“What do you think you're doing?” Zul sounds so indignant that it takes everything Rastakhan has to hold back his mirth.
Pressing himself closer to the prophet’s, his prophet's back, hips snug against Zul's flat rear, Rastakhan hums. “I don't know what you mean,” he lies easily. He knows exactly what he's doing, and it is so much fun .
“You- you're-” the smaller troll breathes in, and breathes out, struggling to turn around in the cramped space between the desk and Rastakhan's unmoving bulk. He faces Rastakhan, his expression carefully neutral. When he speaks, his voice is smooth, and slow, and even. “I am happy to indulge you, my king- delighted to, in fact- but there is work to be done.”
Rastakhan lifts his broad hand to Zul’s face to cradle the sharp angle of his jaw in his palm, and he grins when Zul goes very still. Just a little touch, and those paper-white, perfectly pale ears turn redder than the rubies in Rastakhan's headdress. “We’re doing taxes , Zul. Surely it can wait.”
“I'm supposed to be keeping you on task,” Zul warns, but Rastakhan is undeterred, bringing his other hand to Zul’s face as well and leaning in until their foreheads touch, gently. His ears twitch when he hears Zul’s breath catch, his shaky exhale warm on Rastakhan's skin.
“Take a break.”
“Rasta,” the prophet starts; the nickname makes Rastakhan’s heart squeeze in his chest.
“I'll do all the taxes you want. I'll read a damn petition, Zul, just a teeny break-”
Zul sighs. His hand moves quickly, decisively, just a flick of thin, clever fingers and Rastakhan's heavy belt clatters to the floor, taking his loincloth with it.
“Brat,” Zul huffs fondly.
“Parchment-pusher,” Rastakhan teases.
The prophet makes quick work of the rest of Rastakhan’s royal raiment; after some convincing, his own priestly robes join Rastakhan's clothes on the floor. It is a rare, precious occasion when Rastakhan can coax Zul into baring himself in his entirety, much less in Rastakhan's own office. Running his hands over every inch of exposed skin, Rastakhan treasures this rare moment of vulnerability, of trust.
He boosts himself up onto the desk with a grin, heedless of the papers crushed beneath him, and opens his legs. He bares a mouthful of sharp, exceptionally white teeth, and he bares his throat as well, because he likes the way Zul’s reddish pupils dilate hungrily at the sight. His lovely, loyal prophet latches onto his neck the moment he tilts his head back, and Rastakhan purrs his satisfaction, raking his claws gently down Zul's back, leaving raised red lines carved in pale skin.
“ Rasta ,” Zul rumbles. Rastakhan tugs him closer, pulling all of Zul's long, lean lines and sharp angles flush against his own bulk. Zul’s narrow hips fit perfectly between Rastakhan’s thick thighs, as if the prophet’s body was made to compliment the king’s, like two puzzle pieces. Purring against Rastakhan's neck, Zul retrieves a vial of oil from the desk, and Rastakhan leans back and opens his legs, so Zul can slip his long fingers between them, and then inside him.
Rastakhan strokes Zul's side where his ribs show through his skin, squeezes Zul's bony hip, and finally slides his hand down Zul’s belly, following the treasure trail of pale fur that starts at his navel. He grasps Zul’s half-hard length, Zul’s fingers flex inside him, and the both of them groan in unison, overcome by the other’s touch.
He knows how to relax and raise his hips, angling his body to make it easier for Zul to reach deep inside him, and to bring himself more pleasure, with the ease and grace of long experience. Zul’s long fingers stroke him inside, and a little of that grace and composure slips from Rastakhan's grasp, hips bucking sharply into Zul’s hand.
“Fuck,” he grunts, and Zul smiles, insufferably smug, but justifiably so.
“Is it to your liking, my king?” Zul teases. Rastakhan tries to breathe, to gather himself and speak, but Zul’s fingertips press inside him again and tear a ragged gasp from his throat.
“ Fuck ,” Rastakhan growls, tilting his hips impatiently and demanding,“Just put your cock in me.” Zul clicks his tongue at him.
“How rude,” he scolds, “And such language, too! I expect better from you-”
“ Please , Zul,” Rastakhan begs. The prophet grins. His hand curls around the back of Rastakhan's neck, leaning in close, carefully adjusting long noses and tusks until Zul can bite Rastakhan’s lip and press their foreheads together, and Rastakhan wants to surrender and go limp on the desk, soft and pliant and purring, putting himself in Zul’s capable hands. Instead, he nips Zul back, and rumbles his satisfaction.
Zul’s right hand still rests on his neck, while the left guides his cock to his entrance, pressing slowly, gently inside. Rastakhan groans at the sheer relief of being filled, lifting his legs higher and spreading them wider, giving Zul more room to move. “Good boy,” Zul purrs. Rastakhan's cock twitches urgently against his belly.
Though it is hardly necessary, considering Rastakhan's size, experience, and general sturdiness, Zul starts slow. Hips hardly rolling, his hands wander over Rastakhan's broad, sculpted chest, squeezing and kneading the firm muscles. He brushes his lips over one dark nipple and scrapes his claw against the other, feeling the sensitive bud grow hard beneath his thumb.
Rastakhan leans back on the desk, crumpling countless documents in his wake. He watches Zul watching him from beneath pale eyelashes, watches his clever fingers dance over his skin, teasing soft, plaintive sounds from his throat that would suit a prince far better than a king.
“Zul,” he pants; the prophet gives him a nasty little smile, and Rastakhan shudders. Zul isn't even moving, just playing with him, holding a sensitive nipple captive between sharp teeth and twisting the other until Rastakhan whines. His hands slide down his chest, dragging his claws over firm abdominal muscles until they come to his hips, his thighs, his belly, framing his cock.
Zul butts his head up beneath Rastakhan’s chin and licks a hot stripe up the column of his throat. “Fuck,” Rastakhan huffs; he can feel Zul smiling against his skin. “Could you- ah - you,” he attempts, reaching for the discarded vial, and Zul is merciful enough to connect the dots instead of making him stutter on, taking the vial in hand and pouring more cool, slick oil over the place where their bodies meet, and over the length of Rasakhan’s impatiently twitching cock.
The oil is unpleasantly cold, but it’s worth it to feel Zul moving within him with less resistance, to feel his fingers slide smoothly against his skin, stroking him, spreading the oil- and then his hips snap forward abruptly, finally , and Rastakhan gasps as Zul’s cock is shoved roughly against his tender insides, forceful enough that it almost hurts, leaving Rastakhan breathless and reeling.
He wraps his legs around Zul’s narrow waist, closing his eyes and biting his lip to hold back his moans as Zul rolls his hips experimentally, falling into a quick, steady rhythm. Zul hardly needs to coax him; Rastakhan's body eagerly accepts every swift, insistent thrust, urging him deeper, muscles squeezing tight around him as if to keep him there.
Zul’s head is bent low, teeth sinking deep into the curve of Rastakhan's pec to muffle his moan. Rastakhan braces a broad palm against Zul's narrow chest, gently thumbing a nipple, delighting in Zul's strained grunt and the eager jerk of his hips.
Though Rastakhan would love to take advantage of Zul’s sensitivity and tease him until he shakes, he knows that he’s fighting a losing battle. Zul has the upper hand, overwhelming Rastakhan with his skillful touch and the soft, filthy things he murmurs against his skin, reducing the God King to little more than a pitiful, needy thing, writhing atop the desk in shameless desperation, hungry for the warmth of Zul’s skin and the tang of Zul’s blood in his mouth.
Zul hauls his right leg up over his shoulder, spreading him wider, giving Zul room to push just a little deeper, and if Rastakhan could still form words he would be praying .
“You're incredible,” Zul groans, soft and earnest, “Gorgeous. Look at you, lok’dim-”
Rastakhan fumbles for Zul’s free hand, lacing their fingers together, and forces his eyes open again. He watches Zul moving between his legs, hips slapping loudly and wetly against his ass as he buries himself deep within Rastakhan, viciously pumping Rastakhan's cock in time with his thrusts and oh , he’s close, he’s so close- “More,” Rastakhan whimpers, chest heaving with each shallow, rapid breath, “Please, more-”
Zul gives him more- he gives it to him harder, he jerks his cock faster, he bites down on a nipple and sucks and makes Rastakhan yelp at the sharp, searing pain and pleasure of it, “More!”
“Greedy,” Zul scolds, exasperated and fond. He rubs his thumb over the piercings through Rastakhan’s frenulum, gently, and smirks when Rastakhan bucks up into his fist with a high, thin whine. “That’s it- come on, you’re doing so well. You’re so good for me,” the prophet encourages, “Now, Rasta, cum for me.”
He feels almost drunk on the praise; Zul’s approval is intoxicating, addictive, so rarely given but so deeply cherished. He wants to look at Zul, to watch his face, but the intensity of his rising peak forces him to squeeze his eyes shut, to throw his head back and clench his teeth, to cling to his prophet for dear life as his orgasm brutally crashes over him with all the crushing force of a tidal wave.
Vaguely, he’s aware that he’s shouting, crying out, all but screaming Zul’s name, but he can’t bring himself to care, with Zul’s firm hand on his cock and gentle murmuring in his ear.
Still reeling from his climax, Rastakhan can feel Zul jerk and shudder against him, kneading his claws into the meat of Rastakhan’s thighs, and he wraps his legs tight around Zul’s waist. He pulls him close, strokes the nape of his neck with quivering fingers and growls at him, half-demand, half-plea,“Cum in me, Zul. Fill me up, come on, please-"
Zul tenses against him like a bowstring, trembling and gasping, and Rastakhan can feel his cock pulse inside him as he spills. The warmth of Zul’s release inside him, the sound of his tiny moans and growls is a gift, a privilege that Rastakhan treasures. Rastakhan presses a clumsy kiss to his cheek, and Zul groans faintly in reply. He looks as overwhelmed as Rastakhan feels.
The afterglow is almost as good as the orgasm- almost. Skin on sweaty skin, Zul’s hot breath against his neck, Zul’s flushed ears twitching. Unable to resist such a tempting sight, Rastakhan nips at the soft, delicate membrane of Zul’s ear, soothing the sting with his tongue. Zul growls, mock-stern, and Rastakhan smiles, satisfied, and kisses his old friend’s forehead.
“I love you, Zul,” Rastakhan hums. Zul leans his head against Rastakhan’s chest and rumbles at him, something between a purr and a growl, but obviously pleased.
“Love you too.”