( that feels like something he can understand--the bid to possess, to bid to keep something close, to have it within arm's reach. the way that esi grips at his fingers, the way that he presses into his palm: that at least feels more like things that he can recognize and appreciate for what they are. even if he's just using him as some kind of fucked up experiment, when it comes to this stupid blood disease, he can understand wanting to keep something right where he wants it, pushed under the weight of his thumb. it's like pinning a squirming beetle to a corkboard for display--it's easier to watch something if it's trapped, easier to possess if there's no option for escape. funnily enough, that puts him more at ease; he doesn't mind if esi wants to trap him there to fuck him until he's satisfied.
that makes more sense than anything else.
it's somewhere, lost in the middle of it all, that he realizes that esi's trying to talk to him--that he's asking him some asinine question in the middle of it all, in the middle of the pleasure, enough that he gives a half-hearted snarl of displeasure, his head rocked back into the mattress. he can't put the pieces together until he goes back to where esi's mouth is--some warm pressure south of his lips, to his jaw, and then his eyes squint open, vivid blue and annoyed. )
Your mouth? No.
( there's a small press of his lips together. it feels wrong, somehow, like admitting a weakness here, where he's at esi's mercy--his tongue laps over his own lips, tasting blood and spit there, the iron tang something that helps root him in the moment. )
Your dick? Yes.
( as if it should be forgiven, then--besides, esi's going back to his mouth and he accepts it, even lets a moan be smothered into the kiss, his hips rolling up, meeting esi's rhythm with a firm demand for control; oddly enough, he doesn't feel that budding need to vomit, yet, just that burning need to come. )
Fuck-- ( through gritted teeth, as he snakes away from the kiss to pant into esi's mouth. ) There, there--
no subject
that makes more sense than anything else.
it's somewhere, lost in the middle of it all, that he realizes that esi's trying to talk to him--that he's asking him some asinine question in the middle of it all, in the middle of the pleasure, enough that he gives a half-hearted snarl of displeasure, his head rocked back into the mattress. he can't put the pieces together until he goes back to where esi's mouth is--some warm pressure south of his lips, to his jaw, and then his eyes squint open, vivid blue and annoyed. )
Your mouth? No.
( there's a small press of his lips together. it feels wrong, somehow, like admitting a weakness here, where he's at esi's mercy--his tongue laps over his own lips, tasting blood and spit there, the iron tang something that helps root him in the moment. )
Your dick? Yes.
( as if it should be forgiven, then--besides, esi's going back to his mouth and he accepts it, even lets a moan be smothered into the kiss, his hips rolling up, meeting esi's rhythm with a firm demand for control; oddly enough, he doesn't feel that budding need to vomit, yet, just that burning need to come. )
Fuck-- ( through gritted teeth, as he snakes away from the kiss to pant into esi's mouth. ) There, there--