attempt #2

Attempt number two was casual, unlike the first one (all needy and pushy). Maybe this TA with shaggy brown hair and a lazy grin would prove more fruitful.

It started out simple enough; Todd was bad at Biology and, obviously, the TA wasn't. Keaton, a 23 year old grad student getting his master's in cell and molecular biology, was just taking pity on Todd, a nearly failing freshman who couldn't quite memorize all those sucroses and polysaccharides.

Still, the first tutoring session left him hating his biology textbook and missing the sound of Keaton's laugh.

The second tutoring session left Todd wondering how booze and movies were going to prepare him for the midterm.

The third tutoring session had him obediently reciting vocabulary from memory in exchange for amazing kisses. (He said Keaton was casual, not conventional.)

It didn't wasn't until the fifth or sixth time that Keaton had offhandedly asked Todd to stay the night with the observation, 'We're not getting much done now.'

Todd had agreed. It was the lazy, surveying look that Keaton had given him that let Todd know just what staying the night meant; there were no verbal cues or flat-out confirmations. But (un?)surprisingly enough, Todd was still fluent in predatory male body language.

But after bruises that took a little too long to heal and shame that felt like a red stain on his conscience from that first post-college attempt, Todd was more than slightly wary. Nothing happened for a while other than a movie on channel three and it took about four or five bottles of Jack Daniels (It's my favorite too, Keaton had said one night) before Todd 'accidentally' tumbled into the older man's lap.

It was immediately foreign—Keaton's legs were longer and his lips were just a little too soft. When Todd pressed his tongue past his lips, there was no reprimanding bite and the hand sliding through his hair was too large and yet gentler than Todd imagined.

His only basis for comparison was unattainable, though. It didn't matter how wrong it felt—Todd really needed to stop being so spoiled, because he would never get him back.

Todd tugged at Keaton's shirt impatiently, hands exploring skin that wasn't soft enough—too tanned by the California sun and their university quad, laced with scars Todd actually didn't want to hear stories of and unfamiliar, defined ridges thanks to early mornings at the gym—while attempting to ignore the lazy murmur against his throat. 'You taste so fucking good' was a pleasing phrase, the kind that Todd should prefer coming from Keaton's bass tone rather than the usual girlish, breathy attempt at flattery after the months and months of heterosexual conquests. But they seemed like words out of an awkward coming-of-age film, more 'so, uh, how does this go again?' than anything else.

When hands dove underneath Todd's shirt, they weren't awkward at all; they were familiar with the male body, he figured, skating over the plane of his stomach and teasing tiny muscles into jumping underneath their nails, but they just didn't feel right. When Keaton's hands splayed out, they covered far too much surface and instead of feeling eloquent like they could play skin, his fingertips were calloused from guitar strings and countless corrected essays.

Todd made a note—Steinways were more impressive than Fenders.

Dimly (too drunk to let it wander to the forefront of his mind), Todd contemplated whether or not it was a bad thing that he was almost dreading when the hands that managed to coax out the occasional sound moved south. Maybe his zipper would catch. Maybe Keaton magically failed at undoing buttons when inebriated.

He slowed his own traipsing hands, letting them scale down and start tugging lightly at the leather belt Keaton always sported. Maybe he ought to suck it up and do this right.

Anyway, Keaton wasn't bad—if he were, Todd would've long since tumbled right back out of his lap and made up a reason to go home. Todd wouldn't put this much effort into an already failing venture.

He just hoped it might go nowhere but up at this point.

Some twisted, salacious part of Todd found humor in that hope about twenty minutes later: the only thing 'up' at this point was his ass. In the air.

It wasn't like he hadn't been in this position before. But somehow it felt a little demeaning for once—face pressed roughly into the arm of the couch because the hand in his hair had no self control, back forcibly arched at an obscene angle thanks to the other hand of Keaton's pressing into his lower spine—and while Todd had little shame, he didn't appreciate feeling like his dignity was being stripped away entirely.

The unpleasantly dirty air about what was happening increased about tenfold when he realized that, through the drunken haze and his slight impatience to make this work, there was a distinct lack of protection.

Fantastic. At least their campus health services gave free testing, he thought in irritation, gritting his teeth against a particularly rough thrust.

Everything was wrong, and it had seemed like such a nice premise, too. He swallowed noises—because they'd be of discomfort, really—and he wasn't told to stop. He didn't respond to the lewd flatteries occasionally moaned in his ear, yet Keaton wasn't inclined to shut up any time soon.

The weight on his back near the end—even Keaton's body didn't seem to mold as well enough to his—almost felt like it weighed on his conscience, like he was doing something especially wrong and not even because it was, well, really gay.

Todd's mind continued to wander even as Keaton's hand twisted tighter in his hair and the words became more coarse—was it a little fixated of him to even reject the way Keaton's body felt when it shuddered, when it pinned him to the cushions?

Maybe not, he mused. Maybe it was just because Keaton wasn't getting off of him, and Todd didn't have a nice after-glow but a thick, tar-like curtain over his senses. (It was certainly picky of him to resent Keaton's sweat. That was a really feminine complaint, and even Todd couldn't deny it.)

Eventually, though, Keaton had to extricate himself, and Todd let out a soft sigh that sounded mostly like relief—but was really something along the lines of 'third time's a charm or maybe I should just give up'. Good thing most people didn't read into sighs that much.

Somehow, despite the fact that the blond felt extremely dirty at that moment, asking for a shower seemed like it might capitalize on the growing shame—this shame wasn't red like the last time, it was thick and murky like oil on the side of the road late at night, or something. (Todd needed to avoid the metaphors when a guy just fucked him bareback into a sofa, obviously.)

The silence was the highlight of the experience—Todd got to bask in his debasement, and Keaton wasn't trying to say shit that probably made other guys claw at whatever they were currently facing and beg like sluts even though it made Todd kind of want to cry.

It didn't last long. And hell, Todd was used to silence getting interrupted. Usually he didn't mind.

"God, I love freshmen," Keaton breathed contently.

Usually the silence was interrupted by something a little more tactful, though.

Todd made a face, conveniently hidden at the angle he sat at, reaching down for his clothes. "Thanks for the icing on the cake, man," he muttered.



Todd noticed that it was easy to dismiss things with Keaton—yet another difference, he thought in disappointment.

God. He definitely needed to learn to settle if he was longing after stubbornness.