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The weight of Victor in his lap, Victor’s eyes on him, Victor’s strong thighs locked around him. Victor’s hands around his throat, strangling him.
It was Aesop’s only request for tonight, that he be allowed to see Victor’s eyes as his own roll back. And they don’t disappoint. Honey-colored eyes gone dark in the candlelight, glinting with an intensity Aesop almost thinks must be reserved for him to see. The thought that any who had also seen this sight no longer breathe— it would make his breath catch if he had any left to catch.
Unconsciously, Aesop feels his gloved hands tense against Victor’s wrists, thicker and more tanned than his own. Holding them down against his own throat like a rat in a glue trap. There’s no give to those strong wrists, but Aesop feels Victor’s hands tighten, sees dark spots appearing in his vision. He gasps for breath, if only to feel his throat bob uselessly against the tender space between Victor’s thumb and his palm, his adductor pollicis tense with effort and damp with contact.
And Aesop’s wet in his briefs, has been, embarrassingly fast any time he allowed himself to entertain the concept of this, of Victor choking him out, of seeing the Victor that chokes grown men out with his hands. Such a commonality between them, such a difference.
Blearily, through tears Aesop didn’t even know he’d been shedding, he sees Victor tilt his head curiously. Analytically. Aesop suddenly needs to know what he’s seeing, what he’s curious about. Everything. His mouth is already open so he pushes air to speak, moves his tongue into position—
And of course, all that comes out is a strangled noise and saliva down his chin, mask long discarded. It only makes him more lightheaded, more delirious. He thinks he might be smiling. He’s never done it before, but when else would he? He tightens his grip again on Victor’s wrists, and the postman’s ever present smile… tenses, somehow. Pulls just slightly at the stitches on his mouth. Aesop drinks in the sight like a man in the desert.
In his mind, he maps the path of oxygen from his lungs to his capillaries to his veins, the chambers of his heart, his arteries, his vital brain. He feels those systems, those vessels pump harder and harder trying to make a delivery that will never arrive, never be as faithfully effective as the man on top of him. He feels his carotid, his jugular, pump weakly against Victor’s hands, but, just like the rest of Aesop, they are helpless to him. Like this, Aesop can feel every callus of his hand, every scar and cut and burn. Each whorl of his fingerprints pressing brutally into his throat, mercilessly. He imagines wet alley brick against his back and can almost feel it digging into the back of his shirt. Almost unconsciously, he twitches in Victor’s grip. Not trying to escape. Trying to take it all in, feel every millimeter of contact.
And just as he does, Victor’s thighs tighten around him an increment, pressuring his ribs, making sure he goes nowhere. Where else would he go? Nowhere else exists, nothing outside of this brutal warmth, how pinned he is. No need for a restraint, a preliminary paralytic. The space between Victor’s fingertips are all the weapons he needs. But Aesop can’t see Victor anymore, his vision gone all bright and hazy and warm. He whines at the loss, but no sound comes out, only a pathetic gurgle in the back of his throat. Distantly, he feels his body betray his soul, thrashing against Victor’s weight. But the warmth doesn’t leave him, and so he surrenders to it, eyes rolling back, feeling his fingers go limp, lose their purchase on Victor’s wrists. Aesop falls into the sun.
In his last moments of lucidity, he allows himself to imagine that he will not wake up.
But when he comes back to consciousness, it’s slowly, disappointingly as always. He’s almost loath to leave that empty space where he’s nothing, but the sensations trickle in one by one. The clean smell of Victor’s sheets, their texture against his skin. That very skin— his uniform jacket’s not off, but open. The sound of rustling, and a quiet wet schlick. A big, warm hand against his ribs, over his heart, tracing the gaps. The feeling of being enclosed, a body pressing him securely into the sheets.
And something inside him, hitting him deep, stretching him out. Filling him up. Aesop gasps involuntarily when he realizes, clenches down on it, eyes snapping open. Before he can even get the chance to turn, a hand on the back of his head grabs him at the roots of his hair and shoves his head facedown into the sheets, so hard he can barely catch breath, for the second time tonight.
Victor picks up the pace, and it could only be Victor, on the size Aesop feels. But something feels off, a little strange. The stretch isn’t as easy as usual. He’s not feeling Victor hit his womb, his abdomen where he usually sits when he’s all the way in.
Aesop’s cunt is empty. Victor is using his ass.
And that’s what’s happening, Aesop realizes as Victor’s hips slap against him, as the feeling of his own drool on his cheek, cum on the sheets and his skin register. Aesop was unconscious, and Victor started using his ass. He feels himself get wetter as he realizes, but it hardly makes a difference. All he can do is stay there, pinned like a butterfly, while Victor uses him to get off.
It doesn’t take too long— Victor already warmed up from whatever was happening while Aesop was passed out. He slows down, pushing Aesop’s head further into his own hand with each thrust until he stills, and Aesop feels him twitch, spilling deep inside with a quiet, muffled grunt of exertion. Some sense of pride rises in Aesop, and he decides not to examine it. Instead, he focuses on breathing, what little breath he can draw with his nose pressed into the sheets. It’s easier when Victor takes his hand off, moves it to cradle Aesop’s hip as he milks out the last of his orgasm inside him. Aesop tilts his head just enough to breathe easier, so unspeakably content and silent.
For a long moment, then Victor tenses, pulls out, makes an alarmed noise. He flips Aesop over gently with the hand on his heart, eyes darting over his face, slightly relaxing when he sees Aesop looking back up at him.
What a sight he is, disheveled, his jacket discarded somewhere and only in his undershirt. His trousers pulled down just enough to free his cock. Aesop glances down at it, analytically, before realizing Victor is gliding a closed fist in a quick circle over his chest. Sign.
Sorry. Sorry. Are you OK?
Aesop is in no mood to speak, but he nods wearily, humming. He reaches out and, after a second of hesitation, receives Victor’s hand. He trails his fingers over it, over the dark bruises his own fingers wore along Victor’s wrists. The calluses, proximal and distal phalanges. His pollicis muscles, ligaments and tendons along the back of his hands. He hears a huff as he’s taking inventory, and ignores it.
Victor knows better than to interrupt him.
Wherever his free hand is, Victor uses it to produce a towel. When Aesop feels Victor attempting to slip the edge under him to clean up, a click of the tongue is all it takes to dissuade him.
All that can come later. For now, it’s of the utmost importance that Aesop learn the shapes and angles of each of Victor’s fingernails.
And it’s while he’s tracing a delicate finger over one of Victor’s cuticles that he finds himself falling asleep.