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His body spasms violently around their fingers and around Bohdi’s mouth, and the orgasm tears through him in waves that do not stop, each pulse wringing another sound out of him, raw and shattered and loud, his cock pulsing down Bohdi’s throat in thick messy spurts that Bohdi swallows without pulling off. He is louder than he has ever been. The sounds carry through the trees and up into the dark where the stars are cold and indifferent and Morgan does not care. Bohdi’s name. Gods’ names. Words that are not words. His hips jerk between Bohdi’s mouth and their joined fingers and the pleasure keeps breaking over him, crest after crest, until his body is wrung out and shaking and his cock is still pulsing with aftershocks that send smaller jolts through his core.

He is still spasming when Bohdi pulls off.

His cock slips from Bohdi’s mouth, wet and oversensitive, shining with spit, and Morgan shudders. He is dimly aware of Bohdi moving, pulling their fingers free, and the sudden emptiness is a shock, a void where the fullness was, his hole twitching open and wet and ruined, and Morgan makes a sound at the loss that is small and wrecked and entirely outside his control.

Then Bohdi shoves inside him.

There is no preamble and no slow press. The blunt head of him finds Morgan’s slicked, open, thoroughly stretched hole and Bohdi drives forward and buries himself in one stroke, and Morgan’s hands fly to Bohdi’s arms. His fingers dig into the ridiculous impossible swell of Bohdi’s biceps, the muscles Morgan has catalogued and resented and dreamed about, the ones that make Bohdi’s shirts strain at the seams and flex when he swings the axe and are, right now, braced on either side of Morgan’s body holding Bohdi above him. Morgan tightens around him.

His whole body lights up.

He just came. He came so hard he saw spots and his cock is still twitching with the aftershocks and every nerve in his body is raw and singing, and now Bohdi is inside him, filling him completely, and the sensation is enormous. It is not the same as their fingers. It is fuller, harder, a single unbroken length that stretches him differently, the heat of it, the pulse of it, and his body does not know whether to clench down or open up so it does both, fluttering and tightening in waves, and every flutter sends another spike of overstimulated sensation through his core.

“Gods,” Bohdi breathes, almost in disbelief. “All that work and you’re still so damned tight.”

Then Bohdi pulls him upright.

The shift is sudden. Bohdi sits back and takes Morgan with him, lifting him off the bedroll and into his lap with a strength that makes nothing of him. The world tilts and resettles and Morgan is straddling Bohdi’s thighs with Bohdi’s cock still buried deep inside him, and the angle change drives him even deeper, the head of it pressing somewhere that makes Morgan cry out, raw and loud and carrying, and he does not muffle it. He just lets it go into the dark.

“But you take me anyway, don’t you?” Bohdi says, lips brushing against his jaw. “You just open up for me every time.”

Bohdi grips his hips. Both hands, broad and bruising, fingers digging into the muscle and bone on either side of Morgan’s pelvis. He plants his feet flat on the ground behind Morgan and he fucks up into him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

The first thrust jolts Morgan’s entire body. The force of it travels up his spine and snaps his head back and the sound that punches out of him is less a moan and more a shout. The second is harder. Bohdi’s hands hold him in place, hold him exactly where he needs to be, and the angle is brutal. Every stroke drives deep, deeper than hands and knees, deeper than anything, the wet slap of it filthy and loud, and Morgan can feel Bohdi in his chest.

“Fuck,” Morgan swears, breathing hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Bohdi bites his neck. His teeth sink into the muscle between Morgan’s neck and shoulder, hard enough to mark, hard enough to last, and Morgan yelps and his hands fly to Bohdi’s shoulders and his nails dig in and his body grips Bohdi’s cock and Bohdi groans against his skin, deep and shaking.

It is too soon for Morgan’s cock to be anything other than spent. He is soft and oversensitive and every thrust sends sparking almost-too-much sensation through his whole body, the nerves screaming with a mix of pleasure and overstimulation that blurs together until he cannot tell which is which. He is overwhelmed. He is shaking. His thighs burn from the day’s riding and burn differently now, clenched around Bohdi’s hips, and his arms are around Bohdi’s neck and his face is tucked against Bohdi’s hair and he is sensitive and wrung out and it is too much and it is good.

It is always fucking good when it is Bohdi.

There has never been a single second inside this man’s hands that has not been good. Not the first time in the Keep, when they had spent weeks pretending not to want each other. Not the desperate half-silent encounters in Morgan’s chambers when the stakes made everything sharper. Not the morning in the alcove when Bohdi dropped to his knees and Morgan had to bite through his own lip to stay quiet. Every time, every stolen reckless ill-advised time, it has been good, and this is the best, because there is nothing stolen about it. This is just theirs.

Bohdi kisses his neck. Soft this time, after the bite, his lips dragging open-mouthed over the mark he just left, over the tendon, over the pulse point where Morgan’s heart is hammering so hard Bohdi must be able to feel it against his mouth. His hands move Morgan on his cock, lifting and pulling and grinding him down with a strength that is casual and absolute, as though Morgan is something light, something easy, something that can be rearranged at will. Each drop seats Bohdi to the hilt. Each lift drags him almost out, the flared head catching on Morgan’s rim before slamming back in.

“Gods, you’re so pretty like this,” Bohdi says. His voice is shaking. The roughness in it has cracked open into something that is not just want but wonder, and his lips move against Morgan’s throat as he speaks. “You’re gorgeous, Morgan. So fucking beautiful.”

Bohdi’s rhythm stutters. His hands tighten on Morgan’s hips, the grip going bruising, and his breath goes ragged against Morgan’s neck. Morgan can feel it building in the tension of Bohdi’s body, the coiling of muscle beneath his hands, the uneven cadence of his thrusts, the way his groans come faster and more broken.

Bohdi groans and comes.

Morgan gasps. He feels it, the heat of it filling him, pulse after pulse, thick and deep, and Bohdi’s hips jerk up into him and his arms lock around Morgan’s waist and pull him flush and tight and hold him there, buried to the hilt, and the groan that rips out of Bohdi is deep and shaking and so unguarded that Morgan feels it echo through his own spent body. It is the loudest sound Bohdi has made all night. It carries through the trees and the dark the way Morgan’s sounds did, unfettered and uncontained. Knowing that Bohdi has never been this loud before, that this is what he sounds like when he does not have to hold back, settles into Morgan’s chest and burns there.

Bohdi’s forehead drops to Morgan’s shoulder. His arms stay locked around Morgan’s waist, trembling. His breath comes in ragged uneven pulls, hot against Morgan’s collarbone. He is still inside him, softening slowly, come leaking around the place where they are joined, and neither of them moves to separate.

Morgan's hands find the back of Bohdi's neck. His fingers trace the short hair there, the place where the braids begin, and he holds on. He cannot hold still. His body aches in a way that is comprehensive and deeply satisfying, the ache of having been thoroughly and completely wrecked. His heart is doing something that is not beating so much as ringing, struck and unable to stop.

For a long time the only sounds are the fire and their breathing and the vast indifferent quiet of the forest.

Bohdi presses his lips to Morgan's shoulder. Then his collarbone. Then the hollow of his throat. A slow wandering trail of kisses, each one so soft it barely registers, and Morgan sits in his lap and shakes with something that has nothing to do with the cold.

Eventually Bohdi eases out of him, careful, and Morgan hisses at the loss and lets himself be lowered down. He rolls onto his side so he does not have to lie in what they have done to the bedroll. Bohdi pulls him in, back to chest, and drags the cloak over both of them, and his arm settles heavy across Morgan's waist.

"We've ruined the bedroll," Morgan says.

"We'll use mine."