[Isaac comes up for air, licking his lip and snapping a rope of spit off a stiffened nipple. The muscles around and between his shoulderblades have knotted, aching, from bending over Hector's body, but he doesn't give himself long to rest his jaw and roll the kinks out of his shoulders before ducking his head again. Diving back into a dreamy place where nothing matters but this, this expanse of scabbed skin and beautifully wrought bones.
Ridiculous as he realizes it is, he half expected Hector's flesh to wear the smell of hers, the taste of hers, after all these years and a cold dip in the pond. Yet Hector is as he was that night in the woods at the base of the mountain, sprawled in the grass, the yeastiness of his skin mingling with the tang of sweat and iron, his scent and all making Isaac throb through no effort of Hector's own - and there's the truth of it. Hector, even belly up and throat bared like it's begging for the knife, wields a fierce power over him that it seems neither time nor violence can break. A power that would pull him and keep pulling them, helplessly, into the sandtrap of each others' lives no matter how deeply they could dig in their heels.
For now, the frustration in that is gone, squeezed out of his awareness by pleasure and need, always need. His lips skim the edges of the wounds he's laid, lovingly suckling at the smattering of scars along the way. Not all of them are his work, but Isaac's mouth takes full responsibility all the same while he smothers Hector's neck and chest in kisses, paying tribute to his body in the way he's never cared to do for the demons he's lain with. Hector is and never was just a piece of flesh, a warm hole, a throwaway.
He stops at Hector's heaving belly, half to make room for his fumbling and half at the hand smoothing over his hair. There's a twitch of his shoulderblades at his touch, but Isaac doesn't toss his head and shake him off. Doesn't need to, that hand sliding off him, naturally, when he straightens up. He hasn't a finger on either hand that wouldn't cause undue pain, and without the means or the will to trim a few nails, he assumes that Hector really meant it when he offered to prepare himself.]
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Ridiculous as he realizes it is, he half expected Hector's flesh to wear the smell of hers, the taste of hers, after all these years and a cold dip in the pond. Yet Hector is as he was that night in the woods at the base of the mountain, sprawled in the grass, the yeastiness of his skin mingling with the tang of sweat and iron, his scent and all making Isaac throb through no effort of Hector's own - and there's the truth of it. Hector, even belly up and throat bared like it's begging for the knife, wields a fierce power over him that it seems neither time nor violence can break. A power that would pull him and keep pulling them, helplessly, into the sandtrap of each others' lives no matter how deeply they could dig in their heels.
For now, the frustration in that is gone, squeezed out of his awareness by pleasure and need, always need. His lips skim the edges of the wounds he's laid, lovingly suckling at the smattering of scars along the way. Not all of them are his work, but Isaac's mouth takes full responsibility all the same while he smothers Hector's neck and chest in kisses, paying tribute to his body in the way he's never cared to do for the demons he's lain with. Hector is and never was just a piece of flesh, a warm hole, a throwaway.
He stops at Hector's heaving belly, half to make room for his fumbling and half at the hand smoothing over his hair. There's a twitch of his shoulderblades at his touch, but Isaac doesn't toss his head and shake him off. Doesn't need to, that hand sliding off him, naturally, when he straightens up. He hasn't a finger on either hand that wouldn't cause undue pain, and without the means or the will to trim a few nails, he assumes that Hector really meant it when he offered to prepare himself.]