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“Hey there, Corey.”
“No, absolutely not,” Corvus snaps, only feeling a tiny bit bad for the way Soren’s face falls momentarily. But if he doesn’t nip this in the bud, he knows from experience that Soren will drag it out for the next few months, at least. “Not my name.”
“I know it’s not your name,” Soren pouts, planting an elbow against the wall beside Corvus’ ear, bringing his typical cologne-and-autumn leaves scent that Corvus keeps noticing quite against his will. “Kinda the whole point of a nickname?”
Corvus has long since stopped trying to make sense of conversations that Soren has somehow started without him; it’s less torturous for all involved if he just accepts that it’s happening and goes with it. “I wasn’t aware I needed one,” he answers, nodding with respect at a passing nobleman. “It’s not like I have a nickname for you.” He’s not sure why he says that.
He gets a finger pointed in his face, and finally glances over with a raised eyebrow to find Soren regarding him balefully, head tilted. “Yeah, no kidding, bud. It’s like I have to do everything first around here.”
It’s a normal night, a calm one, where they settle into an unseen corner with a bottle between them, playing checkers. Corvus frowns slightly at the cup of ale in his grasp, his second. He can hold his alcohol, so he's not sure what has him feeling so off-balance tonight. But every time he catches Soren's eye something seems to pass between them that Corvus can't really decipher, and doesn't want to examine too closely. He needs to get a grip, because it's just Soren.
Soren, who’s staring down at the board with intense concentration, thick brows furrowed, nose scrunched. He tends to hum when he’s thinking hard, and Corvus chews his lower lip against a laugh as he watches Soren carefully consider his next move. One of the rare times he’s this quiet. The sun is setting in riotous shades of purple and gold beyond the vast expanse of trees behind them, the air carrying the barest chill. A light breeze lifts a few of the longer hairs that frame Soren’s face, falling again to partially conceal his eyes. Corvus’ fingers twitch, and he tightens them into a fist as his eyes flick away, taking another deep drink of his ale.
“Alright, okay,” Soren crows, triumphant, evidently having made his move. “Beat that, Big C!”
Corvus’ amused contemplation of Soren’s rather predictable move is only rattled by the deeply unwelcome second attempt at a nickname, even more vile than the first. Despite himself, Corvus is too slow to stop his snort. “No to that,” Corvus tells him, shaking his head slowly. “No…to that.”
“Aw, come on!”
“You are not calling me Big C.” Corvus sweeps two of Soren’s pieces away easily, smirks as he looks up. Soren’s mouth falls open in shocked dismay, knocking a grin loose around Corvus’ mouth. Unfortunately, Soren’s eyes wander up and catch it, which feels damning for some reason. “Your turn,” Corvus reminds him unnecessarily.
“What is it you always call me when I beat you in a race? Smug?” Soren asks. “Kettle and pot, my friend.”
Corvus opens his mouth to jokingly suggest those as nicknames, and abruptly shuts it. This stupid little thought exercise is rubbing off on him. “Maybe I wanted to balance the scales.”
Soren’s eyes meet his, then travel Corvus’ face as he visibly digests his words, and then understanding dawns. It's a fascinating journey, every time. Soren gives Corvus an expression that’s quite new, an unreadable quirk of his lip as his gaze meanders away from Corvus’ before meeting it quickly again, then dropping to the board. “Huh. If you say so.”
What?
Corvus blinks, but something stays his tongue, so he just watches Soren make his next move instead.
Sometimes they sleep in the same bed, and it’s not a big deal, Corvus refuses to make it a big deal.
It’s just that when you’ve been through a certain amount of weird trauma with someone, certain boundaries sort of dissolve, and there’s something about Soren’s extremely unlikely prominence in Corvus’ life coupled with the fact that they’ve seen some pretty disturbing shit while adjacent to each other that—well, it’s resulted in this.
This, being the quiet knock at the darkest hour when the castle is all black and still, soft footsteps padding against cool stone. The pale gleam of moonlight, silver-white and ever-watchful. Soren’s eyes like deep green pools in its gossamer light, his jaw cracking open on a long yawn.
“You want to talk about it?” Corvus asks, never one to beat around the bush, except for, well. But this is easier, it’s a reasonable affliction, nightmares, and he kind of enjoys Soren like this, as insensitive as it might sound. More subdued but also grittier, somehow, most blunt in the dark, as if freed from the pressures of the sun's oppressive gaze.
Soren’s eyes drift shut for a moment, and he shifts onto his back, hands scrubbing hard through his hair, which was already a bit of a mess from the tossing and turning he was surely doing before he left his own chambers. “It was…the same as usual, more or less. My dad, just being...ugh. And then dying, horribly. A lot of fire. A lot of…regret.” His short laugh is more like a croak, and Corvus reaches out before he can suppress the urge, stopping Soren’s fingers from further abusing his scalp. Instantly, Soren relaxes his hold, lowering both hands from his head and keeping one in Corvus’ grip where it then lies between them, on the bed. Fingers entwining slowly, inevitably, and staying there.
It’s Corvus who needs to say something now, something comforting, ideally, but what is there to say?
“Why are you friends with me?” Soren blurts instead. Outside the window, an owl hoots once, a low and mournful note.
“What?”
“Why are you friends with me?” Soren’s eyes are still shut, face turned toward the ceiling, his voice hushed but oddly flat. “After everything. You know.”
Corvus doesn’t know if Soren can feel the weight of his gaze, but he looks his fill anyway, in a way that he doesn’t allow himself in the light of day. “I already told you, all of our old stuff is in the past. We understand each other, it’s forgiven.”
“That,” Soren starts, then releases a short, frustrated huff of air. “I know, but that’s not what I mean. You could have forgiven me but then, like, given me fuck off vibes, and I would have totally gotten it.”
“Maybe I did, and you didn’t get it,” Corvus teases low, and has a reassuring smile waiting for Soren when he finally turns, doubt brimming in his wide eyes. A small fissure erupts in Corvus’ chest at the sight, another crack in his armor that rattles him so deeply it aches. He shakes his head to dispel the feeling, and to banish that look from Soren’s too-vulnerable features. “Soren, maybe I didn’t want you to fuck off. Did you ever think about that?”
“But I drive you nuts. I know I can be, um, a lot. Or…not enough, I guess.” his voice grows tight and trails off as he swallows hard, and Corvus experiences a flash of deep hatred toward Viren for whatever he did to his son, may he forever rot in hell, or wherever he is now.
How did it come to this, lying side by side in his bed beside a man who once dragged him around in chains, a man Corvus once believed to be so narcissistic and dangerously naive he’d briefly considered ending Soren’s life for the overall good of the realm? It’d been years since Corvus believed in the gods of his youth, but something, somewhere, is laughing at how his life has ended up, he’s pretty sure.
“Hey.”
Soren meets his eyes again, albeit reluctantly. Corvus pushes past the sudden dryness in his mouth, the wild thrumming of his heart, as if making a desperate bid to escape the confines of his ribs. He squeezes Soren’s hand.
“You’re my best friend.” He’s never said it out loud, thought it was obvious. There’s no one else Corvus spends this much time with, no one else he’s allowed in, no one else who understands him in the kooky way Soren does. But maybe he’d taken it for granted, a bit, that beneath Soren’s sunny exterior remained a boy who’d grown up lacking the validation that he gives to everyone else in droves, as if driven by a compulsion. “You—mean a lot to me. I like having you around. Okay? You shouldn’t question that.”
It’s so quiet around them, so quiet Corvus can hear Soren’s intake of breath. Corvus' pulse is racing by the time he’s finished speaking, feeling winded by sharing this level of open honesty. He feels a bit like he’s in suspended freefall, and it isn’t until Soren’s face cracks into a smile, that familiar jocularity peeking through, that Corvus can begin to breathe normally again.
“Right back atcha, bestie.”
His nose wrinkles before he can help it, startling a husky laugh from Soren that sends a flash of heat though Corvus so unsettling he has to break their eye contact to roll a bit further away. “Thanks, but never call me that again.”
“Dude, you’re impossible.”
“Go to sleep, Soren.”
Soren huffs, but falls silent again, which—huh, he must have been pretty tired. Corvus steals another glance before letting himself drift off too, forgetting to drop the hold he still has on Soren’s hand.
Corvus is naturally an overthinker, it’s true, but this current preoccupation feels a bit…warranted. Since they woke up completely entwined two weeks ago, Corvus’s face rubbing sleepily into Soren’s neck until he realized this wasn’t an incredibly vivid dream—and wasn’t that quite the wake up call—things between the two men had grown a little more intense than usual. Corvus doesn’t think he’s imagining it.
Soren’s behavior hasn’t outwardly changed, at all. No one watching them would think a rift had formed. But maybe that’s a part of the problem. Soren is a naturally affectionate person, has never hesitated to yank Corvus into a long hug for no reason, tug playfully at his hair when they fake-argue, wrap an arm around Corvus’ shoulders and haul him in close when he doesn’t want to be overheard. No, he’s still very much doing all of those things.
They just carry a new weight, now.
“Hey, hey,” Soren says urgently as he suddenly collides with Corvus’ side where he’s patrolling the throne room from beside the doors, curling a hand into Corvus’ shoulder to tug him in. He drops his voice until it’s nearly a whisper as he leans in close to Corvus’s ear. “Don’t turn your head, look to your left—that guy seem suspicious to you?”
Head swimming, Corvus glances subtly to where Soren is indicating. There’s a man scowling from his place in line to have an audience with the king, but he’s older and a bit stooped, so Corvus doesn’t feel overly concerned. He turns his head to mutter in Soren’s direction, resisting the urge to wrap an arm around the other man’s waist to hold him in place. “Another surly petitioner, I think. He isn’t the first. They’re unhappy with the spoiled crops along the eastern border.” From this angle, Soren’s hair isn’t hanging in his face, so Corvus is able to see him reflect on his words in real time, his eyes still somewhat narrowed in suspicion.
“Maybe you’re right,” he hums, not totally convinced, then turns to Corvus, dropping his hand but staying close. And there it is, that intensity, where once he would have shot Corvus a megawatt grin or mock salute, now his expression hovers somewhere between intrigued and inscrutable, his eyes boring into Corvus’. “Well, let’s keep a close eye, yeah?”
Corvus inclines his head with a little smirk, murmurs “Yes, sir” before he can stop himself. The instant embarrassment is only alleviated by the way Soren’s eyes go a little wide as he visibly reels, mouth opening as if he’s about to say something, but whatever it is devolves into a breathless little laugh, the kind of which Corvus has never heard from Soren before. The moment hangs loud and obvious between them both, until they both speak at once to try and dispel it.
“Uh, that—”
“So, I’ll—”
A minor commotion yanks their attention away: the very man who attracted Soren’s suspicion has entered a loud argument with another of the Crown Guard, shaking his fist, spittle flying from his lips. The bizarre moment is forgotten as both men immediately move over to help diffuse the situation and remove the rowdy man from the throne room.
“Now, I won’t say I told you so,” Soren gloats quietly after the man is outside of the castle walls, the young king’s safety secured.
Corvus, who’d been waiting for this, rolls his eyes and jabs an elbow into Soren’s side, right where he knows it tickles, just enough. Soren’s involuntary and indignant little squeak is satisfying every time.
“Aw, don’t be jealous, Cor.”
He’s smiling before he can clamp it down, which instantly sends the wrong message. “Wait, no—”
“Aha! Have we finally found it? Cor, my awesome spectacular buddy Co–”
“No,” Corvus insists, shaking his head. “Again, my name, as is, works just fine.”
“Okaaaaay, but on a scale of one to ten, how close did I get to the mark?”
“A solid two.”
“Not a zero!”
The thing about being friends with Soren is, his excitable nature paired with his freaky ability to excel in almost any vaguely athletic activity means that Corvus is often beset with “challenges” that he’d be perfectly fine not accepting. Sprinting to the top of the castle’s watchtower. Seeing who can hold their breath the longest. Gods help him, tart eating (though that one was mainly for the king’s benefit, on his 10th birthday).
Or now, having the ground painfully rise up to meet him for the second time since Corvus had accepted Soren’s proposition to spar in the courtyard, despite the way the sun hangs heavy and blazing in the late afternoon sky.
“Watch your feet,” Soren grins as he extends a hand to help Corvus up. Accepting it with an eyeroll, Corvus stands and faces Soren again, planting his feet, legs spread wide as he tries to anticipate Soren's next move.
It’s a little unsettling how focused Soren is when he spars, all of that manic energy coalescing into utter concentration, a coil ready to spring. Their duties done for the day, they’ve stripped off their heavy armor, leaving only light undershirts and loose pants. Soren’s eyes are bright and attentive, tracking Corvus’ movements carefully, dodging his next swing with a sharp grin.
“Nice one,” Soren comments, and then returns with a rapid right hook, which Corvus ducks to avoid, spinning to try and pin Soren into a headlock. The move is blocked and there’s a short, surprised laugh that huffs against Corvus’ cheek before Soren grabs his hand, yanks it backwards and forces Corvus to his knees, then down further, chest pressed to the ground.
“Fuck,” Corvus bites out, struggling in Soren’s firm hold, head turning to glare as best he can. Soren pins him with some effort, surveying him with a wolfish green gaze, knee pressed into his back.
“Is that a yield?”
In response, Corvus kicks out and dislodges Soren, spinning quickly to jump to his feet and startle him, leaving Soren more vulnerable to Corvus’ next move. At least, that’s the plan, but he makes it as far as turning over and then he’s dragging Soren down instead, pinning him back to the ground with an arm pressed to the throat. It’s a little unusual, being able to get the best of Soren like that. Now that he's here, Corvus has to admit that victory is pretty sweet. But the sight beneath him is much sweeter.
Soren’s face is red and gleaming with sweat, his hair tousled and wild. The surprise spelled out across his face quickly melts into frustration, and then wry surrender as Corvus looms a bit closer, pressing his arm in a shade tighter, fully establishing his win.
“Is that a yield?” he teases, as Soren glares half-heartedly up at him, momentarily flexes his arm muscles as if to burst out of Corvus’ hold. Corvus’ restraining grip tightens even more in response, dropping his hips down to fully straddle Soren’s lap, trapping him in place. “Ah-ah, I don’t think so.”
Soren’s lashes—long, and a deeper shade of brown than his brows—flutter so quickly that Corvus wonders if he imagined it.
“Dammit,” Soren mutters under his breath, body finally slackening as he accepts defeat, smirking dangerously up at Corvus. “This is some kind of cheating, I think.”
“Beating you fair and square is cheating now?” Corvus teases, swaying a bit closer to track the way Soren’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. The arm that was resting over Soren’s throat moves up to join his other one, where he’s keeping Soren’s wrists pinned to the ground.
Soren shakes his head quickly, chest rising and falling quicker now as he chews his lower lip, eyes trained on Corvus’ face. “You distracted me.”
“Tell me you yield, asshole.” It’s important that Soren gives this win to Corvus, for some reason, but of equal or perhaps more importance is exploring Soren’s mounting…fluster as Corvus resolutely does not get off of him. If Corvus didn’t know better, he’d think Soren was enjoying this, from the way he tilts his head minutely to the side as Corvus leans down to bat his temple against Soren’s jaw, playfully rough.
“No,” Soren retorts, right on the heels of a small laugh that bubbles out of his chest, stealing Corvus’ breath when his hips rise just a bit, not with the intent to dislodge.
Heart pounding hard, thrumming nerves flooding his body, Corvus exhales hard, dragging his nose in a silent warning along the strip of neck that Soren bares to him so willingly. A knife's edge. As if he too knows where this is headed, even if he doesn’t want to name it or acknowledge it, not yet. Just letting Corvus have his way.
“You can be a real brat, you know?” Corvus murmurs into Soren’s neck, then sinks his teeth into warm, salty skin until Soren gasps, wrists twitching in Corvus’ grasp. Until one arm finally breaks free, and then Soren’s fingers are clutching tightly at Corvus’ hair, holding him in place.
“Yeah, I know,” Soren pants, hips undulating once more, pulling a low moan from them both at the heavy, delicious friction. “Gonna do something about it, big guy?”
And fuck, Corvus wants to. It's useless to pretend otherwise, now. There’s certainly no brushing their current position away as bros being bros, engaging in some casual and platonic affection. Not with Soren spread so invitingly beneath him, lips already swollen and wet as he stares up at Corvus, color high in his cheeks.
“Don’t call me big guy,” Corvus says shakily, shifting a thigh to press deeper into the slow grind Soren's started, though he knows he should stop. This is stupid, it's entirely possible that someone discovers them like this, and then what? The problem is, he knows that Soren already lacks impulse control, so of course he would think it was funny to angle Corvus more forcefully into his neck, greedy, and then release a tiny, desperate breath when Corvus accepts the invitation to taste him more thoroughly.
“What?” Soren asks out of nowhere, sounding confused.
“What?” Corvus parrots, equally flummoxed. What were they talking about? He feels like he’s drooling.
“You said not to call you big guy?” Soren asks, his voice amused and worryingly even, and Corvus’ eyes fly open as he’s slammed into wakeful reality. Soren, his best friend, is lying on his side, in Corvus’ bed, head propped on his elbow that rests against Corvus’ pillow, a slow smirk spreading across his face. They are not humping in the courtyard, Soren had another nightmare and snuck into Corvus’ bed and fuckfuckfuck. “What were you dreaming about, huh?”
“Oh my god,” Corvus mumbles, rubbing a hand down his face and mouth (drooling, yep), his half asleep state wreaking havoc with his brain-to-mouth filter. “Why can’t you ever wear a shirt?” It’s something he notices, often, and he certainly didn’t mean to comment on it given his already damning situation, but here they are.
Soren glances down at his own bare chest, then blinks back up at Corvus. “Don’t answer my question with a question.”
“I’m going back to sleep.”
“Oh, no you aren’t.” Without warning, Soren is rolling until he’s on top of Corvus, pinning him to the bed with a triumphant smirk. His hips hover dangerously above where Corvus is all too aware of his lingering arousal. With a choked inhale, Corvus’ hands fly down to Soren’s hips, holding him immobile.
“What are you doing,” he grits out, aiming for annoyance, falling way short of the mark.
Soren’s head tilts as he looks down at Corvus, hands planted on either side of his head. Reeling from the abrupt transition from that dream to this weirdly charged waking world, Corvus swallows hard, shakes his head minutely at Soren, trying to telegraph that any further movement from Soren will clue him into the very un-platonic condition Corvus is in right now. Soren only raises an eyebrow in response, his meaning clear. He’s still waiting for an answer.
Exhaling loudly through his nose, Corvus closes his eyes, jaw clenched. “Soren, for the sake of...our friendship, I think you should get off me.”
When Soren doesn’t answer, Corvus glances up at him reluctantly, disliking the mischief still lurking around his mouth. “Is that what you want?” Soren asks, and waits until Corvus opens his mouth to respond before dropping his hips, bringing his ass flush with Corvus’ aching cock.
Corvus bites back his explosive groan a second too late, his body responding immediately, hungrily, grasping Soren closer and returning the slow, dirty grind. The air between them is hot, scorching hot, the sound of the shifting sheets and breaths panting quick and desperate ratcheting up the intensity as Corvus’ head swims, totally overwhelmed. “S-Soren, what the fuck-”
“You said my name,” Soren breathes, eyes alight with something like wonder, like deep satisfaction, lips parting on a soft grunt as Corvus’ hands wander, traveling the expanse of Soren’s muscled back, nails scraping bluntly at his skin. “In your sleep. I heard you.”
“Then why even ask,” Corvus wonders, sliding his fingers into Soren’s hair the way he’s wanted to for longer than he can remember, gripping the silken strands before tugging them hard to yank Soren's head back a few inches, eyes zeroed in on the other man’s wet and panting mouth.
Soren’s face slackens at the surprise rough treatment, eyelashes fluttering, the way they did in Corvus’ dream. “I wanted you to admit it. That you thought about this too.” He moans quietly as their clothed cocks bump and slide together again and again, an agonizing tease. “You’re too damn stubborn.”
“This feel stubborn to you?” Corvus quips, palming Soren’s ass and gripping the rounded flesh there to bring him closer, hips snapping upward. Fresh desire pulses through him at the sweet cry of pleasure that tumbles from Soren’s mouth until Corvus surges upward to cover it with his own, kissing him deeply, finally, leaving no room for ambiguity. Soren grips him close and returns the kiss with enthusiasm, opening his mouth wide, curling his tongue against Corvus’ until his taste, his smell, the perfect weight of his body is all Corvus knows, senses flooded.
In hindsight, they’d been careening towards this conclusion for quite some time now, though apparently Corvus’ own internal battling of the wills over whether his attraction was returned blinded him to the fact that yes, it very much was.
Forcing himself to pause, Corvus’ heart hammers in his chest as Soren makes a questioning sound, nipping lightly at Corvus’ chin. He wants to quiet this part of his brain, the one that still hesitates to trust. “You won’t…regret this in the morning, will you?”
Soren snorts, blind to Corvus' anxieties. “Regret? Dude, no.”
“You're calling me dude right now? Seriously?”
“No, I will not regret finally getting my hands on you after fantasizing about it for the past—” Soren’s mouth snaps shut, and he presses a line of kisses up Corvus’ jaw. “No, the answer is no.”
Hmm. They'll revisit that later. Corvus is trying to tamp down his smile, and it isn't going well. “So you want me for my body, I get it.”
“Well yeah, among many other things,” Soren returns easily, nipping at Corvus’ ear. “Listen, if you want me to get sappy right now, I’ll do it. I’ll give you so much sap you’ll be dripping in it, dude.”
Jesus Christ. “Never mind. Enough talking,” Corvus laughs, turning to find Soren’s mouth again, which is grinning as it meets his. Again, and again. Until the humor gives way to their mounting need once more, tasting each other thoroughly, hungrily.
Until Soren's lust-roughened voice dispels the silence once more, impatient hands tugging at Corvus' clothes. “Hey c'mon, get this off.”
Corvus obeys instantly, rising just enough to yank off his shirt with Soren’s help, licking back into his mouth again the moment he’s freed, the forgotten article fluttering to the ground. Soren is so delightfully clumsy in his earnestness, set on devouring Corvus with such desperation that final vestiges of his uncertainty dissolve into nothing. Of course. It's just Soren. It’s just them.
Blazing with want, Corvus reverses their positions, flipping Soren onto his back and enjoying the heated look he receives in return. Leaning in to rub their noses together, treasuring Soren's expected huff of laughter, Corvus slides a hand between their bodies, both of them expelling satisfied moans in unison a moment later when he cups Soren firmly, mapping the girthy shape of him.
“Off, off,” Soren huffs, voice strained and breathless, devolving into quiet giggles as they attempt to remove their pants simultaneously, knees nearly dealing awful damage. "Oh, whoops."
“We're doing great,” Corvus snickers, putting the barest amount of distance between them to get properly naked, and then climbs gratefully back over Soren when they succeed. The sheer expanse of skin to blissfully bare skin is enough to drive the temporary embarrassment from his mind, dizzy with need. He looks down at the delectable spread of Soren’ body, chest and abdomen lightly dusted with golden-brown hair and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His swollen, leaking cock, rising thick from a nest of soft curls. Corvus’ mouth waters as he wraps a hand around it, relishing the weight in his palm as he pumps slowly.
Soren hisses and writhes beneath him, batting a thigh into Corvus' side, curling an arm around his neck and pulling him back down for more heady, open-mouthed kisses. The glide of Soren’s dick in Corvus’ hand is loud and slick as he speeds up, and his pleasure spikes rapidly when Soren reaches down to encircle both of their cocks in his grasp until they’re working furiously together, too drunk with pleasure to do anything but chase the rapidly cresting high with dogged determination. Corvus sucks hard on Soren’s upper lip, then lower, meeting Soren’s tongue with his own, all while thrusting into their joined fists, both of them growing messy with it.
“I’m-” Soren pants, voice rising in gasps and moans as his grip tightens, forcing an answering grunt from Corvus. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like that.”
“That’s good?”
"Fuck."
Too strung out on bliss to continue kissing, they’re just breathing harshly against each other’s mouths, foreheads pressed together as they hurtle toward the precipice of pleasure - and Corvus wants to savor the sight of Soren pink-cheeked and desperate like this forever, nodding wildly as he clutches hard at Corvus’ back, hair flying back as he suddenly tenses, back arching in bliss.
“Corvus,” Soren moans, face tightening in agonized pleasure, “Baby, I’m—oh fuckkkk—"
Corvus barely has time to register the warmth spilling against his fingers before his own orgasm is punched out of him. He clutches Soren close as he’s jettisoned to outer fucking space, his cock pulsing again and again, adding to the mess spreading between them.
It takes quite a while for Corvus to swim back to the surface of his consciousness, blinking woozily down at Soren from where he’s slowly congealing to his chest.
“Wow,” he remarks dryly, and Soren quakes once beneath him, his laughter both sweet and a little knowing.
“You always have just the right word for the moment.”
“Here’s another one,” Corvus mumbles, dragging his lips tiredly along Soren’s collarbone. “Shower.”
“I’m like two seconds from passing out, and so are you,” Soren rebuts, patting his hip a few times. “Scooch for a quick second.”
Corvus scooches, closes his eyes, and sighs in gratitude when Soren returns with a cloth to hurriedly clean them both with. Is less grateful when he realizes it’s his shirt.
Laying back against the pillows, beneath the sheets, Corvus opens his arms to Soren, who settles in, half-sprawled against Corvus’ chest with their legs intertwined. Soren angles his head upward to nip teasingly at Corvus’ lip, and they exchange lazy kisses before Soren's mouth travels over to Corvus’ ear to bite there too, making his dick twitch, somehow.
“Baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and wicked, and Corvus is helpless against the slow shiver that starts at the base of his neck and drips down his spine. Dammit. He wonders if there is any chance Soren missed his honest-to-god whimper at the quietly spoken word.
The answer, of course, is no.
Soren hums, pleased. “Seems like we’ve finally found the winner. What do you think?”
In response, Corvus tugs him in for a kiss, and then another. Fine. He can definitely live with this one.