He hadn't expected the other man to even try to touch him. After all, he'd refused to do as much the last time. Part of him had already resigned himself to the idea that every climax, from here on out until the day he was no longer of any use to Tseng, would have to be fucked out of him. So the sensation of fingers curling around his aching cock was almost enough right then and there to send him over the edge, the sheer surprise of it intensifying the sensation. He gasped, jerking his hips upwards into Tseng's hand, before resuming his motions in eager earnest, fucking himself on the other man's thick cock as he rutted almost gratefully into his hand.

The thought of being lead out of the ship a dripping mess hadn't yet occurred to him, his mind clouded, all thoughts only capable of thinking ahead to his next, quickly approaching climax. With fluid, perversely graceful motions, the outline of lean and firm muscle accentuated by the revealing, indecent outfit, he'd roll his hips upwards into Tseng's all too welcoming hand, before impaling himself again and again on the cock buried within him. The miqo'te's cries were occasionally interspaced by words, broken, thoughtless, slurred thanks and keening pleas for more, cut off as he tried to bury his head in the crook of the other man's neck.