Title: Feta Cheese
Author: De Orakle
Series: Fourth in the "Kinks" series, just a PWP to get the juices flowing, er, the creative ones that is. The 5th (hopefully containing some semblance of a plot,) should be out by the weekend. The rest of the series can be found at www.crosswinds.net/members/~bloogirl
Disclaimers: I don't own these boys. Dick Wolf does, though since he's been wasting them on SVU, I've had to take things into my own hands, and so has Brian.
Notes: Fetishes - Inanimate objects, often clothes, to which one develops sexual connotations and accompanied responses.
Feedback: My drug of choice, a hit is always appreciated. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, as I can use all the help I can get *g*
It was at the bottom of his Saturday work-out gym bag, beneath his sweats, change of clothes, walkman, A-Ha tape, and dog-eared copy of Toni Morrison's "Beloved."
It was neatly folded with the wrinkle-resistant sleeve tucks his mother had taught him. He'd considered washing it, good manners and all, but the lightly lingering scent...well, he hadn't developed that Pavlovian sniff-hardon reaction since he was 16, and Mary-Theresa McLamond had left her panties in his car after a fumbling backseat night.
He'd return it tomorrow, at work he supposed, but how would that look? "OK, here, John, you left your clothes at my place last night."
Like that wouldn't be misconstrued. Of course, it wouldn't really be a miscommunication, considering he'd, well, jumped Munch.
*He didn't say no,* his inner optimist chimed in, sounding eerily like a chipper Wally from "Leave it to Beaver."
John hadn't said no, and had been a hell of a lot more sober than Brian himself. Of course, John had also left Brian alone, and hadn't called the next morning.
*It's only two, maybe he's letting you sleep it off*
'Since when is Munch that considerate?' Brian couldn't help answering back in his sternest Ted Koppel mental voice.
Maybe he should go over... Or would that seem too desperate? He had the jacket excuse...
*Maybe he left it here on purpose*
Brian had used the leave-over maneuver many a time. In high school, his math textbook had taken up permanent residence at Mickey Fraser's house. He'd nearly failed Finite, but...
*I will not obsess*
*It's a beautiful day*
That's right, it *was* a beautiful day, with the sun shining bright through his window. Lacy frost patterns were melting crystal by crystal from the dusty pane, a testament to that crisp not-quite-winter air that -
*Christ, I'm pathetic*
He should go out, hit the gym. It wasn't healthy to stay cooped in the apartment on his day off...he'd end up like Munch. He had to smile at that.
Yup, he'd go over to Munch's and return his jacket. It was a positively...partnerly thing to do. Should he call first? Nah, he'd surprise him, maybe be invited in... They could talk, figure out what was going on between them. They could have a drink, that worked out quite well last night. Maybe Brian could finally lose the feeling that his nervous system was hardwired into an electrical socket via his dick.
Okay, getting up, getting up, getting up.
*Whoa, are you planning on going out like that?*
He looked down, blinked. Hmmm, while showing up on Munch's doorstep in boxers and his ratty weekend Knicks T-shirt might have its advantage, it was pretty cold out.
*John could warm you up.*
'Oh, shut up.'
Did he have any clean jeans?
Nope, it was laundry day tomorrow, and the last pair from his closet were in the hamper after that nasty accident with the blender.
Where were his extra pair with the patched pockets...
Ohyeah! He'd taken them out on Thursday for the next time he went to the gym, so that would put them in his...gym bag.
Getting the gym bag, getting the gym bag.
Unzipped, rummage, rummage.
He pulled out worn jeans and tossed them over the back of the couch. He paused, his hand brushing the now-familiar fabric of what lay under his rolled-up sweatpants.
It was staying in the bag.
It was staying in the bag.
The jacket was staying in the gym bag.
He took it out, unfolding it gently. Plain black, of course, standard Munch-wear. Reminded Brian eerily of the funeral suit they'd dressed his Uncle Marty in, though all memories of noogies and impenetrable Irish brogues disappeared as Brian lifted the jacket to his face and inhaled.
Breathing in, he felt all the blood in his head rush southward in a deliciously dizzying awakening. The stale scent, undeniably human and male was woven into the very fibres of the juncture of the sleeve and front. It was spicy and sweet, salty and full, with a weird hint of what smelled like Listerine. It was the hottest thing that had ever teased his olfactory sense.
He wasn't going to do this.
He wasn't going to do this.
He lay down on the couch, on his back, still clutching the jacket to him. Lifting the hem of his T-shirt slightly, he lay one jacket sleeve against his stomach, imagining the arm within, the long fingers...
Pulling the jacket up again, breathing in... So sweet, letting the sleeve brush his cheek. As he closed his eyes, he let himself picture Munch here with him, savouring the too-hazy memory of the night before.
Rolling over, with his forehead braced against the armrest of the couch, Brian raised himself on his knees and pushed one hand under the waistband of his boxers. His hand was enveloped by warm sticky heat, as his cock was enveloped by his hand.
A slowly-creeping flush licked at his skin as he stroked gently from the base of his cock, to the head, then roughly back down to wiry curls. His breathing hitched, sighed in a burning mix of relief and mounting tension. Burying his face in the jacket, breathing, breathing, wanting Munch here so badly, under him, over him, inside of him. He tugged down his boxers, biting his lip as the smooth cotton dragged over his cock, biting harder still as the cooler apartment air sent a shiver down his spine, over his ass, making the hairs on his thighs stand up.
Breathing in, breathing in, reaching behind him and running his middle finger over the opening of his anus, feeling the sensitive ring of muscle tauten, then quiver. The pressure was no longer his own flesh, but his partner's, begging, no, *demanding* entrance. He could feel Munch's weight on his back, warm through his own T-shirt, hands roaming everywhere.
He pushed part of the jacket up under his shirt again, this time letting the wonderful coarseness of it tease his nipples, like a dry tongue. The sharp edge of a button caught a few fine hairs surrounding the areole of his left nipple, causing Brian to inhale sharply. He repeated the action, tightening his abs with each tiny jolt of pain, relishing the flaming nerves and dull ache in his head from leaning on the armrest. It hurt so wonderfully, like starbursts, and with each new scratch, Brian's cock twitched in his tight grip, as he thrust forward in one hand, backward to the other.
The central heating clicked on, its steady rush of air quickly becoming Munch's ragged breathing, hot in his ear, and his words...
Oh God, his words.
Brian's feverish mind couldn't imagine the actual meanings, for Munch had that way of making even his lunch order sound mysterious and sexy. Just the idea of the words were enough, the way the low whispers would slink from Munch's tongue, over Brian's body, promising hot silk and desperate, sweet relief.
Teetering on the brink of orgasm, he stilled his movements, and rearranged the jacket so that it was stretched along the length of him. He pressed his face further into the armpit of the jacket, and ohdeargod, he couldn't help it, wrapped the end of the other sleeve around his cock and continued his frantic thrusting.
He was moving his hips mindlessly now, just concentrating on wanting. The scent surrounding his pleasure changed subtly, becoming saltier, and thickly muskier. The material heated with friction as he pumped his cock, straining against a rough line of stitching. He squeezed his eyes tight, and pressed the fabric closer to his mouth as his throat choked in hitching gasps. He pressed desperately against the cloth, face, chest, and crotch needing it so badly to be filled with his partner's solid body, needing him to be *here*
Stroking, stroking, squeezing, faster, faster, moving his lips against imagined flesh and spicy humid air...
He came, in a spasm of twitching, tightening, muscles, and a broken cry of pleasure, whose formless breath carried the ghost of a whispered name.
Brian sagged, his neck over-extending as his head slipped down the length of the armrest. He stayed like that, waiting for his vision to clear, his breathing to steady, the rushing wave of sound pulsing in his ear to quiet.
He focused his eyes, and feeling extremely silly and pathetic, pulled the jacket out from under his shirt. He winced. There was a darkened patch on the armpit where his mouth had pressed, still slick with saliva. He looked down.
*You need serious help* Wally chimed in cheerfully.
'You need to get laid,' Ted countered.
Brian tossed the jacket on the floor, and closed his eyes. He'd have to return it tomorrow at work.
He had laundry to do today.