( The feeling of Trahearne fucking into him shouldn't be new, but just the feeling of pressing Trahearne's tip into him filled his head with sparks. He feels so desperately hot and sensitive on the inside he nearly doesn't know what to do in that split second before Trahearne falls back, the whole of him pressed against him on all sides, grinding against every part of him that's sensitive just from size alone— all of it, right now.
His breath strains, and he rests his palms on Trahearne's chest, fingers curling in as heat fills his head like a flooding hull, not a thought in him left to worry about vulnerability or fear. Trahearne moves— and a lurch of heat fills him, and his voice finally escapes him, soft, at first, and then louder with each thrust that hits the end of his tight insides.
He says his name, again, and again, and he likes it more each time. It doesn't help the way his thought and vision blur into a sweltering mass of Trahearne, Trahearne, Trahearne,
His nails dig in, scraping sharp, but his expression is flush from emotion and aphrodisiac— which means the rest of him is fluster still, even beneath the paling effect of the wispy, soot-black markings.
Somewhere, in the bleary look of Mishka's expression, beneath the flush and the sweat and the way his hair sticks to his cheeks, there's a look of wanting— for Trahearne. Of affection, of fondness, of unnatural hunger. Things of love and greed Mishka doesn't know how to verbalize. )
Don't— stop, ( because enough of this, and he comes easy; but, aphrodisiacs in excess being what they are, he's still painfully hard, and painfully aroused. He swallows, shakily, and leans in, to cup Trahearne's face in both warm palms, his face once more closer. ) Fill me... up— Trahearne.
( He manages it only once, but the way he says his name is suggestive of nearly an incantation; his tone falling dangerous and low, a promise, a curse, a need— and overbearing, excessive style of love. )
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His breath strains, and he rests his palms on Trahearne's chest, fingers curling in as heat fills his head like a flooding hull, not a thought in him left to worry about vulnerability or fear. Trahearne moves— and a lurch of heat fills him, and his voice finally escapes him, soft, at first, and then louder with each thrust that hits the end of his tight insides.
He says his name, again, and again, and he likes it more each time. It doesn't help the way his thought and vision blur into a sweltering mass of Trahearne, Trahearne, Trahearne,
His nails dig in, scraping sharp, but his expression is flush from emotion and aphrodisiac— which means the rest of him is fluster still, even beneath the paling effect of the wispy, soot-black markings.
Somewhere, in the bleary look of Mishka's expression, beneath the flush and the sweat and the way his hair sticks to his cheeks, there's a look of wanting— for Trahearne. Of affection, of fondness, of unnatural hunger. Things of love and greed Mishka doesn't know how to verbalize. )
Don't— stop, ( because enough of this, and he comes easy; but, aphrodisiacs in excess being what they are, he's still painfully hard, and painfully aroused. He swallows, shakily, and leans in, to cup Trahearne's face in both warm palms, his face once more closer. ) Fill me... up— Trahearne.
( He manages it only once, but the way he says his name is suggestive of nearly an incantation; his tone falling dangerous and low, a promise, a curse, a need— and overbearing, excessive style of love. )