Supposed vs Opposed
Title: Supposed vs Opposed
Pairing: Peterick
Rating: NC-17
Summary: it's true love, and sex, and too complicated to be explained in a summary, that's why i wrote a story. read it, check it out.
After months of little to no communication I finally give in to see
him. We're sitting on his couch in front of some made for television
horror movie. My arm's braced on the back of the couch as he leans
against me, it's casual, but to anyone else it's the perfect setting for
disaster. I wonder.
I glance at him, his attention rapt on the
screen. His hair looks over gelled and under styled, kind of matted in
places but I don't bother to fix it. The plain gray shirt he has on is
only rivaled in style by those too-baggy sweatpants that he's probably
been lounging in all week. We probably both could use a bath, but with
our mentality we never take one when we have all the chance in the
world. Too easy.
I close my eyes and duck my head down just a bit,
nuzzling my nose against his cheek and part of his ear. Interested in
the way the inner curves of it feel in texture. I hear him sigh heavily,
what's wrong? I don't ask I just repeat the action, pressing a soft
kiss right before his ear this time. He goes rigid against me. Kind of
funny, isn't it?
"Pete?" His voice sounds tentative, and hopeful and perfect as usual.
I
mumbled a quiet, "Yeah?" in response, and grimace when my voice cracks
from lack of use these past couple of hours we've managed to sit like
this.
He pulls away from me, and I remember that we're not just
characters and that this isn't coming from the mind of some teenage girl
with nothing better to do. When I chance to look at him again, he's
still pretty close. Staring at me, a slow smile creeping onto his face
and I try to smile back.
Then he does something that scares me, or
I can only assume so with the way my heart picks up and how my throat
feels too tight when I try and swallow again. He leans against me again
and presses his cold nose against my neck, nuzzling me back, making sure
to kiss just so, just softly right behind my ear. I feel crazy.
I
must be if I'm imagining him doing this. If I'm imagining the soft,
chapped press of his lips against my throat and my jaw, the shivers it
inadvertently causes. The casual flick of tongue before he moves back
again, eyes dialed in the flickering glow of bad acting and fake blood.
Was that it?
Has he been waiting for that? Is he waiting for me to
reciprocate? He doesn't look away, and I feel like we've been staring
at each other for hours instead of seconds until I lean forward. My eyes
close on instinct, I don't kiss him yet. There's that moment though,
right before the kiss, where I should feel all sorts of anticipation and
unresolved tension, but all I feel is his little puffs of breaths
colliding with mine and all I think is that I should have brushed my
teeth.
He closes that space though, and we're kissing and it's
slow and nice. Just nice, not mind blowing, no indoor fireworks. I let
him decide to pull away and when I look at him again the side of his
mouth is quirked up and he's blushing. Which might be the only thing to
have compelled me to lean in again.
We go through this a few
times, each time the kisses are longer and a couple times we miss the
mark and his nose bumps into mine or I only catch the corner of his
mouth. I realize belatedly that this would probably be termed as making
out, and something turns in my stomach. Acid build up, maybe, but I'm
used to it.
The next time I pull away I feel the weight of his
hand braced on my neck, fingers slipping up into my hair, sure to get
caught in it, I haven't really been taking care of it again. I see that
same damn half smile that he pulls, and I lean back in as he pulls away,
tugging his fingers out of my hair. Which is only fair.
The part
where he stands up and tugs my hand is all part of this game. I let him
take me along past the dirty coffee table, and messy kitchen. Down the
short dark hallway into the dark clothing strewn bedroom, and it's like
floating. I'm not here, I'm just here. A spectator to my own life. Which
only seems right, right?
He stops and fumbles with the laptop
plugged in charging in the corner. This isn't how it goes, but he's
doing that anyway. He clicks hurriedly and some sort of cliched smooth
jazz starts playing, inwardly I didn't expect anything else. It's quiet
though and somehow is easily ignorable, I know how it feels.
He
slinks back over, it fits him, and presses against me. Presses his lips
back against mine, works a hand back into my hair. I don't feel the
build up of lust, no carnal need to touch him back, but I do. I do slip
my arms comfortably around his waist, simple. Only everything is
complicated.
My hands are starting to sweat and I feel
light-headed, and he pushes me back until I sit on the bed. He pulls
away from me, reaching down to unbutton my jeans, all of his attention
focused therein, unlike how it's supposed to be; us kissing until our
heads spin, fervently trying to get each other naked without breaking
away. I kind of like this more, watching his hands work, fingers curling
swiftly to pop the button loose and slide the zipper down. I'm kind of
happy I stopped buying jeans that barely fit skin tight or ones with
buttons all up because they looked cool. Cool is impractical.
He
lets me work them the rest of the way off, slipping out of his sweats
just to show off some generic pair of boxers. I hate to admit I'm glad I
wore underwear, I'm sure I wasn't supposed to. I was supposed to just
wear the skintight jeans, commando, but if I did that I might as well
wear eyeliner again.
He looks a little lost, god only knows how
fucking lost I must look. He brushes a hand through his hair, messing it
up just a little more, biting his lip out of habit.
"Uhhhhmmm....shirts?"
I don't completely know what he means, no perfect mental communication here, "Off or..?" He asks, clarifying.
"Oh....your call."
So
he shrugs and pulls his off. It's weird again, to me anyway. I've seen
him shirtless before, countless times, it's not much different but his
confidence about it is surprising. I end up taking mine off for lack of
anything better in mind, and he smiles again. I did good.
"Scoot
back some." He orders, patiently, as though if I didn't really want to I
didn't have to, but I do anyway. I scoot until my knees are barely
bracketed on the bed. He kneels onto the bed, to the side of me and
works his leg over my lap until he's sort of straddling me. Almost
slipping as he adjusts himself and I reach out to save him, hands
cupping his ass on accident, but it seems an okay thing to do. Eyes
locking onto mine, heart probably beating faster because of his near
injury rather than me touching him, but I'll take it.
Then we're
kissing again, and it's still nice. Just nice though, not enough to get
me hot, not enough for me to get past the fact we're best friends. The
quiet moan he has me swallow tells me that it's not the same story for
him, hell all of this so far has told me things about him I thought were
fiction. I don't think he even reads the fiction about us, doesn't even
know it's out there. Pseudo-innocence is his kind of thing I suppose.
He
leans into me and I have to brace us with my elbow pressed hard into
the bed, slipping slowly until we end up sort of horizontal. My legs are
still hanging off of the bed and my pulse pounds low in my stomach at
the strange circulation. He just readjusts himself again, sitting right
across my hips. The kiss breaks with that, and instead of pressing our
lips back together he just starts nipping at my neck. A little too
light, and a little too infrequent.
I hear him huff, and then he
clamps his teeth a bit harder, sucking on the impressed skin after and
oh. My eyes flutter shut instead of staring at the stupid stucco
ceiling, my breathing shuddering lightly as he works his way along my
collarbone, nipping and licking and sucking. He shifts again, pressing
his ass against my now half-interested cock. I make this quiet noise,
that I'm pretty embarrassed about for some reason, he's heard me make
these noises before. Muffled in the next bed over, across the half inch
of hallway space tour buses have. He just shifts back again,
purposefully and I make that same damn noise, and he sits up.
He's
still, the weighted pressure still there over me, my hands migrated to
his hips at some point and i thumb over the soft skin and take a moment
to notice the song's changed genres. Something I probably have on my own
iPod but have long since forgotten the name of. He's biting his lip
again, he's hard too, again nothing we haven't see before.
"I've
done this before y'know?" I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he flushes a
bit darker, something settles in my stomach. So he stutters, "I-I
mean....god, hold on..."
He slides off of me and so I sit up,
scoot back, staring off in the direction he left in. He pads back in
from where, I can only assume the bathroom across the hall, cock bobbing
proudly and I can barely hold back a laugh or smile. He doesn't seem to
care, just smiles back, crawling back to me on the bed, messing the
already-had-been-messy sheets up more.
"This..I've..." He doesn't
finish the sentence, he looks young again, not that he isn't but I mean
really young. It pulls at something in my chest that immediately drops
to my stomach when I see he's holding a tube of half used KY and some
off-brand of condom. I don't breath, that'd be too good of an idea.
"It's....I'm
getting carried away, of course I am...." He smiles, just a quirk of
his lips, nothing too special. He wants it all, and I don't blame him
but I have to wonder why he wants anything from me. His fingers loosen
around the items and then tighten, he's slumping in on himself, not
quite as excited as he was before his bad idea. This whole thing has
been a bad idea.
I love bad ideas.
I push forward, push him
back, watch his eyes widen, note how he pushes his questionable
substances aside for later (soon). I brace myself over him, heart not
beating fast enough but hard enough for sure. Oh.
In that moment I
hated that feeling. I pressed our lips together harder than we'd let
them be before, I bit and searched and made sure he couldn't breath. I
take his breath away. Ha.
He wants it all, he wants too much, too
fast, not fast enough. He can have it. I just hope to God it doesn't
break him. I pull away for such an insignificant moment it blurs into
the next. I slide my hands across his shoulders and chest and he squirms
and makes the shyest of needy noises.
I slip my hands lower
still, to his wriggling hips. I leave his mouth to find his neck to bite
and suck and lick like he'd done to me, only harder, not caring if he
likes it, he asked for it. He moans, and I've heard it all before, he
says my name, and I've heard it all before, he begs for more. That's
something new. I'll be happy to give him more of everything.
I
pull slowly at the stretchy elastic around his waist, slide my tongue
slowly around the shell of his ear. Pretend I have a plan. I have to
pull away to get them pulled off and he whimpers quietly. I don't know
what to do for a split second after the sound reaches my ears, but then
he lifts his hips, and yeah, okay, right.
I pull the boxers down
his thighs, staring at just those right now, touching just because. But
they don't feel as special as everyone thinks, or maybe it's just me. He
shivers, full body. I kneel up and watch him kick the underwear away,
mine stay on for stupid reasons, I'm sure.
I inspect him, laying
flushed on messy sheets, desperate just for me. I find it somewhere in
the back of my mind to keep going, because he deserves it all. I forgo
the pleasantries and wrap a tight fist around his cock, watching his
eyes widen, hearing his breath catch, feeling him pulse. A couple of dry
tugs and he throws the lube at me. No, really, he threw it at me.
It's
uncapped with a loud pop, the plastic scraping against calloused
fingers, not feeling it like I should have. Just enough in my palm to
see it slide around, this is the beginning of this whole act getting
messy. So I replace my hand, watching how when I slow down he thrusts
up. When I speed up he moans in the low end of his range.
But this
isn't all of it, this is just scratching the surface. Tip of the
iceberg. You get the idea, cliches. I let go and he still bucks up,
fingers near his head, clasped around the bottom edge of an old pillow. I
drag my nails feather light across his balls, earning another shiver
and I send one back without meaning to. I go lower until I can't see the
tips of my fingers, so I feel around, I guess he thinks I'm teasing I'm
just lost.
I hear him swallow audibly, "Pete." and I pause
everything. I pull my hand back as he starts to shift, and he swirls
over onto his stomach. It's the only way I can explain the move he just
pulled off, still between my legs just a different side of the coin. I
smirk lightly wondering how many times he'd tried that and it'd gone
wrong before now.
Then I look him over again, head tilted
sideways, braced on his arms, back bowed ever-so making his ass stick up
just a bit more. More lube, more of this mess to be made. Then I
hesitate, figures.
"I..." croaked out like a true frog prince. His
eyes flutter open, dart sideways towards me. I keep the gaze as I press
a finger in between his cheeks, pressing against his entrance. The
lashes flutter, and he bites his lip and sure as hell doesn't tell me
I'm wrong. I press a finger in, careful not to make it slip too far too
fast.
This part I know, this part I've done before. I know just
how to brush my knuckle, how to soothingly probe deeper. I know that the
tiny gasps I'm receiving are the reason another finger joins the first.
Why I pry them apart and push them deeper. How the gasps get louder,
how my nails catch just a bit on the way in that time, be more careful. I
think, does he want a third one, he wanted it all, but then I glance
down at myself and scoff at the thought. I slide in another anyway and
watch his mouth stay stuck in a permanent silent moan. I can feel him
twitch and shiver around my fingers as they slip easier, he has done this before.
And
then, something weird happens as I stumble upon this thought. Who?
Who's got to touch him like this, make him feel this, been here before
me? How long has he waited for me to take this chance. When did I lose
that first chance? Or is this it, and then it is my first chance. I lean
forward and kiss his shoulder as I push them back in and his hips twist
against the sheets.
I kiss his shoulder again as he whimpers and I
pull my fingers away. Watch his eyes flutter just lightly, not opening,
it's like he's dreaming beneath those salty lids. I fumble for the
condom and fumble getting my underwear down and fumble opening the foil
and fumble rolling it on. Suddenly my hands won't stop shaking, suddenly
I can't wipe the sweat off my upper lip fast enough.
I nudge his
thighs apart and he seems to wake up from that dream he was having. He
pushes himself up, hands and knees, perfectly displaying himself to me
were this to be the animal kingdom. But oh yeah, it is. So I kneel up,
and spread him apart, eyes closed to the shudder and the strange high
note coming through tinny laptop speakers. I press myself against him
sliding slightly, thinking I might have used too much lube for his
liking, but how could I know?
I start to push in, eyes still
closed, because I still know this part. I still know how to be slow and
accommodating, how to rub soothing circles against his lower back, how
to bite off a moan when he shifts back against me and tightens down for a
millisecond. The shuddering breaths from both ends when I can't go any
deeper without moving back again, the slow unwinding of muscles.
"You..Pete
you can move, whenever." I take another shaking breath, wondering how
long I'd stayed just so, waiting, having forgotten to count the seconds.
He wants me to move so I do, slowly rocking back and forth until I
start slipping a little further back each time. Until I start sliding
back in.
Slowly building up a rhythm of back and forth, breathe through your nose and out your mouth. But he whines, and presses back. Not fast enough Pete, come on now.
I speed it up, gripping his hips, digging my fingers into the fleshier
parts. He moans my name, and it's the most ridiculous thing on the
planet and laugh. I laugh too loud and too long, still thrusting, same
rhythm.
I hear him laugh too, quiet and breathy, punctuated by
gasps and lip bites until we both fade off. When I've started going
faster without meaning to, but it's okay. So I try harder without
meaning to and it's nice. So I try twisting my hips and he pushes back
against me, my name spilling out again.
But this time it's enclosed in a soft moan, followed by a shiver and I can't do anything else but reply in a strained voice, "Patrick..."
I speed up again. Keep the same angle Pete, we know how this goes.
The quiet gasps getting progressively louder with each thrust.
Crescendo. The sinful slap of skin on skin that always manages to be
ever present and ever a turn off no matter how good the pleasure is.
Beat. The moans, and whimpers and whispers from god knows who anymore.
Melody. Lyrics. Cadence. The song that's playing quietly paling in
comparison.
But this isn't what I'd expected, not all of this. I
take my frustration out by giving it all I've got. Giving everything to
him. The sweat falls, beading up and managing to get caught in my eyes
for a moment, stinging. When my vision comes back he's barely bracing
himself anymore, one hand wrapped around himself, trying to keep time.
Which he does, drummers are weird like that.
I hear him get louder
and quieter at the same time, breaths huffing from our lungs trying to
get out and stay out but they always get pulled right back in. Then he
shudders, and he whispers my name one last time before the beginning of
the end. Another piece of this beautiful mess.
He tightens down on me repeatedly, rapid fire muscle movements, pulling me in and bringing me down with him.
And just like that it's over.
Just
like that I'm pulling the rest of the way out and tying off the
garbage, still warm when it's chucked into the trash. Just like that and
I'm coming down and wiping my forehead free of sweat. Laying down on
the cooled half of the mattress. Eyes closed.
It hits me what I've
done, like a ton of bricks, like a ton of feathers. I fucked him. Not
just metaphorically but physically. A whole new level of messed up and
ready to freak out. I feel wrong and vile and I used him and made him
cheap. He's just a sales return now, without a receipt, I lost it years
ago.
My heart won't slow and my throat burns threateningly, I
focus on hearing him breathe. Breaths slowing down like my own should
be. Then the mattress moves, and I can't open my eyes. Can't look to see
him grimace and run off to the bathroom to try and clean me off of him.
He couldn't if he tried.
Then I feel a slightly clammy but warmed
forehead press against my shoulder. An arm across my chest, fingers
wrapping perfectly to fit into the grooves of my shoulder. That's it, no
other connection, no need to lay pressed completely together and sweaty
I suppose. Everything's still wrong somehow.
Then he fixes it, so simple how he does it. Years of mastering the art, but he fixes it.
"I
love you." It's warm, and solid and he scoots a bit closer, nuzzles his
nose against my neck. My pulse slows but my heart stays beating hard
before I reply and complete the repairs. Feeling his smile already,
feeling it infect me without a warrant. In that moment, I love bad
ideas, and cliches and best friends. I do.
"I love you too."
Pairing: Peterick
Rating: NC-17
Summary: it's true love, and sex, and too complicated to be explained in a summary, that's why i wrote a story. read it, check it out.
After months of little to no communication I finally give in to see
him. We're sitting on his couch in front of some made for television
horror movie. My arm's braced on the back of the couch as he leans
against me, it's casual, but to anyone else it's the perfect setting for
disaster. I wonder.
I glance at him, his attention rapt on the
screen. His hair looks over gelled and under styled, kind of matted in
places but I don't bother to fix it. The plain gray shirt he has on is
only rivaled in style by those too-baggy sweatpants that he's probably
been lounging in all week. We probably both could use a bath, but with
our mentality we never take one when we have all the chance in the
world. Too easy.
I close my eyes and duck my head down just a bit,
nuzzling my nose against his cheek and part of his ear. Interested in
the way the inner curves of it feel in texture. I hear him sigh heavily,
what's wrong? I don't ask I just repeat the action, pressing a soft
kiss right before his ear this time. He goes rigid against me. Kind of
funny, isn't it?
"Pete?" His voice sounds tentative, and hopeful and perfect as usual.
I
mumbled a quiet, "Yeah?" in response, and grimace when my voice cracks
from lack of use these past couple of hours we've managed to sit like
this.
He pulls away from me, and I remember that we're not just
characters and that this isn't coming from the mind of some teenage girl
with nothing better to do. When I chance to look at him again, he's
still pretty close. Staring at me, a slow smile creeping onto his face
and I try to smile back.
Then he does something that scares me, or
I can only assume so with the way my heart picks up and how my throat
feels too tight when I try and swallow again. He leans against me again
and presses his cold nose against my neck, nuzzling me back, making sure
to kiss just so, just softly right behind my ear. I feel crazy.
I
must be if I'm imagining him doing this. If I'm imagining the soft,
chapped press of his lips against my throat and my jaw, the shivers it
inadvertently causes. The casual flick of tongue before he moves back
again, eyes dialed in the flickering glow of bad acting and fake blood.
Was that it?
Has he been waiting for that? Is he waiting for me to
reciprocate? He doesn't look away, and I feel like we've been staring
at each other for hours instead of seconds until I lean forward. My eyes
close on instinct, I don't kiss him yet. There's that moment though,
right before the kiss, where I should feel all sorts of anticipation and
unresolved tension, but all I feel is his little puffs of breaths
colliding with mine and all I think is that I should have brushed my
teeth.
He closes that space though, and we're kissing and it's
slow and nice. Just nice, not mind blowing, no indoor fireworks. I let
him decide to pull away and when I look at him again the side of his
mouth is quirked up and he's blushing. Which might be the only thing to
have compelled me to lean in again.
We go through this a few
times, each time the kisses are longer and a couple times we miss the
mark and his nose bumps into mine or I only catch the corner of his
mouth. I realize belatedly that this would probably be termed as making
out, and something turns in my stomach. Acid build up, maybe, but I'm
used to it.
The next time I pull away I feel the weight of his
hand braced on my neck, fingers slipping up into my hair, sure to get
caught in it, I haven't really been taking care of it again. I see that
same damn half smile that he pulls, and I lean back in as he pulls away,
tugging his fingers out of my hair. Which is only fair.
The part
where he stands up and tugs my hand is all part of this game. I let him
take me along past the dirty coffee table, and messy kitchen. Down the
short dark hallway into the dark clothing strewn bedroom, and it's like
floating. I'm not here, I'm just here. A spectator to my own life. Which
only seems right, right?
He stops and fumbles with the laptop
plugged in charging in the corner. This isn't how it goes, but he's
doing that anyway. He clicks hurriedly and some sort of cliched smooth
jazz starts playing, inwardly I didn't expect anything else. It's quiet
though and somehow is easily ignorable, I know how it feels.
He
slinks back over, it fits him, and presses against me. Presses his lips
back against mine, works a hand back into my hair. I don't feel the
build up of lust, no carnal need to touch him back, but I do. I do slip
my arms comfortably around his waist, simple. Only everything is
complicated.
My hands are starting to sweat and I feel
light-headed, and he pushes me back until I sit on the bed. He pulls
away from me, reaching down to unbutton my jeans, all of his attention
focused therein, unlike how it's supposed to be; us kissing until our
heads spin, fervently trying to get each other naked without breaking
away. I kind of like this more, watching his hands work, fingers curling
swiftly to pop the button loose and slide the zipper down. I'm kind of
happy I stopped buying jeans that barely fit skin tight or ones with
buttons all up because they looked cool. Cool is impractical.
He
lets me work them the rest of the way off, slipping out of his sweats
just to show off some generic pair of boxers. I hate to admit I'm glad I
wore underwear, I'm sure I wasn't supposed to. I was supposed to just
wear the skintight jeans, commando, but if I did that I might as well
wear eyeliner again.
He looks a little lost, god only knows how
fucking lost I must look. He brushes a hand through his hair, messing it
up just a little more, biting his lip out of habit.
"Uhhhhmmm....shirts?"
I don't completely know what he means, no perfect mental communication here, "Off or..?" He asks, clarifying.
"Oh....your call."
So
he shrugs and pulls his off. It's weird again, to me anyway. I've seen
him shirtless before, countless times, it's not much different but his
confidence about it is surprising. I end up taking mine off for lack of
anything better in mind, and he smiles again. I did good.
"Scoot
back some." He orders, patiently, as though if I didn't really want to I
didn't have to, but I do anyway. I scoot until my knees are barely
bracketed on the bed. He kneels onto the bed, to the side of me and
works his leg over my lap until he's sort of straddling me. Almost
slipping as he adjusts himself and I reach out to save him, hands
cupping his ass on accident, but it seems an okay thing to do. Eyes
locking onto mine, heart probably beating faster because of his near
injury rather than me touching him, but I'll take it.
Then we're
kissing again, and it's still nice. Just nice though, not enough to get
me hot, not enough for me to get past the fact we're best friends. The
quiet moan he has me swallow tells me that it's not the same story for
him, hell all of this so far has told me things about him I thought were
fiction. I don't think he even reads the fiction about us, doesn't even
know it's out there. Pseudo-innocence is his kind of thing I suppose.
He
leans into me and I have to brace us with my elbow pressed hard into
the bed, slipping slowly until we end up sort of horizontal. My legs are
still hanging off of the bed and my pulse pounds low in my stomach at
the strange circulation. He just readjusts himself again, sitting right
across my hips. The kiss breaks with that, and instead of pressing our
lips back together he just starts nipping at my neck. A little too
light, and a little too infrequent.
I hear him huff, and then he
clamps his teeth a bit harder, sucking on the impressed skin after and
oh. My eyes flutter shut instead of staring at the stupid stucco
ceiling, my breathing shuddering lightly as he works his way along my
collarbone, nipping and licking and sucking. He shifts again, pressing
his ass against my now half-interested cock. I make this quiet noise,
that I'm pretty embarrassed about for some reason, he's heard me make
these noises before. Muffled in the next bed over, across the half inch
of hallway space tour buses have. He just shifts back again,
purposefully and I make that same damn noise, and he sits up.
He's
still, the weighted pressure still there over me, my hands migrated to
his hips at some point and i thumb over the soft skin and take a moment
to notice the song's changed genres. Something I probably have on my own
iPod but have long since forgotten the name of. He's biting his lip
again, he's hard too, again nothing we haven't see before.
"I've
done this before y'know?" I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he flushes a
bit darker, something settles in my stomach. So he stutters, "I-I
mean....god, hold on..."
He slides off of me and so I sit up,
scoot back, staring off in the direction he left in. He pads back in
from where, I can only assume the bathroom across the hall, cock bobbing
proudly and I can barely hold back a laugh or smile. He doesn't seem to
care, just smiles back, crawling back to me on the bed, messing the
already-had-been-messy sheets up more.
"This..I've..." He doesn't
finish the sentence, he looks young again, not that he isn't but I mean
really young. It pulls at something in my chest that immediately drops
to my stomach when I see he's holding a tube of half used KY and some
off-brand of condom. I don't breath, that'd be too good of an idea.
"It's....I'm
getting carried away, of course I am...." He smiles, just a quirk of
his lips, nothing too special. He wants it all, and I don't blame him
but I have to wonder why he wants anything from me. His fingers loosen
around the items and then tighten, he's slumping in on himself, not
quite as excited as he was before his bad idea. This whole thing has
been a bad idea.
I love bad ideas.
I push forward, push him
back, watch his eyes widen, note how he pushes his questionable
substances aside for later (soon). I brace myself over him, heart not
beating fast enough but hard enough for sure. Oh.
In that moment I
hated that feeling. I pressed our lips together harder than we'd let
them be before, I bit and searched and made sure he couldn't breath. I
take his breath away. Ha.
He wants it all, he wants too much, too
fast, not fast enough. He can have it. I just hope to God it doesn't
break him. I pull away for such an insignificant moment it blurs into
the next. I slide my hands across his shoulders and chest and he squirms
and makes the shyest of needy noises.
I slip my hands lower
still, to his wriggling hips. I leave his mouth to find his neck to bite
and suck and lick like he'd done to me, only harder, not caring if he
likes it, he asked for it. He moans, and I've heard it all before, he
says my name, and I've heard it all before, he begs for more. That's
something new. I'll be happy to give him more of everything.
I
pull slowly at the stretchy elastic around his waist, slide my tongue
slowly around the shell of his ear. Pretend I have a plan. I have to
pull away to get them pulled off and he whimpers quietly. I don't know
what to do for a split second after the sound reaches my ears, but then
he lifts his hips, and yeah, okay, right.
I pull the boxers down
his thighs, staring at just those right now, touching just because. But
they don't feel as special as everyone thinks, or maybe it's just me. He
shivers, full body. I kneel up and watch him kick the underwear away,
mine stay on for stupid reasons, I'm sure.
I inspect him, laying
flushed on messy sheets, desperate just for me. I find it somewhere in
the back of my mind to keep going, because he deserves it all. I forgo
the pleasantries and wrap a tight fist around his cock, watching his
eyes widen, hearing his breath catch, feeling him pulse. A couple of dry
tugs and he throws the lube at me. No, really, he threw it at me.
It's
uncapped with a loud pop, the plastic scraping against calloused
fingers, not feeling it like I should have. Just enough in my palm to
see it slide around, this is the beginning of this whole act getting
messy. So I replace my hand, watching how when I slow down he thrusts
up. When I speed up he moans in the low end of his range.
But this
isn't all of it, this is just scratching the surface. Tip of the
iceberg. You get the idea, cliches. I let go and he still bucks up,
fingers near his head, clasped around the bottom edge of an old pillow. I
drag my nails feather light across his balls, earning another shiver
and I send one back without meaning to. I go lower until I can't see the
tips of my fingers, so I feel around, I guess he thinks I'm teasing I'm
just lost.
I hear him swallow audibly, "Pete." and I pause
everything. I pull my hand back as he starts to shift, and he swirls
over onto his stomach. It's the only way I can explain the move he just
pulled off, still between my legs just a different side of the coin. I
smirk lightly wondering how many times he'd tried that and it'd gone
wrong before now.
Then I look him over again, head tilted
sideways, braced on his arms, back bowed ever-so making his ass stick up
just a bit more. More lube, more of this mess to be made. Then I
hesitate, figures.
"I..." croaked out like a true frog prince. His
eyes flutter open, dart sideways towards me. I keep the gaze as I press
a finger in between his cheeks, pressing against his entrance. The
lashes flutter, and he bites his lip and sure as hell doesn't tell me
I'm wrong. I press a finger in, careful not to make it slip too far too
fast.
This part I know, this part I've done before. I know just
how to brush my knuckle, how to soothingly probe deeper. I know that the
tiny gasps I'm receiving are the reason another finger joins the first.
Why I pry them apart and push them deeper. How the gasps get louder,
how my nails catch just a bit on the way in that time, be more careful. I
think, does he want a third one, he wanted it all, but then I glance
down at myself and scoff at the thought. I slide in another anyway and
watch his mouth stay stuck in a permanent silent moan. I can feel him
twitch and shiver around my fingers as they slip easier, he has done this before.
And
then, something weird happens as I stumble upon this thought. Who?
Who's got to touch him like this, make him feel this, been here before
me? How long has he waited for me to take this chance. When did I lose
that first chance? Or is this it, and then it is my first chance. I lean
forward and kiss his shoulder as I push them back in and his hips twist
against the sheets.
I kiss his shoulder again as he whimpers and I
pull my fingers away. Watch his eyes flutter just lightly, not opening,
it's like he's dreaming beneath those salty lids. I fumble for the
condom and fumble getting my underwear down and fumble opening the foil
and fumble rolling it on. Suddenly my hands won't stop shaking, suddenly
I can't wipe the sweat off my upper lip fast enough.
I nudge his
thighs apart and he seems to wake up from that dream he was having. He
pushes himself up, hands and knees, perfectly displaying himself to me
were this to be the animal kingdom. But oh yeah, it is. So I kneel up,
and spread him apart, eyes closed to the shudder and the strange high
note coming through tinny laptop speakers. I press myself against him
sliding slightly, thinking I might have used too much lube for his
liking, but how could I know?
I start to push in, eyes still
closed, because I still know this part. I still know how to be slow and
accommodating, how to rub soothing circles against his lower back, how
to bite off a moan when he shifts back against me and tightens down for a
millisecond. The shuddering breaths from both ends when I can't go any
deeper without moving back again, the slow unwinding of muscles.
"You..Pete
you can move, whenever." I take another shaking breath, wondering how
long I'd stayed just so, waiting, having forgotten to count the seconds.
He wants me to move so I do, slowly rocking back and forth until I
start slipping a little further back each time. Until I start sliding
back in.
Slowly building up a rhythm of back and forth, breathe through your nose and out your mouth. But he whines, and presses back. Not fast enough Pete, come on now.
I speed it up, gripping his hips, digging my fingers into the fleshier
parts. He moans my name, and it's the most ridiculous thing on the
planet and laugh. I laugh too loud and too long, still thrusting, same
rhythm.
I hear him laugh too, quiet and breathy, punctuated by
gasps and lip bites until we both fade off. When I've started going
faster without meaning to, but it's okay. So I try harder without
meaning to and it's nice. So I try twisting my hips and he pushes back
against me, my name spilling out again.
But this time it's enclosed in a soft moan, followed by a shiver and I can't do anything else but reply in a strained voice, "Patrick..."
I speed up again. Keep the same angle Pete, we know how this goes.
The quiet gasps getting progressively louder with each thrust.
Crescendo. The sinful slap of skin on skin that always manages to be
ever present and ever a turn off no matter how good the pleasure is.
Beat. The moans, and whimpers and whispers from god knows who anymore.
Melody. Lyrics. Cadence. The song that's playing quietly paling in
comparison.
But this isn't what I'd expected, not all of this. I
take my frustration out by giving it all I've got. Giving everything to
him. The sweat falls, beading up and managing to get caught in my eyes
for a moment, stinging. When my vision comes back he's barely bracing
himself anymore, one hand wrapped around himself, trying to keep time.
Which he does, drummers are weird like that.
I hear him get louder
and quieter at the same time, breaths huffing from our lungs trying to
get out and stay out but they always get pulled right back in. Then he
shudders, and he whispers my name one last time before the beginning of
the end. Another piece of this beautiful mess.
He tightens down on me repeatedly, rapid fire muscle movements, pulling me in and bringing me down with him.
And just like that it's over.
Just
like that I'm pulling the rest of the way out and tying off the
garbage, still warm when it's chucked into the trash. Just like that and
I'm coming down and wiping my forehead free of sweat. Laying down on
the cooled half of the mattress. Eyes closed.
It hits me what I've
done, like a ton of bricks, like a ton of feathers. I fucked him. Not
just metaphorically but physically. A whole new level of messed up and
ready to freak out. I feel wrong and vile and I used him and made him
cheap. He's just a sales return now, without a receipt, I lost it years
ago.
My heart won't slow and my throat burns threateningly, I
focus on hearing him breathe. Breaths slowing down like my own should
be. Then the mattress moves, and I can't open my eyes. Can't look to see
him grimace and run off to the bathroom to try and clean me off of him.
He couldn't if he tried.
Then I feel a slightly clammy but warmed
forehead press against my shoulder. An arm across my chest, fingers
wrapping perfectly to fit into the grooves of my shoulder. That's it, no
other connection, no need to lay pressed completely together and sweaty
I suppose. Everything's still wrong somehow.
Then he fixes it, so simple how he does it. Years of mastering the art, but he fixes it.
"I
love you." It's warm, and solid and he scoots a bit closer, nuzzles his
nose against my neck. My pulse slows but my heart stays beating hard
before I reply and complete the repairs. Feeling his smile already,
feeling it infect me without a warrant. In that moment, I love bad
ideas, and cliches and best friends. I do.
"I love you too."