Slow Control

It’s not unusual for the sounds of banging, creaking, smashing, or my mangled Latin to be coming from my apartment. I’m always making noise when I do spells--spell work is messy and noisy, and it either results in what my original intentions had been, or I wind up missing an eyebrow.

Lately, the noises coming from my apartment have had less to do with spell work and more to do with the fact that Bob and I had been banging each other's brains out non-stop. We had stopped the four-a-days, finally, because neither of us could remember when we'd last had circulation in our bodies. Horny wizard cliches aside, the hot-monkey-wizard sex is pretty damn good. Hell, it's the best I've ever had. Bob is the kind of lover that 99% of people never get to have even one experience with in their entire lives. So yeah...maybe "pretty damn good" is one hell of an understatement. More like fucking amazing. But I digress. And I've already gone off track.

I came back from Murphy's office with a scowl and a bit of pent up anger. She'd taken me off her most recent case, citing reasons that I still didn't understand. I knew that she'd been getting pressure from her bosses, I knew she'd recently had one hell of a case load. So it didn't make any sense to me as to why she'd pull me off a case now. Her timing sucked, and we both knew it. That didn't stop her from doing it. You'd think she'd be over the whole "save Harry, sacrifice yourself" complex, but just with so many other things in my life, women were simply beings I didn't understand. Best to leave them to their business, rather than be set upon.

I approached my apartment-office building, barely taking the time to look both ways before I crossed the street. Don't start with me, I know I'm probably far more likely to get hit by a speeding car than to get blown up by a warlock or eaten by a werewolf, but at the present moment, I'd welcome the warlock, werewolf, and speeding car, just so I could have something to fight with.

The only person I could fight with now was Bob, who had stayed at home instead of coming with me to Murph's office. We'd been doing some fairly heavy spellwork in the last couple of days, and it was wearing on both of us, but Bob in particular. He still wasn't up to full strength yet, and I knew when he woke up this morning that he wasn't feeling well. So I'd made breakfast and brought it up to him. The smile he'd given me while I served him breakfast in bed had carried me through my day, and even now, as pissed as I was, it kept a spark of joy in me yet. I was determined not to blow up at him. He'd done nothing wrong.

And now we're back to the noise-issue...I didn't hear any banging, creaking, smashing, Latin, or, thank god, sex noises, coming from my apartment as I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

What I heard had the unmistakable riffs of my AC/DC record. Strains of "Back in Black" reached my ears, and I wasn't sure what to make of it. I had boxes of rock records lying around, music I'd been collecting for years from garage and going-out-of business sales. My love for classic rock came from my teen years, when pent-up angst and unfulfilled fantasies about a particular white-haired, sharp-tongued mentor of mine burrowed deep in my mind (and groin, if night after night of masturbation underneath the covers and my whispers of "Bob, please" are any contest to it), never allowing me the release I needed. So, frustrated and horny and desperately wanting to shove aforementioned mentor against my uncle's desk and suck him off until he begged, I'd starting browsing used record stores, and finally discovered rock music. I've been a junkie ever since.

I tugged off my coat and hung it haphazardly on the coat rack, stepping softly as I moved around a stack of boxes and a slowly dying fern. The damn thing won't just die, it hangs on, hoping that one day I'll water it. There's more chance of me going back to dating women than there is of me watering that plant. Wizard, I know...I should appreciate all things that are green and grow and are part of nature. But I really hate that goddamn fern.

I walked quietly past the lab, the music getting louder, the words to the song getting easier to comprehend. When I reached the two steps that lead down to the kitchen, I peeked around the corner.

Bob was facing away from me, dressed in black slacks and one of my well-worn black button-down shirts. The shirt was untucked, which was a bit shocking, but not so much as the rolled up sleeves, the lack of shoes or socks, and the fact that he was scrubbing down the kitchen counter. And humming. And shaking his ass to the music.

I watched, entranced by the dance his tight ass was doing, hips moving in perfect timing to the guitar riffs and drumbeat. The anger I held melted away, and I had to bite my lip to keep a hysterical little giggle from escaping. I leaned against the door frame, eyes glued to my lover, my friend, my mentor, and the other half of me (don't...just don't...I'm a big girl sometimes, and I'll readily admit just this once) as he actually bounced on the balls of his feet and bobbed his head in time with the beginning chords of "Shot Down in Flames", one of my favorite songs. The record player was new, since records had recently become cool again with emo kids and born-again rockers, and Bob and I had put it to good use since I'd bought it, playing classical while doing spellwork, and soft jazz and Sade while we made love. I still avoid "Smooth Operator", though, simply because I'd made a crack about Bob and that song a few weeks ago, and was tied to the bed for my insult. He'd moved the record player into the kitchen from upstairs; it wasn't heavy, and I saw he had put it in the far corner of the kitchen.

And he was still scrubbing, still humming along, and then he did this neat little spin that put him face-to-face with me. He froze, dropping the rag with a soft plop on the counter, and I could see the tiniest bit of flush creep up his pale neck. The sudden, intense urge to go to him and kiss that flush away startled me, and I could feel a lick of desire slink into my belly, making me take a deep breath. I smiled at him, one of those big, goofy ones that he loves (because he's told me so, many times over again), and sauntered over to him, taking in the sight of an embarrassed-but too-damn-proud-to-blush Bob.

His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, the top three buttons undone on the shirt, giving me a tease of more alabaster skin, but he didn't move, his eyes watching me advance towards him.

"I didn't hear you come in, Harry," he finally said, voice raised over the music.

I did another lip bite, trying so damn hard not to laugh as he fidgeted just a little under my gaze. The other half of my not-laugh was brought on by the fact that "Shot Down in Flames" had just ended, and "Love Hungry Man" had started up. Make your own jokes there, but I was feeling rather turned on by what I had just witnessed. I let my eyes move slowly, starting with his bare feet and going up, taking in the fitted slacks that hugged his frame in all the right places, the untucked shirt that was just a little too big for him, and the rolled-up sleeves. I did mention the rolled-up sleeves, right? It's a personal kink of mine, and even though I've seen and explored every inch of the man's body, there was something about his entire body being covered up save his forearms that got me going. My eyes finally locked onto his, and whatever he saw there made him inhale sharply.

"I guess not," I finally answered. "Don't let me interrupt."

I walked past him, nonchalantly as possible, hand barely brushing one of those bare forearms, and flipped a button on the record player, turning the volume down just enough so we didn't have to raise our voices anymore. He said nothing, and when I turned around, he'd picked the rag back up, fingers gripping it hard enough so that water and a few suds squeezed out of the cloth, hitting the counter in drops.

"Kitchen was rather dirty, huh?"

He nodded, eyes watching my every move so closely it felt like he was watching my every breath. "I can't believe I allowed you to feed me breakfast cooked in this filth." His voice was even, calm, very Bob.

My eyebrows furrowed in mock concern. "You didn't get sick from it, did you?"

He shook his head, the movement feeling a bit forced. Forced because I was still staring at him, not forced because he'd actually gotten sick from my food. If he'd actually been ill from breakfast, it would have been the first thing I'd heard about when I came home. Bob can be bitchy like that.

I shrugged and gave him one of those smiles he loves. He tore his eyes from mine, biting his lip and concentrating awfully hard on scrubbing the same piece of countertop over and over again. I walked behind him, pressing myself just barely against him, one hand on his hip and the other wrapping around his chest, fingers stroking his pectoral through the material of his shirt. He wiggled just a tiny bit, moving his hips to align them with mine. Bob has few tells, and I still have a hard time reading his face or his tone of voice when he's being ambiguous or hiding his emotions behind that annoying sense of calm he portrays so well, but I know his body very well. The slight shift of his hips against mine stoked that desire that had settled in my gut, and the first few flames of it had me licking dry lips, fingers pressing into the muscle of his chest.

"You look like you're feeling better," I said in his ear, chin resting on his shoulder. The rag didn't stop scrubbing even as I pressed my face into his neck and inhaled, but I saw a tremor start in his hand and move up his arm, making the muscle in his forearm tense, the veins sticking out just a little. The smell of Bob is something I can vividly recall even if I am standing in the middle of a sewer; as memorable as the smell of slowly drying leaves in the fall, your mother's favorite perfume, or your father's cigars, the scent of this man's skin is permanently imprinted on every single one of my olfactory and brain cells. There are hints of things that linger on his skin, like the soap in our shower, the aftershave he occasionally wears, the laundry detergent we use, woodsmoke, rosemary, musk. Bob smells like all these things, and many more that I can't give name to, but he is mine, my mate. I know his scent like I know where every scar and mark is on my own skin, maybe even better. I can sometimes smell myself on him, the scent of our hair and skin left from roaming hands and lips, and like the bell to Pavlov's dog, the combined smell of him and me makes me salivate.

I inhaled again, barely brushing my lips over the skin under his ear, and I felt his hips inadvertently jerk against mine. I chuckled, hand moving down his chest while my other hand gripped his hip harder. "You look like you're feeling better," I repeat, inwardly groaning as I felt my cock start to swell.

His shoulders tensed as I pressed against him just a little more, and his head came up. I felt his spine stiffen, and I knew he was fighting my advances. "I feel better, yes, but not completely well," he intoned, his voice just a touch scratchy. "There's still that horrible pressure right behind my eyes."

And we all know the treatment for a headache is loud rock music in the form of AC/DC, but I said nothing like that to him. He'd been thoroughly enjoying himself, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching him dance around. He stopped scrubbing as I rubbed against him, closed lips skimming his neck. He sighed, as inadvertent as the sound may have been, and his left hand came up and laid on top of mine, stilling my hand's movement halfway down his chest, just above his bellybutton, while his scrubbing hand, damp and smelling like lemon, reached behind him to cup the back of my head, encouraging further exploration of his neck.

He tipped his head to the side, giving me more access to his skin, and my tongue grazed the line of his neck, the line ending when my teeth latched onto his earlobe and tugged. He said something akin to "Still need to clean the kitchen," but my senses were overtaken by the feel and scent of him, and I closed my eyes, hugging him close.

"Did you take anything for your headache?" I finally ask, rubbing my scruffy jaw against his neck.

"Harry, you know I hate taking pills to alleviate pain," he said dryly, fingernails lightly scratching the hair at the base of my skull.

"What does alleviate your pain?"

It was his turn to chuckle, slow and deep, the sound rumbling out from the depths of his throat. And we all know that sound completely missed my ears and went straight to my groin. "As much as a little quiet and rest did me good today, I missed you," he replied in avoidance of my question, turning slowly in my arms. I backed up just a little to give him room to get comfortable, and he looked up at me, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. "So, any new villains on the horizon?"

I made a face that had him laughing. Another straight shot to my filling cock. One more was going to have me rubbing up against him like a dog in heat, and I knew he didn't feel good still, so I wanted to prevent that. I shifted away from his body just enough so our midsections were barely touching, instead of being melded together. "Murphy booted us off the case," I replied, my anger coming back, but it was only a memory of the intensity I'd felt just minutes earlier.

He looked worried. "Did she say why?"

I shrugged, eyes fixing on the small patch of bare skin his partially unbuttoned shirt revealed. "It's Murphy, so it's more like 'Dresden, you and Bob are off the case. Don't ask my why, don't give me any of your shit. Just get out of here'. "

"That would be our Detective Murphy, baring the obvious lack of female tone," Bob said, small smile still on his face. And then he did the thing that drives me insane.

He bit his lower lip, eyes fluttering up over my face and locking with mine.

God, I'm a sucker for that look. I took a deep breath, willed thoughts of garbage heaps, piles of rotten food...a naked Butters, anything, anything, to get my mind away from the lusciously beautiful man in front of me.

It didn't work.

I rubbed up against him, full-on dog in heat mode, my hips shoving his into the counter. "I have an idea," I said in a quiet voice.

He cocked an eyebrow at me, managing to look arrogant and insolent despite the fact that I could feel his hard-on through our combined 4 layers of cloth. "And just what would that idea be, because if it involves any kind of strenuous exertion on my part, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bow out."

I shook my head, grinning. "No strenuous exertion, I promise. Just go upstairs, take off your shirt, and sit on the bed."

He gave me a puzzled look, and I shoved my hips against his harder. His eyes closed just for an instant and licked his lips. "Please, Bob, I promise. If anything, you might even feel better." He fixed eyes with me, and he slowly, oh so beautifully and slowly, smiled.

"All right."

"Good," I said, stepping back from him so he could pass by me. "I'll be up in just a minute."

He nodded and walked away. I admired the view until he turned the corner and left the kitchen. The moment he was out of my sight, I grinned. I waited until I heard his footsteps upstairs before leaving the kitchen. When I had made my way into the living room, my destination was one of the bookshelves that lined the far wall. I pulled out the first five books and reached, my fingers closing around a small glass bottle hidden in the recesses of the shelving. I'd hidden it a few weeks ago after buying it from a supplier I'd been using for some of my spell materials. She made all of her candles, perfumes, and oils herself, and I knew the instant I'd smelled the sandalwood oil that it was perfect.

I set the bottle on the table beside me, replaced the books, and swiftly undid the buttons on my shirt, tossing it onto the nearby chair. The cool air of the apartment made me shiver a little as it hit my bare chest, and that shiver traveled down the entire length of my body. It felt amazing, and I snatched the bottle back up, my steps carrying me to the stairs and up to our bedroom.

Bob had been good and done what I asked, sitting on our bed, shirtless. He was bracing himself on his arms, long pale body reclined on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle. He smiled at me, eyes flickering over to the red glass bottle in my hand. "And what is that?"

I smiled back. "Something I was saving for a special occasion. I think this most definitely counts as one." I whirled a finger in the air. "Lay on your stomach, arms out to the sides."

"You're not tying me down, Harry."

I rolled my eyes and blew out a breath. He could be so damn difficult sometimes, even when it was obvious from the pain hidden in his eyes that his head still bothered him. "Bob, please."

He laughed a little, then slowly uncrossed his legs and flipped over on his stomach, arms draped over the sides of the bed. I approached, pulling out the glass stopper and inhaling the scent of sandalwood. It made me reel a bit, the combination of the oil's musk and the sight of Bob spread out on the bed, waiting for me. His skin was smooth and supple, the pale sheen of it all I could see as I kneeled over him, legs on either side of his, and dipped two fingers into the oil. I set it aside on the nightstand and rubbed my hands together, coating my skin in the slick substance.

Bob sniffed, his head turned to the side. "Is that sandalwood I smell?"

Instead of replying, I put both my hands on his skin, palms flat against his shoulder blades, and pressed down gently with my fingers. My fingertips sank into the knotted muscle there, and he moaned, his hands grasping the sides of the bed. He hummed in pain and appreciation, his breath coming out in puffs. "Mmmm, Harry," he said, voice muffled by the pillow his head was on.

"I'm no expert at this," I said as I leaned over him, taking the time to run my lips over the back of his neck. My fingers kissed the pliable flesh just below his shoulder blades, stroking, smoothing, caressing. The oil made my fingers slide over the alabaster expanse of his back, and his skin absorbed the sandalwood essence, making it softer. I sighed along with him, the small, writhing movements he made making my pants uncomfortably tight in a specific area. I worked his skin, moving my hands between his neck and his ribcage, going no lower, only semi-intentionally teasing him.

After a few tortuous minutes, his tight voice said, "Lower, Harry."

I grinned, fingertips skimming the flesh of his lower back gently. He arched slightly against my hands, his knuckles growing white as he gripped the sides of the bed just that much harder. My hands were drying up and I needed more oil, but I had an idea.

"How about we get these pants off of you?" I said in a low purr, fingers dipping underneath the waistband of his slacks.

Bob made an appreciative noise and rolled onto his back. Nimble fingers worked the button and zipper on his pants, anxious hands tugged down the annoying garment, shoving the pants down to his thighs. I helped him get them off the rest of the way, discarding them off the side of the bed, and my eyes locked onto his hard cock, the outline of it straining the briefs he wore.

I reached out and squeezed his erection, making him hiss and thrust his hips off the bed. "None of that, now," I said. "You still don't feel well."

He bit his lip, hands reaching for me, and I grabbed them. He pulled me down, and for the first time since I'd come home, we kissed. It was deliberately slow, agonizingly gorgeous in the way his lips slid against mine. Our tongues touched and I groaned. I love the smell of him, but the taste of him is like a drug. It coats my tongue and the roof of my mouth, it slips over my mind like a fog. It's all I know when we kiss like this.

He pulled away from me with a loud smack and laid his head back down, fingers smoothing down my hair. "I believe you were in the middle of a massage," he said softly, eyes flicking over to the bottle on the table.

"So I was," I said back, reaching for the red glass. I unstoppered it and brought it eye level, holding it over Bob's bare chest. He was breathing a little harder than normal, watching my every move. I lowered the bottle until it was just a few inches above his skin, and tipped it slightly. A thin trickle of oil dripped from the bottle, splashing his chest. Quickly darkening eyes stalked me as I set the bottle aside and ran my fingers through the oil on his skin. He wiggled against my hands, his fingers slowly curling around my forearms. His thumbs stroked the backs of my hands as I rubbed the oil into his skin.

I drug blunt fingernails over his nipples, making him grunt in pleasure, then tangled my fingers in the sparse white hair that trailed down the middle of his chest, making sure that I coated every millimeter of his flesh with sandalwood. My hands were so slippery that when I went to take off his underwear, I only managed to snap the elastic a few times. He eyed me closely and snorted.

"Allow me," he said with a haughty smile. He tugged them down, and I got them off the rest of the way, tossing them on top of his pants on the floor. He was hard and heavy, tip leaking, flesh such a deep pink that it almost looked red. I ignored his erect penis as best I could, moving my fingers down his chest and over the taut skin on his hips, thumbs pressing into his hipbones, smoothing the flesh there. He moaned quietly, hands running up and down my arms, urging me on. Even the coarse, curly hair that surrounded his cock got attention from my oil-slicked fingers, but I completely skirted his twitching erection.

I ran my hands down over his thighs, giving those muscles the same attention as I had every other part of his body. His breathing hitched, and he bit his lip...again. For the third time. He was driving me crazy and he knew it, the bastard. Thought with love, I promise. He knows all my triggers, but after all this time, I still don't know all of his. This was the first time I'd ever done this, and as tense as many of his muscles were, as knotted and tangled as they felt under my hands, I knew he was thoroughly enjoying my ministrations. Apparently, getting a massage from his boyfriend is a Bob-trigger. One for team Harry.

I fought to keep a smile off my face when I ordered him back onto his stomach. He eyed me carefully, one white eyebrow raised, but he did as I asked. His skin was still shiny from the oil I'd already used, but the line stopped at his waist, where his pants had been preventing me from moving further down his beautiful, pale skin and tight, muscled body.

His bare ass, round and white, was laid out before me. The man had a butt you could eat breakfast off of, to use the old cliché. I gently brushed my fingers down his spine, making him shiver and grip the pillows. His hips thrust against the mattress, seeking friction for his hard cock, as I softly moved my hands over his ass, fingers pushing down. There is not a single ounce of fat on the man, and I envied him that, but the feel of his flesh and muscles under my hands made my own cock twitch, begging for release from the cruel confines of my pants. I was not going to rush this. I could still sense the waves of pain coming from him, masked by the pleasure I was giving him, but still there.

I swiftly undid my own slacks and abandoned the bed only long enough to get rid of them and my boxers. One more dip of my fingers into the oil, and I ran my index finger along the crack of his ass, the softest touch I could manage in the face of mind-altering lust for the man beneath me. I grabbed his left hand with my free one, entwining our fingers together. I heard him hum in pleasure, the sound making his whole body vibrate.

I brought my other hand underneath him, pulling his lower body up until his ass was in the air, nearly eye-level as I bent down. His right leg came back, calf locking around my thigh, and I smoothed my hand over his skin, hip to foot. "We're gonna go slow, Bob," I said. "I don't want to make your head hurt any more than it is."

He turned his head as far back as he could, face contorted in pleasure as he looked at me. "My head feels much better than it did, Harry, thanks to your skillful hands."

I snorted. "You're a lot of things, Bob, but you're a terrible liar. The look in your eyes tells me your head still hurts, and don't deny it."

He started to do just that, but I pressed two fingers into the cleft of his ass, fingers brushing his hole, and he hissed instead. "Wouldn't dream of it," came his tight reply.

"Slow and easy, Bob. Slow and easy," I said, whispering it over and over again as I pressed one slick finger into him. He arched into my touch, saying my name as one knuckle sank in, followed by the other, until my entire finger was in him. He writhed and wriggled, seeking more contact than that one sole finger. I curled it, brushing his prostate, and he cried my name, the sound coming out choked.

"Sshh, Bob, easy." My voice rumbled, and I slipped another finger in, meeting little resistance, thanks to his state of arousal and the oil. He keened, practically purring as I slid my fingers in and out, slower than I ever thought possible, slower than I thought I could manage under the haze of lust that had fogged my mind from the moment I watched Bob shaking his ass to AC/DC.

In and out, in and out, and, eventually, I reached around him and took a hold of his throbbing erection. I slicked my own penis with a combination of his pre-cum and the oil left on my fingers, and pressed myself into him gently, so achingly, tortuously slow that I shook with the effort of holding back. Inch by beautiful inch, I sank into him, until, eventually, I was in to the hilt, one hand gripping his hip, one hand sliding up and down his back in soothing circles.

He was quietly babbling my name, moaning and grunting, hips matching my unhurried, measured pace. We didn't rush, we didn't move too quickly or too slowly, we simply moved together, as perfectly as two joined human bodies can.

I heard his whispered pleas, I felt him underneath me, I smelled the musk of his arousal, the scent of his skin, and the sandalwood that I'd dripped all over him, covered him in, was using to slide into him, to make love to him.

He panted my name, and I felt that familiar yet still-so-amazing tingle build at the base of my spine, and I whispered to him, "Bob, let go. Just let go."

He came right before I did, moaning my name, and I saw an array of colors and shapes that didn't exist in our reality. Pleasure that had no words to describe rippled through me in waves, and my entire body shook. Bob crumpled beneath me, spent and satiated, and instead of falling on top of him for fear of making his head hurt more, I pulled out gently and used the last bit of energy I had to collapse onto my side, hand resting on his back while my other one was flung out to the side.

I couldn't move, I could barely breathe, and every tiny cell tingled with sweet sensation. I lay there, breathing hard, watching him, and he finally rolled onto his side and grabbed my hand, linking our fingers tightly, and brought our combined hands to his chest, pressing them against his rapidly beating heart.

"No one takes care of me like you do, Harry," he said softly, other hand wrapping around the back of my head to pull me in for a kiss. Our lips met, gentle and sweet. I tasted his lips like a man taking that last, amazing bite of some scrumptious dessert, determined to savor the unique flavor of it.

"Notice how I actually managed to hold my libido back enough to not just slam into you," I said jokingly.

"I think my brains might have come out of my ears if you did that," he replied sleepily, eyes closing as he snuggled close.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep, our hands still together and laying against his chest. I reached over with my other hand and stroked his hair before pulling the covers up over the both of us. I drifted in and out of sleep for a while, and when I woke up again, he had moved his body to be flush against me, his face buried in my neck. His breathing was steady, his skin warm, and he still smelled like sandalwood.

"Thank you, Harry," he whispered against my skin. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He was just barely awake, and I managed to utter, "I love you too, Bob," before he fell back asleep in my arms, warm and comfortable, and complete in the knowledge that I would be right beside him when he woke up in the morning.