Romantic at heart he might be, Myr's seasoned enough to not put stock in first kisses; not to think it doesn't get better than this, because oh, it does, with time and space and sweet experience. Maker, give them that time to learn each other, to polish this wonderful rough-cut thing between them to something mirror-bright and shining, and it will get better than this (blood singing in his ears the release of six months' tension; mine, mine at last, mine to have and to hold)--
But this is a damned good start.
Hunger is a spice; Myr has starved years for this, and here is his beloved laid out for him (laid open to him) like a feast for his remaining senses. Drawn willing into that embrace, he molds himself to Simon, runs fingers up his sides and the elegant ladder of his ribs--winds an arm around him and clings close, needing the warmth and solid breadth of him more than anything right now. His other hand creeps up to bury fingers in Simon's dark hair and pull him further into a kiss turned just shy of devouring.
A kiss Myr has brief sense enough to break, catching his breath in a needy gasp, before pressing lips again to the corner of Simon's mouth, the curve of his jaw, down his neck to his collarbone to linger a long sweet moment.
"I've wanted this since we met," he confesses against the hollow of Simon's throat. (Confesses to himself, too--this, why he sought Simon out to be his guide to the Inquisition, why he lingered near him every moment he could spare, embroiled him in mad schemes and midnight discussions. A long mutual courtship Myr never should have started--
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Romantic at heart he might be, Myr's seasoned enough to not put stock in first kisses; not to think it doesn't get better than this, because oh, it does, with time and space and sweet experience. Maker, give them that time to learn each other, to polish this wonderful rough-cut thing between them to something mirror-bright and shining, and it will get better than this (blood singing in his ears the release of six months' tension; mine, mine at last, mine to have and to hold)--
But this is a damned good start.
Hunger is a spice; Myr has starved years for this, and here is his beloved laid out for him (laid open to him) like a feast for his remaining senses. Drawn willing into that embrace, he molds himself to Simon, runs fingers up his sides and the elegant ladder of his ribs--winds an arm around him and clings close, needing the warmth and solid breadth of him more than anything right now. His other hand creeps up to bury fingers in Simon's dark hair and pull him further into a kiss turned just shy of devouring.
A kiss Myr has brief sense enough to break, catching his breath in a needy gasp, before pressing lips again to the corner of Simon's mouth, the curve of his jaw, down his neck to his collarbone to linger a long sweet moment.
"I've wanted this since we met," he confesses against the hollow of Simon's throat. (Confesses to himself, too--this, why he sought Simon out to be his guide to the Inquisition, why he lingered near him every moment he could spare, embroiled him in mad schemes and midnight discussions. A long mutual courtship Myr never should have started--
And worth every minute of it.)