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The party is in full swing and they're in some asshole daytime star's guest room practicing going down in flames. Live fast, die young and all that assorted bullshit. They'll make fashion forward pretty corpses, if a bit rumpled, Robert realises, staring down at his open fly and bare belly. His shirt is hanging on a ceiling fan for all he knows. Kiefer's ridiculous designer pants are open too, but he's still got all his clothes on and Robert grins at him because he's making the most out of that 50s greaser look: tight white undershirt, a few days from a shave, stoned and still dangerous as a switchblade. Kiefer's answering grin knifes low in Robert's guts, flame-hot and wicked. The pornographic scatter of illicit substances, mostly-empty bottles and satin underthings can't hold a fucking candle against Kiefer's expression.
"We lost the girls," Kiefer says, voice dragging like a tape player with dying batteries.
"Not sure if lost is the right word. There's one," Robert rolls to his belly and points to the party girl passed out on the floor. He swings his arm towards the other who'd crawled into the bathroom to puke up a gallon or two of vodka. "Fairly certain that's the other. Outpaced would be more accurate. Or did we have three? If we had three, we're fucked in a singularly figurative way."
Kiefer laughs a sort of all out it's not even funny but what does it matter laugh that triggers a fit of hysteria in Robert. He's pretty sure he's going to wheeze himself straight off the bed, but the gigglefit and the slow slide to the floor ends with Kiefer grabbing him by the seat of the pants and hauling him back. "Oh no you don't," Kiefer says, crawling halfway on top of him. The open buckle of his belt smacks against Robert's back. A shockwave runs up Robert's spine, met at the peak by the hot wash of Kiefer's breath. "Not losing you too."
The weight pressed along his body and the hard nudge of Kiefer's dick against his thigh makes him jerk. "That desperate to get laid, blondie?" Robert twists, best as he can, and catches the sloppiest fucking kiss ever with the corner of his mouth. Rough hands slide up his sides dragging sparks like a firecracker. Kiefer's thumbs press up against the points of his shoulderblades, fingers fanning out to slot against his ribs. It's ticklish as hell and turns him on. A few makeout sessions and some blowjobs and Kiefer was turning from a hello-in-the-hallway housemate into prime fuckbuddy material. "I'll drop some cash down that you can't stop thinking about how I give good head."
"Only because you're a greedy slut who likes giving good head," Kiefer says, his growl playful but his grip turning harder. "Finish me off, yeah? I'll be hard again in no time."
"You are hard, asshole." Robert's pretty sure he's not wasted enough that he's imagining the big fat dick prodding his hip. "And you're pretty fucking happy to see me."
Kiefer's stunned, "Oh shit, I am!" makes them both laugh all over again. Wetness leaks at the corner of Robert's eyes when he catches his breath. He gasps for another when the lewd swipe of Kiefer's tongue licks up his tears and sends him shivering.
"Shit you are," Robert says, words falling apart into a hard groan. Kiefer's got so much gel in his hair that it's a scatter of spikes crunching and sticking to Robert's palms. He tries to grab a handful and kiss Kiefer and wriggle onto his back again. Bottles clink and roll away. One falls to the floor with a thud. The room's a mess, but this isn't their place, and the other rooms aren't likely faring any better. Fuck 'em all, they'd been invited.
He twists and squirms but never quite far enough to make kissing easier. A brushfire flare of memory has him moaning and wanting the spit-wet smack of Kiefer's dick on his face again, but he's stuck on his belly, still hard himself, tent firmly pitched from the girls that'd been all over the both of them. Kiefer only has maybe fifteen pounds on him, but does a spectacular job of holding him down, dry fucking against him until Robert says screw it and pushes up on his knees to let the hard ride of Kiefer's cock grind against his ass.
A rough tug and denim drags down his hips, a promise slurred against his shoulder between another spectacularly sloppy kiss and Kiefer getting a handful of his ass. Robert's blood feels thin, rushing through his veins and leaving him dizzy. Kiefer mumbles another something about not actually fucking him, but at the hot press of flesh between his legs, Robert really doesn't give a damn if Kiefer wants to go all the way down the chocolate highway. He'd say so if his mouth wasn't open and pressed to his arm, muffling a moan as the thrust of Kiefer's dick between his thighs nudges up against his balls. He's pretty sure his coordination is shit, so when Kiefer really goes to town, thrusts forcing the head of his dick to drag against the tangled mess of the bedspread Robert moans a little louder as a thank you.
"Wish you'd let me," Kiefer says, lifting off enough to get a hand between them. His cock rubs slick with sweat and precome against Robert's hole. "Fucking hell, Robbie, you'd let me wouldn't you?"
Robert spreads his legs wider yet, shudders at the press, the teasing sweep of hot flesh on flesh as Kiefer eases off and starts jacking. He's fucking needy and aching for it when he finds the spit to whisper a rough, "Go for it."
But it's too late. With a grunt, Kiefer is coming, shooting on Robert's ass and god knows where else and then fucking it into his skin. "Shit, shit, shit," he says, over and over at the lost opportunity. Or maybe from some kind of sophomoric embarrassment at blowing his wad first and fast.
"Whatever," Robert says, "keep going." He's ending up cross-eyed at the slippery drag of Kiefer's cock at his hole. Ants are marching all over his skin, making the whole of his body tingle. He can smell the spunk in the air now, tastes it in the back of his throat on a deep breath. When he wants to be, he's a fucking champion cocksucker and the thought of sucking Kiefer deep when he's all sticky and going soft is what pushes that last, vital button.
Robert comes like he's hard up for it, gasping as the slam of orgasm spreads a slick mess under him. Kiefer collapses half on top of him in a sprawl. He manages, finally, to squirm onto his back again and get a kiss with a little more finesse, tongue-wet, a mid-afternoon sort of lazy. Kiefer's stubble scratches against his cheek.
"15 bottles of beer on the bed," Kiefer hums, finding a bottle of something substantially harder with his outstretched fingers. He sits up to unscrew the lid and Robert cracks an eye open to see the wet stain on his shirt from his come, or Robert's, or both most likely.
"One more drink?" Kiefer asks, and takes a swig. When it dries, his simple white tee is going to be crusted with come. Robert considers sucking it out of the fabric before it has the chance. "Last call."
"Oh, why not," he says, fisting his hands in Kiefer's shirt.