[ He's shaking, by this point. On overload, eyes stinging, but he's done it. He's done what he was meant to and York's praise washes over him even as that heat drives in, drives home, and he'd probably feel self-conscious about the noise that wells up out of him, full-throated and gasping. He sinks back against him, letting him sink in to the hilt, deep as he can go, and there's no way he can last like this.
But he can't think to hold back, to do anything but hold on. Like this, York could do anything, ask anything of him, and it'd be his.
no subject
But he can't think to hold back, to do anything but hold on. Like this, York could do anything, ask anything of him, and it'd be his.
His. Like York is his. It's fitting, isn't it? ]