Work Text:
Soft.
Burgess was so soft.
So malleable, so thoroughly pliant to anything Pen would say or do. Mind, body and soul completely yielding with only the slightest bit of force—and Pen never did anything by slights.
It was always full force when Pen pressed him, pressed into him, fingers gripping into the tender flesh of his hips and his legs and his chest, breaking capillaries beneath the skin and leaving splotches of discoloration dotted across his body.
Pen did so love to leave marks. Flesh beneath his fingers, his tongue, his teeth especially—violent cinches, seared into Burgess’ skin with heat and harsh growls.
Mine, mine, mine.
Pen wanted him to see it, to feel it, even when Pen himself wasn’t there. He wanted Burgess to remember how it felt when hot breaths and ragged moans filled the air, cries of pain and pleasure as sweating, stinging skin slapped together. How it felt when Pen pinned him down and filled him completely, over and over again, until they were both empty.
Pen wanted to remember every time he looked at him. The feeling of that sweet, oh so tight warmth around him, the strangled noises and irrepressible tears as Burgess struggled to take him, to weather the unrestrained force of his thrusts. Sobs into soft, hiccuping moans—and then, against the pillows, or in the crook of his neck, or to the palm of his hand—rasping gasps, the same word climbing higher and higher in volume and pitch, until both had reached their finish.
His name.
Pen, Pen, Pen.
Pen loved it.
Probably more than he loved Burgess himself.