jonny quest
by Pares
And Vince tried not to dwell on his own utterly pathetic behavior. He tried, but he could still hear Stuart, his head stuck in the closet, rifling for a fresh jumper. His voice was dimmed but it carried quite nicely.
"Take those films back to the rental shop, won't you. They were hired at least a week ago; it'll be ten quid in fines. Oh, fuck all, have you seen my red cashmere?"
And while it was not surprising that Stuart clearly expected Vince to return the videos, and even pay the fine, as well as search out his red cashmere, it was surprising that he'd hired
"Jonny Quest cartoons?"
"Yeah, yeah, shut it. I had Marie's pair of hooligans here. Thought I'd give them a little subtle indoctrination."
"Since when are you subtle?" And he held out Stuart's red cashmere, which he'd found draped across the arm of one of Stuart's hideous yet eerily comfortable Ikea chairs.
Stuart took it and shrugged it on over his head and walked his "I'm Stuart Alan Jones and I will shag you" walk to the door and out of the apartment without replying.
Sighing, Vince checked his watch.
Only half past. Stuart out on a dinner with some chappie or another and he'd likely end up copping off in a phone booth or a cab or a ridiculously expensive hotel room...
Stuart had decided to stop bringing people home.
Which was a relief in various ways.
At the very least it meant he could indulge himself in his love for 60's era boys life cartoons without having to go back to his own flat. Here, he'd have time to return the films by 9, and still be free to wonder what it would be like to be Dr. Benton Quest and have a brainy, brawny bodyguard with you at all times, possibly even in the shower, who probably knows ninjitsu and the kama sutra as well. And perhaps he could even find some slim, vague reason to still be here when Stuart came back.
Stuart had stopped spending nights out, too.
This had certainly not escaped Vince's notice, but it did confuse him.
Not bringing his conquests home was just common sense after the mishap with Nathan the intrepid manchild. But Vince knew Stuart to be a consummate sensualist, who liked his sleep when he decided to lay down his head, and who was not above the refreshing morning fuck at the alarm.
Ah, well.
Vince popped the cassette in and wondered when Stuart would get around to purchasing a smart new laser disc player.
And ah-- this certainly wasn't Race Bannon.
But it did seem to be unusually high quality porn.
For a split second Vince considered just hunting up the Jonny Quest tape and swapping them out.
The idea of watching the very video that Stuart had probably had a gorgeous, lazy wank to was... unsettling. That was the word he was going with.
Three forms writhing on a bed and, lord, no awful soundtrack. The heavy panting breaths of men engaged in arduous pursuits, christ that one on top was lovely, a fab back, and the lighting was fantastic--
And the bed was familiar.
And Oh. My. God.-- the one hitching up to kiss the one on top was none other than Stuart Alan Jones.
In all his glory.
Everything Vince had ever imagined was playing for him in technicolor... Stuart arched and glossed with sweat and moaning beautifully, all raw sensuality and radiant confidence. He drew you in, helplessly, with a tractor beam of carnal desire, you couldn't help it, you can't defy gravity, at least not for very long, and god, those two from Babylon, those two fucking extraordinary fellows, and there was Stuart--
Oh, Christ, there was Stuart!
The jangle of keys startled him so badly that he dropped the remote.
And before he could retrieve it or cross to the video machine, Stuart was in the flat, cursing and slamming the door.
"Can you fucking believe it? The battery's died, and now I'll have to call-- What are you doing?"
And Stuart gave him that look-- the one that pins you and lets you know you've been caught in the act and just what are you going to do about it, boyo?
Stammering and already dizzy with mortification, Vince made his way to the video machine and turned off the inciting groans. Mercifully, the Jonny Quest tape was on the top of the telly, and he clutched it in his shaking hand.
"Yes. Right. Well, I'm off. Got to get these to the shop. Don't want these to be too late." And Vince was sure his bloody hard-on was as obvious as his blush, and he did his best not to scurry to the door, trying to measure his steps and not stumble, but it was all he could do not to run from the flat and thunder down the stairs in a mad dash.
Stuart, for whatever reason, did not pursue him.
Nor did he call the next day. Or the day after that.
Finally, Alexander rang him and wanted him to take him to Surrey, because he was thinking of buying a duplex there, or a new terrible suit, or both, or two or three of each.
...blah blah plotcakes...
"It's the rosy cheeks. And you always look so clean." Stuart licked Vince's temple and smirked when Vince squirmed. "You're fantastic. I've told you."
"You're off your head. Is it dog worming pills again?"
"Vince." And then the speechmaking was over, apparently, because Stuart's hand winnowed up Vince's shirt and Vince knew true panic. Dear god, Stuart was going to sleep with him and then black out-- it'd be a film of the week. Something for Lifetime to show at ten o 'clock Sunday nights, and Stuart gave every outward sign of actually intending to shag him, as he was grinding in Vince's lap now and his tongue was massaging the roof of Vince's mouth and god, he'd seen Stuart kiss other fellows before, and really, he'd always secretly thought it looked a bit sloppy, but Stuart wasn't a Canal Street legend for nothing, and his kiss was turning Vince into a complete madman.He found himself wondering if maybe he wouldn't mind being a film of the week, as long as he and Stuart could be naked in it.
. . .
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