Tom could not tear his gaze away from the picture that presented itself to him; the long hair scattered across the pillows, the moist, silver eyes full of desire, and the open lips. The whole world becomes unimportant when he is near. When their gazes meet, when they draw closer. For Tom, these moments are the most precious and important. No one but him deserves to see the Prince like this. So open and needy of him, the Emperor. Tom is ready to light incense for his lover. To stain his hands with blood if anyone dares to touch what is his. Tom smirks and leans lower, to his lips, but does not touch them. He presses his thigh against his thigh and clenches the skin to the maple marks, driving the rod into the chrysanthemum as far as it will go. The moan caresses his ears as much as the fingers that cling to his naked body. Tom loves him so much, and wants him so badly, it seems crazy. Tom watches with his coal eyes so that he misses nothing; The way his eyes open as he comes into motion. The way the incoherent teasing between moans. The way his scratches his back to the blood. The way it curves towards his. Tom enjoys, every moment of their joined bodies. The whitish juice squelches with each thrust, flowing out over the silk sheet. His lover connects his lips and invades with his tongue, and Tom is lost in him, lost in his feelings. It's all too much for a growl to come off in a kiss. Tom feels his body trembling beneath him, feels how hard the walls squeeze him, how swaggering and seductive he acts, how reluctant he is to let go when he comes out of it. It's all just him, just him. Tom is ready to drink his Prince, his own so that no one dares to see this beauty. The beauty of his body, of his voice. Muffled moans as Tom weaves his tongues together, drawing out what little oxygen he has left to make him gasp at what is happening. As he penetrates the chrysanthemum, only to hear a hoarse shriek as he breaks away from the kiss. Sweaty, intertwined bodies on the Emperor's bed indulge in loving solace from night to morning.
Emperor Tom loves his Prince, Harry.
He loves his gege.
He loves him.
He loves him.
His smiles, his laughter. The way he flirts, the way he touches casually. The silver sparks in his eyes. To Tom, there is nothing more beautiful than this venerable one, which in the hands of the Emperor transforms into a completely different one; Open, beloved, and accepting with such abandon. With a hoarse voice from frequent shrieks and mumbling, Tom knows what lies behind those words: don't stop. And Tom does not dare. Tom moves elusively and does not pause for a moment to rest. Tom hits with precise body movements at a certain point in the sweet midst of the gut that triggers the most reactions; moans serve to reward Tom's actions, that hearts beat out the same rhythm. Tom's unfocused gaze follows the expression on his face and covers his face with kisses, such happiness is meant for him. Such happiness that the Emperor is jealous when all his words and actions are not for this Emperor. To the point where he leaves his hickeys on the jade body every time. As he does now, digging into the delicate skin, sucking it to a dark, dark color, beating out more and more sounds in his hoarse voice. Tom gives unforgettable pleasure and drinks his to death with his Prince. Tom presses his body with his own, feeling the love juice on his belly stain his own, and speeds up, breathing heavily; Tom does not know how long this goes on. Tom does not know how many times they have managed to reach the highest stage of passion this night. Tom is too consumed by the process.
Tom loves Harry.
Every day.
Every moment.
Forever.