
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/771527.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Sollux_Captor/The_Psiioniic
  Character:
      Sollux_Captor, The_Psiioniic
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Size_Difference, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, Multiple_Orgasms,
      Dream_Sex, Psionics, Psionic_Sex, Captorcest_-_Freeform, ancestorcest,
      porn_with_a_little_plot, Implied_off-stage_body_horror, Gratuitous_Smut,
      hands-off_orgasm, Xeno, Tentabulges, Bulges_and_Nooks, Nooks
  Series:
      Part 1 of Wires_and_Stars_Smut/Angst/Hurt-Comfort_Addenda
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-23 Words: 12689
****** fingers of light (a Wires and Stars story) ******
by tatterdemalionAmberite_(amberite), titianArchivist
Summary
     Takes place between chapter 16 and chapter 17 of Wires and Stars:
     Initiation. Somewhat spoilery for relationship development, but the
     porn... sort of went out of control here, so we divided it off from
     the main "book".
     If you were considering reading this series and wanted to skip to a
     naughty part, this is your chance. Naughty parts outreach committee
     is here.
     He's leaning over you when you fade in, must have done the moment you
     started materializing, his face showing quiet amusement – but fire
     snaps and washes along his horns. "Sollux Captor, you aredistracting,
     did you know that? Here I am minding my own business and suddenly
     you're hogging half my cognitive bandwidth with your grocery run."
Notes
     This is kind of our tribute to Inherited Predisposition, and takes
     some flavor from it: it's shameless size-difference orgasm-denial
     porn with the Psiioniic topping (at least for most of it.) A little
     bit of serious conversation in the middle.
     We decided to separate this out as an independent part of the series,
     rather than making it a chapter, for three reasons:
     * If you’re okay with spoilers you can read it before you've read
     Initiation - “skip to the naughty parts” - to see if you have a taste
     for our story. Enjoy. =) (Initiation should answer any your deeper
     curiosities about how all of this is happening.)
     * Although it expands on some aspects of the main characters’
     relationship, it’s less plot-necessary than the other sex scenes and
     so if you want to skip it, the rest of the story should still be
     comprehensible.
     * This way we could use AO3’s functions to honor YesVirginia as an
     inspiration properly without confusing our readers!
     This takes place at least a couple perigees after Chapter 16 and very
     shortly before Chapter 17. We’re using the headcanon of 1 sweep = 2.6
     years, making Sollux vaguely-approximately sixteen years old here.
     More story FAQ stuff is linked in the notes on Initiation.
The coding work is getting intense. The periodic chats with Aradia as she eggs
you on in this process are getting more and more frustrating. You actually left
the hive tonight, though, for the first time in a while that hasn’t just been
to see Karkat, but to go out and acquire food that isn’t stale and scare down
some resources for the bees and see moonlight for a while.
And now you’re not sure if you’re happy with that or regretting it completely,
because halfway through your errands you picked up in the back of your brain
the subtle shift as the Psiioniic went into an idle cycle - and now beneath the
clamor of doomed voices you hear, on another wavelength entirely, the soft
rhythms of navigation and monitoring and he can’t speak out loud to you without
the psionic construct of the dreamspace formed around both of you but you know
it’s the sound of your ancestor’s mind waiting for you. That when you get home
you can see him and he’ll be able to send enough of himself there that you can
be with him -
- and just that is enough that you can’t keep him out of your thoughts, can’t
push aside flashes of images and sensations and sounds, you’ve needed a break
from all this work so badly, needed him so badly, and it sends you into a
frenzy of anticipation.
By the time you make it to the portal of your hivestem you’re walking awkward
stiff-legged because you’ve leaked through your boxers and fear that a spot
will show up on your jeans, and you scramble toward your own door and make it
through and don’t even bother to do more with the spoils of your shopping trip
than drop them in front of the closed door before sprawling out in your
computer chair and shutting your eyes. It takes an effort of will to pull
yourself under into that trance state that allows you to construct the space
awake, but it’s a necessary step, you have to get there first; so bent on
seeing him again that you ignore how painful it is not to pop the button on
your pants first.
He's leaning over you when you fade in, must have done the moment you started
materializing, his face showing quiet amusement – but fire snaps and washes
along his horns. "Sollux Captor, you are distracting, did you know that? Here I
am minding my own business and suddenly you're hogging half my cognitive
bandwidth with your grocery run. Not that I mind, but..." He plants one hand on
the backrest of your chair, or rather the psionic construct that mirrors it,
wrist resting on your shoulder, the other on your forearm on the arm of the
chair, ignoring his own sparks and smirking like he's got all the time in the
world to wait for you to be fully here enough to register the contact.
You tune in fast and hard; you've been driving yourself so crazy over him that
once he's visibly present it's easier to anchor into the waking dream, and just
those tiny touches make you inhale sharply, only half trying to keep your cool.
"Look who's talking," you say. "Don't think I can't hear you - even when it's
not words - don't think I can't hear the way your thoughts change when there's
room for me," and you crane your neck around, reaching for him, trying to pull
him into a kiss -
"You want to know what I was thinking about – exactly – hmmm -" He lets himself
be pulled until he's inches from your mouth before he surges forward, and
there's a thump of pride in your chest that he's secure enough in his dream
body now to kiss hard without clicking teeth, not an easy operation with your
mouths all –
But that line of thought cuts off sharp when every place where your skin
connects thrums, crackles, psionics dancing between your joined lips, along
your twinned tongues as the fork of his slots into yours, slides over, walks
sparks and shards of energy across the roof of your mouth. Little misfired
spikes of it shooting up the bones of your arm and down your shoulder where his
hands are, none of it painful, just tuned to a quick jump, a jolt like the
light of the moons was on your skin, after too many nights without so much as a
glance at a window.
"Fuck -" you hiss out loud, and you press yourself toward him, wanting more
contact, wanting more of this - arching back in the chair, your hips straining
toward him unsuccessfully, your arms clutching and reaching.
And he gives you a fast, urgent kiss, vivid with power like being fed light,
before he breaks off, licks an electric line across your lower lip. "Missed
you, I've been – saving power for you, so I could –"
"Tell me what you were thinking about," you breathe, "I dare you," and no
matter how you grin around the words it doesn't hide the whine of need that
escapes between them.
"–So I could do this," he finishes, ignoring your demand for the moment. He
presses his lips, their glow, their sting and snap against your forehead, down
to the bridge of your nose, a little shiver of almost-fear as he gets the
current almost too close to your own eyes, close enough for arcing and bridging
between his power and your own. Runs a swathe of energy through your lower
back, a hot upward rush that strokes and feeds into your arching, reads to
confused nerves as the leading curl of an arm like in a highblood dance. Tiny
sunbursts streak across your vision as he pulls his lips away and the arcs
break. "I've been thinking about giving you a light show," he says, and it
starts out as a purr but winds up with a crooked grin of awareness of how
cheesy that sounds; a shaky undercurrent of half-heard thoughts, the way that
turning his psionics on you is always at once a reclamation and a near-danger.
"Do I look like I'm - " When he drew near your eyes the sparking that started
there spread out and now light is skittering across your skin, aimless,
reactive, tiny currents of your own power hooking and pushing and pulling at
his, and you could direct it more actively but you're enjoying too much the way
you're undone by this. "This is me strenuously not objecting -"
And then you catch at his arm with your fingers and manage more seriousness.
"Astris,” you say his name, the one you gave him because the old one didn’t
truly belong to him any longer; the new name that reaches a part of him that
ship controls and Empress and devastating cognitive constraints can never
touch. You still can't hide how incredulous you feel, how awed by the
connection that’s built between you in this half-sweep, the way you’ve made a
space together where you can both be free of everything else, from the
encroaching doom of the world and the interference of his tormentors. "You know
I'll call you back if anything goes wrong -" You can barely get your breath to
even out enough to speak.
"I trust you," he murmurs, so quiet that the weight of it is almost lost. Your
other hand reaches automatically for the button on your jeans because at least
if you undo the button you might be able to unsheathe a little and ease the
desperate throbbing - But he catches at it. Not with a hard psionic stop but
more like the air around your hand has suddenly gone slushy, taking effort to
push through, and he gives a not at all ethereal nip to the tip of one ear,
laves his tongue over the point, wet but too hot to soothe. Winds up just
smearing the sensation around your earlobe, the groove that divides his tongue
before it forks sliding over the top of it. "Can you wait, for me?" His breath
sears, counterpoint to the slow-spreading cradling warmth now radiating out
from your back where it started: soft waves licking at your shoulderblades,
curling around to your stomach, flowing over your hips. "I want this to be –
want to show you – oh -" His breath hitches at some reflected sensation,
drinking in what you're feeling, and the two of you lift off the chair, just
inches, held up by the tingling not-touch of his power.
Your hand balls up into a fist and the high, ridiculous keening noise that
comes out of your mouth barely even sounds like it came from you. "Please -
" You're not sure what you're begging for, for him to keep devastating you with
these amazing sensations or to pull them back. If you weren't a mess already
before the touch of his tongue set your entire head ringing with pleasure that
by itself would have broken your ability to be coherent, and now that the chair
is further away you push back against it harder, tilt your hips toward him
desperately. It brings you almost-barely-not-quite against him, just enough of
a brush of contact to make the heavy aching wetness of your bulge squirm and
spasm against itself involuntarily, as if that would somehow let it out or ease
the pressure.
Tangled in midair now with him, still rising, motes of light blurring and
fading and blooming around you. He gets his arms around you and kisses you so
much slower this time, tiny movements of his jaw, your tongue inside his mouth
sweeping up little stray sparks, and now you have the contact from him you’ve
been so frantically chasing, almost enough to be soothing until he goes for
your horns. More sure of his own power that drips, then cascades smooth as
splashed water over cheeks and brows and temples, ruffles almost-playful
through your hair before coiling tight and ever-shifting around all four of
your horns at once, overwhelming by intention, as if he'd interpreted your plea
as a challenge, or chosen to.
Like he warned you while sparring, you can barely tell up from down, the
crackling vibrations taking over a good half of your directional sense, but
more than that in this sensitized state the membranes at your scalp are -
they’re even better, or maybe worse, than your ears. The wave of tingling is
too much to stay at your scalp this time and spreads all down your neck and
spine, all the way to your bulge which already feels near-bruised from its
confinement, and you aren’t even trying to stop the incoherent whimpers you can
hear yourself making, suspended midair and trapped in your clothes and
clutching at him with both hands.
"Please," you blurt out again - it would be so easy just to imagine your pants
away, but they’d be incinerated in the real world later and you really
shouldn’t keep doing that - he can get away with it, his clothing is a
construct, a conceit of the dreamspace; yours is actually anchored to the real.
Astris has pieces of your desperation mirrored in his eyes when he looks at you
– or it could be his own, he's flushed deep yellow, staring, in hand but
barely, all his control going into managing the delicate psionic dance along
your skin and in the air around the both of you. "So lovely," a rough whisper,
and you know that he can see the light flowing over and through you, because
you've seen him, before, in glowing outline - He pops the button on your jeans
with a wisp of psionics, pulls the zip, all fine-level careful, draws tendrils
of energy down your legs like fingers as he drags your pants away.
You let out a groan of relief when the clothing is gone and the pressure with
it, but by then your bulge is so tangled with itself that it's still half-
stuck. The tips shove forward trailing damp against your boxers and as much as
you're normally fond of this particular mutation there are times when it's
inconvenient. It's going to take hands to solve that problem. Yours are still
clenched in his clothing and you could move them, but he might object... no,
more than that, you're giddy with the sheer decadence of giving yourself over,
playing by his rules, and you don't want to break that mood lightly.
He shivers at the noise you make when he drags the shirt up to your grubscars;
there's just as much a pulse and skitter between his fingers and your skin as
there is where the pure energy hits, and he stops and rubs at the lowest of
those ridges, power cycling between the pads of his fingers as they move. You
press into his touch needy and panting, and let go of him so he can raise the
shirt over your head but you find yourself flailing and grasping at him again
when he doesn't finish undressing you but instead keeps focused on that one
spot between your ribs. The touches slowly spread the tingling up your sides
and through all your grubscars, almost your whole body enveloped in it now,
your bare legs tangled with his clothed ones and your toes brushing his boots.
Astris makes kind of a thready fascinated laugh against your cheek as you keep
struggling. "Look so good all flustered – tell me what you need –" But he goes
strangely still when you scratch at his shoulders, as if in focusing on your
body and the floating and the light he'd forgotten about his own skin, and the
whine that he makes when you go to drag him closer doesn't sound entirely like
desire. His shirt flickers off under your hands almost by habit, but the flinch
when your claws meet skin is unmistakable and his clothes materialize again.
Although he stops the flinch before it can extend to his power or his hands on
your ribs, you know that when he opens his mouth he's going to try to
apologize.
You beat him to it though - "Fuck, you're so good at this I lost track, I'm
sorry -" Normally you'd have remembered well before now to do that trick made
possible by the resonance between you, that he alternately praises and
protests, to siphon away his pain enough that he can just be and feel here.
“I... I’m sorry, it’s -” Over that same resonance you feel the closing-off of
him keeping hold of his tongue, all the old arguments and let me try once more
without pleas still at the tip of it, but Astris swallows and nods, takes a
hand off your side to caress your face, and although the same verbal stop is
holding back his words of thankfulness you hear them from his mind anyway.
You shove yourself into some half-assed state of concentration and hold your
hands steady on him with an effort of will. He's not having a particularly bad
time tonight, on the relative scale, which is a relief - it's not that you mind
(you would crawl across knives for him and get up smiling and oh, how he hates
that, but it's a part of you he can't argue down) but even though you're great
at keeping two tracks running at once you’d be scared you could lose hold of
this, with the way he's undoing you.
The impressions seep from him strange and familiar, close and impossibly far
away, and phantom tortures weave into every inch of you before you fade them to
background noise. That mental shift is near-effortless now from long practice,
and you won't lose the lock, even when you lose words and any other shard of
self-control from the light and pressure of his power still skating along your
skin -
He always tears up at least a little when you do this, even now on a good night
and trying to make the most of it, and his hands tremble a little against you,
face warming cheek to cheek and hidden. Always tries to reflect back to you a
little of the relief, of your touch pervading beyond the immediate and into
some terrible beyond, but the sensation he's showing you never fully registers,
relies on experiences you haven't suffered through (that no one ever should) to
make sense of the feeling of it. His clothes finally melt away and stay gone,
and his chest against yours is a plane of glow, feverish beyond your usual
overenergized heat, skin-to-skin static sparks and circulation just beneath the
surface, power laden into blood.
Between the two of you you manage to get rid of your shirt, his teeth
immediately at your neck, scraping without pressure, sharpness known more than
felt. "Tell me what you need," he says again, surer now with his suffering held
back under your mental control, smirking against your skin.
Oh, god, he’s going to make you try to talk.
"I need. Nnh." The sparking brushes at your grubscars all at once, makes them
pinpoints of smoldering pleasure, and you draw a ragged breath and curl a hand
around the back of his head, clutching at his hair - anchor the other hand on
his hip - as if to pull him closer or to fend him off, you're not sure which,
and your bulge is still half-sheathed from its own looping and twining and now
he can see your predicament or feel it through your boxers against his thigh
and this isn't the kind of embarrassment that makes you hate yourself; it's the
kind that makes your cheeks blaze hot and your head go light and dizzy and your
nook ache and drip between your legs. "I n-need you to touch me," you manage,
flushing all the way to the tips of your ears, "to help me unsheathe, I -" and
once you get that out, it's difficult to be ashamed by the rest of it, the
words come fast now, though still half-incoherent from how worked up you are.
"Need you in me - need you to fuck me 'til I can't speak - Astris - please -"
As you talk his purring thickens into a deep rich growl of desire, sparks
shining at the tips of his fangs when he breaks it off, "Can't say no to you,
ever – want you to feel me in your bones, want -" He cups your tangled bulge
through your boxers, rubbing exasperatingly slow with his palm, even the
psionic buzz that you're aching to feel there damped down to barely
discernible. Power chases itself up and down your spine, keeps just missing
jumping to your nook before it cycles up again. When he finally reaches in it's
stiff-fingered at first, letting the part of your bulge that's already free
curl desperately around his hand but not helping at all, and still you whine,
shudder at the touch that was so long coming. Gives you just a slow trickle of
current through the tips, a thin maddening hum. He's tugging away your boxers
telekinetically as he goes and now he can see what he's doing, curling his
fingers finally to rub between your bulges where you need it (they're your
fingertips, partly, your nerve map in his hands, slow learning of your muscle
memory to make these small movements, and the thought is a sweet-sharp pang of
pity through you) – a smooth encircling touch around the seal of your sheath,
coaxing friction.
You barely notice that he's floating you down as he touches you until your
knees hit couch cushions, straddling his lap. His other hand is tangled up in
your hair, stroking at horn-membranes already sensitized almost to pain by
psionics, stirring you into little shivers and pleading noises, and he pulls
you in for a slow bright anchoring kiss when he actually reaches a thin sheen
of power into your sheath, all the way deep to the root where the bulges join,
rippling softly outward.
The psionic touch untangles you all at once. The whole of your bulge slips
forward, so hypersensitive under that hot-prickly all-over stimulation that
you're already on the verge of release, and you mewl into the kiss and catch at
him with your fangs and go rigid against him for a moment fighting back from
the edge, heart pounding, knowing that he could provoke it from you easily if
he added the slightest sensation -
- and the thing about fucking someone who can read you thinkpan to nerve
endings is that he knows, his hand slipping from your bulges to a hard grasp on
your hip, a thrumming psionic layer still draped over every inch of you like a
second skin except between your legs, where the air is potent with the
possibility of it, but the current is gone, stopping inches from where you need
it.
"You're so close," he states the obvious, but he's growling it, breaking from
your lips with a devious smile but a well of uncertainty so close beneath the
surface – "It would take so little, if I just -" The cloud of energy around you
intensifies, near-stifling, pressing into every sensitive spot he's ever found
on you, your bulge and nook still achingly untouched - "If I promise to give
you everything you want, after – want to – to fuck you into the floor, god – I
want to see you come from just this, first, please, I want to see you try -
" He's running his hands all down your chest and sides, careless with his
claws, liquid lines of energy and scratched sensitivity –
- you could, god, you could, and you're anticipating already what it's going to
feel like. You know it's going to leave you ridiculously touch-scorched
sensitive and half-unsatisfied and all you can give him by way of affirmation
is a choked whimper and a pleading look, but you're writhing, trying to rub
against him physically for friction, failing to because of the perfectly
shielded-off zone around your bulge and nook, soaking-wet in his lap, you feel
like you are made entirely of horns and ears and grubscars and collarbones and
the ridges of your spine and it's still. not. quite. enough, even as your
entire skin goes hot and itchingly sensitized, even as you feel the twisting
ache building in your belly, almost there and moving so slowly toward that
precipice that it's like the mathematical paradox where you halve the distance
each time - you know exactly the kind of touch that would bring you over, the
flick of his tongue to your ear or your neck or the membrane under one of the
smaller horns, and you know you’re broadcasting it, pleading in your mind -
He focuses hard on your horns, so much so that even more than the tingling you
can feel his attention there, and you expect his mouth, lean in open-mouthed
shameless wanting it, but he doesn't, not yet; power nips against the tendons
at the back of your ankles, bites into the insides of your elbows, and he's
growl-purr-crooning, not a sound you're even sure it's possible to make in the
waking world, not sure how much of it is transmitted synesthetized echoes of
him glorying in this, his face all shining blown-over lust and amazement at how
he is affecting you. His hands alternate between scoring and caressing, careful
and deliberate even when they scratch; it's his power that is brutal, a little
like being in the mouth of a volcano, hot and swirling and pressed-in
unpredictable, and he's licking at his own lips longing to make you come apart
but waiting. "I pity you until it carves me up inside, pity you so much I can’t
-" And he pulls you in, breath fast and ragged against your jaw -
- it’s almost enough to do you in and still that tiny margin away. Your bulges
are squirming against each other helplessly and you're clawing into him with
the clutching of your fingers and you don't know how you're managing words at
all but you hear "Please, please" in your own voice as if from a distance,
tremulous and almost sobbed - the press and vibration of his energy around you
is glorious, but all of it so hot and dry, a million tiny pinpoints and lines
and arcs of bright fire wrapping around you, and it only increases your longing
for a touch that's soft and moist, your drive toward duality or something more
visceral at work, until it's all you can think of, desperately craving it as
water in a sunlit desert.
One more shallow breath, so close you're not sure if you can tell whether his
lips brushed skin, a movement like an outlined word, inaudible over the roaring
of red and blue rushing through the shells of your ears – the tips of his
tongue reaching, flickering like a coilbeast, just barely grazing nerve-endings
– before he finally presses the whole flat of it to the underside of your jaw,
searing-hot and soaking. Paints a wet rasping swirling line all down your neck,
long luxuriant stroking swipes, damp and conductive and everywhere his tongue
touches flaring with new bursts of cold stinging power in the moisture - and
that does it, you’re coming, a staccato half-release that makes the lack of
contact on your bulge nearly hurt. It's as if a switch flips in you and the hot
tingling becomes almost soothing, pleasure piercing through you even as your
nook grasps hard at nothing and you spurt hard short drips of genetic material
onto his belly, bulges still heavy and full as the pulsing slows without any
contact to coax out the rest of it, the sweet frustration making you howl, your
own psionics flaring out all over your skin from the sheer maddening built-up
energy, discharging in unformed waves -
He shudders under your hands and against your neck in helpless fascination,
bowed in around you with locked-deep tension, enthralled, still mouthing at the
base of your throat. Sometimes he still gets so wrapped up in what you're
feeling that the signals from his own dream-spun body fade to hardly-aware for
him and his fangs and fingers flicker borderline unreal pressed against you –
but now he's solid, coiled tight, and coursing through and within the adoration
in the way his hands slow to reassuring circles on your back and the wonder-
edged refraction of his mind that intersects yours there's still growling
elemental need. Even as he's trying to give you time, pulling his mouth away
with an audible electric broken-connection snap, nuzzling at your collarbone -
"Hmm, don't know how you can stand being so sensitive, I hardly had to try,
you're just – built for my hands, for pity, you're impossible -"
When he can hear in your head exactly how close you were when he started, it’s
nearly a taunt and you gasp out “- you, you incorrigible fucking - opportunist,
you - you love making me get like this -” still overloaded, feeling like you’re
still half in the throes of your climax, lit-up all over but strangely
unsatisfied, rocking on his lap seeking more even as the softest touch sets you
into oversensitized twitching.
"Yes, every opportunity you give me, as long as you keep wanting me -” He’s
halfway between sheer stripped-down babbling and trying to use your half-
thought-out jab to communicate something. “I need you, you're maddening -
please, tell me when you're ready – yes, I love you like this, I love you –"
Aware at once of your overwhelmed shivering and of your seeking hands and hips;
uncertain amid the newness of what he’s promised to do, still not entirely
confident in his ability to read your body, urges and contradictions. His
bulges are squirming and writhing against his own stomach, face hidden against
your chest, so flooded with held-back desire that he's now completely unable to
look at you.
"I want -" You're having trouble articulating it, your entire body feels like a
question without an answer and you cling to his horns and reach your other hand
down between you to stroke his tendrils, to give them something to wrap around,
"- you, I want you to take me, to push me past every - don’t hold yourself back
- make me scream -” You’re fully old enough for concupiscent quadrants, but you
haven’t undergone the final lengthening and broadening of your frame, and the
borders of memory that make his dream body make it larger than you - but you’ve
wanted him in you completely for so long, talked about it, done so much else -
and it’s finally going to happen, now, and the thought is exhilarating.
He forms a stark stuttery oh into your collarbone, digs his claws into your
hips and pulls you hard against him, one bulge sinking to the root into your
already come-slicked nook, the other letting go of your fingers to wrap around
the base of the first, shifting and rubbing at the folds around the outside of
your nook as they stretch to take it in, the tip curling to press in alongside
it. His psionics crash back into your skin, as much an outpouring from him as
deliberate stimulation, swirling-overheated pressure against your back trying
to push you in closer when you're already flush against him. His mouth is a
smear of dragging fangs and vibration at the crook of your neck, the same deep
to hardly audible thrumming that shudders through you from his chest between
breaths, and just that one bulge's uncoiling is sharp as a lash inside you.
A flash of nervousness comes over you; if you get too overwhelmed you could
ruin everything and it makes you need to check on the one piece of control you
mustn't lose, no matter what else happens and he doesn't have to know you're
dragging the shadow of his pain nearer, letting that heavy overlay seep into
your consciousness, like some overwrought bass line underneath his all-over hot
brightness and the wonderful ache of him winding deeper into your nook, the
second tip like a lever prying you open and you have no control of your voice,
tattered half-voiced keening breaths in his ear and you rake claws down his
spine a too much and a please more at the same time.
Even all claws and teeth and whirling power he does this shades slower than you
asked for, his second bulge spiraling a slick gradual stretch around the first.
Tiny sweet stroking rivulets of energy curl in alongside, delicate and pushing
and spreading exactly where you need them every time you tense, a testament
that somewhere inside he's still under control, still intricately attuned to
what you're feeling. But when he groans your name into your shoulder it's all
scathing ferocious pleasure in his voice at the squeezing and crushing-tight
shaking as he fills you. You think you manage his name and please, again,
barely more than mush-mouthed syllables lost in the crackling resonance and the
shudder of your breath, and the stretching hurts but in a good way, weirdly
satisfying even if you couldn't possibly come again right now; soothes the
weird sensation of incompleteness left over from climaxing with bulge and nook
untouched.
Ribbons and tongues of red and blue shimmer from his claws on your hips, back
and forth between his horns and yours, wherever you're skin on skin; wind down
between your stomach and his to scatter around and between and into your still-
heavy bulges. They’re simultaneously raw from the orgasm and thick with need,
and it's like every nerve becomes a livewire. Your whole body spasms and clamps
around him, arms and fingers and thighs and nook, pulling him deeper - god,
you've explored your own nook with psionics, he's taken you that way and with
one bulge and with fingers and with his tongue, but this - you're so full he
can barely even shift in you, even so slick as you are, as tightly joined as
you can manage, every muscle trembling as you try to let him in even further,
your ragged cries muffled against his forehead -
Finally he reaches the point where he can't be gentle anymore and still do
this, power shifting and straining and coating the walls of your nook but not
able to coax them any farther apart and the second bulge still not quite
inside, and he's harsh-rumbling desperate and determined and growling louder
for each sound you make. When your nook ripples and clenches around him you
feel it in perfect reflection from his mind: pleasure tilting on its axis, and
his power bites thin hallucinatory needle-teeth into every inch of you that it
touches when he gives in, bucks up, buries himself entirely in you with a
hoarse thrumming near-shout. One of his hands loses its hold on your hip, claws
raking down your thigh, and he pants and throws his head back and his bulges
still to barely rippling. For an overwhelming instant everything seems to pause
as the psionic pinpricks go from stinging to melting, a layer of strangely soft
spreading warmth just below your skin.
You manage, barely, to pull fragments of language from the sensory maelstrom,
voice almost a shriek hoarse with harsh breathing, yes and yes again and I love
you because you can't stand the thought that he might grow too concerned or
cautious and stop taking you apart like this, cradled in warmth and speared
through with painful exquisite fullness. Every time your eyes blink open you
see him haloed in red-blue flicker and the look on his face makes you feel
cracked-open with pity. You try to say something else but it comes out a
desperate wail - you can feel the build toward release gradually starting
again, your genetic material glands twingeing sore and overloaded from earlier,
but it’s going slowly now, you could hover there, he could keep you there
slammed with needy pleasure for as long as he chose and you're shaking hard all
over and seek his mouth, an uncoordinated kiss that asks for something you
can’t begin to name -
Astris moans thickly into your mouth, pulls his claws out of your skin to wrap
you in his arms. His bulges twine and fold glacial-slow inside you at first but
the movements amplify with every affirmation, every shift and swelling of your
bulge between you. He scores razor-thin yellow lines into your lower lip
between his teeth and braces his feet against the floor and holds you down as
he rubs at the walls of your nook, pressing against the swollen ridges of your
genetic material glands, and his power steadies you in soft enwrapping and
harsh netting lines as he rises off the couch carrying you. You're tangled in
midair again, psionics immediately wrapping your legs around his waist, and
when he separates his mouth from yours a shudder of effort runs through him.
"Wanted you this way for -" He breaks off into a moan again at the change of
angle, driving even deeper.
He is holding and filling every inch of you, you've never been so completely
all-over surrounded by touch, sensitized to craving and soothed at once, and
when he pulls you up into the air to replace the restrictions of gravity with
his own, reaches parts of your nook you'd never - this should feel more
precarious than it does, like you could fall, but instead this perfect storm's-
eye quiet security washes over you even as every nerve ending cries out, as
your breathing turns to sobbing. The sensations are breaking you into pieces,
the heavy fullness of his bulge sliding against you so deep you feel it in your
spine, the mesh of force chasing across your skin - there's nothing in your
world except his name and his locked-away pain that you hold like guard-rails
and his dream-body that holds you and pins you so perfectly and you stammer out
some combination of "Yes" and "Please" again and "Want you, want this" and
you're going to come, soon, again, it's an ache and a twisting in you, catching
up to you -
If you are the eye then he is a lightning-storm, his power now embedded so
deeply past your skin that you're sure you'll still shiver and spark for hours
after this, slow-leeching borrowed current from horns and fingertips into the
air even after you wake up. Your connection with him is a mainline of memory,
sense-impressions and old emotion and the way you made him feel at the
beginning, like every inch of him, skin and deeper and flung-out aural
awareness and heart and guts were subsumed in every touch and every thrust and
every word from you: afraid, inchoate, liquefied, always on the edge of losing
form and descending into horrors, but alight all through - what he is trying to
give you when his power luminesces along limbs and wraps complex through your
ribcage, trying to leave nothing in you that is not a landing-place for
pleasure.
His power squeezes at the base of your bulge, and you gasp in anticipation of
more stimulation but it just stays there, constricting, an unyielding ring of
red and blue around where the two tendrils join. He's stopped keeping his
bulges back, lashing and roiling inside you, and he tries to ask you – opens
his mouth and growls like a landslide and scrapes dual fang-marks into your
cheek – finally manages, "Want to – hold you here, make you feel this –" And
you know he's responding to what you asked for with your shivery kiss, before,
trapping you suspended, psionics holding you on the edge of orgasm as his arms
hold you floating at the center of the room, borne up under him now with
nothing but shimmering energy at your back.
His power reaches deeper, to the base of your sheath where not even fingers
could slide in, up behind the root of your bulge, and there's a squeezing there
where you've never felt it before, like he's tied a neat cord around something
inside you and it settles in with a sharp pinch and you groan, perfectly and
utterly blocked-in. You're mouthing at his throat and collarbones, clumsy with
tongue and fangs in this state of wild twitching overload, wanting to - wanting
- something, pleasured and aroused to the very threshold - no, past that
threshold suddenly still unable to release, clenching around him as your eyes
prick with tears, your whole body flaring with a burst of power rolling off
your skin, trying to let it out somehow-somewhere -
When the magnetic rush from you hits him he chokes off a shout and – there's a
new edge to the air around you, and when you open your eyes the whole room is
liquid shining, crystals and fractals and beams and spreading rays, and you
know the way he's quivering, know he's blowing off power as much to hold
himself in check as for the encompassing light –
The pressure still builds in you, maddening, incredible, pushes up through your
spine until it fizzes through your scalp, dizzying and impossible-bright and
you sob out loud. You don't know how your body is containing this - each near-
painful wave of pleasure rises and doesn’t retreat, and it has nowhere to go,
your glands are blocked-off and trapped and your bulge has coiled into a pair
of tight spirals between your skin and his, you can't tell if the trembling is
coming from you or him or the entire dreamspace and everything is shaking
itself apart except those anchor points that stay whole at any cost - you're
shaking yourself apart - it crests again and can't recede and can't break, this
unbearable flaming-bright ecstatic ache, your body and mind transparent and
dwindled to nothing, nothing but a container for the pressure and pleasure and
you're barely aware that your face is tear-soaked and your throat full of
noise, panicked and exulting and lost, beyond even begging.
His hands spread on your back are the only steady thing in this shifting-
reforming place, caging you in here, and when even they slide on sweat and dig
in, when his growling catches and stumbles and his bulges twist and spread and
the shuddering actually goes to inside you, when you half-feel energy-fingers
on the stops holding you back, phantoms of his intention, on the cusp of
releasing you – his power gives one more excruciatingly slow, squeezing, deep-
smoldering stroke down your coiled bulges, and the unclasping inside you is
like a tiny perfect cut, and he lets you go.
A wave of enfolding impossible reverence hits you, he can't speak, overcome and
amazed, but he can project into your mind, I love you, pity you, please let go
for me – And then even the inside of his mind is buzz and blur and searing
light. It almost doesn't feel any different at first - you’re already coming,
you have been for some indeterminate length of time, pleasure and pain are
meaningless categories, there's only complete overload - now each shrill pulse
of sensation ebbs a little, though, as he -
His bulges go from writhing to slow twisting and his stomach sucks in and
shudders against yours, his hands slide up to your shoulder, your neck, his
mouth is on yours but it's wide open, hardly a kiss at all, like he's going to
try to devour or inhale you – He's teetering, crunched-together tensing –
And you're being flooded inside, molten-hot and coating and flowing, his
fingers are digging into your neck hard enough to bruise but he's lost, wailing
into your mouth, barely holding you both locked in suspension as the whole room
reverberates with a final crack of stored-up power and air whistles past and
between you in a gushing fluorescent updraft.
You don't know how long you're tilting on that peak with your breathing going
to screaming, holding him there inside you, being held by him in every possible
way, only that time stutters and flickers and there are only the binary states
of noise and silence, instants interwoven, cutting in and out, thoughts turning
to shapes and colors because there’s nothing left of words.
Floating - flickering - slowly sinking with him, his arms trembling hard
against your back - there's both of your breathing and otherwise complete
strange silence, even the voices receded to nothing in the back of your head,
the slippery last pulses of his bulges inside you, your own tossing erratically
against your slick stomach -
The drift down is jerky, halting, cautious in his exhaustion, but still he
manages to flip you over so you're sprawled on top of him, trying not to put
his weight on you oversensitized as you are. He doesn't even stroke your back,
just rests his hands there, letting your senses go back to baseline, although
he does barely brush his fingers over the spot on your neck where they dug in
when he came, wincing even though you don't.
You nestle closer, try your voice to see what sound is like, manage a mush-
mouthed cooing, slide into purring against his neck - distantly notice that
normally you’d have things to say right now, but you’ve said them before and he
knows them all and there’s no sense of urgency to it, only to - keeping this
closeness, sliding against him in sweat and fluids, no partition between the
illusory and the real - and that thought makes you burst out laughing, still
breathy and utterly slackened in his arms as you settle into the couch, just
struck by the surreality of what it’s always like to clean yourself up after
this -
He's purring back at you, alternating swells and quiets of the sound with yours
so that the space fills with a steady content hum, continuing even through his
tired, puzzled smile down at you when you laugh.
"That's nothing," he says when he sorts through your thoughts and finds the
image that set you off. "I wish I could be there to see you trying to walk like
you just spent this time on your computer – heh, um.” His remark sets you off
into chuckles again, and you bury your face in his shoulder laughing and
purring at once, your muscles still beset with periodic aftershocks, making
your thighs shake and your hands clutch in his hair. “How are you feeling?" He
kisses the top of your head, the racing of his mind even barely-coherent aglow
like this always turning to that place where you hold his pain – "You can give
it back now, if you need to."
"I'm - I'm okay," you tell him, when words come back to you. It tires you
sometimes, to do this, but - he still doesn't quite believe how much easier it
is for you. You think sometimes that's because it isn't your pain; because it
doesn't belong to your own body; because you can brace for it and then sweep
your mind clean of it when it's gone.
You tried to explain this to him, once, and it met with the kind of
noncomprehension that - told you he had a concept for that, for pain as a thing
that came and went and wasn’t always a part of everything, but no referent for
the concept anymore; that he could only ever take it on faith, because you told
him so; and thinking of it now you bury the thought itself but don't try to
hide the surge of pity that knots you up inside and makes you cling tighter to
him, wanting - wanting something different, now.
Restless - you're more fucked-out than you've ever been in your life and
something in you is still restless, like a switch got stuck in the on position
somewhere in your mind or body and you can't even imagine making your bulge
move actively right now, the tendrils have halfway retreated, would be entirely
re-sheathed if not for how swollen they are, but the shakiness has pushed you
past exhaustion and into some kind of giddy jittery energy, you're probably on
an upswing right now and you should probably watch yourself but right now -
right now you want to see him as senseless from pleasure as he made you, and
you finish your abandoned sentence half expecting him to laugh at you
incredulously, but you prop yourself up and smirk lazy-bold at him and say, “I
don’t think we’re done with you. I mean. Fair’s fair, right?”
He chuckles with at least some of the unbelieving amusement you expect, says
still half-laughing, "Oh no, not fair at all." But then he narrows his eyes and
there's still banked hunger there, smirking like he's got a head full of images
of every inch of your body and what it looked and felt like minutes ago, in
midair. Like he'd do it all again right now, if the laws of the dreamspace were
just a bit more different from the physics of the real world than they are.
"You know I can't even conceive of ever saying no to you, my love, this is
anything but fair." He reaches up to cup your face, lazy and fond but sucking
in his lower lip as he does it, dry-mouthed. "But give me some time at least,
my unstoppable force, would you? I never thought it would be – that much power
and anyone else would be cinders. You were a wonder." He draws you down into an
unhurried kiss, strangely smooth and settled after the sparks and flaring
earlier.
"I don't think I could either, right away -" You laugh a little hysterically
and slump back down atop him, stretching all your limbs out slow and straight
like a meowbeast. Yes, the energy must be what's getting to you like this,
still lighting you up inside, even now when your senses should be muted and
your head wooly and narcotized. "Muscle tone, what is that, I, ah.” You’re
playing it back in your head, too, as much as he is, and there were moments
where you could barely see, barely hear over the din of sensation, and you’re
greedy for - for what he looks like, pushed to the outer boundary of pleasure
the way you were, for the sounds he’s going to make - “You’re beautiful,” you
murmur. “I still can’t believe - the way you just demolished me, it was
amazing. Can’t believe - any of this, sometimes.”
"I meant it, earlier, even though at the time I was just trying to rile you up
–" He's staring at the ceiling, petting your hair, slow diffusion of lingering
sparks around his fingers – "I think my desire rebuilt itself shaped like you;
you - look like yearning, to me, you're my concept of pity. I meant it. It's...
unspeakably lovely, all of it. You are." He kisses your horns, careful of the
tips, runs an eartip between two fingers, the movements of his hands vaguely
nervous now, the muscles of his chest going a little tense again under you. He
gets like this when he's tired, or overwhelmed, or off-center – rearranging
words into needless complexities for I pity you, his mind on something warm and
tiny and distant in the future. "...I just want you all the time, is all," and
you can't see him smiling around it, but you can hear the puff of self-effacing
laughter before he lapses into silence, adjusts his shoulders against the
pillows.
Even in the glowing mood you're in right now, you're abashed by the way he
regards you - can't imagine yourself so beautiful that it verges on sacred, and
you feel sometimes like you must have twisted him terribly, must have wished
too hard in a vulnerable moment and warped him somehow into loving you. You
laugh, a little sadly. “I wish I had something to give you that was... a less
aberrant substrate to build from, something that wasn’t just... me.”
He's giving you this kind of dazed, unfocused look like you just poured water
over his heart, "No, I didn't mean – I know this, what you've given me.
Accepted it, welcomed it." He takes your hand and guides it over his skin, to
the unbroken perfectly-knit back of his neck, and he has to know that isn't
what you mean, but it's emblematic of what your rebuilding has created, that he
can do this unflinching when you've seen what his real body - "I know the
magnitude of the gift, and I know the wonderful and awful parts of – of us. You
were made from me before I was made from you, my love.”
The words catch you up short, the logic of them circuitous and symmetrical and
perfect - duality redoubled, and you find yourself suddenly laughing again. “So
the question is its own answer. Or it has two answers, and no way to tell the
difference between them. Neither of us could be what we are, if not for the
other...”
“And whatever pulled you in to me, also drew me to you, since the beginning,
but... oh, but there's something so beautiful that I don't recognize, or even
understand sometimes, that I adore in you... that you must have made yourself."
The glow in his eyes is sheened-over reflection, not power, but he's still
purring, hushed-intimate and trusting.
Your head is full of time and happenstance and strangeness, cadences of moments
and events and the patterns and intricacies of the world and the pieces you’ve
seen of his early memories and - you can’t think of a protest to make, can’t
think of anything to say to that, not while meeting his eyes, so you turn aside
and lean into his shoulder and murmur “- I love you too, Astris.”
He breathes a content-affirming mewl into your hair; lapses still beneath you
for a while, until you feel more than hear one of his throaty half-chuckles
through your hand still pressed up in his against the back of his neck.
You smile and close your eyes, mutter something like a "What?" automatically
into his shoulder.
"...we've both totally lost it, haven't we? No troll in their right mind would
ever want to be either of us."
“Nope. Wait, I think that means I’m sane, at least. I still don’t want to be
either of us. But since I’m always going to be me, no matter what I do, we’d
better make the best of it, right?”
“If you mean what I think you do by making the best of it, then no argument
here,” drawled slow and sleepy, squeezing your hand.
His purring is an effortless susurrating comfort, so different now from the
pathetic rusted-shut sound at the beginning. Tactile satisfaction rising
through your chest, tickling at your cheek pressed to his throat, as the two of
you lie there drifting for a long while, not sleeping, still in the normal
dream-trance but idle, contented, with no need to speak aloud.
It's slow, the voicing that creeps into it, rumble going to hum going to
something like a long-held closed-mouthed note as the fingers that had stilled
on your scalp return to tiny almost-involuntary circlings against your skin.
And although the sheath of his bulge is still smooth under your stomach, he
doesn't try to hide the subtly faster kick of his heartbeat, the slip and catch
of his breath when he wraps his other arm around you, over the dips and ridges
of your spine, the yielding reach of your waist.
It starts with just a gentle press of open lips, and you can’t stop, running
your tongue along the roof of his mouth, along the line of his top lip, slowly,
taking your time. You’re physically sated but still magnetized, restless-
skittering with energy, enough that you could do a lot of what he just did to
you, if you tried, could lift him up and swathe him in brightness - but your
thoughts have turned deliberate and possessive, and you want to make every
touch count, and he opens his mouth under yours indolent and pliable and
continuously purring, a vibration that rises from the back of his throat but
barely reaches his lips for how loud it is, and when you pull away his cheeks
are already dusted ochre and his mouth doesn't close all the way and he's
staring at your lips, your fangs, knowing exactly what you're thinking and
playing into it for the moment, laid out drowsy and loose-jointed.
You slide up along the angles of this body that you love and pity so much, made
from memory and dream and sheer determination. As you shift and reach he pulls
himself up and licks your chest, no teeth at all, just his tongue, and you know
you must be salty with dried sweat but his purring breaks for a fond little
rolled-up chirr, a sound that lengthens back into low appreciative singsong
encouragement when the pads of your fingers brush his smaller horns. They still
give off faint light, and from your own experience you know how sensitive they
must be after all that – he leaves off lolling his head back into your stroking
when you reach the membranes at the base with an almost-too-much shiver. But he
drops it again almost immediately, presses back into your touch drawn in like
fingers against a bruise.
You keep working at him there, slow but growing firmer as you go, drawing
little circles around his horns with your fingers, then adding trickles of your
own power, letting it zap and arc from your fingers and enwrap the soft
membranes in little continuously-moving whorls, expanding out along his scalp,
bending your head again to kiss him, but drawing back up quickly to look at
him, at how gorgeous he is decadent and sprawled and open-mouthed and yours,
enjoying the way his purring goes hitched-irregular as you escalate your
teasing -
He drapes his arms over your shoulders as you kiss him, not pulling you in,
just grounding himself with his hands on your back. Your power reverberates and
builds between his horns until he whines softly, reedy and a little amazed, his
claws pinching into your skin, still not quite used to this overstrained
sensitivity. "It's good," he breathes, before you can ask, "Keep going –"
You do, you let the light radiate off you and seep in and around and through,
remembering what he did to you earlier, returning the favor in full - your
bulge isn’t capable of so much as twitching, not yet, not after the way he
worked you over, but a kind of warmth unfurls in you to hear and feel him
reacting, trusting you. Entirely psionics, now, touching his horns, and you
move your fingers to his ears and run your claws from the tips to the underside
of the lobes, ever so lightly, focusing - concentrating - you lean forward and
mouth one ear-tip, stroking at it with your tongue, conscious that you’re
mirroring what he did, you do this sometimes so that the things you know how to
feel can be added to his canvas, detail for detail -
He's all stillness and deep attention from the moment his ear is touched, and
his mind tugs at yours, soaking in your memory of his tongue and teeth as you
felt them. He's told you about the doubled way he perceives your touch when you
do this, flowing into one as you keep going – and a responsive oh tells you
it's working as his calves and feet stir and rub against yours at the end of
the couch, catching a bit of your restlessness from the energy thrumming around
his head.
You lick at those horn-membranes, too, let the two tips of your tongue nestle
around one of the smaller ones, wanting to see how far you can take him just by
touching his horns, his ears, his face - you draw a claw still ticklish-light
along his jaw, down the neck; lean in and kiss one eyelid, murmuring his name
in a soft whisper as you do, holding it in your voice like a wall to keep ugly
phantoms away from him and this place and this moment.
He's basking in your focus, lifting his chin to expose his face and neck, so
closely attuned that little loops of his power prickle at your hands and mouth,
grasping at every detail of every movement. Chants your name in return, call-
and-response, vibration all through it from shaken-crooked remnants of purring
– cuts off and holds his breath at the brush of your lips, and through his
eyelid you can almost taste his focus, in no danger of losing himself but
trying hard not just to ride it out; to let your touch seep in and rewrite old
associations. Somehow at once serene and dissatisfied at the gentleness, hands
making little seeking stuttering motions along your sides.
This is how you want him, opening to you languid and craving at once - you
press your lips to the other eyelid, soft and careful and slow and the pads of
your thumbs graze over his ears and you whisper his name again, and “Yes, go
ahead, hang on to me,” still keeping his horns wreathed in bright sparks,
narrowing, intensifying - your hands chasing across his neck, his chest, down
to his grubscars - you want that dissatisfaction as much as anything, sweet
retaliation or symmetry, you want to be soft and gentle and slow until he
pleads for more and harder and faster -
He nods, mute, and stops his hands to cling to you, his fingers finding
purchase between your ribs; opens his eyes and there's light reaching to join
them, not the crazed impossible brightness of before at all, just two drifts of
it, like red and blue smoke, holding to your shoulders. He still whines and
gasps sometimes when the power caught between his horns strengthens and snaps
and re-forms; but he's not quite within reach of the words you want from him
yet, the balance of this still tipping toward watched-over stroked-pliant
contentment, hands and psionics poised to pull but still unmoving. He tips his
head back and his sigh is shaped like Oh, yes, just this with all the vowels
dropped -
You stroke his ribs with a tiny hint of claw, now, just enough to snag and
pause over the grubscars, then down to his hipbones, and you pull up and back a
little to reach them with both hands, claws chasing sideways, feather-light
verging on ticklish - lean back in and kiss along his collarbone, up his neck,
to his ear again, still not letting up on his horns -
He shivers under the scratching – stills again with obvious effort – but when
your claws hover on his hips he forgets entirely not to arc up into them. A
quivering, sustained opening-up ripple effect, moaning soft and fluid as your
mouth closes around his earlobe, needy-demonstrative, fingers and psionics
dragging at your body, "Hmm, please –" in a whispered rush, quiet enough that
you could pretend not to hear –
You make a contented mmmm noise around his ear - with your own arousal so
completely burned through, if this is a game there’s no question of who will
win it. Though even still his desire gets to you, tugs at you in the
bloodpusher and at the base of your spine - “Pity you,” you breathe into his
neck, your voice ringing with your still near-incredulous gratitude for just
having him, and you circle his hips again with your claws and then dig in
harder, almost-not-quite then barely enough to break skin.
His hips kick up and press and he yelps, jolted-undignified and less discomfort
than just bright want. His sheath is reopening, wet and dark and barely the tip
of his bulge showing, his body less overwhelmed than yours but still lagging
behind his begging as his eyes spark up at you – "I – yes, need your pity, lost
without you – Please –"
The way he says it makes every vulnerable moment, the good and the bad, flicker
through your head and you're dizzy with the desire to protect him that's the
other side of the desire to pail him and it all just smashes together into - "I
want to make you feel so amazing you'll forget there's anything but this -
" still tracing circles in light scratches over his hipbones.
The look he gives you is hairline-cracked awestruck like what you said was
almost too much, almost dragged him out of this into thoughts of
impossibilities, but he's repeating, "Yes, yes," lisped hard and shot through
with longing.
You balance on your elbow and tease with your palm just right above his sheath,
rubbing lightly where he'll feel it inside without touching, and he covers your
hand with one of his, trying for more pressure, the other going to his hair,
nervous-unconscious pulling and twisting - until you clasp it to stillness in
yours, let power vibrate out of you and coat all the sensitive places between
his fingers, and he shivers so hard at the attention to his hand that his fangs
click against yours and pluck at your lip - and you kiss him hard and let him
press your palm down firmly at the base of his abdomen. You can feel the root
of his bulge responding to your touch, faintly, underneath his skin; and you
let out rays of bright energy here too, focused and directed to drive right
through it, to touch his bulge from the inside, the way he’s done for you so
often and you’ve sometimes done for him, but angling in the other direction
this time, from inside to out -
When your energy starts to wrap into and through his bulge his hands tighten on
yours almost to bruising. He's nuzzling his whole face up into yours, mouth and
nose and forehead, those flickers of power still rising from his skin, a fuzz
of soft glow that laps and tugs at you. Through the skin above his sheath you
can feel his bulge squirming and thickening under your hand as it emerges,
until the tips drag against your wrist, discharging little sparks into your
arm.
You answer with your fingers, curl them around the tendrils as you intensify
the energy you’re running through him - near-effortless, after all the power
he’s poured into you, harder now to stifle it down than to let it surge and
crackle through your palm, making a loop, a circuit through his bulge and back
into your hand again, as you lick along his upper lip and murmur, “Yes, there
we go -” against the corner of his mouth.
The oversensitized-delighted sound he makes at the direct contact to his bulge
is almost a squeak and completely undignified, and he laughs breathlessly at
himself even as he squirms and bucks his hips up into your hand. You’re
catching edges of sense-memories as he calls them up - fragments from minutes
ago - and you realize that he’s casting them into your head on purpose at the
same time that he grins around a gasp and the projected sensations snap into
vivid skin-close focus: your nook clasping around both of his bulges,
constricting and liquid heat, and the sound of your fractured pleasure-heavy
breaths on the edge of screaming -
- and it draws an insensible incredulous noise from you, off-guard, but two can
play at that game, he’s given you so much tonight and it’s too easy, now, to
bring to mind and feed back to him: his power hot on your skin, encompassing,
igniting you to all-over need - the experience of that same moment from within,
incoherent with sensation, dragged over and past the brink with no relief, an
explosion in slow motion, frame by frame, still relentlessly running power
through him as you do, letting the tips of his bulge twine between your fingers
-
He arches up with a stuttery cry of recognition and raw emotion, reveling for a
moment in the unforgiving rush of energy; his mind, still deliberately open, a
clamor of reverent unbelief, I – I did this to you– then a gathering in,
remembering what he was doing – he disentangles his hands from yours and holds
onto your sides again, anticipatory, and even though from the outside he looks
all rutting hedonic incoherence he's still able to speak clear enough, still
breathless but also just barely inflected with mischief, into your head, Now,
you can give me more, come on – overwhelm me back, I can handle it today, I
dare you, I want you to –
- and mischievous back, whispering into his mind, you’ve taught me so much of
precision, I’d be remiss not to use it- still high from the sensation and
energy, but no longer urgent, able to multitask, to wind loops and whorls of
power around him, reaching for every sensitive place, letting circuits of
bright sparks flow from your fingers through his bulges, bright lines around
his horns and all down his spine, exactly where you know he’ll feel it white-
hot and sensitizing.
He braces hard against your ribcage, aware enough to keep his claws away but
the pads of his fingers still digging blunt furrows, his back bowing up along
the line of your power, his whole body thrumming and lifting again, just
barely, just trying to press up against you physically, to ground this overflow
of sensation in you and where you are. Conflict merges up to you from his mind,
pity and dual desire, the high constant repeated note of please and the keening
in his throat and the twitching urgency as he reaches up to suck and mark at
your neck, the tensing of his bulges around your hand taut and aching with
current - and yet still beneath it all is wait, and he holds back and holds on
and resists, his power wrapping around yours and insulating it in sensitive
places, palpably damped eartips and collarbones and between his legs and don’t
want this to end, don’t want you to go - even when the holding on is painful,
when his whining goes ragged-sharp with it.
But you're incandescent with the power he's poured into you and aching-heavy
with borrowed pain and you need, so much, to give him one perfect moment, to
hold him here completely, while you can, to burn his mind through with enough
pleasure to make every other concept fade away for even a fraction of a second.
You back off for a moment, pull energy away from the loop of current through
his bulges, but just for a moment, just long enough to let him steady himself,
to make the contrast sharper when you bring the intensity higher again -
A rush of distress from the part of his mind that wanted more, and now he does
scrabble at your sides, clutching, wordless loss –
- and then it's your turn now to tell him it's okay, let go, as you suckle at
the bases of his horns and breathe warmth into his hair and stroke his tendrils
with your fingers and let sparks dance and spread like lightning through the
hidden spots beneath his skin -
He lets out a sudden quavering moan, taken by surprise but not afraid, and
tightens his arms around you convulsively, as much skin to skin as he can
reach, all spreading thighs and tilting hips to let your hand move and it knots
you up, strange and almost too intimate, that the light rising and snapping
from his body now is yours, not his, he's released his stops on your energy and
it surges untrammeled through him waxing and overflowing. Cries out repeated
weirdly soft sounds of pity and being taken over, slipping close to the edge,
and it's true, the power you're pulsing through him would be a weapon on anyone
else, but turned on him, on his body like yours hatched to inescapable
brightness, you know it's like a welcome transfusion into his nerves -
When you say his name, lips vibrating softly against his horns, it's to soothe
and anchor, and you let your weight settle against him and - currents tangle
like lines, you push power through your eyes and your hands and add another
thread of energy to reach deep into his nook and caress the mirrors of nerves
you've found in yourself - and you've forgotten, somewhere along the line,
exactly how much it takes to overreach yourself, the fine-tuned control harder
on you than the level of power, but you remember those limits are there when
something in your head suddenly constricts like a vise, you feel it dimly and
you shove it down under your awareness, determined to just enjoy what you’re
doing to him -
Astris actually stops breathing when the current twists up into his nook,
completely coated in your power now all over and through and within, and you’re
going to pay for this last exuberant outpouring of energy but it’s worth it - a
webwork of signals returning to you from every touch and he knows it, that you
see him nerve by nerve as he finally goes alight. Wails thinly and curls all
full-body inward-folding in pleasure until a horn nicks your lip and his
shoulders dig into your chest and his thighs smear and spasm against yours – as
his bulges slip between your fingers, suddenly too slick to hold keep their
hold on the clutching and writhing in your grip, yellow falling and flowing and
dripping between and soaking down to your wrist – as final wisps and dribs of
his power mingle with the reflected glow of yours to rush back across your skin
and his presence in your mind inundates in sensation and washes down to sweet
limpid near-blankness.
You slump down over him shaky and it's astoundingly effortful just to keep the
pain from his far-away body locked down for a little longer, while your own
body rebels - but you do, squeezing your eyes shut hard to concentrate, you
want him to wring every last drifting moment of this for everything it's worth
before it has to end - silent and limp, just trying to breathe and let the
satisfaction of this soak into the parts of you that can feel it, as your
thinkpan rapidly goes jagged with shooting spikes and broken waveforms.
And he does, smiling up you wobbly and stretched in a sprawl on the couch and
purring in staticy bursts, bringing a hand up in a wondering shaky stroke to
touch your face –
"Oh," he whispers then, startled but too strung-languid sated to recognize your
incipient migraine immediately for what it is, afraid instead that you’ve done
yourself injury tying back his suffering, like he’s always been afraid you
would. Fingers hovering over your brow, piecing himself together, until that
grimace of self-reproof that you so carefully tried to delay pulls at the
corners of his mouth and he takes his hand away, cautious, "Oh, I'm – I'm
sorry, that looks bad, here, let me –" His presence gathers in your mind where
his pain is barely, thinly held, a delicately wound ghosting reach that asks
for its return without pressing at anything that might trip more pain in you.
You let go slowly, and that's difficult too, the lag between thought and action
like moving through murky sopor, but when you've taken out one by one the stops
on that particular piece of control, you let out a long trembling breath and
manage to slur, "Power bigger than my head problem," and shut your eyes again,
burying your face in his neck.
"Well, we can get as bigheaded as anyone I've ever met, so that must've been
quite some power. Here." He's rubbing careful circles into your upper back and
shoulders, stroking up the back of your neck but stopping short of your scalp,
just easing tension.
The touch of his hands with his power damped down from the surface to keep from
adding to your overload feels mismatched somehow, dulled, missing the snap and
buzz that usually accompanies contact. His thoughts seep from your thinkpan,
withdrawing with his pain, and although you would never admit it the lifting
away of his worry and reflexive guilt lightens you a little, leaves your mind
freer and the pain easier to bear up under – too easy – his mind swirls out of
you and the wincing peaks of your migraine blunt down to manageable swells and
it's far too early in the course of your headache for this return of clarity –
and as the hammering pain seems to draw down and detach and pull back from your
temples you feel phantom fingers against your skull, warm and easing, not
psionic touch exactly but –
"You're -" After all the arguments you've had with him from the other side of
this, you can hardly refuse outright, your head is clearing enough to know that
much, but it feels wrong not to protest - "You deal with more than your share
already. Are you sure you want to -"
Astris gives you that tired, ancient half-smile, the one like a cipher that is
sometimes a true crack in his facade of being entirely present and sometimes a
ploy to try to get you to drop your objections and let him have some joy in
taking care of you for once and mostly both and says, simply, "Yes." And, with
a low, rueful half-begun laugh, "Stealth and subtlety aren't great strengths of
ours, are they? Yes, I want to. I know this isn't... nearly what you do for me,
it isn't difficult –" (It's a drop in the ocean, it's nothing–) "But – well, I
started it." Laughter in his eyes again, and a little tilted gleam of pride –
"I should have known you would want to match me, give back – you're too good to
me – here, let me –" He stops rubbing your back and wraps his arms around you,
curling down so that his cheek is pressed to yours as he draws more of your
migraine away from you, faster now that he isn't trying to hide.
And you let him, collapsing into his arms with a quiet sigh that turns into a
chuckle; you know he’s right, that it’s tiny by comparison and that’s a shard
of pity in your heart, knowing what he goes through - and you’re buzzing all
over from the energy and the exertion, dazed and soft and proud of him and of
yourself in ways you can’t quite describe in your own mind.
For a little while longer. Only this.
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