dry!series
Dry!Series
AU: Brian/Justin Highschool!fic
Summary: This started out as a one-shot with the middle secion 'Dry'. It became so popular that I wrote prequels and sequels and turned it into a vignette-kind of series. I add to it when I feel inspired, and leave it be when I'm not. It's two teenage boys falling in love through the seasons of coming-of-age, and I have plans to keep weaving the tale for as long as it takes.
Rated: R-NC-17 for references to abuse, language, and poetic (yet blisteringly hot) sex
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns them. And this is unbetaed. Deal.
Parts: Five-Seven (Rain, Blue, and the special thanksgiving one that was never posted at bjfic.net, Edible)
Dry!Series :: Rain
Dead autumn rain against the windowpanes feels slightly reminiscent of a home Brian has never had. A place that doesn't really exist, except for in these moments of dim reflection and rushing silence; Justin standing at an easel and painting in the empty classroom. The rain makes a sound that is constant and timed, like crickets on a summer night, but so much more trustworthy; a sinking sensation of comfort made of fog and fleece. The wind whistles in melancholy violin strains against the glass, rain pinning battered leaves to the soaking-wet sill, like the reenactment of a tragedy.
Brian always assumed that to paint, you needed the best light possible so that each color could be used precisely, but watching Justin paint, shrouded in the desolate greens and honest golds of a rainy day, he doesn't think so. Justin seems to be using the dooming light to work for him, just as absolute as if he were painting in the most brilliant noon that ever existed.
"Are you bored?" Justin asks him, living voice strange in the abandoned room. He taps a paintbrush against a glass jar filled to the brim with water, fingers covered with stripes and splatters of so many bold colors that Brian wonders if they'll seep into his skin and become part of him.
"Not bored," he responds with a shrug, tilting his face back towards the mystery of the rain-riveted windowpanes, "Rather be here than home."
Justin nods, his posture quiet and elegant as he drags a paintbrush over the rough canvas, the bristles full of slippery paint.
"I like to be here... when school is over, and the teachers have all gone home to get drunk or grade papers. It kind of inspires me. Mrs. Ketchman is really cool for trusting me to be in here after-hours."
Brian makes a small masculine sound in his chest to acknowledge his boyfriend's words. His fingers run absently up and down the grain of wood on the surface of the desk he sits on, legs dangling and heels beating against the metal legs in time with the rainfall, tempered and soothing. The air smells like paint and public school paste and floor cleaner from the janitor down the hall, and it laces a haze of sleepiness around Brian.
He might have drifted off, because minutes or hours later, Justin is satisfied, and rouses Brian from which ever faraway horizon of thought he was entertaining in twisted technicolor or subtle shadow.
Justin steps back from the angled easel, and crosses his arms over his chest, tight blue shirt stretching over his back. Brian thinks it matches the clouds over the world today, all taut and just plain right.
"Come look at it," Justin turns and looks at him, voice and eyes a matching grey.
His sneakers squeak against the olive green tiles as Brian comes to stand behind Justin, staring at the shimmering canvas of moist color in surging strokes. Confident and distinct, like Justin.
"It's an old woman."
"Smiling," Justin adds. His face is glowing with sweat and tiny drops of paint that have dried on his cheekbone. Like rain.
"At... are those flowers?"
"Old women always smile at flowers," simple statement, and Justin says it like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever uttered, "I think, they like, appreciate things like that. The little things. We sure as hell don't. Like they always smile at color and children."
Brian shoves his hands in his jean pockets, and shrugs his shoulders forward so the redorangebrown of his plaid shirt falls over them, "I thought old ladies yelled at kids to get off their lawns?"
Justin flashes a silent look that tells Brian that his humor was not invited to this moment of weather-wrought reflection of his work. Brian apologizes by sighing and stepping closer, honest and giving.
"It's-"
"Thank you," Justin replies, knowing that Brian's words could never, ever be said, but knowing exactly what they mean. Trustworthy silence and familiar rain-torn leaves that feel like home.
A threatening gust rattles the classroom windows, and all the damp trees, bark shiny and black, bow with the force of it. Brian wraps his arms around Justin from behind, one hand sliding into his front pocket and the other around his chest; over warm fabric and sensitive skin. His cold nose nestles against the sweet-smelling heat of the hair behind Justin's ear.
"Brian," Justin smile-whispers, voice hitching with arousal. Painting always makes his body thrum, feel alive. He gets nearly giddy sometimes, just laughing or fucking or breathing with so much intent and passion. But right now, Brian is...
"Not tryin' to- I mean, I just want to-" Hold you. Be like this. Feel that thrum in your small body in the faded threadbare light of this evening.
Justin leans all his weight against Brian's chest, savoring the hands that cup his groin, and smooth across his throat. The careful, inspired breaths of Brian in his hair.
"When it doesn't rain, I miss it," Justin muses lazily, words spinning a web around them like windowpanes against a downpour. His fingers reach up and curl under Brian's soft flannel collar.
"The sounds?" Brian opens his mouth against Justin's earlobe, pink and delicate.
"And the smells. It almost smells like paint," he sighs with his eyes closed, lets out a whispy chuckle, "I might be the only person in the world who likes the smell of paint."
The trustworthy silence always leads to confessions that feel like flickering gold flames in the rainy fall darkness. Brian faintly smiles and admits softly,
"Nah. I like it too... reminds me of you. "
Old ladies aren't the only ones who can appreciate small things.
Dry!Series :: Blue
They move together, fast and desperate, having thirsted for this moment all day long through droll classes and annoying responsibilities. Brian pushes into him hard, straining with his entire body, sweat glistening across his skin like stars. Moist breaths mingling and the constant motion, the world tilting and spinning in a great expanse of pleasure and craving for each other's hard bodies.
The house is empty, but loud. Full of all the sounds that Justin never notices when his family is there, and only make him jump when he is alone. Not alone now though, completely full, Brian ramming into a spot deep inside that makes him writhe and wonder about his sanity. In his peripheral vision, the blue of his walls merges with the old stencils of sailboats around the border and Justin thinks that it seems wildly perverse, yet strangely appropriate, to be having sex in his childhood bedroom.
A sharp breath, a groan. Damp skin sliding together in a undulating tangle, striving for the release. Heated whispers in each other's ears about raw, unbridled lust.
"Fuck," Brian's halted, gasping voice.
Justin arches up against him and swallows that voice in his mouth, feeling it resonate in deep velvet masculinity in his gut. Clenches himself hard, as if he could hold Brian inside him for eternity.
"Justin," Brian rasps between their mouths, "Fuck, Ju-"
He cuts off as he comes, flood of warmth in Justin's body and pulsing perfection that allows him to tip into an equal free-fall.
The orgasm is blue like the walls with a flare of achingly red adoration, devestatingly undone.
Brian collapses next to him after the waves ebb, smelling like humanity and feeling so alive that everything else pales around them; warm, sated lovers.
Rolling to gaze at him, Justin nudges his head into the pillow like a purring kitten, tucking it against his boyfriend's damp shoulder.
"Good?" he asks, lips brushing Brian's skin.
"Fucking brilliant," Brian responds in a sigh, his hand sliding up Justin's long smooth back to tangle his fingers in his shaggy golden hair, "Where are your parents?"
"Soccer with Molly. They think we're studying at the library," Justin snorts softly, rolling again, "You'd think they'd know better by now."
"Yeah, well. Your mom's in denial and your dad's just an asshole."
"At least..." Justin trails off, not continuing, and just stares at the ceiling.
Brian's body shifts and he slips out of the bed to open the windows and grab his pack of cigarettes. Justin watches him with shadowed artist's eyes. The twilight light bending over the angles and curves in his back. The way he has transformed from boy to man right there, in the indigo tones that fill the room. Quiet and subtle and wise.
Justin never thought it would be possible to be so in love.
The lighter clicks and snaps, and Brian carefully crawls back onto the bed, flopping down on his back with his head on Justin's boyish chest.
"You look so hot when you smoke," Justin's voice is breathy and soft like the smoke plume that Brian blows into the air. It gets caught in the crisp breeze coming through the window, and whisked away.
"You look so hot when you're laying there all sweaty after I've pounded you into the mattress," Brian grins wickedly and Justin writhes in coy delight.
"Fuck, I look hot all the time," he shoots back, tugging playfully on Brian's dark hair.
They tussle mischievously for a minute around the cigarette, snagging it from each other and taking laughing drags. Empty hands grope over already-discovered, but always-desired places and it isn't long before the cigarette is extinguished in a dirty plate next to the bed, and their lips are sealed together, tongues mimicking their body's motions.
The sky is deep azure outside the windows, and the room is swathed in the kind of dark that makes everything muffled and erotic. The air smells like dinner baking in someone else's house and both boys laugh when they hear their stomachs growl in response.
Food can wait though. Studying at the library can wait. The entire universe can fucking wait.
Right now all that matters is their naked bodies pressed together, desire and contentedness. Grown boys making love to each other in the navy blue twilight of a childhood bedroom.
Dry!Series :: Edible
Thanksgiving.
Brian wants to know what the fuck the fore-father's were thinking when they decided to make it a holiday. Because there's really nothing to be thankful for here in the Jack Kinney household. No cornucopia's full of plump, ripe fruits or steaming turkeys or laughter.
There are old, cracked baskets with bruised apples, and a turkey that was left in the oven too long, and the laughter is tight, sour, and criticizing.
All those relatives, all old and bitter, sitting on Joanie's furniture like it's their own, and smoking so much that the fake wood panel walls are getting a hazy film on them. Brian slinks away from them, hides in the shadows at the bottom of the staircase, or stands next to the grandfather clock, hoping that his long lanky body blends in.
But it doesn't. Aunt Marge wants to examine how his jeans are too big around the waist, and too baggy at the bottom, and Cousin Lisa wants him to take her up to his room so she can fool around with his stuff, and Grandpap just keeps slapping him on the back or rustling hair and asking him in a unnerving voice of innuendo about his girlfriend.
Grandfather's should not remember anything that has to do with sex.
But the more he asks, the more Jack glares, until Brian finally does flee to the back porch and lays there on the concrete slab, staring up into the forever blue.
"Claire told me you came out here," a grating, female voice comes from the doorway.
Brian closes his eyes and turns his head into the gritty concrete, hoping she goes away.
The door closes, tiny glass window in it rattling, and Brian hears his cousin sit down next to him. Fucking relatives, with their false sense of familiarity and they're goddamn need to invade, like there's actual intimacy there. Pretend like they actually know who the fuck you are, when they don't.
"Why'd you come out here?" she asks, nudging the back of his head with her gloved little hand.
"To get the fuck away from you," Brian mimics her voice as he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it quickly.
"Smoking's gross, Bri," she tosses her head of nappy blonde hair, and gives him another petty, feminine slap on his arm, "You're too young to do it, anyway."
"Hit me again, and I'll shove my cigarette in your eye, Peggy," grumbling and short, like the time it took him to light the cigarette.
Peggy giggles, "You're crazy."
"I'm also out of here."
He stands up and pulls his jacket closer around his torso, like a shield and shelter, ready to run. Under the rusty swingset, through the hedge, down the alley, across several rows of lawns and a busy street or two, around the park to the nicer neighborhood, and then... home.
"You can't leave on Thanksgiving, Bri. Besides, Claire told me to come out here to make sure you didn't go to Dustin's house. 'Cause she knew you'd want to leave, and that'd make your mom and dad really mad."
Brian turns and stares at her, eyes flaring with crackling anger, "It's Justin. And I'm not going there. I'm just going.... the fuck away."
It is a lie, of course, and as soon as he makes it through the hedge, ignoring Peggy's pouting shouts and the slam of the back door, he takes off in a jog towards Justin's house. The cold air makes his cheeks numb and red, and the combination of it and smoke in his lungs tastes intoxicatingly refreshing. The ground meeting his shoes, faster, faster, faster until Brian wants to just laugh with the feeling of it. Laugh the way nobody in his family can or does.
By the time he gets to Justin's his body is sore, and there is searing pain in his chest and throat, but it makes Brian feels free and alive. There are cars parked in front of Justin's house, BMW's and nice new Volvo's, and the windows are bright with those little electric candles.
He peeks in one of them, sidling against the brick and searching for that golden head worthy of a halo of splattered paint and come. And as nasty as that is, Brian thinks it would become him. Make him glow.
He hears Justin laugh before he sees him, the right kind of laughter, that should be in a family gathering. Justin's leathery little grandmother pinches his cheek before smoothing a shaking hand down his silky blond hair, and Justin beams at her, full of love. Brian knows, because that's the look he is on the receiving end of so often.
Then blue eyes fringed with light catch his shadow in the window, and Brian watches as Justin carefully excuses himself, and slips out the front door.
"Brian!" he calls in a shiver, the pale blue fuzz of his delicate cashmere sweater catching the brisk Thanksgiving twilight.
"Hey," Brian responds, voice low and rough. He ducks his head and walks towards Justin, freezing grass crunching under his shoes.
"What are you doing here? I thought you had family over?" his eyes look concerned, and his tone matches them.
Brian shrugs, simple but informative, and Justin nods and steps off the porch to him.
"Family not as great as planned, huh?"
"I never plan on them being anything more than irritating," Brian's hands instantly grip Justin's small hips and bring him against his body, suddenly feeling the spirit of thanks when Justin's body sags and his arms wrap around him.
"Well, we're almost done. We just have to draw names for the gift exchange for Christmas. Big family, you know? But you can come in, I'm sure mom won't mind," Justin's words are muffled in Brian's jacket and Brian loves it. Holds him tighter. Combs one hand in his hair, and the other grips the sweater at the small of his back.
"Your dad might."
"So? Fuck him," Justin said, pulling away to stare up at Brian's shadowed face. Brian let his eyes drift over his freezing porcelain cheeks before he closes them. Shield and shelter.
"It's..."
"I know. It's fine though, really."
"I'm not as fucking strong as you sometimes, Justin. I'm just... here. Nothing, sometimes, you know?"
It's an admission made of porcelain itself, ready to shatter and break into a million pieces on the frosted grass. Justin's cold hands clasp Brian's face, and his thumbs smooth over Brian's closed lashes before lips settle, chapped and warm, on lids. Brief, open-mouth kisses, like glimmering electric candles in the windows, comforting and familiar.
"Oh, Brian."
His whisper is enough, and Brian opens his eyes to look at him, feeling Justin's fingers clasp the hair that falls over the shell of Brian's ears.
"You really need to stop telling yourself that shit," Justin continues, serious and vibrant, "Just 'cause your dad thinks it and says it, doesn't mean you have to believe it."
"Fuck that, Justin, I don't give a shit about anything my fucking father says."
Justin puts a finger over Brian's lips, "Okay."
He has a faint, masculine smile of encouragement, and Brian kisses it quickly before stepping back away from Justin, hand already missing the downy fuzz of his sweater.
"Please come in," he doesn't beg, but Justin has perfected the art of asking with just the right amount of pouting lip, sparkling eyes, and the teasing, excited flush of cheeks; Brian finds himself nodding and being led by firm, dry fingers into the house.
Jennifer greets him with an affectionate hand on his shoulder, and an offer to get him some pumpkin pie, while Justin's grandmother keeps repeating what a beautiful couple Justin and Brian make. Some of the younger cousins stare at them in awe and curiousity, and Brian thinks its wonderful. Even when Craig walks in the room, except for a brief frown, he accepts Brian's presence with a nod, then can't help but grin at how excited his old mother seems to be about the situation.
Everything is warm and gold, and Justin's hand is always on his leg, or curled around the hem of his long-sleeved tee, like a promise and an affirmation of love. Brian eats slow bites of pumpkin pie while he watches Justin interact with his family, all smiles, laughs, and careful teasing that results in a living room filled to the brim with joy.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Justin whispers in his ear, fingers playing in Brian's belt loop.
"You look hot, being such a good family boy," Brian whispers back, staring into Justin's eyes and breath warm against his face.
The blue of Justin's eyes darkens as his pupils dilate, and Brian knows what that look means.
"We're sneaking to my bedroom in thirty seconds. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, and I'll clear your plate to the kitchen and then meet you up there, okay?"
He rattles off the instructions in a low, sexy voice like it's a top-secret mission: impossible, and Brian feels himself harden in his American Eagle khaki's.
"Got it. I'll get the fuck out of here," Brian answers, putting his plate down. He stands and politely excuses himself, shooting off a smirk and a joke that makes the family laugh and forget his departure as the conversation rotates another direction.
The sounds of the gathering fade away between floors and carpets and walls, and Brian can't help but feel warm and content as he flops down onto the navy blue bed and tucks his head under the pillow. The soft, faded fabric smells like Justin's hair, and his sweat, and his come, and his spit, and everything that makes Justin a living, breathing, beautiful man.
He barely has time to notice and realize before the door creaks open, shuts solidly, and previously mentioned man has climbed up onto his back, shoving his head under the pillow to meet Brian's.
"My family-" nuzzle and kiss, in the hot muffled dark of pillow case and mattress, "loves you-" tongue skims along Brian's bottom lip, "and my grandmother-" full kiss, slightly moaning into it, "asked what-" lips brushing chin, jaw, "college you went to-" open-mouth on Brian's cheekbone, " because she thinks you're so handsome-" he sucks on Brian's earlobe, "and then she asked-" breaths against his eyebrow, "if we were going to get married. Christ, you should have seen the look on Mom's face. It was priceless. Then Uncle Bob and Aunt Terri started laughing and making fun of me in a white tux, and Grams told them that we'd be dashing, and Mom talked about how happy you seem to make me, oh fuck, Brian, it was so great."
Brian keeps his eyes closed during Justin's enthusiastic attention and delightful babbling, enjoying the feel of him straddling Brian's back, and squirming insistently. He feels just so... happy. The smell of Justin, the feel of Justin, the warmth of Justin. It's overwhelming, blooming, fucking drowning Brian.
Drowning.
"Bet you don't feel like nothing now," Justin teases, his hands sliding up under Brian's shirt, and trailing along his boyish ribs.
"You always make me feel like something," Brian says, his voice as dark and as hot as the feel of their faces pressed together under the pillow.
"Because you are. You're never just here, Brian Kinney. You're fucking everything."
Brian pushes the pillow off of their heads, and it falls to the floor, forgotten. Justin blinks against the sudden light, nose scrunched and hair disheveled. In one motion, Brian has them turned and reversed, so that he's hovering over Justin, and Justin's legs are wrapped around his waist.
"I know," Brian says, acknowledging how much his boyfriend loves him, and not trying to be egotistical at all. But Justin grins and playfully nudges him anyway, knowing that too much emotion, and too many poetic, silken words will just create more of a problem than what is already spanning between them. More of a problem than Brian's self-deprecating narcissism.
"Look what I brought up," Justin wriggles underneath him, their semi-hard dicks rubbing together through their pants, as he tries to reach for something.
"Your cock?" Brian asks, eyebrow raising as he slowly pushes his hand down into Justin's pants.
Justin bites back a moan, head tilting back just a bit, exposing his throat, and Brian dives in to taste it.
"B-Brian, stop a sec-a second. Fuck!" he says in surprise when Brian bites the protruding tendon in his neck as his head is turned, "You fucking bit me!!"
"You just taste so sweet, Sunshine," Brian says wickedly, his hand moving in deep strokes over Justin's stiff penis.
"I'm trying to tell you that I brought something else sweet up, asshole."
Justin's voice is halting, gasping, but he still manages to present a bowl of light and airy something-or-other with pineapple bits in it, and holds it in front of Brian's face.
"Looks like whipped cum," Brian's voice is muffled against Justin's hair.
"It's whipped pineapple pudding."
"Why would I want to eat that when I can eat you?" Brian asks honestly, hand pointedly moving from cock, to balls, to the puckered opening of Justin's ass.
Blue eyes glaze over, and hazel ones sharpen with intent.
"Eat it off me."
Eyebrow arches over sharp eyes.
"You want me to peel off your clothes and smear this pudding all over your hot little body and lick it all. off.?" Brian whispers huskily, defying the familial warmth that the house had filled him with. Now it was all about sex. It was all about sex with Justin.
"God, yes."
"Want me to fuck you?"
"You know I do."
"How hard?"
Justin's eyes open and become clear and he wraps his arms around Brian's neck and pulls him down so their lips are touching, but not pressed together. Warm, again.
"Not hard. Just want you in me."
Brian thinks that those are probably the sexiest words he's ever heard, quiet and true with their lips brushing together, but would never admit it to anyone. Never admit that someone telling him NOT to fuck them hard was sexier than if they begged him to.
Clothes are removed with a careful, silent sort of grace, that is ancient and gold like the candles in the windows. Justin turns off the lamp so that those candles can cast their glow over skin that seems to shimmer in it.
The whipped pineapple pudding is not forgotten, their fingers feeding it to each other, or just sharing it between open mouths and full kisses. Once Brian puts some of it in his palm and wraps it around Justin's dick, just so he can eat it off in eager licks that drive Justin wild.
They fuck, sticky and so sweet that Brian is sure that even their sweat will taste like sugar. Justin arches and grinds against him, rolling them over at one point so that he can ride Brian like there is no tomorrow. But it's still tender, and it's still perfect, and even though it seems so naughty to be fucking while the extended family is laughing and talking and drinking coffee in the living room right underneath them, Brian just feels like he's finally at home.
AU: Brian/Justin Highschool!fic
Summary: This started out as a one-shot with the middle secion 'Dry'. It became so popular that I wrote prequels and sequels and turned it into a vignette-kind of series. I add to it when I feel inspired, and leave it be when I'm not. It's two teenage boys falling in love through the seasons of coming-of-age, and I have plans to keep weaving the tale for as long as it takes.
Rated: R-NC-17 for references to abuse, language, and poetic (yet blisteringly hot) sex
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns them. And this is unbetaed. Deal.
Parts: Five-Seven (Rain, Blue, and the special thanksgiving one that was never posted at bjfic.net, Edible)
Dry!Series :: Rain
Dead autumn rain against the windowpanes feels slightly reminiscent of a home Brian has never had. A place that doesn't really exist, except for in these moments of dim reflection and rushing silence; Justin standing at an easel and painting in the empty classroom. The rain makes a sound that is constant and timed, like crickets on a summer night, but so much more trustworthy; a sinking sensation of comfort made of fog and fleece. The wind whistles in melancholy violin strains against the glass, rain pinning battered leaves to the soaking-wet sill, like the reenactment of a tragedy.
Brian always assumed that to paint, you needed the best light possible so that each color could be used precisely, but watching Justin paint, shrouded in the desolate greens and honest golds of a rainy day, he doesn't think so. Justin seems to be using the dooming light to work for him, just as absolute as if he were painting in the most brilliant noon that ever existed.
"Are you bored?" Justin asks him, living voice strange in the abandoned room. He taps a paintbrush against a glass jar filled to the brim with water, fingers covered with stripes and splatters of so many bold colors that Brian wonders if they'll seep into his skin and become part of him.
"Not bored," he responds with a shrug, tilting his face back towards the mystery of the rain-riveted windowpanes, "Rather be here than home."
Justin nods, his posture quiet and elegant as he drags a paintbrush over the rough canvas, the bristles full of slippery paint.
"I like to be here... when school is over, and the teachers have all gone home to get drunk or grade papers. It kind of inspires me. Mrs. Ketchman is really cool for trusting me to be in here after-hours."
Brian makes a small masculine sound in his chest to acknowledge his boyfriend's words. His fingers run absently up and down the grain of wood on the surface of the desk he sits on, legs dangling and heels beating against the metal legs in time with the rainfall, tempered and soothing. The air smells like paint and public school paste and floor cleaner from the janitor down the hall, and it laces a haze of sleepiness around Brian.
He might have drifted off, because minutes or hours later, Justin is satisfied, and rouses Brian from which ever faraway horizon of thought he was entertaining in twisted technicolor or subtle shadow.
Justin steps back from the angled easel, and crosses his arms over his chest, tight blue shirt stretching over his back. Brian thinks it matches the clouds over the world today, all taut and just plain right.
"Come look at it," Justin turns and looks at him, voice and eyes a matching grey.
His sneakers squeak against the olive green tiles as Brian comes to stand behind Justin, staring at the shimmering canvas of moist color in surging strokes. Confident and distinct, like Justin.
"It's an old woman."
"Smiling," Justin adds. His face is glowing with sweat and tiny drops of paint that have dried on his cheekbone. Like rain.
"At... are those flowers?"
"Old women always smile at flowers," simple statement, and Justin says it like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever uttered, "I think, they like, appreciate things like that. The little things. We sure as hell don't. Like they always smile at color and children."
Brian shoves his hands in his jean pockets, and shrugs his shoulders forward so the redorangebrown of his plaid shirt falls over them, "I thought old ladies yelled at kids to get off their lawns?"
Justin flashes a silent look that tells Brian that his humor was not invited to this moment of weather-wrought reflection of his work. Brian apologizes by sighing and stepping closer, honest and giving.
"It's-"
"Thank you," Justin replies, knowing that Brian's words could never, ever be said, but knowing exactly what they mean. Trustworthy silence and familiar rain-torn leaves that feel like home.
A threatening gust rattles the classroom windows, and all the damp trees, bark shiny and black, bow with the force of it. Brian wraps his arms around Justin from behind, one hand sliding into his front pocket and the other around his chest; over warm fabric and sensitive skin. His cold nose nestles against the sweet-smelling heat of the hair behind Justin's ear.
"Brian," Justin smile-whispers, voice hitching with arousal. Painting always makes his body thrum, feel alive. He gets nearly giddy sometimes, just laughing or fucking or breathing with so much intent and passion. But right now, Brian is...
"Not tryin' to- I mean, I just want to-" Hold you. Be like this. Feel that thrum in your small body in the faded threadbare light of this evening.
Justin leans all his weight against Brian's chest, savoring the hands that cup his groin, and smooth across his throat. The careful, inspired breaths of Brian in his hair.
"When it doesn't rain, I miss it," Justin muses lazily, words spinning a web around them like windowpanes against a downpour. His fingers reach up and curl under Brian's soft flannel collar.
"The sounds?" Brian opens his mouth against Justin's earlobe, pink and delicate.
"And the smells. It almost smells like paint," he sighs with his eyes closed, lets out a whispy chuckle, "I might be the only person in the world who likes the smell of paint."
The trustworthy silence always leads to confessions that feel like flickering gold flames in the rainy fall darkness. Brian faintly smiles and admits softly,
"Nah. I like it too... reminds me of you. "
Old ladies aren't the only ones who can appreciate small things.
Dry!Series :: Blue
They move together, fast and desperate, having thirsted for this moment all day long through droll classes and annoying responsibilities. Brian pushes into him hard, straining with his entire body, sweat glistening across his skin like stars. Moist breaths mingling and the constant motion, the world tilting and spinning in a great expanse of pleasure and craving for each other's hard bodies.
The house is empty, but loud. Full of all the sounds that Justin never notices when his family is there, and only make him jump when he is alone. Not alone now though, completely full, Brian ramming into a spot deep inside that makes him writhe and wonder about his sanity. In his peripheral vision, the blue of his walls merges with the old stencils of sailboats around the border and Justin thinks that it seems wildly perverse, yet strangely appropriate, to be having sex in his childhood bedroom.
A sharp breath, a groan. Damp skin sliding together in a undulating tangle, striving for the release. Heated whispers in each other's ears about raw, unbridled lust.
"Fuck," Brian's halted, gasping voice.
Justin arches up against him and swallows that voice in his mouth, feeling it resonate in deep velvet masculinity in his gut. Clenches himself hard, as if he could hold Brian inside him for eternity.
"Justin," Brian rasps between their mouths, "Fuck, Ju-"
He cuts off as he comes, flood of warmth in Justin's body and pulsing perfection that allows him to tip into an equal free-fall.
The orgasm is blue like the walls with a flare of achingly red adoration, devestatingly undone.
Brian collapses next to him after the waves ebb, smelling like humanity and feeling so alive that everything else pales around them; warm, sated lovers.
Rolling to gaze at him, Justin nudges his head into the pillow like a purring kitten, tucking it against his boyfriend's damp shoulder.
"Good?" he asks, lips brushing Brian's skin.
"Fucking brilliant," Brian responds in a sigh, his hand sliding up Justin's long smooth back to tangle his fingers in his shaggy golden hair, "Where are your parents?"
"Soccer with Molly. They think we're studying at the library," Justin snorts softly, rolling again, "You'd think they'd know better by now."
"Yeah, well. Your mom's in denial and your dad's just an asshole."
"At least..." Justin trails off, not continuing, and just stares at the ceiling.
Brian's body shifts and he slips out of the bed to open the windows and grab his pack of cigarettes. Justin watches him with shadowed artist's eyes. The twilight light bending over the angles and curves in his back. The way he has transformed from boy to man right there, in the indigo tones that fill the room. Quiet and subtle and wise.
Justin never thought it would be possible to be so in love.
The lighter clicks and snaps, and Brian carefully crawls back onto the bed, flopping down on his back with his head on Justin's boyish chest.
"You look so hot when you smoke," Justin's voice is breathy and soft like the smoke plume that Brian blows into the air. It gets caught in the crisp breeze coming through the window, and whisked away.
"You look so hot when you're laying there all sweaty after I've pounded you into the mattress," Brian grins wickedly and Justin writhes in coy delight.
"Fuck, I look hot all the time," he shoots back, tugging playfully on Brian's dark hair.
They tussle mischievously for a minute around the cigarette, snagging it from each other and taking laughing drags. Empty hands grope over already-discovered, but always-desired places and it isn't long before the cigarette is extinguished in a dirty plate next to the bed, and their lips are sealed together, tongues mimicking their body's motions.
The sky is deep azure outside the windows, and the room is swathed in the kind of dark that makes everything muffled and erotic. The air smells like dinner baking in someone else's house and both boys laugh when they hear their stomachs growl in response.
Food can wait though. Studying at the library can wait. The entire universe can fucking wait.
Right now all that matters is their naked bodies pressed together, desire and contentedness. Grown boys making love to each other in the navy blue twilight of a childhood bedroom.
Dry!Series :: Edible
Thanksgiving.
Brian wants to know what the fuck the fore-father's were thinking when they decided to make it a holiday. Because there's really nothing to be thankful for here in the Jack Kinney household. No cornucopia's full of plump, ripe fruits or steaming turkeys or laughter.
There are old, cracked baskets with bruised apples, and a turkey that was left in the oven too long, and the laughter is tight, sour, and criticizing.
All those relatives, all old and bitter, sitting on Joanie's furniture like it's their own, and smoking so much that the fake wood panel walls are getting a hazy film on them. Brian slinks away from them, hides in the shadows at the bottom of the staircase, or stands next to the grandfather clock, hoping that his long lanky body blends in.
But it doesn't. Aunt Marge wants to examine how his jeans are too big around the waist, and too baggy at the bottom, and Cousin Lisa wants him to take her up to his room so she can fool around with his stuff, and Grandpap just keeps slapping him on the back or rustling hair and asking him in a unnerving voice of innuendo about his girlfriend.
Grandfather's should not remember anything that has to do with sex.
But the more he asks, the more Jack glares, until Brian finally does flee to the back porch and lays there on the concrete slab, staring up into the forever blue.
"Claire told me you came out here," a grating, female voice comes from the doorway.
Brian closes his eyes and turns his head into the gritty concrete, hoping she goes away.
The door closes, tiny glass window in it rattling, and Brian hears his cousin sit down next to him. Fucking relatives, with their false sense of familiarity and they're goddamn need to invade, like there's actual intimacy there. Pretend like they actually know who the fuck you are, when they don't.
"Why'd you come out here?" she asks, nudging the back of his head with her gloved little hand.
"To get the fuck away from you," Brian mimics her voice as he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it quickly.
"Smoking's gross, Bri," she tosses her head of nappy blonde hair, and gives him another petty, feminine slap on his arm, "You're too young to do it, anyway."
"Hit me again, and I'll shove my cigarette in your eye, Peggy," grumbling and short, like the time it took him to light the cigarette.
Peggy giggles, "You're crazy."
"I'm also out of here."
He stands up and pulls his jacket closer around his torso, like a shield and shelter, ready to run. Under the rusty swingset, through the hedge, down the alley, across several rows of lawns and a busy street or two, around the park to the nicer neighborhood, and then... home.
"You can't leave on Thanksgiving, Bri. Besides, Claire told me to come out here to make sure you didn't go to Dustin's house. 'Cause she knew you'd want to leave, and that'd make your mom and dad really mad."
Brian turns and stares at her, eyes flaring with crackling anger, "It's Justin. And I'm not going there. I'm just going.... the fuck away."
It is a lie, of course, and as soon as he makes it through the hedge, ignoring Peggy's pouting shouts and the slam of the back door, he takes off in a jog towards Justin's house. The cold air makes his cheeks numb and red, and the combination of it and smoke in his lungs tastes intoxicatingly refreshing. The ground meeting his shoes, faster, faster, faster until Brian wants to just laugh with the feeling of it. Laugh the way nobody in his family can or does.
By the time he gets to Justin's his body is sore, and there is searing pain in his chest and throat, but it makes Brian feels free and alive. There are cars parked in front of Justin's house, BMW's and nice new Volvo's, and the windows are bright with those little electric candles.
He peeks in one of them, sidling against the brick and searching for that golden head worthy of a halo of splattered paint and come. And as nasty as that is, Brian thinks it would become him. Make him glow.
He hears Justin laugh before he sees him, the right kind of laughter, that should be in a family gathering. Justin's leathery little grandmother pinches his cheek before smoothing a shaking hand down his silky blond hair, and Justin beams at her, full of love. Brian knows, because that's the look he is on the receiving end of so often.
Then blue eyes fringed with light catch his shadow in the window, and Brian watches as Justin carefully excuses himself, and slips out the front door.
"Brian!" he calls in a shiver, the pale blue fuzz of his delicate cashmere sweater catching the brisk Thanksgiving twilight.
"Hey," Brian responds, voice low and rough. He ducks his head and walks towards Justin, freezing grass crunching under his shoes.
"What are you doing here? I thought you had family over?" his eyes look concerned, and his tone matches them.
Brian shrugs, simple but informative, and Justin nods and steps off the porch to him.
"Family not as great as planned, huh?"
"I never plan on them being anything more than irritating," Brian's hands instantly grip Justin's small hips and bring him against his body, suddenly feeling the spirit of thanks when Justin's body sags and his arms wrap around him.
"Well, we're almost done. We just have to draw names for the gift exchange for Christmas. Big family, you know? But you can come in, I'm sure mom won't mind," Justin's words are muffled in Brian's jacket and Brian loves it. Holds him tighter. Combs one hand in his hair, and the other grips the sweater at the small of his back.
"Your dad might."
"So? Fuck him," Justin said, pulling away to stare up at Brian's shadowed face. Brian let his eyes drift over his freezing porcelain cheeks before he closes them. Shield and shelter.
"It's..."
"I know. It's fine though, really."
"I'm not as fucking strong as you sometimes, Justin. I'm just... here. Nothing, sometimes, you know?"
It's an admission made of porcelain itself, ready to shatter and break into a million pieces on the frosted grass. Justin's cold hands clasp Brian's face, and his thumbs smooth over Brian's closed lashes before lips settle, chapped and warm, on lids. Brief, open-mouth kisses, like glimmering electric candles in the windows, comforting and familiar.
"Oh, Brian."
His whisper is enough, and Brian opens his eyes to look at him, feeling Justin's fingers clasp the hair that falls over the shell of Brian's ears.
"You really need to stop telling yourself that shit," Justin continues, serious and vibrant, "Just 'cause your dad thinks it and says it, doesn't mean you have to believe it."
"Fuck that, Justin, I don't give a shit about anything my fucking father says."
Justin puts a finger over Brian's lips, "Okay."
He has a faint, masculine smile of encouragement, and Brian kisses it quickly before stepping back away from Justin, hand already missing the downy fuzz of his sweater.
"Please come in," he doesn't beg, but Justin has perfected the art of asking with just the right amount of pouting lip, sparkling eyes, and the teasing, excited flush of cheeks; Brian finds himself nodding and being led by firm, dry fingers into the house.
Jennifer greets him with an affectionate hand on his shoulder, and an offer to get him some pumpkin pie, while Justin's grandmother keeps repeating what a beautiful couple Justin and Brian make. Some of the younger cousins stare at them in awe and curiousity, and Brian thinks its wonderful. Even when Craig walks in the room, except for a brief frown, he accepts Brian's presence with a nod, then can't help but grin at how excited his old mother seems to be about the situation.
Everything is warm and gold, and Justin's hand is always on his leg, or curled around the hem of his long-sleeved tee, like a promise and an affirmation of love. Brian eats slow bites of pumpkin pie while he watches Justin interact with his family, all smiles, laughs, and careful teasing that results in a living room filled to the brim with joy.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Justin whispers in his ear, fingers playing in Brian's belt loop.
"You look hot, being such a good family boy," Brian whispers back, staring into Justin's eyes and breath warm against his face.
The blue of Justin's eyes darkens as his pupils dilate, and Brian knows what that look means.
"We're sneaking to my bedroom in thirty seconds. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, and I'll clear your plate to the kitchen and then meet you up there, okay?"
He rattles off the instructions in a low, sexy voice like it's a top-secret mission: impossible, and Brian feels himself harden in his American Eagle khaki's.
"Got it. I'll get the fuck out of here," Brian answers, putting his plate down. He stands and politely excuses himself, shooting off a smirk and a joke that makes the family laugh and forget his departure as the conversation rotates another direction.
The sounds of the gathering fade away between floors and carpets and walls, and Brian can't help but feel warm and content as he flops down onto the navy blue bed and tucks his head under the pillow. The soft, faded fabric smells like Justin's hair, and his sweat, and his come, and his spit, and everything that makes Justin a living, breathing, beautiful man.
He barely has time to notice and realize before the door creaks open, shuts solidly, and previously mentioned man has climbed up onto his back, shoving his head under the pillow to meet Brian's.
"My family-" nuzzle and kiss, in the hot muffled dark of pillow case and mattress, "loves you-" tongue skims along Brian's bottom lip, "and my grandmother-" full kiss, slightly moaning into it, "asked what-" lips brushing chin, jaw, "college you went to-" open-mouth on Brian's cheekbone, " because she thinks you're so handsome-" he sucks on Brian's earlobe, "and then she asked-" breaths against his eyebrow, "if we were going to get married. Christ, you should have seen the look on Mom's face. It was priceless. Then Uncle Bob and Aunt Terri started laughing and making fun of me in a white tux, and Grams told them that we'd be dashing, and Mom talked about how happy you seem to make me, oh fuck, Brian, it was so great."
Brian keeps his eyes closed during Justin's enthusiastic attention and delightful babbling, enjoying the feel of him straddling Brian's back, and squirming insistently. He feels just so... happy. The smell of Justin, the feel of Justin, the warmth of Justin. It's overwhelming, blooming, fucking drowning Brian.
Drowning.
"Bet you don't feel like nothing now," Justin teases, his hands sliding up under Brian's shirt, and trailing along his boyish ribs.
"You always make me feel like something," Brian says, his voice as dark and as hot as the feel of their faces pressed together under the pillow.
"Because you are. You're never just here, Brian Kinney. You're fucking everything."
Brian pushes the pillow off of their heads, and it falls to the floor, forgotten. Justin blinks against the sudden light, nose scrunched and hair disheveled. In one motion, Brian has them turned and reversed, so that he's hovering over Justin, and Justin's legs are wrapped around his waist.
"I know," Brian says, acknowledging how much his boyfriend loves him, and not trying to be egotistical at all. But Justin grins and playfully nudges him anyway, knowing that too much emotion, and too many poetic, silken words will just create more of a problem than what is already spanning between them. More of a problem than Brian's self-deprecating narcissism.
"Look what I brought up," Justin wriggles underneath him, their semi-hard dicks rubbing together through their pants, as he tries to reach for something.
"Your cock?" Brian asks, eyebrow raising as he slowly pushes his hand down into Justin's pants.
Justin bites back a moan, head tilting back just a bit, exposing his throat, and Brian dives in to taste it.
"B-Brian, stop a sec-a second. Fuck!" he says in surprise when Brian bites the protruding tendon in his neck as his head is turned, "You fucking bit me!!"
"You just taste so sweet, Sunshine," Brian says wickedly, his hand moving in deep strokes over Justin's stiff penis.
"I'm trying to tell you that I brought something else sweet up, asshole."
Justin's voice is halting, gasping, but he still manages to present a bowl of light and airy something-or-other with pineapple bits in it, and holds it in front of Brian's face.
"Looks like whipped cum," Brian's voice is muffled against Justin's hair.
"It's whipped pineapple pudding."
"Why would I want to eat that when I can eat you?" Brian asks honestly, hand pointedly moving from cock, to balls, to the puckered opening of Justin's ass.
Blue eyes glaze over, and hazel ones sharpen with intent.
"Eat it off me."
Eyebrow arches over sharp eyes.
"You want me to peel off your clothes and smear this pudding all over your hot little body and lick it all. off.?" Brian whispers huskily, defying the familial warmth that the house had filled him with. Now it was all about sex. It was all about sex with Justin.
"God, yes."
"Want me to fuck you?"
"You know I do."
"How hard?"
Justin's eyes open and become clear and he wraps his arms around Brian's neck and pulls him down so their lips are touching, but not pressed together. Warm, again.
"Not hard. Just want you in me."
Brian thinks that those are probably the sexiest words he's ever heard, quiet and true with their lips brushing together, but would never admit it to anyone. Never admit that someone telling him NOT to fuck them hard was sexier than if they begged him to.
Clothes are removed with a careful, silent sort of grace, that is ancient and gold like the candles in the windows. Justin turns off the lamp so that those candles can cast their glow over skin that seems to shimmer in it.
The whipped pineapple pudding is not forgotten, their fingers feeding it to each other, or just sharing it between open mouths and full kisses. Once Brian puts some of it in his palm and wraps it around Justin's dick, just so he can eat it off in eager licks that drive Justin wild.
They fuck, sticky and so sweet that Brian is sure that even their sweat will taste like sugar. Justin arches and grinds against him, rolling them over at one point so that he can ride Brian like there is no tomorrow. But it's still tender, and it's still perfect, and even though it seems so naughty to be fucking while the extended family is laughing and talking and drinking coffee in the living room right underneath them, Brian just feels like he's finally at home.