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[thewidewideworld]

{{From here}}

Sinric doesn't look back, knowing Eric will follow him. He walks briskly down a mountain path. He makes his way into a small grove, protected and private.

He lets his heavy coat fall, draping it over a rock. The snow is shallow but even and smooth. He sings a warm, flowing tune. He dances, starting slow and growing. His light footsteps mark the snow in artful spirals, his hair flowing down his back, silver under the moonlight.

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[thewidewideworld]

Sinric kisses back with a rough little moan, feeling his skin tingle with sensitivity. The wool and fur against his naked flesh. The cold of the snow where his fingers curled and clutched at the edges of his cloak. His little snail of a manhood, full and throbbing. So close, so close.