Work Text:
Fang really had the nicest friends. They might have their little differences—disagreements over which bar to go to or which movie to watch, occasional threats of stabbing or arson—but they always made time to help one another.
If anyone ever needed a lift, a hand moving something heavy, or just a night out to blow off steam, someone always came through. Like when he and Izzy took their motorcycles up north last year to ride the Cabot Trail and everyone took turns housesitting for them. The crew had even sent pictures every day of Rosie and Ranger racing around the dog park and enjoying pupsicles on the porch, so Fang could see they were having a nice holiday too and didn’t worry.
And now, when he was going away on a work trip to the Australia Zoo, they had kindly agreed to look in on Izzy.
It wasn’t that Izzy needed walking or feeding while Fang was away, but he did sort of start chewing on the furniture when he was left alone for too long. He always seemed to take on a project straight after dropping Fang off at the airport. Something that needed doing, sure, but nothing that needed doing that very weekend or with a single-minded focus that saw him making a new mortal enemy of whatever contractor, landscaper, or hardware store manager was unlucky enough to get pulled into it.
Fang would call home each night and hear nothing but gruff assurances that everything was fine, nothing was new, and “For fuck’s sake, it’s been two days, you haven’t set sail on the Mary fucking Celeste.”
Then he’d eventually return to find Izzy in a bad mood, the freezer stocked with a month’s worth of meal prep, and the stakes out for a new fence that Izzy swore was on their side of the property line no matter what “those twats next door and their trespassing azaleas” might claim.
This time he was prepared. Going away for nearly a full week, he'd given Izzy a project in advance—and their friends were only too happy to help.
Usually, Fang and Izzy's home movies only went as far as Izzy's desktop computer in the home office, but Lucius had been kind enough to make an online drop box that Fang could check from his phone while he travelled. That boy was awfully good with technology, thanks to all the work he did putting his lovely art online and drawing things for people all over the world.
Assured that Izzy was in good hands with good people while he was gone, all Fang had to do when he got back to his motel room in Beerwah each evening was lie back, type in the password, and unzip.
Sunday
Izzy's face is turned toward the camera, but his glassy gaze is somewhere else entirely as he pants, arches his back, and snarls.
"Fucking—give it—"
Ivan doesn't need to be asked twice. Draped over Izzy from behind with an arm locked under his throat, he digs his toes into the mattress and steps up his game. The headboard visibly vibrates. It would be slamming into the wall if two past repairs hadn't finally seen it steel-anchored. As it is, the last pillow goes flying off the bed as the lamp on the nightstand jitterbugs.
The smack of flesh on flesh beats hard and steady with a crackly backing track of heavy breathing, grunts of effort, and the reckless rocking of the mattress. Ivan snakes his arm free and relocates his grip to the back of Izzy's neck. With that extra leverage, he rises up and pounds into him so viciously that every other sound is momentarily buried by Izzy's raspy bark of bliss.
That's clearly the right stuff. Izzy's face transforms as he teeters on the edge, his eyebrows rising and his lips parting. The hand he's got wedged under himself moves faster now, pulling urgently.
Braids bouncing, hips snapping, Ivan hammers him through a gasping, jolting, full-body quake of an orgasm. Then, before Izzy's spunk has even had time to finish dripping onto the sheets, Ivan's dropping down over him and getting his own in with a dozen long, deep strokes.
"Fuck," Izzy mouths.
They lie limply together for a while in the aftermath, Ivan's forehead pressed to Izzy's shoulder as they both catch their breath. Izzy's gaze finds the camera again, his eyes half shut and his lax body radiating satisfaction. Then Ivan gropes for his phone on the nightstand.
A second file accompanies the video in the drop box—this one a still photo.
In it, Ivan’s free hand is spreading Izzy’s cheeks apart, baring a swollen hole glinting with lube and pried open just enough for Ivan’s copious load to leak out.
Out of focus, Izzy is flipping the bird over his shoulder.
The upload comment from Ivan reads: Job done, bruv. Enjoy the trip!
Monday
The camera blinks on, the screen momentarily taken up entirely by Frenchie’s face. He steps back and gives a cheery wave, then turns around and promptly trips over his own feet while trying to get his pants off.
"For fuck's sake," Izzy says from the edge of the bed where he's sat removing his prosthesis. Despite the words, his impatience is sanded off around the edges the way it always is for Frenchie. "Come here."
Frenchie presents himself at the bedside, shooting another look at the camera with eyebrows upraised in happy conspiracy.
There's a briskness to the way Izzy undresses him, but the video captures the moments when his hands linger. His palms sliding up Frenchie's chest as he gets him out of his t-shirt. His thumb brushing over the jut of a hipbone. His fingertips pressing into the softness around back.
With a shivery wiggle, Frenchie climbs naked astride Izzy's lap and topples them both down onto the mattress.
Izzy's remaining clothes come off more haphazardly as Frenchie all but burrows under them. Every inch pressing together is Frenchie's bare minimum for contact, and he clings like a limpet in the attempt. He rubs his cheek against Izzy's, getting his hands all over him, and then lets out a soft whoop of delight when Izzy rolls on top of him.
They kiss slow and dirty, Izzy's tongue visible in little flashes as it slides in and out of Frenchie's mouth. He reaches for the lube, and Frenchie lets him lift up just long enough for a couple of good squirts to get everything nice and slippery.
Frenchie whispers something in his ear, and Izzy scoffs, but there's a laugh at the edge of it. Then they're shifting together, finding their groove for a sweetly unhurried frot that will outlast the camera battery as the late afternoon sun streams warmly over them through the bedroom curtains.
Tuesday
The video starts, but it's clearly not the camcorder in the bedroom. For one thing, the lights and colours are all wrong. For another, it's clearly being held in one hand, admiringly steady but still bobbing up and down as Lucius sucks Izzy's cock. The background reveals glimpses of the dark sky and grass, and the grey shed just behind Izzy. They're in the backyard, which means they need to be quit and quick.
The action lingers on Lucius's lips and the stiff, flushed length of Izzy's straining cock, glistening wet, as those lips slide up it.
Izzy is grasping Lucius's shirt collar, white-knuckled, urging him on. The phone tilts up to reveal his face, his eyes shut and mouth slack. He's breathing hard, the sound a rhythmic shush behind the wet slurps. His Adam's apple bobs, his shirt opened halfway down his chest and baring a fresh hickey on his collarbone
A filter pops up on the video, framing Izzy in pink as cartoon hearts appear over his eyes. A parade of little eggplants and water droplets march across the screen as he comes.
The phone pans down again to the rapid working of Lucius's mouth and then the pull-back and slow spit as he lets the load of pearly spunk dribble messily down Izzy's cock into his bush.
There's a split-second "Oi!" from Izzy—even hoarser than usual, but blunted with pleasure—before the audio track gives way to a familiar song.
"My boy Lollipop / You make my heart go giddyup"
(Fang had wondered if Lucius gave Izzy the password to take a sneak peek at the movies. From the lack of angry text that night, he suspects that's a no.)
Wednesday
There’s no mistaking Jim. Even with their back to the camera, close enough that you can only see part of a white undershirt, a lean arm, and a cocked hip, there’s a way they move that isn’t like anyone else. Spare but graceful at the same time, just like one of their knife tricks.
They toss a bundle of leather straps onto the bed along with something nice and thick to put in it. Then, hands efficient, balance steady, and back arching just a little for show, they shuck off first their undershirt and then their jeans, leaving the strong lines of their bare shoulders and the black waistband of a dark red pair of boxer-briefs in frame.
Izzy's sitting up on the bed half naked, watching them keenly. With everyone else, he's glanced at the camera at least a half-dozen times until things get going. But with Jim, his gaze never wavers from them.
That’s the way those two are together, like they're squaring up for a duel. Everything is push and pull as Jim approaches. A step, a touch, a look. Izzy's hand on their thigh, holding them at arm's length and visibly squeezing. The hook of Jim's smirk as they shove him back against the headboard. Izzy yanking Jim towards him, and Jim grabbing a fistful of Izzy's hair.
Their tussle ends with Jim straddling Izzy's face and Izzy all too happy to be there. He's slouched down against the pillows, mouthing at whatever he can reach through the opening in Jim's boxers as his arms are pinned.
"Mm, yeah. Go on, viejito." Jim's purr breaks in the middle into a laugh as Izzy evidently bites their inner thigh.
"If I put my fucking neck out because of you—" Izzy begins, but it's an empty complaint with nothing to back it up besides the wet, belying sound of his tongue going to work.
Thursday
"That feels good, doesn't it? Look at how hard your cock is."
Izzy can't look, strictly speaking. He's blindfolded, handcuffed to the headboard, his mouth stretched around a ball gag and his nipples pinched tight between a screw-on pair of clamps.
His brow and chest glint with sweat, and his hips move in plaintive, jerky thrusts as Roach works a transparent stroker smoothly but slowly over his cock. When Izzy's able to restrain himself, he's rewarded by it going a little quicker, just a little, the well-lubed squelching audible on the mic until it's overtaken by Izzy's breathy moans and—
"Uh-uh." Roach pulls the stroker free before Izzy can come, provoking a muffled holler of indignation.
Izzy's glistening cock strains up, curving over his stomach. It's drooling, the same as the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, poor man," Roach croons, his other hand down his pants.
The stroker gets lowered again, this time barely brushing the head of Izzy's cock. Roach licks his lips as Izzy thrusts up blindly, struggling to find his way inside it. He holds it still just long enough for Izzy to breach it with a muffled cry of relief, then pulls it off again. Lowers it. Lets Izzy blindly thrust his way inside. Pulls it off again. Lowers it again, holds it there until Izzy's biting down hard on the gag and rabbiting up desperately into the stroker's tight embrace, then pulls it off once more.
Izzy's chest heaves with a full-throated sob.
Roach cups Izzy's balls and gives them a bounce. "Working up a nice big load in here, hm?"
Even through the gag, the cadence of Izzy's "What the fuck do you think?" is clear.
Roach grins, still working Izzy's balls in his palm, rolling them, squeezing not so gently and tugging them down.
"It seems a shame to waste it on me," he says. "I think Fang would appreciate it so much more."
Izzy goes still at the implication. He whimpers behind the gag.
"Don't you think so?" Roach prompts. "Wouldn't that be nice for him? Knowing you're thinking about him when he's off working so hard. Knowing you were saving something special for him?"
Agony creases Izzy's brow. He bites down on the gag. His head turns subtly, as if he's glancing at the camera, even though he can't see it. Reluctantly, he gives a small nod.
"Fang's a lucky man."
Roach lets go of his balls and gives them a fond pat. He draws a fingertip up the underside of Izzy's shaft, over the swollen head, then roughly rubs the slit until Izzy's fighting to squirm away.
With a soft laugh, Roach slides the stroker down on his own erection.
"Oh, you're right. This does feel nice."
Izzy's cock twitches at the sound of it, his hips continuing to shallowly jerk in hopeful phantom thrusts.
"Just so you don't feel left out," Roach says, reclining against the footboard to admire the view as he pleasures himself, "I'll let you lick it out when I'm done."
Friday
Fang got back into town in the small hours of the morning, after a full day in transit.
He had managed to talk Izzy out of picking him up at the airport, since he and Deb and Julie all lived on the same side of the city and could split a cab home, but it was a hard sell. There was nothing Izzy liked more than getting cross about meeting a flight. He got to stew about the traffic both ways, the parking (both availability and cost), the delays, the price of coffee, the weight of luggage, and how everyone else was mucking up what could have otherwise been an efficient process of fucking off out of the airport.
Izzy always had a bottle of water waiting in the glove box, along with some headache medicine and either a banana or an orange, which let him work up one last burst of irritation when his passenger obligingly ate the fruit and then left a mess of peel sitting around in his car for the rest of the drive.
Fang could have done with an orange, but the sight of familiar streets on the last quiet leg of the cab ride was comfort enough in the lead-up to the welcome walk along the unaltered front garden and the glad sound of his key turning in the lock.
The house was dark and quiet. Well, quiet for all of ten seconds, at which point Rosie and Ranger woke up in their kennels in the front room and realized that Papa was home. He tossed down his luggage and let them out, immediately settling in on the floor in front of the sofa for a good long wrestle and cuddle until his babies were all tail-wagged out and ready to go back to sleep.
After that, he showered to wash off the travel and doggy kisses, doing his best not to fall asleep under the seductive hot spray of just the right shower pressure. He padded naked into the bedroom, his stomach going warm when he saw Izzy lying under the covers.
Izzy was obviously awake after all the fuss the dogs had made, but he said nothing—just reached out, grabbed Fang by the cock, and tried to pull him into bed.
"Izzy!" Fang laughed in a whisper, hurrying to follow and give him a kiss. He sunk into the warm comfort of his own sheets and his own side of the mattress, wrapping an arm around his own Izzy.
"There's chicken in the fridge," Izzy murmured, but his hand was still on Fang's cock, doing things that wrote off the idea of going to the kitchen.
"I missed you," Fang sighed happily, part of him now very keen on staying up a little longer.
"Shut it." Izzy pressed his face into his chest, breathing him in.
Fang was doing the same thing, his nose buried in Izzy's hair as he held him. He'd been so lovely to watch all week, but nothing beat the scent of him, the warm weight of him, or the way he fit just so in Fang's arms.
Izzy was already hard when he touched him, pushing into Fang's grip impatiently. Fang didn't need cameras running to know that Izzy hadn't touched himself after Roach. That he'd been waiting for him, thinking about this, working himself up all day. A promise was a promise with Izzy, even if it was painful to keep—especially when it was painful to keep.
Another kiss followed, this one rough and smacking, with Izzy's teeth around his lower lip. Izzy's hands were briefly all over his chest and stomach and shoulders, as if making sure all his favourite parts were still there. Then he was reaching past him for a couple of pumps from the bottle on the bedside table.
It was a well-practised manoeuvre by now, the cool and slippery slather of lube over Fang's stiffening cock a moment before Izzy rolled over onto his side in invitation (or demand). Fang's arm was already there under him, his bicep a waiting pillow while he nudged Izzy's leg up with his own and guided himself in.
Oh, there was nothing like it. That first breaching, lovely and snug as he pressed in, and the way Izzy breathed out all at once when he did it. Silky heat after that, rubbing luxuriously all up and down the length of his cock as Izzy braced himself and started pushing back on it.
Fang rocked forward to meet him, fingers raking through Izzy's chest hair before moving down to give him a nice rub.
He closed his eyes. The bed was floating beneath him and the dark room swimming around him, everything a little hazy with jet lag except the pleasure of fucking. The scenes he'd been watching all week flashed through his mind, jumbling together in a dirty best-of compilation of sucking, licking, dripping, coming. Izzy's lips parted, Izzy's cock spurting, Izzy's hole spread open and filled with everything it could take. Too hot to hold back, Fang thrust into him harder, screwing in deep until Izzy started gasping his name
Tomorrow, he thought, giving Izzy a good squeeze—tomorrow, after a nice lie-in, he would show Izzy just how pretty he'd looked in all of his movies. But for now? For now, all Fang wanted to show him was how happy he was to be home.