[ the heat of rufus' spend on his chest is unmistakeable, as is the bitten-off little sound rufus makes as his body goes tense above tseng. his thighs tighten on tseng’s shoulders and his hips jerk a little, every one of his responses restrained, and somehow the fact that tseng can still tell makes everything that much hotter. he coaxes rufus through it, keeps his mouth working until rufus slumps forward and rolls away from him—most likely, tseng thinks wryly, from a desire not to land in his own mess than out of consideration for tseng’s ability to catch his weight.
for a moment there’s silence, broken only by the sound of their mutual panting. little tremors are still running through tseng’s body, the aftermath of his own orgasm—he puts a pin in that, mentally, something to come back to later—and he doesn’t dare look over at rufus, too afraid of what it might do to him to see what rufus shinra looks like in the immediate aftermath of orgasm.
the tingling in tseng’s fingertips fades. he draws a slow breath, steadying, and then pushes himself up, slowly so as not to let his own hair fall into the mess of rufus’ cum on his chest. ]
I’ll get a towel.
[ even just the glimpse of rufus he gets from the corner of his eye is enough to send a jolt through him like a fucking thundaga spell. the sweat at his temples, the flush in his pale cheeks—tseng tears his eyes away before he can internalize much more, forces himself to stand on shivery legs to make his way to the adjoining bathroom.
ostensibly, he’s there to get washcloths. really, he’s there to stare at himself in the mirror (blessedly obscured from the bed) and ask himself, what the fuck?
tseng affords himself ten seconds to question his entire set of life choices before he picks up a washcloth from the rack and wets it under the sink. he makes quick work of cleaning himself up, but lingers a little when he’s done—giving rufus a chance to put himself slightly back in order, before tseng re-emerges from the bathroom with a fresh, warm washcloth in hand. ]
Here, sir. [ tseng hands it over. this time, his gaze is steady and unembarrassed as he looks over at rufus. ]
no subject
for a moment there’s silence, broken only by the sound of their mutual panting. little tremors are still running through tseng’s body, the aftermath of his own orgasm—he puts a pin in that, mentally, something to come back to later—and he doesn’t dare look over at rufus, too afraid of what it might do to him to see what rufus shinra looks like in the immediate aftermath of orgasm.
the tingling in tseng’s fingertips fades. he draws a slow breath, steadying, and then pushes himself up, slowly so as not to let his own hair fall into the mess of rufus’ cum on his chest. ]
I’ll get a towel.
[ even just the glimpse of rufus he gets from the corner of his eye is enough to send a jolt through him like a fucking thundaga spell. the sweat at his temples, the flush in his pale cheeks—tseng tears his eyes away before he can internalize much more, forces himself to stand on shivery legs to make his way to the adjoining bathroom.
ostensibly, he’s there to get washcloths. really, he’s there to stare at himself in the mirror (blessedly obscured from the bed) and ask himself, what the fuck?
tseng affords himself ten seconds to question his entire set of life choices before he picks up a washcloth from the rack and wets it under the sink. he makes quick work of cleaning himself up, but lingers a little when he’s done—giving rufus a chance to put himself slightly back in order, before tseng re-emerges from the bathroom with a fresh, warm washcloth in hand. ]
Here, sir. [ tseng hands it over. this time, his gaze is steady and unembarrassed as he looks over at rufus. ]