fic: this year's for me and you (archival entry)
this year's for me and you
prime suspect
originally posted at michelle's festive fucking ficathon
This is a terrible idea. Maybe. Probably. Augie’s not entirely positive because he’s had a few - more than a few, somewhere between a lot and too much - and it’s hard to hear that tiny, rational voice over the much louder, drunker one telling him this is the best idea ever. He’s got his hand on the small of Lou’s back, steering him gently, insistently toward the back of the bar. The place is crowded but quiet, Janey and Evrard dancing to what has to be the sixteenth version of Sleigh Bells that’s played tonight. Augie doesn’t mind this one though. Nat King Cole’s classic.
“I coulda gone home with her,” says Lou about the girl - woman, no, girl - he’d been talking to before Augie dropped down between them all, Lou I really need to speak to you, urgent police business, you understand. “I don’t see why I should suffer because you struck out.”
“You could do better,” says Augie at his back and Lou laughs, shakes under Augie’s fingertips, and Augie’s gotta grin ruefully because that might be true but that’s not what’s gonna happen.
Then they’re in the bathroom and the music falls away. Lou leans back against the wall, scrubs a hand over his face like he’s wiping away the sounds of the bar. Augie can still hear the rum-pa-pum-pum of some godawful woman crooning do you hear what I hear. The head smells like soap and fancy lotion; Augie belatedly realizes this is the women’s room. Oops. He looks around, at Lou, who’s staring back him from under an oversized Santa hat, flushed and glassy eyed with alcohol, a hideous tie with reindeer on it looped haphazardly around his neck. Augie realizes he’s sweating, tugs at his already loosened collar. Jesus.
Augie glances around again, takes in the shell-shaped sinks and little individual handsoaps, the floor-to-ceiling slatted stalls. “This is a really nice bathroom.”
Lou raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
Augie huffs out a laugh and moves in, closes around Lou, who opens up for him, spreads his knees perfect and easy. “No,” he says against Lou’s mouth.“ I was kidding. Forget I said anything.” Lou’s hat tickles Augie’s forehead, white trim catching him in the eye. His head knocks back against the wall when Augie pushes up against him, but he pushes right back, reeling Augie in close at the back of his neck because Lou’s a classic kind of guy.
“I usually do,” says Lou, raspy and drunk. He tastes like whiskey and something minty and bitter, the awful rumple mintze he was shooting with Ev. Augie yanks up Lou’s shirt until one corner comes untucked; he snakes one hand up to press his fingers into the soft flesh just beneath Lou’s ribs. Lou’s gripping his hip, thumb on the jut of bone, and sliding his hand down the front of Augie’s slacks. Jesus.
“Aug, Augie,” hisses Lou suddenly. “This is the ladies’ room.” There’s something about the way he says it, panicked, clutching at his pearls with one hand and groping Augie’s dick with the other, and Augie laughs, snorts against Lou’s neck until he’s shaking. “Yeah, yeah, fuck yourself,” says Lou and he groans.
“No, no, come on,” says Augie, whispering for some unknown reason. He ushers Lou one of the two stalls, slams the slatted wood door shut so hard it trembles. “Just shut up. And, uh,” he presses one hand tentatively against the slats, feels them give, “don’t lean on the door.”
“Oh my god,” says Lou, in a way he probably means don’t you ever shut up, but Augie kisses him again, licks right into his mouth and moves down his jaw. The furry white trim of Lou's hat tickles his face. Lou tips his head back, one hand at the back of Augie’s skull. Lou makes sharp, ragged little sounds, smokey wheezes in his chest, when Augie pushes his hand into Lou’s pants, wraps his fingers around Lou’s dick. Lou thrusts in his hand and Augie urges him on, curls a free hand over Lou’s ass for better leverage. Lou’s thigh between Augie’s legs is great, perfect, except if he could just get -
“Wait, no, this isn’t-”
“Oh,” says Lou, “I didn’t realize you had a vision.”
“Yeah, well.” Except Augie’s vision had somehow included Lou’s leg hitched up around Augie’s waist, which doesn’t look like it’s on the menu, at least not right now, unless Lou’s not terribly attached to his pants. “Next time.” Lou’s disbelief cracks out of his throat. Augie wants to bite at the line of Lou’s throat, yank on that hideous tie, but he’s not the best multitasker and Lou’s splayed hand is warm and insistent at at the low curl of Augie’s spine. For a long second it’s just like that, Lou’s low, breathy sounds, and the air hot and humid between their faces, until suddenly there’s a roar, like wave crashing, and the bathroom fills with the sounds of Dean Martin before falling blessedly silent again.
It takes Augie a second to work it out, but Lou’s faster, stiffening and eyes going comically wide like a cartoon, at the clack-clack of heels against the tile floor. He throws one hand out against the wooden door with a hard thwack that reverberates through the whole stall. Augie can’t keep it together, feels a grin steal across his face even when he clenches his jaw against it, a short honk of drunk hysteria escapes him. He tucks his face down into Lou’s collar, Lou’s arm like a fucking vise on the back of his neck, presses his nose into the scent of stale coffee and old snow. Lou’s trembling, either from laughter or something else, Augie can’t tell, doesn’t care when he ruts up against Lou’s leg, just this side of pleasure-pain. He can hear the thump-thump-thump of Lou’s thrumming pulse, the sounds of some oblivious woman peeing two feet over crystal clear while Augie’s got his hand down Lou’s pants, stripping his dick, fucking Christ.
The stall shudders when the toilet flushes and Lou uses the opportunity to groan flatteringly. It’s probably not as loud as it seems, Lou’s breath right next to Augie’s ear. The sounds of the sink and hand dryer seem almost clinical to the force of Lou trying to swallow his noises. In Augie’s mind’s eye, he sees a blonde who terrifyingly resembles Timoney, examining her face in the mirror, touching up her lipstick, wiping a smudged kohl line from her eyelid. Glancing at the closed stall door for a half second, shaking her head, then a rush of noise from the bar - what sounds like Reg singing I foresee a better time and Ev’s wheezing laughter - and then they’re alone again.
Lou slaps Augie on the back of the head, hard enough to sting. “Asshole!” Augie’s laughing but also thinking that was kind of hot, right, and Lou thrusts up into his hand going, “What is wrong with you oh, fuck-”
“My hand is cramping,” says Augie, and Lou lets out a short bark of laughter.
“Is this the Blando special ‘cause no wonder you’re-”
“Could you just-”
“You know how drunk I am? You’re lucky this is even happening.”
“My heart’s aflutter,” says Augie. His wrist is damp and Lou’s digging into the knobs of Augie’s spine, breath getting high and stuttered, pushing unevenly against Augie. There’s a second, a handful of seconds where Lou’s arm around Augie tightens and suddenly Augie’s palm is wet, sliding slickly against the skin of Lou’s dick and Lou’s going no, wait a second, just a - okay, okay before he freezes and relaxes against the wall. Augie pulls back from Lou’s neck, leaves a hideous wet mark on his collar, how attractive, to examine his blown-out expression, eyes closed and breathing deeply. Augie kisses him again, which feels good and little weird now that Lou’s not all focused energy, is just languid and drunk, mouth wet and warm beneath Augie’s. “This is very touching,” he says against Lou’s mouth, “but could you-“
Lou calls him an asshole but he reaches for Augie’s pants, bitches about the button fly, what is this 1977, and when he wraps his hand around Augie’s dick, Augie’s a lot closer to the edge than he thought. It only takes a few short pulls before Augie’s groaning, keyed up on Lou’s noises and warm body and the smell of Lou’s hair, like the cigarettes he pretends not to smoke when he drinks, and he’s coming into Lou’s hand. He stays there a minute afterward, tucked into the warmth Lou’s emanating, breathing in the chemical dry cleaning scent of Lou’s shoulder until there’s the light pressure of Lou’s finger tips against his hip and he feels more than hears Lou start and stop to say something a couple times.
Augie pulls back, suddenly aware of how chilly the bathroom is. “What?” His fingers are tacky and damp still and the ugly, tiny part of him from earlier is abruptly much louder. “If you’re about to - I’m mean, we’re just drunk.” The fake wood moulding behind Lou’s said says rhonda is a WHORE in looping teenage girl handwriting. “It doesn’t have to be a thing,” which is probably a lie.
Lou stares at him, goes to rub his hand over his face and then eyes his fingers in mild disgust. “I was gonna make a joke about being a hair trigger.”
“Oh.” Relief, spiky and sharp, blooms in Augie’s throat. “Good. Also, fuck you.” He can’t really defend himself though, so he shoves at Lou’s shoulder and whatever humid, tense thing dissipates. They wash their hands, although there’s no saving Lou’s collar (“What are you, teething?”) and Augie makes a big show of selecting his tiny soap just to hear Lou’s gravelly laugh. The party in the bar is still going strong, awful Christmas carols and peppermint schnapps, and Augie very carefully avoids Janey’s gaze when they’re sneaking out the door into the freezing cold.
prime suspect
originally posted at michelle's festive fucking ficathon
This is a terrible idea. Maybe. Probably. Augie’s not entirely positive because he’s had a few - more than a few, somewhere between a lot and too much - and it’s hard to hear that tiny, rational voice over the much louder, drunker one telling him this is the best idea ever. He’s got his hand on the small of Lou’s back, steering him gently, insistently toward the back of the bar. The place is crowded but quiet, Janey and Evrard dancing to what has to be the sixteenth version of Sleigh Bells that’s played tonight. Augie doesn’t mind this one though. Nat King Cole’s classic.
“I coulda gone home with her,” says Lou about the girl - woman, no, girl - he’d been talking to before Augie dropped down between them all, Lou I really need to speak to you, urgent police business, you understand. “I don’t see why I should suffer because you struck out.”
“You could do better,” says Augie at his back and Lou laughs, shakes under Augie’s fingertips, and Augie’s gotta grin ruefully because that might be true but that’s not what’s gonna happen.
Then they’re in the bathroom and the music falls away. Lou leans back against the wall, scrubs a hand over his face like he’s wiping away the sounds of the bar. Augie can still hear the rum-pa-pum-pum of some godawful woman crooning do you hear what I hear. The head smells like soap and fancy lotion; Augie belatedly realizes this is the women’s room. Oops. He looks around, at Lou, who’s staring back him from under an oversized Santa hat, flushed and glassy eyed with alcohol, a hideous tie with reindeer on it looped haphazardly around his neck. Augie realizes he’s sweating, tugs at his already loosened collar. Jesus.
Augie glances around again, takes in the shell-shaped sinks and little individual handsoaps, the floor-to-ceiling slatted stalls. “This is a really nice bathroom.”
Lou raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
Augie huffs out a laugh and moves in, closes around Lou, who opens up for him, spreads his knees perfect and easy. “No,” he says against Lou’s mouth.“ I was kidding. Forget I said anything.” Lou’s hat tickles Augie’s forehead, white trim catching him in the eye. His head knocks back against the wall when Augie pushes up against him, but he pushes right back, reeling Augie in close at the back of his neck because Lou’s a classic kind of guy.
“I usually do,” says Lou, raspy and drunk. He tastes like whiskey and something minty and bitter, the awful rumple mintze he was shooting with Ev. Augie yanks up Lou’s shirt until one corner comes untucked; he snakes one hand up to press his fingers into the soft flesh just beneath Lou’s ribs. Lou’s gripping his hip, thumb on the jut of bone, and sliding his hand down the front of Augie’s slacks. Jesus.
“Aug, Augie,” hisses Lou suddenly. “This is the ladies’ room.” There’s something about the way he says it, panicked, clutching at his pearls with one hand and groping Augie’s dick with the other, and Augie laughs, snorts against Lou’s neck until he’s shaking. “Yeah, yeah, fuck yourself,” says Lou and he groans.
“No, no, come on,” says Augie, whispering for some unknown reason. He ushers Lou one of the two stalls, slams the slatted wood door shut so hard it trembles. “Just shut up. And, uh,” he presses one hand tentatively against the slats, feels them give, “don’t lean on the door.”
“Oh my god,” says Lou, in a way he probably means don’t you ever shut up, but Augie kisses him again, licks right into his mouth and moves down his jaw. The furry white trim of Lou's hat tickles his face. Lou tips his head back, one hand at the back of Augie’s skull. Lou makes sharp, ragged little sounds, smokey wheezes in his chest, when Augie pushes his hand into Lou’s pants, wraps his fingers around Lou’s dick. Lou thrusts in his hand and Augie urges him on, curls a free hand over Lou’s ass for better leverage. Lou’s thigh between Augie’s legs is great, perfect, except if he could just get -
“Wait, no, this isn’t-”
“Oh,” says Lou, “I didn’t realize you had a vision.”
“Yeah, well.” Except Augie’s vision had somehow included Lou’s leg hitched up around Augie’s waist, which doesn’t look like it’s on the menu, at least not right now, unless Lou’s not terribly attached to his pants. “Next time.” Lou’s disbelief cracks out of his throat. Augie wants to bite at the line of Lou’s throat, yank on that hideous tie, but he’s not the best multitasker and Lou’s splayed hand is warm and insistent at at the low curl of Augie’s spine. For a long second it’s just like that, Lou’s low, breathy sounds, and the air hot and humid between their faces, until suddenly there’s a roar, like wave crashing, and the bathroom fills with the sounds of Dean Martin before falling blessedly silent again.
It takes Augie a second to work it out, but Lou’s faster, stiffening and eyes going comically wide like a cartoon, at the clack-clack of heels against the tile floor. He throws one hand out against the wooden door with a hard thwack that reverberates through the whole stall. Augie can’t keep it together, feels a grin steal across his face even when he clenches his jaw against it, a short honk of drunk hysteria escapes him. He tucks his face down into Lou’s collar, Lou’s arm like a fucking vise on the back of his neck, presses his nose into the scent of stale coffee and old snow. Lou’s trembling, either from laughter or something else, Augie can’t tell, doesn’t care when he ruts up against Lou’s leg, just this side of pleasure-pain. He can hear the thump-thump-thump of Lou’s thrumming pulse, the sounds of some oblivious woman peeing two feet over crystal clear while Augie’s got his hand down Lou’s pants, stripping his dick, fucking Christ.
The stall shudders when the toilet flushes and Lou uses the opportunity to groan flatteringly. It’s probably not as loud as it seems, Lou’s breath right next to Augie’s ear. The sounds of the sink and hand dryer seem almost clinical to the force of Lou trying to swallow his noises. In Augie’s mind’s eye, he sees a blonde who terrifyingly resembles Timoney, examining her face in the mirror, touching up her lipstick, wiping a smudged kohl line from her eyelid. Glancing at the closed stall door for a half second, shaking her head, then a rush of noise from the bar - what sounds like Reg singing I foresee a better time and Ev’s wheezing laughter - and then they’re alone again.
Lou slaps Augie on the back of the head, hard enough to sting. “Asshole!” Augie’s laughing but also thinking that was kind of hot, right, and Lou thrusts up into his hand going, “What is wrong with you oh, fuck-”
“My hand is cramping,” says Augie, and Lou lets out a short bark of laughter.
“Is this the Blando special ‘cause no wonder you’re-”
“Could you just-”
“You know how drunk I am? You’re lucky this is even happening.”
“My heart’s aflutter,” says Augie. His wrist is damp and Lou’s digging into the knobs of Augie’s spine, breath getting high and stuttered, pushing unevenly against Augie. There’s a second, a handful of seconds where Lou’s arm around Augie tightens and suddenly Augie’s palm is wet, sliding slickly against the skin of Lou’s dick and Lou’s going no, wait a second, just a - okay, okay before he freezes and relaxes against the wall. Augie pulls back from Lou’s neck, leaves a hideous wet mark on his collar, how attractive, to examine his blown-out expression, eyes closed and breathing deeply. Augie kisses him again, which feels good and little weird now that Lou’s not all focused energy, is just languid and drunk, mouth wet and warm beneath Augie’s. “This is very touching,” he says against Lou’s mouth, “but could you-“
Lou calls him an asshole but he reaches for Augie’s pants, bitches about the button fly, what is this 1977, and when he wraps his hand around Augie’s dick, Augie’s a lot closer to the edge than he thought. It only takes a few short pulls before Augie’s groaning, keyed up on Lou’s noises and warm body and the smell of Lou’s hair, like the cigarettes he pretends not to smoke when he drinks, and he’s coming into Lou’s hand. He stays there a minute afterward, tucked into the warmth Lou’s emanating, breathing in the chemical dry cleaning scent of Lou’s shoulder until there’s the light pressure of Lou’s finger tips against his hip and he feels more than hears Lou start and stop to say something a couple times.
Augie pulls back, suddenly aware of how chilly the bathroom is. “What?” His fingers are tacky and damp still and the ugly, tiny part of him from earlier is abruptly much louder. “If you’re about to - I’m mean, we’re just drunk.” The fake wood moulding behind Lou’s said says rhonda is a WHORE in looping teenage girl handwriting. “It doesn’t have to be a thing,” which is probably a lie.
Lou stares at him, goes to rub his hand over his face and then eyes his fingers in mild disgust. “I was gonna make a joke about being a hair trigger.”
“Oh.” Relief, spiky and sharp, blooms in Augie’s throat. “Good. Also, fuck you.” He can’t really defend himself though, so he shoves at Lou’s shoulder and whatever humid, tense thing dissipates. They wash their hands, although there’s no saving Lou’s collar (“What are you, teething?”) and Augie makes a big show of selecting his tiny soap just to hear Lou’s gravelly laugh. The party in the bar is still going strong, awful Christmas carols and peppermint schnapps, and Augie very carefully avoids Janey’s gaze when they’re sneaking out the door into the freezing cold.