Cameron watched Brady's eyes narrow, and the man fight a war with himself. He could almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he weighed the consequences of giving in. Cameron had spent years honing his ability to make people do stupid things; it was almost an art at this point. But with Brady, the stakes felt different. Higher. More permanent. He was pinned with just the pressure of their body, and for the first time in a long time, Cameron didn't know if he should be scared or turned on. He settled for both. He hissed as their teeth collided with his neck, at the jaggedness and harshness of the act, and then went pliant against the wall, letting Brady take what he wanted. The possessiveness was so direct, so absurd, that Cameron couldn’t help but laugh again, their shirt balled in his fists still, even as Brady's tongue pressed hard against his skin, sealing the claim. He barely registered the moment when Brady's mouth found his own next, but there it was: the kiss was brutal, hungry, uncoordinated, the kind that knocked the air right out of him. Someone passing muttered 'get a room' and he almost shouted back, this is the room, this crack in the wall, this sliver of dark. From then on, he was conscious only of Brady's hands and the tilt of his body unconsciously moving to grind their hips together, chest to chest, a tug-of-war of grip and teeth. And when that still wasn't enough, when he wanted more friction than the thin drag of denim and body heat, he grabbed the back of his friend's head and wrecked their lips open wider, desperate, lips parting further than nature probably intended. The momentum carried him, allowing him to devour and be devoured, because sometimes the only way to win was to lose spectacularly. "Possessive much?" Cameron huffed when he had enough oxygen to get the words out, smirking into the next collision of mouths. "I'm not anyone's, you knew that."
