Walk - C/Z, R
Friday, January 15th, 2016 10:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serai.
So here it is. Enjoy this odd little side trip!
Walk
by Serai
"Yeah!"
The voice responding to his knock was the same, no doubt about it: husky and dark, nonchalant, not even bothering to invite in whoever was outside. So this whole thing hadn't been wishful thinking, or mistaken identity, or a lookalike twin. Casey shook his head and laughed to himself as he opened the door, to be taken aback by the sight that greeted him.
The figure stood at a mirrored dressing table, illuminated by the row of garish bulbs above it, at that moment pulling a blood-red shirt up and off. Casey only half-remembered Zeke's body - for it was Zeke, the Celtic ink at the shoulder left no doubt - but holy shit, what he remembered hadn't looked like this. Zeke had always been tall and broad-shouldered, but the torso had filled in, massed and hardened, and the arms were thicker and stronger, no doubt a match for the thighs in the dark green trousers. He was just... Fucking stunning, Casey thought in the split second before the shirt came up off his head.
And there was that hair. Goddamn. It had been the primary reason why Casey'd thought he might be mistaken. Instead of the rebelliously self-mutilated mop of near-black Casey had known, now Zeke was crowned with warm brown locks that hung in his eyes and around his neck, shining like silk. They framed a face that had hardened as well, cheekbones and jaw once prominent now knife-edged, elegant even. But the eyes after he'd shook the hair out of them looked out at Casey from the mirror with the same cool amusement he remembered, and the lips pressed back laughter just as they had on that fateful afternoon eight years ago, when Zeke had stalked slowly towards him, mocking him with an almost sensual glee.
Zeke handed the shirt to the assistant Casey hadn't even noticed, who brought its replacement. The double view, front and back, of all that skin suddenly made Casey realize that his mouth was actually watering, and he smiled to himself as Zeke stretched in the mirror before pulling on the sleek white tee. Its long sleeves clung to his arms and the snug fit outlined every muscle of his chest and back. The deliberate way Zeke was drawing this out was both him and not him, and the drama amused Casey. He watched as Zeke shrugged into the last component of the outfit, a bulky architectural sweater knit with open patches that showed off the body beneath. Then he reached for a pack of cigarettes on the dressing table, shook one out and lit it, waving away the assistant, who tried to protest.
"I'm keeping this one," he told her, and took a long drag off his smoke, eying Casey as he did so. After a long moment, he grinned. "Took you long enough," he said.
"Fuck you," Casey replied conversationally. "This isn't even close to my scene."
Zeke turned around and leaned back on the dressing table. He flicked ashes onto the floor and raised a hand to rake his hair back. Casey was struck by the languid unconsciousness of the gesture. He walked up to the table and reached around Zeke for the cigarettes, took one for himself and pulled his old steel lighter from his pocket to light up, then snapped it closed and put it away. "Zeke Tyler", he mused, looking him up and down, and then grinned himself. "Well, look at the fucking state of you."
Zeke snorted a laugh, and then bowed his head, maybe in embarrassment, maybe not. His hair fell forward and he raked it back again. "So where've you been, man?" he asked.
"Lately? Mongolia," Casey replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Mongolia?" Zeke looked sideways at him, incredulous.
"Yep," Casey nodded. "Mongolia, Nepal, then Bali and Japan. A series on indigenous gatherings and festivals. I wanted to see how they party in the back of beyond."
Zeke smiled again and shook his head in wonder. "Still taking pictures," he murmured. The assistant alerted him then, and Zeke straightened up. With a sidelong smile he said to Casey, "This is the last one. Come watch if you want." Then after a moment's pause, he stubbed out his smoke and pulled a fresh one from the pack, lit it, and strode out, curls of blue smoke trailing in his wake.
It had been six weeks since the first photo had caught Casey's eye on a long wall ad as he passed through LAX. In it, against a background of bright, flashing gold, a lanky young man of the type that always populated such ads was turning back as he ran, stretching an arm towards the equally typical girl in a short gold-beaded dress and silver patchfur coat racing to catch up to him. The guy was dressed in sharp black and white, and his long hair was whipping over his face so only his grin was visible. Casey had stared at the picture, frowning. Did he know that smile? He'd felt as if he did, but he didn't think he knew anyone like this guy. He certainly didn't know any fashion models. He looked at the caption: Mark Tanner, and beneath it, the new collection, and beneath that, Presenting at The Kodak Theater, Hollywood, June 27th at 9:00 P.M. Casey filed it away in his head and went on to catch his plane, thinking no more about it. But that night, he'd dreamed about running, and in the morning that grin was once again in his mind.
The next time had been a couple of weeks later, when he'd come across a magazine left at an outdoor table where he sat down to have lunch. It was one of those thick, glossy fashion catalogs - because that's really what they were, ad catalogs - and he flipped idly through it as he waited for his food, curious to see what visual trends were happening in that world. Halfway through it, he came across the same ad, in a foldout this time, and after it a spread from the designer. Several sleek young gods and goddesses sporting leather and wool, velvet and silk, and there was that guy again, only this time in a long leather coat, his body pivoting towards the camera on a city street. His gaze was down as his face caught the light in profile, and Casey's eyebrows rose in surprise.
Wait, that's... No, it can't be. He flipped quickly through the pages, but couldn't find any credits on the models, and turned back to look at the photo again. His mind boggled, trying to imagine how Zeke Tyler of all people could possibly have come to be modeling high fashion. This couldn't be the same guy who'd staggered bloody into the locker room after battling a fucking alien invasion at his side, could it? No, he must be mistaken. That's when the bug bit, and he realized he had to go see for himself.
No way, he thought, looking again at that cool, imperious face. It can't be him.
But in the end, it was. Casey had watched from across the street in the bright neon darkness as the tall figures strode back and forth on the giant screen above the courtyard of the Kodak. The show had been staged there in the open air, and Casey had paused to look up at the images before he crossed the boulevard. And suddenly there he was, striding down the catwalk dressed in gray and black, a cashmere coat and sharp vested suit, the tie forming a shocking arrow of bright purple down his chest. Casey's brain stretched, trying to encompass what he was seeing. The face was so similar, yet the seasoned, professional movements threw him. They were so unlike the guy in his memory. Not to mention that hair.
Then the shot on the screen cut to a much closer one, and Casey got a real look. That's when the model shifted his gaze to the camera. Dark eyes narrowed in amusement, the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and Casey felt the look as if it were aimed right at him. That selfish little smile, the angle of the head - it was him. But then he was thrown into doubt again when the view switched back to a full shot and the model executed an impossibly polished move, in one fluid motion shrugging out of the coat and turning back quickly enough to catch it on his arm before it even began to fall. He moved around at the head of the walk, showing off the clothes, looking right into the eyes of the audience and enjoying the reaction to his daring. He looked into the camera one last time, and Casey could swear he winked before turning to walk off. The streetlight changed then, and Casey finally crossed, his mind reeling, to work his way around the edge of the crowd.
Now he watched Zeke position himself to take the walk again, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. When the two girls in bright yellow and dark orange finished their pass, Zeke started forward, but this time his pace was relaxed, slower, and he kept his gaze down, smiling a dark, private smile. Instead of the proud, aggressive stride Casey had seen before, now he strolled, flicking ashes off his cigarette - another transgression - as he arrived at the head of the walk. He paused there, taking a drag as he slipped his other hand into the sweater, running it over his chest so the movement was visible through the spaces in the weave. Then he dropped the cigarette on the floor and crushed it under his heel. Planting his feet wider, Zeke reached down to the low hem of the sweater and pulled it up and off, slowly revealing the beautifully cut tee and the fit of the trousers. The sweater dangled from one hand as he turned in a slow, languid circle, absently, as if lost in thought. Then he stopped, and Casey watched from the sidelines as Zeke closed his eyes and ran a hand from his shoulder down over the knit silk to his hips. Oh, shit, Casey thought, wondering how far Zeke was planning to take this.
He had his answer as Zeke sighed and opened his eyes. He flipped the sweater over his shoulder, and for a brief second locked eyes with Casey before walking off, his pace still relaxed, hipshot, almost unbearably sexy. Casey let out a tightly held breath and leaned back against the pillar behind him. Fucking hell, he thought.
Zeke tossed the heavy sweater onto a nearby chair and leaned his forearms on the mirror above the dressing table, resting his head against them. He flexed his shoulders and let out a shaky sigh. Casey Connor. Good god. For a while now, he'd had the slippery sense that his erstwhile partner in amateur heroics was somehow going to show up in his life again, but he hadn't expected this. Not at all.
Can that really be Casey? The guy who'd stepped into the dressing room was nothing like the shrinking victim of the Herrington hallways, or the oddly placid little hero of the post-invasion months. This Casey was confident and self-assured in his tailored jeans and velvet jacket, his back straight and shoulders unbowed. An elegant crust of beard framed his face, and the crystalline eyes were layered with experience. He seemed constantly to be holding some thought back from speaking, and the way he'd looked Zeke up and down made him think that maybe...
The door interrupted his thoughts. Zeke watched from beneath his arms as Casey approached in the mirror, saw him pause for another long, speculative look, this time from behind. He could see Casey's gaze lingering on his ass, and he closed his eyes, his breath hitching. A warm hand settled on his back, stroking, then moved over to his side and down around his ribs. Zeke felt that hand pushing over his skin towards his groin, where it found him already hard. He shivered at the feeling. "I sure regret not photographing you," Casey said, his voice close.
Zeke gasped out, "Like I regret not fucking you."
Casey chuckled, and Zeke bit back a moan at the slow squeeze, but it burst out when he felt Casey settle himself against his ass. Zeke licked his lips and pushed back against him. He felt Casey's fingers slide up over his neck and into his hair, and the sharp scratch against his skin made him realize that at some point Casey had stopped biting his nails. The fingers pulled into a fist, making him wince, and Casey's breath was warm at his ear. "That's a nice thought," he murmured, "but you're not fucking me tonight, either." He pushed with his hips, and Zeke groaned, feeling how hot and hard he was. A strong hand clamped around his bicep and pulled, and Zeke was turned and shoved back against the mirror, his back curved so he was half lying on the table.
Casey looked at him with an expression Zeke had never seen before, a little smile playing on his lips. He leaned in and ran his open lips over Zeke's, and dived in when he opened his mouth. Zeke groaned and ran a hand over Casey's back to his shoulders, and with the other he pushed Casey's hand back down to his hips. Casey laughed low and squeezed him, running his palm up and down, making Zeke thrust into his hand. He ran his other hand back into Zeke's hair - he sure seemed fascinated by it - and looked down over his face and neck and chest, to his hips and thighs. "Damn, Tyler," he said, "what the hell happened to you?"
Zeke tipped his head to one side and looked at Casey, hearing the unspoken question. "Do I really have to answer that, Connor?" he asked, and saw a shadow of sadness pass over Casey's face as he realized the same thing had happened to both of them, the same changes. Neither of them had been left unscarred. But after a second, Zeke thought fuck that, and pulled Casey into another kiss. This whole thing was unexpected, and fuck if he was going to let it get away.
Casey growled into his mouth and pushed his legs open, moving to rub their groins together, and the thought that Casey might actually intend to fuck him right there nearly made Zeke come on the spot. His movements grew faster, and Zeke dug fingers into his shoulders. Jesus, yeah, come on, oh fuck. He nearly screamed in frustration when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
"No!" he barked at it, making Casey laugh again. The knock came again. Now he yelled, "Come back later!" licking his lower lip as he reached to run his own hand down between their bodies. Casey grunted and took his mouth again, and Zeke couldn't care less about anything outside the door.
"Zeke, you got people out here!" his assistant called. He blew an angry breath.
Casey grinned. "You have to go, don't you?" he asked, his eyes sparkling. Zeke nodded, too furious to respond for a moment. "It's okay," Casey said, straightening up. He ran his fingers over Zeke's jaw and touched his mouth, sighing as Zeke pulled himself up. "I'm gonna get something to eat," he said, and kissed him again, settling his hand on Zeke's waist. "Meet me when you're done. I'll be up at Johnny Rocket's."
Zeke huffed. "It might be a while," he said.
Casey smile was almost a purr. "Then I'll take my time." He looked into Zeke's eyes for a long moment, then suddenly dipped his head and gave his neck a sharp bite, sucking hard on his skin. Zeke winced at the little burst of pain, but Casey hung on for a few seconds before letting him go. Zeke put a hand to his neck, hissing. "Give 'em something to talk about," Casey said, his voice low.
Zeke gave a rueful laugh. "You little bastard," he said.
"You got that right," Casey answered, and kissed him again, their tongues touching briefly. "Go do your thing, baby," he whispered, and Zeke nearly whimpered at the promise of that word. Then Casey turned and walked out the door.
Note: This is my 100th work at AO3.
So here it is. Enjoy this odd little side trip!
Walk
by Serai
"Yeah!"
The voice responding to his knock was the same, no doubt about it: husky and dark, nonchalant, not even bothering to invite in whoever was outside. So this whole thing hadn't been wishful thinking, or mistaken identity, or a lookalike twin. Casey shook his head and laughed to himself as he opened the door, to be taken aback by the sight that greeted him.
The figure stood at a mirrored dressing table, illuminated by the row of garish bulbs above it, at that moment pulling a blood-red shirt up and off. Casey only half-remembered Zeke's body - for it was Zeke, the Celtic ink at the shoulder left no doubt - but holy shit, what he remembered hadn't looked like this. Zeke had always been tall and broad-shouldered, but the torso had filled in, massed and hardened, and the arms were thicker and stronger, no doubt a match for the thighs in the dark green trousers. He was just... Fucking stunning, Casey thought in the split second before the shirt came up off his head.
And there was that hair. Goddamn. It had been the primary reason why Casey'd thought he might be mistaken. Instead of the rebelliously self-mutilated mop of near-black Casey had known, now Zeke was crowned with warm brown locks that hung in his eyes and around his neck, shining like silk. They framed a face that had hardened as well, cheekbones and jaw once prominent now knife-edged, elegant even. But the eyes after he'd shook the hair out of them looked out at Casey from the mirror with the same cool amusement he remembered, and the lips pressed back laughter just as they had on that fateful afternoon eight years ago, when Zeke had stalked slowly towards him, mocking him with an almost sensual glee.
Zeke handed the shirt to the assistant Casey hadn't even noticed, who brought its replacement. The double view, front and back, of all that skin suddenly made Casey realize that his mouth was actually watering, and he smiled to himself as Zeke stretched in the mirror before pulling on the sleek white tee. Its long sleeves clung to his arms and the snug fit outlined every muscle of his chest and back. The deliberate way Zeke was drawing this out was both him and not him, and the drama amused Casey. He watched as Zeke shrugged into the last component of the outfit, a bulky architectural sweater knit with open patches that showed off the body beneath. Then he reached for a pack of cigarettes on the dressing table, shook one out and lit it, waving away the assistant, who tried to protest.
"I'm keeping this one," he told her, and took a long drag off his smoke, eying Casey as he did so. After a long moment, he grinned. "Took you long enough," he said.
"Fuck you," Casey replied conversationally. "This isn't even close to my scene."
Zeke turned around and leaned back on the dressing table. He flicked ashes onto the floor and raised a hand to rake his hair back. Casey was struck by the languid unconsciousness of the gesture. He walked up to the table and reached around Zeke for the cigarettes, took one for himself and pulled his old steel lighter from his pocket to light up, then snapped it closed and put it away. "Zeke Tyler", he mused, looking him up and down, and then grinned himself. "Well, look at the fucking state of you."
Zeke snorted a laugh, and then bowed his head, maybe in embarrassment, maybe not. His hair fell forward and he raked it back again. "So where've you been, man?" he asked.
"Lately? Mongolia," Casey replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Mongolia?" Zeke looked sideways at him, incredulous.
"Yep," Casey nodded. "Mongolia, Nepal, then Bali and Japan. A series on indigenous gatherings and festivals. I wanted to see how they party in the back of beyond."
Zeke smiled again and shook his head in wonder. "Still taking pictures," he murmured. The assistant alerted him then, and Zeke straightened up. With a sidelong smile he said to Casey, "This is the last one. Come watch if you want." Then after a moment's pause, he stubbed out his smoke and pulled a fresh one from the pack, lit it, and strode out, curls of blue smoke trailing in his wake.
It had been six weeks since the first photo had caught Casey's eye on a long wall ad as he passed through LAX. In it, against a background of bright, flashing gold, a lanky young man of the type that always populated such ads was turning back as he ran, stretching an arm towards the equally typical girl in a short gold-beaded dress and silver patchfur coat racing to catch up to him. The guy was dressed in sharp black and white, and his long hair was whipping over his face so only his grin was visible. Casey had stared at the picture, frowning. Did he know that smile? He'd felt as if he did, but he didn't think he knew anyone like this guy. He certainly didn't know any fashion models. He looked at the caption: Mark Tanner, and beneath it, the new collection, and beneath that, Presenting at The Kodak Theater, Hollywood, June 27th at 9:00 P.M. Casey filed it away in his head and went on to catch his plane, thinking no more about it. But that night, he'd dreamed about running, and in the morning that grin was once again in his mind.
The next time had been a couple of weeks later, when he'd come across a magazine left at an outdoor table where he sat down to have lunch. It was one of those thick, glossy fashion catalogs - because that's really what they were, ad catalogs - and he flipped idly through it as he waited for his food, curious to see what visual trends were happening in that world. Halfway through it, he came across the same ad, in a foldout this time, and after it a spread from the designer. Several sleek young gods and goddesses sporting leather and wool, velvet and silk, and there was that guy again, only this time in a long leather coat, his body pivoting towards the camera on a city street. His gaze was down as his face caught the light in profile, and Casey's eyebrows rose in surprise.
Wait, that's... No, it can't be. He flipped quickly through the pages, but couldn't find any credits on the models, and turned back to look at the photo again. His mind boggled, trying to imagine how Zeke Tyler of all people could possibly have come to be modeling high fashion. This couldn't be the same guy who'd staggered bloody into the locker room after battling a fucking alien invasion at his side, could it? No, he must be mistaken. That's when the bug bit, and he realized he had to go see for himself.
No way, he thought, looking again at that cool, imperious face. It can't be him.
But in the end, it was. Casey had watched from across the street in the bright neon darkness as the tall figures strode back and forth on the giant screen above the courtyard of the Kodak. The show had been staged there in the open air, and Casey had paused to look up at the images before he crossed the boulevard. And suddenly there he was, striding down the catwalk dressed in gray and black, a cashmere coat and sharp vested suit, the tie forming a shocking arrow of bright purple down his chest. Casey's brain stretched, trying to encompass what he was seeing. The face was so similar, yet the seasoned, professional movements threw him. They were so unlike the guy in his memory. Not to mention that hair.
Then the shot on the screen cut to a much closer one, and Casey got a real look. That's when the model shifted his gaze to the camera. Dark eyes narrowed in amusement, the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and Casey felt the look as if it were aimed right at him. That selfish little smile, the angle of the head - it was him. But then he was thrown into doubt again when the view switched back to a full shot and the model executed an impossibly polished move, in one fluid motion shrugging out of the coat and turning back quickly enough to catch it on his arm before it even began to fall. He moved around at the head of the walk, showing off the clothes, looking right into the eyes of the audience and enjoying the reaction to his daring. He looked into the camera one last time, and Casey could swear he winked before turning to walk off. The streetlight changed then, and Casey finally crossed, his mind reeling, to work his way around the edge of the crowd.
Now he watched Zeke position himself to take the walk again, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. When the two girls in bright yellow and dark orange finished their pass, Zeke started forward, but this time his pace was relaxed, slower, and he kept his gaze down, smiling a dark, private smile. Instead of the proud, aggressive stride Casey had seen before, now he strolled, flicking ashes off his cigarette - another transgression - as he arrived at the head of the walk. He paused there, taking a drag as he slipped his other hand into the sweater, running it over his chest so the movement was visible through the spaces in the weave. Then he dropped the cigarette on the floor and crushed it under his heel. Planting his feet wider, Zeke reached down to the low hem of the sweater and pulled it up and off, slowly revealing the beautifully cut tee and the fit of the trousers. The sweater dangled from one hand as he turned in a slow, languid circle, absently, as if lost in thought. Then he stopped, and Casey watched from the sidelines as Zeke closed his eyes and ran a hand from his shoulder down over the knit silk to his hips. Oh, shit, Casey thought, wondering how far Zeke was planning to take this.
He had his answer as Zeke sighed and opened his eyes. He flipped the sweater over his shoulder, and for a brief second locked eyes with Casey before walking off, his pace still relaxed, hipshot, almost unbearably sexy. Casey let out a tightly held breath and leaned back against the pillar behind him. Fucking hell, he thought.
Zeke tossed the heavy sweater onto a nearby chair and leaned his forearms on the mirror above the dressing table, resting his head against them. He flexed his shoulders and let out a shaky sigh. Casey Connor. Good god. For a while now, he'd had the slippery sense that his erstwhile partner in amateur heroics was somehow going to show up in his life again, but he hadn't expected this. Not at all.
Can that really be Casey? The guy who'd stepped into the dressing room was nothing like the shrinking victim of the Herrington hallways, or the oddly placid little hero of the post-invasion months. This Casey was confident and self-assured in his tailored jeans and velvet jacket, his back straight and shoulders unbowed. An elegant crust of beard framed his face, and the crystalline eyes were layered with experience. He seemed constantly to be holding some thought back from speaking, and the way he'd looked Zeke up and down made him think that maybe...
The door interrupted his thoughts. Zeke watched from beneath his arms as Casey approached in the mirror, saw him pause for another long, speculative look, this time from behind. He could see Casey's gaze lingering on his ass, and he closed his eyes, his breath hitching. A warm hand settled on his back, stroking, then moved over to his side and down around his ribs. Zeke felt that hand pushing over his skin towards his groin, where it found him already hard. He shivered at the feeling. "I sure regret not photographing you," Casey said, his voice close.
Zeke gasped out, "Like I regret not fucking you."
Casey chuckled, and Zeke bit back a moan at the slow squeeze, but it burst out when he felt Casey settle himself against his ass. Zeke licked his lips and pushed back against him. He felt Casey's fingers slide up over his neck and into his hair, and the sharp scratch against his skin made him realize that at some point Casey had stopped biting his nails. The fingers pulled into a fist, making him wince, and Casey's breath was warm at his ear. "That's a nice thought," he murmured, "but you're not fucking me tonight, either." He pushed with his hips, and Zeke groaned, feeling how hot and hard he was. A strong hand clamped around his bicep and pulled, and Zeke was turned and shoved back against the mirror, his back curved so he was half lying on the table.
Casey looked at him with an expression Zeke had never seen before, a little smile playing on his lips. He leaned in and ran his open lips over Zeke's, and dived in when he opened his mouth. Zeke groaned and ran a hand over Casey's back to his shoulders, and with the other he pushed Casey's hand back down to his hips. Casey laughed low and squeezed him, running his palm up and down, making Zeke thrust into his hand. He ran his other hand back into Zeke's hair - he sure seemed fascinated by it - and looked down over his face and neck and chest, to his hips and thighs. "Damn, Tyler," he said, "what the hell happened to you?"
Zeke tipped his head to one side and looked at Casey, hearing the unspoken question. "Do I really have to answer that, Connor?" he asked, and saw a shadow of sadness pass over Casey's face as he realized the same thing had happened to both of them, the same changes. Neither of them had been left unscarred. But after a second, Zeke thought fuck that, and pulled Casey into another kiss. This whole thing was unexpected, and fuck if he was going to let it get away.
Casey growled into his mouth and pushed his legs open, moving to rub their groins together, and the thought that Casey might actually intend to fuck him right there nearly made Zeke come on the spot. His movements grew faster, and Zeke dug fingers into his shoulders. Jesus, yeah, come on, oh fuck. He nearly screamed in frustration when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
"No!" he barked at it, making Casey laugh again. The knock came again. Now he yelled, "Come back later!" licking his lower lip as he reached to run his own hand down between their bodies. Casey grunted and took his mouth again, and Zeke couldn't care less about anything outside the door.
"Zeke, you got people out here!" his assistant called. He blew an angry breath.
Casey grinned. "You have to go, don't you?" he asked, his eyes sparkling. Zeke nodded, too furious to respond for a moment. "It's okay," Casey said, straightening up. He ran his fingers over Zeke's jaw and touched his mouth, sighing as Zeke pulled himself up. "I'm gonna get something to eat," he said, and kissed him again, settling his hand on Zeke's waist. "Meet me when you're done. I'll be up at Johnny Rocket's."
Zeke huffed. "It might be a while," he said.
Casey smile was almost a purr. "Then I'll take my time." He looked into Zeke's eyes for a long moment, then suddenly dipped his head and gave his neck a sharp bite, sucking hard on his skin. Zeke winced at the little burst of pain, but Casey hung on for a few seconds before letting him go. Zeke put a hand to his neck, hissing. "Give 'em something to talk about," Casey said, his voice low.
Zeke gave a rueful laugh. "You little bastard," he said.
"You got that right," Casey answered, and kissed him again, their tongues touching briefly. "Go do your thing, baby," he whispered, and Zeke nearly whimpered at the promise of that word. Then Casey turned and walked out the door.
Note: This is my 100th work at AO3.
