reznikolai | I N B O X

[Is this not a sort of politics? The politics of sensuality, a game to win with design and daring. Nikolai has never considered himself a prude, but he will admit that his time here has certainly turned him looser. With his thoughts, his tongue, his body. As he finishes his croissant, the swipe of his tongue across his lip is deliberate, contemplative.]

It's difficult not to.

[And that's not just a line. The question invites his imagination to form the scene: Cardan stretched over Matt, both of them slender and pale and lovely. His pulse quickens, his fingers tightening around the mug. Notably, his hands are naked of his once customary gloves, displaying his inky scars.]

Although, I confess I have an easier time imagining him in a variety of...scenarios. Our little meeting on your settee was so very long ago, as I'm sure you're aware.

[ Cardan watches that pink tongue, watches Nikolai's mouth. It may have been some time ago, but he remembers it well: the frantic heat, the desperate fumbling at each other's clothes, how his head had been full of nothing but want. A part of him was happy to give himself over to it; a larger part did not like it, the way he never particularly likes it when someone else takes a choice from his hands.

But the desire had been honest. And in the present-- Hm.

In the present, it seems like he is being flirted with.

The cup makes a tiny clack when he sets it down onto the table. It is a very deliberate motion -- as deliberate as his rising. As deliberate as leaning over the table itself, his hand braced on the surface, to bring his mouth to the human king's rounded ear.

His voice is naught but a quiet rumble and warm brath, meant for the little space between them. ]

Shall I give you more material, then?

For your imagination.

[ He has come here to ask a favour -- an action that sits ill with any Faerie.

It occurs to him that, perhaps, there is a pleasant trade to be made instead. ]

[As Cardan rises and leans in, each movement choreographed like the next graceful step in a dance, Nikolai watches with the anticipation he knows the Faerie king intends to have filling his lungs. Warm breath caresses the shell of his ear, and the familiar piney scent of a forest curls around him. With Cardan occupying the breadth of his view, it becomes easy to fall back into that afternoon in his dim apartment. His head tilting in answer to the patter of words against his ear, his neck opening itself to lips and tongue and teeth.

This time, no red powder dictates his desires. No frantic pulling at clothes or grabbing at each other's bodies like fires intent on burning themselves down. He can take the time to explore the landscape, to enjoy what he finds.

And he can enjoy it all the more, having learned a thing or two in the intervening months... About himself, about pleasure. He won't have to wait for the instructions of Cardan's hands and hips, and he won't have to wonder at the significance of finding another man's naked form enticing.

Altogether, an intriguing proposal. Nikolai releases a quiet sigh. His fingers uncurl from his mug to tangle in Cardan's hair, holding him close.]

That seems a fair trade. Then I won't pester you about your intentions with cloaking your identity on the network.

[Well, it seems that this will be an extended lunch break.]

[ A trade it is.

Cardan’s amused huff will ruffle Nikolai’s golden hair. He turns his head to nuzzle at Nikolai’s wrist, pressing his lips to the point where a pulse beats against the skin. His thoughts are pleasantly strategic– On the table? Maybe. How much does Nikolai value those teacups, anyway? ]

Are you so intent on finding my weaknesses?

[ His tone suggests that perhaps this says more about Nikolai than about Cardan. Oh, it’s hypocrisy – from a Faerie lord most of all – but when has that stopped him?

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. His smile curls against Nikolai’s hand, against those curious black scars. Nikolai no longer keeps them hidden, Cardan has noticed, thought he does not know what has changed. His mouth follows an ink-dark line up across Nikolai’s palm, drags the tip of his tongue up the length of a dark middle finger.

They are more calloused than Cardan’s. He wonders what it is that Nikolai puts them to. ]

[As Cardan's mouth caresses his scars, Nikolai remembers the rush of relief he felt that first time he put his lips to the black fractures marking his skin. Before then, nobody had ever touched him like that. When he contemplated the future, the hazy inevitability of a bride, he wondered if she — nameless, faceless — could tolerate touching his naked body. Looking at him as he truly is under the veneer of the golden king. And he remembers finding the rough scars knotting Cardan's back, thinking in that moment that something other than the desperate heat of the red powder connected them.

It was perhaps the most honest moment they've ever shared, unwrapped from the clever words they both use like pieces on a chessboard. They're friends, he thinks, or something close enough. But it's quite a different friendship from what he shares with anyone else.]

As if you don't seek my own like pretty treasures to add to your collection?

[He hooks Cardan's lower lip with a curl of his finger. Cupping both sides of his face, he tilts in for a kiss. Lingering, savoring, as if deciding whether or not he likes the taste. But of course he does.]

[ Cardan laughs, even though heat races up his spine, even though his hand has found its way into Nikolai's flaxen hair, soft like spun silk. Nikolai's mouth is hot, sensual in its slide against Cardan's, and for a moment Cardan can only pull him closer, greedy for more -- more of Nikolai's leather-and-ink scent, more of his hands, more everything.

Always more.

His free hand finds the knot of Nikolai's tie. He hooks his fingers into it, loosening the skin-warm silk to free the golden column of Nikolai's throat. Cardan's fingertips whisper against it, feather-light--

And then he straightens, pulling away, slightly flushed and a little breathless. He will stand -- silhouetted against the window behind him, his smile as brilliant as any of Nikolai's. The same. In so many ways they are the same.

Cardan proffers his hand, reaching out across the table, as if he were a young suitor asking a maiden to dance. ]

Come.

[Cardan commands, and Nikolai obliges. That's what he wishes to see — a king who would hand his sovereignty over his body to someone else. So that's what he shall be. He has no objections, it's a fun part to play and a version of the truth besides. There's a sharp appeal to fingers fluttering at his throat, undoing him.

Taking the proffered hand, Nikolai sways his hips to skirt around the table to Cardan's side. There, he slots himself in between the Faerie king and the table, leaning back ever so slightly to curl his free hand over the edge of it. His glance falls over his shoulder, surveying the cups of tea and the pastries he'd set out. Then back to Cardan, playful in the way a flame is.]

Were the refreshments not up to your standards?

[Reversing the roles of suitor and maiden, he brings Cardan's ring-laden hands to his lips for a kiss. Perhaps what he should be asking is How sturdy do you think this table is?]

[ Cardan's hands are always a little cool these days; Nikolai's mouth feels like a brand against his fingers. The tip of his tail shivers with the pleasant spark the touch sends through him. But rather than step into Nikolai, rather than press him against the edge of the table--

Cardan pulls him forward, into his own body. His own back presses gently against the glass; he winds his arm around Nikolai's trim waist, reveling a little in the solidity of him. Cardan's smile turns secretive, co-conspiratorial. ]

Were they not meant to whet my appetite?

[ His tail will brush along the back of Nikolai's thigh, whisper-soft and restless. Cardan will kiss him again, chasing the taste of hibiscus on his tongue. ]

Maybe I just have a taste for mortals, [ he will whisper against Nikolai's pretty mouth. A joke about how one of them is technically a monster. Maybe. ]

[Like a ship giving itself over to the current, Nikolai sways into Cardan's lithe frame. One scarred hand comes to rest on a cool windowpane over Cardan's shoulder, the other on his chest. The restless whisper of that tail at the back of his thigh sends a shiver up his spine. The kiss poured into his mouth pulls a soft sigh from him.]

And maybe I have a taste for enigmatic sprites.

[His fingers curl in the fine material of Cardan's shirt, then smooth it over again. He brushes their lips together, just a caress.]

Come, little nichnytsia...

[A night spirit. The irony is lost on Cardan — if anyone is a night spirit, it's Nikolai, with shadows embedded in his heart and wrapped around his bones. For this private joke, his lips curl slyly as they lock with Cardan's again. As they kiss with the languid indulgence that a feast deserves, he pushes his hands through Cardan's hair, inky scars getting lost in inky locks. He traces the peaks of his ears, slipping around jewelry to feel their shape.]

[ One of Cardan's black eyebrows twitches upward, piqued at the-- pet name? He doesn't know what it means, but the syllables fold themselves against Nikolai's tongue too naturally for it not to be something from home.

He doesn't particularly like being left out of the joke, however -- even if it's good-natured. (And who's to say that it must be? Part of him doesn't trust Nikolai; they are too similar.) His grin flashes against Nikolai's mouth, at the touch of those curious black-stained fingers on his ears, at the feel of his body, solid and warm, against Cardan's--

It's a move as smooth as if they were on the dance floor: Cardan moves them, spins both himself and Nikolai around until it's Nikolai's back pressed against the window. He seems like the kind of man who's friendly with his neighbours, Cardan imagines, which adds to the pique of leaning forward to claim his mouth. It's not a languid kiss; Cardan takes his mouth like a man starved, all nipping teeth and clashing tongues. Maybe it's punishment. Maybe it'll teach Nikolai better than to laugh at a Faerie king.

Cardan would bet that it will not. ]

That silver tongue will get you into trouble.

Tell me a lie, [ he murmurs, even as his hips grind down against Nikolai's with a sharp pulse of heat. There is no reason for it -- no purpose -- but he's curious to see how untruth tastes on Nikolai's tongue, whether it will be familiar. ]

[How shameless he's become, that the thought of being spied through the window mid-tryst, rather than mortifying him, only sharpens his excitement. Unfettered from the reputation he's meticulously crafted in Ravka, happily does he submit to the suggestion of Cardan's persuasive hands. Let him pin him against the window like some kind of butterfly on display. He sighs into the fierce heat of that kiss, fighting back, but it isn't really fighting at all. And when Cardan rolls his hips into him, with the insistence of a fist rapping at a door, he parts his thighs to invite him.]

You mean to say it hasn't already?

[He turns his head aside, panting lightly. Cardan hasn't managed to kiss the sly grin off of him yet.]

Alina could come home at any minute. [Curling into Cardan's ivory neck, lips at his earlobe.] But that isn't a lie. I would be lying if I said she'd be displeased to walk in on this scene you've arranged. Ah, but when I phrase it that way, it becomes the truth...

[Squeezing the Faerie king's waist, he presses a kiss to the juncture of his ear and jaw.]

I despise herring. [His lips find Cardan's again.] My dearest ambition is to abdicate my throne and retire to the countryside to write awful poetry. [And again.] I was always my father's favorite son.

[Lies, all of them]

[ He files the knowledge away like a little jewel: she would not be displeased. Perhaps it says something about him, the way the thought curls in warm little tendrils through him, leaving shivery excitement in its wake. Just like Nikolai's hot lips on his neck, just like the lies that fall from his pretty mouth.

Cardan likes Nikolai's voice. It's so much like the rest of him: clever and warm and smooth; he can feel it rumbling in Nikolai's chest when he speaks, close as they are.

Cardan bites him -- sharp teeth nipping at that lush lower lip. Nikolai's reward for being so obedient, along with the heavy, deliberate grind of Cardan's thigh between his legs. Even that doesn't last, though, because Cardan has plans, and he's not done maneuvering Nikolai yet. All he was waiting for was his initial reaction-- to being at the window, to being exposed. ]

Ambition, [ Cardan breathes, something gleefully menacing dancing in his eyes, ] looks good on you.

Too good to hide away.

[ And then the pressure of his body is gone. And then his hands are on Nikolai's waist, turning him, firmly, to face the window, even as Cardan's taller frame covers his again.

His hand slithers down the front of Nikolai's firm stomach to direct clever fingers to his belt. The fingers of Cardan's free hand sneak into the openings between Nikolai's shirt buttons to find a nipple. Cardan's voice is at his ear: ]

Tell me about it. What you plan on doing with your throne.

[The pinch of Cardan's teeth at his lip draws a gasp from him, the grind of thigh between his legs, a throaty sigh. Desire arches his back and twitches his hips forward. It pools deep in his belly, floods his cock. That menacing look that makes Cardan's dark eyes dazzle bright as a flame should perhaps make him nervous, but nervous is an emotion that Nikolai cares little for. What incites apprehension in other men so often sparks curiosity in him.

So his anticipation only sharpens as Cardan spins him around, and his palms brace against the sides of the window frame to grant him the leverage to press back against the other man. Tension, but it pulls them together rather than apart. Friction, but without resistance. Nikolai discovers that he enjoys the shadow of a taller body behind him, he thrills in the possibility of being so thoroughly surrounded by another, swallowed as if by fire.

And Cardan, with his fingers dancing across Nikolai's belt, will discover his cock straining at his trousers, stiff and thick and impatient. If he stretched his hips forward instead of back into the bowl of Cardan's, he would be humping the glass of the window. Very dignified. He turns his soft moan — for the proximity of that hand to his dick, for the teasing touch at his nipple — into a chuckle.]

Do you want more lies or the truth?

[ Cardan laughs, pressing himself against the solid line of Nikolai’s body, searing hot even through the layers of clothing between them. He’s hard, too, and the trapped ridge of his dick is pushing up against the pert curve of Nikolai’s ass with insistence. His mouth finds the shell of one round ear; he traces it with his lips even as his fingers slide inside Nikilai’s trousers to wrap around his cock.

He remembers the feel of it, from all those months ago, heavy and silken against his fingertips. His other hand is working on the shirt, undoing the buttons to free the fine muscle and inky scars on Nikolai’s chest. Cardan remembers them, too, remembers the way Nikolai looked and sounded when he’d put his mouth on them.

Now, like this, baring them in front of the window-- He feels a shiver run through him, like a fuse being lit, a giddy sort of hunger. ]

A man’s lies are as telling as his truths.

Shall I tell you what I want from mine?

[Nikolai feels electrified, like the neon signs shopkeepers place in their windows. His breath hitches as Cardan's hand sneaks into his underwear and curls around his shaft. His hips push his back against the firm line of Cardan's erection, grinding against him in a slow, sinuous roll. All of him lifts up like the hairs on the back of his neck, all of him buzzes with the knowledge that he would let this man do whatever he wants with him. That kind of control he has released only to Alina, and he knows Cardan only half as well.

But he's always found thrill in the unknown, the unexpected.]

It would be rude of me to dominate the conversation...

[Besides, he's finding it a little difficult to think about all his ambitions for Ravka while Cardan nibbles at his ear and flicks open his shirt buttons one by one, fingers whispering over his stomach. Nikolai assists by pulling his necktie looser, until it becomes just a length of silk hanging about his collar. As more of him becomes unwrapped, he can't help but wonder, What will the neighbors see when they glance out the window?]

[ That roll of Nikolai's hips tears a sharp inhale from Cardan's throat. He can't help but notice that between the first time and now, Nikolai seems to have learned a whole lot more about provocation, purpose, and maybe also patience.

He is surprised by just how much he finds himself wanting to ruin it. Him. Having dealt with the shirt buttons, Cardan's hand draws up to his throat, his touch but a whisper on the column of it, directing Nikolai to bare it, to tip his head back against Cardan's shoulder. ]

I plan to abdicate.

[ The tie is an interesting mortal invention. He's grown quite fond of them here -- and Nikolai's catches his attention now. He steals it on impulse, pulling the silk off Nikolai's body with quick fingers.

The King of Ravka will have to forgive Cardan for letting go of his cock for a moment. It's only so he can put the tie to good use: clasping Nikolai's wrists so he can wind the silk around them. The knot is not particularly complex, and his wrists are in front of him, and he's not actually being bound to anything -- easy enough to slip out of, if he so chose.

But whether he can or not is not the point. ]

My wish is to spend the rest of my days writing poetry and fucking my wife.

[ There's just the hint of a growl in it, of that primal longing that he feels any time he thinks of this-- but it's directed Nikolai's way, now, and it's Nikolai who might feel it in the hot pulse of Cardan's erection against his body or the hard grasp of Cardan's hands on his hips, removing the layers of clothing to finally bare him. ]

[Half of his mind follows the conversation, while the other half follows Cardan's hands. With diplomatic deference he tilts his head to bare his throat to the Faerie King's whims, holds still as he binds his wrists with the silk strip of his tie. Every decision sharpens his anticipation for the next. A gasp flies from his lips, unobstructed by shame, for the hot throb of Cardan's cock wedged against his ass. A pleased sigh follows for those demanding hands tugging away his trousers, his underwear, letting both slide into a pool of fabric around Nikolai's ankles. Obliging him, he steps out of the discarded garments.]

Then I wish you all the best in your retirement plans.

[His voice quivers with sexual electricity, but he's entirely sincere. The throne is a demanding office. Those who lack the desire to see the hard work through ought not clutch their crowns. How funny that for all the similarities that draw them together, they've chosen such divergent roads.

Even mid-tumble — arching into the obelisk of Cardan's body, seeking his lips, his touch — Nikolai can't help but ask:]

Who will succeed you?

[ Nikolai's razor-sharp focus is oddly endearing. Cardan is wary of ambition -- it has brought rather a lot of death into his life -- but even he can see how the bright flame of Nikolai's charisma might shape it into something dangerously alluring, something that draws people to him like a magnetic pull. He's not immune to its bright radiance, himself -- even now, when Nikolai is titillatingly disheveled and pliant under his hands, Cardan feels it. ]

My nephew.

[ If Oak can be so convinced. But that's a problem for another time; currently he's preoccupied with the royal whose delightfully firm ass is pressed against the aching column of his cock. He ought to take it out, but not yet-- oh, not yet. ]

My kind doesn't breed as easily as yours.

[ An affectionate sort of sneer. It would be an outright insult, perhaps, if his hands weren't busy drawing over the solid muscle of Nikolai's thighs, posing him, spreading him just so for Cardan's delectation, and for the benefit of anyone who happens to be walking this quiet neighbourhood on this weekday afternoon. Cardan may not be ambitious, but this kind of power -- the control of a man as image-conscious as Nikolai -- is a heady, welcome thrill, one that makes his heart hammer in his chest and a flush creep over his own cool expression.

Only now does he touch Nikolai again, long fingers wrapping around his erection. The heat of it drives a hungry little shiver through Cardan. His mouth moves against Nikolai's ear. ]

What would your courtiers think of you now, I wonder?

[Nikolai might take the barb more sharply, considering the state of his parents — he himself is the result of his mother's indiscretion, and Saints know how many bastards his father has left strewn about Ravka. But with those sure hands persuading his thighs to part, whose thoughts could snag long on one's parents and their ill-kept secrets?

His fraying patience shows itself in the low groan that sizzles in his throat as Cardan curls his hand around his shaft, in the forward push of his hips, fucking into those elegant fingers. He flickers between playing a role — the clay in Cardan's hands, pliant to any suggestion — and being only himself. A man ever desperate for touch, for attention. Any trinket that proves he is not condemned to be alone.

He huffs a breathy laugh, his head canting into the warmth of Cardan's taunting tongue. His fingers curl, pressing crescents into his palms, his bound hands helpless.]

They'd marvel at my diplomatic panache, I'm sure.

[Then he can't tell if the twisting in his stomach is shame for the scandal this scene would cause at court, or excitement for how far he's strayed from the strict confines of his public image.]

Edited 2022-03-28 19:07 (UTC)

[ Cardan laughs in response, surprised despite himself. It's dangerous -- just how charming Nikolai is, just how smooth the rumble of his voice and those silvery words that slip off his tongue. Cardan isn't used to being outplayed at his own game. It would be distressing, if Nikolai's cock wasn't so hot and heavy in his hand, if his hips didn't cant just so--

And Cardan understands that, too, the need that underlies it. What are they, if not untouchable? A royal keeps their distance from the rabble; being revered is as lonely as being feared.

Luckily, he owes Nikolai no such obligation -- Nikolai, whose carefully put-together self has come disheveled under Cardan's touch, who is thrusting deliciously into his hand, who's still so sly even in circumstances that render most men breathless. ]

What a shame they aren't here.

[ Cardan's fingers are long, clever; they flirt with the head of Nikolai's cock. In contrast to the heat of his mouth, his strokes are only teasing, too light to provide any real satisfaction.

Not yet. ]

Do you want me to fuck you?

[ For once, the question is without guile.

Though whether Cardan wants to is hardly in question, with how heavy a pang of heat thrums through him at the thought. ]

[And for once, Nikolai answers the question directly:]

Yes...

[A word so shapeless that its meaning is carried more by the breathless rush of it rather than the specific syllable. Yes, he's sure of it the second Cardan asks, breath dripping like hot wax against his neck, fingertips kissing the velvet head of his cock, manna thrumming within them both at a feverish pitch. He can feel Cardan's desire tugging at the other end of that tether forged by synchrony.

His ever volatile curiosity ignites. He wants to know how that friction feels striking deep inside, how it feels to be filled with another man's cock. Suddenly, his body aches for that fullness. His hips roll back, goading the Faerie king. The amethyst embedded at the base of his spine winks playfully in the sunlight that streams through the window.]

Fuck me, Cardan.

[Somehow, even in this moment of breathless anticipation, he manages to make it sound like both a command and a supplication.]

[ The gem catches his eye -- like jewelry, an adornment at the end of Nikolai's elegant back. How delightfully wanton to have it sitting in that particular spot. His own is all too exposed on his wrist; Nikolai's feels like another secret.

The heavy grind of Nikolai's ass against his cock makes his grin stutter. His patience for teasing wanes by the minute, though Cardan is -- admittedly -- both stubborn and committed.

From whence he produces the little bottle is anyone's guess. It just appears between his fingers like a magician's trick -- a gleaming, ornate thing, made of glass rather than plastic. The oil inside smells faintly herbal and warms easily to skin. Cardan's hands depart and then reappear, slickened now, warm as one slips back over Nikolai's dick and the other finds its way between their bodies. It whispers over the inside of his thigh, trails a caress over his balls before Cardan's slim fingers find his hole. Slick fingertips rub here, marveling at the heat and softness of him, there--

In the neighbourhood below them, a dog walker turns onto Nikolai's street. Even distracted as he is, Cardan spots the movement, and feels another thrill of excitement run through is body. ]

Careful, [ he whispers, as if the person below could hear them,] what you wish for.

[ As if it had been a wish, and not a demand. As if Cardan was going to refuse--

The tip of one finger presses inside, and he exhales, shuddering softly at the heat inside Nikolai's body. ]

[His breath catches as those slick fingers slide over his cock and delve between his thighs to whisper against his balls and converge on his hole. The heady herbal scent rising around him pulls him back to that long gone afternoon on the settee, when Cardan had cracked open for him a world of possibilities he'd never considered. Again, he brings him somewhere new. This sharp edge of anticipation is familiar, but the coaxing of Cardan's fingertip against his hole, the muscle giving way to his probing — this is a thrill unknown until now. With a soft groan, Nikolai braces himself against the window by the clasp of his bound hands.

At Cardan's warning, his eyes land on the approaching figure. His heart and stomach are a fluttering clash of so many invisible wings. A turn of the head and this stranger would see him, all of him, on display. But all Nikolai says, twisting to look at Cardan over his shoulder, is:]

Let him wish he were in here with us.

[Because for him, it's not a wish at this point — it's a need.]

[ Cardan laughs. Clever, so clever, this man, even while he's bent over and bound, even while being fucked open by another man's fingers. His senses sing in anticipation of it, of him; the deeper he pushes into Nikolai's pliant, eager body, the more he can feel the blood in his own erection pulse with want.

No. Need. ]

He does.

[ Is he Nikolai's first? He wonders. The time on the settee seems so far away now. He had not thought much of it at the time, drunk and drugged with red powder that spun his head and made nothing but Nikolai's closeness matter. But now, against the backdrop of their current tryst, he wonders how much experience the King of Ravka truly had back then.

There is a kind of self-indulgent thrill in that, too. Being first--

The dog walker moves slowly past. ]

Too bad he won't know what he's missing.

[Much as he has peeled away the clothes puddled on the floor around him, Cardan also peels his patience away. His panting fogs up a small circle of the window as he concentrates on the willowy body shadowing him, the beat of the breath warming his ear, the skilled fingers coaxing him open. His groan strains into a whimper, against the last measure of his restraint. If his hands weren't bound — if he needn't brace himself against the window — he would start stroking himself in time to Cardan's fingers pushing inside him.]

Show me.

[Hadn't the Faerie king said the same once, on that distant afternoon? Show me, raw with electricity in his ear, underneath his skin. As the stranger outside walks by, Nikolai follows him with his eyes as if daring him to turn and notice.]

Fuck...

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