Horns

"Does it hurt?" Caleb asks, as he dances his fingers along the satisfying ridges of Molly's horns. The points of them are bare, gold and silver ornate tips sat carefully in the nest Caleb's discarded scarf makes on the bed, and he can't help but be fascinated by the shape of them.

"Mm, no." Molly says, a little drowsy. He's sat on the wooden floor, but the base of his head rests against the side of the mattress, which looks comfortable enough. "It feels like when something touches the tip of your fingernail."

With a careful twist, a long chain connecting the mid-length of one horn to the base comes loose. Caleb frowns as he puts it beside the other jewellery. "I hate that feeling."

"You hate most feelings."

With the most ornate of his piercings out, Caleb is free to wrap his palm around his right horn - which has dug into the flesh of his inner thigh quite uncomfortably - and stroke his thumb along it, feeling for where skin turns to bone. Molly makes a sound like the belly of a stoked fire, quiet but insistent, and leans into the touch instantly.

"/Most/ feelings." Caleb mirrors, and then again, so quiet it's just the movement of his lips.

It's only when Molly turns in his place that Caleb realises the suggestiveness of their positions; Molly on his knees with Caleb's thighs above him, framing his slender shoulders. Molly ruts the base of one horn along the inside of Caleb's thigh, and it's /nice/ this time, a firm, grating feeling with no pinch.

Molly would hate it, so he doesn't say how beautiful he looks like this, no sparkling gold to take away from the structure of his face, the slope of his forehead. He stays quiet, holds his palm steady when Molly sighs luxuriously and rubs into it, and keeps his thighs apart as warm lips trace further up.