Drawn

by Sean Michael

  "Fucker!" He rolled his legs up, protecting himself.

  That's when Harrison began undressing him. "Go ahead, G. Yell and fight and get it all out. Be as mad as you are. It's okay. You're allowed to be pissed off. You're allowed to express it." His shirt was pulled over his head, joined the tie around his wrists and his jeans were tugged down, off.

  "I love you! I fucked everything up and it's because I couldn't leave you!"

  "Oh, now that is fucked up. So the people at the gallery didn't like the paintings. I could fill that gallery full of people who'd adore them." Harrison spanked his ass.

  "Don't hit me, you ASSHOLE!" God, he'd never felt so wild, so out of control. He bashed his head against the mattress, trying to kick out.

  Harrison stayed out of the way, spanking him, tugging on his piercings, not leaving him alone but not stopping him from shouting and twisting, kicking.

  "Fuck you. Fuck you!" He had to stop, catch his breath. Sweat.

  "Is that all you've got?" Harrison asked, twisting his legs to gain access to his ass again, two hard swats landing.

  "Fucker..." he snarled, pulling hard at the bonds.

  "I'm not the one you're mad at. You're mad at those assholes who didn't get your art."

  "I'm mad at me. For believing I could have both!"

  "You can have both."

  "I can't."

  "You can. You do. The paintings in that gallery are stunning, and they are going to sell like hotcakes." Another slap hit his hip, so hard.

  "Don't lie to me."

  "I'm not lying." Harrison pushed their mouths together, the kiss hard, demanding. "I don't lie to you."

  The kiss made his heart hurt. "Why do I love you?"

  "Because I love you. Because I make you fly. Because we have amazing chemistry together. Because I don't think you're crazy."

  He looked at Harrison, heart breaking. "I'm going to leave you, because the art is bigger than me or you. I'm going to leave you and hate it."

  "No fucking chance, love." Harrison shook his head. "You're not going anywhere. You're mine."

  Harrison didn't let him say anything more, another hard kiss stealing his words. Those hands dug into his muscles, keeping him close, keeping him right there. Harrison lay down on top of him, pressing him into the bed as one kiss bled into another and then another. Lips swollen, head swimming -- all Giles could do was hang on.

  Harrison tugged on his rings and pinched his skin, the sensations beginning to build, to drown out the voices. Sharp slaps hit his thighs, his hips, then those hands turned massaging, digging in. He couldn't get away from Harrison and his touches. He couldn't even if he'd tried. Tears came and went, more screaming, more soft panting. Nothing stayed.

  Nothing but Harrison. The strong presence never left him, never let him go.

  "I'm so sorry."

  "What are you apologizing for?"

  "Everything." Screaming. Failing. Falling. Crying.

  "Everything? I don't think everything is your fault."

  He shook his head. He couldn't cope. Think.

  "It doesn't matter. You don't need to apologize to me." Harrison kissed him again, not letting the intensity up at all.

  Giles shook his head again, trying to think, to focus. Something. Harrison didn't let him, stealing his breath, replacing it with needy moans. The voices in his head got louder, sharper, trying to fight Harrison, but Harrison wouldn't back off.

  Harrison spread his legs and pushed two fingers inside him, nudging his gland right off the bat. His eyes went wide, and he shook his head, overwhelmed. Harrison fucked him with those two fingers, opening him.

  "I hate you." It was a lie.

  "I love you, too."

  He met those dark, hard eyes, and suddenly he couldn't do it anymore, couldn't cope, couldn't breathe. Couldn't function.

  He could only pray that Harrison would do it for him.

  ***

  The sun woke Harrison; he'd forgotten to close the curtains last night. Of course, he'd been a little busy. Busy with the beautiful, maddening man in his arms.

  He kissed the top of Giles' head.

  The question was, had Giles run the course of this meltdown?

  Giles' eyes popped open, bloodshot, panicked, lost for a second.

  "I have you." He patted Giles' belly.

  "Last night..." Giles croaked at him.

  "Whisper; it's easier on your throat."

  "I'm sorry. I was awful. You should have let me go."

  "You can't scare me away."

  "I have to. I'm sorry."

  God, Giles made him happy. Honestly. That mixture of innocence and honesty and ferocity...

  "It's not going to happen, G." He kissed Giles on the lips.

  "I tried so hard. I was so proud of them."

  "As well you should be. They're good."

  "They're us." Giles' eyes closed again, the man hiding away.

  "Which makes the rejection even harder. But G, just because one group of people doesn't like them doesn't mean they're no good, doesn't mean they won't be loved by anyone else."

  "Why didn't you just let me go?"

  He smiled. The same reason Giles was still bound. The same reason he wasn't letting his G out of his sight for a few days. "Because I love you and you're mine."

  "I can't be happy."

  Harrison snorted. "That is a load of bullshit."

  "You're not an artist. You don't know. Maybe I have to be crazy. Maybe they're all right." Giles was just being silly now. "Untie me."

  "I don't think so. Your work is stunning. It was stunning before you met me, and it's stunning now. It'll be stunning next week, whether I'm still here or not." He got right into Giles' face. "You don't have to be crazy, starving, miserable, or any of those other words people use in order to be an artist." Giles refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge him. He growled. "I'm not going anywhere, G. You push at me as hard as you need to. I. Am. Not. Going. Anywhere."

  "You can't fight the art. It's bigger than us."

  He was going to beat the man.

  "Don't you get it, Giles? The art isn't going anywhere, either. It doesn't matter if you're happy or sad or starving or crazy or rich or poor. It's going to be there. The canvases on the wall of that gallery are brilliant because they're honest. Those critics just didn't like what they were saying. Too fucking bad for them. The critics don't mean anything to you, to the art."

  Giles took a hitching breath, shivered, and Harrison thought the man was actually listening to him.

  "The art's inside you, it's a huge talent. But it isn't everything you are. Not even close."

  Giles shook his head, like that thought was too much to even consider.

  "It isn't." He was going to keep saying it, keep pressing the thought home until Giles heard him.

  Giles' cell phone started ringing, the sound surprising him. No one called Giles but Marisa. He considered letting it ring for only about two seconds; if he didn't answer it, she'd worry.

  "Don't move." Like Giles could -- he was still tied to the bed. Harrison went over to Giles' pants and dug out the cell phone. "Hello?"

  "Harrison? Do you have Giles? Is he okay? I know it was ugly yesterday, but he needs to breathe. The new stuff is selling. It's just different. Tell him he can't cut himself."

  "I have Giles. He's safe and sound and most definitely not cutting himself. It's selling, is it?" He knew it.

  "Oh, thank God." She took a sobbing breath. "I would have called last night, but Barry said you'd left together, and I waited as long as I could."

  "I'm sorry; I should have known you'd be worried." The next time, he would text.

  "I know it was scary for him last night. He puts so much of himself out there, and people are such assholes..." She started crying hard, and someone murmured softly. Then he heard the phone changing hands.

  "Harrison? Barry here. She's completely beside herself, exhausted." Barry's voice lowered. "She owes me twenty bucks if her pregnancy test is positi
ve in thirty seconds."

  "Oh, wow. That would be cool. Giles is fine. And he's going to be even better hearing that the new pieces are selling. I told him he couldn't worry about what a few asshole critics were saying."

  "That's right. They love to hate. Take care of him for a couple of days? I'll take care of my girl." He heard a series of soft words, then a husky laugh. "Tell him he's going to be an uncle. Tell him we're very, very busy celebrating and to call in a few days. Maybe a week."

  "Oh, congratulations! I'll tell him. Thanks, Barry. You take care of your lady."

  "You know it."

  The line went dead. "Marisa? Is she okay?"

  "She's pregnant." He put the phone back in Giles' pants' pocket and went back to his lover. "You're going to be an uncle."

  "She's pregnant. Wow." Giles stayed there, stretched out, staring. Shell-shocked. "I need to go home."

  "Nope. She's got Barry, and you've got me. She also said to let you know that the paintings are selling." He sat next to Giles and tweaked a nipple ring.

  "Don't. I'm not in the mood. I have a headache. I'm tired."

  Harrison had to chuckle.

  "Glad I'm so fucking funny." Oh, there was a hint of fury there.

  "I'm not laughing at you, G. I'm laughing at your use of every excuse in the book."

  "Fuck you." Giles looked suddenly young, hurt, terrified.

  "No. No, I don't think so." He pressed their foreheads together.

  "I'm going home." So lost. So worried. His sub.

  "You are home, G."

  "I'm here with you."

  "Yes. Exactly."

  "I don't know what to do." Giles whispered the words into the space between them.

  "You do what you always do. You paint. You let me make love to you. It's all good." He closed their mouths together, taking a kiss.

  Giles opened for him, tongue tasting like tears. He kept the kiss soft, gentle. Giles moaned, more tears sliding from the man's eyes.

  He licked them away, sliding his body along Giles', giving the man something physical to focus on. So much pressure. So much worry. Giles needed to come and cry and fight, then sleep. He twisted a nipple ring, his knee pushing between Giles' legs.

  "Please don't."

  "You need this."

  "Please don't. Don't love me."

  "I do." He did. And he wasn't going to stop.

  He kissed Giles again, slid his hand down to wrap around the long prick. Giles tried to pull away, to curl into himself.

  "You can't get away from me." He tightened his grip on Giles' cock.

  "Can too." Giles moaned for him, fingers opening and closing.

  "Nope. You're mine." And not going anywhere.

  "What if I say you can't have me?"

  "It doesn't matter what you say -- you're mine."

  This time, Giles didn't argue.

  "Good." He muttered the word into Giles' mouth, then tugged on the full lower lip. His hands moved restlessly, dragging hard over Giles' skin. He flicked each nipple, then moved his hand to tug on the Prince Albert and the hafada barbell. He wanted Giles to feel him, focus on him, on them.

  He sucked on Giles' tongue, played with the tip with his own. Giles played back, tongue brushing his. That's what he wanted.

  He slid his hand around Giles' hip, holding on. It would get easier -- once Giles understood the lifestyle, understood that he was the master, that he could help Giles find peace.

  Subspace.

  Ease.

  Once they had that, Giles would be able to lose himself in the art and not care what the critics had to say. There would be Giles' work and the rest of Giles' life.

  He slid down Giles' body, biting one eager nipple.

  Giles hummed softly. "Obsessed with my rings."

  "We both are."

  "I needed them."

  "Tell me."

  For once, Giles didn't ask, didn't question. "Sometimes there are voices -- not real voices, but... there's all this noise inside me. After the hospital, they made me come in, prove I wasn't cutting. The rings helped me make it. Then, after..." Giles pinked. "They feel so real, you know?"

  "Real. Solid. There." He nodded, twisted one again. He met Giles' eyes. "I can give you that. I am giving you that."

  "Why? What do you get out of it?"

  "I get you."

  Giles frowned at him. "I'm serious."

  "So am I. I love you, G. You're mine."

  "I'm not that big of a catch."

  "To me you're the biggest."

  Giles looked at the tie around his hand, pulled at it. "And you've got me."

  "I do." Grinning, he leaned down and took one of Giles' nipples in his mouth.

  Harrison was gentle this time, tongue tracing the ring, the touch light, careful. He flipped the ring up and down, moving it without tugging or twisting. Giles moaned, this sound almost curious. He sucked some more, then moved slowly over to Giles' other nipple, tongue dragging along Giles' skin the whole way.

  He didn't hurt, didn't bite. He licked and sucked, kissed. Caressed. Giles moaned for him, shivering, so his fingers danced over Giles' thighs, came close to his prick but didn't touch it. He drew tiny, careful circles around Giles' hip bones. He blew against one wet nipple and then the other.

  Giles' entire body rippled, sweet body arching slowly. In reward, he brushed his fingers across Giles' prick. He kept the touch incredibly light, kept the sensation going, pressed a kiss on Giles' lips. Giles hummed, opened, the act easy, offered freely.

  This was going to be about pleasure, about how good they were, how much pleasure and rightness the touching gave them.

  His tongue slipped into Giles' mouth, his fingers still teasing the long cock, and soft sounds poured into him, sweet and real, Giles melting into the sheet. He rubbed his thumb across Giles' tip, back and forth. His beautiful lover. He moaned, his own emotion too big to hold in.

  "Love you, Giles. With everything I am."

  "Love. It's better here."

  That made him smile. "Better than where?"

  "Anywhere."

  "Mmm. I think so, too."

  "You like your painting?"

  Red and wild, perfect. Desperate. He'd treasure it the rest of his life. It was a record of their beginning. "I love my painting. It's us."

  "Yes. It's not ugliness."

  "There's nothing ugly about any of those paintings. I think the ugliness lives inside the critics. And did you hear me? They're selling."

  Giles met his eyes. "It's me. Everyone says 'oh, it's the work they're criticizing,' but that's not true."

  That made perfect sense. "You can't live your life based on what a bunch of talentless assholes say about you or your work."

  "Sure I can. It's who I am."

  "No, it's not." He grabbed Giles' cock and squeezed it. "This is who you are. What you and I have between us."

  "No, this is who we are."

  He smiled and nodded, then he brought their mouths together for another kiss. Giles kissed him back, tongue fucking his lips. His hand slipped down to cup the man's balls, rolling them. One leg drew up, and he tapped the hidden barbell, nudged it. He moved his fingers beyond and rubbed against Giles' hole.

  Giles spread wider, let him in.

  He pushed the tip of his finger in, stretching Giles' hole. Soft and hot, the tiny ring of muscles wrapped around his touch, and he groaned, wriggled his finger. Then he added a second finger, teasing, tugging.

  He grabbed the lube and slicked up his fingers, pushing them in deeper as the low moan filled the air. He spread his fingers, teasing, taunting, searching out Giles' gland.

  "More. Please, Harrison."

  "Needy man.

  "I can't help it. It's your fault."

  "I'll take the blame for that any day."

  "Please, Harrison. Touch me. More."

  "I will." He pressed another finger in, moving them slowly now.

  He watched Giles' body move in time with his fingers, the man right with him, be
lly taut, flushed, lips open. He bent and took the right nipple in his mouth, tugging on it as his fingers found Giles' gland again. He added more lube, slicking that tight hole as Giles groaned. He pressed in an extra finger, curling them all together and pushing in.

  "Harrison..." Giles was lost, moaning, shifting slowly with his touch.

  He twisted his fingers, pushed them against that sweet gland. He was going to hold Giles close, let his G know what stretching was. In and out, spread and close. The tiny little ring of muscle spread, tightened, spread again. He pushed his fingers in and out, added more lube and repeated it. He could see the bliss on Giles' face, see the easy, needy way the man accepted him.

  "More now," he told Giles, as he slicked up his thumb, his hand.

  "More..." Giles' knee bent for him.

  God. Look at that.

  "Yeah. More. Fuck, G. You're amazing." He tucked his thumb into his palm and began to push back into the hot little hole.

  "Yours."

  Yes. Yes, his. He nodded, kept pushing, Giles' body swallowing up his hand like it belonged there.

  Giles moaned, arching the slightest bit as the widest part of his hand pushed in.

  "Fuck. Amazing."

  "Please." Giles' tongue slipped out, wetting the parted lips.

  "I've got you, G. I so have you." Giles' body closed around his hand and he panted, that sweet little hole clamped down tight around his wrist.

  Giles nodded, fingers gripping the tie. "Don't let me go, love."

  "Never letting you go. Never." He slowly made a fist of his hand.

  A deep sound tore out of Giles, heat pouring from his G.

  "Mmm. Look at that. Smell that."

  Giles' cock never flagged, stayed hard, red-tipped, needy. He let Giles catch his breath for half a moment, and then began moving his fist again. He could feel every breath Giles took around him. He'd never felt anything like this. Never.

  He rested his free hand on Giles' stomach, moving slowly over the flat belly.

  "Mine. Mine."

  Giles nodded, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

  "Love you, G. So much." He held Giles' gaze.

  Giles nodded, lips opening, closing, over and over. He leaned up carefully and covered Giles' lips with his own. That's when Giles breathed for him, moaned into his lips. He swallowed the breath, the sound, taking Giles right in. His fucking breath was flavored with this man, his brilliant, wild, beautiful lover.