How often he'd had a lover transferred, or feared it enough to let their ardor grow cold and die; how often he'd nearly been caught and threatened with transfer himself, that possibility he might never see Vandelin again held out as punishment for his misbehavior. How often despite it all he'd wanted to do something as brass-bold as this, out in the open where anyone might walk in on them, a thumb thrust in the eye of the rules he was otherwise so careful to follow.
That Simon's a templar--that he's every inch the perfect fit against Myr that he'd imagined, payoff from six months of learning more than which side Simon favored in a feint--makes it the sweeter; here is the ideal he's longed for all his life, a champion of the Just made wonderfully flesh and wonderfully his. His lips taste of ozone; he lifts his head to smile up at Simon, warm all over with delight at the reminder. (He hasn't yet told him how much it meant to be taken seriously, seen as a worthwhile challenger and not a deluded cripple. He hasn't yet--but he should, offering back that treasured gift of esteem that had made all the difference to a lonely mage so lately ripped from his home. There's no way he could have done this without knowing someone in the Inquisition thought as highly of him as Simon did, that night.)
"Seem to remember I was the one as ended up on his back--" The words and the laugh beneath them dissolve into a quiet moan (too soft to be overheard through the walls, through a door) against Simon's mouth. Already he's trailing fingers down the back of Simon's neck, along his spine, moved by that same instinct that's caught his beloved: More--they need more than this, need to be closer than skin on skin, need to be knit into one sweat-sticky creature until they collapse together in mutual satisfaction. They need to get this towel off of him--
Something slips and catches in his head.
"I c-can't, I can't, not with those awful holes in your face--"
He flinches as surely as if he'd been doused with ice water, a little guttering noise in the back of his throat like the keen of a wounded animal. I can't, in his own voice, not so long ago, when the old panic at the thought of rejection came clawing back out of his chest. For all reason and lust scream, He wants you! He knows you!, the fear is briefly louder and Myr stands there frozen a long moment, still pressed against Simon.
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That Simon's a templar--that he's every inch the perfect fit against Myr that he'd imagined, payoff from six months of learning more than which side Simon favored in a feint--makes it the sweeter; here is the ideal he's longed for all his life, a champion of the Just made wonderfully flesh and wonderfully his. His lips taste of ozone; he lifts his head to smile up at Simon, warm all over with delight at the reminder. (He hasn't yet told him how much it meant to be taken seriously, seen as a worthwhile challenger and not a deluded cripple. He hasn't yet--but he should, offering back that treasured gift of esteem that had made all the difference to a lonely mage so lately ripped from his home. There's no way he could have done this without knowing someone in the Inquisition thought as highly of him as Simon did, that night.)
"Seem to remember I was the one as ended up on his back--" The words and the laugh beneath them dissolve into a quiet moan (too soft to be overheard through the walls, through a door) against Simon's mouth. Already he's trailing fingers down the back of Simon's neck, along his spine, moved by that same instinct that's caught his beloved: More--they need more than this, need to be closer than skin on skin, need to be knit into one sweat-sticky creature until they collapse together in mutual satisfaction. They need to get this towel off of him--
Something slips and catches in his head.
"I c-can't, I can't, not with those awful holes in your face--"
He flinches as surely as if he'd been doused with ice water, a little guttering noise in the back of his throat like the keen of a wounded animal. I can't, in his own voice, not so long ago, when the old panic at the thought of rejection came clawing back out of his chest. For all reason and lust scream, He wants you! He knows you!, the fear is briefly louder and Myr stands there frozen a long moment, still pressed against Simon.