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Varka's chest stutters. With your head to his collar, you feel the gentle hitch of breath. It's the one second of serenity he gives you before his hands tighten around your ass. You know what this means; your legs wind around his waist in turn as he stands, a swift motion that leaves you lightheaded. He carries you like you're light as a feather, taking the few steps back to the cot.
There, he sets you down, back flat on the bed. The tips of your fingers tremble in anticipation as he looms over you, knees braced around your hips, arms caging you between the expanse of his shoulders. His hair, still bound in a tail, falls over the curve of his neck; his eyes, stormy but hot, stare down at you with what you recognize as a promise.
"You've been missing me, hon?" His voice, husky and low, makes you shiver. When you nod, he huffs a laugh. "I know. I've been missing you too."
Life on the expedition has been stressful. When a storm rolls in, keeping the knights in place, you get to spend a night with the man you've been wanting for far too long.
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This display doesn't stop your Kyryll from chuckling. Perhaps at his own expense more than anything else. "How shameless," he whispers, cracks clear in his voice, "You're quite forward this night, aren't you?"
You lean your weight onto him. The drape of you atop his back gives you easier access to the swiftly forming tent in his pants. Shameless is what he calls you, but it's the mere graze of your hand upon him that has him growing hard. You hum, letting the vibration ripple through your body. It reverberates, lingering and slow—like a bell long left to toll in a church where none dare to pray.
"I could say the same," your knuckles brush against a thing that twitches at your touch, "to you, couldn't I?"
He laughs again. This time, it is raspy. Deep from his throat. The sound of a man doomed, you think and listen well. "I'd never dare claim otherwise."
It's Flins' birthday. He is content for the night to happen one way. You, however, have other ideas.