Erotic short. Cicero Penllwynog’s bite is better than his bark.
800 words, rated E, M/M. Cicero Penllwynog tries something new with Coshel Fenwick — biting him. Teasing, biting, D/s dynamics, both of them jabbing at one another. Small warning for a reference to racism/colourism.
“Would it kill you to let me have a bit of control one of these days, darling?” asked Cicero, and Fenwick raised a pair of thick eyebrows at him, his eyes cool in a way that made Cicero shiver most delectably.
“Could be that it would,” said Fenwick in his gloriously unpleasant, cynical way, and decided to add in an additional jab: “Given the way you are.”
“The way I am,” said Cicero, clucking his tongue as he dropped his belt aside, shimmying out of his outer robe, hanging it up. Fenwick was sitting back in bed, a book in his lap — it was half-past seven, very nearly the old bastard’s bed time, and Cicero was maddened by it even as he smiled, because it wasn’t yet completely dark outside. “And what am I, Mr Fenwick? Beautiful, glorious, erudite?”
“Arrogant, self-centred, a slag,” retorted Fenwick.
“Powerful,” said Cicero.
The look in Fenwick’s eyes was a delightful one — there was absolutely no fear in his eyes, no nervousness or uncertainty, but instead complete anger and irritation. A little anticipation, too, but Fenwick wasn’t a man who found any real enjoyment in submission — they’d discussed it, here and there, the fact that Cicero occasionally liked to take control of a situation, as much as he enjoyed to submit, but Fenwick didn’t share his penchant for switching.
“Yes,” said Fenwick lowly, a sort of growl in his voice, and although his eyes flitted down to Cicero’s body as he tossed aside his under robe, leaving him in just his leggings, which he shimmied out of, he didn’t soften or open up to welcome him just yet. “Going to show me how powerful you are?”
“I don’t need to,” purred Cicero, climbing up onto the bed. “You know.”
He straddled Fenwick’s waist as Fenwick put aside his book, and didn’t kiss him like Fenwick expected him to — instead, he leaned forward, dragging his mouth slowly over Fenwick’s neck, his shoulder, down toward his chest… Fenwick’s chest was a wonderful thing, big and fat and square and marvellous, very hairy too — Cicero got a mouthful of hair when he opened his mouth and bit down.
“Agh,” Fenwick growled as Cicero’s teeth dug into the softer flesh over one of his tits, and Cicero ground their hips together as he leaned further down, and bit again. Fenwick’s noise of pain was lower this time, came from deeper in his chest and had even more of that wonderful rumbling quality to it, and when he sucked a bruise into place Fenwick gasped, grunted.
“I wish you were paler,” said Cicero thoughtlessly. Fenwick’s eyebrows threatened to meet his hairline, and Cicero smacked his side. “You know what I mean!”
“Peddling a fucking whitening cream, are you?” asked Fenwick, and there was a horrible triumph in his voice, like there always was when Cicero put his foot in it and actually felt bad, embarrassment heavy in him. “Murder’s not an immoral enough business for you, you want to branch out?”
“Deaths on a battlefield are not murders, and I just wish I could see the marks better,” Cicero said, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Sor — “
“You can see the fucking marks plenty,” said Fenwick, gripping Cicero by the hair and crushing their mouths together, and Cicero moaned against Fenwick’s tongue, his lips. When Fenwick pulled back, he made a face, and he pulled one of his own chest hairs out of his mouth. “Keep going.”
“You like it?” asked Cicero breathlessly.
“Mm,” Fenwick hummed, throaty and deep as thunder, and pushed Cicero’s head back down, guiding him to his tit. Cicero parted his lips and took one of Fenwick’s nipples in his mouth, sucked and then bit down where his nipple gave way to the rest of the skin, and Fenwick’s moan was an incredible thing, but even better was the way his back slightly arched off the bed.
Fenwick! Arching his back! For Cicero!
Cicero drew back, blowing air through the o of his lips so that it rushed cool over the places where he’d bitten, the places where saliva shone in the slight imprinted marks of his teeth, embedded and dark and just a little red showing under the brown of Fenwick’s skin — it was hard to see in the dim light of the room, the curtains drawn, especially through the thatch of his hair, but he could see.
“What would you do if I drew blood?” asked Cicero, and Fenwick laughed.
“You going to?”
“No,” said Cicero immediately, wrinkling his nose. “No, I — I couldn’t do that to you. It’s a bit far for me.”
“I wouldn’t mind it actually,” said Fenwick, squeezing his arse. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that’s too messy for you. More.”
“Say please.”
Fenwick arched an eyebrow. “Please,” he said woodenly.
“I feel like you don’t mean it,” said Cicero, pouting out his lips.
“More,” growled Fenwick, and Cicero shivered, let out a breathless little laugh, his prick hard and growing eager between his legs, but nonetheless, he obeyed, and dragged his teeth down the centre of Fenwick’s sternum before he went for his other nipple. “Good lad,” said Fenwick, and Cicero groaned and bit harder.
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