hollycomb

Stan's hair was damp at the temples, sticking up funny, and by the time Kyle realized that they'd been staring at each other for way too long there was no turning back: Stan fell onto him, and they dry humped their way to paradise together, their kisses so sloppy and hungry that they both had sore, bitten lips when it was through.

He grabs Stan's face and kisses him deeply, moaning into it, wanting to get down on his knees and thank Stan for being alive, for being weird, for everything.

"We were ageless," Kyle says, starting to fall asleep, not sure he's making sense. "For at least a few minutes there. We were bigger than numbers."

"I'm afraid," Kyle said, whispering.

"I won't hurt you," Stan said. "I won't even, I won't—"

"I know," Kyle said. "And I'm afraid something will come along to spoil that. To spoil – this, a man who doesn't want to hurt me. Someone who wants to help."

"If something comes," Stan said, "I'll kill it."

"You're accustomed to killing bad things."

"Please don't die," Kyle said after he'd helped Stan into the bath. Kyle was kneeling on the floor beside the tub while Stan reclined in the herb-scented water.

"I'm not dying," Stan said.

"I know," Kyle said, and he touched Stan's wet arm, which rested on the rim of the tub. "I meant, ever."

"Take anything I have and wear it as armor."

"You look good against my skin," Kyle said.

"Maybe it's horrible to admit this, but when you first brought me here I thought, at least this one is handsome."

Even as a guest in Stan's rooms, he'd always reigned.

Two measly fucking years? He's been thinking about it for five, and even before he knew about butt sex he'd wanted to be inside Kyle, possessing him, hard and merciless like a nail to a cross.