Arcade chuckled and changed topics. "Somehow I think you'd be fine with the Wrangler and slipping back to my place. You haven't been there yet." He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to fuck Boone's fist like he was a spotty teenager getting his first handjob. "It's small and dark and smells like the neighbour’s cooking, but--"
"But?"
He exhaled sharply, slumping forward enough that his lips brushed Boone's ear as he spoke. "But you're making it hard to, uh, keep my train of thought."
"Good," mumbled Boone, sounding distracted himself. He didn't protest as Arcade wrapped his hand over his again, pale fingers interlaced with tan, the added pressure making the slip and stroke of cock against cock even more intense. "Gonna lose it."
"But," said Arcade breathlessly, unwilling to cede the challenge and stop talking entirely, "But it's private and I've been giving quite-- like that, god-- some thought about what you'd look like hanging on to the headboard as I--"
He didn't get to finish his thought, Boone's grip hard as iron as he pushed his hips hard against Arcade, breathing hard and fast as he came with a grunt. Semen spilled between his fingers, smearing down Arcade's cock as he fucked their hands, length hard against length. The slick slide did him in, Boone's breathing laboured in his ear and fingertips digging hard into his flank as he came with a groan and a great ragged inhalation of breath.
A moment passed, then another and another. He would've stayed like that longer if reality and all its awkward glory didn't need to reassert itself. What had been unbearably charged a minute prior was now uncomfortable, and the stick of cooling come between his rapidly softening cock and Boone - still hard enough to put Arcade to shame; a reminder that one of them was only twenty-six with the fortitude to show it - was becoming a pressing concern.
He cast about for somewhere to wipe his hand clean and, deciding that plunging his hand into the snow would only make his concerns about congealing worse, settled on wiping it on Boone's shirt.
"That was clean," said Boone reproachfully.
"'Was' being the key word," said Arcade, feeling uncharacteristically cheerful all of a sudden. He set himself to rights, zipping himself up and stepping away to pull his supermutant-sized parka back into place. Boone swore at the burst of cool mountain air playing across his exposed skin, hurriedly hauling up his grey undershorts and buttoning his fly.
"The hell are you doing up here anyway?" Boone pushed himself off the tree and stamped his feet to get his blood flowing again, a little flurry of ice crystals appearing with every step. "Thought you hated the snow."
"I do." Arcade fished out his missing glove and put it on as claimed his spot back under the tree, a cigarette held between pursed lips as he dug around in his pockets for his box of matches.
Boone absent-mindedly wiped his hand on his shirt. "Thought I smelt smokes before. You smoke? Since when?"
"Since long before you." Arcade flicked a spent match into the snow and closed his eyes. "Don't bother with the lecture. You lack the gravitas and administrative pay grade to pull it off."
Boone/Arcade, 'Good Morning Jacobstown' 6/?
"But?"
He exhaled sharply, slumping forward enough that his lips brushed Boone's ear as he spoke. "But you're making it hard to, uh, keep my train of thought."
"Good," mumbled Boone, sounding distracted himself. He didn't protest as Arcade wrapped his hand over his again, pale fingers interlaced with tan, the added pressure making the slip and stroke of cock against cock even more intense. "Gonna lose it."
"But," said Arcade breathlessly, unwilling to cede the challenge and stop talking entirely, "But it's private and I've been giving quite-- like that, god-- some thought about what you'd look like hanging on to the headboard as I--"
He didn't get to finish his thought, Boone's grip hard as iron as he pushed his hips hard against Arcade, breathing hard and fast as he came with a grunt. Semen spilled between his fingers, smearing down Arcade's cock as he fucked their hands, length hard against length. The slick slide did him in, Boone's breathing laboured in his ear and fingertips digging hard into his flank as he came with a groan and a great ragged inhalation of breath.
A moment passed, then another and another. He would've stayed like that longer if reality and all its awkward glory didn't need to reassert itself. What had been unbearably charged a minute prior was now uncomfortable, and the stick of cooling come between his rapidly softening cock and Boone - still hard enough to put Arcade to shame; a reminder that one of them was only twenty-six with the fortitude to show it - was becoming a pressing concern.
He cast about for somewhere to wipe his hand clean and, deciding that plunging his hand into the snow would only make his concerns about congealing worse, settled on wiping it on Boone's shirt.
"That was clean," said Boone reproachfully.
"'Was' being the key word," said Arcade, feeling uncharacteristically cheerful all of a sudden. He set himself to rights, zipping himself up and stepping away to pull his supermutant-sized parka back into place. Boone swore at the burst of cool mountain air playing across his exposed skin, hurriedly hauling up his grey undershorts and buttoning his fly.
"The hell are you doing up here anyway?" Boone pushed himself off the tree and stamped his feet to get his blood flowing again, a little flurry of ice crystals appearing with every step. "Thought you hated the snow."
"I do." Arcade fished out his missing glove and put it on as claimed his spot back under the tree, a cigarette held between pursed lips as he dug around in his pockets for his box of matches.
Boone absent-mindedly wiped his hand on his shirt. "Thought I smelt smokes before. You smoke? Since when?"
"Since long before you." Arcade flicked a spent match into the snow and closed his eyes. "Don't bother with the lecture. You lack the gravitas and administrative pay grade to pull it off."