Oh, The Places You'll Go

Funkadelic

Notes: Because people asked for Dan/Dave. And I am nothing if not suggestible.


Dan's seen Dave move. Seen him shake his tail feather in bars, at impromptu office parties, when Lance Armstrong got that first Tour win. Seen the way he sways, lithe and fluid, every part of him in harmony, his mind connected to his body connected to the beat connected to the groove. Dan's seen it. Dan's watched it. Dan's wanted to be whichever woman Dave's dancing with this time. He's wanted to see if some of that easy grace will rub off, if he could recognise the patterns Dave's hands describe in the air if they were described on Dan's skin instead. Let's not beat about the bush here, he's wondered if Dave fucks the way he dances.

He's wondered if Dave's chilled out grooves mean that he'd take his time undressing Dan. Stroking Dan's exposed skin as each piece of clothing is peeled away. Warm breath, hot mouth, clever tongue creating a melody across Dan's nakedness. Pirouetting Dan like a ballerina, holding him flat against the glass wall of the office. Hidden fingers tap, tap, tapping out a rhythm to drive Dan insane, replaced by the blunt beating of a cock driving in and out and Dave's hand tugging at Dan, rhythm fractured, a tempo shift. Dave's hips in a two-step shuffle, forward and back, forward and back. And Dan feels the music in his toes, in his fingers, in his cock, in his ass and he feels the waves rising, the key change coming and that is it for him. All over. Dave? Dave pounds out the heavy bass beat and the room hums with the power of it. Dan's hands press into the glass, his fingertips playing a tune in counterpoint, slamming down in a discordant crash as the music, and Dave, reach their climax.

Or maybe his languid movements are hiding a sense of control and Dave is demanding; tells Dan what to do. Plants his feet apart and orders Dan to his knees. And Dan goes. Gladly. And then? Ah, what then? Dave puts his hand on Dan's head, keeping him away from what he wants and says, his voice low and amused, compound time.

"What do you want, Dan?"

And it's not fair, because he knows, he already knows. He feeds on the energy the music gives him and he accepts it, changes it, exudes it. He knows how good he looks when he moves. He's no fool, he's seen the way Dan watches him, eyes heavy-lidded and unfaltering. But still he asks, and Dan answers because he's hypnotised and he can't get enough.

"You. I want you." And Dan's voice is harsh and there's no rhyme.

"I need more, Danny." Syncopated rhythm guitars.

"I want to suck your cock." Dan is punk to Dave's funk. And there is rhyme. A zipper goes and layers the sound. Dave's cock, stiff and heavy, bobs in front of Dan - conducting the band.

Dan is awed by the size of it. Stereotyped. Stereophonic. A rush of sound as he takes it in his mouth, lips bowing hard, hot flesh. Licks around the head, teasing across the slit. Dan slides his mouth down the shaft, then back up, hollowing his cheeks. Down, out, up, in. Dave's hand grips Dan's short hair and his hips shift back and forth in tiny movements. It's a binary rhythm. They're in the groove and Dan's feeling it. He steadies himself, one hand on Dave's thigh, and snakes the other around his own cock. He's a quick learner, playing two instruments at once. Dave's adding vocals; chants and hollers. Dan's breathing hard through his nose and it weaves in and out of the groans and grunts. He could go with this riff all night.

But Dave's grip is tightening and he's thrusting harder and Dan's rocking back on his heels because there's no more room in his mouth and he doesn't want to choke, break the harmony. And then Dave yells, stripped down, hardcore and Dan's sucking it down, letting the warm fluid wash down his throat. Dave leans back against the table, watching Dan with glittering eyes. Funked out. But who needs to pay the piper when you've got your own tune? Dan's working himself like a pro. He's got two hands now and while one keeps the rhythm without a single misstep, the other unbuttons his fly, gives him easier access. Then it disappears out of sight, into his boxers. It's Dave's turn to watch as more of Dan's arm vanishes. Dan's finger slips further backwards, pushing into that dark hole. He strokes down as he pulls up, over and over again. He's milking his solo and then it's milking him as he can't take any more and he comes, pitching forward with the force of it. He grins at Dave. Dave grins back. Sweet music.

Dan's seen Dave move. He watches. He wonders. And sometimes when he goes home, he'll put on George Clinton, close his eyes and let the funk in.


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