[ as it turns out, knowing that it's a provocation does little to mitigate the effect.
childe drops to his knees, and the next minute unfolds like a staged sequence, a rhythm carved into his marrows. he isn't thinking. he doesn't have to think. his palm grinds into childe's shoulder; his head tips forward, gaze all stark and riveted gold as childe gets to work like he'd been made for it, mouth all flushed and smearing on bare skin. he makes a sound -- feels it in his lungs like a spark, startled, guttural. the rest's slipping out of his head. he's seen childe in battle, storm-edged and wild -- seen him surfacing after a long day from the grimy work of a fatui. none of it compares to the vision that he makes on his knees, half-undone with his trousers rucked loose around his hips, fist working and his mouth all slick and yielding -- a sight like flint grinding into flint, the kind of heat that consumes what it makes, and demands more, more, more. ]
Eager to serve -- I see.
[ the rumble curls in his throat as childe's tongue trails over a vein, an inflection just short of groaning. his whole frame's gone still, staving off the terrible human reflex to pull him down the rest of the way.
but that would hardly suit the balance of things. ]
Can you manage?
[ there's a different question beneath the words. he's watching with gold-struck, molten attention; his hand's skimming upward, thumbing the set of childe's jaw, coaxing it to a better angle as the head of his cock smears over his lip -- a measured touch, nearly careful, like a man smudging the line of a boundary.
he'd said as much, after all: childe can have as much as he can bear. ]
no subject
childe drops to his knees, and the next minute unfolds like a staged sequence, a rhythm carved into his marrows. he isn't thinking. he doesn't have to think. his palm grinds into childe's shoulder; his head tips forward, gaze all stark and riveted gold as childe gets to work like he'd been made for it, mouth all flushed and smearing on bare skin. he makes a sound -- feels it in his lungs like a spark, startled, guttural. the rest's slipping out of his head. he's seen childe in battle, storm-edged and wild -- seen him surfacing after a long day from the grimy work of a fatui. none of it compares to the vision that he makes on his knees, half-undone with his trousers rucked loose around his hips, fist working and his mouth all slick and yielding -- a sight like flint grinding into flint, the kind of heat that consumes what it makes, and demands more, more, more. ]
Eager to serve -- I see.
[ the rumble curls in his throat as childe's tongue trails over a vein, an inflection just short of groaning. his whole frame's gone still, staving off the terrible human reflex to pull him down the rest of the way.
but that would hardly suit the balance of things. ]
Can you manage?
[ there's a different question beneath the words. he's watching with gold-struck, molten attention; his hand's skimming upward, thumbing the set of childe's jaw, coaxing it to a better angle as the head of his cock smears over his lip -- a measured touch, nearly careful, like a man smudging the line of a boundary.
he'd said as much, after all: childe can have as much as he can bear. ]