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His heart all but leaps out of his chest when Mikkel sinks to his knees before him. They have not even properly stepped into the cabin yet, having only just shut the door behind them; this is where they find themselves now, with Adaryc bracing onto the door with one hand, and Mikkel—Mikkel kneeling between him and the door.
For a brief moment he resembles a penitent man at prayer, his expression one of near-reverent piety. Then his hands land on the front of Adaryc’s breeches, and Adaryc can do little except lean farther forward, pressing his forehead firmly against his arm. That he sees no merit in stopping speaks plainly enough of his weakness. Still, he attempts to justify it: perhaps it is best they get this over with first, so that afterwards they might manage a proper conversation without it dissolving into wandering hands, as it somehow has several times before.
He almost believes it himself.
Mikkel’s fingers work at the laces with maddening leisure; when the fabric finally parts, he eases it down and whistles. “Now that I am seeing it up close, I have no idea how it fit in—”
Adaryc does not know what compels him to grip Mikkel’s hair, tightening his fingers in the short, soft strands. Mikkel gasps, cut off mid-sentence, and Adaryc removes his hand at once, an apology already on his tongue.
“Oh.” Mikkel wets his lips, and the small gesture alone is enough to leave Adaryc feeling unbearably warm. “That was… good, actually. You can do it again.”
More carefully this time, Adaryc returns his hand to Mikkel’s hair, taking care not to pull too hard. That is when Mikkel finally takes him in hand.
“You may close your eyes, if you wish,” he says.
The remark is clearly meant in jest, yet Adaryc is reminded of the previous night, spent with his eyes squeezed shut like a coward.
Let it be a challenge then.
True to his intention, he keeps his gaze fixed downward while Mikkel’s hand moves in slow strokes. Then, for some unfathomable reason Mikkel speaks again: “I have been thinking about doing this all day.”
“Is that so,” Adaryc manages, words coming out somewhat strained.
“Mmhm. At one point I even—”
“Do you intend to use your mouth solely for talking?” Adaryc interrupts, his voice low and rough.
He cannot believe his own brazenness, that he would even dare to utter something like this, but the relentless teasing has driven him to the edge. The maddeningly light touch of Mikkel’s hand does little to help matters.
Thankfully, Mikkel only laughs, a soft puff of air that sends a shiver through Adaryc, before lowering his head. Finally putting his mouth to better use, he traces a path along the underside of Adaryc’s length with his tongue.
The door is thick and sturdy, and yet Adaryc still prays that whatever sounds escape him are not loud enough to carry beyond it. Lingering by the entrance was clearly a mistake, and now they are trapped here until the deed is done. In some ways it is worse than the cramped quarters he shares with his men back home—there, at least, he is able to stay quiet, his moments of weakness brief and dealt with efficiently, nothing like what Mikkel is subjecting him to now. His wicked tongue circles Adaryc before he takes him in properly; Adaryc has to bite down on his own lip so hard he tastes iron.
Watching, he finds out, is its own form of torment: the almost obscene care with which Mikkel attends to the task tests Adaryc’s resolve to bear witness to it, yet stubbornness keeps his eyes open. His free hand curls helplessly into a fist, blunt nails digging into his palm while the other tangles deeper into Mikkel’s hair. At that, Mikkel lets out a low sound that Adaryc feels more than hears, his knees growing weak at once.
Infuriatingly, Mikkel lets go of him right then. “Is it too much?”
Pushed beyond the limits of restraint, Adaryc tightens his grip in Mikkel’s hair and tugs him back. “Please,” he says, breathless. “I beg of you…”
At last, Mikkel seems to understand, as he returns at once. Emboldened, Adaryc dares a single shallow thrust with his hips, and when Mikkel does not pull away but rather adjusts to accommodate him, another, and one more. Mikkel’s hands settle on his thighs before sliding higher and to the back, tightening there, claiming him.
This was never going to last long. He tries to warn Mikkel by tugging at his hair, but Mikkel does not pull away. If anything, he redoubles his efforts; his eyes lock onto Adaryc’s, and that is what undoes Adaryc entirely. The release comes with a force that steals his breath and blurs his sight. He is dimly aware of the broken sound that escapes him, simply far too gone to care.
Mikkel takes what he can, but it proves too much—he pulls back with a choked sound, coughing, and the remainder spills across his cheek and jaw. Still braced against the door, chest heaving, Adaryc looks on at the evidence of what they have done painted across Mikkel’s face.
“Well,” Mikkel says eventually, his voice rough and slightly breathless. He wipes at his face with his hand, though the gesture only serves to spread the mess. Then, with a smile that promises nothing good, he brings his soiled fingers up to his mouth and draws his tongue along them. His gaze stays fixed on Adaryc all the while, and this turns out to be his final breaking point: mortified, Adaryc squeezes his eyes shut.