Simple Physics

Chapter 5 - Contact Force

Very discreetly, Dash checked his watch for the third time in the past minute. Discreetly because he was not anxious and didn’t want anyone happening by to think he was, and for the third time in the past minute because it was two minutes and thirty seven seconds past seven, making Tucker officially two minutes and thirty seven seconds late. Forty-eight seconds, now. Not that he cared, of course, or that he was really paying all that much attention, but one would think he’d at least have the decency to call, or text, or—

“You look nice, this evening,” Tucker commented, and Dash jumped, unsuccessfully trying to cover it with a slight swagger at the end and frowning at Tucker’s amused expression.

“You’re late,” Dash accused.

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “By,” He checked his watch, “twenty-three seconds?” he asked. Dash opened his mouth, fully prepared to correct him, then reconsidered and shut it again, deciding it might give the wrong impression. “Besides,” said Tucker, “who’s to say you’re not just early?” His smirk was unforgivable. “Eager for something?”

“Watch it, Foley,” Dash growled, but it held little menace. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Tucker looked—well—he looked good. Really, really good, and it was distracting. After several seconds of unsuccessfully trying to glare at and mentally undress him simultaneously, Dash begrudgingly gave up on glaring.

A lightweight, forest green jacket covered most of Tucker’s upper body, baring nothing but a small triangle of tempting cinnamon right at the collar, and a sudden urge to know exactly what that triangle tasted like spurred Dash into moving his gaze onward. Dark, almost black jeans hung loosely about lean legs and yet somehow managed to cling in all the right places, making Dash wonder if they defied the laws of physics. When he caught himself wondering if they would fall off easily when unbuttoned, or hug the skin, he opted to look up instead. For once, that silly red beret was nowhere to be found, revealing countless rows of tight, ebony braids in its place, and Dash wondered what it would feel like, to slide his hands back over that dark hair, catch the loose ends in his fingertips and drag Tucker close until he could taste his breath on his lips and—

“Who dresses you?” he asked sharply, desperate to distract himself.

Tucker chuckled, green eyes dancing with mischief as he shook his head, glasses glinting under the artificial lights. “A fashion-conscious ghost that haunts my bedroom,” he said, sounding oddly serious. “Do you approve of his style?”

Dash hoped the dim light hid his blush as his eyes were drawn, once more, to that little ‘v’ of bare skin at Tucker’s throat, and he shifted awkwardly. “Uh…yeah…it’s,” he swallowed. “You’re…good.” Good? Fuck.

At least Tucker had a nice smile. “Thanks,” he said. “Shall we?” he asked, pointing towards the mall entrance, and Dash blinked.

Oh. Right. The movie.

“Yeah, sure. Um…good idea.”

“I thought so,” said Tucker, still grinning as he headed towards the door, and Dash watched him go. After noting—to himself alone—that Tucker had a very, very nice arse, he followed suit.

They walked side by side through the mall, about a foot apart, with hands in their pockets and heads turned just about everywhere—except towards each other. Dash noted the opening of a new dance studio across the way from a men’s shoe store that was apparently closing down and wondered what it would be like to take a dance class. Then he wondered if Tucker could dance, or if he even liked to dance, and tried—rather unsuccessfully—to imagine what kind of music he might like. He was still pondering that when they arrived at the theatre. There, Tucker’s voice drew him from his reverie.

“Hey, Dash?” Tucker called, waving a hand in front of his face and prompting him to look up. “You never told me what movie we came to see,” he said, one elbow propped on the ticket counter and wallet in hand as he waited for Dash’s reply. As the facts sank in, Dash frowned.

“Oh, right, umm…” He pushed forward to come beside Tucker, fishing in his own pockets as he scanned the running times of current shows. “How about…that ‘Bourne’ thing…the third one…‘The Bourne Ultimatum’?”

“That’s fine with…wait…you haven’t decided yet?”

Dash shrugged, finally locating his wallet and pulling out sufficient fees for two tickets. “I guess I never really thought about it,” he admitted.

“You invited me…three days ago…and you never even thought about what you wanted to see?” Tucker repeated, incredulous.

“Uh…yeah?” Was it really that hard to believe?

“But,” Tucker sputtered, “that doesn’t even…you can’t just…how on Earth…”

“Look,” said Dash, facing Tucker with as frank a stare as he could manage without laughing outright at the boy’s utterly befuddled expression, “I wasn’t really thinking much about the movie when I asked you, I’m not really thinking much about the movie now, and I kinda never planned on thinking much about the movie…ever…so it didn’t seem all that important. Besides…it’s not like we’re going to actually watch it…”

Dash turned to the ticket lady, about to pay when Tucker caught his hand with a hasty, “Wait,” and Dash paused, suddenly entranced by the long, smooth fingers placed so carelessly over his own. “I was…I was going to pay for some of that,” Tucker said, and Dash gave him an odd look.

“I asked you here,” he said.

“Yeah, but,” Tucker withdrew his hand, blushing faintly, “I accepted under the pretense that I would be paying for at least my half. I mean we specifically agreed it wasn’t…wasn’t going to be…”

A date. The words lingered, unspoken, on his tongue, and Dash snorted, shrugging it off and turning back to the ticket counter. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I made the offer, so I take the check.”

Tucker still looked on the verge of objecting, but in the end he didn’t, so Dash paid for them both and received their tickets. When he passed Tucker his ticket, his fingers lingered just a moment longer than they needed to, but if Tucker noticed, he didn’t object to that either, and they both walked into the theatre about a foot apart, with their hands in their pockets, and smiling. Dash decided to ignore the look given to them by the ticket lady as they passed.

“So,” said Tucker, sparing a brief, wistful glance towards the concession stands as they bypassed them, “if you not for the movie, why the theatre?”

Dash eyed him critically as they ascended a short flight of steps. Wasn’t Tucker supposed to be the smart one? Glowing billboards identifying the current showing in each room provided the only light for the hallway that followed, making for a rather dim passage, but, apparently, not dim enough to hide his expression, because Tucker rolled his eyes a moment later.

“That’s not…oh, you’re hopeless,” Tucker grumbled. “I meant…if you really didn’t plan on paying any attention, why not pick someplace…I don’t know…less…public?”

Dash snorted. “Would you have ever said yes if I’d asked you to climb in the back of my car armed with lube and a condom?”

Tucker almost tripped, and Dash caught his shoulder, steadying him before he let go.

“Exactly,” he said.


“Here we are.” Dash snatched Tucker’s arm again, this time earning himself an abrupt yelp as he yanked the smaller figure, stumbling, into their designated theatre.

Unfortunately, it was nearly twice as dark inside as it was in the hall, and, caught unawares, Dash himself nearly tripped on entering. That, of course, led Tucker, already off-balance, to run flat into him, and moments later they both went sprawling. The end result was a confusing tumble and tangle of limbs ending in an awkward collision with a chair in the first row.

Dash grunted painfully. “Ouch,” was the grand sum of his woes.

Under him, Tucker gave a curt snort, wriggling discontentedly and causing some unidentified bony part of his body to dig into Dash’s thigh. “Very smooth,” he snarked sarcastically, breathless and sounding more than a tad on the agitated side. “Was that all part of the plan? Or did it just sort of happen in a spur of the moment kind of thing?”

Dash groaned, partially because his left rib hurt like hell and partially because Tucker was still squirming against him, and breathing down his neck, and fuck—was that Tucker’s knee between his legs?

“I…accident,” he muttered rather inarticulately, and Tucker huffed in disbelief.

“Oh?” he countered harshly. “And I’m sure the exact same thing would have happened if we’d just walked into the theatre like normal people? Slowly and calmly and-” Tucker cut off abruptly, and Dash felt him stiffen. Apparently, the effects of their close proximity on Dash’s anatomy had finally caught his notice. “Well,” he observed a moment later, suddenly far too smug for Dash’s tastes, “at least we know some parts of you made it through unscathed.”

Dash growled, opening his mouth with every intent of making some snappy retort, when the knee between his legs shifted—just enough to make it impossible to ignore—and any possible comeback melted into the dark abyss. The resulting, rather undignified jumble of, “OhfuckTuckershutup,” earned him an amused snort from his companion, much to his chagrin.

“Yes, well, as lovely as it is that you appreciate my oozing sexual appeal and all that-”

“Tucker-” Dash hissed warningly.

“-you are kind of crushing me at the moment. So if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if you’d back…up…” Tucker emphasized the words with several encouraging nudges in the right direction, and, after gritting his teeth at the unwanted constraints movement put on various regions of his body, Dash complied with the request.

Taking a step back, he winced as he shifted awkwardly, trying to achieve a temporarily acceptable arrangement until his dilemma faded. At least a glance in the right direction confirmed that Tucker had not undergone the ordeal totally unaffected either, and it soothed his nerves to an extent.

“You know,” Tucker commented, eyeing Dash with an odd air of reevaluation, “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name.” The comment caught Dash off guard, and he blinked, wondering if that could be true. “It’s kind of nice, actually,” Tucker said, tugging down the front of his jacket—slightly upset by their escapade—and shoving his hands in his pockets as he pushed up off the back of the chair and started towards the door. “You should try it more often.”

“Oh,” said Dash, still flustered and entirely unsure of what to make of the statement as he watched Tucker go. “Okay.” Then, the fact of his departure sank in and a startled, “Hey, wait!” escaped Dash just in time to halt Tucker at the door. “Where, um…where are you going?” he asked.

“Concessions,” Tucker said plainly.

“Con…oh…but, why?”

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Because,” he said, “due to your impeccable planning, we still have fifteen minutes before the movie starts, and frankly…I’m starving. Besides, no one in their right mind goes to a theatre without purchasing at least one extra-grande-sized bucket of buttered popcorn.”

“But…” Dash frowned. “Alright,” he conceded, “but here…” After a moment of scrounging in his pocket, he came up with what he wanted produced a crinkled bill, holding it out to Tucker. “Take this.” Before Tucker could object, he added, “And if it makes you feel better, get me something too.”

Tucker’s fingers closed reluctantly over the bill as Dash thrust it in his palm, and he eyed it distrustfully, as if it might leap up and attack him at any moment. Finally, he looked back up to Dash. “You sure?” he asked, and Dash rolled his eyes.

“Look, if I can chock up fifty for a bet I didn’t even shake on, I think I can handle twenty for some popcorn and soda pop, okay?” If nothing else, watching Tucker’s eyes widen fetchingly at the reminder of that first fifty made it well worth it in Dash’s opinion, and he smiled. “Just get me a diet coke, alright?”

Tucker frowned. “A…diet-”

Dash clamped a hand over his mouth. “Yes, a diet coke, Foley…Tucker.” He felt Tucker’s cheeks heat under his palm, and his stomach fluttered. Immediately, he withdrew his hand, hoping the darkness hid his own blush. “Just…just get it, okay?”

Tucker grinned. Damn him for that grin. “Aye, aye, cap’n,” he said, and disappeared out the door.

For a time, Dash just stood there, staring—not thinking, per say, because, honestly, his notions at the moment were far too tangled to be considered rational thought—but looking and wondering. Finally, he sighed, shifting a hand back through his hair with a puzzled frown and turning to walk back towards the aisles in search of a seat. How a bet and a blowjob had landed him in a movie theatre with Tucker Foley on a Friday night was completely beyond him at this point, but one thing was for sure: he was having a hell of lot better time then he’d ever had with Paulina, or Star, or Ashley, or—hell, any girl he’d ever dated—and the worst part was, the movie hadn’t even started yet.

Locating a seat, he flopped down gracelessly and instantly kicked his legs out before him, slouching back with a very emasculate pout as he let himself wonder for the first time if there was even the teensiest, tiniest little whisper of a chance that he might, possibly, be just a tiny bit—well—gay. He shuddered to think, and quickly stomped the thought flat, mentally scolding himself for letting the idea get even that far. Of course he wasn’t gay. Not, he, Dash Baxter, captain of the football team, king of Casper High. No way. He was just—

“Miss me?”

Dash jumped, coming dangerously close to landing himself with a lap full of soda and popcorn in the process.

“Hey, now!” Tucker countered, retreating in defense of—Dash’s jaw nearly dropped.

“You plan on eating all that?”

The mere fact that he had somehow managed to make it to their chairs with such a load was surprising enough. With the aforementioned “essential” extra-grande-sized buttered popcorn bag tucked under one arm, a huge diet coke in the other, and a box of nachos, two bags of M&Ms and—was that cotton candy?—miraculously woven into other various parts of his grasp, Tucker looked like a walking candy stand. From the look on his face, though, Dash concluded that he did, in fact, plan on consuming it all.

“But…you’re so…small,” Dash persisted with no thought to tact as he stared incredulously at Tucker’s slim frame weaving its way between the chairs towards him.

“Oh?” Tucker inquired, pressing his back to the chairs on the next aisle and raising his bundles of goods as he slid past Dash to the next seat, “And am I to take that as a compliment?”

Dash shrugged, making a quick sweep for the popcorn as Tucker went by but missing by inches when Tucker leaned just out of reach at the last second. Dash scowled. “How should I know?” he grumbled, eyes lingering longingly on the popcorn. “It’s just the truth.”

Tucker snorted, flopping into his seat with a similar air to that of Dash minutes before and propping his legs up on the back of the chair in front of him. “Yeah, well,” he said, strategically arranging his newly-purchased horde in a scattered circle about him, “your long string of ninety-pound, lipstick-laden, short-skirted ex’s might have appreciated references to their borderline-anorexia, but for a guy, ‘small’ isn’t exactly a flattering term. Besides,” He wriggled lower in his seat, plucking a single golden kernel from the bag now tucked securely in his lap and popping it neatly between his lips with far more delicacy than Dash deemed necessary for sensible popcorn consumption, “I like to think of myself as reasonably well endowed, thank you very much.”

It was about that time that Dash began to wonder if they were still talking about the same thing. Then, something clashed loudly on the movie screen, and he forgot to ask, too busy trying to decide how the movie could have started without his noticing—it appeared to be several minutes in already. Go figure.

On screen, Matt Damon—or “Jason Bourne” as the script called him—was busy ferrying some mousey journalist through a giant crowd in what appeared to be an airport while a very fit looking gunner—a bad guy from the looks of things—set up to take them out from an air duct.

“It’s no wonder this theatre gets lousy business,” Tucker murmured around a mouthful of popcorn, distracting Dash from the film drama. “The acoustics on this room are awful, and their lighting fixtures need some serious work. See how the left corner of the screen flickers every now and then? Something’s up with the projector.”

Dash watched Tucker lick butter from his fingers and frowned. “Don’t people normally talk about how much the movie sucks? As opposed to, you know, the…sound system…or whatever?”

Tucker blinked up at him, sucking an M&M into his mouth with a quiet ‘pop,’ before shrugging and glancing back to the movie. The glowing screen cast a dancing contrast of light and shadow across his features as his lips worked their way blindly around the soda straw, and slurped.

“Dunno,” he said eventually. “Those’re just the things I notice, I guess.” Several seconds later, he came to the bottom of the cup with a loud squelch and pouted. “Dang,” he muttered, holding it out before him and frowning as if that might miraculously fill it back up. A moment later, he sighed, rearranging his popcorn and other goods to the next seat before standing. “I’ll be right back.”

When Tucker went to shuffle past his chair to get out, however, Dash blocked his path. “At this rate, you’ll be up and down for half the movie going to take a piss,” he said. “You drank practically that whole thing by yourself.”

“I did not!” said Tucker.

“I barely got any!” Dash argued. Several ‘shh!’s erupted from several rows down, and Tucker glared narrowly.

“And whose fault is that?” he hissed, voice barely above a whisper. “If you want more, you’ll just have suck faster next time.”

“I’ll never get any if it’s a sucking contest!” Dash hissed back, almost as quiet, and Tucker’s hand shot out so quick, he only just caught it in time. “Temper, temper,” he scolded, grinning at Tucker’s scowl.

“If you wanted more, you could have just asked,” Tucker sulked.

“Yeah? Alright,” Dash said. He tugged sharply at Tucker’s wrist, eliciting a startled protest as the smaller body jerked forward, and bringing them nearly forehead to forehead the next instant. This close, Tucker’s breath smelled of chocolate and theatre butter—an odd, strangely fascinating juxtaposition of salt and sweet that made his blood pound just a little faster in his veins. “I want more,” he said, and Tucker’s breath quivered across his lips.

“Are we…still talking about coke?” he asked, and Dash’s mouth twitched with the faintest hint of a smirk.

A scant three inches more, and Dash could have tasted those lips—the chocolate and the butter, slippery and hot and smooth against his own—but he reined the urge. “Do you want to keep talking about coke?”

“Not,” Tucker swallowed, and Dash watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, “not particularly.”

“Hn.” Keeping Tucker’s wrist firmly clasped, Dash brought it to the armrest beside him, and Tucker shuffled, awkwardly balanced with one knee on the chair and one foot on the floor. “Good,” he murmured, “neither do I.”


“Why’d you do it?” he asked.

“I…” Tucker’s pulse stuttered against his fingertips. “It…seemed like a good idea at the time?” he offered up hopefully. Dash raised his eyebrows; Tucker sighed. “Because I could,” he said eventually. “Because I was pissed at the physics teacher for making me share a room with you and pissed at you for making assumptions about me and I wanted to prove a point.”

“What point?” Dash flicked his thumb over the underside of Tucker’s wrist experimentally and smiled when it induced a shiver.

“I…I don’t quite remember, actually,” Tucker replied, voice faintly breathy, and Dash made a mental note: Tucker had sensitive wrists. “Probably something along the lines of: ‘Smart kids have hormones too’ or…‘Geek does not equal boring and unpredictable’… It might have had more to do with the fact that I really didn’t expect you to follow up on it, though, and that I wanted to see the look on your face when I offered…and…you kinda looked halfway hot that day, too…despite being bored sick and royally ticked at me and all…but-”

“Only halfway?”

“Well, I was trying pretty hard not to think of you as ‘hot’,” Tucker defended. “You were…are a football player after all, and I was already pissed at too many other things to be pissed at myself for ogling over one of the prep crowd.”

Dash snorted. “And the fifty bucks?”

Tucker blushed then, glancing away shamefacedly. “It wasn’t an entirely insignificant sum,” he admitted quietly. His face was close enough Dash could feel the heat radiating from him—from his cheeks and neck—and Dash’s smile was feral.

“So,” he said, “would you do it again?”

Again, Tucker’s pulse stuttered in his grasp. “If you’re asking if I would make the same decision again, if given the choice to do it over, then yes,” said Tucker, “I would. If you’re asking if I’d consider bringing you off again in the here and now, then I’d have to say that depends more on you.”

Dash’s, “Hnph,” was something of a mixture between a grunt and growl. “So, in other words,” he said, “if I promise to be real quiet…” His spare hand teetered, indecisively, just above the waist of Tucker’s pants. “We can do something other than pretend to watch this sorry excuse for an action-suspense-thriller and actually make use of the poor lighting?”

“This ‘other something’ could get us kicked out of the theatre?” asked Tucker, making it almost more a statement than a question.

“In a heartbeat,” Dash agreed. “Interested?”

“Nngh,” Tucker shivered in the most delightful way when Dash let his fingers trace, curiously, over the semi-hard outline already present in the front of his jeans, and his distracted nod was more than enough to get the point across. “Fuck yes,” he whispered, and without a moment’s hesitation, Dash’s hand slipped beneath jacket and shirt alike, catching Tucker’s pants at the waist and giving a meaningful tug forward.

“Up,” he ordered. Tucker needn’t be told twice.

Dash decided he liked Tucker in his lap—one leg splayed to either side of him and full, parted lips easily within reach of his teeth. He liked the way Tucker ground against him—shameless now that they were past pretenses—and couldn’t help but contrast it to all the awkward hesitance and fidgeting of past encounters with the opposite gender. By the time Tucker’s trapped hand wriggled free of his grasp, moving down to catch his own and guide it impatiently to the straining bulge in his pants, Dash began to seriously doubt his sexuality.

Letting another guy touch you was one thing, he reasoned, because hormones were hormones, regardless of whose hand was down your pants, but touching another guy and liking it? That was another story altogether.

After half a second’s debate, Dash swallowed thickly and shut his eyes, letting his fingers curl, almost tentatively, around the denim-encased hardness beneath his palm. When Tucker hissed in appreciation, jerking into the touch, Dash relaxed slightly, reassured. It was strange, really, inducing such reactions in another male, but not altogether unpleasant, and it lent an almost heady sense of power, knowing that he had control like this, that he made the rules.

“So tell me, Foley,” he asked, emboldened by Tucker’s reaction and adding pressure of his own accord this time, “when was the last time you got off? You seem a bit…high-strung.”

The “Hngph,” that followed was a sort of choked snort. “To h-hell with that,” Tucker snapped breathlessly. “If I’m high-strung, then you have the sexual restraint of a bucking bronco in mating season, and, as I’ve said, it’s really-” A sharp inhale ended the sentence there as Dash ran his thumb along the stiff ridge in his pants, and moments later, Tucker arched his hips, hissing something vaguely akin to, “Ahfuckyesthere…” when the touch dipped a fraction lower. Dash observed the effects with rapt fascination.

“A bucking bronco?” he said, more to distract himself than anything else. Tucker looked—amazing, really—with his head tilted back, ever so slightly, and his lean, wiry body practically shaking with tension. His throat all but screamed “bite me” and his lips—Dash tried not to think too hard about those. “Are you implying that you have sexual restraint?”

“Well more than you, certainly,” Tucker replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “but…oh, hell…” His lashes fluttered, and Dash hadn’t ever thought that could look so hot—especially not on a guy. “It…doesn’t take much to have more restraint than you,” he managed finally.

“Oh, yeah?” Dash growled, and Tucker swallowed.

Lip between his teeth, eyes screwed shut, and brow furrowed in concentration, Tucker was like, the textbook example of what porn videos would look like if they featured chess club members instead of playboy bimbos: sex on legs—with glasses. And honestly, Dash thought that was a pretty accurate description of aforementioned tech geek at that moment.

“Y-yeah,” came the reply, probably not as steadfast as intended.

Dash smirked. “Alright,” he said, “let’s see some of this famed ‘sexual restraint’.” And with that, he removed his hand. Tucker nearly fell forward on top of him.

“Fuck!” was the immediate response, followed rapidly by several loud ‘shh!’s from the audience, and then a long string of more subdued, prolific curses from Tucker. “Dash,” he hissed, “you can’t just…you…” He grit his teeth and swallowed; Dash raised an eyebrow.

“Restraint?” he offered unhelpfully. If looks could kill, Dash would have burned to cinders.

“Dash, you fucking asshole, if you don’t finish what you started, I swear-”

“You swear what, Foley?” he asked, smug as he leaned back in his chair. “You’ll…tell the authorities on me? Because I sexually assaulted you—after you crawled onto my lap and shoved my hand into your crotch—and now I won’t finish the job?” He folded his hands behind his head, surveying his handiwork with pride. “No,” he said. “I think I like things just the way they are.”



“Dash please…”

“If you want a job done right…”

“Oh, god…”

“Touch yourself, Foley.”

Tucker whimpered beautifully. A soft, “I hate you,” was followed almost immediately by a hasty snap and zip, and Dash wet his lips as Tucker’s long fingers disappeared inside his pants. “Ah, fuck…”

Watching him, Dash came to a strange conclusion: Tucker was quiet during sex. Soft gasps and pants, sharp hisses and the occasional indistinct muttering, yes—but nothing in comparison to the throaty moans and groans he’d grown accustomed to with his ex’s. It might have been because of the theatre setting—that he was trying to be quiet—but somehow, Dash didn’t think so. It looked too natural.

Dash wasn’t exactly sure when his hand had dropped from behind his head to the front of his own pants, but it sure beat no contact, so he let it stay, rubbing small circles as he watched the show.

Tucker wasn’t ‘beautiful’ by any conventional standard—thin and wiry with too many sharp angles—but he moved spectacularly, and his face read like a book. His back arched like a dancer with every downstroke and his throat convulsed repeatedly, lips parted and struggling for breath with the air of a man drowning. It was like watching a mime, sandwiched between agony and oblivion, and fuck if it wasn’t a turn-on.

Dash’s hand sped up. “You know,” he observed breathlessly, “you don’t actually look half bad like this, Foley.”

Tucker’s rhythm stuttered and he swore. “F-fuck off…”

“Do you get a lot of practice?” Dash asked, ignoring the rebuttal. “Lock yourself in your room…what do you think about?”

“Shut…up…” Tucker hissed, but his breath was coming in short, strangled gasps now, and the hand not on his cock was white-knuckled on the armrest beside him.

“I bet you don’t do it very often,” Dash mused, “and short, sloppy sessions when you do, because what you really want it a whole fuck lot more than your hand.” He fumbled with the fastenings of his pants, struggling to simultaneously open them without maiming himself and keep his eyes glued to Tucker. “Do you imagine yourself fucking…or being fucked?”

Something about the way Tucker’s wrist twitched erratically at the mention of being fucked made Dash strongly suspect the latter, and he nearly groaned aloud, hazily wondering how long it would take the theatre authorities to take action if he rolled Tucker into the aisle right then and started ramming him into the carpet. Probably not long, he guessed. Then again, at this rate, it probably wouldn’t take long—two or three quick strokes into that pert brown ass and—

Tucker came with the most exquisite whimper, and Dash did groan, eyes rolling back as his fingers finally made it past his pants to his straining erection and oh fuck that felt good. Just a little tighter and faster and hell if Tucker didn’t look magnificent right then—head back and chest heaving, body still trembling from the aftershocks—and again, Dash vaguely considered rolling him out into the aisle, wondered how much trouble he’d get into and then almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But he was just so close, and if he could just…get…

Fuckinghell-” Dash arched into an unexpected touch and instantly felt a hand on his mouth, muffling the moan that followed and temporarily sufficing to keep from blowing whatever cover they had left.

A moment later, “Public theatre,” was hissed in his ear, and Dash blinked dizzily before eventually managing to nod.

“Right,” he mumbled into Tucker’s palm, though it came out more like, “Rmhgt.”

Apparently, that was satisfactory enough because Tucker just “hmphed” nondescriptly and went back to what he was doing. Less than thirty seconds later, Dash was rutting deliriously into Tucker’s fist as he came, one hand on his cock and the other clasped firmly to Tucker’s aforementioned, perfectly-rounded ass. The whole experience was a serious competitor for the official title of “Best Orgasm of Dash’s Life.” He tried not to remind himself that its only competition also happened to involve Tucker and, coincidentally, Tucker’s amazingly talented hands.

Instead, he buried his nose in Tucker’s neck, pulling him closer and drawing in the not-unpleasant combination of laundry detergent, cologne, popcorn, and—under it all, the faint, musky hint of fresh perspiration. He shut his eyes and was just beginning to wonder if he could get away with sleeping the rest of the movie this way when his wandering hands stumbled on something in Tucker’s back pocket. Brow furrowing, he tucked his fingers down to retrieve the mysterious merchandise. Almost immediately, he began snickering. Tucker stirred between his legs.

“Wa’s’funny?” came his muffled mumble of concern, soft and drowsy and not the least bit cute—at all.

“Worried you were going to get pregnant, Tucker?” Dash asked, still barely containing his laughter, and Tucker groaned into his shoulder.

Several indistinct curses later, Dash made out the words, “You found them,” followed shortly after by, “…all mom’s fault…” Then, Tucker made an effort to sit upright, yawning as he did so and looking much like he’d have been very willing to consent to sleeping out the rest of the movie about thirty seconds prior. “Actually,” he clarified once he’d situated himself, “I’m pretty sure it was more my mom worried that you’d get pregnant.”

“Oh? And she thought you were,” Dash counted the wrappers, “an octopus?” he concluded.

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Octopi have eight legs, Dash,” he pointed out patiently in a tone eerily similar to the one he used during physics tutoring, “and none of them are used in reproduction. Or…I don’t think so,” he added as an afterthought. “Perhaps if the octopi got really kinky and-”

“Okay, okay! Whatever,” said Dash, simultaneously curious and mildly disturbed as he eyed the boy across from him. “You’re really perverted, you know that?” Tucker practically beamed under the praise. It was Dash’s turn to roll his eyes, but he was smiling as he went back to studying the condoms. “Why’d she give you four?” he asked eventually.

At that, Tucker frowned slightly. “Honestly,” he said, “I’m not exactly sure. Something to do with my genetics?” Dash raised an eyebrow; Tucker shrugged it off. “I was kind of busy trying to avoid the sex talk and get out the door as fast as possible. I never got the details.”

“Hmm…” Dash twirled one between his fingers thoughtfully—over and under, like one might a pencil. Finally, he stopped and held it up between them. “We should use these,” he said, and for a moment, Tucker just stared.

After a long pause he opened his mouth, shut it, then opened again. At length he replied warily, “Alright. But not,” He plucked the package from Dash’s fingertips, cocking an eyebrow that dared him to object, “tonight. Agreed?”

Not tonight. But some other night, Dash thought. And that meant that this, whatever ‘this’ was, would continue. It meant that whatever they had—if they were even a ‘they’ and ‘they’ had anything at all—would continue. Also, arguably most importantly, it meant that Tucker wanted it to continue. All of that, to Dash, was good news. He grinned.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Not tonight.” But some other night, he promised himself again. Some other night, they would put Tucker’s mother’s unbeknownst blessing to use.

A half hour or so later, the movie ended, and Dash, after a quick internal debate, walked Tucker to his car. The wind had picked up outside, carrying with it a definite chill, and Tucker was shivering by the time they reached his vehicle. Watching him, Dash thought of the old, corny black and white movies that came on late at night on the channels that no one watched. It was at this point, he thought, that if Tucker were a girl, he could have shrugged off his jersey and slung it over his shoulders—smooth and chivalrous, like the football players always did for their dates in those movies. Then, he frowned, because Tucker wasn’t a girl—or his date, technically—so he shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot instead, eying the pavement and trying to think of something cool to say. Anything to say, for that matter.

“Well,” said Tucker, beating him to it, “I guess I’ll…see you on Monday?”

Dash looked up, watched him pull his jacket tighter about his shoulders, and then made the mistake of glancing at his mouth. Faint, wispy puffs of steam escaped his lips with every exhale, and for a fleeting second, the temptation to take just one bold step forward and snuff out that steam, taste those trembling lips on his own, was dizzying. Inhaling sharply, he looked away.

“Yeah,” he said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Right…Monday.”

Tucker was standing there, watching him, waiting, and Dash knew he still had time. He could still kiss him. One little step was all it would take, and oh, God, did he want to. Even just a brush would suffice; just one kiss goodnight. Then, a fraction of a second too soon, Tucker dipped his head.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Bye, I guess.” And he opened his car door, and Dash watched, silently, as he slid in and pulled away into the night.

Alone, Dash shut his eyes and groaned, tilting his head back to the stars. “Fuck,” he muttered, and as he trudged back to his car, kicking pebbles along the pavement as he went, he was pretty positive he’d never more regretted not kissing someone in his life.  



This free website was made using Yola.

No HTML skills required. Build your website in minutes.

Go to and sign up today!

Make a free website with Yola