(no subject)
Title: Unseeing Eyes.
Pairing: Ian Watkins/Uruha.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Senses are heightened.
Genre: Smut.
Dedications: For Kirsty ♥
Strange. Everything here was oh-so strange. It was Heaven and Hell combined in a cataclysmic blend of colour and light and dark and pain.
It tingled at his very flesh, peeling away at his bones, tensing his shoulders and sending ripples; convulsions, up and down his spine. He was sure it would break. Such slender vertebrae couldn't take this attack. The squeeze of his panicking muscles, the arch of his form from the sticky sheets as his lashes tickled his cheeks, kept down by the pressure of the blindfold binding his vision.
All at once he knew and he didn't. The world was his to wonder and explore, every pore open, every sense heightened, the musky scent of heated sex and sweating bodies flooding his nose, the taste of salty flesh and warm lips still tainting his tongue. It was so hot. Too hot. He would combust, surely, as pale flesh glimmered from full, flushed lips to the tremble of perfectly firm thighs.
Ravishing.
Delicious.
"And all mine to play with..."
The mental train was finished with low, lusty words against the inside of Uruha's thigh, sending irrational little tremors through the petite form, forcing a smirk across those speaking lips.
Those talented lips.
Lips moving along at such a deathly pace they forced sounds from the Asian, little mewls and heartfelt whimpers; sheer audible desperation penetrating the air as his leg was pushed up, bent, foot to the mattress.
The world may have been his to possess but he was not the one in control. For the movement surprised him, brain flooding into hysterical overdrive only to be wiped clean, blank, as those lips met that perfect spot.
The world that belonged so solely to him stalled. White blankness taking over his dark, silence falling with a throaty gasp of breath. His back arched impossibly, much to the smirking delight of the Westerner, though the expression didn't last long as he was too busy taking advantage of this awed surprise.
Slick and hot. Tracing so teasingly, almost ghosting, the slightest movements punctuated with the occasional firm press that had his nerves ripped to shreds, leaving nothing but a shaking, gasping wreck. As the typical wanton whore his thighs were spread unconsciously, hips pressing up, wanting, needing so helplessly.
If the black of his blindfolded wasn't there the slight creases in damp flesh would have been visible, eyes clenched shut and jaw slack, slim chest rising and falling heartily as his hips were pinned down.
On this glorious evening the blissful pleasure of countless climaxes still danced through his bloodstream, though the pressure was already there, again, insistent and pulsing with every exhilarating little brush of tongue and lips and "Fuck!"
A simple press passed that oh-so tight ring of muscle caused the most intriguing response, body writhing helplessly despite strong hands marking hips, bound wrists struggling against the thick leather of restraints as desperate sounds in too many tongues echoed throughout the room.
And to think... he hadn't wanted to do that pesky photo shoot.
Pairing: Ian Watkins/Uruha.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Senses are heightened.
Genre: Smut.
Dedications: For Kirsty ♥
Strange. Everything here was oh-so strange. It was Heaven and Hell combined in a cataclysmic blend of colour and light and dark and pain.
It tingled at his very flesh, peeling away at his bones, tensing his shoulders and sending ripples; convulsions, up and down his spine. He was sure it would break. Such slender vertebrae couldn't take this attack. The squeeze of his panicking muscles, the arch of his form from the sticky sheets as his lashes tickled his cheeks, kept down by the pressure of the blindfold binding his vision.
All at once he knew and he didn't. The world was his to wonder and explore, every pore open, every sense heightened, the musky scent of heated sex and sweating bodies flooding his nose, the taste of salty flesh and warm lips still tainting his tongue. It was so hot. Too hot. He would combust, surely, as pale flesh glimmered from full, flushed lips to the tremble of perfectly firm thighs.
Ravishing.
Delicious.
"And all mine to play with..."
The mental train was finished with low, lusty words against the inside of Uruha's thigh, sending irrational little tremors through the petite form, forcing a smirk across those speaking lips.
Those talented lips.
Lips moving along at such a deathly pace they forced sounds from the Asian, little mewls and heartfelt whimpers; sheer audible desperation penetrating the air as his leg was pushed up, bent, foot to the mattress.
The world may have been his to possess but he was not the one in control. For the movement surprised him, brain flooding into hysterical overdrive only to be wiped clean, blank, as those lips met that perfect spot.
The world that belonged so solely to him stalled. White blankness taking over his dark, silence falling with a throaty gasp of breath. His back arched impossibly, much to the smirking delight of the Westerner, though the expression didn't last long as he was too busy taking advantage of this awed surprise.
Slick and hot. Tracing so teasingly, almost ghosting, the slightest movements punctuated with the occasional firm press that had his nerves ripped to shreds, leaving nothing but a shaking, gasping wreck. As the typical wanton whore his thighs were spread unconsciously, hips pressing up, wanting, needing so helplessly.
If the black of his blindfolded wasn't there the slight creases in damp flesh would have been visible, eyes clenched shut and jaw slack, slim chest rising and falling heartily as his hips were pinned down.
On this glorious evening the blissful pleasure of countless climaxes still danced through his bloodstream, though the pressure was already there, again, insistent and pulsing with every exhilarating little brush of tongue and lips and "Fuck!"
A simple press passed that oh-so tight ring of muscle caused the most intriguing response, body writhing helplessly despite strong hands marking hips, bound wrists struggling against the thick leather of restraints as desperate sounds in too many tongues echoed throughout the room.
And to think... he hadn't wanted to do that pesky photo shoot.