Page 71 of Fought it Through the Teeth

"It's time-sensitive."

"So am I if I don't get inside you in the next five minutes."

Morgan laughs, bright and startled and genuine, the laugh that Bohdi is learning to covet, and Bohdi lifts him. Just puts both hands under his thighs and picks him up and turns and presses him against the wall, and Morgan's legs lock around his waist as though they've been doing this for years instead of days. The sleep shirt rides up around his hips and the heat of his bare skin against Bohdi's stomach is a thing that requires immediate and sustained attention.

"You're still dressed," Morgan observes. His fingers are already working the laces of Bohdi's shirt.

"I've been here thirty seconds. You want me to show up naked?"

"Now there's a thought." Morgan gets the laces free and shoves the shirt off Bohdi's shoulders and runs both hands across the breadth of his chest, palms flat, fingers spread, mapping the topography of old scars and tattoo ink. "You're obscene," Morgan says, and the word is not a complaint. "Utterly ridiculous. The sheer — the scale of you⁠—"

"You don't have to flatter me for me to fuck you, your highness."

"I obviously do since you're taking your gods damned time."

Bohdi presses him harder into the wall, the stone rough against Morgan's back through the thin shirt. Morgan arches into him and hisses and grinds his hips forward, and the friction of Morgan's cock against Bohdi's stomach through the bunched fabric is a problem that needs solving immediately.

Bohdi's shirt goes over his head and onto the floor. His trousers get unlaced and shoved down his hips. Morgan's sleep shirt is yanked up and off and discarded somewhere behind them, Bohdi hears it land on furniture but doesn't look to see which piece. Then Morgan is bare against him, all sharp angles and smooth skin and lean muscle, legs still locked around Bohdi's waist, and the press of skin to skin, the full, uninterrupted, devastating press of Morgan's body against his, hits Bohdi in the chest every single time.

"Oil," Bohdi says. "Where is it?"

"Bedside table. Where it always is. Where it has been every night. Do you need the map after all?"

Bohdi bites his collarbone in retaliation and Morgan jerks and swears and then laughs, breathless, as Bohdi lets him drop onto his feet. He skirts around Bohdi to go retrieve it without complaint, which is a first Bohdi is going to go to his grave acknowledging, and Bohdi's hand snakes out and slaps his ass as he passes. Morgan makes a sharp sound, and shoots him a look that is part indignant and part adoring, and makes it to the oil.

Bohdi follows and takes it from his hand before Morgan can turn around. He gets a fistful of blond hair with the other hand and walks Morgan backward to the bed, kissing him the whole way, and Morgan's knees hit the edge of the mattress and Bohdi follows him down. One hand braces beside Morgan's head, the other already slicking his fingers. Morgan is spread beneath him, flushed and bare and looking up at him with those blue eyes gone dark. The sight of Morgan in his own bed waiting for Bohdi to take him apart is enough to make Bohdi's hands unsteady.

He prepares him there, between the sheets and his own body, one slicked finger and then two. He works him open thoroughly, because Morgan deserves thoroughness even when he's grinding down onto his hand and making sounds that suggest thoroughness is not what he wants.

"Bohdi." Morgan's voice is straining. His fingers dig into Bohdi's shoulders, ten points of pressure that will leave marks Bohdi will find in the morning. "Bohdi, I swear to every dead god if you don't⁠—"

"Slowly, my prince."

"I'm going to kill you."

"You'll thank me."

"I will not. I have never thanked you for anything in my—" Bohdi curls his fingers and Morgan's entire body seizes. His head snaps back into the pillow. His mouth opens on a sound that comes out strangled and raw. "Fuck."

"What was that?" Bohdi asks, and his own voice is rough, because the sight of Morgan coming apart beneath him is something that disassembles his composure as efficiently as any weapon.

"Thank you," Morgan agrees, breathless. "Thank you, thank you."

Bohdi works him open and winds him up and takes him apart with two fingers until Morgan is trembling and incoherent and has stopped forming complete sentences, which Bohdi considers a significant achievement given that Morgan's relationship with language is normally unshakeable.

"Now," Morgan manages. "Now, or I swear⁠—"

"Swear what?"

Morgan looks at him. His eyes are glassy, his lips bitten dark, his hair a wrecked halo against the white pillow. He looks destroyed. He looks taken apart and not yet finished being put back together. He looks devastating, the most devastating thing Bohdi has ever seen in a life that includes burning cities and breaking sieges.

"Bohdi," Morgan says, pleading, and it feels like being struck with lightning.

"Fuck," Bohdi hisses. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He slicks himself. He lines up. He presses in.

The first inch, the slow, slick, impossibly tight press of Morgan's body opening for him, punches the air out of Bohdi's lungs. Morgan's legs come up around his waist. His fingers dig into the meat of Bohdi's shoulders. His forehead drops against Bohdi's and they breathe the same air, mouths an inch apart, and Bohdi feeds himself in slowly, inch by inch, feeling every increment of it, the heat, the clutch, the impossible intimacy of being inside someone who has been inside his head for years.