Chapter 16 #2
It's slow and thorough and claiming. Vale's mouth moves against his with the deliberate patience of a man who has nowhere to be and intends to take his time, and his hands tighten on August's hips, pulling him forward to the counter's edge so their bodies press flush together.
August's legs wrap around Vale's waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back, and his hands find Vale's shoulders.
The broad, solid architecture that August has learned by heart over the past week.
Vale's tongue traces August's lower lip. August opens for him with a sound that's barely a breath, and the kiss deepens, and the steam curls around them, and the burn on August's wrist throbs gently beneath the layer of healing warmth that Vale's mouth left behind.
August's fingers move to Vale's shirt. Start working the buttons with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be, given the circumstances.
"We have an early morning," August murmurs against Vale's mouth, because someone should probably mention it.
"We do," Vale agrees, and does absolutely nothing to stop what's happening.
"The Violet Corridor. Voss. The fate of the city."
"All very important."
"We should probably sleep at some point."
"Probably." Vale's mouth finds his throat, the spot below his ear, the one that makes August's vision blur, and August's head falls back against the fogged mirror, and his fingers give up on the buttons and just pull, and the last coherent thing he manages is a breath that sounds like Vale's name.
August's hands drop to Vale's belt. Vale's mouth is still on his neck, teeth grazing the bruise he's been worrying all evening, and August fumbles the buckle open, yanks the zipper down.
His fingers wrap around Vale, hot, thick, already leaking at the tip, and August's breath leaves him in a long, broken moan the moment he feels the weight of him.
"God," he whispers, voice wrecked. "Fuck, Vale."
Vale's cock twitches in his grip, heavy and flushed dark, the head slick and shining. August strokes him once, slow and reverent, thumb smearing the bead of precome over the slit, and Vale lets out a low, guttural sound that vibrates against August's throat.
"Keep that up," Vale murmurs, "and I'm not going to last long enough to get inside you."
August laughs, shaky and breathless, and tightens his grip just enough to make Vale's hips jerk forward.
But Vale doesn't let him keep control. He hooks one hand under August's knee, lifts his leg higher, spreading him open on the edge of the counter, and then his other hand is between August's thighs, fingers slick with the lube he'd grabbed from the cabinet.
He presses one finger in first. Slow, careful, watching August's face the whole time.
August's head tips back, mouth falling open on a soft, helpless sound as the stretch burns sweet and perfect.
Vale works him open methodically, adding a second finger when August starts to rock down onto his hand, chasing the pressure.
"More," August gasps, thighs trembling. "Please, Vale—"
Vale curls his fingers, finds that spot, and August's whole body arches. A loud, wanton moan tears out of him, echoing off the tiles. His cock jerks against his stomach, leaking steadily now, smearing wetness across his skin.
"That's it," Vale says, voice rough. "Let me hear you."
He adds a third finger, scissoring gently, stretching August wide. August is writhing now, hips rolling in helpless little circles, trying to take more, trying to get Vale deeper. His hands scrabble at Vale's shoulders, nails digging in, leaving red crescents through the fabric.
"Vale, I'm ready, please—"
Vale pulls his fingers out slowly. Deliberately. August whines at the loss, clenching around nothing, and the sound makes Vale's jaw tighten visibly.
He grips August's hips with both hands and yanks him forward until his ass is right at the edge of the counter. August's legs wrap around Vale's waist instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in.
Vale notches himself at August's entrance and pushes in with one long, steady thrust.
August's head snaps back. A broken cry rips from his throat as Vale fills him in one smooth glide.
The stretch is overwhelming, perfect, too much and exactly enough.
Vale's cock splits him open, thick and unrelenting, pressing against every sensitive place inside him until August can't breathe, can't think, can only feel.
Vale stills for a heartbeat. Buried to the hilt, letting August adjust. August's chest heaves, eyes glassy, mouth slack and wet.
"You good?" Vale asks, voice strained, forehead pressed to August's.
August nods frantically, fingers twisting in Vale's hair. "Move. Please. Fuck me."
Vale pulls out halfway and slams back in.
Hard, deep, setting a rhythm that makes the counter creak beneath them.
August's moans turn loud and shameless, every thrust punching a new sound out of him that bounces off tile and glass.
His legs tighten around Vale's waist, heels digging in, urging him faster, deeper.
Vale fucks him with the same precision he brings to everything, long strokes that drag against August's prostate with every pass. August's cock bounces against his stomach, untouched and leaking, leaving shiny streaks across his skin.
"Look at you," Vale growls against his mouth. "Taking me so well."
August sobs out a laugh, half-hysterical with pleasure. "Harder."
Vale obliges. He hooks August's legs over his elbows, folding him, opening him wider.
The new angle lets him go even deeper, and August's eyes roll back, a string of broken curses falling from his lips.
The bathroom fills with the wet slap of skin on skin, August's desperate moans, Vale's ragged breathing.
August's hands claw at Vale's back, nails raking down, leaving marks he'll feel tomorrow.
"I'm gonna—"
"Come," Vale says, voice wrecked. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."
August shatters.
His whole body locks up, back arching off the counter as he comes with a choked, broken cry. His cock pulses untouched, spilling hot and thick across his stomach and chest in long streaks. His hole clenches rhythmically around Vale, milking him, and that's all it takes.
Vale buries himself deep one last time and comes with a low, guttural groan, hips jerking as he fills August up. Pulse after pulse, hot and overwhelming, until August is trembling beneath him, overstimulated and wrecked and still clinging.
They stay locked together for long moments. Vale still inside him, softening slowly, August's legs shaking around his waist, both of them breathing hard.
Eventually Vale presses a slow, tender kiss to August's slack mouth.
"Still not rested?" he murmurs, lips curving against August's.
August laughs. Hoarse, exhausted, utterly content.
"Not even close," he whispers, and tightens his arms around Vale's neck.
***
Later.
Much later.
The bedroom is dark and quiet. The city outside has settled into its smallest hours.
The Old City never truly sleeps, but it dims, the sounds contracting to distant footsteps and the occasional murmur of someone making their way home.
Through the window, the sky is overcast, the clouds lit from beneath by the city's ambient glow, and the light that filters through is soft and diffuse and kind.
August is lying against Vale's chest, his head on Vale's shoulder, one hand resting over Vale's heart.
He can feel it beating. Steady, strong, the rhythm that has become the metronome of his life over the past week.
Vale's arm is around him, hand resting on the curve of his waist, and the warmth flowing between them is the low, sustained kind that doesn't require intention.
It just exists. The ambient condition of their proximity.
August's wrist barely aches. Vale had been thorough.
The silence between them is the deep, comfortable kind that exists between two people who have exhausted their bodies and are letting their minds catch up.
August traces idle patterns on Vale's chest. The topography of scars he's learning, the ridges and smooth planes of a body that has survived three centuries of violence and emerged, somehow, still capable of tenderness.
"What happens after?" August asks.
The question has been sitting in him for days.
Forming, reforming, pushed aside by more immediate concerns.
But they're running out of days. Tomorrow they go to the Violet Corridor.
Tomorrow or the day after, they face Voss.
And then, if they survive, if they stop him, if the vault holds, then what?
Vale's hand tightens on his waist. Not much. Just enough to notice. "After Voss."
"After Voss. After the rifts. After all of this." August's finger traces the line of a scar that runs along Vale's ribs. "When the crisis is over and the Order doesn't need a consulting necromancer anymore. When Cael's stay of execution runs out and someone has to decide what to do with me."
Vale is quiet for a moment. His hand moves on August's waist. A slow, soothing motion, up and down, that August suspects is as much for his own comfort as for August's.
"I don't have all the answers," Vale says. "I want to tell you I do, but I don't." He pauses. "What I do know is that Cael saw what you can do. He called it divine intervention. He's not going to throw that away once the crisis passes. He's too pragmatic for that."
"Pragmatism has limits. The Order's doctrine—"