[ He feels so many conflicting things, torn in too many directions. He wants to lean back and close his eyes, let the sensations provoked by Bruce’s mouth wash over him and carry him away. But he wants to stay like this, too. He wants to watch, he wants to see Bruce, Bruce Banner, take his cock into his mouth. He wants to see the mouth he’s been fantasizing about and now will undoubtedly be dreaming out moving over his skin.

Each breath he takes is ragged, a little too fast. His pulse is a loud, racing beat in his ears. And he can’t keep his hands to himself. One stays in Bruce’s hair, threading through the curly strands, scratching fingernails over his scalp, combing and stroking and trying his damnedest not to pull. The other follows the line of his throat, traces the ridge of his shoulder, slides over his back. ]

My god, where’d you learn to do this? No, don’t answer that. Talk later. Not right now. Just keep—Keep doing that. Unless, if you want me to wait, then you might want to stop soon. Soon. Not like right now. You don't have to stop right now unless you want to.

[ He couldn't seem to stop talking, either. ]