[He can feel Tseng's eyes on him as he stumbles up the stairs, gripping the railing just a bit too tight, half-pulling himself up each step as they head for the landing that leads to the roof. Just one flight of stairs and then into the waiting helicopter, and already the prospect of the enclosed interior is making anticipation vibrate in his blood, small and safe and soundproof and most importantly, smelling right.
It's good that it's Rude. All implications of designation aside — he truly is about the most perfect beta Rufus has ever laid eyes on, a model Turk in that particular respect — Rude keeps his eyes forward and his mouth shut, and sees only what he's intended to, nothing more and nothing less. Rude won't detect the heat rolling off of him in waves. Rude won't crash the helicopter from taking his hands off the controls to frantically jerk himself with one and milk his knot with the other.
Tseng might, were he left to it. Fantasies of certain death have no right to be so utterly arousing.]
Only you.
[There's a throaty tremor in the assertion, a faint but telltale wobble as he forces the purr out of his tone and smothers it back like he's done all his life; it would be neater, imperceptible, most of the time, but he's far from his right mind right now and it's close enough for hand grenades, regardless.]
No one touches me but you, Tseng. No one.
[It could be benign. It's supposed to be. But there's a vow of sorts in it, too — a claim staked, a choice made. Tseng's scent is full and bold at the sides of his throat, for all that it won't last long and will need to be refreshed until he can do it more properly at home. He'd sooner bite off the fingers of anyone who reached for him right now, save Tseng; not even his own Turks would be safe from it, bristling and agitated as he is with the need to be properly satiated.
His feet hit the top step; he blindly lifts his foot as if there might be one more and it comes down harder than he means it to, forced to drop an extra six inches or so until it finds level ground again. If he weren't gripping the railing, he might well have stumbled; as it is, he just uses the momentum to throw his weight into the heavy door that leads onto the helipad, making small adjustments to draw his movements back into the realm of tipsy as opposed to over-aroused as he makes for their waiting escape.]
no subject
It's good that it's Rude. All implications of designation aside — he truly is about the most perfect beta Rufus has ever laid eyes on, a model Turk in that particular respect — Rude keeps his eyes forward and his mouth shut, and sees only what he's intended to, nothing more and nothing less. Rude won't detect the heat rolling off of him in waves. Rude won't crash the helicopter from taking his hands off the controls to frantically jerk himself with one and milk his knot with the other.
Tseng might, were he left to it. Fantasies of certain death have no right to be so utterly arousing.]
Only you.
[There's a throaty tremor in the assertion, a faint but telltale wobble as he forces the purr out of his tone and smothers it back like he's done all his life; it would be neater, imperceptible, most of the time, but he's far from his right mind right now and it's close enough for hand grenades, regardless.]
No one touches me but you, Tseng. No one.
[It could be benign. It's supposed to be. But there's a vow of sorts in it, too — a claim staked, a choice made. Tseng's scent is full and bold at the sides of his throat, for all that it won't last long and will need to be refreshed until he can do it more properly at home. He'd sooner bite off the fingers of anyone who reached for him right now, save Tseng; not even his own Turks would be safe from it, bristling and agitated as he is with the need to be properly satiated.
His feet hit the top step; he blindly lifts his foot as if there might be one more and it comes down harder than he means it to, forced to drop an extra six inches or so until it finds level ground again. If he weren't gripping the railing, he might well have stumbled; as it is, he just uses the momentum to throw his weight into the heavy door that leads onto the helipad, making small adjustments to draw his movements back into the realm of tipsy as opposed to over-aroused as he makes for their waiting escape.]