CHAPTER SUMMARY

Augustus Sinclair wants Johnny Topside to put out, and he won't take no for an answer.

CONTENT WARNINGS

Non-con :( It is not explicit.

From Uprising Part III: Only Man

A GAME

Sinclair pushed through the door, stein in hand, and swaggered down the hallway.

"Juan, honey!" he said. "I got your beer."

He stepped out into the bedroom and stopped short.

John lay sprawled across the bed on his belly, face turned away and cushioned on his arms. He had flung his legs apart; his left trouser leg was pushed up to his knee, baring sock and garter. He was in his undershirt, baring those big rolling shoulders; his suspenders were draped like black ribbons on either side of him, a present half-unwrapped. Beside him on the nightstand ashtray, a cigarette cast up a winding, smoky serpent.

Sure, it was all mundane; Topside lay there almost fully dressed. A hundred thousand men might just then have been lying on their beds in much the same way. All the same… it seemed the lamplight fell on him in a golden cloud, and he was so substantial, well-formed. The swell of his chest was magical.

Sinclair flushed red-hot and fell speechless. It didn't seem real that Topside was here at last—all his—just like he'd dreamed for months. He could touch him—he could touch all of him. He could slip between his arms, he could feel his breath on his throat, he could thrust his hands down inside of those slacks, and Topside would arch eagerly into his touch.

Suddenly the party in the other room seemed like the least real thing in the universe. It was only John lying across his bed—their bed!—wonderfully and terribly made.

John turned sleepily, rocking up onto his elbow. Sinclair strode up beside him, face burning, eyes fixed on the curves and scars of his arms.

"Oh, thanks," John yawned.

Sinclair fell upon him. He slapped the stein onto the nightstand—beer slopped everywhere—and planted his lips on John's. John's hand clenched on his breast—he made a shocked sound into Sinclair's mouth—and Sinclair dug his hand down between John's buttocks, squeezing the plump round of it. God, the way he could feel the muscle tensing under his fingers—the way this guy was built!

"Jesus!" John yanked away, panting. "What—"

Sinclair rolled him over. John went with it, partly to put some space between them, but Sinclair didn't let him go. He rolled on top of John and threw his arms around his neck.

"What the hell is your problem?" John laughed. He looked slightly irritated.

Sinclair covered him in sloppy kisses. John was hardening against his thigh; Sinclair slid his flat palm down the front of his slacks and rubbed him through his shorts. John moaned into his ear.

"Ah, so you're just as happy to see me as I am to see you," Sinclair whispered, kissing him from his jaw up to his ear.

John nipped his ear, lipped his cheek.

"Is the party over?" John whispered.

His embrace was so light and noncommittal! It was driving Sinclair mad. He wanted John to rip his clothes off. He wanted him to laugh in his face when Sinclair whined about going out to see his friends looking as though he'd attempted to bathe a cat. He wanted John to insist that he make up some unbelievable story about tripping and falling on the way or being attacked by a ne'er-do-well in the dark.

"It's only ten," Sinclair said softly. "We've only just started."

John made a face and pulled away. Sinclair swore softly and straddled him, pinning his hips with his knees; to do this, he had to lift up on his hands, and that meant having to slide his hand out of John's slacks. He forgot this disappointment quickly enough. John's cock was throbbing against his own and it was everything in his power not to rip his pants down.

"Oh, yeah?" John laughed. "What are your guys out there gonna think if you disappear? Besides. They might hear us."

"I want them to."

John's smile was kind, but standoffish. He propped Sinclair up with the heels of his hands.

"Gus. Come on. I don't fuck for other people. I told you that."

"You've done it once before." Sinclair sank down between those powerful arms and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, I'd been told the window was one-way." John pushed his cheek aside.

He wasn't pushing Sinclair away completely, though. He could have bucked Sinclair off entirely and swaggered off, untouchable. Sinclair exercised regularly, but he had never been a strong man; John was built like a tank and over ten years younger.

"You're giving me mixed signals here, honey." Sinclair leaned his elbows on John's chest, draped his hands off of those big shoulders. He thumbed a curl back over his ear.

"You'll stay here and get fucked or you'll go back out there unfucked," John said. "That's all."

"But what's the fun in that?" Sinclair whispered. He jerked his chin toward the door. "Tear me apart. Make me have to go out there and give excuses. Come on."

"I don't get you," John said. His smile was cooling; so was the pulse between his thighs. "You wish you had a career in dirty pictures or something?"

"I want them to wish they had you and know they don't." Sinclair leaned in close. "I want them to look at who they're taking home and wonder what they're missing."

"Why?" John's smile was crooked. "Why does this have to be for anyone but us? It's strange, man."

"I couldn't show anyone who I loved up on the surface," Sinclair said softly. "Here, they can't stop me."

John froze. His hands clenched on Sinclair's shoulders. Sinclair could feel the nails digging in. That was when he realized that he wasn't leaving until he'd fucked the kid into submission.

John laughed nervously.

"Jesus," he said. "And here I was, just wanting a good time."

John thrust him away. Just one arm and he could lift Sinclair's whole body!

Sinclair pushed his arm aside and wriggled down toward him. John grappled with his shoulder with one hand, and with the other, pressed Sinclair's belly. He started to lift up to a seated position.

"All right, fun's over," John said. "I want to drink my beer."

Sinclair pressed his hands aside and wriggled madly between his arms, bucking into his hips. Soon it was a wrestling match. Arms and legs went everywhere. Sinclair had John's thighs pinned between his own, but John was stronger and taller; he flung one leg out and nearly unseated Sinclair entirely. When John grabbed him by the shirt, Sinclair yanked it out of his belt and slid up on top of him. When Sinclair hooked an arm around his neck and another around John's elbow, John grabbed Sinclair by the love handles and wrenched.

"Ah, lord! Stop! Stop! Mercy!" Sinclair squeaked. "Let me go!"

John grinned wickedly into his face and twisted until Sinclair's grip loosened, then flipped him onto his back. Sinclair flopped panting on the mattress; John had barely broken a sweat. Neither had come out unscathed; both of their shirts had been ripped out of their belts and Sinclair's hair had been mussed to hell. John had his undershirt yanked up under his arms and Sinclair had lost his socks.

Sinclair groaned and hugged his sides. Staring him in the face, John sat up and grabbed his stein, then winked and took a deep draught.

Sinclair burst out laughing and sat up on one elbow. John raised his eyebrows.

"First of all, that was illegal," Sinclair said.

"City of no laws, bud."

"Second of all, I always get what I want," Sinclair said, sliding across the mattress.

John's face turned red. "What?"

Sinclair stood up beside the bed and hung his arms out like a scarecrow's. His shirt was ripped in three places, and several buttons were missing. The sharp creases in his pants legs had already been on the way out; now they were gone.

"Look what you've done." Sinclair made a face at him. "Guess I'll have to straighten up a little."

"You'd fucking better."

"They won't know the difference," Sinclair said, tucking in his undershirt.

John groaned.

Sinclair smoothed his hair back with a hand. "Lend me a comb."

"I don't have one. What are you doing?"

Sinclair swaggered to John's side of the bed, unbuckling his belt. "You know, if I'm going out there looking like this, it might as well be after something more substantial."

John swung his feet out onto the floor. His face was red, and his shoulders were striped pink where Sinclair had dragged his nails.

"I'm not fucking you to make a statement, all right?" John said. "I'm not a fucking actor. I don't fuck people to be seen and I don't fuck because I want to show off. I fuck because I want a good time, and I fuck the people I want to have a good time with. I'm not making love to the world."

Sinclair hesitated in front of him, hands on both wings of his belt, head cocked, his heavy breathing slowly evening out. At first, there was a pang of fear; but that fear melted away. Anticipation blossomed in his chest. Tingles ran up his spine.

It wasn't an admission of love, but it would do.

"All right, then," Sinclair said, buckling his belt again. "I'm ending the party and I'm coming back here."

John blinked and sat up straight.

"And you," Sinclair said, zipping up, "are going to prepare yourself accordingly."

"What—wait, what does that mean?" asked John.

"I'm going to come back here," Sinclair said, "and ride you until you can't see straight."

John's knees squeezed together. Sinclair couldn't squelch the burst of exultation, but he didn't linger to gloat; he swaggered off to the bathroom for a comb. He had just found the one he'd left on the edge of the sink when John poked his head around the door.

"I've never—"

"I know you've never done it," Sinclair said, slicking his hair back officiously. "But you know how it's done. So get yourself ready."

"I—that's not what I asked for."

"I want to see you spread out across the comforter," Sinclair said. "Just for me, and only me."

"None of my girls liked it."

"Let me guess." Sinclair leaned back, gave him a pouty bottom lip. "You rammed in without preparation. Perhaps without warning."

John winced.

"You just throw yourself at everything with wishes and dreams and hope it'll all turn out," Sinclair said, sauntering out the door and slapping John on the ass. "Well, you'll see what you've been missing soon enough."

"Your socks," John said. "You're not wearing socks."

"Oh, what do you know." Sinclair looked down at his feet. "Nor shoes!"

He thought seriously for a moment about walking out barefoot. Now, a man in his own apartment, that was one thing…

No, he didn't want to look completely tasteless.

He swung past John to the bed, squeezing his arm as he passed, and picked up his socks. John followed him. God, Sinclair loved how he didn't have to run to catch up—he just had to stride. Long, effortless swings of those legs.

John's voice rose up behind him.

"For Christ's sakes, why do you turn everything into a joke? This is an honest question. Don't turn it into a joke. I swear, if you…"

Sinclair kept his eyes down on his feet as he buttoned up his socks. "I'm not turning anything into a joke, honey. I'm doing just what you asked and nothing more."

The kid stood before him, one hand pressed against his cheek, red as a cherry. God, Sinclair loved that face. It was the face he made when he'd given up.

Sinclair rose, shook out his pants legs and his sleeves, and tugged at his chest pocket with an oversized grimace. One of the rips was just underneath, baring the cottony soft undershirt.

"At least change your shirt, for god's sakes," John said, rubbing at his temples.

Sinclair leaned against him, threaded his arm through John's, and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

"I've got to impress upon the crowd the severity of the situation," he said.

"You mean you'd fucking tell them?" John's eyes popped. "Don't you fucking dare!"

"It's already been, oh… 20 minutes?" Sinclair rose to his feet. "It's gonna take a little while for me to drive all these folks away. Let's say… oh… 15 minutes. Gotta send them out with a slap on the back and a little good-bye, you know."

"Don't." John ran his hands up and down his face. "Please. For the love of Christ."

"Oh?" Sinclair leaned in. "What'll you give me?"

"For changing your shirt?" John had covered both eyes now, and his voice was dead.

"I could change my pants out, too." Sinclair flopped his arm over John's shoulders. "Oh, how about a game? You do me a favor… I clean up one, ah, aspect." He tugged at a sleeve, bared the missing button from his cuff, and made an outsized grimace. "First, the shirt. Then, the pants…"

John glared at him.

"Here. Lie down." Sinclair slapped the bed.

John turned white. "You're—wait a minute."

"There's no reason to be afraid. I love it. You'll love it, too." Sinclair pushed on his shoulder. "Lie down."

John sighed and flopped onto the bed, throwing his legs apart. Sinclair dropped on top of him, rubbed his sides up to his shoulders and down his back, felt the rolling muscles tense and then relax under his palms. God, what a man.

John ran his hands up to his hairline, turned his cheek. "Tell me you'll keep your word."

"Of course." Sinclair yanked up on John's belt buckle until the kid gasped. "Lord almighty, you are an uncommonly handsome man. I can't help myself." He leaned in close and whispered: "Remember. If I wouldn't do it to myself, I wouldn't do it to you."

Somewhere around 11, someone finally missed Sinclair—the bartender, to be precise. He scanned the room several times over, growing increasingly concerned, before finally grabbing one of the waiters' sleeves.

"Have you seen Mr. Sinclair?" he asked.

"Not recently, but I've been in the study," she said.

"Keep an eye out for him, will you?" the bartender said. "He's due for a mint julep."

Fontaine nursed his beer, listening intently. He pushed his stein toward the bartender.

"I haven't heard him neither," he said. "Wonder where he got to."

At around 11:30, Sinclair was heard laughing and clapping someone on the shoulder far too hard. Red-faced, exultant, he swaggered to the bar, straightening his jacket. He smelled strongly of cologne and his hair had been swept back. His hands were trembling slightly, still damp from being washed. He slid an empty stein across the bar.

"There's another dirty dish for you, Vince," he said.

"Where were you?" Fontaine asked.

"Oh, just getting freshened up." Sinclair snapped his fingers. "Vince? Mint julep. Ah, and Topside's usual, will you?" He winked. "He's parched."

NOTES

I went back and forth about including this in the actual story itself before deciding against it. For one thing, it was 90% horny, and though I do love me some horn, I need undercurrents and larger plot threads to survive. Brainless eroticism makes me eepy sleepy. That said, the story itself does include a few erotic bits. For the most part, they go glossed over, but there was a point where it was kind of a big deal for Johnny Topside to give in to Sinclair's advances. He'd been living his life as a straight man. The way I play him out, he's more of a pansexual person, but given the time and culture he was raised in, straight was the only safe way to go. Hence a whole process was necessary to get Topside in this position-61 chapters as of the moment.

Additional development was necessary because Topside had Sinclair pegged right off. See, Part of Sinclair's character is that he is a fucker. And part of how he's a fucker is that he makes everything sound so nice :) Gaslighter extraordinaire :)) Go ahead and squeeze all the ADAM out of that baby girl, she's good as dead, honey! :))) Go ahead and beat the shit out of that old lady! :)))) Imma say this in a sweet ol' boy accent. hoo hoo hoo. u can trust me im just a lil ol hayseed :)))))

Topside was like. You're kind of a fucker actually! and then he fucked off. but you can't fuck off in Rapture because there's just more Rapture :( rip johnny topside

Anyway, I tried to approach Topside's first time in this particular respect because I figured it would be a big deal for him, given his background, and it was just too much horn. alas.

But I figure some of you will like it quite well :)c