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Mhok’s touch is gentle, light—turned oddly tender, despite how callused the palms of his hands are; and Day can just barely see him, like this: pressed and settled and huddled so near, so close—hazy and muddled and blurred around the edges, soft in a way that Day has only ever recalled in the break of twilight, between the still of midnight and the calm of dawn, when his heart had raced and thumped and knocked against his sternum and the cage of his ribs: a melody that he had feared the whole world would hear, had he not calmed it—had he not swallowed it down until he couldn’t, anymore.
“…Day,” Mhok says—murmured and soft, rough and low and Day cannot help but wonder, here, if Mhok knows just how much he likes the sound of him: the quiet, scratchy rasp of his voice and the rugged, lovely cadence of it—wonders, if Mhok can tell by the way his eyelids flutter; wonders, if Mhok can tell by the way his breath hitches, catching in his throat until it has no choice but to leave him in a rush, lulled out of him with a palm at the dip of his bare waist and a mouth at his ear, speaking softly, hushed and easy, “Good?”
“Y—Yes. Yeah,” Day rasps. He tilts his head toward Mhok’s voice, his eyes out of touch but his heart all-knowing, bleeding and kept and cradled into a pair of hands that have taught him how to have without hurting, how to weep without grieving—and he feels quite sated, here: despite how much he wants and craves and needs, still, with an ache that he had never quite felt before he’d been allowed the simplicity of touch, of a hand in his own and a face buried into the crook of his neck. Day feels Mhok’s breath, at the cut of his jaw—feels his mouth to the sensitive skin that shapes his ear: warm and lovely and all too tender, for how much Day had said he wasn’t.
Mhok hums, the noise low and rumbled against his ear and God, Day feels out of his own skin, like this—his heart too heavy, his hands too hesitant and his love so achingly blatant. He is loose-limbed, wanting and yet wired, lulled inward and forward and backward, all the same, by the man between his legs, hovered above him so soundly, so silent and yet loud, in the way Mhok breathes: in the way he touches, the way he takes and gives and allows Day the right of longing, the sensation of falling, falling—as if one touch could render him lifeless; as if one small, tiny brush of Mhok’s lips to his temple could render him to pieces.
Day shivers, shuddering just as Mhok leans in—close and nearly suffocating; but Day is aware of the breath between them just as much as he is aware of the space between them: barely anything at all, with their bodies bare and warm and slick with sweat and spit from kisses and long, dragging laves of their tongues—and Day is more than just simply pliant, here, with his legs spreading wider as Mhok shifts nearer; with his palms slipping up and to Mhok’s face; with his breath catching, hitching and stuttering in light of how it is and how it feels, to witness the haze of what is in front of him—and he wonders, here: if this is what he’s been waiting for; if this is all that he’s been wanting, ever since he had first realized just how empty he was.
He tilts his head, his eyes drooping to half a close, as he kisses Mhok—slow and yet hungry, starved and wanting and oh, Day thinks, God, he thinks, as Mhok kisses him back, just as hungry; just as wanting and needing and starved, and Day cannot help the way he groans, into Mhok’s mouth: cannot help the way he clutches and claws at his skin with the blunt of his nails; cannot help how quick he is, to want and to have and to selfishly, lovingly take—cannot help how his legs widen, how his hips tilt up and up and up, against the narrow bulk of Mhok’s own; but Mhok is more than willing, more than wanting—more than just simply needing.
“Day,” Mhok murmurs, whispered to the swell of a pink, bottom lip.
It’s soft, quiet.
It makes Day’s head spin.
“…Phi Mhok,” Day says—softly, sweetly: hushed and just a bit breathless in the rush of his want, and Mhok isn’t sure just how he had ever lived without it, prior to now; prior to how he had allowed himself to feel, with everything in him. Day’s breath hitches, just a bit—just enough, as Mhok’s right hand trails from the dip of his waist and to his hip, down and in: to the sensitive bit of flesh where thigh meets groin—and oh, Mhok thinks, oh, again, as he watches the way Day’s eyelids flutter, open and shut and open again, unseeing yet knowing—unseeing yet wanting. “Phi.”
“…Day,” Mhok trails off, drowned in the storm before him; amidst, in the onslaught of affection—graceless, he feels, in the light of Day: and Mhok wonders, here, if this light had always been this bright, this blinding—this terrifying, in the way newfound love always seems to be. Fingers bite into the skin of his shoulder, but Mhok pays it no mind. He touches Day gently, light: tender, simply because he’d been branded as not; and as his hand slips down, further, to the sensitive skin of Day’s inner thigh, Mhok cannot help but feel like a voyeur, watching, waiting—listening, to each little sound that Day makes. “Okay?”
“Y—Yes,” Day groans, quiet and rushed:, through lips that have barely opened—but it is so loud, in the stillness that surrounds them: amplified to the highest frequency, as Mhok’s hand slips downward and to the curve of his ass, where the back of Day’s thigh meets the soft, tender flesh, there—and Mhok is granted permission, with the easy widening of Day’s leg; with how he bends his knee and tilts his leg to the side, all to allow Mhok closer—closer, as he tries again, with his heart in his throat and his skin burning, bare, “Phi. Yes.”
Mhok shifts back, just enough to watch—guilty, he is, for the voyeur he often tends to be, as he touches Day in the ache of his pleasure; as he circles his first two fingers around the rim of him, still wet from the hour prior, where they had been desperate enough to be quick, before they had turned tender in turn. Day is still loose, like this: freshly undone, yet his body still shudders, with the slow, gentle pressure of Mhok’s fingers—and he takes in each stilted gasp with a soothe of his own: a kiss to the bend of Day’s knee; a gentle, come-hither motion with his fingers, as they gradually slip inside of him—and it is too much, the feel of him: hot and wet and slick with spit and cum and remnants of lube, and—
“Phi,” Day gasps. He clutches, claws. He wants. He cannot swallow his heart, no—not with how it beats in his mouth, ready to tumble out and onto his chest, where it doesn’t quite belong, no, not anymore—much more eager, it is, to beat alongside the pulse of another. Despite his faltered vision, Day can see stars, shining brightly above him: glinting in and out of focus, as Mhok fingers him open for the second time, that evening.
“What is it, Day?”
Day moans, hitched; weak and wanton—delirious in a way he has surely never been before, as he tilts his hips up, and into the pressure; just to feel the way Mhok’s fingers slip into him, deeper—just to feel and to memorize the way Mhok touches him, the way he soothes and drags him closer to the edge before easing him away from it, and God, Day thinks: again, again, as Mhok gently scissors him open—as Mhok says his name, whispered and sweet and everything, everything.
“Day.”
“Y-You—Fuck,” Day rasps. He’s burning—burning, raw and full: warm in the way his belly feels full, in the way his limbs feel limp; in the way he feels as if floating, submerged, the sea out to take him in tide with the lull of Mhok’s touch: his scent and his sound and all that he is and all that he’s become. Day tilts his head back, his chin to the ceiling. He wishes he could see. He wishes he could see. “Phi,” Day says, moaned in the way it leaves him, as Mhok eases in—close, closer; close enough that Day is righting himself, desperate to see, as much as he can and for as long as he wants. Like this, Day doesn’t feel like his own person. He feels more than half of Mhok. He feels that each breath is half for him, and Day wonders if it’s the same. Day lifts a hand, from where he’s been clutching at Mhok’s forearm, reaching if only to cradle his face in the palm of his hand: if only to feel the warmth of him. “Don’t—Don’t make me wait.”
Mhok hums, compliant just as he is a bit breathless.
He is quick to ease inward—quick to gently ease his fingers from Day’s body; and quicker, still, to soothe the sting with a kiss to the sweat on Day’s forehead. Mhok feels himself shudder; feels his heart giving, beating: thudding loud and fierce in his ears as Day touches him; as Day trails his hand downward if only to pull him closer, to welcome his body into the hollowed spread of his legs—and Mhok goes, yes: willing and wanting, with everything in him.
“Day,” Mhok whispers, quiet; soft—and Day’s eyes flutter, with the sound of it: the scratchy, rugged rasp of it. He leans in, nosing along the skin of Day’s temple. “You want it slow?”
“Anything,” Day tells him.
“Nong. Tell me?”
“Y-Yes,” Day stutters, his skin flushed pink. “Slow.”
Mhok sighs, sweetened by the stumble of Day’s breath, as he leans into the warmth of his body—as he presses in, his hand a loose circle around his cock as he rubs the bruised, ruddy head of it against the slick, wet give of Day’s body; and it is easy, here, to watch how Day allows himself to feel: easy, yes, to memorize the way Day’s eyes droop, dark and bright, unseeing yet knowing, unseeing yet wanting; easy, to memorize the way Day’s mouth parts and the way his tongue wets at the flesh of his bottom lip, as Mhok starts to tilt his hips, into the bulk of Day’s own.
“Phi,” Days groans.
Mhok presses in, slow and slower still, until he’s bottomed out: until he’s finally, fully inside of him for the second time that evening, with his hips pressed flush to the soft give of Day’s ass—and it’s deliberate, the way he eases in: the way he leans against Day’s body, curling over him just to kiss him: to shift inside, deeper; closer. Day is warm—alight, beneath him: pliant and loose-limbed, fevered and wanting, under the palm of his right hand—his skin is smooth, and the lines of his muscles are lithe, softened; and Mhok…
…He—
“P’Mhok,” Day gasps.
And Mhok doesn’t feel like his own person, like this—forever in-debt to the way Day pulls him in, lulling him closer and closer and closer until each tiny, stilted breath is half of his own, half for him; until his touch is a second-coming; until the slip of Day’s mouth to his own is something he cannot live without. He lolls his head to the side, his eyes half-lidded as he breathes Day in by the sweat of his temple; half-lidded, as he rolls his hips into the give of him: gasping, wanting—needing, as Day shudders, beneath him, his body still pliant, but his skin more than fevered and his heart more than just simply beating: racing, thudding, trying to escape and become another’s, as his legs shift and bend, to accommodate another.
Days moans, low and tapered off with the lull of Mhok’s name, as he is filled—spread and taken and given, gifted, the feel of Mhok’s mouth at his neck; of his tongue at the thud of his pulse and his nose at his ear, and oh, Day thinks—again, again, stuttered in breath and hitched in tone, as Mhok bears down on him; as Mhok’s hand tilts and pushes his leg up and to the side, gentle and coaxing and easy; as Mhok ruts against him, into him: needing to be closer, deeper, until their breath is one and their hearts are fused; until God knows them only by the sight and scent of the other.
“Day,” Mhok rasps, stilted: hungry. He licks at the slope of Day’s skin, eager to taste and to have and to give—eager to sink and drown and live in the light of him, as they are and as he is, loving and wonderful and malleable beneath him, with his breath stumbling into the next, and his eyes lidded, heavy; as Day is, beneath the weight of his body, his hands clumsy and his fingers searching, as he reaches up, and out, to cradle Mhok’s face in the palm of his hand—to coax him inward, to kiss him soundly.
“P’Mhok,” Day whispers—soft and slow into a muddled, lazy kiss, and God, Mhok thinks, as he leans his weight into the warmth of Day’s body; as he rolls his hips and pressed in, and in, and in, unwilling to let even the faintest trail of light to slip in-between them. He groans, long and loud and partly dazed: dizzy, with his lips pressed to Day’s—with their mouths parted and wanting, slick with spit and tender from nips of teeth; and Day is quick to soothe, here, as much as he is to give: to lick and to kiss and to sigh against the swell of Mhok’s mouth—to breathe him in and to lull him closer, by the drag of his fingers and the tightening of his thighs as he tells Mhok to touch him; to touch him, his voice more breath than it is much else.
Mhok cannot deny him.
Mhok cannot deny himself.
He swallows the noise that Day grants him, eager and wanting and more than just simply needing, yes; shameless in the way he licks into Day’s mouth: to taste and to eat and to drink him in. Mhok goes by touch more than he does sight, as he slips a hand between them—touching and soothing and feeling, as Day’s body lifts and moves and arches up, and to his own, up, and to his touch—and it goes straight through him, the way Day’s mouth parts against his own, in his pleasure: the way Day’s breath hitches; the noise that leaves him small and breathless and tight, wanting, as Mhok’s hand circles around the length of his cock.
“Fuck,” Day hisses, gasping.
And Mhok can see himself, there, in the wide of Day’s eyes: depthless and brown and honeyed in the light.
“P-P’Mhok—“
Mhok ruts against him—slow, because he’d been asked: gentle, firm, as he rolls his hips, grinding into the heat of Day’s body: wet and slick and giving, and God, Mhok thinks, as Day shakes, beneath him—his eyes alight, glowing and pretty and moored in hue, and oh, Mhok cannot help the way he gives: the way he wants and the way loves, as he tilts his head; as he eases in, lingering close if only to kiss him: the skin of his brow and the sweat of his temple, as he thrusts into him—as he touches him, his hand a tight circle as he strokes Day’s cock: quick, messy and slick and wet, almost sloppy in his haste, as he twists his wrist; as he smears pre-cum along the glans and down the shaft, to smooth the glide; as he tightens his hand at the base of Day’s cock, if only to see—
“P—Phi,” Day says. He’s flushed from head to toe, burning from the inside out, as he’s touched; as he’s fucked: slow and sweet and oh, Day can feel his stomach tightening in tide with the long, shallow drag of Mhok against him, in him—oh, again, and again, as his cock jerks in the circle of Mhok’s hand, hard and weeping—oh, because Mhok’s mouth is at his forehead; oh, because he can just barely see him, there: haloed above him and shrouded in light, beaconed and sweet and all that he’s ever really, really wanted. “P’Mhok, I—“
“A-Again,” Mhok rasps—whispered and soft: a need and a want and all that lies in between.
“P’Mhok,” Day says—loving, because he’d been asked: his fingers trembling as he reaches out to touch, to feel and to have as he tilts his head; as he aches, bone-deep and seated in the pit of his belly, where he feels each and every slow, careful drag of Mhok’s cock inside of him. He chokes on the rush of his own breath, as his cock throbs, hot and leaking; the cradle of his love and his want and the weight of his need a large, heavy thing, in the heart of his throat. “Phi. Phi.”
“F-Fuck, Day. Again.”
“P’Mhok,” Day moans, hitched and raw and guttural in tone. “Please.”
Mhok gasps, opened-mouthed as he crowds in—as he bears down, and in, pressing himself into the warmth of Day’s body: in, and in, as deep as their bodies will allow him to be. He strokes up the length of Day’s cock, working over the girth of him in quick, dragging glides as his hips press in—as he eases out if only to thrust back in, rolling his hips into the give of Day’s body: shallow and light, dream-like and slow yet firm enough to have Day’s voice hitching; his noises thinning, gone higher—strained and breathless between them, as he gives.
Day groans, faltered just as much it is slurred, as he cums; as he spills into Mhok’s hand and onto the skin of his lower belly—and he is burning, drowning: under the surf and into the sea, as Mhok fucks him through it; still so slow, so soft and sweet and oh, Day thinks, as Mhok presses a kiss to the curve of his brow—oh, as he gasps, whispered and hushed, tilting his head up and to the side, seeking without seeing, giving and granted, as he is kissed: as he is given.
“Day,” Mhok says—whispered and muffled and soft, his heart and his want lodged in the back of his throat, as he cums: spilling deep inside of Day’s body, where he’d been the hour prior; and Day is quite shameless, here—in the way he kisses and licks and laves into Mhok’s mouth, quick and eager to taste and to eat and to drink him in: to know him by taste and by touch, and Mhok cannot help but press in, close—closer, as if he had been away from him at all.
“…Phi,” Day murmurs.
And Mhok looks down at him—forever attuned, forever in-debt. He looks sated, here: malleable in the ebb and give of his pleasure, but Day still takes to tightening his thighs around the bulk of Mhok’s body—unwilling to let him go, just yet, despite how Mhok’s cock gradually softens inside of him, bit by bit.
“…Stay close?” Day asks.
And Mhok smiles, here: softened by the lull of Day’s voice, quiet and content and glutted on all that is good—and Mhok finds, as he tilts his head and eases in, that he can still see himself, there, in the wide of Day’s eyes: honeyed and brown and depthless, in the light.