Skyy cried out—a raw, startled sound—his nails digging into Chen's shoulders as the head slipped past the tight ring of muscle. It burned, stretched, ached in a way that was somehow both terrible and perfect.
"Breathe," Chen gritted out, holding himself still, sweat already beading on his forehead. "Skyy, 'breathe'."
Skyy sucked in a ragged breath. Then another.
"Okay," he gasped. "Okay, okay, keep—keep going."
Chen pushed in further.
Inch by inch. Slow, so fucking slow, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Skyy was hot and tight and wet with his own release, and every fraction of movement sent a bolt of pleasure straight up Chen's spine.
"Halfway," Chen managed. "Skyy, you're doing so good—"
Skyy's eyes were wet. His cheeks were wet. He was crying—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it, from being split open on Chen's cock, from finally, 'finally' having him.
"More," he whispered. "Chen, more, please—"
Chen pushed the rest of the way in.
