A/N: This is for the beautiful Vican's birthday.
Biggest hugs to Betsy for her wonderful 'anal' comments and for putting up with my whiny panic and still giving me a title and summary anyway, and to Lisa for catching typos and sharing thoughts and making sense - and to both of them for being perceptive and amazing.
And oh my dear and darling Vic. There are not words for thee. Even a gif claiming there's not a gif for these things that I'm feeling, isn't enough. You are, in essence, the Pancake to my Bacon. I love you more than words or porn could describe. And this is for you.
Disclaimer: I own these words, but SMeyer owns the original creations of the people I pictured in my head as I wrote.
It's been weeks.
Two, to be precise.
I went on a pity-vacation with my family; a day before I got back, so did you.
Poor planning on our part.
Really poor planning.
As a result, I've had an itch for thirteen days.
Because I don't want you just after I've had you.
And there was no one worthy in the mountains, everyone bundled up in ski jumpsuits or too stupid to even know about operating a ski-lift.
Why would I waste my time on that when I have you... well, not exactly waiting for me.
That implies a lot of untrue shit.
And I wouldn't say we have an arrangement.
Because we don't.
What we have—
I don't really know what it is. Beyond wanting to constantly have each other.
Now I'm waiting for you here, impatient that you're not fifteen minutes early.
I want you, dammit.
Not at the time we agreed on, but now.
And you're not early.
I contemplate making you suffer for that. But it'd make me suffer, too.
Despite any rumors, I'm not a masochist.
My thoughts stop – brain almost following their pattern – when I hear confident footsteps, feel a shift in the air, in me.
I don't turn around, already know it's you. There's a pulse in the air, surrounding me, vibrating through my blood and bones and body.
Your warmth sneaks closer and closer, until it's sinking into my back, pressing into my skin.
Lighting me aflame and afire.
Your mouth is at my ear, lips brushing me with your words, breath skimming and shivering inside. "You're early."
"And you're not."
"Punctuality is a quality best not exaggerated." And your teeth slip out to prove your point.
It proves nothing, though.
Only winds me tighter.
I fall back into focus enough to notice your hands, how they've stolen around to my hips, slithered under fabric, slide their way greedily up my skin.
My lungs work overtime as you take your leisure – spin my insides taut and tense.
I flip positions on you, unable to stand, sustain or suffer through anymore. Your body is against mine, pushing back and into and so good until I hit the wall.
Until I feel only solid plaster behind me, solid you in front.
"Been too long," you mutter, low and rough and shooting right to every erogenous zone I own.
One of your hands holds and keeps both of mine, lifted above our heads as you show appreciation to my neck. My fingers flex and nails dig in; I hope I'm marking you.
As much as I enjoy what you're doing, you're not alone in your desperation.
In your want and need.
So I wiggle and whisper until I'm freed, until I can touch you, grab your clothes, pull you ever closer.
You didn't ask, but I wore a dress anyway.
You didn't have to ask, didn't bother with it.
Because you know me, what I want, what I need, how I am.
That's another thing I hate about you.
Among the many.
I'm distracted by your drifting fingers, the heat and size of them as they wander my skin. You tug on my dress's collar until my shoulder is yours, your smirk reflexive and wide when you don't see a bra-strap.
I came prepared for you, for us and this.
We haven't even properly kissed yet, but I can already feel everything of you – tangible and expectant against me.
That knowledge surges into confidence and has me unzipping your pants, not even taking the time to work you up further.
Being this close to you is work-up enough, and the harsh way you inhale tells me I'm right.
I don't look away from your eyes or your mouth or that shading of scruff that seems to define your jaw line, not a drop of hesitation in me as I hitch my leg to your hip.
You don't flicker or waiver when my move pushes me against you in every right way; I'd be disappointed in anything less.
Your hand floats from my side, down to my leg, palm cupping the front of my knee and fingers nearly tickling the back of it. Curiosity takes over your features as you watch my reaction, eyes open wide and seeing everything I share.
Too much time has passed – too many seconds that weren't filled with us doing what we do best.
I can't stand anymore time, hungry tug on your hair and jerk against your ass telling you just that.
But you came prepared, too. It makes me glad that your pants aren't actually down because it means no shifting or fiddling, just the loss of half of your touch so that you can pull our green light out of your back pocket.
You're ready and starting faster than I can almost blink. Instinct throws my head back, forgetting there's a wall there.
And even you're not enough to make that not hurt.
Your chuckle yanks me back just as your hand does the same to my left leg. For a second, I think you're just dragging me closer, seeking a better angle or my skin or even more friction. But then you adjust your stance, firm your grasp on my thighs, and transfer my weight from the wall to wholly you.
And it changes things.
I can feel every part of you now, feel it nearer and heavier, a darker tone of need coating everything. Your hair finds its way into my fists, your chest hair rubbing against sensitive parts of me.
Masculinity radiates off you from every possible direction, speaks to me in every sight, facet and feel of you, all of it permeating the air and connecting to me on some base level.
My thoughts are chaotic and jumbled, incoherent and hopeless, tainted all-over by that unending pit of desire. But in the midst, I'm somehow reminded why I wanted to meet you here in the first place.
"I want to try something..."
I stop moving with you, almost before we've really gotten started.
A frown appears on your forehead and your lips when I give you the indication to let me go. You try to hide it under anger, but the glint of confused hurt is still visible as my feet hit the tile.
Even so, it seems we lose little of our rhythm as I reach to my left and start the shower. You perk up once the idea is clear and quickly strip yourself, hands impatient as I do the same.
The fact that we undress separately serves as just another reminder of how physical and primal this is.
We step in and you hiss at the heat of the water; I roll my eyes and modify it. Something about that – probably the sarcasm of my eyes – gets to you and your jaw clenches, the edge becoming impossibly straighter and sharper. Without actual thought, I reach up and lightly bite along it.
Fuck, your skin tastes amazing.
Though I've not sampled that particular flavor of many guys before, I know there's just something about yours.
There's always been something about you.
My teeth spring you back into action, rough and hasty hands turning me and earning a gasp. You push and pull my limbs to where you want – knocking my shampoo and conditioner to the ground when you place half my foot in their built-in shelf – and then restart the push and pull of our bodies.
It gets needy and desperate immediately, the result of two weeks of abstaining and missing out on. We have a lot of ground to cover, a lot of time to amend.
A lot of wanting to make up for.
My hands are slipping off the shower wall, unable to stay up or find any kind of purchase. All unnecessarily distracting and irritatingly frustrating.
You don't even notice, too absorbed and caught up in your motions and your pleasure, so selfish and I hate you.
I grunt out a cuss and readjust myself – my arms bending behind me to grab onto any part of you I can find. It's awkward and it strains my shoulders but it's better.
You lean forward and groan your appreciation into my neck, the sound racing straight down my spine to where we're connected. It's a burst of feeling and a heightened sense, so very good and I tell you to do it again.
You bend over me once more, a hand leaving my hip to find my breast, teeth pulling on my earlobe as you whisper, "No."
I hate when you refuse me here or say that word at all, and you know it.
Aggravated and annoyed, I shove my hips back against yours abruptly, wanting payback and to assert my own control.
You make that noise again and I'm satisfied, ignoring your mumbled disagreement and half-hearted reprimand.
My arms are getting antsy and tired, so I remedy the problem by moving them up into the dripping mess of your hair. Your resistance is only on principle – and minimal, at that – when I drag your face down into a kiss, wet and clumsy.
We swallow moans and falter in our tempo when your tongue joins the mix. You know how much I love your tongue, purposefully keeping it from any kiss as long as you can.
But when you do throw it into the melee, precise and proficient – in tune with us and matching your hips, I almost explode on the spot.
And if your skin tastes amazing, then your tongue and your mouth are divine.
I think I probably hate you for that, too.
Your breathing stutters and speeds across my back, tell-tale sign of your soon surrender. Affirming my guess, one of your hands slithers between my legs, destination very well known. The other snakes up between my breasts, palm flat and encompassing.
Both your hands and your arms urge me closer to you, tight against your body, as little space as possible separating us. It doesn't matter if that makes movement difficult, because your fingers do that flicking, twisting, pressure trick only you can, and I'm gone.
I've broken away from your mouth as I plummet and fly, hearing and feeling as you eagerly follow after me.
Because you're such a fucking guy you always have to come last.
We're frozen while we fall back into ourselves. Only when we can almost breathe again do we think and pull away, briefly clean up under the cooling spray of water.
We reach for the same towel; both of us clutching it and staring each other down.
You're the gentleman, of course, and give up first.
I grab another for my hair, noticing that the same one you ran through your hair is being wrapped around your waist.
The white contrasts with that hair and with your eyes, brings something out in both and somehow highlights your skin.
I'm almost annoyed with myself and my body that just this simple sight of you makes me want you.
Already and again.
"It was too quick."
You scoff or snort, I can't tell which, and shake your head. "Never satisfied, are you?"
"I could be if you didn't end things so fast."
"I'll start them again, but my dick's not some inflatable toy. It takes fucking time."
"Oh, please." Now I scoff and laugh. "You're not even twenty-five. Don't pull that card."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but did you or did you not enjoy that in there?"
I open my mouth but you continue on, pointedly ignoring the scowl you've inspired.
"Did you or did you not scream with the orgasm I so kindly gave you?"
"You do realize you're not the only one doing anything, right?" My eyes roll out of pure habit, though knowing you absolutely loathe that is just a fringe benefit. "That if I wasn't here providing my vagina, you'd just be duking it out with your hand?"
"At least my hand never talks back."
I hate you for that comment, for how surprising it is that it actually makes my mouth drop and a breath huff out in disbelief.
That reaction only lasts a second before my eyes narrow and I'm moving, steps clipped and short and swift until I'm standing in front of you.
I don't hesitate or give any bodily tells as I reach to slap your smug and stupid face. But you still catch my hand, shoving your fingers between mine and gripping tight, like our own whacked version of holding hands.
And you kiss me.
I can almost feel my lips and blood vessels screaming in protest, even as my heart-rate and abdominals scream in pleasure. My thighs clench and I swear I can literally feel my excitement kick back in.
Towels are tossed, fingers are taunting, mouths and muscles are challenging. Engines are revved.
We wind up on the floor, tile hurting my back and probably your knees. It feels like the force of you could be bruising my tailbone, strong hips leaving a lasting remnant on mine.
I'll hate you for that afterward, but it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter if it hurts later. It doesn't matter if I'm sore for a day or even three.
All I care about is the way you move, the angle you have, the sounds you make and how your breath sails across my skin, highlighting every single drop of sweat or water.
All that matters is the focus you have on me, the grip of your fingers and burn of your eyes. The raw tension between us, the feel of your skin on mine, against me and above me, touching every place and everywhere.
Creating that feeling, that loss of awareness yet sharpening of senses that we both want, need, have.
It's like a storm, charged with heat and lightning, rumbling with the power of thunder and the rush of wind.
Cooled and calmed only by the rain, flowing over us with parched relief.
Our chests are brushing as our lungs struggle, the contact almost overbearing to my body. Only your shaky and wobbling arms keep you from crushing me altogether.
We're unmoving but both still completely exposed, so I shouldn't be surprised that your scar catches my eye. The permanent mark rests just above your right hip, truth of a story and reminder of what can't be forgotten.
Before I have time to think, my hand is reaching and my fingers brush against the spot, trace the path of memories.
You used to race with my brother.
His lies were easy to see through, equally easy-to-see car leading me to a flat stretch of road again and again. You'd be there, too, always blowing me off every time I told him to quit, never taking your time to try and stop him. Or yourself.
I think I hated you even then.
You withdraw almost immediately – a clear message – and with a grunt, fall away from me and settle onto your stomach.
We stay in silence for a time, my eyes on the ceiling and yours on the ground. When I've had enough, I shift my stare to your back. My gaze touches every part, trailing over lines and curves, sinew and strength.
I get tired of only seeing, and lean over until my lips make contact. You're temptingly warm and taste as good as always.
Seeking leverage, I grip your hip opposite me, use it to pull myself closer.
Your back is all male, ridiculous regimen habits doing it beautiful justice. Triceps are on proud display, shoulders sloping gently upward and taking an acute turn of angle into your lean neck – every aspect sliding seamlessly into the line of your spine.
The downward curve, from broad and defined shoulders to narrowing hips and wonderful ass, is graceful yet strong at the same time. There are dips and dents, muscles and bone and smooth, inviting skin.
You don't have hair here, are so aesthetic I could picture wings sprouting from each side of your spine. The color of them varies as I think about it and you, but the image and my visceral response to it don't.
I run my hands anywhere I want, kiss places where instinct strikes, use my lips to touch and feel.
Your face is mostly hidden from me, words not-quite a mumble when you speak. "I know what you're trying to do, but I need some food before another round."
"Do I look like your maid?" You can't see me, but that doesn't stop my eyes from narrowing.
"It's been two weeks. You know roleplaying is only for when we've fucked three days in a row and I'm getting bored."
Abandoning my words, I drag my teeth down your spine, down that delicious indentation forming between your shoulder muscles and going all the way to where your ass just starts.
I take the same route back up, this time using only the slightest hint of my tongue.
The way you groan into your folded arms only makes me more satisfied, grin widening.
I've reached your neck, sink my fingers into your hair and draw your ear closer to my mouth. "You never get bored with me."
I don't need to hear anything in answer because I know it's true.
Because it mirrors me.