[I don't have as many pretty words, Viktor demurs, and then goes and says something like that, something that honestly damn near knocks him out. His mouth goes dry, his pulse thundering as something white-hot jerks in the pit of his stomach. Viktor shouldn't be allowed to say things like that; Viktor shouldn't be allowed to promise things like that, things that make Jayce want to, god, everything. Is everything an acceptable answer?
He wants to take him apart. Start with that, maybe: the image of Viktor all splayed out on his bed, cheeks flushed darkly and his eyes glinting in challenge. Pale skin and long limbs, and Jayce wants to worship every inch of him. He wants to kiss him everywhere he can, neck and chest and that hollow space beneath his ribs, biting dark marks everywhere he can, so that Viktor can't help but remember their time together . . . he wants to consume him, maybe. He wants to leave a mark, leave an impression; he wants Viktor trembling and begging, god, how many times has he imagined that, please Jayce please, he wants him so overwhelmed with pleasure he can't even form words, he can't even think, all his tensions and wariness and fear wiped clean in favor of pure pleasure . . .
Oh, yes.
It's a split second's pause, nothing more. His eyes have gone dark, his breath catching.]
Okay.
[Whew, his voice has gone a bit rough, but no matter. The hand at Viktor's back firms up, bracing there, fingers splayed out, and oh! feel how much of his back he can cover. He's never going to get over their difference in size, that's just how it is. Viktor isn't delicate by any means, but still, there's something utterly satisfying at emphasizing how easily he can move him around.
His other hand slips between the two of them, fingers settling heavily on his leg. His thumb traces along the inside of his thigh, and oh, it's a slow thing. He rubs circles there, dragging back and forth, inching upwards at his own pace. It's slow, for all that everything in him is just screaming to rush ahead— but no. He won't be clumsy and crude about this.
He will, however, be guiding Viktor into rocking up against his palm. One hand at his back and the other finally settling between his legs, his eyes locked on Viktor's all the while . . . kissing and biting is well and good, and he's assuredly going to do more of that soon. But twenty minutes and all, and he never takes to failure well.
(And listen: he isn't in his pants. He's using his hands. He's being very good and following all the rules, isn't that nice?)]
Anything here defined as . . .?
[Go on, talk dirty to him, babe. It's teasing, but also, there's something utterly fantastic about the thought of making Viktor carry on a conversation while he's falling apart. Words interspersed with breathlessly impatient whines, oh, yes, he wants to hear it.]
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He wants to take him apart. Start with that, maybe: the image of Viktor all splayed out on his bed, cheeks flushed darkly and his eyes glinting in challenge. Pale skin and long limbs, and Jayce wants to worship every inch of him. He wants to kiss him everywhere he can, neck and chest and that hollow space beneath his ribs, biting dark marks everywhere he can, so that Viktor can't help but remember their time together . . . he wants to consume him, maybe. He wants to leave a mark, leave an impression; he wants Viktor trembling and begging, god, how many times has he imagined that, please Jayce please, he wants him so overwhelmed with pleasure he can't even form words, he can't even think, all his tensions and wariness and fear wiped clean in favor of pure pleasure . . .
Oh, yes.
It's a split second's pause, nothing more. His eyes have gone dark, his breath catching.]
Okay.
[Whew, his voice has gone a bit rough, but no matter. The hand at Viktor's back firms up, bracing there, fingers splayed out, and oh! feel how much of his back he can cover. He's never going to get over their difference in size, that's just how it is. Viktor isn't delicate by any means, but still, there's something utterly satisfying at emphasizing how easily he can move him around.
His other hand slips between the two of them, fingers settling heavily on his leg. His thumb traces along the inside of his thigh, and oh, it's a slow thing. He rubs circles there, dragging back and forth, inching upwards at his own pace. It's slow, for all that everything in him is just screaming to rush ahead— but no. He won't be clumsy and crude about this.
He will, however, be guiding Viktor into rocking up against his palm. One hand at his back and the other finally settling between his legs, his eyes locked on Viktor's all the while . . . kissing and biting is well and good, and he's assuredly going to do more of that soon. But twenty minutes and all, and he never takes to failure well.
(And listen: he isn't in his pants. He's using his hands. He's being very good and following all the rules, isn't that nice?)]
Anything here defined as . . .?
[Go on, talk dirty to him, babe. It's teasing, but also, there's something utterly fantastic about the thought of making Viktor carry on a conversation while he's falling apart. Words interspersed with breathlessly impatient whines, oh, yes, he wants to hear it.]