Morning Glory, by Katherine F.	Disclaimer: It's Ray's fault. Sue him. 
 Distribution: lists: yes please, anywhere at all. Archives: I myself will
send it to Hexwood and the VU page; elsewhere is fine, but please let me
know.
 Summary: A somewhat late response to the wankfic challenge -- takes place
in the Volpe Universe, after "Kahlua" but before "Volpe".
 Notes: I once said I'd never write m/m smut. Then, the day after Te
issued the wankfic challenge, Ray looked at me with a wicked glint in his
eye and licked his palm...the rest is history...
 Thanks are due to Te for encouragement, and for not beheading me when I
stopped at the interesting part.
 And I would just like to make it clear that I am not now, nor have I ever
been, an Oasis fan. Thank you.

 
 "Morning Glory"
 by Katherine F.
 
 

//Motel.// 

It takes Ray a minute to work that out, with his brain running at
just-woke-up speed: street lights coming in through window = blinds and
curtains not drawn = not his bedroom = Dre = motel room. In the morning,
which is when motel rooms are at their worst. 

It's six a.m.: too late for him to go back to sleep but too early to think
of leaving; besides which, he has an erection that could conceivably cut
diamond and he's got out of the habit of letting such things go. 

He rubs his chest absently, considering his options. If he wakes Dre,
there's always the chance of another round. If he takes care of it
himself, he'll get the satisfaction of leaving a wet spot for Dre to soak
in (a sort of fuck-you-too- in-absentia-revenge for the last five times
Dre's given that very honour to *him*). 

If he wakes Dre... 

He leans over and nudges his -- and here his brain skirts around a number
of words and their concomitant mental images: not "lover", not quite
"fuckbuddy", definitely not "boyfriend" 

//well, *whatever*, it's too early to philosophize// 

 -- nudges Dre in the back. 

Dre grunts. 

It's not the I'm-sleeping-so-nothing-you-do-will-affect-me grunt, either.
It's the I-don't-want-to-get-up-so-leave-me-alone-and-I-
won't-castrate-you grunt. 

Which is...not *good*, exactly, but it leaves room to maneuver. 

Ray shifts over onto his side and rubs up against Dre's back. He's in the
position which provides for the maximum possible skin-to-skin contact, a
position which guarantees that Dre will a) be aware of Ray's state of
arousal and hopefully also b) be brought into a similar state himself. 

Unfortunately, Dre's only reaction is to move as far away as he can
without falling out of the bed and groan, "Jesus fucking Christ, what are
you, six*teen*?" 

"Is that a 'no'?" 

"What the -- yes, it's a fucking no." 

//Mental note: he's grouchy in the mornings. Big surprise there.// 

"Okay. I'll just have to take care of it myself." 

Dre's head snaps back so quickly that Ray briefly worries about whiplash 

//Wouldn't *that* lawsuit be entertaining...// 

and the look in his eyes is as priceless as it is infuriating. 

"You wouldn't." 

He actually hadn't been meaning to go through with it, just. . . tease him
with the possibility of something going on and him missing out, but the
certainty in Dre's voice is too much like a dare. 

He shifts backwards, sits up slightly, and gives his palm a slow,
deliberate lick. 

"Watch me..." 

With the first (light, teasing) touch to his cock the expression in Dre's
eyes shifts to a mixture of derision and disbelief, and Ray finds his own
eyes sliding shut, the pictures in his mind being far more encouraging
than the one before him. He thinks of the first time Dre fucked him, the
way the carpet felt under his knees...it was amazing that he'd got his
pants down at all, considering how close he'd been...and Dre sliding into
him like they'd been doing it for years... 

He feels his cock twitch under his fingers and he makes an experimental
twisting motion round the head. 

//*oh* yeah that's good// 

There's a rustling sound, as of sheets moving or being pushed back; the
bed creaks discreetly and Ray realises that Dre is watching him. A warm
flush starts spreading from his face downwards and he cranks the speed of
his hand's movements up a notch. He hadn't been planning on putting on a
show, the taunt notwithstanding, but now he finds he likes the idea. 

Or his cock does, anyway. 

He lets his left hand drift vaguely upwards, as if of its own volition,
and starts drawing circles around his nipples; first one, then the other.
They pucker a little but it's not until he pinches the left one savagely
that that old familiar *jolt* hits and he starts thrusting into his fist.
At the same time there's a sound from the other side of the bed that's a
lot like skin sliding over skin. 

He doesn't open his eyes. There isn't enough light in the room for him to
be able to see it clearly anyway, and his skin remembers (very very
clearly) what Dre's hands feel like: a little rougher than his own, the
fingers a little shorter...he remembers the first time, thrusting into
Dre's fist, so close, so *fucking* close just from having Dre's cock down
his throat and that *kiss* -- 

 -- because that was the thing that surprised him, and the thing he
remembers most clearly -- 

 -- and his lips are itching now for a little skin to nuzzle into, but
they're going to have to wait because he is *right* *there* -- 

"Fuck!" 

And as he finally comes his eyes fly open and latch onto Dre's, wide and
dilated and 

// Well, whaddya know.// 

Dre's only two seconds behind him. 

There's a moment when they're just staring at each other, panting, neither
of them able to work up a smartass remark, or any kind of remark, for that
matter. Then Dre leans over and rubs the pool of come on Ray's stomach, a
gesture which, if it was Vick instead of come, would have reminded Ray of
his mother, but as it is, it's 100% Andreas Volpe, pure and unadulterated.


"Point taken," he says. And smirks. 

[end] 

Next story: Volpe by Te
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