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30. scars
“Quinn.” He stepped closer, offering the hilt of the knife to Daliquinn. “Make me yours.”
The elf's expression flickered between dark displeasure and allured fantasy; Daimd could see his attention drawn to the knife. He spoke with carefully steady inflection. “You are mine, beast.”
Daimd pressed the hilt into Daliquinn's palm and drew back to spread his hands across his bare chest. “I want the world to see it, Quinn.” His voice growled lower, deep and earnest. “I want it etched in my skin the way it's fixed in my heart. I am yours—mark me.”
Daliquinn needed no telling twice, enthralled by Daimd's words, and oh—the knife in Quinn's hand, and his lover's voracious look of vicious excited glee shot a spark of desire to Daimd's lower belly. A second later, the blade touched his skin, and he moaned aloud as his cock stiffened to full attention, straining against his pants.
Daliquinn was an artist, cutting precise, definite markings on one half of his chest and then mirroring them on the other side. Never once did his movements grow languid, and as the enthusiasm lent a quivering strength to his strokes, Daimd chuckled and queried softly, “Are you going to kill me, Daliquinn?”
His only response was a short, snapped, “Don't move.” and so Daimd didn't, despite the war of pleasure and pain roiling within him. The warmth of his own blood as it trickled over his skin at Daliquinn's behest sent shivers up his spine, even while his skin hissed in fury at the bite of the blade.
The sun set, and Daliquinn still proved unfinished, pushing Daimd down to lie back on the ground so that he might continue his work. The tracery of lines grew more complex now, more hurried and stretched and mixed like the rising excitement in the approach towards climax. All his skin was alight with determined, prickling aches now, his arched cock relentlessly begging for attention, and all the while, his gaze trained on the elf's rapturous, taken expression, focused on him and him alone.
When the the knife pierced his breast, directly above his heart, Daimd's breath hitched in his throat. When, with shaking certainty, it began to spiral into his flesh, he let the air out, whispering huskily, “Are you going to kill me, Quinn?” The knife paused, but its pressure remained. 'Not such a bad way to die.' Daimd considered dimly. 'Aroused to bursting at the hands of one's lover.' The moment stretched. He tried again. “Quinn?”
Daliquinn suddenly flung the knife away to one side and leaned down to dip his tongue into the hole just carved. “Never forget that you are mine.” He breathed against Daimd's chest, while the orc moaned frustrated unmet want. “Never forget that I can kill you whenever I want. That's what this is for.” His tongue ground deeper—harder—and Daimd seized him with a roar of need, and fucked him desperately into the ground, bloody red squelching their bodies together.
The elf's expression flickered between dark displeasure and allured fantasy; Daimd could see his attention drawn to the knife. He spoke with carefully steady inflection. “You are mine, beast.”
Daimd pressed the hilt into Daliquinn's palm and drew back to spread his hands across his bare chest. “I want the world to see it, Quinn.” His voice growled lower, deep and earnest. “I want it etched in my skin the way it's fixed in my heart. I am yours—mark me.”
Daliquinn needed no telling twice, enthralled by Daimd's words, and oh—the knife in Quinn's hand, and his lover's voracious look of vicious excited glee shot a spark of desire to Daimd's lower belly. A second later, the blade touched his skin, and he moaned aloud as his cock stiffened to full attention, straining against his pants.
Daliquinn was an artist, cutting precise, definite markings on one half of his chest and then mirroring them on the other side. Never once did his movements grow languid, and as the enthusiasm lent a quivering strength to his strokes, Daimd chuckled and queried softly, “Are you going to kill me, Daliquinn?”
His only response was a short, snapped, “Don't move.” and so Daimd didn't, despite the war of pleasure and pain roiling within him. The warmth of his own blood as it trickled over his skin at Daliquinn's behest sent shivers up his spine, even while his skin hissed in fury at the bite of the blade.
The sun set, and Daliquinn still proved unfinished, pushing Daimd down to lie back on the ground so that he might continue his work. The tracery of lines grew more complex now, more hurried and stretched and mixed like the rising excitement in the approach towards climax. All his skin was alight with determined, prickling aches now, his arched cock relentlessly begging for attention, and all the while, his gaze trained on the elf's rapturous, taken expression, focused on him and him alone.
When the the knife pierced his breast, directly above his heart, Daimd's breath hitched in his throat. When, with shaking certainty, it began to spiral into his flesh, he let the air out, whispering huskily, “Are you going to kill me, Quinn?” The knife paused, but its pressure remained. 'Not such a bad way to die.' Daimd considered dimly. 'Aroused to bursting at the hands of one's lover.' The moment stretched. He tried again. “Quinn?”
Daliquinn suddenly flung the knife away to one side and leaned down to dip his tongue into the hole just carved. “Never forget that you are mine.” He breathed against Daimd's chest, while the orc moaned frustrated unmet want. “Never forget that I can kill you whenever I want. That's what this is for.” His tongue ground deeper—harder—and Daimd seized him with a roar of need, and fucked him desperately into the ground, bloody red squelching their bodies together.
addendum.
Daliquinn stared, and continued to stare, as Daimd peeled off his clothing to stand naked in the twilight. Then he spread his hands to his sides in gentle submission and offered again, “Make me yours.”
“You're always mine.” Daliquinn hissed, taking off in a sudden frenzied flurry of motion.
addendum.
He couldn't bring himself to marr the blood elf's marble chest. Beneath the feverish devotion, terror lurked, anxious fear of Quinn taking sick for all the reasons why this tradition had died out in the first place. But above and beneath that, love and lust and need and desire and devotion burned unchecked and unrestrained, not to be governed by such things as logic and reason.
He was in love, due always to be, and here he was demonstrating it, and their union was slicked with sweat and blood.