|for soundczech - fic - immortality blueprint [Brian/Cody]
||[Mar. 30th, 2005|10:13 pm]
Summary: this wasn't exactly what you'd planned for tonight.
When you see him across the bar, your first thought is that he's gorgeous. Your second thought is that he looks sort of familiar, and your third -- milliseconds after you realize who he is -- is that your night just got a whole fucking lot more interesting. You know that this is your chance, maybe the only one you'll get, and even though it's only revenge by proxy, it's still the revenge that you've wanted for months now, dreamed about and obsessed over, practically tasted.
It's too fucking easy.
You see this kid watching you, and he's pretty and blond and kind of little, not at all your type and completely your type all at the same time, and then he's sliding onto the barstool next to yours and you're just drunk enough to think, "Maybe if I squint..."
He watches you from under honey-colored lashes, not saying a word, and you want to break the silence with a caustic remark about how the shade of pink he's wearing is an affront to homosexuality when he says "hey" and looks you up and down lewdly.
You pretend to check him out, using it as an excuse to look closely at his face, make sure this is the right guy. It's the right guy. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking and the blood tastes good, familiar in a way that makes your adrenaline pump and your dick harden.
"Hey," you say in the sexiest voice you can muster. "I've been watching you. You're fucking hot."
"That's a good one," he says with an arrogant, showy roll of his eyes. He knocks back the shot in front of him, the last of three. "If you want to fuck, just say so."
"I want to fuck," you tell him; you want to fuck, fuck him up, fuck him up, God you want it so bad. You've waited so long for this, and you push your tongue hard against the chewed, hanging flesh inside your mouth to make it hurt, to keep yourself grounded, to remind yourself that there's a huge payoff in this if you just don't fuck it up.
You've always considered yourself a pretty good judge of character, and right now you're judging that this kid's a fucking weirdo. In another place, another time, with a lot less alcohol running through your bloodstream, you'd tell him to fuck off, but -- pretty little blond, and you're not thinking much past that.
"Well come the fuck on, then," you say, pushing off your stool and heading toward the bathroom. You make a point not to look back at him. If he doesn't follow, that's his loss, not yours.
You follow him and as he walks toward the bathroom (you assume it's the bathroom), you mouth fuck you, fuck you, fuck you over and over and aim it at the back of his head. At some point it changes to fuck him before morphing into fuck you both and you don't realize that you've said it aloud until he turns to you and says, "Huh?"
"I said I want to fuck you," you say as he holds open the bathroom door; he and every other fag in the room snicker.
"Right," he says, just before he pushes you into a vacated stall. It's show time.
He tries to kiss you and you shove him off. "I'm sure you can find something more useful to do with your mouth," you say.
"I'm sure I can, too."
Only he doesn't, really, just presses his lips against the side of your neck, breathing heavily as he opens your jeans with one hand and uses the other, braced against the wall, to hold himself up. Then that hand, hot and rough, is covering your dick and jerking rhythmically; you can feel the calluses on his palm, and the friction is a little painful but you're fucking around with a guy who maybe if I squint looks like -- and you're not going to go there, but suffice it to say that you probably deserve some discomfort tonight.
He's a slow starter, his dick gradually coming to life, and you're not sure whether to take it personally or not so you decide that yes, you will take it personally, and you use that feeling to fuel your rage. Fucker, you think. Fuck you.
His skin is warm beneath your hand, his cock thick and full and flushed, but that's not what's making you hard right now. It's the anticipation, the fucking beautiful anticipation of what's going to come next, and when he groans against your strokes you know that that's your cue:
"Make that sound again," you say, flicking your thumb across the sensitive head of his dick, and he does. Too easy. Too fucking easy.
"I like that sound." You speed up your strokes. "Your boyfriend makes that sound, too."
Your boyfriend makes that-- what the fuck? You freeze beneath him, your hips stilling immediately, and you might try to pull away if you didn't think your dick might get forcibly removed in the process. He doesn't stop jacking you off, though; in fact, his hand speeds up, and somehow there's pre-come, a slickness that wasn't there before and eases the friction, disappointing and relieving you all at once.
"Yeah, you heard me," he continues. "You wanna hear about it? Want me to tell you about the time I did this with him?"
You must be drunker than you thought, because this isn't making shit for sense anymore but you're not pulling away, either.
"I took him in an alley and I let him hold my gun--"
"I let him hold my gun," you're saying, and he looks away from you then, his eyes going blank. But he doesn't stop you. He doesn't stop you, so you don't stop. "He held it and he loved it and it made him hard. I asked him if it made him hard and he said yeah, and then I pressed the gun up against him and I could feel it, so I opened up his jeans and jerked him off just like this. I laid my gun on his shoulder and jerked his cock--"
This is the place where fantasy diverges from reality, where you imagine your hand on Justin's dick and your gun in his mouth, where you think about fucking him with it, hitting him across the face with it and sometimes pulling the trigger sometimes even more. You're so caught up in the thought of it all that you only notice something is wrong when your cheek smacks hard against the stall door and your jeans are around your knees.
There's a cock pressing insistently, forcefully against your ass and two hands shaking, clenching painfully against your hips and you hear yourself say, "Fuck me."
You fuck him brutally, hard and relentless, his bitch-in-heat moans drowned out by the tape recorder in your head replaying his every word, start to finish, from boyfriend to gun and back again, over and over. You fuck him to punish him for everything he's done, for sending Justin home bruised and pissed off and crazy, for putting his life in danger and calling it justice, for all the nights you sat up waiting and thinking embarrassing, morbid thoughts, hoping that this night wouldn't be the one when you'd get the call from the emergency room or the coroner saying We're sorry, Mr. Kinney. There was nothing we could do.
He doesn't come. The picture in your mind when you do repulses even you, and you're shaking when he pulls out, his disgust evident; you wonder if he knows what you were thinking. You almost trip when he spins you around and his hand digs painfully in your arm, then the hand is around your neck, gripping just underneath your jaw and almost -- almost, but not quite -- cutting off your air supply. There'll be bruises tomorrow. Battle wounds.
You look in his eyes and for the first time tonight, you feel afraid. His voice is low when he speaks: "Stay the fuck away from Justin," he says, each word calm and measured. "If you touch him again-- if you so much as look in his direction again, so help me God, I'll break your fucking neck."
Right now, you believe him and he squeezes a little to make sure you do.
You watch him unlatch the stall door and straighten his clothes like it's no fucking big deal, like this is nothing and he's just doing what he does, getting laid and going back to his business. Meanwhile you're still trying to stop your panting and can't figure out how this situation got so far outside of your control. You've got one last chance to take it back.
"Fucking faggot," you say under your breath as he walks away. He turns, one eyebrow quirked upward in something that looks like amusement, like you're just one big joke.
"What did you say?"
"I said you're a fucking pussy faggot," you say, louder this time and more threateningly, in that voice that makes chest-beating heterosexual assholes piss their pants in fear.
He smiles at you, fucking grins at you. "You're goddamn right I am."