Rain
Author: HiperBunny
Title: Rain
Series: Flavor of the Month
Pairing: Kourt/Kato
Rating: NC-17 for terminally damp nookie
Feedback: Ohgodyesplease! I've been of in the Real World so long I don't remember what feedback LOOKS like! Please send to hiperbunny@hotmail.com
Archive: Yes, at KCFC
Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been, George Lucas. But if I ever had been, CGI Morph Technology would never be the same.
Notes:
So. It's been a while. Kato finally got to speak up and have his say about the Indecisively Formed One, and I think it might be for the best that he did. Many thanks to Layna, Fox and Terri who keep reminding me that I'm still a good person even if I'm not writing as much as I used to. Also thanks to Loki, who very patiently 'endured' being used as a test subject for the nasty bits.
For Fox, who is ever-faithful.
For Layna, who is also ever-faithful, plus she sends me nasty piccies of pretty boys for no clearly defined reason.
For Rauhnee, who started this whole damn thing in the First Place.
For Terri, who should know better, but pretends she doesn't.
I might not have told you this before, but there are better ways to spend a weeknight than huddled on a balcony in an ice-cold downpour. And I don't care what the Resources office says, these robes are not 'all weather gear' nor are they 'water repellant'. You look like a drowned womprat with all those curls stuck to your face and neck, and I'm sure I don't look much better. My socks squish when I move my toes and I can feel my feet getting all wrinkly. If this isn't proof that I love you, you're never going to be convinced.
"Time?" you whisper, beyond the point where you can focus down enough to project your thoughts.
"Minus ten and counting," I reply, equally tired. "Are you still okay to do this?"
You nod once, compressing your mouth until its a white line against your equally-pale features. You drop your robe and slip through the balcony doors, and I catch it before it falls completely into the puddle that this balcony has become. Then I'm focusing down and out, springing latches and fogging minds as you pass through the crowd of partygoers. I've always known you had nerves of steel, but tonight my heart is beating a mile a minute. There's just no way I could walk into a room, hand someone their own death on a plate, smile at them and walk back out. Some part of me knows that you're not thinking about the situation. I just wonder what it is you do think about. Most of the time I'm pretty sure I don't want to know.
But more than not wanting to know, what I really don't want is to wait. Waiting for you to come back is the worst feeling in the universe. You're a grown... whatever and you can take care of yourself. I know that. It's the waiting to be sure that drives me up the wall. I'm not like other Jedi and you're figuring that out. I don't heal up like most Force-sensitives do, and I'm more prone to illness than any Jedi I know. Master Lucan said that if I didn't have a longevity ration jacked up through the roof, he wouldn't have believed I would make it this far. That's one hell of a thing to hear from a foreteller, you know, that your lifeline is long but your body is going to just barely squeak by. You'd think that would make me more cautious, but it never has. I'm still going to stand here in the damn rain and wait for your ass, but this time tomorrow I'm going to be coughing up a lung. That's okay. This time tomorrow we'll be shipboard and headed home. I can lock myself into the medbay and ride it out. There's no one else I trust to stand your shield. A case of the sniffles isn't the end of the world. The sick thing about you is that you make me want to be here, cold, shivering, the beginnings of a headache starting behind my eyes, staring down the barrel of a headcold. You make me feel like I belong.
But, dammit Kourt, if you don't stop taking chances, I'm going to pop you one. I really will. I've lost my cool with you before and I just know you didn't like it then, either. It's not this job you do that worries me. That's not the problem. We've talked about your reasons and skies know I've seen enough of Artur and Sarafel to know there are worse people for this kind of work. It's that you'll only take me so far, only trust me with so much. I'm your partner, whether we admit to it or not. And don't think I haven't worked out why you won't admit to it. News flash: I don't want a working bond either. Frankly, I'm not too keen on taking another Padawan. Having another being hanging there in the back of your mind... it's just not me and I'm pretty sure it's not you either. That's not the point. I'm your partner, your backup and you're just going to have to stop leaving me behind.
I'm not talking literally. I already said I couldn't do the things you do. It's the distancing, the information blackouts, the... the crap you put me through on these covert ops that are driving me out of my mind. It's going to stop, it has to. If not, one of us is going to end up dead and I have it on good authority that it isn't going to be me.
You drop down from the balcony above me, landing with a splash in the puddle I'm standing in. I sniff once, give you my 'whipped pup' eyes and hand you your cloak. You flip it across your shoulders and we move to swarm down the trellis that got us up here in the first place. Trellises, for fuck's sake. Don't these idiots even read anymore? Why not just leave a key for us under a rock in the garden?
You are silent on our journey back to the hotel and I respect your peace. The wind and rain don't leave much room for conversation anyway, and once we're under cover I'm not thinking about much beyond staking my claim on the heater. You come and take my cloak, and I just keep on shedding my wet clothes until my skin is totally bare and basking in the warm air. I sneeze hard, and to my surprise you have a hanky right there for me. I stare at the tissue for a long second, then frown.
"You're leaking," you say, and I know you don't mean my nose. A quick check of my mental sheilding and I discover that you are correct. My surface thoughts are all over the damn place.
"How long?" I demand, shoring up my defenses as best I can.
"Long enough. Vanni, why the fuck didn't you tell me you weren't satisfied with our working relationship?"
I frown, turn away from you to watch the rain sliding down the windowpane, and say "Would it matter?"
"Well, duh." Your hand is warm on my shoulder. "I trust you with my life, Vanni. Of course I'll trust you with information. I just didn't want to dump all this crap on you when it wasn't necessary."
I turn back to you, wondering what the hell has gotten into you tonight. "Then why didn't you just tell me in the first place?"
You glance away, fingers tightening on my shoulder. "I'm a rather private person, you know. It's reflex to keep secrets, for me. I wasn't trying to shut you out or insult you. I'm just... no good at sharing."
I chuckle ruefully, then step back towards the heater. "Now, there I'd disagree."
"Do you think of anything but sex, Van?" Your tone is scolding, but your hands are telling a different tale, fluttering down over my chest, my belly, coming to rest on my hips. The answer, by the way, is no. Not with you. How could I think of anything else? You are too damn beautiful by half.
Something in your eyes change, and your mouth crushes mine, a hot and passionate kiss that warms all the places that heater couldn't reach. Those cold place in my soul turn towards you, as flowers to a sun.
I turn into your embrace, stumbling as I go, and fall against you, away from the heater. A few playful spins, you whirling me around, and I come to a sudden halt against the wide, cold window of our room. Rain drums hard against the pane of glass, obscuring any view of the outside world. Luckily for us, it also shields us from the eyes of any but we.
Your hands and mouth are everywhere, fingers now digging hard inside my shoulderblades, now pulling my hips closer to yours, mouth sucking wet trails across my jaw, my throat, plundering deeply at my own, then off again for a whirlwind tour of my chest and points south. I let my head fall back, thumping loudly but not painfully against the window. The rain is thundering against the glass, echoing the thrumming desire that is rapidly overpowering any other thought or need. Your palms rub wide circles on the insides of my thighs and you lap along the length of my cock. Wet, teasing strokes focus my mind on your attentions. The only sound is the ragged gasp of my breath, and then my begging moans as you swallow my shaft.
Some nights I want to pull away from this, apply the breaks, stop and think for once, dammit. This was not supposed to happen. YOU were not supposed to happen to me. No one person should ever, ever fulfill every single fucking desire in my heart. That's serious business there, and one I know I should be wary of. But you smell like home and seeing you makes me want to take your hands in mine, put them on my body, kiss and taste you and oh skies, yes, let you taste me. The down side is that reality is every bit as good as the fantasy and some fucked up, left-out part of my brain keeps screaming at me that this is just not empirically possible.
The rest of my sensory system tells me different, though. You are real, you are here and real and shining in my mind, a luminous being as palpable to my Force sense as the feel of your mouth on my cock. Smooth even pressure and slow strokes as you take me in and slide back, throat open to my pleasure. My fingers tangle in your hair and I arc my hips away from the window, toward you, into you, deeper and closer to the only person who makes my heart truly happy. The cool glass flexes minutely behind my shoulders as I let my knees buckle and slide down to kneel with you on the floor, withdrawing my cock from your mouth and replacing it with a hard, heavy kiss as I bear you down to the thick, soft carpet.
Some things just become habit after a time, no matter how much joy you take in them. Making love to you is easy, all trained responses and simple knowledge of one another. Opening, oiling, entering you... they have lost the glamour of new passion and gained the more refined, delicate beauty of established commitment. Now our desire burns deeper, longer, with sure understanding of our joint needs. No longer is our passion the quick, hot flame of new lovers, flashing over and reducing us to ash and cinder. Once I mourned the loss of that newness. Now I revel in the seeing of you, the scents and tastes, the sounds you make that I recognize and know because we have spent so very many nights sharing our bodies together.
The curves of your belly are my favorite sight as you arch up against me and ask for deeper thrusts. I know where, how deep, and how to steady my rhythm to fulfill your request. Your mouth is hot under mine and our bellies slide together, slick and moist. Your cock isn't hard, but I don't even question that any more. I know why, I know where your pleasure centers are when I take you this way, and I know that your body wants me as much as mine wants yours. This is surety. This is love.
I bury my face against your neck, resting against your shoulder as my hips carry us to another level of pleasure. Your hands are on my ass, squeezing gentle encouragement to my easy stroke. You whisper my name, whisper illogical encouragement, the trite and simplistic language of sex. I save my breath for other efforts, slide my arms under you to maintain my balance as I rock against your gurden again and again, drinking in your gasps and sighs. The heat and texture of your body around mine is entrancing, every motion an ode to our compatibility. It is too beautiful. It is too good. It is too much...
Lying in your arms, warm and sated and wanted, full of the afterglow and edging over into sleep, I memorize this moment. The wind and rain are blowing still, drum and flute beyond our window. I open my mouth and breath in the taste of you, clean and natural and purely my own.
-end-
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