Feliciano, splay-legged on the sofa, loins pulsing, heart pounding and brain bouncing in his skull as the most beautiful man in the whole entire world kneels before him sucking his cock, arches his back until it cracks.
"Ah!" he says, and his eyelids fall down against his cheeks. "Ah – Ludwig..." He draws the last syllable out; savours it, caresses it, loves and worships it with everything he is, everything he was, and everything he ever will be, whilst one of his hands strays from the cushion it was previously clamped like a vice upon, tangles with Ludwig's hair, and pulls, sharply and viciously.
Ludwig practically purrs in delight – in relief – in all-consuming, absolute, total lust – before dipping his head back down, mouth wide and wet and so, so warm. Feliciano's hips twitch up into it. The motion is beyond his control, and he himself is long past caring.
He finds himself humming with pleasure, too; and he smiles, and pulls Ludwig's hair and strokes his cheeks, and murmurs, "Good boy, good boy, Ludi...such a good, good boy..." And Ludwig shivers, and inches closer, and Feliciano pushes his hips forwards again, his lips parting and a soft gasp of pleasure tripping from his tongue as his lover takes him in, sucking and licking and kissing and loving, unconditionally. And at that moment there is nothing in the world, nothing at all, more extraordinarily beautiful that the heavy slide of Ludwig's closing eyelids and the scarlet flush of his hollowing, working cheeks.
He loves this, Feliciano thinks, his hands unable to sit still upon the other's lovely face, but instead shifting and trembling, moving from that familiar brow to those cheekbones to that neck to that hair, before sliding down to those shoulders, then to the cushions of the sofa, and finally back up again – and repeat. He loves it, Ludwig: being lost, forced down into submission. He loves this loss of control; he loves the silence, the darkness, the release of his muscles and limbs, and bones and veins, the trusting of all his motions and actions and reactions and – everything – to another. To Feliciano.
Feliciano groans at this thought (and at the way that the tip of Ludwig's tongue darts across his hard, hot flesh, and does something very clever indeed to the wet slit at the head of his erection that Feliciano is sure is a sin, and probably thoroughly illegal in several countries to boot; but that is neither here nor there.) He can give Ludwig this – this thing, these sensations – that he so adores, that he needs, it seems, judging from the way Ludwig's eyes had widened so, and the way he had dropped to his knees at once when he'd entered the living room and Feliciano had commanded him to do so. He can give them to him, and nobody else can, and this trust on Ludwig's part, this sightless, innocent trust that is bestowed upon him and demands nothing in return is so pure and so wonderful that, for a brief moment, hot tears prick threateningly somewhere behind his eyelids, which are struggling against an onslaught of complete and utter pleasure right now...
He manages to praise the other man – to tell him he is doing well, so, so, so well, he is such a good, good boy, so lovely, so perfect – and to pull his hair so hard he thinks, for a second, that Ludwig has come, just from that, and his mind begins to wander; could he do that? Could he make his lover lose control completely just from tugs and smacks and bites and scratches? But the question is lost in the swirl of delight which is burning between his spread thighs, spiralling higher, higher, and tightening the muscles in his stomach.
Ludwig seems to sense his tension – how close he is to the edge – how he teeters – and so intensifies his ministrations with a quiet, slightly self-conscious moan.
Feliciano does not want to come – he does not want this to end now, really, honestly – and though, deep down, he thinks that this ought to be entirely about his lover, who is red-cheeked and misty-eyed and kneeling, lost between his legs on their sofa (which he is certain will be a filthy, sticky embarrassment by the time they are done) he wants so, so desperately come that he throws all caution to the wind and relaxes his thighs – and just – lets go.
Ludwig swallows, of course, clumsily, and curls his fingers into the palms of his hands, pressing his knuckles into the seat beneath them as he pants and licks his lips and shivers. He is absolutely gorgeous.
Feliciano recovers, his head spinning and his body buzzing like a too-taut wire, humming with barely-suppressed energy. And he manages, just about, to draw his right hand back, and smack his lover across the face.
There is a tight pause between them. Feliciano blinks, his fuzzy, orgasm-drenched mind slowly coming to grasp what he has just done. One side of his lover's face is crimson; Feliciano can see hot blood gathering beneath the other's skin in the shape of his own hard, slender fingers. He can even see circular, darker marks of joints in his bones, where the impact fell even harder upon his lover's white cheek.
"Ludwig..." he says, slowly. Has he gone too far? It is hard to tell. He doesn't know why he felt such a sudden, sharp urge to do such a thing to the other man, and his stomach is just beginning to clench and churn when Ludwig murmurs his name, and, still blindfolded, presses his face into the space between Feliciano's neck and shoulder.
It takes him a few moments – but at last he realises that this is a comfort thing – comforting for him, not for Ludwig. Ludwig is not shaking, or gnawing his lip, and his hands do not tremble, and his fingers are not wrenching at the knotted blue tie that covers up his eyes – instead his skin is flushed with pleasure, and arousal, and the little damp kisses he is busy peppering Feliciano's bare skin with are exactly the ones he gives out, embarrassedly, whenever Feliciano takes a look at the ever-present stack of paperwork which he hasn't yet bothered to make a start on, and promptly bursts into tears, or at night-time, when he isn't quite asleep, and something goes bump in the darkness, and Feliciano starts at it, fearing the worst, or when Feliciano cuts himself on a knife whilst cooking, or trips over something whilst gardening or walking the dogs, or walks into a wall and gets a bruise because he's too busy chatting away on his phone to waste time looking at where he's going...
Feliciano allows himself to be comforted, briefly – because no matter if he is supposed to be whipping or fucking Ludwig, or calling him horrible names, or tying him up, or all of the above, he still adores his lover's gentle kisses. He closes his eyes, feels the warmth wash over the length and breadth of his body, blossom out from that lovely point between his neck and his left shoulder, basks in it...just for a little while...and then, at last, he dips his own head to meet his lover's neck, bares his teeth, and bites down on the skin there, hard.
Ludwig yelps, and tips his head back, his shining mouth hanging open.
The bitemark is dark red, and deep, and it looks sore. Every little dip and slit in the skin where Feliciano's teeth dug in, tore, cut, imprinted, shines damply, teasingly, and Feliciano knows that by the following day it will be a deep, mottled purple. The very thought of this stops his breath in the back of his throat, hardens and thickens his flesh and heats his body even while he continues to spin downwards in the dropping post-orgasmic haze.
It takes him a moment or two to realise that Ludwig is pressing against him once again, hissing things like "Yes," and "Fuck," and "More," over and over again, like a desperate, needy mantra, shifting his thighs back and forth against one another, and once he has come to this realisation, it takes him just slightly less time to place both his hands on the other's shoulders and shove him backwards – and it takes hardly any time at all for him to crawl on top of his taller lover and press their lips together in a hungry kiss that makes them both considerably short of breath and starved for more.
Ludwig tips his head back once more, and Feliciano follows his mouth as far as he can before it becomes an uncomfortable stretch, at which point he turns his attention to that lovely white skin shuddering beneath him like disturbed water which is, save for the scarlet bitemark at the base of Ludwig's neck, upsettingly smooth and blemish-free. That, Feliciano thinks with tight and joyful excitement, will have to be rectified at once; and so he lays one palm on his lover's clenched, muscular stomach, and cups the back of his head with the other, drawing a fingertip across the curl of his ear and making Ludwig squirm between his spread thighs – and then he bows his head, and begins to lick and bite and suck, hard, at the other man's throat, and his shoulders, and his collarbones, and his lovely chest.
He can feel short, shuddering puffs of hot breath against his hair, and Ludwig's hips twitching, rising, falling below him, and so he moves his hand lower, caresses his abdomen, his slightly jutting hip bones, the insides of his heated thighs, which tense and then flutter apart beneath his touch, then he cocks his wrist, sweeps his fingers back up again, up one leg, right to the top...and then Ludwig sighs quietly, trustingly, and his thighs fall apart again, and he lets Feliciano inside.
Feliciano nips and sucks and kisses his lover's neck, and Ludwig pants and strains feverishly between the lips and the teeth there, and the slow, slender finger which rubs and searches and pushes between his legs. His breath is shallow, and he keeps tensing and squirming against Feliciano's finger. Feliciano worries that Ludwig might be scared; or hurt (and not in a good way) and so he tries to mumble something comforting into his lover's damp skin as he presses his index and middle fingers together, and pushes into the other man with more force than before. He is growing hard again, and impatient, and, just at that moment, his lover chooses to grit his teeth, and make a funny, desperate, growling sound.
Feliciano shushes him, kissing the side of his face, before gently withdrawing his fingers (Ludwig gasps and slumps against him, lips parted and chest heaving), and reaching out behind himself, searching for the bottle of lube he's sure he remembered to bring downstairs.
Ludwig groans as his lover's teeth break the skin of his neck once again, and a warm, pleasant weight settles itself somewhere deep within Feliciano's stomach. He knows very well, now, that Ludwig needs this; that he needs the darkness, the buzzing almost-silence, the sharp snap and melting heat of submission; the complete and utter release of just letting things go. But perhaps he needs it too? Perhaps he, Feliciano Vargas, likes to feel, just once in a while, that he can do something right without the whole room rolling its eyes at him; or sighing heavily, or rubbing its temples in angry frustration. Feliciano doesn't really like thinking about this sort of thing too much; but what he can think about, and will think about, is how Ludwig's eyes mist over and grow warm and fall closed in pleasure, and how his spine will shudder and his skin will flush, and how his lovely lips will meet Feliciano's, and how he will sigh, and press closer to him than he would typically allow himself to do once it is all over...
And so Feliciano smiles, and his stomach settles, and he is – somehow – beneath his re-emerging heavy arousal and eagerness to simple bury himself deep within his lover's body and just shove until they are both fucking screaming and boneless and dripping, surprisingly calm and content with himself, and feels no more anxiousness or trepidation or even outright fearwith regards to what he is about to do.
He finds the lubricant, half-hidden by Ludwig's twitching left foot, and fumbles clumsily with it until, half-blinded by love and by lust, murmuring, "Ludi...Ludi," into a toned stomach, a tensed thigh, a falling jawline, he feels cool, thick wetness upon his fingertips. And he moves his hand between those shaking, waiting thighs, and pushes his fingers inside, and his teeth and his wet, wet tongue once more find that delicious neck.
Ludwig tenses up against him and his thighs spring up briefly to close around Feliciano's hand. But Feliciano remains still, and waits, and when Ludwig relaxes again, and lets his legs fall apart with a vibrato sigh, Feliciano kisses him, bites down on his collarbone, and pushes his fingers forwards insistently.
His lover's body yields surprisingly quickly, despite the way those big, pale hands shake, and grip firmly at the sofa cushions beneath the pair of them. Feliciano watches them; the roll of those knuckles, the way the fingernails turn from yellowy-white to pink as Ludwig's hold slackens, the frightened green veins calming and fading beneath his skin as his body quiets and accepts a third finger.
He spreads them – snaps them apart and together like triple-bladed scissors – and considers pushing a fourth in. His mind reels, briefly, as he thinks, then, of a fist, and he shudders all over. Ludwig pushes back a little more against him, and at the same time Feliciano's fingers move together and curl – and then his lover's mouth is open, and his back, damp with desire, is arching into a strong, beautiful curve.
"It's good, isn't it?" Feliciano says, encouraged by his lover's reaction. He withdraws his fingers, a little too quickly – Ludwig grits his teeth and makes an odd squeaky sort of sound – and reaches for the lubricant once more. "It's good, si?"
"Yes," Ludwig murmurs, his chest heaving. He raises one hand blindly, and waves it vaguely in Feliciano's direction, as though attempting to grab hold of him. "Ah...yes...Master, please..."
Feliciano's hand, glossy with lube, slips on his cock, and the pent-up desire boiling between his thighs, and in his chest, and across his shaking lips, spins his head and renders him blind. He pushes Ludwig's legs further apart, and grips the top of one thigh in his right hand. The image of fingertip-shaped bruises the following morning kisses his mind and drives him half-mad, and it is with this alluring, beautiful picture painted upon the lens of his mind's eye that he takes himself in hand and pushes, horribly, maddeningly slowly into the other's body.
It is tight, so tight, and so deliriously warm, and the sheer...deliciousness of it all rips a weak, raggedy moan from his voicebox. Ludwig, twitching his hips starwards, moans too: lots of little gaspy moans in quick succession ("Ah! Ah! Ah!") before biting down hard on his lower lip.
Feliciano watches the shine of those white teeth against that darkening, twisted lip as he draws back somewhat, and slowly thrusts back in. Ludwig gasps as their bodies meet, his mouth opening again, and a round bead of scarlet blood slides steadily down onto his chin.
"Ohh..."
Feliciano, moving in and out...in and out...and in, shivers – and yet he cannot tear his gaze away. He watches that red blood; and the red flush on Ludwig's gorgeous face; and the red, smarting handprint on his cheek; and the red teethmarks on his neck; and the blazing red heat of sex upon his chest – and he feels himself stiffen, hears himself moan again and again and again – and he begins to pound frantically, unforgivingly into his lover beneath him.
And at Ludwig's next lust-thickened, desperate gasp of "Ahh!" he reaches up, pulls the blue tie – the makeshift blindfold – down over his lover's nose, pushes it into his mouth, and pulls it tight. Ludwig splutters momentarily...then the whites of his eyes show, and he arches backwards, and wails...wails in pleasure through his gag.
And Feliciano spreads his lover's legs even wider, and groans, and slams into him with the single aim of making absolutely certain that this feeling, this fulfilment, this unconditional adoration will burn through the other's body forever and ever and ever.
