His breath stops as he's taken deep, and that's enough, and he knows he has bare seconds.
This is cruel. Not even necessarily this, but what's following it. What this is is a demonstration, that there's no place for pride here, that any hold on it has to be released. He loves Hobbes more than his own life, but that doesn't preclude him being an object. An object of pleasure, yes, but an object all the same.
He wrenches in a breath, yanks Tom away from him with fingers tight in his hair, and as he starts to shudder helplessly he grasps himself with the other hand and spills, hot and sticky, onto Tom's lips and chin and cheeks.
He stares down as it happens, and even through the faint stab of guilt, the sheer naked perfection of it steals what breath he has left.
no subject
This is cruel. Not even necessarily this, but what's following it. What this is is a demonstration, that there's no place for pride here, that any hold on it has to be released. He loves Hobbes more than his own life, but that doesn't preclude him being an object. An object of pleasure, yes, but an object all the same.
He wrenches in a breath, yanks Tom away from him with fingers tight in his hair, and as he starts to shudder helplessly he grasps himself with the other hand and spills, hot and sticky, onto Tom's lips and chin and cheeks.
He stares down as it happens, and even through the faint stab of guilt, the sheer naked perfection of it steals what breath he has left.