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Peach pants, fingers scrambling, “Uh- … Hah—”
The room lurches, tossing Peach up and down like a shipwreck. Choppy, hazy vision fills his senses, swims in his brain, a lethargic play of sound and touch, of fingers of heat crawling up inside him, those seeking, greedy plunderers. He closes his eyes. “Ah—” his next gasp clicks, wet in his throat. A thin trail of tears slides and disappears down one eye.
“Lookpeach.” Strong, demanding hands skate down his naked body, and hips curl and piston into his, relentless, short bursts of terrifying pleasure. The softness returns, baring teeth, “So cute—” He punctuates with a firm squeeze of Peach’s ass, “Making such cute sounds, Lookpeach—ah—”
He sounds ruined, his voice like hot lashes against Peach’s body, jolting him off the bed a few inches each time before he’s helplessly reeled back in to be split open on a needy hardness. Kian’s cock slides all the way in, and then presses something inside that lights up Peach like a fuse, and on the bed, he can only fist the sheets tightly, dig his heels in, and bite his lips to keep from screaming. There’s nowhere to go. Peach’s whole body trembles like a newborn calf, all soaked in fluids.
Kian tugs his bottom lip free with a thumb, but his gaze is dark and polished like black iron, gleaming on Peach’s mouth with the focused intensity of hunger, “Don’t hurt yourself.” Peach’s eyes widen as a throaty moan slips free, and each gentle caress of Kian’s fingers precedes a ravaging of fresh goods below. Inhaling his sweat, the heat rising off his body, and the other countless scents that Peach has acquired, Kian makes a low sound of appreciation that kicks Peach in the guts. “Oh … baby—” Kian’s laugh breaks into deep, rumbly waves, suffocating Peach and buoying Peach, “Your body is so perfect … you take me so well, so beautiful- … Tighter than a hole, wetter than a pussy—”
A furious, shameful arousal spreads through Peach. His indignation only rises to the surface for a quick taming by Kian’s perfect, grinding strokes, pressing their chest and stomachs together until their heartbeats are aligned and Peach’s nose slots comfortably against the crook of Kian’s neck. “P’Kian—” he tries, but his aggravated noises come out whiny, and Kian groans as if in great pain. They’re moving so violently together that there’s no pause for a kiss. Their mouths open to share used breaths and little, helpless noises.
This is deranged. Peach knows that Kian’s mansion is big enough to preserve their sounds but Peach shouldn’t be spread out on his back with his legs open with Kian’s parents right there. They might be in the other wing but it’s the principle of the thing, and Peach is always careful about principles; he should have more sense than this, he should … should say …
“You will not stop this way,” Kian growls. Peach barely has time to breathe before a thumb presses down on his tongue, squashed against the pillow of his lips, forcing his mouth open and gathering spit. Kian slows the pace of his thrusts inside Peach’s hole, and the mind-numbing friction is replaced by a sudden sense of total invasion, of fullness, and of Peach’s body tiredly trying to reject something so big and unnatural inside of such a tight, narrow space. Kian’s voice brims with a satisfied smile, painting the darkness behind Peach’s eyes squeezed shut as he forces himself to breathe through the nose, “There. No more biting your lips. You can bite my thumb as hard,” he gives a thrust at point-blank, sending Peach reeling on the bed, “as you want. Lookpeach.”
Senseless, and yet attacked by sensations on all sides, Peach wonders distantly if he should beg Kian to let him come. He’s not an impatient person but he’s also never been so thoroughly stuffed with pleasure that he’s about to overflow, or burst open like a balloon, before, and all that would be left of him: a faint-red splatter on Kian’s pristine white sheets.
He’s going to have to stop Kian from calling him “Lookpeach” in bed after this, not until he needs to hear the adoring tone tangled in Kian’s lust while he takes him apart on his cock. It’s too—too much. He’s never been called Lookpeach in the same tone that means so tight and my dearest boy. It makes his heart pound too fast, makes him too hot, too spoiled. Lookpeach is the boy who never got any parental love, any hand on his head, any pat on the back; who raised his baby sister and was raised by her in turn; who learnt never to expect steadiness from a source that was stronger than he, because those who were stronger could only exploit, never provide.
But now, Lookpeach is Kian’s, and Kian loves him, spoils him, fucks him. In this moment, there’s an ever more terrifying realization that Kian’s all-consuming, adulterous, pure love is somehow touching Peach’s deepest parts—his past, his present, his Lookpeach—who’s being called “cute” and then pounded loose.
Kian hisses in pleasure, “Peach.” Peach must’ve made some noise of distress because the deep, rolling grinds unwind into bit-sized push-and-pulls, almost like a kiss, the curve of their hips meeting and parting with restrained force. Kian’s bitten mouth and tar-black gaze falls to Peach’s low whimpers; he pulls his thumb out and rests it at the corner of Peach’s lips, “Is there something you want, Lookpeach?” Peach grunts, wriggling his hips. “Say it. Anything.”
“Don’t—ah—stop … P’Kian, more.”
Peachayarat Jane-kit doesn’t do things halfway; on principle, he’s consistent to a fault, and he’s willing to give Kian all of it because that’s all he has. His past, his present, his future—Peach grips the back of Kian’s neck with one hand, and his shoulder for balance with the other, and flexes his aching legs on either side of Kian’s broad frame—now, it all goes to Kian, and only Kian.
At those words, Kian’s eyes haze over as if concussed by a bludgeoning to the head. Especially now, driven by total desire, pit of bottomless hunger, his eyes are charming. The thought pulls a smile from Peach’s lips. He can’t quite keep his hips still.
Kian gathers him once again in his arms, hands under his jaw and lower back, and kisses him with urgent, fluttering pulls, breath warm under Peach’s tongue, nose nudging insistently into warm skin. And Peach fights: fights to suck in a full breath, to spur Kian’s unmoving weight atop him into action by running his hands down his back and arms, squeezing the soft-marble of flesh and muscles in a plead, and rutting the head of his leaking cock against his sculpted, warm abdomen. Anything to get him to move.
The first proper thrust returns to him after a long minute of hardwork, being unable to do anything but clench down on the throbbing length inside him as hard as he could when all the other tricks failed. Kian breaks off with an amused huff, and Peach suspects that he really does enjoy testing Peach’s patience. But after this, he doesn’t make Peach wait. Immediately, his hot, eager hands paint lines down Peach’s torso, digging indulgently into the dent of his waist, covering the expanse of his humble hips, and pulls back almost all the way out, presses Peach’s thighs farther apart, and sinks back in to the hilt.
“Ah- … Hah- ah—” Peach throws his head back, nails making red marks along Kian’s bicep, and crosses his ankles over Kian’s lower back as Kian pants and groans into his neck while his hips drive hard and fast into Peach like he could break him. A controlled animal, giving pleasure to Peach on a leash.
When ‘Can I kiss you?’ means I want to kiss you, and ‘Can I do more?’ means I want to feel you, and ‘Can I fuck you?’ is never said but always implied because it means exactly what it means, everything transforms into a life. Peach can live in it.
His thighs are gripped and pushed towards his stomach with a swift greed, and Kian fucks deeper into his stretched hole, through his hoarse moans and slack limbs. His thighs slap against Peach’s ass, the warm rhythmic tapping of his balls with each push in, feeding all of his hard, hot length to Peach all the way down to the base, meeting all of his curves with hands and cock and lips.
But Kian is insatiable, Peach’s found, and soon, his world turns on its stomach as Kian rolls him over, somehow without slipping out of Peach, which shouldn’t arouse like it does.
“Gorgeous,” Kian breathes into the skin between his shoulder blades, feeling him up all over again, sliding his hands to cup at Peach’s chest, then push down his belly and wrap a tight fist around his aching cock. His free hand kneads Peach’s ass, spreading the cheeks apart with a thumb, making Peach jolt with a latent shiver. “A toy modelled after me,” he says conversationally, though his voice is gravel-thick at Peach’s ear, “that’s what we need. So I can keep you full even when I’m not here.” He starts his deep, breathless pace again, and Peach lets himself fall forward on the pillow with a loud moan, no longer able to hold himself up. Kian tugs his hips upwards, and slams him back on each thrust with easy abandon, “Maybe a plug?—Can I do that, Peach?—This,” he grinds hard and deep into that one spot, and Peach’s hands tremble, “is mine, isn’t it?”
Peach turns his face to rest sideways on the pillow, eyes fluttering with each heavy in-and-out of Kian’s slick cock, the slide easier now with all the lube and pre, making him feel open right down to his bones, as if he was made just for this. His face is hot, his neck and ears flushed, his hips pliant now after hours of tensing and frantic breathing exercises while Kian prepared him, and it feels so good, so natural to just lie there and take it. Lie there and let Kian take it, then let him take care of it.
He gasps, voice breaking on Kian’s cock, “Ye—es.”
The room fills with obscene, wet noises of sex; under bedroom lights, and a house full of people, Peach and Kian intertwine in a carnal dance. Even when Peach’s never done this before, he’s absurdly good at finding Kian’s rhythm and matching it, working with it, and moving with it. He doesn’t try to push back against Kian’s fire—it’s obvious to him that this, even in bed, as everywhere else, is important to Kian; it’s important to Kian that he make Peach hoarse with pleasure, and to imprint himself deep inside Peach’s body, perhaps seeking his soul. Peach lets him lead, and he’s surprised at how easy it is though perhaps he shouldn’t be. Kian has made his life easier in every other way—why would it be any different in bed?
And anywhere else, Peach wouldn’t give in to him entirely. He’ll still have his own life, and he’ll have Kian on his own terms, but here. Well, here, Peach lets go hundred percent, as he moans and whimpers into each downward grind with his eyes closed, his toes curling each time their hips meet, and his fingers folded bonelessly in loose fists. He doesn’t have to put in any work: Kian’s firm hold on his hips, his filthy praises littering the crook of Peach’s neck and shoulder, and his pulsing, jumping movements inside Peach where he’s twitching and drooling. Peach hums in approval, and experimentally squeezes down.
Kian warns, rough and fast, “Lookpeach.” He stretches over Peach, hard chest sliding against Peach’s back, like a weighted blanket, but Peach makes a low noise trapped in his throat, aroused instead of comforted, “Do you want something to suck on, baby?” Peach eyes flutter as two fingers slide into his mouth, throat working, “That’s right … Fuck, you’re—”
He doesn’t finish that sentence, apparently too affected to speak in human tongues anymore; instead, animal noises spill out of his throat and fill up Peach’s ears and mouth and hole, and Peach’s feeble thoughts about Kian’s signet ring fizzle out like fire-less smoke.
Time loses Peach in a repetitive cycle of pleasure as Kian fucks him, and fucks him, and fucks him. He feels his body break a little with exhaustion as if from outside, unfeeling of those little pinpricks of reality that dare intrude on this limbo of their lovemaking. Kian reaches down once more to stroke his cock, and just the touch of his broad, calloused hand is enough to send Peach over the edge. He feels as if he’s been thrown from a great height and he’s going to break open once he meets the ground. Kian catches him.
After all is said and done, Peach is only a bit disappointed to not have Kian’s come dripping out of him, imagines—in that short minute when Kian leaves to get him cleaned up—what it’d be like to have Kian leave him wet like that. He doesn’t know how he’s going to ask for this, but he knows that he wants it. Next time. But when Kian lovingly cleans him up and soothes him with those hands as if they haven’t handled a gun before, he fondles Peach’s left nipple and leaves chaste kisses down his neck and collarbones, and snuggles up to him from behind with a lazy grind of his hips into Peach’s sore ass—Peach thinks, maybe not next time but tonight, a few hours later.