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Their relationship is mutually beneficial. Always has been. Like parasite and host, though the roles switch often. They’re symbiotic; not that anybody will ever admit it. To each other, they’re just a quick fuck, a pastime, a late-night call or meeting that ends in at least mutual satisfaction. Biker wants more. Jacket won’t admit it.
Jacket’s rough one day. Biker thought this meeting was like their usual; clandestine, starting off innocent until he’s pushed up with his back against the stall door in a bar bathroom, Jacket’s hands desperately digging into his shoulders and rutting against his hips like some type of animal. Biker allows him this touch, semi-gloved hands digging into choppy blond hair and making the other man hiss. Jacket takes this as a sign to strip him down, laying the other man completely bare before him. Biker hisses when the cold air hits his dick, even though it’s quickly warmed by Jacket pushing back up against his body. He’s fully naked, now- When did that happen?- and grinding their cocks together, pushing teal dreadlocks out of the way to nibble on the other’s ear. Biker chokes down a gasp, nails digging into Jacket’s shoulders. They had an unspoken rule of no marks. Well, no visible ones, anyway. Jacket makes sure of that when he sucks a deep mark just behind Biker’s ear, a stark red contrast against his skin.
Jacket barely allows Biker the proper preparation- not that he needs it. Biker’s learned by now to do most of it himself, before these meetings. Not when he’s pacing by the phone, anxiously waiting for a call so he doesn’t look needy by calling first. No, he waits until it rings, Jacket’s soft and gravely voice naming the place and time to meet before he hangs up. Then Biker prepares himself probably more than necessary, but with Jacket, that’s hard to tell. One day, he was soft, locking Biker’s wrists together with his own belt and gently fucking into him in the backseat of his car. Exactly a week later, he has Biker in his lap in a club booth, reassuring that nobody’s gonna notice if he just shuts the hell up. Biker’s learned to prepare for a rough time and hope for a sweet one. Not that he doesn’t enjoy when Jacket gets rough and handsy; he prefers it, but he’d die before admitting it.
In the present, Jacket groans into his ear, words blending together into something incomprehensible but attempting to be sexy. Biker thinks it’s cute, calling him a desperate and needy little bitch before Jacket thrusts hard inside him, fingers gripping his thighs hard enough to leave vibrant bruises against his skin, hoisting him up against the door to freely fuck him.
Jacket’s rough most of the time, and these secret sexcapades happen often enough that Biker walks away unable to sit til the next morning. He’s not a bitch, and he can fucking take it, and Jacket takes that as a challenge. His hips speed up, harder and faster and Biker reaches up to grab the top of the door just so he can have something to grab that isn’t the other man’s shoulders. That feels too… Personal. Jacket’s fast, agile, admirable. He’s pretty, and when he tops Biker like this, his face twists into a mockery of deep concentration, trying to keep them both up and rail Biker’s brains out at the same time. Biker shouldn’t be thinking about admiring someone when they’re balls-deep inside of him, hips slamming together hard enough that Biker can feel bruises forming. He locks his ankles around Jacket’s waist, making the other man speed up.
Jacket buries his face in Biker’s collarbone, softly nipping at the base of his throat and angling his hips so the tip of his cock brushes the spot that makes Biker’s heart beat out of his chest. He makes a strangled moaning noise that’s so fucking embarrassing he can feel his face burn. Jacket takes note of this, repeating his movements to try and replicate the noise. His moans just grow more and more strangled, almost whiny, Biker’s breath quickening and his heart skipping beats in Jacket’s ear. A hand finds its way to his sorely neglected dick, desperately pumping it before he’s cumming into his fist with a garbled string of swearing and moans. Jacket’s hips jerk harshly, once, twice, and he’s shooting his load inside the other man.
They don’t move. Jacket stays inside, panting and pressing their foreheads and tips of noses together. Neither opens their eyes. This is their aftercare, their silent affirmation and reassurance that the other one enjoyed it. Biker suppresses a stuttering moan when Jacket pulls out, but keeps Biker suspended above the ground. He doesn’t worry about falling- This feels safe. He feels safe. Jacket wouldn't let him fall.
Neither will admit it, but they care. They care that this was good sex, at least. They care that the other one is okay. They care about each other. Maybe.
Jacket slowly withdraws his hips, taking care to set Biker down so he doesn’t fall on his ass. Again.
Once his boots touch the floor, Biker’s already reaching for his vest, carelessly discarded in their pile of clothes. He neglects his shirt on purpose, using it instead to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. Miami night heat wasn’t a great combination with sex in a stuffy bar. Jacket still shrugs on his letterman, fumbling with the buckle of his belt as Biker attempts to clean himself up with the meager toilet paper available. Once he’s somewhat less sticky and both men are fully clothed, they face one another.
Almost businesslike, they shake hands. Jacket’s lips barely quirk into a grin. “Well.”
Biker returns it. “Well.”
They keep their hands together for a while, staring into each other’s eyes. Neither’s expression is readable.
Jacket is the first to break the hold. Instinctively, he pulls the chicken mask over his head.
“Next time.”
Biker nods, pulling down his helmet and flipping up the visor.
“Next time.”
Bar bathrooms. Stuffy, cheap motel rooms that smelled of cigarettes and cologne. Hidden back alleyways. A club once or twice. Jacket’s car, on the hood and in the backseat. Biker’s apartment.
The meetings are mutually beneficial. They’re quick, convenient, far from involved. Biker mentally refers to them as fuckbuddies. But is that even right?
No use thinking about the words to describe your relationship while you’ve got your dick in another man’s mouth. Jacket’s tongue swirls Biker’s tip, shifting on his knees to take more and more of his length in. Biker slaps a hand over his mouth, teeth marking the leather on his thumb as he attempts to stifle his moans. But Jacket’s stubborn. Always has been. Besides, he’s heard the desperate whines and moans Biker likes to make on many previous occasions. He’s working for ‘em, he wants to hear ‘em. Jacket's throat rumbles in a purr, and the vibration on his dick forces a gargled moan from Biker. He instantly cringes, and Jacket suppresses a laugh. Kinda hard to laugh with a dick in your mouth. Biker’s hand tugs the other man’s hair, forcing his nose against his hips. Jacket doesn’t pull away, suppressing his gag reflex to take the entire shaft in his mouth.
“Fuuuuuuuck.” Biker hisses through his teeth, loosening his grip on Jacket’s hair as he works the other man’s cock in his mouth. His head bobs slightly, up and down, but it’s his tongue that has Biker practically shaking. He laps around the veins, the tip, every spot he knows will elicit some kind of noise from the man above. He takes the shaft in again, deep as he can without coughing, and Biker hurriedly yanks his head back. “Fuckin- Close, close.” He warns, which Jacket mentally thanks him for as he pulls away to gently suck Biker’s tip before bitter cum splashes on his tongue.
Jacket can’t decide whether to swallow or spit.
He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His other reaches for the doorknob of the broom closet they’ve shut themselves in, but Biker puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Lemme get you off.”
Jacket blinks. “Alright.” He mumbles, stepping away from the door before Biker pushes him back against it, gloved hands on his belt and mouth on his neck. Jacket hisses, remembering their unspoken rule before Biker pulls away, dropping to yank Jacket's jeans down. “Shit!” Jacket suppresses a gasp as Biker’s mouth fully takes in his half-hard shaft. He works quickly to get the other man to full mast, and by the time he is, Jacket’s clamped both hands over his mouth and panting heavily.
Fuck, he was good.
Biker’s not nearly as good with his tongue as Jacket, but honestly, does that even matter anymore? His mouth still feels unbelievably fucking good; Hell, Jacket might switch to just being blown whenever they meet up. He doesn’t know how this manages to feel so good, watching his shaft slide between Biker’s lips. His hole's tight and all, and Jacket fucking loves it, but his mouth? His mouth is absolutely fucking heavenly.
Jacket has to resist the urge to tell him how fucking pretty he is. He’s pretty when he kills. He’s gorgeous when he cums. He’s fucking perfect with a cock between his full lips. Soon, Jacket’s in the palm of the other man’s hand, Biker’s teeth grazing his shaft and hands pinning Jacket’s hips to the door.
Jacket’s surprisingly vocal when he’s on the receiving end. His hands barely repress the moans and gasps practically dripping from his mouth. Biker knows this, he knows how Jacket gets when he’s about to cum, too. Biker almost wished Jacket lasted a little longer, too. This felt like control; the good kind, where he’s safe and trusting but so fucking willing.
Shit, Biker needs to do this more often. Jacket is a fucking sight to behold, eyes blown wide and face flushed, sweat dripping from his bangs. His head’s thrown back against the door, squirming against Biker’s grip on his hips as he struggles to keep composure. Jacket’s like a ball of yarn, a spool of thread, a Jenga tower. Pull him one way, and he unravels completely. It’s amazing how Biker can bring such a stoic, composed man to his knees by… Getting on his knees. He’s not opposed to sucking cock, just prefers when he’s the one getting sucked. But it’s so, so fucking worth it to see Jacket gasping for air as Biker slams his tip against the back of his mouth. Good day to have no gag reflex- He’d gotten it fucked out of him.
It doesn’t take long for Jacket to twist his hands in Biker’s hair, bitten-down nails brushing his scalp. His mouth uncovered, Jacket makes the filthiest fucking moan Biker’s ever heard in his life. He wants to hear it again, but Jacket’s pulled back instinctively, cock falling from Biker’s mouth in a quick second. Well, that won’t do, Biker thinks, immediately enclosing it in his mouth again, just in time for Jacket to cum down his throat.
Biker swallows all of it.
“Fuck.” Jacket pants, visibly sweating through his signature letterman. Biker stands and wipes his mouth on his wrist, ignoring the bitter aftertaste burned into his throat. He claps a hand on the blond man’s shoulder. “Y’okay?” He mumbles out, voice gravely.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” Jacket shrugs him off, pulling up the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe his face. “You gotta do that more often, though. Shit.” He half heartedly jokes, stuffing his softening dick back into his jeans. Behind him, Biker opens the door.
“I’m taking you up on that offer.”
And he’s gone again.
Jacket’s almost positive there’s a word for what they have. A label, a saying, fucking anything to describe what he’s feeling. What he always felt. How he wants Biker to feel. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know , and that’s the worst part.
Biker’s insatiable. He wants more, and more, and more, and he’ll take whatever he can get. In an environment with Jacket, he thrives. He knows this is one sided. He holds out hope that it isn’t. He knows what this means for them both. Mutually assured destruction.