he is practically perfect in every way possible, not a hair out of place, not a stitch undone, a face like stone, eyes like hard gems that peter wants to pluck out with his slender fingers.
no. percival graves is, without a doubt, perfect, or at least as close as you can get to it.
which is why he has him on his knees, because what's a perfect thing but another conquest? tonight, anyways. it's unusual fare, graves on his knees, his shirt collar peeled back, buttons undone. the sharp coat is abandoned at the doorway, the sharper shoes not far from the coat. peter makes short work of his belt, winding it slowly around his wrists with a little grin tattooed into his throat as he whispers that tonight they're going to play things a little differently. "By ear, I know you hate that," he'd whispered before leading him to this very place--a well-put together bedroom for a well-put together man that peter had thousands of ways to undo.
on his knees was a very good start.
kissing him and muddying his lipstick is an even better segue, the bright red a smear like blood, staining the corner of graves' mouth like a solidly placed punch (it could be said that peter's kisses were not unlike dirty death blows dealt in back alleys when you least expected them.)
peter takes his time now, perched on the edge of the enormous bed, one ankle gently braced between graves' thighs in such a way that friction is inevitable, pressure is inevitable, on such finely tailored trousers in such a tender place. he presses upwards a little bit, tilting his chin upwards, thumbing where he knows his lipstick has fallen just out of place, smeared, but more debauched than clumsy. his sharp eyes, sharper teeth, focus on the man on the floor and he smiles.
he presses up again, and encouragement to maybe get a closer to the opening of the tight little number he wears. it's conservative at the front, black, paneled, but up the thighs the slit is dangerous, and rucked up, it's even more so, giving graves a full view of less-than-innocent black lace. a set of slender fingers winds through the back of graves' hair tightly. ]
Ready for some more overtime, darling? [ he purrs out softly. ]
no subject
he is practically perfect in every way possible, not a hair out of place, not a stitch undone, a face like stone, eyes like hard gems that peter wants to pluck out with his slender fingers.
no. percival graves is, without a doubt, perfect, or at least as close as you can get to it.
which is why he has him on his knees, because what's a perfect thing but another conquest? tonight, anyways. it's unusual fare, graves on his knees, his shirt collar peeled back, buttons undone. the sharp coat is abandoned at the doorway, the sharper shoes not far from the coat. peter makes short work of his belt, winding it slowly around his wrists with a little grin tattooed into his throat as he whispers that tonight they're going to play things a little differently. "By ear, I know you hate that," he'd whispered before leading him to this very place--a well-put together bedroom for a well-put together man that peter had thousands of ways to undo.
on his knees was a very good start.
kissing him and muddying his lipstick is an even better segue, the bright red a smear like blood, staining the corner of graves' mouth like a solidly placed punch (it could be said that peter's kisses were not unlike dirty death blows dealt in back alleys when you least expected them.)
peter takes his time now, perched on the edge of the enormous bed, one ankle gently braced between graves' thighs in such a way that friction is inevitable, pressure is inevitable, on such finely tailored trousers in such a tender place. he presses upwards a little bit, tilting his chin upwards, thumbing where he knows his lipstick has fallen just out of place, smeared, but more debauched than clumsy. his sharp eyes, sharper teeth, focus on the man on the floor and he smiles.
he presses up again, and encouragement to maybe get a closer to the opening of the tight little number he wears. it's conservative at the front, black, paneled, but up the thighs the slit is dangerous, and rucked up, it's even more so, giving graves a full view of less-than-innocent black lace. a set of slender fingers winds through the back of graves' hair tightly. ]
Ready for some more overtime, darling? [ he purrs out softly. ]