FFF-related: Clean up (sequel to "The spot")
Clean up (sequel to "The spot")
I adore kccagal's and sleeper's serials based on FFF prompts, I don't believe I can also do this regularly but the last two prompts just fit "The spot".
Disclaimer: It's a shame, that we don't own them, but it's so much fun to keep them alive in fan fiction.
“I want you to love me for the rest of my life.”
“And I want you to love me even longer.”
“I have always known you’re the greedier one.”
You feel him glued to your back all night long - even in the short moments you’re drifting away incredibly exhausted, unable to keep your eyes open and fight sleep. But somehow you think you have to stay awake to assure him that you’re there, that you don’t slip away, that you’ve come after him to bring him back home, to you, to your life together. It’s just then that you realize how close you were losing him maybe you still are. He’s not back to you, not yet, not completely. You know him and you practically hear the spinning wheel in his head running at full speed. He tries to keep his breath low and calm to not disturb you in your sleep that’s fleeing you anyway.
You’re not sure he’d fall asleep at all. It’s as if he’s holding his breath. You feel his eyes on you although you’ve finally turned off the lights. You need the darkness for protection; you feel so raw and bare and can’t stand the tension anymore. If you’ve thought having a crying fit, Reid - of course melting then and comforting you because that’s just the way it is, he acts when it comes to you, always has been, Reid can’t stand when you’re suffering - how absurd, right? - having hot, desperate sex in the shower …that all this would change everything that’s wrong with you and your man then you ought to cure your delusional tendency.
If you’re on the brink of losing everything how must he feel then? It’s as if your heart had been paralyzed for months needing a spot of semen to wake it up, your brain seems to be in seclusion now. When nothing feels right to say there is at least one thing left to do. So you reach down and grab his hand that’s lightly touching your thigh and press it to your heart, praying he’ll understand. Holding it there you alternate between tenderly stroking the back of his exquisite hand with your thumb and firmly squeezing his fingers.
“I love you, Reid; I really do - so much.”
You whisper into the darkness surrounding you.
You know he doesn’t want to talk right now, he’s exhausted and tense and he’s scared to say the wrong things and ask the wrong questions. Maybe he don’t want to ask you anything dreading the answers, or maybe it’s up to him to find some answers to whatever questions are haunting him.
You crave him to answer your confession though.
He doesn’t but he’s heard you given his fingers squeezing your hand back. Then he touches the soft pad between your thumb and your forefinger, you know he loves it, he’s told you a thousand times, he’s kissed it even more or nibbled at:
“French people call it ‘tabatière’, you know, because it’s the spot men put snuff on” you’ve told me once while endlessly caressing it. “And your thenar feels like chicken drumstick and I want to eat it up.”
His simple, possibly automatic gesture hits you like a blow on the carotid and you must bite your free hand to keep your tears at bay. You can’t expect him to deal with another attack of uncontrollable sobs. You know he needs time.
You remember the moment he’d babbled about your hands especially your ‘yummy thumbs’ for the first time and you’ve never been surer than at this very moment that you can’t live without him. Well, how often people do say “I can’t live without someone or something” and use the line as an empty phrase? But feeling his fingers increasing their light pressure, tenderly massaging the soft-strong padded part of your hand you know you’re lost without him, without his awkwardness that’s annoying sometimes but mostly endearing, without his sometimes painfully sharp analyses, his lack of understanding when it comes to professional shortcomings and incompetence, that makes him unfair sometimes, his enormous appetite for animal desires - how much would you love his appetite to come back - his complicatedness combined with a surprising simplicity and humbleness.
Outside the operating room Reid Oliver doesn’t aim high, he prefers a stay at Lucinda’s cabin in the woods to a trip to Paris, he chooses meatloaf over tenderloin and Emma’s apple-pie over crème brûlée and he’d left a brilliant career for a life with you. And you led him to believe he wasn’t enough for you.
“You know, I can’t imagine my life without you and although you’re going to object and tell me that people are hardwired to cope with almost everything I am not sure that I could live without you and knowing that you struggled for weeks to just do this, figuring out how to build a life without me that’s; that’s a nightmare.”
He sighs in response and presses his pitiful boniness closer into you.
“It was a spot of cum on the blanket that made me realize that I was an idiot.”
“…there is a difference, you know, between living and enjoying life.”
Eventually he speaks again.
You’re afraid to turn and look at him but you need to do something so you press your back into his groin and feeling his penis immediately react you go on. He removes his hand from yours and slightly spread your cheeks rubbing his cock between them. You like that, but you need more right now. Wordlessly showing him what you want he whispers: “Don’t turn around.”
You know why he wants to enter you from behind, with your face averted. You both need the darkness to protect you at that state of dancing on very thin ice.
You dread detecting distrust in his eyes and he? Maybe he’s afraid to reveal too much.
He fills you up and then pauses with his forehead pressed against our neck. You want him to thrust hard and fast to make your shame go away but he doesn’t. His movements feel like nudges, he’s going to kill you with tenderness but you haven’t the heart to urge him on. You open your eyes - wide - to the unexpected sensation of Reid’s hand wrapping around your disturbed flesh. But holding onto his torturing, slow pace his grip feels like a soft massage too.
“Have a little patience!”
What does he want to tell, to prove to you?
Maybe nothing special, maybe he’s only tired, maybe he just needs this slow, long drawn out road to “death”. Because you finally get what people mean calling an orgasm “la petite mort” (‘little death”), what happens to you feels like dying, and given Reid’s suffocated moans and sighs it seems you’re both dying a bit. Your disturbing love-making doesn’t stop with calming down, it changes, he kisses the spot where he’s bitten you in the shower and then you turn and reach out pulling his head to its proper place between your collarbone and your heart. The way he snuggles up to you then gives you hope. And finally, finally you fall asleep, both of you filling the room with heavy breathing and soft snores - a serenade of domestic familiarity. You sleep deeply but it feels just like seconds when Reid’s phone wakes you up.
You know the intruder before he answers it:
The Mayo
You could hug him for groaning obviously frustrated.
“Are you kidding me? It’s - ahmm - 7:30 …No, I haven’t made up my mind yet… and no. Yes, I do know…it’s a once in a lifetime - offer…I get it. No, no, I’ll call you…! Yeah, I am honored, bye!”
Of course, they want to know if he’s made up his mind. You picture them rolling out the red carpet while calling.
Slumping back on the bed Reid groans, trying to shake off the claws of sleep and rubs his face with both of his hands. You can’t see his eyes right now and when he turns his back to you just to look at his watch again, you sense his hesitation to turn them down and it’s then that you feel a pang of terrible hurt. He isn’t sure yet, if you’d work everything out.
And that hurts like crazy. You want to scream and shake him, to grab his head and look him in the eye and tell him that all this has to stop when you’re hit again: You’re whining and hurting because he hesitates to turn down a spectacular chance that would change his career in a way you can’t measure up in its entirety.
So you gulp down you attack of irrational and inappropriate hurt and ask him the ultimate question.
“You’re not sure?”
“About what exactly?”
“That we’re going to make it.”
“I don’t know, Luke. All I know is that - when you didn’t call from New York - I thought, ‘so that’s it. That’s the way everything that’s important to you ends here and now with a big bang of silence and some platitudes on your voicemail. So I hopped on a mental train and now it’s as if I can’t jump from it.”
“What does that mean Reid? Are you saying we’re done?”
“No, I just want to explain what’s going on in this head of mine. Look, I know that I am not the easiest man to live with, and that there are no guarantees, but look, it’s just this - when I stop by at the bakery Kitty knows what I want without asking, when I enter Al’s Henry needs exactly five minutes to wrap up my lunch and Sally at Java’s asks - double or triple shot? And, and although I bitch about Oakdale once in a while, all this - beside the people who grew on me - I like it and what possibly bores other people , such as eating the same doughnuts every day, having the same coffee every day, loving the same man for the rest of my life - all this comforts me, makes me feel safe. Before you I didn’t even know that I do want all this…”
“And now you think losing me - what you definitely won’t if I have still a say in it - implicates losing the only home you ever had…”
“Yeah, basically.”
So you crawl towards him, naked, spread his legs and kneel down before him, cupping his face firmly with both hands and make him look in the eye.
“Reid, I plead guilty to having neglected the only man I love,
I plead guilty to having ignored your attempts to save our relationship and acted like an ass.
BUT it never crossed my mind to leave you or to start something with Brian Bering. You know why? The first and only reason that counts is my love for you, but there is another important reason: I don’t want to be with an artist - because I know what’s like to live with an almost-artist and as we both know it didn’t me any good. So, if something similar happens again, maybe next time to you, because even you can’t guarantee that someday a hot doctor comes along and flatters you, we know now, that we have to be careful and talk in time, because there is such a thin line separating us from misery.”
And then there is shy Reid from your first messed up times, the one with a light strabismus when he’s insecure and vulnerable and doesn’t know what else to do.
And all you can do is the obvious. You kiss that slightly swollen lips but pull back before he deepens it.
“No - this has to wait - since I am sore, you’re sore and we have to do something about those sharp bones of yours. I look as if you’d beaten me up.”
This time he really eats, not as much as usually but at least he resembles his old version hovering up an over-sized omelet.
It’s him who suggests staying in the fancy hotel for another two days. You really need some time together. It’s only to days but it’s something. And it’s also him asking you to come with him to the Mayo, to tell them that he won’t accept their offer.
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Knowing you’ve finally managed to pull your head out of your butt and run after Reid, Casey calls.
“How is it going?”
“He isn’t back to his old self yet, but he turned the Mayo down and I think we’re going to be okay.”
“Praise the Lord! The two of you splitting up - you know that would have demolished the only illusions left in that big self of mine!”
You don’t join your best friend’s self-mocking tone, because it’s true - Casey does love you guys together and when allegedly stable couples breaks up, sometimes that provokes a storm.
“Luke, I want to forewarn you guys. There are some rumors spreading…that you cheated on Reid with Bering.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I don’t know who kicked this off, maybe Bering himself. Just be prepared!”
So Oakdale’s gossipmongers are wagging their malicious tongues. The gay model-couple of Oakdale splitting up, that would be something else, right?
Shit!
In a few days the grand opening of the new Walsh-office building is taking place and Brian Bering as the artist who designed the entrance is going to be there in the center of everybody’s attention.
How are you supposed to prevent Reid from freaking out again?
“Reid would you mind coming with me - to the opening?”
He just nods while packing his stuff.
Back home, you smile, watching him looking through his suits.
“How about we buy a new one, one that doesn’t hang loose at your sexy hips?”
So when the two of you enter the Walsh-building on Friday your man looks amazing.
You notice he’s still a bit tense, but when you smile at him, he smiles back.
And when you traverse the hall to say hello to Brian Bering but have to pass some gossip-fabricants Reid grabs your hand and doesn’t let go of it until he needs his own at the buffet.
Stealing some of his toppings from Reid’s plate you sense Brian Bering observing you. You’re not sure if Reid is also aware of Bering watching the both of you because he takes a miniature-meatball from his plate, bites into it and offers you the rest. You take it and smile. Is this his way to prove to Brian that he stands no chance? But then Reid shows that crooked smile of his and wipes a small crumb of meat from the corner of our mouth. The gesture is intimate, spontaneous and when you look him in the eye you see tenderness and love that he reserves only for you.