Tsukishima doesn't think of himself as cute at all. Which is kind of missing the point, but it's not like he can compare his junk's appearance to anybody else's; he doesn't even know what his own looks like, having never bothered to fuck around with hand mirrors or the like.
That Bokuto is talking into his junk is more than a little awkward, though.
"Stop talking to my-- mmmph."
He slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle his moan when Bokuto's tongue breaches him, but even muffled the noise sounds disproportionately loud in the silent, empty space, seemingly echoing off the walls. His hips twitch forwards in an unconscious, aborted movement against Bokuto's mouth.
Tsukishima had tried dipping his fingers into the shallow channel inside of him before, but it had been underwhelming - not like this, nothing like this. All Bokuto had done was lick him a little but every touch of his hot, wet tongue against Tsukishima's folds felt so intense that he's aching already. He spreads his legs a little wider. More of that sticky, slick fluid coats the insides of his thighs and leaks onto Bokuto's tongue, the cloying scent of him filling the room.
What was that one line in the poem? Something about roiling heat? Tsukishima had never really gotten it before, but now he thinks he might. He thinks about how Bokuto's tongue had slid and twisted in his mouth when they kissed, and - he wants more, he wants Bokuto's tongue in him, he wants it so badly. He considers pulling Bokuto closer, but he holds himself back, turning over the hand against his mouth so he can bite down on his knuckle, the nails of his other hand scratching against the wood of the workbench as he grips the edge of it, hard.
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That Bokuto is talking into his junk is more than a little awkward, though.
"Stop talking to my-- mmmph."
He slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle his moan when Bokuto's tongue breaches him, but even muffled the noise sounds disproportionately loud in the silent, empty space, seemingly echoing off the walls. His hips twitch forwards in an unconscious, aborted movement against Bokuto's mouth.
Tsukishima had tried dipping his fingers into the shallow channel inside of him before, but it had been underwhelming - not like this, nothing like this. All Bokuto had done was lick him a little but every touch of his hot, wet tongue against Tsukishima's folds felt so intense that he's aching already. He spreads his legs a little wider. More of that sticky, slick fluid coats the insides of his thighs and leaks onto Bokuto's tongue, the cloying scent of him filling the room.
What was that one line in the poem? Something about roiling heat? Tsukishima had never really gotten it before, but now he thinks he might. He thinks about how Bokuto's tongue had slid and twisted in his mouth when they kissed, and - he wants more, he wants Bokuto's tongue in him, he wants it so badly. He considers pulling Bokuto closer, but he holds himself back, turning over the hand against his mouth so he can bite down on his knuckle, the nails of his other hand scratching against the wood of the workbench as he grips the edge of it, hard.