Title: Still Waters (Aka: “the bath fic”; “the snippet fic”; and “the qwikki ficci”)
Author: Reverand Maynard
Warnings: 13x6; Lemony; Yaoi; Very, very wet. ^ ^
Disclaimer: Not Mine.

NOTES: This started out as a very short fic and was not meant to progress. The intended ending is denoted by: * - * - * - * - * - *

After that it was written in very small section so any choppiness in the writing is due to that . . . or just that I’m a bad writer. ^ ^

Another long and heavy day weighed upon the shoulders of General Khushrenada as he made his way to his quarters. It was late, too late. The guard at his door was already asleep. He pushed aside his envy, imagined the comfort of a hot bath, wondered where his second-in-command would be sleeping this evening, and swiped his clearance card. The door opened with a light whir.

The room beyond was pitch save for the thin light spilling in like so much milky water, but he knew his way well and took three strides in, one step right, a twenty-five degree turn , and with a graceful flick of the wrist, the room was flooded in light.

Now, about that bath . . .

Treize turned to the bathroom and marched to his destination--ever the general--but was stopped abruptly as he entered the room. It was there, to his great surprise, that he found the bath already occupied. Not only occupied, but filled to brimming with one very wet, very soapy, very, very nude Zechs Merquise, who was presently exploiting the large tub to it’s fullest potential . . . and then some.

Zechs lolled his pretty head to the side where it rested on the rim, and smiled a sleepy and welcoming grin through the steam, a smile that also gave the General an idea as to why the water was stirring ever so slightly. That guess was proven a moment later when his Second pushed his hips up out of the water to show him that a hot bath was not all he had been preparing for him.

Treize warmed and purred, “Zechs . . . is that any way to salute your General?”

* - * - * - * - * - *

Zechs dropped his hips slowly, sinking even lower into steaming water until only his head and knees crested the surface. The water stirred quicker.

“You’re dirty, General. A dirty man, no matter how bright the gleam or great the--” Zechs paused there, closing his eyes and biting his lip until the sensation passed and he continued a bit breathless, “ . . . the heft of his medals, does not deserve the respect of his soldiers, and in particular those cleaner than himself.”

Treize smiled at the throaty and wanton voice. The man sprawled in the bath, water to his chin like a child tucked beneath warm blankets, was affecting him in ways that made him forget how tired he was. Truly, his uniform and everything beneath was impeccably well-kempt, but his mind . . . oh how filthy a clean man can be.

“And how do you expect a dirty fellow, such as myself, to bathe when I’ve had my bath so thoroughly commandeered?” Treize’s pants were becoming quite constricting, the evidence of which was probably quite obvious, but he steeled himself and waited. It was a cat and mouse game and he was never terribly fond of cheese.

The bath water finally stilled just before Zechs placed his hands on the rim and hefted his long body up and out of the water. Outwardly, Treize watched impassively. On the inside however, he marveled at the lean form before him, the wet, white hair, the slick and glistening muscles that were red from the heat and begging to be touched, the tall and thick and surely aching proof of desire that jutted in Treize’s direction, that his fingers yearned to hold even as they itched to squeeze his own.

“By all means, General,” Zechs was saying, “won’t you join me?”

Treize gave a crooked smile and paced slowly toward Zechs’s wet figure, “Such hospitality. . .” Steam drifted from the man’s overheated skin and warmed Treize’s fingers where he placed a hand on his shoulder. The flesh beneath was slippery slick and from this close Treize could smell the faint scent of roses. His hand slid easily down Zechs’s front and encircled the slim waist, pulling Zechs close to him, feeling the heat of him despite his coat, the wetness of him beneath his hands, the hardness at his groin probing his own. He moved in close, his hand at Zechs’s back, his mouth at Zechs’s cheek, but he did not kiss, not yet.

“A bit heavy on the bath oil weren’t you?” Treize asked in a hushed whisper at Zechs’s ear. Indeed the body beneath his embrace was slick with more than water.

“I hope so,” was the slow reply as Zechs returned the embrace, pressing himself into the taut front of Treize’s uniform. The almost stifling heat of the water, while it had so effectively roused his senses, had indeed made him lethargic, and his head fell against Treize’s shoulder even as his eyes closed and he loosed a tenuous moan.

“ . . .Treize . . .”

For the General, the sleepy and sensual sound was the mousy squeak he had been waiting for and he gave into the urge to taste the water dripping from the man’s ear and skimming down his neck and throat. It was still very warm and almost sweet from the abundance of rose oil, and beneath that lingered the soft and delectable taste of flesh . . . of Zechs. He kissed his way across a pale and arched throat, lifting Zechs’s head from his shoulder and holding it in place. Then up the noble chin, dipping Zechs’s head to finally taste the pink lips, the open mouth, slick teeth and familiar tongue. The hand at Zechs’s back strayed lower and pulled the his hips suddenly forward.

Even with Treize’s mouth firmly sealing his own, Zechs’s moan filled the room and echoed back at him from the gleaming tile walls.

Treize, for all his quiet control, was losing his mind on the inside. The day, to this point, had been so trying and heavy, like a thick syrup he trudged through, feet laden with stones. But now, the warm and willing man in his arms had undone most of the day’s efforts to squash him into the black and stagnant mire. Just seeing him there had lightened him significantly. Smelling and touching and tasting, that would surely be the panacea for his weary spirit . . . catnip for a most deserving and eager kitty. When had this happened? When had Zechs become such a salve for his wounds, a soothing sight for eyes that “sore” could not begin to describe?

Their kisses became feverish, Treize all but devouring the other man, hot, damp skin beneath his fingers, on his lips. He began to forget himself and groaned when Zechs’s hands (which had been busy at the General’s coat buttons) found their way past the barrier that was his uniform and warm palms slid across his breast, his nipples, strong fingers with neatly manicured nails running soft down his back and then pressing into his stomach, ebbing at his pants line.

Zechs’s breath came came quick and heavy, punctuated by little gasps and tremors, and it became all of Treize’s focus--that heat on his neck in his mouth, the sound in his ear and at his cheek--except the hand that had finally burrowed it’s way past the trappings and clasps of his uniform and caught Treize in the most commanding and urgent of grips.

That was the straw that broke the cat’s back.

Suddenly, Zechs was both tumbling backward and caught at the same moment, held close and pushed down, and when he found himself once again sitting in the chest-deep and still-hot water of the massive bath, he also found Treize there with him, forgotten clothes and all.

Treize leaned Zechs back against the expansive rim of the tub, kissing that beautifully surprised face and thrusting into the knowing fingers that still held him firmly. Churning water spilled out of the bath, splashing dully onto the carpet, and soaked into his coat, making him feel heavy again. This was madness, he knew, a show of abandon and unrestraint, but that’s precisely the way Zechs made him and he felt it dishonest to deceive the other man any longer.

Zechs was smiling uncharacteristically wide as he worked his hands inside Treize’s now-wet trousers, a chesire’s grin that made him seem wicked.

“You might have at least removed your boots . . .”

Treize heard the wry comment, saw the grin spread wide on his lover’s face, and somewhere in his mind he angered at being needled by that tone. After all, he still had his pride. But so much more of him was focused on the body beneath him, the hand gliding easily around his heat, and the lips and throat he so loved to taste. This was not the time for anger.

Zechs was shifting under him, his less occupied hand adjusting the General’s pants with some unknown intention. A second later and he learned it. Zechs had managed to push his trousers down enough, lift his own hips enough, and now . . . now. . . ohhh what heaven!

“Milliard . . .” Treize managed as he thrust even more fiercely into that recess, where he now slid snugly alongside Zechs’s own heated silk. God but this man was incredible, always knowing just how and where to touch . . . even if it went deeper than mere flesh, and the moment when he’d said that name, that forbidden identity, the body beneath his had shivered

The water skimming between their bodies, splashing up into their mouth from time to time, was still rich with oil and the slick stuff made friction easy and smooth. Treize reached his own hand between them to aid in their release, and finding Zechs’s own, interlaced their fingers, suddenly realizing that it was the first time they had ever held hands.

“Treize . . .” Zechs panted between kisses and attempted to catch the other’s gaze, “look at me . . .”

The General reluctantly pulled his mouth away from a soft, sweet throat and looked into his lover’s eyes, eyes so deep with lust and . . . what was that other thing there? He couldn’t place it. But it wasn’t long before he was swimming, diving into waters deeper, hotter and more brilliantly blue than the liquid they moved in now. He felt himself warming beyond the temperature of the water, beyond the heat of climax. He could tell that Zechs was close to release and something caught in his chest even as it burst in his groin, and he pulled Zechs into a sudden and tight embrace.

“Treize!” Zechs shouted as he stiffened under Treize’s hold and Treize did the same, groaning that taboo name once again. Their hands were moving now of their own volition, milking the last of the fire from each of their bodies. Somehow, in the midst of the frenzy Treize had remembered to keep his eyes open. It had not been easy but the view had been splendor itself, delightfully spectacular and far worth the effort.

Long moments passed until Zechs finally went a little lax in Treize’s embrace, and the General lowered him back down to lay against the rim of the bath.

Treize watched him in quiet awe, the pretty mouth that hung slightly open as Zechs breathed, the hair that clung to everything it touched, pink cheeks, red lips and white porcelain alike. He knelt over the other man, realizing that the water was cooling, that he was itching to get out of the damp and heavy uniform, and still felt that ache in his chest that had come with his climax. The blue eyes beneath him opened slowly and regarded him.

“Treize . . . are you well?”

Treize thought for a moment and then scavenged in the waters around him, searching for the other man’s hand. Having found it, much to Zechs’s confusion, he moved aside the damp cloth of his coat and shirt, and placed the palm to his left breast.

“Does it feel . . . odd to you?”

“Your chest?”

“My heart.” He was watching the man in front of him intently, as if that beguiling face suddenly held the answers to all the mysteries of all the worlds, as if it’s owner had just slapped him into wakefulness--unblinking, unguarded, and not unlike a child.

The muscles beneath Zechs’s hand did indeed thrum with the steady beat of the General’s heart, but no more or less than normal for their recent activity.

“It doesn’t seem abnormal,” Zechs commented, worry slowly creeping into his features. He sat up and Treize’s gaze lost him, eyes still fixed where Zechs had just lain, as if staring through him now. “Does it hurt, Treize? Should I phone the paramedics?”

Treize was thinking again--damn that habit of his--and wondering if perhaps they should call for an ambulance. But no, he was young . . . healthy. Even with the stress of war and the responsibilities that dogged him daily he should not be having heart trouble at such a young age. No. In fact . . . he took a deep breath, testing the waters of his own body. . . yes, he was fine. There. It had passed.

“No,” Treize said finally, eyes snapping back to Zechs’s worried face as if they had never left, “I’m fine . . . just . . . just tired, I suppose.”

Zechs’s concern did not dissipate so easily, it seemed. He found Treize’s wrist, his pulse, and studied the rhythm until he was satisfied that it was similar to his own. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Treize smiled gently and pulled his hand away, “now let me be so I can undress properly.”

Zechs breathed deeply as he let the General go and watched him stand and strip. The coat, made an even darker shade of blue from the water, was the first to go, landing in a wet clump next to the bath, the medals and decorations clinking against one another. The carpet was surely already ruined from the excess of water that had spilled from the tub, a few wet clothes would make matters no worse.

A white shirt was next and Treize stood topless before Zechs, gentle wisps of cinnamon curls sprinkling his chest lightly, running in a line down his abdomen to congregate in the damp patch about his now idle sex. Only the sodden white pants remained (which hid nothing as they were still open at the zipper and clung diligently to every curve elsewhere), and the tall, black boots to his knees that shimmered prettily in more than a foot of water. They, like the carpet, were ruined.

He sat on the rim opposite of Zechs, careful not to impale himself on the faucet and lifted one leg in the other man’s direction.

“A little assistance, perhaps?”

Continued in: "Running Deep"