forthedog | And carve your name and hearts into the warhead

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And carve your name and hearts into the warhead

Somewhere between finding out the news and hitting the tarmac in Newark, he decides not to go to Neil immediately.

Some of it is fear, plain and simple, though he'd only come out and call it that under extreme duress. But it's not fear of Neil, not really. It's both more complex and more horrible than that. It's fear of disappointing him. Fear of what it might mean that he's afraid of that. Fear of commitment. Fear of not committing. Fear of being hurt. Fear of becoming someone who can't be hurt at all, because they don't feel anything.

At Newark he rents a car for a day and drives into Trenton; it's a sad little town in a lot of ways, that sign on the bridge somehow reproachful rather than proud--the world takes everything from us and leaves us with nothing--but something about it speaks to him all the same. It's not New York. It's not really like anywhere he's lived.

After about half an hour, it occurs to him that probably the closest it comes to is Hutchinson.

Shortly after that, leaning on the hood of the car and watching rain drip sullenly into the gray river, a cigarette burning down to a stub between his fingers, he comes to another decision. It doesn't take him very long. Really, he thinks maybe he's already made it, and the hard part was just realizing that it was made.

He picks up a local paper, finds three places that he can look at that afternoon, and jumps on the third one. It's small, old, clean. Is it all right if he pays for a few months in advance? He has to go overseas for a while and won't actually be living in it until he returns. Yes, it's fine. A modest and unspent inheritance and years and years of intensely minimal expenses mean that he has money. Really, he has more than he knows what to do with.

And now he knows.

He signs the application, agrees to come back in a day or two to sign the lease itself, hits the road. It's getting dark and raining harder. He takes a detour and stops in front of the gates of Fort Dix, looks at the lights in the early gathering twilight and thinks about what might have been. What won't be. What will.

It's late when he gets into the city itself, and though Neil's told him where the bar is he gets lost twice, the streets becoming oddly maze-like. Parking should be a nightmare but once he finds the place itself, there's a spot across the street, and he slides into it, dumping change into the meter without counting the time.

It's a hole in the wall, but it's got good atmosphere, dim and smoky, music too loud. The kind of place he likes, as a rule.

It's not too crowded but it's small, and people line the bar, and he only catches sight of Neil when he pushes his way to the front. For a moment he doesn't speak, doesn't breathe, and there's the fear again. Is he making a huge fucking mistake? Is he giving up too much for someone he still hardly fucking knows?

Is there a name for this? One he can use?

He catches Neil's eye, taps the bar and manages a thin smile. "Whiskey. Straight."

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"Didn't say I wanted you to fucking order me around," he murmurs, suddenly playful in a tense sort of way, pulling at what remains of his clothes. Because he did, sort of, even if it wasn't in so many words. Take over. Let me not have to think for a while. And he's doing exactly what Neil wants, and knows he'd do much more if it came to it.

Even if part of him still wants to fight a little.

He kicks his shoes away and jeans and boxers with them, hooking a leg over Neil's hip and arching up naked under him, eager and hungry and every bit as forceful as he is when he goes in fully intending to stay in charge. But now there's an unsteady edge to it, like he might topple over if he's just pushed in the right way.

"Bullshit," I laugh, prying open my own jeans and shoving them down my hips, a hand splayed out on the middle of his chest, holding him back, holding him down, like I'd ever really be able to overpower him through strength alone.

"You got a rubber?"

The question confuses him momentarily, like he's forgotten that such things even exist, much less that he'd have any reason to have them around. He frowns, trying to focus around the solid press of Neil's hand in the center of his chest, looking up, the vulnerability like a thing he could sink into and be gone.

Then he remembers, coughs out a laugh and nods across the room. "Jeans," he murmurs. "Back pocket." He'd been prepared, yes. But maybe not that prepared.

"Fuck," I laugh helplessly, climbing off of him and stripping completely out of my jeans along the way. I bend down, bare ass in the air, and fish a condom out of his pocket, wobbling back toward the bed on shaky legs.

Dropping the condom onto the bed, I press a kiss to the inside of his knee, the soft part of his inner thigh, and that tattoo on his hip, my hands framing his hipbones and holding him down.

He presses up under Neil's hands but it's just a token resistance, just enough to get Neil to hold him more firmly, letting out a hard sigh with his arms stretching back over his head. Neil's mouth is hovering everywhere except where it really needs to be, and he clenches his fists in the sheets to keep from grabbing him and forcing his head down.

"Such a tease," he mutters, and laughs. "C'mon, I'm going to war. Be nice to me."

"'m bein' nice," I murmur, breathing warm across his dick, grinning with his hips pinned harder to the sheets. "You wouldn't want me too nice."

Crawling between his legs, I nip at the soft skin at the juncture of his thigh, then I turn, painting a stripe down the length of his dick with my tongue.

"Maybe I--" he starts, and then the words melt away into a kind of laughing moan as his hips stutter upward, wanting more of what Neil's tongue is promising. One hand slips out of his control and downward, fingers combing into Neil's hair and palm cupping the back of his head. "More of that," he breathes, and his eyes flutter closed. "Please."

Yeah, he'll beg. Yeah, he'll probably do just about anything. God.

Batting his hand away halfheartedly, I practically nuzzle at his dick, nose buried in coarse hair, my tongue swiping over his balls. Then I trace my way up the length of him, tongue circling the tip.

When I suck him down, it's slow, like I'm savoring every fuckin' inch, like it feels as good to me as it does to him. And in a way, it does.

There aren't any words in the sound he makes, even half-formed ones; it's loose and liquid, and he feels his face twist into a grimace that might look like pain--but Neil's mouth is heaven, it has been since the beginning, and he lets go against it.

His hand has left Neil's head but not the rest of him, and his fingers trace a broken line across his shoulders, nails digging briefly into his skin in a way that's more instinctive than intentional.

He'll come back for this, yes. But the truth is that this is only part of what he'll come back for.

I stay like that for a long time, working over him slowly, drawing it out, just because I can. I fucking love this, not just 'cause I'm good at it. Watching him come apart, the frantic movement of his hands on my shoulders, the way he arches under me, those sounds he makes...

That's what makes this something I could do for hours.

But after a while, I slip a finger past my lips alongside his cock, then I reach back behind his balls, the taste of him heavy on my tongue while I circle that ring of muscle with one damp fingertip.

The closest image he can find to what he's feeling is something melting, going from solid to liquid and entirely malleable and yielding--not that it would ever take him that much to get there, with Neil. But now he feels like he needs it more, moaning and gasping under Neil's mouth, loud even for him, and sounding almost like he's in pain.

And maybe it is a kind of pain.

He tenses when he feels the press of Neil's finger, but it's not unexpected and he makes himself relax, thinking not about melting but about openness, a cup or a bowl or something waiting to be filled up. Something made to be filled up.

And this could be the first time in a long time that he hasn't felt at all empty.

I press in with one finger, past the first knuckle, the second, feeling his body open up, drawing me in deeper. Sucking his cock all the way down, throat opening, fighting against the urge to gag, then I pull back completely with a gasp, his cock slipping from my mouth with a wet pop.

"This what you want?" I ask, lining up with a second finger, this one maybe a little too dry, but I don't think he'll mind.

It's almost too much, almost too fast, and he feels himself tensing again--not just pain or just pleasure but a dense combination of the two, wringing a harsh sound from his throat. He leans up even as he spreads his legs wider, one hand against his face, the heel of his palm pressed against his eye like he's trying to keep from seeing something. It's all instinctive movement. At least he doesn't have to think now.

"Yeah," he grates, head dropping back again. Sight is the least intense thing he's experiencing right now, but fuck, Neil's face... "Yeah, I want it."

"I need to start carryin' lube wherever I go," I admit with a hoarse cough of laughter, leaning down to spit into my fingers, lewd and messy and mostly ineffective, but it helps a little.

"Keep droppin' in unannounced, I never know when you might turn up."

And maybe more turning up soon, in a few months, when he's free and he lives closer and he has a new life that he can make into whatever he wants it to be. With Neil. Oh, God, what the fuck does that mean? He wants to believe it. Badly.

He wants Neil's fingers deeper in him, though they're burning him a little. He lifts his legs and hisses through his teeth.

"Pay your phone bill and I'll fucking--ahh--call first."

"Told you I will," I murmur, pausing at that little ripple of tension that goes through him, his teeth bared. My hand curled around his dick, stroking him through it, I say, "There's probably a bottle of lotion in the bathroom."

I know he can handle it, and I'm half afraid he might be all insulted by the offer, but for reasons I can't really put words to, I want this to go as smoothly as possible.

He's tempted to refuse it. There's some part of him--and it might be simple masochism or it might be something else--that wants it to hurt, like if it does it'll stay with him for longer, burned into him. But he thinks about Neil inside him, thrusting into him, and he knows he shouldn't make this harder than it has to be.

"Yeah," he gasps, hand fumbling over Neil's around his cock. "Probably... good idea."

Wheezing out a laugh, hunched over him so my forehead's practically resting against his breastbone, I say, "Jesus," pulling my hands free and stumbling shakily to my feet. Again.

We seriously didn't plan this well.

"You're fuckin' high maintenance today," I tease on my way to the bathroom, thanking God that this shitty little motel actually has a basket of little sample sized bottles by the sink. Grabbing a tiny bottle of hand lotion, I unscrew the top with my teeth on the way back into the living room, spitting it out at him with a grin.

"You offered," he shoots back, sliding up a little further on the bed and closing his hand around his own dick, resisting the temptation to stroke. Letting the tension unspool itself. Following the movement of Neil's body with half-lidded eyes as he reaches up with his other hand to twist at his own nipple.

"You really complaining?"

"Not really," I admit with a grin, dumping too much lotion into my palm and slicking up my fingers as I crawl up between his legs. My tongue swipes across the head of his dick again, playful and teasing and almost... affectionate, but I distract myself from that thought by pressing into him again, first with one finger, and then the next.

It's an easier slide, impossibly hot and tight, and I let out a low moan, swallowing down the head of his dick with my eyes still on his face.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word a drawn-out sigh as he goes limp on the mattress, relaxing in a way that has force behind it, because it has to. It's a hard swell of pleasure and something just on the right side of discomfort, and it's easier now. Definitely a good idea.

He pulls a leg back against his middle, feeling incredibly exposed, exulting in it in a way that still feels alien. But good. So good.

It's easy now, and I can concentrate on working him open instead of how not to hurt him, working him with my mouth on his cock and my fingers up inside, two at first, then three. But it's hard to focus on anything, when what I really want to do is watch, the way he's spread open, the way he's sprawled across the mattress, the desperate rise and fall of his chest... All of it.

I can't remember the last time it felt like this, just looking at someone. I can't remember feeling this fuckin'... hypnotized by anyone, which is fuckin' stupid, but it's really the only way I can describe it.

"Jesus," I gasp when I pull away from his dick, sitting back on my haunches and reaching for the condom.

He lets out a strained, impatient sound when he feels Neil's mouth and hands slide away, lifting his head, realizing only after it's too late to do anything about it that the pleading must be evident on his face.

Though there's a little spark of something else under it. One corner of his mouth crooks upward as he closes a hand around his dick, slick with spit.

"C'mon," he murmurs, one leg still up, spreading himself. "Or I might get bored or something."

"Yeah, you look real fuckin' bored," I laugh, smacking a hand against his thigh, the other busy rolling the condom down over my dick, something that still feels awkward and unfamiliar.

"Don't," I say, batting his hand away from his cock. "Put your hands above your head," I tell him, only half expecting to do as he's told, especially since there's not a whole lot of incentive. I'm already shifting between his legs, pressing the head of my dick against him, spreading the smear of lotion on his skin and then pressing forward just enough to feel his body start to give.

The order comes as a bit of a surprise, though he's already made himself loose and pliant, the implied willingness to do anything Neil wants more than clear. But the order comes, and he blinks, dazed with arousal and something deeper and thicker, and then he smiles again and tilts his chin defiantly upward, rocking his hips against the nudge of Neil's cock, his hand still firmly gripping himself.

"Make me."

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