Inspired
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah. (Sting does). I own the idea for this living situation, though.
(10pokes prompt #2 – chocolate; when we admit to what we want)
Squinting a little, Gulcasa pushed into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him, a brittle shiver running down his back as the frigid outside air dissipated into thick warmth. He shook his head a little, then unwound the itchy scarf Nessiah had forced him into and dumped it over the table with relief. His zipper pull had been poking into his chest for the last half hour, but he hadn't dared undo the scarf outside; it had been in the twenties out there and the wind chill had dropped that to subzero. He could deal with being stabbed by it for a while if it meant he got to keep the tip of his nose.
"That took a while," Roswell remarked. Gulcasa didn't pause while fighting his way out of his coat and boots, but just looked over to the source of the voice while doing so—the slender brunet was lounging against the countertop, watching steam wafting from a pot filled with just-finished hot cocoa. The stovetop was off, and he seemed to be waiting for it to cool a bit more before pouring it; three empty mugs lay just past his elbow.
Gulcasa shrugged one shoulder, shook his head, and stepped further into the kitchen, scowling. "I don't even know why the hell I bothered—looks like another storm's going to blow up over the night. Next time one of you gets to shovel the drive."
"We have food enough," Nessiah pointed out from the table—his feet were tucked into slippers and his hands wrapped around a half-full mug of cocoa, but he was still pale with cold. "I keep telling you, we should stay inside until it melts."
Gulcasa shrugged again—he knew Nessiah desperately hated cold weather, since he was easily chilled. As long as Roswell remained in the house, he seemed indifferent to it; Gulcasa himself didn't mind the winter usually—it was just when the wind bit like a wild thing when he tried to stay indoors.
"Roswell's almost done with the second batch—at least have some cocoa and warm up. Don't worry about the damn drive again until tomorrow," Nessiah said, and sipped at his own.
"There are a lot of other ways to warm up, too, if you don't want that," Roswell remarked, and poured the hot chocolate.
Nessiah's face flamed.
Gulcasa raised one eyebrow. "God, what has he got you thinking now?"
Roswell was smiling when he turned back around after laying the pot in the sink. "I'm sure I know what he's thinking," he said casually, drawing closer to Gulcasa. "I'm sure it starts a little like… oh, I don't know… this…"
And long, elegant fingers were brushing against Gulcasa's cheek, softly bringing his face down to Roswell's before the redhead could do more than think, What?
When their lips met, Gulcasa's thoughts tangled and blurred so that none of them made even that much sense.
Roswell's lips were plush and sensual, his mouth inviting and warm; he tasted of chocolate and of enticement. His slim firm body pressed hotly against Gulcasa's, matching line for line; his hands were quickly tangled in Gulcasa's long hair. His every motion spoke of sex—raw, luxurious hours of body against body in the near-dark where everything was torturous pleasure and blessed pain—and implied that he could be induced to surrender and it would be glorious once he had.
Gulcasa wanted to make him surrender. Hell, if Roswell meant even the slightest bit of what his body was saying, Gulcasa would have him flat on the floor with his hands cuffed above him in a split second. He surged forward, plunging recklessly past Roswell's softly parted lips, and as Gulcasa bent him backwards, Roswell let out a husky little moan that spiked the lure of the kiss still further.
But the next moment Roswell melted back and away, walking nonchalantly over to where Nessiah sat at the table with wide eyes, still tightly gripping his mug. Roswell smiled at him, tipped his chin up with a finger, and plundered his mouth as brashly and with as little abandon as he'd invited Gulcasa to plunder his own.
Nessiah closed his eyes and released the mug to grip the back of his chair and the edge of the table, arching off his seat to press himself against Roswell. The sight should have made Gulcasa jealous, but for some reason, watching Nessiah so readily surrender to Roswell—who was still disheveled from Gulcasa's own attentions—was brutally arousing.
Just as he had with Gulcasa, Roswell pulled back from the kiss after a moment, straightened up, and shot a look over his shoulder at the two of them, his blue eyes burning. "I'll be waiting upstairs," he all but purred, and strolled off.
Gulcasa just stood still, staring after him. He was only aware of two things—first, that Roswell had just blatantly asked both him and Nessiah to bed at once, and second, that he was as hard as he'd ever been.
"Bloody hell," he managed, shaken.
Nessiah just made a desperate, strangled sort of sound and stood so quickly he nearly overturned his chair, crossing the room to take Gulcasa by the wrist and pulling him in the direction of the second story.