One Night
by Julad

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, Paramount. No profit. No juveniles. Men fuck.
Once upon a time, a long long time ago on a list far away, Amirin issued a challenge:
> A one-night stand with Tom and Harry. > > For any and every reason.
Well, I'm a tad more than 'fashionably late', as usual, but I always say I write slow. Ah, well. Better late than never, hmmm?
Inspired by my enduring obsession with Harry in the Killing Game. Beta'ed wonderfully by Anagi, and I'm betting that the criticisms I get will be of the parts where I ignored what she said. :)
There are some strange things in this story, which kinda go against the usual grain. I'd like to know if any parts didn't sit right with people.

He stares at me with cold, accusing eyes. Glaring through thick strands of black hair; a gaze which pounds my bared skin and burns like dry ice wherever it doesn't bruise.

I want to say, No. I want to say, It's okay. We can forget this ever started.

I want to say, Yes. This is what you owe me. Take off your clothes and do as I tell you.

I say nothing, and so he remains seated on his couch, motionless. He is lifeless except for the eyes, which dance with emotion; dark grief and denial swirling around pupils of molten fury. I'm nearly drawn into them, lost in the blackness there, but then I'm distracted by the hard line of his lips. Because I notice for the first time that there is not only vulnerability in them, but also stubborn cruelty. He will silently defy me, I realise, even if he wants this. Because he doesn't *approve* of the way I'm going about it.

I've always known that Harry was stronger than me - more noble, more honourable, more upright. I just hadn't realised that in his own way, because of those very qualities, he can be ruthless and merciless in a way I never could.

A comforting thought, actually.

So I seat myself next to him on the couch, and with gentle touches turn him to face me. Pull the zipper down, awkwardly push the uniform off his shoulders, and smile tenderly at him. I need him to know that I won't really do it, that I'm just using this one opportunity to pretend for a little while. I'll briefly indulge my forbidden fantasy, then go back to acting out my 'normal' life.

I stroke back his hair and press my lips to his forehead, wanting my love to flow into him where we touch.

His glassy eyes stare through my gentle gesture.

So I drag his jumpsuit sleeves from his leaden arms and finger the soft, warm fabric of the grey undershirt where it clings to his chest. It's slightly damp and I press my face into it, inhale reverently. The scent of his fear and anger is heady - so precious; so tragic. Truly bittersweet.

His muscles are twitching. Cracks are appearing in the passive facade, his anxiety revealed in the flaring nostrils and the military rhythm of his shallow breathing. Exhiliration rushes through me: Harry *does* feel something. Rushing to exploit this advantage I drag the shirt up and over his head. His arms are lifted up by the fabric, and I glimpse the dark hair under them before the sleeves slide from his wrists, letting his arms fall bonelessly to his side once more.

His control is faltering now, but I don't care because it means the smooth expanse of skin and muscle before me is rising and falling with unsteady, hypnotic appeal. I've decided I'm really going to touch him.

The first place is a shoulder. It had to be. His shoulders are... I have no words to describe this perfection. So I savour it instead, letting the tip of my finger glide along peach-soft skin, tracing the contours from the firm curve of his upper arm, along the collar bone to the vulnerable hollow of his throat. His dark nipples beckon to my fingers and I let them find each other as my lips are drawn, inevitably, to his neck.

My first taste of Harry is heightened by his gasp as he arches away from dual pinches on his chest. Bringing one hand up to the back of his neck, I open my mouth against his pulse and press my tongue to it. It hammers furiously and I suck hard, intoxicated.

It's wrong for me to rush this - I should be savouring every silky taste, but there's too much that I want and not enough time to experience it all. Lunging for the nipples and feasting there, distracted by a dip in his chest below his sternum, rubbing my cheek against the inhumanly soft skin of his side and I feel the muscles jump and quiver under my hands as the stubble scratches. Then, in midst of pushing off his pants I realise his cock is before my eyes, so innocently enticing, and I am enchanted by the softness there too. A glance upward shows Harry's jaw is set, his eyes shut and the line of his shoulders uncompromising, but this part of him is pliant and sweet. As I taste and suckle devotedly, he hardens in my mouth. Now his cock matches the rest of his posture, and it feels like rejection so I move on.

My own cock is demanding attention now. It knows what it wants, is urging me toward his ass, but I can't do that until he's relaxed more. Pressing loving kisses to his thighs, nudging his legs apart with my forehead, I set about Making It So. He's forced to move his arms to support his upper body as I pull him to the edge of the couch, and the flexing tendons transfom the golden body into living art. Right now he's a heartbreakingly discordant crescendo expressed in skin and bone and muscle, but he's a masterpiece nonetheless.

It's important to me that I make this good for him. A man this beautiful deserves to enjoy his body as much as his lovers do. I nuzzle his balls, compulsively raining butterfly kisses all over the warm folds of skin, while masssaging his buttocks and the backs of his thighs.

I am finally, *finally*, rewarded when he lowers himself to his elbows and lets me rest my head on his thigh. I show my gratitude by kissing every inch of his groin, from his navel and along the hard cock which is now a validation; licking the crease of his leg and then pausing with my mouth over his asshole.

I'm close to what I want now, *so close*. My breath caresses him and far above me, he whimpers, and the sound nearly brings tears to my eyes. It's *something*, from him, because of me. Tonight I've achieved everything I want from my life. I feel no urgency now, so I rim him leisurely, occasionally sliding my tongue inside to explore what will be mine. He's so tight that I force myself to think up ugly images - I need to take things slower than my cock is demanding, and if this is his first time then I need, desperately, for it to be perfect.

He's going to have to come before he'll be able to take me, I can see that. So I reach out and grab his hand and then go down on him, all the way down. His cock slides right in, something I've never accomplished before. And suddenly, all those awkward failures and brief, nauseating successes only matter because they've brought me to this point.

His hand is gripping mine so tight that the grinding pain is overriding my arousal. And that's okay, because I love him and I want him to have this. So I ignore it and concentrate, sucking hard, fondling his balls, teasing at the opening while the shudders in him grow to a climax. The loud, strangled gasp tells me he's there, and I pull away suddenly, desperate to see. As his back arches, hair flies back, hands clenched into whitened fists as he comes, and I've never seen anything so sexy or wild or glamourous...

Dampness is filling my pants but I didn't feel anything with my body, it all happened in my heart...

I pick up his hand and kiss it. His eyes are clamped shut, his breath is gasping out through the rigid controls he's placed on it. His stomach quivers as if struggling to escape from the semen splattered across it.

"Harry?"

"Are you finished now?" he asks, voice strangled.

And my universe explodes, sickeningly, behind my eyes.

I was expecting to be stopped. When I named what I wanted, he should have laughed. When I said I was claiming it, he was supposed to shake his head. I thought that despite his honour, in spite of his limitless endurance, he would only let things go so far. My mistake. I've known for a long time that while he may comply when he must, he will never, ever give in to the enemy. I just didn't realise that the enemy in this scenario was me.

I'm on the floor, desperate. His eyes are still closed, and he can't, won't, see my distress. I clutch his legs, pleading silently, fervently with him. Not able to let him go, knowing with every ache of guilt in my body that once he's gone, he'll never come back.

"*I love you*."

A pitiful few choked-up words, loaded with years of repressed desire, profound adoration and an unprecendented burden of shame which is crushing the air out of me. All my passion for him is met with the faintest hitch in his breath, then the slightest shake of his head.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry."

A miserable attempt to reconstruct my life's definitive relationship. To explain why I... well, why in one night, I knowingly and deliberately fucked it.

"I trusted you." In his bare whisper I hear an echo of his words of earlier that night...

"Whatever you want," he'd said as he finished racking up the balls. Laughing, relaxed. Invigorated by the challenge of putting stakes on a game he didn't often win. Looking me in the eyes, warming all my heart's chilled corners with his smile, comfortably invading my personal space as he reached for the chalk...



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