"No...tonight is just for you." Soarruk whispered, breaking their kiss. Switching so one pair of arms kept Cyran's at his side, he kissed down the front of his tunic. When he reached his stomach, he lifted up the edge of the tunic, eager for more direct contact. Now his mouth was flush against the planes of muscle. His tongue danced against each scar he encountered, recalling the reason for the injuries: a raised scar from a spear to his right abdomen, a long thin one across from a glancing sword blow, a deep dagger mark on his left hip that was poisoned and took three days to stop bleeding. Each was laved by his tongue in turn, the muscle soothing the memories. He reached the top of his loose leggings, and with a salacious grin, exposed his weeping penis.
Cyran looked down at the site of his king on his knees before him. His cock twitched at the sight alone. Forbidden thoughts like these had occasionally crossed his mind, after long nights spent cold and lonely away from home. But the dreamlike quality of this encounter outshone any prior half constructed images he had made. Soarruks palms gently grasped his bollocks as he stroked them. His testicles jumped in response. The king's mouth descended on his shaft, and he gave him one long, satisfying lick from the base to the tip. Cyran's breath came out in a sharp exhale. After a few more languorous licks, he engulfed the head completely with his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive underside. Cyran threw his head back against the wall. Sometimes a man just knew better what spots would drive another man crazy. Soarruk's hands were now stroking the parts of his shaft that weren't in the wet warmth of his mouth. Cyran could tell he was only a few strokes away from coming completely undone when the other orc's mouth stilled. With a wet pop, he removed his mouth, leaving the other soldier unsatisfied. Soarruks mouth smiled impishly up at him.
"I want us to come together, when I'm inside you." Soarruk purred, releasing the others wrists as he stood. Cyran had never been in the position to receive another's body and hesitated. Soarruk's eyes implored his. "Please," his king breathed, uttering it with complete and desperate intensity. Cyran was moved. He never could deny his leader anything, and this was no different.
He turned and faced the wall. Soarruk placed his lips back on his body, with a new mission of finding the sensitive spots on the back of his neck. His hands felt everywhere - one was tracing the outlines of his ribs, another was feeling it's way up his inner thigh...yet another was now stroking his heavy sack, cupping his testicles one at a time. And now, one was tracing the seam in between his buttocks. He tried his best to relax and felt Soarruk's mouth curve in approval. The finger was gently tracing the rim of his asshole. The hand that was stroking his balls found their way to his shaft again, and gave him long, languid strokes. Cyran groaned low in his throat, just as Soarruk's finger passed the rim of muscle. He clenched reflexively, and then forced himself to breathe evenly and relax. The finger gently probed him, leaving a delicious burn in his wake. Soarruk sawed his finger back and forth, careful to keep his claws retracted, and stilling his movement when he felt the other clench with discomfort. With this gradual stimulation, he was able to get two, and eventually three fingers gently into the older male's ass.
Throughout this, his slow, measured rubbing of Cyran's cock persisted. The hand on his ribs was now rubbing his nipples with the occasional pinch. He was playing his body beautifully, a violin string pulled taut under his careful ministrations.
Soarruk gathered the precum from Cyrans penis, and smeared it liberally on his anus. The kings hands on the Vrel's shaft and nipples picked up their efforts, keeping him distracted as Soarruk lined up his cock to his carefully prepared anus. With gentle pressure, he pressed forward until he eased the head inside.
"Fuck," they both cursed in unison. Cyran's ass burned, the fire now spreading to his entire pelvis. Soarruk crept forward inch by inch. Cyran was pressed further into the wall, and despite the pressure and burn, found himself pushing his hips back against the offender. Soarruk passage was aided by his own precum, enough to ease in, but still enough friction that Cyran could feel each exquisite push and pull. Soon, Soarruk was fully sheathed, his balls nestled firmly against the cheeks of the other. Hardness on hardness, their forbidden fruit.
Once Soarruk felt the older male fully relax against his intrusion, he began to fuck in earnest. He found his prostate on every thrust, stimulating nerve endings the fist leader didn't know he had. He grunted with each particularly deep thrust. The Oathbreaker's hands never let up - both nipples were relentlessly pulled, one hand held his hip, another hand still wrapped around his cock. Cyrans hands stayed on the wall, his claws making deeper divots with each forward movement. The tension that was already built up from his prior blow job returned in force, and he could feel it cresting him further and further.
"I can't hold it...any longer." Cyran managed to rasp.
"Come with me." Soarruk commanded. And so Cyran did. The violin string broke, and with it a cacophony of pleasurable and tormented release. He ejaculated on the ground, and felt himself spasming in the aftershocks, clenching against the king's length inside him. Once, twice, and then losing count. He had felt the other male's release as well, felt his warmth spurting deep in his bowels as he howled along with him, both falling onto their 'little death'.
They lay panting, Cyran with his head against the cool stone of the wall, Soarruk still flush against him. Soarruk kept himself there long after he finished, resting his face against the other's neck. Neither spoke or moved; the second they did, reality would settle into place, and they would have to become their separate entities. A King, and a Vrel, forever in different spheres and with different duties.
Eventually they could avoid the moment no longer. Soarruk stepped away with a squelch of fluids as he disconnected. They quietly cleaned themselves with a handkerchief from Cyran's pocket. Their pasts, with treaties, politics, obligations, societal rank settled back on to their person; a heavy burden, though the weight was familiar. It had been nice to remove the yoke, if only for a moment.
They rearranged their clothes back into place, now each one alone. Cyran turned around from the wall. His eyes were bright for a moment as he stared as his king, the corner of his mouth almost wistful. Then the masks snapped back, "Your majesty." He nodded.
"As you were, Vrel." And then they walked back on their respective paths in the moonlight, from whence they came.
