Talker

that, a few awkward
    pumps, some frantic strokes over the cockhead, and before he
    knew it, Tate threw back his head again and shuddered. His cock
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    throbbed violently in Brian’s palm (oh, such power!) and the space
    between them was spattered and hot and sticky.
    Brian ignored the hot stickiness and pulled Tate back into his
    chest so he could hold his dream boy while he trembled the last of
    his orgasm into Brian’s arms.
    “O h,” Tate murmured, when he could speak again. “That’s
    sex.”
    “’s not sex,” Brian panted, his breath fluttering the ribbon of
    hair over Tate’s perfect ear. His groin was stil hard and every
    muscle in his back stretched taut with the aching need to come. “’s
    soooo much better than sex.”
    Tate pulled away for a moment, and a dreamy, glowing
    version of his usual luminous grin was shining up at Brian. “You
    haven’t even come yet.”
    Brian grinned back. “Not gonna. Something I’ve got to do first.”
    Wel , first he needed to fetch a washcloth and clean them both
    up—but he had to confess to a secret yearning to just clean Tate
    off with his tongue. The thought made his cock (already bobbing
    rather incongruously as he walked to the bathroom) jump and
    throb. Maybe someday, when they both knew what they were
    doing, they could get sloppy like that, but right now he had a
    promise to keep.
    He cleaned Tate off, and Tate laid there and watched him with
    those ink-dark eyes. When he was done, he put the washcloth on
    the end table and bent his head to the exact spot on Tate’s
    stomach where the old scars met the smooth skin, and kissed it,
    extending his tongue a little to touch. He extended his hand
    downward, down to the apex of Tate’s thighs, and looked curiously
    and without shame in the yel ow glare of the street lamp through
    their window.
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    Tate’s hip and flank and upper thigh had al been burned. His
    scars extended to one of his testicles, and it was shriveled, bald,
    and unthrifty, but the rest of Tate’s equipment seemed to be
    unblemished and in working order, and Brian was glad. He
    extended his hand down the tender swel of Tate’s stomach, rubbed
    his thumb along the demarcation between unblemished skin and
    proof of Tate’s survival, down his stomach, down his thigh, and
    gently, gently, along his most tender of flesh.
    “It’s… not perfect,” Tate whispered.
    “Bullshit,” Brian responded reverently, and kissed his way
    down to Tate’s hipbone, tickling carefully with his tongue.
    “Brian,” Tate objected, turning sideways so Brian couldn’t
    reach. “Please. Not tonight. Please don’t touch me there. Not when
    you can see.”
    Brian sighed and rested his chin on Tate’s hipbone. “I want to
    kiss you everywhere,” he said softly.
    Tate twitched, lying there in the bed. “I couldn’t stand it if you
    turned away from me,” he said. “Not here. It… I mean, it’s you. I
    couldn’t stand it if you thought… if you were al like, you know,
    ‘eeeeewww’ and….”
    He was getting upset, which was not what Brian wanted at al .
    He kissed his way back up to Tate’s stomach, and nuzzled it, proud
    when he elicited a giggle. “O kay—so I love you, and I think you’re
    beautiful, but we’ll take a little time with that, okay?” Which was
    something Tate had not taken with his other attempts, Brian
    thought with a sigh. He’d left himself vulnerable and bare to people
    who didn’t know him, didn’t love him, and he could hear it in
    Talker’s voice—they’d scarred him all over again.
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    Tate grunted and ran his hands through what was left of
    Brian’s hair, and Brian kissed again, using his tongue gently on the
    rough flesh. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
    “Then what do you want me to do?” Brian asked, keeping his
    voice pleasant—and giving Talker some control.
    “What?” Tate put out a hand to Brian’s flank and petted him.
    “I was gonna kiss down to introduce myself to Mr. Happy… not
    an option. So, you know, I need a plan.” He kissed again, gratified
    when Talker wiggled. “You’re always good with plans.”
    “Kiss up my body,” Tate said, his voice husky. “So I can kiss
    you, and then I can kiss your Mr. Happy.”
    Brian smiled softly at him, and “Mr. Happy” gave a vicious,
    painful throb of its own. “Deal.”
    He kissed Tate’s scar-line again, and again, up to Tate’s
    shoulder, where the