apologies if this is crossposting for you...
Okay, so I've been forgetting to post the recent fics I've written, and that's a bad thing, cuz even if they go up at my personal journal, they're friendslocked and not everyone can see them. So, um, here, for what it's worth.
To Live Deliberately
(Dead Poets Society, Knox/Charlie)
Written for azrhiaz
-
Charlie ran the First National, and Knox had just won a big case for GM.
Every third Saturday, they would meet for drinks somewhere elegant and pretend that it wasn't. The other thing that they pretended was that Charlie didn't run the First National, and that Knox didn't win big cases for GM.
Charlie arrives first this Saturday, so, when Knox comes in the door, he stands and smoothes his tie to his chest while extending his hand. Knox shakes it. Firm grip, warm but not clammy, friendly but not unguarded. Charlie remembers dancing around a converted lamp-god with paint on his face, and he remembers the time that Knox put linguini up his nose and did a spot-on impression of their rather hairy history teacher.
Knox orders something with salmon and Charlie, for old times' sake, orders the clam linguini, though he has no intention of putting it in any orifice save his mouth.
"How's Chris?" Charlie asks, to be polite.
"Chris is fine. She got that promotion."
"And James?"
"Starting prep school next month."
"Goddamnit, Overstreet, we are getting old."
Knox nods. Charlie's son had started at Welton the year before.
They pass most of the meal in silence. Occasionally, one or the other will tell a Hellton story, a Mr. Keating story, a Neil Perry story. The stories are couched in "do you remember when" and "how about the day that" and "what was it that Meeks said that time?" but these phrases are mere formalities. Knox and Charlie get together every third Saturday, and tell the same stories, and nod at the same points and laugh at the same funny parts and look introspective whenever Neil is mentioned. They are ordered men, with ordered lives, and their third Saturdays conform to that pattern.
Every third Saturday, after lunch. Knox and Charlie would take separate cars to a hotel. Always a different hotel, always by different routes, and they always feigned surprise upon seeing each other in the lobby. Such discretion, too, was formality; their wives knew of their affairs and had their own.
The sex varied slightly, according to the mood of the day and of the participants. Charlie's knee bothered him during the rain, so concessions had to be made.
This particular third Saturday, at this particular hotel, Knox ran his hands down Charlie's slightly pudgy hips and kissed his belly and sucked his cock, his red lips stretching and sliding against warm flesh. Knox's hair hadn't gone grey, not yet at any rate, and his dark fringe falls into his closed eyes and he leaves fingerprints on Charlie's ass. Charlie almost involuntarily remembers the first time that Knox did this to him, after a particularly athletic pillow fight that had gotten out of control.
The door to the dorm room had been closed, but unlocked. Anyone could've walked in; anyone often did. Charlie remembers the gleam in Knox's eyes, the daring, as he lay propped up on his arms over Charlie. Knox's heavy post-fight breathing had slowed, then, and then suddenly his hands had been at Charlie's fly, burrowing into his pants. Before Charlie could speak or ask why or say yes or no Knox's mouth had been on him, sucking inexpertly. Charlie'd never had a blowjob before. He'd never had sex with anyone other than himself. He'd come, then, more from the idea, Knox is sucking my dick, than from the other man's slightly sputtering head job. After that, Charlie'd grabbed Knox and they'd made out a little; that, at least, Charlie knew how to do. Then Knox, still sporting massive wood, had claimed that he had trig homework, and had backed out the door with his books held in front of his pants.
Charlie still thinks of it as the best sex of his life.
This third Saturday blowjob, though not the best of his life, is certainly accomplished with love and expertise. And there's something about the sight of Knox's eyes looking up at him, his quirky lips wrapped around Charlie's cock, his neck muscles straining. There's something about that that makes Charlie remember that first time, when Knox hadn't even bothered to undo the top button on the fly, had just unzipped and dived in.
When Knox is done, he shoves Charlie down on the bed and is generous enough to bestow a rimjob. Charlie's always thought that the word 'rimjob' is funny, that it sounds like something you have done to your car every six months, and he giggles a little into the pillow as he thinks about it. Knox, though he doesn't know what his friend is laughing about, joins in with his own rumbly giggle before tonguing back into Charlie's ass.
Knox fucks him with quiet desperation that soon gets loud.
Charlie imagines the picture that they must make, two approaching-middle-age men sheened with sweat and fucking like animals, thousand dollar suits folded neatly on the chairs beside the bed. Charlie does a little shimmy and backwards thrust thing that makes Knox groan and bite down into Charlie's shoulder. On a third Saturday, Knox lets himself be surprised, and Charlie makes an effort to surprise him, thrusting backwards and breathing the obscene noises that he knows Knox wants to hear. It's a good thing that it's not raining, because being fucked like this is exactly what Charlie needed, being fucked like this is just the thing for what ails him on this third Saturday, so as Charlie drives himself onto Knox's cock he thanks God and the baby Jesus for the clear weather.
Knox fucks him, and is anything but efficient. Charlie can hear the slap of balls against his ass and digs his fingernails into the bedding, braces himself harder on his hands and knees and hangs his head between his arms and just revels in that ball slapping sound and the sound of his own ragged breathing and the sound of Knox almost screaming his name when he comes.
Afterwards, they make out for a while, because it's still something that they each know a little something about, and because it's fun and lazy and brings the taste of soft lips and scrape of rough stubble. Charlie's tongue still drives Knox a little crazy, and Charlie figures that after some room service they can pretend like it is raining, after all.
Charlie runs the First National, and Knox just won a big case for GM. But sometimes, even if it is only every third Saturday, they let their lives get a little messy. Third Saturdays bring pillow fights, or long poker games that go well into the night, or even real stories from Hellton, ones that don't fit the lunchtime script and have to be mumbled into a pillow in the dull twilight. One time, Knox yelled "O Captain, my Captain!" while Charlie was rimming him and they both laughed so hard and for so long that they had to start all over again from the beginning. But that was okay, because third Saturdays don't have much to do with linearity or time frames or schedules.
When third Saturdays end, as early as five in the afternoon or as late as five in the afternoon on third Sunday, Knox and Charlie put on their thousand dollar suits and go back to being themselves. But their ties are often crooked and their shirts almost unavoidably rumpled.
This third Saturday, at ten in the evening in the lobby of the Ritz, Knox grabs Charlie by the crooked tie and drags him towards his rumpled-shirt covered chest and kisses him. Charlie loves it, not so much because of Knox's quick in-and-out darting tongue, but because of the idea, Knox is kissing me in the lobby, that comes unbidden and as a sudden surprise.
When Knox steps back, his grin is positively impish. "See you next third Saturday," he says, and leaves the lobby. On his way, he nods at an old client who is sitting in a leather armchair nearby.
"Next third Saturday," Charlie murmurs, and goes home to bide his time.
To Live Deliberately
(Dead Poets Society, Knox/Charlie)
Written for azrhiaz
-
Charlie ran the First National, and Knox had just won a big case for GM.
Every third Saturday, they would meet for drinks somewhere elegant and pretend that it wasn't. The other thing that they pretended was that Charlie didn't run the First National, and that Knox didn't win big cases for GM.
Charlie arrives first this Saturday, so, when Knox comes in the door, he stands and smoothes his tie to his chest while extending his hand. Knox shakes it. Firm grip, warm but not clammy, friendly but not unguarded. Charlie remembers dancing around a converted lamp-god with paint on his face, and he remembers the time that Knox put linguini up his nose and did a spot-on impression of their rather hairy history teacher.
Knox orders something with salmon and Charlie, for old times' sake, orders the clam linguini, though he has no intention of putting it in any orifice save his mouth.
"How's Chris?" Charlie asks, to be polite.
"Chris is fine. She got that promotion."
"And James?"
"Starting prep school next month."
"Goddamnit, Overstreet, we are getting old."
Knox nods. Charlie's son had started at Welton the year before.
They pass most of the meal in silence. Occasionally, one or the other will tell a Hellton story, a Mr. Keating story, a Neil Perry story. The stories are couched in "do you remember when" and "how about the day that" and "what was it that Meeks said that time?" but these phrases are mere formalities. Knox and Charlie get together every third Saturday, and tell the same stories, and nod at the same points and laugh at the same funny parts and look introspective whenever Neil is mentioned. They are ordered men, with ordered lives, and their third Saturdays conform to that pattern.
Every third Saturday, after lunch. Knox and Charlie would take separate cars to a hotel. Always a different hotel, always by different routes, and they always feigned surprise upon seeing each other in the lobby. Such discretion, too, was formality; their wives knew of their affairs and had their own.
The sex varied slightly, according to the mood of the day and of the participants. Charlie's knee bothered him during the rain, so concessions had to be made.
This particular third Saturday, at this particular hotel, Knox ran his hands down Charlie's slightly pudgy hips and kissed his belly and sucked his cock, his red lips stretching and sliding against warm flesh. Knox's hair hadn't gone grey, not yet at any rate, and his dark fringe falls into his closed eyes and he leaves fingerprints on Charlie's ass. Charlie almost involuntarily remembers the first time that Knox did this to him, after a particularly athletic pillow fight that had gotten out of control.
The door to the dorm room had been closed, but unlocked. Anyone could've walked in; anyone often did. Charlie remembers the gleam in Knox's eyes, the daring, as he lay propped up on his arms over Charlie. Knox's heavy post-fight breathing had slowed, then, and then suddenly his hands had been at Charlie's fly, burrowing into his pants. Before Charlie could speak or ask why or say yes or no Knox's mouth had been on him, sucking inexpertly. Charlie'd never had a blowjob before. He'd never had sex with anyone other than himself. He'd come, then, more from the idea, Knox is sucking my dick, than from the other man's slightly sputtering head job. After that, Charlie'd grabbed Knox and they'd made out a little; that, at least, Charlie knew how to do. Then Knox, still sporting massive wood, had claimed that he had trig homework, and had backed out the door with his books held in front of his pants.
Charlie still thinks of it as the best sex of his life.
This third Saturday blowjob, though not the best of his life, is certainly accomplished with love and expertise. And there's something about the sight of Knox's eyes looking up at him, his quirky lips wrapped around Charlie's cock, his neck muscles straining. There's something about that that makes Charlie remember that first time, when Knox hadn't even bothered to undo the top button on the fly, had just unzipped and dived in.
When Knox is done, he shoves Charlie down on the bed and is generous enough to bestow a rimjob. Charlie's always thought that the word 'rimjob' is funny, that it sounds like something you have done to your car every six months, and he giggles a little into the pillow as he thinks about it. Knox, though he doesn't know what his friend is laughing about, joins in with his own rumbly giggle before tonguing back into Charlie's ass.
Knox fucks him with quiet desperation that soon gets loud.
Charlie imagines the picture that they must make, two approaching-middle-age men sheened with sweat and fucking like animals, thousand dollar suits folded neatly on the chairs beside the bed. Charlie does a little shimmy and backwards thrust thing that makes Knox groan and bite down into Charlie's shoulder. On a third Saturday, Knox lets himself be surprised, and Charlie makes an effort to surprise him, thrusting backwards and breathing the obscene noises that he knows Knox wants to hear. It's a good thing that it's not raining, because being fucked like this is exactly what Charlie needed, being fucked like this is just the thing for what ails him on this third Saturday, so as Charlie drives himself onto Knox's cock he thanks God and the baby Jesus for the clear weather.
Knox fucks him, and is anything but efficient. Charlie can hear the slap of balls against his ass and digs his fingernails into the bedding, braces himself harder on his hands and knees and hangs his head between his arms and just revels in that ball slapping sound and the sound of his own ragged breathing and the sound of Knox almost screaming his name when he comes.
Afterwards, they make out for a while, because it's still something that they each know a little something about, and because it's fun and lazy and brings the taste of soft lips and scrape of rough stubble. Charlie's tongue still drives Knox a little crazy, and Charlie figures that after some room service they can pretend like it is raining, after all.
Charlie runs the First National, and Knox just won a big case for GM. But sometimes, even if it is only every third Saturday, they let their lives get a little messy. Third Saturdays bring pillow fights, or long poker games that go well into the night, or even real stories from Hellton, ones that don't fit the lunchtime script and have to be mumbled into a pillow in the dull twilight. One time, Knox yelled "O Captain, my Captain!" while Charlie was rimming him and they both laughed so hard and for so long that they had to start all over again from the beginning. But that was okay, because third Saturdays don't have much to do with linearity or time frames or schedules.
When third Saturdays end, as early as five in the afternoon or as late as five in the afternoon on third Sunday, Knox and Charlie put on their thousand dollar suits and go back to being themselves. But their ties are often crooked and their shirts almost unavoidably rumpled.
This third Saturday, at ten in the evening in the lobby of the Ritz, Knox grabs Charlie by the crooked tie and drags him towards his rumpled-shirt covered chest and kisses him. Charlie loves it, not so much because of Knox's quick in-and-out darting tongue, but because of the idea, Knox is kissing me in the lobby, that comes unbidden and as a sudden surprise.
When Knox steps back, his grin is positively impish. "See you next third Saturday," he says, and leaves the lobby. On his way, he nods at an old client who is sitting in a leather armchair nearby.
"Next third Saturday," Charlie murmurs, and goes home to bide his time.