This was not the sort of shit Greg should be up to. Which wasn't to say he didn't appreciate it, or that he was going to do something crazy and insane and possibly incredibly stupid like try to put a stop to it, but it was so not something he should be doing in the parking lot outside the lab at 1:42 AM.
If the racket they were making--okay, that he was making; it was not his fault, he honestly couldn't help it--didn't give them away, the foggy windows a la Makeout Point totally were.
"Uncle," he said (cried, squeaked, moaned; final answer: all of the above). "Oh god, white flag, white flag."
Mike made a noise like a flat, disapproving stare. "Too easy," he said, the words barely registering past the heat of his breath and the gentle scrape of stubble against Greg's cock. "You can take more."
Between gulps of sweet, precious air, Greg grit out, "Nope, sorry, no can do," and flexed his hand, his fingers gone numb from the edge of the seatbelt cutting into his palm. "Jesus Christ, I'm going to die of a heart attack in the back seat of a government vehicle with my dick hanging out."
"But you're still talking," Mike said, and Greg glanced down, risking complete cognitive failure by witnessing the push of Mike's tongue under his foreskin, the swirl of it around the head. He sucked in a sharp breath and ended up choking on it as Mike caught delicate skin between the blunt edges of his teeth.
One little tug set China's entire supply of fireworks off inside Greg's head. Sparks flew down his spine, fizzled straight into his gut, and when he finally managed to stifle whatever the hell that noise was that had just burst out of him, it was Mike's down-a-back-alley, trapped-in-a-dark-corner laugh he heard.
"My career is so over," Greg moaned.
"Maybe," Mike said, all cool and casual as if they were having a chat in the hall about tomorrow's chances for rain, "but you've got another fifteen minutes of lunch break to go first."
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branchandroot
Mike/Greg!
Date: 2009-12-31 07:11 am (UTC)This was not the sort of shit Greg should be up to. Which wasn't to say he didn't appreciate it, or that he was going to do something crazy and insane and possibly incredibly stupid like try to put a stop to it, but it was so not something he should be doing in the parking lot outside the lab at 1:42 AM.
If the racket they were making--okay, that he was making; it was not his fault, he honestly couldn't help it--didn't give them away, the foggy windows a la Makeout Point totally were.
"Uncle," he said (cried, squeaked, moaned; final answer: all of the above). "Oh god, white flag, white flag."
Mike made a noise like a flat, disapproving stare. "Too easy," he said, the words barely registering past the heat of his breath and the gentle scrape of stubble against Greg's cock. "You can take more."
Between gulps of sweet, precious air, Greg grit out, "Nope, sorry, no can do," and flexed his hand, his fingers gone numb from the edge of the seatbelt cutting into his palm. "Jesus Christ, I'm going to die of a heart attack in the back seat of a government vehicle with my dick hanging out."
"But you're still talking," Mike said, and Greg glanced down, risking complete cognitive failure by witnessing the push of Mike's tongue under his foreskin, the swirl of it around the head. He sucked in a sharp breath and ended up choking on it as Mike caught delicate skin between the blunt edges of his teeth.
One little tug set China's entire supply of fireworks off inside Greg's head. Sparks flew down his spine, fizzled straight into his gut, and when he finally managed to stifle whatever the hell that noise was that had just burst out of him, it was Mike's down-a-back-alley, trapped-in-a-dark-corner laugh he heard.
"My career is so over," Greg moaned.
"Maybe," Mike said, all cool and casual as if they were having a chat in the hall about tomorrow's chances for rain, "but you've got another fifteen minutes of lunch break to go first."