( He would regret some portion of this later, when he is sober and himself; he would regret how his heart had spilled open unnatural, and he would regret how vulnerable he's let himself be, how open. He will only hope Trahearne does not understand the things he sees, and he will be bitter if he finds if Trahearne, indeed, does not.
But those would be regrets for a Mishka a little ways from now. Now every thrust that strikes his stomach deep is a barrage of firecrackers in his skull, a wave of heat rushing through him and rolling back, electric. He moves his hips with Trahearne, his knees pressing up against either side of his waist.
He feels feverish. Maybe it isn't from the movement, but from the way Trahearne presses into his palms, and the way he looks at him, lips parted and wanting. Maybe he just wants to be wanted, but maybe he wants him, too. He looks good, like this. Mishka swallows, sharp, his chest a rapid, stuttering beat between the activity and something else he won't name.
He kisses him, deep and desperate— maybe too much so, too tellingly so, but he's struggling to filter it when his tongue runs deep in him with his strange taste, his strange texture. His voice is for him, and muffles into his lips; and a particularly indecent sound escapes him when Trehearne's cock hits him at just the right angle.
He doesn't know if Trahearne knows enough about humanoid anatomy, and he's not going to think on it or ask. There's just a pointed shift in how Mishka pulls back his hips and moves with him, and he does it without even thinking, because every time he feels it, he sees an explosive flash of stars that grows exponential in magnitude, and he gets that much tighter around him.
He'd be embarrassed how close he feels to coming again if he were in his right mind, but he isn't. Chasing his own pleasure though he is, he hopes this feels better for Trahearne. )
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But those would be regrets for a Mishka a little ways from now. Now every thrust that strikes his stomach deep is a barrage of firecrackers in his skull, a wave of heat rushing through him and rolling back, electric. He moves his hips with Trahearne, his knees pressing up against either side of his waist.
He feels feverish. Maybe it isn't from the movement, but from the way Trahearne presses into his palms, and the way he looks at him, lips parted and wanting. Maybe he just wants to be wanted, but maybe he wants him, too. He looks good, like this. Mishka swallows, sharp, his chest a rapid, stuttering beat between the activity and something else he won't name.
He kisses him, deep and desperate— maybe too much so, too tellingly so, but he's struggling to filter it when his tongue runs deep in him with his strange taste, his strange texture. His voice is for him, and muffles into his lips; and a particularly indecent sound escapes him when Trehearne's cock hits him at just the right angle.
He doesn't know if Trahearne knows enough about humanoid anatomy, and he's not going to think on it or ask. There's just a pointed shift in how Mishka pulls back his hips and moves with him, and he does it without even thinking, because every time he feels it, he sees an explosive flash of stars that grows exponential in magnitude, and he gets that much tighter around him.
He'd be embarrassed how close he feels to coming again if he were in his right mind, but he isn't. Chasing his own pleasure though he is, he hopes this feels better for Trahearne. )