Decided to post this little thing I wrote a while ago. Featuring @the-archons-moustache's Inquisitor Tobias Trevelyan and his first encounter with Favian, a knife fight becomes something a little more.
Favian's expression was not unreadable. Because there was something about the intensity, the thrill, the smell of tobacco and leather, the heat of the body and the cold of the wall, the tingling numbness creeping through his wrist, and the stirring of his groin, that lifted one corner of his lips in a hint of a smirk. Â
The Inquisitor’s lips pressed together, his brow furrowed into an intimidating scowl, and yet the dark of his pupils widened.
Favian felt himself slip down the wall just a half inch. The other man's breath hitched so softly that were he an inch further back, Favian wouldn't have heard it.
But he did hear it, and he felt it, the sharp and shallow rise and fall of the leather clad chest against his own.
The Inquisitor was annoyed. And something else too, something that stayed his hand, that kept him from twisting Favian's arm and throwing him to the ground, something that rocked his hips forward.
Favian’s smirk broadened. The stir in his groin became insistent, the leather of his tight trousers strained just a bit.
The Inquisitor - his name escaped Favian, as most thoughts did just then - grunted softly.
“You're a little shit, you know that?”
“So I've been told.”
He slowly, deliberately, dragged his gaze down to the man's mouth, the plush bottom lip. Â
A slight shift in the man’s weight moved his centre, pressed him now against Favian’s thigh, and Favian couldn't suppress a sudden, sharp intake of breath when he felt the hardness there.
There were worse ways to die, he mused. The deadly sharp blade of the dagger against his tender skin was steady, the hand that wielded it well-trained, experienced, that of an assassin. It would be quick, and he'd drown in his own blood and those piercing eyes as his straining cock would bring him brief, sweet bliss as he drifted into eternal sleep.
But he didn't think he would die this night. Not to this dagger, at any rate.Â
He tilted his chin up, further exposing his jugular, further lifting the position of his lips, enough for the eyes to flick down to them for the briefest of moments. Their breath mingled, hot and humid in the sliver of air between them.
Blades remained steady at each others throats. A hand wrapped around another pinned against the wall.
A thigh slipped between his legs. Â
