[ He rolls the hem of his shendyt high enough to tuck it into the snug waistline, so that the material does not fall back upon Armand's face. He wants to see it, study it.
The pleasure in his taking of Set's cock is — well, it is entirely foreign to him. The enjoyment, even as tears of red build in his eyes, lingers there upon him. It is in the suckle of his mouth, the submission of his figure. Yet, how does one come to personally enjoy such an act, though? Does one have to be born for it? Is it a matter of experience, or training, or perhaps — is it a casual lie to assure the other? Is Armand truly looking back at him, aware and alert, or has his mind drifted elsewhere? ( Because Set cannot envision himself in the same position. On his knees, with someone's cock in his mouth. Not again. Not while feeling pleasure of his own. )
He studies Armand like one might look upon an insect, like he wants to peel apart his skin and find the fine filigree of his wings below the shell. Pull open his mouth and look down his throat into the dark hollow of his body.
Instead, he cradles Armand's jaw and feeds him his cock — purring faintly at the physical pleasure of the moment. It feels good for him, even as his mind races at a distance. Holding him steady as he draws his hips back, feeling the slide of his flesh within the wet of Armand's mouth. Then, straddling his face a little closer, he slips a hand into the dark coils of his hair and fucks into him again. A small gasp of pleasure huffed from his own throat, jaw softened. Again. Quicker now. Again, a little harder. ]
[ There's a bright blankness in Armand's eyes, like water pooled in beaten copper bowls, reflecting back the merciless heat of Set's regard. His throat vibrates with a moan that has nowhere to go, choked around the god's cock, pleasure and pain intermingled and running in cold and bloody lines down the sides of his cheeks. He takes each thrust, hands tightening on his wrists behind his back but otherwise passive, his own body responding in kind, making him lift his hips a little, longing, leaning into each slide of Set's cock into his throat.
A deep, black silence rises up in his mind, a brackish tide that tugs at him as his body takes over, aware only of Set. Each thin breath he manages to pull in is thick with the god's musky scent, sweat and sun-baked stone. Fat thick cock jamming his jaw open, hand fisted in his hair, the ancient power that thrums through the desert god's veins. The pounding of Set's heart, like the clashing of swords, the great drum that blocks out the rest of the world. His own body is a vessel, empty, waiting to be filled, and that's okay. He knows the emptiness. Has long since forgotten how to fight it. Now it brings him comfort, to be gone for a while. To remember what it was like, the fractured times. Younger, softer, more pliable. Before he died and became Armand.
Armand closes his eyes as Set fucks him, lashes fluttering, the renaissance curves of his cheeks wet with joyous tears. ]
[ It comes to him, slow waves of recognition, that Armand does not need to breathe. His throat remains soft, his body slack with that distant pleasure. While Set has not had a wide variety of sex, especially with anyone other than his ( former ) wife, he knows enough that he'd expect anyone who isn't divine ought to need to breath. The lack of struggle is — some darker, richer part of him cannot latch onto it, to drive upon Armand like a predator seeking the writhing of prey. What he can do is hold those dark curls, wound firm around his fingers; his free hand spreads before Armand's eyes, using the tips of his forefinger and ring to blot out those copper depths.
He's like something that Hathor would decorate her temple with. Beautiful, ornate. Something that the goddess of beauty would keep for herself, until the next pretty thing came along to adorn her. Ruining him on his cock is — it feels good. All pretty eyes and clutching mouth, while Set's hips stay slow, steady, deep. As he strokes his fingers down his face, smearing trails of red tears with attentive purpose.
From sharp-eyed predator, to beatific worshipper. What multitudes this one carries. ]
Ease back.
[ As if it's not Set using his face, but Armand driving onto him.
He draws his hips back, wet and aching and regretful already. Ribbons of sand flow continuously, lacing back and forth around Armand's hips. They tighten, little by little, to draw him weightless and powerful across the floor; elevated, levitating the way he had arrived to the door, as Set flicks his tear-stained fingers and casts him on the bed. ]
Not that we need to be comfortable, but I really do not use the bed otherwise.
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cw thoughts of dubcon, dissociation, whatever the heck this mentality is
The pleasure in his taking of Set's cock is — well, it is entirely foreign to him. The enjoyment, even as tears of red build in his eyes, lingers there upon him. It is in the suckle of his mouth, the submission of his figure. Yet, how does one come to personally enjoy such an act, though? Does one have to be born for it? Is it a matter of experience, or training, or perhaps — is it a casual lie to assure the other? Is Armand truly looking back at him, aware and alert, or has his mind drifted elsewhere? ( Because Set cannot envision himself in the same position. On his knees, with someone's cock in his mouth. Not again. Not while feeling pleasure of his own. )
He studies Armand like one might look upon an insect, like he wants to peel apart his skin and find the fine filigree of his wings below the shell. Pull open his mouth and look down his throat into the dark hollow of his body.
Instead, he cradles Armand's jaw and feeds him his cock — purring faintly at the physical pleasure of the moment. It feels good for him, even as his mind races at a distance. Holding him steady as he draws his hips back, feeling the slide of his flesh within the wet of Armand's mouth. Then, straddling his face a little closer, he slips a hand into the dark coils of his hair and fucks into him again. A small gasp of pleasure huffed from his own throat, jaw softened. Again. Quicker now. Again, a little harder. ]
cw: see prev tags
A deep, black silence rises up in his mind, a brackish tide that tugs at him as his body takes over, aware only of Set. Each thin breath he manages to pull in is thick with the god's musky scent, sweat and sun-baked stone. Fat thick cock jamming his jaw open, hand fisted in his hair, the ancient power that thrums through the desert god's veins. The pounding of Set's heart, like the clashing of swords, the great drum that blocks out the rest of the world. His own body is a vessel, empty, waiting to be filled, and that's okay. He knows the emptiness. Has long since forgotten how to fight it. Now it brings him comfort, to be gone for a while. To remember what it was like, the fractured times. Younger, softer, more pliable. Before he died and became Armand.
Armand closes his eyes as Set fucks him, lashes fluttering, the renaissance curves of his cheeks wet with joyous tears. ]
no subject
He's like something that Hathor would decorate her temple with. Beautiful, ornate. Something that the goddess of beauty would keep for herself, until the next pretty thing came along to adorn her. Ruining him on his cock is — it feels good. All pretty eyes and clutching mouth, while Set's hips stay slow, steady, deep. As he strokes his fingers down his face, smearing trails of red tears with attentive purpose.
From sharp-eyed predator, to beatific worshipper. What multitudes this one carries. ]
Ease back.
[ As if it's not Set using his face, but Armand driving onto him.
He draws his hips back, wet and aching and regretful already. Ribbons of sand flow continuously, lacing back and forth around Armand's hips. They tighten, little by little, to draw him weightless and powerful across the floor; elevated, levitating the way he had arrived to the door, as Set flicks his tear-stained fingers and casts him on the bed. ]
Not that we need to be comfortable, but I really do not use the bed otherwise.