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The kid smells of Lynx and beer, and the skin behind his ear is warm under Greg’s lips. His hands fist in the leather of Greg’s jacket, but he makes no move to push him away. Greg smirks at that and takes another step, presses him more tightly up against the wall, just to see what he does.


He’s pretty sure that noise wasn’t supposed to fall from the boy’s mouth, but he likes how breathless it is, how absolutely wrecked the lad sounds already, just from Greg snatching his cigarette away and getting up in his space. Greg’s pulse is louder than the heavy bass that reverberates from the open doors of the club, pounding in his ears.

“You need to learn that actions have consequences,” he says, letting his lips brush up against the boy’s ear as he speaks, feeling the tremor the sound of it creates in him. He meant for it to be a lesson, a quick move to call him on his incessant cocky flirting with a man old enough to be his dad. Pinning him against the wall for a moment was supposed to scare him off. He hadn’t counted on the boy not being scared.

For a second, he holds the world balanced on a knife-point, the space between breaths stretching out before him like an ocean. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be considering this. And yet.

The kid’s body is solid and warm where it’s pressed against him; and the consequences of his own actions are starting to show in his jeans, his thigh warm where it’s pressed between the boy’s own.

“How old are you anyway?” he asks, pulling back just far enough to look him in the eye, and Christ that was a mistake, because the boy’s pupils are blown wide and his lips are spit-slick and dark as wine. He wants to take that sweet mouth with his own, suck that wet bottom lip between his teeth and bite.

There’s a sharp touch of arrogance in the boy’s eyes even as he smiles, and Greg slides a hand around his throat in warning, not squeezing, not yet.

“Seventeen,” the kid spits like it’s a challenge, and shifts his weight a little, leaning into Greg’s hand with a sharp little smile. Greg’s not in bad shape, but he’s under no illusion that the boy is only pressed against the wall because he still wants to be there.

He should let go, should turn around and walk away and drown his sorrows in cheap tequila. But the pulse that flutters against his fingers is fast, and the boy’s shirt has ridden up a little at the waist, revealing a sharp hip-bone and firm, tanned belly, and he wants so badly to run his hands over all that warm, smooth skin.

“You a student?” he asks, and tightens his fingers a little, just to feel the boy swallow, the buzz of his voice when he speaks again.

“At KEGS,” he says with a smile. “Name’s John.”


John’s going to study medicine in London next year. Then he’s going to join the army. He plays scrum-half for Chelmsford Juniors. It shows.

Greg is too old to be doing this, and just the wrong side of sober to admit it to himself. It doesn’t stop him from flagging down a cab, curling his fingers around John’s elbow to keep him pressed up against his side.

If Greg had any sense, he’d take John to a hotel somewhere out of town and fuck him through the mattress for a few hours. But Greg must be losing his mind, because he rattles off his own address and settles back against the seat, curling his fingers around John’s wrist. Touching John seems to keep him quiet, especially when Greg runs the pads of his fingers over John’s pulse-point and squeezes slightly. He’d like to pin John down like this, spread him out across the bed and let him writhe for a while, desperate for friction.

John is eager and shameless, pressing up against his back as Greg fights with the front door. He’s shorter than Greg, but his shoulders are broader, and his hands are warm and strong on Greg’s hips, thumbs digging lightly into his waist. It’s a move Greg has used himself a thousand times, and he smiles as the key finally turns in the lock. As they climb the stairs, John’s hands stray over Greg’s hips, his waist, his arse, skittering across soft denim.

When Greg finally opens the door to his flat, John gets right up in his space, backing him into the wall with his arms either side of Greg’s head. He’s got a wicked grin on his face, and Greg feels a shiver run down his spine. The cockiness from the club is back, and Greg licks his lips in anticipation when John pins him up against the wall, arms caging Greg’s head. John has to lean up to kiss him, his hands flat against the wall for balance, but he’s still aggressive with it. He kisses like it’s a fight, and a shiver of need spills down Greg’s spine. John’s hands slide down his neck, his shoulders, his sides, hips shifting and twisting against him, desperate already.

“Easy sweetheart,” Greg touches his thumb to the hollow of John’s throat, strokes over the fluttering pulse there, “what’s the hurry?”

He could swear that John whines at that, leaning into his hand like a touch-starved puppy, but then he’s pulling back, shoulders tense.

“I just wanted... I want...” A blush floods over John’s cheeks, and Greg wants to trace it down his neck with his tongue.

“What do you want?” he asks when the rest of John’s words get stuck in his throat.

John blushes even more deeply, glancing down at the floor. He shifts his weight a little, looking lost without the urgency of frantic kisses to drive him on. Greg feels it against his palm when John swallows, feels his pulse quicken even as he raises his head, looks Greg square in the eye.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says slowly, “not with,” he gestures, drops his gaze down to Greg’s throat before meeting his eyes again, “not with a man.” John moves to pull away, but Greg slides his other hand around his waist. John leans into it, testing the strength of Greg’s grip, but there’s no heat to it, and he settles into Greg’s hands.

Greg is not a bad man. He doesn’t make a habit of picking up boys almost young enough to be his son. But he’s not a good man either, and John is firm and warm beneath his hands, resting where Greg holds him even as his eyes betray his fear. The idea of being the first one to spread John out, to hold him down on the bed while he writhes with pleasure is intoxicating.

“I think we should fix that,” Greg says, tugging a little until John moves back into his space. He keeps his grip on John’s throat, tilts John’s head to the side and licks over his racing pulse. John tastes of sweat and the sharp undertone of aftershave, and Greg nuzzles in a little, trailing his lips over warm skin until John shudders, his hands moving to clutch at Greg’s waist.

He means to keep it slow, to find out what makes John squirm and reduce him to a sprawling, writhing mess; but what John lacks in height and experience, he makes up for in sheer force of will. John’s hands slide around Greg’s back, cautiously at first, but then tugging the hem of his shirt from his trousers and running eagerly up his back. When John drags his nails across the small of Greg’s back, Greg has to bite down into the muscle of his shoulder to keep from crying aloud.

“Bed,” he orders, catching John around the throat and squeezing just enough to show how serious he is. “Now.”

He sends John ahead of him for the pure selfish pleasure of watching his arse as he moves through the flat. Years of rugby have given him strong thighs and a perfect arse, and his dark jeans cling in all the best places. John falters when he steps inside Greg’s room, trailing his fingers across the footboard of the bed.

“Should I..?” he starts, before trailing off uncertainly.

“Strip,” Greg says, teasing the word out, and John grins like a big cat.

This, it seems, John is familiar with. Greg settles himself on the edge of the bed, peeling his socks off slowly, his eyes focused on John padding lightly around the room. John tosses his jacket over the arm of a chair and kicks his shoes off before stepping in between Greg’s knees and leaning in for a kiss that’s as filthy as it is fleeting. Perhaps Greg should do this more often.

John’s not fancy with his movements, he doesn’t try to dance or set a rhythm. He just peels his clothes off slowly, opening buttons one at a time and trailing his fingers over smooth, golden skin. His days on the rugby pitch have left him toned and sleek, hints of strong muscle belied by the soft, clean lines of him. Greg aches to touch him, to reach out and press his mouth to the shadows that caress his hip-bones, to follow the golden trail of hair across John’s belly with his teeth; but John has positioned himself just out of reach, taking his own sweet time with a wicked little smirk playing across his face.

“Tease,” Greg says, leaning back on the bed to relieve the growing pressure in his own jeans. He palms himself through the soft denim as John loses his own jeans and steps into the v of Greg’s legs in just his boxer shorts. Greg can’t keep from reaching out and touching then, running his hands up the smooth planes of John’s stomach and watching the boy’s eyelashes flutter. John stands over him, dominating the space, but his hands stay motionless at his sides, letting Greg explore.

Greg tugs him closer, pulling John in by the hips until he can mouth over the outline of John’s cock, hot and slightly damp through the cotton. John lets out a delicious stream of curses above him, his hands grabbing at Greg’s head, fingers clutching at his hair for a moment, before he seems to get control of himself and strokes the curve of Greg’s skull instead. He licks and sucks, soaking the fabric, teasing John’s cock without any real goal beyond making John buck into his mouth.

“Please,” John whines, his hands tight on Greg’s shoulders now, and when Greg moves his mouth away and glances up, John’s face is flushed and his eyes closed tight.

“Consequences,” Greg reminds him, but he hooks his thumbs into John’s boxers and tugs them down his thighs until John’s cock springs free. John regains control of himself then, stepping out of Greg’s grasp to kick his underwear off, and then he’s crawling into Greg’s lap, pushing him backwards on the bed and pressing their mouths together again in a slick and messy kiss.

“Fuck your consequences,” he says, tugging Greg’s shirt out of his jeans and then he’s unbuckling Greg’s belt and unzipping his jeans, hot hands sliding inside and curling around Greg’s cock. It takes John a moment to work it all out, and Greg bites his lip as inquiring fingers slide up and down his length before John makes a fist and starts to pump him too fast and nowhere near tight enough. It’s delicious, and Greg has to concentrate on breathing, closing his eyes to block out the beautiful naked 17 year old writhing in his lap with his hand in Greg’s jeans.

“Wait,” he says, catching John’s wrists and pressing his forehead into John’s shoulder for a moment while he tries to put his thoughts back together. “This can be better. I can make it better.”

Greg strips the rest of his clothes off, throwing them to the floor in a tangled heap while John sprawls out on the bed, back arched a little as he strokes a lazy hand over his cock. He’s not particularly long, but he is gorgeously thick, filling the circle of his fingers as he drags them slowly up and down.

“You have no shame,” he says, sliding back onto the bed and kneeling between John’s spread thighs. “Go on,” he says when John falters a little, “I’m enjoying the show.”

A deep flush runs down John’s face and chest, but he doesn’t stop stroking, his grip a little tighter now, wrist fluid as he speeds up the pace. His teeth are sharp as he bites into his lower lip, and he arches his neck, pressing his head back into the pillows and exposing the long line of his throat. There are faint marks from Greg’s teeth in the skin there, and the sight of them sends sparks down Greg’s spine.

He watches greedily, taking in the smooth play of muscles tensing in John’s stomach, the way his hips rock slightly to meet his hand, his fingers slick with pre-come and trails of it caught in the blond hairs of John’s treasure trail.

“Slowly,” Greg says when John’s stomach muscles contract and he’s clearly dancing just on the edge. He has to touch himself when John whines, almost sighing with relief as he curls his fingers around his own cock and strokes a few times.

“Oh.” John’s eyes are dark, pupils huge, and he stares at Greg, watching his hands, his cock. Greg has nothing to be ashamed of, he knows, and he spreads his knees a little wider, pushing John’s thighs further apart as he does so. He slows his strokes, swiping his thumb through the slickness gathering at the head, and John’s own hand slows to match him, his breath shuddering out on a sigh.

“You have no idea how ruined you look,” Greg tells him, and John’s hips buck up into his hand, his rhythm lost to urgency. “God yes. Just like that. I want to see how you look coated in your own come.”

John’s skin is slick with sweat now, his eyes closing as he strokes himself faster and faster, hips arched off the bed now, highlighting the strength in his thighs.

“Just like that,” Greg says, squeezing his own cock to keep his orgasm at bay, “You’re going to come for me, all over your hands and your stomach, and then I’m going to flip you over and open you up with my tongue.”

The noise John makes as he comes sounds like it is being ripped from him, his whole body tensing and arching as he spills, thick and white, all over his fist, his stomach, splattering his chest in the way that only a teenager can.

“Fuck,” he says, sinking back onto the bed, hand stroking gently through the mess, his cock twitching under his fingers.

“Wow,” Greg says, and then he’s leaning forward and catching John by the hips, sliding his tongue through the slick mess on his cock just to feel the hot flesh under his tongue. John whines and moves to push him away, but he only makes half an effort, and his fingers end up tangled in Greg’s hair, tugging a little, until Greg is licking the come off his stomach, tracing John’s treasure trail with his tongue. He can’t resist biting down a little, leaving a trail of pink marks across John’s smooth skin.

John’s fingers tighten in his hair, holding his head in place for a second before they slide away with a nervous flicker. Greg grazes his tongue over the teeth-marks, raising his head to look John in the eye. His pupils are blown wide, body arched and open as though his orgasm banished all lingering traces of shyness from him. Greg smirks as he catches John’s wrist and pulls it down, moving John’s arm until his fingers are firmly in Greg’s hair again. Thankfully, John catches on fast, curling his fingers back into Greg’s hair and pushing him down just a little, to where his cock is almost fully hard again, blood-dark and hot to the touch.

“Insatiable little slut,” Greg laughs, but he leans in to lick up the underside of John’s cock all the same, drinking in the deep groan John makes in response. He’s still too sensitive for more than the softest of licks, and Greg eases down onto his stomach on the sheets, curling his arms under John’s thighs to spread him wide.

The first flicker of his tongue against John’s hole sees John’s fingers tightening painfully in his hair, pulling him down even as John gasps in surprise.

“Oh,” he says, and when Greg looks up at him, his face is flushed and he’s biting down on his lower lip, “more?”

Greg almost laughs, shifting them both on the bed so that John is pushed up against the pillows and Greg can see his face. He slides John’s fingers back into his hair as he spreads John open and licks a long steady stripe up the crack of John’s arse.

John likes it best when Greg flutters his tongue over his hole, his fingers clenching in Greg’s hair, pulling him in. Greg concentrates on drawing it out, lapping and kissing until John is slick and desperate.

“C’mon!” he growls, digging his nails in a little, back arched off the bed as he presses himself towards Greg’s tongue.

“Patience, sweetheart,” Greg nips lightly at the inside of John’s thigh, leaving a stinging pink mark in his wake, “it gets even better.”

The ‘how’ on John’s lips is drowned by his moan when Greg stiffens his tongue and pushes past the slick ring of muscle in his arse. John shivers under him, thighs spreading impossibly wide, and Greg fucks him gently with just the tip of his tongue, loving how John’s fingers tighten in his hair to keep him right there. John’s whole body is tense around him, and Greg slides a careful hand up and over his stomach, tracing the tight muscles there.

“You’re so close again, aren’t you sweetheart?” he croons, swirling his tongue and lapping for a few broad strokes before licking in again as he curls his fist around John’s cock.

If he were a better man, he’d draw their strokes out, slow and sweet, let John fuck his fist as he tongues his arse. But the soft, desperate noises that spill from John’s throat are too much, and Greg squeezes instead, pulling back to keep John’s orgasm at bay. John’s fingers tangle in his hair again, tight to the point of pain, but then John’s moving out from under him, springing forward on the bed until their mouths collide in a slick press of lips.

“I want you to fuck me,” John says, and his eyes are steady even as he breathes heavy and fast. “I can take it, I know I can.”

John crawls into Greg’s lap, his hands roaming desperately over Greg’s shoulders, his back, curling around his cock and stroking determinedly.

“You want that? You want to fuck me? I bet you want to fuck me.”

Greg catches his hands and tugs them away from his skin, trapping John’s wrists in the small of his back for a moment.

“Slowly,” he says, biting the word into John’s collar-bone and making John buck up against him, their cocks sliding up against each other, hot and wet. There’s fire under his skin now, every nerve alight with it, and he groans as John finds his balance, rocking their hips together with the promise of friction.

“Slowly,” John repeats, tucking his face into the space where Greg’s neck meets his shoulder and nuzzling into the damp skin there, hips still shifting restlessly. Greg almost doesn’t want to move them, enjoying John’s frantic little movements, the soft little groans he kisses into Greg’s neck.

“Up,” he says, and he has to let go of John’s wrists to catch his hips instead when John whines and continues to rock into him. He adds a slap to John’s arse for good measure, and John retaliates with sharp teeth even as he lifts himself out of Greg’s lap.

It takes him a moment to find the lube, hidden away as it is in the bottom of his bedside drawer. John touches his back, his arse, strokes his hands down the backs of Greg’s thighs, hands slow and confident, and Greg would love to keep him for the weekend, pull him into the shower and spend a long hour just letting John touch. John is all over him as soon as Greg settles himself back against the pillows, tugging the condom box out of Greg’s hands and pulling one out himself. He fumbles as he slides it down over Greg’s cock, and Greg can’t help but lean in and kiss the hot blush off his cheeks.

“C’mere.” He pulls John in closer, until his knees are pressed either side of Greg’s thighs, and Greg licks hot and steady up the underside of John’s cock as he slicks his fingers with lube and strokes it liberally over his cock. He’s a bit more careful with John, stroking the pad of his finger over John’s hole for a moment before sliding in. John breathes out on a heavy sigh, pushing back into his finger, muscles accepting him easily, and Greg has to close his eyes to keep from just tugging John down on his cock. He concentrates on spreading the lube, getting John good and wet, watching as John’s eyelids flutter shut and his hands scrabble at Greg’s shoulders for purchase.

“Ready?” he asks, and John bites down on his lower lip, muscles in his thighs tensing as he shifts his weight, sinking down slowly. Greg has to hold his breath as John positions himself over his cock, and he strokes the small of John’s back as John starts to press down against the resistance of his muscles. “Nice and easy,” Greg tells him, bending his head to take a tight pink nipple into his mouth.

“Oh.” John takes Greg’s cock in tiny increments, hips shifting and adjusting, and Greg strokes him gently, thumping his head back against the headboard as John sinks deeper and deeper, only seeming to breathe out when he’s finally settled in Greg’s lap. Greg has to kiss him then, pressing his fingers into the nape of John’s neck and guiding him down. It’s less frantic now, all the urgency between them slowed to a heavy simmer that sits hot and heavy in his stomach.

“Go as slow as you need,” he tells John, thumb stroking over the soft skin where John’s hair meets the nape of his neck. John arches back a little, and his hips stutter in Greg’s lap, his arse clenching as he gets used to being filled. “God, you feel good,” Greg tells him, and John tips his head back, exposing his throat as he rocks his hips a little more.

“Fuck!” he shouts as he arches his back, and Greg laughs, soothing his free hand down the small of John’s back.

“Good?” he asks, fighting to keep from setting a rhythm himself as John writhes in his lap, trying to find the right way to put pressure on his prostate. He groans when he finds the angle, and then he’s moving, messy and artless, grinding himself down on Greg’s cock.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he groans, head lolling on his neck, heavy in Greg’s palm. His strokes are sharp and selfish, quick little bucks of his hips as he fucks himself on Greg’s cock, eyes closed tight and muscles tense with desperation.

“Think you can come like this?” Greg asks him, running his thumb in soft circles over John’s spine and letting him take his pleasure.

“I don’t know,” John replies, and his voice is brittle, ruined. His hips stutter desperately, and Greg takes pity, sliding both hands down to grip John’s waist, stilling him for a moment before setting up a rhythm as brutal as it is utilitarian.

“Oh, shit,” John breathes, digging his nails into Greg’s shoulders as he follows Greg’s hands, arching his back. “It’s not enough.”

“I know sweetheart.” He’s tempted to keep John like this, strung out and desperate, but John groans low in his throat, and Greg takes pity, fisting John’s cock and stroking in time with his thrusts. He puts his feet flat on the bed for better leverage, fucking up into John with deep strokes.

John shudders as he comes, clenching tight around Greg’s cock, his head thrown back and his mouth open on a groan. Greg gathers him up, sliding his hands to John’s waist again and shifting his weight, so he can drive up into John’s arse, closing his eyes as he focuses on chasing his own orgasm.

“Mmm, yes.” John’s forehead falls to Greg’s shoulder, his teeth nipping just under the line of Greg’s jaw as he lets Greg manipulate his body, “God, I can feel you,” he murmurs, breath still harsh and ragged. The sound of it pulls Greg over the edge, and then he’s pushing up into John’s body, orgasm uncoiling from the base of his spine and spilling over him in waves.

He pulls John in close, dropping his forehead to John’s shoulder, and for a long couple of minutes they sit curled together, just breathing.

“Ow,” John says eventually, and Greg laughs, letting him go and trying to hide his smile as John eases himself off Greg’s cock with a wince.

“Stay there,” Greg tells him, pressing him down on his back on the bed and wandering through to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and fetch a washcloth. By the time he gets back, John is perched on the corner of the bed, looking as though he can’t quite figure out where to put himself. He smiles up at Greg, and Greg leans in to kiss him, pushing at his shoulders until John falls back against the bed with a quiet laugh.

“I made a mess of you,” Greg says, swiping the cloth over John’s stomach and thighs. Once he’s got the worst of the come off John’s skin, he crawls onto the bed himself, running greedy fingers up John’s stomach and chest, until he can curl his fingers lightly around John’s throat and hold him down for slow, steady kisses. “Stay?”

“Hmm,” John says, but then he’s pressing up into the kiss, curling his body into Greg’s negative spaces.


John’s gone by the time Greg wakes up, his side of the bed cold, and the pillow dented where he’d slept. Greg smiles to himself a little, because he’d only been deluding himself if he thought John would stay for breakfast. He stretches out slowly, enjoying the ache of well-used muscles, the myriad of tiny bruises and bites that John had left across his skin. It’s a shame. He’d have liked to spread the boy across his bed in the warm light of the sun, kiss his way down that tight, delicious body, maybe even let John fuck him.

The thought stirs Greg’s cock, and he palms it slowly, sliding out from under the sheets and heading into the shower. He runs the water slightly hot, stepping into the steam and conjuring up the image of John writhing in his lap. He imagines John walking about with Greg’s marks on his skin, imagines him buttoning up his school-shirt over the indentations of Greg’s teeth. His brain stutters over that one, and he has to lean against the cold tiles for balance, working his cock faster now as he pictures John in a biology lab, tapping the end of his pen over that delicious lower lip and squirming a little in his chair.

Oh. The image morphs to John in the showers after rugby practice, John pressing a nameless muscled team-mate against the shower-wall and snogging him thoroughly, his hands confident as he slides his fingers between the boy’s thighs. Greg comes before he’s even prepared for it, a groan jerking out of him as he spills over his hand. He stands under the spray for a long while, letting the water wash everything away.