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Taste the Summer

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“…And you’re sure no one can see us up here?”

With a hand shading his eyes from the glare of the late-afternoon sun, Jeff steps out onto the wide balcony that encircles the entire first floor of his home, then turns and looks back at Bruce. The other man is lingering in the doorway, still in a t-shirt and the shortest pair of boxers Jeff has ever seen. They’re black and hug the curves of Bruce’s ass perfectly, and Jeff has to remember to drag his gaze upwards so he can meet Bruce’s worried eyes.

“Don’t worry, man. See the trees over there?” He points out the thatch bordering the property’s western edge. “No one can see us through those, all right?”

“Still.” Bruce is hesitant and Jeff sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never done this before.”

“Seriously? Even when you’ve been by yourself?”

Bruce’s smile is wry. “Didn’t have much time to myself when I was growing up, Bridges. So that’s a no.”

“Aww.” Jeff scrubs a hand through his hair. “It’s not that hard, man. I’ll be doing it too.”

“Maybe that’s part of the problem I’m having,” Bruce says, his tone teasing now. “You’ve been working out, haven’t you? Some new role that you haven’t told me about yet? Maybe I’m feeling a little self-concious here.”

Jeff hums enigmatically, fixes Bruce with a look. They’re all alone; it’s the middle of the week and even the cleaner’s gone for the day. It’s just him and Bruce and this empty house. Now, if only Boxleitner wasn’t being so damn precious about sunbathing, they’d be having some fun. Bruce looks back at him, his eyebrow raised in a questioning expression, and Jeff grins back at him, all sunny unconcern.

He walks back into his bedroom and looks for the bottle he bought before Bruce came over. It’s standing on his bedside table and he picks it up, weighing it in one hand and mulling over various possibilities for a moment. Eventually he grabs two mismatched cups and heads back out to the balcony. The day is warm and Jeff has long discarded his shirt in favour of wandering around the house bare-chested in a pair of old jeans. He sets the glasses down on the rickety outdoor table, watches Bruce looking out at the scenery; Jeff bought this house mainly because it was in such a remote location, away from the bustle of Hollywood, and there’s just something about the slightly wistful way Bruce is staring into the distance, hands on the railing of the balcony, that makes Jeff lick his lips.

“Got something that might help with your…” Jeff lets his voice trail off as he deliberately rakes his eyes over Bruce’s lean, muscled form. “Performance anxiety.”

Bruce’s eyes flash and Jeff knows he’s on the right track with this. He pours out the bourbon with a generous hand, hands a slightly fuller glass to Bruce and clinks their cups together in a little toast. Bruce knocks his drink back, draining the glass and setting it down before Jeff is halfway through his.

“Funny,” he growls, moves closer to Jeff. “You’ve never complained about it before.”

Jeff closes his eyes for a moment, recollects his thoughts, then opens them again, lips curling in a vicious smile. “Take your shirt off, man. It’s way too hot.”

“Take your damned jeans off first,” Bruce counters, and Jeff pours them more of the bourbon. It’s good stuff, strong and smooth, and Bruce is already on to his third glass before Jeff realises it. He grins, and shucks off his jeans gratefully, draping them on the balcony railing, next to two bleached white lounge chairs that he set out specially for today.

As a matter of course, Jeff isn’t wearing any underwear under his jeans and he can feel Bruce’s stare as he turns around. Bruce is standing stock still, one hand holding the bourbon bottle, his mouth hanging open and a beautiful flush reddening his cheeks.

“You keep staring like that and I might have to charge you admission.”

Bruce blinks, blushes even harder and pours himself another shot of alcohol. It disappears quickly and Jeff is pleased to note that close to half the bottle is already gone. Time for the second phase of attack.

“Hang on. I’ve got something special that I think you’ll like.”

Jeff fishes around in the pocket of his jeans for the joint he knows is there and pulls it out with a triumphant smile. OK, maybe it’s a little bent, but it’s still intact and he lights it with a scratched-up old zippo he produces from another pocket. He takes a deep drag from it and exhales the smoke through his nose, a new trick he’s been practicing, and hands the joint to Bruce.

“You’re just full of hidden talents,” Bruce jokes, and takes a pull, brow furrowed in concentration. Jeff snorts and tugs at Bruce’s worn t-shirt.

“Off, man. Come on. You said you needed to work on your tan.”

“I did? I seem to recall this was all your idea.” Bruce puffs at the joint one more time and passes it back to Jeff, coughing a little. He pulls off the t-shirt, and not for the first time, Jeff stares openly in appreciation as Bruce’s bare torso is exposed to the bright California sunshine. Grinning, and looking more relaxed now, Bruce throws the shirt at Jeff’s face. Jeff catches it out of the air, mesmerised.

“Everything, man.” He manages to croak and Bruce hesitates again. Reaches out to the table for the bottle of bourbon again and pours an inch of the amber-coloured liquid into his tumbler. He salutes Jeff with the glass and tips it back, and Jeff’s entranced by the long line of his neck and the way Bruce’s long fingers wrap around the glass. Then Bruce bangs the glass down on the table and strides over to one of the lounge chairs.

Without any further fuss, he pulls the boxer shorts down and kicks them away, naked as the day he was born. Jeff’s left a bottle of sunscreen on one of the chairs and Bruce picks it up now, uncaps it, squirts a little onto his palm and turns to look at Jeff, who hasn’t moved from the small, rickety table, the joint between his fingers completely forgotten as he drinks in the sight in front of him.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Going to help me get this stuff on?” Bruce asks, holding his hand out, and Jeff needs no further invitation. He has another hit of the joint, and moves to Bruce’s side immediately, exchanges weed for sunscreen. Without being asked, he pours more sunscreen on his hands and starts rubbing it onto Bruce’s back, enjoying the sensation of Bruce’s smooth skin under his fingers. He’s rewarded with a low moan and Bruce has the joint between his lips again, smoking as Jeff slathers his back with sunscreen, his hands slipping wetly over Bruce’s shoulders.

“That feel good?” Jeff asks, unable to help himself. “Or are you too busy getting stoned to appreciate what’s going on here, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Bruce says easily, his voice already taking on that dreamy, faraway tone. He puts the joint out on an ashtray that’s resting on the arm of one of the chairs. “You’re doing a fine job so far, Flynnster.”

Jeff snorts. Bruce somehow always manages to bring up that damn movie every time he gets high, but he supposes they should thank Lisberger for… well. Just about everything that’s happened between them, since it all started one memorable night when him and Bruce had decided to explore the ‘significant relationship between Kevin Flynn and Tron’ (which somehow involved vast quantities of booze and a very willing Bruce). Then his hands wander down to Bruce’s ass, and there is just no way that Jeff’s not going to take advantage of the situation.

Reversing the angle of his sweeping strokes, Jeff leans in and runs his hands down Bruce’s ass, cupping the firm cheeks and squeezing lightly. Bruce tips his head back so that it’s resting on Jeff’s shoulder and groans, his cock rising half-hard in the warm, humid air.

“Mmm,” he moans, licks his lips. Jeff resists the urge to nip at Bruce’s neck, runs his hands down Bruce’s ass again, fascinated by the drag of fingers against skin and the way it makes Bruce twist and gasp against him. He does it once more and Bruce curses this time as Jeff’s slick fingers slide between the cleft of his cheeks and search for the pucker of his asshole.

They’d both known, of course, what had been meant when Jeff had invited Bruce over to catch some sun on his private balcony, smiling like some kind of lecherous pervert. And Bruce had played up to it, claiming that he wasn’t sure about taking off all his clothes just to make sure his tan was completely even, his expression appropriately coy. Thing is, though; Jeff’s always known that Bruce Boxleitner has a tendency to take his clothes off whenever and wherever he feels like it, much to Jeff’s great enjoyment. And - even better than that - when he’s had a little alcohol and a bit of weed, Bruce is agreeable to just about anything.

Right now, Jeff has him - quite literally - in the palm of his hand. He presses the tip of a finger against Bruce’s entrance and pushes in, hard and fast and Bruce is spitting expletives, his ass pressing hard against Jeff’s own erection. Jeff waits until Bruce is relaxed (and moaning and pleading for more) before adding another finger and soon he’s working Bruce over slowly, fucking him and opening him up gradually, his other hand wrapping itself around Bruce’s cock and pumping him in time. Then Bruce bites down on his lip, another little moan escaping his mouth, and turns his head to catch Jeff’s lips in a wet, desperate kiss.

Jeff almost forgets what he’s doing; Bruce’s kisses are demanding, his hot tongue sweeping into Jeff’s mouth and tangling with his own, forceful and intoxicating and relentless. Jeff growls, low in his throat and Bruce is already pulling away, his hips arching as Jeff brings him closer to orgasm.

“You going to fuck me properly?” Bruce manages to gasp, sounding utterly debauched, voice gone husky with need. “Or are you just going to fuck me with your fingers like you don’t know what to do with your cock?”

Jeff knows a challenge when he hears one. This time he doesn’t hesitate at all, lets his teeth sink into the soft flesh of Bruce’s neck as he twists his fingers in and up one last time, making Bruce squirm against him and call him a fucking jackass tease, Bridges, goddamnit, that’s going to leave a mark.

“That’s the point of it, man.” He hisses, licking and pulling at the lobe of Bruce’s ear with his teeth. Without further ceremony he pulls his fingers out and pushes Bruce down onto the chair. And damn if that isn’t one of the best sights he’s seen all week; Bruce Boxleitner lying in front of him with his legs splayed wide open, his cock red and hard, his lips glistening, dark hair plastered to his face, and eyes gone dark with desire.

Jeff stops to admire the view, then stretches himself over Bruce, letting their cocks brush together briefly, causing Bruce to arch up, desperate for more contact.

“I think I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll be seeing stars, Tronski.”

Bruce shivers at that, reaches up and tangles the fingers of one hand through Jeff’s hair, brings him down for another kiss, open-mouthed and messy and Jeff is finding it hard to think with Bruce arching up underneath him, slick and hot and hard and begging to be fucked. With a groan, Jeff pulls away, tries to reach out for the bottle of sunscreen but Bruce is being far too distracting, his tongue working some kind of pagan magic as he kisses a trail down Jeff’s neck, along his collarbone, his fingers lightly tracing the line of Jeff’s spine, sending tingles of sensation through Jeff’s already overheated body and making him hiss in pleasure.

“Turn around,” he says, more gruffly than he meant to, but Bruce obeys, though he throws a curious look Jeff’s way. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Bruce replies. “Are you to at least tell me what it is you’re going to do?”

“Maybe.” Jeff gets up and stalks to the table, grabs the bourbon and swigs a mouthful. “Maybe I’ll just show you instead.”

He brings the bottle over to the chair, sets it down and places a deliberate kiss on the base of Bruce’s back, near the tailbone. Then he licks a slow stripe down, his hands already spreading the cheeks of Bruce’s ass apart.

“Fuck,” Bruce is saying somewhere above him. “Fuck, Jeff. I -”

Whatever he was going to say is suddenly cut off as Jeff’s tongue reaches its destination and the chair squeals in protest as Bruce grips onto its arms for some kind of purchase as Jeff’s tongue circles the ring of muscle surrounding his asshole. With as much patience as he can muster, Jeff rims Bruce slowly, the gasping, pleading sounds Bruce is making going straight to his almost painfully hard dick. It’s worth it, though, to hear Bruce choke and beg like this. Then Jeff spreads his cheeks a little wider and probes him with his tongue, and Bruce is nearly howling as he tries to urge Jeff on, begging him to go deeper and faster and oh Christ, he needs it now. Now, Jeff, come on.

Jeff doesn’t listen. He can’t, because this is perfect; having Bruce fall to pieces like this is incredible. He fucks Bruce alternately with fingers and tongue and loves the wet sound his fingers make driving themselves into Bruce’s ass and the deeper taste of Bruce on his tongue.

“You… you fucking bastard, Bridges.” Bruce spits, and Jeff chuckles as he reaches around for Bruce’s cock, which is beautifully hot and leaking pre-come. “Will you just fucking fuck me already?”

“You need to watch your language, man.” Jeff tells him, marvelling at the way Bruce makes the words sound so filthy. “Or I’ll just leave you here to finish up by yourself.”

He gives Bruce’s hole another lick, eliciting another moan, reaches for the bourbon and has another gulp, the liquid burning a trail down his throat.

Then Bruce starts to touch himself, and Jeff thinks, come on, man. That just ain’t fair; he was only joking about making Bruce get himself off. But he can’t look away because Bruce’s hand is wrapped around his cock and he’s on his knees, face pushed against the slats of the lounge chair, the slick sound of his hand working his own cock obscenely arousing. His eyes meet Jeff’s, and they both know what they need now.

Bruce manages to stop, finds and tosses the bottle of sunscreen at Jeff with more force than he was expecting. The bottle is slippery and Jeff almost drops it, but manages to save it in time and pour enough sunscreen onto his hand before he tosses the bottle away in his impatience. He slicks himself up, shivering at the sensation of cool liquid against his heated skin.

“You ready?” He asks, pushing Bruce onto his back and nudging Bruce’s legs apart with his thigh.

“Are you seriously asking me that question?” Bruce says, his voice incredulous. He takes one of Jeff’s hands, guides it to his erection and gasps as Jeff palms it gently before taking it in a firm grasp, thumb brushing against the head. “I’ve been ready since you let me in the front door. So come on. Stop being such a fucking gentleman.”

“So demanding,” Jeff teases. But he relents, lifts one of Bruce’s legs onto his hip and eases his cock into Bruce’s ass as gently as he can.

“Unnnhhh.” It’s the sound of it; a breathy exhalation ending in a desperate gasp escaping from Bruce’s kiss-bruised lips that undoes Jeff. Without further prompting he thrusts in deeper and - God! - Bruce is tight and hot around him and Jeff is having trouble thinking straight now. His senses enhanced by the weed he’s been smoking, Jeff can’t think of anything else other than how perfect, how right this feels. But then Bruce is arching up and gasping for more and his fingers are gripping Bruce’s hips and digging in, begging for him to move.

So he does. Slowly at first, both of them entranced by the way it feels, the angles of Jeff’s thrusts hitting just the right spot each time, and both men fascinated by the slow burn of pleasure as he begins to speed up, his hand on Bruce’s cock struggling to keep time. The chair is squeaking violently now, but Jeff can barely hear it because he’s lost in the way that Bruce moans every time he thrusts in and gasps each time he pulls back, his hair matted with sweat and sticking to his cheeks which are flushed red, his mouth open and his eyes closed against the glare of the sun. His hips stutter against Jeff’s, trying to meet his rhythm, pushing his cock wantonly into Jeff’s hand, all needy impulse and impatient desire.

“More.” Bruce mutters. “More, Jeff. Come on. I need you now.”

And if Jeff wasn’t close to coming already, this tips him over the edge. His other hand pushes down on the jut of Bruce’s hip and the movements of his thrusts become jerky as he buries his cock in Bruce’s impossibly tight heat over and over again. He bends down and licks a trail down Bruce’s neck, lapping at the sweat that’s collected at the base of his throat. Bruce eyes snap open and his hands tighten their grip on Jeff’s hips, forcing him in even deeper and he’s mewling as Jeff licks another stripe along his jaw, opens his mouth for another gasping kiss as their tongues fight for dominance.

The force of Bruce’s climax takes Jeff by surprise; he has Jeff’s hips in a death-grip and pulls Jeff in even deeper, his expression frantic. And then he yells suddenly, arches up, his hips thrusting into Jeff’s grasp one last time, his come running down Jeff’s still pumping fist.

“God, look at you, man.” Jeff mutters, entranced, “You’re such a slut for me.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, just tugs at Jeff’s hand and sucks the seed off his fingers, tongue lapping at each fingertip. And Jeff can’t take it anymore. He thrusts into Bruce one last time and comes, sparks of coloured light exploding behind his closed eyes as he groans and collapses on top of Bruce.

They stay silent for a long time, catching their breath and lounging in the warm embrace of their shared afterglow, listening to the slow hum of the afternoon. After a moment, Bruce pushes a hand through Jeff’s hair, slowly massaging his scalp.

“You all right?” He asks, his voice rough. Jeff sniggers. Turns his head and draws patterns on Bruce’s sweat-slick chest with his fingers.

“I’m fine, man. More than fine, actually.”

Bruce’s smile is wide. “So, are we actually going to get some sun today, or what?”

Jeff mirrors his grin.

“Well,” he says, presses his lips against Bruce’s bellybutton and licks, earning him a noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeal. He looks up at leers. “We’re all dirty now. How about you get in the shower and I… I help you get clean? That sound good? And then we can discuss the sunbathing again, if you’re up for it.”

“You’re a pervert, Flynnster.”

“Oh, you know you love it, Tronski.”

Bruce doesn’t even try to counter that.