[ rufus' eyes drag up tseng's body, and he feels like a creature composed entirely of the sparks between two bare wires. the touch of that gaze feels almost like a physical touch, a hand between his thighs, enough to make the muscles of tseng's stomach tense with the effort it takes to not let himself get hard. and he knows rufus can see it, because rufus knows tseng better than anyone else alive, knows exactly how and where tseng carries his tension—he must be lit up with it, right now.
still, tseng doesn't look away. he holds rufus' gaze, steady, and tilts his head slightly to the side in consideration of the question. what would he do with the desk, if he could? nothing. that seat is not for him, not for anyone save rufus shinra himself—tseng could no more sit behind it than he could pluck meteor from the heavens with his bare fingers. surely rufus knows that, though, and so there must be another question within the question, the heart of what he's really asking.
synechdoche, tseng thinks. not what he would do with the desk, but what he would do with rufus, the boy-king whose empire the desk represents. ]
As much as you'll allow.
[ the heat in him is terrible. it swells up like storm surge, makes his throat tight with the desire to swallow rufus whole. he wants to put his hands in rufus' hair, wants to shove his face into the desk and find out what rufus sounds like when he comes. he wants to peel back the layers of rufus' skin and find out what makes his heart beat, his muscles twitch, what makes him tick. he wants, and the want burns a hole straight through him. ]
no subject
still, tseng doesn't look away. he holds rufus' gaze, steady, and tilts his head slightly to the side in consideration of the question. what would he do with the desk, if he could? nothing. that seat is not for him, not for anyone save rufus shinra himself—tseng could no more sit behind it than he could pluck meteor from the heavens with his bare fingers. surely rufus knows that, though, and so there must be another question within the question, the heart of what he's really asking.
synechdoche, tseng thinks. not what he would do with the desk, but what he would do with rufus, the boy-king whose empire the desk represents. ]
As much as you'll allow.
[ the heat in him is terrible. it swells up like storm surge, makes his throat tight with the desire to swallow rufus whole. he wants to put his hands in rufus' hair, wants to shove his face into the desk and find out what rufus sounds like when he comes. he wants to peel back the layers of rufus' skin and find out what makes his heart beat, his muscles twitch, what makes him tick. he wants, and the want burns a hole straight through him. ]