[ probably he ought to be more freaked out at this point. probably
he ought to be finding it strange that he can come and then crave more, a
single, easy orgasm no longer the finish line at the end of a wank session.
even the cascading feeling is different, something fundamentally changed
from how he used to experience sex.
he should be tired, and he's not. he should want to wait out the
over-sensitivity but all he can think of is being touched again, whimpering
at how strange it feels to crave something he's never had before. matt's
fingers, his fingers, moving inside him and touching and stroking and
making his nervous system light up in ways it's not meant to, that it never
has before. his flushed cheeks are wet with tears he hadn't even noticed
shedding.
it feels like the first nail in the coffin that's been built around
him. it feels good. it feels so, so good, and he wants more, a hungry
chasm opened up inside him that maybe, maybe he could have ignored before,
if he'd never touched himself, if he'd never opened his legs, but now he
can't ignore it. the thing between his legs throbs and he has to fight the
urge to stroke a finger down there, rub himself, go right into the next
round.
matt, apparently, sees no reason to fight that impulse. matt
beckons him into the water, looking gorgeous with his skin shining wetly
and his piercings glinting under the false sun and the waves lapping around
his swollen stomach and his wrist disappearing under the water, leaving no
doubt as to where his hand is. the sight of his breasts and belly look
almost natural now. it's the way he should look, some tiny part of
lance decides traitorously. lovely and happy and pregnant, and lance
gathers his feet under himself shakily, abandoning his robe to step out
into the replicated surf. letting matt look at him, if he wants; how
unattractively skinny and angular lance's body is in comparison. there's
no softness in the sharp juts of lance's hips and elbows and ankles and
he'd never really let himself dwell on it before, that it makes him look
unfinished, juvenile.
he shivers at the first touch of the water to his sex and wades over
to matt, that awful fire of want still burning in the pit of his
stomach, leeching into his voice. he sounds greedy. he sounds like
someone else, eager and lusting, his fingers drifting unconsciously to
matt's belly under the water to stroke and pet it. ]
no subject
[ probably he ought to be more freaked out at this point. probably he ought to be finding it strange that he can come and then crave more, a single, easy orgasm no longer the finish line at the end of a wank session. even the cascading feeling is different, something fundamentally changed from how he used to experience sex.
he should be tired, and he's not. he should want to wait out the over-sensitivity but all he can think of is being touched again, whimpering at how strange it feels to crave something he's never had before. matt's fingers, his fingers, moving inside him and touching and stroking and making his nervous system light up in ways it's not meant to, that it never has before. his flushed cheeks are wet with tears he hadn't even noticed shedding.
it feels like the first nail in the coffin that's been built around him. it feels good. it feels so, so good, and he wants more, a hungry chasm opened up inside him that maybe, maybe he could have ignored before, if he'd never touched himself, if he'd never opened his legs, but now he can't ignore it. the thing between his legs throbs and he has to fight the urge to stroke a finger down there, rub himself, go right into the next round.
matt, apparently, sees no reason to fight that impulse. matt beckons him into the water, looking gorgeous with his skin shining wetly and his piercings glinting under the false sun and the waves lapping around his swollen stomach and his wrist disappearing under the water, leaving no doubt as to where his hand is. the sight of his breasts and belly look almost natural now. it's the way he should look, some tiny part of lance decides traitorously. lovely and happy and pregnant, and lance gathers his feet under himself shakily, abandoning his robe to step out into the replicated surf. letting matt look at him, if he wants; how unattractively skinny and angular lance's body is in comparison. there's no softness in the sharp juts of lance's hips and elbows and ankles and he'd never really let himself dwell on it before, that it makes him look unfinished, juvenile.
he shivers at the first touch of the water to his sex and wades over to matt, that awful fire of want still burning in the pit of his stomach, leeching into his voice. he sounds greedy. he sounds like someone else, eager and lusting, his fingers drifting unconsciously to matt's belly under the water to stroke and pet it. ]
Can we do it again?