[ In the heat of the moment, it’s easy for Justin to make questionable decisions. Once he’s away from whatever the stimulus is and has time to cool his head, he tends to regret what he’s done. This is no exception. The further they get from the bar and the intensity of the moment that brought them to this point, the less inclined he is to go through with it. Without the haze of lust fogging his mind, he realizes how stupid this is, how easy it will be for Tony to make a fool of him, and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t think he could stand the ridicule and mortification that being rejected would bring.
But he can’t run away. He can’t do anything but enter Tony’s room, stomach twisting in nervous trepidation, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable crushing blow he just knows Tony’s going to deliver to him. Until he’s suddenly back against the wall and Tony’s mouth, warm and wet, is on him again. And Justin starts to realize that it isn’t a trick or a trap. ]
It’s not my—
[ It’s become automatic to respond to any tone from Tony that sounds like blame with snappishness. What isn’t routine is feeling his hands sliding up his sides or his palm pressed against his cock, and that causes the standard denial to break off with a moan. His own hands clutch at Tony’s shirt, splay against his back and try to pull him closer without a by-your-leave from his brain. So of course Tony would pull away, and Justin, taking a hurried breath, looks at him over the rim of his glasses. ]
Lose this. [ His hands fall to the hem of Tony’s shirt, bunching it up and inching up his chest. ] That’ll be a start in the comfort department.
no subject
But he can’t run away. He can’t do anything but enter Tony’s room, stomach twisting in nervous trepidation, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable crushing blow he just knows Tony’s going to deliver to him. Until he’s suddenly back against the wall and Tony’s mouth, warm and wet, is on him again. And Justin starts to realize that it isn’t a trick or a trap. ]
It’s not my—
[ It’s become automatic to respond to any tone from Tony that sounds like blame with snappishness. What isn’t routine is feeling his hands sliding up his sides or his palm pressed against his cock, and that causes the standard denial to break off with a moan. His own hands clutch at Tony’s shirt, splay against his back and try to pull him closer without a by-your-leave from his brain. So of course Tony would pull away, and Justin, taking a hurried breath, looks at him over the rim of his glasses. ]
Lose this. [ His hands fall to the hem of Tony’s shirt, bunching it up and inching up his chest. ] That’ll be a start in the comfort department.