Ficlet: QaF: Accelerate, Then Bleed It Out
I'm not sure what I think of this. It is a stream of consciousness gap-filler for 404. I don't know if I think this is what happened or not. I just opened the gates and let the horses run where they may. I have no idea if they ran some place with lots of green grass, or some place thorny and barren.
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Spoilers for 404
Accelerate, Then Bleed It Out
The sound of their accelerated breathing resonated from the walls, and Brian's grip on Justin's forearms bruised, but he wasn't fighting back anymore. Justin still rushed with anger, aggression, and the need to just get it all out. It was overwhelming: the violent urge to show Brian, to show himself, that he wasn't a fucking sissy coward. Why couldn't Brian acknowledge, just once, that Justin was powerful, that he was someone to be respected, feared, and admired?
But Brian was just lying there on the floor beneath him, staring into Justin's eyes, his expression saying that maybe the fight had gone too far. And maybe it had. Because Justin wasn't at all certain how the suggestion that he top, and Brian's typical initial declination, had led to punches being thrown, and grappling on the floor. How had the usual teasingly phrased 'no', made him snap, pushed his buttons? It'd made him want to fucking show Brian that he wasn't someone to be taken lightly. Not anymore.
It wasn't as though Brian wouldn't have let him. Justin knew that if he'd wheedled and begged, Brian would have given in. If he'd given the big eyes, and the "I want to make love to you" expression, Brian would have capitulated eventually.
But that wasn't what he'd wanted. Not tonight. He'd wanted to fuck, and he'd wanted to fuck Brian. He didn't want to fuck some stranger. No, he wanted to mold Brian's flesh to his, in violent, angry fucking. He wanted to show Brian exactly how he felt inside, wanted to share his anger, his excitement, his power. He wanted Brian to feel it from him, and respect it, and want it.
And when Brian hadn't taken him seriously, it'd just added insult to injury, and why not make it fucking literal? Why not show Brian how much he could give, how much he could take?
So, he was straddling Brian on the floor, and he wasn't even fighting back. Justin leaned forward, whispering, "Are you beaten, old man? Do you call Uncle?"
Brian didn't smirk, didn't smile; he didn't even lift an eyebrow. He just continued to stare at Justin, until their breaths had slowed, the air had cooled, and a shiver ran over Justin's body.
Finally, Brian said, "A deal's a deal. If this is what you want--" and the rest of the sentence, and all the implications, hung between them.
Justin pulled back, grinding his ass on Brian's pelvis. Brian was flaccid, all indication of sexual arousal gone. Nothing but cooling sweat, and even cooler eyes, remained.
Fuck, no. This wasn't what he wanted. He'd wanted some fucking recognition, some goddamn respect, and admiration, not this submission--if that's what one could call it. It was resignation, worse than a pity-fuck. It was Brian letting him win, and fuck that shit. He shoved off, turned his back, and walked toward the bathroom. He was still hard, but shoving his cock up Brian's ass didn't seem all that appealing anymore. Not with the kind of price he'd pay in the end.
The shower was like ice, and he stood under it a long time, thinking about breathing, thinking about punching, thinking about fucking. It was all intertwined in his mind tonight, power and sex, and he was finally, finally the one on top in the game of life. But not in his bed. Not in Brian's bed.
He threw the faucet to scalding, and bit down on his tongue so that he wouldn't yelp, threw it back to cold, and chilled the burn. At least it was something, even if he couldn't cool the fire inside.
Turning the shower off, he heard only silence from the rest of the loft. For a moment, he wondered if Brian had left, had gotten off the floor, thrown on some jeans, and gone to Babylon. But the sound of a match striking obliterated that idea. Justin grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his waist. It was red like blood, and he remembered the blood on his hands from the night before. That straight mother fucker had gone down.
Brian sat at the kitchen counter, naked, and smoking. One hand holding his head up, the other bringing the cigarette to his mouth in slow, steady arcs. Justin stood with his legs apart, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the silence to break one of them.
He was surprised when Brian spoke first.
"I was wrong."
Justin started toward the counter. That was the last thing he'd expected to hear. Brian took another drag on his cigarette and turned to face Justin with a contemplative expression.
"They don't all hate you to your face or behind your back."
Justin scoffed, and rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter, but he chose to remain silent. He didn't trust himself to speak; he might lash out again, punch, or worse.
"Daphne," Brian said, inhaling. "Debbie. Your mother."
"Give me a break, Brian. They don't count."
"They're straight."
"They're my family."
Brian looked at his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the plate Justin had left on the counter earlier. "Well, it seems like you've got it all figured out."
Justin frowned, his stomach knotting uncomfortably. Did he have it figured out? No. That was Cody, but he wanted it to be him.
Brian stood up. "Well, you won the game, so come fuck me, Tyson. Just don't bite my ear off."
Justin closed his eyes and listened to Brian's feet pad across the hardwood floor, heard the pause that indicated Brian had turned back to see why Justin wasn't following. He shook his head.
Brian's voice was soft, so full of emotion and affection, that it pained Justin to hear it. "Have it your way."
Justin turned, sat at the counter, and lit a cigarette of his own, letting the anger bleed out on every smoke-laden breath.
It was many hours later, when he crawled back into bed with Brian. He leaned up on one elbow and studied Brian's sleeping face in the darkness. The small lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than when he'd met him three years ago; his hair was a little thinner, even if he did a good job of covering it up.
He was beautiful, and Justin loved him so much in that moment that he ached inside. Justin slid down and rested his head on Brian's pillow, nuzzling his face into Brian's neck. He wasn't surprised to hear the whisper. "Feeling better?"
Justin nodded, wrapped his arms around Brian, and held him tightly. Brian pulled him close, twined their fingers together, and drifted off again. Justin lay awake for a long time, listening to Brian's breathing.
Tomorrow he'd tell him about the straight guy he'd beaten up, tell him about kissing Cody to beat the bushes, tell him about how amazing he felt, and how strong. He already knew that Brian would disapprove, that he might even say so, and at the very least it would be in his eyes. But right now, in the darkness of night, warm and safe, he didn't care.
Justin understood. Brian respected him enough to give him the freedom to test himself, to grow. Brian trusted him enough to take whatever shit Justin had to dish out. And Brian loved him enough to let it all go, while still clutching Justin's hand over his beating heart.
THE END
I'd really wanted them to have sex. Oh well.
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Spoilers for 404
Accelerate, Then Bleed It Out
The sound of their accelerated breathing resonated from the walls, and Brian's grip on Justin's forearms bruised, but he wasn't fighting back anymore. Justin still rushed with anger, aggression, and the need to just get it all out. It was overwhelming: the violent urge to show Brian, to show himself, that he wasn't a fucking sissy coward. Why couldn't Brian acknowledge, just once, that Justin was powerful, that he was someone to be respected, feared, and admired?
But Brian was just lying there on the floor beneath him, staring into Justin's eyes, his expression saying that maybe the fight had gone too far. And maybe it had. Because Justin wasn't at all certain how the suggestion that he top, and Brian's typical initial declination, had led to punches being thrown, and grappling on the floor. How had the usual teasingly phrased 'no', made him snap, pushed his buttons? It'd made him want to fucking show Brian that he wasn't someone to be taken lightly. Not anymore.
It wasn't as though Brian wouldn't have let him. Justin knew that if he'd wheedled and begged, Brian would have given in. If he'd given the big eyes, and the "I want to make love to you" expression, Brian would have capitulated eventually.
But that wasn't what he'd wanted. Not tonight. He'd wanted to fuck, and he'd wanted to fuck Brian. He didn't want to fuck some stranger. No, he wanted to mold Brian's flesh to his, in violent, angry fucking. He wanted to show Brian exactly how he felt inside, wanted to share his anger, his excitement, his power. He wanted Brian to feel it from him, and respect it, and want it.
And when Brian hadn't taken him seriously, it'd just added insult to injury, and why not make it fucking literal? Why not show Brian how much he could give, how much he could take?
So, he was straddling Brian on the floor, and he wasn't even fighting back. Justin leaned forward, whispering, "Are you beaten, old man? Do you call Uncle?"
Brian didn't smirk, didn't smile; he didn't even lift an eyebrow. He just continued to stare at Justin, until their breaths had slowed, the air had cooled, and a shiver ran over Justin's body.
Finally, Brian said, "A deal's a deal. If this is what you want--" and the rest of the sentence, and all the implications, hung between them.
Justin pulled back, grinding his ass on Brian's pelvis. Brian was flaccid, all indication of sexual arousal gone. Nothing but cooling sweat, and even cooler eyes, remained.
Fuck, no. This wasn't what he wanted. He'd wanted some fucking recognition, some goddamn respect, and admiration, not this submission--if that's what one could call it. It was resignation, worse than a pity-fuck. It was Brian letting him win, and fuck that shit. He shoved off, turned his back, and walked toward the bathroom. He was still hard, but shoving his cock up Brian's ass didn't seem all that appealing anymore. Not with the kind of price he'd pay in the end.
The shower was like ice, and he stood under it a long time, thinking about breathing, thinking about punching, thinking about fucking. It was all intertwined in his mind tonight, power and sex, and he was finally, finally the one on top in the game of life. But not in his bed. Not in Brian's bed.
He threw the faucet to scalding, and bit down on his tongue so that he wouldn't yelp, threw it back to cold, and chilled the burn. At least it was something, even if he couldn't cool the fire inside.
Turning the shower off, he heard only silence from the rest of the loft. For a moment, he wondered if Brian had left, had gotten off the floor, thrown on some jeans, and gone to Babylon. But the sound of a match striking obliterated that idea. Justin grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his waist. It was red like blood, and he remembered the blood on his hands from the night before. That straight mother fucker had gone down.
Brian sat at the kitchen counter, naked, and smoking. One hand holding his head up, the other bringing the cigarette to his mouth in slow, steady arcs. Justin stood with his legs apart, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the silence to break one of them.
He was surprised when Brian spoke first.
"I was wrong."
Justin started toward the counter. That was the last thing he'd expected to hear. Brian took another drag on his cigarette and turned to face Justin with a contemplative expression.
"They don't all hate you to your face or behind your back."
Justin scoffed, and rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter, but he chose to remain silent. He didn't trust himself to speak; he might lash out again, punch, or worse.
"Daphne," Brian said, inhaling. "Debbie. Your mother."
"Give me a break, Brian. They don't count."
"They're straight."
"They're my family."
Brian looked at his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the plate Justin had left on the counter earlier. "Well, it seems like you've got it all figured out."
Justin frowned, his stomach knotting uncomfortably. Did he have it figured out? No. That was Cody, but he wanted it to be him.
Brian stood up. "Well, you won the game, so come fuck me, Tyson. Just don't bite my ear off."
Justin closed his eyes and listened to Brian's feet pad across the hardwood floor, heard the pause that indicated Brian had turned back to see why Justin wasn't following. He shook his head.
Brian's voice was soft, so full of emotion and affection, that it pained Justin to hear it. "Have it your way."
Justin turned, sat at the counter, and lit a cigarette of his own, letting the anger bleed out on every smoke-laden breath.
It was many hours later, when he crawled back into bed with Brian. He leaned up on one elbow and studied Brian's sleeping face in the darkness. The small lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than when he'd met him three years ago; his hair was a little thinner, even if he did a good job of covering it up.
He was beautiful, and Justin loved him so much in that moment that he ached inside. Justin slid down and rested his head on Brian's pillow, nuzzling his face into Brian's neck. He wasn't surprised to hear the whisper. "Feeling better?"
Justin nodded, wrapped his arms around Brian, and held him tightly. Brian pulled him close, twined their fingers together, and drifted off again. Justin lay awake for a long time, listening to Brian's breathing.
Tomorrow he'd tell him about the straight guy he'd beaten up, tell him about kissing Cody to beat the bushes, tell him about how amazing he felt, and how strong. He already knew that Brian would disapprove, that he might even say so, and at the very least it would be in his eyes. But right now, in the darkness of night, warm and safe, he didn't care.
Justin understood. Brian respected him enough to give him the freedom to test himself, to grow. Brian trusted him enough to take whatever shit Justin had to dish out. And Brian loved him enough to let it all go, while still clutching Justin's hand over his beating heart.
THE END
I'd really wanted them to have sex. Oh well.
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