"I've come to love the sound of those words falling from your lips, you know."
Spoken against those lips, still touched with lingering heat. Glossed with longing and spit and the salt of their own sweat from fighting.
Yes, Fenris says at last, and though it's not what it could be, it's enough.
He uses his hold on Fenris' wrist to pull him forward then, wrenching him onto his hands and knees— the shortest interim of utter freedom before that knife finds its way back to Fenris' throat. Before the fingers of his free hand hook high to draw those unlaced trousers down somewhere around Fenris' knees, and in skirting back, becomes a game of drawing the edges of his knuckles along the innermost edges of Fenris' thighs— the dim swaths of bare skin between strips of curling lyrium— the underside of his cock, skimming light across feverish contours. Agonizingly slow and mercilessly teasing, a steep contrast to the cold bite of flattened metal. Tame, and not tame in the slightest.
Always he keeps his oil on hand.
Perhaps it's not really a surprise when his freed fingers are quickly slickened. When they slide back down along the curvature of Fenris' ass, just as gradually as before— only this time when he stops, it's with the pads of his forefinger and middle pressed tentatively right on the verge of actual entry. A subtle, edging dip. A near-push that slips back out again.
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Spoken against those lips, still touched with lingering heat. Glossed with longing and spit and the salt of their own sweat from fighting.
Yes, Fenris says at last, and though it's not what it could be, it's enough.
He uses his hold on Fenris' wrist to pull him forward then, wrenching him onto his hands and knees— the shortest interim of utter freedom before that knife finds its way back to Fenris' throat. Before the fingers of his free hand hook high to draw those unlaced trousers down somewhere around Fenris' knees, and in skirting back, becomes a game of drawing the edges of his knuckles along the innermost edges of Fenris' thighs— the dim swaths of bare skin between strips of curling lyrium— the underside of his cock, skimming light across feverish contours. Agonizingly slow and mercilessly teasing, a steep contrast to the cold bite of flattened metal. Tame, and not tame in the slightest.
Always he keeps his oil on hand.
Perhaps it's not really a surprise when his freed fingers are quickly slickened. When they slide back down along the curvature of Fenris' ass, just as gradually as before— only this time when he stops, it's with the pads of his forefinger and middle pressed tentatively right on the verge of actual entry. A subtle, edging dip. A near-push that slips back out again.
"Yes, what, my darling."