maculategiraffe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maculategiraffe) wrote2009-01-09 08:24 am
maculategiraffe) wrote2009-01-09 08:24 am
The morning after
Dear God. I am currently considering declaring (moral) bankruptcy vis-a-vis my backlog. I thought I could catch up over break, but then a whole bunch of life stuff happened and now my brain has melted out my ears and I cannot muster intelligent commentary on a goddamn thing.
What I think I might should do about being so behind on commenting to other people is make a post here reccing all the stories I've been reading, instead. I'll try and do that soon.
But one thing even brain-melting cannot prevent, apparently, is me writing one-shots.
On the morning after Lisa's wedding:
Splitting headache, dry foul-tasting mouth, serious thirst: check.
Slightly sore ass: check.
Naked, muscular older guy still asleep next to him, the grim line of his jaw softened slightly by sleep, but still grim enough to be pretty damn hot: check.
Not bad for the morning after.
The guy didn't look like the type who'd fetch you a glass of water and a couple of aspirin first thing in the morning, not even if you pouted and pleaded really prettily, so Marc rolled out of bed, wincing and trying to moisten his lips with a cotton-dry tongue, and fetched them himself. He swilled down the pills and finished the glass of water, hoping he didn't throw them right back up; then, when his stomach was feeling slightly more steady, he checked the damage in the mirror.
No, he was okay. Morning after actually looked good on him: his black hair did "wildly tousled" well, and a little shadow under his eyes, combined with his natural pallor, added a certain waifish chic. He didn't bother to shave-- the stubble wasn't a bad effect either-- but he did brush his teeth. The inside of his mouth tasted like he'd been chewing on something rotten that had never been edible in the first place, and if Mr. Grim Jaw woke up and wanted another go-round, Marc wanted to taste sweet.
Then he climbed back into bed, wondering how bad a mood the guy would be in when he woke up. Maybe Marc should fetch him a glass of water and a couple aspirin. Be all thoughtful.
He hadn't quite managed to follow through on that, though, by the time the guy opened his eyes.
Marc smiled, a slow lazy welcoming smile, and purred, "Hey there."
"Hey," said the guy, without smiling back.
Marc felt slightly piqued. Even if you didn't remember last night all that clearly-- and Marc didn't, so why should his partner in crime?-- Marc didn't think he was such an awful thing to find in your bed when you woke up. On the other hand, the guy had a really sexy glower, so if he wanted to sulk, Marc wasn't exactly complaining.
"You want some aspirin?" he asked, and the guy grimaced and nodded.
Marc trotted off like a good little boy to get it. (He seemed to recall throwing around a lot of "yes sir"s last night, too; some guys just brought it out in him.) The guy tossed back the aspirins and drank the water in one long thirsty draft, with a gasp for breath at the end, while Marc ogled his adam's-apple.
"I don't remember your name," the guy said when he'd set down the water glass.
Marc giggled. "Oh, you're so forthright, I love it. Marc. And now I'm slightly less embarrassed that I don't remember yours either."
The guy didn't answer; he was looking around Marc's room like he'd woken up in a dumpster. Marc was getting annoyed. That was the problem with sexily glowering guys; they knew how good sullen looked on them, so they never bothered to learn basic social skills.
As if to prove his point, the guy suddenly looked back at Marc and demanded, "How old are you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Marc smiled, but the guy just looked at him like he was crazy, and Marc eventually said, rather flatly, "I'm twenty-four. What was your name?"
"Jer," said the guy, and laid his head back down, closing his eyes. "Sorry. I'll be nicer when the aspirin kicks in."
Marc dropped back to sleep himself for a while, but once he'd woken up and the guy-- Jer-- was still asleep, he got up again and wandered back into the living room, which had clothes scattered across it in a fairly predictable trajectory. Less predictable was the fact that the light tunic Marc had been wearing last night was ripped, in one long, jagged tear, from neck to navel. That was regrettable; Marc had liked that tunic. Maybe the nicer, aspirin-soothed Jer would offer to pay for a replacement, since Marc was fairly sure he wasn't the one who'd been too impatient to leave his own neckline as he'd found it.
He followed the trail of discarded clothes to Jer's belt and money pouch; keeping a weather eye on the door to the bedroom, he sat down and started going through it.
There wasn't a whole lot in it, though. A decent amount of cash-- Marc didn't touch that; he wasn't a thief, just curious. A small address book with a few names in it, mostly guys' first names: Holden, Yves, Andrei. A key ring with four keys on it: two house, one mailbox, and one that looked like it might be safe deposit box. A railway pass. Half a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches; Marc lit one up and dragged on it as he pulled out the last thing in the pouch. It was a letter in an envelope addressed, in a careful childish handwriting, to "Jer"-- no last name-- at a post office box in a city six hundred miles away. Marc was about to draw the letter out of the envelope when he heard the bed creak in the other room and put it back quickly into the pouch, just as Jer appeared in the doorway, still naked, and looking scruffy, irritated, and extremely fucking sexy.
"Looking for smokes," Marc explained hastily, gesturing with the lit cigarette to prove it. "Hope you don't mind."
"Fine," said Jer after a moment. He picked his crumpled tunic up off the floor and shook it out before he pulled it back on, and then he stood there stock-still for a second, like he'd just remembered leaving the stove on at home.
"You okay?" Marc asked, and Jer nodded and finished dressing, checking his money pouch before he buckled his belt, as if he thought Marc might have pilfered more than the cigarette and match.
"Hey," said Marc, picked up his ripped tunic off the floor and showed it to Jer. Jer raised his eyebrows, and Marc said reproachfully and untruthfully, "This was my favorite tunic."
"Huh," said Jer. "Looks like your second favorite just got a promotion."
Marc laughed, but Jer didn't; he was sitting down, now, on Marc's chaise longue, to put on his boots.
"So, um, I had fun last night," Marc ventured, and added with a rueful grin, "I mean, from what I remember."
"Right," said Jer, his jawline still harsh and set as he stood up. "We had fun. Marc, right?"
"At your service." Marc was still trying to flirt, a little, because even if he'd never learned any social graces this guy just got hotter every time Marc looked at him, and besides a little warmth was always nice, the morning after. He stood up, too, and stepped towards Jer, who reached out, took the cigarette from Marc's hand, took a long drag from it, and handed it back.
"Look," he said, and exhaled a cloud of smoke, turning aside slightly so it didn't go into Marc's eyes. "Nothing personal. You seem like a nice kid. But I think I was drunker than I should have been last night."
"Ah," said Marc philosophically, backing off a bit. "You married or something?"
"No," said Jer, sounding amused, though he still didn't deign to actually smile. "Nothing like that."
"You got somewhere to be?"
"Not exactly," said Jer.
"Then why don't we go again, before you leave?" Marc suggested. "I mean, if you make a mistake, you might as well do it good and hard."
One of Jer's eyebrows lifted, and so, for a second, did one corner of his mouth. "Pretty sure I already did it that way."
"Oh," said Marc, managing not to jump on the guy, wrap his legs around him, and stick his tongue down his throat; he didn't think that would go over too well. Though right now his cock was making a persuasive argument that being flung angrily to the floor or slammed up against the wall by this guy would be sexier than some actual sex Marc had had with other guys. "Well. Yeah."
"But as long as we both know where we stand," Jer added thoughtfully, "I guess it couldn't do any harm."
"Don't do me any favors," said Marc, annoyed again. "It's not like I'm hard up or anything."
Jer's eyes flicked down to Marc's groin for just a second, and Marc's cock, which, okay, was already hard, did a little jump at the glance. Marc managed not to blush, even when Jer did the eyebrow thing again and said, "Whatever you say, kid. You mind if I make some coffee?"
"Sure," said Marc, already on his way back to the bedroom; clearly he needed to be less naked. "All the stuff's in the kitchen."
He went to his closet, grabbed an old-ish cotton robe-- his favorite robe was silk, but he wasn't about to wear it around Jer, who'd already proved himself to be an unrepentant destroyer of innocent clothing-- and headed back into the kitchen, where he sat down at the kitchen table and dropped the butt of his cigarette into a half cup of cold coffee from the morning before.
"Take that thing off," said Jer, measuring the water.
"What?"
"The robe," said Jer, without any particular emphasis. "Take it off."
Surprised-- and surprisingly turned on-- Marc let the robe slide off his shoulders and hang on the chair behind him.
"That's better," said Jer, still busy with the preparations for coffee.
Marc laughed a little. "You're not even looking!"
Jer switched on the coffee machine, turned around, and looked Marc up and down. Well, actually, just up; he started at about knee level, worked his way on up-- slowly-- and stopped when his eyes met Marc's. Marc dropped his own gaze without even thinking about it.
"Alcohol's bad for my judgment," said Jer, "but it doesn't do a thing to my good taste."
He said it so deadpan-- Marc was beginning to wonder if the guy was even physically capable of smiling-- that by the time Marc worked it out, Jer was already handing him a cup of coffee.
"Thanks," he said, and let that cover both coffee and compliment.
They drank their coffee in silence, Marc watching Jer surreptitiously over the rim of the cup. When Jer finished, got up, and took him by the arm, Marc followed him meekly back into the bedroom.
As Marc lay on his back afterwards, loose-limbed and greedily sipping the air, Jer, who hadn't even bothered to take off his boots again, suddenly said, "Mind if I use your phone?"
"My phone?" Marc echoed faintly. "Uh, sure."
Jer got up, without any apparent unsteadiness, and went into the living room. Marc heard the sound of the phone being picked up, and then dialed.
There was a long silence after that. Marc's curiosity eventually managed to pull him to his feet and drag him into the living room, where Jer stood holding the receiver to his ear, not saying anything.
"No one home," he said to Marc, and hung up.
"Is that bad?" Marc asked, leaning against the doorframe, and hoping there wasn't a jealous boyfriend on the rampage or anything. Though it would have to be a pretty damn ironclad guy who'd dare try to put any limitations on Jer.
"Not necessarily," said Jer. "Mind if I try another number?"
Marc shook his head.
It wasn't too long, this time, before Jer tensed visibly and said into the phone, in a voice that tried too hard to be casual, "Hey."
After a moment, Marc watched in astonishment as the austere lines of Jer's face broke into a slow, broad, utterly glad smile.
"Yeah," he said. "It's me. How are you, kid?"
Then he said, "How does tomorrow sound?"
As his smile grew, he ducked and turned his head half away from Marc, as if to hide it.
"Yeah?" he said. "Think it'll be okay with Andrei?"
He listened again and laughed, a deep, full-throated laugh.
"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Okay. See you then."
He hung up and glanced at Marc, not quite smiling any more, but looking much less grim. And yet, somehow, not one iota less attractive. Quite the contrary. Damn it.
"I've got to go," Jer said. "Thanks for letting me use the phone."
"Oh," said Marc, and stood up straight. "Um, you're welcome."
Jer stepped forward, slipped an arm around Marc, and touched his lips, lightly and briefly, to Marc's prickly cheek.
"And thanks for the coffee," he said, turned, and walked away, out the door, without looking back.
What I think I might should do about being so behind on commenting to other people is make a post here reccing all the stories I've been reading, instead. I'll try and do that soon.
But one thing even brain-melting cannot prevent, apparently, is me writing one-shots.
On the morning after Lisa's wedding:
Splitting headache, dry foul-tasting mouth, serious thirst: check.
Slightly sore ass: check.
Naked, muscular older guy still asleep next to him, the grim line of his jaw softened slightly by sleep, but still grim enough to be pretty damn hot: check.
Not bad for the morning after.
The guy didn't look like the type who'd fetch you a glass of water and a couple of aspirin first thing in the morning, not even if you pouted and pleaded really prettily, so Marc rolled out of bed, wincing and trying to moisten his lips with a cotton-dry tongue, and fetched them himself. He swilled down the pills and finished the glass of water, hoping he didn't throw them right back up; then, when his stomach was feeling slightly more steady, he checked the damage in the mirror.
No, he was okay. Morning after actually looked good on him: his black hair did "wildly tousled" well, and a little shadow under his eyes, combined with his natural pallor, added a certain waifish chic. He didn't bother to shave-- the stubble wasn't a bad effect either-- but he did brush his teeth. The inside of his mouth tasted like he'd been chewing on something rotten that had never been edible in the first place, and if Mr. Grim Jaw woke up and wanted another go-round, Marc wanted to taste sweet.
Then he climbed back into bed, wondering how bad a mood the guy would be in when he woke up. Maybe Marc should fetch him a glass of water and a couple aspirin. Be all thoughtful.
He hadn't quite managed to follow through on that, though, by the time the guy opened his eyes.
Marc smiled, a slow lazy welcoming smile, and purred, "Hey there."
"Hey," said the guy, without smiling back.
Marc felt slightly piqued. Even if you didn't remember last night all that clearly-- and Marc didn't, so why should his partner in crime?-- Marc didn't think he was such an awful thing to find in your bed when you woke up. On the other hand, the guy had a really sexy glower, so if he wanted to sulk, Marc wasn't exactly complaining.
"You want some aspirin?" he asked, and the guy grimaced and nodded.
Marc trotted off like a good little boy to get it. (He seemed to recall throwing around a lot of "yes sir"s last night, too; some guys just brought it out in him.) The guy tossed back the aspirins and drank the water in one long thirsty draft, with a gasp for breath at the end, while Marc ogled his adam's-apple.
"I don't remember your name," the guy said when he'd set down the water glass.
Marc giggled. "Oh, you're so forthright, I love it. Marc. And now I'm slightly less embarrassed that I don't remember yours either."
The guy didn't answer; he was looking around Marc's room like he'd woken up in a dumpster. Marc was getting annoyed. That was the problem with sexily glowering guys; they knew how good sullen looked on them, so they never bothered to learn basic social skills.
As if to prove his point, the guy suddenly looked back at Marc and demanded, "How old are you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Marc smiled, but the guy just looked at him like he was crazy, and Marc eventually said, rather flatly, "I'm twenty-four. What was your name?"
"Jer," said the guy, and laid his head back down, closing his eyes. "Sorry. I'll be nicer when the aspirin kicks in."
Marc dropped back to sleep himself for a while, but once he'd woken up and the guy-- Jer-- was still asleep, he got up again and wandered back into the living room, which had clothes scattered across it in a fairly predictable trajectory. Less predictable was the fact that the light tunic Marc had been wearing last night was ripped, in one long, jagged tear, from neck to navel. That was regrettable; Marc had liked that tunic. Maybe the nicer, aspirin-soothed Jer would offer to pay for a replacement, since Marc was fairly sure he wasn't the one who'd been too impatient to leave his own neckline as he'd found it.
He followed the trail of discarded clothes to Jer's belt and money pouch; keeping a weather eye on the door to the bedroom, he sat down and started going through it.
There wasn't a whole lot in it, though. A decent amount of cash-- Marc didn't touch that; he wasn't a thief, just curious. A small address book with a few names in it, mostly guys' first names: Holden, Yves, Andrei. A key ring with four keys on it: two house, one mailbox, and one that looked like it might be safe deposit box. A railway pass. Half a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches; Marc lit one up and dragged on it as he pulled out the last thing in the pouch. It was a letter in an envelope addressed, in a careful childish handwriting, to "Jer"-- no last name-- at a post office box in a city six hundred miles away. Marc was about to draw the letter out of the envelope when he heard the bed creak in the other room and put it back quickly into the pouch, just as Jer appeared in the doorway, still naked, and looking scruffy, irritated, and extremely fucking sexy.
"Looking for smokes," Marc explained hastily, gesturing with the lit cigarette to prove it. "Hope you don't mind."
"Fine," said Jer after a moment. He picked his crumpled tunic up off the floor and shook it out before he pulled it back on, and then he stood there stock-still for a second, like he'd just remembered leaving the stove on at home.
"You okay?" Marc asked, and Jer nodded and finished dressing, checking his money pouch before he buckled his belt, as if he thought Marc might have pilfered more than the cigarette and match.
"Hey," said Marc, picked up his ripped tunic off the floor and showed it to Jer. Jer raised his eyebrows, and Marc said reproachfully and untruthfully, "This was my favorite tunic."
"Huh," said Jer. "Looks like your second favorite just got a promotion."
Marc laughed, but Jer didn't; he was sitting down, now, on Marc's chaise longue, to put on his boots.
"So, um, I had fun last night," Marc ventured, and added with a rueful grin, "I mean, from what I remember."
"Right," said Jer, his jawline still harsh and set as he stood up. "We had fun. Marc, right?"
"At your service." Marc was still trying to flirt, a little, because even if he'd never learned any social graces this guy just got hotter every time Marc looked at him, and besides a little warmth was always nice, the morning after. He stood up, too, and stepped towards Jer, who reached out, took the cigarette from Marc's hand, took a long drag from it, and handed it back.
"Look," he said, and exhaled a cloud of smoke, turning aside slightly so it didn't go into Marc's eyes. "Nothing personal. You seem like a nice kid. But I think I was drunker than I should have been last night."
"Ah," said Marc philosophically, backing off a bit. "You married or something?"
"No," said Jer, sounding amused, though he still didn't deign to actually smile. "Nothing like that."
"You got somewhere to be?"
"Not exactly," said Jer.
"Then why don't we go again, before you leave?" Marc suggested. "I mean, if you make a mistake, you might as well do it good and hard."
One of Jer's eyebrows lifted, and so, for a second, did one corner of his mouth. "Pretty sure I already did it that way."
"Oh," said Marc, managing not to jump on the guy, wrap his legs around him, and stick his tongue down his throat; he didn't think that would go over too well. Though right now his cock was making a persuasive argument that being flung angrily to the floor or slammed up against the wall by this guy would be sexier than some actual sex Marc had had with other guys. "Well. Yeah."
"But as long as we both know where we stand," Jer added thoughtfully, "I guess it couldn't do any harm."
"Don't do me any favors," said Marc, annoyed again. "It's not like I'm hard up or anything."
Jer's eyes flicked down to Marc's groin for just a second, and Marc's cock, which, okay, was already hard, did a little jump at the glance. Marc managed not to blush, even when Jer did the eyebrow thing again and said, "Whatever you say, kid. You mind if I make some coffee?"
"Sure," said Marc, already on his way back to the bedroom; clearly he needed to be less naked. "All the stuff's in the kitchen."
He went to his closet, grabbed an old-ish cotton robe-- his favorite robe was silk, but he wasn't about to wear it around Jer, who'd already proved himself to be an unrepentant destroyer of innocent clothing-- and headed back into the kitchen, where he sat down at the kitchen table and dropped the butt of his cigarette into a half cup of cold coffee from the morning before.
"Take that thing off," said Jer, measuring the water.
"What?"
"The robe," said Jer, without any particular emphasis. "Take it off."
Surprised-- and surprisingly turned on-- Marc let the robe slide off his shoulders and hang on the chair behind him.
"That's better," said Jer, still busy with the preparations for coffee.
Marc laughed a little. "You're not even looking!"
Jer switched on the coffee machine, turned around, and looked Marc up and down. Well, actually, just up; he started at about knee level, worked his way on up-- slowly-- and stopped when his eyes met Marc's. Marc dropped his own gaze without even thinking about it.
"Alcohol's bad for my judgment," said Jer, "but it doesn't do a thing to my good taste."
He said it so deadpan-- Marc was beginning to wonder if the guy was even physically capable of smiling-- that by the time Marc worked it out, Jer was already handing him a cup of coffee.
"Thanks," he said, and let that cover both coffee and compliment.
They drank their coffee in silence, Marc watching Jer surreptitiously over the rim of the cup. When Jer finished, got up, and took him by the arm, Marc followed him meekly back into the bedroom.
As Marc lay on his back afterwards, loose-limbed and greedily sipping the air, Jer, who hadn't even bothered to take off his boots again, suddenly said, "Mind if I use your phone?"
"My phone?" Marc echoed faintly. "Uh, sure."
Jer got up, without any apparent unsteadiness, and went into the living room. Marc heard the sound of the phone being picked up, and then dialed.
There was a long silence after that. Marc's curiosity eventually managed to pull him to his feet and drag him into the living room, where Jer stood holding the receiver to his ear, not saying anything.
"No one home," he said to Marc, and hung up.
"Is that bad?" Marc asked, leaning against the doorframe, and hoping there wasn't a jealous boyfriend on the rampage or anything. Though it would have to be a pretty damn ironclad guy who'd dare try to put any limitations on Jer.
"Not necessarily," said Jer. "Mind if I try another number?"
Marc shook his head.
It wasn't too long, this time, before Jer tensed visibly and said into the phone, in a voice that tried too hard to be casual, "Hey."
After a moment, Marc watched in astonishment as the austere lines of Jer's face broke into a slow, broad, utterly glad smile.
"Yeah," he said. "It's me. How are you, kid?"
Then he said, "How does tomorrow sound?"
As his smile grew, he ducked and turned his head half away from Marc, as if to hide it.
"Yeah?" he said. "Think it'll be okay with Andrei?"
He listened again and laughed, a deep, full-throated laugh.
"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Okay. See you then."
He hung up and glanced at Marc, not quite smiling any more, but looking much less grim. And yet, somehow, not one iota less attractive. Quite the contrary. Damn it.
"I've got to go," Jer said. "Thanks for letting me use the phone."
"Oh," said Marc, and stood up straight. "Um, you're welcome."
Jer stepped forward, slipped an arm around Marc, and touched his lips, lightly and briefly, to Marc's prickly cheek.
"And thanks for the coffee," he said, turned, and walked away, out the door, without looking back.