Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross
The tell reaches him clearly enough. Not through words anymore, not even thought, both of which are as scattered and impossible to catch as motes of light. It's through the tightening of everything beneath him, around him, near violent with the force. The pressure is mounting so high, stacking rapidly hand over fist between them through the bond, that it feels less like sensation and more like standing inside the center of a lightning strike, waiting for it to finally hit ground.
He can feel her right there, a presence that's pushing in on him like a storm rolling in, but equally it feels like it's trying to get out from within, as if he is as much the storm and the sky as the one caught in it below. It's all there. The frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his hand, echoing his own. The desperate struggle for breath vibrating against his palm, the very same in his lungs. The way her body keeps pulling taut around him, each helpless wave dragging another wrecked sound from his throat every time they hit, the drag of the current beckoned on with every pummel of his hips. It all drives straight into the insurmountable creation that this pleasure has become, so colossal he feels he cannot survive it, much less hope to contain it. He's held together by little more than a single, remaining thread. It's frayed so far it might as well be transparent. It'd give in an instant, save for the desperate need to scale this monstrous euphoria with her, unwilling to change a thing until he knows she's there with him.
He doesn't have the means to speak, teeth clenched around a constant pant, breath a rare commodity now. Thoughts have been reduced to such a basic nature, that through the bond he can only answer with a flare of encouragement, as if mentally grabbing hold of her hand and linking it with his right before they leap from the top of what they've made, because he can feel it in her. He bows over her suddenly, weight pressing in as his forehead rolls against hers. He gives one, deep and final kick inside her, and then he lets go.
His hand slips from her throat at the exact moment the last strand of control breaks. The rush of her full breath returning hits him almost as violently as the release that bursts between them. Air tears in with a vengeance, her gasp and his groan colliding in the narrow space between their mouths as the pressure finally drops. Bliss crashes into every part of him like it means to bruise his bones, and behind it hers follows hard like a shadow, staggering and relentless until every nerve in his body feels white-hot, the heat impossibly fed from both ends, from all around.
He's completely ruined by it. There are no words, not even her name, not even close. Just a sound, nearly ghoulish with the threat of his demise so close at hand. He collapses against her, raw and devoted and overwhelmed in all the best ways. All sensation breaks apart at once as he buries himself against her, one arm locking around her waist, the other abandoning all tension entirely to cradle weakly against her jaw and throat again, no pressure left in it now beyond trembling touch. Through the bond, there's still nothing pretty or polite. It's just the enormous, staggering flood of relief and want and affection, trickling freely through every broken piece of him as he clings to her through the aftershocks, liable to simply dissolve if he doesn't keep hold of her.
He can feel her right there, a presence that's pushing in on him like a storm rolling in, but equally it feels like it's trying to get out from within, as if he is as much the storm and the sky as the one caught in it below. It's all there. The frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his hand, echoing his own. The desperate struggle for breath vibrating against his palm, the very same in his lungs. The way her body keeps pulling taut around him, each helpless wave dragging another wrecked sound from his throat every time they hit, the drag of the current beckoned on with every pummel of his hips. It all drives straight into the insurmountable creation that this pleasure has become, so colossal he feels he cannot survive it, much less hope to contain it. He's held together by little more than a single, remaining thread. It's frayed so far it might as well be transparent. It'd give in an instant, save for the desperate need to scale this monstrous euphoria with her, unwilling to change a thing until he knows she's there with him.
He doesn't have the means to speak, teeth clenched around a constant pant, breath a rare commodity now. Thoughts have been reduced to such a basic nature, that through the bond he can only answer with a flare of encouragement, as if mentally grabbing hold of her hand and linking it with his right before they leap from the top of what they've made, because he can feel it in her. He bows over her suddenly, weight pressing in as his forehead rolls against hers. He gives one, deep and final kick inside her, and then he lets go.
His hand slips from her throat at the exact moment the last strand of control breaks. The rush of her full breath returning hits him almost as violently as the release that bursts between them. Air tears in with a vengeance, her gasp and his groan colliding in the narrow space between their mouths as the pressure finally drops. Bliss crashes into every part of him like it means to bruise his bones, and behind it hers follows hard like a shadow, staggering and relentless until every nerve in his body feels white-hot, the heat impossibly fed from both ends, from all around.
He's completely ruined by it. There are no words, not even her name, not even close. Just a sound, nearly ghoulish with the threat of his demise so close at hand. He collapses against her, raw and devoted and overwhelmed in all the best ways. All sensation breaks apart at once as he buries himself against her, one arm locking around her waist, the other abandoning all tension entirely to cradle weakly against her jaw and throat again, no pressure left in it now beyond trembling touch. Through the bond, there's still nothing pretty or polite. It's just the enormous, staggering flood of relief and want and affection, trickling freely through every broken piece of him as he clings to her through the aftershocks, liable to simply dissolve if he doesn't keep hold of her.
Kaisel
They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
