[ for a moment tseng finds himself knocked breathless by the image of rufus that comes attached to his latest text. he looks wrecked—flushed feverish, his pupils blown, brows drawn together in the expression of pleasure that means he's doing as tseng told him to do, his fingers buried inside himself even if tseng can't see them. it takes all of tseng's willpower to hold himself back, too, his fist continuing to move steadily along his length despite the churning desire in the pit of his stomach.
he doesn't send back a picture just yet. instead, tseng memorizes every inch of rufus', and then sends back a message of his own. ]
Gorgeous. Keep going, baby. Think about my fingers. Think about me holding you down and eating you out until you come.
[Fuck, he needs — he's not wet enough to imagine that, fuck, he should've made the effort to find the lube after all, could've gotten himself so slick and dripping if he had but he didn't, and it makes him bite at his forearm from the need to feel his teeth around something, working his fingers harder inside him as if to take out his frustrations on his own body. He presses his knees together, squirming, and when a dribble of pre starts to pool on the inside of his thigh, it doesn't take long before an alternative solution presents itself, and he pauses in his efforts only long enough to stroke himself firmly instead, collecting as much as he can before moving the pads of his fingers back to circle his entrance.
Now it's slick, and cool, and with his eyes closed he can call up images of that day on the beach, bent over his father's desk, the way that Tseng's tongue had dragged against the sweat beading on his back only now it's lower, it's pushing inside and oh, fuck, it's so good.]
il ovvvvv e it
[He's pushing himself too hard, maybe — harder than Tseng would, he suspects, when Tseng is always so careful and gentle with him — but that's a problem for a later Rufus, surely.]
myyyy dsek i wanttti t on my des k on his des k;;;;
[ a mixed blessing: tseng would be proud of rufus' resourcefulness, but indeed would also be gentler, were it him with his fingers in rufus' ass instead. but he isn't there and he doesn't know, and he's also busy imagining how it would feel to hold rufus down on his belly and eat his ass, so suffice to say he's a little distracted.
not too distracted to read the text, though, and to understand that the incoherence means rufus is close, that he's being obedient the way tseng told him to. fuck, but the idea of rufus' obedience gets tseng so hard, makes his cock twitch and makes him have to let go of it for a moment to avoid spilling too soon. ]
Oh, you pretty little whore. [ shiva, tseng is so fucking thankful for spellcheck and autocorrect. ] You want me to fuck you on your father's desk? You want to make sure he knows you have another man you call daddy now?
[His watch chimes; he forces his eyes open to look at it and the first five words of Tseng's message crash over him like a wave, electric enough in and of themselves that he has to close them again just to tremble through them. Pretty little whore isn't, on its face, so very different than gorgeous little slut, but there's something in the subtle connotations that makes it feel just new enough to have him shaking. It twinges against some old, deep-seated resentment, some long-engraved insecurity: his father's always-inadequate son, only worthwhile for being a warm body that carried his name, finding use in being a warm body in a very different fashion.
He should hate that, and if it were anyone else, he might. But Tseng tells him and tells him, unfailing, that he is better than the old man ever recognized, that he has value just as himself — and maybe that's what makes it so transgressively decadent, to spend a little while as a Shinra whore instead of as Rufus.
Yes, his father would hate it. His father would loathe every bit of this. And that's what makes it all the better when he looks at his watch again and the second half crashes over him all over again, the temptation of rendering his father just as irrelevant in exchange, oh, fuck, oh fuck —
He really, genuinely, doesn't want to think about his father in a moment like this. Not at any real length. But as a kink, just for that lightning jolt of spite? Fuck, it's so good.]
who neeeds himm
[He shifts a little, the pace of his fingers easing off in favor of maintaining steady, solid pressure on his prostate instead, prolonging the buzz while he makes his fingers behave as well as he's behaving for Tseng.]
who needs h im when i have you?
[And saying that feels so strangely good, so oddly warm, that he almost doesn't want to chase it with one more message, but he can't be good if he doesn't, so he makes himself.]
[ 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. ]
[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.]
[ the switch to audio is welcome, because tseng doesn't think his fingers are going to be able to manage typing right now. anything that requires fine motor control seems beyond his grasp, but he can at least sink back against the couch and speak to the empty air of his suite, letting the watch pick up the rustle of fabric as well as the heavy satisfaction in tseng's voice. ]
Good boy, baby. [ the praise is low, warm, rich. meant wholeheartedly, too, because it isn't always like rufus to be so obedient, but when he's in the mood for it it's a real delight. ] You did so well. Do you feel good?
[ his own breathing is still a little harsh, particularly in the otherwise quiet room, but tseng doesn't try to control it. he wants rufus to be able to hear the way he affects tseng, even with all this distance in between them. the mess in his hand is slowly cooling and he'll need to get up to clean it soon, but for now it can wait, put to the side to focus instead of the rasp of rufus' voice and the way he's still seeking tseng's reassurance. ]
[He didn't even have to ask for it, is the thing. Once, he would've — well, not had to ask, but would've felt like he needed to, rather. Wouldn't have trusted, somehow, that he would get something he didn't earn, would be given something he didn't ask for. But he doesn't need to ask Tseng to tell him he did well, to praise him. He's safe, and it does feel so good.
It's strangely nice just to hear Tseng's voice, though. Like stroking his hand down Darkstar's spine, hearing the jingle of her collar as reassurance of her proximity. He really could've been happy just listening to Tseng talk to him about anything. The praise just makes it all the better.]
Yeah...
[Tired, undoubtedly, but being worn out feels good, too.]
[ that touch of exhaustion is audible in rufus' voice, the post-orgasmic lassitude beginning to settle in. it makes him smile slightly, pleased by the realization that he can recognize even that tone. ]
Of course we can.
[ as much as tseng says it to reassure, he also says it because it's true. it both is and isn't part of their play—tseng in his role as dominant reassuring his submissive, but also just tseng, reassuring just rufus, that they can have whatever they want, whenever they want it.
he stirs a little and reaches for the tissues, using them to clean up his hand, at least for now. ]
[It's nice when all of Tseng's questions are so easy. Later, it'll occur to him that it's less about the questions themselves and more about how he feels eerily pliant like this, unusually agreeable and willing to let the flow of things carry him along —
Dangerous. That would be dangerous, if he weren't safe, if it weren't Tseng.
He yawns, not really caring that it's undignified to do it right into the microphone of his watch, and contemplates distantly how nice it feels to just hold very, very still and not move at all.]
Soon. But just talk to me for right now.
[He'll want more soon, because he always wants more, because it's who he is and he's not ashamed of it — but right now he just wants to lie here and listen to Tseng's smooth voice washing over him, and that's enough. It's enough.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he doesn't send back a picture just yet. instead, tseng memorizes every inch of rufus', and then sends back a message of his own. ]
Gorgeous. Keep going, baby. Think about my fingers. Think about me holding you down and eating you out until you come.
no subject
Now it's slick, and cool, and with his eyes closed he can call up images of that day on the beach, bent over his father's desk, the way that Tseng's tongue had dragged against the sweat beading on his back only now it's lower, it's pushing inside and oh, fuck, it's so good.]
il ovvvvv e it
[He's pushing himself too hard, maybe — harder than Tseng would, he suspects, when Tseng is always so careful and gentle with him — but that's a problem for a later Rufus, surely.]
myyyy dsek i wanttti t on my des k on his des k;;;;
no subject
not too distracted to read the text, though, and to understand that the incoherence means rufus is close, that he's being obedient the way tseng told him to. fuck, but the idea of rufus' obedience gets tseng so hard, makes his cock twitch and makes him have to let go of it for a moment to avoid spilling too soon. ]
Oh, you pretty little whore. [ shiva, tseng is so fucking thankful for spellcheck and autocorrect. ] You want me to fuck you on your father's desk? You want to make sure he knows you have another man you call daddy now?
no subject
He should hate that, and if it were anyone else, he might. But Tseng tells him and tells him, unfailing, that he is better than the old man ever recognized, that he has value just as himself — and maybe that's what makes it so transgressively decadent, to spend a little while as a Shinra whore instead of as Rufus.
Yes, his father would hate it. His father would loathe every bit of this. And that's what makes it all the better when he looks at his watch again and the second half crashes over him all over again, the temptation of rendering his father just as irrelevant in exchange, oh, fuck, oh fuck —
He really, genuinely, doesn't want to think about his father in a moment like this. Not at any real length. But as a kink, just for that lightning jolt of spite? Fuck, it's so good.]
who neeeds himm
[He shifts a little, the pace of his fingers easing off in favor of maintaining steady, solid pressure on his prostate instead, prolonging the buzz while he makes his fingers behave as well as he's behaving for Tseng.]
who needs h im when i have you?
[And saying that feels so strangely good, so oddly warm, that he almost doesn't want to chase it with one more message, but he can't be good if he doesn't, so he makes himself.]
clo se
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
Good boy, baby. [ the praise is low, warm, rich. meant wholeheartedly, too, because it isn't always like rufus to be so obedient, but when he's in the mood for it it's a real delight. ] You did so well. Do you feel good?
[ his own breathing is still a little harsh, particularly in the otherwise quiet room, but tseng doesn't try to control it. he wants rufus to be able to hear the way he affects tseng, even with all this distance in between them. the mess in his hand is slowly cooling and he'll need to get up to clean it soon, but for now it can wait, put to the side to focus instead of the rasp of rufus' voice and the way he's still seeking tseng's reassurance. ]
no subject
It's strangely nice just to hear Tseng's voice, though. Like stroking his hand down Darkstar's spine, hearing the jingle of her collar as reassurance of her proximity. He really could've been happy just listening to Tseng talk to him about anything. The praise just makes it all the better.]
Yeah...
[Tired, undoubtedly, but being worn out feels good, too.]
We can do this again...right? More of this?
no subject
Of course we can.
[ as much as tseng says it to reassure, he also says it because it's true. it both is and isn't part of their play—tseng in his role as dominant reassuring his submissive, but also just tseng, reassuring just rufus, that they can have whatever they want, whenever they want it.
he stirs a little and reaches for the tissues, using them to clean up his hand, at least for now. ]
Still want me to come over?
no subject
[It's nice when all of Tseng's questions are so easy. Later, it'll occur to him that it's less about the questions themselves and more about how he feels eerily pliant like this, unusually agreeable and willing to let the flow of things carry him along —
Dangerous. That would be dangerous, if he weren't safe, if it weren't Tseng.
He yawns, not really caring that it's undignified to do it right into the microphone of his watch, and contemplates distantly how nice it feels to just hold very, very still and not move at all.]
Soon. But just talk to me for right now.
[He'll want more soon, because he always wants more, because it's who he is and he's not ashamed of it — but right now he just wants to lie here and listen to Tseng's smooth voice washing over him, and that's enough. It's enough.]