Riley's back was hard up against his dorm room wall, Forrest's hands on his hips, Forrest's tongue on his dick.
"You," he gasped, "You're always scoping out girls. Oh God. Oh God. Oh, God." One of Forrest's hands was on his balls, gentle and shivery, while Forrest's mouth moved down, down, down over his dick. His eyes rolled back, his head followed, his mouth open. "Forrest."
This was unbelievable. At the edge of his mind he wondered if this was really Forrest, if a demon was giving him the best blowjob ever. Forrest hummed as his mouth slipped up and up. They'd finished patrolling an hour ago. Fifty-nine minutes and thirty-five seconds ago Forrest had staked the hostile that had almost taken Riley's head off. They'd finished de-briefing fifteen minutes ago. One minute ago they'd arrived at Riley's door. Instead of saying goodbye, Forrest had pushed in the room after Riley, manhandled him up against the wall, then dropped to his knees, undoing Riley's belt and flies when he got there, pushing up his t-shirt and then, and then. Riley could only believe it because he had practice believing the unbelievable.
"I talked about girls, mon frère, you were never interested in talking about girls." Forrest's lips touched Riley's foreskin as he spoke. "I pointed out the babes, you refused to comment. I ogled, you changed the subject." He licked at Riley's dick. "Now what's a brother a to infer from that?" He slid his mouth over the head once more.
The wrong thing, Riley thought, grasping blindly for Forrest's head, feeling the soft prickle of new grown hair under his hands, the sharpness holding him in the moment, intensifying the sudden truth of Forrest's mouth on his dick, Forrest's hands on his thighs, on his balls and, oh, goosebumps, on his ass. Oh God. This was not, could not be a demon. This was Forrest. Brother in arms. Guy who had his back. Sarcastic, sharp Forrest, quick with a quip and always testing. He jerked his hips and Forrest held him down. His own hands were weak, his wrists, his forearms lost their power, they rode on the movement of Forrest's head, up and down, down, then a slow, slow, dazzling up that sparked his orgasm, shocked and shivering across his skin.
Riley knew he was only standing because he was pressed between Forrest and the wall: Forrest's hands gripping his hips hard, his t-shirt bunched above them, Forrest's prickly scalp pressed against his thigh, Forrest's breath on his skin. His pants lost their tentative grip at his knees and slid the rest of the way to the floor. The buckle of his belt knocked sharply on his shin, making him half-jump with the ordinary surprise of it, loosening Forrest's grip on him. He felt like a prize idiot, over-large, a country bumpkin, as Forrest stood and moved back, looking defiant, as he always was, daring Riley to overlook his flushed lips, his damp chin and the gleam of something wet low on his cheek.
Riley knew he should say something, but words were far, far away. The silence lasted that much too long.
"Don't mention it," Forrest said, finally, walking past Riley and out the door.