Rory and Sebastian Ch. 20

"Virginia's alright," I countered good-naturedly. "She has my boy's back."

"I thought that was your territory," Colby countered and the room laughed. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alisdair look down uncomfortably. It was the first Rory-sex-joke of the evening and he hadn't liked it. But if Alisdair was a bit put-out by quips about Rory's current boyfriend, I was silently beginning to freak out at the figure of his ex. Nothing could have prepared me for the experience of meeting him; this guy was perfect. If you'd asked me to write down a list of qualities needed in someone who Rory should be with for the rest of his life who wasn't me, I would probably have written down something that the police could've used to track down Alisdair fucking Paisley. To begin with, he was handsome, in the way I told you about, that "Country Life" model of good looking. He had hazel eyes and a trim figure. He was an inch or so taller than Rory, so shorter than me, but taller was something Rory liked, one way or the other. He was immaculately well-mannered, very funny, he was studying Theology just like Rory was, he was well-dressed and he was clearly well-liked by nearly everyone in the room, with the possible exception of Colby, who I caught looking a bit bored when Alisdair was speaking, and Rita, who didn't seem to know him that well.

When Rory got up to get a drink and Alisdair was talking to him at the desk where everyone had set their bottles, they even looked right together. They looked like Ralph Lauren's idea of the perfect gay couple and when Alisdair made a comment about one of their lecturers and Rory laughed, I felt sick. At the bar after Tessa's, Rory had noticed how quiet I was, how much I was avoiding him, "What is wrong with you?" he hissed under his breath.

"Nothing," I whispered. "I just want you to enjoy the last night of semester with your friends."

He looked at me like he knew I was lying and that night when we got into bed, we were both so drunk and so tired that we fell asleep without fooling around. The next day, we had lunch with Tessa and Olly, then Rory showed me around the town. Things felt strained but essentially normal, but that night, after dinner, when Rory made a comment about how small his bed was, I suggested we set up the blow-up mattress and I sleep on it. He looked at me with a mixture of cold and quizzical, then said, "Sure." If I'd hoped he'd put up a bit more of a fight to have me in his bed with him, that response jolted me out of it. I imagine he'd been much more enthusiastic about who went there all the nights he topped Alisdair. We left Saint Andrew's the next morning, after Rory's multiple goodbyes with everyone, without having had sex the entire time we were there. We took turns driving and to this day I honestly couldn't tell you what we talked about for all the hours we drove. It must have been total inane froth, none of which was helped by the arrival of a text from Alisdair as we drove south.

"Fuck," Rory said softly, after he read it. "Alisdair left a textbook in my room and it's all locked up. Oh dear, I feel really bad now."

I couldn't even bring myself to ask why the textbook was in his room. I assumed it was an innocent reason, but at that stage I wasn't upset because I thought Rory and Alisdair were messing around behind my back, I was in a strange and unhappy mental place because I couldn't quite believe that I'd met someone that could be so well-suited to Rory, and who he'd see day in and day out for the next two years. I felt nauseous, too, as images of them having sex danced across my mind with a newfound vibrancy courtesy of actually having met Alisdair in the flesh. The same flesh that Rory had made love to, fucked, in a way he'd only ever done with me once. This wasn't good; I was being totally unfair and equally pathetic, but it was happening, that's all I knew. I felt awful and I was trying desperately to pretend that I wasn't. For the first time, it was me trying to pretend that we could fake it till we could make it and, as I was to discover, I wasn't half as good at it as Rory was.

His nerves were wearing slightly thin as the evening sun set in the background of my uncle's cottage. Our last visit there had been so disastrous or at least angsty in its drama that this trip was supposed to exorcise the memories of it, but the first night there did not nothing to lift the curse. Dinner was fine, but by the time we got into bed, I knew something was wrong. Rory lay underneath me and we were going through the motions of preparing for sex, because if we didn't have it on the third night in a row we were together, we'd have to admit something was wrong and I could not face the prospect of having to say anything so weak and stupid to him as how I was currently feeling. But, to my total humiliation, I couldn't get hard. Rory pretended not to notice for a while, then he began to jerk me off, which didn't work and prompted him to go south to coat my limp dick with his spit. His movements were frantic, wantonly dirty, ineffective. I stayed completely flaccid and I was mortified. I couldn't get the image of him and Alisdair Paisley out of my head. As I looked at the top of his head bobbing up and down to no effect, I knew he was going to leave me. I knew I'd fucked up, that I'd been a dour, dull, boring cunt for the entire weekend and now I was soft or flat or whatever as a fucking pancake in bed with him. With me out of the way, he could have been banging Alisdair the last two nights and while I knew that on chronological grounds that wasn't true, given when they'd broken up, a tidal wave of self-loathing was crashing over me regardless of fact. I felt awful and eventually I pushed him off me.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, getting up out and off the bed. "I'm sorry, I don't..."

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. Don't be mad. Please."

He sat up in the bed to look at me, as I looked around for pyjama bottoms or boxers or something. I was the one uncomfortable with my own body and he was oblivious to his nudity; how was that for a role reversal?

"I'm not mad," he said, "it happens..."

"Has it ever happened to me in bed with you before? Ever? I'm usually nursing a semi when I begin to think of getting into bed with you. Fucks' sakes!"

"You're tired..."

"Just stop! Don't fucking patronize me, Rory, please!" I shouted. "Where are my boxers?"

"Sebastian, this had better not be about what I think it is."

His voice was strained and I knew that one wrong move would unleash a lot of pent-up rage. I couldn't think though of the best way to play it, I just wanted him to tell me it'd be okay.

I nodded and felt tears well up in my eyes. I was furious at myself, livid. Not because I would or should ever be embarrassed by crying in front of him, but because this incident specifically seemed so weak, so unjust and so deeply unattractive for him.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I just can't...."

"Alisdair?" Rory asked, without any softening in his tone.

I nodded. "Yeah. You see, when I..."

But Rory had leapt off the bed like an electric shock had shot through him and his whole body was tingling with rage. He flapped around, found his own pyjama bottoms and tugged them on in swift, terse, incompetent motions. He saw my underwear on the floor next to him and tossed them to me. I held them, buck naked and stared stupidly at him as he erupted in livid fury.

"Have you lost your fucking mind? Sebastian, have you gone mad? I dated him, briefly, months before you and I were even in contact again. Did you see anything flirtatious between us this week?"

"No, not really, but..."

"No," he corrected, still shouting. "Not at all! Not, 'not really,' or 'not from you,' or 'not all the time,' or 'not from him.' Not. At. All! Have you any idea what it was like for me in London? Have you any fucking idea what it was like to go into that awful student house of yours then onto all those parties where the basis of probability indicated that I was probably near someone you'd had sex with? You couldn't even give me a fucking number when we talked about it in December; you couldn't even give me a fucking number! And now, you're so freaked out because I had sex with someone else, sorry, briefly dated someone else, that you can't get up and you've been so fucking weird with me anytime the thought of him crosses your mind and I can see when it does, you know, I'm not stupid. It's exhausting and it's not fair..."

"I know it's not fair! But I can't help it."

"Try to!"

"Rory..."

"I have not once, not once!, brought up all the guys you took into bed in your first year and there are times when we're together where of course I wonder if I'm half as good as they are, but that's life, Sebastian. We broke up and life happened in the interim and it is so deeply and totally unfair for you to make me feel this bad, this disgusting, because my life happened as well. I am so angry at you. I'm so pissed off!"

"Rory, will you please let me..."

"I don't think I will. Now, either you are sleeping downstairs on the sofa tonight or I am, because I don't want to have to share a bed with you, me and your weird obsessive version of Alisdair. I'm so fucking tired. I had such a long term with so much work for class and just... Fuck it. I don't care."

That's the thing about kicking Rory over the edge, you never know when it's going to happen. I picked up a t-shirt, a pillow and walked out. He was glaring after me, his eyes crackling with anger and disappointment. As I reached the door, he asked, "Are you not even going to put up a fight?" But I was tired too at that point and embarrassed. I shrugged my shoulders to prevent my voice cracking if I spoke and went downstairs to the sofa, where I lay down and cried myself to sleep. I was single-handedly wrecking something I wanted so badly and when Rory came downstairs the next morning, he could have frozen water with the coldness emanating from him. He was so frigidly polite as he moved around the kitchen making breakfast for us. I lumbered upstairs to find some sweats. In the cold light of day, I was now a little annoyed at him for making me sleep on the couch like an old married couple squabbling in their twilight years and when I came back to the kitchen I had made up mind to say something to him when he burned his hand on the saucepan handle over the flickering gas hob. Instinctively, he turned to look for me as he hurt himself and that gesture, inconsequential and unthinking, reflexive and natural, meant so much to me. With equal instinct, I went over to him and guided him over to the sink to run his hand under cold water. I held it there, standing behind, pressed up against him and slowly brought my chin to rest on his shoulder. He didn't move his cheek to nuzzle against mine like he usually did, but he didn't pull away either and I felt the tension drain out of him. My balls were resting against his ass and I felt my dick begin to get hard.

"Jesus, Sebastian, now it rises."

I laughed softly, "Keep your hand under the water."

"I shouldn't have kicked you out..."

"No, you shouldn't've."

"But I was angry."

"I am now. Keep your hand still."

"Did you sleep okay? Was it awful?"

"Only because you weren't next to me." I paused. "I cried myself to sleep."

He tried to turn to look at me, but I held him firm as the cool water cascaded over his hand. "Let go," he commanded, softly. "It's not that serious. Please."

I released him and he turned to face me. I shrugged again, this time ruefully. "It's true, I did."

"Sebastian, why?"

"I can't explain why I'm so unhappy, Rory."

"Is it really just because of the thing with Alisdair?" he asked disbelievingly, turning back for a second to turn the faucet off. I nodded. "Sweetheart, I don't understand. Is it the thought of me having sex with him? The thought of me on top? Just dating someone else?"

"The latter," I said, taking a few steps away and sighing. "And you're right, it's ridiculous and it's totally unfair and I know it's stupid and illogical, and baby, I can't explain why I feel like this or why it's gotten to me so much. But you're mine and I adore you and I'm primal and dumb."

"What do you need me to say?"

"You've already been completely wonderful, Rory. You've been more than loving, more than understanding, a better man than me."

"Sebastian..."

"Rory, listen..."

"No, you listen. I can't put into words how wrong you are to think that there could be anyone for me but you and if you think I'm better suited to Alisdair Paisley then that just shows that you don't know you as well as I do. You are perfect for me. You're the other half of my soul. And I'm Catholic, Sebastian, we take that kind of stuff seriously." A flash of a smile lit up his face before he pressed on. He swept over to the stove and, wrapping a towel around it, moved the saucepan of porridge off the hob and turned the gas off. "You are everything. You're my boyfriend, you're my best friend, you're the first love, the last love, the only love. Alisdair is a nice guy, but that's it. You're the guy; you're my guy. You're definitely the one."

=== From Rory's POV ===

I wanted to ask him again, "What else do you need me to do?", but I worried that in his state of mind he'd construe every subsequent gesture as something done because he'd asked for it. In any case, this giant fool in the kitchen was the love of my life and I knew him better than anyone. It was time to take care of him and if I couldn't tell him, or yell him, out of how he was feeling, the only way to do it was to show him, all the time, that he was the one. He was being illogical and unjust considering his own behaviour, but saints are for praying to, not dating. Instinctively, I walked over to him, raised his head with my hands and kissed him. He took a second to respond and then pressed me up against the counter. Then, he pushed me off him abruptly and stepped back, "Fuck me," he said, quietly, firmly, gazing into my eyes as he said it.

This was something I certainly had not expected. "We don't... we don't do that."

"We did it once."

"And it was shit."

"If we are going to be together for the rest of our lives, we're going to have to mix it up a little, sweetheart, and I want you inside me. If you can do it with other people, you're going to learn to fucking do it to me. Got it?" He pressed himself back up against me and I arched in towards him. His erection was throbbing through his sweats. "Fuck me senseless," he ordered. "I want to spend this whole day being your dirty little fuck-toy. I want you to pound in and out of me until my asshole is shaped like your bell end."

"Where did this come from?" I asked incredulously. "At least give me some warning."

Truth be told, I was more than a little nervous about topping him again, but when he stepped away from me, yanked down his sweatpants and boxers in one go and yanked his t-shirt off over his head to then grab his dick and start jerking it, I thought I was going to pass out with lust. "Please," he whispered, that old cocky tone of his that I was so in love with bubbling through into his voice. "Please. Do me. Fuck me into next week, Rory."

"Wait..."

"No fucking way. I don't want to lose this thing," he joked.

"I want to show you something."

"Unless it's pre-cum leaking out of your piss slit, I don't give a fuck."

I took him by the hand and dragged him over to the table by the sofa where I'd left my iPad. I tapped in the pin and went into my photos, scrawling through to an album entitled J./O. I handed it to him, "This is my wank bank," I joked. He scrawled through it; they were all photographs of him. He paused for a minute and looked up at me. "I know it shouldn't seem like a romantic gesture, but I thought it'd help."

He shook his head in disagreement, "I love that you have that," he said, and then flipped me back onto the sofa and launched himself on top of me.

"Aren't you going to be hungry with no breakfast?" I giggled, as he began to pull my trousers off me.

"The only thing I'm hungry for is your ass, cock, cum and balls."

"Sebastian," I said softly into his right ear, "I really am a little nervous about being on top again. I want to be good for you. As good as the others."

He hunched up and looked into my eyes, "You'll be perfect, Rory. Just like you always are. Come on."

He took my hand and led me upstairs to the bedroom, where I stripped off and he dropped down to his knees to begin sucking my cock. Then as I kept stroking it, he pulled the lube from his weekend bag and coated my dick in it. He got down on all fours on the bed and pulled his ass cheeks apart, exposing his hole into total depravity.

"Fuck my cunt, Rory. I want to be totally dominated. I want to be your property."

I'd have to have a soul of steel not to be turned on by the sight of that 6'4 wall of muscle and blond handsomeness, his erection jutting out proudly, angrily from between his legs, displayed in front of me, begging for it so unashamedly. And as I put my right hand on his waist, he turned to look over his shoulder: "I'm your whore, Rory."

I dived down and began to tongue his asshole, jerking my own dick as I did it. I had to stop once the amount of precum flying off it alerted me to an impending orgasm.

"Turn over," I ordered. He did. "And spread your legs for me."

He put his hands beneath his knees and yanked his legs apart, giving me perfect access to his rosebud hole. I was down there for about ten minutes, addicted to the taste of his ass, a taste I fucking love. He was writhing above me, grunting and firing out a steady torrent of obscenities. I pulled away to climb on top of him to kiss him deeply; it turned him on further.

"You can't beat the taste of a whore's cunt," he quipped.

I could see how turned on he was getting by the versatility we were displaying and I was, too. If you're going to do something, do it right. Get into it. It felt like all the ends we were still waiting to tie up, that it would naturally have taken this long to address with all the best will and intent in the world, were finally being resolved. I felt euphorically uninhibited with him, revelling in one of those swift turn arounds that happen in the best of relationships, I believe. I separated from the kiss and straddled his chest, grabbing his hair to pull him up to my cock. I fucked his face, and as he turned red and spit flew out of his mouth, his eyes rolled over with dazed animalistic happiness. After a minute or so, I pulled out.

"I have to fuck you now," I told him, and I kissed him again, as we both reached out to grab the lube.

"I'm so fucking happy," he purred, as I finger fucked his asshole and then brought the tip of my cock to his entrance. He arched his back and flung his legs in the air as I entered him, kissing him deeply. When the kiss broke and I was easing further and further into him, I reached down to twist one of his nipples, making him gasp with more pleasure. When my balls came to rest at his asshole, he looked at me and smiled, "This is fucking perfect. Don't be gentle."

I fucked him, it's the only way to describe it, until the point where his legs were bent so far back he had practically doubled over backwards and my tongue was permanently in his mouth, only leaving it to catch my breath.

"Is this perfect for you?" he growled. "Fuck, it's so good. Fucking stretch my hole. This is so fucking hot."

"I want you to ride me," I said, after a second's thought. "I want to watch you fucking ride me."

"Anything you want, baby," he sighed. That big stud beneath me was soon on top of me as I lay flat on my back and he, after stuffing some lube into his hole with his fingers, lowered himself down on top of my dick and threw his head back sighing. He got into the rhythm of riding me in seconds, sliding back and forth, playing with my nipples and his, squeezing his chute and asshole around my cock as he went like a pro. I arched my head back and growled, swearing constantly. Shouting to the point I was thankful we were in the middle of nowhere, although in that moment I doubt I would have cared who heard us. I was totally lost in pleasure.