[ it takes less than the span of a breath for rufus to cross the small space and straddle tseng's lap, and even less time than that for tseng's arms to come up and around him, pulling him so close tseng can feel the heat of his body and the beat of his heart even through the fabric of their clothes. he feels rufus' words as much as he hears them, feels the thread of real need that underwrites them—they may sound manipulative, but tseng knows that what rufus says is also true.
he pulls rufus' dress shirt free of his belt in the back and slides his hands up underneath coat and shirt alike, palms pressed to the sway of his lower back, skin against skin. tseng's nose finds the curve of rufus' throat right where his scent is strongest, and he breathes in, lets it wash over him—spice and wet and sweet, summer humid, a burst of flavor on tseng's tongue and a taste in the back of his throat.
how did he ever think he stood a chance?
tseng gives up entirely on keeping his voice neutral. he brings a hand up to rufus' neck, coaxing him back from tseng's throat, and when he says, ] Come here. [ his voice is rich and reverberating with command, with protection, with the certainty that as long as rufus is in tseng's arms, no harm will come to him.
he will make it stop. he'll make it better. all tseng has to do is get rufus home.
as rufus moves back, tseng shifts forward and catches rufus' mouth in a thorough, needy kiss. he finds that rufus tastes just as sweet as he smells, and tseng makes a noise against his mouth, deep alpha satisfaction as his tongue slides against rufus' in a kiss meant to claim and conquer.
one hand drops between them, into the barely-there space between their bodies, to work one-handed at the buckle of rufus' belt, then at the button and zipper—every one of tseng's instincts wants him to just tear the fabric apart, but the very last of his control tells him not to. rufus still needs to leave this helicopter looking presentable, needs to stay that way at least until they have some privacy. ]
no subject
he pulls rufus' dress shirt free of his belt in the back and slides his hands up underneath coat and shirt alike, palms pressed to the sway of his lower back, skin against skin. tseng's nose finds the curve of rufus' throat right where his scent is strongest, and he breathes in, lets it wash over him—spice and wet and sweet, summer humid, a burst of flavor on tseng's tongue and a taste in the back of his throat.
how did he ever think he stood a chance?
tseng gives up entirely on keeping his voice neutral. he brings a hand up to rufus' neck, coaxing him back from tseng's throat, and when he says, ] Come here. [ his voice is rich and reverberating with command, with protection, with the certainty that as long as rufus is in tseng's arms, no harm will come to him.
he will make it stop. he'll make it better. all tseng has to do is get rufus home.
as rufus moves back, tseng shifts forward and catches rufus' mouth in a thorough, needy kiss. he finds that rufus tastes just as sweet as he smells, and tseng makes a noise against his mouth, deep alpha satisfaction as his tongue slides against rufus' in a kiss meant to claim and conquer.
one hand drops between them, into the barely-there space between their bodies, to work one-handed at the buckle of rufus' belt, then at the button and zipper—every one of tseng's instincts wants him to just tear the fabric apart, but the very last of his control tells him not to. rufus still needs to leave this helicopter looking presentable, needs to stay that way at least until they have some privacy. ]