Chapter 10 #4
August's hands move under Vale's coat, pushing it off broad shoulders until it falls forgotten to the floor.
Vale lets him, lets August peel away layers with trembling fingers, the coat, the shirt, until there's warm skin under his palms and the faint tremor of centuries-old muscle finally, finally bared.
August runs his hands over Vale's chest, his shoulders, the architecture of him.
The man is built for strength and endurance, worn smooth by time, carrying the weight of centuries in every line.
August traces the dip between his pectorals, the ridge of his collarbone, the trail of dark hair that leads downward from his navel, and Vale's stomach contracts under his touch.
Vale's hands are just as reverent. He works August's jacket open, slides it down his arms, then tugs his shirt up and off in one smooth motion.
The moment the fabric clears August's head, Vale is there again, mouth on his collarbone, then lower, kissing the places the corruption used to live.
Each press of lips feels like absolution, rewriting the map of August's body one kiss at a time, replacing every memory of pain with something warmer.
Vale's tongue traces the line of August's sternum, the place where the corruption had been thickest, and the skin there is new and sensitive, and August gasps and arches into it, his fingers threading through Vale's hair.
They shed the rest slowly, almost carefully, as though rushing might shatter the moment.
August's hands find Vale's belt and work it open, and the sound of the buckle is loud in the quiet room.
He pushes Vale's trousers down over his hips and Vale kicks them off, and then August's jeans follow, and the boots, and everything else, all of it ending up on the floor in a careless trail that neither of them looks at because they can't stop looking at each other.
When there's nothing left between them, Vale pauses. Just looks.
His gaze travels over August: the lean lines of his ribs, the dip of his waist, the faint freckles scattered across his shoulders that August didn't know anyone would ever care enough to notice.
Lower, to the sharp cut of his hipbones, to the dark hair between his legs, to the hard, flushed length of him, and August watches Vale's throat work on a swallow.
August feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with nakedness. He reaches up, cups Vale's jaw, thumb brushing that faint scar he's wanted to touch for days.
"You're beautiful," Vale says quietly. The words land with a weight that August doesn't know how to hold, too large for his hands, too heavy for the fragile thing his heart has become.
No one has ever said it to him and meant it.
Not while looking at the body that's been killing him for years as though it's something worth preserving.
Vale lowers himself carefully, settling between August's thighs.
Their cocks brush and both of them make a sound that's more vulnerable than either would admit to, a sharp intake of breath, a shudder, the shock of hot skin against hot skin with nothing between them.
August can feel the thick, hard length of Vale against his own, and the reality of it, the weight and heat of him, makes his hips jerk up involuntarily, chasing the pressure.
Vale's weight presses August into the mattress, solid and grounding and real, and August wraps his legs around Vale's hips and pulls him closer until there's no space left, until they're chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, and August can't tell where his pulse ends and Vale's begins.
The friction of their cocks trapped between their stomachs sends a bolt of heat through August that starts at the base of his spine and spreads outward, and he rocks up into it, needing more, needing everything.
They move together at first, slow and searching, learning the language of each other's bodies.
Friction builds in lazy slides, slick with precome, and every roll of hips draws a sound from one or both of them, low and unguarded and honest in a way that neither of them is capable of being with words.
Vale's mouth finds August's throat again, and the attention he pays to the skin there, the place where black veins used to crawl, is so tender it makes August's eyes sting.
Vale sucks gently at the hollow of his throat, then harder, teeth grazing the tendon, and August's cock pulses between them at the sharp edge of pleasure-pain.
When the rhythm isn't enough anymore, Vale shifts.
He reaches between them, wraps a broad, callused hand around both their cocks, and strokes in long, firm pulls.
The feeling of Vale's hand around him, of Vale's cock hot and hard against his own, is staggering.
August's head tips back on a gasp, his hips jerking up into the grip, and Vale tightens his fist and twists on the upstroke in a way that makes August's vision blur.
Vale kisses him through it, deep, unhurried kisses that match the rhythm of his hand, and August is shaking, thighs trembling around Vale's waist, hands gripping Vale's shoulders because they're the only solid thing in the world.
Vale's thumb swipes over the head of August's cock, smearing the wetness there, and August moans into his mouth, the sound swallowed and savored.
"I want you inside me," August whispers against Vale's lips. The words feel enormous. Necessary. Something he's been holding in his chest for days, for years, for his whole life. "Please."
Vale stills. His pupils are so wide there's almost no amber left, just dark, just depth, just a man looking at August as though he's the most important thing in the room, in the city, in three centuries of living.
He searches August's face for a long moment, checking, always checking, because even now, even here, even with August's legs wrapped around him and August's cock hard and leaking against his stomach and August's voice breaking on please, Vale will not assume. Will not take what isn't freely given.
August loves him for it. The realization hits quietly, absolute, and he doesn't flinch from it.
Vale nods once, sharp and certain, and reaches for the nightstand.
He's thorough. Patient. Impossibly gentle with his hands, and August watches him slick his fingers with a focus that borders on reverence, warming the lube between his fingertips before bringing them down between August's thighs.
The first touch is careful, circling, learning him, and August's breath catches as Vale's finger presses against the tight ring of muscle and waits.
"Relax," Vale murmurs against August's temple, and August laughs despite himself, breathless and a little broken.
He relaxes. Vale's finger slides inside him and August arches, gasping, because it's been years and the stretch is intense and perfect and not nearly enough.
Vale works him slowly, one finger becoming two, curling, searching, and when he finds the spot that makes August's entire body jolt, August cries out, hips bucking off the mattress, fingers scrabbling at Vale's shoulders.
"There," August manages, and his voice doesn't sound like his own, doesn't sound like anything except need. "God, Vale, there—"
Vale presses again, deliberate, watching August's face with those dark amber eyes, and the pleasure is so sharp it's almost unbearable.
August's cock twitches against his stomach, leaking steadily, and he can feel the slick heat of it pooling in the hollow of his hip.
Vale adds a third finger and August groans, long and low, his body opening for Vale with a willingness that would embarrass him if he could think clearly enough to be embarrassed.
Every time August makes a sound, every hitched breath and broken syllable, Vale presses his mouth against August's skin. Collecting them. Keeping them. As though August's pleasure is something precious he's been trusted with, something he intends to earn and protect and never waste.
When August is ready, when he's trembling and pleading and past the point of coherent speech, when his body is loose and open and aching for something more than fingers, Vale withdraws his hand.
August whimpers at the loss, and the sound makes Vale's jaw clench, a visible crack in the composure he's barely maintaining.
Vale slicks himself, and August watches, mouth dry, as that broad hand strokes over the thick length of his cock, and the sight of it makes something hot and desperate clench low in August's belly.
Vale lines up and pauses. His forehead presses against August's. Their breath mingles in the space between them.
"Look at me," Vale says.
August does. Their eyes lock. And Vale pushes in, slow, steady, inexorable, and August feels every inch.
The stretch is different from fingers, fuller, deeper, a burning sweetness that radiates outward from where they're joined.
Vale is thick and hot inside him and August can feel himself opening around him, yielding, his body accepting Vale with a hunger that starts at the base of his spine and blooms upward through his chest. When Vale bottoms out, hips flush against August's ass, they both freeze.
Breathing raggedly into each other's mouths.
Caught in a moment so intense that moving seems impossible.
For a heartbeat neither of them does. Just feeling.
Just existing in the impossible intimacy of it.
A Templar and a necromancer, holy and death, light and shadow, joined in a way that three hundred years of doctrine says should destroy them both.
And instead of destruction, there is this.
This warmth. This closeness. This feeling of finally, finally being exactly where they're supposed to be.