The train announces their stop.
Knox has approximately thirty seconds to will his body into compliance before the doors open, which is not enough time, but the rush of cool air as passengers disembark helps. He steps onto the platform and the crowd disperses around them, heading toward exits and escalators, and Knox focuses on walking normally and not on the way his pants feel too tight or the way Dimitri's hand is still on his hip guiding him through the crowd.
They make it to the street. Knox takes a breath of fresh air and tries to clear his head. The Violet Corridor stretches ahead of them, and they need to find Thornfield Row, and Knox needs to be focused, because they're walking into a coven's territory and—
Dimitri grabs him by the wrist and pulls him sideways.
Knox stumbles, catches himself, and finds his back against the brick wall of an alley that smells like rain and old stone. Dimitri is in front of him immediately, one hand braced on the wall beside Knox's head, the other still on his wrist, and his red eyes are dark with hunger and his mouth is curving with the kind of smile that means Knox is about to lose every rational thought in his head.
"We have somewhere to be," Knox says.
"We do."
"We're looking for Newt."
"We are."
"So why are you—"
Dimitri kisses him.
It is not a gentle kiss. Dimitri doesn't do gentle kisses, not really, not the way Knox has read about in books or imagined in the quiet parts of his life when he let himself imagine anything at all. Dimitri kisses like he fights, with intent, with purpose, with the specific goal of taking Knox apart and finding out what's underneath. His mouth is hot and demanding and his tongue sweeps against Knox's bottom lip and then inside, tasting,claiming, and his hand releases Knox's wrist to slide up his chest and close around the side of his neck. His thumb presses against Knox's pulse. His fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Knox's neck. He tilts Knox's head back and deepens the kiss and Knox makes a sound that he will deny later, a sound that is small and desperate and embarrassingly close to a whine, and the bond detonates between them.
It's the feedback loop. The thing they discovered last night that neither of them can control, every sensation shared, amplified, reflected back. Knox feels Dimitri's hunger as clearly as he feels his own. Feels the way Dimitri's chest tightens when Knox responds. Feels the possessive satisfaction that floods Dimitri's veins when Knox's hands fist in the front of his shirt and pull him closer instead of pushing him away. They feel it together, simultaneously, each feeding the other, and the result is a crescendo that makes Knox's vision blur and his thoughts scatter and his hips push forward against Dimitri's thigh of their own accord.
Dimitri breaks the kiss long enough to look at him. Knox is breathing hard. He knows his face is flushed, knows his lips are swollen, knows he looks wrecked and wanting and Dimitri is drinking it in with those red eyes like he's committing it to memory.
"We're in an alley," Knox says. "In the middle of the day."
"I know," Dimitri says. His hand slides down Knox's chest, his stomach, and presses flat against the front of Knox's pants where he's straining against the fabric. Knox sucks in a breath and his head falls back against the brick. "You've been driving me insane since we got on that train. Standing there smelling like me. Feeling like that through the bond. Do you know what you do to me?"
"Dimitri—"
"Anyone could walk by." Dimitri's hand works his belt open with a deftness that would be impressive if Knox had the capacity to be impressed by anything other than the feeling of Dimitri's fingers pulling his zipper down. "Anyone could see you. See you letting a demon put his hands on you."
Knox's belt comes free. Dimitri shoves his pants down his hips—just enough, not all the way, just enough to get his hand around Knox's cock, and the first touch of his fingers is a full-body shock that makes Knox's spine bow off the wall.
"Fuck—"
"There it is," Dimitri murmurs, and his voice is velvet and gravel and his hand is hot and tight and he strokes Knox once, root to tip, and Knox has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep the sound in. "The mouth on my angel when he stops pretending to be polite."
Knox bites the heel of his palm. His hips are already moving, pushing into Dimitri's fist with short, involuntary thrusts that he couldn't stop if he tried. Dimitri's grip is perfect—he knows exactly how Knox likes it, knows the pressure and the rhythm and the twist at the head that makes Knox's toes curl, because he can feel it, can map Knox's pleasure through the bond and adjust in real time, and it's obscene, it's cheating, and Knox doesn't care.
"Turn around," Dimitri says.
Knox meets his eyes. Dimitri's pupils are blown wide, the red irises thin rings around black, and his expression is focused and intent and completely, devastatingly serious. His hand stills on Knox's cock and Knox makes a sound of protest that he will never, ever acknowledge.
"Turn around, angel."
Knox turns around.
His palms press flat against the brick. It's rough and cool against his flushed skin, and the contrast with Dimitri's heat athis back makes him shiver. Dimitri's hands grip his hips and pull them back, angling him, and then Dimitri shoves his pants down further and the cool air hits Knox's bare skin and he shivers again, for different reasons.
"Look at you." Dimitri's voice is reverent and filthy at the same time, a combination that should be impossible and yet is apparently Dimitri's native language. His hands spread Knox apart and Knox's forehead drops to the brick, face burning. "Still open from this morning. Still slick. You didn't clean up at all, did you?"
Knox doesn't answer. He can't. His throat is closed and his body is trembling and the bond is pouring Dimitri's desire into him like liquid heat, dark and thick and all-consuming.
He hears Dimitri's zipper. Feels the shift of fabric. Then the blunt, thick head of Dimitri's cock presses against him and Knox's breath comes out as a stuttered exhale, because he is still open, still slick, and Dimitri pushes in with one slow, relentless stroke that doesn't stop until he's bottomed out and Knox is full, stretched wide, and the sound he makes against the brick wall echoes down the alley.
