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Alex’s schedule can be unpredictable. He’s often gone for weeks or months at a time, but sometimes he’s only gone for a few days; he might only be home for a week, but sometimes he won’t be needed for a longer period of time. Michael likes those times best, of course, or when Alex can work on documents at home or at the office in the nearby city rather than fly halfway around the world. The fast turnarounds can be rough sometimes, though, giving them barely seven days to gorge themselves on each other before Alex has to leave again.

Michael knows that it’s okay—that travel and distance have always been a part of their relationship, that he accepts Alex’s demanding travel schedule just like Alex accepts his conference schedule and his long hours in the lab. But he can’t help himself from getting a little forlorn, a little sullen, when Alex gets that call.

They don’t fight about it. They almost never do, at least not about this. Alex just lets Michael mope for a couple hours, watching him with a piercing gaze; and then when they crawl into bed together, he kisses the back of Michael’s shoulder and says, voice thick and heavy, “I’ll make sure you’ve got plenty to remember me by. And that’s a promise.”


 

The next morning, Michael wakes up before his alarm, so warm he feels almost drunk, Alex’s hand stroking soothing shapes all over the planes of his back. Michael moans, loose-limbed from sleep and leaden with contentment, and Alex leans in to kiss him.

“Good morning,” he whispers against Michael’s lips, and instead of responding, Michael just kisses him again. As their mouths move lazily, Alex’s hand drifts lower and lower until it’s resting hot and proprietary on the curve of Michael’s ass.

“Do you remember,” Alex says, squeezing one cheek, making Michael shiver when the cool air touches his hole, “all the ways we talked about to keep you thinking of me?”

Michael licks his lips. “What did you have in mind?”

In response, Alex retrieves a pair of small objects from the bedside table. He runs one ever-so-lightly down Michael’s spine to rest in the crack of his ass; Michael’s muscles jump and quiver responsively at the sensitizing motions.

With a click, the little thing starts buzzing.

“Ohhhhnnh,” Michael moans, hips jerking, burying his face in the pillow to hide how brightly he’s flushed.

“I thought I’d come with you to work today. Just the one class; no office hours. Just a couple hours—you can handle that, right? With me in the back of the class, eyes on you the whole time, holding the power to take you apart in my pocket.”

Michael nods helplessly into his pillow, nerves buzzing in time with the little toy. They made a whole list, once, of fantasies—this was one of Alex’s, but it made Michael so hot the conversation had ended right there in favor of a test run. To have it sprung on him now…Michael moans again, long and soft and low and yearning, the muscles of his ass clenching around nothing, just at the thought of it all.

Alex’s hand presses firmly between Michael’s shoulder blades. “Say please,” he orders casually, as Michael arches back up against him.

“P-please,” Michael gasps, and Alex rolls him over to seize his mouth in a kiss once more. The vibe tumbles to the bed beside them, forgotten, but not for long at all.

Alex opens him up in the shower, just two fingers scissoring and stretching and completely ignoring his sensitive spots no matter how he tilts his hips and whines for it. So Michael’s already hard, already high-strung and desperate, when Alex slides the vibrator home inside him, resting right against his prostate. Alex clicks the remote, setting it to its lowest setting, just to test Michael’s reaction. Michael hisses and grips the sink, biting his lip to stop his mouth from falling all the way open.

Smirking the entire time, Alex helps Michael get dressed, makes him breakfast, and drives them to campus. The vibe stays low, alternating between a tiny, teasing buzz and stillness.

“You can stop at any time,” Alex reminds him before any students arrive. “Just text me your safeword and I put the remote away. Understood?”

Michael has to clear his throat twice before he can answer. “Understood.”

“Good boy.”

Those words send a rush of pure endorphins through Michael’s system. They always do. As he walks to the front of the room to get his notes organized and collect himself, Alex flicks the remote to the second setting for the first time of the day, making Michael jump and stumble over his own feet while Alex laughs.

As students trickle in, several of them shoot Alex questioning glances, but there’s no gap in the usual chatter as they take their seats. Michael fiddles with the papers on his lectern, braces himself as naturally as he can leaning back against the wall. Little twitches and trembles travel from his thighs up his spine and back again, and—it’s the first test, as the vibration increases a notch, not to squirm his hips or make a single noise at all. He chews the inside of his lip, darts his eyes to Alex’s corner, then turns his attention to his notes again.

Class lasts for an hour and a half, and Alex draws every single second of it out like taffy, sweet and slow and stretched. He alternates the pace of the vibrations in a steady cycle from the barest tease to a rocking, pulsing rhythm that makes his toes curl and his foot tap and his weight shift as he pushes his natural reactions down, down, down.

He wants to be panting, open-mouthed and stripped-bare; he wants to be pressed to Alex’s thigh, his favorite place to bury his face to ride out the times when Alex drives him out of his mind. He can’t do any of that, though. His mind whirls and swims, and it takes every bit of his wherewithal to—to modulate his voice, to smile and laugh at the right times, to hold his hips still even when the vibe digs into him and makes his cock pulse wetly in uncomfortably tight pants and makes him want to sink to the floor and whine.

As soon as the door closes behind the last student, Alex prowls down the aisle between the desks, his hands in his pockets, a placid, predatory smile on his face.

“I have some questions about the homework, Professor Guerin,” he drawls, and thumbs the remote.

The heightened buzz rocks Michael onto his toes, makes him brace himself on the podium; his teeth grit and grind as the toy grinds against his prostate, and his throat flutters around a keening hiss, the only sound he can manage. Alex leaves it on that torturously high setting until Michael’s arms are wobbling enough he has to sink down to his elbows, his ass pushed out obscenely as he struggles to hold himself upright.

“Look at me.”

It all rolls over Michael in waves—the toy buzzing inside him, the shaking of his own poor, overtaxed muscles, the shuddery, sobbing humiliation of being here out in the open, where anyone could walk in looking for an empty room, where anyone out in the hallway could hear him if he lets go and screams the way he needs to. The hunger in Alex’s voice is—too much—Michael buries his face in the crook of his arm, bites down on the muscle and whimpers—his hips roll, forcing his back into an aching, begging arch, and it’s—it’s—

“Do I have to tell you twice?”

The vibrator ratchets up to what has to be the highest setting. Michael wails, the sound muffled by his teeth gripping the chunky fabric of his sweater. His eyes roll back—his toes curl—every muscle below his waist clenches so hard it burns but he can’t—he can’t come, no matter how his cock pulses, iron-hard and soaked with pre and hurting from how long he’s been held at knifepoint—he has to hold back, because Alex, Alex told him to, and Alex—

Alex gave him another order too, just now, so he…

Michael rolls his swimming, teary eyes to meet Alex’s gaze and the gleam of satisfaction there.

Good boy,” Alex says, and then the vibrations cut off altogether.

It’s worse. Michael cries out again, rolls his hips again, chasing the phantom tremors still making his ass clench and spasm around that evil piece of plastic that’s reduced him down to a single, raw nerve. He sobs, then sniffles pitifully, then pulls himself back up straight in an attempt to compose himself, though his head stays bowed in a useless attempt to hide the overwhelmed, overstimulated tears trickling down his cheeks.

If only Alex would turn it on again. Just to the lowest setting, even, that’s all, because after so long and so much intensity the nothing is almost as bad as being empty would be. Michael tries to swallow; his throat bobs with the motion. But he still can’t coordinate his tongue enough to speak, to beg.

“I know,” Alex croons, and he finally closes the last couple feet between them to rub his knuckles against Michael’s soft cheek, to swipe his thumbs beneath his eyes and collect the tears there and brush them away. Michael slumps into his touch, shoulders rolling in, knees bent, pliant and guidable and trying to make himself small. “I know,” Alex repeats, and runs his thumbs down the same path even though Michael’s stopped crying. “I know it’s a lot, but I need you steady enough to walk to the car. Can you do that for me?”

Michael nods, swaying into Alex’s touch, tucking his fingers into Alex’s belt loops to ground himself. It’s a five minute walk with two flights of stairs included, all on weak and trembling legs, but. He can do it, with Alex’s hand heavy and firm on his lower back and his shoulder bag held just so across his body to hide the bulge of his crotch. Though his knees do wobble dangerously before he can even take the first step of the stairs, causing Alex to steer him gently towards the elevator instead.

As soon as the door slides shut behind them, the vibration is back, pulsing gently against Michael’s throbbing prostate, making him stagger and grab the rail for balance and let out a low, melodic moan.

Alex chuckles warmly, rubs his back, and says, “You know, this morning I planned to have you in your office, bent over your desk. I thought I’d make you take the stairs with your ass still buzzing, and I’d already be there waiting for you. Your desk is the perfect height. I imagined one hand around your wrist, locking your arm behind your back, and the other in your hair, holding your head against the wood. You’d have to be so quiet—these drafty old buildings, hm?”

The vibe jumps up to its next setting, and Michael presses the back of his hand to his wet, pink mouth to hold back a whimper. The combination of sensation and the sound of Alex’s voice send another dangerous throb through his cock. He so desperately wants to squeeze there, adjust himself, relieve just a little of the pressure. But he’s not allowed, and—all he wants is to be good. All he does is mewl instead, and squeeze his thighs together.

“I decided on a change of plans, though,” Alex continues, his voice all brisk and casual like he’s not taking Michael apart piece by piece. “You should have seen yourself. God.” His hand closes around Michael’s wrist, and Michael swallows and gasps like it’s his throat he grabbed instead. “Fuck, Guerin. You were so good. Acted so composed, so casual, but I knew. Every time you shifted your weight, I knew it was because of me.”

Michael nods helplessly. “You—only you—nnngh—no!”

Alex clicks the toy off the second the door slides open, and Michael clenches down on it again, needy and desperate and—all he can think about when the agonizing pleasure stops for even a second is how much he wants something bigger, stroking every inch inside him, making him so full, something solid and hot and—

“Walk, Guerin,” Alex admonishes, pushing at him with that hand that hasn’t left the small of his back. Michael can’t do anything but follow any order he’s given, so he shuffles along at Alex’s side until they reach the car.

The drive is torture, too. Alex keeps him near the highest setting the whole way home; makes him keep his legs spread and his hips still until Michael fears almost that he could pass out, all his senses screaming need. He doesn’t even notice they’ve pulled into the driveway, too focused on keeping his muscles locked in place like Alex told him to, too focused on holding tight and holding his orgasm at bay and the longer he’s left pinned by words and by the thing throbbing inside him the harder it gets, and, and—

Alex tugs hard at his curls, forcing him to turn his head and accept a sloppy, biting, aggressive kiss that bears him back towards the window until Alex has almost crawled into his lap. He only breaks away when Michael’s hips rock involuntarily into his thigh and he lets out an agonized aaahhghnnh as he almost shoots off right then and there, so on edge but so desperate to wait until Alex gives him permission.

“Inside,” Alex barks. Michael fumbles with the car door, his fingers uncoordinated and clumsy, but then Alex is there, pulling him out and into their house.

They don’t make it to the bedroom. Not even close. The moment they door closes behind them, Alex throws Michael over the nearest surface, which happens to be the couch. Michael goes more than willingly, sprawling out, arching his back to raise his ass for Alex, hands kneading whatever he can reach, full of too much kinetic energy to stop squirming or babbling nonsense words as Alex climbs up behind him and yanks his pants down just far enough to expose his ass and let him spread his legs enough that Alex can get between them.

The core of Michael is so blazing-hot, so raw, that the touch of Alex’s fingers is almost cool and the touch of lube a second later is near ice. Instinctively, he tries to pull away from it—pulls himself a couple inches up the couch until Alex seizes his hips and yanks him back.

Alex, god, Alex, Alex—he reaches inside Michael and pulls out the source of all his torture but he doesn’t even for a second let Michael stay empty thank god, he keeps stroking with his fingers, two and then three then more lube that’s still too cold and Michael whimpers until the fingers of Alex’s other hand slip into his mouth, then he can’t do anything but tongue at them and suck them into the back of his throat and revel in the taste of his skin.

Then finally Alex’s cock sinks into him, so thick and stretching him just right and Michael’s mouth falls open and lets Alex’s fingers slip out on a soundless, fucked-out wail.

“Please, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease—” Michael starts up when the first stroke of Alex’s cock in and out of him comes too slow and too shallow to satisfy.

“What do you want?” Alex pants, wrapping his arm around Michael’s stomach and draping his chest over Michael’s back to cover his whole body and talk directly into the sensitive shell of Michael’s ear. “Tell me what you want, Guerin.” Another slow stroke out, another steady stroke back in.

“Fu-uck me,” Michael chokes out, “I—harder, god, Al-ex, I need it, Alex, Alex, harder, fuck me—”

“All you had to do was ask,” Alex purrs, then he slams his hips in, thighs hitting the backs of Michael’s thighs with a smack, and sets a brutal, ravenous pace. He pounds Michael until there’s nothing left of him—no conscious thought except a steady stream of please and Alex that can’t even make it past the crying in his throat, no world outside of the fire licking through him and the pleasure-pain of his raw nerves and his neglected erection that bobs and beads wet every time Alex takes him, and takes him, and takes—

When everything hovers on a razor’s edge, Michael drifting somewhere between conscious and not, his only motion twitching his ass backwards whenever he feels Alex’s cock twitch as well, warning of his impending orgasm, Alex slides back in slow, circling his hips to drag the head of his cock against Michael’s prostate.

And that’s it. That’s the final straw—the—the—Michael just can’t anymore, he’s tried everything, but he lets go then, at that final, deliberate motion, and he comes untouched, so hard it sends him arching and bucking off the couch and into Alex’s solid, safe body. Alex, who seizes him and pulls him back into his lap, who strokes him through his orgasm and takes just a couple more thrusts to come as well, groaning and laughing against Michael’s sweaty temple.

And god, what even is time after that? Minutes or seconds or whatever pass all gooey and uneven, Alex stroking his throat and chest and hair, kissing every inch of him he can reach, telling him in words that don’t quite register but do send warmth and contentment through every cell of his being how good he’s been, how loved. Michael accepts the straw that’s put in his mouth and obediently sucks down the water he’s given, cool and refreshing and bringing him a little bit back to himself. While he drinks, Alex runs a soft, cool cloth over his body, washing away his sweat and soothing the rawness of his skin.

Finally coming back to himself, Michael croaks, “’Lex,” and pulls himself forward and yanks Alex down so he can flop his whole upper body into Alex’s lap and curl up there like a big cat. He grins as Alex tousles his hair and pets his shoulders—Alex just can’t stop touching him, and he basks in it, glowing and happy and sated.

“God, what did I do to deserve you?” Alex says, his voice hoarse as well, and full of love and wonder and a whole bunch of other sappy things.

“Gimme a day to recover,” Michael murmurs, nuzzling the crease of Alex’s hip, “and I’ll make sure you’ve got plenty to help you remember why.”