His girl should’ve had another few miles in the tank.
“Not now, not now.”
Miguel groans, thumping the suddenly-blank dashboard with a fist as his hovercar sputters to a stop, holograms disappearing from all over the interior with it. A humming noise crystallises in the air as the emergency tractor beam bursts into action.
“Mierda,” he snarls, as it, too, splutters, dropping them down a few levels in time with the feeling of his own stomach falling, before finally latching onto the side of a building and jerking them to halt. He curses again as his head slams into the ceiling from the jolt, and with that, the engine breathes her last breath, leaving only the buzz of the beam in its wake.
Miguel braces an arm on the passenger seat, staring down at the timer, rapidly counting down besides the gauge on the little blue box in the back. He sighs.
Tonight is just going great.
Snatching all the handles of his grocery bags together, his other hand is only barely able to graze the manual door handle before a loud siren pierces the air.
A flash of red-blue lights follow in the next second, and Miguel grumbles under his breath in resignation as he hears the patrol vehicle rattle down from the light traffic above him. He never should’ve gone out for that almost-organic produce discount.
“Driver and passengers, please exit your vehicle—licence plate E65N0V99—you have been stopped for an air-traffic violation. Please exit slowly.” A distorted voice says over a megaphone.
“You did not fucking stop me,” Miguel mutters, then winces as a parking boot shoots out from the side of the cop’s hovervan, cybernetics unravelling in mere seconds to tether their vehicles together with a combination of cables and another tractor beam. It floats slightly beneath his own and to the side. “Hey!” Miguel forgoes his bags, shoving his way out the door and hoping the gap to land on the small patio attached to the back of the cop-van.
Despite the lack of rain he’s glad his partially-translucent raincoat still helps block the deadly rays peeking through the smog above him.
“Can’t you see she’s already busted? You wanna know how hard it is to get repairs once there’s a mark from you-lot on it?” There’s a curious amount of flower pots scattered at the bottom of the railing, they distract him long enough that he almost forgets to deliver a thudding knock to the barn doors.
Almost.
“This has happened before?” The disembodied voice calls out, muffled, megaphone disabled. “You know—”
The doors slide open with a hiss, and then he’s stuck with eyes staring down into ocean’s of blue as a smiling fly-boy appears in place of them.
“—you’d think with that whole look you’ve got going on, you’d be a little more versed in doing some mechanical work all on your lonesome, no?” He smirks up at Miguel, leaning against one of the shelves bolted to the side of the van. His black hair brushes against the metal as he tilts his head against it, baring his neck ever so slightly, dragging Miguel’s vision down the slope until it disappears under kevlar.
Miguel feels his mind kick back into high gear the second his gaze passes the familiar symbol next to the nametag on the man—Grayson’s bulletproof vest. Right. “Not when your big boss has the entire distribution line restricted, kid.” no need to mention his own blacklistment of course. “And if you’re thinking I’ll rat on the ones who do get around it, you’ve got another thing coming for you.”
“Do you want another thing added to your ticket today, handsome?” Grayson raises an eyebrow. “Or just the threat?”
Miguel stares flatly and holds out a wrist.
Instead of scanning his card, Grayson takes his wrist and tugs him inside, confusingly, and he follows until the hovervan’s doors shut with a snap, cutting the loud noise of Nueva York into a soft ambience.
“What are you doing? Scan my chip so I can go!”
“No can do sir.” He waves a hand. “You’re looking at more than just a fine here.”
“Oh yeah?”
He unhooks a handcuff from his utility belt and twirls it, still holding Miguel’s wrist with the other hand. There’s a strange number of calluses decorating it, for someone stuck with such a menial fresh-meat job.
“Disrupting traffic, operating a vehicle seven months over it’s planned obsolescence date, failing to use your vertical blinkers, failing to activate your emergency light, and—oh!” Grayson holds his hand up, thumb squeezing the cuff against his palm as the rest of his fingers cup his ear, “sounds like your generator just ran outta gas—endangering civilians by almost dropping a whole four thousand pounds onto them, isn’t that interesting?”
Miguel glares. “Like Alchemax cares about anyone living below the upper levels.”
“Rules are rules.” Grayson shrugs. “By order of Public Eye I’m under obligation to arrest you and get a full statement. Now are you going to give me your hands, big guy?”
“I don’t have time for this,” Miguel says, eyeing the metal still dangling in the air. He can be out of here faster than this brainwashed fly-boy can blink, but he doesn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to his location. Neither can he risk getting in those cuffs when he has no idea whether or not the upgrades his ex-coworkers in Alchemax’s R&D had been working on are fully implemented across the board yet.
“Sorry sir. If it helps, your right to remain silent is still available in this postcode, you can keep your statement as short and sweet as you want.”
Time to change tactics.
“As short and sweet as you?”
“Uh," Grayson laughs, shuffling, "sorry, what?”
Miguel flips his hand, reversing their positions as he frees himself and latches onto Grayson’s wrist instead, stroking a thumb over his pulse. It’s beating a little faster than usual, if it wasn’t for the comment he’d made earlier Miguel would think he’s intimidated by his size—and to be fair, maybe he is, just not in… that way.
“Don’t act coy, ’you really want to waste your morning dealing with some measly car trouble?”
“Well—”
He tugs him closer and Grayson stumbles a little, Miguel quickly snags the cuffs and tosses them through the steel grating of the bulkhead separating the two sections of the van.
The kid splutters, turning to look back at them with wide eyes, but they’ve already fallen out of sight. “You can’t just do that!”
“Can’t I?” Miguel rolls his eyes. “Look at you, they’ve got you in this dinky patrol van for what? Because you don’t have the chops for any high-stake duties?”
“This van is perfectly fine.”
“For neighbourhood patrol maybe,” he laughs, “if you like micromanaging traffic so much, why aren’t you up in a cruiser on the highways with the other fly-boys?” Miguel raises an eyebrow, squeezing his wrist. “Unless you’re cruising for something else… are you?”
Grayson’s cheeks are rapidly turning pink. “I’m not—”
“Really?” He raises a brow, incredulous. “You wouldn’t want to set a bad example for a civilian and lie, would you?”
He takes a step forward as he’s speaking, and then another as the kid instinctively moves back, slowly corralling him towards the bench along the left side of the van. He keeps up their back and forth until Grayson gives up his stuttering charade with a roll of his eyes and a groan, plopping down to sit without complaint.
“I actually haven’t done this before.”
Miguel’s heart lurches and he leans back slightly to stare incredulously. “What—ever?”
“No!” Grayson snaps. “I mean in the back of my own police vehicle.”
“But in your personal vehicle…? Officer Grayson.” Miguel gapes at him mockingly. “How often do you get bent over in the back of your car?”
When he gets only silence and pursing lips in return, Miguel smirks. “Wow, scandalous.” Finally letting Grayson’s wrist go, he straightens and crosses his arms together to scan him up and down. “Come on, why don’t you give me a sample of what all that experience has taught you?”
Dragging on his silence—the absolute brat—Grayson leans in and mouths at the seam of his fly, sucking and pressing at the fabric with his teeth. He peers up at him with a pout until Miguel scoffs and obliges, reaching to press down on the decorative button, fingerprint disabling the magnetic strips.
Grayson tugs at his pants, slowly pushing them down, revealing the heavy bulge in his red boxers.
The corner of his lips twitch—and Miguel is left to wonder for a brief second if he’s about to call it all off as a joke and arrest him right then and there—and then he’s snagging the waistband with his teeth, eyelashes fluttering as he glances back up at him, smirking through the grit, stripping him with seemingly-practised precision.
Miguel huffs a gust of air out of his nose at the rush of cold.
He isn’t fully hard yet—he’s not young anymore, sue him—but either way, his cock won’t ever spring out to slap himself in the belly like most do, the weight of it too heavy to hold itself up without a helping hand or mouth. He has just the thing in front of him right now, though, and Grayson doesn’t spare another moment dropping the elastic from his teeth, before chasing away the cool air with a hot, wet mouth.
Miguel grunts, but holds himself back from thrusting, he has no idea what the kid can actually handle yet, and leaves him to work at his own pace.
For now.
“Mmm.” Grayson slips down a little further, humming around him and reaching up to free his balls from where they’d been—a little uncomfortably—pinned by the waistband. Miguel watches as his hands shift away until he feels one creeping under his raincoat, resting against his ass, squeezing it slightly as his eyes widen—Miguel snorts—and the other grabbing at his thigh.
Grayson pulls off for a second. “Fuck my face,” he says plainly, “I’ll double tap to stop.”
“You really think it’s smart to trust the guy you were just about to arrest with this?”
“Alright sure, want me to bite it off instead?” Grayson laughs, rubbing his face against his own saliva, a raunchy imitation of a cat.
Miguel glares, but holographs his movements as he reaches for the back of his head, just grazing the silky black strands lightly until he takes him back into his mouth, sinking down. He moves slowly at first, letting Grayson chase the last few quarter-inches at every one of his pauses.
It goes on like this, for a minute or two, until he finally has a grasp on what Grayson can take—which turns out to be a lot. Holding his head firmly, he begins to thrust, steadily working up the pace as he stares past Grayson’s eyelashes, into his eyes; clouding over with a thin sheen of tears, built up from every gag as he lodges his cock deeper and deeper into Grayson’s throat, balls slapping his chin.
“Don’t,” he growls, feeling Grayson’s hand leave his thigh for a moment too long to be in preparation for a tap. He pulls out, lets his cock rest wet against his cheek, until he nuzzles it apologetically, panting up at him.
“Keep that one where it was.”
He doesn’t wait for Grayson to initiate this time, pushing past his plush lips and breaching his mouth again without hesitation. “Just like that, kid.”
He can’t see it, but he feels and hears Grayson kick beneath the bench as he shudders, full-bodily, and moans. The kid must’ve taken his warning to heart, because after an almost apologetic-feeling squeeze and pat to his ass, he feels the hand leave his behind and trail around and down his front. He’s going fast enough now that he knows Grayson’s goal will take more than a little coordination from this position, so he slows himself down to stop, ignoring Grayson’s whine of confusion and tugging at his hair to begin pulling him up and down his cock instead.
“Now you’re free to do as you please.” Miguel chuckles darkly as Grayson scrambles to cup and massage his balls, now with easy access from his stillness.
It’s easier to observe the stretch of plush lips around his thick cock, now that he isn’t moving, and the steady feeling building up in him climbs with a sudden spike as he feels Grayson moan around him again at the tightening grip on his hair. With a reluctant sigh, he pulls him off.
“Hey, what—”
Miguel crouches down, cutting Grayson off with a kiss, tasting the tangy mixture of them both in his mouth. With the kid sufficiently distracted, he manoeuvres Grayson’s hands for him freely to disable his utility belt and other buckles. With that done he kneels down until Grayson teeters over him, and quickly picks him up, laughing into the muffled squeak he lets out.
“Wha—areyou—doing,” He huffs out between kisses, clutching at Miguel’s shoulder as he turns them half-way around, then lies back lengthways across the bench.
“Just sit back and enjoy, kid.”
It’s a tight squeeze for sure. Miguel keeps an arm up—the one closest to the wall—struggling to fit the length of his shoulders along the bench.
He yanks all of Grayson’s bottoms down—belt, pants, boxers, the lot of it—and drags him up and over his face. He’s been careful not to show his teeth this whole time, though to be fair it’s easy enough to lie and call it a cosmetic transhumanist enhancement, it’s common enough—just not as much as eye colour alterations, Grayson never even questioned him at all—but there’s no excuse he can make for avoiding the risk of introducing a paralytic to a blowjob.
And so instead; this.
“Shit!”
Spreading Grayson’s generous cheeks apart with his unrestricted arm, Miguel licks a quick, continuous strip between them, tasting the salt and sweat. He smells clean, still fresh from his morning shower—typical, with how boring and low-stakes his job is—so he abandons the idea of steeling himself and dives right in.
Grayson yelps but keeps his thighs tense, shaking and bucking until Miguel brings his other arm down to loop around his waist. He hauls him down—as much as he can with his shoulder locked so awkwardly between him and the wall—and keeps firmly him in place, lodging his tongue deeper and lightly nibbling around the rim—with his blunt, human teeth of course—and savours the frantic pants and moans spilling out of Grayson as he struggles against his grip.
“Fucking—calm down,” Miguel growls, digging his nails into Grayson’s skin meanly. “Grayson. Settle.”
Grayson’s voice is still croaky as he replies, “D-don’t wanna crush you.” Still rocking his hips as if he thinks he can get off like this, hands spasming as he hunches over to push at the sliver of bench left above his own knees and Miguel’s halo of hair.
It’s cute that he thinks he could do any real damage to him, but Miguel can at least give him some credit; Grayson has a lot more muscle to his name than any of the typical fly-boys he’s seen, neither the ones patrolling the city, nor the ones guarding his last place of work—the Alchemax headquarters—can hold a candle to him.
“Suit yourself, Grayson.”
He can’t spend another moment questioning what kinds of sports he might be into however, because in the next second he pulls away, ignoring the cry of dismay and grabbing Grayson’s hips, sliding himself up—sitting—and pushing the kid over onto his back, then sliding his hands down—or up, depending on how you put it—to the back of his knees—splayed awkwardly against Miguel’s own chest, and pushing them towards Grayson’s shoulders.
It happens so fast, yet Grayson doesn’t falter at the stretch, doesn’t do a thing but grab at his own ankles and help Miguel fold him half. Miguel kneels with one leg, the other sliding down to brace on the floor more comfortably, then pounces in.
Like this, with Grayson fully secured by his own means, his hands are free to spread his ass again—though in this position he doesn’t quite need to—and stare at his exposed hole, wet with small trails of saliva and sweat, glistening under the cool light of the hovervan.
Miguel feels his own cock twitch.
He ignores it.
“C’mon.” Grayson blushes further as he appraises him. “Hurry up.” Miguel wonders for a brief flash, about how many cameras are in the vehicle, if those potential stares are working him up more than his is, and resolves to get Lyla to swap them with loops later.
“Wouldn’t of had to wait if you’d just done as you were told,” Miguel laughs, but bends down obligingly, starting up his rimming session again in fervour.
He pauses for a moment to spit on his hand, then reaches up to wrap a hand around Grayson’s dick.
“Fu—uuck.” The kid jolts, but doesn’t lose his grip on his own legs.
Miguel smirks and slowly strokes down, continuing to lick and tease his hole open all the while, Grayson’s dick is splurting enough precum that it doesn’t take long for it to begin dripping over his knuckles, flinging small clumps back onto Grayson’s own face as Miguel speeds up.
“Close,” Grayson whimpers, “I’m so close.”
Miguel squeezes tighter, pressing his other hand firmly against his taint, while giving a slow thrust with tongue inside, letting a fang gently, gently scrape the skin of his ass—
And then Grayson’s coming with a yell.
Miguel withdraws slightly, stroking him through it and watching as his balls clench, dick throbbing, as Grayson comes all over his own face, streaking little white lines across his cheeks and forehead.
“Ah—uh,” Grayson gasps out and frees a hand to fumble and bat at Miguel’s, oversensitive, until he releases him after another final rub over the head with his thumb.
“Shit,” The kid groans, thudding a head back onto the cold bench, shivering. “Okay- okay. Your turn, big guy.” He waves in the direction of his face.
“Thought you’d never ask.” Miguel snorts, finally reaching for his neglected cock.
All the salvia from Grayson’s ministrations earlier had dried up, but he’s leaking enough that it doesn’t make much of a difference. He clambers off the bench, letting Grayson finally drop his legs down and stretch.
Miguel stands over him and jerks off, aiming his cock towards him, one arm bracing against the wall ahead as he watches Grayson lift a hand to slowly wipe his own cum off his face, licking his fingers as he goes and swallowing audibly. He flutters his eyes up at Miguel with a smirk, and croons softly until Miguel too, is coming all over his face with a grunt, panting harshly.
“You missed a bit.” Grayson pouts.
Miguel’s eyes peek open and he watches Grayson glare at the pool of cum that had landed on the bench.
Oh well, there’s enough that hit the mark either way.
He swipes over Grayson’s face, smearing the mess, then sinks his fingers into his mouth. His cock twitches again in interest as he feels the fly-boy’s soft tongue and lips wrap around them and suck firmly.
He sees Grayson’s own flaccid dick do the same.
With a forlorn sigh, he withdraws, wetly patting Grayson on the cheek—face cheek, this time, and then starts on fixing them both back up.
Grayson doesn’t object to the manhandling, and just hums tiredly as he refastens and straightens everything into place. With another quick once over, and a tug from Grayson at the edge of his raincoat, he crouches down to give him a—hopefully reassuring—hug.
If he had lozenges, he’d offer them, but for now, Grayson’s going to have to deal with the consequences of a good throat fuck. It’s the least he can do to make sure he’s calm afterwards.
Even if he’s only a stranger he’ll never see again.
*
“So… want me to take your car with you? P.E clamps work just as well for towing, scout’s honour.” Grayson says as he snags the handcuffs from the floor, climbing into his seat.
The decor in the cabin of the hovervan seems a little more in line with the balcony at the back, unlike the sparse, empty space they had been in earlier. There are small succulents lining the edge of his dashboard, holograms seemingly custom programmed to warp around them, tracking their little lives as they grow in their small pots.
“Nice try, buddy.” Miguel rolls his eyes, arms crossed over the top of the head of Grayson’s pilot chair. “Just drag it closer to the ledge and detach. ’Doubt anyone’s gonna want to hijack that piece of junk, you can let me off at that tugship rental place.”
Grayson whistles airily. “Want me to roll out a red carpet for you too, your highness?”
“Shut up. You offered first.”
He gets only laughter in return.
*
After dropping him off, Dick waits and watches the sway of Miguel’s hips until he disappears from view.
He shifts uncomfortably at the drying, crusting stickiness in the seat of his pants, the crotch of his boxers, and the bits he’d missed in his hair. He rakes a hand through his it with a croaky sigh.
His muscles ache.
Slipping the card into Miguel’s raincoat’s inner breast pocket—containing all the contact information necessary for him to get to the underground vigilante recruitment bar—had been terribly difficult in all the positions Miguel had chosen for them, but better to be caught doing what all his coworkers already thought that he was doing, than conspiring with a certain disgraced scientist in the back of his heavily surveilled Public Eye-issue van.
Though, he’s curious now as to whether Miguel will bother to interfere with the recordings. He has the skills to do it, but after the comment about resources he has no idea how limited his capacity is right now, and their monitoring of him has fallen on the wayside recently after his descent into almost-hiding.
He seriously hopes Miguel actually finds and reads the card before tossing his clothes in the sonic wash.
With a flick of the wrist, he pops a lozenge into his mouth, from the hidden compartment next to his mints.
Or… maybe he doesn’t.
Maybe, just maybe, he wants an excuse to do it all over again.
There’s always some truth to a rumour, after all.