Written for Porn Battle IX for the prompt: sobriety.
Brat Pack RPS. Kiefer Sutherland/Robert Downey Jr. NC-17. ~1250 words. Drugs/Drunkenness.
Kiefer sure as shit is a smooth talker when he’s got a double-whammy of coke and tequila loosening him up.
Not Quite Ready for Primetime
Sobriety isn’t even a word they know. It’s so fucking far out of their vocabulary it makes sense that they’re shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of Billy’s shitty car giggling and whispering like schoolgirls and still in the fucking trench coats.
Kiefer pulls it off though, looks fucking dangerous with the collar high and knockoff Guess jeans, the soft feather of his hair catching the light of the streetlamps going by. The smoke of the club clings to him along with all the glitter that’d fallen off the dancer’s tits, and Kiefer sure as shit is a smooth talker when he’s got a double-whammy of coke and tequila loosening him up.
Robert just gets horny, in the way that makes him shift fitfully, cock thick against his leg and bent awkwardly. Kiefer’s telling a story that’s making Billy laugh and Robert couldn’t give two shits because all he’s really paying attention to is the soft shapes of Kiefer’s lips and how much he’d like to lick them.
“I could just eat your mouth right now,” Robert says, half the filters between brain and vocal chords completely not functioning. He might’ve followed up with a giggle, but it’s hard to tell when he’s busy trying to catch the lapel of Kiefer’s coat with his teeth.
“Now I know you’re shitfaced,” Kiefer says, curling towards him instead of away. It makes biting at his coat easier and Robert glances up into the ocean blue of Kiefer’s eyes. His hair tickles against Robert’s forehead, his mouth close enough for a kiss.
Robert spits out his mouthful of black cotton canvas and wets his lips.
“No fucking in the backseat of my car, you assholes,” Billy says, forceful enough to get them jerking away from each other.
A second later they’re laughing and tumbling closer like somehow Billy’s acknowledgement is permission to go ahead and make out. Robert sneaks a peek at the rear-view to find Billy’s eyes skipping to watch Kiefer bury his face against Robert’s neck. He winks before the sucking kiss at the spot just under his jaw makes him moan and slink back, trying to find as much space as possible in the tiny fucking import to let Kiefer’s hand up under his shirt.
“No fucking, scout’s honor. Just don’t drive us off a cliff before we’ve hit the big time.” Robert bites his lip as Kiefer’s hand skids up his back. The evening’s warmth is long gone, but his skin’s sticky from the heat of the club. For a second, Robert imagines what it’d be like to have Kiefer pounding into him, their bodies slapping together and peeling apart with the same sort of friction. He nearly jizzes in his fucking shorts.
“Eyes on the road, Zane,” Kiefer murmurs after leaving another mark to purple on Robert’s throat.
“I’ve stopped caring. Fuck, play chicken in the other lane if it gets your dick hard,” Robert adds, fingers knotted in the softness of Kiefer’s hair and shoving him back in an attempt to return the favour. His tongue runs wide over Kiefer’s throat, feels the hard bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows and makes this gorgeous sound that’s probably illegal in most mid-western states.
Kiefer grabs for the holy-shit bar above the door and Robert untangles his hands to take the very appealing invitation to bite and grope his way down Kiefer’s shirtfront. “Thank God you’re not too drunk to get it up,” he says, reaching the button of Kiefer’s jeans and contorting himself enough to rub his mouth against the hard swell of cock outlined so damn perfectly under the denim. “You want a blowjob?”
Kiefer’s answer is to pop the button on his jeans one-handed and take a turn skimming his fingers through Robert’s hair.
“Too bad you can’t see this, Billy, I know you’re dying to know how well I can smoke a pole,” Robert says, head angling towards the light scratch of nails on his scalp. If he could purr, he would. Instead, he pulls out Kiefer’s cock, presses the heat of it to his cheek, and breathes in the heady smell of earthy sweat that fills the close air. It’s gonna be a sloppy blow, and he knows it even before his mouth catches the tip of Kiefer’s cock, sucks it in with a wet, lewd sound. Robert plays it up, drunk and high enough that the leap from sloppy to messy sounds like the best fucking idea in the universe.
Kiefer’s on board with the idea, fitting himself into the very corner of the backseat to give Robert all the room he can. Robert takes every inch given of both leeway and rock-hard cock, his mouth popping off every few dips of his head only to catch the spit-slick length and try and get it back in his mouth in the noisiest way possible.
“All four wheels still on the road?” he asks, rubbing his whole face against Kiefer’s dick until his own spit is smeared all over his cheeks.
“Smart mouth still working on that shitty blowjob?” Billy calls back, but there’s a strained tone to his voice that says he’s caught at least some of the show. Robert grins and nuzzles Kiefer’s crotch.
Fingers light on his face urge his mouth back into place, and Robert strains to look up as he fists Kiefer’s cock and wraps his lips around it all over again. Kiefer still looks dangerous, a little wild with the faint smudge of eyeliner and the cocky slant of his mouth.
Belatedly, Robert realises he never got a real taste of those lips. He makes a mental note that promptly vanishes off the bulletin board of his brain as Kiefer’s eyelids flutter and the hand that had migrated to the back of his neck squeezes what’s probably a warning. Robert can’t help but moan, trying to gauge in seconds if it’s hotter to let Kiefer jizz in his mouth or shoot spunk all over his face.
The choice is made for him when the car swerves, Kiefer swears a blue streak, and his fingers squeeze tight just in time to keep the jerk of Kiefer’s dick spitting come high in the air aimed roughly at his face and not Billy’s damn upholstery. He ends up fucking splattered, the mess of it streaking from his cheek to his eyebrows, and there’s no way he’s going to open his eyes until he’s wiped away the feel of come quivering on his lashes.
“Caught it all like a pro,” Kiefer says, answering the question like he can read Robert’s mind. Maybe he can, when his thumb swipes quick and efficient and surprisingly precise to push the cooling mess of come away from Robert’s eye. Robert stays half-kneeling on the floor of the car and yanks up the front of his tee to mop up the rest of it.
Flush with the pleasure of a job well done, it’s a long span of seconds before he realises he never saw what Kiefer did with the messy smear on his thumb. He flops back onto the seat and eyes the satisfied quirk of Kiefer’s mouth with suspicion, and almost asks but then they’re zipping past an intersection and the street sign catches his attention.
“Hey,” he says, hauling Kiefer by the front of his coat towards a kiss that’d answer the question just the same. “Almost home.”