Title: Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)

Pairing: Donald and Timothy

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 903 

References/Spoilers/Notes: Can't think of any.

Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.

Summary: Donald's dream morphs into a happy reality.

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BREAKFAST, LUNCH, AND DINNER

by

Candy Apple

It had to be a really good dream.

I was lying on my stomach, wrapped around Timmy's pillow, in nothing but my boxers. I'd crashed in the bed about six that morning after two nights of no sleep. Timmy was already up, fresh out of the shower and about to get ready for work. I knew I was dead on my feet because I couldn't even get it up for a damp, half-naked freaking god of a man. That's the thing with Timmy - I almost feel guilty getting credit for being a faithful husband. I mean, how could I improve on him, and what the hell would I cheat for? I'd have to be fucking crazy. As much as people tell me I am crazy, I'll let you in on a secret: I'm not.

Add to the fact that he's sex on legs, he's so good to me that coming home to him makes anything bearable. He steered me into the bathroom, told me to get undressed and he got the water going. After I drained about two gallons of recycled bad coffee into the john, he shoved me in the shower and told me to wash up and not fall asleep on my feet. So I washed up and I did feel more relaxed when I came out. I pulled on the clean shorts he left there for me, and wandered into the bedroom, expecting to just roll over and go to sleep. I was starving, but I was too tired to do anything about it, and Timmy was trying to get ready for work, so I didn't whine to him about it.

I didn't have to. I sat propped up in bed and ate from a tray Timmy served me with a fried egg sandwich and a nice glass of orange juice. Timmy makes the best fried egg sandwich on Earth. After I ate, he sat there in his good pants and his shirt and tie, smelling like heaven and looking better, and rubbed my back until I fell asleep. I think I said thank you, and I hope I told him I loved him.

Back to the dream. Body heat against my skin, hot lips on my neck, my ear, my cheek, a hand on my ass, rubbing, squeezing gently. I was getting hard, grinding against the bed, indulging in the dream, loving what Dream Timmy was doing to my ass, his hot breath on my neck, his chest against my back. I cooperated when he tugged at my shorts; I had no further use for them. I wanted his fingers in me, getting me ready.

While he stretched me and lubed me up, he sucked on my neck. That was going to leave a nice mark. I moaned, I heard myself moaning, and I opened my eyes, almost expecting that to end everything.

"Look who's awake."

Did I mention how hot his voice is?

"It's really you," I mumbled.

"Who did you think it was?" he asked, chuckling softly, kissing my ear.

"I thought I was dreaming," I admitted, smiling, "about you."

"Good save," he said, his finger finding my prostate. After making a sound that would make an opera singer proud, I had to answer that.

"I always dream about you, sweetheart." He paused a minute, and he kissed my cheek. I could tell he was moved by that answer.

"I love you," he whispered in my ear. "I couldn't stay away," he said. "I'm playing hooky," he added, smiling. I couldn't see his smile but I could hear it in his voice. He felt naughty, which was good news for me. When he feels naughty, we always have a good time.

He entered me slowly, and we rocked together in an easy rhythm. It was sweet and gentle and unhurried. He caressed me a lot, kissed me, said little love words in my ear. Nobody's ever treated me like Timmy does. He'd never have to tell me he loves me...I know. It's in his touch and his voice and all the things he does for me because he likes to take care of me.

But he does tell me, all the time. He was telling me then, as if he'd have to when he was touching me like that.

After we came, and he finally eased out of me, I turned over and snuggled into his arms. He stroked my hair and held me close, then he pulled back enough to smile at me.

"I can't remember if I thanked you for breakfast," I said, and he laughed. It's a sweet sound I never get tired of.

"You mumbled something that was either 'I love you' or 'thank you.' You were so tired, honey. It doesn't matter."

"What time is it?"

"About one," he said. "I took the afternoon off." He hugged me close again.

"In that case, thanks for lunch."

We both laughed at that, and took a nap. We woke up in time for dinner.