It’s good, at first. It builds. Once he’s satisfied the business end of things is seen to, Daniil just. Takes his sweet time. Teases him with a slow insistent circling against his hole till he decides to dip in slowly, draw out again, tease some more. At first, he strokes Artemiy off while he does it, even leans down to suck it a little when he apparently feels Artemiy’s not reacting enough. By the time he’s sunk his finger back in all the way it’s downright annoying. “I’ve done this before, you know,” he grits out. The room, which started off chilly, has gotten close and humid. It feels like he’s breathing through a sheet. “I can take some more.” He looks satisfied by that. “I know,” Daniil says. He licks the head of Artemiy’s cock, holding the base firmly, not stroking, while he pumps his finger in and out. Easily, now, he’s ready for it and Daniil’s been uncharacteristically messy with his cock. Saliva’s run down his crack to help where the lube was already plenty, and his finger’s making wet sounds working in him. It’s - he could really use more. He says so. Daniil hums and sucks his cock a bit, and crooks his finger a little. The thing is. He knows where his prostate is, and what it does, and how he likes it. He’s pretty sure. He’s very sure he’s never had someone do it like this, though. On the few occasions he landed a bed partner who knew what they were doing, they were mostly working him open to take a pounding. A little lucky probing, or some helpful pointers from Artemiy, he might get almost fingered worth a damn. Maybe. He’s done it himself, though, when he was hot for it, bored, ready to give his own willing flesh a bit of practicum. Still. Daniil drags his tongue down the length of him, slowly, and pushes a second finger in. He’s lost the distracted expression and the lazily-wandering hands. He even seems like he’s through teasing. His eyes are intense and his fingers are deadly precise. Too precise? “I know where my prostate is, thanks,” he wheezes, when Daniil’s about rubbed him numb inside. He’s seeing stars already, and Daniil’s stopped licking his cock, stopped even stroking it. He’s all fingers in his ass and eyes on Artemiy’s face, now, apparently, set to kill him with overstimulation. “I should hope so,” Daniil says lightly. He keeps working him, mercilessly, till he’s got no choice but to move his hips with it, just to get off the hard hot deft relentless fucking impossible, curling squirming thrusting fucking fingers pumping in and out of him fuck- “Ugh,” he says. “That’s. Hmn.” “Yes?” says Daniil, licking his lips. “Go on, Artemiy.” He’s fallen back against the bed, his hips jerking up. That makes the angle worse-better, and Daniil leaning over him with the muscles of his bicep and forearm taut against his pale skin somehow, somehow, makes him crazy, somehow his dark eyes and his indulgent smile and his fingers trying to dig his fucking soul out and damn near succeeding, he’s, he can’t breathe. Not his fault if he’s whining like he’ll die from it. He might. He’s so hard it almost hurts. Has he ever had it like this before? Could he even do this to himself? Daniil twists his fingers and then adds a third. Artemiy would curse if he could get the breath in him. ‘You’re killing me. Please touch my cock,’ he’d like to say. What comes out instead is “Kh. Ffh. Please.” Good enough? Daniil looks delighted by it. He’s grinning now, a wild expression on his face. He’s not thrusting his fingers so hard anymore, it’s impossible to get his balance, the room’s spinning and he’s almost choking, it feels like he can feel it in his throat. Could he die of this, possibly, if he can’t get air and he can’t come and Daniil keeps fingering him? “Please. Come. Let. Mn. Uh.” Words. Not working how he’d like. His arms won’t work, either. Every time he tries to reach for himself he loses coordination. He’s writhing as best he can, trying to fuck himself down on it or get away or, something, anything really. At this point he’s given up on dignity. He’s drowning. He’s going to die from this. “Go on,” Daniil says, and presses his palm against Artemiy’s cock, and keeps fingering him like the sadist he is. “Come.” He. Gives up completely. Bucks and grinds into Daniil’s hand, lets himself come apart between those two points of sensation, forgets his voice for the shouting. He’s loud when he wants to be, it turns out. And when he doesn’t. And after, and through, and Daniil keeps him like that, hand pressed to his softening dick and his fingers - is it just two now? - still working him slow and impossible and. He keeps coming, kind of, agonizingly, twitching, weak, his nerves fried and screaming and his throat raw. “Fuck,” he manages finally. Daniil’s almost stopped, but he hasn’t withdrawn, still holding two fingers in him and just. Reminding him, barely gently enough to avoid the edge of pain. At last, at long fucking last, he slides his fingers out. That actually hurts, overstimulated as he is. He knows how to avoid tensing and making it worse, but still. “Fuck,” he says again, for good measure. Daniil gets up and washes his hands. Comes back wiping his face with a wet towel. Stands by the bed a minute, regarding him, while Artemiy just lays there boneless and fucked-out and barely alive. He’s so sweaty he’s sure he’ll have left a silhouette on the bed. “You’re a mess,” Daniil observes. “Your fault,” Artemiy croaks. He doesn’t even try to catch the towel as Daniil drops it onto his face. It’s cool and weirdly soothing - he’d have thought, for how hard it was to breathe a minute ago, he’d be suffocated if he covered his nose and mouth with a wet cloth. It’s nice, though, actually. A second later, the bed dips, and the cloth moves off his face and then down his neck, slowly. Daniil leaves it lying across his collarbones. He leans over him. He’s smiling. “Catch your breath,” he says. “I’m going to have a cigarette.” “Outside.” “Of course.” He picks up Artemiy’s shirt from the floor and slips it on like it’s his. It doesn’t fit, of course, and it doesn’t suit him, and yet it’s the most natural thing in the world. Should it thrill him, Daniil wearing his clothes? Should it mean something? It makes the most sense, somehow, out of everything in the room and perhaps out of everything in the world, that Daniil should take his shirt from where he’d dropped it so carelessly and shrug it on like it was left there for him. To return to the room, when he finally decides to, smelling of smoke, and lay his cold hands on Artemiy’s throat. “Warm me up,” Daniil says, and so he does.
Re: daniil/artemy, erotic prostate massage
“I’ve done this before, you know,” he grits out. The room, which started off chilly, has gotten close and humid. It feels like he’s breathing through a sheet. “I can take some more.”
He looks satisfied by that. “I know,” Daniil says. He licks the head of Artemiy’s cock, holding the base firmly, not stroking, while he pumps his finger in and out. Easily, now, he’s ready for it and Daniil’s been uncharacteristically messy with his cock. Saliva’s run down his crack to help where the lube was already plenty, and his finger’s making wet sounds working in him. It’s - he could really use more. He says so. Daniil hums and sucks his cock a bit, and crooks his finger a little.
The thing is. He knows where his prostate is, and what it does, and how he likes it.
He’s pretty sure.
He’s very sure he’s never had someone do it like this, though. On the few occasions he landed a bed partner who knew what they were doing, they were mostly working him open to take a pounding. A little lucky probing, or some helpful pointers from Artemiy, he might get almost fingered worth a damn. Maybe. He’s done it himself, though, when he was hot for it, bored, ready to give his own willing flesh a bit of practicum.
Still.
Daniil drags his tongue down the length of him, slowly, and pushes a second finger in. He’s lost the distracted expression and the lazily-wandering hands. He even seems like he’s through teasing. His eyes are intense and his fingers are deadly precise. Too precise?
“I know where my prostate is, thanks,” he wheezes, when Daniil’s about rubbed him numb inside. He’s seeing stars already, and Daniil’s stopped licking his cock, stopped even stroking it. He’s all fingers in his ass and eyes on Artemiy’s face, now, apparently, set to kill him with overstimulation.
“I should hope so,” Daniil says lightly.
He keeps working him, mercilessly, till he’s got no choice but to move his hips with it, just to get off the hard hot deft relentless fucking impossible, curling squirming thrusting fucking fingers pumping in and out of him fuck-
“Ugh,” he says. “That’s. Hmn.”
“Yes?” says Daniil, licking his lips. “Go on, Artemiy.”
He’s fallen back against the bed, his hips jerking up. That makes the angle worse-better, and Daniil leaning over him with the muscles of his bicep and forearm taut against his pale skin somehow, somehow, makes him crazy, somehow his dark eyes and his indulgent smile and his fingers trying to dig his fucking soul out and damn near succeeding, he’s, he can’t breathe. Not his fault if he’s whining like he’ll die from it. He might. He’s so hard it almost hurts. Has he ever had it like this before? Could he even do this to himself?
Daniil twists his fingers and then adds a third. Artemiy would curse if he could get the breath in him.
‘You’re killing me. Please touch my cock,’ he’d like to say. What comes out instead is “Kh. Ffh. Please.”
Good enough? Daniil looks delighted by it. He’s grinning now, a wild expression on his face. He’s not thrusting his fingers so hard anymore, it’s impossible to get his balance, the room’s spinning and he’s almost choking, it feels like he can feel it in his throat. Could he die of this, possibly, if he can’t get air and he can’t come and Daniil keeps fingering him?
“Please. Come. Let. Mn. Uh.” Words. Not working how he’d like. His arms won’t work, either. Every time he tries to reach for himself he loses coordination. He’s writhing as best he can, trying to fuck himself down on it or get away or, something, anything really. At this point he’s given up on dignity. He’s drowning. He’s going to die from this.
“Go on,” Daniil says, and presses his palm against Artemiy’s cock, and keeps fingering him like the sadist he is. “Come.”
He. Gives up completely. Bucks and grinds into Daniil’s hand, lets himself come apart between those two points of sensation, forgets his voice for the shouting.
He’s loud when he wants to be, it turns out.
And when he doesn’t.
And after, and through, and Daniil keeps him like that, hand pressed to his softening dick and his fingers - is it just two now? - still working him slow and impossible and. He keeps coming, kind of, agonizingly, twitching, weak, his nerves fried and screaming and his throat raw.
“Fuck,” he manages finally. Daniil’s almost stopped, but he hasn’t withdrawn, still holding two fingers in him and just. Reminding him, barely gently enough to avoid the edge of pain.
At last, at long fucking last, he slides his fingers out. That actually hurts, overstimulated as he is. He knows how to avoid tensing and making it worse, but still. “Fuck,” he says again, for good measure.
Daniil gets up and washes his hands. Comes back wiping his face with a wet towel. Stands by the bed a minute, regarding him, while Artemiy just lays there boneless and fucked-out and barely alive. He’s so sweaty he’s sure he’ll have left a silhouette on the bed.
“You’re a mess,” Daniil observes.
“Your fault,” Artemiy croaks.
He doesn’t even try to catch the towel as Daniil drops it onto his face.
It’s cool and weirdly soothing - he’d have thought, for how hard it was to breathe a minute ago, he’d be suffocated if he covered his nose and mouth with a wet cloth. It’s nice, though, actually.
A second later, the bed dips, and the cloth moves off his face and then down his neck, slowly. Daniil leaves it lying across his collarbones. He leans over him.
He’s smiling.
“Catch your breath,” he says. “I’m going to have a cigarette.”
“Outside.”
“Of course.”
He picks up Artemiy’s shirt from the floor and slips it on like it’s his. It doesn’t fit, of course, and it doesn’t suit him, and yet it’s the most natural thing in the world. Should it thrill him, Daniil wearing his clothes? Should it mean something? It makes the most sense, somehow, out of everything in the room and perhaps out of everything in the world, that Daniil should take his shirt from where he’d dropped it so carelessly and shrug it on like it was left there for him. To return to the room, when he finally decides to, smelling of smoke, and lay his cold hands on Artemiy’s throat.
“Warm me up,” Daniil says, and so he does.