#(a necessity)

Warmth asserts itself as you lean back into him, sighing as you take in the solid weight of him against your back.

He turns his head, nose nudging playfully against your ear.

"Tired?"

"Hmm. Drowsy, maybe."

"Am I that good as a pillow?"

"A very muscular pillow. But yes."

He breathes a soft laugh as you half-turn to languidly embrace him, tracing a barely perceptible line across his jaw.

In the lamplight, you can see all those secret tender parts of him, the fine hairs illuminated on the skin of his arms, the tight, pale, shallow trenches of old scars, the shorn growth against the nape of his neck, a contrast to the fall of silky strands above. You spy the rough-edged callouses on the insides of those clever, sinewy fingers, now hanging relaxed against the edge of the sofa.

It gives you a moment of unguarded wonder, that in all these hidden ways, he is yours to appreciate.

Perhaps, now might be the ideal time to ...

"Soshiro."

"Hmm?"

It's barely a query, more a contented hum as your touch travels further, back and forth along his cheek, up across his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose. He tilts his head back, eyes closing in an single moment of complete bliss.

"We have the whole afternoon to ourselves."

"You makin' a proposal of some kind?"

"Maybe."

"Now, drop that coy act."

"No such thing here, sir."

"Sir? Is that what we're playing?"

"No."

"Come on. Give a guy a heads up."

When you don't answer immediately, he cracks one eye open before sitting up, transitioning from languid to alert with frightening speed.

"Oh? Somethin' else you had in mind?"

You've severely underestimated how hard it is to get the words out.

How would you even go about telling him exactly what you wanted?

"Maybe ... it's better if I show you?"

He's now watching you, as he must analyze each opponent in the field, gaze flicking across your face, taking in every tell-tale shift, the catch of lower lip between your teeth, the way you don't quite raise your eyes to his.

"Since when are you this shy with me?"

To anyone else, he might be teasing. To you, there is subtle meaning, a soft, unfurling invitation, fragrant as a flower that only opens to the night.

The lowering of his voice almost sends a shudder through you.

In spite of it all, the words still don't come. There is but one way around this.

Slowly getting to your feet, you hold out one hand to him.

"Please?"

He regards you for a moment, leaning back on one elbow, before a brief lift of his eyebrows and a small curve of the corner of his mouth tells you that he's at your disposal.

His hand slots into yours, following as you lead, for a change, surprisingly obedient.

That doesn't bode well, from your experience. Soshiro loves turning the tables on you, but this time, you might just catch him off guard enough to make your desires clear.

In the bedroom, you let go of him, fingers trailing against the tips of his before you climb onto the bed and pat the space beside you.

Still obliging, he seats himself, playfully dipping in for a kiss, lips soft and slightly open.

Palms supporting his weight, lean torso stretching out, cat-like, he's all patience and no mercy, holding your prisoner with the expectant tilt of his head.

For what you have planned, permission yet to be granted, you must pay homage first to what he does to you.

The loose cotton trousers and sleep shirt are shed easily, bringing with them the fragrance of the bath you'd taken earlier.

Underwear follows with ease.

Soshiro tracks the unveiling of your form with that warm, sensual appreciation that's now so familiar to you. He raises a hand to the hem of his own shirt, as if testing how much you'll allow him.

With a small push of that same hand, you shake your head, smile growing.

He let's you take charge, legs swinging slightly in that engaging way he has of showing just how much he anticipates what's to come.

Naked, you grip his thighs lightly, bracing as you lean forward, the arch of your back now within his line of vision.

He whistles softly, one of his fingers working its way through a twist of your hair, tugging.

"Now that's a view, sweetheart."

"You're about to give me a better one."

He certainly does, mischief made murky with arousal as you slide your hands up, up, beneath the shirt, taking it with you in your mapping of his torso.

In the dim light, his body is marked as if by a meticulous scribe, a hundred stories of battle recorded in every puckered scar, those more faded a testament to all the ways he has grown as a soldier.

Up, up, over the tighter breadth of his chest and shoulders, catching there momentarily, before you draw the shirt over his head.

He regards you, hair mussed on one side, pushed away from his forehead, a slight flush across the bridge of his nose.

Before he asks, one finger placed over his lips silences him.

Then, you're sliding down the elastic of his waistband and underwear, the dark trail of hair growing wider, soft beneath your fingers.

He is already half-erect, exposed inch by inch as you render him as naked as yourself, a sumptuous vision laid out before you.

The drop of material around his ankles is quick in comparison, kicked away as his smile fades slightly, now more fixated on the way you move away from him.

He follows you, with eyes, and then shuffling forward on his knees, as you slip back closer to the headboard.

Soshiro still hasn't unraveled the yarn of intent, but he's caught one of the threads, closing in hand over hand.

You stop his progress with light touches to his shoulders, and he straightens, the shape of him stark and powerful, broad in the shoulder, narrow in the waist, the ripple of his abdomen a living current beneath feather-light tracery.

He lets you look, as he looks in turn, all of him bared to your view.

Strength tempered by devotion, discipline, delectable in its shedding, the tenderness and trust that march side by side, from the brightly lit halls of his heart to yours, all presented in one iridescent moment.

Soft lines of fire, drawn down the contours of his chest, catching on the fine hairs there, circling his nipples, and he's letting out a shaky breath, a clear sign that you're as breathtaking to him as he is to you.

There is a symmetry in the way your palms drag across him, down the ridge formed along the middle of his abdomen and up the lean length of his thigh.

His head falls back as you narrow in on your target, the silky pull of skin shifting back and forth as you stroke the heavy, heated length of him.

In the humid hush of the bedroom, focus draws its claws to a searing point, where your lips join with his again, and this time, it is different.

Lush, heady, reverence and lust drives the delicate spike of your tongue against his, and you know all too well that you have to tell him now, before this goes further.

"Soshiro."

You can barely form the word, as his mouth covers yours.

"Feel like telling me now?"

His hands are on your waist, fingers flexing, on the verge of taking action.

He will, if you don't.

"I want to taste you."

A hum of amusement vibrates against your throat, where his lips have currently found purchase.

"Y'could have led with that."

"Wait. Not just that."

You stroke once more, and he is now fully rigid in your grasp, a soft groan escaping him.

"Then - "

"Here too."

Sheathing him in the slow pull, you slide your hand down to his base, cupping the sac, rolling in your palm. His skin is even softer here, and your handling of him draws out a hiss of pleasure, thighs unconsciously spreading further apart to give you better access.

"Fuck, that's good, I - "

"And here."

Your words now barely audible, you trace a line with shy hesitance away from there, a searing pathway from the base of him to where the curve of his buttocks begins.

Soshiro's eyes fly open, one hand coming to rest on your wrist.

He holds you there as you ask him for permission silently, ready to move away if he gives you the signal.

"Wait, that's what you wanted? You sure?"

"I do. I want to. Only if you'll let me, of course."

He looks away from you briefly, one hand coming up to scratch feverishly at the back of his neck. His ears are more scarlet than you've ever seen them, but you hide your amusement at the sight.

Soshiro doesn't seem put out, more a case of the rare bashfulness you've been privileged enough to drive him to on occasion.

Seeing him like this winds a vice around your lungs, sweet and wine-rich.

"Ah, well, I mean, sure. I don't ... have objections. Sounds good. But damn, I didn't know you liked that."

"I didn't want to try it until now. With you, I mean."

The heat from his face is now almost palpable.

"Well, how do you want to ... "

In answer, you smile, shifting away from him to lie on your back. Your legs slip between his, hips sliding into place against his inner thighs as he straddles you.

He is watching you with something close to disbelief as you crook a finger, beckoning him further up, before tapping your mouth impishly.

"Come take a seat, sir."

A shaky exhale, followed by a breathless laugh are your rewards.

"You can't be serious."

"I am serious."

"You want me to - "

"Sit on my face, Soshiro."

"D'you have any idea what you're asking? You'll suffocate!"

"And maybe they're worse ways to go out."

"Now, don't you - "

You're both laughing by now, the earlier uncertainty dissipating as he considers you from above, the mischief building in his glance a welcome reignition.

"All right, but I'm not putting my weight down. Sure way to get your nose broken."

Running a hand up the side of his thigh, you urge him forward.

"Stop worrying. And get up here."

He shuffles carefully towards your head, and you inhale sharply at the completely new angle offered of your lover's form.

In spite of his objections, his cock is flushed and harder than ever, veins standing clearly beneath the skin, flesh bobbing slightly against his lower abdomen as he moves, leaving translucent traces of fluid where the head briefly makes contact.

The heat of him surrounds you, the weight and heft of those powerful thighs now angled right above your chest. A slight dusting of coarse, dark hairs speckle his upper thighs, thickening as they form part of the thatch above his erection.

Soshiro's scent is what is most intoxicating, musky, earthy, slight sweat mingled with the distinct smell of him.

He's right above you now, keeping his balance on his knees as you utter a soft gasp, the length of him brought down with greed born of desire to your lips.

Above you, a shudder runs through him from top to toe, knees sinking further into the bed as you pass your tongue all along his length, coating him in wet heat.

"Ahhhh, fuck."

It's almost an involuntary expulsion from his chest, an excalamation of surprised warmth, because he's never experienced what you're giving him in this position before.

You let it play out, the familiar dance of taking his head in your mouth, drawing back the foreskin with a push, gently circling within the wet tip, tasting him thoroughly.

He chokes back another groan, hips jerking fitfully.

This close, you can feel every twitch, every pulse, and blood thunders in your ears, almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of how you slick him down to the base.

A few more strokes and you find your rhythm, letting out soft noises of approval as his hand tangles in your hair, easing you through the heated worship of him.

Where you are now, however, is not your final goal.

Slowly, your hands drift along his thighs, up, up, towards the firm curve of his lower buttocks. The muscle jumps beneath your fingers, so sensitive as he is to where you touch him.

You slip his cock out of your mouth with a soft, wet noise, earning another groan, and allow the tip of your nose to drift south along it, inhaling the hot, mingled scent of his essence and the tang of your own saliva.

He tenses above you, eyes squeezing shut, as he obeys the slight direction of your push and moves just a few inches further up the bed.

There is a great deal of awareness in how he takes care never to put much of his weight on you, even as you now find yourself directly below him, tongue running along the delicate crease that leads from his sac to the edge of his opening.

He's probably holding himself too stiffly to be fully immersed in what you're doing to him, for fear of hurting you, but you plan to remedy that.

You want him to forget, to sink further than he ever has, to show him how much you can give to him, in this time you have together that seeps through both your fingers, slow as the drip of thickened honey.

Starting with care, you grasp him firmly, drawing him down onto you, even with the slight resistance you feel. Your find the rim of him, slightly creased, the sparse, coarse hairs around it tickling your tongue.

Tracing the edge slowly, dragging out the sensation, you avoid probing too deep, knowing that he'll tense up further as a reaction.

Soshiro's hands hit the headboard, fingers gripping tight. He tries to lift himself off to escape the white hot pleasure you're giving him, too good, too warm, too much, but you aren't having it.

Warm, ragged pants start to escape him, sounds you've never heard before, startling in their raw, imploring appeal.

Never pausing, you bury your face deeper in him, taking small moments to release yourself to breathe.

Like this, his scent, the solid, downward press of him, his heat on you, the damp, satiny skin, the slow rocking motions he's taken up as you lick, taste and softly tease him, are beginning to unravel you in ways you cannot fathom.

It must be the same for him, because you feel him shift above you, and you pull away for a second, taking him in.

God, what a view.

His head is bent forward, the whole weight of his upper body held up by his death grip on the headboard, knuckles turning white.

The straight, gleaming hair has now tangled on his brow, damp with sweat. The flush that had started as one of embarrassment has now transformed to one that suffuses the skin of his face, neck and chest with a rosy glow.

His nipples stand as pert points, directly in your line of sight, stiff-peaked with arousal.

As you watch, he catches your gaze, deliberately reaching down to palm his rigid cock, a soft, strangled groan accompanying the motion.

This is probably the most aroused you've ever seen him, but it is his eyes that capture you beyond anything else.

Soshiro's eyes are reflections of the deepest parts of himself. Inscrutable to most the majority of the time, they maintain professional distance with ease, all while providing assurance that he notices, that he cares.

When in battle, they take on the aspect of the wiliest predator, keen-edged as one of his blades, sighting vulnerabilities in plating and armored joints as a bird of prey does, swift and immediate.

Here, with you, they widen to reveal new depths, new pleasures to be mounted, conquered, within the arena of your lovemaking.

He lets you see it all, drunk on the heady waves of what you give him, reckless in what he takes, for once, sacrificing what discipline has taught his body.

True release is a treasure that only the palms of your hands, your fingers, your tongue, the softness between your thighs, the supple valley between your breasts, can lay before him.

Above you, Soshiro strokes himself, mouth falling open, face contorted with supreme desire. You take a moment to suck his tip, swollen and wet against your lips, tasting him once more, before going back to your pursuit.

This time, you penetrate him slowly with your tongue, hands gripping his buttocks firmly as he utters the most earnest cry you've ever heard from him.

Deeper you go, the flutter and flex of sphincter around you, your hands slipping over the firm curve of his ass, the fine hairs there now outlined beneath your exploring fingers.

You squeeze him once, appreciatively, eliciting a half-groan, half-laugh.

"Gonna ... be the death of me with that pretty ... pretty mouth - "

It's the first time he's managed to speak in the entire encounter, slurred and delirious, and you let him feel the secret curve of your lips.

You're not done with him yet, not by a long shot.

Setting up a steady rhythm, you keep your grip on him, taking some of his weight. The density of Soshiro's muscle makes him heavier and far more solid than he seems beneath baggy jackets and loose trousers.

Each drop of his body pries him open to you further, the inside of him smooth, tender, easier and easier to breach with your lubrication.

The raise of him on your palms allows you to take deeper breaths, circling him with light and firm strokes, before sinking him onto you again.

No coherent words are forthcoming any longer, only the wet sounds of where you lick and slip into him, the uneven slide of his hand over his own cock.

Moisture is seeping down, as more and more of the pearly translucence slides from his tip down the shaft, all the way down to where you work him, spreading a sheen across your nose, mouth and cheeks.

Soft moans, ragged-edged with delight, half-uttered encouragement, shattered by the shift of your nose and tongue, begging, pleas, pants and cries, all culminating to the most vocal you've ever heard him.

He is close, you can tell from the way his movements have become increasingly spasmodic and irregular, the desperation and warning that has entered his voice as he calls to you.

Determined to bring him to the edge your way, you grasp the firm flesh harder, fingers sinking in slightly as you spread him, giving you greater access.

A great shudder passes through him, his hips now swinging freely back and forth, the headboard rattling slightly under the force of his grip.

You push as deep as you can, fingers keeping him open as you pulse, plunge and swirl. His thighs are now shaking, clamping down on your cheeks harder, the wet, hard heft of his cock dropping to the top of your face.

You're well aware that this man could accidentally crush you between these same legs you've worshipped, and the thought is oddly arousing.

Then, under the tight grip you have on him, you feel every muscle draw taut as a bow string, held on some quivering, molten edge. His back trembles, arching, abdomen pulled in so tight that you can make out every ridge and dip above his hip-bones.

He cries out your name, sublime praise in every broken syllabyl, cracking like a whip of thunder on the verge of completion.

You hold your tongue inside him still, letting him rock back and forth as his climax eases enough for him to ride out the all-consuming pleasure.

Hot viscosity leaks down the length of him, salty, earthy, and you remove yourself from him long enough to lap up the rewards of his spending.

You're gentle with him, keeping the working of your lips and tongue slow and measured, and he gasps, clutches your hair, taking great shuddering breaths as your fingers wander from knee to groin, grounding him with the warmth of your touch.

Eventually, he gathers up enough co-ordination to slide from on top of you to the side, collapsing across the covers, arms and legs outstretched.

You're already missing the solid heat of him, the sensation of being trapped within the cage of his strength, having him so freely responsive to you.

It can wait, as can your own bottomless yearning for him to fill you in turn.

You slip from the bed, padding barefoot to the bathroom where you clean off the remnants of your joining from your face, mouth and throat, dampening a cloth with warm water.

When you return to him, he hasn't moved an inch, much to your amusement, still sprawled bonelessly, as if you've well and truly defeated him this time.

His eyes are open, though, taking you in with something that is, perhaps, new.

There is a crushing tenderness there, reserved for you, and you alone, a binding vow altogether separate from the twine of two bodies in all their sensual glory. His regard settles warm across you, a fleece blanket in winter, along your fingers, arms, shoulders, hair, knees and ankles, as if to ascertain that all of you is still safe and intact.

As much as you can tangle the yarn of all that he is, your love slowly spinning him back together when all is done, this is the core of him that remains unchanged.

A man of the sword, through and through, even in the throes of passion, even when shedding the armour he wears over the perpetual beating of his soldier's heart, just for you.

You'll place each piece back together over him, locking it in place, readying him to face it all, as you do now, with the warm washcloth over the gleam left on his skin.

He lies still, let's you take care of him, one hand rising idly to play with your hair, as he is fond of doing.

It's an absent gesture, one of familiarity, but this evening it is intentional, carrying a heavy spell that threatens to trap your heart forever.

You drop the cloth aside and sink down to him, arm draping across his chest, the press of his chin to your forehead the most natural order in the world at present.

"You all right?"

He laughs softly in response, tracing the shell of your ear.

"Can't feel my legs real well, so yeah, got me better than any round of practice I've had in years."

His voice is still hoarse with exertion, pitched deliciously low.

"I take it you enjoyed it."

"Kind of an understatement."

Your playful retort dies in your throat as he lifts your chin, his mouth slotting against yours with a breathless intensity that seems to fill your lungs with something other than air.

When he parts from you, slow and soft, repeatedly pressing forward again, as if you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, you manage to speak once again.

"I loved it. Feeling you like that."

"You did?"

He doesn't wait for a response, easing you into him again, his kisses falling like summer rain over a drowsy field at dusk.

To know Soshiro as he is now, unburdened of all the paraphernalia of duty and battle, stretched out after you've robbed him of his senses, is the greatest gift indeed.

Perhaps this is the best time of all, when both your limbs are langorous with the act of knowing each other, when the evidence of your sumptuous feasting has been cleared away, when night steals into secret spaces known only to lovers.

Let the dawn have its hours, because none are lovelier than these.

@radish-breath @kentocalls