FicWad

He wants love, but is afraid of it.

He has desires, but fears them.

He reaches out and tries to grasp at the things his soul craves, and yet whenever he comes close to attaining it, something pulls it away again. It's like dangling a bit of meat in front of a starving dog, and then pulling it away at the last second.

And yet he keeps trying. Rolling the stone of his nightmares and pain up the long and lonely mountain, knowing that once he reaches the summit, they will overpower him and force him back down. He struggles, and he is all the more beautiful for it.

Perhaps, someday, he won't have to push that boulder alone. One day, I hope to be at his side, lending my strength, helping him to surmount the cliff once and for all.

_


I still remember that first kiss, six months ago, as if it had happened yesterday. His trembling hands on my shoulders; his crimson eyes, fearful yet lit with a faint flicker of hope; and the honeyed taste of his lips on mine- this I remember well. How he pulled away right afterwards, that damned impassive mask on his face and the crushing humiliation in his eyes at my lack of response- this I remember as well. And then that blessed moment when I leaned forward and returned the kiss- his startled gasp, the softness of his full lips, the warm taste of honey and lust and sweet, sweet wine as our tongues clashed- it is a memory that will last with me forever.

The wonderful thing about Vincent is that every kiss is like the first.

Naked, dripping from the shower, we fall into the bed without stopping our wordless explorations. He covers me with firm, openmouthed kisses, where our tongues slide around each other in a slow waltz. His right hand claws hard down my back; his left, gnarled and twisted, rakes through my hair. His touch sends shivers down my spine and I moan involuntarily.

"Reeve . . . ." His voice is so soft and warm and wondering. I begin to line the underside of his jaw with tiny nibbling kisses; my hands trace the rough, scarred plain of his chest. He gasps and digs his fingers into my back with a low cry as I dip my head down to bite gently at his nipples. I can feel the firm heat of his erection against my stomach. It drives me wild- knowing that I'm the one who can pull the startled cries from his throat, feeling those hesitant kisses meant just for me, hearing him call my name -my name- when his body begs for release. Knowing all this- knowing that he loves me- is almost enough to bring me to climax in and of itself.

We wrestle briefly as our passion grows hotter, each trying to claim dominion over the other. I win, if barely, and get a reproving bite in the shoulder for my trouble. I can feel my length pressed against his, warm and throbbing, and I straddle his hips to increase the pressure. He writhes under me, sending me close to the brink of delirium, and it isn't until I hear my name that I realize something's wrong.

"Reeve, please," he chokes out, and I realize I've gone too far. He's immobile under my weight. My hands are around his wrists, pinning him down. He's trapped, unable to move, helpless underneath my power.

Just like with Hojo.

I mutter a curse and let go of him, sitting back on my heels and running my hands through my hair; he sits up awkwardly, wounded eyes staring at me with a mix of shame and fear. "I'm sorry," he finally whispers in a dull monotone, his thick black hair hiding his face away.

Anger wells up within me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting. I'm furious with myself. Vincent is delicate, scarred body and soul. It is so very easy to reopen his old wounds. His idea of sex is pain and humiliation, of being dominated and raped, and it's so hard to convince him otherwise. He fears anything beyond the simple touch of my hands. I know he wants to believe there is more to it- I can see it clearly on his face- but the monsters and memories that haunt him won't let go.

I wrap my arm around his shoulders and pull him towards me. He buries his head in my shoulder, his arm slinking around my waist; I can feel his fear and frustration in the way he moves against me. "Hey. Don't apologize. I got carried away."

He snorts and shakes his head. "That's supposed to be the point, Reeve." His voice is thick with frustration and misplaced anger. I run a hand through his hair- long strands of midnight black, soft as cornsilk- to try and calm him down. "I- I want this, but-"

"I know." I go to move my arm around his waist when the back of my hand brushes against his erection. He makes a soft crooning noise in the back of his throat; he's still aroused. That's never happened before. Usually, when something like this happens, he's down for the count, retracting himself away from any sort of physical gratification. But tonight . . . tonight . . . . An idea floats before my eyes, an evil, wicked, perfectly lovely idea that makes me grin widely. "Vincent?"

"Hmm?" He doesn't move, though his hand is slipping down onto my thigh.

"Do you trust me?"

That gets his attention. "What kind of question is that?" he asks, indignant; he raises his head and I can see the confusion written all over his face. His skin is still flushed with arousal. He sees my grin and mock-scowls. "I trust you as far as I can throw you, maybe."

"No, seriously." I let my hand slide down his stomach, tracing lazy circles over the scarred muscle. He inhales and grasps hold of my leg to steady himself. "Do you trust me?"

He's very quiet for a few seconds. I stop my petting, waiting, bracing myself for a refusal. " . . . you know I do, Reeve" he finally says, his voice tremulous; for this brief moment, he's throwing himself open and baring his soul to me. "I trust you with everything." And then, in a voice so soft and low I can barely hear it, "I love you."

I pull him closer into a tight bearhug, burying my face in the top of his head. It's so rare to hear those words from his lips, so very rare; for him, to speak it makes it real, and a thing that can be torn away and shattered. His voice warms me inside. It's the pain of love- that feeling that your heart is so full it could burst- that is so verboten for men to discuss out loud, and it's this pang that I feel now. I hold him for a few more moments, then let go. "All right then. Go sit on the edge of the bed."

" . . . all right." He gives me a confused look, but complies easily, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and putting his feet on the floor. I slide off the bed and stand up before him. I must be grinning like an idiot, because he raises an eyebrow and glares at me.

"Trust me," I repeat, tilting his head back with my fingers. His lips part slightly, and I lean in to kiss him, bracing myself against the bed. Our tongues meet in a gentle caress that quickly turns fierce and passionate. I break away after a minute; I could stand like that forever if given a chance. I begin to kneel, pressing my face against the side of his throat. "Just tell me to stop, and I will," I whisper, kissing a line down the thick, star-shaped scar that marks him from the base of his throat all the way to his navel. "Whatever you want . . . just give the word."

I kneel on the floor in front of him, gently spreading his legs apart. He's exquisite, his erect penis arching towards the center of his stomach and my hands pressed against the scarred ivory skin of his thighs. He smells of sandalwood and musk and desire, and I breathe him in deeply. I pause just long enough to give him a chance to tell me to stop; he nods once, fingers digging into the sheets.

A moan bursts from his throat as I begin to trace his length with my tongue. Firm, pressing licks at the base, with long slow strokes up the underside of his shaft, and featherlight kisses at the base of the head. I can hear him gasping as I take him in one hand and begin licking slow circles around the head. His skin is soft, softer than silk, and I dip my tongue into the tip to taste him. "Please . . . ." He shrieks my name, his erection quivering harder than ever, and I know what it is he wants before he can voice it.

"You're beautiful," I murmur, my fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft. "Vincent-" I take his erection into my mouth and he cries out, his hands tangling themselves in my hair and pulling. His taste is sweet, and I begin to suckle at him, my tongue curling around his shaft and rubbing against the head. My own erection twitches painfully, and I take it into my free hand, stroking myself in rhythm.

I begin bobbing my head up and down his length, stroking him firmly with my tongue. I want to taste all of him, every square inch, over and over again. I suck harder at him as I pull away, then relax it as I take him in; he begins to thrust slightly in time with my movements. Low moans greet my ears with each stroke. My hand pumps my cock harder- his cries are driving me absolutely wild.

"Harder," he moans, and I readily comply. My teeth just barely graze his skin as he tries to thrust too fast; I press him down firmly, sucking harder, my tongue rubbing against the head of his erection. My own climax is building, almost too fast, sending shivers up and down my sides. The sweet-and-salty tang of precum hits my tongue, and I greedily lick him clean. "Reeve," he half-sobs, hands spasming in my hair. "I can't-"

I take him in all the way with one powerful stroke and he comes, screaming my name as he fills my mouth with his hot, bittersweet essence. I drink deeply of him, my tongue firmly around his quivering, pulsing cock, and I stroke him until I've taken in every last drop. He shudders and cries out one last time just before I withdraw. His chest is flushed, fine trickles of sweat running down his chest; his crimson eyes seem to sparkle, and the corners of his mouth lift into a tired smile. He has never looked so beautiful, so perfect, as he does now.

My own erection throbs; I still haven't found release yet. How could I have, when I was so enraptured with his own? He chuckles softly and tosses his ebony hair back before getting off the bed and straddling my knees. His lips press against mine in a dominating kiss. One hand wraps around my cock as his tongue probes into my mouth. His other hand reaches up and tweaks one nipple as he takes over, touching me, stroking and rubbing, thumb tracing the sensitive ridge of the head. It doesn't take much- between his hands and his mouth and his bare flesh against mine, I'm wrapped in ectasy- before I come myself, crying out around his mouth and shooting hot cum over his stomach and hand.

We sit there for a few minutes, tangled together on the floor and leaning up against one another. He breathes in; I breathe out. His heart slows from its gallop to a more even tone. I begin to slump against him, head against his chest, utterly relaxed in that pleasant post-coital fog. His fingers trace my back, kneading slowly at the tense spots. "You OK?"

"Mmm." His fingers stop rubbing; he wraps his arms around my shoulders and buries his face against my neck. Something warm and wet drips down my skin. His chest hitches; I sit there in the silence, running my hands over his shoulders, waiting it out. Words would just get in the way. This isn't sadness, no; this is simple relief, like seeing the sun after a week of rain. His head raises slightly. I feel the soft puff of his breath against my cheek. Two little words, and he goes quiet again. It's another foothold in that long and lonely mountain, another step up- and one that we can't be pushed back from.

"Thank you . . . ."

-

Much later that night, I'm awakened by the sound of his soft laughter at my side. "What's so funny?" I mumble, rolling over part of the way to glare at him.

"You do realize you're going to have to take a shower all over again, right?" I can see his crimson eyes faintly glowing in the dark, full of a sleepy amusement. His suggestion nets him a pillow in the face.

-

We never did go back to sleep.