[One thing is for certain now, and it's a thought that fills Rufus with hot elation: there's no chance anymore that Tseng is just doing what Rufus wants him to, just what he thinks he's supposed to. It's a little paradoxical, maybe, to think that he's getting off on the notion of Tseng doing things he would never have directed him to — but that's what makes it all the better, is the naked confirmation of the agency in it all. Tseng isn't fucking him the way he thinks Rufus wants it. Tseng is fucking him the way Tseng wants it, and it's pulling him apart by the seams.
Because I said to rolls off him like water; the laugh he chokes out at the absurd delight of it melts quickly into a moan as Tseng's fingers grasp him, pinning him between pleasure on two separate fronts. There's nowhere left to go that doesn't push him closer to shattering: every thrust strikes his prostate at a satisfying angle, and every loss of Tseng's cock on the backswing is mitigated by the slick stroke of his hand.
If he had the semblance of coherence to care, he might spare a passing thought for whether it's enough, whether he's lasted sufficiently long to not make an embarrassment of himself. What a rush it is that he doesn't, and frankly satisfaction can't come fast enough.]
Then make me —
[And maybe Tseng could, but the window of opportunity slams shut well before he has the ability to try; the tension builds and builds until every bit of sensation feels like it's adding to the deluge, from the hardy desk to the ephemeral caress of Tseng's hair, the sticky sweat and the shuddering breath and the cadence of noise that comes from a world-class fucking.
But then he breaks, and all notions of bravado leave him in the same rush that has him spilling over Tseng's fingers, a climax that feels immense with the weight of years of accumulated desire. The strength saps from his limbs and he slumps a little more heavy over the desktop, a little more pliant for Tseng's thrusts to push around. There's fire in his lungs and he can't seem to get enough air in them to extinguish it. His hair has long since fallen out of its usual style from the exertion, and it tumbles across his eyes and obscures his vision with hazy blurs of gold — a curtain he's unable to clear away, for how heavy and clumsy his own arms have gone.
There are no words for how good it feels, and Tseng seems unwilling to let it end for him anytime soon, keeping him suspended in that tempestuous pleasure with every additional thrust.]
no subject
Because I said to rolls off him like water; the laugh he chokes out at the absurd delight of it melts quickly into a moan as Tseng's fingers grasp him, pinning him between pleasure on two separate fronts. There's nowhere left to go that doesn't push him closer to shattering: every thrust strikes his prostate at a satisfying angle, and every loss of Tseng's cock on the backswing is mitigated by the slick stroke of his hand.
If he had the semblance of coherence to care, he might spare a passing thought for whether it's enough, whether he's lasted sufficiently long to not make an embarrassment of himself. What a rush it is that he doesn't, and frankly satisfaction can't come fast enough.]
Then make me —
[And maybe Tseng could, but the window of opportunity slams shut well before he has the ability to try; the tension builds and builds until every bit of sensation feels like it's adding to the deluge, from the hardy desk to the ephemeral caress of Tseng's hair, the sticky sweat and the shuddering breath and the cadence of noise that comes from a world-class fucking.
But then he breaks, and all notions of bravado leave him in the same rush that has him spilling over Tseng's fingers, a climax that feels immense with the weight of years of accumulated desire. The strength saps from his limbs and he slumps a little more heavy over the desktop, a little more pliant for Tseng's thrusts to push around. There's fire in his lungs and he can't seem to get enough air in them to extinguish it. His hair has long since fallen out of its usual style from the exertion, and it tumbles across his eyes and obscures his vision with hazy blurs of gold — a curtain he's unable to clear away, for how heavy and clumsy his own arms have gone.
There are no words for how good it feels, and Tseng seems unwilling to let it end for him anytime soon, keeping him suspended in that tempestuous pleasure with every additional thrust.]