Work Text:
Stens didn’t plan to end up on a hard, fat cock, but life was full of beautiful surprises. Clyde fucked like he talked: slow and considerate , the deep slides drawn out, and then a sharp little thrust to punctuate the sentence. All Stens could do was wordlessly drool into the pillow (it smelled nice, smelled like shampoo), tremble on all fours, and just take it, his cock bobbing between spread thighs wet with lube and spit.
Again, this was not the plan.
The plan was to hitchhike to Charleston, because he had a meeting the next morning with Soft Solutions WV, but he horrendously miscalculated, and found himself in Boone County instead of Capitol Street, alone in the night, wearing cargo shorts and a rain poncho, and all he needed was a cardboard sign that said I WANT TO BE MURDERED PLEASE. It was raining, and there was mist , and when a pickup truck slowed down to a crawl he fully expected Stephen King to lean out of the window and say, “You’re mine now, this is the kind of shit I write.”
But it was a tall, dark stranger instead, in a Bruce Springsteen shirt nonetheless, and flannel, and a robot hand . He came from the future, Stens decided, to fix his stupid mistake of taking the wrong train. The stranger looked like the benevolent version of a Terminator, and he said something along the lines of “Come with me if you want to live.” (He said, “Cats and dogs...hop in.”)
It was 2 a.m.
Stens scuttered into the passenger’s seat, bone-tired and soaking wet, and sputtered out a winded thank you, praising him for his benevolence. The stranger was silent, openly eyeing him, and instead of “Where to?”, he said, “Will my place be okay?”
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Stens supplied, and that was that; the man nodded, and they drove on, through the raging storm, and Stens had just started to entertain the thought of serial killers, body parts in a duffel bag, and whether he’d have to haunt the road, the car, or the bag, when the man said, “I’m Clyde, what should I call you?”
“Stensland,” he said, and then thought: He’ll have to kill me now, I know his name , but he also thought: Appalachian hospitality, he’s taking me to his place, he’ll give me a towel to dry my hair, feed me—rhubarb pie and deer jerky, whatever they have here, roadkill cuisine, but I’ll thank him for the meal because he’s a lovely meatloaf himself.
Then Clyde said, “You mind if I call you baby while we fuckin’, Stensland?”
Stens made a sound he was not entirely proud of, somewhere between a meep and a cough.
He did end up on Clyde’s dick though.
He ended up on Clyde’s dick, because Clyde Logan (34 years old, Taurus, favorite color: blue) had taken him for a hooker, and not just any hooker: the kind of hooker he’d pick up from the exact spot Stensland wandered to, and bring them home and fuck them good, because (by his own admission) dating had gotten a tad difficult after Iraq, but a man still had urges, and a man had recently also gotten some money.
“Don’t tell Jimmy,” Clyde said when they were clearing up the misunderstanding, and Stens promised not to tell Jimmy, mostly because he had no idea who Jimmy was.
The roads had started to get dirty and narrow, which meant they were getting closer to Clyde’s house (Stens envisioned a shed to fit a) Clyde’s manly energy and b) possible habit of serial killing). A decision had to be made: at the time, it didn’t occur to him to come out as a hopeless hitchhiker, and ask Clyde to drop him out on a gas station. He found himself considering whether to just roll with the story and pretend to be a hooker, but he got a little self-conscious about his performance as he eyed the bulge in Clyde’s jeans. Riding that would need meticulous training, and he swore off of dick after Lyle, and that regrettable shag over the kitchen counter, which they said would never happen again (and it didn’t, because it happened again in the shower, and then on the rug), and after that Lyle broke his heart.
Men were pigs.
His arsehole was closed for business.
But Clyde had a nice, massive dick he started stroking after Stens said it was okay, and he wanted that in his mouth, and he wanted it bad, but he didn’t want Clyde to mutter a disappointed “one star” after he gagged on it (did genuine hookers have something like TripAdvisor?), so he told him, “Actually, come to think of it, I’m not a hooker, per se, but I’d like you to drive the ol’ Hershey Highway just the same, if that’s okay.”
After which Clyde’s hand stilled, which was a damned shame, and he stopped the car and looked at him all scared , and Stens would’ve felt real bad but what Clyde said was an earnest “I apologize.”
It did something stupid to Stens’ heart.
“You’re a nice fella, Clyde,” he said, “positively radiant, so although I might lack the certificate to do the required fucking, please be assured, good sir, that I do not lack the skills.” With that, he attempted a little pelvic thrust, then a bit of bouncing, to show off his versatility.
Clyde was staring.
“I can also put my leg behind my ears if that tickles your fancy; allow me to demonstrate—”
“Ain’t necessary,” Clyde said.
Started the car again.
He lived nearby, and lived in a very nice house, much to Stens’ disappointment. He’s been getting fond of the imagined shed. Clyde opened the door for him like a gentleman, and started an impromptu little house tour, as if Stens was an esteemed guest. Stens followed him with the patient confidence of a real estate agent, commenting on the flooring and the tiles like an adult, unsure what was expected of him (it would’ve been easier if Clyde lived in a cave—thrown Stens over his wide shoulders, dragged him into his lair.)
Stens’ cock was harder than he remembered it being in recent years (aerobic tapes notwithstanding), which made it difficult to concentrate on what Clyde was saying about the flat screen TV and how he didn’t find them very reliable. Stens spotted his DVD collection, and his heart sank when he noticed the unmistakable title strip of Dawson’s Creek season six.
Gobshite, I want to know you now, he thought. The entire house belonged to a person he’d want to chat up in a department store, bring on a date, dish over delicious milkshakes. Clyde (all six-foot-two of him) was wasted on a fling , but Stens knew he was doing it again: falling for a stranger, when he should learn to just fall into their bed, have fun and leave the experience behind. Not the way Grady suggested: objectification had no appeal to him, but casual adventures were something he wished to experience, to connect to a person meaningfully, in soul and body, but be able to leave before it went to shit.
He took Clyde’s cool robot hand, squeezed it and asked, “Where’s the bedroom and what’s your favorite color?”
Clyde blinked at him (and why did he have to have soulful eyes, soft and warm, and that glorious mane, and a nose for days), and he said, “I’m sorry, don’t often have one-night stands, as it were.”
Stens patted his hand. “You have sexy sex workers over,” he reminded him gently.
“That’s different,” Clyde said, then: “Blue. Left.”
“I don’t do this often either,” Stens said. “Pink. Carry me?”
Carry him, Clyde did.
Clyde Logan was as impressive naked as fully clothed, a beautifully carved statue of some fertility god, thick cock standing proud. He undressed Stens like one would unwrap a present, and dried his hair with a pillowcase while he showered him with kisses (never on the mouth, but everywhere else).
Stens whispered him little secrets about himself, including the trivia he was planning to put on his Wikipedia page (when he finally got famous and had one), and Clyde told him about himself as he put on a condom and lubed him up, which made things easier but also infinitely harder, in every sense, and Stens thought, with a raging erection, I won’t be able to forget you.
His toes curled when Clyde flipped him to his stomach, bore down on him and pushed inside. Stens would remember the burn forever, the impossible stretch, the tingling pain, but also the relief as he relaxed into it with whimpering ease. He’d remember Clyde rocking into him, grabbing his love handles to pull him to all fours. It was like a prophecy coming true.
“Taking my cock so well, baby,” Clyde told him, and, “When did you last sing to yourself?”
Stens blinked a few times in quick succession. “Isn’t that from um, that New York Times article, ‘36 Questions to Make You Fall in Love’ or ah, whatever?”
“Maybe,” Clyde admitted, digging deeper, thrusting his hips up and forward to help Stens take him in well.
Stens was panting open-mouthed, hair in his face, flexing and clenching his arse the best he could, feeling every jiggle. “You don’t want me to fall for you,” he said. “Last time I did that I went mental. The Collector has nothing on me. I was stalking and threatening and violating boundaries, and I had to get choked and lose my pantleg to fix that hot mess.”
“Learned your lesson, haven’t ya,” Clyde panted, putting his meaty flesh-hand on Stens’ arched neck. “You like to get choked, babe?”
“I do indeed, and to answer your question, I always sing when taking a shit, keeps me entertained—squeeze, please, please, please.”
Clyde closed off his windpipe with a press of his palm, gave him three deep thrusts (Stens could swear he felt Clyde’s dick poke at his organs, though that might just have been the lack of oxygen talking); when he released him, he grunted, “Again?”
“Yes, I’ll—punch the pillow if I’m dying.” Emboldened by Clyde’s responding chuckle, he shook his hair back and announced with aloof dignity, “Throttle me, please.”
“You’re a dream,” Clyde told him. “You like this, dontcha, my hand ‘round your neck—beautiful, delicate.” He squeezed harder, making Stens’ eyes roll back before he eased his grip. Stens coughed wetly, and Clyde went on saying, “Only thing is, I can’t hear ya talk when we do this, and I like your chatter damn well.”
“I don’t hear that often,” Stens said, chipper, even with his voice a bit breathless. Clyde flipped him over with an almost offensive ease, cock slipping out and hitting Stens’ thigh with a wet smack. Stens moaned like a two-penny whore, then he did it again, trying to sound more luxurious. Clyde lined up, blunt cockhead poking at Stens’ puffy hole.
“Alright, yeah?”
“Yeah, wanna see you—and we can talk, yeah—what else is in that article—”
“‘What do y’ value most in a friendship?’”
“Talking shit, you?”
“Loyalty,” Clyde muttered, and pushed inside all at once. Stens cried out, back arched, shocked at how he sounded, how it felt—like he was a virgin again, like that thing with Sally at prom never happened, even though she had a pinkie in his ass, but what was a pinkie compared to— this , being fucked full by a colossus.
“You’re loyal?” he asked when he managed to regain his senses, for a fleeting moment, before he was lost to raw pleasure again. He barely heard Clyde’s reply.
“‘Am, yeah. ‘What role does love ‘n affection play in your life?’”
“It makes me miserable,” Stens whispered, and threw an arm over his face. He was burning up from within, from the point where Clyde’s cock kept rubbing at his prostate. Clyde replied with a sympathetic snort, got hold of his wrist. The metal was cool, chilling.
“Is it okay, wanna see your face—let me?”
Stens could only nod. Felt his arm slide up his sweaty forehead, hair sticking up each and every way—he must’ve looked quite unflattering—his chins would definitely agree, all four of them—but Clyde looked at him like he was a wonder.
“You Irish, right?”
“What gave it away, the accent, the hair, or everything else?”
Clyde stroked his treasure trail with his free hand.
“You bring me luck, yeah?”
“I don’t know, you’d have to rub my magic lamp—there, there.”
His cock fit perfectly in Clyde’s grip. Stens was getting dizzy.
“Please ask me something and fall for me, just a little bit,” he said. “Do we have to do all thirty-six?”
“Not if you’re this cute, no.”
Stens pouted. “You say that to all your lovers.”
“Only if they’re this pretty.”
“Smooth talker, are you?”
“Am told I’m rather mild-mannered,” Clyde mused as he adjusted his grip, pumping Stens’ cock and finishing with a wicked twist when he reached the tip. “When I’m not fucking, that is. Your regular wallflower indeed.”
“Can’t imagine,” Stens said, and squeezed his eyes shut when Clyde did that thing with his fist again. “Shit, fuck, I’m coming—choke me, choke me—”
With Clyde’s flesh-hand being quite busy, he used his robot hand instinctively—the pressure was exquisite, and Stens (usually a moaner) came with a wet sob.
Clyde was kind enough to reduce the pounding to polite little jerks of his hips, and stroked Stens’ cock almost apologetically, as if he did something bad, something other than having given Stens the most intense orgasm of his life, that blow-your-socks-off kind he thought only existed in books (his aunt’s romance novels, to be exact). He could feel the roots of his hair tingling; ran his hands down his chest, enjoying the brief touch on his peaked nipples, and was tempted to dip a finger into the come splattered across his heaving stomach, but that wasn’t civilised, and he wouldn’t dream to offend such a gentleman as Clyde, who was cordially fucking him still.
“C’mere,” Stens muttered, “put on a new condom, I think I figured out how to blow you.”
Clyde rushed to obey, while Stens, head swimming, managed to grab the box of tissues on the nightstand and clean up most of the mess. He imagined Clyde lapping it up, his long nose dipping into his bellybutton—his spent cock twitched at the thought.
“Enough is enough,” he mumbled.
“It’s watermelon,” Clyde said as he sat back, cock wrapped in faint pink rubber.
“Tasteful choice,” Stens decided. He got to his hands and knees again, stalked towards Clyde like a puma on the prowl (he supposed he looked more like a kitten ready to learn from failure), fisted Clyde’s cock and kissed it sideways. Clyde’s hips bucked, urging Stens to double his attempts, even sneak a hand between Clyde’s muscular thighs and press a cheeky thumb between his taut balls and his hole.
“Shit,” Clyde gritted, then, “Deeper?”
Stens couldn’t help a smile as he dipped his finger inside.
“That’s how my unit would feel,” he said. “All of it.”
“Bullshit, you’re a fair size—it’s just your hips making it look smaller.”
“Thank you,” Stens breathed, and nuzzled Clyde’s cock in gratitude.
It did taste like watermelon. It also tasted like justice. Triumph. All of these things. Stens lubed up his fingers to play with Clyde’s ass properly while licking his cock, more of an ice cream method than a popsicle, but his jaw would thank him later. At least his fingering technique was flawless, as practiced on and developed by a widow he loved once, a relationship that would’ve lasted if the late husband hadn’t intervened through a Hasbro Ouija board.
“You’re not married, right?” he mumbled around Clyde’s cock.
“Wasn’t legal ‘round here when I last been tempted, high school sweetheart and all that,” Clyde said, humping the air as he rubbed himself over Stens’ lips, ass tight around his fingertips. “You have a weird way of proposing. If that’s what it is, I mean. Also rushed.”
“No, I—mmm—just have a way of—getting entangled with married folk—”
“Little homewrecker, heh?”
“Not intentional, although embarrassing; change the subject, please. Can you remember more of the thirty-six questions?”
“Just ask me if I’m gonna come.”
Stens gave a long lick to his dick, looked up at him from behind lowered lashes and curled his fingers. “You gonna come?”
Clyde did so with a sharp cry, grabbing Stens' hair. It was the robot arm again. Stens loved that arm. The things he loved about Clyde should’ve ended on three items max, arm, cock, eyes, but looking up at him he also included his beard and hair (soft, soft, soft), every single dot scattered on his skin (cute, unique), the ripple of his toned stomach, the heady smell of him (sex, soap, sweat), every detail he could greedily memorize.
But one night stands end in the same way: condoms get tossed into the trash, and so do eager boys who hope for too much. Clyde was still a gorgeous, grunting mess, half-collapsed on Stens’ back and kissing the jut of his spine when Stens started to forget about him, forcing himself to do so, muting the rumble of his voice, the hot wetness of his breath, everything he ever said.
He fetched his raincoat from the floor, Clyde clinging to him, and started pulling on his shorts with some difficulty.
“You can’t be serious,” Clyde mumbled. “You leavin’?”
“Wouldn’t want to keep you up, sweetheart,” Stens muttered, heart breaking again, despite his best attempts to avoid exactly friggin’ that. He should flee before it got worse, but Clyde nuzzled his neck, and it made Stens stop and consider, who does that , but all he could think was people who’re still crushable .
“I can give you a ride, but I can also give you a couch or the left side of the bed,” Clyde said. “No rush goin’ anywhere in the cold ‘n the drizzle.”
Stens looked at the window. He supposed it was still raining, although all he could see were the wet silhouette of dark pines. West Virginia, Boone County: where would he be going? He was lost, after all. Utterly lost.
He let his shorts drop back to the floor.
“If I stay,” he said mournfully, “I’m falling in love with you, no questions asked. I’m like a cat, you kick me out or I stay there forever and piss on your carpet. Would you risk that?”
“Apart from the pissin’, I wouldn’t mind a guy like you being sweet on me.”
“I’m not even from around here.”
“I can tell. We can meet again, fuck again, go from there. It’s not that complicated. I can afford a plane ticket now. Always wanted see more of ‘merica.” He poked his ribs, timid. “You can say no. I just wouldn’t mind seeing more of you.”
Stens looked him over. Clyde Logan and his eight pack would’ve been easy to leave behind, or at least, manageable—he looked like he could be a filthy little secret, an underwear model in a magazine stashed under the bed; Clyde Logan and his earnest eyes, however. That was different. “Don’t wanna say no,” Stens confessed.
“Say yes, then,” Clyde said. Patted the bed. Stens sank back into it, cautiously, let Clyde spoon him. He loved his comforting warmth and weight of another naked body; had missed it. Clyde turned off the lamp, and there was darkness around them, soft and still, and the patter of rain.
“Am I that good of a fuck?” Stens asked.
“Better than a professional. And I still have what, thirty-three questions to ask before we fall madly in love?”
Stens smiled into the night, squirmed a little closer. So much for improving his moral character; but maybe there were worse things to be than clingy.
“Ask me anything.”
“Of all the people in your family, whose death would be most disturbing?”
“Jesus, Clyde.”
Clyde chuckled (shy, almost, certainly embarrassed), muttered “It’s in th’ article,” and pressed an apologetic kiss to Stens’ cheek. Not his lips, not yet; but thirty-two questions, and they’d be there.