It is all for him.
Feb. 4th, 2004 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
guide_beregond[Continued from Here. Rated NC17]
No, I can't take advantage of his sickness. Remember, Beregond, he's been infected; he doesn't know what he's doing. But he's returning my embrace, and I'm only human, even if he is not. What harm could there be in simply enjoying his touch, just a little tonight.
I stroke Smith's face, and it feels warm, his mouth parts and his breath quickens at my touch. He has no need to breathe, but he does this for me. How can I resist? I will be careful, I swear I will, I would die before intentionally harming him. But earlier, I saw him shiver, he trembled at the thought of screens of blue, his own personal nightmare brought on him while trying to fulfill a request I made. I'm responsible for his condition; I'm the one that must comfort him until he can heal.
He asks me what we are doing. What can I tell him? In his state, he might simply become confused. If I pull away, he might tremble again. He's safe with me. I am not justifying my actions, I am not. A kiss might calm him now. He tastes strange, but not abhorrent, simply different from flesh and blood - his clone tasted as such as well. I could become addicted to this foreign flavor. What harm is in a kiss? I deepen it, exploring, tongue tangling with his, and he responds in kind. The sharp edges of his teeth send a chill down my back as I slip along the edges of them.
Breaking the kiss is nearly painful, but I manage. I slide off my chair, taking his hand and silently bringing him to his feet. Sitting in this chair is not the place for a sick man. Wait, not man, but still... his sickness seems so human. I know not how to treat a program's illness, but I can treat a human. I can only do what I know. I lead him to ... there is no bed here. Where should I take him to rest?
At a loss, I slip out of my coat and drop it on the floor. "You should lie down, this might be soft enough, I hope." Smith meekly complies, bending to kneel on this makeshift resting place. I kneel with him, facing him, taking his face in my hands and give in to the need for another kiss.
I don't recall lying down, but we are. Smith's legs tangle with mine, and without thinking, I whisper, "I need you." As soon as the words leave my lips, I regret them. Tonight is not about my need, but his. He needs to get well. My hands stroke his chest, his arm, soothing touches meant to help calm him. I swear I had no further intent, but he grasps my hands and pushes them lower, until I can feel exactly how hard he is. "No, Smith. It's the fever taking you, you don't want this." He shakes his head, lips pursed in determination, and presses my hands even closer, my fingers responding with a mind of their own. He's hard, and he's moaning. It would be cruel of me to leave him in this state.
I lean away, and he protests. But only for a minute, as I reach to loosen his pants, and he eagerly lifts his hips to let me slide them down, his erection springing loose, I swear it must have been painful to keep it constrained considering it's state. He needs to rest, even sleep if he is able. He can't rest in this state. My hands glide down his shirt, meet his bare hips, then tentatively move to touch fingertip light along his length. Smith arches his back, reaches to grab my shoulder - hard, painfully. He's insistent. Wincing, I let my fingers wrap around him, curling tighter until I hold him firmly in my grasp. I hear a strange sound, and I wonder what it is. I look about, and see Smith's hand pressing against the hardwood floor, fingernails scraping hard along the wood.
I can't bear to see him so distraught, or so I tell myself. I stroke him, tentatively at first, I know he needs this but dare I enjoy it also? If I must do this for Smith's sake, would it harm to take a little pleasure for myself? It's too late to turn back; I will take him to release one way or another. Whether it be by my hand, or another way, a release is a release, and may help relieve his tensions and anguish.
My thoughts wander, as do my lips, and I am startled to find my mouth slipping over the head of Smith's cock, I had thought I was only fantasizing of this, but finally I admit to myself that my justifications and desires are swiftly merging towards one common goal.
I let myself drift in thought and desire, mouth moving upon him, tongue darting and swirling, again acutely aware of that taste that is not one of flesh and blood. I wonder if other tastes will be as much a mystery as well, but I do not wonder for long, when a hot rush assaults my mouth, and though I know full well what it is, it is unlike anything I have ever experienced. He may look the image of humanity, but I of all people now know that at the very base of Smith's reality... he is not human. And I do not wish him to be. I have tasted of his potential, though it comes not from flesh and blood, it is still him. And because it is Smith that pulses hard against the back of my throat, it tastes of dreams still unfulfilled.
I fall away, weakly tugging his clothing back into place, dropping at his side to stare at his face. The look Smith returns to me is indecipherable, an enigma. I do not question it, nor try to understand. He breathes somewhat easier, once his gasps subside. I hope he heals. I hope I have helped, and not harmed. After all, all I have done tonight was to heal him. Nothing more, I tell myself again and again as I fall into exhausted sleep at his side, it was all for him.
No, I can't take advantage of his sickness. Remember, Beregond, he's been infected; he doesn't know what he's doing. But he's returning my embrace, and I'm only human, even if he is not. What harm could there be in simply enjoying his touch, just a little tonight.
I stroke Smith's face, and it feels warm, his mouth parts and his breath quickens at my touch. He has no need to breathe, but he does this for me. How can I resist? I will be careful, I swear I will, I would die before intentionally harming him. But earlier, I saw him shiver, he trembled at the thought of screens of blue, his own personal nightmare brought on him while trying to fulfill a request I made. I'm responsible for his condition; I'm the one that must comfort him until he can heal.
He asks me what we are doing. What can I tell him? In his state, he might simply become confused. If I pull away, he might tremble again. He's safe with me. I am not justifying my actions, I am not. A kiss might calm him now. He tastes strange, but not abhorrent, simply different from flesh and blood - his clone tasted as such as well. I could become addicted to this foreign flavor. What harm is in a kiss? I deepen it, exploring, tongue tangling with his, and he responds in kind. The sharp edges of his teeth send a chill down my back as I slip along the edges of them.
Breaking the kiss is nearly painful, but I manage. I slide off my chair, taking his hand and silently bringing him to his feet. Sitting in this chair is not the place for a sick man. Wait, not man, but still... his sickness seems so human. I know not how to treat a program's illness, but I can treat a human. I can only do what I know. I lead him to ... there is no bed here. Where should I take him to rest?
At a loss, I slip out of my coat and drop it on the floor. "You should lie down, this might be soft enough, I hope." Smith meekly complies, bending to kneel on this makeshift resting place. I kneel with him, facing him, taking his face in my hands and give in to the need for another kiss.
I don't recall lying down, but we are. Smith's legs tangle with mine, and without thinking, I whisper, "I need you." As soon as the words leave my lips, I regret them. Tonight is not about my need, but his. He needs to get well. My hands stroke his chest, his arm, soothing touches meant to help calm him. I swear I had no further intent, but he grasps my hands and pushes them lower, until I can feel exactly how hard he is. "No, Smith. It's the fever taking you, you don't want this." He shakes his head, lips pursed in determination, and presses my hands even closer, my fingers responding with a mind of their own. He's hard, and he's moaning. It would be cruel of me to leave him in this state.
I lean away, and he protests. But only for a minute, as I reach to loosen his pants, and he eagerly lifts his hips to let me slide them down, his erection springing loose, I swear it must have been painful to keep it constrained considering it's state. He needs to rest, even sleep if he is able. He can't rest in this state. My hands glide down his shirt, meet his bare hips, then tentatively move to touch fingertip light along his length. Smith arches his back, reaches to grab my shoulder - hard, painfully. He's insistent. Wincing, I let my fingers wrap around him, curling tighter until I hold him firmly in my grasp. I hear a strange sound, and I wonder what it is. I look about, and see Smith's hand pressing against the hardwood floor, fingernails scraping hard along the wood.
I can't bear to see him so distraught, or so I tell myself. I stroke him, tentatively at first, I know he needs this but dare I enjoy it also? If I must do this for Smith's sake, would it harm to take a little pleasure for myself? It's too late to turn back; I will take him to release one way or another. Whether it be by my hand, or another way, a release is a release, and may help relieve his tensions and anguish.
My thoughts wander, as do my lips, and I am startled to find my mouth slipping over the head of Smith's cock, I had thought I was only fantasizing of this, but finally I admit to myself that my justifications and desires are swiftly merging towards one common goal.
I let myself drift in thought and desire, mouth moving upon him, tongue darting and swirling, again acutely aware of that taste that is not one of flesh and blood. I wonder if other tastes will be as much a mystery as well, but I do not wonder for long, when a hot rush assaults my mouth, and though I know full well what it is, it is unlike anything I have ever experienced. He may look the image of humanity, but I of all people now know that at the very base of Smith's reality... he is not human. And I do not wish him to be. I have tasted of his potential, though it comes not from flesh and blood, it is still him. And because it is Smith that pulses hard against the back of my throat, it tastes of dreams still unfulfilled.
I fall away, weakly tugging his clothing back into place, dropping at his side to stare at his face. The look Smith returns to me is indecipherable, an enigma. I do not question it, nor try to understand. He breathes somewhat easier, once his gasps subside. I hope he heals. I hope I have helped, and not harmed. After all, all I have done tonight was to heal him. Nothing more, I tell myself again and again as I fall into exhausted sleep at his side, it was all for him.
