I'm under the impression I should feel sheepish.
Oh. My. God.
Am. Dead.
You guys need to stop giving me such great feedback (I in no way actually mean that) because it makes me want to write more. (I loved hearing all of your QAF discovery stories, btw) Apparently my muse is a comment whore. :) I start a new semester next Tuesday. I had best be finished with this by then.
Post 513, slightly AU, Chapter 1 of a longer series that has no title right now. I'll just pretend all of *this* writing is to warm me up for Prospectus writing in a week.
Brian sat on his bed, angry. Not the kind of anger that made him throw Justin and his movies out and not the kind of anger that made him slam his fist into Mikey’s well deserving face. No, this anger was slow, and dull, and *fucking ow* it hurt.
That little shit had actually packed up and left while Brian had pretended to sleep. Justin ran away, again, after Brian had tried for five fucking years to get the kid to grow some balls and he just fucking walked out the door after staring at Brian’s naked torso for 10 minutes.
Brian, of course, realized that he could have rolled over and looked him in the eye, but he was under the distinct impression that if that happened he would end up turning into a fucking lesbian, again. Again. Fucking blond twink with his fucking amazing talent.
Why were all the blonds in his life out to destroy him? He suspected for years that Justin and Lindsay were in cahoots. That when Justin would disappear with a “project” and Lindsay would have some mommy-related occurrence, they would really be sitting around plotting his doom.
Two joints of spectacular weed in and any theory sounds plausible.
Brian thought briefly that he should probably actually get up off of his bed and move. Maybe put on clothes. Or he could go trick. Yes. He was Brian Fucking Kinney as Mikey liked to remind him and he could go and get his dick sucked by any little twink that Babylo…Justin…”I love you”…Fucking blonds!
It’s not fair for one’s very well planned, very controlled, very pleasurable life to be turned upside down in one night. And, in the smoky haze, Brian allowed the irony of the streetlight surviving the bomb to soak into his bones. And then he got mad again. His life, his life that he loved, went to hell. Fucking straight (oh ew) to hell in the twinkle of blue eyes. For fuck’s sake, the kid was talking about puking because of Tylenol the first night he met him and now he owned what would make a really good country club and had almost gotten married and…
You know what? Fuck this shit.
Brian got his ass up out of his bed, pulled on jeans and a tank top, ran a hand through his hair, grabbed his keys and wallet, and was out the door. It was time to hunt down that fucking little shit. Again. Brian flipped open his wallet to make sure that he had enough cash for gas while pondering if he could actually superglue Justin’s feet to the floor of Britin (he’d be nice and set up an easel right in front of him). And goddamnit if he hadn’t stolen Brian’s credit card. Again.
Subtlety was never Justin’s strong suit.
Am. Dead.
You guys need to stop giving me such great feedback (I in no way actually mean that) because it makes me want to write more. (I loved hearing all of your QAF discovery stories, btw) Apparently my muse is a comment whore. :) I start a new semester next Tuesday. I had best be finished with this by then.
Post 513, slightly AU, Chapter 1 of a longer series that has no title right now. I'll just pretend all of *this* writing is to warm me up for Prospectus writing in a week.
Brian sat on his bed, angry. Not the kind of anger that made him throw Justin and his movies out and not the kind of anger that made him slam his fist into Mikey’s well deserving face. No, this anger was slow, and dull, and *fucking ow* it hurt.
That little shit had actually packed up and left while Brian had pretended to sleep. Justin ran away, again, after Brian had tried for five fucking years to get the kid to grow some balls and he just fucking walked out the door after staring at Brian’s naked torso for 10 minutes.
Brian, of course, realized that he could have rolled over and looked him in the eye, but he was under the distinct impression that if that happened he would end up turning into a fucking lesbian, again. Again. Fucking blond twink with his fucking amazing talent.
Why were all the blonds in his life out to destroy him? He suspected for years that Justin and Lindsay were in cahoots. That when Justin would disappear with a “project” and Lindsay would have some mommy-related occurrence, they would really be sitting around plotting his doom.
Two joints of spectacular weed in and any theory sounds plausible.
Brian thought briefly that he should probably actually get up off of his bed and move. Maybe put on clothes. Or he could go trick. Yes. He was Brian Fucking Kinney as Mikey liked to remind him and he could go and get his dick sucked by any little twink that Babylo…Justin…”I love you”…Fucking blonds!
It’s not fair for one’s very well planned, very controlled, very pleasurable life to be turned upside down in one night. And, in the smoky haze, Brian allowed the irony of the streetlight surviving the bomb to soak into his bones. And then he got mad again. His life, his life that he loved, went to hell. Fucking straight (oh ew) to hell in the twinkle of blue eyes. For fuck’s sake, the kid was talking about puking because of Tylenol the first night he met him and now he owned what would make a really good country club and had almost gotten married and…
You know what? Fuck this shit.
Brian got his ass up out of his bed, pulled on jeans and a tank top, ran a hand through his hair, grabbed his keys and wallet, and was out the door. It was time to hunt down that fucking little shit. Again. Brian flipped open his wallet to make sure that he had enough cash for gas while pondering if he could actually superglue Justin’s feet to the floor of Britin (he’d be nice and set up an easel right in front of him). And goddamnit if he hadn’t stolen Brian’s credit card. Again.
Subtlety was never Justin’s strong suit.