TW: Smut, Fluff, Established Tross, Uni AU, slight D/s elements

If he thinks about it, climbing out of the window of his apartment to leave the building was the worst idea ever. At the time, it sounded great; his roommate had brought home a girl, a pretty, young thing, willowy and pale, giggling and overly tactile with lust, and Smith hadn't wanted to stay in their vicinity much longer. No, he made the best call under the circumstances. Not his tastes at all. He could've just holed into his bedroom, but. No.

He shudders at the thought of what he might have borne witness to - previous events having given a good indication - and his hands clench ever so tighter around the metal railings burning gelidly into the meat of his palms, as he scrabbles with his feet at the brick walls for purchase. The night's cold, sun gone down hours ago, and the hoodie, tee, and jeans combo was really not a wise idea, but given the very short time frame he had to work around, it's for the best.

He's two floors off the ground, and having successfully descended from his own window on the third floor, and across a few rooms, he would've thought he'd be able to get the entire way down. But his muscles are fatiguing swiftly, sapped by the vampiric winter chill, and he really doesn't want to fall, hurt himself.

His budding music career might be unjustly and prematurely terminated, though whether by injury or worse, he doesn't want to consider - his brain might run away with itself, and then he'll never work out a solution to his situation.

He's starting to shiver like a plucked string, abdominal trembling in an effort to hold lower half up to seek a perch for his feet for more stability. After a couple more attempts, desperation and adrenaline making sweat begin to bead near his temples, his right foot manages to wedge itself. It's a tiny amount of relief, but it's much better than before.

Eyes wide, Smith gives one last surge of energy to his body, and pulls himself up to slam the flat of his palm against the dark-dulled glass with a thump, before quickly slapping his palm back to the flat top of the railing with its peeling charcoal paint. His biceps burn and the skin of his hands sting cold.

He waits - he doesn't know how long for, probably not long but each heartbeat is pulled out like elastic - before he hears the quick slapping which is almost entirely blocked out by the pounding of blood through him.

A pale face appears at the window, thin, angular, with sharp cheekbones and gorgeous lips, with eyes and hair offset by his skin. A little part of him whimpers, but really his mind is mainly focused on getting inside, and he hopes the message of his desperation is conveyed through his wide and panicked eyes.

The window opens outward with a crunch of mechanisms, pushed outward in a sweep by the man, and wiry arms reach down so hands are planted below one of his shoulders. The brunet turns to shout over his shoulder, and a second figure rushes to the window, resolving into a tall man with brilliant blue eyes, and dark hair, prompting that little voice in his mind to make another small sound of indignant outrage. A second grapes latches around his other arm, and the pair heave him into the warmth of their apartment.

He drops to the floor, to catch his breath and soothe his complaining limbs with the balm of inaction, all the while the rushing of his blood subsides.

The lights aren't on in the apartment, obviously having been neglected in the rush to help him. It is only when he regains some level of ability to speak without gasping, that he looks up and makes his biggest, most amazing, mistake of the evening.

Both men are still stood there, and goddamn it, he had to choose this apartment of all of them to be stuck at.

They're stood, embarrassed, shirtless - trouser-less on the taller man's part - and it's obvious what he interrupted. The blue eyed man's lips are kiss-bitten a lurid shade, and he's got conspicuous blemishes along his clavicles and across his neck. The brunet's hair is in disarray, strands uneven arranged, and vivid lines run across his back and sides, left in the wake of rough hands. Oh shit.

He moans - actually moans - and oh god, no matter how great the chagrin at doing this, his brain's too caught up in imaginings and realities to care. He can feel his body reacting to the sight of them, the long lines of pale limbs, and the smooth edges of muscles, and the ridges of tendons. Oh christ can he imagine.

They're both watching, the brunet with an inscrutable expression, and the dark haired man with curiosity. Then a smile - quick, but menacing in its shrewdness - breaks across the smaller man's face, and he pulls the darker haired man down to whisper in his ear.

Smith can hear soft sibilants and fricatives, but not the words themselves, hidden playfully as they are by a cupped palm, and the shocked expression, followed by blushing on the taller man's cheeks, makes apprehension and nerves buzz through Smith.

Then the taller man is pulled into a bruising kiss by the brunet's hand on the back of his neck, and the other snakes down to press against the front of his boxers, and the moan, wanton and broken, makes Smith's blood heat. Oh god, this should be so wrong but it feels so right. He struggles to a stand like a foal just born, legs all jelly and shaking, and suddenly his space is invaded by the brunet. Dark eyes pierce his, reading everything they can through his, and when he seems to be contented with what he sees, he speaks.

"Hi, I'm Trott, this is Ross." And his voice is low and roughened by arousal, and his skin's standing on end, and oh god, Smith can't stand it. He barely says his own name in a recognisable form, then makes some kind of desperate noise through his nose - he can't speak, his higher mind is too far gone - and then Trott reaches up to pull him down for a kiss, and their lips meet, not a single bit chastely. He can taste the brunet, smell the brunet's sweat and clean shampoo, a delicious juxtaposition, feel the man's slick skin where he presses his fingers to Trott's back like brands, and his senses are overtaken.

He feels more warmth spread behind him, envelop him entirely, and teeth graze his neck and his shoulder and he squirms at the overload of the shared attention turned directly on him. Hands cup his waist, covetously, and he can feel Ross's arousal pressed to the curve of his ass, and he has to shudder, gasp.

The front of him is suddenly cooled and he misses the brunet's presence immediately. A hand, surprisingly gentle in the aftermath of the kiss, presses warm against his cheek, and taps once to get him to open his eyes. The does, not recalling when he closed them, and has to look away, the intensity there in those brown pools incendiary.

Another tap, more insistent this time, makes him look back at the smaller man, and he feels himself being flayed open by that look. "Are you alright, sunshine?" The question is asked hushed, voice even more gravelly, and all Smith can do is eagerly nod, while Ross presses insistently against him, chest flush to his back, hips square.

A beat longer passes, and then his hand is clasped in Trott's, and Ross follows quickly behind. Their steps are quick pads over the carpet where Smith's are thuds, still in his boots. They remedy that quickly, pulling the laces loose and heaving them off his feet, before the smallest man pushes him down flat to the mattress. Smith's brain seems to lag as he tries to remember how he got here, blissful fragments of memory filling him with pleasure, and making him look forward to what's yet to come.

The mattress dips with squealing complaints as the two men quickly settle to either side of him, muscles playing under their skin enticingly as they work off his jeans, hands brushing teasingly at his crotch as the button is undone and fly pulled down. They're pulled off entirely, air cool on his exposed skin, and he shivers a little, both the fleeting ministrations and cold air responsible. As soon as his jeans are pooled on the floor, and his tee has joined the pile, flung into the corner, where his socks and shoes lie forlornly, teasing touches trail across his skin.

Smith feels himself getting harder, and a pressure in the vicinity, faux-mistakenly, makes his hips jump, prompting a quiet, husky laugh. He opens his eyes in time to see Ross lean down to lave at a nipple, forcing choked expletives through his teeth. A hand wraps loosely around his cock, moving light and oh so slowly down his shaft, and he sound he makes is complete gibberish.

Ross moves to bite at his stomach while he tweaks Smith's nipples, and he writhes on the bed while he claws at the sheets below him. Fuck. He can barely think, mind a whirl of pleasure and almost pain where Ross is biting and Trott is barely brushing his aching length.

He flails his hand out, uncoordinated and sloppy, for Ross's hips, follows the lines of him to find his crotch and presses against him, cotton of his underwear causing friction, making Ross gasp breathily, and he can feel the cool rush of panting breaths against his front, making him tremble. Holy shit.

There's a creaking and a shifting of the mattress below him, warmth of Trott leaving him, and Smith looks up in jumbled confusion, to search for the shorter man. Ross enters his field of view, eyes blown gloriously wide and lips shining and pink where he licks and bites them nervously, and he runs his hands up Smith's back to pull him to seated and guide him back towards the headboard of the bed. "Have you done this before?" His voice is barely audible, just a whisper in his ear, and Smith leans forward to plaster himself against the man, press his lips against his pulse and hum an affirmative, making Ross's body go rigid as he tries to pull his brain back to thinking. "G-good." Is moaned back.

Trott clambers nimbly back onto the bed, a small bottle clasped in one hand. His eyes are so dark, irises a barely there border between wide black and white, and his Cupid bow lips are pulled back revealing a brilliant smile. He lifts the bottle, jiggles it a bit to indicate. He's taken his jeans and boxers off, and Ross quickly twigs he's the only one with any clothes left on, so he wriggles to pull off his underwear.

Smith's heart is beating a quick pace to his body, and his stomach swirls as he waits. Ross reaches a palm forward to encircle Smith's cock, but it's gently guided away by Trott, who instead leans down slowly, painstakingly, to place the barest touch of a kiss against the tip of him. Smith can only moan, the sound strangled.

The dark haired man leans down to kiss his neck at the same time as Trott curves his tongue around his shaft and sucks, and Smith's finding it too difficult to stay aware and not drift in the swells of pleasure that radiate from the south of him with every further heartbeat. There's a pressure against his lower stomach, and Smith makes the mistake of looking down to see the brunet with his forearm braced across his hips to pin him in place, while he holds the head of his cock with hollowed cheeks, hand between his own legs.

Fuck, oh fuck. It's a good thing Ross is kissing him, swallowing the groans bubbling from him. There's a white-hot shock that spreads through him where the brunet moans around him, vibrations heady and delicious, and he pulls away from the dark haired man to gasp. "Mmph! Close."

The wet heat's gone then, leaving him to shudder as Ross again bites at the meat of his shoulders and his chest alternatively, as the heat from his abdomen seeps away and reduces again.

There's a soft kiss at his hip, then his thigh, as a small click of a bottle cap opening, then a second or two later, closing, sounds. There's the sticky sound of lubricant being quickly spread, and them he feels a finger trace along his ass. He whimpers when he feels it press against him, the cold of the lube making him whimper, the pressure insistent but careful. Ross is calmer in his kissing, making sure to make the process easier and quicker for Smith by making not keying him up, and Trott works his finger cautiously, until Smith can't help begging for more. He needs it.

The next digit is pressed slowly in, making Smith groan, entire being fixated on what's being done to him in that moment. He lets his spread legs fall further open to make it easier, panting all the while. By the third finger, Smith can barely resist moving to push against the intrusion, and when Trott crooks them and brushes against that spot, he thinks he sees stars. "Okay Smith?" The pitch-dark voiced is reserved and wondering, making sure that he's still okay.

"Please, just fuck me, Trott." He doesn't know how he was able to sound so coherent - his brain is pleasure-scrambled mush now. The brunet nods, removes his fingers, and Smith misses them straight away, clenching down on nothing. There brunet tears a small packet open, rolls it down and slicks his cock with more lube, and then Smith feels the press of him lining up the head of his cock with his entrance. He has to force himself to keep breathing steadily, the muscles in his stomach jumping sporadically, as Ross soothingly brushes him.

When Trott pushes in, the rushing of blood in his ears drowns out the comforting words spoken in soft voices by the men above him, and he struggles not to clench around Trott, he feels, rather than hears the smaller man's deep groan where their chests are flush, as he pushes in small increments as far into Smith as he can, and he shakily holds himself still to allow him to adapt to the intrusion.

"You alright?" The brunet pushes his fringe out of his face where it fell across his forehead, and smiles reassuringly at the man. Smith holds a finger up in indication to be given a little while longer to adapt, and Trott takes to soothingly rubbing small circles on the inside of his splayed knees as he waits. Ross keeps kissing his shoulder, while he traces his own length with light fingers, muffling his moans with his arm.

When he's ready, Smith clenches around Trott's cock playfully, smirking at the man as he catches his weight on braced arms in surprise at the overwhelming wave of sensation it causes. Shortly after, their eyes meet, and Smith regrets what he did, as a tiny smirk pulls at the man's lips.

He pushes back the taller man's legs, curling his spine, and making him curse. It makes it easier for the brunet to get the perfect angle to hit the point in Smith that makes his vision turn to sparks, and he takes pleasure in reducing the taller man into crying a wordless frenzy of nonsense syllables. Trott leans forward to kiss him - still maintaining his hard rhythm - biting at his lip, then dipping his head to suck bruises into the pale flesh of Smith's shoulders and chest.

As the pleasure mounts, a hand curls firmly around his cock - Ross's he realises - and briskly pulls along the length, then runs lightly up the underside, strokes changing pressure each time, and filling his vision with lights. One last twisting flick, and he's coming, release painting his mind bright and loud. The strokes continue until he's tiding out on a sea of blissful endorphins, and he only distantly recognises that Trott has carefully pulled out of him.

Gasping noises of different tones are released by the two men as Smith sleepily watches on, admiring the tandem harmony of their bodies, planes of pale skin stretching and curving as they bring each other to climax, moaning, and he would be lying if he said he weren't a little effected, but he's too tired, body aching wonderfully, to do anything else. He hears Trott stumble off to chuck away the condom, then pad back, and the two men draw close to him like moths to light, arms and legs tangling.

He doesn't want to leave, he realises, and it's not really a shock. His roommate's an asshole, but it's more than that. He feels... Complete. Considering it sounds stupid, and he begins to tense up as he worries. He feels fingers carefully trace the swell of his bicep, and Trott carefully props himself on an elbow to lean over him and look at him directly, eyes heavy-lidded, but still intimidating in how deep they seem to see into him.

"What's the matter, sunshine?" The concern is heavy in his voice as he flicks his eyes over to Ross, who moves his bulk closer to Smith to share the warmth comfortingly, hands meshing.

Smith attempts to speak, throat clicking with nerves, and voice slightly cracked with use. He clears his throat again. "Can-" He takes a deep breath, and is surprised that it's shuddering. "Can I stay?"

The brunet's eyes soften further in recognition of the uncertainty the taller man felt, the hesitation to ask for something he wanted because he didn't know if he was wanted. He brings his hand up to comfortingly trace Smith's cheek, as Ross squeezes his hand, and snuggles even closer. "Of course." And the smile holds a promise that the auburn haired man is scared to consider. The ramifications, the meaning too great for him to contemplate with the state he's in.

Smith rolls onto his side, faces Ross, who smiles sweetly while his eyes are closed, their hands still clasped. Trott leans down the bed to pull up the quilt, and spreads it over them, thick sheets cocoon like. There's a kiss at his nape where the brunet presses close to him, and their skin sticks to one another, the smell of sex more obvious with their bodies close and minds more aware. Trott begins to talk, seemingly reading his mind, lips close to the skin of his neck. "Don't worry about it, you can have a shower in the morning, okay?"

With Trott's arm slung over his waist, and he and Ross's hands pressed together, Smith begins to relax and his worries clear, sleep settling like a fog over them, as they curl closer.

Credit to Siera_Writes on Ao3