The Written Word

Three thousand years asleep has a tendency to take it out of a man. Whispered back, unconsciously meeting that quiet, intimate tone. Faelyn had always been easy to work up, once you knew which buttons to press to simply make him melt, though that was hardly necessary in the moment after so very long. He'd allowed himself to be moved, molding himself back against the curve of Ruth's body. He wanted every. last. inch. of that man pressed up against him, and pressed into him. 

His head tilted to one side, bearing the line of his slender neck to him once more, the marks left previously still rosy on his skin. Don't be gentle. Gentle was the last thing he wanted in that moment. It was a risk, and he knew that, but there was something about that fact in and of itself that made him drive for that all the more.

[font=Arial, serif]At his invitation, Ruth bit down along a pressure point to send a trembling shudder along Faelyn’s nervous system. The threadbare pain mixed in with the body's natural relaxant intended to make knee’s wobble. Ruth’s hand’s travelled across the man’s skin, exploring and teasing, growing more aggressive as his bites began their own slow journey back to his ear. “Gentle at first, Red,” his voice rasped, laced with growing lust. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]Hands shifted, shamelessly travelling over his derriere before one left to retrieve the oil. Parting only enough to ensure this unexpected dalliance would go smoothly, Ruth rested his forehead against Fae’s neck, teeth once again nipping to pull at the skin. An oiled hand soon began to tease the quiet mouse, however, fingers eventually dipping to give the man a fraction of what waited him. A groan rumbled, the grip over his rear firming as his fingers began a slow, taunting pace. Gods, this was a way to start the day. Ruth's hips bucked in anticipation, but like the man had said, three thousand years was something of a record. There was time to get this right. [/font]

It was only a hand splayed out on the desk that kept Faelyn standing, a shockwave echoing through him as he was bit. The pain was there, that was true, but so too was the shiver that ran like a jolt up his spine. There was little in the way of rational thought left in his head, giving in to the sensation of teeth on his skin, so he was glad that at least one of them had the good sense to remember to be careful. The archivist was fragile in more ways than one, and tenseness was an ever present thing in his all of his musculature, not just those that bore scars. 

He didn't attempt to choke back deep gasp that came with the press of fingers. Faelyn leaned forward, letting his weight rest against his forearms on the desk, adjusting the angle he was giving Ruth to find- 

Fingers pressing over that so sensitive spot tore a loud moan from the man, though he stayed perfectly still for it to be found again. And again.

The submission of his prey only fuelled Ruth further, fingers thrusting roughly. His jaw clenched, holding him back from throwing caution out the window and unnecessary injury. He already had a few dozen buttons to find, patching up Faelyn wasn’t required. At least not this time. Every moan and gasp uttered had Ruth craving more. He needed more than the sounds his meticulous fingers were currently eliciting. Their pace increased, deepening for a few strokes until leaving the man entirely.

Ruth pressed his weight into the back of Faelyn, lips finding his ear while a hand found itself entangled in his loosening bun. The head of his length teased the cleft of Fae’s cheeks before Ruth wrapped a guiding hand to press, taunting him more. “Now this…” he whispered, grip tightening around locks before sinking himself in with a deep groan, “..is a way to begin a morning.” Fuck. He had to steel himself against the rush of endorphins flooding his mind. Fully seated, Ruth’s grip firmed, tugging against hair to angle the man’s head back a little. “..Not, gentle?” hips drew back, his free hand finding a bruising hold over Fae’s hip, “… Alright, I’ll oblige, some.”

He was very aware that he was going to be sore after this, and quite frankly, the ancient simply didn't care. Faelyn was driven on by a need that he could not put to words, one that was so basic to the core of existence for some that he could not deny it. He didn't want to deny it. There was pain in the way his neck was pulled at but the tension on his hair was arousing enough to make him forget it. 

His words were stolen for a good moment with the feeling of his partner sinking home. A dizzying high. No, not gentle. his words were rasped to a degree, anticipation making his voice rough and gravely. He wanted this man to fuck him until he forgot his own name, and if he was lucky, he would get exactly that.

Ruth obliged, hips slamming back and forth in a series of deepening thrusts. “You.. sweet… quiet… fucker.” The glorious sensation of being wrapped up so perfectly forced him to bite down onto Fae’s exposed neck. His fingers coiled in the bun of the man’s hair, tightening to hold it so his teeth could mark him further, pulling at the skin to place a temporary mark while he pounded from behind.

His other hand gathered Fae’s length, the languid strokes opposing the brutal rutting. What had built up over a short while would be undone in a matter of minutes, like dominos set to cascade into completing a mosaic. The tendrils of control were slipping fast with the passion of sating each other. Ruth’s breathing soon became pants, even drawing his hand away from Fae’s length to the man’s thigh in an effort to pull himself deeper. “...Fuuuuuck. You’re a dark horse, Red,” he’d grin, words forming with some effort as he fought against the inevitable.

Nails gripping at the wood grain of his desk, each thrust seemed to push the piece of furniture across the stone flor, a small creek accompanying each. Even through the pain at his neck, or perhaps because of it, Faelyn was growing hard again under Ruth's hand, throbbing as he was fucked within an inch of his being. He was aware that he was being spoken to, but something about it didn't quite register, too focused on the overwhelming sensations rolling through his body. He was a man consumed in his need. 

Interspersed through his moans were little yesses, his gray eyes wide and unseeing the windows behind his desk. As that pleasure began to build again, the archivist was aware that he was not the only one to feel that rising pressure. Yes, oh fuck, yes, Ruth. Please. Please. There was almost another's name found on his tongue, the names of those held far closer to his heart, replaced only at the last moment with the proper name. But the sentiment remained the same. He wanted to be used.

Groans escaped from his throat in an echo to Faelyn’s moans and whimpered yesses. It was adorable. Always the quiet ones. His hips flexed in an effort to fend off the approaching edge. Every sound drawn out from the man and the beat of Ruth’s thrusts against the desk were music to his ears, a harder thrust given in answer to hearing his name fall from the redheads lips.

“I do… love it… when they say… please,” the growl low in his throat. Pleasure would seize him in waves of brilliance. Ruth’s grip tightened over flesh and hair, riding out the attained high until it left him leaning against the man’s back in an effort to catch his breath. His head would find the crook of Faelyn’s neck, lips tracing softly across the marked skin, enjoying the moment until deciding to withdraw entirely. He’d pick at the plates on the side, nuts finding their way into his mouth before slumping into the chair he’d previously occupied.

Ruth’s eyes cast over the dishevelled archivist while sorting his attire, buttoning back up his pants with a growing smugness. “...Come sit, Red,” his voice fatigued, raspy but soft.

There was no shame in the way that his body chased released a second time, even if the sound that accompanied it was bitten back made smaller. There was a deep soreness that settled in on his muscles across the whole of him as he was left standing nude in the middle of his own study. He didn't know where to turn in this, some part of him desperately wanting a bath drawn to have the soreness and the sticky nature of things soaked away. But that was not to be. Instead, he forced himself upright, the rigidness in his posture the best the he could manage with it all as he went about finding his pants. 

At the very least with those on his body once more, a blanket draped across his shoulders from his armchair felt a bit better. It was in the armchair in the corner that he sat, sinking into the cushions, a small gesture or his hand to the opposing armchair that sat across his chess board. Arm chair is more comfortable on me than that straight back... was all he could offer at first. This wasn't one of his husbands where he could seek comfort and care after the fact. This he would have to grin and bare. Do you play?

His chair might not have been comfortable, but Ruth lounged as best he could, even pushing the seat's balance to the limit by leaning back for Faelyn to appreciate. His shirt, still missing, was not high on Ruth’s agenda. His nerves thrummed still, the contented feeling simultaneously electrified and placid at the same time. Amusement slowly spread across his face with Fae’s momentary indecision and search for his own pants. Azure eyes observed the shift of muscle. The grin of smugness across the healer's face tempered some, but a new craving itched.

Faelyn’s words had him answer with a quiet chuckle, hands finding a pouch of tobacco and papers for rolling. Grounding the seat, he’d lean forward, attention set on his task until the archivist’s question. His smile was slight, shoulders bobbed with indifference. “I do. Though I struggle, finding capable opponents. You asking to be punished further?”

There was a slight tension that ran through Faelyn at the mention of punishment. A word he did not like used around him, much less directed at him in his day to day life. His years of life had seen more than enough punishment, and that fact was written out on his skin and down into the fabric of who he was. Punishment had defined him body and soul. 

Faelyn gave in to the need to pull the blanket closer around his shoulders, hiding away his skin entirely, the reserved mask settling back into place as if it had never left. Not punishment, no. But a game between equals, perhaps. Gone was the soft, breathy quality to his voice, replaced again by the smooth, honied tone of the archivist as if nothing had transpired between them that afternoon.

The shift in Faelyn was obvious, even to Ruth. To change from enjoying the comedown to his body rippling with tension, even minute, caught the healer's attention. Well, fuck. Trust his mouth to ruin a potential bedmate for a time. With a sigh, he placed the tobacco stick into his mouth. “A poor choice of words on my part,” he’d admit, they didn’t really know one another, mistakes happened. “Do you mind?” hoping to smooth it over by being marginally behaved and obtaining permission before sparking up.

“I’m game,” he’d nod, shit-eating grin hot on the tails of it. “You can tell me about my book as we play.”

There was a need to hide away, to return to the solace and silence of the repository where hardly no one saw fit to bother him. His discomfort ran deep, wanting to spur him on into and episode where his hands spoke for him instead of his voice. Instead, he reached for the small piece of flint on the windowsill near him, using it to strike a flame to life in his hand, settling on his fingertip as it was offered to Ruth to light from. The fire never burned him, a deep seated part of what made him himself, instead being treated with a layer of reverence to his own magic.  

I do not mind. he replied, no change to his reserved and guarded expression. If you can do both at the same time, then I will tell you of what you've brought me, and perhaps tell you of something I'm seeking if you are willing.

Ruth was the opposite. Hiding only occurred if someone tried to prod where they were unwelcome to. Even then, it wasn’t hiding if his temper got the better of him, which was more often than he’d admit to the man across from him. Ruth tipped his body forward and the captured stick between his lips bloomed into life with the offered flame. He’d take a draw before sitting up some, snorting at his opponent's jab. “I think I already displayed my ability to multitask, not to worry, Fae.”

A hand reached for his satchel, flipping it open to draw out two tomes. Ruth nodded. “Sure. The first is one I picked up in the Marches. Nothing too exciting,” he shrugged, “but this one. This second one is written as if it’s a journal, but in some cipher I haven’t managed to crack yet.” It had bothered him for months, secrets within kept out of his reach because he couldn’t find the key to unlocking it. Placing them down onto the desk, he’d look to the board, the next question obvious. “White or Black? Do you have a preference?” White always made the first move, though it was never really a decider on the outcome.