[ He means to talk back, but when Caelus opens his mouth, he finds Luocha's gloved fingers slipping and sliding over his tongue instead. So soft, so smooth and buttery-soft, working inside of his mouth, making his tongue feel more sensitive than ever before — it's enough to make his lashes flutter and his eyes lid as he sinks into the pleasure. He wouldn't have even dared to dream, earlier, that he'd be violated by those wonderfully soft leather gloves quite like this.
The cross resting against his chin makes him look like a devout parishioner in the throes of perverse worship. The vague sense of being dominated and humiliated by Luocha's order to be quiet would almost be enough to make Caelus come on its own, but then the man heals the wounds still smarting along the edges of the Trailblazer's lips, and the burst of intense relief through his body is just so potent that he swears he's going to come, he's so close, so close —
— he doesn't come. Can't come. The coiled tension of being denied would have Caelus gritting his teeth in frustration if his mouth weren't being held open by Luocha's clever fingers. As it is, he can only let out a low, pitiful whine as his entire body flexes and tenses with the insistent urge to come, one that isn't satisfied. He's never felt so desperate for anything in his life — ]
Let me... let me come...
[ Slurred so desperately and wetly around Luocha's fingers, muffled and muddied because he can't clearly move his tongue in the way he'd like, Caelus's words are nevertheless unmistakable, and what he wants is obvious. He's trembling from head to toe at this point, unable to focus on anything but the throbbing ache between his legs and how close he is to blissful release. He looks up at his "doctor," golden eyes pleading, begging. He can't move his tongue; bereft of options, he rests his palms on Luocha's thighs instead, moving his head very slightly back and forth, taking the man's fingers in deeper, in imitation of other things he could pleasure so thoroughly.
(It must be so satisfying, for a man caught in that chess game between Aeons, to have something so simple to toy with. Caelus knows nothing about the coffin still watching them in the corner or what it means to be an abomination of Yaoshi. Nothing of the Aeons; nothing of the universe. What he wants is pleasure, and what he craves is Luocha himself. For his body and his beauty, yes — but also for himself, as a person. For the man that he is, both above and beneath the surface. His gentle kindness is just as addictive as his insatiable need for control.)
Clearly, Caelus wants to be satisfied. He might very well have it in him to come again and again, staining the inn's lovely armchair in the filthiest way, as if to fulfill that social promise of what happens when wealthy merchants pick up handsome young men off the street for a night of fun. But what will Luocha do? Will he reward the boy's earnest honesty, or punish him with denial precisely because it's the opposite of what he's begging for? ]
no subject
The cross resting against his chin makes him look like a devout parishioner in the throes of perverse worship. The vague sense of being dominated and humiliated by Luocha's order to be quiet would almost be enough to make Caelus come on its own, but then the man heals the wounds still smarting along the edges of the Trailblazer's lips, and the burst of intense relief through his body is just so potent that he swears he's going to come, he's so close, so close —
— he doesn't come. Can't come. The coiled tension of being denied would have Caelus gritting his teeth in frustration if his mouth weren't being held open by Luocha's clever fingers. As it is, he can only let out a low, pitiful whine as his entire body flexes and tenses with the insistent urge to come, one that isn't satisfied. He's never felt so desperate for anything in his life — ]
Let me... let me come...
[ Slurred so desperately and wetly around Luocha's fingers, muffled and muddied because he can't clearly move his tongue in the way he'd like, Caelus's words are nevertheless unmistakable, and what he wants is obvious. He's trembling from head to toe at this point, unable to focus on anything but the throbbing ache between his legs and how close he is to blissful release. He looks up at his "doctor," golden eyes pleading, begging. He can't move his tongue; bereft of options, he rests his palms on Luocha's thighs instead, moving his head very slightly back and forth, taking the man's fingers in deeper, in imitation of other things he could pleasure so thoroughly.
(It must be so satisfying, for a man caught in that chess game between Aeons, to have something so simple to toy with. Caelus knows nothing about the coffin still watching them in the corner or what it means to be an abomination of Yaoshi. Nothing of the Aeons; nothing of the universe. What he wants is pleasure, and what he craves is Luocha himself. For his body and his beauty, yes — but also for himself, as a person. For the man that he is, both above and beneath the surface. His gentle kindness is just as addictive as his insatiable need for control.)
Clearly, Caelus wants to be satisfied. He might very well have it in him to come again and again, staining the inn's lovely armchair in the filthiest way, as if to fulfill that social promise of what happens when wealthy merchants pick up handsome young men off the street for a night of fun. But what will Luocha do? Will he reward the boy's earnest honesty, or punish him with denial precisely because it's the opposite of what he's begging for? ]