beowulf (bookofjude) wrote in howlerspeak,

For insaneophelia, who is evil, not insane.

'What is it?'—He looked up: 'cabbage?' he asked; Briar shook his head.

'You need your eyes checked, Jule,' he said. Brandished the flowers under Julius' nose and—

'Oh. Flowers;' Julius looked up: silently wondering. Not really thinking. Reached out with a hand and brushed the speck of brown hair from Briar's eyes and got a smile: perhaps he was allowed to do it, and then Briar caught his hand and—maybe not—kissed it. On the palm; on the wrist; on the arm; smiling and grinning and Julius giggled softly. Didn't know what to do/say.

—'flowers?' put them in a vase and filled it with water, tried to calm his breath and the tightness in his pants. Briar nodded in the living room, lounging on the chair and Julius tried to avert his eyes from the tenting in Briar's crotch: tried, succeeded, and then gave in and gave a little glance and a whimper.

'Yes;' Briar went on, 'flowers.'

'Oh.' Julius sat down on the other chair. Tried to stay way—not make the bulging in his pants or his heavy breathing or his flushed cheeks. 'Why flowers?' he asked, arranged them on the coffee table of his (new) apartment. Hoped the water wouldn't make the tiled floor slippery; turned around and adjusted the pillows on his settée; 'Paris is nice this time of year, isn't it?' points to the window.

The tower looms in the background.

'Yes…' Briar leers—seductive and at the same time frightening. It's then that Julius notes that he hasn't got his shirt on, and his breath quickened/didn't breathe at all. Adjusted his pants and just made it worse; scrape of skin against fabric made him inhale sharply. Pushed his groin under a pillow and hoped Briar didn't notice.

But then Briar had—launched himself across the room and lay out over Julius: shoved the pillow away and pushed his hand against Julius' cock, through the cloth. Listened for the whimper, right before he kissed him. 'What are you doing?' Julius managed to get out: then doesn’t breath for a bit.

—'Something you want,'—managed to pull his shirt off before kissed him again; Julius shuddered, wanted maybe little more nothing less kissed back. Couldn't resist: couldn't hold on and—

Arched his back when Briar slid the hand into his pants. Wrapped the hand around his cock and slid it up and down (and down/up/down/up) just a little. Arched his back again, moaned and then Briar was licking a trail of saliva down his neck. Ended at the nape; kissed him again and slid the pants of his ankles.

'Br—' couldn't breathe '—iar!'

Can't breathe any more. Gasps as Briar's licking and sucking all the way up his cock; shaft, head, base and balls and he's clutching at the pillows making fists with his hands and pounding his hands; couldn't hold on, and then let go. 'Don—'t' but he does 'stop'.

It's Briar—wet his fingers, slid one inside; Julius couldn't breathe: 'd'arvit,' muttered; 'oh god,' many languages, 'mon dieu,' can't remember which is which so just tries to stare. It stings at first. Stings. Feels good next. Tingling. Then it's. 'Oh god.' Briar's grinned: stretches with the second finger; Julius' eyes watered.

'Hurts—' Julius said.

'Don't tense up,' Briar's calming voiced: 'it'll stop in a minute.'

It does. For a minute. Third finger and then he can't breathe: it doesn’t hurt too bad, stings and—he cries out and claws the pillows; empty when Briar pulled his fingers out, cries and then he's quiet. Feels something smooth.

'Just relax…' Briar muttered. Rubbed the smooth liquid over his own cock—pulled his shirt off while he did it and tried to untangle his pants from his ankles; succeeded. Pushed a little way in—'relax, it'll go in easy that way'—Briar is breathing heavy: Julius heavier. Can't breathe, tensed up and then calms when Briar kissed him.

Pushes all the way.

'Briar!' clutches against him.

Pain fades.

Thrusts. Feels. Holds on. Lets go. Clutches again; 'Oh god…' weeps; tears. Pain. Pleasure. Agony. Ecstasy—lets go and spirals down into oblivion, and then he's rising back; out of it, quickly. Speedily. Again. Again and again. Falling and rising; falling and raising. Falling and raising is his chest.

Can't. Breathe. Can. Breathe.

Whimpers—quiet; 'Briar…' before he comes. And clutches his eyes and tenses his legs; and Briar is thrusting harder, kissing him and licking his neck and biting his lips. Kissing hard; comes harder. Can't hold on/let go. Because letting go is easier.

'Julius…' he mutters. Crawls into his arms.

Holding on is harder; he's always up to the challenge.
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