|for pandoraiam - fic - Tick (Part 1 of 3) [Brian/Withheld]
||[Apr. 1st, 2005|09:52 pm]
Tick (Part 1 of 3)|
Pairing: Brian/Withheld, Brian/Justin
Summary: Brian has a quota, and a kid has a jacket.
His first thought was hustler. Hot, but in that restless, runty kind of way. Desperate, but trying desperately not to appear so. From the South somewhere from the sound of him, though he seemed to be trying to hide that too. Brian nearly told him to go home, but then the kid smiled as if it were somehow Brian’s loss, and that intrigued him just enough to buy them each a drink.
He signaled the bartender. “Beam, double. And – ” He cocked an eyebrow at his companion.
“Coors Light.” The kid said it with a practiced air. Brian nodded at the bartender and gave his potential trick another up-and-down. Figures he’d drink piss.
“Brian Kinney, I presume.” It wasn’t a question. He looked pleased, but with an added ingredient other tricks didn’t have. Brian couldn’t put his finger on it, but whatever it was made the kid hotter somehow. Confidence? No. Arrogance? Arrogance was closer, anyway.
“If you insist.” His drink arrived, and Brian tossed it back before the kid’s beer even reached his lips. He stood and scraped the stool back, reaching for a cigarette and giving the kid an expectant look.
The kid downed half his beer in one gulp and stood as well, adjusting the back of his waistband like some kind of cowboy. He looked as if he were going to quip, but at the last second changed his mind and switched his expression to a willing one. He raised his eyebrows and gestured to the door for Brian to lead the way.
Brian tossed a twenty in the general direction of his glass, checked the clock over the bar, turned and headed outside. Justin would be home from Deb’s in an hour. Couldn’t hurt to have a quick fuck to warm up.
They were taking the elevator, and the kid was already working the top button on Brian’s jeans. He leaned in for a kiss, and Brian turned his head. “Put your mouth somewhere else.”
The kid grinned. “That’s a yes, then. You guys have a no-kissing rule?” He had pulled Brian’s shirt up and started tracing a tongue trail from his sternum down.
Brian did not answer, but braced one hand on the ceiling and threaded the fingers of his other hand through the guy’s short, light-brown hair and urged him downward. He could feel lips curve into a smile around his belly button. “That’s very interesting,” the kid said with a dip of his tongue. He sounded smug.
“Happy to fascinate.” Fingers pulled his underwear down, tongue following in their wake. Calloused fingertips and chewed nails gently scraped the sensitive skin of his underbelly, hot breath leaving brief damp spots that cooled immediately in the drafty elevator. This kid was making him hard faster than he should.
Then the elevator stopped abruptly and so did his trick. The kid popped to his feet and backed away from Brian toward the loft door, pulling him by the open flaps of his jeans. That same look passed over his face, as though he had some secret pleasure, but he quickly replaced it with a boyish excitement.
“How should we do this? I’m, uh, versatile,” he said in an over-sweet voice, with a tilt of his head.
The kid grinned his understanding and looked around through the now-open door. “Rich. Figures.”
Brian stuck his tongue into his cheek and poked a finger into the kid’s chest, pushing him towards the sofa, pinning him to the back of it. He brushed both hands outward underneath the kid’s jacket to slip it off, but hands on his wrists stopped him.
“Who’s that?” The kid asked, looking at something over Brian’s shoulder. Brian turned to see a candid photo of himself, Justin and Gus that Lindsay had had framed. Justin insisted on displaying it prominently on the bar for some reason. When Brian turned back, the kid had laid his jacket carefully over the back of the sofa and had begun pulling off his shirt.
“Two of the three guys I kiss on the mouth.” He gave a look of mock apology. “Quota’s full.”
Then they were mostly naked and Brian spun the kid around and bent him forward more roughly than he thought he would. The kid gripped the back of the couch with one hand and braced the other against the seat cushions, gasping as Brian pushed inside, then alternately squeezing and relaxing around his cock in rhythm with Brian’s thrust.
It was quick. The kid sweated a lot and his ass was fucking tight; Brian felt oddly claustrophobic inside him, and from that plus their fevered rhythm, nearly passed out as he came. The kid bucked a few more times and was still, sweat running down his back. Brian pulled out quickly, released what he realized had been an iron grip on the kid’s hips. There would be bruises tomorrow. He didn’t particularly care, but he ran his hand up the kid’s back and through his hair anyway, then crossed into the kitchen to toss the condom.
They pulled their pants on silently, and Brian could feel his trick’s eyes on him whenever he looked away. He felt like a subject, somehow, as though the kid were here to study him. As though he wasn’t all that interested in the fuck.
The loft door rattled. A familiar, muffled voice called through it. “Brian, my arms are full. Let me in.”
“Nice to meet you,” Brian said amiably, passing the kid on his way to the door.
He slid open the door to find Justin carrying three grocery bags full of what he could only assume were Deb’s leftovers and balancing still another under his chin.
“Let me guess, she cooked for all of PFLAG and only you and your mom showed up, so we got saddled with three weeks’ worth of putinesca.”
He grinned. “Close. I convinced Michael to take home at least a week’s – ”
Justin froze and paled at least two shades.
“Brian – ”
Then Brian heard a click behind him and Justin dropped all four bags. Marinara splattered everywhere and Brian whipped around.
The kid’s jacket was on the floor. And Brian was staring straight into the barrel of a gun.
“Actually, I don’t believe we did meet,” the kid said in a carefully measured tone. His gun unwavering, he extended his right hand with a snap.
(to be continued)