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Washington took his hand in his leading the taller teen away from other students, and the hallways. He pushed open a door a tugged Locus in after him. It was a cozy room, too small for its own good, filled with plush cushions and bright clothes of different eras.
This was one of the drama prop rooms.
Locus allowed the blond to pull off his leather jacket, tossing the article of clothing towards the pile of pillows behind Locus. The blond gestured for him to sit and Locus did so with an elegant flop backwards into the pile. Wash grinned down at the older teen as he shimmied out of his gray sweater and tossed it on top of the leather jacket.
“You’re not fighting this,” the blond teen grinned sinking down with his knees on either side of Locus’ waist.
He slid a hand up the back of Wash’s legs, over the curve of his ass and finally up the back of his dark green shirt. Locus stared at the logo, “is this mine?” he inquired trailing his hands back down to that back of the blond’s pants.
Wash grinned cocking his brow, “there’s a possibility.” He ground back against Locus’ jean covered crotch and grinned all the wider at the hiss Locus inhaled with.
Washington was horrible, just plain terrible. His gray-blue eyes captivating and his blond hair rumbled and poofed up in the best ways—it drove Locus mad. In class all he’d do is sit behind the blond and count the freckles on his neck, catching himself before he could reach out and brush a finger over the skin and down his neck. It has happened before and it was embarrassing to realise that the person sitting beside him was staring—laughing behind their hands.
And then when they’d kiss; well, it’s safe to say that they’ve landed themselves in a few detentions because of the kisses moving past just a peck or a swipe of tongues and more of the kind where people label it as dry sex against lockers. That’s certainly what the teachers were calling it when they kept them after school and during lunch from the following three days (next time would be a suspension, they warned... they were correct).
Their lips met, teeth knocking as they opened their mouths—wide, too wide for normal sweet and slow kissing. Wash went straight to plunging his tongue into the other’s mouth—curling and pressing, sliding together. Locus could only grip and grind up against the other teen, his clothed cock rubbing against Washington’s ass—Wash rocked back.
Wash’s hands roamed; down over his chest, pulling at his shirt until he could roll it up to Locus’ nipples.
And that’s when the door opened and Donut walked in, “so I said that the confetti should’ve been a—oh, um.”
Wash jumped, breaking away from the teen under him and staring at the new arrival(s) with comically widened eyes, a string of spit connecting the two males. Locus licked his lips, hands still pocketed in Wash’s back pockets—the boy above him was the only thing covering up the fact that he had a raging boner (and Wash was sporting one as well if the stiffness against his stomach was anything to go from).
Donut and friend pointed towards a box of props and costumes beside the couple, “we’re just going to grab some of those for class okie day?” The couple didn’t reply, sticking to watching the two drama students quickly gather their needed props and costumes before leaving just as quickly as they arrived.
It was another forty-seven seconds after the door clicked shut before either moved or made a sound.
Wash groaned sinking—splaying out over the other with his nose buried in the junction between his neck and shoulder, “mood’s ruined.”
Locus had to agree.