[IC/OOC] Contact

[mactears]

sending crystal | letters and notes | in-person visits
To contact Loghain IC: Leave a response to this entry, specifying the means of contact (e.g., sending crystal, letters, in person visit). To contact me OOC: Discord: middlemarching#9936 Plurk: ragweed NB:  I work 9-5pm EST Mon-Fri, have additional volunteer obligations, and write fiction in my free time.

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[mactears]

"Any preferences?" he has the cheek to ask, as though Loghain has had ample opportunity to develop any--hardly with women, and none at all with men. Under his touch Loghain requires very little encouragement to grow hard; his lover for the night has his complete and undivided attention, which Loghain's intense grey eyes communicate as clearly than his arousal does.

(Is mutual attraction, the desire to give pleasure as well as to receive it, synchronicity enough? It's what Loghain can give him, here and now; whatever hurt he receives, he's withstood--and likely deserves--worse than a few awkward bruises acquired during sex.)

He takes a breath and, "None," he answers belatedly, winded, and allows himself the freedom to warm his hands against Kostos' skin again; one follows the curve of his spine between the planes of his shoulder blades, drawing the heat of his body closer. The other settles on the outside of his thigh, palming the muscle there appreciatively. He leans close enough to press his mouth against Kostos' chest, and a shiver runs the length of him at the taste of salt on his skin. "What do you like? Perhaps I'll oblige you."

[exequy]

"Perhaps," Kostos agrees. "If you can keep up."

Because what he likes is fast and firm, grasping hunger, teeth and nails and the difference between pain and hurt, staying on top and in charge unless someone convinces him otherwise via a solid wresting-away of control. If he has his way—if there's no sign of unhappiness at the prospect, no resistance, no excessive impatience to stop Kostos from retrieving his belt and its pouches and vial—he'll roll him over, and Loghain can have those awkward bruises on his hip bones, a bite mark on his back—

If he doesn't have his way, that's fine too. Sometimes it's better.

But Kostos doesn't mean it as a challenge, exactly, if you can keep up, any more than he means it as an insult. He doesn't mean it as anything. He isn't good at talking. He doesn't like talking—something he communicates, maybe, by abandoning the stroking to put his a firm, warm hand to Loghain's face, to his mouth, thumb curving under his chin, to press him to lie back on the bedroll.

[mactears]

If he can keep up? He's old, Kostos, not dead. Loghain's smile against the thumb that follows the curve of his mouth to his chin is wry, and he goes down onto the bedroll without complaint--and with growing confidence, now that the awkward Before moments have been dealt with, now that their hands have leave to touch and explore and grasp at each other's bodies.

It is with one hand gripping hold of Kostos' hip bone that he rolls them both so that it is Kostos who lays beneath him now, giving Loghain an unimpeded view of his face, his throat and chest. His fingers follow the path his eyes take across his skin, until he reaches between Kostos' legs to take him in hand; different, he decides, but good in a way he'd always suspected, on the rare occasions when he'd allowed himself to wonder what it would be like--

(If, for a moment, he thinks of Maric beneath him--or above him--just like this, surely he can be forgiven.)

His free hand finds its way into Kostos' head of dense black hair and gnarls there, coaxing his head back enough so that Loghain can lay a series of warm, rough kisses against the side of his neck.