This time what wakes me isn't a chill, or kitten-tongue roughness but rather a tap-dancingly nervous want. Right now, Brian wants. He wants, in such a way that I can't sleep through it. His want is buzzing in my ear like an alarm clock, incessantly reminding me that there are those other than myself whom I serve. I can feel this want nudging me, pushing my limbs this way and that. He hasn't moved his body, but his want is positioning me to suit his pleasure.

Or rather, our pleasure.

I know what he wants, and I know that in a few minutes he's going to fuck me. It's always the same; after I fuck him, he gets a bit of his own back by fucking me until I drown from it. I guess he thinks he needs to restore whatever balance my fucking him has distorted. I wouldn't know anything about it; fucking him doesn't change anything between us--well, not in a bad way. Then again, what I consider bad and what he considers good usually line up, and vice versa. I know him better every time he lets me in, and that freaks the hell out of him. I bet he doesn't admit that to himself, at least not when he's sober enough to remember afterwards.

I know what he wants, and I am what he needs.

He needs to push inside me, to recall just how it is this thing we have works. These are his rules, passed by fiat and I suppose I'll continue being happy to be included in them. He fucks me, not that I mind. I love it, the way he lets himself flow into me and settle comfortably for a while. There's the way he leans down and rests his forehead against the base of my neck, one hand guiding my hips and the other holding his weight away from me. How am I supposed to be resentful of anything he does when he's like that, mindful of me when his body is scrambling eagerly into nothingness?

By the time I'm willing to admit I'm awake, he's inside me and god if he only does this over and over again and never lets me fuck him, I'll die a happy little queer. He's burning up, hotter than me, or is it me that's burning up? I can't tell--who's who, or anything else of the sort. All I know is that he's right here with me, body meshed with mine, breath streaking raggedly against my cheek. I want to hold him close but he's chosen a position that forbids me that luxury. All I get is what he gives out.

And just like every other time, the farther we go the more calm he becomes. During any other fuck, he'd be growing just as frantic as his body--mind fragmenting in the moment, hips dictating words with every slick thrust. Now? Right now his body is trembling with confusion even as his mind stills. He's finding himself, balanced so that all movements physical and psychological balance out to nothing. His mind is where it should be, as is his body. My own body says he's still moving, or at least doing something I like; breathy groans spill over the pillowcase like teardrops.

I think we're fucking by memory; I'm pretty sure I didn't actually tell my body to push back and grasp him like that, but it did anyway. I can hear him talking to me, his sweat whispering and murmuring. He's everywhere, even if all I see underneath me is the bed. I know it, just like I know that if he doesn't speed up in a few minutes I'll start begging. The point has been made; my body is his to possess. Now, have mercy on me, my lord and master. Touch me, or let me touch myself. Let me touch you.

Let me touch.

Slowly slow slowing slower and he's not moving any more than necessary breaths propel him forward and back. It's not enough; him being quiescent inside me isn't what I need right now. He can exist inside me all he wants; he's always there even when I don't bother to make note of his presence. But when he grows still like this I can't feel him, much like how I can't feel my clothes when I'm painting, or how air is beneath our attention until the wind blows. I'm trying to stay captured by him, forcing my attention to remain focused on him and not on me, but he's not moving. He's not changing me and so my mind wants to wander. To wonder, to glory in what my body is feeling and to leave him behind. Go forth, go forward, run back and recapture what you left for him to conquer.

I think I said something and then it's there. His chest falls against my back, wet heat burning into me. I clench with anticipation, waiting impatiently for him to move and fulfill the promise he just made me. Our bones, barely hidden by skin and muscle, are knocking together with fleshy rattles. If I could reach back, I'd sink my teeth into him and rend him apart, just to find the switch inside that would get him to obey. He is the master now, so it is his duty to dominate. To take control, and so far he isn't. He's not forcing me to be still, but neither is he moving himself. I'm left twisting in the wind while he contemplates how the nature of our fucking impacts the goddamned climate of the rainforest or whatever the hell is going on in his cesspool of a mind.

Please.

It's not until I give up that he gives in. That's the pattern, and I know it... but somehow despite that fact I never fail to forget until I realize it once again. Give up, give in, give over. Maybe we wouldn't be so good together if the sequential capitulation happened too quickly.

Take.

I can't help but react to him when he's like this, riding me hard and sinuously. I can almost see the way his back arches and flexes, ass clenching and rising with each thrust. I don't need a picture; my mind is endowed with the creativity necessary to see what he's doing even as all my eyes register is how he's pushing me against the bed.

Taking.

His fingers shouldn't feel that good; they're long and bony, thin and angular like something Picasso would hurl at a woman he hated. The feel of them on my cock twists me this way and that with a reality-skewing sharpness; looks can be deceiving and those hands can touch me anytime. I want them now, stirring me so I can't focus on anything. He's finding himself in this kaleidoscope of things-I-am, catching drops of this and that on his hands while I get flung off into this thing he's making.

Taken.

He finds me, a favor granted through familiar affection. I feel it as soon as he hands me over--the pleasure, reaming its way along my arteries and dancing through capillaries until I don't bother trying to figure out where it's going next. I'm twirling around him, shattered and glued back together as he comes down first, wrapping bits of me here and there. The picture made is odd, but not unattractive and I think I'll leave it. I'm not sure what it is, but it matches what he's made of himself.

Sleep is scratching at my ears again, but I don't succumb before noting that we're back where we're supposed to be. Again.