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Summary
“You always smell of wine,” Flins tells Varka, kissing those calloused fingers next, featherlight. “Of the rain, and mist, when you’ve been out.”
Varka wants to know what it’d feel like to have his fingers upon Flins’ tongue, tamping it down. It’s a debased fantasy. One that has Varka filling out in his slacks, half-hard.
“When we fell into bed with one another, the first thing I noticed was your cologne; sharp and spiced. How intoxicated we were, in mind and all other senses.”
“But?” Varka tries. He lets his thumb catch on Flins’ lower lip, and he brushes soft flesh back to bare lower teeth.
A soft sound of need comes from Flins. A keen. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and he sighs, overcome.
How Varka wants to taste wine from those lips.
- After a few indulgent trysts, Varka finds Flins before the night watch to make his feelings known.