Painted Blue - 15. Chapter 15

The duplex was quiet and still in the fading light. Heat still clung to the brown brick face and reached out into the chill as Dorian leaned against his car in the driveway. The cold stone of betrayal lodged in the pit of his stomach lessened with each drag of the cigarette between his fingers. Nearly five years nicotine-free, up in literal smoke.

He went over and over it in his head and the only conclusion that he kept going back to was that he was an idiot. A naive, desperate idiot. All it took was a pretty face. A little young bait to make him feel human again. Betrayal had morphed into a hot knot of anger by the time he ground the cigarette butt into a black smear on the asphalt.

Felix was in the spare room, back to the open door, ear buds a tinny white noise as he fiddled with the tablet they were plugged in to. The phone was on the desk next to him. Dorian strode forward and snatched it.

“Oh.” Felix pulled the ear buds out, music suddenly louder from them. “Hey.” His smile went unnoticed as Dorian flipped through his recent calls. “Um, what's up?”

“Where'd you get the money for that,” Dorian asked sternly, nodding his head at the tablet while he skimmed through the phone.

Felix frowned. “I told you I got it from—” He stifled a gasp as the larger man suddenly spun the chair and planted his hands firmly on the arm rests, silvery-blue eyes hard and focused.

“This is your only chance to answer my questions before this gets a whole lot worse.” He grit his teeth against the shake in his voice. “Where did you get the money?”

Felix stared at him in silent uncertainty, eyebrows twitching as he searched the older man's face. He seemed to make up his mind and gave a slight smirk. “Is this . . .?”

Dorian flinched and looked down at Felix's hand smoothing up his arm.

“No,” he snarled. “Take this damn thing off.” He roughly jerked at the closure of the leather collar, tugging it free of Felix's neck and throwing it on the bed. He turned back to Felix with a scowl. “Where did you get the money?”

“I don't have the money yet,” he finally answered, voice carefully measured. “Spike gave it to me because he said I could do school stuff on it. I was going to give him the money when I get paid.”

Dorian held up the phone he had given the teen, shaking it. “When I pull my phone records, am I going to find a call to Hawthorne or Marshal?”

Felix looked at the phone with detached confusion before pale eyes focused back on Dorian, pupils pinpoints of panic. “What?!”

“You had access to my goddamn op file.” Felix had started frantically shaking his head as Dorian spoke. “Then the son of a bitch conveniently knows I'm a cop.”

“No.” The protest came out choked and childlike. “I didn't. I wouldn't!”

Dorian pulled back with a scoff and Felix followed him, scrabbling at his forearms desperately. “Please, I didn't tell anyone. I didn't look.”

Dorian had turned, mind working as Felix made his appeals to his back.

“Why would I?” His voice had taken on an edge of incredulous pain. “Why would you think I'd do anything that would get you hurt?”

The detective turned again, regarding the slight boy and his pout. “Oh, please. You don't expect me to buy that bullshit? Eighteen year old who looks like you and you expect me to believe you'd go for me? Some crippled, middle aged cop? Right. Nice work, kid, but the game is up.” He turned away with a shake of his head, making for the door.

“Dorian . . .” Felix's hand grabbing his arm was a sudden burst of fuel on to the crackling heat of Dorian's anger. He caught the arm that grabbed him and spun, backing the smaller man into the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

“I trusted you,” he seethed through clenched teeth.

Felix took a ragged breath before his expression hardened. “I didn't do anything, you stubborn ass!”

Dorian didn't want to believe him. It was easier not to. Easier to believe he let himself get too close. Easier to believe it was his own fault for wanting something more. The alternative was . . . what? Perfect, suspiciously convenient Felix wanted to be there. Wanted him. And if he wasn't the leak . . . Mink's furtive glance at the camera played again in his mind, how he pleaded for protection.

Could it have been a goddamn cop? Why?

Felix's squirming jerked him away from his thoughts.

“Get off of me,” he snapped, pawing at Dorian's wrists and twisting in his grasp. He jerked a knee up, trying to jam it into the larger man's crotch.

“Stop it,” Dorian growled, wedging his own knee into the teen's thigh and forcing him into an off balance splay. Frantic, thin arms battled with him for purchase until he pinned them securely. “Calm down.”

A familiar look bloomed in Felix's eyes. There was still the insulted furrow of his brow, the pained tension in his jaw, but that open need had dulled the edges and parted his lips. Dorian found himself too willing to take all the adrenaline and anger and roll it into something blissfully distracting.

“I didn't—”

Whatever Felix had been about to say was lost in the crush of Dorian's lips. Teeth and tongue worked impatiently, one hand jerking at Felix's belt, his zipper, shoving fabric down in fistfuls. His own slacks followed, groping hastily at the snap that secured his holster to his belt, the weight of his badge pulling them down to his knees.

Felix moaned into his mouth as Dorian rolled his hips into the smaller man, nothing but heat and frustration between them, rigid lengths dragging against each other in desperation. He had to bend his knees awkwardly to compensate for height and it didn't take long for his hip to burn with the effort, but it was background noise in a sea of sensation.

The taste of Felix's mouth, dark and smooth and warm. The way he somehow smelled like spring, alive and earthy and new. How the stomach muscle beneath his flesh felt against Dorian's erection, tensing and releasing in rhythm as he dragged his own aching need against the older man, foreskin soft and smooth, sliding freely in confinement. Moans and grunts accompanied the distant sound of music from the tablet's ear buds, the meeting of their mouths mimicking the obscene chorus of the growing wetness between them.

The pace quickened with abandon, rhythm lost to intensity. Felix's head dropped forward, fingers blanching around the holster straps at Dorian's shoulders.

“F-fuck, I'm going to . . .” That's all he managed before the pulsing spasms started, liquid heat spilling from him in short whimpers.

The feeling of someone else's semen rolling down the sway of his erection proved to be too much for Dorian and he wasn't far behind, grinding into slick skin, shuddering through release that washed over him and left only calm.

He pressed his forehead against Felix's. “How do you do this to me.” His voice was a quiet rasp.

It wasn't a question so Felix didn't answer.

“Need a shower,” Dorian mumbled, pushing himself away and fumbling with his pants.

The water was scalding hot and managed to distract him enough that he was able to slip into a familiar, muscle memory routine. Wash hair, wash face, wash body, scrub feet, shave. He didn't bother getting dressed again after.

Dorian sat on the couch in a black terrycloth robe. A nearly empty beer bottle leaned loosely in his hands as he watched the fish tank, detached. The sounds of running water from the guest bathroom had ceased half a beer ago.

It was some time between when the bathroom door opened and when he finally heard Felix's voice behind him.

“I didn't look at your files. And I didn't tell anyone anything.”

Dorian let out a tired sigh, not turning from the tank. “OK.”

His voice was closer and softer when he spoke again. “What happened?”

Dorian sucked on his cheek for a moment of deliberation and finished his beer.

“Tried to bust Marshal. He knew I was a cop. Trying to figure out how.”

Felix carefully sat at the other end of the sofa, dark hair damp. “Maybe James told him?”

“No. He couldn't have known the details.”

They both watched the fish floating lazily. Bonnie and Clyde were resting in their overturned pot, their lips puckering in time. Carl's tail fin was barely visible in the moss. The tetras moved together, flickering as a single mass.

“Dirty cop?”

Dorian scowled at the suggestion, leaning forward to heavily thump the empty bottle onto the coffee table. “You have no idea what you're suggesting.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were the one who said they would have shot you if they knew you were gay.” Felix just crossed his arms to mirror his legs when Dorian gave him a look.

Another heavy sigh.

“This guy is . . .” The detective frowned at the fish tank. “Dangerous. If he has someone in the PD under his thumb . . .” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I need to be really careful how I approach this.” He regarded the teen slowly. “Can I trust you to keep this to yourself?”

“You always could,” Felix replied dryly.

 

 

Dorian missed the uniform. Missed patrol; the beat. The comforting weight of a full gear belt and a kevlar vest. Putting it all on again reminded him of how vulnerable he felt without it.

It was a familiar rhythm. Slip in the ceramic trauma plate, put on and cinch down the Velcro on the vest. Boots on before the belt because lord knows you're not bending down that far with full gear in the way. Inner Velcro belt first, then the duty belt. Right to left; OC pepper spray, check. Triple retention gun holster, check. ASP baton, check. Handcuffs case, check. Small first-aid pouch with Nitrile gloves, check. Second handcuffs case, check. Flashlight, check. Radio, check. Two extra clips, check. He slipped nylon, snapping keepers into place between each element, one of which held his keys on a carabiner. All in all, about twenty pounds of gear.

It took time getting used to swinging that kind of weight around. Running with it, climbing obstacles with it, adjusting for the extra radius, reflexively knowing where each element of one's kit was and how to quickly retrieve it. It was drilled into every cop in the academy and the first year of patrol; know your gear. After all that, it was no wonder that Chase felt as though he were leaving a limb at home when he went to work in nothing but a simple shoulder rig.

Felix had already gone to his shift at the convenience store. There was nothing but the well known, heavy sound of his boots on the wood floor and the creaking of his gear as he fed the fish and headed out the door.

 

The Pumpkin Fest was less and less about pumpkins each year. Now, the only event nodding to it's namesake was the pumpkin decorating contest. Otherwise it was just an excuse to give the kids something to do. It had all the standard fare; face painting, pony rides, petting zoo, bouncy houses, all manner of food. All the signs and décor still proudly boasted pumpkins, nonetheless.

It was by one such sign that Chase was stuck directing traffic in and out of the community lot. He usually got his bid in early enough to choose foot patrol around the indoor vendors. Air conditioning and free lemonade were the perks of that station. Traffic, however, was entirely hot asphalt, annoyed drivers and inevitable armpit rash.

It was good money, all the same, and was one of many events leading up to the holidays that he always signed up for. Christmas gifts weren't happening on a cop's salary otherwise. Detective's pay wasn't quite as bad, but he liked having the buffer.

It was nearing the end of his shift and he had mostly zoned out on muscle memory when he saw the Bentley. It was a dark smokey silver, sunlight gleaming off of it's pristine surface as it passed by. In the back seat, through a dark tinted window, Chase caught a glimpse of flat, cold, black eyes looking back at him.

He spun on heel as the car drove on, immediately pinching the thumb button on his shoulder microphone.

“625, 10-28 on license plate King, Victor, 5, 8, Union, 4.”

There was a pause as the grey Bentley turned down the next block.

“Vehicle registered to a Paisley, Samuel. Date of birth 10-12-72.”

Chase grinned. “10-4, 10-25 in—” He checked his watch. “One hour.”

 

He happily stopped by the PD at end of shift to meet with dispatch.

Stephanie Wilks was quite possibly the oldest dispatcher Chase had ever seen and she had proved herself with well over three decades on the radio. She had trained every single dispatcher who came in after her and had seen most of them leave.

“You run him for warrants?”

Stephanie held out a printed sheet for him. “It's not my first day, sweet heart. Nothing. Not even a traffic ticket.”

Chase frowned at the information in his hands. “He has ten vehicles registered under his name?”

Stephanie only grunted in a 'you noticed' sort of way.

He tapped the edge of the paper against his chin, thinking. “Thanks, going to drop this by Cagg's office and see what we can do with it.”

Cagg was luckily spending his weekend elsewhere. Chase had nearly gotten away with leaving the print and a request form on his empty desk when Sergeant Stuart caught him.

“Detective Chase!” He winced and turned to face the red-headed sergeant.

Stuart was one of the few people who could look Chase in the eye. He was every bit as tall and probably then some with a solid build and a severe hair cut that made his head too square. Still, he managed to have an air of approachability and boyish charm that made stupid things fall out of Chase's mouth. He avoided the good-looking bastard at all costs.

“What are you doing in on a Saturday? And in your blues!” Stuart leaned against the door-frame of Cagg's empty office.

Chase was trapped.

“Oh, uh, was working traffic at Pumpkin Fest.” He hooked a thumb in a vaguely Eastern direction. “Happened to see a vehicle that might be linked to a case, thought I'd drop the info and follow-up request on Cagg's desk.”

Stuart tipped his head back, glasses catching a glare of the light behind him. “Right, Pumpkin Fest! My wife and kids are at that today. They probably saw you.”

Chase laughed through an awkward pause. “Right. Hey, your kids should totally enter the costume contest. They don't even have to dress up.”

The sergeant only stared at him in confusion and he instantly regretted the attempt at likening ginger children to pumpkins.

“Right, so, going now.”

Stuart seemed to have gotten used to the idea of their conversations ending on equal parts confusion and retreat and stepped out of Chase's way.

 

Felix hadn't been home long when Dorian came in.

“Wow,” he started, looking the larger man over. “I think I just developed a uniform fetish.”

Dorian rested his hands on his gun belt, standing with his feet a comfortable width apart as he tipped his head. “If you're going to keep developing new ones, we're going to need more paper work.”

Neither one of them pretended they didn't know where it was going when Felix crossed the room. It's not like they needed to make excuses for it anymore. The teen always had a way about him when his mind had gone somewhere else, and he'd proven adept at taking Dorian's along with it.

“So, Officer Chase.” A single, pale hand smoothed up the front of Dorian's shirt. Somehow, the fact that he couldn't feel the touch through his vest lit every nerve in his body. Felix rose up on his toes, moving in for a kiss.

Dorian pulled his head back. “Can I help you, citizen?” His tone was incredulous.

The younger man smiled broadly. “My cat is stuck in a tree.”

“You want FD for that.”

“Heart attack?”

“EMS.”

“Someone seems to have stolen my underwear.”

“That's,” Dorian paused, gaze tracking down Felix's chest. “Unfortunate.”

“Wanna investigate?” Felix purred, swaying his body forward to make contact with the larger man's.

The fact that he had started groping at the snap closure for the duty belt showed how laughably little he understood about how it was worn.

“Hands off the belt, kid.”

Felix's eyes shot up to meet Dorian's, a mischievous glint starting.

“Or what?”

“Or I'll have to start treating you like a suspect.”

“Yea?” He unsnapped one of the keepers.

Dorian didn't bother grabbing his hands. He spun the teen by the shoulder and shoved him face first onto the island counter. For a moment, the huff of air that left the slight body made him wonder if he'd been too rough, but a shaky gasp followed and the lean back arched.

“Hands above your head.”

Felix complied readily, goosebumps erupting down his pale arms as the handcuffs closed on his wrists. Dorian moved the boy's hands to grip the opposite edge of the counter, his upper torso splayed across its length in a way that made him bend over sharply.

“Don't move.”

It was standard to wear gloves for a large portion of pat downs and Dorian made sure he snapped them on loud enough for Felix to hear.

“Have anything on you I should know about?”

“No, sir.”

Purple gloves slid slowly down Felix's sides, around to his chest, brushing the outline of taut nipples through his shirt. The hands continued down, briefly teasing over the crotch of his pants before a hand slipped into his pocket.

“What's this?” Dorian asked with accusation, fingertips brushing the tip of Felix's erection through his pocket. “I know you heard me, boy.”

“It's my . . .” Whatever he had ended the sentence with was lost in the crook of his arm, cheeks a bright crimson.

“Speak up,” Dorian teased, rolling the head between forefinger and thumb.

“It's my dick, sir.”

“Hm.” He thrust his whole hand deeper, straining the pocket to the side as he gripped the length of the teen's erection, giving it a firm squeeze. “I guess it is. You're awfully hard for a pat down. You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dorian clicked his tongue in mock disgust. “That's so dirty. A cop can't even frisk you without you getting hard.” He jerked his hand out of the pocket and Felix whimpered for it's loss.

The detective's fingers followed the valley of the teen's hip bones and in to his pants as the other hand worked at their closure.

“You weren't kidding, someone definitely nabbed your briefs.”

The soft denim slid easily down the white expanse of Felix's thighs.

“Holding anything else?” Dorian asked, palm smoothly following the curve of a buttock.

“I plead the fourth,” Felix replied shakily.

“Fifth. You plead the fifth. Right not to incriminate yourself. Though the fourth is aptly protection against illegal searches and seizures.”

“Whatever, you knew what I meant, pig,” the teen shot back with impatience.

Dorian slapped him sharply on the rear. The crisp sound carried through the kitchen and was followed by a gasped moan.

He left the teen in his bent over position, a reddening hand print blooming on the right side of his ass.

“Wh-where are you going?”

Two gloved fingers pointed at Felix strongly, as if he were any other annoying suspect. “Shut up and don't move.”

Dorian whistled a tune to himself as he retrieved a bottle from near the stove and placed it on the counter near Felix's head, rounding the island until he was once again behind the smaller man.

“Spread 'em.”

Lean legs shuffled apart as much as they could with his pants around his ankles.

The detective leaned over the smaller body, duty belt digging into his back as a gloved hand followed the ridge of his spine down.

“Are you going to resist?”

“No, sir.”

Dorian made a pleased sound and grabbed the bottle of olive oil, coating two fingers as he continued whistling. The first digit was easy enough. The teen had learned to override impulse and relax through the initial pressure.

“Someone's been practicing.”

Felix had turned his head to respond, but the sudden insistence of the second digit broke his concentration and his hips jerked forward.

“Easy. Drop your back.” Dorian's other hand caressed the dip of the his spine, patiently waiting as the tension melted out of him again. Oiled, gloved fingers eased the process considerably as Felix breathed through the second finger fully joining the first.

The smaller man's attention was focused so inwardly that he didn't notice Dorian tipping the bottle of oil into his free palm. The result was an incredibly hot moan when the slick glove closed around his erection.

The combination of nitrile, oil and foreskin made for smooth, slippery strokes that brought Felix up on his elbows, forehead dropped onto the counter. It was when Dorian curved his fingers down toward the firm lump of prostate that the delicious profanity started.

“Ah, f-f-fuck.”

The detective had started moving his fingertips as if they were peddling a tiny bicycle and was amused that Felix's stuttering followed the same rhythm.

“Jes-s-sus Christ. Don't stop.”

Handcuffs scraped loudly on the countertop as Felix attempted to rock his body against both sensations simultaneously.

“Is this what you want, you kinky little shit?” Dorian's voice was a smoldering heat against the teen's ear. “Some cop finger-fucking you on a kitchen counter?”

He hadn't been expecting an actual answer, so “oh god, yes” was just a bonus.

The sloppy chorus of oil and flesh joined the sharp sounds of metal cuffs jarring against each other as Dorian's fist pumped faster. Within a minute, Felix's heels had come up off the floor.

There was always a brief moment before the point of no return where he went still and quiet, everything from his waist down frozen in a second of rigid focus before the crest of sensation collapsed completely.

Dorian waited for that moment and when it came . . . he made sure Felix didn't. He let go of his erection entirely and the fingers inside him stopped moving.

Felix gave a few erratic thrusts into thin air before letting out a frustrated whine, slumping his torso flat on the counter.

“I didn't hear you ask if you could cum,” Dorian chastised.

The younger man twisted to look back over his shoulder, recognizing a point of negotiation like a beacon of hope. “Please. Don't stop.”

The detective started lazily moving his fingers again. “Is that the only line you've got? It's losing its effectiveness.”

Felix was facing forward again and Dorian couldn't see his expression, but he saw the blush in his ears, the frustrated tension in his shoulders. The fingers kept their mercilessly minimal pace.

“You think you can just say please and get your way?”

“No, sir.”

“When can you cum?”

There was a pause and the voice that answered was heady and wanton. “When you say.”

Dorian grinned and cupped his palm over the swollen glans, working slick, rotating circles as Felix sighed appreciatively.

The rhythm increased rapidly and the teen was back up on his toes, moaning through tightly closed lips.

“F-fuck, I'm going to cu—damnit!” Dorian had stopped again.

“You still didn't ask.”

Felix shot a look back over his shoulder that was equal parts pleading and annoyance. It only lasted for a second before morphing into slack compliance.

The touch continued slowly at first, hands working through combinations of sensation. The smaller man was barely on the pads of his toes, most of his weight angled forward on the counter as he allowed himself to be rocked by the movements.

“Can I cum now?” The question was soft and distant and far too lucid. Dorian elected to ignore it.

The teen's slim thighs started to shake.

“I'm c-close, can I n-now?” The warble in his voice was starting to match the spasms in his thighs, complimenting the wild beat of his heart that the larger man felt around his fingers.

Dorian was drunk on it. He had a writhing, begging piece of heaven literally at his fingertips. He could hold him on edge as long as he wanted. He could take him whenever he wanted. There was so much he could subject this young, lean body to that fell well within the very broad boundaries he was given. He suddenly found himself wanting to do it all. Ropes, gags, whips, chains, whatever it took to keep him like this.

“Can I cum, sir?” It was raw and clear and direct and Dorian fucking loved it.

“You have permission,” is all it took, breathed into the shell of Felix's ear.

Liquid heat spilled into Dorian's palm in pulses that showed no sign of stopping until Felix's body went suddenly limp. He would have slipped completely off the counter had the larger man not been supporting him.

The detective gave him a few moment's reprieve before withdrawing his fingers, slipping the gloves off inside out and dropping them on the counter with an audible slap. He had just stepped back to turn the teen around so he could remove the handcuffs when Felix thrust himself up to meet the older man's mouth.

The kiss was eager and pliant, cuffs grinding against each other softly as Felix gripped the taller man's collar for leverage. He let go all at once, hands swiftly descending to Dorian's fly, groping and unzipping impatiently.

“Can I suck you?”

“Um, you don't want to do that.”

Felix suddenly stopped his groping, his eyes losing some of their mindless passion. “Why not?”

Dorian cleared his throat awkwardly. “I've been directing traffic in full gear all day. I need a shower.”

There was an unexpected twitch to one of the teen's dark eye brows, jaw working forward slightly as his eyes fell downward, his tongue appearing to moisten his lips.

“Seriously?” Dorian asked, tone amused.

Felix only looked back up at him with a slight blush and bit his bottom lip, green fire lighting his eyes in a way that dropped a spark of adrenaline straight through to Dorian's loins.

“You're filthy. On your knees.”

Taking a piss in duty gear was always challenge enough, managing to work an erection free was extra annoying. The process wasn't eased any by the fact that Felix made a point of licking every bit of exposed flesh that he could along the way.

Both of Felix's hands gripped the base—since, after all, where one hand went the other was obliged to follow—while his lips kissed gradually up the shaft. Dorian wasn't nearly as invested in how it felt as much as how it looked.

Gazing down and seeing himself in full uniform while someone worked his cock on their knees was an image he didn't know he needed in his life. The throbbing twitch it caused was not lost on Felix who tipped his head back to stare up at the detective. His eyes were fixed on Dorian's as his tongue curved to cup the underside of the erection in his hands, dragging slick heat all the way to the tip before his lips closed around it and pulled back with a wet pop.

The bratty grin was the last straw.

Dorian gripped a fistful of glossy black hair and the teen responded readily, mouth accepting his length with heat and fervor. Felix's hands went to the floor for balance, palms between his knees. The larger man took the opportunity to plant the end of his boot firmly on the chain linking the cuffs together. With his hands secured and his head controlled, Felix could only time his breaths appropriately. Dorian found the pace and depth that the younger man had difficulty with and maintained it.

The familiar rhythm of suction, lips and tongue collapsed as the teen's tempo faltered. There was an exquisite lurching spasm in his throat that Dorian pressed in to for a few heart beats before pulling back. He allowed a sufficient gulp of breath before driving back into the gripping protests of Felix's throat. He ground his hips in to the sensation, head rolling back as he groaned.

As amazing as it felt, there was a nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him that people tend to enjoy breathing regularly and choking on someone's penis was likely to be somewhat unpleasant. However, when he let go of Felix's head, he only pulled back enough to facilitate another gulp of air then looked up expectantly.

The sudden laugh that came out of Dorian was a touch on the maniacal side. “Kinky little shit,” he snarled, fingers lacing behind the boy's head as he dragged his mouth back down the rigid length.

The older man let himself get lost in it, fucking the teen's mouth however he wanted. Each involuntary gag triggered a new surge of saliva until it ran a path down Felix's chin and dripped on to the boot pinning his hands to the floor. The obscenity of it and the fact that he couldn't lift his hands to wipe it away was doing incredible things for Dorian's entertainment.

He wanted to draw it out, wanted to build up slowly, but he was fairly certain that Felix was reaching his limits of reasonable accommodation. He settled for pulling back and working a hand down his shaft as Felix immediately resumed his pattern of lips and tongue around the sensitive head.

“Look at me,” Dorian breathed.

Green eyes instantly flashed up to lock on Dorian's, dark lashes wet, the area around his eyes and nose red. He had endured it for the older man's pleasure. Wanted it just to please him. Dorian's free hand cradled the teen's wet chin, holding his gaze as the orgasm built and released. He let himself moan deeply, fist squeezing each pulse of semen into the warmth of the boy's mouth, palm feeling him swallow.

Dorian barely let the spasms fade before he moved his boot and jerked Felix to his feet, mouth closing on swollen, soft lips. He tasted himself on the sweetness of Felix's tongue. Dark, musky and thick. He released him slowly, the knotted coil in his belly melting to a sleepy calm.

Felix coughed and clumsily wiped at his chin with both handcuffed hands. He grinned.

“Put that on the list as a five.” His voice was hoarse.

Dorian chuckled slightly and went for his handcuff keys. “Which part?”

“All of it,” Felix answered, rubbing his newly freed wrists.

“Let me see.” The older man gently took his wrists, turning them to inspect the ring of pink and red welts. He frowned. “Metal cuffs really aren't good for this sort of thing.”

Felix leaned in. “Are you asking what I want for Christmas?”

“Have you been good?”

“Want me to sit on your lap and find out?”

Dorian swallowed, dragging his mind back on track. “I need a shower.”

“Good idea.” Felix agreed, peeling his shirt over his head and stepping out of the pants around his ankles. He turned and casually walked down the hall, naked skin contrasting the dark wood flooring.

Dorian let out an appreciative groan and followed.

 

The normally bare floor of Dorian's room was littered with random pieces of uniform. The duty belt had been the only thing to make it to a somewhat logical place across the end of the bed. Damp, naked limbs occupied the rest of it.

“This is how people get pneumonia,” Felix protested against Dorian's chest.

“That's a myth,” he mumbled, half asleep.

“I'm hungry.”

Dorian sighed and forced his eyes open. “Teenagers. Always hungry, never want to cuddle.”

Felix shoved himself into a sitting position. “Food is life. Cuddling is gay.”

“We're gay. We are literally gay. Everything we do is gay. Even your food is gay.”

“Your mom is gay.”

Dorian frowned at the ceiling in consideration. “It would explain a lot.” He huffed as Felix suddenly straddled his lap.

“Lets go eat.”

“Is food and sex literally all you think about?”

“No,” Felix frowned. “I just don't think you're interested in everything else I think about.”

Dorian's brow furrowed and he propped himself on his elbows. “What does that mean? Why wouldn't I be interested?”

The teen shrugged. “It's not like we're dating.”

There was apparently a very narrow window in which to respond and Dorian missed it by staring in dumbfounded confusion.

Felix ambled off of the bed. “I'm getting dressed.”