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Fiachra wonders if maybe he should be more jealous, if maybe the sight of Runar cozying up to a broad-shouldered, thick-thighed man should pick at all of his insecurities. And he is jealous, to an extent, though it’s less about Runar being with another man than it is about his inability to witness each of the minstrel’s reactions at close range.
First, in his defense: Fiachra hadn’t meant to peek in on what is now evidently a sexual situation. He’s here making use of the abbey’s reading rooms, little offshoots of the main library. They’re plain and rather cluttered, haven’t been renovated in years, and are usually unpopulated once the weather starts getting colder, since they have little insulation other than worn carpets and the odd wall-hanging.
There’s a hole the size of his fist between this room and the next, partially (and poorly) covered by a tapestry on one side and by a bookshelf on the other, which he discovered some time ago due to a pair of particularly chatty monks in the next room over. It rarely stops him from studying here, certainly not in the winter when few others use the reading rooms anyway. It does allow for distraction on the rare occasion someone wanders into the adjoining room, as well as the possibility for snooping should his interest be piqued (an infrequent event, when it comes to the goings on of the abbey). Really, he tells himself, the only reason he slides off of his chair to peer through the gap in the wall when he hears Runar enter the other room is because he doesn’t recognize the voice of whomever he’s speaking with. He can’t imagine why the minstrel would be in the reading rooms in the first place, other than for some wicked or horny reason.
The voice in question belongs to a tall man with bare, muscled arms covered in dark ink: the village carpenter, sent for by the prior to fix the shelves in the kitchen pantries. And then there’s Runar, standing with one hip cocked, who has the seductive air of someone dressed in fine leathers and silks even while wearing a loose shirt tucked into simple pants (granted, the fact that the pants cling so closely to his slim hips certainly heightens the seduction). Half of his hair is swept up untidily and the other half curls atop his shoulders, the candlelight catching on sleek, shining threads and turning them copper-gold.
“You caught me at an opportune time,” Runar is saying, his voice gaining clarity as Fiachra settles by the wall and sticks a finger through the gap to carefully push the tapestry aside. He can’t see Runar’s face – his head is tilted up and away towards the carpenter, and where he is in the room puts his back to Fiachra – but he can hear the smirk in his voice. Fiachra fights to ignore the stupid fluttering in his chest that started up the moment he saw Runar, the one that’s been plaguing him every single time Runar walks into a room, though nothing keeps it from flushing through his body like a hot cup of tea. It’s more than simply attraction, no matter how horrifyingly embarrassing that is to admit even to himself.
“I find it hard to believe there’s any such thing as an inopportune time with you,” the carpenter rumbles. He has a hand at Runar’s side, kneading where his hips fill out into his ass. Hunger lines his face as Runar shifts his weight into his grasp, as defining a feature as the stubble along his jaw. The carpenter is masculine in a different fashion from Runar, rougher and more demanding in presence, his sturdiness reliant on brawn rather than composure.
With a laugh, Runar steps closer, his boots scuffing across the floor, and Fiachra’s tight grip on his self-restraint almost falters – the sound summons forth the sort of warm affection that melts all his attempts at disinterest and detachment. Runar looks especially sharp and lithe right beside the carpenter (so pretty, Fiachra can’t help but think), his hand dwarfed as he sets it atop the other man’s. “What a bold statement to hear from someone I’ve known all of half an hour.”
The carpenter’s responding laugh carries an impatient undertone. He tilts his chin down as Runar slides into the space in front of him. Gods, he’s tall; there’s a full head of height between them, and Runar’s decently tall himself. “What a bold deflection from the one who propositioned me.”
There’s no misinterpreting that, not with how he’s looking at Runar. But why in the world would Runar have brought him here, of all places, and how had he managed to lure the carpenter away without anyone else noticing? Fiachra takes this as only more proof of how few limits there are to what the minstrel’s charm can get him.
“I do s’pose there are agreements to keep, yeah?” Runar’s voice drops lower. As much as he’s seen Runar flirt with other people, men and otherwise, Fiachra has never witnessed him flirt with such blatant intent. Well, except for with him, he supposes, but that’s… that’s different. Instead of the indulgent flirtation he fixes Fiachra with, like he’s trying to draw something out of him with nimble fingers and gentle touches, Runar is asking and offering and demanding all at once – this is the sort of seduction Fiachra accuses him of on a regular basis, and somehow it’s only seeing it turned on someone else that forces Fiachra to confront the underlying tenderness that sustains Runar’s advances towards him.
Fiachra expects a kiss, with how their mouths drift together, but then the carpenter plants a firm hand on Runar’s shoulder and pushes down.
Runar has knelt beside Fiachra in the church pews, in the wild grass next to the river, in the gardens by the rows of ripening fall vegetables. Yet the ease with which Runar sinks to his knees now, the eagerness – never has his genuflection been imbued with such reverence, or such a sense of felicity.
The carpenter keeps one hand on his shoulder and tangles the other in his hair, shifting his stance while Runar’s long, slender fingers work at his belt. Fiachra could nearly cry with gratitude when Runar adjusts in turn and then he can see his face, the sly spark in his amber eyes, the flutter of dark lashes.
His status as voyeur only compounds the hungry shame and the shameful hunger at odds in his stomach, yet he can’t bring himself to turn away, not when opportunities to stare are so few and far between. The stupid minstrel always knows when Fiachra’s looking at him, either because he can sense his gaze somehow or because he’s already looking back. Even if he hadn’t been embarrassed by his own attraction, Fiachra would have kept breaking his gaze out of obstinance; he knows, at some level, that this battle between himself and Runar is entirely self-fabricated, but he can’t shake the feeling that to stop fighting is to face a ruinous loss. And maybe the loss is worse for being preventable, for being one that he’s dug himself further into out of the fear of recognizing that all he’s withheld and repressed has been for nothing.
Runar slips the carpenter’s cock from his pants with a practiced hand: it’s thick, ruddy, dripping from the tip. Fiachra can’t blame him for already being hard when there’s such a lovely, attentive partner close at hand. Runar’s self-satisfaction is palpable as he tightens his grip and drags his fist up the shaft, although now that he’s got a cock in his face, his remaining nonchalance is draining away, revealing a hungry, needy minstrel.
It’s not like Fiachra’s thought so much about what position Runar would take were he with another partner … he’d thought of himself under Runar, if anything were to happen between them. If anything else were to happen. Not that he’s thought about it a lot. But somehow he hasn’t really considered the idea of Runar getting fucked before, and he can’t believe he hasn’t when it seems so right, when it’s so clear right now how much Runar wants it – how much he needs it.
Runar kisses the tip of the carpenter’s cock, precum glossing his lips, and the other man grunts. His fingers twist in Runar’s hair and tug him forward, cock slipping over his cheek and leaving a messy trail behind.
“Impatient?” Runar asks with a raised eyebrow, breathing the question into hot, sensitive flesh.
“I’ve met very few people who look quite as good on their knees as you do,” the carpenter replies. What Fiachra wouldn’t do to see Runar from his perspective, gazing up from under long lashes with lust-dark eyes. “I suspect it’s because you’re well-practiced. I’d like to confirm that suspicion.”
Runar laughs drunkenly, a deep, rich sound that Fiachra’s never had the pleasure of hearing before, obscenely seductive for an expression of mirth. He nuzzles against the carpenter’s cock, rubbing the mess into his skin. “I make my living with my mouth. Of course I’m well-practiced.”
With another delicate kiss to its swollen tip, Runar swallows his cock down with ease, pausing when his lips are pursed halfway down the shaft. The carpenter tries to thrust deeper, but Runar keeps a tight grip on his hips, preventing him from fucking too far or too fast, and at the moment the carpenter is so taken by the boy on his cock that he doesn’t think to use his own grip on Runar’s hair to drag him closer.
The lines of Runar’s face and jaw are sharper with his cheeks hollowed around the carpenter’s shaft. He bobs his head and steadily works the cock deeper into his throat; the further it sinks, the hazier his expression becomes. At the same time, there’s a focus in his eyes that’s distinctly familiar. Fiachra recognizes it from the first night they’d spent together (he’s reluctant to even think of it like that, to afford that night enough regard to make it something real), when the minstrel had flipped him onto his back and slid down between his legs. He recalls the slick feel of a tongue spreading him open and the press of soft lips around his clit, but what haunts him the most is how Runar’s eyes shone up at him with refracted moonlight: curious, hungry, indulgent. More than the sucking or the slurping or the fingering, the memory of that look is what plagues him in his moments of weakness, when he’s alone with his hands and his thoughts.
The carpenter groans under his breath as Runar works the top half of his cock over with his mouth and the bottom half with his hand, palming his balls with every other stroke. He rocks his hips forward, and Runar’s well-adjusted enough now that he takes each new fraction of an inch without complaint, no longer trying to hold the other man at bay. “Fuck,” the man swears, letting go of Runar’s hair to cup his cheek and tilt his face up. “Your throat’s so goddamn tight.”
Runar turns into his touch and blinks up at him imploringly, seductively. He draws back, allowing the cock to slip from his mouth, and rasps, “Get on with fucking it, then.”
The carpenter accepts his invitation with a growl and fists a hand in Runar’s hair to drag him roughly back and forth on his cock, overzealous enough to make him gag.
Runar’s eyelashes flutter closed, tears slipping past them as he takes the other man to the base, his nose shoved up against the thatch of hair at his pubic bone. He makes a sound at the back of his throat, soft but intense, so shot through with desire that the desperation seeps out past his lips. Fiachra’s never heard him sound like this before, so wanton and so vulnerable all at once. Or perhaps he has – the first time they kissed, when Runar kissed him, and then groaned needily into his mouth when Fiachra kissed him back.
And Fiachra is envious, suddenly, watching the carpenter’s hands squeezing Runar’s shoulder, yanking at his hair. Runar has touched his hair, his face, his thighs, his cunt; what has he touched of Runar? His arms, his hands, maybe his back. Not anywhere near enough. So many times that Runar has offered himself up to be touched and traced over, and he’s been too busy denying himself to notice.
The scene before him is growing increasingly messy, every inch of bare skin slick with sweat, drool and precum and tears streaking down Runar’s face. As Fiachra watches, Runar shoves a hand between his legs; he can’t see what he’s doing, or where it goes, but even the suggestion of masturbation is achingly arousing.
Fiachra shifts uncomfortably, leaning close to the gap in the wall with a heel tucked between his thighs. Gods, the want is agonizing – he’d squeeze his way through the gap if he could, if he was braver or a little more desperate – he would, and after tumbling clumsily to the other side, he would insert himself between the two men, not to claim Runar’s attention for his own but to witness his pleasure viscerally. He’d sit atop Runar’s thighs, wrap his legs around his waist, feel him grind up against the air (against him) as he’s used. Fiachra wants to run fingers over the carpenter’s cock pulsing in Runar’s throat, wants to lick up the saliva dripping out of his mouth and down his neck. He wants to hear all the pretty noises the minstrel’s making up close, where they can reverberate through him.
A broken whimper echoes through the room as the carpenter sheathes himself yet again. Runar isn’t struggling against his grip, even as the other man’s increasingly unforgiving pace leaves a visible lump in his throat as he carves his gullet open with each thrust.
Runar is a supplicant – they both are, of different kinds. Runar, eager and earnest and desperate, patient before his benefactor. Fiachra, pressed up against the hole in the wall and starving for every detail he can make out. Both of them kneeling, both of them hungry.
The sounds of wet, muffled gagging and gasping make Fiachra’s stomach twist and heat. He slumps against the wall and shoves his hand down the front of his pants, and may as well shove it down his underwear, too, for all the good it does wet, but apparently there’s still some line for how far he’s willing to go. Just palming his cunt is sweet, terrible relief, makes his heart trip over itself. Fiachra squeezes himself and then starts rubbing circles into his clit, faster, faster, properly frigging himself. He’s too caught up in tracking each of Runar’s shivers and groans to have space in his mind for guilt or shame, and what a relief that is.
What with all of the carpenter’s rough handling, the knot of hair at the back of Runar’s head has fallen loose, strands slipping out to join the unkempt tangle at his shoulders or to stick fast to his cheeks and neck with sweat. How, Fiachra wonders, how can he continue to become more beautiful the more that he comes undone? His skin is flushed, glowing like copper heated in a forge, the malleability made possible by melting not a sign of weakness but endurance.
So giving… Runar is so giving. Whether he’s lapping at Fiachra with a gentle, curious tongue or being taken from like a whore, he is so endlessly giving. Seeing someone make such a mess of him wakes a need deep in Fiachra’s gut.
And now all he can think of is Runar with a cock in his mouth, Runar with a cock in his ass, Runar with a cock sliding between his tits or grinding along his stomach. Runar on his hands and knees, naked, back arched. He thinks about Runar with his head in his lap, thinks of stroking his hair as the minstrel’s taken from behind and fucked until he cries with pleasure.
Never before has he so desperately wanted to see someone ravaged.
The carpenter huffs and groans, his thrusts losing their rhythm as a particularly harsh one causes Runar to gag and the resultant spasming of the minstrel’s throat tugs him along towards orgasm. “Are you going to be able to take all I have to give you?” he asks in a low, rumbling tone cut through with lust. “Swallow down my spend like a proper whore?”
Fiachra doesn’t know how Runar hasn’t pulled back to cough or gasp for breath. His eyes are watering with effort, his shoulders heaving. Yet instead of backing down, he grabs the carpenter’s ass and drags the man forward until his lips are suctioned to the very base of his cock, then sucks hard, his tongue swirling and lapping around the shaft in his mouth with ravenous vigor. His other hand is still solidly slotted between his legs for him to hump into, the stuttering snap of his hips outpacing his partner’s.
“Fuck, I’m –” The carpenter grasps at his hair with both hands and yanks Runar as far onto his cock as possible, letting out a growl as he grinds deep in his throat, firm and unrelenting. Runar whines as the cock in his throat throbs and paints his insides white with cum; when the carpenter pulls back to rut through his orgasm, he leaves sticky strands of spend in Runar’s mouth, drooling out around his shaft.
After a moment of frenzied fucking, the carpenter calms, releasing Runar’s hair and brushing it back out of his face (not that it does that much good, with what a mess he’s left him). Even when he’s no longer tangled up in the other man, Runar takes his time sliding off of his cock, savoring the fullness of his mouth before he pulls away. He tilts his head back to fix the carpenter with gleaming eyes, opens his mouth to reveal the hearty portion of cum left behind, and swallows pointedly.
“Good boy,” the carpenter says with a snort, awarding him a lazy pat on the head. He takes a step to the side to lean heavily on a nearby desk, his breathing labored like an incubus has half sucked the life out of him; an argument could probably be made for that, given Runar’s eagerness and wicked talent with his tongue.
Runar manages a hoarse laugh, then coughs wetly, saliva and cum dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He hasn’t come, as far as Fiachra can tell – though he can hardly be considered an authority on the subject when he hadn’t been able to tell Runar had come while grinding up on him from behind, before – but doesn’t seem bothered by that fact, just continues rubbing himself through his pants, albeit less desperately now that he has a belly full of cum.
Which reminds Fiachra of his own hand down his pants, sticky with slick. He’s somewhat surprised he hadn’t been tossed over the edge just by watching Runar swallow down the carpenter’s spend with such relish. But the sight of him licking his lips, brushing away unshed tears, dealing with the aftermath of choking and gagging on a thick cock – that has Fiachra’s fingers moving again, stroking over his clit. He can see Runar’s face fully now that it’s no longer shoved into the carpenter’s groin, the dark swirls of hair clinging to sharp cheekbones still stained pink with lust. Fiachra’s vision is starting to go hazy with arousal, fingers working insistently over his cunt, when Runar glances to the side and meets his gaze.
And just like that, he’s caught fast in warm, sticky amber. There’s no surprise in Runar’s eyes, no alarm. Instead, there’s a canny satisfaction much like the one that’s haunted all of his touches and teasing, an unspoken, enjoy yourself? Runar uses a thumb to swipe a glob of cum from the corner of his mouth, and how he licks his lips reminds Fiachra very suddenly and very viscerally of when Runar’s mouth and chin were shiny with his slick. His gaze is hot and heavy and steady and Fiachra’s arousal spikes violently, his cunt clenching around nothing as his underthings sop up more and more wet.
You’ve known I was here the whole time? he wants to ask, though by the way Runar keeps looking at him, how he rocks back and forth where he’s kneeling, grinding into his hand – this has all been an elaborate performance for his benefit, hasn’t it? He wanted Fiachra to watch. He knew, somehow, that Fiachra would enjoy witnessing him becoming entirely debauched, losing himself in pleasure. How does he just know these things?
Runar grins at him – broadly, sweetly – and bites his lip, then glances away, and Fiachra can finally pull free of whatever spell Runar’s attention ensnared him with. A litany of fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck runs in his head as he scrambles back from the bookshelf and the hole in the wall, his pulse pounding in his temple. And yet there’s still a hand in his pants and his cunt still begs for some kind of release, and who is he to forbid himself from pleasure and indulgence when Runar’s all but encouraged it – and he’s dizzy, dizzy, dizzy with want, the echoes of Runar’s lovely whimpers and whines and moans remaining with him up until the moment he wakes with a start, the transition from one form of consciousness to another so sudden it leaves him reeling. It’s not his hand between his legs but a sheet, knotted and twisted and no doubt damp from him grinding against it.
“God fucking damnit,” he mutters, hips working helplessly against his mattress. The image of Runar’s amber eyes fixed knowingly on him is burned into his mind – not only so vivid that it might as well have been real, but so vivid that it probably is real, a direct reconstruction from memory of a discerning gaze leveled at him from across a room.
How can Fiachra possibly face him again after this? He’ll know. He won’t be able to parse out the specifics but he’ll know something happened to fluster him, and it’s easy enough to guess at a wet dream when nothing much else goes on around here.
And worse than Runar knowing that he’d had a wet dream about him – maybe – is that the dream may have awoken something in Fiachra. Something that wants to see Runar needy and naked and fucked silly. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now (even though he’s aware that when he’s fully awake he’ll go back to denying he wants anything of the sort).
So Fiachra rolls over in bed, kicking the sheet out from between his legs. The sun’s not up yet and he’s going back to sleep. Whether that’s to ignore the ache in his stomach or in the hopes of falling back into his dreams of Runar is nobody’s business but his own.