this useful mouth of mine

Rhylfein’s not even hard any more, but it doesn’t matter. The warmth of his flesh, the faint throb of his pulse, the softness of his skin—it feels good in Vizaeth’s mouth. Makes him feel not used but useful. And when Rhylfein idly drags his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair, he hums, almost purring in contentment.

“You’re a fucking weirdo, Thaezyr,” Rhylfein says. There’s no malice in the words. They’re low, lazy, comforting as the cock in his mouth. Vizaeth hums again in vague confirmation, and presses closer to Rhylfein’s abdomen.

The candle on the nightstand gutters and dies, the darkness it gives way to shrinking his room to the size of the bed and the shape of their curled bodies. Vizaeth breathes in the smell of sex and drying sweat, flexing his tongue over the aftertaste of swallowed cum. Rhylfein’s cock twitches—he stills it with a soft lick, sucking gently as Rhylfein continues stroking his hair, drawing nonsense patterns over his neck and shoulder, movements slowing minute by minute until he drifts, half-hard, into reverie.

Probably that’s the point at which Vizaeth should let him go. He doesn’t want to move. His throat aches dully where Rhylfein fucked the thoughts out of his head, and moving will rattle them back into place, hissing and slithering endlessly over one another. He shifts closer, scarred arms tangling with Rhylfein’s slim legs, eyes closed. His own lust stirs, swirling unhurried within him. Not needful or clamouring or hungry. Just there.

He inhales deeply. Exhales slowly. Carefully swallows a mouthful of drool. It would be nice to be here like this when Rhylfein wakes up. Not necessarily to fuck him, just to be present, a protective cage of tongue and teeth.

Fucking him first thing would be good, though. Having him stir to hardness already buried in a warm, wet mouth. His hips moving on instinct before he’s even fully conscious, thrusting into a willing throat, waking up as he comes to see Vizaeth swallowing.

Vizaeth angles his head to rest more easily against Rhylfein’s thigh, sighing. Yes, that would be nice. Start the day with at least one person happy with him.

A finger taps his nose. He blinks, startled, out of the doze he’s floated into. Rhylfein’s lips are crooked in that lopsided smile of his—the one that sets spiders spinning in Vizaeth’s stomach—and his amused eyes glow faintly in the gloom.

“You really planning to stay there all night?” he asks, raspy with reverie. Vizaeth nods. Rhylfein laughs and lets his head fall back to the pillow. His fingers slot with Vizaeth’s, tugging them to lay over the jut of his hipbone. “Suit yourself. Don’t blame me if you choke to death on the wet dream you give me.”

Vizaeth manages half a muffled laugh. He squeezes Rhylfein’s hand and gets a sleepy squeeze back. His heart skips a pleasant beat, then settles.

Both of them fall still again, two calm bodies breathing in time, safe in the quiet dark. Heat will begin to rise through Narbondel again soon at the Archmage’s beckoning, bringing all the horrors of wakefulness with it, but for now Vizaeth has a cock in his mouth and a hand linked with his, and he’s as satisfied with life as it’s possible to be.