Chapter 1 #2
The mouth moves on. Vaike's beard is scratchy against the thin skin of his throat and his chest, and Evran knows already that there will be a pink bloom along his collarbones by noon that Aether will pretend not to see.
Vaike drags his tongue, flat and hot, across one of Evran's nipples and Evran makes a sound he is not proud of.
Vaike does it again, slower, closes his mouth around it and sucks, and Evran's hands fly to his hair and fist there without permission.
Vaike transfers his attention to the other nipple with the same care, and by the time he lifts his mouth off and continues downward Evran is flushed bright pink from his collarbones to his sternum and his cock is leaking against his own stomach, shiny and aching.
Vaike nuzzles into the soft space below his navel. Mouths at the faint trail of hair there. Pauses at the jut of his hipbone and closes his teeth there, too, just enough to mark, and Evran's hips jerk up into nothing.
Vaike laughs against his hip, warm puff of breath, and then his mouth closes around the head of Evran's cock and Evran's back bows off the bed.
Vaike takes his time. He always does. He holds Evran down with one forearm flat across his lower belly, pinning him to the furs when his hips try to rise, and he sinks down and swallows and hollows his cheeks and pulls back up with an obscene wet sound that Evran will hear all afternoon if he closes his eyes.
His free hand is at the base of Evran's cock, loosely ringed.
His beard scrapes at the sensitive skin of Evran's thigh every time he moves.
Evran makes the mistake of looking down once and the sight of the Warlord of the Drakkari kneeling between Evran's thighs with his mouth full, hair tangled, stormy eyes looking up at him, nearly undoes him right there.
Vaike hums around him. A low, pleased vibration, and that is unfair, that is entirely unfair, and Evran's hand tightens in his hair and he tries to warn him —
"I'm — I am —"
Vaike does not lift off. Vaike tightens the hand at the base of him instead, and strokes, steady and firm, and swallows down around the head, and Evran comes with a broken sound into his mouth, hips jerking against the arm that holds him down, thighs trembling on either side of Vaike's shoulders.
For a long moment he cannot think.
Vaike pulls off slowly, gentle with him, and presses a kiss to the inside of Evran's thigh that is almost courtly in its tenderness.
Then he crawls back up the length of Evran's body and settles over him, braced on his forearms, and looks down at Evran with the expression he gets at moments like this.
It's a look that seems to say he's surprised to find Evran in his bed and has just discovered he gets to keep him.
As though there is anywhere Evran would rather be.
Evran drags him down by the back of the neck and kisses him. He tastes himself on Vaike's tongue.
He reaches down between them. Vaike is still hard, still leaking, hot and heavy against Evran's hip, and Vaike's breath hitches when Evran's fingers close loosely around him.
He only gets to touch him briefly before Vaike catches his wrist gently and lifts Evran's hand away. He presses a kiss to the inside of it, the way he did earlier with the other one, and then sets it aside on the pillow.
"Turn over," he says.
Evran swallows. His mouth has gone dry. He turns.
He goes willingly onto his belly, and Vaike gathers him up at once against his chest the way they had started, Vaike on his side behind him, one heavy arm sliding beneath Evran's chest to hold him there, the other spreading across his lower belly.
Evran is still shivery from the aftershocks, soft and boneless, and being wrapped up in Vaike like this feels like coming home again after a long absence, even though he has not gone anywhere at all.
Vaike reaches over him for the small bottle of oil on the low shelf beside the bed.
There's the click of the stopper and the soft wet sound of his fingers working into the oil. Evran's breath has gone shallow already, just from the anticipation, just from knowing what's coming.
The first finger is slow. It is always slow.
Evran used to be embarrassed by how much time Vaike spent on this part until he understood that Vaike likes it.
That Vaike will work him open for as long as Evran will let him, that Vaike has, more than once, made Evran come just from this, with nothing but his fingers and his mouth on the back of Evran's neck and the low, steady murmur of his voice.
The second finger joins the first. Evran's breath catches. His hips press back, involuntarily, and Vaike's beard scrapes against his shoulder as he laughs, low and fond, against the nape of his neck.
"Hmm you're so eager, my love."
He crooks his fingers, finds the place he is looking for, and Evran makes a thin sound and presses his face into the pillow.
Vaike does it again. And again. Rolling pressure, the kind that builds a low heavy ache back up in Evran's belly even though he came not ten minutes ago, even though his cock is soft and tender against the furs and he should not, by any rational accounting, be hardening again this quickly.
The third finger slides in and it's a longer stretch now, burn and give both at once, and Vaike is whispering things against the back of his neck that Evran half-hears and half-feels.
Evran's hands are fisted white-knuckled in the furs beneath him and he is pressing back onto Vaike's fingers without meaning to, without even being able to help it.
The fingers withdraw. Evran makes a small bereft noise that he will absolutely deny later. Vaike mouths at the spot just behind his ear that always makes him shiver, and then Evran feels the impossible, hot weight of Vaike's cock pressing against where Vaike's fingers just were.
The wet head catches on his rim, just a suggestion of what he could have, and then Vaike's cock slips against the cleft of his ass.
It slides along him, hot and hard, and Evran feels like the breath has been punched out of him.
Vaike pulls back again, and thrusts his hips forward again, the tip catching but never slipping inside, and Evran moans openly into the sheets.
"Vaike—"
He doesn't push in. He does it again, that maddening drag of his cock along the cleft of him, the head bumping up against his hole on every pass and then sliding past, slick and deliberate, like he is painting Evran with his own arousal.
One of Vaike's hands comes up to splay across Evran's back, pinning him so he cannot rock back, cannot chase, cannot do anything but take whatever Vaike decides to give him.
"Fuck, look at you." Vaike sucks in a breath. His hand presses harder. "I can feel you twitching every time I get close — you want it that bad?"
Evran makes a noise that is not quite a word. He turns his face into the pillow. His cock is so hard it aches, trapped between his stomach and the sheets, and every pass of Vaike against him sends a fresh shiver up his spine, useless and bright and not nearly enough.
"Yes," he manages in a breath. "I want you inside me, please."
Vaike reaches down between them and Evran feels him take himself in hand, feels the blunt heat of him line up properly this time, the wet head pressed right where Evran has been aching for it, and every muscle in Evran's body goes taut with anticipation.
Vaike pushes in.
Slow. Always slow. He has never once, in six months, taken Evran faster than Evran could bear, and the restraint of it, the careful, deliberate unhurriedness, when Evran can feel how hard he is shaking with wanting this, never fails to undo something in him.
Vaike sinks in by inches, pauses, presses in a little more, pauses again.
Evran's breath comes out of him in a long shuddering exhale.
He feels every inch of it, the stretch and the heat and the thick, unhurried rightness of being filled by this man.
His whole body unclenches at once around the familiarity of it, the way it does every time, and Vaike groans softly into his hair at the give.
When Vaike is fully seated he stays there. He does not move. He holds Evran against his chest and he breathes, ragged and uneven, against the nape of his neck, and Evran can feel his pulse where they are joined.
"Gods," Vaike says, rough. "You feel so good. You always feel so good."
Evran cannot answer. He reaches back instead, blindly, and catches at the hand Vaike has splayed across his back, and laces their fingers there. Vaike squeezes.
Then he begins to move.
Not hard. Not fast. Deep, grinding rolls of his hips that push Evran forward on the furs and drag him back again, and each one lines up the thick heavy drag of him against that place inside that makes Evran see white.
Vaike's forearm tightens under Evran's chest, holding him up off the bed a little, holding him open, and the angle shifts and Evran makes a noise against the pillow that does not sound like language.
"There," Vaike breathes, against his ear. "You feel that?"
"Yes—"
Vaike's beard scratches at his shoulder.
Vaike's hand slides from his belly up to his throat, not gripping, never gripping, only resting there, a broad grounding weight that says mine in the oldest, quietest dialect the mountain knows.
Evran tilts his head back against Vaike's shoulder to give it to him, and Vaike makes a low approving sound and does not move the hand.
"You take me so good," Vaike says, rough. "Gods, Evran—"