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“Hey, you know what we haven’t done in a while?” Brendon asks me casually. We’ve been lazily kissing for maybe fifteen minutes, maybe an hour. We’re just waking up; getting used to waking up like this. We’re both hard, because, really, any time we’re together sex is not a matter of if, but when, but we’re not in any hurry. No, we never have to be in any hurry ever again. Time stretches out infinitely ahead of us now. I’ve only been here in his house for two nights, but it feels like it’s been forever. Either that, or we’re just getting started. I can’t tell, time is starting to blur together already, like it can’t reach us here. It’ll catch up to us eventually, when we have to face the outside world and remember how to be around all those other people, but for right now it’s so far behind we’re not even bothering to run.
“What?” I pull back a little more to look at him, raising my eyebrows. God, he’s so beautiful like this, disheveled from sleep, soft in the morning sun streaming through the curtains, and finally, finally mine.
“I haven’t fucked you.” He says it slightly hesitantly, carefully, with his voice lifting up at the end as if it’s a question. He’s giving me a way out, I know, but I’m even thinking about taking it. He makes a surprised noise when I surge forward, kissing him. Insistent. Needy. I pull him towards me by the shoulders, trying to shift us so he’s on top of me as I lick into his mouth. He pulls back a little, still halfway on top of me. “Is that a yes?” He laughs against my mouth.
“Yes, fuck. Please.” I pull him back towards me, and he finally settles between my legs, pinning me under his weight. God, I missed this, how solid he feels on top of me. I spread my legs wider, gasping a little as our cocks make contact. “Fuck me.”
“Shit, Ryan.” When he pulls back to look at me his pupils are completely blown. He looks a little disbelieving. I know, I know. I was never like this about it before, never willing to let him see how bad I needed it. It clearly turns him on beyond belief. I love that, how crazy it makes him when I beg for it. I can’t help but smile a bit smugly. He always did have such a huge thing for begging, and I no longer have anything to prove by not indulging him. I reach over to the table, blindly grabbing the lube from where we put it last night before passing out. I press it to his chest, staring up at him with a look I hope says get on with it .
We never used to do this, unless he got in a mood and I was too far gone to deny him much of anything. Now, though, I think I’d like to even the score a little. That’s one thing I have Clifton to thank for: the knowledge that, regardless of the guise of Brendon “convincing” me, I do love getting fucked.
He kisses me again, and I hear the cap of the lube as he spreads it on his fingers. I bury my hands in his hair, hanging on for dear life when he presses a finger inside me. I whine high in my throat. So fucking good. He’s kissing down my neck now, and when he adds another finger I briefly think I should send Cliffton a fucking card or something. Thank you for insisting that I like getting fucked, even though I denied it every time. I think the man I left you for appreciates the practice. Sorry about that, by the way. Here’s hoping another fag moves to Maine soon. Love, Ryan.
He crooks his fingers, and I feel like I’m being taken apart and wound tighter all at once. “ Fuck yes. Right there.” I pant into his mouth. He pulls back to look at me, and I know I’m gasping into the air between us every time he moves his fingers just right. He doesn't break eye contact, just watching me come undone as he fucks me with his fingers. He’s playing me like an instrument, pressing all the right spots to make me sound just like he wants.
“Christ, when did you get so responsive to this?” he asks lowly, sounding almost as fucked out as I do already.
“When I stopped pretending not to be gay or in love with you.” I answer breathlessly. He laughs a little at the frankness of it, but we both know it’s the absolute truth. Then he kisses me, and I whisper “more” against his mouth, the word sounding completely desperate even to my own ears. He adds another finger, and the stretch burns a little, but I’ve started to get why he’s always liked that. Fuck. God, it’s so good. He curls them just right again, and I hear myself cursing nonsensically, spreading my legs ever further.
He bites at my jawline, and I feel his five o’ clock shadow rubbing against my own. We haven’t shaved in way too long, but somehow the added sensation makes it all even more intense. He pushes his fingers into the same spot over and over again, whispering “good boy” when I can’t hold back my sounds anymore.
I moan again. I fucking love it when he calls me that, and I think he can tell, now, how badly I want to be good for him. How much I need it.
He moves down my body, kissing a trail towards my cock. He puts his mouth just inches away from me, his breaths ghosting right above where I really want him. He watches me buck my hips, unsure if I’m trying to move forward towards his mouth or back onto his fingers. My hands are still in his hair, but I’m not controlling him in any way, just hanging on for dear life. He licks the head of my cock once before he pulls away, just to hear me cry out, and then he’s kissing the inside of my thigh, pushing my legs even wider with his free hand on the back of my knee.
“God you’re still such a fucking tease when you do this.” I pant out.
He grins at me, then crooks his fingers again hard, right as he bites down on the inside of my thigh, all to get me to gasp. The noise I make is loud enough that I’m sure if this was an apartment we’d have a noise complaint by now. Thank god he had the divine foresight to buy a house with lots of space between us and the neighbors. We are going to make very good use of the opportunity.
“God, fuck me. Please fuck me, Bren, shit.” I whine a little when he pulls his fingers out hastily, moving up my body to kiss me again, all tongue and teeth, and then I don’t care because all I can think about is how bad I want his cock inside of me right now please. He pulls back and he’s grabbing the lube again, slicking himself up, and I want it so bad I feel like I can hardly breathe.
I spread my legs wider, feeling like I’m putting myself on display for him, trusting him completely. He puts a hand behind one of my knees again, pushing my leg up further. He rubs his cock over my entrance, teasing again, watching me move my hips desperately as I try to get him to just fuck me already.
“Are you ready?” he asks with a faux-innocent grin, knowing damn well I’m about to start openly begging for it any second.
“God you’re such an asshole.” I groan, and I’m about to tell him to get on with it when he pushes inside all in one go, filling me up completely, and I cut myself off with a moan. He moves his hands to my waist, sliding them up my torso slowly until he’s moving my arms up above my head. I let him position us, move me however he wants, knowing he’s going to give me what I need. He pins my hands just above my head, lacing our fingers together. He kisses me slowly then, licking into my mouth without any urgency, giving me time to adjust to him.
I break away first, staring up at him, and he looks right into me. He’s inside me. He’s right where I want him, and he knows it. “Move,” I breathe, adding an impossibly softer “please” just to rile him up more. I want him to fuck me damnit, and I know how to get him to do that.
He keeps staring at me as he finally starts moving, almost like he’s studying my reactions, memorizing them. I bite my lip hard to hold back a moan as best I can, squeezing his hands where our fingers are still laced together. He moves to the side, putting his lips practically on top of my ear to whisper “don’t hold back, baby, you know I like to hear you,” and I shiver involuntarily. He bites down on my pulsepoint right as he pushes in at an angle that drags against my prostate just right, and I moan openly into the room. I feel him smile against my neck. “Good boy.” Ok, yeah, he’s definitely figured out that I like that.
He leans back again, looking into my eyes as he picks up the speed of his thrusts. He’s not letting me have anything, completely controlling the pace, pinning me down with his weight and his hands. I just take it, moving my hips to meet him. He puts his head on my shoulder, groaning lowly and slowing down, like he’s already trying not to come.
“Hey, do you know what we’ve never done?” I ask hoarsely, grinning when he pulls back to look at me questioningly. “I want to ride you.”
“Oh fuck yes,” he practically growls. He kisses me again, feverishly, but neither of us can focus on it because we’re smiling into eachothers mouths, too much teeth and no coordination whatsoever. He moves his hands down from my hands to my arms, then settles them on my hips, pulling us flush together again before he flips us over, falling onto his back and pulling me with him. Keeping himself buried in me the whole time.
My hands quickly come up to stabilize myself on his chest, and I pause, staring down at him and panting, holding myself up with nothing but the strength of my legs and my arms braced on his torso. He looks so far gone now, gazing up at me through his eyelashes, and I can see why he likes this the other way around. He’s slipped out of me a little in the change of position, but not all the way. I sink down the rest of the way on his dick, closing my eyes for a second as I finally put my full weight on him, just feeling how full I am. Shit.
“God, you look so beautiful like this,” he whispers, and when I open my eyes again he’s looking right at me, completely focused on my face. His face is completely open, and I know mine must be, too. It’s almost too much, this connection. It feels like he’s touched every part of my being somehow, and he still wants more. I want him to have more. I roll my hips experimentally, biting my lip to try to distract myself enough to control the motion. He bucks up into me, using his grip on my hip bones to control the motion a little. Oh my god, that is so fucking good.
“Jesus christ,” he breathes, pausing for a minute to catch his breath. It’s good to know I still drive him this crazy, but I can’t really revel in it when I’m just as far gone. His grip on my hips is bruising, and he’s holding me firmly, buried all the way inside of me. I’m riding him. I’m technically on top now, but he’s still not giving me control. Good, I don’t think I want him to.
I lean down to kiss him, filthy and desperate, all tongue no tact, and when I push myself back upright he starts moving again. I roll my hips with him, dropping myself down on his cock a little, and suddenly the angle is just right.
“Oh fuck Bren. Right fucking there, just like that. Shit .” I cut myself off on a moan, ending my almost incoherent rambling, but he gets the message, picking up the pace again while keeping the angle just the same.
“You have no fucking idea how hot you sound,” he pants up at me, looking for all the world like I’m the only thing that exists to him, and I slow us down a little, focusing on staring back at him. The eye contact is way too much and not enough all at once. We move in perfect unison, and I suddenly remember why this used to scare me, how incredibly exposed I feel every time he does this to me. It feels a bit like I'm falling, but I’m trusting him to catch me this time. I’m letting myself fall.
“I love you” I say, feeling completely torn open all over again. Completely fucking filled up and consumed by it. Raw in all my nerve endings. The last time we did this I was in so over my head, and every time he’s fucked me in the past it felt like he was suddenly gone the next minute. Inside me everywhere and then walking away. The memory makes my stomach drop hard at the same moment he hits my prostate, and the combination makes me lose my balance a little bit. I gasp, falling forward a little where I’m supporting myself with my arms on his torso.
He brings one of his hands to the side of my face, and he just says “I love you too.” He states it firmly, like he knows some terrified part of me is going to keep trying to weasel its way out of believing him. His face softens a little, tightening his grip on my waist and moving his hand across my cheek, and there’s that look again: the slightly disbelieving one he gives me that makes me feel like he’s trying to memorize me, just in case this is a dream. “God, I love you,” he whispers, almost to himself.
He loves me. I’m letting him in, and he’s here to stay.
Everything about it is too much, too intense, and I can feel the familiar coil in my stomach building slowly, and when we really start moving again I know I’m making sounds with every thrust. I could come like this. I’m not close yet, but god, if we keep up like this, I could. I’m still staring at him in some sort of awe, and he’s starting to look smug about it, but I don’t even care. Fuck, is this what it was like for him? That first summer, that time he came without me touching him? Shit, I don’t know how he ever could have walked away after this . He’s always been a stronger man than I.
“Holy fuck,” I manage, and he grins crookedly up at me, like he’s proud that his cock is completely blowing my mind. Whatever, it kind of is. He can have that. I smile back, a little disbelieving. “Bren, if we keep going I think I’m gonna come,” I tell him, as composed as I can manage.
“From this?” he asks, his smile morphing into something with a hint of that awe in it. I nod, and he grins again, bringing his hips up sharply to meet mine where he’s still controlling our movements with a hand on my hip. I cry out a little, my hands slipping forward again, bringing our faces just an inch closer as I try to keep myself upright. He smiles, completely open, with no barriers up between us, and I find myself huffing a laugh in return. “Let’s try.”
I have no idea how long it takes for me to get close like that, but it has to be at least an hour or two judging by the angle of the light streaming through the curtains. He has to take a couple breaks from the constant drag so he can last long enough, and I get that, remember that feeling, although it’s becoming a bit distant now with time. It’s unbearably hot, the way he grabs my hips forcefully to stop us when he needs to give himself a break. He lets me take control of the pace as we go on, getting more and more desperate as that white heat pools heavier and heavier in my stomach. I manage to pant out the word “close” once before all that’s coming out of my mouth is a stream of curses and incoherent noises that I can barely hear, but then everything is like static in my head, and I think my face feels wet but all of that is fuzzy compared to just how good it feels. I feel him coming inside me, warm and somehow just that little bit more intense, and it’s filthy but it feels like I love you . I understand all over again why he kept saying he was going to die because I am gone .
He’s grabbing my hips hard enough to bruise, and I’m probably leaving marks on his chest with my blunt nails, but I can’t feel any of it because suddenly I’m coming. My vision blacks out for a second from the intensity of it, and I’m dizzy. My body feels distant except for where we’re connected, where I’m coming on his stomach and mine. It seems to stretch on forever, like time slows down as every sensation reaches its peak.
We both come down slowly, riding out all the aftershocks together as our movements slowly come to a stop. My chest is still heaving when I come back to my body, and I start to register everything again. His hand is moving on my face, in my hair, over my arms. He’s almost petting me, gradually bringing me back down to earth. When his hand comes up to my cheek again I register that he’s wiping moisture from my face, staring at me like he’s trying to memorize me again. I’m sniffing a little, trying to slow down my breathing and compose myself, although the effort seems sort of futile, because he can tell I’m a complete mess. I’m sure I’m looking at him in pretty much the same way, he’s looking at me: studying. The way his hair is sticking to his forehead a little, the way his lips are still parted while he tries to catch his breath. I wonder idly if we could get more of those stupid polaroids, take dumb pictures of each other every day for us to look back on when we’re old and no longer up to hours long sex marathons like this. I mentally promise myself to write that down, or something.
“Wow.” I say at length, my voice sounding strange and choked.
“Yeah,” He laughs, pulling me down to meet him. He kisses me softer than I was expecting, moving his thumbs on my cheeks. It’s nice, but this position isn’t one I’m keen to stay in after orgasming. I pull back to move off of him, grimacing as he slides out of me. I realize how completely fucked my legs are when I drop heavily onto my side. My thighs burn from the exertion, and my knees are stiffer than I think they’ve ever been, but my whole body feels warm and pliant anyway. He kisses me again before he pulls back, muttering “one second” as he half stumbles his way to the bathroom. I roll onto my back and smile a bit smugly as the tap runs, knowing that he’s too well-fucked to walk straight, too, even though he was topping. I stretch my legs out on the bed, idly rubbing at my left knee where I can feel the stiffness just starting to unwind. I silently pray to any god that will listen that nobody asks us to do anything today, because I know I’d be stumbling like a newborn foal.
When he comes back he kneels next to me on the bed, holding a hand towel, and I assume he’s going to clean the come off of my stomach, but then he doesn’t right away. He puts a hand on my cheek, turning my face towards him, and I knit my brows together in confusion, but then moves the towel across my face, warm and soothing where I’ll admit my skin feels kind of dry from saline. It feels really fucking nice, actually, and I find myself closing my eyes while he cleans me up, moving down to actually wipe off my stomach.
“What was that for?” I ask him as he throws the towel on the ground haphazardly. We have to start picking those up soon, they’re going to mildew.
“Do you always cry when you bottom?” He asks, and I guess it’s also kind of an answer. He moves his hand to my hair again, and I sigh, closing my eyes in a half-hearted attempt to feign exhaustion. It’s too late to sleep again, though. That’s the problem with morning sex marathons: sleeping afterwords fucks up your whole day. “Seriously, I know you didn’t the first time, but then back in New York, I remember...” He trails off, moving his hand down to lightly press on the bruise he left just under my ear last night. The one that’s probably going to be there more often than not for the rest of my life, if we get our way.
I look up at him again, still warm and feeling a little more exposed than before. “Only with you.” I confess quietly.
“Have you ever bottomed for anyone else?”
He seems genuinely curious, but I still ask “are you gonna get jealous?” as I sit up against the headboard. He smirks a little when I wince, and I fight the urge to flip him off.
“No, just curious.” He leans over to the nightstand, lighting a cigarette which I promptly steal. He generously allows me to take a few drags to gather my thoughts before stealing it back.
“I didn’t between the first and second time with you, but then I stopped kidding myself about being gay, and I agreed with other people a few times. It’s not like I hate it, obviously, but I’ve never preferred it.” He looks surprised when I say there was no one between the first time and New York, but I think deep down he probably knew. The way I reacted, the way he could always talk me into doing brave and stupid things that I wanted but wouldn’t ask for. I think he knew then, too, that he was the only one I had ever let top me. I look at him, considering if he actually wants to hear the rest of it. He asked, though, so I figure he wants to know. “I had a fuck buddy, noting more than that, really, we were barely even friends outside of sex, but we took turns,” I say quickly.
“I’m better though, right?” he asks, grinning mischievously as he moves closer.
I roll my eyes, stealing the cigarette out of his mouth so it’s out of the way. I grab his face with my free hand, kissing him firmly. “You know you are, shut up.” I grin against his mouth. I figure a little more ego stroking won’t hurt, considering he can’t possibly get a bigger head than I’ve already given him by the way I just came on his dick. Besides, I like it when he’s cocky. My Brendon was always more wild and self-assured than the rest of us.
“It’s because I love you, you know? That I-” I gesture vaguely, unwilling to say what I’m talking about in such specific terms, “when you fuck me,” I finish crudely, trying to take some of the raw sincerity out of the statement. That never works with him, though. Vulnerable honesty has always come with vulgarity for us, they heighten each other. The way we love each other is unfiltered and sincere, with all the filth that comes with it. When you have an honest love like that, crude is just another word for frank.
“Yeah?” He grabs the mostly burnt cigarette from my hand, taking one more drag before he stubbs it out on the ashtray.
“Yeah.” I pull him by the shoulders until he’s laying across my legs, his head on my thigh, and I thread my fingers through his hair. He looks up at me, and I move my hand to trace the contours of his face lightly, studying the way he looks; the way he looks at me. “The first time I was convinced I didn’t love you, and I forced myself not to look at you, so that made it easier not to get attached. Although, god, all I wanted was to look at you,” I suddenly find myself explaining. Pillow talk. Isn't that how I always get into trouble with him? He looks at me with thinly veiled excitement at the fact that I’m still talking, letting him in of my own accord, as if I didn’t just do that already by begging him to fuck me into the mattress. “It was overwhelming, and I couldn’t stand how much it felt like I needed you. The second time, though, I was realizing what I felt for you, and it was just overwhelming, giving you that control; trusting you with that. I didn’t let other people do that to me back then, just you. I knew it would be too much, just like last time, but I wanted you so bad I didn’t care. I mean, you remember what it was like, how intense that was. Then every time it happened it was like you were completely gone the next day, and that was awful, feeling like I was yours and then suddenly being alone. Harder the first time than the second, obviously.” I laugh weakly.
He frowns a little, sitting up so we’re face to face, kissing me firmly. I make a slightly startled noise, but I kiss him back right away. The hand he isn't using to support himself moves to my waist, and I move my hands to his neck, my fingertips curling into the finer hairs along the base of his skull. He pulls me even closer somehow.
“I’m here now,” he whispers into my mouth.
“I know.”
“And I love you.”
“I know.”
He smiles at me, like that’s even better than I love you too , because he knows that already, that’s a given. Me knowing that he loves me, though, that’s more novel.
“I love you too,” I tell him anyway, just because I want to, and he kisses my cheek. He’s been doing that, pressing kisses to my face and my hair. It feels like still here in the morning. It feels like I love you, and I want you to know . It feels like mine .
I spent so long thinking about how badly I wanted him to be mine, but I never let myself think about how much worse I wanted to be his.
He puts his face in the crook of my neck, pulling our torsos flush with both arms around my waist, sighing like he’s going to sleep just like that: half sitting up as he lays against me. The sheets pool around our waists. I can feel the muscles in his shoulders and his back where I’m running my hands over them. We’re wrapped around each other, the late morning light shining brilliantly across the bed, and I’m reminded, vaguely of a marble sculpture I once saw. Back in the early days of The Followers, the first time we ever went to Europe, I was tripping on those gorgeous foreign psychedelics with the men who were still my best friends, and we wound up in a museum that we all unanimously, intoxicatedly decided would “totally give us an epiphany!” I remember seeing this sculpture, I have no fucking clue where it was anymore, maybe France? Wherever it was, I saw this sculpture. It was of two angels, demurely wrapped in thin sheets of cloth to protect the sense of modesty we assign them the moment we give them sapience in our heads. They were completely wrapped up in each other, tangled in what looked at the time like endless miles of fabric and skin. I got lost in the magnitude of the details, thinking about the sanctified labor that went into creating them. That sculptor, with his divine hands, creating a gift to god with the gifts god gave to him. Joe told me later that I looked at that sculpture for an hour, only leaving when the rest of them acted on some drug fueled impulse or another and got us kicked out in a language none of us knew, but I couldn’t tell. Time stood still when I looked at them: two beings who managed to find something cosmically right.
We smell like sex. His come is still dripping out of me where he’s claimed me from the inside, broken me down to my basic parts and filled in every crack; sodomized me. But, despite the filth of it all, this moment feels just as right, just as holy, as any scene of angels and their divine lovers. He sees me, and he does that thing nobody really managed to do before him: he loves me anyway.
The christian man who made that sculpture would no doubt despise me for comparing my warped, drug induced experience of his work to my lurid homosexual love affair, but I have always been a heretic, and right now I’m convinced that our love is more holy.
I was wrong when that news anchor killed herself, there is no divine punishment in this. If there is a god, and, even now, I doubt that there is, then this has got to be his gift to us.