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Constable Ichabod Crane (
2016-02-15 02:08 am (UTC)
Oh, how terrifying it continues to be, this part. Not in the same way terror grips his heart when Ichabod catches a spider in his kitchen, or how he had looked upon the headless horseman in true for the first time, severing the head of a man before him, defying all reality.
No, this is the same fright that singes the skin of adolescents in discovery, of breaching the surface of taboo, fingertips dipping into waters of flesh and bed sheets. It still manages to startle Ichabod, nearly every time. Genuinely, he could be making love to a woman and he would feel the very same.
He's still trying to keep the ebb and flow of his hips slow and even -- not to say he is
successful, but his dedication is clear -- as his hand crawls gently to Hannibal's erection. There's that leap of his heart, rattling Ichabod's poor ribs, when his fingers close around his lover. An exhale escapes as a rough puff of air, but Ichabod regains his breath. Ministrations and manipulations such as these require so much more intent than Ichabod is comfortable with, but his hold is confident enough to have a kind firmness to it.
He swallows against an invisible lump in his throat. "Is--? This all right?"
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