REQUEST: Thancred can hold his breath for a full ten minutes. The Warrior of Light can attest to that. (Scene where Thancred eats out a DFAB WoL like a three-course meal)
When you first heard rumor that Thancred Waters was a man who could hold his breath for a full ten minutes, you chalked it up to dramatic flare–he was a man who would put a flourish to almost any detail, and he so often had the charm that most people didn’t think to ask if the stories he told were genuine or a stretch of the truth.
It wasn’t that the man often lied, but he often…likened to make things more exciting. In a world where reality often holds cold and painful memories, you can admire the man’s effort make it warmer. Dramatic. Exciting.
That said, you had little trust in the idea that he could hold his breath for several minutes, much less ten. It wasn’t until the Scions found themselves in the Waking Sands in a rowdy state of drunkenness, celebrating a recent victory and a blessed spot of peace, that you decided to ask the devil of a man himself for the truth.
One thing led to another, and then another, and then some clothes were discarded and…well…
Suffice to say, the rumors were quite accurate.
“Fuck,” you hiss, the word sharp between clenched teeth and bitten lips. “Thancred, I–fuck, oh the twelve above-”
You can’t get more than a few words out before thoughts fail you completely.
The only clear word that swim through the goop of what was once your brain is little more than the name of the man currently settled with his face between your legs and his tongue pressing hard against your cunt.
His hands grip hard over your hips, equally keeping you still and pulling you forward, closer, practically smothering himself against your heat and wetness.
All the man can do is but offer you a satisfied hum, a flicker of eyes gazing dangerously from between your legs.
You’ve lost track of how many orgasms he’s pulled from your body, constantly falling back and forth between achingly hot and soft and warm–it’s almost as if he knows just the spots to press, to move, laving attention upon every inch of your eager heat until all that’s left of you is a melted puddle of goo with hardly enough strength to keep your legs over the man’s shoulders and your hands clutching at his hair.
You don’t know how long it’s been, but you know for sure that he hasn’t taken a single breath for at least two or three orgasms–Thancred is devoted to your pleasure, his mouth pressed so hard against your core that breathing is likely next to impossible.
His tongue dives deep inside you, practically fucking you on the thick, wet muscle all while his fingers press so hard to the curves of your hips and thighs that you’ll be surprised not to find a blooming of bruises the next day.
A sharp moan slips from your lips as you feel it: the closeness of orgasm leaking into your body, a coiling tight and hot in the pit of your stomach.
Another hum rumbles from Thancred’s mouth as he doubles-down on the pace of his tongue pressing within you. You gasp, sob and arch up into the pleasure, the ache, the pure euphoria of the moment as he pulls yet another crest of orgasm over your form.
All you can do is sob his name and tug sharply at his soft, silvery hair, knowing he has plenty of time to spare before he’ll even consider being done with you.
