traitorous: (SUSPENSION.)
MAINE. ([personal profile] traitorous) wrote2017-02-08 02:44 pm

ic contact.

vorrutyer: (i can't tell if that's a tit there)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-08 10:13 pm (UTC)(link)
What manners he has.

[ Byerly whispers that, hot and intent, into the man's ear. And it's true. Byerly can feel the restraint rippling through him, the sheer physical force that the man is holding back. The hand clenched above his head has strength enough, By thinks, to crush his skull. The frame has enough weight that by leaning in he could press the breath from his chest. A hundred ways to die under this man's physical presence, and all of that concentrated on him. What danger. What sheer, unremitting peril. By's quick pulse is sped by physical arousal, yes, but also by fear - both of them contributing to the clench of shivery pleasure going through him.

One hand slips into his coat again, under his shirt to find the muscles of his stomach. Those hands turn into claws, drawing a swipe down his skin. Scratching - not too hard, just enough to drive this next point home. ]

But I'm not exactly breakable, dear man. And it will be so much more exciting if you set a bit of that politeness of yours aside.

[ He pushes back, then, pressing hips against hips, rubbing against him in a slow, sinuous motion, setting a gradual rhythm. One rise and fall, two, three, and then By escalates the situation by sucking Maine's earlobe into this mouth and biting down hard. ]
vorrutyer: (Backpfeifengesicht 3)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-09 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Ah. Oh, hell. The bite draws a breathy, vicious sort of laugh from him, released into the frigid air. His breath is fogging on the air, the rapid ragged puffs nearly quick enough to fill the whole of the cave with a fog, it seems to him. Hell. Shit. That mouth is good, those hands are good, that hard grip on his ass and the way that his booted feet scrabble at the cave floor, the way that a jagged rock outcropping digs into his back, somehow it's all good. He gives a hungry squirm, a starving man anxious for the feast to begin. ]

You know -

[ He murmurs this into Maine's ear, the purr of his voice nearly unceasing. ]

I've always prided myself on my ability to make my partners beg. You may well be the very first one to ever stymy my ambitions.

[ The fingers of his left hand dive down, wriggling down into the crevice where their bodies press together, squirming lower in search of Maine's cock. The fingers of his right drag over the man's bald head, rubbing patterns into his scalp, pushing his head in further, encouraging those bites and kisses. ]

But, my dear man, I wonder just how silent and stoic you are. I shiver to think of the noises I might cause you to make. Will you moan? I'd quite like to find out.

[ His left hand hits flesh; his fingertips slide and trace, trying to urge him to hardness. Oh, this is worth it for being able to warm his hands - that alone is worth this whole experience. ]
vorrutyer: (god honestly what is this guy's face)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-10 03:17 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Byerly watches this show with open and lustful admiration, his beautiful dark eyes fixed firmly on that rippling musculature. Ah, yes. That chest is as broad as he'd imagined, those shoulders as powerful and defined. The throat, for all the marks of violence upon it, is carved with masculine grace, curving muscles interrupted by the bump of an Adam's apple, sinews and stubble and smooth skin and scars. There is a certain physical ideal on Barrayar, a masculine form that is admired and covertly eroticized, and Maine is perhaps the most stunning example of it that By has ever seen. Good lord - and he gets to have it. What a marvel.

He makes no move to reach out and touch. Nor does he make any attempt to shuck off his own clothes - good lord, no, it's far too cold out here for normal humans. Adonis there, he can feel free to dare the freezing air, but By has every intention of staying in his coat. No; instead he leans back, sprawled against the cave wall, his lips parted in erotic, voyeuristic rapture. ]

Please tell me you're going to take off your trousers next. I can't even imagine how beautiful your ass must be.
vorrutyer: (i can't tell if that's a tit there)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-12 02:04 pm (UTC)(link)
[ A shivery, breathy growl comes out of By's own throat when Maine grabs him. What a marvel this man is. What a marvel. As bold and forward and unashamed as a Betan - because Barrayaran men, inevitably, are so angry and so ashamed - but with none of that Betan politeness. Because oh, Betans will do anything, certainly, but they'll always want to sit down and talk about it first, earnestly discuss the ways in which they'll ensure that this is neither physically nor emotionally threatening to either party and map out a plan for how everyone can get maximum enjoyment out of this. They'll stop every thirty seconds to make sure everything is all right. It's sweet of them in their overtherapized way, yes, but sometimes what a man wants is a brutal, cruel fuck face-first against a hard stone surface. Sometimes a man wants bruises, bruises no one asked permission to inflict. Sometimes a man wants tears to sting his eyes, wants to hiss in pain, wants to feel the dangerous weight of the knowledge that the man he's with could strangle the life from him - and very well might, who knows? There's a prickle of electric fear, shuddering adrenaline, as Maine wrenches at his hair and snaps at his lip. It's good. He's painfully hard. ]


[ He kisses back viciously, biting back at Maine's lips, sliding a tongue into his mouth with all the aggression of an invading army in a civil war. His neck aches with the strain of keeping it twisted around enough to kiss the man back - and the kiss itself is sloppy, desperate, ill-aligned - but every plunge into that mouth is worth it, every nip and tease is worth it. His own swollen bitten lips pound in time to his quick pulse, the blood pulsing through their raw surface. He reaches up his free hand to scrabble at Maine's smooth skull - no hair to yank at, damn it all, but he tries to grab and hold him in place.

At the same time, he shoves his own hips back, using the motion to both fuck slowly into Maine's grip and to grind his ass against the man's erection. He breaks off a kiss to mutter at him through swollen lips, breath hot and words quick and breathy - ]

Get me off quick and I'll blow you. You won't ever have had a better blowjob than what I can give you, believe me.
Edited 2017-02-12 14:06 (UTC)
vorrutyer: (i can't tell if that's a tit there)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-14 02:32 am (UTC)(link)
Ah, hell...

[ Byerly's eyes flutter shut as he enjoys the feeling of that hand stroking his cock. Hell. Maine is huge and solid and ferocious and dangerous behind him, erection grinding into the crack of his ass, rubbing against him, moving him. Standing against him is like riding a rolling tide, carrying him up and up and up. As a young man, By had gone out drunk and reckless on the sea in a storm; it was some obscure providence that had kept him from drowning. This is like that, leaning into the roll and buck of the waves, knowing that it's all fucking hazardous as anything but just enjoying the intoxicating dip and sway of it. Oh, hell.

He braces one hand against the cave wall just to keep himself stead. The other reaches back over his own shoulder to grip at the back of Maine's neck. His breathing gets louder as the pressure increases, the speed, as he finds himself building towards something grand. He growls - ]


[ And, a few strokes later, a low command - ]

Harder, make it hurt -

[ And then his head falls back fully against Maine's shoulder, his heavy breathing giving way to guttural moans as he ruts vilely into the man's hand. Words are lost to him for a few minutes, sense is lost to him, as his climax builds - and then he comes hard into Maine's callused hand, hissing - ] Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit - [ And shivering and shuddering, teeth gnashing at his own lip, eyes fluttering open and shut, he spends himself.

His breathing, slowly, returns to normal. The tension drains out of him; his hand on Maine's neck falls away. Then he reaches down to grasp Maine's wrist, to draw that hand out of his trousers - and to lift those fingers to his mouth, so that he can obscenely, filthily, wordlessly lick them clean. ]
Edited 2017-02-14 02:32 (UTC)
vorrutyer: (handsome)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-15 12:40 am (UTC)(link)
[ My word. Byerly grins, feral and delighted, into that hard kiss. How deliciously kinky it all is, him tasting himself on Maine's hand, Maine tasting him on his lips. It's all raunchy and unashamed, and how on earth does one even deal with this much deliciousness all in one go? Byerly is used to just doing all the work, coaxing his targets through it all; he's used to sex being a chore at best, something unpleasant at worst. Maine is making it a sport again, a sport of the best kind - a hunt with a dangerous quarry, back and forth, as likely to be taken as he is to take. Marvelous, this is, beginning to end. You're not like the other boys, my dear man, he thinks to himself, and laughs with edged delight into the man's mouth.

His hands hook around that broad back and then slip down to find his ass. Byerly grips it and squeezes it hard, exploring its muscular shape. This soon after coming, the exploration isn't erotic so much as it's aesthetic, but dear heavens what aesthetics he finds there. He presses his hips against Maine's, trailing fingertips over skin, and murmurs - ]

If we had a few more resources than we have, I'd love to fuck you. Have you ever been fucked before? I bet people take a look at you, big as you are, and expect you to do the fucking. It would be marvelous to turn that around.

But in the meantime -

[ With a sigh of some regret, he leaves off his caressing. Instead, he plants a hand on Maine's chest and uses it to keep himself steady as he slips down to his knees. His fingers trail after him, and then he's leaning forward, mouthing through Maine's trousers as his erection, nuzzling the firm rise of his cock. He pulls back a moment to ask - ]

How do you like it? Soft and slow? Or hard and fast?
vorrutyer: (i can't tell if that's a tit there)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-15 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Ah. Not a surprise, in retrospect, that he would be so forceful. He's a man who knows his wants, Maine is, even if he's not quite able to articulate them. By had been ready to tend to that cock, to lavish attention on it, but he swiftly changes tactics. Instead of pushing forward, he lets his head relax into Maine's grip, slackening his mouth and throat, tipping his head back just a little bit so that the line from lips to throat is more perfectly horizontal. Lowers the risk of Maine's cock scraping something and triggering a gag reflex. He slows his breathing, making it steady and deep, forcing the tension to drain out of him. And so he takes the first stroke of that cock decently deep, and the second stroke deeper. By the third stroke he's getting into the rhythm, getting used to the length and girth, letting Maine do the work of fucking his mouth as Byerly himself simply focuses on the motion of tongue and lips, focuses on working the nerves and veins as he thrusts in and out, matching his pace perfectly. Because he is very good at this. Nine-time Vorrutyer All- District Cocksucking Champion. That's him.

The taste of Maine filters in to fill his throat, masculine and salty and musky in a way that's not pleasant but which still pleases him. The smell, too. Unwashed, the both of them, ungroomed - this isn't the filthiest liaison Byerly's ever had but it's close - unshaven. Au naturale, this whole experience. There's something marvelous about that, too, a thrill of taboo or a thrill of authenticity - this is the closest he's ever come to truly roughing it. It feels so...real.

By's lips thin on every stroke into his mouth, pucker on every stroke out. His tongue ripples and curls and caresses as he listens intently to Maine's breathing. Every time he hears a hiss or an extra-ragged breath, he remembers that spot, and on the next stroke in he lavishes extra attention to it, searching out all the man's most sensitive places. His hands come up, massaging his hips, stroking down his thighs, coming between his legs to play with his balls. His eyes alternate between half-closed in blissful concentration and fully open - open, and trained upwards, so that his dark gaze meets Maine's in intent and unblinking contact, the gaze half rapturous and half-challenging. ]
vorrutyer: (actually maybe unsmug)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-16 10:16 pm (UTC)(link)
[ What pleasure there is in a job well done. Seeing a tightly-wound soldier trembling with pleasure, watching the tension and bliss on his face as he comes - knowing that you're undoing him, unmaking him with every stroke of your tongue - there really isn't any other feeling like it. You feel so damned powerful, there on your knees. In that position of submission, owning every centimeter of that cock, every ounce of that shaking breath. There really are few things better than this.

Byerly kisses back, his mouth and chin wet with spit and come, his jaw aching and his lips swollen and his eyes damp with the effort of taking that climax fully down his throat. The kiss isn't as ferocious this time - it's hot, and hard, but slower, the kiss of the afterglow rather than the taunting desperation of a pre-sex kiss. By's hand comes up, trails up Maine's stomach; he explores the curves of his muscles, pinches a nipple playfully before he draws back out of the kiss. ]

You're not one of those men who can go twice, are you? [ He reaches up and runs a thumb over his lower lip, eyes fixed on Maine's - half invitation, half tease. ] I can't possibly imagine you have any come left in you after that. Though - [ Byerly gives a little laugh, his smoldering gaze sparking momentarily with a fond sort of amusement. ] You've certainly been a surprise so far. A very pleasant surprise, actually.
vorrutyer: (god honestly what is this guy's face)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-19 02:14 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Byerly doesn't rise. He remains instead half-sprawled, watching Maine move. Lord, what a form that is. He watches as he shrugs his clothes back on - and his attention is caught, suddenly, by that scarf. He's seen that scarf before. Has he seen that scarf before...?

Ah. Ah. He stretches lazily, and makes a grand show of not watching closely even as his mind spins over the implications. Instead, he takes the moment to pull himself together - to twitch his clothes into place, smooth his hair down. His fingers brush over one of the sensitive patches on his throat where Maine had sucked his skin viciously, and a pleased little pool of warmth curls within him unbidden. God, this man -

He gives a little cluck, then, and a sigh. His voice is mild when he says - ]
I'm going to have to cover these up. Give over your scarf, won't you? I'll find you a new one back at camp. [ And he watches the man's reaction from under his lashes, looking for...anything. What will it mean if he hands it over easily? What will it mean if he holds onto it? For a moment, Byerly imagines (with satisfaction) maneuvering Maine to help recover the lost Rani. Wouldn't that be a way to do it... ]
shri: (» if they don't fly we will run)

[personal profile] shri 2017-03-02 10:14 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's the third or forth night back after she's released back from the medical tent. Cleared now that she's got no more than a left over cough that is no longer choking her every time she breathes. A day after that, she is put to guard duties outside of the Countess. Insistent to take even the worst shifts, now that it was known she was a Queen, that she wanted to be held above anyone else.

But it means she comes off her shift some time into the dead of night. Picking her way over Dixon where he sleeps at the door now most nights, then the others as they're laid out, some of them readying for their own shifts. Then back to her bed-roll, and - the first night back, things have moved, more people now. It was to be expected. But... she's too exposed now, people she doesn't know, can't trust. Hard, hard to settle. Hard to take refuge enough to sleep where she prickles at shadows and ghosts and a dozen night terrors she is too long fighting. Lets it happen for another night until her exhaustion gets the better of her. Grief, exhaustion, an overwhelming feeling that has knotted in her chest since she was first taken by the Cetagandans. Every day she misses them, Devi, Tesla, Galahad. The ones before them. The sureness of the people she cares about and in turn care about her. To know that she can take refuge as they can take it in her. In a heart-beat that doesn't slow down no matter how she tries to keep it quiet, she will not stop missing them and she cannot get to sleep. Pathetic, it shouldn't matter so much, but not being able to sleep and not being at her worst because of her pride would be infinitely worse.

So the night after, she gathers up the items she has and shifts her sleeping space. It's a moment of deliberation. Or at least, pretending it to herself. There are always things to consider when doing something like this. Who wouldn't ask questions, who wouldn't bother her so much about it, the last thing she needed was to drag both hers and someone else's reputation through the mud.

Who would be ... safe.

And there, she stops, and that where there is only one choice as she packs up her few belongings to find where he's sleeping. Lays them out at a respectable distance from him that means exactly nothing except that she had moved at all. At least, she won't wake when he does to see whatever look he wears for it. Because: it's nothing, she promises herself, just to ensure she sleeps better, so she can protect them all better. Cautiously quiet to not wake him, and it's not - she insists to herself - because she is worried about how he might look at her, but that he needs his sleep as she moves her items about the way she likes.

That part at least is easy. Arranges it all carefully, strips out of her heavy clothes as readies herself for sleep. Settles to kneel at the foot of her bed-roll in her private ceremony. Neatly folded and placed, her boots beside them, the braces in front of each other. Have to be near to her so she can snatch it up at a moment's notice. Her jewellery and the knife she was given for her service to the Countess was tucked under her pillow. Then, wetting her fingers with water that she kept with her to rake through her hair to braid it for the night over her shoulder. Rinses her fingers, clean the dirt out from her nails. Dry them by the dying heat of the fire and say something like the prayers she never forgot in quietly murmured marathi under her breath. Always done in the same order and without misplacing anything. Paranoia or just old habits.

It is only truly a week after she had moved, she looks over when she pushes back to sleep that she notices him a little closer than she thinks he was the first time. Sound asleep, of course, as he should be, it's some ungodly hour where sensible people are asleep. Taking careful watch of his features in the half light. The faint orange glow on the edge of chin, over the top of his ear, the line of his cheek bone, the parts of him that dip into shadow at the corner of his mouth and eye. Always warm looking, in the way this tent always smells faintly of wood smoke instilled heat. Where she shivers with this planets blasted cold, it's a fond thought to have.

But - it's nothing quite probably. Space was getting to be a premium and that's as much thought as she gives it - stretches back, drapes the blankets over her, and like she couldn't when she was further away: goes straight to sleep. Deep and black and unmoving.

It is a utter relief.
Edited 2017-03-02 10:24 (UTC)