as a bit of a contrast to yesterday's lamb wille the last thing I worked on is what we've come to lovingly call "beach wille" and it's actually a look into the future of @alltoowille's beautiful wonderful tattoo wilmon / Sanguine Labyrinth (tattoo AU). so here's to hope, for wilmon and wille and just in general 💜
Now, as Wille stirs, the first thing he notices is warmth. It's a tingly, soft, feather-light warmth, stretching across his shoulders, down his spine, the back of his thighs, his calves, cocooning him entirely.
He's slowly growing aware of the weight and pressure and solidity of his body. And of the other sensations around it. There's the damp towel pressed against his chest, the sweat pooling in his knee pits and in the creases of his folded arms, his swim trunks sticking to the skin of his ass.
He feels gross, and there's something exhilarating about it. He gets to be gross and sticky and entirely unpresentable today.
Wille doesn't remember the last time he fell asleep while sunbathing, isn't sure it's ever happened. And he just barely remembers the last time he woke up to something like a sense of relief. Of freedom, maybe. It's an oddly unfamiliar feeling, this realization that he doesn't have places to be and things to get done. That there's nothing else he is supposed to be doing right now.
Slowly, hesitantly, he opens his eyes, only gradually letting the blinding light in. Some small, irrational part of Wille is scared that the sand sticking in between his toes and the faint rush of waves hitting the shore could slip away. Like if he's not careful, and looks too hard, and moves too quickly, it'll end up being a mirage after all.
But thankfully it's all still here. Real and tangible and so bright that it hurts Wille's bleary eyes. He pats around for his sunglasses with sleep-addled movement. Once his squinting eyes are shielded, he looks around.
Next to him, Simon's chair is deserted, the only trace of his boyfriend being the haphazardly crumpled up white towel he stole from the apartment this morning. Wille enjoyed watching him earlier, when he slowly dragged the towel over his wet tan inked skin after coming back from his swim.
(...)
Wille's fingers itch with the urge to touch him and feel his skin and rub his fingers over the bumpy raised lines on his thigh. Simon has been more than generous with his touches over the past days of their holiday. But somewhere deep in Wille's chest there's a kind of hunger for it that feels impossible to satisfy and claws its way to the surface whenever he doesn't have Simon's hands on him.
(...)
Earlier this morning, Simon fingered him.
He set a torturously slow pace and did it so, so thoroughly. He took his time teasing Wille, dragged it out for a while, even longer than he normally does. Dragged it out until Wille couldn't help but whine for more, a sleep-rasped and pathetic plea for Simon to stretch him open again. Wille's cheeks burned when he asked, his voice cracked, his own words made him want to hide his face in the pillow and with it all the rest of his begging.
Simon only smiled and then kept going, softly shushing Wille.
Simon's voice was gentle and condescending and sweet and steady when he told Wille to be patient, to let Simon have a little fun with his hole first. He said he wanted to see how much of this Wille could take, said that Wille had been so brave so far, so good, made Simon so so proud.
And with every desperate sound out of Wille's mouth, every broken more and please, Simon further slowed his movements, made Wille take more by giving him less.
Wille squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus, and he can feel it, the memory that has seared itself into his flesh. Wille can still feel Simon's thumb rubbing over his hole with a taunting casualness that nearly brought him to tears.
(...)
Wille shivers, bites his lip, suppresses the urge to grind his cock into the towel. He wishes Simon was here right now, Simon's hands on his body, soothing the nagging needy little feeling.
