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| Title: Four WIP's that will never be finished Author: darksylvia Jealousy Times Four No, seriously--POINTLESS I was watching that limbo between 301 and 308. It was amazing how Justin's obvious unhappiness--coming to bitch him out, drinking alone, sleeping at Daphne's--was both a balm and a hardship. Each note of dischord in Justin and the Fiddler's relationship made him a little more cheerful. Each hostile salee As both reactions were unacceptable, he instead strove to have neither. The key, he knew, was to be a completely amoral bastard, lacking any feeling whatsoever. His Stockwell account was practice for making sure he didn't crack under the weight of all those things he was definitely not feeling. It gave him even more concrete chances to display his carefully cultivated assholeishness. Ted was easily fooled, and he’d trained Michael to accept and validate his behavior years ago, in their impressionable youth. Justin was harder, had been harder to snow from the very beginning. But even Justin--to both his satisfaction and surprise hurt--did not look deeper. Or maybe he chose not to look deeper. It didn't matter. Justin's wounded eyes and sad, tragic mouth everytime he looked at Brian told it all. He thought Brian was an asshole, too, which was just fine, since that was what Brian wanted. Really. He didn't know quite why he'd gone to see the Fiddler. And, yes, Brian knew his name was Ethan, but that was irrelevant since in Brian's world he didn't deserve a name, was merely a bump in the road. And, it was fun to see Justin get that pissy look on his face everytime Brian called him Ian or any of the other--clever, damn it!--names he came up with for the occasion. He'd told Ethan the truth. Brian always told the truth. If he gave the truth a spin, he was just doing what came naturally, what kept him in business. And part of that was placing the truth in the right ears at the right time in a way that could nudge things, in a way that people could use it. Really, he was doing the kid a favor. Both of the kids. He walked away feeling satisfied, knowing he'd gotten through, knowing that there was action, someway out of this discomfort, this dull ache inside him, on the horizon. Justin was less than happy, and this unhappiness seemed to bleed out onto Brian even more, now that Justin percieved him to be the source of said unhappiness, as opposed to the real source--fucking Ethan. And fucking Ethan, since Brian was reasonably sure Justin hadn’t had a decent blow job in nearly six months. That would have made Brian edgy, too, so he forgave most of the glares and the snippiness. Justin in LA fic Had no direction, no ideas for what the point was, no forward impetus. The second month Justin was in LA, he tried cocaine. Someone on the staff took him to a party after work. He was fucking beat and was thinking about slipping out and spending the money on a taxi to get home when someone put a rolled up dollar bill in his hand and slid a mirror with lines of white powder on it in front of him. His first thought was, how 80's. His second was that Brian would go all dangerous and frosty if he found out. Brian had pounded it into his head that you only did drugs with friends (though he, himself, didn't always follow this maxim), but here Justin was in LA, at a party so trendy it nearly came out the other end into too trendy. He did the line and felt the weird stinging drip of the stuff go down his sinuses. Post-cancer fic with cuddling It occurred to me after I'd written this that Brian had crossed the cuddling barrier way back in S2, so this became superfluous, and kind of ickily saccarine, at least in my head. So, like, if Brian hadn't opened up as much in S2, it might work, but it would still be sugary. When Brian was dealing with the radiation there was a good, unexpected side effect to their relationship. Justin knew it sounded bad, but there it was. After getting over the first obstacle of Brian's twisted sense of vanity, there had been the throwing up, force-feeding him soup, and then throwing up again. Brian had already been too skinny, Justin's mom was right. Then there had been Brian laying motionless in bed--too tired to get up, but too alert to go to sleep. He'd simply watched Justin when he was cooking, sketching, hanging Brian's clothes back up in his closet. Occasionally he'd make a remark: "It smells just like mom never made!" or "If you want to draw my cock, you only have to ask." or "Hey, don't wrinkle the Armani." But mostly he just lay there, and Justin liked that he could, for once. Brian hardly ever asked for what he needed, so Justin learned to anticipate. Water? Help to the toilet? An attempt at food? When he'd been away for a few hours at the diner, or at school, he'd come home and shed all of his clothes, then climb in next to a sleeping Brian, bare, warm skin to skin. In Brian's weakened condition, Justin could cuddle him all he wanted. That's when the shift started--after a while, Justin realized that not only was Brian not protesting (he hadn't really protested touching after...the prom) but he was enjoying it in an entirely new way. One day, when it had snowed a few flakes outside, and Justin came home--well, to the loft--flushed and covered in the rain and snowflakes, he'd found Brian awake, propped up slightly. Justin smiled at him. "Hungry?" Justin started to detour to the kitchen, knocking coat and shoes off. "No," said Brian, his voice low and gravely as if he'd been sleeping. "I want a cigarette. But I know after the nicotine rush it will just make me feel shitty." He laughed low. "-er." "Okay, how about some water?" Brian shook his head once and pointed to the full glass on the nightstand. Then he regarded Justin for a moment. "Come here." Justin had learned all the nuances of Brian's voice a long time ago when reading them meant spending the night fucking or getting kicked out, and this wasn't the usual tone for those words, said with a sultry undercurrent. The one that usually meant that when Justin was a foot from the end of Brian's bed, he'd suddenly find himself on his back, legs spread to accommodate Brian's hips, and Brian's tongue in his mouth. Sometimes there was a bonus of his wrists pinned to the mattress with Brian's hot, long-fingered hands. He kind of wished for that tone, actually, but he squashed that as selfish. This tone was demanding but weary. Almost a request; not quite. Justin came willingly, as he always did, hopping on one foot at a time to tug off his damp socks, his scarf trailing and finally falling. Brian pulled back an edge of blanket for him. Justin climbed gratefully in, where it was warm and Brian-filled. He wrapped an arm around Brian, put his head next to Brian's on the pillow, and felt all the tension in his whole body drain out of him. Brian said nothing, but he sifted one lazy hand through Justin's hair and unexpectedly kissed his forehead. As much as Justin liked fucking, liked Brian fucking him, this was something he didn't get nearly as often. And for now, at least, he was (slightly ashamedly) willing to trade that for this. Since he didn't have a choice, and all. Brian rubbed his nose against Justin's jaw and muttered something about needing to shave. Then his lips followed his nose just before he slid an arm around Justin and his breath evened out into sleep. Cruel I failed miserably in what I set out to do, and instead ended up writing the same story again. I mean, it's revisiting pretty much exactly what I did with Denial and another one, and one that countless others have done, too. It was supposed to be Brian being cruel for real, but my lack of imagination and my Yucky Emotional Crap factor thwarted me. So, I'm letting it go. I'm sitting at a table at Babylon, soaked in sweat. Outside it is cold, still in the grip of a dry, cruel night in winter. Inside, it is humid and hot and a little stale. My drink is half gone. It's my fifth tonight and I can feel myself sliding down towards the narrower, simpler existence of being drunk. I wouldn't mind being there. Brian slid around me, right by me, like water on the dance floor, not five minutes ago. He took my trick, just to show he could, and left me with a slight push to the chest and a mocking smile, and said "go home, little stalker." It was almost an endearment. Almost, but with a sharp edge of cruel. Brian has no problem being cruel. It's part of him--he has teeth, and sometimes they unsheath themselves and take a bite of whoever is nearest. It's like he can't help it. I've seen him do it to everybody these past few weeks. Sometimes he can reign it in around Michael, and sometimes he does whatever it is anyway, leaving Michael with a familiar, crushed look that I am determined not to wear ever again not since I cried, cried in front of him. God, that was pathetic of me. Brian hasn't come out yet, so I know the blow job or the fuck must be worth his time, even if only a little. I chug the rest of my drink and stand up, mostly steadily. Fucked if I'm going to sit here and wait for Brian to come back out so one of us can take another shot at the other. With Brian, it is better to go on the offensive. He sees it clearly, thinks he's equal to it, is amused by it, and ultimately misses the point and that's okay for now. I move through the dancers, catch the eye of a guy who has wanted to fuck me all night. He smiles a nice predatory smile and follows me and my invitation into the backroom. I want to be fucked. And from the looks of things, Brian isn't going to volunteer. So I find a convenient pole, scan for Brian in the soothing dimness, and slide a hand behind my trick's head. His hair is buzzed short and feels good between my fingers like static electricity, and his mouth on mine feels even better. Nobody else's kisses make me feel like I'm grounding a volts of real electicity like Brian's, but I appreciate good kissing. I've found that a lot of guys are sort of to-the-point about getting off, and sometimes I want that, too. But Brian--probably because he has so much of it--likes to draw it out, see how long he can keep me on edge and what I'll do to force his hand. He's nowhere to be scene, however. There are lots of deliberate obstacles in here, to make it seem more labyrinthine and forbidden than it actually is. Maybe he's already left, out the back door with his chosen trick. Fuck him, then. Last night he acted like I didn't exist past the first crack about my age. He saw me and said, "" then took a sip of beer and stalked after some guy in a white t-shirt. It's like he's got a never-ending supply of teenager cracks with which to discourage me. All it does is convince me he watches the WB. I open my mouth wider under the man's tongue and press my whole body against him, then I break away and unbutton my pants. He puts a hand to my chest and knocks me back against the pole, and is on his knees breathing over my cock before I can protest that I wanted him to fuck me. Oh well. It's getting late. If I'm going to have Daphne come get me--as it looks like I'll have to--it will have to be soon. This probably won't take long. My skin is fuzzy and sensitive from the alcohol already and if this guy's kissing is any indication, this blowjob will be excellent. My eyelids drop closed of their own volition when he closes his lips around the tip of my dick and I can feel a violent shiver of heat move through my whole body, ending in my cock. I was right--he is good at this. If I were less drunk and less worked up, I'd be paying attention to what he's actually doing, but my brain won't focus. As soon as I have a handle on where his tongue has been, it slips away and blends with the rest of the slow build, and pleasure spikes slightly with each beat of my heart. His mouth goes farther, his tongue moves faster, he tightens the pressure inside so that I can feel it all down my cock, shooting back through my balls and up my spine. It winds me up so much that I can't relax my muscles. My back, my legs, my neck. I tremble from the effort of flexing all of them. And of course, I'm imagining that it is Brian's tongue pressing hard against the slit, the underside, up and around and back again. I imagine that it's his hand cupping one buttock to hold me in place, the other twisting lightly along my dick below where his lips are sealed around me. My hips jerk forward and I'm so, so fucking close. It's right there and I reach for it, but can't get to it. "Breathe," Brian says, a low command, lips and breath barely brushing my right ear. I suck in a huge breath, only now realizing that I was out of air and as soon as the fresh oxygen hits the bottom of my lungs, my body arches out so hard I hit my head on the pole and a hot whip of wicked blissful release moves through me. I'm left panting, my dick slightly cool from evaporation. "Nice work," Brian says and I open my eyes to see him looking down at my trick, who gets to his feet. I can see that he's come, too, as he tucks himself back into his jeans. The trick stands there for a minute and Brian says as if stating the painfully obvious, "Now is your cue to go away." This earns Brian a cool look, before the man leans in and kisses me lightly on the mouth. He brushes by and heads out the door behind me. I fasten my own pants and push off the pole. I look at Brian for a minute, and then say, feeling unsettled by his absolute lack of expression, "Well. Good night." "Where do you think you're going?" he asks, levelly. "I don't know," I say. "Maybe to another club. I heard it's free drinks for blonds at Boy Toy." "Right," says Brian. He gives me a measuring look and then smiles. "How did you get here?" "Daphne dropped me off," I say. Thank God for Daphne. "Uh huh," he says. "How were you planning on getting home?" I shrug. "I wasn't planning on going back to my house tonight." Brian purses his lips as if holding in an amused smile and that pisses me off. He's treating me like a little kid again. But getting pissed off at Brian does absolutely no good. So I let a flirtatious smile curve across my face and I take a step closer, until we're maybe half a foot apart. "I think you should take me home with you." "Really? Why?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "Because I want you to fuck me," I tell him, speaking clearly, meeting his eyes with my challenge up front in them. I step even closer so that we're almost touching. "I want all nine inches of you, in my ass, fucking me as long as you can hold out." There it was, the gauntlet. It was really an easy con. I hold the prize up, I give him ground--a compliment, while challenging him at the same time, and I watch him step right up to it. "Or I could leave you here," he says. Uh-oh. I thought the cruelty, the little streak of toying with prey he doesn't want was out of his system for the night. "Or you could take me with you," I say, firmly, and I kiss him. I can feel him smile into it just before he takes it over, splits my lips open, fucks my mouth with his intentions. I smile, too, before I can't think any more, because I've won again. He puts a warm hand on my neck and we walk out to his jeep, past a sour Michael, and an apathetic Ted, and a room full of people who aren't going to be having any more sex with Brian Kinney tonight. |