He helped Edwin bend his legs, knees splayed wide and lifted back enough to allow Robin access. He took himself in hand. Lined up. And pushed, biting down on his own lip, feeling the immediate throb of pleasure as he worked past the initial resistance. He stopped, just like that, just the head of himself stretching Edwin open. It was torture. It was incredible.
“All right?” he said, a breath.
“All right.”
Robin kissed him again, a soft promise of a bite that dragged Edwin’s lip between his own. Leaning down changed the angle and sank him in further. He remembered what Edwin had said about wanting to feel like he couldn’t get away, and guided Edwin’s arms up one at a time to lie just beneath the corners of the pillow. He laid his own hands over Edwin’s wrists, testing the pressure.
“Is this—shall I—？”
Edwin nodded. His eyes were dark as dusk and he looked drunk. Effortfully, Robin held himself still. He was aware of his size in comparison to Edwin’s, aware of the muscles of his arms and chest and legs. He had a near-delirious moment of knowing how this must feel from Edwin’s perspective: being both absolutely trapped and absolutely secure.
Then Edwin lifted his head and kissed Robin, very light, finding Robin’s mouth and landing a little off-centre. Warmth like summer noon flooded through Robin and he chased the kiss down to the pillow, his cock sinking further into Edwin, inch by inch. He was greedy; he took every sound of Edwin’s into his own mouth, a kiss that demanded all of Edwin’s attention.
Then he was all the way in, the two of them flush together. Robin drew out, perhaps halfway. He shoved in again at once, harder than he’d meant to, and Edwin gave a shout that was nearly a sob. And everything began to blur.
Who needed magic for this? Pleasure shot through Robin as though painted on his skin at every point of contact; as though something older and more guttural than magic was struck, tinder to flint, by his hands at Edwin’s wrists, by the sudden and wonderful clench of Edwin’s legs lifting to wrap around his back, driving him further in. All of these mingled with the sensation of fucking, liquid heat winding tight in his groin whenever he sank into the slicked grip of Edwin’s body.
Sweat ran into Robin’s eyes and stung them. He wouldn’t have closed them for the world. Edwin was unravelling fully beneath him, thrust after brutal thrust. Edwin’s fair head tossed back and forth in snaps. Edwin’s own sweat gathered in the dip of his throat as he made short, ragged gasps that became ever more frantic, and which seemed to find their way directly to Robin’s cock.
Robin had wanted to hold out, to wring Edwin’s orgasm from him first, but his own came in a rush that couldn’t be stopped, like fire from Edwin’s hands engulfing dry thorns, hotter and wilder than anything had been before. Robin gasped, and sucked in a breath that nearly hurt, as his body brimmed with fading pleasure.
“Robin,” Edwin was saying, broken and writhing beneath him, “Robin.”
Robin wrenched his wits back together. He wanted to see this happen. He released one wrist, wrapped his hand around Edwin’s cock and stroked once, twice, three times, rocking his hips with the same rhythm—and Edwin’s eyes flew open, startled and blue and sure.
He was surprisingly quiet when he came, as though all the noise had been wrung out of him already. In the jubilant flare of the candlelight he was the loveliest thing Robin had ever seen.
“Good morning, Edwin.”
“Good morning, Adelaide. Is he in?” Edwin inquired, as though the door into the Office of Special Domestic Affairs and Complaints weren’t flung wide open, and as though he couldn’t hear the sound of Robin’s boot thumping against the leg of the desk.
They were still professionals, after all.
“Don’t be daft,” said Adelaide Morrissey, who had an alarming tendency to treat one like a childhood intimate as soon as one agreed to be on first-name terms. Robin had said she treated them like siblings; Edwin had argued that Robin was coming from a position of possessing an unfairly superior example of a sibling.
Robin had made a face and accused Edwin, amiably, of playing the lawyer just because his brother was a murdering sadist.
“Edwin!” Robin called now. “Is that you? It’s past nine, you’re late.”
Edwin hung up his coat and hat, and came into the office, Adelaide on his heels. Robin was seated on the desk. He’d recently passed out of the mourning period, which meant they were all being treated to Robin’s startling—and yet absolutely unsurprising—fondness for colour. In a building full of civil servants whose ventures out of the usual black-and-white office attire were constrained to the occasional necktie in respectable shades of olive and navy, Robin was the man wearing a maroon waistcoat with gold buttons. He looked as bright and warm as ever. Edwin nearly tripped on the edge of the rug, simply enjoying the sight of him, and enjoying even more the tiny kernel of possession inside him that split and sent out a green shoot of happiness. Mine. This one’s mine.