piu appassionato

Maybe Minoth tells Addam to blow him, and the prince smiles shyly and retorts without thinking, "I wish I could." Maybe Addam says it first, completely broad and empty of meaning, but Minoth doesn't drop his hopeful gaze, and that gets it settled.

Either way, of course, the both of them - the pair of them - end up behind a tree doing illicit things soon enough.

"Architect, you sure don't make it easy for a guy," gripes Minoth as he pulls off the various pieces of armor hanging around Addam's waist as quietly as possible.

He remains fully preoccupied and contented doing so until he feels a gloved hand come down to rest in his hair; the stroke that follows through is admittedly quite rough.

Minoth looks up, and sees just exactly what he's intended to. The gold in Addam's eyes is sternly bright and cold when he wants it to be. "And will you let that stop you?"

Oh. Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking hell. "No wild horses, my prince," he answers around a knotted-up tongue that suddenly feels way, way, way too clumsy for its impending task.

"Good." Good. Very good.

So that is that, and this is this: the codpiece, the flanking plates that clamp onto a connecting bar all cinching in over the waistcloth, and the cloth itself come away each in their own due time. As he wads up the golden fabric to toss it semi-neatly to one side, Minoth imagines Addam clad in that and only that, and keeps imagining it for several seconds more before the next physical reminder comes.

Another time, perhaps.

Even beneath Addam's dark, baggy pants, Minoth can see what the codpiece had hidden. He brings the back of his hand up to graze against it, lightly at first and then rougher and rougher until the tip, strained red and glistening, begins to poke out above the waistband at every pass.

"Minoth..."

"Problem, Addam?"

"Harder."

"And if I don't want to?" But Minoth doesn't give Addam time to answer, instead ducking back to shed his gloves and leave the prince leant against the tree with nothing to do with his own hands. And just as he moves to touch--

"Hold your horses. You think I'm gonna let you do that yourself?" Because of course a prince shouldn't have to. Of course a prince should have an attendant, a confidant, a knight-retainer who will eagerly and earnestly relieve him in that way.

If Minoth is good for nothing else, it is this. In another time, another epoch of their lives, maybe he'll feel differently, but right now...?

All he has is given to his prince.

Addam looks down past his nose, chest just starting to heave. "You spoil me, Minoth."

Minoth shrugs. "It's just because I l-" Ah, no. Not that. Not here. Oh, Architect, not the feelings.

To replace them, the unveiling: Minoth tugs the waistband down just a little bit lower, but refrains from reaching in to wrap his fingers around what he finds inside. No, he has to give a line first.

"Nice cock, my prince."

Oh, what a horrible, crass joke. He's repeating the same epithets far too much and much too much sooner than he would have liked, but after all, a part of him is very much enjoying the chance to lollygag and worship at the golden altar. Well. At least he staves the full breadth of the lazy grin and an accompanying fingergun or two.

"Wishing you had one, Minoth?" Somehow, Addam's still hanging onto his imperious impression for a few precious moments longer. Minoth lets him have it. He's basking in it, anyway - the both of them, that is.

"Not particularly. I like yours just fine." If you like understatements, which Minoth very often does.

The feelings creep back in again, in the form of analysis. Addam is just as enamored with the spoken sound, the tantalizing tactile taste, of Minoth's name as Minoth is with the prospect of swearing fealty in every breath, in saying that for one, you are a prince, I will not let you forget it, and for two, you are my prince, my shining beacon, the only star I see at night when mine burns the reddest.

Ah, shit. Here we go again. Always with the cerebral stuff. Can you quit it, Minoth, he asks himself? Just for once? Just to give Addam a goddamn blowjob and get on with your day?

It could be that he's a little afraid that if he stops once, he'll never start again, but it could also be that if he doesn't concentrate now, he'll never be able to remember it later. And considering how second, third, fourth, fifth chances go, Minoth doesn't want to gamble.

The cues of the scene insist that he should indulge in at least a little bit of scene setting, but he doesn't want to do that either, after it all. Doesn't want to think anymore. Just wants to...

Yeah. Addam is a...lot. Not in the sense of "nice cock" actually translating to "big dick", no, but in the sense that it's very much an enormity, to have taken him like that, just so casually as this is. Minoth has to fight to make himself move slower, caught in between the two impulses of savor it, worship him, make this count, and throw your all into it, be vivacious and maestoso and oh so alive, make him cum as fast and as hard as you can.

Besides all of that, though, is the one thing they'd both forgotten, namely any sort of signaling system. Reluctantly, Minoth slides his mouth back off of Addam's erection and lets the incipient sticky fluid linger on his lips as he peers up and intones, "You'll let me know how you like it, I trust."

I trust. What a stiff, stick-up turn of phrase. In between Indol and this excursion, Minoth had experienced somewhat of a downturn in the formality of his speech, but hanging around Addam has definitely been setting things back into their original configuration.

I trust. Oh, and how. But there's no time for that. Not now.

Not yet free of his own gloves, because the rest of the armor is much more of a hassle to wrangle with than even Minoth's bulky gauntlets above, Addam makes sure to dig both hands down close to Minoth's scalp. "Yes, yes, I will, but please..."

Too easy. Too, too easy. As he works, Minoth takes careful note of Addam's responses, his penchants and tells. He never pushes, only pulls, and always is just slightly too distracted and overwhelmed to do much of anything effective.

He's cute. Goddamn, he's really. fucking. cute. Once or twice, Minoth tries to deepthroat to give himself something else to focus on, but then it circles back again on the fact that, yes, Addam doesn't have a big dick, and that in itself is adorable again.

Unbelievable. Minoth is the one fully clothed and yet he's the one who feels more thoroughly screwed. Well, maybe.

He's older than Addam in terms of mental age, if not so close in physical, but it's not often that he directly flaunts it. An idiot's an idiot no matter their relative maturity, and in that way Minoth keeps immaterial.

Some things, however, deserve to be made real.

"Good boy," he whispers, pulling back and watching Addam's cock quiver from the sudden lack of sensation.

The prince pants, but doesn't whine. "Aren't you?" For me?

"M-maybe."

"Eh, so you'll think about it." He leans in once more to lick the shaft; Addam nods furiously.

He's been thinking about it for quite a few years, most likely. Who's to say if he's ever tread over exactly these thoughts before? No one. Not a soul.

"Promise?" While he waits for an answer, Minoth places soft kisses, electric incentives, scattered all over the tops of Addam's thighs and the base of his stomach. The oft-covered skin is impossibly pure and inviting, and he travels his devotions just about everywhere...everywhere but there.

Addam still hasn't replied, and his hands yank violently at Minoth's hair, trying and failing to guide him back to the center, but once again, Minoth lets him on with it, and no more. Being implicitly needed like that is all headiness - luckily for him, Addam can't see his eyes roll back.

Or...not so?

So Minoth sits back on his haunches, suddenly crimson-conscious of his comparatively full state of dress, as ever but now even drastically more, and sets his gaze. "Addam?"

Addam feels desperately at Minoth's ears and browbones and nose and cheeks, searching for something solid. Does he like being watched? Does he like being undone like this?

There's a quiet, intimate thrill in finding out all his suspicions had been founded, every last theory about his prince had been correct. This encounter makes so much damn sense, it makes Minoth's head spin. There's no way it's really allowed to be this good. Right?

Oh, but remember? I didn't lie - some things do deserve to be real.

Whatever it is Addam thinks he deserves in this moment, he doesn't voice it. He can't come out with anything of sustained coherence, really. "Oh, I promise, I promise, Minoth."

And, too, remember...no, not a soul. But no matter. "Good girl."

Addam near about bites off his knuckle in his frantic, frenzied haste to keep down a scream.

Maybe Minoth had wanted to hear it. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he's in love. Maybe he isn't.

All very standard, pat questions that one can ask oneself later, when one isn't busy worshipping one's beloved prince's throbbing cock.

When all's said and done, Addam is (comes) more or less completely undone, and Minoth is mourning the lack of nighttime and blankets about under and over which to hold the limp, spent prince in his arms, and probably whisper sappy things and think about how fucking grateful he is to be alive, even more heavily than he had been at first.

Oh well. All good things do have to come to an end, as they say. But Addam, sighing and moaning as Minoth hastily does up his pants, definitely doesn't want them to.

He still hasn't let go of the Flesh Eater's face, which is...well. That could mean many things. The most obvious, of course, is that he wants a kiss, and even ordinarily that wouldn't be something Minoth could ever refuse, truly, at heart-or-not. But here? Now?

"Hey, listen, Prince, I'm good to swallow, but I'm not that good. You sure you wanna kiss a mouthful of your own cum?"

Addam smirks, lazily yet still idiotically, probably barely aware of what he's even saying. "Why not? Do you mean to say that it doesn't taste good?"

The blankets and the cuddling and the feelings can wait. Oh, how Minoth still feels like being devoured.