[ a problem: tseng will never be able to let another alpha knot rufus.
another problem: tseng will also never be able to let another alpha see rufus when he comes.
he's a vision, pleasure knitted into every line and cord of muscle standing out against his skin, in the line of his throat and the wet of his mouth and the quiver of his thighs as he spills into his own trousers. his cum lands hot and sticky on the inside of tseng's wrist, and his slick gushes down over the back of his hand, soaking his trousers beyond salvaging. (they'll have to be dry cleaned. tseng can't think that far in advance.) he fingers rufus through it, until the tension in his muscles melts away and is replaced by sweet lethargy, his frame going languid and soft where he leans against tseng. ]
Just like that. [ good boy, tseng doesn't say.
he lets his fingers slip from between rufus' thighs, but he doesn't wipe them immediately, and it's a good thing he doesn't, because rufus is purring around words that are almost shocking in how filthy and arousing they are. not telling tseng to taste it—although yes, that too—but the fact that he wants tseng to taste him, when he's never let anyone else do the same... that he wanted tseng, that he wants tseng, that his voice is made sweet by those gentle vocalizations but the words are, tseng thinks, no less true for it...
he lifts his hand, right where rufus can see, and licks along his own wrist and up the backs of his fingers in one long swipe. his cum tastes sharp and tangy and a little bitter, like lemon zest and sun; his slick is sweet and tart and makes tseng's teeth ache with how badly he wants to turn rufus on his belly and shove his tongue inside him.
he brings his cleaner hand up to nudge rufus' chin, tilting him up to look at tseng. like this, they're only inches apart. ]
Would you like to taste yourself? [ on tseng's tongue, he means, where their mouths are so close they might touch. ]
no subject
another problem: tseng will also never be able to let another alpha see rufus when he comes.
he's a vision, pleasure knitted into every line and cord of muscle standing out against his skin, in the line of his throat and the wet of his mouth and the quiver of his thighs as he spills into his own trousers. his cum lands hot and sticky on the inside of tseng's wrist, and his slick gushes down over the back of his hand, soaking his trousers beyond salvaging. (they'll have to be dry cleaned. tseng can't think that far in advance.) he fingers rufus through it, until the tension in his muscles melts away and is replaced by sweet lethargy, his frame going languid and soft where he leans against tseng. ]
Just like that. [ good boy, tseng doesn't say.
he lets his fingers slip from between rufus' thighs, but he doesn't wipe them immediately, and it's a good thing he doesn't, because rufus is purring around words that are almost shocking in how filthy and arousing they are. not telling tseng to taste it—although yes, that too—but the fact that he wants tseng to taste him, when he's never let anyone else do the same... that he wanted tseng, that he wants tseng, that his voice is made sweet by those gentle vocalizations but the words are, tseng thinks, no less true for it...
he lifts his hand, right where rufus can see, and licks along his own wrist and up the backs of his fingers in one long swipe. his cum tastes sharp and tangy and a little bitter, like lemon zest and sun; his slick is sweet and tart and makes tseng's teeth ache with how badly he wants to turn rufus on his belly and shove his tongue inside him.
he brings his cleaner hand up to nudge rufus' chin, tilting him up to look at tseng. like this, they're only inches apart. ]
Would you like to taste yourself? [ on tseng's tongue, he means, where their mouths are so close they might touch. ]