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 ofVale 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 onplease, 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 openingaround 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.
August can feel Vale inside him, hot and heavy and so deep it feels as though Vale has reached something in him that no one has ever touched. Not just physically, though physically it's devastating, but something underneath that, something that has been locked and guarded and alone for fourteen years and is now being held.
Then Vale rolls his hips, a small, experimental motion, and August makes a sound he's never made before, raw, wrecked, grateful, and they stop being careful.
Vale draws back and thrusts in, and the angle is perfect, dragging over the spot that makes August see stars. August's legs tighten around him, his heels digging into Vale's lower back, and the new angle drives Vale deeper and August chokes on a moan that comes from somewhere he didn't know existed. Vale does it again, harder, and August's nails rake down his back, leaving red lines that Vale will wear for days.
The rhythm they find is urgent but never cruel, every movement deliberate, every thrust an answer to something August didn't know he was asking. Vale fucks him with precision and power and a devastating awareness of exactly what he's doing, and the sounds August is making are obscene, broken,completely beyond his control. Vale's hand finds August's cock, wraps around him, stroking in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation, the thick slide of Vale inside him and the firm grip around his cock, is blinding.
August's hands roam, Vale's back, his arms, his hair, touching everywhere he can reach because he spent fourteen years not being touched and he is making up for lost time with a ferocity that surprises them both. His fingers trace the muscles of Vale's back, the flex and release of them with every thrust, and he pulls Vale closer, deeper, needing him in a way that goes beyond physical and into something primal.
Vale's control frays. His rhythm stutters, his breathing turns ragged, his forehead drops to August's shoulder. "August—" he says, voice breaking on the name. His hips snap forward, harder, losing their measured cadence, and the bed creaks beneath them and August doesn't care, doesn't care about anything except the feeling of Vale inside him and the sound of his name in Vale's mouth.
"Me too," August gasps. His cock is aching in Vale's grip, the pressure building to something unbearable, his whole body wound tight. "Don't stop. Don't—"
Vale drives in deeper, grinding against the spot inside him that makes August's vision white out, and his hand tightens on August's cock, stroking faster, his thumb pressing under the head on every upstroke, and the pleasure coils tight, unbearable, held at the breaking point for one suspended, breathless second.
And then snaps.
