[Having fallen out of practice, L would have expected it to take longer to remember the natural rhythm of pursuing climax. Like a magic eye picture, focusing too hard or trying to force it isn't the answer, but a kind of relinquishment of something he usually maintains tight control over. Hector's hands on the blades of his hips are just a brief refresher, because he wants to move, in a way he feels he could if his mind was reduced altogether to sheer instinct.
He knows these techniques; he knows what Hector's doing. Instinct responds, anyway; it's a magic trick performed so well that L actually doesn't care that he knows the secret, and arches into the exquisite pleasure that Hector lavishes on him as though the desire to please him is real, and the one between his knees really wants to be there.
Thought slips away. His moan is longer, influenced by the note hummed by Hector. Of the two of them, someone is picking up the pace, and it's where it needs to be to drive a certain crescendo that feels familiar and natural, now that it's building to cascading waves of more intense sensation. He pulls on the horns, tenses and shudders and spills and speaks, and there's a name rolling from his lips like an errant drop of honey he should have taken more care to contain.]
Myr...!
[He says, as he clings and comes hard against the back of Hector's open throat. It's been months; longer still, since he was a willing and glad participant in an act like this. La petite mort leaves him breathless and flushed, and the alcohol surely sweetens the surrender further; the question of when la petite mortification will creep burning into his cheeks is a matter of when realization has caught up to him.]
no subject
He knows these techniques; he knows what Hector's doing. Instinct responds, anyway; it's a magic trick performed so well that L actually doesn't care that he knows the secret, and arches into the exquisite pleasure that Hector lavishes on him as though the desire to please him is real, and the one between his knees really wants to be there.
Thought slips away. His moan is longer, influenced by the note hummed by Hector. Of the two of them, someone is picking up the pace, and it's where it needs to be to drive a certain crescendo that feels familiar and natural, now that it's building to cascading waves of more intense sensation. He pulls on the horns, tenses and shudders and spills and speaks, and there's a name rolling from his lips like an errant drop of honey he should have taken more care to contain.]
Myr...!
[He says, as he clings and comes hard against the back of Hector's open throat. It's been months; longer still, since he was a willing and glad participant in an act like this. La petite mort leaves him breathless and flushed, and the alcohol surely sweetens the surrender further; the question of when la petite mortification will creep burning into his cheeks is a matter of when realization has caught up to him.]