Work Text:
It’s a game they play, one Patrick starts, but Kimball definitely enjoys. It begins in the living room, because that’s where Kimball’s reading—perched on the couch like there’s nothing more interesting in the whole world. It used to start in the bedroom, and Patrick would just leave the door open and scream loud enough to make sure Kimball felt it. The Iceman’s only gotten more resilient as their sessions wear on, as though seeing Patrick bare naked and split open on a plastic cock is nothing new anymore, hardly a temptation.
Patrick knows his colleague better than that. It’s just a pride thing. Kimball thinks he can resist, but Patrick’s cheeky and resourceful and doesn’t give up easily. When he wants to play, and Kimball says he wants to read his book, Patrick kneels down on the new linoleum and spreads his legs wide. He presses his cheek to the cool floor and reaches his hands back between his thighs, rubbing slippery lube between his cheeks. He stretches his asshole apart for Kimball to see and presses his fingers in one-by-one, kneading himself like Kimball would normally do—and it’s a pain, because Kimball does it better.
Patrick’s fresh out of the shower, squeaky clean, and did some of the preparation there but most of it on the floor for all to see. He arches his back and bites his bottom lip, groaning like his own fingers are anywhere near as good as Kimball’s firm hand. He gets himself nice and wide, a smidgen frustrated that Kimball refuses to look, but mostly impressed. If anything. Kimball’s restraint turns him on. Most of Patrick’s partners have been so malleable than they’re little better than the toys he orders, uses up, and discards. Kimball adapts to the games and hardens against them, forcing Patrick to grow—the gift that keeps on giving.
Eventually, it’s enough—Patrick has to cut himself off, because he still wants to be at least a little tight when Kimball inevitably breaks and takes him. He drops his hands and rests there, breathing hard, bent in two like an animal presenting itself for mating season. If the rest of the CBI could see him, he’d never hear the end of it. Or maybe they’d all clam up, red with embarrassment and jealousy. Kimball dryly says over the yellowed pages, “It’s not going to work.”
Patrick grins against the floor and wriggles his stretched-open ass, humming, “Are you sure about that?” It’s tempting to soften his voice and climb up on the couch, perch on Kimball’s legs and look deep into his eyes, lull him into a smooth trance, pliant and ready to do anything Patrick asked—but they’re not like that. When Kimball does soften for Patrick, it’s because they’re curled up together in the heady afterglow, raw and vulnerable from the weight of emotion—because work is hell and their pasts are nightmares and there’s some semblance of solace in each other’s grip. Patrick doesn’t push for gentleness outside of that love. He’d rather be taken hard and rough anyway, bait Kimball into punishing him for his smug smirk, so all the other wounds hurt less and Patrick can just drown in the ferocity of sex.
If Kimball were paying more attention, Patrick would crawl back to the bedroom on hands and knees. But the game’s not won yet, so Patrick pushes back up to his feet and goes to collect his new instrument—a thick black cock with a suction cup base. It’s a fraction larger than Kimball, thick and rippled with chiseled veins, but nowhere near as satisfying. It won’t shut his brain up like Kimball can, but it’ll serve its purpose.
Patrick fixes it to the floor right at Kimball’s feet, and Kimball flips a page as though there’s any way the story there is more interesting than the one unfolding before him.
The toy slams down louder than necessary, and Patrick gives it a firm tug just to check that it’ll hold. It’d be nice if it vibrated too, but then, Patrick doesn’t want an electrical whir competing with his whimpers. He means to put on a show himself, and Kimball’s tastes lie more in over-compensating cocksleeves than efficient cocks.
A bit more lube, and Patrick positions himself over it. His eyes bore holes into the cover of Kimball’s book. He bites the inside of his lip as he lowers down onto the wet tip, smooth and cold. Kimball’s always burning hot. Patrick needs that heat inside him, needs Kimball’s hands on him, needs to be taken out of the case they spent the whole weekend dying over. He needs Kimball to look at him and almost demands that very thing.
Kimball’s the direct one. The one that would just say it. Patrick teases and dances and pushes himself onto the slick shaft, crying out as it breaches him. He doesn’t have to fake the noises, just exaggerates them, because when he pretends it’s Kimball sliding into him, it does feel good. Sex is as psychological as everything else. He looks at the gorgeous man before him, fully dressed in crisp slacks and a white-button up tee, and he wants to be touched so bad it hurts. He shoves himself lower and lower and deliberately tightens around the intrusion to make it burn—he wants Kimball to hear the need in his voice.
He drops right to the base and grinds against the floor, smearing leaked lube beneath him. His palms are flat down, nails curled into the faux-wood. He looks up past a stray blond curl at the only man he’s ever wanted and wills Kimball to want him too.
It’s amazing how often that actually works for Patrick. Kimball’s eyes flicker over, then hurriedly back—just a brief glance that fuels Patrick to action. For once, he doesn’t use his words to lure in his catch. He uses his body. He lifts up and thrusts down, choking on air at his own force. Another thrust, and the toy brushes just the right spot—he spasms and moans. He’s no longer so cold, naked in the open air. His cock twitches between his legs, bobbing with each movement, hard and desperate. His balls are already tight below it. They bounce against his inner thighs as he shoves himself on and off the toy to the merciless rhythm Kimball should be using on him.
He rides the fake cock for all he’s worth. Eventually, the book lowers, at least enough for him to live in Kimball’s peripherals. He milks that. He lets his chest heave with each broken breath, nipples pebbled and rosy between his tensed arms. His thighs tremble to hold him, spread as wide as he can get them, because he wants Kimball to see everything. There’s no shame in him, not with this one man. It’s just a body—his mind is what really matters—and Kimball knows all the darkest depths of that too. Patrick licks his lips and stares at Kimball’s handsome face while he fucks himself senseless.
He comes more from the thought of Kimball’s dick than the toy itself—he thinks of it slamming down his throat to shut him up, and his balls clench, cock splattering the floor and the bottom of Kimball’s left pant leg. Patrick rides the dildo right through it, bouncing enough to fling little flecks of white everywhere.
When he’s done, spent and panting, he leans forward and swipes his tongue over the mess—cleaning it right off Kimball’s pants. It doesn’t matter that the fabric tastes bland and uncomfortable. He acts on pure desire while he’s still in a haze of lust, and it’s easy to debase himself for the sake of taunting his partner.
A hand tangles in his hair. Patrick could cry—he’s won.
He hears the clack of a belt buckle and looks up to watch Kimball unfasten his fly. The book lies on the cushion next to him, defeated. Kimball mutters, “You’re impossible.”
Patrick knows. He’ll make it up to Kimball after dinner, after drinks, after Kimball’s gently corralled him from the couch to the bed and wiped the unshed tears from the corners of his eyes. In the meantime, he swallows Kimball’s cock down and relishes the victory.