(no subject)
Secondhand
Josh Holloway/Johnny Depp
R-ish
Summary: Memories linger longer, leave an unremovable stain.
Disclaimer: All made up.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Note: Sequel to “Lighter”.
For the lovely autumn_faerie. Happy Birthday, Lauren! :D I hope you have a spectacular day; you deserve it. ♥
Secondhand
For the third night in a row, Josh woke up fighting with the sheets. The score: Josh, 0; sheets, 3.
On the first night, Yessica had gotten up to get him water. He’d fallen back onto the bed, sweat adhering his back to the cotton. She had returned with whiskey, placed the thick glass in his hands then placed her hands between his legs. He had been hard already, and that was part of the problem. But a little less of a problem as her mouth slid down to meet her hands, to replace them. Suddenly, his stammering heart hadn’t seemed quite so bad.
By the second night, he’d forgotten the first. There had been no gasp to wake her too, but his limbs caught him up in a cocoon, leaving her cold. His pulse had thundered in his ears so that he couldn’t hear her when first she spoke. She had untangled him slowly while he’d told her it was okay, it was okay, really.
The third night, he simply wrenched himself free and stalked to the living room, not even bothering to see if she was awake or if she would protest. Fuck it, he thought, this is enough.
Josh fell into the sofa, shoulders slumped, legs sprawled. He curled his hand around the remote control by habit, feeling his fingertips throb against the plastic, his heartbeat pushing wildly out of his skin. The television surged on, the image sharpening. Josh groaned.
On the screen, a young man with long brown hair did a vaudeville routine for a smiling blonde girl. It was out of step with time. Josh felt the same.
His finger hovered over the power button, but he couldn’t press it. Whatever he’d run from, it seemed to catch him, and now he was paralyzed in its capture. Images, watery-thin and blurred on the edges, burned through his mind: dark eyelashes flickering, grey smoke coloring-in the air, dark hair being gracefully tucked behind an ear, brown eyes looking into him, looking down and the smooth, moist underside of hands. Then lips; Josh’s own still felt swollen. With the back of his hand, he brusquely wiped his mouth, winced as he scraped the raw spot he’d bitten into during his sleep. Or had he been bitten?
Josh remembered a song his cousin had played a lot, this one line in particular: “Dreams, they complicate my life.” He huffed, laughing silently and shortly. That cousin, he remembered, had been disowned by the family for acting on dreams not too different from Josh’s now. He’d run away. Josh had taken his cue.
The excuses for not attending that ceremony... he knew they were lame, feeble attempts to ditch the truth, a truth he couldn’t even admit to himself, not consciously. But he knew the chances of him being there again. He’d checked the list of nominees. It wasn’t worth the risk, not when the last escape had been so narrow. Yessica could save that new dress for another time. “The next awards, honey,” he assured her. Those would be safe.
Only thing was, Johnny lit upon Josh later.
At night, they shared the same space, the same spread of skin, the same dense air tickling their throats with moisture and nicotine. In his dreams it started the same way: Johnny laughing, sending smoke into Josh’s face, clouds covering them from the crowd until everyone else disappeared completely. Then Josh pulled the cigarette from Johnny’s lips, pulled it into his mouth and, by the time the soft paper slipped into him, it was gone, Johnny’s tongue pushing in, paper soft, to meet his. They held onto each other’s hair, grabbing fistfuls to navigate their mouths closer, deeper, further inside.
In his dreams, Josh fought harder with Johnny than his sleeping body did with the sheets. Awake, he fought harder with himself than the two combined.
But tonight, he conceded. He slid his hand down past his waistband, pivoted his palm over the head of his cock as he watched the screen, watched Johnny’s mouth open to speak. He imagined it opening for him and squeezed tightly. Resisting heavy lids, he focused on the blunt fingers that flashed before him, could almost feel them on him, stained at the ends, digging into his hips. Behind the film of Josh’s sleep-smudged eyes, the inside of Johnny’s mouth appeared grey, like a shadow that could mute the world. The shadow bore down on him, drawing him out.
His hand tightened. Not tight enough, not fast enough. This was weaker than dream, the consistency of smoke, unfurling him slowly, agonizingly. After all, it was only a substitute, like cigarettes.
When he lit up minutes later, he didn’t care if he had promised (once again) to quit, didn’t care that he wasn’t supposed to even have these in the house. He was sleeping on the couch tonight anyway.
Besides, the sheets had won fair and square, unlike Johnny.
Josh Holloway/Johnny Depp
R-ish
Summary: Memories linger longer, leave an unremovable stain.
Disclaimer: All made up.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies.
Note: Sequel to “Lighter”.
For the lovely autumn_faerie. Happy Birthday, Lauren! :D I hope you have a spectacular day; you deserve it. ♥
Secondhand
For the third night in a row, Josh woke up fighting with the sheets. The score: Josh, 0; sheets, 3.
On the first night, Yessica had gotten up to get him water. He’d fallen back onto the bed, sweat adhering his back to the cotton. She had returned with whiskey, placed the thick glass in his hands then placed her hands between his legs. He had been hard already, and that was part of the problem. But a little less of a problem as her mouth slid down to meet her hands, to replace them. Suddenly, his stammering heart hadn’t seemed quite so bad.
By the second night, he’d forgotten the first. There had been no gasp to wake her too, but his limbs caught him up in a cocoon, leaving her cold. His pulse had thundered in his ears so that he couldn’t hear her when first she spoke. She had untangled him slowly while he’d told her it was okay, it was okay, really.
The third night, he simply wrenched himself free and stalked to the living room, not even bothering to see if she was awake or if she would protest. Fuck it, he thought, this is enough.
Josh fell into the sofa, shoulders slumped, legs sprawled. He curled his hand around the remote control by habit, feeling his fingertips throb against the plastic, his heartbeat pushing wildly out of his skin. The television surged on, the image sharpening. Josh groaned.
On the screen, a young man with long brown hair did a vaudeville routine for a smiling blonde girl. It was out of step with time. Josh felt the same.
His finger hovered over the power button, but he couldn’t press it. Whatever he’d run from, it seemed to catch him, and now he was paralyzed in its capture. Images, watery-thin and blurred on the edges, burned through his mind: dark eyelashes flickering, grey smoke coloring-in the air, dark hair being gracefully tucked behind an ear, brown eyes looking into him, looking down and the smooth, moist underside of hands. Then lips; Josh’s own still felt swollen. With the back of his hand, he brusquely wiped his mouth, winced as he scraped the raw spot he’d bitten into during his sleep. Or had he been bitten?
Josh remembered a song his cousin had played a lot, this one line in particular: “Dreams, they complicate my life.” He huffed, laughing silently and shortly. That cousin, he remembered, had been disowned by the family for acting on dreams not too different from Josh’s now. He’d run away. Josh had taken his cue.
The excuses for not attending that ceremony... he knew they were lame, feeble attempts to ditch the truth, a truth he couldn’t even admit to himself, not consciously. But he knew the chances of him being there again. He’d checked the list of nominees. It wasn’t worth the risk, not when the last escape had been so narrow. Yessica could save that new dress for another time. “The next awards, honey,” he assured her. Those would be safe.
Only thing was, Johnny lit upon Josh later.
At night, they shared the same space, the same spread of skin, the same dense air tickling their throats with moisture and nicotine. In his dreams it started the same way: Johnny laughing, sending smoke into Josh’s face, clouds covering them from the crowd until everyone else disappeared completely. Then Josh pulled the cigarette from Johnny’s lips, pulled it into his mouth and, by the time the soft paper slipped into him, it was gone, Johnny’s tongue pushing in, paper soft, to meet his. They held onto each other’s hair, grabbing fistfuls to navigate their mouths closer, deeper, further inside.
In his dreams, Josh fought harder with Johnny than his sleeping body did with the sheets. Awake, he fought harder with himself than the two combined.
But tonight, he conceded. He slid his hand down past his waistband, pivoted his palm over the head of his cock as he watched the screen, watched Johnny’s mouth open to speak. He imagined it opening for him and squeezed tightly. Resisting heavy lids, he focused on the blunt fingers that flashed before him, could almost feel them on him, stained at the ends, digging into his hips. Behind the film of Josh’s sleep-smudged eyes, the inside of Johnny’s mouth appeared grey, like a shadow that could mute the world. The shadow bore down on him, drawing him out.
His hand tightened. Not tight enough, not fast enough. This was weaker than dream, the consistency of smoke, unfurling him slowly, agonizingly. After all, it was only a substitute, like cigarettes.
When he lit up minutes later, he didn’t care if he had promised (once again) to quit, didn’t care that he wasn’t supposed to even have these in the house. He was sleeping on the couch tonight anyway.
Besides, the sheets had won fair and square, unlike Johnny.
