Thanks: to mergatrude for beta.
If you're gonna have a first time, you have to wonder if Kowalski is the guy to do it. Fraser—Fraser would be slow and careful and thorough, would do it by the book. Only problem is Fraser's not here. Only problem is you don't want Fraser. By some miracle of self-preservation and the Virgin Mary showering blessings down upon you, you never wanted Fraser.
Hell, you shouldn't even be thinking about Fraser. You're thinking too much. Both of you. You're thinking whether this means anything. You're both taut and nervous, and fuck, that's not good.
"Do it like you're picking a lock," you mutter, under your breath. You've seen Kowalski do that a dozen times: sensitive fingers, head tilted as he listens to the barrels click and turn. Just thinking about that turns you on.
He's standing by the doorway, looking at you doubtfully, and you wonder what he sees. A bald, thin guy who's getting old. Big nose. Is he even attracted to you, or are you just the guy who's here? The guy who hasn't left yet? He frowns and says, "You're gonna get mussed, Vecchio."
You bark a laugh. "That's the plan," you say, sliding your fine wool coat off your shoulders and draping it over a chair. "What're you waiting for?"
You turn your back on him and walk to the bedroom, hoping like hell he'll follow.
He does. He unbuckles his boots roughly and kicks them off, then swaggers over to you, his eyes shuttered. But his hands, when they reach for your hips, are kind and eager, and it's the eagerness that saves this, pulls it back from farce or tragedy, or an anatomical alien probe sort of experiment.
* * *
It started with casual words, last time you were here, sprawled sweaty on the bed, fucked out. "Me next time," you said. Kowalski gets such a kick out of it, or at least, he seems to. You wanted that. You wanted to feel what he feels when he's stretched out under you, moaning like he's fucking dying from it. When he shoves back 'cause he can't seem to get enough. But it grew into this event, this major fucking drama, bigger than Superbowl. And now you wonder if you can do this.
His kiss wipes out thoughts. He hasn't shaved in days, has barely washed, it seems like, and he smells warm and sweaty, and slightly rank. You don't care. You open your mouth to let him in, and he knows what he's doing, oh yeah. He's a fucking pro.
* * *
Kowalski's long fingers are clever and sure, and you try not to think where he learned this, who he learned it from.
You never learned. Your first time with Kowalski, which was your first time with a guy, you didn't know about fingers, about going slow. You'd been slamming Vegas hookers for over a year, and okay, thank God, you didn't try that with him, but it was still—clumsy and mindless, and kind of mean. Selfish, maybe. It took a long while for the two of you to come back from that, to find your way to a place where you were both okay. It took longer to find out who you were, now you didn't have to pretend to be other people.
* * *
When his finger pushes into you, it fucking hurts, and even when it's inside, the pull is wrong, like you're stretched to tearing. You can't do this, you panic. But you don't know how to stop.
You think maybe there's two sorts of people in the world—the Kowalskis, able to open and spread like butter, built for taking it—and you, your kind, who never learned to trust people. Your whole body knows that when people you care about hurt you, things only get worse, and it can't tell good hurt from bad. This is good, you remind yourself, desperately, wanting to get it right. But you can't help groaning, and it doesn't come out deep and sexy.
* * *
He stops. You try to be angry, bitch over your shoulder, "Hurry up, Kowalski. You think I got all day?" It comes out thin. He sits back, and pulls out slowly, making you wince. Then he tugs at your arm to get you to turn over.
"What?" you snap, lying on your back. Making yourself look at him. He's frowning. His cock is tight against his jeans.
"You tell me," he says softly.
You lie back and sigh. "C'mere."
He strips first. Finally takes his jeans off, and his undershirt, and crawls into your arms, and the two of you lie there, not moving, not talking. Two bodies in a heap.
It's great. It's the best moment of your day so far.
* * *
Kowalski breaths out a long slow breath, turns his head into your shoulder, and bites you gently. "What do you want?"
You only hesitate a second. "Yeah, let's do it."
He bites harder, hurting you, and you shove at him. Nothing could be clearer, you think, but he still says, "What, Vecchio? Tell me."
"Fuck me." You're determined. If you don't do it now, you'll never.
Kowalski pushes up and leans over you, his eyes warm and blue. "Specifics."
"Your dick in my ass, moron," you say harshly, wondering what stupid game he's playing now.
He grins. "You're such a romantic."
Your face heats up, and you could kill him right then, but he gets serious again, and says, "Why?"
And you have to think about that. Why. You shut your eyes, feeling stupid, and you just start talking. "Because I—I just do. I want that, I dunno, that heat. How you look when I'm fucking you. I want that. You. Okay? I want you. You happy now?"
He doesn't answer. While you're talking, he's started stroking your dick, and when you trail off, he moves down your body like he wasn't even listening. He nips you with his teeth as he goes, and then sucks your cock into his hot wet mouth.
You mind blanks out. All you know is his mouth, his hands on your balls, the rush of blood in your ears. All you know is Christ, this is good. This feels great. "Yeah," you breath. "Fuck yeah."
You feel him grin, tight lips and a scrape of teeth, and you tense a little, but mostly you don't fucking care.
He keeps going. In the back of your mind you know there was a plan. You. He. He was gonna fuck you. But you're thrumming with energy now, you're alive with heat, your skin prickling all down your back where you're sweating, your hands gripping the sheets. Fucking can wait. Who gives a fuck. There's always next time.
He slows down, and you moan a protest, thrust desperately into his mouth. Your brain is like an electrical storm, flashes and zings of urgency. You can't stop. You don't want to stop. Oh fuck.
His mouth, slick on your cock, sucking you in. The press of his tongue. His finger's back there again. You're vaguely aware of it, but it doesn't matter. Feels good, now, all those nerve endings. When he strokes over your hole, your mind expands into multi-dimensions, like some fucked-up Escher picture. You're turning inside out, upside down. You're heavy and hot and you love it like this, lying back, letting him drive.
You'd never say so.
His finger pushes in, and it's just enough to ease you back. You're still lost deep in the haze, but now there's this edge of discomfort, a slow burn that's making it last, and that's good too.
You moan and thrust up into his mouth, and twist the sheets tight so you don't reach down and hold him there. When your hips fall back, his finger slides in, slides all the way in. Kowalski's knuckles bump against your ass. Sweet Jesus.
It's hot. It's weird and wrong and fucking perfect. You lie completely still, getting used to it, and he's still licking and sucking you, his head bobbing over your crotch. "Yeah," you say at last. "Yeah."
* * *
It's different now. You're loose, used up, pressing your face into the pillow.
Kowalski seems happier, too. He touches you more, stroking down your back as he pushes a third finger into you. He's talking, a low murmur of, "Oh yeah. Gonna do you, gonna do it right—" After a while, you stop listening to the words, just taking in the soothing warmth of his voice, the good hurt of his hands.
It's a good hurt now. You're ready. You don't think about whether it means anything. You don't think about whether this—being taken like this—makes you really gay. Not much. You think about Kowalski. The way his eyes gleamed when you walked into the precinct this morning. His tongue on your cock. You think about the way he picks locks, focused and careful. "Do it," you say, your voice hoarse.
His fingers twitch. "I'm getting there," he says, equally throaty. "Don't worry."
* * *
He's fucking you. His cock is in your ass and he's thrusting slow and deep, and the heat is spreading through you, weighting you, drenching you in this heavy, fucking beautiful molasses feeling. Sweetness radiating into your limbs, into your tired cock.
You're full. Not just like you expected, that stretched feeling, but full of amazement. Overwhelmed. You can taste it, salty sweet in your mouth. Your eyes are shut, maybe forever, for the rest of your life. You want to tell him, signal somehow, It's good. Yeah. Keep going. But you're too lost to say words, so you reach behind you, to touch him, but your arm won't move. All you manage is a feeble flapping gesture. You moan. Oh yeah, you can do that.
"Yeah," says Kowalski, and lets go of your hips. The mattress buckles as his hand lands beside your head, the other braced on the headboard.
You let your head fall sideways and grab the knob of his wrist bone between your teeth, and suck hard. He swears, and speeds up, and something explodes inside you, nuclear and blinding, shredding your heart into pieces.
* * *
His rhythm stumbles. He thrusts hard and fast, his groin slapping loudly against your ass, and then he stops, and holds, and you feel him pulse through you, the interplay with your staccato heartbeat. His groan loud in your ear.
He collapses onto you and licks sweat from the base of your neck with the flat of his tongue. You shrug to stop him, but you can't keep the stupid grin off your face. You bury it in the pillow.
* * *
"So, what?" Kowalski says, casually, afterward. He's sitting up beside you, his back to the headboard, one knee bent. Still naked.
You haven't moved. You can't move. "Uh?"
"You wanna get something to eat?"
This time you let your grin show. "'Kay," you say as clearly as you can. "Gimme a minute."
He laughs. "Take your time," he says, and lies down beside you, draping an arm along the small of your back. "Take all the time you need."