And another Light & Dark PWP 2
Jan. 11th, 2005 10:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessIt works! It's been such an age since I last posted fic,
Ilatheril sighed. It appeared to have no effect. He tried again, louder. Sitharensor spared him a brief, withering glance, before returning his rapt attention to the ceremony in front of him.
Ilatheril tried to force his attention on the collection of Seelie fae in front of the high table. Sidhe chanted in the centre of the room, long ceremonial robes flowing around them in magic charged winds. Myriad lesser fae danced in a stately, solemn dance around the central Sidhe, chanting in counterpoint to the main melody. It was useless. The language used was so archaic that only a terminally boring historian with no social life (or your average Seelie) could understand more than one word in three. And Ilatheril didn’t see how this ceremony could be so vitally important and essential when yesterday’s was also vitally important and essential and the day before’s, and likely tomorrow’s as well. Ok, Samhain was important, but was it really necessary to have hour long ceremonies every day for a full bloody month? Even immortals don’t have this much time to waste!
He leaned back, jaws cracking open... before quickly suppressing a yelp.
You are Sidhe. You do not sleep. You do not yawn. Sitharensor’s mental voice growled telepathically across the Unseelie’s mind.
We’re immortal. We do not die of boredom either. Guess there’s a first time for everything. Ilatheril shot back, waiting for the pain in his shin from his husband’s vicious kick to die down. I don’t know why you’re so worried - it’s not like anyone would notice.
Which was sadly true. The Seelie who didn’t want an Unseelie among them dealt with him by ignoring him entirely. He thought he could throw a rock at some of them and they’d still pretend he wasn’t there Sitharensor had vetoed him testing this theory. The few who actually welcomed him soon realised he knew next to nothing about complicated Seelie politics. They ignored him so they wouldn’t have to witness anything embarrassing. Sitharensor had again stopped him testing just exactly HOW embarrassing he could be and still be ignored. Ilatheril was really getting tired of following rules and instructions, even if they were sensible. He was getting tired of long boring ceremonies, even if they were important. And he was getting tired of living like a Seelie, even if he was in a Seelie court.
As fast as that he had made his decision. He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to slide under the table. It was done so smoothly he barely even disturbed the floor length silken table cloth.
What are you doing? Have you gone mad? At least Sitharensor appeared to be the only one who had noticed. Perfect.
Ilatheril crawled over the Sitharensor’s legs and pulled the table cloth aside. He parted the Seelie’s robes with quick, clever fingers. He sent his hands dancing up and down his husband’s thighs encased only in a thin layer of leggings.
Ilatheril! Do not even think of it!
Ilatheril grinned. he answered the outraged command by gently biting the inside of Sitharensor’s thigh. The Seelie tensed wonderfully, just inviting another bite, just a little harder. Just a little higher. Again that tension riding through him. Another invitation, another bite. Sitharensor shivered and tried to force his legs together, pushing the Unseelie back. Ilatheril didn’t pause, he’d called his magic before Sitharensor’s legs had moved an inch. Strength flowed into his arms as he effortlessly forced the Seelie’s legs back. He slapped Sitharensor’s thigh in playful rebuke. Well fairly playful anyway, strength spells weren’t always easy to judge. Still it was all good from the Unseelie’s view, especially since his augmented strength could rip apart those flimsy leggings so incredibly easily.
Ilatheril pause a moment to admire what he could see of his husband. The high table chanted a refrain in the glorious ritual as he let his eyes devour the sight of him, long legged and well shaped. Muscled and toned but lithe, no bulging mass or hard planed lines. Just smooth, hairless skin that gleamed softly in the dim light filtering under the table, skin that felt like silk over the soft press of flesh. His eye roamed upwards to his husband’s manhood, firmly announcing that no matter how much the Seelie’s mind protested, his flesh was desperately eager. Ilatheril allowed himself one tiny feather-light touch, just enough to give him the merest sensual suggestion of impossibly soft skin and burning, pulsing heat. Sitharensor started, nearly jumping out of his chair. Ilatheril grinned. Always good to know you are having an effect.
Ilatheril pulled back, taking his time, making sure he properly savoured the moment. He traced the flaring red hand print that marred the silken perfection of his husband’s thigh. His delicate finger marvelled at the tiny difference in texture, the difference in heat, but most of all in the different ways that Sitharensor twitched as his finger roamed over the sensitised skin. Ilatheril lowered his head and traced the handprint with his tongue, following the outline as perfectly as he could. Sitharensor shivered. Ilatheril finished the outline and turned to lapping across the skin like a cat with cream. He briefly wondered if he could discreetly pull some confection off the table to try different flavours but decided against it. The sweet, spicy taste of his husband would be enough. For now.
Oh, it was more than enough. All thought of holding back and savouring the moment as the sensation of his mouth on the other Sidhe’s leg took over. He bared his teeth and sank them deep into that firm flesh, pushing them down just to the point before the skin would split. He held on loving the feeling of flesh between his teeth. Sitharensor jerked so hard he nearly fell from his seat. His chanting faltered before he could pick up the rhythm again. Ilatheril pulled back, grinned and bit again. Much higher up this time, his cheek resting against the heavy warmth of Sitharensor’s balls and the throbbing shaft of his manhood. Sitharensor’s voice suddenly rose in volume and pitch in response before he managed to reign himself in.
Ilatheril wondered just how fare he could break the Seelie’s iron self control... There was only one way to find out. He waited until there was a rising crescendo of power and chanting, for when the fae gathered their magic as well as their voices. Then in a blindingly fast motion he took his husband's manhood into his mouth. The effect was electric, his power peaked growing far stronger. His chanting broke off into a complete, inarticulate shout. Ilatheril barely noticed, he was lost in the sweet sensation of his husband in his mouth,. It wasn't even taste, just the sheer heat of his flesh, the incredible softness of his skin, the wooden hardness of his desire; it all combined for a sensual feast. Maybe it was true, maybe it was better to give than receive. Well... almost.
Ilatheril’s head plunged back and forth almost of its own accord, without Ilatheril needing to think (which was good considering how hard that had become), pure instinct and desire drove his actions. The sliding of the flesh into his mouth made him grown softly, his breath quickening around his husband’s manhood plunging into him, his tongue rubbing up and down the shaft with every thrust. Sitharensor was rocking back and forth in his seat, his hands plunged under the table, bunching into fists around the seat of his chair. A fine trembling filled his arms as his grip tightened. Ilatheril could almost see his face straining to hold its expression blank, to keep the lips clamped shut over the quickening breath, to try to hide from the oh so solemn Seelie the ancient siren song of moving flesh taking place under the table. The very thought called Ilatheril’s power in sweet chills of excited pleasure, ripples that flowed up through Sitharensor’s manhood in an intensely concentrated wave of ecstatic energy.
It was enough. Sitharensor’s head threw back, his mouth coming open in a full throated gasp that shook his whole body. He panted desperately moaning and shivering as he came in spasmodic thrusts of his manhood into Ilatheril’s mouth. Ilatheril swallowed gleefully, body writhing in sensual ecstasy as the liquid heat poured into him. Power flowed from both of them, bathing the entire room in washes of power and primal heat and burning passion.
Ilatheril collapsed under the table, gasping weakly in the incredible after glow... really it might be better to give than receive. Really it better.
Of course, it had the added bonus of listening to Sitharensor trying to pass the whole thing off as religious fervour. He wondered if any of the Seelie were naive enough to fall for it? If any where he would have to visit them one night - for their own good, of course.
Ilatheril sighed. It appeared to have no effect. He tried again, louder. Sitharensor spared him a brief, withering glance, before returning his rapt attention to the ceremony in front of him.
Ilatheril tried to force his attention on the collection of Seelie fae in front of the high table. Sidhe chanted in the centre of the room, long ceremonial robes flowing around them in magic charged winds. Myriad lesser fae danced in a stately, solemn dance around the central Sidhe, chanting in counterpoint to the main melody. It was useless. The language used was so archaic that only a terminally boring historian with no social life (or your average Seelie) could understand more than one word in three. And Ilatheril didn’t see how this ceremony could be so vitally important and essential when yesterday’s was also vitally important and essential and the day before’s, and likely tomorrow’s as well. Ok, Samhain was important, but was it really necessary to have hour long ceremonies every day for a full bloody month? Even immortals don’t have this much time to waste!
He leaned back, jaws cracking open... before quickly suppressing a yelp.
You are Sidhe. You do not sleep. You do not yawn. Sitharensor’s mental voice growled telepathically across the Unseelie’s mind.
We’re immortal. We do not die of boredom either. Guess there’s a first time for everything. Ilatheril shot back, waiting for the pain in his shin from his husband’s vicious kick to die down. I don’t know why you’re so worried - it’s not like anyone would notice.
Which was sadly true. The Seelie who didn’t want an Unseelie among them dealt with him by ignoring him entirely. He thought he could throw a rock at some of them and they’d still pretend he wasn’t there Sitharensor had vetoed him testing this theory. The few who actually welcomed him soon realised he knew next to nothing about complicated Seelie politics. They ignored him so they wouldn’t have to witness anything embarrassing. Sitharensor had again stopped him testing just exactly HOW embarrassing he could be and still be ignored. Ilatheril was really getting tired of following rules and instructions, even if they were sensible. He was getting tired of long boring ceremonies, even if they were important. And he was getting tired of living like a Seelie, even if he was in a Seelie court.
As fast as that he had made his decision. He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to slide under the table. It was done so smoothly he barely even disturbed the floor length silken table cloth.
What are you doing? Have you gone mad? At least Sitharensor appeared to be the only one who had noticed. Perfect.
Ilatheril crawled over the Sitharensor’s legs and pulled the table cloth aside. He parted the Seelie’s robes with quick, clever fingers. He sent his hands dancing up and down his husband’s thighs encased only in a thin layer of leggings.
Ilatheril! Do not even think of it!
Ilatheril grinned. he answered the outraged command by gently biting the inside of Sitharensor’s thigh. The Seelie tensed wonderfully, just inviting another bite, just a little harder. Just a little higher. Again that tension riding through him. Another invitation, another bite. Sitharensor shivered and tried to force his legs together, pushing the Unseelie back. Ilatheril didn’t pause, he’d called his magic before Sitharensor’s legs had moved an inch. Strength flowed into his arms as he effortlessly forced the Seelie’s legs back. He slapped Sitharensor’s thigh in playful rebuke. Well fairly playful anyway, strength spells weren’t always easy to judge. Still it was all good from the Unseelie’s view, especially since his augmented strength could rip apart those flimsy leggings so incredibly easily.
Ilatheril pause a moment to admire what he could see of his husband. The high table chanted a refrain in the glorious ritual as he let his eyes devour the sight of him, long legged and well shaped. Muscled and toned but lithe, no bulging mass or hard planed lines. Just smooth, hairless skin that gleamed softly in the dim light filtering under the table, skin that felt like silk over the soft press of flesh. His eye roamed upwards to his husband’s manhood, firmly announcing that no matter how much the Seelie’s mind protested, his flesh was desperately eager. Ilatheril allowed himself one tiny feather-light touch, just enough to give him the merest sensual suggestion of impossibly soft skin and burning, pulsing heat. Sitharensor started, nearly jumping out of his chair. Ilatheril grinned. Always good to know you are having an effect.
Ilatheril pulled back, taking his time, making sure he properly savoured the moment. He traced the flaring red hand print that marred the silken perfection of his husband’s thigh. His delicate finger marvelled at the tiny difference in texture, the difference in heat, but most of all in the different ways that Sitharensor twitched as his finger roamed over the sensitised skin. Ilatheril lowered his head and traced the handprint with his tongue, following the outline as perfectly as he could. Sitharensor shivered. Ilatheril finished the outline and turned to lapping across the skin like a cat with cream. He briefly wondered if he could discreetly pull some confection off the table to try different flavours but decided against it. The sweet, spicy taste of his husband would be enough. For now.
Oh, it was more than enough. All thought of holding back and savouring the moment as the sensation of his mouth on the other Sidhe’s leg took over. He bared his teeth and sank them deep into that firm flesh, pushing them down just to the point before the skin would split. He held on loving the feeling of flesh between his teeth. Sitharensor jerked so hard he nearly fell from his seat. His chanting faltered before he could pick up the rhythm again. Ilatheril pulled back, grinned and bit again. Much higher up this time, his cheek resting against the heavy warmth of Sitharensor’s balls and the throbbing shaft of his manhood. Sitharensor’s voice suddenly rose in volume and pitch in response before he managed to reign himself in.
Ilatheril wondered just how fare he could break the Seelie’s iron self control... There was only one way to find out. He waited until there was a rising crescendo of power and chanting, for when the fae gathered their magic as well as their voices. Then in a blindingly fast motion he took his husband's manhood into his mouth. The effect was electric, his power peaked growing far stronger. His chanting broke off into a complete, inarticulate shout. Ilatheril barely noticed, he was lost in the sweet sensation of his husband in his mouth,. It wasn't even taste, just the sheer heat of his flesh, the incredible softness of his skin, the wooden hardness of his desire; it all combined for a sensual feast. Maybe it was true, maybe it was better to give than receive. Well... almost.
Ilatheril’s head plunged back and forth almost of its own accord, without Ilatheril needing to think (which was good considering how hard that had become), pure instinct and desire drove his actions. The sliding of the flesh into his mouth made him grown softly, his breath quickening around his husband’s manhood plunging into him, his tongue rubbing up and down the shaft with every thrust. Sitharensor was rocking back and forth in his seat, his hands plunged under the table, bunching into fists around the seat of his chair. A fine trembling filled his arms as his grip tightened. Ilatheril could almost see his face straining to hold its expression blank, to keep the lips clamped shut over the quickening breath, to try to hide from the oh so solemn Seelie the ancient siren song of moving flesh taking place under the table. The very thought called Ilatheril’s power in sweet chills of excited pleasure, ripples that flowed up through Sitharensor’s manhood in an intensely concentrated wave of ecstatic energy.
It was enough. Sitharensor’s head threw back, his mouth coming open in a full throated gasp that shook his whole body. He panted desperately moaning and shivering as he came in spasmodic thrusts of his manhood into Ilatheril’s mouth. Ilatheril swallowed gleefully, body writhing in sensual ecstasy as the liquid heat poured into him. Power flowed from both of them, bathing the entire room in washes of power and primal heat and burning passion.
Ilatheril collapsed under the table, gasping weakly in the incredible after glow... really it might be better to give than receive. Really it better.
Of course, it had the added bonus of listening to Sitharensor trying to pass the whole thing off as religious fervour. He wondered if any of the Seelie were naive enough to fall for it? If any where he would have to visit them one night - for their own good, of course.