falin touden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yourlenore) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crescentview2023-02-01 01:02 pm
yourlenore) wrote in crescentview2023-02-01 01:02 pm
Fall Catchall
Who: Mishka & friends
What: Bingo, Arco Lunar, misc.
When: Fall
Where: Out & About
Warnings: ???
stand up with my palms full of soil & rosary
bruised rosary
blooming rosary
maybe I just need to smoke more & stretch & eat frivolous things &
anyway
I’m working on it
no subject
Mishka, however, is right here. Straddling him. The warmth of his body faintly radiating to warm his own, to give the sylvari the illusion of deep heat, one he could mistake for his own. His body is--familiar to Trahearne, contours he remembers vaguely from their tryst, from the beach. He wants Mishka to ease his want. He wants Mishka to offer himself to Trahearne again, to fold under him as he has him as he pleases. He wants Mishka to be there when he inevitably comes down and starts thinking of Syrlya again. He wants Mishka.
The hand, the grinding elicits a deep groan from Trahearne's mouth and into Mishka's. It staves the need, just for a bit, and in place leaves him blank-minded and light-headed. He leans forward, dizzy, trying to find support; in the process, he pushes his chest flush against the other's.
His own hand kneads firmly into flesh, fingers occasionally ghosting along the inner curve of Mishka's rear. He wants Mishka. Why can't he say that? ]
...But I am here.
[ His cognitive abilities can't bring him lower than surface-level meaning. His voice is low, gravelly; lips skimming the other's as he speaks, never daring to break the kiss. If Mishka wants him, he's here for the taking. ]
no subject
Mishka feels dizzy in a way he hasn't yet before. He feels blurred and unsteady, and only gripping Trahearne keeps him stable. Like Trahearne, he had underestimated the effects of the chocolates; like Trahearne, he finds it hard to think.
Is Trahearne here? He presses deeper, greedily, hungrily, into the kiss, pressing into his chest with his own, the hand at his neck caressing now the jaw, tender. Where they touch, it burns; he feels unsatisfied, wanting. He feels feverish. He steadies his weight onto his knees on either side of Trahearne's lap, and he strokes him a little more firmly, precum slicking his fingers with every greedy touch.
Would that he could swallow Trahearne's voice and keep it.
He holds the question in his mind, but he finds it harder to manage a proper answer than he did moments earlier, and moments before that. He just... )
... Then stay here, with me.
( He breaks the kiss, for just a moment, lips brushing against Trahearne's. He's trying to dig deeper, but his thoughts buoy back to the surface, distracted by the heat of their bodies touching. Even now, he neglects himself and his arousal, wanting Trahearne to satisfy him more than he wants to satisfy himself, alone. He wants to touch Trahearne more than he wants to feel himself.
He licks Trahearne's lips, guiding the head of his length against his entrance. )
I'll love you.
( He kisses him again, but this time not so deep— he presses down, a sharp, breathy gasp escaping his lips with the faintest evidence of his voice the more he takes him in— only for Trahearne. )
no subject
With every feverish press against his mouth, Trahearne returns the favor. He wants more. More. Whatever Mishka's depths have to offer, he wants it. Desperately. The hand at the other man's jaw whips to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying to keep him close. His breathing is erratic, shuddered breaths in time with each stroke against his cock.
Mishka pulls back, he chases. Lidded eyes, heady with arousal, stare at his mouth, wanting it to come back. The lick at his lips causes his lips to part, hoping to catch his tongue between his teeth. What sounds like a whine rolls in his throat. Come back.
The declaration causes amber eyes to, at last, roll up to meet Mishka's black. They pry, his intelligent mind trying to free itself from its prison of lust. ]
Love m--Ah...
[ He doesn't get to finish that sentiment. Mishka's tight heat comes over him, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through him. His eyes flutter, his head lolls back. And while Mishka is quiet, Trahearne's extended exhale morphs into a throaty groan. His hands scramble to hold him tighter, closer. ]
Mishka...
[ He wants him. He wants him to love him. He wants him. ]
no subject
He likes the way he says it. He likes the way it sounds, in the same, choppy breath as he asks for love, and the empty cavity of his chest flutters, almost frenetic, as heat pushes into it.
He likes the way Trahearne chases him. Though his vision is unclear, he catches how Trahearne looks at him, and how his fingers press into his skin. He likes how badly Trahearne wants him, and he doesn't have the mind to second guess it, and consider that it shouldn't be true.
Though his head is a sweltering, swampish heat, he understands, he thinks, because no one's looked at him like this before, though he's seen this gaze laid upon others.
Not him, of course. Not if they knew him, or knew what he could do, or knew his body.
But Trahearne does. And it's nice, in this moment, to simply accept that he does, feel that he does, and hold onto it, nails dug in, as if starved. )
... Say— ( He swallows. ) Say my name again. I'll drown you in affection.
( Trahearne splits from his lips, and he doesn't mind, because as he shudders with every inch, he takes his lips to Trahearne's neck and bite sharp as he takes the full length of him in, his own precum spilling sticky between them. It's— dizzying, more than last time, even, feeling his cock press up inside him. He exhales again, choppy and uneven, feeling how tight he is inside him.
He sucks and kisses the mark, the slight traces of sap sticky against his lips. He drags his lips along his neck, too sloppy to really be called kisses, and he doesn't mind how strange, how curious it feels— because it's new, because it's Trahearne, because he's that much easier than skin to rend (he doesn't).
If Trahearne doesn't take the initiative to move, though, Mishka gladly will. )
no subject
His hands drop to Mishka's hips, fingers digging into his flesh as he falls backwards onto the bed. It doesn't matter if the other falls with him or not, because what he does doesn't change. He brings his feet up onto the edge of the bed, lifting his hips as his hands move Mishka in the opposite direction so he can thrust into him, feel more of him. ]
Mishka. [ His name rolls off his tongue as he can open his eyes just enough to see him. ]
Mishka. [ His name comes as he feels every inch of his insides rub tight against him, giving him exactly what he wanted, relief from the desperate pressure. ]
Mishka. [ His name is a gasp on Trahearne's lips as he tries to picture what affection feels like. There's a tug in his chest--is that what he wants instead? Does he want it from Mishka?
He doesn't know. Not in this state, at least. ]
no subject
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. )
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. ]
no subject
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. )
no subject
But he's lucky he doesn't get to dwell on it too long, because when Mishka comes in for the kiss, he stops thinking. He lends himself to Mishka's heat, drowns in the deep affection of his kiss, and a quiet moan rolls in his throat.
That sound, indecent like anything he'd heard before, sets his insides on fire. Mishka moves against him--Trahearne understands what it means, somewhere in his addled mind, but can't dwell on it too long. He rips his lips from Mishka's as the pressure and friction and contact and sound and the sight--oh, the sight--of it all comes together and sends him careening over his apex. He throws his head back into the soft of the blankets, a loud, cracked groan spilling from his open mouth. His fingers dig tighter into his hips; absently, he wonders how hard he'd have to grab him to bruise him again.
A torrent of his come--sweet nectar--fills Mishka up, just as he asked. And much like Mishka, he still feels himself desperately hard, not at all satisfied yet. He doesn't know when, where, or how to stop. His mouth moves, searching for words; his hip thrusts slow, simply because he grows tired, and his eyes roam his naked body before settling on the deep pools of his eyes. ]
Mishka, I... [ ...have to keep going. I need to stop. I need more. I can't keep doing this. I want more of you. I should take care of the rest myself.
He doesn't know what he wants. His voice comes out in a half-pant, his brows furrow in embarrassment. Yet his hands let go of their vice-like grip on his hips, and come to gently caress his rear, the small of his back. ]
no subject
Bleary-eyed and all a mess, he breathes— hard, his chest rising and falling in heart-pounding shudders, swallowing but never feeling fully satisfied, but feeling much more content, much less deliriously needy.
His voice catches in his throat when Trahearne starts to move again, his palms slipped from Trahearne's cheeks to his neck, his fingers curling in. He's not spent yet, but he feels his body's argument; worse yet, he's sensitive still— maybe a little moreso, and each slow thrust seems to almost rebound thrice. (One of many vulnerable things he would hate later.)
It takes him a delay, but he realizes Trahearne's said his name— and that is what drags his gaze up to his face. Though his gaze is only half-focused, it is filled with a sort of affection, and he can find traces of embarrassment and uncertainty in Trahearne's own, in fine contrast with how firm he remains inside of him. Still, he does seem tired.
Ah, his stomach still feels sticky and warm. )
... I'll— I can move for you.
( Trahearne's gesture, the one at his lower back, is strange, but it is not the first he'd done it; somewhere in his head it seems rooted in fondness, so he likes it. He reaches up, brushing the hair from Trahearne's face; mostly because he wants to, and not necessarily because Trahearne needs it.
He exhales unevenly, breath warm. )
... Or... should I use my mouth...?
no subject
His own is wanting, desperate. Besides the embarrassment and uncertainty, of course.
His eyes fall shut as Mishka's fingers glide over his forehead. Leaves, as they are, do not easily move from their places, so they easily bounce back. But the touch, so gentle, caring, is yet another echo, and it is much easier to read. That he feels like he understands what it means causes nerves--fear?--to strike deep in his stomach. Yet he melts into the touch all the same. ]
I--
[ At last, his movements slow to a stop. His hands travel up Mishka's body, across his sides and up his shoulders to cup his cheeks and hold his face. With effort he lifts his head to place a ghost of a kiss upon his lips.
He murmurs his answer against him: ]
I'd love-- [ He falls back again, taking Mishka's face with him. His breathing is short; he swallows in anticipation. ] --your mouth.
no subject
curiously sharp beneath the haze, the way a beast's eyes are when hunting. But maybe Trahearne only sees things, mind clouded with arousal as he is. Perhaps there's nothing to worry of at all.
He likes the way Trahearne's leaves rustle when he brushes his fingers through them, and he likes how gently he cups his cheeks like he's something important, and how he teases him with a kiss. He likes how soft his voice falls when he asks for something so indecent, and he likes (he hates) how he calls upon "love" so needlessly. He likes seeing his face so close.
He likes Trahearne.
He laughs a little breathlessly, and turns to press his lips to the corner of Trahearne's lips, fingers curling into the sides of his neck. But he behaves. )
... You'll need to help me off, then... You're... Mmh, you're so deep in me.
( His lips drag along the cheek and down along the jaw, teeth lightly dragging along the skin. His voice falls quieter, more playful, as if sharing a secret, albeit one Trahearne already knows, has seen: )
... Can you feel it? My stomach against yours?
no subject
The remark earns a low, unnaturally sensual chuckle to bubble in his throat. His hands move again, less elegantly this time, as they come to rest on Mishka's hips, to hold him in place as he thrusts a few, slow times. His eyes flutter, physically feeling what Mishka puts into words, and he hums. ]
I can. [ It's...an odd sensation, feeling himself like this. To feel himself entangled with another like this. It makes something deep in him stir. He wants more.
Or maybe that's just the aphrodisiacs speaking.
But Mishka needs help. It happens in a split second--Trahearne's arms come around him, holding him in an embrace as he rolls them over on the bed, flipping their positions. He props himself up with both hands on either side of his head, and for a split second, he just...looks at him. How his sweaty hair splays out around him, how the faint shadow from the indent of the sheets frame him.
It's weird knowing he can do this to someone. And he'll keep thinking that thought.
But he doesn't linger too long. He straightens himself and pulls out with a throaty exhale. Oh, how painfully hard he still is. ]
no subject
It offends his pride deep in him to feel so influenced by substance (alcohol, and aphrodisiacs), but in the moment he's glad for it, because he gets to see how Trahearne looks over him, how Trahearne looks at him with such interest, and focus; not at all like their first time, when he only thought of Syrlya. He doesn't care if someone wants to use him only as a body, because he doesn't sleep with people for love, but— the way Trahearne looks at him now, and looks so clearly affected by him, sends a shiver down his spine. He doesn't know if he wants to kiss him, or eat him.
(Did Trahearne enjoy himself this much last time, was he truly so engaged with him this time, or is it only the aphrodisiacs?)
Already breathing heavy from Trahearne's slow thrusts, his voice spills as Trahearne pulls from him, and, though his nails curled into Trahearne's chest suggests he likes it, some belated sense of embarrassment brings a hand to his mouth (not tight over it, just there) to muffle it, if only half-successfully, the heat gathering at his tip and knot his stomach, where it still feels sticky with cum.
He pushes himself up a little unevenly, not at all unaffected by their amount of play, into a half-sit until he shifts to lay on his side, between Trahearne's legs, finding himself so close to the sticky thing that'd just been in him. Unfortunately, it turns him on. )
... I can't imagine... how you got this in me. ( he teases, fingers curling around the base to stroke it, hold it proper upright, as he presses his lips to the base, and drags his tongue up, as if getting a taste for him and his strange texture. ) Here.
( A little blindly, he reaches for Trahearne's hand and drags it to his head, smiling almost coyly at him from his angle below. )
Pull... when you want more.
( Vague, but Trahearne is a big boy, he can figure it out. More, deeper, sluttier... whatever. At least Mishka will get a little bonus out of this. )
no subject
Not like he needs to, because the warm, wet tongue on him has his eyes fall shut, ripples of a different kind of pleasure shooting through him. He breathes, trying not to fall over, and he glances down at Mishka. The way he lays there, how his body twists, looking up at him with his cock by his face--it does things to him.
He scarcely notices his own hand being moved, and only realizes when his hand is placed on Mishka's head. His fingers burrow into the strands of his hair, pressing lightly against his scalp, perhaps a little more gently than the command, the charged atmosphere demands. ]
O-okay.
[ His voice cracks when he speaks, but he's beyond being embarrassed about any of this. He rests, settling on his heels, not entirely sure if he's ready for what Mishka's about to give him. ]
no subject
He strokes the length of Trahearne's cock as he works his tongue along the underside, tongue wet, breath warm, and thumbs the tip with a sort of curiosity, idly wondering if it's sensitive the way a human's might be. Somewhere through the flushed haze of his expression (and deeper flush along his shoulders down), it's clear Mishka likes this very much; Trahearne tastes sweet, and it's worse knowing how much it turns him on to clean up a cock that'd just been fucking him.
He can feel how his insects swarm in him with a passionate delight, and that frenetic frenzy in his arousal-addled head only seems to make him that much more eager in how he drags his tongue along the sweet sugar-sap and mess and sucks along his length, until it's his tongue teasing at his tip; and then, his lips, his attitude only increasingly excited, increasingly eager, to take from the source. )
no subject
Luckily, he doesn't. And so he concentrates wholly on the way Mishka drags his tongue up his length, how he teases the tip; his breathing is labored with anticipation, and he shudders with each ministration. His eyes are lidded, his face flushed, all signs of how much he enjoys this, how good it feels to have Mishka push him closer to relief.
But it isn't enough.
He wants to come. He wants Mishka to swallow him whole and take every last drop of him. He looks at the way his body is twisted between his legs, and he wants to see more of it. He wants to see the flush over the entirety of his body as he sucks him off.
So for a brief moment, his fingers are gentle as they weave through soft, black hair. They tangle in his strands, finding purchase--
--And he pulls. He exhales sharply, a command that never finds voice. More. Sluttier. ]