Dedicated to Mandy, for being my inspiration.
*
He walks in like he owns the place—which, in a way, he does.
"You look cheerful," I comment. "Finally figure out that stick up your ass has a vibrate function?"
He smirks, coming over to lean against the entrance to my cubicle. "I got a promotion."
I lean back in my chair, casual, letting my eyes drift over him. I take the time to admire the way his long dark curls fall in his face, and the line of his body through his suit, eyeing him like a piece of meat. I make sure he's aware of the way my gaze lingers on the skin at his throat where his shirt is unbuttoned, and his generous lips. Even when tilted into a smirk, there's this grin in the left side of his mouth that he can't lose, no matter how upset he gets. It's terribly tempting to kiss, and it makes him hard to take seriously. By the time my gaze wanders up to meet his eyes, his cheeks are red under my scrutiny.
"Congratulations," I say. "I'm proud to know your cocksucking skills are as good as ever. I assume you've been promoted to deepthroating?"
His face goes white. Does he know he's this easy to read? It's not, lest you might think, that he actually got the promotion on his knees. No. The promotion he got because his uncle's the CEO. Anyone knows that. The reason his face goes white is because I really do have reason to be proud of his cocksucking skills. I taught him every one.
Tybalt. Pretty, temperamental Tybalt. Selfish, violent, pampered Tybalt. We've been rivals since we were in kindergarten. The cocksucking lessons occurred in the hormone-crazed days of adolescence; at a weak-long Christmas retreat at his grandmother's. We're second cousins by marriage. The venerable lady herself walked in on us, in her own master bedroom, as I was—successfully—coaxing Tybalt into deepthroating my cock. It was fantastic. I still get hard remembering Tybalt's skills on his knees. The boy is truly gifted.
In more ways than one. Tybalt, the favorite, pretty, temperamental Tybalt, got out of the incident without a scrap of blame (although there was some question of his sexuality). He just told them all that I'd threatened him into it. It helped, I suppose, that I was already thought of as trouble, since no one had forgotten my prank with the holiday punch the year before.
Viagra. To a bunch of uptight elderly relations forced into holiday cheer. It was a family reunion that went down in history. Brilliant. Drunk old Uncle Micah started feeling up Granny's priceless marble replica of Aphrodite and ended up humping Gramps' stuffed, moth-eaten old hunting dog, Rover. I was grounded for three months.
Because of the blowjob episode, I was enrolled in the strictest Christian academy that could be found, and Tybalt got shipped off to a therapist to embroider stories about how I'd molested him. After which he had the bad luck to be enrolled in the same Christian academy that had worked such wonders for me. Unluckily for him, by this time I owned the souls of the entire student body (sometimes literally: you'd be surprised what one can win with some creative cheating in a game of poker). I ruled that school, and I made it my business to make his life hell. There's simply no one else who's more entertaining to torment. He hated me, and oh, was it ever sweet.
We graduated and went to the same university, where it became clear that where I was the popular, practical-joking playboy, Tybalt had a talent for bribes and pulling strings. And, declared enemies as we were, almost all of our talents were spent on making each other suffer. (I say almost all because in my case, at least, a generous portion of my talents went in the interests of sex.)
Except that once.
I snap out of my reverie. He's glaring at me. Still working on a comeback. I can see the wheels turning with effort in his brain.
"Corner office," he says. "With a view of the bay. And a raise. Enjoy your cubicle."
I smirk, checking out his ass as he turns to go. "Tybalt."
He looks back at me with a glare that expresses purest hatred. I have to grin as I deliver the next line. "Do you still make that delicious little whine when you've got a good mouthful?"
He punches me. I tackle him, and we fight. We fight dirty, taking any advantage we can get. He's got a few inches on me in height, but I don't bruise easily, and I can take more damage than he can. Either way, no one ever wins our fights. We just keep going until neither of us can move anymore, or someone pulls us apart. I've lost track of how many times we've hospitalized each other.
He's got a black eye and a split lip when they pull us apart. My nose is probably broken. I'm grinning. He's scowling.
"What is this?" His uncle yells. "This is an office, not a bar room!"
"He started it," Tybalt mutters.
"I didn't, actually," I reply. "But I did provoke him."
"Pack your things and go," he says to me. "You're fired."
I blow a kiss to Tybalt on my way out the door.
I don't see him again until Thanksgiving.
I take my girlfriend to the family reunion. She's whiny and high-maintenance, but fantastic in bed, so I put up with it. Besides, I love making Tybalt jealous. Even if we're both too obsessed with each other to put any serious effort into our other relationships, at least I'm still getting laid. He's not. I get a very vindictive pleasure out of this knowledge.
I corner him. "Tybalt."
He cocks an eyebrow at me over his martini. "Mark."
"You got me fired."
He snorts. "You deserved it."
I smirk. "Did you miss me?"
"Like a fucking splinter."
"Like the one up your ass?"
"Nice girlfriend," he says, eyeing her. "How much did you have to pay for her?"
I smirk, leaning against the wall, testing if his self-esteem is low enough today that the intimidation card will work. It does. He's ruffled. "You know I don't need to pay to get laid," I tell him. "I can have anyone I want just by bending my finger." I lean closer so that my breath is hot on his ear. "Even you."
He shifts his posture to remind me of our height difference, but it just brings us closer together. "Doesn't it bother you at all," he asks, "that you're going to die lonely and miserable?"
I smirk at him. "I'll make you a deal. I'll answer you that if you answer one for me."
"What?" He steps away from me, setting down his martini glass.
I take up the place on the wall he just vacated. "Whose name is on your lips when you jack yourself off?"
I see him wince, and I don't even need the answer. Oh, that's beautiful. Mine.
"Want another night?" I ask him. "I'll even make you think I love you." I take a step closer. "Let you suck my cock again."
His eyes hit mine, and I can tell I've gone too far.
"Answer it," he says. "Does it bother you that you're going to die lonely and miserable?"
Tybalt's the only person I respect, as much as I tear him apart. Enemies like this don't grow on trees. I respect him too much to lie to him. "Yes." My voice is cocky, but it's forced. "You?"
"You already know my answer."
He turns and walks away.
I go home that night and dream. Of him. Of that night in college.
I challenged him to a drinking contest. Knowing I'd win. I always win. I can down enough alcohol to kill a horse. I laughed at him, when he fell over, ass-drunk, and watched, smirking, as a couple of the other frat-boys shoved him around, mocking. But I get angry fast when anyone else touches him. I snapped at them and grabbed him away, taking him to my room. My bed. I left him to sleep and went back to the party, forgetting him and enjoying the alcohol.
I had the highest tolerance level in the frat, and I only ever get smashed after breakups, so I wasn't drunk. (I have a history of bad break-ups. I'm too possessive.) But I was too restless to sleep, even after the party, so I went back to my room late, watching the dawn rise and throw red highlights on his dark curls. I don't know what time it was before I finally fell asleep next to him, fully clothed.
Sometime during the night we'd gotten tangled up in each other, so that when he woke up and tried to slip out of my arms, I woke up, too.
"Go back to sleep," I mumbled, pulling him closer. It was cold in the room, I'd left the window open that night, and he was warm.
"I have to piss."
"Fine." I let him up. "Come back."
I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, but it didn't work. I had a raging case of morning wood.
Then Tybalt stumbled back through the door, looking deliciously ruffled and more than a little drunk. He winced at the sunlight, tripping over a pair of my shoes. I pulled him back into my bed, kissing him.
