TITLE: Be Still
AUTHOR: Abigale
DISCLAIMER: All characters are the sole creation and property of Aaron Sorkin. No copyright infringement is intended.
RATING: NC-17 (just to be safe)
SUMMARY: Sam/Josh. That's all.
ARCHIVE: If so, please let me know where.
FEEDBACK: Sure, even if you hate it; just tell me why. abigalep@yahoo.com
NOTES: Not part of any series


Be Still by Abigale

He says, "Josh, I need to be still." And I know what that means.

"So be still, Sam," I whisper. And watching his eyes slowly close, his features soften, I allow the feeling of tender satisfaction to wash over us both.

Somewhere along the lines, Sam has discovered there is a difference between want and need. It doesn't matter to me, it's all shades of desire as far as I can tell. But then I'm not as introspective as he is.

He's decided that the urgent longing we most often feed on is want. But every once in a while, he'll feel the pull of something deeper and more intimate. And he'll ask me for this, giving himself away a little more each time. He's not asking permission. He doesn't have to, because he's secure in the knowledge that I love him dearly. But he doesn't know how much I love this, so different from our usual lovemaking. I've never told him.

I sit up, letting my eyes linger over his body, spread across the bed like a bolt of honeyed satin. He's taught me so much. No one before ever forced me to slow down the way Sam has. This is a man who knows what he likes. And has the patience to share. To Sam, sex is another form of communication, whereas for me it had always been about the sweat and the release. I'm a better man for him loving me.

I start with his mouth, because that's where I always start. It doesn't make any difference to Sam, I could start behind his knee. But I generally like to save that for near the end. I could do whatever I want to him, and so I start with his mouth, inside and out. Maybe it's because it's the only time he takes an active role, and I like to remind myself that this time really is for him. Sometimes I forget that, because I've come to love this too.

The first times, he apologized. He'd weakly reach for me, moan in the right places. But I'm not completely obtuse. I could tell there was something missing. Looking up from the trail of kisses I deposited along his stomach I'd notice a slight frown marring his smooth brow, or catch his crystalline eyes darting about the ceiling. So I asked him, isn't this what you wanted? And he'd apologize and say yes. But it wasn't what he needed.

When I finally figured it out, when he taught me what to do for him, it was as if I'd just brokered world peace, the sense of accomplishment was so dizzying. And it was liberating, to have nothing matter but making him feel so good, to go so far beyond pleasure there were no words or sounds to convey it. To feel him beneath my fingers and my mouth, and not think about the destination, just the journey. How far we've traveled together.

He's learned to take, and I've learned to give.

When I'm through tasting everything his mouth has to offer, I move to his ear, and spend some quality time just letting him hear me breathe. I see the strands of his hair flutter with each breath, and soon realize he's matching his breathing to mine. When I finally slip down to slurp at that spot behind his jaw, I notice one side of his mouth has hitched up a little, just the slightest smile resting there.

There's so much for my tongue and my teeth to do. I devote myself to finding every last blissful destination. I drink in the scent rising between us. I watch his face, returning there again and again, not because I doubt that I'm making him feel good. Simply because he's beautiful. And he squirms under my scrutiny sometimes, so I lap him up when I know he's not looking.

When I eventually reach his chest his breath is coming a little more rapidly, but I feel him melting away under me, and I want to submerge myself in him even further.

I can skip around if I want to, so I leave a wet spot between his pecs and go for a firm thigh, sucking ferociously at the bristly hair. I get my first sound from Sam. A hiss of expelled air, then his breathing slows again. Sometimes the only way to tell that he hasn't fallen asleep is by the dark erection standing guard above his swollen balls. Occasionally I do such a thorough job even that melts away, and I'm always so excessively proud of myself that I feel tears prick at my eyes.

I move between this dream and this world. There is nothing but Sam bridging them. Sam lost in the touch of my hands, my lips moving over him so slowly and deliberately, at some point I think he ceases to even feel it. My goal is to infuse each kiss, each grazing brush of flesh on flesh with enough love to mark his skin. To give him something to carry with him everywhere, to remind him of how miraculous he is.

He sighs dreamily and stretches out languorously and I'm nearly undone. He never asks for this unless he knows I'm completely satisfied first. Sam is a gentleman lover, and it doesn't surprise me. He's always slightly embarrassed when he races ahead of me, and foolishly thinks I might find it selfish. I couldn't care less. Enough years of jerking off in the shower and frantically crashing against near strangers left me with less of a romantic view of sex than Sam. But sometimes there's no reasoning with him. He feels badly if he comes too soon. All I can do is shake my head at his mortification and remind him that there's always plenty of time for me to catch up.

I've stopped everything now, because the sight of him shifting his hips slightly, muscles flexing under flawless skin has me completely flummoxed. Where was I?

And now I'm the one feeling badly, because my craving for him is firing up again, and I feel greedy. I've already had him. Now he needs me. I can take my time. Sam isn't about to ask me why I've stopped. He trusts me implicitly, and I find it incomprehensible. Very important people trust me to do very important things. But no one has ever trusted me to love them well, and Sam has done that unquestioningly. I have not failed him, and I will not. For the first time in my life I'm certain of this, and that's another gift he's given me.

My own slowly burgeoning erection gradually abating, I continue on my journey of Sam's body. He sighs contentedly, and my heart flutters.

I know where this has come from tonight. I silently predicted it the moment I saw the postcard from his mother. A bright, spirited collage of Hawaiian scenes, a cheery message scrawled across the back. He's been walking such a fine line between salvaging what little can be left of his relationship with his father, and providing determined strength and unwavering support to his mother.

In the last few weeks there have been a number of quietly intense phone calls from her. Sometimes I find him cradling the phone, holding his knees where he's sunken to the floor. Legal stuff, he'll offer dismissively when I try to draw him out. And I know that is a cruel irony for him. His betrayed mother asking legal advise of the son his father has always said is the best legal mind in the family. His father would be so proud now, because I know his mother is planning on wrestling every morsel from him, including the apartment in Santa Barbara. And Sam will help her do it.

So when he asked me to take care of him tonight, I was relieved that he still feels safe and sure here with me.

My fingers are tangled in the thick hair at his base. His penis is soft and heavy in my hand now, and I murmur over and over that I love him, because I'm too embarrassed to tell him that I love the weight of him when he's flaccid. I don't want to draw attention to the fact that I have him in a place so comfortable we`ve moved beyond the sexual intensity of earlier, and are now somewhere far more intimate.

But I'm fundamentally a selfish person. And highly goal oriented. So I dabble a bit where I know it'll have the greatest effect, and when Sam responds physically and verbally, I'm delighted with myself. I can tell him that I cherish him. I can say, Sam, you light the way. But I like to show him, because even though he's a writer, he feels that actions speak louder and longer than words. So I show him when we're alone together, the best way I know how.

All the flavors of Sam mingle on my tongue, which is dry and feels leathery. So I attach it to his mouth, and suckle there while my hand slowly curls around his reawakened hardness. He tries to moan, but I swallow it down, I won't let it escape the dark sanctuary of our joined mouths. I will not let him go.

The power I have is exhilarating and frightening. He trusts me beyond reason. I shouldn't be here, he deserves so much better. And he knows it, and loves me anyway.

I feel him grow a little impatient, and I know that's not what he likes. So I slow things down a little, allow him to collect himself. I don't care how long it takes. I'm looking forward to afterwards, when we hold each other, and laugh about the absurdity of it all, and maybe he'll share some of his troubled thoughts with me.

I want to take care of Sam, the same way he takes such spectacular care of me. I want to feed him, and find the extra battery for his laptop when he's at a loss for where he stashed it. I want to remind him to drop off the dry cleaning, because the shop owner likes him better than me and always gives him little extra touches for free. People like Sam. But I love him. And I feed him, and find the missing batteries, and hold him, and he makes me strong and soothes me when I become a little too frantic about life.

When I feel him spill over my hand, I realize that I've learned the difference between want and need. And I'm content to lie here and be still with Sam.



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