#mitkri

You aren’t really sure what it is, now; he can go weeks without any sign of sexual interest whatsoever, but then, when he gets in the mood, there’s just something about the way the wires are crossed in his brain that make him want to go more and harder and longer, even when he’s oversensitive and overstimulated. You aren't really sure how he drags you with him, either; you weren’t even aware your body was capable of reaching such heights, but apparently it is, and he’s the only one you would allow to put you in such a vulnerable, needy position. 

  “Kan~ny,” he croons, running his hands over your back, your sides, rubbing stiff soreness out of your overtaxed muscles, “How many has it been, Kanny?”

  He’s been making you keep track, and he’s horrible for it, making you actually think while he’s pailing your brains out. It takes you much too long to form words, and even longer to voice them, with the way you’re sprawled, mouth slack, tongue lolling. 

  “Th-three,” you rasp, and he rewards you with a gentle thrust, his bulges twining inside you. You’re much too sensitive for anything more than slow, soft pailing, right now, but he knows that, he’s played you like this before, longer even, much to your continual amazement. 

  “Th-three’s notta good number, K-kanny,” he murmurs, leaning over, pressing his chest against your back so you can feel the warmth of him against your skin, feel the way his heart hammers in his chest, “Not- notta good number, how about four?”

  You sigh, and nod, and he grins, the ragged tips of his fangs brushing against your neck. 

  “What ab-ab-about five?” he asks, and you’re so out of it you hardly register the question, responding with a quiet moan, “Six? Think you can mak-k-ke it to sixxx?"

  He draws out the sibilant, which sounds strange, given his lisp, and his bulges brush against the sensitive walls of your nook, making you twitch and shudder as you come a fourth time, his hand trapping your own bulge to keep it from retracting. Could you make it to six? You don’t think so; you’re almost spent at four, you can hardly move and every single sensation is doubled, tripled by your frayed nerve endings, but he wants it so bad still, he’s practically trembling against you, waiting for you to recover with a patience you’re still slightly surprised by. 

  “Gotta make it four or six, Kanny,” he says, lapping at a pulse point between your neck and shoulder and nuzzling the skin there, keeping his touch soft, “Gotta, gotta. Eeeven numbers. Please decide.”

  You know that, if you tell him no, he will kiss you and then lock himself in the ablution block until he’s finished. Mituna will always stop if you tell him no; even if you get halfway past five and decide it’s too much, he will stop, despite all his compunctions and obsessions with even numbers. 

  You also know that you don’t want him to stop. 

  You don't even know how long you've been pailing with him- it could be hours, at this point- but there’s this strange, lazy heat in your stomach, tight and hot and wanting, but in a subdued, almost muted way. Like you could get off, but you could also ignore it, if you so chose. You've ignored and suppressed your desires for long enough, you think, so you rock back against him with the quietest little whimper, swallow dryly, and whisper, “Six, please.”

  His entire body molds against yours, warm and buzzing with internalized energy, and he kisses your neck, braces himself with an arm on either side of you, and starts a slow, steady pace, barely rolling his hips against yours.

  “Perfect,” he murmurs, mouthing at your jawline, barely nicking you with his teeth, “Peeeeerfect. Mine, yes, mine.”

  You can’t keep yourself upright- you haven’t been able to since you came the third time- but he lowers himself to his elbows so he’s not looming over you, and you go limp and allow him to do all the work. His body covers yours like a blanket, despite how much thinner he is than you; you’re short, with small limbs and narrow fingers and wide hips, and he’s long, like twigs strung together to form a person, skinny and lanky and capable of wrapping himself around you in ways that shouldn’t be possible, cradling you to him. 

  You let yourself drift in a sea of hormones and feel-good chemicals, reveling in the feel of your matesprit pressed against you inside and out. Everything’s hazy, and you’re exhausted but don’t want to stop quite yet; you want to see how far you can push this, you want to see how far you can go. 

  Mituna is the only one you’d ever broken your vow for, in any quadrant, and he’d taken you to such heights, showed you so many things in the sweeps you were involved with him, but then he’d had his accident, and he’d been taken away from you. Mituna is the only person you’d ever broken your vow for, including yourself, so you’d made do with meditation and avoidance, as you had all the sweeps before you’d met him, but it wasn’t the same after having such forbidden pleasures in your grasp. 

  You still don’t know all your limits, but you’ve never been asked to do something you didn’t later enjoy; this is just another test, to see how much you can take, how long you can go. 

  Your fifth orgasm takes you by surprise, and it’s a lazy, almost calm sensation, flooding through you and making your muscles go lax. Everything narrows down to feeling, touch- your eyesight fails you, everything going dim, patterns superimposing themselves over your eyes and a buzzing filling your ears, blocking out all sound except his voice, lisping praises and curses and mangled renditions of your name as he comes as well, not even slowing down. 

  He has more stamina than you do and you know it, but still, the fact that he’s come three times to your five nags at you a bit. You feel like you aren’t doing enough to reciprocate, like you should be doing more, better, but when you try to struggle out of your sprawled position, Mituna pushes you back down, crooning at you to lay still.

  He sits up and lets his hands drift over your back, rubbing into the strained muscles there as he rocks against you, his bulges tracing patterns on your inner walls. It feels so good, everything feels so good, that you are out of your mind with heat and exhaustion and pleasure, a slow boiling, almost soothing pleasure that makes you want to fall asleep with him inside you, dragging your helpless body through more orgasms than you can handle. 

  Everything just feels really nice right now, especially with the way he’s moving against you, soft and slow, drawing out every grind and roll of his hips, every twist and flick of his bulge. Absently, you realize you’re a mess, covered in your fluids and his, and your face is probably resting in a puddle of your own drool at this point, which is disgusting, but you also realize that you are so far out of your head, you could not give a single fuck. 

  You can’t shut your mouth, because if you do you might not remember to breath, so spit streaks from your lips to join the tears spilling from your hooded eyes, half shut and unfocused as they are. Your body is still reacting to the overstimulation even as your mind has stopped processing everything but pleasure, and you can feel your limbs quivering, your entire physical representation twitching and shivering with every lazy thrust. 

  It feels too good, it’s too much, it’s so much you can’t think, you can’t move, you can’t do anything but make garbled, docile little noises and allow him to do as he sees fit, allow him to use you; with anyone else, it wouldn’t be possible for you to let yourself go so completely, but you trust your life, your being, in his hands. You trust him with everything you are, and he knows it. 

  He curls around you and moves with a bit more urgency, but the rocking just sends you even further out of yourself, lulling you almost to sleep. 

  “Kanny,” he whimpers, bracing himself over you to keep from crushing your prone form, licking at your neck and ear, “Kanny, h-honey, mmh, you feel so- so fucking good, you-you-re perfect, per-fect, yes, yes-“

  He gets one hand underneath your splayed hips, palming your sheathe, your bulge having retreated to its housing a while ago. The heat and pressure is enough to make you moan, low and ragged, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of him rubbing his fingers over the sensitive flesh. 

  “So fukcign perfect, so- so good, so good,” he spits through gritted teeth, nuzzling the space between your neck and shoulder, bulge writhing softly inside you, and you can tell he’s close, and you think you might be too but you can’t really be sure, what with the way everything is so amplified. 

  The tips of his fingers play along the closed lips of your bulge sheathe, poking and prodding and adding another layer of sensation to the mess you’re already stewing in, making you you twitch. You aren’t sure how he’s still so coherent- god knows you aren’t. 

  “I wnat- want you to-to come for me, okay?” he says, murmuring into the shell of your ear, double tipped tongue flicking out to tease the soft skin there, “I want you to come, m-make it even, want you t-to come for me, pretty, my pretty, mine-“

  You’re dazed, drifting,  but his voice cuts through the fog just enough for you to feel him speed up the slightest bit, thrusts making your lax body rock to the tempo he sets, limp and unresisting. Soft, helpless noises pour from your open mouth, little whimpers and trills you would never have let anyone, even him, hear otherwise, but you’re too far gone to even think about silencing yourself now. You’re too lost to feeling, sensation, and it’s all so beautiful you can’t help but follow his orders, coming a sixth time. 

  You’re wracked with shivers from head to toe, trembling almost violently as fire burns through you, soft and slow- as contradictory as it may seem, that’s how it feels. You’re being gently, lovingly burned up from the inside, each careful rock of his hips dragging everything out further and further until you can’t tell how long it’s been, how long it’s lasted or is going to last. Seconds seem like minutes, minutes seem like hours, and your whole body is lost to the whims of your matesprit, who’s still rocking against you, making soft, frustrated noises. 

  “M-mituna,” you choke out, voice hoarse, shuddering as you’re wracked with almost painful pleasure, “M-mituna-!”

  He keens, high and sharp, and spills into you a fourth time, hips stuttering against yours, hands trembling and clenching against the floor. 

  He slows, then stops, his bulge twitching as it withdraws, and as soon as he lets you go you fall the rest of the way to the floor, unable to support yourself. Your limbs feel like they’re made of sand, heavy and listless, and you can’t keep your eyes open. Everything in you is used up, sore and overworked and aching wonderfully, and when his hands rub over your spine and down your sides, you chirr weakly, pressing into his touch. 

  “Very good, Kanny,” he croons, touching you all over, hands gentle and soft and perfect, “R-real good, did real good, love you.”

  You try to respond, but all the comes out of your mouth is a series of mumbled syllables that might have, at one point, been something along the lines of “I love you too.”

  He kneels beside you until he can stand on his own two feet, then lifts you effortlessly into his arms, humming to you and he cradles you to his chest. It’s a lullaby, that you recognize, even if the tune is slightly off, the notes jumbled. He kisses your horns, your forehead, your cheek, your lips as he carts you to the ablution block, purring loud enough to wake the dead. 

  “Did very good,” he repeats, petting your hair as he fills up the tub, “Perfect. Pretty, perfect Kanny, y-youuu did so well. Sleep now.”