewhere back in Wales.
James has a handful of condoms in his suitcase. He’s going to fuck Gareth through this godamned carpeting.
As it turns out, James can go three times. If they count the one in the shower, which James very much does.
Gareth is solid and wide under him. The first time, he lets James do whatever he wants, wrapping his legs around James’ waist, panting and sweating and open. James runs a finger beneath his chin, pets him like a cat, until Gareth turns his head and bites down on James’ thumb. Then James shoves in harder, and Gareth laughs around a groan.
The second time, James can feel every pound of him, every muscle and twitch. Gareth mutters filthy things against James’ mouth in between kisses closer to bites, and there are rug burns on both their knees as they stumble together toward the shower.
Gareth’s hair sticks to his head, the water runs down the long slope of his back in rivers toward the drain. The bottom of the tub is covered in stickers shaped like tiny little ducks, and these are the snatches of memory that James will keep for tomorrow. Gareth huffs into the side of James’ neck when he comes this time, quiet and spent. James rinses the soap off his hands before kissing him again, chasing the taste of himself on Gareth’s tongue until the water starts to run cold.
When they hit the bed, James feels like he could sleep for a year. He manages about two hours.
He tries to be quiet while pulling his clothes on, but Gareth snuffles a little into the pillow anyway, and rolls over onto his back.
“Hey,” Gareth says, voice raw with sleep and sex. “You can stay here if you want.”
“Can’t,” James shakes his head, “got my kids tomorrow.”
He has his kids every day. And a nanny. But that’s need-to-know, and Gareth doesn’t.
“Mmm,” Gareth says, turning over again. “K.” He’s snoring before James finishes tying his laces.
“So much for the virility of youth.” James’ smirk is wasted on Gareth’s back, although one hand pops up over the blankets, one finger stretched out longer than the rest of them.
It’s still waving in the air when James shuts the door.
*
A month and a half later, the postcard almost comes as a surprise. Familiar beach at sunset, LOS ANGELES in tourist tacky pink letters across its sky. And on the back, in familiar hand writing -
"Took your advice on Himber, thanks.
You really should keep the cat."
-G
*
-End
Author: Kita
Pairing: James Marsters/Gareth David-Lloyd
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Yeah, this one is pretty much just porno.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no claim as to what these men do with their personal time. I make no profit off this story.
Author’s Notes: Steve Himber, mentioned in this story in a non-sexual context, has managed James Marsters’ career for several years, and more recently also Gareth David Lloyd’s.
Feedback of any kind, including concrit, is welcome in this LJ or by email. Debates regarding the morality of RPS will not be entertained.
*
Predictably, they’re both fucking hammered the first time Gareth climbs into James’ lap.
James’ breath leaves his lungs in a sudden huff, because Gareth is heavier than he looks, and certainly heavier than anyone James has had in his lap lately. But unexpected is not the same as unwelcome, and Gareth’s kiss tastes like whiskey cut with water, slides down James’ throat sharp and burning.
There are pink slashes across Gareth’s cheeks when he pulls back. He blinks twice, teasing bit of tongue over his bottom lip. James grabs him by the back of his head, hauls him in for more. Slow sting settling low in James’ gut now, behind his eyes, between his legs; he holds Gareth’s face in both hands, tries to hold him still.
But he’s shimmying fast against James’ crotch, rolling his hips quick and dirty, fisting James’ hair.
And James is just drunk enough to be reminded of the stray cat he’s been feeding; the way it rubs up hard against his legs every night when he takes the trash out, but won’t sit still long enough to get pet.
“You got a date later or something?” James says, against that pretty, insistent mouth.
Gareth makes a noise like a strangled moan (or an annoyed cat), smiles down at James through his teeth.
“Your girlfriend’s around my age, you like young and horny.”
“My girl doesn’t hump my leg,” James says. He’d been aiming for dry, but he’s off by a mile. Or at least the couple of inches of denim and friction between his dick and Gareth’s.
“Doesn’t know what she’s missing, then.” Gareth’s breath whispers like cigar smoke and secrets across James’ face.
He rocks forward again, and the metal buckle of his belt is cold against James’ skin, where his shirt has ridden up.
James runs his thumb along the dip and slope of Gareth’s chin, slips it in between his teeth. Gareth doesn’t bite, just sucks it deeper inside, hollowing out his cheeks, fluttering his lashes shut. Making James grunt and press down, scrape his nail across Gareth’s tongue.
Then, hungry urgent noises, spit soaking his palm, and James caught unmoving, underneath all of this sweet weight and want.
“Ah, shit,” he mutters, head thumping against the back of the couch.
Gareth laughs with his mouth full. Swiveling his hips, dancing in James’ lap, hurling curses James can’t understand into his ear.
He doesn’t stop until his shudders are gone, until he’s sleepy eyed and sticky, making little humming noises that James can feel in his own chest. At some point, he’s let go of James’ thumb.
James smirks, rubs his still damp hand across Gareth’s cheek. Hears the rasp of stubble like a match being struck.
“Wanker.” Gareth wipes at his face with the back of one hand, looks down and wriggles as if he’s trying to escape his own wet pants. “Hunh,” he says, eyes on the bulge in James’ jeans.
He’s off the couch and on his knees before James has the chance to frown.
“Dude, you don’t- ” James starts.
“Pull the hair not the ears, but stop me before you go off or I’ll punch you in the balls.”
“That’s-”
Gareth tugs James’ dick out of his pants through his zipper. Wraps his whole mouth around it with the same needful kind of attention he paid James’ thumb earlier.
“-completely fair,” James manages, before his eyes have to close.
He can feel Gareth’s smile around him when he starts to suck. James digs one hand into the couch cushions, curls the other against the back of Gareth’s neck, and pushes him down down down.
Gareth pulls some more at James’ belt, paws at his jeans, but doesn’t bother to wait til they fall off his hips to keep going. No art, just dirty and simple, a tight fisted blow job with a sloppy, hungry mouth.
James leaves a constellation of nail marks in Gareth’s skin, all along that defenseless place where spine meets skull, low enough to be hidden by a shirt collar, deep enough to be felt tomorrow.
He has no idea how he avoids the punch in the balls.
*
A week later back in California, there’s an envelope in his mail box. It doesn’t have a return address, the post-mark says Wales. When James opens it he finds a note in loopy print-
“Payable in small American bills, please. -G”
It’s stapled to a dry cleaning bill for one pair of pants.
*
So really, the thing at the nightclub isn’t surprising.
Veil of smoke and perfume denser than the smog back home, and the two Nicoderm patches under James’ shirt aren’t doing a goddamn thing. His ears buzz: cravings, jet lag, lousy acoustics.
Gareth doesn’t sing like an actor.
The front row is a press of girl bodies, bouncy and sparkling with sweat. James sits in the back, where it’s dark and cool. The beer is warm, though. He’ll never get used to warm beer.
Gareth finds him after the second set, tips himself into the booth. Loud squeak of leather on leather when he leans back and shuts his eyes. The front of his shirt is soaked, and he’s close enough that James can smell him.
He pulls his hat off, drags a forearm across his head. Reaches over and swallows James’ glass of beer in one gulp.
“Happy to buy you your own, rock star,” James says.
“Nah.” Gareth is smiling, eyes still half-closed. His voice is hoarse and he looks high. James knows that feeling, knows how nothing else is quite the same. He gets a flash-fire of something like jealousy in his belly, but it dies quick.
“Here on your own?” Gareth asks, finally looking at him. Staring, actually, and for some reason, despite years of being stared at, it makes James want to shift in his seat. Gareth’s got a silver chain around his neck that could have come from James’ drawer.
“Yeah,” he answers, and Gareth blinks, slow like summer, like the blues.
“Brought bits of your cat with you, though.”
James looks down. Under the ugly black lights, James’ dark t-shirt almost twinkles with tiny, white cat hairs. He laughs.
“Not really my cat,” he says.
He actually did have a cat once; it even slept on his bed. When he paid it attention, it would purr, and look up at him like he was a god. When he went away, it would piss in his laundry basket.
Gareth’s eyes are wide and falsely innocent when he tilts his head. He has lashes like a girl. “Commitment issues?”
“The pussy joke is beneath you, man,” James says.
“You’ll find it’s really not,” is what James thinks he hears. But Gareth’s accent is thicker than James remembers it tonight, and together with the steady thump of background noise, James is having a hard time understanding him.
So he just smiles, because he’s good at that. Until Gareth tugs him upward by one arm, shoving him through the grabby crowd and out into cool if not clean air. The metal door slams shut behind them.
Gareth sucks in a deep breath, pulls cigarettes from his back pocket, a lighter from his front.
“Fag?”
“No,” James says quickly.
Gareth shrugs. Then he lights up and James’ mouth actually waters.
“Fuck it. Yeah.”
The gray mist makes James’ skin damp, makes his fingers slick around the paper. His ears haven’t stopped ringing. He’s watching Gareth’s mouth, wrapped around his own cigarette, with a little more interest than acceptable in polite company.
Gareth’s kiss isn’t polite.
It’s tough, careless, full of teeth and nicotine. James’ back collides with brick, and he’s glad he remembers to drop the smoke before pulling Gareth closer by his belt loops.
He likes the noise Gareth makes when their hips meet, a low and reedy moan that sounds like he’s singing. Gareth is already hard as the brick wall behind him, and James might be really fucking tired, but he’s getting there fast. Gareth has big hands.
Still, there’s a second, mercury slippery and quick, where James almost thinks about stopping this. Almost tears his mouth away from the hungry slide of Gareth’s tongue, almost asks what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. Neither of them are drunk enough tonight to make the necessary excuses for tomorrow.
But Gareth’s hands are big enough to make James rise onto the balls of his feet when he presses a palm between their legs. He squeezes once, James hisses. Twice. Three times and charmed before Gareth works their zippers down, catches both their dicks in one fist. Jerks them slow and sure.
And suddenly James doesn’t much care what Gareth is doing, so long as he doesn’t stop doing it before James gets off.
“Not paying for these pants,” James mutters, biting at Gareth’s bottom lip. He’s trying to find equal footing between the wall and Gareth, but it’s impossible not to arch his hips, not to cling to Gareth’s shoulders like he’s about to fall.
“You didn’t actually pay for the last pair, asshole.”
Rough thumb over the head of James’ dick on every upstroke, and now he really is about to fall.
“Check’s in the - fuck- mail.”
Gareth leans into him, drips sweat and laughter down James’ chest. Pinches his teeth into the side of James’ neck until James bends more more more, so that when he finally comes, Gareth has to hold him up.
After, they’re both sopping wet and stupid, but it’s James’s shirt that’s ruined.
*
He waits a week. Pulls Himber’s business card from his wallet, staples a ten dollar bill to it. Scrawls
“For services rendered-”
across the back, and sends it on to Wales.
*
There’s a hotel room back in the states which, very conveniently, is located thousands of miles away from conventions and other commitments.
“This what you been wanting?” James lets the shark-smile slither across his face, quick and almost mean, and Gareth’s chin trembles. Just a little. Just enough.
It’s Gareth’s back to the wall now, arms pinned to his sides, because James has undone his shirt but not pulled it off. He holds Gareth lightly by both wrists; he could wiggle away if he wanted to.
Gareth’s pants are hanging loose and low around his hips.
James presses in closer, leading with tongue and dick.
Gareth doesn’t wiggle away.
“Took you long enough to figure out,” is what he says instead, showing off his own version of the fuck-you-very-much smile. It’s not bad.
Gareth’s mouth is kiss bruised, and James is grinding up against him through what’s still too many layers of denim and cotton and secondthird chances. So it’s probably not worth mentioning that even if James had connected the dots earlier, it wasn’t as if he could have gotten a grope in edgewise either time.
He shrugs. Lets go of one of Gareth’s arms to slip a hand inside his jeans, stroke Gareth’s dick in a firm, lazy grip. Gareth tosses back his head until there’s a long, unbroken line of white skin, taut as a guitar string, under James’ mouth.
Gareth arches into James’ fist, dick hard and leaking, but James takes his time, takes another minute to just. Look. Lick his lips. Watch Gareth twist for him.
James takes his hand away.
Gareth whines, a desperate sound that James is going to be high on for a while. He makes a grab for James’ belt before James blocks him.
“Dude, is it always like being molested by an aggressively friendly Welsh hurricane with you?” He makes sure to keep his voice light, but he waits for the answer.
Gareth blinks opens his eyes. He’s staring at James the way he did that night back in the bar, the solitary, silent focus which had made James want to duck his head. It has the same effect now; James can feel the burn creeping up the back of his neck.
“This is a one-off, yeah?” Gareth says, finally.
“Hey,” James says, mock-offended, palming Gareth’s naked stomach, watching those lashes flutter some more. “I’m not that fucking old, pretty sure I can go at least twice.”
“No, I-” Gareth actually shoves James back a bit now, fingertips spreading on his chest. “I’m serious.”
“Ok, look,” James starts.
Stops.
He wipes the back of his hand over his lips, presses them together, takes a breath. If this turns out to be some sort of weird-ass power thing, he’s going to punch Gareth in his pretty pretty teeth.
“I dunno what the fuck you want me to say, man. I got an ex wife, two kids, and a girlfriend I actually like. If I thought this was gonna be a thing, I never would have- ”
Which is all James gets out of his mouth before the hurricane pins him to the floor.
And once again, James could stop this. He could ask. But they’re both half naked and all ready, and James is fairly certain that Gareth’s got a girl he actually likes too, somewhere back in Wales.
James has a handful of condoms in his suitcase. He’s going to fuck Gareth through this godamned carpeting.
As it turns out, James can go three times. If they count the one in the shower, which James very much does.
Gareth is solid and wide under him. The first time, he lets James do whatever he wants, wrapping his legs around James’ waist, panting and sweating and open. James runs a finger beneath his chin, pets him like a cat, until Gareth turns his head and bites down on James’ thumb. Then James shoves in harder, and Gareth laughs around a groan.
The second time, James can feel every pound of him, every muscle and twitch. Gareth mutters filthy things against James’ mouth in between kisses closer to bites, and there are rug burns on both their knees as they stumble together toward the shower.
Gareth’s hair sticks to his head, the water runs down the long slope of his back in rivers toward the drain. The bottom of the tub is covered in stickers shaped like tiny little ducks, and these are the snatches of memory that James will keep for tomorrow. Gareth huffs into the side of James’ neck when he comes this time, quiet and spent. James rinses the soap off his hands before kissing him again, chasing the taste of himself on Gareth’s tongue until the water starts to run cold.
When they hit the bed, James feels like he could sleep for a year. He manages about two hours.
He tries to be quiet while pulling his clothes on, but Gareth snuffles a little into the pillow anyway, and rolls over onto his back.
“Hey,” Gareth says, voice raw with sleep and sex. “You can stay here if you want.”
“Can’t,” James shakes his head, “got my kids tomorrow.”
He has his kids every day. And a nanny. But that’s need-to-know, and Gareth doesn’t.
“Mmm,” Gareth says, turning over again. “K.” He’s snoring before James finishes tying his laces.
“So much for the virility of youth.” James’ smirk is wasted on Gareth’s back, although one hand pops up over the blankets, one finger stretched out longer than the rest of them.
It’s still waving in the air when James shuts the door.
*
A month and a half later, the postcard almost comes as a surprise. Familiar beach at sunset, LOS ANGELES in tourist tacky pink letters across its sky. And on the back, in familiar hand writing -
"Took your advice on Himber, thanks.
You really should keep the cat."
-G
*
-End