We're frozen here, kneeling underneath a torrent of falling water. Stuck, struck by the want that's curled around us. It started out soft as silk, slowly tightening and strengthening and now we find ourselves bound with steel, holding us immobile. I want, but the words to ask for what I want lay sleeping in my throat. How can I want what I cannot ask for? My voice is paralyzed, made silent by translucent glass layers I've let coat me like glaze. My façade, too perfectly applied to be cracked by simple want.

My body knows what it wants and unlike my voice it has no problem with begging. I can feel the beginnings of it now; my shoulders shift just a fraction, thighs spreading ever so slightly, fingers sliding in their grip. I cannot let my want split the air between us, but this begging is silent in its screaming. Aching, almost-painful churning in the pit of my stomach. Want growing, lifting its dark leathery leaves to my blonde-boy sun, blooming, pale petals deepening to bloody darkness. Want has come to its fruition, and now I need. Need.

Needing, as a precursor to taking, giving, and having. Becoming. Part of my want is for Justin to get us out of this position. I could do it myself, pull us to our feet and fumble for a towel, but that would be admitting my needs. My mind whispers and seethes that it will allow me to want, to need, so long as that weakness is never admitted. I can love Justin, so long as I never say it out loud. So instead of offering up my surrender, I place it right at his feet, so he can't ignore it without tripping and falling flat on his face. Untangle this web, catch yourself in it and bind yourself to me again.

Surely he can feel it, sense the way my body is vibrating, shivering with need. I can't feel the heat from the shower anymore; all I can sense is him, his presence banishing the shadows in favor of soothing sunlight. I wonder what I would find if I opened my eyes; shower-slicked boy or sun incarnate? Damn it, can't you hear me, hear the way my body is calling for you to take over? I'm begging on my knees, asking only that you take me on. Again.

And then he's there. Hands steady and guiding, urging me upwards. He lets me rest my head on his shoulder as he takes care of this-and-that, turning the water off and locating towels. I'm not tired, for all my quiescence; I need to be taken care of. I'm tired of pretending my bone china self is made of steel and his hands are gentle as they smooth away the remnants of our bath. His skin is warm and flushed, so much so that I can't resist tasting, drawing that familiar-yet-exotic taste into myself again. I don't bother to restrain a soft grin, my lips tickling him as they curve upwards. I want to laugh but I don't; breaking this resonant silence would be a sin. I am calling for you, reaching out from inside where I hide from everyone. Find me, so that I might find myself.

I let him think I'm leading us to bed, dancing him in that just-so manner that makes him think I'm still in charge. He needs that, my dominance, as something to surge against--resistance, weight that builds his stamina and his strength. There is an order to our relationship that neither of us is ready to upset; that structure gives us a framework upon which to grow, to rest and rely. I am in charge, except when I'm not--and even in those rare moments I call the shots. Like now, when I've already given over control, offered myself up to him. I doubt he knows that I've done so, nor that he's accepted--and how could he do otherwise? We both speak of wanting simplicity, of desiring clarity, when the truth is that our souls crave this kaleidoscopic confusion that is our coexistence. I daresay we enjoy the risk of breaking rules we don't know and crossing lines that weren't drawn until we were past them. Draw a circle around me, trace lines on my heart, so long as you know that I'm given to do the same to you.

I'd say we hate this awkwardness that's building, but we don't. It's another part of the complications we seem to adore, this not-so-simple fact that we can vary our routine a thousand different ways and still dance gracefully, but the simple shift of hands and we're all knees and elbows. I've seen Justin lead; he does it well, unless it's me he's leading. Then, unless he knows I'm going to take over, it's stumbling and lurching. I'm at fault, too, unable to dance backwards as well as I'd like to think I can. Dance me in circles, until I'm too dizzy to care.

Tilting lights swirling behind my eyes downward and over, until I'm draped over velvet and covered in him. He's half-hard, skin still moist from the shower and clinging instead of gliding against mine. Breath, warm and familiar, brushing along my neck. He's waiting, body anticipating how I'll take over and twist him to fit us together. The most minute of tremors passes through me and into him, bubbling up from the base of my mind and terminating somewhere inside his. I can't say it, not in words spoken by my tongue. My body is my voice, and he has to hear me not with his ears but with his soul, his eyes, his hands and his heart. What do you see, when this blindness clears your eyes of doubt?

He looks up at me and I'm caught once again by the way his eyes show everything I've ever wondered. Endlessly deep, reflecting up and back down until I'm not sure what I'm looking into. All I know is that it's blue and clear and hot and whatever it is burns for me. Liquid and crystalline, there's a question caught inside. He's noticed something, there where he's looking, and I can only wait until he decides he's figured it all out.

The blue shifts a bit to the left and his hands slide upwards, catching on my forearms and pinning me by my wrists. He's seen what I've been shouting, found his answer and decided. When his lips begin trailing down my throat I can't help but let my eyes fall shut, head tilting back, opening myself to him. I never quite get used to the feel of his mouth upon me, the way his lips catch and drag. They cut and scrape, the wounds healed by the flat of his tongue. He's writing his name on my skin, teeth carving lines into flesh and muscle. I am branded, marked so that only he and I can see. Bitten, scarred, taken.

When I dare to look at him again, I'm taken aback by what I find. Eyes wide and glowing, perfectly at home in a face given over to feral desire. His fingers have curled into claws, digging into my hips and his breath is harsh and raw. His arms flex, skin twitching over hard muscle and I can't help but feel the slightest hint of fear. It's not a fear of him harming me, because he never would--not again, anyway--but more a fear that the aftermath of whatever we're about to unleash may leave us more changed than we can handle. This isn't me simply needing an itch scratched by him, nor is it him indulging one of my less frequent peccadilloes. The danger lies in the fact that we both know it, that now we can't hide behind a gossamer veil of ignorance. I have traded my blissful ignorance for a pocketful of you.

He moves again and my legs move as he takes his place between them. Bent, shoved up, spread open and feet caught on either side of his hips, I feel awkwardly exposed in this position. I wonder if he feels this way when I've got him like this, displayed before my eyes. Perhaps he's more used to it than I am, but right now the only thing that's keeping me from running is the sure knowledge that I can trust him. That my wanting, my needing won't be mocked or used, that it will be cherished and twisted back around both of us.

Slick-hot sliding, pushing in and spreading open, wider, harder, roughness trailing into sweeter silk and he's almost hesitant with me, tongue wicked yet innocent, as though I were fragile like china. The feel of him is acutely pleasurable, the way he pushes in and then pauses before moving, making me wait, making my head thrash on the bed and my hands knot in midnight velvet. The muscles in my legs tense so hard I fear they'll cramp, but then his hands are there, kneading and petting, understanding how I can crave this yet seize up at its unfamiliarity. It's wanting, but more of wanting what lays buried in the abyss, needing oblivion without comprehending its infinitude. I can't help pushing back against him, wanting more of whatever he hotter and tighter, drawing me in deigns to lavish upon me.

His mouth was made to worship my cock, a fact made obvious by his skill at doing so. He pulls me into him, rough and smooth at the same time, always warm and wet. I can't see for the blinding sensation of hard suction, matched by the dig of fingertips into my flesh, and the achingly needful whimpers I hear must be coming from my mouth. Senseless, wordless yet comprehensible without any translation. More, harder, take me inside you, put me where I belong. Come back inside me, never leave this place I was born holding for you. Take, and give back to me what you took by taking again.

I feel the loss of his mouth on my cock shortly before his lips find mine again. He tastes of me, the flavors blending with his own, making up a pleasant illusion that I belong there. I let it fool me, even as his thrumming heartbeat demands I accept the never-simple fact that I do belong there, that he's carved a place for me that no one else is welcome to fill. And even as I force myself to listen to that rant, He's there pushing inside me, thick and hard and God I can't breathe for thepressure building as he just stops. Waiting.

Don't wait for me, I can catch up later. Go on, run with this, fly, I'll be there before you crest this wave. His tongue catches my every sound, hands urging my legs up to wrap around his waist. I use them wisely, gripping him tight, pulling him against me. My arms bring him down, pressing him flush to me, sealing our mutual heat into this whatever-we're-doing. A small, pale hand finds one of mine and on an inward thrust god oh god again our fingers twine together, tied there above my head, bound by nothing in particular.

Every muscle in my body clenches and releases in time to his movements; when he changes angles and hits that spot I think I go into convulsions; the air in my lungs was breathed there by his mouth, slick and urgent against my own. His free hand scratches gently against my side, grounding me just enough that I don't melt away underneath him. His abdomen is crushing my cock, the pressure exactly what I need, my eyes tearing up from the painful ecstasy of it all. I must look a sight, back arching, legs braided around him, tears bathing my face. I'm crying crying but not out of fear or pain or regret.

My tears are purifying, washing away all that I couldn't leave behind on my own. He's inside me, deeper than he realizes and every time he revisits this place he heals another scar, wipes away the filthy residue of someone's thoughtless words. He touches me and I am left more whole than before; with each caress I grow closer to the man he already thinks I am. Perhaps that's why I don't let him do this more often; if I changed too suddenly no one, most especially myself, would recognize me. The alterations are as rapid as I can stand, leaving my head spinning with change. None of that assuages the regret I do feel, when I deny myself this pleasure. This gift he is so often forbidden from giving.

His guttural moans are blending with mine as he grows closer, his hips staccato in their rhythm, our meshed voices echoing up and down our throats. I never want this to end, never want my body to relinquish the agony of being poised at the point he's gotten me to. Sensation wracks my perception, my reality warping to fit what he's driving into me, discarding anything that doesn't fit, that no longer belongs. I can feel myself becoming. Culmination as existence, my person forever forming-unforming-reforming underneath his artists' hands.

Slick fingers curl around my cock and pull, my straining, reaching, trying hand grinding our fingers together as somethingwhat-is-this? unfurls. Release blooms inside me; dark, velvety petals presenting themselves to him. My dark sun, shining down upon this you have wrought. My breath catches on the sight of him, intent on pitching me over the precipice but I'm already there, my skin bleeding this pleasure. My sight dims, all I can hear is our disjointed hearts and erratic breathing, and then it hits. All at once, slamming crashing into me. My cock swells, my ass contracts, and every cell in my body reaches for him he who is mine.

I barely register the few thrusts it takes for him to join me; they cannot shake me more than I am shaking myself. His weight upon me is welcome; it anchors me in place with its heated presence. I don't want him to move, don't want him to withdraw and roll over to give me space. I don't want space; I want him, right where he is. In me. If only I could keep him there; it is where he belongs, after all.

There. A place defined by what it is only when he exists there.

Me.