For Roz on her special day:
Some people know, some people don’t, Roz was my beta for half an eternity. She probably spent about 85% of her sanity cleaning up my messes. She was my first, my last, my only editor; the only gal I let tell me how utterly awful I was (am?). If memory serves, though it rarely does, it started with an email (from her to me) pointing out 119 errors I’d made over the course of a few pages in one of my earliest attempts at fanfiction. I was shocked to see the glaring mistakes I’d made pointed out to me in this neat little bulleted list. I immediately asked her to continue slapping me around for as long as she could tolerate it.
Too many years and stories to bother counting later, and here we are…two girls who bonded over syntax and gay sex oh so long ago.
I honestly owe any ounce of elegance my writing has gained to Roz.
So happy fucking birthday, friend. And oh yeah…this is un-betaed;)
Oh also...I know no spoilers and while this is future-based it has nothing to do with anything.
**
I wrote this short piece a long time ago (well a version of it). Back then my muse was full and heavy and present and impossible to ignore. In writing something for Roz I wanted to remember what it felt like to really enjoy the process, so I decided to extend on something from the good old days…but as with all things, it turned into something else entirely.
Your tongue is too big for your mouth and his hands are so hot they burn. This is not the place or even the time and you’re really not sure…fuck it, ah, if he touches you right there, just one more time.
Flick of the tongue, switch the grip to his wrist, everything burns, zipper down, turned around, face to the wall, panting so hard your lungs burst, eyes squeezed so tight they water, stomach so tense it trembles.
Push, buck, slide, stop, inhale, exhale, brace yourself, grip, melt and feel…anything for more…yes.
And it’s over before it started. But you know that it happened because you ache in the good way and though you hate it, there’s a grin on your face bigger than…well, his.
Way Down Deep
“New York suits you, Sunshine.” You wait for a reaction, a half smile is all you get.
His apartment is small but bright, in just the way an artist’s should be. You eye his double bed and wonder when he last had sex in it.
You booked a hotel room. He didn’t touch you when he answered the door. You felt the lightening running through your veins all the same. He isn’t as easy to read as you remember.
“It’s nice,” you give a smile he knows is forced.
He shrugs, “It’s home.” It’s been too many years for him to wilt under your scrutinizing gaze, but he does it anyway. It makes something inside of you burn for a life you gave up long ago.
“When’s your meeting?” He pops beers, hands you one. They’re domestic, but you don’t really mind. You’re parched.
A long swig and you find your voice so you can reply, “Tomorrow, 10.”
He nods, “I thought we’d have Italian for dinner. Great place on the corner and I know you secretly love pasta.” He smirks, his nose wrinkles. He looks nineteen again.
You smirk back and nod, you wonder if you look as old as you feel.
“You look great,” he sighs. He can, apparently, still read your mind. It takes your breath away for a minute, maybe two.
You muster a smile, sit on the couch next to him, “So do you.”
He blushes. You feel yourself surge ahead on the scoreboard.
“That yours,” you motion to a large painting taking up the wall opposite where you’re seated. It’s bright and furious and hopeful.
He nods and looks down, he knows it’s brilliant.
“How much?” You finish your beer.
“Not for sale,” he gets up to get you both another.
**
Over dinner you talk about a show he’s having in a small gallery downtown next month. You say you’d like to come see it, you’re not sure if you mean it. But something inside of you wants to, and you figure that counts for something.
He regales you with tales of the gallery owner, an old queen with a penchant for blonds. Justin knows he got the show because he smiled and batted his little blue eyes in just the right way. He’s not a child anymore, he understands that life is about taking advantage of every situation and making things happen for yourself instead of waiting for them to happen to you.
After all, he’s the one who left you to find a life worth living. He hasn’t been naïve in as long as you can remember.
You both drink too much and he suggests a walk in the crisp night air to sober up. You’re not sure where he’s headed, but you guess you’d follow him anywhere.
**
“So here we are,” you realize he’s said that twice and he’s waiting for you to respond. When you look up, the lights of the Waldorf rain down and make you blind for a second.
When you refocus on his face he seems unsure, sad in a way that makes you want to touch him.
“Justin,” you start, but stop. Really, what is there to say?
He smiles slightly and rolls up onto the balls of his feet so he can kiss your cheek. You catch the side of his face and manipulate it until his lips meet yours. You breathe in sharp and fast, you wonder if he can feel your pulse beat triple time where his fingers grasp your wrist.
“Brian,” your name comes out a hushed warning, smells like ripe red something.
You shake your head, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he takes your hand and leads you into the lobby.
**
“But,” you start, but stop. He takes the thin plastic key from your pocket and opens the door to a suite that suddenly doesn’t seem nice enough.
He turns to lock the door, tosses the key away, grabs the lapels on your jacket.
“Brian,” he says your name with certainty now, it makes your knees weak. You had no idea he’d still have this power…or maybe you did.
His lips press you so hard you fall back against the door. The thud is audible but you only hear the ringing in your ears.
His tongue laps the roof of your mouth and you remember talking on the phone to him weeks ago, telling him you’d be in town on business. You jerked off as you read him your itinerary.
**
“Touch me,” he breathes heavy on your chin. You didn’t realize that you weren’t reacting. Your mind was overflowing with white noise.
You wrap your arms around his waist, nearly pull his feet off the floor. You kiss him hard and reverse your positions, press his back to the door.
You break the buttons on his shirt to get your hands on his stomach. He huffs a laugh as the shards of plastic hit the floor.
“Brian,” he moans. You’d do anything to make him say your name.
You drop to your knees and bring his pants to the floor with you. You burry your face in hair that you can’t believe is still blond and soft and trimmed just the way you taught him.
You take him in your mouth just to hear him moan again. You hold his thighs as they tremble and pray that you remember to breathe.
He fists your hair and cries your name and you can’t figure out why your eyes are wet.
When he pulls you to your feet you feel dizzy.
“Come on,” he drags you into the other room, pushes you down on the bed, breaks the buttons on your shirt and cuts the skin at your waist when he pulls on your belt too quickly.
“Sorry,” he traces hot little fingers over the welt and kisses down your abdomen to soothe the broken skin.
“S’okay,” you reach for something, but there’s nothing to hold onto.
When you’re naked he stands at the foot of the bed and stares at you. You lean up on your elbows and stare back. You take inventory of what is the same and what is different.
You might worry about the lack of definition on your stomach or the way your thighs aren’t so lean these days, but when his eyes get glassy and his lids get heavy you assume that it doesn’t matter.
He climbs up your body, drags his tongue over all the places he remembers you like. You laugh to yourself about sweet spots and hot zones and how things that got you off when you were thirteen still feel good.
“I want to fuck you.”
Your neck snaps to the side. Your eyes lock on his.
Even back then it was rare and required coaxing and promises and was only to be attempted on the best of days. You can’t imagine why he thinks he deserves it now, except you know that he does.
You roll over without comment; you wonder what his face looks like. You feel his warm, wet tongue trace every vertebra and you hold your breath as you wait.
When he gets there you open your legs for him. You feel him pause, you imagine him awe struck. You’re not the person you were then…well you are, but in ways you are different. You are less resistant.
He pokes and prods and makes you fist the sheets and hiss his name. He adds a finger, then a second and fucks you with one hand while he grabs a condom with the other. He’s better at this than he used to be, and even back then he was amazing.
You brace yourself and shut your eyes as you reach for the headboard. You hear him laugh a little as you rise up and clutch at the dark wood. You’d be mad at him for making you feel like this, except all you want in the world right now is to feel…just…like…this.
“Fuck,” the air flies out of your lungs and your legs give out underneath you. You know in seconds that he can tell just how long it’s been.
He mutters obscenities and tries so hard to go slow, but it’s useless. You understand.
Your tongue is too big for your mouth and his hands are so hot they burn. You’re really not sure you can take this…but, ah, fuck it, yes…if he touches you right there, just one more time.
Flick of the tongue, his fingers grip your hips, everything burns. Panting so hard your lungs burst, eyes squeezed so tight they water, stomach so tense it trembles.
Push, buck, slide, stop, inhale, exhale, brace yourself, grip, melt and feel…anything for more…yes.
And it’s over before it started. But you know that it happened because you ache in the good way and though you hate it, there’s a grin on your face bigger than…well, his.
He pulls off the condom, ties it and tosses it. “Took you long enough,” he smiles. You laugh together. That might have been the fastest fuck of your life, though arguably the best.
You reach over and pull him to you. He slings a leg over both of yours and traces patterns around your left nipple.
“Brian?” He sounds nineteen again.
“Yeah,” you mutter through a yawn, push down the dread rising up like bile in your throat.
“Can I stay?”
“Of course,” what a question, did he think you’d kick him out after that?
“No, I mean…,” he pushes up on an elbow and looks at you. Really looks at you.
“Oh,” you look away. Oh.
He pushes a flat, warm palm to your chest and nudges until you turn back to face him.
You watch him and he watches you and you can feel part of yourself looking down on you both, the part of you that whispers say yes.
You were never perfect together. You are never going to be. But if you have one chance in this life it’s with him. And if you’ve learned anything at all after a decade with him and then a decade without him, it’s that with him works a fuck of a lot better.
You nod.
He smiles, and this time you feel it way down deep.
**
“Alarm?” He whispers into your neck. He always was irresistible just before sleep.
“What?” You palm his ass, you worry it's sore. You've been working to even the score all night.
“You gotta get up.”
“What?”
He pushes back and stares at you, brows furrowed, “Your appointment?”
You blush, “I never had one.”
“Oh,” he blushes. Oh.
End
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