Happiness is...By Ika
Page 1 of 1
Some time in Season 1.
Note: Avon's boots are, anachronistically, the boots from _Headhunter_.
"I've got you a present," said Avon, with his eyes at their darkest, his voice at its flattest. Not "Hello" or anything, of course: "I've got you a present."
"Thank you," said Blake. Avon dropped his eyes in acknowledgement, and that broke the intensity between them just enough for Blake to step forward and put his arms round him. Warm skin through clothing all the way down him, and the way they angled to touch each other so the bump of Avon's shoulder fitted into the hollow of Blake's. Blake shut his eyes, smelling some new shampoo on Avon's hair but the familiar smell of Avon underneath, and thought it was ridiculous to feel so happy. Avon had only been gone a week.
"Where is it then?"
Avon made that slight "Ah" noise he always made when he was about to say something unimpeachably true and entirely misleading, then said: "You can have it when we get to our room."
"Oh," said Blake, sliding one hand up Avon's back to his shoulder blades and one hand down to his bottom and going to kiss him. He didn't quite get there, though, because someone shouted "Chevron!", someone else started making loud kissy noises, Avon turned his head round to see who it was, and the busy, noisy spaceport faded back in around them. TWO.
"Chevron and Jake?" asked Blake in a whisper while Oska and Lal were at the bar. "Is that the best you could come up with?"
"It's simple pragmatism. Jake. Choose a name entirely dissimilar to your own, and you run the risk of failing to answer to it: a far more suspicious circumstance than having names which happen to rhyme with those of a pair of terrorists." "Hmmm. Are you feeling better for your break?"
"Entirely, thank you," he said with a small smile, and turned his head to greet Oska and Lal, coming back from the bar with a tray of drinks.
The warmth of Avon's thigh, his hip, along his own on the perfectly-wide-enough bench had put Blake in a state of suspension; he thought of a particular, cloudy drink Cally was fond of prescribing. Floating in the diffuse, contented warmth of Avon's presence, of sitting in a bar together like two civilised men, of the novelty of an entire half-hour of being in each other's company without an argument or a life-threatening situation developing, were hotter, urgent particles of desire so sharp you could call it need. They prickled through him in unexpected places and at unexpected times while he talked; while he and his - well, all right, while he and Avon - had a normal, civilised, conversation with another couple. He marvelled at it.
"What brings you to Mykonos-Alpha then? Here to get wed, are you?" said Oska.
"No," said Avon (a fraction of a second before Blake said it).
"That's a shame. I do like a wedding. So, where did you two meet?"
"In prison," said Avon, deadpan.
There was a short silence. "Right then," said Lal, "anyone for another?"
Avon's right hand dropped to rest just above Blake's knee for a second; his left raised his glass. He drained it and stood up. "No, thank you. Jake and I have an urgent appointment. Elsewhere."
"Goodness, is that the time?" said Blake. FOUR.
Avon was against the hotel-room door (the inside; Blake was vaguely proud of himself, somewhere behind the little hot sparks of delight that every separate nerve in his body was delivering to his brain all at once, for making it to their room this time). Avon was against the door and Blake was against Avon; his body against him, his arms around him, his tongue inside him, his blood fizzing with the feel of it, leather as warm as skin. His mouth on Avon's; oh he wanted to take it slow and sweet, trace the inner edge of his lips with the very tip of his tongue, feel the tension in Avon's stillness; but instead his tongue was deep in Avon's mouth and Avon was trying to gasp around it and his teeth went into Avon's lip, not too hard, not yet, and Avon's whole body arched with the small pain, pressing into Blake, his arms falling limp by his sides, opening his body up, neck, torso, hips.
One of Blake's hands was cupping Avon's balls through his trousers, the fingers stroking them and the places behind them, feeling Avon's hips rock, feeling the stretch at the seams and the warmth of the leather; the other was gently reminding Avon's throat of its vulnerability. He trailed a finger down over Avon's Adam's apple to the opening of his shirt, met the first of an alarmingly large number of small buttons, and twisted his hand in the fabric there.
Suddenly Avon's hands were tight round Blake's wrists, wrenching them away and holding them behind Blake's back, and in Blake's belly there was sudden hot panic drowning in need, melting his knees, hardening his cock. He could hear his own heart beating with a fear that was half-false (Avon would never make me do anything) and half-real (he wouldn't have to. God help me, I'm lost already, I'm lost). He loved this. Sometimes you just want to be a number. You just want things to be simple. Good boy. You are loved. You are cared for.
He could barely look at Avon, whose face was shining a little already with sweat.
"Take it off nicely ," said Avon quietly. "Count the buttons."
He let go of Blake's wrists, and Blake, taking a deep breath and feeling the air tremble in his chest, raised almost-shaking, clumsy fingers to Avon's chest and undid twenty damn fiddly buttons, counting every one aloud, dry-mouthed. There were inches of empty air between their bodies. They were only touching where Blake's fingers brushed Avon's skin and Blake was so dizzy and blind with the sexuality crackling between them that they might as well have been screwing each other rotten.
>From the next room they could just hear a man's voice saying "yes yes", over and over again. It was like a soundtrack.
Blake undid the last button and lowered his hands, taking half a step back as Avon slid the shirt slowly down over his shoulders and off. There was a small horizontal silver bar, with bobbles at each end, through his left nipple.
When Blake could tear his eyes away he looked at Avon's face and found him smiling wickedly. "That's your present, Blake," he said and pushed him gently over onto the bed.
Avon was making noises which coming from anyone else would have been whimpering, and which were keeping Blake's ears in play; the rest of his erotic response seemed to have taken up residence in his mouth, as he played in sheer, endless fascination with his present. Warm, then cold. Flesh, then metal. He ran his tongue over it, circled round and under the edges of the bar, circled over the hardening flesh at the centre. He sucked the whole thing into his mouth and tugged at the metal, gently.
"Harder," said Avon.
"Is that" Blake managed to say, then ran out of words.
"It's fine, Blake, I had it quick-healed. Harder," and there was that edge to his voice, like a snarl, that Blake loved. He pulled harder, feeling the electricity of metal against his teeth and the warmth and softness of skin against his lips, hearing Avon's small, strange moan of desperation (present for himself, really), and then Avon twisted at the waist and locked his legs round Blake's, pushing against him. Blake was breathless and pushing back, and his hand trailed up Avon's chest to push two fingers into Avon's mouth. Avon sucked them gently, harder, gently, running his tongue between them and over the tips, until Blake rolled over, straddled Avon, rocking gently on him, their balls rubbing against each other through their clothes, and stripped his shirt off, shifted abruptly down Avon's legs and tore his trouser buttons open, watching Avon buck his hips upwards as he tugged the trousers down as far as the boots would let him, and his vague plan of getting himself undressed as well disappeared at the sight of Avon's cock, taut and beautiful. He lowered his mouth onto it: oh. Oh. Beautiful. Avon's half-sob. The heat of it, the smoothness as his lips glided up and down and his tongue dipped delicately into the sticky slit, then flattened and rubbed over and round and just below the head. One hand was spread flat, pressing Avon's thigh into the bed, the fourth and little finger just toying with the edge of his balls; the other was on his chest, of course, a fingertip tracing the ends of the metal bar in his nipple. Avon's breath coming in sobs. Blake's tongue writing "I missed you" over and over again in Braille on Avon's cock. Then Avon's hands lifted his head gently away and he said it aloud, looking up into Avon's face.
"I'm beginning to think I missed you too," said Avon. His voice was blurred. "Boots," he added. Blake fumbled his hands downwards, but Avon kicked about with his legs until Blake got the idea, and got off him. Avon sat up, scooted over to the edge of the bed, and sat there with his legs open. Blake knelt between them and just for a second didn't move, feeling the silence and the way the moment balanced once again between real and playing. Then he bent his head and undid twelve buckles (this time Avon didn't make him count aloud) and slid off boots and socks.
"Now you," said Avon neutrally. "Stand up."
He stood up and put one foot up on the edge of the bed for Avon to undo the boot. Even the air on his naked chest felt like a caress, and he was absurdly touched that Avon's fingers weren't entirely steady as they untied his laces, pulled off boot and sock, waited for the other foot, repeated it, then (finally, finally) got his trousers off and pulled him down again onto the bed.
They lay close and tight together, Avon's cock hard against Blake, Blake's cock hard against Avon, and the tiny, lovely, new point of coldness against Blake's chest. Blake wriggled against it and got his hand round Avon's cock and lost himself in Avon's face, pale, the eyes lost, the mouth half-open, a look almost of wonder, almost of pain, as his hips bucked and his cock thrust into Blake's tightened fist, and he whispered: "Blake Blake."
The rhythm left Blake's own cock out in the cold air and he pushed a finger into Avon's mouth, thinking - or something like thinking, but more important, oh, by far - about putting his cock in there, the warmth, the wet, tongue sliding and pressing but by then one of Avon's hands was there where it needed to be, tight around him, a thumb rubbing wetly over the tip, and the other one was in his mouth. "Get it wet," Avon said softly (spitting out Blake's finger), and then Blake was thrusting harder and harder in Avon's hand, pumping harder and harder on Avon's cock as the wet fingers pressed in circles round his anus, then pressed in, and he pushed down on them, feeling the heat of them fuse with the heat around his penis, the heat of Avon's penis in his own hand, and he was open to Avon and his hand was full of Avon, and their hearts were beating so hard against each other it was as though they were inside each other's chests, and Blake very nearly screamed when he came, and Avon just said "Blake" so quietly Blake wouldn't have heard it if his lips hadn't been against Avon's ear.
"Avon," said Blake, catching his breath, pulling Avon's head down onto his shoulder. Avon made a soft, nuzzling sort of noise, and rolled the two of them over onto the other side of the bed, away from the wet patch.
Close and warm and quiet. The noises from the other room had stopped, too.
Blake was fiddling idly with Avon's piercing. Avon was drowsily rubbing his cheek against Blake's shoulder. "Do you like your present, then?" said Avon.
"Very much. Very unselfish of you. I can't imagine you derive any pleasure from it at all."
"You know how I love to sacrifice myself for the good of the common man. And they don't come much more common than you."
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