Pretty Peach 1/3
Fandom: The Eagle
Paring: Marcus/Esca
Genre: Modern day AU
Rating: R
Warnings: cross-dressing, bondage, mild D/S, feminization
Length: 3,000 words
Summary: Marcus is stranded by a storm and all the hotels are booked. His extremely helpful assistant manages to contact an old teammate of his that’s living in the area who he can stay with. Esca has changed a lot since college. For one thing, he’s wearing a skirt.
a/n: this is hands down the kinkest thing I've ever written
A hurricane is coming, that’s what the weather reports are saying. Well, of course a hurricane is coming. Marcus leans heavily on the payphone and groans into the receiver.
“This is unbelievable, Cottia; the hotel lost my reservations and because of the storm, every plane has been grounded so people flocked in hours ago to gets dibs on all the rooms-- everywhere is booked!”
His assistant keeps her cool, like she’s paid to do, and he can hear her typing away as she murmurs through several fast-fix scenarios, rejecting each one as the planning falls through. Marcus listens with his forehead on the bricks above the phone, his eyes closed. He can hear the people crowded around him --he is only one of hundreds who do not have a place to sleep tonight and are forced by the storm to camp here in the random hotel lobby they happened to be in when the worst of the storm started.
Police swarm through the crowd, attempting to help the hotel staff organize the masses into places safe from the big windows in case the hurricane actually hits the coast. The rain sloshes on the windows like a carwash power jet, except there is no rhythm to it. Marcus wishes he was back in LA with his assistant and his Uncle and everyone else he knows, where it is sunny and the sky never turns on the pathetic humans who live under it.
“Shit,” Cottia says, much to Marcus’ horror.
“What?” he asks. He can’t remember a time she has ever failed him and he does not like that she has chosen to do so now, when his back is tense from the storm, and he just wants to hide under his blankets with a flash light like he used to do as a kid when it thundered.
Marcus hates storms.
“Don’t panic,” she says. “But, um… I’m out of ideas. You’ll have to stay wherever you are.”
Despite her order not to panic, Marcus’ skin prickles with goose pimples and his heart rate goes up. “No, no, no, Cots--come on. This place is all windows, and the floor is marble, and there are about a hundred other people!” He’s too rich for this; he really, really, is.
“There has to be something--forget about hotels. Do you have a Sorority sister or maybe a fourth cousin’s ex-roommate’s aunt or something that I can stay with? Or try looking for someone I know--look through all my little black books. Fuck it, I’ll stay with an ex if I have to. Preferably one with a basement. Do I have any exes with a basement in Florida, Cottia?”
She does not laugh at him, and that’s why she’s been his assistant for nearly ten years as opposed to the expected three to four. “I’ll look--but how bad is the storm getting?”
Marcus glances at the windows but doesn’t look long because the tossing around of the palm trees out there makes him nervous. He does, however, still see cars and cabs and buses passing by so if he only had a place to go, he could still get there. “Not too bad, yet. Hurry, though.”
“On it,” she says. “I’m going to need all my gears for this. I’ll call you back in ten.”
He gives her the number of the payphone and adds, “Love you,” waiting for her to echo it before hanging up. He turns and leans on the wall and tries to keep his cool as he watches people crowd up the hallways and any nook and cranny away from the glass of outside windows.
He is vaguely reminded of storm drills in his Appalachian public school but this is much more intense than that; the light is all weird from the darkness outside the windows and the people are half rain soaked and babies are squalling, tensions running high in adults who promised to be home only to be stuck here.
Marcus straightens his tie and won’t remove his jacket or rain coat because he won’t be staying here; he needs a bed or a couch at least. He needs peace and quiet. He needs friends, not strangers. He needs the sky to stop looking so sickeningly black outside the windows.
When the payphone rings eleven minutes later, he snatches it up, “Please,” he says.
“Oh, poor baby,” she chuckles fondly and something in his shoulders relaxes because she must have something or she wouldn’t be acting so familiar with him. Cottia isn’t like this in crisis, she’s professional in crisis, so to be like this means crisis must be over. “Give me the address,” he says. He does not even care who it is. He just wants to get there now before the roads are closed.
She gives the address and adds, “It’s Francesco Briggs.”
Marcus frowns, “Who?”
“Your goalie in college? Your number for him was crap, but someone else I called told me how to reach him”
All at once, his memory supplied him with the short, fierce little collegiate soccer teammate who called the game football and blamed all stupid things on the fact that it happened to be inside the American border. He swore fluidly--fockin ‘ell--and made fun of Thanksgiving but took the cranberry sauce seriously. He had also been majoring in modern dance, was really into punk rock and frequently spent his weekends in the hard core BDSM sex scene with men twice his size.
One hell of a goalie, though.
“Oh, you mean Frankie,” Marcus smirks and remembers writing out Francesco in his contact book all those years ago because it was hilarious. College kids.
“I called him and he’s expecting you.”
“Thanks, Cots. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Hurry before you blow away.” She makes a kissing sound and hangs up. He gets a policeman to call him a cab and jumps into it, giving the address and then praying for eight blocks that he makes it there alive.
| | | |
A ground-quaking crash of thunder has Marcus scurrying into the lobby of Frankie’s building at a pace far too quick to be manly. He drops his luggage and shakes out the rain from his coat and hair. Laughter behind him, over at the stairs, draws his attention.
Without turning, he knows who it is. It’s been over ten years since he last heard that snicker but he recognizes it, especially when the British voice adds, “Well you moved up in the world, didn’t you, peach? LOOK AT THAT SUIT!”
Marcus laughs at the nickname, which he’d gotten in college for being a big softy from Georgia, the peach state. “Frankie, you haven’t changed a--“
He cuts off abruptly here because he turns and sees Frankie, and his statement is no longer accurate. Frankie is still short and blond with a face of angles. But his scruff is gone and his skin is smoothed by foundation, eyes highlighted with color, lips shiny with gloss.
And he’s in a skirt.
“I’m legally Francesca now and Esca to my friends.”
Marcus stares. Frankie’s hair is short, styled in a way that doesn’t pick a side. Diamond studs sparkle in his ears; a few rings go up one lobe. His shirt is a very low v cut that clings to strong broad shoulders. A silver chained necklace rests on his waxed chest, a pendant between his defined pectorals. His sleeves are short enough to show a tattoo of a blue wavy band across one bicep. The skirt sits low on his narrow hips and is long, swishy and white. His les appear to be shaved, but no less muscular than Marcus remembers. He’s barefoot with blue toenails.
He’s gorgeous.
Frankie--no, Esca--stares back, obviously humored by Marcus’s stupefied expression. It’s only because another crash of thunder makes Marcus jump that he snaps out of it and clears his throat, looking away. “Whoa. You’re--uh…”
“Doing well.”
“Yeah!” Marcus is quick to say; he doesn’t want to offend because he does not really care one way or the other what people like to wear or why. He’s just surprised. “Great,” he adds. “That’s cool.”
Esca smiles with his cheeks crunching up around the corners of his mouth, all his white teeth on display, ears sticking out, and it is the same smile from ten years ago. He walks over--skirt swishing around his smooth shins--and picks up the luggage Marcus dropped. “Then jaw off the floor, mate, and get a move on. We have to take the stairs. Power’s out.”
| | | |
“So,” Marcus tries not to watch Esca’s ass in the skirt as he climbs the stairs ahead of him. “Thanks for letting me stay--I would have been a wreck if I had to sleep on a floor with a bunch of strangers in the middle of this storm.”
“No problem,” Esca snorts. “I remember you panicking that time it started to storm in the middle of a game.”
“I wasn’t panicking. I was just nervous. I hate storms.”
Esca snorts, “You ask me, there’re less beautiful things in the world to hate.”
“He’s so poetic now,” Marcus teases. Then, in a half panic, adds, “Or is it she?”
“He’s fine,” Esca replies with a sigh and a wave of his hand. “Cock’s still there, so why not?”
“Ha!” Marcus laughs, weirdly feeling relief that the cock is still there. “I feel like I should have seen this coming.”
“Why? Because I was such a girl in college?” Esca asks, and both of them remember Frankie, who might have been gay but was a far cry from anything feminized. Clearly now he’d been running from himself.
“Because you were always so unexpected in college,” Marcus counters, “No matter what you did, no one could ever predict it. It’s why nothing ever got by you in the goal.”
“Would it surprise you to know that in half those games I wore panties under the suit?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, not at all now you’ve seen me like this.”
“Yeah, not now,” Marcus agrees, “but then? God knows what I would have done if I’d have known then. I probably would have just--“
“Panicked,” they say in unison and they laugh.
Being the southern Baptist boy at UCLA, Marcus had tended to get nervous and awkward around a lot of unconventional things in his college dorm, including his own bisexuality. Very quickly he earned the rep as the big scary looking guy who wasn’t at all scary up close. One or two anxiety attacks later and Marcus was also categorized as prone to panicking, though it wasn’t really the case. Well, not entirely, anyway.
“Here we are,” Esca shoves open a door and a big crash of thunder happens just as Marcus steps into a world of flickering candle-light. It’s a small but tidy space and it smells of scented candles. He takes a deep breath of the satisfying smell.
“Bamboo.”
“Good nose.”
“I’m part panda.”
“Ha!”
A yipping bark suddenly fills the apartment and an overgrown puppy barrels from the hallway and attacks Marcus’ feet.
“No! Leave it, Cub. LEAVE IT!” Esca scoops the squirming mixed breed half-wolf creature up and only has a hold on him for a few minutes before he leaps free.
“Sorry about him--a rescue. Haven’t gotten him trained up yet.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re soaked. Bathroom’s that way if you want to change.”
“Thanks.”
| | | |
There’s a corset air-drying on a rack beside the sink, its red velvet and black lace and silk, a long wide strip of laces with silver brackets that gleam in the candle light. Marcus can’t not look at it as he gets out of his tailor made suit and into gym pants and a t-shirt, stealing glances at the corset.
He uses a hand towel to scrub the last of the cold rain drops from his hair and takes a moment to tentatively reach out and rub his knuckles over the velvet. He smiles at the sensual texture. Then, thinking it’s too weird to be hiding out in the bathroom, groping some guy’s underwear, he quickly rejoins Esca in the living room.
The transformed goalie is sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under, one leg stretched out on the coffee table, fabric of the skirt draped over the limps beautifully. Down in the floor, Cub is playing enthusiastically with a toy. Esca stretches his arms above his head and then stretches both legs out and leans forward, easily holding his toes.
“So besides getting filthy rich, what have you been doing with your time, Marcus?”
“Obviously not as much self-actualization as you’ve been doing. I kind of envy you for it.”
“Uh oh, don’t tell me you’ve been ignoring urges to put on lace knickers.”
“No,” Marcus laughs reflexively. “But I’ve been doing nothing but getting rich. Work, work, work--don’t get me wrong, I love it; I’m good at it. It just doesn’t leave a lot of time for me. No time for fun.”
“Except during hurricanes.”
“Vicious displays of fuck you puny human’s from God are far from fun.”
“Ha!” Esca leaps up from the couch and goes over to his window to pull the blinds up. “You and storms--that kind of phobia is supposed to stop when you get your permanent teeth in. No one thirty is supposed to be scared.”
“For some people it's spiders, some snakes, some airplanes,” he shrugs, “Mine’s storms.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t tease. Mine’s monkeys.”
“No it’s not,” Marcus laughs.
“I swear it is. I had a horrific experience at the zoo with my mum, didn’t I? No, I didn’t really. It’s just that the little buggers have black beady eyes and human like fingers, and that shrieking thing they do… Then there’re those stories of chimps tearing the faces off of nice ladies.” He shivers and then shrugs. “So I don’t go to the zoo.”
“Or watch Planet of the Apes.”
Esca taps his nose and Marcus laughs, having fun despite the roll of thunder outside just now. Silence falls in the flickering orange glow of the candles and Marcus finds he is admiring the bottom half of Esca as he stands there. There is so much opposition in where the swishy skirt flows around the manly but smooth legs… Marcus’ thoughts drift upward to smooth thighs of thick lean muscle… He wonders what the skirt feels like to the touch; he can’t tell what kind of fabric is it from this distance in this poor lighting… maybe it’s soft as worn flannel. That would be good…
“Drink?” Esca asks, snapping Marcus out of it.
“Sure,” his voice cracks like a teenager and he’s forced to clear his throat like one. Esca is grinning at it as he swishes by--a whiff of girly shampoo--and then he’s gone into the kitchen. Left alone in the flickering light of an unfamiliar middle-class living room, Marcus is suddenly aware of the silence and feels like he should pick the conversation back up, keep going in the easy way it’d been a moment ago.
But something has changed, shifted so that this suddenly feels like a date, like a fast track to sex, and Marcus has never ever wanted to have sex with a man in a dress before but he can’t get that corset out of his head.
He finally realizes he can sit and does just as Esca comes back with some beers.
“Thanks,” Marcus is at ease at the sight of the brown glass bottles--if it’d been wine he’d be panicking right now. Esca sits beside him, legs going under him.
“So are you married to that profusely efficient little bird that gave me a ring earlier?” he asks.
“Uh--no. Not to anyone.”
“Kids?”
“No.”
Esca grins and leans forward to clink the necks of their bottles together with a wink, “Here’s to hurricanes.”
He takes a swig and Marcus mirrors him. Esca is shaking his head when the bottle parts from his lips with a wet smack. He’s chuckling, “Captain Marcus Aquila after all this time; small world, isn’t it?”
“I’d say it’s more crazy then small.”
“Touche,” Esca says. Sitting sideways on the cushion, he puts an elbow on the back of the seat and leans on that hand, watching Marcus from his end of the couch.
They talk and sip beer until they have remembered everything they care to remember about their college years--then Marcus learns the difference between a cross-dresser and a trans-gender, because he keeps confusing Esca with a man who wants to be a woman, and not just a man in woman’s clothes.
They lose count of how many times Esca has to say, “I love my cock, but I love lingerie too,” and Marcus staves off panicked thoughts with large swallows of beer, but Esca is never sharp or upset; always corrects with a mild statement and then a shrug or a smile when Marcus stammers and blushes.
Their beers are low when a lull falls that gives them time to catch their breath after a rib cracking laugh over the picture Esca has pulled out of an old textbook that never went away.
The full soccer team crowds the frame, lined in victory. It looks as if the shot was taken just as Marcus thumped Esca on the back enough to upset his equilibrium. The two most amusing points to this photo are that 1.) Esca was unshaven, face hair styled into mutton chops which had made him stand out very starkly in the middle of his ballet classes. 2.) Esca swears he was wearing lace panties even then--in direct contrast to the overgrown sideburns.
Esca turns the photo over as if he would rather forget about it for another ten years and Marcus leans back to quell his laughter, forgetting to wonder why that picture-of all pictures-was spared when Esca freely admits he prefers to forget his Frankie years and focus on being Esca, on being happy.
Marcus thinks about that corset again and wonders if things like that can really be the key to happiness, then he shakes himself out of it and sips some more beer. Esca rests his head back on the cushion.
The only sounds are the rain on the glass, the wind and the thunder; lightning flickers, overpowering the gentle glow of the candles. As if the disturbing sounds are a lullaby, Esca’s eyes drift closed and Marcus sees as his chest rises high and sinks low in a deep sigh.
Marcus focuses on drinking his beer, tries to not let his eyes linger on any part of Esca’s body--not his flat stomach, his slender hips, not the way the skirt sits against his thighs, not the chain glittering around the slopes of his neck.
When thunder booms suddenly and loudly, Marcus starts to feel antsy and, in want of distracting himself, leaves the past behind and turns to the present, asking, “So, um, how long have you lived here?”
Esca waves a hand and gently hushes him, “Shhhh, just listen.”
“To the storm?” Marcus asks.
“Hmm, it’s so….” Before Esca finds whatever word he’s looking for, Marcus cuts in.
“Do you mind if--I’m sorry, but when I say I don’t like storms, I mean I really don’t like them. Can’t we keep talking? I need to keep my mind off of it.”
Esca opens his eyes and studies Marcus in surprise. “It’s really that bad?”
“Yeah. It’s called Astraphobia. I used to cry when I was younger.” Marcus lifts a hand and allows Esca to see it shaking, “Now I’m just down to shaking.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, but I’m okay if I can keep my mind off of it.”
Esca sits his nearly empty beer on the table, immediately complying to Marcus’s request, “You went pro, didn’t you? What happened there?”
“Ruined my knee,” Marcus says, happy that Esca is indulging him. “It took three surgeries and several pins.”
“Oh, that’s bullocks, man, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it all worked out.”
“So it did.”
Considering the next thing for him to say is an obvious one, the silence stretches out far too long before Marcus realizes that Esca is waiting for him to ask, “So--um, what about you? What’s going on?”
“I dance at a local club,” Esca says. Marcus thinks he knows what that means, but his hesitation to believe it shows on his face because Esca grins and adds in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “Strip club.”
Marcus clears his throat again and he wishes he didn’t because it’s so sixteen-year-old, but he nods and tries his best to play it cool, “Good money in that?”
“Tips alone pay rent.”
“Wow.”
“Hey, when you’re good at something it pays off. Take a look at yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“No, you said it first. What do I know about how good you are? I don’t know a thing about sports advertising.”
Marcus laughs and asks, “But what about your dance degree--I mean, I don’t recall you majoring in erotic dancing.”
Esca waves a hand, “No sad story or anything. I just stumbled on this little niche and I like it, I’m good at it, so I do it.”
“It’s not--dangerous?”
“There are always a few assholes. But nothing I can’t handle. All I do is wriggle out of my clothes on stage; I’m not a tranny prostitute or anything.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“No apologies, mate. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Right,” he swallows the second sorry and Esca snorts and a hand drops on Marcus’ knee. “You’re as precious as I remember.”
“Oh,” drops out of Marcus and he stares down at the hand, strong and manicured with shiny nails.
“If I’m making you uncomfortable just say so.”
“N-no,” he stammers and with more resolve to be less lame about this, he meets Esca’s eye. “No. You’re okay. You’re… pretty.”
The smile is two parts amused, one part flattered and his voice is under his breath as if he’s talking more to himself as he takes Marcus’ chin in his fingers, “Oh, look at you…”
Marcus’s eyes are caught on the swoop of Esca’s neck and he licks his lips and wants him to know, even if it’s not true, “I’m usually a lot smoother than this.”
On perfect cue, lightning cracks, illuminating the room at the same time that thunder shakes the couch and Marcus leaps out of his skin. Even Esca and Cub jump and then the dog is barking and Esca’s laugh is long, loud and sincere and even Marcus has to join in.
Way too soon, lightning cracks again and then debris hits the window, not breaking it but banging loudly. Esca hurries over to look and Marcus grabs at him, “Careful!”
They can hear what must be sand and pebbles pelting the glass and outside the trees are nearly sideways and small debris is hurling horizontal through the air. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Esca murmurs and he slumps against the window frame to watch as if hypnotized.
Marcus feels shaky and wriggles in his seat, “Is it alright to be on the fourth floor? I mean, is this building strong enough for us to be okay up here?”
“Fuck if I know,” Esca says. He leaves the window and strides to his front door. “Be right back--Cub take care of him, yeah?”
Cub barks and Esca swishes out into the hall. Marcus puts his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and goes over to close the blinds so that he doesn’t have to see the black clouds and horrific wind. Lightning cracks again and he hurries away from the glass, trips over the dog toy, barely catches himself on the book shelf.
Esca is back, “Neighbors say we’ll be fine until cars are flying around and then we should probably bunk off downstairs. Oy--what’re you up to?”
Marcus stands and lets go of the shelf, “nothing.”
Esca narrows his eyes at him and sees him flinch when something goes banging down the asphalt, some chained-together metal trash cans by the sound of it. Esca goes to see and Marcus can’t help the “No, stay back!” that jumps out of him. He distinctly remembers his grandmother telling him when he was small, that lightning can strike him through a window. True or not, it’s made him never go near windows in a storm.
“Oh,” Esca has his bottom lip out and he comes at Marcus, ensnaring him without warning in a embrace. Esca hugs him under his arms, tight around his ribs with his ear to his chest. His short spikey hair tickles Marcus’ chin. “You precious thing, I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Distract me,” Marcus says as his arms go around Esca. He isn’t one to hug people, really, and especially people he just met, or met again after ten years. But he likes the squeeze of Esca’s arms, the heat of his body, the smell of his hair.
“I’m bang out of puzzles, I’m afraid,” Esca teases. “How else does one distract a good ol’ country Baptist like you?”
Marcus dips and puts his lips to Esca’s hair, “You’re doing great already.”
Esca’s voice is smiling, ear still against Marcus’ chest, “Am I, now? How interesting--seems you have been doing some self-actualizing; I don’t think you’d have said something like that to anybody with a cock last time I saw you.”
This is true; Marcus has long since come to terms with his bisexuality. But his type in men is usually taller, tougher… in pants… He does not know if it’s the storm putting him on edge so that any familiar face is enough to make him feel this way or if it really is the clothes, but Marcus’s heart rate is skyrocketing now that Esca’s body is pressed against his.
“Esca,” Marcus says letting a hint of his want into his voice as his hands swoops down Esca’s spine to his lower back and side. “I know we barely know each other, but can you…” He trails off, thinking he should forget it, make up some other request. A harmless request. A less demanding, less pervy request out of this person he hasn’t seen in over ten years.
“Go on, say it,” Esca urges gently. Knowingly.
“Can you dance for me?” he asks and then adds in a rush, “I don’t want to freak you out, and if you--“
“Hmm,” Esca’s hum of a chuckle cuts in and he’s tightening his hold a little and snuggling his face into Marcus’ collarbone for a minute. He rolls onto his chin and his eyes glitter in the candle light as he looks up at Marcus. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“No reason for you to be--I would never--I just thought a dance would keep my mind off--I wouldn’t touch-- Only if you want me to, Esca.” Usually, he is smoother than this, he really is. But usually, he’s in a familiar situation. Nothing about a stripper man in a dress is familiar.
“Oh, what to do with you,” Esca breathes again like he’s talking more to himself than to Marcus. Marcus knows what this is about: past lovers have told him how he can sometimes be so awkwardly sweet there’s nothing anyone knows what to do but say awe.
Marcus would rather be aloof and cool than awkward and sweet, but there is nothing he can do about it; he’ll never magically just know how to be calm and collected in unfamiliar situations. At least he has his good looks.
Esca lifts to his toes and presses their mouths together, a firm hand gripping on the back of Marcus’s neck. It’s a kiss much more feral than Marcus anticipated but that’s alright; he likes that it feels like Esca has been holding back and is finally free, free with him.
Marcus wants so much to be free, too.
When the kiss breaks, thunder rolls and with it Esca trembles slightly, “I think we can help each other out.”
“You--have a problem?”
“The exact opposite of you, I think. No idea what it’s called but storms make me…” he doesn’t say it, simply presses into Marcus’ leg to demonstrate the hard ridge in his skirt. Marcus gulps and Esca cards all ten fingers through Marcus’ hair, kisses him again with that same untamed slice of fire. He breaks to ask, “So will getting me off be distraction enough for you?”
“Yes,” Marcus pants, lets his hands slide down to cup Esca’s round firm ass in his hands, to squeeze the flesh as he presses against Esca.
“I don’t want to dance,” Esca confesses. “Not right now; I want to keep my clothes on. Can I keep my pretty clothes on while I fuck you?”
“God, yes,” Marcus breathes and he’s too far gone in the urgency of Esca’s movements against him, lost in the candle light that has gotten into his head, that he doesn’t care anymore.
The storm is in another world. Here in the candlelight it doesn’t matter that he never usually goes this fast with someone, that he never before wanted a man in women’s clothes to top him. All he knows is that he wants this and he’s free to have it.
The grip of Esca’s hands on his jaw is vice-like, but delicious. His tongue is taken wholly into Esca’s mouth. Marcus breaks their lips apart to say, “Let’s get in your bed.”
Esca jumps and all at once, he’s on Marcus’ hips, legs wrapped around him. Marcus’ hands find bare thigh as Esca commands,
“Carry me.”
...continued in part two
Paring: Marcus/Esca
Genre: Modern day AU
Rating: R
Warnings: cross-dressing, bondage, mild D/S, feminization
Length: 3,000 words
Summary: Marcus is stranded by a storm and all the hotels are booked. His extremely helpful assistant manages to contact an old teammate of his that’s living in the area who he can stay with. Esca has changed a lot since college. For one thing, he’s wearing a skirt.
a/n: this is hands down the kinkest thing I've ever written
A hurricane is coming, that’s what the weather reports are saying. Well, of course a hurricane is coming. Marcus leans heavily on the payphone and groans into the receiver.
“This is unbelievable, Cottia; the hotel lost my reservations and because of the storm, every plane has been grounded so people flocked in hours ago to gets dibs on all the rooms-- everywhere is booked!”
His assistant keeps her cool, like she’s paid to do, and he can hear her typing away as she murmurs through several fast-fix scenarios, rejecting each one as the planning falls through. Marcus listens with his forehead on the bricks above the phone, his eyes closed. He can hear the people crowded around him --he is only one of hundreds who do not have a place to sleep tonight and are forced by the storm to camp here in the random hotel lobby they happened to be in when the worst of the storm started.
Police swarm through the crowd, attempting to help the hotel staff organize the masses into places safe from the big windows in case the hurricane actually hits the coast. The rain sloshes on the windows like a carwash power jet, except there is no rhythm to it. Marcus wishes he was back in LA with his assistant and his Uncle and everyone else he knows, where it is sunny and the sky never turns on the pathetic humans who live under it.
“Shit,” Cottia says, much to Marcus’ horror.
“What?” he asks. He can’t remember a time she has ever failed him and he does not like that she has chosen to do so now, when his back is tense from the storm, and he just wants to hide under his blankets with a flash light like he used to do as a kid when it thundered.
Marcus hates storms.
“Don’t panic,” she says. “But, um… I’m out of ideas. You’ll have to stay wherever you are.”
Despite her order not to panic, Marcus’ skin prickles with goose pimples and his heart rate goes up. “No, no, no, Cots--come on. This place is all windows, and the floor is marble, and there are about a hundred other people!” He’s too rich for this; he really, really, is.
“There has to be something--forget about hotels. Do you have a Sorority sister or maybe a fourth cousin’s ex-roommate’s aunt or something that I can stay with? Or try looking for someone I know--look through all my little black books. Fuck it, I’ll stay with an ex if I have to. Preferably one with a basement. Do I have any exes with a basement in Florida, Cottia?”
She does not laugh at him, and that’s why she’s been his assistant for nearly ten years as opposed to the expected three to four. “I’ll look--but how bad is the storm getting?”
Marcus glances at the windows but doesn’t look long because the tossing around of the palm trees out there makes him nervous. He does, however, still see cars and cabs and buses passing by so if he only had a place to go, he could still get there. “Not too bad, yet. Hurry, though.”
“On it,” she says. “I’m going to need all my gears for this. I’ll call you back in ten.”
He gives her the number of the payphone and adds, “Love you,” waiting for her to echo it before hanging up. He turns and leans on the wall and tries to keep his cool as he watches people crowd up the hallways and any nook and cranny away from the glass of outside windows.
He is vaguely reminded of storm drills in his Appalachian public school but this is much more intense than that; the light is all weird from the darkness outside the windows and the people are half rain soaked and babies are squalling, tensions running high in adults who promised to be home only to be stuck here.
Marcus straightens his tie and won’t remove his jacket or rain coat because he won’t be staying here; he needs a bed or a couch at least. He needs peace and quiet. He needs friends, not strangers. He needs the sky to stop looking so sickeningly black outside the windows.
When the payphone rings eleven minutes later, he snatches it up, “Please,” he says.
“Oh, poor baby,” she chuckles fondly and something in his shoulders relaxes because she must have something or she wouldn’t be acting so familiar with him. Cottia isn’t like this in crisis, she’s professional in crisis, so to be like this means crisis must be over. “Give me the address,” he says. He does not even care who it is. He just wants to get there now before the roads are closed.
She gives the address and adds, “It’s Francesco Briggs.”
Marcus frowns, “Who?”
“Your goalie in college? Your number for him was crap, but someone else I called told me how to reach him”
All at once, his memory supplied him with the short, fierce little collegiate soccer teammate who called the game football and blamed all stupid things on the fact that it happened to be inside the American border. He swore fluidly--fockin ‘ell--and made fun of Thanksgiving but took the cranberry sauce seriously. He had also been majoring in modern dance, was really into punk rock and frequently spent his weekends in the hard core BDSM sex scene with men twice his size.
One hell of a goalie, though.
“Oh, you mean Frankie,” Marcus smirks and remembers writing out Francesco in his contact book all those years ago because it was hilarious. College kids.
“I called him and he’s expecting you.”
“Thanks, Cots. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Hurry before you blow away.” She makes a kissing sound and hangs up. He gets a policeman to call him a cab and jumps into it, giving the address and then praying for eight blocks that he makes it there alive.
| | | |
A ground-quaking crash of thunder has Marcus scurrying into the lobby of Frankie’s building at a pace far too quick to be manly. He drops his luggage and shakes out the rain from his coat and hair. Laughter behind him, over at the stairs, draws his attention.
Without turning, he knows who it is. It’s been over ten years since he last heard that snicker but he recognizes it, especially when the British voice adds, “Well you moved up in the world, didn’t you, peach? LOOK AT THAT SUIT!”
Marcus laughs at the nickname, which he’d gotten in college for being a big softy from Georgia, the peach state. “Frankie, you haven’t changed a--“
He cuts off abruptly here because he turns and sees Frankie, and his statement is no longer accurate. Frankie is still short and blond with a face of angles. But his scruff is gone and his skin is smoothed by foundation, eyes highlighted with color, lips shiny with gloss.
And he’s in a skirt.
“I’m legally Francesca now and Esca to my friends.”
Marcus stares. Frankie’s hair is short, styled in a way that doesn’t pick a side. Diamond studs sparkle in his ears; a few rings go up one lobe. His shirt is a very low v cut that clings to strong broad shoulders. A silver chained necklace rests on his waxed chest, a pendant between his defined pectorals. His sleeves are short enough to show a tattoo of a blue wavy band across one bicep. The skirt sits low on his narrow hips and is long, swishy and white. His les appear to be shaved, but no less muscular than Marcus remembers. He’s barefoot with blue toenails.
He’s gorgeous.
Frankie--no, Esca--stares back, obviously humored by Marcus’s stupefied expression. It’s only because another crash of thunder makes Marcus jump that he snaps out of it and clears his throat, looking away. “Whoa. You’re--uh…”
“Doing well.”
“Yeah!” Marcus is quick to say; he doesn’t want to offend because he does not really care one way or the other what people like to wear or why. He’s just surprised. “Great,” he adds. “That’s cool.”
Esca smiles with his cheeks crunching up around the corners of his mouth, all his white teeth on display, ears sticking out, and it is the same smile from ten years ago. He walks over--skirt swishing around his smooth shins--and picks up the luggage Marcus dropped. “Then jaw off the floor, mate, and get a move on. We have to take the stairs. Power’s out.”
| | | |
“So,” Marcus tries not to watch Esca’s ass in the skirt as he climbs the stairs ahead of him. “Thanks for letting me stay--I would have been a wreck if I had to sleep on a floor with a bunch of strangers in the middle of this storm.”
“No problem,” Esca snorts. “I remember you panicking that time it started to storm in the middle of a game.”
“I wasn’t panicking. I was just nervous. I hate storms.”
Esca snorts, “You ask me, there’re less beautiful things in the world to hate.”
“He’s so poetic now,” Marcus teases. Then, in a half panic, adds, “Or is it she?”
“He’s fine,” Esca replies with a sigh and a wave of his hand. “Cock’s still there, so why not?”
“Ha!” Marcus laughs, weirdly feeling relief that the cock is still there. “I feel like I should have seen this coming.”
“Why? Because I was such a girl in college?” Esca asks, and both of them remember Frankie, who might have been gay but was a far cry from anything feminized. Clearly now he’d been running from himself.
“Because you were always so unexpected in college,” Marcus counters, “No matter what you did, no one could ever predict it. It’s why nothing ever got by you in the goal.”
“Would it surprise you to know that in half those games I wore panties under the suit?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, not at all now you’ve seen me like this.”
“Yeah, not now,” Marcus agrees, “but then? God knows what I would have done if I’d have known then. I probably would have just--“
“Panicked,” they say in unison and they laugh.
Being the southern Baptist boy at UCLA, Marcus had tended to get nervous and awkward around a lot of unconventional things in his college dorm, including his own bisexuality. Very quickly he earned the rep as the big scary looking guy who wasn’t at all scary up close. One or two anxiety attacks later and Marcus was also categorized as prone to panicking, though it wasn’t really the case. Well, not entirely, anyway.
“Here we are,” Esca shoves open a door and a big crash of thunder happens just as Marcus steps into a world of flickering candle-light. It’s a small but tidy space and it smells of scented candles. He takes a deep breath of the satisfying smell.
“Bamboo.”
“Good nose.”
“I’m part panda.”
“Ha!”
A yipping bark suddenly fills the apartment and an overgrown puppy barrels from the hallway and attacks Marcus’ feet.
“No! Leave it, Cub. LEAVE IT!” Esca scoops the squirming mixed breed half-wolf creature up and only has a hold on him for a few minutes before he leaps free.
“Sorry about him--a rescue. Haven’t gotten him trained up yet.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re soaked. Bathroom’s that way if you want to change.”
“Thanks.”
| | | |
There’s a corset air-drying on a rack beside the sink, its red velvet and black lace and silk, a long wide strip of laces with silver brackets that gleam in the candle light. Marcus can’t not look at it as he gets out of his tailor made suit and into gym pants and a t-shirt, stealing glances at the corset.
He uses a hand towel to scrub the last of the cold rain drops from his hair and takes a moment to tentatively reach out and rub his knuckles over the velvet. He smiles at the sensual texture. Then, thinking it’s too weird to be hiding out in the bathroom, groping some guy’s underwear, he quickly rejoins Esca in the living room.
The transformed goalie is sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under, one leg stretched out on the coffee table, fabric of the skirt draped over the limps beautifully. Down in the floor, Cub is playing enthusiastically with a toy. Esca stretches his arms above his head and then stretches both legs out and leans forward, easily holding his toes.
“So besides getting filthy rich, what have you been doing with your time, Marcus?”
“Obviously not as much self-actualization as you’ve been doing. I kind of envy you for it.”
“Uh oh, don’t tell me you’ve been ignoring urges to put on lace knickers.”
“No,” Marcus laughs reflexively. “But I’ve been doing nothing but getting rich. Work, work, work--don’t get me wrong, I love it; I’m good at it. It just doesn’t leave a lot of time for me. No time for fun.”
“Except during hurricanes.”
“Vicious displays of fuck you puny human’s from God are far from fun.”
“Ha!” Esca leaps up from the couch and goes over to his window to pull the blinds up. “You and storms--that kind of phobia is supposed to stop when you get your permanent teeth in. No one thirty is supposed to be scared.”
“For some people it's spiders, some snakes, some airplanes,” he shrugs, “Mine’s storms.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t tease. Mine’s monkeys.”
“No it’s not,” Marcus laughs.
“I swear it is. I had a horrific experience at the zoo with my mum, didn’t I? No, I didn’t really. It’s just that the little buggers have black beady eyes and human like fingers, and that shrieking thing they do… Then there’re those stories of chimps tearing the faces off of nice ladies.” He shivers and then shrugs. “So I don’t go to the zoo.”
“Or watch Planet of the Apes.”
Esca taps his nose and Marcus laughs, having fun despite the roll of thunder outside just now. Silence falls in the flickering orange glow of the candles and Marcus finds he is admiring the bottom half of Esca as he stands there. There is so much opposition in where the swishy skirt flows around the manly but smooth legs… Marcus’ thoughts drift upward to smooth thighs of thick lean muscle… He wonders what the skirt feels like to the touch; he can’t tell what kind of fabric is it from this distance in this poor lighting… maybe it’s soft as worn flannel. That would be good…
“Drink?” Esca asks, snapping Marcus out of it.
“Sure,” his voice cracks like a teenager and he’s forced to clear his throat like one. Esca is grinning at it as he swishes by--a whiff of girly shampoo--and then he’s gone into the kitchen. Left alone in the flickering light of an unfamiliar middle-class living room, Marcus is suddenly aware of the silence and feels like he should pick the conversation back up, keep going in the easy way it’d been a moment ago.
But something has changed, shifted so that this suddenly feels like a date, like a fast track to sex, and Marcus has never ever wanted to have sex with a man in a dress before but he can’t get that corset out of his head.
He finally realizes he can sit and does just as Esca comes back with some beers.
“Thanks,” Marcus is at ease at the sight of the brown glass bottles--if it’d been wine he’d be panicking right now. Esca sits beside him, legs going under him.
“So are you married to that profusely efficient little bird that gave me a ring earlier?” he asks.
“Uh--no. Not to anyone.”
“Kids?”
“No.”
Esca grins and leans forward to clink the necks of their bottles together with a wink, “Here’s to hurricanes.”
He takes a swig and Marcus mirrors him. Esca is shaking his head when the bottle parts from his lips with a wet smack. He’s chuckling, “Captain Marcus Aquila after all this time; small world, isn’t it?”
“I’d say it’s more crazy then small.”
“Touche,” Esca says. Sitting sideways on the cushion, he puts an elbow on the back of the seat and leans on that hand, watching Marcus from his end of the couch.
They talk and sip beer until they have remembered everything they care to remember about their college years--then Marcus learns the difference between a cross-dresser and a trans-gender, because he keeps confusing Esca with a man who wants to be a woman, and not just a man in woman’s clothes.
They lose count of how many times Esca has to say, “I love my cock, but I love lingerie too,” and Marcus staves off panicked thoughts with large swallows of beer, but Esca is never sharp or upset; always corrects with a mild statement and then a shrug or a smile when Marcus stammers and blushes.
Their beers are low when a lull falls that gives them time to catch their breath after a rib cracking laugh over the picture Esca has pulled out of an old textbook that never went away.
The full soccer team crowds the frame, lined in victory. It looks as if the shot was taken just as Marcus thumped Esca on the back enough to upset his equilibrium. The two most amusing points to this photo are that 1.) Esca was unshaven, face hair styled into mutton chops which had made him stand out very starkly in the middle of his ballet classes. 2.) Esca swears he was wearing lace panties even then--in direct contrast to the overgrown sideburns.
Esca turns the photo over as if he would rather forget about it for another ten years and Marcus leans back to quell his laughter, forgetting to wonder why that picture-of all pictures-was spared when Esca freely admits he prefers to forget his Frankie years and focus on being Esca, on being happy.
Marcus thinks about that corset again and wonders if things like that can really be the key to happiness, then he shakes himself out of it and sips some more beer. Esca rests his head back on the cushion.
The only sounds are the rain on the glass, the wind and the thunder; lightning flickers, overpowering the gentle glow of the candles. As if the disturbing sounds are a lullaby, Esca’s eyes drift closed and Marcus sees as his chest rises high and sinks low in a deep sigh.
Marcus focuses on drinking his beer, tries to not let his eyes linger on any part of Esca’s body--not his flat stomach, his slender hips, not the way the skirt sits against his thighs, not the chain glittering around the slopes of his neck.
When thunder booms suddenly and loudly, Marcus starts to feel antsy and, in want of distracting himself, leaves the past behind and turns to the present, asking, “So, um, how long have you lived here?”
Esca waves a hand and gently hushes him, “Shhhh, just listen.”
“To the storm?” Marcus asks.
“Hmm, it’s so….” Before Esca finds whatever word he’s looking for, Marcus cuts in.
“Do you mind if--I’m sorry, but when I say I don’t like storms, I mean I really don’t like them. Can’t we keep talking? I need to keep my mind off of it.”
Esca opens his eyes and studies Marcus in surprise. “It’s really that bad?”
“Yeah. It’s called Astraphobia. I used to cry when I was younger.” Marcus lifts a hand and allows Esca to see it shaking, “Now I’m just down to shaking.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, but I’m okay if I can keep my mind off of it.”
Esca sits his nearly empty beer on the table, immediately complying to Marcus’s request, “You went pro, didn’t you? What happened there?”
“Ruined my knee,” Marcus says, happy that Esca is indulging him. “It took three surgeries and several pins.”
“Oh, that’s bullocks, man, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it all worked out.”
“So it did.”
Considering the next thing for him to say is an obvious one, the silence stretches out far too long before Marcus realizes that Esca is waiting for him to ask, “So--um, what about you? What’s going on?”
“I dance at a local club,” Esca says. Marcus thinks he knows what that means, but his hesitation to believe it shows on his face because Esca grins and adds in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “Strip club.”
Marcus clears his throat again and he wishes he didn’t because it’s so sixteen-year-old, but he nods and tries his best to play it cool, “Good money in that?”
“Tips alone pay rent.”
“Wow.”
“Hey, when you’re good at something it pays off. Take a look at yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“No, you said it first. What do I know about how good you are? I don’t know a thing about sports advertising.”
Marcus laughs and asks, “But what about your dance degree--I mean, I don’t recall you majoring in erotic dancing.”
Esca waves a hand, “No sad story or anything. I just stumbled on this little niche and I like it, I’m good at it, so I do it.”
“It’s not--dangerous?”
“There are always a few assholes. But nothing I can’t handle. All I do is wriggle out of my clothes on stage; I’m not a tranny prostitute or anything.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“No apologies, mate. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Right,” he swallows the second sorry and Esca snorts and a hand drops on Marcus’ knee. “You’re as precious as I remember.”
“Oh,” drops out of Marcus and he stares down at the hand, strong and manicured with shiny nails.
“If I’m making you uncomfortable just say so.”
“N-no,” he stammers and with more resolve to be less lame about this, he meets Esca’s eye. “No. You’re okay. You’re… pretty.”
The smile is two parts amused, one part flattered and his voice is under his breath as if he’s talking more to himself as he takes Marcus’ chin in his fingers, “Oh, look at you…”
Marcus’s eyes are caught on the swoop of Esca’s neck and he licks his lips and wants him to know, even if it’s not true, “I’m usually a lot smoother than this.”
On perfect cue, lightning cracks, illuminating the room at the same time that thunder shakes the couch and Marcus leaps out of his skin. Even Esca and Cub jump and then the dog is barking and Esca’s laugh is long, loud and sincere and even Marcus has to join in.
Way too soon, lightning cracks again and then debris hits the window, not breaking it but banging loudly. Esca hurries over to look and Marcus grabs at him, “Careful!”
They can hear what must be sand and pebbles pelting the glass and outside the trees are nearly sideways and small debris is hurling horizontal through the air. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Esca murmurs and he slumps against the window frame to watch as if hypnotized.
Marcus feels shaky and wriggles in his seat, “Is it alright to be on the fourth floor? I mean, is this building strong enough for us to be okay up here?”
“Fuck if I know,” Esca says. He leaves the window and strides to his front door. “Be right back--Cub take care of him, yeah?”
Cub barks and Esca swishes out into the hall. Marcus puts his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and goes over to close the blinds so that he doesn’t have to see the black clouds and horrific wind. Lightning cracks again and he hurries away from the glass, trips over the dog toy, barely catches himself on the book shelf.
Esca is back, “Neighbors say we’ll be fine until cars are flying around and then we should probably bunk off downstairs. Oy--what’re you up to?”
Marcus stands and lets go of the shelf, “nothing.”
Esca narrows his eyes at him and sees him flinch when something goes banging down the asphalt, some chained-together metal trash cans by the sound of it. Esca goes to see and Marcus can’t help the “No, stay back!” that jumps out of him. He distinctly remembers his grandmother telling him when he was small, that lightning can strike him through a window. True or not, it’s made him never go near windows in a storm.
“Oh,” Esca has his bottom lip out and he comes at Marcus, ensnaring him without warning in a embrace. Esca hugs him under his arms, tight around his ribs with his ear to his chest. His short spikey hair tickles Marcus’ chin. “You precious thing, I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Distract me,” Marcus says as his arms go around Esca. He isn’t one to hug people, really, and especially people he just met, or met again after ten years. But he likes the squeeze of Esca’s arms, the heat of his body, the smell of his hair.
“I’m bang out of puzzles, I’m afraid,” Esca teases. “How else does one distract a good ol’ country Baptist like you?”
Marcus dips and puts his lips to Esca’s hair, “You’re doing great already.”
Esca’s voice is smiling, ear still against Marcus’ chest, “Am I, now? How interesting--seems you have been doing some self-actualizing; I don’t think you’d have said something like that to anybody with a cock last time I saw you.”
This is true; Marcus has long since come to terms with his bisexuality. But his type in men is usually taller, tougher… in pants… He does not know if it’s the storm putting him on edge so that any familiar face is enough to make him feel this way or if it really is the clothes, but Marcus’s heart rate is skyrocketing now that Esca’s body is pressed against his.
“Esca,” Marcus says letting a hint of his want into his voice as his hands swoops down Esca’s spine to his lower back and side. “I know we barely know each other, but can you…” He trails off, thinking he should forget it, make up some other request. A harmless request. A less demanding, less pervy request out of this person he hasn’t seen in over ten years.
“Go on, say it,” Esca urges gently. Knowingly.
“Can you dance for me?” he asks and then adds in a rush, “I don’t want to freak you out, and if you--“
“Hmm,” Esca’s hum of a chuckle cuts in and he’s tightening his hold a little and snuggling his face into Marcus’ collarbone for a minute. He rolls onto his chin and his eyes glitter in the candle light as he looks up at Marcus. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“No reason for you to be--I would never--I just thought a dance would keep my mind off--I wouldn’t touch-- Only if you want me to, Esca.” Usually, he is smoother than this, he really is. But usually, he’s in a familiar situation. Nothing about a stripper man in a dress is familiar.
“Oh, what to do with you,” Esca breathes again like he’s talking more to himself than to Marcus. Marcus knows what this is about: past lovers have told him how he can sometimes be so awkwardly sweet there’s nothing anyone knows what to do but say awe.
Marcus would rather be aloof and cool than awkward and sweet, but there is nothing he can do about it; he’ll never magically just know how to be calm and collected in unfamiliar situations. At least he has his good looks.
Esca lifts to his toes and presses their mouths together, a firm hand gripping on the back of Marcus’s neck. It’s a kiss much more feral than Marcus anticipated but that’s alright; he likes that it feels like Esca has been holding back and is finally free, free with him.
Marcus wants so much to be free, too.
When the kiss breaks, thunder rolls and with it Esca trembles slightly, “I think we can help each other out.”
“You--have a problem?”
“The exact opposite of you, I think. No idea what it’s called but storms make me…” he doesn’t say it, simply presses into Marcus’ leg to demonstrate the hard ridge in his skirt. Marcus gulps and Esca cards all ten fingers through Marcus’ hair, kisses him again with that same untamed slice of fire. He breaks to ask, “So will getting me off be distraction enough for you?”
“Yes,” Marcus pants, lets his hands slide down to cup Esca’s round firm ass in his hands, to squeeze the flesh as he presses against Esca.
“I don’t want to dance,” Esca confesses. “Not right now; I want to keep my clothes on. Can I keep my pretty clothes on while I fuck you?”
“God, yes,” Marcus breathes and he’s too far gone in the urgency of Esca’s movements against him, lost in the candle light that has gotten into his head, that he doesn’t care anymore.
The storm is in another world. Here in the candlelight it doesn’t matter that he never usually goes this fast with someone, that he never before wanted a man in women’s clothes to top him. All he knows is that he wants this and he’s free to have it.
The grip of Esca’s hands on his jaw is vice-like, but delicious. His tongue is taken wholly into Esca’s mouth. Marcus breaks their lips apart to say, “Let’s get in your bed.”
Esca jumps and all at once, he’s on Marcus’ hips, legs wrapped around him. Marcus’ hands find bare thigh as Esca commands,
“Carry me.”
...continued in part two