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Will notices it the first time their regular waiter at Sunday brunch—a fabulous server-by-day, drag queen-by-night named Louise—calls in sick and her shift is covered by someone else.
This waiter is as butch as Louise is femme, his bulging muscles barely restrained by tiny, flimsy clothing. He has blond hair and blue eyes and a tan. The minute he walks into the room Chris transforms from his usual awkward self into an alert, singularly focused creature Will barely recognizes.
They've been running in this social circle together since the beginning of the summer when Ashley introduced them, and after the weirdness of celebrity company passed (more on his friends' part than his; Will is used to and unimpressed by fame at a very basic level) and everyone relaxed, Chris revealed himself to be a down-to-earth, socially hit-or-miss nerd. A hot, gay nerd, granted—but socially awkward nonetheless. Will has to admit his attention was caught from the start and has only become further ensnared since then, which is problematic. The reason why it's problematic is named Sam, and he's sitting next to Will at the table this morning, one arm around the back of Will's chair and an oblivious smile on his face. The first—and more or less only—thing Sam said about Chris to Will was, "Oh my god, don't tell him about our Glee viewing parties. Especially not about the costumes."
Chris' smile has grown twitchy and interested. His eyes are darker. His cheeks are splattered with a blotchy flush that reminds Will of the one he gets when he's drunk. But it's the change in his body language that's truly fascinating. He's simultaneously erect in posture but also somehow smaller, his arms crossed in front of him on the table, his shoulders drawn in closer to his center, and his hands folded as if they are trying to contain something between them. His eyelashes flutter. His head tilts coyly. When he gets up to go to the bathroom, he moves more gracefully than he usually does, smoothing his pants over his ass and swaying his hips from side to side while maintaining intentional, lingering eye contact with the waiter.
Will has never seen him act—like this. The behavior seems to contradict what he's observed and been told about Chris. When a new guy joins the group, there's always that initial rush of catty gossip—what he does, where he lives, who he's fucked, and how he likes it—and the grapevine seems pretty convinced that Chris is a no-boyfriends-please, bossy top who fucks closet cases and discreet actors because he doesn't want to risk repeating past mistakes and get his heart broken or publicly exposed. Will takes this kind of talk with a boulder-sized grain of salt; his friends are prone to exaggeration (to put it mildly) and gossip gets out of hand no matter what. Besides, it doesn't seem to matter much—Will has a boyfriend and isn't looking to verify the rumors that surround Chris.
Except. Well. Except for the fact that the massive crush and raging hard-on he has for Chris is probably about as obvious as the fuck-me eyes Chris is currently making at their waiter. It's one of the reasons he hasn't allowed the hugely magnetic pull between them to drawn him in. Even the briefest of conversations has revealed how much they have in common and how alike they are—it's like static shock every time they interact, crackling and immediate and a little jarring. It's not only the attraction, though the good Lord knows those ducks are in a row. But if he lets himself step any closer he's going to get sucked in, and he's been with Sam for almost two years now. He can't fuck that up.
At the end of the table sitting next to Ashley, Chris' whole body leans in the waiter's direction. They're not talking about food or drink refills; they're flirting. Heat spills down the back of Will's neck. His stomach twists. Chris laughs at something the waiter says, all pink, parted lips and high-pitched giggles, his long fingers dancing across his placemat, as if they'd rather be all over those defined biceps instead.
Will hopes their regular server gets well soon.
*
They're at a party at a friend's house and they pass each other going to the bathroom. The hallway at the back of the apartment is narrow, and they have to turn sideways and brush chests to get past each other. When it happens, it occurs to Will that Chris is so small, his lean frame and long legs tiny compared to Will's broad, gym-enhanced body.
Their feet tangle. Chris trips. Will reaches out to steady him, catching his waist accidentally.
Chris is drunk. He giggles and snorts in an undignified way that makes Will's face grow hot, and puts his hands on Will's chest with a little hiccup of surprised pleasure.
"Oh, hello."
"Powdering your nose?" Will asks.
Chris' eyelashes flicker over dilated pupils. "The toilet requires extra effort. Be warned." He laughs again; he's obviously very amused by his ability to form sentences under the influence.
Their bodies are touching, which makes wit impossible. Will feels like a giant as he leans in and over Chris. "Go drink some water. You're wasted."
Chris bites his bottom lip. "Is that an order?"
Oh, god.
He can't resist thumbing Chris' hipbones just once. "Yep. Totally."
Chris licks that bottom lip, which is now lined with teeth marks, and sort of—shimmies under Will's hands, all miniscule waist, round hips, and a juicy, high, hard ass you'd have to be dead to not notice. "Well then. Yes, sir." He walks away looking at Will over his shoulder, his ass swinging from side to side.
Will's dick is too hard to allow him to piss. He leans against the closed bathroom door in the dark, forcing himself to breathe.
*
Home field advantage is going to be the death of him.
Chris at home, running the show, is nothing like Chris as a guest in other places. He has plans for everything—food, alcohol, weed, music, games, and backyard activities. His parties are truly epic, Will has to admit, and he's so comfortable here, dressed down in simple skinny jeans and a T-shirt so tight it barely contains his shoulders and rides up whenever he moves or bends. His body is mesmerizing, even though he's kind of a klutz—this should make him less sexy, but it doesn't. Not even close. In fact, the opposite seems to be true.
Or maybe Will is just screwed.
Later in the evening when everyone's a little—and some are a lot—fucked up, there's dancing in the backyard.
Will is flying solo tonight and he's having a great time. He's smoked and had good beer and now he's watching Chris dance like a total dork with someone he doesn't know. Judging by the arms in the air and the ass shaking, however, Chris knows the guy pretty well. The guy's hands are all over him, running up and down his chest and grabbing his hips as they churn around and around, his laughing mouth against the shadow beneath Chris' jaw. Chris seems happy to fold his body up into the other guy's. The guy has a few inches of height on him.
Over the course of the evening, though, dancing turns into talking which turns into tension. Will watches them as they move around the backyard and pool area, and when tension morphs into a subtle argument, he can't stop himself from closing the distance between them.
He doesn't want to embarrass Chris, so he says, "Hey, Chris, can you show me where the chips are? I'll refill the bowls. Munchies, man."
"I'm going inside," the guy says, short and sharp. He obviously doesn't want to continue their argument with an audience present.
Will grabs his arm without thinking. "Everything all right?"
The arm is jerked out of Will's grasp. "Yeah. Whatever."
If Will's eyes had lasers, as he so often wishes they did, the guy's head would explode before he reached the house.
Will turns to Chris, who is shrunken in on himself, and nudges his side. "You okay?"
"He's an asshole."
Will shifts behind Chris, puts his hands on Chris' shoulders, and begins massaging them. "Want me to punch him in the face? "
Chris laughs, wet and hollow. "Yeah, in my house. Start a brawl. Why not." He wilts. "That feels really good."
Crap. Bad idea.
Chris' body tilting back into his is not precisely helping matters. Especially not when wriggles the way he always does and his body heat ghosts across Will's front. Will's fingers slip down to his collarbone, his thumbs hooking on the meat of Chris' shoulders and digging in. After a particularly well-aimed squeeze, Chris moans, breathless and squeaky.
Crap crap crap shit crap.
"Why did you invite the asshole?"
"He's usually—uh. Easier."
"Convenient?"
"That's the word." Chris looks at Will over his shoulder. His face is beet red and his lips are parted. "Thanks. You didn't have to do that." He isn't sure whether Chris is thanking him for the massage or scaring the asshole off.
Will's heart slams against his chest. Chris' mouth is so close. "No big deal. I just don't—" He stops. He's way too high to be subtly close-lipped.
"Don't...?" Chris' eyelids rise and fall slowly, curiously.
"Don't like it when people mess with you. I know how hard it is for you to have a good time with a new crew."
Chris' expression softens. He looks so young, so vulnerable like that—it's not a look he wears often. Will's right hand curls loosely around Chris' throat and strokes there, a gesture meant to comfort but only ends up sending the heat that's already bubbling in his body outward.
Fuck, he wants this man.
There's a utility shed behind them, tucked discreetly behind decorative hedges, and when Chris draws him behind it, he doesn't get it, not right away, not until they're alone and the noise of the party going on beside the pool fades even more. Chris presses his back against Will's chest, revisiting the position they were in before, except this time Chris's ass is against his dick, and his gorgeous, silly face turns toward Will, his profile cast in sharp relief against the backyard lights and his cheekbone and jaw brushing the length of Will's face.
Oh god. Oh my god.
Will's breath punches out of his lungs at all once. He puts his other arm around Chris' barely-there waist. Chris feels—incredible, soft and hard in all the right places, tucked up so easy and small against Will's broad body.
Will can't fucking stand it anymore. He drags his fingers down Chris' arms, circles those slender wrists, turns them, and pushes Chris back-first into the side of the utility shed. When Will pushes his arms above his head and pins them there Chris whimpers, as clear and high as any woman Will has ever been with.
"Don't tease me."
"Fuck." On Chris' next inhale, he presses their mouths together.
Will's belly sinks.
Pleasure wracks his body like shivers, creating a vibration that makes him feel as if he's coming out of his skin. He kisses Chris back with an eager shove, loving it when Chris tugs at his hair.
Chris' mouth opens and he fills it with his tongue. They make out like they invented it, Will perfectly aware of the bruises he's making on Chris' lily-white wrists. He lets go for a moment, and Chris' hands map his shoulders and back hungrily, too fast, as if he doesn't know where to start. He's so squirmy and uncoordinated. Will reclaims his wrists, and then has to let go yet again because Chris won't stay still—almost moans when they stay there obediently without his grip—and grabs Chris' hips, lining their pelvises up.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Chris chants, turning his face aside. Will attacks his jaw and then his neck, kissing and biting a trail to the base of his throat.
"Oh my god." Will thrusts harder, faster, grinding their dicks together. It feels so good, and he is so far gone. There's no way he can come from this, but it almost feels as if he could if they only had more privacy than hedges afford.
All at once, Chris exhales loudly and goes still. "You're gonna make me come." Sometimes Will forgets how young Chris actually is.
"Shit. Shit, baby, really?"
Chris' cheeks darken at the endearment. He almost says something, but then licks his lips to wet them and nods, watching Will from beneath his eyelashes.
"Do you want to come for me?" Will asks, right against Chris' trembling mouth, just to feel the heat of that cheek and his breath spill over it. He thrusts forward again, using the ridge of his dick to stimulate Chris with no thought for his own arousal. "Want me to take care of this big, hard cock?"
"Oh my god, keep doing that."
Will pushes Chris hard against the shed and pins their bodies together, adjusting the right side of his pelvis and thigh against Chris' cock. He angles himself up and in and begins rubbing, rough and fast, working Chris' dick through his jeans.
Chris whines, high-pitched and broken. He wraps his arms around Will's wide shoulders and buries his face in Will's neck. He fits so perfectly right there, tiny and clinging, and Will's chest is as full as his cock—it's like Chris belongs there, tucked up against him, wrapped up in him, needing him, wanting him, shielded by him from everything else.
And the monster in Chris' jeans is just as delicious. There's a wet sprawl across his jeans, right beside his thigh where his cock is jammed. Will can't resist reaching down to feel it, damp and sticky. Chris sobs into his neck when he begins jacking Chris' cock through his pants.
"That's it." Will kisses Chris' flushed ear. "Come on. Shoot for me, sweetheart."
He presses his thumb to the underside of the head of Chris' cock and begins pinching it, just a little, at the end of every jerky stroke. He feels the orgasm—Chris' belly goes tight and then his hips twitch. He floods his underwear, and the wetness begins to seep through his jeans, smearing dark down his right leg. He's panting and slumped back against the shed, holding on to Will's shoulders, which are the only thing keeping him upright. His eyelids flutter. He's flushed to the collar of his T-shirt and probably beyond.
"Will," Chris whispers, his chest heaving. "I—"
"Don't. Just. Stay here. I'll get something to clean you up."
He doesn't make eye contact with anyone, just rushes across the yard for damp paper towels and back. Chris is standing there with his fly open, picking at his sticky clothing.
"This is disgusting," he says. Will can't tell if he's amused or upset or happy or all of the above. As Will helps him dry off, he asks, "What about you?"
Will shrugs, smiles. "Don't worry about me." Has Chris never had someone just—give, before? He looks confused. Truthfully, Will would prefer to get off in a more comfortable, private location, but he was all too happy to give Chris some relief.
Of course, there is that elephant in the room.
"I'm—shit." Chris buttons his pants without making eye contact with Will. "Fuck."
Will exhales. He looks at Chris' flushed, guilty face. He is maybe possibly and completely in love with it, in ways he has no control over. The real Chris is so different and so much more complicated than the Chris who likes to throw themed parties and acts as if he has it all together and knows exactly who and what he is. Will sees broken parts. He sees the amazing things, too. One makes the other kind of amazingly beautiful, though he's not sure which does which. He just adores the whole picture in a pretty intense way.
"Don't, okay?" He adjusts himself discreetly. "Don't worry about it."
Chris will worry, he knows. But there's nothing Will can do about that.
*
Scrimmage football in the park.
Chris is wearing jean shorts and a tank top, and is sitting on the sidelines with a group of their friends who have no interest in playing. Will goes hard until he's a sweaty mess, then drinks half of a bottle of Gatorade and dumps ice water from their cooler over his head.
Behind large, dark sunglasses, Chris says, "I thought you were joking."
"About loving football?"
"Yes?"
Will smiles. Shrugs. Knows exactly how hot he looks right now, in loose shorts and a ripped T-shirt his torso is seriously testing, water dripping down his spiky hair and sweaty skin. Chris' mouth stays open even when he isn't talking. He's cooling himself with one of those electric pocket fans. Sunscreen is smeared across his nose.
"Congrats," Chris says, when Will says nothing. "I think you won. I'm guessing you won. You looked celebratory. Go team?"
Will laughs. "We're just messing around. That's what a scrimmage is."
Chris' eyes drift down his body. He swallows, licks the edge of his lip, and then scoots his sunglasses down his nose, staring at Will over the top of them. "Sam at work?"
"Ah," Will says. He tosses the football he was holding to a friend. "We're—I was going to say 'on the rocks'. More like approaching the rocks?"
One blink. Two blinks. Chris takes off his sunglasses. "Really." He shifts his weight from one curved hip to the other.
"Yeah. I'm not sure what's going to happen."
"That sucks. It's been a while, huh?"
Will nods. "Almost two years."
They walk around the field in silence, occasionally bumping elbows. There isn't much more to say about that. The idea of losing Sam should be devastating, but here, with Chris…
They wander off alone for a while. Chris picks up a stray ball, and teases Will into showing him how to throw it. It's an indulgent half hour of his arms slipping around Chris' sun-warmed body and down those long arms, showing him how to hold the ball and toss it around. He's a giggly student, letting Will manhandle him into positions and pretending to be awful on purpose to keep Will going, his hands lingering on Will's shoulders and pecs and arms. The rush of easy, fun, exciting flirtation with a new guy—with this guy—makes Will feel stupid and dizzy. He cracks awful, offensive jokes. He laughs too loudly. It's perfect.
At one point, he puts his arms around Chris' waist to steady him, taking the football in one hand and the small of Chris' back in the other. Chris melts over his forearm, his hips lolling forward and his fingers tangling in Will's T-shirt.
"You know your way around a ball."
Will snorts. "Yeah."
Chris chews his lip and tilts his head. They are by no means alone, but Will notices the flirty sparkle in Chris' eye that denotes interest. Will's lips tingle. His pulse spikes.
God, they shouldn't do this again. Not yet, anyway, not until...shit. Is that what Will wants? And if he and Sam call it off, would Chris want to step in and fill that empty place in Will's life?
Ten minutes later they're in a park bathroom stall making out like teenagers, Chris' tongue licking sweat off of his neck and his fingers wrapped around Chris' ass.
"Fuck, you are so hot." Chris paws Will's bare abdomen beneath his T-shirt, rucking the material up higher with every pass. "So hard, Jesus."
Will is completely out of his depth—simple grinding has never felt this good, and Chris is so pliant, so needy, and so open around him. He just wants to act. He wants to take and give until they're both fucked out messes, but he also wants more from and with Chris, wants everything that two people can share together. He wants to take care of this man, wants to keep him safe and happy and make him feel loved and wanted.
Most of all, right now, he wants to push Chris down onto his knees and get his dick sucked. He knows that's not going to happen, but thinking about it is driving him nuts.
Even this level of public messing around is pushing it for Chris and so, when one of those beautiful hands slides down the front of Will's sweat-damp shorts, he's doubly surprised.
"You don't have to—"
"Shut up."
"Chris." Will bites back a moan when Chris' hand wraps around his dick. "F-fuck."
Chris stares at him, takes in the full picture he presents—a hard-bodied, athletic man, bigger than him, sweaty and hairy, sporting a fat, hard cock that's tacky in his fist.
"So hot, so fucking hot, oh my god," Chris whispers into his jaw. "God, yeah, fuck my hand."
Will comes all over the floor and Chris' forearm an embarrassingly short amount of time later, seeing colors because he's half-holding his breath to make sure he doesn't make any noise. "Oh, god." He breathes heavily, shaking against the stall wall. Chris kisses his exposed pecs, digging his fingernails into the pronounced swells. Will stares at the tent in Chris' cut-offs.
"Yo, assholes!" comes a shout from outside the bathroom. "You in there?"
"Shit." Chris detaches himself. A gossamer line of spit connecting his mouth to Will's chest breaks.
"Coming," Will says.
Chris smiles cheekily. "Came, actually."
*
Brunch again, only this time Will is single, Sam is sitting at the other end of the table, Chris is perched on Will's lap under the pretense of talking to Nathan, and Will has no idea how he's going to make it through this meal with either his sanity or his pants intact.
Chris knows exactly what he's doing.
Will pours himself another mimosa and considers prayer.
He and Sam broke up over the weekend. It's too soon to be this close to Chris in public, too soon to show everyone what's been brewing for months despite their best intentions, but here Chris is, all glossed mouth and tight clothing and flapping hands, his voice high and his facial expressions coy and fluid. He's slowly becoming more comfortable being himself with them because of Will, and watching it happen is—invigorating, to say the least.
"Oh my god he didn't say that." Chris swats Will's arm. "Tell him you didn't say that."
Will has no idea what they're talking about. Chris has been sitting on his thigh for at least an hour now; was he supposed to keep track of the conversation?
Even after Chris shifts over into the chair next to Will, he's never far away. It starts with his hand on the back of Will's chair, his fingertips brushing Will's shoulder blades. And then that same hand is on Will's side, and then his thigh, and then his knee. It's too much—subtle and teasing and more casual than anything they've ever done. Sam is watching them. Everyone is.
During a lull in the conversation, Will leans in and whispers, "You're gonna get it."
"Whatever do you mean?" Eyelashes fanning across pink cheeks. The curve of a smile.
"Bathroom, five minutes."
The moment they're alone in the single-stall bathroom and the lock is flipped, Will grabs Chris' hips and pulls him in. Without considering it, he slaps Chris' ass, just once, hard. Chris' eyes widen—he squeaks in surprise, his lips parting. "Come here. Come here." Will pushes him back into the sink, forcing him to sit and spreads his legs. "You are such tease."
Chris braces himself on his hands, his eyes still wide and wet, when Will jerks his pants open. "Not—not here. They're right outside the door."
"Then you'll have to be quiet."
"Will—Sam is—everyone—"
Will takes a condom from his wallet. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."
"Oh my god," Chris groans.
"Don't pretend you aren't hard enough to pound nails right now." Will rubs him through his underwear. Fuck, he's huge. "Don't pretend you haven't been riling me up on purpose all morning." He slides his hand behind the waistband of Chris' boxer-briefs. "Don't pretend you didn't wear these skin tight shorts and this see-through button-up for me. Now hush while I suck your cock." He goes to his knees right there on the dusty tile.
The condom stretches, shiny and obscene, around the proud jut of Chris' cock. Will has felt it but never seen it. The wait has been worth it—it's near perfect, beautiful and big and a gorgeous shade of pink beneath the clear latex.
He moans under his breath as he wraps his lips around the head, then shuts himself up by taking the shaft to the back of his throat. The fullness is glorious. He looks up just in time to watch Chris bite down on his forearm, and then settles in to do what he said he would, relaxing his jaw and throat and breathing through his nose as he bobs up and down on that dick like he's starving for it. He sort of is.
He barely stops to lick or kiss, and when Chris begins politely jacking forward, he pauses only to whisper, "Yeah, fuck my mouth. Gonna be so good to this pretty dick. Come on, give it to me."
Even with permission, Chris hesitates, and Will has to guide those hands into his hair, has to tug that sweet ass off of the sink so Chris will actually move. Will breathes frantically through his nose for the last minute or two, Chris' nails digging into his scalp, Chris' huge cock tapping the back of his throat.
With a soft, desperate chant of, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh, god," Chris comes, buried in his throat.
The laughter that comes when they realize they have no viable exit strategy is as nervous and clueless as it is a relief.
*
They do actually date after this, quietly at first and then openly when Sam gets over himself.
Will falls into the role of boyfriend so easily—he's always prioritized relationships over hook-ups, always loved being a partner, and has had woefully few opportunities to be one until recently. Moving to LA changed everything, of course, and while he's appreciative of what he learned about himself dating and loving Sam, Chris—Chris is something else. Chris is kind of everything, and Will knows he should be scared of jumping in so quickly, should be smarter about the pacing, but he can't be. He just knows this is a big deal. He isn't going to walk away.
They've been friends for a while, so their dates lack that awkward getting-to-know-you flavor, for which they're both grateful. They simply fit together, and in spite of the challenges that dating someone who works in the public eye presents, Will is never truly spooked.
Chris continues to surprise him, revealing a vulnerable, romantic side he must keep only for boyfriends (Will has seen the platonic version of this with close friends, so he isn't sure why he's surprised). Chris can be bitchy and obstinate, too, but Will learns when he needs to act on that and when he needs to let it ride. He's content to walk one step ahead of Chris when they're out, constantly prepared to put himself between strangers who approach Chris and Chris himself. He's happy to help Chris around the house, to carry boxes down from the attic or new furniture up the stairs. He's okay with Chris curled against him, petite and wanting in his arms. He has no trouble carting the shopping bags and killing spiders and being the first one out of the bedroom when there's a weird noise in the middle of the night. He adores Chris strutting around in silky briefs, bending over in them when he knows Will is watching, and then having to push a little to get Chris to stop playing coy when Will tries to initiate sex on every surface in the house. Most of all, he loves that Chris is comfortable enough about all of this to make jokes about it in front of their friends. Coming out late in life taught Will that there's nothing wrong with doing what feels right, as long as it makes you happy.
He does wonder where that bossy top is, though. When did Chris stop wearing that cuff on his left wrist?
*
And then one night they're making out in Chris' kitchen and Chris blurts, his fingertips scraping the stubble Will let grow in on a whim over the last few days, "God, I love how fucking butch you are."
Will thinks it's kind of a weird thing to say at first, but then it starts to make sense. He squeezes Chris' ass, hauling their bodies closer together. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Chris says, letting him, "god, and the way you just—manhandle me."
"You're kind of little." Chris whimpers against his mouth. "You like that?" Nods. "Like how big I am? Like that I can take care of you? Keep you safe? Make you feel good?" Nod, nod, nod, another whimper. "That's—I'm—so glad, because I love how nelly you are around me." Once he makes the confession, it continues to unravel. "Love how small you are and how you want me close all the time, love your voice and all those fucking girly noises—fuck, I had no idea—"
Chris kisses him, combs ten fingers right into his hair. "You're the first guy I've ever—hngh."
They laugh into the breathy void between their mouths, Will framing Chris' face with his hands and tilting it up, making Chris rise up on his toes to earn another kiss. "I'm so gone for you. You know that, right?"
Wide, wet blue-green eyes flooded with gray, like the sky before a thunderstorm. "Yeah. Yeah, Will."
*
The to-skinny-dip-or-not-to-skinny-dip argument is a heated one.
Chris refuses because it's not their pool, even if they are house-sitting for a close friend, and the backyard is open, and there are lights, and TMZ can see naked people from satellites in space these days, William. Will argues that this is probably not scientifically accurate, that they can turn off the patio lights, and that he would lose Carter's respect if he didn't use this gorgeous pool at least once before they leave. And then he cheats the system by walking Chris out back and then peeling his boxers off very, very slowly.
Chris' jaw drops. "You fucker."
"The water is perfect. Come on, baby." Chris folds his hands over his crotch and fidgets standing there in his boxers and T-shirt. Will swims backwards, the water shimmering over his naked body, then leans back against the concrete lip of the pool on the opposite side, stretching his water-freckled shoulders and arms out. "Take off your clothes. Let me see how sexy you are."
"No lights." Chris looks around. Will smiles and nods.
Chris' slender body revealed under dim moonlight is almost sexier, somehow, than a full view. Will's pulse races as Chris climbs into the water, swims over to him, and wraps around him like a monkey around a tree branch. He laughs and kisses pool water off of Chris' shoulder.
They swim, and then throw a volleyball back and forth for a while. Chris climbs onto Will's back and allows Will to swim them around. It's nice—just the two of them and the night sky and the shimmer-slosh of the pool water.
Will dislodges Chris at the shallow end and they sit on the concrete steps, Chris' back to his chest and Will's arms around him. Chris gets up to stretch when that goes on too long, and when he sits back down he straddles Will's lap instead, facing him.
"Hey there," Will says.
Chris kisses him. "Hey."
Wet and soft and lean, Chris' body settles across his lap. He braces his palms against Chris' back and drags them up, stroking to his shoulder blades and then back down his spine to where his back tucks in and lower to where his ass flares outward. He tucks his fingertips into the dimples there, and kisses below Chris' ear and then down the sensitive slope of his neck.
Chris makes a soft noise. "We aren't fucking in this pool."
"Who said anything about that?" Will sucks open-mouthed kisses over his sternum and then his right nipple.
"Damn." Chris tenses up, draws a breath, and melts against Will's chest.
Will closes his lips around the nipple and sucks it, nips it, and then licks it. Chris' dick twitches and floats between them, fattening up. Will doesn't know where to start, so he just wraps his hands around Chris' ass cheeks because they're right there, squeezing the wet, heavy globes and using them to pull Chris closer. He goes back to Chris' nipples for a while, and then his collarbone, careful not to leave marks as he edges up the other side of Chris' neck.
"You're not complaining," Will says.
"Brain melted."
"Feeling good, baby?"
Chris smirks. "Yes, Daddy." Will raises an eyebrow. Chris sticks out his tongue. "What?"
"We'll table that one for later."
"You think you're so cute."
"I know I'm cute."
Chris slides forward and grinds against him. "C'mere, cutie."
Chris' mouth on his more or less ends that conversation. It isn't until grinding in water proves immensely frustrating that Will decides to amuse himself by groping Chris' ass instead. The broken noise Chris makes when Will's fingers graze light circles around his cheeks makes his dick throb. They haven't precisely gone here, content thus far to suck and jerk each other off, but they're naked and relaxed—why not? Will pulls back to watch Chris' face as he spreads those lush cheeks apart and drags the back of two of his fingers down his exposed crack.
Chris makes another noise and arches his back. Will hums appreciatively, still watching Chris' face tense up and then flood with pleasure when Will repeats the caress, again and again, letting the pads of his fingers catch on the twitchy elastic rim once or twice. Chris' whole body is tight—with both pleasure and denial—and Will wants to relax him. After several half-hearted passes, Will gently presses in with the tip of his middle finger.
"Will," Chris blurts, jolting.
"Not good?"
Chris' head tilts back. He's flushed all the way down to his nipples. His pulse is hammering against the delicate skin of his throat. His dick is standing up straight under water.
"Sorry, this is—I don't usually—you know."
Will stops. Chris whines. "So I've heard."
"This is why I haven't said anything, because I didn't want it to be awkward."
"I'm not awkward. It's no biggie."
"No, it's—I don't want you to stop. That's what I mean."
Will blinks. It hits him all at once—Chris wants this with him. Chris wants to do things with him even though he has preferred to do the opposite with men before.
Shit.
Will slides his open hand down Chris' crack, gives his balls a squeeze, and then repeats the motion. "Oh, honey. So neglected, huh? No one ever made this ass feel good?"
"Oh my god, oh my god, you—"
Fuck.
He pushes against Chris' perineum, and savors the moan he receives in response. He bites Chris' earlobe. "Going to make you so wet. So fucking wet and open—you want that?"
Chris whimpers into his shoulder. "Fuck, yes. Yes. Yeah."
He doesn't remember going back into the house. He blindly heads for the guest room they're sleeping in, towels slipping around their damp hips because Chris won't stop kissing him, pawing at him, fucking his mouth open with his tongue and half-climbing his body after every step. Chris tastes like evening air and chlorine and sweat.
The bedroom is striped in moonlight and shadows.
Will presses Chris down onto the bed, chokes out a moan when Chris sprawls, his arms up and out, his thighs apart, his ass pillowed beneath a sharp, lean pelvis, and his cock and balls hanging to the right, heavy with arousal. Will kneels between Chris' hairy calves and strokes them. His own dick is so hard it hurts, bobbing in mid-air like it knows what it's about to get.
But not yet.
He retrieves a tube of lubricant from the overnight bag at the foot of the bed and sets it aside.
Chris' eyes follow it and then find Will's. "I—I mean, I've done it, I just—"
Will doesn't say anything. He just kisses down the inside of Chris' right thigh, and then buries his face in the junction between his groin and leg.
"Oh," Chris whispers. "Okay."
Will kiss-licks his way across Chris' balls and then laps a stripe up the underside of his cock to the tip, which he takes into his mouth and sucks. When he lets it go, he asks, "Lift up for me?"
"Should I, um, be on my stomach?"
He licks a circle around the head of Chris' cock. "I want to see you. I want you to see how much I'm going to love going down on you."
"Oh, god."
"Okay?"
"O-okay." Chris swallows heavily, and then watches wide-eyed as Will tips his ass up and back until his knees are almost touching his ears. "I might be weird. Like. A little."
"So be weird. Just let me know if you want me to stop." He kisses around Chris' balls, shifts them up to rest on his belly, and then mouths down the crinkle of his perineum.
"Oh my god."
Will kisses there, a hard suck that ends with his chin budging up against Chris' rim. "Mm, tastes good."
"W-Will—"
He noses down and in, kissing hot skin until Chris' legs start to shake. Chris puts his heels on Will's back, letting his bent legs fold into a heart shape around Will's head. At the first brush of his lips over Chris' hole, Chris exhales audibly and jolts down the bed. Will stops to breathe, and then circles Chris' rim with the tip of his tongue, feeling it flex.
"Oh, god, that is so w-weird," Chris rasps, flinging one arm out against the mattress.
Will smiles, and then kisses the spot broadly before setting his chin and licking in, deep and hard. Chris moans—his chest puffs out when his back bends, and the flat of his belly tucks deeper in between his ribs. He reaches down to tangle his fingers in Will's hair.
"Show me where you want me," Will says.
"C-come on." Chris whimpers and presses the back of Will's head, driving him deeper. "Do it."
Will stops holding back. He spreads Chris' cheeks with his thumbs and plants himself face-first against that twitching hole, kissing and licking it until it's soaked with spit and winking open. And when Chris is finally writhing like a cat in heat against his mouth, he points his tongue and pushes it inside, where Chris is unbelievably tight, hot, and smooth.
Chris cries out. Will works his jaw and tongue in tandem, getting in as deep as he can, as hard as he can, over and over, until Chris' dick is leaking all over his belly and his thighs are quivering, wrapping tighter and tighter around Will's ears.
He wants it so bad—needs it, even—and it's driving Will crazy.
They reach a point where Chris is fucking himself on Will's tongue, and Will can't do any more with the action—it's clearly not enough anymore. Chris' ass is stretching for him so nicely.
He fumbles for the lubricant tube, and lifts his head. Chris whimpers in protest. "Fingers?"
"Oh god—oh god, yeah."
Will spills lubricant in his haste, but Chris doesn't seem to notice. He hooks two fingertips against Chris' rim and then begins stroking slow, inward circles there.
"That's it. Mmm, nice and relaxed."
Chris gasps. His fingers clench into fists. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck."
It almost surprises Will, how easily two fingers slip inside. He meant to use one to start, but then Chris' hips sort of came up, and... He waits, breathes, feels the slippery, hot clench, and then lets the two digits sink in all the way to his last knuckle.
"Oh my god oh my god oh my god."
"Okay?"
"M-move."
Will twists his fingers and then rocks them out and back in, his dick throbbing at the noisy squelch and the sensation of Chris' ass yielding, tight as a fist and hot as a brand, to his fingers. It's a while before Chris is loose enough to go harder, and when Will adds a third finger he essentially starts that process all over again.
Chris is a sweating, panting mess, his eyes glazed over and his belly heaving, shining with streaks of both fresh and drying pre-come.
He lifts up eagerly, wrapping his thick thighs around Will's head. "More."
Four fingers is a lot, but a closer approximation of Will's cock size, so he does it. Chris goes still here, breathing shallowly and rapidly. Will takes a moment to look down, to watch his big fingers glistening with lubricant, turning and pressing in and out of Chris' stretched, red-pink hole. He must have waxed, because he's relatively hairless between his legs tonight.
Will carefully pulls out, just to let Chris relax and lose some sensation. He doesn't want to overdo it and make that wonderfully sensitive rim go numb. But it only takes a minute of less engaging foreplay for Chris to begin to whine and press Will's hand back down there, and Will is four fingers deep again, and Chris takes it so much easier.
Will angles his fingers up and in, searching—and is very pleased when he's able to get a reaction from grazing Chris' prostate.
"Thought that was bullshit," Chris gasps, his legs falling to the mattress, "oh my fucking god."
The more Will does it, the firmer and more sensitive Chris' prostate becomes. He's finally able to set his hand and roll his wrist just right in order to continually stimulate it.
"Oh, god, oh god, oh god—"
Will watches Chris' dick pulse on his stomach. "Gonna come for me?"
"L-like this?"
"Just like this. Don't touch it. Relax."
"I can't, I—can't, it's—"
Will presses in harder, jerks his fingers faster and with less predictable repetition. "You're close. Come on. Fuck yourself on my fingers."
Once Chris relaxes and gives in to the command, it's over in seconds. His cock spurts lush and long all over his stomach and chest with four of Will's fingers screwing him open. He makes no noise at first, just bends and twists and gets himself so very messy, but after it passes he gasps out a laugh and goes limp.
Will has to admit—he wasn't sure about that until the moment Chris came. It was worth every second and the risk of looking foolish.
Chris grins at the ceiling. "That was incredible."
Will sits forward between his thighs. "You were amazing."
"I'm broken. The good kind of broken. Shit."
Will crawls up Chris' body, straddling and kissing him. He shivers when Chris' arms and legs come around him and draw him in closer. Their lips meet and part sweetly and slowly while Will rubs his dick through mess drying all over Chris' skin. He's painfully hard—and has been for so long—that it's a physical shock to have friction against himself. He pushes his cock into the groove of Chris' come-streaked hip and groans.
The confidence that blossoms on Chris' face is breathtaking. "You want to fuck me?"
"God, yes." Will kisses the corner of his mouth.
Chris' legs bend, bracket Will's torso and hips, his heels digging into Will's lower back as he pulls Will in. He lies back against the pillows, and Will rises on his elbows to watch him move. It feels right to settle his pelvis between Chris' legs, to feel that beautiful, tight body under his.
"Fuck me." Chris drags his fingernails down Will's chest and over his defined abdominal muscles. "Fuck me, come on."
Will sits up on his knees and drags Chris' legs over his shoulders. He wraps his hand around Chris' cock, which is still a little swollen. "Want to make you come again." He kisses the inside of Chris' knee. "Make you come around my cock."
When Will drags the latex-clad shaft of his dick up and down Chris' slippery crack, the mouthing clench of Chris' hole is enough to keep him there. He gives in faster than he ever has before—Chris is so open—edging in, in, in until he can't go any deeper. Chris' belly heaves beneath his hand. He drizzles more lubricant between them—Chris goes limp with relief. He rolls his hips back and forth, working Chris open with his cock until he's as loose as he was before. He feels Chris' eyes on his body, watching his muscles chord and flex as he fucks him.
The high-pitched whimpers and breathy squeaks Chris emits are gorgeous and plentiful.
Will works up to a faster pace, then slows down, and then mixes it up again, not wanting Chris to anticipate every change. Will refuses to come quickly, and stops entirely when his orgasm rises. He loses track of how many times he does this. Chris is beautiful beneath him, bent in half, all milky-dirty-freckled skin and his legs spread apart and his cock hard, his body jiggling where he's soft and tense where he's lean, his arms flung out and his hands buried in the sheets. He looks so good, so comfortable, taking Will's cock. His face is a mask of pleasure—and other emotions Will hopes he's not seeing just because he wants them to be there.
When he finds it impossible to continue backing down, he takes Chris' cock in hand again. "Got another one for me?"
The noises Chris makes are so broken and high-pitched that Will can't make out everything he says. "I—think. Oh god oh god oh fuck just keep fucking me, feels so good, fuck, fuck, fuck." His thick, powerful, tear-drop shaped hips drive down and forward, working his ass on Will's cock over and over again. The fatty parts of them and of his ass wiggle, and Will stares, enthralled, at the sight of that gorgeous flesh spreading around his dick.
He holds Chris there, right at the pronounced jut of his hips, and pounds into him, making the skin between his fingers go even whiter than it usually is. "Like this?"
Chris tugs his own cock frantically. "Y-yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Oh god. Oh fuck."
"Yeah. Yeah, baby, come on." He fucks Chris harder. "Come on Daddy's cock."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Chris gasps, and comes—there's nothing much left to offer, but his orgasm is as intense as the earlier, wetter one was. On his next breath, he pushes out, "Come on me. I wanna watch you come."
Will has been on the verge of coming for the last twenty minutes—all it takes is one hungry look, Chris' eyes practically devouring the sight of his cock, and he' right there. He doesn't hesitate to pull out, discard the condom, and jerk off all over Chris' chest, kneeling over his hips like a worshiper at prayer.
After, he collapses forward, cradling Chris' head and kissing him.
"Fuck." Chris slides sweaty fingers down his sides. "F-fuck."
Will lies down on top of him, breathing heavily. "You okay?"
"Stop fishing. My world has been sufficiently rocked and you know it."
"Just checking."
Chris smiles, and presses his lips to Will's temple. "If I wasn't in love with you before tonight, I would be now. Let's just put it that way."
Oh.
Will lifts his head up and scans Chris' face. "Chris."
"It doesn't have to be a thing. Don't make it a thing."
"No. No, it's—me too." Smiling, Will presses Chris' roaming hand to his lips. "Me too, honey."