Gapfillerpaloooooooza!
Sorry for the delay this week, folks. I couldn't get out of bed today! This one is called "Animal Instinct" and it's for Ep.105 -- When Jennifer shows up at Woody's looking for him, Justin turns to Brian...
Animal Instinct
by Severina
Running is probably not the best plan I’ve ever had. In fact, running isn’t even a plan. Running is what you do when you don’t have a plan. But there isn’t a guidebook for this situation, no studying I could do beforehand to help me decide the best possible choice to make, should my mother -- my fucking mother -- come looking for me at a gay bar.
So, I run.
I run steadily, desperate only to put Woody’s behind me as quickly as possible. I run without destination, my feet slapping on the pavement. I keep glancing back over my shoulder, expecting mom’s headlights to pick me out at any moment, like one of those gangsters in an old black-and-white movie. I dodge through back alleys, get a little lost, narrowly avoid careening into the middle of some kind of drug deal, and I finally skid to a halt in the overhang of a salon.
I hunch over then, trying to catch my breath, and consider my options.
Daphne’s place is obviously out. I don’t have any other friends that I can rely on. And I don’t have enough money on me for a motel. Even a cheap roach-motel is above my means.
Fuck! All I wanted was a night out, a little fun, maybe a chance to see Brian again. Now the whole thing is ruined.
I definitely can’t go home. No way. Mom is waaaay out of control. What the fuck was she thinking? Did she expect to take me by the hand and lead me home? She’s trying to understand me, Brian had said. Fuck that. She’s trying to control me. Despite that dumbass therapy session, she still thinks I’m just a stupid kid who doesn’t know what he wants. Well, I know what I want just fine.
There is really only one option.
Brian.
I step out onto the street and double back toward Fuller and Tremont.
* * *
I really didn’t expect Brian to have company, which in retrospect was pretty fucking stupid.
Now I press my back against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible, while Brian unceremoniously escorts his trick of the night out the door. Honestly, I’d almost forgotten the guy was there until he got in my face. Then Brian got in his face. And now the door is sliding shut with finality and Brian shoots a glare in my direction and I try not to fidget as he stalks toward the bedroom.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice comes out sounding weak and scared. Not at all how it sounded in my head.
“Look, I told you,” Brian says, speaking slowly. Speaking to me like I’m one of the kids in Mrs. Frankowski’s art class, the ones who have to be reminded not to eat their crayons. “I’m not your lover; I’m not your partner. I’m not even your friend. You’re not anything to me.”
I push carefully away from the wall, watching Brian’s face as I approach him. It occurs to me briefly that this is like one of those documentaries that Dad always watches on the Discovery channel. The newcomer challenging the dominant male on his home turf. Wanting to share just a piece of it, and having to tread warily to avoid being kicked out on his ass.
“I could be,” I try hesitantly. “If you gave me a chance.”
“Where did you learn to talk like that, watching some teen drama?”
He turns away, and all I can think is that this isn’t going the way I wanted at all. That this whole fucking night is going to shit.
“I need you!” I call out, and it sounds, yeah, needy, and pathetic, and if I could take back the words I would. Brian whirls toward me, stalking forward, and he looks just as put out as I thought he would.
“You think you do,” he tells me, “because that’s what you’re taught to think. We all neeeed each other. Well, it’s a crock of shit. You’re the only one you need. You’re the only one you’ve got.”
But he cradles my head in his hand, and his palm is warm against my cheek. His thumb brushes gently against my skin, and his eyes go soft and dark. And I think -- I know -- that he doesn’t believe it. He wants me. He needs me. If he didn’t, I’d be on the pavement and he’d be balls deep in that guy he picked up. Secure in the knowledge, I take a step forward... and break the spell. Brian shakes his head a little, reaching behind him to grab a throw off the sofa.
“The couch,” he tells me, shoving the blanket into my arms. “Just for tonight. And don’t jerk off on it.”
One incident with the duvet and he’s never going to let it go.
I slump against the back of the sofa as Brian pads lightly through the bedroom, dragging his sweater over his head as he walks. He tosses it on the bed before detouring to the bathroom, and I watch the play of muscles in his back as he moves, and remember the way they feel, flexing against my palms when his back is shiny with sweat. I bite my lip and finger the fringe on the blanket, a feather light touch on my skin, and remember how Brian’s lips felt on my thighs that first night, just a whisper of sensation.
I brush the downy fabric of the throw against my cheek and remember the silken warmth of Brian’s skin when he reached for me in his sleep.
I close my eyes, and I remember the way he looks at me.
He needs me. He just doesn’t fully understand that yet. I think maybe it freaks him out.
So I have to show him.
Because I realize now... I’m playing this all wrong. I can’t go tiptoeing around Brian Kinney, asking him for permission to play in his sandbox. Moving cautiously doesn’t work with Brian. Caution gets you pegged as a loser and a sucker, not worthy of his energy. No, I have to go straight in, balls to the wall, no holds barred, grab hold of what I want and refuse to take no for an answer. Demand my space. Just like I did last week at Babylon with those two guys.
Decision made, I stand up and let the blanket slip from my fingers. I unzip the hoodie and slide out of it, making a mental note to find out who it belongs to so I can return it. I can probably put up a notice on the bulletin board at Woody’s or something. All I remember is grabbing something to cover up with as I ran out the back door, anxious to evade my mom. I find myself grinning. It’s only taken me three weeks to go from Justin Taylor, video game fan and art club member, to Justin Taylor, proud proponent of cock sucking and petty thief.
I hear the shower turn on, and my grin widens. Perfect.
I skim out of my jeans, then pause with my fingers on the waistband of my underwear. Balls to the wall, no holds barred, right? Right. The underwear comes off.
Treading lightly, I pass through the bedroom and pause at the bathroom door. Steam fills the shower enclosure, the outline of Brian’s perfect body hazy in the heat. I find myself faltering, so I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. Then another. When my heart stops pounding like a tiki drum, I cross the remaining space and slide open the shower door.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at Brian’s completely astounded look.
“I ran all the way here,” I tell him, keeping my voice completely blasé. “I reek. I need a shower.” And with that, I push my way past him and slip under the spray, swivelling my neck as the water pounds down on my head.
I close my eyes, partially against the spray and partially because I don’t really want to know what Brian is doing. I mean, if he’s getting ready to strangle me with the shower attachment, I’d rather not get any advance warning. After a moment I feel him sidle closer to me, his chest sliding against my back.
“You’re a cocky little fucker,” he says, his breath warm against my neck.
I just smile at that. I am a cocky little fucker. Good thing I remembered.
His hand finds the soap and starts sweeping it across my chest in broad swathes. “You made me toss out a very hot trick,” he says against my ear.
I smile wider and let my head loll back onto his chest. “Not as hot as me,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
“Oh yeah?” He shifts against me, his hard cock dragging slowly, so slowly, across the crack of my ass, and I let out a hiss of pleasure.
“Y-yeah,” I manage to gasp out, my head dropping forward, and now his hand is circling lower, dragging the soap across my navel, his long fingers just brushing against my pubes. My dick strains against my stomach, desperate for some attention, and I want to touch myself so badly, but I curl my fingers into my palms, focusing on the pressure of the blunt nails digging into my skin, and the curve of Brian’s lips against the back of my neck.
Then suddenly he’s gone, cool air invading the space where his body was pressed just seconds ago. I look quickly over my shoulder to find him smirking.
“Prove it,” he says.
I spin around, reaching for him, just want to touch him again, and he pulls away, still smirking. I take a step forward, arm outstretched, and he knocks my hand away. What the fuck?
I meet his challenging gaze through the thickening steam. And I smile.
His body tenses when I lift my arm, but I don’t go near him. I drag my hand across my own chest, fingers trailing lightly across my skin. I circle my nipples with my fingers, first one, then the other, rubbing them briskly, feeling them harden with my touch. Feels so good. I lick my lips, breathing a little erratic now, as my other hand drops to my dick. I fist myself slowly, trying to make this last, the hot water sliding across my skin, long steady strokes, my head falling back, watching Brian from beneath my lashes, spread my legs a little more, yeah, so good...
And then Brian is on me, his mouth greedy and insistent on mine. Then his hand twisting in my hair, pulling my head back for access to my neck. He bats my hand away from my dick, replacing it with his own, long strong fingers stroking forcefully, and I tug on his ear, twist his head back to mine, moan into his mouth as we kiss under the hot spray. His free hand grips my ass, lifting me up onto my toes, and I break away from his lips, gasping for air, feel the pressure building, building... and then Brian drops to his knees, taking me deep into his mouth, and when I come it’s only his strong hands gripping my hips that keep me upright.
I’m still shuddering through the aftershocks when Brian drags himself up my body and kisses me. I can taste myself on his tongue, and my cock twitches against his in response. He grins, and I grin back.
“Well?” I ask, when I can finally talk again.
“You’ll do,” he says, spinning me to the wall, and I press my hands flat against the frosted glass, smiling when I hear the rip of the condom packet.
It’s turning out to be a pretty good night after all.
***
Last week, burnitbackwards asked, How many more before we get an actual orgasm?". Apparently the correct answer was "one". Hope this satisfies, bibw. ;)
Many thanks to twistinside82 for giving this one a once-over before I posted. And now, run run run to her LJ or website for her weekly installment, which I squeal over like a eager piglet. Or something else that squeals.
Oh, and mine is also posted at my website, here.
Animal Instinct
by Severina
Running is probably not the best plan I’ve ever had. In fact, running isn’t even a plan. Running is what you do when you don’t have a plan. But there isn’t a guidebook for this situation, no studying I could do beforehand to help me decide the best possible choice to make, should my mother -- my fucking mother -- come looking for me at a gay bar.
So, I run.
I run steadily, desperate only to put Woody’s behind me as quickly as possible. I run without destination, my feet slapping on the pavement. I keep glancing back over my shoulder, expecting mom’s headlights to pick me out at any moment, like one of those gangsters in an old black-and-white movie. I dodge through back alleys, get a little lost, narrowly avoid careening into the middle of some kind of drug deal, and I finally skid to a halt in the overhang of a salon.
I hunch over then, trying to catch my breath, and consider my options.
Daphne’s place is obviously out. I don’t have any other friends that I can rely on. And I don’t have enough money on me for a motel. Even a cheap roach-motel is above my means.
Fuck! All I wanted was a night out, a little fun, maybe a chance to see Brian again. Now the whole thing is ruined.
I definitely can’t go home. No way. Mom is waaaay out of control. What the fuck was she thinking? Did she expect to take me by the hand and lead me home? She’s trying to understand me, Brian had said. Fuck that. She’s trying to control me. Despite that dumbass therapy session, she still thinks I’m just a stupid kid who doesn’t know what he wants. Well, I know what I want just fine.
There is really only one option.
Brian.
I step out onto the street and double back toward Fuller and Tremont.
* * *
I really didn’t expect Brian to have company, which in retrospect was pretty fucking stupid.
Now I press my back against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible, while Brian unceremoniously escorts his trick of the night out the door. Honestly, I’d almost forgotten the guy was there until he got in my face. Then Brian got in his face. And now the door is sliding shut with finality and Brian shoots a glare in my direction and I try not to fidget as he stalks toward the bedroom.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice comes out sounding weak and scared. Not at all how it sounded in my head.
“Look, I told you,” Brian says, speaking slowly. Speaking to me like I’m one of the kids in Mrs. Frankowski’s art class, the ones who have to be reminded not to eat their crayons. “I’m not your lover; I’m not your partner. I’m not even your friend. You’re not anything to me.”
I push carefully away from the wall, watching Brian’s face as I approach him. It occurs to me briefly that this is like one of those documentaries that Dad always watches on the Discovery channel. The newcomer challenging the dominant male on his home turf. Wanting to share just a piece of it, and having to tread warily to avoid being kicked out on his ass.
“I could be,” I try hesitantly. “If you gave me a chance.”
“Where did you learn to talk like that, watching some teen drama?”
He turns away, and all I can think is that this isn’t going the way I wanted at all. That this whole fucking night is going to shit.
“I need you!” I call out, and it sounds, yeah, needy, and pathetic, and if I could take back the words I would. Brian whirls toward me, stalking forward, and he looks just as put out as I thought he would.
“You think you do,” he tells me, “because that’s what you’re taught to think. We all neeeed each other. Well, it’s a crock of shit. You’re the only one you need. You’re the only one you’ve got.”
But he cradles my head in his hand, and his palm is warm against my cheek. His thumb brushes gently against my skin, and his eyes go soft and dark. And I think -- I know -- that he doesn’t believe it. He wants me. He needs me. If he didn’t, I’d be on the pavement and he’d be balls deep in that guy he picked up. Secure in the knowledge, I take a step forward... and break the spell. Brian shakes his head a little, reaching behind him to grab a throw off the sofa.
“The couch,” he tells me, shoving the blanket into my arms. “Just for tonight. And don’t jerk off on it.”
One incident with the duvet and he’s never going to let it go.
I slump against the back of the sofa as Brian pads lightly through the bedroom, dragging his sweater over his head as he walks. He tosses it on the bed before detouring to the bathroom, and I watch the play of muscles in his back as he moves, and remember the way they feel, flexing against my palms when his back is shiny with sweat. I bite my lip and finger the fringe on the blanket, a feather light touch on my skin, and remember how Brian’s lips felt on my thighs that first night, just a whisper of sensation.
I brush the downy fabric of the throw against my cheek and remember the silken warmth of Brian’s skin when he reached for me in his sleep.
I close my eyes, and I remember the way he looks at me.
He needs me. He just doesn’t fully understand that yet. I think maybe it freaks him out.
So I have to show him.
Because I realize now... I’m playing this all wrong. I can’t go tiptoeing around Brian Kinney, asking him for permission to play in his sandbox. Moving cautiously doesn’t work with Brian. Caution gets you pegged as a loser and a sucker, not worthy of his energy. No, I have to go straight in, balls to the wall, no holds barred, grab hold of what I want and refuse to take no for an answer. Demand my space. Just like I did last week at Babylon with those two guys.
Decision made, I stand up and let the blanket slip from my fingers. I unzip the hoodie and slide out of it, making a mental note to find out who it belongs to so I can return it. I can probably put up a notice on the bulletin board at Woody’s or something. All I remember is grabbing something to cover up with as I ran out the back door, anxious to evade my mom. I find myself grinning. It’s only taken me three weeks to go from Justin Taylor, video game fan and art club member, to Justin Taylor, proud proponent of cock sucking and petty thief.
I hear the shower turn on, and my grin widens. Perfect.
I skim out of my jeans, then pause with my fingers on the waistband of my underwear. Balls to the wall, no holds barred, right? Right. The underwear comes off.
Treading lightly, I pass through the bedroom and pause at the bathroom door. Steam fills the shower enclosure, the outline of Brian’s perfect body hazy in the heat. I find myself faltering, so I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. Then another. When my heart stops pounding like a tiki drum, I cross the remaining space and slide open the shower door.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at Brian’s completely astounded look.
“I ran all the way here,” I tell him, keeping my voice completely blasé. “I reek. I need a shower.” And with that, I push my way past him and slip under the spray, swivelling my neck as the water pounds down on my head.
I close my eyes, partially against the spray and partially because I don’t really want to know what Brian is doing. I mean, if he’s getting ready to strangle me with the shower attachment, I’d rather not get any advance warning. After a moment I feel him sidle closer to me, his chest sliding against my back.
“You’re a cocky little fucker,” he says, his breath warm against my neck.
I just smile at that. I am a cocky little fucker. Good thing I remembered.
His hand finds the soap and starts sweeping it across my chest in broad swathes. “You made me toss out a very hot trick,” he says against my ear.
I smile wider and let my head loll back onto his chest. “Not as hot as me,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
“Oh yeah?” He shifts against me, his hard cock dragging slowly, so slowly, across the crack of my ass, and I let out a hiss of pleasure.
“Y-yeah,” I manage to gasp out, my head dropping forward, and now his hand is circling lower, dragging the soap across my navel, his long fingers just brushing against my pubes. My dick strains against my stomach, desperate for some attention, and I want to touch myself so badly, but I curl my fingers into my palms, focusing on the pressure of the blunt nails digging into my skin, and the curve of Brian’s lips against the back of my neck.
Then suddenly he’s gone, cool air invading the space where his body was pressed just seconds ago. I look quickly over my shoulder to find him smirking.
“Prove it,” he says.
I spin around, reaching for him, just want to touch him again, and he pulls away, still smirking. I take a step forward, arm outstretched, and he knocks my hand away. What the fuck?
I meet his challenging gaze through the thickening steam. And I smile.
His body tenses when I lift my arm, but I don’t go near him. I drag my hand across my own chest, fingers trailing lightly across my skin. I circle my nipples with my fingers, first one, then the other, rubbing them briskly, feeling them harden with my touch. Feels so good. I lick my lips, breathing a little erratic now, as my other hand drops to my dick. I fist myself slowly, trying to make this last, the hot water sliding across my skin, long steady strokes, my head falling back, watching Brian from beneath my lashes, spread my legs a little more, yeah, so good...
And then Brian is on me, his mouth greedy and insistent on mine. Then his hand twisting in my hair, pulling my head back for access to my neck. He bats my hand away from my dick, replacing it with his own, long strong fingers stroking forcefully, and I tug on his ear, twist his head back to mine, moan into his mouth as we kiss under the hot spray. His free hand grips my ass, lifting me up onto my toes, and I break away from his lips, gasping for air, feel the pressure building, building... and then Brian drops to his knees, taking me deep into his mouth, and when I come it’s only his strong hands gripping my hips that keep me upright.
I’m still shuddering through the aftershocks when Brian drags himself up my body and kisses me. I can taste myself on his tongue, and my cock twitches against his in response. He grins, and I grin back.
“Well?” I ask, when I can finally talk again.
“You’ll do,” he says, spinning me to the wall, and I press my hands flat against the frosted glass, smiling when I hear the rip of the condom packet.
It’s turning out to be a pretty good night after all.
***
Last week, burnitbackwards asked, How many more before we get an actual orgasm?". Apparently the correct answer was "one". Hope this satisfies, bibw. ;)
Many thanks to twistinside82 for giving this one a once-over before I posted. And now, run run run to her LJ or website for her weekly installment, which I squeal over like a eager piglet. Or something else that squeals.
Oh, and mine is also posted at my website, here.