[ it was tseng who once begged rufus not to talk about his father or heidegger while they're kissing, and now it's tseng who invokes the old man's name of his own free will in the name of getting them both off. because make no mistake, it does get tseng off, turns him on far more than he ever thought it might to think about fucking rufus on the remains of his father's empire and rendering the late president shinra utterly irrelevant in the process.
he means it, of course, every word. not the bit about calling him daddy—well, truthfully he means that too—but every time he's ever told rufus, emphatic and sincere, that he is more and better, incredible beyond what his father had the capacity to recognize. he would mean it even if it didn't lead to moments like these, when rufus texts him back, a first message that makes tseng's stomach clench for its transgression, followed by a second message that hits him like a thundaga spell to the chest.
his orgasm, then, takes him by surprise. he'd been so careful, coaxing himself to the edge without letting himself fall, but the pleasure of the sentiment—in particular the last bit—is too much for tseng to bear. he feels the beginnings of his climax flare hot and urgent in his belly and strokes himself once, twice, three times before it crests, washing over him in a flood so powerful it feels like being pulled under, swept away.
when he regains his senses, it's to a mess in his hand, and the first thing tseng does is take a picture. his cock, still hard, and his cum all over his palm, dripping down to stain the black fabric of his slacks. ]
no subject
he means it, of course, every word. not the bit about calling him daddy—well, truthfully he means that too—but every time he's ever told rufus, emphatic and sincere, that he is more and better, incredible beyond what his father had the capacity to recognize. he would mean it even if it didn't lead to moments like these, when rufus texts him back, a first message that makes tseng's stomach clench for its transgression, followed by a second message that hits him like a thundaga spell to the chest.
his orgasm, then, takes him by surprise. he'd been so careful, coaxing himself to the edge without letting himself fall, but the pleasure of the sentiment—in particular the last bit—is too much for tseng to bear. he feels the beginnings of his climax flare hot and urgent in his belly and strokes himself once, twice, three times before it crests, washing over him in a flood so powerful it feels like being pulled under, swept away.
when he regains his senses, it's to a mess in his hand, and the first thing tseng does is take a picture. his cock, still hard, and his cum all over his palm, dripping down to stain the black fabric of his slacks. ]
Come for me.