[And when you do let go, when all of you starts spilling into him, it's enough to set the rest of him off, to drag out that particular whine past his lips that only ever comes when he's been completely taken over the edge. This is yet another first for you, and maybe that, in itself, is fucking amazing. You've fucked him before, but you've never fucked him to a point where he could sound and look and feel quite like this.
The crest of his own pleasure comes out in the way he's emptying himself between the two of you, and it dies down in the most agonizing way for him possible: in shakes and tremors, in heat that's more than capable of shredding his will and his thoughts apart as it spreads all over his body and right down to the smallest ends of him. Everything has blended together in that moment, regardless of whether it was nothing but good (i.e. you close, you here, you pushing him over), nothing but painful (i.e. the tight grip you have on his wrists and the press of your other hand and leg on his body, as if those things are the only things keeping you steady), or an odd mix of both (i.e. how the two of you got here in the first place, the way you've marked his skin), and when all of that finally starts to fade...
There's no thought, because you're still inside of him and the rest of you has sunk down past his skin and into his soul, keeping him under. He's the boneless, shuddering heap of muscle and nerves and need beneath your body, because he's only beginning to figure out, yet again, how to breathe right/how to keep himself together in his own body without you holding on to him. (It isn't quite working out the way it ought to.)]
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The crest of his own pleasure comes out in the way he's emptying himself between the two of you, and it dies down in the most agonizing way for him possible: in shakes and tremors, in heat that's more than capable of shredding his will and his thoughts apart as it spreads all over his body and right down to the smallest ends of him. Everything has blended together in that moment, regardless of whether it was nothing but good (i.e. you close, you here, you pushing him over), nothing but painful (i.e. the tight grip you have on his wrists and the press of your other hand and leg on his body, as if those things are the only things keeping you steady), or an odd mix of both (i.e. how the two of you got here in the first place, the way you've marked his skin), and when all of that finally starts to fade...
There's no thought, because you're still inside of him and the rest of you has sunk down past his skin and into his soul, keeping him under. He's the boneless, shuddering heap of muscle and nerves and need beneath your body, because he's only beginning to figure out, yet again, how to breathe right/how to keep himself together in his own body without you holding on to him. (It isn't quite working out the way it ought to.)]