Perhaps there had been some tilt of his head, some slackening of his grip upon Kiku’s fingers, or some other such betrayal by his body, for Kiku leans in to claim his throat then, muttering “Ah, but you promised.” He must have directed Alfred somehow, too, because Alfred lays his mouth where neck meets shoulder and Kiku cradles his skull with the hand not on Herakles’ thigh. Herakles breathes the both of them in –steel and sweat and chrysanthemum and columbine— and feels them breathing against him. He lets his head loll back, and simply breathes in time to the rise and fall of stomach and breast.
“Is that better?” Alfred asks.
Much better. He threads his fingers through Alfred’s hair. It really isn’t like Kiku’s hair at all— whereas his is coarse (no rougher than his own, all things being fair), Kiku’s is much softer and smoother by far. This isn’t to say that it’s an unpleasant sensation, simply a different one. Kiku’s hair does not catch on his callouses like so.
And whereas Alfred is diligent and eager to please, Kiku is assured of his self, and calm. Collected, calm, and exquisite. When Kiku is certain of how he wishes to arrange the scene, he guides Herakles’ hands to the headboard, folding them carefully into place with his own so that Herakles is on his knees and facing the wall. Herakles regrets not pressing their bodies close together when he could, for he aches now to feel him. Perhaps he could have held Kiku atop him, or they could have lain belly-to-belly –no, heart-to-breast— as they stroked each other to slow orgasm. He could have drawn Kiku’s fingers into his mouth once more to suck them clean. Like this, he would have to twist his arm to so much as brush Kiku’s face.
“I wanted to touch you,” he says, not looking up, for this is how he has been instructed to hold his head.
Kiku presses a single kiss, a calm and exquisite kiss, to the small of his back and promises him, “It will be fine. I am here.” And then he is gone.
Herakles believes him still.
Kiku directs Alfred to lie on his back, with his head between Herakles’ legs, and to take him in his mouth as best he can. He can, somewhat, and Herakles rocks his hips to meet him halfway, inhaling sharply when Alfred suddenly swallows around him. Alfred swallows again, and his vision flashes white, then gold, then scarlet, and he has to steel himself so that he does not come right then and there. Kiku has not returned to him yet, after all, and they will not be doing this alone.
Kiku does return, though, as soon as he is satisfied with the workings of things, and he trails ghostly-soft kisses down Herakles spine from skull to base, and Herakles shudders as the sensation sets his neurons alight disc by lovely disc. Kiku takes pause, at last, at the small of his back once more, and he breaks away to rifle through the clothing on the floor. When he returns, a few soft clicks and some humming later, his fingers are warm and slick, and they press against him for permission.
On the Shore, cont' [9/12]
“Is that better?” Alfred asks.
Much better. He threads his fingers through Alfred’s hair. It really isn’t like Kiku’s hair at all— whereas his is coarse (no rougher than his own, all things being fair), Kiku’s is much softer and smoother by far. This isn’t to say that it’s an unpleasant sensation, simply a different one. Kiku’s hair does not catch on his callouses like so.
And whereas Alfred is diligent and eager to please, Kiku is assured of his self, and calm. Collected, calm, and exquisite. When Kiku is certain of how he wishes to arrange the scene, he guides Herakles’ hands to the headboard, folding them carefully into place with his own so that Herakles is on his knees and facing the wall. Herakles regrets not pressing their bodies close together when he could, for he aches now to feel him. Perhaps he could have held Kiku atop him, or they could have lain belly-to-belly –no, heart-to-breast— as they stroked each other to slow orgasm. He could have drawn Kiku’s fingers into his mouth once more to suck them clean. Like this, he would have to twist his arm to so much as brush Kiku’s face.
“I wanted to touch you,” he says, not looking up, for this is how he has been instructed to hold his head.
Kiku presses a single kiss, a calm and exquisite kiss, to the small of his back and promises him, “It will be fine. I am here.” And then he is gone.
Herakles believes him still.
Kiku directs Alfred to lie on his back, with his head between Herakles’ legs, and to take him in his mouth as best he can. He can, somewhat, and Herakles rocks his hips to meet him halfway, inhaling sharply when Alfred suddenly swallows around him. Alfred swallows again, and his vision flashes white, then gold, then scarlet, and he has to steel himself so that he does not come right then and there. Kiku has not returned to him yet, after all, and they will not be doing this alone.
Kiku does return, though, as soon as he is satisfied with the workings of things, and he trails ghostly-soft kisses down Herakles spine from skull to base, and Herakles shudders as the sensation sets his neurons alight disc by lovely disc. Kiku takes pause, at last, at the small of his back once more, and he breaks away to rifle through the clothing on the floor. When he returns, a few soft clicks and some humming later, his fingers are warm and slick, and they press against him for permission.