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Runar could very well have made it to the nearby village and back on his own. All he needs is some wax for his mandore and some rosin – one of the monks has a fiddle he’s been offered a try at – but he’d been caught leaving down the main path with a bag slung over his shoulder. The abbot, who was returning from his morning walk around the abbey grounds, now seems quite stressed about Runar’s imminent departure.
His reassurances that he’s just headed out on a shopping trip appear to calm the man, though he’s still ushered back into the abbey – “no, of course we won’t let you travel the woods yourself, not when you’re so new to the region” – and left somewhat bewildered in the entryway as the abbot hurries off, promising a quick return. Runar really had thought it would be an efficient day trip; he knows the town is no more than three miles away. And part of him does think the abbot’s overreacting, but another part of him is poking around at the snippets of tales that lurk at the back of his memory, ones that warn of the deep woods, and his own fragments of memories from the time he and the pretty monk had lost their way back –
The abbot returns with Fiachra at his elbow, a frown on the younger monk’s face.
“You said just the other day that you needed more supplies to make your special inks,” the abbot is saying, and while Fiachra looks like he’s about to respond, he shuts his mouth abruptly upon glancing over at Runar.
Oh, Runar can see that he wants to argue, but to argue is to raise questions about why he’s so resistant to going along with such a charming, harmless minstrel, and those are questions he is certain Fiachra has no interest in acknowledging. Runar’s rather public flirting aside, none of the monks have any idea of what the two of them have gotten up to alone in the shadows, or what Runar’s suggested and offered and promised to do to him.
“What lucky happenstance that the monthly carriage has been scheduled for today,” the abbot continues. Fiachra’s brow furrows a little further. “You can take the opportunity to pick up the rest of the items the town has stocked for us.”
“Yes, of course,” Fiachra replies stiffly, and Runar smiles and nods. Soon the carriage arrives and they’re off with no further delay.
It’s a remarkably roomy carriage by Runar’s standards, fully enclosed with comfortable padded benches and well enough space between the two of them that their knees don’t knock into each other when they’re seated on opposite sides. Runar doesn’t make any attempt to sit beside Fiachra even when the monk glares at him as if challenging him to try. He’s more than fine sitting across from Fiachra because now he has a perfectly good excuse to be staring in his direction for the hour it takes them to get to the village.
Displeased as he is to be dragged into a Runar-related adventure without having any say in the matter – and maybe because he’s not as displeased as he’d like to let on – Fiachra is good-natured enough that he ceases his scowling and glowering fairly quickly, even if he’s still not chatty. He seems distracted if anything, staring out the window and chewing at his lip; he only glances over at Runar, furtive, a few times. Runar watches his eyes flicker with the reflection of passing scenery (trees and trees and more trees, all the lovely deep green of late summer) and dozes lightly until they reach their destination.
Fiachra takes him to the luthier first for the rosin and wax he needs, and then they head for the village’s market district, a few streets packed tight with stalls and vendors. The monk stops at a large stall at the edge of the district and has a quick chat with the girl manning it about supplies for the abbey. They seem familiar enough with each other that this must be a somewhat regular occurrence, and the girl makes a joke that earns a genuine smile from Fiachra, then tells him she’d gladly check on the status of the supplies.
Runar is intrigued by this hint of a life that Fiachra might have apart from the abbey. Granted, he doesn’t know that much about the monk’s life at the abbey either. He leans against the stall as the girl disappears into a building behind it, cocking his head. “So what’s this about inks that the abbot mentioned?”
Fiachra stiffens like he’d forgotten Runar was there. “Never you mind,” he replies snappishly, which is exactly the reaction Runar expected (a little unfair because he is intrigued by the idea of special inks). “No need for you to stand here when there are more interesting things about. I’ll catch up with you once I’ve gotten things settled here.”
“If you insist.” Runar does a little bow and doffs an imaginary cap – doesn’t miss the slightest twitch of Fiachra’s lips – and wanders off to occupy himself with the wonders of a busy market.
He’s inspecting some sheet music when he feels a tugging at his sleeve and turns to find Fiachra. “The supplies are back at the carriage, but we don’t have to leave for a while yet. I want to show you something,” the monk tells him, not holding out an olive branch so much as nudging it to him with his foot – he’s hesitant, only makes the briefest eye contact with Runar before looking away.
Fiachra leads him to the market square, where a small band of musicians at the center has captured an audience with a wild, rollicking tune. Runar’s caught up by the music same as all those around him, clapping and swaying with the crowd. The song transitions into another, and this one Runar recognizes on a physical level, his fingers longing to play the matching chords. He looks to his left and finds Fiachra already grinning broadly at him, a spark of recognition in his eyes and an equally bright laugh rolling out of him with ease. Gods, Runar wants to kiss him right then.
Once the musicians reach the song’s end and break off to seek anyone pleased enough by the performance to part with their coin, Runar gently bumps his shoulder into Fiachra’s. “That was brilliant. Thank you.”
The spell of the song broken, Fiachra blinks as if startled. “Just figured they might be here,” he says with a shrug, and an unsaid, figured you might like them. “They often play at the market.” And he turns to head back to the street Runar had been browsing, but not before offering him a tentative smile.
Afterwards, as they wander through the rest of the market district, Fiachra draws in on himself like he’s embarrassed, but what’s done is done, and what’s been done is that he reminded himself he can be friendly and have a bit of fun with Runar and the world won’t fall to pieces. Not that Runar doesn’t enjoy teasing the monk to get a peevish reaction out of him, or that he doesn’t know there’s a grudging affection hiding beneath all that standoffishness and repression Fiachra bedecks himself in. But for it to be like it was before, when Runar first arrived at the abbey, even for an instant… yes, it was a fond reminder that there had existed an ease between them. And maybe the potential for that ease to return is not so distant as it might often seem.
They’re back in the carriage by early afternoon, and Runar’s watching Fiachra again as they sit in silence (Runar feels he deserves some credit for not talking). That distracted expression is back on his face – a bit hazy, lashes rather fluttery, gazing out the window but not at anything as he bites at a lip. There’s a strange flush to his cheeks, too, and he’s sitting stiffly on his side of the carriage, up until they hit a bump and his eyes go all fluttery again and he squirms ever so slightly.
The squirming. Runar recognizes that kind of squirming.
So then his attention slides down from Fiachra’s face, and he’s trying to think back – had he seen any other signs on the first half of the trip? Had Fiachra been shifting his weight in that same way, rolling his hips very subtly into the vibrations of the carriage bench? And Runar’s been so good all day, he really has, and he decides to reward himself for it (with the knowledge that this could turn into a reward for Fiachra as well, so he’s hardly being selfish).
“Feeling a bit pent up, monk?”
Fiachra snaps to attention, the flush on his face darkening substantially. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got a dreamy look on your face.” Runar shifts in his own seat, paying attention to the jostling rumble of the carriage’s constant pace forward and trying to find a position that might bring him the same buzz it’s clearly bringing Fiachra. “Does it feel that good against your bits?”
“Shut up,” Fiachra bites out. “I don’t – you –”
“Oh, I know, I know. You’re just reacting to the physical stimulation. But what’s got you so worked up that you’re letting yourself fall apart in front of me this easily?”
Fiachra scowls with such a lack of genuine ire that it’s more of a pout, but his hips don’t cease their movement. And because Runar’s watching him, attentive, he can see the exact moment Fiachra gives in. “Well, someone’s been drawing on my notes,” he says testily.
Runar almost laughs. He’s delighted. That it’s that of all things Fiachra’s dwelling on amuses him as much as it arouses him.
“Someone’s been drawing on your notes? Why on heaven and earth would they do such a thing?” Yeah, little sketches of little doodley people fucking and making messes of each other. A couple of promises that he’ll do the same, if Fiachra just asks (because gods, gods, he would). Not his finest work but he’d only had a bit of time while Fiachra was away from his books, and he’s not left them alone again since – for good reason, because Runar would do it again. Still plans to, if he ever gets the chance. “Someone ought to do something about that.”
“You’re foolish, careless. One of the other monks could have seen.”
And it would have been one of the most exciting things they’d ever seen in their lives, Runar imagines, and a welcome sight at that. He knows they’re a bunch of perverts, the lot of them (except perhaps that irritable bastard Enoch). He doesn’t understand how Fiachra can be ignorant of that fact.
“Then you could’ve said it’s clearly not you who’d done it,” is all Runar ends up saying in reply. “Your writing’s prettier anyway.”
Fiachra flushes at that, which is just ridiculously adorable, because who else would get so flustered at having their writing complimented but him?
“But you’re not just annoyed by it, are you?” Runar teases.
“Alright, fine, Runar, I’m horny,” Fiachra snaps. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
A lesser man might have backed down. Runar is not a lesser man. He sits forward. “I could help you with that, you know.”
Fiachra flushes all over again, but his frustration has a less provocative gloss than usual. His mouth twists up as he hesitates, then says bluntly, “I’m bleeding, Runar. My monthly blood.”
Runar raises his eyebrows. “Okay?”
“Surely you’re not saying –” Fiachra sinks down in his seat, biting off his words before he finishes. He looks pointedly away from him, but that just gives Runar a better view of the blush running down his neck.
“I don’t see why not.” He slides down to his knees on the carriage floor in front of Fiachra, and lightly tugs on his legs to open them. “Or perhaps my mouth?”
Fiachra draws in a sharp, sharp breath as he stares down at Runar – there’s an instant, between his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open, that he looks like his mind’s gone entirely elsewhere, not somewhere distant but somewhere held safe and close, caught up in his own head. His chest rises and falls rapidly, shallowly, and even after his gaze refocuses on Runar it’s a long moment before he collects himself enough to squeak, “Your mouth? Absolutely not.”
“I have no intention to wait until we’re back to the abbey.” Runar tilts his head to lean his cheek on Fiachra’s knee. “What’s the fun in that? And so my mouth’s the best way to make sure there’s no evidence left behind.”
Gods, but Fiachra looks so vulnerable from this angle. His uncertainty is easier to peek at from below. Knowing he runs the risk of fucking everything up, Runar reaches a tentative hand up to rest on Fiachra’s lower stomach. The monk flinches, but not away, his hands clenching into tight fists atop his thighs.
“Are you aching much? I imagine that was a reason you didn’t want to come along as much as any other.” Runar drops any hint of teasing from his words – he’s serious, wants Fiachra to know it. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean for you to be dragged into this trip.”
“Why are you like this?” Fiachra’s voice trembles a bit. “It’d be so much easier if you were an ass all the time.”
“What would be easier?” As if he doesn’t know.
“To write you off as being full of shit.” The monk’s trembling all over, now, but he still hasn’t pushed Runar’s hands away, or his face.
Runar shrugs. “To be fair, I am full of shit.” He takes the chance of dragging his hand down Fiachra’s stomach to where his robes are bunched between his legs. “Just not when it comes to you.”
Fiachra exhales like he’s been slapped rather than caressed, and his thighs attempt to snap shut, although they hardly can with Runar between them. Runar backs off, his hand passing over Fiachra’s tension-pale knuckles as he trails it down his thigh. For a moment, he allows himself to fantasize: his fingers interlocked with Fiachra’s, holding him steady and reveling in every startled squeeze while he’s buried nose-deep in that lovely, needy cunt of his.
“An orgasm’ll help with the cramping, likely,” Runar says. He gives the monk a sly sort of grin, cheek still pressed up against the inside of his knee. “I imagine you know that already.”
Oh, and Fiachra’s falling into that kind of haze he does when he’s aroused beyond belief, the one that makes him tender even as he’s fighting against it. One of his hands unclenches, his fingers extending just enough to brush Runar’s hair. “Why are you like this?” he says again.
“I fear I may be a bit fond of you,” Runar replies, and he plucks at the hem of Fiachra’s robes where they hang about his ankles. “Despite what my reputation as an unrepentant, perpetually unattached flirt would have you believe.”
This earns him a little laugh, and Fiachra bites at his lip again – they’re a lovely red with all this biting, although Runar would prefer to be doing the biting himself – before he says, “I think I’d like you to use your mouth, minstrel.”
“Ah, of course,” Runar murmurs. “You should know that you can have the use of me at any time, Fiachra.”
Fiachra whimpers softly at the sound of his name, or maybe because Runar’s tracing up his legs underneath his robes. Then the monk is raising his hips enough so Runar can pull down his thin trousers, and Runar thinks maybe he’s in the clear – but Fiachra grabs at him through the thick fabric of the robe and asks, almost worriedly, “You’re sure?”
“Gods above, Fi.” And Runar changes tacts, flips the robes up over Fiachra’s knees so his legs are left bare between his underthings and where his trousers are all twisted down around his ankles. “You think I’ve never seen a bit of blood before?”
“No, but –” He breaks off into a moan as Runar strokes tenderly up the center of his underwear – he’s furnace hot even through the layer of padding tucked ‘tween cunt and panties.
“And I thought you were sensitive already.” Runar presses a kiss to the bare skin of Fiachra’s knee. He’s getting rather flushed himself, half-drunk at the very thought of the crux of the heat between Fiachra’s legs. This whole scheme is foolish, even for him: who knows who or what might be waiting for them back at the abbey? And he’s quite bold, thinking the coachman will hear none of this. But they have over half an hour before the abbey’s even in view, and surely the walls of the carriage are sturdy and soundproof enough, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to stop just when he’s gotten permission from Fiachra to feast.
He guides Fiachra to rest a hand on his head and wraps the other hand in one of his own. “If you need me to stop,” Runar says, “just say the word. Or you could choke me between your lovely thighs, but I will admit, that tends to have the opposite effect on me.”
(And what he can’t know is that Fiachra’s dizzy with the memory of a dream where there were fingers – not his own – tangled just as tightly in Runar’s hair, attached to someone just as eager for the warm, wet reward of his mouth.)
“Runar,” Fiachra breathes out, but he’s already tugging the monk’s underwear down his hips and settling himself further in between his legs.
Fiachra’s wet with more than blood – while there is no doubt a metallic tinge, the familiar scent of his arousal overshadows all else. It sets Runar’s head buzzing in a way that makes him so very eager to begin that he nearly fails to enjoy the rare sight before him.
The rags tucked into the monk’s underthings have done a decent job of sopping up any mess, but a heavy flow and all the walking about of a shopping trip has resulted in a bit of excess staining the crease between Fiachra’s groin and legs. Runar never thought he’d be in a position to wax poetic about menstruation of all things, but he does think it makes a fearsomely alluring sight: blood dark and red caught up in the curls blanketing his flushed vulva, the swollen head of his clit painted a bright crimson where it juts out from his folds. Perhaps this sates a sort of bloodlust at his core, an aggression present within his attraction. Perhaps he’s just an incorrigible storyteller and scene-setter who can’t escape his taste for overdramatic imagery in moments of passion.
“Stop staring.” Fiachra half-heartedly pushes at Runar’s head as if to avert his gaze for him.
He’ll eat him up with his eyes as much as with his mouth. If he didn’t think he’d be testing his limits a little too freely, Runar would shove Fiachra’s robes up even further so he could follow the pretty trail of curls up to his navel. “Spread your legs. I want to see you.”
Fiachra mumbles something under his breath about it being rather difficult to spread his legs when his underwear’s still caught around his thighs. It does require a bit of shifting around on Runar’s part for all of that to get sorted, but when they’re done Fiachra’s legs are nicely parted around him and Runar is so close that his breath makes the monk’s little cock twitch.
Runar tugs Fiachra’s hips forward to the edge of the bench and spreads his folds with a thumb. The monk is sticky with blood-slick, a thread of it stretching between his outer folds and sagging under its own weight before snapping. It leaves a broken line of red over Runar’s thumb, and he can feel Fiachra’s eyes trained intently on him as he licks it up. The tang of metal is stronger in his taste than in his scent, but it is still undeniably Fiachra, and as such even the most sparing taste leaves him wanting more.
He can’t believe his luck: that he’s here in this carriage watching Fiachra’s hole flutter as it seeps out more blood and more arousal. He’d love to see Fiachra in the full sun, or under the dappled light of the trees, but he recognizes he’s greedy, that he’ll always want more, that a part of him could only be satisfied if he had Fiachra spread bare before him in perpetuity. And this, as with everything the monk allows him, is enough, because Runar is with Fiachra and he is touching him and soon he will be tasting him and that will fuel his fantasies for another week (or several) even if the monk will barely look at him in that time.
Runar almost doesn’t kiss up his thigh because he knows that might frighten Fiachra, in that way that tenderness seems to frighten him more than dirty murmurings and daring touches, but then he does anyway because he fucking wants to and it’s entirely worth it for the breathy moans Fiachra lets out. He stops where Fiachra’s thigh meets his groin and tongues at the soft, sensitive flesh there to clean it of blood, then jumps to the other thigh – not so fast that he doesn’t take care to exhale over his mound and enjoy the resultant quiver. It reminds him of that first night he tasted Fiachra from the core, when he’d cleaned him up with lips and tongue after coaxing an exquisite orgasm out of him by hand. This time is different for a number of reasons, but in this moment the difference most thrilling is the gentle curl of Fiachra’s fingers in his hair. Being tasted, being devoured – what Runar’s doing is not just something that’s happening to Fiachra, it’s something that is wanted, welcomed, invited.
He drifts close enough to Fiachra’s cunt to feel the heat of it on his lips, and looks up at him from under his eyelashes. “Let me serve you, Fi, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Fiachra replies – soft, shaky – and his nails scrape against Runar’s scalp as he leans in and drags his tongue over the monk’s flushed folds.
What he wants, really, is to hoist Fiachra’s knees to his ears and give him the sort of tonguing he isn’t likely to soon forget. But he recognizes the constraints of the space and time he’s working with, not to mention the constraints posed by Fiachra’s skittishness – though judging by the haze of arousal in his eyes, the monk probably wouldn’t object to a bit of manhandling if it was quickly followed by pleasure – so Runar sets to his task and consigns a true test of Fiachra’s flexibility to another day.
He laps at the plush lips of Fiachra’s pussy with no particular finesse, just happy to have the smell and the taste and the feel of him all around. His cunt is so soft, so giving, the inner folds all fluttery when his tongue slips against them and then through. It’s scorching hot, too, as if the source of all this arousal is a little sun tucked up in his womb.
Fiachra seems to take no issue with his technique. His clit pulses with excitement whenever Runar flicks his tongue over it, not yet sucking it but teasing, tasting. The monk pants softly, hips moving in little jolts, and then suddenly he’s tensing up and twitching and trembling against Runar’s mouth, and surely he’s not coming already, but there’s the slick flow of cum and blood flooding from his hole – it’s got a different consistency when combined, and a different color too, not so thick and dark anymore. Runar eases up and takes the flood as it comes, fighting his own instincts not to lap and suck and worry at Fiachra’s folds through it all. There’s a time for overstimulation, but not yet. Though he’s hardly upset that Fiachra’s come already when it just makes him sweeter.
And it hasn’t lessened the monk’s hunger in the slightest – he grinds forward, his clit bumping up against Runar’s nose, and by the gods, if he’s not so caught up in his own desperation for more that he doesn’t urge Runar closer by the hand in his hair.
“Ah – don’t stop,” Fiachra says – orders? Begs? He’s so breathless that the tone of it is lost. “Please don’t stop.”
Runar moans open-mouthed into his pussy in reply, and presses his tongue past the slick inner folds of his cunt in search of more of that heady, bloody slick; Fiachra whines in the back of his throat. Such a sensitive thing you are, coming already, Runar wants to tease, but doing so would require pulling away and he can’t bring himself to do that.
He slides his hand under Fiachra’s thigh and prompts the monk to sling one knee over his shoulder. Runar likes the closeness of it all, being folded up and entangled with him, and having one leg hoisted does the job of keeping Fiachra spread open so he has a hand free to join his tongue in prodding at the monk’s hole.
“Hnn – Runar,” Fiachra pants out as he traces a finger along the sopping seam where his cunt clenches down on Runar’s tongue. The finger slips in as his tongue slips out, stroking all gentle over the hot insides that suck him in. A second finger joins it, easy – Fiachra’s so wet, and his body just relaxed enough from orgasm that he doesn’t fight it. There’s blood and slick nearly as red all over Runar’s knuckles and dripping down his palm as he works his fingers into Fiachra’s cunt, but it’s a simple matter of licking that up with the rest of it as he drags his tongue long and slow over those still-quivering folds – and that’s sort of the point anyway, to get his fingers all wet and slick, because then he makes the shape of a ‘v’ with them and strokes up and down Fiachra’s slit with his little cock catching in the center point of it, and when Fiachra stutters out his name again Runar stops with the monk’s clit pulled up and taut so he can give it the sweetest, filthiest kiss he’s capable of.
Fiachra’s thighs tense up, and he squeezes Runar’s hand, and curls his fingers tighter into his hair. His cunt drools out more arousal to wet Runar’s cheeks and chin.
“How are you so goddamn delicious?” Runar murmurs as he pulls back to breathe without drowning in slick. He knows he’s a mess without having to see himself – feels cum and slick and blood painting the lower half of his face and threatening to drip down his jaw, and sees the way Fiachra is staring down at him: a little hesitant still, a little horrified from the part of himself that still believes in propriety, and a little awestruck.
“Really? Delicious?” And of course the only emotion the monk puts voice to is his skepticism, but that’s alright.
Runar grins at him, teeth bloody, and leans in to mouth over Fiachra’s clit, which stands so pretty and pink between his fingers as he strokes it at the base. “So lovely for me.” His words vibrate along Fiachra’s little length. “So sweet.”
“H-how can it be sweet,” Fiachra asks, petulant, disbelieving (which, if Runar were a more sensitive man, would offend him – he tells tales, yes, but when has he ever lied to Fiachra?), “when it’s blood?”
This warrants a moment of full eye contact. Rubbing Fiachra’s clit between his knuckles, he licks his lips, although there’s only so much of the mess that he can get with his tongue, and stares up at him, unblinking. “Because it’s you,” Runar says simply.
Fiachra swears under his breath, but for all that his mouth is unrepentantly filthy he still casts his eyes away and blushes like a bashful maiden.
Runar keeps tugging at his clit, tonguing at its sensitive, swollen head and watching Fiachra’s thighs jerk with bursts of direct pleasure. He could go on in detail about everything that makes him a delicacy, about how his first taste had left him wanting so intensely that this is a feast for a starving man – could say a variety of things that would more than hint at the degree of his fondness for Fiachra. But he could also sate his curiosity and fluster the monk further in one fell swoop. “Are you always quite so ravenous when your blood comes?”
And yes, Fiachra does get redder still, though he can’t keep a frown on his face for all the little moans Runar keeps pulling out of him. “I hardly think that’s any of your – oh.” Runar sucks his pretty cock into his mouth for the briefest moment and then pulls off, looking up at him with a little grin. Fiachra’s hips twitch forward, chasing the heat and the suction, but when Runar makes no move to relieve him, he huffs and says, “Yes. I can handle it on my own. These are extenuating circumstances.” An unexpected trip, a rumbling carriage, a minstrel eager to please.
“Mmm, but they don’t have to be.” Runar rewards his honesty by taking his clit back into his mouth and bobbing his head in much the same way he would for a cock of larger proportions. Fiachra’s fingers scrabble at his hair, and then the carriage must hit a rut in the road because they’re both jostled about and Runar ends up with his whole face mashed into the monk’s pussy, soaked folds smearing slick all over his cheeks and chin.
“Oh,” Fiachra gasps, “Runar –” and he could swear there’s a trace of a giggle in his tone, but it’s not like he wasn’t a complete mess already. Now Runar can barely breathe for the inescapable, intoxicating scent of him; he readjusts, petting over Fiachra’s folds with a thumb and sucking him off with fervor. His name falls from Fiachra’s mouth with greater frequency and at a higher pitch, any trace of the monk’s petulance evaporating and re-solidifying as musical, wanton pleading. And here, Runar thinks, a brighter, truer side of Fiachra breaks through, as it does when he pushes just hard enough (or strokes just soft enough) against his walls, a side unafraid of wanting.
Fiachra spends himself a second time, drawn up taut until he snaps and goes all soft and trembling under Runar’s tongue and fingertips. He shies away from Runar’s mouth, slipping his knee down from atop his shoulder, but keeps his left hand in his hair and his right grips Runar’s so tightly he thinks he might lose feeling in his fingers. Runar leaves his oversensitive cock alone and laps gently at and around his hole until Fiachra is no longer at immediate risk of leaking any cum or blood onto the cushioned bench beneath him, and then he sits back on his heels. The monk is staring at him, catching his breath.
Only now is Runar even aware of the mess of heat and arousal in his trousers. He considers – for an instant – shoving his blood and slick-soaked hand down his pants to finish himself off. That instant of consideration is nearly long enough for the thought itself to finish him off. He wishes that he didn’t have to worry about cleaning up, that he could slip from the carriage to his quarters and luxuriate in a job well done.
Fiachra moves, finally, untangling his fingers from Runar’s hair and trailing them down the side of his face, along his cheek. His other hand slips out of Runar’s grip and tilts his chin up with a finger, and he leans down, drawing Runar closer until they share each breath and then Fiachra kisses him – not a chaste peck on the lips or even a hungry meeting of mouths but a true devouring – and for a moment Runar forgets that he’s on his knees on the floor of a carriage, forgets that there’s only so much time left before they have to tidy up, forgets that Fiachra isn’t truly his.
By the time Fiachra pulls back, Runar’s not sure he’s not been dreaming this whole time. It’s only the hand still on his cheek that keeps him tethered to the fact that this is all real. Fiachra’s eyes are big and dark despite the sunlight filtering in through the carriage windows, and there’s blood smeared over his lips and his teeth and his chin and even up around his nose. He’d kissed Runar filthy. Kissed himself filthy.
“What was that for?” Runar asks, unable to keep his eyes off of the bloody curl of his mouth. This monk is like some unholy angel with half of his face drenched in his own spend and viscera.
“You look so hopeful in all that blood,” Fiachra says softly.
And this, the way Fiachra is looking at him right now – as much as any pleasure Runar derives from touching him, as much as any pleasure he can bring to him – is why he does it: these moments of tenderness so raw they’re like open wounds, the instances of unguarded affection where he can see that all the terror of being known and seen is pushed away, held at bay.
“I think what it really means is that I did a good job,” Runar says, grinning and leaning into the hand at his cheek.
Fiachra brushes a thumb over his cheekbone almost absentmindedly. A smile slips onto his lips. “You want me to tell you that you did a good job?”
Runar doesn’t know why the direct question brings a flush to his cheeks and a protest to the tip of his tongue, but yes, that is what he wants. “Delivering satisfaction is kind of my thing, so…”
“Oh, is it?” Fiachra chuckles, his smile widening. Coming undone grants him a sense of humor, as usual. “Yes, you did a very good job, Runar.”
And he can’t deny the pleased little thrum in his chest at that.
The monk’s fingers skim over the blood and slick growing tacky on his face. “I don’t know if you were bluffing earlier or if you’re just very foolish, but there’s clearly evidence left behind. You’re covered in it, I –”
“Fiachra.” Runar puts a hand atop the fingers tracing his cheek. The monk looks at him with those lovely dark eyes of his, and he dares, knowing that this is his best chance of any such daring paying off, to ask for what he so desperately wants. “Kiss me again.”
Fiachra’s face softens instantly. He bends over once more, and on his lips Runar tastes the sweetest blood.