Archive of Our Own ^beta

Author's disclaimer: Usual stuff: I don't own them, someone else does, I'm not making any money from this - but I am having a lot of fun ...

He's a big guy, you know? I'm not talking about height here, either. No, I'm talking about the man inside. He's big - and it comes out in ordinary things like generosity and kindness, consideration and protectiveness. That last bit can be a bitch sometimes, but hey, I'm adaptable.

And there he was, kind of tossed by the wayside, nobody around him smart enough to see just how big he was, how taking a journey with him could be the best, most exciting thing a person could do in a life.

He worries about me sometimes. Worries that I don't eat or sleep enough, that I work too hard, that I won't live through the day.

I really wasn't sure at the time, not when I said it. Not when I was actually standing there, probably striking some damned pose or other. To be honest, my mind was miles away - okay, maybe not miles away - but near enough. I didn't really think about the words I was using, not entirely sure I was actually going to ask him what I ended up asking him.

"Jim, are you attracted to me?"

I very nearly didn't get an answer that night. He almost choked to death on the beer he'd just tried to swallow and I felt like such an idiot. I mean, I could have waited a second, couldn't I? If my mind hadn't been elsewhere?

But no, man, I came so close to killing the poor guy just when I was trying to start a new life with him.

At least, that's what I think I was doing. I can't quite remember now. I do remember that I'd been thinking about him all day. Thinking about him in ways you're really not supposed to think about your best friend. But I was. Had been for like, maybe months or something. Probably longer. Just little bits of time here and there, when I wasn't working - except that, sometimes it was when I was working and that's really why I started to notice it. Me thinking about him. A lot.

I'm sitting with my back to him now, staring at my laptop, papers scattered over the table, books piled at one end, crooked, ready to fall off if I knock them. He's in the kitchen, cooking. He's got better over the last year or so. Much more skilled at blending flavours together. He's even getting more adventurous with the spices.

He gave me a note.

To tell me he loved me.

On a note.

I can't help it. I always grin when I think about that. Probably worries people that I seem to smile for no reason. That note thing has a bad habit of popping into my head without warning. Wonder if that's why he did it. So I'd remember.

Like I could forget in a hurry!

I have never met anyone like him.

He's like a whole new world waiting to be mapped - and I'm the lucky cartographer. There are parts of him I think I'll never visit - and others I keep going back to, addicted, needy and desperate. Loving him.

He scares the hell out of me but I guess I'm a lot braver than I thought.

He's cooking bacon; I can smell it. I hate it when he does that. Deliberately sets my tastebuds going, knowing the meal is still a couple of hours away. And if I try to complain, he just comes across here and gives me a kiss I can't forget in a hurry - and then I wonder why I hate it when he does that.

It's only when he asks me that I realize I'm laughing at myself. I can't turn and say anything; he'll just ask me more and that'll only encourage him.

As if he needs it. He doesn't need encouragement. He just needs me.

So I wave my hand in something I hope looks like a dismissive gesture, one that says I'll tell him later. He doesn't bug me. Not when I'm working - or at least, pretending to work. There's always been something of the scholar about him, enough to understand what quiet and concentration are all about. But he seems to, I don't know… respect what I do - and that stops him from interfering even though I know he'd rather I was in the kitchen, helping him or something.

Or something.

Something like what we've been spending the last weeks doing? Is it that long? I can't remember. Feels like only yesterday.

I press the keyboard a couple of times and flip up my diary. Yeah, there it is, two and a half weeks since I made him spray the lounge with beer.

He swears he doesn't remember what he said to me afterwards - right before he kissed me. And he says it with such honesty in those pale blues that I can't help believing him. If I was going to be truthful here, I would admit that I keep asking him because I like looking into those blues …

"I was attracted to you from the first moment."

Wow!

Yep, that's what I said in reply. Very erudite, eh? All that education and all I can come out with is a single syllable, not even a proper word. Just … wow! No more. I think just maybe though, my face might have been a little more eloquent, 'cause right after that, his mouth came way too close for mere friendship and then I was simply drowning in him. I mean, man, seriously drowning. Like I had been planning to go that way all my life and only now found an ocean big enough to do it in.

And man, does he kiss! Like … like … he'd been waiting all his life to do that. With me! I sure as hell know I'd been waiting a long time to do it with him.

I lost track of how much time we spent that night, just kissing, holding each other, saying pretty much nothing at all. Being close. I know I was half-hard the whole time, wondering if we were gonna take it further, wanting to - but not wanting to stop what we were doing long enough to ask. From what it felt like, he was in much the same situation.

And that was a bit strange. I felt really out there, you know, having his arms around me like that, just felt so good and yet, it was actually him you know? At last. I could stop thinking, stop dreaming, stop fantasizing and actually touch him. I mean, he's my best friend and there we were, sitting on the couch like a pair of teenagers, making out, letting the hours go by and just loving it. Him, too. No one-way thing this. No. Definitely not.

On a purely academic level - I think I'm starting to get a feel for what it's like for him when he zones. These days, I feel my own senses seem to have gone hyper.

I don't realize he's beside me until the beer lands on the table, top off, icy cold. He says nothing, just brushes his hand across my shoulder, a presence, no more - and then he's gone. See? He simply refuses to bug me when I'm working. Even when I'm supposed to be working but instead just thinking about him. He is so cool!

I have to bite my lip so I don't laugh again. If I'm not careful, he'll start to smell pheromones or something.

He said from the first day, the first moment. I want to ask him about it, 'cause I wonder if he meant it. Has he really been attracted to me all this time? Would he have ever said anything, made the first move? Or did he just think I was straight and left it alone?

Not that I can talk. I wasn't exactly clued in, here. I mean, yeah, I had been thinking about him and everything - but man, I honestly didn't know I was going to say that to him. Now I look back on it, I think I was going to ask him something about sexuality in general, to break the ice slowly, get him around to thinking about me like that. He hadn't ever asked - and I never said anything - but I couldn't help wondering if he had guessed I was bi.

Of course, he didn't know. At least, if his reaction to me kissing him back was anything to go by. Shocked and surprised is such a good look on him.

I laugh again but I don't turn around. I don't need to. I know the quizzical, half-amused expression he's wearing right now. Way too cute for his own good.

I had been wondering, asking myself if I was looking for the signs because I wanted them to be there. But a long time ago I started to think he might be gay. Yeah, okay, so perhaps I was hoping he was. He certainly seemed somebody who was so used to repressing his feelings that he did it out of habit now, no longer bothering to look deeply enough to ask why he needed to.

Let's face it, I asked because I had to know. The intrepid explorer in me simply had to find out whether his friendly affection held some deeper meaning he wouldn't admit to. Male bonding rituals are pretty complex in most societies and I've been lucky enough to witness enough of them to know the ins and outs - and western society has some of the most complicated in existence - but this? The way he touched me? The frequency?

The way he looked at me?

My subconscious obviously took over the reins that night. My conscious mind was sufficiently engaged to not notice what was going on. I just came out and asked him what I really needed to know. And I did need to know. Badly. Because by then, I'd pretty much got to the point where if I didn't say something soon, I was going to start suffering some seriously heavy heartache.

I hear the oven door snap shut, water running as he clears up in the kitchen. Without saying a word, he walks behind me and over to the couch, turning on the TV. He keeps the volume down so low, I can barely hear it - and suddenly, I don't want to be sitting here alone, not doing stuff. I want to sit there with him.

Huh, I guess us being together hasn't stopped me from thinking about him when I work.

I switch off the computer, close the lid - and leave the rest of the stuff where it is. When I get up, he glances at me.

"Finished for the night?"

"For the moment. I still have grades to input before morning." He gives me a small smile, the one I like so much, where his eyes catch the light a little, making it look like his soul is on fire. Warms me to my stomach, that smile. Makes me feel I'm a part of him.

"Not going to work all night, are you?"

"Would I do that?"

"Again?" He tilts his head to one side, "I don't know, Chief, would you?"

That smile again. Yeah, he worries about me. And I like it when he does.

His arm moves up, making room for me next to him on the couch. I sink down beside him, leaning into his space, absorbing his closeness. I turn to him and my movement takes his attention away from the TV - which is of course, why I do it. That smile is still there and now it grows a little - but not too far. I don't give it the chance. I reach up and catch his face with my hand, turning it, making it meet me, bringing my lips to meet his. I can taste the bacon he's been nibbling and I smile through the kiss. He reads my mind and laughs softly.

"And you never said a word, Chief. I'm impressed."

"An act of sheer willpower, nothing else."

His hand is slowly undoing the buttons on my shirt and I feel my skin tingle, my heart leap, as though it could touch him through my ribs. I love it when he does this, love it when he touches me for no reason other than because he wants to.

He kisses me this time, deeply, distracting me from what he's doing so much that I don't notice my shirt is actually off until I feel it fall to the floor. Not that I care. Not right now. Right now, I'm in heaven.

He's so smooth, you know? A real mover. The kind of man who'd turn heads, male or female, in any room he walked into - and remain totally unaware of the effect he was having. I find I just can't get enough of him. He burns through me, like a blowtorch and before I know it, I'm melting, moving against him without thought; Modern Thinking Man reduced to lava and nothing more.

Breaking away from the kiss just long enough to breathe, I now notice that I'm lying on the couch under him. I blink twice, catch just enough of his gaze to see how much he wants me before his face comes close again and once more I taste him, revel in him, feed on him. I don't know what he's doing to me but he can go on doing it forever for all I care.

And then I do feel it: his hands move down, undoing my jeans, careful not to touch anything for fear of making me move too soon. I don't think he wants me to move. I feel he wants to do this. This is slow and revealing, piece by piece and he's enjoying it.

Truth is, so am I.

My clothes fade away. I mean, I'm kissing him here and then I'm naked. I'd love to know how he does that, I really would. I'm so clumsy I could never manage it. Seems quite mystical, magic at the very least. He certainly is. Magic.

He slips his body between my legs, his hands keeping the bulk of his weight off me. He's still dressed but I'm now so attuned to him, I can feel stiff nipples pressing through the cloth of his shirt and onto my chest. I think I'm moaning but I can't tell if it's actually coming out of me or I'm just thinking it.

His kisses are a furnace all on their own. I swear I could come without any more help than his mouth on mine. Might try it one day.

We did a lot of kissing the first few days. No sex, just kissing. I didn't even sleep in his bed. Actually, technically speaking, we did sleep together that night. Neither of us wanted to end the night, so we stayed on the couch and slept there, waking to more kisses the next morning. A couple of the girls at Rainier noticed the next day that my mouth looked a little swollen. I swear I was so surprised by the whole thing I actually blushed!

Didn't stop me going back for more, though. Huh! As if! In fact, it only made things worse, 'cause every time I caught sight of myself in a mirror or a window, I'd look and think, god, we spent most of last night just kissing! A feast, tasting one course properly before moving on to the next - and I was Chief Glutton!

We never actually talked about it - after all, Jim doesn't talk about tough stuff very well and I didn't really want to push him. So we didn't say anything out loud but I could tell we'd kind of made some unspoken agreement not to have sex in the very beginning. Wasn't like we didn't want to. We just … didn't.

Instead, we kinda dated, if you could call it that. The second night we went out for dinner - but had to cut it short because we were called to a stakeout. Spent most of that night sitting in the truck, saying little and just holding hands. By the time we got home, we were both bushed. Of course, we spent a good half-hour making out against the wall by my bedroom - but tiredness overcame both of us and we went to our respective beds happy but alone.

I was only a little sorry - but then, I really didn't want my first time with him to go by in a haze of exhaustion.

I had a meeting at Rainier the following night, one I couldn't get out of and though he waited up for me, it was late again. We did spend an hour on the couch together but I was yawning in between his kisses and in the end, he laughed and sent me to get some sleep.

But the night after? Wow!

Dinner, very nice restaurant. Secluded table, candle-lit - and he held my hand right in the open! I know the waitress saw it - though nobody saw him kiss me behind his menu.

He was funny that night. Had me laughing again and again. He's so clever, he has no idea. Thinks really differently from the way I do and it's so refreshing after the U. Clear and uncomplicated - yet very direct, honest and incisive. He would die first rather than waffle. We drank a little wine, told some outrageous stories and then it was time to go home. We made it as far as the parking garage downstairs. I was all ready to get out of the truck and suddenly he caught me, pulled me onto his lap and starting kissing me like I was leaving his life forever and he just had to convince me not to.

Man, I was so hot, so damned quickly! Like, if there hadn't been at least some danger of someone seeing us, we might have done it right there and then. But we did manage to get upstairs and into bed - or my bed, I should say. I think patience failed in the end. My bed was simply closer.

"Where are you, Chief?"

I open my eyes to find him looking at me, the same way he looked at me that first night.

You know, when I asked him if was attracted to me, I had no idea how it would feel, inside, to be wanted the way he wants me.

But that's okay. He has me.

"Thinking about our first time," I murmur lazily. He's worked me so well, I don't even realize I'm so close until I pay attention. I'm not normally this passive when we get into bed, but tonight, it's different. Feels nice. He's still dressed but boy, can I feel something going on down there. That had so better not be a gun in his pocket.

Yeah, I can see how he wants me. So clear in his eyes. Unveiled, wanting me to see, so I know. It's a little scary being wanted so much. Very nice, though.

He nuzzles my lips, "I love you."

And I don't care if my lips stay swollen for another month - I kiss him again, reaching for him, feeling his hands move my legs further apart. He still doesn't touch my cock, even though it's begging for attention. Getting a little desperate now, I fumble with his buttons but he brushes my hands away. Instead, he does it himself, opening his shirt enough for our skin to touch.

This time I do moan aloud. This slow stuff is almost painful!

He's moving again, releasing himself, pressing himself against me, one hard cock against another, stiff and hot. I feel like I can't breathe but I have no excuse other than what he's doing to me. But now I'm watching him. Watching him reaching to his back pocket to pull out a tube. I know I smile because he sees it and smiles back.

I help. At least, I think I do. All I know is, this is the only thing about this love-making that goes quickly because in the blink of an eye, his fingers are inside me, warming me, reminding me and making me want him the way he wants me. Not that I need any encouragement.

He stretches me with the same agonizing slowness, eking out the pleasure as I try to hold back, try to keep still, to stop our cocks making the most of the closeness.

I love that closeness. With him. I love how incredibly intimate this is, his fingers in my ass, his tongue on my throat, his wanting cock throbbing its need so near mine. I've never let any other man do this to me simply because it was so intimate. Not merely a sex act, but an act of love. To feel those fingers push in and out of my hole is almost the ultimate give and take. He knows I love it, knows I want it, need it - and he gives it to me, as I give to him because he loves doing it.

I'm ready now. So ready I can feel the precum leaking from my cock, making his slide against my stomach. But he keeps going, elongating the intimacy, making this so much more than sex, kissing me, sucking on my nipples, making me jello with every touch. I am his. He knows it. I know it.

I found him.

He lets out a moan of his own, breathy and seductive, making me shiver all over. I've got nothing but him on - and yet I'm sweating, feeling the air try to cool my skin. Not that it will help. I'm on fire.

He moves again, at last, withdrawing his fingers slowly, knowing I would keep them in there all night if I could. Should try that one day, too. Yeah, okay, so maybe I'll always be an explorer.

Now he pushes my legs wide open, up, taking my hands to hold them under my knees. My stomach clenches in anticipation, a spiky frisson dancing through from my throat to my groin. I love this bit, too. This opening up to be ready for him, this making room for him in my body, in my life. I want him there, in my ass, in my life, in my heart. I want him and he's mine.

He positions his cock at my opening, one hand holding him up, the other there to guide him inside me. Then he gazes deeply into my eyes and I just know this is going to be a long, slow fuck and god, that's exactly what I want.

And then he does it. Enters me. Oh, so very slowly. I can feel every inch of him pushing past the muscle, feel my flesh stretch wide to take him, accommodating his size, making him at home. I know how it feels when I'm inside him - but does that feel the same to him as this does to me?

I'm full of him now, inside and out and he rests down on me a moment, the textures of his clothing somehow inflaming my desire for him. Did he plan this? This way? Did he know I would like being naked for him like this? Know I would love it that he couldn't stop long enough to take his own clothes off? That I would find this … vulnerability so erotic?

I can't ask him because he's kissing me again, his hands running down my sides, caressing me, feeling my flesh and bone as though it were life itself to him.

He loves me.

He said so and I can tell. He loves me.

I finally gain access to his awesome chest, pressing a kiss to the first nipple I find. I let my tongue graze lazily over it, savouring it, savouring the moment, feeling him tremble. I love that power I have over him. He makes no move to thrust inside me. He's just there, in, together with me. We're of one mind in this. One body.

His lips move along my jaw, giving me access to air again, knowing I'm going to need it soon. He finds my throat with his teeth, nipping, sucking, burning a mark of love on my skin, making it more public than either of us dare. I'll show that mark tomorrow, and let people wonder who put it there and under what circumstances. And if I'm really brave I'll tell them the truth, that the man I love was fucking me at the time and he wanted me to feel how much he loves me in return.

He yields so much territory in a single word, a solitary gesture. Can I ever give him as much as he gives me?

He lifts himself up again, releasing the pressure on my legs. With his hand, he spreads me wide again, so he can get in deep. I'm almost doubled up now as I watch him look down to where our bodies are joined. I wish I could see his cock inside me. One day we'll have to do this with a mirror close by. I'd really love to see that connection with my own eyes.

And he begins to move. Slowly again, sliding all the way out almost until he's gone. He pauses, looks up at me, reads the fire in my own gaze and pushes back in, deliberately steering clear of my prostate. He doesn't want me to come just yet. He wants me to enjoy this for as long as possible.

We move together like this, so well. One single withdrawal, one single thrust. Always together.

His movements pick up a rhythm now, slow in and slow out, fucking me with every ounce of love he has in his heart - and that fills me even more, more than his cock can because it reaches right into the depths of my being, right where nobody else has ever touched, to places nobody has ever seen. This penetration is so necessary to that journey, just as the intimacy is. This is as close as I can get to him.

He adjusts his position now, to take my poor cock in his hand. He strokes me gently, in time with his thrusts, making me utter sounds I can barely recognize as my own. He gets this smile on his face, like he has some idea of the effect he's having on me. I know this is going to end soon, but how can I tell him I don't ever want this to stop, even though my cock is so hard and I'm so very close.

But still he takes his time, making small noises in the back of his throat, suppressing the sound so he can hear me more clearly. He loves listening to me while we're making love.

He goes deeper into me, pushing harder, further. I feel my body move on the couch, the cushions taking the worst of it. I'm in danger now, my whole existence trembling at what he's doing to me, the sight of him leaning over me, fucking me with such intensity, taking me places I've only ever glimpsed.

I love the feel of his cock inside me. The hardness, the heaviness, the heat and the presence. Very, very male. His eyes are glittering now, his breathing unsteady and I know he's close. He keeps glancing down as though he would memorize the sight before him, as though this were the last time we will do this.

I open my mouth to issue a warning, but before I can, he moves close again and kisses me, telling me without words that he knows. Of course he knows. He loves me, my sentinel.

His body blankets mine, his hips pushing again, harder and faster now, but never so hard and fast it simply takes me away. There's just more of him and I take more of him into me, letting my ass absorb whatever he can give me. I'm burning down there, on fire from his heat, glowing coals rumbling through my balls, threatening my cock.

Oh, god, it's going to happen. He's fucking me hard and I'm gonna come any second now.

He lets go my mouth, moves away again, takes his hand from my cock and slams into me, making me cry out. One more slam, my gut spasms - and I'm coming, coming so hard, again and again, splashing myself as he watches me, coming and coming, feeling it drain my whole body. Another slam and I moan - then gasp as I feel his semen flood into me, hot, searing, filling me the way I want to be filled. He's moaning too. It takes a long time before he's finished with me, before he collapses down onto me, his body trembling and heaving, trying to stop himself from crushing me.

I don't care any more. He can crush me all he likes. I can hardly breathe anyway. Body just isn't used to taking a strain like this. Should eat more vitamin pills, I guess. Worst part about it is, it's still early. I just know we're gonna to have sex again tonight.

Worst part?

I have just enough energy left to chuckle at my own silliness. Dazed himself, he lifts his head enough to kiss me briefly.

"You're a laugh a minute, Chief."

And there's so much love in his voice, I wonder where he learned to make it work. Mine doesn't seem interested. Instead, I manage to bring a hand up to caress his silky hair, feeling my ass contract as he does, knowing the moment will come very soon when he'll slip out.

But never away.

"You're really something, you know that, Chief?"

"Yeah? Good."

"Why?"

I mourn the moment when his cock leaves my body, softly and gently. He shifts and settles me on my side, my head on his shoulder. Damn, but he's still got his clothes on!

"Well? Why is it good?" His voice is a little hoarse and that makes me feel even better. I love being able to do this to him. I love knowing I can.

"Can't help thinking," I swallow; my mouth is dry, "that this would have been a real tragedy if, well, you know, if the sex hadn't worked out so well."

"We would have coped." I can hear him smiling. I do too.

"I'm sure we would have. At least, it would have given us a damn good excuse for a lot of practice."

"Oh?" A hint of tired laughter there, just for me. I'm tired, too. "So we needed an excuse?"

I giggle. He does that to me. Makes me feel young. The way I want to feel for the rest of my life. The way that'll stop me ever growing old.

"Nah, who needs an excuse? We've got something much better." I settle against him and close my eyes.

"Sandburg," He puts this tone into his voice, like he does when we're at work, like he's trying to be patient and not succeeding very well. "Sandburg, I have to tell you, the only excuse I need is you."

"After what we just did," I add, grinning, unable to help myself. "I'm a pretty lame excuse."

His abrupt laughter echoes through the loft, a bass windchime.

Sometimes he worries about me. Truth is, sometimes, so do I.

end