Marco has dreams. Indecent, horrible, filthy dreams that would at best, shock the Pope into a heart attack and at worst have Jingim chase after him with his sword. Dear lord, his sword. Marco has thoughts about that sword too, pressed against his throat, piercing his skin and drawing a trickle of blood as Jingim glares at him, daring Marco to say or do something that would give him a reasonable excuse the press the sharp tip of sword into Marco’s flesh. Tear it, until Marco is left bleeding and lifeless so that Jingim may dip his fingers into the fat of his flesh and lay claim to all that is Marco.
Well, no one said Marco’s dreams were healthy.
But yes, Marco dreams of Jingim’s hair. He dreams of letting the band that ties it up loose and watching it cascade down his back and over his shoulders. Would it be soft, he wonders? Would it be thick? Would he let Marco bury his fingers in the strands and pull? Let Marco bare his throat so that he may bite at the skin just below that ridiculous jaw. Let him nibble at the flesh until Marco’s teeth hurt from biting and Jingim’s neck hurts from the strain of it. it would look so pretty, bruised blue and pink.
Then there are other dreams where Jingim is over him, hair falling down the side like a waterfall, as he gazes down at Marco with tenderness that is oft absent on the real Jingim’s face. This Jingim of his dreams ducks his head low and gives Marco a long, delectable kiss that lasts not nearly long enough. This Jingim settles between Marco’s legs and gently urges them apart to reveal a part of Marco he has not ever dared show anyone. In his dreams, Marco folds his legs willingly, curling them up so that Jingim may see. That Jingim may observe the rapid rise and fall of Marco’s flushed chest as Jingim’s oil-slick fingers enter him.
Dreams do not reflect reality, and while Marco knows that a few thrusts of Jingim’s fingers are not enough to fully prepare him, Marco doesn’t care. His thoughts lead back to Jingim, how he would look when he pulled his fingers out of Marco. Gaze heated and dark. Simply thinking about it sends shivers up and down Marco’s spine. How he would wrap one strong palm around Marco’s thighs and line himself up perfectly and push, breaching Marco in the most intimate way he knows.
Perhaps Marco would stop breathing then. Perhaps his heart might get stuck in his throat, lungs seizing as JIngim whispers above him to “Breathe, Master Polo. Breathe, that’s right, in and out.”
Marco marvels at how poised Jingim is even in his imagination. The way he has perfect control over his body, and how he moves to make sure not to hurt Marco.
And so, Marco breathes, the muscles around Jingim tightening imperceptibly.
Jingm smiles at him the way Marco imagines he smiles at his wives. Warm and private. In his deepest dreams Marco wraps his legs around Jingim, locking his ankles together. “Please,” he murmurs against Jingim’s cheek, and Jingim smirks that familiar smirk that promises nothing but trouble for Marco.
“But of course, Master Polo,” Jingim says, speeding up just so that he hits that sweet spot inside Marco on each thrust.
“Marco,” Marco insists on a particularly hard thrust. He has to catch his arms agains the bed frame to keep from hitting his head against it as Jingim enters him again and again. Marco allows his dream self run his fingers through Jingim’s mane. “Call me Marco.”
Jingim slows. He has an odd look on his face as he fucks into Marco, slowly and deeply, making Marco feel the burn with every thrust. “Marco. Marco, Marco, Marco.”
“Yes. Yes, Jingim, please.” Marco doesn’t know what he’s pleading for. Only knows that it feels right. “Please.”
And finally, Jingim’s hands find themselves wrapped around Marco’s flesh. They tug and close around Marco in a viselike grip, almost making Marco scream.
Jingim has sped up again. He hips stutter as his hand speeds up around Marco’s cock. He hasn’t used oil or spit or anything so it chafes. The speed with which Jingim tries to bring him off chafes, but it also pleases Marco in a way so few things do.
“Come for me, Marco.” And Marco, never one to deny the prince, does. He spills over Jingim’s hand just as Jingim pulls out and comes between Marco’s legs, staining his skin pearly white.