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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."
* * * * * * * * *
"I was seventeen. I didn't know what I was saying." Justin says, giving a 'casual'
smile that never reaches his eyes. The words course through Brian like a knife
slicing his gut, and he sees white spots in front of his eyes. He lifts Justin's
legs onto his shoulders.
"So what was it then? Couldn't pass up on a good fuck?"
"Probably." Justin is just so damn casual. Brian wonders how this conversation
even began. It had something to do with him trying to find out if Justin really
was okay after the outburst of a few days before.
"So you weren't really whoring yourself out... the money was just a bonus?"
Justin stares up at him. But he's not done. He holds Justin's legs and leans
into him, positioning his cock at Justin's hole and pushing past the ring. He
winces, says, "So when you left me for the fiddler, it was because..." He pushes
all the way in and groans, then continues, "... oh, right. Flowers. Floor picnics.
How could I forget."
Justin finds his voice. "Brian. Stop it."
"So when you came back..."
"Brian, stop. Let go, let me go!"
"I'm just trying to make sense of things." The fury burns the inside of his
eyelids. He pulls back.
"Brian!" Justin struggles and frees his legs and pulls away, clambers to a corner
of the bed and pulls the sheet up to cover himself. "I hate you! You fucking
asshole, how can you say... God, I hate you!" His eyes are properly wide
with shock and horror, and Brian sets his jaw and puts on his robe and walks
to the kitchen.
When Justin comes to the kitchen, Brian stares at him like a deer caught in
the headlights. He's wearing his slacks and a sweatshirt, the same fucking sweatshirt
he refused to remove those first days after the bashing when he couldn't stand
to have anyone touch him. The realization that he's responsible for the return
of the sweatshirt makes his ears burn. He concentrates on making coffee.
They breathe raspy, difficult breaths through the smog of dirtied sex. Justin
touches him and he flinches.
"I'm not a whore."
"No, you're not."
"I don't hate you." Brian doesn't answer. "I don't hate you," Justin repeats,
his voice shaking, and Brian doesn't look at him. "Are we okay? Look at me."
Brian drowns out the voice and listens to the coffee maker gurgle. "Brian, make
it okay!" Justin yells at him, but he doesn't know how to fix it so he doesn't
answer.