With them, it wasn't sex. It was lovemaking, a pure, sacred dance that opened the floodgates of emotion, and brought them closer together.
*Dance Central 3. MoCoy, Rasa/Mo. More random DC smut. Practice for the big games.
*Warning: Light M/M lemon.
"I don't want ya anywhere near that punk ass clown. Plain as th' fuckin' sun, cat."
Mo stiffened, unaccustomed to being ordered around. The demand was a slap to the face, a disorienting step onto the planet Mars. Normally, he was a kitten in a blanket around MacCoy: blissfully unaware of the outside world, and at peace with himself. But lately, the blonde, blue-eyed toprocker had been dragging him through a new plane of existence, a dimension that turned reality on its head.
The two were inches apart, but separated by a chasm. Memories, hopes and cloudy nightmares soiled the road before them. Caramel eyes were alive with fury, begging for relief and happiness, but forced to endure an unspeakable amount of chaos. Baby blue eyes were ablaze with anger, shining like jewels from a wildfire. As childhood friends and lovers, the Brea and Romanov faced each other many times before, separated by decisions. As DCI agents, they were at a similar intersection, unable to see their path through torrents of clouds.
MacCoy's face, usually alive with a hyper-charged lust for life, was contorted. His freckles were no longer droplets of golden wheat, but scathing beads of ruby wrath. Their week as DCI agents had been less than spectacular: all attempts to rescue Oblio fell flat, and DCI agents across the globe were drafted into captivity. All under the Tan brand.
To top it all off, MacCoy and Rasa were at each other's throats.
Mo was not only Hi-Def's Founder, but destined to become the sole commander of Dance Central Intelligence. Fated from birth to lead DCI against Tan, in a world-wide war, the Brea was the focal point of Dance Central 3. According to Lima and another agent, he was DCI's crowning glory. A guiding light for the world to protect and cherish.
Unrivaled inner and outer beauty catapulted him into a story he still couldn't believe.
At the moment, though, his leadership skills were less than killer. Oblio was still under lock and key, DCI was losing swarms of agents-
And his boy Coy wasn't making things better.
DCI's latest mission was a leaf on the wind; fragile, easily swept through the wind, and easily lost. Rasa, Mo, MacCoy and two other operatives rushed to protect one of the world's biggest music stores. D-Cyphers and TanCorp operatives were bent on shutting down freestyle gigs, all to get one point across: Tan had his sights set on the free world, and would stop at nothing to claim it.
He would stop at nothing to claim a certain Princess.
The mission was quickly blown out of the water. Cyphers went on a rampage, blowing up and setting fire to records, cds, rare cassette tapes. Tan operatives laughed while store patrons cowered in fear. DCI was on the scene, but one problem after another caused the mission to snowball into a travesty, and-
"Stay away from that punk-ass bitch, ya hear me?"
Halfway between anger and heartbreak, Mo retaliated. "He did what he had t' do t' keep me safe! If it hadn't been fer 'im, I prolly would be sittin' pretty, up in Tan's arms about now!"
Coy clamped his hands onto Mo's thighs. Blue eyes were no longer those of an energetic thunderbolt, but a vampire's relentless eyes.
Liquid hunger joined with fury as caramel eyes pierced blue. Breathing became tense, rushed, as if two gazelle were fleeing from predators. "That shit's fine 'n dandy," the blue-eyed operative purred, his voice a bubbling elixir of intoxicating fire. Caramel eyes absorbed freckles, the light within eternal blue moons-
"But I ain't down wit' th' way he's always checkin' ya out."
"Ain't nobody checkin' me out but chu, dumbass!"
"Quit kiddin' yerself, Yer Highness," the blonde cat continued, radiant with both anger and want, desire and tenderness.
"Th' bitch-ass is all over you, every damn minute of th' day. All that shit 'bout protectin' ya, keepin' ya safe...his job makes it so fuckin' easy t' get into that pretty ass of yers."
"You ain't makin' any sense," the Brea said, halfway between a snarl and a whimper. Caramel met blue once again, frightened, parched, exhausted-
"Rasa's jus' bein' a friend, dipshit! What, ya don't trust me?"
"It ain't you I'm worried about, Mojo," MacCoy said breathlessly, resting his head on the other's shoulder. He wrapped his arms about the other's waist, clamping his hands onto the Brea's taut behind. The blonde had suddenly become tired, devoid of steam, just wanting to drown himself in the radiance that was Mo.
"It's him. He's got mad swag 'n I respect that. But he's too damn chummy with ya."
The Princess wrapped his arms around the other's waist, shutting his eyes. Both were tired, mentally and physically beaten from the day's events. "Dumbass," he murmured.
"He's jus' followin' his job description."
That didn't comfort Coy. Mo never associated himself with anyone that simply followed bullet points. In order to get in on the Brea's team, you had to have heart. "Lima ain't like that," the deejay whimpered.
"She ain't all dewy-eyed when she looks at ya."
"Does this really matter?" Mo sighed, initially amused by Coy's attitude. But the sad light in blue waters, coupled with recent events, stabbed the Brea in the heart. Coy looked defeated, at a loss, torn and eager to prove himself. "Hell yeah it matters," blue eyes said.
"I'm glad he saved yer gorgeous ass, but-"
Gramma's boy was silenced by a kiss. Mo had clamped his hands onto the back of Coy's head and pressed their lips together, no longer wanting to acknowledge anything but sun-strewn bliss. Moaning into the other's mouth, the toprocker traced the curve of the other's back, his tongue caressing the insides of the breakdancer's mouth.
In mere seconds, both DCI operatives were rock hard, engorged to the point of insanity. Throbbing shafts rubbed against each other, imprisoned by uniform. Coy's tongue consumed the insides of Mo's mouth, hands teased the threads of black pants-
But then blue eyes pulled away.
The Romanov bowed his head. "I dunno, man. He's all up in yer grill 'n I can't touch 'im."
Mo pulled Coy back, visibly unhappy with Coy's mood. "Who said ya have to?"
"Nobody, man. It's jus' that-"
"Ya mean th' motha fuckin' world t' me, plain 'n simple."
Warm caramel eyes painted portraits of sunlight; sunlight draped across dewy meadows, sunflowers, lakes. The smile on Mo's face demanded attention from the angels. "Yer th' one I want," the Princess told him.
"No ifs, ands or buts. I don't need anybody else."
Mischief lit up Mo's face. "I get it. Ya put Rasa in Angie's place."
Shyness lit up the Romanov's eyes. "Now that ya brought it up, he is a more obnoxious version of 'im. But Angie ain't tryin' to get into yer pants."
"Yer th' only one I want touchin' me. Can't I get that through yer head?"
Smiling, but still plagued with worry over Rasa's attentiveness towards DCI's Princess, Coy laid his head into Mo's chest. Hi-Def's founder caressed his back, promising to always love him and only him without words.
With blue eyes peering into tender brown oceans, the breakdancer peeled off the other's pants. Mo's hands slid across the other's thighs, their chests met, and soon both dancers were on the floor of Mo's DCI office. Ripping off each other's uniform, panting, blushing, hungry.
With them, it wasn't sex. It was lovemaking, a pure, sacred dance that opened the floodgates of emotion, and brought them closer together. Through kisses and pleas for more, Coy promised to take better care of his Mojo. Mo promised to love the friend he met on a playground, once upon a time.
And they assured each other of the future.
They filled each other, unwilling to let the other do all of the work. Once satiated, they lay on the floor, bodies throbbing with vicious yet cleansing euphoria. Mo soon swept Coy into his arms, Coy planted a kiss on the bridge of Mo's nose, and soon both were asleep, tucked in each other's arms.
MacCoy still couldn't ignore a tiny hand tugging on his heart, though.