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joy ride

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Matthew just isn't into cars quite like Alfred is. He doesn't collect them, doesn't care about fixing them and, most of all, isn't that impressed by the new one his brother has just showed up in. It’s a small convertible, all bright yellow paint and shiny chrome trimmings, and Alfred looks so proud of it as he runs his fingertips over the hood.

It’s certainly pretty — in the way that all modern cars are, sleek and rounded with hardly a sharp edge to be seen — and Matt can admit that much. Yet when Alfred comes up to him, dangling the brand new set of keys in his face, Matthew predictably balks.

“I think I’ll pass, Al,” he says, as his brother’s arm comes over his shoulder. Matt knows what Alfred will do; he’ll sidle in close, fingers playing with the neckline of his t-shirt, and say something like,

“Come on, Matty, please? For me? I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

And Alfred’s words do come out something like that. A little husky, a lot hopeful, and accompanied with blue eyes as wide and pleading as he can get them.

“Okay, fine,” Matthew sighs. Alfred’s way too good at this draining his resistance thing. “Just this once.”

Alfred drops the warm keys into his palm, grinning.

Starting the car with practiced ease, Matthew’s surprised to find he’s hardly able to feel the convertible’s vibrations beneath him. He feels Alfred’s eyes on him as he shifts into reverse, backs up out of his driveway, and shifts back into drive with barely a stutter.


Even Matthew appreciates a smooth ride.

They’re two blocks out and almost to the expressway when Matt finally cuts his eyes over to Al. “Going to stop staring at me any time soon?” he says, grateful that the roads are mostly clear. He feels fidgety under Al’s gaze and he isn’t sure why.

“Can’t,” Al responds plainly, though his smile when Matthew glances over again is anything but plain. “‘Cause you know, you look pretty hot driving my car.”


“So that’s what this is about.” Matt blows out a breath, amused.

Merging onto the expressway, Matt cruises over until they’re comfortably in the left-most lane. He stays at an even, modest 65; a car like this could hit 100-plus easy if he’s not careful. And while there’s a tiny bit of Matt that finds that prospect intriguing, ultimately, he knows he’s not really built for that kind of thrill.

Just the wind through his hair is enough.

The click of Al’s seatbelt unbuckling, followed by Al’s hand on his thigh, warm and firm, interrupts Matt’s idle thoughts. A mash-up of  ‘what are you doing’ and ‘put your seatbelt back on’ tumbles out of his mouth, only to be met with Alfred’s giddy laughter and the blonde’s hand sliding further up his thigh.

“You already know what I’m gonna do, don’tcha Matty? So just keep your eyes on the road and trust me.”

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no no no.

With a mixture of excitement and apprehension settling in his belly, with his breath suddenly coming a little faster, Matthew doesn’t dare look down. The last thing he needs right now is a visual of what his brother is doing: slowly palming his cock through his jeans, massaging him to full hardness while he can do nothing but look forward and steer.

Al squeezes Matt’s cock hard and Matt sucks in a breath, his foot twitching on the accelerator. The car’s speed jumps up a full five miles when Al does it again and Matt curses, fumbling for the cruise control toggle.

Now they’re locked at 70. Good.

“You’re going to kill us is what,” he exhales, gripping the steering wheel tighter in an effort to not focus on Alfred unzipping his jeans. Or on how hard his cock is already just from a little bit of groping.

“Nah,” he hears Alfred say. Then Alfred’s hand is wrapping around his cock, tugging it gently out of the confines of his pants, and Matthew is pretty damned sure his eyes just crossed.


The roar of a motorcycle speeding by makes Matt’s heart jump into his throat; Alfred decides this is the best moment to fit his mouth over this head of Matt’s cock and press his tongue to the slit. Matt groans, lashes fluttering as he tries not to close his eyes; his foot twitches against the accelerator again, pushing the car forward faster and killing the cruise control.

“Al, shit,” Matt curses, bending forward, his belly pressing against Al’s head as the blonde hollows his cheeks to take him further in. It’s hard to flick the cruise control back on between the death grip he has on the steering wheel and desire to thrust his hips straight up into the warm wetness of his brother’s mouth.

Alfred reaches up and does it for him, but not before he takes Matthew’s cock to the back of his throat and makes them hit 85. Part of Matthew feels panicky and knows that he should get off the road immediately, because he is just not going to die with his cock half-way down his brother’s throat. The other part of him is acutely aware that his cock is half-way down his brother’s throat, and his brother’s now doing that tongue-wiggling thing that he should absolutely not be able to do with his mouth stuffed full.

There’s three lanes of (sparse) traffic, Alfred’s making gorgeous, obscene slurping noises in his lap, there’s a quarter-mile until the next exit and—

“I’m going to die,” Matthew gasps when Alfred swallows, his foot twitches, the convertible rumbles, and the cruise control is killed again.

Matt barely has enough presence to flick on his blinker before he starts cutting through traffic, adrenaline and pleasure spiking in his veins. He’s shaking, a horn is blaring, and Alfred, fuck, Alfred seems determined to make him lose it right here on the road, bobbing his head and flexing his throat and—

He doesn't know how he manages to get off to the side of an empty surface road. He doesn’t know how he manages throw the car into park. What Matthew does know, however, is that he's just come down Alfred's throat so hard he can't feel his toes and his chest hurts like he’s been punched.

Oh, and that Al's looking up at him from his lap, flushed and dazed, his pupils blown wide behind thin wire frames.

"Told you you'd like it," Al says, swollen, pink lips curling into a self-satisfied smile. So smug. Matt would be tempted to punch him if he weren’t completely wiped (and entirely not prone to punching people).

Instead, he gives up his death grip on the steering wheel, bringing a hand down to thread through Alfred’s hair. He thumps his head against the headrest with finality. “There, I drove your new car. Now what, eh?”

Alfred’s lips twitch. So smug. “Now we gotta make use of the backseat.”