I’ve been in love with Haremstuck since I saw the first concept sketches, so while knowledge of the world is still limited, I couldn’t wait to get out a little fic, so have a porny, plotless, carnal dance.
Although the smoke has long since drifted out the open windows and in to the city that lays below, the scent of sandalwood and myrrh lingers, clinging to the silk and rich velvet under your back. Your shoulders brush the chilled marble when you shift your weight, but the temperature change is welcome, a brief kiss of relief from the sweltering heat that doesn’t entirely have to do with the summer. The figure straddling your hips rests his fingertips on your chest, rings clicking together as he traces his way up to the necklace resting heavily against your collarbone.
His hips move slowly, teasingly, with the kind of deliberation that speaks of much self control, but the haze you can see in his eyes shows he’s enjoying this just as much as you. For as stand-offish and disinterested as he pretends to be, the quaking you can feel in his thighs and the telling flush coloring his gills assures you that you’re not taking anything he isn’t offering whole-heartedly. His bulge presses against yours, and even through several layers of fabric, the contact is enough to draw a whine from his lips.
Your hands on his waist pull him closer, tracing a bead of sweat from the hollow of his hips, tantalizingly bare for your hungry gaze. You run your fingers over the gold fringe resting so close to his groin, and he jerks toward you before he can catch himself, and your chuckle makes the flush on his face darken noticeably.
“Stop bein’ a prick,” he growls, but any threat his voice would have carried is lost to the deepened timbre and breathiness it now carries.
“I don’t think you’re in the position to be giving me orders,” you retort, palm sliding from his knee up his thigh, stopping to trace the gold band that lays just under the folds of his sarong, and he sways, hips undulating against yours in a way that makes your eyes roll back.
His hands move behind him, planted firmly on the floor, body arched back in such way that you can easily make out every muscle in his stomach and chest, defined by his profession and accented by the oils he wears when he knows he’ll be appearing before you. His head is tilted back, the candles in the room casting deep shadows on the hollow of his neck and making his eyelashes stand out, brushing against his cheekbones as he looks down at you. He twists and you buck underneath him, moaning.
You return your attention to his chest, fingertips gently teasing the open slits of his gills, and his knees squeeze your sides more firmly as you hear his hands scrabbling for purchase against the slick marble. His movements are becoming less precise, more desperate, and his bottom lip is firmly captured by his teeth as he squirms and writhes, becoming less a practiced courtesan and more an exotic creature caught in the throes of his own pleasure.
Your teeth are clenched so tight your jaw aches, and you push up to meet him, drinking in his whines and gasps as they crescendo. His lips part, breath panting out of him, and when his hands slip, threatening to topple him backwards, you surge up to cover his lips with yours, swallowing his cries as he comes, his legs almost painfully tight and his breathy utterance of your name in combination with the pressure against your bulge pulls you after him.
He shakes in your arms, lips open and sloppy as you move shallowly against him, riding out the waves of pleasure as they wash over you. The touches become more gentle, hands petting damp skin and stroking already ruffled hair, and it’s with a contented sigh that you fall back on the pillows, taking him with you.
“That dance satisfactory, your highness?” he asks, the chains of his necklaces pressing uncomfortably against your skin, but you can’t bring yourself to shove him off you quite yet. Instead you flick the webbing of his aural fins none to gently, earning a squawk of indignation.
“Close enough,” you say in your most haughty voice, and when he tries to yank on the chain connecting your ear cuffs you dump him unceremoniously on to the cold marble, and he shrieks as if he’s been burned. He scrambles to his feet, straightening his clothes and jewelry as he sweeps past the guard standing outside the door, and although he glares and stick his tongue out at you before slipping out the door, you know there’s a smile to mirror your own as he swishes down the hallway and out of sight.