Perfect

 

part 3, after Please and The Deal

 

 

by silveryscrape

 

 

 

 

 

JC thinks for a minute, hand to his mouth. It’s not perfect. It’ll have to be redone.

 

He unties the knot, rubbing at the red mark underneath. Chris makes a small sound. It’s mostly muffled by the gag, and JC wishes he could take that off, because Chris sounds so amazing, so hot, but he can’t. Ever since Chris brought him home, things have been different.

 

He was lost for awhile, before Chris brought him home again. He doesn’t like to think about that time. He doesn’t like to think about why he got lost, either, and when he hears Chris’s voice raised in ecstasy, a strange heat twists through his stomach that brings it all back in flashes. So he uses the gag, adjusting the ball carefully in Chris’s mouth, and it helps a lot not to hear Chris’s words, although he misses that sometimes. He knows Chris thinks it’s a punishment, but JC doesn’t think it is, really. It’s just necessary.

 

He reties the knot, stroking the skin around it lovingly. There. Now it’s beautiful. Chris is beautiful, trembling in his restraints, watching him with glassy eyes, heaving for breath. He’s never seen anyone like Chris before, never known anyone like him. Crazy, irreverent, haphazard Chris is the most perfect person JC has ever known. JC is pretty sure Chris is the other half of him, although lord knows he’d find a better way to say it in a song. But it’s true. It’s an honor to be able to take his time like this, to try to get it all right for him.

 

JC steps back from the bed to look Chris over. He’s completely bound, completely JC’s, his arms stretched wide and his knees pulled up, and all he can do is wait. JC considers blindfolding him, too, to make the waiting more intense, to make JC’s voice and touch the center of his world, but Chris watches him as though mesmerized, with such an agony of desire and love in his eyes that JC has to have it, he won’t do without it. He realizes he’s stroking himself slowly when another little sound escapes Chris’s gag. Maybe it’s time to touch him, now.

 

“I might fuck you tonight,” he says. Chris makes a noise deep in his throat. JC thinks he’d probably be begging by now, without the gag. Chris loves to be fucked.

 

“Or maybe just cut you a little. Hmm.” Heat prickles up JC’s thighs and he squeezes himself a little tighter. He loves to cut Chris, has the perfect sharp knife Chris gave him on their anniversary last year, a small silver scalpel thing that always reminds JC of how much Chris trusts him.

 

JC’s undecided. “Hmm,” he says again, trailing the back of one finger along Chris’s cock. He doesn’t understand it, but Chris really loves it when he seems uncertain, it turns him on, and JC loves that most of all. Chris whines around the ball. His eyes are rolling back in his head, so beautiful, and JC thinks he might even be crying a little. He’s going to enjoy whatever JC does to him.

 

JC releases his own cock. It’s time to move things along. Just the cutting tonight, then.

 

He gets up from the bed to find his bag, but Chris manages to lift his hips a fraction of an inch, just a small curve on the bed. He makes a hoarse, yearning sound. JC hesitates and looks back at him. Chris’s eyes are wide. He makes the sound again.

 

“What do you want, Chris,” he says without thinking, then stiffens up as he hears his own words. “Christopher,” he adds in a dark voice, but it’s too late, the question’s out there. Chris blinks and his eyes fill with surprise, but JC thinks he sees the shadow of an answer, too. His stomach tightens, his heart pounds in his chest. What Chris wants.

 

Abruptly, he reaches out to the bedside table and finds a scarf. It only takes a second to wind it through Chris’s damp, dark hair to cover his eyes. Chris moves his head a little, as much as he can, moaning faintly, but his cock jumps on his belly, and JC laughs as a feeling of heady lightness sweeps over him.

 

“Nevermind,” he whispers, and opens the knife case.

 

The next morning Chris moves a bit gingerly as he slides into his seat at breakfast. JC feels a pang. He was pretty far into it last night by the end, although he doesn’t think he hurt Chris more than Chris wanted. He watches Chris wince as he raises an arm to pour himself coffee and takes the coffee pot out of his hand.

 

“Good morning, JC,” Chris murmurs in a warm, intimate voice, and suddenly JC is smiling back at him, pouring out the coffee as Chris grabs for french toast, yelping and crab-assing as he burns his fingers. Everything is okay, then. Everything is the way it’s supposed to be.  

 

But he thinks about it all day. That night he leaves the ropes and cuffs off, but the gag has to go on. He positions Chris on his hands and knees, because most of the cuts and scratches are on his chest and belly, and Chris stays where he’s put, head hanging down between his trembling arms. JC strokes his back comfortingly.

 

“Yeah, tonight,” he murmurs, exhaling roughly into Chris’s ear. Chris jerks against him, and it’s so delicious that JC melts down, covering him, and kisses his neck.

 

“Fuck you tonight, I think,” JC says, rubbing his cock against Chris’s ass. Chris says “mmm-hmm” and nods, bobbing his head wildly. JC laughs.

 

“I know you love that,” he says. Chris makes a complicated enthusiastic noise, so very Chris, so amazing, so much love. JC reaches for the lube.

 

Once he’s inside, they both inhale deeply, getting ready. “Okay,” JC says.

 

He starts out slowly, just a short, sweet drag through Chris’s heat, pushing back in easily so that they can both concentrate on the feeling. JC hears the rasp of Chris’s breathing, listens for the little hitches and sighs as Chris starts to give himself up. “You love this,” JC says, just to feel him tighten. Chris says something like “hnnn,” spreading his legs and sinking down onto his elbows, and JC goes down with him and says “I know” into his shoulder.

 

Fucking him hard then, wrapping his hands around Chris’s wrists and just giving it to him hard, JC can’t stop talking to him, whispering into his hair as they rock together. “Because,” JC says, starting to dissolve. “Because I know what you want.”

 

Chris starts to moan and he’s so responsive, so very beautiful, and suddenly it’s all so clear to JC that he feels like laughing, or crying, or sinking into him forever.

 

“You want. I know you want. Chris.” He can’t stop the words, they’re drawn straight out of his center, and he can’t control his hips anymore, they’re pulsing, pushing his burning cock straight into Chris’s center. Chris wails around the gag and throws his head back, and JC rubs his face along Chris’s neck, trying to listen, because maybe he’s trying to say something, maybe... he doesn’t want to do it, he can’t, but something huge is happening and he just wants to hear, so he fumbles for the buckle to pull the ball from Chris’s mouth.

 

Chris immediately inhales and says “JC” in a rusty voice. JC is thrilled, completely ecstatic and filled with light at the sound, so he asks “what do you want? Tell me” and Chris groans and says again, “JC.

 

Something utterly urgent has taken over JC’s body. He’s slamming into Chris as hard as he can, like he’s trying to push the words from Chris’s throat, and every sound Chris makes rushes through JC until he feels like he’s tumbling through the undertow, completely submerged. “Don’t you want to fuck me?” he manages, right at the edge, and Chris gasps “JC” like he’s crying.

 

“I want you to,” JC whispers brokenly, at last, and Chris shudders all over his body. But then the wave slams into JC and he’s not sure of much for a long time after that.

 

He comes awake suddenly before dawn, panicked. Chris is sleeping hard next to him, a warm lump in the bed, but JC can’t stay, he has to go, he can’t breathe. He slides out of bed silently and dresses in the dark room, gathering up his wallet and keys and jacket and moving to the door, but once he gets there he can’t seem to open it. He turns and watches Chris sleep for a long time, instead. Chris’s breathing is so peaceful, so calm. JC wonders what he’s dreaming about. Finally, he opens the door, but at the last second he pushes his cell phone into the pocket of his jeans.

 

He goes to the beach to watch the water. Nobody important calls him all day.

 

Around sunset he calls Joey, because there’s absolutely nothing in his mind except Chris, but he can’t really seem to think and can’t figure out how to make things right. Joey picks up on the second ring.

 

“Dude! Perfect timing! Chris just got here. I’m fixin’ to put the ribs on. Are you bringing beer? Chris said you were bringing the beer.”

 

JC laughs a little, shakily, and says he’ll be right there.

 

He flips the phone shut but he can’t move at first, stays crosslegged in the sand running his fingers over the perfect pink twist of a shell while he tries to think. Chris said he’d bring the beer. Chris was already there. Chris said.

 

He stuffs the shell and the phone into his pocket and gets up, trudges along the beach toward his car in the last rays of sunlight.

 

Briahna pats his face when he gets there and Kelly kisses him, taking the beer, and sends him off to the patio. He can hear their voices carrying through the clear night air, Chris’s voice, and he has to stop for a minute just inside the house.

 

There’s a little glow in his stomach and he wonders if it might be fear. Out in the backyard Chris is telling a story, gesturing wildly and laughing, the guys laughing back at him, and JC thinks that Chris is the only person he could fuck it all up with and things would still turn out right. He’s the luckiest man in the world and yes, it’s fear, maybe even terror, but JC smiles and walks out to meet them.

 

Chris turns to him. “Thought I was gonna have to come get your Chasez ass,” he says, and smirks. JC growls “Christopher” and slides an arm around his throat, pulling Chris back against him roughly while the guys hoot and catcall.

 

Chris laughs and grips his arm, resting his head on JC’s shoulder, and JC knows it’s also the wildest kind of joy.

 

 

 

 

The end.

 


February 2004 

 


back to Twisting the Rope 



back to my fiction