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Fic for xfdryad - DTF

Recipient: xfdryad
Title: DTF
Characters/Pairing: James/Robbie
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: ~7800
Warnings: None


Warm light floods the room behind him and the man standing before him, and James’s breath catches in his throat. Because he’s never seen Robbie look quite like this—flushed and intense, eyes black and wild—or sound quite as he does when he breathes, “Bloody hell, James...” There’s something wild in his voice. Something low and feral and dangerous.

“Robbie? What’s happened?”

Robbie holds up his hand, showing that the shiny thing clutched in his palm is his mobile. “Got your text.”


This was written for the lewis_challenge Secret Santa 2016 for xfdryad. She asked for Robbie/James and said that the story didn’t have to be NC17, so I was thinking of going for a Mature rating, but—what can I say?—the guys collaborated with my muse and then did what they wanted to do. Eventually. From Dryad’s list, I’ve managed to include first kisses, first times, wit (maybe), humour (though, of course, that’s relative, so ymmv), Lewis managing to surprise James, and jealousy (just a tiny bit).

Huge, be-ribboned thank-yous, mimosas, and cheese dip to my lovely, wonderful, kinky, scary beta readers, {censored & censored}! I was running late as usual, and they both found time to critique and offer comments and suggestions at the last minute (without dropping a stitch or running into a ditch!) Without them, I would have been on tenterhooks about posting and freaked about typos (which still may be lurking, but I made changes after the critiques, so those are my fault).

Also thanks to {censored} for the prompt. My first six attempts at writing the story (yes, six…contrary muse!) weren’t going anywhere, and with the deadline looming, I was desperate. Then I remembered {censored} mentioning an idea she had for a Lewis story. Not only did she graciously gave me permission to steal it, she also took time out to read the story and offer suggestions. And I can’t believe I’m daring to admit this, in the process, took my real-time critique cherry. I still quiver when I think of it. *g* Thanks, {censored}, above and beyond. Remember…you never forget your first! *wink*


long weekend starting now per Moody…case passed on per Moody...dtf...up for a bit of celebration later?
                                                                                                                                            ~text from James H to Robert L

James hasn’t been home long. Just long enough to shake the snowflakes off the shoulders of his coat and hang it over a chair to dry. To adjust the thermostat in the hope of chasing the worst of the chill out of the cavernous flat. He hasn’t even bothered to turn on the lights. But the hazy pinkish glow from the streetlamps coming through the sheer curtains is enough to find his way around the flat. To find bottle and glass, pour himself a good stiff scotch, and down it.

James isn’t sure why he’s not happier, or at the very least, more relaxed. He should be downright giddy. After more than a month of juggling at least three—sometimes more—investigations at a time, Moody has kicked him and Lizzie out of the nick and threatened to dock their pay if they return before Tuesday. And he’d also promised to put their names at the bottom of the duty roster, even though they should be near the top.

James supposes it just hasn’t sunk into his brain yet, that it can slow down. That for the next four days, he has nothing about which he has to think. No clues to find. No interviews to conduct. He doesn’t have to answer his phone. Or put on a tie. He can sleep. Catch up on chores. Get drunk. The last of which sounds like the most promising way to begin his long weekend.

He checks his mobile one more time—nothing except for the blue blink of the low battery warning. There’s no response to the message he sent Robbie just as he was leaving the nick, checking in to let Robbie know the case had been passed on and to see whether Robbie wanted to meet for dinner and a drink.

Which means Robbie probably has other plans. Since his return from New Zealand, sans Laura, Robbie’s kept himself fairly busy in his free time, sorting through his and Laura’s things and packing his up. He says he wants to be ready to move out of the house if Laura decides to come back to Oxford early. Or maybe even go ahead and find a place of his own now. But James thinks Robbie may be wasting his time. James isn’t convinced Laura will be coming back to Oxford. He’s talked to her a few times, and she seems very happy where she is. So Robbie may end up keeping the house, if he wants it, and unpacking all that stuff he’s been wrapping so carefully and fitting into boxes.

James pours himself another drink and sips at it as he sheds the armour of work—coat and tie and belt—undoes a few buttons, tugs the tail of his shirt out of his trousers. He kicks off one shoe, sailing it towards the bedroom. The satisfying thunk on the partly closed door tells him his aim was perfect. As he raises his foot to send the other shoe flying, he pauses and tries to decide whether he’s hungry enough to go back out on his own for something to eat.

After a moment, he decides to have something delivered and sends the shoe after its mate. Changing into jeans and a sweater, or even his pyjamas, and sitting on the couch with his feet up as he eats an entire pizza by himself, sounds like a much better plan than going back out in the dusk and spitting snow.

Or he could just drink the remainder of the bottle. He’s not much in the mood to eat alone, either in or out. It’s not the best idea, though, so much booze on an empty stomach. If he doesn’t eat, there’s not going to be much celebration in his lonely evening of celebration. Just a lot of owlish blinking and fuzzy thoughts, followed by passing out. Which doesn’t really sound all that bad either, now that he thinks of it.

When the doorbell rings in the middle of pouring his third scotch, he almost doesn’t answer it. But the tinny chiming is followed by the sound of knuckles rapping on the door. The knocking starts out light, but quickly develops a growing persistent, insistent quality that tells him whoever’s on the other side isn’t going to stop.

James pulls the edges of his shirt closed over his chest, sighs, and trudges across the room, floor cold underneath his sock clad feet, and opens the door of his flat just wide enough to peek through.

It’s a bit of a surprise to find that it’s Robbie who’s thumping away at his door. But not an unpleasant one…he’s always glad to see Robbie.

“Hey,” James says easily, voice lubricated by scotch. “I was just about to order pizza. When I didn’t hear back, I assumed you were busy.” He opens the door wider to indicate Robbie should come in.

But except to lower the fist he was in the act of applying to the door again, Robbie doesn’t move from where he’s standing.

The light in the hall is brighter than the light in James’s dismally lit flat, and Robbie’s face is in shadow, his body silhouetted against the yellow light. James can’t see his expression, only that Robbie’s shoulders are squared and tight and that the fist he’s just lowered is still clenched. His other hand is closed tight, too, around something thin and metallic that glints as Robbie shifts restively from foot to foot.

Since Robbie usually calls or texts to say he’s on his way, the first thing that occurs to James is that, despite Moody’s promise, they’ve had a call-out. A bad one if Robbie’s body language is any indication. Though it would be odd for Robbie to receive the call instead of him. But it’s not unheard of. Dispatch calls until they snag a live detective, and James’s mobile is in the kitchen, charging. Doubtful, but he could have missed the ring.

“Everything okay?” He opens the door even wider as he scrabbles for the light switch.

Warm light floods the room behind him and the man standing before him, and James’s breath catches in his throat. Because he’s never seen Robbie look quite like this—flushed and intense, eyes black and wild—or sound quite as he does when he breathes, “Bloody hell, James...” There’s something wild in his voice, too. Something low and feral and dangerous.

“Robbie? What’s happened?”

Robbie holds up his hand, showing that the shiny thing clutched in his palm is his mobile. “Got your text.”

James nods, confused. He sent the text—what?—45 minutes ago, maybe an hour, as an afterthought, just as he was leaving the nick. He’d wanted Robbie to know they weren’t still working on the case, which had turned out to be drug-related and, therefore, someone else’s headache. Surely that news wasn’t enough to warrant this kind of reaction?

Unless Robbie’s really pissed at Moody for taking the case away from them. Robbie had been pretty keen on puzzling out the clues, despite being as tired and brain-dulled as he and Lizzie. But Robbie hates drug cases, so James had assumed he’d be glad to see it go, despite the interesting puzzles. And glad to have a few days of rest.

“I—” he says at the same time that Robbie breathes, “Jesus christ.” And Robbie jams his mobile into the pocket of his anorak and reaches for James. Grips him by the front of his shirt and shoves him back into the flat.

And... And… And— What the fuck? James drops his glass as he’s spun backwards. Liquid arcs out in an amber fan of gold droplets and the smell of really good scotch fills the air. The sound of really good crystal rings as the glass bounces on the floor and rolls, clattering across hardwood. And amazingly, doesn’t break. And, amazingly, doesn’t faze Robbie. He kicks the door closed as soon as they’re clear, whips James around, and shoves him up against it.

James’s hip bounces off the doorknob, and the ridges in the door panels cut into his shoulder blades and the air huffs out of his lungs. It’s not like he hasn’t dreamed of Robbie grabbing him and manhandling him up against a wall, but…he never thought it would actually happen. He’s so surprised, he doesn’t even fight being slammed into the door and pinned there by the weight of Robbie’s body.

And, oh christ!, Robbie’s a shocking combination of cold and hot. He’s smells of cold air and snow. His coat is flaked with ice crystals, and his knuckles, digging into James’s chest are hard points of ice. His fingers, as his hands shift, sliding down to James’s ribs, are burning cold. But where Robbie’s coat is flapped open, belly slamming into James’s, he’s burning up. Impossibly hot through layers of fabric. And—James’s knees threaten to buckle—Robbie’s aroused. His cock is so hard James feels like he’s been stabbed as Robbie’s hips crash into his.

James’s cock rears up against his trousers in response, and his nails scrape at Robbie’s anorak. Snowflakes melt on his palms, sizzling cold in a contrast to Robbie’s heat.

And, oh god, he’s dreamed about this. Of having Robbie against him, aroused and demanding. Of having Robbie’s hands on him. But in almost every fantasy, James has been the provocateur. The seducer, coaxing a shy and inexperienced Robbie into responding to him, convincing Robbie that he would like James’s hands on him. Making Robbie moan in surrender as he realizes how good James’s mouth feels on him.

James can’t remember a fantasy in which Robbie pinned him to a door and rutted against him like an animal in heat. Not, he thinks, as his hands finally find a purchase on the rubbery coat and yank Robbie in harder against him, that he cares which of them is the instigator. Not that he’s about to protest, as Robbie’s mouth finds his, and his own teeth pinch the back of his lips with the fierceness of their first kiss.

One of Robbie’s hands holds him in place against the door, and the other rushes up, threads through his hair to hold his head in place as Robbie kisses him aggressively, tongue tasting of coffee and mint, demanding entrance to his mouth.

And James melts into the kiss. It’s not what he expected, but he likes it just fine. Robbie as aggressor. Robbie hungry and demanding, huffing his breath into James’s lungs as his hands shift again. As his fingers scrabble at James’s belt and his buttons.

James reciprocates before whatever spell Robbie’s under can dissipate. Tearing at belt and buttons. Robbie’s. His own. Shoving Robbie’s coat and scarf aside. Shoving shirt and the soft knobbly sweater off his shoulders. Fingers greedy for whatever he can reach. Not caring whose clothing gives way under his fingers so long as it gives way. Tangling his fingers with Robbie’s as they both try to get at naked skin. Breathless laughter as they both try to unzip his flies. Groans of frustration when they get in each other’s way. As the coat refuses to release Robbie’s arms. And James’s shirt catches between his back and the door.

And then a sigh. A sense of calmness that’s completely incongruous, but so right, when Robbie’s hand finally closes over him, strokes the length of his heated cock. He groans and clings to Robbie’s naked shoulders and thrusts into his hand. And Robbie breathes, “Jesus, James,” into his neck.

James returns the caress, wedging his hand inside Robbie’s trousers and pants. Palming the rigid length of Robbie’s cock. It’s shorter than his own and thicker. And just perfect. The heat of him and the hardness. The forceful, blazing need. The sound he makes as James’s hand tightens down on him.

James feels a little sleazy, to be propped against a cold door, his clothes half off. Robbie’s clothes half off, coat and shirt still dangling from one arm, scarf dangling below his elbow. But it’s still perfection. To have even parts of his body naked, pressed against Robbie. To have Robbie hard and hot and wanting him. The one fantasy he’s never thought would come true…Robbie trembling against him, huffing with arousal and frustration and laughter.

He has no idea what’s brought them to this place. He knows only that now is not the time to question it. “Couch,” he rasps. Breathless. “Now. Fuck me.”

Robbie shudders against him and yanks him away from the door. Walks him backwards towards the couch, leaving a litter of clothing as they move across the room. James manages to scuff his feet out of his socks—because who wants to be fucked wearing only his socks, like some bloke in an old-fashioned stag film?—and to get the layers of anorak and sweater and shirt off Robbie’s trapped arm. To discard the dangling scarf that’s tickling his knee.

The backs of his calves bump into the rough weave of the couch. Robbie lets go of him long enough to go back for the discarded anorak. And there’s a little brown paper bag in the pocket. Robbie rips it open and shoves the contents into his hands.

Lube and condoms! And the implications of that could easily drive James mad. He shivers. Tries to gasp air deeper into his lungs. So it wasn’t that he opened the door, with tie stripped off and shirt unbuttoned, sock-covered toes curling on the cold floor, and Robbie was blown away by the image. Robbie thought about this. Planned it. Made sure they’d have what they needed.

The thought of Robbie stopping somewhere, walking carefully across the icy pavement, wandering the aisle of some unfamiliar chemist, looking for the supplies they would need to have sex… Was he already hard, thinking of this? Was he already sure that James would say yes?

James groans and reaches for Robbie again. “How did you know…?”

Robbie silences him with his mouth, kissing James roughly until his toes curl against the wood and his knees threaten to fold and time slows. Robbie’s lips against his, Robbie’s tongue duelling with his, stabbing into him, sweeping across his jaw, teeth at his throat. Robbie’s fingers on his back, trailing fire down his skin. At his waist, digging in as he holds James tight. Then pushing, as he tips James backwards and they fall together.

And he’s on the couch. On his back. Robbie looming over him, beloved reality in a whirling sea of pearl grey light and pale flesh. He can’t remember when they turned the light off. He can’t remember when the flat plunged back into darkness. But he will always remember Robbie’s hands on him.

He memorizes the caresses as they come, from shoulders to hips and back again. Fingerprints on his nipples. Rough palms on his belly, stroking the length of his thighs. Robbie’s voice, deeper than he’s ever heard, ragged as he whispers, “Can’t believe me eyes. How can you be so goddamned gorgeous?”

And then everything speeds up. Everything is as it has always been between them. Comfortable and easy, their bodies in-sync without them even having to speak. James laughs and draws his knees back. Inviting. Begging. And Robbie’s in him. Fingers and slick, cold lube and more fingers and then his solid, sturdy cock. Pressing. Pressing. Breaching him. Filling him.

Just like James always thought it would be. Robbie, warm and solid, above him. Robbie’s cock, thick and hard and blunt. Stretching him. Filling him to the edge of ecstasy. Pleasure firing across his nerves like glittering snowflakes falling thick and fast.

Robbie’s blunt fingers splay across James’s thigh, keeping him in place as he twists and shifts, thrusting until he finds just the right spot, the perfect angle, and James groans and arches and Robbie’s fingers bite into his hips, lift him higher, until the only parts of him that are anchored are there, where Robbie’s filling him, and the back of his head, his shoulders, sliding on the rough fabric.

And James wonders if Robbie’s ever done this. He must have done this before, to be so good at it. To be filling him so completely. So expertly. He must have. Lube and condoms in his jacket pocket. The rough power of his kisses. The easy confidence of his thrusts. Slipping from slow and careful to harder. Rougher. Sure. Perfect.

A dart of jealously, to think of Robbie doing this, knowing so precisely what to do, being so good at this, being so perfect with some other man, stabs like lightning through his gut. The thought of it sears him, arousal and jealousy clamping down on him, and he wishes they were in his bed, in front of his huge mirror so that he could turn his head and open his eyes and watch Robbie fucking him the way he can see Robbie fucking that faceless man. Fill his mind with thoughts of nothing but Robbie over him. Holding him.

The thought of it’s so good and he’s so close, he’s not even going to have touch himself to finish. All he’s going to have to do is keep saying it, over and over, inside his head. With each withdrawal, ‘Robbie’s fucking me. Robbie’s fucking me.’ With each delicious, ecstatic, breath-taking, world-jarring thrust, ‘Robbie’s inside me.’ But silently. Silently. Words echoing off his skull. Scraping his eardrums. Because if he screams it aloud, the way he wants to, will it frighten Robbie?

But it slips out anyway. Some of it. words leaking out through his grunts of pleasure. “Wanted you. Wanted this. Wanted this for so long.”

And Robbie slows. Sinks down on him. Into him.

Filled. Filled to the point of exploding. And James moans with the joy of it.

Robbie braces against the back of the couch and hooks his fingers behind James’s neck. Bears the weight of James’s head as he pulls James up to him and kisses him tenderly. Soft and slow and sweet, the way their first kiss should have been.

James draws Robbie down even further. Taking Robbie’s weight across the backs of his thighs. Wrapping him up with arms and legs. He runs his hands over Robbie’s back. Soft, smooth skin and bumps of spine, dewed with the sweat of exertion, muscles coiled, quivering.

Robbie’s mouth moves across his jaw. Biting, sucking kisses down his neck. “Ah, James, lad… Wanted it, too.” Robbie’s voice is wrecked. Rough and ragged and trembling with some emotion James can’t quite read. And they’re quiet there. Foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Until Robbie moves again. Slowly. Slowly out and then back into him. Pleasure rushes over him. Acute and burning like ice. Doubled now, after the stillness. After that raw, ambiguous confession that’s still echoing in James’s ears. Robbie does it again, the slow, slow withdrawal and the slow, controlled, masterful push back into him. And suddenly, James orgasm is there. Right there. Looming. Swelling. Big and soft as a cloud. Pressing down on him. And he doesn’t want this to end, but he can’t pull it back. And he gasps, “Move. Christ, move. I can’t—”

Robbie lets his head go. Slams into him. James arches. Pushing. Pulling Robbie harder towards him. Wanting more. More. Robbie’s hand closes over him. Strokes him. Hard and fast, in time to his thrusts. And fire sweeps through him. Drops him over the edge.

Through the waves and twists, James hears Robbie’s muffled curse. His perfect rhythm goes ragged. He knows he’s taken Robbie with him and another wave of white hot pleasure fires his nerves. Contracts his muscles.

He wants to open his eyes. He wants to watch Robbie’s hand moving on him, wants to watch Robbie come in him. But he’s frozen. Pleasure blind. His eyelids won’t cooperate. His muscles won’t unlock. All he can do is hold onto Robbie and ride out the storm. And try to breathe as pleasure buffets him and eddies through him. Blows through him like a wild, white wind of alternating hot and cold. Lifting him. Flinging him. Until it slowly, slowly eases to a gentle, throbbing breeze. Floats him, light as a feather, down. Down.

James falls back with a groan, muscles finally unclamping, as Robbie slips out of him. There’s a great throb of relief and emptiness. A sweet, hollow ache.

Robbie collapses against the back of the couch, still curved over him. Forehead pressed into the cushion near James’s face. Breath gusting like he’s just run a race. “Bloody hell,” he gasps. “I’m too old for this. Thought me heart was gonna give out.”

James laughs softly and strokes Robbie’s arm and side. He can feel the tremor of Robbie’s muscles under his skin, tense with the effort of holding himself up, and James gives him a slight tug. “You can rest on me.”

But Robbie peers down and wrinkles his nose. Shakes his head. “Ta, but no.”

James looks down at himself. His chest is striped and splattered with white streaks. He certainly remembers the white-out of orgasm. He remembers Robbie’s hand moving on him, taking him there. He’ll remember that until his mind goes blank with old age, but he can’t remember feeling the heat of semen splattering his skin. He grins and runs a finger through the wet, sticky mess. “I don’t blame you.”

Robbie’s lips move, but it’s more of a grimace than a responding grin, and he shifts, pushing himself back and to the side away from James. Reaching for the box of tissues on the table, for the ripped paper bag on the floor, to dispose of the condom. He pushes the tissues towards James. “Need to clean up,” he mumbles and walks away without looking back.

James watches him go, torn between a warm, quivering awe that Robbie Lewis is walking, naked, towards his bathroom.

And admiration, because Robbie’s arse is way better than it shows in his trousers. Way more high and pert than it should be for a man his age.

And a sudden awareness of how sticky and slick he is. Now that he’s conscious of it, and of the fine sheen of sweat coating his skin, he wonders why he’s not cold. He should be chilled, but he’s not. He’s not sure whether the heat has finally warmed the flat, or it’s just afterglow.

It must be afterglow, else the tiny, cold shred of concern that Robbie still won’t look at him when he returns would be worming it way deeper into his psyche. Have they just made a huge mistake? He’d shiver at the thought. And worry. But he’s too relaxed. Too tired. Too…replete.

He makes a half-hearted attempt to clean himself up, rolls the used tissues up in a piece of paper, starts to throw it onto a stack of magazines on the table. Thinks better of it and makes himself get up and throw it in the bin under his desk. He turns on the small desk lamp. It does little to illuminate the corners of the room and creates blurry shadows across the floor, but at least, Robbie will be able to see when he comes out of the bath. And James will be able to see his face. His expressions.

James is dozing, back in his original place on the couch, still warm with remembered pleasure, when Robbie comes back with a wet flannel, and a dry towel and wordlessly helps him clean away the traces of semen and slick lube the tissues couldn’t manage. And then, though he still hasn’t quite met James’s gaze, says gruffly, “Shove over,” and lies down on the sliver of space between James and the edge of the couch and rests his head on James’s shoulder.

Robbie’s skin is cool and damp from navel to mid-thigh. But his arm, draped across James’s now clean chest, is a warm, welcome weight. James takes a deep, shuddering breath. Feels the knot in his stomach unravel and the tightness between his shoulders ease, and realizes that maybe he wasn’t as relaxed as he thought he was. Not until this moment, when it’s obvious everything’s okay between them.

He wraps his arm around Robbie’s back and draws him in tighter. Shifts further back into the corner of couch to make more room. And then he shifts. Shifts again. Since he moved into the flat, he’s crashed on the behemoth of a couch more times than he cares to remember. He’s thought it was actually pretty comfortable, but then, he’s never been nude on it before. With Robbie’s weight pressing him into it, the fabric is rougher against bare skin than he’d realized. And a bit itchy.

Robbie makes a sound of complaint and resettles his head on James’s shoulder. “Stop wiggling.”

James tries one more time, with smaller movements, to get comfortable, then resigns himself to itchy shoulder blades and buttocks. It’s a small price to pay to have a naked, sated, slightly damp Robbie tucked beneath his arm, draped half across his body, like a piece of a puzzle that’s finally slotted home.

Only… Why? Why has this Robbie-shaped puzzle piece finally ended up where it belongs, in his arms? He sighs to himself that, even now, his brain doesn’t want to shut off. He nuzzles the soft hair at Robbie’s temple.

Robbie shifts his head as if he’s too drained to do more than acknowledge the caress. But he sighs, too, as if he knows what’s going on. “What is it, lad?”

James murmurs, “Well… Not that I’m complaining, but...where the, to borrow one of your quaint phrases, bloody hell, did that come from?’

Robbie mumbles something into James’s neck, voice tired, words unintelligible and tickling.

James shifts so that Robbie’s cheek is further down his shoulder and his mouth is unimpeded by skin. “To borrow another of your quaint sayings...in English, we say?”

Robbie mumbles again, but this time the word is completely comprehensible. “Smartarse.” He shifts, too, sliding his arm and hip and legs on the couch. “Like laying on a bed of bees, this couch,” he complains. “Wasn’t…”

The rest of what he says is lost as Robbie hitches himself up higher and drapes himself more securely across James’s body. His arm tightens across James’s chest, and his thigh settles, warm and heavy, hair tickling, across James’s thighs.

James sighs and he shifts, trying to draw more of Robbie up on him. He tells himself it’s to protect Robbie’s skin from the roughness of the couch, but the truth is that if he could draw Robbie completely up over him, wear him like a blanket, he would. He tickles the corrugated line of Robbie’s ribs to make him move further. “Say it again. In English.”

Robbie wriggles and returns the caress, fingers playing over James’s ribs. When James twitches, he slides back off James and changes tack. He strokes his hand the length of James’s torso, caressing chest and nipples, testing the strength of muscles. Dipping lower to comb his fingers through James’s pubic hair. Follow the barely there trail of hair back up to his navel. “I said, wasn’t that what you wanted?”

Fire trails in the wake of Robbie’s fingertips, and James shivers. After the orgasm he just had, he shouldn’t feel anything for at least a week. And yet... Warmth sifts into his groin. His cock shifts. Not quite ready to get hard again, but...there’s a promise there. He hums his approval, arching his spine to encourage Robbie’s explorations.

Robbie’s fingertips stutter. “Did you just purr?”

“Uhmmm...” Part purr, part agreement.

But, then, perhaps to show that he doesn’t mind James sounding like a satisfied cat, Robbie’s hand moves again. Sliding up the centre of James’s chest, back to the original starting point of shoulder and tracing the same route again. “What we did…wasn’t that what you wanted?” Robbie repeats.

But James is too taken with the warmth of Robbie’s breath, brushing across his throat, and the weight of his hand, the teasing slide of Robbie’s fingers, circling his nipple, to answer.

As if he’s alarmed by the lack of response, Robbie raises up, expression concerned. Sincere. “If you wanted it the other way round, we can do that, too. If you want.” Robbie’s eyes are so blue, so bright in the dim light that they look like they’re lit from within. “I…” He hesitates and warm circles of pink flush across his cheekbones. “I…wouldn’t mind. If we go slow. It’s been a long time.” He glances away and then back. “That is, if you want…”

James is sure he could drown in that blue gaze. Be happily lost in it forever. His heart thuds with such a weird beat that if feels as if he’s grown a second heart and the two have collided in his chest. “God, yes! Of course, I want.”

He pulls Robbie up across him, over him, shifting to roll him onto his back. He pins Robbie in the corner of the couch. Kisses him with such heat that there can be no doubt as to how much James wants to be inside him. He sucks Robbie’s breath into his lungs, scrapes his lip on the sharp edges of Robbie’s teeth.

Robbie kisses him back, hands coming up to clutch at James’s back, one leg wrapping around James’s thigh. Responding even though he’s not hard. He groans softly, fingers flexing on James’s skin as if the idea of taking James’s into his body is as enticing to him as it to James. He pulls back a bit, hands sliding the length of James’s spine and cupping his arse. Pressing down to hold James to him. “Not as young as you,” he says apologetically. “Might be a bit before I’m ready.”

James shifts so that Robbie can feel his cock, which is still more spongy than hard, more interested in the idea than capable of accomplishing it. “Me, too. I just…would like that very much.” And he kisses Robbie more slowly this time. Softer. More interested in learning the taste and feel of Robbie’s lips and the sweetness of his tongue than in plundering his mouth.

Robbie’s hand comes up and cradles James’s skull as he relaxes into the kiss. A sound—enjoyment, approval, deep satisfaction—rumbles deep in his throat.

James pulls away to grin at him. “Did you just purr?”

And Robbie grins back at him. Strokes the side of James’s face, the line of his nose, his jaw. His hands move again, tracing from James’s shoulders down his back to his waist. He reverses the caress, fingertips sliding the length of James’s spine, back up to his shoulders. Then his hands move down again. Going just a bit lower. Back up, then down again, slowly, as if he’s learning the curve of James’s back and spine. The flare from shoulders down to hips. And each time, Robbie’s fingertips dip a little close to his arse. Teasing and stroking, until he spreads his fingers wide and cups James’s arse. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks gruffly. “Didn’t mean to be so rough. You just...kinda set me off, and I got carried away.”

James laughs and presses his face into the crook of Robbie neck and shoulder. “I set you off? How? Other than by just being my usual, irrepressible, irresistible self, I mean.”

Robbie snorts inelegantly. “Been ignoring that for years.” He traces his fingertips across the swell of James’s buttocks and meanders up James’s back again. “Must have been you telling me you wanted to…you know…”

James can feel the heat of Robbie’s blush against his temple, and he smiles at the contrast of Robbie taking charge and roughly fucking him into his couch yet still being tongue-tied with the words. “Yeah, but you were already humping me up against the door when I told you I wanted you to fuck me.”

He laughs out loud because, against his face, he can feel Robbie’s blush get hotter.

“Wasn’t talking about that, you cheeky bugger.” Robbie thumps the side of his head lightly. “I meant that text you sent. The one that said you were…” He hesitates and clears his throat. “You know… ‘Down to…” He takes a breath and says, “…‘down to fuck’. I didn’t even know what it meant. Had to look it up.”

James rolls his head on Robbie’s shoulder and tries to peer up at him, but he can’t see Robbie’s expression. From Robbie’s tone, he doesn’t seem overly concerned about whatever it is he thinks happened, but… James doesn’t know what Robbie’s talking about. ‘Down to fuck?’ When did he say that?

Well…to be fair, he supposes he’s been saying something like that, with body language and innuendo and ambiguous jokes and cleverly disguised touches, since not long after they met. But…what did he say that Robbie finally deciphered it? And decided to act on it?

“I sent you a text that said I was ‘down to fuck’?” James tries to keep the surprise out of his voice, to sound as nonchalant as Robbie does. After all, he doesn’t really care what prompted Robbie to appear at his door and pounce—

James suddenly remembers. Robbie standing in the hall, his expression wild, skin flushed, nostrils flaring with his breaths. And his mobile glinting silver between his clutched fingers.

Shifting carefully, James pushes with a hand and knee and rolls to his feet. Suddenly conscious of his nudity and of Robbie’s gaze following him across the flat, he traces the trail of their clothing back towards the door until he finds Robbie’s mobile underneath his discarded shirt. He takes it back to the couch and hands it to Robbie. Pauses to look down at his fondest fantasy become reality, Robbie lying naked and sated, gazing up at him.

James sits on the edge of the couch while Robbie holds the mobile up in the air and squints at it as he clicks and clicks and scrolls. Then he hands the mobile back to James.

James reads the message on the screen. “This is the text I sent this afternoon, just as I was leaving the nick, after Moody kicked Lizzie and me out.” He tilts his head, peering at Robbie over the edge of the mobile as he reads aloud, “‘Long weekend starting now per Moody. Case passed on per Moody to the Drug Task Force. Up for a bit of celebration later?’”

James extends the mobile back towards Robbie. He’s sure Robbie’s clicked on the wrong message, and that he’ll take the phone back and search his messages again. Because that can’t be it. He’d said ‘celebration’ instead of ‘dinner’ or ‘drinks’, but that’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? From ‘celebration’ to condoms and lube and fucking on the couch?

But Robbie doesn’t take the mobile. He raises up, his blue eyes stretched wide. Comically round. “Say that again.”

It takes James a minute. He’s too taken with the image of Robbie, nude, resting on his elbows, on his couch. He clears his throat and forces himself to look away. “Long weekend starting now per Moody. Case passed on per Moody to the Drug Task Force. Up for a bit of celebration later?”

Robbie gapes at him. Snaps his mouth shut as if he’s forcing his jaws to work and sits up abruptly. “That’s not what it says.”

James glances at the message again, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything, but it’s exactly as he remembers. “Yes, it does.”

Robbie narrows his eyes. “No. Read what it says on the screen.”

And James consults the screen again. Reads in a singsong voice like a child being ask to recite aloud in class, “ ‘Long weekend starting now per Moody. Case passed on per Moody. DTF. Up for a bit of celebration later? ” He glances up.

“Yeah.” Robbie stares at him. “DTF. Not up on all those text slang things. Whataya call’em… Acronyms? I had to look it up on me tablet. Lizzie set it up last week. One of those app things you click on. Takes you to a site that tells you what all this newfangled alphabet soup means.”


“And I didn’t know what DTF meant, so I looked it up.”

“Drug Task Force. So?”

Down to fuck, James. It means ‘down to fuck’. The site even gave examples. ‘I met a girl down the pub last weekend. I wonder if she’s DTF’.”

James covers his mouth with his hand, afraid he’s going to burst into hysterical laughter. DTF. Down to fuck. He’d never cared much for acronyms and the way they’re corrupting the language. It’s his uni background, he supposes, but he’s always preferred to actually write his texts, with real words, grammatically correct, and punctuation. But Lizzie uses web acronyms so much, and they’re starting to play into investigations, so he’s been forced to learn the more common ones, and the ones that might pertain to investigations. And he’s had to admit, they do come in handy when he’s in a rush. But he didn’t know that one.

Robbie’s expression isn’t so amused though. He shifts, trying to swing his legs past James’s. Digging for leverage at the back of couch with one hand. “Bloody hell, James!” And the words he’d breathed into James’s neck, with his hands hot and possessive on James’s bare skin, voice wrecked with passion, sound horrified now. “You didn’t want this! I thought you were saying—”

James catches his knee, tries to stop him moving, and Robbie pushes his hand away. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t—”

James stops him by simply using his weight and position to push Robbie down onto his back. By lying down across him. Covering Robbie’s warm, struggling body with his own. He catches Robbie’s hand where he’s still trying to get enough purchase on the couch to pull up and threads his fingers through Robbie’s fingers. He stares into Robbie’s eyes without blinking. “Don’t be daft,” he says clearly. “I’ve wanted this for years. I’ve wanted you. For years. I said it while we were fu—…” He pauses and grins, “…dtf’ing, didn’t I?”

Robbie stills, and his bluer than a summer sky eyes go even wider. The flushed spots on his cheekbones turn an even deeper shade of rosy red. A shudder runs the length of him. “Yeah?” he breathes, still not quite convinced. But the dismay in his expression has eased. He turns his hand and his fingers curl hesitantly around James’s fingers.

“Yes.” James tightens his grip and puts every bit of certainty he can into the word. “And if an ambiguous text was the catalyst for this, then I wish I’d sent one years ago.”

James feels it from his sternum to his knees, the shiver of skin, the ripple of muscle, where’s he pressing down onto Robbie. The contraction of muscles melting into relaxation as Robbie accepts what he’s said. The slow, tentative touch of Robbie’s hand on his arm. Then down his side, fingers sliding slowly across his ribs. “You never said.”

James kisses him. Slow and soft, only pulling away to whisper, “Well, I’m saying now. I’ve always been DTF you. And I want to keep on…” He stops, frowns as he searches for a way to twist the acronym so that it will work in the rest of his sentence. “DTF doesn’t really work as a verb.”

“Let it go, James. I get the picture.” Robbie’s grin softens his pretend growl. “I can see I’m gonna get tired of that one.”

James grins and settles back onto Robbie’s shoulder.

Robbie shifts. Then shifts again. Mutters, “Damned couch.”

“Like a bed of bees,” James agrees, smiling wider.

“Smartarse.” But Robbie makes no move to get up. He just wraps his arms around James and settles to stillness.

Which suits James just fine. He snuggles his face into Robbie’s neck and inhales him. He no longer smells of snow and cold air. He smells warm, of sex and sweat and soap. And James.

Robbie rubs James’s back and traces the line of his shoulder blade with his fingertips. “Surprised you didn’t know DTF, then.”

“Yeah, me, too. Lizzie keeps me up-to-date with most of that stuff.”

“Lizzie keeps you up-to-date on internet sex words?”

James laughs. “She keeps me up-to-date on acronyms we might come across in investigations. While you were in New Zealand, we worked a missing person case, a first year Lonsdale student. She was using so many acronyms in her texts that it looked like Greek. Actually, I think I could have deciphered more of it if it had been Greek. Lizzie had to translate most of it for me, much to her amusement.”

“Did you find her, the girl?” Robbie asks quietly.

“She was in London, staying with a friend. The college and her parents and her boyfriend were putting a lot of pressure on her, so she decided to take a break and think things through. She just didn’t bother to tell anyone she was going AWOL. ”

Robbie ignores what James thinks was a clever use of an acronym. He nods. Pats James as if he’s awarding a prize. “Best kind of case, that. One where everything comes out okay.”

James nods and then sighs. The missing person case they had just a couple of weeks ago didn’t turn out so well.

Robbie pats him again, but it’s more of a nudge to stop thinking. “Don’t go there, lad. You do what you can.”

James smiles at how easy it is to bring his mind back to more pleasant things with Robbie pressed against him. “I may have missed DTF, but I know lots of other internet sex words.”


James stretches. “There’s LH6. Let’s have sex.”

Robbie’s fingers tighten on James’s back. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“NIFOC. Naked in front of computer.”

Robbie shakes his head. “Nope. Not gonna happen.”

James raises up and rests his chin on Robbie’s shoulder. Peers at him. “So I guess you texting me sugarpics are out of the question.”

Robbie looks at him suspiciously. “Sugarpics?”

“Dirty pictures of you.”

“Not doing that either.” Robbie’s voice is firm.


Robbie snorts. “That’s not internet slang! That was old when I were a lad.”

“Yeah, I guess so. But still…” James lifts his eyebrows in question.

Robbie bites back a smile. “We could talk. But nothing that will leave marks, mind.”

“Really?” When Robbie nods, James snuggles in against his shoulder. “Okay. Nothing that will leave marks. How about TDTM? Talk dirty to me.”

Robbie shivers and his fingers flex again.

And James purrs, “Oh, you like the idea of that. Me talking dirty to you…”

Robbie says indignantly, “How could I not with you having that phone sex voice?”

Pleasure washes over James. Happiness like a rush of warm air. “How about GYPO? Get your pants off.”

“American, obviously.”

James leers. “Not necessarily, if you think about it. You could text me that when you want me to go commando.”

Robbie shakes his head. “Would never work, lad. I wouldn’t be able to stand up without embarrassing meself if I thought you were walking around without your knickers.”

James laughs, pleased, and remembers a case during which he had to go into a swimming pool in his pants to retrieve evidence. The pants had been so wet, even after wringing them, and one of his older pair, so it hadn’t been worth even saving them, much less carrying the sopping mess back to the car. He wonders if Robbie was aroused that day, knowing that James wasn’t wearing pants. He seems to remember Robbie making some snarky comment about ‘keeping his knickers on’. But if he was turned on by James’s under-trouser nudity, he’d covered it well. Apparently, he’d covered a lot of things well. Like being bisexual. Like having experience with men. Like wanting James.

Robbie tilts his head to the side. “What?”

James only shrugs. He’ll ask. Later. Some day. All of it. Right now, he’s having too much fun with acronyms. “Nothing. I was just thinking… If that one won’t work, we’ll make our own acronym. GYTO. Get your trousers off. So I can text you, ‘I’m on my way home. GYTO.’”

But Robbie doesn’t laugh at that one, and his fingers don’t move on James’s back. He draws in a deep breath, and his face goes very still. He says quietly, soberly, “Home. As in… Us. At home. Together?”

James heart does a lazy, looping roll in his chest. And then starts up a beat like hail drumming down on a tile roof. Because he’s gone an acronym too far.

Everything’s been so comfortable. So easy between them. Even after shagging like teenagers on his couch. But this is the place where Robbie will pull back. This is where he’ll mumble something about the difference in their ages, or them working together, or ruining their friendship. This is where Robbie will say this was a mistake and they should forget it. Never repeat it. The room feels suddenly as cold as if snow is drifting down, grey and wet, from the ceiling.

“Home,” Robbie repeats it again, as if he’s tasting the word. Testing the concept.

James rushes in, eager to counter any argument Robbie might have. “I suppose you’re going to say that it’s a mad idea. Because we work together. Or because this was a mistake. Or you’re too—” But then he bites off his own words. He’s sure Robbie already has plenty of reasons of his own why this is a bad idea. Why throw in new ones he might not have considered? Especially since it was all because of a misunderstood text anyway.

Robbie takes another deep, slow breath while James holds his. “Well… That’s all true enough. And then some. But…mad or not, what I was going to say is that I’m DWT.”

James tilts his head. “Driving while texting?”

Robbie shakes his head. One hand slides up James’s back and cups his head. Robbie draws him close. “Down with that.” And he kisses James. A combination of the kisses that have come before. Rough enough that James feels the edges of Robbie’s teeth on his lip, but so sweet and gentle that even tender snowflakes would survive the touch.

And this time, James’s body has recovered enough to respond. His breath quickens, and he presses his quickly swelling cock against Robbie’s hip.

But then Robbie splutters with laughter against his mouth and pulls away.

“What?” James draws back. “What is it?”

Robbie rolls so that they’re chest to chest. Belly to belly, cocks slotted in against each other. James can feel Robbie responding to him. Rising, not as quickly as he is, but plumping up. Growing hotter. He smiles and cradles James’s face in his hand.

“Home, James. I’ve always wanted to say that.”



( 5 comments — Leave a comment )
25th Dec, 2016 04:00 (UTC)
What a wonderful Christmas Eve gift this was! This was all kinds of hot, tender and wow!! That's as coherent as I can be at the moment. Thank you!
25th Dec, 2016 16:34 (UTC)
I need a cigarette.

Wow, nonny, that was smokin' hot!! I have to admit, I didn't get dtf at all, then let loose with giant guffaw at the appropriate time lolomg. Still makes me giggle to think about it.

And Robbie - unf! So uh, yeah, it was a poor choice on my part to uh, read this during the day lol.

Thank you!! xoxo
26th Dec, 2016 14:16 (UTC)
This was hotter than hell and romantic to boot. I love the idea of take-charge Robbie, and all of that pent-up feeling just spilling over (heh). What a wonderful Boxing Day treat. :)
31st Dec, 2016 17:10 (UTC)
Loved this: the driving intensity of Robbie's arrival, the dreamy, gorgeous language of their lovemaking and the funny text speak discussion. Fantastic.
10th Jan, 2017 21:46 (UTC)
This is absolutely wonderful. Hot and sweet and funny and so very them.
( 5 comments — Leave a comment )


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