Gift # 29 of 36 TO:yvonnereid FROM: Lee, sungaizing85 TITLE: Weighed Down GIFT REQUEST: PWP, B/J NOTE: Happy Holidays! Much love, Lee
Weighed Down By sungaizing85 Rated: NC17 Summary: B/J, PWP, post s5, one-shot Warnings: Mature topics, language, NC17, bit of angst, ‘stream of consciousness’
Persistence might as well be your only quality. Because you have it in spades. Not sure who you got it from or when exactly. Was it the day you first drew something that had a shape, a form, an underlying meaning to you with the last pathetic stub of your orange crayon? Or was it just you?
Gray, gray, gray… Endless fucking grey. But that’s alright. It’s the people that make the City so colorful. And the sky seems even more endless and powerful above the hues of grayness beneath it that tries to, attempts to and successfully always fails to scrape the deep, the pale, the immaculate blue with its endlessly graying hubris.
You don’t look much out the windows anyways, not regularly. You spend most of your time outside. Paving the miles and miles of cement with your steady persistence. Knocking on doors. On exits. On windows. On doorframes. On office glass-doors that are left with a smudge of your knuckles and fingertips cause there’s something in you that wants to mark it for a while. You were here. You tried here. Went here. You might forget otherwise. Or you might never want to remember later on.
The scene is pretentious. To put it mildly. The southerners might say half of them are sitting on their asses and ‘buying cotton.’ It’s an experience none the less. To see the plain, vapid faces of men, women, master connoisseurs, and self-proclaimed patrons; most older than you; who like Pavlov dogs already have an answer for you, the likes of you, the young, the fresh, the hopeful, the optimistic, the idealistic until that last fucking door, and the persistent as soon as they hear the bell, the knock, the tap of your knuckles against artificial elements that protect them from the unknowns.
Not there yet. Not quite there yet.
Persistence might as well be your biggest fault.
There’s a crack in the bathroom mirror staring back at you. Looks like an upturned, thin branch in winter, all dried up and weak. A part of the glass chipped-off and a black void left in its place. It still holds together though.
The water droplets slide down your face and collect just below your jaw and you close your eyes listening to the echo of water ripping in the half-filled bathroom sink ricocheting off of the walls and back against…
The doors squeak meekly at the rusty hinges and the floorboards groan in their weariness under new intruding weight. You grab a towel, the heavy cotton clinging to your numb fingers and swipe quickly, roughly against the damp, cold skin before stepping out the narrow doorway.
“What are you doing?” You still, not sure what to do with your hands, one arm arching up and you feel your fingers, still cold and still numb, combing through hair; fingertips grazing against scarred tissue.
“Having a tour of your place.” His eyes swipe around and take in the small area and you feel relived you still remember the shade of them. He stops at the small, round kitchen table and grabs an apple, round and yellow-green; a dull yellow against the dark grey of his expensive suit jacket. “Nice kitchen. Got any Special K?”
“Practically grew up on it.”
*****
It’s been over half a year. But it’s not a surprise. It’s not a shock. Doesn’t feel much different. And it feels entirely new. You’d laugh at yourself but some things, after so much has passed, aren’t just as funny anymore. You’re all for self-deprecation but it’s such a waste of time.
“How’s everyone?”
His eyelids rise, and blink quickly as if looking for something, somewhere before taking out a cigarette and lighting it.
“The munchers are trying to munch through Canadian immigration. Apparently Canada has rules. Imagine that.” He grabs a cup from a cupboard and flicks the ash inside, “How’s your hand?”
*****
“Look on the bright side; at least you’re not selling your body to gross old men.”
He looks the same and looks different. His eyes a bit softer, his lips a bit tighter and his hands keep you from remembering what you wanted to say.
“Yeah, just my art.”
“And,” He leans over the sofa and your weight shifts, following the movement; his hand reaching for the ashtray on the floor to stub out the shared cigarette as he spreads his legs wider to let you fall between them; grounded from slipping away, “at least you’re not giving it away for free.”
*****
The first week you dwelled in the City, you thought of it as if he was encompassed in everything you could sponge up and withhold inside. The vast expanse of tightly knit streets that meander and stretch and stretch. The neatness and obsessive organized beat of feet, wheels and occasional hooves paving the bright, sharp mornings. The complexity of undertones, overtones and accents in a simple, but never simplified conversation on the streets. The green shades and brief solace against a bark of a tree in a park. The liveliness of the endless night not even deterred by the break of sunrise. It’s always too early and always too late here. Everything was Brian. Brian was everything.
They feel like re-introductory kisses. Longest kisses of your life. Slow, lingering, melting. His hands traveling up and down your spine, bare brushes of wide, warm palms against heating skin. You shake on the inside, within what is left of skin to call your own, barely a handful of needs met as you tug at his lower lip and lick into him, lapping each damp breath up like it was always supposed to be yours.
Didn’t take long for the conversation to be stirred into a stream of remarkably unsubtle innuendos and you almost sighed with relief because that you do know how to deal with, that is familiar and that’s louder, and yet subtler than anything you two have to not say to each other right now. The clothes are somewhere on the floor, probably rumpled, pawed off and most definitely forgotten…
Your heart’s thrumming in your throat, lodged and heavy and you lick your lips, savoring with eyes closed as Brian hand traces the curve of your buttocks and dips between them. Your chest rises and falls against his, as you’re weighing him down with your naked body sprawled atop him and you’re so heavy and you’re so light and it’s crushing your chest, squeezing your lungs.
Your chin rests against his and you mouth air inside each other until everything feels like a humid, shielding second skin that you were missing all this time…
One doesn’t love breathing. Just needs it.
You slowly peek, afraid of the brightness, the lightness of hurting your vision and once you can see something other than a blurry, smudged out up-close, you know that the facial expression of Brian’s face right in front of you is carving into the flesh of your heart this instant. And no amount of time would heal it, stitch it or repair it.
Your feet are so cold that you can feel the still touch of cold, empty air against them as your toes curling each time your slide up and down; keeping any movement to a minimum so that you can still be pressed fully against him like this, weigh him down and not him squirm up to a different, upper-hand position.
Brian sinks down further into the soft hardness beneath, his hands cradling the back of your head, fingers teased into strands of your hair. Even the flutter in your gut feels like molasses-slow and heavy dandelion snow.
It’s the finest art. The licks, the patient nibbles, lips against lips until everything becomes one common nerve ending roaring inside each thin, surrendered vein. Brian’s hands are cupped around your neck, thumbs curved just behind where the soft lobes meets the firm of your ears and heat from his fingers seeps into your skull and you arch deeper into him, your taunt length grazing against his sideways, achingly vibrating in the in-between.
A tongue licks along the inside of your mouth until it feels puffy, swollen and mapped out with careful caresses and you sigh around it, your lips coming around it and suckling on it with reverence. The wet, borderline desperate kissing sounds ricochet off the walls, filling the whole area and wrenching out the last reserve of air out of your lungs in a shuddering sob. Your heart throbs in expansion, heavy, realizing heat against the blunt head of your cock; the taunt skin stroked with electric shocks, and your mouth falls open; air not let in, as soft pecks trail along your damp, flushed cheek and warm, steady hands ground you in your fall, tender murmurs swimming in your buzzing ears and you don’t remember ever hitting the ground in your release. *****
“What the fuck happened to your mirror?”
You muffle your snort against the still-warm pillow in the wee, never odd hours of the dawn, the whiff of Brian’s heavy scent teasing your nostrils and think of timeless persistence; his, yours, that wore him eventually but never weighed him down.