Short and sweet suggestive Ryca under the cut😘
Mica has always been alone. He’s not used to the warm body that presses against his back most mornings. Nor is he used to the lazy hand that fondles the morning wood that haunts him more than when he was a teen. Sometimes only a titillating gesture but often leading to more. It strange at first before becoming routine. He slowly grows accustomed to a full bed.
Mornings aren’t cold and nauseating anymore. They’re warm and placid.
Some days he wakes up, Ryker’s soft breath ghosting along the shell of his ear, and thinks, ‘is this real?’ He must be dreaming. Delirious. Dead. But then Ryker mutters a, “good morning,” with an heavy exhale and wraps his arm tightly around Mica’s waist. Body trembling when he stretches his legs out. They always find a way to then tangle into his like a jaguar embracing its prey.
He should hate the taste of morning breath, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t hate the way Ryker hums against his throat. Or licks the scar on his upper lip. He find himself bitting the inside of his cheeks, flushing when Ryker teases him about his dimples. Fingering the dents like child molding clay. It almost hurts to feel Ryker’s laugh vibrating against his ribcage. Wounds the way he becomes pliant, shameless, submissive with just a look.
Ryker always finds a way to get under his skin. Gentle yet unbecoming. Teasing out every raspy sigh and inhale Mica has been holding back. Sounds he never knew he could make suddenly roll all too naturally from his throat, down his tongue, and between his teeth. His body shivers, tenses, flexes. Pulses in ways he never fathom.
It’s a different kind of sweat that pours from his body as he works himself into Ryker. Slick and sticky and sweet. Mixing with Rykers until it becomes indistinguishable. He should be repulsed, and yet here he is, kissing the bead of sweat creeping down along Ryker’s collarbone.
He’s never needed anything, and yet—
It’s not right the way Ryker nestles into him so easily. How he drags his lips over Mica’s palms and sucks his fingers in. Hands tainted with blood, dirt, and gristle. Sometimes he moves so tenderly, it burns. Aches, frankly, in a way that sets him on edge. It almost feels like Ryker has cracked him open and crawled inside. Clumsily clambering around his chest cavity and digging out every part Mica had kept hidden, even from himself. Carefully memorizing.
Mapping.
Tasting.
Swallowing.