Not An Addict
By Tiriel
NC-17, m/m, language, these are bad boys
The Way of the Gun, the short version: a film very few people saw, lots of people should. The so-called "Mr. Parker" (Ryan Phillippe) and "Mr. Longbaugh" (Benicio Del Toro) are two criminals who kidnap a surrogate mother and ask for $15 million in ransom for the baby she's carrying. Things get complicated. On one level, it looks like a typical post-Tarantino ultraviolent crime film, but there's a lot more to it than that. Rent it and find out. And did I mention that the relationship between Parker and Longbaugh is very very slashy?
Disclaimer: (Tiriel does the "they're not mine" dance.) Seriously, folks, the work of Christopher McQuarrie, writer-director of The Way of the Gun and Academy Award-winning writer of The Usual Suspects, makes me want to write screenplays. I love his work. He made these guys. This is just the cheap imitation.
Summary: Parker's internal monologue about Longbaugh. Set within the film. Spoilers. Title is a K's Choice song, but this isn't songfic.
For Aithine, who encourages me when I hear voices.
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Not An Addict
By Tiriel
I saw the jealousy flash across his face and it surprised me. I knew how it was with me, but I hadn't known it was like that with him, too. I'd thought I'd seen it earlier, in the van, and then again when he came into the motel room. At the time I read it as disapproval for my getting attached to a woman who will probably die before this is through. I was wrong. This time there was no denying it. He was jealous. When she had me touch her stomach to feel the baby move, he came over and separated our hands, the jingle of the lamp as his shoulder hit it the truest sign of his mood.
There's something about the way he moves--slow and casual, smooth, silent. He just oozes sex. Not a hard and fast fuck, but the slow, dirty kind that just lasts and lasts. When I get tense or nervous and he reads me with a look and then just stands there, all loose, I get so hard I can't breathe.
He let her shoot at me to prove his point. That he's the only one I should trust. I pulled a gun on him to prove mine. That just because my dick got hard against his leg when he had me pinned to the wall doesn't mean he owns me. He knew I wouldn't pull the trigger, and once I saw he got the message, we were back to normal.
We travel together. We aren't faggots. But with money scarce more days than not, hardly enough to get food and put gas in the car, much less buy pussy, and neither of us of the temperament to make nice with some girl just so we could get a little, it was bound to happen. We've spent a lot of time together, just the two of us, and you can only play cards for so long.
First time, we'd seen a woman at a bar, each taken a run at her and been shot down. She wasn't out of our league or anything, just not interested, I guess, and we wound up horny and alone. And a little drunk. We'd done plenty of jerking off in the time we'd been together, sneaking away to be alone or when we thought the other was asleep, but that night we did it together for the first time.
So we were drunk and camping out, because what little money we had had been spent on the tab we'd run up. He was already standing on my side of the car when I got out. "God, I'm horny," I said. "Would've been nice if she'd said yes. Doing it yourself just isn't the same, y'know?" Started to walk past him to go off into the bushes, but he didn't move out of the way. His eyes were dark and looked into mine and he put a hand on my crotch. That was all it took, I was paralyzed. He pushed me back against the car and unzipped my fly. It was a quick hand job, and when he was done, I returned the favor. He didn't make a sound. We didn't kiss, we didn't talk about it, and it was at least a week before we did it again.
Couldn't tell you what got him going that time, but he started to excuse himself to go off alone. When he stood up, I could see the reason. He saw me looking. Read me like he always does. Ambled toward me like he was just coming over for the hell of it and stopped in front of me.
I was sitting on a log, and his groin was at about my eye level. I reached out and ran a finger over the bulge in his pants. When he shuddered, I put my whole hand against it. "You want it?" I asked.
He didn't answer, just sat down next to me and reached over. I hadn't even been hard until I'd touched him, but when he put his hand on me, I thought I was going to lose it right then. We jacked each other off, sober this time, but again there was no discussion, no kissing, hardly any touching. No big deal, we just needed to get off.
But the third time was when it got weird. We were pretty buzzed. We'd pulled off a job, it had gone smoothly for a change, so we got ourselves a decent motel room and some beer.
"Wanna go down to the bar?" He lit another cigarette.
I was lying on the bed. He was standing nearby, shirt half-open. "Would, but I'm too drunk," I mumbled.
He flopped down on the bed next to me and I rolled onto my side. Ran a hand down his chest, over the tatt that matches mine, down to his zipper.
"Yeah," he breathed.
I opened his fly, reached in, and started working him. I looked at him, and when I could see he was close to coming, muscles straining, tongue sliding out to lick his lips, I couldn't help it. I leaned down and put my mouth over the head of his dick. He sort of arched up off the bed, pushing further in, and then he was coming, the bitter taste of it hitting my tongue. I swallowed, wiped my mouth, and lay back down.
"What'd ya do that for?"
I just shrugged. I was trying to come up with a good answer for him, and suddenly he was hovering over me, straddling me.
He looked down into my eyes, I could almost see him thinking, and then he was tugging at my jeans, getting them open and pulled halfway down. No underwear to worry about, but he'd have known that already. Before I could ask or even think "What the hell?" he was right there, his hair brushing my skin as he sucked me.
I just moaned and bucked and grabbed fistfuls of bedspread. Later on, I realized that he'd obviously sucked cock before, because he sure knew what he was doing. Wasn't long before I was shooting my load. He pulled my pants back up and we slept, side by side on top of the bedspread.
Nothing else happened for a while. I didn't make any moves, on him or anybody else, and he didn't make any either. Then one night we were in a motel again, playing cards, stone sober, killing time, same as always. Playing for pennies. I think it happened because he likes to push me. Just little subtle looks or comments and pretty soon I'm losing my temper, defensive. He's damn good at it, too. Looks all amused when he gets a rise out of me, like he's won the fucking lottery.
So we're playing cards and he starts to deal and he just says, out of the blue, "Let's up the ante. How 'bout winner gets to fuck the loser?"
Now, I knew he was gonna win. He always wins because he's a goddamn cheat and too good at it to get caught. But I also knew he was expecting me to protest, to get pissed. And then I'd look like a sore loser or a pussy or something. So I just nodded and took the cards he dealt. Watched him like a hawk and for once I actually saw the SOB cheat. Took a draw from the middle of the deck and his hand didn't quite cover it up. I started to call him on it. Opened up my mouth, even. Then I closed it right back up and didn't say a word. He'd have just denied it anyway.
He won, of course. And when I looked up from the cards to his eyes, so deep and dark right then that they looked like black coffee, he didn't even blink. Just said, "I'll let you off the hook this time," got up, and walked away from the table.
Things probably wouldn't have gone any farther if I hadn't opened my big mouth. "Hey, I don't welsh. You think I can't take it?"
He turned around and said, "No, I think you can." Tone of voice is everything.
"What's that supposed to mean? I'm no fag."
"Course not. Me neither." And he winked at me, which pissed me off, but then I didn't care, because he put out his cigarette and strolled back across the room toward me. And I knew that it was gonna happen.
In no time at all, I was bent over the table, pants around my ankles, cold motel shampoo dripping down the crack of my ass as he lined up and started to push. It hurt at first, but then it got good. And then it got better, sending little jolts up my back that made me want more. He did it just like I thought he would, just like he moves. Smooth, silent, slow and dirty and it lasted and lasted. Finally, I heard him make a noise. Little grunts as he gave me a reacharound and thrust a few more times, slamming in hard and then stopping. After a minute, he gave me a couple more strokes and I came all over the floor.
Once he'd pulled out and I'd stood up straight, I turned toward him. Put my hands on his arms. I could smell the smoke on his breath. Leaned in close enough to taste it in the air. I licked my lips, almost kissed him. Wanted to. But I didn't. I stepped back and moved away. Just 'cause it had gotten to be that way for me, didn't mean it had for him.
We haven't done anything since, been too busy with this job, mostly. The jealousy tonight surprised me because I thought he'd done it for the sex, didn't think he really wanted me. Looks like maybe I was wrong. One thing I do know, it's been a while now since I wanted anybody else.
The End