TEARDROP ON THE FIRE
synopsis: As an Agriche maid, it's a responsibility and expectation to follow and serve your master, even if that means indulging in the desires and whims of Dion Agriche.
Content. mdni afab + f! reader, master and maid relationship so power imbalance, ngl dubcon if you squint but only bcs it's dion, fingering (f! receiving), edging, overstimulation, dacryphilia (duh it's dion), pussy slapping, choking but it’s like one sentence, vaginal penetration, oral (m! receiving), deepthroating/facefucking, dion bites you and then licks your blood, reader is a little iffy abt dion bcs it's dion, no aftercare bcs dion is dion.
a/n: this is me going back to my roots for the small dion community since i never got over him, and he's the toxic ex i run back to. dw dion i love you though. i tried to do him justice.
Dion Agriche is a kind master.
Somewhat.
Dion Agriche is a kind master when he's not present. It's in your fortune that the coveted son you are assigned to is usually sent away on missions by his father; being Dion's maid is easy when your master, known for being ruthless and bloodthirsty, isn't home for weeks at a time.
It's no secret that Dion's family is, well, insane. The Agriches aren't exactly known for their hospitality or kindness, and it's a trait that Dion has taken in, raised in such an environment, with even harsher rules as the favored son. No warmth or kindness from the man you serve.
To you, Dion is the same way. Cold, ruthless, a predator to prey.
Which is why you don't even quite remember why exactly your little physical relationship with your master came to be. For months, you served as Dion’s maid (who knows why you were even assigned to him), mostly cleaning around the estate because he was never home to even tend to or go through the familiar routine of tidying up his untouched room. But you never would’ve expected Dion to take a sudden interest (if you could even call it that, for interest is far too kind a word) in you that particular day he came home months ago.
Perhaps it was because he came back from a longer mission or because Dion is your master who had the sudden realization that he could torment you all he wanted and you could never retaliate lest you meet your death (probably by his hand), but you distinctly recall that day, a few months ago, greeting him properly and primly as you always had.
Back then, months ago, his hair had grown longer, and his eyes somehow even deader than before, stared down hard at you, an insignificant little thing in his eyes, before he simply walked past you. Typical behavior for the man, as you have come to learn.
That day, diligently, you trailed after him to his room to prepare his bath as you had always done. And somehow, that very same day, you found yourself sat on your master's cock. His cold hands latching to your waist in an iron grip, bouncing your pliable body on top of him, and filling you up full. Hot, thick cock drilling into your gooey walls and your nails raked down his skin, red welts carved in its wake against pale skin.
You remember that evening clearly, since after that, Dion just... left you alone, returning to the normal relationship between master and servant. As if he wasn’t bucking his hips up to meet yours, sloshing water around in his ridiculously large tub, as if his hands didn’t leave bruises on your hips that stained for days, or that he didn’t shoot loads of his sticky cum over your stomach before looking at you expectantly to wash him off.
That day was months ago, and since then, you've found yourself tangled up in the devil's web that comes in the form of Dion Agriche too many times for it to be a fluke or a dream (rather a nightmare) like you once thought it was.
Somehow, your coupling almost becomes routine when he comes home. Undressing him while tension crackles through the dead air, a bath, in that very same tub months before, where your hands explore his scarred skin—feathery, light, almost too delicate to be considered a wash, yet too meek to push further—and then his bold look up and down your body when you dry him off in his room.
A look not even like property, but like a slab of prime meat, searing you alive with a smoldering gaze that injects hot and reluctant shocks of arousal and fear through your veins.
And now, you find yourself in the same position when he has, once again, returned from a successful mission.
Like every other evening, you cleanse the young lord of the iron scent that always seemed to cling to him, toweling him dry before robing him in dark silk as you attempt your best to shrivel into nothing beneath his scorching glare, looking away only to meet his pale and hardened torso that you’ve become quite acquainted with, scarred after years in battle. In his presence, your senses know only him.
“Bed.” He utters, raspy voice cleaving through the tension. Well, adding to it, really.
Like routine, your footsteps are silent as you step away from him. Slow. Steady. Calculated. The air in the chilly room seems to heat and shift with every step that you force yourself to haul, taking utmost care not to trip or stumble. Even with the small distance between your two bodies, Dion’s eyes carefully track your movements, deliberately picking you apart piece by piece as he follows you to the silken bed you made just earlier that morning.
He makes it hard to breathe. Hard to stand still and relax as he presses up behind you, towering over your rigid frame. His breath beats hotly against the helix of your sensitive ear, and it makes you want to turn away. Rough hands easily find the curve of your stiff torso, trailing up and up until his large hands are cupping your breasts through your uniform, lithe and familiar fingers tweaking your nipples through the fabric, pulling and teasing whilst his crimson eyes stare intently down at your contorting features.
Dion Agriche has long decided that he likes watching you squirm.
Like a patient hunter, he enjoys watching your expression warp with the different pressures and textures of his hands. What touches will make you want to buckle and fold? Which sensations he dances onto your flesh will have pearly tears welling up in those eyes of yours until you let them fall? Dion wants to see it all, play the role of some twisted and magnificent conductor that can maestro the symphonies of your body and hear what sounds you can sing.
Now, you wouldn’t say you particularly like Dion Agriche. No, anyone in their right mind with any sense would keep far away from the Agriche lineage, polluted blood and pure venom in their souls, haunted by the dreadful actions of their forefathers and their present misdeeds. You only comply with the pleasure his body provides because he is your master—a collar on your honor and name, a shadow that gropes your future like a toy. You’ve fallen far too deep in his netting to leave now.
So no, you do not like Dion Agriche. Therefore, you should not like how he makes you feel. Which comes to your misfortune, the small, numbingly irritating fact that you do like how he makes you feel.
Some cruel and visceral part of you likes his touch.
The way his rough and calloused hands that've reaped souls glide over your skin, because no matter how high and mighty he reigns, the favored son and sword of his father, Dion Agriche chooses you.
Out of any servant in the estate, any noble or civilian, Dion chooses you to sear his touch into. It’s you he brands and touches. And in a ruthless world that you've been fighting in for the entirety of your seemingly insignificant existence, it makes you feel good. It makes you feel wanted by the untouchable man, riddled in blood and fury, and it numbs you to the reality of life.
While Dion is your collar, he is also your escape.
So, you let him slide his hands around your body, slowly popping the buttons of your dress off. Each button undone is like a sentence, a verdict hanging heavy on the weight of your soul. The articles of clothing slip flimsily off, bare skin exposed to the cold temperature. First, your shoulders, further down to your torso, until your dress bleeds into a pool of black and white at your feet, clad in nothing but undergarments that serve no purpose in hiding you from Dion’s gaze.
The moment is quiet and mechanical. It’s always quiet. You, too wary of making any sudden movements, like any breath too loud or shuddery, will morph you into more of a target than you already are. A mixture of heady fear and arousal settles in your veins because while you may not be pleased that it is Dion who makes you burst with euphoria, you cannot deny his attractiveness, nor can you deny how he makes you feel. And Dion, well, is always quiet.
He's quiet even as he motions you down on his soft sheets with surprising gentleness, the very ones you made this morning before he came back from his mission. It crinkles under your combined weights, his arm coming up beside your head, enclosing you within his presence while he peers down at you, his potent gaze running down your body in a way that makes goosebumps dance along your exposed skin, arousal simmering within your body, settling into the rushing web of blue and red underneath your skin.
His toned torso looms over you as he moves silently, too silently, sitting on his heels as his hands round the tops of your thighs and down under, hooking your legs atop his lap. Though his body is cold, his touch burns, and it makes you gasp, a sound that has his crimson eyes meeting yours. His robe has practically fallen from his body at this point, hanging precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the cold air’s touch whilst the other slipped dangerously yet covered him decently—a mock to your nude state. Tendrils of ebony hair curled lightly downwards with gravity’s embrace, catching the glints of moonlight.
You’ve seen him like this plenty of times, more than you would have liked. Some nights it would be in the bath, his skin glistening with rivulets of water that slither down every scar on his built body while he took you fiercely until the water ran cold and mixed with your tears. Or like now, towering over your supine form, red eyes gleaming with something you can’t pinpoint on his features as his hands meet your skin, calloused touches that slip you completely out of your undergarments.
Either way, it makes searing shocks of concentrated heat melt into your traitorous body like silky nectar.
In this way, Dion finds himself almost amused. Almost. It's a twisted satisfaction that finds gnawing within his chest whenever he has you in this vulnerable position, propped under him and so hesitant to move. He's not sure if you're even aware that you act this way. First, shy. Then, writhing, moaning, and crying from his touch. And while those reactions come as a familiar stranger from others, he finds it subtly different when he wrenches it out of your body.
He's had people quiver before him many times: his own family, his targets, monsters, and humans alike. But it's a distinct pleasure with you. He doesn't dwell on it. Dion Agriche never dwells on anything; he wants it, he takes it. The same way he takes you, because he wants you. He discovers some mangled beast in him when tears bead at your eyes, finds his lips curling upwards when those pearly tears of pained pleasure fall down ruddy cheeks.
"You've done this quite a lot," his voice breaks through your senses in a stoic murmur, "Yet, you quiver every time."
His words pull a grimace from you, shame oozing from every one of your pores when you look away.
His touch traverses down the planes of your body, cold hands slipping into the wet fabric of your panties, pulling the clothing off before his hardened glare finds your spread cunt. Soft, soaked, silky with arousal. You’re perched so meekly on his lap, legs stretched out and face flushed with that coyly shy expression he just can’t put a finger on. The contrast presents itself starkly, registering briefly in his mind. You, with your legs splayed on his in a lewdish manner, yet your expressions quiver and shake, unable to even look at him.
Not that he cares much. It's better for him, really. Makes it more enjoyable to see you lose yourself when buried in your contorted emotions wiggling inside you.
Dion lets his thumb glide along your slit, dragging his calloused digit slowly through, taking in the way your slick gathers on the finger, catching on your achy clit before he presses down, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves just to see how your back domes off his sheets. With his other hand, his lithe fingers tweak your nipple harshly, such contrasting pleasure has you crying out a meek noise—half mewl and half gasp.
The quiet sound sends a tremble of delight over his body, and it triggers him to repeat the action again and again. It pleases him immensely when you respond, gasping like a frail doe, eyes squinting shut when his thumb rolls your sensitive clit.
One body, writhing in the moonlight. Another, gazing down with such intensity, crimson eyes burning into squirming flesh.
His thumb eventually drops from your raw clit, earning a soft cry from you that trails into a desperate gasp as his middle finger prods at your tight heat, breaching the resistance. Slow. Slow. Slow. Almost gentle, even though it’s anything but. Slow enough that you can feel every thick inch that invades your sensitive walls, stretching you full. Slow enough so Dion can etch every contortion of your face into his memory.
He goes steadily, almost gently. Not for you, but for him. Gods, it almost makes you wish he’d go faster, just to get it over with, maybe it wouldn’t make you feel so good. But it does, it feels so horrendously good.
Your pussy is so wet for him. Silky and soft like you’ll melt in the watchful moonlight, ice under the blazing sun, he finds that he wants to grope and squeeze and knead your body until you’re disintegrated into nothing but a mess of tears and soft cries. Within his chest, a black pit of nothingness, he likes feeling you like this, molding you from the inside out. Vocal cords tightened with his title hung on your lips as he adds in yet another finger. Too full.
Just earlier, you were so hesitant to even look at him, tense like a doe caught in headlights. Now, you’re twitching with every smooth pump of his thick fingers in your gummy walls, thumb back on your sticky clit as he intently watches you convulse under his touch.
Your cries and moans fill the air, thighs threatening to shut around his hands, back arching off the bed; into his hand, away from his hand—you can’t even tell anymore. Anything to stop the overwhelming pleasure that suspends you in the hazy mist of want and need. God, it’s just too much. It’s too much, too fast, too stimulating, and you can’t do anything but take it. His fingers are long and thick, filling you up so well. Cunt weeping in obscene squelches every time his digits go in knuckles deep, erotic webs of slick cling to the heel of his palm as it meets your clit in wet plaps.
"You're crying," Dion states with the slightest curl of his lips, his words barely audible over the filthy sound of flesh on flesh. "You're crying, but you’re enjoying it. Enjoying it so much that you’re about to cum, no?”
An enigma, Dion thinks. He knows you’re feeling good, really good. With the slick dripping down his wrist and the tips of his digits repeatedly kissing that spongy spot in you that makes you keen, he knows well what he’s doing. Velvety walls flutter sensitively around his fingers; he knows you’re close. Mouth open in pleasured cries, body tensing and twitching under his onslaught of pleasure, it’s like you’re trying to run away, yet your own hips pump sloppily over his fingers. And your tears… pretty rivulets of ecstasy slipping down ruddy cheeks.
It makes his cock hard, bobbing free against his toned stomach, leaking. More. He wants more from you.
His fingers curl just right, pressing against that sensitive spot in your pussy. It hurls you towards your orgasm, pressure building and coiling deep in your lower organs. Dion’s digits thread you right on the precipice of delight that simmers in your rushing veins. You're close. So, so devastatingly close with your features scrunched, droplets of pleasure dripping from your pretty eyes and onto the pillow, his title falling from your lips in hoarse, broken pants.
Until you’re not.
His hand suddenly retreats from your core with a sob from you. The loss of the satiety sensation of his fingers leaves behind an agonizing emptiness that futility claws your orgasm back. It tears a cry from your throat, barely recognizable to even yourself. You're left pathetically yearning, aching for more, and you’ve been mercilessly cut from the mesh of pleasure by a man with too much power over you, extinguishing the flames of ecstasy rushing in your ears.
"M-my lord...” You hear yourself whimper out, hips jerking in retaliation of the sudden denial, thighs attempting to flutter shut around his hand (though you don't prevail). "Please... Why?"
Amidst your helpless babbles, you brave a look at the man whose palm your pleasure resides in.
And illuminated by the aching gleam of the silver, watchful moon, crimson eyes shining with what you can only identify as amusement, he answers with a smile. Dion Agriche’s lips curl into a damned smile, blessed by divine sin incarnated into whatever soul harbors his body.
Bastard. The thought runs briefly through your mind at his expression. Beautiful bastard.
"You give reactions such as these," he muses quietly, swiping a wet thumb past the rivulet of pleasure slipping from your lachrymose eyes, thumb no doubt slick with your arousal, "it puts me in a good mood."
His words do nothing to soothe the raging plea in your body. As if such condescending speech could comfort something so cruelly stolen.
You can only haphazardly imagine what goes through his mind, how you must look to him. You feel ruined, and you’re sure you must look it too. Clit throbbing, pussy clenching around the gaping emptiness of your core, and the orgasm that was so close, slipping away. Your cheeks feel wet, whether with sweat or tears, you can't tell.
What you don't expect, though, is for Dion to lean in, pushing even deeper into your space, his tongue simultaneously darting out to lave at the streaks of salty tears, adding to the dampness pooled on the apples of your cheeks. It’s sudden. Hot and warm and smooth is the sensation of Dion’s tongue on the corners of your eyes, how they mop up the wetness of pleasure and frustration like he isn’t the one inflicting such onto you.
And it’d be almost comforting, almost gentle. Almost. If he weren’t doing it for himself. Cleaning you up only to ruin you again.
Dion’s smile remains on his lips as his middle finger taps gently against your honeyed folds, eliciting a light whine from your lips, swollen from your own incisors. His large hands easily part your cunt once more, index finger tapping lightly against your clit, feeling the little pulse in your hypersensitive bundle of nerves respond to him. His eyes never leave your face. Ever watchful, ever overbearing. Just the slightest touch and he can tell how your climax trembles through your bones again, rising steadily through frayed nerves.
Your pulse races under his palm. So alive, so very alive with a heartbeat that jumps and quivers in time with the jerk of your desperate hips, eagerly meeting his fingers that dance along your clit. Open-mouthed moans that trail into a surprised gasp when he suddenly delivers consecutive smacks on the soaking folds of your sex.
A sharp yelp leaves your lips at the stinging contact, simmering into pleasure when the sensation seeps deep into your pounding veins. Despite your whimpering cries, Dion doesn't let up. He spanks your pussy again, once, twice, a third time for good measure as you sob. Tears stream down your face, merging into fat globs and flowing in heavy currents, distorting your vision while you tuck your head away into his ruined pillows (you’ll have to wash them tomorrow). From the overwhelming sensations, the denial, Dion’s piercing gaze and amused smile… it all hurls your traitorous body back to the precipice of pleasure.
“Please…” You sob, “Please, please, please… give it to me, please.”
Mind muddled into a tensed pool of desire and need, body taut with the promise of release, you barely make out the widening of Dion’s smile. Only his presence invades your muddled perception of the world, narrowed down to only him, a hot overindulgence of a man enjoying your misery. You feel his slick tongue sliding up your cheeks, hand wrapping around your throat with the lightest squeeze to make your whimper dwindle in hoarse, broken whines. Thankfully, he doesn't stop.
It’s one sloppy slap to your raw clit that sends you hurling over the edge. The impact makes the tight knot in your belly coil and crease over itself, winding tight until your body quakes and folds with exaltation. Helplessly, you wither away from Dion’s touch, scampering to the pillow to bury yourself from the euphoria, which he, surprisingly, lets you do with a riveted grin. The intense climax blurs with what you think registers as over-sensitive pain, crawling in a haze of ecstasy and into the void of hot shocks of pleasure which linger through frazzled neurons.
Your limbs fall lax as the seconds, or minutes, or hours pass by; honestly, you can't even tell. Time seems to stand frozen as your body recovers as best as it can, but it's Dion nudging your legs apart once more that brings you back to reality.
“Wa-wait, my lord—”
“Don’t.” His cold voice suddenly slices off your sentence, no words for anything else. “We both know what you want, and we know how this ends. No need to delay.”
His quip words are sharp, rendering you hushed as he makes himself at home between your thighs once more. His hands find your knees, and there’s a quick passing thought pressing into your head to instinctively squirm away despite knowing it’ll do nothing. You fight the urge, choosing to lie compliant as he opens your legs, encasing himself between the empty space, and allowing the cool air to kiss the dripping folds of your pussy as well as the drying tears on your cheeks.
Your eyes follow his other hand, watching it wander down his body until his lithe fingers fold around the thick girth of his cock. You've seen it before, had it inside you on multiple occasions, but, as always, there's a biting anxiety eating at your mind. Just the sheer size and look makes you think it’ll break you. It’s heavy in his hand and dribbling more beads of pre that roll down the course of veins along the underside with every slow drag of his large palm.
“Stay still.” He murmurs, hands in an iron grip on your hips as he pulls you closer.
Your breath hitches when his leaky tip notches against the rim of your entrance.
He doesn't give you time to process the swiftness of his movements, pulling your legs over his shoulder, and swaying his length into your heat in a single snap of his hips. The sudden stretch makes you hiss and squirm, nails digging into the poor pillow's flesh as your velvety walls part way for the burning intrusion, body coiling up as he sinks his cock all the way down to the hilt.
"Oh, fuck..." You moan out loud, sounds of pleasure when the blunt crown of Dion's cock kisses that sweet spot inside you, flickers of white bursting behind your watery lids because you swear, you swear he tries to fuck a hole through you. All of a sudden, it's like your last orgasm comes creeping back through hypersensitive nerves and blends into an intoxicating puddle of lust, festering in your blood.
The full feeling of him sits deep in the well of your gut, earning a myriad of whines and pitiful babbles from you into the sizzling air. It's not the first time you've taken him in so deeply, hell, you've had him stretching the flesh of your mouth too, but he makes sure the sting of his bulging veins squishing into your cunt is one you never grow used to. His hips sit snug against your thigh's underside, balls resting on the curve of your ass. Filthy slick mixing with filthy slick, a low, raspy groan crawling from the depths of his throat when he looks down at the mixture of expressions flitting over your face, and he feels something deep unfurl and condense tight in his gut.
His hips begin moving before you can fully adjust, pushing somehow deeper before swiftly pulling back with a smooth sway of his hips, barely pulling out before he plunges right back in. The large bed underneath you two groans in protest, falling in time with every lunge of his cock as he fucks brutally into your sopping sex, intent on pulling out more tears, more cries, more of anything he can carve out. Skin on skin colliding in loud slaps of wet flesh that reverberate throughout the chambers, melding incomprehensibly with the loud moans and sobs of your own voice. Dion Agriches fucks mean.
"Look at you." He groans out, his low voice barely audible over the obscene sounds of your bodies mingling passionately. "You're crying again, for what?”
Just to prove a point, his hand snakes between your two bodies, swiping a finger over your sensitive clit, relishing in the way your stuffed pussy flutters in reply, and your eyes squeeze out more tears. How could he stop when you give him such responses? He's had many people cry before him—from pain, for mercy, love. But none quite so as you, who always seems to cry so pitifully when he hooks your legs over his shoulders, digits digging deep into the plush flesh of your thighs, mounting himself above your body and stuffing you so deeply that you can feel him fucking the air out of your lungs.
Gazing up at him from below, through teary eyes, Dion is… certainly a sight. Sweaty and flushed, the lightest pink on his pale skin.
For a man used to long endurance and stamina, he pants softly into the air, beads of sweat building on his dark, furrowed brows. Quiet and heavy groans fly from his throat to blend with the cacophony of wetness and heated pleasure. Ruby red eyes keep trained on your pinched features as he releases your straining legs from their throne atop his shoulders, letting you drop the aching muscles to his waist, where you curl your legs instinctively, pulling him impossibly closer.
Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of your pussy, coating his thick cock as he bends himself over your body. One strong arm serves as a pedestal beside your head to support him while he covers your sweaty torso with his, leaning down to run his hot tongue over the bands of briny tears. The proximity makes it so you feel his feverish body, though, he doesn’t touch you, only his slimy, scorching muscle licks up the pillar of your slickened neck that tears trickle down, tasting the evidence of pleasure whilst you turn and twist away from him, body wrecked with fiendish bliss.
And Dion doesn’t really care. Doesn’t really care that you seem so keen on trying to act like he isn’t the one making you feel good. Doesn’t really care that you try to squirm away, even though your body betrays you with fervid hips bucking to meet his and tears that sprout from euphoria blooming in your brain. It only makes him harder, makes him fuck you faster into the mattress until he can feel the familiar flutter of your walls mouthing and milking at his shaft. You’re close, really close.
His cock just feels so thick and filling in your walls, lewd and obscene and hot. God, you’re close, so close. So close and you can only hope he doesn’t deny you of it. Warm tears and syrupy thighs meeting sweaty flesh in loud, resonating claps of detached passion. You’re close, you want to come, bad. You need to come, desperately.
“Dion, please! I need it, don’t stop! Please, gods, please don’t stop!” You wail out, not caring any about propriety or titles at the moment of tipping release. Your nails carve into the muscle of his built forearm, drawing blood that neither you nor he seems to care about, both chasing after the rapid unraveling in your organs.
A sharp pain in your neck is what sends you over the edge. The piercing of his canines through the tender skin of your throat, pointed pain dissipating into bliss, and the roll of his tongue collecting orbs of your life’s essence make you shake. It’s all too much upon the onslaught of your body, and you come with a shuddering cry of his name. The pleasure ripples and expands across your body, the light flaring behind shut lids and the sound spewing forth, dunking your senses in an ocean of ecstasy.
In the midst of rolling waves of euphoria, you hear what sounds like Dion’s voice, muffled like cotton pushed into your ears. For a moment, you see Dion, smiling like the goddamned devil. You feel him still pistoning into you, the sudden overwhelming and prickly sense of over-sensitivity seizing your body when you realize he isn’t stopping. Determined to reach his own end and perhaps end you in the process.
Dion's rocking maintains its pace, pushing deep into you without slowing down. Your attempts to squirm and crawl and retreat from the overstimulation are pathetic, only causing the intensity to escalate as you catch a breathless whisper of what sounds like Dion’s remark about your pitiful sniffling. Pleasure seeps and swirls with the biting, sensitive ache of your spent body, voice hitched, caught in your throat and gasping out at the overtake of that delicious pressure. Caught in the torrent of his punishing hips, you can only sob his name and take what your uncaring master so generously gives.
In the overwhelming barrage of sensory overload, you cry out Dion’s name, mingling with whimpers and moans that are sure to leave your throat sore tomorrow. Unfazed by the flurry and babbling of your noises and sensitivity, Dion profusely continues with his deep strokes, sprinting for his own climax. His powerful strokes make you tremble furiously underneath him, silver drops of liquid pleasure and sensitivity slipping from your eyes and onto his pillows.
It’s not enough, not enough for him.
And in a single motion of his hips, Dion pulls out, leaving you gasping for air from the sudden loss of fullness. But you don’t have time to even think about the aching emptiness as his hand finds the nape of your neck, practically scruffing you and pulling your trembling, limp body onto your hands and knees, ultimately coming face to face with his raging cock. Still hard. Still aching. Still throbbing.
The man doesn’t think twice before pushing the head of his member past the barrier of your lips, groaning lowly when he slides into your warm cheeks, moist and slick, molding your throat to the ridges of his dick.
You taste yourself on his shaft, your arousal, your cum, and his all swirling together in the tightness of your throat, stretched wide to fit him all the way down to the thick base. His hand buries into the tendrils of your hair, pushing you down until your nose smushes against his pelvis and the blunt head of his cock tingles against the back of your throat. Too big, too wide for your poor mouth, that it makes you want to gag, choke at the sudden intrusion, despite having been in this position before. Though you try to accommodate its thick girth, letting your jaw fall slack as much as possible, there’s a familiar ache that forms when he begins to move, humping his hips against your slobbering mouth, thick webs of spittle connecting him to your swollen lips.
He pounds away at your raw, moaning throat, hot groans escaping him as fucks and fucks and fucks, sharp snaps of his hips like he’s fucking your pussy. For a moment, Dion turns his ruby gaze downward, cursing under his breath at the sight of your sloppy maw stretched wide and tears dripping down your stuffed cheeks, escaping down to the pillar of your bitten neck. Mouth full of cock and eyes full of tears; Dion doesn’t keep pets, but for a moment, he might just consider it now.
And Dion never loses control. But as the corners of his vision pulse a static white while he ruts into your mouth, he finds that his hips buck uncontrollably, veins pulsing frenziedly against the slope of your tongue, each sway of his hips pumping liquid bliss through his limbs as he chases to unfurl the tight gnarl sitting in the pit of his stomach.
You feel it before you can rationalize it (if you could rationalize anything now). Thick and hot torrent of salty bitterness floods your throat, gooey ropes of cum sliding down your esophagus that makes your watery eyes squeeze shut, trying your best to breathe through your nose while your master’s hand collars you down to the base of his throbbing length. You want to gag, to cough up at the globs of semen and the pulsing veins that match the cadence in his heart, thumping on your wet muscle (much too slow, almost inhuman, for someone who was panting and shooting ribbons of semen down your throat, but it’s Dion, so you don’t question).
His voice is strangled from above you, a series of curses leaving as the last few spasms of bliss tear through him, and it feels as if the moment stretches out indefinitely, his body winded like a taut string and heaving, release seemingly endless, shuddering gasps rattling his ribcage.
He keeps you against his cock for a few seconds longer, just watching you from above. It’s always his preferred sight of you, even more than when he has you bent over yourself or crying from his touch. He observes you intently, vermillion eyes trained on your mouth and clumped lashes before he speaks, voice raw and strained.
“Look at me.”
You do.
You look up at him through blurry eyes, making out his tall figure and familiar crimson irises, light-headed, half from exhaustion and half from a lack of oxygen. Your sore throat milks his cock as a reflex of trying to force out the thick appendage in vain before he finally, finally releases you with a slick ‘pop’, granting sweet permission to pull your mouth off, salacious strings of saliva, cum, and everything else still attaching your lips to the shaft.
Your lungs expand in your ribs, intaking heaps of needed oxygen, eyes fluttering shut as your hands wipe the mix of slimy liquid off your mouth. It’s sore, everything is sore and wet and sticky. Your body trembles, jaw aching, and cunt spent. The sensation of his rough thumb swiping the last stray ribbons of tears down your cheek is felt before he backs off completely, letting you sit back limply on his bed.
Dion spares you a final look beneath the sweaty mop of raven hair, deep pools of crimson blood bear into you, another devilishly stoic yet ethereal smile of condescending amusement, akin to a predator full from prey, standing to reach for his discarded robe and speaking as he slips it on like he hadn’t just fucked you within an inch of your life.
“Draw another bath.” He murmurs, walking away into the deeper shadows of his chambers.
Indeed, you think, tuckered and shriveled on his bed, your eyes trailing after his blurry figure, Dion Agriche is a cruel master.
this was meant to be 1k... turned into 6k
