Shaun obliges. His fingers slip underneath the waistband of Desmond's boxers and he thumbs the tip of his erection, never taking his eyes off of the other man's face. Desmond moans, his hands curl over the arm rests. His mouth twitches, then forms one word, soft and feather-light- 'please'.
Shaun kisses him again. He can't help himself; his fingers press and touch and take without permission, stroking Desmond's cheek, his stomach, his legs. And his cock, of course. Every time he's touched, Desmond shrugs back into the chair with a little whine of pleasure.
Eventually, Shaun can't take it anymore.
It's dangerous. It's a horrible idea; so many things could go wrong, he tells himself as he repositions Desmond so that he is laying with his forehead against the head-rest of the Animus. His jeans are already shucked a considerable way past his waist, boxers too - Shaun hurries to do the same.
'Shaun,' Desmond sighs against the Animus, then there's an audible hitch in his breath as Shaun begins to prepare him. The knowledge of how to do so is clinical, gleaned from history texts and scientific case studies. Shaun has never wanted to do this to another man before.
As he strokes his hand along Desmond's side, the other man's breathing intensifies. His fingers massage the taut skin around Desmond's hole. Gently does it, he tells himself, and then Desmond murmurs 'Shaun,' and he decides doing it gently is a waste of time.
Desmond takes one finger, all the way to the knuckle, without complaint. His mouth clenches in pain when a second is added, and the third makes his eyes water. Shaun kisses his back and the nape of his neck as he works his fingers deeper.
His fingers aren't enough. Desmond can take more, Shaun is sure of it.
'Atta boy,' he whispers into Desmond's hair as he eases his aching cock into him, his thumbs anchored firmly on Desmond's hips and massaging the skin there in small, worried circles. 'Jesus Christ, this is all kinds of fucked up.'
Desmond doesn't reply coherently. Just a tumble of sounds that are somewhere between gasps and words. He is arching into the Animus in a way that Shaun can't imagine him ever doing if he were really awake. All limbs and motion and a vague sense of desperation, if the jerky little movements his hips are making against the seat of the Animus is any indication.
thank you for all the encouragement guys!
Shaun obliges. His fingers slip underneath the waistband of Desmond's boxers and he thumbs the tip of his erection, never taking his eyes off of the other man's face. Desmond moans, his hands curl over the arm rests. His mouth twitches, then forms one word, soft and feather-light- 'please'.
Shaun kisses him again. He can't help himself; his fingers press and touch and take without permission, stroking Desmond's cheek, his stomach, his legs. And his cock, of course. Every time he's touched, Desmond shrugs back into the chair with a little whine of pleasure.
Eventually, Shaun can't take it anymore.
It's dangerous. It's a horrible idea; so many things could go wrong, he tells himself as he repositions Desmond so that he is laying with his forehead against the head-rest of the Animus. His jeans are already shucked a considerable way past his waist, boxers too - Shaun hurries to do the same.
'Shaun,' Desmond sighs against the Animus, then there's an audible hitch in his breath as Shaun begins to prepare him. The knowledge of how to do so is clinical, gleaned from history texts and scientific case studies. Shaun has never wanted to do this to another man before.
As he strokes his hand along Desmond's side, the other man's breathing intensifies. His fingers massage the taut skin around Desmond's hole. Gently does it, he tells himself, and then Desmond murmurs 'Shaun,' and he decides doing it gently is a waste of time.
Desmond takes one finger, all the way to the knuckle, without complaint. His mouth clenches in pain when a second is added, and the third makes his eyes water. Shaun kisses his back and the nape of his neck as he works his fingers deeper.
His fingers aren't enough. Desmond can take more, Shaun is sure of it.
'Atta boy,' he whispers into Desmond's hair as he eases his aching cock into him, his thumbs anchored firmly on Desmond's hips and massaging the skin there in small, worried circles. 'Jesus Christ, this is all kinds of fucked up.'
Desmond doesn't reply coherently. Just a tumble of sounds that are somewhere between gasps and words. He is arching into the Animus in a way that Shaun can't imagine him ever doing if he were really awake. All limbs and motion and a vague sense of desperation, if the jerky little movements his hips are making against the seat of the Animus is any indication.