Private Summer Wine [M]
- Thread starter Walter Thornley
- Start date
Their youth was faint traces of the past that clung like morning mist. They've changed, not in the least by being broken. Loss, hardship, adventure, discovering there was much more to the world than toying with sharp bits of metal.
Walter caught himself sliding into that familiar role of taking the weight on, steeling against his own weakness and want to perform the moment rather than live it. Shrugging into the weight he desperately craved to let go. No. Not tonight.
The sand shuffled as it gave slightly under his knee, the shifting weight. Gloved fingers curled against the dry bark, digging into the grooves with unspoken want - to be whole and to touch, squeeze the flesh and feel its warmth. Laric's mouth crushed softly into him, hot, needy. Tantalizing for its greed. Walter responded with as much fervor, a shaky exhale emerging through the nostrils, an inhalle - half a wanton gasp with no distance left. In the mix of their tastes, he could feel sweat and heady dandelion wine as he claimed Laric's lips back, first delightful tugs of the night with just a tease of teeth on one particular parting, not quite letting go. Only to cover his mistake with a lavish swipe of intruding tongue.
He let himself be moved, his left hand steady on Laric's shoulder for a moment, a short squeeze, a half-beat pause. The cloak that was rolled up and fashioned into a cushion earlier was snatched, draped half-folded over the hard bark and unsteady ground, messily as he could do with one hand and senses entirely on the golden-headed hunter.
He settled against the prop, shirt creasing, falling in large silk folds around the broad shoulder and down the arm. The collar was loose now, the fabric lace unthreaded unevenly and teasing at the skin with each disturbance.
So many scars, including ones that his fledgeling lover left himself, even in what little was revealed - arrow pierced through the shoulder here, a heavy slash had to be knit together above the elbow. Scrapes, claw marks, a narrow strip of burnt flesh below the arm as if from a flaming whip's unwanted caress. There was a life in those scars, violent and ruthless. Some scars could not have been so torn unless he had been throwing himself at danger.
And, as his mouth still burned hot from the sweet demand put on it, Laric shifted against him, moving to kiss at the open plane revealed in the ongoing dishevelment.
Walter's hands didn't idle - one traced fingertips down the lover's scalp, dove beneath a veil of hair, pressed a gentle squeeze along the nape. Even now, alert, attentive in the new cartographic effort - where could he gather a soft shiver, a hitch in the breath, where would the flesh rise to his fingers in smaller ways? Would a circling stroke around the upper vertebra add a spark to the flame? Would a hand slipping down, pulling with demand by Laric's side to press them close, feel the weight of hard muscle?
By choice, Walter was completely open, Laric's mouth against the crook of his neck making him shiver and the eyelashes flutter closed, a smallest noise of pleasure leaving parting lips when the tease of fangs mixed with the promise of a hand slipping up his spine.
He was sturdy beneath, the frame of muscles regained at the cost of certain dryness - still, remarkable progress from how he'd been last winter. He would no longer lose his breath so easily.
Walter's own fingers trekked from the base of Laric's neck to the chest, memorizing every irregularity as he made the folds of the open layers part more still. A feather-light touch against the bead of the nipple, then a harsher, harmless snag with a thumb nail. Exploring the unknown - welcome, or move on, lower, a slow stroke of splaying hand down the abdomen, fingertips traversing to the side until they stopped at the waistline.
"Anywhere I shouldn't touch?" barely a whisper, the blissful fog taken over.
Walter caught himself sliding into that familiar role of taking the weight on, steeling against his own weakness and want to perform the moment rather than live it. Shrugging into the weight he desperately craved to let go. No. Not tonight.
The sand shuffled as it gave slightly under his knee, the shifting weight. Gloved fingers curled against the dry bark, digging into the grooves with unspoken want - to be whole and to touch, squeeze the flesh and feel its warmth. Laric's mouth crushed softly into him, hot, needy. Tantalizing for its greed. Walter responded with as much fervor, a shaky exhale emerging through the nostrils, an inhalle - half a wanton gasp with no distance left. In the mix of their tastes, he could feel sweat and heady dandelion wine as he claimed Laric's lips back, first delightful tugs of the night with just a tease of teeth on one particular parting, not quite letting go. Only to cover his mistake with a lavish swipe of intruding tongue.
He let himself be moved, his left hand steady on Laric's shoulder for a moment, a short squeeze, a half-beat pause. The cloak that was rolled up and fashioned into a cushion earlier was snatched, draped half-folded over the hard bark and unsteady ground, messily as he could do with one hand and senses entirely on the golden-headed hunter.
He settled against the prop, shirt creasing, falling in large silk folds around the broad shoulder and down the arm. The collar was loose now, the fabric lace unthreaded unevenly and teasing at the skin with each disturbance.
So many scars, including ones that his fledgeling lover left himself, even in what little was revealed - arrow pierced through the shoulder here, a heavy slash had to be knit together above the elbow. Scrapes, claw marks, a narrow strip of burnt flesh below the arm as if from a flaming whip's unwanted caress. There was a life in those scars, violent and ruthless. Some scars could not have been so torn unless he had been throwing himself at danger.
And, as his mouth still burned hot from the sweet demand put on it, Laric shifted against him, moving to kiss at the open plane revealed in the ongoing dishevelment.
Walter's hands didn't idle - one traced fingertips down the lover's scalp, dove beneath a veil of hair, pressed a gentle squeeze along the nape. Even now, alert, attentive in the new cartographic effort - where could he gather a soft shiver, a hitch in the breath, where would the flesh rise to his fingers in smaller ways? Would a circling stroke around the upper vertebra add a spark to the flame? Would a hand slipping down, pulling with demand by Laric's side to press them close, feel the weight of hard muscle?
By choice, Walter was completely open, Laric's mouth against the crook of his neck making him shiver and the eyelashes flutter closed, a smallest noise of pleasure leaving parting lips when the tease of fangs mixed with the promise of a hand slipping up his spine.
He was sturdy beneath, the frame of muscles regained at the cost of certain dryness - still, remarkable progress from how he'd been last winter. He would no longer lose his breath so easily.
Walter's own fingers trekked from the base of Laric's neck to the chest, memorizing every irregularity as he made the folds of the open layers part more still. A feather-light touch against the bead of the nipple, then a harsher, harmless snag with a thumb nail. Exploring the unknown - welcome, or move on, lower, a slow stroke of splaying hand down the abdomen, fingertips traversing to the side until they stopped at the waistline.
"Anywhere I shouldn't touch?" barely a whisper, the blissful fog taken over.
He did not play. Though not for reasons of affection born from the heart, the obscurata was diving into passion fully, slowly finding his way deeper. He wanted to sink. Wanted to grit his teeth against the pleasure's edge, wanted the darkness to ring soft and hollow in his head, after. Wanted something so simple as a warm body draped over his, another's heartbeat and deep breath.
He wanted many things, and in those ten heartbeats before he'd made his mind - he simply considered his own rule.
Want something? Commit. Persuade, bargain. He could start here.
Maybe false wings would feel as good as flying. Maybe it didn't matter at all, what ghosts haunted him, so long as he remained anchored to the present moment by a willful hand. He shivered at the bite; tension along the spine, a small intake of breath pulled through the flaring nostrils. A miniscule part of fear, turned into a heady tiny jolt of adrenaline - yes. More sinking beats of heat, head lighter with lust and alcohol, need coming with blood rushing in a lower tide, just from the friction.
The world grew so small, and he couldn't bring himself to care about anything or anyone out of his reach.
Laric's hand found claw marks on the small of the back, diagonally travelling to the sides on both sides of the man. A stuttering staccato of short marks left by something blunt in a forceful series of strikes. A violent skid mark from shoulder to waistline, diagonal and almost faded. A mark under the shoulder blade that surely couldn't have been made by the spear without crushing into a ribcage, surely... thin, sandy burnt lines from the same weapon, only a few not faded enough.
He had no fewer traces in the front, shifting against the other only enough to get rid of the shirt, and pull Laric's own from under the belt and down the arms. Eyes would wander to what had to have been a knife stab to the gut, an older cut just under the ribs, an arrow entry wound above the pelvic bone.
And while his arms sported a few marks of violence, too, far more interesting were more scars from fangs on his forearm. Small. Multiple sets, perhaps two, one trying to go for the same spot, the other all over the forearm. A scar on the wrist, a single one, too healed, too surgically precise.
The bright horrifying tendrils, valleys and ridges of scars, in purple and red, ripped from under the glove and all the way to the elbow. They seemed hot to the touch, the skin only so thick, and closed almost forcefully, by the shroudweave that made the wounds distort and wind like rivers, the skin pale around the edges and dark in painful colors between. Aside from those tendrils of woven-together flesh, the arm was flayed in a latticework of very, very old, faded, bruises, skids, ripped slashes, cuts, puncture scars and burn marks, all healed, all unnaturally restored to where half his arm was still an arm. The process, it would seem, stopped somewhere below the wrist.
"Right hand. Don't." Walter asked quietly, not looking at it, as he let his shirt slip out of the fingers onto the sand.
Both hands brushed back the golden strands, and lay against the sides of Laric's face, but the dark eyes seemed unfocused slightly right as they sank closed, and Walter kissed him, thumbs at the cheeks brushing to invite the jaw to lax, the mouth to part and offer up the taste of salt from his own skin and fading sweetness of dandelion wine. The covered digits then dropped down to the breeches, dug into the laces with a slightly clumsy dexterity - agile, but unfamiliar, far from routine.
No hurry to slide under, his hand pressed atop the fabric.
The tongue against Walter's ear made the lips press together, a slight twitch forward, neck opening. His cheeks and ears, sides of the neck and chest and abdomen were flushing a shade of rose that colored his stern looks positively charming in how much softer he seemed with it on.
Warm fingers dove into Laric's hair, gathered the strands below the top of the head and pulled slightly to a breathy gasp - but not enough to pull away from tongue teasing wherever it pleased.
Glove rested on the other's hip, trekked down to the knee, and the baron slowly lowered back first against the prop - and pulled Laric to his lap, eyes alert on his face for signs of discontent. Perfectly content to switch places, if only the trickster wanted it so.
Going slow agreed with him. Chart every inch. Make a good memory.
Eyes took in the sight, the sun-kissed skin and deep blue-grey shadows, the golden hair that brushed against the shoulders. Rough fingertips brushed down Laric's spine, curved at the small of the back, and smoothed down the hip, squeezing.
He wanted many things, and in those ten heartbeats before he'd made his mind - he simply considered his own rule.
Want something? Commit. Persuade, bargain. He could start here.
Maybe false wings would feel as good as flying. Maybe it didn't matter at all, what ghosts haunted him, so long as he remained anchored to the present moment by a willful hand. He shivered at the bite; tension along the spine, a small intake of breath pulled through the flaring nostrils. A miniscule part of fear, turned into a heady tiny jolt of adrenaline - yes. More sinking beats of heat, head lighter with lust and alcohol, need coming with blood rushing in a lower tide, just from the friction.
The world grew so small, and he couldn't bring himself to care about anything or anyone out of his reach.
Laric's hand found claw marks on the small of the back, diagonally travelling to the sides on both sides of the man. A stuttering staccato of short marks left by something blunt in a forceful series of strikes. A violent skid mark from shoulder to waistline, diagonal and almost faded. A mark under the shoulder blade that surely couldn't have been made by the spear without crushing into a ribcage, surely... thin, sandy burnt lines from the same weapon, only a few not faded enough.
He had no fewer traces in the front, shifting against the other only enough to get rid of the shirt, and pull Laric's own from under the belt and down the arms. Eyes would wander to what had to have been a knife stab to the gut, an older cut just under the ribs, an arrow entry wound above the pelvic bone.
And while his arms sported a few marks of violence, too, far more interesting were more scars from fangs on his forearm. Small. Multiple sets, perhaps two, one trying to go for the same spot, the other all over the forearm. A scar on the wrist, a single one, too healed, too surgically precise.
The bright horrifying tendrils, valleys and ridges of scars, in purple and red, ripped from under the glove and all the way to the elbow. They seemed hot to the touch, the skin only so thick, and closed almost forcefully, by the shroudweave that made the wounds distort and wind like rivers, the skin pale around the edges and dark in painful colors between. Aside from those tendrils of woven-together flesh, the arm was flayed in a latticework of very, very old, faded, bruises, skids, ripped slashes, cuts, puncture scars and burn marks, all healed, all unnaturally restored to where half his arm was still an arm. The process, it would seem, stopped somewhere below the wrist.
"Right hand. Don't." Walter asked quietly, not looking at it, as he let his shirt slip out of the fingers onto the sand.
Both hands brushed back the golden strands, and lay against the sides of Laric's face, but the dark eyes seemed unfocused slightly right as they sank closed, and Walter kissed him, thumbs at the cheeks brushing to invite the jaw to lax, the mouth to part and offer up the taste of salt from his own skin and fading sweetness of dandelion wine. The covered digits then dropped down to the breeches, dug into the laces with a slightly clumsy dexterity - agile, but unfamiliar, far from routine.
No hurry to slide under, his hand pressed atop the fabric.
The tongue against Walter's ear made the lips press together, a slight twitch forward, neck opening. His cheeks and ears, sides of the neck and chest and abdomen were flushing a shade of rose that colored his stern looks positively charming in how much softer he seemed with it on.
Warm fingers dove into Laric's hair, gathered the strands below the top of the head and pulled slightly to a breathy gasp - but not enough to pull away from tongue teasing wherever it pleased.
Glove rested on the other's hip, trekked down to the knee, and the baron slowly lowered back first against the prop - and pulled Laric to his lap, eyes alert on his face for signs of discontent. Perfectly content to switch places, if only the trickster wanted it so.
Going slow agreed with him. Chart every inch. Make a good memory.
Eyes took in the sight, the sun-kissed skin and deep blue-grey shadows, the golden hair that brushed against the shoulders. Rough fingertips brushed down Laric's spine, curved at the small of the back, and smoothed down the hip, squeezing.
Laric's weight urged a low moan of contentment out of the man, smile curving his lips as the kiss broke. His hand slid atop the other's tailbone, curving fingers in a stroking squeeze. The muscles on the arms shifted under the skin, the lines of shadows breaking against the ridges of scars.
Control.
Laric's weight - ground slowly against Walter's by that demanding grip, allowed to feel his own want growing. Tension under fabric, heat radiating from the flushed skin, the tempered beats of a strong heart. The scent of sage and cleansing herbs, an aura with musk and sweat mingling with it, as if humanity was pronouncing itself stronger in the simple wants.
A gasp, half-lidded eyes unfocused, gaze wandering between the orange echoes of trees in firelight and wandering sparks and the ember-gold dancing in the grasped hair. The greedy mouth found his neck again. And Walter, pinned, drunk on anticipation, felt like he was touching to the happiness again, senses muddled enough for it to be silent save for the gasps, the voices, the wet wanton mouth toying with his neck just on the other side from mutilation.
No duty. No lethal clockwork. No tomorrow.
The world outside was hard bark through the fabric against his back, a ticklish nuisance of a feather at the collar of Laric's folded cloak, the grounding feeling of the other's body against his own, the orange glow from the fire. And then, there was his lover, graceful in every movement, tantalizing.
Everything else - vague, unnecessary, irrelevant.
The mouth finding another tender spot made the baron's chest rumble with a different sound, a hum cut short, approval in the wandering hands. The flesh hardened under the breeze that Laric's tongue invited, tempered itself against the cold in goosebumps. The hand that wandered to stroke down from nape to between the shoulders - settled at the top of the blond's head once again, but this time - the grasped tension on the strands did not relinquish. It was quietly ordering to linger - before, he prayed, descent. The breeches felt too harsh against him, and the stray nips, whenever they would come, made him twitch involuntarily with want.
Going to need your belt if we're putting a notch on it.
"Mischief," a chuckling, breathy murmur came, not minded between softly broken gasps.
Control.
Laric's weight - ground slowly against Walter's by that demanding grip, allowed to feel his own want growing. Tension under fabric, heat radiating from the flushed skin, the tempered beats of a strong heart. The scent of sage and cleansing herbs, an aura with musk and sweat mingling with it, as if humanity was pronouncing itself stronger in the simple wants.
A gasp, half-lidded eyes unfocused, gaze wandering between the orange echoes of trees in firelight and wandering sparks and the ember-gold dancing in the grasped hair. The greedy mouth found his neck again. And Walter, pinned, drunk on anticipation, felt like he was touching to the happiness again, senses muddled enough for it to be silent save for the gasps, the voices, the wet wanton mouth toying with his neck just on the other side from mutilation.
No duty. No lethal clockwork. No tomorrow.
The world outside was hard bark through the fabric against his back, a ticklish nuisance of a feather at the collar of Laric's folded cloak, the grounding feeling of the other's body against his own, the orange glow from the fire. And then, there was his lover, graceful in every movement, tantalizing.
Everything else - vague, unnecessary, irrelevant.
The mouth finding another tender spot made the baron's chest rumble with a different sound, a hum cut short, approval in the wandering hands. The flesh hardened under the breeze that Laric's tongue invited, tempered itself against the cold in goosebumps. The hand that wandered to stroke down from nape to between the shoulders - settled at the top of the blond's head once again, but this time - the grasped tension on the strands did not relinquish. It was quietly ordering to linger - before, he prayed, descent. The breeches felt too harsh against him, and the stray nips, whenever they would come, made him twitch involuntarily with want.
Going to need your belt if we're putting a notch on it.
"Mischief," a chuckling, breathy murmur came, not minded between softly broken gasps.
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The tension would not be allowed to numb. Now and then, fingers relaxed, brushed against the scalp with the waves of spreading warmth from a slight release, then toyed with the strands, tensing them one after the other - a looser leash, but a leash all the same.
When a hand teased a touch at his cock, then stroked, slowly raking up the need - Walter pulled by a self-fashioned golden leash, his own body tensing to curve toward the mouth. Claimed it, moaning softly into the heated lips, wetting them with a caressing tongue, bit into the soft flesh slowly with hungry teeth - far from enough to cause any pain. Enough to see them darken. Enough for heart to drum in a deeper beat as he studied those lips from under the lowered lashes, and leaned to nip and kiss at the side of the throat, sharp exhales unravelling against the skin as the hand moved. Took some restraint to not leave traces. To stay gentle.
A pause, to let himself be half-rid of the last bit of clothing by lifting his hips - and then making certain the piece landed somewhere near the boots. A brief glimpse of those green eyes before Laric pressed to his abdomen in a slow track of kisses. Thumb hooked the stray strands and pulled them behind Laric's ear, the half-loosened grasp of fingers curving against the nape, stroking in approval. Walter watched, his own lips parted, breath slow. A tensing of the abdomen as he slowly reclined again, back pressing against the feathery trim of the cloak, his thighs twitching before spreading wider.
'Gods,' barely even a whisper, eyes glistening with pleasure as he felt the lips wrap against him, work their way down until his thick tip hit against the back of Laric's throat. Walter'a hips twitched, ever so slightly, against his will. "Ah-m..." all his thoughts seemed to stop exactly at the point of watching that mouth move, darkening with friction, feeling the tongue slide against the underside, against the pulse of him as he hardened fully. A darker, restrained need to push deeper, feel the throat tighten around him in a reflexive choke. Felt more wrong to call on gods with every second. Blunt fingernails tracked against Laric's nape to the shoulder. "Please go on, you feel so good," hopefully, a rightly directed plea.
When a hand teased a touch at his cock, then stroked, slowly raking up the need - Walter pulled by a self-fashioned golden leash, his own body tensing to curve toward the mouth. Claimed it, moaning softly into the heated lips, wetting them with a caressing tongue, bit into the soft flesh slowly with hungry teeth - far from enough to cause any pain. Enough to see them darken. Enough for heart to drum in a deeper beat as he studied those lips from under the lowered lashes, and leaned to nip and kiss at the side of the throat, sharp exhales unravelling against the skin as the hand moved. Took some restraint to not leave traces. To stay gentle.
A pause, to let himself be half-rid of the last bit of clothing by lifting his hips - and then making certain the piece landed somewhere near the boots. A brief glimpse of those green eyes before Laric pressed to his abdomen in a slow track of kisses. Thumb hooked the stray strands and pulled them behind Laric's ear, the half-loosened grasp of fingers curving against the nape, stroking in approval. Walter watched, his own lips parted, breath slow. A tensing of the abdomen as he slowly reclined again, back pressing against the feathery trim of the cloak, his thighs twitching before spreading wider.
'Gods,' barely even a whisper, eyes glistening with pleasure as he felt the lips wrap against him, work their way down until his thick tip hit against the back of Laric's throat. Walter'a hips twitched, ever so slightly, against his will. "Ah-m..." all his thoughts seemed to stop exactly at the point of watching that mouth move, darkening with friction, feeling the tongue slide against the underside, against the pulse of him as he hardened fully. A darker, restrained need to push deeper, feel the throat tighten around him in a reflexive choke. Felt more wrong to call on gods with every second. Blunt fingernails tracked against Laric's nape to the shoulder. "Please go on, you feel so good," hopefully, a rightly directed plea.
He was drifting, as easily taken by pleasure as any other drug, just enough intoxicated to be shameless in the slow, shivering moans when the devilish mouth moved and tongue teased just right. His voice had never been so absent-mindedly soft in memory, mingling praises into gasps, "...just like that, mh. Oh, your cruel, cruel mouth-"
Closer, and every thought and consideration was on the way out.
Then, Laric raised his head. Mouth dark with friction, lips wet, threads of saliva and salt, face flushed with sheer mesmerized greed. Every breath echoed against Walter's bare skin, as he stared back, wordless, feeling his face hot and head almost empty. Rough fingertips passed tenderly over Laric's cheeks, curved under the jaw. Thumb rubbed at the thread of saliva in the corner of the mouth. A breathy chuckle parted Walter's lips as Laric's gaze traveled down his body again all the way down. And then, the rest of him did, once more, seemingly to finish what was started.
It took a bit of will to put a pause. Walter's upper body curled, one hand catching Laric under the chin, the other pulling up by the shoulder as the man himself sat up more, their legs tangled, moaned into the kiss. Hands slipped impatiently down, pulling the last bit of clothing down from Laric's hips as Walter's mouth pressed under the ear, hot breath and nips and kisses half-way down before a breathy, hoarse query rung against the skin, "I want to love on you back... which way do you like, Laric?" Tongue traced the rim of the ear, fingers wrapped around Laric's cock, a slow, firm stroke, bringing them together, pressing against one another.
This close, he could hear the other's heartbeat, if not racing thoughts. The gloved fingers squeezed the buttock, digging digits into the firm flesh, the question echoed again, "What would give you joy tonight?" Fabric rolled lower on the other's thighs, a brief, impassioned, kiss on the shoulder. Open lips brushed against the cheek. He kept stroking with his hand, his own arousal pressing against Laric's abdomen, hot and slick. Ready to wrap those legs around him and carry those few steps to his own, wider spread bedding, if need be.
Closer, and every thought and consideration was on the way out.
Then, Laric raised his head. Mouth dark with friction, lips wet, threads of saliva and salt, face flushed with sheer mesmerized greed. Every breath echoed against Walter's bare skin, as he stared back, wordless, feeling his face hot and head almost empty. Rough fingertips passed tenderly over Laric's cheeks, curved under the jaw. Thumb rubbed at the thread of saliva in the corner of the mouth. A breathy chuckle parted Walter's lips as Laric's gaze traveled down his body again all the way down. And then, the rest of him did, once more, seemingly to finish what was started.
It took a bit of will to put a pause. Walter's upper body curled, one hand catching Laric under the chin, the other pulling up by the shoulder as the man himself sat up more, their legs tangled, moaned into the kiss. Hands slipped impatiently down, pulling the last bit of clothing down from Laric's hips as Walter's mouth pressed under the ear, hot breath and nips and kisses half-way down before a breathy, hoarse query rung against the skin, "I want to love on you back... which way do you like, Laric?" Tongue traced the rim of the ear, fingers wrapped around Laric's cock, a slow, firm stroke, bringing them together, pressing against one another.
This close, he could hear the other's heartbeat, if not racing thoughts. The gloved fingers squeezed the buttock, digging digits into the firm flesh, the question echoed again, "What would give you joy tonight?" Fabric rolled lower on the other's thighs, a brief, impassioned, kiss on the shoulder. Open lips brushed against the cheek. He kept stroking with his hand, his own arousal pressing against Laric's abdomen, hot and slick. Ready to wrap those legs around him and carry those few steps to his own, wider spread bedding, if need be.
Attachments
The hand in his hair stopping him, pulling into a kiss, tore a whimper, a twitch of the hips, involuntary stillness. He would not have allowed that, on any other night, with anybody else. Right now? He wanted it more than anything, tiny moans escaping in the twining caress of the tongues, accepting, open. His hand remained steady, keeping their heat between them, sealed against the night's breeze, moving. Giving time that was slipping from grasp.
Their lips parting, he felt out of breath, almost dizzy with want.
'You, Walter.'
That hurt. Because he'd seen that kind of look before. He'd responded in kind. He'd given all he had, and more, and then...
When he'd have gotten his rematch, his pound of flesh, his victory in the sheets - would Laric start drifting? Slowly, idly... at least there wasn't time to get attached. There was time to get curious... and yet...
No. None of that. Those thoughts belonged in the fire, where the oak medallion turned into charcoal and then would fall apart into ash, whispering, 'you. I only want - you' with the smoke billowing up into the inky sky.
He'd make a good memory. If nothing, he'd have a good memory not tinged by hurt, where he wanted, and was wanted, and cravings were fulfilled.
Violet eyes glanced to the improvised bed he'd prepared for himself, just a few steps away, turned back to Laric.
"Whatever I want?.. Let's get somewhere softer." His hoarse tone had never sounded so tender, though just a touch wispy, absent, like he was pulling himself back from having drifted off. His hand lingered on Laric's folded cloak, ready to take it along. Would make a good pillow. For the head or otherwise.
He chuckled, moved to tease a murmur against Laric's lips, "Want you on your back," a smirk, the grip around Laric's cock relaxing just for the finger pad to trace around the very tip. "To see you, when I take my turn toying with you."
Their lips parting, he felt out of breath, almost dizzy with want.
'You, Walter.'
That hurt. Because he'd seen that kind of look before. He'd responded in kind. He'd given all he had, and more, and then...
When he'd have gotten his rematch, his pound of flesh, his victory in the sheets - would Laric start drifting? Slowly, idly... at least there wasn't time to get attached. There was time to get curious... and yet...
No. None of that. Those thoughts belonged in the fire, where the oak medallion turned into charcoal and then would fall apart into ash, whispering, 'you. I only want - you' with the smoke billowing up into the inky sky.
He'd make a good memory. If nothing, he'd have a good memory not tinged by hurt, where he wanted, and was wanted, and cravings were fulfilled.
Violet eyes glanced to the improvised bed he'd prepared for himself, just a few steps away, turned back to Laric.
"Whatever I want?.. Let's get somewhere softer." His hoarse tone had never sounded so tender, though just a touch wispy, absent, like he was pulling himself back from having drifted off. His hand lingered on Laric's folded cloak, ready to take it along. Would make a good pillow. For the head or otherwise.
He chuckled, moved to tease a murmur against Laric's lips, "Want you on your back," a smirk, the grip around Laric's cock relaxing just for the finger pad to trace around the very tip. "To see you, when I take my turn toying with you."
Curious on whether Laric had gotten some ideas, Walter watched the satisfyingly smooth motion that saw the rogue upward into standing. His fingers traced around the lover's ankle, a palm wrapped around the leg and brushed up the back of the calf. The baron seemed as if he was holding back a wider smile, his legs still apart and stretching on both sides of Laric's form. A gaze trailed up, taking in the well-sculpted form. Beauty for what it was, and this one liked a rougher sort of handling.
A hand taken, a surprised noise - and then, he laughed, tilting his head with a soft chuckling gasp. A twitch, a shiver at the closing teeth - pleasure, though tempered somewhat as he was coming off the edge.
"M-m, you have to stop yielding to 'anything I want' if you want to bite like that," he murmured, hips pressing and shifting against that very satisfyingly shaped cock. A leer as he turned to follow Laric, watched him lower himself down. A pause, as their positions were reversed, looking down at the body splayed underneath.
He knelt, irreverent palm sliding up the inner thigh. The other hand found purchase by Laric's side, and Walter's mouth lingered at the chest, one, two open kisses before his tongue toyed with the beading nipple - and his teeth squeezed the spot of flesh. Fingers toyed with the balls, lifting them up before pressure renewed around the shaft, and Walter's hot tongue lapped at the fresh bite, his breath resonating at the damp skin, like he wanted every spot of tender - red and shamelessly claimed. He moved to nip at the other half of the chest, tongue pressing in circles, as if to show off the touch that would soon replace his thumb's caress on every upward stroke. A wet kiss later, another nip, light enough, a sparking sting and no more, the flesh made tender soothed over with a kiss. A quick descent, mouth pressing a kiss by the navel before gliding down the love trail.
"Just... speak..."
Lips closed around the tip of Laric's cock, tongue flicking in a wet caress, before he went lower, mouth tight and careful to not even summon a notion of a certain danger. It his his throat, eyes fluttered open less than halfway. Musk, sweat, salt and horseback, scents mingled against his senses, the taste of skin and teased out traces of passion - a headier cocktail than most nights could offer, from company far more open than it seemed.
With a soft moan, Walter retracted for a moment, and then pushed deeper, breathless, moving in a rhythm that served a purpose. His palms smoothed against Laric's abdomen, rested on the thighs, stroked up. Saliva dripped off the corner of his mouth as Walter pulled back...
...and gently coaxed Laric's hips up from the ground, opening those legs, exposing the entrance to a tongue slick with thicker spit. His arms were steady, holding the other man vulnerable, eyes flicking up a moment as his mouth opened, teasing at the rim of the entrance, probing the tight muscle to push in. A slight lean back, a lick at the thigh, right over the pulse; shift of the jaw, more spit hit the entrance with the teasing tongue, dripping to the tailbone.
Laric's legs were spread and hands were free to guide to how he wanted it... or when.
A hand taken, a surprised noise - and then, he laughed, tilting his head with a soft chuckling gasp. A twitch, a shiver at the closing teeth - pleasure, though tempered somewhat as he was coming off the edge.
"M-m, you have to stop yielding to 'anything I want' if you want to bite like that," he murmured, hips pressing and shifting against that very satisfyingly shaped cock. A leer as he turned to follow Laric, watched him lower himself down. A pause, as their positions were reversed, looking down at the body splayed underneath.
He knelt, irreverent palm sliding up the inner thigh. The other hand found purchase by Laric's side, and Walter's mouth lingered at the chest, one, two open kisses before his tongue toyed with the beading nipple - and his teeth squeezed the spot of flesh. Fingers toyed with the balls, lifting them up before pressure renewed around the shaft, and Walter's hot tongue lapped at the fresh bite, his breath resonating at the damp skin, like he wanted every spot of tender - red and shamelessly claimed. He moved to nip at the other half of the chest, tongue pressing in circles, as if to show off the touch that would soon replace his thumb's caress on every upward stroke. A wet kiss later, another nip, light enough, a sparking sting and no more, the flesh made tender soothed over with a kiss. A quick descent, mouth pressing a kiss by the navel before gliding down the love trail.
"Just... speak..."
Lips closed around the tip of Laric's cock, tongue flicking in a wet caress, before he went lower, mouth tight and careful to not even summon a notion of a certain danger. It his his throat, eyes fluttered open less than halfway. Musk, sweat, salt and horseback, scents mingled against his senses, the taste of skin and teased out traces of passion - a headier cocktail than most nights could offer, from company far more open than it seemed.
With a soft moan, Walter retracted for a moment, and then pushed deeper, breathless, moving in a rhythm that served a purpose. His palms smoothed against Laric's abdomen, rested on the thighs, stroked up. Saliva dripped off the corner of his mouth as Walter pulled back...
...and gently coaxed Laric's hips up from the ground, opening those legs, exposing the entrance to a tongue slick with thicker spit. His arms were steady, holding the other man vulnerable, eyes flicking up a moment as his mouth opened, teasing at the rim of the entrance, probing the tight muscle to push in. A slight lean back, a lick at the thigh, right over the pulse; shift of the jaw, more spit hit the entrance with the teasing tongue, dripping to the tailbone.
Laric's legs were spread and hands were free to guide to how he wanted it... or when.