|
The Waiting Room
The Waiting Room
By umbrarumregni
(Rosenfield/Cooper)
NC-17, m/m
"Rent" and Albert in Leather challenges.
Plot? What plot? Mm, could "Cooper and Rosenfield go at it like rabbits
in
the Lodge" be described as a plot? Well, this fan fiction is basically
a
poor excuse for writing about two long-cherished dreams of mine -
namely, to
see Albert on top of someone and Coop suffering like hell *drools over
the
keyboard*. I guess this worthless product of a sick mind may also be
viewed
as some kind of tasteless, bizarre NC-17 version of Polly Hammer's
"Healing
the Living" (sorry, Polly!). If you haven't read it yet, don't waste
your
precious time here. Hers is much better. Really. It even has a plot!
Spoilers. Angst and other unhealthy emotions. Uncomfortable sexual
positions. Morbid sense of humour.
m/m (obviously). NC-17
Warning: I may be many things, but I'm NOT a native speaker, so be
prepared
for weird constructions. Revise it and I'll give you my soul.
Criticisms and
commentaries are VERY welcome. Just don't depress me too much, OK? I
happen
to live on the 23rd floor.
Disclaimer: All characters portrayed here are property of Lynch/Frost.
Standard disclaimers apply. Don't sue me.
---------------
Special Agent Dale Cooper is being squeezed against strangely dense red
drapes. He is tightly handcuffed, shivering in complete confusion and
childish anticipation while Albert -of all people – is embracing him
excitedly, kissing roughly his pulsing neck. The legist's right hand is
playing absentmindedly with Dale's tie. It unceremoniously finds its
way
into his white shirt and rests itself over his pounding heart, as
though
checking if he is still alive. After a while, Albert's strong lips
leave his
neck and pauses momentarily on his left ear. Breathing heavily, the
legist
says backward:
"I didn't recognize you without the handcuffs."
Trying to make some sense of it all, he glances directly into Albert's
craving eyes. Right now, Dale is being overwhelmed by a very unusual
feeling
and wonders if this is what some people call panic. It has to be one of
those dreams, he thinks hopefully. After all, everything looks
surrealistic
enough. Take Albert's weathered black leather jacket for instance.
Can't be
real. And yet, as it always happens to him in these situations, he is
not so
sure. In fact, he has this strong intuition he is in serious danger.
His
heart is pounding faster and faster and every cell of his body warns
him
there is something terribly wrong with this place. The simple idea that
this
dimly lit room may actually exist somewhere fills him with dread.
Dale has to concede that Albert's squeezing arms feel realistic enough
though, and so does the legist's tongue, now penetrating steadily into
his
half curious, half astonished mouth. Sure, the other man's body
language
leaves no room for doubt. And, as a matter of fact, no Tibetan exercise
can
prevent Dale from feeling this very genuine sensation between his legs,
only
increased by the tight arms and handcuffs. Involuntarily, he shuts his
eyes
and - moaning helplessly into Albert's mouth - presses his groin
against the
other man's tense body. *God* he thinks wearily * What am I going to
tell
Diane?*
He opens his eyes again, but nothing has changed. Albert's tongue is
still
searching inside his mouth, pressing, licking, suckling. Now his hands
are
clamped on Dale's shoulders and start to slide heavily downwards. Dale
pushes his sweated black hair against the red velvet drapes and knits
his
brows. He is almost sure he can hear a very strange music in the air, a
creepy cacophonous tune. Feeling Albert's pressure against his body, he
closes his dazed eyes and waits.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He loves Dale so much it hurts, and he is really planning to be tender
to
him...later. Right now, all he wants is to finally show Coop exactly
where
that "attitude of general unpleasantness" comes from. To be exact, he
wants
to punish the cruel bastard for keeping him waiting so long for this
moment.
Nothing can prevent him from making Dale know in his own flesh all the
longing he has endured for years. Albert smiles to himself. He intends
to
have him hard and slowly.
He moves his hand into Dale's trousers and closes it on his cock.
Dale's
squeezed body tenses instantaneously and he releases quick,
anticipating
gasps. He is moaning and whimpering simultaneously, but Albert doubts
he has
realised it yet. No matter how sharp Dale is about other people's
feelings,
his own emotions are still his major blind spot. And Cooper, the master
of
self-hypnosis, is bound to ignore every piece of evidence to keep
things
this way: Earl's psycho look, three bullets and a murdered wood tick,
Twin
Peaks' undrinkable coffee, Albert's longing eyes on him – everything
swept
under Dale's conscience carpet so as to protect his harmonic and safe
nirvana. He uses to say secrets are dangerous things. Albert wonders
how
dangerous can be all those secrets kept from oneself.
He starts shivering again, looking up at Albert with those pleading,
childish eyes of his. It is really heartbreaking the way he is being
torn
between fear and desire. But today Albert is going to have no pity on
him.
He simply can't do that anymore.
He turns Dale around and, pressing his rigid organ against his legs,
carries
him quietly to one of those black armchairs right in the middle of the
red
room. Albert is holding his body strongly by the waist, so that he
doesn't
lose balance and fall on the psychedelic floor. He nestles a
not-much-at-ease Cooper on the armchair, kneels before him and allows
his
beautiful head to rest on the shoulder of his ridiculous weathered
black
leather jacket. (Either he is dreaming or someone has a really twisted
sense
of humour.) Moving his hand into Dale's trousers once more, he raises
his
free hand and strikes that silken black hair of his. So pale, he
reminds
Albert of his college days, when he was just a cheerful necrophiliac
student. Those were the days. Living people are so complicated.
Albert starts to lick Dale's neck again and can swear he tastes coffee
in
his transpiration, saliva, and tears. He offers no resistance to
Albert's
probing tongue, but the other man can see his eyes darting wildly
around the
room. In order to make him pay better attention to what is going on,
Albert's fingers increase their pressure on Dale's cock, which causes
the
other man to bury his flushing face against the legist's jacket. After
a
while, Albert raises himself up and seats on the edge of the large
armchair's side, moves his legs slightly apart and opens his zipper.
With
deliberate sluggishness, he takes Dale by the back of his neck and
coaxes
his head downward. Dale is shaken by two small, panicked sobs, but
willingly
takes Albert's hard cock between his trembling inexperienced lips.
After
some awkward moments, he starts to suck harder and harder, like the
wanting
innocent creature he is. He is still crying, though. Constrained by his
own
moans and small gasps, Albert buries his fingers in the other man's
soft
black hair and bites through his lips as Dale Cooper gives him the
orgasm of
his life.
Dizzy by his desire and the floor pattern, Albert kneels in front
of
him again, impulsively grabs his wet, pale cheeks with both his
shacking
hands and kisses him roughly, his tongue licking ravenously his own
sperm on
Dale's luscious trembling lips. Cooper is still shivering; he is
shivering
so much Albert can swear he has malaria. Suddenly, the legist realises
the
handcuffs are strangely gone. With puzzled knitting brows, Dale is
pushing
himself tentatively against his body, clinging to his preposterous
leather
jacket lapels as if he was afraid of drowning. But drowning in what?
Albert
is not sure and yet he mechanically blames himself. *Protect me,
Albert*
Dale's eyes seem to plead. * Protect me from BOB, from Windom Earl,
from
wood ticks and from dreams like these. Protect me from you. *
Still clinging desperately to his lapels, Dale slides from the
armchair,
presses himself tightly against Albert's tense body and rubs against
his
hardening cock. He looks straightly at the other man's eyes, as if
expecting
Albert to tell him the cure for cancer, the meaning of life or how to –
please, please, please - get out of here. There is no message to
Cooper,
though. Maybe, there will never be a message at all. Frenziedly, he
casts
his eyes down, opens the other man's shirt with quivering fingers,
forces
his anxious mouth against Albert's heated skin and starts to draw hard
on
one of his nipples. Albert has to have him now. Losing the rest of good
sense he still has left, the legist lays his best friend's unresisting
but
shivering body on the psychedelic floor and turns him on his belly.
Touching
his own organ, he smears the moisture seeping from it all over the tip
until
it is as wet as possible. He doesn't bother to take Cooper's raincoat
off.
Damn, he doesn't even bother to take his own horrible leather jacket
off.
After fumbling with all those different kinds of fabrics, his strong
surgical fingers find the smooth white flash he has been looking for.
Like a
somnambulist, he lays the weight of his body against the other man; who
expectantly receives him with his legs slightly moved apart. Despairing
minutes elapses before Albert finally manages to enter Dale's terribly
tight
anus and starts to thrust his body back and forth. First fast,
franticly,
then intensely and slowly. Dale is not complaining, but Albert is sure
he is
inflicting excruciating pain on him. He is crying a little more openly
now –
that ambiguous confused sound which conveys simultaneously relief,
fear,
sadness and love. He squeezes Albert's right hand as if he could share
his
pain through touch. And then, without warning, he hesitantly brings
that
squeezed hand to his own hard cock. A little bit startled, but not
enough
startled to stop thrusting in Dale's rear, Albert holds him as tight as
he
can, pushes him up so that he is on his knees barely and starts to work
his
organ. Dale is moaning steadily now, his mouth tightly closed on the
arm of
that lousy leather jacket. To Albert, this sound is a sacred mantra and
he
thinks he wouldn't mind getting as deaf as Gordon now that he has
already
heard it. He knows that Dale is almost climaxing. His thrusts in Dale's
rear
grow longer, faster, rougher. When Albert finally hears him cry out, he
releases himself into him and feels Dale's hot fluids spilling into his
fingers.
For a while, Dale seems to be completely relaxed under Albert's body as
it
is shaken by some remaining spasms. Nevertheless, it doesn't take long
to
the shivers and the quiet sobs start all over again, though he seems to
be a
little bit calmer now.
Albert is also calmer -perhaps too calm to his own taste. Now that his
nagging desire has been temporarily quenched, he has to deal with this
excruciating tenderness that always overwhelms him whenever he is
around
Dale, and which seems inseparable from these equally excruciating
sensations
of pity and guilt. He hates feeling this way. He hates feeling.
Unfortunately, unlike Dale, he can hide his emotions from all and
sundry,
but can't hide them from himself.
Holding him quietly, Albert turns Dale around and looks into those
curious,
bewildered eyes of his. It is as if Coop once had an essential
knowledge on
the tip of his tongue, but it has slipped his mind. Albert kisses his
trusting lips gently and allows himself a small sigh. * I pretend I'm a
terrible person… and I am. *
Dale nestles silently his malaria-feverish head on Albert's arms and
closes
his eyes. He grabs his jacket lapels again, tightly, as if making sure
Albert will not vanish into thin air. The legist caresses him tenderly,
trying to send those terrible shivers away. Like Dale, he has no idea
if
this place is real or just the product of a wet dream. But, for Dale's
sake,
Albert sincerely hopes it *is* a dream and that it will disappear from
his
friend's memory as soon as he wakes up in the morning, and sips his
damn
fine cup of coffee.
The End
=======
umbrarumregni
Back to the Bookhouse Boys archive |