#/ SORTA kinda maybe short . but ollie's Mostly . responding some truly Unprofessional essay . wheres the citation ?

[ourpretender]

a keening sigh falls from oliver's mouth, the promise of relief now barred by taller gates, towering hurdles, and though he whines -- audible and incoherent -- it's devilishly hot. it is a withholding born out of greed, a rejection built from wanting, and this is precisely why felix can demand this of him, and oliver will stay, heel to each ask. he shakes against it, combs the hair from felix's fringe, and drapes one of his thighs exhausted against the sheets. his cheeks are rosy, pink, inflamed with a verbal stimuli, "felix..." oliver plays a blushing virgin well enough to believe it, then sliding his left hand and sweaty palm to the curve of felix's cheek. his mouth is provocatively close to the shiny spit head of oliver's prick, a tantalizing tongue just hidden behind rows of white teeth. he is all too willing to concede. "please. please i -- i've been good. i warned you like you asked -- and i want it. i want you to make me come." the admission alone prompts an embarrassing, and obvious twitch -- the jump of oliver's cock glaring in full view, even without stimulation. attraction irrefutable, hungering, teetering so close to the edge that he thinks he could come from skimming fingers alone. he sucks in a breath, shifts his hips back to communicate a strict compliance; sign on a wordless agreement that he wouldn't test felix's punishment, that he would take it -- that he would surrender. purring, oliver whispers, "wanna come in your mouth."

felix is chasing oliver's pleasure with equal parts unmitigated desire and reckless curiosity, confident that whatever was lacking about his proficiency for sucking cock he could recreate from experience being on the receiving end and with sheer enthusiasm. and perhaps sadistically, he thinks that oliver looks at him with so much longing that he thinks oliver would eat tablescraps out of the palm of his hand without much coaxing. similarly, felix is wrapped around oliver's finger, but he's too slow on the uptake and full of self-loathing to see the obvious. oliver is so full of doubt, so faithless, and felix is once again occupied with grandiose notions of making him a believer. he's always loved a lost cause. oliver's desperate melodic hymns make his own cock throb against his belly, twitch with a reminder of need that he's adamant on ignoring because there was still work to be done, sloppily pulling off of oliver's cock with an exhaled breath of relief. felix wets his lips, stopping any friction and squeezing the base of him to stave off oliver's impending orgasm, mouthing at the tight muscle of his abdomen. "too bad. i'm not done with you yet," felix replies, letting out a desperate and deranged sounding little laugh as he realizes he may not be done with oliver ever. his words have a cruel cadence to them, like he's merely toying with oliver and won't let him alone until he's had his fun -- some simmering resentment and heat left behind from their argument. but felix is alternating between pressing open-mouthed kisses and sucking little bruises against the sensitive skin of oliver's thighs. "you've always been really good at essays. if you want to come, ollie, you should make an argument for it. that's fair, right?" he glances up at oliver through dark lashes with a coy smirk on his lips, but felix knows he can't keep up the veneer of being punishing or withholding for too long, because all oliver has to do is ask or whine felix's name in that pitchy way he does all of five seconds before felix is caving and willing to spoil him rotten.