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Between takes, the soundstage hums with quiet movement, the soft rhythm of crew voices, the metallic clatter of equipment, a distant call for lighting adjustments echoing off the rafters. Benito’s off to the side in his little plaid suit, jacket still buttoned, hair neat, makeup perfect under the overhead glare. A light dusting of fake blood stains the cuff of his sleeve, something the makeup artist missed between shots.
He scrolls lazily through Instagram, thumb flicking past stories… friends in San Juan, other artists’ tour clips, a meme or two. The faint audio from a concert video crackles through his phone speaker, too low to be heard over the hum of the set. His posture’s loose, shoulders slouched, that in-between calm of a man halfway out of his character but not yet himself again.
Then a voice cuts through, breaking the lull.
“So…”
Benito glances up, eyebrows raised just as Austin drops into the folding chair across from him, flipping it backward and straddling it like he owns the room. His shirt hangs loose, peeled up over one shoulder to protect the makeup along his ribs, where the fake wound glistens faintly under the studio lights. Layers of latex and sweat catch on the edge of a bandage taped across his back, the one marking where Hank, his character, is supposed to have lost a kidney.
His hair is a mess, slicked back for continuity but already falling in pieces over the bruising painted along his jaw. The sight’s a weird clash; movie gore and that easy, golden-boy grin. Benito can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out.
“So,” Austin repeats, resting his chin on his crossed arms over the plastic chair back. “What else can I learn to say in Spanish?”
Benito exhales through his nose, low and teasing, leaning back in his seat. “Otra vez, papi? You don’t stop, huh?”
Austin grins wider, the corners of his mouth lifting in that boyish way that makes him impossible to say no to.
“It’s my thing now! Every time we get downtime, you teach me something new. That’s the rule, I’ve decided. I gotta learn somehow.”
Benito finally pockets his phone, his fingers brushing against the edge of his jacket. He’s tired, his back aches from holding tension all morning, the light above them burns a little too bright—but the sight of Austin, all restless energy and smudged eyeliner, is somehow enough to make him want to comply.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting. “Alright, profesor Benito, hm? What you wanna learn this time?”
Austin’s face lights up like a kid with a secret. He pushes his hair out of his eyes with those big, clumsy hands.
“Something dirty, for sure. I’m ready.”
Benito laughs outright, shaking his head. “Dirty? Cabrón, you just learn how to say no me digas.”
“That’s why I need variety,” Austin shoots back, smirking. He kicks one foot out and lets the chair tilt slightly backward. “C’mon. How’d ya say… something like… ‘fuck you?’”
Benito drags his palm down his face, chuckling. “You serious?”
Austin nods, a smirk pulling wide across his face as he rasps: “well, yeah.”
Benito sighs, though there’s a grin threatening at the edge of his mouth. He chews the thought for a moment before nodding. “Alright, fine. Say vete pa’l carajo.”
Austin repeats it, exaggerating each syllable like he’s trying to charm a teacher. “Vuete… pal…
caraho. That right?”
Benito snorts, trying not to smile too hard at the interaction. “Close enough. You probably only insult yourself saying it like that, though.”
Austin laughs, brushing his hair back again, still grinning. “Okay, okay, I’ll get the next one better,” he settles into the chair, leaning closer like he’s in on something. A secret nobody else gets to know, just them two. “What else you got? Gimme somethin’ a little worse.”
Benito’s eyes flicker, mirroring Austin’s mischief now. He leans back, gaze sliding up toward the rigged lights above, thinking. “Another?” His grin widens, slow and deliberate. “Aight… try this one: estoy a punto de venir.”
Austin repeats it immediately, proud of the way it rolls off his tongue this time.
“Estoy a punto de venir.” He looks up, eyebrows raised. “What’s that mean?”
Benito lets out a low laugh, shaking his head and waving his finger in tandem. “No, no… you say that too good!”
Austin’s smile falters slightly, curiosity kicking in. He tilts his head. “Why? What? What does it mean?”
Benito doesn’t answer, he just keeps chuckling. And when he’s had his laugh, he stands, stretching his arms over his head, the sly smile still laid across his face. “Mmm… you gon’ have to find out, Elvis.”
Austin blinks, getting up too, following him a few steps. “Wait—what? Is it that bad?”
Benito waves him off as he walks away toward the set, still chuckling. “Depends on context!”
Austin stays there, squinting after him, mouth moving as he repeats the phrase under his breath. “Estoy a punto de venir.” The words roll too smoothly off his tongue, leaving him both amused and a little suspicious—with no idea what kind of mess he’s just walked into.
The lights blaze. A harsh overhead tungsten light catches sweat on Austin’s forehead despite his lack of clothing, the bandages taped across his back peeling slightly at the edges against the armchair. His hands are bound in front of him, he can feel the loose stands of hair slipping from where he had just brushed them back.
The camera tracks in, and the director calls action; Austin leans back in his seat, looking up to Benito who looms over him, already in character. Gone is the soft-spoken artist in costume; in his place stands something colder, harder, cloaked in plaid and lit by that quiet, simmering threat that the camera loves. The makeup freckles dust faintly across his nose, barely visible beneath the studio glare, a detail so subtle it almost doesn’t belong on the face of a man like this.
Hank is seated, cuffed by the wrists with duct tape, dazed in a chair, legs splayed slightly. Across from him is Colorado, sat in his sharp gangster-coat, plaid suit jacket unbuttoned just enough, a glint in his eye.
Colorado leans in, his fingers dancing on Hank’s bare thigh. The second camera pulls in from over Benito’s shoulder, then Colorado grips Hank by the knees, fingers digging in, slowly forcing Hank’s legs wider. Austin’s eyes flick up, he’s almost startled for real, but Benito doesn’t break. He just stares, solid and virtually unreadable. The sound of latex bandages and the faint rustle of cloth echo in the quiet between dialogue. Hank’s breath comes in small bursts, expression dull in shock; strands of hair fall into his eyes as he looks away from Colorado’s hard gaze.
From behind the cameras and lights, the director murmurs, “Good… good, hold it…”
Colorado leans back, eyes never leaving Hank as he picks up the gun from the table beside him. He sits forward, cocking the gun. It’s heavy in his palm as he turns it over. The camera cuts to a close-up: the barrel reflects the studio lights, Hank’s bruised face mirrored faintly in the chrome.
Dialogue passes, Austin delivers his lines authentically, Benito matching him beat for beat… but somewhere between the words, the scene stops feeling like a scene. There’s a flicker of something real behind Benito’s eyes as he speaks, a glint that doesn’t belong to Colorado. Austin’s chest rises, his reply to the previous line coming rough, half-growled from the back of his throat—the scene taking him with it.
“Either I get what I want… or my pistol talk for me,” he says, the accent heavier, the words landing sharp and unpracticed. Benito croaks the line out as the camera cuts back to him. Austin can’t help but shrink away, as if the man were really holding a loaded gun towards his hardly covered groin.
When the director calls cut, it lingers. That electricity, that quiet awareness. Neither of them shift out of the scene for a long moment, just maintaining solid, still eye contact. The fake gun in Benito’s hand glints light across Austin’s eyes, breath caught in his throat as his eyes flick down to his trigger finger.
Austin finally exhales and slowly settles forward, still half in character, hands chained together as he moves in his seat. The director’s still saying something to the DP, but it’s all white noise now with the lights cooling, crew shuffling, the hum of the set returning to life.
“Damn,” Austin says softly, a little breathless. “You make it hard to fake it, man.”
Benito finally lets a smile come to him and laughs under his breath, sitting back and dropping the prop gun to the table.
“Is that not the idea? You s’posed to believe it.”
Austin grins, wiping sweat from his face with his joined wrists, the purple makeup smearing faintly.
“Guess that’s why you keep teaching me shit I don’t understand,” he teases, voice light again, easing the tension.
Benito smirks, folding his arms as he watches Austin bite the bondage off his arms, that same lazy confidence returning.
“Ey, no, you still say it too good. You gon’ get in trouble with that one.”
Austin groans, rolling his eyes, wrapping still in his teeth before he breaks his hands apart. “And You’re never gonna tell me what it means, huh?”
Benito shakes his head, already getting up from where he’s seated to leave set.
“Nah. You figure it out. Maybe then you stop asking me for dirty words.”
“Never,” Austin calls after him.
Benito laughs, genuine. It’s that low, genuine sound that doesn’t belong to his character at all, then slipping out of frame, leaving Austin in the hum of the set lights.
Austin lingers for a second, still catching his breath, then runs a hand over his face. He glances down — he’s still half-dressed, underwear and open shirt hanging crooked, bruises painted up his torso. The adrenaline feels too fresh to sit with, so he stands and starts pulling his clothes back on: the jeans, the belt, the wrinkled undershirt that still smells faintly of stage blood.
The soundstage feels emptier now, just the distant murmur of the crew resetting for the next day. By the time he’s tugged his clothes all back on and is sprinting down the hall, Benito’s nearly out of sight, his plaid suit pants catching the last edge of light as he turns the corner.
Austin runs a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat as he tugs his costume’s baseball cap onto his head and calls out.
“Hey! Benito!”
Benito slows, looks over his shoulder around the corner with a half-smile, stepping back. He’s just in the suit pants and the patterned black shirt now, his script rolled in his hand. “What up?”
Austin jogs to catch up, falling into step beside him, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You heading out?”
“Sí,” Benito says easily, clasping the roll of papers. “Dressing room for wardrobe, then back to the hotel. Long week.”
Austin nods, grinning that same boyish grin that got him into trouble earlier.
“You wanna come by my dressing room first? We got a bottle of champagne somebody left for me. We can run a couple lines…or you can, you know…” he tilts his head, debating what he actually wants to ask of him before deciding to continue with his teasing. “Tell me what I been sayin’ all day before I embarrass myself on TV.”
Benito laughs, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. He’s runs a hand through his auburn beard as they walk side by side.
“Shots and homework, huh?”
“Exactly,” Austin says, flashing teeth. “C’mon. You owe me a translation.”
Benito hesitates for a second, then nods once, slow, like he’s giving in to a game he already knows he’ll lose.
“Aight, Elvis,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Dale, tú primero.”
Austin smirks at the nickname, then gestures the bill of his hat toward the end of the hallway, brushing shoulders with him as he steps past him. The noise of the set fades behind them, replaced by a dull electronic hum and the sound of their sneakers on the concrete. Somewhere between the echo and the silence, something small but unmistakable hangs between them—a flicker that feels like it might not go away just because the cameras have stopped rolling.
The door shuts behind them inside Austin’s dressing room as he clicks the light on. Benito sets the script in his hand down on the vanity and leans against it, the generic dressing room all suddenly feeling too small. He tugs the collar of his shirt, relaxes his tense shoulders.
The fluorescents buzz overhead, catching on the line of sweat still drying along Austin’s neck. He crosses to the counter where the champagne waits, prying the cork loose with a twist of his wrist. The sound is sharp, a little explosive, and Benito flinches out half a startled noise and a curse from where he’s leaned with his hands pressed into the hard wood edge.
“Relax,” Austin teases with a chuckle, juggling the open bottle and two plastic cups as he turns back to Benito. “You act like I pulled a gun on you.”
Benito’s mouth twitches, laughing at himself as well. “I’m who had the gun in the scene, cabrón.”
Austin grins, lazy. “Yeah, and you still flinched, gunman.”
“Maybe… maybe I just don’t trust you with alcohol,” Benito admits with a playful shrug, watching Austin fill both of the red solo cups to the brim balanced between his hand and his chest.
Austin snorts, he does pour heavy—half the bottle gone between two sad plastic cups as he sets it down. But he looks up, only grinning.
“What? You look like you could use it.”
Benito takes the cup, eyes flicking down to the bubbling rim. “You tryna get me drunk?”
“Tryin’ to be polite,” Austin says, stepping in closer than enough to hand it over. His wrist brushes Benito’s as he does, slow, lazy, entirely like he meant to. “It’s called hospitality.”
Benito hums, the sound deep in his chest, almost like he’s laughing but not quite. “That what this is?”
Austin shrugs, but he doesn’t step back. He’s right up against him now, the counter pressing into Benito’s hips behind him, the smell of champagne and sweat and stage makeup, old latex and corn syrup blood hanging between them.
For a second, neither says anything. The air hums. The lights buzz in the hollow of the room. Austin’s hand lingers on the counter beside him, his knuckles grazing the fabric of Benito’s sleeve. He stands so close he can practically feel his body heat.
Benito finally looks up at him, chin tilted slightly, eyes soft but steady.
“You don’t play fair, huh?”
Austin smiles easy. “Didn’t think we were playin’.”
Benito’s laugh comes quiet, breath warm through his nose. He takes a long drink from the cup, the edge of it catching on his beard.
He lowers the cup to the table, thumb rubbing absently over the wet ring it’s left against his palm. Austin’s still there, close enough that Benito can feel the heat coming off him, that faint mix of cologne and set sweat that clings long after the lights go down.
Benito’s thumb keeps tracing that ring of condensation until he rubs it away, eyes still on Austin.
“You always stand this close to your costars?”
Austin’s mouth crooks. “Only the ones who make it worth it.”
Benito’s smile flickers. “That right?”
“Yeah.” Austin leans in a little, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret. “Guess I’m still waitin’ to see if you do.”
Benito lets out a low hum, somewhere between a laugh and a warning. “Careful with that.”
“Why? You don’t like the competition?”
“‘Cause,” Benito says, tipping his head, the corner of his mouth curving, “you don’t even know what you sayin’ half the time.”
Austin grins, adjusting his grip on the cup in his hand as he settles closer. “You mean my Spanish?”
Benito nods once. “That… and everything else.”
Austin’s eyes narrow in mock offence.
“I been practicin’. Estoy a punto de venir—see? Told you I’d remember it.”
That does it, the drawl in the way he says it, it sets him off. Benito’s laugh comes quick, a burst through his nose, but it dies halfway, already rising into something more.
“You really gonna say that to me right now?”
Austin feigns innocence, but if he has to embarrass and tease the answer out, then he will.
“What? You told me to learn it.”
Benito shakes his head, the grin turning slower, more deliberate. “You say it too easy.”
Austin shrugs, holding his ground. “Maybe you just teach too well.”
Benito’s gaze lingers, heavy now, and when he speaks his voice is soft, almost a whisper.
“You even know what it means?”
Austin’s pulse ticks under his jaw, picking up on the sudden shift.
“Guess I’m still waitin’ on my teacher.”
Benito’s eyes flick down at Austin’s lips, then back up, slow. Austin pulls a breath in as he notices, the air between them suddenly tight. Benito leans in without a word, close enough that Austin can feel the heat off his face, and then presses his lips to Austin’s. The baseball cap flips off his head and lands to the ground behind them, bill-first hitting the floor.
It’s immediate, urgent—sharp and claiming. Austin gasps, a low sound caught in his throat, and instinctively tilts his head, lips parting to meet Benito’s. Hands clutch at shoulders, shirt scrunching under fingers as Benito deepens the kiss, teeth grazing, tongue brushing just enough to make Austin shiver.
Austin breaks away for just a breath, lips swollen, chest rising fast, liquid sloshing in his cup as he sets it aside roughly to the vanity. “Whoa—wait, what—”
But Benito just holds him there, lips still against his. He smirks into his mouth, nose brushing his, eyes dark with a certain kind of mischief. He doesn’t let him finish, nor does he answer, just dips forward again, teeth nipping at the curve of Austin’s bottom lip before sliding in, hot, claiming, impossible to ignore.
Austin’s hands tangle quick in Benito’s hair, pulling him closer, the plastic cups already forgotten, the fizz of champagne and sweat thick in the air. He moans low, breathless, and Benito hums, teasing, pressing him back just a little against the counter.
When they finally part for air, Austin’s forehead rests against Benito’s, breaths ragged.
“Is that… that’s what that phrase means?” he rasps.
Benito grins, suddenly getting an idea, eyes coming to be dark and knowing.
“Nah… but you getting warmer...”
Austin swallows, pulse hammering. Benito’s lips stay back just enough to give him room, but the smirk lingering there promises he’s not done. He tilts his head and brushes his thumb along Austin’s jaw, tracing the line of his sweat-slicked skin.
“Getting warmer, huh?” Austin croaks, breathing rapid, knuckles clutched at Benito’s shirt like he’s trying to tether himself somewhere, anywhere.
Benito hums low, “much warmer,” he repeats, and this time he doesn’t stop at teasing. His hands slip down Austin’s sides, pressing him back as he guides him toward the couch in the corner of the dressing room.
Austin stumbles willingly, barely noticing the hard floor beneath his feet, as Benito’s hands keep him moving, pulling him closer and pushing him back until he’s pressed against the soft cushions with Benito crouched over him. Benito’s knee nudges between his thighs, a small, deliberate press, and Austin gasps.
Benito’s lips use the open opportunity to find his again, rough and insistent, tongue brushing, teasing, tasting the champagne in his mouth. Austin groans into the kiss, finding his body leaning into him, hands tangling in his hair again, tugging him impossibly closer. The plastic cups of champagne sit forgotten on the counter, the fizz in the air mixing with the heat rolling off the both of them.
“Say it again,” Benito murmurs against his mouth, fists knotted in his shirt, voice low, dangerous. “Say it for me.”
Austin swallows hard, pulse thrumming, heat crawling over his skin.
“Estoy a punto… de… venir,” he rasps, hardly able to concentrate on the second language coming from his tongue, voice shaky with want.
Benito’s grin presses against his lips, teeth grazing lightly, grinding his thigh between Austin’s.
“Mm… así, like that,” he whispers, dipping his head to trail kisses down Austin’s neck, leaving little burns of heat in his wake.
Austin grinds back against him, breathless, hands fisting in Benito’s shirt, tugging his chest against his.
“Benny… fuck…” he moans, words almost lost in the haze of heat between them.
Benito pauses just long enough to look at him, watch him as he pulls him down with him to the cushions, dark eyes gleaming, lips twitching with that teasing danger.
“Still no idea what it means?”
Austin shakes his head, chest rising and falling, and cranes his neck down for another claim, and Benito’s laughter rumbles low in his chest as he lays under him on the couch, both of them tangled, hot, and utterly reckless in the small dressing room.
It starts with Austin’s shirt over his head, then Benito’s pushed up over his chest as Austin’s mouth works hot over his neck. Then it’s the belt buckle of Benito’s dress pants, the button, the cotton shoved down past his knees.
Austin sits back to unbuckle his jeans, Benito’s hands on his chest. The snap of Calvin Klein waist bands, the thwump of heavy fabric on the carpet. It ends with the costars shed of their clothes, entangled in each other’s nearly bared bodies against the peeling leather of an old couch.
Austin’s hands trace the lines of Benito’s shoulders, down his arms, feeling the tension in the muscles, the warmth of the skin under his fingertips. Every brush, every subtle squeeze, every brush of nails ignites sparks that make him gasp, head tipping back, lips parted. Austin kisses his way down Benito’s toned, tattooed chest. Down his abdomen, past the lettering inked into his lower belly as he guides his leg up with his grip under his knee. He lays his socked calf over his shoulder, Benito biting the skin on his hand as his fingers thread through Austin’s blonde hair.
His lips kiss at his inner thigh, ghost their way down, until he’s parting Benito’s cheeks with his thumbs, pressing his tongue flat to his hole. Benito’s knees shake under the pressure, the stroke of his mouth against him. He groans sharply, the sound low and rattling, nails digging into Austin’s scalp. His hips tilt slightly with each deliberate, teasing motion; the warmth of Austin’s mouth, the slick heat pressing against him, it sends shivers racing up his spine.
Austin hums against him, the vibration teasing, coaxing, pulling groans from deep in Benito’s chest. One hand roams upward, gripping the line of Benito’s hip, tracing the tension of his body, feeling it coil and release beneath his fingers with every twitch and shudder.
Benito’s breath catches, ragged, as Austin shifts slightly, lips and tongue moving against him with a slow, relentless rhythm, hand cupping under his ass against the couch. The small room seems to shrink around them, lights humming overhead, sweat-slicked bodies pressed between one another, heat thick and almost tangible.
“Puñeta la madre…” Benito hisses, voice rough, low, breathless. “Oh Dios… fuck, fuck…” His words are half-command, half-plea, lost to the fire rolling through him.
Austin lifts his head just enough to glance at him, replacing his tongue with his thumb eyes glinting heavy with want, lips glistening, cheeks flushed. He watches Benito cover his hung mouth behind his hand, watches his eyes screw shut before his head falls back.
“You like that?” he asks, voice barely audible, teasing.
Benito can only groan again, head tipping back, nails dragging lightly across Austin’s shoulders, every nerve alight as Austin presses his thumb in and out of him only lightly, every muscle straining with the tension and the delicious torment of it. “Sí, así… oh fuck… don’t stop… please,” he gasps, voice breaking.
Austin smiles, bringing his tongue back into work with his thumb soothing him open, pressing closer, savoring, urging, driving Benito to the edge with a precise care. Heat, sweat, and need mingle between them. Benito’s hips roll slightly on instinct, chasing the friction, but Austin keeps the rhythm slow, measured. Each flick, each thrust of the digit, each teasing trace of tongue, pulls low, guttural groans from Benito’s chest. They reverberate between them through the air, heat building with every little motion.
Austin hums against him, the vibration soft, grounding, coaxing, pulling every moan and shudder from deep within Benito. He alternates between licking him and fingering him, circular motions with his thumb swallowed inside the ring of muscle, the responsive heat, the subtle tensing and release, guiding him, preparing him with every motion. The anticipation thickens between them, a charged rhythm, every touch and flicking trace of tongue designed to heighten, awaken, and ready him, leaving Benito gasping, trembling, on the edge without letting him fall over it.
He watches the subtle shake in Benito’s thighs, the way every muscle quivers under his careful ministrations, and feels a thrum of satisfaction in the way he sighs for him. He hums low, lips brushing the sensitive skin with a kiss one last time before pulling away to climb over him. Benito’s thigh braces his chest as he tucks a hand at the crook of his knee, holding him steady in position.
He spits in his palm, then slicking himself lightly, pumping his length in his fist. The entire time his eyes don’t leave Benito’s, his breathing heavy on Austin’s lips as he leans over him. The heat between them is thick, the air humming with anticipation as Austin positions himself overtop, pressing against him, hips hovering. He tips his head down, mouth brushing Benito’s, their breath mingling under each other’s noses.
His arms wrap Austin’s shoulders as he presses forward, nails digging into his back at the very first stretch. Austin studies every subtle shift, every gasp, every curl of his fingers, drag of his nails, the way he flutters around him, the way his face contorts, his lips hang open, his brow furrows. He drinks up the long, shuddering sigh that pushes out of Benito’s throat…
Benito pulls him in, goes for his lips, tugs him closer, begs without speaking. Austin grins faintly against his kiss, teasingly, feeling the tension coil tight, his own need sharpening as his hip bones slowly come to meet the curve of Benito’s ass, savoring the moment—the scent, the slick heat, the soft tremor of Benito beneath him, around him.
He stills, making sure he feels every inch of him, every pulse of anticipation from his cock against his insides. Austin slips his hand between them, between Benito’s thighs thumbing the sticky precum from his tip, rubbing the slick into flesh. In response, he groans into Austin’s mouth, cock pulsing against the friction—and it doesn’t stop as he begins to fuck him slowly.
He rocks into the slow, perfect tremor of Benito’s thighs, hips flexing with each pulse. He savors the shudder that runs through Benito’s shoulders as he begins to stroke his length in tandem with every thrust. Every inch of Austin pressing in and out until it becomes a rhythm; slick yet taut, urging the exquisite, rolling tension to unravel beneath him.
Benito trembles, gripping Austin tight. He drags him closer as his vocalized breath repeats in a heavy, ecstatic chorus. Each moan and breathy huff is like a confirmation of surrender and pleasure that echoes through his teeth, against his lips. Austin squeezes the underneath of Benito’s thigh in his hand, nibbling his lower lip as he pulls away. The air between them hums with heat as he searches the other’s expression closely, breathing ragged as their bodies tremble together.
Austin leans over to press his mouth against Benito’s ear, teeth grazing the lobe, tongue grazing flesh so softly before trailing down his neck. He leaves open-mouthed kisses and drags his teeth at the crook of his neck. Benito shivers violently at the sensation, hips arching hard against him, a guttural moan slipping out before he could even try to hold it back.
“Dios… no pares… fuck…” Benito huffs, voice breaking, throat tight with need. Austin’s hand slides down to guide his legs open where they’re pushed up, pressing him back into the couch. He fucks into him with a rhythm between them that grows faster, rougher, and more desperate with every movement, his hand still pumping Benito’s aching length. Benito’s knees tremble, trying to close, but Austin’s weight between them pins him there; his hands find Austin’s hips, clutching, urging him closer, harder.
Austin leans forward, hair falling into his face and brushing against Benito’s skin, their breathing tangling, heat pouring off them in waves. Then Benito gasps sharply, a moan so sharp it cuts through the thick rhythm of their breathing, and with a ragged laugh, voice trembling, he breaks into a melted moan against Austin’s neck: “estoy a punto de venir…”
The words hit Austin like fire.
He jerks back, his eyes locking hard on Benito’s, drinking in every flicker of movement. The trembling of his lashes, the shiver of his lower lip, the way his fingers seize and dig into Austin’s back… until Benito’s body arches, then releases around him completely, all breath and heat and trembling sound. His head rolls back against the couch, his hand coming to cover the loud, aching sound that rips out of his throat as he spills into Austin’s hand, all over his own inked torso.
And through it, Austin sees something flash deep in Benito’s eyes. From the moment he speaks the words, until they screw shut and his head falls back. That same spark of mischief that started this whole thing, made molten with his release. Now, in the heat of this moment, Austin finally feels it before he understands it. The words click into meaning through the way Benito’s voice breaks around them.
A slow, startled grin tugs at the corner of Austin’s mouth even as his body moves on instinct, chasing the last tremors of Benito’s instead of his own orgasm. Their rhythm falters, softens, then collapses into stillness. Benito’s face, flushed and glistening behind his hands; he peeks up at the dumbfounded look on Austin’s face and his laugh comes out ragged, breathless, edged with satisfaction and exhaustion alike.
Austin lets out a shaky breath of his own, fists pressed into the couch, a laugh spilling somewhere between disbelief and wonder.
“So that’s what it means…” he mutters, still a little breathless, eyes half-lidded.
Benito laughs quietly, the sound rough and satisfied.
“Took you long enough,” he says, words muffled against his fingers. The grin underneath is slow, lazy, very much proud with himself.
Austin huffs out a laugh that sounds halfway between a groan and a sigh, shaking his head. “You could’ve just told me.”
“No fun in that,” Benito shoots back, voice still soft with the edge of laughter. “If I just tell you, no vas a aprender, mi amor.”
Austin blinks at him, still dazed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “…What’s that mean?”
Benito’s grin widens, eyes glinting. He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Means… hm…” he starts, drawing the word out, then just shrugs, lips quirking. “… you ask what something means before you repeat it.”
Austin cracks a grin. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, amused. “Noted.”