[It's one thing to know, on an intellectual level, how they'll need to arrange themselves in order to accomplish this; it proves to be quite another thing entirely to actually position himself there, Rufus finds. For all that he's situated atop Tseng — preferable, because surely he would hate it to be laid out on his back, of all things — it doesn't make him feel any more stable or in control of himself for it. It's all Tseng, now, smooth and even and steady, directing him with almost delicate tact like he's moving them across the venue of a social affair and not...this.
But then —
Lower your hips, he says, and the silence that follows after it is deafening. The respect is precisely the same as always; the lack of the word sir has Rufus's chest going tight from how he forgets to breathe. Maybe that's why he obe— why he acquiesces without question; he's too busy thinking to think better of it, too preoccupied to resist the way Tseng's hands stroke over his hips and settle on his sides to show him exactly where and what he needs to be.
His lungs quickly remember their function at the first pass of Tseng's tongue. It's like the breath has been punched out of him with the way it rasps, hard and blunt like a gasp in reverse. All of a sudden his arms seem to have to work harder to bear his own weight, where they're braced against the mattress; all he can see from this vantage is a slim strip of Tseng's bared abdomen and the crotch of his jeans and it's not enough, it's not nearly enough.
But once — once should be sufficient, shouldn't it? They've met the slot machine's terms. The reward is his. He should be triumphant. He should be satisfied.
Only Tseng doesn't stop, and Rufus can't produce an answer of whether or not he even wants him to. It's as though half of him can't stand it, can't bear to let himself continue with this any further, and the other half would sooner rip every last misgiving out of himself with his bare hands before letting it come to an end. He's so hard it's dizzying, and the heat and pressure of it aren't going away; quite the contrary, every twist and flick of Tseng's tongue just brings him closer to the inevitable, has him biting his lip swollen to keep any untoward noises suppressed.
It couldn't have been anyone else, he thinks, scrabbling furiously for any scrap of composure he can find. Doing this, being like this — he could never have allowed it from anyone else.
He wouldn't have wanted it from anyone else.
I want it, he thinks treacherously, and before he can dwell on that thought any further he picks up one of his bracing hands and moves it to rest on Tseng's thigh instead, just touching the muscle and the texture of his jeans, like he's desperately in need of a lightning rod to divert the electricity of that realization before it can shock him from the inside out.]
no subject
But then —
Lower your hips, he says, and the silence that follows after it is deafening. The respect is precisely the same as always; the lack of the word sir has Rufus's chest going tight from how he forgets to breathe. Maybe that's why he obe— why he acquiesces without question; he's too busy thinking to think better of it, too preoccupied to resist the way Tseng's hands stroke over his hips and settle on his sides to show him exactly where and what he needs to be.
His lungs quickly remember their function at the first pass of Tseng's tongue. It's like the breath has been punched out of him with the way it rasps, hard and blunt like a gasp in reverse. All of a sudden his arms seem to have to work harder to bear his own weight, where they're braced against the mattress; all he can see from this vantage is a slim strip of Tseng's bared abdomen and the crotch of his jeans and it's not enough, it's not nearly enough.
But once — once should be sufficient, shouldn't it? They've met the slot machine's terms. The reward is his. He should be triumphant. He should be satisfied.
Only Tseng doesn't stop, and Rufus can't produce an answer of whether or not he even wants him to. It's as though half of him can't stand it, can't bear to let himself continue with this any further, and the other half would sooner rip every last misgiving out of himself with his bare hands before letting it come to an end. He's so hard it's dizzying, and the heat and pressure of it aren't going away; quite the contrary, every twist and flick of Tseng's tongue just brings him closer to the inevitable, has him biting his lip swollen to keep any untoward noises suppressed.
It couldn't have been anyone else, he thinks, scrabbling furiously for any scrap of composure he can find. Doing this, being like this — he could never have allowed it from anyone else.
He wouldn't have wanted it from anyone else.
I want it, he thinks treacherously, and before he can dwell on that thought any further he picks up one of his bracing hands and moves it to rest on Tseng's thigh instead, just touching the muscle and the texture of his jeans, like he's desperately in need of a lightning rod to divert the electricity of that realization before it can shock him from the inside out.]