[If he bites his lip bloody, Tseng will see it after. It would be better to get a hand free, to get a knuckle in his mouth and sink his teeth into that, but he needs the one braced on the mattress to keep himself from falling forward and the thought of lifting the one on Tseng's thigh, even for an instant, feels absolutely out of the question. There seems to be no good answer to keeping his irrepressible noises stifled, and maybe that shouldn't even matter at all, but — it just does, somehow. Worse still is how, with the way they're situated, the bulge in Tseng's jeans is right in the center of his natural gaze, maddening, and that'd certainly be a way to shut himself up, wouldn't it, to just work the zipper free and open his mouth and —
Fuck.
And in a way, Tseng gets his wish — about halfway so, all things considered. There's no missing the sight of his cock with the way they're positioned, and there's no denying the way the denim is straining. The part that doesn't come together, that Rufus is too far gone to connect, is why: why would Tseng be so aroused when he's barely touched him at all? It's understandable that he'd be this close to the brink himself, dappled in sweat and trembling even without the attentions of that damnable tongue, but that's because Tseng made sure this would work, he'd handled it, taking charge of the way this unfolds while Rufus, as ever, contributed comparatively little in return.
His fingers, the ones that were already familiar with the texture of Tseng's jeans, ghost over the shape of his cock before he quite realizes what he's doing — only then he does realize, and snatches it back before he can surrender to any temptation of doing it again. Tseng's pants didn't come off because they didn't need to come off; he'd had every opportunity to remove them, if that's what he'd wanted, yet here they are.
Fuck.
What he ought to be doing is touching himself, probably. Or at the very least focusing less on wondering how Tseng's arousal might swell if he were to fit it into the palm of his hand instead, if he'd somehow keep his composure even in the midst of petting like that or if his eyes would go dark and desiring from the sensations rolling over him, the same way that every flick of his tongue sends shockwaves up Rufus's spine.
He's thinking too much. He's thinking too much.
But fortunately Tseng's aims end up perfectly aligning with that desire to stop thinking, and as the sensations escalate he can feel his focus starting to melt away, taking all semblance of a filter along with it.]
no subject
Fuck.
And in a way, Tseng gets his wish — about halfway so, all things considered. There's no missing the sight of his cock with the way they're positioned, and there's no denying the way the denim is straining. The part that doesn't come together, that Rufus is too far gone to connect, is why: why would Tseng be so aroused when he's barely touched him at all? It's understandable that he'd be this close to the brink himself, dappled in sweat and trembling even without the attentions of that damnable tongue, but that's because Tseng made sure this would work, he'd handled it, taking charge of the way this unfolds while Rufus, as ever, contributed comparatively little in return.
His fingers, the ones that were already familiar with the texture of Tseng's jeans, ghost over the shape of his cock before he quite realizes what he's doing — only then he does realize, and snatches it back before he can surrender to any temptation of doing it again. Tseng's pants didn't come off because they didn't need to come off; he'd had every opportunity to remove them, if that's what he'd wanted, yet here they are.
Fuck.
What he ought to be doing is touching himself, probably. Or at the very least focusing less on wondering how Tseng's arousal might swell if he were to fit it into the palm of his hand instead, if he'd somehow keep his composure even in the midst of petting like that or if his eyes would go dark and desiring from the sensations rolling over him, the same way that every flick of his tongue sends shockwaves up Rufus's spine.
He's thinking too much. He's thinking too much.
But fortunately Tseng's aims end up perfectly aligning with that desire to stop thinking, and as the sensations escalate he can feel his focus starting to melt away, taking all semblance of a filter along with it.]