[ Zephir is on his knees as if to worship, legs parted to let Sullivan in, holding on to his hips to stay upright. Mouth wide open, eyes closed and brows knitted in delirium, any attempt to use his voice is gagged out of him, merciless thrusts keeping him full and breathless. He's crying, past keeping up with Death's frenzied pace, shaking as precome is squeezed from his own cock and his hole is crowded with unseen fingers, as he's grabbed by the neck to make it tighter for Sullivan to shove himself into. And yet, in the middle of this chaos, the second Zephir manages to kiss the other man's lips, his neck, even play with the shell of his ear using teeth.
Zephir nearly falls over when Sullivan lets go, voice hoarse once he's finally regained the breathing room to use it. He swallows with a sticky noise, finding that it's not enough to clear his throat; one sharp inhale and he swallows again, then wipes his mouth and chin to hungrily clean the rest of the fluid off his hand. His windpipe hurts like it's decrying the sudden emptiness, but Zephir doesn't demand more. He's still fucking and being fucked by Sullivan's invisible touch, trembling and tensing up on all fours. A sight so pathetic for Zephir that it becomes almost repulsive, blind and lost, hurt and loved by the one being he can't control. Sullivan will feel him come for a third time, just like Zephir felt every spill. One spurt after another marks the grass, then his clothes.
He's hanging his head when it finally stops, exhales scratching up his insides. Sullivan's hands work to squeeze every last drop — he has to be careful before Zephir starts to lose himself yet again — just like he's back on his knees to stick his tongue out while the second Zephir does the same to Sullivan. He drinks the very last remains of fluid, licks the head clean and finds the balance to get up. Taller than before, lashes wet and lips swollen, he makes his copy go away and bends down for a dreamy, disgusting kiss. He wants to fuck him, to be fucked, to leave a small massacre behind for the staff to get rid off. Instead, he answers: ]
🎀?
Zephir nearly falls over when Sullivan lets go, voice hoarse once he's finally regained the breathing room to use it. He swallows with a sticky noise, finding that it's not enough to clear his throat; one sharp inhale and he swallows again, then wipes his mouth and chin to hungrily clean the rest of the fluid off his hand. His windpipe hurts like it's decrying the sudden emptiness, but Zephir doesn't demand more. He's still fucking and being fucked by Sullivan's invisible touch, trembling and tensing up on all fours. A sight so pathetic for Zephir that it becomes almost repulsive, blind and lost, hurt and loved by the one being he can't control. Sullivan will feel him come for a third time, just like Zephir felt every spill. One spurt after another marks the grass, then his clothes.
He's hanging his head when it finally stops, exhales scratching up his insides. Sullivan's hands work to squeeze every last drop — he has to be careful before Zephir starts to lose himself yet again — just like he's back on his knees to stick his tongue out while the second Zephir does the same to Sullivan. He drinks the very last remains of fluid, licks the head clean and finds the balance to get up. Taller than before, lashes wet and lips swollen, he makes his copy go away and bends down for a dreamy, disgusting kiss. He wants to fuck him, to be fucked, to leave a small massacre behind for the staff to get rid off. Instead, he answers: ]
For now.