abraxaslogs | [ OPEN ] the fate of the game is moving my way.

Rhy's breath hitches too, a tiny shudder sliding down his spine when Ronan moves, adjusting them without withdrawing. Gingerly, while trying to catch his breath, Rhy lets his legs down to relax on either side of Ronan. Every movement is a new flicker of feeling, butterflies behind his ribs.

His thumb strokes the soft skin behind Ronan's ear, down his jaw and the side of his neck. Rhy presses their faces close and closes his eyes.

Each touch drags the electricity in his blood like a magnet through whatever part of his body Ronan's fingers slide down. Entranced by the rhythm of it, Rhy's breathing slows and deepens, his heart matching the pace Ronan's sets for him. It is almost too much, his skin too hot and sensitive-- but at the same time it feels perfect too, that Ronan should draw out the pleasure of it without making him suffer the need to fully let their bodies cool.

Rhy sighs out a trembling breath. He used to remember what words are. An attempt at one just yields a low groan that might have been part of Ronan's name.

Ronan answers by turning his head just enough to brush a kiss to Rhy's cheek. An acknowledgment. An agreement. Yes, he knows. He feels it, too. It's thrumming in his blood. Every place his skin makes contact with Rhy's, a kind of warmth that's more than heat feels like it's dancing back and forth between them.

And the funny thing is, Ronan has no idea if it's a consequence of magic or simply the feeling of being with Rhy. Maybe he would feel this if he was nothing more than human.

He stops himself just short of considering the question of love, although the next few kisses he drags along Rhy's jaw are as romantic as they are sensual. They've just shared something phenomenal and rare. He wants Rhy to feel all the worship he deserves for allowing Ronan to have him.

"I could live right here," he sighs, rocking his hips just enough to make it clear where he's talking about. Not this bed. Not this room. Inside Rhy himself.

His hands slide from Rhy's thighs to the small of his back, linking loosely beneath him. He tucks his face into the crook of Rhy's neck, feeling that pulse against his lips. He's put his mouth to the Singularity before and felt this very same thing: belonging.

Ronan's lips are so wonderfully soft, each breath a warm caress along his jaw. Rhy tips his head back, eyes shut, letting out a sigh--

The tail end of which shivers in his throat, breaks into a quietly euphoric moan. His thighs tense briefly, toes curling. He nuzzles into Ronan's silky hair next to his cheek.

He finds his voice, if only barely, a whisper pressed to Ronan's head. "I'd be tempted to let you."

His hand runs up and down Ronan's spine, tracing idle patterns on his back, wanting only to touch him.

"I want to... keep feeling you, just like this."

And he rocks his hips again too, in case there was any doubt. If Ronan wants to go again when he's ready, he needn't wait.

Thanks to the combined magic of his dreamt oil and his overwhelming desire for Rhy, Ronan is perpetually ready. Though his cock throbs harder as Rhy moves, he'd only softened just enough to make his reinvigorated swell obvious enough to feel. The groan that slips past his lips sounds almost pained, drawn thin with the understanding that nothing will ever sate him, but the need to strive for it makes his heart beat faster anyway.

He hardly moves, at first. His hips give the slightest twitch in response, feeling out how tight Rhy's squeezed around him when they're lying like this.

"It's not too much?" he asks. Rhy isn't Ronan, after all. He's not used to taking it at all, let alone repeatedly. Potentially for hours, if they're not stopped.

His next thrust is a subtle one, timed with a deep inhale and exhale. He's doing little more than savoring Rhy's body, their hips gently swaying together. Holding Rhy in his embrace, Ronan would pull him closer if they had any closer to get.

He'll feel Rhy tighten further, his thighs coming up again to squeeze softly on either side of Ronan's hips. His breath shivers out of him, and he presses his fingertips into the small of Ronan's back with a whimper muffled behind his bitten bottom lip.

"It might be."

His own body hasn't quite recovered, but the truth is, that's not what he's after. It never was. He realizes that now -- what feels good isn't his own pleasure, it's Ronan's, inside him. The echo of it, bouncing back, the heat trapped between them. He wants to feel more of Ronan than himself. He wants to get utterly lost in it. He wants 'too much' more than 'just enough.'

"I've... never felt this way before."

Ronan doesn't pretend that Rhy means that in any kind of romantic way. Where he might once have been fooled, he understands enough now to know that what's happening between them is an exchange of energy. It's physical — and possibly even spiritual — but Rhy isn't falling in love with him. What he's never felt before is Ronan's enchantment, something he'd inadvertently used to bind Adam to him back home and used more intentionally with Kylo in the Horizon.

All of them have gotten something unique out of their bargain with Ronan, but Rhy is the first one who's taking life from him. Maybe it's cruel of Ronan to give him a taste of this when he knows Rhy will have to humiliate himself if he ever wants to feel it again, but then, how would he know what he was asking for if Ronan didn't show him first?

"It's even better than I thought it would be," he confesses. Their last time together had been so relentlessly amazing that it'd seemed like they might not be able to part, and that feeling was only a fraction of this.

It's impossible to keep from seeking more. His thrusts pick up a slow but steady rhythm, churning Rhy from deep inside. Voice quivering with the shocks of pleasure even that gentle movement sends through his nerves, he continues, "I want this for you. Always. Anytime you want it. Doesn't it feel right? You should be filled with me. You would never be alone."

It is too much, too soon-- He doesn't care. He is greedy, wanting, needing more even as the magic and the pleasure sing through his blood so sharp it's almost pain.

Rhy's body arches beneath Ronan's in a quivering spasm, blunt nails digging hard into the crowded canvas of his back. He is panting, wild, clinging like this is his only salvation. Like he instinctively knows it is true. When Ronan grinds deep inside him, the pressure is so intense it chokes a sob from Rhy's throat.

"I don't want to be alone," he pleads, cradling Ronan's head against himself with his other hand still at the back of his neck. It is clumsy, a little rough. The panic is an echo of a memory, and still enough to press his lips to Ronan's hair and beg. "This feels-- yes. Just like that. Right and perfect and-- alive. With you."

Even Rhy doesn't think this is love. Not like this, not yet. But it is important. If he wants to feel guilty for using Ronan, now is hardly the time.

"I feel you -- your heartbeat, your warmth -- inside me. It feels so..."

This is the most complete he's felt in months.

A moan rolls out of Ronan, aching with desire. His hips jerk more and more frantically, chasing the promise of fulfillment that's buried deep, deep inside Rhy. He can feel Rhy's loneliness like it's a piece of himself that's splintered off, and every part of his being is crying out to be reunited with it. It feels so close to him when they're like this, like he can grasp it if he just keeps pushing.

"I'll be so good to you," he promises breathlessly, as if this is a negotiation. As if he's not already here, doing it.

But this is only the beginning. Could so easily be the end, too, if Rhy doesn't come away from this convinced of Ronan's value. It's an unbearable notion, the possibility of separation. Right now, he can't imagine stopping, let alone stopping forever.

Rhy's clawing hands, so desperate for him, only spur him on. The more Rhy wants, the more Ronan will give. He drags his mouth over Rhy's skin, pressing less coherent promises there and pleading wordlessly for Rhy to take more of him. He wants to flood Rhy with his warmth, to drown him in it.

[ OPEN ] the fate of the game is moving my way.

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