Creak. The floorboards were whining in his ears. Squeaking. Again and again. Creaking. Filling his head with a quiet sort of protest.
“Stop,” they whispered. “Stop,” he answered back in his mind. “More,” was the gasp that left his parted lips.
More. Green eyes rolled to the table in the distance. He'd wound up flat on his back again. Did something wrong, said something wrong. He wasn't sure what, really. The slightest look could set Mefeas off. Maybe he'd smiled too much. Iliel wasn't certain. Maybe he'd done something right, said something right.
His head tipped backward. Silvery hair scattered over the vivid purple of the carpet. It shimmered in the wan light of the setting sun, catching it and reflecting its golden hue much as a mirror might. The mirror propped alongside him was cold. Chill against his arm, no matter that he'd lain half against it for several minutes now. The gilt frame made a funny pattern in his skin, and he stared at it and the reflection of his splayed fingers for a few rocks more.
Deeper, deeper. Mefeas plunged further into his ass. He felt the man's cock stretch him wide and wider, prising apart the tight ring of muscle at his backside and nudging into the warm, sensitive regions inside of him. Inside. It was pleasant, really, the way it burned. Pulled. Pushed and prodded and made his nerves tingled. He sighed, half-high on the pleasure of sex and the opiates of recently endured pain.
His palm against the mirror. Cool. There was a glass there, filled with some amber liquid. Tall and in the distance. He touched its reflection with his fingertips, thinking on the sensation of the glass cutting its way into his skin, deep through his muscles and into his bones. Boring and twisting and carving his body flush with the heat of pain. The curse had been short lived, but the intensity. Ah. Silvery lashes fluttered against one another, and Iliel's eyes shut.
“Stop, stop,” cried the fibers of the carpet as they whispered past the delicate angles of his shifting shoulders.
He caught their sound in the lengths of his ears. He caught as well the sound of his moaning. Long and drawn and pleading. More, the sound said. More, and harder, and faster. Mefeas obliged, though the dark toss of the warlock's hair along his spine and the enthusiasm with which his hips delved forward likely had more to do with the insistent throbbing of the cock buried deep into Iliel's ass than it did to the noises coming from Iliel's swollen, parted lips.
His toes curled. Peaches. The room smelled of them. Peaches and honey mead. The warm golden glow of the sun slanting low through the distant window emphasized the smells, the lingering taste on his mouth. Everything was sweet. Even the musk of sex, the growing sensation of want, of need. The building urgency. Even it was languid and syrupy. His cock pulsed and throbbed, reclining against his belly in a lazy sway even as it leaked a steady stream of stick precum. Iliel sighed, wistful and light, even as Mefeas grunted and dug his fingertips into the musculature at the mage's hip.
Iliel's eyes cracked open again. He stared at the intense green glow of them in his reflection, made all the more stark by his pale skin and long silky hair. He stared at the rich blue fabric of his robes flowing all about him, a river of cloth caught between his back and the rug. His gaze trailed up, to the smudge his knee had left when Mefeas had come up behind him, taken him by surprise despite the movement in the background. He remembered the feeling of lips on his neck, the goosebumps as teeth scraped over the sensitive skin just beneath the baby hairs.
Iliel turned his gaze away from the mirror, and focused again on the real world. There was Mefeas, one hand to a pale, straining thigh, the other to the sharp angle of a hip. Braced and glorious, with his inky hair trailing down along his shoulders and chest in a regal draping. The warlock's somewhat darker skin was glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, a thing that weighed down the ends of his hair and caught the golden gleam of the lazily spilling sunlight. There were the lips, that could be so kind and so cruel. He watched them as they parted, as they fell subject to the damp pink tracing of Mefeas' tongue. Lips that could be so breathless, so helpless in their own right. Contorted to panting and lost entirely to the mounting lust.
Iliel closed his eyes. The rug dug at his shoulders, and his robes rolled and folded more beneath his spine. His hand had left a steady smudged streak as he was rocked along. Iliel had been listening to the pitch of the whining floorboards change as the force of their fucking had driven the two elves away from their starting point. He listened now to the ragged escape of Mefeas' breath, and imagined on his face the stern look of concentration that was doubtless there. The little line that would form between his brows as he grew closer, and closer still. He felt the thrusts come harder, faster, deeper than before. Felt the jarring of hips until his own little puffs of breath and muted grunts mixed into the beat.
Fingers on his cock. His own. Cool from the mirror. Iliel stroked hard and fast, his fist clenching tight from base to tip with a long lingering pull at the loose skin of his sack. His arm jerked and convulsed, and he grew more frantic. Matched the other man's pace. Eyes cracked open, lazy in the hazy golden light. It smelled of peaches and honey mead. It smelled of sex. It sounded of a soft long cry as he came hard, his cum spilling out over his belly in a warm sticky flood. A lower, gravelly moan mingled with the singing lilt of song as his ass was forced to stretch wider still. Mefeas' cock surged, twitched and jerked within the lingering spasms of his own climax. It felt of heat and sweat, felt of something more. More. And it had stopped.
Iliel's eyes slid open, the silvery lashes weighted with tears. His hand fell away from his sagging cock. He heaved a sigh that was long and deep, pushing a trickle of cum sticky toward his sacrum even as Mefeas sagged over him. Dark hair fell in a curtain about his face. The floorboards were silent. Iliel drew aside the veil of Mefeas' hair, meeting the intense glow of the other elf's eyes for a moment shadowed from the light. His vision was blurry. He smiled, catching the man as he collapsed slowly atop him, and lured him into a kiss. He tasted of peaches and honey mead. He tasted faintly of salt and smelled of sex.
“More,” the soft panting of his breath whispered through his thoughts. “More,” Iliel agreed.