[ What will Floyd's response be? Rejection, denial? Some sort of declaration of how foolish he was to trust Floyd for long enough to even get to that point?
The wait isn't long. It feels like an eternity, sure, but it really isn't longer than a few seconds. A minute at most.
Instead of any type of rejection, he gets a type of acceptance, one that he wants to reply to, one that he wants to say anything in response to.
Any words are quickly wiped away as Floyd grabs him, rocks him, reminds him of their literal connection. Ugh, and his face, buried there against his neck. Riddle felt overwhelmed all over again, whimpering with a not-so-quiet need, a drive that pushes him forward.
His body is compliant, easy to move not only with Floyd's differing strength in comparison to his own, but by virtue of his Heat. Both of his hands fall against the bed near his head, only for one to lift back up, tangling back in Floyd's hair as he tilts his head to make room. Those slow, deep thrusts paired with Floyd pressing down so firmly against him -- his breathing is labored, unfocused. ]
Haa...? Mnn, Floyd, do you have to ask?
[ Riddle complains, his hand falling down from Floyd's hair to his back, to one of his shoulder blades, his nails digging in. He lowers his voice, as if to keep this a secret between them. ]
no subject
The wait isn't long. It feels like an eternity, sure, but it really isn't longer than a few seconds. A minute at most.
Instead of any type of rejection, he gets a type of acceptance, one that he wants to reply to, one that he wants to say anything in response to.
Any words are quickly wiped away as Floyd grabs him, rocks him, reminds him of their literal connection. Ugh, and his face, buried there against his neck. Riddle felt overwhelmed all over again, whimpering with a not-so-quiet need, a drive that pushes him forward.
His body is compliant, easy to move not only with Floyd's differing strength in comparison to his own, but by virtue of his Heat. Both of his hands fall against the bed near his head, only for one to lift back up, tangling back in Floyd's hair as he tilts his head to make room. Those slow, deep thrusts paired with Floyd pressing down so firmly against him -- his breathing is labored, unfocused. ]
Haa...? Mnn, Floyd, do you have to ask?
[ Riddle complains, his hand falling down from Floyd's hair to his back, to one of his shoulder blades, his nails digging in. He lowers his voice, as if to keep this a secret between them. ]
You were always going to be mine.