Page 107 of Untouchable

"Do you want to stop?"

Parker raises his head to look at Harp and bites his lower lip before working up a weak smile. "We can."

"I know we can. That's not what I asked," Harp says.

With an easy movement, Harp supports Parker's back with one arm and flips their positions. Parker looks up at him from his new spot on his back, feeling like Harp has just performed a magic trick.

He understands, then—if he can force himself to stop pushing the pace, to let Harp guide things, then Harp will take them exactly as far—and no further—than he’s willing to go.

And whatever Harp wants, Parker wants.

* * *

Parker looks morevulnerable like this, younger. He hikes his thighs up to make room for Harp's legs where he's kneeling on the couch and then looks up at Harp, obviously pleased but confused.

Harp takes a moment to drink in the sight of him: the too-big flannel open three buttons from the top to expose a large swath of smooth skin, eyes wide and clear and almost painfully innocent despite what Parker insists when he speaks, the even jaw and picture-perfect teeth and lips flushed and plump.

On another planet, in another lifetime, Harp could imagine himself taking everything that he wanted from Parker tonight without a second thought about their future or his own past or what kind of man that would make him. There is something animal in him, guarded closely, but it still looks out and it still sees Parker. It still imagines Harp's hands closed around Parker's wrists as he fucks him into the couch, the noises Parker would make, how good he would look taking Harp.

"Harp, if you don't—"

He interrupts Parker with a rough kiss and tamps down the part of himself that he likes the least, concentrating instead on the sweetness of Parker, the impossibility.

* * *

Whatever moment Harphad been having passes—he’d looked feral, almost hungry for a second, and Parker had adored it—and then Harp is on top of him once more, kissing him roughly. Parker responds in turn, letting himself whimper and moan and writhe beneath Harp, rubbing his cock against him, as he tilts his head back, giving access to whatever parts of him Harp wants to use.

Parker wants so much, and he feels like he’s losing his mind.

He wants to be naked, to feel Harp’s skin against his own. He wants Harp’s cock—in his hand, in his mouth, in his ass. He wants Harp’s lips, Harp’s tongue, the scrape of Harp’s teeth against his neck. He wants to be fucked, hard and fast and animalistic, and he wants to spend hours, days, weeks where they explore each other’s bodies and learn every freckle, every scar, every angle, every curve. He wants lazy Sunday morning sex, hurried Tuesday afternoon fucking, and all the moments in between, all the kisses and touches and glances.

He arches up to meet Harp, the sensation of his lips and tongue sharp and sweet and smooth all at the same time. He exhales, trying to let go of the frantic feeling that’s coiling inside of him, the desperation, as though he’s starving and Harp’s touch is the only food he’ll have for days.

He wants more than just one night, Parker tells himself, through the haze of sex and desire. There is more time. Let this moment be what it is.

* * *

The way Parkerresponds is intoxicating. Harp's high has worn off by now, but his sense of touch is still electric-charged, taking in all of the textures and shapes of Parker that he hadn't had access to before.

He keeps his hands above Parker's waist and outside of his clothing, but it's enough simply to feel his muscles, his skin where it's exposed, the almost downy hair on the backs of his strong forearms. Parker is a wet dream come to life, smooth planes and taut tan skin, and he's moaning for Harp.

The only thing better than having Parker's attention is giving it back to him, listening to the way his breath catches when Harp sucks another mark into his skin, careful to move far enough from his neck that it won't show in his uniform.

There's an urgency to Parker's movements as he ruts up against Harp's bulk, and it's matched in the pace of his kiss as Harp takes his mouth again.

As Harp becomes more familiar with the feeling of Parker's body beneath his, something settles in his chest. This in itself is a satisfying end—more than satisfying, so far beyond all of Harp's wildest dreams. It's as good as any sex that Harp has had—and better, he realizes, than the vast majority of his encounters.

When he'd still had partners, Harp had never made his own orgasm his top priority, and so it is easy to compartmentalize his need and push it to the back of his mind, to drink in every detail of Parker that he can without using it as fuel to come to some orgasmic end. At least not tonight, he realizes, because he'll certainly be storing away this night in his brain for the rest of his days on earth.

It would be impossible not to. Parker is so responsive, so open and genuine, never mewling or fake or performative. He seems to emanate need in a way that perfectly complements Harp's need to provide, and his body feels so right under Harp's hands.

* * *

Parker goessomeplace in his mind, someplace he’s never quite been before. It’s a space full of contradictions—he is distant but present, floating but fully-centered. It’s not the high, he knows—that’s worn off by now. It’s as though he’s drunk on Harp.

He allows himself to relax into this feeling, to luxuriate in it, as if he’s sinking into warm water.

He’s not quite sure when he starts speaking aloud. He’s hardly saying words, his voice barely more than a murmur. Saying Harp’s name over and over, like a spell, like a prayer. Asking for something, but he’s not even sure what he wants. Praising and pleading all at once.

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