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 properlythis 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 saysminein 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—"
The rhythm deepens. Not faster, yet. Just deeper. Each thrust longer, pulling out farther before pushing back in, and Evran can feel the edge of Vaike's control starting to fray at last in the uneven catches of his breath. Vaike has fucked him fast, has fucked him hard, has pinned him down and rutted into him in the dark while Evran begged for it. But this, this slow, relentless, full-length stroke with his whole chest pressed to Evran's back and his hand curled at Evran's throat, this is the one that breaks him every time.
His hips roll harder. The hand at Evran's throat slides down, across his collarbone, down the length of his chest and his belly, and wraps around him where he is hard again, achingly hard again, gone traitor a second time, and strokes, tight and measured, in counterpoint to the thrust of his hips.
Evran comes apart.
He comes on a choked-off cry, hips jerking between Vaike's cock and Vaike's hand, and he feels Vaike shudder all along the length of his back at the first spasm of it, feels Vaike's rhythm stutter and break, feels the arm across his chest tighten until it is almost painful, feels the hand at his cock squeeze him through it while the other hand braces low and bruising on his hip. Vaike fucks him through it in short, sharp, uneven thrusts and then buries himself deep and goes still, and Evran feels the thick pulse of him coming, feels the heat of it spilling inside him, and Vaike's mouth is open and panting against the crook of hisshoulder and he is saying something Evran cannot quite make out, a name, maybe, Evran's name, over and over, quiet and ruined against his skin.
For a long time, neither of them moves.
Vaike's breath slows against the nape of his neck. His arm stays wrapped around Evran's chest. His other hand drifts from Evran's softening cock up to his belly and settles there, wide and splayed, where the faint stickiness of Evran's own spend is cooling against his skin. He does not seem inclined to care. He presses his forehead to the back of Evran's shoulder and breathes.
Evran closes his eyes.Just a little longer, then.Just until Vaike's breath evens out, until the grip of his arm loosens from desperate to drowsy, until the feel of being held like this has soaked into his bones deep enough that he can carry it through the day.
Vaike pulls out eventually, careful of him, slow enough that Evran still winces at the small empty ache of it. Then he is kissing Evran's shoulder again, a wordless apology, and reaching behind him for the cloth on the washstand.
Evran lets himself be cleaned. He does not move. He does not think he could move, strictly speaking. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Vaike attends to him with steady hands, careful pressure, not a word spoken. When Vaike is done he drops the cloth back in the basin and gathers Evran back against his chest and holds him, simply, the way he has held him on a thousand mornings like this.
"You have made me," Evran manages eventually, "very late."
"You didn't put up much of a fight."
"You used all of my weaknesses against me."
