Tartaglia | Pussy eater🐈‍⬛

Today, Ajax was once again at fault – according to Scaramouche’s unspoken, ever-changing rules. He smiled at the wrong moment, answered the wrong way, or said something unnecessary at the wrong time. In essence – he simply remained himself. Red-haired, irrepressibly lively, with a tongue that always raced ahead of his thoughts, and with a sincerity that stubbornly refused to hide behind caution.

But no matter how many times Scara took offense at him, he was strangely certain: there was something alluring about it for both of them. In this very game – with the short man’s coldness and the ginger’s persistence, with pauses filled with irritation and words that grew quieter and more intimate with each passing moment. Ajax tried again and again to find a way to him, choosing his words, stumbling, apologizing – sometimes almost losing his own dignity – just so that Scaramouche would finally look at him. Even if that look was sharp, even if irritation shone through it –he still caught it, as if it were something essential. As if any attention from him, even the coldest, warmed him more than complete indifference. And, without a doubt, turned him on.

In this strange dynamic – this interplay of detachment and submissive persistence – he found not merely a habit, but almost an addiction he had no desire to break.

Barely moving his lips, he whispered another “I’m sorry,” almost without letting the sound escape, as if afraid of spoiling even this fragile moment. The words slipped into the silence and melted away immediately, followed by a light, almost weightless touch – his lips touched his shoulder, gently, as if checking to see if Scara would push him away this time too. The touch was almost ticklish, ghostly, like a breath you might not notice unless you listened closely.

His blue eyes never left the other man’s face, picking up on the slightest changes: how his jaw tensed, how his lips pressed together stubbornly, how a barely perceptible crack flashed – if only for a split second – in that cold, distant expression. Because if he went too far now, he would likely be punished for the entire following week. Which he absolutely did not want.

Gently, with an almost palpable hesitation, his lips pressed against his more boldly, lingering longer than before. His hands slid cautiously around his waist, as if memorizing the outline of Scaramouche’s silhouette, tracing it slowly, with almost reverent care. His calloused fingers moved carefully, as if he were afraid of destroying the fragile balance between them. He was ready to pull away at any moment, like an obedient dog, if only given the slightest hint. And yet he noticed: the dark-haired man’s head was tilting ever so slightly toward him. Reluctantly, perhaps, with the same stubbornness that had held him back before, but the movement was there.

The air in the room seemed to grow thicker, saturated with the scent of their intimacy. It felt just as good as a battle against a worthy opponent. Even better. Every breath, every movement cost him something truly precious. It was as if he were in a minefield. And he fucking loved it.

He loved hearing his lover’s breath catch when his lips found that spot at the nape of his neck. It was like touching a bare wire: Scaramouche shuddered, and that tremor cascaded down his spine, causing his fingers to clench convulsively. Ajax wanted to prolong that moment, savoring how slowly his resistance melted away. Scaramouche opened up to him hesitantly, layer by layer, like a precious bud under the first rays of the sun. In the dim light of the room, all that could be heard was the rustling of clothing and a quiet, stifled whimper when the short man bit his lip until it bled. That unspoken moan, locked inside, seemed louder to Tartaglia than any scream.

The redhead’s gaze grew heavy, almost tangibl – he was drinking in the other’s image, as if trying to imprint that moment on the back of his eyelids. Every flutter of Scaramouche’s eyelashes, every ragged breath, seemed to him the greatest revelation. When his hand slid down, lower, over the silk of the pajama shorts, the world around them ceased to exist, narrowing to the tremor of the body beneath the thin layer of fabric. He moved deliberately slowly, barely touching the seam of the clothing, but the pressure was insistent and maddening. Rhythmic, insinuating movements rubbed the silk against his delicate skin, forcing Scara's senses to sharpen to the limit. Ajax swallowed, reveling in the sight of him arching toward his hand, unable to withstand this agonizing torture.

And he realized he could hold back no longer. Not when Scaramouche’s thighs parted, trustingly and eagerly opening up space for him.

As he laid the other man down on the mattress, every movement was imbued with an unspoken promise. Ajax froze between his legs, taking his time, giving him a chance to savor the moment. His breath, hot and ragged, brushed against Scaramouche’s knee first. And then his lips began their slow, agonizing journey upward. Each kiss left behind not just a mark, but a real burn, sending a powerful shiver through the short man’s body. It moved up the inside of his thigh so slowly and agonizingly, forcing his fingers to dig frantically into the sheets...

At the same time, Tartaglia’s hands, like a living outline, thoroughly explored the contours of his body, memorizing every curve beneath his fingers. And when his fingertips finally found the thin edge of the shorts’ waistband, the air in the room seemed to vanish completely. The moment the silk slid down, revealing to Ajax everything that had been hidden by the fabric until that moment, became a point of no return for him. He froze, afraid to move, as if any careless movement could shatter this fragile, almost sacred silence.

In the dim light, barely broken by the faint glow from the window, Scaramouche’s skin glowed with a soft, pearly sheen of arousal. “Fuck... Aren’t you a vision?” His voice, hoarse with overwhelming emotion, sounded like a reverent prayer. That hoarse whisper contained everything: disbelief in his own happiness, and total reverence for his beauty. Ajax looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, and at the same time recognizing in him what he had been searching for his entire life.

His gaze slid over Scaramouche’s body, and that hungry, darkened stare burned just as intensely as his kisses. Another lean, another agonizing, unhurried journey down the other leg. When he finally froze right at his target, his hot, ragged breathing – it teased, promised, and made the folds of Scara's flesh ache with unbearable, sweet anticipation. Ajax raised his head for just a moment. In that gaze, meeting the other’s clouded eyes, there was triumph and boundless adoration. And then, before Scaramouche could utter a sound, his tongue traced over him – quickly, teasingly, barely touching the surface.

The redhead didn’t give him a single second to compose himself or calm his frantic heartbeat – that pause was merely a brief pause before a deep plunge. When his tongue touched him again, it was no longer a teasing game. It was a commanding, confident movement – a broad, hot stroke, drawn from bottom to top, bold and lingering. He was devouring him, savoring that intoxicating pussy that Scaramouche so trustingly offered him.

His restraint was finally consumed by the flames of that moment, giving way to a primal, feverish hunger. He leaned forward, and his palms dug into his thighs with a death grip – not roughly, but with a possessive force that brooked no objection. Ajax revelled in him, greedily and selflessly, absorbing every breath and every convulsive movement of Scaramouche. His tongue moved confidently and widely, caressing the very essence of his pleasure. And he was going to make sure his dinner lasted long enough for the chef to start trembling.