[Tseng doesn't say it in so many words, but even in his heat-addled state, Rufus knows what he means: that once they land, and for the duration until he can stumble his way to the safety of his nest, he can't be an omega anymore. Even amidst the raging of his body and its needs, he has to find a way to tamp down on all of the impulses he's been so guiltily indulging and call up his armor of power and dominance once more. It aches, and he hates it, but it doesn't render him cold and despairing the way that the thought of Tseng withholding his knot had before. It's just — enduring, and he knows how to endure. He's been enduring for every day of his life, waiting for the chance to finally usurp his father, bearing up under the disappointment and the petty humiliations until that hour inevitably comes.
Letting Tseng put him back together is, in its way, its own kind of submission. His hands are careful and soft, for all that they're precise in never straying too far into temptation. He would like, he thinks, to lie boneless in thick blankets or a bath and bid Tseng to run his hands all over him, tending to his need for touch as though he were doing maintenance on his favorite gun.
And then, as if having read his mind, Tseng's wrists brush against his neck once, twice — his senses flood with it, that claim renewed, and all of a sudden acting the part of a perfect Shinra doesn't seem so insurmountable when he's doing it at the direction of the alpha who loves him, instead of the one who loathes him.
(He needs so badly to come, for all that the inside of his trousers are still soaked from the last one. He needs to be shoved down into a mattress and held there by the hair while he screams and howls and takes a dick up his ass until every last bit of his own rebellious body has been beaten into euphoric submission with it.)
What he does do is close his eyes, and breathe Tseng's heady scent, and remember the feeling of pulling back his lip as if to show the fangs he's never had.]
Pity for you.
[It's more coherent than he's been for most of the ride, slurred and distracted but still painfully clear how he's forcing the whimper back, how he's dropping his register lower to force it smooth and confident when he isn't.]
Having to — to walk two steps behind the whole w-way in.
[He laughs, and the first time it breaks into a noise that treads close to a sob; the second time, it holds steady without cracking, rumbling with dry and biting amusement. When he finally manages to open his eyes, the blues are glazed and glassy, but he's — put together enough to make it, at least, and Tseng's smile is the slightest ray of sunlight through the tempestuous storm.]
Try to — keep the salivating to a minimum. Director.
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Letting Tseng put him back together is, in its way, its own kind of submission. His hands are careful and soft, for all that they're precise in never straying too far into temptation. He would like, he thinks, to lie boneless in thick blankets or a bath and bid Tseng to run his hands all over him, tending to his need for touch as though he were doing maintenance on his favorite gun.
And then, as if having read his mind, Tseng's wrists brush against his neck once, twice — his senses flood with it, that claim renewed, and all of a sudden acting the part of a perfect Shinra doesn't seem so insurmountable when he's doing it at the direction of the alpha who loves him, instead of the one who loathes him.
(He needs so badly to come, for all that the inside of his trousers are still soaked from the last one. He needs to be shoved down into a mattress and held there by the hair while he screams and howls and takes a dick up his ass until every last bit of his own rebellious body has been beaten into euphoric submission with it.)
What he does do is close his eyes, and breathe Tseng's heady scent, and remember the feeling of pulling back his lip as if to show the fangs he's never had.]
Pity for you.
[It's more coherent than he's been for most of the ride, slurred and distracted but still painfully clear how he's forcing the whimper back, how he's dropping his register lower to force it smooth and confident when he isn't.]
Having to — to walk two steps behind the whole w-way in.
[He laughs, and the first time it breaks into a noise that treads close to a sob; the second time, it holds steady without cracking, rumbling with dry and biting amusement. When he finally manages to open his eyes, the blues are glazed and glassy, but he's — put together enough to make it, at least, and Tseng's smile is the slightest ray of sunlight through the tempestuous storm.]
Try to — keep the salivating to a minimum. Director.