Reverand Maynard
Warnings: NC-17; Yaoi (M/M)
Pairings: I intended for a 6X3, but you could really consider it a 6Xalmost anyone. He never says a name.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. The plot, however (or lack thereof), is.

For the Moment

I woke to the faint smell of old sweat. I was sticky and warm and when I moved that faint smell became much stronger, and I was not alone.

The pale and too-worn sheets of the bed were not the only thing tangled about me. There was, draped over my left leg and tucked beneath my right, another leg, belonging to the bed's other occupant, that made me sweat in every place it touched. A hand, palm down and as damp as the air, lay over my right chest, hot against my nipple. And, of course, tucked warmly beneath my chin, was a head. The hair of it tickled and scratched me at the same time and its forehead was surely stuck to the side of my neck. Aside from all of this, the sweat, the smells, the stickiness, and even the indignant ache of my bladder, the thing that had woke me was nothing more . . . than his breath.

An invisible touch, barely perceived, yet hotter and more welcome than any summer's breeze, it washed over the delicacies of my throat, wetting it from its heat as I felt him breathe against me. The greatest signs of life . . . warmth and breath. And as my foggy mind woke completely, taking in the forceful glare of what had to be a midday sun, I longed to kiss him.

He woke.

He sucked in a huge breath of air, his body tensing against the unwelcome sensations of wakefulness, and made a little growling noise in the back of his throat. It sounded raw. He must have been screaming.

It was then, with that little noise and the movement next to me, that the night before came rushing back, a train wreck of heated memories. He was there, beneath me, not as sweaty as he was now but rapidly becoming so, and he had watched me intently. As we kissed I had known his eyes were open. Even as I'd taken him into my mouth, savoring his taste and hardness, he had not closed his eyes but watched my ministrations with the deepest of interest. And when I buried myself deep inside him, with his body still facing mine so he could watch me, he had reached a hand to where I entered him, wrapping his fingers around my cock, letting it slide through them even as it fucked him.

He had screamed.

"Mmmm . . ." he growled again. Or perhaps it hadn't been an audible noise, but I felt it against me, vibrating through my side. His breath was less even now, determined and aware. The breath of consciousness.

"Time?" The question was soft and drawn out, and so rapt was I by that word that he had to nudge me with his head before I answered.

"I don't know," I said, the rawness in my own voice surprising me. Perhaps I had screamed as well. "Some time after noon."

He growled again and I found myself imagining what those vibrations would feel like wrapped around my swollen head. I was hard again.

"Your fingers are freezing."

"Hm?"

"Your fingers are cold," he repeated. I looked to see him play with the fingers wrapped about his shoulder--my fingers--and I didn't feel it.

I hadn't realized he had been laying on my arm, that my hand was on his shoulder, that the entire appendage was dead numb from the shoulder down. He picked up my hand with his and dropped it again. I watched helplessly and breathed a laugh. He smiled a little.

"I guess I should move," he said, and did so, disengaging himself from our embrace, taking his heat and that smell that I'd been growing to like, with him. 'NO!' I thought, 'Comeback! I don't mind the sweat or numbness.' I remained silent.

He rolled over and off of the bed, leaving the sheet and my dead arm behind, and walked naked to an adjoining bathroom. He left the door open and I watched the back of him as he urinated. I reached with my good arm to pick up the other and pulled it to lay across my stomach. I never realized how heavy an arm could be.

The noises he was making in the bathroom were getting to me and by now my bladder was screaming. But something was making me lazy. It wasn't the dead arm that lay over my stomach, now tingling with some new life, nor the heat that permeated every pore and made breathing somewhat difficult. I think it was just . . . contentedness. Something I'd never indulged in before and was not certain of how to go about it. And more than that, I'd never known something like this, dare I call it happiness?-- could come hand-in-hand with such unpleasantness.

He was finished now and came back in the room as nude as when he had left, and sat on the edge of the bed. He faced away from me and I could still see wrinkly creases in his sides from where he'd been laying on the sheets. He laid down.

As I said before, I was hard again, and staring at his backside as I was, I found it impossible not to slip a hand beneath the sheets and touch myself. I responded quite nicely.

"Zechs?" His voice called softly, that raw sound still there.

"Yes?" I asked the back of him. He couldn't have known how delicious he looked just then, doing nothing more than just lying there . . . sweating . . . breathing; nor how the pale cheeks of his buttocks taunted me. My touches became long strokes.

"About . . ." oh yes, he was talking. I'd forgotten. " . . . last night . . ."

My hand stopped.

'NO!' I thought again, 'Don't say it! Don't regret it, I don't.' And I saw him again, beneath me, screaming his voice raw, fondling my cock as I pushed further into him. 'Say never again . . . I can live with that . . . just don't say we shouldn't have.'

"I want more."

I hadn't heard it at first, so quiet for such a noisy bed partner. And even when I finally had, I had yet to respond. He lay there, as he had before, still not turning to look at me. I wondered if he was afraid of something.

I wasn't.

I think it surprised him when I moved over to where he lay, my once dead arm now throbbing with prickly heat but fully useful. I put a hand on his waist and pulled our bodies flush, front to back, and I felt him jump when my already hard and weeping cock pressed against those pretty cheeks.

He growled again.

Or perhaps it was more of a moan. Nonetheless it made me doubly hard and I moved that hand on his waist to his hip, sliding it over a soft, round cheek, and slipped a finger into the hot cleft.

More little moans as I delicately burrowed my fingers inside him, their exploration made easy from the remnants of whatever lubricant had been there the night before, and a moment later he was moving against me, fucking my fingers with abandon even as he reached a hand behind him to take hold of my erection and stroke it roughly.

"Please," he said, and I realized he hadn't even said that much the night before--at least not coherently.

I removed my fingers and spat into my hand, carrying it to coat my cock, mingling it with precum, and entered him none too gently.

It was like opening a door. Like walking into a room you'd passed a hundred times every day and never knew, until then, that it was yours, and when you got there it was filled with all of your favorite things and god himself, even if he deemed himself to do so, couldn't take them from you. And you'd never leave.

We both screamed.

I was sweaty again and so was he, and as I moved inside him I leaned forward to kiss his neck, tasting his skin. He tasted of salt and sweat and sex and his skin was fire to my lips. Again, I longed to kiss him. He must have sensed this because he craned his neck around even as I stretched mine, and we kissed.

And there it was.

Connected at the mouth, joined by cock and ass, held so close together I couldn't decipher my skin from his. And there was no numbness, only sensation. It was coupling of a cyclical sort. It started at my cock and moved into him with every thrust, coming out of his mouth and into mine and so on. We moved. Had we been shaped more like a wheel wed have taken off, skidding, screeching . . .

When I came inside him he screamed air into my lungs and I took it as he had mine. Only it wasn't my orgasm that had moved him so, but his own, I realized, as the hot fluid gushed over my fingers and palm. After that, there was a certain calmness about everything. Certainly, there were little moans and heavy breathing and slight tremors of regression. But in all, there was a sense of serenity. And I was still inside him when he thanked me.

I didn't respond as he turned his head away to rest. I simply held him, sweating where we touched, and, at length, pulled from within him. It seemed he hadn't needed a response. Several moments later he was asleep and I was stuck to him in more than a dozen places--sweaty and hot and content . . . for the moment.

end

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