[He drops his head when Tseng's fingers slide out of him, the uncompromising desktop crushing his cheek in a way that's only just unpleasant enough to be a nuisance, and bites hard on his tongue to keep a faint noise of discontent stifled in his throat. It's only now that he's got the space to think amidst the lull in sensation that he realizes how achingly hard he is, and to remember how Tseng had said let me and then didn't — had left him wanting.
It's such a strikingly odd reversal of the norm. Tseng denying him. Tseng leaving him deprived. It'd be hotter than Ifrit's fires to contemplate if he weren't so preoccupied with how badly he wants to come. It'll be dizzying later when he thinks back on it in the shower or beneath his comforter, unable to stop thinking about a killer's fingers biting into his wrist and a low imperative not to touch himself at all.
He's still drifting on that thought when that same hand comes down heavy on his back like a weight — hells below, how many different ways will Tseng find to pin him, and all of them absolutely intoxicating? — and it's the only warning he gets before suddenly he's penetrated in one swift movement that leaves him no time to react or respond.
He almost doesn't hear the word on Tseng's breath past the pounding of blood in his ears and the overwhelmed noise he only just barely manages to swallow. Almost — except that it's so rare for Tseng to make a sound at all, so rare that he's resonant with each and every one, and he's never in his life heard Tseng's breath tremble before.]
Tseng —
[It's hard to say in that moment what he actually wants more: to come, or to know that Tseng came because of him. His body has one very emphatic opinion on it. The ache in his chest holds the other. But what follows, in a whisper of his own, is perhaps telling: ]
Let me — hear you —
[The fact that he doesn't move at first has nothing to do with lack of interest and everything to do with wanting to savor this. Maybe it makes him a brat, to squeeze his eyes shut and hold still and let Tseng do all the world while he preoccupies himself with memorizing the white lightning of pleasure across every nerve, and the radiant heat their bodies produce, and what he aches to believe is the brush of the tips of Tseng's hair against his sweat-beaded skin. It doesn't take long, though, before they come together at an angle that he wants to feel again and again, and that's when he starts rocking back as best he can, adding his own force to the determined clash of their hips.]
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It's such a strikingly odd reversal of the norm. Tseng denying him. Tseng leaving him deprived. It'd be hotter than Ifrit's fires to contemplate if he weren't so preoccupied with how badly he wants to come. It'll be dizzying later when he thinks back on it in the shower or beneath his comforter, unable to stop thinking about a killer's fingers biting into his wrist and a low imperative not to touch himself at all.
He's still drifting on that thought when that same hand comes down heavy on his back like a weight — hells below, how many different ways will Tseng find to pin him, and all of them absolutely intoxicating? — and it's the only warning he gets before suddenly he's penetrated in one swift movement that leaves him no time to react or respond.
He almost doesn't hear the word on Tseng's breath past the pounding of blood in his ears and the overwhelmed noise he only just barely manages to swallow. Almost — except that it's so rare for Tseng to make a sound at all, so rare that he's resonant with each and every one, and he's never in his life heard Tseng's breath tremble before.]
Tseng —
[It's hard to say in that moment what he actually wants more: to come, or to know that Tseng came because of him. His body has one very emphatic opinion on it. The ache in his chest holds the other. But what follows, in a whisper of his own, is perhaps telling: ]
Let me — hear you —
[The fact that he doesn't move at first has nothing to do with lack of interest and everything to do with wanting to savor this. Maybe it makes him a brat, to squeeze his eyes shut and hold still and let Tseng do all the world while he preoccupies himself with memorizing the white lightning of pleasure across every nerve, and the radiant heat their bodies produce, and what he aches to believe is the brush of the tips of Tseng's hair against his sweat-beaded skin. It doesn't take long, though, before they come together at an angle that he wants to feel again and again, and that's when he starts rocking back as best he can, adding his own force to the determined clash of their hips.]