That night, as they undressed for sleep, Dagan whispered to Hendrik, “Does it make you uncomfortable to be underground?”
Hen hummed, which was meant to be affirmative, but he was still uncertain as to why.
“It’s strange not to see the canopy or sky. I don’t know how Innan lives in their cave for moons on end. But they have the earth for company, and we don’t.”
“I’d live in this cave if it was with you.” Hen stripped down and sat on the soft pile of their blankets. He held out his arms.
Dagan kicked off his shorts and crawled into his lap, facing him, wrapping arms around Hen’s neck and legs around his waist. He settled his ass on Hen’s thighs and leaned his forehead against Hen’s, his breath hot and easy. Hen slipped both arms around his waist and tightened them. For a long moment, they stayed like that, silent and appreciating each other, the beeswax candle in its sconce flickering and throwing shadows around them.
The cave was so cool and quiet, even with so many people in it. It smelled of minerals Hen couldn’t name, sharp and tangy, and of dampness born of fresh water somewhere in its depths. Dagan’s lavender scent had faded into something more purely him, his skin and clean sweat. Hendrik breathed in the moment deeply.
“I don’t mind the cave,” Hen whispered after a while, leaning back so he could look Dagan in the eye. “I did at first, but it’s growing on me.”
“We’ll have to be even more quiet.” Dagan’s smile turned wicked. “Things echo.”
Hen couldn’t help but smile back.
Dagan wriggled forward in his lap, so the insides of his thighs pressed into Hen’s waist and his prick stirred against Hen’s belly. Carefully, he reached behind himself and arranged Hen’s prick in the split of his ass, then put his arms around Hen’s neck again.
His skin was so deliciously warm in the cool darkness, his heartbeat so strong against Hen’s chest, his hands gentle in Hen’s hair. Hen slipped both hands around to grab Dagan’s ass, squeezing, then curling his fingers into it harder.
Dagan leaned into his chest, huffing. “Would you leave a mark on me?”
“What?” Hen kissed him, and Dagan melted into it. For long, increasingly breathless moments they made out, Hen holding onto Dagan’s ass as if for dear life, Dagan’s prick getting harder and hotter against his stomach.
Dagan mumbled into his lips. “A mark. Something I can see next time I take my shirt off or feel next time I sit down.”
This wasn’t precisely a novel idea for Hen, thanks to Jak, but he was still uncertain. “Like, a handprint?”
“Fades too fast, unless it’s a bruise,” Dagan huffed, nuzzling at his neck now.
“You want me to bruise you?” Hen wasn’t sure he could do that. Of course, if that was what he wanted, Hen would try to find a way to do it safely, but—
“I don’t mind, though I’d rather you scratched or bit.” Dagan whispered. “Somewhere only I can see it. Feel it. Could you do that?”
Experimentally, Hen dug his short nails a little deeper into Dagan’s ass. He wouldn’t be able to see it there, but it was just to see how it felt.
Dagan gave a strangled groan into his neck, rocking his hips. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. You can tell me. I just like the idea of you marking me as yours, like a buck with his territory.”
Hen’s head spun. His cock, which had been swelling steadily, experienced a sudden rush of blood that had it jumping against Dagan’s asscrack. He squeezed again, this time with more nails, and pulled as if to rub Dagan against him tighter.
“Do you like that, my darling little someone?” Dagan whispered, hot and wet-lipped into his ear. “Would you like to know I have your mark on me?”
“Yes, I fucking would,” Hen replied, voice hot and gravelly. “Tell me what to do.”
“What’s your favorite part of me?” Dagan asked.
“Your—”
“Thighs,” Dagan cut in with a little laugh. He got his legs beneath him and braced back against Hen’s thighs, leaving his back arched and his prick pointing upward. Dagan’s thighs were splayed wide, flattened slightly by his calves beneath them. The lines of his quads, dusted with soft, dark hair, led into the softness of his inner thighs, a little paler and smoother. His balls were pulled up tight, his prick dark with blood and ever-so-slightly curving toward the ceiling. The V of his stomach muscles sank elegantly from the points of his hips down to the patch of silken, curling hair framing his prick. His belly was tight but its lines and contours weren’t chiseled so much as smooth, his waist small, the V of his torso a perfect echo of the one below.
Hendrik reached out to brush the trail of hair above his prick, running the back of his thumb from the base of it up into his navel. “You’re so perfect,” he said, awestruck.
“I’m glad you think so.” Dagan grinned. There was still something about it that said he didn’t really believe, or, if he did, he believed it was because Hen was biased, or something like that. Hen remembered his resolution to make Dagan believe in his own magnificence.
This seemed like an opportunity to make some progress there. Hendrik rested both hands on Dagan’s knees, then slid them upward, toward his groin. “So perfect. I want you to know you’re mine. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
Dagan sighed and let his head fall back, making his back arch harder. “Show me, sweetness.”
Hen dug three fingers into Dagan’s right thigh, up high but on top, to avoid the soft insides. His nails were too short—they were always short, because Hen would bite them if they weren’t, and he hated that—but he dragged them downward anyhow.
Dagan bit his lip and watched as Hen left three faint, pink marks in his wake. By all the gods, that was the most satisfying fucking thing Hen had ever seen.
Dagan hissed, then said, “Mmm, yes. Harder. Make it last.”
Hen glanced up, caught Dagan’s eyes, flashing like gold fire in the flickering light.
“It’s okay if there’s blood. We’ll clean it out. When we’re done,” Dagan panted. “I have my healing kit.”
Hen dug in harder and raked downward slowly. Dagan bit back a moan and arched even harder, his prick giving another jump. The marks were patchy, now, darker spots of red within pink on top of golden-brown skin.
“That’s perfect.” Dagan purred like a cat, admiring his own thigh. “Thank you, lovely. And you have full permission to do that anywhere and anytime you want.”
“Come here.” Hen pulled Dagan back into his arms unceremoniously. Dagan kissed his collar bone, then the spot between his shoulder and neck, licking it then sucking. Hen growled a little as Dagan’s ass settled on and around his cock again, whispering, “Where does mine go?”
“You want a mark, too?” Dagan mumbled into his shoulder.
“Fuck yes, I want a mark.”
