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It’s still dark out when Mordecai wakes up, but that doesn't bother him. He’s woken up in this room, in this bed, enough times to know where and what everything is.
He knows that if he sits up and swings his feet just so, they’ll drop neatly into the slippers set on the thick wool rug. Knows that if he then turns his head a little to the left, he’ll be looking out the wide window, at the green trees and rolling hills beyond. Knows all the living, moving things there. The gentle tinkling of the wind chimes they’ve hung up outside the window. The teakettle-teakettle! chirrup of the wrens who’ll skip through their backyard.
And of course, he knows the name of the big lug fast asleep against him, strong arm and gentle paw draped over him like an afternoon sunbeam. Warm. Comforting. Reliable as that old flaming orb in the sky.
Viktor.
The name sends a thrill through him, even after all these years.
It’s still dark out, and so Mordecai lays there, in that magical velvety stillness, and focuses on Viktor’s breaths: In, out. In, out. In, out.
He holds his breath for one beat, two, and then exhales in counterpoint: Out-in-out. In-out-in. Out-in-out.
It’s a game he likes playing when he finds himself in this situation, trying to keep the most complex polyrhythm he can make with his breath against Viktor’s. Despite Viktor being asleep, it feels pleasantly intimate. Even unconscious, Viktor exudes a stable, calming presence, and there’s something satisfying about trying to fit into the gaps of that presence, about trying to build the most convoluted little one-sided dance he can off Viktor’s steady simple rhythm. Today feels like a lazy kind of day though, so he settles for something basic and easy instead of pushing himself. Three against two.
He makes it to seventy-two of Viktor’s breaths, one-hundred-and-eight of his own, before his partner lets out a great, gaping yawn, throwing off his rhythm. The break in the pattern doesn’t irritate him, though, because that yawn means Viktor is waking up, and in a second…
Viktor rolls over, one arm still around Mordecai, and amidst a dizzying rush of motion the black-and-white cat finds himself lying atop his partner, paws pressing into the soft fur of that big barrel chest.
God Mordecai loves when he does that.
Viktor smacks his lips, yawns again, and in a voice thick with sleep slurs, “Mee-ooeehm ssha”. The words are nigh-incomprehensible, and not just from drowsiness; Viktor can’t speak, these days. Not well, at least. Not after what the Savoy twins did to him.
Still, Mordecai knows the words.
Milujem ťa.
I love you.
Evidently Viktor wants to make sure the sentiment is clear, though, because he tries again:
“Mee-ooeeh… Mee-OO-eeh…”
There’s none of the easy tone from when he spoke the words on the cusp of wakefulness now, only a low growl of irritation.
Hearing him like this, feeling the frustration tighten his chest, it hurts. So before he can try again Mordecai interrupts him, whispering back:
“I love you too.”
But Viktor’s shoulders are still tensed, and Mordecai can see, in his mind’s eye, Viktor’s face. Taut with concentration, lips pulled back into an almost-snarl, jaw parted for one more attempt that he knows will fail…
Mordecai distracts him in the only way that comes, in that moment between heartbeats.
The kiss is slow, deep, and tender. The kind of kiss where the initial shock of it has time to wear off, and what was spontaneous can become deliberate.
Part of Mordecai is capitalizing on that now, reaching up to caress Viktor’s face, tilting his head so he can lean deeper into his partner’s reassuring bulk.
But the part of Mordecai that’s always detached, always calculating, now has time to reflect. To find patterns. He doesn’t have the numbers in front of him. But if he had to guess, he would say that nine times of ten when Viktor tries to speak rather than sign, it’s upon waking. It makes him wonder, though he doesn’t say it aloud:
In your dreams, Viktor, do you still have your tongue?
He doesn’t know if he can do anything about that, not right now at any rate. But he can, at least, try to show Viktor that it doesn’t matter.
Words, he has learned from experience, do not work on Viktor; there are no words with which he can say “I love you” that will soothe the crease on Viktor’s brow, nor lift the weight in Viktor’s heart. But if he can make Viktor feel his love deep in those tired old bones, through furtive touch, through tender gaze, through dear and earnest supplication… Then perhaps that big stubborn oaf can finally begin to realize what Mordecai believes so ardently: that Viktor, even half-blind, mute, and lame, is still worth more than the whole wide world.
So he adds just the right amount of want to his pants as Viktor’s hot breath rushes against his whiskers. He jerks and spasms in time with the insistent kneading of Viktor’s fingers pressing into his waist. And he gives, with perfectly measured surprise, a squeak when Viktor bites down on his collarbone, just hard enough to hurt.
Bedsprings creak when the larger cat shuffles to the side, bringing Mordecai (who lets out a blearily confused “mmh?”) with him. Something sounds with the weighty clink of glass on wood and Viktor lets out a grunt of effort before Mordecai realizes what his partner’s focused on: Viktor’s having trouble unscrewing the lid, with one arm still around him. So, going by touch in the dark of early morning, he traces a paw across a broad chest, down a muscled arm – which gets a loving squeeze on the bicep – and around the jar of Vaseline. His grip tightens, glass cold on his pawpads, as Viktor unscrews.
Lewd schlicks fill the air as Viktor coats his fingers with the lubricant. The sound – a well-known prelude of what’s to come – has Mordecai shivering in anticipation, his stiffening hardness rubbing into the warm fur of Viktor’s belly.
There’s a moment, just for the span of a breath, where Mordecai loses control of himself when Viktor’s slick fingers press against his entrance. The quavering gasp he lets out then is truly the raw, unfiltered him. But the moment passes, he shutters himself once more, and the little pleading huffs he lets out after are deliberately, consciously in time with the probing circles Viktor’s digits are making against him, not quite able to get past that tight ring of muscle. Still, even while he’s focusing on trying to relax into the right state of receptivity, another piece of his mind breaks off and wonders:
Why can’t I ever give in to the moment? Why can others feel so readily, when I have to be forced into it?
Perhaps it’s because so much of his life has demanded precise control. Mathematics. Marksmanship. Tactics and planning. His strengths lie not in his instincts, but in cerebral pursuits, those things in which emotion and gut reaction are so often detrimental. Perhaps it’s because calling on those skills, over and over, has trained him to flinch away from anything that threatens the control which enables them. Or, perhaps it’s because–
All his well-ordered thoughts fall to pieces as Viktor’s fingers slip inside him with a wet squelch.
A shivering wave of pleasure rolls up his spine to explode in his skull and out through his mouth as a desperate, throaty whine. Then Viktor kisses him, helpless moans disappearing into his partner’s mouth as that paw pumps slowly, ponderously in and out.
Mordecai’s lost against the overwhelming Viktor-ness of the experience. Viktor’s taste on his tongue, Viktor’s warmth against his chest, Viktor’s tail twining tightly around his own and of course, Viktor’s fingers caressing his insides, spreading him open in eager preparation. It’s enough to make him lose track of time; when Viktor breaks the kiss, he only knows that it’s been long enough that he’s loose and relaxed around his partner, long enough that he has to gasp for breath, Viktor’s scent curling deep into his lungs.
He manages three heavy pants before Viktor picks him up and flips him over with casual ease, pushing the smaller cat face-down into the mattress. The bed creaks when Viktor flops over, weight settling comfortably onto Mordecai’s backside and a possessive growl bubbling out of his throat.
The growl intensifies as the larger cat nips his partner’s ear, drawing a gasp which wavers into an appreciative sigh as Viktor trails kisses along the back of Mordecai’s ear. Down his cheek and chin. Around his shoulder and onto the scruff of his neck where there’s a pause, hot breath washing over his fur, as if asking:
May I?
Can he?
Every cat has had the experience of dangling from their mother’s mouth by the scruff of their neck, body rendered docile and unresisting by unremitting instinct.
Fewer cats have had their scruff handled as an adult, and fewer still would call that experience pleasant. It’s just not a polite thing to do, even in the sort of situation Mordecai and Viktor currently find themselves in.
But Mordecai can feel how badly Viktor needs this. It goes beyond the base, feral desire of the straining rigidity pressing against Mordecai’s rear. He needs the affirmation as well, the acknowledgement that in spite of all his infirmities, he is still strong. He is still worthy. He is still someone Mordecai is willing to give himself up to.
And, well… It’s Viktor.
So Mordecai presses his neck back into the heat of Viktor’s mouth in silent acquiescence, leaving himself vulnerable in the jaws of his partner, his mate.
Then Viktor bites down, hard, and everything below his neck goes limp.
The loss of control is scary. It’s scary every time, and despite himself Mordecai lets out a whimper.
His worry is misplaced, though. Viktor’s touch is gentle, almost revering, claws lovingly tracing aimless paths through Mordecai’s fur. Then the touch is gone, just for a while, just for the time it takes Viktor to reach down and adjust himself so his tip is prodding against Mordecai’s entrance.
Weakly sagging from Viktor’s jaws, Mordecai couldn’t stop what’s coming next if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want Viktor to stop. He wants Viktor inside him, wants it so badly that his whole body is trembling and he’s hard against the bed, leaking into the sheets. Viktor, feeling his shaking, presses rough pawpads into his palm with so delicate a touch that he can just about hear the concern, the wordless questions “Are you alright?” and “Do you want to keep going?” . As much as the care, the affection buoys his heart, part of him chafes at the delay, and he squeezes Viktor’s paw back as hard as he can through the bite-borne weakness, urging his lover on with a high-pitched “Please…” .
He almost, almost regrets that eagerness when Viktor begins to push inside him. It’s impossible to ever get used to how brutishly thick Viktor is, with almost no taper and a ridiculous swell just past his tip that stretches Mordecai to the point where he swears he’s going to tear. Apparently Viktor can feel it, too, because he stops and withdraws slightly, letting Mordecai’s paw go to dab some more lubricant around his partner’s entrance and the thickest part of himself. Then he sets his paw on the small of Mordecai’s back, rubbing circles that soothe the tightness in his partner’s body as he grinds back and forth slowly, softly, but still inexorably easing bit by grudging bit into the smaller cat.
If Mordecai were aware of the unintelligible sounds he’s making he’d be mortified, but at the moment he’s entirely preoccupied with something else. He has to focus to take Viktor, engaging the right muscles in his legs and back to press backwards in time with Viktor’s grinding while keeping other parts of himself relaxed and admitting. And with his body choosing to respond not to him but to the press of Viktor’s mouth around his neck, it feels like he’s trying to move underwater.
The simplest motions are sluggish and three times as hard as they should be. His thighs are burning with the strain now, his whole body taut and quivering, and just when he’s about to ask if they can try something else their efforts finally pay off, the pressure in Mordecai’s rear easing into a pleasing fullness as they make it past the girthiest part of Viktor. Then the rest glides in smoothly, effortlessly, rubbing against Mordecai’s insides in ways that has the black-and-white cat making encouraging mewls of Viktor’s name.
They both make noises when Viktor’s hips meet Mordecai’s rear: Mordecai a half-strangled gasp of disbelief, Viktor a lewd groan of deep-rooted satisfaction. That groan rumbles up out of his chest and through his lover’s back right down to the smaller cat’s toes which curl unconsciously, forming small knots in the blanket.
There are some people, Mordecai knows, who would take advantage of the current situation, take advantage of having him limp and helpless beneath them. People who would relish having such control over another, who would set a pace considering only their own pleasure, regardless of his comfort. Would revel, even, knowing they were imposing their will upon him.
Not his Viktor, though. Never his Viktor. His Viktor is tender, soft and sweet as a stream in spring, cradling him with one arm and setting an easy pace, hips rocking gently back and forth. It’s the same rhythm, whether Viktor knows it or not, of his sleeping breaths, the same rhythm Mordecai counted off against this morning, waiting for Viktor to awaken.
It’s only gradually, haltingly, that Viktor speeds up, waiting until he’s sure that his partner is ready before upping his tempo, withdrawing just a bit further and pressing in just a bit faster each time.
Mordecai feels so warm, so full of Viktor that the smallest movements have him clutching at Viktor’s arms and crying Viktor’s name. Shakes wrack him from head to toe; each time Viktor thrusts into him, his entire body twitches around the intruding length, clenching and loosening with a rhythm that draws rumbling, appreciative grunts from his lover.
That rhythm skips, halts as Viktor drives his full length into Mordecai with one drawn-out, shuddering buck. Then he withdraws almost entirely and lets Mordecai drop from his jaw into a waiting arm, softy lowering the black-and-white cat onto the bed.
The bite was deep enough, long and hard enough that Mordecai’s still limp and helpless, shivering with emptiness now that Viktor’s not filling him. His ear twitches when Viktor brings his muzzle close and pants, “Hao… Haarr?”
How hard?
With great effort, Mordecai rolls his mouth free of his pillow and gasps back,
“As hard as you want, love.”
A pleased, feral growl rips from Viktor’s throat. He gives Mordecai’s neck a kiss, pushes the smaller cat’s thighs further apart with his knee, and hilts himself in his lover.
Then he does it again, and again, and again, each powerful thrust rocking Mordecai’s body. A ragged stream of moans filters from Mordecai’s mouth as Viktor lets loose, pounding his whimpering, squirming mate into the mattress. Mordecai’s exclamations grow higher and higher in pitch; he takes Viktor’s entire length over and over, moans turning to reedy whines as the pressure of his release builds within him.
He can feel Viktor losing control too, the larger cat’s tempo growing messier and his bucks becoming shorter, faster, a vicious expression of his need to fill Mordecai. Then the sounds of protesting bedsprings and sharp, hard pants go flat when Viktor bites Mordecai’s ear, the entire appendage disappearing into his maw.
For some reason, the pain is what puts Mordecai over the edge. The black-and-white cat tenses up, a long, plaintive mewl escaping his throat as erratic, shaky convulsions overtake his body, the white-hot bliss of release wiping his mind clean.
At that moment, the only thing in the world is Viktor, snarling and grinding into Mordecai. Viktor, digging his claws into Mordecai’s sides. Viktor, finally giving in to his own release, every pulse and jerk of his length filling his mate with powerful spurts of liquid heat.
In time, the overwhelming pleasure fades, and Mordecai becomes aware enough to be slightly embarrassed that he’s still squirming and clenching with sporadic, jittery bucks around Viktor’s softening erection. Then that, too, fades, and the two of them, spent and exhausted, become subject to the effects of their exertions.
Viktor drops onto the bed beside Mordecai, rolling onto his back, and hauls the smaller cat into his arms. They lie there together, Mordecai’s cheek pressed just above Viktor’s beating heart, and catch their breath, mired in each other’s scent.
Time goes fuzzy again as Mordecai dozes, idly counting Viktor’s heartbeats like sheep. He teeters there, on the threshold between dreaming and waking, afloat in his lover’s embrace. Eventually, something liquid running down his thighs stirs him awake, and the thought of his sheets being stained pushes him to action.
The sky is bright enough now that when Mordecai turns to speak to Viktor, he can see the larger cat’s face. Viktor’s eye, a startling summer-grass-green against the grey of cloudy sunrise, catches at Mordecai’s heart and his words stumble and die somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Unaware of how striking he looks, Viktor cocks an eyebrow at Mordecai and a wry, amused grin stretches across his face. They look at each other, Viktor waiting to see what Mordecai does, and Mordecai trying to unstick his throat.
He manages to, eventually, and when he whispers “Want to take a shower, love?” Viktor nods in response.
Mordecai has to lean against Viktor on the way to the bathroom, steps doddering and jerky in the aftermath of the bite. The wood is smooth beneath Mordecai’s feet, boards slatted together without drafts or gaps. Secure. Strong. Stronger than Mordecai’s legs are, at least; halfway into the hallway he stumbles, thigh and calf buckling beneath him. Viktor grabs and swings him up as he falls, sending Mordecai into the wall rather than the floor, but then Viktor’s knee fails with the sudden demand and they both fall together, tumbling to the ground in a rag-doll heap.
The floorboards are hard, driving the wind from him, and Viktor’s weight on his chest makes drawing new breath difficult, but neither of those are why Mordecai hesitates to speak. He should apologize, should ask if Viktor’s alright. But he doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see Viktor’s handsome face twisted with a frown, doesn’t want to feel the peace of the morning unraveling with this stark reminder of Viktor’s infirmity.
He doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that Viktor might not be alright.
But if he says nothing, does nothing, then what’s to stop Viktor from falling back into his black, quiet brooding? That thought, of Viktor withdrawing into himself to wallow in his self-hatred, is more than Mordecai can bear.
So he slowly turns his muzzle up, mouth opening even though he still doesn’t know what he’s going to say, mind racing down several tracks at once as he brings his whole intellect to bear on the problem.
Then Viktor kisses him on the forehead, and all the tension in his shoulders evaporates. Because when he stares up at his partner he doesn’t see the flat, dark glower he expects. Instead there’s only a smile, and a parting of the lips as Viktor mouths, “Are you okay?”
Giddy in the afterglow, Mordecai nods before throwing his head back, and laughs into the rising light of dawn.