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His nose feels painful at the impact against Biegler’s cheekbones, almost crushed under the desperation of pushing their faces together. He can barely remember the argument that caused him to stalk up to the spy, the heavy retorts dissipating like smoke the moment they’d gotten their hands on each other, can’t even remember whose thread snapped first, or if they’d collided in want at the same time.
Ebenholz can scarcely care about anything that is not the sharp taste of heavily roasted coffee and tobacco, not while the spy has his jaw in an almost bruising grip as he pushes their faces together, thumb and index pressing painfully as if to force his jaw open.
The surface of the bookcase behind him is hardly ideal, the jutting wood of the shelves digging into his back, he’s not exceedingly short of stature either for a Leithanien or for a Caprinae, yet the spy is tall enough the grip in his jaw changes to tilt his face up for a better angle, straining his neck as Biegler takes and takes.
As Ebenholz corresponds, desperate with the strength of a drowning man-drowning in the bitter taste of his facade during the day. Drowning in the taste of metal as his lips bite a bit too strongly on Biegler’s lips.
Drowning in desire and desperation.
Drowning in sheer anger and indignation.
“Aren’t we ridiculous for entertaining this in the first place?”
“It would’ve been even more ridiculous to keep postponing this.”
The words are spoken in barely a sigh in the space between taking a break and resuming their desperate kiss, made up more of teeth and tongues than tenderness. Ebenholz honestly has no idea who spoke first, but the lack of oxygen lends credence to a ridiculous, desperate idea.
“Then should we not get this over with? Herr Biegler.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, esteemed Graf Urtica, but I do hope the ‘this’ you mention is the same I am thinking of, for your own good.”
Biegler’s voice drops low, low enough he can feel how he’s considering leaving Ebenholz here cold and wanting, step outside and not return until the embers of desire that ignited this become nothing but specks of ash even if it takes days, months of empty corridors, empty in the darkest hours save for himself.
But Ebenholz also feels how the grip on his jaw becomes fiercer, how the distance between their faces does not increase by even the smallest of measure, all but talking into each other’s lips at this point.
He will not assume the infuriating, meddling spy is haunted at the same degree by the terrible desire that captures foolish Franz underneath the covers every night, but he will also not turn a blind eye at the fact he is still here and has not fled to maintain property. After all property can go fuck itself and he is eager to take its place.
“Even if it wasn’t I don’t suppose you want ‘this’ to spiral out of control do you? It is always best to scratch the itch thoroughly until it's satisfied, Biegler.”
Even if it means gouging one’s own flesh to reach deep enough-but that is something for the pitiful man called Franz to deal with later.
The spy who holds him in a crushing embrace stops for an eternal second, enough for fear to creep into his spine when he releases him, thinking he has pushed him too far, this time he will truly leave, not return and before he can even pretend to not notice that line of thought that fear turns to a split second of horror as Biegler makes a motion to sweep everything from his desk to the cold stone of the floor underneath their feet.
Including the latest reports tinted in such a fresh scrawl that the letters still shine wet under the light.
“Unless you are determined to forge the writing for every last one of them you shall not!” Ebenholz hisses, managing to yank at Biegler’s elbow before he ruins them all. Damn the stupid noble traditions that insist on handwritten missives, damn this man who clearly knows the weight and intricacies of them all, and damn himself who is not clouded enough by desire or feigned ignorance to abandon such trifling dances of diplomacy.
“I believe my good Graf wanted this over as soon as possible.”
“There’s a distinction between hurrying and stupidly tripping over your own feet in haste, aren’t you fond of warmly reminding me so?”
Annoyance is almost enough to overpower his lust at this moment, but the look in Biegler’s eyes is enough to make him swallow his complaints at this moment. Instead he releases the spy’s elbow to step towards the desk, opening the bottom drawer covered with strewn objects until his fingers touch cold metal. Ebenholz turns around and throws it to the man who catches it without taking his eyes off him.
“Here.”
One of his many souvenirs from his stay at the landship, a small tin of salve with a scent reminiscent of mint and old people. Perfect for muscular aches arising from a sedentary lifestyle, probably downright terrible as a lube substitute. Graf Urtica surely will complain and moan about it in the morning, but Ebenholz can’t muster enough fucks to care, not when he knows that if he takes a step outside this office it will give enough time for cold reasoning to drag them into inaction.
Fortunately Biegler takes the hint and the sofa’s terribly hard filling threatens to bruise his tail as they tumble on its surface. The heavy coat belonging to Graf Urtica is still hanging near the entrance so it takes only a moment for Biegler to start attempting to undo the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other buried in the thick ebony hair at the back of his head, pushing their mouths together to resume where they’d left off.
The tangle of limbs and half opened clothes would be a disaster were they standing up, Ebenholz sure he has already lost one of his dress shoes despite not remembering if he attempted to kick it off but he can really scarcely think about anything but the fierce lust that fills his body when a gloved hand wraps around his waist-as it slides a path down to his hip, to his thigh, down to his knee to push it apart.
Ebenholz knows himself to be a thin man and even though his stay at the landship lent enough time for his calves and forearms to define their shape, it is still mildly dizzying when he realizes that Biegler’s hand fully circles his knee. Were he not busy having the air in his lungs removed by a desperate tongue he might deign to take a look at the source of the touch in his legs.
Yet instead of being able to continue further the man steps out from the embrace, causing dazed lilac eyes to blink in confusion.
“Unfortunately this humble spy is not delicate enough with your clothing, Graf Urtica. It might be best for you to remove your trousers lest they are ruined beyond usefulness.”
It’s at that moment Ebenholz looks down and notices several buttons missing from his shirt. But just as his mouth opens to dismiss the concern he reconsiders; this tower was not empty and while he couldn't care less of them “learning” about this tryst (a night meeting of this caliber would hardly compare a scandal to his upcoming regulations), he did care about returning to his rooms in nothing but a coat covering ripped clothing. This tower had an awful frigid aura that stuck to its walls after all.
“You seem awfully thoughtful about my dignity, Herr Biegler. Are you feeling well? Has the chill of the spire gotten to you?”
His other shoe gets kicked away and the pants get tossed to the side, they’re already terribly wrinkled so pretending to care won’t do much more for them while the shirt stays on, being already ruined. Biegler tossed at least away his coat and boots but were there not the implicit understanding Ebenholz would be receiving the assumption would’ve annoyed him greatly seeing him almost fully clothed still.
“It is just my simple belief that Graf Urtica may have more pressing endeavors to sink coin into rather than overwork some poor tailors.”
On second thought, this is more deserving of the scowl that manifests in the Graf’s face. One of the documents he did not manage to save from the spy’s impatience was certainly related to the dire financial straits of backwater Urtica and he has the suspicion that was on purpose now.
Before he can abandon lust for further indignation Biegler makes the protests die in his throat with the way his hand curls around his hip, the other sliding down to his thigh, to his knee, pushing his legs open. It gets harder to sustain the gaze on the spy’s face, watching him gaze with barely restrained hunger as he opens the tin, so Ebenholz is all but grateful for the excuse to bury his face in one of the cushions below him when the sting of fingers preparing him cannot be ignored.
He’s not a shy maiden without experience but the urgency still makes him reel back slightly, enough for his head to throw back and expose the pale curve of his neck, the peak of his throat bobbing with barely restrained sounds of both pleasure and discomfort.
For one of his hands to grip the taut upholstery, for the other to cover his mouth, his eyes, his face. For his hips to rise, his legs to open wider even in the initial inherent shame of the act to encourage Biegler to get it over with so they can both indulge in this terrible, ill-advised release.
“You’re not going to break me, get on with it already.”
“I daresay Graf Urtica still needs to get out of bed in the morning, or do you wish for me to put you out of commission for the whole day? I’m afraid I ruined a fair amount of missives with that particular incident.”
“Stop threatening me with a good time unless you’re actually going to go through with it this time, Biegler.”
He manages to muster enough courage to look at the man between his legs as he says that, even as his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, lips too tender from wayward teeth and the itch from his beard burning against his skin like a ghost. It almost feels like the wrong thing to say because even though Biegler’s expression doesn’t change he can see how both his ears twitch forward, suddenly, very keenly aware of provocation that might’ve been best left undisturbed.
He squashes the smallest thought of anything that isn’t lust when the Perro goes on and does exactly that, fingers that set a pace that is not what he’d call pleasurable yet nonetheless enough stimulation for his blood to drain, for his cock to twitch in interest, for Ebenholz to start to feel the longing to be filled truly by the subject of those awful fantasies.
It’s a contradiction of too slow, enough to begin clawing at Biegler’s skin to hurry up, and too fast, enough to make him want to claw at his own skin to try and find purchase, to try and hold on when things happen in such a quick succession he can barely process them.
Biegler removes his fingers to grip one of his thighs and hoist near his own hip, drawing a choked sound from his mouth despite Ebenholz’s best attempts; one of protest and pleasure that despite his best attempts, it turns into almost a whine when the spy leans in, nose against his cheek, breath washing against his face, disturbing the sensitive short fur of his ear with a hot exhale.
And that whine turns into stunned silence as a hard, hot dick makes its way inside him.
It hurts the way when he is impatient to chase completion and puts in one too many fingers before he is ready but worse, yet it’s at the same time, leagues better than the times he can restrain his impatience properly. After all his empty fantasies don’t have the knowledge of how Biegler sounds when he hilts himself fully inside Ebenholz, they cannot mimic the way a large hand wraps his wrist fully to tug it away from his mouth so he can kiss him, so he can swallow the pitiful soft sounds he makes when the man on top grinds his hips down.
Ebenholz’s legs feel like they move faster than his thoughts, as one of them crosses over Biegler’s back to draw him deeper, deep enough he feels the brush of trousers against the back of his thighs with each thrust as he starts to move; feeling the short fur of the spy’s tail brush against his calf, as if threatening to stick to him with sweat yet driven away by the almost violent motion of their fucking.
His lungs almost ache with the infrequent breaths he takes but he knows if he so much removes his lips for more than a second from Biegler’s own, something he cannot voice, something he cannot even think of taking back will escape whether he’s conscious of it or not.
So it becomes a relief when the pain fades into a dull ache that makes his stomach clench, that makes him sweat and feel how his hair sticks to his face, to his neck and shoulders and find that he does not give a damn; too busy having the dick of the man that can execute his life in an instant inside him and his balls slap loudly against his hole in an indecent rhythm, too distracted by the way Biegler’s hands seem to constantly flit around without anchor in his body.
Biegler’s hand coming to cradle his face is almost lost in the sensations that rob his attention, too delicate, too soft, barely noticeable, enough to almost begin to rouse alarm in Ebenholz’s mind when that too is forgotten by the scratch of a beard on his neck, of teeth sinking into his skin, of a tongue tracing the strained muscles of his neck, throwing his head back, unsure for the slightest moment if to turn towards the spy or to turn away even if that means exposing himself even further.
People will inevitably take a second look at Graf Urtica’s bottom lip in the morning from how harsh he is biting down yet that too is taken away from him as Biegler pries his jaw open once more-though instead of his tongue its his thumb that goes inside his mouth; calloused pad pressing down on his tongue, salt and his own arousal filling his sense of taste.
“Go on, bite me.”
Before Ebenholz can even make an attempt at a sound or to dislodge it from his mouth Biegler lifts one of his thighs even higher, angle awkward enough for his groin to protest-yet that too is washed away by the sensation of something hard, even thicker forcing its way inside him, of how it fills him, how it almost feels the dick inside him grows hotter, pressing against every sensitive crevice of his body. It's another brief flash of pain just from how thick it is and that gives him enough clarity to remember that Biegler is a Perro so of course he would-
Ebenholz’s eyes are open yet he cannot see anything, blurry even with the warm light of the office, ears still working perfectly despite the pounding of blood echoing in them and a tiny coherent part of himself files away how rough Biegler’s voice sounds he pants out his pleasure, open mouth and wet tongue surrounded by the red marks that will surely become stark bruises in pale skin afterwards. Ebenholz hates taking orders but for the pitiful man called Franz it is all but a relief to have something in his mouth when Biegler’s thrusts turn from slick slides to deep short ones that never quite dislodge the knot that is inside him.
Neither of them were going go last very long from the desperation that punctuated the moment he was first pushed against that wall but in these few moments he can see only white, he can only hear the frenzied pounding of blood in his ears and feel how his thighs shake, how sweat pools in his collarbone and soaks his ruined shirt-
It’s with a rushing shock of heat that Biegler fills him, grinding down to ensure that Ebenholz takes all his release, feeling how his cock, his knot pulses with each thrust that drives hot semen deeper inside him. The newfound ease of the glide and Biegler’s hot hand stroking his dick roughly are all that it takes for a shameful sound to choke around the spy’s thumb still in his mouth as he comes, back arching up with the spasm of pleasure, toes curling out of his control.
“…”
Ebenholz may be all but insensate, yet he can still faintly register how the thumb in his mouth retreats only for Biegler to cradle once more his head, twining spit slick fingers into his hair with alarming gentleness, how the spy’s forehead rests against his shoulder and feels the faint tickle of his furry ears against his chin, getting in an easier position to rest as his knot still locks them together.
And it is at that moment that he can feel rather than hear Biegler’s full body sigh, the moment he vaguely understands the terrible misstep they may have indulged in.