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Having Woody

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     Nigel backed against the countertop and slid onto the low barstool there, his legs widening just enough to accept Bug's pelvis pressing up against him, his knees pressed into Bug's hips, holding him in place. He leaned forward a little, then, curving down just enough to press a kiss to Bug's forehead, but Bug shook his head impatiently and Nigel backed off. The distance between them increased only slightly, though they were still pressed together where it counted, where the friction between them could be safely discharged.

"You want him," Bug said, and it wasn't a question, no, but Nigel preferred to hear it as one.

"Hmm. I want many things that, alas, remain entirely out of reach. A pay rise. World peace. You. You in a pair of strappy, five-inch Manolo Blahniks."

Bug grunted, perhaps not hearing him or, more likely, ignoring him as he often did when Nigel talked too much. But regardless, Bug's rhythmic thrusts only increased their urgency, enough to suggest that Bug wasn't angry, or if he was, he wasn't aware of it himself yet. This was just sex, and for the rest, he'd likely pay later.

"Woody," Bug snorted, changing his position slightly and bracing his arms on the countertop, their arms tangling, briefly, as Nigel struggled not to slide off his seat, struggled for balance, for purchase, for more pressure, just the right angle, and if he'd just unzipped....

"He--he's curious, isn't he," Nigel added, justifying, rationalizing, when he could speak again.

"He's a cop," Bug argued, as if the one word contained an entire argument, which perhaps it did in Bug's mind.

"He's a curious... person. And that's attra--

"You like his arse."

"There is that," Nigel agreed. Woody had a fine, admirable personality, up to a point, but Woody also had an arse worthy of worship. Of course he bloody well liked it. Wanted it. Entertained momentary fantasies of burying himself in it, balls to bum, Woody's belt buckle somewhere around his ankles, his clean, white shirt-tails crushed between them, stained with semen.

Nigel grabbed hold of Bug's own arse, for which he felt a more personal and sustained longing, rather than a fleeting, irrational, wholly unreasonable bit of lust.

He moaned as Bug suddenly kissed him, as if to remind him of where he was, as if he could forget.

And when they broke again, he whispered, "He'd beat the crap out of me if I so much as suggested such a thing--"

Bug said nothing, but for a moment their eyes met and Nigel saw--something. A caution? Encouragement? Amusement at the idea of Woody and him engaged in fisticuffs or, better still, wrestling, naked? Mutual desire, of that he was sure.

"You think he wouldn't? You think--"

"I don't think about it."

But Nigel was intrigued. "The heart to which that badge is pinned may well surprise us all, Bug. Perhaps he'd be flattered."

Bug kissed him again and murmured against Nigel's chest, "For you, only for you, dear Nigel, I'd willingly surrender and sacrifice my gun, my badge, my very heterosexual identity, the pride of my homogenized, corn-fed forefathers and their surrendered, sacrificial foreskins."

"Do you suppose they bury them in their fields to ensure a bountiful crop?" Nigel interjected.

"Idiot." But Bug was amused, and turned on, his breathing turning to a harsh panting, his hands now roving under Nigel's layers as if searching for something.

When his fingertips eased over Nigel's chest, then lingered there, Nigel whispered, "Yes," and Bug leant in and used his mouth through two layers of cotton, his breath a warm, damp kiss that turned to a hard, determined bite.

And Nigel was unable to think now about anything but how Woody would look--might look--naked tip to bountiful bottom, as it were, and the big grin, the freckles and the fair skin that must take the Wisconsin sun badly in summer, a trucker's rosy tan on one arm in contrast with his tight pectoral muscles, flexing as he oh-so-casually removed his surprisingly well-tailored shirt. And Woody's mouth would open as he knelt....

And Nigel was at a loss to say anything, as he was coming, coming, the perfectly wonderful humiliation of warm semen and senseless lust and Bug like bitter almonds turned suddenly sweet, overwhelming.

"Yes," he said at last, always agreeable, and Bug merely looked up at him without comment, still thrusting against him intently, worrying his own lower lip where it was fullest, where Nigel often liked to kiss him more tenderly, as the tension and release marked Bug's features before easing again into his normal near-scowl, his breathing settling back down as Nigel reached around him and, in lieu of a hug, rubbed Bug's lower back in small concentric circles, the rough weave of raw silk catching at the dry skin of Nigel's palms.

"He would break your arms and feed them to you," Bug said, somewhat tenderly, though his voice was rough.

"Ah, well, that's why I'd have you do the asking, love."

And Bug looked deeply into his eyes just long enough to decide whether he meant it, then laughed, a low, dark laugh.