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The bedroom is quiet except for the slow, unhurried sound of mouths meeting, parting, and finding each other again. Sal lies half-draped over Q, kissing him slowly, lazily, lips brushing more than pressing, the kind of kisses that taste like comfort as much as want.
Q’s mouth is soft beneath his, patient, like he has all the time in the world. Each kiss lingers just a little longer than the last, pulling Sal deeper, making him ache. When Q tilts his head, the scrape of his beard grazes Sal’s skin, rough where his lips are tender, and the contrast makes Sal shiver.
One of his hands is tangled in Sal’s hair, the other nudges at the hem of his t-shirt. Sal lets him tug it up a few inches, lets him slip warm fingers against the bare skin of his lower back, but when Q gently pushes for more, Sal doesn’t take the bait.
He wants to. He wants to feel every inch of Q, wants to learn the taste of him everywhere, so much it makes him dizzy. He mouths at Q’s jaw, nips at his throat, breath coming quicker now. It would be so easy to keep going, to take it further, to lose himself in it.
But he doesn’t.
Q notices his apprehension—he always does. He pauses for a moment, his mouth still close, his breath warm on Sal’s cheek.
Sal just kisses him again, slow and searching, like he can delay the inevitable with softness. Like if he keeps his hands on Q’s chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, he won’t have to think about the ache twisting tight in his own. Q loves him—Sal knows it, has heard it, felt it in every touch, every laugh—but sometimes he can’t shake the shadow of a thought that gnaws at him.
That maybe he’s not enough.
Not enough of what Q is used to, anyway.
Because Sal is nothing like the women he spent years watching drift in and out of Q’s life. He doesn’t want to say it out loud at the risk of breaking this new, perfect thing they’ve built together over the last few months—but the thought still lingers: what if he’s just a substitute? A stand-in for something Q really wants, but doesn’t have anymore?
Sal knows the way women look at him, the easy way Q used to flirt back. That was his world for decades—girls laughing at his jokes, leaning in to touch his arm, slipping him their numbers on napkins—and this, with Sal, must feel so different to him. It might just be the kind of difference they can’t get past, no matter how much they both want to.
Q shifts beneath him, brown eyes searching his face, so open it makes Sal want to hide. His thumb traces a slow line over the skin at Sal’s waist, patient, steady, like he’s trying to ground him without spooking him. His voice is soft when it comes, quiet enough to blend into the hush of the room.
“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch Sal’s gaze. “Somethin’ wrong?”
Sal doesn’t answer. He dips his head instead, kissing Q again—gentle, unconvincing, an easy distraction.
Q, of course, doesn’t let him get away with it. His large hand comes up to cup the side of Sal’s face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I can hear you thinking, honey. Talk to me.”
Sal’s chest tightens. He wants to laugh it off, to make a dismissive comment about being tired or cold, but the way Q is looking at him—like there’s no one else in the world—undoes him.
Sal presses his forehead into Q’s shoulder, trying to quiet the buzzing in his head, but the words are already forming on the tip of his tongue. His voice comes out low, muffled against cotton. “Do you ever, um…” He swallows hard, pulling back just enough to meet Q’s gaze. “Do you miss being with girls at all?”
The question hangs heavy between them, trembling at the edges, and Sal hates the sound of his own voice—too raw, too afraid of the answer.
Q snorts softly, gazing up at Sal like he can’t believe that’s where his thoughts have gone. “What?”
Sal tells himself he could take it if it were true; that he wouldn’t break down completely if Q admitted it, that he’d nod and smile and understand, because he’s always understood. He’s always been the one to watch from the sidelines, to carry his feelings quietly. He could do it again.
Deep down, though, he knows that if Q left, if he went back to that world where Sal is his best friend and nothing more, it would break something in Sal that he wouldn’t be able to fix. He’s lived in that place of longing before, that endless place of wanting and never having, and he can’t imagine being dragged there again, not after finally knowing what it’s like to have Q like this.
He used to lie awake imagining what it would feel like to be chosen, to be kissed, to have Q hold him like he was something worth keeping. Now he doesn’t have to imagine. Now he knows the taste of Q’s skin, the heat of his body, the way his hands never seem to want to let go. The thought of losing that—of being shoved back into that hollow place of yearning with nothing but memories to chew on—makes his chest ache. He can’t do it again. He won’t survive it this time.
Sal makes a face, embarrassed already. “Just—please just tell me if you do.”
Q just smirks, unbothered. “Why would I?” he asks, leaning up to press a kiss to Sal’s jaw, whispering against his skin, “I’ve got my girl right here.”
Sal goes very still. It’s supposed to be a joke, but the flush that creeps up his neck isn’t. The words hit like a spark, the heat of it pools low in his stomach, and Sal’s breath stutters before he can stop it. My girl. It shouldn’t undo him like this, but it does. It makes him go pliant in an instant, body softening, heart hammering.
Q notices—of course he does. He always notices. His grin sharpens as he tilts his head, gleefully watching Sal squirm. “Oh,” he murmurs, teasing, voice dropping lower. “You liked that.”
It still takes him by surprise, how well Q can read him. It shouldn’t, because they’ve been friends forever, but this thing between them is still so new. Three months in and somehow Q already reads him better in bed than people who Sal had been with for years did. He knows which exact buttons to press, which nerves to touch, how to drop his voice so it slides right under Sal’s skin and makes him want more.
“I didn’t—I—shut up,” Sal mutters, but his ears are red, his hips shifting against Q without meaning to.
Q chuckles, not letting up, his hand sliding lower, squeezing at Sal’s waist. “Callin’ you my girl gets you all worked up, huh?” His eyes are bright, half-teasing, half-awed, as if he’s stumbling onto something bigger than he expected.
Sal groans, burying his face in Q’s neck, but the truth is written in the way his body moves against him, restless, needy.
Q’s eyes glint, sharp with mischief, but there’s heat behind it, something hungrier. He leans in just enough that Sal can feel his breath ghosting his ear when he murmurs, low and certain, “You want me to call you that again, don’t you?”
The bottom drops out of Sal’s stomach. His pulse quickens.
“I—no,” he blurts out, too fast, too sharp. His laugh comes out brittle, defensive. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Q is all patience and wicked amusement—a hunter humoring prey that thinks it still has a chance of survival. “No?” he drawls, fingers sliding down Sal’s side, slow enough to make him twitch. “Then why’re you blushing, babe? Why’re you squirming every time I say it?”
Sal opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. His throat works, useless, because Q’s hand is hot against his hip and his eyes are locked on him, unrelenting. The longer Sal tries to hold out, the more obvious it becomes—the hitch in his breath, the way his body leans in and begs for more.
“It’s stupid,” he finally mutters. “You don’t have to—”
One second Sal is lying on top of Q, and in the next, the world tilts. Q moves fast—strong, capable hands gripping Sal’s waist, a sharp twist of his body—and suddenly Sal’s flat on his back against the sheets, Q hovering above him, caging him in.
Sal blinks up at him, breath caught in his throat, heart stuttering at how easily Q overpowered him, at how he handled him like he weighs nothing, how natural it is for him to take control. Q’s dark hair falls loose over his forehead, eyes dark in the low light, gaze pinning Sal down like he’s already undoing him in his head.
“It’s not stupid. Not if it’s what you want,” Q murmurs, his thumb brushing Sal’s cheek. His grin flickers, softer than usual, almost shy. “So, do you want it?”
Sal has never once questioned who he is, never wondered if he was something else, never wanted to be anyone but himself. He’s perfectly comfortable in his identity, and yet, the mere prospect of Q calling him his girl again makes something inside him unravel.
Not because this is about being a girl. It’s not about gender—it’s about intimacy, vulnerability, being wanted in that particular way.
But it’s too weird to admit to. It’s such a specific, strange corner of want that Sal never dared to name, something he’s been ashamed of even in his own head.
Q tilts his head, eyes warm, patient. He strokes his thumb over Sal’s jaw like he’s smoothing the hesitation away. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You can say it. It’s just us here. Just me and you. And you know I’ll take care of you.”
“It’s nothing,” Sal lies.
Q only hums, amused but soft. “Still fightin’ me,” he says, more to himself than Sal, and he presses a lingering kiss to the corner of Sal’s mouth. “But your body’s tellin’ me different. You’re shaking, Sal. You’re so worked up just ‘cause I said it once.”
Sal shivers. Even though things are different between them now, this is still his best friend, the person he trusts with everything he has, the one he tells all his secrets to. Q is the one who makes him laugh until his stomach aches, who sits with him when he’s sick, who always, always notices when something’s wrong.
If there’s anyone he can trust with this—this strange, secret, impossible corner of himself—it’s Q. So when the words finally tear out of Sal, small and wrecked, it isn’t just desire driving them. It’s trust. It’s the knowledge that if he gives this to Q, he will hold it safe.
“I...” Sal swallows hard. “Yeah, I want it.”
The second the word leaves his mouth, it’s like he’s exposed something raw, a nerve left uncovered. He braces himself for Q to laugh, to tease him the way he always does, but what he gets instead is worse, or better, depending on how you look at it.
Q changes.
There’s a shift in his posture, in the weight of his gaze. He doesn’t look at Sal with just mischief anymore; it’s heavier now, darker, like he’s been assigned a role that he knows exactly how to play. His hand that had been resting idly at Sal’s hip grips firmer, possessive, staking his claim.
“Yeah,” Q murmurs, the word curling hot in Sal’s ear. “Knew you wanted it, baby. Knew you’d make such a good girl for me.”
What happens next is something Sal can’t explain. It’s a lot like the feeling of being submerged in warm water, the rest of the world blurring around the edges while Q’s voice sharpens and anchors him. Sal’s body goes pliant before his brain can catch up, nerves buzzing like he’s been rewired. The air feels thicker, heavier, like every nerve is tuned to Q alone. Sal’s chest tightens, but not with panic—with a strange, raw relief, as if he’s been holding his breath for years without knowing it and finally lets it go.
It’s weird, disorienting, but it feels too right to not explore. Sal’s head spins. His lips part. And he drops—straight into a pliant, heady space where all he wants is to be touched, to be taken care of, to give himself over completely.
He whines—an honest-to-god whine—and Q’s grin falters. His eyes darken, heat flooding every line of his face as he leans closer.
“Holy shit, Sal. You weren’t kidding,” he murmurs, almost reverent now, and Sal watches his face as the realization finally sinks in. “You love this. This isn’t just a fun thing for you, is it? This gets you… somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” Sal breathes, his chest rising and falling too fast, caught between the high of it and the rawness of being seen so clearly. He can’t look away from Q’s face, from the dawning certainty in his eyes, the reverence threaded through his voice.
Q brushes his thumb across his lower lip, slowly, like he’s savoring the feeling of it. His dark eyes are fixed on Sal’s mouth, the intensity of his gaze making him feel bare, exposed.
Then, carefully, Q presses forward, coaxing his thumb past Sal’s parted lips.
Sal’s breath stutters, gasping around the sudden intrusion. His eyes flutter shut before he forces them open again—he can’t bear not to see Q, doesn’t want to miss the way he’s looking at him. Heat blooms under his skin, spreading everywhere as his tongue instinctively curls around the tip, tasting the salt of Q’s skin, sucking gently before he can stop himself.
His tongue traces along the side of Q’s thumb, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of the room. The weight of it, the pressure, the way it fills his mouth without Q giving him anything to do but take it awakens something primal in Sal, a pull low in his stomach that makes him twitch helplessly.
His lashes flutter, heat rising high on his cheeks, but some traitorous part of him leans into it, almost performing, putting on a show for Q. He starts sucking a little harder, showing off how good he can be with just this—because he wants Q to know how much further he’ll go if given the chance.
“Jesus Christ,” Q murmurs, voice rough and ragged at the edges. “Look at you. You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you? My greedy girl.”
Sal moans, mortified at the sound but unable to help it, his cheeks burning hot. He nods, the movement small with Q’s grip anchoring him, with his thumb heavy on his tongue. The praise hasn’t even come yet but he’s already dizzy with it, already aching at how much he wants to hear Q say that he’s good.
Q’s grin flickers back, full of wonder and surprise. He eases his thumb even further, testing, pressing it deep into the wet heat of Sal’s mouth. “That’s it,” he coaxes, voice low, hypnotic. “Open up for me, sweetheart. Let me see how far you’ll go.”
Sal does. His jaw slackens obediently, a tremor running through him. He swallows hard, throat working around it.
Q exhales sharply, brown eyes locked on Sal like he’s never seen anything more perfect. “Fuck,” he whispers, reverent again, softer this time. His thumb slips free with a soft pop, glistening, a string of saliva still connecting it to Sal’s lip before it breaks off. “You’re such a good girl. So good to me. Bet you don’t even know how gorgeous you are.”
Sal makes another helpless sound. It’s Q, and yet—it’s more. It’s Q with the volume turned up, every ounce of his charm and steadiness channeled into something sharper, filthier, and so achingly deliberate it makes his cock throb.
Q kisses him like he’s been holding himself back, his body moving against Sal’s. His thighs part instinctively, letting Q settle between them, gasping into the kiss when Q rolls his hips, the unmistakable press of him hard and hot through his jeans.
Sal fists the fabric at Q’s back, dragging him closer, desperate to close every bit of space between them. Their mouths stay locked, the kiss deep and endless, messy with teeth and tongue, each movement feeding into the next until Sal’s head is spinning.
The rub of denim against him is almost unbearable, each grind sharper, heavier, stealing the air from his lungs. He can feel the strain in Q’s body, the tension winding tighter with every thrust, the heat radiating off him like it could sear. Sal clings to him, feeling the steady pound of Q’s heart against his ribs, wanting it burned into him, permanent.
The rhythm builds, slow but insistent, a wave cresting higher with every drag of Q’s hips. Sal arches helplessly, meeting him, chasing that heat, lost in the feeling of Q’s mouth, his weight, the solidity of him.
“Q, please,” he begs when the anticipation becomes too much, too overwhelming.
Q gazes down at him, lips wet, eyes gleaming. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That’s what I wanted. Say it again.”
Sal rocks against him, shameless now, because every second without his touch is unbearable. “Please,” he whispers. “Need you, babe.”
Q kisses him again, hands sliding lower, unhurried as he pops the button of Sal’s jeans. He works them open and slips his hand inside, palm heavy against the thin cotton of Sal’s boxer shorts. He cups him, squeezes once, enough to make Sal gasp into their kiss, but he doesn’t move beyond that. He doesn’t touch him properly, doesn’t slip under, just holds him there, the heat of it unbearable.
“Q, come on,” Sal’s voice breaks, head tipping back against the pillow. His hips twitch up, chasing friction, but Q’s palm only presses him back down.
“What?” Q asks, teasing, his mouth brushing Sal’s jaw, his grin audible in his voice. “You want somethin’?”
Sal huffs, frustrated. “Don’t do that. Just—please—”
“Use your words,” Q murmurs, thumb dragging a lazy circle over the damp spot forming at the front of Sal’s underwear. His touch is maddeningly light, the fabric an awful barrier. “You gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart.”
Sal squeezes his eyes shut, mortified by how quickly he’s unraveling. “I can’t—” The words tumble out without his permission. “I need it.”
His face burns, the shame and the thrill twisted tight together until he can barely breathe. His hands claw at Q’s shoulders, grounding himself.
Q hums like he’s considering it, lips brushing Sal’s ear now. “Need what, baby?” he taunts. His eyes glitter with hunger, his lips curved in the faintest smirk. His hand still doesn’t move.
Sal shakes his head, teeth gritted, but Q is grinding down against him, slow, deliberate, until Sal’s whining in frustration and the words spill out. “Please, I need you to take care of me,” he blurts out, barely recognizing his own voice. “I’ll be so good to you. I’ll be your…”
For years, he’s watched Q with women—at weddings, in bars, on tour after shows, leaning close to whisper things that made them laugh. He’s seen the way the girls he dates look at him, starry-eyed and lovestruck, and every time Sal thought something along the lines of, That should be me. I could do it better.
Because deep down, Sal has always believed—selfishly, desperately—that he could make Q happier than any of those girls ever could. Not because he considers himself better looking or funnier or anything like that, but because he knows Q. He knows the soft parts and the sharp edges and how to hold him together when he’s fraying at the seams.
Who else has stayed up with him when he was at his lowest point in life until the sun started creeping through the blinds? Who else remembers every little thing—his favorite Elvis songs, the way he throws his head back when he laughs, or how he always taps a beat on the steering wheel when he’s driving?
Who else can read all the microexpressions on his face, who knows what he’s about to say before he even opens his mouth?
So when Q calls him his girl, it hits like a fantasy made real. It’s the fulfilment of every night Sal has spent wanting, imagining, yearning for something more. It’s proof that he can slip into that role he’s always dreamed of—not because he’s pretending, not because he’s some stand-in, but because Q actually wants him there. Because he gets to have Q now—the way all those girls once had him.
And that’s what makes his whole body shiver, what makes him weak. So he kisses Q again, leaning in close to meet his unrelenting gaze, and surrenders completely.
“I’ll be your girl.”
For a second, everything stops.
Q stills. His eyes search Sal’s face, like he thinks he didn’t hear him correctly. And then it hits; something raw flashing across his face, hunger and heat all tangled up, like the sound of those words flipped a switch inside him he didn’t even know he had. His grip on Sal tightens, pulling him closer, like he needs him right now.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough with it, reverent and ruined at the same time. “Say that again—”
But Sal doesn’t get the chance, because Q’s mouth crashes into his, messy and hot, teeth clicking, tongues sliding, both of them gasping against each other’s lips. The kiss tastes like want, like something they can’t take back now even if they wanted to. The kiss devours Sal, steals the air right out of his lungs. He clutches at Q’s shoulders, holding on like he’s afraid of being swept under.
And then Q is moving, not holding back anymore.
His hand finally abandons restraint, finally, fucking finally sliding under Sal’s underwear, palm hot against his skin, greedy now where he’d only been playful before.
“My God, look at you,” Q whispers, his breath hot against Sal’s cheek. He tightens his grip, pumping Sal faster, quick and dirty. “So wet for me already. So worked up, and I’ve barely even touched you yet.”
Sal can’t speak. Q’s words slide hot against his ear, velvet and filthy all at once. Wet. The word sticks in Sal’s chest, coils low in his belly. He shouldn’t react the way he does—it doesn’t even make sense, not really—but his body betrays him, shuddering, hips jerking helplessly into Q’s hand, chasing every stroke.
Q’s lips drag over Sal’s swollen mouth, his forehead pressed hard to Sal’s like he can’t stand the distance. His voice comes out low, gravelly, almost shaking with the force of it. “You’re dripping for me, Sally,” he says, stroking him slower now, slow enough to drive him mad. “I could keep you like this all night, squirming, begging, my pretty girl fuckin’ aching for it.”
“Oh my God,” Sal squeaks, covering his face with one arm like he can hide how much he likes hearing Q talk like this. “Jesus, you can’t say that.”
Heat burns up his neck, embarrassment and want colliding so hard it almost knocks the breath from him. The suggestive phrasing, the way Q uses the feminine version of his name—it makes his head spin, sends him deeper into that pliant, dizzy state where he can’t think, only feel.
“Oh, but I can,” Q mumbles, his accent thicker than usual, vowels rounded in a way that makes Sal’s stomach flip. He catches Sal’s wrist with his free hand and pins it back to the mattress. “My sweet little thing, all mine. You like bein’ my girl, don’t you?”
Sal presses his face into the crook of Q’s neck, sighing against his skin. Q doesn’t let him hide—his thumb brushes over the head of his cock, deliberate, just enough to drive him crazy—and Sal gasps, body arching into the touch. Q grip on him quickens, purposeful, meant to undo him. Heat surges inside Sal, too much too fast, and his thighs twitch like he won’t last.
Q grins. “See? You can’t even argue.” He ducks his head, lips brushing Sal’s throat, lingering at the racing pulse there. “You’re trembling, sweetheart.”
And then, when Q strokes ease off again, slower, teasing him, Sal can’t bite back the broken moan that rips out of him that does nothing to help his case.
“Oh, that was good,” Q mutters against his skin, kissing and sucking lightly until Sal gasps again. “You make the prettiest noises when you’re embarrassed. Gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
Every stroke drags another desperate sound from Sal, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. His skin feels stretched too tight, nerves burning bright and oversensitive. Each glide of Q’s palm is slick, controlled, deliberate, and it makes Sal’s stomach clench in a way that feels almost unfair.
He tries to breathe evenly, tries to hold himself together, but Q knows exactly how to angle his hand, how to twist at the top, how to squeeze at the base. The warmth builds, pressure gathering quickly, dangerously. It’s humiliating how soon it’s happening, how his body doesn’t care about pride or patience. The slick slide, the calloused drag of Q’s hand, the heat of him pressed against his body—it’s all too much.
“Faster,” Sal pants, eyes squeezing shut. “Please, Q, faster—fuck, I’m so close—”
It has the opposite effect. Q’s hand stills. The sudden absence makes Sal jolt, a broken, needy sound catching in his throat. His hips buck uselessly against Q’s grip, chasing friction that is no longer there.
“No,” he whines. “Don’t do this, don’t—”
The words tumble out without thought. His voice cracks on the last word, raw with need, with how close he’d been. His whole body shivers, so wound up it feels unbearable to be denied.
Q leans in, lips brushing Sal’s ear, voice low and maddeningly calm. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re gonna let me take my time.” His hand slides deliberately slow over Sal’s skin, not giving him what he needs, just reminding him who’s in control.
Sal gasps, a whimper slipping free. He can’t stop himself—he twists under Q’s touch, something close to a sob in his throat. “No, please, I need it—I need it so bad—”
Q chuckles; not unkind, but firm. “I know, baby. But you’re my girl tonight, yeah? My good girl. So you’re gonna let me play with you for as long as I want.”
And that’s when Sal finally understands what Q is doing. The realization crashes into him, heat roaring through him, leaving him dizzy. His chest rises and falls too fast, breath breaking apart. He wants to argue, to beg harder, but all that comes out is another desperate little moan, his body betraying him.
He’s doing this on purpose. He’s going to drag it out.
Sal should feel embarrassed, maybe even nervous, but instead there’s this terrifying ease to it, like Q has unlocked something in him he didn’t even know was there. He’s never done this before—never wanted to give up the reins like this—but with Q it feels natural, inevitable.
Q watches him. “Shh,” he soothes, his lips brushing Sal’s as his fist works cruelly slow. “Don’t fight it. I want you right here. All strung out. All mine.” He squeezes, then eases off just when Sal tenses, just when the wave starts to crest again.
Sal cries out, hips bucking uselessly, his face pressed into the crook of Q’s shoulder, hand tangling in his hair. “Q, please—fuck, I can’t—”
“You can.” Q’s voice is velvet, steady, coaxing him back down. He grinds in closer, pressing the thick heat of himself against Sal’s thigh. “You can take it, I know you can. My good girl. So perfect like this, all needy and wrecked for me.”
Sal moans, almost sobs, his body trembling as Q slows his strokes again, his body arching into every torturous touch. He doesn’t understand why it feels so good, why being pulled apart slowly, denied again and again, turns him on so much.
Q smirks, dragging his finger through the slick leaking from Sal’s tip before lifting it to his mouth, never taking his eyes off of Sal.
Sal groans, heat flooding his cheeks, his ears, every inch of him. “You’re disgusting,” he manages, but it comes out broken, ruined.
“Yeah?” Q’s laugh borders on cruel. “You fuckin’ love it, baby. You’re such a good girl for me, letting me play with you like this. You’d let me do this all night, wouldn’t you?”
The word girl slices through him again, and Sal almost sobs with how much it undoes him. He wants to argue, to fight, to say something back, but he can’t—he’s too far gone, too strung out by the possessive heat of Q’s voice.
“Yes,” Sal croaks; desperate attempt to get Q to touch him properly again.
It works. Q’s hand is back where Sal needs it most, wrapping firm around him, stroking faster this time—tight, steady pulls that has Sal gasping and sighing and whimpering.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Q murmurs, squeezing him harder, stroking him almost too fast until Sal’s hips are bucking up into his fist again, shame intertwining with need. “My pretty girl, makin’ such a mess for me.”
Sal’s fingers clutch at Q’s shirt, knuckles white, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. “Please,” he pants, voice breaking, so close he can taste it. “Please, Q, don’t stop—”
And that’s when Q does. His hand slows cruelly, dragging down into a lazy stroke, easing him away from the edge just as Sal’s whole body tightens.
Sal lets out a strangled whine, head falling back against the pillow, hips bucking uselessly into Q’s hand. “No, no, no, fuck, don’t—don’t do that, oh my God—”
Q just smirks, leaning down to press a kiss against his jaw, unhurried, steady. “I told you, baby,” he mumbles as his hand teases in maddening slow strokes now, keeping Sal trembling, desperate. “I’m gonna take my time with you. I won’t let you go ‘til I decide you’re ready.”
A broken sound is torn from this throat, raw and shameless. “Please, I can’t—don’t do this, just let me—”
Q groans at the sound, dragging his teeth lightly against Sal’s earlobe. “God, you’re gorgeous like this. The noises comin’ outta you are really somethin’. And you’re mine, aren’t you? Say it.”
“Yeah, I’m yours,” Sal chokes, almost sobbing out the words. “All yours, just—fuck, please—”
Q smiles against his skin, slow and satisfied. “Yeah, you are,” he whispers. “That’s why you’re gonna let me do this. Over and over. You’re gonna take what I give you, sweetheart. As long as I want. And you’re gonna thank me for it.”
Sal shakes his head, incoherent, teeth catching his lower lip hard enough to sting. He can’t stop the sounds spilling out of him—broken moans, desperate whimpers—every one of them only making Q’s grin sharpen.
Q’s strokes drag just enough to keep Sal’s body taut with need, then slow again, easing him down. Over and over, the rhythm repeats—pulling him up to the edge until Sal’s chest heaves, until his thighs tremble, until his voice cracks, and then taking it away again with deliberate cruelty.
Sal chokes on a moan, his back arching as Q’s thumb circles the head of his cock, merciless and perfect. His breath stutters, hips jerking into Q’s grip no matter how hard he tries to keep control.
“You feel that?” Q presses, panting himself, his eyes locked on Sal’s face like it’s the only thing in the world worth seeing. “That’s all me. I’m the one makin’ you fall apart. Nobody else gets to have you like this.”
The weight of Q’s body over his, the steady strength in his hands pinning him down, the sharp edges of commands woven through that rough voice—it winds straight into Sal, hot and dizzying. He’s spent years watching Q be easy, laid-back, the charming bastard who could make anyone laugh. But this side of him—possessive, unrelenting, unwilling to let Sal forget for even one second who he belongs—makes Sal burn from the inside out.
Because Q is right. No one else could do this to him, not even close.
“Yes, yes,” Sal babbles. “Just you, babe, no one else.”
Q’s hand works him slow, steady, maddening. Just enough to drag him right to the cliff, never enough to let him tumble over. Sal’s body bucks in protest, hips jerking helplessly, but Q’s grip is iron at his waist, keeping him pinned in place.
“Please,” Sal whines, throat raw. His chest heaves, sweat slicking his skin, every nerve lit up and begging for relief. “Please, Q, I can’t—I can’t take it anymore. Please.”
“Just a little longer, baby,” Q praises, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I wanna see how much you love it when I take care of you. How much you love being mine. My girl’s gonna learn how to be patient.”
Sal groans, muffled against Q’s shoulder, nails digging into his back. Q works his hand a little bit faster, easing him right at the edge.
It’s almost enough. It’s there—right there. Sal’s whole body is wound tight, stomach clenching, toes curling against the sheets. The rhythm of Q’s hand quickens, steady, relentless, and everything inside Sal spirals toward that blinding, desperate finish. Relief breaks over his face like sunlight through storm clouds, his lips parting in something close to a smile. Finally. Finally, Q is going to let him—
But then the touch disappears again.
Sal chokes on a sob, the pleasure snapping into ache so sharp it almost hurts. His hips jerk helplessly, chasing what’s gone, but there’s nothing to grab onto, nothing to tip him over. Tears spring unbidden, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe through it.
“No, no, no, please,” he gasps, words tumbling out without thought, spilling over themselves. “Please, I’ll—I’ll do anything, just don’t stop, please let me, I need it, I’ll be good—”
It’s humiliation and hunger tangled into one, his body aching for the release he thought was finally his. Every nerve is still screaming, pulsing with unfinished need, and the only thing he can do is beg. His hands clutch at the sheets, then at Q, then at nothing at all, restless and trembling.
Sal can feel him, the hard, insistent press of Q against his thigh. Every shift makes it clear: Q is just as affected by Sal as Sal is by him.
Sal’s hands, frantic and desperate, fumble lower, tugging at Q’s belt with clumsy fingers. The leather creaks as he pulls on it, teeth gritted, eyes wide and wet. “I’ll touch you,” he babbles, voice breaking. “I’ll do whatever you want, just please—let me—” his breath hitches, another sob breaking loose as he paws at the buckle.
But Q catches his wrists easily, pinning it down against the mattress. His grip is steady, immovable, a wall of calm against Sal’s frantic desperation.
Q breathes, low and wrecked, his hand firm on Sal’s hip to still his frantic writhing. He sounds almost awed, like the begging is undoing him just as much. “You’d do anything for me, huh? Anything just to let you come?”
“Yes,” Sal croaks, tears slipping hot down his temples, lips trembling around a choked whimper.
Q ducks down to kiss him, his mouth just barely brushing Sal’s. “Tell me. Tell me what you’d do.”
Sal’s words tumble out in ragged gasps, pressing his mouth to Q’s throat, kissing and mouthing frantically like he can bribe him into mercy. “I’ll get on my knees for you,” he pants, lips dragging hot across Q’s skin. He doesn’t even know if he means any of it, too caught up in desperation to care. “I’ll let you bend me over, fuck me however you want, show you I’m yours—fuck, I’ll be so good for you, I’ll make you feel amazing if you just let me—”
His teeth sink into Q’s shoulder, a muffled, frantic sound tumbling out like the words themselves are too much to carry. He can’t stop, can’t shut himself up, not when every nerve is on fire, not when relief feels so close he can taste it.
His lips scatter down to Q’s shoulder, wet and urgent, every kiss a plea. “I’ll let you use me, anything you need—just please let me come—”
Q stills completely, breath stuttering out against Sal’s ear. For a second, it sounds like he’s the one unraveling. “God, Sal… listen to yourself.” His auburn eyes flick down, soft but blazing with want. “My girl likes it dirty, huh? So desperate for me. You don’t even care how you sound, do you? You just wanna be good for me. Wanna come for me so bad.”
Sal whimpers again, the sound broken, his whole body arching like he’s offering himself up. Q’s grip is slow, maddening, dragging Sal right up against the line but never letting him tip over. Every stroke feels heavier, slower, deliberate—like he’s savoring it.
It’s nothing short of unbearable. The denial coils through Sal like fire and ice, a pressure that won’t give. But underneath the agony is something even sharper—want. Want for Q, for the control in his voice, the surety in his hands, the way he seems to know exactly how to hold Sal open, trembling, desperate.
He nuzzles his face into Q’s neck, muffling a broken cry against his skin. “I can’t—take it anymore,” he sobs.
The sound doesn’t even register as his own voice. Too high, too broken, stripped of every defence he usually holds so tightly. It scares him, how desperate he sounds—how desperate he is. The tears won’t stop, spilling faster the harder he tries to breathe, the desperation intensifying until he feels like he’s going to pass out from it.
“Please,” he begs again, softer now, almost hopeless. “Don’t leave me like this.”
There’s no thought left, no pride, just the raw ache of wanting, needing, the unbearable pressure of being kept right at the edge. Every nerve screams for release, and all he can do is plead, hot tears slipping his temples.
It seems to break something in Q. “Fuck,” he breathes, almost like he’s in pain, his hand stroking down Sal’s back like he’s trying to soothe them both. “Baby, I—I don’t—” he presses his lips hard to Sal’s mouth, kissing him through the tears. “I won’t. I’ve got you. Always.”
Sal’s head falls back against the pillow, relief coursing through him. It slams into him all at once, every molecule screaming with the promise of release.
Q’s hand returns to Sal’s cock, steady now, sure, stroking with a rhythm that promises no more cruel halts. Sal sobs out a noise, broken and grateful, his body arching into Q’s touch like it’s the only thing tethering him, because it is.
It’s different now. Q isn’t teasing, isn’t drawing it out. He’s giving, coaxing, pulling Sal right to the edge with all the intent to finally let him tumble over. His forehead presses to Sal’s, eyes squeezed shut like he’s hanging on just as hard.
“C'mon, honey, give it to me,” he says, tender and reverent now, kissing away the tears from Sal’s cheeks as they keep coming. “I’ll catch you. I’ll always catch you.”
Another sob rips out of Sal, raw and helpless. His hips jerk once, twice, and then he’s gone, unraveling in Q’s fist with a broken cry that he can’t bite back. Every second of denial pours into the way he unravels, hard and fast and blinding, pleasure crashing over him like a wave that nearly takes him under.
His vision whites out. It’s endless—pleasure spilling over into ache, release folding into relief so sharp it borders on pain. Tears streak hot down his temples, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, and still it doesn’t stop, his body shuddering through wave after wave until he’s nothing but shaking limbs and wrecked whimpers.
Q works him through it, steady and relentless, working him until he’s wrung dry, until Sal is twitching and oversensitive, his voice cracking on broken, wet noises that spill out without thought. Q holds him steady, murmuring soft words that Sal can barely register, his hand easing through the aftershocks, grounding him. The warmth of Q’s forehead pressed to his, the solid weight of him close, the way he keeps whispering I’ve got you, I’ve got you—that’s what finally gets Sal to breathe again.
He collapses back against the sheets, every inch of him trembling. It feels like his body doesn’t belong to him, like Q has stripped him bare and remade him in the span of a few breaths. His face burns, both from the heat of release and the shame of how desperate he was for it. He hides his face in Q’s neck, gasping for air.
For a long moment there’s nothing but the rush in his ears, the distant, steady murmur of Q’s voice trying to keep him tethered.
“That’s it,” Q murmurs quietly like he’s afraid to intrude upon whatever fragile place Sal has landed in. “I got you, baby. Breathe for me. Just breathe. So beautiful when you let go for me. My perfect girl.”
When Sal finally comes back to himself, Q is still above him, pressed flush to his side, grinding down against his hip like he’s trying not to, like he knows he should stop—but can’t. His face is pressed to Sal’s shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, muffled groans between clenched teeth.
“Fuck—sorry,” Q pants. “Should—should give you a minute, but I—”
Sal blinks up at the ceiling, still dazed, disoriented, but he can feel it—how wrecked Q is, how close he’s been pushed just from watching Sal unravel. His hand fumbles blindly for Q’s belt. It’s automatic, instinct more than thought—wanting to give something back, to take care of him, to make him fall apart too.
But Q catches his wrist before he gets anywhere, gentle but firm. “No,” he murmurs, voice rough and tender at the same time. “You don’t gotta do nothin’, sweetheart.”
Sal blinks up at him. “But—”
Q shakes his head, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple, his grip never leaving Sal’s wrist. “You’ve been so fuckin’ good to me. Patient, perfect. You don’t have to lift a finger. Just lie back, let me finish, yeah? Let me get off on you.”
Sal’s still twitching, body wrung out, every muscle loose and heavy against the mattress. He’s past the point of giving, anyway—there is nothing left in him but the aftershocks. So he just nods and doesn’t protest when Q shoves at Sal’s jeans, tugging them down just enough to bare the slope of his hip and thigh. The cool air brushes Sal’s damp skin before Q presses hot and hard against him, grinding down with a broken groan. Q ruts against him, desperate, chasing what’s left, using Sal’s body as his anchor, his breath breaking in Sal’s ear.
“I’m so fuckin’ worked up just by watchin’ you,” he says, tugging himself free, his fist wrapping around his cock. “Just let me use you. That’s all I need.”
Sal makes a helpless sound, somewhere between a whimper and a laugh, too spent to move, too undone to do more than let himself be handled. And before Sal can argue, Q is pressing in again, his hips rocking, the hot line of his cock grinding against the bare skin of Sal’s thigh.
“Fuck yeah, that’s it,” Q groans into his ear, voice shredded with want. His breath comes hot and uneven. “Look at you, lettin’ me get off on you like this—God, I don’t deserve you.”
Sal can barely move, just whines softly, eyelids fluttering. He’s aware of every roll of Q’s hips, every scrape of stubble against his damp skin, every low sound pulled out of him. His own climax still hums faintly in his veins, but now it’s all about Q—the weight of him, the need burning through him.
He lies back like Q asked, letting him take, letting him chase, letting him use the last of him. He can barely move, but his eyes stay fixed on Q—the flush high on his cheeks, the way his mouth falls open as pleasure takes hold on him, hair falling over his forehead, damp with sweat.
“You look so good,” Sal rasps, every word catching on the ragged edges of his breath. His hand flutters weakly, finding Q’s side, just to hold on to him. “Fuck, Q, you look so fucking good on me.”
Q shudders hard, his whole body jerking like he’s been shocked, and Sal realizes it’s working—the praise is breaking him apart. Even ruined, even half-conscious, Sal can still give him this.
Q holds him tight, grinding harder, faster, chasing the edge. His groans get sharper, higher, his body tensing with every desperate rut of his hips. The sound of it—the weight of him pressing Sal down, the slick drag against his thigh—makes him dizzy, even in his spent haze.
Sal can feel how close he is, the way every thrust grows tighter, more desperate. His own body answers automatically, arching up against Q, giving him more. “You’re so close,” he breathes, voice breaking as he threads trembling fingers through Q’s hair. “You can make a mess on me, babe, it’s okay. I want it. Want you to come all over me.”
That does it. Q’s rhythm stutters, his whole body bowing tight, a strangled noise tearing from his chest as he grinds down hard, riding the friction. His face twists, open and defenceless in a way Sal’s never seen before—like all that cocky composure has been stripped away, leaving something raw. His eyes flutter open just long enough to find Sal’s, glassy and desperate, before falling shut again. A broken sound claws its way out of his throat, low and guttural, almost a growl.
Wet heat spreads across Sal’s bare skin, seeps through the fabric of his jeans, sticky between their stomachs, glistening on Sal’s thigh. Q doesn’t stop right away, rutting through it with small, frantic jerks, his voice catching on half-formed curses against Sal’s neck.
“Fuck, baby, look at that,” Q gasps, pulling back just enough to see. “Look what you let me do to you.”
Sal just holds him, one hand at the back of his neck, the other curled in his shirt, grounding them both through the shuddering aftershocks.
The world comes back to them in pieces. Sal blinks hard, eyes focusing on the ceiling, the room, the shape of Q hovering above him, letting his body return to him one limb at a time.
The fog in his head lifts slowly. It feels almost like waking from a dream—a dream where he wasn’t quite himself, where his body and voice belonged to someone else entirely. He remembers the things he said, the way he begged, the way he gave in—and a flush rises hot on his face, not from pleasure this time, but from the sharp awareness that it was him. Him, saying those things. Wanting them.
It’s weird. Too weird. And yet, Q is still here, still holding him close like nothing about what just happened was strange at all. Like he doesn’t think Sal’s insane for wanting all of those things they just did together.
He can see it in Q, too—him coming back into consciousness, slowly slipping out of the role he was so caught up in moments ago. The sharp hunger in his eyes is softening. His brows twitch, then relax, his brown eyes flicking over Sal’s face as if he’s searching for proof that they’re both really here. There’s something so vulnerable in the way he blinks, expression shifting in micro-movements: heat into wonder, wonder into something softer still.
Sal watches all of it, transfixed, every flicker of emotion written clear across Q’s face. It does something to him to see the man who just unraveled him with such merciless precision now look at him like this, like it has permanently changed something in him too.
“Jesus, Sal,” Q breathes.
For a long moment, the room is quiet except for the sound of their breathing, both of them coming down, coming back to themselves. Q’s chest is still heaving. Sal’s throat is raw from moans he didn’t mean to give away.
They stare at each other. Then, almost at the same time, they both start laughing.
It bursts out of them awkwardly, unexpectedly—loud and helpless, too close to giggles. The kind of laughter that comes when nerves and relief collide, when the absurdity of what they just did finally hits.
Sal drops his forehead to Q’s, still shaking with laughter, his face burning for an entirely different reason now. “Oh my God,” he manages, voice a high-pitched thing of delirium. “What was that?”
Q barks out a breathless laugh. “Don’t ask me,” he says, defensive but laughing through it, his chest vibrating against Sal’s. “You started it!”
That sets Sal off again, muffling his laughter into Q’s skin, his stomach aching, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “That was like—like—” he gasps, “like bad porn!”
Q groans, dragging a hand down his face like he wants to disappear. His cheeks are flushed for once, not just from exertion but from something close to embarrassment. “Shit, you’re not even wrong. Sounded like I was readin’ off a fuckin’ script.”
Sal takes Q’s face in both hands and kisses him, clumsy and too hard, both of them still laughing into it. “You were so serious,” he giggles, trying to catch his breath. “‘Open your mouth, sweetheart’—” His impression of Q breaks into another fit of giggles, muffled against his hand.
“Oh, shut up,” Q says, still grinning, still laughing. “Like you weren’t drooling all over me the second I said it.”
Sal drops his voice into a ridiculous rasp. “‘You’ll come when I tell you to.’” He widens his eyes for dramatic effect, not even making it through the line before dissolving back into helpless laughter.
Q groans again, laughing too hard to look genuinely offended. “Fuck off. I didn’t sound like that.”
“You did!” Sal giggles. “Like—like some sleazy guy in a movie.”
“Oh yeah? Well, what about you, huh?” Q shoots back instantly, changing his voice into a high-pitched, mocking falsetto. “‘Please, Q, I’ll be your girl. I’ll be whatever you want,’” he whines, adding a loud, exaggerated moan at the end for good measure.
Sal smacks him in the chest. “You’re such an ass,” he laughs.
They’re quiet for a beat, both of them catching their breath, letting the laughter taper off into little hums and sighs.
Sal’s exhausted, but the giddiness isn’t going away. If anything, it’s multiplying. “You straight-up dominated me,” he giggles.
Q barks out a laugh of his own, incredulous, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Dominated? You make it sound like I’m some leather-clad drill sergeant. I was just—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, still grinning. “Okay, yeah. Fine. Maybe a little.”
“A little?” Sal echoes. “I was begging. I was bargaining with God.”
Q flops onto his back beside Sal, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes.
Sal turns to face him, sinking deeper into the sheets. “You just, what, decided I hadn’t suffered enough in my life? Was this a set-up? Were you punishing me? Where are the cameras?”
That sets Q off again, laughter spilling out of him, helpless and loud. He leans over, pressing his forehead to Sal’s, their laughter tangling together until neither of them can breathe.
“I was this close—” Sal pinches his fingers together dramatically, “—and you just stopped. Who does that?”
That makes Q pause. The grin fades, not gone, but softened into something more careful. His hand finds Sal’s hair, fingers idly carding through it. “Was it too much?” he asks, quieter now. “I wasn’t—fuck, I should’ve asked first. Just… I dunno, I wanted to see how far I could take you. Keep you right there. You were so…” he trails off like the memory itself short-circuits him. “So gone for me.”
It floors Sal, the contrast between the filthy words followed by this tenderness, like the two things were never at odds but part of the same whole.
Q’s eyes dart over Sal’s face, his mouth, then back up again. “You were so beautiful like that. All flushed, trembling, looking at me like I was the only thing holding you together. I just—” he exhales, shaky, raking a hand through his own hair. “You were giving me everything, and I didn’t want it to end. Guess I got carried away.”
It’s ridiculous, how much Sal loves him. How stupidly, how ferociously. He loves Q’s ridiculous bravado, his idiotic one-liners, his insane talent for turning any situation into something funny. He loves how, for all that, Q can still look at him like he’s the only person in the room—like none of it is a joke at all.
It floods every corner of him, swells until it almost hurts, a love so stupidly big it’s laughable. He loves every inch of him—the sharpness of his grin, the crudeness of his jokes, the way his eyes sparkle like he’s permanently amused by the world, the way he always notices when Sal needs a hand or a word or just silence. He loves him for being ridiculous, for being infuriating, for being the one person who can always make him laugh even when he doesn’t want to. But most of all, he loves how safe he feels with Q, how much it means that he is always paying attention, always so careful and considerate.
“I mean, I felt like I was gonna die, but… no, it wasn’t too much,” Sal tells him, the desperation and the tears a distant memory. “It was perfect.”
Relief flickers across Q’s face so quickly it almost looks like pain. His shoulders sag, and he laughs, short and breathless. “Yeah?”
Sal nods. His chest aches, but not from the laughter anymore—it’s from the flood of warmth that fills it, something sharp and tender all at once.
Q’s still grinning too, eyes crinkled at the corners, hair a mess, lips pink and swollen. And Sal just… stares. He can’t believe it—this is his best friend, the one he’s spent years teasing and bickering with, the one he used to watch and wonder if he’d ever be brave enough to want out loud. And now here they are, sprawled out together after doing something so bizarre, so intimate, and Q hadn’t even hesitated once.
Q drags a hand down his face, then gestures vaguely at the both of them, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “We didn’t even take our clothes off,” he says, as if he’s just now noticing the state they’re in.
Sal huffs out another laugh, half-mortified, half-giddy. His t-shirt and jeans are completely ruined—clinging damply to his chest, streaked and sticky with the evidence of what they’ve just done. The dark fabric makes every stain obvious, shining faintly in the low light.
Q doesn’t look much better. His stupid shirt with palm trees on it is beyond saving, the buttons misaligned from Sal’s frantic hands earlier. His collar is damp from Sal’s laughter and kisses and tears.
And Sal can’t help it—seeing them both like this, so completely marked by what they just shared—it makes his stomach flip and the absurdity of it even funnier, even sweeter.
His face is on fire, heat rolling all the way up to his hairline, but he’s laughing too hard to stop himself. “Oh my God, I can’t believe we—” he breaks off, embarrassed but so, so happy. “Who the fuck were we just now?”
Q stretches out beside him, propped up on an elbow, grinning down at him like the cat who got the cream. “Apparently I’m some kind of filthy mastermind,” he says, way too smug.
“I mean, yeah,” Sal mutters.
“And you…” Q pauses for effect, reaching over to press a lingering kiss to Sal’s mouth, “… are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
Sal just laughs—nothing like the desperate, breathless noises he’d made earlier. It doesn’t land the same way now. It doesn’t curl hot and heavy in his gut. Instead, it rolls off of him, harmless, another inside joke for him and Q to add to their endless collection.
Because that’s all Sal really wants, he realizes—the ache in his stomach from laughing too hard, Q’s smile pressed against his own, the way their breaths fall into sync after the storm of it all. Not the roleplay, not the strange headspace that overtook him. Just this. Just them.
Their mouths meet again, unhurried, like they’ve got all the time in the world. There’s no urgency left in it—just the steady, lingering press of lips against lips. Sal laughs into it, every bit of tension draining from his body, leaving nothing but warmth. He feels the curve of Q’s smile against his, the brush of stubble scratching his skin in the gentlest way, grounding him in the present. When Q tilts his head, deepening it, Sal lets him, opening easily, helplessly.
They break apart reluctantly, lips dragging until the last possible second, and then they’re both grinning, laughter spilling out between them again. It isn’t the frantic, breathless kind from earlier, softer now, but the absurdity of it lingers sweetly in the air—this strange, intense thing they just shared.
The aftermath is unglamorous, the kind of quiet routine that makes Sal’s chest ache more than anything else ever could. Q disappears into the bathroom for a minute, comes back with a damp towel, and they fumble through the clean-up together—half sheepish, half laughing when Sal squirms and mutters, “I can do it myself.”
They change into softer clothes—old t-shirts, sweatpants, cotton worn thin with age. They bump shoulders at the sink, toothpaste spilling from Sal’s mouth when he tries not to laugh at the sight of Q’s lopsided and unbearably charming grin with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.
The house is quiet as they shut off the bathroom light. Sheets rustle as they climb back into bed, finding each other instinctively in the dark. Their breathing evens out together, syncing, slow and steady.
Face to face, Sal can still see it written across Q’s expression—the memory of what they did, the way it had flipped some hidden switch in both of them. The sparkle in Q’s eyes isn’t going anywhere, and Sal knows they’re both still replaying it—every touch, every filthy word, every impossible, ridiculous thing they let themselves fall into.
Q shifts onto his side. His arm slips snugly around Sal’s waist, pulling him in until they’re chest to chest, noses brushing. He’s grinning, eyes heavy-lidded, hair sticking up in every direction. “Jesus, Sal,” he chuckles, obnoxiously smug. “Never seen you lose it that fast. All it took was me calling you my girl and you were gone.”
“Don’t,” Sal says, half-laughing, half-pleading, and covers Q’s mouth with his hand before he can get another word out. “Don’t you dare.”
Q’s grin only widens under his palm, his eyes glinting with that obnoxious spark of mischief.
“Seriously,” Sal insists, but his voice is ruined by the giggles spilling out of him. He’s shaking with it, trying to keep his hand firm, but Q’s muffled laughter vibrates against his skin until he can’t keep his hand from falling off.
“Oh, I’m daring,” Q says, laughing as he pulls Sal even closer. “You were so gone, baby. Putty in my hands.”
“Q,” Sal warns.
“What?” He tips Sal’s chin up with one finger, making him meet his smug gaze. “It was so sweet. I think you might have a crush on me.”
Sal swats weakly at his chest, mortified. “You’re never gonna let this go.”
Q pretends to think about it, then smirks. “Mm, probably not. Might bring it up next time you try to boss me around, remind you how fast you folded.”
Sal rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.
Q moves closer, his arm still around Sal’s waist. “What?” he teases, voice still rough from laughter. “Embarrassed now?”
Sal groans, covering his face with one hand as heat creeps up his neck. “A little, yeah,” he admits, muffled through his palm. “I don’t know what the fuck came over me, I…”
Q doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, I did.”
That makes Sal crack—he bursts out laughing, shoving weakly at Q’s shoulder. “Oh my God, stop it. I’m trying to be serious.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Q chuckles, clearly not sorry at all. He tucks his chin against the slope of Sal's shoulder, smile pressed into his skin. “Keep goin’.”
Sal shifts, staring at the ceiling like it might give him the words he’s looking for. His voice comes out low, hesitant. “I don’t even know why it… got to me like that.”
“I think you do,” Q says, softer now, coaxing for more. “And I’m very curious about it. Wanna tell me?”
“I guess it’s just—” Sal sighs, turning his head and forces himself to meet Q’s steady gaze. “You were always with women. And I’d watch you with them and think about what it would be like. Not that I wanted to be them, just... I wanted to be the one you looked at like that. The one you touched like that. And tonight, when you said it—it was like…” he breaks off, huffing out an embarrassed laugh, shoulders hitching up in a shrug. “Like I finally got all that, you know?”
Q’s grin fades into something softer, his thumb brushing lazy circles over Sal’s skin. “Aw, honey…”
“See? Dumb. I don’t even—”
Q shakes his head, leaning closer until their noses almost brush. His voice is low, not teasing now but certain. “Not dumb at all. You have no idea how much I liked it, Sal. How much it did for me too.”
“You’re just saying that—”
“I’m not,” Q interrupts, firm, like he won’t let Sal slip into dismissing himself. “You think I’d go that far just to humor you? No, baby. That was me, losing it right there with you.”
Sal peeks up at him, wary, still flushed, still waiting for the joke. “Really?”
“Really,” Q says simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “I liked it. A lot. Watching you come apart like that? Fuck, Sal, I’ll be thinking about it forever.” His thumb strokes over Sal’s cheekbone, slow and reassuring. “You never gotta be embarrassed about what you want. Not ever. You hear me?”
Sal laughs, startled and breathless. His chest feels too tight, too full. “Yeah, alright,” he manages, softer than he means to. “I hear you.”
“You’re cute when you’re like this, you know," Q murmurs against Sal's mouth. "All shy after. Like you weren’t beggin' for me to keep goin' less than an hour ago.”
“Shut up,” Sal mutters, mortified.
But then Q’s grin falters, softens, seriousness settling back in. His thumb strokes along Sal’s jaw, tender in a way that makes Sal’s stomach twist. “Hey. Listen to me.”
“Hm?”
“Callin’ you all that stuff was fun, but not ‘cause I miss anything. I don’t need any of that,” Q whispers. “I want you, sweetheart, only you. All the time. And I’m not gonna let you sit there thinkin’ you’re some… substitute or compromise.”
And then Q leans in, brushing their mouths together in a kiss that’s nothing like the messy desperation from before—it’s slow, grounding, patient. His lips linger like a promise.
“You’re it for me.”
Sal’s chest aches so hard it almost hurts. He tries to blink away the sudden sting in his eyes. Q is still looking at him like that—like he has all the time in the world to convince Sal that he means every word.
“I love you,” Sal whispers. It’s the only thing he can think to say. He can’t remember the last time anyone ever made him feel so completely wanted, so certain.
Q’s grin starts small, almost startled, then spreads into something bright, a smile that could light the whole damn room. “Yeah?” he says, voice warm, teasing at the edges but steady underneath. “Good. ‘Cause I love you too.”
The laughter that’s been simmering between them breaks again, softer this time, sweet and breathless as they lean in. Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s more smile than anything else, clumsy and warm, happiness pressed between them. Sal melts into it, hands fisting in Q’s shirt, overwhelmed by the certainty pressed against him, the heat of it, the love threaded through every touch.
And that’s what gets him. That’s what makes his chest go tight in the best way. His favorite part of all this, of the heat and the thrill and the madness of being with Q, is that he can still laugh with him. That even here, when everything’s changed, when they’ve crossed every line they used to pretend didn’t exist, Q is still his best friend—the one person who’s always known how to brighten his whole world no matter what.
Q nudges his nose against Sal’s hair, still chuckling under his breath like he can’t help it, and Sal feels it vibrate through his chest. And yeah, maybe they’ve become something new, something bigger, something that comes with stuff he can barely wrap his head around—but beneath all of it, the laughter is still there. The friendship. The love. The part of Q that’s always been his.
And that, Sal thinks as he lets himself sink into sleep, might just be the thing that matters most.