[ Nails dig into his chest, dangerously close to his scar; close enough to the closed wound that it reminds Trahearne of the pain, that for just a brief second, he is afforded clarity beyond the arousal and aphrodisiacs. He sees Syrlya's face flash through his mind, twisted with grief and disbelief as he grips the broken blade in his hand, hesitant; a different sort of pain clenches in his throat. He never wants to see him make that face again, what if he--
But Mishka speaks, and at once he loses himself again in the sweet, honeyed haze of arousal. Trahearne's eyes scarcely manage to focus on Mishka, and the way his skin flushes, the way his hair sticks to his face in his sweat, the way he sounds through the arousal is so tantalizing. So strange to know that he can do this to another. So undeniably attractive, even with the markings. That, he thinks, is an image he'll remember for a long while.
His eyes flutter when he feels Mishka's hot come spill over him; it's still hard for him, in the small parts of him, to understand that he can push another over the edge of ecstasy like this. But it doesn't really matter right now, and he doesn't dwell on that line of thought. Mishka asks him to keep going, to fill him up, so he does, his thrusts growing feverish as he chases his own high. It grows more and more difficult to to concentrate on anything but as he uses every inch of Mishka's insides to bring himself relief, to pleasure himself, to bring himself closer.
The way Mishka says his name causes something deep in his stomach to flip. His mouth hangs agape, but sound catches in his throat. He has nothing to say to that, no way to respond, nothing but the way his eyes settle on Mishka's, the way his head tilts as he nestles his face into his hands, the way he runs his tongue over his lips. His mouth feels so dry.
no subject
But Mishka speaks, and at once he loses himself again in the sweet, honeyed haze of arousal. Trahearne's eyes scarcely manage to focus on Mishka, and the way his skin flushes, the way his hair sticks to his face in his sweat, the way he sounds through the arousal is so tantalizing. So strange to know that he can do this to another. So undeniably attractive, even with the markings. That, he thinks, is an image he'll remember for a long while.
His eyes flutter when he feels Mishka's hot come spill over him; it's still hard for him, in the small parts of him, to understand that he can push another over the edge of ecstasy like this. But it doesn't really matter right now, and he doesn't dwell on that line of thought. Mishka asks him to keep going, to fill him up, so he does, his thrusts growing feverish as he chases his own high. It grows more and more difficult to to concentrate on anything but as he uses every inch of Mishka's insides to bring himself relief, to pleasure himself, to bring himself closer.
The way Mishka says his name causes something deep in his stomach to flip. His mouth hangs agape, but sound catches in his throat. He has nothing to say to that, no way to respond, nothing but the way his eyes settle on Mishka's, the way his head tilts as he nestles his face into his hands, the way he runs his tongue over his lips. His mouth feels so dry.
Kiss me. ]