Two fingers is almost enough to make him moan. His head snaps back, eyes shutting tight. Yes, it hurts, but the pain goes hand in hand with pleasure. Len doesn't know how to live any other way. No risk, no reward. Len doesn't do moderation. Small-time jobs don't interest him, and neither do small-time dicks.
Len's just as eager to get to the main event as his sparring partner. All this is just a warm-up for the little death-match, which ideally won't kill either of them. He could and probably should be more concerned with Kabal's wounds, but hey, Kabal came onto him.
Judging by the state of their hard-ons, throbbing between them and ready to blow, it's too late to turn back now without big blue consequences.
Besides, Len always-almost-sometimes-usually keeps his promises. To the people who matter, anyway.
And Kabal is getting dangerously close.
Len should be more concerned about that, too. The way his body is responding to the touch of a man he hardly knows, who was trying to murder him a couple days ago, like it's never wanted anything more. Len is tight, but his muscles aren't pushing Kabal out. They're taking him in. Demanding more of him. Greedy and self-destructive, like the rest of Len.
The stretch hurts so good. Filling the emptiness inside of him in a beautiful, albeit temporary way nothing else can recreate. Toys aren't the same as the hot, rough touch of another human, and porn can't compare to the dark eyes staring down at him, or their simple, honest, animal intent.
Fucking himself open isn't the same as being worked open by the man about to rearrange his guts. Len kneels to no man, but he'll spread his legs for the right one if it means scratching that itch.
Kabal will never own him, but Len would love to feel him try.
"Are you waiting for an invitation?"
Eyes slitted, kiss-swollen lips stretched into a cat-like smirk. Len can't resist teasing Kabal, even as his sweat soaks the sheets, dripping down the backs of his trembling thighs. Hole pulsing around Kabal's fingers.
no subject
Len's just as eager to get to the main event as his sparring partner. All this is just a warm-up for the little death-match, which ideally won't kill either of them. He could and probably should be more concerned with Kabal's wounds, but hey, Kabal came onto him.
Judging by the state of their hard-ons, throbbing between them and ready to blow, it's too late to turn back now without big blue consequences.
Besides, Len always-almost-sometimes-usually keeps his promises. To the people who matter, anyway.
And Kabal is getting dangerously close.
Len should be more concerned about that, too. The way his body is responding to the touch of a man he hardly knows, who was trying to murder him a couple days ago, like it's never wanted anything more. Len is tight, but his muscles aren't pushing Kabal out. They're taking him in. Demanding more of him. Greedy and self-destructive, like the rest of Len.
The stretch hurts so good. Filling the emptiness inside of him in a beautiful, albeit temporary way nothing else can recreate. Toys aren't the same as the hot, rough touch of another human, and porn can't compare to the dark eyes staring down at him, or their simple, honest, animal intent.
Fucking himself open isn't the same as being worked open by the man about to rearrange his guts. Len kneels to no man, but he'll spread his legs for the right one if it means scratching that itch.
Kabal will never own him, but Len would love to feel him try.
"Are you waiting for an invitation?"
Eyes slitted, kiss-swollen lips stretched into a cat-like smirk. Len can't resist teasing Kabal, even as his sweat soaks the sheets, dripping down the backs of his trembling thighs. Hole pulsing around Kabal's fingers.
Invite sent.