Erm. Just in case anyone remembers this story.

RL has been ridiculous and wonderful and full but finally! Here is the next bit.

I will answer comments from here on out, too. Really!

Rating: NC-17
Pairing: MR/TW
Summary: AU. Trapped somewhere between angst and humour.
A/N: Never happened. Except the tiny bits that did, and those have been completely turned to my own purposes. Feedback is like a grande blackberry green tea frappuccino with a bear claw on the side.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9



Seven steps, maybe eight, down the dark lamp-lit sidewalk before Tom’s hand clamps down around Michael’s bicep. Of course Tom’s not one to let a date storm away unhindered -- the guy drives a Toyota, for god’s sake.

But Michael’s not one to put up with being cajoled into reason like an overemotional teenage girl. He whirls around to face Tom, upper lip curled and shoulders thrown back in pre-emptive defiance.

“Will you just fucking let me go?” Michael spits, shaking off Tom’s concerned hand.

“No!” answers Tom, surprisingly loudly. His brows are drawn together and his cheeks are hectic red and Michael realizes that this is no manly rescue mission and Tom’s no knight in shining armor. “No, you’re not running out on me.” His hand is back, and how did Michael not notice how *big* Tom’s hands were? His fist is around Michael’s upper arm like a vise, like all that Superboy bullshit is more than just a character on TV.

“I don’t need rescuing,” Michael says, trying to pull away again but this time Tom’s got his bad side and he nearly loses his balance. “I don’t need your pity.”

“You think this is pity?” flashes Tom, eyes glittering and dangerous in the half-light. “This is common fucking sense, Michael! You’re in no shape to be going anywhere by yourself.”

Michael would argue but it’s hard to negotiate when he’s being held up by the person he’s arguing with. Instead he struggles mutely and ends up being hauled back towards Tom’s place. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, hearing now how sloppy his consonants have become.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” says Tom reasonably, his sudden fury having receded as abruptly as it arose. His hand flattens and shifts to Michael’s lower back, becoming a gentle guiding presence instead of a forceful imperative. “We have to get to sleep and worry about it tomorrow.”

Michael balks inwardly but to his traitorous body, sleep sounds like a damn good idea, and so he remains quiet while he and Tom kick off their shoes, while Tom flicks light switches off and turns deadbolts and shoos Cook outside one last time, while the three of them form a straggling wagon train headed up the stairs - man, pug, man. Michael doesn’t talk until Tom hesitates in front of a closed door.

“I don’t have the spare room made up,” Tom lies transparently, as though the guy whose entire house is ready for a magazine shoot wouldn’t keep a guest bed ready with crisp fresh-smelling linens. “But my bed’s big.”

Michael meets Tom’s gaze and decides that this gesture is more than what it seems -- a ploy to keep Michael close, yes -- but Michael would also bet a week’s wages on the certain knowledge that Tom hasn’t shared his bed since his marriage fell apart. He’s equally certain that Tom’s obvious falsehood is a signal -- that the whole truth and nothing but aren’t necessarily part of tonight’s plan. Michael can hide behind his own lies if he wants to, is what Tom’s saying, and so Michael does. “I just need to sleep this off,” he offers, and Tom accepts it with a nod, like half a glass of wine would be sufficient to bring Michael to this state. Tom opens the door and they go into the master bedroom.

They shimmy out of their jeans and socks before clambering in on opposite sides of the king-sized bed. Tom clicks off the bedside lamp and they lie still listening to each other breathe for several minutes. Michael can feel his exhaustion pressing down like the weight of Tom’s hand, but he can’t get his mind to stop whirling, worrying about what’s happened tonight and what will happen tomorrow morning. Part of him still wants to escape and it’s strange and counter-intuitive to find himself here, trapped in a bed with the last person he wants to see at the moment. If Michael were at home, he’d be able to jerk off, shut down his brain long enough to let his body take over. Instead he’s lying on his side facing the wall, hearing the slow cadence of Tom’s unsleepy breath and trying to convince himself that he’s safe here.

At length the mattress creaks and the covers flap, and Tom’s right behind Michael, not touching but close enough for Michael to feel his warmth. “Do you mind?” he asks, as though the question could only refer to one thing. Does Michael mind Tom’s closeness? Tom’s touch? Tom’s hand down his boxers?

Since the answer to all of the above is an emphatic ‘no’, however, Michael merely shifts back into Tom’s embrace. Tom’s bare arms wrap around Michael, short soft armhair tickling and broad fingers stroking. Tom’s head sinks into the pillow next to Michael’s and a moment later his lips press firmly but briefly against the knob at the top of Michael’s spine. It’s so simple, so unerotic compared to their activities on the couch mere minutes earlier, but Michael’s suddenly blazingly hard, and when he tilts his ass back reflexively, he discovers that Tom is too.

But it all goes so slowly, like they’re underwater, like Tom understands what it’s like when Michael’s like this -- half numb and waterlogged and heavy. Tom curls around Michael, covers him and surrounds him like a blanket, layering slow kisses -- pressed around the shell of Michael’s ear, down the blade of his jawbone, over the soft silk-sticky skin of his eyelid, and then seeking out the tender place under Michael’s chin where the stubble ends. Michael can only react with breath and catches of his throat because he’s lying on his left side and his right side’s checked out for the night. Tom is moving like the most patient man in the world and yet when he shifts again now, seeking a better angle to kiss Michael’s collarbone, his cock briefly digs into Michael’s hip like a blade, hard and urgent.

Michael’s never done this, been this submissive object of desire, never felt what it’s like to have his partner’s fierce lust break over him so gently like foamy waves on a shore. Tom is so controlled and Michael is so under his control, and when Tom finally *finally* reaches down to palm Michael’s erection through his boxers, Michael can only make small sounds of approval.

“Tell me if you need to stop,” Tom says, this giant leonine man thrown over Michael with all his energy focused on being as gentle as possible, and Michael’s mind buzzes with imagination -- Tom kneeling between Michael’s thighs, stroking them open and saying the same words -- Tom with his knuckles clenches in Michael’s short hair, guiding his swollen cock between Michael’s lips, back and back and in and in, and --

“Please,” Michael murmurs, and Tom understands, gets his huge hot palm under the elastic waist and around Michael’s cock where he starts pulling with long unhurried strokes. It’s maddening and perfect at the same time. Michael’s left arm comes up of its own volition and curls around Tom’s head, holding him close and letting him know that he’s doing everything right. Michael’s brain is completely silent except for all these *images* -- Tom inside Michael, driving slow and deep and long while Michael twists against the sweet agony -- Tom sliding his cock along the wet U of Michael’s curved tongue, pulling on the nape of Michael’s neck to get the right angle.

Tom’s breathing hard for all his outward calm, and his breath is bursting on Michael’s tense neck where Michael’s arm has him pinned. His fist picks up the pace, his thumb flicking up over the slick head of Michael’s cock on the next stroke, and while this is all nice, and amazing, and okay -- the best handjob ever -- Michael needs something more.

So does Tom, it seems, because the next instant, his hand is gone. Michael doesn’t have time to complain because Tom is pushing Michael’s boxers down his thighs, he’s performing a similar operation on himself, and when Tom settles back into place, he’s kneeing Michael’s legs apart, just enough to -- oh. Michael’s legs close again, his thighs squeeze to test the connection, and Tom growls low before reclaiming Michael’s erection and beginning to stroke and thrust at the same time. Tom’s huge cock is pressed into the space at the top of Michael’s thighs, the head -- wet, slick, hot -- pushing gently into the back of Michael’s balls with every thrust. Never done this before, it always seemed like a junior high kind of maneuver, but Michael had never anticipated the hotness of the sensation, the literal heat and hardness and length of Tom’s cock against the sensitive skin of Michael’s inner thighs.

Michael’s inner sub is coming out of the closet in a spectacular way, Michael’s brain helpfully providing more scenarios than he can process -- all the ways Michael could take that big cock inside his smaller frame -- Tom pressing in from above, Michael’s legs shaking with his knees set in the notches above Tom’s hips -- Tom from behind, palm pushing Michael’s shoulders and head down like a recalcitrant dog -- Tom holding Michael’s head steady as he knelt over Michael’s shoulders, fucking down Michael’s throat with impatient abandon. Tom everywhere, in every part of Michael, every broken place and secret dark corner, battering down his defenses and his thoughts, leaving only room for this -- this twist and stammering push into Tom’s tight fist, this hard repetitive slam of Tom’s strong pelvis against Michael’s trembling ass.

“Ah, god, god,” says Tom abruptly, and shoots against Michael’s balls. Michael closes his eyes and comes too -- he’s been on the brink for hours, it seems, only waiting for Tom’s permission to let go.

Tom holding Michael, cradling him against his chest like an infant, like a treasured amazing thing, like Michael’s broken and the only thing that can make him whole again is the broad shelter of Tom’s palm, hiding his injured skull from the rest of the world. The image is vivid and almost overwhelming, and Michael has to open his eyes and watch his real right-now fingers unclench from the sheets, has to open his legs and feel Tom’s softening cock slip away, has to roll his head back against Tom’s sweaty chest and listen to Tom’s big heart slamming against the drum of his ribs, before Michael can convince himself that this is reality and the other is just a dream brought on by violent orgasm.

Tom is already asleep or close to it, so Michael’s the one who reaches for the tissue on the night stand and makes a hasty clean-up, wiping Tom’s loose fist, Michael’s own belly, the space between Michael’s legs and down his thighs, and finally Michael balls up the tissue and throws it to the floor, rolling away from the wet spot and on top of Tom.

Cook jumps up on the bed, apparently having waited for his chance, and Michael falls asleep grinning at the warm weight of the pug’s body nestled between their legs.