* The Princess Bride, Fezzik/Inigo, in verse Iambs the princess bride Mithrigil Galtirglin
“I did not think you’d respond with such…ardor,” Inigo deliberately emphasized.
The first half of Fezzik’s response was a bit understandably muffled, but the last word was clearly “harder”. Not one to deny his friend anything, perhaps least of all an impassioned salvo in a situation that demanded a swordsman’s precision, Inigo redoubled his efforts, hands grasping Fezzik’s shoulder and hip squarely.
“I—” Bothered for a continuation, Inigo descended into carnality for a few decisive thrusts—the good Doctor’s lubricant made this much easier—before the words burbled up from his throat on the edge of a moan. “I wonder if—next time, we switch positions.”
“I think that this—is no time for decisions.” Poetry—iambs in particular—had an uncanny ability to instill a steady rhythm in Fezzik, and quite the pleasant one for Inigo. The anvil they were doing this over (beds had a tendency to break) scraped across the floor in time.
“But you—are strong, and of impressive girth—”
“And is—” Inigo could swear that Fezzik’s breath rattled the tongs near the fireplace. “—is that what our friendship is—is—worth?”
“It was at first, I am forced to admit.”
“But since, we both have made the more of it?”
Faster, now. “I—I think we did as circumstance commanded—” And Inigo made to reach under him awkwardly, but topped the row of no-longer-standing mallets nearby, which in turn knocked over a mop, its companion bucket, and a few suspended carving and welding tools that had been on hooks a moment ago. The din would have been fantastic in most other contexts.
After a rather…awkward moment, and an interminably still one, Fezzik bucked up against Inigo sharply. Always so accommodating (if a bit more forceful than expected), thought Inigo. When Fezzik rotated his neck just so, Inigo caught his sloppy grin, and matched it. “A pity, then, that you are not left-handed.”