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Sunflooded Redux

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Sunlight glazes the entire room with a warm golden glow.

Lifting his head off his bedroom desk, 250 rubs his eyes and blinks at his surroundings. Yawning, he glances around, recognizing the bed, the nightstand, the dresser. He's just managed to get his bearings when a knock sounds. Before he can even consider getting up, the door swings open and in swaggers 300, toothpaste-ad smile plastered on his face. And--


He's wearing a kilt ("relaxed style," 250's brain helpfully informs him). It takes 250 a moment to remember that this is a fairly normal, if somewhat uncommon, occurrence. Kilts are, after all, 300's second-favorite piece of clothing after a good suit jacket. No, the abnormal aspect of this situation is that 300 lacks shoes and socks, and the sight of the Scot's naked feet and legs is making 250's brain travel in unspeakable directions.

250 forces his eyes up to his partner's face. 300 grins back, beaming to rival the sun.

Rubbing his warming cheek, 250 skids the chair back and gets up to greet his partner or ask him why he's running around barefoot or talk about the weather - or anything, really, because moving is somehow better than sitting there, soaking in the heat.

He opens his mouth to speak, but 300 grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and pulls him into a fierce kiss. For a moment the American stands there, wide-eyed and stunned, 300's lips against his. Then, finally relocating his brain, 250 makes to ask what the hell is going on when 300's tongue slides into his mouth.

All coherent thought abandons him. 250 wraps his arms around his partner and presses his palms against his back, dragging 300's body flush against his as they kiss. Humming with approval, the Scot smoothes his hands up 250's chest and around his neck, his fingers twining in the American's hair. And even that is almost too much.

God, the things this man can do to him.

250's hands roam everywhere, trying to memorize as much of 300's body as possible, but ironically the American hardly notices them, too caught up with the moans of pleasure his partner is making. 250 breaks the kiss to move on to more appealing areas of skin just as one of his errant hands grabs 300's rear, and suddenly the Scot takes the opportunity to push him away.

Dumbstruck, 250 stands there and stares. 300 just looks at him, standing just beyond arm's length. Mortification warms 250's reddening face. He becomes painfully aware of the hard-on straining against the zipper of his jeans.

But 300 doesn't bolt. He doesn't speak. He gazes at 250, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, a hunger smoldering in his eyes.

They stare each other down, breathing hard and fast.

Slowly, 300's hand rises to his own collar. He loosens the topmost button, then the next, then one more, all in the most tantalizing, languorous way as he eases toward the bed, his eyes locked with 250's. That crooked smirk widens into a grin as he casually reclines atop the covers.

In a flash 250 pins 300 to the mattress and rips his shirt clean open, buttons spraying away in the process. His mouth mauls 300's jawline, neck, shoulder, every available ounce of skin, really. He straddles the Scot's hips and marks him up with bruise after possessive bruise, drawing an enticing moan out of 300. Trapping his partner's wrists against the pillow, 250 pulls back to admire his handiwork.

300 lies underneath him wearing that lopsided toothpaste-ad smile, arms stretched out above his head, hair mussed, shirt torn open to expose the muscles of his chest, the tempting mat of hair. The Scot is at once prey and predator, obviously the one in control despite his vulnerable position. And yet his smile is sweet, affectionate even, and somehow that turns 250 on more than anything else.

Pressing a kiss to the underside of 300's jaw, 250 lets his free hand skim the Scot's chest possessively. One of his fingers skirts an already erect nipple, and 300 closes his eyes and mmhs in appreciation.

And it is at this exact moment that 250's brain decides to demand, "WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

250 only has one answer: his work partner.

And if that isn't all sorts of wrong, he doesn't know what is.

Heat once again rising to his face, 250 pulls back to scramble for the least painful way out of this compromising situation. He musters an "Ah-" before 300 yanks him down for another fierce kiss. And against the Scot's wicked tongue, 250 is blissfully speechless.

300 is an extraordinarily good kisser. This comes as no surprise, seeing as how wooing all kinds of women seems to be such an integral part of his workflow. But there's so much to this kiss - so much determination and passion, such an unwillingness to let him go. And 250 can't help but briefly flatter himself that not every kiss from 300 includes those features.

His mind wanders as his mouth drifts to 300's jawline once more. He's breaking every rule in the book, honestly: having sex with (hell, falling for) a coworker - not even just his coworker, but his professional partner, no less, and a straight man at that. He really should know better.

But good God, the things this man does to him.

It's more than the way 300 skillfully works his tongue into his mouth at seemingly every opportunity. It's more than 250's Scot fetish acting up whenever 300 breaks out the tartan or rolls his 'r's like they're something delicious. It's more than the occasional awkwardness that bleeds through the suave James Bond exterior and makes 300 so endearingly human. It's all those things, rolled up into this one man.

This one man, writhing underneath him as 250 continues to assault the juncture of his neck and shoulder with his tongue and teeth.

250 nips a sensitive bruise just as he tweaks a nipple, and with a hiss 300 bucks his hips upward. And 250 has to gasp at the hard-on that brushes against his own erection. Seizing the opportunity, 300 grinds up against him, and 250 feels something rational inside him snap. He forces 300 flat onto the mattress and shoves his hand under the man's kilt, and he's pleased to learn that 300 is more Scotsman than gentleman after all.

300 sucks in a breath as 250 gives him a few bold strokes. 250 is breathing hard himself, still struggling to reconcile the sensations of 300 wriggling beneath him with his brain's urgent mandate that this is not happening, that this can't possibly be happening.

Suddenly, 300 growls and flips 250 onto his back, reversing their positions with a violence that in itself is startlingly arousing. Working his tongue into 250's mouth again, the Scot makes short work of his partner's belt and fly. He cups 250's erection through the thin layer of his boxers, teasing the American with one long, slow stroke before he frees it from its confinement.

The moan that escapes 250 prompts 300 to smirk against his lips, and it is the Scot who pulls back to admire his handiwork this time: 250 panting underneath him, every muscle in his body straining. And there is that affectionate smile again, glowing sun-hot down on 250. The American sits up and catches his partner's face in both hands for another kiss, but 300 pushes him down hard enough to make the mattress bounce. 250 blinks up at him as the Scot grins that crooked smile, and though 300 says nothing, 250 understands him perfectly:

"The best is yet to come, my dear."

And 250 can only watch, wide-eyed, as 300 eases back just enough to get the tip of 250's cock in. The resistance it meets spurs yet another moan out of them both, and the knowledge of what is about to happen is almost enough to set 250 off right then. 300 flattens both hands against the muscles of 250's groin and works himself downward the tiniest bit with little more than a grunt. The groan that emerges from 250 originates from somewhere deep within him, and he has to shut his eyes in disbelief as 300 slides further, further, further.

His eyes snapping open, 250 grabs 300's hips and stills him - not out of any desire to stop, but from a need to confirm that this is really happening. Really, finally happening.

300 blinks at him, but his confusion soon gives way to that gentle lopsided smile. Catching 250's chin, the Scot leans down and presses a decidedly tender kiss to his lips. And that, coupled with the feeling of him working down that last inch, takes 250 right over the edge with a resounding--


--that has him shooting up from where he'd passed out on the desk, his eyes wildly fixing on the pile of books that he had sent flying to the ground in his sleep.

...In his sleep.

The sun pours in through the window, and he blames the heat rising to his face on that. Swallowing hard, he tries to catch his breath and calm his jumping pulse, spurred to action by the noise and...

Oh, Christ, the wet dream he just had.

Covering his face with his hands, 250 groans and slumps onto the desktop. He clenches a fist and bangs it on the table half-heartedly. "Damn it, what am I supposed to do about this?" he mutters.