[ neither of them can deny the effect Sylvain’s words and steady touch continue to have on him, that rigidness he carries melting into something much more pliable and accommodating.
He’s getting more accustomed to the heady mix of shame and breathlessness at being so accurately read and closely observed. It’s a strange thing, to be kept by someone else. Sexually, yes, but to be held in some level of accurate image in their eyes, their vantage point showing them pieces a man might not know of himself. Perhaps it’s that he keeps brushing up against.
He has no idea who he is these days.
But the thoughts are thick and fleeting. He moans again, bracing harder, and there’s a whine in his voice. He could finish like this, if Sylvain wanted him to, but the capable way he keeps adding more, winding everything together in a way Basch knows he could never pull off in return. He thinks he can read what Sylvain wants too. ]
You are…going to know every inch of me…better than I know myself—Sylvain.
[ His weight shifts forward, straining against the others hold as he scrabbles again to for the other, gasping. Precum wets his head, and his breathing is hitched. ]
no subject
[ neither of them can deny the effect Sylvain’s words and steady touch continue to have on him, that rigidness he carries melting into something much more pliable and accommodating.
He’s getting more accustomed to the heady mix of shame and breathlessness at being so accurately read and closely observed. It’s a strange thing, to be kept by someone else. Sexually, yes, but to be held in some level of accurate image in their eyes, their vantage point showing them pieces a man might not know of himself. Perhaps it’s that he keeps brushing up against.
He has no idea who he is these days.
But the thoughts are thick and fleeting. He moans again, bracing harder, and there’s a whine in his voice. He could finish like this, if Sylvain wanted him to, but the capable way he keeps adding more, winding everything together in a way Basch knows he could never pull off in return. He thinks he can read what Sylvain wants too. ]
You are…going to know every inch of me…better than I know myself—Sylvain.
[ His weight shifts forward, straining against the others hold as he scrabbles again to for the other, gasping. Precum wets his head, and his breathing is hitched. ]
Don’t stop.