For the moment, Keeler is past caring. For the moment, he's riding a pleasure so high that it's utterly fractured him from the top-down. Mind and heart and core all consumed and hungry in a dichotomy of which Keeler can't hope to make sense. He's a ruin of languid shatters, sharp edges tearing through the last of his tattered resolve and drawing the blood of surrender in hopeless pools. Encke has him. God help him, Encke has him, practically caged and Keeler can't so much as brush the lock. Doesn't want to, because this--
Keeler didn't want it, told himself for so long that he couldn't have it; sex and affection and -- fuck it -- love. Why hadn't he been partnered with Encke right out of training? He could've had it that much sooner.
The completion takes him like the grip of death. His final cry comes hand-in-hand with a choked gasp, shuddering along with the rest of his rigid body. It winds him tight around Encke, around his shoulders and waist and cock, tight enough to steal breath and arrest thought. He's lost; it's written on his face -- lips parted around his death-keen, eyes squeezed shut, brow deeply knit -- all the bliss and agony of physical perfection. A warm spill across their stomachs, sullying Encke's fingers. Finished shaking, finished practically weeping, finished beneath Encke and very nearly a part of him as well.
Has he been chanting Encke's name through the shudders of his orgasm? Has he been tearing blood from his back with desperate grasping? Has he made himself as indispensable -- as essential -- to Encke, as the fighter is to him? Hell if he knows, hell if he can tell, with a ringing in his ears and his breath refusing to come steady.
no subject
Keeler didn't want it, told himself for so long that he couldn't have it; sex and affection and -- fuck it -- love. Why hadn't he been partnered with Encke right out of training? He could've had it that much sooner.
The completion takes him like the grip of death. His final cry comes hand-in-hand with a choked gasp, shuddering along with the rest of his rigid body. It winds him tight around Encke, around his shoulders and waist and cock, tight enough to steal breath and arrest thought. He's lost; it's written on his face -- lips parted around his death-keen, eyes squeezed shut, brow deeply knit -- all the bliss and agony of physical perfection. A warm spill across their stomachs, sullying Encke's fingers. Finished shaking, finished practically weeping, finished beneath Encke and very nearly a part of him as well.
Has he been chanting Encke's name through the shudders of his orgasm? Has he been tearing blood from his back with desperate grasping? Has he made himself as indispensable -- as essential -- to Encke, as the fighter is to him? Hell if he knows, hell if he can tell, with a ringing in his ears and his breath refusing to come steady.
Hell if he cares.