（ the seat, the slide of sasuke's cock — in and of itself, it's not about to drive him breathlessly wild, frenzied into the drag of lust. it feels good, even when there's a stutter of the head of sasuke's dick against his prostate in a way that's a little bit like biting tinfoil — but the root of his enjoyment is not founded in physical pleasure but in the nearness, the expression of trust, the love. there is always a fucking cosmic intimacy to be found in the act of being inside someone, no matter what it's done with — fingers and tongues and toys serve just as well as a cock, after all — but what bridges it towards highstrung, hard-won pleasure is the fact that it's sasuke.
cy hooks his legs high on the iliac curves of sasuke's hips into his waist, and braces his right elbow against the futon, palming his right hand against sasuke's left shoulder. it gives him something to lean against, something to balance on, and whatever weight the boy gives over to him is cradled easily there. this illusory world is narrowed to the point of an awareness of flexing muscles and salt-sweat skin, the desperate wet sounds of every inward thrust and the taste of sasuke's tongue in those moments where they're aligned enough to steal kisses.
his left hand alternates: gentled touch in sasuke's hair, then gripping hard when sasuke bottoms out against him in a slap of skin. cy can't quite bite him like this, so instead he leaves other marks like calling cards, nails raked hard against the boy's back, over the furrow of old scars, the textured landscape of a body honed to war. the fact they're in an illusion means he's not terribly driven to discuss it — whatever pain sasuke feels will be what he wants to feel from it, and if that means the speckled, abraded drag of nails is more or less intense than the reality would be, well — they can sift that out of this experience afterwards.
another drive of sasuke's hips drives them just a little further up the futon. precome weeps at the head of his cock, pooling in a slick smear against the dip of his navel, but by no means does that stop him from a playful murmur: ）
You're doing great, sweetheart. Fuck — you feel so good.
no subject
cy hooks his legs high on the iliac curves of sasuke's hips into his waist, and braces his right elbow against the futon, palming his right hand against sasuke's left shoulder. it gives him something to lean against, something to balance on, and whatever weight the boy gives over to him is cradled easily there. this illusory world is narrowed to the point of an awareness of flexing muscles and salt-sweat skin, the desperate wet sounds of every inward thrust and the taste of sasuke's tongue in those moments where they're aligned enough to steal kisses.
his left hand alternates: gentled touch in sasuke's hair, then gripping hard when sasuke bottoms out against him in a slap of skin. cy can't quite bite him like this, so instead he leaves other marks like calling cards, nails raked hard against the boy's back, over the furrow of old scars, the textured landscape of a body honed to war. the fact they're in an illusion means he's not terribly driven to discuss it — whatever pain sasuke feels will be what he wants to feel from it, and if that means the speckled, abraded drag of nails is more or less intense than the reality would be, well — they can sift that out of this experience afterwards.
another drive of sasuke's hips drives them just a little further up the futon. precome weeps at the head of his cock, pooling in a slick smear against the dip of his navel, but by no means does that stop him from a playful murmur: ）
You're doing great, sweetheart. Fuck — you feel so good.