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Rubin’s coffee had gone cold a while ago and now sits forgotten on the table while Grief lounges back in his kitchen chair. His friend-turned-enemy-turned-he-isn’t-quite-sure-what is spinning a yarn about his new business venture. Completely on the level, don’t you worry, but can you believe that the Kains have become even more convoluted and so on and so on.
Rubin is, admittedly, having trouble focusing. You wouldn’t know by looking at him, but Grief is capable of making himself look nice. He’s been trying more feminine styles lately, first with cosmetics and clothing he’d borrowed from Gravel, then purchasing his own pieces that suit him better.
Rubin is particularly partial to the shade of lipstick he’s wearing that night: a rich plum that leaves traces on everything his lips touch. He keeps finding himself staring. Not that he means to: that color draws the eye. So maybe it isn’t his fault that he’s watching the light of the low burning lamp flickering off Grief’s mouth instead of really listening to him.
“See somethin’ ya like?”
Rubin flinches, snapping back to attention. “What?"
“You keep starin’,” Grief says, and Rubin tries not to think too hard about how about how his lips look forming those words. “What’re ya thinkin’ about?”
“Nothing.”
Grief smiles wide and knowing, a cat playing with its dinner. “Oh, come now, you can’t keep secrets from your ol’ pal Grief.” He draws his chair closer until his knee is pressing against Rubin’s thigh. Rubin’s head is racing, wondering where on earth this could be going, when Grief reaches into his pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” His tone rings with false innocence. “Might satisfy your…oral fixation.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Mm. Dear old Stakh. Always on the straight and narrow. Well,” He sticks the cigarette between his rich, plum lips and tosses Rubin a smirk. “Maybe just on the narrow.”
Rubin burns with embarrassment, but he can’t deny it, not with how dry his mouth has become watching Grief’s throat work as he lights the cigarette with a match from his pocket and takes a drag.
Grief walks slowly across the room, pushes open the window. For the best: Rubin is starting to feel hot under the collar. “So?” he asks after a quiet minute of enjoying his cigarette.
“So what?”
“You didn’t tell me what you’re thinkin’ about. Spill.”
Rubin’s eyes track Grief’s hand, looking at the little smudge of lipstick on the cigarette filter. He wets his lips. “You look nice.”
Grief’s eyebrows rise and he lets out a laugh. “A complement! I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Shut up.”
“That’s more like it.” He taps his cigarette out the window to let the ash fall into the street. “But that can’t be all, can it?”
“It can.” Rubin tries very pointedly to not look at his arch smirk.
“Eyes up here, Stakh.” Grief stubs out the cigarette on the inside of the sink, the tease abandoned. He crosses over to stand between his legs with the confidence of someone who knows he won’t be denied. He leans down until Rubin can feel it when he says: “I think we’ve played this game long enough. Time to really fool around, don’tcha think?”
All Rubin has to do is tip his chin up, lean in just a fraction, and he can have everything he wanted. “Fine,” he says instead, his jaw barely moving.
Grief, no doubt understanding that’s about as enthusiastic as Stakh will ever let himself be, takes it upon himself to close the distance. He kisses Rubin slowly, the tip of his tongue carefully teasing open his lips. He tastes like cigarettes and coffee and something dry that Rubin assumes is lipstick. Grief’s tongue makes a sly exploration of his mouth, and when he slides himself into Rubin’s lap, he barely notices.
Rubin wraps his arms around Grief’s back, grips at the scant flesh underneath his many layers. In response, Grief grinds his hips against Rubin’s. He swears he can feel Grief growing hard against him.
Rubin tips his head back for a moment to try and catch his breath. Grief is undeterred and trails his kisses down his throat. No doubt he leaves smudges of lipstick on his skin.
Rubin shivers, swallows. “I didn’t invite you here for this.”
Another smirk, another fascinating twist of Grief’s lips. “I know.”
“I—It really was just for coffee.”
Grief props his elbow on Rubin’s shoulder. “You poor man. Too thick in the head for innuendo. Suppose you’ve got more important things to attend, though.”
“Bit of a stretch,” he mumbles.
Grief snorts, reaches down between their legs to grasp Rubin’s cock. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about, too.”
The two of them stumble to Rubin’s bed, stripping each other’s clothes as they go. There isn’t enough space there for Rubin on his own, let alone both of them, but it is fractionally more comfortable than the weathered sofa. Grief uses the edge of the bed to trip Rubin onto his back. He’s on him the moment he’s prone, kissing down his chest. Every so often, he pauses and suckles a bruise into his pale skin that will bloom a few shades darker than the makeup ringing it. Rubin wraps a leg around his back, the hard ridge of his vertebrae and the jut of his hip pressing into the meat of his calf and keeping the thickening line of Grief’s erection snug against his own.
“You’ve been staring at my mouth all night,” Grief says between a bite to his pectoral and a kiss to soothe it. “You wanna fuck it?”
Rubin’s cock twitches between their bodies. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d—”
Grief is on his knees before he can even finish his sentence. He takes Rubin’s cock in a thin, cool hand. “God, you’re huge,” he says, a near reverent hunger edging his tone. “It’s downright criminal, you hidin’ this under all those awful layers.”
“Like you’re…one to talk.” Rubin runs his hand through Grief’s hair and down the back of his neck. He wishes he could reach more.
“Flattering,” Grief says, wrapping both hands around Rubin’s shaft to compare his length. “But I can’t compare to this. Hell, a Greek god would be jealous.” He leans in and presses a kiss to the underside of the head. “Bull headed and hung like one, too.”
Rubin’s face is burning. It almost makes him want to cover himself. “It’s nothing special.”
“‘Nothing special,’ he says.” Grief clucks his tongue. “You’ve been spoilin’ yourself if you think that’s true. I’m going to have you ruin me with this one day, you mark my words.” He gives Rubin a stroke with both hands, then lowers his smudged mouth to Rubin’s cock.
“Wait,” Rubin says, catching Grief with a hand on the top of his head. Grief looks up at him, his eyebrow cocked expectantly. Rubin hesitates, suddenly embarrassed by what he wants to ask. Then Grief starts teasing his cock with long, slow lick and Rubin rapidly grows too horny to be ashamed. “Where’s your lipstick?”
Grief looks around them, then gets up. “Damn, you should’ve asked when I still had my coat on,” he shouts from the kitchen, but he does return with the small, gold tube held up between his fingers. “Here,” he places it in Rubin’s hand. “Put it on me.”
Rubin uncaps the tube as Grief kneels again between his open legs. He takes Grief’s jaw carefully in his hand to hold him still. It feels exposed in the same way the much of the night had. Strangely honest. It would be perfect if his erection wasn’t intruding on the scene.
The first swipe of leaves a streak of reddish purple across his bottom lip, vibrant where their activities had left the paint faded to pink. Another stroke across the bottom, filling in the spaces he’d missed and tugging gently at Grief’s kiss-swollen mouth. One pass on each half of his upper lip filled it in nicely, then Grief’s mouth is nearly as gorgeous as it was when he walked into his apartment that evening.
Grief smiles, turns his head to plant a kiss on Rubin’s hairy thigh. He leaves behind a print of his lips. “Usually you blot it after,” he says. “But I think we can do without tonight.”
Rubin sets the lipstick aside on the nightstand, then threads his fingers through Grief’s hair. “Yeah. Think so.”
Grief takes the head of Rubin’s cock into his mouth, sucking gently, before sliding him deeper into his mouth. His tongue explores the textures of him, like he’s taking time to familiarize himself. When he draws back, his lipstick smears down the length of his shaft.
Rubin lets out a quiet groan, his toes curling. He won’t last long. It’s been years since he’s done this and Grief is terribly good. Rubin feels faintly jealous of the men he must have practiced on, of whoever taught him whatever it is he’s doing with his tongue that makes Rubin’s hips buck up into his mouth without thinking.
Grief makes a short noise as Rubin’s cock hits the back of his throat, but he takes the change of pace in stride. He wraps a hand around his shaft again, stroking in tandem with the work of that soft mouth. Rubin watches in near disbelief as Grief’s free hand goes between his own legs and the slick, unmistakable sounds of masturbation join their symphony.
Grief lets out a small moan and Rubin tosses his head back. It’s one thing to hear a partner’s enjoyment, but it’s quite another to feel it around his body. His own vocalizations have turned far more shameless. A vague voice in the back of his head insists that he should be quiet, that the neighbors will hear. For now, at least, he can’t bring himself to care.
Grief pulls back, sucking hard on the head of his cock, working his shaft with a tight hand. “Fuck,” Rubin hisses, groping hard at his own chest. “Grief, I’m—”
Grief meets his eyes for a burning moment before swallowing Rubin’s cock down nearly to the base. Rubin shouts, thrusts up once, and doubles over as he comes down Grief’s throat.
He collapses back to the bed, warm and sweaty and for the first time in longer than he can remember, satiated. Grief curses, the slick sounds of his hand on his cock coming faster until he gasps, his own orgasm overtaking him. He climbs up on the bed after, lying down on top of Rubin’s chest.
“So,” he says, tracing the trail of lipstick kisses he left down Rubin’s chest with a long finger. “Satisfied?”
Rubin huffs, nearly managing a laugh. “We’ll see,” he says, and pulls his friend up to kiss him.