When I fell asleep, it was with the comforting surety of his person shielding mine. We've moved in the night, though, and now I'm holding him, his slim body lax in my arms. He's completely asleep, mind as still as his body. He's not even dreaming, under so deep I'm surprised he's still breathing. The sleep of the blessed innocents, and I'd be jealous except that him being like this lets me experience it vicariously. I sleep better when he's here, and that may be why. Even if I'm not sleeping well, his easy slumber seeps into me by diffusion. As long as it's not going the other way and I'm infecting him, I'm happy with the situation.

Ah, but he's slept enough for one night, in my opinion. Of course, my opinion is seriously affected by my cock, and who am I to argue with that? We might have no need to continue practicing this particular art form, but that doesn't mean we can't indulge in the perfection of me fucking him. I love being inside him, making an emphatic statement about where home is with every thrust. Yes, home is wherever he is, but fucking him is like that warm, airy rush of walking in the front door when it's snowing outside. The first second is hotter than hell, unbearably there that I want to cringe away from the presence of it. But then, in the next moment, all that welcoming warmth encompasses me and draws me in. It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, but I can't forget the way that one moment changing to another moment brings me home. He's the same way, bowling me over and then taking me in. I endure the flames knowing that the fear of being incinerated is all in my mind.

I'm in the mood to get a little scorched, to feel that pleasant pain yet again. I want to climb inside him and wallow around in what he gives me, wrap myself in him and push him down. It's almost too easy to roll us over, to press him deeper into the bed as I lay myself on top of him. His smaller body is hidden almost completely by mine, only the tiniest slivers of pale skin glowing here and there against my darker flesh and the midnight gleam of velvet. I like him underneath me, solid and instinctively welcoming. He's awake now; I can tell by the way he's spreading below me. Oh, he moves when he's asleep, too, but this is different. It's calculated, his thighs shifting just enough to accommodate me between them, arms bending and tensing to support his chest in anticipation of me pushing against his back. His face is still buried in the pillow, but his neck is curving back, lifting his head just the tiniest bit.

By the time I'm ready, his knees are bent, further opening him. Neither of us needs the lingering conversation of foreplay so I push in without preamble, moving in time to the muffled groans that filter their way out of his throat. His heat is excruciating and I can't help but fall forward, catching my face in the crook of his shoulder. The air there is thick and warm, clinging wantonly to his skin and redolent with the scent of him. I can hear his fingers kneading the underside of the pillow, just like his ass is massaging me.

We're good at this, not needing words or even unspoken directions to guide us. Our bodies know the way and our minds are content to let them lead us. I give and he takes, taking me in and giving me myself back with every clenching thrust release. The deeper I go, the more centered I become. I am balanced inside him, resting yet restive with the need to retreat and come forward again. But slowly, so slowly that not even I can be sure I'm moving at all. Am I moving forward or backwards, in or out? I can't be sure that I am, or that I even care.

Over and over and under and again and this is like dancing, our skin not-quite-sliding in concert, muscles twisting together, bodies moving in an antagonistic rhythm without losing contact for even the smallest moment. Legs pushing against mine as he moves, arms pushing against mine as I surround him. I want to let go, to just lose myself inside him, to take. I want him. I want him splayed out for the taking, surrendered to me. Mine.

But he isn't mine. He doesn't belong to me; he doesn't belong to anyone, even himself. I can't take him, I can't own him, can't ever have him. There's too much of me inside him; he's not mine because he's more me than I am. You can't take yourself, not like this and now I don't feel that insatiable urge. There's no goal here other than the one we've already reached. We are. Content to be. Being. In this, in the movement of us-inside-ourselves.

Slide thrust push pause He wants more, his breath ragged and hurting. His body must be aching, clawing at his eyes and seething with need. He likes it slow, but on his own terms. Slow when he's feeling tender, fast the rest of the time. Now I need it slow, slower, slowing down until each thrust is powered by the movement of a planet around its sun. I need to feel his heart pounding, fluttering, pushing out of his chest to slap me into action. I can hear him calling out, cursing me, his voice hampered by fabric and stuffing and my own weight on top of him. Each attempt to spur me on simply slows me down. Every indictment of my lassitude just exacerbates it. The more he shows the facets that fascinate me, the more I want to study them at length. His neck where it joins the shoulder, the hidden juncture of his ear, the tiniest droplets of sweat dampening his hair. I can feel his shoulder blades digging into my chest, his spine pressing the hollow between my ribs. Here, he is hard and angular in ways he accuses me of being. In other places he is comfortingly soft, his ass smooth and round against my thighs. His legs are all muscle, though, bruising mine as the squeeze and clench. His feet are turned, almost standing on the backs of my knees.

I'm being selfish and I know it, forcing him to accept the pace I need at the expense of his own sanity. I want to savor him like this, accepting of my leadership but not particularly happy about it. He wants this but he doesn't want it the way I want it, and every grading clench of his ass around my cock is letting me know most emphatically. Take, harder, give it like I want it.

And then I hear just what he's saying, what his wordless moans are telling my deafened ears. He's past the point of demanding, his legs now caressing instead of grasping, body pleading and not forcing. Please is spoken in a language I understand fluently. Please, please us both by pleasing me. Show me you love me by respecting this body you're using so well.

Please me.

Abruptly what he needs is what I need and that's it, I can't hold back anymore. It's back, pushing me forward in-out-in as his body seeks to push me back where it wants me to be. There again, my mouth sealed on his skin, sucking hard, connecting, grounding me in this maelstrom of giving back what I hadn't taken. He's still not where I am so I seek to bring him with me, wrapping my fingers around his cock and tugging him along, his only-too-willing body jerking and thanking me with that last thing I needed.

White heat, blindingly bright floods me, searing the words of his body into my skin and I can't stand the pleasure, pouring out of him and into me. I can't breathe, can't live without this feeling of a perfect, jaw dropping tight warmth sucking me dry until I blink and I haven't missed it, there it is again, everywhere and I can't get away from it. I can't lose myself in this but I have no choice either, but when I do, all I find is him. And what is he holding, hidden in his own release?