Title: "All That's Fit To Print"
Fandom: "Days of Our Lives"
Rating/Classification: AC, slash, Harold/Brandon, Brandon/Sami, second person POV, strong sexual content.
Disclaimer: The Cordays would really kill me this time. They would.
Summary: Plot? What plot? Brandon has lousy taste in women. Can adorable, lonely, Harold give him a taste of something new?
There are no gay bars in Salem. Just a lot of churches. And, really, you don't think that's the best way to meet a nice man.
But the Cheatin' Heart...not a bad place to at least *look*. You've been here before, with Jack and Jennifer, and coming back on your own for a few beers, some Tim McGraw on the jukebox...well, it's as close to a fabulous gay boy's paradise as you're going to get.
At least until...until you see Brandon Walker slouching over the bar. Tall, dark, drunken drink of water.
Slightly bleary, gorgeous, dark eyes, out of focus on your face. His tanned forearms are enough to make your mouth water...and those long, tapered, fingers clenched around the beer bottle...well, your knees are the consistency of cherry cordial. "Who're you...?" he demands as you drop down on the bar stool next to his.
"Har--" Harold. Harold. What a dumb, boring name. You always wondered why your father had to name you something that made you sound like a giant sheepdog. "Hal," you correct, instead, hoping you sound suave and sexy. "I'm Hal," you offer, flashing a wide grin.
"Seen you before somewhere." Apparently, he can't string together a full sentence tonight. The bloodshot in his eyes isn't from booze, you think. It's from heartbreak. Poor hunky baby. Maybe he's finally learning that women are bad, bad news.
*Yesterday's* news...if you're lucky.
You can't help but let your eyes drift over his tight black t-shirt, tight 'fuck me' blue jeans, and when you answer, "I've been at the hospital a lot lately. For the Spectator," there might be a hint of drool in your voice.
"I hate reporters!" he growls as you gesture for a Tom Collins with a pink umbrella in it. If he's at all put off by the froofy touch, the only thing that plays on his face is a slight quirk of one silky black eyebrow.
"I'm not a reporter," you assure, quickly. "Not really. I just do whatever is needed." You smile. "I guess you could say...I'm a Renaissance man!"
"Or an errand boy," Brandon says sounding more glum than critical. "Jump when they tell you to."
Well, you'd never thought of it *that* way. "It's not like people just *use* me!" you disagree, gently. "I know I'm good at what I do."
He laughs. And apart from being all low and sexy and delicious, it's the most cynical thing you've heard in a while. "People use *me* all the time. 'S my calling. Samantha...Lexie..."
"Oh, Honey." You click your tongue, sighing. "You need to stop picking up that phone!"
"'Honey'?" he echoes, raising his head slightly, brows furrowing. And then realization lights up his face. "Oh!" And he nods. "Gotcha."
You choke on a mouthful of gin. Whoops. So much for subtlety. "'Gotcha' in that 'I'm going to beat you up behind the dumpster' kind of way or the 'Yay for Gay Pride' kind of way?" you ask, cautiously, scooting back just a few inches for the sake of personal safety.
He hooks two fingers in the cuff of your shirt and pulls you forward again automatically. "Hey. Stop that. Only person I want to beat up behind a dumpster 's Abe Carver. An' you're not him."
"Commander Carver is GAY?" you gasp, theatrically.
Now, it's his turn to choke and he struggles not to spit beer all over the hapless bartender. He slaps one large palm down on the smooth wood grain of the bar, wheezing. "Oh...God...Abe...gay...Jesus...that's good." He laughs for a few minutes straight before wiping tears of mirth from his eyes with a napkin and just watching him succumb to that free, light sound makes your pulse jump.
"Thank you," he says after regaining his composure, still gasping for breath. "Thanks, I needed that laugh more than you could possibly know, Man."
"That's what I'm here for." You lick a few drops of your Tom Collins from the bottom of the umbrella stick before tilting it back into the glass. "I told you...I do whatever's needed."
"'Whatever' , huh?" Brandon's laugh is getting sexier and more dangerous by the second. Hetero boys, you think, should NOT have this kind of power. He jerks his head, just slightly, towards the door. "See there...? Can you make her disappear?"
Long blond hair, a pout, and a very, very, low cut top. "Sami Brady, right?" You groan, internally. Great...there goes your pointless straight boy conquest for the evening.
"Yep...Samantha. She's looking for me...bet she wants to talk 'bout Lexie an' our relationship." He makes a face and *still* manages to look hot. "I've had enough talking for a while."
Yesterday's news indeed.
You fiddle with the top two buttons of your denim shirt, undo them and grin as the jukebox starts up a slow song. Faith Hill, if you're not mistaken. Perfect! "Then why don't we dance instead?"
"Dance? But I'm not...this isn't a...won't they...?" he sputters as you tug him up from his seat.
"Who cares?" You're sure this place has seen worse than two guys cutting a rug together. In fact, you heard a rumor about two women dancing on the bar just a few weeks back. "You want to keep your girlfriend away tonight or not?"
"Want. Yes. Definitely." He shudders, tearing his eyes away from the door and turning them back to you. Challenge. Resolve. Just a bit of mischief. "Okay," he agrees with an adorable grin. "But you do know that I'm straight, right?"
"Don't worry," you soothe as you pull him towards the dance floor. You slide one arm, loosely, around his waist, staring up as innocently as you can manage. "I won't hold it against you if you fall in love with me."
You're close enough to feel the chuckle rumble up from the pit of his stomach. "I think I can resist your charms, Hal. As ample as they may be."
"That, my dear Brandon," you murmur as you palm his rough cheek, turn his full attention back to you instead of the speculative eyes of the Cheatin' Heart's patrons, "remains to be seen."
He jumps when you slide your other hand from his hip down to the tight curve of his ass and give him a teasing squeeze. Jumps, but doesn't hit you and yell "faggot". Always an encouraging sign.
"I signed on for dancing not groping," he chides, batting your hand back into safer zones as he, companionably drapes his arms around your shoulders. Like you're a giant sheepdog.
Maybe your father had the right idea all along.
You hear something like a high-pitched Miss Piggy wail from across the small club and can't resist a giggle. A giant sheepdog to Brandon but a hot gay love affair to Sami. If only you could have it the other way around...
"Brandon!" A banshee cry that levels every one around you more thoroughly than your covert ass grab could ever have. "Brandon! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
"Shit." His face falls, apologetic and panicked. "Now what?"
You know he can't be stupid-- even if he is terribly pretty. So, you chalk it up to the alcohol. "Hello...? Back door?" you remind him, biting down how it almost, almost, could be a come on.
"Oh. Right." He shakes his head like he's clearing it of Sami-screech and, this time, it's him tugging at you...half-dragging half-carrying you towards the fire exit in the back.
You bust out the door like the devil is on your heels, skidding to a stop in the alley. Letting go of your hand, Brandon leans against the wall, eyeing the fire exit as if it's going to belch forth Sami any minute.
As the seconds tick by, you bend over, trying to catch your breath. "Well...haven't...had...this...much...fun...since...Vegas."
"You must not get out much." Brandon's long eyelashes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath and you think about just hitting the ground and staying there for a year or two.
The door remains thankfully closed.
Maybe Sami chalked up the His&His visions to stress or too much bleach in her highlights? Maybe she broke a heel trying to follow? Or a nail?
"I don't get out much," you agree, straightening up and moving towards the bricks. "Not a whole lot of things in this town for a good looking queer boy to do, you know?"
He laughs. "And you *are* good looking."
"Oh! Shame on you, Brandon. Falling for me despite your resolve?" You tap him, softly, on the chest. "I knew I was irresistible."
He grabs your hand, stalling the flirtatious poking. "I told you, Hal. I'm straight." But his eyes hold no anger. And his mouth is all soft and curved and inviting. "I'm straight," he repeats, gaze flickering over the tragically unromantic setting of the alley before coming back to rest on your face.
"We're out by the dumpsters...I guess you're just going to have to beat me off...up...*up*..." You rise up on your toes and whisper the correction against his lips, sliding your fingers into the curling hairs at the nape of his neck, cradling his head as you kiss him.
It has been so long...so long...since you've kissed someone. The simple contact of mouths and tongues and teeth. You really hadn't had any intention of sipping from this tall drink of man. But now that you've done it, you can't seem to stop. And your free hand curls into the belt loops on his jeans as he leans, unresisting and shell-shocked, into your mouth.
"Hal..." he moans, "Hal...wait..." His forehead touches yours, you can hear his ragged breathing, his deafening heartbeat. "You...I..." And then his black eyes go even blacker. Almost blue. And in their reflection, you see yourself golden and blond against his darkness. "You're...you're..."
"Whatever you need," you remind, kissing him again. And again.
And then he's kissing you back...hands in your hair, crawling down your back, grabbing your ass like he's done it before a thousand times and suddenly you're the one gasping and hardening and going places you've never gone.
From there, it's natural to fumble with his zipper, to drag it downwards, snap at buttons, and envelop the impossibly stiff length of him in your hand. His head spills back, and his throat is long and tan in the moonlight. You watch him swallow and pant to the rhythm of your strokes, jerk every time your thumb flicks over the tip of his cock.
You've never seen anything quite so fucking gorgeous in your life. Nothing as mindblowingly sexy as his face when comes, slumping against you and whispering "Fuckfuckfuckfuck" into your "that'sitthat'sitthat'syeah."
He laughs, insane, sweaty and beautiful. "Man, I am SO not gay."
"Not at all, Sweetheart." You chuckle, indulgently, licking the damp from the lines of his collarbone. "It's just me. I warned you...you'd fall in love with me."
"Yeah, you did, didn't you?" His hand fisted in your hair brings your face up, and now...oh, *now* maybe he's going to hit you? He stares, long and hard. Searching you for... something...something he didn't find in all those beer bottles inside.
"Brandon?" All your Big Gay Bravado is gone now...and your knees are gooey cordial again.
"Do people fall in love with you often, Hal?" he asks, quietly.
And you wince. "Not really...n-no..." You haven't had a date since Jack...and he really, *really*, didn't count. Falling for straight boys has always been your way, hasn't it? "And my name's not even Hal," you admit, haltingly. "It's Harold."
"'Harold'?" he repeats, eyebrows dancing with amusement. "So if everybody doesn't fall in love with you, *Harold*, and I'm not gay, then I must be special, right?"
"You are!" You find yourself blurting it out without thinking. "You're amazing."
He kisses you then. Soft, like you might break under the weight of his mouth. "You're so sweet. So sweet. But I can't...I can't..."
"Yes, you can," you urge, even as you slowly rub against his thigh, gasping at the glorious friction. "You can do whatever you want. No one is stopping you. Just touch me...come on..."
He shudders, palm skirting over the painful rise in your pants and then enclosing it, cupping the weight through the corduroy. Probably the first cock he's ever touched on purpose besides his own. And his tentative hold is almost enough to make you lose it completely.
The high-pitched cry, however, does not come from your own throat. And it's definitely not one of ecstasy.
She stands at the opposite end of the alley, shadowed and looking like a ten foot tall nightmare from Breeder Hell. No broken heels. No broken nails. Just a determination to take the long way around. You're lucky that the first syllable of his name made Brandon let go...otherwise you're fairly certain you'd be castrated.
His fists are clenched, breaths harsh in your hair as you help him zip up his jeans before she closes in on you both. You half expect him to push you away and as you move back a few steps, he reins you in, keeping you flush against his chest. To protect you...or maybe himself.
Sami's heart-shaped face is crumpled like newspaper, an ugly mask of rage, jealousy, and you wonder if someone is going to beat you up behind the dumpsters after all. "What in God's name do you think you're DOING, Brandon? You're supposed to love ME. You're supposed to be STRAIGHT. You're not supposed to be in public with some...some...GUY...!"
"My *name* is Harold," you murmur, fingers curving into Brandon's t-shirt. You can feel his heart slamming against your hand. Double time. No, triple.
"Samantha," he says, barely audible. "Samantha, I can explain."
"You'd BETTER explain." Hands on her hips, chest heaving...she looks like an outraged muppet. And if you told her which one, she'd probably rip you apart with her bare hands. "You don't DO this to me, Brandon. Not to ME."
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Dance with you, get her off his back. A win-win situation. Only, right now, nobody's winning anything. Most certainly not Brandon.
"Wait a minute..." he begins, suddenly, shaking his head. "What do you mean I'm 'supposed to', Samantha?" The hand against your back is now moving up and down, reassuring. Petting you not like a sheepdog but like a friend, a lover. "How do you know what I'm supposed to do all the time? How I'm supposed to act? *I* don't even know that."
"Clearly," Sami snarls, acidically. "I thought you loved me."
"So did I...I mean...I *do* love you..." Brandon starts again and falters, helpless for the right words. You can't bear to tell him there aren't any. "I just thought...I needed...I don't know..."
"Something else," you finish, gently. "He just needed something else."
Her face pales. Finally hurt instead of angry. "Fine." She nods, slowly, lips pursing into a thin line. "Fine then. He can have it."
And you know he wants to follow her when she whirls and storms away, out of sight, and you hear the furious rumble of her car starting up. He wants to follow her, apologize, tell her he didn't mean it. That it was a joke. That he doesn't like playing with boys.
Extra, extra. Read all about it...Harold strikes out with the straight guy.
"I'm sorry." You untangle yourself from his firm embrace, stumble when you're away from his furnace-like warmth. "This was a mistake."
"Wait." And he reaches out and grabs your hand. Swallowing up your fingers in his encompassing grip. "It wasn't. Not on your part." At some point during the course of this haze of fun-pleasure-not so fun, he sobered up. The light in his eyes is clear and pure and beseeching. "You *were* what I needed tonight. Whether I knew it or not."
"I...I was?" Hopeful. You're always ridiculously hopeful.
He cups your face with his free hand, thumb sliding over your mouth in an echo of your earlier, more intimate, caress. "You were. You *are*."
"I-it's my calling," you offer with a shaky grin.
"Oh, Honey," he mimics, laughing huskily, "don't ever stop picking up the phone, okay?"
You make the promise easily. "Only if it's you."
There are no gay bars in Salem. Just a lot of churches. And, really, you don't think that's the best way to meet a nice man.
But the Cheatin' Heart...turned out to be a nice way to meet the best man. And he's even more gorgeous naked. Bronzed all over and sweat-slick above you as he learns the contours of your calves and the sensation of a lightly-haired thigh rubbing his hip.
You're chanting "that'sitthat'sitthat'sityeah" again, but this time the climb is yours as he takes you higher and higher with every inch. Fingers around you, him inside you, he's a quick study and a slow torturer. And when you arch up, he pants, "fuck, Harold, yes," into your ear and you're thanking your dad, *thanking* him, because your dumb, boring, name sounds so unbelievably sexy on Brandon's tongue that it sends you right over the edge.
"I...I didn't know..." he whispers, collapsing, just minutes later, between your knees. "I didn't know it could be like that..."
You kiss the top of his head, stroking his shoulder, his back, the line of his spine all the way down to the cleft of his delectable, slappable, ass. "I did. From the second I saw you."
"You did?" He's breathless, chuckling against your chest. "Really? Even though I probably liked girls?"
"Yesterday's news," you assure, dismissively.
"Oh yeah?" He begins a surprisingly erotic slide up your body, kissing every inch of skin in his path until you're writhing beneath him. "Really?"
"Uh huh..." By the time he's reached your mouth, it feels like years have passed and, then, you're the breathless one, bruised and swollen and wanting, by the time his assault is finished.
"So, what's this morning's headline?"
"That you're mine."
November 30, 2002.