Tomas winces when he sits down. God, that could've gone a whole lot better.
“You're not still sore, are you?” Joe jokes. They had practice in the morning, technically optional, but everyone showed up anyway.
Tomas shakes his head and says, “No,” and maybe something gives him away. Maybe it's how he's already a little flushed only a quarter of a beer in, or how his lips are red and a little swollen from biting them, or how the last two are because he has a plug in his ass. One of the three. Either way, Joe blinks at him for just a second—and then he catches on, fast. The dawning realization on Joe's face—that's definitely worth the discomfort.
Tomas rolls up his sleeves, hoping it'll help with how warm he feels, but all he gets is Joe's fingers skimming across the thin skin behind his arm just below his elbow. He's trying to stay cool, but the tips of his ears, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones—they're all flushed pink, just from the rough touch of Joe's fingers. Tomas can only concentrate on bringing his glass to his lips over and over again, certainly not on the conversation in English going on around him. Joe's laughing and animated and Tomas would resent him for it, just a little, if he wasn't too busy trying to keep himself from shaking in his chair or just climbing right into Joe's goddamn lap, grinding down on his cock and back on the plug until he comes.
He doesn't do it, because that would be impolite when Joe's trying to talk. He sits quietly and smiles whenever he can, does his best to answer when the conversation swings around to him, biting back the whine that's been building in his throat since he took a seat and Joe's hand found his elbow.
Tomas shifts, completely forgetting for a second about the plug—and he has to bite back a moan. He thinks he hides it well enough and no one at the table notices, but then Joe stutters on his sentence and his nails dig in. It's brief, the pain gone almost as fast as Tomas feels it, but it's sharp enough that Tomas is making himself smile apologetically and excusing himself from the table. He keeps his head down and doesn't look back as he hurries across the bar. It's probably suspicious—the guys are gonna chirp him hard for it—but right now Tomas doesn't care. He doesn't know if he wants Joe to follow him; right now what he wants is to get off and deal with the whole thing when he doesn't have the world's most obvious boner.
He's only just shut the door behind himself before he's pushing his back against it, bringing one hand down to cup his dick through his pants. Joe's not coming, didn't follow him, is probably still at the table. The stutter, the grip—Tomas can chalk it all up to a coincidence. Tomas screws his eyes shut and tells himself that's okay, that's good, they don't want anything obvious or suspicious and bathroom sex with their teammates nearby is the definition of suspicious. He's working at his button, his fly, trying to shove his pants out of the way when he feels the solid thump of the door being shoved so hard it shifts in its frame.
Tomas chokes out, “Just—just minute, wait?” and gives himself a distressed, consoling rub, just to take the pressure off. He's taking a deep breath, readying himself to go back out, when the door thumps again, harder this time, followed too quickly by a third. Tomas is about ready to yank the door open and bolt.
“Kid, if you don't let me in, I'm gonna drag you out here for everyone to see. I'm dead serious.” And that's Joe, that's Joe's voice, low and intense—
Tomas can't get the door open fast enough. He fumbles with it for a second, fingers slipping on the knob—too long, because Joe's still swearing when he shoulders in. He's filling the doorway before grabbing Tomas hard by the shoulders and slamming the door shut, pressing him up against it hard enough to make Tomas' lungs feel tight. His breath catches in his throat, and Joe's just watching him pant, his hands climbing until they're framing Tomas' face, his eyes dark and fixed on Tomas' mouth.
“You good?” Joe asks him, distracted but still serious, just like he makes Tomas tell him every time they've done this. Tomas nods frantically before Joe's groaning and burying his face in Tomas' neck, breathing out hard and grazing his teeth against the hollow there, his breath wet and hot against Tomas' skin.
“Fuck,” Joe says under his breath, just loud enough for Tomas to catch, and Tomas can't help but make a questioning sound in his throat. Joe sounds gone, beyond turned on, and Tomas—he thought Joe was in control, unaffected, back at the table. But Joe is pushing one knee between Tomas', spreading his thighs to give himself space to grind against, and Tomas lets his head fall back against the door, overwhelmed.
Joe finally get ahold of himself and pauses, putting a bare inch or two between their bodies; not much, but enough for him to get Tomas' attention. Tomas feels drugged, heavy and desperate, but he manages to force his eyes open and focus on Joe. If Tomas didn't know better, he'd think Joe looked angry, his brows drawn together, almost intimidating.
Tomas swallows, looking up at Joe with eyes he knows are too wide, and Joe's face crumples before he gets a hand on Tomas, sliding his palm down Tomas' stomach and—more importantly—down the length of Tomas' dick through his jeans. It's just—it's, god, it's great but it isn't enough, and Tomas whines, hips pressing helplessly into Joe's hand.
Joe's eyes drop, and Tomas can't help watching as Joe's eyes train on his own hand moving over Tomas' cock in compulsive, repetitive motions, all too light, too little pressure.
“Please, please,” Tomas chokes out, his hands clumsily grabbing at Joe's shirt, the back of his neck, the crook of his elbow—whatever part of him Tomas can reach.
He's still working obsessively into Joe's grip, hips thrusting frantically until Joe huffs and pins Tomas' hips back against the door, both hands anchoring Tomas' hipbones and holding him in place. His ass is pressing up against the door and it makes the plug shift, just enough to make him moan, but one of Joe's hands comes up and slaps over his mouth, pressing hard and muffling any sounds he makes. It's absurdly hot, somehow: Joe's full weight keeping Tomas in place with one hand, the other covering Tomas' face from chin to just under his nose and digging into the hinge of his jaw. Tomas' cock jerks in his underwear—god, he can't move—and Tomas' pants are still done up—fuck, how—and it's a goddamn miracle Tomas hasn't embarrassed himself yet.
Joe's voice is scraped raw when he leans in, and Tomas can hear the wet sound as Joe swallows. “You're gonna be the death of me, kid.”
Tomas huffs out a laugh, too desperate to be actual amusement. He shakes his head and tries to get his teeth into Joe's palm, hopefully passing on his own frustration, trying to explain without words that he's the one who's going to die if someone—anyone at this point, he's not going to be picky—doesn't touch his cock soon. Joe seems to understand, if the quirk of his mouth is anything to take, though he doesn't take his hand away from Tomas' mouth. His other hand, the thumb of which has been absently stroking at Tomas' hipbone, finally undoes the zipper on Tomas' pants, and Joe presses closer when Tomas can't stop himself from making a humiliating noise of relief. Joe's hand is about to curl around his cock, he knows it, his stomach is going tense with anticipation, except—
Except that Joe pushes his underwear out of the way, the fabric caught awkwardly on his jeans at mid-thigh, and fuck, oh fuck, Joe's fingers skate right by his cock, stroke just briefly behind Tomas' balls and go back further, pressing firm and perfect at the base of the plug. He's pushing with rough, insistent pressure, shoving it right up against Tomas' prostate, and Tomas grits his teeth to keep himself from shouting the walls down, from breaking everything in the fucking room.
This whole night Tomas had it angled to skim the edges of pleasure, the edges of that spot. Joe’s hand must be bent at a terrible angle, but his fingers are moving the plug perfectly, pushing at it insistently in a rhythm now. Tomas sobs for breath, clutching desperately at Joe's shoulders, breathing hard through his nose, lips slack and wet under Joe's palm.
Joe's murmuring something to him and it's like everything in Tomas’ brain has shorted out, he can't—he can't understand any of it, not now, but just looking at Joe is enough to make Tomas need to squeeze his eyes shut. He thinks about the rest of the guys waiting for the two of them, knowing they're in here and maybe even wondering, fuck, and Tomas can't think about his teammates at the moment, not when Joe's fingertip catches on the very rim of Tomas' hole. Tomas can't hold it in, he's riding the edge, has been riding it since Joe tried to take the door down. He works his hips into Joe's touch, and Joe knows, it's like he always knows, circles his fingertip around again before he pushes at the plug, and it's enough to make Tomas lose it. Just—Joe's eyes nearly black, how Joe isn't even holding him anymore but Tomas couldn't move if he tried, the fact that Joe wants this as bad as Tomas does—and Tomas' eyes are rolling back in his head. Joe's fingers are still playing around his hole and he keeps his hand over Tomas' mouth, muffling Tomas' moans and wet breaths, until Tomas' cock stops kicking come into his own sweatshirt. Joe's hand is damp when he finally takes it away from Tomas' mouth, and Joe cradles Tomas' jaw, oddly gentle.
“You okay, babe?” Joe murmurs. Tomas can feel the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes, still overwhelmed, but he nods shakily. Joe looks at him for a while, stroking the hinge of Tomas' jaw—where Tomas wonders if there'll be a bruise from Joe holding him in place—and just looking at him, eyes searching his face for something. When Joe backs off, Tomas reflexively grabs at the side of Joe's shirt, keeping him close. Joe is obviously still hard, and Tomas is confused.
“You?” he gestures, still slow and clumsy, but Joe just shakes his head.
“You go back out. I'm fine,” he says, and that's. First, that's obviously not true, and second, that's not how Tomas wants this to go, this thing—whatever it is. Tomas frowns and tries pulling Joe closer.
“I want,” Tomas insists.
That only makes Joe groan, and he lets himself get reeled back into Tomas' space, pressing close and opening Tomas' mouth with a hot, messy kiss. “I know. Later though, okay?” Joe hesitates for a second before he says, “This just isn't the right place for—for what I wanna do.”
Joe bites Tomas' bottom lip and Tomas can't help the noise he makes, a soft gasp that Joe swallows up with another kiss.
“Later,” Joe says again, and Tomas nods reluctantly. Joe blows out a breath. “Okay. Go back out there and—say you're leaving. Get us out of here, babe. I'm right behind you.”
Tomas turns toward the door, then back to Joe. He raises his eyebrows at Joe cupping himself through his pants, and Joe snorts. “Yeah, you're a stud. Go.”
Tomas doesn't really want to say that his teammates are dumb, because they aren't, but they also kind of are. He manages to get himself and Joe out of there with a minimum of questions—and by “minimum” he means none, even though his cheeks must still be flushed and his voice is soft and lazy from coming so hard. They were gone for at least ten minutes and that has to be mildly suspicious, but all he gets is a round of disappointed “already”s. Tomas can't help but smile at his dumb team, laughing and four rounds deep, before grabbing his and Joe's jacket off the backs of their chairs.
He makes it out to Joe's car without any more trouble. He's fidgeting and impatient, wants to get out of here because whatever Joe was promising is a whole lot more appealing than waiting in the parking lot. The night air is cold against Tomas' flushed skin and he shivers, starts pulling on his jacket before he decides against it and pulls on Joe's instead. It's practically threadbare and a little too big across the shoulders, but it smells like Joe. He zips it up and pulls the collar up around his nose.
The quiet of the parking lot means his mind inevitably goes right back to ten minutes ago. He hopes Joe's actually coming out to meet him, not—expecting anything else. Tomas isn't sure what to do here, really; he's only messed around with Joe a few times now, the whole thing initiated mostly by accident when he was drunk two months ago for obvious reasons, and it's not weird so much as it is different, kind of unexpected. He doesn't know what he's doing, not really, mostly because Joe seems fairly competent and Tomas is more than willing to follow his lead. It's good—it's fucking mind-blowing, actually, definitely more than good—but Tomas still doesn't know how to ask any of the questions he kind of wants to ask, sometimes. It's not like he can ask Marty to translate, because that's just awkward for all parties involved, even if Marty would be nice enough to actually do it.
For now, he's okay just enjoying it. He enjoys it a lot.
Tomas hears the crunch of gravel before he sees Joe. Tomas feels abruptly silly as soon as Joe comes into sight—he's leaning against Joe's car, wearing Joe's jacket, and he's not even entirely sure what's going to happen.
Tomas straightens up as Joe comes closer; he can't help plucking nervously at the hem of Joe's jacket, then thinks better of wearing it in the first place and starts shrugging it off. Joe's in his space before he can get it off though, tugging the jacket back in place. He keeps a tight grip on the collars, hands centimeters from Tomas' jaw, and only lets go when Tomas can't help blinking up at him in confusion.
“Keep it on. Looks good.” Joe says, his face a little red. Tomas thinks Joe is breathing a little harder than he usually is, but he can't quite tell. Joe gives him a look—it's searching, feels significant even if Tomas can't figure out what it means—and lets go of Tomas' collar reluctantly. He takes a full step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You ready to go, kid?”
He kind of winces when he tacks on the “kid”, and Tomas' mouth twists.
Joe must misunderstand, because he clears his throat and continues, “I can just drop you at yours, if you want. That's—that's fine.”
Tomas isn't—he's not sure what Joe is offering, but it sounds like he still thinks Tomas doesn't want this, and that's. Tomas does, is all. He shakes his head and takes a step forward, getting one hand in Joe's shirt so he doesn't pull back and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. When Tomas pulls away, Joe is grinning a little, something resigned but happy, maybe, at the same time. Tomas is better at faces than he is at describing faces.
Joe huffs out a laugh and scrubs a hand over his face. “Right, yeah. Yeah, then.” He pulls his keys out of his pocket. “Let's go.”
It's a long enough drive to Joe's house, spent mostly in silence. The radio isn't on and Tomas doesn't know if he’s allowed to fiddle with it. It's a relief when Joe finally pulls into the driveway, but after Joe turns off the car, he just kind of—sits there, breathing and staring out the windshield. Tomas has no idea what he's supposed to do, what he should be doing. He fidgets, not thinking.
Of course it shifts the goddamn plug, and he doesn't quite manage to bite back the sound he makes, more surprised than anything else. It still draws Joe's gaze like a magnet, though, and Tomas can't help the way his mouth falls open, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
Joe scratches at his beard, staring at Tomas without disguising it. He mutters, “You're sure you're sure?”
Tomas nods, even though the sentence doesn't really sound like it makes sense. He gets what Joe is saying, and he doesn't know how many more times he's going to ask. Tomas is basically squirming in place just from anticipation, when Tomas used a toy just for Joe, just so he'd see, so he'd know—
Joe doesn't bother asking twice before leaning in, mouthing up Tomas' jaw and grazing against the thin skin with his teeth. Joe doesn't actually kiss him, even with Tomas trying to turn his face, and he makes a noise he wants to kick himself for: it sounds painfully young and needy, and Joe draws back at it.
“Inside, come on,” he says, and Tomas stops feeling embarrassed because this—this can't be anything but good.
Joe herds him inside, his whole body directing where Tomas goes—a shoulder knocking his when they're going up the front walk; a hand at the small of Tomas' back, resting heavy and warm while Joe opens his front door. As soon as the door closes behind them, Joe turns them both around, fast enough that Tomas loses his bearings for a second. He grunts weakly as Joe pressing him back against the door, and Tomas can’t help but think about the bathroom, about Joe rocking his hips against Tomas' leg, his beard scraping against Tomas' neck, about Joe's hand holding in the sounds Tomas wanted to make, his fingers pressing against the plug.
Joe seems to be thinking about the same things. He doesn't let Tomas move, just keeps Tomas pinned in place, pressing Tomas' body against the door with his own. He exhales hard against the curve of Tomas' neck. “You drive me fucking crazy, you know that? Jesus, kid. You wore—you wore the fucking toy, you wore it out with the team?”
Tomas ducks his head, embarrassed a little, even though he's not sorry, he couldn't regret doing anything that led to this. “It—” he stumbles on his words a little, not sure how to make it mean something significant and nonchalant at the same time. “For you, only for you.”
He feels a wash of blood to his cheeks almost immediately; that's too much, he knows, it's too serious and too intense, and Joe's going to back off now, he's going to avert his gaze and make an excuse, he's—
Joe's groaning, cupping one hand around Tomas' jaw and making Tomas meet his eyes. “Fuck, I know.” Joe licks his lips. “I know, and that's the best thing I've ever fucking heard.”
Tomas stares at him, and Joe laughs a little, like he can't quite believe it either, and presses closer. “Fuck me, but I want you. You're gonna kill me, but—”
Whatever Joe's about to say gets cut off—probably rudely—when Tomas surges forward and kisses him hard, but Tomas doesn't care. All he can do is get his hands around Joe's jaw, the back of his neck, press their mouths together, sloppy and wet and too desperate, and he doesn't care, he just needs.
Joe's murmuring something every time Tomas pulls away to breathe, and Tomas doesn't understand him, but as soon as he tries to draw away long enough to ask, Joe shakes his head and bites Tomas' bottom lip. “Nothing, nothing, keep—“ Joe's saying, and that's enough.
Tomas loses his mind a little, gets lost in kissing Joe, in having him here for himself, and he'd feel ridiculous for it except for how it's just so good, perfect edge of teeth and the sting of Joe's beard against Tomas' face. It feels dirty and messy and perfect, Joe making low sounds deep in his throat, sounds Tomas feels more than hears. He feels lightheaded, like he's floating, until Joe's hand leaves his jaw and runs down his side in a wide, possessive stroke.
It makes Tomas shudder, press his face against Joe's shoulder; he's still not over the excitement of Joe touching him like this, and Joe's eyes drop shut for a moment.
“You're so damn responsive,” Joe mutters. “Jesus. It's like touching a virgin.” He opens his eyes and smirks at Tomas at that last part, and Tomas would be offended but it just makes him feel hotter, more frantic.
(Joe should know Tomas isn't. Joe has firsthand experience with how Tomas isn't.)
Tomas gets a hand up against Joe's chest, frowns at him in mock offense, and has to force himself not to grin at the look of surprise on Joe's face.
“Aw, kid, you know I didn't mean it like that.”
Tomas keeps the disappointment on his face and holds eye contact until he knows he can't hold onto his laughter. He lets his eyes crinkle—lets out a little laugh—before he sinks to his knees, using the door at his back to keep his balance.
Joe’s breath goes audibly short as he grabs for Tomas’ head too late, and he ends up just fisting the short hair at the nape of his neck once Tomas is settled on his knees. He doesn’t say anything or use his grip to lead Tomas into anything. Tomas wants that, but later--right now he’s making a point and he appreciates Joe’s hesitance.
Tomas leans in, knocking his forehead against Joe’s thigh like he’s trying to get his attention back. It helps him get a hold of himself too, because Joe’s half-hard and pressing visibly against his dress pants about two inches away from Tomas’ face, and he’s always been a little shameless when it comes to Joe. Tomas swallows and can’t help himself; he nudges Joe’s cock with his cheek, the fabric of Joe’s pants hot against his skin.
Joe makes a sound that’s so near a whine, so out of Joe’s control, that Tomas has to do it again, just rubs against Joe’s dick again with his face, feels it out and finds the head with his mouth. Tomas reaches out and tugs on Joe’s belt, his zipper, hands clumsy. Joe helps a little, yanking on the button, but Tomas is the one who pulls Joe’s pants to mid-thigh, letting them bunch up there, the loose ends of his belt hanging open. He glances up at Joe—and Joe’s expression is almost pained.
“You’re not a virgin, I get it,” Joe grits out, and the grip he has on the back of Tomas’ neck spasms a little, fingers digging in.
Tomas smiles—and then he’s ducking his head, mouth open and wet and hot against the shape of Joe’s balls, and Joe swears above him, his nails digging into Tomas’ neck. Tomas has to moan, too, perfect weight and heat on his tongue, and it should be weird, too eager, too desperate, mouthing at Joe through his boxers, but it’s just overwhelming and perfect instead.
Joe finally wraps the hand at Tomas’ neck around, gets a loose grip on Tomas’ throat, and pulls him off a little, light pressure that doesn’t demand, but Tomas goes anyway.
“Come on, just—” And that’s all Tomas needs to scrabble at the front of Joe’s boxers, shove them down to join Joe’s pants, harried and not able to get them past Joe’s knees.
Joe’s lips twist up into something like a snarl, and his hips twitch forward towards Tomas’ face; Tomas can feel how hot his cheeks are as he leans in and slides his mouth over the head of Joe’s cock. It’s so obvious how much Joe wants this, but Tomas is right there with him; he’s worked up, knowing he can give back as good as he gets.
He’s messy, spit sliding down the length of Joe’s dick and down behind it, and Tomas is transfixed, can’t help bringing up a hand to rub it into Joe’s balls, rolling them in his palm and letting them weigh heavy on his thumb.
Joe swears and shifts, and when Tomas’ fingers slip back further, the abrupt thrust of his dick into Tomas’ mouth is enough to send Tomas’ head back as he chokes.
“Fucking—christ, sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Joe’s pulling him off his cock and Tomas moans, knows it doesn’t help that he’s looking up at Joe with involuntary tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
He feels it when Joe shudders, and Joe’s hand goes tight on the back of his neck. Tomas blinks the tears back, licks his lips.
“Please,” Tomas says, breathless, testing Joe’s grip as he leans in again.
“Fuck,” Joe whispers, and lets him.
Tomas sucks him back in urgently, feeling out how much of Joe he can fit in his mouth and down his throat before he gags, going back again and again until he’s worked as much as he thinks he’s able to in.
He’s not really thinking about jerking Joe off, too, one hand circled absently at the base of Joe’s cock and one hand pressed firmly to his own hard-on through his pants, not moving either one in any effective way. His mind’s too focused on Joe in his mouth, pulling his lips wide and making his jaw ache.
Joe’s talking to him, he’s pretty sure, but he’s floating on too much of a high to understand any of it, especially not when Joe’s nudging his cock more and more recklessly into Tomas’ throat. It’s fucking perfect, but Tomas comes back to himself abruptly enough to realize he doesn’t actually want it to be over this quickly.
It still takes him a while to get his mouth off of Joe’s dick. It’s just such a good feeling, full and rough and dirty. Even as he tells himself to draw off, he can’t help mouthing messily around the head, just feeling it out, licking at the vein and keeping it balanced on his bottom lip, hearing Joe curse for him.
But he lets it go, lets Joe’s dick slip out of his mouth, and drops his forehead to Joe’s hip. “Please,” he manages first, voice fucked out, just a rasp.
When Tomas glances up, Joe’s eyes are a little glazed. “Please what, yeah?”
That’s nonsensical to Tomas, and he huffs a desperate breath against Joe’s leg. “Please,” he says again, forgetting half the English he knows and sticking with that, screwing his eyes shut and hoping Joe just gets it like he gets everything else.
Joe’s fingers are sliding through Tomas’ hair, soothing but insistent, as Joe makes Tomas look at him. “Please what, Tomas?” He licks his lips, and Tomas feels Joe’s cock twitch near his cheek. “You want me to fuck you, babe? Is that what you’re asking for?”
It’s cruel of Joe to tease, to keep pushing when he has to know where Tomas is right now, but Tomas flushes hotter when Joe’s voice drops. “You gonna say it? Say, ‘Please fuck me.’ Say, ‘I want it.’”
Tomas tries to make his tongue work, but it’s just—it’s so difficult. He mutters it in Czech first, like he’s tasting it, practicing, his mind a hot and confused jumble. Joe hums at that, low and interested, but a tug at Tomas’ hair reminds him of what Joe wants.
“Come on,” Joe murmurs, sliding his thumb against Tomas’ temple. “Say it.”
“I—please. Please fuck me.” Tomas can feel his ears burn, the blood rising in his cheeks. “Please, I want it.” He buries his face in the cut of Joe’s hipbone again, and hopes desperately that that was good enough.
Joe fingers trace along Tomas’ jaw before they wrap around his chin, gentle pressure to make him tilt his head up. Tomas knows what he looks like: eyes a little wet from gagging, lips full and red and shiny in the dim light, face flushed from—everything.
“So good for me,” Joe says, almost under his breath, and Tomas shivers in Joe’s grasp before Joe tugs him up. “Let’s go.”
Joe practically drags him to the master bedroom, his hand gripping Tomas’ wrist in a tight hold. Tomas wants to kiss, wants to touch, wants anything, but Joe seems more focused on getting Tomas onto the bed, toeing off his shoes and dropping his pants carelessly before crawling over Tomas and rucking his sweatshirt up. Tomas sits awkwardly in the jumble of limbs, and he moans when the plug shifts ever so slightly. God, he’s still wearing it, he’s so open, so ready, he knows—
Joe’s fingers brush over his nipples and Tomas shudders; he can’t help it, Joe knows that he’s sensitive. He catches sight of Joe’s smirk, just a hint of teeth, before he shoves Tomas’ pants down his thighs. His hand slides around to the plug and Tomas hitches his legs up immediately, wraps his thighs around Joe’s waist. Joe presses lightly with his palm and Tomas groans, reaching helplessly for Joe’s chest, his shoulders. He just wants to touch, wants to feel Joe’s hot skin against him, wants. Just wants.
“Yeah?” Joe mutters, fingers grasping the base of the plug. “You ready for my cock, babe?”
Tomas nods frantically, nearly whimpers for it—he’s not above begging, he’s never been above begging—but Joe understands. He’s gentle when he pulls the plug out, but it’s still enough to make Tomas gasp. The emptiness after a night of feeling filled is just this side of too much, and Joe leans down quickly to kiss his cheek, his forehead.
“You’re doing so good,” Joe tells him, putting the plug aside and gently stroking Tomas’ face, making sure Tomas looks at him. “Doing so good. Such a good boy. You deserve a reward, right?”
Joe’s still talking to him when he pulls off his shirt, reaches for the lube, when his slick fingers brush against Tomas’ ass. Tomas nearly holds his breath when Joe pushes his fingers in: two at first, then three, then—
“Please,” Tomas says, and he’s taken aback by his own voice: desperate and shaky and raw, almost helpless, but Joe just leans in and kisses him.
“Yeah, I know, just—” Joe makes a frustrated sound before he slops lube on his hand, slicks his cock and presses against Tomas’ hole in one smooth motion. It takes almost nothing for Joe to slide in, and Tomas arches his back, reaches for Joe’s neck to pull him back down.
With Joe’s body wrapped around him, with Joe fucking into him perfectly, with Joe leaning in and saying things—things Tomas can’t even remember—into his ear, it’s not surprising when Tomas comes all over his stomach.
He can hear himself over the rush of blood to his head, frankly embarrassing sounds that Joe seems to love if the way he fucks in harder means anything, and when Tomas can actually think again he tugs Joe in closer with his legs. Tells him that he’s been waiting for this, waiting for Joe to fuck him, for Joe to come in him and fill him up all over again. That he wore the plug for Joe, that he’ll do it again if Joe wants.
Joe laughs, a disbelieving huff more than anything else, before he groans and sinks his teeth into Tomas’ shoulder and comes, hips jerking erratically.
Joe tries to sink to the bed, but Tomas holds him in place. He likes the weight of Joe’s body on his; Tomas isn’t small by any stretch of the imagination, but Joe’s always been—bigger. More.
“Good?” Joe says, right against Tomas’ ear. He pulls back a little, gently strokes Tomas’ face.
“Yeah,” Tomas says, smiling dopily. Joe smiles back.