Fic: Driving In Reverse (Will/Dustin)
Title: Driving in Reverse (1/5)
Pairing: Will Schuester/Dustin Goolsby
Author: jean_prouvaire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Drunk sex.
Summary: Dustin is by far the most ill-advised thing Will has ever done when drunk, and now they can't get rid of each other.
The sheets are black, he notices blearily. His head is hammering, his throat is too dry to swallow and he's all tangled up in crisp, cool black sheets. Who the hell has black sheets?
More details. There's a solid weight next to him, warm, bigger than he is, breathing slowly and evenly. There's a Bluetooth and a half-empty pack of spearmint gum on the nightstand, but by now, Will's already beginning to remember last night. He closes his eyes and does everything in his power to believe he can make it not be real.
He can't, and it won't be any less real if he doesn't turn around, so he does. He curls into the fetal position in Dustin Goolsby's bed and watches Dustin sleep and tries to rouse himself from his bleak, horrified state of shock.
He wouldn't have thought Dustin was the type to get this drunk. He hadn't thought he would be, not after the promises he'd made to himself after that horrific fiasco with Emma and Sue, but it's summer and his phone's battery had been dead anyway and he'd thought he would be able to keep himself from doing anything monumentally stupid. And now he's staring at a naked, sleeping Dustin Goolsby and thinking in a detached sort of way that the man is near-unrecognizable without the perpetual sneer, and then, in a much less detached sort of way, I had sex with a guy? and I had sex with Dustin fucking Goolsby? and We can't have, I wouldn't, I'm not into that, I wouldn't even know how, not that there's anything wrong with oh jesus fucking god I slept with Dustin Goolsby how did this happen.
He can tell himself that it wasn't sex, that it was just a machismo-fueled shoving match that somehow went way too far, because there are dark bruises visible on Dustin's chest and there are scratches on his shoulderblades and there are finger-shaped marks on his hips, what Will can see of them above the black duvet that isn't covering nearly enough of him for comfort. Holy mother of god, I did that? But he remembers now, and his stomach sinks a little more, because if that hadn't been anything but a fight gone awry, he wouldn't have bitten Dustin harder and scratched him deeper when Dustin asked him to.
He can tell himself he was dragged into it, that he'd just been along for the ride, because he remembers Dustin doing most of the work, remembers Dustin's hand wrapping around both of them and stroking and squeezing and remembers Dustin dragging Will on top of him, but that doesn't account for the way his stomach flutters and his body flushes warm when he remembers Dustin's voice hissing commands in his ear. He shivers in spite of himself, remembering Dustin's voice dropping into a register deeper than Will had known he could manage when he'd snarled yes, fuck, Schuester, right there, right there, jesus, yes, fuck, come on, harder, you can do that harder, fucking give it to me.
He's hard, and that's completely unacceptable, and he's suddenly petrified that Dustin will wake up before he can grab his scattered clothes and escape. Dustin seems pretty dead to the world right now, arms wrapped tight around a pillow, not quite snoring, but nowhere near consciousness. Will wonders if he dares use the bathroom before sneaking out the door. He needs a glass of water before he can even begin to manage critical thought.
When he returns, half-dressed, Dustin is propped up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes, cringing at the light from the window. Will freezes.
"Morning, Schuester," Dustin mumbles.
There's no suitable response to that, at least not one that's coming to mind. Will clenches his jaw.
It takes Dustin a few moments to armor himself with his usual sneering, swaggering bravado, as he's obviously at least as hungover as Will is, but he's not about to let himself be seen without it for long. He sits up, giving Will one of those lingering, infuriating glances up and down. "Leaving already?"
"Don't." Will's voice is tight. He can't handle this right now. "Don't fucking start with me, Goolsby. Just keep your mouth shut and I'll be out of here in five minutes."
Dustin shrugs, stretching, leaning back on his hands. A corner of the duvet is the only thing standing between Will and things he doesn't ever, ever want to think about again. "Nobody likes a sore loser, Schuester."
The nonchalance blindsides Will, so much so that he's not even sure what Dustin's talking about for a minute. "A sore loser? You think that's what this is--" What does he even do with that? "This is not because of Nationals. This is because it's you. And I don't have sex with men."
"I do." Dustin watches him, serene as a cat. "And after last night, I'd have to say that you do, too."
"That wasn't sex." Will grinds his teeth. Somehow, this is an important distinction, but Dustin's derisive little snort would suggest that he's not buying it.
"Really. I don't know, Schuester, what do you call it when two people get naked and get into bed and get each other off? 'Cause I'd pretty much call that sex."
"I don't have sex with men. And if I did, it wouldn't be with you." Will changes tack. "You tricked me into this."
"Did I?" Dustin seems vaguely willing to entertain this possibility, for a moment. "I don't remember, honestly. I'm not actually sure how we got started. You were pretty enthusiastic, though, I remember that much."
"Don't." If he repeats that enough, maybe it'll have some effect, though he doesn't even know what he's telling Dustin not to do. Dustin's still staring at him, largely expressionless except for that faint smirking, sneering, appraising look he always has. Will hates it for its unreadability, and he hates it even more because now he knows what Dustin looks like without it and he doesn't want to.
Finally, after an interminable moment, Dustin languidly rolls the kinks out of his shoulders and lies back down, folding his arms behind his head. "You need anything for the headache? Tylenol? Coffee?"
"No." Will wishes Dustin hadn't asked.
"Right." Dustin covers his eyes with one hand, blocking out the sun again. "See you, Schuester."
Will leaves, too exhausted to deliver the 'fuck you' on his lips.
Part Two is here.
Pairing: Will Schuester/Dustin Goolsby
Author: jean_prouvaire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Drunk sex.
Summary: Dustin is by far the most ill-advised thing Will has ever done when drunk, and now they can't get rid of each other.
The sheets are black, he notices blearily. His head is hammering, his throat is too dry to swallow and he's all tangled up in crisp, cool black sheets. Who the hell has black sheets?
More details. There's a solid weight next to him, warm, bigger than he is, breathing slowly and evenly. There's a Bluetooth and a half-empty pack of spearmint gum on the nightstand, but by now, Will's already beginning to remember last night. He closes his eyes and does everything in his power to believe he can make it not be real.
He can't, and it won't be any less real if he doesn't turn around, so he does. He curls into the fetal position in Dustin Goolsby's bed and watches Dustin sleep and tries to rouse himself from his bleak, horrified state of shock.
He wouldn't have thought Dustin was the type to get this drunk. He hadn't thought he would be, not after the promises he'd made to himself after that horrific fiasco with Emma and Sue, but it's summer and his phone's battery had been dead anyway and he'd thought he would be able to keep himself from doing anything monumentally stupid. And now he's staring at a naked, sleeping Dustin Goolsby and thinking in a detached sort of way that the man is near-unrecognizable without the perpetual sneer, and then, in a much less detached sort of way, I had sex with a guy? and I had sex with Dustin fucking Goolsby? and We can't have, I wouldn't, I'm not into that, I wouldn't even know how, not that there's anything wrong with oh jesus fucking god I slept with Dustin Goolsby how did this happen.
He can tell himself that it wasn't sex, that it was just a machismo-fueled shoving match that somehow went way too far, because there are dark bruises visible on Dustin's chest and there are scratches on his shoulderblades and there are finger-shaped marks on his hips, what Will can see of them above the black duvet that isn't covering nearly enough of him for comfort. Holy mother of god, I did that? But he remembers now, and his stomach sinks a little more, because if that hadn't been anything but a fight gone awry, he wouldn't have bitten Dustin harder and scratched him deeper when Dustin asked him to.
He can tell himself he was dragged into it, that he'd just been along for the ride, because he remembers Dustin doing most of the work, remembers Dustin's hand wrapping around both of them and stroking and squeezing and remembers Dustin dragging Will on top of him, but that doesn't account for the way his stomach flutters and his body flushes warm when he remembers Dustin's voice hissing commands in his ear. He shivers in spite of himself, remembering Dustin's voice dropping into a register deeper than Will had known he could manage when he'd snarled yes, fuck, Schuester, right there, right there, jesus, yes, fuck, come on, harder, you can do that harder, fucking give it to me.
He's hard, and that's completely unacceptable, and he's suddenly petrified that Dustin will wake up before he can grab his scattered clothes and escape. Dustin seems pretty dead to the world right now, arms wrapped tight around a pillow, not quite snoring, but nowhere near consciousness. Will wonders if he dares use the bathroom before sneaking out the door. He needs a glass of water before he can even begin to manage critical thought.
When he returns, half-dressed, Dustin is propped up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes, cringing at the light from the window. Will freezes.
"Morning, Schuester," Dustin mumbles.
There's no suitable response to that, at least not one that's coming to mind. Will clenches his jaw.
It takes Dustin a few moments to armor himself with his usual sneering, swaggering bravado, as he's obviously at least as hungover as Will is, but he's not about to let himself be seen without it for long. He sits up, giving Will one of those lingering, infuriating glances up and down. "Leaving already?"
"Don't." Will's voice is tight. He can't handle this right now. "Don't fucking start with me, Goolsby. Just keep your mouth shut and I'll be out of here in five minutes."
Dustin shrugs, stretching, leaning back on his hands. A corner of the duvet is the only thing standing between Will and things he doesn't ever, ever want to think about again. "Nobody likes a sore loser, Schuester."
The nonchalance blindsides Will, so much so that he's not even sure what Dustin's talking about for a minute. "A sore loser? You think that's what this is--" What does he even do with that? "This is not because of Nationals. This is because it's you. And I don't have sex with men."
"I do." Dustin watches him, serene as a cat. "And after last night, I'd have to say that you do, too."
"That wasn't sex." Will grinds his teeth. Somehow, this is an important distinction, but Dustin's derisive little snort would suggest that he's not buying it.
"Really. I don't know, Schuester, what do you call it when two people get naked and get into bed and get each other off? 'Cause I'd pretty much call that sex."
"I don't have sex with men. And if I did, it wouldn't be with you." Will changes tack. "You tricked me into this."
"Did I?" Dustin seems vaguely willing to entertain this possibility, for a moment. "I don't remember, honestly. I'm not actually sure how we got started. You were pretty enthusiastic, though, I remember that much."
"Don't." If he repeats that enough, maybe it'll have some effect, though he doesn't even know what he's telling Dustin not to do. Dustin's still staring at him, largely expressionless except for that faint smirking, sneering, appraising look he always has. Will hates it for its unreadability, and he hates it even more because now he knows what Dustin looks like without it and he doesn't want to.
Finally, after an interminable moment, Dustin languidly rolls the kinks out of his shoulders and lies back down, folding his arms behind his head. "You need anything for the headache? Tylenol? Coffee?"
"No." Will wishes Dustin hadn't asked.
"Right." Dustin covers his eyes with one hand, blocking out the sun again. "See you, Schuester."
Will leaves, too exhausted to deliver the 'fuck you' on his lips.
Part Two is here.