[The noise against his lips earns a growl riding on Beelzebub's next frantic exhale, brow furrowing as he picks up the pace of his mouth. A hand leaves its perch, wanting to travel, but pinned by the bars - damn these bars, damn this stone, damn this prison for the barrier. His fingers dig, grasping the front of Temenos's robes, the grip kneading almost like a cat with claws at how it presses and scratches and tries to keep hold, tries to claim, tries to search out the warmth of him and the feel of bone and sinew and muscle beyond the press of his chest.
He can feel himself growing hot, growing full in his chest and belly, wanting, needing. He doesn't care.
He knows they won't get that night back. Maybe never again, if this was truly the last time they'd ever see one another. But he wants to cherish this desire, this deep caving to his hunger for this smart and doubtful and creative and conscientious and wrathful and sinful and wonderful form of a man.]
no subject
He can feel himself growing hot, growing full in his chest and belly, wanting, needing. He doesn't care.
He knows they won't get that night back. Maybe never again, if this was truly the last time they'd ever see one another. But he wants to cherish this desire, this deep caving to his hunger for this smart and doubtful and creative and conscientious and wrathful and sinful and wonderful form of a man.]