Hardly looking much better himself, Benedict opens the door. He's clothed in a fancy robe, his own eyes red, but whether it's from weeping or the scented smoke wafting out of the room is anyone's guess. He doesn't say anything yet, just staring at Colin knowingly.
Colin's first instinct is to lean in for a hug, but in doing so, his head moves a little, enough to brush a kiss against Benedict's cheekbone. Why? He doesn't think he could bear another clutching embrace with a hard cry. He's drained and numb. He needs to feel something else now. Anything else.
The motion takes Benedict somewhat by surprise, but perhaps only because his mental faculties aren't running at full capacity. He catches Colin, stumbling a step back, and pulls him inside, where the smoke is thick and hazy over the lavish decorations.
The telltale hookah rests on the floor, one hose attached, and Bene is careful not to knock it over as he guides Colin toward the bed.
The smoke is a peculiar comfort, relaxing him despite the nature of what is happening. Colin sits down hard on the edge of the bed and pulls Benedict down into a kiss, deep and passionate as he has imagined. Warm and slick, tongues and lips seeking and devouring, while his knees open and he begins to lean back, pulling Benedict down with him.
Being taller than Colin means Benedict doesn't quite fit in a sensible way over on top of him, but he uses it as an excuse to slide downward, sinking onto his knees on the floor as his hands untuck the other man's shirt and slide beneath the fabric.
He's not disrobing him yet, not entirely, but looks up into his face with shimmering, smoke-clouded eyes. He's ready when Colin is.
Just the touch of hands under his shirt sends a thrill through Colin, but underneath, he is nervous. Benedict is waiting patiently for him to give him a sign to proceed, which tells him he was a good choice for this. After a second, Colin sits up and reaches for the hookah, drawing a deep breath from it. Setting it aside, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt and draws it up over his head to cast it on the floor. Lying back, he gives Benedict a nod of consent, watching him through his eyelashes.
A little smirk crosses Benedict's face when Colin partakes of the hookah, and rather than have him put it all the way back down, he takes a puff from it first: this results in a stream of smoke pouring from his nose and mouth as he undoes the fly of Colin's trousers, tugging at the waist to loosen them somewhat and free his intended target.
Then there's a warm hand gripping it, and a tongue sliding up its length, taking his time.
There's a deep tension, fingers digging into Benedict's hair, pulling more than a little, but Colin breathes. Slow. Careful. And he never stops watching, taking in Benedict's features, the color of his hair, the attentiveness he shows. Gradually, the tension eases, and his knees draw up to bracket Benedict's head. It feels good. It feels better than good. The hands in Benedict's hair go from pulling to gently scratching his scalp, encouraging him as much as he can. For whatever reason, he can't make noises even now, in private and with no risk of any jailers walking in on them. The only sound is his breath growing quicker and heavier.
Until, at least, his head drops back, and a pitched sigh escapes him. It finally feels like this is real, and he's having sex like a normal person.
For what it's all worth, Benedict does seem to be enjoying himself, and taking pleasure in the act on its own; perhaps he's not good at many things, but, well, here's one. Mother might not be too proud, but she doesn't have to know.
Sensing that he's yielding the right results, he smiles faintly, stopping for a moment to gather a spare handkerchief from his dresser, which he holds in his free hand in preparation for Colin to finish. ...he just isn't able to have the sheets washed as often as he'd like. Times are hard.
He can feel that he's about to finish, but seeing Benedict prepare for it causes a sudden spike of doubt that verges on panic. He finds himself tugging Benedict's hair to pry him away from his task.
"Stop," he gasps, sitting up and trying to pull Benedict into a kiss.
The protest seems to come from far away, and Benedict is slow as he leaves off what he's doing. He blinks at Colin in mild confusion, but meets the kiss readily enough, rising from his knees to crawl a little ways forward onto the bed for balance.
Colin takes the chance to lift Benedict's shirt over his head and cast it aside. He leans away to rummage through his trouser pockets on the floor before pulling something out of them. He kisses Benedict again while a hand slips into the other man's trousers, slick with something, and begins to stroke him firmly.
It's one of those things where-- cruel as it may be to admit it, Benedict really didn't think Colin had it in him. But he clearly does, to a near alarming point, and Bene makes a little sound of surprise at the feeling of Colin's hand down his pants. Not that he's protesting, he just hadn't expected anything so forthright.
The sound changes to something like a sigh, his hips tensing and drawing nearer to the man above him.
The motions are fierce, and Colin nearly goes further with it until that little sound of surprise sinks in, and suddenly he jerks away. His hands flatten against the bed and he looks appalled, eyes wide.
"Is that...was that all right? Did you, do you want that?"
Because as bad as it would be to be victimized again, the worst thing he can think of would be to become the victimizer.
Benedict is just as shocked as Colin is, and stares up at him with sudden silent horror, afraid that he saw something, or... that he himself did something??
"What?" he asks, his voice a little higher than usual. "...yes??"
After a frozen, trembling moment, Colin finds himself pressing Benedict into the mattress, pulling his pants down and casting them aside. He goes back to stroking him, while offering an open bottle of oil to him.
"Hold out your hand," he says, eyes focused intently on Benedict's face. Keep looking at his face. Keep track of who he is. "Please."
Still a little lost, but nonetheless here for it, Benedict does as requested and holds out his hand. In the meantime, he glances over Colin, quirking a little smile back up at his face as he does: whatever the case, he seems like he's still doing all right.
Colin tips the bottle of oil into Benedict's hand, just a little before he's putting it back down. There's a second's hesitation, as he is torn between what he wants and what he fears. His hand leaves Benedict and flattens against the bed, giving himself support so he can straddle the other man.
"I want--" His voice catches, and he swallows and tries again. "I want you to finger me."
As the oil touches Benedict's hand, he begins to spread it around over his fingers, as one does, in a motion that's more automatic than intentional. He pauses when Colin speaks, and although he looks slightly surprised by the request, he nods silently, glancing him over and then beginning to blush. This is farther than he's ever gone. "I, ah..." he begins, and murmurs, "...will you tell me how?"
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He doesn't say anything yet, just staring at Colin knowingly.
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The telltale hookah rests on the floor, one hose attached, and Bene is careful not to knock it over as he guides Colin toward the bed.
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He's not disrobing him yet, not entirely, but looks up into his face with shimmering, smoke-clouded eyes. He's ready when Colin is.
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Then there's a warm hand gripping it, and a tongue sliding up its length, taking his time.
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Until, at least, his head drops back, and a pitched sigh escapes him. It finally feels like this is real, and he's having sex like a normal person.
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Mother might not be too proud, but she doesn't have to know.
Sensing that he's yielding the right results, he smiles faintly, stopping for a moment to gather a spare handkerchief from his dresser, which he holds in his free hand in preparation for Colin to finish.
...he just isn't able to have the sheets washed as often as he'd like. Times are hard.
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"Stop," he gasps, sitting up and trying to pull Benedict into a kiss.
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OH MY GOD I fINALLY HAVE TIME FOR TAGS
Not that he's protesting, he just hadn't expected anything so forthright.
The sound changes to something like a sigh, his hips tensing and drawing nearer to the man above him.
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"Is that...was that all right? Did you, do you want that?"
Because as bad as it would be to be victimized again, the worst thing he can think of would be to become the victimizer.
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"What?" he asks, his voice a little higher than usual. "...yes??"
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"Hold out your hand," he says, eyes focused intently on Benedict's face. Keep looking at his face. Keep track of who he is. "Please."
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"I want--" His voice catches, and he swallows and tries again. "I want you to finger me."
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This is farther than he's ever gone. "I, ah..." he begins, and murmurs, "...will you tell me how?"