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rareslashTitle: Three Months
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mackzazzle
Fandom: Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow
Pairing: Joseph Sullivan/Dex Dearborn
Rating: NC-17
Notes: So I saw the movie again tonight and decided that Dex needs sex. This takes place during the infamous ‘three months in Nanjing,’ so spoilers for the movie, natch.
ALSO: Since I feel sorry for you rareslashers having to put up with my misplaced Sky Captain obsession, I've created![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
skycaptainslash, an outlet for all your Joe/Dex needs. If you've got any interest at all, join, or pass on the word! <3
++
Joe has Polly, and Joe has Franky, and Joe has every damn girl he could ever want because he’s, well, he’s Sky Captain, and that’s reason enough in itself. Then there’s Dex, and all he has are his comic books and his imagination, but that’s okay, really, because he’s not sure what he’d do if he thought he even stood a chance.
Dex is in Nanjing with Joe, and he watches Joe smile at Franky and brush his knuckles across the back of her hand, and he has to turn away to fight the bile of jealousy rising in his throat. Joe smiles at Dex, too, but it’s different, not the smile of a lover. Joe needs him – that’s why Dex is here – but it’s never quite the same.
Three months in Nanjing. Dex lies in his bed at night, trying to ignore the sounds from the next room over. Beautiful, devastating Franky – Francesca, even – who is so different from Polly and yet so similar in that she’s gorgeous and the kind of girl that even the infamous Sky Captain would be proud to have on his arm. Joe likes his women beautiful, but he always seems to find the sharp ones most attractive, the crazy ones that will do anything, really, if the stakes are high enough.
And as the weeks go by, Joe smiles more and more often at Franky and just expects Dex to be there to analyze problems and create marvellous innovations and save his Sky Captain ass whenever he sees fit. Even the offhand words of thanks and friendly affection are rare, now, and Dex, far from his base and up to his neck in work, cannot recall being in a blacker mood.
Dex brings Joe a blueprint and finds him crouched on the corner of his bed, a crumpled piece of paper in his fist. “Polly,” is all Dex says, hovering near the door. It’s not even a question; he reads Joe so well that he might as well have coloured panels and speech balloons scrawled all over him. Joe barely looks up, just runs a hand through his hair and lies back on the bed. After a moment, Dex turns to go, but Joe stops him.
“I don’t love Polly, Dex,” he says, and Dex, back turned to the other man, gives an uncharacteristic sneer. So says the man with ‘h11od’ on his plane, his pride and joy, practically an extension of himself.
“You could have fooled me, Capt’n,” Dex says instead. “But look, I just need you to take a look at this–”
He turns to move towards the bed, but takes a startled step back as he encounters Sky Captain far sooner than he expects. Joe’s hair is dishevelled, his lower lip torn and bleeding a little at the corners; he reaches out and grabs Dex’s wrists in his callused hands, causing Dex to drop the blueprint onto the floor.
“If Polly finds out about Franky, she’ll hate me,” Joe says. Dex is immobile. The look in Joe’s eyes is slightly crazy, like a wild animal ready to strike at any sign of movement. He swallows hard.
“That shouldn’t bother you too much if you don’t love her,” Dex quips, trying to keep his tone light. Joe’s mouth tightens, and he crumples down onto the edge of his bed, burying his fingers into his hair savagely.
“Do you hate me too, Dex?” he asks.
Dex stares. “No!” he blurts out, a little too vehemently and perhaps not as convincingly as he would have liked. Massaging his wrists gingerly, Dex’s eyes fall upon two upturned bottles and one half-empty one on the floor near Joe’s end-table. “You’ve been drinking, Capt’n,” he says flatly.
Joe looks up, squinting one eye at him through a curtain of brown hair that hasn’t been cut for a little too long. “No,” he lies.
“You’re drunk,” says Dex firmly, and crosses his arms.
Joe looks ready to argue, but abruptly his shoulders slump, and he seems to deflate. “Maybe just a little,” he mutters. Dex groans inwardly, stepping around Joe to sit on the bed next to him. He rests a hand on Joe’s shoulder, feeling that it’s safe enough, and ignores the heavy feeling in his chest.
“Did you and Franky have a fight?” he asks. Joe shakes his head. “Then what...?”
“Can’t a guy get drunk without having some ulterior motive?” Joe snaps suddenly, a flash of rage crossing his face as he shoves Dex away. Startled and unbalanced, Dex nearly falls off the edge of the bed, grabbing at Joe’s shoulders with both of his hands. Joe pitches forward, then throws his arms tightly around Dex, managing to achieve some sort of delicate balancing act that unfortunately ends up with Dex wrapped in Joe’s arms, his hands grasping his shoulders, and his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
They stay frozen like that, and Dex can’t help but think, wildly, that Joe smells good even though he’s been drinking, and then Joe is pressing their lips together none-too-gently, and he doesn’t taste half bad either.
It’s almost an out-of-body experience. Dex feels like he’s hanging onto his conscious by a few threads, reviewing an analyzing his thoughts and sensations with an objectivity that he wouldn’t imagine being present when he’s being kissed by a drunken, dishevelled Sky Captain on a three-month mission in Nanjing.
Joe is rough, both in how he feels pressed against Dex and in how he acts, although there is a sense of immense carefulness underneath the strength of his arms wrapped tightly around Dex’s midsection. His lips are not soft, but they are warm and wet, even more so as Joe’s lips part and Dex finds another tongue in his mouth quite without his permission, but he can’t move to stop it even if he wanted to.
Joe’s hands are callused, but warm, and Dex twists slightly in Joe’s grip as those hands find their way underneath the hem of his coarse beige shirt, curling against the small of his back. And Dex’s hands have decided to become autonomous, it would seem, twisting into Joe’s hair, which is none too soft and probably needs to be washed, but Joe is gently leaning Dex back onto the bed and he could really, really care less at this point.
Except that after Joe snaps the fourth button on Dex’s shirt and runs his hands across his chest, Dex snaps back into himself with an almost physical jolt, yanking Joe’s head back and breaking the kiss with an audible smack.
They stare at each other, both breathing heavily and wide-eyed, Joe’s hands up Dex’s shirt and Dex’s in his hair, and Joe swallows hard and, in a hoarse voice, says, “You’re pulling my hair.”
“Sorry,” Dex says weakly, and loosens his grip. Joe licks his lips, then bites down on the lower one, something that it looks like he’s been doing far too often, judging by the state of the skin there, and Dex is saying “Stop that,” before he can help himself.
Joe stops, and looks slightly pathetic. “Dex...” he trails off. “Why did you... stop me?”
Why did I stop him? thinks Dex incredulously, but he knows the answer well enough. Joe is his best friend, and his superior, and Dex respects him more than he does anybody else, and right now Joe is obviously flat-out fucking drunk. “You’re not in your right mind,” Dex says, although it pains it to do so. “And we should just stop this right now and you can–”
Joe kisses him. Dex makes an incoherent noise in protest, putting on a rather futile attempt at pushing the pilot away. Joe breaks the kiss slowly after far too long (or not long enough, depending on which part of Dex was doing the thinking), his breath still hovering, warm, against Dex’s mouth.
“I think,” Joe says after a moment of deliberation, eyes serious, “that I’m rarely in my right mind, and I’d quite like to continue this because I think that, for once, I’m actually thinking about something quite properly.”
Dex’s heart contracts and nearly leaps out of his chest. “You’re crazy!”
Joe flashes him a roguish grin. “Probably,” he says, quite agreeably, trailing a line of kisses along Dex’s jawline. Dex opens and closes his mouth ineffectually, no sound coming out as he stares up at the wood-panelled ceiling. When Joe’s mouth closes around the lobe of his ear, he lets out a rather undignified choking noise, twisting against the bed.
“You’re drunk!” he says, voice cracking, although he’s never wanted to be a liar more than at this moment.
Then slowly, deliberately, Joe raises his head to look down at Dex, one eyebrow raised, hair falling dashingly over the other eye. And with a purely demonic grin, he drawls, “After two drinks? Honestly, Dex. What kind of lightweight do you take me for?”
Dex doesn’t answer, partly because he doesn’t know what to say, but also because Joe’s lips are coaxing his apart once more, and his shirt is being pulled open, and thinking is a difficult enough task, let alone speaking things that he’d rather not say. So for once in his life the amazing, analytical Dex stops thinking, stops calculating, and just lets this wild delirium take him for all he’s worth.
At first they just kiss, but calling it ‘just’ kissing is somewhat of an injustice, because Dex is sure that if kissing were an Olympic sport, Joe would win gold, silver, bronze and fucking amazing, too. His mouth has Dex panting and mindless by the time Joe manages to tug both of their shirts off, and when he flicks his tongue against one nipple, Dex jerks and cries out, nerves thrumming like he’s just been plugged into an electrical socket.
Joe grins recklessly up at him, fully fucking aware of what he’s doing, and then his lips, his teeth, and his tongue are working together in tandem, involved in some sort of wicked conspiracy to fry Dex’s synapses completely.
Dex is not, and has never been, a religious person, but something about this whole situation has him clutching at the comforter below him and panting, “Oh god, Joe, oh my god...” and he’s forcibly reminded of near-death moments in comic books where the main character’s faith is renewed with the close proximity of the unimaginable and the unknown.
This, Dex decides, is his new religion, the movement of skin against skin and the warmth of the infamous Sky Captain pressed heavily against his stomach, callused hands splayed against his bare chest. This is something worth living for, and dying for, and obsessing over, and this is all there is.
Until Joe’s hands find the clasp of Dex’s pants, and his mouth moves lower, and his fingers slip beneath the hem of his pants and boxers and pull slowly down. That’s when Dex comes to the realization that there is so much he’s never even dreamed of, not in all the years of working side-by-side with a man he was, and is, utterly infatuated, and maybe even in love with.
This is something completely different, and when Joe’s mouth finds its way to the part of Dex’s body that is most desperately craving attention, Dex makes a strangled noise and feels like he could very well die, but die so very, very happy.
Joe is talented, but a tease, and he brings Dex to the edge time and time again until Dex is almost sobbing, and most definitely swearing, and begging for some sort of release. And that’s when Joe sits up, and slowly wipes the back of his hand across his swollen, chapped mouth, and if Dex thought he couldn’t get any harder, he was dead wrong.
“Dex,” Joe says in a soft, hoarse voice. His hair is dishevelled, his cheeks flushed, and somewhere along the lines his clothes have vanished, leaving his lean body clad only in a pair of dark boxers. “Dex, can I...”
“Anything,” interrupts Dex, voice cracking, and he means it. Joe’s face splits into a hesitant grin, and he slowly eases the elastic waistband down, revealing inch after inch of flesh that makes Dex whimper, low and helplessly, in the back of his throat.
Joe licks his lips, and they’re moving together like two parts of a machine now, Dex lifting and bending his legs, Joe shifting and settling between them, one hand slipping down to cradle his own erection, breath hitching in his chest. He seems almost uncertain now, like he’s hit the limit of his foresight and is now running on pure intuition, warring with his obvious concern for Dex. “I don’t have... anything... to...”
They lock gazes, and Dex breathes in a long, shuddery breath. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, almost certain, and when Joe’s gaze wavers and he bites down on his lower lip, Dex is sure, moving closer to Joe and grasping his hips with his hands. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats.
Joe rakes his damp hair back from his face, then runs his fingers along Dex’s shaft, making them slick enough to ease their passage into Dex’s entrance, which they do, and Dex closes his eyes, a choked noise escaping him. Joe freezes, but Dex shakes his head violently, shoving his hips forward. He sees stars, even more so when Joe hesitantly begins to move, and when he scissors his two fingers apart, but it’s all blurring together into one glorious mess of colour, sound, and sensation, and he hardly even notices when Joe’s fingers are replaced with something entirely different except that now everything feels inexplicably, painfully right.
They’re moving together now, an experienced team that reads each other’s nuances as well as they know their own thoughts, and probably even better, in some cases. Joe’s hands are planted on either side of Dex’s shoulders, and he’s probably going to have a scar from where his lip is firmly planted between his teeth, except for when they part in a gasp or a moan. Dex is so far gone that when Joe hits his prostate, sending a jolt of pure ecstasy straight through him like a bullet, he comes harder than he ever has in his life, all thought of pain completely forgotten in a mind-numbing crash of pleasure, and Joe follows soon after.
Afterwards they lie together, a tangle of warm, sticky limbs on a rumpled comforter. Dex’s head is on Joe’s shoulder, and Joe’s rough fingers run through Dex’s hair, an idle caress. “Dex?” he asks after what may be minutes, or hours, Dex doesn’t know, his voice slow and liquid and satiated, like a drip of molasses.
“Yes?” Dex replies, opening one eye. It’s nearing sunset, now, and an orangey-red glow has spread over the mostly-dark room, casting shadows across Joe’s profile and making Dex’s heart rend almost painfully in his chest. “Beautiful...” he murmurs, without realizing it.
Joe looks surprised, then gratified. Embarrassed, even though his feelings for Joe are pretty much out in the open now, Dex feels himself flushing. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“Dex,” Joe says, a little incredulously, with a helpless laugh, “don’t you get it?” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at Dex with a proprietary little grin on his face.
Dex winces, squinting at Joe with one eye. “What am I getting?” he asks. Joe kisses him. “Oh... yes. Er, that. So, what... am I getting? Or not getting? Exactly?”
“I love you,” says Joe. “How about that?”
The bottom drops out of Dex’s world momentarily, then re-affixes itself the other way around. “Oh,” he says faintly. “Well, I love you too.”
“You do know that we can’t make this a habit, though,” Joe says, eyes locked steadily with Dex’s.
Dex licks his lips. “Of course.”
“And that I’ll have to pretend that nothing happened…”
“It’s better for everybody,” Dex agrees.
They fall silent for a long moment. Then, at the same time, they lean forward, crushing their lips together and clinging to each other’s shoulders.
Joe breaks away with a gasp. “Absolutely cannot happen–”
“Except maybe occasionally...”
“Occasionally,” Joe agrees vehemently, kissing Dex fiercely. “And nobody–”
“Nobody will know,” Dex says. “Completely covert.”
“Good boy, Dex,”
“Thank you, Capt’n.” Dex pauses, breathing heavily. “Well, since we’re here, and, well...”
“Shall we go again?” Joe suggests.
“You read my mind,” Dex says breathlessly, and pulls Joe back down onto the bed.
Just outside the door, Franky pauses, her hand poised to knock. Peering through the crack in the door with her good eye, her mouth drops open ever-so-slightly. And then, slowly, she grins, pulling the door silently closed.
“Good boy, Dex,” she says under her breath, then turns to go. It was, she reflects, a good three months, while it lasted.
Author:
mackzazzleFandom: Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow
Pairing: Joseph Sullivan/Dex Dearborn
Rating: NC-17
Notes: So I saw the movie again tonight and decided that Dex needs sex. This takes place during the infamous ‘three months in Nanjing,’ so spoilers for the movie, natch.
ALSO: Since I feel sorry for you rareslashers having to put up with my misplaced Sky Captain obsession, I've created
skycaptainslash, an outlet for all your Joe/Dex needs. If you've got any interest at all, join, or pass on the word! <3++
Joe has Polly, and Joe has Franky, and Joe has every damn girl he could ever want because he’s, well, he’s Sky Captain, and that’s reason enough in itself. Then there’s Dex, and all he has are his comic books and his imagination, but that’s okay, really, because he’s not sure what he’d do if he thought he even stood a chance.
Dex is in Nanjing with Joe, and he watches Joe smile at Franky and brush his knuckles across the back of her hand, and he has to turn away to fight the bile of jealousy rising in his throat. Joe smiles at Dex, too, but it’s different, not the smile of a lover. Joe needs him – that’s why Dex is here – but it’s never quite the same.
Three months in Nanjing. Dex lies in his bed at night, trying to ignore the sounds from the next room over. Beautiful, devastating Franky – Francesca, even – who is so different from Polly and yet so similar in that she’s gorgeous and the kind of girl that even the infamous Sky Captain would be proud to have on his arm. Joe likes his women beautiful, but he always seems to find the sharp ones most attractive, the crazy ones that will do anything, really, if the stakes are high enough.
And as the weeks go by, Joe smiles more and more often at Franky and just expects Dex to be there to analyze problems and create marvellous innovations and save his Sky Captain ass whenever he sees fit. Even the offhand words of thanks and friendly affection are rare, now, and Dex, far from his base and up to his neck in work, cannot recall being in a blacker mood.
Dex brings Joe a blueprint and finds him crouched on the corner of his bed, a crumpled piece of paper in his fist. “Polly,” is all Dex says, hovering near the door. It’s not even a question; he reads Joe so well that he might as well have coloured panels and speech balloons scrawled all over him. Joe barely looks up, just runs a hand through his hair and lies back on the bed. After a moment, Dex turns to go, but Joe stops him.
“I don’t love Polly, Dex,” he says, and Dex, back turned to the other man, gives an uncharacteristic sneer. So says the man with ‘h11od’ on his plane, his pride and joy, practically an extension of himself.
“You could have fooled me, Capt’n,” Dex says instead. “But look, I just need you to take a look at this–”
He turns to move towards the bed, but takes a startled step back as he encounters Sky Captain far sooner than he expects. Joe’s hair is dishevelled, his lower lip torn and bleeding a little at the corners; he reaches out and grabs Dex’s wrists in his callused hands, causing Dex to drop the blueprint onto the floor.
“If Polly finds out about Franky, she’ll hate me,” Joe says. Dex is immobile. The look in Joe’s eyes is slightly crazy, like a wild animal ready to strike at any sign of movement. He swallows hard.
“That shouldn’t bother you too much if you don’t love her,” Dex quips, trying to keep his tone light. Joe’s mouth tightens, and he crumples down onto the edge of his bed, burying his fingers into his hair savagely.
“Do you hate me too, Dex?” he asks.
Dex stares. “No!” he blurts out, a little too vehemently and perhaps not as convincingly as he would have liked. Massaging his wrists gingerly, Dex’s eyes fall upon two upturned bottles and one half-empty one on the floor near Joe’s end-table. “You’ve been drinking, Capt’n,” he says flatly.
Joe looks up, squinting one eye at him through a curtain of brown hair that hasn’t been cut for a little too long. “No,” he lies.
“You’re drunk,” says Dex firmly, and crosses his arms.
Joe looks ready to argue, but abruptly his shoulders slump, and he seems to deflate. “Maybe just a little,” he mutters. Dex groans inwardly, stepping around Joe to sit on the bed next to him. He rests a hand on Joe’s shoulder, feeling that it’s safe enough, and ignores the heavy feeling in his chest.
“Did you and Franky have a fight?” he asks. Joe shakes his head. “Then what...?”
“Can’t a guy get drunk without having some ulterior motive?” Joe snaps suddenly, a flash of rage crossing his face as he shoves Dex away. Startled and unbalanced, Dex nearly falls off the edge of the bed, grabbing at Joe’s shoulders with both of his hands. Joe pitches forward, then throws his arms tightly around Dex, managing to achieve some sort of delicate balancing act that unfortunately ends up with Dex wrapped in Joe’s arms, his hands grasping his shoulders, and his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
They stay frozen like that, and Dex can’t help but think, wildly, that Joe smells good even though he’s been drinking, and then Joe is pressing their lips together none-too-gently, and he doesn’t taste half bad either.
It’s almost an out-of-body experience. Dex feels like he’s hanging onto his conscious by a few threads, reviewing an analyzing his thoughts and sensations with an objectivity that he wouldn’t imagine being present when he’s being kissed by a drunken, dishevelled Sky Captain on a three-month mission in Nanjing.
Joe is rough, both in how he feels pressed against Dex and in how he acts, although there is a sense of immense carefulness underneath the strength of his arms wrapped tightly around Dex’s midsection. His lips are not soft, but they are warm and wet, even more so as Joe’s lips part and Dex finds another tongue in his mouth quite without his permission, but he can’t move to stop it even if he wanted to.
Joe’s hands are callused, but warm, and Dex twists slightly in Joe’s grip as those hands find their way underneath the hem of his coarse beige shirt, curling against the small of his back. And Dex’s hands have decided to become autonomous, it would seem, twisting into Joe’s hair, which is none too soft and probably needs to be washed, but Joe is gently leaning Dex back onto the bed and he could really, really care less at this point.
Except that after Joe snaps the fourth button on Dex’s shirt and runs his hands across his chest, Dex snaps back into himself with an almost physical jolt, yanking Joe’s head back and breaking the kiss with an audible smack.
They stare at each other, both breathing heavily and wide-eyed, Joe’s hands up Dex’s shirt and Dex’s in his hair, and Joe swallows hard and, in a hoarse voice, says, “You’re pulling my hair.”
“Sorry,” Dex says weakly, and loosens his grip. Joe licks his lips, then bites down on the lower one, something that it looks like he’s been doing far too often, judging by the state of the skin there, and Dex is saying “Stop that,” before he can help himself.
Joe stops, and looks slightly pathetic. “Dex...” he trails off. “Why did you... stop me?”
Why did I stop him? thinks Dex incredulously, but he knows the answer well enough. Joe is his best friend, and his superior, and Dex respects him more than he does anybody else, and right now Joe is obviously flat-out fucking drunk. “You’re not in your right mind,” Dex says, although it pains it to do so. “And we should just stop this right now and you can–”
Joe kisses him. Dex makes an incoherent noise in protest, putting on a rather futile attempt at pushing the pilot away. Joe breaks the kiss slowly after far too long (or not long enough, depending on which part of Dex was doing the thinking), his breath still hovering, warm, against Dex’s mouth.
“I think,” Joe says after a moment of deliberation, eyes serious, “that I’m rarely in my right mind, and I’d quite like to continue this because I think that, for once, I’m actually thinking about something quite properly.”
Dex’s heart contracts and nearly leaps out of his chest. “You’re crazy!”
Joe flashes him a roguish grin. “Probably,” he says, quite agreeably, trailing a line of kisses along Dex’s jawline. Dex opens and closes his mouth ineffectually, no sound coming out as he stares up at the wood-panelled ceiling. When Joe’s mouth closes around the lobe of his ear, he lets out a rather undignified choking noise, twisting against the bed.
“You’re drunk!” he says, voice cracking, although he’s never wanted to be a liar more than at this moment.
Then slowly, deliberately, Joe raises his head to look down at Dex, one eyebrow raised, hair falling dashingly over the other eye. And with a purely demonic grin, he drawls, “After two drinks? Honestly, Dex. What kind of lightweight do you take me for?”
Dex doesn’t answer, partly because he doesn’t know what to say, but also because Joe’s lips are coaxing his apart once more, and his shirt is being pulled open, and thinking is a difficult enough task, let alone speaking things that he’d rather not say. So for once in his life the amazing, analytical Dex stops thinking, stops calculating, and just lets this wild delirium take him for all he’s worth.
At first they just kiss, but calling it ‘just’ kissing is somewhat of an injustice, because Dex is sure that if kissing were an Olympic sport, Joe would win gold, silver, bronze and fucking amazing, too. His mouth has Dex panting and mindless by the time Joe manages to tug both of their shirts off, and when he flicks his tongue against one nipple, Dex jerks and cries out, nerves thrumming like he’s just been plugged into an electrical socket.
Joe grins recklessly up at him, fully fucking aware of what he’s doing, and then his lips, his teeth, and his tongue are working together in tandem, involved in some sort of wicked conspiracy to fry Dex’s synapses completely.
Dex is not, and has never been, a religious person, but something about this whole situation has him clutching at the comforter below him and panting, “Oh god, Joe, oh my god...” and he’s forcibly reminded of near-death moments in comic books where the main character’s faith is renewed with the close proximity of the unimaginable and the unknown.
This, Dex decides, is his new religion, the movement of skin against skin and the warmth of the infamous Sky Captain pressed heavily against his stomach, callused hands splayed against his bare chest. This is something worth living for, and dying for, and obsessing over, and this is all there is.
Until Joe’s hands find the clasp of Dex’s pants, and his mouth moves lower, and his fingers slip beneath the hem of his pants and boxers and pull slowly down. That’s when Dex comes to the realization that there is so much he’s never even dreamed of, not in all the years of working side-by-side with a man he was, and is, utterly infatuated, and maybe even in love with.
This is something completely different, and when Joe’s mouth finds its way to the part of Dex’s body that is most desperately craving attention, Dex makes a strangled noise and feels like he could very well die, but die so very, very happy.
Joe is talented, but a tease, and he brings Dex to the edge time and time again until Dex is almost sobbing, and most definitely swearing, and begging for some sort of release. And that’s when Joe sits up, and slowly wipes the back of his hand across his swollen, chapped mouth, and if Dex thought he couldn’t get any harder, he was dead wrong.
“Dex,” Joe says in a soft, hoarse voice. His hair is dishevelled, his cheeks flushed, and somewhere along the lines his clothes have vanished, leaving his lean body clad only in a pair of dark boxers. “Dex, can I...”
“Anything,” interrupts Dex, voice cracking, and he means it. Joe’s face splits into a hesitant grin, and he slowly eases the elastic waistband down, revealing inch after inch of flesh that makes Dex whimper, low and helplessly, in the back of his throat.
Joe licks his lips, and they’re moving together like two parts of a machine now, Dex lifting and bending his legs, Joe shifting and settling between them, one hand slipping down to cradle his own erection, breath hitching in his chest. He seems almost uncertain now, like he’s hit the limit of his foresight and is now running on pure intuition, warring with his obvious concern for Dex. “I don’t have... anything... to...”
They lock gazes, and Dex breathes in a long, shuddery breath. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, almost certain, and when Joe’s gaze wavers and he bites down on his lower lip, Dex is sure, moving closer to Joe and grasping his hips with his hands. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats.
Joe rakes his damp hair back from his face, then runs his fingers along Dex’s shaft, making them slick enough to ease their passage into Dex’s entrance, which they do, and Dex closes his eyes, a choked noise escaping him. Joe freezes, but Dex shakes his head violently, shoving his hips forward. He sees stars, even more so when Joe hesitantly begins to move, and when he scissors his two fingers apart, but it’s all blurring together into one glorious mess of colour, sound, and sensation, and he hardly even notices when Joe’s fingers are replaced with something entirely different except that now everything feels inexplicably, painfully right.
They’re moving together now, an experienced team that reads each other’s nuances as well as they know their own thoughts, and probably even better, in some cases. Joe’s hands are planted on either side of Dex’s shoulders, and he’s probably going to have a scar from where his lip is firmly planted between his teeth, except for when they part in a gasp or a moan. Dex is so far gone that when Joe hits his prostate, sending a jolt of pure ecstasy straight through him like a bullet, he comes harder than he ever has in his life, all thought of pain completely forgotten in a mind-numbing crash of pleasure, and Joe follows soon after.
Afterwards they lie together, a tangle of warm, sticky limbs on a rumpled comforter. Dex’s head is on Joe’s shoulder, and Joe’s rough fingers run through Dex’s hair, an idle caress. “Dex?” he asks after what may be minutes, or hours, Dex doesn’t know, his voice slow and liquid and satiated, like a drip of molasses.
“Yes?” Dex replies, opening one eye. It’s nearing sunset, now, and an orangey-red glow has spread over the mostly-dark room, casting shadows across Joe’s profile and making Dex’s heart rend almost painfully in his chest. “Beautiful...” he murmurs, without realizing it.
Joe looks surprised, then gratified. Embarrassed, even though his feelings for Joe are pretty much out in the open now, Dex feels himself flushing. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“Dex,” Joe says, a little incredulously, with a helpless laugh, “don’t you get it?” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at Dex with a proprietary little grin on his face.
Dex winces, squinting at Joe with one eye. “What am I getting?” he asks. Joe kisses him. “Oh... yes. Er, that. So, what... am I getting? Or not getting? Exactly?”
“I love you,” says Joe. “How about that?”
The bottom drops out of Dex’s world momentarily, then re-affixes itself the other way around. “Oh,” he says faintly. “Well, I love you too.”
“You do know that we can’t make this a habit, though,” Joe says, eyes locked steadily with Dex’s.
Dex licks his lips. “Of course.”
“And that I’ll have to pretend that nothing happened…”
“It’s better for everybody,” Dex agrees.
They fall silent for a long moment. Then, at the same time, they lean forward, crushing their lips together and clinging to each other’s shoulders.
Joe breaks away with a gasp. “Absolutely cannot happen–”
“Except maybe occasionally...”
“Occasionally,” Joe agrees vehemently, kissing Dex fiercely. “And nobody–”
“Nobody will know,” Dex says. “Completely covert.”
“Good boy, Dex,”
“Thank you, Capt’n.” Dex pauses, breathing heavily. “Well, since we’re here, and, well...”
“Shall we go again?” Joe suggests.
“You read my mind,” Dex says breathlessly, and pulls Joe back down onto the bed.
Just outside the door, Franky pauses, her hand poised to knock. Peering through the crack in the door with her good eye, her mouth drops open ever-so-slightly. And then, slowly, she grins, pulling the door silently closed.
“Good boy, Dex,” she says under her breath, then turns to go. It was, she reflects, a good three months, while it lasted.
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Date: 2004-09-21 01:58 pm (UTC)This is fabulous. I don't think I can even post mine, in light of this... this was just... wonderful. :) Thank you for sharing it!
You're really great with dialogue, by the way.
Post it!!
Date: 2004-09-21 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-21 03:48 pm (UTC)