Page 16 of Game Misconduct

fuck you, he wrote, before his head thumped against the pillow. He felt hot and prickly, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t want to give Garcia the satisfaction of being able to get to him like this, but god, he wanted...

Rather fuck you, actually, Garcia wrote back, and Mike actually groaned, alone in his room.

god i fucking hate you

Yeah you do, but you’re still so fucking easy for me, huh? what does that say about you?

Before Mike could think of a reply, he got another snap. Garcia’s knees raised a little, his hand under the fabric now. Mike stared at it, stared at the way the muscles in his thighs flexed. Something in his brain short-circuited. It was one thing to do this hurried and quick where anyone could have walked in on them. The first time it had happened he’d almost been too surprised to enjoy it. And the second time was in the dark, and he was fucked up from the game, and he’d only looked at Garcia’s face, murdering him a million times in his head while he took Garcia apart with his tongue. Both times he’d only been able to see a glimpse of skin.

This was the first time he’d been able to actually look at Garcia’s nearly naked body, the first time he’d been able to imagine all of the things he’d do to it if he had the space, the time. All he could think about was straddling one of Garcia’s thighs and just rutting into it, like a teenager.

He needed to touch himself—it was, like, kind of a situation—but he couldn’t. His breath sounded harsh in his own ears, his skin prickling with awareness of his own near nakedness. He’d jerked off thinking about Garcia before, but this was different. This was...this was like he was alone, but Garcia was almost there in the room with him.

Time ticked by and Mike wanted. He wanted, he wanted.

Like watching someone else’s fingers moving, Mike swiped the button to start a video call through the app, his stomach somewhere up in the area where his throat should normally be. He didn’t know if Garcia would answer.

Mike was kidding himself, because he did, like, immediately.

He looked into Garcia’s eyes, dark and hooded and lazy, exactly like he’d just been jerking himself off for the last few minutes. Or longer, because Mike didn’t even know what he’d been doing before they started this. A thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his neck. If Mike was there, he could like. Lick his throat and taste it. Press his fingers in until Garcia gasped against them. Mike had no idea what he looked like, but it felt like he’d completely lost his mind. So however he looked, it probably wasn’t anywhere near as in control as he needed to be.

“Hi,” he said stupidly.

“Hey,” Garcia said, like he hadn’t started this whole thing by sending Mike what was basically a dick pic, even if he’d covered it, barely. He had a stupid sexy voice, huskier with arousal, and Mike thought furiously that if he could shove his cock right in there and punish him for that casual “hey” he absolutely would. He would amillion fucking times.

“I—” he choked. He couldn’t finish the sentence. He was so turned on and so mad about it he could barely think of a word. Let alone multiple words. Let alone in a coherent order.

Garcia was still holding the phone so Mike could only see his face and the spread of his shoulders. He was propped up against the pillows on his bed, a gray blanket and pillowcases. He licked his lips and Mike’s eyes followed his tongue. “You can ask for what you want, you know.”

“I...”

“What do you want, Mike?” Garcia’s voice was dangerously even, and the use of his name like that wasn’t fucking fair. “I’m not going to give you anything unless you tell me.”

He could hang up. He could hang up, and he could jerk off alone like he’d been doing since the game against the Hornets, and Garcia could go fuck himself. Well, Garcia was already fucking himself, that was the fucking problem. Mike couldn’t hang up. He needed...he didn’t know what he needed, but it was burning him up from the inside.

Whatdidhe want?

“I... Jesus fucking Christ, I hate you.”

“I know you do, babe, but if you want something, you gotta tell me.”

The words were mocking, but Garcia wasn’t smiling. His eyes were dark and intent. Mike hadn’t touched himself since the whole thing had started, and when Garcia saidbabehis dick gave a little jump in his boxers, straining against the fabric, a wet patch forming. He didn’t know how it was possible that Garcia could do this to him, when they weren’t even in the same city, when they weren’t even touching. Just his voice and his eyes and his mouth. They hadn’t even said that much, and Mike felt almost nauseous, he wanted so much.

He didn’t know how the fuck Garcia did this to him.

“God...fuck. I need—I want—” His voice cracked, but he was too frustrated, too focused, to even be embarrassed about it. All of the things he wanted couldn’t be done. Not right now, maybe not ever. “I want to fuck you, god, I need to fucking like—I wanna see you come, Ineed—”

“Shit, you’re hot when you’re desperate,” Garcia muttered. He bit his lip again, like he hadn’t meant to say that, and there was a rustling as his body shifted. Mike stared at the ripple of muscle in his shoulders.

Then Garcia moved the hand holding the phone and propped it up against a pillow so Mike could see he’d shoved his boxers down just far enough to expose himself, hard and straining, in his other hand. Fuck, he had a nice dick, long and thick, and Mike could have wept thinking about all of the things he wanted to do to Garcia. To have Garcia do to him. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought he could handle this, but he couldn’t. He was out of his depth; he was going to die. He could feel it, hot and furious.

“What do you want?” Garcia asked him again, and a noise like a whine escaped Mike’s mouth.

“Move your fuckinghand,” he managed. He sounded like he was choking.

“Yeah,” Garcia said on the exhale, and his hand slid up and down. Mike strained to hear every sound, every hitch in his breath. “Don’t touch yourself yet. Not until I’m done. I wanna watch you too.”

“Fuck you, I do what I want,” Mike said, which was a lie, because he moved his hand out of his boxers and clenched it in a fist at his side. “Come on, comeon, I wannasee it.”

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