Shifting Visions
by Calico



June 99

Disclaimer: If Paramount came chasing me, I don't think this would save my extremely small finances from their terrifying lawyers. Let's hope they have bigger things on their minds.

Feedback will get you a friend for life. A devoted follower. A pet, even.




The floor had given up its love of stability. It had decided, it seemed, to swing. Enviously, Tom watched everyone else adapt, balancing effortlessly without even noticing the mobile surface sway away beneath their feet. Everyone except Harry, who met his eyes with an unsteady grin of reassurance. Tom felt reassured. As usual.

He waited, leaning forcefully against the wall, trying not to spill his beer as Harry made his way over. The other man appeared to concentrate fiercely on putting his feet down straight, veering off slightly in first one direction then the other as he walked. The room behind him looked blurred.

Tom turned to follow as Harry walked past him, setting his drink on the table and watching closely as Harry did the same.

"They have very good feet grip, I think," Harry proclaimed carefully, making sure no one overheard by leaning close and hissing the words loudly at his ear through a tunnel of cupped hands. "Much better than me -- us."

Tom leaned back and regarded him curiously. He felt oddly detached from his limbs, as if all his nerve endings had faded out for a few hours. "Why is that? Not fair. I can't. I, um, slip. Harry, you'll know -- why don't they slip?"

Harry stared back at him, and then a light of discovery brightened his already shining eyes. He grinned, and leaned in again, putting his hands around Tom's ear and whispering into them, "Because we're more drunk."

The words came out matter of fact, and Tom grinned in delight at the simplicity of it all. He let his eyes slide haphazardly over the view, and realised they'd stopped focusing properly. Everything was a haze.

His rational mind decided it was therefore a waste of energy to try and understand it all. Much better to think about Harry, who was in a similar situation to himself, apparently.

"Poor them. I think 's much better place to be where we are." His unsteady finger drew an invisible line around their patch of wall.

Harry nodded. "Yes. Definitely," he agreed decisively, "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

Tom cocked his head, considering the statement in its entirety. "Yes, I know your meaning. What you mean. I think, that I'd stay here, even if…" he paused, to find a suitably tempting alternative, "…something interesting with lots of women was being set up all over there." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the bar, and watched with mounting delight as Harry squinted determinedly over his shoulder.

"Well. It's not there," Harry said eventually, sticking his lower lip out in an exaggerated parody of his habitual pout, "so, you're stuck."

Tom grinned widely, enchanted by Harry's sulky-satisfied tone of voice. And also by the sweet misunderstanding. "No, stupid, Harry, I said I wouldn't leave even if they all got up over there," he assured his friend fervently, "even if it was every woman on the ship -- or every woman in the universe -- I still wouldn't leave right now."

Harry paused for a moment, contemplating. "Good," he said at last, "because I won't either. Of course," he continued thoughtfully, "I don't think every woman in the universe would fit in here. Definitely not all on one bar."

Tom reflected on the problem. "Yes," he agreed eventually, "even squashed up, they'd still spill out a bit. Over here," he said, with a lewd grin, "and then who talks about moving?"

Harry looked at him. "You shu'nt eat cake, Tom," he said disapprovingly.

Tom grinned. "I'm not eating anything -- I'm drinking!"

Harry made a small sound of annoyance. "I meant, with the pro, proverbial cake, you shouldn't eat it."

"Oh. Okay. I won't."

As Harry glanced over Tom's shoulder, his eyes widened.

Tom sensed his dismay instantly -- because they were very in tune, actually, and he always could tell when something was wrong with Harry.

He leaned forwards. "What's wrong?"

Harry's stricken gaze dragged back to Tom, and he spoke hoarsely behind his hand. "She's coming up behind you."

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Tom would have grinned at the innuendo. (Except, of course, it wasn't quite the right phrasing.)

Instead he leaned closer to Harry, putting a hand on his left shoulder and whispering into his right ear; "Which she?"

Harry tilted his head slightly to inform him that it was B'Elanna, oh no, she'd found them, she's right here, turn round quick, Tom, you got to --

Tom swivelled back round, feeling faintly pleased as Harry ducked back to cower behind his shoulder, and delighted when his impulsive offer of a backwards-proffered hand was accepted by warm, trembling fingers. He liked to be a comfort to a friend.

B'Elanna looked decidedly sceptical, though, and Tom felt his defences rise. How dare she scare Harry, how dare she come over here and scare Harry, it just shouldn't be allowed.

"Tom, Harry, what are you doing over here? How come you're not out in all the action?"

That was just so rude. Intruding on their privacy, and then coming out with abuse before they'd even said hello. Downright rude.

"So, what's going on? Secrets?"

And then playing innocent, and grinning -- well, he wasn't so easily fooled. He knew Harry had good intuition, and if he didn't want to talk, then neither did Tom.

"Yes?" he asked, more stony than an asteroid field, and icier than the rejection he'd once felt from her stinging eyes. He took a brief time-out to appreciate the way that, even mildly intoxicated, he could still concoct a damn good metaphor for any situation.

She frowned, pretending to be extremely confused. "Tom? Uhm, are you feeling all right?"

That's it, he didn't have to take this. Not from her, not from anybody, especially not while Harry was around as an alternative. He twisted his fingers out of Harry's hand, taking a firm grip on his arm instead, and shot B'Elanna an incredibly effective glare.

Quickly contemplating the shifting floor and deciding their escape was worth it, Tom threaded his way through the bar, pulling the willing Harry alongside and daring anyone to get in their way. No one did, and he got a last glimpse of the thoroughly thwarted half-Klingon before successfully navigating them through the holodeck door.

Then he leant breathlessly against the wall and waited for the dizzying flat surfaces to stop assaulting his sense of sight.

But apparently Harry was making the decisions now. About the time the floor subsided back into horizontal planes, Tom suddenly found himself being dragged unceremoniously down the corridor.

Maybe they were being chased, maybe that was why this running thing had taken priority over balance. Alarmed, Tom broke into a weaving sprint; Harry's fingers slid from the inside of his elbow to take his hand instead.

That was better, he could balance now.

A blurred figure moved out of a blurred hole and shot them a fuzzily incredulous glance. Tom ignored it, all concentration fixed on the soft-edged hole, as it diminished before his eyes. Squeezing the fingers interlaced with his own, he directed a fresh burst of speed at the shrinking target.

He stumbled against Harry as they shot through the door, balance suddenly having inverted itself, and felt a hot burn near his foot. They collapsed against the turbolift wall, bubbled out instructions and snickered irrepressibly as the doors completed their closure.

As he took an enthusiastic deep breath, something pierced Tom's consciousness. That throb near his foot. Oh. That'd teach him to race Harry -- in their haste, that boot had raked against his skin. The injury itched. It felt a long way away, but still, there was a faint acidic heat, so maybe it was bleeding.

He shook it vaguely as the lift began to move, hoping that would shift the irritation. Oops. He didn't think he could handle a dermal, uh, re-thingwhatsit right now. Still, it couldn't be more than a very small graze.

Harry sank further down onto the floor, laughing at his expression.

Tom glared at him, accusingly. "Ow." Actually, that was a lie. The pain couldn't be bothered to reach him any more, or else his mind had just blocked it out, but whatever, it didn't hurt now. Still, he had an insane desire for Harry to stroke it better.

Wide eyes stared up at him, immediately and exaggeratedly concerned. "Whut?"

Tom dissolved back into helpless giggling at the syllable, sliding down the wall to join his friend on the floor. "My -- that ankle," he managed, trying to breathe and failing impressively.

Still radiating anxiety, Harry pointed. "That one?"

It had to be the funniest thing Tom had ever heard, and he responded accordingly. Grinning, Harry wriggled closer and reached out to touch said ankle.

It tickled, and something else, sending a shiver up his back.

"Brr. That one," Tom agreed, suddenly aware of the pain again. Suddenly aware of the entire area under Harry's fingers. "I hit it."

Still wide-eyed, Harry directed a ludicrously apologetic expression at him, and patted his leg. "You're too clumsy."

"No, on you. You're too clumsy."

"'Still your fault, though."

Tom tried unsuccessfully not to laugh at the blunt certainty. Warmth was seeping out from Harry's palm, and his thigh, still drunkenly unconnected, was nevertheless sending a fair share of messages to his brain. "Don't, Harry, don't use that voice, it sounds…"

The lift doors opened before he could catch the elusive adjective he needed. Something along the lines of, 'makes me laugh and blush at the same time.' But the definition didn't come under a single word. And he couldn't begin to get his mouth around all that.

Doors. He hadn't noticed they'd stopped.

Harry pulled him to his feet, and stood a step away holding his arm out in a trembling right angle.

Tom frowned at it unsteadily. It was a lot easier on the floor.

"What?"

"A crutch," he answered seriously. "So you can walk okay."

Tom dissolved again. "I don't think anything could make me walk okay like this," he managed, taking the arm anyway and beginning to walk towards Harry's quarters.

Harry laughed at him -- with him. "Maybe not."

He didn't think they'd taken any wrong turns -- it being a pretty familiar place, and all -- but it seemed to take a long time before Tom staggered through Harry's door and fell happily into the couch.

He gazed up, breathless, at Harry's lightly blurred face. A stab of envy hit him in the groin (surprising him a little by its location, but it was definitely jealousy, nothing more than that) as he admired the sleek contours defining the other man.

Young man. Actually, not so young any more. The new hairstyle worked well, convincing the eye that the naïve ensign was long gone. There was a far more knowing figure in his place. Even the eyes had changed; from uncertainty to realism, although somehow retaining that breathtaking intensity.

And, in this light, they shone with intoxicated amusement.

Sliding round, he made room for Harry, and tugged him down to his level. Harry melted down next to him, sinking back into the couch and grinning.

"What?"

"Do you want a drink?"

Tom laughed. "No. If I had another I'd never make it back to my quarters tonight."

Harry shot him a sideways glance. "Well, that wouldn't matter."

Tom grinned at him uncertainly. "Huh?"

Harry looked briefly concerned. "It wouldn't matter," he repeated slowly, "because..." he paused, then rushed on, "you can't walk straight anyway! So another drink wouldn't do anything, so it wouldn't matter. Though you shouldn't have one if you don't want one, of course." He beamed triumphantly.

Tom felt a thrill skim across him. Envy, yeah. Of those devastating eyes. He wished he could convey that level of enthusiasm, that addictive, animated heat, with a single glance. Why didn't Harry turn that gaze on women? He could have anyone.

Harry's expression blended into something more dangerous -- something that sparked off a whole lot more 'envy'. Tom gazed, transfixed, and then clicked firmly back into his shivering reality.

Damn. What had Sandrine been playing at, spiking his drink like that? Substituting the real thing for his carefully enhanced synthehol -- it shouldn't be allowed. He was supposed to be sitting here tipsy (okay, maybe it was more accurate to say inebriated, except there was no way he'd ever be able to pronounce it) but not hallucinating for god's sake. Honestly. When you couldn't even trust bar staff programmed by your very own fingers, there was something seriously wrong with the natural order of things.

"Though, that could get interesting, couldn't it," he said, throwing words into the burning air between them and hoping the context would fit.

"What could?" Ah, much better. The real Harry was back; nothing left of this incubus creature.

Wait a second. Incubus? Interesting term for a neutral friend, there, Tommy. When the fuck did that happen?

He felt part of the universe tilt around him, as a flush of adrenaline stripped away the edges of his comfortable, intoxicated haven. And, shit. Because that envy thing was carefully redefining itself, becoming something with many more implications.

"Tom?"

No, but it didn't matter, 'cause Harry wasn't using that undertone anymore. Fine. Back to normal. Forget implications.

Now all he had to do was remember the conversation.

"It could... be interesting, could get interesting, if we went out like this. Huh, Harry? Don't you think? If we ran into someone, accidentally ran right into…"

"Let me guess, you're not trying t'get back t'your quarters anymore," Harry teased, and Tom felt himself relax.

"Whose else's quarters would I go to?" he asked, slurring a little, with a high factor of wounded innocence.

"I'm not sure. Whose? No, actually, don't tell me. I don't want to hear it."

"Well, p'raps not."

Harry raised his eyebrows sceptically. "Tom, I know you. Definitely not."

Tom laughed, conceding the point. Some point. A point? Maybe. Okay, still not quite sober, then. "Yeah, well, I bet you wouldn't want to miss the fun either, though. You'd be right there behind me, wouldn't you?"

Harry grinned and leaned forwards, conspiratorially close, and Tom tilted in to hear him.

"Actually, I wouldn't care if I never saw a woman again."

Tom gave an exaggerated gasp and put a clumsy hand over his friend's mouth, hoping vaguely to deny the low-voiced sacrilege. "Don't say that!" he admonished, playfully stunned. His head spun a bit from the sudden oxygen, and he realised he hadn't yet exhaled.

But Harry's lips moved beneath his palm, and the hot tip of his tongue cut through most of the drunken fuzz he'd melted back into, and breathing was abruptly the last thing on his mind. No, Harry couldn't be serious. Could he. No.

Dark, sultry eyes met his own, and Harry tilted his head back slightly to lick slowly at the obstruction. Okay, then; yes, he could.

Heat shot through him and he shivered, defenceless in sudden clarity, as his hand fell helplessly away. This -- No, really. This wasn't his forte. He didn't sleep with this side of the population. Never had, always avoided it. No desire, because, because…

Harry caught his hand, bringing his fingers back to his lips. "But it's true."

The words brushed against his fingertips before they reached his ears. Both sets of nerves experienced the same reaction, however; that hot, low tingle that conspired to unravel a little more of his brain.

…Because the right man hadn't bitten his fingers before now.

He felt dizzy, overwhelmed. And he realised, with a vague sinking feeling, that it wasn't so much from the alcohol anymore. There was still a heady undertone -- he'd consumed too much be shocked sober, not without the attention of a hypospray -- but that low buzzing residue didn't account for this particular warmth, spreading fast and prickling beneath his skin.

Tom stared, dazzled, into black eyes that were brilliant with challenge and delight. Then Harry's tongue swept briefly over his lips, slick and shocking against his fingertips, and Tom refocused on the image of his friend sucking pointedly on his fingers. And if visual was good, sensory was totally incredible.

Maybe Harry was hungry. If so, Tom reflected hazily, he wished he'd been around the last time that happened.

The vague sinking feeling was gone. So he'd been blind for a while. And now, he had a chance to catch up with all those missed opportunities.

He swallowed and tried to speak, failing miserably. Well, not very miserably. He didn't mind at all, really. He'd quickly consoled himself that, if he couldn't speak, then Harry wouldn't need to answer, ever, and he could carry on watching a sluttish angel enjoy itself in ways he certainly wasn't objecting to. No objection at all.

Harry's other hand came up, catching his wrist, as he leaned deeper into his task. A tongue curled between his fingers, warm and persuasive, as teeth pressed down behind his knuckles, keeping him.

Not that he could object, even if he'd wanted to, seeing as he couldn't begin to process words.

But since he didn't want to, the whole concept hardly mattered anyway.

That mouth was indescribable. Restlessly exploring him, demanding, satiny but textured, and teeth, too, and temperature -- Yeah, indescribable. In his present state, anyway.

He realised he couldn't feel everything, and couldn't distinguish either. Some nerves must have overloaded, and others were echoing the sensation even though they had nothing to do with it. And maybe he'd picked up some extras, too; like the thrumming, that had to be the ship, that couldn't be related to him. And the white light. Surely that was a passing star.

Though he could just be about to pass out, of course.

Harry let his fingers slide from his lips and crawled forwards, backing Tom down against the arm of the couch to kneel over him and lean in close. "Breathe," he advised, amused, then forestalled the action by dropping a kiss into the other man's mouth.

Even with his mind swollen and swirling through lack of oxygen, Tom could still respond to certain stimuli. Sharp, stinging heat came down into him, spiralling indistinctly from the vague join of their mouths. Restless, curling, and increasingly surreal. His eyes wouldn't open, but in their darkness images flashed and melted. Gradually the flickering visions suffused with colour, as everything blended into inexorable smoky cream --

He twisted his head to the side, breaking away, and let himself breathe. Damn… Interesting first kiss, that, with one party nearly passing out, because he was too involved to keep the oxygen flowing.

Harry laughed into his neck, hot air melting against his sanity, then tilted sideways until his teeth dragged against a tendon. Slowly, he licked at the low-burning awareness, keeping the heat from diffusing beneath the skin. Damn.

Previously unnoticed things sharpened into focus, and Tom gained new priorities -- for example, clothes and the removal thereof.

His hands skimmed up, confirming his guess that Harry was on hands and knees over him, head down to tease his throat with merciless greed. Part of his mind strained to store the information, while the rest of him calmly accepted that facts were no longer his to record. He just had to let go, let the sloping tide carry him or overwhelm him or both, and probably enjoy himself a lot in the process.

And hope that memory would serve okay.

He couldn't feel his feet, he discovered, when he drew his knees up to get some aspect of bearings. Evidently all his awareness was lodged under Harry's tongue -- in fact, his fingers felt a little surprised to feel anything at all. It all seemed so dull by comparison.

Eventually they found the brisk crop of hair, though, and seemed to get their bearings. Tom coaxed Harry's mouth back against his own, as his hands set about furthering their education.

It didn't really work. His attempts were too distracted, and Harry remained firmly clothed. The tongue intoxicating his mouth was impressive compensation, but he still wanted the other man naked as soon as possible.

The feeling appeared to be mutual, as fingers began to work on his clothes -- and the relentless scrabbling seemed to work in Harry's case. Huh.

Gleefully, Harry's mouth glided away from his own and attacked his ear in short, shivery kisses. A sharp bite was soothed away almost before Tom's senses pinpointed the explosion; way before anyone had catalogued the damage.

Damn.

His fingers slid ineffectually over buttons, and he frowned. Huh. Puzzling. But then, he couldn't be expected to work through all this disturbance. Concentrating hard, he pushed Harry's head to one side, and renewed his efforts, with some success.

Harry laughed again, and sought out his mouth, rewarding him generously for the achievement.

Something caught under his back, and Tom felt mildly surprised he even noticed.

"I want to go to your bed, now," he mumbled, knowing he didn't have the precision involved to locate said discomfort. Actually, he wasn't even sure he could make it to the bedroom. Still, there was almost certainly going to be hands-on assistance, so that would be alright.

"Sounds good." Harry replied, equally dazed, and hauled himself to his feet with a low groan.

Tom laughed, because surely he was the one supposed to claim he was too old for the couch. He held out his hand plaintively, sending up a sly glance along with the plea.

Obligingly, Harry pulled him upright and into his arms. Standing, Tom felt the room sway, although maybe that was just him. Someone else's hands proved surprisingly efficient at removing his clothes, he realised, as he stepped out of creased fabric fallen to the floor.

His own progression in that area was pitiful in comparison, really; here he was, standing naked, while his friend was still fully clothed except for a triangle of freshly bared throat.

But, make the best of what you've got, no?

He leaned forwards, pressing himself full length against the warm body, and dipped his head to taste the hollow at the base of Harry's neck.

Oh, okay, this was heaven. Finally, the power had been returned, and he'd found a weak spot -- at least, Harry's fingers had stroked into his hair and were holding him, trembling, as he teased the salty skin.

And his breathing was a refreshing change, too. Harsh, and loud in the quiet of the room. Tom shivered. Then grinned; it wasn't just the emotional stuff or anything, it was cold in here.

He stepped forwards, ignoring the way Harry stood between him and the direction he wanted to travel in, and grinned into the damp skin as they lurched and swayed. This groping for balance was a wonderful thing.

But he still needed to be warmer. Priorities warred, and he'd decided it was better to stay here with the full body contact -- and then luckily Harry had other ideas and walked backwards instead.

Falling onto the bed, Tom let gravity bounce him briefly before wriggling up to lie inviting among the pillows. Harry stripped, looking annoyed at the formality, then moved up to provide a makeshift cover.

"You're shivering," he murmured, irrelevantly.

Tom laughed. "Yeah, you have that effect on me," he replied, feeling no small awe at the way he'd managed an entire sentence without fierce concentration.

Harry rubbed his arms, sending a warm flush of pleasure in to disperse the chill. "That's not what I meant," he admonished, trying to sound stern, which was admittedly hard to do as Tom reasserted his control.

"Ahh," Harry protested hoarsely, "that's -- unfair, really so -- "

Tom stopped tickling him, innocently aware of the way his hands fell naturally against Harry's ass. It was warm, firm, and he stroked it almost reverently, then pressed up to rub their erections together and smiled at the second ragged gasp.

Yeah. He'd not been in a place like this before, but it wasn't too hard to figure out the mechanics of the situation. Well, some of them anyway.

"What did you mean?" he asked, as his mind spiralled places he wasn't sure he wanted to go just yet.

"Mean when?" Harry shot back, and Tom felt a hot rush of delight at the classic clenched-teeth tone.

Harry's hands left his arms and smoothed down his sides, latching onto his hips and increasing the pressure. Tom inhaled sharply, and thanked friction for its existence in this startling universe.

Harry's tongue traced carelessly along the edge of his jaw, and Tom tilted his head back willingly into the pillow. The breathy line was so faint in comparison to the sparks around his cock, but he needed it anyway, needed the wet heat drawing through his skin.

Fuck.

"Mean when earlier," he offered, striving vaguely for coherency.

Harry reached the spot beneath his ear and paused, tonguing casually. Then he tilted and caught Tom's earlobe, sucking it between his teeth and biting down -- then retreating and kissing it better. Tom shuddered appreciatively, rubbing Harry's hips harder against his cock. It was beginning to ache, despite the contact. He needed more. (Or a really, really cold shower.)

At least it wasn't his turn to speak.

"Mean you were cold," Harry hissed, arching into him.

Damn. His turn. Come on then, words, make yourselves known…

"Your fault." Well, it was a good try. And it didn't sound strangled at all, really.

"Not -- "

Oh, so it was monosyllabic conversation now, huh? Well, he could do that. Probably.

"Was."

"Not."

He wondered distantly what they were arguing about. He'd lost the plot round about when his best friend had seduced him out of that heterosexual rut he'd gotten stuck in so long.

"Was."

Harry sucked down his neck and started wriggling down his body, moving easily out of Tom's grip -- but that was okay, since the friction from his sweat-slick stomach gliding against Tom's erection quickly restored his approval.

His hands crept to Harry's head, trying to direct him past the sensitivity of his nipples, and failing. Tom moaned, arching up helplessly, as his fingers slid powerlessly through the short, silky hair. It was so unfair. No woman had ever taken such interest in the weakness.

He moaned again. Everything was unfair. Just a few months earlier, Harry would still have had a hairstyle he could grip on to. A thought occurred to him; maybe that was why this choice of cut. Now Harry could direct the action in bed.

The thought disturbed him for a short, absent moment. He didn't like to think of Harry with someone else. And he'd deal with the hypocrite-tag in the morning.

He didn't try to follow Harry's mouth as the man lifted away. At least, he wasn't going to admit it later.

There certainly wasn't a temperature problem any more. Apart from the pyrotechnics under his skin, of course -- but then he doubted the environmental controls could do much about that. Not that he'd want them to.

He bent his legs as his mind suddenly registered where Harry was going, drawing his knees up for better access. The thought made him feel faint. And blessed.

Luck looking up, for a change. Or rather, going down.

Harry's fingers circled his erection, and wet lips pressed briefly against the tip. Tom snarled as the incredible heat vanished again and Harry's fingers uncurled. Bastard.

"No, please, suck me," he begged shamelessly, hands groping blindly for sheets to twist. Frustration was a mild definition.

Harry laughed, and continued edging down. His mouth was slick with pre-cum as it pressed against Tom's inner thighs, spreading a rapidly cooling trail across the burning skin.

Damn.

It was impossible, Tom still couldn't feel anything clearly. He also couldn't find a single piece of him that didn't want Harry's mouth exploring it -- although there was that one particular area that begged attention.

*Begged.

"Please, Harry, come back," he coaxed, nevertheless spreading his legs further to allow easier access down the inside of his thighs. Harry murmured his approval, and continued torturing him, apparently unperturbed by the increasingly desperate appeals.

Suddenly Harry backed away, leaving him without a contact point, and his nerves fizzed with indignation. "Harry wh -- "

Another second passed in sensory deprivation, and then a blend of pain and heat zeroed through his veins, as Harry's mouth came down on the cut he'd forgotten because other things seemed more relative to the situation. Oh, fuck. He arched, gasping and moaning, as the muscles in his leg dissolved. Harry's tongue delicately probed the shallow intricacies of the graze, and sent wave after wave of piercing arousal flooding up through his blood. Lodging in his cock -- although even that ache was mild, compared with the sudden biting satin burning in innocuous surroundings.

"No, please -- " His voice was quavering now, starkly pleading.

Harry sucked briefly on the wound, and then worked his agonising progress back towards his erection, apparently ignoring the way this ignited something and made him squirm.

"Please?" he tried, ever hopeful.

Never give up on the benefits of common courtesy. Harry grinned at him, then leant down and sucked, twisting his head to take him deeper, and fire took on a new definition through Tom's glazed eyes.

His palms hurt, where his fingernails were digging into them, through the sheets. Harry's hot, satiny throat closed around him, merciless and oh so sweet. His hips jerked involuntarily, and Harry backed off a little.

"S -- " No, he wasn't going to manage more than that. Breathing was a chore, and words were totally out of the question. As, increasingly, was thought. Any thought. Coherency not withstanding.

Although Harry did deserve a warning. "Ha -- "

Even if he did choose to ignore it, and instead take Tom quickly to the most powerful climax he'd felt in a long time, swallowing him into hot oblivion. Yeah, that was just fine.

Slowly, all sorts of powers came back to him. He could breathe again, and mumble, and even open his eyes, although moving was still a little beyond him.

His hands uncurled stiffly from their fists, which hurt, but he needed to touch Harry. Actually, said his lightning reflexes, he needed to do a bit more than just touch.

Since the other man's cock was firm against his side, as he reached out blindly to find his -- lover. Uh? Well, yeah, why not.

He sat up slowly, focussing on gleaming black eyes and parted lips. If the man had looked hungry before…

He flashed his best sultry grin, and mouthed, 'Thank you.'

Harry grinned provocatively and pushed him back onto the covers, rolling half on top of him and kissing his breath away. Literally -- Tom felt himself sway, dizzy under the near vicious attack. He tasted himself, with the underlying tang of blood, and a thin shiver followed Harry's fingertips down his arm.

His hand was caught and guided down, where his fingers closed around the unfamiliar shape of his friend's cock. Hot and alive in his hand, he squeezed gently, and grinned at the hiss against his cheek.

Harry mumbled something unintelligible and buried his face his Tom's neck, breathing hard. An evil impulse rose, but Tom dashed it away. Tomorrow. Tonight he was just going to finish him, tomorrow Harry could suffer the frustration he deserved.

Easing round a little, he smoothed his thumb over the tip, smiling through his teeth as Harry arched forwards. He trailed moisture down, making the flesh slick against his palm, before wrapping his fingers tighter and stroking hard.

Harry moaned and thrashed, delighting him, and he moved faster. All thoughts had wilted in his head; he was tired, luxurious and curious, and he needed to sleep, but first he needed to hear Harry's voice as he came.

With two last jerks, he didn't have to wait long. And he felt it, too, in the vibrations against his skin, as Harry muffled his cry against his throat.

Damn, he was tired. And stupidly happy -- to the extent that when he relaxed his face, it blended automatically into a sated grin. Irrepressible. Not that he wanted to repress it, here, after this.

After all, see where repression had got him? Not a good thing. Much better now.

Harry wiped his stomach absently with a sheet and pushed it off the bed, then burrowed under the covers up against Tom. He was damp, warm and welcoming. Tom stretched, entangling them. Experimentally, he licked the foreign taste from a fingertip, then wiped his hand on the covers. The flavour burst -- strong but not exactly unpleasant -- on his tongue, and lingered in his mouth as his eyes closed.

=#=#=#=

Tom woke with a small devil spitting acid at the back of his scull. From the inside. A single memory reared up at him -- that of Sandrine instructing him to go easy, since even synthehol could have retribution for the over-indulgent. Ow.

Still, at least he was warm. He eased closer to his pillow, then froze in shock as it shifted under his fingers. Then again, now he concentrated, it was a pretty unusual pillow. Silken. Warm, but not too hot. Smelling salty, delicious, and yet not in a way to induce him to get out of bed. Ever.

He'd never found one before that didn't irritate his cheek when he nuzzled against it. He'd especially never found one that sighed dreamily in response -- and the last bed he'd slept in didn't smooth tender fingers down his spine. Or make him shiver, despite the heat.

Damn. Some aspects of his personality really needed examining, if they were repressed enough to keep him away from this so long. He stretched, wriggled up, and kissed his pillow good morning. With an appreciative sigh, it kissed him back.


home
feedback Cal