Title: Happy
Fandom: General Hospital
Characters: Tracy Quartermaine
Prompt: #24 Happy
Word Count: 1,404 words
Rating: R
Summary: Luke and Tracy celebrate their 5th wedding anniversary.
Author's Notes: No plot whatsoever. Just future!fic of my Utopian vision of where Luke and Tracy will be in four years. Realists and pessimists need not apply. There is an NC17 version of this story at my LiveJournal.

They've been through so much together. Sickness, feuds, death and birth. Years have passed, and hopefully years will come. He is older. She is older. Together, their age is astonishing to them. They don't remember getting old, they laugh.

They aren't old.

He lifts his glass in toast to the occasion, and she takes it from him with a flirtatious grin, empties it. He takes her glass, lifts it to his lips, and sips it without breaking eye contact.

"To us," she whispers.

"To us," he whispers back and puts down the glass. She is beautiful to him, graceful in a completely unexpected way, and he wants to kiss her now. Her eyes glisten, and she tilts her head upward to offer him her mouth--the mouth that has held as many curses as kisses in their five year marriage, the mouth that has caused him equal parts pleasure and grief. He claims it again, claims it as often now as when they first fell in love, when they first stopped playing games with each other. He finds he never loses his hunger for her taste, and she never fails to surprise him, to excite him with her kisses.

There is food, of course, and wine. There are candles in the room, the trappings of romance. The bed is huge and, whimsy be damned, he's scattered rose petals across it. There is a good chance she'll mock him for sentimentality and romantic foolishness, but there is an equal chance she'll be swept away, touched by the gesture, spurred on to even greater heights of passion.

Tracy is just that way.

In all the years he's known her, Luke has never quite figured out a foolproof way to predict her reactions. He's never quite figured out the flawless machinations of that brilliant mind of hers.

It arouses him in a way no other woman ever has. He wants her in the bed with him, and makes no pretense or games when letting her know. She has the decency to smile at him as he kisses her neck, has the presence not to shy away from his hands as he removes her negligee.

Her body is not as young as it once was, but neither is his. They are not twenty-five anymore, and that is perfectly okay with him. She is beautiful to him, her flaws and imperfections translated by love into something deeper, into something of the goddess in her. She is a priestess, says the atheist, who worships at her temple. She is a work of art, says the cretin, who gazes at her intently, mesmerized.

Luke is never quite sure how he lucked into this love, how his own rotten trick turned into the greatest gift of his life, but when she is naked next to him, he doesn't tempt fate. He kisses her deeply, lets her unbutton his shirt, lets her kiss her way down his throat, feeling the heat of her lips and her breath against his chest. It isn't as hard as it used to be, his belly not so flat. He isn't a young man anymore, but she makes him feel like one.

There is a lust in her eyes when she looks at his naked body that elevates him, makes him want to satisfy her. The blue pill he took is already kicking in. He's no longer ashamed of it, of the bitch that is getting old. Pride is one thing, but there is no way he's going to let it stand in the way of satisfying his wife on this of all nights.

She pulls him down next to her, their bodies connecting in that same old dance of theirs, no less thrilling for its familiarity. Her body is well-known territory; he's explored every hill and valley, greets every freckle like an old friend as he places kiss after kiss on her skin.

She is moaning now, her hands greedy. He is amazed at her nature, wonders if he could have satisfied her at her peak. She told him once she tended to get "athletic" in bed. What he knows now, after so many trips to the gym with her, is that she is demanding, creative, passionate. They are both creatures of desire, and they have taught each other new ways of acting out their fiery natures. She pushes him, he pushes her--they challenge each other's stamina and innovation.

Her hand is already between them, reaching for him. Once upon a time, she told him she loved the feel of a man's cock in her hand. He thinks back to the first time she touched him there, and laughs in spite of himself.

Tracy looks up at him. "Something funny, Husband?" she murmurs, stroking the head of his cock with the pad of her thumb.

"Just thinking about the time you threatened to break it off," he said, nibbling her shoulder as he rolls her onto her back. He catches her eyes. She's okay. She looks away, just slightly embarrassed.

He kisses her eyelids, her cheekbones and jaw, as he rolls on top of her. This is her secret, her fetish. This is not all she is, he knows, but it's something deep inside of her, something broken and begging to be healed.

She wants to be the nice girl. She wants to be taken, passive and virtuous, claimed. Not all the time, but often enough that it is a fetish, a kink almost.

He knows she will be more aggressive later tonight, pushing him, challenging him in ways no nice girl ever imagined. But now, she wants it sweet. Now she wants it old-fashioned, and he lies atop her, his hands working her flesh, his mouth teasing and warm.

She is moaning beneath him, wanting him, her words soft and incoherent as she wraps herself around him, welcoming him, opening herself to his claim.

It's an old and familiar feeling, yet no less sweet, when he enters her. He takes her slowly, gently, like the first time, like they're kids again, scared and nervous and tentative. She rests her head against his shoulder as her arms and legs tighten around his body, as she rocks in rhythm with him, inviting him deeper inside of her. He can practically hear "Moon River" playing somewhere. He begins to hum it in her ear, and she laughs, urging him onward, humming her own counterpoint.

It is amazing to him how this simple act can arouse him, how her gentlest touch can astonish him. It is amazing that he's not so jaded, that she's not so broken, that they can still feel this--the pleasure, the passion.

They are breathing hard when they finally come down from their pleasures, wrapped in each others arms, hair mussed and skin covered in glistening perspiration. Luke pulls her against him, kisses her soundly. She is his own Katherine the Shrew, his secret treasure, beautiful and passionate and challenging.

When he sees her looking at him, her eyes filled with so much love and peace, he has to ground himself. Has to steel himself against his natural reaction to such unashamed affection--which is to get scared, to get nervous, to run. He doesn't want to run anymore. He's content here, more than content, with this wicked sweet woman of his. There's no place to run anymore.

She breathes in deeply, her shoulders shifting slightly as she smiles dreamily at him. He knows this is just a lull, that there will be much more to come. But they can pace themselves. They have all the time in the world. He kisses her gently. "How you feeling, Spanky?" he asks.

Tracy stares up at him, as if it's a difficult question. Then she lowers her eyes, shy again. She will go through this, he knows, these moments of shyness. It's one of her mysteries, one he doesn't expect or even want to solve. "I feel…." She hesitates, taking the moment to kiss his chin lightly. "I feel happy," she whispers, as if she's just revealed a state secret. He knows where she's been, and what she's been through. He knows how precious and rare happiness is, and marvels at how much such a simple word means to him.

"I love you, Wife," he says, his voice breaking on the truth of it.

"I love you, too, Husband," she whispers, and snuggles into his arms.

The End

Written for the LJ 100 Situations ficathon.

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