It was Sunday, but Elliot still rose with the paleness of first light dusting his face. It was habit, more than likely brought about by his servant who was always an early riser – save for today, when the smaller teenager was a curl of pale limbs in the bed beside of him, wrapped amongst dark silk as if he were always meant to be there. Leo's face was a picture of pleasant, sated weariness as he contently slept, lips that were still reddened and kiss-bruised parted with each easy, shallow breath. Elliot allowed himself a moment of smugness – of triumph that he was the only person to bring about such complete relaxation for his lover, even so much that Leo would oversleep within the comforts of a noble's bed.
It was a pleasant way to start his morning, and thus, Elliot was content to let him oversleep. No matter his own habits, he wasn't incapable; he could draw a bath for himself and make his morning's tea (sort of, to the latter), and thus he set about to do as much, disappearing into the attached bath as quietly as he could to avoid waking the teen that was little more than a speck of white skin and dark hair amongst the breadth of his bed.
Half an hour later, a rush of steam followed in Elliot's wake as he slipped from bath to the sanctity of bedroom once more, bringing him to shiver from the difference in temperature and draw the silken fabric of his bathrobe tighter about himself. Towel in hand, he scrubbed at the short crop of his hair, attempting to remain silent as marble tile gave way to plush carpet… though he only made it half a step back into his room before stopping dead.
Inky, silken sheets curled their way about the long expanse of Leo's legs – all the more starkly contrasted and porcelain-tinged in the low light of morning sun. With the covers being thrown as low as they were, Elliot was left with the sight of his lover still half-curled upon his side, face buried in the curtain of his own ebony hair and Elliot's own pillow, nude save for a half-heartedly donned white button-down that was also Elliot's – a scarce cover for anything, and frankly, it made the scene all the more risque, what with the hem of it just dusting Leo's thighs. It clung to the curve of his limbs – thighs, rear, hips, lean, lean, grabbable hips – like water had been poured over it, and the damnable shirt dipped forward, hanging mostly unbuttoned over Leo's groin, a mostly useless, but still partially concealing cover that disallowed Elliot a clear of where Leo's hand was, what it was wrapped around, what it was doing.
His next shiver was far from one from cold.
Elliot thought, with a thrill that made his own nerves twist oh-so-pleasantly, that maybe Leo was dreaming. Dreaming of him, and of their encounter from the previous night. But with each soft, hitching huff of breath that escaped his lover's lips, it became all the more doubtful. Leo was awake. Leo was awake, and while he had taken half an hour to bathe –
- Leo was fantasizing about him.
Elliot swallowed thickly and took a faltering step forward. Maybe it was the rub of his feet against carpet, the swish of his silk robe, who the hell knew what it was, but Leo jerked, swiftly rolling to his back and propping himself onto an elbow. The picture of innocence he was not. He was flushed as red as anything, skin dark and heated – chest a heave that he tried to suppress – hair a mess more than usual, framing his face in thick, aphotic layers that his eyes nevertheless bored through, wide and over-bright. His right hand curled, tremulously, at his hip, fingers sticky and anxious and Elliot wished, so very much, that he had been given a chance to see Leo wrap them around his own cock. The other teen was fully aroused and close – Elliot could tell, from the shiver in lean, toned thighs, the tightness in Leo's stomach and the sharpness of his breath, escaping all too raggedly through lips reddened now not from past kisses, but his own teeth, biting into his lower lip to undoubtedly stifle his moans.
How was he supposed to resist?
"…Elliot – "
Embarrassed, but eager. That particular utterance of his name couldn't have been sweeter, and Elliot pounced: his own hand around the slick length of flesh that Leo's fingers had been previously working, loving the upward lurch and startled, but overtly pleased gasp of Leo's body against his own. Elliot settled over him, knees set between long, coltish legs and his other hand next to Leo's head as he bent, face pressed into the curve of a milky shoulder, biting, suckling, licking the mark he left once he was through, and the smaller teen whimpered, a hand clutching at Elliot's back, curling through the weighted silk of his robe to claw at him.
Leo's scent was thick in his nose – and when had anything smelled so good? Leo hadn't touched a bottle of perfume a day that Elliot had known him, but he smelled heavenly; like linen and tea and sex, sticky and honey sweet and provocative. And above all of that, he smelled of Elliot. Like he had always been buried between Elliot's sheets, wrapped up in Elliot's shirt with his face to Elliot's pillows, all with Elliot's hands working him and wringing shuddering gasps past his lips. A growl tore from the noble's throat, possessive and purely wanting, hands on the tie of his robe and then to the previous night's bottle of oil, discarded no further than to a tangle of sheets.
"Tell me what you were thinking of."
Leo's flush deepened, even as his eyes, dark and needy, remained transfixed on Elliot's hands, shiny with oil and busying themselves with spreading the slick mess of it along his erection. "You." A pink tongue flicked out, wetting his lips. "Nothing but you… holding me down, having your way with me. Making me scream – ah – " Those same, slick hands palmed their way up the backs of his thighs, shoving his legs back. Leo panted – squirmed, all too enticingly – as the head of Elliot's erection pressed to him. "Fuck me," he begged, shameless, and Elliot shuddered, giving in to the request all too easily: shoving himself to the hilt, Leo's back a sinuous arch and lips parted in a silent shriek of his name.
He wanted to do a number of things. He wanted to shove himself past those perfect lips, feel the drag of that devilish tongue as he slid himself down Leo's throat. He wanted to throw Leo sideways – drive himself into his lover so perfectly that Leo couldn't scream, let alone utter words that only seemed to rile his nerves further. But Elliot found he simply couldn't do any of it at that moment, except shove Leo into the mattress, the rhythmic snap of his hips carving into his sanity, all with the jerking, desperate twinges of Leo's body around him, still so close and yet lingering, more than likely for his sake.
Elliot couldn't stand it. He lost himself with a breathless, ragged gasp, hips grinding themselves against Leo's backside to prolong the sensations of white-hot pleasure. He felt Leo shudder weakly beneath him, the splatter of his own release between them, but Elliot didn't hesitate to sag down against him, face pressed into the crook of his neck and their bodies, sweaty and sticky and overstimulated, flush. Leo's thighs cradled him and he felt no need to move from such a perfect, comfortable place.
"Think those things more often," Elliot drowsily ordered of his servant, and Leo merely mumbled some incoherent agreement. A pleasant way to start one's morning, indeed.