farfromthesea | (no subject)

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daryl

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The day promises to be a quiet one, or at least Theon sees it so. He's sprawled out on the couch, half-listening to a show about marine life on the little television, half-asleep. There's a cat on his stomach, and he knows to expect Daryl any minute.

He's not sure that he's been this relaxed and loose-limbed, not that he can recall, without the help of drink or other substance. He'd hardly turn away either of those things, but he's warm and content and quite sure his day can only get better.

Charbon leaps off his belly when she hears the sounds that predict Daryl's arrival, preferring a higher perch when there's a chance of canine company as well. The quick pressure is enough to make him grunt, and he sits up, pushing a hand through what he knows to be a hopeless case of bedhead.

"Hey," he says, when the door opens, still a bit blurry at the edges from dozing. They've long since reached the point where Theon doesn't worry about grinning like an absolute idiot, and so that's what he does.

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After getting over the awkwardness of walking through the cabin bare-assed naked, Daryl followed him into the bedroom, hovering momentarily just inside the door.

He'd been in the bedroom before, but never in this context. Never with Theon naked on the bed and reaching for him.

"I'll keep that in mind," he murmured, hiding his sheepish smile behind the fall of his hair. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Daryl leaned over him, one hand cupping the side of Theon's face while the other drifted between his legs, careful but surprisingly deft.

"This don't hurt?" He asked, because his scars were well healed, but still angry and knotted in places. The last thing he wanted to do was push things too far, but he'd seen the way Theon's hands had drifted down to touch himself, so it couldn't have been all bad.

Anything else Theon might have had to say evaporates from his mind then, one of Daryl's hands on his face and the other between his thighs. His heart beats hard in his throat, but he's always moving to offer better access, groaning at the sensation. The sight, too, arouses him in a way he hadn't expected; seeing Daryl's hand where Theon's cock should be, big and just rough enough. Whatever he is now, it's his own body, and he likes the way it looks with Daryl's fingers stroking against soft skin, the edges of scars.

"It doesn't hurt," he says, turning his face just enough to scrape his teeth on Daryl's fingers. "It feels good. There's still, ah, something that feels good there."

Daryl traced the longer scar curved along the mound of what was left of his genitals, curving from the opening of his urethra and under the shrunken sack of his balls. The doctors in Darrow had clearly done their best, but the wound was so obviously a product of strange, unimaginable cruelty. Still, Daryl touched him without pity, soft where the skin was more delicate, and with more pressure where he seemed to need it.

"You're gonna have to give me some direction here," he admitted with a sheepish smirk.

"I don't have a lot of direction to give," Theon admits, watching him with wide, hungry eyes. "I only really, ah, started seeing what felt good a few months ago." There's, of course, the sex chart made by his friend David, but that's been kept safely in his work locker.

Theon slides his fingers between Daryl's, guiding them to the patch of skin, the swell of tissue beneath that feels best, that already feels warm and good, for lack of a clearer term. "Like that," he says, and then he pulls Daryl's fingers up to his mouth, sucking briefly before sliding his hand back to that spot.

"Seems like you got the hang of it," Daryl murmured, feeling a little shell-shocked as Theon moved him where he wanted him, the warmth of Theon's mouth wrapped around his fingers sending a surprising jolt straight to his dick.

"You think you can come like this?" He asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, his touch becoming more confident as he watched Theon respond to it.

"I found myself with more reason than I'd expected," he says, feeling a bit of gravel in his throat, "to see how I would like it. If I would."

Part of him had expected to feel like less of a man, being rubbed between his legs like this; he finds now that it's a bare brushstroke of a thought, easily sent on it's way. He dares to press up into the touch, his breathing growing a little ragged. "I can," he says, "not-- not always but this is so much, it's you." Surging forward, he seeks Daryl's mouth with his own.

"Yeah, alright," Daryl mumbled into the kiss, letting Theon move against him, moving with him, the two of them learning a the rhythm of each other. He was hard against Theon's thigh, straining, but it was an after thought. He'd deal with it later, or not at all.

One finger slid lower, dry along the crease of the other man's perineum, but no lower. He didn't know how in the hell that would go, but a lizard-brained thought coiled in the back of his mind, telling him that he'd like to find out.

Sucking in a breath, Theon pulls Daryl with him, down further to the bed, further onto the bed so that they're on their sides, curled together. He curls his maimed hand around the hot length of Daryl's cock, feeling the weight and the truth of it. "This is for me," he murmurs, and it could have been a question, but it's not. It should sound funny, and maybe it does, but the words are laced with a bit of wonder.

He pulls Daryl back into another kiss, knee sliding along Daryl's thigh so that he can touch him there again, so that the can rub together and Theon can feel the drag of Daryl's cock against his hipbone, along his ass if he shifts just right.

"Who the hell else would it be for?" He said with a low, rough tumble of laughter. Gripping Theon's hip, Daryl dragged him in close, their hips fitting together, their bodies falling into a rhythm that was entirely instinct.

"You've got the prettiest damn eyes I've ever seen," he admitted in a breathless rush, one hand on Theon's face, holding him at just enough distance to look his fill.

Theon looks back at him, eyes wide, the blue rapidly being consumed by the black, too caught by surprise to even respond in that moment. A moment later, he surges back to Daryl's mouth, starting to feel the kind of urge and edge of desperation that hadn't even occurred to him as a possibility. Feeling good had seemed enough of an aspiration, but now he wants, and he wants.

So he says it, gasping against Daryl's lips, "I want you, I want you so much, doesn't have to be now but I want you inside me, want--"

His body remembers how to move like this, though it's different, wrapping one leg around Daryl and moving his hips. Different than anything he's known, and so fucking good.

"Goddamn," he grunted, the rhythm of his hips stuttering, cock leaking and dragging along the crease of Theon's ass. For two idiots unsure of what the hell they were doing, their bodies seemed to be figuring shit out with dizzying certainty. "You can't go saying shit like that without giving a man some warning."

There was a smile in his eyes as he shifted back to look at Theon's face.

"If you want that now, you're gonna have to give me a breather. I ain't been this close to coming, this fast, in a long damn time."

Where he might have once wondered, not even thinking of this man, whether he'd be able to handle the feel of a hard cock against him again. So many fucking things are different since he'd wondered, and while maybe he'd known it before, nothing could have prepared him for this reality, where the weight of hot, hard flesh on his thigh makes him press closer, makes him want more.

And when Daryl responds positively, Theon nods, chasing his mouth for a kiss.

"Aye," he gasps. "Would need to get ready for that. Bedside drawer, hand it to me."

Grunting in the affirmative, Daryl rolled Theon over onto his back, crawling half across him to get into the bedside drawer and root around. Coming up triumphant with a bottle of slick, he passed it over, his mouth bunched up to try and keep the reigns on a grin he knew would've been absolutely ridiculous.

It was like a damn teenager, full of nerves and excitement, and if it wasn't the best goddamn feeling in the world.

Theon's grinning, up at the ceiling, though he tries to rein it in slightly when Daryl hands him the little bottle.

He pauses a moment, cupping Daryl's jaw before he ends up with slippery fingers, to see the same joy there. Before this, he'd assumed it would be more intense, more serious, and here he's pressing his laughing mouth against Daryl's lips, settling in again with his thighs spread.

Spreading the lube on his fingertips, he's already pressing in with one, when he looks up at Daryl again, cheeks dusky and hot.

"Jesus Christ," Daryl rumbled out, bracing a hand on the mattress by Theon's head, the other resting high on the inside of his thigh.

There was that little voice in his head, crowing and laughing about how he really was a goddamn queer. It was his brother's voice, gleeful and thoughtlessly cruel, the son of a bitch. The sad thing was, Daryl missed the mean old bastard, as fiercely as he had nearly a decade ago. Difference was, he'd hit a point in his life where he could've responded with confidence that, hell yes, he was a goddamn queer, or some other label he didn't understand or have any interest in. Hell yes, he was about to fuck a man in the ass, so— shut the hell up, you ol' peckerhead.

Grabbing for the tube, Daryl squeezed a bit too much onto his own palm, slicking himself up. Then, with slick fingers, he nudged up alongside the one Theon had pressed into himself, muttering, "Let me."

Theon knows this moment holds a serious fucking degree of importance for both of them, both of them turning their backs on something old and perhaps painful or poisoned in some what, for something that feels to him fresh and new. He's no virgin, not even at this, but he feels a bit like it-- only better, because he knows what to do.

He knows how to pull his hand away and let Daryl taking over the stretching, his whole body a flushed thudding pulse at the feel of Daryl's rough fingers smoothed with slick, catching at his hole.

And for all that importance, something feels just lit up inside him. "Aye," he breathes. "I want it. Want you to do it."

Daryl felt clumsy and in over his goddamn head, but he had strong, deft fingers and was a quick study. With his free hand, he palmed at the side of Theon's face, a weight seeming to press down on his chest, refusing to let him ignore the significance of the moment.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing," he admitted with a sheepish quirk of a smile, watching Theon's face intently as his body relaxed, the rough pad of his middle finger breaching that tight clench of muscle and pressing in slowly past the second knuckle.

"It's good," Theon tells him, "you're doing fine, it's good."

He breathes through parted lips, turning his head to press his mouth against the hand at the side of his face. Obvious as it sounds, it's not like when he's done it for himself. Daryl may not have the experience, but it does feel good, would feel good for nothing else but knowing that Daryl's here, doing this for him.

"Aye, keep going," Theon says, surprised by his own boldness. "Open me up for you."

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