Knox makes a sound of protest that borders on anguish. "Don't youdare—"
"Patience, angel."
"I willendyou—"
Dimitri stands. His knees protest and he ignores them. He presses himself flush against Knox's back, one hand braced on the tile beside Knox's head, the other guiding his cock between Knox's spread thighs. He pushes in agonizingly slow, inch by inch, feeling Knox's body open for him, hot and tight and already slick from his tongue—and Knox's head falls forward between his arms and he groans so deeply Dimitri feels it in his own chest.
When he's fully seated, he pauses. Not to tease. Not this time. He pauses because the feeling of being inside Knox combined with the bond flowing unobstructed between them, is overwhelming. He can feel everything. Knox's heartbeat around him. Knox's pleasure bleeding into his. The specific, unbearable intimacy of being inside someone who you can feel feeling you, who knows exactly what you're experiencing because they're experiencing it too, doubled and reflected and amplified until neither of them knows whose pleasure is whose.
"Please move, Dimitri," Knox whimpers, and his voice cracks.
Dimitri moves.
He fucks Knox slowly. Deep, rolling thrusts that press Knox into the tile with each one, pulling nearly all the way out and pushing back in with a deliberateness that makes Knox gasp every time. This isn't the frantic, desperate sex from before—the wall in the alley, the hallway, the first night when they were both half-terrified and fully consumed by the need to touch. This is something else. This is Dimitri learning every response, cataloguing every sound, every tremor, every hitch in Knox's breath that means there andmoreandplease. He shifts his angle until Knox cries out and then stays there, hitting that spot with every thrust, and Knox's hand comes back to grip Dimitri's hip, nails digging in, pulling him closer.
"Harder," Knox breathes. "Please—"
Dimitri complies. His hips snap forward, harder, faster, and the wet sound of skin against skin echoes off the tile and Knox is moaning openly now, each thrust punching a sound out of him, and Dimitri wraps an arm around his chest and hauls him upright until Knox's back is flush against his front and his head falls back against Dimitri's shoulder.
He reaches around and wraps his hand around Knox's cock. Knox jerks in his grip, a full-body spasm, and Dimitri strokes him in time with his thrusts and Knox's hand comes up to grip the back of Dimitri's neck, fingers tangling in wet hair, and holds on.
"You're so gorgeous," Dimitri says against his ear, and his voice is raw, wrecked, barely holding together. "My angel. Taking everything I give you. You were built for this. Built for me."
Knox turns his head and catches Dimitri's mouth in a kiss that is clumsy and wet and desperate, all teeth and shared breath and the taste of water and want, and through the bond Dimitri feels the moment Knox breaks. It crests like a wave and Knox comes with a shattered moan against Dimitri's mouth, spilling overhis fist, clenching around him with a force that rips Dimitri's orgasm out of him like a physical thing. He buries himself deep and comes inside Knox and the bond detonates between them, pleasure so intense it's almost pain, reverberating back and forth until Dimitri can't breathe and Knox is trembling in his arms and the water is still falling and the steam is thick and the world outside this room does not exist.
They stand there. Breathing. The water runs over them, washing everything away, and Dimitri keeps his arm around Knox's chest and his face pressed into the side of Knox's neck and doesn't move.
Eventually Knox reaches back and turns off the water. The silence that follows is ringing and warm.
"We should get out," Knox says. His voice is hoarse. Satisfied. "Before we prune."
Dimitri does not let go.
"Dimitri."
"One minute."
Knox's hand, still resting on the back of Dimitri's neck, cards through his hair once. Gentle. Patient. He says nothing, and he doesn't move, and he gives Dimitri his minute.
***
They end up on the couch.
Knox is in his lap, with his back against the armrest and his legs stretched across Dimitri's thigh. He's wearing soft flannel pants and a T-shirt that's too big for him and his hair is down and damp. He has a cup of coffee in his hands that he holds with both palms wrapped around the ceramic like a small animal cradling something precious.
Dimitri is also wearing pajama pants, which is new and a testament to just how far into this angel’s world he's fallen.
They are dark gray. They are soft. They have a drawstring. They appeared in the bathroom without comment or explanation, folded neatly on the shelf beside Knox's towels, and Dimitri had stared at them for a full thirty seconds before putting them on and never acknowledging their existence to Knox. He knows Knox bought them. Knox knows he knows. Neither of them has said a word about it, because the alternative is admitting that his angel bought him pajama pants and that Dimitri is wearing them and that the simple domesticity of it makes his chest ache in a way that nothing has prepared him for.
He cards his fingers through Knox's hair.
It's become a habit. He doesn't know when it started or how, only that at some point his hand found its way into Knox's hair and stayed there, and now it's the thing he does when they're still. Long, slow strokes from the crown of Knox's head to the ends, damp gold slipping through his fingers, and the bond hums with Knox's quiet contentment, warm and steady and constant, and Dimitri lets it wash over him like the tide.
"I'm worried about Newt," Knox says.
"I know."
"That incubus—"
