[ Stars cling to the corners of Viktor's vision, no sign of clearing as Emet-Selch again obeys his increasingly ragged commands and promptly robs him of the will to argue further. Words give way to little more than fluttered breaths, threaded through with bright, encouraging murmurings. Viktor's nails traces spirals against Emet-Selch's scalp, combing through his hair at a frantic pace, too firm to be strictly gentle.
Finally, finally he allows himself the luxury of being wholly present. Unfussed with the room's entry and exit points, careless about how loud he moans when Hades's mouth settles on his prick, forgetting entirely to brace for the next sudden hurt, the next unwanted surprise fate has in store. There is no end of the world. No greedy princelings. No infernal blue bird or ruined Seas. No needy masses. There is just this, just the two of them. Just light and sound and feeling. A knight sorcerer's calloused hands skimming his skin, cupping his body, taking measure of his shape and fitting neatly wherever they land. The dizzying levin zing of being licked and sucked and savored, fire building anew in the pit of his belly.
The hand not tangled in Hades's hair slides up into his own. Fingers catch on damp curls, drag down over neck and chest and stomach to splay over white fur, opening himself further as he leans into Hades's busy mouth with a low, cracking moan. His hips rock, finding rhythm to match Emet-Selch's ministrations, making him taste the spot Viktor likes best.
And then Hades lets him in, their veil hiked up as dancer's skirts, just a glimpse, enough to leave Viktor groaning, ecstatic, impatient with his inability to latch onto any one feeling as it flits by his awareness. His own emotions flood. Each one bright oil paint spilled across an incandescent canvas, too big, too vivid to have any clear definition. Rust red want makes a fine backdrop for brighter reds and twinkling gold, a slurry of hot pleasure softer feeling. Warm colors of comfort and safety, of home - and the silver white shock of how unfamiliar such a concept feels - blooming like little flowers in a more frantic field of clay. And between, silhouette glimpses of what he'd like next - held and explored with eager hands, atop, tangled together, bent and pressed into bed sheets, filled, drowned in this feeling, in Hades. Devoured.
Viktor feels his pleasure peak, a flood of lightning across his senses. He clenches his jaw, breathes and straightens, stretching his legs, breaking contact, to stop himself from toppling over the edge again. ]
Hades. [ Viktor closes a shaking palm around the back of one of Emet-Selch's hands, voice gone reedy. ] Ride you. L-let me ride you.
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Finally, finally he allows himself the luxury of being wholly present. Unfussed with the room's entry and exit points, careless about how loud he moans when Hades's mouth settles on his prick, forgetting entirely to brace for the next sudden hurt, the next unwanted surprise fate has in store. There is no end of the world. No greedy princelings. No infernal blue bird or ruined Seas. No needy masses. There is just this, just the two of them. Just light and sound and feeling. A knight sorcerer's calloused hands skimming his skin, cupping his body, taking measure of his shape and fitting neatly wherever they land. The dizzying levin zing of being licked and sucked and savored, fire building anew in the pit of his belly.
The hand not tangled in Hades's hair slides up into his own. Fingers catch on damp curls, drag down over neck and chest and stomach to splay over white fur, opening himself further as he leans into Hades's busy mouth with a low, cracking moan. His hips rock, finding rhythm to match Emet-Selch's ministrations, making him taste the spot Viktor likes best.
And then Hades lets him in, their veil hiked up as dancer's skirts, just a glimpse, enough to leave Viktor groaning, ecstatic, impatient with his inability to latch onto any one feeling as it flits by his awareness. His own emotions flood. Each one bright oil paint spilled across an incandescent canvas, too big, too vivid to have any clear definition. Rust red want makes a fine backdrop for brighter reds and twinkling gold, a slurry of hot pleasure softer feeling. Warm colors of comfort and safety, of home - and the silver white shock of how unfamiliar such a concept feels - blooming like little flowers in a more frantic field of clay. And between, silhouette glimpses of what he'd like next - held and explored with eager hands, atop, tangled together, bent and pressed into bed sheets, filled, drowned in this feeling, in Hades. Devoured.
Viktor feels his pleasure peak, a flood of lightning across his senses. He clenches his jaw, breathes and straightens, stretching his legs, breaking contact, to stop himself from toppling over the edge again. ]
Hades. [ Viktor closes a shaking palm around the back of one of Emet-Selch's hands, voice gone reedy. ] Ride you. L-let me ride you.