**************

 

 

Title:  3AM, an ABH

 

Author:  BJ Stahl

 

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Rating:  NC-17; please present photo ID to the schmuck at the door.

 

Spoilers:  Nil.

 

Summery:  Sort of a sequel to 'Walking Home.'

 

Feedback:  I'd appreciate it.

 

Archive:  Sure, just let me know so's I can update my bookmarks.

 

Disclaimer:  Godfather Lucas owns Star Wars, as he reminds us at every

available opportunity.  I know.  I'm just borrowing.  No infringement is

intended, please don't sue me

 

Author’s Notes: I got some really cool feedback for 'Walking Home,' and well, about 4:30

this morning while I was waiting to go to sleep, this just sort of occured

to me.  Enjoy!

 

 

Chapter 1

 

---

 

Three'o'clock in the morning.  Once those words scared you.  Not any more. 

Thank God for the afternoon shift.

 

There is a definete upside to insomnia when you have to share the VCR, you

reflect as you walk into the community living room.  The blessedly deserted

community living room.  No fights over who gets to watch what at this hour. 

You sift through the stack of movies on top of the tube.  Nothing there you

haven't seen at least a dozen times, with the abyssmal exception of the

first Rambo movie.  Yuck.

 

<<Well, this has to go back tomorrow anyway,>> you say to yourself, picking

up the copy of 'The Color Purple' that you, ahem, borrowed from work.  With

a little wotthehell shrug, you slip in the tape.  You glance around the

room, wondering where you should park it for a while.  On a whim, you take a

quilt off one of the couches and spread it on the floor.  The new rug is

nice, you note as you sit down, but it prickles on bare skin.  Besides,

you're drinking grape juice, and quilts are a lot easier to clean then

carpets.

 

You listen to the movie with half an ear as you lean back against one of the

sofas, staring at the ceiling, mulling over the day.  <<Oh don't be coy,>>

you berate yourself.  <<You're thinking of him.>>

 

"In the words of the Anti-Nowhere League, 'So fucking what?'" you ask. 

Unawares, your hand comes up to the spot his lips touched, remembering the

way they felt, pressed against your cheek, just below and to the left of

your cheekbone.  You spend a few minutes scolding yourself for acting like

you have the IQ of a Craftsman drill press.

 

Listen to yourself, you're thinking like it actually happened.

 

It happened.  You'd swear it before God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit if it

came to that.

 

The movie came to the spot where we meet The Mayor and Miss Millie for the

first time.  Your gorge rises as you watch Miss Millie run her hands over a

black childs face like he's a particularly cute breed of dog.  Behaviour

like that sickens you.

 

"People like that should be neutered," you mutter.

 

"You really think so?"

 

"Of course no . . ."  Your head whips around.  Sure enough . . .

 

There he is again, sitting crosslegged on the quilt beside you.  Only

instead of wearing his Jedi outfit, he's wearing jeans and a T-shirt.  The

light from the lamp turns his hair to spiked gold.  He looks so normal.  He

could pass for one of your fellow students.

 

Well, barring the braid, that is.  And the lightsaber.  You know God Himself

would have a hard time persuading him to leave his lightsaber behind.

 

You blush as the thought of clothes brings your mind to your state of

undress.  All you have on is your favorite oversized flannel shirt and a

pair of cotton panties.  He could reach out and touch your bare legs, stroke

your face, unbutton your shirt . . .

 

Practicality reasserts itself.  "How did you get in?  The doors are locked."

 

He gives you an impatient look.

 

"Okay, stupid question."  You hit the remote and turn off the TV.  "Why are

you here?"

 

"You forgot to tell me when you get off work."

 

The images of his hands on you is doing stupid things to your body.  <<And

they say *men* think with the wrong parts of their bodies.>>  For a moment,

you're morally sure you've gone insane.

 

"You are not insane," he says, exasperated.

 

"*Please* don't do that," you drawl, grateful for the indignation.  It's

clearing your head.

 

He flushes a bit.  "Does it offend you that much?" he asks quietly, like

you've hurt his feelings a little.

 

You sigh.  "I'm sorry, it's just that for a long time I was in a place where

the only thing that was private was what was up here."  You tap your temple.

 

"I really don't mean to pry, only," he pauses, considering his words. 

"Please don't take offense, but you have a very loud mind."

 

Loud mind . . . the thought makes you smile.  He smiles too, making him

beautiful.  "Mom always said I could never keep my voice down."

 

He doesn't answer.  Just looks at you, the smile fading from his face.  You

stare into his eyes.  After a moment, you deduce what he's thinking.  It

isn't hard.  The set of his jaw, the faint line between his eyebrows, the

shape of his lips, the look in his eyes, are all sending a message that's

scaring the living hell out of you.

 

"You'd better go," you say quickly, trying to keep your voice from shaking,

sitting up a little.  "If staff finds out you were here this late, I'll be

evicted."

 

He doesn't reply.  Not with words.  Instead, he takes your hand and raises

it, brushing your knuckles with his lips.  A bolt of chrome-plated energy

shoots from your hand into your guts.  He leans forward a little, settling

his lips on yours.

 

<<He's seducing me,>> you think, frightened. <<I'm being seduced by a Jedi

Knight.>>  What scares you more is the fact that you don't really care.

---

 

 

Chapter 2

 

---

You open your mouth under his, inviting him in.  He oblidges, slipping his

tounge between your teeth, guiding yours between his.  His hand comes up,

the knuckles brushing your cheek, stroking back a bit of hair, fingers

finally moving toward the top button of your shirt.

 

"Waitaminute, waitaminute!" you gasp, breaking the kiss.  You're in a

community room, and you're not the only insomniac in the house.  "Someone

might come in."

 

"They won't."  He speaks in the flat tone of absolute fact, his eyes on

yours, studying, judging.  He watches you, waits for you.  Leaving you a way

out.

 

You lean forward a little and plant your mouth firmly on his, memorizing the

rough and smooth parts of his mouth, hoping that sheer want will compensate

for your inexperience.  Your hand comes up, sliding up his neck, noting the

smooth path of skin, the tense muscles and tendons, the soft bristle of

hair, the hard pounding of his pulse under your palm.  You relax back

against the sofa, bringing his head with yours, concentrating on kissing him

back, hoping like hell you're doing it right.  Hoping you're affecting him

the way he's affecting you, making him feel like a stick of old dynamyte,

ready to blow a building to kingdom come.

 

You ease forward, breaking the kiss, catching your breath, shifting your

weight until you're on your knees.  Your hands move toward his shirt, aware

only of a need to see and touch bare skin.  You uproot his T-shirt from his

jeans and draw it over his head.  He drapes it aside on one of the

footstools as you watch his chest, tracking the way the muscles work to

bring his arms down.  You lean forward, kissing him, kissing his mouth, his

cheeks, his eyes, his forehead, moving down, kissing his throat, his

shoulder, drunk on the warm smell of his skin.

 

His hands take you by the arms, gently pushing you away.  With slow, easy

dexterity he undoes the buttons on your shirt.  He slips it off your

shoulders, baring you to your underwear.

 

The cool kiss of the night air makes you shy.  You try covering yourself. 

Before your arms have time to move, though, he pulls you into his arms,

letting his body heat mingle with yours.  He kisses your temple, inhaling

the scent of your hair as he shifts, guiding you to lay on the floor.

 

"Close your eyes."  His voice is dark, raw with lust.

 

With a flippant little grin, you make a production out of covering your eyes

with one hand.  "No peeking," he chides, teasing.  You giggle.  <<My body is

pracitaclly buzzing, and god-amongst-men here is playing hide and seek.>>

 

You keep your eyes shut, concentrating on your hearing.  You hear the clink

of a belt buckle, the muted rasp of a zipper, the soft whoosh of denim in

free fall.  You feel the quilt under you shift as he settles beside you.

 

You aren't really sure what to expect, but it's not what you get.  You feel

a drop of something cool and wet at the juncture of your neck and shoulder

and nearly jump off the floor.

 

He shushes you, resting his hand over yours, settling both firmly over your

eyes.  He takes his hand away, and a moment later you feel another cool and

wet droplet just above your upper lip.  Your tounge darts out and tastes it

before it can run up your nose.  <<Oh, grape juice . . .>>

 

Robbed of your eyesight, your skin becomes hypersensitive, noting even the

tiniest detail of sensation.  Your muscles flutter as he draws a long, wet

line down your chest, from collarbones to navel, and they outright riot as

he follows his handiwork with the tip of his tounge.

 

He continues in like fashion for a bit, drawing loops and runes of frosted

fire on your belly, moving to your hands, your forearms, the crease of your

elbow, your shoulder, your neck, studiously avoiding your breasts, capped

with stiff nipples, begging for a little love.

 

He stops at the shelf of your jaw, moves away.  You think, for a brutal,

panicked instant, that he's left, gone away to the great beyond again,

leaving you stretched out as good as naked in the living room for the

amusement of your roommates.

 

"I'm not leaving," he whispers, reaching up to take your hand away from your

eyes.  You look into his face, see the light flush of his skin and the

intent look he's giving you, and you relax.  He's not going anywhere.

 

You also realize if you're as good as naked, so is he.  You look over his

crouched body, muscles lightly defined under a light coat of skin.  A fine

fuzz of gingery gold hair starts just underneath his solar plexus, brushing

down his belly in a thin trail, and there, nestled in an awry mess of gold

hair . . .

 

It's the first time you've seen a man with his pants off, up close and

personal, and you blush.  No, to be completely accurate, your whole body

blushes, pulling the peaks of your nipples tighter and making the muscles

deep in the pit of your belly twitch.  You're dimly aware that the crotch of

your panties is soaking wet.

 

<<Now I am *intensely* glad I put this quilt down,>> you think as you watch

him kneel at your feet.  A gesture brings your glass of grape juice to his

hand.  With a lazy motion, he dips his fingertip into the purple fluid,

draws a thick line from just beside your left toe to your ankle, and sweeps

over it with lips and tounge, making you squeak.  No one but you has touched

your feet since you were a kid, before you got too big and cool for tickling

games.

 

He traces more lines around your ankle, at the base of your calf, on the

inside of your shin, lifting your leg up.  The feel of his mouth at the

inner bend of your leg stops your breathing for a moment, and he moves on,

relentless, up the back of your thigh, around to your hip, down the front of

your leg, until he's back at your toes.  Moving like he's got all the time

in the world and then some for coffee breaks, he repeats the process with

your right leg, driving you to the brink of physical madness.  Unconcerned

with how it must look, you caress your breasts, gently twisting at your

aching nipples.

 

Finally, after drinking most of your grape juice (off you), he stretches out

toward your face.  Your inhibitions eroding under the onslaught of

sensation, you grab his face, kissing him greedily.  Your hand finds his sex

by accident, and you feel it stiffen in your grip.  He groans into your

mouth, laying beside you, his hands cupping your breasts.  He ducks his head

and takes a nipple between his teeth, nipping it gently, like he's peeling

the candy coating off an M&M.  His hands hook into the waistband of your

panties, tugging them down.  You lift your hips and he slips them to

midthigh.  You kick them off the rest of the way.

 

His fingertips brush your belly, near the arrowhead of hair between your

legs.  He spreads you labia and tweaks your clit.  "Aie!" you cry.  His hand

moves lower, and you shudder as one of his fingers slips inside.  It hurts.

 

He pauses, frowning.  He's picked up your pain.  Comprehension bursts across

his face.  "You've never done this."  Without waiting for a reply, he scoots

down, settling his cheek on your thigh.  You catch a mental snapshot of him,

lying next to you, skin and hair painted gold by the light of the lamp, gray

eyes intent and concerned, then he lowers his face between your legs.

 

Several minutes and two fingers later, you're writhing on the floor, crying

out inarticulate moans of need, every nerve in your body working towards

overload.  You're arched halfway to a sitting position, one hand clawing at

the quilt, the other holding the back of his head, the close-cropped hair

tickling your palms, his paintbrushy tail between your fingers.

 

He pauses, looks up into your eyes.  "Obi-Wan . . ." you start, but he

doesn't let you finish, meeting your mouth with his.  You taste yourself on

his lips, hoping it's as sweet to him as it is to you.  His hands bring your

body under his, while your hand grabs his sex and guides it towards yours.

 

As he finds his way into you, you give a little breathless gasp.  It hurts a

bit, yes, but it feels right.  Better than right.  It feels as though the

only reason you've ever existed is to feel him, above you, around you, in

you.  You wrap your legs around his waist, taking his weight.  He sprawls on

you, guiding your rhythum, adding his voice to yours.

 

And when it ends, as you feel him convulse inside you, as you cling to him

like the only lifeboat in all the seven seas, you moan into each others

mouths, aware of nothing but each other.  Oblivion collapses around you and

you fall into it gladly, finding joy in the fact that if you're falling, at

least you're not falling alone.

 

 

You wake, come to really, to soft lips kissing your temple and a soft voice

calling your name.  "Hmmm?" you answer, waking entwined in your lover's

body.

 

"Look at me."

 

You look.  The beauty in those cat eyes is still enough to make your insides

do funny things.  Now they're contrite, apologetic.

 

"I'm sorry.  I didn't realize . . ."

 

"You couldn't have.  It's okay," you answer.  He looks like he might say

something else, but it's lost as you press your lips to his in a lingering

kiss.

 

You disengage your arms and legs from his.  <<Did anyone see us?!?>> you

wonder, horrified.

 

"No," he answers.

 

"We made enough noise . . ."

 

"They ignored us."

 

"What?"  The thought of any of the people you live with ignoring two people

making mad, passionate love in the living room boggles your mind.  "How . .

. wait, don't tell me, I don't want to know."  You purse your lips,

thinking.  "So, now what?"

 

"Now," he says, easing himself up, "you and I are going to get dressed and

go to bed.  Seperately."

 

"Rats."

 

He grins, making him beautiful.  "But first, you are going to tell me when

you get off work this evening."

---