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keelywolfeWriting kinky blowjobs relaxes me; so sue me. *G*
Expectations
by Keelywolfe
NC-17
(Illya/Napoleon)
~~*~~
He’s never done this before, and it’s more a relief than a burden because you can’t expect expertise from a virgin.
Virgin. A ridiculous word; he’s no more a virgin than he’s blonde or blue-skinned but there’s no other word in the English language that applies better. Inexperienced, inexpert, innocent, the thesaurus could supply a dozen words that didn’t quite fit, a square peg trapped in a round hole.
So virgin is all that is left, both true and false because sex is as natural to him as breathing, and the warm feel of a body against his own is familiar but the lack of softness is not. Passing the smoky taste of brandy between their lips, a liquor of compromise for Sunday dinner, has been done but never with whisker-burn scraping his cheeks raw.
It had still been too easy to skim those dark pants down, past lightly haired legs and strong ankles, to find Illya wearing nothing beneath them. To push him backwards on the bed, grateful for the darkened room, and he hasn’t done this, has never even really thought of doing it and it’s terribly strange and more awkward than he’s ever felt, sheer disbelief that he is even trying it lurking in the back of his mind.
Illya isn’t circumcised, another note of strangeness that he can’t even compare it to his own, and what did you do with it anyway? He can’t recall ever discussing the topic. Nothing more than a little loose skin, wasn’t it, and when he wraps his hand around Illya’s cock the sudden rush of heat against his palm makes him forget anything else. Jesus, it is incredible, suddenly making this more real than anything else has that night, reality dropping on his head like Dorothy’s house on the Wicked Witch of the East. Or was it West? He can’t remember, stupid to be thinking it anyway when he is more naked than not and on his knees and holding his partner’s erection.
Think about something else then, like foreskins and what to do with them. A minute shift of his hand reveals that yes, it does move and pretty easily at that, and he knows in his head it can’t possibly hurt but he glances up anyway because it simply won’t do to mess things up this early in the game.
Illya is watching him. Of course he is. Can’t just drop his head back and close his eyes like any normal man about to get a blowjob would and though he can’t see much in the dim room, Napoleon is fairly sure if anything hurts Illya will tell him promptly.
Well, fine then. He can do this. The feel of a dick in his hand isn’t so strange that he doesn’t know what to do with it. He slides his hand down again, watching with detached fascination as the foreskin went with it, letting the darkened head peek out from beneath. A gloss of moisture shining at the tip, alien and familiar and he ducks his head down to lick it away before he loses his nerve.
The tang like nothing he’s expected, even though he has tasted himself before on soft, feminine lips. No second-hand taste here, only pure, clean salt, sleek dampness against his tongue and Illya whimpers, his fingers kneading the blankets beneath them desperately. So typical of him that Napoleon can’t help but smile and repeat the tiny little lick, watching him squirm. A low tolerance for pain and pleasure, it would seem, and if his own heart hadn’t been aching in dizzy fear, he would have teased him for it.
Illya is already arching up, rubbing hopefully at the seam of Napoleon’s lips and he can feel more of that dampness on his mouth, slick and inviting. Parting his lips is almost a defense, tilting his head just a little and letting that heavy warmth coax its way inside.
God, it is nothing like he’s expected; harder, stretching his mouth brutally as Illya cups Napoleon’s face in his hands and holds him still, fingertips and cock rudely insistent, ignoring the faint sound of protest hovering at the back of his throat. Nothing more than that, easier to let Illya guide him and all the uncertainties of false virginity are soothed by this, a roadmap to follow into unknown territory.
A few slow, too-deep thrusts before it occurs to him that maybe he should try sucking and does, hard enough to feel pressure behind his eyes and Illya quivers, that universal oh-god-yeah-do-it-again signal and he does, until his jaw aches and his lips are sore and wet with spit, and this is dreadfully messy, would have disgusted him if someone did it to him but Illya doesn’t seem to mind. Indeed, he’s nearly sitting up, almost curled around Napoleon’s head as if afraid he’ll pull away, make some dry, teasing remark and brush it aside.
A reasonable fear; he’s done it before in different circumstances, deliberately misunderstanding a word or gesture but hell, there is no mistaking your cock in someone’s mouth. Too many years of foreplay between them and Napoleon had gotten tired of running, the path of least resistance shifting into surrender and god, he is on his knees, with Illya’s hands at his temples, stroking in obvious encouragement. He wants that touch, somehow, more than he’s expected and at this moment he’d be happy to have Illya rub all over him, mark him somehow with touch or scent and just be claimed by him.
He shies away from the thought before it’s fully formed, nearly jerking back but fingers suddenly clench in his hair, a plea and a warning and suddenly he can’t, he can’t do that, can’t go that far and he pulls off in near terror, feeling strands of hair tear away in Illya’s hands when he shakes them off but it’s already too late, self-preservation kicking in at its usual two minutes too late and there is warm wetness against his face in quick, luxurious spurts. He can feel it dripping slowly down, flicks his tongue out without thinking and yes, it’s harsh, bitter salt though not as unpleasant as he’s expected.
He expects a horrified apology and perhaps Illya would leap from the bed and get him a wet cloth, scrubbing it away himself and leaving nothing but clean, pink skin.
There is only silence and after a moment Napoleon opens his eyes and finds Illya looking at him, something odd and absurdly tender in his eyes.
Slowly, Napoleon raises a hand and touches the wetness on his cheek, already drying into tacky smears and he notices his hand is shaking, fingers trembling against his face as he carefully touches each damp spot.
It occurs to him that he is marked now, in a way that only he would ever be able to see. Marked, yes, claimed, yes, and he’s dimly surprised he’s not whimpering, terror shivering beneath his skin, shifting in sinuous waves down to his bones.
Illya leans up, moving with odd grace to kneel in front of him and Napoleon can’t look at him anymore, bites his tongue and closes his eyes and it’s a wonder the whole bed isn’t shaking beneath them.
The sudden wet touch of warmth against his cheek startles him so much he nearly collapses, tastes a warm blurt of blood as he bites his inner cheek but the next touch is more soothing, less frightening and he sits perfectly still, the tremors fading as Illya carefully licks away every streak of dampness from Napoleon’s cheeks, even the fresh, unfamiliar lines seeping from his eyes, virgin tears.
-finis-
Expectations
by Keelywolfe
NC-17
(Illya/Napoleon)
~~*~~
He’s never done this before, and it’s more a relief than a burden because you can’t expect expertise from a virgin.
Virgin. A ridiculous word; he’s no more a virgin than he’s blonde or blue-skinned but there’s no other word in the English language that applies better. Inexperienced, inexpert, innocent, the thesaurus could supply a dozen words that didn’t quite fit, a square peg trapped in a round hole.
So virgin is all that is left, both true and false because sex is as natural to him as breathing, and the warm feel of a body against his own is familiar but the lack of softness is not. Passing the smoky taste of brandy between their lips, a liquor of compromise for Sunday dinner, has been done but never with whisker-burn scraping his cheeks raw.
It had still been too easy to skim those dark pants down, past lightly haired legs and strong ankles, to find Illya wearing nothing beneath them. To push him backwards on the bed, grateful for the darkened room, and he hasn’t done this, has never even really thought of doing it and it’s terribly strange and more awkward than he’s ever felt, sheer disbelief that he is even trying it lurking in the back of his mind.
Illya isn’t circumcised, another note of strangeness that he can’t even compare it to his own, and what did you do with it anyway? He can’t recall ever discussing the topic. Nothing more than a little loose skin, wasn’t it, and when he wraps his hand around Illya’s cock the sudden rush of heat against his palm makes him forget anything else. Jesus, it is incredible, suddenly making this more real than anything else has that night, reality dropping on his head like Dorothy’s house on the Wicked Witch of the East. Or was it West? He can’t remember, stupid to be thinking it anyway when he is more naked than not and on his knees and holding his partner’s erection.
Think about something else then, like foreskins and what to do with them. A minute shift of his hand reveals that yes, it does move and pretty easily at that, and he knows in his head it can’t possibly hurt but he glances up anyway because it simply won’t do to mess things up this early in the game.
Illya is watching him. Of course he is. Can’t just drop his head back and close his eyes like any normal man about to get a blowjob would and though he can’t see much in the dim room, Napoleon is fairly sure if anything hurts Illya will tell him promptly.
Well, fine then. He can do this. The feel of a dick in his hand isn’t so strange that he doesn’t know what to do with it. He slides his hand down again, watching with detached fascination as the foreskin went with it, letting the darkened head peek out from beneath. A gloss of moisture shining at the tip, alien and familiar and he ducks his head down to lick it away before he loses his nerve.
The tang like nothing he’s expected, even though he has tasted himself before on soft, feminine lips. No second-hand taste here, only pure, clean salt, sleek dampness against his tongue and Illya whimpers, his fingers kneading the blankets beneath them desperately. So typical of him that Napoleon can’t help but smile and repeat the tiny little lick, watching him squirm. A low tolerance for pain and pleasure, it would seem, and if his own heart hadn’t been aching in dizzy fear, he would have teased him for it.
Illya is already arching up, rubbing hopefully at the seam of Napoleon’s lips and he can feel more of that dampness on his mouth, slick and inviting. Parting his lips is almost a defense, tilting his head just a little and letting that heavy warmth coax its way inside.
God, it is nothing like he’s expected; harder, stretching his mouth brutally as Illya cups Napoleon’s face in his hands and holds him still, fingertips and cock rudely insistent, ignoring the faint sound of protest hovering at the back of his throat. Nothing more than that, easier to let Illya guide him and all the uncertainties of false virginity are soothed by this, a roadmap to follow into unknown territory.
A few slow, too-deep thrusts before it occurs to him that maybe he should try sucking and does, hard enough to feel pressure behind his eyes and Illya quivers, that universal oh-god-yeah-do-it-again signal and he does, until his jaw aches and his lips are sore and wet with spit, and this is dreadfully messy, would have disgusted him if someone did it to him but Illya doesn’t seem to mind. Indeed, he’s nearly sitting up, almost curled around Napoleon’s head as if afraid he’ll pull away, make some dry, teasing remark and brush it aside.
A reasonable fear; he’s done it before in different circumstances, deliberately misunderstanding a word or gesture but hell, there is no mistaking your cock in someone’s mouth. Too many years of foreplay between them and Napoleon had gotten tired of running, the path of least resistance shifting into surrender and god, he is on his knees, with Illya’s hands at his temples, stroking in obvious encouragement. He wants that touch, somehow, more than he’s expected and at this moment he’d be happy to have Illya rub all over him, mark him somehow with touch or scent and just be claimed by him.
He shies away from the thought before it’s fully formed, nearly jerking back but fingers suddenly clench in his hair, a plea and a warning and suddenly he can’t, he can’t do that, can’t go that far and he pulls off in near terror, feeling strands of hair tear away in Illya’s hands when he shakes them off but it’s already too late, self-preservation kicking in at its usual two minutes too late and there is warm wetness against his face in quick, luxurious spurts. He can feel it dripping slowly down, flicks his tongue out without thinking and yes, it’s harsh, bitter salt though not as unpleasant as he’s expected.
He expects a horrified apology and perhaps Illya would leap from the bed and get him a wet cloth, scrubbing it away himself and leaving nothing but clean, pink skin.
There is only silence and after a moment Napoleon opens his eyes and finds Illya looking at him, something odd and absurdly tender in his eyes.
Slowly, Napoleon raises a hand and touches the wetness on his cheek, already drying into tacky smears and he notices his hand is shaking, fingers trembling against his face as he carefully touches each damp spot.
It occurs to him that he is marked now, in a way that only he would ever be able to see. Marked, yes, claimed, yes, and he’s dimly surprised he’s not whimpering, terror shivering beneath his skin, shifting in sinuous waves down to his bones.
Illya leans up, moving with odd grace to kneel in front of him and Napoleon can’t look at him anymore, bites his tongue and closes his eyes and it’s a wonder the whole bed isn’t shaking beneath them.
The sudden wet touch of warmth against his cheek startles him so much he nearly collapses, tastes a warm blurt of blood as he bites his inner cheek but the next touch is more soothing, less frightening and he sits perfectly still, the tremors fading as Illya carefully licks away every streak of dampness from Napoleon’s cheeks, even the fresh, unfamiliar lines seeping from his eyes, virgin tears.
-finis-
