for the prompt sets of three ⁶⁾ a fresh buzzcut, pink bubblegum and rolling tobacco, mcdiarmid/fraser? ❤️
Bill shakes his head, fails to not to turn his neck in an effort to hide from Jock’s attentive gaze.
“Should get your hair shorn more often,” he insists, something equally hungry shining behind his sunglasses.
“It was necessary,” Bill deflects, “For the heat.”
There is little to no distance between them, the pink bubble-gum Jock’s been chewing peeking in between two sets of blunt pearly teeth. Teeth that had been pressed against his neck two nights ago, teeth that had been hungry to mark, to search for a pulse. Bill cannot keep himself from looking at them, the same way he cannot keep himself from staring at Jock’s fingers, watching him roll a cigarette he will carefully place behind his ear and not smoke until things are done between them, at least for the day. He has never tasted tobacco on his tongue, there is always mint on top, or strawberry, or whatever drink they’ve shared before Jock was three fingers deep inside his cunt, kissing him as if there was no tomorrow. Which, in Bill’s defence, has only happened twice—thrice if he allows today to go on like this, which he won’t.
“Are you still up for tonight?”
Tonight means grabbing something to eat at the pub Jock keeps yapping about every time they hang out. Tonight means that once he is behind Jock riding that, frankly, quite intimidating looking bike, all bets will be off—and he could find himself getting lost to another bubble-gum flavoured kiss.
Bill nods. He’s never been one to waste other people’s time.
“Promise it’ll be worth it,” Jock says, making Bill wonder if he is capable of reading his mind.
When Jock hands him a helmet his head snaps back up, eyeing Jock warily before he inspects it up close. It looks new, practical, still smells like how new cars do when you or your wet dog have barely had the chance to step into them. Jock is looking at him when he looks back up, something giddy in his posture, his smile unrelenting.
“Thank you,” Bill says, he could probably offer more but it would feel insincere, unlike him, and something tells him Jock would know.
He gets a self-satisfied smirk for his trouble, one of Jock’s big hands patting the bike with a fondness that borders on the sexual. An invitation then, one last time for him to say no. “Promised I would take care of you,” is all Jock offers before he puts on his own helmet, visor up, hopping on top of the vehicle without any more fanfare.
Bill stares back to their flat, to the sunny suburban street where not even the neighbours will see him leave with this man, and without second guessing himself any longer, he hops behind Jock and holds onto his waist just as the engine comes to life.
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