Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That's a truism, isn't it? Certainly Villiers enjoys power play, the light sparks of pain and humiliation.
But still, he can't help but whimper at that snarl, wanting to obey.
Instead, he takes his hands away entirely, placing them instead on Imriel's wrists to pin them while he draws a knee up to part his legs and maybe offer some reassuring pressure, but no more.
More kisses, teasingly light, as this time it's Villiers playing the Kusheline role.
Villiers hisses, nearly whimpers; it's totally not fair, Imriel knows he's weak against this, the sudden flash of pain.
But he pulls back, clamping down on self-control, and if Imriel wants a battle, a battle he shall get.
Villiers moves quickly. He nudges Imriel's chin up, so that he can bite, pleasantly hard, the join of neck and shoulder, while his thigh rubs against Imriel's still clothed crotch.
He doesn't switch often. But when he does, he can't be faulted for doing so half-heartedly.
As an expression of lust, however-- he gasps, tosses his head back, leaves bloody furrows down the curve of Villiers' shoulder with the fingernails of trembling hands.
It leaves Villiers breathless, and he can feel the blood from the scratch start to well, the trickle of a drop -- no, two -- trailing its way across clean, pale skin.
There's no trace left of the man that was holding Imriel down against the bed; no, no more, gone completely. Instead, Villiers loses himself in that kiss, that touch, the guiding hand and the sting at his shoulder.
The strength of his grip on that short hair, the way he tugs urgently when Villiers doesn't move fast enough, suggests Imri is choosing the latter option.
Which is good. Most appreciated. And down he goes, tip to base in one smooth movement, warm and wet and this is what he does best, aside from yielding and serving.
Fast and overwhelming does its job brilliantly, and Imri spends himself in Villiers' mouth with a groan, drawing in a shuddering breath as he relaxes slowly in the aftermath.
Give him a minute and he may even become capable of words.
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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But still, he can't help but whimper at that snarl, wanting to obey.
Instead, he takes his hands away entirely, placing them instead on Imriel's wrists to pin them while he draws a knee up to part his legs and maybe offer some reassuring pressure, but no more.
More kisses, teasingly light, as this time it's Villiers playing the Kusheline role.
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This is where patience comes in.
Imriel restrains himself, biting back a whimper and breathing hard, sinking his teeth into Villiers' lip.
Want. Now.
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But he pulls back, clamping down on self-control, and if Imriel wants a battle, a battle he shall get.
Villiers moves quickly. He nudges Imriel's chin up, so that he can bite, pleasantly hard, the join of neck and shoulder, while his thigh rubs against Imriel's still clothed crotch.
He doesn't switch often. But when he does, he can't be faulted for doing so half-heartedly.
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As an expression of lust, however-- he gasps, tosses his head back, leaves bloody furrows down the curve of Villiers' shoulder with the fingernails of trembling hands.
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first blood drawn, marked, wet pain along his shoulder
--it has Villiers drawing back with a gasp, back arched, seriously distracted for the moment and losing grip on that tight control of his.
Now's your chance, Imriel, if you so wish to take it.
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Tangling his fingers in short hair, kissing Villiers fiercely, one hand closing over the marked shoulder with a vicious squeeze.
Mine.
Want.
Now.
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There's no trace left of the man that was holding Imriel down against the bed; no, no more, gone completely. Instead, Villiers loses himself in that kiss, that touch, the guiding hand and the sting at his shoulder.
His.
Please.
Always.
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He remembers. There are things Villiers is very good at.
Want.
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Trousers get shoved down, and the hard shaft hungrily grabbed for, and his tongue traces the crown.
Go slow, he remembers. Make him want it.
Or even better, make him take it.
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Although this is service in itself.
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Good enough to elicit a whimper, and bring those fingernails back into play again.
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And since he's been drawing this out a bit, he'll take pity on Imriel's twenty-year-old self, and go for fast and overwhelming. Just because.
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Give him a minute and he may even become capable of words.
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Then, and only then, slide up to about Imri's chest and nuzzle.
Hee. Job well done.
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