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bladesandstarsWoke up and had some good writing energy and a fun idea, so I gave in to it. Bdsm implied and to follow, but no nsfw in this one yet:
Étienne's feet are soft on the stone floor. He's not stalking; not menacing; he knows how to do both and this is neither.
It's respect, and a large portion of expectation. There's fresh blood here. He can smell it. Not the massacre they'd made of this place when they visited before—that memory makes Étienne’s lips curve in joy, thinking of the absolute slaughter.
No, this place is quiet now. The blood he smells sings of gratitude, of offering.
Abdirak is bent over his table, cleaning his tools, and doesn't look up as Étienne approaches. But the line of his body and the quirk of his mouth are their own silent welcome.
“I seek your Lady’s grace, once again.” Étienne’s voice is rough, betraying the deep need that brought him here.
Abdirak turns to him and folds his arms across his chest.
“And what do you bring in offering? As I recall, you denied my goddess the sweet song of your suffering last we met. She was…disappointed.” Abdirak’s gaze rolls over Étienne's skin like a possessive touch.
Étienne closes the distance between them, easily; hungrily.
“I thought your goddess would appreciate my fortitude. The sounds I did not allow myself to make; I swallowed them and offered them in sacrifice. But now I know.”
He lets his lips fall open after the last word, lets the longing burn out from his eyes. He asks, silently, for the mercy of a touch before the blessings to come.
Abdirak mutters to himself, “Oh, I am a weak man, goddess forgive me,” and bends to kiss him. It is not gentle.
Étienne thrills to it like the first rush of spring. Teeth clack and scrape, and fingers grab flesh too tightly, bruisingly hard. Perhaps just roughly enough. His hair is pulled; his eyes roll back.
Abdirak bites Étienne's lip hard in benediction. The taste of it in his mouth fills his body with anticipation and desire.
Étienne's feet are soft on the stone floor. He's not stalking; not menacing; he knows how to do both and this is neither.
It's respect, and a large portion of expectation. There's fresh blood here. He can smell it. Not the massacre they'd made of this place when they visited before—that memory makes Étienne’s lips curve in joy, thinking of the absolute slaughter.
No, this place is quiet now. The blood he smells sings of gratitude, of offering.
Abdirak is bent over his table, cleaning his tools, and doesn't look up as Étienne approaches. But the line of his body and the quirk of his mouth are their own silent welcome.
“I seek your Lady’s grace, once again.” Étienne’s voice is rough, betraying the deep need that brought him here.
Abdirak turns to him and folds his arms across his chest.
“And what do you bring in offering? As I recall, you denied my goddess the sweet song of your suffering last we met. She was…disappointed.” Abdirak’s gaze rolls over Étienne's skin like a possessive touch.
Étienne closes the distance between them, easily; hungrily.
“I thought your goddess would appreciate my fortitude. The sounds I did not allow myself to make; I swallowed them and offered them in sacrifice. But now I know.”
He lets his lips fall open after the last word, lets the longing burn out from his eyes. He asks, silently, for the mercy of a touch before the blessings to come.
Abdirak mutters to himself, “Oh, I am a weak man, goddess forgive me,” and bends to kiss him. It is not gentle.
Étienne thrills to it like the first rush of spring. Teeth clack and scrape, and fingers grab flesh too tightly, bruisingly hard. Perhaps just roughly enough. His hair is pulled; his eyes roll back.
Abdirak bites Étienne's lip hard in benediction. The taste of it in his mouth fills his body with anticipation and desire.
