#velvetthings

“Good boy.” Aventurine breathes the deadly kiss to the crook of Boothill’s neck. It responds so beautifully with goosebumps rising in its echo. Blood that tries and fails to dry stains Boothill’s skin, and Aventurine licks at it. Instinctively, fully submitted, Boothill turns his head with a quiet whimper; a little sound that is reminiscent of a please.

Good boys need to be rewarded, and Boothill has been nothing but the best to him.

A predator’s bite marks scarred skin once more, sinking through the layers one by one until he bottoms out, teeth and hips both. Claiming, hungry. Aventurine keeps his hips still, clenching around the length pulsating inside him as fresh blood floods his mouth. It’s intoxicating. It makes him want to carve at Boothill’s chest, to climb inside it, to squeeze the heart and watch liquid vigor drip down his throat.

Aventurine’s own heart races as life flows through him and the metallic taste of Boothill stains his tongue and teeth.

“Please…” Boothill croaks, a shadow of his usual self. Weak, shaking, eyes barely focused as they struggle to remain open. Every erratic beat of Boothill’s heart—Aventurine can hear it so clearly, here; can feel it between his teeth—makes his cock throb inside Aventurine, yearning for release that isn’t granted. Instead, Aventurine chooses to tighten his hold around it.

Another gasp strikes through Boothill’s body as he bows his back, curling upwards from the mattress.

“Ah–hah–ven… please…”

Aventurine lifts himself fully from Boothill. The man just about sobs. Tears gather in the corner of Boothill’s eyes, his cockhead weeping and red.

Aventurine feels so empty without Boothill laying his claim inside himself. His hole twitches, desperate, yearning, but seeing Boothill beg and sob is worth everything. Aventurine savors the moment—the sweat making Boothill’s skin glisten; the frantic rise and fall of Boothill’s chest as he tries and fails to catch his breath; the beautiful glaze that covers warm eyes as they cling to sanity; that pretty flush that dusts his skin.

However, seeing Boothill’s mouth grow slack as he guides his dick back inside is even better.

This time, Aventurine doesn’t take it slow. He crashes back down with a loud smack, the oil and pre-cum squelching every time their bodies meet, and Boothill sings wonderfully for him—moans that start as his name end as incomprehensible gibberish. Fabric tears; the sound is a blade cutting through the air.

Aventurine drives his fangs back into Boothill’s skin. He breaks.

Cum floods his insides, Boothill’s dick throbbing as it empties itself, and Aventurine’s heart soars as the remaining space inside him gets filled. As Boothill’s blood—sweeter now, as it always is when he reaches his peak—slides down his throat in fresh waves. The wooden headboard creaks from the force that Aventurine grips onto it, his inhuman strength threatening to break through. His own orgasm teeters on the edge, just barely out of reach.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Even when his own cock cries for release, untouched and aching, Aventurine embraces the sting and the burn. He doesn’t want to come yet. He craves, insatiable. He craves for Boothill to grant him relief—to fill every remaining void inside him, one way or another. To be bent over and panting.

And so he moves his hips again, not granting Boothill any sort of break.

The reaction is immediate: Boothill gags, helpless to the onslaught of pleasure bordering pain. Saliva oozes down the side of his mouth. We can’t have that. Aventurine licks up from Boothill’s neck to his lips, pushing it back inside—making him choke on it.

The blood still clinging to Aventurine’s tongue gets mixed inside their joint mouths in a messy, sanguine kiss.

Boothill is still hard inside him. Every time Aventurine feeds on him—injects his saliva to mix with his blood—Boothill becomes a little more drunk and delirious. More pliant; losing himself to the sensation. He becomes such a pretty little thing for him, so eager to please.

But Aventurine thinks he has done enough for tonight. He wants to be pushed into the mattress and fucked until he babbles.

“Your hands are free, Boothill,” Aventurine says, sugar-sweet. They were never tied to begin with. His command alone had Boothill at his mercy, yet the man wastes no time. In an instant their positions are switched, and Aventurine keens, loud and excited.

Boothill grabs onto his hips and fucks into him like starved.

“Y-Yes—” Aventurine cradles Boothill’s head, brushing a thumb along his lobe. “Just like that... Just like that… So good…”

There is no coherency to Boothill’s reply. It’s a grunt, a whine, a kiss pressed to his neck just above eternal bite marks. The languid swipe of Boothill’s searing tongue is a stark contrast to the ruthless pace of his thrusts, every single one as fierce as though trying to leave a permanent mark on this undying body.

And Aventurine? He feels alive.

With every animalistic pound of Boothill’s hips, every smack of skin against skin, he begins to forget himself. He forgets the torture, the agony, the all-consuming hunger. The loneliness that plagued him; haunted him as an ever-present companion.

No longer is he alone. Now, he has someone to treasure. Someone that treasures him in turn.

Someone that listens to his command; kisses him like a desperation; fucks him like there is no greater pleasure.

“Boothill—” Aventurine gasps, his skin on fire— “behind…”

And Boothill listens. Pulls out and flips him over like he weighs nothing. Pushes back inside before he can so much as miss being filled to the brim.

Aventurine’s soiled thighs shake from the force as his upper body loses strength and he allows himself to melt into the mattress. The tip of his dick brushes against the bed and it hurts enough to almost tip him over the edge. But no, not yet. He needs more. He needs—

Boothill’s teeth bury themselves in his shoulder and Aventurine screams.

The orgasm that crashes through him is blinding. Distantly, he notices Boothill letting a loud and guttural moan loose—how cum fills him a second time. But all Aventurine can truly focus on is lightning zapping every nerve of his body.

There is nothing gentle about this pleasure—it’s harsh, choking him, setting his body on fire. He sobs, tears setting free the tension that had built up from denying himself this relief for so long.

And Boothill holds him like something precious. His arms are strong and warm as they wrap around his body, keeping their hips flush together. It soothes something within Aventurine’s soul to know nothing will be spilled. That they remain connected in this most intimate and primal way. It’s safe. He’s safe.

The pleasure hums in his veins and settles in his bones, simmering to a comforting buzz. Sleep nudges at him and his breathless body is unable to resist it, not with Boothill whispering comfort and endearment into his skin. The words flow together like incoherent sounds of peace.

Aventurine turns his head to the side, wanting to give voice to his feelings, but Boothill knows.

His body is moved with care; returned to lay on his back. The void inside him is hollowing, and Aventurine thinks a whine must be falling from his lips from the way his throat stings.

But Boothill doesn’t give Aventurine time to miss him. He’s there, kissing him; he’s there, caressing his face and frame. He’s there, whispering sweet nothings, soothing the ache of his body, mellowing the erratic drumbeat of his heart.

He’s there.