Simple Physics

Chapter 12 - Reaction


Every head in the room turned, a hushed silence falling over the classroom, and Tucker swallowed, suddenly wishing for nothing more than to retreat slowly back out and disappear. He hadn’t meant to make quite so much of an entrance. At the head of the classroom, the professor looked nonchalant.

“So nice of you to join us, Mr. Foley. By all means, take a seat—you’ll have to join a group, as we’ve already started. I trust your belated appearance is justified?”

“I, uh…” Tucker scanned the room, simultaneously looking for a possible seating arrangement and trying to gulp down enough oxygen to satisfy his starving lungs without being too obvious about it—at least, he consoled himself, it had looked like Danny had things under control last he saw.

Everyone was sat around black lab tables—of course, Monday, lab day—and vials of one sort and another littered the workplaces. Some students already had Bunsen burners lit up, others were fiddling with wire filaments or already scribbling notes. Mid-sweep, Dash caught his eye, nodding to an empty seat at his left, and Tucker relaxed slightly. Mission find group: complete.

“Mr. Foley?” The teacher called his attention back to the front of the classroom.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, right,” said Tucker, shoving a hand in his pocket and fumbling a moment before producing a small pink slip. “Here,” He placed the paper on the front desk, “sorry, car had issues on the way to school,” he lied.

After almost four years of sporadic disappearances from classes—ghosts, unfortunately, worked completely on their own schedules—he had developed a necessary knack for forged tardy slips, doctor’s excuses, and the like, and as long as things didn’t get excessive, it all slipped nicely under the radar. At the teacher’s nod of acceptance, he moved off, joining Dash—and Kwan, it seemed—at their lab station.

“What took you, Foley?” Dash asked when he arrived. “You look like you ran a marathon to get here and still wound up late. Forget the way to school?” He barbed the words with all his usual school bully snipe, but his eyes told a different story, first darting over Tucker’s figure, searching for any obvious signs of damage, then meeting Tucker’s eyes, concerned and questioning. The unspoken Are you ok? was impossible to miss.

Tucker gave a No big deal shrug and ignored the just-for-appearances jab, turning his attention instead to the array of items on their table. After a moment, he frowned and squinted up to the board, slipping off his backpack and digging around for his notebook as he tried to make out the assignment. “So…what, exactly, are we doing today, anyway?” he asked, and Kwan looked up from holding a thin flake of something suspended on wire gauze over the Bunsen burner.

“We’re looking at the reactions of calcium and calcium compounds first…then bismuth compounds. We’ll have to mix some bismuth nitrate with anhy…an…er…some kind of sodium carbonate…”

“Anhydrous?” Tucker asked.

“Yeah, right, that…and heat it on that charcoal block thing once we get through with this…if it ever…does…anything….” Kwan frowned at the lack of reaction so far and lowered the gauze slightly, bringing the flake of whatever it was closer to the flame. “Both the experiments are in the lab manu—ah!” His explanation stopped abruptly as the flake of—calcium, Tucker presumed as he pulled out said lab manual and glanced over the experiment—burst into brilliant red flame in the middle of the gauze. After it burned out Kwan pulled it back and blinked at the powdery white residue. “Calcium oxide…huh.”

Dash eyed the powder, then glanced to Tucker’s lab manual. “Yeaahh……I’ll go with whatever he said….looks like condensed milk to me. That, or dried…err…” Tucker raised an eyebrow and Dash snickered, leaning back on his stool and tactfully leaving the remainder of the sentence to the imagination. Either Kwan missed the exchange, or decided not to comment. Tucker shook his head and began gather materials for the second experiment as Kwan jotted down notes for the first.

From there, things went surprisingly smoothly. Well, aside from the fact that Dash seemed intent on seeing how much exactly he could get away with without Kwan or the rest of the classroom pulling odd looks, his stunts including, but not limited to: moving up significantly closer than need be when copying down Tucker’s notes—leaning over his shoulder and letting his breath tickle at the side of Tucker’s neck as he did so—reaching for the same tools or ingredients on multiple occasions—and letting their fingers linger together several moments longer than absolutely necessary—and, in one particularly daring instance, pinching Tucker’s ass—and nearly causing a literally explosive reaction when Tucker barely managed not to squeak and still nearly dropped his filled vial into a solution it would not have played well with. Needless to say, when it came to heating the nitrate and carbonate with a mouth blowpipe, Tucker quickly stepped up to the plate.

Revenge, Tucker thought as he caught Dash’s widening eyes and curled his lips a little too slowly over the tip of the pipe, had never been quite so sweet—and Dash’s cheeks really looked lovely a nice, rosy shade of pink. Of course, paying attention to getting the job done was important too—but that didn’t stop Tucker from adjusting his mouth very slightly partway through, taking the pipe in a half inch further and watching Dash’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and shifted in his chair, folding his hands none-too-discreetly in his lap with a tiny warning glare for Tucker’s eyes alone. Tucker gave only a small satisfied smirk before pulling back—unforgivably slowly—to examine the results.

Completely unawares, Kwan eyed the outcome with a critical eye, pen to the pad. “Ok, so the pink blob glob thing in the middle is…the regular bismuth.”

“Yeah,” confirmed Tucker, expending great efforts to maintain a straight face as Dash prudently relocated his notebook from the tabletop to more strategic post in his lap, “and the brown surrounding layer is bismuth oxide or Bi2O3.”

Kwan scribbled. “Sweet, ok…and the book says…that stuff is like, used in medicine? Like a cream?”

“Err…yeah, it’s umm…” Tucker cleared his throat, “often used as a…suppository cream.”

Kwan grimaced; Dash looked confused.

“A sipazzo-what?”

Tucker glanced up. “A suppository is a form of medication designed to be administered through the rectum, vagina, or urethra. In other words,” he continued at Dash’s puzzled frown, “cream that goes up your ass.”

“Oh,” replied Dash, his voice suddenly very small.

Tucker chuckled softly. “Ok, so now…we pass hydrogen sulfide into the bismuth nitrate solution, which should be acidified with dilute hydrochloric aci—"


A shrill, piercing screech came simultaneously paired with a detonating BOOM directly to their left, and almost before he could jump Tucker felt himself being spun, back hitting a hard chest as some unidentifiable substance sprayed three hundred and sixty degrees behind him.

Like popping off a firecracker in an anthill, the entire classroom burst into commotion—so much so that there probably weren’t very many who happened to notice that at the instant of the explosion Dash had not only jumped and shielded, but caught, turned, and was now holding Tucker solidly to his chest. In fact, it even took Tucker until after his pulse began slowly recovering from his explosion-induced near-heart-attack before he picked up on the fact.

All around, cries of “What was that?” and “Cool!!” joined such creative snaps as “You idiot!” and “I said the green stuff, not the blue thing…” but in his own personal sphere, Tucker’s world had shrunken down significantly, his concept of reality contracting to include little more than the whisper of breath at his cheek and the wall of chest at his back, and he swallowed. Tilting his head back, his questioning, “Dash?” came out barely above a whisper, and it seemed Dash hadn’t quite processed the entirety of his actions either, because as soon as Tucker spoke, he glanced down, blinking in surprise as if noticing him for the first time.

“Uh…huh?” came Dash’s brilliant reply.

Around them, firm, repeated orders of “Calm down!” and “Back to your stations…” started to take precedence over the calamity, and Tucker wriggled, trying to drop a hint that they were still in a full classroom and highly visible, but the attempt backfired, Dash’s grip tightening with a startled groan as soon as he did because the movement just so happened to press Tucker’s—erm—backside against—oh, riiight, he had forgotten about that.

Tucker…” Dash hadn’t forgotten.

“Umm…but, Dash…” Tucker began.

What?” Dash hissed, the growl quiet but rumbling, and Tucker grit his teeth, feeling his own body respond all too rapidly and now was not the time. Lancer, Lancer, think Lancer, Tucker chided himself. Lancer in a dress, Lancer in a pink dress, Lancer in lingerie—oh god—Tucker grimaced.

“Dash…” he managed a strained whisper, “people are…staring…” and by that point, it was true.

As the immediate commotion died down, some kids returned to their seats, others running off to get materials for clean-up duty or simply meandering about, but the steadier situation nonetheless left room for more observation and the head quarterback standing in the middle of the room with his arms around Tucker Foley was, well, worth observing to say the least. As that factor finally sunk in, Dash hastily removed his grip and took a step back, but obviously debated awkwardly between adding more space between and lingering slightly because, well, giving the classroom a full view of—that—probably wasn’t the best idea either. Luckily, dropping his grip seemed to break the spell, and anyone who had taken a short pause to observe the oddity quickly appeared to dismiss it and go back to work—or, everyone that is, except Kwan.

All in all, the entire process couldn’t have lasted much more than thirty seconds, but Kwan, Tucker reminded himself, had been right there the entire time. As he watched, Kwan caught Dash’s eye, tilting his head with an obvious what-the-hell-was-that look, but Dash only answered with a no-nonsense glare and a none-of-your-damn-business shrug, and Kwan frowned, but held his tongue, at least for the moment.

The experiments were quick to finish after that, and they started the clean-up process with several minutes still on the clock before the bell.

“Dash,” Kwan finally ventured to speak.

“What?” Dash grunted his reply, sloshing water through recently emptied vials, then draining the sink.

“Can we…talk? Like…after class or something?”

Tucker watched Dash scowl, but underneath the scowl was pure tension—and worry. “About what?” he snapped, covering his anxiety surprisingly well, but Kwan wasn’t about to be shoved off that easily, and when Dash looked up, catching Kwan’s gaze, he faltered, the you-know-exactly-what plain as day in the other’s eyes. “I…umm…ok, fine, whatever,” he relented warily, still scowling, “but not now. Later, and don’t…” He trailed off, the worry coming forefront in his expression for the first time, and Kwan shook his head.

“Hey, relax, man…” he comforted, clapping a hand to Dash’s shoulder and sprouting an open, easy smile. “You know you can trust me, right?” he said, and the entire exchange might have been taken for completely lighthearted but for a subtler, unspoken seriousness in his eyes, and Dash frowned, obviously not taken in by the surface image.

“I…yeah,” he muttered, “I guess…” though he sounded less than convinced.

Kwan’s smile never dipped. “Cool. So, I’ll…talk to you later then, yeah?”

“Sure,” Dash consented as the bell rang, the other students bursting into action around them almost as violently as they had after the explosion, and Dash’s eyes followed Kwan out the door.

Apparently, Tucker noted as the rest of the masses filed out, contrary to his original assumption, more than just Kwan had noticed something—at least, if the stolen glances in their direction and the whispered mutterings that followed meant anything—and he frowned as Dash’s foul mood seemed to darken with each one. By the time Dash finished shoving books in his bag, he looked like a time bomb, already teetering on the razor’s edge of detonation and just itching for the smallest excuse to take out anyone foolish enough to stand in the blast radius. Unsure of what to say, but feeling pressed to add something, Tucker shifted awkwardly.


“Man, shut-” But Dash cut himself off early, gritting his teeth and forcing a slow breath. Eventually, he grunted a curt, “Sorry,” low and rather unconvincing, but Tucker let it go, watching instead as Dash’s fingers twitched and curled, clenching into fists, then letting out again.

Frustration painted his cheeks an angry red, leaving them flushed and glowing. It parted his lips and added a dark, dangerous spark to otherwise tranquil blue eyes, like a sliver of lightning through a clear, summer sky—and it made him tense. It strung up the muscles in his neck, arms, and jaw, and it altered his stance entirely, replacing a loose, confident athlete with a battle-ready cobra, crouched and wound tight for the strike. Thus, when Dash suddenly snorted and turned that sharp, predator’s gaze directly on him, Tucker swallowed thickly.

Anger wasn’t supposed to be hot—was it? Then, Dash’s eyes swept his figure in a quick, critical once over, eating in the details and then flicking his tongue over his lips and—ok, maybe it kind of was. At least on Dash.

“You hungry?”

The question snatched Tucker from his reverie, and he blinked, following Dash’s example as he finally slung on his backpack and started heading for the door.

“Uhh, for…?” he asked.

Dash’s grin looked more like a baring of teeth. “Oh, I don’t know,” he purred with coy sarcasm as they stepped into the hall, “…lunch, maybe?”

Oh, right, Tucker remembered, it was lunch time. The hallway pulsed with its usual tide, hundreds of teenage bodies funneling towards the same single purpose—sustenance. Tucker avoided getting swept up immediately, asking “Why?” instead, projecting his voice just enough for Dash to hear over the bumbling roar of the crowd, “Did you have something else in mind?” and apparently, that was all the encouragement Dash needed. When a hand caught his wrist and tugged, Tucker followed without further comment.

They hugged the wall at first to avoid fighting the tide as much as possible, but, going against the grain, things thinned out pretty quickly, and soon, Tucker found himself lengthening his strides, almost jogging to keep up as Dash lead a winding march through abandoned hallways. Then, just as he opened his mouth to ask, Dash stopped abruptly, and Tucker skidded to avoid tumbling right into him. Only when Dash pulled out keys did Tucker notice the door, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Man, so you really are the gatekeeper, huh? Is this the part where you chain me up in your secret dungeon, break the lock and throw away the key?”

Dash, shoving a worn silver key into the lock, tossed him an odd look. “No chains,” he said eventually, turning the bolt, “…but I think I’d rather keep the key if there were.” Before Tucker could even begin to wrap his mind around all the possible implications behind that statement, the door opened and Dash dragged him in.

Click was the door notching shut behind them, thump the collision of Tucker’s head and shoulders with said door when Dash shoved him up against it, and clack the deadbolt falling back into place once more. The room was—Tucker blinked several times, just to make sure—definitely pitch black—assuming, of course, that the hit to the head had not actually finally managed to make him go totally blind for real—and he had about half a second to wonder if they were seriously in a broom closet before Dash’s lips crushed to his and—suddenly he didn’t care if they were on Mars.

“All,” Dash growled, “your,” He nipped, “fucking,” Tucker’s wrists hit the door, “fault…” and Tucker grunted, unable to formulate much more than that with Dash’s kiss eating at him, all teeth and tongue—rough, clumsy, and demanding. He felt the tension shake Dash’s grip on his wrists, unforgivingly tight and almost painful—but bearable—trapping them hard against the door and scraping at sensitive skin, possibly leaving marks—but if letting Dash play rougher on this field saved someone a cracked skull later on, Tucker could deal. Not to mention, it wasn’t as if his own pulse didn’t take several staggering leaps and bounds when Dash’s low growl sank into his open mouth, tongue barreling past his lips, curling behind his teeth, and then lapping at the roof of his mouth as if mapping territory.

“What’s…my fault?” Tucker asked as soon as the opportunity arose, and Dash snorted, dipping his head and leaving trail-marking nips like breadcrumbs all along his chin, down his jaw line, and to his neck—some harsher than others.

“All…period,” Dash flicked his tongue out, drawing a wet sweep along the juncture where jaw met throat, and Tucker’s fingers curled into his palms, clenching, “you teased…” A sharper-than-normal bite emphasized the last word, eliciting a sharp, startled whimper that Tucker had not intended make, and then, “…mouthing that thing like you needed a cock in your mouth so bad, I…” Dash’s mouth found a sweet spot mid-throat that made Tucker’s knees shake and latched on, licking and nibbling and sucking, and—Tucker swallowed a whine—if Dash kept this up he was definitely going to have to borrow his mother’s make-up—that, or sport a hickey the size of Canada all week, “…couldn’t think, wasn’t fair…and…do you have any idea what will happen?” Dash continued, “If my team finds out I’m…” He stumbled on the possible finish to that sentence. “If they…” More than just Dash’s grip shook now, his entire body trembling against Tucker’s. “They’ll never listen to me again…I won’t be able to…anything…I…”

“Then don’t let them find out,” said Tucker, his voice significantly steadier than he felt. “One incident with a chem lab explosion isn’t proof of anything…and besides, there weren’t even that many people paying attention to us…most of their focus was on the detonating bits.” He strategically opted to leave out that the two of them simultaneously failing to show up to lunch directly after the fact—followed by the random appearance of a dark hickey that he probably wouldn’t be able to hide properly until after he got home—might very well give rise to some more definitive speculations, should anyone decide to put the pieces together. Dash didn’t need any more on his head at the given moment. So he asked, “Is black the extent of our lighting options in here?” instead, more as a distraction technique than anything else.

One hand temporarily surrendered his wrist, fumbling along the wall, and a moment later, a dim, flakey yellow light twitched on. The source—a single, dirty, unmasked bulb—hung suspended from the ceiling on a thin, aging wire in the center of the room. It seemed to make more shadows than light, but, Tucker supposed, it was better than nothing, lighting up the entire space—about the size of a roomy walk-in closet—well enough to see, if nothing else.

“So we are in a broom cupboard…” he observed.

“It’s a storage room,” Dash grumbled, snatching up his wrist again and pinning it for emphasis, “and what about Kwan, huh? He saw…and he’s-”

“-your best friend, isn’t he?” said Tucker, raising an eyebrow. “I guess I wouldn’t know…but do you really think he’s going to exploit this as an opportunity to drag your reputation into the gutter and make your life hell?” At Dash’s frown, he shrugged. “Didn’t think so. Now…since we have that settled…” Tucker dipped his gaze, drawing his lower lip thoughtfully between his teeth, “…what was it you said exactly about my needing a cock in my mouth?”

Dash’s expression made taking the nerve to ask a thousand times worth it, and Tucker took advantage of the brief, stunned-speechless silence to slide to his knees. The soft, strangled whimper this dragged from Dash immediately sent an answering rush of blood pooling directly between his own legs, resulting in a swift, dizzying head rush, and Tucker swooned, finding his balance just in time to glance up and catch Dash swallow, cheeks already flush, breathing hitched, and tongue flicking out anxiously over dry, parted lips. When their eyes locked, he watched Dash open his mouth, hesitate a moment, and then close it shut again without a word, as if afraid that speech itself might break the spell. Tucker kept his smirk to himself.

After a moment’s debate about whether or not to tug his still-pinned wrists from Dash’s now rather lax, distracted grip, Tucker shrugged, leaving them in their place, and leaned forward.

Of course, there were a million ways to mess up the process of removing clothes without the use of one’s hands—most of which either awkward or embarrassing or both, and others borderline dangerous—a fact which Tucker held no illusions about. However, one could also argue that any process involving teeth, genitals, and zippers was, by definition, borderline dangerous, and the fact remained that on this day, Tucker was feeling particularly—adventurous. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d never tried it before, just—never with a particularly high success rate. And never from this angle.

When he nudged up the hem of Dash’s shirt though, catching the first snap of his jeans with his teeth and releasing it with a satisfying pop, the bracelet-like nature of the grip on his wrists tightened sharply, eliminating any backing out options at once—not that Tucker planned on that now. Carefully, he maneuvered his lips to press back the cloth covering the actual zipper, moved in his tongue to slip under the metal zip and lift, and then caught it with his teeth. If not for his full mouth, Tucker might have let out a victory whoop—he settled for grinning like a cat with feathers in its teeth, and proceeded to tug down, stealing an upward glace as he did. Eyes closed, muscles tense, and hair loose about his face like a blonde halo, Dash, Tucker decided silently, looked delectable.

When he reached the base and came to a pause, Dash’s eyes opened—needy, verging on desperate. “Tucker…”

“Hm?” Tucker ran his mouth up back up Dash’s clothed erection—nothing but thin boxer material left in the way now—and Dash keened, eyes shutting once more and fingers clenching into Tucker’s wrists. “Magic word?” Tucker prompted, and Dash groaned.

“Fuck,” He shuddered, “Tucker…please…” he begged, and Tucker didn’t need to hear it twice.

One curt tug and Dash obligingly allowed Tucker a free hand to work him out of his boxers—more awkward than worth the effort to try hands-free—and Dash, Tucker realized, was amazingly expressive. Angry, happy, or aroused, it didn’t matter—whatever he thought or felt jumped into his face like a window into his conscious and reflected back immediately in his body language, his facial expressions, everything about him. When Tucker flicked his tongue across the tip, Dash’s spare hand fisted against the door, and when he encircled the head, another groan shook Dash to his shoes. As Tucker watched, Dash open his mouth, eyes still shut, and almost spoke, but any intended comment he had died instantly under a garbled whine when Tucker took him all the way in.

It occurred to Tucker, as he curled his tongue like a hammock under his mouthful and drew slowly backwards, that trying to find out how much noise, exactly, he could extract out of Dash in one sitting was perhaps an experiment better left to a time and place where the risk of some poor, unassuming student or janitor happening by and catching an unwanted earful of their activities was significantly less, well, significant—but then he dropped back down and drew in his cheeks, and when Dash cursed beautifully, pressing his spare hand to his mouth and dropping his forehead to the door, Tucker decided that any poor soul foolish enough to wander about the abandoned hallways of a high school during lunch hour deserved whatever lesson in unscrupulous, behind-the-scenes teenage activities they had coming to them.

So, settling one hand on Dash’s hip, Tucker took up a rhythm, paying special attention to what, precisely, made Dash’s jaw tense, what made him gulp, and what made him whine. He took advantage of the free time frame to tease, suckling hard and then easing off a moment too soon in turns until Dash’s progressively colorful cursing finally degenerated into the realm of the strictly unintelligible, but then, Dash’s hand dropped from the door to behind his neck, catching at his nape and tangling in his braids, and Tucker made a soft sound of his own.

The added vibration brought instant results.

“Ah, f-fuck…” Dash’s breath grew sharply ragged, grip tightening behind Tucker’s neck, clinging, “Tucker…” and Tucker willed his throat to relax, eyes dipping shut as he focused on shaking off any hint of panic—he was not going to choke—and taking Dash just a fraction deeper with each stroke. Dash’s grip twitched in reaction. “S-shit, baby, yes…please…” he panted, “just like that…” and his clutching became almost a cupping, petting motion as his breathing picked up pace. Then his thumb brushed up the side of Tucker’s jaw, and Tucker made it almost to the base, and Dash keened, “Fuck, I’m going to…”

Tucker appreciated the warning—really—and Dash even made an admirable attempt at drawing back, but after taking all of half a second to weigh up his options—no trash, no tissue paper, and a long, awkward walk to the bathroom—he opted to ignore Dash’s weak urging and caught his hip instead, holding him still and leaning forward. He glanced up just in time to catch a brief glimpse of startled, glassy blue eyes before Dash’s cock tapped the back of his throat and Dash’s eyes shut tight as he groaned and—quite suddenly all Tucker’s concentration went into relaxing and swallowing and not taking anything down the wrong pipe.

All in all, Tucker decided—after Dash finally stopped shaking and he let him drop from his lips, leaning back and tilting his head up to observe the flushed, still-breathless figure above him—he thought he did a pretty good job.

“Still pissed?” he asked when it seemed Dash had the breath to answer, and after a long pause, Dash opened one eye.

“I was pissed?” he asked, sounding drowsy and lazy and totally sincere.

Tucker snickered. “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” he concluded, but when he moved to stand, Dash waved him off. After making quick work of pulling up his pants and restoring his zip to the upright and locked position, he dropped down instead, placing one knee on either side of Tucker’s and leaning in—but about a half inch before a kiss he hesitated, as if coming to a realization, and Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said, “if you kiss me now I’m afraid it will taste like-” but he never finished, Dash’s mouth shutting him up before he reached the end. A pleasant shiver traversed his spine.

It was nice—being kissed anyway, as opposed to for the purpose of.

Dash’s tongue brushed his lower lip—shy, but begging entrance nonetheless—and Tucker, swallowing a shudder, permitted him access. He opened his mouth slowly, felt Dash venture in, their tongues barely tapping at first, curious and experimental, then gradually rubbing more boldly as Dash adjusted to the idea of tasting himself there, but only when they finally tangled fully, as per usual, did Tucker allow himself to relax into it.

“You know…” he began quietly at their first parting, “lunch…is-”

“-nowhere near done,” muttered Dash without checking his watch, dipping back in to effectively silence any further comments to the contrary, and Tucker gave a soft huff, but relented anyway. “Plenty of time…”

“Hmm, I see,” murmured Tucker, smiling into repeated kisses. “Time for what, exactly?”

Dash paused, raising an eyebrow. “What, you didn’t think we were done, did you?” he asked, and Tucker, having closed both eyes at some point during the kissing process, peeked one open suspiciously.

“Why…am I in trouble if I say yes?” he asked, and Dash rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, Foley, big trouble,” he muttered, sarcastic, “and the best part is…” His smile broadened into a wicked grin, “I’m the one who gets to enforce the punishment.”

“Uh…” Tucker gulped. “Wait, did I miss some-”

Dash stood. “Scootch,” he ordered, making a swivel motion with his finger, and, warily, Tucker complied, moving around and back a bit according to Dash’s indication and watching as Dash took a moment to search the stocked shelves. After a second, he snatched down two towels and tossed them behind Tucker’s back. “Lean back some,” came the second order, and again, Tucker obliged, propping his elbows back against the provided cushioning as Dash moved down again, settling between his knees—and then it hit him.

“Oh!” A blush crept up Tucker’s cheeks. “What I just…I mean, when I…I acted more on a sort of a spur of the moment kina thing just now,” he hastened to explain. “You seemed really…tense, like you could use some, err…stress relief, I didn’t mean for you to…that is, you don’t have t-” Dash pecked his lips, silencing him.

“And maybe I want to?” said Dash.

“I, uh…oh.” Tucker’s blush darkened, and since arguing with someone offering to bring you to orgasm didn’t tend to inspire many convincing arguments, he finished with a rather soft, “Ok.”

“Besides,” Dash brushed lips along his chin, “I dragged you here…” kissed his jaw, “if all I did was shove you against a door…” his neck, “and let you suck me off…” his collar, “without giving anything back…” Tucker’s pulse stuttered rebelliously, “that wouldn’t be very fair…would it?”

“I…suppose not…” conceded Tucker, fighting a losing battle to keep his voice as Dash’s hand moved steadily south, cupped him through polyester and cotton, and then ran his thumb along the zipper seam.

“And anyway…” Dash worked open his first button, then his fly, “I want to try something…” and before Tucker had half a second to consider that, Dash was sliding down, moving between his legs and surely he wasn’t going to—? But, “If you can do it, it can’t be that hard, right?” must have been a rhetorical question, because—ohfuck, Tucker bit his lip hard not to buck—apparently he most definitely was.

Dash Baxter, star quarterback, King of Casper High, was going on all fours in a broom closet and sucking him off.

Shutting his eyes because everyone knew the best way to end a blowjob fast was to watch, Tucker’s fists clenched tightly in the towels beneath him, and he forced his attention onto the basics: breathing, not jutting his hips up into the hot, wet mouth moving up and down around his—god—cock, sucking and bobbing, and—Tucker dropped his head back with a soft, tight sound that caught in the back of his throat—this was the sort of things schoolgirls fantasized about, wasn’t it? Having Dash’s mouth between their legs, pressing their knees far apart and delving in with his tongue like—holyfuck. Tucker’s toes curled tight in his sneakers, hips quivering with the need to buck, and Dash’s palm slid up his inner thigh, thumb twitching ever so close but not quite touching where his mouth was before sharply turning off and pinning his hip hard to the floor—fuckingtease. Tucker simpered.

At least, he thought dizzily, Dash wasn’t practiced at this—which, of course, brought up the fact that no, actually, Dash had never done this before. And that thought was sort of thrilling in and of itself.

Of course Dash had never done this. Rough, tough, macho football players didn’t suck dick; beautiful, popular athletes didn’t get half-naked and sweaty with bottom feeders in janitor’s closets—except that that was exactly what Dash was doing, and doing a mighty good job of it too. So much so, in fact, that Tucker barely noticed when his hand slipped a little further back than his hip, thought nothing of it when he edged his pants a down a bit more and slid his fingers back—didn’t notice anything, really, until Dash’s fingers were already skimming the fine line between his lower back and the upper rise of his now partly bare ass. Then, Tucker drew a sharp breath.


“Hn?” was all vibration, straight through Tucker’s system something like he might imagine really strong alcohol—hot and dizzying, rippling under his skin and liquidating his resistance in two thumps of a racing heartbeat, and suddenly—Dash could touch him wherever the hell he liked as long as he kept doing that.

Tucker shook his head mutely.

“Nm…n-nothing…” he managed.

Dash shrugged, and the ‘fine line’ between back and ass was crossed. Tucker shivered, cheeks hot and knees shaking as Dash’s hand grew progressively bolder, pushing his pants farther and farther out of the way as he brushed and gripped and kneaded, and simultaneously working his mouth like he wanted to exorcize Tucker’s soul through his cock—and Tucker was eternally thankful to be on his back, clutching at towels and panting to the ceiling, because his legs never would have held out through this standing upright.

Then, he felt it—starting in his chest like a slow knot, building on itself and pulling gradually tighter. Dash’s fingers dipped to a new low and pinched, drawing a sharp yelp, and Tucker meant to snap, but his breath backed up instead, stacking up into shorter, tighter gasps, and he settled for burying his fingers in Dash’s hair—sosoft—and clinging like he might fall off the edge of the universe otherwise.

“D-dash…I’m…nngh…” he started to say, but then Dash finally managed to maneuver his pants all the way down to where the waist hung somewhere around his thighs, immediately moving in to grab at the newly bared merchandise, and Tucker drew a chopped, shaky pant, rocking back into the grip and then, “Oh, god, r-really…you’ve got to…u-up, now or-” Dash dropped his mouthful, caught him at the base to stall release, and leaned up. Tucker thought he might die.

“Say please,” curled hot against his ear, and Tucker broke.

Please,” he gasped, pride forgotten as his hips jerked up, needing just one more stroke, just a little more friction, “oh, please...Dash, I-” and then Dash obliged, and his world fell apart in the most fantastic way possible.

Dash’s mouth caught his moans, kissed him through the blind, shaking delirium known as orgasm, and stayed with him as his body twitched and trembled. Dash held him, moving with him until he spent all but the most basic energy required to breathe, and about then, Tucker graciously sank to the floor, boneless for all practical purposes.

“So,” Dash asked right about the time Tucker thought that maybe, if he opened his eyes, there was a chance he’d be able to see again, “that was ok, then?”

Tucker tested the theory. Yup. Eyesight: check. Dash looked amazingly cute pink cheeked and hair amuck. After a healthy pause, he gave a quiet snicker and shut his eyes again, nodding. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he agreed, “at least, if ‘ok’ is Baxter-ese for ‘absolutely fucking fantastic’ or something…”


Some shuffling followed, and then something dropped to his stomach, and he forced an eye back open to see…

“Paper towels?” he asked, shifting up onto his elbows and rearranging slightly-foggy glasses for a better view. Dash pointed to a shelf, and Tucker squinted—then blushed. “Oh,” he murmured, “I didn’t…see those earlier.”

Dash raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? And why would that make any-” Tucker saw the thought occur to him, watched it develop in his face, and then very abruptly Dash grinned broadly, suddenly terribly amused. “So that’s why you-”

“Man, shhh,” Tucker defended, clapping a hand over Dash’s mouth when he broke down into snickering, “I didn’t want to make a mess…” he insisted, but this only served to worsen Dash’s laughter, and finally Tucker groaned, sitting up and catching behind Dash’s neck, tugging their mouths together until the snickers slowly died into a pleased hum against repeated kisses. By the time they parted, Dash had quieted fully, but his grin remained.

“Ok, whatever you say…but remind me to hide the tissue more often, yeah?” he teased, and Tucker huffed.

“Yeah, uh-huh,” he muttered, “just you wait…we’ll…hmm…see…” but his grumbling died out under another kiss, and then another, and then, reluctantly, he pulled back from a third, saying, “We really….should see how much time we have…lunch doesn’t actually last forever…” Unfortunately.

“Ah, we got…” Dash brought out his wrist, squinting in the dim light and leaning back, “…oh.”

“Oh?” Tucker made use of the paper towels, cleaning and putting himself back together, then dug in his pocket. “I think you might have to translate that one for me…”

“Means we got, uh…two minutes…” said Dash, and Tucker fumbled.

Two? We only…ah, fuckit.”

“What?” asked Dash.

Tucker sighed. “I’m hungry…” At Dash’s look, his pout intensified. “What? I’m a teenage guy, I get hungry when I don’t have lunch, I need my protein…you should know. I think hunger is a pretty natural reaction…” Then, he shook his head. “Oh well, no help for it now…here,” He held out a stick of gum, “might wanna chew that,” he suggested, and when Dash looked puzzled, Tucker explained, “unless of course you want everyone you talk to wondering why your breath smells like cock all d-”

“Alright, right, got it,” said Dash, taking the gum, and Tucker chuckled, popping in a piece of his own and then pushing himself up and standing as Dash did the same.

“So,” Tucker shoved his hands in his pockets, “what’re you gonna tell Kwan?”

“I…” Dash frowned. “Man, I got no clue,” he admitted with a sigh. “I mean…” He ran a hand back through his hair, concern showing starkly in his face, “whatever it seems like he’ll believe, I guess…?” he ventured. “What would…what do you think I should tell him?”

Tucker raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Me? Pshh…he’s not my best friend, how should I know? Far as I’m concerned…long as you don’t tell him I dress up in frilly pink knickers, parade around in French maid outfits and get off kissing your toes and washing your jockstraps, I’m cool, yeah?”

Dash blinked.

“What?” said Tucker.

“Knickers?” asked Dash.

“Yeah…you know, undies, panties…girls wear them…well, most of the time, that is, unless they’re like…really slutty…which isn’t necessarily-”

“I know what they are…” said Dash. “I was just…thinking.”

Tucker eyed him, then, eventually, shrugged. “Alright, well…I wouldn’t worry about it, anyway. Worst come to worst, if you think your football career is in danger, you could always just…you know, quit associating with me altogether,” he said, and Dash threw him a sharp look. “What?”

“Yeah, right,” growled Dash, “like hell that’s going to happen,” and Tucker raised his eyebrows.

“Well, you never know,” he said, “you might get bored of me…or something could happen and-” Very suddenly, Dash was close and—when had Tucker’s back hit the wall?

“That what you want, Foley?” he asked, breath hot and distracting and—Tucker shook his head, lips sealed. “Good,” said Dash, “’cause it’s not happening, and if everyone has to know you’re mine for this to work…” The sentence trailed off, but Tucker shivered because ‘mine’ was final, indisputable, and—

The door banged loudly, making them both jump.

“Shit,” they swore in unison.  



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