Work Text:
Leaning against the garage entrance, Enjin announces his presence around the unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “It’d be easier if you took your shirt off.”
Gris doesn’t so much as jump at Enjin’s voice echoing through the cluttered yet spacious garage. Their one and only gorgeous car sits in the middle of the chaos while Gris works on it ever so diligently, elbow-deep in what Enjin assumes is the battery. At least, that’s what Enjin pieced together from Tomme asking after his bunch.
Scattered about probably, Tomme had said. Gris would know, she continued. Off-handedly, with no ulterior motives at the time, Enjin had asked where Gris was anyway. The car’s acting up, she’d said. He’s probably in the garage right now. Don’t you dare go bother him.
Enjin had no intention of bothering anybody at hard work around here. He frowned in surprise because he had no idea the car had taken a shit in the first place.
Being the snarky asshole he is, Enjin had replied, Ain’t it usually the other way around?
Well.
The door to the garage was wide open, practically inviting him inside to lean against the frame and watch Gris, arms spread with his hands braced against either side of the car, the hood propped open while he stared down into whatever the fuck went on beneath all that metal. Watch the muscles in his arms tighten when he clicks his tongue in thought. Watch him pop open the toolbox, heft the battery waiting beside the tire, then bend into the bowels of the car, absently tucking a strand of pale hair behind his ear.
And once the heat of the garage finally coaxed the sweat from his skin, Enjin was more than content to keep standing there.
The wrench turned in Gris’s hand. He shifted to the left, lifted the fifty-pound battery out of the engine bay like it weighed nothing, and Enjin decided he could watch this all damn day.
Then Gris started taking apart things Enjin hadn’t even known were attached to the damn car. The entire grille came off after the turn signal bulbs, apparently, and Gris crouched low to work, giving Enjin an uninterrupted view of his profile. His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched tight. Every now and then he let out a quiet grunt as he worked another bolt loose, twisting this counterclockwise, tightening that, until Enjin figured he had to be replacing the headlights.
By then the sweat had soaked through the thin white t-shirt, clinging to Gris’s back and tracing every line of muscle beneath it. Gris’s hat had long since been tossed aside, pushing back his damp hair every few minutes with the back of his wrist.
Enjin hadn’t even stepped fully into the garage, but he was getting hot under the collar for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.
Only after Gris had the grille bolted back into place did Enjin finally decide to make himself known. He’d spent enough time lurking. Besides, he’d told Tomme he wasn’t going to bother Gris.
Not technically a lie. Enjin had every intention of letting Gris do all the hard labor while he sat back and admired the view. How much of a bother could he be then?
Gris dusts off his white gloves, chuckling at Enjin’s comment. He looks over his shoulder, eyes settling rather kindly on Enjin’s own. “Here to supervise me?”
“No…” Enjin says, trailing off while his eyes rather unkindly rake over Gris’s entire body while he tugs the cigarette out of his mouth. “Just lookin’.”
Gris isn’t dumb. At least, Enjin hopes he isn't dumb enough to miss every one of Enjin's painfully obvious advances. Not after Enjin had laid his own hands over the steering wheel Gris had cracked clean out of shape while driving to them as reinforcements, back when they’d all been trapped inside that flying trash beast. Later, Enjin had run his fingers over the warped steering wheel again, fully aware of exactly whose grip had done that.
Oh, sue him. It wasn’t the first time Enjin had appreciated another man’s strength, and it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself wondering what it would be like to get a first-class taste of it.
He’d been looking at Gris for a long time. Maybe too long. But Gris had always felt... off-limits. Both being vital parts of HQ—Gris a Supporter, him a Cleaner—it felt like one of those don’t-fraternize-with-your-hot-co-worker-and-good-friend intuitive Enjin moments. Now, his intuition is leading him down a darker, more satisfying path.
“She’s been through a lot,” Gris says, neatly snapping off Enjin’s train of thought. That and watching a bead of sweat pebble up at Gris’s hairline.
Enjin snaps his eyes back to Gris’s. “She?” Had he missed something?
That damn smile is back, close-mouthed and very Gris-like. “The car, Enjin.”
Not dumb, then.
“Yeah,” Enjin says, smoothly. He plays with the tip of his cigarette, circling the opening. Gris’s eyes flick down to watch, then back up. “When did you get to the steering wheel?”
“Ah.” Gris looks a little sheepish at that, ducking his head. He grips the hem of his shirt and fucking drags it up, revealing his midriff, then higher, until the bottoms of his broad pecs peek beneath the bunched fabric, all just to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Don’t worry about that.”
Oh, Enjin won’t.
Actually, he isn’t worried about anything right now except drinking in the sight of Gris’s hard, glorious body like it’s being offered up just for him. A few bruises bloom along his ribs, and Enjin immediately wants to press his fingers into them just to see if that cool, unreadable exterior of Gris’s will finally crack. It’s over far too quickly. Gris drops his shirt with a quiet huff and glances around the garage for something.
“Need a hand?”
“Hm?” Gris reaches both hands over his head and behind his back. “It’s hotter than hot in here,” he mumbles more to himself than to Enjin. After a brief struggle, he tugs that useless shred of fabric over his head. Now all that’s left are his jeans (unfortunately) and his gloves—Enjin’s own personal wet dream.
Enjin lets his previous question go unanswered. Gris is already distracted, rummaging through supplies and tools scattered across a nearby table. Then again, Enjin isn’t doing much better.
He pushes off the doorframe and wanders farther into the garage, shamelessly closing the distance for a better look at Gris in the dim light. His trench coat slides off with the rest of his tactical gear and lands on an abandoned chair because, hell, he’s got a body worth looking at too.
All things considered, Enjin feels a little like a peacock. Possibly a whore. Maybe a wolf stalking its prey, or the prey sent to tempt the wolf.
Truthfully, it might take all three because, fuck, he wants to sink his teeth into Gris and never let go. Despite his sweet talk, it’s rare for Enjin to express his desire so openly like this. It runs against every version of himself he’s spent years putting together.
Still, he can be perfectly unflappable while coaxing Gris into fucking him. Frankly, that’s a hell of a lot better than walking around with a stick up his ass, especially when he’d much rather it be Gris’s dick instead.
Gris gathers a few supplies behind the front tire before lowering himself to the concrete. Once he’s settled, he drags a shallow drain pan beneath the car and stares mournfully at his gloves before pulling them off and setting them aside.
Enjin barely gets another look before Gris disappears underneath the car.
A few metallic clinks echo from below, followed by the unmistakable splash of oil hitting the pan. Okay, yeah, an oil change.
When Gris rolls back out, he dusts himself off, returns to the front of the car, and disappears beneath the raised hood again. After a moment of wrestling with something out of sight, he yanks the old oil filter free and lets it drop to the floor with a dull clatter.
“Where’d you learn all this anyway?” Enjin asks when he saddles up beside Gris, watching his oil-stained hands with far too much hunger than is necessary.
In goes the new filter. “I wouldn’t be a good Supporter if I couldn’t fix the simple things in a car.”
“Suppose not.”
“What about you?”
Enjin reclines against the car and glances over at Gris, confused. “What about me?”
“Thought the guy named Enjin would know a thing or two about cars,” Gris jokes, bumping shoulders with him.
Enjin inhales sweat and that sweet, heady oil that Gris rubs onto his skin every morning. He wants Gris’s bare shoulder pressed against his all day.
Stretching back far enough that Gris can get a good look at him if he wanted to, Enjin lulls his head onto his own shoulder, smirking. “I prefer to spend my time staring at pretty men, not pretty engines,” he says, eyes dipping to Gris’s lips before sliding back up, fingers drumming on the metal beside Gris’s hip.
Gris lets the wrench purposefully drop from his hand and onto the dirt ground with a thud, shaking his head with a grin. “You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks,” Enjin says, cheerfully enough. He shifts closer, hand scooting closer to Gris’s that’s also planted just outside the engine bay. “Engines are loud and fast.”
Gris grabs his wrist, and Enjin nearly drools at the firm pressure as his large hand encircles his entire wrist. Enjin is ready for this to be Gris’s firm no, which he would gracefully accept, but the point of contact still lights his skin aflame.
Instead, Gris looks down where their hands are joined and says, “Careful.”
Enjin follows his gaze down. His hand was close to slipping into the engine bay. How is Enjin not supposed to jump Gris’s bones at this very moment?
The answer is made for him when Gris steps away.
Why the hell is he moving away?
Gris lets go of his wrist and heads back to the side of the car as if nothing happened. Privately, Enjin sighs, tipping his head back to glare at the ceiling before pushing himself off the car.
“I heard you earlier,” Gris says as Enjin trails after him, finding him lowering himself back onto the ground beside the car. “And yes, a hand would be very much appreciated.”
Gris scoots forward and then shimmies under the car, settling flat on his back.
Peering down at Gris, Enjin closes the distance further, crossing his arms and leaning against the side of the car. “Sure. Where d’ya want me?”
From under the car, Gris points at him. “Best to set aside that cigarette for now.”
Flicking the cigarette toward the table, he spreads his empty hands wide even though Gris can’t see. “That it? Trying to get me to quit again?”
Gris laughs again, light and airy and so very Gris that Enjin can hear the sides of his eyes crinkling. “A rag would be nice, too.”
Enjin lightly kicks his hip. “You got it, boss.”
The things he will do for some dick.
At the table, Enjin digs around for a clean rag, which is somehow harder than it sounds. By the time he finds one that’s only mostly stained, Gris has finally settled beneath the car, rolled onto one shoulder, his bare chest sadly disappearing into the shadows beneath the frame.
“Shit,” Enjin hears from underneath. “Can you hand me that cap? It’s next to the tire.”
Enjin purses his lips. An evil thought—seriously, a catastrophically evil one—pops onto both shoulders at once.
He picks up the cap, eyeing the hand sticking out from under the car. Gris wiggles his fingers impatiently, waiting. It takes all of three seconds for those little devils to win. Enjin steps over Gris’s waist, planting a foot on either side of him. One hand braces against the side of the car as he carefully lowers himself, knees finding either side of Gris’s hips.
Then he lets himself drop.
A strained oof punches out of Gris. His stomach locks beneath Enjin, one knee jerking up in a full-body flinch as an entire grown man lands squarely in his lap.
Smirking, Enjin dangles the cap beneath the car where he assumes Gris’s face is.
“Here.”
Whether Gris will shove him off is anyone’s guess. Honestly, Enjin would respect him a little more if he did. This is probably the boldest move he's ever pulled on another man. Until then, he’s perfectly happy staying where he is.
Gris is built nothing like him. Broader through the shoulders, thicker through the chest, solid without looking like he tries to be. No tattoos break up the expanse of tan skin, just those occasional bruises blooming along his ribs and old scars Enjin’s never been allowed to notice before.
Enjin could stare for hours.
“Watch out,” Gris says after a moment. He hasn’t pushed him off. “Don’t wanna get oil on your fingers. Just drop it where you have it.”
Oh, and how Enjin wants to fuck. Gris is worried about getting oil on his fingers? After Enjin just did what he did? Obeying comes as easily as committing this sin. He drops the cap, and hears Gris snatch it up a little faster than necessary. Enjin stays exactly where he is.
He watches the muscles beneath him flex as Gris twists at whatever he’s working on. His abdomen tightens and releases in slow waves. Each time his shoulders shift every few seconds, metal or plastic clinking somewhere out of sight, Enjin’s body moves with him in slow, tantalizing waves.
Since Gris still hasn’t told him to move, Enjin finally gives in.
He rests both hands on Gris’s stomach.
Fuck.
It’s everything Enjin’s ever dreamed of. His thumbs trace between each defining line, pressing into them, waiting for at least one of those abs to pop open, but they’re as real as ever. Up he moves under Gris’s pecs, letting his hands cup around the entire thing, squeezing and grinning when Gris grunts, his hips shifting beneath Enjin. Then there’s the happy trail running down into Gris’s jeans that Enjin wants to get his fingers and tongue all over, which is being covered by himself, and that just won’t do. So Enjin slides back, rolling his hips as he does.
“Enjin—” Gris’s hand shoots out, but Enjin catches his wrist.
“The oil, Gris,” he chides, using the rag Gris had told him to get to wipe down Gris’s fingers and palms.
“Sorry,” he hears Gris breathe out, and Enjin likes that a lot.
As a reward of sorts, he squeezes Gris’s hips with his thighs, lifting himself slightly, and then slowly settling back down, grinding his ass down onto the area that’s tightening Gris’s jeans. Another grunt that’s nearly a moan, and Enjin moves on to the other hand.
Enjin makes sure to be thorough with it. He wraps the towel around each thick finger, twisting and scrubbing the oil away to the best of his ability. Oh, to be a tease, of course—taking his time and flexing his grip on Gris’s fingers instead somewhere else. The rag doesn’t do much good, he’s pleased to find out.
“Dirty, dirty man,” Enjin chides, clicking his tongue. Once he’s finished, he shoves Gris’s hands away.
Only because he knows what will happen next. Slowly, Gris comes back and fits his hands on Enjin’s hips. Not even half of Enjin’s brain has room to worry about getting his clothes dirty. If anything, he wants them dirty. He can’t help himself from keeping his own touches featherlight, trailing his fingers up Gris’s forearms, letting them catch in the grooves of muscle, all the way to his wrists.
The red tank hangs loose on his frame, making it far too easy for Gris to blindly find the skin beneath it. Those big hands slip beneath the hem and cup his waist. Enjin holds onto the car door for near life, eyes fluttering when those sweltering, huge hands grip there, kneading the skin greedily. Gris’s thumbs dig ruthlessly into his abdominal muscles.
“Am I gonna ride you right here,” Enjin asks, already a little breathless, “or are you gonna crawl on out of there?”
Gris’s hands slide higher, broad palms spanning his ribs before settling against his chest, thumbs brushing lazily over his nipples. Enjin slaps his hand against the metal door, rocking forward and resting his forehead there, working overtime to bite back any stray noises threatening to escape.
Not yet. Gris doesn’t get that satisfaction from something as simple as brushing over his damn nipples. But, fucking hell if Enjin isn’t worked up beyond the point he thought he’d be. Gris might just be playing with him as much as Enjin is.
“Gotta crawl off me first, Tats.”
Definitely playing with him.
Enjin, nimble as ever, does just that. It would be a humbling experience to any other man other than Enjin to lean against the table, a clear erection straining against his pants as the man he’d just been groped by makes his way out from under a car.
Gris gets to his feet and gives Enjin a slow once-over. They’ve both clearly given up on subtlety by now. Enjin curls his fingers beneath the edge of the table, gripping it to keep himself from reaching out as he visually takes in Gris’s oil-stained hands, the veins standing out beneath his forearms, and the huge bulge his jeans are trying—and failing—to contain.
“You’re trouble,” Gris says, shaking his head.
Enjin only shrugs, nodding in agreement.
Gris grabs a fresh bottle of oil and a funnel before heading back to the front of the car, settling the funnel in place and pouring in the new oil. It’s quicker than everything else he’s done so far, a little sloppier too, and Enjin watches with no small amount of satisfaction.
“You should take that shirt off, too.”
And doesn’t Gris just have a way of making the filthiest requests sound almost polite?
Enjin peels the tank over his head, tossing it somewhere onto the dirty floor without bothering to look. He glances down at the streaks of oil smeared across his waist, nearly the same color as the black ink winding over his arms, climbing his shoulders, and disappearing halfway down his back.
Through hooded eyes, he watches Gris let the funnel clatter onto the dirt ground. His expression stays neutral, but his movements have lost the careful patience they had before. He rounds the front of the car, settles into the driver’s seat, leans his head back against the headrest, then lets it roll toward Enjin.
“Grab that key next to your hand.” Gris pats his thigh. “And then c’mere.”
Enjin tries not to appear too eager. Maintaining eye contact for a good few seconds, he lets his eyes drop to the key next his hand. Leisurely, he picks it up. “This one?”
“Enjin,” Gris rumbles, and he feels his dick twitch. “Be good.”
Tossing the key up in the air and catching it as he saunters over, he says, “I’m always good for you, Gris.”
Gris catches the key midair because Enjin lets him. Enjin goes to step up on the side bar, but Gris places a flat, firm hand on his chest.
Enjin drops his voice to a whisper, biting his lip as he shoves himself against Gris’s hand, but Gris holds him steadfast. “So good.”
“You have to let me finish this.”
Enjin tries to get close to Gris’s face, tipping his head to the side. “Oh, I’ll let you finish.”
Gris stares at him, unwavering.
Enjin rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you finish, man. Damn. Now let me up.”
Fitting two grown men in the driver’s seat is a lot easier than expected. Enjin has already demanded that the driver’s seat is to be left an unsafe distance away from the steering wheel, so there’s enough space. Settling himself into Gris’s lap, he blocks Gris’s view, towering over him. So, to help Gris out like the kind soul he is, Enjin ducks his head, mouthing over Gris’s neck, licking up toward his earlobe and biting down.
“Enjin,” Gris grunts, but tips his head to the side nonetheless.
“Yeah, keep saying my name like that. It won’t do shit except make me harder,” he whispers against Gris’s ear, licking over the opening of his ear and kissing there, open-mouthed, rolling his hips slowly and deliberately over Gris’s clothed dick as he does.
Meanwhile, Gris is still half-focused on the car, key shoved into the ignition, turning it halfway and pumping the gas pedal three times to reset it. All of it happens too fast, too rushed because Gris can’t ignore that Enjin isn’t actively trying to crawl inside his ear with his tongue and derail his entire oil change process.
Gris finally grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks him back.
Enjin just laughs, mouth still open, tongue dragging over his lips, savoring the taste of Gris and making them shine for him. Gris doesn’t even look at him properly, jaw locked tight as he pulls the key out and fully starts the engine this time.
Enjin hums impatiently. He knows more than he’ll let on about cars because he knows the engine has to sit idle for a minute.
“Runnin’ good?” he asks, just to be an asshole, reaching out to squeeze one of Gris’s massive pecs, admiring the contrast of black-painted nails and tattooed forearm against all that unmarked skin.
Like watching someone shed a skin, Gris drops the last of his focus on the stupid car. He lets the key go, and in one sharp motion yanks Enjin forward by the hand still in his hair.
Their mouths crash together, and there’s nothing patient about it. Their lips molding together, they both know there’s no time for chaste kisses, not when Gris’s hand is back on his waist, digging his nail into the skin, leaving proof that he’s been there. Enjin rises onto his knees without thinking, rolling his body forward until their bare, sweaty chests press together, heat on heat, breath turning messy between them. Gris extends his neck upward, shoving his tongue inside Enjin’s mouth, using the leverage he has on Enjin’s hair to twist him this way and that.
Like the control freak Gris is, when Enjin gets too eager—tries to skip over repositioning his mouth each kiss and instead sucks Gris’s tongue for too long or shove inside too deep and remains there or lingers on his bottom lip, gnawing—Gris tugs Enjin off his mouth.
Enjin huffs in annoyance each time, panting and straining to kiss him again, but Gris doesn’t let him, not until he settles down. Then Gris will guide him back, keeping his mouth sealed until Enjin nonverbally promises to take it slow and follow Gris’s lead.
Enjin hates to love it, but he can’t help himself. Cupping each side of Gris’s neck and arching toward him, letting only their lips smack together over and over until Gris’s tongue flicks against his lips, attempting to push in. Each time, Enjin accepts him eagerly, the straining, wet muscle of his tongue making room below Gris’s own.
Making out shouldn’t be driving him as crazy as it is, but his hips won’t stop moving, and when Gris wraps a hand around his throat when he disobeys Gris once again—biting Gris’s bottom lip and pulling back—Enjin releases the lip and ducks his head, stilling his hips and digging his nails into the headrest.
“Shit,” Enjin pants, pressing his nose against Gris’s cheek as he tries to calm down. He’s acting like a damn virgin.
Gris kisses his cheek sweetly, easing up on Enjin’s hair. Trailing his hand down Enjin’s bare front, he presses a huge hand over his dick. “Close call?”
Enjin laughs weakly. “Low blow.”
The word blow only makes the corners of Gris’s lips twitch up.
“How ‘bout this…” Gris says after a moment, leaning forward to kiss Enjin hard and slow, no tongue. That alone makes Enjin’s stomach flip. Must be acid reflux. Gris bites at his jaw, then drags his wet mouth to his ear. “You get down on your knees and get both of us ready.”
Enjin lets out a noise he doesn’t mean to. He shifts, grinding up against Gris. “Huh?”
Gris massages his nape. “Listen, Enjin.”
“I am,” he snaps, but he’s not. He’s actually sucking Gris's neck now, feeling way too dizzy to be doing anything that requires more brain function.
Enjin hears the metal click of Gris’s belt coming undone, then his pants being unbuttoned. A second later he’s being pushed down by the shoulders, guided between Gris’s legs. It’s a tighter fit than it was in the driver’s seat, but Gris flips a latch so the steering wheel lifts just enough to give them space.
Enjin uses the space and awkwardly works his own pants and boxers down to at least his knees. His hard cock slips free and slaps against his stomach, making him hiss through his teeth. With that out of the way, Enjin slides his hands up along Gris’s thighs, slowly on purpose, looking up at him once before leaning in and pressing his face into the heavy bulge. The second he does, Gris lets out a low groan, brows pulling tight as his body reacts before he can even think about holding it back. Enjin breathes in again now that he’s where he wants to be, eyes fluttering shut as he fits his mouth around the straining fabric, wetting it as he licks and circles his tongue there.
“Fuck,” Gris moans, cupping the back of his hand and grinding up toward his mouth. “C’mon. Quit playing around. Take me out.”
With one last lick, fabric scraping against his tongue, Enjin does just that. Desperate to get Gris slicked up, and inside him, he briskly digs Gris out of his pants and boxers, hooking both items of clothing behind his balls.
Like a man possessed, he slaps leaking length against his cheek, kissing the scorching flesh. “Fucking shit. I knew you were big,” Enjin says, wholly enamored by how much Gris takes up in his grip, given Enjin’s own large hands. He encircles the mouthwatering girth, haphazardly tugging on the dry skin just to see it move.
Gris grunts. “Fucking ow, Enjin.”
After pulling back the foreskin, Enjin circles the tip with his thumb. “Want me to suck it?”
Nodding, Gris holds onto Enjin’s wrists for dear life. “Yes.”
“Don’t I get a ‘please’?”
Apparently not listening, Gris tugs at one of Enjin’s wrists, and Enjin lets him, curious to see what he wants. They both moan when Gris takes three of Enjin’s fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around and between them, making sure it’s purposefully messy. Enjin strokes him steadily as he does, watching his eyes roll while he spreads Gris’s pre-come over his length with his calloused palm.
The pop when Gris releases his fingers is intentional, but it still makes Enjin twitch, his dick bouncing against his stomach. A string of saliva stretches between them before breaking as Gris guides Enjin’s hand back down.
“Please,” Gris says, breathing coming out rough, “suck my dick, and finger yourself while you do it.”
If Gris told him to turn himself inside out and become a fucking acrobat to suck his own dick, Enjin would do it without thinking twice.
He shifts down, spreading his legs as far as the cramped space allows, reaching between them, ignoring the ache in his balls as he drags his fingers across his perineum with what’s left of Gris’s spit. It’s already drying, so he grits his teeth, lifts his hips slightly, and circles himself once before pushing two fingers inside in one go.
It’s tight, enough so that Enjin will have to angle his shoulder in further to get anywhere deeper, but he doesn’t care. Gris’s leaking cock bobs in front of him while he watches Enjin work himself open, the hum of the engine filling the garage around them. Enjin wets his tongue and drags it up the underside of Gris’s shaft, leisurely enough to make it obvious he’s doing it on purpose.
Gris cups Enjin’s cheek and fists the base of his cock, guiding Enjin forward until the head presses at his lips. Enjin spits onto it, spreading it with parted lips, eyes lifting through his lashes to meet Gris’s gaze.
Fluttering his lashes up to meet that gaze, Enjin waits for Gris to call him a slut because it would sound nice falling from those pretty lips right now, but they don’t come. Gris simply slides a thumb between his sealed lips, prying his mouth open, sliding his now wet thumb between Enjin’s back teeth until his mouth opens wide enough for Gris to sink his cock inside.
And oh, it’s so much bigger gliding into his mouth like this. It fills past Enjin’s tongue, and into his throat without stopping. Halfway down, Enjin gags, and Gris stops, soothing him with a gentle hand massaging his throat and fingers running through his hair, until he grips at the back of Enjin’s head more harshly.
“There you go,” Gris says, watching Enjin fight through the gag as they continue down, the hand at the back of Enjin’s head a careful reminder to keep going. “All the way, Tats. Breathe and open that tight fucking throat.”
Enjin’s eyes water as he obeys, now close enough to the base and those trimmed pubes. Gris throws his head back, moaning loud enough to be heard over the engine. As a reward and a way to distract himself from choking, Enjin slips his third finger inside, stroking over his own prostate, a moan coming out as a gurgle around Gris’s cock.
When it all starts to become too much, Enjin eases back, and Gris allows him to, but Enjin doesn’t forget to continue sucking as he makes his way back up. Drool makes the exit out of his throat and mouth smooth. When it’s out, he rests the tip on his lower lip, puffing hot air over Gris’s wet and red cockhead, making the man squirm.
“I know how to suck dick, asshole,” he croaks.
Gris looks far too blissed out to respond. He strokes a thumb over the spit that’s escaped onto Enjin’s chin, rubbing it back and forth and into his mouth. “Still fingering yourself?”
Enjin takes the cock back into his mouth, gliding all the way down until his nose is squashed into the heady, masculine scent of Gris. There, with wobbling, wet eyes, drool seeping out the corner of his mouth, he nods, jostling the cock nestled inside his pulsating throat.
“Oh, fuck,” Gris basically whimpers, holding Enjin’s head still without applying any pressure, clearly trying to keep his hips glued to the seat instead of fucking up into the hot, wet carven of Enjin’s mouth and spongy throat.
Nothing can compare to choking himself on a dick, but the added demand of fingering himself only drags him right back to when he used to do this alone. Funnily rough, it’s the same filthy and depraved setup. Gris walked in on him once—dildo shoved down his throat, three fingers deep, almost four. They hadn’t talked about it after. Gris left, and that was it.
Since then, every time Gris passes his room, Enjin makes sure he’s loud enough to be heard.
It was only a matter of time before the trash stacked too high for either of them to ignore. So he shows off now, takes Gris all the way in, gag reflex kicking hard enough to flood his mouth with saliva. He strokes himself with his free hand, gathering what’s there and using it to slick his fingers up again, before shoving them back into his hole.
Gris starts to lose it first. His grip tightens in Enjin’s hair, gradual at first, then less so with every second that drags on. Every second Enjin bobs his head up and down on Gris dick, sucking and slurping like a slut. The control slips, and Gris begins fucking into his throat without fully meaning to, forgetting for a second that this is supposed to be foreplay.
With each insistent push on his head and click of Gris’s fat cock stretching past the tight rings of his throat, Enjin shoves his fingers deeper. He spreads the three fingers inside himself, making sure to wince internally so he doesn’t accidentally bite Gris’s cock. Each glug and dollop of drool sliding down Gris’s cock and gathering at his balls drives them both insane.
The tears gathering at his eyelashes, the spit gathering at Gris’s balls, Gris choking Enjin on his dick with no restraint—it’s all obscene. But Enjin keeps going anyway, swallowing around him, fingers still moving, while Gris keeps dragging him deeper without realizing he’s fully taken over the pace.
When Enjin feels an orgasm approaching with too much ferocity and much too fast, he locks his neck and taps Gris’s thigh.
“Sorry,” Gris gasps, and sticks his thumb back into Enjin’s mouth, easing him off. “You’re just too fucking good at that.”
Enjin kisses Gris’s tip and suckles around it, closing his eyes as he takes a much-needed breather. His throat will be sore for days, yet he’s aching to have that cock back in his mouth already. Every time he sees Gris, he knows he’ll have to plant his feet hard into the dirt and stop himself from copping a feel over the front of Gris’s pants, remembering exactly what it was like to be gagged on what’s hiding underneath.
He pulls off Gris’s thumb, kissing his palm. “Practice makes perfect,” he says, clearing his throat.
The tiny frown doesn’t pass Enjin by, and he hopes Gris turns that flicker of jealousy into something useful and just fucks him already. Gris nudges him, and Enjin assumes that’s the signal—back into his lap, get this whole thing moving, finally a dick where it’s supposed to be.
But when Gris actually hauls him up by the elbows, easy and a little rough, like he’s nothing more than a ragdoll, Enjin comes up slightly dizzy and immediately realizes the attention isn’t on him anymore.
Gris’s gaze is already drifting past him, over his shoulder, distracted by something else entirely.
“What now?” Enjin asks, ducking to kiss Gris’s neck, sucking a secret mark below his collarbone.
“Ever been fucked while bent over the hood of a car?”
Enjin pulls back to look down at Gris, and he smiles up at Enjin. The smile is far from innocent, but he strokes Enjin’s flank, squeezing his ass with an ironclad grip that makes Enjin jerk.
“I haven’t,” Enjin says, wrapping his arms around Gris’s shoulders, “in fact.”
“Want to?”
Enjin pretends to think about it, though his cock leaking against Gris’s stomach and onto his bunched-up pants speak for themselves. “Might have to give her a scrub down after.”
With that, Gris shuts the car off and tosses the key onto the passenger’s seat. He gets his hands under Enjin’s thighs and twists sideways, climbing out of the car with Enjin still in his arms. The pants are stopping it from being anything comfortable and proper, so Gris sets him on his feet and lets Enjin get his shoes and pants off while he disappears to the front of the car.
Enjin takes his time, waiting to feel weird standing in the garage, exposed and very, very naked. While it’s unlikely, anyone could walk in, he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed if they did. Looking down at himself—his tall, muscular body, littered in his tattoos—he finds that he’s ready to put himself in Gris’s strong, capable hands. Fuck what’s can be seen. Fuck any reputation. He will get bent over this car. Fuck any wandering bodies around this compound that stumble in here.
He hears Gris taking the prop rod down and dropping any spare tools to the ground before he’s back in Enjin sights, stopping when he sees Enjin in all his naked glory. Gris, mouth slightly agape and staring at Enjin erect cock that hasn’t flagged yet, gets his hands on his own belt.
“You should pick me up again. ‘S not often a man can do that for me.” Enjin saunters forward, replacing Gris’s hands with his own, letting his lips hover an inch from Gris’s own. “You want to do that for me, though, don’t you?”
Gris seals his lips over Enjin’s as he dips down to get a better hold of his thighs again. Enjin follows him easily, a smile tugging at both their mouths as it happens. He wraps his arms around Gris’s shoulders and jumps, but Gris doesn’t even need the help. He hauls Enjin up like it’s nothing. Enjin opens his mouth on instinct, rubbing himself against Gris’s abs as he’s lifted, spreading a mix of pre-cum and sweat across warm skin.
It’s the closest thing to heaven Enjin cares about getting to. Everyone looks at him like he’s supposed to be the one in control, even Enjin himself, so being picked up like this—carried, held, manhandled without Gris overstepping—feels even better than sex. Trusting Gris with his body, with the reins, with everything comes as naturally as it does out there as Supporter and Cleaner.
His Gris. Beautiful, strong…. and currently gripping his ass right now, a finger edging toward his hole.
Enjin pulls back just enough to breathe against Gris’s soaked lips. “Got lube—”
Gris doesn’t let him finish. He spreads his asscheeks, kneading them open, and hefts Enjin higher up with that grip, and back into a kiss so hard, so desperate that their teeth click together. Enjin loses the thread immediately, tongue slipping back into it as he moans into the mess of their mouths, his body tightening around nothing while Gris’s hand keeps working lower, nails pressing into delicate skin.
“My coat,” Enjin manages between kisses, then immediately gives up on talking and dives back in.
They’ve barely moved a step toward the front of the car.
“What?” Gris mumbles against his lips, biting lightly before kissing him again.
Enjin almost wants to be annoyed. Now he has to do this whole back-and-forth again, now he has to explain himself, now he has to stop kissing Gris to actually speak. He doesn’t want to speak; he wants to choke on Gris’s tongue. Wants to stay here, pressed against those hard abs, humping against them until neither of them remembers what the plan was in the first place.
But Enjin still remembers the promise of what’s under Gris’s jeans, so he forces his hand between them, breaks the kiss just long enough to slap a palm over Gris’s mouth and lean his forehead against his.
“Coat,” he pants. “Lube.”
He waits a beat, just long enough to make sure Gris isn’t about to pull him back in again, then finally moves his hand away.
“You brought lube with you? Seriously?”
Enjin wipes his upper lip. “Yeah, but don’t overdo it. Shit’s expensive.”
“Am I that easy?” Gris muses, looking over Enjin’s shoulder while he walks over to the abandoned coat.
Really, Gris should put Enjin down, but Gris just holds him up just fine with a forearm under his ass and Enjin’s legs around his waist. Gris fishes around in Enjin’s coat pockets, pulling out a squishy packet.
“Alice?” Gris asks after scrutinizing the packet of lube and walking them back over to the car. God, Enjin can’t focus. Not with Gris so casually carrying him around like this. The hundreds of pounds of him. The muscles and height of him. Enjin. The fierce Cleaner with a silver tongue being carried around by one arm.
“She gets it in bulk for medical purposes,” Enjin answers eventually, not so subtly fondling Gris’s bicep. The one that’s carrying him. As he says it, he grimaces. “I hope that’s why.”
“She doesn’t care that you’re, what, stealing them? Don’t tell me you’re asking for them.” Gris tucks the packet of lube between his teeth. “Dunno what’s worse,” he mutters around the packet.
Gris is so clueless as to how hot he is, Enjin realizes. For such a smart man, he’s beyond clueless to how he can rile Enjin up by simply tucking that damn thing between his teeth. Worse, Gris is looking around the hood of the car, probably to make sure it’s safe to go through with this plan of fucking Enjin over the hood of the car. Fucking clueless to his affect.
Enjin wants to say, Why do you care where I’m getting my fucking lube from? He wants to make a joke out of it and tease him. To banter and push Gris’s buttons as he does best, but he can’t focus because he’s still being held up by one of Gris’s arms and there’s a packet of lube between those strong, white teeth that were biting him a minute ago.
Enjin grips Gris’s jaw, getting his attention. “You’re gonna fuck me,” he says, tapping against Gris’s bottom row of teeth playfully. “And you’re gonna do it hard.”
Gris’s eyebrows raising is the only warning Enjin gets before the arm drops from under him, shoving his bare legs and unfurling them from around Gris’s waist. Unsteady on his feet for multiple reasons, Enjin grips behind him and onto the car for balance. Gris, the fucking menace, is smiling around the packet. With rough, unyielding hands and strength, just like Enjin requested, he flips Enjin around. When he veers off to the right from the momentum, Gris manhandles him back to the middle of the hood, crushing Enjin’s waist beneath his hands and planting a hand on his upper back, shoving him down.
Looking over his shoulder, his heart pounding in anticipation, he watches Gris reach up and tear the packet with his teeth. Enjin moans, his hips grinding forward and against the grille, the cold metal making him hiss and his hips stutter.
Gris pays him no mind, not while he’s gripping his own veiny, throbbing cock, dribbling the lube over it. That has to be just as cold as the grille, but Gris is rushing it, tugging himself to distribute the lube evenly, and that’s it. Then he turns his attention upward, to Enjin’s hole, and his eyes narrow.
Without looking, he plants a hand on Enjin’s upper back again, shoving and bending him further over the hood so Enjin can’t look over his shoulder. When Enjin tries to pick his head up anyway, Gris shoves his face down onto the dusty hood of the car.
Enjin’s cheek smashes into the hood, and he laughs. “Asshole,” he snarks, but it’s all a front. He could shoot right here from being pinned down by his fucking head. By Gris.
“Yeah,” Gris agrees, absentmindedly. But maybe not so much, because then the lube is trickling down Enjin’s crack and to his asshole. Gris tosses the packet aside, bullying a thumb inside.
Enjin’s eyes roll back, and he drives a fist into the hood, swallowing the sound it drags out of him. Those gloves Gris wears are doing him no favors, hiding the full bulk of his hands even though Enjin can already feel it in the way he works him open. The thumb alone is enough to make him lose focus. That singular thumb stretches his hole so well, playing with his pretty pink hole, Gris taking his time to watch it stretch around the girth of his thumb.
Gris adjusts his angle and drags that thumb inward, pressing down toward Enjin’s stomach. Two, maybe three inches is all it takes before it drags right against his prostate, and Enjin’s spine bows hard, hips lifting off instinct, his breath catching in his throat. Gris doesn’t speed up, just keeps massaging his thumb there, letting Enjin writhe around.
“C’mon, Grissy,” Enjin says as sweetly as he can once he’s swallowed the whine bubbling up. Gris’s thumb slides out and away from his prostate. Enjin spreads his legs wider, presenting himself and doing his best to entice Gris. “I’ll look even better with your cock filling me up.”
Trailing kisses down his spine, Gris chuckles against the heated skin. “Will you now?”
“Yes,” Enjin snaps, pushing back. He feels the desire welling up in his chest and stomach, and is dangerously close to begging for it. Crying for it.
Gris sucks on his neck, pressing a gentle kiss there. Enjin feels him tracing his tongue around the swirls of his tattoo. “Impossible. You’re beautiful already.”
Oh, the cheeky fucker.
With that, Gris pins his forearm across Enjin’s upper back, the other hand buried in his hair, fingers catching on the buzzed sides and holding him there as he lines up and pushes inside. He’s already hard enough that he doesn’t need his own hand for it, and that alone has Enjin’s head going empty, a broken sound leaving both of them as Gris starts to sink in. He has to stop halfway in because Enjin tightens around him too sharply, whole body locked up, breath caught and stolen by the cock stretching Enjin wider than he’s ever been before.
Gris curls over Enjin’s body fully, chest pressed down across Enjin’s back, breath hot in his ear as he pins him down, whispering encouragement in his ear. A finger slides in close to his gaping hole, not pushing inside, just circling where Gris is stretching him open.
“Breathe,” Gris mutters, strained, forehead dropping against Enjin’s head. Enjin reaches behind himself, wrapping a hand around Gris’s head, holding him there. Gris continues pressing forward, the lube helping the slide.
It burns too much and not enough at the same time, and Enjin wants to push away from the stretch. But, as Enjin asked, Gris pins him down, feeding his cock into Enjin’s greedy hole. Enjin feels as if he’s choking on dick from the inside this time.
“Gris,” Enjin manages to get out, turning his face into his own hand, biting down on the side of his finger. His shoulders curl up when Gris clamps down on his nape, groaning deep in his chest.
It’s a feeling he doesn’t have words for, being taken like this. To be fucked open slowly like this, it’s something he hasn’t gotten from a living, breathing person in so, so long. By Gris, whose cock he swears is in his guts right now. He wants to arch and thrash. To be fucked until his body is a mere dent on top of this car. He wants to complain about it. To beg for no more, and also so much more. He wants to sob as Gris fucks him, not caring that Gris’s chest is getting rubbed raw by the metal hood beneath him.
Gris bottoms out, and they both groan in unison. Gris’s shaft presses against his prostate, and Enjin’s cock trapped beneath his own stomach leaks more pre-cum from the stimulation. And, finally, they’re the closest two people can get.
Gris is inside of him.
No more stopping by the crack of Enjin’s door, shadows shrouding Gris while he peers inside, Enjin fucking himself, clearly begging to be ravished. Now, he’s being ravished. Now, Gris isn’t waiting for him to adjust. Now, Gris is pulling back, holding Enjin down with a firm grip on his nape, and slamming back inside.
The smack of balls against Enjin’s taint is deafening. The moans even more so. Gris knows where to position himself and what rhythm to set to drive Enjin to near madness almost instantly. One hand on his waist, another on his compressing his nape, and Enjin isn’t going anywhere as Gris pounds into his sloppy, lubed-up hole. Gris pulls one of Enjin’s asscheeks to the side, watching his cock appear and disappear inside Enjin, no doubt.
“Did you even finger yourself?” Gris lets out a string of curses. “So fucking tight, Jin. Fuck. I can hardly feel my dick.”
Enjin can’t think. He expects the pace to settle, for Gris to lose stamina halfway through and resort to rolling his hips, fucking shallowly but grinding deep inside of Enjin. But, as the animal Enjin felt like coming into this, Gris is chasing something, too. Holding Enjin where he wants him and fucking him, it's clear Gris is chasing his own high, using Enjin’s body to get there.
And if Gris’s dick is going numb, Enjin’s hole is right there with him. Each thrust drives him up the car a little more, metal biting into his skin as he’s shoved along the surface, breath breaking every time the angle changes. His hands scramble for grip, slipping on sweat-slick metal, fingers dragging for anything solid enough to hold him in place before he’s knocked further out of it.
But he wants this to hurt.
“That all you got?” Enjin grunts.
Always one to rise to a challenge, Gris doesn’t even chuckle at the obvious bait. Gathering Enjin’s wrists, Gris clasps them together in one of his hands and pins it behind Enjin’s back. With the new grip, and with Enjin completely at Gris’s mercy, Gris doubles his efforts, even planting his foot onto the bumper so he can fuck in deeper, harder, rougher.
Gris fists Enjin’s hair where it’s fullest at the top, tugging his head back. Being pinned and thrown around like this makes every joint and muscle ache. Enjin’s cock fucking weeps.
“See that driver’s seat in there,” Gris asks, teeth catching at Enjin’s ear as he speaks. Enjin’s eyes, unfocused and heavy, drag through the windshield until they land on it, the empty space he’s being told to look at. “You won’t be able to sit in it without feeling me.”
Gris lets Enjin’s head drop back against the hood and brings his hand down on his ass, and it’s shocking enough to jolt a sound out of him before he has any chance to swallow it. The sting lands clean, and Enjin’s breath catches, body tensing hard for another. Gris delivers, spanking him again, harder this time and in the same spot with the same blunt force, leaving heat blooming under the skin that doesn’t fade. Gris isn’t dialing back his strength either as he layers each stroke over the last until Enjin is shaking from it as much as from everything else.
“Tighen up so good when I do that,” Gris says, soothing the burning flesh with the flat of his palm, rubbing there.
Another comes down in the same place, and that’s what breaks the edge off whatever composure he still had left. His jaw locks, teeth grinding as his body pulls tight around everything he’s already taking, overwhelmed in every direction at once. The first tear falls, squeezed out from how hard he’s gritting his teeth from being fucked open. From being spanked. From his cock humping against the metal of this damn car, his balls being pinched and fondled occasionally by Gris.
Enjin lets his forehead drop onto the hood, a sob wrenching out of him. Gris only groans against the side of his face, pistoning his hips harder into Enjin. Gris adjusts his grip on Enjin’s wrist, tugging him back like a fleshlight, fucking Enjin even as the tears fall, and his body is near limp.
“Hng, fuck. Just… hah, like that,” Enjin cries, drool seeping out the corner of his mouth. He’s fucked higher and higher on the car with ever-more powerful thrust. A weak, broken hah follows with each one. Then there’s Gris, pulling him back down by his wrists, repositioning him and tugging him back on his cock.
Enjin’s nipples ache from being rocked back and forth like this. When Gris wants, he’ll spank Enjin, and it sends everything tightening again, his hole pulsating just right around Gris. Enjin is sure his perky ass is flushed a deep, bright red as the blood vessels there burst open. Gris’s big hand encircles his wrist, holding them together even tighter, Enjin’s shoulder blades near fucking touching.
Only when Gris’s forehead touches down on his upper back, his hips jackrabbiting ruthlessly and with reckless abandon into him, does Enjin know that he’s close. He groans mournfully, not wanting this to end, but Gris shushes him by snaking a hand between Enjin’s stomach and the hood of the car.
“Inside?” Gris asks, rubbing his thumb over the head of Enjin’s throbbing cock.
Enjin can’t hear. He can’t see or think. All of his nerve endings are focused on sitting still and letting Gris use him. On keeping his leaking, gaping hole tight enough for Gris as he holds him down and fucks him. There’s a puddle of drool beneath him to prove as much.
“Want me to cum inside?”
Enjin knows enough to nod, but he stops, crying out when Gris starts to jerk him off in earnest. “Fuck, fuck. Gris! You bastard.” He wriggles in Gris’s hold, only serving to impale himself further onto Gris’s cock.
The only sounds left are skin meeting skin and the rough, broken noise they’re both making. Enjin’s whining and whimpering as his oversensitive cock is jerked to near agonizing degree isn’t heard. Gris chases his pleasure, his hand moving with him at whatever pace he deems necessary for Enjin.
And, fuck, Enjin is cumming. Mouth opening in a silent scream, he can’t breathe or think or see as he does. He has no time to warn Gris and possibly direct him to aim it toward the ground. Gris had merely scraped his thumbnail across the head of his cock, and Enjin is cumming everywhere. Enjin’s body goes taut as he wails into the hood of the car, trying to hold onto something, but there’s only Gris holding onto him as he cums inside Enjin, whining into his ear, pinching and tugging and biting at any and all available skin there is.
Gris shoves himself balls deep and paints Enjin’s quivering insides, milking Enjin’s cock until Enjin is close to actually using his strength to break out of the hold. More tears gush out as he flails around in Gris’s hold, arching and moaning as Gris jerks his sensitive cock through his orgasm and past it.
It all comes down at a sluggish pace, and all there can be heard is their breathing and clock ticking inside the garage.
Slowly, Gris peels his hand away from Enjin’s cock, whispering his apologies when Enjin hisses. Next, he lets go of Enjin’s wrists, guiding his arms back up and to a comfortable position. Enjin brings them close to himself because then Gris is pulling his softening cock out of his used hole.
Enjin covers his mouth and lets his eyes flutter shut as the cock slides out. The cum has been pushed so far inside. Gris sighs appreciatively and spreads Enjin’s hole, thumb circling round and round until he pulls the puckered flesh to the side, exposing Enjin thoroughly.
“C’mon, Tats,” Gris whispers encouragingly. “Push it out for me.”
Enjin whines quietly, but tightens his abdomen nonetheless, pushing out the cum. Slowly, it seeps out in droplets until there’s enough cum for Gris to push back inside with his thumb or spread around his taint and puffy hole. Involuntarily, Enjin clenches and unclenches around the intrusion and stimulation, his body sucking Gris in despite how much it aches.
Only when Enjin tries to push himself up off the hood does Gris finally pull his hand back, and the sex of it all winds down, wrapping itself into a neat, tidy bow. Enjin can already tell he’s going to be nursing bruises and pains for a while.
Or he would be if it were another partner. But this is Gris. Gris steps in immediately, steadying him by the shoulders and guiding him upright, turning him carefully so he’s not doing it on his own. His hands stay firmly on Enjin as he checks him over, prodding around and tracking whenever Enjin flinches or holds his breath for too long. Anything that suggests something went too far or needs attention.
Enjin bats his hands away because that’s how this is supposed to go. He had asked Gris to fuck him hard. He had gotten his taste of Gris. Later, he’ll figure out whether it’s satisfied the itch.
“I got it,” he says, wiping at his eyes and the drool drying on his cheek. “I’m fine.”
But Gris doesn’t care for his flailing hands. Every time his help is shoved away, Gris comes right back. Gris keeps doing it until he’s cupping Enjin’s face, Enjin holding onto his wrists and trying to squirm away and back into his damn clothes.
“I’m butt fucking naked here, man,” he complains, but now Gris is caging him in with his body. “What’s your deal?”
Gris’s thumb settles on his bottom lip, his eyes trained there. Enjin tries to ignore just how very naked and very stupid this looks, which isn’t hard. Gris. Oh, Gris. How greatly it irks Enjin that Gris can’t be put off by his affinity for the push-and-pull game like most people.
“You okay?” Gris asks, kissing Enjin’s cheek and up to his temple where the scar is.
Enjin grips tighter into Gris’s wrist, closing his eyes once Gris can’t see. “I already said I’m fine. Have you never fucked anyone before? We don’t need to do this.”
“I hit you,” Gris says, voice suddenly hard. “Am I not allowed to make sure?”
Enjin sighs, acting resigned to the kisses, until Gris leans in and their lips barely meet. Just a brush, enough to make his breath catch before he can stop it, the urge to lean back and turn his cheek to Gris clawing at him from the inside. Blessedly, Gris doesn’t press, just waits it out, kissing along the dried tear tracks on his cheeks instead.
“Damn Supporters,” Enjin mutters under his breath, then tilts his head and closes the distance himself, catching Gris’s lips in a proper kiss.
It’s not anything like the car. No urgency, no force behind it, no scrambling need to push further inside each other’s mouths, but it still feels a lot heavier than before, just in a completely different way. Enjin’s arms come up around Gris’s shoulders without much thought, holding him there, and he kisses him slowly with no tongue. Nothing but the tender suctions of their lips against one another’s. Gris follows it without hesitation. His arms wrap around Enjin’s waist, and he eases into him before he breaks the kiss and settles his face into the side of Enjin’s neck.
A hug. That’s what it is, and Enjin accepts with a contented sigh. It isn’t unfamiliar; he’s hugged plenty of people. This is just vastly different in timing than the hugs his given or received. Annoyingly enough, it sends his stomach swooping a little.
“Actually, my ass does kinda hurt. You should probably kiss that, too.”
Gris laughs, delighted, and pulls away from Enjin’s neck to kiss him again. And again. And again.