Work Text:
Kip was annoyed. Grad school was more pressure than he’d really anticipated. He’s got thirty first-year essays on renaissance ecclesiastical art to grade, because his advisor is a sadist who seems to derive deep pleasure from handing off the shittiest work to Kip like he’s made some personal affront. He’s also got a three-thousand-word annotated bibliography due in a week, and EndNote is being an utter piece of shit and keeps eating his citations.
He sighs as he sits on the couch and enters the publication date of an incredibly boring and easily critiqued essay on historical repatriation for the third time. Today is not his day.
There is an additional annoyance, and the fact that he’s finding it annoying is probably more annoying than the distraction in the first place.
Scott is…in the way.
Not, like, getting into Kip’s space, or interrupting him with questions, or even bringing him unasked-for cups of coffee. He’s not hovering, he’s not cracking his knuckles (which Kip hates) or stacking the dishwasher with undue noise, or anything like that. He’s in the periphery, but…
Scott is working out. Loudly.
Not breathing loud or grunting or counting reps or anything like that. The volume is coming from the fact that Scott is shirtless, on a workout mat near the windows, and doing a criminally long set of pushups.
The flex of his muscles is loud. The sheen of sweat over his back is loud. The miles of warm, soft skin is extremely loud—skin that Kip has already had his hands and mouth all over once this morning.
Maybe part of the annoyance is just that: he’s pretty sure Scott got in enough cardio this morning when he was riding Kip’s dick very athletically before breakfast. And yes, he understands, professional athlete and all that. But, like, don’t the team have their training facility in Tarrytown? Can’t Scott take all of that aesthetic musculature and flex it somewhere far less distracting?
Kip makes a pointed little sigh, and pulls up the next article from the stack on the table in front of him. The title blurs a little as he tries to make sense of it. Scott has moved onto holding a plank. His biceps are barely straining, his body a long, lean line. Reading about museums as intermediaries in repatriation is becoming less and less engaging by the second.
In his periphery—because he’s not looking, he’s definitely not looking—Scott has rolled into a side plank. For fuck’s sake.
“Babe?” Kip calls, not looking away from the paper.
“Yeah?”
“Can you go and do that somewhere else?”
He feels a little bad for asking. This is Scott’s home, Scott’s space. He should be able to distractingly work out freely, wherever he wants.
“Yeah, no problem,” Scott says, like it’s not a big deal. Like he’s happy to accommodate Kip’s every whim.
Kip feels guilty—for approximately thirty seconds. And then Scott is opening the hall cupboard and pulling out a doorway chin-up bar. Kip watches as he sets it in the frame of the hallway. Scott grips the bars, and begins a series of pull-ups.
Kip doesn’t look. He doesn’t stare. He types, tapping the keys more pointedly than necessary. He turns the pages of the printed article, uncapping his highlighter with a snap.
Scott is still going, up to his infinity-eth rep, probably. His back is rippling, lats flexing.
Kip highlights a sentence with unnecessary force, the pen nib scraping across the paper. He doesn’t even know what he just noted. He stops, put the pen down, pushes up his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
He’s starting to think that this is somewhat intentional.
“Babe,” he starts, more pointedly this time. Scott has moved on to a series of hanging leg raises, his abs flexed and straining, and Kip has had it up to here. He’s annoyed. He’s also now horny, which makes him even more annoyed. If Scott doesn’t stop, he’s not going to be held responsible for what he does next.
“Yeah?” Scott calls, his voice still not even remotely strained, holding an isometric leg raise that should be illegal.
“I’m trying to work,” Kip says, and it sounds more frustrated that he’d intended.
“Sorry.” Scott hops down, and now Kip can see the heave of his chest as he breathes, which is another problem all together.
“No, it’s fine,” Kip says, immediately feeling guilty. “You’re just very…”
He waves his hand in the general direction of Scott’s body.
“Oh? I’m very what?”
“You’re very…distracting.”
Scott saunters closer, a sly smile breaking out across his lips.
“Am I, now?”
Kip glares at him. “Go away.”
Scott holds his hands up in surrender, backing away and turning towards the kitchen. He’s still smiling, so Kip figures he hasn’t been too much of an asshole.
“Thank you. I love you!”
“Love you too,” Scott calls from the kitchen.
Kip hears a cupboard opening, and then a tap running. He hears a shuffle of fabric. His fingers twitch. He wills his dick to go down so that he can keep focusing. This bibliography isn’t going to annotate itself, which, if he had some sort of divine power would probably be his first act of godhood.
He reads. He makes notes. He does this for about five minutes with a terrible degree of success, before Scott edges back into his field of vision. He’s still half-naked, wearing his workout shorts and a microfibre towel slung around his neck, and not much else. He’s at least had the decency to mop up his sweat, Kip thinks (slightly disappointed).
Scott draws closer. Kip’s eyes flick up, and Scott’s right there, standing casually, one thumb tucked into the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down just the tiniest amount—enough for plausible deniability. He smiles at Kip, and takes a deep drink from the glass of water in his hand. A couple of drops slide from the corner of his lips and into his beard.
“Please stop,” Kip says, but there is zero fight in his voice. It comes out weak, imploring, like he doesn’t mean it.
“Oh,” Scott says, nonchalance personified. “Am I distracting you?”
“You know that you are.”
Scott nods, stepping closer. “Is that a problem?”
“On so many levels.”
“Sorry. I guess the last thing I want to do is…get in your way.”
And it’s just so obvious, the ploy, the facade. Kip can see that Scott is half-hard in his ridiculous shorts, and he feels a flare of irritation that he’s already there himself.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, slamming his laptop lid shut and sliding it onto the coffee table. “If I fuck you, will you leave me alone?”
Scott grins. “Yep!” And he practically leaps onto Kip, straddling his lap with six-foot-two of muscle and body heat—the deep, masculine smell of him floods Kip’s senses, and his mouth waters.
Kip can’t help but laugh, but then Scott’s mouth is closing over his own, and they’re kissing, Scott’s tongue in his mouth, eager and wanting.
He lets himself get pushed back into the couch cushions for a few minutes, running his hands over Scott’s back, his ass. He can feel the muscles flexing: those annoying, distracting muscles. Kip’s glasses are getting pushed askew, but he finds he doesn’t mind.
For just a moment, he reflects on this sorry situation: his extremely hot professional athlete boyfriend is insatiable, to the detriment of Kip’s attention span. Cue the world’s tiniest violin.
But Scott had been intentional. He’d been goading Kip. He’d been riling him up, the whole performance. Kip realises, with a hot rush that spirals through his gut, what Scott wants.
He reaches one hand up and twists it into Scott’s hair, tugging. Scott groans into his mouth, his body tensing. Kip pinches the muscle at his waist with his other hand.
“You’re a nuisance,” he murmurs against Scott’s lips. “You know that, right? A menace. I’m trying to work.”
He tugs at Scott’s hair again, baring his neck. He descends on the skin with his teeth, nipping lightly. He can feel Scott’s dick pulse thickly where it’s pressed against his abdomen, trapped between them.
“It’s very rude, you know,” Kip continues.
“You, uh,” Scott starts, panting as Kip gets a hand between them, grabbing Scott’s cock and squeezing, rubbing with the flat of his palm. “You gonna put me in my place?”
Kip resists the urge to roll his eyes. Scott’s impatience while horny is extremely adorable, but he’d kind of wanted to let it play out longer. Next time.
Instead, he tugs at Scott’s waistband, slipping his shorts down over the curve of his ass, letting his cock spring free. Scott wriggles—a not entirely unpleasant situation in Kip’s lap—and shimmies out of the pants, then flings the towel onto the floor, and then he’s sitting, gloriously naked in Kip’s lap.
Kip, in his jeans and T-shirt, doesn’t feel overdressed. He feels in control. He feels powerful. He runs his hands down Scott’s thighs, drags his nails over the skin leaving red trails. Scott shivers, shifts in his lap.
“I think you already know where your place is,” he says, his tone light, playful. Because that’s what this is: a game, and fun, and perfect.
And Scott is grinning, beaming, because he knows the game, too; he cowrote the rules, and everyone wins.
“Show me,” he says.
Kip pushes him, shoving him down towards the couch, and Scott lets himself be moved—because as strong as Kip is, he doesn’t know if he could genuinely shove Scott facedown into anything if he actually put up a fight.
There’s no need to draw it out, to kiss and coax and lavish right now. Scott’s already on his knees, hugging a cushion to his chest, baring himself. Kip kneels behind him, runs his hands down Scott’s flank, his hips, over his buttocks, spreading him wide. He leans and kisses the base of Scott’s spine, the dimples in the muscle above his tailbone, the top of the curve of his ass, then rubs his thumb over Scott’s rim. He’s still loose, still wet, from their sex earlier this morning.
Scott moans, pushes back into Kip’s hand. “Fuck, yes.”
Kip sucks on his own fingers, quickly slicking them with saliva, then slides them into Scott in one smooth motion. Scott keens, pressing back, shifting forward, already fucking himself onto Kip’s fingers.
“God, you want it,” Kip murmurs. “Look at you.”
Scott’s face is burning, his cheeks pink and flushed with a combination of arousal and a lingering embarrassment from how easy he is.
It’s the most perfect color Kip has ever seen.
He twists his fingers inside Scott’s ass, fucks them in and draws them out a lazy handful of times while Scott writhes beneath him. He’s not even bothering to seek out Scott’s prostate—as much as he’d love to reduce him to a sobbing mess right now, he has other plans.
He removes his fingers and undoes his jeans, sliding them down his hips along with his boxers. He ignores Scott’s whine, reaching out and pinching Scott’s side instead. He leans forward and holds out a hand to Scott.
“Spit,” he says.
Scott’s chest heaves, breath heavy, and obliges, wet and warm in his cupped hand.
He slicks himself, his cock achingly hard now, Scott’s saliva and his own precome a wet mess along his shaft.
“I suppose you want me to teach you a lesson,” he says, pressing the head of his cock agains Scott’s rim.
“I’m sorry,” Scott whines, shifting back, trying to take Kip in.
Kip moves with him, teasing, keeping the pressure against his hole but denying him what he wants, just for another moment. “Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for—god, Kip,” Scott groans. “Sorry for being too sexy.”
There’s a laugh in his voice, and Kip laughs, too, because Scott is ridiculous, the whole thing is ridiculous and joyous and he loves it.
He pinches Scott again, grabs his hips, anchoring him still. Then he levers his hips forward, pushing against Scott where he’s wet and ready, thrusting the head of his cock past tight muscle and into delirious heat.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, trying to maintain his composure, failing miserably as Scott pushes his weight back, taking the length of Kip’s cock in a single smooth glide.
Scott moans, the air punching out of his lungs. Kip runs a hand over his lower back, grounding him.
“Are you going to discipline me?” he asks, still biting but a tremor running through his voice now.
Kip doesn’t take the bait. He runs his hand over the wide, warm expanse of Scott’s muscular back. His hands rest on Scott’s shoulders, and then press down, pushing his chest into the couch cushions, holding him in place. Scott gasps, pushes back against Kip’s grip, but Kip holds him fast.
He begins to thrust, pace punishing, and Scott just takes it, just melts under his hands, eyes closed and mouth open, a string of soft moans spilling out of him.
No one here is lasting long, not when Scott is hot and tight around him like a vise, keening when Kip shifts the angle and nails that spot inside that makes his back arch, pressing against Kip’s hands.
“Fuck me, fuck me,” Scott babbles, more sounds than words, and so Kip does, fucks him hard and fast, sweat starting to gather between his shoulder blades, the room devoid of noise but for Kip’s panting breath, Scott’s broken moans, and the slap of their skin as his brings their bodies together, over and over.
He shifts one hand to the nape of Scott’s neck, lightening the pressure but gripping firm, the strength of his hand a command. With his free hand he reaches down and wraps his fist around Scott’s cock, hot like a brand and leaking precome in fat blurts.
Scott howls, eyes screwed shut, and Kip jerks him ruthlessly, hips snapping, fucking into Scott with a ferocity that feels unearned, unrecognisable. Scott feels incredible, as always, as much as he did this morning and every time before that: willing, open, wanting, begging. It makes Kip feel torn, halfway between king and conservator of something precious.
“Gonna come,” Scott slurs. “Kip, oh, fuck, ‘m gonna come.”
“Good,” Kip pants, control slipping. “Come on my cock, god, Scott, come—”
He doesn’t finish the thought, because Scott’s dick is jerking in his hand, pulsing hot streaks over his fist and Scott’s own belly. He squeezes impossibly tighter around Kip’s cock, and it’s too much, it overpowers, and he’s coming too, slipping out, shooting all over Scott’s ass and lower back.
He slumps backwards onto the couch cushions. They stay, breathing heavily, open-mouthed, for long moments in recovery.
Eventually, Scott crawls off the couch, standing and stretching on the floor beside where Kip is lying spent. Kip can tell, based on his careful movement, that he’s trying not to get come on the couch, and it’s endearing—the neatness, the fussiness. It’s sweet, and he smiles up at Scott, probably shooting some serious heart-eyes in his direction.
Scott holds out a hand. “Shower?”
Kip nods, and reaches out to wind their fingers together. He lets Scott pull him up, start tugging him down the hall.
“And afterwards,” Scott says, “I promise I will let you study.”
Kip laughs. He’d practically forgotten what had started all this in the first place.
“Okay,” he says. “Just an hour. One hour?”
“One hour,” says Scott. “I can be patient.”
He stops, winds Kip in towards him, kisses him sweetly on the mouth.
“No, you can’t,” Kip says.
“Not when you’re wearing those,” Scott says, reaching up to tap Kip’s glasses, which he’s somehow still wearing.
Kip rolls his eyes. “I’ll put in my contacts, then.”
Scott growls, tugs him closer, despite the mess on his abdomen. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he says.
Kip laughs, and lets himself be kissed, again, and again, and always. Maybe Scott isn’t so annoying after all.