( it's not the first time he's fingered himself, and definitely not the first time that he's ever been fucked like this, but it's been a long time--a long time since he's been the one on his back, a long time since he's been the one not fully in control. there's a part of him that wants to resist, wants to resist the sheer feeling of pleasure that washes over him; there's a part of him that even thinks it's a little embarrassing, how eager he is for it, for the pain that stretches itself along the inside of his body, melting away into pleasure. it's one of the few things that he can still feel, in all its painful glory; his hips press in, chasing it, guiding esi in until they're pressed skin to skin.
he doesn't care how fast he goes, doesn't care if he's impatient, doesn't care if he's just there to seek the pleasure that he can get out of the situation. his head presses back into the mattress, a soft gulp of breath passed between them, and it's only once esi starts moving that he winds his legs up, the battered skin on his shins and calves brushing up against the backs of esi's thighs as he keeps him close. stupid, really: stupid, except it all just feels good, and so whatever happens, happens.
it's somewhere in that haze of pained pleasure that he realizes they're holding hands: that esi has him pinned to the mattress that way, and it makes him feel a little sick; this is the kind of fucking that he thinks people with feelings might do, desperate for that romantic intimacy, and he's not that kind of person, and he's scared of what being that kind of person would even mean. fuck that. still, he doesn't want to listen to esi bitching about it--better instead to focus on the rock of their hips, the taste of the blood between them, the fervent kissing that smears blood and saliva alike between them.
his hips slide up, meeting him with every push, forcing him in deep with every thrust; he's taking as much pleasure from it as esi is taking from giving it, and maybe it's okay if they're both selfish, like that. at least it means they're evenly matched. )
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he doesn't care how fast he goes, doesn't care if he's impatient, doesn't care if he's just there to seek the pleasure that he can get out of the situation. his head presses back into the mattress, a soft gulp of breath passed between them, and it's only once esi starts moving that he winds his legs up, the battered skin on his shins and calves brushing up against the backs of esi's thighs as he keeps him close. stupid, really: stupid, except it all just feels good, and so whatever happens, happens.
it's somewhere in that haze of pained pleasure that he realizes they're holding hands: that esi has him pinned to the mattress that way, and it makes him feel a little sick; this is the kind of fucking that he thinks people with feelings might do, desperate for that romantic intimacy, and he's not that kind of person, and he's scared of what being that kind of person would even mean. fuck that. still, he doesn't want to listen to esi bitching about it--better instead to focus on the rock of their hips, the taste of the blood between them, the fervent kissing that smears blood and saliva alike between them.
his hips slide up, meeting him with every push, forcing him in deep with every thrust; he's taking as much pleasure from it as esi is taking from giving it, and maybe it's okay if they're both selfish, like that. at least it means they're evenly matched. )