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Blackwall always kisses like a man who’s been on his own too long.
He holds himself in check, worried of moving too quic kly, of startling you aw ay. So his lips creep over yours. Hesitant. Slow. The soft plush of his beard parting to reveal a warm and open mouth as he presses closer, and the soft , almost surprised gasp he makes when he tastes you. His fingertips trace up your flank and over your ribs. Lingering only because they’re unsure how to move on – as though he’s dancing a dance he knows, but has forgotten the steps to.
It is like this every time. A slow, almost lazy courtship , that plays out between tender brushes of fingers and lips. But there’s something about savoring every inch of each other – every tiny detail, every breath, every heartbeat – that’s somehow so much more intense than hurried passion. He’s had enough of life that slips through his fingers , he tells you . He wants this to last.
That shy, and tender exploration always lasts until he’s got you down to just your skin. Then, all his uncertainty vanishes like water pulled into parched earth. The curve of his mouth turns smug against your skin, as it drops lower, and lower, until that coal-black beard is wedged between your thighs, and it’s clear Blackwall hasn’t forgotten anything at all. It is all you can do to keep your hips still and remember to keep breathing.
He’s slow in this too . Savoring. He can – and has – spent the night with hands pressing your knees apart, mouth working against slick and swollen skin. The stiff-soft bristles of his beard tickle and tease broken gasps from you. He doesn’t mind when you tangle your fingers in his hair and buck against him. When you writhe, and call his name. When you finish against his tongue.
I love you. The words spill from you in a sigh, before you can stop them.
For a man that’s practically all beard and muscle, those three tiny syllables hit him with all the force of a battering ram. They always do. For all that he looks at you like a man half-starved, he hates that you love him. But he never speaks of why.
He takes your hand, kisses it, and presses it against his still-hard length. Wraps his hand around yours, guiding you up and down his cock. Too hard to deny himself your touch entirely, but still trying to deny himself you. He’s slow to rise, and usually slow to come. But he finishes on his own belly with a few brutal tugs, and a deep, gut-wrenching sigh.
His sudden distance would hurt if you weren’t perfectly aware that he loves you back. He doesn’t say it – he’s never said it. But the man gladly stands between you and all that is dark and terrible in this world, with a ferocity that goes far beyond simple affection.
And then, when Gordon Blackwall becomes Thom Rainer, everything makes sense. The hesitation. The distance. The need. The puzzle you could never quite solve because you didn’t realize you were missing half the pieces. Hero. Villain. Warden. Liar. Lover.
He begs you to walk away. Fists curling around the iron bars, like he could break them. He could – the cell is old and brittle, and you know better than anyone the strength of those hands. But you could no sooner cease loving him than you could will your own heart to stop beating. So you bend. Press your lips against his bone-white knuckles. Watch him shatter as you tell him you love him still.
Always.
Forever.