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Normal

Gradiva

Warnings:

Some chapters are heavy on smut, others are not. Overall, NC-17.
A fair amount of angst.
A little S&M, but nothing major at all.
Not beta-ed and written between midnight and 5 AM b/c of lack of sleep.

Random Meta:

lenajill wanted Biblical references. Blame her.
I didn't put too many otherwise it would be a philosophy paper. If you really want me to do that, I will, but not in a fic. I found my old notes on the Bible and Nietzsche, so ... yeah, you REALLY don't want that.

viola69 and lenajill better be satisfied b/c I ain't rewriting this again. Also, they gave me the plot... or some of it. And pointed out stuff wrong with the original.

I didn't do the thing where Justin confronts Joanie, because:
(a) Justin is far too WASPY for a real smackdown with a woman, IMHO.
(b) Justin is fairly non-confrontational unlike, for instance, Craig.
(c) Randall and Cael are doing a fair amount of drama and smackdown, so not going to steal their thunder.


I didn't want to RESOLVE the ending, so it's as Myrna would say "Hopeful, if not happy."

References are from Nietzsche's "The wanderer and his shadow," "The Birth of Tragedy," and the "Antichrist." And of course, the Bible. And Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead."

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Part 1

He can't seem to stop giggling. E turns him into a two-year-old. He's dancing in the middle of the loft, twirling round and round, his face flushed and happy. "I love dancing with you, Brian." That would be endearing, except...

"You're dancing alone, you twat."

He's grabbed by the collar of the light-blue Number 29 shirt and dragged to the bed, still laughing and giggling.

"There you go. At least now you won't hurt yourself."

"Aww, you're so worried about me," he teases, eyes unfocused. "You're my hero."

"Good to know."

"Rage saves Gayopolis and rescues J.T. from death by stumbling... it's just like that episode of..."

"Don't say it. We have rules."

"No cartoons in bed." Justin adds defensively, "Although I don't know why we have that rule. You enjoy watching..."

"Justin."

"Okay." There's a short silence, then Justin says, "Come here."

"I am here. I'm standing right over you."

Justin pulls off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans. "Touch me."

"You're this close to passing out. I don't want to have sex with you when you're unconscious."

"I didn't say fuck me. Just..."

"What? Pet you?"

Justin giggles again. "You can sneer all you like. You love it." He runs his fingers through the long blond hair, puts two fingers in his mouth, then pinches his nipples gently and rubs his stomach. "Hmm... tempting?"

There's no answer, but it doesn't bother him. His hands move down into the fold of his jeans, and he hums with pleasure. He takes off his pants and underwear and lies there on the bed, arms wide, knees raised, feet on the bed spread slightly apart. He continues to play with his nipples. A larger, slightly darker hand descends onto his belly, scratches it lightly, making him purr and then squeal. He sing-songs his triumph, "You are so mine, Kinney."

"Dream on."

"One night, when you're sleeping, I'm gonna write it on your ass in permanent marker. Property of Justin Taylor."

The scratching on his belly stops. Justin whines softly then laughs, "Relax. I'd never do that to you." The scratching doesn't resume. "Hey!"

"My partner is such a comedian."

Justin thrashes from side to side, hides his face in his palms. "Oh God! You are so fucking high!"

"What?"

"Oh my God! You said partner! You called me your partner! You're so gonna hate yourself in the morning."

The scratching resumes, at a slower pace. The voice Justin hears is a little petulant. "I've called you that before."

"Yeah, right. When?" Justin's eyes roll back in his head as the hand on his belly moves lower and twirls the soft hair of his pubes. His question goes unanswered.

Two minutes later he falls asleep, and the hand moves up to his face and gently tucks the strands of hair behind his ear.

A kiss is placed on his forehead.

Next Part

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