[identity profile] neevebrody.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] brendan_vincent
An example of what Brendan faces in the story... I'm sure you'll see the significance.

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(sorry, not the best cap quality)

Title: Old Haunts, New Boundaries
Pairing: Brendan/Vincent
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~7400
Legal: These characters do not belong to me; more's the pity… seriously.
Warnings: Voyeurism, Sex in public
Beta/Editor: the wonderful [livejournal.com profile] mischief5, but I can't promise I heeded all of her excellent advice and OMG the obsessing I did with this, so I own ALL the mistakes.
Notes: I wrote the beginning of this as a "write your own ending" thingy for Sinful Saturday long ago (so long that everyone will have forgotten and not even notice how the first part has been reworked/updated to fit the completed scenario). The story is also a very belated birthday fic for [livejournal.com profile] melagan – late as usual, sweetie, but I hope you like.

Summary: What Vincent was suggesting – here, now – Brendan knew damn well it could either crack that bond or make it stronger, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to test its strength so far from his comfort zone. He wasn't like Vince.

Old Haunts, New Boundaries

Brendan blinked watery eyes and peered around the crowded barroom. Apparently, everyone in the Quarter was choosing to celebrate the recent House rejection of a smoking ban in bars and gambling establishments by smoking twice as much. His voice would sound like crushed gravel tomorrow, but Vince had been adamant about visiting the friend he was talking to. Their vacation to the Big Easy was a gift to himself because he'd never been to the city and to Vince as a last carefree fling through his old haunts before beginning law school. Andre, one of the bartenders, was on a break and he and Vince were catching up.

Surprised to find Andre still in town, Vince explained that they'd met through Richard, the drop-dead gorgeous transvestite Vince had befriended after an awkward incident of mistaken identity. Richard had hooked them up with a place to stay for the week, and after sitting up most of the first night drinking and talking, Brendan found him just as engaging as Vince had said – and Brendan had certainly gotten an earful.

The next day, Richard had given them the cook's tour with a stop back at Richard's place before heading out for the evening. Hanging without rhyme or reason, colorful impressionistic still life and amazing nudes helped to hide cracked and peeling plaster in the studio apartment, while the thirteen-foot ceilings lent even more of a gallery feel. When Richard said he'd needed to change, Brendan hadn't expected that to mean a transformation. His jaw had dropped when Richard emerged as his alter ego, and he'd found himself in the unlikely position of having to stem a growing erection, scolding himself mentally while at the same time totally believing why Vince would have been interested. Drop dead was dead on.

And it hadn't been so much Richard's female persona that had excited Brendan as thinking of how Richard must have felt wearing that gorgeous dress, and the knowing look Richard had given him as he'd turned, looked back over his shoulder, and asked for Brendan's opinion. There'd been a spark in Richard's eye, a sort of secret handshake, something that said he knew and maybe approved.

But Brendan was bored now, listening but not really hearing Andre's conversation, contemplating the way the curve of Andre's earring kept catching the light. He wouldn't go as far as to say he was uncomfortable, but the bar really wasn't his kind of place. With a name like Pink's, he figured it for a jazz or blues club, not the meat market it appeared to be, and it didn't take much imagination to read the looks thrown their way by some of the other patrons. At least they were getting free beer out of the deal, Brendan mused. He leaned in to nudge Vince, shook his third empty Sam Adams, and pointed toward the bathrooms.

The music was loud and the room was stifling with bodies, the stale, sweat-tinged air ripe with something irremovably familiar, though hard to name, as he weaved his way through the crowd on the dance floor. Brendan felt like a bug under glass by the time he reached the men's room. Inside, he took a stall instead of the urinals and nodded to a nice looking older man at the lavatories. He washed his hands until the man left, taking a few moments alone to breathe before plunging back into the eclectic fusion of leather, L.L. Bean, and bayou boogie.

When he came out, Brendan noticed several well-dressed men pass him and go through a doorway covered by a scarlet curtain and glass beads. He felt a pull in the pit of his stomach; that was about as subtle as a flashing marquee. Maybe curiosity wasn't always the best cure for boredom, but the cop in Brendan forced him to step over and scope it out. He pulled the curtain aside and froze. Scenes from the past rushed at him like white water, allowing him to be swept into the room by some other men coming in behind him. He groped for the wall and stuck to it, like a man on a ledge, afraid of falling headlong into the memory.

The Stryker case had been nearly four years ago. Brendan had been one of the lead agents in an undercover sting operation in a place not too different from this. At the time, everyone from the top brass on down had praised his efforts, citing his diligence for the agency's ability to make arrests so quickly. Even so, a few high-level Neanderthals still openly joked about Brendan being such a "good sport."

Just as then, all around the ill-lit room in front of him, a number of men were having sex. Couples and threesomes were sprawled on cheap sofas – making out, giving handjobs, or sucking other guys off. And the ones not doing anything were standing around watching, a few with a drink in one hand and their dick in the other.

During the Stryker op, no one in the agency would have dreamed that Brendan's gung ho attitude might have come from his fascination with his informant at the club. Fascination was as good a word as any, he supposed, recalling the way the blonde-streaked hair fell into delicate curls at the back of the guy's neck, that killer ass in tight jeans, and eyes that lit Brendan up like blue neon. As the memories continued their assault, Brendan could feel the stares, but tried to avoid looking at anyone head on.

There was a place in the far corner where a larger group of men were gathered. From the movements and the interest of those nearby, he was pretty sure somebody was getting fucked, maybe more than one somebody.

He thought of his role in the sting, how turned on he'd been by his contact's open playfulness, more than willing to do his part in the charade, almost as if he wasn't working at it at all. Brendan could still see the look on the informant's face when he had remanded him into the custody of the agent from witness protection, a look that had echoed his own feelings of unfinished business between them and something else left undone.

Sensing someone else come into the room, Brendan realized he'd been holding his breath. He needed to get his body to obey his brain and get the hell out of there – only he couldn't stop watching. It was sex, pleasure for the sake of pleasure alone. It was raw, in watching how some of the men submitted easily, eagerly, and in a way, it was power, the power of perfect strangers to hold him hostage, to make him turn inward and dust off something he thought he'd buried under reams of data and reports and the veiled security of a stable relationship. That's when something caught fire inside him. It came out of the blue; he wasn't asking for it, but…

A hand slid around his waist. "Let you go off on your own for five minutes and look what happens."

Brendan's reflexes were lightning fast, pinning that hand to the wall before he could think. "Christ, Vince, you…" He swallowed his pounding heart and dragged Vince back through the curtain, back into the choking, undulating bar that now seemed to beat in time with the throbbing in his groin.

"Can we go now?" he asked.

"Are you sure you want to?" Vince had that look; his eyes sparkled when he said it and Brendan knew he was in deep shit.

"I do not want to go back in there, Vince." A couple more guys walked past, eyeing the both of them. "Let's just—"

"See that?" Vince leaned in close, his voice a deep husk in Brendan's ear. "You are the hottest thing here, Brendan, and don't think these guys don't know it."

"What are you… you want me to…"

"Don't you?" Vince asked, raising both eyebrows. "I'll be with you; nobody else will touch you—unless you want them to?"

"Seriously! What if… what if there's a raid or something? Jesus, Vince, I can't—"

"There's nothing to worry about. Andre says the guys who own this place pay plenty to make sure things like that don't happen – they've got a string of these joints from here to Biloxi."

Brendan pulled his arms up between them and folded them across his chest. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Christ, Brendan, don't you know where you are? It's the good 'ol boy justice system alive and well. I'll be right there," Vince added, catching Brendan under the chin with the crook of his finger.

It was hard to block out that seductive voice – even harder to ignore the slow grind of Vince moving against him. And, fuck, Brendan might have had one too many beers because he was already thinking about it, his dick getting harder by the second. Vincent's lips, hot and sweeter than an entire cane field, weren't helping either.

Still, something – his practical, pragmatic side that obviously never had too much of anything – pressed him to push Vince away and steer him back toward the table. "Let's just go have another beer, huh?"

But Vince just stood there. The words of disappointment were written all over him, slow resignation, like a deflating tire, clear in the sag of his shoulders. Even though he was smiling and seemed to shrug it off, the spark was gone, and Brendan stood there, feeling like he'd just let go of the string of his best friend's new kite. When Vince turned and started into the crush on the dance floor, it was like watching the long, trailing tail navigate spindly treetops and power lines on the way to its lofty freedom, with nothing more for Brendan to do or say except follow his friend off the windy field.

Back at their table, Brendan took a chair opposite Vince. The way Vince looked, sitting there with his eyes fixed on the label he'd begun peeling from one of the empty bottles, Brendan felt he needed to come up with some good reason for letting go of the string, but everything that came to mind sounded lame.

"Is it that important to you?" he asked after too much silence.

Vincent's fingers fumbled with the edge of another strip. "It's not important at all… it's just… Nothing."

"What?" Brendan didn't have the patience to sit there and fence for a point. "It's just what?"

Vince looked up at him through dark lashes. "You," he said, almost too low for Brendan to hear.


"I saw the way you looked when you came out of that room, and I thought… just for a few minutes, while you're away from everything familiar, I'd like to see you kick off those straight laces and enjoy yourself. I love to see that passion bubble up and consume you." Vince set down the bottle. "If you had any idea how you look when that happens…"

One of the waiters appeared with two more beers and a smile for Brendan before going off to serve another table.

"So, I'm something to show off?" Brendan asked as Vince nodded to Andre at the bar.

Vince turned his eyes on Brendan, both the look and his voice as sharp as flint with his answer. "No!"

"You like me best when I'm a slut, is that it?"

"Do not even go there…"

"No, admit it, you think that's the real me. This poor, repressed schmuck who finally—"

"Fuck that—I'm not even answering that," Vince said, going back to peeling his bottle. "Only… When you let go, I don't know how to—"

"We've had this conversation, Vince."

And they had, more than once. Sure, Vince had played the Svengali, teaching Brendan, showing him ways to express the desires he'd kept to himself for too many years, and Brendan had let him – gladly, enthusiastically.

But those sorts of things had always been private, just for them, the acts and the aftermath fusing them together like knitting bones, making what they had hard to quantify, something only they understood. What Vincent was suggesting – here, now – Brendan knew damn well it could either crack that bond or make it stronger, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to test its strength so far from his comfort zone. He wasn't like Vince.

"I'm not like you."

"A slut?"

"God damn it, don't put words in my mouth. You know what I mean—I don't have your—it's easier for you. "


Brendan shifted in his chair and turned away.

"Now you're starting to piss me off," Vince said. "Being good looking and having a fuck all attitude makes everything easy for me, does it? Because that's the sum total of who I am? I can't possibly have any, what is it… emotional baggage?" Vince said those words as if they left a bad taste. "Is that what we're talking about here?"

The questions swirled in the air with the veil of cigarette smoke around them. Brendan could feel Vince waiting for an answer, but he didn't look up, didn't reply. He just shrugged; not at all sure he was ready for barroom confessions on either side and wondered how he'd managed to tank a perfectly good evening so quickly.

"You think it's easy being propositioned practically everywhere I go?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure that's a real hardship," Brendan said, trying to ignore the burning in his chest. He picked up one of the empty bottles from Vince's side of the table, still not making eye contact.

"And why is that? Because sex is all I'm out for? Because you still think that's all I want from you?" Vince leaned forward and tapped his index finger on the table between them. "We've had that conversation, too."

Brendan chewed the inside of his lip and glanced up. Vince was right; it had stopped being just sex with them long ago.

"Yeah, okay," Vince said, grabbing his fresh beer. "I'll admit there were plenty of times I was just looking to get laid – tell me you haven't. But there were other times… Hell, I'd have been happy to find a girl to talk to whose IQ didn't drop to her bust size the minute she saw me."

Poor baby, Brendan wanted to say but didn't. Thinking back to that first night Vince had spent in his apartment, Brendan recalled how it had been just being in the same room with Vince. Jesus, losing a few intelligence points seemed a perfectly normal response. He gazed across the table. Perfectly understandable.

"That was the thing with Richard; we'd sit up all night talking because we both had a lot to say. Things he couldn't say to his johns and things I couldn't seem to say to anyone else. We'd swap stories and jokes. Richard would talk about painting, going to art school, shit like that. And not in an I'm attracted to you sort of way, but I realized that was what I'd been craving. Someone I could have a regular conversation with – talk about sports or dogs or fishing, whatever.

"For that matter," Vince continued, "I guess you think it was easy for me to come on to you that first time."

Brendan blinked. Had he heard correctly? Somehow, in his mind, Brendan had always thought pick-up lines came as naturally as breathing for Vince. And, at the time, Vince hadn't exactly been shy about sharing stories, particularly of his exploits with Richard, how he'd gotten curious while staying over one weekend, and the affect it had on him watching Richard perform, or the first time Vince had openly sought out his first experience with another man.

Brendan cleared his throat. "So, why… I mean, you're saying it wasn't easy?"

Vince barked a laugh and shook his head. "Honestly? I was afraid you'd turn me down and throw me out."

Brendan hadn't expected that answer. He opened his mouth then closed it again, checking his thoughts before: "That's… I did. Sort of."

"But I came back," Vince said with a wicked grin.

"Yeah, because you're a stubborn son of a bitch who can't take no for an answer or else you were feeling the need for a little masochism."

Vincent's laugh suited him. Open and generous, it cut through the din of music and other voices to settle deep under Brendan's skin. That was another thing that seemed to come so easy to Vince, and the sound of it now filled Brendan with a quick, hot desire to be back home where Vince could open him up with that laugh, where Brendan could wrap himself around it and lose himself inside it.

Vince leaned in close and looked at Brendan, his eyes steady and clear. "You were smart, opinionated, funny, and hot all in one package – okay, mostly hot. And I wasn't used to getting the smack down, but if you recall, you didn't say no… exactly. I knew you were holding back and there was no way I was giving up without a fight."

Brendan sat there, staring at the bottle in his hand, at the clinging bits of ragged label, and let those words settle in his brain.

"Maybe because it wasn't sex first," Vince said. He took a long pull from his beer before adding, "There was something about you—you were strong and capable, with these flashes of dorkiness that seemed to… make you real, you know, like maybe you were looking for something too."

"Of course, you thought that something was you?" Brendan snorted, still trying to work out if the dorky remark was a good thing.

Vincent's smile was wide and warm. "I wasn't wrong."

No, he wasn't. Even before anything had happened between them, Brendan knew it would, eventually. It had had to because, from the beginning, he'd never been able to get Vince off his mind. His head pounded with music and memories, memories of those first few days. How he'd suddenly been cursed with balloon fingers whenever Vince was around, and how every other word out of his mouth made him just want to zip it shut until he could remember how to string thoughts together into coherent conversation. How he'd have to leave the room unexpectedly to talk down his desire to do all the things Vince had talked about, and the storm of confused feelings all of it had stirred. He'd felt far from strong or capable.

Knowing Vince had been anxious too, had worried Brendan would reject him… It was a weird sort of revelation and maybe something of a turn-on. Brendan knew the part of Vince that lay between the public swagger and the broken pieces he sometimes got to hold in his arms. Hearing Vince admit it, however, was another thing entirely. And it couldn't be the beer, because Vince wasn't even close to his starting-to-talk-shit limit.

When Vince leaned back in his chair, Brendan's gaze drifted to the way he sat with his legs apart. The only way someone could resist Vince, he decided, was if they didn't have a pulse.

He shuddered as the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. It was one thing to sit there and listen to his big head do the talking, quite another to deny that what his little head wanted more than anything was to be back in that room with Vince.

"Enough of this girl-talk," Vince said. The loud clap of his hands on the tabletop startled Brendan. "I'm gonna go hit the can, then we can get out of here."

Brendan nodded dumbly and watched Vince weave his way through the bar – even that looked as if it took no effort at all. Brendan picked up another empty bottle, his heart starting to pound now along with his head. He sat obsessively peeling bits of label, adding to the mound of curled foil littering the tabletop, one thought still reeling around the back of his mind.

Fuck it! He stood up quickly, jerked his chin at Andre, and laid a few bills on the table for a tip. Christ, his hands were actually shaking. If he'd learned anything with Vince, it was not to be afraid of what he wanted. Brendan could taste what he wanted; it was hot and metallic on the back of his tongue – as if he'd chewed those foil strips and spat them out. What was more, he didn't want it for Vince. But he'd known that as soon as he'd stepped inside that room the first time.

When Vince came out of the men's room, Brendan grabbed him and backed him into the corner beside the curtained doorway. For half a second, Vince resisted, but then Brendan felt strong arms around his waist and an eager mouth returning his kiss, the heat of it blazing down his spine.

"Mmmm, I thought we were leaving," Vince purred, a mere breath separating them.

Not so subtly, Brendan groped the front of Vincent's jeans. "Not yet," he replied, cutting his eyes toward the room as a couple of older men were exiting.

"Bren, I said it was okay. Let's go home—you've got me so fucking horny, I can't wait to—"

"You don't have to wait." Brendan leaned in but Vince stopped him, hand splayed across his chest; it made Brendan wonder if Vince couldn't feel his need right through the tips of his finger.

"Look, babe, I'm not going to pretend I don't want you in that room, but not if that's why you're doing it."

"Oh, I'm not doing it for you," Brendan said smugly before kissing Vince again, taking his time to open Vince up, to lick his way to the urgency that practically vaulted them through the doorway.

He hadn't noticed it before, but the room was much too warm, and now the overwhelming smell of sweat and sex hung like a low cloud. He tried to keep his focus on the small sofa where Vince was leading them but couldn't help catching a few stares as they passed, as well as a few familiar faces from before.

By the time they'd reached the sofa, Brendan already felt stripped naked. As his ears adjusted to the lower decibel level, it seemed they were literally cut off from the barroom. The fake leather couch was a sickening shade of… pink. Pink with a black zebra print that made his stomach churn, a la what the actual fuck am I doing?

As promised, Vince was right there, arm around Brendan, strong and protective. It was comforting, even though Brendan knew it would take about thirty seconds for him to have any man in the room trapped in a headlock they'd beg for their mamas to get out of. Still, he might have whimpered just a little when Vince palmed the nape of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

Figuring it was best to jump right in, like that first dive into a pool, Brendan worked the button fly of Vince's jeans open with a practiced ease. He snaked his hand down inside, grinning as flesh touched warm, almost-hard flesh. In turn, Vince began to unbutton the white linen shirt Brendan was wearing, but when he'd undone the last one, he didn't slide it off Brendan's shoulders.

"Leave it on," he whispered, and Brendan didn't question him, just let Vince continue to undress him, khaki shorts falling to the floor as Vince carefully lowered Brendan's tented boxers past his hips.

Instead of fighting the flush of panic at being exposed, Brendan cupped his hand over Vincent's cock and focused his attention there while helping to push Vincent's jeans down just far enough. Brendan gasped as their dicks rubbed together, at the way the warmth from Vince's hand traveled up to spread over his chest. He looked down and watched Vince stroke them slowly and thought of the way Vince would line them up and stretch his foreskin over both cockheads, trapping them together, the feel of both rims in Brendan's hand as he would slide back and forth, jacking them.

Brendan wanted that now – that connection. He could almost feel the mind-blowing rush of Vince coming on his cock… Leaning back, he arched into it; the beer, the dull thump-thump from the bar, and the pall of testosterone around them making him want to ride that feeling all the way to the end.

"Just like this, Bren…" Vincent's voice rumbled through Brendan's chest. "…fucking good… I can come like this, whatever you want."

And it would be so easy, easy to let go and let Vince drive this thing, but…

No! This was his and, selfish or not, Brendan was there to satisfy something – he didn't even know what – a burning itch in a place impossible to scratch. One thing was certain, there were no questions he needed answered. He didn't need Vince to show him anything. Not this time.

In a daring move, and against all the self-protective voices screaming at him, Brendan took Vince's hand and pushed him back onto the sofa. He stepped out of his deck shoes, slid his underwear to his ankles, and kicked them and his shorts aside.

"Wallet and keys," Vince huffed, his eyes wide, as if he couldn't believe they were really doing this.

Brendan bent down and tossed his shorts onto the sofa, then dropped to his knees. After freeing one of Vincent's legs from the well-worn jeans, he ran his hand up along the rough-smooth skin, a path he knew by heart. Spreading Vince wide, he felt the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes at his back. Kneeling there, facing the tanned skin, taut muscles, and that thick, beautiful cock, it wasn't hard to imagine what they were all looking at.

The inside of Vince's thigh felt like silk and tasted of sun and salt as Brendan nipped over it. He gave in and sucked too hard in one spot. Let them look, he thought, because that flicker of fire in Vincent's eyes and the look of pure, heated lust on his face… those belonged to Brendan. When Vince reached out to cradle Brendan's chin in his hand, stroking his thumb over Brendan's lips, it felt as though he and Vince were the only two in the room.

The touch released a trickle of sweat, free to ease its way around Brendan's neck while his fingers circled the base of Vince's cock. Just shy of fully hard, a few drops of anticipation glistened at the tip and Brendan was there, gently pulling the skin taut to swirl his tongue around the head, capturing the thick, syrupy drops before taking all of it into his mouth, then again, deeper, feeling Vince harden even more.

He loved the taste of Vince's cock and wondered if it showed. Holding Vince steady, he licked the underside, long and slow from base to tip, and thought of how he looked doing it. Like the men he'd seen before – lust-glazed, owning their pleasure. He'd sure as hell give them something to see. Teasing the foreskin with his teeth, he slipped the tip of his tongue just inside again and again, until Vince's hips were twitching and his fingers curled into the hot, sticky zebra stripes. Then, in one swift move, Brendan sank back down to the root.

"Oh, fuck yeah, Brendan… suck me."

Caught on the edge of Vincent's rusted-metal voice, the words cut right to Brendan's groin. But he was way ahead of Vince, finding a rhythm, his head bobbing up and down as he sensed the others watching, the need for their approval like a dark secret he'd dare not reveal.

Oh yeah, no turning back now, and Brendan didn't want Vincent holding back either. And to show he was all in, Brendan pulling off with a little pop, gasped, "Fuck my mouth…" and then waited, poised, as Vince made a little growl from deep in his chest.

In and out, Vincent's cock caught the back of Brendan's throat just the way Brendan liked it, filling him until he thought he'd choke. Quick and hot, the dam of Vince's cockhead shot electric sparks through Brendan's brain, pounding his pulse between his ears. His eyes stung with the need of a good breath but he still wanted more. Christ, get a hand on his cock and he could come like this.

But he didn't get the chance. Vince switched gears on him, pulling Brendan off and dragging him in close, kissing him in that way he had – kiss, draw back, kiss, draw back, keeping Brendan off balance until he thought he'd break apart just from missing Vince's mouth on his – warm and soft, rough and hard, and possessive. His skin burned with the openness of what they'd offered up for the others. Vince may as well have pinned him to that couch spread-eagled.

When Vince finally pulled away, he still had a handful of Brendan's shirttail, clutching it like a drowning man, his chest heaving, a completely different look in his eyes. Brendan knew that look, too. Tasting hot metal again, he shot a glance at the wad of clothes beside Vince, taking a second to catch his breath. Now or never, Dean.

"Check my pocket," Brendan said, barely able to get the words out.

Vince fumbled with the shorts until he found it. "Lime green?" There was a smirk somewhere in his voice as he held up the condom, but his face didn't show it.

Brendan shrugged. "There's lube, too. Got 'em from the party basket up front." He barely remembered that now or whether he'd picked them up for some twisted souvenir or to use when they'd gotten home. Not that he'd need anything to remind him of this crazy desire buzzing beneath his skin. Like static, needing only one spark to set it off.

He could see that Vince sensed that. Brendan watched him rip the condom packet open with his teeth, adding to that buzz a hot adrenaline chaser, swirling with images of Vince balls-deep inside him on that cheap-ass sofa with those men watching. It scared the shit out of him, but at the same time, just thinking it, he was rock hard.

Vincent's fingers were quick and deft with the condom and Brendan didn't think the color was so bad all stretched out like that. He held out his hand for a bit of the lube, took a deep breath and rubbed slick fingers over his hole. Holy fuck, they were really going to do this.

Vince tugged Brendan's shirt to get his attention. Their eyes locked, it was as if Vince could read his thoughts. "You want it, just like this," he said. "So stop trying to talk yourself out of it." Then he reclined back, holding his stiff cock in an invitation for Brendan to straddle him.

Brendan didn't expect the heady rush of feelings body-slamming him: this place, what they were doing, the ache in his nuts, Jesus, the look on Vince's face, like Brendan was some national treasure in eminent danger of being hijacked. He felt exposed – he was exposed – and a bit awkward, suddenly all knees and elbows. All feelings that warred inside him at the nudge of Vince's cock and made opening for Vince seem about as easy as putting on a firearms display in front of a squad of rookies.

Slowly, finally, he let Vince in, and nothing, even where they were, could take away from the feeling of Vince spreading him open. It took Brendan's breath like always, and when Vince started to move, Brendan leaned forward to give him room.

He could hear them, the faint sound of belt buckles. He thought about them taking their dicks out and watching him. If it was possible to want something so badly, but at the same time not care to look it in the face, Brendan was there, even as he struggled with the prickly feeling. It stung his skin and made him sweat, melting away the awkwardness, and replacing it with a lick of power that seemed to override everything else. The tables had been turned. Now Brendan had the power to hold them hostage, the power to make them watch.

Only he and Vince knew the intimacy of their rhythm. To those around them, it may have been just two guys fucking, but with each movement, each thrust, this was music written just for the two of them, music only they could hear, scoring their need to touch each other in a way no one else could see.

Like the way he would sometimes touch Vince while he was sleeping, just to feel the warmth or a confirmation that Vince was real. The way Vince would stir and open his eyes, seeing even in the dark, reaching deep to give back whatever Brendan needed – looks, touches, things that couldn't be said with words because there weren't any words perfect enough. Brendan could close his eyes and feel Vince anytime, anywhere.

He searched Vincent's face as they ground into each other even harder now and knew he'd never need to explain any of this to Vince. It was there in his eyes.

Everything – the room, the sounds, the smells, the men – began to shutter down to their spot on the couch, to the flex and pull of muscles, to the dark and secret part of Vince drawing Brendan in closer and closer.

Vince spread Brendan's cheeks as he changed his rhythm to a slow up and in. "Feel me, babe?"

Jesus fuck, yes. Every god damned, fucking inch. Not wanting to wait any longer, Brendan began to pull on his cock. "Vince…" he groaned. His entire world in one word.

The answering breath in his ear was warm and familiar, the voice like an invisible cord tied to his groin, wrapped around his balls and squeezed gently.

"Every guy in this room wants to be where I am, Bren… every one…"

Brendan let himself become more aware of them, their murmurings and moans.

"You should see them…" Vince whispered, lips teasing the shell of Brendan's ear as he fucked him with deep in and out strokes that felt as if he could pull Brendan's soul out with his cock.

All Brendan could see was Vince and the dingy wall with the odd stains. He closed his eyes tight. Better this way; this way Brendan could imagine them, just as Vince said.

"They want to be the one fucking you… pushing up into your tight-ass hole. Just once… Christ, just once, they'd love to know how you feel…"

Brendan jacked himself faster, his orgasm coiled tight now. God damn, Vince knew him so well, knew just what to say to turn up the heat, and that voice, raw and throaty… or was Vince… performing? He shivered with that thought.

"They'll never know," Vince huffed, turning on the rockets like that last sprint for the finish line, hips moving faster and faster. "Never know how fucking good you feel… because you're mine."

Brendan moaned and dug his fingers into the back of the sofa, struggling with his balance and the burning ache in his thighs. God, almost… "God, Vince… god…"

"Say it… tell me…" Vince's voice had changed, more of a growl than speech. "Ride my fucking cock, Brendan, and tell me."

The words pounded into his brain, each syllable a hammer blow, each beat of his heart pumping more blood to his cock, pushing him that much closer.

And Vince kept fucking him, his next thrust quick and deep, swallowing up anything Brendan might have wanted to say, touching Brendan so thoroughly he could barely think of anything but his balls drawing up tight and the cold fire skating down his spine.

He was going to come and everyone in the room would see. But they'd only see the fireworks – they'd never see the desperation of fingers pressed tightly into flesh, the spin of the room from shooting so hard he could barely breathe, or the rush of energy between bodies that felt as if it might meld them together for a few…

Vince flicked at one of Brendan's nipples, then pinched, rolling it between his fingers. In a white flash, Brendan could hear the music again as the rest of the room disappeared. Vince faded, too, as Brendan's orgasm seized him, contorting his muscles, causing his shaky arm to finally give. "Yours… Fuck…"

Wave after wave carried him out, stealing his air, and pulling him under. Sticky relief pulsed into Brendan's hand as Vince's voice echoed from somewhere he could no longer see. Vince held him tight as Brendan gave it all up, a hot stream of promise huffed into the crook of Vincent's neck. "Yours… yours… Jesus, Vince…"

From that faraway place, Brendan felt Vince stiffen just before his hips began to jerk. Then Brendan was lost to the stuttered grunts and slur of voices, to the haze of music, alcohol, and sex, to the dull sting of teeth on his shoulder as he slipped away, dead weight in Vincent's arms.

Able to breathe again, his brain on reboot, Brendan pushed himself up, only to lose his bearings again inside Vince's sated and sleepy gaze. It was a warm fist around Brendan's heart and made him want more. He leaned in for a kiss as Vince tipped his head back.

"Yours," Brendan said again, practically licking the word into Vincent's mouth.

Vince grinned back at him and drew his fingers across Brendan's jaw. "So hot, Bren… You popped more than a few corks tonight. You are fantasy material for weeks."

The change was subtle, a cool detachment like clouds blocking out the sun. He sat back out of the haze, jolted into the reality of what had just happened, or what he thought had happened. "Do I get some kind of special badge for that?"

Vince's smile faded. "Shit! I knew it." He let go of Brendan and tried to sit up. "You did this for me."

Heat flushed across Brendan's shoulders as he shoved Vince back. "Don't be a dick," he said. "It's not always about you."

"Who's the dick… Bren, I didn't mean anything…"

He could still feel eyes on them. To his right, someone was too close for comfort, still toying with his crotch. Brendan fixed him with a hard glare until he went off to watch someone else. Back to Vince, he said in a low voice, "I didn't need any hand-holding, okay. I did this because…" He paused. Vince didn't know anything about the Stryker case.

Vince pulled Brendan's discarded shorts over, covering Brendan's bare ass. "You can't even say it, can you?"

He knew he could say it, but the words were hard to find, and the way Vince was looking at him made him wonder if the entire night hadn't left him a little quick on the trigger. Brendan ducked his head.

"I wanted them to watch me," he said softly. "I wanted to show… Christ, with you, Vince…" He slipped his hand over Vincent's and squeezed. "And right now, all I can think about is getting home so you can fuck me again…" He looked up. "But this time could you do it without thinking someone's going to steal me away the next second."

Vince licked his lips and shifted his gaze to their hands.

Brendan took a shaky breath and twisted his head around to catch Vince's eye, watched Vince's throat work with the need of something to say. "Vince?"

"Get dressed," Vince said sharply, patting Brendan's rear and looking around. "We should take this afterglow somewhere else. Oh, and I hope you've seen enough sights—you might want to take a good look around on your way back to the condo."

Ignoring the protests of his muscles, Brendan stood up and wiped his hand on his boxers before tossing them to Vince. They were alone now, old news as the action seemed to be elsewhere. "What are you talking about?"

Vince tied off the condom, then cleaned himself with the underwear. Brendan watched him pull his jeans up and carefully tuck himself in. "I mean, for the rest of our vacation the only sights you're gonna be seeing are the bedroom walls."

"That so?" Brendan's sex-muddled fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, murdering the machismo he was aiming for.

He retrieved his boxers and wiped away the last of the lube before stepping into his shorts and shoes, eyes darting around as he did so. The tableau around them was more than surreal now, not like he'd just bared everything and loved it, but more of standing around at a function, shuffling his feet and wondering where to put his hands. Cramming the sullied underwear in his pocket, he envied the way Vince could sit there – both arms stretched casually over the sofa back, shirt still rucked up a bit – as if he'd just ordered café-au-lait and beignets.

"I could let you up now and then to make coffee, something to eat," Vince said with a knowing smile. He was still looking at Brendan with that hint of awe that left a flush on Brendan's cheeks. "That kitchen table does look pretty sturdy."

Brendan bent down and twisted a handful of soft, dark hair as he tugged Vince's head back, smiling his own knowing smile. "Don't you mean if you're able to walk to the kitchen."

The look he got in return was one of Vincent's best and Brendan's favorite – a fiery, come play with me, bring it the fuck on look that, instead of over-confident, made Vince seem the tiniest bit more vulnerable. It was a look that underscored how complicated a man Vince was, yet why he was so easy to love.


From one sleepy eye, Brendan scanned the room, not sure what had awakened him. After round two, he was sure he'd sleep for days. Instead of blackness, the light was the color of a storm cloud just before releasing its payload. By his estimation, that put the time at an hour or two before dawn. The urgency in his bladder wasn't dire enough to think about getting out of bed just yet, but sufficient to quietly rouse him closer to the surface, to the details of the high-ceilinged room. Brendan huffed into his pillow and smirked at the deep scarlet curtains covering the tall French doors. They looked black in the darkness, but he couldn't help noting the irony, or the weight of the arm flung carelessly but protectively across his body, a body still humming with satisfaction and yearning.

Try as he might, the best he could manage was to raise himself enough to brace on his elbows. He could taste the shroud of sticky, warm air pushed around by the paddle fan above the bed, still drunk with the night and the feel of Vince inside him. As he turned to look at Vince, his eyes adjusted to take in more than just the looming shape. Brendan thought about those men at the bar. What had they been thinking watching him? Had it been like Vince said, or… The rest of his thought was lost to a flash of adrenaline and the sleepy face of the man lying next to him.

Something Vince had said the night before echoed like a spectral whisper in the room, or was it just in his head, no way I was giving up without a fight … He brushed the hair back from Vincent's face, uncovering his widow's peak, which changed Vince's look completely, but was sexy as hell. It made Brendan want to whimper with need and thank the stars for the day Vince walked – no, elbowed – his way into Brendan's life.

Brendan grinned. Kismet, fate, some predetermined course of events? What the fuck ever, he and Vince worked. Even after all this time, Brendan couldn't point to one thing and say why they worked, and staring at a sleeping, thoroughly fucked-out Vince, he was reminded of gift horses and what not to do with them.

The smart money would never have been on the two of them ever getting together much less staying together, but Brendan was feeling lucky. And by his count, it was about damn time.
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Brendan & Vincent's Place

August 2013


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