It's hard to think of a new, interesting threat, or anything at all, when he's being fingered. Kabal's got the broken-in mitts of a fighter. Knuckles thick and gnarled from pummeling skulls, fingers callused and scarred to hell and back.
Some people might find that a turn-off. Not Len. This is what he knows, and what he wants . Somewhere between nature and nurture. Men with skin that looks and feels like rawhide with a personality to match don't bat an eyelash at Len's scarred body, or how hard he needs to be fucked in order to feel anything but his own hurt.
He hasn't been with that kind of man (or any other) in a long time. Kabal's touch is rough, and Len is painfully tight. His breathing quick and shallow until the worst of the discomfort is over, and the finger inside of him feels less like an intruder and more like a guest.
Len's adaptable like that. When he wants something, really wants something, he gets it.
And right now, Len wants this more than anything. All he's wanted for days, weeks, months is burnt skin beneath his hands, and strong arms to hold him.
Kabal isn't Mick, but he's something like him. Close enough.
Or, maybe he's different in all the right ways.
Right now, Kabal's the only person who wants Len back. That's got to count for something.
"More." A low, strained growl. Through bared teeth. One hand wrapped around their cocks, the other gripping onto Kabal's shoulder so tight his knuckles are white. Blue eyes as bright and wild as any wolf's.
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It's hard to think of a new, interesting threat, or anything at all, when he's being fingered. Kabal's got the broken-in mitts of a fighter. Knuckles thick and gnarled from pummeling skulls, fingers callused and scarred to hell and back.
Some people might find that a turn-off. Not Len. This is what he knows, and what he wants
. Somewhere between nature and nurture. Men with skin that looks and feels like rawhide with a personality to match don't bat an eyelash at Len's scarred body, or how hard he needs to be fucked in order to feel anything but his own hurt.
He hasn't been with that kind of man (or any other) in a long time. Kabal's touch is rough, and Len is painfully tight. His breathing quick and shallow until the worst of the discomfort is over, and the finger inside of him feels less like an intruder and more like a guest.
Len's adaptable like that. When he wants something, really wants something, he gets it.
And right now, Len wants this more than anything. All he's wanted for days, weeks, months is burnt skin beneath his hands, and strong arms to hold him.
Kabal isn't Mick, but he's something like him. Close enough.
Or, maybe he's different in all the right ways.
Right now, Kabal's the only person who wants Len back. That's got to count for something.
"More." A low, strained growl. Through bared teeth. One hand wrapped around their cocks, the other gripping onto Kabal's shoulder so tight his knuckles are white. Blue eyes as bright and wild as any wolf's.
How's that for a threat?