[Tseng has said his name more times in the lifespan of this dream than he has in a decade or more outside of it. A treacherous part of him is almost willing to call it sentimentality; that perception only finds support in the unprecedented tenderness that follows next, the kiss to his skin and the hot drag of what can only be Tseng's tongue that comes after it. It's not as though he was under the impression that Tseng was incapable of a sentimental notion or two; he's not unaware of the matters concerning the Ancient, or other pieces of Turk business that he's certain Tseng would much prefer remain sealed and buried in his past.
He wouldn't have thought Tseng would have any to spare for him. Hard to say why — too hard to contemplate through his dreamy haze, too poisoned a thought to risk lest it turn the sweet lassitude sour. He'd just learned not to expect it from anyone, is all. He'd learned that at the foot of this desk.
How strange to feel wanted. A sensation worth treasuring, as his shoulders swell and recede with the weight of his breath. He's not quite panting for it, but it's a close thing.]
Don't stop.
[It's not what he wants to say. He wants to say, I liked it. He wants to say I wanted you, wants to remind Tseng of his threat to turn him over and do it all over again, to make him forget anything but this, to worship him and say that he'd loved doing it.
He doesn't put voice to any of it, too acutely aware of how easily the fragility of this afterglow can be compromised, and unwilling to break it prematurely before it shatters all on its own.]
no subject
He wouldn't have thought Tseng would have any to spare for him. Hard to say why — too hard to contemplate through his dreamy haze, too poisoned a thought to risk lest it turn the sweet lassitude sour. He'd just learned not to expect it from anyone, is all. He'd learned that at the foot of this desk.
How strange to feel wanted. A sensation worth treasuring, as his shoulders swell and recede with the weight of his breath. He's not quite panting for it, but it's a close thing.]
Don't stop.
[It's not what he wants to say. He wants to say, I liked it. He wants to say I wanted you, wants to remind Tseng of his threat to turn him over and do it all over again, to make him forget anything but this, to worship him and say that he'd loved doing it.
He doesn't put voice to any of it, too acutely aware of how easily the fragility of this afterglow can be compromised, and unwilling to break it prematurely before it shatters all on its own.]