Warnings: OOC

Author's notes: After reading Rhiannonhero’s “Fairy Dust,” I could not get the image of Justin in a dress out of my head. I know. I know. I'm going to hell. Do I think this would ever happen? No, I really don’t. I just know I had to write this story and get it out of my system.

Thanks: Once again, a huge thanks to Robin for reading and being honest.

Dedication: For Vickie, because she likes Justin with long hair.


On a Friday night, in the summer of their sixth year, Brian comes home to find Justin wearing a gown. It’s a long sapphire silk that trails leisurely behind him.

“What time’s the party?” Obviously they’re going to some kind of costume party, and he’s forgotten all about it.

“There’s no party. I just felt like wearing it.”

Justin spins elegantly, and the fabric flows like water around his pale ankles.

“Do you like it?”

“As long as there’s a cock under there, I don’t give a fuck what you wear.”

Brian unbuckles his belt and nods toward the sofa. Grinning, Justin mock-salutes then drapes himself obediently over the low leather. It isn’t long before he feels Brian’s hands on his hips.

“Pull it up.”

Justin gathers the material loosely around his waist. He wears nothing underneath, and Brian wastes no time entering him.

“Did you . . . and . . . Shanda Leer . . . have fun . . . playing . . . Barbies?” Brian asks between thrusts.

“It’s . . . not . . . Darren’s . . . I bought it . . . last week.”

“You get . . . kinkier . . . by the . . . day, don’t you . . . Sun . . . shine?”

Justin’s answer is lost to the exquisite thrust that lifts him off the floor. Again. And again. And again. He hears Brian make a noise he’s never made before, and Justin comes, mouth open, feet jerking in midair. As he falls away into darkness, a secret smile adorns his lips.


Three weeks later, Brian calls Justin to tell him to meet him at Woody’s after work. Justin is silent for a moment, then apologizes and says he can’t.

“Why not?”

“I’m in a fashion show tonight. At Boy Toy.”

“Since when?” Brian reaches for a cigarette, lights it and flicks the match away in a long and graceful arc.

“I signed up a week ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you pick out something totally worthy of Milan.”

“Darren helped me.”

There’s no reply except for the casual inhale and exhale of Brian smoking. Justin is about to speak, when Brian asks, “Is it a drag show?”


“What time?”


“I’ll be there.”


Boy Toy is packed, but Brian manages to get a good spot at the bar. Reputation will do that.

One by one, colorful, glossy boys strut and preen their way across the stage. They’re in full plumage tonight - lacquered nails, sparkly jewels, and spiky, wicked heels. Brian decides he likes the look of opera gloves.

He orders another double and flirts with the bartender to pass the time. He’s nearly finished with his drink when the room erupts around him. Instinctively, he turns toward the stage.

Justin is breathtaking in a simple champagne sheath that’s criminally sheer. He stands regally in the spotlight and smiles for the crowd. They roar their approval, and Justin rewards them by striking pose after pose after pose. He teases expertly - a flash of calf, a sultry smile, a sexy, lazy wink. He’s shameless, and it’s clear that he’s the favorite.

Too soon, he disappears behind the curtain, and Brian is seized by a sudden longing - for something he once glimpsed, almost had, but wasn’t quick enough to catch. He orders two shots and a Margarita with extra salt. The scarred mahogany bar is steady and solid against his back.

Finally, he spies a glimmer of gold and watches as Justin works his way through the admiring crowd. When he arrives at Brian’s side, he’s flushed and beaming. “Did you see? Were you-”

His words are cut off by a rough, raw kiss that goes on so long, it earns them a chorus of cat calls and whistles. Laughing, Justin struggles out of the embrace and reaches for his drink. Brian reluctantly lets him go and proposes a toast. “To the next Lady Chablis.”

Justin laughs delightedly and vamps a pose. “You really think so?”

“They were creaming their fucking jeans. Besides, as your manager, I’ll make a goddamn fortune.”

Justin smiles wryly and raises his glass in acknowledgment. He drinks deeply, exposing his lovely throat, and Brian stares at the drop of sweat that glides languidly down Justin’s neck. Without thinking, he laps it up, and then he cannot stop touching Justin - he tugs at his hair, caresses the swell of his ass, licks a bare and fragrant shoulder. Justin tastes exotic and . . . new.

“Is there a back room in this place?” Brian is surprised by the urgency he feels.

Blue eyes twinkling, Justin nods solemnly. “Follow me.”


It’s January, and the Vermont winter is dug in deep.

Brian heaps more wood on the fire and lays back down, cradling Justin close. The flames flare brightly, and he admires the play of light in Justin’s hair. It’s long now; it hasn’t been cut in two years.

“I wish we had a fireplace,” Justin’s tone is wistful as he slides a smooth heel up Brian’s shin.

“We’ll see.”


“I said,” Brian rolls him onto his back, “we’ll see. So, do you like your present?”

“You know I do.”

“You haven’t tried it on yet.” There’s a hint of reproach in his voice.

Justin traces a finger along one of Brian’s eyebrows and asks, “Would you like me to perform for you Mr. Kinney?”

Brian bites his nose gently, and it’s clear that the answer is yes.

After fifteen minutes, Brian decides he’s waited long enough. He wraps himself in the fur throw and goes into the bedroom. He finds Justin in front of the mirror.

“Ah, vanity. My second favorite sin.”

“Brian. Fuck. It’s . . .” Justin looks at Brian’s reflection and says quietly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Brian’s voice is gruffer than he’d like.

He tries again. “There are better ways to show appreciation.” There. That’s better.

Justin nods knowingly and drops to his knees, the black taffeta whispering slyly about bewitchment and surrender. Brian is momentarily dizzied by the tableau at his feet: boyish limbs and a siren’s smile. Innocence steeped in perversion - it’s his cocktail of choice these days, and he never refuses.

Justin makes his own demand, “Say it.” It’s a game they’ve been playing forever.

“Choke on my motherfucking cock, you fashionable little whore.”

Justin kisses a honeyed flank and swallows him to the root.


Hours later, they lie among the wreckage.

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“You said it was one of a kind.”

“Haven’t I taught you anything? Flash enough cash, and you can have whatever the fuck you want.”

“The nouveau riche are so crass.”

“You goddamn wasps can kiss my ass.”

Justin opts for tickling instead, and it’s too late when he realizes this isn’t a good idea. Brian is bigger and stronger, and Justin is easily overpowered. The little that remains of his present is soon in tatters, but Justin doesn’t mind.

He has something better.

He has the memory of being worshiped, savagely and with a violent joy. He has the memory of being devoured - eagerly, greedily. He has the memory of being opened and opened, until he’s completely and thoroughly undone.

Haute couture can go to hell.


It’s the autumn of their twelfth year, and Venice has been their home for the past two. She’s a clever mistress, well versed in the art of seduction, and they never really stood a chance.

Their villa is filled with wide, curving stairs and windows that face the sea. Brian finds it strangely appealing that the city will sink into the Adriatic one day. Justin has produced the best art of his life here.

It’s Friday, and tonight they’re hosting a masquerade. Like previous fetes, it will probably make the society page, to Brian’s delight and Justin’s chagrin.

Brian hangs up from his conference call and goes in search of his partner. He finds him on an upper terrace reviewing a proposal from a gallery in Rome.

“What time’s the band getting here?”

“Orchestra, and they’ll be here at eight. They need an hour to set up.”


“Seven thirty.”

“What about-”

“Brian. Relax. Everything’s taken care of.”

Brian nods and glances at his watch. It’s almost six. Time enough for a long fuck and a quick shower.

“What are you wearing tonight?”

Justin scribbles a note in the margin as he replies. “It’s a surprise.”

Brian takes the pencil out of Justin’s hand, mid-scrawl, forcing him to look up. He finds Brian staring at his crotch. “I can see your underwear.”

Justin doesn’t bother looking down. The vintage lace does have a habit of riding up.

“I’m glad the glasses are working out so well. Now, is there anything else? I’d like to finish this today.” He holds his hand out and waits for the pencil.

Brian smiles and continues to stare between Justin’s legs.

Justin sighs. “Brian. Again?” Though he feigns annoyance, Justin is secretly thrilled. It’s the third time today.

Brian wants to do it on the floor of Justin’s studio. It’s his favorite place to fuck. They have barely enough time to dress before the caterer arrives.


Later that night, Justin stands on the balcony outside their bedroom. The wrought-iron is cool beneath his hands as he takes in the view - a sweep of sky, the lights of distant ships, and the water, blue-black and brilliant with the shine of a thousand stars. He never tires of it, and he’ll paint it again tomorrow.

He turns and contemplates their bedroom; the walls are awash in orange and gold. Brian made good on his promise - Justin has not one, but many fireplaces in his new home.

Brian is reading, sprawled majestically on the cayenne-colored bedclothes. His legs are spread and his dark sex beckons. Justin climbs onto the bed and crawls toward its center, cock heavy and full.

He takes the book out of Brian’s hands. “You up for four?”

In response, Brian slides a hand up Justin’s thigh and seeks out the softest part - it’s inside and up high.


“Come here.” Justin bends down, and Brian releases the silver clasp at his nape.

His eyes quicken as the dress cascades into Justin’s lap revealing the white and cream of his skin. His nipples are rouged tonight. They’re stained shocking and ripe, and Brian’s reaction is immediate. Justin is utterly and perfectly crushed by the weight of his desire.

It’s nearly dawn when Justin wakes, all tangled and half-trapped. He lies still for a moment, enjoying the warm breath on his belly before pulling his legs free. Shivering, he hurries across the marble floor and shuts the doors against the morning fog. He places several pieces of wood into the hearth and wakes Brian long enough to get them both under the covers.

Justin is almost asleep when he feels Brian’s arms tighten around him. “You looked beautiful tonight.” Justin murmurs a sleepy reply and presses a kiss to the exact center of Brian’s palm before settling the hand securely in place.

Grunting softly, Brian pushes closer and buries himself in the veil of Justin’s hair. It’s his favorite place to sleep, and tonight he dreams of the garden and the dance they shared after the last guest had gone.

In the dream, they dance to the sounds from the fountain - a green, translucent water music. The melody is complemented by Justin’s liquid laughter, and in this flawless song, Brian thinks he can hear eternity. He lifts Justin off his feet and spins him round and round under the pale and yellow moon.


It’s early spring, and the rains have been falling for days. The power failed at four, and it’s anybody’s guess when it will return. Venice is not known for its efficiency in such matters.

Justin sits at the top of the stairs and waits for Brian. He can hear him locking doors and latching windows as he moves from room to room. The stained glass casts a mosaic of deep-colored light onto the landing, and Justin moves his hand back and forth, watching it change from violet to scarlet to rose.

He hears Brian’s tread before he sees the glow of the candle he carries. Brian is startled to find Justin in near-darkness, but his surprise is quickly forgotten when Justin slips out of the ivory satin, leans back on his elbows and parts his legs slightly.

“Was that you bitching about a sore ass less than an hour ago?”

Justin shrugs and blames it on the rain. They fuck on an old tapestry surrounded by sleek wood nymphs and well-hung centaurs. The sex is messy and loud, and the frescoed revelers leer their approval.

After, Brian helps Justin off the floor and brushes stray bits of wool and thread out of his hair. They make their way through the shadowed halls and talk quietly of tomorrow’s plans. As they enter the last passageway, a sudden draft swirls around them and threatens to extinguish the candle. The flame leaps and sputters but manages to stay lit in the shelter of Brian’s hands.

It burns steadily for the rest of the night and into the next morning.

Return to Jude's