[ as if there's a snowflake's chance in ifrit's fires. as far as tseng is concerned, the entire universe is the size of the two of them, rufus in his arms, their joined mouths, their bodies pressed so close together it's hard to know where one ends and the other begins. at least until tuesday, there's nothing that could draw tseng's focus away from rufus, not a single thing that could interrupt the strength of his attention.
he manages not to stumble as they make their way down the hall, but it's a close thing, especially when rufus presses his face to tseng's neck and lets him feel the vibration of one of those sweet little trills he keeps making in the back of his throat. he wants to dig his teeth into rufus. desire closes its fist around the base of his spine and pulls hard, makes it a minor miracle that tseng kicks the door of rufus' bedroom halfway closed before he deposits rufus onto the irresponsibly soft, large mattress of his bed.
tseng is on him again in an instant. his hands are steady as they work at the buttons and fastenings of rufus' clothes, his coat, the belts that hold it closed. he's wearing too much. tseng wants to dig his nails into the fabric and tear it to shreds, and it's only the barest recollection of expense reporting that stays his hand. ]
Tell me what you want. What you like.
[ tseng could figure it out, but he wants to hear it from the source—and besides that, he likes the tone of rufus' voice when he's trying to talk through his own desperation, how pitched and needy it gets, especially now that he has no reason to keep it modulated. ]
no subject
he manages not to stumble as they make their way down the hall, but it's a close thing, especially when rufus presses his face to tseng's neck and lets him feel the vibration of one of those sweet little trills he keeps making in the back of his throat. he wants to dig his teeth into rufus. desire closes its fist around the base of his spine and pulls hard, makes it a minor miracle that tseng kicks the door of rufus' bedroom halfway closed before he deposits rufus onto the irresponsibly soft, large mattress of his bed.
tseng is on him again in an instant. his hands are steady as they work at the buttons and fastenings of rufus' clothes, his coat, the belts that hold it closed. he's wearing too much. tseng wants to dig his nails into the fabric and tear it to shreds, and it's only the barest recollection of expense reporting that stays his hand. ]
Tell me what you want. What you like.
[ tseng could figure it out, but he wants to hear it from the source—and besides that, he likes the tone of rufus' voice when he's trying to talk through his own desperation, how pitched and needy it gets, especially now that he has no reason to keep it modulated. ]