yes hi hello I am back, I did not forget about this, real life just got in the way /o\ _________________________________
“What’s the point of having you down there where I can’t reach.” Molly whines, petulant, turning his face further into the touch; feels his neckline finally lose its battle with gravity and expose a shoulder and collarbone, lets it.
The touch on his cheek, barely there but as compelling as if he’d been bound, guiding gently backwards until thigh met table, and Molly lets the touch keep bending him backwards, splayed out and exposed on the dark, gleaming wood.
“Lovely,” the Lord de Rolo murmurs, a low rumble Molly feels more than hears, chasing aching echoes of frustration across his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. The Lord de Rolo leans over him, boxing him in, and Molly whines louder, exposes his throat. The Lord puts his hand there, over the ink, and Molly swallows just to feel the pressure against his windpipe and for the darkening of the eyes it elicits.
“Someone likes to put on a show, I see,” the Lord drawls, with dangerous, promising amusement. He leans down, closer, whispers: “There was something else.”
Molly opens his mouth to ask what, but the Lord de Rolo is kissing him, overwhelming; it is all Molly can do hold on, not that’s it hard - holding on is exactly what he wants to do, anyway. Hold on and roll his hips up into the knee suddenly between his, the hot broad heat. Clutches at clothes, hair, hips; drags him closer.
The Lord, though, pulls back; Molly’s wrists pinned, panting and mussed, needy twitches into empty air. “They called me…” the knee, again, eagerly used, removed; “no mercy Percy.”
Again and again; knee, beg, removed, knee again. The best kind of torture, set ablaze, burning up from the inside. Kisses, too; long, cool drinks of water, banking the flames but never too high, riding the edge of total combustion.
Always one hand on his wrists; Molly wouldn’t move them, couldn’t, held by something infinitely heavier than a hand. But - but it’s good, solid, an anchor when the rest of the world is falling away, just Molly’s body and the frustrated pleasure.
And Molly knows how to do this; how to beg, how to twist, when to whine and strain and coax, knows exactly how long his legs are and how pretty he is when he blushes, sharp canines driven into a lower lip. But - but -
“That’s it,” the Lord de Rolo - Percy - purrs, when Molly forgets to beg and lapses into infernal; when he stops testing Percy’s grip just to feel the squeeze and gives into it, drooling too much to smirk, tears gathering helplessly on his cheeks, chest shuddering.
It isn’t pretty, but this time Percy doesn’t move, and the flames bank higher and higher - raging, until they eat through his skin and out, burning him up. He comes back down still whimpering, twitching; tail wrapped around a bicep, spade-tip resting against a throat, tight. A soft chuckle; murmured noises, affectionate and warm. A hand briefly in his hair, and then his wrists are free; gentle fingers over the delicate joints, easing non existent stiffness.
Warm cloth around his shoulders, gentle movement, something solid and supportive under him and something cool to drink. Slowly the warm haze fades; just himself, sitting in the chair, clutching a tankard, Percy’s coat around his shoulders; shirt back into place. He laughs; the Lord de Rolo laughs too, eyes crinkling at the corners, crinkling like laughter is a good friend to this man.
“Clever fingers indeed,” Molly quips; his voice is rough, and Percy’s grin is sharp and pleased.
“So I’ve been told.”
Molly laughs, again, unwinds his tail from around Percy, who glances at it and blushes; what if, whispers a voice, but there isn’t time for what ifs. Onwards, always - something else waits for him on the open road, in the next village, as intoxicating as that blush promises to be.
Still - there is one thing. Molly really does like being put on his knees. He curls a leg around Percy’s, blinks up through his eyelashes.
“Want a hand with that?”
“Oh, yes.” That flush, again, for all the eye contact doesn’t waver. How darling. “But that’s for the Mistress to decide.” There’s all kinds in that tone; pride, smugness, shyness, sheer and almost painful love.
And heat. And a promise, maybe, in the tilt of a hip, and - fuck. Gustav will just have to do the circus without the Terrible Tinkerer for a night or two.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: FILL: 'can almost taste the gunmetal', Mollymauk/Percy, M, 2/2
Date: 2019-01-20 03:47 am (UTC)_________________________________
“What’s the point of having you down there where I can’t reach.” Molly whines, petulant, turning his face further into the touch; feels his neckline finally lose its battle with gravity and expose a shoulder and collarbone, lets it.
The touch on his cheek, barely there but as compelling as if he’d been bound, guiding gently backwards until thigh met table, and Molly lets the touch keep bending him backwards, splayed out and exposed on the dark, gleaming wood.
“Lovely,” the Lord de Rolo murmurs, a low rumble Molly feels more than hears, chasing aching echoes of frustration across his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. The Lord de Rolo leans over him, boxing him in, and Molly whines louder, exposes his throat. The Lord puts his hand there, over the ink, and Molly swallows just to feel the pressure against his windpipe and for the darkening of the eyes it elicits.
“Someone likes to put on a show, I see,” the Lord drawls, with dangerous, promising amusement. He leans down, closer, whispers: “There was something else.”
Molly opens his mouth to ask what, but the Lord de Rolo is kissing him, overwhelming; it is all Molly can do hold on, not that’s it hard - holding on is exactly what he wants to do, anyway. Hold on and roll his hips up into the knee suddenly between his, the hot broad heat. Clutches at clothes, hair, hips; drags him closer.
The Lord, though, pulls back; Molly’s wrists pinned, panting and mussed, needy twitches into empty air. “They called me…” the knee, again, eagerly used, removed; “no mercy Percy.”
Again and again; knee, beg, removed, knee again. The best kind of torture, set ablaze, burning up from the inside. Kisses, too; long, cool drinks of water, banking the flames but never too high, riding the edge of total combustion.
Always one hand on his wrists; Molly wouldn’t move them, couldn’t, held by something infinitely heavier than a hand. But - but it’s good, solid, an anchor when the rest of the world is falling away, just Molly’s body and the frustrated pleasure.
And Molly knows how to do this; how to beg, how to twist, when to whine and strain and coax, knows exactly how long his legs are and how pretty he is when he blushes, sharp canines driven into a lower lip. But - but -
“That’s it,” the Lord de Rolo - Percy - purrs, when Molly forgets to beg and lapses into infernal; when he stops testing Percy’s grip just to feel the squeeze and gives into it, drooling too much to smirk, tears gathering helplessly on his cheeks, chest shuddering.
It isn’t pretty, but this time Percy doesn’t move, and the flames bank higher and higher - raging, until they eat through his skin and out, burning him up.
He comes back down still whimpering, twitching; tail wrapped around a bicep, spade-tip resting against a throat, tight. A soft chuckle; murmured noises, affectionate and warm. A hand briefly in his hair, and then his wrists are free; gentle fingers over the delicate joints, easing non existent stiffness.
Warm cloth around his shoulders, gentle movement, something solid and supportive under him and something cool to drink. Slowly the warm haze fades; just himself, sitting in the chair, clutching a tankard, Percy’s coat around his shoulders; shirt back into place. He laughs; the Lord de Rolo laughs too, eyes crinkling at the corners, crinkling like laughter is a good friend to this man.
“Clever fingers indeed,” Molly quips; his voice is rough, and Percy’s grin is sharp and pleased.
“So I’ve been told.”
Molly laughs, again, unwinds his tail from around Percy, who glances at it and blushes; what if, whispers a voice, but there isn’t time for what ifs. Onwards, always - something else waits for him on the open road, in the next village, as intoxicating as that blush promises to be.
Still - there is one thing. Molly really does like being put on his knees. He curls a leg around Percy’s, blinks up through his eyelashes.
“Want a hand with that?”
“Oh, yes.” That flush, again, for all the eye contact doesn’t waver. How darling. “But that’s for the Mistress to decide.” There’s all kinds in that tone; pride, smugness, shyness, sheer and almost painful love.
And heat. And a promise, maybe, in the tilt of a hip, and - fuck. Gustav will just have to do the circus without the Terrible Tinkerer for a night or two.