tim + corry / modern au

[holyposition]

make this pretty later.

Comments

first meetings.

[holyposition]

[ Traditionally, one would expect the good Catholic boy who just came out to be a frequent flier at the gay bars in a major city. All that repression, finally let go of. A weight, if not entirely off his shoulders, at least shifted, made manageable, now that he's given himself the freedom not to have to pretend.

And yet. This is Tim's first time in a bar specifically for people like him. It just seems like a way to facilitate random hookups, something he's never especially liked - not to say he's never engaged in them, but he's never felt good about them after, unsatisfied at best and just dirty and used, at worse. He's only agreed because it's Frankie's birthday, and someone's got to be a responsible driver. He's not watching his friends get drunk and then loaded up into a stranger's car when he's perfectly capable of doing it himself.

Despite being the only sober person in a group of drunk partiers, Tim is enjoying himself, wading through the horde of sweating, gyrating bodies, bright lights and thumping beats to get back to the bar, dressed casually for the summer heat. With a cheerful, breathy huff, he scoots in at the bar beside a man he'd describe, objectively, as handsome, but it's not Corry's attention he's seeking, rather the bartender's. ]

Can I just get a small glass of milk, please? Tab is under 'Laughlin'.

[ He can see in his periphery that Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome is looking at him. Even though he's currently seated, Tim can tell that he's tall, and he wishes very much that he could not tell, because it makes it very tempting to look back, and he is not here to flirt with anyone, he is here for Frankie. ]

[molloys]

[he doesn’t mean to laugh. he doesn’t. he’s actually quite enjoying being so close to the younger man’s bared arms, the flash of his thighs beneath those shorts, the way sweat pools in the hollows of his collarbone and makes his hair curl where it sticks to his neck. corry would’ve been perfectly happy to just remain watching, waiting, letting the stranger observe his casual attire, his warm almost-smile, let them come to him, the way he normally does in these sorts of clubs.

but then the young man orders milk. and corry laughs without thinking, ducking his head to try and stifle it against the hand holding his hennessey. he’s already apologizing, flashing a grin over his hunched shoulder as he does.] Sorry, I’m not – I promise I’m not laughing at you, it’s just –

[another bark of laughter, turning and propping his cheek on his free hand, giving the stranger a long, lingering look up and down, still grinning widely:] I’ve been coming here for years. And I can honestly say you’re the first person, DD or otherwise, to order milk. [still shaking his head, corry sips his drink, sets it down with a soft “clink”, then offers a hand.] Corry. You must have the strongest bones on earth, if you’re worried about calcium at the club.

[holyposition]

[ The hot guy is laughing at him. His insistence that he is not laughing at him only further convinces Tim that he is. The dimmed, neon club lighting hides the flush on his face, for which he’s grateful, especially once he notices that he’s not only laughing, but looking at him. An overlong, checking him out kind of look that he doesn’t even bother to hide. ]

That’s obviously not true, if they have it on hand.

[ He could leave it at that, and if he were smart, he would, but the look from the stranger emboldens him to look back. Nice arms. A shirt thin enough to imply a solid, muscular body beneath. A little shine of sweat, highlighting his Adam’s apple as he speaks. None of which he came here for. All of which he plans to ignore. ]

...Tim. I’m here with a friend.

[molloys]

Hmmm, you're right. Maybe they were just waiting on you, all this time.

[corry knows damn well his interest is evident -- that's by design, on purpose, evident in the way his eyes rake up, then down tim, taking in every inch of him with a focus that's nearly tangible. he ends looking into those big, sweet doe eyes, his own soft, bemused.

propping his chin in one hand, corry quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head.]

A friend. How good of a friend?

[holyposition]

[ He cracks a smile, despite himself, maintaining eye contact with that soft, arresting brown long enough that he’s grateful to be able to turn to the bartender, when he sets that glass of milk in front of him. Corry’s smooth. And so absurdly handsome that he should probably be at some big penthouse party with famous people right now, not sitting at this bar watching him drink milk. ]

My best friend.

[ Tim knows what he means by how close. Does he have a date? He should just say yes, let the man with his attentions in the wrong place down easy, but it’d be a hard lie to pull off, what with Frankie out on the dance floor grinding on some man he’s never seen before. He points him out, which should make it perfectly clear that it’s not like that between them. Alas, they were both bottoms. ]

It’s his birthday. Well, his birthday was a few days ago, but nobody wanted to go out on a Wednesday, so we’re out tonight.

[ Rambling, unnecessary detail. He hides his embarrassment in his Darigold. ]

[molloys]

[it's a good smile -- sweet, boyish, accompanied by a flop of hair into the younger man's face that could be calculated, deliberate, but corry doesn't think it is. tim seems to be direct in a way that's rapidly growing rarer in today's world, an honesty born of a refusal to play games. corry's good at games, enjoys them most of the time, but right now he wants to chase the flush down beneath the loose collar of tim's shirt instead.

so he turns, shifting on his seat so he's facing tim instead of the bar, knees casually apart, arm braced on the sleek, scarred wood, making his interest known -- and staking a claim, whether tim's aware of it or not. he might be there simply to support a friend (one who's cute and careless and clearly enjoying himself with the help of nondairy libations, out there on the dance floor) but that hasn't stopped the patrons from noticing him.]

Ah. I'll have to remember to send a card, then. Especially if I end up stealing you away. [it's bold, almost alarmingly so, but if tim isn't playing games, corry isn't either. he lifts his drink, sips what's mostly watered-down dregs, then sets the glass down.] Unless you have other plans?

[he's asking out of manners; he doesn't particularly care what the plans are, and judging by how tim's friend is all but dryhumping someone on the dance floor, neither does he.]

[holyposition]

[ Tim’s eyes linger a moment overlong on the parting of his knees, the flex of muscle above them, strong thighs that have his mind racing with dirty thoughts and images that make his neck burn hot. Corry sounds so sure, like he’s used if instead of when as a courtesy, and not because he really believes the outcome is in doubt. This is a man who’s used to getting what he wants. Tim’s tangled with those types before. It always ends poorly.

But they’re always so beautiful. It’s no wonder they’ve got egos. ]

My plan tonight is to drive Frankie home. [ Which should sound like he’s shutting this down, but he’s smiling, leaning forward on his elbow and enjoying the attention. It’s been a while. Long enough that this is more tempting than it should be. ] I’m the DD. My only job is to not get drunk or swept away by a handsome stranger, and you’re trying to ruin both for me.

[molloys]

[tim should watch where he points those big, bright, doe-eyes of his – corry can feel their touch like it’s fingertips slipping down over his thighs, trailing up the inside of his casual-spread legs. it warms him, makes him lean forward like he can hear those dirty thoughts, like he wants nothing more than to make every single one of them come true.]

Warm in here, hm? [with a nod towards the heat burning up the back of tim’s neck, visible as a soft blush that makes corry’s mouth water, here in the dim light of the club. his drink forgotten, he rests a foot on the rung of tim’s stool, even though it’s fixed in place, even though he couldn’t move closer or farther if he wanted. enough to stake that claim a little more firmly, without touching – for the moment.

then, pulling a solemn look, corry nods, resting his chin on his fist.] The DD. Good on you, having a safety plan. It’d be fortunate if you ran into a handsome stranger with a Town Car membership, making your services unnecessary, wouldn’t it? [another flash of that smug, triumphant grin, already banking on his win, his victory, his mouth chasing that blush anywhere it wants to go.]

[holyposition]

[ he hates being called out on it. Hates being so easy to read, and hates being thrilled by it, that traitorous uptick in his heartbeat that Corry seems to hear, against all odds and over the thumps and roars of the club. He hates wanting things. Corry might want him back tonight, but what about tomorrow? He’ll be gone, and Tim will be lonelier than ever. Like dying of thirst and only receiving one little drop.

Tim tries to swallow the grin on his face, and ends up just twisting it into the side of his mouth, a bashful kind of smile as he looks down at the shoe on his stool. It’s got to be size...13? At least?

It would be a good drop. ]

You would pay to get my friend home, just to pull me away?

[molloys]

[there's this certain look men get, when corry hits on them -- the ones who don't immediately agree, wooed effortlessly, already on the hungry, heated lookout for something good. the ones who play the game for a bit, before smirking and surrendering.

but it's not the one on tim's face right now. this look isn't quite like any corry's used to seeing, because tim hadn't given a token response. he's sitting there drinking milk for christ's sake -- whatever's cautious about him is wholly genuine. and that's fascinating to corrigan, in a way that whispers careful, because a genuine, honest person is damn rare.

so he lets a touch of his own real self shine through, dimpling one cheek in a lopsided grin, following tim's careful gaze downwards to the leather shoe resting firmly on the rung of the stool. his hand echoes the movement, palm coming to settle on tim's thigh, where fabric and skin meet, squeezing in blatant, unmistakable interest. it's a club, it's late, everyone except tim is drunk off their ass. the open claim drives anyone else interested away -- if tim's going home with anyone, it's corrigan.] I'd do a hell of a lot more, just to pull you away, Tim. [then, dimple appearing in the other cheek:] 14.5, by the way. I get my shoes custom-made.

[holyposition]

[ His eyes snap from Corry’s foot to his face, wide as dinner plates, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Out of nervous habit, he reaches for the chain around his neck, gold with a simple cross dangling at the end of it. It twirls around his finger, the light catching on the cross as if it were the last line of defense against what, deep down, he’s already decided to do. He’s only paying such close attention to his hands to see if he’s exaggerating. ]

Dance with me, and I’ll think about it.

[ Frankie’s sure to notice that. And so, he’ll understand. Just look at him. ]

[molloys]

[corry's eyes dip down, caught by the light against gold -- simple, modest, unobtrusive, like a good little catholic boy. fuck, but he loves a good catholic boy, especially one with big eyes and a sweet mouth and a rapidly crumbling resolve. something about the way tim speaks, the way he demurs and invites at once makes the whole thing feel a hell of a lot sweeter, forbidden and tantalizing, like he hasn't done this a hundred other times.

so of course he stands, that grin back on his face, rising to his full height -- six foot something, it depends on who's asking -- and reaching out to slide one big hand boldly around the back of tim's neck for a moment, a beat of gentle, possessive pressure. then, slipping his palm down one bare arm, ending with his fingers looped around tim's wrist, corry tugs once.]

Deal. Love this song. [a huff, self-deprecating, charming:] Don't know what the hell it's called, but it's my new favorite.

[holyposition]

[ Corry’s hand sends the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight with a shiver, a nervousness that he pushes through, because that hand is heavy and warm in a way that makes him want to come closer – and God help him, but he’s already wondering how it’ll feel everywhere else. Big, strong hands, on his back, on his thighs, greedily spreading him open for the taking.

Tim hasn’t done this a hundred times. He can count the number on one hand, and he’s always felt dirty about it, conservative Catholic upbringing at odds with what he knows, rationally, to be true, that he isn’t a bad or weak person if he gives in to this. That errant train of thought is why he likes the hand clasped tight around his wrist, pulling him out onto the dance floor. It gives him the illusion that this is a choice Corry is making for him, rather than one of his own. 

He grins, allowing himself to be pulled out to the floor, and presses close, moving joyfully to the beat. ]

[molloys]

[somewhere in that grin, in the way tim stands and obeys corry’s insistent tug towards the dance floor, is a trace of a reluctance that corrigan already intends to ferret out and obliterate. he doesn’t want to leave a single fraction of doubt, or unsurety, or anxiety, because that’ll mean he isn’t doing his job of filling every corner of tim’s mind and heart and soul with how good he feels.

in pursuit of that, corry doesn’t give much time to warm up – the beat of the song is pulsing, throbbing, and they certainly aren’t the only ones out there surrendering to it. but corry doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate before he’s slipping both his hands up tim’s arms, around to his back, pulling him close, stomach-to-stomach, chest-to-chest, dimpling in enjoyment at how easily he fits there, how corry’s hand at the small of his back keeps him there.]

Attaboy. [soft, tipped down to tim’s ear only, swaying to the thumping beat and settling his hand at the gap between shirt and shorts, thumb pressing light against the notch of tim’s spine.] If you move this good sober, I can’t wait to see you with a few inhibitions loose. [a huff of a laugh, a slow sway of his hips forward, not quite grinding, but definitely not innocent.] Don’t worry, I don’t need alcohol to make you let loose. Just ten minutes in the back of a car, tops. You, me and the partition up.

[corry tilts his head slightly, fingers stealing up under tim’s shirt, trailing up the line of his back.] What d’you think, Tim? Want me to call your friends a cab and get you outta here?

[holyposition]

[ Attaboy. It’s almost demeaning, like he’s a dog retrieving a stick. It’s a whole branch, the last out he can grab onto before he’s swept away by the rapids, and Tim sees it come and go without even reaching for it. It excites him when it ought to disgust him, that bit of praise with a twist of knowing ownership, like he knows the answer and he’s being such a saint, showing patience as he waits for Tim to arrive at the same place Corry did the moment he sat down beside him. 

At least now, the flush of his skin is hidden by their closeness, dancing face to face, hips to hips, hands finding skin, making him gasp. The sound is so soft that it’s overpowered by the beat, but Corry knows. He has to know, the way he’s looking at him says he knows-- ]

You’re not fucking me in the back of a car. [ With a smirk. That they will be fucking, though, is implied. ] Let me talk to Frankie. I’ll be right back, okay?

[ Frankie, as it turns out, doesn't take long to convince, partially because he's drunk, and partially because Tim points out the man in question, after which his friend demands not only that he "climb that", but also that he tells him all about it in the morning. So, that's settled. ]

[molloys]

[corrigan pulls a pout at the retort, even as he ducks closer, reeled in by the flash of tim's smirk. he's warm, he's eager, he's breathtaking and corry wants to draw it out, for once. he wants to take his time with those surprised gasps, see how many of them (and other sounds, so, so many other sounds) he can pull out of tim in the course of the evening. the back of a car or an unoccupied bathroom stall won't do, this time.

tim leaves his grasp and corry works his fingers a couple times, banishing the urge to reach out, pull him back in, taste that grin where the entire damn club can see. he doesn't; he pulls out his phone and texts his p.a., has them set up the car for tim's friends. sometimes he wouldn't bother, because he's walking out with all he wants, he doesn't need to follow through, but -- he's in town for a couple weeks. maybe he wants that door open, the opportunity for this to be a more-than-once type of encounter.

besides, tim would probably text and check in; he seems that type of friend. frankie waves him off and he comes back, smiling and eager, flushed skin and the trickle of sweat from the heated dancefloor drawing corrigan's hand to the nape of his neck like a magnet.] Ready? Need to settle your milk tab before we go? [he ducks in closer than he needs to, considering they're already moving away from the noisiest part of the club, but it's nice, murmuring against tim's ear, hand firm and unmoving. that claim again -- mine, mine, mine, he's coming home with me -- for everyone to see.] You aren't going to make me wait all the way home, right? Cause If I don't touch you soon, I'll lose my damn mind.

[holyposition]

[ Tim curls into him, hands against his chest not to keep any space between them but to curl into his clothes and keep him close. If he can feel the musculature beneath them, all the better, but the possessive hand on the back of his neck makes him shiver and nod, each agreement easier than the last. ]

I closed it.

[ It's a good thing he's following through on his offer, because Tim is watching his hands, gaze following the fingers flying across the screen with curiosity, wondering what kind of man has half a dozen people chauffeured home just to peel the one he wants to fuck off from the herd. It's as flattering as it is bizarre. He must be wealthy. Not that Tim cares about that sort of thing, but nobody could be horny enough to spend that kind of money, otherwise.

They push through the crowd, once he's satisfied that Frankie is taken care of, until they reach the door, and the rush of cool air and reality that hide behind it. It feels good on his flushed face, but not so much as Corry's attention, the indisputable fact that he wants him. ]

You can touch. But clothes stay on until we get where we're going. [ Smiling to himself, satisfied. ] Where is that, anyway?

[molloys]

[corry allows it, welcomes it, lets the warm press of tim's hands begin learning the shape of him beneath his clothes -- broad-shouldered, muscled, well-defined and gym-honed. a life of debauchery and late nights out demands a level of commitment to the physical, after all, since corrigan doesn't want to live a life made up of half-remembered hook-ups. he wants to commit the shivery nod, the flush on tim's cheeks to memory, in stunning clarity, so he can summon it when he's back halfway across the world, with someone else in his bed.

the night is chilly, rain-scented, the clouds looming overhead and threatening a downpour. corry barely spares them a glance, slipping his hand down from the back of tim's neck to between his shoulderblades, steering him gently towards a town car that's materialized out of nowhere. it's possible it's been here the whole time, knowing how much mr. molloy dislikes waiting for a ride.]

I suppose I can live with that. [a soft sigh, waving off the driver and opening the door to the warm, dark backseat himself.] Watch your head. The Ritz-Carlton. I have a suite there for the week. [once tim's settled, corry ducks inside the car too, closing them away in dimly-lit, soft-jazz-soundtracked privacy. the driver doesn't need any directions, clearly, and corry is already taking advantage of the darkness to slip his hand up under tim's shirt, thumbing over the line of his spine, fingers drawing tiny circles on his skin.] Not too far away. I'll try to behave.

[holyposition]

[ It's cold out here, in his short shorts and tank top, and that chill remains even after he's herded into the car. Corry's hands are warm though, and they seem even hotter now, in the quiet of the car, away from the noise and the neon lights and the people. There's privacy now, and that only makes him hotter, as the reality of his choices settle in. It's easy enough to flirt with a stranger at a bar, that's what they're for, but now he's close, eyelids fluttering and leaning even closer. ]

Don't behave too much.

[ Through a wide grin, but softly, embarrassed about the possibility of the driver hearing him. Tim briefly wonders if he sees this kind of thing all the time, if he picks up Corry and his conquests all the time, or just for this short while he's in town. He turns, shifting to the side to watch Corry, the flex of his arm as he rubs his back. ]

For the week, you said. Where's home, then?

[molloys]

[there are goosebumps over tim's bared shoulder, up his arm, the muscles working as he shivers, and god, corry wants to devour him, delighted by his genuine attempts at conversation, at propriety. it's charming, soft in a way corry's not used to. too used to flashy, disinterested, polished club boys and girls of la and new york, who climb in his lap the second the car door closes.

tim holds himself well, maturely, with dignity -- but he's real, not practiced and glossy-fake. he smiles and corry slips his arm up, palm smoothing around tim's shoulder, tucking him closer, because he believes that smile.]

You got it, babe. [corry himself is polished, but he rubs his palm up and down tim's arm, chasing away the chill with a brow-furrow of genuine concern.] Jesus, you're freezing -- neither of us wore a coat, hm? [usually he knows better, keeps a blanket folded in the back, something. for the moment, he satisfies himself with reaching to turn up the heat, aim the vents towards tim before settling back beside him, arm sliding back in place around his shoulders.]

On paper, Chicago, nice brownstone in Gold Coast. I travel almost full-time for work, though, so I'm only there holidays, usually. [the soft radio -- jazz, light and inoffensive -- is hardly loud enough to necessitate it, but corry leans in towards tim's air, breath tangible as he asks:] What about you? Local? Here in town for fun? Am I stealing you away from an unbearable bachelor party?

[holyposition]

[ Tim is anything but disinterested, a layer of defense obliterated now that they’re on their own, away from all the eyes and ears at the club. Indeed, the temptation to slide into his lap is there, but he tucks into his side instead, gladly taking his body heat into himself. There’s a small twinge of disappointment when Corry says he doesn’t live here, coming from his own internal urge to look towards the future – but isn’t Frankie always telling him to spend more time living in the moment?

The goosebumps fade as nervousness gives way to warmth, to the comfortable state of wanting that keeps him pressed against Corry, neck bent to absorb his breath, his attention. ]

I’m local. [ Washington, DC. ] And it was a birthday. But we work together, I’ll see him Monday. Um, we work for a nonprofit. A resource center for queer youth. It barely pays the bills, but I love it. It’s the kind of thing I wish I had when I was a teenager, you know?

[ Does he? Maybe Corry’s family was more progressive than Tim’s. He doesn’t know the first thing about him. There’s a thrill and a worry in that, both. ]