Vassalord - ogni piacer piu grato
Title: ogni piacer piu grato
Fandom: Vassalord.
Warnings: PWP, vouyerism, UST.
Characters/couples: Charles->Rayflo.
Summary: While Charles can and has gone without sustenance for more than a week, it's a risk he'd rather not go through.
Rating: NC17.
Notes: Vampires, priests, foot fetish. Again! Blame telrunya and padf00t
ogni piacer piu grato
“But why?” Rayflo asks, giving him a pout that, Charles thinks, makes him seem ridiculous. “I'm just asking for a souvenir!”
“I hardly think that asking for three hundred and sixty five things on a list counts as a 'souvenir', master,” Charles states very matter-of-factly, still packing his suitcase. “Do I need to remind you I'm going to work?”
Rayflo waves a hand around, resting importance to this fact. “Well, you need to have a little more fun. Or! Oh, I know!”
“No,” Charles deadpans, serious. “You are not coming with me.”
Without turning to look towards his master, he knows the kicked-puppy expression that he has, he can almost feel the aura of despair that surrounds him.
“But why?!”
“Because, master, I'm going to work, not to babysit you nor to be dragged around for your things.” Charles stats, closing his suitcase.
A moment passes by, then another.
“As if I'd want to go with such a bitter Cherry!” Rayflo calls, sticking his tongue out.
Charles makes sure to slam the door. Hard.
He only realizes about half the way out that it was his room's door.
*
Two hours later, Charles is at his master's door, though, because while he can be without sustenance for a week and he has done it before he hasn't eaten in three days already, and he won't risk it, becoming more of a monster than he already is.
The door, he finds out, is partly open, which makes him frown, wondering if Rayflo might have gone out without him realizing this, the lewd pervert being perfectly capable of doing that just to spite him.
He leans against the wall carefully, barely pushing an inch wider the door, just to glance inside the room to make sure that his master is gone and not just trying a stupid ambush on him just out of pettiness. As he does that, for less than a second Charles is very happy that he doesn't have to care about breathing anymore.
Rayflo is on the chaise by the window, the moonlight playing with the ripple of muscles and Rayflo's dark hair. He took a bath, it seems: Charles can smell the scent of master's lotion, of his shampoo, and he can see where a still moist tendril of hair sticks to his face, to his neck.
His throat is suddenly dry.
Master is an hedonist, after all, so it should be no surprise, Charles thinks, to see him like this, head thrown back, bitting at his own lips, one hand on his chest, thumb pressing slowly against his nipple, his other hand near his groin, not-quite touching yet, pressing a little with his fingers from his navel down to where the dark pubes start, then back up. His legs shamefully open, Charles can see the way master's thighs tremble in need, can catch he tiny moans Rayflo does as he tortures himself, tests his own limits.
Charles feels himself grow hard in his trousers, as much as he tells himself and his body not to. It's a sin, this, what master is doing, and Charles doesn't need to add lust and gluttony to his already long list. But the way that master moves and breathes, Charles can't tear his eyes away and when Rayflo's fingers finally wrap around his erection, for a moment Charles thinks he can feel the same relief.
His eyes were closed for a moment, trying to regain his calm not to pant, to convince himself that the hot rush of need in his veins had nothing to do with this, that hunger had just made him weaker than even before, that there was no way that his arms and legs were that heavy when he heard Rayflo moan his name.
“Chris...”
His eyes open wide and he looks back inside the room. In the space of a moment, Rayflo has opened his legs even more, one of his hands still stroking himself, but instead of playing with his nipples (or his throat, Charles thinks: master has always been so sensitive on his throat) his other hand is, apparently, playing with his testicles, or...
His erection aches, but Charles makes himself move, fleeing to his room, pressing down on his sudden hunger, not caring of find out just what kind of hunger he's going through.
Fandom: Vassalord.
Warnings: PWP, vouyerism, UST.
Characters/couples: Charles->Rayflo.
Summary: While Charles can and has gone without sustenance for more than a week, it's a risk he'd rather not go through.
Rating: NC17.
Notes: Vampires, priests, foot fetish. Again! Blame telrunya and padf00t
ogni piacer piu grato
“But why?” Rayflo asks, giving him a pout that, Charles thinks, makes him seem ridiculous. “I'm just asking for a souvenir!”
“I hardly think that asking for three hundred and sixty five things on a list counts as a 'souvenir', master,” Charles states very matter-of-factly, still packing his suitcase. “Do I need to remind you I'm going to work?”
Rayflo waves a hand around, resting importance to this fact. “Well, you need to have a little more fun. Or! Oh, I know!”
“No,” Charles deadpans, serious. “You are not coming with me.”
Without turning to look towards his master, he knows the kicked-puppy expression that he has, he can almost feel the aura of despair that surrounds him.
“But why?!”
“Because, master, I'm going to work, not to babysit you nor to be dragged around for your things.” Charles stats, closing his suitcase.
A moment passes by, then another.
“As if I'd want to go with such a bitter Cherry!” Rayflo calls, sticking his tongue out.
Charles makes sure to slam the door. Hard.
He only realizes about half the way out that it was his room's door.
*
Two hours later, Charles is at his master's door, though, because while he can be without sustenance for a week and he has done it before he hasn't eaten in three days already, and he won't risk it, becoming more of a monster than he already is.
The door, he finds out, is partly open, which makes him frown, wondering if Rayflo might have gone out without him realizing this, the lewd pervert being perfectly capable of doing that just to spite him.
He leans against the wall carefully, barely pushing an inch wider the door, just to glance inside the room to make sure that his master is gone and not just trying a stupid ambush on him just out of pettiness. As he does that, for less than a second Charles is very happy that he doesn't have to care about breathing anymore.
Rayflo is on the chaise by the window, the moonlight playing with the ripple of muscles and Rayflo's dark hair. He took a bath, it seems: Charles can smell the scent of master's lotion, of his shampoo, and he can see where a still moist tendril of hair sticks to his face, to his neck.
His throat is suddenly dry.
Master is an hedonist, after all, so it should be no surprise, Charles thinks, to see him like this, head thrown back, bitting at his own lips, one hand on his chest, thumb pressing slowly against his nipple, his other hand near his groin, not-quite touching yet, pressing a little with his fingers from his navel down to where the dark pubes start, then back up. His legs shamefully open, Charles can see the way master's thighs tremble in need, can catch he tiny moans Rayflo does as he tortures himself, tests his own limits.
Charles feels himself grow hard in his trousers, as much as he tells himself and his body not to. It's a sin, this, what master is doing, and Charles doesn't need to add lust and gluttony to his already long list. But the way that master moves and breathes, Charles can't tear his eyes away and when Rayflo's fingers finally wrap around his erection, for a moment Charles thinks he can feel the same relief.
His eyes were closed for a moment, trying to regain his calm not to pant, to convince himself that the hot rush of need in his veins had nothing to do with this, that hunger had just made him weaker than even before, that there was no way that his arms and legs were that heavy when he heard Rayflo moan his name.
“Chris...”
His eyes open wide and he looks back inside the room. In the space of a moment, Rayflo has opened his legs even more, one of his hands still stroking himself, but instead of playing with his nipples (or his throat, Charles thinks: master has always been so sensitive on his throat) his other hand is, apparently, playing with his testicles, or...
His erection aches, but Charles makes himself move, fleeing to his room, pressing down on his sudden hunger, not caring of find out just what kind of hunger he's going through.