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Sometimes, his favorite spot to keep his Executor is right on one leg with his own straddling it. It's the perfect position for him to grind his knee up right against his seedflap beneath all his clothes and light armor. He knows it drives Darkleer mad, because the orders are clear: he isn't allowed to cum when he's right there and sometimes he keeps him there for a damn long time.
Those worn archer's hands always cling to his belt and nearly threaten to tear it apart everytime. If he were any less well behaved, even by a little fuckin' bit, maybe he really would. But he never does, just clings there while his teeth bite down on his lip with his rock and grind into his nook. He does his best not to make any noise, but that's just fine- that look on his face and the flush which spreads from ear to ear are damn fine too.
When he finally thinks Darkleer is going to blow it, he stops and enjoys that soft little rumble that comes from the very depths of his chest and maybe he'll tear that flesh apart to see just where that little noise miracle all comes from. He moves one hand from the blueblood's hips and fists it into that long soft hair of his, a nice firm grip. There's no resistance when he jerks that face closer to his neck. It's when he rolls his head to the side, exposing the soft skin of his neck, does Darkleer make a small noise of protest, half anger and half panic.
Every fucking time. It's almost hilarious.
But he just mocks him softly under his breath until he feels the other shake from it and strokes the back of his neck with one long sharp claw. It's always a thrill when he feels those sharp teeth dig into his flesh, when he feels blood well up. Never know when the shitblood motherfucker will ever all and try to get a little deeper one day and that's half the fuckin' fun.
"Go on," he growls low. "Take a motherfucking taste, pissblood." If it's his words or the way his leg grinds up again that make Darkleer shake, it always is hard to tell.
But then that sluggish blue tongue of his slips out, making him sigh as the blood dripping down is lapped up. Nice and slow, like it ain't no fuckin' hurry.
And he keeps him like that- with his claws fisted in his hair to hold him there as he laps up every last drop and with his leg grinding up against the twisting bulge hidden in his clothes.
It's shameful, and depraved, and he knows it gets the little dirty bluewhore reluctantly excited every fucking time.
Those worn archer's hands always cling to his belt and nearly threaten to tear it apart everytime. If he were any less well behaved, even by a little fuckin' bit, maybe he really would. But he never does, just clings there while his teeth bite down on his lip with his rock and grind into his nook. He does his best not to make any noise, but that's just fine- that look on his face and the flush which spreads from ear to ear are damn fine too.
When he finally thinks Darkleer is going to blow it, he stops and enjoys that soft little rumble that comes from the very depths of his chest and maybe he'll tear that flesh apart to see just where that little noise miracle all comes from. He moves one hand from the blueblood's hips and fists it into that long soft hair of his, a nice firm grip. There's no resistance when he jerks that face closer to his neck. It's when he rolls his head to the side, exposing the soft skin of his neck, does Darkleer make a small noise of protest, half anger and half panic.
Every fucking time. It's almost hilarious.
But he just mocks him softly under his breath until he feels the other shake from it and strokes the back of his neck with one long sharp claw. It's always a thrill when he feels those sharp teeth dig into his flesh, when he feels blood well up. Never know when the shitblood motherfucker will ever all and try to get a little deeper one day and that's half the fuckin' fun.
"Go on," he growls low. "Take a motherfucking taste, pissblood." If it's his words or the way his leg grinds up again that make Darkleer shake, it always is hard to tell.
But then that sluggish blue tongue of his slips out, making him sigh as the blood dripping down is lapped up. Nice and slow, like it ain't no fuckin' hurry.
And he keeps him like that- with his claws fisted in his hair to hold him there as he laps up every last drop and with his leg grinding up against the twisting bulge hidden in his clothes.
It's shameful, and depraved, and he knows it gets the little dirty bluewhore reluctantly excited every fucking time.
