Joe and Timothy|Secrets

The concert had gone like a dream. A delirium of fans in tears from emotion, bras and T-shirts flying onto the stage—and off it, considering that Quokka had ended up twerking shirtless at the end of the set. Compliments piling up, stolen glances, adrenaline blending with enthusiasm and satisfaction. And the hot, furious desire that clawed at every note, filling it with the frustration of waiting, of the forbidden, of the magnetism flowing between them like something so inevitable it hurt. Then the after-party. Too much alcohol—way too much alcohol. Quokka had decided to funnel them both. A terrible idea. Really terrible.

Inhibitions died. An excuse, they slipped away, the darkness of the night cloaking them like thieves. They had started kissing halfway there, hands sliding, hungry, under clothes. Rough palms against skin marked by misadventures. Hunger. That heat licking at the senses, that desire scarring everything, that line they had both sworn not to cross. But now the guardian of that threshold had drowned beneath tequila and other crap, and the probable presence of MD had made everything bitter. Bitter that was now being erased by kisses that tasted of blood from all the times they’d bitten their lips. Finally free—free from fear, free from torment, free from inner judgment.

Joe slammed his back against the Blackstreet truck. His red hoodie was all crooked now, the white T-shirt hanging out of ripped gray jeans, the hood only halfway up. Timothy was on him like a blanket, one hand at his neck and that black hoodie, open and too big, acting as a shield for both of them in the scuffle. No light to illuminate them as they consumed their secret in the dark. At Joe’s groan, Timothy tightened his grip, slightly denying him breath, while their tongues tangled in the fury of what had been denied for too long and in the laughter of those who were too drunk. Messy, like two teenagers living their first experiences. Joe’s hands, gripping the edges of Timothy’s hoodie, slid down toward the bassist’s belt with the frantic rhythm of someone who no longer wanted to hold back. Legs intertwined, weight pressed against the bus.

The Dr. Martens and the Vans scraped the asphalt with every movement, creating that faint gravelly undertone each time Joe’s knee pushed between Timmy’s legs and vice versa, desperately seeking friction in an waiting that felt like agony. Timothy finally moved his hand and Joe managed to unbuckle his belt, wasting no time unbuttoning his pants. They caught their breath. Eyes locked, ragged breathing, both their hair stuck to their foreheads and now tangled from contact. The taste of nicotine on their tongues, mixed with acid and alcohol. Joe lunged at Timothy’s neck, immediately picking up the rhythm again, slamming him with another thud against the van. Timothy jolted, then threw his head back when Joe’s cold hands slid under his hoodie. He shivered. “Inside,” Joe said, nodding toward the van. His voice was raspy from hours of singing and now from the emotion that was eating him alive.

Timothy’s fingers, meanwhile, anything but still, slipped into the guitarist’s pockets, in that tangle of limbs as he dug around looking for the keys. All useless. Joe yanked Timothy’s pants down. The jingle of the belt was almost a death knell—the death of the bassist’s sanity. He took back control, spreading Joe against the van again, which this time trembled slightly. He kissed him and then spun him around roughly, pinning him against the vehicle. Joe held his breath, caught off guard, letting out a groan as his front hit the metal. One hand braced him while the other searched the pockets in place of Timmy’s. “Why do they always disappear when—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Timothy had already slipped a finger into his underwear, sliding past the loosened fabric to make room in the crease of Joe’s ass, while the other hand kneaded one of his cheeks hard, inevitably tearing a moan from the guitarist.

“Fuck...” Joe went still for a couple of seconds, struck by that saliva-slick finger teasing his entrance, already starting to find its way toward what would come next. And Timothy stood there like a predator with his prey, pressing his whole body into Joe’s back, all the heat he was radiating. The bassist’s breath against Joe’s neck was muffled only by the hood’s fabric, but no less present for it. And the world whirled around them like a confused carousel, drowning them even deeper in those games and in that unrestrained desire to have each other.

Joe started searching for the keys again, but had to bite his tongue when Timothy’s finger ended up penetrating him completely, unexpectedly. Pleasure and pain together. “We can’t... TMZ will—” The keys slipped from his hands. Timothy stopped him from picking them up, wedging his leg between Joe’s. “Fuck TMZ!” the bassist panted, throwing all his weight forward to pin his prey. And as he moved, he lightly kicked the keys, which slid into the light of a bulb. Joe turned, drawn by the sound. His cheek pressed to the cold metal, one hand bracing him, eyes half-closed. But when he lifted his lids, he didn’t just see the glint of the keys on the ground, almost mocking them. He also saw the figure of {{user}}, frozen there watching them.

“Shit!” he snarled, wrenching himself free of the bassist’s grip, wincing from the abrupt withdrawal and then from his absence. Timothy turned, confused—at least until he saw what was happening too. Joe started getting dressed in a hurry, while Timothy couldn’t care less about decency, walking toward {{user}} like someone who had decided another person’s death. He stared at them, then picked the keys up off the ground with an excruciating slowness that promised a bitter, icy revenge.

Joe’s hand landed on his shoulder, shoving him back hard—which was ironic, since usually the roles were reversed. But fury burned in Timothy’s dark eyes, as if that emotional lack had changed course. At least for tonight. Just for tonight. “Calm down,” Joe ordered, but Timothy shoved him aside roughly and moved toward {{user}} with a threatening air.

The concert had gone like a dream. A delirium of fans in tears from emotion, bras and T-shirts flying onto the stage—and off it, considering that Quokka had ended up twerking shirtless at the end of the set. Compliments piling up, stolen glances, adrenaline blending with enthusiasm and satisfaction. And the hot, furious desire that clawed at every note, filling it with the frustration of waiting, of the forbidden, of the magnetism flowing between them like something so inevitable it hurt. Then the after-party. Too much alcohol—way too much alcohol. Quokka had decided to funnel them both. A terrible idea. Really terrible.

Inhibitions died. An excuse, they slipped away, the darkness of the night cloaking them like thieves. They had started kissing halfway there, hands sliding, hungry, under clothes. Rough palms against skin marked by misadventures. Hunger. That heat licking at the senses, that desire scarring everything, that line they had both sworn not to cross. But now the guardian of that threshold had drowned beneath tequila and other crap, and the probable presence of MD had made everything bitter. Bitter that was now being erased by kisses that tasted of blood from all the times they’d bitten their lips. Finally free—free from fear, free from torment, free from inner judgment.

Joe slammed his back against the Blackstreet truck. His red hoodie was all crooked now, the white T-shirt hanging out of ripped gray jeans, the hood only halfway up. Timothy was on him like a blanket, one hand at his neck and that black hoodie, open and too big, acting as a shield for both of them in the scuffle. No light to illuminate them as they consumed their secret in the dark. At Joe’s groan, Timothy tightened his grip, slightly denying him breath, while their tongues tangled in the fury of what had been denied for too long and in the laughter of those who were too drunk. Messy, like two teenagers living their first experiences. Joe’s hands, gripping the edges of Timothy’s hoodie, slid down toward the bassist’s belt with the frantic rhythm of someone who no longer wanted to hold back. Legs intertwined, weight pressed against the bus.

The Dr. Martens and the Vans scraped the asphalt with every movement, creating that faint gravelly undertone each time Joe’s knee pushed between Timmy’s legs and vice versa, desperately seeking friction in an waiting that felt like agony. Timothy finally moved his hand and Joe managed to unbuckle his belt, wasting no time unbuttoning his pants. They caught their breath. Eyes locked, ragged breathing, both their hair stuck to their foreheads and now tangled from contact. The taste of nicotine on their tongues, mixed with acid and alcohol. Joe lunged at Timothy’s neck, immediately picking up the rhythm again, slamming him with another thud against the van. Timothy jolted, then threw his head back when Joe’s cold hands slid under his hoodie. He shivered. “Inside,” Joe said, nodding toward the van. His voice was raspy from hours of singing and now from the emotion that was eating him alive.

Timothy’s fingers, meanwhile, anything but still, slipped into the guitarist’s pockets, in that tangle of limbs as he dug around looking for the keys. All useless. Joe yanked Timothy’s pants down. The jingle of the belt was almost a death knell—the death of the bassist’s sanity. He took back control, spreading Joe against the van again, which this time trembled slightly. He kissed him and then spun him around roughly, pinning him against the vehicle. Joe held his breath, caught off guard, letting out a groan as his front hit the metal. One hand braced him while the other searched the pockets in place of Timmy’s. “Why do they always disappear when—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Timothy had already slipped a finger into his underwear, sliding past the loosened fabric to make room in the crease of Joe’s ass, while the other hand kneaded one of his cheeks hard, inevitably tearing a moan from the guitarist.

“Fuck...” Joe went still for a couple of seconds, struck by that saliva-slick finger teasing his entrance, already starting to find its way toward what would come next. And Timothy stood there like a predator with his prey, pressing his whole body into Joe’s back, all the heat he was radiating. The bassist’s breath against Joe’s neck was muffled only by the hood’s fabric, but no less present for it. And the world whirled around them like a confused carousel, drowning them even deeper in those games and in that unrestrained desire to have each other.

Joe started searching for the keys again, but had to bite his tongue when Timothy’s finger ended up penetrating him completely, unexpectedly. Pleasure and pain together. “We can’t... TMZ will—” The keys slipped from his hands. Timothy stopped him from picking them up, wedging his leg between Joe’s. “Fuck TMZ!” the bassist panted, throwing all his weight forward to pin his prey. And as he moved, he lightly kicked the keys, which slid into the light of a bulb. Joe turned, drawn by the sound. His cheek pressed to the cold metal, one hand bracing him, eyes half-closed. But when he lifted his lids, he didn’t just see the glint of the keys on the ground, almost mocking them. He also saw the figure of {{user}}, frozen there watching them.

“Shit!” he snarled, wrenching himself free of the bassist’s grip, wincing from the abrupt withdrawal and then from his absence. Timothy turned, confused—at least until he saw what was happening too. "Shut up and go away." He orders, cold.

The concert had gone like a dream. A delirium of fans in tears from emotion, bras and T-shirts flying onto the stage—and off it, considering that Quokka had ended up twerking shirtless at the end of the set. Compliments piling up, stolen glances, adrenaline blending with enthusiasm and satisfaction. And the hot, furious desire that clawed at every note, filling it with the frustration of waiting, of the forbidden, of the magnetism flowing between them like something so inevitable it hurt. Then the after-party. Too much alcohol—way too much alcohol. Quokka had decided to funnel them both. A terrible idea. Really terrible.

Inhibitions died. An excuse, they slipped away, the darkness of the night cloaking them like thieves. They had started kissing halfway there, hands sliding, hungry, under clothes. Rough palms against skin marked by misadventures. Hunger. That heat licking at the senses, that desire scarring everything, that line they had both sworn not to cross. But now the guardian of that threshold had drowned beneath tequila and other crap, and the probable presence of MD had made everything bitter. Bitter that was now being erased by kisses that tasted of blood from all the times they’d bitten their lips. Finally free—free from fear, free from torment, free from inner judgment.

Joe slammed his back against the Blackstreet truck. His red hoodie was all crooked now, the white T-shirt hanging out of ripped gray jeans, the hood only halfway up. Timothy was on him like a blanket, one hand at his neck and that black hoodie, open and too big, acting as a shield for both of them in the scuffle. No light to illuminate them as they consumed their secret in the dark. At Joe’s groan, Timothy tightened his grip, slightly denying him breath, while their tongues tangled in the fury of what had been denied for too long and in the laughter of those who were too drunk. Messy, like two teenagers living their first experiences. Joe’s hands, gripping the edges of Timothy’s hoodie, slid down toward the bassist’s belt with the frantic rhythm of someone who no longer wanted to hold back. Legs intertwined, weight pressed against the bus.

The Dr. Martens and the Vans scraped the asphalt with every movement, creating that faint gravelly undertone each time Joe’s knee pushed between Timmy’s legs and vice versa, desperately seeking friction in an waiting that felt like agony. Timothy finally moved his hand and Joe managed to unbuckle his belt, wasting no time unbuttoning his pants. They caught their breath. Eyes locked, ragged breathing, both their hair stuck to their foreheads and now tangled from contact. The taste of nicotine on their tongues, mixed with acid and alcohol. Joe lunged at Timothy’s neck, immediately picking up the rhythm again, slamming him with another thud against the van. Timothy jolted, then threw his head back when Joe’s cold hands slid under his hoodie. He shivered. “Inside,” Joe said, nodding toward the van. His voice was raspy from hours of singing and now from the emotion that was eating him alive.

Timothy’s fingers, meanwhile, anything but still, slipped into the guitarist’s pockets, in that tangle of limbs as he dug around looking for the keys. All useless. Joe yanked Timothy’s pants down. The jingle of the belt was almost a death knell—the death of the bassist’s sanity. He took back control, spreading Joe against the van again, which this time trembled slightly. He kissed him and then spun him around roughly, pinning him against the vehicle. Joe held his breath, caught off guard, letting out a groan as his front hit the metal. One hand braced him while the other searched the pockets in place of Timmy’s. “Why do they always disappear when—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Timothy had already slipped a finger into his underwear, sliding past the loosened fabric to make room in the crease of Joe’s ass, while the other hand kneaded one of his cheeks hard, inevitably tearing a moan from the guitarist.

“Fuck...” Joe went still for a couple of seconds, struck by that saliva-slick finger teasing his entrance, already starting to find its way toward what would come next. And Timothy stood there like a predator with his prey, pressing his whole body into Joe’s back, all the heat he was radiating. The bassist’s breath against Joe’s neck was muffled only by the hood’s fabric, but no less present for it. And the world whirled around them like a confused carousel, drowning them even deeper in those games and in that unrestrained desire to have each other.

Joe started searching for the keys again, but had to bite his tongue when Timothy’s finger ended up penetrating him completely, unexpectedly. Pleasure and pain together. “We can’t... TMZ will—” The keys slipped from his hands. Timothy stopped him from picking them up, wedging his leg between Joe’s. “Fuck TMZ!” the bassist panted, throwing all his weight forward to pin his prey. And as he moved, he lightly kicked the keys, which slid into the light of a bulb.