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and put a knife to thy throat

Summary:

When it comes to the matter at hand, Nandor doesn’t tend to actually ask for what he wants—stringing him along until he’s willing to grovel for it is the whole point of the game. And anyways: Guillermo’s vision for the evening involves a Nandor too incoherent to ask for much in the first place.

Just Nandor getting tied up and teased and mouth-fucked. That’s about it.

Notes:

Hi! This is actually the first time I've written real fanfic and published it, which is crazy. I've been in fandom spaces and writing separately for years, but the gay vampire show is what finally got me to put the two together. Hope you enjoy.

Title is from Proverbs 23:2 (KJV)*

*Academically/theologically, the King James Version sucks. However, I cannot be blamed for the fact that it simply sounds sexier (at the expense of being a shitty translation).

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Nandor is the most indignant person Guillermo has ever had the pleasure of knowing. Although he’d never give Nandor the satisfaction of hearing him admit it, that indignation is precisely what makes knowing him a pleasure, at least at times like this. He lets his gaze dwell on the familiar quirk of his heavy brow and gives in to the urge to press a kiss right to the center where his forehead wrinkles. “Adorable,” he observes. Nandor exhales a disbelieving huff from his nose, drawing his eyebrows even closer together. Indignant. Although, in truth, Guillermo has more fun these days with words like “petulant” or “whiny” or, if he’s really in the mood to add fuel to the fire, “bratty." He’ll tuck that one into his pocket for the moment.

“I did not come here to be babied, Guillermo, I came here to be fucked.” Oh, now that’s rich. Guillermo jokingly called him baby girl mid-conversation a few months ago, and if ever there were a time when he would be blushing were he not a vampire, that would have been it. Nandor sits up even straighter on the edge of the mattress, a show of regality, in response to Guillermo’s grin.

“Hmm. I’m not sure I buy that.” He steps closer until his shins brush against the bed frame, forcing Nandor’s knees outward and attention upward. It’s even harder to take his scowl seriously when he has to choose between gazing up through his pretty, dark eyelashes or tilting his head back in a distinctly subservient way. He has chosen the former for the moment. Guillermo places his hands on Nandor’s shoulders, sliding them beneath the comforting weight of his fur-lined cape and over the crisp hemming of his doublet.

“I am a ruthless warrior! And a notorious magnate. And—hmm…” 

“Yes?” Guillermo has begun to dig the tips of his strong fingers into the tender muscles of Nandor’s shoulder.

“And I…” He works his way to the back of the neck, applying steady pressure with his thumbs. Nandor’s perfect posture is eroding. 

“You’re what, baby?” asks Guillermo. Nandor is no longer looking up at him, eyelids shut against the onslaught of endorphins. Not for the first time, Guillermo relishes the knowledge that he (and only he, most likely) knows all of the little buttons that make Nandor the Relentless relent. “Look at me.”

Nandor half-obeys, flaring his nostrils in a telltale display of internal conflict. He opens his eyes but looks straight ahead, seemingly taking great interest in the buttons of Guillermo’s shirt. Asking for it. 

“You know that won’t do,” says Guillermo. He keeps one hand steady on the back of Nandor’s neck and lets the other slide higher, spreading his fingers to comb slowly through his long hair, all the while applying pressure to his scalp in a way that sends shivers down to his tailbone. Seeing as he still has yet to concede, Guillermo curls his fingers into a fist at the back of Nandor’s head. A soft, poorly suppressed gasp, but still no eye contact. Definitely asking for it. Guillermo pulls. 

Nandor makes a sound that starts as a whimper and transitions into a growl as his head is forced back—he is scrambling for the scraps of his warlord dignity. His lip curls up to reveal fangs, but his eyes are, as always, his Achilles heel. They are wide and beautiful and so utterly full of desire that Guillermo feels a pull in his gut to give him anything he ever asks for and fuck, maybe Nandor’s eyes are Guillermo’s Achilles heel. He strengthens his resolve. When it comes to the matter at hand, Nandor doesn’t tend to actually ask for what he wants—stringing him along until he’s willing to grovel for it is the whole point of the game. And anyways: Guillermo’s vision for the evening involves a Nandor too incoherent to ask for much in the first place. 

“That’s better. I want to look at your pretty eyes while I decide what to do with you.”

“Well, I have several suggestions, if you would be so kind as to—” Nandor is once again interrupted before he can complete a full sentence, this time by two fingers pressed against his lips. The hand in his hair hasn’t budged. 

“Hush,” says Guillermo. He reaches into his pocket, figuratively. “Being a brat isn’t going to get you where you want it to, baby.” He lifts his fingers and lets them hover barely an inch from Nandor’s cold lips, giving him room to voice the reply brewing behind his furrowed brow.

“I am not being a brat, I am being…rebellious!”

“So picky with the semantics tonight. And besides—” Guillermo tightens his hold on Nandor’s hair, forcing him to sit up straighter, “—what do you think we do with rebels here, soldier?” He can play with any cards Nandor deals, so long as he gets to see him squirm. And squirm he does at the subordination.

“I—I don’t know, sir.” The words stumble out of his mouth like he couldn’t have prevented the addition of “sir” even if he tried.

“Well, they certainly don’t go to bed feeling satisfied,” Guillermo replies, unable to suppress a small smile at the victory of Nandor addressing him as a superior, especially when he meant "soldier" as a bit of a joke in the first place. “Would you like to come tonight, baby?” he continues.

“Yes, please.” Nandor is adorably breathless. 

“That’s what I thought. Then be smart about how you use that mouth, hm?”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

“Very good.” The fingers that have been hovering by Nandor’s mouth fulfill their silent promise: pushing inside, pressing down on his tongue. “Eyes on me,” Guillermo reminds him, and he obeys without delay, countering his instinct to let them flutter closed. He is rewarded with the slow glide of the fingers across his tongue (in, out, in, out, in, out ) going a bit deeper every time until his top teeth brush against the back of Guillermo’s hand. Guillermo stops with his fingers nestled as far inside as he can get them before bringing his thumb up to rub against the nearest fang. He pushes up Nandor’s top lip to get a better look, and Nandor’s eyes go impossibly wider at the feeling of being appraised like some pretty object Guillermo has just won at an auction.

Guillermo gives him only a few seconds to marinate in the feeling before withdrawing the fingers entirely. Nandor immediately chases after them, single minded in his desire to have them back between his lips. He is stopped, once again, by the steady hold Guillermo maintains on his hair, and a disappointed squeak escapes his throat. 

“It’s hard to take your big, scary vampire glare seriously knowing you’re mad because I stopped finger fucking you,” Guillermo observes. 

“I told you I came here to be fucked, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, suppose you did.” Guillermo finally releases his grip on Nandor’s soft hair, scratching gently at his scalp as a sort of apology. Nandor quite literally purrs at the sensation, a steady rumble emanating from his chest. Always so receptive. Guillermo can’t help but laugh a bit to himself at the extent to which the man in front of him, despite his more-than-six-foot stature and desperately maintained air of self importance, resembles a cat getting scratched behind the ears (although, perhaps the self importance part only contributes to the impression). He experimentally migrates to the same spot on Nandor and the effect is instantaneous—the sound from his chest deepens in pitch and fangs peek out in a contented smile he is clearly trying to repress. 

“What is so funny, Guillermo?” asks Nandor, accusatory. 

“You are. You’re purring like a cat.”

Nandor sputters, positively aghast. “I do not purr!”

“Then what would you call that?” asks Guillermo with one eyebrow raised. 

“I have no idea what you are referring to. And even if I were a cat, it would be on account of my hissing and scratching and biting. Cats can be very fierce animals.”

“If you say so.” Guillermo slides the fingers of one hand into the hair right on top of Nandor’s head, ruffling it back and forth messily. It does wonders for Guillermo’s efforts to thoroughly dishevel the vampire. “My sweet kitty cat. Maybe I should collar you.” He rests one hand casually against the side of Nandor’s neck, thumb caressing his windpipe nonchalantly, reveling in the way he freezes up beneath Guillermo’s touch. “But then—oh…you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Nandor’s mouth opens and shuts several times before he can get his voice to work. “Stop teasing,” he all but spits out. 

“Aw, are you feeling teased?”

“You have done nothing but tease me tonight!”

“Oh, baby. You’ve seen nothing yet. I could do this for hours. And how is it my fault that you're so teasable?” Guillermo isn’t lying about his stamina when it comes to tormenting Nandor. And it’s hard to even feel bad about it when, on top of the fact that Nandor actually loves the attention, Guillermo knows he’s earned the right to be a bit mean. And to get off on it. Because, let’s face it, if years of being deeply in love with the man despite how often he’s been an absolute dick and a huge bitch did something to Guillermo psychosexually, can he really be blamed? He deserves the occasional power trip. It’s reparational. And Nandor certainly isn’t actually complaining.

The vampire seems to have given up on formulating replies, instead focusing dazedly on Guillermo’s fingers as they dip beneath the layers of clothing at his neck to graze the sensitive skin there. 

“Color?” prompts Guillermo. 

“Green. Bright…fucking green,” Nandor breathes out.

Guillermo chuckles quietly and fiddles with a lock of dark hair resting on Nandor’s shoulder. “Good. Would you like to move to the floor like we talked about?”

“Yes, please.” Guillermo leans down to catch Nandor’s mouth in a demanding kiss, using a hand on the back of his neck to guide him off of the bed and to his feet. With both of their feet on the ground, he pulls Nandor down by the front of his cape to keep their tongues in each other’s mouths. Pulling away, he unfastens the cape and walks across the room with it, carefully folding it up and placing it on a dresser to return to Nandor’s closet later. He looks back to where Nandor stands beside the bed with a floaty look on his face, fidgeting absentmindedly with the rings on his fingers. 

“Come take your boots off and sit them over here,” says Guillermo. Nandor almost trips over said boots in his haste to comply. Guillermo unclasps the ornate buckles of his doublet one by one, starting at the top and ending at the bottom with a flirtatious tug at the waist of his trousers. He slides the doublet back over his shoulders and lays it atop the cape before slowly untying the strings at the throat of his linen undershirt, leaving Nandor’s chest and collarbones delightfully vulnerable to kisses. Guillermo indulges in a few close-mouthed pecks before stepping back, hands to himself. “Alright, go and get on your knees for me. I’ll be over in a second.”

Nandor nods, wide-eyed, before the two turn away from one another. Guillermo diverts his attention to the varnished wooden box sitting beside Nandor’s clothes on the dresser—approximately shoebox sized and fastened closed with a bronze latch. He found it in the attic a few days prior and decided that it looked cooler and sexier than the actual shoebox he had planned on. Guillermo opens it up to take unnecessary inventory of its contents. He already knows he hasn’t forgotten anything, but it’s always fun to give Nandor a few more seconds to agonize in anticipatory silence. He can get himself worked up in record time if given the chance.

Guillermo picks up the box, turns to face the bed again, and oh, isn’t that a sight? Nothing about Nandor’s appearance has even changed since he saw him a few seconds ago, but there’s something about seeing him on his knees that Guillermo can never get enough of. He’s a vision of disarray: hair mussed up, undershirt opened to the base of his sternum and untucked from his trousers to hang loosely at his hips. Seeing Nandor in a state of moderate undress is even more erotic than seeing him in no clothes at all, if Guillermo is honest. Full nudity can be the means to an end of a sexual escapade, but in his current compromised position, underdressed and only somewhat indecent, he is so clearly in the process of being taken apart piece by piece (literally and figuratively). It is dazzlingly intimate, like seeing him when he’s sleepy or drunk—except, well, they’re both really horny right now, so Guillermo can only let himself feel sappy for so long. 

Guillermo approaches Nandor where he kneels at the foot of the bed. The vampire faces away from the mattress, back pressed against one of the tall posts of the canopy bed frame, and legs spread slightly so his shins rest against the floor on either side of the post. His hands are behind his back, presumably clutching the wooden bedpost, which Guillermo didn’t even ask him to do. “Look at you, keeping your hands to yourself,” he says with a grin. He places the box on the mattress behind Nandor while planting a kiss atop his head. “So well trained.” 

Nandor instantly tears his hands away from the bedpost and crosses his arms in front of his chest, glaring. “I will put my hands wherever I please, thank you very much!”

“Oh?”

“Yes, ‘Oh.'"

“And where do you please right now?”

Nandor pauses to consider his options. He can tell he is being goaded, but Guillermo can see the gears whirring behind his dark eyes, weighing the pros and cons of acting out of turn and getting put back in his place. “Well…I have been thinking that putting my hand on my dick doesn’t sound too bad.” He reaches down to untie the drawstrings of his trousers as he speaks, all the while gazing up at Guillermo with doe eyes as if to say Look how sweet I am! Pay no attention to the fact that I’m about to jerk myself off. Aren’t I the cutest bloodthirsty creature of the night you’ve ever seen? He is, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Reaching behind Nandor’s head, Guillermo grabs his first selection from the box before bending his knees to squat at about Nandor’s eye level. A coil of dark red rope hangs loosely in his grip, a splash of color against his white button up that Nandor can’t help but follow with his eyes. Guillermo makes no move to stop what Nandor is currently doing with the hand straying beneath his waistline. “Then by all means. If you feel like making yourself extra needy and desperate before I’ve even touched you, that’s your prerogative.” Nandor’s hand stills at his words, and he weighs the benefits of continuing his pursuit of short term gratification. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself in the long run,” Guillermo continues, eyebrows raised gracefully above the frames of his glasses. 

Despite the fact that the prospect of punishment is what tempted Nandor to act out of turn in the first place, he slowly withdraws the hand from inside the front of his trousers. If his inability to tear his gaze away from the rope is any indication, he’s more interested in experiencing it than anything he could do with his own hands. “That’s what I thought,” says Guillermo, unable (and unmotivated) to suppress the smug grin that paints his face with the satisfaction of having Nandor wrapped around his finger. “Wrists please?” It’s said like a question, but it isn’t one.

Nandor lifts his arms towards Guillermo, watching with a combination of lust and fascination as his wrists are wound together several times into a handcuff tie. After tugging the final knot tight, Guillermo returns to his full height, pulling Nandor’s wrists up with him. He holds the long end of the rope, suspending the dead weight of Nandor’s arms. “How does that feel?” Guillermo asks. Nandor nods his head emphatically. “Words, Nandor,” Guillermo prompts.

“It’s good. It’s—yes,” is Nandor’s elegant reply, spoken in a voice that is nearly a whisper. 

“Good.” Guillermo gathers up the long end of the rope from where it snakes upon the rug, deftly tossing the bundle up and over the crossbeam of the canopy bed that rests parallel to the floor. He steps close to Nandor to reach overhead and secure the rope with enough tension to force the vampire's arms to stretch skyward from his kneeling position. Nandor’s head falls back against the bedpost with a thunk as Guillermo’s body presses against his, inhaling pheromones intermingled with laundry detergent on his shirt. He steps back to his position a couple of feet in front of Nandor. “Alright, and how’s that?”

“Still good. More than good.”

“Good,” Guillermo echoes. He places one hand beneath Nandor’s chin to tip his back and focus his hazy eyes upward. “And what do you say?”

Nandor flounders for a moment, blinking while his lust-clouded brain catches up to the request. “Thank you, Guillermo. Sir. For tying me up. For—for putting me where you can use me.”

Guillermo absolutely glows at the shaky words. He runs a hand, warm and deliberate, down Nandor’s cheek to rest at his jaw, and runs the pad of his thumb along Nandor’s lower lip. Nandor once again appears eager to have fingers down his throat, but Guillermo holds out on him a bit longer. “So beautiful. You’re breathtaking like this. You always are, but…” he runs his palms along the sides of Nandor’s up-stretched arms until he reaches his hands. “I love seeing you like this.”

This hiss that escapes Nandor is feeble, no bite to it, as Guillermo pries open the fingers of his right hand. He takes his time removing the large ring on Nandor’s index finger, gently dragging it up and down with a lewd suggestiveness that makes him even antsier on his knees. Finally pulling the ring free, Guillermo repeats his ministrations with the one on the left pinkie finger. After placing the jewelry inside the wooden box, he returns to dig his thumbs into the meat of Nandor’s palms, massaging so as to urge him to let the pull of the rope support his arms rather than maintain the tension in his muscles. 

Ripping his eyes from the picture of eroticism before him, Guillermo drags a chair from across the room to rest in front of Nandor. Perched on the edge of the seat, he’s in the perfect position to bracket Nandor with his knees and press dirty kisses beneath his jaw and down his neck. He only uses enough tooth and tongue to elicit a whine until he reaches the slight dip above a collarbone where he sucks and bites, using his tongue to torment the skin pulled between his teeth. Nandor lets out a sharp cry that Guillermo takes as an invitation to repeat the rough treatment every few inches up his neck until he reaches the sensitive space behind his ear. He knows that Nandor’s body will heal itself before they even leave the bedroom, that his undead blood vessels are already rebuilding themselves, but it’s still nice to imagine him marked up so thoroughly that everyone can see who he belongs to by the wine-dark stains above his modest shirt collars. Kneading the irritated skin with his thumb, Guillermo puts his mouth against Nandor’s. There is no preamble before their tongues are pressing and sliding together, and Nandor makes a noise of abject relief like that of a starving man at a feast. Guillermo uses the kiss to take a moment to consider his next move before sitting back in the chair to look Nandor up and down, calculating, elbow on an armrest and chin on his knuckles.

“Please…” says Nandor, eyes still half closed, straining forward against the rope suspending his arms. If he were human, Guillermo would already be worried about the circulation in his hands; vampirism continues to yield unexpected benefits.

“Please what?”

“Please…” Guillermo hears his throat click as he swallows heavily, “Please use my mouth again.”

“Use your mouth for what, baby?” It's an unnecessary question—Guillermo has several ideas.

“Anything.”

Guillermo pretends to consider Nandor’s request as if for the first time. “Well, since you did ask so nicely, I suppose I’ll see what I can do.” He takes a moment to roll his white shirt sleeves up beneath the elbow (Nandor is panting and staring hungrily) before reaching for the box once again, bringing it to rest in his lap with the open lid blocking Nandor’s view while he rummages inside. Making up his mind, he retrieves one of his black leather gloves. He makes more of a show than is strictly necessary of pulling on the glove, giving it a tug at the wrist with his fingers outstretched, and then repeating with the other hand. 

Nandor groans like a cranky little kid, once again letting his head fall heavily against the wooden post behind him. “Guillermo,” he whines (dragging out the o in that way he does that instills Guillermo with the opposing urges to roll his eyes and give Nandor the entire world), “You’re fucking killing me. Enough with the sexiness unless you’re actually going to touch me.” He punctuates the plea with a small pout.

Guillermo quickly stretches his left hand out to rest on Nandor’s jaw, and he doesn’t have to say a thing before Nandor’s mouth is falling open, inviting his thumb to dip inside and hook behind his bottom teeth. “Hush. I’m done with the complaining. You’re lucky I want to see your mouth fucked as much as you do, but you need to learn some fucking patience.” Nandor’s wide eyes stutter closed, and Guillermo slides his gloved thumb out to rest on his bottom lip. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Guillermo’s thumb reclaims its hold on his jaw, and he uses it to hold Nandor still while he places the box on the floor, bringing something shiny with him as he sits back up. He sees Nandor’s wandering eyes open further in recognition of the silver dagger in Guillermo’s grip, and that split second is the only warning Nandor gets before the business end of the knife is pressed threateningly to the exposed skin just below his beard. He squirms and lets out a pained cry at the preternatural burn of the silver blade, but Guillermo’s hold on his jaw is unyielding. He forces himself to stand still on his knees, muscles stiff like an animal caught in a snare (maybe that’s just what he is). 

Pleased at his docility, Guillermo finally removes the sleek blade from Nandor’s throat. Sitting back, he tosses the dagger into the air for half of a rotation, catching the silver blade in his leather-protected grip. Nandor’s eyes follow the motion and the candlelight it reflects as though hypnotized. The hilt of the dagger is made of polished hematoid quartz with a thin strand of silver coiled around the grip, and the pommel, Nandor notes as Guillmero drags it gently down his chest, is definitely silver as well. 

“Do you still want to use your mouth for me?”

Nandor nods with as much enthusiasm as he can manage with Guillermo holding his head in place.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now open up,” Guillermo replies, enforcing the command as he gives it. He raises the dagger slowly and God, Nandor is the loveliest picture of debauchery he has ever laid eyes on (and that means something, coming from him, what with the orgies and such). He pushes the pommel of the dagger across the top of his thumb in Nandor’s mouth and doesn’t hold back his smile at the absolutely sinful sound the vampire makes as it hits his tongue. Nandor pants frenziedly—especially for someone who doesn’t need to breathe in the first place—and whines sharply with each exhale. 

Seeing no signs that he is actually disinclined to continue (a whining Nandor tends to be a happy Nandor, in a roundabout, masochistic way), Guillermo pushes the smooth pommel of the knife to slide deeper into Nandor’s mouth. He chose this dagger of Nandor’s, out of all of the who-knows-how-many knives in the house, specifically for its fitness for the task at hand. The sleek hilt means no sharp protrusions to dig into the roof of Nandor’s mouth, and—well. He knew the silver-laced quartz of the grip would result in the perfect alternation of pleasure-pain on the tongue: a maddening back-and-forth of burning and blissful reprieve from the unholy heat. 

“Oh, look at you,” says Guillermo. The hilt of the dagger settles in as far as it will go, and he takes a cruel second to admire how Nandor looks like this: eyes wet and beseeching, hands strung up like a martyr, throat fucked with what should be the harmless end of his own weapon while Guillermo painlessly holds the blade. Mercifully, Guillermo drags the dagger all the way back out of his mouth, leaving him gasping in its absence. “Can you handle a bit more of this?” Guillermo asks. 

Nandor nods. Guillermo raises an eyebrow, reminding him to speak. “Yes. I can do it. I want it.”

“Good boy. Only a bit longer with the knife and then we’ll switch to something with less bite.” He returns the dagger to Nandor’s mouth and repeats the process of pushing inside until the silver cross-guard bumps against the corners of his mouth before pulling out entirely. This otherwise gentle movement turned torment by the metallic accents of the hilt repeats as Guillermo mutters sweet and dirty things by Nandor’s ear. In— You are the most gorgeous thing I have ever laid eyes on—out—I love knowing that you’ll never see this knife the same way again—in—Does it hurt? Aw—out—Your pretty throat takes it so well—in—I love seeing you cry for me—out. 

He sets the dagger aside and releases his hold on Nandor’s chin to cradle his face tenderly, thumbs massaging the aching muscles beneath his temples. He lightly kisses the damp trail on Nandor’s cheek left by the tear that prompted him to shift gears. “How are you doing?”

Nandor’s smile is soft and lopsided, his eyes closed contentedly. “Oh, I’m okay-ay,” he mutters (Guillermo snorts), “Don’t worry about me. That is not sad crying. Still in the green, definitely.”

“How are the burns?”

“Mmm. It is a bit tender in there, but nothing crazy. I think the mouth is healing faster than outside.”

“Huh. Magical vampire saliva, I guess?”

“Hmm.”

“You good to keep going? Without the knife.”

“Yes, please.”

“I love when you say please.”

“And you love to give me what I want when I say please.” Nandor’s little smile has turned into a smirk, as if admitting to the fact that Guillermo has successfully conditioned him to beg during sex makes Nandor the master manipulator here (pun intended). 

Guillermo rolls his eyes. “Alright, that’s enough out of you.” Two gloved fingers, vaguely salty with his own tears, are thrust into Nandor’s mouth. The gentle reverence with which Guillermo handled the dagger leaves him; with his other hand on the back of Nandor’s head, he pumps his fingers in and out (but never all the way out) relentlessly. It isn't a show of animalistic abandon, but rather one of focused determination to bring Nandor to ruin (and oh, is he deliciously ruined). 

Guillermo stills his fingers while they sit in Nandor’s throat. “Suck,” he commands, maintaining intense eye contact. Nandor is quick to comply. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to keep doing this until you’ve gotten my hand nice and wet for me. Then, I’m going to use your spit to get myself off while you watch. And if you’re really good for me, then maybe you’ll have your turn as well. Do you understand?” Nandor nods around Guillermo’s fingers, brows drawn together in a way that creates the illusion of pouting even with his lips otherwise occupied. “Good,” replies Guillermo. He halts the driving motion of his fingers, pressing down on Nandor’s tongue to create a pool of saliva beneath his glove. He pulls out with a scooping motion behind the vampire’s bottom teeth that leaves spit dripping down his fingers and onto his palm. He drags a fingertip up through a trail of wetness spilling from the corner of Nandor’s mouth before curling his hand into a fist and rubbing to distribute things more evenly between the fingers and palm of the glove.

“Use your tongue, baby,” Guillermo commands, holding his hand up to Nandor’s glistening lips. Nandor eagerly laps at the leather covering his palm, compelled as if by hypnosis. Deciding he can’t stand to drag things out any longer, Guillermo uses his dry hand to work his fly open and take himself out of his underwear. He takes away the hand from Nandor’s tongue and turns his palm upwards. 

“Spit,” says Guillermo.

Nandor spits. He follows Guillermo’s wet hand with heavy eyes as it leaves his mouth and lowers to his partner’s lap. Guillermo drinks in the want pouring off of him, intoxicated with the combination of Nandor’s yearning and the feeling of his own gloved hand slowly stroking up and down his length. He settles back more deeply in the armchair, legs spread wide to give the man in front of him an unavoidable view of everything he desired but wasn’t allowed to have. “Oh, baby,” Guillermo groans. “ Nandor. You’re so pretty when you’re a mess like this.”

Nandor whines. He really is pouting now.

“So fucking needy. All helpless with your hands tied up. I love seeing your hips move like that.”

"Fuck,” mutters Nandor, pausing the futile efforts of his hips to find friction in the open air.

“You’re so worked up without me even touching you.”

“Fucking—touch me, then.”

“Uh-uh-uh. Watch it. You know what I said,” Guillermo admonishes. What he doesn’t say is that he probably doesn’t have it in him to actually deny Nandor all night. Not when he looks like that, sounds like that, feels like that with his spit slicking up the leather that Guillermo touches himself with.

“I’m sorry,” Nandor whimpers. He digs his fangs harshly into his lower lip, seemingly grounding himself with the pain as he gazes longingly at the motions of Guillermo’s hand. He stares while taking deep, superfluous breaths through his nose, the scent of Guillermo’s arousal sabotaging his ability to tamp down his own. “If you…um,” Nandor tips his head back to look at the ceiling as if pleading for strength from the God he has been severed from. “If you want—”

“Look at me when you speak.”

Nandor wrenches his head back up and struggles to begin speaking again, fumbling the words; eloquence and eye contact are mutually exclusive.

“If I want…?” prompts Guillermo, indulging in a small smile. 

“You can finish on me. If you’d like to,” says Nandor in a broken whisper. “Please,” he amends. Guillermo almost has no choice but to take him up on the offer immediately—how Nandor manages to say something so dirty and look so delectably sinful while saying it and yet still come across as absolutely adorable is beyond Guillermo, but it’s certainly doing a lot for him (understatement of the millennium).

“Hmm,” Guillermo begins, stroking himself slowly and trying his damnedest to steer his own voice away from high pitched neediness. “As much as I love the idea of making you look like even more of a whore than you already do, I was planning on using your pretty mouth one last time.”

“Yes,” Nandor responds almost instantly, “Yes, please.” 

Guillermo huffs out a laugh at his eagerness and stands (on legs that do not shake even a bit, thank you very much), uncaringly scooting the chair back with one foot. Nandor already has his mouth open and tongue out, waiting for him. He looks up at Guillermo through his eyelashes with such hunger to please, such adoration, such reverence that it feels simultaneously divine and blasphemous to chase pleasure in his perfect mouth. Either way, it is undoubtedly sacramental, and Guillermo doesn’t hold back. With one hand on the back of Nandor’s head to guide his thrusts, he slides the other up to clutch at his wrists in their bindings. His hold has little real effect on Nandor’s mobility, but the suggestion of exerting extra power over him is still as thrilling as ever. He tries to push aside thoughts of St. Sebastian, trussed up shot full of arrows for the crime of devotion, enduring his martyrdom with near ecstatic resolution. Nandor moans as if he can feel the sting of Guillermo’s ecclesiastical musings upon his tongue.

The sound pulls Guillermo back into the present, and he decides to be merciful. He shifts his weight to stand with one leg pushed forward between Nandor’s legs, foot against the wooden bedpost. Nandor is pinned between Guillermo and the post, and he whimpers around Guillermo’s cock at the long awaited pressure between his thighs. “Go on, baby,” says Guillermo. “Fuck yourself on my leg. I know how badly you need it.” With the first grind of his hips against his partner’s knee, Nandor’s eyes drift closed, and Guillermo watches him lose himself in the combined sensations of his mouth and groin. 

“Good, good,” Guillermo chants. “You’re perfect. You feel so good.” He breathes deeply for several seconds. “Will you swallow for me, baby?”

Nandor’s eyes fly open, and he makes a sound that is undoubtedly one of assent. 

“Good,” Guillermo repeats. He moves the hand at Nandor’s wrists to clutch at the bedpost, steadying himself to release down Nandor’s throat. As the pleasure climbing in his gut reaches a crescendo, he stands still with Nandor’s nose pressed above his pelvis. Words like euphoric and rapturous and sublime float through his bliss-painted consciousness as he comes back down, shifting back enough to pull out of Nandor’s mouth but not enough to deprive him of the leg he’s grinding against. As soon as his mouth is free, the kneeling man opens his jaw and sticks out his tongue, demonstrating that he swallowed obediently. He turns his shadowy, tearful eyes up to Guillermo’s face and continues rolling his hips between the bedpost and the knee pinning him against it.

“Fuck,” Guillermo sighs, hands framing Nandor’s face, thumbs gently brushing his cheeks. He beams down at him in awe. "Dios mío–eres hermoso, Nandor.”

Nandor snaps his jaw shut to hiss through his teeth at the blessed utterance, but he grows all the more frantic in his pursuit of satisfaction as the word crackles on his skin. His brows are drawn together with a wrinkle between them—a symbol of desperation scrawled upon his forehead like palm ashes. His breath falls out of his lungs as a ragged, fragmented thing, and Guillermo finger-combs the dusky mess of his hair as though to rebuild him through tenderness. Nandor squirms against him insistently. “Please. Please, can I—”

“Yes, baby,” Guillermo replies, pressing his leg even harder into the mounting heat between Nandor’s legs. Nandor lets out a bruised sob of relief as his body finally reaches absolution, faltering in his exertions before slumping against the bedpost and letting the rope hold his weight. 

Euphoric—rapturous—sublime. 

“Baby, baby, baby,” murmurs Guillermo, bending to kiss Nandor on his now smooth forehead. "Mi vida, you are wonderful.” Turning his head, he trails kisses up the insides of Nandors arms through the linen still covering them. “Can I untie you?”

Nandor nods wearily. His eyes are closed but the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

“How are you doing?” Guillermo asks as he peels off his gloves and tosses them aside before loosening the bindings. 

The vampire blinks sleepily, gratified. He’s purring again, fangs on display, and he gives Guillermo double thumbs up while the rope slides from his wrists to a haphazard pile in the box (it will get coiled up neatly later). 

Guillermo laughs fondly as he lowers Nandor’s limp arms, gently supporting their weight and pressing a kiss to the inside of each wrist. His thumbs rub delicately at the chafing and indentations he knows will fade before long. “Sounds good. Let’s get you onto the bed, okay?” He steps back, giving Nandor enough space to rise to his feet just as much as he needs to in order to collapse heavily onto the mattress. Nandor stretches his newly liberated limbs thoroughly and with zeal, wiggling across the covers in the process to orient his head on the pillows. Little cat, Guillermo thinks once again. Laying on his side and facing the man still standing beside the bed, Nandor throws his arms out to make repetitive grabbing motions with his hands. “Guillermo. Your presence is requested on the bed, please.”

“Don’t you want me to get you some clean pants?” Guillermo asks, drifting towards Nandor despite his words.

Nandor considers this. His arms flop back onto the covers. “I suppose I am a bit sticky. Now that you mention it.”

Guillermo picks one of Nandor’s hands up from the duvet and kisses his knuckles. “That’s what I thought. What would you do without me?” he teases.

“Well, you are the one to blame for my stickiness, really—Mr. Sexy Slayer Gloves and shit.” Nandor’s brow furrows as if he is making quite a serious accusation. 

“Oh, my apologies,” Guillermo grins. “I’ll keep that in mind and just not let you come next time.”

“Hey, hey! I didn’t say that. Yeesh.”

“You walked right into that one.”

“I will not be walking anywhere at the moment, actually.” Nandor burrows his head further into the pile of pillows at the headboard. 

“No, you won’t. I’ll be right back, I promise.” Guillermo presses another ardent kiss to the back of his hand before leaving the room. 

Notes:

Anyways, I hope this is a valuable contribution to the bottom/sub/meow meow Nandor movement.

Come and say hi to me on tumblr here!: @nutmeg-cider