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Aesop delights him with a giggle one afternoon - a boyish grin crossing his usually solemn features, and Victor cannot hide his delight for it. Despite how it pulls upon his lips, Victor grins in lue. It is so rare that Aesop smiles, even in their private company, it is usually no more than a lilt of his lips, and then it is cast to the wind.
His smile is much like a secret. Something only Victor can see. Pressed against his ear, sometimes he does not feel it at all, rather, he feels the joyous spread of lips against his nape, hidden and shy from intrusive onlookers. Then, on the curl of his knuckles. Aesop dotes upon him as if Victor is no more than a pet, in need of constant attentions. It is not as if he minds. Nay, he will never even complain of such - this, too, is far from complaint. Rather, it is a type of longing. His smile had come and gone, Aesop's short stature disappearing round a corner. The soft patter of his feet says he has escaped to the crafts room, and Victor yearns to follow after. That is not why he is here today, however. They share a book, title obscure to Victor, but much beloved to his partner… and Victor strays near fifty pages from where he is meant to be. It is not so much that he dislikes the book, nor that he is a slow reader, but rather the way Aesop keeps skirting about him. He has always disliked being slothful. Always on his feet, needing to be busy, Victor listens to a clattering in the far off room and worries that he has gone off reaching for the top shelves again. Some of it is not so anxious, each time he passes by, he presses a kiss to the top of his head - a delighted pleasure he takes, for it is not so often that he can reach it. And then, when he passes again, he presses lower, or in a new way entirely. Victor might even say he was being… clingy? He stops by once more, a tea set placed to his left, and a hand rests on his shoulder. Aesop idles by, rubbing across the muscle, toying with the ends of his hair, and should Victor look up, he knows Aesop’s eyes would be scanning his book to ensure he had moved on. Two pages, to be exact, and he is rewarded with the soft press of lips against his nape. Victor should not say he minds, but in fact, he does. He is increasingly mindful of Aesop’s toying, whether the other realizes it or not. Whether he feels the soft shivering of his neck in response, he knows not. He sets his own reading aside, for Aesop has not moved. It’s not as if he’s been paying it mind either way, for he’s re-read the last paragraph he was on for near the third time. Curious, he wonders what it is that has set him off like this. Aesop's grin truly is a rare sight.
“Victor. You’ve put down your book.”
With the slow draw of fingers, he signs out a few insinuating words, “If only I could concentrate.”
Briefly, his hands shy away, tense in the way Victor knows he’s misinterpreted his tone. And, yet, his hands return of his own accord. Fingers rub across a knot in his neck, and he lets out a great sigh at the pressure. “Do you dislike it? Distracting as it may be.”
“No. But if you wish me to finish this book, I would advise you to step away.” Thumbs press deep into his skull, far from harsh, far from naive. A kiss ghosts his ear. He half forgets how to sign for a moment, then questions if Aesop is even paying mind to the movement of his hands. “Aesop. My mind will leave the book entirely.”
A soft giggle dotes his ear. Tea-sweet breath glazing over his face. The weight of his chest on his back. His hands loose around his neck. Victor is consumed by him - as any should be. Aesop was unlike any he had met before. Daringly open, yet far from brash. That confidence had slowly leaked into Victor’s own chest… but this was one thing they had never quite crossed. They remained in separate bedrooms - confined to the word roommate, rather than lovers, to anyone but themselves - with separate baths, and separate changing rooms. Victor had hardly seen the dip of Aesop’s collarbone before, and here he stood, devilish and flirting, while he was meant to be reading. “A shame,” he hums, as if he had not spent the morning convincing him to play catch up, “should we retire for the evening, then?” If there is a quiver in his voice, he hides it exceptionally well, deep in the curls of Victor’s hair. They both know what the other means, and still, Victor cannot help but turn around, disbelief struck on his face. Aesop’s face is a light pink. Victor’s surely must be red. They stare at each other a long moment, eyes conversing in a way the rest of their body cannot. When Aesop glances away, Victor climbs far enough into the chair to catch him. His hand is gentle on the side of his face, turning him ever so slightly. Turning Aesop to himself , into his face, into his lips. He kisses Aesop as he always does - and as he never has before. Aesop leans into the couch, possibly happy, for once, that Victor does not loom over him, unreachable. He takes advantage of his closeness. A hand wraps around his shoulder, another to his face. They kiss gently, yet desperately. Even when the other separates for a quick breath, their lips do not stray far. A freckle on the cheekbone. A mole hidden in the neck. Aesop's lips are full against his own, bowed like a present only he may partake in, and he cannot get enough. His own hands find themselves in the soft of his waist. He kneads and gropes, hands roaming everywhere he had forever been too shy to hold tightly. The curve of his stomach, the arch of his lower back, the breadth of his shoulders.
Aesop makes the most dulcet of noises. It vibrates up the side of his face, where his lips have made their home. It surely must shatter whatever is left in his mind, for he pulls away - if only slightly, no more than a few inches - to look at his face. Together, they are breathless and pink. Lips swollen and eyebrows aghast. Aesop’s face flickers with confusion, if only momentarily, and Victor shakes his head, hands furthering their grip on his waist. It is only once he is sure he has Aesop’s eyes on him, that he casts his own gaze away, and towards the hallway.
“Right… I suppose it would be inappropriate to do such things here.” The pink on his face grows an unbearable red, and Victor must do his best to hold in his laugh. A gentle kiss to the man’s forehead does enough to ward it off. “You would not mind if we used your room?”
Nodding his head, all too aware of how Aesop prefers his space neat, he stands and guides them away. Aesop clings onto his arm, head lovingly sat upon his shoulder, and Victor nearly tips them both sideways by leaning to kiss the bloom of his scalp. Giggling, the both of them stumble into the warm light of Victor’s room. A few layers of clothing lay strewn about his floor, much to his dismay, along with letters and a variety of Wick’s toys. He regrets not having minded his cleaning duties sooner. They typically reserve Sunday’s for tearing apart the house - for the intensity in which Aesop cleans is not to be scoffed at, and Victor does his best to reserve his energy for the day. They both had been, spending this day lazing about the house; now Victor worries for their morning energy. The worry does not addle his brain for long, since Aesop’s hands pull him down, and he quickly finds the man's lips once more. They intertwined as if it was the way they were born. Easily, perfect, a completion of missing pieces. Aesop curls into the gape of his bent spine, and Victor thinks of how he would wish for no other. Should Aesop ask for his heart, surely he would deliver. Beating and bloody, and entirely his. This is the great sacrifice Victor would grant him - only at a softly spoken behest. His hands brush along the curls of the other man's hair, brushing back the locks from his face, and replacing them with something more favorable. Thumbs brush across Aesop’s cheek, and his fingers wrap behind his ears. In the thrum of his heartbeat, he knows that Aesop should not mind if they never part. Bare hands find the underside of Victor’s shirt as they kiss, skin grazing skin, and he cannot bear the overwhelming excitement it brings him. The flat of Aesop’s palm trails up his sides, over ribs, and sensitive nerves alike. He does not lighten his curiosity, rather, distracts him with his kiss, for Aesop trails over the underside of his chest, and his entire body recoils with a shiver. Aesop blinks at him once they part, hands hesitant around his waist.
“I apologize… I must have gotten ahead of myself.” Aesop’s head is raised to reach his eyes, worry predominately plastered all over it. To his brow, to his pouting lips. Victor kisses him once, overwhelmed in his own right, before pulling away with a huff of air. His hand finds Aesop’s, and gently, he brings it back to his chest, to the epicenter of his being. Aesop does well to understand his meaning. Victor’s rapid pulse beneath his bare hand, Victor’s own keeping him in place. It is life. Living flesh. A soul that had accepted him.
“This is something I have never given another,” he signs it, for it is tedious to write it into the soft skin that snares any of his concentration. The hand that does not lay on his chest, takes Aesop’s own to his mouth. A gentle string of kisses coat his covered knuckles. Even now, he wears his gloves.
“I won’t ask you to do more than what you wish, you know that well, Victor. I will wait. I waited many months for you to understand my affections… you know I am a patient man.”
He knows this well. Their history together is the very evidence to back up such a statement. And yet - ‘yet’ it seems to haunt him. Failure, competency, expectations. An intimacy as close as this one… it is dreamed about. Surely, Aesop has his own dreams? Desires. Wants. He only hopes he might live up to them. That he could provide such a thing. “I know. Yet I am anxious.”
“What is it that you know? Of me? Of us?” His hand presses harder against his chest, to the thudding of his heart. Aesop kisses the cluster of fingers where they intertwine. His words are soft, controlled, yet there is a nervousness about him as well. “The secret that you respect. The name you abide by. Our partnership. This, too, is something I have given no other. Something I never wish to. I will have you in the morning. A week from now. Years. One night will not change such a ineffable thing.”
Victor hums, turning his partner's palm in his hand, so it covers his cheek. For a tender moment, Aesop brushes over his face. Like a spoilt cat, Victor purrs and soaks in the feeling. But there is more to be said. Budging from the tempting sweetness, though hardly more than a foot, he draws back enough, so his hands may be seen. “I know you would tell me how the body does not lie: That I know too well. You must hear the thudding of my heart and know of its anxiety?”
The hand on his face shifts, Aesop’s happy smile encouraging a dotefullness he rarely sees. He must think to pull away, to retire for the night, and Victor’s hand snaps up to return it. Aesop’s lip curls into a peculiar smile, head tilting as he watches the contradicting display. Coyly, his tongue laves over the expanse of his wrist, teasing the skin that peaks through the end of his shirt, and the beginning of his glove. It is an odd feeling. The lightest thrum lays under the blue veins. Each twitch of his finger leads to a movement in his wrist. Something so small, something that connects every bit of Aesop together. They watch one another for a long moment, the scale of intimacy and outright lust tipping at confusing rates. Aesop’s breath stutters as his teeth hook onto the edge of the glove, and slowly pulls it off. A secret, Victor thinks, lies in the soft calluses of his palms. In the rounds of his knuckles. In the very strength of his hand. Things that only Victor will ever be told. Things that Victor will only ever witness. Behind the thin covering of white, is something only Victor can have. His lips indulge in it all. Trailing from his wrist to his palm, to the tips of his fingers. Aesop plays along his lip, pressing his thumb back into his molars, keeping his mouth open. He must not be able to stop his smile. It must be an amusing sight - Victor with drool pooling at his lips, face ruddy and desperate. Two fingers join his thumb. They stall to play for a bit, wandering over teeth and gums. Victor does his best to swallow around them. Aesop never ceases that demure little smile. What a power he has over Victor. For his fingers press down hard against his tongue in the next moment, and he kneels, as if it was always intended this way.
Staring up at Aesop is a wondrous sight. The attention he takes for himself. The crisp of his pant leg, the shine of a leather belt, a shirt without wrinkles. The suave confidence of his amused face. The hair that surrounds it, perfectly controlled.
Aesop’s fingers sink deeper into his mouth.
“Patience,” he reminds, when he notes Victor’s hands straying. Caught red-handed, he sputters, but moves his hands to fist his knees. Aesop, seemingly, is not satisfied with such. With fingers hooking into the soft palate of his upper jaw, he drags him forward. His hands hit the hard wood floors, and he crawls forward, no better than a dog. When his thighs hit the back of the bed, he stops their slow crawl, and removes his fingers from his mouth. Wet. Dripping. Against his own. Victor shivers as Aesop sucks the remains off his fingers, eyes downcast upon his weakened form. He reveals in it. He is no small man, in any aspect. With broad, well worked shoulders, and arms attuned to heavy mail, with thighs that bear the brunt of said lifting. With a body that carries his partner around the house. A body that kneels before him.
Aesop.
Silver light reflects off his face. A thin belt buckle haphazardly is undone, leather scratches against the cotton material of his jeans, and all Victor can do is watch. This, too, is a border they rarely cross. Besides sweltering nights and the occasional bath, Aesop is reserved. He stares now, with an abstract sort of hunger, as Aesop unbuttons the front of his pants. They stick to his hip for a moment, but with Victor’s help, they come undone. Sheen, white cotton awaits him. They hide little, intended for the heat of the summer. It feels almost inappropriate to gaze at the hatchet of grey hair through it, and the rounded pink flesh accompanied by it. He wishes he might speak - words of praise, adoration, worship. Of undying idolatry, that existed long before this moment. When Aesop looks upon him, he thinks he might understand it; in the way his throat bobs, lip quivering, and how his hands grab hesitantly at his thighs.
“Take them off.”
There is a hesitance in Aesop’s own hand. A vulnerability. Victor delays himself, along with the brewing excitement in his loins. A warm hand coaxes over his stomach, pushing up Aesop’s shirt, and dotes the parts which he can reach with kisses. The flesh here is downy. Sweetly layered. He roams up his hip, the rolls that sit upon it, and the texturing that guides him along. All of this, which he is to have and to hold… forever. A warm breeze crosses over his neck. He had been distracted, mind wandering along with his hands. Above him, Aesop’s breath has picked up, and his hand has come to sit upon his head, another wrapping around the hand on his stomach. With a surprising amount of eye contact, he ushers Victor’s hand down, down, down.
One button is unfastened.
Two are undone.
Three. He unfastens the back tying as well, and his eyes lower as it falls to the floor. When he gazes up…
Try as he might - there are no right words for describing Aesop. To embody him in only a few sentences, one would have to devote their entire life. His only hope is that Aesop will allow him to do such, to allow him by his side, for evermore. Even despite his embarrassing behaviour. His cock stands attentive in his own pants, far too obvious with the way his knees are spread out - but how can it compare? Aesop, glory be, stands above him bare. Nothing hides him away. Victor stares at the small cock hiding beneath thick hair. The softness of it. A controlled chaos, as Aesop has always been.
“Let me?” he thumbs into his thigh, for it is the shortest sentence of consent he can muster. His hands quiver again, insistent bouts of nerves that roll through them both. Aesop’s head shakes once. The hand in his hair pulls gently forward, and he settles his nose into the hearty patch presented to him. Soft kisses, kitten licks. Victor takes his sweet time exploring. Lips wrap around his cocklet, tongue toying at the underside to pull it in deeper to his mouth. It’s warm, slightly bitter, and his nose is scratched with each movement. Yet, a part of him couldn’t be happier. Above him, Aesop’s whispering pants fuel him on. Each reaction - a heavy breath, a twitch of his hands, all of it leaves his heart stammering. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Aesop's own. The subtle beating beneath the flesh. The warmth of flowing blood. He tips his head lower, feeling over folds, letting his nose settle into the short dip of his pelvis. His tongue licks across the entirety of his mound, greedy, and suckling for any more wetnesses he might find. Aesop leans his weight down, as if his knees have given out. His hand not doing enough to drag him in further, apparently, but Victor cannot find it with himself to be upset at the familiar weight. It’s suffocating. Aesop demands more and more of him. Each time he moves, Aesop's heel bumps into his back. He hadn’t realized how heavily they were going at it until this point. His own cock stirs, as it has been since they began, and he knows much more will drive him over the edge. The steady rhythm on his back, the harsh pull of his hair, and Aesop’s muffled voice, is all a recipe for disaster. Aesop grinds against his face, some part of his inhibitions gone. Going slack jawed, he lets his partner have whatever he pleases - he does not miss how his cock, in particular, rubs hastily against his tongue.
“Victor,” it’s the first, audible, word Aesop has made out since they began. His name. He looks down at him, teary-eyed and breathless, and says his name. “Victor. Victor. I know it must be uncomfortable, but please. Just like that.”
There’s a movement in his mouth, separate from Aesop’s grinding, and separate from his own tongue. Aesop’s cock is twitching against him. It’s small. Enough that the sensation might get lost is Victor was not so hyperaware of everything occurring around him. It is due to such, that he notes Aesop’s breath picks up all the more when it does. Victor rolls his tongue forward - still, he lets Aesop has his free rein, but a little assistance won’t hurt - and he is pleasantly rewarded with a shocked moan. The knees holding him up are growing weaker, and the pressure on his head eases from pulling, to reliance.
Another desperate cry of his name, more obscene noises he had only ever dreamed of, more, and more, and more-
“You’re doing so well, Victor. Such a good job. I’m-” There must only be so many words he can speak through his embarrassment, but Victor understands. He slides a hand to pet at Aesop’s thigh. He lets his eyes fall shut, for Aesop’s incessant gaze has fallen away in his apparent mortification, and he focuses on the task at hand.
It doesn’t take much more. The twist of his tongue, a pleased mumble against his cock, a diligent man; Aesop shivers tremendously above him, his entire body is wracked with it. Victor’s face is pushed away, gentle, albeit quickly, and he has to guide Aesop to sit on the bed.
He looks down at him like this. The way his body curls in on itself, still happily abuzz with aftershocks. The way he covers his gaze with his arm. The way his hair crowns itself like a halo. Victor has known he was in love for a long while, but a part of him swells at being allowed to see Aesop so vulnerable. It is not something many are granted. So, when Aesop’s breath finally calms itself, his chest no longer heaving, those silver eyes peak out at him. Those eyes, which many assume to be cold, are without their typical barrier.
“Come here,” he askes, in such a sacchrine voice, who is Victor to deny him?
They kiss once more. Gentle. No more than kitten licks and nose nuzzling. Aesop laughs, no doubt after being tickled by a stray hair, he pulls away. Though the moment is soft, Victor is still horrendously worked up. HIs self control is strong, and despite having his cock rest against the soft flesh of Aesop’ bare thigh, he has not mindlessly rut against it. Not yet. He would not mind if that’s what Aesop asked of him, if one was enough, he would be more than satiated, but curiosity pulls at his mind.
“Forgive me, may I look?”
Aesop is slow to read the fast moving hands. Unfamiliar with the politeness of the sign. Once it processes, another laugh shakes him.
“Have you not seen enough? I don’t believe the details will be any more vivid than they were earlier.”
Victor flushes a horrible red, hands fumbling with themselves. Aesop is looking at him unabashedly now, some shyness having been taken from him, that Victor can not yet relate to. Perhaps it was always this way. Aesop was certainly bolder than him - this was possibly the most bold thing Victor had ever asked. And, perhaps, that is why Aesop indulges him. Slides his closed legs apart, and hooks his ankle into the back of Victor’s knee, as if he needed to be enticed anymore than he already was. He doesn’t come as close as he did previously, content enough to bend his head. His hands trail over the ends of Aesop’s shirts that still remains, down over his stomach once more, to the outer rims of his hips, to the inner curve of his pelvis. He brushes over the fine fair that coats it, just to compare how it’d felt on his nose. Then, with only a bit of moving, he spreads Aesop open. It’s most notable how wet he is, a though that leaves him with a shuddering sigh. The flesh is engorged and red, and his cock still stands willfully at attention. A part of him thinks better than to touch it so soon, and another cannot help but brush his knuckle on the underside, just to hear Aesop’s soft breath. He lets his fingers trail down, till he finds the entrance in the flesh.
Nervously, his eyes flicker to Aesop. Theres a reflected kind of curiosity on his face. “Go on,” he goads, and Victor allows himself to slot two of his fingers inside.
It is curiosity that drives him. The flesh gives way easily, scalding hot against him. He lets his fingers push in, dig down, and twist. Just like with his mouth, he finds what gains a reaction out of Aesop best. He cannot help but to love to please the man. To indulge him at all points in time. His favorite books, his favorite clothes, his favorite snacks. All of it is a quiet sign to his devotion. This could be, too, he thinks. Knows so, with how Aesop’s chest heaves again. He’s staring. Eyes sharp on Aesop, unintentional and unaware, and his fingers press harder into the spot that makes him twitch around him. He could go on like this forever.
“Victor, you’ll drive me to insanity-” perhaps, not forever. His fingers retreat rather quickly, but not so much it would cause discomfort. “Oh, don’t look like a kicked puppy. Come, help me take this off. The sweat is unbearable. And, I have a feeling, if I leave you to your own devices, we will be here all night.”
Victor leans over him again, kissing and biting at him as he pulls him to sit up on the bed. He thumbs a soft tease of ‘mean’, into his shoulder, but Aesop only laughs as they reposition.
Aesop undoes the button up himself. The product below it is one more show of Victor’s devotion. Hand stitched, intircatedly detailed, of fine material, too. It had taken Victor over three months to complete it. “It” for they despise to call it a corset, and because it is structured differently than such. It was something born of love, something never before created. He supposes it is a lie, then, that Victor has never seen below his collar. After long days at the parlour, this is no more than a hassle to his tired fingers. With his eyes averted, many times, he had untied the tight string behind his back. A part of him is thankful for the familiarity in the situation. Aesop pulls his untied hair to his front, baring his back, as he always has. Victor undoes the strings, as he always will.
Once undone, the garment is not so rigid. There is one long tie at the back, and one at the front, that Aesop does not bother with, and then the two pieces of fabric fall away. A part of him is surprised it was removed at all, that Aesop would allow it, and another knows it is not his choice to interpret. Only support.
Heavy palms massage into his back, over his shoulders, and his spine. Familiar skin and those pieces still unfamiliar. Aesop, bit by bit, relaxes from his tense posture. Between kisses, he sighs. Through nimble hands, he is eased.
They trace nonsensical patterns towards the end. Finger tips only. A way to bring back his alertness. It works, partially, for the drag of his nail has Aesop shifting uncomfortably. A soft tutt is on his breath, but he says no more. They know each other too well. Aesop knows he is delaying. It takes time to morph the squiggles into words, when they mean so much. When they hold genuine weight. They allow each other time, to let the thought of it sit in the back of their throats. To let the taste permeate until it’s easy.
The lines become shapes. Shapes become words. In the small of Aesop’s back, Victor writes,
“I love you.”
It is not their first confession, nor their last. The words are not unfamiliar. Repetition does not change the importance.
“I love you.”
A kiss to his spine.
“Then,”
A kiss to his neck.
“Now,”
He turns Aesop’s face, ripe with emotion that no one will see but himself - his very own secret.
“Forever.”
Aesop kisses him. Not lightly. His hands wrap around his face, with an intention to never let him go, and Victor drowns in the rush of possessiveness. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Its suffocating. His breath is shallow when Aesop pulls, mere inches, away from his face. Both out of breath, neither caring. He promptly returns, and Victor lets it overwhelm him. A hand falls on his thigh. Then his hip. Victor can’t breathe. It finds his cock, still buried in his pants, and he realizes quickly, he is far too clothed himself. Aesop assists, only after palming over his underwear, with removing his pants. Finding his own shirt, he sinks into the menial task, for a moment it is grounding - if he thinks too much of Aesop’s palm grinding against him…
His face must be scarlet. Aesop allows him no reprieve. With his shirt undone, he finds new ground to cover. Hands float over his chest, the golden hair that enlays it. Deviously, Aesop rubs across one of his nipples. It is a peculiar feeling. One he had never much thought of before. With someone else’s hand - with Aesop’s hand - it quickly becomes an issue. Victor quickly decides that is a road to cross later, and pushes aforementioned hand away with a warbled noise. The effects must be obvious, though Victor would like to think it is a cummilation of everything that has occurred, rather than this one embarrassing interest. Aesop’s hands would feel good wherever they decided to trail. They settle for a moment, however, both of his hands splayed on just the skin of his chest, feeling over how the muscle revertbrates his his heartbeat. Victor watches his grey lashes, how they dip and flicker. How they stare. How, just below them, and his perfect nose, his mouth rests in a beautiful smile. Serene. He kisses him again. Softer. Flesh against flesh, heart to heart. Victor lets his own hands wander, settle onto Aesop’s spine. Tempts him closer. He presses into his spine, and Aesop presses into his chest. Palpitating pressure. Push and pull. Victor finds himself on his back, Aesops weight settled onto his thighs, just shy of where he actually wants him - needs him.
“I love you,” he says back, but Victor is not sullen it took so long. Such is a phrase he will hear for a lifetime yet. “May your love have patience.”
Victor nods his head. Allows them to settle into a position most comfortable for his lover. A firm hand stays on his stomach, encouraging him to keep still, and to stay down. This he does not mind. The sight alone is ample enough to stave off any cravings, even if his cock is throbbing in retaliation. Good things come to those who wait, he reminds himself, as many times as it takes to calm his nerves.
What a good thing it is. The hand on his stomach increases in pressure as Aesop hefts himself onto his knees, crawling only a few inches forward, until his core hovers right over Victor’s. He allows himself a shuddering breath, and to betray the small rule Aesop set, because he cannot let his hands sit so idly by. A hand on his knee, an apologetic look. Aesop finally looks back at him, a nervous wash on his own features. He shifts his knee closer, firmer, into the touch. And then, he sinks. It takes an unprecedented amount of will power to not hastily buck his hips up - to not immediately give in. To the heat. The pressure. He sits still, good as he possibly can be. They both let out startled little noises as he continues on. At some point, Victor must have closed his eyes. Allowing himself to drown in each sensation, each minute twitch of skin. Softly grinding his pelvis down, sliding further onto his cock, breathing heavily every inch of the way. After having been, not purposefully, edged for so long, Victor had to fight everything within himself by the time he bottomed out. As taught as a bow, he looked down the planes of their bodies. Little was visible, just two pieces connected, but, sensing his attention Aesop gently rose again. He let out a beguiling little noise as he did so, threatening to snap Victor’s focus up to his face. To see Aesop whom is always so restrained in his looks, slowly falling apart? Each little thought threatened to send him over. A soft whine exited his mouth. Aesop rode him by nothing more than his tip, and he had the wonderful vision of how slick spilt between them both, and then, how it was swallowed up once more.
This slow pace was the extent of mercy Victor was shown.
Aesop, seemingly having settled into the pace, and his own comfort with something so new, began with a vigor. Sliding up and down, Aesop took no pity on how overly sensitive he was. Took no further time for an ambling pace. Seemingly, he took pride in each noise he could punch out of Victor. Angled his hip just to do so.
Victor was rapidly falling apart. The hands he has gently settled into Aesops knees now gripped them. He watched as the skin gave way, dimpling into his fingers. He tried to ground himself in the familiar brush of his hair. Nothing worked. Aesop was all consuming. In his ears, in his eyes, in his very senses. Each slam caused an eruption of heavy breath, and on the rare occasion, a soft moan from Aesop’s lips. When he found the angle that pleased him the most, he tortured it, refusing to give way. The gift Victor received was the soft crying on his pouted lip, and the agonzing heat that surrounded him at all angles. His own breath came heavy. Feverishly. What little self control he had slipped, and he could not stop how his own hips began grinding up. Each movement of Aesops was met in kind, until they were in some kind of frenzy. Aesop found the hand on his thigh, entwining it with his own. It was enough. Victor dug his palm back as Aesop did. They stared at eachother - the twist of pleasure on their faces, the sweat that beaded their brows, the blood that rushed and coated the face. Alike in so many ways. Aesop leaned to kiss him, though it could hardly be described as such. Both were far too out of breath to do anything proper. Open mouths clinked together, teeth and tongues amiss, breath fanning across faces. Victor felt consumed. Surrounded. Aesop stabilized himself on his chest, leaning and changing the angle all together. It was so loud. Victor could hear each slip of his cock, each slap as their bodies reconnected. His partners breath was so close now, nuzzled into the cup of his ear. Everything-
Victor clawed into the plush legs holding him down.
He was close. Too close. Heat was encasing him. Suffocating him. Pleasure rolled through them both, and Victor could feel it all. Each twinge Aesop had, each desire fulfilled. He squeezed particularly hard as he hit something good.
“Dear,” Victor, trembling, brought himself back to attention. He had been lost in the pleasure, halfway between being overly conscious, and completely muffled. Aesop’s syruppy voice is all it takes to command his attention. “Victor… A bit more. Just a little more, dear.”
With, seemingly, the last of their mutual strength, Aesop raised himself up. He dragged Victor’s hands to his hips, letting him curl them in until his eyes cleared. Their pace never quite slowed, still messily grinding against one another as they shifted. Then, Victor canted up, and they began all over again. Aesop, no longer hiding in Victor’s shoulder, and pinned with his full attention, cried for him to see. It was such a wondrous sight. A slice of dessert just for him. Victor slammed his hips up recklessly until he found what properly made him clench down around him. He thought over how he had moved minutes prior, how he dragged over a particular curve, and pressed into another. This was the path Aesop had shown him, and, indulgent as always, he followed it. Between his own pulsing and desperate need, they found an incessant pace. One that would drive a man mad. Aesop drove down, Victor grinded up. The slapping of their skin dncompassed the room.
“Aes-” it was garbled, as it always was. The muscle so out of pratice, it surely blended in with the rest of his wanton noises. “Aesop.”
He shivered above him, eyes glazing open to look down. Victor needed his gaze as much as Aesop needed his. It was with a mutual understanding that Aesop kept that solid look on him. It was enough. More than enough. Victor felt the strings of his mind loosen bit by bit. His cock fell into a ceaseless twitching, and Aesop’s own clenched back. They find one anothers hands again, and with a gentle brush against his wrist, Victor couldn’t hold himself in anymore. He bucks up once before his entire body tenses. His orgasm racks him completely, and Aesop does little to calm it. Still, he slides up and down him with a feverish pace, moans befalling them both. A twisted harmony. Then, with a particularly harsh grind, Aesop tenses around him with a jolt. Neither of them dares to move until the tingling subsides. Only then does Aesop gingerly pick himself up, though it is not without a noise from either of them. The flesh is overly delicate. Swollen, nerves alight, but settling.
When Aesop hovers over him once more, he watches as their orgasms blend and drip from him. The sight alone might rear Victor worked up again, if he had not been so overwhelmed with affection. Aesop falls into his pillows with a grand sigh. Following, he dotes the man with kisses all the way up his body. Each rewards him with a satisfied sigh, until he can cut the last short with his own lips. To many others, the silence they share is unnatural.
Victor counts his slowing heart beat, the ease of his breath, and how each muscle relaxes itself down unto nothing. Aesop rubs against his back, doing nothing more than existing. Victor dotes him with excessive affections. This silence is not untoward. It is not awkward. To them, it is a natural state of being. Words do not always have to be used to understand another.
Still, Victor cannot help but write into his skin,
“I love you.”
And Aesop, in turn, cannot help his soft smile, and the curl of his lip as he speaks it back,
“I love you.”
The following moments are in silence. Only the sound of ruffling cloth, the creak of a bed, and the brewing noise of a tub filling, share their space. Once the steam fogs his vision, Victor wanders back to the warmly lit room.
Aesop, sprawled like a God, takes his hand as he leads him away. In an hour, they will cook dinner, but for now, there is peace. Aesop is warm against him. Pleasant and lovely as he always has been. He will have him in the morning. A week from now. Years. Victor turns over such a thought. In the bath, he brushes along his arms, and down to the length of his fingers.
In a year… Victor only hopes his lovers hand is not so bare. That a thin adorning of silver might match his hair.