Work Text:
He began taking Edward into his tent within the first few weeks after Edward joined the Force; it was obvious that Edward was willing, and pleasure was rare enough on campaign that Sigmund could not bring himself to refuse. In the field, the darkness was his ally, hiding his unmarked skin. Tonight, when they're sharing a room in an inn, with a fire to provide both heat and light, he will have to be more careful. Or, perhaps, more inventive.
"I have a request, if you'll indulge me," he says, when they are still half dressed.
"Of course," Edward says, as Sigmund knew he would. "Anything in my power is yours."
The answer is no less pleasing for being predictable. Sigmund smiles. "I want to blindfold you," he says.
Edward's eyes widen in surprise. No doubt he takes it for a mere preference, one of the dozens of little deviances in which lovers might indulge. He has no experience with such things; he was a virgin when he gave himself to Sigmund for the first time. "I'm yours," he says, hoarse, reverent.
Sigmund nods, and stretches up to kiss him. Edward surrenders, willing -- as he is always willing -- to give over his strength to Sigmund's control. His lips are soft, to contrast with the roughness of his stubble, and he moans when Sigmund takes his mouth. He lets Sigmund strip him bare without question, and kneels for Sigmund to wrap a crimson sash around his eyes without complaint. Only when Sigmund steps back, out of reach, does he move to protest.
"Hold," Sigmund says, when Edward would reach for him. "Let me look at you."
Edward swallows visibly. "Yes, my lord," he says. He rests his hands on his thighs, waiting, and Sigmund steps back to finish disrobing himself. Edward is handsome, and worth admiring: his arms and shoulders muscular from long hours with the greatsword, his broad chest faintly dusted with dark hair, the bold lines of the lunaglyph on his forearm accentuating the strength there. His cock is thick and ruddy between his legs, untouched but already beginning to harden.
Sigmund walks around behind him, slowly, watching the way he tenses as if he's listening for cues. Perhaps caution is not the only reason for this conceit. Perhaps Sigmund can see the appeal of this sort of lovers' game, as well. He steps closer to the fire, near enough to enjoy its warmth. "You still want to please me," he says.
"Of course," Edward says.
"Then come here." Sigmund watches Edward turn toward the sound of his voice, cautious, slow. "No," he says, when Edward starts to rise. "Do not stand."
Edward's breath stutters, and for a moment he hesitates, but he obeys. He shuffles toward Sigmund on his knees, awkwardly. Halfway across the room he stops. "Please," he says.
"This way," Sigmund says, his voice a guide. The blindfold is imperfect, and he suspects that Edward could see beneath its edges should he care to -- but he won't; his willingness is too complete. "Yes. Just a little further." Sigmund curls a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he watches Edward crawl toward him. "Yes."
When Edward is close enough, Sigmund reaches out to cup his face in one hand, stroking the soft line of his mouth. Edward's lips part for him instantly, and Sigmund's cock throbs with need. Edward is always willing, but it feels different like this; there's a vulnerability in the way he holds himself that seems incongruous and compelling.
"You'll offer me this," Sigmund says, slipping his fingers into Edward's mouth, stroking the wet velvet heat of his tongue. Edward moans his agreement, leaning into the caress to take Sigmund deeper. Sigmund thrusts for a moment, feeling Edward's throat work when his fingertips brush the soft back of it. When he pulls back, Edward leans forward as if to follow his hand, mouth still open, seeking blindly.
Sigmund makes a low growl of need in his throat, and Edward stills, waiting. Sigmund shifts forward and feeds Edward his cock, a slow, steady thrust. Edward moans around him, but doesn't move; it feels like an invitation. So Sigmund takes it: he threads his fingers into Edward's hair, careful of the blindfold, and rocks his hips.
Edward surrenders, offering no resistance as Sigmund uses his mouth. Even when a deep thrust makes him choke, makes his throat convulse, he doesn't so much as lift a hand to ask for mercy. His tongue works against the shaft of Sigmund's cock whenever Sigmund pulls out enough to give him room. And when Sigmund glances down, he finds that Edward's cock is as hard as his own, standing stiff and untouched amid the dark curls between his thighs. It seems poor courtesy to ignore that.
Sigmund pulls back, sliding free of Edward's mouth, and Edward makes a pleading sound that Sigmund feels in his balls. "I'm not through with your mouth," he says, "but I'm not quite ready for you to finish me off just yet."
"What would you have of me, my lord?" Edward asks. His voice is hoarse from the punishment his throat was taking, and his lips are flushed.
"Stroke your cock," Sigmund tells him. "I want to watch you." It seems almost decadent, he thinks as Edward moves to comply -- for him to watch when Edward cannot, for him to make a point of enjoying the sight when it's for him alone.
Edward curls his right hand around his cock, his stroke rough and slow. His lunaglyph ripples with the flex of his forearm, and he tenses slightly, as if without thought, at the peak of each stroke. His breathing is shaky, plainly audible. The sheer abandon of the pose -- naked, blindfolded, on his knees and surrendering to desire -- is breathtaking.
Sigmund takes hold of his own cock, stroking himself just enough to keep his edge. "I like seeing you like this," he says. "How do you feel?"
"Good," Edward says. He licks his lips. "Knowing that you -- that this is what you want, I -- it's good."
"Yes," Sigmund says. He's too close to coming, not ready to give in yet; he slides his hand lower and tugs on his balls to slow himself down. "Tell me when you're close."
Edward nods; one lock of dark hair falls free, trailing over his forehead. He makes a soft sound of pleasure, and when that draws an answering moan from Sigmund he does it again. Is it easier for him to let go, to make noise, when he can't see Sigmund's reactions? Watching him is maddening, a test of Sigmund's self-control as he waits --
"Close," Edward breathes.
"Good," Sigmund says. He steps forward again, cupping Edward's jaw in one hand and holding him steady. "Don't come until I do."
He presses his cock into Edward's mouth again, and if Edward was willing before, now he's demanding; he leans forward, swallowing around Sigmund's cock, his strokes rough and needy. He must be close indeed, if he's this desperate to bring Sigmund off quickly -- and it will be quick, with the slick heat of his mouth and the sight of him on his knees, surrendering so fully. Sigmund doesn't try to direct him this time, only holds on to his shoulder and rocks with him, heat and need overtaking them both.
Sigmund makes no sound when he comes, out of habit, but Edward moans on his behalf, suckling and swallowing hungrily. "Yes," Sigmund breathes, "now, let go," and that's all the encouragement Edward needs, shuddering through his release at Sigmund's feet.
He's breathing heavily when he sits back on his heels, catching his breath. The blindfold has slipped slightly but he makes no move to remove it, even when Sigmund takes his hand to help him to his feet. The slide of bare skin against skin still feels good, even now that they are sated.
The fire's light has dimmed; perhaps for now the risk of discovery wouldn't be too much. "Come to bed with me," Sigmund says as he reaches up to slip the blindfold from Edward's eyes.
Edward blinks, focusing slowly on Sigmund's face. "Gladly, my lord," he says.
They crawl beneath the blankets, lie tangled in each other's arms as the fire dies. By morning's light Sigmund will have to be cautious again, but tonight, in the dark, he can be content.