Tweeted by: (at)Dannie7786 on 5/30/2010
Pairing/POV: Jasper POV (Peter)
I did a double take when he came in the store, all golden smiles and effortless sexiness. He had that college student vibe to him but, in this town, most of the guys our age did: tee shirt and cargo shorts, Ray-bans, ratty flip-flops. Beneath that common exterior, though, he emanated something rare, something magnetic and undeniable that drew me in.
"Hi. Can I help you?" I was thrilled to get the words out without making an idiot of myself.
He walked up to the counter, lustfully eyeing the glass case full of high-end derailleurs and pedals. "Yeah, I need to ship my bike."
"We have several models of hard cases for about two hundred, or if you just want cardboard we can do that for you for eighty-five dollars, including shipping. Do you have the bike with you?"
"Well, yeah, but I was just hoping you had a box, like something you might be throwing away. I can pack it myself."
I was instantly sad. I didn't have the luxury to burn a lot of time helping him ship some Huffy home for the summer in a freebie box, even if he was a hot piece. We were slammed and there were paying customers in line behind him. If it had been slow, I probably would have offered to pack it up for him for nothing, just to have a chance to ask him out. "Sure. Dumpster's out back, help your self." I nodded my head in the direction of the back door, and approached the next customer.
He smiled, said thanks and ambled off. I caught sight of his ass and legs as he walked away, and swallowed hard. God, I loved what cycling did for a guy's body, even if he was probably too broke for a decent bike. One of my wrenches caught me ogling and winked at me, laughing. I rolled my eyes and went back to the line of customers waiting at the register.
About half an hour later, I finally had the store clear and we were closing up. My manager-in-training replacement, Ben, was closing out the cash registers while I made a trash run. I pushed open the back door, and found Mr. Huffy's fine ass sticking up over the rim of my dumpster, toes barely hanging on to the ground, and a hint of black lycra sticking out of the frayed hem of his cargo shorts. It made me wonder how well he filled out the skin-tight fabric, and my mouth watered. I cleared my throat, praying I didn't startle him enough to make him fall completely in.
"Need a hand?" I offered, putting a hand on his lower back to steady him as he righted himself off the lip of the dumpster.
"Yeah, thanks." He stood up, smiling, with his prize, a piece of fork padding, in his hand. "I think I have everything I need." He dropped the piece of foam into his scavenged frame box, and that's when I noticed it.
It was the ugliest three-thousand-dollar bike I'd ever seen.
This was no fifty-buck WalMart special, or a thrift store klunker. This was a fine piece of custom Massachusetts steel-frame geometry, with high-end components and a very expensive, very custom, factory paint job: gunmetal gray blended backward to navy chain- and seat-stays. I imagined the guys in the paint shop at Indy Fab laughing when the order came through.
I stood there gawking at it, wondering how it rode. We stocked the usual stuff, decent brands, and had a few customers with high-end competition bikes, but IFs were few and far between. I had two or three nice bikes in my stable, but nothing quite like this. This bike was a serious cyclist's wet dream.
"…ride as much as I can, and now it's time to haul it back home."
I looked up, dazed, and realized he'd been talking. He was smiling at me, adjusting his backpack over his shoulders. He'd traded the flip-flips for clipless riding shoes and had his hands down the front of his pants, presumably adjusting himself in the lycra he had on under the cargo shorts, situating his boys for the ride home. I swallowed, hard.
He laughed a little, no doubt noticing where my eyes were glued. He raised his eyebrows, giving me an appreciative once-over, too. "I'm just gonna leave the box here, and come back for it in a bit. Is that okay?"
It took me a minute to gather my wits. "How long will you be? I mean, I can pull it inside the store, if you want, so it doesn't walk off. I'll be here for at least an hour doing paperwork."
"Just long enough to ride home and walk back. Half an hour?"
I pictured what a pain in the ass it would be for him to ride home, walk back here, drag the box home on foot, have to break down and pack the bike with probably minimal tools, then have to carry the whole thing somewhere else to actually ship it. "Shit, just bring the damn bike in. I'll help you pack it, and give you a ride home. That is, if you're ready to ship it right away?"
"Yeah, I'm flying home in a couple of days, so I need to get things moving pretty quick. You sure? I hate to be a pain."
"Nah, I know what it's like. I'm getting ready to move soon, too, so I can sympathize. Besides, it's not often I get to play with something like that." I nodded toward the expensive bike, leaning against his side. Conveniently, I was also nodding towards his crotch.
Yeah, so sue me. He looked like he'd be fun to play with, too, and I got the distinct impression he didn't mind the innuendo.
His smirk confirmed it.
"I imagine you've got just the right tools for the job, too."
I dumped my trash and picked up his box, smiling the whole time. "I wouldn't be worth much if I didn't. Jasper," I said, offering my hand. "You can call me Jay."
"Peter," he replied, glancing at our hands when they touched, hopefully feeling the same crackling tension I did.
"Hey, Jay, I think I'm - oh, hi there." Ben did a double take when he saw me bent over the small office fridge, pulling out two beers, with Peter standing at my side.
"Oh, hey Ben. You get the deposit all written up?"
"Uh, yeah. You should be good to go. I put the drawers in the safe, and the credit card tape and all that is on your desk."
He was looking back and forth between Peter and I, an odd expression on his face. "Oh, hey. Ben, this is Peter. I'm gonna help him break down and pack his bike tonight. Stay and have a beer with us?" I knew he wouldn't.
His odd expression turned into a smile. "No, we're supposed to have dinner with Ang's folks tonight. You need anything else, then?"
"Nah, have a good one. See ya, what – tomorrow?"
"Nope, I'm off tomorrow. I'll see you Tuesday."
I walked Ben out, locked up and hit the lights, leaving only the shop lit up.
Peter fiddled with cleaning his bike while I closed out the books for the day and placed a few vendor orders. By the time I was ready to help, he'd finished his beer and was half done with the bike. I finished by pulling his pedals and handlebar, and we set out to pack it all up for shipping.
As we worked, our hands brushed up against each other, lingering longer each time we handed over a different tool, followed by the occasional bump of hip on hip as we moved around his dismantled bike. He stayed close to me, speaking softly and slowly as he told me about his life, addicting me to the rhythm of his words.
I imagined that soft, low voice moaning my name, and had to discreetly adjust more than once.
"So, now that the internship is done, I'm headed back to Portland to finish my engineering degree," he said, never telling me what he planned after that.
Ironically, I was headed to Oregon too.
"How far away is Eugene?"
"Two hours or so. Depends on how big a hurry you're in to see whatever's on the other end. Why?"
I smiled, wondering if he'd ever be in a hurry to come see me. "I just finished my undergrad in journalism and am headed to grad school there."
"Is that right?" He tucked in and taped the last flap on the box, then stood close to me where I leaned against the tool bench. I nodded, looking at my feet and smiling.
"I've been known to make the trip in an hour and a half, once or twice."
I looked up, and he was smiling. "Yeah?"
He scooted closer. "When properly motivated, I can do amazing things."
He raised an eyebrow at me. "Top, or bottom?" he asked, softly.
I slowly turned and stepped in front of him, pinning him against the bench with my hips. "Top."
I curled my hips just a bit, but his hands grabbed me and held me still. He closed his eyes and licked his smirking lips, but nothing more. After a minute of silence, feeling our cocks hardening between us, he finally spoke. "You ready to give me that ride home?" The lazy grin on his face told me all I needed to know about how to properly motivate him.
"I need a shower," I said. "I smell like hand cleaner and chain lube."
He smiled widely and loosened his grip on my hips, swirling his thumbs under the edge of my waist band. "I think I can handle that."
I hoped so.
Ten minutes later, I had him pinned against his front door, fingers in his hair and tongue in his mouth. I wasn't hesitant or gentle, and he kept up with no trouble.
He fumbled with the lock and we stumbled through the door when it fell open, all grabby hands and hot mouths. He flicked on a light and dragged me down the hall to his bathroom. We broke apart only when he pulled off his shirt and turned away to get the shower started.
I'd managed to strip bare by the time he turned back to me. His hands were all over me, pinching, squeezing, exploring, as I worked to get rid of his layers. When I finally had him naked and pulled tight against me from shoulder to knee, something clicked – some strange déjà vu thing – and we both just stopped for a minute, listening to the water and each others breathing.
"Wow," was all I could say.
He smiled. "You feel good."
"So do you." He was perfect. Perfect height, perfect build, perfect everything. I didn't feel like I was about to break some little twink in half, or about to be mauled by an over-eager oaf. We just – fit. I didn't have to bend up or down to kiss him, didn't have to tell him how to touch me, and he responded beautifully to everything I did.
He backed into the shower, pulling me along. I didn't need much encouragement. He got wet, then spun us around so that I was under the spray. He took his time, which was surprising given the urgency that had brought us this far. He lathered my hair, scrubbed me from nose to toes, and stood back while I rinsed, watching the path my hands took over my body. I kissed him and switched places, returning the favor as best I could. My cock was more than ready, sticking straight out as I watched globs of soap and shampoo slide down his rock-hard body.
He turned his back to me to rinse his face one last time, and it was all I could do not to slide right into him there in the shower. I stood behind him, running my hands up and down his sweet, round ass, until he pressed it back against me, grinding softly, letting his head rest on my shoulder.
"Oh fuck, Jay."
"I'd love to," I said, licking his ear.
He moaned and shut off the water. Sliding the door open, he grabbed two towels and handed one to me, but I was too impatient to be thorough. I rubbed myself down hastily, and pulled him back into the hallway toward what I assumed was the bedroom. He laughed and wiggled out of my grasp, smacking me on the ass as he pushed past me, his body sparking with lingering water droplets from our shower. He turned on the only light – a round paper lantern hung over a large futon mattress on the floor. The room was neat and tidy, but the only furniture was a small, plain dresser. His closet door was open, empty but for several dark suits, a few dress shirts still wrapped from the dry cleaner, black dress shoes and a couple of pieces of luggage.
His easy laughter brought me back to him. "You live very, um, Spartan here, Peter."
"It was only a twelve-week internship, so I only brought the necessities. Rented the furniture, and bought the futon new because they're cheap. I don't spend much time here anyway. I'm either at work, or on the bike, mostly. I'm not a big one for collecting 'stuff.'"
I smiled. I was the same way. If I couldn't fit it in my truck or pack it all up in an afternoon, I didn't need it.
I stepped toward him again, eager to pick up where we'd left off. He pulled me down on the bed and kissed me, burying his fingers in my too-long hair, then exploring my body with his tongue, outlining each of the old battle scars I'd earned in my brief career as a downhill racer. He was almost too gentle, and I was anxious for more.
I quickly flipped us over, and his shocked gasp gave way to earthy moans as I kissed him, nibbling at his plump lips, palming his pecs and biceps as I rhythmically ground against him. I bit and sucked my way down his body toward his cock, taking it in without warning and earning me another gasp.
He fumbled blindly beside the bed and handed me a small bottle of lube. He whimpered as I began to prep him, laying almost motionless as I worked him over, relaxing him, opening him. "Shit, I don't have any condoms," he whispered, sounding scared and disappointed.
I stilled for a moment, doing a mental inventory of what I had with me. I hopped up from the bed and scrambled around for my pants. I sat back down beside him and opened my wallet, revealing one lone condom. I smiled, relieved, and held it up between two fingers.
"Only one?" he asked, grinning.
"I better make it good, huh?"
"I'm confident in your abilities."
I rolled the condom on, watching him as he situated himself on the bed, flat on his back.
"Ready?" I asked, hoping I already knew the answer.
He leaned up to kiss me, weaving his fingers through my hair, drawing me down, telling me yes over and over. I nestled my hips between his legs, our foreheads pressed together as we caught our breaths. He nodded and kissed me again, murmuring my name.
Those first few moments, as that tight, anxious tension slowly gave way and he accepted my intrusion, when his whole body seemed to soften and sigh, were euphoric. I'd done this before; my body remembered the sensations, knew what to expect, knew how to give and draw out pleasure. Somehow, seeing the warmth in his eyes, sinking onto them, reawakened that bloom of familiarity I'd felt as we stepped into the shower earlier, making my body sing in a way sex never had before.
He angled his hips to take me deeper, and our combined moans echoed around us. He kept one hand on my face, the other at my hip the entire time, and I was nearly undone by this simple tenderness. His warm palm on my cheek anchored my eyes to his, completing our connection. I'd never felt anything like it.
I rolled out every trick I had, moving slow and methodically until he began to plead, then speeding up for brief bursts, only to slow again and deliver single intense thrusts with a long pause between each one, watching for all the little reassuring cues that told me he loved being at my mercy. Throughout it all, between breaths, gasps and sometimes through clenched teeth, he whispered my name.
Every inch of my body wanted to be permanently fused to his. I wanted to feel his heart pounding against my chest, my hands wanted to memorize the feel of his skin, my mouth wanted to taste and consume and mark. My movements became frenzied and erratic, and I hated that it ever had to end. I dropped down to one elbow and reached between us to take him in hand, hoping we'd get a chance to do this again, that he'd come find me in Eugene, that he felt as strong a pull to me as I did to him.
His body quivered beneath me, his neck arched and his jaw slack, as I watched streaks of white color his chest, triggering my own completion. I moaned as my body twitched with each spate of my release, then laughed at myself.
He laughed with me, kissing me back to earth, catching our breath as we nuzzled, praised, touched and thanked.
After a quick cleanup, we collapsed on the bed, twined like vines grown together.
"I'm glad you needed a cardboard box today, but I wish we'd met sooner."
He was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "Me moving to Oregon isn't the end of this, Jay."
I smiled, and touched his sweet face with the backs of my fingers. "No, you dope. The city picks up the cardboard recycling tomorrow. If you'd waited a day, I would never have bothered to send you dumpster diving."
"The way I felt when I first saw you, you think I'd let a lack of cardboard shut me down?"
I felt my smile would split my face. "You felt it, too?"
He kissed me, slow and deep, then buried his face in my neck. "Yeah, I felt it, too."
I fell asleep shortly after, his last words drifting through my dreams.
"It's only ninety minutes to Eugene."
A/N oh, Dannie. how you managed to give me this prompt, when i've been itching to write a slashy bike shop fic for months, i will never know. bless you. i hope you liked my try at JasPeter. I know this was supposed to be a drabble, but didn't think you'd complain about 3000 words instead of a hundred.
IF and IndyFab are short for Independent Fabrications bicycles of Massachusetts. The bike i described belongs to my hubs, except his fades red to purple (he calls the hideousness 'theft insurance'). Lots of regular guys wear gel-padded lycra to bike in, but it has a bad rep if you're not a competitive road cyclist. Hubs frequently wears conventional shorts on top, which undermines the comfort of wearing tights (too many seams and pockets). Clipless cycling shoes have a cleat on the bottom that attach directly to your pedal, maximizing the energy transfer with each crank. They are expensive, and can be uncomfortable to walk in. "Clipless" refers to the absence of those old toe cages (clips) we used to have on our pedals. "Wrench" = bike mechanic. Chain-stays and seat-stays are part of the rear triangle on a bike, the two tubes that lead from the seat and the bottom bracket (crank hub) back to the rear wheel hub.
The bike shop is a real place, but sadly the slashy boys are real only in my imagination. our shop is full of delicious boys, though. that is no lie. my hubs is one of them.
I have no idea if Engineering in Portland is any good, or what Journalism grad programs are like in Eugene. We almost moved there a long time ago, and I still have a soft spot in my heart for it. I picture Peter going on to complete frame school at UBI (United Bicycle Institute) in Portland, then opening up his own custom bike business. I imagine Jasper going on to become the next Phil Liggett, Voice of the Tour De France. of course, they live out a delicious HEA together.
**cyclists know how to do it in high gear**