Work Text:
Long fingers and warm, rough hands. Strong. Decisive.
Alexander knows the most opportune moment to strike, swift and determined. An effortlessly skilled warrior, with Magnus helpless to resist.
Not that he would.
Alec’s hands are on him now, anticipated with the tingling that prickles along his skin, anticipated in the rush of air that swirls between their bodies when he moves closer. Magnus can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of him, or the twist of his body as he squirms at the sensation of wriggling fingers against his ribs. He’s stuck where he lays, forced to live a scrunched worm amid the silk sheets that cocoon his body with Alec, his beautiful tormentor, as his only grounding.
“A-Alexander!” His protests are pitiful, undermined by the breathless laugh.
There are lips pressed to his neck, salvation in the form of a smile, and Alec’s fingers slow to a gentle stroke of skin on skin where they graze his sides. “You shouldn’t goad me into finding your ticklish spot if you’re not prepared to lose,” he hears, muffled and blown warm below his ear.
Alec is right, he knows he’s been bested, but ever the competitive one Magnus refuses to concede.
“If I remember correctly,” he chimes with the grin etched on his face turned wry, “I said you’d never be able to find my most ticklish spot.”
A groan escapes Alec, rough and gravelly with the stubble of his chin prickling along Magnus’ collar. He has half the mind to give in, to tell Alec that he’s won and insist his hands delve lower, but Magnus is stubborn, and working up his darling husband with a challenge has always been his favorite thing to do. So he bites his lip and bares his teeth to the onslaught of curious digits that search with one mission, and only one. Sweeping, caressing, bordering on almost reverent in the way Alec touches him; the way Alec always regards him in moments like these when the moon is hung high in the air and the twinkle of the stars are the only light in the room. When even the rush of Alicante in the night can’t penetrate the whispered adoration with which they gaze upon each other.
“Magnus,” he hears in the space between breaths, a quiet second of voluntary patience.
Words are lost in those moments, tossed above and below and all around them in practiced repetition. They always find themselves here, always together as one with lips coexisting in a time and place belonging only to them, to Magnus and Alexander.
A hum, a kiss, and still fingers wander, traveling along planes and warming their path with fire that burns hotter than magic. They’re slow to turn now, mission suppressed and laid in waiting with the rise of a more urgent matter.
To that, Magnus gives in.