my greedy eyes upon you

Pharaun told him not to break past his wards again, but Vizaeth knows he didn’t really mean it. It was nothing but a token protest, the kind someone in his position has to make. Overtly having a favourite would invite harm upon them, and the last thing Pharaun wants is for him to get hurt.

The moment the smell of dragonsblood hits his nose, his cock twitches. He caresses the head of the balor incense burner from whose mouth the scented smoke pours, twining around his fingers in welcome. Pharaun’s desk is messier than last time, scattered with dozens of scrolls and their empty cases, scrawled-on papers, uncapped inkwells. An untidy altar is an unacceptable thing, so Vizaeth screws the caps back on one by one, stacks the papers, rolls the scrolls into the cases that match them, humming an idle hymn as he works.

Once everything is in order, he makes a circuit of the room, straightening a cushion here, a book there. The spellbook calls to him from behind its protective glass, but he resists its temptations. Repeating himself would look desperate; or worse, ungrateful.

He leaves the book alone in favour of the bedroom, left unlocked for him this afternoon, and as much a mess as the desk. Being a Master of Sorcere is not overly conducive to a tranquil mental state, even for one as skilled as Pharaun. Faint traces of sweat and perfume linger in the air—Vizaeth stretches out his tongue, tasting the remnants. His cock stiffens. It’s the same perfume Pharaun wore when they fucked. Sharp, earthy, dark as the heart of a bloody ruby.

With a hand half down his breeches, Vizaeth turns his attention to the chair before the vanity. An undershirt, armpits dark with dried sweat, is draped over the back of it, and a set of leggings lie crumpled inside-out on the seat, crotch clearly visible. He wets his lips, still trying to decide which he wants to taste first when he hears the door open in the other room. A bolt of panic freezes him in place—Pharaun’s not meant to be back yet, he has another class left to teach! He must have cancelled it, or someone got themselves killed and threw the schedules out again.

Vizaeth glances around desperately. No exit except where he entered, and Pharaun’s interior wards will scream bloody murder if he casts anything.

Nothing else for it. He hurls himself into the wardrobe, yanking it closed just as Pharaun enters the bedroom.

Footsteps. Not approaching. Vizaeth presses a hand over his mouth, trying to smother his too-fast breath. The clatter of metal—hairclips and jewellery discarded into their trays. The thud of boots hitting the wall. The pop of a cork.

Moving slowly, Vizaeth shifts a sleeve aside to peer through the narrow gap between the wardrobe doors. He can see a thin sliver of the room, including the bed, on which Pharaun sits with his robes half off and a glass of wine in his hand. He tugs at the sash around his waist as he takes a large swallow, casting the silk aside with a heavy exhale. He’s undone his hair, and works his fingers through the glorious white length of it, teasing out knots. The crease between his brows and the tightness at the edges of his mouth tell the story of another stressful day.

Vizaeth gnaws his lip. There’d be trouble if he emerged, but he could mitigate it by offering himself. Relieve the tension in Pharaun’s shoulders, take his mind off whatever bullshit the Archmage has put him through lately. But before he can decide to give himself up, Pharaun has unlaced his breeches and Vizaeth has to shove a fist into his mouth to stay silent as he takes out his cock.

The view from here isn’t the best. He can only see part of it; less as Pharaun wraps his fingers around the semi-erect shaft and begins idly stroking. After a moment he mutters a cantrip into his wineglass, and a slick, delicious sound accompanies his motions.

Vizaeth bites hard on his knuckles, his own cock demanding attention. He can’t. He’ll get caught. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—Pharaun hums, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. The flex of his wrist is all lazy confidence; he’s not trying to quickly get off, he’s indulging in the pleasure.

A damp spot stains the front of Vizaeth’s breeches already, making them cling as he gropes at his hardness through the fabric. The closet presses dark and close around him, and his teeth-marked knuckles don’t muffle his breath nearly enough. He grabs the nearest thing he can find—the hem of a skirt, bumpy with stitched gems—and crams it into his mouth.

This is a dream. A sacred rite he can’t believe he’s permitted to witness. His unworthy eyes drink greedily of the vision before him as, finished with his wine, Pharaun casts the glass aside to strip out of his shirt. His chest is slim, unmarked perfection, every inch of dark flesh just begging to be worshipped. He runs a hand over the smooth skin, circling one nipple, teasing it erect with the flick of a painted nail as he continues to pleasure himself.

Drool soaks the skirt in Vizaeth’s mouth. He slides a shaking hand inside his breeches and takes hold of his aching cock. Is Pharaun thinking about him? About the blessed ritual of their coupling? Vizaeth thinks about it; every time he touches himself, alone and unwatched, he thinks about it. Surely Pharaun thinks about it too.

A soft moan rises over the sound of stroking, and Vizaeth experiences a brief paralysis of terror before he realises it was Pharaun, not him, who made the noise. Alone, yet he has no qualms about voicing his enjoyment—and well he should voice it, with a touch as expert as his. He widens his legs, inadvertently giving Vizaeth a better view of the cock now hard and dark in his grasp, the head glistening, and oh, what Vizaeth wouldn’t give for a taste. To lick and suck and swallow every inch of the shaft he’s already had the privilege of taking inside him.

His strokes—and Pharaun’s—grow more frantic. The scent of sex fills the wardrobe, the skirt between his teeth sodden. Vizaeth shifts, wishing he could see more. Be closer. Kneel on the floor while Pharaun strokes himself to completion; lay on the end of the bed while Pharaun fucks himself with his fingers. He doesn’t even need Pharaun to acknowledge his presence, he just wants to be there when it happens.

Another moan, then a sigh, followed by a soft curse. The sound, the smell, it’s all too much. Vizaeth slaps a hand over the skirt, forcing the fabric so deep he nearly chokes as he comes in hot, hard spurts. Fury chases the orgasm—Pharaun isn’t finished yet. Pharaun should’ve come first, he should always be first, he’s the only one who matters.

Even though it hurts, he keeps on roughly stroking himself as Pharaun’s breath grows heavier, his touch less indulgent and more instinctive, climbing that final slope. A gasp breaks from him, a ripped-out moan Vizaeth stores deep in the sanctum of his mind, and his head tips back, eyes closed, mouth wide in ecstasy. He catches most of the release in his hand, but a small splatter escapes to decorate his stomach, a half-inch above his navel.

The skirt absorbs both Vizaeth’s whimper and the futile press of his tongue. It falls from his mouth, soaked. He’s trembling all over, skin prickling, softening cock clutched tight in his sticky hand.

After an excruciatingly long minute, Pharaun sighs and motions a prestidigitation with an elegant flick of his wrist. All the cum, all the sweat—and the sweet smell of both—vanishes. Lost forever. Pharaun stands, stretching, moving out of view. Probably he’ll take a bath now, maybe do a little work before he takes reverie. Vizaeth’s reverie will be curled up in here; he can’t leave until Pharaun does.

He settles on his haunches and takes his filthy fingers in his mouth to suck them clean. Even a cantrip will trigger Pharaun’s wards, and he doesn’t want to ruin any more of Pharaun’s clothes than he already has.

It’s as he’s withdrawing his hand, fingers shiny to the base with spit, that the wardrobe doors are thrown open. He cries out, scrambling back as if there’s depth enough in here to hide as hangers scrape sideways along the rail, clothes shoved aside to let the light flood in, exposing his flushed face and his stained breeches and his limp cock.

“Well, well,” Pharaun says, teeth bared in a wolfish smile. “What have we here?”