I would read your take on just about every one of the smut prompts, but I shall request #18 please!
heyyy thank you!! have some dumbasses having impulsive sex in a bar bathroom!
house rules 1.6K words | explicit hand jobs | semi-public sex | first time | idiots in love | drunk sex
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Eddie is blaming this on the tequila. He's too old to be doing shots—they both are, really, but Buck is persuasive, and after the third one, a fourth and fifth started to seem like a really good idea, rendering his body loose and warm, the bar around them pleasantly hazy. Buck's knee is pushed against his under the table, which is strewn with empty glasses and bitten-dry lime rinds. Buck drags a finger through a spill of tequila on the sticky surface, then licks his finger, and Eddie's gone enough that he doesn't even point out how gross that is.
"Yknow," Buck says—not slurring, not quite, but a lazy slowness to his syllables, dripping honey in the warmth of the bar. "When I was living at the frat house we had this rule. You spill, you strip."
Eddie scoffs. "Might get us kicked out here. 'Sides, I'm pretty sure that was yours."
"Says you."
"Your side of the table."
Buck scoffs, leaning back in his chair. The dim overhead light catches golden in his hair, in the fine stubble on his cheeks, drawing delicate shadows under his nose, his lower lip. Eddie is contemplating this, in the hazy way that alcohol makes it easy to look without thinking, when Buck shrugs suddenly, then laughs, then says, with an edge of something Eddie doesn't recognize, "Yeah, okay."
Eddie blinks at him, lost, for just a moment. Then he registers that Buck is unbuttoning his shirt—already half unbuttoned, loose and open in the heat—and shrugging it off his shoulders to toss it over the back of the empty chair next to him, leaving him in just a thin ribbed tank.
Eddie's mouth goes dry. There's the thing, the one they're not talking about. Buck, stripped to his undershirt in the low bar light, watching him with a look he never wears when he's sober—a challenge, Eddie knows. A goad. That line they've been stepping up to recently. Of course Buck noticed. He notices everything about Eddie, even the things Eddie doesn't let himself notice.
His eyes drop, helpless, to Buck's mouth: his soft lips, the sharp edges of his teeth. His broad shoulders and the slopes and valleys of muscle in his chest, the faint shadows of his nipples through his thin white undershirt, all things that it is absolutely, unequivocally unacceptable to notice in a strictly heterosexual context. Eddie wants to taste the sweat gleaming in the hollows of his collarbones.
When he finally drags his eyes back up, cheeks hot, Buck is still watching him. The challenging look has softened, just a little. He licks his lips; Eddie watches the quick dart of his tongue, the slickness of his spit lingering.
"You want to order another round?" he asks, almost gentle.
Mutely, Eddie shakes his head.
"You wanna get out of here?"
The answer to that is probably yeah. At the very least, he should switch to water right now. But something about taking this moment out into the cool empty chill of the night sidewalk, the Uber ride home to his place or to Buck's, makes something like panic claw at his throat.
Buck must read that, too. He licks his lips, then glances behind him, then seems to make a decision, pushing his chair out to stand. "C'mon."
As if in a dream, Eddie pushes his own chair out and follows him, winding back through the crowd at the bar, on the dance floors, the heat and laughter, sweat and beer and the sharp aftertaste of weed from someone's illicit vape. The pulsing music thrums in his ears; he keeps his eyes on Buck, unquestioning, until they slip down into the short hallway at the back of the bar and Buck pushes open the door to the men's room.
It's empty for now, three stall doors hanging open, a cracked mirror over the sink, the light brighter than the bar, the sound of the music muffled. Eddie lets the door fall shut behind him. In the silence, he can hear them both breathing. Buck licks his lips again, looking suddenly nervous, like maybe he hadn't thought much past this point.
"We don't, uh," he says. "We don't have to…" He trails off, like he can't bring himself to say it. Eddie still hasn't managed to say much of anything, but when Buck makes a face and steps back toward the door, he catches him by the arm. Buck goes abruptly still, his eyes flickering over Eddie's face. "Eddie?"
I want to, feels too thick on his tongue to get out. He pulls Buck in, catching at his jaw, his nape, dragging him into a kiss.
Buck gets with the program pretty immediately, Eddie will give him that. He groans into Eddie's mouth, clutching at his face, kissing him back with a desperation that feels like it's been a long time coming. It's new, fuck, it's so new and so good, Buck's height and breadth and the heat of his hands, the slick heat of his tongue in Eddie's mouth, zero to sixty in about three seconds flat.
"Come on, come on," Eddie pants, shoving his mouth against Buck's, licking the taste of tequila and lime from his tongue. He clutches at Buck's hips, hauling him in, and that hazy heat finds a sharpening point: he's hard, and so is Buck, thick and unmistakeable.
"Fuck," Buck hisses against his mouth, and then he's walking them backwards without breaking the kiss, shoving Eddie into the nearest stall and yanking the door shut behind them. Eddie's back hits the cool metal wall; his head is spinning with alcohol and arousal and a good heady dose of terror that just makes it all better somehow. He doesn't do shit like this, even if Buck does. He's supposed to be the voice of reason. He should put a stop to this, at least until they can get out of here, get home, get somewhere private.
It's just that he doesn't really want to. He yanks Buck in, until the hot weight of his body is plastered against Eddie's front, fumbles with his pants until he gets them undone and shoves his hand inside. It's nothing he's ever done before, but his fingers find the silky heat of Buck's bare cock and Buck jerks against him with a loud moan that Eddie should probably try to muffle.
Instead, he turns his head and bites at the underside of Buck's jaw, reveling in the noise that gets him. Buck's hands are shoving at his clothes, too, unzipping, pushing his jeans and underwear down around his hips. When Buck gets a hand on him, it's Eddie's turn to groan, hauling Buck closer, crashing their mouths together.
This isn't how he would have imagined this, if he'd ever let himself imagine it. Flickering fluorescent lights and sticky floors, the throb of music beyond the door. The fact that anyone could walk in at any time. Even like this, clumsily attached at the mouth, they're still being loud—Buck's knee thumps against the wall hard enough to rattle it when Eddie tries out a little twist on the upstroke like he always does for himself. He shifts a little until their cocks are rutting against each other, Buck's hand fumbling against his, Buck's breath hot in his ear. Slick sweat and precome, the clumsy bump of their bodies against each other, against the wall. Eddie works his teeth against the thin skin of Buck's throat, not so much muffling his moans as making them indistinct, spit smearing against his lips, dizzy with arousal.
Distantly, he hears the door bang open, the sound of music becoming louder, before there's a burst of laughter and it thumps shut again.
"I think they," Buck pants, "I think they heard us."
"Who gives a fuck," Eddie retorts, grabbing at his ass with his free hand, pulling him in, as if there's any way for them to be closer without climbing into each other's skin.
"Gonna—gonna get us kicked out, fuck, god, Eddie, you feel so—" He shoves his mouth against Eddie's again, shuddering, spilling over Eddie's knuckles and cock as he comes. The sudden heat and slickness sends Eddie over the edge a moment later with a broken shout.
Buck sags against him, breathing hard. For a moment, the orgasm and the alcohol conspire to make Eddie's brain blissfully, perfectly fuzzy, and then reality trickles back in: where they are, what they were just doing, the fact that someone definitely just overheard them.
Buck must feel him stiffen, because he pushes himself off the wall, taking a step back that's only a little wobbly. Eddie's eyes skitter down his body—his flushed cheeks and heaving chest, his softening cock in the open vee of his pants. Flushing, he yanks his own pants up, doing them up clumsily with his clean hand.
"Are you freaking out?" Buck asks. Eddie glares at him, and he holds up both hands, one of which is still coated with Eddie's come. His stomach flips over at that, and Buck adds, too earnestly, "I—I mean, it's okay if you are."
"We…" Eddie trails off. Then, suddenly, he's laughing, breathless, helpless. Holding his messy hand in front of him like evidence, and that is funny too. "We are so getting kicked out of this bar."
Buck's smile gets a thousand degrees brighter, a hundred percent more relieved. "Not if we're quick. There's another door out back."
"Oh, you scoped it out," Eddie manages, unrolling toilet paper to clean his hand as Buck fixes up his pants.
"Old habits die hard."
"Is that what this is?"
"Nah," Buck says, and he's grinning at Eddie still, bright-eyed, laughing, beautiful even here. "Nah, I'm hoping this'll be a new one."
They don't have time for it, not really at all, but Eddie can't help pausing at that to haul Buck in for a kiss.
