MacDonald Hall, Mutually Beneficial Metrics

Title: Mutually Beneficial Metrics [Bruno/Boots]
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: Boots’ classes and Bruno’s school are both cancelled. Seems like it’ll work out for everyone.
AN: Written for shiritori. Because I’ve had two and a half snow days and I could have done all sorts of homework and laundry and instead, nope. I’m rusty, but I seem to remember that one of these two is Canadian and one is American, or maybe that’s fanon, and also I can’t remember who was which. In other unnecessary headcanon facts, I’ve decided that I hope at least Bruno went to Samwell.

Mutually Beneficial Metrics

If the ringing of the phone hadn’t woken Boots up, Bruno clamoring over him to pounce on it would have, and then lying sprawled half over him while he listened, holding his breath. A second later Bruno let out a whoop of glee.

“No school?” Boots asked, even though he already knew the answer. Plus his own university classes had been called off the night before as the beginnings of the snowstorm were rolling in. Bruno’s school district never did anything so sensible as call off early, except for that one time the superintendent had slipped going down his own driveway the night before.

“Mmhmm.” Bruno sat up enough that Boots could draw a full breath again, yanking the curtain back to peer out the window. Boots hunched further under the blankets with a grumble from the tickle of cold air, but Bruno pressed his face flat to the window, squashing his nose flat against the glass. “It’s really coming down.” He made a satisfied noise as if the snow were all part of his plan.

“Don’t look so gleeful,” Boots yawned, hitching up the blanket to hide his smile. Bruno like this was dangerously cute, bare-chested and hair sticking up all over, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You’re worse than your students.”

It was a lie, because Bruno’s students were kindergartners and loved going to school. They loved Bruno, too, because he colored with them and played the guitar and taught them imagination games that ended up with him on the carpet with them, sweater rumpled. Last week he’d taught them a game called Revolution, staged a walk-out to the playground, and been called into the principal’s office. The local paper had had a picture of them, twenty-five kindergartners in their matching school uniforms, tiny sweaters and plaid skirts, holding up crayoned signs that read things like “COOKYS ARE GRATE” and “WHALS SING.” Boots had taped it to the refrigerator and sent copies to both their mothers.

“Also, you’re losing half your spring break now,” Boots reminded, trying to drag his mind back to the present. Not that present Bruno was any less dangerous or cute than playground activism Bruno.

“I don’t care!” Bruno proclaimed, throwing himself down dramatically next to Boots. “I have two more personal days to burn this year anyway or I’m gonna lose them. Let’s fly to Paris.”

“Pretend I made a clever baguette joke, and will you get back under here?” Boots shook the blankets enticingly, like he was trying to coax the cat out. “I’m freezing just looking at you.”

“Fine, fine.” Bruno wriggled under the blankets, feet and nose freezing when he pressed them against Boots. Boots whined piteously. “So what should we do with our snow day?”

“Sleep? My homework?” Boots asked hopefully. Bruno chuckled like Boots was adorable, pulling Boots into a proper spoon, nose pressed into the curve of Boots’ neck. “C’mon, Bruno, it’s five in the morning!”

“You don’t care about that,” Bruno said with confidence, palming the side of Boots’ face to turn him back for a kiss. It was lazy and mis-matched, but they hadn’t been asleep long enough for morning breath since they hadn’t exactly been responsible the night before in the face of an almost-certain snow day. Bruno’s hand trailed down Boots’ chest, tugging at his nipples, tracing the curve of his ribs. Boots was half-hard by the time Bruno’s hand got there, and Bruno had no trouble getting him the rest of the way there with smooth strokes, slow enough that Boots could feel the drag of his guitar calluses. Bruno was hard enough for Boots to feel him rocking gently against the back of his thigh in rhythm with his hand.

Boots whined when Bruno broke the kiss to push him onto his back, whined harder when Bruno sat up and knocked the blankets off. His hand was still on Boots’ dick, jerking him over base-to-tip while he looked Boots over with open affection.

“Tell me what you want,” Bruno said.

“Blankets,” Boots said, then had to turn his head away and stare at the wall before he added, “You can, if you want.” Boots felt himself flush even saying that much, because he was still terrible about asking for what he wanted, but Bruno usually worked it out.

“Can I?” Bruno asked. His hand left Boots’ dick to trail down between his thighs, featherlight.

Boots colored even darker. “It’s only fair.” Because they usually did it the other way, like they had last night, Bruno spread open and easy for him, flushed the whole way past his shoulders, rutting hips up like he could never get Boots deep enough, never get enough of any part of Boots.

“It’s not a business merger, it doesn’t have to fair,” Bruno said. He dropped to his elbows to kiss Boots’ stomach, open-mouthed. “Not that I’m opposed…”

“Please,” Boots muttered. The times when he wanted it for himself were far enough in between that they should take advantage of it. Plus they had the time in the world at the moment.

And Bruno took such good care of Boots too, when he put his mind to it, which was borderline ridiculous because when it was Boots’ fingers, Bruno was nothing but impatience and unreasonable demands. But this way, Bruno was all gentle touches and low voice, coaxing Boots to let him in one finger at a time, centimeter by centimeter.

They’d agreed mutually on using the metric system for sex, since it made everything sound more impressive than with inches. Boots thought about the metric system, staring at the ceiling over their bed instead of Bruno carefully fingering him open, because otherwise he was going to come all over himself.

“This way?” Bruno asked when he was done tormenting Boots’ sanity, at least for the moment. He touched his lube sticky hand to Boots’ hip to draw his attention back down from the ceiling. “Hm? Or what?”

“Come here,” Boots decided, sitting up. He pushed Bruno back against the headboard and climbed into his lap, put Bruno’s hands on his hips. Bruno’s finger dug in, tightly pleasant as Boots sank down onto him, gripping the headboard and taking deep, measured breaths against the sting of it.

“Jesus fuck,” Bruno breathed, like some sort of twisted prayer. Boots dropped the last two inches—the last five centimeters—with a choked hiss, and Bruno’s eyes turned round and adoring. “Melvin.”

“Bruno,” Boots agreed. He felt steady enough to let go of the headboard and put his hands on Bruno’s shoulders instead. He tugged at the bottom edges of Bruno’s hair, getting long enough that they were curling a bit. “Help out.”

“Uh-huh,” Bruno agreed, sliding his grip further back, just under the curve of Boots’ ass. With Bruno holding him steady, Boots only had to focus on up and down, on how deep he could take Bruno without his knees sliding out from under him. When they got it just right, Bruno could lift his hips into it, the slap of their skin square together only slightly louder than Boots’ breath. “Mm. I love that noise.”

“What?” Boots asked, distracted. No surprise that Bruno was a sex talker.

“It’s like my thighs are high-fiving your ass.” Boots opened his eyes to glare down at Bruno, which was not effective, and then squeezed tight around Bruno’s dick, which was.

“Focus,” Boots ordered. He tugged harder on Bruno’s hair, and Bruno moaned shamelessly before wrapping arms tight around Boots’ waist and squeezing them tightly together enough that it took most of the weight off Boots’ shaking thighs. “Hm, better.”

It was harder to wedge his hand in between their stomachs to bring himself off when it eventually got to that point, but Boots wasn’t in the shape to care about that, or much of anything, by then. And it was nice that he could slump all his weight against Bruno after he came.

“You’re amazing,” Bruno told him, and when Boots peeled open his eyes, Bruno was looking up at him with rapt adoration, chin against Boots’ stomach. “Melvin O’Neal, I might just love you.”

“Shut it, you.” Boots scratched his fingers along Bruno’s scalp, smiling at the way it made his eyes flutter. “More than snow days?”

Bruno gasped, horrified. “Don’t make me choose! As a teacher, that’s grounds for calling my union rep.”

Boots eventually got up to shuffle to the shower, and Bruno went to make coffee and fight with the waffle maker. Eventually they ended up gravitating back into bed anyway, Bruno restlessly clicking through episodes of The Great British Bake-Off while Boots worried at his homework and batted Bruno’s syrup-sticky fingers away from his laptop keys.

“Seriously, Walton, I know where those fingers have been,” Boots warned, giving him a side-glare.

Bruno’s eyes were still on the television, but the grin that spread across his face was the kind of grin that used to get Boots nearly kicked out of boarding school half a dozen times a year. “You do, do you? Yeah, I do too.”