(no subject)
Title: Worth It
Chapter: 5 of 5. The end of this funfest. Max's POV. He is such an ass. Writing him makes my life.
Pairing: Max Talbot/Brooks Orpik. . .because I'm obviously trying to slash Brooksie with everyone or something
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Brooks and Max have a little something going on, and epic miscommunications are happening. Or, well, they were. This is the happy ending they deserve.
Disclaimer: So not mine, so didn't happen, so delusional.
Yeah, I finally finished this business. You can thank jisforjane. If you read it, I certainly hope you enjoyed it. Let me know how it turned out. ;D
part one (Max's POV), part two (Brooksie's POV), part three (Max), part four (Brooks)
You can ask pretty much anyone who has ever known me. A girl I dated in high school, every single friend I've ever had, probably my own mother. They'll all tell you that I don't know anything about being in love. And I absolutely don't. I would never refute that. It's why being around him confuses the hell out of me, makes me into a person I don't quite know yet. I'm not used to being loving, forthcoming, to telling another person what I mean and feel. Normally I'm so wrapped up in. . .whatever it is that I do. If you know how I am you shouldn't be surprised.
Early on in the process, there was awkwardness. The warmth between us was a fever giving way to cold sweat, rather than the typical closeness that you'd expect from a relationship. Something was off. We were still playing a game, trying to feel one another out, still trying to solidify the trust we felt we should have for one another that wasn't there yet. It was an issue of commitment. Commitment isn't something I've done before. I tend to cut and run. I tend to call people and say, "It's not working out," before going to get my next drink and moving the hell on. I do this when I realize that I've based a relationship on something either terribly wrong or terribly right--so wrong that I have to get the fuck out as fast as possible, or so right that I can't compute it and would rather just be alone. It's just how I operate.
But with him, it just always had to be something else. I couldn't tear myself away from him because as much as the staggering reality of him scared me, it also settled my heart somehow. He had a way of stabilizing me, of making me more lucid. I'm not used to thinking through anything I do, but it's something he always does, from start to finish, so that I knew that everything he did was deliberate and when he said he loved me he meant it. When I say things, I always have to think back and wonder if I did mean them, or if I was just talking for the sake of talking, letting my voice crack embarrassingly when I got too excited. The way I act sometimes belies how concerned I am about things, but I can't help it.
The millionth time I said "I love you" to him without being able to even think about it came one evening when we were at my house watching TV together on the couch. It was a normal evening at home. No alcohol, just some pretzels and juice. I'd learned to keep healthier snacks around for him because he isn't like me--he doesn't randomly decide to stuff his face with chocolate one night, or develop week-long obsessions with jalapeño-flavored potato chips. I am an athlete and I keep my indulgences to a minimum, but still--he's a machine about that stuff. I was resting my head on his shoulder, looking at the images on the television without actually watching them, and I felt his weight shift beneath me. He scratched his nose, had a sip of juice, and put his arm around me as an afterthought, so naturally, like this happened all the time--and it did. I was so comfortable and it suddenly struck me, and I just said it: "I love you."
I stepped back for a second, and did my requisite rewind, and oh god: it was the truth. Just like every other time I said it, I couldn't question it. For some reason, it was just the last time I could bear to say it without meaning it beforehand, as opposed to just after, when I had gathered my thoughts.
"I love you, too," he said, resting his head on top of my own. I could hear the smile in his voice. He gave a playful nudge before pulling me just a little closer.
"No, really. I love you, and I mean it." I just had to reiterate. I didn't want to be annoying, but it just had to be said. I could feel the awkwardness melting around us, leaving us with all those sickeningly cute things: the little groceries I got just for him, the remote I let him have even when he put boring stuff on TV, his shoes kicked carelessly aside on the carpet because I hadn't even cared what he'd track in this time.
"Well, I meant it, too," he said, as if it were obvious. He nuzzled the top of my head, and then used his finger to guide my face upwards via the chin, before kissing me lightly, just barely parting the lips. It was the oldest move in the book, the one you use on a first date or the one written into a television script, but goddamn it, it worked.
"Oh, I know you meant it," I said, loudly on purpose, reaching my arm around him to grab his ass before I kissed him again. That was something I could do now. I could give a little before I got.
"Fuck, Max," he said into my mouth, and it was as if I'd flipped a switch the way his hands were suddenly all over me, sliding up my shirt, alternating between rough, grabbing, desperate motions and light-as-air dances of his fingertips across my warm skin.
I moved my own hand to his cheek, briefly changing the focus to the kiss rather than our bodies. We'd made love a lot since the first time, but it was always different, always special. I hadn't gotten tired of him and I was trying to make sure he knew it--I'd sit there and just kiss him forever if I had to. I was starting to get the feeling he knew what I meant, too, the way he gave pause and slowly pressed into me, turned his face from side to side, and warmly slid his tongue in and out of my mouth, like he was tasting, savoring.
When I felt I'd said what I meant to say, I went back to it, my hand finding his lower back and pulling him up towards me before sliding down to his ass again. I bit his neck a little, my way of telling him I was ready.
"Anxious, are ya?" he said, and bit back. Before I knew it, it was as if I'd never had an inch on him--he was on top, sliding my pants off, lifting my shirt up over my head as I helped him with his own. Unexpectedly, the look we exchanged wasn't one of lust or love or longing, but knowledge--his eyes slightly narrowed, misty, and a half-smile tugging at his face. I locked my eyes onto his, those two blue lasers getting closer to whatever was inside me that wanted him. My mouth opened, and I thought of smiling, of laughing through this unprecedented moment of intensity--but as soon as I made the opportunity available, he put his tongue down my throat, thus triggering a rocket launch from my stomach to my heart to my penis to the suddenly hypersensitive surface of my skin, and I was in a cold, uncontrollable sweat, my arms as tight around him as they could get but not tight enough.
He rolled us roughly onto the floor, giving an extra turn so that he still came out on top, kneeling above me before tentatively extending downward to kiss me again, our arms extended above my head, knuckles tickled as they dug into the carpet. He flicked his tongue in and out of my mouth, in between finding other areas to explore on my chest and my neck. I moaned beneath every single touch, and finally a whimper escaped from his nose as I ground my hips back up into his, causing him to unlace our fingers and trail the rough pads of his fingers up and down my ribs. To my hipbone that stuck out awkwardly into his, to my nipples, to my collarbone, across my chest to the sensitive area of my bicep, back up to my face. He was kissing me lightly on the mouth, pausing in between each taste to watch my reactions, a shit-eating grin on his face the whole time, totally merciless in his systematic deconstruction of the things that gave me pleasure.
I dragged my fingernails up his spine, hearing his breath catch, feeling his erection grow towards my own. He blinked once, and exhaled deeply, bending down to rub his nose to mine. I took this as my cue to get his pants off, too, finally--I hadn't wanted to do it too soon for fear that I would somehow shorten the moment. But I'd have been lying to us both if I thought I could put up with foreplay any longer, so I undid the button and zipper and deftly slid them off along with the underwear in one motion, creating that space between our naked bodies that was neither hot nor cold, just painfully vacant as I waited for him to come closer again, to fill the emptiness with something. I hardly wanted to feel like that again, those times before him when I'd waited for someone to just do the right thing, to be that person for me, not just to be strong for me but to actually give a shit what I wanted in bed--or on the floor, for that matter.
He waited, but just enough, before folding himself back into me, placing his mouth wetly on my neck, its formation taut and deliberate, not just passively touching me but precisely twisting itself into dynamic, biting kisses. I put my hand at the back of his head, twisting the strands at the nape of his neck between my fingers and pulling gently, wondering if he'd ever stop or even move on to the next step--again, I was convinced that I could be lucky to just have this forever, but, oh, what fun would that be if--
Just as he'd got me not paying attention of course, he put himself quite purposefully inside me with one solid, forceful motion, and I immediately screamed his name followed by a series of unintelligible noises that I'd be a fool to try to recreate. Again, he just couldn't be close enough; I reached for him without caring how desperate I looked, I scratched and thrust back as he set his pace not too fast or too slow, a steady and familiar rhythm that I could buy into without trying or thinking. When my eyes fluttered open, his would too, his mouth open for an almost-kiss where instead our tongues would retreat to our own mouths to make names, curses, and inconsolable moans. The tightness in my stomach was electrifying and each movement left us chipping away at it.
As our bodies drenched themselves in the sweat and dirt that is manufactured by sex, we became the motions we were enacting, and we owned them, smiling in a barely noticeable way at one another through the kissing and breathing. We were both getting closer, unsteady, and uncontrollably faster, his head finally coming down to rest on my shoulder and rock a circular motion into me as he came, either unwilling or incapable of stopping. I followed shortly thereafter, the release almost blinding me as I moaned his name one more time, my head twisting satisfyingly from side to side against the rough carpeting. When I regained my ability to make observations, he was curled up next to me on the floor, gamely ignoring the hilarious mess we'd made all over one another, staring at me with a look of exhaustion, pleasure, and, again, that frighteningly intense knowledge--I suppose you'd call it a look of love. I tried to cram all of those feelings into one expression of my own, and I could tell from the look on his face that again I'd be understood, and that it wasn't something I'd have to worry about again.
"Love you, Brooksie," I said, laughing silently behind each syllable.
"No shit, Max," he said, punching me in the ribs softly before coming in to kiss me teasingly along my side. "I love you too," he said, tracing incomprehensible patterns with his tongue all the way down to my hip, leaving one last kiss there before tracing his way back up. His head settled in the crook of my arm, as if we might sleep there, and I almost wished we could. But there was no rush to get comfortable. We could spend all night together if we wanted, even do it again if we liked, talk about whatever, and not have to consider it for a second. I smiled, smelling his hair, finally deciding that if that was the luxury of being in love, I'd been one opportunistic bastard. I'd gotten the person I wanted.
One last time, I mouthed the words into his hair without saying them out loud before I kissed the top of his head: "Love. You." I could say it as much as I liked. Like I said, there was no fucking hurry.
Chapter: 5 of 5. The end of this funfest. Max's POV. He is such an ass. Writing him makes my life.
Pairing: Max Talbot/Brooks Orpik. . .because I'm obviously trying to slash Brooksie with everyone or something
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Brooks and Max have a little something going on, and epic miscommunications are happening. Or, well, they were. This is the happy ending they deserve.
Disclaimer: So not mine, so didn't happen, so delusional.
Yeah, I finally finished this business. You can thank jisforjane. If you read it, I certainly hope you enjoyed it. Let me know how it turned out. ;D
part one (Max's POV), part two (Brooksie's POV), part three (Max), part four (Brooks)
You can ask pretty much anyone who has ever known me. A girl I dated in high school, every single friend I've ever had, probably my own mother. They'll all tell you that I don't know anything about being in love. And I absolutely don't. I would never refute that. It's why being around him confuses the hell out of me, makes me into a person I don't quite know yet. I'm not used to being loving, forthcoming, to telling another person what I mean and feel. Normally I'm so wrapped up in. . .whatever it is that I do. If you know how I am you shouldn't be surprised.
Early on in the process, there was awkwardness. The warmth between us was a fever giving way to cold sweat, rather than the typical closeness that you'd expect from a relationship. Something was off. We were still playing a game, trying to feel one another out, still trying to solidify the trust we felt we should have for one another that wasn't there yet. It was an issue of commitment. Commitment isn't something I've done before. I tend to cut and run. I tend to call people and say, "It's not working out," before going to get my next drink and moving the hell on. I do this when I realize that I've based a relationship on something either terribly wrong or terribly right--so wrong that I have to get the fuck out as fast as possible, or so right that I can't compute it and would rather just be alone. It's just how I operate.
But with him, it just always had to be something else. I couldn't tear myself away from him because as much as the staggering reality of him scared me, it also settled my heart somehow. He had a way of stabilizing me, of making me more lucid. I'm not used to thinking through anything I do, but it's something he always does, from start to finish, so that I knew that everything he did was deliberate and when he said he loved me he meant it. When I say things, I always have to think back and wonder if I did mean them, or if I was just talking for the sake of talking, letting my voice crack embarrassingly when I got too excited. The way I act sometimes belies how concerned I am about things, but I can't help it.
The millionth time I said "I love you" to him without being able to even think about it came one evening when we were at my house watching TV together on the couch. It was a normal evening at home. No alcohol, just some pretzels and juice. I'd learned to keep healthier snacks around for him because he isn't like me--he doesn't randomly decide to stuff his face with chocolate one night, or develop week-long obsessions with jalapeño-flavored potato chips. I am an athlete and I keep my indulgences to a minimum, but still--he's a machine about that stuff. I was resting my head on his shoulder, looking at the images on the television without actually watching them, and I felt his weight shift beneath me. He scratched his nose, had a sip of juice, and put his arm around me as an afterthought, so naturally, like this happened all the time--and it did. I was so comfortable and it suddenly struck me, and I just said it: "I love you."
I stepped back for a second, and did my requisite rewind, and oh god: it was the truth. Just like every other time I said it, I couldn't question it. For some reason, it was just the last time I could bear to say it without meaning it beforehand, as opposed to just after, when I had gathered my thoughts.
"I love you, too," he said, resting his head on top of my own. I could hear the smile in his voice. He gave a playful nudge before pulling me just a little closer.
"No, really. I love you, and I mean it." I just had to reiterate. I didn't want to be annoying, but it just had to be said. I could feel the awkwardness melting around us, leaving us with all those sickeningly cute things: the little groceries I got just for him, the remote I let him have even when he put boring stuff on TV, his shoes kicked carelessly aside on the carpet because I hadn't even cared what he'd track in this time.
"Well, I meant it, too," he said, as if it were obvious. He nuzzled the top of my head, and then used his finger to guide my face upwards via the chin, before kissing me lightly, just barely parting the lips. It was the oldest move in the book, the one you use on a first date or the one written into a television script, but goddamn it, it worked.
"Oh, I know you meant it," I said, loudly on purpose, reaching my arm around him to grab his ass before I kissed him again. That was something I could do now. I could give a little before I got.
"Fuck, Max," he said into my mouth, and it was as if I'd flipped a switch the way his hands were suddenly all over me, sliding up my shirt, alternating between rough, grabbing, desperate motions and light-as-air dances of his fingertips across my warm skin.
I moved my own hand to his cheek, briefly changing the focus to the kiss rather than our bodies. We'd made love a lot since the first time, but it was always different, always special. I hadn't gotten tired of him and I was trying to make sure he knew it--I'd sit there and just kiss him forever if I had to. I was starting to get the feeling he knew what I meant, too, the way he gave pause and slowly pressed into me, turned his face from side to side, and warmly slid his tongue in and out of my mouth, like he was tasting, savoring.
When I felt I'd said what I meant to say, I went back to it, my hand finding his lower back and pulling him up towards me before sliding down to his ass again. I bit his neck a little, my way of telling him I was ready.
"Anxious, are ya?" he said, and bit back. Before I knew it, it was as if I'd never had an inch on him--he was on top, sliding my pants off, lifting my shirt up over my head as I helped him with his own. Unexpectedly, the look we exchanged wasn't one of lust or love or longing, but knowledge--his eyes slightly narrowed, misty, and a half-smile tugging at his face. I locked my eyes onto his, those two blue lasers getting closer to whatever was inside me that wanted him. My mouth opened, and I thought of smiling, of laughing through this unprecedented moment of intensity--but as soon as I made the opportunity available, he put his tongue down my throat, thus triggering a rocket launch from my stomach to my heart to my penis to the suddenly hypersensitive surface of my skin, and I was in a cold, uncontrollable sweat, my arms as tight around him as they could get but not tight enough.
He rolled us roughly onto the floor, giving an extra turn so that he still came out on top, kneeling above me before tentatively extending downward to kiss me again, our arms extended above my head, knuckles tickled as they dug into the carpet. He flicked his tongue in and out of my mouth, in between finding other areas to explore on my chest and my neck. I moaned beneath every single touch, and finally a whimper escaped from his nose as I ground my hips back up into his, causing him to unlace our fingers and trail the rough pads of his fingers up and down my ribs. To my hipbone that stuck out awkwardly into his, to my nipples, to my collarbone, across my chest to the sensitive area of my bicep, back up to my face. He was kissing me lightly on the mouth, pausing in between each taste to watch my reactions, a shit-eating grin on his face the whole time, totally merciless in his systematic deconstruction of the things that gave me pleasure.
I dragged my fingernails up his spine, hearing his breath catch, feeling his erection grow towards my own. He blinked once, and exhaled deeply, bending down to rub his nose to mine. I took this as my cue to get his pants off, too, finally--I hadn't wanted to do it too soon for fear that I would somehow shorten the moment. But I'd have been lying to us both if I thought I could put up with foreplay any longer, so I undid the button and zipper and deftly slid them off along with the underwear in one motion, creating that space between our naked bodies that was neither hot nor cold, just painfully vacant as I waited for him to come closer again, to fill the emptiness with something. I hardly wanted to feel like that again, those times before him when I'd waited for someone to just do the right thing, to be that person for me, not just to be strong for me but to actually give a shit what I wanted in bed--or on the floor, for that matter.
He waited, but just enough, before folding himself back into me, placing his mouth wetly on my neck, its formation taut and deliberate, not just passively touching me but precisely twisting itself into dynamic, biting kisses. I put my hand at the back of his head, twisting the strands at the nape of his neck between my fingers and pulling gently, wondering if he'd ever stop or even move on to the next step--again, I was convinced that I could be lucky to just have this forever, but, oh, what fun would that be if--
Just as he'd got me not paying attention of course, he put himself quite purposefully inside me with one solid, forceful motion, and I immediately screamed his name followed by a series of unintelligible noises that I'd be a fool to try to recreate. Again, he just couldn't be close enough; I reached for him without caring how desperate I looked, I scratched and thrust back as he set his pace not too fast or too slow, a steady and familiar rhythm that I could buy into without trying or thinking. When my eyes fluttered open, his would too, his mouth open for an almost-kiss where instead our tongues would retreat to our own mouths to make names, curses, and inconsolable moans. The tightness in my stomach was electrifying and each movement left us chipping away at it.
As our bodies drenched themselves in the sweat and dirt that is manufactured by sex, we became the motions we were enacting, and we owned them, smiling in a barely noticeable way at one another through the kissing and breathing. We were both getting closer, unsteady, and uncontrollably faster, his head finally coming down to rest on my shoulder and rock a circular motion into me as he came, either unwilling or incapable of stopping. I followed shortly thereafter, the release almost blinding me as I moaned his name one more time, my head twisting satisfyingly from side to side against the rough carpeting. When I regained my ability to make observations, he was curled up next to me on the floor, gamely ignoring the hilarious mess we'd made all over one another, staring at me with a look of exhaustion, pleasure, and, again, that frighteningly intense knowledge--I suppose you'd call it a look of love. I tried to cram all of those feelings into one expression of my own, and I could tell from the look on his face that again I'd be understood, and that it wasn't something I'd have to worry about again.
"Love you, Brooksie," I said, laughing silently behind each syllable.
"No shit, Max," he said, punching me in the ribs softly before coming in to kiss me teasingly along my side. "I love you too," he said, tracing incomprehensible patterns with his tongue all the way down to my hip, leaving one last kiss there before tracing his way back up. His head settled in the crook of my arm, as if we might sleep there, and I almost wished we could. But there was no rush to get comfortable. We could spend all night together if we wanted, even do it again if we liked, talk about whatever, and not have to consider it for a second. I smiled, smelling his hair, finally deciding that if that was the luxury of being in love, I'd been one opportunistic bastard. I'd gotten the person I wanted.
One last time, I mouthed the words into his hair without saying them out loud before I kissed the top of his head: "Love. You." I could say it as much as I liked. Like I said, there was no fucking hurry.