That first thrust is hard enough to hurt. The fluid between them is already getting sticky. It doesn't matter; Rufus says harder, and Tseng grits his teeth and digs his fingers into the cuts he's opened until there's that sick squelch of flesh tearing beneath his hands. He doesn't want to like this as much as he does, doesn't want it to set him on fire and drag those low, sonorous sounds from his throat, but he doesn't have a choice in the matter, not when Rufus is tight and hot around him and begging for more.

Harder, he says, so Tseng crashes into him in a way that makes all his bones shudder. He can feel the snap of tension rolling like an earthquake through Rufus's whole body, and it drives him to thrust faster, more relentlessly, like he'll come undone if it doesn't sting every time. There's no option but to gasp for breath every time he moves, it's just too much, the pain, the clench, the blood running in rivers through his fingers.

What Rufus said comes back to him. He hisses in kind, "My Rufus."