Work Text:
Treason tastes like salt.
Not just salt, but it's what Garen picks up first, then it's the vague copper tang of blood and something wet against his tongue that sticks on each bud. It’s something tart and a vague sour taste that lingers on the back of his throat. The flesh is warm and oozing slick, he can feel Sylas's clit throbbing against his lips, wrapped about it and sucking with a hungry need unfamiliar to him. Garen thought he knew contentment, in service and duty and family, then he found himself tucked between the legs of a traitor and realized he'd been only half fed and told he was full.
Sylas's voice doesn't soften, why would it? Hands drag through cropped strands of soft, pretty hair. Garen can feel stone clipping his skull with the drag of his palm, chains clattering as hips buck forcefully upwards to grind eager, swollen lips against that soft, pretty mouth. Sylas is being all but devoured and the world has been reduced fully to the motions of his tongue against the folds of his cunt and his clit aching from teasing teeth. He forgets for a moment the weight of stone about his neck and wrists, it might as well be feathers when the knight is buried between his thighs and worshiping his sex.
It doesn't change anything really, the high'll come down and they'll still be on opposing ends as expected. Animosity is an exhausting feeling to upkeep, one can only clash and lunge and clatter against another's body before they recognize the trace and the motion of it like their own. Hands too firm from long, loyal years of grasping the handle of a heavy blade, legs long and limber and thin that lock and swing harder than one would expect. These are the things lovers would come to recognize and remember about each other, locked in heated embraces and tangled like hearts intertwined. Even lovers drew blood on occasion.
That venomous voice is clipped thin through Sylas's teeth, Garen's certain it was his name, not the title or mocking retorts he could expect from him. Some solemn prayer called to the sky, if he called it begging, he's sure it would earn stone bashed against the side of his head for ever assuming the dreaded kingslayer would beg for the dauntless commander's mouth. Still, it's encouragement, it's a fire lit in his belly, like a dog set loose to chase the hunt. Sylas only crooned when he drew painfully close to the edge, a lifetime of nothing meant that even too much wasn't enough.
So, Garen worsens. pressed firmly into parted, slick folds. Sucking and licking and lapping at him like he's never tasted anything as sweet as his cunt, if he could spare words, he would beg. He had no reservations of pride, no message to send, he just wanted a please. please cum for me. to be spared. But there's nothing but the sound of cunt and maw wetly squishing against one another, noisily and without shame, no dignity or expectation, just lust. Hips lift again, Garen grips Sylas so tight that the flesh whitens beneath his fingertips from strain. bucking and rocking, Sylas is being given everything and like a selfish, greedy beast, he demands more of the mouth that should've never been pressed between his legs.
It's a bark of effort, fingers grip a handful of hair as Sylas grinds his cunt against his mouth, he's so sturdy but Garen can feel the way his body trembles and shakes. The fluid is warm against his mouth, and he doesn't lift from his sex. Instead, the mage pants softly and hands tumble away from the head they'd been gripping so intently. Bare chest rises and falls to the clatter of iron links, and the sound of soft, amorous kisses being pressed against the flushed, swollen meat.
Treason tastes almost like adoration.