[More and more, he's coming to realize that he likes it when Tseng comes first. Mostly it's for the novelty — Tseng always seems to make it such a particular point to get him off frequently and thoroughly — but a little bit for the pride of it, too. It feels good, somehow, to care about that. He's always been one to prefer letting his actions speak for themselves; it's nice to be able to show that he cares about Tseng's pleasure just as much as his own.
So it hits him in a rush, then, when that picture comes through, the ache of as-yet-unsatisfied arousal enhanced by the pride of having made Tseng climax evidently even without being in his proximity, by word and static image and fantasy alone. It makes him moan softly into his arm, but he's good, he's good, he's so good —
Until Tseng tells him what he wants, and those three words on his watch prove enough to tip him over the edge.
It's an odd sensation, coming from only his fingers and his fantasies — unexpectedly intense, and rolling through his body in waves that make his muscles clench and coil tight. He misses the firm grip of a fist around his cock, a little, but it's too overwhelming to even consider trying to do something about it as he trembles and gasps until the deluge subsides.
Climax saps the strength from him, leaves him limp and panting with heat radiating off his skin, and he lies there awhile until he can manage to get his fingers out of himself and use the clean ones to reach for his watch, thumbing on the audio because he knows he's too hopeless to type.]
Tseng...
[He just breathes a little while, while his heart pounds in his chest, his mind curiously blank because all the ten thousand implications and ramifications of what they've just done haven't yet had the chance to catch up.]
Talk to — let me hear you.
[He swallows hard, feeling that odd deep drowsiness settling around himself, and thinks, this is safe. This is good. This is safe. Push. It's fine. It's safe.]
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So it hits him in a rush, then, when that picture comes through, the ache of as-yet-unsatisfied arousal enhanced by the pride of having made Tseng climax evidently even without being in his proximity, by word and static image and fantasy alone. It makes him moan softly into his arm, but he's good, he's good, he's so good —
Until Tseng tells him what he wants, and those three words on his watch prove enough to tip him over the edge.
It's an odd sensation, coming from only his fingers and his fantasies — unexpectedly intense, and rolling through his body in waves that make his muscles clench and coil tight. He misses the firm grip of a fist around his cock, a little, but it's too overwhelming to even consider trying to do something about it as he trembles and gasps until the deluge subsides.
Climax saps the strength from him, leaves him limp and panting with heat radiating off his skin, and he lies there awhile until he can manage to get his fingers out of himself and use the clean ones to reach for his watch, thumbing on the audio because he knows he's too hopeless to type.]
Tseng...
[He just breathes a little while, while his heart pounds in his chest, his mind curiously blank because all the ten thousand implications and ramifications of what they've just done haven't yet had the chance to catch up.]
Talk to — let me hear you.
[He swallows hard, feeling that odd deep drowsiness settling around himself, and thinks, this is safe. This is good. This is safe. Push. It's fine. It's safe.]
Daddy, please.