More kisses. Then being moved onto the bed most unceremoniously, which elicits a laugh and a Villiers tugging Imriel close to place even more along neck and shoulder, cloth and skin, accented by sharp breaths at those nimble fingers while his own hold on to Imri with care.
See: rolling on top of Villiers to pin him to the bed, descending on his throat and chest in a flurry of kisses, nibbles, and licks. Oddly gentle, today, but still with that Kusheline grace: infinitely cruel, infinitely kind.
It's a nice combination, as perplexedly paradoxical as it may seem to the outsider.
It leaves Villiers giving thanks, at least, with lips and tongue and the lightest of grazes with teeth. Fingers slide under the edges of cloth, while Villiers does his best to relax under him, leaving himself open to whatever it is that Imriel may wish.
It's something rare, someone that's willing to hurt and soothe for the sake of pleasure. Villiers is grateful, to say the least.
A firm, but gentle hand. A touch, calculating while warm. Each met with thankful supplication as Imriel practices his art. All while Villiers tries his best to hold still, to not rush, to simply luxuriate in the sensation, gasping as nails bite and purring as lips caress.
Imriel simply proves, time and time again, that he is simply the best that Villiers has ever encountered.
And he yearns so for that touch. And he's reacting to every measured brush without caring that he's being played, manipulated in the most delightful of ways for another.
He likes being in those hands, and providing what he can, until he's nearly gasping with it.
It's a strange kind of cruelty, to give a man everything he wants and then stop just short of the real prize.
Deft fingers undo Villiers' pants, and then a hot tongue traces the line of his collarbone, searching; Imri nibbles his way up the column of throat until his lips brush his lover's ear.
"I want to hear you beg," he murmurs silkily as his hand slides down, under soft fabric, halting at the first touch of wiry hair.
It has him moving his hips a twitch, involuntarily, as that hand sneaks its way down and stops, of all things. As well as tensing, trying to school his body into not moving; for what reason, we do not know.
"But isn't it enough to know that I want you," he whispers temptingly, plucking words from that tiny portion of his brain that manages to hold wordsmithery and all even in the most dire of situations. "That I offer myself, mind and body, to you, because..."
...because I might be falling in love, real love, remains unsaid. But it still has him open and enticing, eyes maybe a little glazed with want and mind racing even behind those seemingly calm words.
Which is good, as the contrasting sensations make their way up to his brain and leave a Villiers shuddering in a very good way, tense even as he moves into that touch with measured care and his eyes close and he curses, softly, with a breath and his fingers grasp just that much tighter at Imriel.
Sharp nails score parallel lines down Villiers' back; a warm hand pumps his hard shaft, slowness forgotten in the heat of the moment, replaced by frantic, brutal lust and a hot mouth descending on his throat.
It's good, it's all good, a gasp of painpleasure as he moves against that hand at his cock and arches his back and tilts his head to reveal throat; it's all heady, incredible to be the focus of those attentions and better still to see how Imriel appreciates it.
Close, again; he's had more sex in these last few weeks than he has in the last dozen years of his life, and that's rather interesting, isn't it?
It's a gasped, desperate set of syllables that catch on a breath and then he comes.
For Villiers, love isn't so much about the sex as the affection and talk. Instead, it's a nice enhancement to all, an intimate act of pleasure and want.
And really, he's coming to realize that it's been sorely lacking in his life until he came to this place.
Okay, bed.
And fumbling to get Villiers' shirt off.
And seeking out exactly the right spots with his fingernails.
And... there's the bed!
Pouncetacklenuzzlebitemmmmmmm.
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More kisses. Then being moved onto the bed most unceremoniously, which elicits a laugh and a Villiers tugging Imriel close to place even more along neck and shoulder, cloth and skin, accented by sharp breaths at those nimble fingers while his own hold on to Imri with care.
Reply
See: rolling on top of Villiers to pin him to the bed, descending on his throat and chest in a flurry of kisses, nibbles, and licks. Oddly gentle, today, but still with that Kusheline grace: infinitely cruel, infinitely kind.
Reply
It leaves Villiers giving thanks, at least, with lips and tongue and the lightest of grazes with teeth. Fingers slide under the edges of cloth, while Villiers does his best to relax under him, leaving himself open to whatever it is that Imriel may wish.
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Pleasure and pain commingled, written across bruised flesh like poetry in bright sharp lines, coaxed from overloaded nerves with whispering caresses.
Gentle does not mean painless. Gentle does not mean submissive. Gentle does not mean hesitant.
It is possible to be gentle and ruthless.
Imri knows.
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A firm, but gentle hand. A touch, calculating while warm. Each met with thankful supplication as Imriel practices his art. All while Villiers tries his best to hold still, to not rush, to simply luxuriate in the sensation, gasping as nails bite and purring as lips caress.
Imriel simply proves, time and time again, that he is simply the best that Villiers has ever encountered.
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Content to drift, here and there and back again, playing Villiers like an instrument from which he draws forth beautiful music.
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He likes being in those hands, and providing what he can, until he's nearly gasping with it.
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Deft fingers undo Villiers' pants, and then a hot tongue traces the line of his collarbone, searching; Imri nibbles his way up the column of throat until his lips brush his lover's ear.
"I want to hear you beg," he murmurs silkily as his hand slides down, under soft fabric, halting at the first touch of wiry hair.
Reply
It has him moving his hips a twitch, involuntarily, as that hand sneaks its way down and stops, of all things. As well as tensing, trying to school his body into not moving; for what reason, we do not know.
"But isn't it enough to know that I want you," he whispers temptingly, plucking words from that tiny portion of his brain that manages to hold wordsmithery and all even in the most dire of situations. "That I offer myself, mind and body, to you, because..."
...because I might be falling in love, real love, remains unsaid. But it still has him open and enticing, eyes maybe a little glazed with want and mind racing even behind those seemingly calm words.
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And strong teeth nip at Villiers' shoulder, demandingly violent, as those long fingers wrap firmly around his cock.
Appparently, begging or no, that was good enough.
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Close, again; he's had more sex in these last few weeks than he has in the last dozen years of his life, and that's rather interesting, isn't it?
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That, and the kisses and licks and sharp teeth and soft skin and strong nails and quick, elegant hands--
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It's a gasped, desperate set of syllables that catch on a breath and then he comes.
For Villiers, love isn't so much about the sex as the affection and talk. Instead, it's a nice enhancement to all, an intimate act of pleasure and want.
And really, he's coming to realize that it's been sorely lacking in his life until he came to this place.
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