[Even in his heats before, even when he'd had alphas vetted and selected to see him through it, he'd never come for them on command. Even when they'd used their vocalizations, even when they'd growled it and snarled it and crooned it, something in him had still resisted, had still stubbornly held out long enough that it ultimately still took raw sensation to topple him over the edge. That he manages it with Tseng — that all it takes is the vibration of his growl against his neck and the insistence that he wants it —
He yowls, thick and filthy and low, and shudders all over like his climax has been torn from him, cum flooding his trousers as his slick coats Tseng's fingers and streams down the length of his hand. The world goes as white as his clothes; for the duration, scent becomes the dominant stimulus, and all he can breathe, all he can taste, is Tseng.
Baby. Shiva, even the echoes of it sound filthy in his memory of Tseng's voice, almost out of place, almost unprecedented — but it rolls over his fleeting afterglow like a long lick of a tongue and all he can think is, for me, for me. He's no one's baby, no one's darling, no one's omega, but Tseng's.
The reprieve, he knows, will be a brief one at best; even through the languid lethargy of orgasm, his heat-driven arousal still burns like a distant threat. But there's space, at least, to shift and put his head down onto Tseng's shoulder, melting against him like his climax turned his very bones liquid, a reflexive purr already vibrating in the back of his throat.]
Taste it.
[His purr intensifies, dreamy-maddening; he's hot and filthy and wrecked, his scalp beaded with sweat and his hair falling down out of its careful style from the damp and the exertions both, and beneath him he can just feel how hard Tseng is, how much he wants him, the knot that's for him soon enough.]
S'for you. The others...I never let them taste me. Only you.
[His breath hitches; for a moment, his purr goes softer, more of a trill.]
no subject
He yowls, thick and filthy and low, and shudders all over like his climax has been torn from him, cum flooding his trousers as his slick coats Tseng's fingers and streams down the length of his hand. The world goes as white as his clothes; for the duration, scent becomes the dominant stimulus, and all he can breathe, all he can taste, is Tseng.
Baby. Shiva, even the echoes of it sound filthy in his memory of Tseng's voice, almost out of place, almost unprecedented — but it rolls over his fleeting afterglow like a long lick of a tongue and all he can think is, for me, for me. He's no one's baby, no one's darling, no one's omega, but Tseng's.
He's Tseng's. He's Tseng's, he's Tseng's, he's Tseng's.
The reprieve, he knows, will be a brief one at best; even through the languid lethargy of orgasm, his heat-driven arousal still burns like a distant threat. But there's space, at least, to shift and put his head down onto Tseng's shoulder, melting against him like his climax turned his very bones liquid, a reflexive purr already vibrating in the back of his throat.]
Taste it.
[His purr intensifies, dreamy-maddening; he's hot and filthy and wrecked, his scalp beaded with sweat and his hair falling down out of its careful style from the damp and the exertions both, and beneath him he can just feel how hard Tseng is, how much he wants him, the knot that's for him soon enough.]
S'for you. The others...I never let them taste me. Only you.
[His breath hitches; for a moment, his purr goes softer, more of a trill.]
I wanted you. I want you.