The last time the King saw the inside of a room at the Wrangler, people still knew his real name, and this wasn't even the Wrangler. Had the same sign outside, but it wasn't the Wrangler. A local had hired mercs to clear the building out and had been planning to fix it up. He disappeared without a trace, back when Francine thought she could still pull off doe eyes.
Arcade's lips are soft but he is not gentle, the soft skin of his hands at odds with the strength in their grip as he holds the King's face and takes his lower lip in what is more bite than nip. His own hands are restlessly tugging at Arcade's shirt, untucking it and pulling at the buttons. His jacket's on the floor and his own shirt is being pushed down his shoulders when the backs of his knees connect with the edge of the bed and Arcade is still advancing, lowering him onto the mattress.
Arcade stands, hair wild and face flushed pink, and he rids the King of his trousers before straddling his hips. The King sucks in a deep breath at the heat of skin on skin as Arcade folds himself over him, just barely brushing their noses together as he lightly rakes his fingernails down the King's ribcage. The King's lips are parted when he lifts his head towards the warm breath ghosting his face, but flat palms on his shoulders press him down into the mattress. Arcade is murmuring at him to relax and he tries but every last one of his nerves is ringing out and his senses are lost in the scrape of teeth on his collarbone, the press of lips trailing warm and open down the dip in his ribs, the bruise being sucked into his hip. His hands are still wandering everywhere, fingertips digging into Arcade's shoulders and threading in his hair, and when he tries to sit up Arcade takes his wrists in a firm hold.
He tugs them free and sits up again, trying to hold Arcade's face with the same authority that his own had been held, but Arcade just grabs his wrists again, moves forward until he's on his back, holding the King down with his own weight.
"I know you're used to being in control," Arcade says and there's a rougher shade to his voice that sends a fresh roll of heat in the King's gut, so thick that he almost moans from it, "but it's probably best that you let go of that notion for the night."
Maybe it's the weight of Arcade on his hips or the way he looks with at this distance, when the King can see the dust of freckles over his cheekbones from his new sundrenched life, but he lets the lock of his shoulders slip loose, lets his arms go limp under Arcade's grip.
Arcade moves off of him, fumbling for something on the floor and the King hears the schiff of rustling clothes, the clink of metal. His heart is fluttering somewhere in his throat but he doesn't resist when Arcade holds him down and kisses him hard, and he lets his wrists be pinned up, and Arcade's looping his belt around them, tying them to board at the foot of the bed.
"You okay with this?" he hears Arcade asking quietly as he secures the buckle.
He doesn't trust his voice, just nods when Arcade glances down at him, tugs at his bonds reflexively. He breathes in deep, closes his eyes as he tries to just relax, tries to just enjoy the feeling of that mouth on his flesh, forging a trail down his body that's followed by big hands, hands that are hiking up his thighs, and he lets his legs hover in the air and he considers asking what Arcade's got planned when he's being spread open, and the questions frays and breaks into a groan at the feeling of soft licks, day-old stubble and he's pretty sure he's never heard himself make that particular noise.
Arcade meets it with a low moan dressed in soft slurps as he sucks on the King's hole with lips and tongue, kneading the flesh of the King's cheeks in his hands. The King only barely notices the burn in his wrists when he writhes, the heat coiled in his gut flaring up something fierce. And he's trying to get let himself get lost in the feeling of soft lips and slick tongue, but his body is still lurching, his arms keep fighting at the belt like it's instinct.
Arcade/The King - Sweating Out Confessions [2a/2]
Arcade's lips are soft but he is not gentle, the soft skin of his hands at odds with the strength in their grip as he holds the King's face and takes his lower lip in what is more bite than nip. His own hands are restlessly tugging at Arcade's shirt, untucking it and pulling at the buttons. His jacket's on the floor and his own shirt is being pushed down his shoulders when the backs of his knees connect with the edge of the bed and Arcade is still advancing, lowering him onto the mattress.
Arcade stands, hair wild and face flushed pink, and he rids the King of his trousers before straddling his hips. The King sucks in a deep breath at the heat of skin on skin as Arcade folds himself over him, just barely brushing their noses together as he lightly rakes his fingernails down the King's ribcage. The King's lips are parted when he lifts his head towards the warm breath ghosting his face, but flat palms on his shoulders press him down into the mattress. Arcade is murmuring at him to relax and he tries but every last one of his nerves is ringing out and his senses are lost in the scrape of teeth on his collarbone, the press of lips trailing warm and open down the dip in his ribs, the bruise being sucked into his hip. His hands are still wandering everywhere, fingertips digging into Arcade's shoulders and threading in his hair, and when he tries to sit up Arcade takes his wrists in a firm hold.
He tugs them free and sits up again, trying to hold Arcade's face with the same authority that his own had been held, but Arcade just grabs his wrists again, moves forward until he's on his back, holding the King down with his own weight.
"I know you're used to being in control," Arcade says and there's a rougher shade to his voice that sends a fresh roll of heat in the King's gut, so thick that he almost moans from it, "but it's probably best that you let go of that notion for the night."
Maybe it's the weight of Arcade on his hips or the way he looks with at this distance, when the King can see the dust of freckles over his cheekbones from his new sundrenched life, but he lets the lock of his shoulders slip loose, lets his arms go limp under Arcade's grip.
Arcade moves off of him, fumbling for something on the floor and the King hears the schiff of rustling clothes, the clink of metal. His heart is fluttering somewhere in his throat but he doesn't resist when Arcade holds him down and kisses him hard, and he lets his wrists be pinned up, and Arcade's looping his belt around them, tying them to board at the foot of the bed.
"You okay with this?" he hears Arcade asking quietly as he secures the buckle.
He doesn't trust his voice, just nods when Arcade glances down at him, tugs at his bonds reflexively. He breathes in deep, closes his eyes as he tries to just relax, tries to just enjoy the feeling of that mouth on his flesh, forging a trail down his body that's followed by big hands, hands that are hiking up his thighs, and he lets his legs hover in the air and he considers asking what Arcade's got planned when he's being spread open, and the questions frays and breaks into a groan at the feeling of soft licks, day-old stubble and he's pretty sure he's never heard himself make that particular noise.
Arcade meets it with a low moan dressed in soft slurps as he sucks on the King's hole with lips and tongue, kneading the flesh of the King's cheeks in his hands. The King only barely notices the burn in his wrists when he writhes, the heat coiled in his gut flaring up something fierce. And he's trying to get let himself get lost in the feeling of soft lips and slick tongue, but his body is still lurching, his arms keep fighting at the belt like it's instinct.