Simple Physics

Chapter 10 - Gravity

Six-fifty, his watch read, and Tucker shivered, stuffing his hands back in the pockets of his sweatshirt and drawing his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing absently. It was a beautiful night—calm and clear. Perfect for stargazing, but cold. The lack of cloud cover meant direct loss of heat to the heavens—mother earth tossing off the covers for the night—and though that was good from a practical standpoint, making for a clearer view of the constellations and such, it also meant Tucker had a long night of shivering ahead. His body didn’t retain heat well.

Sighing, he tilted his head back and shut his eyes, drawing a deep breath and feeling the chilled air work its way down his throat, into his lungs. There, he held it, counting the seconds in his head. The last time he’d checked, he could hold his breath for almost two minutes, but this time, he opened his eyes and let it out on thirty, watching the steam curl up like misty dragon’s breath, twisting and rolling over itself before finally fading off into the dark. After it disappeared completely, he let his head drop back down and flicked his wrist out of the confines of his sweatshirt, forcing it to brave the cold in order to check his watch again.

“Expecting someone?”

Tucker barely stifled a very undignified sound, nearly tripping over himself in an attempt to turn but, caught off-guard, he spun too slow, and a moment later found himself trapped—back to a hard chest, eyes covered, and mouth securely muzzled by a gloved palm.

When a familiar voice whispered, “Guess who?” into the crook of his neck, Tucker groaned aloud, barely audible through the fabric.

Unfortunately, due to the nature of his position, his accusation of, “Dash!” came out a great deal more like, “Dmmph…” than anything else and earned him little more than a soft chuckle from his captor.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dash murmured, though he didn’t sound it, “I don’t think I caught that. Could you repeat it?” And Tucker glowered.

“Dmmsh, mm-mmph,” he whined inarticulately, and Dash clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Nope,” he said, taking a step forward and leaving Tucker no choice but to move with him. “I still didn’t get that. Maybe you should wait a minute,” Dash flipped him around effortlessly, “and then,” Tucker’s back hit something solid—probably a tree, “try again.”

The last words tickled his cheek, a teasing brush of heat and breath. Then, the muffling glove retreated, and before Tucker could so much as consider another attempt at getting a word in edgewise, a sound kiss descended, stifling all objections in their outset.

Dash—tasted of spearmint. His lips teased, warm and soothing in contrast to Tucker’s chilled ones and a shiver unrelated to evening temperatures raced up Tucker’s spine, the sensation tickling up, then spiraled down, and taking tension with it when it fizzled out. He relaxed into Dash’s pin. It took a heated battle for property rights to Dash’s gum before—in the face of impending defeat—Dash made a strategic withdrawal, nipping Tucker’s lip in something of a playful reprimand when he snickered.

“Cheater,” he accused softly, and Tucker ‘hmphed.’

“Chicken,” he retorted, blinking dimly when the glove pulled back and squinting upwards with a grin towards his captor. “You were the one who clucked out before I could thrash you properly. Not to mention…” He resettled his glasses, smug. “You’re early.”

“Hn,” Dash leaned in as he grunted, dismissing the comment with a lazy shrug as his lips found the corner between Tucker’s neck and chin, curious explorations stirring up promises of another shiver from somewhere deep at the base of his spine, or maybe his toes. “First,” Dash muttered, “wasn’t about to be thrashed…” and Tucker opened his mouth to raise issue with that but, “an’ maybe…” somewhere along the line Dash’s spare hand must have snaked its way under the layers of shirt and jacket because now there were thinly gloved fingers skirting low along Tucker’s stomach and back, doing fizzley, irrational things to his thought process and, “I’m eager for something…” it was no mystery to Tucker why high schools had issues with teen pregnancy.

He swallowed.

“Dash…” His breath curled out shakier than he might have liked, a steamy column of hot air winding up, into the night, and it wasn’t hard to find the waist of Dash’s jeans, hook his fingers through the empty belt loops and pull, tugging the larger, harder body just a fraction closer and—Dash buried a groan in the crook of his neck.


“We should-”

“-forget astronomy, study anatomy?”

Tucker shut his eyes, body shuddering responsively as Dash rolled his hips forward, and his grip in the hoops tightened. “Well, yes, or just-”


“-find someplace darker before someone-”

“Hey, Tucker!” A voice called out from somewhere behind Dash, fast approaching, and Dash’s head hit Tucker’s shoulder. “Tucker, is that you?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Dash murmured into his shirt, little more than a muddled grumble, and Tucker gave a sympathetic half-smile.

“Sounds like one of the regulars,” he replied, pulling reluctantly away as Dash stepped back and to the side, and forcing his smile a fraction wider when the new arrival came into clear view. “Yup… Natalie,” he greeted.

“I thought it was you!” the new girl announced proudly, red curls bobbing as she bounded into a stop, her grin broad. “You’ve been standing over here for a while,” she scolded. “Why didn’t you just-” Her words skittered to a halt, eyes flicking up from Tucker to Dash, and she made no secret of the slow, comprehensive once-over that followed. Once finished, she rose her eyebrows and looked back to Tucker, smirk mischievous. “Thought you didn’t date guys, Tuck?” she purred.

Queue: blush—Tucker shifted awkwardly. “I, uh-”

“He doesn’t,” said Dash, coming to his rescue, folding his arms as if asking for a challenge—probably still irritated about being interrupted—and Tucker turned his smile to the grass, nodding in agreement and nudging a thumb towards Dash.

“Yeah, and anyway, he’s straight,” he explained, returning the favor.

Natalie glanced between them. “Ah, I see…so, he’s single then?” she asked, suddenly a little too hopeful for Tucker’s tastes, but something about the way Dash shifted behind him, leaning barely perceptibly closer and almost reaching out—but withdrawing a second before making contact—waylaid fears that shouldn’t have existed and made Tucker’s head light and stomach giddy to an extent he wasn’t quite ready to admit to, and maybe he imagined it, but probably not since something dawned then in Natalie’s eyes and she said, “Oh,” slightly more loudly than was totally necessary and snickered. Maybe Tucker would straighten her out later. Maybe. “Ok, well…I just came over ‘cause Mrs. Kulwakalski said she wanted to see you. We’re setting up the telescope now, so come over when you’re ready, m’kay? Have fun.” And with that, she left.

Watching her go, Tucker wondered vaguely if they were really that good or just that damn obvious.

“So,” said Dash, breaking his concentration, “that was…”

“Natalie,” said Tucker. He frowned, then motioned his head in the direction she’d skipped off. “C’mon, we should sign in…get some chart print-outs and stuff before we attract more attention…”

“Your friend?” asked Dash, following when he started off towards the slowly gathering crowd. “I haven’t seen her at school.”

Tucker shrugged, snatching two sheets of star charts off the top of the pile when they arrived and handing Dash a pen as he pointed to the sign-in sheet. “Name there,” he said. “You haven’t seen her ‘cause she’s from a different school and…” After Dash finished signing, he followed suit, “…yeah, I guess you’d say she’s my friend.”

“You guess?”

Tucker finished off his signature and replaced the pen, straightening up. “I kina dated her for about half a week or so sophomore year,” he explained, “but we’ve been pretty friendly afterwards.”

“Kina dated?” repeated Dash, accepting a star-chart with a puzzled frown when Tucker held one out to him.

“Yeah, kina,” said Tucker, ignoring Dash’s look and moving out, away again, farther from the artificial light and crowd. “I found out about three days in she was only hanging out with me to piss off her ex, so…it didn’t really amount to much.” A good ways out, Tucker paused, glancing up and squinting to the stars for a moment before nodding. “Here will do. It’s far enough away from all the bustle and lights so we should be able to see well enough, and…” At Dash’s silence Tucker glanced over—only to find Dash’s eyes intent on him, expression riddled with a strange, unreadable quality. Tucker shifted consciously. “What?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever dated you just to…I don’t know…date you?” asked Dash, sounding almost—irritated?—and Tucker blinked, surprised. “I mean…I’ve heard nice guys finish last but you … you deserve...” The short spark of anger fizzled there, dispersing into a warmer, embarrassed glow across his cheeks, and Tucker watched, lost in the domino progression of expressions.

“I deserve what?” he ventured finally, prompting those vivid blue eyes to lift to his again and—it struck Tucker that sometimes it just wasn’t fair what Dash could do with a look like that. When a breeze gusted, he pulled his jacket closer, blaming the wind for his shiver.

“Just…I don’t know…more? Maybe?” said Dash, grass crunching under his sneakers as he stepped closer. “I mean it just seems like…” Tucker watched the gust toss up blonde locks—loose for once—and thought of plays, the cinema: people who belonged on magazine covers, under the spotlight, not standing out in the cold, listening to nerds ramble and whine and—Dash’s fingers brushed his cheek. “Hasn’t anyone ever just given a shit?”

Tucker opened his mouth, raking Dash’s steady gaze for some sign of the joke, the hanging punch line—he found nothing. “I…” Swallowing, he dropped his gaze. “I didn’t say that so you’d feel sorry for me,” he muttered. “That was just one girl. I’ve…well, I mean I guess you’re right…no one usually does give a shit but…it’s not really a big deal, you know?” He looked up again, trying not to focus on the hand still lingering at his cheek, warm, linking them together. “I’ve just sort of…gotten used to it. It’s not like I go emo and cry and cut myself over it, it’s just kina…expected…for people to ignore the sidekick…”


“And besides,” Tucker cut him off, acutely aware that Dash was significantly closer now, the steam of his breath rolling out, hitting Tucker’s and then curling back, like some obscure, ghostly dance, “who ever told you I was a nice guy, huh?”

Dash snorted. “Tucker,” he said, dropping his head so their foreheads touched, noses nearly brushing, “you are the nice guy, ok? Like the…” He leaned back, reached a hand far above their heads, “this, of nice guys…”

“Epitome?” offered Tucker.

“Err…” Dash dropped his hand. “Sure,” he muttered, “that sounds good…”

“Hn,” Tucker hummed skeptically, “and what does that make you, then?” His lashes dropped with his eyes, falling to Dash’s lips, almost close enough to taste now. “The bad boy?”

Dash didn’t miss the glance. “Nah…that requires more cursing, too much leather…and maybe a motorcycle…” Tucker snickered, pleased that it made Dash smile. “I’m more of a jeans and trucks guy, myself. I guess…I’m probably just the dumb jock.”

“Hm,” responded Tucker, giving in to the urge to reach up, flick back at a loose string of blonde and catch it between his fingers, tuck it behind Dash’s ear. “But you’re not dumb…not like you let people think…”

“Yeah, well,” Dash’s hand held nape of his neck, steadying him as he dipped, and the last of his words brushed Tucker’s lips, “you’re not a sidekick, either…”

On contact, Tucker’s lashes dipped, heavy. The lingering denial Yes I am, echoed dully off the corners of his mind, but gradually, it faded out, unspoken under Dash’s kiss, and as his lashes came to their final resting place on his cheeks, he decided that Dash definitely deserved some sort of first place prize for the innate ability to hand out weak knees at will. Because Dash didn’t just hold—he cradled. He slid his hand to the small of Tucker’s back and fit them together, curled his body like a human wall, making himself the barrier between Tucker and the rest of the world, and in that moment, Tucker wanted so bad just to—give up.

He shuddered, the now trembling fingers of his spare hand fisting tightly in the shirt at Dash’s chest as he fought, vainly as a novice swimmer, against the urge to sink into Dash’s embrace—the battle made that much harder by the fact that he didn’t want to fight anymore, so much easier to just give, for once—bend, like a reed under riptide. And he wanted to. He wanted to…

Forget—that Dash had a girlfriend, that this didn’t mean anything, that football players never really dated tech geeks, and that they were seniors, surely bound for infinitely different paths in less than a year’s time—pretend—that Dash meant it when he said he wanted him, that he wasn’t a just a sidekick, and that somehow, someway things really would just work out in the end, and everything would be alright, and…

“S-shit…” The curse spilled out, weak, shaky, breathless—and a thousand times steadier than Tucker felt as he forced himself to pull back. “Dash, you…you can’t…” When his head dropped, falling of its own accord and burying in the refuge of Dash’s chest and Dash’s arms slid up his back, holding just a little closer, pulling just a little tighter—he wasn’t sure if he had escaped anything or not.

The words “Can’t what?” rustled softly against the top of his head, and Tucker squeezed his eyes tighter.

“You can’t…kiss me like that,” he scolded, knowing it was muffled, and sulky, and ridiculously unspecific, but not caring at all—Dash was close, warm, and holding him, and right then it didn’t matter that that felt infinitely better than it probably should have.

“Kiss you like what?” asked Dash, “And…why not?”

“Like…” Tucker lifted his head, you mean it, he thought, “that,” he said aloud, “like you just did…and because,” His voice dropped, quieter, “you’re gonna make me start…you know…actually liking you…” and Dash snorted.

“Yeah, well, that only sounds fair,” he murmured, catching Tucker’s chin and lifting, “’cause I already like you…” and Tucker’s heart drop-clench-stutter-jumped. He opened his mouth, but nothing surfaced other than a painful realization that he had no earthly idea how to respond and then—Dash saved him, dipping in and covering his gape with a short, silencing kiss and he sagged with relief. “So,” said Dash when he pulled back, “where’s this starry thing we’re supposed to be observing?”

Never more ready to accept a change of subject, Tucker raised his eyebrows. “Well,” he began, taking on a matter-of-fact air, “the stars…” He glanced up, “are where they usually are…” Dash nudged his shoulder, pushing just enough to mess with his balance, and Tucker snickered, stepping out and shooing the hands off. “Specific constellations, though,” he continued, “I guess we’ll have to see what we can pick out…”

So they did. And for a while, Dash even put up with listening to actual information about the stars and seasonal rotations of the constellations. Gradually though, the topic shifted, as did their positions, and roughly a half hour later, Tucker lay completely back, folded hands beneath his head the only pillow between he and the grass, Dash only a short distance from his side, propped up on his elbows. As his eyes absently traced dot-to-dot patterns between the stars, he let his mind wander. He wondered how serious Dash could possibly be, whether it was safe to ‘like’ him—and if it was possible not to. Finally, freeing one hand from behind his head, Tucker plucked a strand of grass.

“So…how long has it been?” he asked, breaking an easy silence.

Beside him, the grass rustled with Dash’s movement, and a quiet, “Hm?” reached his ear. “Since what?” replied Dash.

“Since…this…” said Tucker, waving his grass-bearing hand vaguely, indicating nothing in particular. “This…me and you, kissing and touching and messing around in dark theatres and empty locker rooms, libraries, and physics classrooms…thing…”

“Oh, that…” A moment of silence. “Couple weeks?” Dash guessed.

Tucker mentally tagged Orion’s belt, then proceeded to seek out the rest of the constellation. “And what do you know about me?”

Another short pause. “That you have a crappy romantic history?” Tucker grabbed another few grass strands and threw them at him. “Ok, ok,” Dash surrendered, propping a hand up for a makeshift shield, but grinning nonetheless.

“I’m bein’ half serious here,” Tucker insisted, stealing a new victim piece of wildlife. “You really don’t know much, do you?”

“I…guess not…” And there was a mumble that sounded something like ‘I know what your kiss tastes like…’ but it was so quiet, Tucker barely heard and decided to let it pass unchallenged.

“And what do I know about you?” he pressed.

“That…my favorite color is blue,” said Dash.

“Exactly,” said Tucker, “so-”

“And that I drink diet coke over regular, and play football,” continued Dash turning his head and meeting Tucker’s surprised gaze, “and that I can be taught…if the methods are right…” He moved from elbows to palms, sitting up some, “and that I drive a Porsche and listen to rock, metal, and country…and only go to church on Christmas and Easter and whenever my grandparents come to visit…I also almost failed P.E. in third grade because of a bully who scared the shit out of me in that class and I would skip and hide in the cafeteria…and my favorite flavor of ice cream is strawberry and I like swimming, ice-skating and rock climbing, and bubble baths, and long walks on the beach…and as of recently…I have this strange attraction to a particular pair of green eyes, even though I never thought I’d be turned on by anything behind a set of glasses…”

Tucker blinked, staring, momentarily struck speechless. Eventually, he said, “Well I didn’t know at least half of that…”

“But you do now,” said Dash, “and…I also know you can pack down candy like a ten-year-old at Halloween…and you bite your lip when you’re thinking hard.”

Tucker took a moment to consider, then smiled wryly. “Ok…my favorite ice cream is vanilla…but only with crumpled up real Oreos sprinkled on top, and I drink coffee with chocolate milk, not cream or regular…I listen to jazz, rock, alternative, and techno…and sometimes dance or pop when I’m running. My favorite color is purple, I’ve never been rock climbing and I can’t ice-skate, but I can hold a hand stand for over a minute…and hack the school’s hard-drive given the time and incentive…” He drew a lingering glance over Dash, now watching him intently, then shut his eyes, “…and I’ve also kina made this deal with myself…where I know my limits and don’t pine for stuff I can’t have…”

“…you know purple is like the universal color of gay, right?” said Dash. “And…you don’t seem like the pining type…”

Tucker opened an eye. “Purple is a royal color…and you’d be surprised.”

“Hnph…I could teach you,” Dash offered after a break, “…to ice-skate, that is,” and Tucker turned his head, curious.

“For real?”

Dash raised his eyebrows, “Naw, for jokes,” he teased. “Yeah, sure. Whenever you like…soon as the lake freezes over, if want.”

Tucker tilted his head, eying the jock meaningfully. Then, finally, he broke into a grin. “Ok, cool…I’d like that.”

And another easy silence fell between them, broken only when Dash ventured curiously with, “….so…how blind are you, anyway?” and Tucker raised an eyebrow. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he shrugged and raised a hand to his face, blinking as he slipped off his glasses and then holding them out.

“See for yourself,” he offered.

Dash’s exact expression was lost to him, most of the world consumed in a sort of dark, mottled blur, but after a short period the glasses left his hands and moments later Dash’s outburst of “Holy shit, you are blind!” and a good-natured laugh met his ears, and Tucker huffed in Dash’s general direction.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he conceded, holding out a hand and curling his fingers expectantly, “now give ‘em back before you give yourself a headache…”

“Hnph…” uttered Dash thoughtfully. “Yeah?” he teased, “and what if I don’t?” At that, Tucker’s heart gave a half-panicked thud, and for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to have considered that possibility more carefully beforehand. In retrospect, thoughtlessly trusting his eyesight to a proven bully stereotype might not have been the wisest of moves.

Thus, his warning of, “Dash…” came out significantly thinner than intended, but Dash paid him no mind anyway. Instead, the grass rustled beside him, and Tucker blinked in vain, sitting halfway up and struggling without success to focus in on the fuzzy, generally football-player-shaped outline as colors shifted around. Then, he barely stifled a startled, undignified sound when Dash’s weight settled suddenly on his midsection, effectively straddling him.

“You know…I pretty much have you at my mercy like this…” taunted Dash, and, well, that concept definitely wasn’t helping Tucker’s heart-rate problem. He swallowed thickly.

“No, wait, that’s not…” ‘Fair,’ teased the edge of his lips, but never quite made it out, interrupted instead by Dash’s voice, close now, and hot.

“Don’t worry,” Dash consoled, the words some impossible combination of soothing and exhilarating, “I won’t break ‘em…” and Tucker worked hard not to squirm, their close proximity—as well as the whole general concept of being pinned down and helpless—giving rise to yet another rapidly developing problem, this one centered in the front of his pants. He was not about to dig too deeply into the implications of the second set of reasoning. “Besides…you’re really cute like this.”

“I…oh…” Cute when I’m terrified; where have I heard that before? Tucker’s eyes flicked shut, partially because the constant effort of trying to focus was giving him a headache, and partially because—he swallowed a grunt as Dash shifted his weight, adding a distracting scrape of friction between their jeans right there, and the air temperature changed when Dash dipped his head, humid and clingy against his lips as their breaths mingled—dulling one sense really did magnify the others. “Dash, would you just…give me…”

“Say please,” murmured Dash, and Tucker shivered.

“Asshole,” was the last coherent comment he got in before Dash finally closed the distance.

Clumsy at first and almost rough—Tucker put up more of a fight than usual, catching at Dash’s intruding tongue with his teeth, and then suckling, swallowing Dash’s groan with the kiss. Then their tongues proceeded to twine openly and kissing rapidly degenerated into a sort of messy, unmediated free-for-all to see who could reach the other’s tonsils the fastest. Unfortunately, a rather clumsy attempt at utilizing this time to locate Dash’s hands and, perhaps, his glasses, did not go unnoticed, and moments later resulted in a swift movement which secured both Tucker’s wrists neatly above his head and trapped them to the grass. He whined fittingly.

Asshole,” he repeated, though this time with a slightly different air, and Dash grinned like a cat catching prey right before the mouse hole.

“Ready to say please?” he asked.

“You think that,” growled Tucker about a half second before realizing the full span of possible consequences for issuing such a challenge, and Dash’s chuckle reverberated against his cheek.

“Alright,” he purred in answer, “but don’t say you didn’t ask for it…” and Tucker meant to reply—really, but then there was something that felt a heck of a lot like Dash’s tongue in his ear, sweeping up the shell of it and then curling and dipping in and—ohfuckthatshouldnothavebeenthathot—Tucker arched in spite of himself, biting hard on a whine, and it seemed Dash was definitely getting bolder with the whole touchy-feely between two males thing because as soon he lifted up, Dash slid his spare hand down, catching his ass and gripping, holding him in place as he ground their hips, and there would be no denying what that was as denim scraped and rubbed and—fuck, who the hell ever invented clothes anyway?

Tucker clenched his bound hands, swallowing his pulse like trying to shove a hummingbird down his throat, and then, “Ohshitcold,” he hissed when Dash’s fingers moved back up again—when had he taken his gloves off?—pushing at the edge of his shirt, skirting his stomach and sending goosebumps tickling up his flesh, damp grass brushing his bare back where the clothes moved away. “Dash…”


“I want…” He squirmed, rocking his hips and—damn, that friction felt good—tugging at his wrists because he wanted his hands in Dash’s clothes too and this was so unfair, but then—then Dash said something, soft against the curve of his neck, and Tucker’s world stopped on a dime.

For two sharp, staggered heartbeats, he heard nothing—nothing but the rush of blood in his ears and the pound of his pulse between his temples. Then, failing miserably to steady his tremulous voice, Tucker asked, “You…what?” though he was pretty positive he’d heard perfectly the first time. Dash lifted his head.

“I said,” he repeated slowly, “let me…fuck you,” and Tucker’s breath left him in a broken rush.

Sometimes, reality had a nasty habit of walloping its victims over the head at the most inopportune moments—and none too gently, either. Right then, it hit Tucker like a de-railed freight train. He thinks you’ve done this before.

“We’ve been screwing around for weeks, but that’s all it’s been…screwing around…” One of the hands holding his captive shifted its grip, a single calloused thumb scraping over his sensitive inner wrist, and Tucker’s eyes shut tighter as his fingers twitched, clenching again under the ministrations and digging into his palms. “Nothing more than grinding off is driving me insane…you’re driving me insane…”

“But this is…public,” he contended weakly, most of his focus on breathing, “…and…”

“It’s dark...and it’s not like anyone’s coming to look for us,” said Dash. Which in no way means no one could, Tucker thought, but a flick of tongue on his neck and another less-than-subtle rolling of hips made counterarguments weak to say the least. “Besides…we could stop if we needed to…” Also far from a safe bet, “…and you want it to…”

“I…oh f-fuck,” Tucker panted. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Did he want this? ‘Zhwip,’ said his zipper as Dash’s hand freed him from the confines of way too much tight denim and, oh fuck, did he want this.

He wanted Dash to ram him till he really was blind, till his throat was hoarse and raw and he couldn’t tell up from down, till he wouldn’t be able to walk straight for days afterwards, but—not like this. Not for the first time in the grass, in the open, on a cold night with a boy who wouldn’t even admit to being gay; not when they weren’t even dating and Dash had just finished pulling his dick out of Paulina barely a week ago—no. Not like this.

He shook his head, the words “no,” “wait,” and “stop,” all lingering long on his lips before he finally managed to force one out—though he couldn’t be quite sure which—and if Dash had missed it, or chosen to ignore it, Tucker might never have been able to manage another, but, it seemed fate was with him that night, because despite its faint, fragile quality, laced with uncertainty, Dash halted immediately.

“You okay?” he asked. The genuine concern did wonders for Tucker’s nerves.

“I…yes,” he said. “I mean no! No…umm…” He swallowed. “That is…I’m fine…physically…sort of…it’s just…” He frowned. “What I meant to say was we can’t…that is, I can’t…do this…here…now…yet.”

After blinking furiously and failing again to focus, Tucker shut his eyes once more, waiting for the assurances, the ‘Yes you can’s, the carefully placed touches and soothing words concocted specifically to break his resolve. But, they never came. Instead, there was a pause. Then, Dash shuffled, and before it became clear exactly what he was doing—glasses slid back, carefully, into place on Tucker’s face, and he blinked, startled, into a pair of beautiful blue eyes examining him with an intensity that, if he had not already been utterly flustered beyond repair, might have made him blush.

Then, Dash asked, “Why not?” and for one fleeting moment, Tucker couldn’t come up with anything.

There was moonlight catching in Dash’s hair, and Tucker’s cock, still very interested in not stopping now, pointed out that he really was exceptionally attractive, and his heart, still racing in his chest, pointed out that he didn’t have such a bad personality either, and his mind, still very susceptible to the dangerously persuasive voices of both his sex drive and his teenage emotions, pointed out in an almost-sensible sounding voice that a quick rut in the grass might not be so bad after all since it was Dash, and though he wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud maybe Dash really wasn’t that bad, and there was certainly no doubt it would feel good, and be great practice, and—

Tucker shook his head sharply, snuffing out the false reasoning with a frown and pushing up his glasses with as much stubborn determination to draw on intellect as opposed to instinct as could be expected of a half-naked, horny teenage male—understandably, his first argument was rather weak.

“I…uh…forgot condoms.”

Dash stared. “You forgot…condoms.”


“You won’t have sex with me…because you forgot condoms?” Dash asked, apparently having a little trouble with the concept, and, okay, so maybe Tucker didn’t entirely blame him.


Dash shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them, took Tucker’s hand between two of his and said in the sincerest manner Tucker had ever witnessed, “Tucker, baby, if you get pregnant, I swear to God, I will pay every penny of child support, change every crappy diaper…hell, I will marry you-”



“That’s…” Tucker blushed. “Okay, fine…so maybe condoms aren’t entirely necessary,” he admitted, “but…we don’t have any lube either! And…I…” He stalled, took a breath, and then, “Imkinasortastillactuallyavirginalright?” came out in such a fumbled rush, he didn’t blame Dash for his stare.

“You’re…what?” said Dash, and then, slowly, realization dawned, and his eyes widened. “Oh! You’re…really??” Tucker narrowed his eyes warningly.

“Naw, for jokes,” he snapped.

“I thought…it was just…you….oh…” Dash took a moment to consider, expressive features wrought with thought for a moment until, quite suddenly, he burst out with “Well then why didn’t you just say so??” and Tucker’s eyebrows twitched upwards.

“What, you didn’t think I’d let Danny fuck me, did you?” he asked, and Dash frowned.

“I…uh…iono…maybe…? I never really…thought about it?”

Tucker snorted. “Yeah, no…Danny tops a guy in bed the day I wear a skirt...” At the look on Dash’s face, Tucker quickly added, “which is never, by the way…just in case there was any doubt…”

“Oh,” Did Dash look—disappointed? “are you-”

Ever,” stressed Tucker, “with emphasis on the no,” and Dash huffed. “What?” said Tucker. “When was the last time you saw a black guy cross-dress anyway?”

“…last time I went to New Orleans…?”

Tucker opened his mouth—then gave up. “You know what…nevermind. I…” He paused, a thought occurring to him. “This is really off topic…”

“Yeah, kina,” agreed Dash.

“So, um…what…exactly…”

“Well…obviously we’re not going to fuck,” said Dash, as if going through a mental checklist and scratching off options. Apparently, something showed in Tucker’s expression, because as soon as he opened his mouth Dash put a finger to his lips, adding, “Which is totally ok, by the way…” and Tucker relaxed slightly.

“Ok, right,” he said, “obviously not that…”

But,” continued Dash, bringing their foreheads lightly together—and Tucker worked hard not to snicker when their noses bumped, “that still leaves us with a whole lot of other options, which can also be a lot of fun…”

“Uh, yeah…definitely,” seconded Tucker, wriggling slightly because the lower half of his body hadn’t exactly forgotten what they had been doing no so very long ago, and when he ran his finger experimentally over the front of Dash’s jeans, he found Dash’s body apparently hadn’t forgotten either, and Dash’s first, distracted grunt of approval sank into another kiss.

Then, things moved fast.

Tucker’s fingers rapidly lost grace as he tried to simultaneously work Dash’s jeans open and not—shit—embarrass himself by coming the instant Dash shoved his boxers down and around his hips, gripping and—oh, fuck if that didn’t feel amazing—this, he thought distractedly, he could totally get used to. Between their open mouths, their tongues slipped and slid as if oxygen were so last year, and then finally, finally Tucker managed to work through Dash’s belt, and snap, and zipper, and get his pants and boxers out of the way enough to start returning the favor. The instant of his success, Dash’s heady moan vibrated into his mouth, sending heated sparks pooling to Tucker’s gut and—yeah, there was no way this was going to last very long.

Dash made up for lack of finesse with lack of hesitancy, but frankly, as far as Tucker was concerned there was a hand on his cock—other than his own—and that pretty much felt helluvah good, period. Then of course there was the thing where if he twisted his own wrist just so or teased by slowing his pace barely a fraction, he was immediately rewarded with the most delectable sounds, and while he had never thought too deeply about the benefits of audible vs. not-so-audible partners, Dash’s chopped gasps and startled groans certainly made the concept of drawing things out verge on impossible.

Sure enough, all too soon their ‘kissing’ started degenerating into something that might have been more accurately termed ‘panting into each other’s mouths,’ and keeping up a regular pace dipped to a lesser priority, second only to not stopping. Then, Dash slid one knee slightly further out, sinking his body just enough so that in the next jerk their erections bumped, sliding in unison and—

“Oh shit,” Tucker panted, “I’m going to-”

And apparently that was all Dash needed, because in that moment his whole body tensed, twitching sharply and then shuddering as he came in Tucker’s hand, and Tucker gave a soft, answering whimper, following up a half second later with his own release.

Ok, so orgasms fucking rocked. Period.

For a while, they lay just like that—Dash on top of Tucker, both boneless and winded, neither motivated enough to move. Then, eventually, Dash uttered a quiet grunt and pushed himself over, rolling and tugging until their positions reversed, and when they settled again, Tucker’s head to Dash’s chest and eyes shut, finding lazy solace in the slow, gradual steadying of Dash’s heartbeat, he pointedly decided not to wonder whether such actions might possibly be considered cuddling.

“You know,” mumbled Tucker after a long, comfortable silence, “if we actually plan on fucking…we might want to consider working on our stamina…” Below him, Dash grunted.

“Man…shut up,” he grumbled good-naturedly, “that was fucking hot…” and Tucker snickered.

“Yeah, ok,” he admitted, “it was.”

And thus commenced another, blissful silence until—his PDA chirped.

Fuck,” Tucker groaned. “Not now…” And again. “Who the hell…?” he grumbled, sitting up and shifting off as he balanced putting himself back together and digging for his PDA at the same time.

“At least it waited till we were through?” Dash suggested helpfully, not sitting up but offering Tucker some tissues from his jacket pocket anyway, and Tucker accepted with a snort.

“Oh yeah…I’m bursting with gratitude,” he muttered, padding over the worst stains with the tissues and—his hands froze instantly when he caught sight of the text.

The small glowing screen read: ghosts … sam hurt, come, and after that, just: hurry. Tucker swore.

Dash raised an eyebrow.

“I…” Tucker shook his head, “Shit, I gotta go. I’m sorry,” he apologized, stuffing the gadget back in his pocket before quickly finishing up with his pants and getting to his feet. Below, Dash sat up, looking puzzled.

“Who was it,” he asked, “your mom?”

“No, it’s Dan-” A half second too late, Tucker realized exactly how that sounded, and fumbled, “I mean…it uh…” Too late. Dash, looking rightly confused, stood slowly, and Tucker swallowed, mentally kicking himself for not just saying ‘yes.’ “I know it sounds weird,” he said, sincerely wishing for better words, “and I really am sorry, but…I do have to go, like…now, and…I’ll try to explain later, ok?”

Dash watched him, frowning, and Tucker wished—but it was no use. There simply wasn’t a way to explain. “Ok,” Dash said finally, “but-”

Tucker leaned up, silencing the last words with a quick kiss and a hasty, “Goodnight,” before turning tail and running for his car.

Sometimes, hero work really sucked ass. 



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