[His face goes hot, his fair complexion flushing red as the magnitude of Tseng's affirmations sink in. That he is better, just like this, than anything Tseng had ever imagined — that anything, anything he might've dreamed up and craved pales by comparison to the reality of the here and now —
His shoulders shake, involuntarily, like his own body is left quaking just from trying to hold the arousal that floods him. It's so good he doesn't even want to reach for himself, doesn't want to satisfy it, not yet; he just wants to hold it and simmer in it and live in that moment of it, livewire-electrified on the sensation of being wanted.]
Mmmh —
[Up close like this, every tell might as well be outlined in neon: the tension on the strands of his hair that are woven through Tseng's fingers, the tight mass of firm muscle where Tseng's thighs bracket his head. Tseng can make himself a phantom when he wants to be, perfectly controlled, perfectly silent, perfectly unmoving. It's intoxicating to see him come alive like this, too overcome to suppress these things that reveal him as a warm and desperate man.
He runs his fingertips up and down Tseng's calf, as if in reassurance that his pleas for a slower pace have been heard — and thinks of his father's desk, of the foyer of this very suite, of how it'd felt to be on the receiving end of someone absolutely determined to make him come and, well, slow down or isn't the same thing as stop.
His eyes slide up to find Tseng's — stormy, dilated, hazy with his own unbridled enjoyment — and he lets his gaze do the talking that his occupied mouth can't: that making Tseng come is what he wants, that he wants to push him there, and the question in his eyes is: won't you let me?]
no subject
His shoulders shake, involuntarily, like his own body is left quaking just from trying to hold the arousal that floods him. It's so good he doesn't even want to reach for himself, doesn't want to satisfy it, not yet; he just wants to hold it and simmer in it and live in that moment of it, livewire-electrified on the sensation of being wanted.]
Mmmh —
[Up close like this, every tell might as well be outlined in neon: the tension on the strands of his hair that are woven through Tseng's fingers, the tight mass of firm muscle where Tseng's thighs bracket his head. Tseng can make himself a phantom when he wants to be, perfectly controlled, perfectly silent, perfectly unmoving. It's intoxicating to see him come alive like this, too overcome to suppress these things that reveal him as a warm and desperate man.
He runs his fingertips up and down Tseng's calf, as if in reassurance that his pleas for a slower pace have been heard — and thinks of his father's desk, of the foyer of this very suite, of how it'd felt to be on the receiving end of someone absolutely determined to make him come and, well, slow down or isn't the same thing as stop.
His eyes slide up to find Tseng's — stormy, dilated, hazy with his own unbridled enjoyment — and he lets his gaze do the talking that his occupied mouth can't: that making Tseng come is what he wants, that he wants to push him there, and the question in his eyes is: won't you let me?]