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Mark isn’t used to this. Being touched, being loved. Falcon’s hands in his hair as they card slowly through his gray locks, the way his beak presses against his collarbone.
It feels like being worshiped, and Mark isn’t used to it all.
He lets out a moan, can feel the way Falcon’s beak turns up, a grin pressed against the soft feathers. Like a lit match, the way Falcon’s touch lights a fire under his always cold skin. Leaving him pleasantly warmed and aching for more.
Mark isn’t used to it, but he sure as hell can learn to be.