[He knows Tseng's secret the same way that Tseng knows his — damning intel traded for the sake of mutually assured destruction, a prisoner's dilemma where collaboration is the only viable option. It's one of those things that Rufus takes a particular malicious joy in when he's not marinating in his own roiling heat; proof positive that an alpha nature doesn't guarantee that you can't be owned, and an omega's doesn't always predicate subservience. Irrefutable proof of his father's erroneous beliefs, because it wasn't his feigned alpha posturing that won him the Turks. It was his willing to gamble, and his daring, and his cunning, to know full well what advantages an omega might have and exercise them all to the fullest.
He'd have more room to be proud of it right now, if he weren't out of his mind with stress and the rising simmer of his heat-induced arousal, the latter made exponentially worse because of the demands of the former. And even Tseng's presence doesn't alleviate the stress, not precisely, but it does focus it; rather than all the competing scents and pressures, now there's only the one, familiar and rich and sharp as amber.
The hands on his face draw him a little way out of his haze; the command makes his heart skip and his pulse jump, pupils dilating as he focuses in on Tseng's face, still a little dreamy but far from drifting as he'd been before.]
Don't call me "sir".
[It's rare that he uses his omega vocalizations — his trills, his purrs, his wails. He's conditioned his throat to accept the gravel of snarling and force in its place. But Tseng isn't just any alpha — and not his alpha, but his, and an alpha — and the nature he's been suppressing all night rears its ruthless head, a little smile curling like paper lit aflame as his focus on Tseng's face solidifies.
And he purrs.
Thick, full, rumbling, damning, with his eyes dark and simmering with heat and locked on Tseng's, the sound fills the stairwell like a reward: you're a good alpha, aren't you, so strong, so good, protecting little old me.]
no subject
He'd have more room to be proud of it right now, if he weren't out of his mind with stress and the rising simmer of his heat-induced arousal, the latter made exponentially worse because of the demands of the former. And even Tseng's presence doesn't alleviate the stress, not precisely, but it does focus it; rather than all the competing scents and pressures, now there's only the one, familiar and rich and sharp as amber.
The hands on his face draw him a little way out of his haze; the command makes his heart skip and his pulse jump, pupils dilating as he focuses in on Tseng's face, still a little dreamy but far from drifting as he'd been before.]
Don't call me "sir".
[It's rare that he uses his omega vocalizations — his trills, his purrs, his wails. He's conditioned his throat to accept the gravel of snarling and force in its place. But Tseng isn't just any alpha — and not his alpha, but his, and an alpha — and the nature he's been suppressing all night rears its ruthless head, a little smile curling like paper lit aflame as his focus on Tseng's face solidifies.
And he purrs.
Thick, full, rumbling, damning, with his eyes dark and simmering with heat and locked on Tseng's, the sound fills the stairwell like a reward: you're a good alpha, aren't you, so strong, so good, protecting little old me.]
And scent me first.