Stairwell
Title: Stairwell
Author: silver_sixpence
Betas: My thanks goes to calvaryscars swirlsandstars and slasher48. Thanks for reading over this.
Rating: R
Parings: Vam. one Shot.
Disclaimer: This story is fictitious and all the people mentioned herein own themselves
Summary: You wanted to break the monotony of your life. You got your wish when you found him standing there, waiting for you in that grungy stairwell.
Author's Note: Complete porn. This just exploded out o fmy mind when I was walking up the stairs one day. And the pacing is EXTREMELY slow. Somehow I just drew everything out exponentially when I wrote this. I hope it works.
Stairwell
Another night’s gone by, another brutally scalding day melting into a bland and forgettable night. You’re sick of toiling at your god-forsaken job that even the Mexicans shun (You’re not being racist, you claim, but saying a statement of fact, and it is a statement of fact). Every evening is the same. You come home, tired as hell. You piss, wash up, take something that resembles a shower but not really. The shower head is broken and if someone used all of the hot water not only does the temperature go to iceberg, but rust sprays out in runny tears that bleed and stain as they course down your skin. Perfect. You dress in your PJs, if you can find them, but they’re usually too much of a hassle anyway. Most of your clothes are dirty and the laundromat down the street is questionable. You get a beer-there’s never enough alcohol in the fridge, ever-and lay on the bed. You count the spiders on the wall. You hibernate like a computer. Or, more appropriately, a cyborg, a robot that functions as its owner dictates, carrying out the will but never asking questions. Because a computer can, at least, malfunction and you don’t even have the capacity to do that. You’re so wrapped up in the routine, the security of boredom, that you’ve forgotten how to break the rules. Which is what you need to do. Right now. Right. Now.
You would if you could but you can’t so you don’t.
It’s another night (we’ve already established this fact) and you’re halfway there. You won’t call it home because a home suggests comfort which is anything but what you have, what you need. So, anyway, you’re almost there, but as you come up to your nondescript building you decide to go in the back way-you didn’t feel like messing with the Rastafarian man who is constantly smoking PCP/pot on the ground floor again. So up you go, past the door with the five hundred broken locks, past the kitchen that houses all of the Chinese selling fast food remarkably fast (How are they allowed to have a kitchen here? you think but never ask. Such a strange building you live in). There’s one more pass, you think, and you run through this place as fast as you can slamming the door with enough force to loosen a few plasterboards in the ceiling.
And then you come to the stairwell.
It’s like every other stairwell you’d find in the city, you supposed. It’s dark but not too dark; the walls are painted dirty yellow beige from the fluorescent blub that sporadically flickers from above, and the tiled floor reflects brightly from below. The floor’s not shimmering from a fresh mopping, far from it-after years of abuse from vomit, come, and other bodily fluids a glossy film managed to build up the surface like nasty plaque in your gums. It was normal to have to go scavenge for new shoes because your soles were worn from becoming too sticky. Even if it was too dark to see (the floor wasn’t reflective enough for you?), or if you forgot how to get home (which was often the case when you came home at two a.m. drunk as shit), you can follow a path of beer bottles until you enter the cramped, dingy shoebox of an apartment.
You would have left by now for various reasons; one, the rent was creeping up like a bitchsnake wrapped around your spine, squeezing you of every cent you’re worth. Which was ironic as hell considering the dump you’re in. And two, if you didn’t get out now you’d be here forever and you’d go insane. But there was one reason, one reason why you were still here. And it was him.
You know him but you don’t know him at all. You’ve seen him constantly, consistently, have grown so used to seeing his face on a daily basis that when you didn’t it was like being shot in the heart. Sort of. You thought your reaction to this man you didn’t know was weird but you never dwelled on the feelings long enough to separate them from the tangled mess that was your life. It would probably only make the situation worse. He was often dressed in tight clothing that revealed pale expanses of skin. His frame was lithe and reminded you of a graceful bird but you could detect the strong presence of masculinity underneath his bones. Maybe he was a dancer. Or a whore. Probably both; there were several strip clubs in the vicinity. A dance-whore.
You’ve never asked his name. You never had a reason to. But maybe you will today.
He’s leaning against the railing between the space where the top of the steps end and where they start to turn into another level. It’s his normal stance, front and center, his I’m Right Here so Fuck You If You Ask Me to Move pose. He’s taking up half the gap and you have to squeeze past him to get by. You try to act nonchalant about the movement, try to ignore the fact that half your body fits the contours of his own perfectly as you accidentally-on-purpose brush up against him. You try not to focus too much on his smell-that distinct mixture of smoky tobacco, sweat, and something sweetly sweet-as it infiltrates your nose. You exhale deeply, disgusted at your own obsession. As you turn the corner you feel eyes burning into the back of your head like someone decided to hold a burning match to the nape of your neck, but you know it’s not true so you keep your head down and trudge up the stairs, quicklyheadingtoyour-
“Hey,” it was a voice. The voice. His voice. It was the first time you heard it. The sound was low and magical and it vibrated as it passed through your eardrums and skin and soul and registered to your brain. You couldn’t help but turn around. He was leaning against the wall, all legs and hips and thighs in a sensual S curve. Everything was covered in black; combat boots and tight leather stretched across lean thighs. A shirt that was three sizes too small rode up his stomach revealing smooth alabaster, a fag hanging from pursed pouty lips. His malachite eyes locked with yours. A box was clutched between long fingers. He shook it, and you briefly thought of a rabbit being teased with a carrot dangling at one end. And you were the rabbit. A desperate, hungry rabbit.
“You dropped this.” Actually you didn’t. You didn’t hear the sound of cheap cardboard hitting concrete but, of course, you don’t say anything as you clomp back down the stairs. The box wasn’t held out at arms length so you are forced to walk into the heat of the other’s body and claim a prize that isn’t yours. Gently you take the box in your hand and the thrill that coursed through your body like liquid lightning as your fingers brushed did not go unnoticed.
“Thanks.” You didn’t really want the encounter to end at that. You had to do something. Your fingers found a white stick and rolled the cylinder between the pads of your fingers nervously. The man caught on quickly, snatching a silver lighter from some invisible pocket amongst all of the tight clothes, holding it near your face. You leaned in, covering the flame so a nonexistent wind wouldn’t put it out, another excuse to almost brush against his hand. Why were you touching him so much? So eager to touch him. Starving rabbit, you think. Plumes of smoke stream out your nostrils as you puff, puff, exhale and you watch the dark-haired one light a new cancer stick with the previous one, a last burning kiss.
“So,” he breathed, and you could feel the rippling of his breath as it washed across your skin. Or maybe it was just the smoke. “Your name.” It wasn’t a question. He beat you to the punch, dammit. You complied, answering in a short, flat voice that could have passed for monotone.
He repeated the sound on an exhale like it was a foreign, exotic syllable as it passed his lips, and suddenly you were so glad that that was your name and that this wonderful being standing in front of you was saying it. He sucked on his fag so harshly the flesh covering his cheekbones caved in and the look he gave you though sultry half-lidded eyes went straight through you. And all you could think was what the fuck, surprised with delight and confused horror at your own reaction. What was your reaction, exactly? Sweat started to coat your palms, itchy and…oh. So that was how you felt. Immediately the image of a fifth-grader who was supposed to be paying attention in class and instead was focused on the burn between his legs popped into your mind. Embarrassed, and horny as fuck. Feeling your jeans tighten uncomfortably, you tried to discretely link your hands in front of your hips, hoping the mysterious gothic dancer wouldn’t notice your growing bulge. Instead, the exact opposite happened. Because he was watching you watch him so intently, the movement stole his gaze and ultimately fell upon what you were trying to hide. You saw his eyes widen slightly, with fright or pleasure you couldn’t guess, until a small smile crossed his lips. He was mocking you, you thought, but even among the shame that branded your skin like a scarlet letter, you felt relief.
His hand came up towards your face and you realized the softness of your own cheek as a finger runs along your newly shaved skin, then down, down, gently pressing into the corner near your mouth, the touch not quite where you anticipated it to be. The contact lingered until he pressed hard enough to force you to turn your head to the side and he giggled when your bones gave resounding cracks. His face neared yours and you held your breath thinking a kiss would be placed where you wanted it to be but it wasn’t. Lips smoother than satin brushed over the pulse of your throat before sucking on the skin there, leaving a cherry blush. He nuzzled the spot for a moment and you took in the last scents of shampoo remaining in his curls as he stood back, eyes slowly, tentatively meeting yours. He was making the first move but was asking for your permission. Somehow you knew that was uncharacteristic of him, unexpected because you thought you had his disposition cornered. He waited for you to do something, anything. You pondered.
A breath. Then connection. You had to take it.
It took you a moment to realize that you had kissed him because the crash of your mouth against his stunned you. But you wouldn’t take it back. You needed him to know that you had been wanting this for so long, and you hoped that by the way you gripped the muscles in his back and the way your nails raked across the flesh of his neck and threaded though his hair, the message would be translated clearly; there was no room for talking. His reaction compared to yours was more controlled, but if you focused hard enough you could taste the fierce turmoil of desire rushing underneath his skin. With one hand grabbing tuffs of your hair and another mapping the contours of your face he deepened the kiss, drawing it out into a slow battle of sweet sighs and gliding tongues. And suddenly, you knew that this was okay. You came up for air only because he ran out of breath first. He smiled cheekily as he smoked on the remains of his cigarette leisurely, staring at you as if he were looking at you for the first time (and perhaps he was, or in a new light, at least). He appeared as if he had won a mysterious bet, and you had a strange feeling he had, but what he had won you knew nothing about. You stepped into his body, breaking the barrier had separated you for an eternity and more, confidently running a hand up his side. You smiled as he arched into your touch. Now that you had him there was no way you were letting him go.
He drained the last of the fag with a slow, satisfying inhale, smudging the dead butt against the wall until it left a trail of broken ashes. Without warning your knees cave in underneath you; all you know is this urge, this desperate need to take him into your mouth. You have had sex before but going down on someone was never something you had to do. But you need this; if you don’t you’ll go insane. Your hand travels up over his tight abdomen then down, squeezing his toned thighs, effectively skipping around his obvious desire that’s demanding your attention. He groans, frustrated, trying to move into your touch but you clamp both of your hands on bony hips and force him against the wall, making movement nearly impossible. He’s squirming and you can feel his muscles trembling with effort, straining to remain upright and not collapse in on himself. With all the writhing he’s doing combined with your fixed grip on his leathers, his pants slide down inch by inch, revealing even more skin and the end of an intricate heart shaped tattoo. He shaves, you notice, and somehow that really turns you on. Compelled by some unnamed force, you lock eyes with him and slowly lick the underside of his clothed arousal. Latex, sweat, and a subtle hint of musk coat your tongue and it was almost like you could taste him. You haven’t even done anything and already you were getting a massive contact high. You weren’t trying to be seductive, but that’s exactly what his reaction was telling you. His eyes practically melt as they roll back in his head and his hips jerk, trying to bring himself further into your mouth. Pure lust clogged his chest as he struggled to moan, to breathe. You can’t take it anymore-and neither can he. In an instant you have his zipper pulled down and your hand wraps around his length. He gasps-in pleasure, in shock, you could never figure it out, not even afterward-and in that moment you could feel all the lust saturating the air condensing into that one point. Quickly you start to undo the button to completely release him from his confining clothes but a hand constricts your wrist so tightly your circulation’s cut off. White flashes across your eyes, pain paralyzing you for an instant and it takes you a second to realize that he had pulled you up by the hair. If his hand came back with blood and hair underneath the fingernails you wouldn’t be surprised. The mood has changed: after that initial, courteous taste of each other, both of you were stripped bare bones and left only with the desire beating in your hearts. With his hand still laced in your curls he smashes you against his mouth, curling a leg around your hips. Your one step ahead of him: with little effort you pop him off the ground and he instinctively wraps those long legs around you, squeezing you like a vise, just the way you wanted him to. He lets out a deliciously hot moan in your ear and his pelvis gyrates when you grab the tight cheeks of his ass.
You don’t know how you made it up the stairs with his added weight and whatnot but you did. The trip up to your room was an interesting one, one filled with scratches, desperate moans, and lots of biting. By the time you get inside your apartment-or at least you assumed it was your apartment but you were so high aching for sex it could have been an abandoned hell hole for all you knew-both of you were half naked, the only piece of clothing adorning your body being your open jeans and a belt. Your lover was wearing even less-a wifebeater that did little to hide the proud cock that stood at full attention at his hips. You were equally hard, and by the way his hands and eyes roamed over your build, he was pleased with what he saw. You stop before the bed and release him and he bounces across the mattress, legs splaying open in invitation. You craw up his body, kissing every inch of him, then reach down and wrap your fingers around him, stroking gently. He shivers violently before suddenly flipping you over, pinning you on your stomach. Moaning, you buck your hips upward, searching for his length to push between the folds of your curved behind. He senses this, already in tune to the needs of your body. You hear a distinct sucking sound, the sound of saliva slipping over flesh, and you imagine him wetting several digits between his lips. You were right, because the next thing you feel is immense burning as long fingers work their way inside you. You gasp and grit your teeth and bear the pain because you know what’s coming and it’s worth the effort. His way of apologizing is by baptizing you with his tongue, delving deep inside you, and you immediately forgive him. The awesome feeling is almost too much for you and you have to bite back the orgasm, his unhurried pace making you even more frustrated. You want him to take you so hard up against a wall your teeth would swim, to shove you facedown onto the bed and ravage your entrance and relentlessly jack you off. You want it all but he’s not going to let you have it. Or at least, not now anyway. With this he was showing you how much he was going to make you wait, to live out the slow burn of ecstasy, to enjoy it.
He’s positioning himself and you groan, finally, ready for him. He’s been so gentle with you, too gentle with you, and if he doesn’t hurry up and do something soon you know for a fact that your balls will burst. For a moment you feel him hesitate. Then…
You take all of him in one plunge. Amazingly through, you’re not the one that cries out at the girth of him but he is. Even so, the feel of him enveloping your everything is overwhelming. For the longest time he doesn’t move. You think you can’t take it (how can anyone be so wide?), the sensation’s too great (you’re so tight).
He reminds you of your own desires with a slow tug between your legs. The way your balls tighten until you think they're going to twist off your pelvis and fire races down your spine you knew it wouldn’t take long. Like a bolt of lightning, dangerous and beautiful, you feel all of the desire expel out of you. At the same time your inner walls converge around him and you feel him come. You collapse and roll over, trying to remember how to breathe and not being completely successful. In the hazy aftermaths of lust you’re tempted to sleep, it was that good, but you don’t. Your lover was more subdued, propping his weight on his arms until he was sure that you were settled in before lowering himself down on the bed. For a moment you just breathed together, soaking up the sex in the air. But like an agitated cat, it wasn’t five minutes before your dancer started moving. He unsheathing a pack of Black Cats and did some complicated fiddling with a lighter, blew out blue rings of smoke, and let out a gratified sigh of conquest. You watched the rise and fall of his chest and relaxed as thoughts you thought you had forgotten came to you.
You used to break the rules all the time but with the slow paced monotony of the everydays, had forgotten how to. But he had reminded you, and in that had given you a small gift. You watched as the smoke unfurled from his lips and wondered how to voice your thanks without sounding like a complete girl.
As he blew flawless rings of smoke from lips saccharine with fluid you said, “Goddamn. I-that was,” you couldn’t breathe. It was perfection. The soft lowlight seeping through the blinds illuminated his form. His eyes-they were brighter than high beams on a car. He was so consumed with desire they were glowing. As his eyes traveled over your body you couldn’t suppress your eager shiver.
“I’m not finished with you yet.”
* * *
Light filters in through the blinds illuminating dust particles as they dance across the room. Even though you can feel the light stabbing the back of your eyes you don’t open them yet, the sleep crusted in the crevices sealing the skin shut. You can tell a lot of things without opening your eyes; cool white grey clouds will make the sky seem strangely bright and optimistic instead of foreboding, even though it always is; there will still be empty glass bottles of the latest liquid poison on the floor; there will still be dishes to scrub and trash to take out and a mountain of clothes that probably aren’t yours to wash. Everything will be the same. Except for now.
This time you don’t want to open your eyes because you’re afraid you’re softly dreaming and that this moment will disappear into the ether of your subconscious. Tentatively your palm edges over to the other side of the bed, tingling with anticipation, hoping to meet warm, supple flesh.
It’s cold.
Yes, you aren’t dreaming, this is reality, and he’s not there. Angrily you shoot up, whipping the covers back to reveal sheets wrinkled with sweat but no body between them. Either it really was just a dream or you just had a one night stand with a stranger who you never knew. You didn’t even get his name. The Nameless Man. The Man-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. The Fucking Bastard.
Even though the urge to bolt down the hallways and kick down every door in search of your stranger, you remind yourself that you have some sort of hygienic capabilities and begrudgingly force yourself to shower, brush your teeth, comb your hair (you give up on the hair). After shucking on the cleanest clothes you can find you start searching for the worthless landlord and ask about the guy who’s been hanging around the stairwell every night. There’s tons of men on the stairwell he argues but you tell him to shut up and focus on your gothic prince.
“You know. The tall lanky one who looks like he’s never seen the light of day?”
“Ermm…oh, yeahyeahyeah. He moved out a few days ago.” Fuck, you never even got his room number you jackass you tell yourself. You turned and stormed off towards your room, ignoring the calls behind you about unpaid rent.
That was the last straw. You had been fed up with this shit for forever-your shitty job, the seedy living arrangements, the tenants-and this last thing to tip you off had to be the one thing that was actually keeping you here. The irony. And since he had left you there was only one thing for you to do: to move on. It didn’t take you long to assemble all of your meager belongings. You were thinking about taking the essentials since you could buy the rest-when you were able to get the money, that is. It was all you could afford to leave behind at this point. Leaving an enveloped filled with the last of the rent and your key underneath the door, you shouldered your bag of essentials and walked out the door.
You took an elevator to the ground floor. There was no way you could go down that stairwell again. Not after him.
You had a plan mapped out in your head. You were so focused that you didn’t look where you were going and you were all but barreled over as you ran smack into a hard body. You shrugged it off, continued walking, but hand roughly grabbed your elbow and you turned around, whipping your hand back prepared to knock the fucker down-and failed when you recognized fresh spring green orbs that were both strange and familiar.
“You-I thought you weren’t coming back,” you voice sounds feeble as it wavers out of your throat. You can feel your cheeks heating but you couldn’t help what you said; it was how you felt and it was true. You scratch the back of your neck and look away, hoping couldn’t see the desperation shining in you eyes.
“I’m not.” A cold, burning feeling coats the inside of your stomach-your heart, you realize. You were thinking about how you were going to brush this statement off and not make a big deal about it when he speaks again.
“You were planning on moving out, weren’t you? I’d seen you talking a couple of times to the landlord. Figured you would need some help.” You are momentarily flustered at the though of him watching you.
“What?”
“I found a place. It’s not too far away from here. The owner’s reasonable and the rent is $700 a month. It’s nice.” He looked down, scuffing the tip of his shoe in the ground and you had the vague notion that he was nervous and somewhat shy about being so forward. He took your silence for rejection. “I just figured you were interested-”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you want to move out of this shithole?”
“Yeah. Of course, yeah.” And hesitantly you couldn’t refrain yourself from asking, “Um, do you…live there too?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” You try to suppress the hope rising in your chest and you fail. Utterly. But still you try to think of the matter logically. What happened last night was a wonderful fuck, a one night stand, and you needed to grow the fuck up. Now. Even if he was still interested in you-but, no, he wouldn’t be interested in you. And even if he was, did you think a meaningful relationship would develop when sex was its foundation? With enough pessimistic thoughts you’ve effectively squashed your positive humor. Good. You sigh, trying to exhale all of the emotions off your chest.
“Okay, I’ll take it.”
“Good.” He walks you to his car-he brought his car with him? He really must have been confident that you were going to agree with his proposal. Damn, did you really seem that pitiful?- trailing behind you. When he doesn’t make a move you reach for the door handle and suddenly his palm slaps against the crease. You’re not going anywhere until he lets you. Turning around to gaze up at his face questionably, he leans into you, pinning you against the car. He runs a hand down the side of your face gently and you couldn’t contain your shiver.
“I want you to be my roommate, stairwell-boy.” You look away so he wouldn’t be able to see the immense pleasure shining in your eyes. You shrug, mumble something akin to an assent, and his kisses you on the cheek reverently. He lets out a deep throaty chuckle and forces you to look into his eyes by grabbing your chin. “You never told me your name.” You felt a smile part your lips and you leaned in and whispered in his ear.
“I’ll tell you,” he sucks on the lobe of your ear and you bite down on your lip to keep from arching into him and moaning, “When we’re gone from this place-when we’re ready.”
“Oh, but I think you’re ready for me now.” His voice was a delicious purr in your ear. His fingers traced the muscles between your shoulder blades and you could feel the blazing heat even through your jacket (oh, god, yes you remember his teeth sinking into your skin there last night), his lips lingering on the pulse in your throat. You grabbed onto his shoulders for leverage, exposing your neck to him, completely not giving a fuck that there were probably witnesses watching you two get your groove on in the streets. His tongue darted out, you sighed, and-
Abruptly he backed off leaving you disoriented, hot and flustered. You cuffed him on the shoulder, a bit pathetically, and he giggled and told you to get in the car. You didn’t look back as the two of you drove away towards something new.
Thank god for grungy apartments.
[End!]
Author’s Note II: Find the Bukowski reference! It’s six words in order. Look hard for it-it’s the title of a poem. However, it’s not quite accurate b/c artistic liberties. :)