(no subject)
Title: Worth It
Chapter: 1 of godknowshowmanyprobably4
Pairing: Max Talbot/Brooks Orpik. . .because I'm obviously trying to slash Brooksie with everyone or something
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Brooks and Max have a little something going on, and epic miscommunications are happening. What I'm doing with this is alternating perspectives. Part 1 is from Max's perspective. Next one will be Brooksie. Ya dig?
Disclaimer: So not mine, so didn't happen, so delusional.
Dedicated to jisforjane as always.
I was just getting close to forgetting his existence when he called me. He said to meet him at his place. It was Friday night. He sounded breathless, in a complete hurry, only listening to what I had to say if those words were, "Okay, sure." Which they were.
"Fifteen minutes and I'll be there," he exhaled, sounding relatively businesslike. I imagined he was driving, trying to merge into another lane, looking stonily at the drivers in other cars as headlights passed over their faces, giving them just one split-second glance before driving even higher above the speed limit. I was the last thing on his mind. . .except I wasn't. This idea was defining of our relationship so far.
"Yup," I said, feigning disinterest. Should I go home and change my shirt? Were we going out or staying in? Maybe I should shower first? As I asked myself these questions, I wondered if I was just playing into his hands, if my uncertainty was what he was trying to generate. I thought for a second if I should ask him about his plans for us. But, in the end, it was all for the best to just let things happen as they happened.
"Okay, bye," he said abruptly, and the line went dead. His quick dismissal left a lot of pulsating energy around me, the total flatness of his tone left me guessing.
Of course he had picked a bad time to call me, which always seemed to slip my mind as soon as I heard his voice. I was in the bathroom of some club, having just finished peeing for what was easily the fifth time, and doing a slightly prolonged mirror-check of my hair, which I was trying to grow out again. I was dressed to get people to come home with me. I had my eye on a girl. She liked me and had not a fucking clue who I was, just that I was well-dressed and athletic. She wasn't the type of girl who would have gone for me normally, but I was clean-shaven and wearing my glasses and I was trying not to look mischievous. She didn't know what a shit I was; she was by all accounts far too nice for me. But the phone call from Brooks brought me back to reality. It made me clever again, it made me cunning.
I stepped out of the bathroom and went back to the bar. The girl gave me a sideways glance, coyly, that five minutes ago would have had me trying to join myself at the hip to her.
"What took you so long?" she said, predictably.
"Oh, I gotta go," I told her. I paid for her next drink. "Don't stop being pretty while I'm gone."
She giggled. "I'll try," she said, sounding flattered but crestfallen. It's not every day you meet a girl that sweet who is into you. I almost regretted it. Almost. And so I went.
When I got to Brooks' apartment he answered the door before I finished knocking, which I thought was odd. We were rocking similar outfits--he had his button-down shirt, untucked, with jeans and a sport coat. I was minus the sport coat and my jeans were black, but the sentiment was there. I was feeling like we'd came from the same kind of place. The phone call had come so quickly, in the middle of the night. I was the last thing on his mind, but I wasn't.
He didn't let me in immediately. I was trying to think about how this whole routine had started but I couldn't be quite sure. It was always, of course, of utmost secrecy. I sometimes felt like I'd started it, and yet sometimes I thought it was all him. All it takes is one night of "accidental" innuendo over drinks or one "accidental" kiss when you notice he's down or one "accidental" touch of his hand or his ass or his leg when you think no one's looking. . .but I couldn't remember at this point who had done or said what. This time I felt like he must have started it. It must have definitely been him.
I didn't have time to ponder the issue much more though because as soon as I'd crossed the threshold he let me know what his plans were. He smiled, pulled me close against his hips by wrapping his arm around me at the small of my back. I could feel his fingers at my tailbone, pressing an almost-pattern into that soft spot.
"How are you, Max?" he asked me, before denying my ability to answer with his own mouth. He didn't kiss me hard at first. His tongue just gently parted my lips. It was a liquid warmth filling me from top to bottom and as much as I wanted to lose myself in it, I didn't want to let myself be fooled.
He pulled away for just a second, studying my expression, smirking, as if I could comprehend the question he'd asked me anyway. "I'm good," I said.
"Do you have any idea how bad I want you right now?" he breathed into my mouth.
"No," I joked, refusing to give him the upper hand just yet. He'd pulled this line before and I'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker, scrambling to please him, embarrassing myself with my earnestness. I had a lot to prove.
"Really?" he said, louder this time, with just a hint of irony, running his other hand through my hair and pulling me even closer to him, at an awkward angle. He cocked his head to one side and stared me squarely in the eyes, as if communicating his intentions without words, before going to work on all my sweet spots with the smallest bites from his perfect teeth, the lightest touches from his tongue. Near the nape of my neck, at the corner of my jawbone, all of those places.
I made the noises of approval he expected, and I couldn't have helped myself if I tried. He was working on me.
"Do you know now?" Brooks muttered into a spot on my neck, warming it with his breath and saliva.
"Maybe," I said, knowing I deserved whatever came to me because of it, "I didn't quite catch that."
"Oh, come on Max, don't be a shit," he said, pulling my hair just a little, playfully, before kissing me again. This time, he was unabashedly passionate about it, using the inside of my mouth as his own personal space, tonguing enthusiastically every available surface. I just played along, let him dictate the flow. It was hard not to. Every little bit I gave, he gave back tenfold, lapping hungrily, coming back to me every time as if to say, "Easy there. No one said it was your turn."
Finally, he broke the kiss and fixed his gaze on me in a way that was no longer ironic or playful. I decided that he meant business and that I should probably plan accordingly. He still held me in his arms at that awkward angle, barely giving me an inch, and I smiled up at him halfheartedly. He took everything so seriously, and I couldn't help but find him silly in that moment, missing the point that when you invite a man over to your house late on Friday night it's way easier to just take him to bed than to play these little games. Men are impatient. Aren't we?
"Calm down, Brooksie," I said, almost losing the words as I tried to follow his eyes, finding it difficult as he wouldn't keep them in the same place. He was looking me over, slowly, with an almost unbelievable precision.
His only response to my words was to kiss me again, and this time we were on the move, towards the bedroom, as he almost backed me over his own coffee table before realigning us on a clear path which he promptly filled with our shirts and his jacket. He paused in the middle of his hallway, reaching down to undo my belt and the other fastenings of my pants, deftly stripping me naked. "Lead the way," he said, smirking, and as much as I didn't want to play into his hands I felt like maybe, just maybe, we wouldn't just fuck and forget this time.
As soon as I walked in front of him, I found his arms around me from behind, kissing my back slowly and methodically covering both of my shoulders with further applications of his warm, sweet mouth. He trailed his tongue at my spine from about the middle of my back all the way to the space between my shoulders, and I shivered palpably at the sensation. Every part of my body that he wasn't touching seemed to be in utter agony. I gasped. "Brooksie," I said, choking the word out with a certain amount of effort. He ran his hands down to my hips and planted yet another wet kiss dead-center on the back of my neck. My back arched.
"Bed," he said, releasing me, leaving an uncomfortable coldness around my body. I sat down on top of his comforter, watched him get undressed. He never once broke eye contact with me--didn't even blink. As he stepped out of his pants he smiled, and soon was on top of me, easing me backwards, kissing me unexpectedly on the forehead, mumbling indiscernible words into my skin. We were both hard and ready now and I was wondering why he was delaying--but it could have been for any reason. It was pretty obvious that he liked to see me squirm at times, to make me say the words, "I want you."
As he left another delicate bite mark in the soft skin just below my collarbone, I softly ran my fingers through his sweaty, messed up hair--he came up to kiss me softly, his breath held in precariously, and I could feel him shake ever so slightly, as if something were troubling him. I elected not to mention it. There were so many things we just weren't talking about, perhaps couldn't talk about. Like, where did we come from that made us consistently fall back into this pattern? I could occasionally smell unfamiliar scents on him, people I knew he'd been with when he wasn't with me, and I turned the pain of jealousy on its head by reminding myself of all the unfamiliar scents he must find on me from time to time.
But not tonight. Tonight he just smelled like Brooksie. And he was letting me wrap my arms around him, letting me kiss him at his neck and whisper French to him, even taking my hand in his and pressing it into the pillow, lacing the fingers between one another in a satisfying fit. He took my glasses off and placed them at the side of the bed and kissed my eyes shut. It was always awkwardly sweet like this to start out, even if he meant for it to get rough later (and trust me, he liked it that way just the same). I could never tell what he meant.
I remembered that he did, of course, only smell like himself, that mix of a cologne that only American guys wear and his own sweet-tasting skin. "Want you now, Brooksie," I said, kissing him where he was most sensitive, at his jawline just below his ear, giving him a bite there as I felt I had done so many times before.
He moaned as I ground my hips up into him for extra effect, saying in a tone that was halfway between purring and begging, "Yeah, no shit, Max, I want you, too."
"Then come on," I said, serious as all hell. "What are you waiting for?"
In a sad gesture that acknowledged the lack of exclusiveness in our relationship, he got himself a condom from the bedside table, but like every time I pretended it wasn't there. He came back as if nothing had happened, and nuzzled me with a deliberate softness, but then I could feel the kiss he planted in the crook of my neck growing rougher, faster, more unrestrained, his tongue venturing to nerve endings I didn't even know I had and his teeth gently scraping the already-hypersensitive surface of my shoulder. He reached down and adjusted himself before forcefully placing himself inside me. I gasped a little, as if I hadn't expected it--and I almost didn't, because there were some nights when I went home and wondered if I'd been imagining things. But there he was, and the feeling of him moving and thrusting into me seemingly smacked me senseless. I trailed my fingernails one at a time from his hip bone up to just under his arm, and then all four fingers at once, digging deeply as he began to set his pace.
His next kiss was perfectly timed with his first big thrust, and we fell into it like that, madly trying to increase the speed of our perfectly synced movements. He reached down his hand to help me along, not that I needed it, and set to work again, rubbing his unshaven beard into my chest, making noises as he always did in utmost approval of my ass. Every time he moved he was finding something deeper and more sensitive than he did before, and I was beginning to doubt my ability to ride out this reckless assault on each and every one of my sources of pleasure--it was starting to get to that point where it felt so good that you couldn't even come, you were just helpless, a puddle of overwrought ecstasy, nothing but a syrupy mess on the mattress. I screamed indiscriminately in both languages I knew and finally begged him, "Please, stop for a second, it's too much. . ."
"No," he grunted into my ear, and just went faster. He breathed his warmth onto my neck again, and I realized it was a final answer. I gave myself to him and didn't care, trying to ignore the feeling that I was going to come apart from the inside out. I used my hand to guide his face to mine, and we lingered there with our mouths open, almost kissing, but unable to for the increasing need to breathe feverishly as we both came to climax. He came first, then me, both with deeply layered, animalistic cries of release, though admittedly I was much louder. I was surprised I'd lasted that long. He kissed my forehead again, this time laughing into it, tracing his rough fingertips along my cheek.
I couldn't reconcile this person with the man who made those phone calls to me, said those short sentences to me, blankly stared just past my face when we were around other people. Never was he anything but direct, but never was he anything but distant. I was always the last thing on his mind, but I couldn't have been. Outside of a bedroom we barely knew each other. How could I ever explain to anyone that he likes someone around to make him feel strong, that he likes to be touched in just that way, that he likes me to say his name like that, that he preferred it when I scratched? It was such unbelievable private knowledge that it almost shamed me to look at him as he laid down next to me. Had anyone else ever seen or known him like this?
He smiled. It was totally natural. "Roll over, Max," he said.
I did as he said, and he laid on his side next to me, holding me close to his body with a kind of satisfaction, rubbing his nose into the dip between my two shoulder blades. I found it easy to smile in my total, glowing comfort, but perhaps even easier to furrow my brow at the idea that the next time we saw each other this would all be gone. But I'd gotten used to the feeling by now. I didn't want to change anything for fear of losing this.
I sighed as he kissed my back lightly, causing me to twitch in surprise and pleasure. It was worth it.
Chapter: 1 of godknowshowmanyprobably4
Pairing: Max Talbot/Brooks Orpik. . .because I'm obviously trying to slash Brooksie with everyone or something
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Brooks and Max have a little something going on, and epic miscommunications are happening. What I'm doing with this is alternating perspectives. Part 1 is from Max's perspective. Next one will be Brooksie. Ya dig?
Disclaimer: So not mine, so didn't happen, so delusional.
Dedicated to jisforjane as always.
I was just getting close to forgetting his existence when he called me. He said to meet him at his place. It was Friday night. He sounded breathless, in a complete hurry, only listening to what I had to say if those words were, "Okay, sure." Which they were.
"Fifteen minutes and I'll be there," he exhaled, sounding relatively businesslike. I imagined he was driving, trying to merge into another lane, looking stonily at the drivers in other cars as headlights passed over their faces, giving them just one split-second glance before driving even higher above the speed limit. I was the last thing on his mind. . .except I wasn't. This idea was defining of our relationship so far.
"Yup," I said, feigning disinterest. Should I go home and change my shirt? Were we going out or staying in? Maybe I should shower first? As I asked myself these questions, I wondered if I was just playing into his hands, if my uncertainty was what he was trying to generate. I thought for a second if I should ask him about his plans for us. But, in the end, it was all for the best to just let things happen as they happened.
"Okay, bye," he said abruptly, and the line went dead. His quick dismissal left a lot of pulsating energy around me, the total flatness of his tone left me guessing.
Of course he had picked a bad time to call me, which always seemed to slip my mind as soon as I heard his voice. I was in the bathroom of some club, having just finished peeing for what was easily the fifth time, and doing a slightly prolonged mirror-check of my hair, which I was trying to grow out again. I was dressed to get people to come home with me. I had my eye on a girl. She liked me and had not a fucking clue who I was, just that I was well-dressed and athletic. She wasn't the type of girl who would have gone for me normally, but I was clean-shaven and wearing my glasses and I was trying not to look mischievous. She didn't know what a shit I was; she was by all accounts far too nice for me. But the phone call from Brooks brought me back to reality. It made me clever again, it made me cunning.
I stepped out of the bathroom and went back to the bar. The girl gave me a sideways glance, coyly, that five minutes ago would have had me trying to join myself at the hip to her.
"What took you so long?" she said, predictably.
"Oh, I gotta go," I told her. I paid for her next drink. "Don't stop being pretty while I'm gone."
She giggled. "I'll try," she said, sounding flattered but crestfallen. It's not every day you meet a girl that sweet who is into you. I almost regretted it. Almost. And so I went.
When I got to Brooks' apartment he answered the door before I finished knocking, which I thought was odd. We were rocking similar outfits--he had his button-down shirt, untucked, with jeans and a sport coat. I was minus the sport coat and my jeans were black, but the sentiment was there. I was feeling like we'd came from the same kind of place. The phone call had come so quickly, in the middle of the night. I was the last thing on his mind, but I wasn't.
He didn't let me in immediately. I was trying to think about how this whole routine had started but I couldn't be quite sure. It was always, of course, of utmost secrecy. I sometimes felt like I'd started it, and yet sometimes I thought it was all him. All it takes is one night of "accidental" innuendo over drinks or one "accidental" kiss when you notice he's down or one "accidental" touch of his hand or his ass or his leg when you think no one's looking. . .but I couldn't remember at this point who had done or said what. This time I felt like he must have started it. It must have definitely been him.
I didn't have time to ponder the issue much more though because as soon as I'd crossed the threshold he let me know what his plans were. He smiled, pulled me close against his hips by wrapping his arm around me at the small of my back. I could feel his fingers at my tailbone, pressing an almost-pattern into that soft spot.
"How are you, Max?" he asked me, before denying my ability to answer with his own mouth. He didn't kiss me hard at first. His tongue just gently parted my lips. It was a liquid warmth filling me from top to bottom and as much as I wanted to lose myself in it, I didn't want to let myself be fooled.
He pulled away for just a second, studying my expression, smirking, as if I could comprehend the question he'd asked me anyway. "I'm good," I said.
"Do you have any idea how bad I want you right now?" he breathed into my mouth.
"No," I joked, refusing to give him the upper hand just yet. He'd pulled this line before and I'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker, scrambling to please him, embarrassing myself with my earnestness. I had a lot to prove.
"Really?" he said, louder this time, with just a hint of irony, running his other hand through my hair and pulling me even closer to him, at an awkward angle. He cocked his head to one side and stared me squarely in the eyes, as if communicating his intentions without words, before going to work on all my sweet spots with the smallest bites from his perfect teeth, the lightest touches from his tongue. Near the nape of my neck, at the corner of my jawbone, all of those places.
I made the noises of approval he expected, and I couldn't have helped myself if I tried. He was working on me.
"Do you know now?" Brooks muttered into a spot on my neck, warming it with his breath and saliva.
"Maybe," I said, knowing I deserved whatever came to me because of it, "I didn't quite catch that."
"Oh, come on Max, don't be a shit," he said, pulling my hair just a little, playfully, before kissing me again. This time, he was unabashedly passionate about it, using the inside of my mouth as his own personal space, tonguing enthusiastically every available surface. I just played along, let him dictate the flow. It was hard not to. Every little bit I gave, he gave back tenfold, lapping hungrily, coming back to me every time as if to say, "Easy there. No one said it was your turn."
Finally, he broke the kiss and fixed his gaze on me in a way that was no longer ironic or playful. I decided that he meant business and that I should probably plan accordingly. He still held me in his arms at that awkward angle, barely giving me an inch, and I smiled up at him halfheartedly. He took everything so seriously, and I couldn't help but find him silly in that moment, missing the point that when you invite a man over to your house late on Friday night it's way easier to just take him to bed than to play these little games. Men are impatient. Aren't we?
"Calm down, Brooksie," I said, almost losing the words as I tried to follow his eyes, finding it difficult as he wouldn't keep them in the same place. He was looking me over, slowly, with an almost unbelievable precision.
His only response to my words was to kiss me again, and this time we were on the move, towards the bedroom, as he almost backed me over his own coffee table before realigning us on a clear path which he promptly filled with our shirts and his jacket. He paused in the middle of his hallway, reaching down to undo my belt and the other fastenings of my pants, deftly stripping me naked. "Lead the way," he said, smirking, and as much as I didn't want to play into his hands I felt like maybe, just maybe, we wouldn't just fuck and forget this time.
As soon as I walked in front of him, I found his arms around me from behind, kissing my back slowly and methodically covering both of my shoulders with further applications of his warm, sweet mouth. He trailed his tongue at my spine from about the middle of my back all the way to the space between my shoulders, and I shivered palpably at the sensation. Every part of my body that he wasn't touching seemed to be in utter agony. I gasped. "Brooksie," I said, choking the word out with a certain amount of effort. He ran his hands down to my hips and planted yet another wet kiss dead-center on the back of my neck. My back arched.
"Bed," he said, releasing me, leaving an uncomfortable coldness around my body. I sat down on top of his comforter, watched him get undressed. He never once broke eye contact with me--didn't even blink. As he stepped out of his pants he smiled, and soon was on top of me, easing me backwards, kissing me unexpectedly on the forehead, mumbling indiscernible words into my skin. We were both hard and ready now and I was wondering why he was delaying--but it could have been for any reason. It was pretty obvious that he liked to see me squirm at times, to make me say the words, "I want you."
As he left another delicate bite mark in the soft skin just below my collarbone, I softly ran my fingers through his sweaty, messed up hair--he came up to kiss me softly, his breath held in precariously, and I could feel him shake ever so slightly, as if something were troubling him. I elected not to mention it. There were so many things we just weren't talking about, perhaps couldn't talk about. Like, where did we come from that made us consistently fall back into this pattern? I could occasionally smell unfamiliar scents on him, people I knew he'd been with when he wasn't with me, and I turned the pain of jealousy on its head by reminding myself of all the unfamiliar scents he must find on me from time to time.
But not tonight. Tonight he just smelled like Brooksie. And he was letting me wrap my arms around him, letting me kiss him at his neck and whisper French to him, even taking my hand in his and pressing it into the pillow, lacing the fingers between one another in a satisfying fit. He took my glasses off and placed them at the side of the bed and kissed my eyes shut. It was always awkwardly sweet like this to start out, even if he meant for it to get rough later (and trust me, he liked it that way just the same). I could never tell what he meant.
I remembered that he did, of course, only smell like himself, that mix of a cologne that only American guys wear and his own sweet-tasting skin. "Want you now, Brooksie," I said, kissing him where he was most sensitive, at his jawline just below his ear, giving him a bite there as I felt I had done so many times before.
He moaned as I ground my hips up into him for extra effect, saying in a tone that was halfway between purring and begging, "Yeah, no shit, Max, I want you, too."
"Then come on," I said, serious as all hell. "What are you waiting for?"
In a sad gesture that acknowledged the lack of exclusiveness in our relationship, he got himself a condom from the bedside table, but like every time I pretended it wasn't there. He came back as if nothing had happened, and nuzzled me with a deliberate softness, but then I could feel the kiss he planted in the crook of my neck growing rougher, faster, more unrestrained, his tongue venturing to nerve endings I didn't even know I had and his teeth gently scraping the already-hypersensitive surface of my shoulder. He reached down and adjusted himself before forcefully placing himself inside me. I gasped a little, as if I hadn't expected it--and I almost didn't, because there were some nights when I went home and wondered if I'd been imagining things. But there he was, and the feeling of him moving and thrusting into me seemingly smacked me senseless. I trailed my fingernails one at a time from his hip bone up to just under his arm, and then all four fingers at once, digging deeply as he began to set his pace.
His next kiss was perfectly timed with his first big thrust, and we fell into it like that, madly trying to increase the speed of our perfectly synced movements. He reached down his hand to help me along, not that I needed it, and set to work again, rubbing his unshaven beard into my chest, making noises as he always did in utmost approval of my ass. Every time he moved he was finding something deeper and more sensitive than he did before, and I was beginning to doubt my ability to ride out this reckless assault on each and every one of my sources of pleasure--it was starting to get to that point where it felt so good that you couldn't even come, you were just helpless, a puddle of overwrought ecstasy, nothing but a syrupy mess on the mattress. I screamed indiscriminately in both languages I knew and finally begged him, "Please, stop for a second, it's too much. . ."
"No," he grunted into my ear, and just went faster. He breathed his warmth onto my neck again, and I realized it was a final answer. I gave myself to him and didn't care, trying to ignore the feeling that I was going to come apart from the inside out. I used my hand to guide his face to mine, and we lingered there with our mouths open, almost kissing, but unable to for the increasing need to breathe feverishly as we both came to climax. He came first, then me, both with deeply layered, animalistic cries of release, though admittedly I was much louder. I was surprised I'd lasted that long. He kissed my forehead again, this time laughing into it, tracing his rough fingertips along my cheek.
I couldn't reconcile this person with the man who made those phone calls to me, said those short sentences to me, blankly stared just past my face when we were around other people. Never was he anything but direct, but never was he anything but distant. I was always the last thing on his mind, but I couldn't have been. Outside of a bedroom we barely knew each other. How could I ever explain to anyone that he likes someone around to make him feel strong, that he likes to be touched in just that way, that he likes me to say his name like that, that he preferred it when I scratched? It was such unbelievable private knowledge that it almost shamed me to look at him as he laid down next to me. Had anyone else ever seen or known him like this?
He smiled. It was totally natural. "Roll over, Max," he said.
I did as he said, and he laid on his side next to me, holding me close to his body with a kind of satisfaction, rubbing his nose into the dip between my two shoulder blades. I found it easy to smile in my total, glowing comfort, but perhaps even easier to furrow my brow at the idea that the next time we saw each other this would all be gone. But I'd gotten used to the feeling by now. I didn't want to change anything for fear of losing this.
I sighed as he kissed my back lightly, causing me to twitch in surprise and pleasure. It was worth it.