[ There's no sense in Ronan trying to fight the feeling, it's overwhelming and all consuming. Pleasure burns through him hotter than any anger and hate that he's ever felt toward Kavinsky and for as much as he wants to push the other away, he can't get the signal to go from his brain to the rest of his body. Instead, he just writhes and groans underneath the other, literally fucking up into Kavinsky's hand like he's been starved for sex for years, rather than only a few short days.
His voice echoes in the silence of Kavinsky's house -- rough and ragged as he moans, strained and desperate as he curses, breathless and needy as he struggles for oxygen. As shameless as he may sound, he's anything but that.
Ronan's blood leaves a smear in the shape of Kavinsky's fingerprint across his cheek and all the way to his jawline, his eyes equally as dark as Kavinsky's -- and while he hopes without all the same sick desire and twisted lust, he's not sure that's true. Despite how much he knows he'll hate himself later for this (how much he currently hates himself now for it.), his body wants it: his cock leaks precum down Kavinsky's fingers, his pulse races at the feeling of fingers closing around his neck, he goes torpedoing straight toward orgasm faster than he's ever known. ]
Just... [ Kavinsky's fingers tighten and Ronan's eyes flutter shut, a positively obscene sound leaving him -- something that could have been straight out of a porn soundboard. -- as the edges of his consciousness start to become fuzzy. ] Fuck [ He's right there, the slow fade of the world as lightheadedness washes over him has a few thicker spurts leaking out of him, ready to blow his load at any moment. ] Stop fucking talking.
[ At least then maybe he can pretend Kavinsky isn't there. ]
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His voice echoes in the silence of Kavinsky's house -- rough and ragged as he moans, strained and desperate as he curses, breathless and needy as he struggles for oxygen. As shameless as he may sound, he's anything but that.
Ronan's blood leaves a smear in the shape of Kavinsky's fingerprint across his cheek and all the way to his jawline, his eyes equally as dark as Kavinsky's -- and while he hopes without all the same sick desire and twisted lust, he's not sure that's true. Despite how much he knows he'll hate himself later for this (how much he currently hates himself now for it.), his body wants it: his cock leaks precum down Kavinsky's fingers, his pulse races at the feeling of fingers closing around his neck, he goes torpedoing straight toward orgasm faster than he's ever known. ]
Just... [ Kavinsky's fingers tighten and Ronan's eyes flutter shut, a positively obscene sound leaving him -- something that could have been straight out of a porn soundboard. -- as the edges of his consciousness start to become fuzzy. ] Fuck [ He's right there, the slow fade of the world as lightheadedness washes over him has a few thicker spurts leaking out of him, ready to blow his load at any moment. ] Stop fucking talking.
[ At least then maybe he can pretend Kavinsky isn't there. ]