[His breath is heavy and sharp when Sylvain pulls back, caught in deep cycles that certainly don't suggest inexperience. Lashes flutter and he can feel the slightest lean into the hand on his cheek, the agonizing press of his cock when it slides home. Every last inch feels like sweet agony, a choked whine reverberating against it at the praise. good boy.
The grip of his fingers loosens a little as Sylvain finds his pattern, pulls back enough to breathe. Shifts, and pulls Olivine right back to the waiting again. The priest's cheeks burn in the wake of it, the reality spoken in sweet vulgarity. It crashes into the pool of desire he's already nearly lost himself to, and every soft noise, every hitch of breath, becomes an answer.
Neglected, his cock aches between his thighs, hard and wet against the fabric still containing it. He wants—he wants to hear more of that rasp. Wants to see his face when he comes, buried balls deep in his mouth. Of course he's right, he can't respond. Use him more, harder. Push him to the edge, over the edge, again and again until nothing of him remains but for the desperate, broken and impatient core of greed and depravity.
His head tilts, enough that he can just see past tears and lashes and hazy arousal. Give me, a plea left on bated breath. Give me, the squeeze of his throat with each swallow and whine. Hurry, the shake of hips and pure desperation in his gaze. He can't wait much longer, but by the brief fits and starts of his fingers, lifting off of Sylvain's thighs, forcibly pressed back down. Ah, his cock aches so badly. If he could just reach down, just—]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-01-09 09:19 pm (UTC)The grip of his fingers loosens a little as Sylvain finds his pattern, pulls back enough to breathe. Shifts, and pulls Olivine right back to the waiting again. The priest's cheeks burn in the wake of it, the reality spoken in sweet vulgarity. It crashes into the pool of desire he's already nearly lost himself to, and every soft noise, every hitch of breath, becomes an answer.
Neglected, his cock aches between his thighs, hard and wet against the fabric still containing it. He wants—he wants to hear more of that rasp. Wants to see his face when he comes, buried balls deep in his mouth. Of course he's right, he can't respond. Use him more, harder. Push him to the edge, over the edge, again and again until nothing of him remains but for the desperate, broken and impatient core of greed and depravity.
His head tilts, enough that he can just see past tears and lashes and hazy arousal. Give me, a plea left on bated breath. Give me, the squeeze of his throat with each swallow and whine. Hurry, the shake of hips and pure desperation in his gaze. He can't wait much longer, but by the brief fits and starts of his fingers, lifting off of Sylvain's thighs, forcibly pressed back down. Ah, his cock aches so badly. If he could just reach down, just—]