Arcade makes a thoughtful noise and pulls back, cool air sharp over the King's wet skin. "Thought I'd have you melting by now," Arcade murmurs plainly.
"Tryin'," the King pants as Arcade lazily traces a finger tip over his hole, making him jump slightly. "Honestly. Just... relaxin' ain't in my nature, I guess."
"If you think blathering on about your 'nature' is going to get you unbound, you are quite mistaken," Arcade says, and he moves up the King's body again, settling at his side. "Close your eyes."
"What?" the King asks, darting a glance over to Arcade.
"Just close your eyes," Arcade says, simply.
The King takes a beat but obeys, letting his lids fall closed and trying to steady his breathing. He feels a fingertip brush over his lower lip, and the featherlight touch makes him shudder. He feels it in gusts of warm air when the doc starts talking. "Let me tell you about another Follower I used to travel with," Arcade says. "No one you know, I assure you. He never settled in Freeside. This was years ago when I was traveling -- Followers always travel in pairs." He dips fingertips past the King's parted lips and salt bursts sharp over the King's tongue, and he keeps his mouth pliant as Arcade wets the pad of his middle and forefinger. "Which can be very convenient.
"We were hard up for shelter for the night, wound up having to bunk in this old office building." Arcade withdraws his fingers and the King almost follows chases them with his tongue. "We had been walking all day so I practically passed out, but I woke up not long later and heard him making some... obvious noises. Keep your eyes closed."
The King nearly says I don't need to be told twice but all that leaves his mouth is a hitched sound and he twists when wet fingertips trace over his nipple.
"God, you're so responsive to everything, it's fantastic," the doc's voice is rough and breathy against his face, and his own breathing is heavy. "As I was saying," as he rolls the King's nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and he details his fellow Follower leaning against the edge of a desk, beating off like his life depended on it, eyes shut tight and noises barely restrained.
"And when an opportunity like that presents itself, well," and the King arches into the hand moving from toying with him to spread flat down his chest, his belly, "well, let's just say it makes me feel opportunistic."
The King's own breathless chuckle sounds out-of-body to him. "Kinda like tonight," he says.
"Please, you're a much better catch than a road-haggard self-ascribed anthropologist," Arcade chuckles, "but yes, kind of like tonight."
The coil in the King's gut lurches hot when those fingertip just barely graze the underside of his cock where it lays flat on his belly, a teasing touch and he is not remotely proud of the undignified whine he gives when Arcade's warm hand wraps around his shaft.
"You're still wound up so tight," Arcade says, keeping his hand still and trailing parted-lipped kisses along the King's arm, which flexes under the warm touch.
"Just," the King pants, "keep talkin'. Please."
Arcade obliges, moving his fist in slow, languid strokes as he shamelessly details another story that floods the King's head with images, fingers twitching in white-blonde hair as Arcade's head bobs in the lap of a faceless Follower, Arcade rising from his knees and turning him around, bending him over the desk and pushing long spitslicked fingers inside of him, and when the King suddenly sees himself filling out that second labcoat he bucks up fiercely into Arcade's grip.
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timeasmymeasure
Arcade/The King - Sweating Out Confessions [2b/2]
Date: 2012-01-07 05:00 pm (UTC)"Tryin'," the King pants as Arcade lazily traces a finger tip over his hole, making him jump slightly. "Honestly. Just... relaxin' ain't in my nature, I guess."
"If you think blathering on about your 'nature' is going to get you unbound, you are quite mistaken," Arcade says, and he moves up the King's body again, settling at his side. "Close your eyes."
"What?" the King asks, darting a glance over to Arcade.
"Just close your eyes," Arcade says, simply.
The King takes a beat but obeys, letting his lids fall closed and trying to steady his breathing. He feels a fingertip brush over his lower lip, and the featherlight touch makes him shudder. He feels it in gusts of warm air when the doc starts talking. "Let me tell you about another Follower I used to travel with," Arcade says. "No one you know, I assure you. He never settled in Freeside. This was years ago when I was traveling -- Followers always travel in pairs." He dips fingertips past the King's parted lips and salt bursts sharp over the King's tongue, and he keeps his mouth pliant as Arcade wets the pad of his middle and forefinger. "Which can be very convenient.
"We were hard up for shelter for the night, wound up having to bunk in this old office building." Arcade withdraws his fingers and the King almost follows chases them with his tongue. "We had been walking all day so I practically passed out, but I woke up not long later and heard him making some... obvious noises. Keep your eyes closed."
The King nearly says I don't need to be told twice but all that leaves his mouth is a hitched sound and he twists when wet fingertips trace over his nipple.
"God, you're so responsive to everything, it's fantastic," the doc's voice is rough and breathy against his face, and his own breathing is heavy. "As I was saying," as he rolls the King's nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and he details his fellow Follower leaning against the edge of a desk, beating off like his life depended on it, eyes shut tight and noises barely restrained.
"And when an opportunity like that presents itself, well," and the King arches into the hand moving from toying with him to spread flat down his chest, his belly, "well, let's just say it makes me feel opportunistic."
The King's own breathless chuckle sounds out-of-body to him. "Kinda like tonight," he says.
"Please, you're a much better catch than a road-haggard self-ascribed anthropologist," Arcade chuckles, "but yes, kind of like tonight."
The coil in the King's gut lurches hot when those fingertip just barely graze the underside of his cock where it lays flat on his belly, a teasing touch and he is not remotely proud of the undignified whine he gives when Arcade's warm hand wraps around his shaft.
"You're still wound up so tight," Arcade says, keeping his hand still and trailing parted-lipped kisses along the King's arm, which flexes under the warm touch.
"Just," the King pants, "keep talkin'. Please."
Arcade obliges, moving his fist in slow, languid strokes as he shamelessly details another story that floods the King's head with images, fingers twitching in white-blonde hair as Arcade's head bobs in the lap of a faceless Follower, Arcade rising from his knees and turning him around, bending him over the desk and pushing long spitslicked fingers inside of him, and when the King suddenly sees himself filling out that second labcoat he bucks up fiercely into Arcade's grip.