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The football game at the beach seemed to do the trick.
What started off a few weeks ago as competitive antagonism--essentially a pissing contest and barely hidden insults among massive egos vying for a desired role--turned into playful banter and teasing among the twelve of them.
On the surface, their loyalties were now divided almost clean in half (the teams they were grouped into during the game) instead of their small factions, with six of each standing up vociferously for their teammates while mock insulting the remaining six. But even that clean divide was an illusion. In truth, they felt like one cohesive unit, a family, Maverick and Hondo included.
After the game, it wasn't uncommon for them to find themselves seeking the company of the others, when before they usually stuck with the people they came with: Hangman and Coyote; Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback, Rooster, and Bob; Fritz and Omaha; Halo, Yale, and Harvard. Whether it was a drink at the Hard Deck or just a walk, they were never a group fewer than six at any given time. Most nights now were spent at someone or another's house, watching a movie, drinking, chatting, or whatever caught their fancy.
Tonight was poker at Maverick's, and Hangman was quickly realizing that while he had played poker before on a few occasions, everyone else was playing pretty much at championship level in comparison, and he was hopelessly, hopelessly losing. And because his teammates weren't idiots, they, too, realized how badly this was going for him and, more concerningly, exactly which buttons to push to get him to keep going anyway, which was probably why he was out 250 bucks, his shirt, trousers, shoes and socks, and a favor for Phoenix that he was absolutely not looking forward to.
He wasn't the only one who lost anything, of course. At least half of them were in varying states of undress and redress in an odd mix and match of attire. At least seven of the guys were shirtless because that was an easier loss than giving up cash and favors. Maverick had a neat row of shoes lined up against the wall that he won in the first few hands for use the next time he was dealt in (right now he was cooking up a storm to feed 14 drunk adults). Fritz was down to his boxers as well, having given nothing else up but clothes because, in his words, he was "poor as shit, but hung as a horse," but he'd won five single socks in the last round that he was currently wearing in an uneven number on his feet. Phoenix was dealing out the next round in at least three shirts, Hangman's trousers, and her own underwear. And Halo opted to lose her bra on her only clothing loss so far, but had a pile of jackets next to her. It was only Bob, Hondo, and Omaha who had yet to lose anything significant, all of them carefully hoarding their winnings like dragons. Hangman's shirt and socks were with Bob somewhere.
Harvard had been first to toss in his dogs tags about three rounds into the night, and a few of them, Hangman included, had followed suit in the same round in a show of solidarity, which probably said more about the trust they had in their teammates than anything else; if Cyclone ever found out they'd done so for something as stupid as strip poker, who knows what he'd do.
Currently, Hondo, as small blind, put down a two dollar note, a ring, and a pair of earrings from Phoenix, for a total of five. Halo added a jacket (which they agreed counts as a five), two more shades, and three varying single shoes. Everyone before him called the bet with various objects and cash. Hangman was pretty much out of clothes (save his boxer briefs, and he wasn't about to give them up yet), but he had a bit more cash to give and he had favors, which were equal to whatever the previous bet was, so he tossed a five, a two, and three one dollar notes onto the pile. He was now down to his last two twenties and a fifty.
"Call," Rooster called out after Payback and Fanboy. He sat across the table from Hangman and was the last of the group to put down a bet, sliding forward seven dollars, Phoenix's hair tie, one shirt, and Bob's glasses. He'd lost his shoes, socks, tank, and shades in previous rounds, but still kept on his Hawaiian shirt and jeans, and he had a tidy little heap of money on the table and clothing on the floor beside him.
More importantly, he had Hangman's dog tags hanging around his neck, clinking against his own in the very supple cleavage of his chest.
He'd worn it as a joke, Hangman knew. They'd been playing as rivals these last few days (a welcome change from when they saw each other as actual rivals in the weeks before that), and in the course of that playacting, their taunts had somehow shifted into that of the homoerotic variety: mock flirting under the guise of mock taunting. A game of gay chicken where Hangman would flash some skin and Rooster would drop some innuendo in the hopes that it would trip the other up or they’d eventually crash into each other.
When Rooster had looped Hangman's dog tags over his head, though, something in that game of chicken seemed to shift.
Admittedly, Hangman had only been half playing. The other half of him seemed to genuinely want Rooster and him to crash into each other. And it was that part of him that forced Hangman to play the last two rounds with half a chub hidden beneath the table. Which was probably why despite losing those two hands, he fought to stay in the game.
That and if he could win himself Rooster's Hawaiian shirt at some point, it would make up for any indignity he needed to suffer. That shirt was never going to go back to its owner if he had anything to say about it.
The flop was laid out after Phoenix called, and immediately, Hangman could see a Queen and a four that matched his two cards, giving him a two pair. He breathed an internal sigh of relief because damn did he need a win. Honestly, he really should bow out of the rest of the game before he lost his dignity to them as well, but if he did, he'd risk getting taunted for life about refusing to lose his boxers. 'Why is that, Hangman?' Payback had asked when Hangman had opted to give up a favor instead in the last round. 'Something to hide?' And, no, he didn't have anything to hide, or at least not that, so he stayed.
"Check," Hondo declared, and so did Halo, Omaha and Yale.
"Bet five," Bob said beside him, chucking an appropriate amount of clothing and cash onto the table.
Shit, Hangman didn't have anything smaller than a twenty and he wasn't going to sell another favor for a five. He scanned the poker faces around him, trying to decide if he could get away with a two-pair. They gave him nothing though, so he decided, Fuck it.
"Raise," he said, throwing a 20 onto the pile.
"Damn, man! Fold," Fanboy sighed. “Who bets a 20 this early in the game?” Payback also sighed and slapped his cards down.
“That’s coz he doesn’t have anything else,” Bob explained, which was more or less the truth of the matter, but Hangman wasn’t about to confirm that. He just shrugged with a confident grin, and turned to Rooster, wondering what he was going to do.
Rooster's mustache twitched in amusement at the exchange, then he said, "Call." He pulled a pair of jeans (worth a ten) from his rapidly diminishing pile, along with a jacket, three one dollar notes, and a two.
Phoenix also folded after him and laid down the next card, a Jack. Nothing for Hangman.
"Bet 25," was Hondo's response to that and tossed in a jacket, jeans, and two five dollars onto the table. Fuck. Hangman didn't have the denominations to call, which was probably Hondo’s strategy anyway. He was going to have to raise a fifty.
So raise he did when his turn came. Omaha groaned and slapped his cards down even though he'd just done his turn. It seemed like Halo and Bob weren't willing to gamble a fifty (or possibly more) either when their turns came back around because they both tossed their cards over to Phoenix.
It was him, Hondo, and Rooster left.
Rooster tipped his head to the side, staring straight at Hangman. His lips kicked up a fraction more, and then he decided, "Raise."
He fished a bra--Halo's--out of his pile and added it to the pot. Underwear, like favors, matched the previous bet. Hangman was just about to point out that Rooster needed more ‘chips’ to raise when Rooster stood up to remove the Hawaiian shirt Hangman so sorely coveted.
Hangman's mouth suddenly went dry at the sight of Rooster's abs, it always did because they were a picture of perfection, goddamn. The shirt was added to the pile, and suddenly, here it was: the chance for Hangman to own it.
The last card came out, another fucking Jack, which didn't seem to work for Hondo either because he folded after that. Hangman glanced at Rooster who's delight showed all over his face. He could not have another Jack in his hand, could he? Because nothing about his gleeful expression screamed 'I'm playing poker' at all.
"Underwear or a favor, Hangman," Rooster winked. "Either way, it's mine."
Hangman still had a twenty, so Rooster missed the mark there, which only made Hangman realize that, shit, he was bluffing. Rooster had goddamned nothing in his hand, and this was just gay chicken all over again--Rooster taunting him so that he'd trip up, and Hangman nearly did!
Well, 'nearly' meant nothing now that Hangman was onto him, and by the end of this round, he'll be wearing Rooster's shirt for the rest of the night and for as many nights afterwards as he needed to piss the other pilot off.
He grinned his usual self-satisfied smirk and said simply, "All in." His twenty, his favor, and his boxers (though he held onto them for now).
"Holy shit, you cannot be serious," Coyote cackled where he stood at Hangman's back, slapping his shoulder. Hangman glared at him and shrugged his hand off with a 'Fuck off.' "Show me!" he then demanded, reaching for Hangman's cards, but Hangman slapped him away.
"Go. Away. Coyote. Goddamn, man," Hangman swore at him, shoving him away. Coyote was still cackling as he fell over Fanboy.
Maverick and Harvard came over at the commotion, leaving the cooking in favor of joining in on the excitement, though Mav did set down a bowl of fries that everyone to Hangman’s left immediately dove for.
"Who's winning?" Maverick asked.
"Seresin's just gone all in, so it's getting good," Hondo told him. Maverick wiped his hands on a tea towel as he looked over the table. Like most of the boys, he didn't have his shirt on, but Hangman couldn't remember if he’d lost it in the game or just because.
“And what’s his all in?” he asked again.
“He’ll give Rooster a favor and the rest of us a show,” Omaha laughed.
"You better have something decent in there, Hangman," Halo told Hangman. Whether she meant the cards or his boxers, Hangman wasn't sure, but he did anyway. To either one.
"You bet I do," he told her with a wink.
Rooster was considering him more seriously now. His gleeful smile took on a hint of seriousness, just the tiniest, tiniest bit, but enough for Hangman's confidence to soar. Rooster leaned over to whisper in Phoenix's ear, and suddenly, Hangman knew that the tides had now shifted in his favor. He'll have to call, and Hangman was quickly after that going to be in possession of his shirt, his boxers, and a fucking favor.
"I have to say, I don't think I've ever been this excited to see some dude shed their boxers before," Harvard was telling the group as a whole.
"Well, that's coz you haven't seen mine, have you?" Hangman told him across the table with a laugh. But to be fair, he hasn't seen Rooster's before either, but he was still excited to see him shed his boxers.
"I have," Bob piped up, and before Hangman could rib him about it, he added, "Nothing to be excited about."
Hangman grinned and shoved him lightly with a "Fuck off."
"Oi!" Yale snapped when Bob bumped into him, righting Bob who nearly tumbled off the chair. Hangman laughed and helped from the other side, his ‘sorry’ said with a light elbow to the ribs.
Rooster and Phoenix were still whispering at each other, which was getting mildly annoying, a reaction which Hangman refused to acknowledge may have less to do with concern about Rooster's hand and more to do with jealousy.
He called out to them, "Tick tock, Rooster. Or maybe Turtle would be a more appropriate call sign for you." Payback roared with laughter and leaned over to high five Hangman.
As Rooster flipped him the bird, Phoenix whispered one last thing in his ear and then straightened and grinned at Hangman.
Rooster then turned his attention fully to him and said, without a hint of waver in his voice, "Call."
A shot of excitement ran down Hangman’s spine. He was calling? Did that mean Hangman was going to get a favor and a show as well? Terrible mistake on Rooster’s part, but Hangman was trying to decide what favor he could get away without losing gay chicken. Per the rules, the favor had to be completed before the party ended, so it had to be something subtle that he could get away with tonight, but that he could keep in his spank bank for as long as he needed.
"Aright, showtime, gents," Phoenix said, amping the anticipation further up in the room.
Hangman turned his cards to reveal his two-pair: a pair of queens and a pair of fours. He felt a little bit smug, a little bit triumphant. And Rooster… Rooster had--
"Full house, baby."
The response of the team was instantaneous and so cacophonous that Hangman's lamented 'oh fuck me' as he sank his face into his hand went unheard. He received so many slaps to the back, he was sure to wake up with bruises all over it.
"Seems that overconfidence of yours has finally caught up with you, eh, Hangman?" Maverick yelled at him through a laugh and over the jeers of the team. And well, shit, yeah it has.
"Take it off! Take it off!" Coyote started to chant and soon enough the entire group, save Rooster, Maverick, and Hondo had joined in. Rooster only raised his eyebrows at Hangman, and Hangman grinned back and shook his head.
"Fine," he held up his hands in defeat and stood, bearing another round of well-meaning jeers. "Just don't get too excited, will you, Harvard," he told the man with a wink.
"Oh, fuck off," Harvard laughed and chucked a tea towel at him. Hangman dodged it and stepped away from the table.
With a small inhale to draw in a whole lot of bravado, he pushed his boxers down to his ankles and kicked them off, bearing another wave of cheers and jeers. With a smirk, he stretched his arms out and did a slow turn.
"Like what you see?" he asked over the continuous cacophony of laughter and heckling. His question was supposed to be aimed at the group as a whole, but when he had turned back to face them, he found himself looking directly at Rooster instead.
He was still half hard at this point--any previous arousal at the sight of Rooster's torso thankfully tempered by his embarrassment--but Rooster's gaze right now threatened to bring him to full mast, which would be even more embarrassing, so he shouted loudly over his teammates, "Yeah, yeah. Alright. I get it. Everyone wants a piece of me. Can we get back to it?" To Omaha, near whom he had kicked his boxers, he said, "Hand them over."
"Whoa, man," Fritz said, quickly scooping them up off the floor before Hangman could get his hands on them. "That ain't how this works."
Hangman scoffed at him. "Surely you don't expect me to spend the rest of the night in the buff."
"Them's the rules," Fritz laughed and tossed the boxers to Rooster who grabbed them midair and dropped them on his lap. Huh.
Hangman ignored that for the moment to glare at Fritz. Then, to the rest of the team, he asked, with his hand raised for demonstration, "No, seriously. Who wants to spend the rest of the evening looking at my dick?" He ignored Fritz, Yale, Halo, Coyote, and Payback who all put up their hands.
Suddenly, Phoenix shouted, "I'm calling in my favor!" The 'oooh's started coming all at once, while Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote cackled at each other and slapped fives.
Hangman turned to her, his eyebrows lifted in disbelief because despite them having become quite good friends over the last few days, he was about 98.7% sure he was absolutely not Phoenix's type. The smirk she sent him back was worrying, though.
"Sit in Rooster's lap for the rest of the evening," she told him, to which Hondo, at her side, promptly choked on a mouthful of vodka coke. "I'll even let you have a shirt to wear," she added smugly, holding up what Hangman recognized to be Rooster's tank top.
I mean, Rooster was slightly taller than he, so it should be juuuuust about long enough that he could hide his cock if he tugged it down a bit, he guessed. But that also meant he'd have to spend the rest of the evening hiding a hard-on from the entire group and from the guy he had a hard-on for, the one whose lap he was supposed to occupy.
He stole a glance at Rooster whose expression was inscrutable. Rooster only shot him a shrug, and suddenly, it was gay chicken all over again.
"Fine," Hangman agreed with a lofty ease he did not feel. Loud whoops met his declaration, and Fritz and Harvard even went so far as to sing "Hangman and Rooster, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G," so Hangman shoved Fritz when he was close enough, sending him careening to the ground in a fit of glee.
He snagged the tank as he passed Phoenix and slid it on in what should have been one confident move, but as the shirt passed over his face, the scent of Rooster on it nearly sent him stumbling over his own two feet. Jesus.
It wasn't anything specific or special, really. It wasn't even a scent he could recognise to be Rooster's. It was just the generic scent of man. But knowing this was the scent of the man he wanted was enough to make him hurry and hide his erection by sliding into Rooster's lap.
He attempted to cover his stumble and his discomfort by telling Rooster over his shoulder, "Just giving the lady what she wants." Rooster only chuckled.
Seated now, the tank top and the table did indeed hide him away from taunting gazes as he predicted they would. His bare ass was still pressed to Rooster, a thought that Hangman was desperately trying not to dwell on, and it still felt quite a bit drafty down there, but for now, he was safe from everyone else.
When the excitement over his loss and Phoenix's favor subsided, the next round of poker started, dealt by Hondo this time. Maverick took Hangman's vacated seat, and Bob switched with Fritz, opting to help Harvard with the rest of the cooking instead.
As the cards went around the table, Hangman quickly came to realize that the tank top and the table also, coincidentally, hid the grip that suddenly pressed into Hangman's hip.
His breath stuttered as Rooster's hand slid over his bare skin beneath the shirt, stroking down his iliac furrow and settling deep in the junction between thigh and pelvis. Any further forward and he'd be rubbing his knuckles against Hangman's erection. Hangman froze completely still, outwardly pretending to watch Hondo deal out the cards.
"Take them," Rooster suggested to Hangman of the cards he was dealt. Conspiratorially, he added, "Phoenix is forcing us to team up. She thinks I need a handicap."
Phoenix barked out a laugh. "You wish, Bradshaw," she told him, but Hangman had to wonder, why was this the favor she called in? Yes, the rules said the favor had to be called in before the party ended, but surely there were other things she could have made him do.
A two of clubs and an ace of hearts, nothing special.
"You need to hide your expressions better," Rooster whispered over Hangman's shoulder. He couldn't even see Hangman's expression right now, so what did he know?
Then the hand at Hangman's groin suddenly tightened ever so slightly, and his cock jumped.
It took all of his effort to hold back a grunt of surprise and took half a minute to regain his bearings, after which he kicked Rooster's ankle as subtly as he could. The wince he got for it was his prize.
But Rooster continued, undeterred. "It's why you lost. You think you've got your poker face on, but really, you can read everything in your mind in your expression." The hand at his groin squeezed again, tighter this time, and stayed there as Rooster added, "Or maybe that's just me."
To the table, he declared, "Call!" and threw a handful of cash in the pot. His left hand continued to stay exactly where it was.
Again in a whisper, he told Hangman, "Stop me anytime."
Hangman didn't know if he meant his assessment of Hangman's abysmal poker skills or of, well, whatever this was, but on the off chance he meant the latter, Hangman decided that that wasn't happening and told him so by spreading his legs slightly and sliding a fraction of an inch back.
Immediately, Rooster surged forward on the pretense of looking at the flop cards over Hangman's shoulder, but the intended effect was to subtly pull Hangman properly into his lap, snug against his own hips and, by the feel of it pressed against his backside, his own hardened cock.
Jesus.
"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" he whispered back over his shoulder. Phoenix beside him snorted, which oops.
They probably weren't being as subtle as they thought they were. But with Fritz's refusal to return to him his boxers and her overtly sexual favor that was met with good-natured teasing, he figured they weren't going to suddenly start shouting homophobic slurs in their faces.
Maybe protests against PDA though, so Hangman deigned to keep this as hidden as possible, ‘this’ being Rooster's knuckles finally brushing against the side of his shaft.
"I see you're armed as well," Rooster teased.
"Call," Maverick suddenly said, across from them. His eyes flickered up to Hangman's as he placed a relevant collection of clothes and cash in the pot, and Rooster's words started coming back to Hangman.
You can read everything in your mind in your expression… Or maybe that's just me.
Was it just Rooster or did Maverick--and Fritz and Yale and Omaha and all the rest of them--see on his face that Rooster had just wrapped his hand properly around Hangman's cock, gently thumbing at the head?
"Raise," Rooster called out from behind him. He leaned forward to throw his 'chips' onto the table and very deliberately thrusted his cock up against Hangman's ass. Hangman grunted as he did, sure that he could pass that off as just being inconvenienced because he was being inconvenienced. Inconvenienced by Rooster's very hard dick and his other hand that was currently sliding up and down his length.
"Yeah you did," Phoenix muttered under her breath, then more loudly, "Call."
So okay, she knew.
Hangman figured they should probably take this elsewhere because banging in front of an unwelcome audience was just impolite.
Hondo set down another card. More crap.
"Five." Halo put in her bet. Omaha folded. Yale and Bob called. Maverick raised. Payback folded and Fanboy called, not that Hangman was paying too much attention to the game because at the moment, his cock was becoming intimately familiar with every callous on Rooster’s hand.
"What do you think?" Rooster asked Hangman, which was a real dick move when he was subtly stripping his dick. On the one hand, Hangman figured the subtlety wasn't as debilitating as it would have been if Rooster were properly jerking him off, but on the other hand, it left Hangman far too preoccupied with thinking about Rooster properly jerking him off.
"Call," Rooster decided for him.
When he leaned over Hangman's shoulder once more to place his bet, Hangman could feel the ghost of his lips and the slightest scratch of his mustache against his naked shoulder. Shivers broke out all over his body, and, dear God, Rooster had better not be intending to make him come beneath the table in front of all of their friends.
After Phoenix raised and Hondo called, the final card came out. Still more crap. Rooster had nothing but crap cards.
The man in question leaned forward again to look at the final card. In doing so, he pressed his entire self up against Hangman's back. His chin was hooked over Hangman's shoulder, his chest pressed up against Hangman's scapulas, his cock practically nestled between Hangman's ass cheeks. More importantly though were the dog tags, warmed by Rooster's own body heat, digging into the middle of his back, reminding Hangman very abruptly that his own dog tags were still hung around Rooster's neck, right beside Rooster's own.
And with that reminder, he suddenly snapped, "Oh, for fuck's sake." He grabbed Rooster's cards and threw them on the table. "He folds." And in a move that hopefully kept him from flashing anyone, he grabbed Rooster's discarded Hawaiian shirt and wrapped it around his waist and then immediately after grabbed the pair of dog tags hanging down Rooster's chest and dragged him out of his chair.
"Use the bedroom on the left!" Maverick shouted at him over the howling laughter and whoops of the other pilots, so Hangman did as he was told and shoved Rooster into the bedroom on the left.
Rooster's mouth was on his immediately, both of them practically snarling from the intensity of their kiss. Hangman was half sure he cut his lip on Rooster's teeth, but right now, he couldn't give a single, flying fuck.
His fingers were still tangled in the tags' chains, which he used to drag Rooster toward him and hold him there even when there was no closer Rooster could possibly get before he went through Hangman. With his other hand, he fumbled with the button and fly of Rooster's jeans, desperate to get a hand on him, and while it would be in Rooster's best interests to help him along, the other man seemed more interested in putting his hands back where they were before on Hangman's body, his hip and his cock, but this time properly touching him.
Hangman cried out as Rooster stripped his cock, brutally almost. The slide of his palm was much too rough from the callouses they all had, but that wasn't the problem. His fingertips were digging bruises into Hangman's skin, but that wasn't the problem either. No, the problem was that he wanted them to come together, and Rooster was about half a dozen strokes away from making him come alone.
"Roo…! Roo!" he stuttered against his mouth to try and stop him, but Rooster only dipped his head with a muttered 'cute' to bite at Hangman's throat instead, hard. Hard enough for Hangman's entire body to jerk in shock, culminating in his cock that he was sure--he was sure came in a white-hot eruption. But he didn't, and when the white-hot cleared from his mind, he cried out "Bradley!" to again try and stop him.
Rooster's head snapped up and the hand on Hangman’s cock stopped, nearly making Hangman collapse from the abruptness of it, only the hand at his hip and the body in front of him held him up. Rooster blinked at Hangman once…. twice…. and then demanded, "Say that again."
Hangman let go of the dog tags and reached up to card his hands through Rooster's hair. He used the calm to finish his task of undoing Rooster's jeans and slide his very generous cock out of his briefs, letting both items of clothing fall to the floor for Rooster to kick away.
"Bradley," he murmured as he did so, punctuating it with a slow slide of his hand down Bradley's length. The motion and the name made Bradley groan and sink his face once more into Hangman's neck.
"Jake," he replied, almost a whisper, and yeah, okay. Jake got it.
He shifted his hips closer to slide his cock up against Bradley's and wrapped Bradley's hand around the both of them. When his intention had been made clear, he reached up and grasped Bradley's hair with both hands then gently thrust up against him to prompt him to move.
"Fuck," Bradley hissed into his neck. "Jake," he repeated, reverently as he started to stroke. Goosebumps rose all over Jake's body, but whether it was from the name or the action, he didn't know.
"Mm, yeah, baby. That's it," he purred. He felt teeth again at his neck, but Bradley didn't bite down this time. He took a mouthful of Jake's flesh into his mouth and sucked.
The moan that came out of Jake's mouth was louder than he expected, and he vaguely wondered if the team was listening on the other side of the door, but dear God, he didn't half care.
"God, Bradley… Bradley," he moaned, thrusting into the curl of Rooster's hand, sliding up against his cock. It wasn't slick enough to be comfortable, but Jake didn't mind because he was already half out of his skin with want, and Bradley seemed to be on the same wavelength, just as furiously fucking up against Jake as he was.
Over and over, his mouth found mounds of Jake's skin and sucked mark after mark into it, under his ear, at the base of his throat, his shoulder, his jaw. Jake was going to look like he'd wrestled with an octopus at this rate. He was going to step out of this room, and they'd fucking see. They'd see Bradley's marks all over him and know that he was Bradley's and that Bradley was his too, and--
Fuck.
He tipped over the edge of no return, his skin exploding with sensation, his ears ringing like an F-18 flyby, his mouth parted in a silent scream until the very last second when a ragged cry ripped its way out of his throat and his head became too much to hold up.
"Yes, yes, oh god, fuck," Bradley was swearing in his ear as he fucked desperately against Jake, Jake's come lubricating the way. Jake tightened his grip in Bradley's hair, just the barest of grips, and then suddenly, Bradley was coming as well, chanting "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck" over and over until his cock stopped twitching and his hand was covered in spunk.
And then there was silence--or relative silence anyway because beyond the door and the hallway that led to the dining room, they could hear their teammates goading and heckling each other. Animated and passionate as the round likely finished.
Still, they seemed like a million miles away, fuzzy and vague, like he was underwater, hearing arguments outside of it, like they weren't real. Jake was sure they weren't. Only Bradley was real. Here. In this moment. His touch, his scent, his lips that were coaxing Jake back into a kiss that was no longer sharp and vicious, only soft, gentle, but still undeniably as desperate.
His hands fell back down from Bradley's hair to his chest. They found the dog tags once more and curled into them, holding on like a lifeline, like this would stop being real if he let go. He pulled on them, wanting Bradley closer, and Bradley obliged with an odd noise.
Jake suddenly pulled back, concerned. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," Bradley answered, trying once more to pull Jake back into the kiss.
"Liar," Jake accused, looking down to see where he was hurting.
"You're going to have to let go," Bradley told him, gesturing to the dog tags. Jake followed the gesture with his eyes and immediately jumped back like he was burned, and then promptly regretted it when his cock suddenly felt cold out of Bradley's grip. Bradley grinned and rubbed the back of his neck with his clean hand. "Probably going to leave a mark," he said with a chuckle. He didn't seem miffed about it anyway, so Jake wasn't too concerned.
"Don't be a baby," he told him with a grin and gestured at his own neck. "You were worse, you leech."
Bradley grinned back and huffed a laugh. He wrapped his hand around Jake's wrist to reel him in and nuzzled at the sore bits of his neck. "Not sorry," he said, and to demonstrate, he sucked another one right at Jake's pulse.
"Clearly," Jake laughed through a moan.
When he deemed Jake's neck decorated enough, Bradley told him, "Take your shirt off."
Jake lifted an eyebrow and corrected him. "Your shirt, you mean." Bradley made another odd noise in his throat, but this one was a different kind of pained. Jake laughed again and pulled off the tank, which Bradley used to clean his hand and then the both of them. Then he picked the Hawaiian shirt off of the floor where it fell and put it on Jake.
He also grabbed his briefs and handed it to Jake, apparently to wear.
Heat flooded Jake’s body at the thought of it, so he tried to cover it up by teasing him, "This seems awfully intimate, dressing me up in your underwear." Nevertheless, he tugged said briefs over his hips without much convincing. They fit perfectly and was warm on his skin, and more importantly, they were Bradley’s. Beneath the fabric, Jake could already feel the stirrings of arousal.
Bradley snorted. "If you have a better solution that doesn't involve you walking out there butt-ass naked, I'm all ears."
"You could give me your jeans," Jake pointed out.
Bradley laughed and reeled him in once more, running his hands down Jake's sides, the admiration of the visual clear in his eyes despite the dark room illuminated only by the street light outside. "You lost your own fair and square. You should be thanking me for not letting you wave your dick around out there, not complaining for more."
"Fuck you," Jake huffed, only to be kissed.
"I do like you in my clothes," Bradley then admitted. He held Jake back at arms length so that he could look him up and down, from his mussed up hair to the sliver of naked torso between the unbuttoned halves of the shirt to the bulge of his clothed cock to his bare feet. "Maybe in my bed as well."
"'Maybe'?" Jake demanded, incredulous and offended.
"Maybe," Bradley confirmed, only to receive a whack on the chest. He laughed and leaned forward to kiss Jake again. "Definitely in my bed."
Bradley’s mouth on his continued to be a revelation. The softness of his lips, the glide of his tongue, the flavor and scent of his that filled up Jake’s senses, they were all addictive, and Jake half hoped he’d never stop being able to do this.
When they pulled apart, a thought came to mind, and Jake asked, “So did you ask Phoenix to give her favor to you then? Because I have to admit, I was a little scared of her using it for herself.”
Bradley laughed. “Yeah. I’m going to pay for that one, but it was worth it.” His gaze was lascivious and affectionate all at once. “She was going to make you wait on her hand and foot for the rest of the night.”
Jake’s eyebrows rose as he considered that. Phoenix could be a bitch if she wanted to, and because Jake had been such an ass through most of their training, for sure she was going to make him pay for it, which, okay, fair enough, he figured.
“So why not just use your own favor?” he asked.
This time, Bradley’s look was all heat. “Because now, I can get you to wait on me hand and foot for the rest of the night, and looking like this, no less,” he said with indecent glee and a pointed squeeze of Jake’s ass. Jake narrowed his eyes at him because he trusted Bradley not to be a bitch about it even less than he trusted Phoenix. And now that gay chicken had been won and lost and they weren’t exactly being subtle about this to the rest of the team, he was a bit afraid of what ‘waiting on him hand and foot’ meant.
“You’re not going to make me suck you off under the table are you?” he asked suspiciously.
Bradley grinned, bright and delighted. Not unlike the proverbial cat that caught the canary. “Well, I wasn’t till just now!” Jake whacked him on the chest, earning himself a laugh and a kiss, in that order.
Afterwards, Bradley inspected the dog tags around his neck and then reached up to undo one set. That set, he placed around Jake's neck and kissed him again, gently this time, almost reverently really, and Jake wasn't entirely sure how to process that. Then Bradley tugged him towards the door.
"Ready to get the piss taken out of us for the next eight hours?" he asked as he pulled it open and herded Jake outside.
Jake was more occupied, however, with inspecting the dog tags Bradley had given him to answer.
Bradshaw, Bradley
"Rooster"
324-94-1397 USN B Pos
Christian
As they stepped out into the dining room and into more heckling from their so-called friends (Jake was going to have to re-evaluate their status in his life) and oddly paternal looks from Maverick and Hondo, he said loudly enough for Bradley to hear over the chorus of kissing sounds and whoops:
"Bradley Bradshaw, your name is terrible."