1. Across the Sands (Drabble 29)
Title: Across the Sands
Author: fansee
Drabble: 29 by IJ's dirtylttlescret
Notes: An AU. Heartfelt thank yous to the writer of the drabble and to my beta, chering.
Justin wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted into the sun. He set down his brush and climbed out of the pit, being sure not to disturb any of the delicate areas of the dig on his way to the equipment van.
"Justin Taylor?" a voice called from across the sands. Justin put down his canteen and turned around. It was a tall man, dark, with a face like an Adonis.
"Yeah, that's me," he said, swallowing hard.
"I have a proposition for you," he said, holding out a map. "I think you're going to want to see this.
Justin stared, unable to stop looking into the man’s large, dark eyes, framed by long lashes. He finally broke the spell with a quick shake of his head and said, “A map? Of what?”
“Come take a look.”
Instead Justin peered at the setting sun again. “All right, but you’ll have to wait a bit. Right now I have to record our progress before it gets dark, and this fucking camera just stopped working. It’s all this damn dust. It fouls all our gear.” He resumed walking toward a van several hundred yards away.
The Adonis stayed where he was while Justin crossed the site, climbed aboard the van, and located a working camera. He hurried back to his shallow pit, ostentatiously ignoring his visitor; or seeming to ignore him. Quick, surreptitious glances convinced Justin that this was the hottest man he’d seen since he arrived in Mali nearly two months earlier.
Justin jumped into his pit, crouched down and started snapping pictures of the day’s finds: part of a writing implement, pits from a fruit, and a partially excavated potshard, which showed signs of decoration. A rich haul for a little less than a day’s work. As he moved around the pit, duck-walking, his excitement built. This might indeed be a career-making excavation, he thought, documenting Timbuktu at the height of its 16th century glory.
As he maneuvered himself into a position where his photo would clearly show the potsherd curving down into the dirt, with still more to be revealed, a clump of dirt bounced down the side of the excavation, crumbling as it bounced and scattering dust around the pit. The Adonis was now standing on the edge of the excavation, causing the edge to crumble.
“Hey,” Justin yelled. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Move back.”
The man took a step or two back.
Justin waved vigorously. “More. Further back. Please.” His tone of voice made even the ‘please’ sound peremptory.
As his audience of one watched, Justin grabbed what looked like a feather duster and whisked the dirt off of various protrudences in the pit. Then he crouched again and snapped off several pictures. He stood up, put one hand on the ground and started to climb out of the pit. His visitor stepped forward - carefully - and extended his hand. Justin hesitated a second, then grabbed it, and was standing next to the pit in seconds.
“My name is Brian Kinney,” the Adonis said. “Do you think you could take five minutes from your busy schedule to look at this map?”
Justin narrowed his eyes. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I have only one more month to work on this dig before my grant money runs out so yes, I do have a busy schedule. And I don’t think any map you’re going to show me will be germane to what I’m doing here.” He turned and started walking toward the little huddle of tents beside the dig.
Brian caught up with him with a couple of long strides, grabbed his arm, and swung him around until they were face-to-face. Justin looked up and gave a little gasp at the expression on the face of the man harassing him. Brian’s smile was predatory, but what he said was, “Do you read Arabic?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.” Justin couldn’t tell if his tone showed admiration or mocked him. The man continued, “But the Arabic in this document...I don’t think it’s modern Arabic.” Brian handed Justin the parchment.
Justin peered at it intently, then dropped down into the nearest camp chair. “It’s not. It’s classic Arabic...and this,” he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the parchment, “I think this is goat skin parchment.” He looked up. “Where did you get this? It’s museum quality. You shouldn’t be carrying it around in your hip pocket.”
“A friend gave it to me. And for your information I don’t keep it the fuck in my hip pocket. I keep it in a portfolio in my backpack.” He ungritted his teeth. “The important question is, Can you interpret it for me?”
“No, the important question is, When will I interpret it for you?” He handed it back to Brian. “Make me a copy, and after I’m done here and back in Princeton, I’ll work on it, O.K.?”
“Not O.K. Do you expect me to hang around the Timbuktu Hilton for a month or two, maybe longer, waiting for you to get around to translating my map?”
“There is no Timbuktu Hilton.”
“My point exactly.”
Justin looked down at the map spread carefully across his knees. “Well,” he said, “I guess I could take a crack at it tonight....”
Brian looked around. “Which one is your tent?”
Justin looked puzzled. He jerked his head toward the left-most tent. “That’s it.”
Brian pulled him from his chair, and with one hand in the small of his back, guided Justin briskly toward the tent. Once inside, with the entrance zipped up again, he cupped the back of Justin’s head with one long-fingered hand and kissed him.
The force of Justin’s reaction startled even himself. The heat rushed through him, hardening him faster than he thought possible, narrowing his senses until all he perceived was this man and his body and his mouth. What was going on here? This person...this guy...this irresistible stranger seemed to have some kind of compelling power over him. He turned his head and opened his mouth. Brian gave him what he wanted: a tongue that explored, that dominated, that took.
Justin shuddered and ran his hands up under Brian’s khaki shirt, feeling smooth skin over hard muscles. He jerked the shirt apart, but the buttons held. “Gotta get this off you,” he muttered.
Brian pulled back a little and started working at the buttons. He quirked an eyebrow at Justin. “In a hurry, are we?”
“It’s been a long time,” Justin said. He was panting. “Sixty-seven days, to be exact.”
Brian looked at Justin’s waist, where he was busy with his belt. “You seem to have two functioning hands. You could take care of yourself.”
“Yeah, but I’m getting carpal tunnel from the repetitive motion.”
Brian smiled, his eyes warming, and Justin laughed back and finished stripping. He wasn’t wearing much.
Neither was Brian. They tumbled on to Justin’s sturdy camp bed, Justin on his back, his ankles on Brian’s shoulders. Lube ran down his crack, cold in the desert heat, and was followed by long fingers pressing on his hole. He moaned as one, then two fingers spread him wide, scissoring inside him. He’d missed this, needed this, dreamed of this so many times. He heard the rip of a condom wrapper, and his hand moved of its own volition, covering his weeping cock....
Justin tried not to wake up, his hand curled around his weeping cock. He wanted desperately to hold on to his dream, just as he was about to get fucked, but it was no use. He was waking up alone, again, here in his apartment in wildest Brooklyn.
Fuck that exhibit on Timbuktu at the Metropolitan yesterday, he thought, and fuck Brian for spending too much fucking time in the Pitts when I need him here. He shook open his cell and pushed a couple of buttons. He waited a moment, his hand still on his morning wood. “It’s been sixty-seven days,” he said when Brian picked up, “and I’m developing carpal tunnel....”
Author: fansee
Drabble: 29 by IJ's dirtylttlescret
Notes: An AU. Heartfelt thank yous to the writer of the drabble and to my beta, chering.
Justin wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted into the sun. He set down his brush and climbed out of the pit, being sure not to disturb any of the delicate areas of the dig on his way to the equipment van.
"Justin Taylor?" a voice called from across the sands. Justin put down his canteen and turned around. It was a tall man, dark, with a face like an Adonis.
"Yeah, that's me," he said, swallowing hard.
"I have a proposition for you," he said, holding out a map. "I think you're going to want to see this.
Justin stared, unable to stop looking into the man’s large, dark eyes, framed by long lashes. He finally broke the spell with a quick shake of his head and said, “A map? Of what?”
“Come take a look.”
Instead Justin peered at the setting sun again. “All right, but you’ll have to wait a bit. Right now I have to record our progress before it gets dark, and this fucking camera just stopped working. It’s all this damn dust. It fouls all our gear.” He resumed walking toward a van several hundred yards away.
The Adonis stayed where he was while Justin crossed the site, climbed aboard the van, and located a working camera. He hurried back to his shallow pit, ostentatiously ignoring his visitor; or seeming to ignore him. Quick, surreptitious glances convinced Justin that this was the hottest man he’d seen since he arrived in Mali nearly two months earlier.
Justin jumped into his pit, crouched down and started snapping pictures of the day’s finds: part of a writing implement, pits from a fruit, and a partially excavated potshard, which showed signs of decoration. A rich haul for a little less than a day’s work. As he moved around the pit, duck-walking, his excitement built. This might indeed be a career-making excavation, he thought, documenting Timbuktu at the height of its 16th century glory.
As he maneuvered himself into a position where his photo would clearly show the potsherd curving down into the dirt, with still more to be revealed, a clump of dirt bounced down the side of the excavation, crumbling as it bounced and scattering dust around the pit. The Adonis was now standing on the edge of the excavation, causing the edge to crumble.
“Hey,” Justin yelled. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Move back.”
The man took a step or two back.
Justin waved vigorously. “More. Further back. Please.” His tone of voice made even the ‘please’ sound peremptory.
As his audience of one watched, Justin grabbed what looked like a feather duster and whisked the dirt off of various protrudences in the pit. Then he crouched again and snapped off several pictures. He stood up, put one hand on the ground and started to climb out of the pit. His visitor stepped forward - carefully - and extended his hand. Justin hesitated a second, then grabbed it, and was standing next to the pit in seconds.
“My name is Brian Kinney,” the Adonis said. “Do you think you could take five minutes from your busy schedule to look at this map?”
Justin narrowed his eyes. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I have only one more month to work on this dig before my grant money runs out so yes, I do have a busy schedule. And I don’t think any map you’re going to show me will be germane to what I’m doing here.” He turned and started walking toward the little huddle of tents beside the dig.
Brian caught up with him with a couple of long strides, grabbed his arm, and swung him around until they were face-to-face. Justin looked up and gave a little gasp at the expression on the face of the man harassing him. Brian’s smile was predatory, but what he said was, “Do you read Arabic?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.” Justin couldn’t tell if his tone showed admiration or mocked him. The man continued, “But the Arabic in this document...I don’t think it’s modern Arabic.” Brian handed Justin the parchment.
Justin peered at it intently, then dropped down into the nearest camp chair. “It’s not. It’s classic Arabic...and this,” he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the parchment, “I think this is goat skin parchment.” He looked up. “Where did you get this? It’s museum quality. You shouldn’t be carrying it around in your hip pocket.”
“A friend gave it to me. And for your information I don’t keep it the fuck in my hip pocket. I keep it in a portfolio in my backpack.” He ungritted his teeth. “The important question is, Can you interpret it for me?”
“No, the important question is, When will I interpret it for you?” He handed it back to Brian. “Make me a copy, and after I’m done here and back in Princeton, I’ll work on it, O.K.?”
“Not O.K. Do you expect me to hang around the Timbuktu Hilton for a month or two, maybe longer, waiting for you to get around to translating my map?”
“There is no Timbuktu Hilton.”
“My point exactly.”
Justin looked down at the map spread carefully across his knees. “Well,” he said, “I guess I could take a crack at it tonight....”
Brian looked around. “Which one is your tent?”
Justin looked puzzled. He jerked his head toward the left-most tent. “That’s it.”
Brian pulled him from his chair, and with one hand in the small of his back, guided Justin briskly toward the tent. Once inside, with the entrance zipped up again, he cupped the back of Justin’s head with one long-fingered hand and kissed him.
The force of Justin’s reaction startled even himself. The heat rushed through him, hardening him faster than he thought possible, narrowing his senses until all he perceived was this man and his body and his mouth. What was going on here? This person...this guy...this irresistible stranger seemed to have some kind of compelling power over him. He turned his head and opened his mouth. Brian gave him what he wanted: a tongue that explored, that dominated, that took.
Justin shuddered and ran his hands up under Brian’s khaki shirt, feeling smooth skin over hard muscles. He jerked the shirt apart, but the buttons held. “Gotta get this off you,” he muttered.
Brian pulled back a little and started working at the buttons. He quirked an eyebrow at Justin. “In a hurry, are we?”
“It’s been a long time,” Justin said. He was panting. “Sixty-seven days, to be exact.”
Brian looked at Justin’s waist, where he was busy with his belt. “You seem to have two functioning hands. You could take care of yourself.”
“Yeah, but I’m getting carpal tunnel from the repetitive motion.”
Brian smiled, his eyes warming, and Justin laughed back and finished stripping. He wasn’t wearing much.
Neither was Brian. They tumbled on to Justin’s sturdy camp bed, Justin on his back, his ankles on Brian’s shoulders. Lube ran down his crack, cold in the desert heat, and was followed by long fingers pressing on his hole. He moaned as one, then two fingers spread him wide, scissoring inside him. He’d missed this, needed this, dreamed of this so many times. He heard the rip of a condom wrapper, and his hand moved of its own volition, covering his weeping cock....
Justin tried not to wake up, his hand curled around his weeping cock. He wanted desperately to hold on to his dream, just as he was about to get fucked, but it was no use. He was waking up alone, again, here in his apartment in wildest Brooklyn.
Fuck that exhibit on Timbuktu at the Metropolitan yesterday, he thought, and fuck Brian for spending too much fucking time in the Pitts when I need him here. He shook open his cell and pushed a couple of buttons. He waited a moment, his hand still on his morning wood. “It’s been sixty-seven days,” he said when Brian picked up, “and I’m developing carpal tunnel....”