On Being A Good Ol' Boy
by Lar

Chris swears too damn much, but people blame it on him being just a good ol' boy. Country hardass who grew up with nothing but a bunch of other hicks, and that's what they do. Drink beer, kick ass, swear to see who can outdo the others. So he says 'fuck' every other word when he's had a few too many Buds and then he grins.

The grin gets one of two reactions. It makes people want to grin with him, to go stand next to him and be in on the joke. Makes them want to buy him another beer, sit down at the table with the chair turned round and their arms leaning on the back of it, get up close and find out what's so fucking funny.

It makes people want to fuck him blind. Push him against the wall; kiss that mouth until he's not grinning because he's moaning. Makes them want to slide their hands over his body, see if he can maybe smile a little dirtier if they get their fingers wrapped around his cock.

Dave does both. Dave's the one making Chris say 'fuck' too much and making him grin. Buying him Bud and clinking the longnecks together when he sets them on the table, straddling that chair he has all pushed up close and leaning over to murmur something in Chris's ear that'll make him laugh. Or blush.

That'll make him hard.

Dave likes to string the boy out, half-drunk and on the edge of wondering when he's gonna get his ass drug down the hall to the men's room, in the spot where the overhead light's burned out and there's just shadows there where the door sets back some. He likes seeing Chris grin, sure, and he likes making him laugh. But what he really likes best of all, what he really fucking loves is knowing that Chris is always waiting for it. That he'll sit there all damn night and let Dave tell stories and buy beer and make the whole damn table crack up until everybody's drunk and stupid with laughter. That he'll get up the second that Dave's hand slides round his shoulder to squeeze the back of his neck without a single word and just go.

He'll wait in that hallway, or in the alley, or in the parking lot behind the biggest van he can find Wait for Dave to come kiss him, touch him, wrap his fingers around Chris' cock and slide against that heated skin until they're both groaning with it. Until Chris' hips are bucking wildly, fast and out of control because he can't not fuck himself against Dave's hand. And sometimes Dave will drop to his knees. Sometimes instead of that big hand squeezing and stroking, he'll give Chris his mouth and suck him off in about thirty seconds flat. It's the shock of it, mostly, and the fact that he's had Chris strung out for an hour or two and then teased him along some more with kisses full of slick tongue and dirty whispers against Chris' ear.

He never lets Chris know from one time to the next when he'll do it. Dave might give him those clever fingers every time for three weeks straight. Or he might call him something sweet and smile and kiss his way down from Chris' fuck-me mouth to his neck. Pull up his t-shirt and lick over his chest, tug open the worn Levi's and just about worship at the altar of Chris' cock until the boy comes with a strangled sound that's half curse and half moan.

Dave's done that more than a few times. Hell, he did it once for three days in a row, so that every time Chris came on the set he got hard. Just had to hear Dave's voice or look at the way Dave's fingers wrapped around the Starbuck's cup and Chris would have to slide his hands in his pockets and hunch his shoulders.

Not that he ever complained. Chris never complains. Chris just drinks his Bud and grins. And waits.


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