[ Aah, shit. Ah, fuck. He really said it. Now he really can't back off. N-not that he wants to? Not that he's nervous or anything? Fuuta ignores the hammering of his pulse in his throat as he awkwardly shifts his legs to better facilitate his trackpants slipping down to puddle at his ankles, caught over the tops of his sneakers.
And while he could squirm around to turn around in Sherwood's lap -- Fuuta instead clambers to his feet to stand before him.
He feels patently ridiculous, standing here like this with his dick out and his pants around his ankles, but he also feels like he needs to snatch back at least some little crumb of control, instead of just sitting in the guy's lap. Case in point: ]
Undo your pants. [ His voice totally cracks halfway through that last word, but Fuuta tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the invasive thought that the sight of Sherwood taking his glove off with his teeth is ... kind of hot. ] C'mon. Hurry up.
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And while he could squirm around to turn around in Sherwood's lap -- Fuuta instead clambers to his feet to stand before him.
He feels patently ridiculous, standing here like this with his dick out and his pants around his ankles, but he also feels like he needs to snatch back at least some little crumb of control, instead of just sitting in the guy's lap. Case in point: ]
Undo your pants. [ His voice totally cracks halfway through that last word, but Fuuta tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the invasive thought that the sight of Sherwood taking his glove off with his teeth is ... kind of hot. ] C'mon. Hurry up.