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Gradiva
Warnings:
Some chapters are heavy on smut, others are not. Overall, NC-17.
A fair amount of angst.
A little S&M, but nothing major at all.
Not beta-ed and written between midnight and 5 AM b/c of lack of sleep.
Random Meta:
lenajill
wanted Biblical references. Blame her.
I didn't put too many otherwise it would be a philosophy paper. If you really
want me to do that, I will, but not in a fic. I found my old notes on the Bible
and Nietzsche, so ... yeah, you REALLY don't want that.
viola69 and lenajill better be satisfied b/c I ain't rewriting this again. Also, they gave me the plot... or some of it. And pointed out stuff wrong with the original.
I didn't do the thing where Justin confronts Joanie, because:
(a) Justin is far too WASPY for a real smackdown with a woman, IMHO.
(b) Justin is fairly non-confrontational unlike, for instance, Craig.
(c) Randall and Cael are doing a fair amount of drama and smackdown, so not
going to steal their thunder.
I didn't want to RESOLVE the ending, so it's as Myrna would say "Hopeful,
if not happy."
References are from Nietzsche's "The wanderer and his shadow," "The Birth of Tragedy," and the "Antichrist." And of course, the Bible. And Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead."
* * * * * * * * *
Brian had started to think too often about the ten-years-from-now. It had only
taken a week for Justin to be re-accepted into PIFA - he was told he could start
the next semester, and the six months until then would give him a good shot
at paying the tuition himself. And ten years from now, Justin would be a successful
artist, working in animation or fashion or just about anything, while Brian
would be the increasingly old-looking, pathetic man who'd held him back. There
were no interviews. On some nights, he woke up in a fright after thinking of
himself working in construction, or food service... coming home smelling like
grease and sweat in frayed jeans, the years of hedonism catching up to him in
folds around his belly or under his eyes. And Justin aged to graceful maturity,
carousing with the elite of New York and Paris, flying home to him, kissing
him with the slightest twinge of guilt. The intervals would get longer and longer,
but the checks would continue coming to him regularly.
If they stared at each other a little suspiciously from time to time, neither
said anything. If Justin paid for some the groceries he didn't say so; and if
Brian didn't call him over as much, he didn't give any reasons for it. They
still had sex. When the telephone was cut off, they fucked all night.
The internet was the second to go. Brian called Justin over, kissed him hungrily
before he was even through the doorway. He blotted out all thoughts except for
the tongue swirling against his, held Justin's cheek in one palm and pulled
on his hair with the other hand. They circled around each other before collapsing
to their knees, tearing off each other's clothes frantically. Finally Justin
lay back on the floor, his arms spread out to his sides. Brian pounced on him,
wedging his hands underneath Justin's head to support him, kissing him, kissing
him until Justin pushed him away to catch his breath and pulled him back in
again. They never actually stopped kissing, never got further than that. The
kisses turned tender and comforting, Justin rolling on top of Brian and running
his fingers down his cheek. They lay there on the floor for a while, cheek to
cheek, Justin drawing patterns on the floor, Brian making lazy circles on Justin's
back. For a while, the internet was forgotten.
The heat was next. It was May, so it was about time anyway, but the giant red
"OVERDUE" on the last bill was irritating. He positioned Justin, standing up
but bent over, hands holding his knees, legs slightly apart. He adjusted the
height by moving Justin's feet slightly, walked around him to inspect his work.
He licked behind the calves to make Justin gasp, then between his thighs, his
hair tickling Justin as he moved up to Justin's ass. He spread apart the cheeks
and ran his fingers along the inside, holding Justin steady with the other hand.
He licked across the sphincter, ran his thumbs along the perfect Y above the
crack, tapped on Justin's tailbone as he sharpened his tongue and pierced the
ring of muscle. He kneaded the cheeks slowly while wetting the golden hairs
along the crack with a flat tongue, then swirled his tongue in tantalizing figure-eights,
widening the small aperture and making Justin moan incoherently. He inserted
a finger, then two, moving them inward, wriggling until he was buried up to
the second knuckle. Finally he inserted a third, found the small ridge of the
prostate and rubbed it, and it was all he could do to keep Justin from falling
over. He heard the small whimper of his name and knew he had to move on.
He stood up and sheathed himself, applied a generous amount of lube, positioned
his cock at the spasming entrance, and pushed all the way in with one smooth
stroke. Justin arched back with a shout. Brian held him steady with both hands
gripping his hips, then pulled almost all the way out. He looked down to see
the connection between them, to see a hint of the mushroom-tip being clasped
wildly by Justin's ass, then went all the way back in again with a stroke quick
enough to make Justin's knees buckle, and his groin met Justin's ass with a
slap. He did this again and again, and each time Justin gasped, shouted, and
nearly fell, and each time he held the young man up with the iron grip on his
hips. On the seventh stroke, he pushed in ruthlessly and felt his orgasm claim
him, and at the same time Justin arched back into him with closed eyes as three
spurts of cum shot from his cock. It had not even needed to be touched.
Spent, he allowed Justin to relax against him, wrapped his arms around his lover's
waist and kissed the top of his head, whispered his name. "Justin. Come back.
Justin." Eventually Justin moaned and opened his eyes, placed his hands upon
Brian's and tried to catch his breath. Once Justin could stand on his own, he
pulled out; Justin's hole quivered, and Brian bent to his knees to look at the
rosy interior, blew lightly over the opening and watched the pulse, then he
kissed it tenderly and stood up. Justin turned around to kiss him, and they
fell asleep on the bed with their arms wrapped around each other.
But they all had to be dealt with, the internet, the phone, the heat, and hell,
even the electricity. He called Jennifer Taylor, remembering that moment from
long ago when she had first seen the loft and offered to sell it for him. If
she eyed him with pity she was polite enough not to say anything about it. She
said it was a great place, and since he'd paid up most of the mortgage, selling
it should give him a tidy sum - he could buy a small house and still have close
to $25,000 left over. He smiled politely and disinterestedly, telling her he
trusted her and expected her to handle it.