For dain-mothafocka, who needs quality smuts. It’s only a little snippet, but I hope it (heh) satisfies! *hugs*

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It really wasn’t very fair.

Lóni scrubbed his hair back, and then let it hang over his
face as the water pounded down onto his back. He closed his eyes against the
suds, and scrubbed some more at his scalp. Damned – stupid – husband –

All right, so perhaps that wasn’t fair either. But Lóni had
come in from his weapons drill in high spirits: he’d fought against two
opponents armed with pikes and he had won.
General Dwalin had given him an approving nod. That, from Dwalin, was as
good as a medal.

And so was it too much to ask that Lóni celebrate his good
fortune and skill with his brand new husband of only three months?

But Frár was bent over a great slab of stone, his eyes and
hands busy.

Rather have him bent
over– no. Not now.

Frár was a sought-after stonemason. He was skilled and subtle,
and knew a great deal of the ancient techniques that had nearly fallen out of
favour amongst the younger generations. The new methods were far faster, but
there was something hypnotic about the way Frár was able to hew and chisel, his
arms white with rock-dust to the elbow as he carved out runes and patterns that
were barely a memory for even the eldest greybeard.

Nice arms. Very nice arms. Stonemasonry could carve more
than rock, it seemed.

Oh, damn.

Sighing, Lóni reached down and took himself in hand. It
appeared that even thinking about Frár
turned him into a useless seventy-year-old. But who could blame him? Just
remembering those arms, their light feathering of black hair, and the rock-dust
looking nearly like flour… up to the elbow… darker between the muscles, sweat
channelling it into those dense hard-carved lines…

“Budge over,” came the soft calm voice, and Lóni let out an
unglamorous yelp. “I’m filthy.”

Peering out from under his curtain of brown hair, Lóni glared
at his husband. Frár’s eyebrows raised as his eyes travelled down to see where Lóni’s
hand was currently occupied.  

“And it appears that you are, too,” he murmured, and his
soft voice grew even deeper.

“You took too long,” Lóni said hoarsely, not bothering to
stop what he was doing. Frár smiled, and stepped under the spray of water.

“Very remiss of me, ghivasha,” he said, and pressed his lips
against Lóni’s collarbone. Lóni took a sharp breath between his teeth, and then
pushed up against his husband.

“You owe me,” he said, and his hips canted insistently
forward. He could feel Frár stirring against his own erection – lovely. Ohhhh, lovely. “I came home early to spend time
with you and–”

He could feel Frár’s smile against his throat. “Ah, and I
was busy with Mistress Heri’s order. My sincerest apologies.”

Then Frár looked up into Lóni’s face, and grinned. “Let me
see what I can do to soften your displeasure, love.”

“Nothing softening here,” Lóni snorted, and pushed his hips
against Frár’s once more to demonstrate his… well, his point. “Come on, come on, come on…”

“Always so impatient,” Frár murmured, that silky deep voice
lingering over Lóni’s chest and curling around his cock. “Always so beautiful.”

“Get on with it,” Lóni gasped, and Frár chuckled as he bent
and took one ringed nipple into his mouth. Tugging with his teeth, he trailed a
hand down through the hair upon Lóni’s belly. “That’s not softening a damn
thing… ah!”

For Frár had put a hand over Lóni’s and had begun the long,
slow, smooth stroke he loved to use – the one that generally drove Lóni out of
his damned mind. Frár’s clever thumb, rough and slightly scarred from
chisel-slips when he was an apprentice, dipped into the slit and then rubbed
carefully at that sweet little spot just below the head. Lóni huffed and
groaned like a bellows, and then hooked a leg around Frár’s hips and pulled him
closer.

“No,” he managed, and glared down at his husband. “No, you’re
not going to drive me mad today.”

Frár’s hand was a little too cramped, trapped between their
bellies, to really continue stroking. But his thumb kept on with its devilish
work, and Frár grinned again, the nipple-ring caught between his teeth. “You
always say that,” he rumbled, and tugged with his teeth. There was a flash of
pink tongue, and Lóni’s head hit the back of the shower-stall.

“Ohhh, I hate you,” he moaned, and Frár’s cock rubbed
against his. “I hate you, I hate you…”

“Filthy, hmm,” Frár said, low and pleased, his breath
puffing all over Lóni’s skin and raising goosebumps. Water ran in little rivers
over Frár’s dark tattoos, sending their lines into strange dancing patterns. Lóni
could only stare at them and pant as Frár bit and teased, thrusting with
frustrating casualness against him, his thumb always moving, moving, moving…

He would blame his prior fantasies for his rather abrupt
completion, for Frár lifted one arm –

one furred and heavy-muscled arm still smeared in a little
film of rock-dust –

and hooked it around Lóni’s raised thigh – that arm – 

and his eyes
rolled back into his head and he was pumping against Frár’s hips with a
strangled grunt of surprise.

Then there was just the hiss of the water and the rasp of his breath coming fast.

“Impatient,” Frár said, and after a last lingering kiss to Lóni’s
nipple he stood. “So very impatient.”

“Oh shut up,” Lóni huffed, still dazed and sated, and he
surged forward to kiss that mocking mouth to see if it tasted nearly as good as
it sounded.