[Closed] misteaks' mistakes - the sequel (catchall)

[gluttoning]

Who: Mr_Misteaks and also some other people
What: In person catchall + dungeon runs
When: October thru November
Where: various, please note in headers
Content Warnings: nsfw, ED discussion Please cw in headers.

[overflow and log space for October and November]

Comments

[gluttoning]

[It's less attention to his horns this way, but he doesn't mind at all - not with the strangled exhale that drives into him like a hot nail and sends his blood pumping. Morgan's body leans up, eager and pliant, and with their hips so close together, Barrett's own growing arousal becomes uncomfortably apparent in passing: a hot and pressured friction still tucked beyond layers of fabric where he feels his pulse start to settle and throb, just as hungry as the rest of him.

Barrett lets his attention on the sensitive nub between his teeth escalate; first tugging it slightly in his bite, rolling the flesh with the tip of his tongue... before letting his whole mouth open completely overtop, teething quickly turning into a brisk and tight sucking of his mouth.

With a wet pop, he lets go to leave the flesh of his nipple bare against the night air, nosing at its partner with a swipe of his tongue as something foggily comes back into his head. The cream... the cream, right...

He mumbles slightly as he searches back through his inventory for the half of the creampuff he had yet to finish using, leaning up off Morgan to visibly show the pastry being pulled out, scooped up...

His coated fingertips settle on the opposite nipple of his chest, cold and smooth, a curious press of the flesh of his pecs as he lets the cream start to melt under their joint heat. His eyes watch, mouth open and panting with a starved licking of his own lips.]

Show me... show me where you want me. [He slowly, slowly drags his fingers down, a diagonal that presses against every rib, the streak left behind already starting to drip in thick, sugared trails.]

[tablescraps]

( He swallows, a shiver rushing through him with every sharp cut of teeth against sensitive skin, the sensation of his wet tongue; and then - his voice stays soft, but it doesn't stay quiet when Barrett sucks, the echoes of sound sharp in his inhales and how wetly he parts his lips. Barrett leaves his chest sensitive and feeling a raw, almost chafing against the cold air - but maybe it only feels so sensitive because he can feel how into this Barrett is, his need, even if under layers, pressed up against him.

There's a sense of anticipation as he feels his tongue again, a soft mmh, but hazily he recognizes Barrett leaning up. It takes him a second more to recognize the pastry again when his head's so full of Barrett's mouth, but the feeling of the cream against his chest earns a slight twitch at the sudden cool sensation, and he catches up to what Barrett means. Ah, right. They'd meant to do that.

It feels - strange; sticky, maybe, as the cream melts into his body heat, but not bad. He finds appeal in it, as Barrett drags his cream-covered fingers down, in having proper food dressing his skin - in having Barrett view him with such tangible hunger. He feels a little more like a proper meal, a heat in the wake of Barrett's fingers.

Where did he want Barrett to consume him, besides everywhere at once?

... )

... Where you put it... and...

( He lifts his fingers, catching a thick clump of cream gathered at his chest, and hesitates; then - he lifts it to his neck, pressing it there against where it grows redder from where Barrett's bitten him, and drags his fingers down in a steady trail. He draws the line steady downward along the sternum, the cream running low as he reaches the stomach, but the trail drips southward down, past the bellybutton and below, and the path he's drawn drips sticky into thick, creamy branches - one joining the path Barrett had drawn along Mithrun's chest, his ribs. )

... to start with.

( To start with. As if he won't be satisfied with just this - with just this much hunger. He'd wanted to give Barrett a feast; he wants to be, for him - and, maybe, himself, too. )

[gluttoning]

[His eyes start to lid with pleasured anticipation as he watches Morgan shape out his own body, picking a starting point and splitting himself right down the middle, a zipper to the meat of his chest and the starts of his abdomen. It's like watching a meal be set up on a plate, aromas enticing. Presentation never mattered much to Barrett... but he couldn't deny the power of a plate of food that looked just as good as it tasted.

Firstly- he drags what cream is left on his own fingers back over Morgan's own breathless lips. Not a request to enter, but another marking. Here, too. He will pay attention here.

Wanting to make it evident that this trail is for his mouth and his alone, Barrett lifts his own hand back up to his own mouth, licking himself clean. There isn't much power to the tasting- he isn't here to devour himself. But it leaves a contrast for when he fishes up Morgan's hand as a followup - an appetizer - a careful drawing of his tongue against the digit before his hungry pace takes over. His mouth works, across the heat of flesh, to taste every bit of him behind dripping cream. Finger and knuckle, palm and muscle, tendon down to the wrist where the trail comes to a stop. Feeling with both his fingers and tongue as he goes. Searching. Making sure every bit is left cleaned to the bone.

He breaks away, to finally peel his own shirt off and toss it to the floor, a sheen of sweat over the sharp, dark stripes that litter tensed muscle. But it leaves more of him to feel, to stay aware of the difference of soft and warm and sticky as he leans in to press a kiss to Morgan's lips - one that quickly turns to sucking, biting at the sensitive warmth, a breathless and selfish pace.

It's as he travels to his neck that Barrett coaxes Morgan by the arm - as though to urge him to hold on, nosing at his ear with a hot pant of breath.]

I've never done this... so... tell me if it hurts. Tell me. Call my name and tell me to stop.

[It's the only further warning he'll give. Starting at the neck, Barrett starts to work the same way as he did at his hand. Thorough, explorative, as though feeling out every crevice between tongue and teeth, hums of effort and delight coming in turn at any way Morgan jolts and shivers, any way that muscle moves and presses underneath him. It leaves his face a mess. Always a messy eater. Always a compliment to the chef, the last thing he cares about cleaning up in the middle of a meal. His body presses close when it can, taking care not to touch what's been decorated, strong hands maneuvering Morgan so that he can explore beyond what he can see - a tilt to get to the back of his neck, an easing up off the blankets to trace his shoulders. Down he works, every river against the rise of his chest, every careful and tenderly warm mouthful of the exposed abdomen.

Mutterings of his name, just a bare roll of syllables, start to come more frequently. Delicious. Delicious.

It's as he gets to his stomach that Barrett finally pauses, fingers further down, meeting the waistband of his shorts. They curl in, under, anticipating - before he lets them trace over, down to the brief space where his thighs are exposed instead, slipping his fingers underneath there instead. Letting his mouth do the travelling to the last of the pooling, down the navel and farther, tonguing the border between skin and fabric. Taking up a part of the band in his teeth, impatient, as his fingers grow bolder.

But he glances up. Pausing, breath hot and heavy with his face stationed just enough over Morgan's hips, visibly eager and nervous in turn to settle between his legs.]

...Morgan. [Hot, dripping, satisfied but not satiated.] Can I have more?

[tablescraps]

( For all his experience, it's a very different thing to be led on than to be asked to lead. Barrett takes up his fingers and begins to work his tongue along their length and licking clean the hand with such agonizing care, like stripping meat from bone. The shiver it sends Mithrun tells him - ah, no, I should have asked him to start here and here, I should have placed it there, and - not in regret, but in, some way he doesn't recognize yet, desire. He wanted Barrett's lips on him so badly it's almost overwhelming, and the sugar on his lips only whets his appetite worse.

It makes his kiss in turn messy, and deep, Barrett's sucking and biting only feeding into it, and getting the same back out - stealing Barrett's mouth selfishly, when he still wanted it all over him. It's greedy and self-contradictory. He wouldn't mind it, if Barrett's kiss left marks there. He wouldn't mind if he left Barrett marks in turn, too.

He hooks his arms around his neck, an audible breath escaping him as Barrett presses his )

... I will. I will.

( He exhales, warm-cheeked, for a moment finally taking in Barrett, half-nude, above him, before Barrett comes down to eat. He'd meant to say something a little meatier, but he can't recall what. He's too impatient to bother with himself, and it's better that Barrett starts instead. He doesn't disappoint.

What feels better than his lips and tongue and teeth is how much Barrett enjoys it. Mithrun's voice is quiet at first, but it builds; not loud, but louder, his breath audible, his voice wet and in concert with every jolt and tremble - always pressing into his mouth, and never away. Barrett likes it. He does. And the way he moves him to teeth him down to shreds, to want to taste him so badly and to murmur his praise and his name the way he says it with such hunger and want, that drives him just as badly wild as the way Barrett leaves his neck and chest feeling raw. Keep going, keep going, it's for you, this meal is for you - his murmurs falter, and punctuated with hushed litanies of his name, but never with a plea to stop. He's happy, he's happy.

It's when he feels Barrett's fingers press up his shorts, his lips at his hem, that he's shaken briefly from his daze, his breath heaving heavily, his expression flushed and heady. Barrett... looks good from this angle. A hand loosely clinging to his shoulder brushes the side of his face with a palm, banishing some messy hair from his face so he can adore him a little better.

More... He swallows. His lips part, slowly. )

... Mm. As much... as you want. ( Ah... He exhales. It feels - so tight there. ) Do you want it that much...?

[gluttoning]

[Just the sight of Morgan so flustered and breathless in response has Barrett's own body rolling tight with anticipation, face and neck and chest all flushed with the tinted heat of arousal.

Wordlessly, he nods, letting one of his hands dip underneath the meat of one of Morgan's thighs, slipping that leg up to hook against Barrett's shoulder even as the redhead kneels himself deeper between Morgan's hips. Face now caught against the tender flesh of Morgan's inner thigh, Barrett's mouth starts to work, a wordless begging of his own. Close, close, delicious on its own right, but wanting more.

His free hand leaves the hem of Morgan's shorts and spreads - inward, inward, a palmed press to heat unfamiliar underneath layers of fabric, slow and firm and rhythmic with the sucking bites from his mouth. In comparison to his mouth, his touch seems to be less aggressive - betraying his inexperience, showing a desire for permission, for reciprocation, for curiosity of what sat below and what Morgan wanted done to himself.

For now, he just lets it settle in the moment. Rhythmic presses, humming bites, a mouth that wants to travel inward and inward and noses the hem of his shorts as though he wishes to tear the obstacle away with his teeth.]

[tablescraps]

( His arms free, they fall back over his head, not covering his face, because he wouldn't deny himself how Barrett looks as he eats, but - half obscuring it, like he doesn't know what to do with himself when he feels so good. Not between Barrett teething, which sends a hot shiver up his spine - not when he feels the friction of Barrett's palm at the fabric, and this sensation sends a hot impulse into the pooling heat at his stomach, his voice escaping him. His thighs press against Barrett's head, not - painfully, but in a sort of instinctive need.

He swallows. )

... You don't... have to stop there. Not... Not if you don't want to.

( It's an offer, seeing how Barrett seems to rail against the hem, Mithrun's heart beating faster in - anticipation? Is that it? He's had people between his legs before, but, it's - different, wondering if Barrett will, wondering if Barrett would.

But Barrett does like to keep to a slow and steady pace - and that's something he often likes about him, too. So... he won't plead for it, if Barrett's really sure he'd rather keep to this. There are things Mithrun will insist on with Barrett, but feeling wet between the legs isn't one of them - not right now. )

[gluttoning]

[He doesn't answer at first. Mithrun's thighs clench around his skull and Barrett exhales hot past the motions of his teeth, grip pressing tighter, the palm against that hidden erection pushing a little more insistently, needier. Fingers fumble for clasps and zippers, undoing - an intention, perhaps a relief of some of the tightness for Morgan in the moment. But for the moment, it's left at that - mere extra space.

As his hand leaves the hot core of Morgan's hips, Barrett lifts up his weight, just enough to take Morgan's lower half up slightly with him, practically kneeling with one knee pressed between spread legs. Both hands have Morgan's unbitten thigh, one braced at the knee and one at the tender spot where fabric still covered the meeting with his groin - like grasping at the edges of a chicken bone in preparation to gnaw it clean. Unlike the other leg, he starts higher, tongue tracing the tendon and soft pit of skin on the underside of where his upper and lower leg connected, teeth taking over at the more familiar give of muscle and fat. Biting and biting and biting, tongue and lips following suit as though to make sure he's cleaned up, to make sure his affection still comes through. Down and down, bites coming faster and more insistently, adjusting his grip lower and lower as he eases that leg over his shoulder and back and leans and further in.

By the time he's right back to that unruly hem of his shorts, Barrett's hand returns right back to the press of Morgan's erection, kneading it slightly before his fingers grasp intentionally for the unfastened waistband. But he falters. Eyes flicker, and the face that had stayed so buried against hot skin looks up, messy and flustered and still so hungry as he swallows, searching and cautious.]

You're sure?

[It feels so foolish to ask with his face practically buried between his legs. But this felt incredibly important - a line he can't cross without knowing for sure. So he lets his breath stay hot against the fabric between leg and groin, keeping heated eyes to Morgan, hands momentarily stilled to nothing but a sensual pressing motion - wanting, hoping Morgan was still wanting in return.]

Show me... w-where you want me.