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TEXT ✧ AUDIO ✧ VIDEO ✧ ACTION

BALTHUS VON ALBRECHT ✦ FIRE EMBLEM: THREE HOUSES
RESIDENCE ✦ Residency
GEMBOND ✦ Ruby

"Hah! What's on your mind, pal?"

INFO ✧ PERMISSIONS ✧ KINKLIST ✧ EXTRA

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( Love words. Family words.

Summer in Faerghus isn't comparable to summer in Enbarr in terms of warmth. It's more like an extended spring: the air is gently warm and the sky is a vast swathe of blue above the village, but there are no bare shoulders, no delicate sandals picking their way over dirt roads and clumps of wild-flowers. Sacha is grateful for it: his mother never did particularly well in the heat, and her absence from their home suggests that she must have made the trip into town for ...

Well. Sacha knows first-hand what it is his mother does, doesn't he? It's strange: the cottage hasn't changed, his memory of this mother hasn't changed, yet he doesn't seem as small as he was the last time he was left waiting for her to come back.

He's simply himself, surrounded by the faded walls of his childhood home.

In truth, the place also looks a little more threadbare than he remembers. The roof's thatch will need tending before autumn's cold fingers begin to push their way inside, and the floor could use a fresh layer of straw and sweet, dried flowers. Sacha hums lightly to himself as he moves through their downstairs room and grabs the broom from the back wall; the least he can do is try to get the place looking nice for when his mother returns, right?

The roof ... Yeah. That'll have to wait until later, after his next trip down to Enbarr.

Decided, Sacha takes a moment to pull his hair into a bun on top of his head before tackling the floor. It's actually kind of therapeutic: one taks, one motion, sweeping old straw into piles, and it doesn't take long before his humming opens up into a sweet, lilting song that he remembers from his childhood. There's no need to be shy about his voice when he's hidden behind closed doors, and so he lets the music sweep him up in its comforting embrace as he dreams his dream of home. )

[Maybe it's no surprise that Balthus winds up dream-wandering in the aftermath of their ill-fated foray into dominance and submission; the whole evening had been an emotional roller coaster, from soaring arousal to plummeting despair to the rawness of feeling his vulnerabilities pried open and cast into the light, until finally they'd both curled up together in a haven that smelled like safety, and the need to slip away into subconscious had finally claimed him.

His ruby and Yuri's amethyst are joined on the basis of the connection between them, and tonight theirs was put through a crucible of fire. It's no wonder that Chevalier, set into his pelvis, might start to glow as they fell into slumber together. It's no surprise that the ache and strain of their two gemstones longing for reconciliation might draw them together in dreams just as easily as in the waking world.

It's awfully blue up north in Faerghus. He's not the one who recognizes it as Faerghus, mind; he only knows it because the owner of this dream knows it, and therefore it's one of those things that's simply known. It's not a conclusion founded in proof; it simply is, indisputably, without question.

He doesn't recognize the cottage, either, until he hears the singing. He doesn't recognize the singing, until he hears it and knows who it is.

It's not like Abyss, with its stone walls and long shadows and gloomy murky depths. The fact that it tries to let in light and be cozy almost does it a disservice, the same way that a boastful beggar still somehow manages to look richer than a withdrawn one. It's cramped and threadbare and he looks like he'd probably hit his head just trying to get through the door of it, but the emotion surrounding it in the dream is so powerfully full of love that it gives him pause. It's not that there wasn't misery here; there was. It's not that times were easy; they weren't.

But there's a fierceness to it that he knows like an old friend, and nobody ever pays attention to what a mockingbird's nest looks like, when they're too busy being caught up in the way it sings.]

...?

[Quietly, he heads to the window and settles himself outside of it, listening to the way the swish of the broom and the patter of booted feet add percussion to the melody the cottage's inhabitant is singing. He's never heard anything like it before; it's the worst-kept secret in Abyss that Yuri can out-sing the birds themselves, but he never does it where anyone can hear, and they all pretend not to know it. The kids hear it, bits of it, but even then —

Even then, it's not this. Not a performance, not for an audience, just singing to pass the time and keep himself company.

Hearing Yuri sing feels like digging into his grubby trouser pockets as his stepmother's key turns in the attic lock, and finding the pleasure of a toy and a few pilfered peaches waiting to make him comfortable for the rest of the night.

He almost hates to spoil it. So he waits as long as he can, just listening, and then moves to the door and knocks softly at it, unmindful of the fact that the dream has changed him, too, and put him back in the trimmed coat and boots of the young heir of Albrecht, the same way he'd dressed when he too was so much younger than today.]

( Sacha's voice falters at the unexpected knock to the door. He isn't expecting anyone — but then there's neighbour children, or old Mrs. Schmidtt, or perhaps even a travelling vendor hoping to hawk a few trinkets or baubles from the East or the South. He glances towards the ribbons adorning his mother's bed as a hopeful skip flutters into his chest: if that's the case, perhaps he'll be able to purchase something nice for her to come home to.

Setting the broom against the wall, Sacha moves towards the little door and pulls it open with an easy smile—

Only to be met by a man — a large man — decked out in the low-key (yet unmistakably handsome) trappings of the Leicester Alliance.

Interesting. )

Huh ...

( Anyone else might feel inadequate in the face of such a man, but Sacha is as at home in his day-to-day village garb as this guy must be in his fine clothes. He dusts his hands off on the front of his loose linen shirt before placing one on his hip, an eyebrow raised: )

Well, you're not the guy I was expecting. No wares to sell?

( He cranes to look around him as though searching out a cart piled high with cheap little treasures. )

Which means you must be here for my mother. She's in town today, I'm afraid.

( Sacha watches him closely for a reaction. He remembers all too well how certain men would respond to finding out his mother wasn't home: there were the ones who'd take their leave quietly, the ones who'd slam their knuckles into the doorframe, and then the ones who'd give him a once-over — evidently trying to calculate how old the pretty kid with the big lilac eyes might be. Making mental notes of the men and their reactions came naturally to him; Sacha likes to remember, just on the off chance he ever happens to run into them again.

This guy, though ... there's something altogether different about him. He can't quite shake the feeling that they've met before, just — somewhere else. Somewhere his mother hadn't been, or perhaps even somewhere they'd carved out just for the two of them. )

... Is there something I can help you with in the meantime?

Oh, uh — no. No, I'm not a merchant.

[Deep down, he knows he wouldn't even know where to begin with something like that. His glories come in the form of defeated opponents and winning wagers; what could he possibly comprehend of the intricacies of finance? He's much better at losing money than he is at earning it.

There are two ways that a phrase like must be here for my mother can be interpreted, one more charitable than the other. This is a charitable sort of dream. His luck is holding, that way.]

And...I stopped because I heard a bird singing. Then I realized it wasn't just singing; it was putting all the other birds to shame.

[He tilts his head to the side, sweetly rakish, and smiles a little sideways.]

And I realized I couldn't take another step without seeing that bird for myself.

( That rakish little grin is like a punch to the gut — a precision blow that leaves him feeling a little breathless in the aftermath, but not for the reasons one might think. He's stunned with sudden feeling — a feeling of knowing this man, a feeling of having been so very close to him before — more than just physically, but in a way that very suddenly begins to ache. )

... Putting all the other birds to shame, huh?

( But he catches himself just in time. The tips of his ears might have turned a little pink but that's all the outward sign of surprise he offers up; his expression instead shifts into one of bergrudging (if not amused) appreciation of the guy's line.

It's a new one, he'll give him that. )

Well I guess you'd better come on in, see where I'm keeping it.

( Bright eyes glitter with amusement as he pushes the door open a little wider, before stepping aside and gesturing for the man to step in to the room. The cottage itself is small — too small for a guy like that — but it's tidy, cosy, and has just enough personality to suggest that the people who live there ...

That the space means a lot to them.

Sacha glances back up at the man and the ache in his chest begins anew. There's somehitng so familiar about him: the cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his eyes sparkle when he's being charming ... it's impossible to ignore, and Sacha taps a fingertip against his chin for half a moment before closing the door behind him. )

Say ... this is a long shot, but we haven't met before, have we?

[The immediate hospitality he's being shown ought to feel strange — even the most considerate of hosts would still probably hesitate before pulling open their door to a stranger with nothing but a smile on his face and honey on his tongue — but it doesn't. It tastes like lemonade, the kind sweetened with sugar and poured over shaved ice, and he can't quite put his finger on why that's something that comes to mind alongside the sight of this pretty violet-haired vision outlined by the door frame.]

Don't mind if I do. Thanks for having me in.

[He steps into the cottage and immediately glances toward the floor, his reflexes quick enough to sidestep a pair of wicked, elaborate shoes that he'd somehow just known would be discarded there.]

...Do you know my name?

[It's odd, the way he says it. It doesn't sound like a test. It sounds like a genuine question, like he's not precisely sure of it himself, and is hoping maybe someone else is.

But that's ridiculous. He knows who he is, and he knows who Yuri is. He knows he knows, but he just can't seem to hold onto it, and every time he mentally grasps for his own name or his companion's, the recognition of it seems as elusive as sunlight in his palm.]

( Does he know his name? The question seems kind of ridiculous on the surface of it: what kind of a guy shows up at someone’s home and asks if the occupant knows who he is?

Sacha snorts just the once as he moves over to the tiny window and fully opens the curtains - pretty, embroidered things, far nicer than the strips of cloth that had been there moments before - then moves to fill a couple of pewter cups with small ale. )

C’mon, B. Do I know your name? Really?

( His response is a momentary surprise even to himself, but the affectionate nickname is is a balm against the wrinkle of confusion that is this whole interaction so far.

Balthus.

Yeah, that’s his name, and Sacha finds himself thinking it’s about damn time he showed him his family home. )

Sorry it’s not more, uh …

( He makes a vague gesture with one of the cups before pressing it into Balthus’s hand. )

My mom and I don’t have much, but we make ends meet.

( And yet the place seems brighter somehow for Balthus’s presence - as though he’s brought a warmth to the space that’s somehow transforming it into something glowing and cosy for the both of them.

He gestures for him to take a seat at the shabby wooden table, now adorned with fresh flowers and a wonky, hand-made table runner, before taking a seat himself: )

… You know me too, right? That’s why you’re here?

That's right...we've met before.

[He says it tentatively at first, testing the notion out, but he's the visitor in Yuri's dream, and so even as he affects it, it's still Yuri's mind that all this is founded on. It's like he recognizes himself in the same moment that Yuri does, and it takes him another few seconds before it occurs to him why he was having so much trouble holding on to their names to begin with:

Yuri doesn't belong here; this isn't Yuri's little house. But he knows whose it is. He knows whose he is, too.]

And...yeah. Yeah, I know you.

[He reflects, quiet but somehow still boyish, as he moves to take the seat he's offered and accepts the drink he's given.]

I'd know you anywhere, I think.

[He sets down his mug, still thoughtful, and reaches for Sacha's hand, turning it over so it's palm-up and bending at the shoulders while he brings it up to his mouth, pressing slow and almost reverent kisses against his skin.]

I thought I was looking for something else. But then I found you, and I didn't have to look anymore.

( It happens slowly, little flutters of change that catch and linger in the corners of their eyes, until the very air inside the room seems to tremble with tender potential. First there's his touch, then the thoughtful weight of those honey-brown eyes as they seek his hand, and finally the press of lips so gentle and familair that Sacha wonders how he could have forgotten him at all.

But that's the point, isn't it. He didn't forget him — couldn't forget him — not as long as he still draws breath.

Just like that, everything is as it's supposed to be. Sunlight slips across the back wall to bathe the pair golden light, and Sacha turns his palm inward to stroke his fingertips over the line of Balthus's jaw. Dawn breaks over Sacha's expression as his lips curve into a radiant smile, rosy and soft as a spring morning as he takes a step towards him. )

Yeah.

( He murmurs, his hand sliding up to stroke into dark hair. )

You found me. I think I was waiting for you, y'know?

( Family words, love words ... but not the kind he'd exchange with his mother. The dream had started out that way, sure, but somewhere along the line it shifted enough to glimpse at the future instead of simply reflecting the past.

A home. A family. A little space back in Fodlan carved out for the two of them, where they can be the men they would be if life hadn't dealt them dud hands of cards. )

Took me a second to figure it out, but. All this ...

( Sacha gestures vaguely towards the rest of the room. A cursory glance reveals that it's now cluttered with Balthus's books, his various knick-knacks, and a familiar vine that doesn't seem to respond to anything other than Growlst — things that weren't there before, but things he now realises couldn't have been anywhere else. )

Now it finally feels like I've come home.

[This really must be a dream, because for a second he just knows that he doesn't deserve anything like what he's being given. He doesn't deserve the way that Sacha's smile lights up his whole face in a way that cosmetics and poise never could. He doesn't deserve the way Sacha's fingers do that thing he craves so much and he didn't even have to beg for it. He doesn't deserve to look around and see the little marks of himself fitted in to Sacha's memories, not the way an ink blotch takes up space on a written page but because all of these other warm, fond things of his made room to integrate bits of him among them.

He doesn't deserve any of this, and that's why it's a good thing that none of it is about what he deserves.

That's one thing that he and Sacha have both learned the hard way, time and again, on the outside — the world rarely gives you the things you deserve. That's the beauty of love: the fact that it's not fair can mean unfairness in your favor, too.]

Should I say I'm sorry I kept you waiting? Or is it maybe that the waiting made it better?

[Either way, he can't help the grin dancing on his lips.]

I used to think it wasn't possible to pick a way you were most beautiful. But now I think I've got my answer. There's nothing that can hold a candle to the way you look when you're happy...Sacha.

Nah — you've got nothing to apologise for, sweetness.

( And Balthus is sweet — devastatingly so — but in a way so far removed form the cutesy, vaguely infantile way such a term might be applied to someone else. When Sacha calls Balthus sweet it's because of what he's come to learn lies at his partner's core: something precious and gentle, thoughful kind, and flavoured with the kind of honeyed warmth that never fails to make him melt.

He's the sweetest thing Sacha's ever known. )

I've been happy before, you know ... but when I'm with you?

( He lowers his hands to take both of Balthus's in his own. )

It's something else. You're something else, B. With you, it's like ... it's joy — I never thought another person could make me feel like this.

( A smile touches his lips, radiant and easy, as he gives his hands a little squeeze. )

Hey — come upstairs with me? I wanna show you something.

[Sacha calls him sweet the same way that he thinks of Sacha as beautiful — the sort of thing that could so easily be teased into empty flattery and idle flirtation, except for how it's far too deep and emphatic to ever be so shallow. Sacha isn't just beautiful because he's fair of face; Balthus isn't just sweet because admiration sounds like sugar on his tongue. It's the words that aren't enough to hold all the sentiment. It's the way everyone else cheapens them that's wrong.]

Oh, taking me upstairs already, huh? And while your mother's away, no less.

[But his hands fall easily into Sacha's, and he lets himself be tugged to his feet without protest, ready to follow him anywhere.]

Don't worry, I'll be on my best behavior. Well...unless you don't want me to be.

( Sacha is poised to laugh of Balthus's little comment the same way he always would — but then something catches in the back of his mind, an opportunity gone awry, and he tilts his head in a moment of thought. )

... Maybe I do want that.

( He raises an eyebrow as he guides Balthus over to the stairs, which end up being a kind of re-enforced stepladder with wide, flat rungs. When they reach the foot of it her turns and gives Balthus's hands a little squeeze — warming, loving, a little non-verbal reassurance that this is him.

Just Sacha. Not a cold stranger who'd back him into a corner and leave him alone. )

In fact, I think that's a good idea. It's only polite to be on good behaviour when you're visiting someone else's place for the first time ...

( Sacha can't quite put his finger on it, but it feels even more important than it usually would that Balthus is okay with this. His expression softens around the edges as he gives him a private smile, one thumb stroking over the line of his partner's knuckles. )

... Right?

Ah.

[He lets out a breath in a way that's almost a sigh, letting himself be led without resistance. There's something about the slow and easy pace that Sacha takes that's unusually appealing in this precise moment — that they're both unhurried, almost lazy, like they've got all the time in the world and nothing to spend it on but each other.

It's a nice thought, isn't it? Taking all the time he wants, just to soak in the feeling of Sacha's thumbs rubbing against his hands. Savoring it. Having the space to learn about each other as they are, right here and now, without prior expectations or assumptions.]

You know it makes me happy to give you what you want. I mean — I like it, when I can.

[And they're just close enough that he takes a moment to draw Sacha against him, to briefly wrap his arms around him, to press a kiss against his hair for no other reason than that he's got affection to spare and offers it freely.]

Take me upstairs, then. Show me whatever you want. I want you to.

( Sacha lets himself be drawn into that affectionate embrace — lets himself just enjoy how good it feels to be in the circle of Balthus's arms. The kiss to his hair tugs a smile onto his lips, has him tilting his head up to brush them against the curve of his throat, before he gently eases himself from his arms to look him in the eye. )

I know. You're always so good for me, B.

( Even when I don't deserve it, he doesn't say. Instead, that smile warms as Sacha lifts a hand to cup the curve of Balthus's face. )

I'm gonna show you how much I appreciate it.

( Upstairs, there's even less space than their was in the main living room, although it doesn't take a keen eye to realise that this isn't necessarily just because it's a smaller area. Sacha's old room is cluttered with their things: discarded shoes, Balthus's towel, bits and pieces that speak of a life together — all of it coming together so naturally that he doesn't occur to him that it should be odd.

More than anything, it feels right.

The bed sits in one forner, larger than it had been when Sacha was a child and infinitely more sturdy. The ribbons around the frame ripple like water as he guides Balthus towards it, before easing himself onto the mattress and propping himself up on an elbow. This time when he looks at his partner there's an unmistakable hunger behind those glittering eyes: )

You like giving me what I want, right? Well, I want you to undress for me.

[There's something powerful and heady about the sweet simplicity of just being taken to bed, he discovers as Sacha leads him upstairs. Not mutually fumbling their way to it, not trying to reach a convenient place to tumble onto while their kissing turns frenetic and they tug at each other's clothes. Like this, there's time to appreciate the intent of it all — that it isn't just coincidence or convenience or even passion. There's no mistaking it for anything else; it's not about wanting sex, but about wanting him.

He ducks his head as they make their way to the little upstairs room, weaving around things he recognizes as his own (yet he's never been here before, except that he has because the person whose this is wants it to be his too), until finally they reach the mattress and settle in slowly, always angled toward each other like the magnetism between them won't let them look away.]

You will, huh...

[In a different place and time, he would've made a joke about himself here, lightly self-deprecating. Turned it into a compliment of Sacha's own beauty, compared himself unfavorably to his partner's far more enticing talents at getting himself undressed. But he's not self-conscious here, and so it doesn't occur to him to make light of himself. How could he, trapped beneath a gaze like the one Sacha has turned on him?

Like a man possessed, he slides one hand slowly up his chest, all but feeling himself up as his fingers make their way to the fastenings of his collar and start to thread them undone.]

Hope you're patient. A getup like this takes forever to get in and out of.

[The collar comes loose, and a sliver of tanned skin appears at his throat; a few agonizing seconds later, the next fastening follows, and he hooks his fingers into the opening made by the loosened halves of his coat, widening it to let Sacha catch a glimpse of just a little more.]

( Sacha watches that large hand stroke up Balthus's body — sees the way his fingers brushing the fine material of his clothing and corve over muscle as it meanders up towards the line of his collar. It strikes him that he very rarely sees Balthus lean into his devastatingly good looks: sure, he foregoes a shirt, and he likes to talk abut his abs whenever he can, but when it comes to presenting himself as truly desirable ...

It wrinkles something in the back of Sacha's mind — something to consider later, perhaps, when his body isn't simmering with arousal. He lets his gaze linger on the sliver of skin at Balthus's clavicle before lifting his eyes to his face again: )

Luckily for me, you're damned irresistible both ways.

( A smirk settles on his lips as he takes a moment to tilt Balthus's face towards him, then catches his lips in a sultry little kiss with just the barest slip of tongue.

A promise, really, of what's to come. )

But just so you know: the sooner you get out of them, the sooner I can show you why I brought you up here.

Now that's not very fair, tryin' to tempt me to rush.

[Nor is it very fair that he's succeeding. It would be altogether easy to just rush through his undressing — or better yet, forego it altogether and just vanish them with a thought in the strange way that only dreams could allow for — but at length he realizes that for once, he really wants to do this. It's not even for the sake of teasing Sacha, so much; it's just that he likes the feeling it gives him when Sacha looks at him like he couldn't take his eyes off him if he tried.

He licks at Sacha's lower lip before he has the chance to pull away entirely, returning tease with tease, and pulls another fastening free. There's enough room now for him to slide his hand beneath the folds of his coat; the fabric swells and shifts as it skims along his chest, as he thumbs at his nipple and hisses faintly at the sensation.

But soon his hands return to their work, one after another until finally his coat hangs loose and a long stripe of tanned skin and muscle is on display between the separated halves, and he sits up a little straighter and rolls his shoulders backward, and lets the whole thing slip off his body and down onto the floor in a cascade of buttons and trim.

Now bared to the waist, there's nothing to disguise the swell of his trapped arousal still bound up in the confines of his trousers; he skims his fingers over it a few times, breath catching, before twirling one of the drawstrings around a thick finger.]

More?

C'mon, as if I'm the one being tempting.

( Sacha's resposnse is a ragged, breathy thing, because how could Balthus not know what he does to him just by existing in his near proximity? He wears his clothes well: cuts tailored to his figure and just revealing enough that Sacha can see ripples of pecs and abs whenever he wants — he's a Saints-damned human confection of which he's certain he'll never get enough. Wrapped up as he is it's an excruciating tease to see the mateiral come undone and slip away— )

Mmh. Balthus ...

( To reveal him in all his luscious, muscular glory, his nipples pebbled and begging to be sucked as he strokes the thick bulge in his trousers.

It's not usual for Sacha to be left floored — or even dazed — by the intensity of his want. He's slept with all sorts of people over the years, all ov varying degrees of power, strength, physical beauty, but no-one does to him what Balthus can with a mere twirl of his finger around a drawstring. His own cock throbs hard inside his trousers as his gaze strokes over evvery bare inch of him, before coming to rest on the hand sitting so close to his cock. )

Yeah. More.

( There's a flush of pink heat in his cheeks as he eases himself a little closer, one hand sliding up over the tight angle of his waist to cup one of his pecs against the warmth of his palm. Sacha squeezes gently, his thumb worrying the hardened little nub, as he nuzzles in close to skim his teeth over the smooth curve of his jaw. )

Seiros, but I could eat you up right here. The things you do to me, B ...

Sure you are...you just do it without trying...

[He runs his tongue over his lip, trying not to lose focus beneath the heat and weight of Sacha's gaze, but the truth is it's a losing proposition all around. He's had his time to tease, and his determination to cling to that game breaks right in alignment with Sacha's hands finding their way to his body. He's always craved touch like this; anything resembling gentleness was always in short supply in his youth, and so he thrives on it whenever he can get it in his age of maturity. And Sacha seems to know just how to touch him, just how to make it good, even when the contact is as slight as a brush of fingers or the drag of teeth.

He barely remembers that he's supposed to be finishing up and undressing; when he does, it's more rapid, working the drawstrings of his trousers undone and loosening them until they'll be easy enough to kick away with some effort and a bit of creative shimmying. It's practically a relief to get it done, when that means he can turn his attention more fully to the little pulses of pleasure that ripple through him with every movement of Sacha's thumb, and the catch of his breath as his heart beats faster with it.]

Hhh...okay, that's. S'about as close as I can get without you having to let go of me, so. What now? What next...?

Well ...

( It's a slow drawl followed by a mischievous little smile — the one that never fails to light up his eyes — which softens into a gentler expression just half a heartbeat later. Sacha leans in to press a soft kiss to the waiting curve of Balthus's lips: )

You trust me, yeah?

( He begins to shift them, guiding Balthus a little further up the bed until he's able to lie back against his (their) pillows. Propping himself up on an elbow, Sacha hovers over him for a moment before fluttering a few more kisses over his cheeks, his jaw, his throat, as the palm of his hand skims down low over Balthus's abdomen to give his cock a lazy squeeze. )

I wanna show you how good it can be. Like that time at the lake, only ... better, probably. Just my fingers and my mouth.

( The tip of his nose brushes Balthus's ear as he murmurs hot against it: )

Let me take you apart, hm? Just me.

( He squeezes him again, the pad of his thumb coming up to stroke over the tender slit of his dick. )

Just us.

Hah...which time at the lake? Seems like every time we wind up at that lake, things get out of hand.

[But oh, he's not ready for this, and it shows in the way he all but melts beneath Sacha's soft attentions; his breathing stays slow and deep, but there's definitely the beginnings of a sigh in every exhale and a gasp in the opposite direction. Courtesy of dream logic, the bed is softer and more luxurious than its humble appearance would suggest, and his eyes go a little glassy as he sinks down into the pillows, faint noises escaping the back of his throat in all the moments when Sacha's kisses feel too good for his breaths to just stay breaths.

Stormy-eyed and hazy, he lets his head list to the side to better watch Sacha work, rolling without lifting it out of the caress of the pillows. His mouth is wet. His lips stay parted because he won't be able to get enough air in him otherwise. And finally, finally, a warm hand finds its way to where he's aroused and aching, petting him, touching him like it's his right to do it — and it is.]

That...that sounds really good, yeah. Yeah...yeah, please. Do that...

[Oh, it sounds so good. And for once, he doesn't think shouldn't I be doing something, shouldn't I be giving something back, what about making him feel good, because for once it just occurs to him with drowsy, heady recognition that maybe doing this does make Sacha feel good. Maybe he's doing enough, just by taking it. Maybe this is for him, and he doesn't have to worry about pleasing Sacha so much.

...Because he trusts him.

Because this is what it should've been earlier, outside, with the floor and the bonds and the power. It should've been this, not a transaction of satisfaction but a gift of it.]

Hey...tell me what you're doing, okay? 'Cause...I like it. I like it when you talk to me like this.

Yeah? You like hearing what I'm gonna do to you, huh?

( Sacha chuckles, just a velvet purr, before pressing a kiss to the lobe of Balthus's ear. )

Good boy. Thank you for letting me know, Sweetness.

( This kind of communication? It's important. Goddess-knows, but they found out the hard way.

His reward is a firm, slow pull from the base of his cock right up to the glossy tip, and Sacha takes a moment to spread a little of the wetness there over the head before running his hand back down to his balls. It's a little heady to think that this man — every hard, beautiful inch of him — is in some way utterly his; his to love, his to trust, and his to give as much pleasure as he possibly can. Sacha kisses him leisurely, slowly, before beginning to ease his way down his body, which he peppers with little kisses, nips, and kitten-licks when he simply has to taste. )

Since you've told me what you want, I'm gonna tell you what I want.

( Sacha settles over his abdomen, slotted comfortably between his thighs with his waist cradled in his hips. Like this he can feel the thick, insistent press of Balthus's erection against his stomach, and he squirms minutely in an all-too obvious attempt to keep him fraying around the edges. )

I want you to enjoy this. I want you to lie back, let me fuck you open until you soak yourself in your own come ...

( Warm eyes sparkle with affection as he looks up at him, eases a little further down, until his breath flares damp and warm against the curve of his cock. Kiss-bruised lips part just enough that he can slide his tongue over the head in a lazy swirl, before closing his lips around it and sucking just enough that he pops off it again with a wet, lewd sound. )

Then I wanna do it again, and again, and again, until you understand how good you make me feel. You deserve it, B.

[Good boy. That's what he'd wanted to hear, wasn't it? That's what he'd been craving, the attention and approval and praise wrapped up in two easy words. It doesn't just make him feel better, either; it makes him feel encouraged, enough so that once he's done reeling from the feeling of that long languid stroke of his cock, he lets his eyes flutter back open and offers more again, not worrying much about putting his desires into the right words, but instead just letting them spill out without much of a thought.]

I want to touch you, though...please don't say I can't...

[He could, because sometimes this game is played that way. He remembers it was once, when he had to put his hands up at either side of his head and keep them to himself. And there is part of him that wants that, except that it's not the deprivation that he wants, it's the part where Sacha tells him what to do, how to behave. Gives him a way to be good.

He decides to say that, too.]

I won't try to distract you or anything. Just don't make me keep my hands to myself.

[Because he almost can't help himself, when there's a mouth nibbling and licking at his bare skin, when he's stroked so softly that it makes him gasp and lose himself for a minute. His fingers twitch; his hands jerk of their own volition, and when he does reach for Sacha it's only to steady him, or steady himself against him — a palm wrapped against his hip, fingertips brushing light through his hair. He doesn't want to misbehave. He just wants to connect in as many ways as possible, to anchor himself like this, too.

And he's going to need it, once the implications of Sacha's whispered promises really start to sink in, right in time with the wet heat of a warm mouth wrapping around him and dragging a whimper from his throat.]

M-Much more of that and —

[He sucks a hard breath, face flushed, hips jerking up on reflex like they're chasing after Sacha's mouth as he draws away.]

...shit, I can't be this close already...

( Sacha's lashes slide closed for a sweet little moment as Balthus's hands find his hip, then his hair, before opening again on a soft chuckle at that near-desperate little plea. )

You can touch me as much as you want. That's allowed — this time.

( A playful smirk touches the corner of his lips as he raises an eyebrow at his own insinuaton: this time, Balthus, but next time he might not be so lucky. Sacha likes changing up the rules of the games when they play like this just to keep things feeling fun and a little naughty; likes making Balthus have to guess at what he is or isn't permitted to do.

Speaking of ... )

And you can come whenever you want, too. Just don't think that an orgasm is gonna stop me from fucking you as much as I want, 'kay?

( And apparently, Sacha isn't much in the mood to tease any more — not with Balthus jerking and twitching and as ready to spill as he is. He nudges his shoulders against the backs of his lover's thighs until his knees are bent up and framing his face, then slides his hands over his hips until he can cup a handful of his ass in each palm. In this Sacha does start slow: he spreads him gently, slowly, just letting him get used to the sensation of his hole being opened and exposed, before leaning over to wrap his lips around his cock and swallow him down.

Saints, but even in his dreams Balthus is still huge and thick. Sacha's groan is low and rough with want as he bobs his head over his lap, his cheeks tight and hollow, all the while squeezing at his ass and teasing his thumb against the tight clench of his hole. This isn't a polished blowjob — it's messy and wet in the hopes that a little slick makes it to that questing thumb — but Sacha doesn't seem all that bothered by the fact that he's evidently employing the skills he learned as an Embarr whore.

What does it matter, when the name of the game is making Balthus feel good? What does it matter if, in turn, that makes him feel good too? )

IC Inbox | noctiumrp

Dream a little dream of me.

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