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Reply to LucyAdded to the Roswell Slash Archive September 6, 2001
Fandom: The Forsaken
Status: New, complete.
E-mail address for feedback: email@example.com
Other website: http://members.tripod.ca/~angelspace/Lucy.html
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Basically, this is a pwp. Sean touches Nick.
Warnings: Not beta'd. Writing exclusively in the lj, these days. LJ's way cool; I love it. It makes me write and think about what I'm doing, and it makes me write faster, which isn't necessarily a good thing but is the way that I prefer. I hate to slave over fic. I like it hot and fast and dirty. :)
It was quiet, suddenly, and he'd only had two beers out of the six-pack that they'd brought back to the room. They'd been talking, drinking beer, Nick sprawled across the foot of the bed, occasionally touching the sweaty can against the rise of his heel, making him flinch and swear, half-heartedly, but not enough to move away. He wasn't exactly comfortable - the room was too hot and close and the ugly carved headboard was digging a pattern of flowers and vines into his spine - but he was lazy and he just wanted to sit here and talk to Nick and drink beer and curse at the air conditioner that spit lukewarm air into the room.
And then they were quiet.
He didn't realize until a few minutes had passed and then it was suddenly uncomfortable. He was bone-tired, far enough gone to sleep upright, and his beer can was tipping dangerously towards the ugly bedspread, threatening to spill the few mouthfuls that were left inside in a puddle on the bed. Nick lifted the can away and he snorted, remotely aware that he'd been half-asleep.
"You're toasted," Nick said, swallowing the rest of his beer. "Go to bed."
"'m in bed," he said, and slumped over and a little down, mostly on his side. It was too hot to bother pulling back the spread, and he was already stripped down to tank and boxers, and he was tired - too fucking tired, all of a sudden.
And he slept.
* * *
Nick was still awake, when he opened his eyes an hour or maybe two later. Awake and watching him with glittering eyes. Nick didn't sleep a lot; he knew that. He didn't sleep in motel rooms, in motel-room beds, preferring the relative discomfort of the passenger seat in the car in the sunlight daytime hours. At night he stayed awake, keeping watch. Sean knew he was meant to think that Nick was watching out for Forsaken, to keep them safe; but, even though he pulled the chair by the slat-blind-covered window, mostly what Nick watched was him.
He stretched without moving much, and Nick crossed the room, offering him the butt of his cigarette. He took a drag and passed it back, breathing out smoke. He was curled on his side, head on a forearm, and he reached out, touched Nick just where his shirt had pulled up in the back, showing an inch or so of skin. He wasn't cool, but his skin was dry, unlike Sean himself, who felt hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, weighed down with sleep.
He rubbed his fingers back and forth on that inch of skin, rising the shirt up a little more. Nick didn't say anything, didn't look at him, and he wasn't looking at Nick, either, just that little bit of skin.
And then he leaned forward and touched it with his mouth. And licked it, not-entirely-wet tongue dragging, rippling over Nick's dry, warm skin, tasting him lightly, feeling him tense, still, cigarette caught in midair halfway to his mouth.
He leaned back, head on his forearm, and took a breath, shallow and hurting, before he looked up. Nick was looking at him like they'd never seen each other before, looking at him puzzled and questioning and sexual, suddenly sexual, and he dragged his cotton-dry tongue over his own lips, intending to say something, wishing he had that other beer so he could moisten what felt like the Sahara inside his mouth. Nick took that interrupted drag, crushed out his cigarette in the bedside ashtray and lay down, all in one smooth motion. They were mirrored; his head was on his forearm and he was looking at Sean.
He knew he could go back to sleep, close his eyes and when he opened them again it would be morning and Nick would be back in the chair by the window, watching him. They would do this again, maybe, in some other motel room somewhere else, or maybe never. Maybe never because maybe they weren't meant to do this, if he just closed his eyes.
He was almost certain that's what would happen when Nick moved forward, big, awkward body all of a sudden liquid grace sliding over the shiny-chintz-paisley bedspread, and when he closed his eyes he did so because Nick's were too close, and he couldn't see anything else, and he didn't want to see, anyway. There was nothing here to see.
Fingers dug into his ribs, and big again flashed into his mind when he felt the rising heat that pressed against his hip, fitting right into the hollow by his own groin. He groaned into Nick's mouth, eyes squeezed so tight he thought they might get swallowed back into his brain, blinding him forever. He wanted to stop kissing and breathe, unaware that his own hands were clawing into the back of Nick's head, holding him fast and close and tight and there, unwilling to let him go. Nick finally wrenched away, panting, and he latched onto Nick's neck, sucking in bruises with lips and teeth and tongue, feral and hungry, so hungry, starving. His body was starving, and he was clawing onto Nick for his last meal, legs twined around Nick's thighs, thrusting his heat up and hard against heat, wanting to come.
Nick whispered something, trying to get away from him, but he held on tighter until something penetrated his fuzzy brain and made sense, making him realize that Nick wasn't trying to get away but just slow down, and maybe he was hurting him and he let go with everything all at once, falling back into the mattress and wishing it would swallow him up. He unclenched his fingers and his legs and his eyes, boneless and ashamed and panting and still so goddamn needy he wanted to explode, or maybe run away.
Nick pried his fingers out of his palms, licking over the half-moon crescents he'd dug in there, and that was sexy, too. Nick was sexy, and he wondered what sort of blindness had overcome him that he'd never seen that before. He'd spent three goddamn months with the guy, and he'd never seen.
Blind and deaf, too, because Nick was still whispering at him, or maybe just at his skin, whispering nothings that barely made it to his ears. It wasn't until his breath stopped being so harsh and tight in his lungs and his heart wasn't pounding quite so much that he could hear what Nick was saying, and still it didn't quite make sense. "Oh," his mouth said, and "yes," and "here," and Nick's tongue licked up the leg of his shorts and down the hollow of his hip where his heat had fit so perfectly, and his entire body shivered from that wet, slick, intimate touch.
Nick licked him, just there, over and over again, as if he was trying to split the skin with his tongue, cleave it into the bone, break through to the marrow, and he dug his fingers again into that scalp, not to force Nick over, as he thought he should want, to taste his splitting, jerking cock, but to keep him there, in that spot, in that hollow that wasn't anything, was just skin and didn't do anything and couldn't react, anyway, but it was sexy. It was sex, and it was Nick, and he was thrusting into the air, brushing wet and slick and pre-come against Nick's ear, into his hair, and it was soft and he was just fucking the air and it was enough, it was too much.
Not enough for Nick, though, because he stopped, panting, breathing in through his nose to clear his head, hands digging into his hips to hold him fast even though he wanted to keep thrusting up. He could come, he knew he could, and he just wanted to come, but Nick wouldn't let him, stopped him, and he made a noise of protest and tried to get away, to slide up the bed, grabbing on to the headboard. Nick wouldn't let him do that, either, climbing up his body until they were face-to-face, and he wanted to shut his eyes because Nick was too close but Nick wouldn't let him, just stared at him.
He gasped and fought against the kiss, choking as Nick breathed into his lungs, making him dizzy and scared, fucking terrified. His legs raised, feet flat against the mattress, and he was still holding on to the headboard, which felt like it would snap in two between his clutching hands. Nick was between him and over him and on top of him and holding him, keeping him there, keeping him from just climbing straight up the wall and onto the ceiling, away. Nick breathed at him until he stopped fighting and breathed, too, and when he wrapped one leg around Nick's waist and thrust, again, there was no way to pretend that he wasn't asking what he was asking, demanding.
Nick stripped the tank away from him, managing to get it up only around his wrists, because he refused to let go of the headboard. He couldn't, even though his fists were tight, cramped muscles and his bones might snap at any moment. His boxers were wet with sweat, spotted in the front with pre-come, and it was a fight to get them off, over his hips and away. Nick pawed at him and he thrust, again, impatient for it to be done. He was tight, and it was another struggle for Nick to push a finger inside him, because he was fighting it with everything he had it felt so good, so good he knew fucking was going to kill him.
He moaned, low and deep and long in his throat, when Nick pushed in another finger, and everything opened, all of his body opened all at once, even though he was still so tight. He thought he felt the carved wood give way under his fingers, sure there would be ten indentations there if he ever managed to pry himself away. He was wanton and thrusting and moved with the rhythm of Nick's fingers, taunting him with heat and capture, undulating his body in long, rippling arcs of muscle. He wanted to open his mouth and howl like some wild animal calling his mate - only, his mate was right here, already fully prepared to take him.
It was blunt, and hot, and wet, and fuck he didn't know how Nick could possibly stand it - he could feel how tight he was, tight and welcoming at the same time. He clenched, hard, and Nick was all grit teeth and squinting at him, swearing under his breath. That almost made him laugh, relaxing enough to let Nick all the way in and they both froze when pubic hair and bone suddenly slammed against his ass. He thought it wasn't right, that it was supposed to hurt more, wasn't it? and Nick looked at him with exactly the same thought written over his face. He flexed and wriggled, experimentally, waiting for pain to come and almost embarrassed to feel none of it. It was uncomfortable and strange, foreign but good, fucking good, and he was suddenly absolutely certain it was going to get a whole hell of a lot better before it was over and he wanted that better to start right now.
He tightened his leg around Nick's waist and pushed against him, knowing that Nick would push back, unwilling to give up control in this. The thrusting was slow and gentle, at first, and he had to move again, because he didn't want slow and gentle, dammit, he wanted hard and pounding and deep, he wanted deep and oh god, oh yes, there, right there, right there and Nick was slamming into him and he was crying out with it, and it wasn't possible, it just wasn't possible to come so much, right from the middle of his spine, everything draining out of his body over his chest and stomach and Nick, and fuck he hadn't even touched himself and oh, god don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.
* * *
He was drenched when he opened his eyes, sweat-slick and come-sticky and Nick was right on him, half-dead or maybe just asleep, mouth breathing hot against his neck. He felt like one gigantic cramped muscle, his hands still red and burning, his head throbbing, his body used and flattened out. He pushed hard against Nick to get him off, tried to get out of bed and crumpled down to the floor, all broken.
Nick slid out of the bed and around him, and he was crying and he didn't know why, he wanted Nick to stop touching him but Nick wouldn't, just wound around his body and held him tight, patting the back of his head and pressing his face into the hollow of his throat. He cried himself raw, until it was nothing but sniffles and embarrassment. Nick left him there, in a heap on the floor leaning against the bed, got a washcloth and came back and sat, cross-legged, in front of him and cleaned him up a little, rubbing the cool cloth over his face and his sticky body.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and drew them up and looked at Nick, who was lighting a cigarette, shaking his head when Nick offered it over, watching the red glow and the smoke. He was tired but he didn't hurt so much anymore, and he was a little less ashamed, and he wanted to go back to bed but he wasn't sure he could stand on his own power, not trusting his legs to bear his weight. He watched Nick smoke the cigarette down to the filter and then crush it in the half-full ashtray. Nick kneeled up and tugged the ruined bedspread off the bed, crumpled it into a heap and tossed it in the corner of the room, by the door, and then pulled him up into the bed, tucking him under the sheets on his side, head pillowed on his forearm.
He fell asleep like that, watching Nick watch him from the chair beside the window.
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