Flight (R; Brian/Other)
Title: Flight
Author: Etharei
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Other
Word Count: 1,526
Rating: R
Summary: A glimpse of Brian through a perceptive trick's eyes.
Disclaimer: Queer as Folk and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Showtime, Cowlip Productions and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes, and promise to replenish the condom and lube supply when I’m done.
Author's Notes: A very belated birthday gift to erynlinia, who requested-
Brian picks up someone, preferable a human version of a VERY SNARKY Erestor
I'm so sorry for the long wait, sweets. I do hope you like it. The style is very experimental, with a stream-of-consciousness feel to it.
“I want to fuck you.”
You step back a bit, casually examining the issuer of the proposition. Tall, thin, groomed, dark hair. Not enough light to see the eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Body nicely proportioned, muscles well-defined but not like a body-builder’s. Manner of a stud.
You’re looking for more docile meat, and open your mouth to say no. But something stops you, some inner instinct maybe, and the words come out “All right. But I do the fucking.”
The man looks amused, not put off at all. “Do you know how many guys have said the same thing to me? But, for some reason, all of them end up with my dick up their ass.”
You smile. “What’s your name?”
Mr. Stud hesitates. “Kinney.” You know it’s true, despite the pause; at the same time, you sense his uneasiness. But whatever untruth it is he’s harbouring is something far bigger, far more intrinsic, than a simple name. Or maybe not so simple- you’ve heard that name before, usually intoned with awe. So his words had not been mere vanity. “And I don’t care what yours is.”
Mr. Kinney motions towards the exit. You finish your drink, leave a twenty for the bartender, and lead the way. You’re surprised he didn’t suggest the backroom; it looks like you’ve gotten Mr. Stud interested enough about you that he wants something longer than a quick fuck.
Or- and this thought, however unlikely, sends your blood singing- he’s worried that he’ll lose to you, and won’t take the chance of doing so in public. Ah, the ego of the young.
He lives in a spacious loft apartment filled with high-end appliances and expensive, imported furniture. That’s pretty much all you can register, because a) a year’s salary for you may be able to pay for his couch; and b) he falls on you like he hasn’t seen another man in years.
You’ve underestimated him, or he’s as good as he believes he is. Before you know it, you’re both naked on his bed. His lips, tongue, and teeth have marked you all over; his hands have been more adventurous still. His naked body is even more beautiful than you’d thought, and you’d been suitably impressed under the poor lighting of Babylon. The light above his bed bathes you both in a bright glow.
Later you would wonder why he would choose such a warm colour when he clearly has no shortage of heat in his bed. Thanks to those lights, all your memories of him will be tinted orange.
The struggle to be alpha male goes on, as ancient and instinctive as propagation, until the two of you are nigh desperate to find release. The air is filled with your panting, the sheets are slicked more by sweat than cum; but neither of you will back down, and for the first time (at least for you) orgasm takes on the mark of defeat.
After all that effort, the thing that makes you turn over when you’ve still got at least a good mile left to your self-control, is a strange look you spot in his eyes, in his countenance. It’s dark, a desperation beyond lust. He’s a complete stranger, and you’re not a psychologist, but something cold wriggles its way into your gut. You pause.
You’ve been aware that he’s done pretty much everything but kiss you. You’re not all that fond of doing so, either, with random tricks, but it’s not exactly a rule for you. So you push your face towards his, your lips towards his. Just to see what he would do.
He turns his head. And you catch a glimpse of- nothing. Not fear, or anger; just complete, controlled blankness.
It’s then that you know for sure what he wants from you.
Annihilation.
“You want me to fuck you,” the words slip out of your mouth. They are your greatest weapon, words; you knew you loved words long before you knew you loved men.
“Huh,” he huffs, eyebrows arching in surprise. “How d’you figure that?”
You get a pretty strong signal that talking is what he least wants to do. Your instincts tell you that your soul has found a brother; you have to stop the smile before it can form. Character is a two-sided coin; you love words because you’re good with them, and he hates them for the exact same reason.
“We’re at your place,” you say simply. “We’ve been at this for almost two hours. I’ve made it clear that I’m not playing bottom. You could have thrown me out at any time. But you haven’t. A part of you wants me to win.”
Specifically, he wants you to break his pride. You suddenly feel like you’re lying on quicksand. A player who’s just realized, mid-game, that the stakes are higher than he thought and he can only read a small fraction of the cards.
But sometimes games of will can be forfeited just by an outright acknowledgment of its existence. There’s also a fine line between being blunt and bruising another guy’s ego, and you’ve taken one breath the wrong way. He looks like he’s about to pull you out of his bed, right then.
So you lean forward and deliver the death-blow. “I yield.”
You turn yourself in- or rather, turn yourself over. There’s a moment of silence, stillness, likely shock on his part. You don’t feel any signs of disappointment when he drapes himself over you, but his movements are slower, gentler, almost tender. Your own pride has been prickled, but you’re pretty sure you’ll survive it. You look up as his slick, lubed fingers ease into your hole, and your eyes fall on a framed drawing of a naked, quiescent Kinney on the bedside table, propped up against the wall.
He starts talking as he thrusts inside you, penetrating deep. You gasp, moan, arch back; it’s been a long time. But he really is amazing in bed, knowing just where to touch you and able to read your body like he’s studied the manual to it. To your surprise and bewilderment he starts making small talk, such as can be had in the middle of grunting and panting and moaning. Asks about your job. Shows surprise at hearing that you’re a visiting scholar, in Pittsburgh for a lecture at Carnegie Melon, and a librarian back home.
“You’ve got... a great body... for a... bookworm,” he gasps, tongue lapping between your shoulder blades in a way that sends a flush of heat down your upper body.
“Good genes,” you reply, equally breathless. “And my... best friend... owns a club. Dancing... and fucking... burns calories.”
“I think... we understand one another.”
A statement like that can mean nothing or everything. Your instinct about him had been right. Even when he’s burying the long concrete hardness of himself into your ass, you feel curious about what you’d read from him, how much of him you’d guessed correctly. And most of all, you’re wondering about what’s driving him, right at that moment, because his lust has a strange edge to it. Not anger or guilt or hurt- something more basic than that, at the ‘flee or fight’ level. The desperation you’d sensed earlier is still there, thrumming like displaced energy over his long lean form.
Suddenly his hand tightens around your dick, and your balls draw in and you’re shooting, shooting. Words start molding and mating inside your own head. Your mind is drawn back, drawn blank, then catapulted, Stranger. Dark. Flee or fight.
Flight. Running away from something.
Eventually you return to your body, your thoughts snap back onto their tracks. More or less. Both of you groan when he pulls out. You hear the elastic snap of the condom being tied, but your eyes are on the drawing. If this were a movie, you’d give him some sage advice about facing his fears and fighting for what he loves. But it isn’t a movie, and you’re strangers in the orange-tinted night. And he’s right- you do understand one another, in a weird, indescribable way.
You did the right thing, by refusing to help him destroy himself. You have no doubt about this. Doesn’t mean you don’t hate that you did it. You feel like you’re owed an explanation, but you also know that your time as a pawn is pretty much over. This is not your game, not your life, not your problem. You dress silently, unable to think of anything to say that would be helpful but still ambiguous.
“Thanks for the fun,” you say politely, after pulling on your shoes. He gives a grunt in response. His eyes are somewhere else, and you notice that his hands are shaking a little as he lights a cigarette.
If he is as similar to you as you think, he’ll survive, he’ll do the right thing. But it will be up to someone else to make him more than merely alive. You’ve done your part; on your way towards the door, you wish good luck to the shadow of someone else, who’d been watching over the bed the entire time, just above the orange lights.
Author: Etharei
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Other
Word Count: 1,526
Rating: R
Summary: A glimpse of Brian through a perceptive trick's eyes.
Disclaimer: Queer as Folk and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Showtime, Cowlip Productions and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes, and promise to replenish the condom and lube supply when I’m done.
Author's Notes: A very belated birthday gift to erynlinia, who requested-
Brian picks up someone, preferable a human version of a VERY SNARKY Erestor
I'm so sorry for the long wait, sweets. I do hope you like it. The style is very experimental, with a stream-of-consciousness feel to it.
“I want to fuck you.”
You step back a bit, casually examining the issuer of the proposition. Tall, thin, groomed, dark hair. Not enough light to see the eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Body nicely proportioned, muscles well-defined but not like a body-builder’s. Manner of a stud.
You’re looking for more docile meat, and open your mouth to say no. But something stops you, some inner instinct maybe, and the words come out “All right. But I do the fucking.”
The man looks amused, not put off at all. “Do you know how many guys have said the same thing to me? But, for some reason, all of them end up with my dick up their ass.”
You smile. “What’s your name?”
Mr. Stud hesitates. “Kinney.” You know it’s true, despite the pause; at the same time, you sense his uneasiness. But whatever untruth it is he’s harbouring is something far bigger, far more intrinsic, than a simple name. Or maybe not so simple- you’ve heard that name before, usually intoned with awe. So his words had not been mere vanity. “And I don’t care what yours is.”
Mr. Kinney motions towards the exit. You finish your drink, leave a twenty for the bartender, and lead the way. You’re surprised he didn’t suggest the backroom; it looks like you’ve gotten Mr. Stud interested enough about you that he wants something longer than a quick fuck.
Or- and this thought, however unlikely, sends your blood singing- he’s worried that he’ll lose to you, and won’t take the chance of doing so in public. Ah, the ego of the young.
He lives in a spacious loft apartment filled with high-end appliances and expensive, imported furniture. That’s pretty much all you can register, because a) a year’s salary for you may be able to pay for his couch; and b) he falls on you like he hasn’t seen another man in years.
You’ve underestimated him, or he’s as good as he believes he is. Before you know it, you’re both naked on his bed. His lips, tongue, and teeth have marked you all over; his hands have been more adventurous still. His naked body is even more beautiful than you’d thought, and you’d been suitably impressed under the poor lighting of Babylon. The light above his bed bathes you both in a bright glow.
Later you would wonder why he would choose such a warm colour when he clearly has no shortage of heat in his bed. Thanks to those lights, all your memories of him will be tinted orange.
The struggle to be alpha male goes on, as ancient and instinctive as propagation, until the two of you are nigh desperate to find release. The air is filled with your panting, the sheets are slicked more by sweat than cum; but neither of you will back down, and for the first time (at least for you) orgasm takes on the mark of defeat.
After all that effort, the thing that makes you turn over when you’ve still got at least a good mile left to your self-control, is a strange look you spot in his eyes, in his countenance. It’s dark, a desperation beyond lust. He’s a complete stranger, and you’re not a psychologist, but something cold wriggles its way into your gut. You pause.
You’ve been aware that he’s done pretty much everything but kiss you. You’re not all that fond of doing so, either, with random tricks, but it’s not exactly a rule for you. So you push your face towards his, your lips towards his. Just to see what he would do.
He turns his head. And you catch a glimpse of- nothing. Not fear, or anger; just complete, controlled blankness.
It’s then that you know for sure what he wants from you.
Annihilation.
“You want me to fuck you,” the words slip out of your mouth. They are your greatest weapon, words; you knew you loved words long before you knew you loved men.
“Huh,” he huffs, eyebrows arching in surprise. “How d’you figure that?”
You get a pretty strong signal that talking is what he least wants to do. Your instincts tell you that your soul has found a brother; you have to stop the smile before it can form. Character is a two-sided coin; you love words because you’re good with them, and he hates them for the exact same reason.
“We’re at your place,” you say simply. “We’ve been at this for almost two hours. I’ve made it clear that I’m not playing bottom. You could have thrown me out at any time. But you haven’t. A part of you wants me to win.”
Specifically, he wants you to break his pride. You suddenly feel like you’re lying on quicksand. A player who’s just realized, mid-game, that the stakes are higher than he thought and he can only read a small fraction of the cards.
But sometimes games of will can be forfeited just by an outright acknowledgment of its existence. There’s also a fine line between being blunt and bruising another guy’s ego, and you’ve taken one breath the wrong way. He looks like he’s about to pull you out of his bed, right then.
So you lean forward and deliver the death-blow. “I yield.”
You turn yourself in- or rather, turn yourself over. There’s a moment of silence, stillness, likely shock on his part. You don’t feel any signs of disappointment when he drapes himself over you, but his movements are slower, gentler, almost tender. Your own pride has been prickled, but you’re pretty sure you’ll survive it. You look up as his slick, lubed fingers ease into your hole, and your eyes fall on a framed drawing of a naked, quiescent Kinney on the bedside table, propped up against the wall.
He starts talking as he thrusts inside you, penetrating deep. You gasp, moan, arch back; it’s been a long time. But he really is amazing in bed, knowing just where to touch you and able to read your body like he’s studied the manual to it. To your surprise and bewilderment he starts making small talk, such as can be had in the middle of grunting and panting and moaning. Asks about your job. Shows surprise at hearing that you’re a visiting scholar, in Pittsburgh for a lecture at Carnegie Melon, and a librarian back home.
“You’ve got... a great body... for a... bookworm,” he gasps, tongue lapping between your shoulder blades in a way that sends a flush of heat down your upper body.
“Good genes,” you reply, equally breathless. “And my... best friend... owns a club. Dancing... and fucking... burns calories.”
“I think... we understand one another.”
A statement like that can mean nothing or everything. Your instinct about him had been right. Even when he’s burying the long concrete hardness of himself into your ass, you feel curious about what you’d read from him, how much of him you’d guessed correctly. And most of all, you’re wondering about what’s driving him, right at that moment, because his lust has a strange edge to it. Not anger or guilt or hurt- something more basic than that, at the ‘flee or fight’ level. The desperation you’d sensed earlier is still there, thrumming like displaced energy over his long lean form.
Suddenly his hand tightens around your dick, and your balls draw in and you’re shooting, shooting. Words start molding and mating inside your own head. Your mind is drawn back, drawn blank, then catapulted, Stranger. Dark. Flee or fight.
Flight. Running away from something.
Eventually you return to your body, your thoughts snap back onto their tracks. More or less. Both of you groan when he pulls out. You hear the elastic snap of the condom being tied, but your eyes are on the drawing. If this were a movie, you’d give him some sage advice about facing his fears and fighting for what he loves. But it isn’t a movie, and you’re strangers in the orange-tinted night. And he’s right- you do understand one another, in a weird, indescribable way.
You did the right thing, by refusing to help him destroy himself. You have no doubt about this. Doesn’t mean you don’t hate that you did it. You feel like you’re owed an explanation, but you also know that your time as a pawn is pretty much over. This is not your game, not your life, not your problem. You dress silently, unable to think of anything to say that would be helpful but still ambiguous.
“Thanks for the fun,” you say politely, after pulling on your shoes. He gives a grunt in response. His eyes are somewhere else, and you notice that his hands are shaking a little as he lights a cigarette.
If he is as similar to you as you think, he’ll survive, he’ll do the right thing. But it will be up to someone else to make him more than merely alive. You’ve done your part; on your way towards the door, you wish good luck to the shadow of someone else, who’d been watching over the bed the entire time, just above the orange lights.