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Who| Wyatt and Maximus
What| Wyatt gets respawned and Maximus goes to find him.
Where| Wyatt's suite.
When| Immediately after Wyatt is revived.
Warnings/Notes| Yeah I... am going to officially set sail the good ship Waximus. You've been warned. EDIT: this log might uh.. might include make outs and might include more than make outs so if you have a problem with two older gents acting like teenagers, you may want to turn back now

Maximus had kept to himself since he was revived. He had come back to the capitol and to find the promise he'd always assumed - that he would come healthy and whole - was a lie. At least this time. He'd awoken with his leg still cold and metal. Prosthetic, rather than flesh.

His stylist had been in tears when she came for him the first time. Sobbing uncontrollably as she told him how beautiful it had been, how she knew exactly how to style him and what he should wear, and he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about until he finally snapped at her and she mumbled about Wyatt as she dressed him in a three piece suit.

Pants. He hated pants.

He didn't complain, however, taking her stylings mutely as he lost himself in his own thoughts. Once complete, he went and found a screen where it was playing a repeat of his death, and watched. His face was stone, and he said nothing, but he watched.

Then he spent the next few days in near silence. He spent most of the time either watching the games or staring out over the city, flexing his hands into fists and straightening them; the hours going by almost without his notice.

He was watching when Wyatt died, but only barely - his eyes glazing over as he listened to the screams of the raptors, of Ellie, of Wyatt's breathless broken plea - and then he was up and off, marching straight for Wyatt's suite. He wasn't there yet, of course, the room was locked and empty, but Maximus resolutely stationed himself outside the door until he could hear the sounds of life inside.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I want you," Maximus rumbled against Wyatt's lips, despite the ghosts behind him. The demons that kept their voices hushed. For now. (The faces in his memory that he couldn't quite remember the edges of.)

He met Wyatt's hunger with a mirrored need of his own - the seal on his heart breached and now nothing would stop the flood. Not sense, not reason.

"I couldn't give a damn about the rest," He growled breathlessly between kisses, though it wasn't quite true. He did give a damn, or at least he would later, but at that very moment he was having a hard time thinking about anything other than the taste of Wyatt's lips and the steadily increasing beat of his own yearning heart.

Wyatt heard the words, but couldn't be sure who had said them. The same need was beating away at him even as the rough pant was echoing in his ears. He was faltering just the same, losing himself just as easily.

All his good intentions were slipping away, all the worries of right and wrong and propriety... the scent of Max was heavy in his nose, that wild mix of dark earth and leather that he'd come to know so well. He'd been falling asleep to it for months and now it was in his lungs, in his mouth, as his lips moved against Max's - roamed across his jaw.

He was drowning. Willingly. Happily.

Later, would be soon enough to trouble himself over the rest.

"I need you, Max," he replied, a rough, muffled murmur, buried in the man's throat. "I've always... I jus' never knew how much."

His brain couldn't even begin to process any of it, but his heart was having no trouble. It was quietly and quickly latching onto what it had found, wrapping up in it so tightly that it would be almost impossible to untangle it again. (But then, really, it had been tangled for months. It had been a long time since he had put Wyatt before himself, before almost everything he had done had been dedicated to the man.)

His hands slipped from Wyatt's face but only so that they could find purchase at his hips - pulling him closer until they were both trapped in a tight embrace, as if he could fold himself into Wyatt's lips and never come out again.

"I'm sorry I was so blind," He murmured, finally getting out his apology.

They had been close before. Had shared the same tight quarters, have lived and slept at each other's side. Had tended to each other's wounds.

He knew Max's hands, his body, but never before had he been so keenly aware of them.

There was a low sound, a small, breathless sort of groan that might have been a curse when Max dragged him closer. The air catching hard in his throat as his mind took a sudden, sharp turn, and heat crawled up his spine.

His head lifted - a flash of it, was there in his eyes, pounded away in his throat. "I've been a fool," he whispered back.

His heart froze and then thumped hard against his chest, as his mind took the exact turn that Wyatt's had and everything suddenly came into very sharp relief. As if the last few moments he'd been living in a sort of pleasant dreamy haze, and now the world was clear as crystal.

Clear, and mildly terrifying. He could feel it, an aching, gnawing need deep in his chest, in the race of his blood, in the fire of his fingertips. But the clearer the world got around him, so too did his ghosts take firmer form, and now he could almost feel them peering over his shoulder.

So, a thin dark tendril of guilt was slowly wrapping itself through his chest, growing along with the heat, and the need. The fact that he wanted Wyatt more than anything, in this moment, left a very real conclusion: he'd left the rest behind. The pins in his heart were proof.

But he couldn't stop himself.

He took Wyatt's lips again, with unmistakable purpose, his thumbs pressing into the grooves at Wyatt's hip as his lips slipped further down, pressing to Wyatt's jaw, then to his throat. He ignored the icy tendril of guilt as best he could, trying to soak in the warmth and the happiness that had evaded him so long.

Wyatt had loved before. He had cared for Dora, but the further he drifted, the more time and distance that grew between them the harder it had become for him to be sure if she'd ever really been meant for him - if it was her he'd mourned, or the idea of her. He'd been angry, certainly, and sad, after her death. Had demanded justice... and had seen it done.

The clutches of grief and guilt had loosened around him. Enough for him to dare to hope again, to see for himself a future unexpected, but opening up just as sweetly before him as his lips met Max's.

Everything in him was wanting. Needing, with a sharp enough edge to almost be painful. His head tipped, almost without though, his pulse shuddering beneath the man's mouth. His hand began to roam, sliding down the slick fabric across Max's back - the strangeness of seeing Max in such a getup lost to him then as his thoughts turned to the heat beneath and how to reach it.

Perhaps somewhere back behind him there was an edge to this cliff. The point at which he could have stopped and pulled away and left it open to come back again when he could think straight. But wherever that point had been, it was far lost now - his mind an endless tumble of hunger and relief. Of the new found and deep burning desire to live now that he had something to live for.

He didn't doubt himself for a second - didn't doubt his purpose, and didn't doubt Wyatt's. He could feel the man's need almost as sharply as his own and it was all he could do to surrender to it. The thumbs as Wyatt's hip caught above his belt, pulled and plucked at the clean linen beneath, slipped under the carefully won gap between fabric and flesh until the pad of his thumb could slide along heated skin.

His breath caught, his lips on the hollow of Wyatt's throat but his mind firmly elsewhere, everything else fading back. Even the black lace of guilt merged into his need and simply made it darker.

It would all be untangled later.

"Wyatt--"

He'd felt something like this before. Like the wind against his face as he raced his horse. Like facing down the barrel of a gun, or running from a herd of charging of buffalo.

Leaping from a cliff, with no guarantees except for the man at his side.

Wyatt had given his life over into Max's hands more than once, and there was no hesitation in doing it again now. He trusted in the choice his heart made - in Max.

A muscle jerked beneath Max's thumb, a knot low in Wyatt's stomach, and he shifted, a small movement, but a decided one - into the touch. A silent offer as his own hand pulled at the shirt tucked so neatly into Max's trousers and slipped under, rough palm splaying against the small of the firm back.

"Max..." A low pant as he leaned, turning to touch his lips to Max's temple, that place at the corner of his eyes where the strong bones met. The hoarse rasp of a curse, the whisper of a prayer.

His chest felt impossibly tight, as if someone had pulled his lungs from him and twisted - painful and incredibly sweet at the same time. Anticipation so sharp he could taste it, pleasure and pain at once.

He could hear the blood rush in his ears, a steady, heady roar, and he could barely breathe as he felt Wyatt lean into his touch - his hand slowly slipping further up under fabric, fingers running along skin until they could trace the edge of bone - hip, the curve of a rib...

There was no speed - each movement careful and considered as he breathed Wyatt in, as his lips moved over his skin. But even with the slow pace there was a sense of deep urgency, as if he were holding himself back at every second, as if the flames inside him would burst free and consume everything if he didn't hold them in check.

His fingers found buttons (a long sworn enemy) and fumbled, trying to pry them open smoothly to absolutely no avail as he let out a small disgruntled noise.

His breath hitched, catching in chest. His heart skipped. For a moment, he was sure, the blood stilled in his veins as everything in him stopped. As his whole world narrowed down to the skim of Max's fingers over his skin - steady with purpose, as rough and callused as his own. (Those same hands, all those times, he never would imagined--)

...He laughed, that low, rumbling sound of pleasure breaking free. Amused, and dizzy. Drunk, on something even headier than the whiskey.

The fingers in Max's hair untangled and slipped down between them, finding Max's, guiding them over the buttons. Helping, selfishly wanting for more.

More heat, more skin. More Max...

The hand at his back moved against edge of his waistband, pulling on the sharp, clean linen as he followed it around. Fingers brushing over his hip, crossing the plain of his stomach - he found a scar, a mountain range beneath his thumb - followed it down to Max's belly-button.

Maximus had loved before. Had dedicated his whole life to his wife, and certainly had dedicated his death to her, but she hadn't been the first (or even the last). It was common practice for soldiers to find comfort in other women while on tour, though he'd only done it once and the experience had left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd tumbled on hillsides as a boy with little experience but plenty of enthusiasm; he had come to learn every curve and twist of his wife's lips and body, had loved her fully and completely and dutifully as any man should. He had mourned her death as if it had been his own, and in a way, it was. The man that had lived then was not the man that lived now.

And no matter how he had loved before, he had never loved like this.

Never loved with so equal a passion, so equal a heat, equal and understanding. There was no deep undercurrent of begetting new life, no duty, no solemnity. He was here only because he wanted to be here, and he loved only because he wanted to love.

Loving without duty was a completely alien concept to him but he did not find it difficult.

In fact he found it nearly impossible even to think through what he was doing - to act on anything other than utter instinct. The instinct that pushed Wyatt's shirt from his shoulders as soon as the buttons were free, the instinct that found his lips chasing hot trails down the man's throat, his collar bone, across the long expanse of skin as he revealed it. The instinct that made his blood race and the voice in the back of his mind cry 'More! More!' as it cried 'Betrayal!' in tandem.

He pressed closer into Wyatt's touch, his skin prickling under his fingertips, an answering breathless chuckle on his lips.

It was Wyatt's turn to fumble. The press of Max's lips, the slow stroke of his hands doing funny things to his mind, sending his senses into overdrive. Each touch a brand he felt down to his bones - deeper still to his very soul.

(How he'd never known, how he hadn't felt him there, tangled up inside him, a piece he'd never noticed missing....)

His usually nimble hands were unsteady, too quick, too slow, too eager, trying so damn hard to stretch every moment. To make it last even as the flames were building in his gut, threatening to take him down to bare, smoldering coals.

(As if he knew. As if he could hear those same demons whispering in Max's ears and knew he would have to find a way to be satisfied with just this - these few stolen moments.)

His heart drummed beneath Max's lips, and an arch of lightning burned down his spine, arching him closer. He fought his way under the vest, the shirt, and finally--

"...Christ."

Skin to skin. His hands sliding over Max's ribs, fingers splaying to take him in. His head dipping to taste, a hot, opened-mouth kisses pressing to the hollow of Max's throat, running over his shoulder.

Maximus hadn't exactly led a straight-forward, easy life. His skin was riddled with scars - most long since faded - but he hardly had perfect, even skin. The one at his hip that Wyatt had discovered only led upwards to more. Proof, one would suppose, of a hard life in the army. He'd survived every one, but it was easy to read his military history in his skin, as well as his desperate escape from them. (The largest scar, the one on his upper bicep, just under the one where he'd tried to dig SPQR out from his skin. The faded tattoo remained, torn and unreadable with scar tissue.)

But Wyatt wasn't untouched either. (He could add that to his quickly growing list of new experiences - he'd never traced scars across a lover before.)

Skin to skin and Maximus might as well have been on fire for the need burning in him, rapidly overwhelming everything. He pressed back, raising his lips to seek Wyatt's once more, his body pressing incredibly close, fingers digging into his back as he slipped a knee between Wyatt's legs and pressed.

"Bed," He managed to get out, grit and gravel. Whether it was an order or a request was completely lost on him; he just knew that staying vertical was very quickly going to become difficult.

Wyatt's fingers played those scars, chasing the hard lines, learning the map of Max like a blind man. There was no shame in them to Wyatt, no fear. Only a sense of wonder and pride that Max had weathered the storms of his life and come out the other side (to be with him here, in this moment, a crossroads in time).

The sharp peaks of his hip bones, the plains of his chest, the scars like stars - constellations drawn in his skin - Max was a wilderness, untamed and undiscovered.

The home he'd lost, suddenly found again.

The kiss melted into a second, hungrier, Wyatt's mouth slanting to make it deeper, to press closer. There was a soft rushing sound, fabric sliding together as his thigh pressed against Max's - rubbed, in a small, but deliberate motion. Trying to ease the ache in his belly... making it only worse.

"Back," he mumbled against the man's lips, fingers dipping into the valley of his spine. Their knees bumped, boots scuffing across each other and his hips pushed forward against the cradle of Max's. "There."

He stumbled backwards as soon as Wyatt pressed against him, suppressing the groan that rose in the back of his throat as he dragged Wyatt with him, unwilling to break the embrace. The back of his knees hit the bed and he collapsed backward onto it, pulling Wyatt down on top of him and kissing him with unrestrained need.

(No room for thought left, now, only heat.)

The fingers that had been tracing Wyatt's skin had fallen to his hips to bring him down, and now that Wyatt was above him they found their way to hook in the waist of his trousers, to pull at the buttons. There was a slight pause - Maximus laying fully back so that he could catch Wyatt's eye, just for a second.

To give Wyatt a chance to pull back, though Maximus could not conceive of a world where he would deny him now. Not if the fire ran through them both. Still, he paused, fingers looped under belt and poised to pull away the rest of the barrier between them.

The bed. Too big, too soft, too clean and pressed. It took him weeks, every time, to readjust after the arena. The scent of soap and flowers in his nose when he had known only this. Their shared sleeping roll a mix of them both - salt and sweat, leather and dirt.

(He would miss again, when the Avoxes came to strip the beds. He would lie awake, and burn again.)

In a tangle of limbs, he met Max on the mattress, the sheets still mussed from before rustling beneath them as his hands roamed, lips hungrily following the path they forged - until the man paused, and pulled back. Their eyes met, held, Wyatt's breath coming in a hard pant.

A choice, that's what Max was trying to give him, but there had never been a less necessary one in Wyatt's life. He knew what wanted.

The same thing he'd always wanted - even if he'd never how much. How desperately.

"Max..."

A low, husky groan of a word.

His hips shifted, a small thrust against those fingers caught in his fly, all but begging, as he leaned forward, cupping the back of Max's head in one hand, lifting him up to meet him again in a desperate confirmation.

A plea.

Edited 2013-12-13 18:05 (UTC)

He didn't hesitate a second longer, arching his neck as Wyatt pulled him up, taking the kiss hungrily as his fingers finally caught at Wyatt's fly and pulled it open, fingers slipping under fabric to tug it firmly down Wyatt's hips.

"Wyatt," He breathed back, desperate. Probably, there should have been more thought behind this. But there was a strange open freedom to it, and there was nothing to hold him back beyond his own demons, which urged him on almost as much as they hated him for it.

He shoved the fabric down and suddenly there was little left - Wyatt's small clothes the last thing left and Maximus was already tugging at those as well.

"Wyatt, I--"

His fingertips skimmed down over Max's ribs, skipping lightly over muscle and bone as he sought out the buckle nestled in the center of his hips. It should have been strange, should have given him pause, the readiness of his fingers as he pulled on the belt, the eagerness....

He had never wanted like this. Needed with such a desperate ache. The entirety of the world blotted out but for the man under his hands, the feel of his hands on him in return. So close... his body throbbing in anticipation.

"Max," buttons slipped under his fingers, the straining fabric parting enough for him to works inside, gripping at Max's hips, hooking in the small underclothes beneath. "Max, I can't..."

He wanted his hands on him, wanted to Max feel as he did. Wanted, just for a moment, to be whole.

Needed, with everything he was.

"I need--"

For a split second, at the words 'I can't', Maximus felt his heart stop. As if he'd tumbled over a line and hadn't noticed and reality almost slipped back into the heady dream he was writhing in. But then more words fell from Wyatt's lips, and more meaning from his finger tips and Maximus could breath again.

"I'm right here," He assured him in a low voice as he arched up to take a long, yearning kiss, kick the last of the fabric off the bed and finally taking Wyatt fully into his arms, completely free.

"I need you, Wyatt-- I need you, too--

He pressed his forehead against Max's, their lips brushing on each rough breath, just, for a moment, relishing in the feel of it. Of being held like that for the first time in so long. An embrace he'd all but forgotten and never expected to feel again.

Never this strongly, never this - perfectly.

A heartbeat, two, before the relentless rush of his blood was pushing him on again. Unsatisfied, needing more.

Shifting, he moved to Max's side, lying beside him to give his hands complete freedom. Skimming back up along the man's flanks after the last of the fabric had been pushed away, in along the dip of his hips and down, to find him hard and wanting with the first, tentative brush of his knuckles.

His heart stopped, his breath caught, the barest brush of knuckles tracing fire through his groin. His blood pounded south and he surged forward to take a hard and hungry kiss, gripping Wyatt's hips as he slid in closer.

It wasn't a dance he was particularly used to, and he hadn't a firm idea of where to put his hands, but when Wyatt's knuckled brushed against him he suddenly had a much clearer picture. He slipped a hand between them, finger tips tracing down Wyatt's inner thigh before he turned his palm to grind it slowly against the heat he found there.

The pleasure was instant, as hard and fast as a blow to the gut. It raced along under his skin, his muscles clenching hard. His lips wrenched away, a low groan tearing free.

(Max's name buried in it. The whole Latin of it, the only word he had left. The rest lost and meaningless.)

His back arched and pushed his hips helplessly forward. Instinctively, desperately, he slipped a leg over Max's, trying to tangle them together, as close physically as he could feel in his chest. He moved a hand back, kneading at the thick muscles of the Roman's back, lower to the hard backside while the other flexed and curled and began to explore.

Learning this new part of Max as he had the rest of him, with the slow trace of his fingers, the languid stroke of his thumb.

He heard his name, but only vaguely, only distantly, and didn't even realise when an echo of Wyatt's name chased after it. Even though it fell from his lips.

His touch faltered as Wyatt's found purpose, as the intensity of what they were doing hit him like a hammer blow and his entire being condensed down to a single point of light and need. He flexed his fingers and let them find full purchase around the warm firm flesh of Wyatt's need, giving a careful, appraising stroke.

He murmured Wyatt's name again, low and gruff against his throat as Wyatt pulled them closer, as their knuckles brushed against each other. A shudder of anticipation, of pleasure and lust and need and love, and he was so, so very lost.

Max wasn't lost alone, Wyatt was right there, racing along with him. His heart skipping, his lungs burning. Everything in him slamming to a painful halt, lost to the stroke of Max's rough fingers.

Rational thought was long gone. It was all instinct now. All Max.

The taste of him in his mouth again as his lips pressed against the man's jaw, his throat. The scent of him, dragged into his lungs with each ragged breath. The heat, beneath his hands, against his skin - Max a flame, scorching across his flesh.

(And oh, how happy he was to burn.)

A tremor raced through him, a ripple of aching muscle, of need, barely contained. His fingers dragged in a thorough memorization, building a slow rhythm.

His other hand griped hard at Max's hip, unaware of the fierceness of his hold, to the faint smudges he would leave behind.

He'd wear the bruises as badges, later, tucked secretly under his clothes. Proud, but secret, and only for him.

It had been so long - so, so very long - since he'd allowed himself to be touched, since he'd touched someone in return, and even then it hadn't been like this. The last time he'd seen his wife she'd had their son nearly attached to her hip and they'd only stolen a few brief moments and it had been warm and wonderful but absolutely nothing like this raging, all-consuming fire.

(Finally knew, on a dim level, why this was frowned upon in the army. Who could come back down to earth, after feeling like this?)

He ached - he utterly ached - and he tried to chase after Wyatt's lips but it was impossible, his grip firm now and impossibly desperate. He wanted to make sure that Wyatt felt it just as he did but it was probably impossible because each stroke of Wyatt's hand on him was sending him a dizzying jolt of pleasure and he hadn't been touched in so long that his body barely knew what to do with it anymore. He moaned, low and rough, his teeth finding their way to the thick muscle at Wyatt's shoulder, his hips bucking into the man's grip even as his own began to find a more heated pace.

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yeah, warnings for 'very probable smut' and 'completely purple prose' 8D not sorry!

I love this thread and everything it chooses to be!

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