[Fuck, fuck, this really must be a dream of his own making. Surely Tseng would never kiss him like this in reality, exactly the way he used to envision in scandalous rebellious daydreams in his youth. This has to be a product of his own imagination just from how good it is; even the scrape of nails on his skin is so, so good, despite the fact that his idle fantasies always have Tseng wearing gloves.
But so much the better that it is a dream, because that just means he's free to enjoy it as much as he wants, irrespective of consequences. Tseng kisses him like he's going to devour him and he's free to bend to it, relishing the demonstration of power for what it is without having to spare a thought for what it makes him in the process. And if that wasn't enough — sweet Shiva, if he wasn't turned on already, he would be in an instant the moment he's dragged off by his own hair, the moment Tseng just looks at him, all wild-eyed and disheveled with his lips still parted and wet —
It's not that Tseng's stronger than he looks. It's there, if you know where to look for it. But he is stronger than he lets on, which is why it's all the better to feel it firsthand like this, swept back and turned about and manhandled in what feels like one singular fluid movement.
The noise he makes is low and ragged. It's so good, what the hell, it's so good.]
Don't call me "sir" —
[With his cheek pressed against the tabletop, his attempts at responding are a little less comfortable than usual, but his thoughts are still sharp enough to leave Tseng a nice wide loophole with that insistence. Sir doesn't quite suit his purposes in a position like this, but it's far from his only title. It's Tseng's play, really, to decide which one he uses.
He shifts his feet a little, testing how much he can wiggle against how securely Tseng is holding him down. As expected, it isn't much.]
no subject
But so much the better that it is a dream, because that just means he's free to enjoy it as much as he wants, irrespective of consequences. Tseng kisses him like he's going to devour him and he's free to bend to it, relishing the demonstration of power for what it is without having to spare a thought for what it makes him in the process. And if that wasn't enough — sweet Shiva, if he wasn't turned on already, he would be in an instant the moment he's dragged off by his own hair, the moment Tseng just looks at him, all wild-eyed and disheveled with his lips still parted and wet —
It's not that Tseng's stronger than he looks. It's there, if you know where to look for it. But he is stronger than he lets on, which is why it's all the better to feel it firsthand like this, swept back and turned about and manhandled in what feels like one singular fluid movement.
The noise he makes is low and ragged. It's so good, what the hell, it's so good.]
Don't call me "sir" —
[With his cheek pressed against the tabletop, his attempts at responding are a little less comfortable than usual, but his thoughts are still sharp enough to leave Tseng a nice wide loophole with that insistence. Sir doesn't quite suit his purposes in a position like this, but it's far from his only title. It's Tseng's play, really, to decide which one he uses.
He shifts his feet a little, testing how much he can wiggle against how securely Tseng is holding him down. As expected, it isn't much.]
And keep, hhh, talking —