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International negotiations are complex. There's always quite a bit of arguing over which resource is worth what, whose intelligence is actually exclusive, so on. There is a fair bit, though, that Doresain is willing to give away for another taste of the foreign Keeper's blood. He wasn't able to delve into him at all during the fight against the seafarers, where he instead let Sylvester see a bit of him through that connection rather than Doresain's preferred reversal of that channel.
Fortunately, Sylvester's keeper (pun intended) is willing to negotiate.
Unfortunately, the person Sylvester keeps calling king and is attached at the hip to is Goliath, who resents sharing and demands quite a lot of information about how Doresain weaves his kingdom adjacent to reality if he's going to let the ghoul get even close to touching Sylvester. At least this Goliath seems to be doing this mainly to aid their return to their original timeline. He can't be faulted for that, and Doresain is inclined to go rather easy on something that would benefit Sylvester.
Sylvester's reaction to sitting in on the conversation about him being a bargaining piece was a loud “really?” in open exasperation, burying his head in his hands, getting visibly embarrassed, and then slinking out of the room with endearingly red cheeks. Doresain only laughed a little bit. But negotiations do conclude with a treaty, and at least there isn't anything particularly threatening to Necrovia itself about it. Doresain really wouldn't be able to excuse or ever recover from dishonouring his city for the sake of blood and ass. Even if both are from the Keeper, who is a unique and exemplary individual.
Hours later Sylvester eventually finds his way to Doresain's quarters. He had to have time to recover from the embarrassment, find out there was in fact a fair bit of verbal agreement laid out about him, once more recover from that embarrassment, and then declare a set time he'll make himself present.
Doresain's room is large and richly decorated, as to be expected from someone in his position. Sylvester is distracted from his overthinkng by looking around. A lot of decor is blue to accent gilt edges, dried flowers in vases, furniture finished with soft velvet. A bed is set off center, with a large divan against a wall and a two-person table in another corner where Doresain sits now. By his body language he's entirely casual, and he beckons Sylvester over to him. “Do sit. You've not yet had dinner, yes? I've taken the liberty of preparing a meal for you.” He sounds quite pleased with himself about this.
Sylvester glances at the table settings placed for him. It's definitely meat of some sort, which raises his hackles slightly. Even if Doresain can be trusted, he can also be a little bit pushy about what kind of meat he cooks with. Nonetheless, Sylvester seats himself across from Doresain as directed. He's rewarded with a smile. The food does look good. Doresain speaks first, tone light as always. “You did leave a bit early, and while I'm sure you were informed what the trade would be, I want to make entirely sure you're aware.” Sylvester resists the urge to grimace. It’s an understandable want from Doresain, but it’s embarrassing and there’s no Goliath here for Sylvester to recede behind and write off all his own willingness with ‘eh, well, it’s not like it’s my fault, I’m just going along with him’. He manages to valiantly continue looking at Doresain. “I’ve permission and a mind to partake of you, if you don’t mind the euphemism. As well as to take your blood once more. I hardly got a chance to properly taste it back then. I’ll make a shallow cut, don’t worry. And I won’t be taking any of your flesh, just the blood. ...Unless you want to let me have a bite?”
Doresain raises his eyebrows with an obvious hanging question, silently and shamelessly egging Sylvester to give him permission to bite. He’s fully aware of and expecting the answer he gets, though, which is Sylvester immediately shaking his head. “No thanks.” It’s hard enough to keep his body all in one piece, he doesn’t want to lose bits that he’s given the option to keep!
“Shame.” Doresain smiles anyways. Sylvester’s loss! …Not really, but Doresain still firmly believes there will come a day. He’s gotten this far, it’s only a little bit further to Sylvester handing over the meat of his palm for Doresain to gently, lovingly bite into. “Then I’ll limit myself. And I am of course intending to ensure you enjoy our time together as well.”
Sylvester exhales something that’s almost a laugh. That part he didn’t really doubt. “Thanks. Yeah, this whole thing is… fine. With me. I mean.” Besides, there’s things in it for him, too… write it off that way and it’s fine. He doesn’t need to think too deeply about this. “And thanks for the food as well.”
Somehow he feels like he should have expected for Doresain to give him food. “Of course.” Doresain perks up even more, if that’s possible. “Don’t fret, the meat is veal.” Though why that’s fine to eat but human isn’t, despite both being living things that are now dead is entirely beyond Doresain. He’ll reluctantly limit himself to using his culinary talents on things his guests actually eat. “Please eat.”
Ah, but there is one thing, he recalls almost belatedly as Sylvester takes a knife. Doresain reaches out a hand and places his palm over the wine glass. “The wine,” he says, “is drugged.” Sylvester blinks, eyes widening in surprise as he looks back up at Doresain. The host continues. “Nothing poisonous, per se. It will relax you, dull your senses, as I would hate to cause you overmuch pain when I draw blood. And to… limit your ability to hide behind mental walls. I wish to see you bared. Rest assured, you may choose to drink the water instead, and you have my word that I will do you no harm that was not agreed to.” Doresain draws his hand back and smiles with a tinge of rue. “Your king was quite emphatic. Even the permission to ask to cut you was quite hard-won.”
Sylvester can imagine. It does help, though, with his own sense of security. Doresain is already polite enough that he isn’t going to do anything undue to Sylvester, no matter how badly the king wishes to eat him. Sylvester’s entirely sure that Doresain would be polite enough to wait until Sylvester dies of natural causes. Or something. Nonetheless, Sylvester’s already given up being vaguely annoyed at Goliath for using him as a bargaining piece for ‘international relations’, and he’s certain that all things Doresain requests wouldn’t be that bad. “Like I said, I don’t mind if you cut me once. So long as you don’t go too crazy with it.” At least Doresain asked, unlike Goliath, who just bites him. But Doresain’s desires to self-indulge are a little… never mind, Sylvester will choose not to dwell on it for the time being.
“I don’t like pain, though. So I’ll take it.” Contrary to what his usual tendencies might make it look like, with how often he gets hurt or comes in with bloody marks he has to bandage. He also doesn’t much like blood, and cannot help but think of the drinks pushed upon him at Soulsfeast when he takes the glass of red wine and swirls it lightly, glad it doesn’t have the thick consistency of blood and surprise of flesh within.
Doresain knows better. Even if Sylvester is fairly positive that the king still hasn’t given up on the idea that he can get Sylvester eating human flesh if he just cajoles and prepares it well enough. “It should taste just like an unadulterated pinot,” Doresain says, a pleased smile making his eyes narrow. “I took quite a bit of effort to ensure that it would not ruin the meal. Rest assured, there are no human ingredients on the plate, either. It was made with you in mind.” Small serving sizes to ensure that Sylvester would neither be on an empty stomach nor over-full, red meat for Sylvester’s mild anemia.
It is only the basic expectations of a host to provide an accommodating meal for guests. There is nothing for Doresain himself, his meal comes later. Instead he gestures for Sylvester to go ahead. “Please, eat.” There’s a little bit of nervousness in Sylvester, unaccustomed to being watched so intently while eating on top of being the only one at a table to partake in something. And Doresain does watch, his hands folded in front of him and gaze fixed on Sylvester. He’s unblinking, even if he tries to keep his expression empty of anything but a small inscrutable smile. Even low-lidded eyes cannot keep his fervent enthusiasm completely obscured.
Still, Sylvester eats. It’s a good meal. “Do you like it?” Doresain asks with politely muted enthusiasm after a few bites.
Sylvester nods. “There’s more spices than the chefs at Mythag would use. Not that I really know what they are, but– it’s good.” It’s a proper amount of food and there’s greens with it as well, which Sylvester is fairly sure means it’s a balanced meal. Doresain is very obviously pleased with this answer; he hums merrily and shifts a bit forward in apparent intrigue. He has nothing else to say, though, so Sylvester finishes eating under his gaze, Doresain’s pupils growing dark and the blue mist around him shifting slightly bluer in colour.
Sylvester chooses not to think about that particularly hard, focusing more on not feeling too scrutinized to function. It’s a difficult hurdle to clear but he manages. It helps that the food is good, he doesn’t know what he’d do if he were being stared at with what he really doesn’t want to describe as ‘open hunger’ while doing something he didn’t want to do. Drinking the wine does take some of the difficulty away for him, as nervousness slowly slips away into a vague fuzzy hum. He sets down silverware with a polite thanks, and drains what of the wine is left.
He can feel when whatever was in the wine starts to take a proper hold. He feels a little bit spacey, as if his consciousness is starting to hover a few inches above his actual body. Sylvester shakes his head a little, just to see if the movement still works, and feels slightly as if his skull has turned into a snowglobe. Movements are becoming a bit sluggish, he can tell as if from an outside observer’s view, and there’s a warm heat slowly collecting in his abdomen. Like the burn of a much stronger alcohol, almost. Doresain smiles gently at him. “Come, then.”
The King rises from his seat and Sylvester is distracted for a moment by the elegance of the movement. Doresain manages perpetual elegance and it’s unfair, Sylvester feels, inimitable and making him feel slightly out of place in Doresain’s presence. Still, he’s beckoned into said presence. Now literally as Doresain stands behind him and offers a steadying hand. Sylvester takes it, discovering that is a necessity after standing makes him dizzy. “Did I give you a bit much?” Doresain murmurs mostly to himself. “You are rather slight... ah, no harm will come of it if I did.”
Clarification is offered in a bit clearer voice as he leads Sylvester to the divan against the wall. “It is disorientation and a bit of a boon from the Holy River added in.” There’s the flash of a sly smile before Doresain returns to his usual less nefarious mein. Doresain pulls Sylvester to sit facing him on his lap. There’s a little bit of stumbling as Sylvester’s body fails to keep up with him, but he’s quickly held secure and balanced on Doresain’s thigh. Despite their delicate appearance the prosthetics hold up to Sylvester without shifting. Sylvester adapts to his perch with only a little bit of leaning against the other’s arms. The lack of body heat is rather odd to him and takes a moment of getting used to. He holds on to Doresain’s arm, feeling like it’s rather surreal to have something cold in his grip.
The loose hold he has is taken advantage of and shifted for Doresain to pull Sylvester’s hand into his. He raises it to gently kiss Sylvester’s knuckles, which makes the Keeper flush lightly and glance down. He’s not used to this kind of thing, the sort of treatment a gallant noble gives in a romance novel. He’s uncouth, he’s a loser, he’s just some guy! More or less, though Doresain would certainly argue the matter if Sylvester spoke it aloud. His embarrassment makes Doresain exhale a laugh and pull Sylvester a little closer against him. While Sylvester might be thrown askance by Doresain’s chill, Doresain leans into Sylvester’s living warmth easily. The heat slowly leeches into him. He feels as if it makes the mist about him pick up just a little in activity as well, its hazy eminence very slightly congregating around Sylvester. The hand Doresain had been holding is guided to his hip and then left there – he has different plans for himself, fun as it may be to embarrass Sylvester.
Doresain leans down to bury his face against Sylvester’s neck, one hand on Sylvester’s head to guide him into baring the skin. He inhales deeply, exhale slow and shaky. It really would be the most simple of matters to sink teeth into the Keeper’s neck and tear him open, drink the blood pulsing beneath his lips and eat Sylvester in his entirety. Mire himself in the memories and taste of a godhead from another world. He can’t, though, in part because killing Sylvester would be an error impossible to recover from, and in part because that would remove his ability to indulge in him slowly and over time. “Do I really… smell that strongly to you?” Sylvester says, slurring a little bit.
“Strongly isn’t the word, per se.” Strongly implies that Doresain could catch more than a faint whiff of him at normal standing distance. It might be easier if he could, considering the smell fascinates him and he craves it, desperately, like starving. Here it’s strong with Doresain’s nose just under Sylvester’s ear, skin soft and warm and heavy with the odd ocean-like smell. “It’s enthralling. So many notes I’ve never experienced from human or ghoul before. The faint hint of memory and feeling entirely unknown to me. For an epicurean, the desire to taste you is… overwhelming. You’re quite lucky that most ghouls aren’t as adventurous as me.” And that Doresain would never let Sylvester traverse Necrovia alone, just in case someone else notices the same of Sylvester’s scent.
He is rather annoyed that part of his stipulations require being very limited in what marks he’s allowed to leave. He can’t even bite a little bruise into Sylvester’s neck, get blood and flesh just a little more raw beneath his lips, without running the risk of ire. The struggles of being a gentleman who values keeping his word. “You’re also lucky I’m polite enough not to corner you whenever the urge strikes me. Let an addict indulge a little now, won’t you?”
“It’s fine,” Sylvester says. “It’s fine here.” It’s just smelling him, at least, which Sylvester still feels is kind of weird but is much better than talking about eating him. Doresain hums happily and kisses down Sylvester’s neck with a murmur of ‘good boy’. His other hand trails fingernails lightly down the other side of Sylvester’s neck, and all in concert make Sylvester whimper.
“Oho, is that what you like?” Doresain mouths lightly over Sylvester’s jugular. He can feel the Keeper’s pulse quicken beneath him. “Good, good.” He pets Sylvester’s head. “Feel free to tell me more of your preferences.” Sylvester makes a quiet squeak in response. If it’s the body part or the praise that gets to him, Doresain isn’t sure. It seems to be both. Unsurprising, if Sylvester likes praise and reassurance that he’s acting properly, considering the constant burden of expectations and violence placed upon him. Maybe that’s also why he drank the wine without complaining, to remove the weight of agency.
Well, if that’s what he’s weak to, Doresain is more than happy to investigate further. All in the name of obliging his guest’s whims, of course. He moves back after one final kiss and inhale of Sylvester’s neck. He thumbs over the gold piercing in Sylvester’s ear– something vaguely circular with a branching arc coming out of it, tiny and vaguely reminiscent of coral. “Sanga made those,” Sylvester says. He’s unsure how Daffodil managed to duplicate his body so well that even the uniform and gifts were intact. His mind follows down idle paths, vaguely soupy and only half processing the words as Doresain compliments Mythag’s artisans. (Maybe Doresain will tag along through this connection, introduce himself once the path between dimensions exists. Simply another reason to consider following Keeper, more arts to patronize.)
Sylvester mutters vaguely. Mhm, yes, all his Awakeners are talented. He leans back automatically to allow space as Doresain next goes to his collar and undoes the ribbons and clasps there. Doresain’s fingers are gentle and deft, faint touches before Sylvester’s skin becomes slowly bared to him, like pulling apart flower petals. “Mmh. Doresain.” There isn’t a complete request, but Sylvester manages to drag Doresain into kissing him.
This, too, Sylvester likes. He shouldn’t be surprised that Doresain is good with his mouth, and maybe it’s whatever’s in his blood at the moment, but Sylvester feels quickly overwhelmed letting Doresain devour his breath and push tongue into his mouth. Sylvester is pliant beneath him, arching into Doresain’s body. The mist around Doresain takes a slightly different hue, the blue becoming a bit more lurid, and taking on a slightly metallic scent. It’s most of what Sylvester can inhale once Doresain lets him breathe easily again. His capelet is slipped from his shoulder and shirt pushed back, baring skin that shouldn’t feel scandalous and yet does. “Hm,” Doresain says.
His thumb runs over the indent of scars between Sylvester's shoulder and neck. They're the pink of being somewhat fresh and in a distinct half-circle of a bite mark. Doresain purses his lips, which Sylvester only notices belatedly as he opens his eyes again. “S. Sorry,” Sylvester says, for not particular reason he can think of. It's not like it's his fault he got bitten.
“Oh? No need. I am simply a little... jealous.” At least Doresain admits it. But it's unfair for him to be banned from biting or drawing any other blood on Sylvester when Goliath gets to leave obvious teeth marks. Ingrate probably doesn't even appreciate the flavour. Doresain leans and lightly scrapes teeth over the indents. He doesn't bite, though.
What he does do instead is glance at Sylvester's neck again, pushing his clothes further off to bare neck and shoulders entirely. There are fading bruises where the collar normally hides.
That's fine, if no one's to know the difference he can cheat a little bit. Doresain mouths over a red mark (shame, Sylvester gets touched by others, isn't a pristine expanse of snow for him to carve into, but this is the plate he's set and wants. Can't have everything in the world).
Sylvester whines in the back of his throat, reaching up to the ruffles of Doresain's shirt and holding onto him. His head falls back to allow more space. Heat and blood bloom beneath Doresain's mouth. He can taste them, even if it doesn't break skin. The faint breath of it, a lightly blooming bruise.
No one has to know except himself. He left his own little mark. The taste of Sylvester's skin is sweet even when it's unbroken skin, the surface that holds only a hint of what's beneath. ”Dore,“ Sylvester's voice trails off in a whine.
He feels feverish and with a pit of want growing in him. Doresain's cold presence is at once balm and not enough, he's too far away and too intent on taking his time. ”Nicknaming me, are we? Cute.“ He's not often called things other than name or title. He'll allow it, just in this context, and because Sylvester's voice seems to have given out on him before he could have finished the word. ”What is it you want?“ He's teasing now, leaning back and hovering with one hand splayed over Sylvester's sternum to feel the heartbeat beneath and his breath ghosting over skin.
Sylvester frowns, annoyed he's being asked anything or to string coherent words together when his thoughts are more akin to soup than sentences. What does he want — hands on him, the heart hammering in his chest to be obliged, to be surrounded and held tight — ”more,“ he says eventually. Good enough, a little petulant, but enough.
He's answered with a soft laugh. It's either that or Doresain devours him where he sits. ”Then how could I not oblige?” The predatory hunger is back in Doresain's eyes. His hand shifts lower, down Sylvester's midline as the free hand tugs clothing off to leave Mythag's uniform pooling on the ground. It's a bit uncouth, usually Doresain would at least set it aside somewhere, but Sylvester doesn't seem to have the patience for that.
Doresain kisses him again and resists the urge to bite into Sylvester's lip. The Keeper whines when Doresain palms over his crotch, jerking his hips against Doresain's palm. “Impatient,” Doresain laughs against Sylvester's lower lip.
“Whose fault is that?” It's Doresain who made him like this and now is determined to spend time feeling Sylvester up instead of fucking him. Sounding annoyed doesn't work very well when he's flushed and having difficulty putting complex sentences together, though. Doresain just smiles at him again. He takes one hand to the small of Sylvester's back to keep him supported and leans his head against Sylvester's shoulder to watch his other hand as he draws lazy loops over the rise in Sylvester's pants with his fingernail.
“Maybe so. There's much to be said about presentation and preparing a meal.” Sylvester whines at him in eloquent reply. He doesn't have room to get his hands between himself and Doresain so he can get his own pants off, he just has to deal with this. Doresain toys with him. He ghosts touches over Sylvester's crotch, tracing the shape of his clothed erection until Sylvester gives up and tries to grind against Doresain's thigh. “Don't rush,” Doresain chides.
Obligingly he undoes the button of Sylvester's pants and the easing of pressure is almost equal relief to the thought he'll be getting the last of his clothes off soon, except then Doresain goes instead to fondling Sylvester's chest. He tugs at Sylvester's nipple and makes him whine, unabashedly grinning at the annoyed whine he gets for it. Precum spreads a wet mark against the fabric of Sylvester's underwear, obvious and needy in Doresain's field of view.
“Please?” Sylvester says.
Doresain likes the sound of that. He hums and tilts his head to kiss Sylvester's neck. “Ask again, dear guest.”
Sylvester does. And a third time as well, since Doresain is slow to oblige. “Please. Doresain, please. Touch me.” He whines with a needy pitch that would embarrass him deeply if he were in full control of his thoughts. As it is, Doresain did get what he wanted with a removal of Sylvester's usual guarded quiet around him, and instead getting a Keeper with wavering voice rocking hips against his thigh.
He's at least relieved when Doresain's cold fingers tug Sylvester's cock from his underwear. “Alright, since you insist,” he teases, taking great pleasure in the way Sylvester shudders against his touch and leans into him. He strokes Sylvester along with the way Sylvester moves himself even though it's a quicker pace than Doresain would like.
He prefers a little bit of toying with his meals. So after he's decided Sylvester has gotten enough of being easily obliged, Doresain leans back and tugs Sylvester along with him. Sylvester falls against Doresain's shoulder, twisted to sit sideways. It gives Doresain a bit better view of his flushed face and dripping cock at the same time. Doresain's hand on the small of his back is now firmly gripping Sylvester's hips to keep him forcibly still.
“Let's not hurry ourselves.”
“You're... bullying me,” Sylvester gripes. He tugs on Doresain's shirt so as to not do anything else with his hands. It's a near thing to resist those impulses.
“Am I? How cruel of you to say.” He drags a nail lightly over Sylvester's dick, dragging up the shaft and circling the tip. He thumbs over the precum and then raises his hand to his lips to lick it.
There's no grand insight it gives him. There's only trace amounts of life energy in it, nowhere near the silver threads in flesh and blood, but he nonetheless likes knowing the tastes of Sylvester. Bitter here, but Doresain catalogs it.
“Cruel of you to keep me like this.” It's unbearable — is this what Awakeners feel like during frenzy? All he can think about is his heartbeat between his legs, how Doresain was cold against it and is now once again just barely touching him. And Doresain did all that on purpose! Sylvester can manage patience only when he's sure of what will come of it, that there's a clear next goal on the road that he's waiting for. This is just Doresain ghosting touch over his cock that's begging for more.
The quiet laugh he gets in response makes Sylvester grumble. Fine, fine, he gets he's pathetic. But at least Doresain says “alright,” and wraps fingers around his dick again. Sylvester moans outright, arching his back at the finally firm contact and stroke. He'd prefer being fucked, he'd prefer Doresain not be so clothed, but he'll take this. It'll be enough for now, and surely Doresain will expect more of him. He'll fuck Sylvester afterwards, or let him suck him off, or something. At minimum. This is an appetizer. Sylvester thinks of what else he could be asked to do as Doresain strokes him off, eyes unfocused and breath hard.
He wants more than he knows what to do with, wants to be surrounded, but the presence of another body next to him and a hand dealing with the throbbing of his cock is enough to at least keep him from becoming incoherent. The pressure gets tighter and Sylvester aches, tensing and arching his back before cumming over Doresain's fingers with a long moan.
He shivers as Doresain milks him though it, not stopping until Sylvester is overstimulated and twitches his leg sharply against Doresain. “Good boy, there you go,” Doresain murmurs gently, pressing a kiss to Sylvester's temple. “Don't relax on me quite yet, though.”
Doresain trails fingers idly up and down Sylvester’s middle again. Somewhat more in possession of his faculties, or at the very least enough that he no longer feels as if he’ll have to threaten biting if Doresain doesn’t let him cum, Sylvester figures he may as well address the problem of how much fabric is on Doresain. He gets the coat out of his immediate way (easy enough considering it’s generally only barely draped over Doresain), but once getting to the shirt Sylvester realizes that buttons are currently beyond his abilities. His fingers fumble over tiny and delicate clips in a way that makes Sylvester mutter in frustration. Entirely unfair.
He shakes his head again to attempt to recalibrate himself. It doesn’t help, but the temporary return of the floating feeling does distract him. Sylvester slows, then gives up and leans against Doresain. “Can you take this off,” he mutters with another tug to the offending button. He does remember his manners.
“Just for you,” Doresain assents, not entirely truthfully. It has, in fact, been an extremely long time since he bared himself to anyone else. There hasn't been much reason to. It's thusly a little novel when he unbuttons his top and Sylvester is there, moving back to watch with an attentive stare. Doresai cannot help putting on a little bit of a show for him, then, a bit extra drama in slipping the fabric back and off his shoulders. It drops off his arms easily where they dissolve into mist.
Sylvester reaches out, tracing his fingertips from Doresain's collarbone to down his shoulder and along the inside of his arm. The skin is still cold, and Sylvester's touch feels bright and feverish to Doresain, like a comet skidding over his flesh. Doresain's skin is unmarred, until Sylvester gets below his elbow. A few inches down and there are marks as if giant teeth have drug through Doresain's flesh before the arm simply disappears into a blueish-grey mist. It re-solidifies into his hands at the appropriate distance down. Sylvester looks up inquisitively at Doresain once he gets to the scarring. “You can try to touch it if you like. I simply have a difficult time forming my limbs.” Hands were a habit gained from sheer necessity, while his legs are easily replaced by prosthetics. The god that he merged with took its due in flesh, after all. Not that there's much Doresain really misses about it. Sylvester's hands quest gently and curiously over Doresain's arm and lack thereof, finding nothing but space where forearm should be (a part of him simply expected it to exist invisibly), until he gets to Doresain's hand. He tangles their fingers together, as that's what one does with hands once they're taken, and Sylvester leans forward clumsily and kisses Doresain again. He's had a few moment somewhat distant from Doresain, not pressed against him, and the heat inside him is upset at the change.
Why resist, why not simply be caught in desire's flow. Doresain praises Sylvester for it and settles arms around him. They kiss without any particular urgency, simply Doresain feeding into the welling heat within Sylvester. He wants Sylvester kept at a simmer.
Sylvester's hands are on his sides, and the Keeper leans close to him as they kiss, needy for contact but not entirely able to press themselves together without breaking the kiss. He does his best and Doresain happily drinks the quiet needy mutters Sylvester makes in return.
After a while, though, Sylvester rolls his hips against Doresain's crotch and Doresain can't help but let out a low noise of pleasure. He had been doing his best to keep himself under tight control, as his own indulgences were to be saved for as late as possible. Actually letting something slip means that Sylvester repeats the movement, looking at dDoresain through eyelashes with an unspoken question in his gaze.
He wants to please Doresain, too, with mouth or hands if not the rest of his body, but he is also waiting for instruction. This is under Doresain's control, Sylvester's already agreed to be pliant. But still... his fingers go to Doresain's waistband with a light tug to the fabric.
Doresain takes his wrist, leaning to kiss Sylvester's cheek to communicate that the unspoken question was not necessarily incorrect to ask. “Here. I'll have you lie down.” He gets Sylvester to stand (noting he's still a bit inelegant, and keeps glancing down Doresain's body with an utter inability to hide his interest. Poor needy Keeper.) It's a bit sooner than Doresain would like to stop pulling Sylvester along, but the meal can still be eaten.
Once Sylvester is standing, he immediately goes to remove his own pants and underwear, glad to be free of it. Doresain escorts Sylvester to the bed, never moving too far from him, and Sylvester is more than happy to fall atop the covers.
It's furniture for a king and, while the guest room he's been in has left him wanting for nothing, the blankets are soft and fancy. After weeks of running around under Dolls near-Spartan home base and he's not going to think about Clementine's hospital, anything comfortable to lay on needs to be appreciated. If he weren't occupied, he could fall asleep here easily. Fortunately he's got Doresain to watch.
And Doresain does provide a show, though largely unintentionally. He frees himself from his remaining clothes, metallic legs stepping daintily from where they pool on the floor. A night table waits next to the bed, drawer open with its contents having been prepared earlier. He grabs a few things from it then climbs onto his bed to sit over Sylvester. Keeper stares at him with eyes wide to take in the view.
A soft smile before Doresain leans down and kisses him again. “You’re very pretty,” he says. At the same time, he slides something over Sylvester’s dick. Cold metal that he pushes down to encircle the base and then is tightened with a click. “Hm..?” Sylvester manages to say for inquiry.
“You’ll see,” is the answer he gets. Good enough for him. Doresain leans back and adjusts so he has enough room to idly rub Sylvester’s half-hard length with his thumb. “I imagine you’re not particularly familiar with toys?” He likes feeling Sylvester stiffen again beneath him. It can’t possibly be that difficult for Sylvester to get hard again in his condition, but it’s still satisfying.
“Eh? Uhm. No,” Sylvester says, flushing. He doesn’t think so anyways, though embarrassment runs his thought a bit askew.
He just gets a slightly more devious smile directed at him. “Then you should let me be a feature in your bedchambers. I’ll get you familiar. And I suppose your entourage can benefit as well.” If he must. Nonetheless, this is quite basic. Doresain leans back. “There are also things to say for preparation ahead of time.” One of the items he left for himself was a vial of lubricant, which he uncorks and drips over Sylvester’s cock. It twitches at the first drop, Sylvester flinching from the cold.
He’ll adapt soon enough. Doresain spreads it with his fingers and watches as Sylvester flushes under his attention with both embarrassment and arousal. It is odd that Sylvester is so quick to redden under scrutiny, as if he’s unused to being looked at. Which would probably be nonsense, considering he’s quite pretty and Doresain highly doubts he’s in the minority thinking so. It’s still cute of him and makes Doresain want to put him further on display to see how flustered he can get. Perhaps one day.
For now, though, Sylvester watches as Doresain sits up a bit and reaches behind himself. With a noise he can’t quite keep muted in his throat, Doresain pulls a plug from his ass. He glances down and gives a fanged smile to Sylvester’s stare. “A proper chef prepares all ingredients ahead of time, so he does not have to stop midway through the meal to ready something he could have done before.”
“How long were you…?”
“Hm? Ah, since a bit before I was cooking for you.” Sylvester goes even redder at that and averts his gaze again, given suddenly the mental image of Doresain being eager enough to bed him that he’s fucking himself ahead of time, putting a toy in to keep himself stretched to take Sylvester’s dick, sitting and talking casually with him while he’s got a toy in him– Doresain just laughs quietly. “I do pride myself on patience and decorum. You have no idea the difficulties I had in keeping that air tonight.”
He’d wanted to jump Sylvester just watching the other eat. It took quite a lot of restraint not to do anything entirely uncouth, just sit politely as this human ate what Doresain prepared and placed before him. If only it were the flesh of something meaningful, but, one step at a time. He can feel himself getting a bit further worked into a frenzy thinking of feeding Sylvester whatever he chooses, and that – is distracting him from the current affair.
Doresain positions himself and takes Sylvester’s cock in hand. The Keeper watches as Doresain lowers himself onto it. He’s tight, but not so much that he can’t take Sylvester to the hilt in one smooth motion, sitting on him with a distinctly smug smile. “If I’m too cold for your taste, you’ll have to warm me up, dear Keeper.” He’s aware this is a difference in himself and humanity, and that Sylvester’s cock pressing inside him feels incredibly warm, a pleasant fever that seeps through his walls.
Sylvester just makes an incoherent noise in assent. He’s finally inside Doresain– he really doesn’t care which one of them was going in the other, so long as that it was someone, and it reignites the pitch inside him. He grabs Doresain’s prosthetics, fingers gripping on the arcs of metal and bone that make up his thighs. That’s purchase enough to keep him grounded.
Doresain moves slowly. He braces himself to draw up until Sylvester has almost fallen from him, then back down. Sylvester tries to chase him, fuck sharply into him again, but he’s stilled by Doresain putting a hand on his stomach. “Match me, you’ve no need to be impatient.”
He’d love to argue, as he does very much feel like he has a need to be impatient. The need is the fever he’s got and the fact he can feel his heartbeat in his dick, both of which are incredibly insistent on fucking Doresain. Still, he can follow instructions. He has to. So he obediently slows and lets Doresain set the pace. “Good boy,” Doresain says in reward.
That’s more than enough for Sylvester to remain obedient. Doresain near about tortures him, stopping entirely every time Sylvester loses track and tries to fuck hm faster, tugging on Doresain’s legs for leverage and trying to pull him down quicker.
It’s frustrating. For someone who was so obliging earlier wen Sylvester was on his lap, Doresain now delights in the frustrated noises Sylvester makes when he isn’t allowed to speed up and the way he loses focus in his half-open eyes as Doresain fucks himself on Sylvester.
It’s more fun a meal to eat slowly. To bring Sylvester slowly to the point where he feels like he’s about to cry. Doresain picks up just a little bit and Sylvester groans, arching back. “I want to cum,” Sylvester says, voice breaking. The tenseness in his core remains, coiled tight but nothing snapping and providing him relief. His dick is throbbing hard and he wants to cum.
But he can’t, because Doresain is too slow and the ring around his cock is too tight. Sylvester’s kept on the edge and its frustrating enough to draw a tear that slips down his cheek until Doresain wipes it away and licks if off his finger.
Just another taste. “Do you?”
“Please.” Sylvester learns quick. Good for him.
“I’ll let you eventually,” Learning doesn’t get him everywhere. But Doresain too doesn’t have unlimited patience. He picks up, propping himself against his ankles to allow it. His hair falls around him like a curtain and the mist swirls, a dark purple that coils possessively around Sylvester.
Breathing it makes him lightheaded, as if he wasn’t already. He would have cum by now were it not for the ring, and he gets what it’s for now as Doresain instead enjoys riding him for as long as he can without letting Sylvester have an ounce of relief or risk going soft after he cums. Unfair, nefarious, plenty of other words that Sylvester is not lucid enough to come up with. He’s too aware instead of his heartbeat (loud and fast) and the feeling of blood rushing through him.
Doresain leans to mouth against Sylvester’s neck. “I’m going to cut you when you cum.” He did it like this so Sylvester would be too distracted to pay mind to any pain. Or, better, that Sylvester would condition himself into not being bothered by it, but that’s the sort of deviousness he’ll only admit internally. He gets a noise of something that may as well be assent, and he’ll take that.
He sits back, relishing the feel of Sylvester’s cock pushed deeper inside him. A little bit of bouncing like this and letting Sylvester’s thrusting get more erratic. “Go ahead. Come for me. You can do it.” Doresain can feel inside him when Sylvester obeys and falls, a flush of heat into Doresain’s body. He’s praised again as Doresain raises his hand.
He lays his index finger over Sylvester’s chest, claw out, and drags a perfect line across flesh. A seam opens behind his finger and red blood blooms across Sylvester’s chest like roses. The scent of him grows staggeringly strong and Sylvester whines a complaint that Doresain barely hears. This is dangerous, Sylvester’s blood and split flesh out where Doresain has no wider battle to distract him. He shifts and crouches over Sylvester again to lick the spilled blood before it can fall into the sheets beneath. Nothing wasted.
Sylvester’s hands go from his legs to one on his shoulder and the other tangled in his hair, and Doresain barely notices. The taste of Sylvester fills his mouth, all sharp and metallic. He tastes of ozone and things far beyond reality, an ocean so deep that hallucinatory colours start dancing by. Memories of places far away flicker through Doresain’s awareness, the feeling of something curious, a lonely polyp of the self, dazzling sparks of light. Magic and memory tie Himself and Sylvester together now, through the act of consumption. Doresain moans lowly and presses his tongue into the cut, only barely keeping himself from biting it wider. Just the blood, he must limit himself to just the blood. Silver effusing through veins and almost-godhood dripping over his tongue. Doresain sees stars both literally and figuratively, visions that this foreign god looked upon before it formed the relic that pants underneath him, universes collapsing. The taste of ending and beginning.
He cannot bite. But he doesn’t allow any blood to be wasted, consuming Sylvester until the wound has stopped oozing and all that remains is reddened skin and a cut that has nothing more to give him. Doresain breathes hard as his vision re-centers. Usually he’s in much more control of the memories he feels from eating, but this was entirely beyond him, a rush like being caught in a massive wave.
“Doresain?” Sylvester says quietly. Doresain seizes him into a kiss, rough and deep to distract him from the desire to bite his chest open. He swallows Sylvester’s breath instead, mixing a smear of blood with spit and taking that in too. He kisses Sylvester until he’s able to focus again over the desire to see more of his heart by taking and eating it directly.
He still wants it, though, it just cools down to something manageable. He would kneel at Sylvester’s side for as long as the other wanted if it meant he would get to eat just a digit, see the world through the eyes of a god of the universe, look through the thing that saw his timeline and turned away in boredom. Doresain’s fervor eases slowly and he’s able to slow his kiss, let Sylvester breathe. He realizes belatedly that he came without paying attention, there’s his cum splattered and cooling over Sylvester’s stomach. Sylvester’s hand slips from his shoulder and runs his fingers through it.
Doresain watches with rapt attention as Sylvester brings his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean of Doresain’s seed. There’s a hot tug inside of him at the sight of Sylvester tasting him in return – he could probably cum again from that alone if it weren’t so soon after. He breathes hard instead. “You have no idea how much power you could have.” Over him and in general. The way Doresain would leash himself for mere tastes of this human.
“It’s okay,” Sylvester answers vaguely, not entirely certain what he’s even responding to. That sounds like something to deal with, and he’d rather not. “Did you… are you satisfied?”
Doresain rests his head on Sylvester’s temple. He’s sweaty and the smell of sex now overlays the scent of the ocean. “Yes and no. I’ll get you water and a bandage in a moment. I should feed you again, too. But I have you for the night, dear Keeper. And the night is not yet over.”
Sylvester should have expected that. He presses himself to Doresain, noting that he has in fact gotten much less icy to the touch. “Water would be good, then.” It’s not like he can fault Doresain for wanting to get the most out of his deal. Sylvester’s endurance has gotten better, he may as well test it on something that isn't painful for once.